by Janet Dunn

Created on: June 12, 2010

Growing up in my family meant going to the farm every third weekend to see my granddaddy, my mother’s father; and it also meant that each winter my father’s father, my grandpa, would arrive on a train from New York and stay until after Easter.  I never knew my grandmothers; they passed away long before I was born.  The only connection I had with them were the stories I was told as a child. 

My mother’s stories about her mother, whose name was Jane, have always haunted me.  They made me feel as if I had actually known her.  Mother told me that she was very beautiful with long black hair to her knees and high cheek bones, a result of the Native Indian in her ancestry, and that she was intuitive; people came by horse and buggy for miles around to seek her advice.  Grandmother died three weeks after my mother had her first child but mother said that she did get to hold him before she passed.

My father rarely spoke of his mother.  All I knew about her was that her name was Elizabeth and she died when he was a young boy.  I don’t think he ever really stopped grieving from losing her at such a young age.  Talking about her was always so difficult for him.  As soon as dad was of age he quit school and enlisted in the army to serve in World War II.   It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I found out that I was not only named after my mother’s mother but my father’s as well.

I had the privilege to know both of my grandfathers.  My granddaddy, Roy, lived on a farm that was comprised of about 150 acres not including the fishing lake that was way beyond the house.  He raised his own cattle, pigs and chickens.  The horse he rode was a golden palomino whose blond mane would float in the air as he galloped across the pasture to meet us. He was a kindhearted burly man with a ruggedness in his face that turned to satin when he smiled.  

Early on Saturday morning, while mom and dad slept in, he would put my brother and me in a boat and take us fishing.  We would sit for what seemed liked hours even though it was probably only two.  He taught us how to bait our hooks, throw out the line and sit very quietly and wait.  He would laugh at the squeals of excitement that came from us as the cork started to bobble letting us know that we had a bite!   As we struggled to pull in our trophy, that’s when granddaddy would gently reach over

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