Page Two of Grandma's Boxes
If ever there was an understatement, it would be that grandmother saved things. Most of the flat surfaces in the cabin were covered with rows of old bottles she collected. A few of the windows had shelves added so she could display them where the sunlight would shine through the colored glass. I usually counted the bottles once every summer, to see if the number had increased since my last visit. The number 450 sticks in my mind. I didn’t realize it then, but these were only her favorite bottles; there just wasn’t enough room for all of them.
She also avidly collected old buttons and owned an impressive array of antique dolls. She occasionally got these out for me to inspect, but they were not toys. Smaller sub-collections included plates, bottle openers and recipes.
All of these treasures looked proper in their respective places at the cabin, but after Grandma passed away, it acquired a different feel. The first time I saw a large number of boxes coming out of her home was when she was first preparing to move into her cabin. She was ‘distributing’ the things she’s saved from each of her five children’s growing years. That was an impressive sight to behold.
I was barely in my twenties the next time I gazed at rows of Grandma’s boxes. This time around there were literally roomfuls of boxes representing her life; too much for even three generations of descendents to divide up and absorb. Mountainous unclaimed stacks were left over for donations.
I blame my own tendencies to save and collect on an inherited gene after viewing Grandma’s passions out in the open. A stash of fabric for her quilts was stacked higher than my head. Every bit of correspondence from family had been saved, right down to gift tags.
The grief of losing Grandma just as I was coming into my own womanhood struck me as a special kind of loss. My toddler was the last great-grandchild she welcomed into the family. I lost the opportunity to know her on an adult level. Somehow I felt like time had stuck me at the ‘children’s table’ for infinity.
It wasn’t until I was coping with my parents’ estate over 20 years later that I got to peek into Grandma’s life again. It happened when I excavated some boxes my grandmother had secretly stashed in my former bedroom during her visits with them. Since my parents’ were also ‘savers’ it took time for me work my way through all the sentimental things I carted home (and stuffed away in every conceivable space).
Grandma’s contribution could best be described as a giant time capsule. Every letter my parents and I had written to her were saved and sorted chronologically. A sentence here, a paragraph there unexpectedly filled in my family’s history. My childhood recollections had been riddled with gaps and misinformation, mostly stemming from being too young to understand and protecting me from life’s hardships.
Other boxes were filled with old photographs and just enough clues for me to unravel identities and create albums about my ancestors. I was fascinated by how Grandma had left things so carefully organized. I caught on that she had a method to everything, but true to her character, few words of explanation. If I left things in the same order she packed it, eventually the puzzle pieces would fall into place.
I had the feeling that Grandma had special foresight when she left these treasures for me to discover. Certainly she realized my parents were totally unaware of the extra boxes she left behind under my bed and on shelves no one looked at anymore. I like to believe she saw of the something of person I would become someday, deep inside the quiet little girl who used to spend vacation with her. Someone who no longer wore plaid and strips together, I might add. She put her trust in the ‘future me’ to oversee the contents of her boxes.
The most personal glimpse into Grandma’s life came through a handful of letters written immediately following the birth of my father in the autumn of 1918. Postage was a mere three cents back then. Dad was born two months premature, weighing just three pounds and was 12 inches long. He had two holes in his little heart. Fortunately, my grandfather was able to transport Grandma from their ranch in Imnaha to the hospital in nearby Joseph, Oregon in time for the early birth.
Grandma stayed in the hospital for approximately two weeks. Dad was referred to as "Baby" in the letters, which makes me wonder if naming him was postponed until his survival was more certain. Grandma wrote home to report on his progress and ask about the four other children her husband had at home with him. Reading letters from my grandfather was a special treat since I never got to meet him. He drowned when my father was six-years-old.
