Family History

Recently, I have developed a lovely interaction with my cousin Luke on Facebook. Luke is a college student in the UK. He's on the light side of 20, tall, dark and very handsome. He has the good fortune of inheriting the best genes from both of his parents. He's thoughtful, sensitive and rather adorable. I have grown quite fond of him. We were never exposed to one another during my many family gathering trips to the UK but now, thanks to the power of social networking, we've now connected and become quite good friends.

Our shared family history is complicated. I never actually articulated it but during an exchange on Facebook chat recently, I had a sense that maybe Luke didn't know the whole history of our family. So I'll try to explain it here.

My maternal grandmother, Hilda (above), was one of the strongest women I've ever known. She had a bluntness that would cut through mere mortals like a knife but she was also a person who was fiercely loyal, deeply loving and as protective as a lioness. Hilda operated a cafe in the New Cross section of London in the 1930s. Her husband (and my grandfather) Albert Edgar was traveling on a yearlong world tour playing football/soccer on behalf of HRH King George. It was clearly the defining period of his life.

In his absence, Hilda held the fort in London with my mother and aunt. World War II and the Blitz of London took place. I heard horror stories throughout my childhood of homes being bombed out, of dismembered bodies in the street, of hunger, poverty and fear. I remember all of these tales and felt grateful that I had safety, comfort and sustenance every night. I remember all of her stories still--quite vividly.

Hilda was a tough old broad and I adored her. She lived with us many years in our home in California. I never quite understood about her husband(s), but when I was old enough, the truth came out.

Edgar (as she called him) came back from his glorious world tour to a wife and children in a war-torn London. He had met another woman, a young girl named Phyllis. Phyllis was very young but apparently had a charm that was irresistible to Edgar. She soon became pregnant.

When Hilda learned of this great matter, she said (in her usual frank fashion), "Well, Edgar--You've simply got to marry the girl." He divorced my grandmother and married Phyllis. It was a marriage that yielded three children and became a lifelong and very happy marriage.

So what did Hilda do? She married again, a man named Fred Wheeler. It was by all accounts a happy marriage although she soon saw her daughters marry an American (my dad) and a Dutchman (my uncle) And soon after, her daughters moved to California. Hilda couldn't bear the separation from her daughters. When the daughters encouraged her to move to California, she implored Mr. Wheeler. He was unmoved--he would never leave Britain. And in true Hilda fashion, she left Mr. Wheeler, packed her bags and moved to America. Permanently. She never returned to Britain for the rest of her life. I have no clue what happened to Mr. Wheeler or if they ever divorced, but I do know this--my Grandma was my hero. That woman had balls.

I grew up with Hilda in the house. She could be harsh and she could be loving. It didn't matter. I adored her completely. She was frank in sharing the hardships of her life. She told me war stories that kept me awake for days. I loved it when she would make a cuppa (tea) and we'd sit in the kitchen and talk. We'd putter together in the garden and she taught me so much about plants and flowers.She was a woman who didn't go beyond the 6th grade in school, but she read Webster's Dictionary as part of her daily progress and endeavored to complete the New York Times crossword every day. She usually killed it.

I was on a fight from California to New Jersey when I heard she had died at age 87. I screamed out in anguish at Newark Airport. It was a bad moment but I was beyond distraught to lose such a pivotal force in my life.

She was cremated and buried in a rather pristine vault in a mortuary in Palm Springs, California.I visit it occasionally when I get to the West Coast. Her physical remians mean nothing; her lessons mean everything.

They always will.