My mom has been slowly going through things in the house and garage and sort of de-cluttering. So every so often, she asks me about something, do I still want it, that sort of thing. Tonight, she was cleaning out the cedar chest. The cedar chest is her hope chest � the concept is kind of dead now, but it�s where she put memorabilia that she would want to pass on to us, like our special baby clothes, special toys, stuff from her own life, her first doll, her wedding dress, etc.
When I was a kid, that cedar chest was so amazing to me. I would say that at least once a month I would open it up and go through all the contents. Some of the stuff, I didn�t even know what it was, I didn�t know �the story� but I still liked looking at the things. But there were other things that I knew their story, and those are the things I liked looking at the most.
The bag of baby clothes was the most fascinating to me. I loved pulling out the little clothes and imagining putting them on my own baby some day. Some times, I would sneak in the chest and steal one of the baby outfits to put on my doll but eventually I would get caught and the outfit would go back in the chest. But the cedar chest truly was a treasure chest for me.
A lot of the items in the chest are things that came from my dad�s side of the family. My paternal grandmother died when I was 1. I know very little about her, just stories that the family tells me, but for some reason, I feel so close to her, like if she had lived, she and I would have been best buds. But the simple fact is, she didn�t live. She got breast cancer and tried so hard to fight it, tried so hard to survive, but this was the late �60s and there wasn�t much to be done, chemotherapy was just a wee young thing.
My grandmother�s name was Cornelia Louise and she hated her first name. Everyone called her Corny so she went by Louise. That is how I shall refer to her in the rest of this entry as I was realizing that all the �she� pronouns may eventually get confusing.
My mom and I examined a bag of baby clothes, many of them made by Louise. There were also several items that she had embroidered, a few flannel receiving blankets that she had stitched on and other of her personal items. As we looked through the bag of baby clothes (and don�t you worry, you sentimental ones, we saved ALL of them), it occurred to me how much Louise was looking forward to being a grandparent, how excited she was. I was not her first grandchild, as my sister was a year and a half older than me, but she loved the idea of grandchildren, you could just tell in the little outfits that she had made, and there were knitted and crocheted items that had been made by her friends for me. In fact, she endured high doses of chemotherapy and fought her cancer so hard just so that she could watch us grow up. She was crazy in love with us. And I�ve always thought that she felt something special towards me, more than my sister. I can�t explain it, but I do have two stories to tell that make me feel special to her (and that is all that matters really, right?)
When my parents were expecting a second child, without the modern technologies, they had to pick both boy names and girl names as they didn�t know what they were having. I couldn�t tell you what the boy name was, but if I was a girl (which I was in case you are all confused about my gender), they wanted to name me after her, Cornelia. Oh, she protested so hard on that one. She did NOT want me named that horrible name (and my apologies to all Cornelia�s. It�s not a horrible name but she didn�t want me called Corny). So instead, they let her pick my name. My name, Janet, was chosen for me by my paternal grandmother.
The second story I have involves the end of her life. I never knew this story until I was 18. I had gone on a senior retreat with high school and it was designed to be one of those super intense emotional life changing events. (Funny how we work hard to craft life changing events when the most life-changing events are often so small that you almost miss them). One of the �devices� that they used was to have one of our parents write us a letter which we would read on the 2nd or 3rd day. My dad wrote my letter.
This isn�t an entry about high school, I could write for 20 years about high school and never really get it all figured out, but there are some important elements needed here. Number 1, I began experiencing my first serious depressive episodes in high school. Most of my high school years are a blur of pain and despair with just small bright spots. I was not diagnosed for 10 more years and anti-depressants were just not that common back then so I just had to get through it. In my sophomore year, my dad had lost his job and was at home a lot. He was going through some depression as well, though he hid it well because I was not aware of it until he told me. I was involved in drama and frequently had after-school, evening and weekend rehearsals. My dad usually drove me. I was also learning to drive so we spent a LOT of time in the car together, me driving, him trying not to grab the wheel from me and both of us talking. We grew close during that time, so it was appropriate that the letter came from him. My mom traveled a lot during my high school years so I can�t really say I saw that much of her.
The letter, of course, was about how special I was and how amazing my life was going to be and about all my talents and potential and blahdeblah. But he told me a story about why I was especially special to him. On July 21, 1969, the day that man first walked on the moon, my father got a phone call. Louise was very near the end and he needed to go to the hospital. He sat with her and told her stories and held her hand, she was quiet, beyond words and barely alive. At one point, he mentioned my name. She then opened her eyes, said �Janet, such pretty hair� (I had carrot red hair, the first on their side of the family) and then moments later she stopped breathing.
Now I know, this sounds like a corny made for TV movie, but it was a real event. It really happened. After more than a day of not speaking, she spoke those words and then died. Her last thoughts were of me.
One of the items in the cedar chest was a little antique metal box. It has a lid on it with a little clasp, and a small blue (my favorite color) design on it. Wait, instead of describing it, let me take a picture.
I had seen this metal box before, in my mom�s room when I was a child, I think she kept jewelry in it. As we were going through everything in the cedar chest, we would stop and talk about what it was, who had it, where it came from, etc. When my mom brought this out, she explained that it was my Grandma Louise�s lunch pail. Back then, that�s what they called them, lunch pails, just like on Little House on the Prairie. For this item there wasn�t a question as to whether or not we were going to keep it, it was already in the keep pile, we were just talking about items, sharing stories, etc. I said, well, I can put it in my room if you don�t mind, I�d love to have it (my room is blue but also for the sentimental reasons) and my mom said okay. She then went on to tell me a little bit about it.
My grandmother was raised on a farm in Kansas during the depression. Like most farmers, they were not wealthy. They struggled to get by. Life, I�m sure, was very similar to the Ingall�s on Little House on the Prairie, a daily struggle to survive and still provide small gifts at Christmas. My mom explained that I needed to put a note in the box explaining that it belonged to my grandmother Louise. Louise had told my mom that it was the prettiest thing she owned and that she didn�t own very many pretty things (being a farm family) and that she treasured that lunch pail.
I have the lunch pail sitting on the shelf right now. Every time I look at it, I just start to cry. On the one hand, I feel so close to her right now. She was just a little girl, wanting pretty things. She just suddenly became so real to me. I don�t know the real stories, just the ones I make up about her in my head combined with the stories my father and uncle have shared. But right now I can see her, walking to school, holding her books and her lunch pail. Her dress is probably not made out of the most beautiful of fabrics, but I�m sure it was well made. She was not the oldest, so it was probably not even a new dress. But the lunch box, that was all hers, that was the item she owned that made her feel special and loved.
I cry because I miss her, I miss the �her� I never got to know.
I cry because she is gone and she will never come back.
I cry because I wonder what plans and dreams she had for me and I wonder if I even came close to fulfilling any of them. I cry because I don�t want to let her down, I don�t want to let down her memory. I cry because I wonder if she would be happy at the way my life has turned out. I cry because I�m often not sure I�m happy at the way my life has turned out.
I cry for many other reasons too, reasons with tales too long to tell right now. But I cry. Not a painful, turn-myself-inside-out kind of cry. But I cry.
Inside the lunch pail, it looks empty. But it is so full. So full of memories, so full of hopes, so full of the life of this woman who named me.
