Jill's Stories

Every Sunday after church, my family would ride up to my grandparents home….”the farm.”It was located in Hamersville, Ohio.  47 Club Road was the exact address.  We piled into the car, Dad, Mom and my brother, David all sat in the front seat.  (Dave was the oldest sibling) Janie, Jack and myself sat in the back seat, usually with me in the middle. The trip took at least 45 minutes.  The road to my Gram and Gramps house was just filled with gravel and as my Dad drove along, the dust trailed behind us.  When we finally arrived, my Gram and Gramps would either be looking out from the front door, waiting for us, or sitting in the metal yard chairs watching  for our car.

Now let me tell you about the house.  It was a white frame farm house with a green roof.  I remember the side door which was a screen door and that was the one we always used. We were not allowed to go in through the front door; it was always locked.  The kitchen had a black iron stove.  There was no running water.  We carried water in from the outside well no matter what the weather or season was.  Gramps boiled water if we needed hot water for dishes. And by the way, Grandma never washed dishes.  She told me that her hands were too sensitive and allergic to soap.  Gramps always washed all of the dishes and I dried them.  Everyone else usually disappeared when  the dishes needed to be washed.  And that was okay with me. They had an outhouse, also used no matter what the weather or season was.  Winter time was a real challenge.  All in all, that was a minor thing to worry about.  My grandmother’s name was Mabel. My grandfather’s name was Denman.  Most people called him Denny.  My mom called him Pap.  My dad called him Pop.  They had two children:  Charles and Evelyn.  My dad is Charles.  My gram always called him Charles. My mom never called him that.  My Aunt Evelyn called him Brud.  Enough of that! The men in our family hunted in the woods behind the farm.  There was also a lake way back.  I spent most of my time there in the barn with my brothers, Jack and David.  We climbed up into the hay loft and jumped all around.  We would sneak into the cow stalls and look around. There was a room where hams hung to dry from the salt treatment.  The cows came in each night when my Gramps called them.  He also raised hogs.  My Gramps would ride us around on his tractor in the fields just for fun. My grandparents grew all of their own food, had chickens that laid all of the eggs, had pigs that supplied the pork and bacon and salt cured ham, had the same chickens that ended up on Sunday’s dinner table.  I will never forget the process of plucking the feathers.  They allowed me to watch the plucking.  Of course the chicken already met its fate.  The unique thing about those Sunday dinners, was that Gram served only one chicken.  There were the six of us and Gram and Gramps.  I always got one wing, Mom got the breast meat, Dad got the leg and the rest was divided up.  That’s how it was. That was plenty. We always had “light bread”, gravy and corn.  My Gramps put all of his food in one pile on his plate and ate it that way; he said it all goes down the same place.  Gramps had no teeth.  Those things seemed regular to me back then. Now when I think about where Gramps slept, my thoughts climb to the upstairs of the farm house.  I was only allowed to go up there once or twice a year when my mom took me up.  I remember the feather bed with white covers and I would love to sit upon the middle of the bed and be “swallowed up”  by the feather bed.  It was pretty spooky up there as there was no window and it was musty.  No ghosts were there to my knowledge.  Just off limits to kids.  One wonderful memory is the image of my Grandfather running down the dirt and gravel road following my Dad’s car with us in it.  Every single exit for years and years from the farm on 47 Club Road began thus.  He would be smiling. We would be waving.  Bye Gramps!

My Grandfather was a tall man.  Stately I believe.  He was a World War I veteran.  Before he bought the farm, he was a painter in the suburb of Cincinnati named Oakley.  That is where my dad grew up. I don’t know the exact meeting of my mom and my dad, but the town of Oakley is close to Madisonville where my mom grew up.  (to be continued)

My grandparents names are Catherine (Katie) Murphy and John D. Murphy [my mother’s parents] and Mabel Pfau and Denman Pfau [my father’s parents].  I called my grandparents “Mom and Pop” and Gram and Gramps in the order listed above.  Mom and Pop’s parents, (I just heard about Mom Murphy’ s mom, Suzanne Baumgartner) was born between the German and French border in Europe, Alsace Lorraine) Pop’s parents were born in Ireland.  So there you go…Irish and German immigrants.  Strong-willed people. Hard working folks.  Catholic to the core. My grandparents on my Dad’s side were born in Kentucky.  In the northern part of the state. I never knew where their parents originated.  But I do know that they were of German descent.  Strong-willed people.  Perhaps just my perception.  But I believe their longevity and persistence in survival through the depression years demonstrated that trait that surfaced at family gatherings.  I know they were spiritual people. I do not know their religious choice.

My grandfather, John Murphy began working when he was 14 years old.  Later on, he became the first butcher for the Kroger Company based in Cincinnati, Ohio.  He and my grandmother had 12 children.  Pop worked for his entire life and even worked on the last day of his life at age 72.  He rode the bus home from work, went upstairs to bed and died of  cerebral vascular accident.  Now, many people pass on that way, but there is a really interesting detail about my grandfather’s passing.  My grandmother told me that she heard him get up from bed (he slept in another bedroom) and he went into the bathroom and back to his bed.  She heard an unusual sound coming from that room and she got up to check on him.  He had died quietly and he was peacefully looking up toward the oil painting above the head of his bed.  The painting was of Jesus wearing a crown of thorns.  This picture was so beautiful.  I think that most of you have seen a print just like the one I am describing.  I am not sure who has the painting in our family now, but it remained in that same room for years.  That reminds me of another story that is more extraordinary.  My mom, Mary Murphy was one of the 12 children and she said that her youngest sister, Evelyn died at the age of two as she came too close to the fireplace in Mom and Pop’s house and her dress caught on fire.  It was so sad to hear that story.  She could not be saved as most of her little body was chared.  She was put into a casket in their living room (they did that in those days…1920’s) and the funeral happened the next day right there.  Then unusual things began to happen in the upstairs closet.  Evelyn had a pair of red dress shoes that she loved to wear.  Late at night on several occasions, family members, including my mom would hear tapping sounds in that closet. It sounded just like the times when Evelyn would tap dance in the little red shoes.  It happened so often that after awhile, it was just part of the household noise, accepted…not troubling.   I never heard that sound myself, but I am quick to admit that I never wanted to go upstairs by myself.  On another note, I remember my grandmother’s top dresser drawer filled with 50 or so beautiful hand stitched handkerchiefs that were part of her collection of gifts given to her by family members.  One after the other….just simple and pretty.  One particular handkerchief came to rest in my possession.  It was white with lavender flowers and green leaves.  I brought that “hanky” with me during my own father’s passing.  I held on to it during the sad time of letting him go on. To this day, the delicate handkerchief, now at least 50 or so years old, still rests in my dresser drawer, thin and torn in some places.  It holds a certain amount of history woven into the threads of comfort that it affords me when I hold it in my hand.

My grandfather, Pop Murphy played the fiddle.  Everyone loved to gather around his chair and listen to him play.  I can remember going to a place called Hannell’s bar just down the street from my grandparents’ house on Britton Avenue in Cincinnati.  They lived in  a suburb called Madisonville.  After any funeral that occurred, my grandfather would go down to Hannells and start playing the fiddle as we had what is referred to as a wake.  All of the men drank beer and the women sat around and talked and all the kids danced and laughed and ate chips.  It was quite the fun event.  I remember how dark the bar looked to me but it was so fun to hang out with my cousins there.  (only at funeral parties of course!)  On other days, usually Sundays, I would walk down to the corner store about two blocks away and buy some candy for 5 cents.  My favorite candy was the button kind, sugary drops on paper strips.  My brother Jack would walk down there with me.  We never worried about anything.  We just trotted down there matter of factly.  So strange that parents thought that was just fine.

My Grandmother had this really neat room called the Selarium.  I don’t know how the word was spelled, but I remember every inch of it.  It would compare to our sun rooms at this date and time.  She had lots of plants growing out there and it was right inside the living room.  …at the front edge of it.  We could go in there and look at everything but we weren’t allowed to touch any cacti or prickly ones.  My aunt Peggy was the only person who could water them.

Mom Murphy had a cookie jar in her kitchen filled with sweet things that she called “cakes”. She loved children so much that no matter what her budget was, she insisted that the jar would always be filled with the “cakes”.  When we came to see her she would always say “go into the kitchen and get yourself a cake”.  We always did.  She always grinned.  Peopled called her Katie.  She was very liberated and was a strong willed individual.  Back in those days most of the women that I knew were shy and quiet ones, but not “Katie”  She certainly told it like it was.  It didn’t matter who you were, or who you thought you were in terms of importance. She would be the first to tell you that everyone is equal.  I won’t tell you exactly what she said.  Just as a hint she said, well , I will just let you imagine.  It had something to do with not a good fragrance.

And one more thing about my Grandmother: She said that if a child was talking, the correct thing to do is stop and listen.  She said it wasn’t an interruption. Adults should stop what they are doing and listen to the child.  (completely opposite of the adage “children should be seen and not heard”)  She lived by that rule. I witnessed her doing just that, hundreds of times. She would stop right in the middle of her own sentence if one of her grandchildren ran up to tell her something.  And by the way she had at least 58 grandchildren and 72 great grandchildren before she left this world.  Amazing!  Three of her daughters had a set of twins. Aunt Peggy had twin girls.  Aunt Sue Mae had twin girls and my mom, Mary had a set of fraternal twins…Jack and Jill, yours truly.  How fun!

Every Christmas Day, my Grandfather, Pop would give each child a silver dollar each.  We would go up to his chair, (he often times fell asleep just sitting there). We would each give him a hug and a kiss, he would give us the silver dollar and then play a tune or two on his fiddle.  After he died, my Uncle had his fiddle encased in a glass box and my Uncle Ross has it in his home.

I remember the day that my Grandmother, Mom passed away.  (to be continued)

(to be continued)

Merry Christmas world