As a golden haired child, I lived in California. Long before it became the Silicon Valley, it was my home. Our extended family lived in Michigan. My first memory of my grandmother is encased in a warm feeling. Her home was the destination of each great adventure we took as a family. She was the gift that we received after our three-day journey from our home to hers in Pullman Michigan. We made this trek every few years. Five children and my mother piled into her beloved Bonneville.
We traveled night and day; stopping at rest areas or truck stops to let my mother get some sleep. We slept as well as we could with three or four sets of legs struggling for space. During the day, rest areas were our playground as we were set free while mom slept on a blanket under a tree. Motels were not an option financially. We were occasionally excited to be treated to restaurant food. More often than not we ate from a cooler in the trunk filled with apples, bologna sandwiches and Kool-aid. I never remember wishing for it to be any different. It was just the way it was. We were thrilled to be on a trip. We played the license plate game and listened to music. We were the family you still occasionally see stopping at each state sign for a picture, or just slowing down to honk. I still honk today as I mark those moments with my own family.
My mother was impressive in her ability to wrangle five children across America. It was the sixties, other women were afraid to travel alone. She showed no fear. I can’t imagine driving all that way alone with five children today. As an adult I grew to appreciate how much it took out of her to do this. She made sure that we saw amazing sites as we traveled each road. We learned how wide each state was, how to read a map and watch for that next town. I’m sure that we were naughty at times, although I remember only joyful moments. Our excitement to be traveling to see the relatives we so rarely saw remained constant throughout the trip. We were impossibly giddy when we entered my grandmother’s small town.
We invariably arrived in the middle of the night. gram would come to the door partially awake, but somehow dressed, her hair in place. She pulled each of us into an embrace that was impressively solid despite her small frame. Her home was warm and cozy with an ever-flowing coffee pot. As my mother and grandmother sat down to share news of the road, relatives and life I too settled in to listen. Soon she would rise and prepare a massive feast. Grandpa Phil lived there as well. He was gram’s second husband and not my mother’s “real” dad, but he was real to her and to us. He made shotgun shells in the garage for hunting. Being the child of a single mother, I had never witnessed such a thing.
I was impressed and intrigued. When I was allowed to, I was honored to help pull the lever on the shell machine. To my grandmother’s dismay, my grandfather drove a motorcycle. Mom allowed him to take us for rides. I became his riding buddy often when he needed to get away. Pullman was a small town, with one stoplight, one store and a local tavern. We traveled to the local tavern and he introduced me to his friends. I was given 10 cents to get a cold bottle of coke out of the machine. It was my introduction to coke machines. I was in heaven. Grandpa Phil became an important man in my life. He is my first remembered father figure. Other men would be weighed by his example.
Our time was spent visiting relatives and getting to know new cousins. Usually these visits evolved into impromptu family reunions. My aunts would all get together and plan menus and events. Often these reunions were more formally planned as major events. We would meet at a local park near Lake Michigan or a church community center. Each mother would prepare dishes to pass; while children ran wild or played a game of baseball together. We learned who our family members were; they came to know us as well. After our day, we would go back to gram’s house to collapse on the carefully made rollaway beds and sleeper sofas. I always chose the bed that was tucked into an alcove at the rear of the kitchen. I could listen to Mom and Gram talking and sipping coffee into the night. Soothed into slumber by their familiar voices.
Snow was an added bonus if we were lucky enough to
arrive during winter. Icicles three feet long and several inches in diameter hung from the eaves begging to be broken off. We savored each lick until it was too cold to do so. Snowball fights and all the goodness that snow brings to small children highlighted our days. It was during one such visit that the phone rang as I came in from playing in the snow. I answered it and heard the person on the other end ask me if Evelyn was there. I didn’t know whom they wanted and thought perhaps it was a wrong number. I held the phone out and asked my mother if she knew anyone named Evelyn. I was told that it was my grandmother’s name. She had always just been Gram to me. I felt ashamed not to know. A few years later, when my mom decided to move us from California to Michigan she stated that I was one of the reasons why. I had not known my grandmothers name which had disturbed her. She wanted us to know our grandparents.
They are all gone now; my grandfather went first, gram died a few months later. Mom fought hard against cancer but lost in 2003. How my world has changed. The lessons they taught remain. I adored my grandmother and grandfather beyond words. Those trips across the country are some of the most profound moments in my life. Both because of what I learned and what I saw. Learning who my grandparents are and loving them so completely filled me with warmth I had not known previously. As the child of a single mother living hundreds of miles away from her family, meeting my extended family meant everything. My own children repeated the journey many times with me in their childhood. Perhaps someday they too will travel home to visit me, bringing grandchildren that I will envelope in a gentle hug.
Annie Thomas Burke is a Freelance Writer and
Professional Organizer http://www.designsbyannieb.com
