Over the River

I always imagined myself as an “over the river and through the woods” type of grandmother, just like the grandmothers I had.  Each had their own special house of curiosities for delighting young children and they were also the type of grandmothers that let us play and explore unbidden and with abandon.  We had the run of the place and I believe they enjoyed it very much.

Sadly or frustratingly, I have not been able to be one of those “over the river” type of grandmothers.  The pandemic has many things to answer for including the shift of my grandmotherly dreams in giving my grandchildren the run of MY place.  I have already filled a dedicated cabinet with small delights for my exuberant little granddaughter which includes an old-fashioned brass hotel desk bell, her mother’s childhood tea set, and other playthings I’ve collected.  As well, my own childhood wooden rocker sits in a corner of the living room with a basket of books at its foot and an unblinking soft teddy bear in a ruffled collar.

My grandson is still an infant but I want him to come too.  I imagine propping him in front of me so that I can coo into his sweet precious face and then watch him smile at his galloping older sister.  But all this must wait…

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Happiest memories of mine are the Thanksgiving drives my family took to my grandmother’s each year.  Motoring down the Olde Boston Post Road for the curvy 23 miles, I can still tick off each town and village we passed:  Sudbury, Wayland, Weston, Waltham and at last, Watertown, just a mile or so outside Boston.  If there were an early snow, our journey was even more wonderful because nestled at each bend in the road was a majestic white-spired church dripping with frosted snow, just like a sparkly Christmas card.  Counting once, we discovered there were seven altogether and for me, they forever cemented my idea of what a proper church looks like.  And that has never been challenged as far as I’m concerned.

There was also a red schoolhouse on our road to grandmother’s and not surprisingly, it was called The Little Red Schoolhouse.  My imaginings really took off as we passed that building because sometimes it was the schoolhouse of Anne of Green Gables that I saw or the one Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm attended when she had that unrelenting thirst after eating salted mackerel for breakfast and how she disrupted the class when she went to the well for the dipper and a cooling sip of water.  Of course, I only had a glimpse of The Little Red Schoolhouse from our station wagon but it was just enough to build the neural pathways that taught my brain how to recognize a proper schoolhouse too.

We never did go over a river but there were plenty of brooks and streams.  The Olde Post Road environs nestled up against Thoreau, Walden, and Alcott territory and we were certainly travelling “through the wood”, as Lydia Child’s famous poem described.  It wasn’t hard to imagine our suburban wagon as a large slipping and sliding sleigh from long ago.

The reward for this 40 minute journey was having Thanksgiving in my grandparent’s well-appointed city house full of treasures.  They always made it special with gleaming china and silver, formal linen napkins, and candlesticks.  I remember well the ribbon candy tucked into a crystal bowl, the children’s table with chairs stacked with thick City of Boston phone books for easier dining, black olives already at each child’s place to pop onto our fingers (everything was allowed at Grandmother’s).  After Thanksgiving dinner while the grown-ups stayed at their table to talk and laugh, small crafts would magically appear from a cabinet door in the bottom of the large maple hutch:  paint by number and yarn sewing kits, fresh cellophane-wrapped playing cards including Old Maid, and packages of jacks.  Never a dull moment…

We didn’t see much of the Olde Boston Post Road on the way home because we were sound asleep until our wagon gently turned the corner of our street when we would stir.  We drowsily woke and dropped into our beds, still full and satisfied.

I sure do hope there will be some “over the river and through the woods” grand-parenting in my future.  I’ve already made so many plans and I so want to give them some of their sweetest holiday joys at grandmother’s house.

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Lydia Child’s most enduring poem threaded its way through my childhood memories and is now considered a paean for both Thanksgiving and Christmas.  Some versions say the riders are travelling to grandfather’s house and they are going through woods and not wood, which is a word that doesn’t make its meaning singular.  In New England, folks still say “into the wood” when they are describing a forest or woods of trees.  Here is the most famous part of the original work:

Over the river, and through the wood,
To Grandfather’s house we go;
the horse knows the way to carry the sleigh
through the white and drifted snow.

Over the river, and through the wood,
to Grandfather’s house away!
We would not stop for doll or top,
for ’tis Thanksgiving Day.

Over the river, and through the wood—
oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes and bites the nose
as over the ground we go.

Over the river, and through the wood—
and straight through the barnyard gate,
We seem to go extremely slow,
it is so hard to wait!

Over the river, and through the wood—
When Grandmother sees us come,
She will say, “O, dear, the children are here,
bring a pie for everyone.”