Scavenger Hunt In My Grandmother's Attic

My Gramma' and the Battle of the Bulge were nonexistent. She simply did not worry about her weight. Many books and movies portray grammas as being modern, active people. The image of today's gramma's often rival younger women in looks, charm and ability; not to mention how many times I've read that the modern gramma' keeps herself trim and healthy. When I was young, I felt that the perfect gramma' was fluffy. I decided early that when I had grandchildren, I wanted to be the perfect gramma'. I wanted to be fluffy. I couldn't imagine the sadness that other children must feel when they only had what I saw as 'skinny' gramma's. It was difficult for me to suppose that a child could feel the full relationship of love from a gramma', unless there was that squishiness to go along with the hugs. One thing I always dreamed of, though, was an attic. My gramma' never had an attic where I could go and rummage through her long, lost treasures. In my mind, Gramma' had forgotten to keep an attic.

Image: africa / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I dunno' if you have ever seen a trolley. I could not find a proper picture of one, but the last car of this toy train reminds me of the old trolleys I used to ride and probably very much like Gramma' chose not to ride, when she was walking ten miles to an' from work during the Depression.

Gramma' was a young, single mama during the depression. There were no available jobs, nearby. She had four little children to feed and clothe. She had struggled to find a home where they would be safe. When she finally found employment as a seamstress, the drawback was that it was ten miles from her home. Riding the trolley cost a nickel, each way. Gramma' only rode the trolley twice in all the years she worked at that job. 5 cents was a lot of money during the depression. Instead of riding the trolley, she chose to save the nickel and walk ten miles in the morning and ten miles back home, after working all day. Public transportation, even at a nickel, was too expensive. I never quite understood why, but a big part of her job involved lifting heavy objects. When her work day was over, she must have been terribly exhausted, yet she always walked ten miles to get home and love her babies. With so much regular exercise, I've often wondered how my gramma' managed to become so squishy?

Oh! Lookie! Lookie! I found a real, live Trolley. Now, this is what a trolley... or Street Car... is s'posed to look like. See? Up there ^

Photo Credit: Flickr and Library of congress

I loved the stuffed cabbage my gramma' used to make. Sadly, I never thought to ask her for the recipe. My brothers and I always sat waiting expectantly until the cabbage was done cooking. Then, almost breathless, we hung on the edges of our chairs while Gramma' brought out the fork and 'Poked' the Little Pigs in Blankets, as she called 'em. Finally, finally... we heard the little pigs squeal. It was pure magic the way she could make those little pigs talk like that. Does your stuffed cabbage talk? Have you shared that secret with your children and grandchildren?

Image: Maggie Smith / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Boys know who makes the best food. My brothers an' I loved our mama's food, but it seemed to go without saying that Gramma's cooking was s'posed to be even better.

I waited for years to become a gramma'. I knew that one of the perks was having my kids think of me as the better cook..Apparently, though, someone forgot to send the memo to my grandies. Go figure.

Boys in the city know Gramma's cooking is best and...

Image: photostock / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

My gramma' makes all these things:
Chicken and Dumplings
Chilli
Homemade Soup
Fried Chicken
Spaghetti and Meat Balls
Cornbread
Red Beans and Rice
Cookies
Cake
Doughnuts
Brownies
AND
Good Food

,,,boys on the farm.

Image: Simon Howden / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Along with other nationalities, my gramma' was Irish. When she was young she had very 'Irish-Red' hair. She often told us children how quickly her hair changed in a comparatively short period of time. She had contracted rheumatic fever and nearly died. Evidently, her fever reached extreme levels and her illness lasted for months. By the end of her incubation an' recovery time, her beautiful red hair had faded to a less-lustrous brown. I always had the impression that Gramma' carried that sadness with her to the last. It seemed to be an especially tender place in the story. I recall that even the last time I heard it, she struggled against tears that wouldn't quite stay hidden. Then, Gramma' smiled, trying to cover up the heartache, an' said the doctor often joked that the fever had burned all the fire out of her. That doctor should've known my gramma' when I did. He sure wouldn't have held to that story!

Somehow, I remember that the story of her rheumatic fever always led to Gramma' talking about the Great Irish Potato Famine that had presumably brought her ancestors to America. She never said much about other members of the family, but there were a few things she mentioned that revealed the difficulties