The Making of a Grandmother -- Part III

It wasn't long after my great grandmother died until there was a new mother in the house. The step mother was one to help run the household for the widower and his many children. But her ways were very different than their mother's had been. The adjustment to a different way of living was very difficult for my Grammie.  As the eldest daughter she was accustomed to working alongside her mother and taking responsibility. She was able to make quick and wise decisions -- even as a 15-year-old. 

Sadly, what had once brought joy turned to drudgery. In her heart, Grammie really felt that her step mother had no affection for the children under her care. She could see how her younger siblings who were once nurtured in their mother's tender care were bewildered in a new and rigid life. 

The bereft teenager was unable to bear the hardship of being a Cinderella of sorts. She was expected to toil with no appreciation, no rewards, and no feelings of being loved and respected. All the stress and unhappiness at home hastened the planned marriage to a handsome, young well driller by the name of Watson. 

She was wed at the tender age of sixteen and began her life-long practice of taking the hurting and the needy into her care. As much as her father would allow, the young bride welcomed her little sister and her younger brothers into her home for visits. These times with their big sister were times of greatly needed respite for them. All of their lives they would say, "she was like a mother to me." How they loved her! 

Before she was twenty, my grandmother lost three babies. Each time it broke her heart. In that day before The Pill, cruel people -- sort of like Job's comforters -- would ask her why she was so upset. One person said to her, "the rest of us would be thrilled to have a miscarriage once in awhile. . ." Such cruelty tore at her heart. 

Finally, in 1922, after several months on bed rest, Grammie gave birth to her first child -- a girl. My mother was born on a February day. The doctor took his horse and sleigh up the stream and attended the birth. My grandmother told me that my mother was the most beautiful, red-headed baby. Later she had the freckles that her Irish genes assigned to her. Ultimately she gave birth to two more children -- a son and another daughter. How she loved her children, and what a wonderful Mamma she was. All three would tell you they had the best mother in all of the world. 

As the young couple -- my grandparents -- settled into life with their little children, The Great Depression loomed on the horizon.

--To be continued.  

The Making of a Grandmother Part II

Nobody loved her mother more than my Grammie Muriel loved her beautiful, brown-eyed Irish "Mama".  Her love was so intense that when dear mother Jessie Murphy Nason died in the influenza epidemic, she would allow nobody to prepare her Mama's body for burial. It was in my Grammie's 16th year that she took it upon herself to comb her dead mother's hair and wash her body for burial. It was her last, loving service to her beloved mother.

Years Later:  Here she is with Grandchildren

The world was in turmoil, ravaged by the first world war. The early death of adults and the high mortality incidence of infants was among the harsh realities of life. She told of how a baby sibling died in the winter. The family buried the body of their precious, little one in a hole that was dug in the dirt floor of the machine shed. There was no other way to dispose of the little body. This was a grief that she always carried with her.

Grammie's youngest brother Lawrence was born with a defective urinary tract and did not survive long after the death of his mother. My grand-mother believed that her little brother died of a broken heart after the nurturing arms of his Mamma were no longer there for him. In the age of no antibiotics, there may have been a urinary infection, too.

So many times in the lives of people, the trials and difficulties of life teach them to be compassionate. That was the case with my Grammie. Left with eight younger siblings to care for, my Grandmother took her responsibilities seriously. The protective, surrogate mother-instinct became solidly engraved in Grammie Muriel's heart.

I am certain that Grammie Muriel was the greatest champion of children that I ever knew. She could not bear to hear them cry or to see them disappointed. If a child was troubled it was Grammie to the rescue! If it was at all in her power to provide comfort and peace to a little heart, Grammie Muriel would do it.

This story -- the making of a Grandmother -- is like a Grimm's tale in some ways, for it has its own stepmother.

-- To Be Continued

The Making of a Grandmother - Part I

Once upon a time, at the turn of the 20th Century, there was a pleasant farm at the end of a narrow, winding lane near the edge of the deep woods in Northern Maine. It was a place where spring came late, fall came early, and winter lasted for a long, long time. In the warm months, children ran

The Nason Farmhouse ~ Monticello, Maine

barefoot through the fields and pastures, gathering daisies in their grubby hands and taking them to their dear and gentle mother. Father was a hard-working woodsman and farmer, toiling daily to make a living for his growing family.                                                

The house sat atop a hill and the view was spectacular year-round. On the farm there were cattle, chickens, and everything necessary for a self-sufficient lifestyle. It was a wonderful life for children and parents alike, but the work never stopped. Survival depended upon every member of the family -- even the little children -- doing their part in planting on time, keeping the crows away from the seedlings, and harvesting their crops before the killing frost and the wind-driven snows descended. It also depended upon feeding and tending the flocks and the herd. And it depended upon gathering the eggs, feeding the pigs, and milking the cow on schedule -- day in and day out, year after year.

Trees had to be chopped down and the wood cut, split, dried, and stacked for warming the house in the winters. Everyone helped. And once winter arrived, children kept the wood boxes full and carried water from the well into the house for drinking, bathing, and laundry. Oil lamps had to be kept clean and filled. There was always something to be done.

Saturdays were for cleaning house, baking beans, churning butter, and making cottage cheese. And they were a time fo children and mother to get out the galvanized wash tub and fill it with water heated on the iron cook stove. One by one, the children would be subjected to their weekly bath and shampoo so they would be squeaky clean when they mounted the wagon on Sunday morning to travel the mile or so to Church. 

The family had built the little *Church with wood cut and milled on their homestead. There at the Church they were sometimes blessed with a sermon by the circuit rider and sometimes Father would give the Bible lesson. After worship Sunday afternoon was a day of rest. They termed it the Sabbath and expected that all work but necessary care of children and animals ceased. On those afternoons people took naps or shared delightful stories and memories together. 

One of those children was my dear maternal Grandmother. She was born in 1902 as the second of ten babies born to her mother, Jessie Murphy Nason and her father, George Wilmont (Bill) Nason. It was in those days of growing and toiling at her mother's side that Muriel Nason began to develop into the woman that I knew and dearly loved as my "Grammie". 

*The Lake Road Church still stands. It is where we were married and where some of our family members still worship to this day (2-22-15)

--To be continued