The month of June is meaningful to me in many ways but the date of the 25th stands out for two important reasons. It was my grandmother’s birthday and the date of my high school graduation.
Meet Charlotte Conklin. She was born on June 25, 1888, in New Haven, CT. Her grandparents (on both sides) had come to New Haven from Ireland. Charlotte was the oldest of three. Her siblings were Roland and Margaret. Apparently her mother was a big fan of Victorian literature, hence the names.
Young Charlotte was outgoing and pretty. At 15, she had the opportunity to attend a unique program at Yale that trained young women in the field of business. She became an excellent secretary. In her early 20s, she met a young medical student from Yale. Though the story is shrouded in a bit of confusion, the end result of her being heartbroken was clear. Apparently the young man, from a “nice” family in the Boston area, may have been expected to marry a local girl. Even though my grandmother had travelled to Boston and met his family, he proceeded to marry the local Boston gal.
He was always known to us as the “doctor.” My grandmother did not talk about it much and it was obvious it had hurt her deeply. Because I’m a nerd and love mystery and research, I’ve done a bit of a look into his life. My mom and I couldn’t remember his complete name but from various bits and pieces of information, I discovered him in a 1908 Yale yearbook.
His life was one of success. A successful orthopedist, his first wife died at a reasonably young age. He remarried. There were children. They were well-known and respected in their societal strata.
Devastated by her loss, my grandmother threw herself into her work. She also helped her brother, Roland, start a pharmacy business and did the books for him. Though she was heartbroken, she did date but not seriously. Then she met an IRS agent while working in a federal building in New Haven. The man was from Albany, NY. It was this man whom my grandmother married. Both were older, she was 38 and he was 45. My uncle was born the next year, my mother the year after. I never met him as he died when my mother was 11.
My grandmother was always “old” to me. By the time I knew her, she was fairly crippled by arthritis. She was not one to do any sort of play with me and my brother. But she was a wonderful cook and played the piano beautifully, whether following sheet music or playing by ear. My posture has never been great and I can remember walking the length of her house with a book balanced on my head. It was not one of my better pursuits.
My nana also regaled me with stories from her past. She loved New Haven and her friends and cousins. By moving to Albany, it pretty much isolated her from them. I don’t think her life turned out as she’d imagined. Yet she loved her husband and her children. Things were not always easy for her but she persevered (Irish stubbornness?) until a month shy of her 99th birthday.
I always remember her with fondness. My home contains several of her possessions which helps me keep her fresh in my mind. She was a lady, through and through. Her manners were exquisite and she had a lovely New Haven accent when she spoke. She was 86 when I graduated from high school on her birthday although she did not attend the graduation ceremony. The mid-70s hadn’t yet heard of handicapped accessibility. She waited at our house in the company of a family friend until we returned and then we celebrated both occasions.
Each June 25th is bittersweet. I loved my nana but I always smile when I think of her, despite the tears that also form. Graduation from high school created such a feeling of unexpected trepidation in me. That’s another story for another time. I’m going to keep smiling and thinking of my nana and her sweet and gentle ways.
Stories Are For Eternity 