Grandma Sparkles
Fiction-writing acquaintances have described how their stories often “write themselves” via whispered dictation from their Muses. Educator and my (late) beloved mentor, anthropologist and shamanic teacher, Hank Wesselman, Ph.D., told me in a private conversation on this very subject how he was aware that he sometimes had “download help” while writing his columns and books, like his Spiritwalker Trilogy.
While I mostly write non-fiction, I regularly experienced my own “downloads” during the ten years I wrote a weekly newspaper column and continue to reap them now that I’m blogging. I don’t get fictional story plots, but I do receive inspired phrases and ideas to guide or add to my pieces. For instance, when I began writing this post, it was with the intention of relating one particular tale about my paternal grandmother—thus the title. However, it seems all my grandparents wanted to be included, because as I put fingertips to keyboard, little stories of theirs flowed out, so I decided to use all their contributions to give context to my grandmother’s.
Thankfully, I have few regrets about my life. But, one big one is never having had the opportunity to enjoy a personal, one-on-one, alone-time conversation with either one of my grandmothers. There were differing reasons for that, but back while I was growing up, “children were meant to be seen, not heard,” so that element was the same.
My maternal grandparents lived in Cloquet, a small town in northern Minnesota just west of Duluth. In October 1918, they lost everything, including their home and livestock, when they had to flee a massive wildfire. Four hundred and fifty-three people died and fifty-two thousand were injured or displaced while thirty-eight communities were destroyed and two hundred and fifty thousand acres burned. Piling into a boxcar for immediate evacuation, they barely escaped with their lives and their two young sons. My mother and aunt weren’t born yet. Because they went to stay with my grandfather’s brother in Iowa, my grandparents never received the notification that they had to return to their property within one year in order to qualify for federal assistance. So almost two years later, they had to start over from scratch with no help when they returned to their two burnt acres in Cloquet.
During the time before freeways, it took my family almost twelve hours of driving country roads to make our once-a-year trek for our week-long summer visit with my grandparents. They had a tiny house, so when our family of five invaded, it was overly crowded with little possibility for private conversations. And of course, my grandmother and mother were always busy preparing, serving and cleaning up after meals—not an easy feat, as they had no running water and used a cast iron stove to heat rainwater and cook. But that never deterred my grandmother: her meals were always tasty and she baked heavenly pies and other delectables, many made with fresh picked, wild raspberries and blueberries. She also filled the shelves of their dirt-floor cellar with rows of canned vegetables and fruits. While I never got to talk privately with her, her indomitable spirit amazed me and I know that’s where my mother got hers. I do recall one rare conversation I had with my grandfather when I found him sitting alone next to their huge, rain barrel cistern. He was surveying his fenced garden where he grew sunflowers and rows of the vegetables and fruits that Grandma preserved. I still remember the flat of lovely pansies blooming in the shade at his feet. I think that chat ignited my life-long love of gardening. My uncle was finally able to afford to have their house wired for electricity and phone service after World War II. My grandparents’ life had not been easy—they’d barely survived a devastating fire, rebuilt with limited resources, raised four children with no running water or electricity, only had an outhouse, and my grandmother also had major health challenges along the way. But, I never heard them complain and always felt secure in their love!
A little more than a year after marrying in 1919, my paternal grandparents emigrated from Piazza Armerina, Sicily and settled in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. A sea-crossing move like that is never easy, but it must have been especially difficult, as they’d just lost their first-born son who was less than two months old. My grandfathers had gardening in common. Even though he lived in the city, my paternal grandpa grew tomatoes, eggplants, and other vegetables and flowers in their front and side yards and had a cherry tree in the backyard. He also bought grapes by the boxcar full every fall, and by special government permit, made many gallons of wine, most of which he provided to his church for Communion. Of his thirty-some grandchildren, I was one of his favorites, as I loved drinking his wine with him. We’d go down to his aromatic cellar with its white-washed concrete walls, and he’d use a small glass pitcher to draw Chianti-type wine from one of the enormous whiskey casks used to store his prized production. My mother would instruct him that I was allowed only half of a four-ounce glass, but whenever she turned her back, he’d quickly refill it to the halfway mark—I smiled a lot during those visits! So, I had that bond with my grandfather.
However, my paternal grandmother only spoke broken English and was always busy feeding whoever entered her kitchen, regardless of the time of day or night. It was literally impossible to leave her home without eating something—she simply wouldn’t allow it! She’d lost two children and raised nine, and between them and all their children, there always seemed to be a house full of visitors. So, with the language barrier added to constant chaos, I had no opportunity for a private conversation with her.
The one thing that my grandmothers had in common was that they were both raised in orphanages, though half a world apart. They never knew their parents or much of their own history. And therein lies my regret: I never had the chance to ask either one about their childhoods or personal dreams. While I had no doubt that they loved me, they were in many respects, strangers to me.
And now, with all that background, I’ve returned to the intention I started with. When my paternal grandmother made her transition in Milwaukee on February 24, 1970, I was living in Seattle, Washington. At the time, I was working a job that only paid $2.50 an hour, so I couldn’t afford the $400.00 round-trip plane ticket to attend her funeral . . . not that I wanted to. I never cared for funerals, and I wanted to remember her the way I knew her. She was seventy-two years old, only four years older than I am now, which seems a bit weird to contemplate. Beyond her delicious pasta al sugo (pasta with sauce) and biscotti (Italian cookies), my fondest memory of her was her love of “bling.” My father used to tease her, saying she looked like a Gypsy, because she would wear all kinds of costume jewelry—pearls, gold, silver, rhinestone pins—all at the same time! Just as my grandfathers inspired my passion for gardening, Grandma kindled my love of sparkles. Two extraordinary things happened shortly after she crossed over.
A couple of nights after my grandmother’s passing, I was thinking about her and suddenly felt compelled to try automatic writing. Merriam-Webster defines that as “writing produced without conscious intention as if of telepathic or spiritualistic origin.” I’ve always been tuned into the telepathy that runs through the maternal side of my family—having strong connections with my mother, aunt, sister and nieces, I’m used to “listening” to those kinds of messages. While I was familiar with the concept and basic instructions, I’d never used automatic writing (nor have I again). It seemed like a natural time to give it a go, so I cut open a large, brown paper grocery bag to provide plenty of writing surface, spread it out on my dining room table, sat with a pen gently gripped in my hand, closed my eyes and asked, “Grandma, are you here?” I felt my hand move and found I had written “yes.” Continuing, I asked, “If you’re really my grandmother, what is your first name?” Here’s where it got interesting, at least for me. The orphanage in San Cono, Sicily never taught her to read or write, nor did immigrant women have any opportunities to learn back then, especially while raising a big family. I used to watch how my grandfather would write out my grandmother’s name on a piece of paper, and then, she would ever-so-slowly, shakily copy it onto whatever document she needed to sign. It was a painstaking process that she obviously found uncomfortable and the result looked like the effort of a kindergartner. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and waited. Suddenly, I felt my hand jerking and when it stopped, I opened my eyes to see “Filippa” scribbled across the paper in the same handwriting that I’d seen my grandmother use years before. I caught my breath; tears welled. Naysayers may rant all they wish—they matter not to me—I knew my grandmother had come by to bid me farewell before she left on her next adventure. And, she lingered a bit longer.
The next day, I was at my favorite place to shop, the St. Vincent De Paul thrift store. I don’t recall what I needed on that trip, but as was my habit, I also stopped by the jewelry counter where something caught my eye. There was a hinged metal box with satin lining displaying an exquisite matching set that included a wide choker, a pair of earrings and a bracelet.
“Grandma Sparkles” — Schreiner Jewelry worn in memory of my paternal grandmother
I remember gasping in awe, as it was so beautiful; I’d never seen anything like it! I immediately felt I had to have it “to wear in memory of my grandmother.” While she had lots of shiny pieces, I never saw her wear anything that colorful, but I knew she would have loved it . . . perhaps, had even pointed me in its direction! Especially since she always wore black, which is also one of my favorite color and the red and pink of the jewelry in its gunmetal setting would be perfect with a black outfit. I looked at the price tag: $3.25! That seems like a pittance now, but in retrospect, I recall cringing over spending so much of my meager budget for such a luxury. But I simply couldn’t walk away, and it became my favorite set of jewelry, which I’ve worn for many special occasions over the years.
Puttin’ on the Ritz for my 50th High School Class Reunion
But wait, the sparkles got even brighter! Fast-forward to October 2017. As I chose my “grandma jewelry” to wear to my fiftieth high school class reunion, it occurred to me that it must be pretty old. Now that the Internet makes research so easy, I decided to see if I could discover anything about my thrift shop find. With the help of a magnifying glass, I managed to make out a signature on the back of the earrings and necklace: “Schreiner.” And oh what history! Henry Schreiner had been a blacksmith in Bavaria, Germany and immigrated to the U.S. in 1923. He founded the Schreiner Jewelry Company in 1939. For his stunning, unusual and distinctive jewelry, he used gun-metal, bronze or gold plating for backing, along with very expensive, custom made, specially shaped stones made in Germany by skilled Czechoslovakian craftsmen. Those stones are no longer being manufactured. Schreiner pieces of jewelry were never mass-produced—the company did only fine handwork. However, the pieces were highly fashionable and attention-getters, therefore, no media advertising was needed to sell their products. His small, family-run company manufactured extraordinary costume jewelry throughout the 1940s, 50s, 60s, and into the 70s. Henry died in 1954. Some of the earlier pieces were not signed. The jewelry marked “Schreiner,” “Schreiner of New York,” and “Schreiner Jewelry” were the firm’s own originally designed pieces made for retail sales. The family closed the company in 1973. Admired and highly sought after by both collectors and fashion enthusiasts, many believe that there is no other costume jewelry designer who consistently made such fine, diverse, and original pieces. In addition to creating their own collections, the family collaborated with many of the top couturiers including Christian Dior, Norman Norell, and Pauline Trigère. At the height of their popularity, pieces by the Schreiner Jewelry Company graced the covers of Vogue, Glamour, and Harper’s Bazaar and were touted by celebrities such as Marilyn Monroe, Bette Davis, and Audrey Hepburn!
I’m guessing my set, along with the case that looked old when I bought it, was made sometime during the 1940s or 50s, which would make them possibly sixty to seventy years old! Scrolling through over three hundred photos posted on vintage jewelers’ sites, I could not find any complete matching sets of signed, Schreiner jewelry. A pair of earrings with the same colored stones but in a different design was marked for sale at $200.00. A simple choker of aurora borealis stones was priced at $1,121.00! While I would never consider selling my set, I feel that my grandmother guided my selection of what is now a real treasure—way to go, Grandma! Thank you! The set will be passed down through my family, along with its history and the story of “Grandma Sparkles,” which makes it priceless . . . .
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