No One Left to Remember

Only three of us now who knew both sets of our grandparents. The three of us, 96, 94 and 88, how much time have we left? There are sepia photos from the old, first Brownie cameras, a few portraits of some from a bit later, all still, silent, as they were not in life. Being the oldest, I recall two great- grandmothers, albeit vaguely, one only in a darkened bedroom, the other short, chubby, with the horn she put to her ear to listen. My mother’s father, Grandpa Jones, studied his Bible lessons every day, but he died when Dan and I were little. Who but we three now remember the stern but kindly mother of my dad? Grandma Pope had endless patience teaching my small hands to make jam, can tomatoes, make pie crust and bread. She had an infectious laugh which sent tears rolling down her cheeks. She let me go alone to the bakery to buy penny rolls. Grandpa Pope first showed me a keyboard and named the keys. An accomplished pianist and organist, who had worked for Chickering Pianos, he didn’t play often any more, as he had toughened his hands in the factory where he worked during the Depression, but when he played everyone was completely entranced. My mother’s mother, Grandma Jones, was Boston proper, a wonderful seamstress and seemingly stern, but very loving. I often would crawl into her bed at night. When I had mumps she made me hot chocolate. She would be sure I had hat and gloves and take me to lunch at Jordan Marsh. We did endless puzzles in her sitting room. So much more to these people than ever can be seen in a photograph. Even this poem only scratches the surface. The love, quirks, personalities are missing. I suppose, some day, my descendants will look at pictures of Doug and me and wonder what kind of people WE were and what WE really were like.