I was browsing photos in a Facebook Group I belong to the other day. It was one of those “You Might Be From __________ If…” pages. People post stories and photos. There are a precious few of the “old guard” who grew up and know those pictured. But there are far more who come on and say… “Does anyone recognize the people in this photo?” Those are the sad ones because the elders are dying off without labeling the photos or teaching the young’uns who were in them.

My grandma was pretty good about writing the names of folks on the back with the stub of a pencil, most likely whittled to a point with my PopPop’s pen knife. This particular photo caught my eye because I’ve seen it all my life. It’s the old one room schoolhouse that was a couple of miles from the farm. My mom and one of her brothers are in that photo and I smiled at the memories that came rushing back to me.

We have that photo somewhere in the family archives, and now, thanks to modern technology, I have it safely ensconced in my iPad and the Cloud. I can still see Grandma in her rocking chair by the front window, looking through her “picture book” and walking down memory lane. She would point and name everyone, then tell a story or share their nickname. Everyone had a nickname. Just yesterday, my baby cousin asked me what Grandma’s name was for me. I was “Ginny Lynny” or just “Pet”. She was “Trinket”. 

This particular photo was taken shortly after the Great Depression. I want to say it was around 1936-37, judging by the size of my mom and her brother. When Grandma saw pictures like this, she shared with me the hard stories. Stories of struggles and just trying to get by. She would tear up when she said their milk cow was the only thing standing between her children living or dying of starvation. They never wasted a thing. Shoes were resoled at home because there wasn’t money for a cobbler. Clothes were sewn from flour sacks and mended and handed down. Grandma had a baby every two years till she nearly died after the last one and they saved her life with an emergency hysterectomy.

It was right around this time when Grandma and PopPop managed to scrape enough money together to buy the farm that I still take care of. When they moved down off the hill into that house, Grandma said she felt like a queen in a castle! She didn’t have running water or an indoor bathroom for twenty more years. They had an old wringer washer with a hit and miss engine out on the back porch. My earliest memories are of Grandma carrying buckets of rainwater she heated on the stove and pouring it in the washer. 

She used lye she made from ashes and mixed it with rendered fat from butchering to make soap that was used for everything. Wash was done once a week. You started with the delicates when the water was still clean and soft and you ended with work clothes. PopPop worked in the pipe yard on old oil and gas well pipe and parts. He was always sticky and stinky with black creosote and a hard day’s sweat when he got home. Those work clothes had to be boiled and scrubbed on a washboard by hand to get the most of the grease out of them. I remember they were always an army green or khaki color.

Once the clothes were as clean as they were going to get, Grandma used the rinse water to scrub the floors of the house and the last bit was thrown out on the porch and worked with a broom to get what mud they could off the steps. It was a hard life she lived, working from sunup to sundown doing as much hard work as any man, then mending clothes and sewing on buttons at night after supper. 

I look at that picture of my mom as a little girl, and I’m humbled. The “going back in time” I get to do at the farm at my age is a walk in the park compared to actually living the life they lived. You hear people say “It was a simpler time.” Simpler? Be careful what you wish for. Simpler in those day meant they didn’t have the time sucks we have now. They didn’t have TV and computers. They were lucky to see a newspaper or a magazine. They didn’t know what was happening in Asia or the Middle East or Africa unless a missionary happened to be traveling through trying to raise a little money for an orphanage somewhere. However, their lives consisted of hard work and more than their fair share of sadness. And fortunately, I come from the kind of people whose glasses were always full to overflowing and I heard of all the goodness of life.

What are we giving our children’s children’s children to know about those who came before us? What are we handing down from our great grandparents’ days? What are we teaching them about long lost skills like growing our own food and preserving it or making our own clothes and tools? Part of the purpose of this blog is sharing the past along with the stories of the present. You’ve followed along in my grief journey after losing Mr. Virgo. You’ve been here for the adventures in the camper and traveling the country as a widow trying to heal my broken heart, one campfire at a time. You shared in my joy when I found love again with my best friend from high school and remarried. Interspersed with all these events are the stories of my roots. I share them with you here because many of you grew up with similar lives and they spark your own memories. Some of you couldn’t dream of living such a life and it’s like reading a history book. So, why do I share so much of myself and my family’s history?

Because…one day, I’ll be dead and gone, and my grandchildren and their grandchildren’s children will read these stories and know from whence they came. I don’t have great material wealth to leave to my family…to the world. All I have are my experiences and my knowledge and my wisdom…the lessons I’ve learned along the way.

I’m the storyteller.

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“Love should always make us tell the truth. Then we will grow in every way and be more like Christ, the head of the body. Christ holds it together and makes all of its parts work perfectly, as it grows and becomes strong because of love.”

Ephesians 4:15-16 CEV