The Bridge

The Bridge  by Nancy

   I am the bridge; the link of memories between Here She Comes and There She Goes. I am lucky enough to remember two great-grandmothers.  It’s hard for me to fathom that I was acquainted with people born in 1857 and 1871. My life interfaced with them only briefly.  I’m sure they had lifetimes full of memories, but my memories of them are just brief snapshots in time. My children never met them.  
   Great-grandma Freeman sat on a porch swing, making French cut green beans.  In her late 90s, her steady hands cut fully two times down the length of each bean. Her road began in 1857, 165 years ago. When she spoke she sounded different.  Instead of saying ‘again’ like I do, she always said ‘a-GAIN’ with a long a sound, probably a result of living the first 40+ years of her life in England. How was it for her getting to America?  I only know she was seasick.  Was she afraid?  I’ll never know.
    Great-grandma Clark lived in a small house behind her daughter’s.  I was intrigued as I was told she was blind.  At that time I assumed that meant she could see nothing.  In retrospect she probably had some vision, but was considered legally blind.  At least three of her grandchildren had similar vision problems.  My only real memory of her home was a sort of crocheted, ruffled doily.  The ruffles were not even on each side, but I thought it incredible that a blind person could crochet at all.  When did she know she was going blind and how did she feel about it?  No idea.
   Because these are my only memories of these great-grandmothers, they are the only memories I have to share with my descendants.  Maybe they will remember those brief memories, but more likely they will be lost.
   One generation closer to me are my grandparents.  I have more memories  of them but in my memories, they are all old people
with white hair.  When I saw the joints in Grandpa Freeman’s fingers I really thought nothing of them until I saw the same hand formations in my mother. I look at my hands and wonder, “will that be me someday?’
   I have fond memories of waking in the middle of the night to help my grandpas take their water turns.  I lived in Indiana as a child, where water simply fell from the sky.  My children grew up in Alaska where rain also took care of watering the lawn and garden. They didn’t know the magic of watering by moonlight with the water appearing when the gate was pulled up.  It’s a first hand memory that will be gone when I am gone.
    Of course, I have many years of memories with my parents. I remember them with dark hair, sewing, gardening, hiking, and serving.
My children only know them as elderly people with mobility and hearing problems. Unless I share my memories of them, they will never know of the hours they spent helping old Sister Welch, transporting us to swimming lessons, sewing clothes for us, helping with school assignments and all the things parents do for their young children. My children will more likely remember them sitting in their La-Z-Boy recliners and moving slowly. I have trouble imagining them as kids, eating the hated mush for breakfast, picking up blocks of ice for the ice box in their little red wagon or playing Halloween pranks.
   Of course my kids have lots of memories of me, but I’m sure my childhood is mostly a mystery to them other than  some stories I have written.
    My memories of them are mostly when they were young and still lived at home.  As they grew older and moved away, our memories diverged as they made memories with their own children.
   Now I have grandchildren, who I know and love, but I was not with them as much when they went to school and grew up. Our memories together are only a few.
    Last of all I have Reid and Leah, my great-grandchildren.  Reid playfully jumps everywhere he goes and chatters on and on.  He only knows I am one of many grandmas.  His sister Leah is still young enough she is still learning about the world, oblivious to anyone except those who care for her on a regular basis. How on earth did I get to be a great-grandmother?
    Here I am in the middle of all these seven generations, wondering what went on before me and what is happening after me. I am the bridge or link between them all.
   

The Making of Ilosone...starring Jim, Murph and Steve

 

 by Nancy

I knew these men as Jim, Murph and Dad, although at work, Dad was called Steve.  This article is from a November-December 1958 article in The Lilly Review.  I used to babysit for Jim's children.  I got into trouble with Murph's son because he assured me we were allowed to color on the white sheets on his bed.

Jim, Murph and Steve went on to collaborate on a number of other medicines which earned their company some great profits...and treated my frequent ear infections.