My Grandma’s Story: A Regular Woman of Inspiration

My grandmother, Mary, came to this country, alone, at age 13.  She was sent here to escape the Russian occupation of Czechoslovakia.  I guess it’s what they did back then.  But, it has always boggled my mind. 
This little girl arrived on a boat at Ellis Island, like thousands of others. But, in her case, no one was there to meet her.  Her sister, who was supposed to come for her, hadn’t gotten there in time.  She was alone for days, as the story goes, until they were finally united.

That’s all I know of that part of her story.  I never heard any more.  I might even have a little bit of it wrong.  If my remaining aunt’s know more, I’ve never heard it.  And, we’re not close enough to ask. The rest of Mary’s story, like her life, went to the grave with her.

Even though she died over 40 years ago, and I hardly knew her, I would like to honor her just the same.  Because the little that I do know has always inspired me .  Her story is one of strength, courage and tenacity.  It’s a story, like so many, that will be lost, because no one took the time to write it down. It was just another life, like yours and mine.  She was just a woman going about the ordinary ups and downs of a very regular life.  I’m just sorry I didn’t know her better, because her story isn’t ordinary to me.  She was my grandma.

My memories of her are vague, as she died when I was pretty young, and we didn’t see her a whole lot.  I remember a strong, short, round, Slavic woman, who pinched my cheeks and brought me Necco’s (those funny wafer candies) and a beautifully embroidered sweater, that I lost, at school.  She was not a particularly cuddly grandma, no stories perched on her lap, snuggled together in a rocking chair.  But, that’s not all that surprising.  She’d had a hard life. Grandma was all business.

The only story I know of her childhood was recounted to me by my mother.  I remember her saying that Grandma had only told her one tale from when she was little, and it was right before she came over.  She started out ‘Grandma said’...but, then she stopped, leaned slightly closer, and in the hushed, intimate voice of someone sharing a painful memory she continued ‘Grandma said  “One day, while I was down by the pond, the Russians came, and they beat me, and beat me.”  And, that’s all I have... All I have to remember the whole childhood of the life of my grandma.  A little girl being beaten.  

The next piece of Grandma’s story is equally painful, equally brave.  In an act of great courage and love, her parents packed her off to America for safe keeping.  As far as I know, they never saw her again.

Some time later, who know’s how much time passed, she found employment as a maid for a family of 6.  The mother dies.  And, my grandmother, Mary, marries the husband.  They have 7 more children, 2 die.  One of disease.  One, a drowning.  And, then her husband dies, too.

Eleven kids, all alone, and she only speaks broken English (I know this because she was hard for me to understand 50 years later).  She doesn’t read English, at all.  And, like so many woman of that era, she is left to support these 11 children, and herself, all on her own.

I am in awe of the courage and strength of this little, tiny woman, and her story of survival.  She ended up running a diner, as the story goes.  Grandma could cook!  I know, in my heart, her days were long and hard, and tiring.  I know that she struggled, against great odds, to do the best that she could with the little that she had.  And, she persevered.   

And, I know that she loved.  With all that she had been through, and all that she had survived, her love for my dad, and me was so visible in her eyes, I didn’t mind the pinch on the cheeks quite as much as I could have.  For in that moment of connection, when she really looked at me, all her strife disappeared. For one split second, the shield that had protected her all those years would come down, and  she was all warm, and fuzzy, accepting and approachable.

I didn’t know my grandma.  What I have is a few pieces of a story of a life, a smattering of memories to hold on to.   Regardless of the lack in volume of information,  I am still inspired by her spirit.  Her life was a common enough one, especially for the times.  But, no matter how ordinary, or mundane, it is still a life worth remembering.  Because she was my strong grandma, and her life was special to me.