The stories we tell, hold, and remember
from a daughter, granddaughter, great-granddaughter
Hello friend,
I lingered over a photograph this week—a simple black and white of a couple, standing somber and still for the photographer—my grandparents, Florian and Julia. I wondered what thoughts circled in their minds.
They never knew their granddaughter would sit with snippets of memories over one hundred years later.
Florian and Julia grew up not far from each other in large families on fertile farmland in central Texas. First-generation US citizens, they were both born in February of 1895. Julia listened to the stories of family back home in the old country.
We had a large garden and an orchard with apple, cherry, and other fruit trees…When I was older, my parents sent me to learn the blacksmith trade. I never liked blacksmithing; I preferred to work with a plow and horses.
—Joseph Kutac, Sr., Transcribed originally in Czech by his daughter, Annie (Julia’s sister)
My great-grandfather later left Moravia in the Czech Republic, the land he knew, and his family to find a better life and freedom. His mother “couldn’t imagine going so far across the ocean,” but she let him go. He braved the hardship of travel, disembarked in Galveston, and headed inland to family, a cousin living at Smothers Creek.
He married Cecilia, also from Moravia, and together raised 13 children. Joseph got his heart’s desire: horses, plows, rich Texas soil, and freedom. Their new life wasn’t easy, but family and neighbors, mostly immigrants, helped one another, holding on to dreams and possibilities.
Only a few pages of Annie’s letter contain the stories that remain from the old country. Julia’s stories began here, in Texas.
I listened to my grandmother’s tales of walking to school. I have a schoolbook and Catholic Mass Missel, written in Czech, and old postcards Julia wrote to her friends and cousins who lived only a few miles away. Old photographs of family I may have known but don’t remember hold untold stories.
The third of four daughters, my mother shared her stories. She must have been a handful, making mischief with her younger sister, voice lessons, singing solos in the choir, picking cotton and hating it, moving to Houston, living with her older sister, and meeting my dad.
I have stories, too. Some, I write, others I have shared with my children and grandchildren. Like my grandparents, I cannot imagine what snippets of memory, what stories will pass on to my grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and beyond.
I do know this. Embedded in the fabric of our lives is a history of family, the land, and a strength to travel the distance, even across an ocean.
I have written about my grandma’s love of gardening and flowers and how those walks spark joy and remembering.
Elizabeth Gruebel shares the power of family stories.
A few songs for grandmothers: Grandma’s Garden, Grandma’s Featherbed, and Supermarket Flowers.
We are all the product of things we’ve never seen and people we’ve never met. In fact, if just one little detail had been changed in their lives, we may not even exist.
—Melanie Johnston.
There is a story behind everything. But behind all your stories is always your mother’s story because here is where yours begins.
—Mitch Albom
If you would like to read more from me, visit my website. I’ll be waiting for you there.
With gratitude,
Kathryn
I always welcome your thoughts, so please leave a comment or click the little heart—you can also respond to this email.
Thanks for reading. Feel free to forward this weekly note to someone who would enjoy a few words of inspiration.
Or if you received this from a friend and want to receive my weekly post,
So many great memories in this reflection on family.