My Grandmother, Julia Schmitz Hunt

My family lived with Grandma and Grandpa Hunt from the time I was one year old until I was eight. After Dad returned home from the Navy, we lived on the farm with my grandparents. When Grandpa sold the farm, we moved to a duplex on Sixteenth Avenue, across the street from St. Peter’s Catholic Church. Grandma and Grandpa lived in a one bedroom apartment upstairs and we lived in a two bedroom apartment on the lower floor. There was an indoor toilet, but no bathtub and no hot water. The stove was an “old fashioned wood stove” in the kitchen which, of course, wasn’t considered old fashioned back then. It was considered normal. 

Grandpa Hunt was a big, imposing man who seldom smiled. I avoided him whenever I could. But I loved living downstairs from Grandma. She was a small woman with a soft, billowy chest and huge arms, the result of baking bread every day on the farm, where she raised eight children ~ six big boys, my Aunt Fran (second oldest child) and my mother (the youngest child.) Snuggling with Grandma was the most comforting moment of the day.

Our neighbors on Sixteenth Avenue were Old Man Grunke and the Courneyour family. Grandma was a friend of Mrs. Grunke, but Old Man Grunke was a skinny snake of a man, who hated kids. He especially hated my brother Bob and I because we used to swing on the chain he stretched across his yard, dividing our property from his. He told us to stop swinging on his chain but, naturally, we didn’t. One day he coated the chain with motor oil. Bob and I went home covered in slimy oil. My mother was furious at Old Man Grunke, but he really didn’t care. The war between our families went on for years.

On the other side of us lived the Cournoyer family. They had a garage in their backyard, built over an open pit. They threw all their garbage in the pit, including tin cans and broken bottles, which attracted rats. Huge rats. Some of them as big as small cats. One day, Grandma Hunt was hanging wash on the line when one of the rats ran across her foot. She swore in German, grabbed the pole she used to prop up the clothesline and beat the rat into a bloody mass, swearing at the rat the whole time. Grandma was small, but she was fearless. As I stood there, staring at the dead, bloody pulp that used to be a rat, Grandma turned to me and told me to get the shovel out of our shed and throw the dead rat into the alley. She quietly went back to hanging her freshly washed clothes on the line.

Eventually my family moved to a different house, two blocks away. My grandfather had a stroke and went to live with my Uncle Bill, who was big  and strong enough to take care of him. My grandmother continued to live in the house on Sixteenth Avenue and my Aunt Fran moved in with her. I often walked to Grandma’s house, especially in the quiet hours after dinner. I loved sitting at the table as Grandma finished her coffee, slathering a piece of bread with butter and jelly for dessert. She would tell me stories of her life on the farm. I still have two of Grandma’s coffee cups. I warm my hands around them, as she did so many years ago, and I smile.

My last memory of Grandma Hunt was at the nursing home, where she spent her final days. I had moved to Denver to go to school, and went to see her when I came home on vacation. By that time, Grandma had wasted away.  She weighed less than eighty pounds. Most of her marbles were gone, but she recognized me as I walked into the room. She grabbed my hand, with tears in her eyes, and pleaded with me to go to the kitchen and take her name “off the list.” 

Grandma was convinced that even as she lay dying, there was work to do. She believed that she was “on the list” of people who had to report for duty to prepare the next meal and then wash the dishes.

“Of course, Grandma. I’ll take care of it.”

I didn’t try to tell Grandma that there was no such list. Instead, I walked out of the room and came back a few minutes later. I told her that I scratched her name off the list and told the cook to never put Grandma’s name on the list again. I told Grandma she never had to prepare another meal or wash another dish again. Grandma was happy. It was the least I could do.