This memory piece was written about 15-20 years ago and I found it undated in long-hand on yellow lined paper, apparently written specifically for a class, although never used. There are several layers of memory here--mine, my neighbor's, his deceased siblings, and his father's. We all hear family stories--write them down! I think the reason I caught this one is it reminded me so much of a similar story my father told about his grandfather's trip by train from Tennessee to resettle in northern Illinois in the early 20th century, with his wife and 6 or 7 children.
Sadly, a few years after Clyde told me this story, he began to show signs of Alzheimer's and then the library really did burn down--everything he'd known was gone and he no longer recognized us or even his family who continued to bring him back to Lakeside for many years. Yes, write down those stories!
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Our Lakeside neighbor, Clyde, doesn’t let “grass grow under his feet”--literally. His side yard is gravel so he doesn’t worry about grass, and he’s so busy, you just know he’s the kind of guy who fits that expression. At 77 he is a tireless worker.
The youngest of nine children, Clyde is now an “orphan” and has outlived all his siblings. Two brothers and a sister died this past year and Clyde pauses before he runs up the ladder long enough to comment on the loneliness of being a survivor.
Surviving is a tradition in Clyde’s family. He claims to not have the family stories that his oldest brother carried in his memory. The older brother was known to pump the aunts, uncles and cousins for family stories, and he enjoyed telling them at family get togethers, but no one recorded them. Clyde says sadly, “When he died it was like burning a library. I just don’t have those stories.”
Then as if to call himself a liar, he launches into a family story. The recent deaths of his siblings reminds him that back about 75 years ago three of his father’s friends were killed in a mining accident in southeast Ohio. His father packed up his family--wife and nine children--and rode the train to Cleveland to begin a new life away from the mines.
His father knew one person in Cleveland and recalled only that he worked for the railroad. The family camped out in the Cleveland train station for three days waiting for his father’s friend, who only came to the station every few days.
The children slept on the benches and swept floors and ran errands to earn a little money. When his father's friend arrived and learned of their plight he helped the family resettle. Within a few days Clyde’s father had a job, a rented house and within a year he bought a home.
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That's all I wrote--don't know if I had planned an ending, but I'll just add that I see Clyde's great-grandchildren at his summer cottage each summer and have watched them growing up, after seeing their parents when they were just little kids. The photo is from 1994 when we were at Lakeside in the fall raking leaves.
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