From Holland with Love

Grandma Bertha, my mother's mother, was nothing like dad's mother. His mother (who was a little English and a little French) had long dark hair piled high and wore long black dresses and high-top buttoned shoes (and smoked a corn-cob pipe). Mom's mother, Grandma Bertha, was a plump person with a halo of white curls. She wore printed cotton house dresses and, always, an apron. Her parents had come from Holland.
She and her sister were married to two brothers--Bertha to John, and Eliza to Isaiah. No two couples could be more unlike. Bertha and John were jolly and outgoing, very involved in all of our family activities. I spent a lot of time in her sunny kitchen
watching her cook, or I would sit fascinated as she 'tatted doilies' or knitted endless pairs of mittens (double thickness for warmth)for us children. She had a small white biscuit poodle (called Dewey--named for a bad habit as a pup).She had trained him to leap onto her lap and pull the apron over himself.
In contrast, Aunt Eliza and Uncle Isaiah were so withdrawn they were anti-social. Aunt Eliza was reported to be a chronic complainer and Uncle Isaiah a grump. Although the two couples, near the end of their lives, lived in identical houses side by side, I cannot call up a clear image of Eliza or Isaiah, and cannot recall any contacts with them.
In the early twenties, Grandma Bertha and Grandpa John had a huge home on Church Street, just a few hundred yards from the Baptist Church. It was a rambling old house--from the great square house that fronted on Church St. through a pantry, a woodshed, to a barn. Beyond the barn was a garden, where Grandpa grew all my favorites--artichokes, parsnips, radishes, and rhubarb. Grandpa told me they were particularly healthy for me because they grew so near the church. He gave me permission to take any I wanted, and I plundered religiously!!
One of our favorite family activities was the annual berry-picking expedition. The whole family participated. Carrying large pails, wearing wide-brimmed hats and long-sleeved shirts and toting a lunch basket, we would all pile into the back of a truck and head out to the high-bush blueberry fields at the foot of the mountain. On the way, we children were warned to stick close to the grown-ups because (l) there were bears in the woods, and (2)we could get lost and never be seen again.
The warnings had the desired effect. Johnny and I stuck so close to our parents they fairly tripped over us, and probably got very tired of hearing, "Ma, where are you?" or "Daddy-y-y?" every 5 minutes.

When we returned home with our pails and stomachs full and everyone sporting purple tongues, we all pitched in cleaning the berries. Anticipating blueberry pie was a sweet feeling, enhanced by the knowledge our own labor had produced all of that bounty.

The fact that Grandma and Grandpa joined in the berry-picking lent an important dimension to the occasion. Riding with them, cuddled up together under blankets to keep out the wind, listening to jokes and talk of old times, I felt a closeness, a sense of security and belonging, I will never forget.

When Grandma and Grandpa got so old the great house was too much for them to care for, they sold it and moved into a small cottage next door to Isaiah and Eliza. With this move, life changed for all of us--no more huge Thanksgiving dinners with roast goose for 12 or 14 people. No more "root cellar" with barrels of sourkraut or dill pickles. The little cottage had no dining room--just bedroom, livingroom, kitchen and bath. Of course she could not bring the furniture from the big house, but she did bring along the big "tick" that enveloped you when you lay on it. This she had made herself from the down and feathers she stripped from geese she beheaded for past dinners.

I never saw her kill the geese, but I watched when she killed chickens. She would hold the feet with one hand, lay the head over
the chopping block, and "Wham!," a quick chop through the neck! Inevitably, the chicken would fall to the ground and walk a few steps before collapsing. When I asked her why the chickens did this, she said she honestly didn't know.

Grandma Bertha was a true pioneer, strong and courageous. She taught me a lot about life and responsibility--not by lectures, but by example. I am so glad my grandmother was Bertha, and not her sister Eliza who has no happy place in my memories.