Her Gift Keeps on Giving

Long ago, but never far away

At this time of year, I always receive a visit from my grandmother (pictured above in the early 1920s), who I called "Nana" throughout our lives together. I have her with me despite her death at 70-some years old decades ago. And I've discovered that, as the years passed, how much of her resides within me. Her birthday was (inconveniently) the day after Christmas on a small farm in Wisconsin to a Polish immigrant family of seven children. She never went beyond the sixth grade but, nonetheless, achieved a modest middle-class married life. I have an old black and white photo of her as a young woman, part of a gathering of employees at Hotel Winona near the banks of the Mississippi in Minnesota. She looks a bit coquettish, devilish. Ready to kick up her young heels. That was not the Nana I'd come to know and love.

Not long after that photo was taken, she met an immigrant Englishman who swept her off her feet to become my grandfather. I lived with them, my divorcee mother (a scandal in those days), and little brother in a small two-bedroom house so close to the railroad tracks the house vibrated when freight trains lumbered by. It was an odd family for the era – divorced women were a rarity and, in a Catholic household, a source of shame.

It wasn't until I was a grandmother myself that I recognized that Nana was the de facto head of our family and that she taught me things one never learns in school. Among her guiding beliefs was superstition. I learned that if you drop a fork, you'll be visited by a stranger. I believed this even though our little clapboard house was never open to people outside our core family. No friends or neighbors were welcome beyond the front door despite how many forks I deliberately dropped. She taught me that an itching nose means someone is thinking about you. Knock on wood, black cats crossing your path, walking under a ladder, bad luck comes in threes, breaking a mirror brings seven years bad luck, and stepping on a crack breaks your mother's back. One that stayed with me a lifetime is "Don't laugh too hard. It means you're going to cry." To this day, I have anxiety about too much happiness.

She did her job proudly and dutifully as a housewife. Down in our damp basement with the coal furnace and Speed Queen washer, she fed wet clothes through a wringer before stuffing her apron full of clothespins and hanging the load on the backyard clothesline. Dominating a kitchen smaller than a bathroom in today's homes – she churned out three homecooked family meals a day. I never once heard her complain or ask for help. She was also the keeper of family secrets. Her family's and ours, which was an unconventional one in those days.

The proximity to railroad tracks brought us visitors despite her rule about unwelcome outsiders. Small groups of 'hoboes' who rode the rails etched our address on telephone poles where freight trains briefly stopped on their cross-country journey. She met them on the stoop of our back door and handed them brown bags of food she'd prepared as they waited. But before tending to the down-on-their-luck visitors, she'd hustle my brother and me into a bedroom and shut the door with an order to "Stay right here till I come get you." We looked forward to the visits with a measure of fear, curiosity, and excitement. It was as close to danger as she'd ever let us get. Her dedication to our safety was fierce. Her commitment to the extended family she never bargained for was unflinching. As was her connection to the Polish family of her birth.

We'd occasionally visit her siblings, where Polish was the language of choice. Speaking Polish in Winona was not a badge of honor – it was a family secret. In those days, people didn't linger on a past that included being an immigrant, poor, and members of the underclass. There was a stigma about the Poles who mainly settled on the east side of our little river city and lived in what was then known as basement houses with only a roof and entryway visible.

Outside of family, there was only one passion in her life. She was devoutly Catholic and surrounded us with religious symbols, including an abundant supply of rosaries. The bedroom I shared with my mother and brother displayed a single picture on the wall – An angel hovering above two frightened children as they crossed a swinging bridge over a deep canyon. I believe my Nana thought of herself as the angel's earthly assistant. She demonstrated that when our town faced a tornado. The scream of a blaring siren pierced the walls, and as we headed to the safety of the basement, Nana grasped a vial of holy water and sprinkled all the open windows before descending the stairs.

As an adult, it was easy to dismiss such beliefs as ignorance or pure superstition. I know better today and am grateful for the gifts I received from my Nana. Things big and small. I can make soup from almost anything edible and with no recipe. I became fascinated with languages. I speak passable Spanish and can rattle off phrases in many other languages - that's thanks to hearing Nana and her sisters gossiping and sharing secrets. I have out-of-control empathy – I'm compelled to help when there’s a need. I will rescue nearly any animal, including spiders. I view this as an upside (not everyone around me shares this view). I'm almost always cheering for the underdog. I also cannot watch sad, painful, or moving films without a complete breakdown. (Sadly, this deprives my film-loving husband of some serious viewing). I spent a year of my life sculpting Pope Francis, though my Catholicism is well behind me. Also, I can pronounce Polish names such as Pryzlbilsky, Wisniewski, Kowalczyk, and Bysiewicz.

And then there is the dark side of her bequest to me – I still will not open an umbrella in the house. I'm immediately suspicious when I experience a run of good luck or unrestrained joy. I remain wary of happiness.

These things and more are the legacy of Blanche Bronislawa Darby as her 126^th birthday approaches. I believe she’s in Heaven, keeping everyone safe.

---

Thank you for spending time with me. I hope your holidays are joyful and shared with friends and family you love. Send me your thoughts at Darby@darbypatterson.com

And if you have someone who enjoys a good mystery - consider my highly rated “The Song of Jackass Creek.” Based on character and place, lacking graphic violence - readers have logged great reviews - check them out!

Here’s this week’s FREE READ, including one of my short stories!