I Thought She Was A Witch

Dear Daughters, Grand Daughters, and my global sisters:

I want to share with you the life of one of the bravest, strongest women I have had the gift of knowing. My beloved grandmother. Life was never easy for the young girl who left the family farm to spare her family the shame of giving birth to an “illegitimate” son. That was the cruel label of her era. It is appalling to even write that word, in my efforts to tell you of her journey. Grandmother’s life in “the city” would soon include my future grandfather. Even in the presence of his little grandchildren, he would remind her what a “big favor” he had done by marrying her. One can only wonder if their life story was founded on love or gratitude?

Her name was Hubertine. She was one of eighteen children raised by her hardworking, immigrant parents on a farm in rural Minnesota. I remember her telling me that her mother, who worked in the fields daily, left her work one day to have one of her brothers, then returned to the field within hours of giving birth. She spoke of eating in shifts. The girls were expected to care for the little ones. I suspect that is why she was such a nurturer and perhaps why her job as a cook for a local hospital was a perfect fit.

I loved this woman who taught me the things I needed to know to be a mother and grandmother. She was a surrogate mother when my parents would not or could not be available. My five siblings and I were surrounded by adults who created so much of their own heartache and sorrow. They were skilled at the art of chaos and violence. Mother and father would try to wash away the effects of ill-behavior at the nearest bar on a regular basis.

This left the small children of an ill-fated relationship to flounder and be fearful. Then there was grandmother. Through my childhood I can remember the countless nights and days spent at her side. She was always available to meet our needs, be they physical or emotional. This was a woman who raised two sons, cared for a home, worked a full-time job, and handed over her paycheck to help bail out the irresponsible spending and mistakes made by those around her. She hosted every holiday with gourmet style meals and even acted as the heartbroken referee of many a physical family altercation. This was grandmother.

There was a special feeling I would get when I looked into the loving eyes of this beautiful person who stepped in to nourish and care for our dirty little neglected bodies. Her warm smile and fleeting tears made me wonder about her past. A story I could never fully understand as a child but believe as women, I would have understood on so many levels. I just knew I wanted to be exactly like her. I would sneak into her bedroom, adorn myself with her jewelry, carefully apply powder rough and red lipstick, just as I had seen her do so many times before. She was elegant. When Sunday rolled around, she would don her best apparel, step into shiny black high heels, pull her thick hair back in a very severe bun, place her finest hat upon her head, and proudly walk down the street to church, with her freshly scrubbed grandchildren. We were as proud of her as I believe she was of us.

She taught me how to clean a house! Grandmother washed everything at least once a week and we were happy to help just to be at her side. She would scrub the wood baseboards with such zeal, that the finish on the woodwork had worn bare in several places.

When I was very young, I secretly thought she might be a witch! With her thick black hair loose around her shoulders and her apron strings flying in the Spring breeze, she would stoke a fire under a huge black kettle in the back yard. For hours she would stir and stir until she had a bubbling, thick, sweet smelling concoction. Once cooled, all five of her grandchildren had the delightful task of forming dozens of bars of soap. To this day, it is an enigma as to how she was able to turn cooking fat that had been saved over the winter months, into a delightful bath product.

My favorite times were bath time with our handcrafted bars of soap. After the adults left to go to the bar, Grandmother would pile us in the deep clawfoot tub, make sure we were squeaky clean, then dress us all in Grandfather’s old white tee shirts. We would then gather around her blonde wood coffee table with the furry mountain goat rug under it and play cards. Her form of currency for betting was either toothpicks or if she wanted to up the ante, out came the penny jar hidden at the back of her closet. As we grew sleepy, we would crawl under the coffee table and snuggle into the soft plush rug. With the distant purr of late-night TV in the background and her red painted toes reaching under to stroke my back I felt safe and loved. Eventually she would steer us all up the stairs to the guest bedroom and tuck us in for the night. As we drifted off to sleep, we didn’t need to be vigilant. We knew it would be a sound and un-disturbed sleep; for Grandmother had not only taught us what it feels like to be loved, but she also taught us what if feels like to be safe.

I write you this letter to not only share the beauty that was my beloved Maternal Grandmother, but because that which perhaps reads as mundane or ordinary life experiences, almost came to an abrupt end. At the most painful and frightening point in my childhood, when I needed the love and security of our family matriarch the most, she was almost taken from us.

It was a rainy, cold evening. Just as Grandmother was crossing the street in front of her work, a car hit her and dragged her the full distance of a block. Grandmother’s bruised and broken body was hooked beneath the car and I pray she was not conscious for such a horrific experience. When the call came, she was already in surgery. The prognoses, they could probably save her, but not her leg. Damage was so severe, she would never walk again, if she did survive.

Over the course of her long recovery, Grandmother was brave and strong. Most of her pain was only visible in her sad eyes. We grandchildren became her caretakers. All the nurturing and loving gestures Grandmother had given us, we were finally able to give back. She had taught us how to love. It was sublime!

They not only saved her leg, but she once again, walked all her little grandchildren down the sidewalk towards church in her shiny high heels.

We are the echoes of the courage that comes before us…

Hubertine’s Granddaughter