As I dusted the antique walnut and gold frame hanging on our dining room wall, I paused to focus on the figures in the one-room school picture.  Yes, there’s my Gran.  She’s in the first row, the second child in from the right with short, dark hair and that look of determination on her face that I knew so well.

                           Like a flash of lightning, I could once again see Gran.  In the bedroom of my Uncle Elmer and Aunt Dottie, propped up with several pillows, she would often reminisce about her childhood.  The words seemed embedded in my memory, as familiar to me as the Pledge of Allegiance.

                            Gran recalled, “I had to walk five miles to get to school.   I loved going to school so much.  Then when I was almost sixteen, my father died.  I had to quit school and was a nannie for an undertaker and his family in Norristown.  My mother had no money, and there were seven children younger than me to feed.   I earned five dollars a week, and gave it all to my mother.  Oh, how I missed school!”  Then in her singsong style, Gran would break out with “School days, school days, good old fashioned school days, reading and ’riting, and ’rithemetic.”  Aunt Dottie and I would join in.   When the last words of the song were completed, we’d break out in laughter as if we had just heard a hilarious joke. 

                            Gran died in May of 1996, just three months shy of her 96th  birthday. I am so glad that I have that one-room school picture of Gran, and several other photos scattered throughout our family albums. These all help me to remember her physical appearance, jogging memories of the grandmother I loved.

                           How shall I begin to describe Gran?   She certainly didn’t have a grand house.  She lived in a duplex on Forrest Avenue, in Norristown.   When I entered her front door, there was a musty smell that pervaded the whole house.   From my childhood, I can still see that two foot high plaster bulldog, chipped and faded, guarding her front door.  Lamps, dishes, pots and pans, and bags and bags of clothing that Gran would salvage from neighbors, relatives and friends who no longer wanted them, were piled up everywhere in her house.  

                            Dressed in cotton floral print shirt-waist style dresses that came to halfway between her knees and her ankles, Gran certainly didn’t worry about being in style either.  She always had on stockings rolled up to her thighs, usually with big holes.   A mint green colored cardigan sweater, pilled and worn, was rolled up to her elbows, leaving her ready for action at a moments notice.  Pinned somewhere on this hand crocheted top was a large safety pin clasped tight holding lots of other pins of varying sizes that were found in her travels.  After all, you never knew when such a find would come in handy.   She always kept a rolled-up hankie under her sleeve; handy, ready, and waiting.

                            My grandmother wore her bluntly cropped hair combed away from her face.  Well into her nineties, her hair was still more dark than white, probably due to the fact that she never saw herself as being “old.” You see, Gran never saw herself as anything less than she always was- independent, frugal, and extremely determined.             

                            Gran raised her five children on very little income. During the depression, when money was scarce, she would rent out the upstairs of her house, for income with her own family occupying the first floor.  Christmas gifts were ingeniously made. For her daughters, Doris and Babe, she would hand sew new outfits for the very same dolls that had lost their appeal and had been ignored some months earlier. And for her sons, Bud, Elmer, and Charles, she would make sure an abandoned car or steam shovel was repainted weeks before Santa’s arrival.  This new truck would then appear under the tree to the delight of the recipient.  

                            She and her husband owned land in Worcester Township, Montgomery County.  A farm girl at heart, she always had a huge garden at the “shanty”.   She would then send one of her kids to the surrounding neighbors, selling extra tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, corn, and potatoes.

                            When the family lived in Norristown, there was a cemetery not far from their home.  Gran would go to the there after fresh flower bouquets were left on the grave site.  She would take the ribbons off, unwrap them, iron them flat, and reuse them in Doris and Babe’s hair. When the lilac bush bloomed with fragrant purple flowers, this thrifty woman would cut the branches and tie them into bundles. She would then send Doris or Babe downtown to the Hotel Hamilton where they would knock on the door, and sell them for twenty-five cents a bunch.  

                            Many life lessons were learned from my grandmother. Here is an example of the first lesson I gleaned from this special woman.  When I was a young girl, Gran’s weekly routine was to go and visit each of her children and their families.   When I would run up to her car to greet her, the smell of overripe or rotten fruit would overwhelm me.   Somewhere in the piles of things that filled her car, must have been an old bag of potatoes or apples that she had forgotten.   I’m not sure where she got this produce, but from my awakened sense, I always figured she got it for free or might have even been paid to haul it away.   Bags of other useful items were piled one on top of the other, filling her car in every available space except for the all important driver’s seat.   Used clothing, flower pots, dishes, small kitchen appliance, stacks of newspapers, pots and pans-you name it and you could probably find it- in her “tin lizzie”.  One day I asked my mother, “Why does Gran’s car look so messy and smell so terrible?”

                            “Don’t you ever say that in front of Gran.  That would hurt her feelings.  Do you hear me, young lady?” my mother scolded.

                            And since I thought the world of my grandmother, I never did say a word about either the smell or the menagerie of items that filled her trusted Isabelle.  These words, handed down through my mom, still ring in my ears today, “If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” 

                            Every Christmas as far back as I can remember, Gran would come to our family gatherings with several brown grocery bags full of gifts.   Usually the men got either brown or blue nylon socks, the kind that my Uncle Elmer always said made your feet sweat.  The ladies were all given doilies that Gran hand crocheted non-stop throughout the previous year.   My Aunt Dottie would painstakingly starch and iron them, roll them in empty paper towel rolls, and finally wrap them.  We kids would all receive a little something that this “would be Santa” bought at Fanaros, a local store like a present day Dollar General.  Our presents ranged from a “slinky” or set of jacks to a coloring book and crayons as long as she could get a little gift for all us grandkids. 

                            When it was one of my brothers’ or my birthday, I remember running up our country lane chasing after Gran’s car.  She would come prepared with a store bought cake and Breyer’s ice cream, a delight for special occasions.  If we were lucky, there might have even been a puppet, paper dolls, or Bubble Magic in that brown Acme bag.  The cardboard carton with vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry ice cream was always flattened. Next this treat was sliced with a big, long butcher knife under Gran’s steady hand. I remember that I often wound up with a piece of cardboard sticking to my tongue long after the sweet cream melted in my mouth and slid to my rumbling belly. 

                            This “giving” is another lesson I learned from this wise woman.  Even though she never had much, she always found a way to give to her family.  She raised five children during the depression and continued to do so when her husband left her in ‘42. Gran simply gave what she could and made the best of it.  That was what you did for your family.  

                            Another scene that has left a last impression on me, took place at my family’s home in Collegeville.   Granny was sitting at our kitchen table sewing on a button on one of my dad’s shirts. 

                            “Hey Gran, do you want to go shopping with me?  I need to look for some things at the mall.   I am headed for Plymouth Meeting,” I explained. 

                                “She can’t go with you.  Just go by yourself,” my mom declared. 

                                “Why can’t she come along?  We’d have a good time.  I don’t know why you should care,”  I persisted.

                           “Gran doesn’t want to go with you. She doesn’t need anything at the mall.  You go by yourself,”  snapped Mom.

                            “Sure she can come with me.   What is your problem?”  I insisted, raising my voice. 

                            Gran, now done her sewing project, got up out of the chair, “I have to get going down the road.  I have to get to the shanty and feed the ducks.”  And with that she picked up her purse and headed out through our dining room.   As I walked with her, she leaned over to me, whispering, “I’ll meet you at Lynn and Ells in five minutes.”   And calling back to my mother, “So long, Doris. I got to go.”

                               And good to her word, as I pulled into the parking lot of that greasy spoon, there was Gran sitting in her “one of a kind” Plymouth waiting for me.  She came over, hopped into the passenger seat and off we went to the mall, laughing and singing along the way.   Reflecting back on this whole scene, my grandmother didn’t butt heads and insist she was right, which was my natural inclination.  Her solution was simply to find another way around a brick wall, rather than constantly hitting your head against it. This is a life lesson that I’m sure she learned having to raise her family after both her first and second husband had left her.  You don’t keep doing what doesn’t work, or feel sorry for yourself.  You simply go on and try something else that will work.

                            Adelaide Elizabeth Cole Schantz was the embodiment of “determination.”   One story I heard over and over again growing up was about my older brother Richard.  Richard was born with a collapsed lung in April of ’47. My mom and dad still lived with my Gran.  Baby Richard was in Norristown Hospital and was not making much progress. This was before incubators were available.

                            Since he had so much trouble breathing, he had a very hard time taking a bottle. With so many other infants in their charge, the nurses just didn’t have time to feed this suffering infant.  The doctors didn’t give my parents much hope that their newborn would survive.  So Baby Richard was sent home.

                            My courageous grandmother took one look at her new grandson and declared, “Here, let me have him.”  And with those words, she immediately set herself in motion.  Gran spent hours finding a way to teach the baby to nibble on his bottle. Giving him time to catch his breath no matter how long it took, Gran would follow with another drop of formula.  Frying up onions, she carefully bundled them and placed them on his tiny chest.   In her mind, onions were the best remedy for keeping away germs.  This went on and on for days, turning into weeks.  She had the patience of Job and an undefeatable determination that could only have been surpassed by Mother Theresa herself.  My brother Richard, now a healthy 62 year-old, is a living testament to another one of Gran’s life lessons – patience and determination can make all the difference in the world!

                            So, you see, when I look at the picture of that young school girl standing proudly with her classmates, I am reminded of her determined spirit, her generosity, her willingness to find another way, and her ability to make do with what she had.  I remember how much I cared for her that even as a six-year-old, I knew I didn’t ever want to hurt her feelings.   Raised as a farm girl, she knew how to be frugal and lead a simple life. She learned to be independent and take care of herself and her family.   In her lifetime, she went from riding a horse and buggy to driving first a model T, then cars, and finally her beloved ’64 Plymouth. But what I will remember the most is how much she meant to me. 

                            When Hannah, my two-and-a-half-year-old granddaughter, calls out to me, “Gan, will you read this book to me?” I answer “Sure” with a wide smile as I wipe away a tear that rolls down my cheek.  I too, have some pretty important lessons that I hope to share with my granddaughters just as my beloved grandmother shared with me.  I guess that’s what a Gran is all about!

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Biographical Note: Dori Hoch was born and raised in Pennsylvania and worked for over thirty years as an elementary teacher and reading specialist.   She is married to an extremely patient man and has two grown children, two adorable granddaughters, and an unaffectionate cat that was left behind when her daughter flew the coup.  She caught the writing bug while enrolled in the Writing Institute of the West Chester Writing Project in 1998.  She is the author of Simply Schooled in One Room Style, an expository piece about her visit to a rural one room school which appeared in Berks County Living in 2004.   She belongs to two writers’ group and enjoys writing stories about her family, her insights, and travels. One of Dori’s goals is to get her historical fiction story about a student’s experiences in a one room school Pearl of Richmond School published. Her story "A Visit with Grandma Hoch" appeared in our February 2010 issue.