Tag Archives: orphanage

“I Did Nothing Special. I’m just an Ordinary Person.”

My Grandma Helen passed away last month.   She was nearly 99.  I had the honor of caring for her a few times in her later years, and over the course of those visits she told me about her life.  This is the final part of my three-part series on Helen Isobel Norman.

I drove up to Grandma’s house on Arno drive, marveling at how it looked exactly as it did forty-five years ago, with the ivy covered front yard,  taupe paint with brown trim, and white iron filigree handrail along the steps to her porch.  I pulled into the driveway and opened the garage with an old remote Uncle Steve had given me.  Inside the garage was the ‘70s era beige Chrysler, sitting there like always.  Uncle Steve had removed the battery to keep Grandma from taking joy rides.  I parked, walked into the garage and opened the dryer.  Inside were a few towels and wash cloths.  I folded them and carried them into the house.

“Hi Grandma,” I called as I stepped into the kitchen.  “It’s Cheri.”

I listened for a response.

Silence.

Yikes, I thought.  This always makes me nervous.

I quietly walked through the kitchen, took a deep breath, and peeked around the wall into the family room.  Grandma was sitting in the chair next to the Davenport, reading the Wall Street Journal.

“Oh hi Honey,” she said, looking up at me.  “I didn’t hear you come in.”

I exhaled with relief that she was alive, and gave her a hug.  “You look good today, Gram.  Hungry?  How about some macaroni and cheese?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I know Grandma.”

I went into the kitchen and opened the freezer that Uncle Steve had stocked before he left for vacation.  Inside was a tub of Albertson’s frozen macaroni and cheese.  I microwaved it, steamed up some broccoli, and grabbed a big handful of grapes out of the fridge.  I assembled the food on a plate and brought it into the family room, along with a glass of Ensure spiked with brandy.

“Oh honey, this is too much!” Grandma protested.

But when I placed a spoonful of macaroni and cheese in front of her lips, she opened them.

“Mmm,” she said, after she swallowed.  “You’re a good cook, Cheri.”

“Thanks Grandma,” I smiled.  “It’s an easy recipe.”

I looked down to get a forkful of broccoli, but had to do a double-take.  Did she just wink at me?

I shifted in my seat and switched the subject.

“So tell me,” I said, while she chewed.  “What happened in your life after the orphanage?” 

“Well, I got my first job,” she said.  “I worked in a dime store, doing bookkeeping.   The work was okay, but I often stayed there until midnight finishing the books.  And my boss didn’t pay me anything extra.”

“What a drag,” I said.

“Yes.  So I quit and got a job at Battelle Memorial Institute, a metallurgical research company connected with Ohio State University,” she said, sitting up proudly.  “That was my best job.  They gave me vacation and sick leave.  And I liked the people; they were very educated.”

“You enjoy being around smart people, who are like you,” I complimented.

“Thank you, honey.  I also did a stint as a teacher,” she continued.  “But I didn’t care for teaching.  In my day, girls weren’t offered much in the way of jobs.  You could be a teacher or a nurse, and that was it.  Once you got married you weren’t allowed to work anymore.  Jobs were scarce and they figured married women didn’t need them as badly as everyone else.  So I would lie and say I was single.  I got away with that for a while.  Until I got pregnant.

We laughed.  “It’s a good thing times have changed,” I said.  “Women have more choices now.”

Grandma nodded.  I put another spoonful of macaroni in front of her mouth, which she opened without hesitating.

Guess she was hungry after all.

“How did you like being pregnant?” I asked.

“I was sick throughout all three pregnancies,” she said.   “I couldn’t keep anything down.  I weighed only 93 pounds.  Being pregnant was the only time in my life I was thin, other than now.”

I looked at Grandma’s frail, bony body, so different from how I remembered it growing up.  She was no waif then.  She was five foot two, but had a big bosom and midriff.  To me, she had always been soft and cushy, and I loved her warm hugs.

“I tried every diet out there.  Weight Watchers, Atkins, Slimfast,” she said. “Sometimes all I ate were grapefruits and hard-boiled eggs.  Nothing worked, at least for long.  But now being thin does me no good.  I just wear these robes all day and everyone’s always trying to get me to eat!”

Ironic, I thought.  Like Grandma, I also struggled to control my weight.  But now I wondered if it was worth the trouble.   I had never given Grandma’s weight a second thought.  I always liked how she looked.   Perhaps I needed to keep things in perspective, make peace with my large frame, and be thankful I was healthy.

Grandma’s voice interrupted my thoughts.   “Luckily the pregnancy health costs were not a problem,” she said.  “Carol and James were both born in a Ohio State “teaching” hospital.  Clyde was a medical student there, and med students didn’t have to pay for care.”

Carol Gay in 1939, at age three.  Helen sent this picture to a children’s beauty pageant

“What was it like raising your kids?” I asked.

“Well, your mom and Jimmy were pretty easy,” she said.  “But Steve was another matter.”

“Really?”  I laughed.  But then I thought of my outgoing and talkative uncle.  “Actually,  I’m not surprised to hear that.”

“Steve was born in 1947.  Right afterwards Clyde got a Navy transfer to Guam.   Carol and Jimmy were ten and four years old.  What I remember most was Steve being terrible on that  international flight to Guam.  All the Navy people were ready to throw him off the plane!”   Grandma rolled her eyes.

Carol, Jimmy, and Steve, 1947.

Carol, Jimmy and Steve, 1956.

“But even if it wasn’t always easy raising them, I was proud of my kids.  Carol went to school after college and became a nurse, which wasn’t easy for her because she met and married your dad when she was young, just 22.  She was still going to school when she was pregnant with you.”

“That’s neat she was a nurse.”

“Yes.  She had a warm way about her.  Like you, honey.”

“Thanks Grandma.”

“And Jimmy was a really good swimmer.  He started swimming at a public pool when we lived in Hawaii.   The guy in charge thought he was a better swimmer than the other kids, and offered to coach him.  After that I spent half my life carpooling Jimmy to swim meets.  But his hard work earned him a spot in the Olympic Trials.  He never made it to the Olympics, but the Trials were a good experience for him.”

“I bet he could have made it to the Olympics,” I said.  “He died when he was just 20, right?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Tell me about that, Grandma.”

Grandma didn’t even pause.  She must have needed to talk about it.

“It was 1962, and Jimmy was at the University of Cincinnati where he’d gotten an academic scholarship.  In March he was on the front page of the Cincinnati Sunday Tribune, for an article about the swim team.  Three weeks later, on his Spring Break, he drove with a buddy, Jim Marchetti, to California to visit friends and family.  He and his friend drove thousands of miles in a Renault, a small European car with the engine in the back.   Marchetti was driving toward San Diego on a two lane highway when he fell asleep at the wheel.  Their car hit another car, head-on.”

“Oh Grandma, how tragic.”

“Yes, both boys were killed.”

Jimmy Norman

“What happened to the person in the car they hit?”

“It was a Cadillac, being driven by a middle-aged woman.  I’m not sure what happened to her, but she was not killed, I know that.”

I was just one and a half, I thought.  My mother was pregnant with Laurie.  Gosh, that must have been so tough, I thought.  I had heard I was not an easy baby and cried a lot.  My mother was 25 and had to deal with me, her crazy pregnancy hormones, and then the senseless and sudden death of her beloved younger brother.

“It was really sad because he had such a bright future,” Grandma said, with tears in her eyes. “Your mother and Jimmy were very close.  They wrote each other all the time.”

“His death triggered her depression, right?”

Grandma looked at me, a forlorn look in her eyes.  “Probably, Cheri.”

“Did you ever talk to her about her that?”

“Yes.  I was very concerned about her.  One day she came over to talk.

Grandma paused.  I grabbed her hand and squeezed it.

“I know this is a difficult subject, Grandma.”  I said softly.  My heart was racing, and I was feeling shaky, but holding Grandma’s hand calmed me down.  I needed to hear what she had to say.  “Tell me more.”

“I asked Carol to describe her depression, because I didn’t understand it.  She said she felt she was in a dark hole, and there was no way out.”

I envisioned my mother, trapped in a deep cave, with no light, feeling lost and lonely and hopeless.

“She went to several psychologists, but they couldn’t help her,” Grandma continued.  “She suffered with depression for five years.”

“I wish she’d tried harder to find the right psychologist,” I said.  “I’m sure there were some good ones, even in the sixties.  And I wish they’d had good antidepressants back then.   I believe if she’d been born a few years later and gotten the right help and medication, that she’d still be here today.”

“You’re probably right, Cheri.”

We sat for a moment, our hands clasped, in silence.

“Do you know where she’s laid to rest now?” I asked.

“No.”

“Hmm.”  Interesting, I thought.  Why doesn’t Gram know this?   I know she went to the funeral.

But before I could question her, Grandma changed the subject.

“Clyde and Jimmy are buried at Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery, in Point Loma,” she said.

“I remember when Grandpa Clyde passed away.  It was 1972 and I was in the seventh grade.   I’ll never forget the beautiful grave site on that cliff, and the 21 gun salute they gave him.  All those men in uniform, and the guns going off.  Scared me kind of, but I was proud too.”

“Yes, Clyde was a Captain in the Navy, and a war hero.  He was on the USS Bennington during a fire explosion in 1954, the only doctor to survive.  He recruited a bunch of sailors on the spot to help with first aid.  Over a hundred men died in that explosion, and over 200 were injured.  It was the worst Navy disaster since Pearl Harbor.”

“Wow, Grandma.  And to think he met you in the orphanage.  You both came such a long way.”

“We just made the best of things, Cheri.   Jimmy, Carol and Clyde are gone now, but I’m grateful I have Steve,” she said.  “He amazes me.  When he was 11 or 12 he was awful, always getting into trouble.  I was forever running to the principal’s office.  But he became a really good person, and he and Susan take very good care of me.”

Steve and Susan with Helen, on her 96th birthday last year, March 11, 2009

“And now I have four grandchildren and 12 great-grandchildren.”

Helen’s sister Pauline, granddaughter Laurie, granddaughter Cheri (me) and Helen in 2006

 

Bee Gibbs and Helen Norman with four of their great-grandchildren, December, 1993

One Thing to Remember About Helen

“Grandma, is there anything you want people to remember about you?”  I asked.

“Cheri, I did nothing special.  I’m just an ordinary person.  I had no big accomplishments, other than my full academic scholarship to Wittenberg.”

“Well I’m impressed at how you handled difficult situations, Grandma.  You lost your mom as a girl and got sent to an orphanage, but you turned your life around.  You met Grandpa Clyde and got a college scholarship.  And when you became a parent and lost two children,  you never seemed to feel sorry for yourself.   You picked yourself up, and went on with life.  That is inspiring!”

“Well Cheri honey, we just made the best of our situation.” she said.

We nodded and smiled at each other.  I lifted up the glass of Ensure with Brandy, and Grandma pulled the straw to her lips.   She took a long sip.

***

Grandma passed away on February 17, 2012, peacefully in her home.  We had a lovely memorial ceremony for her on March 9th, and we were able to reunite Helen with her daughter Carrie at Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery, in Point Loma, San Diego, California.  They are in a grave site shared with Helen’s husband Clyde and son Jimmy, overlooking the Pacific Ocean.  And some days, when the wind and tide is just right, you can hear the waves crashing below.

Grandma Helen was a special, wonderful woman.  She will be dearly missed.

Helen Isobel Norman

March 11, 1913 – February 17, 2012

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Filed under Diet, Family, Grandparents, Happiness, Life, Marriage, Parenting, Parents, Time

Tragedy, the Orphanage and Clyde.

Well hello there!  Hope you’re having a great week.    In my last post I shared Part One of “Talking with Grandma.”  You may recall that as a child she lived on a farm in Ohio with her parents and two younger sisters.  Life wasn’t easy, but it gets even worse as she approaches adolescence.  Here’s Part Two of Grandma’s three-part story.  Enjoy.

October, 2010.

I was down from L.A. to visit Grandma each day while Uncle Steve and Aunt Susan took a well deserved vacation.  To pass the time, Grandma and I were going through a box of old photos stored for decades in her back bedroom closet.  The day before, Grandma had surprised me with her candor about her early childhood.  Some of what she shared I’d never heard.

I’m glad she’s opening up, I thought.  Especially since she’s getting up in years– her 98th is in a few months.

I had also noticed some changes in Grandma.  Sometimes she repeated stories and asked me the same questions about my kids.  Uncle Steve had mentioned signs of dementia.   To me,  because her childhood memories were so vivid, the dementia didn’t seem too pronounced.  I hoped she would be up for more reminiscing.

I got to the house about 1 p.m and turned the key in the front door.

“Hi Grandma, I’m here,” I called as I walked inside.

She didn’t respond.  My heart started to pound.  I peered around the wall of the family room.  Grandma was lying on the sofa, her deep blue eyes barely open.  Whew, she was alive awake.   I walked over and gave her a kiss, then picked up a half-empty glass of cranberry juice on the coffee table.

“Oh hi, Honey,” Grandma said, her voice cracking and barely audible.

“I’m making you some lunch, Grandma.”

“Cheri, I’m not hungry.”

“I know.  But you need some food to nourish your body, and calories for energy.”

I went into the kitchen, re-filled her cranberry juice and assembled a plate of cold red grapes, extra sharp cheese and  water crackers.  I grabbed an Ensure from the fridge and poured it into a glass.  I took a whiff;  it smelled like SlimFast on steroids.   I topped off the creamy drink with a splash of Brandy from the bottle on the counter.

“The Brandy cuts the sweetness,” Grandma had once confided in me.

I topped the mixture with a sprinkle of nutmeg and stuck in a straw, and brought the lunch into the family room.  Grandma was sitting up now.

“Here you go, Gram.”  I held the Ensure in front of her.  She grabbed the glass and took a big sip.

“Mmm, tastes good today,” she said.

I plopped into the boxy tweed chair next to the Davenport.  As Grandma bit into a cracker I pulled the box of photos closer.

“Ready to go through some more pictures?” I asked.

“Okay, honey.”

That was easy.

I pulled out a black and white photo of several people.

“Who are these people?” I asked.

“That’s my mother’s family, during a visit to our farm.”

I peered more closely at the picture.  Several women and girls were wearing white dresses and standing next to a man in a black suit.   I pointed to each person and Grandma rattled off their names.  I grabbed a pen and wrote the names on the back of the photo.

Helen Norman, far left, with her mother's family.

“How old were you in this picture, Grandma?”

“About nine.”

“So it was 1922 or so,” I calculated. “You told me yesterday your mom was teaching you to cook?”

“Yes, about the same time as this picture.  But we didn’t get very far.”

“How come?”

“Because the United States was in the middle of a flu epidemic and my mother caught the flu.  She couldn’t shake the illness and it got worse and turned into pneumonia.   She was always coughing.   She’d get better, but then the pneumonia would come back.  The third time she got pneumonia, she died.”

Grandma’s eyes brimmed with tears, and I grabbed her hand.  Seeing her sad made me tear up too.  Her skin was papery thin and I could feel the bones of her fingers.   We sat together, in silence for a moment.  I understood the pain Grandma was feeling.  Even though it had happened eighty-nine years before, I was sure the memory of her mother’s death was still vivid, because my mother had also died when I was a child, and the details were etched in my mind, forever.

“Tell me about that day, Grandma.”

“I was nine, my sister Margaret was five, and Pauline was three.  They put my mother’s body in our front parlor.  White lilies surrounded her.”

“I always thought that was strange, displaying people in their parlors after they died.”

“Yes, a lot of people came to pay their respects.   But what I remember most is the smell of those flowers.  To this day I can’t stand lilies.”

“What happened then, Grandma?”

“My father had a tough time raising us.  We girls became a problem for him.”

“How so?” I asked.

Grandma paused and sighed.  I looked at her, and gave her a pleading grin.   She smirked in surrender and continued. “We would go downtown and shop-lift from the stores.”

I gasped.   I covered my mouth with my hand to stifle a giggle.

“Wow Grandma, you don’t seem the type,” I said, shocked.  But I appreciated her openness.

“And the shop-lifting wasn’t all,” she confided.

Good, she’s on a roll, I thought.  “Go on.”

“One time we visited a relative with indoor plumbing,” she said.  “And filled their upstairs bathtub with water.   The tub overflowed and caused a lot of water damage.”

I nodded.  “Yeah, you were handfuls alright.”

Grandma shrugged and nodded.

“My father was furious.  He sent me to live with an aunt.  But times were tough and my aunt couldn’t afford to feed and clothe me.  Three years later my aunts convinced my dad to send us to the Oesterlen Home, an orphanage in Springfield, Ohio.”

“Wow.  How old were you?”

“Twelve.”

The Orphanage

“What was it like there, Grandma?” I asked.

“They had a bus that took us to school,  so I didn’t have to walk the five miles there and back anymore.   But I hated to arrive at school because “Oesterlen Home” was written on the side and the other kids would yell ‘It’s the orphans!’   I didn’t want to get off the bus.  I felt ashamed because they thought we were poor and abandoned.

“Did you feel poor and abandoned, Grandma?”

“No.  The Orphan’s Home wasn’t too bad.”

“Really,” I said, surprised.  When I thought of orphanages I envisioned the classic Dickens scenario of barefoot children forced into labor under freezing conditions with little to eat.

“I met your Grandpa Clyde there.  His mother died when he was young too, of tuberculosis.  He was one of eight kids, three girls and five boys, and his father couldn’t handle them either.  Clyde’s sister Martha was a good friend of mine.”

Clyde Norman (center) with Helen Lowry (right) and a friend, left.

“How did you and Grandpa Clyde meet?”  I asked.

“We met in the basement during chores.  He worked in wood shop with the older boys fixing desks and chairs and things.   I worked across the hall with the older girls making peanut butter sandwiches.

“For how many kids?”

“About a hundred.”

“Wow.  You made a hundred sandwiches, every day.”   And I thought it was tiresome to make dinner for three every night.

“Somehow Clyde and I met.  I think I brought him a sandwich.”

Dating Life

Grandma went on to describe their courtship.

“We never went on dates, because the boys weren’t allowed to see the girls.”

“That’s strict,” I said.

“Yes.  The closest thing we had to a date was on the bus.  The Orphan’s Home took us Christmas Caroling and Clyde shared my bus seat.   He held my hand.”

“That’s sweet, Grandma.”

“Well, Clyde didn’t let the rules get in the way of us seeing each other. He’d sneak out of the boy’s dorm at night and climb to my windowsill on the 2nd story of the girl’s dorm.  That was how we got to know each other.”

 No Proposal

The late night windowsill “dates” eventually led to marriage.

“I don’t remember a proposal,” Grandma said.  We both received academic scholarships to Wittenberg University in Springfield.  I got a teaching degree and Clyde went on to medical school at Ohio State.   He lived in Columbus and I lived in Springfield and we wanted to be together so we decided to get married.

“Gosh, you both got full scholarships.  It’s impressive how you and Grandpa thrived at the orphanage after enduring tough childhoods.”

“I never thought of it like that.  We just made the best of our situations.”

I liked Grandma’s attitude.

I gave her a hug.  “What was your wedding like?”

“In those days few people had weddings, Cheri,” she said.  “It was 1932, during the Depression.”

“Did you wear a wedding dress, at least?”

“No.  We just went to a Justice of the Peace, and afterwards I moved into Clyde’s studio apartment.  I worked as a bookkeeper to support us while he was in medical school.  Clyde was intelligent and a good student.  That was why I was attracted to him.”

“How long were you married, Grandma?”

“Forty years, until he died in 1972.”

Helen’s Secret to a Successful Marriage

“So what was your secret to your long marriage?” I asked.

“Patience,” she said.  “To put up with someone with different interests.  Clyde ruled the roost.  We did whatever he wanted to do.”

I thought about that.  If letting your husband make all decisions was the secret to a long marriage, then it was a miracle mine had lasted over twenty years.

“What did you like best about Grandpa Clyde?”

She paused a moment.  “There was one particular quality.”

“Yes?” I prodded.

“He was reliable.   He followed through on his promises.  That was important because even though life was difficult I knew I could depend on Clyde.”

It was a good thing Helen and Clyde had each other to rely on,  I thought.   Because more tough times were on their way.

###

 Coming up in “Talking with Grandma.”  Raising Three Children.

A memorial service will be held at Fort Rosecrans cemetery for both Helen and her daughter, Carol, who will be reunited with her immediate family, on Friday, March 9, 2012 at 9:45 am, at Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery in Point Loma, San Diego, followed by a Celebration of Life reception.

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