My grandmother made her home at Fox How under the shelter of the fells, with her four daughters, the youngest of whom was only eight when their father died.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
A long time ago, when all the grandfathers and grandmothers of today were little boys and little girls or very small babies, or perhaps not even born, Pa and Ma and Mary and Laura and Baby Carrie left their little house in the Big Woods of Wisconsin.
After clearing the land, planting the orchard, building the house and barn, and surviving the Great Depression, our father died suddenly one winter night when we were small, leaving us to learn about loss before we even knew its name.
My mom was a rescue veterinarian, and I grew up helping her nurse injured animals back to health. Any deer hit by a car, fox caught in a trap, whatever it was that got hurt, everyone brought them to my mom.
My grandmother was a very tough woman. She buried three husbands and two of them were just napping.
My grandparents, like many genocide survivors, took most of their stories to their graves.
And my little sister died when she was 16.
My mother's sister was killed in a trolley car accident, so I was raised as one of eight with my sister and six male cousins.
Our house was destroyed in 1943, and I moved the family to a cottage I owned before the war in the Bavarian Alps. This cottage was meant for a very few people, and at the end of the war, there were about 13 people in this very small house.
My husband and I had to raise five of my younger brothers and sisters. They lived with us. We sent them to school.
My mother had lots and lots of children who didn't survive.