Mother reminded me that several years ago I talked Grandma into writing the story of her life. (I recalled the year that sister Verna received her PhD, Grandma had asked what she wanted for Christmas and it was Verna that asked Grandma for her life story.)
Now Theresa has been twisting my mother’s arm.
Eventually, Grandma wrote her story and said, “Now that’s all. I’m not going to write anymore. Ever.”
And she didn’t.
Mother said that she wished that she had written Grandmother’s story. She would have included things that would interest us children that Grandma left out. At one time I well knew many of her old tales word for word. As she got older and would be stumped as to what happened next, I’d fill in for her. “Yes, that’s right,” she’d say and continue. But she forgot because she can’t remember and I forgot more or less deliberately. Maybe it’s better that way.
But she didn’t tell me about the tramps in the hayloft. Or the hog she and grandpa lifted out of the well. Or her can of plums that won first prize three years in a row. Or her prize-winning orange cake. More about “raising Thomas on the table” – the one we have in our kitchen.
Or how she cooked a quarter of beef when Thomas was less than two months old. Grandpa hauled 100 tons of hay to Decatur that week. Yes, they were bailing hay in January.
Or about the bulldog that went visiting. Or the ram that assisted Thomas when he was just a little fellow trying to fill the wood box.
Some of Grandma’s memories never happen, even when her mind was sharp. How many times has she said, “There were always 12 of us at the table: Ma and Pa, nine children and the hired hand.” And you couldn’t change her on that: there were always 12.
However, Baby 9 arrived after Baby 1 was married. Baby 2 went West when Baby 9 was around two years old. Baby 3 was away when Baby 9 was around four. In the next eight years Babies 3, 4, 5, 6 and 7 were in and out as they went to college or away to war. Ma and Pa moved to Decatur as Pa had become County Auditor.
Question: how many sit down at the table EVERY MEAL?
Yet, I understand memory is not engraved in stone. If it were Verna would not distinctly remember her first little red wagon which she described so clearly for me. Only thing – it wasn’t hers that she described; it was Raymond’s.
Your emotions are too apt to paint your memories so what one would be willing to swear is the truth, may in fact be like some of Dalí’s pictures. Or were those paintings by … now let me think …