A New Name for Grandma
By J. Martin Bailey
By the time I was born in 1929, Una Ochsner Ausland had walked through the valley of shadows for five years following the death of her husband, Martin, from pancreatic cancer. Although she had been surrounded by family and friends, she had learned that grief is lonely.
Her two sons were beginning to live their own lives. Bill, who had very early shown a wild streak, had moved to California. Jim, at 15, was maturing rapidly. Her daughter, Kathryn, who had finished college the Spring before her father had become ill, returned from her first teaching job in North Carolina to be with her mother. Kathryn obtained a teaching position in the local high school where, a year later she met and married the successful football coach, Allen Bailey. Una arranged their summer wedding on the large wrap-around porch of her gracious home. But she was still very lonely. The young couple decided to make their home with Una, who was pleased that the big house on the hill bustled with activity again.
So when I was born, Kathryn and Allen named me James Martin, for my two grandfathers: James (J.L.) Bailey and Martin Ausland. Partly to honor the man whose memory lived in that house, and partly because Jim Ausland was still at home, they used my middle name, often contracting it to Mart or Mardi. That pleased my grandmother who clearly enjoyed helping to care for me. To be honest, she doted on me and spoiled me rotten. She and I did many things together. She read to me by the hour, watched me when I played, and often was my advocate.
My father’s parents lived in Cedar Falls, Iowa, which was near enough for frequent visits. Mother and Dad referred to the two grandmothers as Mother A (for Ausland) and Mother B (for Bailey). I must have been confused, because as I was learning to speak I insisted that the grandmother with whom we were living was Mother B—shortened to "B." I refused to be corrected. Before long my little friends were also calling Mrs. Ausland, "B". Eventually, my brother and three cousins, and even her old friends called her that. And she seemed happy.
"B" was very good to me. She took me along when she went on trips to Wisconsin to see the relatives there, to Des Moines when she and a friend, Mrs. H.A. Powers, went down for an over-night shopping trip, and even during the winter when I was in 5th grade, to Los Angeles for an extended visit with her mother and sisters.
I suppose I had not yet started to school when I became fascinated (obsessed?) with crosses and cemeteries. I wanted one of the crucifixes that were sold at the drug store we frequented. My Dad patiently tried to explain that only Catholics had crucifixes. His explanation failed to satisfy. My grandmother’s house was located on a quarter of a block with an expansive lawn on the east side. A long, half-circle driveway made a wonderful park-like space ideal for my playground. I wanted to turn that grassy area into a cemetery. And "B," wonderful, patient, doting "B", listened to my dreams and plans and even took notes as I described where the graves would be. And, of course, I wanted some of the granite markers to be in the shape of a cross.
The year that I began first grade my uncles convinced "B" that the big house could be converted into four apartments. Though my parents were disappointed, it was probably a wise decision since the country was struggling through what became known as the Great Depression. Bill, who was back temporarily from California, was a clever architect and drew the plans for very comfortable units. So that spring and summer the carpenters arrived, "B" had the first one finished, and we moved two blocks east into a bungalow that my grandfather had once purchased for his in-laws.
There was a lot going on that summer and mother was pregnant with Tom, though I hadn’t been told. Somehow in the turmoil, I felt uncomfortable at the bungalow and slipped out at bedtime and returned to the big house. "B" called mother and arranged for me to spend one more night in more familiar surroundings.
A year or so later a very heavy snow storm closed the schools. I trudged my way up the hill and spent two days with "B." It was the first time I "pulled" taffey. She always had new and good things to eat and I enjoyed being "snowed in."
"B" was known for her baking, particularly for her rolls and breads. I loved her pecan rolls, sticky with brown sugar and flavored with cinnamon. We all liked her "French pancakes"—rolled crepes filled with melted butter and sugar. Later, on a visit to Norway, my daughter Kris and I discovered that Martin Ausland’s family also served them the same way and, just as we had been taught, wove a juicy sweet crepe through their fingers holding both ends up to avoid dripping butter.
"B" also enjoyed making angel food cakes. Once, when I was hosting a picnic for a group of Pilgrim Fellowship friends from out of town, she surprised us by bringing an angel food cake to the picnic decorated with the PF symbol. Because there was quite a crowd present, she didn’t take a piece when it was passed. She did ask the person sitting next to her, "How’s the texture?" only later realizing that the person didn’t know she had baked the cake and thought the inquiry a bit strange.
Though she was frequently involved in caring for my brother and me, she was careful not to interfere with normal parental decisions or discipline. One exception occurred when my brother was a toddler. When Tommy asked for a doll the men in the household said dolls were for girls. "B" went to the store, found a suitable doll and presented it to Tommy. Thereafter, he called her "Doll Mama."
She was always generous—especially to me. When I set off to college she saw that I had a new suit. In those days, before automatic washing machines became popular, it was customary for students to send their clothes home to be washed and ironed. (The postal service was excellent then: the laundry case would go up one day and back the next, and all for less than a dollar.) Often there were home made cookies carefully packed in the center of the laundry case protected by clean clothes.
Once "B" sent me a cake in its own box, packed for shipping with real pop corn (that was long before plastic packing pellets) and wrapped with cellophane so the postal employees could see and carefully handle the precious package. She also gave me my first car. That surprise, when I came home from seminary on holiday, was very welcome!
Through most of her adult life "B’s" health was problematic. She suffered from a rare condition known as "Tic Daulaureaux" or trifacial neuralgia. She was subject to sudden pain in the side of her face, so intense as to be debilitating. The cause was puzzling to medical specialists. Our family doctor, Harold Brereton,
who had gotten to know "B’s" double-cousin, Dr. Alton Ochsner, even consulted the famed New Orleans physician. She tried everything without much relief. Only a few years before her death she went to the Mayo Clinic where they successfully cut the nerve, but she then had to be careful not to injure her face.
The special relationship that "B" and I enjoyed was widely known among friends and relatives; I was grateful to be invited to offer the committal prayers at her funeral. It was a particularly poignant moment.
February 3, 2008