Post by Betsy Warren on Jun 30, 2008 21:26:56 GMT -6
My grandpa, James Hird, died when my dad was only 15 so of course I never knew him. I've always had the impression that he was a rather quiet man, but would stand up for his convictions and brook no nonsense. I also know he was a fun loving man, and loved to play music. He was known for his wonderful penmanship, as you can see on this envelope that remains from a letter he wrote to Ethel before they were married:
I wish I would have had a chance to know him.
My grandma Ethel, whom we always referred to as "Old Mom," died when I was 3 years old so I never had a chance to know her either. I have only one distinct memory of being with her; she was living in the house in Kearney on Avenue D and she had been in the hospital for a spell, but was home again and my parents and I paid her a visit. She was laying in bed and I remember crawling up on the bed and jumping up and down with glee, to my parent's mortification. They said "Don't do that, your Grandma is sick" but Grandma said, "Let her jump, she brings me joy."
The only other clear memory I have of this time relating to her is being in her kitchen, and Uncle Preston was holding me in his arms making me laugh by wiggling his ears. I don't know, and no one can tell me for sure either, but I think this must have been the day of her funeral and everyone had gathered back at her house afterwards.
I've always felt a void by not having known my grandparents. Some of this void was filled by knowing all of my aunts and uncles - who were themselves old enough to be my grandparents and somewhat filled that role - but it just isn't the same. I know my grandparents only through photographs and the many stories shared by others.
It boggles my mind sometimes to realize that my grandparents were born in 1877 and 1889. Not my great great grandparents, not my great grandparents, but my GRANDPARENTS. Wow. I'm only 35. It seems impossible when you do the math, but that's part of what makes this all unique. I'm only one generation removed from pioneer days. That really makes for some heady thinking here in 2008!
I wish I would have had a chance to know him.
My grandma Ethel, whom we always referred to as "Old Mom," died when I was 3 years old so I never had a chance to know her either. I have only one distinct memory of being with her; she was living in the house in Kearney on Avenue D and she had been in the hospital for a spell, but was home again and my parents and I paid her a visit. She was laying in bed and I remember crawling up on the bed and jumping up and down with glee, to my parent's mortification. They said "Don't do that, your Grandma is sick" but Grandma said, "Let her jump, she brings me joy."
The only other clear memory I have of this time relating to her is being in her kitchen, and Uncle Preston was holding me in his arms making me laugh by wiggling his ears. I don't know, and no one can tell me for sure either, but I think this must have been the day of her funeral and everyone had gathered back at her house afterwards.
I've always felt a void by not having known my grandparents. Some of this void was filled by knowing all of my aunts and uncles - who were themselves old enough to be my grandparents and somewhat filled that role - but it just isn't the same. I know my grandparents only through photographs and the many stories shared by others.
It boggles my mind sometimes to realize that my grandparents were born in 1877 and 1889. Not my great great grandparents, not my great grandparents, but my GRANDPARENTS. Wow. I'm only 35. It seems impossible when you do the math, but that's part of what makes this all unique. I'm only one generation removed from pioneer days. That really makes for some heady thinking here in 2008!