My Grannie Mae
Reaching that point in life where you are nearer to the finish of the journey than the start, you sometimes reflect on those things which should have been done or said - but weren't. They may be as simple as bestowing a few kind words on those for whom you care or cared, or as difficult as a major lifestyle change when you knew such change could have positively affected yourself and those around you.
And so it is with sharing the family heritage of Grannie Mae with my children. I never did because Gram passed on when I was still a young lad, and by the time my own children were old enough to appreciate such stories, my own mother was nearing the time when she would pass on as well. As Gram was the last of her era's clan, my memories of her were suppressed by time, superseded in importance by the daily demands of earning a living and raising a family.
It saddens me to think that due to my negligence, my children have no remembrances of this fine woman. Hopefully, after reading this they'll wish to learn more.
Mae Clara Konikowski (nee Cerkis) was my mother's mother; a tall, stout, strong-willed, oak of a woman cast from hardy Russian, Norwegian, and Polish stock. She herself was the daughter and granddaughter of coal miners who toiled and died in the black shafts near Moscow, Pennsylvania, long before there was an OSHA or Bureau of Mines. She was also ex-wife to a combination farmer, miner, factory worker, drunk, and scalawag. Being Grannie Mae, she tolerated none of his shenanigans and threw him to the proverbial curb - at a time when divorce or separation were not acceptable societal norms. She practiced the Russian-Orthodox faith, spoke limited Russian and better Polish, and even had my dad teach her some off-color Italian phrases.
Gram bore and raised 10 children, of course all grown and on their own by the time young B2 entered the picture. She lived frugally in an old, two-story clapboard frame house near the village border, elevated on a hill above North Street. The house was situated near the Erie-Lackawanna railroad tracks at a time when there wasn't much else in the area. I used to love her old house; I can see it, smell it, and hear the trains to this day.
Weathered house on the hill
Grannie Mae's house was like many rural Upstate homes of that era. Its approach was a dirt and gravel driveway up a grade that ended in a very large, unpaved yard cut into the hill behind the house. Situated around this gravel and dirt yard, set back a fair piece from the house itself, was a considerable garden as well as grassy areas upon which sat work, storage, wood, and animal sheds. Interspersed amongst the buildings were a smattering of lilac bushes, locust trees, and clumps of staghorn sumac. In season, the air smelled of lilac - which was a good thing because of all the critters.
The house itself was wood frame, with glassed-in front and back porches that featured irregularly-sloping floors (due to the settling, and she called them "mud rooms"). It had unevenly settled on a field stone foundation and boasted a cobwebby, dirt floor basement that doubled as a root cellar. Because paint was very expensive, the clapboard siding was unpainted, weathered wood but the window and door trims were painted a dark blue.
I remember well the old-timey linoleum floor covering and wood cook stove in the kitchen, the well-worn hardwood floors and frayed but clean area rugs in the dining room and "parlor." I can still clearly see the heavily-built, maroon mohair sofa and chairs with the carved paw feet, upon which we children were never allowed to sit. I distinctly recall the sheer lace curtains prettying up the slightly out-of-square windows and door windows. I even remember how things outside used to appear "wavy" when you looked through the old-style window glass.
Those of you who regularly use a fireplace, cook and heat with wood, or spent time with someone who did are familiar with that wonderful, rustic, inviting smell a house develops over time. When you entered Gram's kitchen from the back mud room (we never used the front door), the first thing you experienced was that smell - it greeted you and beckoned you in. The very next thing you experienced was a boisterous welcome, a hug and a kiss, and pinch on the cheek from Grannie Mae.
Gram practically lived her whole existence in the kitchen, as did most families of that era. Depending on the weather, kitchens and porches were the main congregation points in a time when television was still a rich man's novelty, air conditioning was non-existent, central heating was expensive and inefficient, and families were social.
Goats, geese, chickens ...
Being a naturally inquisitive, adventurous lad, B2's visits to Gram's were a welcome break from the rule-infested, boring, ordered existence such a rambunctious child must endure whilst miserably suffering under the never-ending care and supervision of responsible parents. Gram's house was magical, even mysterious; a throwback to another time and place. There was always a never-fully-explored field or woodlot nearby, treasures in the barn and sheds to discover, animals to tend (and tease), and trouble to find. My many cousins and I, when visiting together, developed a God-given talent for conjuring up trouble without breaking a sweat.
I mentioned teasing the animals earlier. B2 safety tip: Never, and I mean never let Gram catch you teasing the goats or geese. It was also advisable never to swing from the tool shed door, break off fruit tree limbs while climbing, play at being Captain Marvel or Superman and jump from the car shed roof, or stuff sand in the old Ford's radiator simply because it seemed like the thing to do at the time (it's an outdoorsy boy thing and I can't explain it).
Of course we were always punished for our transgressions. It didn't matter whether our many aunts, uncles, or one's own parents were around - even when left by parents to visit with Grannie Mae, her response to our wrong-doing was swift and terrible. First came the whipping, then the scolding, then the tear-drying, and finally the comforting hugs and a slice of home-baked pie. Despite her bluster, size, and strength, Gram was a big softie and her anger was brief, quickly forgotten, and the culprits forgiven. The woman was mostly comprised of heart.
B2 and Gram's geese never got along. Geese seem to instinctively take perverse pleasure in tormenting children, and those of you familiar with the honking varmints know what I mean. When they become aggressive, they buffet you with their wings and bite - and I mean bite. My standard defense when caught teasing them was that the geese were mean to me and deserved it. That excuse didn't work with Gram and certainly didn't work with the geese.
Along with feeding and cleaning cribs, my cousin David and I used to practice head-butting with the goats. The goats didn't seem to mind but Gram used up her last nerve whenever she caught us [see Grannie Mae response above]. However, we never messed with the chickens because, well, because they were too small to head-butt and a reduction in the egg count meant a reduction in home-baked goodies.
... and wasps
One beautiful, perfect, sunny day - a rare occasion for Upstate - I was visiting Gram alone, bouncing and catching a ball off a shed wall, lost in imagining myself as a professional baseball player. One second dreamily throwing a ball, the next experiencing sharp, stabbing pain all over my body, as though an invisible hand was jabbing me with a needle. Almost before I could cry out Gram was there, her fury awesome to behold, scooping me up and dashing toward the house. Apparently the denizens in the wasp nest under the shed eave were not impressed by my Mickey Mantle impersonation.
Gram undressed me in the kitchen, squashed a few straggler wasps, sat me down, and sucked all of the stingers out of my lump-encrusted skin. She then covered the sting welts with some lotion, grabbed a blanket, and led me into the parlor to lie down on the forbidden sofa. I figured this was a big deal if Gram actually let me get near the verboten "company" furniture (which was confusing to me, because except for after a funeral, "company" always gathered in the kitchen).
Lying there, I couldn't figure out why she sat nearby and never left me, or why her usual smile and jovial demeanor were replaced with a frown of concern - she was never one to coddle. I later learned that she was very worried and was certain I would develop a fever, or worse. I didn't, and as I covertly watched from the mud room window, Gram made short shrift of the wasp's nest with a lighted kerosene-soaked rag on a stick.
That evening, I played the suffering victim to the hilt (something I could never pull off with my dad) and Gram was smart enough and relieved enough to pretend that I actually was, indulging me with hugs, treats, and stories from when she was a little girl and America was a different place. I know you're probably wondering why she didn't take me to the village's only hospital, but bear in mind that this was the '50s and you didn't go to hospital unless your head was cut clean off, or worse.
Salt of the earth
Grannie Mae was not a formally educated woman; she quit school young to help support her family, as many children did in those times. Although short on urbanity and long on countrified coarseness, she was, however, wise to the ways of the world, at least the world as she knew it. Gram was knowledgeable about many things, particularly those things pertaining to housekeeping, home maintenance, home remedies, frugality, crafting her own clothes, improvisation and making do, growing things, farm equipment, animals, the outdoors, and discerning good people from bad. She had an innate ability with languages and despite her dearth of schooling, was an avid reader.
"... Grannie Mae was a woman of immense happiness and endowed with great wealth. It was evidenced every day of her life ..."
Although too young to remember or experience, I've been told that in her younger days she had a wonderful singing voice, was a great dancer, and would polka all night long at wedding celebrations. I did, however, experience her cooking and gorged myself innumerable times on her homemade pierogi, holupki, kielbasa, placki (potato pancakes), halushki, kolatchki (my favorite cookie to this day), goose (serves them right), duck, and venison. She was thrilled when her children bought her a modern electric stove and large refrigerator, but to me things just didn't taste the same as they did when cooked with her wood stove ... just as good, but not the same.
She was also stoical, as were most folks born in the 1800s. I honestly cannot remember a time when I heard her complain or become flustered about illness, aches and pains, financial difficulties, or personal loss. I subsequently learned from my parents that she had more than her share of woes, yet they were kept locked within and she never complained, never whined, and never darkened another's day.
Despite her lack of education, disposable income, or material trappings - or perhaps in part because of their lack, Gram was a woman of immense happiness and endowed with great wealth. It was evidenced every day of her life. Her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren all loved and cared for her. She was blessed with common sense and an earthy wisdom. She possessed a reservoir of strength and could seemingly bear any burden, shoulder any load for another. She was comfortable with herself, her beliefs, and her existence. She never asked in prayer for more than she needed, never needed more than what she could afford, and freely gave of herself and of what she had to deserving, less fortunate folks. In her own special way, she was who each of us admire and aspire to be.
We lost Grannie Mae when I was nine years old. I don't remember much of her funeral day except for the sadness and an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. After the service and back at the old clapboard house, my cousin David and I didn't sit on her mohair sofa and chairs, but blinking back tears we did feed her geese - and never teased them once.