My Grandmother's Courage

My Grandmother's Courage
by Cheryl Carson

I will be 60 years old this year (2010). Perhaps it is the increasing evidence of my own slackening of energy and diminishing physical and mental capacities that have created within me a longing to know more of my grandmother, Alice Fewkes Harris (1874-1952). Sadly, I have no recollection of her; she passed away when I was only 18 months old. Because my mother was the thirteenth of fifteen children and I was the seventieth of seventy-six grandchildren, my birth came near the end of my grandmother’s life. My turn on earth was beginning as hers was drawing to a close.

I treasure her mementos of mortality that I possess, my favorite being the beautiful, long, light brown curling tresses of her hair, cut when she was 16, and a photo of her taken at about that time.

But how I would love to have known my grandmother personally—to know of her feelings, the longings of her heart, the love she felt for her family, and the pain she knew in losing a child. I felt a hunger to know my heritage. I wanted to learn more of the courage and mettle of this line of strong women through whom I came—specifically more of my grandmother, Alice, and the losses she endured through her life. I have lost no siblings or children to death, and both of my parents passed away after having lived long, full lives.

Not so with Grandmother Alice. How did she bear it? I know that times were different then, and deaths were much more common than today, but did that make the losses hurt any less? Did that make the grieving any easier just because of the number and frequency—because she had more practice? And so I followed my female lineage through one particular line: my mother, her mother, Alice, and two more generations beyond.

Alice’s grandparents came to America from England in 1866, losing two of their children during the voyage. In total, they would have 15 children (including two sets of twins) the last six being born in Utah. Five of their children died, all within the ages of nine months and three years old. Alice’s mother was their third child.

Alice’s mother grew up, married, and became the mother of 16 children, all single births, six of whom died, all between the ages of 10 months and three-and-a-half years old. My grandmother, Alice, was the firstborn of those 16 children.

I was deeply moved as I learned of the losses in Alice’s own life. I thought of her age and how each loss might have affected her:

She was six years old when her three-and-a-half-year-old brother died.
She was eight when she lost her 18-month-old sister.
When she was 13, another three-and-a-half-year-old brother died after being burned in a freak accident involving explosives.
When Alice was almost 15, she lost a three-month-old baby brother.
She was nearly 19 when her one-year-old baby sister died.
She married William David Harris eight months later. They would become the parents of 15 children, all single births. (Yes, that’s three generations—three families—of 15, 16, and 15 children.)
Alice was 25 years old and had three children of her own when her last sibling, a ten-month-old baby sister, died.
When Alice was 26, she lost her own baby and fourth child, six-week-old Robert Leland.
At age 38, her eleventh child, five-month-old baby Herman Ray, died.
When Alice was 44, her 31-year-old sister Mary died in the flu epidemic of 1918, leaving behind her husband, Ren, and six children, ranging in age from ten months to eleven years. (Alice’s oldest daughter, age 24, went to help Ren care for the motherless children. She and Ren were married six months later, and seven more children would be added to their family.)
Six days after her sister Mary died, Alice’s mother also passed away from the influenza.
At the age of 52, Alice’s 54-year-old husband died of cancer. She was left with six children still at home, ages six to 19, to finish raising alone.
Her father passed away seven months after she lost her husband.
Less than three years later, when Alice was 55, her youngest child, nine-year-old Lynn, died after being kicked in the head by a horse.

I was amazed to learn that, by the age of 55, she lost 13 close family members. We’re not speaking of cousins or nieces and nephews or aunts and uncles, or even grandparents. She had experienced the loss of seven siblings, three of her own children, both of her parents, and her husband.

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My own mother, Alice’s thirteenth child, was 10 when her father died, 13 when her little brother Lynn died. Of her little brother she wrote, “I truly grieved his passing. I remember crying myself to sleep night after night without letting anyone know. I’d torment myself with every unkind word I’d ever said to him. I couldn’t talk about it. To this day, I can’t think about it without hurting as I did then.” As my mother neared the end of her long life (1916-2006), when she could no longer remember her own children or even her own name, she still remembered and grieved the loss of her little brother, Lynn.

Did my grandmother grieve and suffer so much? Or was this final loss easier for her, because she was “used to it”? My mother’s life story may provide an answer: “In my mind I can still see Mother by the organ as she turned down the lamp at night, looking at Lynn’s picture with tears in her eyes. Only once did she voice her grief: ‘Christmas Eve, and my little boy in his grave these many weeks.’ Her heart and mine breaking, too, as I watched her from the cot where I lay ill. Only two sons now, both grown, and ten girls. Her two boy babies had died many years earlier, then losing her husband only three years before, and now her ‘baby.’ But with courage she bore it. Only a widowed mother’s heart knows such loneliness.

“Even the bravery and courage we took for granted, as we did her constant concern and love for us. Bless her heart, there was nothing Mother wouldn’t do for her children if she could….She would go without, herself, so they’d have the things they needed. We who were home after most of the rest were married, know how sweet and brave and practical she was. Only once after Father was gone did she cry as though her heart would break from loneliness.

“As I look back, I realize how few of us can measure up to her strength of character. She gave me something, in the way she faced death after 26 years of widowhood, that has made me so I shall never fear death again, for she looked forward to her reunion with Father eagerly. For this, and so many other things she gave me, I am so grateful” (Life Story of Merle Dean Harris Higginson).

Perhaps Grandma Harris waited for death with the courage she gained from living.

I was only a toddler when my grandmother passed from this life, too young to know and appreciate the strong and courageous woman that she was. Once, when I was young, I remember at a family reunion my uncle seeing me and remarking that he saw a strong resemblance between my grandmother (his mother) when she was young—and me. I remember feeling happy, because the things I had read about her and the photos I had seen indicated that she was “a very pretty young lady.”

But my wish now is that I might be like her in other ways—more important ways. And I look forward to the day that I will see her face to face—this woman that I have loved all my life.
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