The first time I hear the story about Grandma being a Superhero
I think it is a joke. I am at my Aunt’s house and my two uncles are sitting at
the kitchen table augmenting and spinning the tale about Grandma saving lives. The
whimsy of their rendition makes me laugh out loud with them. If you knew my
grandma, you’d laugh, too.
As a teenager, I am becoming increasingly convinced every
day that everyone over 35 is old and an idiot. My criterion is strictly based
on the urgency to gain independence and separate from those people I perceive
have power over me. My parents are always complaining, “You’re reacting instead
being considerate and thoughtful. You are not
treating us like humans. Do I know who we are?”
I’d never thought about that. I guess I see them as the sum total of my
experience with them as a child plus how others relate to them. I really don’t
care, as long as they leave me alone.
Take my grandmother, for instance. I can’t think about her
without searching for her image in the shadow of my grandfather. His status, power
and everyone’s’ love and respect for him completely blinds me from even being
aware of my grandmother. Everyone sees him as Superhuman. I don’t honestly know
if that is fantasy or reality? I just
know Grandma as a quiet, withdrawn old woman who likes her gardens more than
people. That’s why I think you would join me in laughing at the thought of her
as Superwoman.
Come to think of it, I have spent a lot of time with my
Grandmother working in her gardens. She is kind
of superhuman in her world. She awes me how hard she works. Her physical
strength is incredible. It is way beyond any other woman’s I know. I would even
consider her courageous in the way she tackles projects that seem impossible.
She is ingenious with how she Gerry rigs every resource she has into whatever
she needs. She has the patience of an old soul being able to wait for her newborn
plants to pop up out of the dirt every year. I wonder if these qualities were
the ones my uncles were thinking of when they told their story? I’m in my
bedroom thinking about this and looking out the window. There was something
about Grandma being heroic when she was a girl but I’d been laughing too hard
to remember the details.
The more I think about it the more I want Grandma’s story to be true. I could use a strong woman role model
in this family and superwoman would do nicely. Something about this story begins
to intrigue and excite me. I can’t stop thinking about it. I find myself acting
like a dog that has hidden a bone and cannot find it. I am driven to find the
back-story that will make this Superhero tale believable. This thinking gets me
wondering what Grandma was like as a child and what her world was like back
then.
I know if I ask her about it she won’t tell me anything. How
can I find out about her history? Suddenly I remember several years ago mom
handwrote our family history in her beautiful cursive in the back of an
enormous old Bible that sits in a special place in my grandparent’s living room.
Would reading that give me any clues? I find an excuse to go to my
grandparent’s house and wait for an opportunity when they are both busy to bring
the Bible out and open it to the back. I flip to the section entitled “Momma”. I
have never looked at our family tree before and generations of people start
coming to life:
Rosalie Gilson and her brother, Aleixandre, boarded
the St. Laurent ocean liner in Lehavre, France and landed in Boston on May
14th, 1879. She was 16 years old and was sent ahead of the rest of the family to
America with her brother after a fire destroyed the family home in Switzerland.
Colin Rosier, a 39-year-old dreamer who had read every transatlantic novel ever
written was living the romance as the pastry chef on the ship. On the journey
over the Atlantic, Rosalie and Colin met, fell in love and after being
processed (where he said on his form he was a farmer) they made their way to a
European immigrant settlement in Green Bay, Wisconsin where they were married. My
grandmother, Leah Rosier, was their second daughter, born in 1886, in Green
Bay.
Soon after she was born the family moved to a Swiss
settlement at Neuchatel, Kansas where they homesteaded 180 acres and lived a
hard but content life in that community of about 200 people. After Leonie and
Leah, Louise, Matilda, and Lucy were born. Aleixandre, who suffered from
crossed eyes, endured a botched surgery in Kansas City after they’d lived in
Neuchatel for a while. His good eye was removed by mistake and it left him
blind. He always lived in his sister’s home after that.
My grandma is aware that I go and look at the family Bible
whenever I am at her house. She doesn’t mention it, and neither do I. I am sure she doesn’t have a clue what I am
searching for—and frankly, neither do I. I just know I am finding comfort when
I read the family’s history. I am beginning to feel part of something that has
shaped who I am. Meeting my relatives, living and dead, and understanding their
place in our story somehow is beginning to give me a history and a place in it, too.
One rainy afternoon I’m sitting with my grandmother in her
house. She is teaching me to embroider. I am feeling too restricted with her
“right and wrong” ways to do each step of the process. I want to take all the
colors of thread and stitch outside the lines. I am thinking—I wonder if she
would let me into her world if I just asked her to tell me one story? I hold
this question a long time. Finally, I take a chance and ask her to tell me a
story about when she was a girl. She looks off in the distance and then without
hesitation she takes a deep breath and begins...
“The person I loved most in the
world was my daddy. He welcomed my help with the farm because he had no sons, Uncle
Aleixandre was blind and I was strong as an ox. We took turns breaking ground
on the land behind a plow pulled by our two mules. Together we worked the land,
planted crops, built a house with some neighbors’ help, put in a large garden
for my mother and tended the animals.
Every day when we finished our work
Daddy would say, “go on and ride that pony.” I’d pull myself up onto the back
of our small black mare and ride down the lane bareback. I’d gallop across the
fields and along the creek that wasn’t wide but was pretty deep.
After a while everyone in the
community knew me not just as one of the Rosier girls but also as the best
rider around.
When I was 12, Daddy caught a cold
the first week in December and the bitter cold and harsh winds blustering
across the plains took its toll on him. He was in bed for a week with a high
fever. The doctor even came out. “Pneumonia”, was all he said in front of us
girls. I had never heard that word before and didn’t know what it meant but I could
tell by the way he shook his head and looked concerned Daddy was really sick.
He talked in a quiet voice with Momma by the front door for a while before he
bundled up and disappeared into the frigid night.
We were not allowed to make any
noise so Daddy could sleep. One night Momma woke us up and called us into their
bedroom. The doctor was there. Daddy looked horrible and was having difficulty breathing.
I was frightened. He called me to come sit on the bed beside him. Then he put
his hand on my head and said, “You are my little curly head”.
What I didn’t realize was that he had died as he said that about my curly head.
My feelings imploded when Momma, wailing uncontrollably, suddenly shushed us
out of the room. I couldn’t stop crying. I had more feelings at that moment
than at any other time in my life.
When Daddy died, I was shattered but
I felt like I had to hide my feelings because everyone, especially Momma, was
hurting so badly. I hid them behind an imaginary mask and tried to face my
fears and find the strength to keep going. I had to grow up fast. I knew I had
to step up and be the “strong one”. Momma seemed so fragile and vulnerable. All
she was able to do was try to keep up with taking care of the little girls. At
first I faltered—not knowing what to do or how to do it. It was when I became completely
overwhelmed and discouraged that I began discovering strengths I didn’t even
know I had. By simply believing I could keep things together, I did.
I found I had the ability to put
myself back together for the family. I could face danger and combat problems
that came our way. Gradually, I got so I could work through all my fears. I did
things as they presented themselves because they were right, not for praise and
recognition. I always acted and spoke in the way that came from my best self. I
loved with an all-encompassing love that didn’t come from what I did but who I
did it for. I began to feel like I was stronger than reality and that I could
overcome any obstacle. As long as I got myself out of the way I could face
anything.
Christmas was sad for us that year.
Momma didn’t know what to do. She was a widow with 5 young daughters, a blind
brother, and 180 acres of farmland, chickens, a cow, a horse and 2 mules. I
reminded her often everything would work out. The burden of saving my family and
only being 12 years old weighed heavily on me. When spring arrived after what
seemed like an endless winter I was out in the fields from sunup to sundown
doing everything just like Daddy had taught me. I hadn’t imagined I had the
ability to put myself back together after being so torn apart.
That fall two brothers, Jules and
Armand Chatland and their father, who was a watchmaker came through Neuchatel
on their travels. Armand, 21, was dying of dropsy. The cirrhosis in his liver
was advanced. My first memory of him was trying to figure out what was wrong
with his grossly distended belly. He was obsessed with going back to
Switzerland to die and was determined to use his charm to get there.
He saw Momma as his ticket. She was
a widow with 5 children who could easily be convinced she needed a man to help
her survive. His illness was quite advanced and he had no intentions of staying
around or becoming a farmer as he promised Momma. They were married, at his pressing
insistence, which Momma interpreted as love. Almost immediately he started
trying to coerce her to sell the farm and go back to Switzerland. Momma did not
want to go back to Switzerland and she didn’t want to sell her farm. He
continued to bully her and they fought all the time. The twins were born the
next spring but only Alice survived their first year. Magritte was born right after
her sister died. Now Momma had seven little girls.
Momma’s days weren’t any easier with
Mr. Chatland there. She was up stoking the fire by 5 in the morning. She cooked
3 square meals a day and became an expert at stretching what little food we
had. She washed clothes by hand in a washbasin with a wash board, took care of
the girls, scrubbed the floors and kept the house pristine—which must have been
hard with seven children, her blind brother and her lazy, sick husband. Between
his disinterest and his illness he mostly stayed inside every day sleeping on
the couch. I farmed. I did the best I could and worked hard. Some days I worked
so hard I didn’t even feel like riding the little black horse. Fighting grew
worse between Mr. Chatland and Momma. I knew she would never give in.
One night all the little girls started
having pain in their bellies. Several vomited and the youngest ones became delirious.
Momma was beside herself. She could see how quickly things were deteriorating
and she was terrified. She kept putting cool washcloths on the girls’
foreheads. I imitated what she was doing trying to help my little sisters. At
one point our eyes locked and the look in Momma’s eyes told me she was panic-
stricken. At that moment I knew what I had to do.
I bundled up in the warmest clothes
I could find. I slipped my handy down wool cape over my shoulders, buttoning it
clear up to my chin. I wrapped Momma’s long scarf around my neck and when I
opened the door cold air hit me in the face bringing tears to my eyes. I could
feel butterflies fluttering in my tummy like I always did when I was scared. I
never liked being in the dark and the task ahead of me was daunting! “I can do
this!” I said over and over to myself. I slipped the halter over the little
horse’s head with my eyes closed because I knew exactly how it felt and besides,
it was too dark to see anything.
I had to go to the next town because
we didn’t have a doctor in Neuchatel. I had never been to that town and only
had a vague idea which direction to go. I wasn’t even sure how far away I was
going. With an act of courage, I grabbed a handful of mane and pulled myself up
onto the mare’s back. The moon was a small sliver low in the sky. It reflected so
little light there weren’t even shadows. It was a totally black night. I
followed the cottonwood trees along the creek so I wouldn’t get completely lost
in the dark.
The cold sent shivers up my back but
I hung on tight and pressed forward. When my feet started to go numb from the
cold, I only allowed myself to think about how much I loved my little sisters
and that I didn’t want them to die. I knew the little horse could sense my fear
because I could feel her gait quicken and her body extend so she could go
faster. I was so full of fear and love and anxiety and caring that I rode
faster than I ever had in my life. The wind whistled by me as I forged ahead
through the night on the back of my trusted friend. The rhythmic pounding of
hoofs on the snow ceased after a while and though I couldn’t look, I was
certain we were flying! I hunkered down close to her neck to keep my face from
freezing in the biting air.
I reached Onaga and found the
doctor’s home just past mid-night. He readied himself quickly like he was used
to making these late-night calls. His buggy lurched forward when his horse started
out and he held onto the reigns tightly in one hand and his black leather
doctor’s bag in the other. I rode my little horse alongside. All I told him was
my sisters were dying. He was silent and looked concerned. Maybe he didn’t ask
questions because I was so young? Maybe he was marveling at my bravery. We rode
along, each deep in thought, the horses alert to the serious feelings they felt
from us.
We reached the house and quickly
went in to see the children. He carefully took temperatures and began treating symptoms:
vomiting, diarrhea, dehydration, delirium and shock. I thought I could tell
from the look on his face the seriousness of the situation and that he was
worried the children would start dying. Maybe that was my fear. Momma was nearly
hysterical and I knew she was keeping herself together only because the doctor
was there. Mr.Chatland was on the couch snoring.
Toward morning Momma and the doctor
saw that everyone was still alive. He had been so busy dealing with the
immediate crisis there had not been time to diagnosis what was wrong. Now that
things were stabilizing he began to examine the girls more closely. The first
thing he noticed on several of the girls was small bumps on their hands that
looked similar to very small warts. He carefully studied each girl’s hands. On
several he saw white lines on the fingernails. That’s when he knew what it was.
Arsenic poisoning. It didn’t take long for the doctor to figure out that Mr. Chatland
had been putting miniscule amounts of arsenic into “the little girls’ milk” for
some time. Momma and the doctor and I were so caught up with helping my sisters
we didn’t hear Mr. Chatland slip out of the house and ride away on my little
black horse. We never saw him again but heard he died in Kansas City”.
Grandma stops talking and looks directly into my eyes. I am
at a loss for words. The story is
true! I heard it directly from her! She
is superwoman! Just then several
tears slide down her cheeks and I hold my breath because I am trying to keep back
tears, too. I am overcome with respect, pride, and gratitude. In the sharing of
this one story my love for my grandma has expanded exponentially! I don’t even
mind when she stands up, puts down her sewing and walks into the kitchen to be
alone.
You see, what I understand from Grandma’s story is that
superwoman is not a fictional character. She is a mindset.
-->
