A memory of my Grandmother Phoebe
I remember an Easter when I was seven years old when we were going to my Grandmother Phoebe’s home for dinner. My other Grandmother, Selma, usually spent Easter with one of her other children’s families; however, this Easter there was an incident of some kind and she was going to be alone at Easter. My mother asked my father to ask his mother if she could spend Easter with us. My father said that wouldn’t be possible.
I didn’t know then that my father’s family opposed his marriage to my mother as her mother spoke with an accent (she was born in Sweden) and cleaned houses. She was of a different class. Her husband had abandoned the family of four children when my mother was 12 years old and my mother had to quit school and clean houses with her mother to support the family.
I asked my father why my Grandmother Selma couldn’t come. He replied, “Because she speaks with an accent.” I burst into tears. What difference did that make? I loved both grandmothers. Why couldn’t they love each other? Well, I guess my Grandmother Phoebe heard how upset I was and invited my other Grandmother.
My Grandmother Phoebe welcomed my other Grandmother warmly and engaged her in conversation. They soon learned about their shared love of flowers and they went to view the garden. I came along too. My Grandmother Phoebe said that her secret was that she got the droppings from the milkman’s horse for her garden. They both had a good laugh at this and I was so happy they liked each other! My spinster aunt who lived with my Grandmother Phoebe remained aloof throughout the evening.
At that time, my Grandmother Selma lived in a rented room in an old house and didn’t have access to a garden. But she had artificial flowers everywhere and everything that could have, had a floral pattern. Her “garden”.
It was a tradition to play Canasta after dinner and everyone took turns shuffling the cards and dealing. When it came to my Grandmother Selma’s turn, it was obvious she didn’t know how to shuffle cards. I doubt she had ever played cards. She was an independent person and determined to take her turn. She asked for a basket and proceeded to shuffle the cards in the basket. My aunt rolled her eyes. My Grandmother Phoebe remarked very sincerely that it was a very interesting way to shuffle. We were all unaware of the irony that "canasta" means "basket". Perhaps she was ahead of us all!
My Grandmother Phoebe died when I was 12 years old and I was devastated. I will never forget her kindness that day. An early lesson in overcoming prejudice and treating all people with respect. It was a wonderful gift she gave to me that day.
