This being Memorial Day 2020, I started thinking how being a soldier must change a person. Even when you get close to someone you only see a snapshot of their accumulated person. Let me tell you about my granddad, Joseph Salkeld. He was a soldier in WWI. He was born in 1885 in Northern England, and by the time he was drafted into the war, he was a loving husband and proud father of two sons, Harry and Tommy, and a daughter, Mollie, my mom. Being a coal miner by trade, he qualified for immigration to Canada and then to the USA after the war. I was born in 1944. I knew him only as my granda, and not as this dashing British soldier. (top left in the picture below)

He did not have a lot to say about the war. I heard him talk of mustard gas, trenches, and his mates. As I grew up, he hated to talk on the phone. He must have been in some kind of communications duty. People died if you got the message wrong and the stress of that could have carried throughout his life. I think war training changed him from working hard and taking care of the needs of his family, to a soldier compartmentalizing his emotions.

He loved chocolate. I remember a story about him securing a chocolate bar just after the war ended and before he got to go home. He wanted to send the chocolate bar to my grandmother Mary. (Talk about being warriors, moms and parents in the homeland were strong and fierce people.) Back to the chocolate, my granda only wanted a taste – but after long deprivation of treats, the chocolate was gone. He sealed his lips and procured another, sealed it up, and posted it immediately.

When I was a kid, Hershey Bars and comic books were showered on me.

Find my granda at the bottom, left.  He was ginger haired and had sparkling blue eyes.  Not quite six feet, he had a wound in one of his legs and used a cane for as long as I remember.  

As a granda, he was my superhero.  He loved me and my friends.  He built a tepee, a full swing set, a two-part cage for my white rabbit, and swung the rope for Eunie and I when we needed a turner for jump rope.  We grew peanuts as an experiment. He helped me learn to read by buying me dozens of comic books at a time, He supplied me with pocket money for the Illinois State Fair.  He held me on his lap, wrapped in a blanket, when I had the measles and the field in the big lot behind our house was on fire. My mom had gone to town for medicine. He waited to see if he needed to evacuate me to safety.  Some people is the Village of Jerome might have considered him a crabby old guy, but he was anything but.  Just a glimpse into one soldier.

                            +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I spent some time in the Flicker family a while back and got to know another remarkable grandpa, John Flicker.  A WWII vet. and carpenter and jack-of-all-trades.  When he was able to show his depth, he was funny and caring, helpful and warm. 

I don’t know his experiences in the Navy,   but I am sure combat changed his life in many ways.  He helped rebuild my mom’s house even before I knew him – at his best, finishing tasks.  I know he loved his grand-kids and is an unsung hero.  I call it a privilege to have known him.   

If I don’t write this , you will never know it. XO gramg

During my latest holiday trip to Illinois I found a really great pair of house slippers.  They have sturdy bottoms, warm fuzzy insides, and cradle my feet with a snug, but not tight fit.  I have other night footwear, but some are too big and sloppy, or not structured enough, or not very warm.  My feet get cold easily and when that happens my whole body is cold and I am not comfortable.  These pink and polkadot cuties are just about perfection.

As I enjoyed my slippers, I started thinking about why we wear slippers and what special function they are in our world.  Mine are for pleasure, warmth, and being casual at home.  But for my mom, Mollie, and maybe her mom, and way back moms, what was their function as they went about living their lives?  And this question may be related to the cultures in which we find ourselves.

I didn’t really think about this stuff until now.  Many women, and probably men, are so busy doing what needs to be done, putting the necessities of life together for themselves and their loved ones, they have little time or energy to gather bits and pieces of memories and analyze how their current world is influenced.  This is how I remember my mom and her slippers.

My mom was born in Newcastle on Tyne, England in 1909 to great parents.  My Grandad, Joseph Salkeld,  was a coal miner and soldier in WWI.  My Grandmother, Mary Ellen Jane Salkeld, was a strong woman who held my Grandad’s heart and world together.  She loved animals, family, and life – and must have been an adventurer!  She was extremely sick on the ship voyage to the USA after the war ended.  Maybe more about this tale another time.

Back to slippers.  My earliest memories are of living with my granddad and parents in the Village of Jerome, a suburb of Springfield, Illinois.  The purpose of my mom’s slippers were similar to my own, but more crucial economically and functionally.  She needed them to keep her feet off a cold floor and to save her “good” shoes.  I can remember her saying things like, “I need to fetch me “Sally Trotters” before I catch me bus.”  These “Sally Trotters” were her good, go out in the world shoes.  She loved them.  Even when they became old, they were of use.  They became her slippers.

I researched a little for this piece.  I did not now about this brand of shoes. There is a web-site with quite a bit of information about a company that started in 1935 and continues today.  I found the web-site and I really liked these blue-swede flats.

Trotters website

Back to slippers.  For me, it is amazing to find that CULTURE and FOOTWEAR go hand in hand.  There are so many reasons why we take off our shoes and put on other shoes or go barefoot.  Some people take off their shoes upon entering a home as a sign of respect. Many kinds of respect – for the amount of work it takes to keep a place handsome and livable.  Or, just respect for someone else’s customs and values.  Another reason for changing shoes to slippers could be very functional, keeping feet warm and comfortable from the cold or dirty surfaces below.  Going to barefoot is another option.  Maybe it is the feeling of freeing your toes, or being an earth person and connecting to your surface.

Whatever the reason to have shoes and slippers, it has caused me pleasure to think about it and my family history.  I love my pink polkadot house slippers that keep me warm and snug.  And, I like to think happy thoughts about my mom and family women.   xoxo g

OK, listen up my sweet grandkids, and I’ll tell you a tale about the summer after 3rd grade.

My Mom and Granda were out of the house for some reason and I had an hour or two to waste.  There was always something to do, but I decided to play in my Granda’s bedroom. You will notice I use the word Granda instead of Grandad or Grandfather, and that is because my Mom’s family came to the USA from England after WW1, and that is the British version of what I called my Mom’s dad.

His bedroom was not a big room, but it had lots of things to look at and explore.  Some of those wonders were not age appropriate, and none of my business to explore.  But, my Granda loved me so very much and if I really wanted something (like comic books or a BB gun), he would consider the request.  So, in my younger version brain, I didn’t even consider that I was about to get in big trouble.

Suddenly, I really had a brilliant idea!  Of the many treasures in his room, there was a magnificent pinto pony rug. As I can recall, it was lighter colored with caramel colored spots.  I knew he enjoyed having that rug next to his bed.  My idea — I would make it even more beautiful.  I would give the spots a haircut! And so I got some scissors and began trimming the hairs off one of the spots.  I worked carefully for maybe half an hour, and then stood back to examine my handy work.

I began to have doubts.  This was not what I had expected.

My Mom came home and tracked me down.  At the door, she wanted to know what I was doing. I mumbled something about making the rug more beautiful.  She told me I was going to have to tell my Granda that I was extremely sorry.  The full force of what I had done came crashing down on me.

I WASN’T MAKING IT BEAUTIFUL.  I WOULD MAKE MY GRANDA SAD AND ANGRY.  HE WOULD BE SO UNHAPPY WITH ME (AS WELL AS MY MOM).  I HAD RUINED A VALUED AND HANDSOME RUG.  I WAS NOT BRILLIANT.  I WAS ASHAMED AND I WOULD HAVE TO SAY I WAS SORRY.

The truth was (and still is), that it is very difficult for me to say I am sorry.  It makes me feel stupid and so very little.  Even when SORRY is what my whole body feels – from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.  It makes me cry just thinking about it.

This is the remarkable part of this tale.  My Granda came home; he did not show anger or say anything about the pinto pony rug. He waited for me to face up.  He was normal and rested in his room.  It took me several hours of agony and thinking and being in my room, before I could gather the courage to come to the door of his bedroom.  Then, very quickly, I squeaked I was sorry.

His words to me were simple, “Don’t do it again. Think first.”

My first point:  BEING sorry is very important when you have made a bad choice.  And, SAYING sorry is the next step, even though it may be hard.

My second point:  Being creative and imaginative is great, but being impulsive and not considering others can hurt you and those you love.  Think things through before you do.

My third point:  Be grateful for the people in your life who love you, know your mistakes are not who you are, and tell it to you straight when you’ve made a bad choice.

My sweet kiddoes, I love you oodles…   xoxo gramg

I have been thinking about what my grandchildren might want to know about me.  They live hours away from me and we don’t spend many days of the year face to face.  (I do enjoy the days that we are able to touch, hug, and talk in the same space!!)

I want to talk about my first experiences with COMPASSION.  When I was a little girl, living in the Village of Jerome in the suburbs of Springfield, Illinois, my mom shared her love by helping neighbors in small ways.  She was a stay-at-home mom and took care of me, my dad, and my grandad.  Sometimes neighbors needed a little help with household chores, like ironing special linens or gardening tips, or just a person to converse with.  Being a gentle and kind soul, she would take me with her when she would visit or drop off her help tasks.

A hop, skip, and a jump across the road lived a family that had only one son, a remarkable person whose name was (let’s say) Michael, but we always called him Buddy.  He was a teenager when I was 4 or 5.  He had been stricken with cerebral palsy and was confined to a wheel chair.  He was unable to walk, his speech was slow and halting, but he was able to use a typewriter to do his work of stock market trading.  His mind was sharp, he loved to read, and those skills contributed to his life as he became an adult.

The best part of this story:  Buddy really became my buddy.  While his mom and my mom would be busy being friends, his wheel chair would be placed in the back yard which was the most special back yard I can remember.  It was filled with clover.  We would have the most wonderful conversations.  He was a teenager, and he talked to me as if I could understand anything.  He was a terrific listener; who knows what I told him?  Our conversations took some effort, his speech was slow and affected by his handicap, and I had to learn to be a good listener.  I had to get out of my little self and understand his efforts to communicate with me.  I learned to value his whole person, see past his disability, and value myself in the process.  I think that is COMPASSION.

And, as your gramg and a teacher these many years, this was a good thing to learn. I want you to learn it too!!   xo gg