Lögberg-Heimskringla - 26.11.1999, Blaðsíða 7

Lögberg-Heimskringla • Föstudagur 26. nóvember 1999 • 7
Fiction
Grandmother’s Golden Ring
Petrina Cordes
Richfield, MN
“Sometimes a crumb falls from the
tables of joy
Sometimes a bone is flung to some peo-
ple love is given,
to others only heaven...”
—Langston Hughes
Grandmother’s gold ring lies
in my velvet jewel box. This
morning I snapped open the
dark blue case and picked it up from its
bed of white satin. As it rested in the
palm of my hand its gentle palatina
glowed softly and I reflected once more
upon the power the ring had wielded
over her life.
Grandmother—how well I remem-
ber her. Slight, gentle, looking as frail
as if she would blow away in a summer
breeze. You could have circled her
waist with two hands. Finely braided
brown hair was drawn back severely
from her face into a wide coil on top of
her head accentuating her high cheek-
bones. Pale blue eyes looked out from
large gold-rimmed glasses which rested
firmly upon the bridge of her finely
chiseled, aristocratic nose. On her right
hand she wore a wide golden band inset
with jewels; on her left hand, no ring at
all.
Grandmother and Grandfather had
come to America with their three chil-
dren: my father John and his two sis-
ters; Aunt Stella was the older sister,
now a farm wife, Aunt Tessa lived a life
of style in the city. Grandfather lived on
his farm near the edge of town and
Grandmother lived alone. They seemed
more like brother and sister than hus-
band and wife.
Grandmother’s delight was enter-
taining visitors who found their way to
her modest stucco bungalow in
Dobbsville, a small village, set in the
prairie, in western Manitoba, Canada.
During the warm lovely summers of my
childhood my father would drive us
from Hartford City to visit her from
time to time. On one such midsummer
visit we all piled out of our old Chevy
onto her driveway.
“Hello, hello,” Grandmother called
out. “So gledd you came.”
Climbing honeysuckle grew reck-
lessly all over the rough stucco walls by
the back door. Inside, every breath of
summer air wafted the fragrant perfume
of the honeysuckle blossoms in through
the wide open windows and blended it
with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee
and cookies baking in the oven.
The very heart of Grandmother’s
home was her kitchen. There, open
shelves and roughly hewn cupboards
were crowned with jars of rosy-looking
fruits and homemade preserves lined up
like soldiers. Cookie canisters filled
with thick confections stood always
ready and a blue speckled coffee pot
bubbled on the cookstove.
“Hello, Mama,” my father greeted
her with a hug as he stepped into the
kitchen. “Come in, sit down, sit down,”
Grandmother urged in her melodious
Scandinavian lilt, so we all shuffled
around to find a place to sit. “Vhen vas
it you were lest here, John? And the
children, they look goot.”
I settled my skirt around me and
watched her set the oil-cloth covered
kitchen table. First came fragile paper-
thin Bavarian cups decorated in pink
and white roses. Next she set out sand-
wiches, raisin-dotted cookies and cakes
on delicate flowered platters. Then
flowered cup after cup of lemonade.
Grandmother turned to speak to my
mother: “Olivia, vhat do you hear from
my Tessa? So long it’s been now...”
Grandmother hesitated, suddenly tum-
ing misty-eyed and reflective. She
stroked her golden ring, twisting and
tuming it around and around upon her
finger. But with a quick proud toss of
her head she took up where she had left
off. “So long it’s been now since Tessa
vus here. You’d think a daughter could
come more uffen. So busy she must
be!” Her face radiated an aura of seren-
ity as if she really didn’t expect an
answer to her question, yet beneath it all
there was a hint of sadness. She took a
deep sigh and straightened her apron.
“But cuffee there must be now,” she
admonished herself as she reached into
a cupboard and brought down a silver
cream and sugar bowl set. Beside it she
carefully laid tiny silver sugar tongs
embossed in an acom pattem. She bus-
tled over to the stove and returned with
the blue speckled pot. As she deftly bal-
anced the pot over the tiny cups, a shaft
of sunlight streaming in through the
west window played upon her right
hand. It was then that I first noticed the
details of her ring. Pretty sparklets of
light reflected from three tiny rubies; in
between the rubies were two luminous
pearls. How sharply that fine, elaborate
ring contrasted with her simple home-
spun clothing and gnarled, work-wom
fingers.
Mother had warned us to be careful
with the delicate cups, so we sipped our
lemonade carefully as we settled in to
enjoy the feast spread out before us.
Tidbits of news were exchanged—the
latest news of family and friends.
Grandmother spoke now of her
older daughter. “You know, vhen my
Stella was here lest veek she told me...”
and her shoulders stiffened straighter
than a stick, “she told me she and
Martin vere almost loosing the farm.
The Guvernment vanted to take it for
taxes.”—only she pronounced it like
“Texas,”—“but I think they vill menage
to keep it. Stella, she iss lucky to heff
such a good man as Martin.” She
paused for a moment, then wistfully she
said: “My Tessa hass no vone but her-
selff.”
Far down the road we saw
Grandfather pedaling his bicycle.
Grandmother stood up, walked over to
a shelf and picked up an envelope that
was lying there. Quickly she hid it in a
jar. Grandfather gave two loud raps at
the door and walked in.
“Hello, hello,” he said. Grandfather
was a man of few words. Every day he
pedaled over to Grandmother’s house
on his rattling old bicycle, startling the
meadowlarks and killdeers along the
roadside. On that particular day he
brought provisions from the farm: fresh
eggs, thick countiy cream and plump
links of homemade sausage which
bounced like a yo-yo in the basket of
his bicycle.
“How iss your supply of carrots
down cellar?” he asked, turning to
Grandmother. He strode with his slight-
ly slouching gait across the kitchen
floor which sagged a little in the center,
matching his posture. “End do you heff
enough butter in the crock?” He
plunked the provisions down on a shelf
near the cellar door.
He needed no invitation to join the
others at the table, but he did not tarry
long. Just long enough to savor a cup of
steaming coffee. First he poured the
coffee into a saucer to cool it off. Then,
pushing the silver tongs aside, he
picked up a sugar cube with his bony
fingers. With the sugar cube held firmly
between his teeth he slurped the coffee
noisily past his droopy mustache. “Ah,
thet’s goot cuffee, Emma. Vould you
pour me some more please?” His ruddy
cheeks were the weather-beaten cheeks
of an outdoorsman, and as he sipped his
cheeks grew even redder. He wiped his
brow with a dark flowered handker-
chief. Then with the coffee cup filled
again, he bolted down a sandwich or
two and a cookie and rose to his feet.
Crumbs from the sandwich tumbled
from his lap to the floor. He was ready
to leave.
To bid Grandmother goodbye he
took three steps in her direction, his lips
poised for a kiss. With her square stub-
born chin set in a posture of defiance,
she turned her head aside and the kiss
fell limply on her cheek. Grandfather’s
steely-blue eyes misted over a bit but he
hurried out the door and, hoisting up the
pant legs of his tattered overalls, he
pedaled off, saying, “Goodbye, I’ II be
beck tomorrow for shure.”
I ran breathlessly alongside his
bike, longing to hold onto the presence
of my grandfather a little longer. But he
was too fast and soon disappeared in a
cloud of dust down the gravel road
towards his own life at the farm. I
turned and walked slowly back to the
stucco house with many unasked ques-
tions crowding my mind. The hand-
some ring... the letter that Grandmother
hid the moment she saw Grandfather
coming down the road... the tumed
cheek. I often Xensed an unseen wall
between Grandmother and Grandfather.
But why did they not, could they not,
live together?
On the drive home to Hartford City
that day I gave a lot of thought to that
question. And to the mystery surround-
ing my two aunts: how different they
were and what separate lives they led.
Stella, the older sister. Plain, good-
hearted Stella. Stella’s place was a
weathered frame structure set squarely
down in the midst of treeless prairie
acres near Moorsby, wheat-growing
country sixty miles from Dobbsville.
While her husband Martin tilled dusty
fields and tended dairy cattle. Stella
worked from dawn till dusk at house-
hold tasks and caring for her chickens.
At Stella’s farm there were always
other children for us to play with—four
sun-washed country cousins. Sandlot
baseball, Captain May I. No end of
childhood games filled our summer
hours. Never was there enough money
for inore than bare necessities for her
family but love and laughter were
always present, along with scruffy dogs
and tabby cats tumbling all over each
other.
Every prairie breeze that blew flut-
tered the checked home-sewn curtains
but not Stella’s golden hair which she
wore conveniently short, straight and
close to her head. “This is so easy for
me to keep this way,” she once said of
her hair. “Long hair gets in the way of
my work.”
In rare and precious moments of
free time at the end of the day she
would sit at her foot-pedal sewing
machine, nimbly stitching patchwork
quilts. One day as she stitched, Aunt
Stella told me stories of her youth.
“Mother favored Tessa, the baby of
our family. I remember well how she
used to coo and fuss over Tessa. ‘My
baby, my sveet, sveet baby,’ she would
sing. My plain dresses were just good
enough for me,” Stella told me with a
wry smile, “but Tessa loved red satin
hairbows and frills on her pastel dress-
es.”
To be continued in the next issue.
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