In addition to my maternal grandparent’s eight children, they adopted seven.

This was an age when if misfortune befell a family the children weren’t sent to meet their demise in dank orphanages*, they were sent to live with family and friends and, as the case with my grandparents, charitable strangers.

I rarely write about my maternal grandma because she passed away in a house fire when I was young.

Physically, I recall her having fair skin on account of her being half Creek Indian. She had high cheek bones with tiny freckles, long thick jet black hair, large eyes like mine, and a raspy voice. I remember her hands in detail. They were weathered and soft and her nails were always polished a blush-pinkish color. I loved her hands.

It’s funny what little things we remember.

Her house teemed with people; young, old, family, neighbors, and my great grandmother (Madea) and her badass jack russell.

My last vivid memory is of sitting at the kitchen table with Madea, watching my mom and grandma make schweinshaxe and semmelknödel (ham hock and German dumblings). Madea kept adding her two cents, my grandma roll her eyes, and my mom burst out laughing.

Again, funny what we remember. Anyway, back on topic.

I don’t hold the monopoly on sassiness or big heartedness. It comes from a long line of smartasses on both side of my family. I wish I’d been given the opportunity to know her better. I’d pepper her with questions. Did she have any reservations when moving her entire family to Germany? How’d she manage should a large family? I’d tell her that the cracked leather La-Z-Boy in the den, the one my granddad refused to throw out, pinched the back of my legs.

For the most part, I’d like to pick her brain. She raised a clutch of remarkable children—a few pointers would be nice.



*Especially if you were a minority!