I went to the town of Strawn, Ill. (population 100), which is the town where my Grandmother was born and grew up. My original intention had been to go with my Grandmother but due to her wet basement floor, she had to spend the day waiting on the carpet cleaners. Luckily, my Uncle Bob volunteered to go with me. I would of went alone but in hindsight I wouldn't of known anything about what I was seeing, so it was great to have a tour guide along.
I was able to see the farm house and land that she grew up on and where my Mom and Aunts and Uncles spent their Summers. I took a handful of rich, black Illinois soil from the land to have in my home. I saw the gas station, where my Great Grandfather had worked, when he wasn't farming or driving the school bus. I saw the local tavern, across the street from the gas station, where my Great Grandmother was hit by a car and killed. Her nephew ran into the street and she pushed him out of the way of a speeding car, saving his life. I was able to see a place, that I had only heard of, that is an important part of who I am.
On the way down, we drove past a large round corn crib. My Uncle shared a story with me, that one Summer, he and all of his siblings (there were five of them) were driving to the farm with their Mother (my Grandmother) and when they came to the corn crib, she began to tell them about the farmer who had died in the corn crib. In awe, they all asked how he died and she replied, "He couldn't find a corner to piss in!". (This of course do to the roundness of the structure.) She then giggled and told them all, "Don't you dare ever tell your father I told you that!".
This evening, I was able to sit down with my Grandmother and talk to her for two hours (and recorded the whole thing!) about her childhood, where she came from, her siblings and parents, how she met my Grandfather and our family history of depression and suicide. This last bit was of particular significance to my own life and my struggles with depression.
I also found out that my Great Grandmother was a secret pipe smoker. She used to have a room, upstairs in their house, where she went to sew. When she was sewing the door was locked and kids were not aloud to come upstairs. Whenever she came down, the smell of pipe tobacco was thick on her. After she died, when they were going through her stuff, the found multiple pouches of expensive pipe tobacco. For some reason, I really like that story!
I have some pictures from today and Wednesday that I would like to share. They include a picture of were my Grandfather is inturned, my Great Grandparents grave site, in Strawn, some pictures of the little farm house (which has been changed quite a bit but is still the original house) and the land and some pictures from the town, including the gas station where my Great Grandfather worked. Also, while I was here, the area suffered from some pretty bad flooding. I took a couple of pictures but they in no way show what was actually happening. Houses and hospitals had to be evacuated, businesses were ruined, people had to be rescued. It was crazy driving around and seeing streets under 8 feet of water. The final picture is of my Uncle Bob (the one was my tour guide) and my Grandma, Bonnie Jean Hammerstein.
If you are lucky enough to have Grandparents, I urge you to take the time and hear their stories. Don't let your family history die out with them, when it is their time to go. I only have one Grandparent left and I feel so privileged to get to spend time with her and here about her life.
In 3 hours I will be driving to the airport, so goodnight and I hope you all are sleeping soundly.
Love,
Allan
Allan,
ReplyDeleteI wanted to share some more stories of your Great-Grandmother. She was one feisty lady. I wish I had a photo of her. She hated her picture being taken, which I never understood why. She was tall, thin and very pretty. You spoke about the bar that she was killed in front of. I wanted to correct one part of what you wrote. The little boy she pushed out of the way was my cousin Tim, her grandson. The tavern was called Bingo’s. Yes, there was a real man called Bingo. Bingo and his wife lived above the tavern. Getting back to the night by grandmother was hit. My Aunt Joyce wanted to stop by Bingo’s to see if her boyfriend was there. They parked at the gas station across the street (the same gas station where my grandfather worked). When they got out of the gypsy wagon (that is what we called my grandfather’s vehicle, which I will tell you how it got that name later) my cousin Tim ran across the road in front of a Volkswagen Bug. My grandmother ran after him and pushed him almost out of the way, he was clipped by the side of the car. My grandmother was hit full force and thrown quite a distance. People came out of Bingo’s and picked my grandmother up and carried her into the tavern and laid her on a table over Bingo’s protests. Bingo was a family friend forever and I am not sure if he did not want them bringing my grandmother in because she was bleeding or for another reason. I do believe that was the beginning of the end for Bingo’s tavern. People carried my grandmother in over his protests.
I remember the night it happened. I was at my 5th grade roller skating party on Friday night. My friend’s mother came early and told me she needed to take us home. When I walked in the door, my parents were not there, they had been at a holiday get together at my aunt’s. Your Aunt Janet told me to hurry and get some clothes packed. She told me; “Grandma got hit by a car and she is in the hospital.” To say I was shocked is putting it mildly. My parents got home shortly after I did. We loaded up the car and left for the hospital. We went straight to the hospital and my mom and dad told us to wait in the car. The five of us kids sat there for hours not knowing what was going on. You leave five siblings from the age of 11 to 15 years of age you think something is going to happen; a fight, screwing around, anything. Nothing did. We just sat there, not saying a thing. All eyes glued on the hospital door, waiting for any bit of news. I remember my parents coming out, but not much else. What I do remember is my grandmother died on the following Sunday which was Christmas Eve. She was the age I am now, 57 years old.
Little bits and pieces I do remember is my Aunt Joyce getting hysterical and carrying on and my Aunt Mary slapping her across the face. One time when Aunt Mary was visiting us, I asked Aunt Mary why she had slapped Aunt Joyce. She told me Aunt Joyce was carrying on about it being her fault (Aunt Joyce’s) and getting dramatic so Aunt Mary slapped her and said this is not about you.
The funeral service was unbelievable. There were people lined up the sidewalk to attend the service. I knew my grandmother knew a lot of people, I just never knew how many. My grandfather, who I believe was in a state of shock, kept telling people how beautiful her corpse was. We all took it hard to say the least; however, Uncle Bob took it the hardest. My dad had to escort him out he was sobbing so hard.
I cannot tell you how much I loved my grandmother. She just made being at “the farm” the most fun and exciting time in my childhood. I will share some of these memories with you. I feel very lucky that I had the childhood I had. I wish you would have been able to know her and experience “the farm”. You would have loved every minute.
Thanks for sharing your Love Letter to Illinois with me. It made me remember, which is a good thing even if some memories are sad.