Chapter 1: Early Remembrances
I believe… that our memories are part of one great memory, the memory of Nature herself. ~ William Butler Yeats
My mother loved me when I was little. I know this from her recollections of my life before I formed memories of my own and from my earliest memories. In the way she told me stories of the time I was a baby and a toddler, I felt secure in her love. I also felt unique because Mem stressed what a different child I was, even before I became self-aware.
I was born the day after my parents’ fourth wedding anniversary. Mem once told me it was the only anniversary she ever celebrated. But from what else she has told me, it sounds more like a family crisis because a family member was leaving the world as I was entering. My father’s stepdad died two days before I was born. He had been in a car and buggy accident the day before he died. My grandmother believed the accident was the cause of his sudden death.
My father — Datt — was torn between being there for his bereaved mother and being there for his wife about to give birth. I know he was at Mem’s bedside when she arrived at the Amish midwife’s home because the midwife had him administer the ether to Mem. Apparently he gave her too much too soon. She turned her head and ether got in one of her eyes. When she awoke, she wanted to know why her eye felt so strange, and the midwife told her what happened. The way Mem told the story, Datt was the one to blame. But I wonder why the midwife had my father administer the ether instead of doing it herself?
After my birth, the Amish midwife, Mrs. Yoder, put me in a tiny basket, all wrapped in blankets, next to Mem’s bed. Mem said I was a beautiful baby, with the thickest head full of dark hair she’d ever seen on a newborn.
Some of Mem’s recollections about my childhood came to me in the form of letters when I was a young mother myself. She once wrote:
The day that I was to come home was the funeral of dad’s stepfather and [he] didn’t come to pick me up until late and [I] remember how impatient Mrs. Yoder got. She said to me, “Must be he thinks more of his mother than he does of you.” Which pretty well upset me for awhile.
Mem returned home to her other two children, three-year-old Joey and one-year-old Lizzie, with a heavy heart. As was typical for Amish mothers in my community, Mem cared for me pretty exclusively for the first two weeks while a young woman in the community came and took care of Joey and Lizzie and the household chores, so that Mem could get some rest.
Mem wrote about my babyhood:
You were a contented baby. I could sit you on the high chair, tied on, so you couldn’t fall off, put the tray down and give you things to play with and you’d play for a long time. Sometimes by the east window and sometimes by me wherever I was working.
I can just imagine this. Even in the years I can recall, I often stared out the window when I was daydreaming, with Mem bustling about the kitchen. I loved looking out over the field to the east where the sky met the tree line. It was the only horizon visible from any window in our home because we were otherwise surrounded by woods.
Mem breast-fed all of us children, even though it was common for mothers to bottle-feed their babies at that time. Mem once wrote this to me when my older son was a few weeks old:
Well, how is that little baby doing by now? Are you nursing him? What is more enjoyable? I can just feel the contentment sitting on my rocker and nursing my little ones. And wondering about their future. Now that is all over but I can still dream about it.
Mem stopped nursing me abruptly when I was seven months old because she became deathly ill with yellow jaundice. Believing that the illness could be passed on to me, she stopped nursing. I put her in a fix when I refused to take a bottle. Her mother-in-law came in and took control of the situation. “Humph! Never heard of a baby that wouldn’t take a bottle!” she said. Mem told her she was welcome to try. And try she did. She stuck the bottle in my mouth and I spit out that nipple. She stuck it in. I spit it out. She had my other grandmother hold me down, and she tried forcing me to take it. I still spit it out. Mem said it was really hard for Grandmother to admit that she had to give up. Mem always told this story with a little satisfaction as if I had defied my grandmother in a way she herself didn’t dare to.
The only way to give me nourishment was milk and water from a cup or baby cereal mixed with warm milk and other soft foods from a bowl. As Mem’s health improved, she coaxed me to eat mashed potatoes, eggs, applesauce, and whatever else I’d eat. I showed signs of what today would be considered “failure to thrive.” In Mem’s words:
I remember I was worried because you wouldn’t stand on your legs for so long. So I’d rub them every time I’d change your diaper. Momme, once when she was here saved the potato water, when we cooked potatoes for dinner. She then rubbed that on your legs and I guess I did too after that sometimes but I had more faith in just rubbing them, for therapy.
At the age most children get up and walk, I was learning to crawl, but in my own way. I sat on my bottom and scooted around, using my legs to propel me — first one leg, then the other. I became very fast at it. Mem described how hard it was to keep my diapers clean as they mopped her pine floorboards. In those days, she was still using a washboard to wash clothes. She boiled the diapers with lye soap in the water, added cold water, and scrubbed those stained diapers on the washboard until her knuckles bled.
Mem’s fourth child, Sylvia, was born when I was eighteen months old. Mem not only had two in diapers, but she also had two babes-in-arms. Whenever Mem entered the place where women were gathering for a church service with a child on each arm, someone would come to help her. When they reached for me, I screamed and cried until I was back in Mem’s arms. They soon learned to take Sylvia instead.
I began talking in sentences by the time I was two years old, but still I didn’t walk. I gained the nickname “chatter box.” One of the mothers in church related the story many years later of something that happened before I started walking. It took place during Communion service, which was held twice a year. Breaking and sharing the bread for communion was a somber ritual in which all those who have been baptized eat bread and drink wine. Children were excluded from partaking in communion bread because they were not yet baptized as members of the church. On this particular Sunday, Mem was holding me in her arms, awaiting her turn to eat the bread the Bishop would hand to her. At that point in the service, it is so quiet that people can hear themselves breathe. When Mem received her bread, I said out loud in the middle of the solemn service, “Ich will oh brot — I want some bread too!”
I often try to imagine how Mem dealt with this situation. For her to give me even a little bit of bread was considered sacrilegious. To leave with me was also inappropriate. Perhaps she found a way to distract me so I wouldn’t persist in embarrassing her further.
Sylvia took her first steps only months after I did, when she was eleven months old, just three months after I’d turned two years old. Mem suddenly had her arms free — at least for a spell. When Sylvia was fifteen months old, and I was almost three, Sadie was born.
To be continued…
8 thoughts on “Part 2, If You Promise You Won’t Tell: A Memoir”
So interesting–don’t make us wait too long!
I’m glad you enjoy it, Carol. I will publish a new piece of my story each Sunday around noon.
Saloma, I too crawled that way. I remember distinctly that my brother who was 3 years older than I tried to teach me to get on my belly but my way was much faster. And I imagine that I liked being upright and able to see more around me.
I have very early memories and I suspect that we all do. In my case we moved often enough that we could pretty well pinpoint where we were living at the time and thus, how old I was.
You say that that you know your mother loved you when you were little. Brought up the way I was, I don’t remember ever being told I was loved – the dialect is remiss in that way!- but I do remember one occasion that I recognized as being loving.
We were in church (remember those backless benches?) and I couldn’t sit on Mom’s lap as I was used to because there was no room- her youngest child was born in August that year and I turned two in November, so it was sometime before then. Anyway, sitting beside her, I started swinging my legs. Mom laid her arm gently across my lap and I realized, Oh, I’m not supposed to swing my legs, and stopped. Even now, I can feel the love she sent me.
Elva, that is amazing that you also crawled that way. To this day I’m not a good swimmer… coordinating my arms and legs like that takes a lot of concentration, while my guess is that it is second nature for those who crawled on all fours as babies/toddlers.
Wow, yes you do have early memories. Some of my earliest ones are enhanced by Mem telling me stories of that time, yet some of those early memories are clearly my own.
Mem never told me she loved me. I just felt loved as a young child. It was only after I started showing a will of my own that the trouble started between the two of us.
I sure do remember those backless benches. It’s a wonder young children don’t fall off them, isn’t it?
Thank you for writing about your early memories. I love discovering our parallel childhood experiences. I’m glad you felt love from your mem, even though she wasn’t free to tell you of her feelings.
I am so enjoying this!!!!! Regardless of how difficult your relationship became it’s nice that you have these stories from your Mem. You and your mother obviously had a special bond when you were a baby. Its sad that things changed as you grew up. You had a different destiny than she did I think. I’m so glad you were brave enough to follow your dreams. So many of us have benefited from it. I have no baby stories to hold on to from my mom. The doctors didn’t even know my mom was carrying twins until my brother and I entered this world.Having two small children already at home I’m sure it was a bit overwhelming and perhaps that time was all a blur to her. When my mom was dying and I was caring for her the only thing she told me was that when we children came down with something I always got it the worse. Sadly that’s all I have. Thank you again Saloma for sharing this with us. I hope some day I can hold in my hands a book form of your story. I am looking forward to the next chapter!! I also like listening to the pod cast of this, really brings your story to life.
Pamela, I am forever grateful for the bond Men formed with me when I was little. Though it was painful when it was broken, I still benefit from the bond. And you’re right, I value these stories immensely.
Oh my, that is very little to go on to know what your childhood was like before you formed memories of your own. That must be hard. Do you have any aunts you are close to? Would they be willing to share their memories of you when you were little? How far back do your own memories go?
Thank you for letting me know you enjoy the chapters and podcast. I’m getting closer to making a decision about publishing… whether I do it on my own or approach publishers. I realize I do want to have these stories in book form.
Thanks, Pamela, for your support and encouragement.
Loved your books! I hope you are having a happy and loved filled life. Have you considered writing about you and your Amish family and keeping in touch with them through the years?
Hello Sharon. So glad you enjoyed my books.
Yes, I have a draft of a manuscript about my (writing) relationship with Mem after I left the second time, married, and had children. I will probably write that book later.
I cannot include my communications with my siblings (at least not the written ones) without their permission. This permission would not be granted, so I’m needing to stay with my parents and my deceased sister.
Thank you for your comments.