Early Memories

 

My first memories are from  when I was  two. They are just little snatches of experience. I remember being in the walk-in pantry at Nana’s (my father's mother) while she sang to me: “Once upon a time, a goose drank wine and a monkey chewed tobacco on a trolley line. The trolley broke, and the monkey choked, and they all went to heaven on a billy goat.” 

When I was little, Nana would clear everything breakable out of my reach when we came to visit, so that she would not have to tell me No, don’t touch. Nana was also a good cook. I remember sitting on telephone books on the seat of a cane chair at her kitchen table, and the wonderful smell of her roasted chicken. She had a big black cast iron stove, with burner covers that were lifted with a tool, and she always wore an apron when she cooked or washed dishes. 

I remember visiting Nana on the third floor of a three decker house in Everett in which they lived. We went up two flights of stairs to their apartment, which was on the right side of the building. There was both a front porch, which we didn’t go on, and a back porch, which we did use when I was a little older. The front room was their parlor with windows that opened onto the front porch, but the room I liked best was the kitchen, which had windows opening onto the back porch, and which always smelled good. I’m not sure, but I think that there were only two bedrooms. The apartment had wooden door moldings, some pocket doors, baseboards and chair rails which all were stained a rich brown. 

 I also remember my grandfather (my father's father), whom I called Joe, drawing a picture for me in that same little pantry where Nana sang to me. Dad always told me that his father was a good artist. He was called  Johnny,  and his nieces and nephews called him Uncle Johnny. But Nana and some of his friends called him Babe, because he looked like Babe Ruth. My mother (his daughter-in-law) called him Joe. I don’t know why. I picked up calling him Joe because that’s what my Mummy called him. He always carried pictures of me in his wallet, and showed them to everyone he met, telling them stories about his  little granddaughter. 

Joe had been a carpenter, and he built me a little chair. The base of the chair consisted of a wooden box, open to the floor. On top of the box was the seat, and a back was affixed to that base. I loved that chair, and sometimes would carry it into the kitchen and turn it upside down. I had imaginary rabbits which I kept inside the bottom of the chair Joe made for me. 

I remember visiting my grandfather Joe in the hospital. I was two and a half then. He was in a large room with several beds and a number of other men, and everyone was very happy to see me. One nice man gave me a stick of chewing gum. Everyone was smiling and laughing, and Daddy was there with me. I sat on Joe’s bed with him, and we had lots of fun. 

I never saw Joe again. He died in the hospital after lung cancer surgery. I did not go to the funeral, and I don’t know what anyone told me about what had happened to my grandfather. But thereafter, throughout my childhood, I believed that Joe was sitting in a rocking chair on top of a cloud keeping watch over me from heaven. 

                                           - Kate Lydon Varley