When I think of my grandparents, George Michael Martin and Florence Halliday, I think of them as living a quiet life. And they did -- when I knew them.
My earliest remembrances of my grandparents are of them sitting on the front porch of their house on the east side of West Frankfort, Illinois. I have vague memories of that house -- I think it was on Cherry Street. There may have been a swing on the front porch. There was definitely an outhouse in the backyard. That was the main memory I have of that house. I can't even picture my grandparents inside the house but I've never forgotten the outhouse.
At some point, they moved across town to a small house on Parkhill. I believe I was told my grandma's sister, Mary, paid for the house. I don't know if that was true, but by this time, my grandfather was not working. He had been crippled in a coal mining accident and spent the rest of his life in pain. And this is the house that I always picture them in.
My grandfather had a recliner that sat next to the large picture window. From there, he could watch TV, read the newspaper, and survey the world outside. He spent most of his time there, periodically going to the Elks club for a couple of beers.
I picture my grandmother either sitting on the couch or working in the kitchen. She was a good cook and part of that apron-wearing generation, so when she was in the kitchen, she almost always had on an apron. When fixing lunch, she usually had the radio turned on. It sat on the hutch (which now sits in my living room), and she listened to the local news - mainly about people who were admitted to or released from the local UMW hospital. Whenever we visited, she always made a meal of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding - and she baked a peach pie.
My dad's sister, June, lived with my grandparents. She faced some intellectual challenges, but in many ways, her life was more outward-facing than my grandparents'. Every day, weather permitting, Aunt June would walk up town and wander through the shops, where she was well known to most of the shop owners. She rarely bought anything except true-confession magazines that she really liked (and that, as kids, we thought were terribly risqué). But she brought back the local gossip she had gathered.
My grandparents did not own a car. I suspect that my grandmother never learned how to drive, and my grandfather's injury likely prevented him from driving. But I think, as they grew older, that fact kept them even more isolated. They lived in a small town where most everything was within walking distance, but getting to the downtown area did require walking quite a number of blocks.
So this was their everyday life. Quiet. Routine. Seemingly peaceful. There was no hint of what their lives had been like before I came along -- and that's a different story entirely!!
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This Week's #52Ancestors Prompt is Quiet Life
