The valley sloped down in a sweep of color and texture, rich even in mid-winter. The tiny white church rested on the facing hill, just visible through the bare trees. Behind me stood my childhood home, vacant but recognizable.
I could picture myself hurdling down the sidewalk in my wagon and crashing into the yard gate, or sledding down the hill after a good snow. We sheltered in the cellar during storms, and Mother made it a cozy and secure refuge.
This was home. And with me were my two brothers and sister. We all came to be here again because of Grandma. Grandma’s death had brought us all back to Missouri. We had buried her in the cemetery at the end of the valley, and we had lingered to visit the old farm and piece together our past.
Grandma, like many of her generation, grew up poor and hard. She lost her hearing and her mother to scarlet fever at the tender age of 7. When she married, she and Grandpa raised their children in the cradle of the Meramec River Valley in Missouri in the 1930’s. Times were hard, and Grandpa would hire out to work when he could, while they struggled to keep their own farm going.
Their community life centered around the church and school on one side of the valley. Neighbors shared their struggles when in need and bounty when they had it. They knew each others’ faults, many trials, and tiny triumphs. They were a family of common experience, isolated from a changing world by the hills surrounding them.
Grandma was often called out to serve as a nurse, working up her home remedies for those recovering from childbirth, fevers, and countless ailments she had no medical name for. She took pride in her reputation as a healer, but quietly resented her lack of opportunity to become a properly trained nurse. Over her lifetime, she developed an odd collection of superstitions, folklore, herbal acumen, and medical knowledge. We all learned not to mention any symptoms, serious or otherwise, around Grandma unless we were ready for a thorough treatment with one of her mysterious concoctions.
Economic necessity forced the little family to eventually leave the country and move to the big city of St. Louis. Steady work and modernity beckoned. They lived frugally, but they had enough. Later they moved further out to the suburbs. But in all those years away, home always meant returning to the connections and memories of the little valley.
Grandma and Grandpa had 3 children. Grandma outlived her husband and my mother and uncle. She lived a long time, serving as a grandma and neighbor to many. She could be stubborn and superstitious. She had a capricious and mischievous sense of humor. She loved kids because she still wanted to act like one. She was a teller of tales, mostly embellished with each telling, which made them all the more interesting.
She hoarded everything from fabric to old magazines, and canned enough fruit and vegetables for an army division. She knew the old ways of making soap and making do, but she adapted to the new ways too. For a time she drove the winding Missouri roads with a speed and fearlessness that belied her age.
Age and illness finally caught up with her, and in her 90’s she had to be placed in a nursing home. She scarcely recognized even those closest to her and lived within a confusion of past memories and current experiences. We were grateful when she eased out of this life and into another. Grandma would not have wanted to linger in a fog of dementia.
Life is circular. My mother had married a young man from the other side of the county, and they came to live in that same valley that follows the way of the Meramec River. They spent years there, cradling the growth of their young family. I was the youngest of 4 children, and we moved from Missouri when I was 3. My memories of that time are snapshots in my mind, vivid but fleeting and few. The family stories fill out the gaps in my recollection of that time and place.
To stand in the yard of the old farm house with my grown siblings was a moment of exquisite meaning. It was the closest I have been to the beginning of who I am in this world.
Grandma’s life spanned almost an entire century and touched hundreds of souls. It gives me hope that we can all live in a way that brings good to the world. Thank you, Grandma, for this last gift.
© 2024 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved
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