The Wicker Cottage. |
My mind is swimming with the new
information I acquired while home after my Uncle’s death. There were so many
stories I hadn’t heard before, unknown to me and my parents. My maternal
grandmother, 83, was especially chatty, sharing stories about her own
grandparents, who both worked for a local wealthy family in Lockport. Her
grandpa was the groundskeeper for the Kenans and her grandma was their cook.
My grandpa’s cousin shared
information about my mom’s father’s family that we didn’t have, solving the
mystery of way my great-great grandfather was an only child. He was not an only
child, just the only one who survived. My Uncle, older than my father and the
brother they just lost, shared a letter full of memories of my grandparents,
including the mother my father never knew and the grandmother I never met. My
heart is full of joy at fleshing out her character and sorrow at never having
known her.
This morning, in the wavering heat
of the summer air, her ghost is almost tangible. My great-grandparents, the
Rustons, grew vegetables during the war and Grandma Ruth and her sons helped
with the weeding and growing. I can almost hear her laughter as I work on the
neglected garden I abandoned while visiting my family.
I learned that the Rustons also had
a cottage at Olcott, a small town on Lake Ontario. Where it used to sit is now
a garage, attached to another cottage sitting beside two more. The trio used to
belong to the Wicker brothers Hiram, William, and Frank. Hiram was my
great-great-grandfather, and his cottage is still standing.
In my sadness, I am overwhelmed by
the history. Standing at the edge of life, time is irrelevant and much that is
unknown feels within reach. If I hadn’t asked, I’d never have known. I am grateful
for the stories my Uncle Dave told me about his stint in the Navy during the
Cuban Missile Crisis this past Christmas. And I’m grateful that I was old
enough to understand what a gift it was to receive all these stories I now
hold.
I am a storyteller. And I am a
storykeeper. They are swimming in my head and I am waiting for them to settle
until they are part of my known histories.
Ask your parents and your
grandparents and your great-grandparents how they met. What was their favorite
music? Song? Book? What was the first film they remember seeing in a movie
theater? What church did they attend? What were their first jobs? Who were
their first heroes? What hobbies did they have or enjoy? Or wish they’d taken
up? What do they say is the most important thing they learned about life?
Don’t let time and distance stand
between you and knowing your history. Don’t be afraid to ask. You may be
surprised to learn what you discover. This morning, I feel closer to a woman I
never thought I’d have the chance to get to know. Today I am thinking about my
Grandma Ruth and her son Dave, and hoping that they have been reunited in whatever
comes after this life.
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