So many of my memories of my grandmother are set in her kitchen, with its yellow walls, white appliances, red brick linoleum floor. . . Surely you remember it too: the co-mingled smells of coffee and cigarettes, something sweet baking in the oven, something tasty frying on the stove . . .
Nora Catherine Lemanski Bacon. There is a black and white photo of her, around age 20 -- hip cocked, standing on the front step of the tenement where she grew up. She looks sassy, spirited, ready to take on whatever would come her way – which we know now would be 41 years of marriage to Francis “Joe” Bacon; a house on Howland Avenue; Bobby and Mike, her two sons; a cutter’s job in the Waverly Fabric Mill. And then later grandchildren – Joey, Audrey, Kezia, Marnie, and Jeremy.
I knew Nora only as a child would – the doting grandmother who made sure the candy dishes were brimming when my sister and I would come to visit, who always had something special waiting for us -- a new outfit, a coloring book, or some small toy. Gram smiled a lot; she talked AND listened to us; she let us have sugar cereal when our mother would not.
When my parents, my sister and I made the four-hour drive from Marshfield to Adams, there she’d be in the kitchen – the warmest room in the house. Even though she worked all week, the countertops would be filled with sweets – a cake, a pie, a pan of brownies, a plate of cookies. Gram would be at the stove, frying up “spiders” – the hot dogs for which she split the ends into quarters and then blackened in the pan. Spiders, baked beans, her special cabbage salad . . . and Squeeze soda! Soda was a special treat reserved for Gram’s house, and Squeeze was by far the best, manufactured right there in Adams.
After dinner, after tasting at least one and probably ALL of the treats Gram and her sisters had baked, my sister and I would retire to the living room, firing up the old analog tv with the huge rabbit ears. But eventually we’d return to the kitchen, to listen to the adults talk, or sometimes join in a game of rummy. Grampa got home from work right before dinner. Gram’s sisters came by at all hours – Steffie, who lived next door; Blanche, who lived a few miles away. Nora was one of nine children, most of whom still lived in and around Adams.
After dinner, and throughout the weekend, the kitchen would fill with grown-ups. Half the time, I didn’t know who they were. Many were related – aunts, uncles, cousins – and plenty more were friends stopping in for coffee or, depending on the hour, a drink or two. Gram liked a highball, or maybe a 7&7, along with her cigarettes. Grampa always had a shot and a beer.
(Hold up Gram’s recipe box.)
This is my Gram’s recipe box. I associate her so much with food, yet the box is barely half filled. Perhaps she didn’t need recipes. But there are some good ones in here.
(Pull out first card.)
Like her apple cake -- one of my favorites. It reminds me of her warm, loving smile. Gram was fun and easy to be around; and she told great stories.
(Pull out next card.)
Or this one, for doughnuts. I don’t actually remember Gram making doughnuts, but I do recall that every time she and Grampa came to visit, I’d wake in the morning to the foreign smell of percolated coffee in our kitchen. If we were lucky, they would have already come back from Leo’s Bakery. I didn’t understand why they liked the plain doughnuts so much. They saved the lemon, jelly and frosted ones for us.
(Pull out next card.)
And what about this one? Fried Cucumbers? Gram’s note here says that, when served with tartar sauce, they taste like fish. Nora was frugal – she had to be. Grampa worked long days in the quarry; she did the same at the mill. They did not live an extravagant life. I remember clipping coupons with her at the kitchen table, and shopping for bargains on Saturday mornings at Price Chopper, where she’d let me dig in her purse for a stick of Beech Nut gum. Gram played the Daily Numbers Game, the same combination over and over. Between that and scratch tickets, she won a few bucks every now and then.
Let’s take one more card.
(Pull out final card.)
This one is simply entitled: wine. It involves Welch’s Grape Juice and a balloon. Hmm.
Most of you know that Gram had a little side businesses selling Victor Volpe’s moonshine, which she stored in a secret compartment in her stairwell. Sunday mornings there would be a steady stream of guests in search of “Coffee Royal.” The Police not only looked the other way, they were some of her best customers!
I was nine when my mother pulled me aside for a serious talk. We were going to visit Gram and Grampa, and my mother asked us to be careful. “Don’t hug Gram too hard, okay? She is sick in her bones, and we don’t want to break her.” Gram had fallen and broken her shoulder. When they x-rayed it, they found cancer.
The summer before Gram died, I went alone to stay with her and Grampa for a week. One night when I was getting ready for bed, I found Gram sitting at the kitchen table. Her wig removed, she had a filmy kerchief tied around her chemo-bald head. I’d never seen my otherwise-lively grandmother look so tired.
Gram gathered me close to her, and she gave me a hug and a kiss and told me that she loved me. I knew – even at nine – that while our days together were few, I would never forget the way she made me feel – so, so happy and loved. I’m sure a lot of us here today felt that way.
The next time we visited, Gram was in the hospital. And the next time, she was gone. That yellow kitchen never felt so lonely. After the funeral, it was wall-to-wall people – friends and family of all stripes. There was coffee brewing, drinks flowing, food filling every last inch of flat space . . . but no Gram. It wasn’t the same room without her.
My father likes to tell two stories about Gram. In one, he and Mike, like all kids, are testing their limits, tossing some curse words into their dinnertime conversation to see if their mother will notice, or care. Hands on her hips, exasperated, Nora scolds, “You kids better quit your goddamn swearing.” And then she laughs – realizing how her goddamn kids had learned to swear in the first place.
The other story is about Nora's favorite song. Gram used to sing along to the radio, which she kept on the kitchen counter. Whether she was baking, or cooking, or sewing, or clipping coupons, it was on. Her favorite song was “On The Sunny Side of the Street.” She took comfort in the notion that no matter how much life got you down, you could always find a bright side.
That’s where we need to look today. Nora was a light in all of our lives – through her stories, through her cooking, through the unconditional love she gave to her family and her friends. She may be gone, but the impact she made on all of us will not fade.
I’ll leave you with these words, from Nora’s favorite song.
Grab your coat and get your hat
Leave your worry on the doorstep
Just direct your feet
To the sunny side of the street
Can’t you hear the pitter-pat
And that happy tune is your step
Life can be so sweet
On the sunny side of the street
I used to walk in the shade
With my blues on parade
But I’m not afraid . . .
This rover crossed over
If I never had a cent
I’d be rich as Rockefeller
Gold dust at my feet
On the sunny side of the street.
