On this day, the sun hath marked the centenary since my paternal grandmother, Florence, did grace this world in Newark, New Jersey. I yearn for a photo to display, but alas, the lady departed in 2005, and the whereabouts of old photos escape me. She, not much given to the camera, bore a generally melancholic spirit. Offspring of a German immigrant father and a Danish immigrant mother, she ranked as the youngest amidst a handful of siblings. Her upbrigning could not have been an easy one, especially as my great-grandmother (Eleanor) passed when she was but 12 years-old. The Great Depression and World War II affected all, and Grandma was not an exception.
The tale of how and why her meeting with my grandfather (Edwin) came to be remains obscure to me (my father probably would not know exactly, such is the distant nature of our kin); my grandfather was born in a neighborhood of Canadian migrants in Boston’s Lower Mills district (pictured here, now since demolished.) They joined in matrimony shortly after his return from naval service in World War II. I am not certain if they met in Boston, or in New York/New Jersey (perhaps Grandpa was stationed there at one point), or where, but I digress.
Their union yielded three offspring. Alas, the war and the bottle left an indelible mark upon my grandfather (whose 100th anniversary of birth shall approach next year), and, thus, upon Grandma and her children. Grandpa, to speak plainly, did struggle to maintain employ and refrain from taverns. From the late '40s to the early '60s, the family dwelt in New Jersey (Hillside, NJ, where my father graduated high school), residing under the beneficence of Grandma’s affluent Danish-born uncle (a nobleman whose longevity actually allowed yours truly, as a very young lad, to have met and have memory of this remarkable gentleman; Uncle Julius, 1896-1986.) They would return to Boston and the old home in Lower Mills in 1965.
The marriage bore little-to-no joy, yet never did they divorce. When Grandpa perished, 35 years ago, he was but a decade younger than my father is now, yet so feeble and broken that he seemed as if he were 90 or older. The sole occasion I beheld Grandma's tears was at his funeral, whilst Taps played its mournful tune. Following this, Grandma moved to Maine, in proximity to my aunt and about a two-hour drive north of Boston, and we would make several visits annually. She held great affection for Pall Mall filterless cigarettes and had an ardent love for feline companions. During a period when my father was abroad, serving in Vietnam, she seemingly housed upwards of 40 cats at the old home in Lower Mills. Anything adorned with Garfield, she cherished. Standing at perhaps no more than 4 feet and 10 inches, she was a diminutive soul. I do wish I had bestowed more moments upon her, and I desire I had voiced my affection to her ere she obtained her merciful release from this wretched world. I am profoundly sorry, Grandma, and I do love you. May thy soul be at peace.
