Gram

“When you get to a fence, you have to climb over.” Grandma B

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Lucy was farm-born. The middle child of three, she built her strength on bad luck and financial ruin. Running on the family name that created her hometown. At 21 she found herself pregnant and marrying her 5^th cousin in the living room of her parents’ home. That child died at 6 months old so she healed her heart by indulging her love of photography and creating hats for the ladies at church until 4 daughters arrived to complete her family. She followed her husband into the world of status and wealth as he grew into a landlord for the Lowell mill workers until he lost it all during the depression. Turning from disaster, she gathered her skirts and made a profession out of her homemaking skills and opened seasonal restaurants on the NH coast, and the Guest House where the literati spent their precious summer weeks gazing at the ocean. Innovative poet Marianne Moore and masterful sculptor Malvina Hoffman shared a room on the third floor of the stately home Lucy and her husband purchased in 1941 in Rye, NH. Friends since childhood, they enjoyed a daily morning constitutional across the road on Sawyer Beach and took their meals on the verandah overlooking the marsh behind the house.

With worsening vision Lucy had cataract surgery and had to stay in traction in a hospital bed after the procedure. She nursed her husband when he contracted typhoid when canal water was accidentally mixed with the pool water at the YMCA. She developed circulation problems that necessitated the amputation of her legs after which she continued to run the household for her spinster daughter.

She could make an apple pie in 20 minutes, wore self-belted floral dresses with the ubiquitous black high heeled oxfords, and wore Chantilly perfume, which I can still smell when I let myself return to her home with the Dutch door and the soapstone sink. But the best memories are the ones we spent together during my 11^th summer.

Aunt Anna dutifully drove off to work each morning. Sensible shoes, wool skirt and a rayon blouse, pocketbook in the crook of her arm, backing down the gravel driveway guided by the white painted stones on the grass. Gram and I spent the time until she returned hanging laundry on the clothesline in the backyard, sewing missing buttons back in place, and watching General Hospital squished into the same overstuffed chair. She called me buzz-bomb and told me to stop showing off when I did headstands in the corner of her chair. I made up tunes on her piano and begged her to let me lick the spoon when she mixed batter for a cake. She never let me. Our days were filled with lunch on the screen porch, stories of her childhood on the farm, and my dreams of growing up to be just like her; strong, creative, and tall.

My mother gave me one of the best pieces of advice when the world seemed to be heading for disaster: Clean up your own backyard first. But Gram gave me the best advice for my own personal hardships, which were right around the corner: When you get to a fence, you have to climb over. And climb over she did and landed on her feet ready to remake her life. I have carried this gem every day of my life. Early childbirth, betrayal & divorce, unsteady finances, unexpected tragedy, despair and desperation-Gram has always been there with her wise words, stoicism and warm heart. I visit her grave, place pebbles on her gravestone, and walk through the cemetery where our ancestors rest against the history of their lives together. I will join them someday, but until then, I walk tall in my purpose and honor the women from whence I came with my words, my actions, and my heart.