Geneology2 . . . Remembering Early visits to Grandma’s
If you are delving into your genealogy, one of the treasure’s you can explore is the local lore of family memories. I wish I had done a much better job of that when I was younger. I could have learned a lot. Now, I’m part of that older generation, and its time for me to recapture memories of our family’s shared past. For example, remembering the first visits to my father’s family when I was young.
I never met his dad, my grandfather. He died nearly a decade before my birth. But I do remember many trips to see Grandma. My Dad would go more often, but the whole family went practically every summer.
I remember one trip during the early years of WWII. The five of us were packed into the old, black Dodge, and my Mother was worried that the car wouldn’t make it. But we cruised along up through the Pocono Mountains, and as we crested one hill, we could see the city of Wilkes-Barre spread out below us. It hugged the shore of the Susquehanna River
Grandma’s house was located at the top of a hill on a side street to a main shopping street. The houses lined the street, but all of the garages were situated on a separate alley behind the row of homes. They were probably first built for carriages, rather than cars, and sited to provide a bit of separation. Her house was surrounded by a wrought iron fence, and we could safely run around in the yard.
As you entered her front door, there was a pallor to the right. This room had the nice furniture and lace curtains, and you weren’t allowed to play in there. Walking back further into the house, there was a dining room on the right and a big kitchen in the back. The heart of the kitchen was a big, cast iron stove. It was heated by coal, and every morning Grandma would get up stoke the fire and add more coal to heat it up again for the next day. Wilkes-Barre sat in the heart of the anthracite coal region, and many people in the family and the region worked for the mines. Everyone used coal.
The smells from the kitchen were wonderful, and Grandma fed us and fed us. Sometimes she would use funny words when she talked. My mother told us that she learned those words in the “old country”. When we asked what she meant, Grandma would laugh and tell us what the words meant in English.
One day, our cousins, Jeannie, Annie, and Carole came over to visit. Annie was near my age, and she was nice. We all had our picture taken with Grandma on the front porch.
Aunt Margaret and Uncle Pat lived with Grandma. Uncle Joe was much younger than my father, and he would go out and play ball with us in the yard. During our visit, we went to a park and played in the cool water of Bear Creek. Uncle Joe was with us, and he tried to teach me how to swim. When I hesitated, he threw me into the middle of the creek and told me that I had to “sink or swim”. I swam the doggy paddle back to shore, and he was enormously proud. I’ve always loved swimming ever since.
After dinner, we would read or listen to the radio. The men would sit around the dining room table, play cards, and drink some Stegmaier Beer. The Stegmaier Brewery was located down at the bottom of the hill, and you could often smell the pervasive aroma of the hops. When no one was looking, Uncle Joe gave me a small juice glass of Stegmaier Beer. I drank it all down, but my father yelled at him and said I was too young. Uncle Joe loved to get us into trouble.
After church on Sunday, we went out the back gate, across and down the alley to visit the O’Donnell’s. Patrick was Grandma’s brother. He, and his wife Mary and daughter Kathleen laughed a lot and told us stories. They were very nice to us and served us the most cold, delicious root beer. Patrick and Grandma talked a lot to each other using the funny words, and said that was the language they used when they were our age. Uncle Patrick had to leave after a while to tend to the pub that he owned.
The next day, my father brought me to see Uncle Patrick at his pub. The men sat and sipped their beer while I had more of that cold root beer. After that, my Dad and I walked a few blocks over to see the house where he grew up. It was a nice house, but not as big as where Grandma is now and not as close to Uncle Patrick.
We had a great time at Grandma’s, and I remember being so sorry that we couldn’t go the following year because our gasoline rationing sticker wouldn’t allow us enough gas to make it. But we did make it the next year and many, many more.
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