In response to my last email newsletter, one reader wrote me about how her family regularly switched children from parents to grandparents for visits. That reminded me of how my family did the same when I was growing up.
The childhood swaps I remember best were in Madras, Oregon. Madras, Oregon, is pronounced MAD-ras. I was surprised when I grew up and learned that there was a city in India called Madras, pronounced Muh-DRAS. I thought it very interesting that there was a plaid fabric named after Madras, only to realize years later it was named after the Indian city, not the Oregon town.
My brother and I lived with our parents in Richland, Washington, and our maternal grandparents lived in Klamath Falls, Oregon. Madras was about halfway in between.
The drive from Richland to Klamath Falls was about 8 hours. We usually followed the highway along the Columbia River (though this was before Interstate 84) to Biggs Junction, then turned south on U.S. 97, which went through Madras on its way to Klamath Falls.
Madras was a dinky town, even from the perspective of a preschooler. In 1960, near the time my family made these swaps, Madras had a population of about 1500 people. All I remember about Madras was that it had a gas station and a diner of sorts—somewhere where we could sit and wait for my grandparents (or where they could wait for us) while sipping a milkshake and snacking on French fries.
I relished the trips to Klamath Falls a lot more than the return trips home. My grandmother was more indulgent than my parents, as grandmothers are supposed to be. Spending a week or two in Klamath Falls was fun. My grandmother would play with us while my grandfather went to work at the Klamath Machinery Company. He came home for lunch most days, and then went back to work. We all ate sandwiches for lunch.
My grandmother usually fed my brother and me dinner before my grandfather came home in the evening, unless he had a Lions Club meeting and was out late. Other than the Lions Club meetings, his evening routine was very strict. He had his drink and watched the news. He ate meat and potatoes, and I don’t remember what else. (But never macaroni and cheese or other kid-favored meals.) He didn’t want a lot of noise.
Once my grandparents moved to Pacific Grove, California, the Madras swaps stopped, of course. Though we continued to visit them during the summers in their new home near the beach.
In July 1964, when I was eight, my brother and I flew from Portland, Oregon, to San Francisco by ourselves, then a month later my grandparents drove us home to Richland. We drove from Pacific Grove to The Nut Tree Restaurant in Vacaville, California, north through Redding, California, to Klamath Falls. I think we spent the night in Klamath Falls.
The second day, we took U.S. 97 north, as my parents did. But for some reason, my grandfather decided to drive us north past Biggs Junction to Goldendale, Washingon, and then through the Horse Heaven Hills. I loved that name, though the hills themselves were dry and dusty in August. We stopped in Goldendale at another little diner for our last lunch before arriving home. That lunch involved a milkshake and French fries, too. Milkshakes and French fries were reliable foods to feed children. I can’t remember what my grandfather ate.
That trip in 1964 was the last driving trip to swap kids from my parents to grandparents. My grandfather got cancer in 1965 and died in January 1966. After that, I spent time with my grandmother, but she didn’t drive, so there were no more swapping trips.
What do you remember about trips to visit grandparents?
I would spend summers with my grandmother on her ranch near Prineville, Oregon. My grandfather passed away in late 1968 and my uncle helped my grandmother. My mom would take me and then return later in the summer. We lived near Reno, Nevada. I would help her in the garden and baking pies for the hay crew at lunch. We’d also go to the valley for a day and pick berries to can. We would take turns reading a book at night, my favorite being My Friend Flika.
My grandmother had a copy of My Friend Flicka, and I read it at her house when I was about 9 or 10. I loved that book! And the sequel Thunderbolt as well.
We lived with my grandma, the only grandparent I ever had. When children reminisced summer holidays in the countryside, at their grandparents, for me there were beloved aunts, my grandmother’s sister or my mother’s cousins in the village.
By the way, I wrote a short story about a Madras shawl. They were weaved in the Caribbean islands in early 1900 and slightly before. I do not remember now if the one in my story was woven and bought in Martinique or Guadaloupe.
It got to France with the quadroon daughter of the French officer, who went to her natural father in France when older, then it was given to an Irish soldier during the first World War, it was stained in the soldier’s youngest son’s blood during the 1968 troubles in Northern Ireland, then discovered in a trunk by that son’s granddaughter in late 2000s.
What an interesting idea for a story. That shawl had quite a life!