A Moment That Changed Me: My Grandmother Was Moved To A Home – And Her Story Erased

My grandmother was a keeper of unofficial stories at a time when "the facts" of history were largely undisputed and guarded by men like my grandfather. He was editor of the local newspaper, when women's stories were still often considered the domain of gossip and old wives' tales. And so, even within the family, his stories prevailed.

My grandfather died before I was born. But when I started hearing them, the stories behind the many medals and awards he won for his short story writing just didn't capture my imagination, or a sense of possibility, as the stories of my grandmother.

She told me that she grew up with her sister on vaudeville stages; his despair, at the age of nine, when his mother denied him the opportunity to travel to Russia to study the piano with one of the great masters. She brought to life not only the hopes and dreams of a hugely talented young musician forced from an early age to be a 'little earner' for her very poor family, but also the hopes and dreams of working class Peterborough. , Ontario in the early 20th century.

With a sense of cheekiness and wonder, she regaled us with the story of the infamous Black Donnellys - a marauding family whose massacre by a mob of vigilantes in Ontario in the 1880s instigated his mother to illegally change the spelling of her surname, such was the scandal - which is still part of today Canadian folklore.

Maybe that was how she always believed in the best of people, but through her eyes and in her stories, the survivors of the Great War and the Spanish flu pandemic came to life, with all their spirit and tenacity. As her only granddaughter and loved spending time with her, I was often treated to "throwbacks" - unofficial stories of our town, its people, and our family. I loved them all and excitedly encouraged her to tell me more. I didn't bother my grandmother with the tumult of my own home life, but I felt she knew, not just because I was dropped on her doorstep so often, but in the way whose stories soothed and grounded me - a young girl who desperately needed to belong, to feel grounded.

As she reached her mid-teens 80 (she would live to be 98), she feared that her memory was not as sharp as it had always been, and she began to write her stories on white index cards which she attached to her most prized possessions. . She had kept some of the unique stringed instruments her father had made, for example, and she wrote about the cold winter nights when her Irish family entertained themselves with songs of the old country. This provided some relief to hungry stomachs.

After about a year, white index cards or small slips of paper peeked behind every photo, painting , figurine and just about every book in his neatly curated library. She may have written these notes for herself, but she also told me they were for those she would leave behind. She knew everything existed in context, and she was determined to claim her own story - how the material things around her helped soothe, nurture and define her sense of family heritage, identity and place. in the world. And, unbeknownst to us, she had another purpose: her eyesight was failing. She was a proud woman, but she also feared that her children would take her to an assisted living facility if they learned of her disability.

And of course, they 'did. My grandmother walked into her coffee table on a Monday morning, injuring her knee, and was relocated on Tuesday afternoon. On Wednesday morning, a large dumpster had been rented to empty his house, and an auctioneer had been called in for an assessment of the contents.

I was studying for my master's degree in Toronto and decided to go home on Friday. By the time I entered her house, she was stripped of her household items and items. Only the legions of white index cards and scraps of paper remained, covering the ground like a blanket of snow.

Deprived of their context, most of the notes made a much less meaning, but I still kept a lot of it. And I discovered that she was particularly evocative of the way literature touched her. "This collection of poetry supports me in a way that human relationships sometimes don't. It's also less demanding. I remember my mom reading it to us when we were kids. Maybe that's why I'm so relieved. P.144 especially. I come back to it regularly."

Many of the notes recalled his childhood, or his thoughts and feelings about what was happening. passing through his life when a particular object was given to him, bought or made. She had a job...