She was my
father’s mother; her name was Sarah Gustava Tillotson, though her father was
Ole Trondson Tillorson. Had the name been changed in Ellis Island? Or was Ellis
Island even operating at that time? Because the family came in the first or
second wave of immigrants: her father’s first child, Henry, was born in New
York in July of 1846.
I barely
knew her, though I distinctly recall having to eat beet greens that had been
boiled from about the beginning of time. And I remember that her hair was
falling out, probably due to the chemotherapy she was taking at the time; she
died of cancer when I was ten.
“She was a
fine woman,” said my mother, with real respect in her voice. And the feeling
must have been mutual; apparently my grandmother had remarked, when told that
my mother couldn’t come to a family gathering, “but how will we have any fun?”
So I don’t
know the woman, and I may not even know the stories. Because I seem to recall
that she heard that the ladies in church were scoffing that she was too poor to
buy a car. So what did she do? Went out, bought a Cadillac, drove it to church,
and then drove it back. Then she parked it on cinder blocks in the front yard.
True?
Cousin Ruthie says no, and she should know, being slightly older than I, and
having known the woman.
OK—so what
about the story about my father, who wanted a quarter to go to the movies? “Move
the woodpile to the side of the house,” said his mother, “then come back for
instructions.” Jack appeared half an hour later.
“Now move
it back,” she said.
She was a
religious woman, this lady who endowed a wing in a Chicago children’s hospital,
and who bestowed an annuity from the Moody Bible Institute
on my mother. The annuity was for twenty-five dollars or so; notwithstanding,
the institute was in the habit of sending a man out every year to make sure
that Franny was still living. Invariably, he arrived in January; just as
invariably, he got stuck in a snow bank on the long road to my mother’s house.
“Would you
like to join me in prayer,” the man would ask.
“No,” my
mother would reply. But pleasantly….
“She was
tall, and ramrod straight, and pretty unapproachable,” said John, my brother,
who remembers her, apparently, just as vaguely.
What is it
about old pictures? Did she believe, when this was taken, that this would be
one of the few photos of her that would be taken, photography being—relatively—in
its infancy? She looks out at us, as if challenging us. Have we measured up?
Are we slackers? Giving in to vice?
I do my
best, or so I think. I have my collection of people to whom I give money—one of
whom invariably asks for more. I try not to cheat or steal or bear false
witness.
Why do I
think that’s not enough?
