My cousin, Michael Ryder, penned this piece in 1982 for his daughter, Kammy. He wanted her to understand why he and his wife Noani had chosen such a unique name for her. The piece is a series of memories and reflections on my Grandmother Ryder. The feelings and emotions that Mike taps in this piece are very similar to those that members of my part of the family hold so dear and close. I’ve transcribed his heart-felt writing verbatim. I hope he doesn't mind it being posted here, as I haven't been able to track him down to ask him. I'll post my own reflections of that time and place at some point in the near future. (I hope I spelled their names correctly)
Kamila
She stands amidst my childhood memories as large and wide with a full face and strong arms that captured me once a year for a greeting. It was of no use to struggle as she held each of us in turn against her apron. The price of freedom, my brothers and I knew, was a large wet kiss that she bestowed upon us as a blessing.
Once a year, generally in July or August, we made the auto trek from our home in Ohio to the outer edges of Long Island, where my father was born. The long trip was always undertaken with enthusiasm that invariably degenerated to repetitive cries of “Aren’t we there yet?” and “How much farther is it?” The major attraction for my brothers and me was the beach, but I later came to appreciate more than that.
Our destination was North Haven, a small peninsula of homes and farms surrounded by waters entering the Great Peconic Bay from the Atlantic Ocean. We swam and played in those waters, and you’ve played there also. Do you remember? The two-story white farmhouse was, and still is for that matter, set away from the country road leading to the Shelter Island Ferry. The cinder and stone driveway runs between the grape arbor and the house, down to the old barn and loops back to the house. The shanty (I wonder why they never called it a shed?) sits a few paces from the back door. Behind the barn are woods that extend radially for a mile or so to the bay.
She always came out the back door to greet us. Her hair was dark when I was young, and her voice was loud and difficult to understand, for her native Polish persisted. It would normally take my brothers and me a couple of days to understand her accented words. Not that we ever carried on any lengthy discussions, for if truth be known, at that age we were a bit afraid of her. We had never been exposed to anyone like her.
She would hang a chicken by its feet and cut the major nerve center and artery under the tongue. When the blood drained, she would pluck the feathers, clean and cut the remains, and that chicken would become our dinner. For she operated a chicken farm with some 500 chickens that seemed like thousands to a six-year old. (According to my cousins, she would chop the chicken’s head off and watch the headless body jump around, but we later learned that was not true.)
There were flowers to be seen everywhere. A wide plot across the front of the house filled with large Hydrangea bushes of purple and white. Roses were there, and rose bushes were wrapped around the log fence extending down the driveway and bordering the road. Lilies of the Valley and Daisies grew along the side of the house. I remember Petunias and Peonies around the Blessed Virgin statue beside the shanty. Potted flowers grew through the winter in the large bay-windowed room that felt the mid-day and late afternoon sun. Every day she walked among the bushes nearly as tall as she. I was always amazed at the way she worked in her garden, bent at the waist with her back straight for hours at a time.
Her voice would boom out at one brother or another or me to climb down from the grape arbor, to stay away from the tractor, to stop chasing the chickens or they wouldn’t lay.
In the evenings after dinner, or when we returned from swimming, or for no special reason, she would yank open the pantry closet (the door always stuck) and return with a box of cookies in her thick, worn hands. They were never offered without a nod of approval from my mother. I had the distinct impression that she and my mother had gone through an appetite spoilage confrontation. My mother may have won that battle, but I noticed she very seldom withheld the nod.
For a number of summers we were there, she slept on the living room couch that would probably be called a studio couch these days. To go to the bathroom at night, once we graduated from the chamber pot, it was required to descend the squeaky stairs and inch past her, through a darkness we never experienced in Ohio, where street lights existed. My greatest fears, when nature forced the bathroom expedition, were in waking her or finding her dead. As I tiptoed by her, if she wasn’t snoring (in Polish, I reasoned), I would listen closely for her breathing.
Her death actually came nearly 30 years later, and she did die in her sleep. At the age of 91, she fell from a chair while changing a light bulb and broke her hip. She always worked hard at what she wanted to do and always had something that needed doing, to the extreme of fixing her roof at age 80. In the hospital, there was nothing that needed her doing, and she was old, and she rested.
She was ready to die. She would say as much in her later years as your mother and I sat across the dinner table from her or as she was bidding us farewell. Her funeral and the social trappings around it struck me as a quiet celebration of one who has overcome life. Her prepared body in the casket appeared smaller than life, and my mind reverted to other images of her-sitting in the shanty doorway sorting and packing eggs, making a fuss over any unfortunate fish that we brought back from the bay, standing at rigid attention while my father took moving pictures. (My brothers and I would try to explain to her that these were moving pictures, and we would exaggerate our motion. (I wonder, did we expect her to jump around as we did?)
In her kitchen she was quite animated and, although my mother sometimes cringed at her methods, we always considered her potato pancakes and her squash pancakes (garnished with applesauce, not syrup) as a special treat. She would stand over the old stove (it still burned coal for heat, but used gas for cooking) with the squash pancakes seeming to swim in the grease. Plate after plate would travel from the skillet to the table with the admonition, “Eat! Eat! You are growing boys!” And we would eat, eat.
The large kitchen was for years the gathering place for the family. In the evenings the adults would sit around the room, talk, and drink beer, normally Rheingold. My parents’ visit brought them together, and at times my Uncle Joe (her youngest son) and his family from Virginia were there. Always present were Uncle Stan (her middle son), Aunt Dot and their kids, Kathy, Beth, Stan John, and later, Patty. At various times other members of her daughters’ (Aunt Nellie, Aunt Jean, Aunt Steph) families were there.
She always sat in the wood armed chair by the window. Her role was largely passive as she surveyed the multiple conversations and, now and then, provided a fresh beer to someone who, in the heat of discussion, had neglected to get another. She would sometimes pass among the children with cookies.
I was always drawn to these gatherings, though certainly not out of understanding, for a great deal of the conversation was carried out in Polish, and she would take an active role in her native language.
And suddenly it was a generation later. Adults and children were gathered in the same kitchen. The Rheingold and the cookies were the same, but the conversation never went to Polish. She sat in the same wood armed chair by the window, but now her hair was white. The people were changed. I was there with your mother. Many of the other adults were the children of the past, at times my brothers and cousins and their families. Uncle Stan and Aunt Dot were still there. She would offer cookies to our children, much as we had been. You were not yet born. She would retire earlier, and the evening would end sooner or move to Uncle Stan’s. In the last years they would completely take place at Uncle Stan’s.
There was one more total family gathering in her kitchen after we buried her. We were the life that had literally sprung forth from her.
In retrospect, that next generation hadn’t arrived all that suddenly. A number of gradual changes had taken place. The chickens
Had diminished and then disappeared completely. The garden and flowers were there, but not as many. She still battled the deer for the vegetables she grew and could still be seen snapping beans on the front porch. She slowed down as she got older, but took good care of herself. She would nap two or three times a day, but when awake, she kept very active.
Your mother and I frequently visited Long Island right after we were married and living in New Jersey. Actually, it was your mother who spent a goodly amount of time with her. I would habitually rush off after dinner to Uncle Stan’s to drink, watch a ball game, or visit the American Legion, while your mother would stay and listen and talk with her. Your mother eventually chided me into staying, and I’m glad I did.
She would recall her life and the joys and trials that were a part of it. She would involve herself so deeply in the telling that tears would roll from her eyes or her voice would for a moment raise itself in historic chastisement or recounted joy. Often her tongue would tire of English and would comfortably revert to Polish in mid-sentence. Your mother would interrupt, “English, Grandma, speak English.”
She would prepare us for her recollections by offering a taste of her homemade Cherry wine. We were made to understand that only special guests were invited to share this with her. The “wine” burned all the way down, and so it should, considering its ingredients. She would squeeze cherries provided by her daughter and mix the juice with 180 proof vodka. Thus fortified, she would speak of Poland, the trip over, about her husband (my grandfather), the farm, her pride in the birth and rearing of her children with particular anecdotes of my father.
She was born in the village of Rutka, Poland, on July 21, 1884. Times were difficult in Poland, and in 1904, she made her way to the United States to join other relatives already located in Sag Harbor. She went to work at Fahys Watch case Factory (later to become Bulova). Two years later she married Alfons Ryder (the family name had been changed from Rascizewski, pronounced Raas-chee-shef-ski, when they arrived in this country) who also worked at the watch factory.
Her first child, a son, was stillborn. Her second child, a daughter, named Helen, was born in Poland, where they had returned for a visit. Alfons soon went back to Sag Harbor, but she remained in Poland for nearly 2 years. On the return trip, her daughter, Helen, contracted measles on the ship and was hospitalized when the boat docked in Philadelphia. But Helen did not recover.
She rejoined her husband in Sag Harbor, and in the following years, three children were born (your grandfather was the middle one). She had returned to work at the watch factory and then worked as a laundress for the nuns at Sacred Heart Academy boarding school. She also functioned as a midwife in the community. Around 1922, they bought some farm property across the bridge in North Haven. As three more children came, they expanded the house significantly, and the farm as well, with a few cows and horses and more and more chickens (some years, as many as 4000 chicks were hatched). Her husband, Alfons, my grandfather, died when I was very young. I don’t remember him.
Her action in replacing the wine in the cellarway signaled the end of the reminiscences and heralded the beginning of the daily dishwashing debate. She and your mother would loudly discuss who should do the dishes, and she would gracefully relinquish them to your mother each time. We all took pleasure in the battle.
She lived her own life, and the discipline of her days was of her own choosing. She arose early and absorbed the news and weather loudly (for she was hard of hearing) from the radio in the kitchen. It was difficult to sleep late in her house.
During my summer between high school and college, my friend Ed and I came from Ohio to visit. She welcomed me with the expected hug and wet kiss, but somehow she wasn’t as large as she used to be, or so it appeared. Each morning, she’d recite the weather verbatim from the radio and summarize the news. Each evening as we left the house in search of adventure, she would spout a litany of daily automobile accidents with death tolls and graphic injury descriptions to justify her admonition to drive safely.
The day we went fishing, we borrowed an old wooden handled knife, sharpened so many times the blade was razor thin. In the boat, I tossed Ed the knife. It hit the cross seat, sprung out the boat, and slowly disappeared to the bottom of the bay. Our tactic was to avoid the subject and concentrate on the fact that we surprisingly caught a couple of Blowfish.
A few days later, after dinner the evening before we were to leave, she went to the cellarway and offered us a nip of her cherry wine, and I knew we were welcome back. I did not have the opportunity to prepare Ed for the wine, and he was gaspingly impressed, truly at a loss for words. No sooner had the toast been completed than she stated, “You lost the knife.” It wasn’t a question. Before we left the next morning, we replaced the knife.
When we returned to Ohio, I overheard Ed describing her to his family in terms of respect and admiration that had yet to occur to me.
I wonder if she ever used the new knife. She couldn’t be called old-fashioned, but whatever was new had to provide some new capability, useful to her, for it to be accepted. My parents finally replaced her old triangular side opening toaster that burned both bread and fingers with a new pop-up model that automatically controlled the browning of the bread. But the new appliance offered her no advantage for with the old toaster, she knew when it was toasted to her liking, and her toughened hands withstood great heat. (She seldom used pot holders at the stove.) So the new toaster was duly packed away and properly retrieved for use only when my parents or their children visited.
She did enjoy television, but only a few selected programs with regularity-Jackie Gleason, Lawrence Welk, The People’s Choice with Cleo the talking beagle, I Love Lucy (probably the same episodes you’ve seen), and, of course, the news. She particularly trusted Walter Cronkite.
She was a proud practical woman. My father, upon leaving, would always give her a check or some cash. As a matter of course, when we began visiting with regularity, I would attempt to leave anywhere from 5 to 20 dollars with her. There was always a battle, sometimes short, other times long, and I occasionally lost or had to compromise. It was her position that I was just starting a family and had a need for the money. It was only when she had a specific use for the money that she gave in quickly.
Her existence was simple, and she had few needs. Once she became too old to go to Mass every Sunday, the priest would bring her communion every 2 weeks. She was about the only house call her doctor continued to make, every 2 weeks for a shot and pills that aided in circulation and eased her arthritic pain. Her daughter, Nellie, would do most of her food shopping, and one or another of her son Stan’s family would look in on her each day. She stated many times the priorities in her daily life-first came God, second the doctor, and third her daily can of beer. If the weather permitted, a portion of each afternoon was spent on the front porch overlooking her flowers with her rosary in one hand and her Rheingold in the other.
Other times she could be found on the front porch, currying her cat. When I was young, in addition to chickens, cows, and horses, there were always two or three dogs and uncountable cats that lived in the barn. As the years passed, the number of animals dwindled until only one cat remained. Polly was a wild barn cat that tolerated no human other than her. For years, I never caught the slightest glimpse of that cat, until a morning when I arose remarkably early from the beer binge of the night before. As I was entering the far doorway of the kitchen, I saw a black fur ball leap from her arms and roll, or so it seemed, across the linoleum and down the steep steps to the coal bin.
Polly was small with long, black fur and a bushy tail, as large as the rest of her, that would have made a squirrel proud. The long hair tangled in the bushes of the woods, and Polly would sit patiently in her lap as she combed out the burrs with gentleness that belied the ruggedness of her appearance and the arthritic awkwardness of her hands. On one visit, we rather thoughtlessly and disastrously brought our cat along. One morning we observed many ugly black and blue welts on her arms. There had been a cat confrontation, and she was the loser. On each subsequent visit, she would inquire as to the health of our cat and remark that it was good that we left it at home.
Over the years, we became very comfortable there. Our conversations with her were sometimes repetitive and sometimes uncomfortable as she honestly relived the emotions she had felt in all her life toward the people around her. We came to know her well and were welcome from the traditional wet kiss greeting, now being barely tolerated in turn by your brother, Chris, to the equally ritualistic farewell.
The strong hug and kiss would be followed by a command to God to bless us (I never quite considered it a request). There were normally tears in her eyes, and there had always been tears in my mother’s eyes as we piled into the car, circled the backyard loop, and passed by her waving her handkerchief. I must confess that scene occasionally blurred my vision, which I dutifully hid from my brothers. The pattern of departure persisted from one generation to the next with one additional form. After her God bless and our reciprocal plea, we would indicate that we would see her again. Her response was that she might not be here next time, but she always was, until the last time.
You never knew her. In fact, I didn’t know her fully two-thirds of her life, and your mother knew her even less. She wasn’t special in the eyes of the world, but she was special to us. She had a character, an aura, that carried her toward her purposes, that allowed her to more than survive the difficulties that attack life. I believe that she was true to herself, a phrase that is sometimes distorted. I mean it in a positive sense of fulfillment and understanding of self that dispels any self incrimination of a life wasted.
It is that inner strength that we wished you in giving you her name. If your brother had been a girl, he would have had your name. Your mother first made the suggestion. I had always thought it was unfair to burden a child with another’s name, but we agreed that this was somehow different.
It is a unique name that means flower in Polish and does allow a simple nickname. We hoped to allow you the option with your more conventional middle name, should the other become a problem for you.
Our intent was not to burden you with an ideal, for her life was not spectacular, outstanding, or even unique. But it appeared to be a success. We wish you that inner strength that both demands and allows more than simple survival, not in the perception of others, but by your own measure. But wishing doesn’t make it so.
For ourselves, in addition to the beauty of the name, we enjoyed the public testimony of our respect for her, and the private pleasure of informing her of our decision. Actually, we had some difficulty in making her understand, but she was pleased with the thought.
Her last summer, the summer after you were born, we made our annual trek to Long Island from Columbus, Ohio, where we were then living. And she called you Kumcha, her childhood name and wondered why you had no hair as yet.
On that visit, I took the picture that has always resided on your dresser or our dresser or on the wall of your room. She is sitting on her front porch in the old green metal chair, dressed in a flannel shirt over her long brown dress. Your brother Chris is standing at her side, and she is holding you on her apron-covered lap.
In celebration of our marriage, she presented your mother and me with her statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary. It now stands on the highest shelf of your closet where it will safely remain until you pass through your awkward stage.
Whenever she went to Mass or on other special occasions, around her neck she would wear her heart-shaped locket that had been a gift from my parents a long time ago. My mother now has that locket and will one day present it to you.
Addendum: Mike and his wife live near Chicago. Their kids are all grown now, but I've lost track of their doings. Kammy is over 30 now, but I haven't seen her since our 1995 Giles County Virginia reunion. Mike's brother Steve lives in Alabama while his brother Joe lives in New Jersey with his father (Uncle Tony). Tony, now about 94 years old, recently moved from his Massillon, Ohio house and in with Joe. Mike's mother, Aunt Bea, passed away several years ago now. Others mentioned in the story were Kamila's sons and daughters. Of them, only Tony, Jean, and my father, Joe, remain with us. Uncle Stan's wife, Dot still lives next to the family farm in her house with her son Stan John. My Aunt Jean bought the farm from the family after grandma passed away and has lived there ever since. Her son Bud built a house in the field between Grandma's and Uncle Stan's place, but Bud has since sold the house and moved away. The great woods surrounding the farm all the way to the bay a mile away have all been "developed" with pricey McMansions...no not McMansions...Real Mansions. North Haven is a playground for the Hampton/Sag Harbor elite. I guess you really can't go back to a simpler time, except in your mind and your blog.
