Quest for Stories

Dust flew in the 80-year-old house’s garage as Marta and her parents hunted for tax papers of the deceased grandmother.

“I wish she kept all her tax papers in one place,” said Dad.

“She never was organized,” said Mom. “Here’s a paper we need.” She shuffled through the papers. “The rest are old letters.”

“Can I have them?” asked Marta. “You never know where inspiration to write a story will come from. Who are they from?”

“I have no idea. You can have them, but look through them on your own time. I want to be done by dark. The electricity will be shut off tonight.”

Marta did a quick scan of the papers, hoping for something to catch her eye. She caught the statement 'Stories are in the brown shoe box.’ "Do you see a brown shoe box?” She looked up and down the shelves.

“I saw one,” said Dad, “on the floor under the bottom shelf.” He pulled it out and opened it. “I’m not sure you’ll want it,” and handed it to Marta.

Marta took the box and hoped to be rewarded with at least one story. Bits of mice-chewed paper greeted her. Before looking through the box, she asked her Mom, “Was Grandma a writer?”

“Not hardly. I asked her what her vacation was like. She answered—and I quote—‘We took state highway 97 to get there.”  That was it. Does that sound like a storyteller to you?”

“Not really,” said Marta. She gritted her teeth and stuck her hand in to find something legible. “I found scraps: ‘in the room’, ‘ut wood in the cook sto’, and ouldn’t find’.” The statements piqued Marta’s reading and writing instincts.

“That doesn’t even make sense,” said her mother.

“Sure it does: ‘in the room’ sounds right, ‘put wood in the cook stove”, and either ‘couldn’t’ or ‘wouldn’t find’.”

“Marta, I told you to look through it on your own time. Right now, we need help sorting through these other papers… And make sure there isn’t a mouse in it when you carry it in our house.”

“I will,” said Marta.

The next Saturday, Marta drove to the Golden Days Nursing Home where her Grandma’s sister Ruth lived.

She started with the nurses’ station.

“Can I help you?” said a nurse.

“Yes,” Marta said. “I’m looking for Ruth McMillan, my Grandmother Esther Hawkins’ sister. She does live here, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, but you’ll only have about half an hour to visit because lunch will be served then.” The nurse called a nurse-aide. “Is Ruth awake?”

The nurse-aide responded with a nod and an answer. “Her room is in the wing to the right, Room 103.”

Marta followed the directions and knocked quietly.

“Come in,” said Ruth. Esther’s sister was seated in front of a TV, listening to a John Wayne movie called The Quiet Man. "Watching these romances remind me of my husband." Then Ruth turned off the TV to talk to her.

“I’m Marta Hawkins. I’m Esther’s granddaughter.”

Ruth nodded. “I’m Ruth McMillan, Esther's sister. I’m sorry, but I don’t remember you. How is Esther?”

“Her funeral was a month ago. Don’t you remember? You were there.”

“Oh. Well. I don't remember."

“I came to ask if you or anyone in the family wrote stories. I found Grandma’s box of stories, but the mice chewed them.”

“I didn’t write any. I much preferred sewing to reading. I used flour sacks to make clothes because they had nice flowery prints. Just the right size for—”

“I’m looking," said Marta, "for a story with these phrases: ‘in the room’, ‘put wood in the cook stove’, and ‘couldn’t or wouldn’t find’? Does that make you think of anything?”

“I used a wood burning stove to cook with for many years. It was in an outside kitchen because it got so hot. I loved cooking with it. It made the best—.”

“I’d love to hear your memories, but I want more time than 30 minutes.  Do you have any idea who the author of Grandma’s stories may have been?”

“Oh heavens. It seems like someone in the family told stories…but I don’t remember who. You could ask my Grandmother Ruby. She might know.”

Marta’s face dropped, guessing Ruth’s grandmother was dead. Maybe asking about Ruby would help. “When was Ruby born?”

“Oh, my. I don’t remember. 1880? She taught me to cook. And can green—"

The nurse-aide came in to help Ruth get ready for lunch. Marta felt relief at being able to leave politely.

Once again at her parents’ house, she related her conversation with Ruth.

“My aunt always was a talker,” said Mom. “But if she wrote the stories, I don’t think she would remember what they were about.”

“I tried the phrases with her,” said Marta, “but all she could say it seemed like someone in the family wrote stories. At least that’s a good indication it came from within the family.”

“Oh, I know!” said Dad. “My cousin Ben is very much alive. He can probably help you since he got into genealogy a few years ago. He lives out of state, but he will visit here in a month.

“I thought genealogy was just names and dates.”

“You gotta start somewhere.”

A month later, after dinner, Marta quizzed Ben who the author might be.

“Could the author have come from your family?”

“I suppose. There’s a lot I don’t know about my family. My mother is Ruth McMillan. But she had a scandalous pregnancy with me. That’s why she kept it a secret. The whole family did. I want to interview her.”

“I talked to Ruth. She couldn’t even remember her sister died. She had old memories though. I plan to get her memories down on paper. Looking for inspiration, you know.”

“Hmm. I’ll take whatever Ruth’s memories are. If you do interview her, I’d like to have a copy of those notes. Your Mom tells me you write. Maybe you could write it into a nice story, as if she was telling it. Right now, I’m on the hunt for my biological father.”

“Oh wow! Do you think you could help me?”

“Maybe…I always bring my files with me: genealogy trees and their stories.”

“Stories?” Marta breathed a little deeper, thinking she had found an end to her quest.

Ben sorted through a file box of papers. “Don’t get too excited. The stories are probably not the ones you’re looking for. But I’ve learned to research state and county records. I interview live people when I can. How about you? Are you into learning about the background of your family?”

“I am now. I write Christian fiction short stories. I haven’t sold any, but I have a drive to write. No one in my family does a lot of reading, let alone writing stories. I’m excited that someone in my family may have the same interest that I do. Are you an author?”

Ben laughed. “No. I’m a reader. I’m no good at spelling and grammar.” He found one paper and put it back. “True stories are better than fiction.” He stopped to pull out a paper. “Here it is. Ruby was Esther’s grandmother on her father’s side. Here's a story she wrote. It’s about how she met her husband. It’s not very elaborate.” He handed it to Marta.

Marta read aloud. “’We went to a farm estate sale. Dan bought quilting fabric for me at the auction. We talked. We went to the ice cream parlor. That led to being friends, and we got married.’

“I wish she had included something more interesting. Like what she thought of their first kiss.”

“Have you interviewed any of Esther’s friends that are alive?” asked Ben.

“No. Don't forget others in the family. Ruby had a sister Sarah.”

“How do I find out who her friends were?”

“Ask your parents.”

***** At Esther’s friend’s house *****

Marta licked her lips nervously. She stood at the house of woman who had to be Grandma Esther’s age. Who she had never met. Probably not related to. And asking about someone too long ago for her to remember.

“May I help you?”

“My name is Marta Hawkins. My grandmother is Esther Hawkins. Are you Josephine Elliot? She’s supposed to have been a friend of hers.”

“Yes. That’s me. Why do you ask?”

“I found something about stories she had. It’s a mystery where they came from. My grandmother didn’t write them.”

“Oh, I love a good cozy mystery. Come in.”

Marta sat on the couch while Josephine used her favorite chair. “Call me Jozy. Can I get you some coffee or anything?”

“Water please.”

Jozy came back with a glass of water for each of them.”

“I helped my parents find tax papers for her. And came across a box full of stories.”

Jozy smiled, leaned forward, and excitedly said, “Esther’s stories?”

“Yes, but she didn’t write them,” said Marta.

“Of course.” Jozy’s enthusiasm didn’t diminish. “Did you like reading the stories?”

“I couldn’t. The mice beat me to it.”

The friend’s enthusiasm deflated, and she sat back in her chair.

All I could find were three phrases: ‘in the room’, ‘put wood in the cook stove’, and either ‘couldn’t or wouldn’t find. Have you ever read a story using those phrases?”

“That’s not enough for me to recognize a story. It may have been one of hers.”

Now Marta was at the edge of her seat. “Who’s the author?! Do you have the story?”

“No. My house burnt down several years ago. Esther’s grandmother, Ruby, had a sister Sarah. She was a wonderful storyteller. And not afraid to make a fool of herself by acting out Bible stories with her nieces and nephews. Sarah sent her stories to Esther and Ruth. Maybe more grandchildren. That’s how Esther and Ruth came to have them.”

“Why didn’t Sarah write the stories for her own children?”

“She was an old maid. Never married. She was an embarrassment to the family…in that day and age. Not being married, she probably had time to write.”

“Why didn’t Esther read the stories and tell us about them?” asked Marta.

“She thought they were foolish and too racy.”

“Not now,” they said in unison. Both women laughed.

Marta sighed. “I guess I’ll never know what she wrote. Can you remember any? Were they children’s stories?”

“Some were. As the grandchildren grew, so did the reading level… I’m remembering a story… I remember liking the story about the cat and the small dog ganging up on the big dog.”

“Can I visit again and hear the complete stories? I don’t think I brought enough paper.”

“I only remember two or three of them."

Marta’s face dropped, then regained hope. “Two or three stories is better than none, even though I may never know her style. Or how good she was at describing.”

“Don’t give up. You haven’t talked to all of Esther’s cousins yet. And even if you never find any, take the phrases and use them as prompts. You will be carrying on her legacy.”

Marta paused with slightly parted lips. “I could…” Her eyes showed a faraway look. “’in the room she put wood in the cookstove but couldn’t find’... Find what? What if it was a pioneer family …?” Marta raised her glass of water. So did Jozy and listened. “Here’s to you Sarah. For inspiration and not having children.”