A Glimpse into Grandma’s Heart

By the time I knew Grandma Schultz (my great grandmother) she was so hard of hearing that no one could have a discussion with her. My best recollection of her is that of a slight, hunched woman sitting quietly in a rocking chair in a corner of her daughter’s (my maternal grandmother) dining room. Her thinning gray hair and many wrinkles supported the fact that she had seen nearly a century of these Thanksgiving dinners that we were about to partake of. Two of the men, one on each side of Grandma, helped her to the table. Once the prayer had been offered, the food was passed. It was easier to point and tip the bowl showing Grandma what was in it than it was to shout out SWEET POTATOES, DRESSING,  SCALLOPED CORN. She would nod or shake her head. I wasn’t sure what a stroke was, but I did know that after Grandma came home from the hospital she needed a lot of help.

As a young child I could only imagine Grandma as she was at the time – never as a child or young adult.  It did not occur to me to even think about what she might have liked to do as a child my age, because in my immature mind the idea that she had been one  seemed implausible.

Grandma Schultz was ninety-five years old when she passed away; I was eight. It may have been at her funeral as the minister read the obituary that I began to see her as more than the old woman I had been familiar with. She had grown up as a little girl somewhere I had never heard of – he called it Germany. I sat in the pew and wondered what little girls in Germany did. Did they play “jacks” and jump rope? Had Grandma played with dolls or had she made mud pies and climbed trees? Had she had a pony? Did she have a best friend in Germany to tell secrets to? As I filed past her casket and stole glances at her motionless body, I knew I had lost the opportunity to have my questions answered by the one that knew those answers best.

Time marched on and I listened through the years to stories told by Grandma Martha and my own mother. It may not have been from the horse’s mouth, but many facts were revealed to me about Grandma Schultz. She had crossed the ocean to come to America when she was fifteen. As an adult she loved flowers and shared a flower garden with her daughter who lived next door. She became a seamstress and sewed for the folks in the tiny village where she and my Grandpa Julius lived. She enjoyed fine needle work and spent many evenings crocheting under the kerosene lamp in the kitchen. And one of my favorite things I learned – she always went to the storm cellar, clutching her well worn Bible.

Although I have learned a lot of facts, it’s the feelings that go along with the facts that still remain absent. What kind of fears did Grandma have when she stepped off that boat onto a new land, surrounded by those that spoke a language she couldn’t understand? Was she at peace when she made the decision to withhold  surgery for her brain-injured child after being told it could paralyze or even kill him? Or was she consumed with guilt as she was forced to watch him suffer with agonizing headaches throughout his life? These are the answers that can only come from Grandma herself.

As the decades passed, I became a mother and then a grandmother, too. Things that were once inconsequential to me in my younger years have taken a cherished position now.   I often find myself looking at the quilt made by Grandma Schultz. I display it on a rack near the fireplace. With her skilled seamstress hands, she has placed perfectly even rows of stitches between and around each of the 75 colorful butterflies. As I look at the variety of fabric used for the different butterflies I wonder what Grandma might have been asked to make with each piece. I envision women’s blouses, dresses, and aprons from the flowered prints and possibly men’s shirts and ties from the plaids and stripes.

There is one piece of fabric I don’t have to guess at any longer, as it has been identified.  Although Mom often can’t remember what she’s had for dinner an hour ago, long term memory is frequently intact. I showed her a picture of the quilt on my recent visit to see her at the assisted living facility. She immediately pointed to the pink butterfly and said, “Grandma made me a jumper out of that one.”  Little did Mom realize she was giving me a glimpse into Grandma’s heart – a heart that gave the kind of gift that is seldom forgotten.

Until next month – keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.