Jill's Stories

Finding the hill is the first order of business as soon as the snow falls.  Thinking back, the hill was located in “the woods”.  Whenever my Mom said to me and my brothers and sister, “where are you going?” we would always say to “the woods”.  Now, that phrase really meant, we are going into the garage, then into the attic, then grabbing the sleds, the ones that have metal rudders, and trudging down Pinewell Drive, home of the Pfau Family, and enter the “woods”.  All of the neighborhood kids would race to the hill.  We had to cross over the barbed wire fence.  Throw the sleds over first.  Then look down into the uncovered well (if my Mom had known that detail, we would have been banned from “the woods”.) I always shivered when I looked down into that well.  Wondered what would I do if I had fallen in.  The shiver turned to chuckles as we raced again up the hill.  This was old farm land at the end of our street.  Of course my brothers Dave and Jack got there first.  My sister, Janie and myself got there eventually.  Since we didn’t have four sleds, we had to take turns.  We had two sleds and some garbage can lids without the handles.  Guess who got the garbage can lids.  Then flying down the hill. Then trying to steer with our legs.  Then trying really hard not to hit the tree stump at the bottom.  I hit it too many times to tell.  I’m sure we had eaten breakfast on those sledding mornings, and I am just as sure we did not eat any lunch. … except for snow balls.  We got wet but didn’t care.  Our gloves would have ice crystals on them.  Too bad. We stayed all day.  Eventually, we walked back home and brought all of our gear with us for tomorrow’s fun.  When I think back to that time many years ago, I can’t help but wonder who dried all of those snowy clothes.  Probably the person who said “Where are you going?”

Later in my life when I had my own family of five children, we repeated some of that history: all of us went to “the hill” behind Fort West Subdivision where we lived.  This was a long, probably one mile walk and then some to reach the highest of hills covered with snow unpacked but so inviting. This was farm land.  There was a fence to cross, sleds to pull, the plastic kind that looked like saucers and oblong plastic sleds that carried two or more sledders.  We wore the coats,  the scarves, the dunsil caps,(  I heard they call them toboggans here in Tennessee. ) I had as much fun as the kids displayed.  They didn’t seem to mind my tagging along as the youngest sledder was just a toddler.  We flew down the “hill”.  We stayed all day.  We didn’t eat lunch.  We ate an early dinner.  I dried the clothes.  What goes around come around.  We did it all again on the next day.

And now for the story of Mom Murphy’s last day…..so happy, so sad, so mysterious… so fitting.  A cold, chilly winter day in December brought my Mom, myself and two of my children,  Susan and baby Michael to my Grandmother’s house for this special event.  We were told that the doctor expected Mom Murphy not to live through the day.  As  I approached my grandmother’s bedside, which by the way was now situated in what used to be her dining room [as she became unable to walk upstairs, she was 93 years old and becoming frail] her children created a new bedroom on the first floor of her home, I touched her hand and whispered “hi Mom”.  Her eyes were gently closed, her breathing was indeed faint.  The room was dark.  Now, my Grandmother had a collection of dolls that were of the newborn variety and she always arranged them on her bed.  Even into her 90’s she enjoyed looking at those dolls.  Part of her joy was in the holding of newborn and young infants, much like our own joy over the years.  Since she had “grown up” children now, the great grandchildren were the likely candidates for the cuddling.  My Mom told me to take my son, Michael over to my Grandmother.  He was just four months old.  He was sleeping in my arms, wrapped up snuggly in a warm blanket, when my Mom asked me to do this.  I kissed him on the forehead.  He stayed asleep.  I carefully laid him into my Grandmother’s arms.  She held him closely, the best that she could, as weak as she was.  It was a beautiful sight to see this aged and accomplished woman gently hold this new child.  The breath sounds were so peaceful.  Michael was the last infant that “Katie” held in her experienced arms.  I reached over and took him again into my own arms.  My Mom dropped a few tears onto the blanket as she watched.  She looked at me and said, I cannot watch Mom take her last breaths, would you stay by her?  I nodded yes.  I stayed.  Susan, my little girl who was then eight years old, held Mom Murphy’s hand and then went to the solarium to look at plants.  The doctor came.  He listened to the sounds.  My Grandmother died.   December 23, 1981.