sonora2sonoma

A collection of short essays on my recollections of growing

By Tim Konrad

Recollections of my maternal grandmother

Going through old boxes from my childhood, I feel at times as if I were a psycho-socio archaeologist deeply engaged in the unearthing of long-buried themes, neglected memes and forgotten dreams.

My Grandmother, Lowney Wolfe

Among the treasures unearthed thus far is an intriguing letter, penned by my maternal grandmother, Lowney, to my mother, on the day I was born.

My grandmother’s letter provides clues, both substantively and stylistically, hinting at the origins of my decades-long love affair with the written word.

Instead of doing her laundry that day, as she had planned, my grandmother wrote the following to my mother:

“I sure must celebrate today, so I will hike up town and purchase me a bottle of whiskey, some seven up, and go on a high fling.”

 “I wish you were along with me, I know you feel like sprinting to night clubs and having some hi-balls, don’t you?”

Full of the usual motherly advice doled out to daughters at this point in their lives, my grandmother’s letter cautioned my mother to refuse to allow the hospital to discharge her early, as they sometimes did in those days.

My arrival on this speck of space-dust took place in the midst of the Second World War. During that period, many of the ordinary activities and procedures of daily life were either modified or curtailed for the duration of what was popularly termed “the war effort.”

Residents of Sonora prior to the bombing of Pearl Harbor, my parents had relocated to El Cerrito during the war while my father worked in the Richmond shipyards doing his part to support the war effort.

Because our family doctor’s practice was in Tuolumne County, my mother spent the last few weeks of her pregnancy with friends in Sonora.

Our family doctor, Doctor H. H. McGillis, was an osteopath who enjoyed immense popularity in the town.

The other doctors in Sonora feared Dr. McGillis’s high approval rating. They believed it would impact their income streams if he were permitted to practice at the local hospital, so they conspired to deny him access. As a result, he was forced to travel to the next nearest hospital, in far-off Stockton, to perform surgeries or attend deliveries.

My grandmother addressed this complication with her usual droll candor. Referring to the 60 odd miles my mother had to travel, while in labor, to get to the hospital in Stockton, my grandmother wrote:

“I’m so glad you got there before the baby came, as it would have been indeed embarrassing to have had it on the way and in a car and on that long lonely wild road without a human being in sight.

She then added an admonishment:

Next time, “you can stay put in your town and not have to trip the light fantastic some hundred miles and enjoy your pain in a car.”

By way of lamenting she hadn’t been kept current regarding my mother’s labor, my grandmother wrote:

“I had expected to hear about it yesterday, so you see, I am not wrong at any time. I have a superhuman mind and can foretell and feel things ahead of the event.” 

Writing about how she had been thrown off her normal routine by the stress and suspense of awaiting my arrival, as she had with my ill-fated siblings before me, she said:

“I just did not want to do a thing but sit and stare and look dumb, which is not hard for your mamma to do, as I surely have had Bees in my bonnet the last two years and together with this maternity racket going on and such events, it does take and make a mother sit up and take notice.”

Indicating she may have preferred to have been at the hospital to welcome my arrival, she wrote

“it is queer that your own mother was not with you at the time of the baby coming, but when you take to flying all over the country to have it one can not keep up with such a flighty dame as yourself. You should live in a trailer. Then you can move as you fancy and have each pain in a different locality.”

Then her narrative shifts to address the after-pains and other joys that befall mothers following delivery, beginning with a bit of commiseration and then veering into an account of the flatulence my grandmother experienced following the birth of one of her children:

“The wind circulated through my body like a balloon being blown up, and the visitors coming in to see other patients kept me from exploding in their faces, and it made me extremely sore inside keeping back what nature intended me to cast out.”

I was delighted to find this letter tucked amongst the other bits of mementos and nostalgia I discovered boxed up from my parents’ house. I marveled at the resemblance my grandmother’s writing style bore to that of Mark Twain.

I loved how my grandmother’s humor was in evidence in her writing, and admired the skill with which she talked about her adventures in a different time and place—A world separated by time and forever altered by the constant parade of personages appearing, and then vanishing from the landscape, leaving nothing behind save the vermin-soiled detritus begat by years of neglect.

She used to write me letters too, often including cartoon-like illustrations, such as the one below, depicting future girlfriends she envisioned for me.

I was pleased to see my grandmother’s somewhat sideways sparkle shine through in her writing and regretted I was too young to appreciate her genius while she was living;

I felt envious of those, like my mother, who were there to enjoy it. 

To be continued: