Chapter 35

We were very lucky growing up with quite an extended family. I don’t think we had a clue how much stability and consistency it provided in our young lives, but it most certainly did. Our grandparents were all good people who naturally loved us, and we loved them. Again, I don’t think we knew how unique that kind of unconditional love was.

Both our parents had an interesting but very American immigration history. Daddy’s parents were Jim and Mary Pigg. They lived in Green City, Missouri. When we were quite young, they lived on a farm, where we were introduced to horses, cows, pigs (not related), and chickens, all of whom delighted us. In the 1950s they had moved into town, close to an ice cream store, so that made us even happier.

Grandad Pigg was born James Taylor Pigg. The Pigg family has a long and storied history from landing in Kent, Virginia, in the 1670s. Grandad Pigg was a kind man, and quite handsome (except for those notorious Pigg ears, which I have inherited). He loved to entertain his grandkids by playing the harmonica. He was good at it, too! He would play, and we would all dance around the room, just as if we knew what we were doing (we did not!). I remember the first time I sat on a horse. Grandad Pigg picked me up and sat me on her back. Her name was Lady, and whenever Mother and Daddy announced we were heading down to visit our relatives in Missouri, that’s all we could talk about — riding Lady.

We were incredibly sad when Grandad died. His funeral took place on a Friday, a day when (as Catholics) we were not allowed to eat meat. The potluck gathering after the service had tons of meat dishes because these were all farmers, so we thought we’d have to go hungry until our Uncle Bill said he’d call the Pope and see if we couldn’t get a special dispensation. We all stood around him, wide-eyed, as he “called the Pope” and explained the situation. When he got off the phone, he said, “The Pope said you could eat meat today, but just this one time.” (Our Uncle Bill was clever that way. And he wasn’t even Catholic.)

Grandmother Pigg wasn’t as outgoing or jovial as Grandad. I don’t really remember much about her. She was born Mary Magdalene Busick and, like Grandad, she was a Baptist. She was born in 1886, also in Missouri, but she died in 1957, a couple of years before Grandad, and I think he always pined for her. We were closer to Mother’s parents, Ted and Isabelle Mares, because they lived in Maple Lake, Minnesota, where we mostly grew up. We visited with Grandad and Grandmother Mares every Sunday or holy day, after church services. They lived right across the street from St. Timothy’s Catholic Church, so it was just natural to stop in. Mother would have a coffee while we tried to behave and sit quietly, all dressed up in our Sunday clothes. Mother never stayed too long, as she knew we were about ready to implode after sitting in church, and then during the visit. Too much for four young hooligans like ourselves.

Grandmother Mares was born Isabelle Adeline Smith in 1898 in French Lake, Minnesota. Her relatives, on her mother’s side, were from Quebec, Canada, but her father’s family was from France, immigrating to the U.S. in the late 1800s. She was a lively person, with a great, booming laugh. She was a good cook, so we always enjoyed eating there. Mother doted on her. She passed away from cancer when I was 15, and I think it was pretty devastating for Grandad.

Of all of our grandparents, Grandad Mares played the largest role in our lives, or at least he did in mine. He was born Theodore Andrew Mares in 1897 in Buffalo, Minnesota. His father’s family came from Berlin, Germany, emigrating to the U.S. in the late 1800s. I think the big giveaway that Grandad had recent German heritage was how neat and tidy his home was. Everything had a place. My favorite “place” happened to be the trash can under his desk. Grandad sat at that desk to pay bills, read through mail, etc. And every Sunday for about a year, when I was maybe six or seven, I would raid his trash can, taking out the papers and envelopes and bringing them home with me so I could play secretary. His patience with my obsession with his trash was commendable. I think he carefully placed papers in the trash can just for me.

Grandad Mares owned property on Maple Lake (the lake itself) and built himself and Grandmother a nice little summer cabin with a big screened-in porch. The family would go down there sometimes for Sunday potluck dinners, or on a holiday like the 4th of July. Grandmother and Mother would cook up a storm, and we’d all chow down. We kids would, of course, bring our swimsuits and go swimming. But only after waiting an hour after the meal, of course.

The summer that Grandad was building their cabin, he would drive past our farm on his way to work, stopping on the road at the end of the driveway so he could pick up our dog, Queenie, so she could ride down to the lake with him. She followed him everywhere when he was at the farm, and loved to go hunting along the beach. Then he’d drop her off each evening on his way home. It was the cutest thing. We’d often walk through the corn field on a hot summer afternoon, heading down to his construction site where we’d put on our swimsuits and swim the afternoon away. He even built us a little “changing shed” so we could put on our suits in private! On those days, we sometimes got to hitch a ride home with Queenie and Grandad.

In my junior year of college, I was accepted into a special program at Oxford University in England. It was a six-week course. After I finished the course, I backpacked around Europe for another month. When I was in Rome, at a shop near the Basilica, I found a beautiful rendition of Michaelangelo’s Pieta. I bought it for Grandad, knowing he would love it. I carried that marble statue in my backpack, all over Europe, for weeks. When I returned to Minnesota and gave Grandad his Pieta, he was thrilled. He carefully unwrapped it, and we were greeted with a minor miracle. Just days before I gave the Pieta to Grandad, the original was seriously damaged at St. Peter’s in Rome when a fellow attacked the statue with a hammer, breaking Mary’s arm. The Pieta my grandfather unwrapped also had Mother Mary’s broken arm. Grandad was in awe and kept that statue in a place of honor. Grandad died when I was 32. I wasn’t there for his funeral, and I have to say it is a regret. He was such a kind and generous man.

Linda:  I’ve already written some of my memories about our grandparents, but I have a few things to add. I loved Grandad Pigg, who was affectionate and attentive, but barely remember anything about Grandmother Pigg. I don’t think she liked little kids all that much. Like Cindy, Grandmother and Grandad Mares played a much more prominent role in our lives, partly because they lived until we were older and were close by in Maple Lake.

My first memory of Grandad was of being spanked by him. Yes, really. We were visiting Minnesota (before we moved there), and I was probably four and Cindy three. He caught us sliding down the banister, which rose high above the hallway floor. We had been told not to do that.  He snatched us off and gave us a smack on the bottom. We were so shocked because we were rarely spanked, and never by a stranger, which he was to us at that time.  I thought he was just being mean. Years later, I realized how dangerous it probably was for two little girls.  Mother got mad at him, and told him he was never to touch us again! He never did.

When I got older, married, and moved away, I felt sorry for him. He seemed so lonely without Grandmother, who died too young of breast cancer in her 60s. I got to know him as an adult and liked him a lot.  I sent him birthday cards, Christmas cards, and sometimes “just because” cards.  Mother said he always called her when he got one and really appreciated them.

I missed all of their funerals, except Grandad Pigg’s. We were too poor to take all of us to Grandmother Pigg’s funeral. Cindy has told you about Grandad Pigg’s funeral. I was sick with the flu when Grandmother Mares was buried, just after Christmas in 1965. I was living in Colorado when Grandad Mares died. They say funerals are for closure for those left behind.  But I’d rather live with the good memories of them than the sadness of seeing them in a casket.