To Be Continued . . .

By Janice Lane Palko

One of the first pieces I ever wrote and sold was a story about how when I was a kid, I would stay overnight at my Grandma Gert’s house, who also had her mother, my Great Grandmother Cornelia Ledergerber, living with her. Whenever I shared a bed with either of them, we’d lie in the dark, and they would tell me stories. I can still recall how Grandma Gert told me about how her father mistakenly polished his white buck shoes before going to Kennywood with zinc ointment, and how all the leaves stuck to his shoes when he strolled the midway.

Grand Leder, as we called her, told me about how when she was four, she traveled to Steamboat Springs, Colorado, by covered wagon. (Sadly, no one including my mother and aunts ever asked her why she made such an arduous journey. It remains a mystery.) She also told me about how her son, my Great Uncle Buddy, crossed the Rhine River in Germany during the Allied Invasion during World War II, how he was missing in action for several days, turning her hair gray. She told me about how they nearly starved during The Depression. They both told me other stories, funny, sad, and remarkable ones about others in our family. 

Recently, we had our three granddaughters, Sadie, 9; Hannah, 7; and Scarlett, 5; stay overnight. We made up the cozy sleeper sofa in the spare bedroom and tucked them in. However, one by one they each dragged a sleeping bag into our bedroom and asked if they could sleep in our room. 

Thirty-three years ago, we moved into our present house because we had outgrown our previous home as I was eight months pregnant with my third child. After I delivered, we kept my newborn son in a cradle in our room. And every night it seemed my five-year-old twins would drag their sleeping bags into our room asking to “camp out” in our bedroom. I used to quip to my husband, “that we moved to a bigger house to get more space, but we could have moved to an igloo as we were all sleeping in one room.”

In the words of Yogi Berra, having the girls sleeping on our floor was “déjà vu all over again.”

Of course, there was jostling for space on the floor and cries of “she’s kicking my head,” or “she’s breathing too loudly” or “I’m not sleepy.” To get them to settle down, I said I’m going to tell you some funny stories. I told them about the time when I was in third grade and my brother was in first, how a woodpecker made a giant deposit on his head as we walked to the school bus. How he cried as the droppings dripped off his ears and onto his shirt and how I rushed him home where my mom shoved his head under the kitchen faucet and washed his hair, changed his shirt, and sent him off to school.

I told them how my youngest brother when he was in first grade took to drawing a mustache with my mother’s eyebrow pencil above his lip and how he got in trouble at school for calling the teacher a “turkey” for taking the record I Don’t Give a Damn About a Greenback Dollar off the record player before the song was over.

We laughed in the dark and it reminded me of decades ago when I spent the night with my grandmothers. As they settled down and got sleepy, Sadie yawned and said, “This was fun. I’m tired, but I think we should continue the stories.”

I agree. 

My wish is that 40-50 years from now she and her sisters know the great joy of having grandchildren, lying in the dark and continuing the stories.