He Called her Jeanie

(The writer's grandfather. And loving Dad to Jeanie.)

It was 1931.

Babies were not supposed to be born to single mothers.

When a young woman found herself “in that condition”, she was sent away.  

Far away.

Not spoken about.

And there was shame. A lot of shame.

So what about the child? Innocent…having no part in the means of her existence.  

God, in His mercy, had a plan. Long before she ever was, He formed a family of broken pieces. An abandoned child, a couple unable to conceive.

He was a furniture delivery man. She was a homemaker. They had a garden.

She became theirs when she was only three days old. She would be their only child.

Her mother cared for her and taught her things a young lady should know.  Cooking, cleaning, sewing, ironing.

But she was daddy’s girl.

He was the one she went to for everything. He adored her and said yes when mother said no.

He called her Jeanie. His endearing love for her was evident with the adding of “ie’ to her middle name. He always called her Jeanie. Mother only used her first name.

When she wanted a bicycle and mother said no…he bought her one. When she wanted to play the clarinet, mother said no…but he made sure she was in the band. When mother wanted to sew her prom dress, daddy gave her cash for a store bought one…made of the finest satin.

Things that we speak freely about these days were off limit topics back then. Adoption was such a topic. They never told her she was adopted. She learned of it when a family member blurted it out one day.

The icy sting of reality never left. She loved her parents. But now she was curious…and hurting.

She didn’t ask questions. They never knew that she knew. The longing to know her truth grew over the years.

Greater than her longing however, was her love for her father. It would hurt him deeply if he knew she was searching for information about her biological parents. Records from that era were sealed. She was left wondering.

Her daddy lived a long life and closed his eyes for the last time when he was well into his eighties. Jeanie felt lost. Again. Orphaned for a second time.

She faithfully cared for her mother until her passing. But it was him that she missed. He was the one that made her feel loved. And whole.

A law was passed some years later that opened adoption records. She learned who her birth parents were. Teenagers. An unlikely pairing.

Her teen mother later married, having more children. She passed before they could meet. And though contact was made with extended family members, there was no interest in getting acquainted.

Her birth father’s life tragically ended at a young age. No contact was made with his family.

I find it remarkable in this life that some people, who are supposed to love you, can choose to ignore your existence.

While others can choose to love you and leave you yearning for them until your very own last day.

Love bears all things…believes all things…hopes all things…endures all things.

Love never fails.

Love called her Jeanie.

The Sugar Keep

My sister got the sugar keep. Each time I saw it in her kitchen, I wanted it. I was young and unmarried when such things were divvied up after my grandparents’ passing. I didn’t have much regard for sentimental things while I was chasing what I thought was my dream. After all, who needs an old glass jar? Yet each time I would visit my sister’s kitchen, there it was.  Its intricate edged glass, its tapered shape, its worn metal flip top lid…the old sugar resting at the bottom.

I wanted it – and she wouldn’t give it. It did fit in with her kitchen - at home with her antique spice tins and miniature tea cups. Why did I yearn for it so?

And then on a special visit last year, the sugar keep became mine in an instant. No begging, no teasing about it “going missing” after my visit….just a cheerful “sure you can have it”! Yeeesssssss, the coveted memento would finally be mine!   

I insured it was packed well. Layers of bubble wrap cradled it on the journey to my home 1200 miles away. When the box arrived – I hurriedly examined the contents. All was well.

“Where would I display it?”,  I pondered. The perfect spot beckoned from a small shelf in the living room. I stood back admiring the arrangement.  A gentle peace washed over my heart….and I remembered.

The table in my grandparents’ kitchen. The sugar keep, the salt and pepper shakers, the butter dish hiding creamy, soft butter beneath its metal cover - all grouped neatly atop the vinyl tablecloth. 

I thought of my Grandmother’s hands as she worked in that tiny kitchen.  She prepared scratch meals for my Grandpa every day. He would come home for lunch to that waiting table. Real meat, real potatoes, real vegetables from their garden.  

He would take his place at the head of that waiting table, my grandmother seated beside him, and they prayed. My grandfather was not a man of many words. And she didn’t expect many. They sat and they ate. Together.  I don’t remember much conversation. Maybe a “good dinner, dear” followed by a quiet “thank you”. It wasn’t necessary. They had commitment…covenant. They were walking through life together – every day. They worked together, prayed together, stayed together. That’s why the sugar keep from their table stirred so much within me. It wasn’t what they said….it was how they lived. That tapered glass jar - a witness now sitting quietly on my shelf. A reminder of lives well lived and a legacy that lives on.