It occurs to me that I have never been a really big fan of
January. It’s always cold, the holiday guests are gone, the tree and all of the
decorations are back in boxes in the garage, there are no more Secret Santa
gifts being left with a quick knock; the sound of hushed giggling and the patter of running feet at my front door. My
mind is no longer occupied with what holiday food should I serve? What gifts should I
buy? how should I wrap them? Life is supposed to return to normal in January
but January memories for me now include Dale’s last days. I’m coming upon the two year mark. He died on the 27th, isn’t that an
ugly date? January 27th?
It’s been quite a journey, these last 24 heart wrenching
months and I'm grateful that I have been able to share bits and pieces of it with you.
I am finally feeling at home in my new place and realize that
I need to own up to my aloneness and actually establish it as the new norm. The
quiet moments of morning are especially filled with the silence of being alone.
Breakfast, doing the dishes, making the bed and making plans for the day…. I’m so grateful that I actually enjoyed
and appreciated the mornings when Dale and I were together; so many happy years of
sitting at the breakfast table watching the world awaken through the windows!
Tears threaten to fall as I type this memory so I open my desk drawer
for a tissue and think, “Oh I need to organize this drawer” and then realize
that I hadn’t performed my family’s annual tradition of cleaning out a drawer
on New Year’s Day.
It’s a tradition we have had for many years (as traditions
often are!) and it stems from a cold January day in the life of my great
grandparents.
They had lived for many years in a picture perfect white
farmhouse built by their own hands that was surrounded by their prolific
orchards of apple and peach trees. The
home was tidy as a pin and filled with the laughter of 12 children and a mother
and father who loved each other.
But then one day a distressed woman who lived in the town
came to them with her sad story of her home being taken from her if she didn’t
pay her mortgage and begged for financial help. She promised if they gave her
the money she needed she would be able to repay them quickly with money she was
to receive soon. Out of the goodness of
their hearts they agreed and mortgaged their home and farm believing that they
would be repaid before the payment was due.
Sadly, the woman was dishonest and never intended to pay them back. When the mortgage came due, they had not been
repaid, the woman had spent the money and their home was confiscated by the
bank. They were told that they must vacate the premises on New Year’s Day, January 1st.
The eldest daughter was married and living many miles to the
north where there was land to homestead. Forty Acres of land could be theirs if
they would clear the sagebrush and turn it into a working farm. The only living arrangements available in
that rugged frontier in the dead of winter would be a dug out which was a large
cavern dug into the side of a hill with a door.
This being their only hope they packed up their belongings and on the
morning of New Year’s Day dear Great-Grandma was standing alone in her beloved
but now bare kitchen wearing her traveling clothes and dabbing her eyes with a
delicate hankie. Great Grandpa opened
the door and seeing her there wrapped her in his arms and whispered, “Well
dear, we have everything packed and ready to go now except for the little
children’s handprints on the wall.”
The wagon loaded with their precious items and precious
children headed to the train station where they were surprised to see the
entire town waiting for them. After many tearful hugs and handshakes they
climbed aboard and their friends sang “God Be With You Til We Meet Again” and
waved their white hankies until the train was out of site.
The subzero weather in a dark and windowless dugout for the
long winter was a challenge for the family but the parents would not allow discouragement
or discontent. The floor was swept and
swept and swept until the dirt was hard and then white washed. Pictures were hung on the dirt walls, beds were
constructed and the children slept side by side by side under layers and layers
of homespun quilts.
With spring and the thawing of the soil, the family cleared
the land and built a home. A new home, a new start. A few winters later, Great-Grandpa caught pneumonia
and died at the early age of 52. Great-Grandma continued to raise her many children
and manage the farm, never remarrying and living a full and productive life for
the next 31 years. She is one of my heroes.
And so in the memory of that sad New Year’s Day as the
family was packed to move ~ our family cleans out a drawer and then puts it back
in order as they did with their lives.
I turn and look over my shoulder at the handprints on my
wall. My wonderful son and
daughter-in-law have sent me my precious grandchildren's handprints each year for
6 years now (because of this story) telling me with the very first one that if I ever move I
can take their handprints with me. So it was a poignant moment when I took them
off the wall on moving day after Dale died and oh so carefully packed them to
move from our home and they are hanging here in my new home now. Handprints that span the generations with a
message of hope and courage, love and tenacity. One that makes me feel as if my Great-Grandmother is telling me to never give up, and that I can do this.
