Dear Penelope,
You were born too late to ever get to know your great-granny. Her name was Jemima Macdonald. With a name like that, you had to have a sense of humor. See, she was born in Scotland, and was named after an auntie, and it's not the name of breakfast syrup. She was born Jemima Cambridge, with humble beginings. She used to tell me about her father, and how wonderful he was. Once there was a dance recital, and she needed new shoes, and even though they couldn't afford it, her father suprised her with them.
She had stories like you couldn't believe. But what made the stories so spectacular, was her storytelling. She was in the story, and brought you with her. You saw the hills of Scotland, the castle she lived in during the war, you heard the bombs, you tasted the toast that she burnt when cooking breakfast for the headmaster, you listened to the guitar her father played. I went on so many adventures with your great-granny, and we never even left the room.
Her greatest accomplishments, started when she met Peter, your great grandfather. She worked in a factory, cleaning telephone parts, and in walked Peter. They met, they courted, they fell in love. Things weren't always easy, but they married, they honeymooned, and they came to America. On a ship, brought nothing but blankets and woolen sweaters.
They arrived in America in the spring and lived with her Aunt and uncle in a wee apartment in what is now Hells Kitchen. Below them, a grocer, whom one time confused her asking for a bar of soap with a can of soup. That is one thing about your great-granny, she never lost her accent. I think that's what I miss, so seldom do you hear an authentic Scottish accent.
They eventually started settling down, moved to New Jersey, and started their family. First came wee Keith, whom you never had the devine pleasure of knowing as well. Then came your grandpa, Craig. There was Laurie and Grant, the house in Old Bridge, and her job in the nursery school. Even in her senior years, she still kept gifts from the kids she once sang songs and read stories to.
She was blessed with five grandkids, Leanne, Brian, Chris, Ian, and your mommy. We have all been raised by granny. We all know about the faries in the mushrooms, wee willy winkie, and slept in the green bedroom. She made us all pancakes, mince and tatties, barley soup, pistachio cake. She used to whip cream by hand. Her house was immaculate. We sat on the living room floor playing dominoes or shops, and she always lost because of her excitement.
She had a closet full of things she didn't wear. As kids, your mommy, uncle, and their cousins played dress up, put on performances, and wrecked the house. We hunted easter eggs until we were 30. She always, always gave us cards full of money.
She swam, bowled, and did aerobics. She walked, and made us all walk with her. She loved shopping, and cooking, and holidays. She loved children the most, and when you were born, she held you for "oowers" (hours). She loved her great grandchildren, Charlie, and Evangeline, and you my darling.
She was all of 4'11", with a poof of orange hair and a peacock call you could here for miles. I can still see her hands. Her wedding ring, the wrinkles, a ring from Keith. I can smell the turnips on the stove. I can hear her singing christmas carols, and reading "Who Lives On The Farm" before making me do my prayers and go to bed. I guess even though shes left us, she's still taking me with her, on her adventures.
I wish you could have known her, Penelope. I wish you could have seen her after a glass of champagne on New Years Eve, whilst belting out a traditional rendition of Auld Lang Syne. Which would immediately be followed up with the history of how that's a Scottish tune and us Americans took it.
But the words of the song translate into something so beautiful, and poignant: times long past.
I'm happy to know that one day you'll come to me, with a family tree school project, and I can tell you all 'aboot' her. Your great-granny, Mima.
With Love,
Mommy
