Recording the family history

When Mom was a young woman she and my grandmother (whom I never met) and an uncle tended a market garden on the family farm. They sold their produce at the farmer's market on Fulton Street in Grand Rapids.

Grandpa was a rather successful dairy farmer. The market garden not only provided extra household income, Mom said my uncle used his share to help pay his college tuition. Mom has told me little bits about selling their produce and what life was like during the depression. She said life on the farm continued fairly much as normal, but times were tough for married brothers and sisters who had moved off the farm.

"Mum often invited my brothers and sisters for meals. Nothing was ever said, but I think it was a lot of help," Mom told me.

I'd like to ask Mom more about her memories of the depression, but it is impossible to communicate with her. That information is locked away in her mind forever.

I'm not saying it is difficult to communicate with Mom, I am saying it is impossible.

There is no comprehension whatsoever now. Just asking her if she needs to use the restroom is a frustrating task. There have been times when leading her into the bathroom and pointing at the toilet leaves her looking looking at you with a blank stare on her face. It would be logical to assume she does not need to use the facilities, but there is no logic as far as dementia is concerned. Take Mom away from the nursing home and within five minutes she is indicating we should have been insistent she use the facilities before we left.

So we carry on as best we can and I try to remember things she has told me so I can record them.

It is interesting how each of my sisters will remember the same event differently. I guess it's all a matter of personality, perspective, and age.

I am certain Mom's recollections would be different from those of her siblings . . . unfortunately all of Mom's siblings are gone. Her last remaining sister passed away this past spring, just a few short days from what would have been her 100th birthday.  So our stories are left for verification with cousins -- each of them with memories passed down from their parents, each with their own perspective.

Mom was the youngest of nine. So assuming each sibling took their turn working in the garden, Mom's turn obviously came during the depression. She told me about how at the end of the day at the farmer's market, as many were packing up and heading back to their farms, mothers with young children, or sometimes just children alone -- with a note tucked inside their jacket pocket -- would come and ask for any leftovers.

Mom told me, "Mum always had something for them." I don't wonder. When my grandparents immigrated to the United States from the Netherlands in the early 1900s they were penniless as well.

"We grew all kinds of vegetable," Mom once told me. "Onions, beans, peppers, squash, tomatoes . . . Mum even grew eggplant -- although I don't think she knew what to do with it. She would polish it each night before the market. I think she thought it looked pretty."

As I grow older there are many things I remember Mom telling me about her youth. Things I wish I could ask her about now. It doesn't seem fair that a woman who was so fond of storytelling can no longer remember her name.