My Grandmother

My maternal grandmother died in the Fall of 1929. She was 36 years old. My mother was three. I know of her through hearsay. She was a beautiful young woman when she married. She wore her shiny dark hair long, tied in a bun as was the fashion then. Her dark wedding dress was elegant, in a Victorian sort of way. The picture I have of her on her wedding day is the only one that exists of her other than the one on her mortuary card. Anyone seeing those two photos would never guess it was the same woman. By the time she died, some twelve years into the marriage, she had aged. Her beautiful hair was now short and cut bluntly as though by her own hand. Her dress tattered and worn. It was in the depression years. She had had 8 children, not counting stillborns and early deaths, and was pregnant again when she died. I often wondered what she would have said had she been able to blog in her days. How I wish I could read her today.

I know that my Grandfather and her were very much in love but times were hard and pregnancy which was difficult to prevent, was very hard on her. Life on the farm became increasingly demanding. There were so many children to care for and farm hands to feed. Rumours have it that the farm was frequented by so many people, all seeking the understanding, the comforting ear of my grandmother. Even as a young woman, she was kind and wise. Her name was Martine.

I love her and she is missed, even by those who never knew her. My Grandfather only remarried when all the children were raised and settled and he once said to my father that his first love was the greatest and could never be matched. He was of Irish extraction. She, French. He learned French for her and never spoke English in her presence, even in the company of his Irish friends. He really loved her. I know that. If she could have blogged, if she had had the leisure time we have to do that today, she would doubtlessly have spoken of her love for him, I know that. She might have told us about raising her children, of her dreams for them, of her longings, her passions, her political views. As it is I can only imaging these. I like to think that she was bright and optimistic, that she read everything she could, that she believed in education, that she was a stable force whose wise opinions were sought. Above all she was a loving, giving person.

The farm and the house where my mother was born still stand. Every year lately I have gone there to join my mother, now 82 and to sleep there. I am privileged to sleep in my grandmother's bedroom. I feel amazingly comfortable in that house though it is small and basic by today's standards. The view from my bedroom window over the hill to the river below is breathtaking. The air is good! Or is it the good vibes? Surrounded by tall pine trees, misty in the mornings, utterly peaceful... I feel wrapped in my Grandmother's kindness, her happiness to see me there, in the harmony she impaled on this magnificent place. She lives on in all of us still today.