Wisconsin Memoirs
I am a reader by nature, or more likely nurture. Books have played an important role in my life from my earliest memories. I have always admired the ability to write, however, for me it has always been a chore and not an act of love. That was the case until the day my life changed forever and subsequently, altered my views on writing. This is my story.
The phone rang at 6:51 on Saturday morning. But I missed it. Ten minutes later I woke up and saw the blinking red light on my cell. I pushed the hair out of my eyes and groggily looked at the missed call; it read Chuck Holmes. "My father called me at 6:51? What is he thinking?" I grumbled aloud as I called my voicemail to check it.
Instead of hearing my father's hearty voice in my voicemail, I heard Sandy's, my father's long time partner. Her voice was unintelligible in my voicemail. My heart clenched as I pressed the button to return the call. On the first ring, Sandy's son, Jamie, answered the phone. I heard Sandy in the background, sobbing. I felt my stomach drop. I wasn't ready to hear the words he said. "Your dad's dead," Jamie choked out. "That can't be," I said, "I just talked to him two days ago; he was fine."
I sat doubled over the edge of my bed, eyes clenched tight thinking that it's not true, it's not happening. Tears spilled from my eyes. "I'm so sorry, Cari," Sandy wailed as she got on the phone. Over and over I heard those words. I asked her to tell me what had happened. "Your dad died last night in his sleep," she said, "He was sick and I asked him to go to the doctor but he wouldn't. I told him to go. I'm so sorry, Cari. I need you to come right away. You are the only one that can make the arrangements."
I showered, tears mixing with the water that beat on my body. I slowly got dressed, feeling older than my age. I walked out my front door to the bright sun shining on my face. I flinched against the light and headed for my car. As I drove, I thought of all the unspoken questions I had for my Dad. He was the last one of his generation in his family. I had a scattering of cousins, but did not know how to reach them. I was troubled that I didn't know about our heritage, our family history and I wondered what I would be able to tell my children about their grandfather's family.
The day passed as a blur. As I gathered my things to leave, Sandy brought a small box out. I opened the box to find twelve bound Wisconsin calendars and one green notebook, well worn with age. I pulled one out and peered inside to find my grandmother's scrawling handwriting. My grandmother, Grandma Jo, a spitfire of a woman, had died three days after my thirteenth birthday. I recalled my Dad mentioning the journals to me, but I had never seen them until this day. I hugged the box to my chest and thanked Sandy. What a precious treasure she had given me.
I woke early the next morning with a crick in my neck and what felt like sand in my eyes. Sleep had not come easily nor had it lasted more than what felt like a few minutes. Blurry-eyed, I started the coffee pot and meandered to the couch. I picked up the box of journals and stacked them in chronological order starting with the year 1966.
On February 8, 1966 she wrote: Chuck got A or 96% in a test at Bloomingdale school. B in Math. They said it couldn't be done, but he did it. Keep up the good work Son. I laughed aloud and kept reading. I thought for a woman that didn't finish school she wrote quite well. Thursday, April 28, 1966 circled in red: Dad had 2nd
stroke. Walked to Judy's and collapsed. May 8, 1966: Dad died at 9:30 pm at Lakeland Memorial Hospital. I empathized with how horrible she must have felt when her father passed. I understood her pain that day, more than I ever could have before.
It wasn't until I found my Grandfather's death certificate among my father's papers that I realized that the journal entry had referred to her ex-husband, and not her father. I wondered what it was like for her to be a divorced woman in an era where divorce was frowned upon. On October 9, 1966 another entry made me laugh out loud: Al got married. Poor Al. I didn't know Al, but I understood what Grandma Jo was saying. I've been married, too.
The next journal was written in 1971. A newspaper article dated April 11, 1971 read: Recent guests at the Harry Foster home were Mr. and Mrs. Robert Hambley, of White Cloud, Mr. and Mrs. Gerald Foster and family of Tinley Park, Ill. Ed Webb, Josephine Holmes and Mr. and Mrs. Charles Holmes of Pullman climaxed a very enjoyable day. I had forgotten until I read this that my father was previously married. On June 6, 1971 Grandma Jo wrote: Chuck came over said Him & Arlene parted. Left his clothes. I smiled. That seemed pretty typical. My Dad was always non-confrontational.
I knew that Grandma Jo was raised in Mercer, Wisconsin, but in the 1966 and 1971 journals she lived in Grand Junction, Michigan. In 1978, she was back in Mercer and with Auggie, the man I always thought of as a grandfather. Throughout the years there are numerous entries about him and their relationship. I learned how frustrated Grandma Jo would become with Auggie, as he frequently sneaked into town for hours to get drunk. She expressed surprise when he would stay home, for once, and in a few words could capture what must have been one hell of a fight. I laughed at the entries about Auggie pouting and refusing to talk to Grandma Jo for days before she traveled to visit my Dad or my Aunt Beverly. Although a grown man, he acted like a petulant child, not getting his way. He didn't want to go, but he didn't want Grandma Jo to go either.
The green notebook began on July 17, 1979 and I picked up Grandma Jo's narrative as she traveled by bus from Mercer to Three Rivers, Michigan. She wrote of several stops along the bus route; of how outrageous the prices were, especially the hot dogs. She even made a colorful remark about an African American that joined the trek at one stop or another.
On July 21, 1979, a napkin featuring the Peanuts characters reading Happy Birthday in big bold colors was taped to the page. The tape, now brown, barely held the napkin in place. On the napkin she had written: Carissa's party, Rome City, Ind. July 21, 1979. I was two years old. I turned the next page to see duck feathers barely held on by the old brown tape. The entry read: 3Rivers Park really pretty and nice. Over 300 ducks, threw them 2 loafs of bread. They had cute donkeys, 2 big owls,
raccoon, wolves, deer big & small. Carissa really enjoyed feeding the ducks. Duck feathers I found.
I clutched the notebook to my chest and sat in awe for a moment. She kept these items and took the time to tape them in her journal and write about time spent with me. A lump formed in my throat as I re-read these entries and gently touched the napkin and feathers that are now over thirty years old. I was raw with emotion from my father's unexpected death; having these journals and finding these entries comforted me immensely.
On May 24, 1980, she wrote of my brother being born. Another Charles Holmes. In 1981, she wrote of President Reagan being shot and two days later receiving her Veteran's check in the amount of $131.00. April 9, 1981, she received her state tax refund of $12.20 and wrote: Big deal. Midsummer 1981, I read about Aunt Betty getting sick, being hospitalized and having an operation. Betty stayed with Grandma Jo often; her husband, Jack, routinely beat her. Grandma Jo is clear as day on her feelings for Jack when he had Betty thrown into jail over a drunken brawl. On July 26, 1982: Betty was operated on again. July 30, 1982: Betty heard she had cancer, no cure. May 8, 1983: Betty passed away at Noon. Mother's day. She suffered but fought. I was by her side. Thank God. She was 45 years old. I pondered how Grandma Jo felt when she wrote that. Moreover, I wondered how she kept it together knowing that Betty was the third daughter that she had buried. Gloria was stillborn and Judy was murdered in the early 1970s.
I lost track of time as I enveloped myself in my grandmother's life. As I read through each year, I read of births and deaths; marriage and divorce; Life. She wrote about waiting for unemployment, state tax checks and looking for work. I contemplated how it must have been to live on a forty-two dollar paycheck per week. She wrote about time spent with family, birthday and Christmas presents, the cost of a muffler, the weather and her love of owls. I laughed when I saw how she recorded my Dad's birthday on the wrong day on different years. I always teased my Dad that he could never remember when my birthday was. It was obviously hereditary.
In April 1985, she wrote of needing to go to Milwaukee and hoping my cousin Kevin and his wife Liza could come and get her. The next day she penned: Kevin & Liza come.
Bev needs me. Bev back in hospital. May 9, 1985: Bev passed away. Did she feel helpless watching her children die? I live in fear of something happening to my kids. I go in their room at night to reassure myself they are breathing. If I have a bad dream I go in their room as a source of comfort.
The last journal was in 1989. Grandma Jo died on July 23, 1990. I think about her life in that last year, as I know she was sick for a long time. The cancer took its time to take her home. I loved my Grandma Jo, though I did not know her well. I visited with her several times before she died, but I was young and did not know about her or her life. I treasure the glimpses of her life and my family's history.
We only know of our history because of the stories that are passed down through generations. Without Grandma Jo's journals, an entire family history would have been lost with my father's passing. They inspired me to create a blog in which I diligently write. I now have the responsibility to continue my family legacy. I must keep memories from the past alive and create memories for future generations to look back on.
The clock of life is wound only once.
And no man has power to tell just what
hour the clock will stop, so use your time real well.
Josephine Holmes, 1979
"Bless Your Pea Pickin' Heart"
Josephine Holmes
R.I.P.
Hiram Holmes
Josephine Holmes
Gloria Holmes
Judy (Holmes)Babic
Betty (Holmes) Babic
Beverly (Holmes) Schwartz
Carol (Holmes) Hambley
Auggie
Charles Delbert Holmes
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