The People In Your Family Stories

Elizabeth Doonan Studham

Laura Betourne Julien

Family Stories:  Part 3

The past two days, I've featured the importance of saving your family stories and how to prepare to write them. Today, I'd like to talk about the kind of stories you can write and save for your family.

First of all, the two ladies pictured today are my grandmothers. The one on the left is my maternal grandmother and on the right, you will see my paternal grandmother. Two very different women with next to nothing in common.

Grandma Studham grew up on a farm in Minnesota. Her parents had come to our country from Ireland. She married a coal miner and they lived and struggled from pay envelope to pay envelope. They separated when my mother was 12 years old. Grandma supported her youngest child and herself by running a Boarding house and then starting a small neighborhood bakery. She worked hard all of her life.

Grandma Julien grew up pampered and petted by adoring parents who owned a saloon--yes, in those days, it was a saloon. She married the son of French-Canadian immigrants. They had 5 children, the oldest two dying of diphtheria. By the time my dad arrived (#5), they were fairly affluent and sent to England for custom made shoes for the children and had a summer cottage on a lake. This grandmother died before I was born, so the stories my dad told about her gave me a clear picture of the woman she had been.

That's only two of the people in my family that I have written about. There are my parents, my siblings, aunts, uncles, and cousins. I have also written about some of the people in my husband's family. He had one aunt who was the family historian and storyteller. She knew the importance of preserving the past for the present and future family members. When my oldest granddaughter was quite small, Aunt Fannie put together a photo album of her family, including her parents and some of her 8 siblings. At the time, some in the family thought it was an odd gift to give a small child. Now, she is about to turn 23 and that gift has some meaning for her.

Aunt Fannie told me a wonderful story about the way she and my husband's mother got their names. They were the two youngest in the large family. Their parents had come to America from Germany and farmed in central Illinois. Neither of the last two children born were given names. Instead, they were called Big Baby and Little Baby until they went to school. It was then that a name was required. How Papa named them is a wonderful story. I wrote a story for children the way I imagined it happened, in other words, a fictionalized version of a true story.  You can read the story here.

Yesterday, I suggested you make a list of phrases that might act as prompts for stories or to trigger a memory. You might also make a list of all your family members that you know now or can remember from the past, either knowing them personally or hearing about them. Use the list to trigger more memories and to decide who you will write about. There is no rule as to how long or how short the story should be.

Here's a story about my Grandma Studham that is a favorite memory. I was quite young when it occurred but it impressed me so much that I remember it clearly. The story was published in an anthology titled.  Chicken Soup for the Tea Lover's Soul

Everyday Tea

By Nancy Julien Kopp

I learned to drink tea at a very early age. My Scots-Irish grandmother owned a small neighborhood bakery, and for the first five years of my life, my mother and I spent our week-day mornings in the working area of that establishment. I learned early on that I was to stay out of the way of those who worked at the high tables, and that the sales area of the bakery remained forbidden territory.

Many were the times that I crept to the doorway and peeked into the room where glass cases held the delectable treats my grandmother created. Cakes and pies, bread and rolls, coffeecakes and cookies lined the shelves, I watched with interest as a young Czech girl served customers. More than once, a firm hand circled my arm, pulled me none too gently away from the doorway and scolded me on the way to the long picnic table that ran across one end of the workroom. The pale green oilcloth cover served as background to thick white cups and saucers that sat ready to be filled with the strong, hot tea brewed in a plain brown teapot. “You can only make good tea in a plain brown pot,” Grandma remarked on many occasions.

Grandma served the tea, but when she came to mine she poured only half a cup. Then she added a spoonful of sugar and filled my cup to the top with milk. “English tea for you,” she’d say. Never would our tea be savored all by itself. Grandma always had a plate of something fresh from the oven. Cinnamon rolls, or sliced coffeecakes or a muffin. To this day, I like a little bit of something sweet to go with my tea. The scent of yeast and spices surrounded us as we sipped the tea. In wintertime, we enjoyed the waves of warmth from the ovens, and in summer, we put up with the combined heat of the outside temperature and those never-empty ovens while we had our everyday tea.

I lifted my cup with both hands and sipped at my “English tea” and listened to Mother and my uncle chat. I nibbled on one of the goodies Grandma passed to me, and I knew only contentment. I liked sitting at the long table during the tea break swinging my legs, waiting for the time when they would all return to work and I could plan my next peek out front.

One Saturday afternoon after the baking had been done, Grandma came to our apartment. She was dressed in a tailored suit and wore a hat that had big pink roses on it. She carried white gloves and a handbag. She wasn’t the grandma I knew, the one who wore a Mother Hubbard apron over her plain cotton dress every day. “We’re going to Marshall Fields today to have our tea,” she told me. I looked at my mother to see what she thought about this new situation. She smiled and repeated the oft-used phrase of all mothers in the early 1940s, “Be a good girl.”

Grandma and I rode the elevated train to downtown Chicago. The conductor called out the stops, and finally, Grandma tugged at my hand. We stepped out onto a wooden platform where we were greeted by a symphony of traffic sounds. Pigeons strutted nearby, pecking at peanuts tossed on the platform. I was fascinated by the soft, grey birds and would have stayed to watch them, but Grandma whisked me through a set of double doors that led into the famed Marshall Field’s store. We walked straight into the china department. Glorious china, crystal, silver, and linens were displayed on dining room tables. But there was no tea here.

My little-girl legs worked hard to keep up with Grandma as she led the way to the elevators. “Seven please,” Grandma said to the operator, and up we went. The doors opened, and we stepped into the magnificent Walnut Room. Dark paneled walls, soft carpet and potted palms surrounded us. A hostess led us to a small table draped with a snowy linen cloth. Other ladies with suits, hats and gloves sat at similar tables. I felt a tickle in my tummy for I knew now that this would not be an everyday tea. Something special waited for us in this elegant dining room.

Grandma spoke softly to a uniformed waitress, then settled into her chair and graced me with a warm smile. Her face looked softer than it did at the bakery where she spent so many hours. Even at my young age, I knew my grandma worked hard.

Soon, the waitress returned to our table. She placed a small plate, fork and spoon, a china teacup and saucer in front of each of us. A linen napkin finished the setting. Ladies nearby sipped tea and nibbled at tiny sandwiches and small iced cakes. Oh if only we were to have the same. The tickle in my tummy started up again, and I wiggled on my chair in anticipation.

Sure enough, the waitress brought a lovely flowered teapot and two plates. One held dainty open-faced sandwiches, and pastel iced cakes filled the second one. I waited for Grandma to tell the waitress that good tea could only be made in a plain brown teapot, but she never said a word. Instead, she poured my half cup of tea, added sugar and milk. Then she placed a sandwich and a cake on my plate. I watched her lay the napkin on her lap, and I followed her example. Just as I was to take my first bite, piano music interrupted the sound of spoons on saucers and ladies conversing. Soon, several tall, slender women strolled through the vast Tea Room stopping momentarily at an occasional table. “It’s a Fashion Show,” Grandma whispered to me. The models wore the kind of dresses and hats we saw only in the movies. They glided and pirouetted, faces looking like they were set in stone, but a strange thing happened as they approached us. Each one that stopped at our table looked right at me and smiled. One even winked. Now the tickle in my tummy felt like butterflies chasing each other.

All too soon the Fashion Show ended, and we’d had our fill of the tea, sandwiches and cakes. We rode the train home where I related the events of the day to my mother and father.

I had tea with Grandma at the picnic table in the bakery many, many times, but she never took me to the Walnut Room again. Long after my grandma was gone, I returned to Marshall Fields for tea on my own, and sometimes I’d look across the table and see my grandma in her rose-covered hat smiling at me. She taught me the difference between everyday tea and special tea--that a little something sweet came with both kinds of tea, but sweetest of all were the memories my grandma created. I feel her near each time I pour my everyday tea from my plain brown pot.