Sharon Fiffer

Emory Schmidt was my paternal grandfather.  According to the family story, he died of the flu a few days before he was due to head off to fight in World War I.

My grandmother, Jessie, widowed with three young children, was ill, too.  Her older brother and his wife offered to adopt her youngest child.  He was just over a year old.  My grandmother agreed.  Her childless brother and his wife who lived in another state made her promise that she would not tell anyone she was the boy's mother but, instead, content herself to be known as his "aunt." She agreed to that, too.

When I was around 12, my father told me this story.  He was six years old when his father died, his sister was four, and, as noted, his little brother, soon to become his cousin, was a baby.  I didn't even know how to ask the questions raised by this story.  How did my dad feel about losing his father?  About losing his brother at the same time?

I loved my grandmother. She taught me embroidery and always had a craft project ready for me when I visited on weekends.  But when I heard she allowed her son to be taken away from her, my feelings changed.

After she died, I talked to my aunt about it, asked her if she was angry that her little brother was given away.

"Your grandmother was pressured. Her own mother told her to do it.  The flu ripped through the country, ripped through families. No one knew who was going to live or die.  She was a widow with no money. It was a different time," my aunt said. "She paid a heavy price."

Several years ago, after my aunt died, my cousin sent me boxes of photos and papers.  I found this letter written 102 years ago.  I knew my grandfather had been a printer and, apparently he was a valued employee. I framed it.

Christmas and the pandemic.  The first one.