Wednesday, August 09, 2006
The Pictures In A Picture
When I checked Barb's "A Chelsea Morning" yesterday I was surprised to see myself looking out from it at me. The maternal five generation picture has fragile edges. It should. It's about fifty years old.
The detail of it that most people commented on was what looked like a gentle touch from my great grand Ma. She had reached over and put her hand on Barb's little foot.
That was significant, her many generations reaching out, to connect with a baby not yet a year old.
I am more sentimental than I sometimes admit, and tend to vist the past too often and stay there much too long, but making this recent big move and change in my life has evoked many memories, so when I saw the old picture, it was easy to dwell there again.
After I discovered Barb had posted the five of us, we were talking about family history, and she asked if I knew all the grandmas' names, and I am embarrassed, because I should have, and I didn't. But I will.
Later I looked at the picture again, and saw more than five females connected by bloodline.
The oldest is Nancy Emelia Boyett King, born 1866, died 1963. She was born only a year after the Civil War ended, but her mother could easily have been affected by that war, by losing a husband in battle, or worrying that sons would have to go and fight, all those gut clutcing fears and heartaches that women sometimes
have thrust upon them.
The next grand mother, Almedia Estelle King, who to me was just granny Perry, was born in 1886. The war was over, but the economical aftermath of it lingered for generations. As a young widowed woman, with four children, living in the back woods of Bronson, every day was a challenge, to survive.
If I feel a little deprived sometimes, I remember Granny Perry used an old side room near the tiny kitchen, soley for storing gunny sacks filled with dried peas or beans. Many times her homemade cornbread just about completed our meals.
My mother, Katherine Jewell Perry was the next generation. Her unwise choice of husband, a handsome blue eyed Irishman named McMillan, took her to a life of misery and poverty. She and my father ditched school and eloped. I imagine granny Perry was as upset about it as years later I was about Barb's elopement.
For only a few dollars my father borrowed from somebody, a willing Justice of the Peace performed Mom's and his marriage. After Mom divorced Dad, back when divorce was considered a disgrace, she made an even worse choice of mate, not because he was Indian, but because he was a drunk. Mom had six children with my father, and more with the second man, and when she was 56 years old, died. Some said it was from cancer. I think it was from the misery and poverty. She endured the leanest of years, around the depression, and dealt with the stormy years of the 2nd World war.
Though her name isn't in history books, at her death she received an ovation that honored her life. As the cars trailed toward the cemetery, I realized many more cars followed. Poor people, not in fancy shiny automobiles, but kindred souls like her, who shared her meager way of life, and loved and respected her more than it seemed life itself had.
Though Mom died more than thirty years ago her spirit is so alive,in those who followed. We'e learned livingis more important than dying, that life is about more than what's in it for us; and though we don't look for accolades, if there be any, they're for how we impacted other people's lives.
There's not much more to say about daughter Barb (A New Chelsea Morning) and other daughter, Bev (Blessed Beyond Measure). Their lives, their marriages, and the outstanding job they've both done raising their children, honors them completely.
But there's someone else not seen in this picture. It's my mother's sister, Allie.
More than anybody I've known she made the big difference, for me. She taught me sometimes we have to do whatever is needed, whether we think we're brave enough, or not, but we didn't have to have a "nobody has suffered as I've suffered" attitude. In the midst of many difficulties and heartaches this woman managed to, if not seem happy, at least present a calm peacefulness.
So Nancy Emelia Boyett King, and Almedia Estelle King Perry, I will remember your names, and the rest of you in the frayed old picture. I salute you. You've earned some glory for your battle scars, and I offer my tribute for what you've handed down to me. May the rest of my life also honor yours.
The detail of it that most people commented on was what looked like a gentle touch from my great grand Ma. She had reached over and put her hand on Barb's little foot.
That was significant, her many generations reaching out, to connect with a baby not yet a year old.
I am more sentimental than I sometimes admit, and tend to vist the past too often and stay there much too long, but making this recent big move and change in my life has evoked many memories, so when I saw the old picture, it was easy to dwell there again.
After I discovered Barb had posted the five of us, we were talking about family history, and she asked if I knew all the grandmas' names, and I am embarrassed, because I should have, and I didn't. But I will.
Later I looked at the picture again, and saw more than five females connected by bloodline.
The oldest is Nancy Emelia Boyett King, born 1866, died 1963. She was born only a year after the Civil War ended, but her mother could easily have been affected by that war, by losing a husband in battle, or worrying that sons would have to go and fight, all those gut clutcing fears and heartaches that women sometimes
have thrust upon them.
The next grand mother, Almedia Estelle King, who to me was just granny Perry, was born in 1886. The war was over, but the economical aftermath of it lingered for generations. As a young widowed woman, with four children, living in the back woods of Bronson, every day was a challenge, to survive.
If I feel a little deprived sometimes, I remember Granny Perry used an old side room near the tiny kitchen, soley for storing gunny sacks filled with dried peas or beans. Many times her homemade cornbread just about completed our meals.
My mother, Katherine Jewell Perry was the next generation. Her unwise choice of husband, a handsome blue eyed Irishman named McMillan, took her to a life of misery and poverty. She and my father ditched school and eloped. I imagine granny Perry was as upset about it as years later I was about Barb's elopement.
For only a few dollars my father borrowed from somebody, a willing Justice of the Peace performed Mom's and his marriage. After Mom divorced Dad, back when divorce was considered a disgrace, she made an even worse choice of mate, not because he was Indian, but because he was a drunk. Mom had six children with my father, and more with the second man, and when she was 56 years old, died. Some said it was from cancer. I think it was from the misery and poverty. She endured the leanest of years, around the depression, and dealt with the stormy years of the 2nd World war.
Though her name isn't in history books, at her death she received an ovation that honored her life. As the cars trailed toward the cemetery, I realized many more cars followed. Poor people, not in fancy shiny automobiles, but kindred souls like her, who shared her meager way of life, and loved and respected her more than it seemed life itself had.
Though Mom died more than thirty years ago her spirit is so alive,in those who followed. We'e learned livingis more important than dying, that life is about more than what's in it for us; and though we don't look for accolades, if there be any, they're for how we impacted other people's lives.
There's not much more to say about daughter Barb (A New Chelsea Morning) and other daughter, Bev (Blessed Beyond Measure). Their lives, their marriages, and the outstanding job they've both done raising their children, honors them completely.
But there's someone else not seen in this picture. It's my mother's sister, Allie.
More than anybody I've known she made the big difference, for me. She taught me sometimes we have to do whatever is needed, whether we think we're brave enough, or not, but we didn't have to have a "nobody has suffered as I've suffered" attitude. In the midst of many difficulties and heartaches this woman managed to, if not seem happy, at least present a calm peacefulness.
So Nancy Emelia Boyett King, and Almedia Estelle King Perry, I will remember your names, and the rest of you in the frayed old picture. I salute you. You've earned some glory for your battle scars, and I offer my tribute for what you've handed down to me. May the rest of my life also honor yours.
