Just Wanted To Tell You A Bit About Annie…

A gold band on her ring finger. Engraved orange blossoms nearly unrecognizable. Barely a hint of a design. I had known Annie to wear it always. Her mother’s wedding ring. The band represented something that never was to happen for her. Engaged the once. Annie’s father broke it off so she would care for him after her mother’s death. A woman’s role. A woman’s job…

The Civil War had ended not long before Annie’s birth. In fact, just a matter of a years. How was that possible? A curious vantage point as I reflect on the span of my own life. I knew Annie for the last 16 or 17 years of her life and the beginning of mine.

A low bun neatly done, daily. Silver hair pins strategically placed. Hidden from plain sight. The exception was summer. The only time other than waking Annie early did I witness her waist length hair. White with a warm golden hue and the occasional gray strand.

Copper rain barrels just outside the front of her house collected the many drops for summer shampooing. Washing and drying her long tresses aided by the warmth of the sun.  A rural privacy afforded her as our road was quiet then. Dirt not paved. Farmland by the many acres was dotted by only a few homes.

Dresses and hose. Every day. No pants. Ever. Printed muslin dresses. A cotton full apron worn always. Delicate flowers in pinks and blues. Bloomers decorated the clothesline as she washed her clothing by hand. Black chunky healed sturdy tie shoes. Supportive and proper.

Porcelain skin paper thin. Gentle waves of fine wrinkles. Cheeks flushed with the color of good health. Crystal blue eyes not dimmed with age. Powder blue and silver eyeglass frames. Standard issue in the 60’s for older women. She wore them well. A country lady. A woman of petite stature somewhere about 4’8 or 4’9 but mighty she was. Strong and beautiful. Independent too.

As a little girl I would run to her house. Bang on the porch screen door if it was locked and call her name. A honey oak icebox to my left as I stepped across the wooden porch floor. Wainscoting overhead. Annie was always happy to see me and I her. “Pal” she would call me. Her house with natural shaker shingles is ingrained in my mind. I remember every nook and cranny.

A large coal stove to cook on. Warmed her kitchen too. Black cast iron with a silver rim. No central heating.

Chores required. Bringing up coal for one. A small variety of heavy silver metal pails sat at the top of the cellar stairs. The house possessed the scariest basement per this once young child. Dark with an exposed lightbulb kept the basement dimly lit. The coal bin was off to the right at the bottom of the stairs. The left side of the cellar was always in darkness. The floor a soft powdered dirt in a raw umber color. Dusty under my fast-moving feet. A fieldstone foundation. I was convinced her father, and two brothers Walter and Isaac were ghosting around. I would work hastily as I shoveled the coal into the many buckets. Taking the narrow and steep wooden stairs by the two’s determined to return to the safety and the obvious warmth of Annie’s kitchen.

A rocking chair made of walnut. Stained reddish-brown. Smooth armrests from the many years. Hand sewn pads rested on the seat of Annie’s rocker. Soft blankets draped over the back for comfort. I would sit near the stove with a window to my left. A hard oak ladder-back chair. On occasion I would sit in the matching oak chair at the drop leaf clothed kitchen table near her.

I was young and small and would sit with the heels of my white Keds perched on the top rung of the chair. The stories she would tell. The richness of her many tales. The art of storytelling. She would recreate and weave the details so vibrantly yet in a soft easy voice. I loved listening to Annie. I love listening to her stories…

 Stories almost always revolved around the adventures of her family. I had the privilege of meeting only Annie. She kept her family’s memory alive as she relayed the details and the context of their lives to me. My imagination followed her every word. Men in wool suits and felt hats. Women in dresses that skirted the earth. Proper hats and gloves. Edwardian in flavor and style. Photos supported her stories. Sepia images set the place and time.

Annie’s younger and only sister traveled from Rehoboth to Bridgewater, MA by horse and buggy. A young woman going to college to become a teacher. Bridgewater State College. The distance and the journey, astounding. A woman going to college, remarkable. Sadly, the trips took their toll. Hatti developed pneumonia and succumbed to it as a young woman.

Brother Walter a jeweler who travelled the country. Texas for months. Gold jewelry and gems. Etchings and engravings. I remember an occasion when we went upstairs to Annie’s bedroom, and she opened an unassuming wooden box. Rubies, emeralds and sapphires rolled and sparkled. I was young but I knew I was seeing something extraordinary and exquisite. I had never seen anything like it.

Popcorn popped on top of the coal stove. Often. A long handled black iron popper with a wire basket for the kernels. A special treat when I would visit Annie after school while my mom worked at the store. Our family grocery business. I would spend hours in her kitchen. Listening to stories while we played tidily winks.  A small burgundy cardboard box housed the whale bone chips and glass container. Like my sweet memories the box remains intact sans a small tear in a corner of the cover.

Each May 1^st Annie would celebrate the month of my birth. A May basket wrapped in pink crepe paper. The contents would include plain M&M’s, a bouquet of Daffodils cut from her yard and a wishbone to be broken together. We would wrap our pinky fingers around the chicken bone, make a wish and see who possessed the larger piece. Annually she would quietly cross our yard, drop the basket on the front brick steps and ring the doorbell. Running home as soon as she rang the bell. I never caught Annie or maybe I never tried. I delighted in the game. May Day often feels special but has never quite been the same without her.

Amongst my jewelry is a pale tan box which holds a cherished item. Resting easily on soft white cotton lies a wire pin that spells out her name in script. “Annie” in yellow gold.