It turns out that my grandfather was 18 years older than my grandmother. He was born in 1887, and she was born in 1905. On the bible page where the family recorded births and deaths, his “7” has been turned into a “9.” Plain as day. I imagine someone was trying to soften the blow of their age difference. Even the two years shaved by making his birth year 1889 was worth it.
My grandmother probably knew how old he was anyway.
She was savvy, and they were much too smitten to let their age difference bother them. Maybe it was for her parents?
Recently, I realized I had never seen a wedding photo of my grandmother, so I asked my mom about it. She told me that her parents married in 1926 at the minister’s home in Chapel Hill, N.C., with only her sister Hilda and her mother present.
There were, after all, nine girls in the family; my grandmother was number 6, and the family did not have endless resources to make a fuss over each daughter’s big day.
My grandparents met in Welch, West Virginia, in the early 1920s at a party she attended with some of her older sisters living there. Place cards at the table had each person’s name and under it, “We’re glad you’re here!” My grandfather was seated next to her, and he took her card, crossed out “We’re,” and wrote “I am” instead.
The North Carolina Marriage record lists the groom’s age, my grandfather, as 35, and the bride’s, my grandmother, as 21. He was 39 years old when they married. They were each marrying for the first time, and from everything I know about them, their marriage was good.
They had 25-plus years together before he died. My grandmother had nearly 40 years between his death and her own.
My husband’s death changed how I connected with my maternal grandmother, even though she had been gone for 22 years. Suddenly, I knew something personal about her when I realized we were the same age when our husbands died.
I learned, too, that my daughter was the same age as my mother when their father’s died and that my son was the same age as my husband’s father when their father’s died.
I am partial to widows in my family tree, often spending more time piecing together their stories. Loss is plentiful in the branches of our trees, babies, children, teens, husbands, wives, parents, and siblings. When you can lay it all out and look at generations on paper, it is staggering to think of each name as an entire life.
Glimpses of the lives they led, how they met, and when they parted are comforting, and I gain strength from all those who suffered before me.
Read more about love and resilience in
Isabelle: Unlocking the Secrets of Life Before Rosa
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