I Remember Chesterfield

On January 10, 1932 my mother and Joe held an engagement party for us. I knew only a few of their friends and remember little of the affair. But the dress I wore was my favorite, a simple unadorned magenta silk crepe that fell softly midcalf. It had a bateau neckline and a chartreuse sash, which I draped around my waist. Isi sent me a white orchid.

For my birthday, February 24, – I was 21 and could vote! – Isi sent me the most magnificent American Beauty red roses, which he continued to do on my every birthday and holiday with little notes “to my sweetheart.” Those roses arrived in a box nearly as tall as myself. “You’ve got some boyfriend,” the florist, whom I knew, said to me later. “We had to send to New York for those flowers.” When they faded, I snipped the buds, put them in the empty Valentine box of candy Isi had given me and saved them for years.

As I am writing these memories, it is spring and my handsome lilac bushes are in enchanting bloom. It is raining quietly, a misty cool morning the Irish call a soft morning, dull gray skies overcast with cheerless dense clouds. The same kind of morning as on the Sunday in mid-May, 1932, when Isi came to take me to Devil’s Hopyard in Salem which I had wanted to see. This natural wonder, only four miles from Chesterfield, turned out to be a decent sized waterfall that cascaded and swirled over the hollowed tops of huge boulders strewn about. Legend claims the Devil was so mad that day when he hopped on them his fire gouged impressive holes in the surfaces of the rocks.

When we left we drove over a narrow, rain-drenched road through a forest. As we came up a long grade and just reached the crest the sun peeked out. Instantly the entire woods changed. The world became chartreuse! Black were the wet trunks of the trees. Black were the branches. Black were the tiny twigs. And every young, glistening, rain-splattered green leaf turned to gold. A strange sight. A strange color. Awed, Isi stopped the car. We sat silent, unbelieving the rare phenomenon we were witnessing. It lasted but a short while. The sun slid away, disappeared. Thick clouds closed and our enchanted world was no more. Slowly Isi drove down the other side of the hill. At its bottom I spied a stand of lilac trees in full array, bending over a gaping cellar hole where once a dwelling had stood, and some nostalgic wife had planted her favorite shrubs.

“Look at those lilacs,” I gasped.

“Want some?”

Knee deep through the sodden grasses Isi waded and brought me an enormous bunch of lilacs. I buried by face in their heavy, exotic scent and never forgot the thrill. Since that day in May I always tried to recapture that memorable moment, to once again glimpse a green-golden wet woods. Only one time, in all my years, after Isi died, did I experience another. On that June morning, just after dawn, I stood barefoot in my nightgown on the wet deck of our new home, breathing deep of the fragrant damp air. It had rained through the night. The treetops at my eye level sagged with moisture. A mass of leaden clouds hugged the horizon and covered the eastern sky. Suddenly, a cloud shifted. The sky opened and the rising sun flung its golden rays into the woods below me. The trees turned chartreuse! Black were the tree trunks. Gleaming black were the branches, black the wee twigs. And every little, dripping, twittering leaf glistened with gold. I held my breath in disbelief, elated. The phenomenon for which I had long sought actually re-occurred. I couldn’t believe it, the miracle I had waited years to once again behold. The scene lingered but a moment and was gone. Dark clouds merged and covered the sky. But the memory of that thrilling glimpse of a chartreuse forest on that singular day in May when Isi and I drove back from Devil’s Hopyard to Chesterfield, the glorious perfume of water laden, lush lilacs, has never left me.

If I were to choose one word to characterize my maternal grandmother Sarah Kaplan it would be patience, infinite, unquestioning patience. When I consider what her years in Chesterfield on the farm must have been, her demanding life, her silent suffering and physical endurance I am filled with awe and admiration.

Nothing was easy. Buckets overflowing with water hauled in from an outside well, hot water in a tank on the side of a wood burning stove requiring frequent stoking. Freezing bedrooms in winter. Suffocating heat in summer. Yet I never heard her raise her voice in anger or frustration, never argue with anyone or utter a complaint. I never saw her weep and if she were bitter at any time, there was no manifestation. But then I never saw her smile either – or heard her laugh. Meek she wasn’t. She had to possess plenty of spunk and fortitude to have survived her ordeals. Quietly, patiently she bore her burdens with stoicism and each night massaged her aching limbs with Dickinson’s Witch Hazel.

After I was married and learning to cook, how often I would think about the meals we were served at school. All of us girls griped about creamed celery, repetitive menus and stayed away whenever we could on Friday nights when fish and pie were served. But, in retrospect, I decided the food wasn’t so bad. And I would remember Grandma when I was in my teens. She was a fabulous cook. Her rosy-cream borscht was lovely to behold and nectar-like to consume. Now, I rationalize. The beets were organically grown, the beaten eggs, added to the hot soup so carefully as not to curdle, were laid that morning, the sweet cream was unadulterated and unpasteurized. She used a bit of sour salt. Served on a hot summer day, sometimes with a boiled potato, nothing was more delicious than her cold borscht.