1918: A Pandemic Legacy
Grandma Kate has been on my mind since March. In 1918, when she was 26, she lost both her husband and her oldest son to the Spanish flu. Her remaining son — my father — was four years old. She told me her family urged her to put him in an orphanage — that was SOP back in the day — but she refused. She took in laundry, an approved career path for Irish women, and kept on keeping on…
Not long ago, my millennial niece and I were chatting. For whatever reason, the topic got around to Grandma Kate, and my niece, who was born after Grandma Kate died, said, “I heard she was a terror.” I said, “My mother waged a negative PR campaign against her (my mother’s mother-in-law) for as long as I can remember. When I was an adult, I saw things differently.”
Of course, growing up, the underlying family dynamic of painting her as a villain wasn’t apparent to me. I knew my mother hated the stemware my grandmother bought her for a wedding present. I don’t remember the name of the stemware, but apparently, it’s pretty valuable, and I have what’s left of it. I knew my mother didn’t like the way my grandmother dressed or cooked — or probably breathed.
Now at this point, I need to tell you that I had two fabulous grandmothers, wonderful, tough, independent women with minimum education but insatiable curiosity and energy. My mother’s mother was amazing, and I spent a lot of time with her. She took me to the Highway theater in Chicago to see Gone with the Wind when I was about four, probably a mile’s walk from her house. I played in her yard, slept over at her house a lot, and to this day, I have never tasted creamed spinach like hers. She baked, she gardened, she crocheted while watching Perry Mason, Liberace, and WWF. I have the rocker in my living room, where she sat to indulge those habits. She and my grandfather played pinochle with their friends, and I sipped their beer while learning the wonders of mixing pretzels with potato chips. One of her most significant contributions to my life was shortening all my skirts when hemlines started to go up, pretty much in defiance of my mother. She understood cool.
Whatever was going on in my immediate family, I saw no reason to pit one grandmother against another. That was my mother’s game. She told me Grandma Kate had remarried after her first husband died and then divorced that guy (gasp); she told me my grandmother smoked! and she told me about the stemware. Often.
As I grew up, I started to explore my father’s side of the family, and in particular, my grandmother’s life. She was born Kitty Duffy in Chicago, and I knew the names of her siblings Irene, Tom, and Will. Whether there were others, I don’t know. Her mother was, ‘Grandma Duffy.’ Everyone loved her, but she died before I was born.
Grandma Duffy was born in England — in Manchester, as far as I can learn — after her family left Ireland during the Great Famine. Her sons, particularly Tom, had children who produced humongous families — 10 or 12 kids, something like that. (I have a brother — that’s all.) It would have been fun to get to know them, but that didn’t happen because we didn’t see the Duffys. When my father’s cousin Bob, head of the electricians’ union in Chicago, died, I did meet one cousin, Peggy, who was about my age. She was living in Utah. We hit it off immediately, but we never reconnected.
When I was born, Grandma Kate was married to ‘Bud,’ the man I counted as a grandfather. He worked for the railroad, and from what I understand, he was the one who got my father his job on the railroad, a job he held for 47 years (another Irish career path).
When I was a little kid, she and Bud lived in Englewood on Minerva Avenue, across 67th street from Oakwood cemetery, one of the oldest (1853) cemeteries in Chicago. Oakwood has many civil war graves, including trenches where Confederate soldiers who died primarily of smallpox are buried. There are many interesting people buried there — lots of mobsters, sports heroes, and African American gospel singers rest in Oakwood. It was a strange mishmash — and fascinating. As a little kid, I loved traipsing through the cemetery, looking at the old tombstones. I’ve replicated but never topped that experience either at Graceland Cemetery in Chicago or Westminster Abbey.
My grandmother’s apartment planted a seed about the type of place where I wanted to live — and I have to say that her apartment on Minerva inspired the home I’ve lived in for the past 33 years. Both buildings are approximately the same vintage with large rooms that hold large furniture. Even though she moved to Chatham and closer to the Lake when I was about 6 or 7, I can still see that apartment.
Like me, my grandmother always had a job, unusual for women of her generation. When I was a kid, her job was the switchboard operator at the University of Chicago’s International House. She would tell me stories about people she met and give me cool stuff from other countries — dolls (still have them), stamps, and some interesting food. Occasionally there would be a performance that she thought I would like. She didn’t drive — neither of my grandmothers did — so she took the bus to the Hyde Park campus. Her world was exotic, global, compared to my southwest side Irish enclave.
What did she look like? My grandmother was a large, prepossessing woman with thick dark hair. She loved ‘statement’ jewelry, antiques that now would be tagged ‘chinoiserie chic,’ hats, and shoes.
As I grew up, I realized I needed to forge my own relationships with my family members. First on that list was Grandma Kate. From her, I inherited my love for New Orleans. She and Bud used to go there and stay at the Monteleone. They convinced my parents to take our family there in August 1957. (Once, as an adult, I went to New Orleans in August for a trade show; NOLA in August is no one’s idea of a vacation destination.) We took the City of New Orleans since, because my father worked for the railroad, we could ride free. After a week in New Orleans, we boarded a train to Biloxi MS for more blistering heat. Biloxi, as I understand it, is a very different city now than it was in 1957. My parents, particularly my mother, hated New Orleans, and neither of them ever returned. I, on the other hand, have been back many times. I love the city.
I have a tangible reminder of my grandmother’s affinity for New Orleans: the long gloves she bought at Godchaux for me to wear to my senior prom. Yes, I still have them. Another New Orleans legacy from my grandmother is spicy food. She introduced me to it, taught me how paprika could liven things up. And then she introduced me to crab meat. Mind you, I came from a neighborhood where Chun King Chow Mein and pizza were considered ethnic foods.
And speaking of food, whenever Grandma Kate and Bud wanted to celebrate, we went to Phil Schmidt’s in Hammond, Indiana. Two things I remember: (1) Bud would always order frog legs. I was fascinated and repulsed simultaneously. I never accepted his offer of a taste. (2) Since it was usually some occasion that brought us to Hammond, a small cake always appeared at the end of the meal, decorated by tiny cordial glasses. I always took an ‘adult’ glass while my brother had the kiddie cordial. As much as I loved my other grandmother’s creamed spinach and walnut cake, I realized there was a whole other world of food waiting for me to explore.
I left home for college when I was seventeen and never really came back except for the two summers I worked the phones at the Sears Service Center on 35th and Iron. Then I moved on. Shortly after I left home, Bud died. From my vantage point today, he was young — late 60s, maybe. My grandmother, understandably, was bereft. They had a lot of fun and not much money. Bud drove a Willys, the only one of my grandparents with a driver’s license, and it was their magic chariot.
This next part is fuzzy, primarily because I wasn’t around. When Bud died, my grandmother was living in Chicago’s Jeffrey Manor neighborhood, and my father decided she should live closer to the house where I grew up. On her first husband’s side, she had a cousin, Philomena, who lived next door to her new home.
At some point around this time, someone noticed that the sole of my grandmother’s foot was bloody. It turned out that she had Type 2 diabetes. (Did I mention that my grandmother was a very large woman?) I don’t know how they treated Type 2 diabetes in the 60s or how much they knew about it. If they had told my grandmother to change some of her behaviors, maybe that would have made a difference, but I can’t imagine her being compliant. Eventually, she had a series of amputations and was confined to a wheelchair.
After each amputation, she had to go to a facility that was part rehab, part nursing home. She hated being with ‘the seniles.’ She hated the bland institutional food and would make trips to the kitchen to talk to the staff about using spices. She kept the nurses’ cigarettes for them so the ‘seniles’ wouldn’t steal them. She started newsletters in these facilities. She met men. After she made progress, she would return to her apartment where she would phone different charities and get in on activities offered for shut-ins. I remember when she told me she called a Jewish group so they would take her to Fiddler.
By now, we were in regular contact. She questioned me about my love life, asking, “Do you think you’re too fussy?” My other grandmother had died about a year after Bud. Her husband, my grandfather, lived in a flat above my parents’ house. Predictably, battle lines were drawn between my parents and their respective living parents. I stayed as far from the fray as I could.
I was married with one child and pregnant with another when I decided to host a birthday party at my house. The party would celebrate my grandfather (January birthday), my father (also January), and my son (yep, January, too) as well as my then-husband (February) and Grandma Kate, whose 84th birthday was also in February. By this time, my grandmother needed transportation in a specialized van. A young couple about my age provided that service, and I invited them to the party as well. (I remember that they were vegetarians.) It was 1976, the bicentennial year, and the year of the mood ring. I gave my grandmother a mood ring for her birthday. I made some blender drinks that she really liked. It was a good party — and at least at my house, people were well behaved. My grandmother was scheduled for an additional amputation on one of her legs, but that didn’t dampen her spirits. Everyone left — and four days later, she had a stroke and died. The mood ring was black.
I think of her every time I see an obnoxious, ageist commercial. I recall an incident while she was in one of her rehabs. An orderly called her’ mother.’ She fiercely told him, “I am the mother to one man. Absolutely no one else calls me ‘mother.’”
I have thought of her often during the pandemic quarantine — when I complain about not being able to go to the theater or meet friends for dinner at one of my favorite restaurants or travel. I can’t begin to imagine what it would be like to be widowed at 26 with a four-year-old son to raise, without an education that would allow me to have a career. And with that thought, I put on a statement necklace or two and order spicy crab sushi.
