Growing
up, I saw my grandparents frequently. They were not abstractions, but a
tangible part of my life. My first thirty-three Christmas Eves were spent in
the warmth of the home my grandfather built in Trevose, PA. The Christmas tree
with handmade ornaments, the stockings with the names of the five grandchildren
dangling in front of the fireplace and piles of gifts tucked away in a back
bedroom dubbed “the middle room” made the atmosphere festive. The chatter of lively discussions, plentiful
meals with desserts (hopefully) made by my aunt Kathy, the smell of coffee in
the kitchen and sight of children running around and cats scampering by—this is
the stuff that visits were made of. Gram sat in her spot on the couch beside
the table and lamp. From there, she held court, laughing, joking and teasing.
Quick-witted and at times, self-deprecating, no joke was lost on her. Her
presence was strong, her beauty never fading with the years. The sparkle in her
eye remained. As my parents, my brother and I were leaving each time, she would
hold my hand as I hugged her goodbye and would ask, “Will you ring the phone?”
“Yes,” I
replied, vowing to let her know that we had gotten home safely by dialing her
number upon our arrival in Pottstown. I’d let the phone ring once and hang up.
That was the signal. No one had cell phones yet.
“You
promise?” She reiterated, looking me in the eye and lightly squeezing my hand.
“Yes, I’ll
let you know.”
“Okay,
get home safe.” She smiled, letting go.
*
My
brother, grandmother and I all were born in May. Gram jokingly would remind us
that she had a May birthday before any of us and therefore, hers was the most
important. She might not have been joking. She had a knack for remembering
birthdays. Once, she inquired if I knew whose birthday it was on that particular
day. I did a quick mental scan of the family, but could think of no one who
would be celebrating. “Oh, it was . . .” She muttered the name of someone I had
never heard of.
“He sat
behind your aunt in elementary school,” she clarified, naming a random person
even my aunt didn’t remember.
It might
have been a birthday card that inspired Gram to start writing to me. I can’t
remember—in fact, I can’t remember a time when she and I didn’t write to each
other. She was my first pen pal. Her letters played a role in igniting a
passion for writing that has been a constant, guiding force throughout my life.
When I was homebound with Lyme disease for twelve years during my teens and
young adulthood, her letters brought great joy and laughter to an otherwise
dismal time.
During
the later years of her life, I wrote to her every one to two weeks. Four days
before she died, I Googled “how to draw a turkey.” Thanksgiving was nearing. I
sent her a quick message with my mediocre turkey sketch. The caption read,
“Meow.” Even at 94, she would get the joke. She never stopped getting the
joke—or writing. The day after she died, my aunt Pat told me that she found one
more letter, addressed and stamped to me—presumably, the last letter Gram
wrote. The person who wrote me my first
letter composed her last letter to me. Life comes full circle.
*
When Gram was a child growing up on Wister
Street in the Germantown section of Philadelphia, she had a wealthy neighbor.
Gram was the child of a baker and a homemaker who each had been the children of
immigrants. When Gram was young, the wealthy lady who had no children took a
shine to her. On occasion, she invited her to come with her to a horse farm in
the country for the afternoon. Gram recounted tales of fancy lunches and
playing on the grounds. She loved running around, loved the open space and
freedom.
Years later, the farm was sold and became
George Washington Memorial Park Cemetary in Plymouth Meeting. This is where,
beside her husband of 67 years and with her parents and sister and daughter,
she will be laid to rest. Though we miss her terribly already, Catherine May Ernst Jonik, known to me as simply and exquisitely Gram, is finally free,
finally safe, finally home.
