History

Sometimes we are struck dumb by the realization that the world existed before our birth. I have been so moved by that in recent weeks, and I wanted to share, if only for posterity sake.

My maternal Grandparents married before WWII. Shortly after their marriage, my grandfather shipped off with the Navy, to work on a minesweeper in the South Pacific. If I remember correctly, he was gone well over two years before he was able to return to his new bride. During that time, my grandmother worked for the military as a civilian, I believe tending a switchboard and working as a typist.

After the war, they bought property and built a small cottage to live in while my grandfather built a huge home with his own hands. My mother was born while they lived in the cottage, but soon they moved into the house, where eventually my mother's sister was born.

My grandfather worked as a builder for many years, but also worked as a optometrist, grinding glasses and helping people see. My grandmother worked as a volunteer, helping people see in another fashion. They were devout Lutherans, and my grandmother taught Sunday school in their Lutheran church, to small children for close to 50 years. This church is where my grandparents' parents attended, as well as much of the extended family. My parents were married in that church, and my sister and I were baptized there as infants.

My grandfather was a bit gruff and rough around the edges, but he was nothing but loving towards his family. He loved to be active, and as time went by, he had built a huge shop to house his Airstream trailer, fishing boat, and hunting gear. He was an avid outdoorsman, and they spent many many weeks traveling around in that Airstream; it being towed by an International, and later a Suburban. My mother says she spent more time camping than living in the house, in her years as a girl. After he retired, my grandfather became a whittler...always making something, creating something to give away. One year, he built us all coffee tables, inlaid with stones he had polished himself. Another year he made us all clocks in the shape of a Celtic cross. I can remember many other things my grandfather made, but these two stand out in my mind.

My grandmother is a gentle, passive person. She was a crafter...sewing, stitching, and scrapbooking (long before it became fashionable or complicated). She made many of my early childhood dresses herself, and each fabric was meaningful. Once when I was small, I was looking at a book or otherwise engrossed, when my grandmother asked me a question. I sternly replied, "Don't bug me, I'm busy". Because I was so young (maybe 2) it was humorous, not insulting, and soon I had an apron made of fabric printed with ladybugs on it, and the words "Don't Bug Me" woven into the print.

My grandmother was also a collector. She had a collection for every month of the year, which until a few years ago, each month were hauled out of storage and spread throughout her house. One month was Snowmen, one Leprechauns, one Baskets....a collection for every month, each month had a theme. She did have a primary collection, though, owls. She had an owl everything- lightswitch covers, flowerpots, silverware, hand towels....you name it. They were her muse, in a way. Maybe this is why I feel, if I were to have a totem, it would be an Owl.

The earth was hallowed to each of them. They always had a huge garden growing with corn and lettuce and beets, carrots and potatoes, blueberries and strawberries. They tilled this soil every year and planted, then nursed until they had a bounty to be shared with everyone who set foot on their property. My grandmother loved flowers, as well, and had truly massive flowerbeds surrounding the house and yard. She was partial to pansies, and has a multitude of colors of them, and I was always mystified by the rainbow.

Until about a year ago, well into their 80's, my grandparents lived in that home he built with his hands. Then, they finally conceded that it was necessary to move into a retirement community, where they could have a home with no stairs and no yard to upkeep. My grandfather's health has deteriorated quite a bit since then, and soon he will be in full-time nursing care. This prospect is simply horrible to my grandmother, being separated from this man who has been her world for 65 years, but she is not yet ready or willing to be in a nursing home. It seems that for the first time, since WWII, they will be separated; this time with little hope of reunion this side of Glory.

Being depression-era people, they kept everything. EVERYTHING. This mentality served them well, as they retired with appropriate assets, including their home they have never had a mortgage on (because they didn't trust the banks), so there has been sufficient money to pay for their care, even without selling the house. But now, a year later, the house is being renovated by my brother, in preparation to sell to finance their continued end-of-life care as comfortably as possible. However, as "keepers", their home is completely full of all the things they've kept.

This weekend we are having an estate sale at their home, the house they built, loved, lived in for what seems like forever; all of my living memory, all my mother's living memory. These last few weeks, myself, along with most of my extended family, have been spent sorting and categorizing, and pricing, the history in this house:

• I have flipped through scrapbooks, the old-fashioned kind, large books with manila paper, full of rubber-cemented cards, newspaper clippings and magazine articles, from the 1940's to the 1990's.
• I sorted magazines dating back to the turn of the century, some no doubt inherited from my great-grandparents; Seventeen from the 50's, National Geographic from the 30's, The Saturday evening Post from the 20's.
• I organized hundreds of vinyl LP's like Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass or Sonny and Cher or Frank Sinatra, or Glenn Miller.
• I guesstimated the value of ancient, pre-WWII typewriters, a singer treadle sewing machine, and an Easy Washing Machine Co. Electric Ironing Machine, or a 1930's Philco Cathedral radio.

That's just the stuff I have laid hands on. There is random fabric by the bushel. There is china and furniture, tools and canning jars. There are journals, one in my grandmother's broad and low handwriting for every year of her adult life. There are collections of Santa's and candles and cupids. There are things which no one even knows what they are.

Then there are the scrapbooks. Shelves, ROOMS full of scrapbooks. My grandmother saved every card, clipping, article, drawing, piece of paper for all of her eternity. My mom found a scrapbook page from the baby shower my grandmother had when pregnant with my mom. It included a list of every gift, every card, every memory from that time. She has a scrapbook for every year of the Portland Rose Festival, including every article about every Princess of this iconic Portland tradition.

The scrapbooks are ironic to me. My grandmother wanted to remember all these things; she wanted tangible and complete reminders of every day of her life. My mom was joking today, "NOW I know what she did with all those gallons of rubber cement all these years!" I remember cutting and pasting with her as a girl, placing clippings and cards, not-so-carefully on the huge pages.

It's ironic to me, to be sorting through all these remnants of their life. Tomorrow I will see much tangible evidence of their history walk out the door; these things will be going home with someone new, some stranger, to become part of someone else's life, someone else's memories.

But they will also be part of mine.

I'm not a terribly sentimental person, but I am moved by my grandmother's motivation to preserve history. Here we are, her grand and great-grand generations, learning about her life from what she has left behind, because she took the time to document it.

She might not have even realized, all those years and decades of cutting and gluing, that one day her descendants would be sorting them, rifling through them, in an almost empty house. People who would be compelled to sit for awhile, even with so much work yet to be done, and read a bit about history that took place before we even existed. And think about who the person was who found these moments in time, carefully pasted, important enough to preserve.

Then again, maybe she did. Realize, that is.

Very, very soon, in a matter of a few short weeks or months, my grandparents will be gone. I have been so fortunate to have these amazing people as a part of my life for so many, many years. I have learned so much about what it is to be kind, what it is to be generous, what it is to be loving, what it is to be creative, what it is to be alive, from these people...from their blood in my blood, and from what they have contributed to my heart and mind and soul all these years of my life.

I am thankful I am having this thorough journey through their lives while they still live. For I do not sit in this house with regret for not having realized who they were, but I still can hug them, with a renewed appreciation for everything their lives meant, for all their contributions to the lives of others, and for their love and generosity.

I love them. They are my history.