Memories of My Grandmother

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.

Raymond C. and Mae A. Barker

Ray and Mae in the Adirondacks

Mae with her sons, Ray Jr., Donald, and David

The Road Home

Have you ever been on a long journey and then found that the road home leads you back to some place new? Some of the old familiar and certain things are there, but they are different in ways it will take a while to determine.

I just stepped outside to say goodnight to the Moon. The sky is covered with fast moving clouds tonight and I did not think I would see Her. The moment I moved to the top of the steps,hands on the porch posts, head and eyes raised to the sky, the clouds shifted; Her shimmering nightrobe parted and I caught a glimpse of her silver golden self, still nearly full and gorgeous and luscious. Still familiar and certain, yet somehow different. She and I have both been traveling, and getting reacquainted is a dear, sweet process.

Something about the quality of light reminded me of my last December in New York, and an afternoon and evening when I wandered for hours through the snow. I visited many childhood haunts and many childhood memories. These lions were a last stop on that adventure. I hope I find them in my dreams tonight; a last stop on this day's adventures.

What childhood magics do you carry with you, talismans of safety as you journey through life?

These Years Later - Ray Barker

I try to keep an awareness of this date as it draws near, with the intention that mindfulness will keep me from being ambushed. Silly me.
Today is the anniversary date of my father's death; four days from now will mark the day that was his birthday in this lifetime. He has been gone from this world 12 years now, and I am still getting to know him. I am closer to answers, perhaps, in a "Shaka, when the walls fell" kind of way, but I suspect it will take a lifetime of musing to make any real progress. And when I finally know all the truths I need to know, they will no longer matter.
I have spent the morning lazily immersed in memories, photos, and old writings about my dad, both in this world and dream visits in the other. They are real and surreal, quiet and intense, rabbit hole and Summerlands, sometimes all at once.
In one of my old dreams, I could hear my parents talking in their coffee-at-the-dining-room-table voices. I was walking a perfectly shoveled path (a theme in many such dreams, and a Ray Barker art form) through the snowy woods, and I called to them but they didn't answer. I thought I was getting closer because the trees were thinning out and the light was getting brighter. I finally stepped out of the woods and found myself on an Adirondack lake shore, with Autumn all around instead of winter. There was a picnic table with their coffee cups, and a box of plain cake donuts. On the table, next to Dad's cup, there was also a copy of the poem I wrote a few years. It was held down by a piece of beach glass. I sat down at the table, looking out over the water, soaking up the beauty of the place when I heard Dad call my name from a distance. There they were, far out on the water in an old style canoe, sunlight dancing on the water all around them. They both waved to me before turning the canoe and paddling away.
I still miss him every day. 

See you in our beloved North Country, Pops.

Peace out, peeps.

~sheri

These years later

I mimic the mystic they and say

"It doesn't get any easier." But truth be told, as was your wont,

Your death brought a storm of grief and fury

So thorough and unrelenting

That over time it smoothed the edges

Of the pain of your loss until it became

A piece of beach glass, tossed and

tumbled by rough seas.

I can hold it now, sometimes,

Turning it in my fingers,

Feeling the beauty of your life

Without the cutting edges. ~s. barker 2015

Baby Ray - photo taken by his father, Raymond C. Barker, Sr.

Punk looking Ray, which goes with what I know of his life.

Dad on the left, with his mother and brothers. I am grateful for the healing that took place between them.

Dad with the love of his life.

I wish I'd done a better job with this picture. Camera issues, and a cigarette haze filled house. Dad with his sons. I wonder what he thinks of who they have become.