I came home from school when I was twelve one autumn day and was greeted by the scene of Mom and Dad crying hysterically. Grandmom Hugar had just passed away. I looked for Mary Kay and Barb and we all ran to our shared bedroom and cried. We wished we could have seen her more often,than once or twice a year. We would never have her rhubarb and strawberry pies again. We could never be in her barn again. I could never read in her pine trees again, and come down in time for some homemade biscuits and honey from her own bees. God, why did You let this happen? We drove three hours to Nannie's house, my Mom's mother, and the entire family camped out there. In the morning, we loaded up the car and went to the funeral home. I said I would wait outside, as I did not want to say my goodbyes to Grandmom in THAT PLACE! I guess that was my own way of protecting myself. My sisters came out of the funeral home within a few minutes and said that there was a huge argument going on about her estate. One uncle in particular was being very nasty. As young as we were, we three girls were totally disgusted by such a display of greed at the funeral home, of all places. I ended up and went in and gave a dirty look to the offending uncle. Mary Kay and Barb and I walked up to the casket, knelt down, and saw how horribly much weight Grandmom had lost. Her nose looked like a white bone. Her thumbs were flattened. The dress she had on was way too big for her. My Mother shrieked out loud when she saw Grandmom. We were traumatized by the whole ordeal. Apparently Grandmom was suffering with cancer for several years, and she would wear layers of clothing to hide her incredible weight loss.
After the funeral, there was a big dinner to be held at the Grange Hall, actually a stone's throw from Grandmom's house. It was so surreal to be having a big dinner, across the street from her house, the house of a wonderful loving woman who nurtured anyone and everyone. A house we could no longer enter and ever again, be greeted by her melodious voice and love.
We girls did not want to partake in the dinner. We had seen too much offensive behaviour for our aunts and uncles. We walked in, saw everyone stuffing their face with food and left in disgust. We walked a half mile down the country road to the cemetery Grandmom was just buried in. We got to her grave and the dirt was still piled high and littered with flower baskets. Her headstone had Grandpop's birth and death dates on it but of course her death date was not yet engraved. We sat on an adjacent tomb stone and had our own time with Grandmom. We told her how much we loved her and we were sorry some of our aunts and uncles were such creeps, and that we loved her and would rather spend time with her then to stuff our face with food and be happy at such a time as this. We were there until it started to get dark. We started to walk back when Dad came by with the car to pick us up. No one said a word as he drove us back to the Grange Hall. Across the street we observed her house to be totally dark, shut up with an auctioneer's truck parked in front of it. I begged Dad to let us in the house, as I so wanted to run up her stairs, to go into the sunroom and lay on the bear rug carpet, to smell her house, which to me was the scent of pure, unconditional love....Well, couldn't we see the barn again at least Dad? No, it was all over, he kept saying. I thought he was so mean that day as it would have been no problem for him to let us at least go in the barn. But in retrospect, here was a grieving son, mourning his much beloved Mother, a stoic man in deep pain, and he did not want anyone to find solace that day. Nor was any found.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
more Grandmom Hugar memories
As much as I loved to read at Grandmom's house, and as much as she encouraged me to be a book worm, she also insisted we all got outside to play in the barn, climb trees, pick berries, check on the honey combs, and she knew we got such a kick out of using the ages old outhouse. My favorite place to play was in the three story barn she had. Not used for decades. No one was in it much since Grandpop passed away a few years earlier. There were horse reins, yokes for oxen, saddles, wooden chests and horse pens throughout the barn. The only light was from the cracks in the oaken walls and ceiling. It had a thick pungent smell of aged manure, hay leather and wood. It was mysterious and alluring, and we felt it was haunted by so many ghosts of the past. I utterly loved it.Chris, Barb, Mary Kay and I would run to the barn the way kids run to an amusement park today. We particularly enjoyed jumping from one hay loft to another. These lofts were tiered, the highest being ten feet from the roof. we would climb the oak ladders up to the lofts and jump from one fifteen feet feet down to another across from it. One day I jumped 15 feet into a pile of hay and getting up exuberantly, I noticed the rusty tines of a huge pitchfork, I just missed being impaled upon. What an adrenaline rush! That only encouraged further misdeeds of valor. (I am convinced I shed all the constraints enveloping me from Catholic School during my "barn time.") It was the supreme outlet for all my pent up emotions and need to prove myself TO myself. We also opted to jump from the top window of the barn to the sloping grassy field below. That was double fun because upon landing, we would roll down the grassy slope another twenty feet. The ultimate ride.
We loved our visits with Grandmom the most whenever our cousin Valli would come for a visit. Valli was the only child of Dad's brother Andy and his wife, Betts. Valli was idolized by we three girls, as Valli could have whatever she wanted. She never had to share. Yet, she was totally unspoiled, and certainly the most fun person to hang out with. She was always laughing and carrying on. She was very smart, and she viewed the world through the same lens I did too, but only showed when she was around. One day we were playing in the barn and we had to go to the bathroom. Valli said there was a toilet right in the barn. She took me over to a trap door on the first level of the barn, with a basement underneath. She advised me to open the trap door, squat and do my business. She says she had been doing that for years. And sure enough, looking down the stairs were tattered pieces of book pages strewn all over the stairs. I looked at her really strangely, and she said all I had to do was to rip out a few pages from the old text books on the top step. She said her Dad said the books were a real load of crap and what better use for them than this. My sisters and I laughed our heads off, as we would like to say, as we were brought up in such a pristine, immaculate environment that we would have never, in all our wildest dreams, thought up such a thing. Valli was certainly brought up well too in such respects, but her parents would never squelch her hysterical creativity and joy she constantly radiated. That impressed me very much, so whenever I am feeling a little "zaney" I go with it, as long as it was not quite THAT ZANEY!
We also would spend time dressing up in old gowns from Grandmom's trunk in her attic. I particularly liked to put on the bone corsets and large flowery hats. I also delighted in the old button up tall black shoes. We would spend hours trying on ancient finery that saw its better days well before we were born.
Another favorite past time was to climb the hundred year old pine trres out in the meadow. Some were fifty feet high, very thick trunks, with very large and well spaced branches that would wave majestically in the wind. Perfect for climbing! I would climb up about twenty feet, sit on one branch and use the branch above me as a book rest and read for hours. I would climb up the tree with a Hardy Boys Mystery, or a Nancy Drew book stuffed in my pants and climb until I found a good solid "nesting" branch where I could sit comfortably with my back resting on the trunk and my legs stretched out on a limb. Only when I could no longer read, due to the setting sun, would I come down from my heavenly perch. I would look out and take in the fifty acres around me, feeling the wind rustle through my hair, gently lifting the branch I was sitting on. I would venture far out on the limb because I could better feel the wind lifting me. I will always remember those magical days, cradled in the arms of a tree, being gently lifted by the wind, and hearing the soft sigh of the wind through the branches.
We loved our visits with Grandmom the most whenever our cousin Valli would come for a visit. Valli was the only child of Dad's brother Andy and his wife, Betts. Valli was idolized by we three girls, as Valli could have whatever she wanted. She never had to share. Yet, she was totally unspoiled, and certainly the most fun person to hang out with. She was always laughing and carrying on. She was very smart, and she viewed the world through the same lens I did too, but only showed when she was around. One day we were playing in the barn and we had to go to the bathroom. Valli said there was a toilet right in the barn. She took me over to a trap door on the first level of the barn, with a basement underneath. She advised me to open the trap door, squat and do my business. She says she had been doing that for years. And sure enough, looking down the stairs were tattered pieces of book pages strewn all over the stairs. I looked at her really strangely, and she said all I had to do was to rip out a few pages from the old text books on the top step. She said her Dad said the books were a real load of crap and what better use for them than this. My sisters and I laughed our heads off, as we would like to say, as we were brought up in such a pristine, immaculate environment that we would have never, in all our wildest dreams, thought up such a thing. Valli was certainly brought up well too in such respects, but her parents would never squelch her hysterical creativity and joy she constantly radiated. That impressed me very much, so whenever I am feeling a little "zaney" I go with it, as long as it was not quite THAT ZANEY!
We also would spend time dressing up in old gowns from Grandmom's trunk in her attic. I particularly liked to put on the bone corsets and large flowery hats. I also delighted in the old button up tall black shoes. We would spend hours trying on ancient finery that saw its better days well before we were born.
Another favorite past time was to climb the hundred year old pine trres out in the meadow. Some were fifty feet high, very thick trunks, with very large and well spaced branches that would wave majestically in the wind. Perfect for climbing! I would climb up about twenty feet, sit on one branch and use the branch above me as a book rest and read for hours. I would climb up the tree with a Hardy Boys Mystery, or a Nancy Drew book stuffed in my pants and climb until I found a good solid "nesting" branch where I could sit comfortably with my back resting on the trunk and my legs stretched out on a limb. Only when I could no longer read, due to the setting sun, would I come down from my heavenly perch. I would look out and take in the fifty acres around me, feeling the wind rustle through my hair, gently lifting the branch I was sitting on. I would venture far out on the limb because I could better feel the wind lifting me. I will always remember those magical days, cradled in the arms of a tree, being gently lifted by the wind, and hearing the soft sigh of the wind through the branches.
Catholic school days in the fifties
My older brother Chris thought he was so special because he walked to Catholic school all by himself. St. Patrick School,on Buffalo Street, Franklin, Pa. All of a half block from our house. I thought he was special too, because I was currently only allowed to play between the two trees in front of our house. So Chris was allowed past the infamous alley, had to cross a street even! Meanwhile Mom would be watching him walk up the street every day, standing on the sunporch, and peering out the window nervously. She was holding a baby in one arm and usually a serving spoon in the other. (The usual breakfast fare was oatmeal or maltomeal or ralston. Sometimes my Dad would mix all three together and said this will be tastier.)
My school was down in the other direction, about six blocks away. St. Patrick School did not have a kindergarten then, so I had to go to a public school, hence my friend Sissy up the street was indispensable. My Mom did not particularly care for Sissy,but since Sissy was a few years older than me, bigger, and went to the public school every day, my Mom cultivated the friendship. We had many adventures along the way, none of which I shared with my Mother. The adventures were pretty much the same script: spend my milk money on candy for both of us.Sometimes we would ratch it up a notch and leave school early and play at the playground. Here I was the daughter of a State Police Trooper, getting into trouble already at the tender age of four. I did not turn five until October, but that is how things were done back then. I wouldn't see Sissy much after this year as Sissy continued going to PUBLIC school and I would be going to CATHOLIC school. From the get go,Catholic school kids were inbred with a smug superiority that we were different from other folks and we were glad we were.
So, Kindergarten was over and I was entering first grade at St.Patrick School. Chris walked me up the street very courteously and introduced me to my nun teacher, Sr. Rita Marie. He unceremoniously announced loudly, "This is my sister Julie. I got a whole bunch more at home, but if she is bad, send her home. We just live down the street!" Sister Rita Marie looked at me like she was just hand delivered the grand booby prize of a student. Chris winked at me, punched me on the arm, and said"Good for you and good for America!" He ran down the hall to his class of fifty kids.
Sister Rita Marie soon discerned she had nothing to worry about with the likes of me. I sat down at the desk she showed me and was totally quiet and in awe as I saw kid after kid file into the the newly painted and varnished hardwood floored classroom. (That smell makes me queasy to this day!) Each child had that same terrified look on their face, as they gazed at bulletin boards, blackboards festooned with colorful letters and numbers. I was seated next to a girl named Jane. As I recall, she had a dreadfully ungroomed nose which she would snack on from time to time. I gagged out loud and the nun came running over as my eyes were tearing up from the gagging. She asked me why I was crying and I said my eyes were just watery. As luck would have it, three boys started to fight across the room and I was left in peace.
The first order of the day was to learn how to write our names, telephone numbers and addresses. Mercifully for me, my parents taught me all of that. I smugly wrote my information down on my new tablet with my new pencil. Many kids were crying as they had no knowledge of their letters or numbers at all. Too busy watching Howdy Doodie all the time, I shook my head in disgust.I surveyed the vast expanse of the classroom around me and felt like I was in an ocean, safe in a lifeboat, surrounded by a bunch of kids thrashing around who could not swim, and were being pursued by sharks. Sharks were black and white and so were nuns. And just as scary, I might add.I made it through that first day, very thankful to my parents for their hours of teaching me and reading to me, as I saw what happened when the other kids had to start from square one. I made three great friends: Becky, Jane and Val. We were great friends for the next twelve years.
By October, we were well entrenched into Sr. Rita Marie's routine. We sat up straight, shut up, did not "visit with our neighbor" (so why put two desks together if we could not chat?!) We were permitted to go to the bathroom once in the morning and once in the afternoon. God forbid if one had to tinkle before those times. One day, Beverly could not hold it any longer. I had just whispered a "knock knock" joke to her and she laughed so hard she peed herself. I will never forget the horrified look on Sister's face as she ran down the aisle and ordered Beverly home. She ordered a boy to go get a mop and bucket to clean it up. All the day's learning effectively stopped there, as everyone was either terrified or mortified and we sure all had to pee bad. From that day on, Beverly's theme song was "Tinkle Tinkle Little Star" courtesy of several sarcastic boys in the class that followed her right through eighth grade.
In second grade, we had to memorize many many long prayers. Acts of faith, hope and charity. The Apostles Creed. The Act of Contrition. My parents helped me learn these quickly. I don't know when they had time but they did. Mom was the Valedictorian of her High School class, and Dad certainly was an intelligent man, so they both saw to it that our homework was done every night, that it was done well, on clean paper. They would check our work before we put it in our book bags. They would drill math facts with us and drill spelling words with us. It was a good thing too, because my parents knew the teacher I was assigned for second grade
was a very mean nun. I will not mention her name. She had no mercy for any student who did not know their lesson. She would drag whomever did not know their lesson by the ear, to the front of the class, and say: "Class, this is what a loser looks like." Back in those days, if you were disciplined at school, you got it double at home. The teacher was always right. No parent would ever stand up against a nun. Thanks to Mom and Dad, I won the award for highest grade point average that year.
My sister Barb, a year younger than me, and Mary Kay, two years younger than me. were asked to join the children's choir. We three girls and another family up the street with three daughters. We got to get out of school and sing at all the funerals. If we were really lucky, sometimes five people would die in a week and we could blow off every morning. We sang all the hymns in Latin. We had perfect pitch and were told we sang like angels. Between songs we would eat soda crackers and sometimes it was harder to sing, but with Latin, no one understood a word we said anyhow. After we sang at the Funeral Mass, we would go to school and sit in the lunchroom and eat the breakfast Mom made us. We would have a baby food jar full of milk and cinnamon toast wrapped up in wax paper.
I recall singing at an infant's funeral. The casket was tiny, white and covered with gold angels. I would watch, high from the choir loft, the sobbing Mother and Father of the baby, stumbling down the aisle, as the man would help support his grieving wife. It was surreal and made us all cry. After the funeral, the family came up to the choir loft and was amazed there were only six little girls singing, as they said it sounded like a choir of angels. I am convinced to this day that a choir of angels was truly singing with us.
My school was down in the other direction, about six blocks away. St. Patrick School did not have a kindergarten then, so I had to go to a public school, hence my friend Sissy up the street was indispensable. My Mom did not particularly care for Sissy,but since Sissy was a few years older than me, bigger, and went to the public school every day, my Mom cultivated the friendship. We had many adventures along the way, none of which I shared with my Mother. The adventures were pretty much the same script: spend my milk money on candy for both of us.Sometimes we would ratch it up a notch and leave school early and play at the playground. Here I was the daughter of a State Police Trooper, getting into trouble already at the tender age of four. I did not turn five until October, but that is how things were done back then. I wouldn't see Sissy much after this year as Sissy continued going to PUBLIC school and I would be going to CATHOLIC school. From the get go,Catholic school kids were inbred with a smug superiority that we were different from other folks and we were glad we were.
So, Kindergarten was over and I was entering first grade at St.Patrick School. Chris walked me up the street very courteously and introduced me to my nun teacher, Sr. Rita Marie. He unceremoniously announced loudly, "This is my sister Julie. I got a whole bunch more at home, but if she is bad, send her home. We just live down the street!" Sister Rita Marie looked at me like she was just hand delivered the grand booby prize of a student. Chris winked at me, punched me on the arm, and said"Good for you and good for America!" He ran down the hall to his class of fifty kids.
Sister Rita Marie soon discerned she had nothing to worry about with the likes of me. I sat down at the desk she showed me and was totally quiet and in awe as I saw kid after kid file into the the newly painted and varnished hardwood floored classroom. (That smell makes me queasy to this day!) Each child had that same terrified look on their face, as they gazed at bulletin boards, blackboards festooned with colorful letters and numbers. I was seated next to a girl named Jane. As I recall, she had a dreadfully ungroomed nose which she would snack on from time to time. I gagged out loud and the nun came running over as my eyes were tearing up from the gagging. She asked me why I was crying and I said my eyes were just watery. As luck would have it, three boys started to fight across the room and I was left in peace.
The first order of the day was to learn how to write our names, telephone numbers and addresses. Mercifully for me, my parents taught me all of that. I smugly wrote my information down on my new tablet with my new pencil. Many kids were crying as they had no knowledge of their letters or numbers at all. Too busy watching Howdy Doodie all the time, I shook my head in disgust.I surveyed the vast expanse of the classroom around me and felt like I was in an ocean, safe in a lifeboat, surrounded by a bunch of kids thrashing around who could not swim, and were being pursued by sharks. Sharks were black and white and so were nuns. And just as scary, I might add.I made it through that first day, very thankful to my parents for their hours of teaching me and reading to me, as I saw what happened when the other kids had to start from square one. I made three great friends: Becky, Jane and Val. We were great friends for the next twelve years.
By October, we were well entrenched into Sr. Rita Marie's routine. We sat up straight, shut up, did not "visit with our neighbor" (so why put two desks together if we could not chat?!) We were permitted to go to the bathroom once in the morning and once in the afternoon. God forbid if one had to tinkle before those times. One day, Beverly could not hold it any longer. I had just whispered a "knock knock" joke to her and she laughed so hard she peed herself. I will never forget the horrified look on Sister's face as she ran down the aisle and ordered Beverly home. She ordered a boy to go get a mop and bucket to clean it up. All the day's learning effectively stopped there, as everyone was either terrified or mortified and we sure all had to pee bad. From that day on, Beverly's theme song was "Tinkle Tinkle Little Star" courtesy of several sarcastic boys in the class that followed her right through eighth grade.
In second grade, we had to memorize many many long prayers. Acts of faith, hope and charity. The Apostles Creed. The Act of Contrition. My parents helped me learn these quickly. I don't know when they had time but they did. Mom was the Valedictorian of her High School class, and Dad certainly was an intelligent man, so they both saw to it that our homework was done every night, that it was done well, on clean paper. They would check our work before we put it in our book bags. They would drill math facts with us and drill spelling words with us. It was a good thing too, because my parents knew the teacher I was assigned for second grade
was a very mean nun. I will not mention her name. She had no mercy for any student who did not know their lesson. She would drag whomever did not know their lesson by the ear, to the front of the class, and say: "Class, this is what a loser looks like." Back in those days, if you were disciplined at school, you got it double at home. The teacher was always right. No parent would ever stand up against a nun. Thanks to Mom and Dad, I won the award for highest grade point average that year.
My sister Barb, a year younger than me, and Mary Kay, two years younger than me. were asked to join the children's choir. We three girls and another family up the street with three daughters. We got to get out of school and sing at all the funerals. If we were really lucky, sometimes five people would die in a week and we could blow off every morning. We sang all the hymns in Latin. We had perfect pitch and were told we sang like angels. Between songs we would eat soda crackers and sometimes it was harder to sing, but with Latin, no one understood a word we said anyhow. After we sang at the Funeral Mass, we would go to school and sit in the lunchroom and eat the breakfast Mom made us. We would have a baby food jar full of milk and cinnamon toast wrapped up in wax paper.
I recall singing at an infant's funeral. The casket was tiny, white and covered with gold angels. I would watch, high from the choir loft, the sobbing Mother and Father of the baby, stumbling down the aisle, as the man would help support his grieving wife. It was surreal and made us all cry. After the funeral, the family came up to the choir loft and was amazed there were only six little girls singing, as they said it sounded like a choir of angels. I am convinced to this day that a choir of angels was truly singing with us.
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