The First Seven Years

“Give me a child for the first seven years, and you may do what you like with him afterwards.” St. Ignatius Loyola.

In honor of that belief, I’d like to repost a piece of writing dedicated to the woman who raised me.

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Her name was Anna. She came to America during the great immigration of the 1920’s.

She left Prague, Czechoslovakia with a steamer trunk, and “more than $35”, according to the ship manifest. She was 5 ft. 10 in. tall, blue eyes, ash blonde hair.

Ellis Island officials were quick to notice a beneficial skill; she spoke 7 languages. She was offered a job, and housing.

The job didn’t last long. No details were provided, it was said she was heartbroken at what she saw happening there.

She moved to Philadelphia, taking a job as a nanny to a wealthy family. She met my grandfather, a proud Hungarian immigrant, who purchased a small dairy farm in rural Chester County. They married. My father came 8 months later.

The Great Depression hit. The banks foreclosed on the farm. My grandfather lost his fortune, his dream, and his mind. He never recovered.

She raised her 2 children alone. They struggled. My father found odd jobs from the age of 12, left high school to enlist in the army, sending all of his income home.

When he married my mother, Grandmom moved in. He would have it no other way.

Our mother birthed 3 daughters, turning each of us over to be raised by our grandmother, who lovingly assumed all traditional maternal roles. She said it was her way of “earning her keep”.

Ours was a working mom, rare for the 1950’s, providing financial support for a growing family. We saw very little of her during those years…my first 7 years.

Everything I knew about love and family, every value, every tradition, every concept of faith and hope, every work ethic, every practical skill, every appreciation for art, music and culture…it all came from my grandmother. I spent hours in her shadow, especially in the kitchen. She had a way with food.

We lost her to a sudden death before my 7th birthday. Chaos ensued. Our family would heal, there was growth and recovery, but we would never be the same.

We had lost our foundation, the rock of 2 generations.

I honor her memory, and I wear her wedding band on my right hand.

She is with me always.

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