Pennsylvania Beginnings

Stories for My Grandchildren

Carmichaels, Pennsylvania, circa 1957

My paternal grandparents: 
Chester Arthur Sharpnack 
Born April 18, 1883, died January 4, 1958
Mary Frances Dugan Sharpnack
Born November 1, 1891, died July 23, 1978

I'm with my Grammy in her snow-covered backyard. Her riotous fashion ensemble - floral print housedress, sturdy black lace-up shoes, heavy teal overcoat and lavender gingham sunbonnet - renders her ready for whatever the day brings. My handmade sunbonnet matches hers, providing perfect shade for my eyes, yet entirely discordant with my puffy red snowsuit. She squeezes my hand and strolls through the garden, cataloguing the posies that have poked their heads through the glazed powdery snow.

"See that?" She points to a tiny flower stoically spreading its velvety purple petals to catch the morning's glittering sunbeams. "That's a Johnny Jump-Up. And over there's a Jonquil. Look, here comes a greedy little squirrel. He'll be looking for nuts pretty soon, squirreling them away so his family can feast all through next winter. Uh oh, here comes another squirrel. He wants nuts, too. Now we're going to have a fight. Who do you think will win?" 

I take it all in, remembering. Everything she says becomes a story. Her singsong voice soothes me into listening, entices me to engage in the tale. I can't wait to hear how it all turns out. My love of stories blossoms.  

We meander to the back of the yard and my breath quickens when we enter Grampy's workshop. There is no better place on earth for a five-year-old girl who is now under the influence of a dazzling array of carpentry tools. When Grammy heads back to the kitchen to finish baking blackberry pies, Grampy reminds me that tools aren't toys; I must be careful. Then he fetches the wooden stool he made just for me, accompanied by a handful of nails and a small hammer. Under his watchful eye, I will be permitted to drive the nails into the stool. Oh, happy day!

"Hold the nail straight and tap it in," he says, covering my hammer-holding hand with his crooked, leathery fingers. He taps the nail head until the point punctures the wood's surface, then releases my hand. I look to him for further instruction. He nods, points at the nail and makes a tapping motion.I gingerly repeat what I've seen him do a thousand times. On the first tap, the nail inches in a bit, still straight. I'm elated! On the second tap, it's over half way in. Poised for the third strike, I bring the hammer down hard but, just before contact, I realize that my overconfidence is a big mistake. The hammer glances off the nail, bending the head sideways. I freeze, hoping that the welling tears won't spill onto the hammer still gripped in my hand. I glance up and see Grampy chuckling.

"That's okay." He pries the hammer from me and whacks the nail sideways. "Try again," he says, gently handing the hammer back to me. This time, I softly tap the nail twice to get it to seat. Grampy whistles his approval and leads me to the potbellied, four-legged honey extractor in the corner. "You know what to do," he says, nudging me forward, sticking my hand under the spout as he turns on the spigot. The dark, sweet honey drips on my finger and runs down my wrist. I quickly slurp it before it oozes into my snowsuit's sleeve.

"Can I have another drip?" I ask, already knowing what he'll say.

"We don't want to upset your grandmother, do we? She wants us hungry when the pies come out of the oven." I begrudgingly shake my head. He takes my hand and we walk back toward the house till I break free and skip ahead. He calls out for me to watch where I'm going. I do. 

Being the first grandchild on both sides of the family was fun. And I was the only granddaughter on my father's side, so I grew up feeling that I was special. This feeling followed me throughout my life and probably helped me to look mostly at the bright side of things.