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Authors: Katherine Leiner
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Great-gram. Imagine it. She was walking home from a friend’s house in a fluffy pink dress, her hair piled high on her head. It was love at first sight for both of them. The bad news was, three days later, Great-granda had to go back to Mer-ythr. Great-gram tried to talk him into staying, but he was already working in the mine here and couldn’t.”
So Great-gram wrote long romantic letters to Great-granda every single solitary day for months, getting answers back each day.
“And I guess when you are in love the way they were in love, after a while letters, even long poetic letters, just aren’t enough. She couldn’t stand being without him a moment longer. So, withouttelling a soul, she took a horse from the barn, saddled it up and, with only a change of clothes, food for one day and her Bible, rode off through the mountains, telling herself it would only be for a fortnight. But fourteen days later she wrote her parents, telling them she was staying in Merythr Tydfil for good.” Cram gets a faraway look in her eyes when she tells the story.
“So you see, girl, farming’s in my blood,” Gram says, pointing at the lush earth she calls her “Victory Garden” of tomatoes.
And I know my granda must still be in her blood, too. Because even though he’s been gone for fifteen years, Gram still says, “It’ll always be him and only him that I love.”
I don’t know much about Mam’s family. Except that her mam had died early on of tuberculosis and her da had remarried and Mam never much liked her stepmother. She didn’t talk about them much and we never saw them. I have her mam’s hair, she says. Unruly and dark.
By the time I get home from Hallie’s, there is a crowd in the kitchen. My older brother and Mam, Gram and Da. Auntie Beryl is there, too, in one of her wild full skirts and her jangling earrings, gypsylike, her curly red hair tied back in a scarf. I love it when she comes down the valley for a visit. It isn’t often enough for my liking. I’d be happy seeing Auntie Beryl every day, and I know Gram would be, too. But that isn’t possible since Auntie Beryl lives way up in the Brecon Beacons and doesn’t drive. She takes a coach everywhere.
Gram and Beryl have been friends since they were my age, best friends like Hallie and me. When they want to tell secrets they speak to each other in Welsh, both having learned it when they were little.
“It’s a sadness not to be able to speak it round the house nor in the village now, regular like. Back home, we all spoke Welsh.”
And that’s not all. Gram tells how Auntie Beryl’s family had a whole flock of sheep when the two of them were little. And Gram always says she was needing that kind of wilderness, and so whenever she was around they let her help herd those little lambs. Auntie Beryl sold the sheep and the farm after her parents died, and moved up the valley because of a broken heart. Gram never actually says how it got broke, but I think it was something having to do with a man.
When I come in, I can hear the whole group of them arguing in the kitchen. It seems they are always arguing these days, especially my brother, Parry. Used to be whenever you saw Parry he’d be quietlydrawing up a storm, or painting a portrait. Now he’s hardly home for meals and his papers and canvas lie in a pile. Auntie Beryl and Gram are both unhappy Parry gave up the offer for art school.
“It’s a real shame, ‘tis,” Gram says. “Don’t like him joining up in that weary work down the mine one bit. Don’t care what Arthur says. It’s dark and depressing and it will bleed Parry’s spirit. I’m sure of it. No talking to either Arthur or Parry, though.”
“Sell his paintings, he should. Not his heart,” Auntie Beryl agrees.
“I’m not that good, Beryl. It’ll wait. Seems to be more important matters at the moment than watercolors,” Parry tells her.
I can see Parry now, pushing his fingers through his thick yellow hair. “Why is it you
So Great-gram wrote long romantic letters to Great-granda every single solitary day for months, getting answers back each day.
“And I guess when you are in love the way they were in love, after a while letters, even long poetic letters, just aren’t enough. She couldn’t stand being without him a moment longer. So, withouttelling a soul, she took a horse from the barn, saddled it up and, with only a change of clothes, food for one day and her Bible, rode off through the mountains, telling herself it would only be for a fortnight. But fourteen days later she wrote her parents, telling them she was staying in Merythr Tydfil for good.” Cram gets a faraway look in her eyes when she tells the story.
“So you see, girl, farming’s in my blood,” Gram says, pointing at the lush earth she calls her “Victory Garden” of tomatoes.
And I know my granda must still be in her blood, too. Because even though he’s been gone for fifteen years, Gram still says, “It’ll always be him and only him that I love.”
I don’t know much about Mam’s family. Except that her mam had died early on of tuberculosis and her da had remarried and Mam never much liked her stepmother. She didn’t talk about them much and we never saw them. I have her mam’s hair, she says. Unruly and dark.
By the time I get home from Hallie’s, there is a crowd in the kitchen. My older brother and Mam, Gram and Da. Auntie Beryl is there, too, in one of her wild full skirts and her jangling earrings, gypsylike, her curly red hair tied back in a scarf. I love it when she comes down the valley for a visit. It isn’t often enough for my liking. I’d be happy seeing Auntie Beryl every day, and I know Gram would be, too. But that isn’t possible since Auntie Beryl lives way up in the Brecon Beacons and doesn’t drive. She takes a coach everywhere.
Gram and Beryl have been friends since they were my age, best friends like Hallie and me. When they want to tell secrets they speak to each other in Welsh, both having learned it when they were little.
“It’s a sadness not to be able to speak it round the house nor in the village now, regular like. Back home, we all spoke Welsh.”
And that’s not all. Gram tells how Auntie Beryl’s family had a whole flock of sheep when the two of them were little. And Gram always says she was needing that kind of wilderness, and so whenever she was around they let her help herd those little lambs. Auntie Beryl sold the sheep and the farm after her parents died, and moved up the valley because of a broken heart. Gram never actually says how it got broke, but I think it was something having to do with a man.
When I come in, I can hear the whole group of them arguing in the kitchen. It seems they are always arguing these days, especially my brother, Parry. Used to be whenever you saw Parry he’d be quietlydrawing up a storm, or painting a portrait. Now he’s hardly home for meals and his papers and canvas lie in a pile. Auntie Beryl and Gram are both unhappy Parry gave up the offer for art school.
“It’s a real shame, ‘tis,” Gram says. “Don’t like him joining up in that weary work down the mine one bit. Don’t care what Arthur says. It’s dark and depressing and it will bleed Parry’s spirit. I’m sure of it. No talking to either Arthur or Parry, though.”
“Sell his paintings, he should. Not his heart,” Auntie Beryl agrees.
“I’m not that good, Beryl. It’ll wait. Seems to be more important matters at the moment than watercolors,” Parry tells her.
I can see Parry now, pushing his fingers through his thick yellow hair. “Why is it you
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