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Sunday is my grandmother's birthday. She would have been 94 this year.
I can still remember her feisty ways of *not* swearing. She'd crunch up her face and growl "Oh.... H!" Or when she didn't understand something, "What the Sam Hill's that?" (I never did quite figure out what Sam Hill was supposed to represent.)
She was frugal almost to a fault. She bought big paper sacks full of bread past its expiry; she saved bite-sized pieces of leftovers carefully wrapped in reused tinfoil; she washed paper plates. Unless my mom caught her at it and made her pitch the plates, that is.
I remember the shape of her teeth and her chin when she'd smile.
She'd send us gifts every year, long past when she could travel to be with us for birthdays or Christmas. In later years these never failed to include three shiny brass coat hangers per person, taped into a bundle with Scotch tape and wrapped in paper that was probably new decades earlier. My coat closet still has those hangers.
I remember her cooking. She'd do Salisbury steak, she'd drink coffee from a red-and-white patterned mug, she'd produce green foamy stuff with little marshmallows in it for dessert. (Hey, it tasted good, but I admit it mystifies me to this day.)
She and my grandpa were great card players, though of course he wouldn't include her in that statement even under torture. If I'd grown up closer to them I'd be a much better card player myself.
I remember playing dress-up with all her costume jewelry. For some reason she never got mad at us for the, erm, thorough rearrangement of her collection.
Just rememberin' the good stuff, today.
I can still remember her feisty ways of *not* swearing. She'd crunch up her face and growl "Oh.... H!" Or when she didn't understand something, "What the Sam Hill's that?" (I never did quite figure out what Sam Hill was supposed to represent.)
She was frugal almost to a fault. She bought big paper sacks full of bread past its expiry; she saved bite-sized pieces of leftovers carefully wrapped in reused tinfoil; she washed paper plates. Unless my mom caught her at it and made her pitch the plates, that is.
I remember the shape of her teeth and her chin when she'd smile.
She'd send us gifts every year, long past when she could travel to be with us for birthdays or Christmas. In later years these never failed to include three shiny brass coat hangers per person, taped into a bundle with Scotch tape and wrapped in paper that was probably new decades earlier. My coat closet still has those hangers.
I remember her cooking. She'd do Salisbury steak, she'd drink coffee from a red-and-white patterned mug, she'd produce green foamy stuff with little marshmallows in it for dessert. (Hey, it tasted good, but I admit it mystifies me to this day.)
She and my grandpa were great card players, though of course he wouldn't include her in that statement even under torture. If I'd grown up closer to them I'd be a much better card player myself.
I remember playing dress-up with all her costume jewelry. For some reason she never got mad at us for the, erm, thorough rearrangement of her collection.
Just rememberin' the good stuff, today.
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More "Sam Hill" Apocrypha
[begin quoted story]
According to the Facts on File Folks, Colonel Samuel Hill of Guilford, Conn.
was a perpetual political candidate (who was apparently so unsuccessful that
except for the Encyclopedia of American Politics [1946], there is scarce
evidence for his having ever existed). In any case, he inspired the saying
to "run like Sam Hill", or "go like Sam Hill." This served neatly as a
personified euphemism for hell amongst our [American] Puritan ancestors.
[end quoted story]
I found a number of references to the phrase originating as a Cockney phrase, but also found a number of other references debunking that theory.
I suspect the reference to "Samiel" - the devil - is more likely, especially as "Sam Hill" is generally used as an euphemism for "hell".
(Jen's right. I am *such* a frustrated librarian.)
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Re: More "Sam Hill" Apocrypha
I could imagine either origin.
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It fits him well, though. here (http://www.inetours.com/N_West/Maryhill_Museum/Maryhill.html") is a page about the museum he built in remote Eastern Washington (Maryhill). It talks about the connection with Queen Marie of Roumania, but doesn't mention the concrete replica of Stonehenge he built as the Klickitat County World War I monument. Really. Google it.
The French fashion dolls, which I'd seen a buncha times as my parents schlepped us out to Maryhill for one reason or another, made a big splash in Paris when they were "rediscovered" after being "lost" for so many decades. Whaddaya mean lost? They were right here, all the time....
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My dad used to rationalize that he thought it was probably a good thing that I was pretty young when they died; that it was easier on me because the attachment wasn't so strong. I think he's right in a sense.
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Sam Hill/Sam Hall connection?
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In a way, yeah: there's no loss if you never had something to begin with. Me, I never went through much real grief with my grandmother's passing. Perhaps that's because we weren't all THAT close; I don't know. I just had a weird almost-Buddhist-ish reaction: "Okay, everyone dies, this is her time, ah well. Hope she wasn't in much pain, and I'm glad I knew her."
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My maternal grandmother died when I was 6, and my father's mother died when I was 12.
My mom's mother lived with us for the first four years of my life, but she was sick the entire time. I envied the neighbor kids whose grandmas came to visit and took them out and bought them things. My grandma was pretty much housebound, so she never went anywhere or bought us anything.
We rarely visited my father's family because my mother despised them, so we only went for an obligatory afternoon duty visit a few times a year. I wasn't allowed to go to my grandmother's funeral because my parents felt I was too young. (!) My father died four years later, and my mother instantly cut off all contact with his family.
So I don't have any real memories of any of my grandparents. It makes me very sad, because my mother revered her parents and I would have liked to have known them. On the other hand, although I never had any objective information about my father's family, I think my mother's view of her in-laws might have been valid. The only clear memory I have of them is from my father's funeral. While my mother sat up straight, her tears flowing silently as she struggled to maintain her dignity, my father's sister literally flung herself onto the coffin loudly screaming "Maxieeee! Maxieeee! Maxieeee!" over and over, and wouldn't stop until she was physically pried away. My mother never forgave her for causing an uproar, and that was the last time I ever saw any of my paternal relatives.
I would have liked to have had an extended family, but I never did.
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I wish you could have had an extended family. As I said below, there are times I didn't want mine... maybe the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. I'm sad that you never knew them though.
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