Leaning into the strength and resilience of my ancestors.
Mae Augusta Curtis Barker - my Gramma Barker. Today would have been her 106th birthday.
Gram was not an easy woman to understand, but I will always wish that I had spent more time with her and that I had never known things that children need not know.
During my early childhood she lived right around the corner from us on East Walnut Street. She had grand skills with needle and thread, as well as with crochet and knitting needles. I wish she had been inclined to teach me. One of my earliest memories is of my little towheaded self clutching my precious dog, Spot, and running as fast as I could to her house so she could stitch up his ear to keep the bell from falling out. She made slippers and mittens and the many squared afghan that was kept on our couch.
She was the Christmas morning tree guardian, and the story teller when I walked with her to church or the beauty parlor or the grocery store. She was Lipton cup of soup in Tupperware mugs, Bachman's cheese popcorn, jam and butter sandwiches, and TV dinners on trays while we watched old movies. . "For goodness sake, Sheri Ann, stop fidgeting. Every time you move the reflection catches in my glasses."
She was handmade lace doilies on her furniture and pretty pins on her sweaters. She was hospital corners, chocolate oatmeal, and washing your face before going to bed.
As a child she roller skated on slate sidewalks in the same neighborhood in which I grew up, and on one Sunday morning walk to church she told me about her skates and the key that helped to fit them and that she wore that key around her neck on a ribbon. It was hard to imagine her so. Gram was the only adult I knew who understood that the old stone gate markers that stood in various places around the block bordered by Walnut, Wilbur, Grove, and Elizabeth streets were magical.
She was a shared stick of Wrigley's juicy fruit or spearmint gum in the pew at the Methodist church, coffee hour after service, and helping with a church dinner. She was the most magical winter evening walk to the most magical church bazaar, and the giver of the little crochet dolly that I still love.
She was the stern and disapproving look that could break a heart.
She was the keeper of mysterious things that belonged to the half-sister I adored, and bazillions of salt and pepper shakers and the red cabinet that was a joy to have in my own home. She was butter mints in a crystal dish and a box of saltwater taffy tucked away in a drawer.
I remember just once that she held me, during a time when I was terribly ill. Her hands were kind and strong as she held a cool compress to my forehead.
My grandfather died young, two years before I was born. She surprised me by telling me stories of frequently seeing and hearing his ghost in their house in Durhamville. I once asked her why she never remarried. She answered, "Because there is no one like him."
I don't think she ever realized that there was no one like her, either.
That which is honored and remembered, lives. Happy Birthday, Gram. I love you.
Ray and Mae in the Adirondacks
