Part 3
Ethel Hawkins, then 70 years old, the Philadelphia Black history artifact collector, verbally shared a passage from the autobiography which led Fernald to believe Hawkins was holding one of the most powerful links to the antebellum south and the history of the Underground Railroad.
With time, Hawkins and the University folk settled: Hawkins agreed to send copies of a limited number of pages to Fernald for use in the Moses Cartland abolition site certification, and the Cartland home was approved as a National Underground Railroad Network to Freedom site in New Hampshire.
Less than a year after this exchange between Fernald and Hawkins, the Gilbert family lost another relative. Gary Williams, a retired Boeing architect and husband of the late Jane Eleanor Gilbert, celebrated concert violinist and Philadelphia schoolteacher. Gary died September 12, 2009 and I, Jane’s niece and Goddaughter, was named executrix of the New Jersey estate, which included the contents left by my aunt Jane upon her death in 2000.
Jane with her violin circa 1945
Aunt Jane had been my most favorite person on the planet. She and Gary married later in life and had no children. I was the 6-year-old flower girl in her small wedding. Aunt Jane and I had an incredible bond. My daughter, Gabrielle Jane, is named for her.
At the time, I was still completely of the unaware Fernald, Hawkins or even Oliver Gilbert. What was about to unfold seemed orchestrated from above.
I was clearing the Williams/Gilbert estate in New Jersey and preparing it for sale. What a project! Uncle Gary Williams’ father had built the home on a multi-acre parcel of prime NJ farmland where he’d cultivated an orchard of exotic trees. Somehow, wild grapes had overtaken the trees by the time I took charge in 2009, and the property looked like a wild vineyard. My aunt Jane had cultivated concord grapes, but this was too much. There were also multiple outbuildings on the property – sheds – where Gary and Jane had stored centuries of family relics of their respective sides, inclusive of some of the earliest family artifacts. It’d a miracle they survived the extreme temperatures and exposure to rodents, etc.
My mind drifted to Thanksgivings as a child.
Aunt Jane was my dad’s sister. Having no children of her own, the lone niece (me) and nephews (Michael, Joe, Ben) were her children. My love and appreciation for her is beyond what words can express.
She was Oliver Gilbert’s great granddaughter, daughter of Arthur Gilbert, who was son of Stanley, son of Oliver.
Jane as teacher of music in Philadelphia public schools after graduating on a full academic scholarship from Chestnut Hill College with a major in Early Childhood Education and a minor in Music.
Each Thanksgiving, the Philadelphia family members made our pilgrimage across the Ben Frankling or Walt Whitman bridges – and every year was EXACTLY like the one prior. There were never any surprises at Gary and Jane’s. It was as predictable as oxygen.
Uncle Gary would open the door with a smile. He was a man of few words, unless you were being lectured about your career, or your stock portfolio (or lack thereof – we were kids).
He’d smile and say in a baritone voice “how you doin’, kid?” My dad always said, “Gary still has his first lunch money”. Financially wise, indeed, and very loving. A wonderful uncle by every measure.
And aunt Jane, petite and casual, would immediately appear behind him, wiping her hands on her apron and singing “come in,
come in!!” Always the same. Always a big, genuine smile.
Upon entry, there was always (always) a roaring fire in the fireplace. Coats upstairs to the spare bedroom. Uncle Ben (uncle Gary’s brother, a Philadelphia psychiatrist) and aunt Loraine and my cousins Joe and Ben Jr. always beat us to the arrival. They’d be, it seemed to me in my predictable Thanksgiving memory, dressed in the exact same outfits as the year prior. Nice sweaters, turtlenecks. We kids would give each other the look – “me, you, outside in 10 minutes, chase, I’m going to win!” The property was massive. We could run for days. Uncle Gary had tractors, and he’d let us drive.
Thanksgiving: I always had jobs. The same jobs each year. Place cards – which were recycled year after year. I was privileged with deciding who sat where.
I tried to organize it so we, kids, sat near each other. And I liked to be near my grandfather. Aunt Jane never sat. Had she, I’d have positioned myself next to her. I knew everyone’s idiosyncrasies, so accommodated those.
There was always the quick briefing about the bathroom. This was, after all, the country. Septic and a well pump. The bathroom was always a delicate scenario. Sometimes it worked fine. On occasion, you had to let Uncle Gary know when you were done. He’d flush….and manage any issues.
Jane and Gary circa 1975
I loved being in the kitchen with my aunts. There was always some food fiasco – and I was sworn to secrecy about how they’d fixed it. Suffice it to say, the 5 second rule may apply to dropped dinner rolls.
Turnips.
My aunt Neva (my dad’s other sister – the eldest) always made mashed turnips with nutmeg and cream. My cousins and I avoided this option.
Aunt Neva was elegant in a very understated sort of way. She lived in Philadelphia’s tony Rittenhouse Square neighborhood – in a tall, narrow 4-level home with a white marble facade, a rooftop deck with outdoor fireplace, and a modern kitchen in the basement. She studied at UPenn and was an administrator with the school system.
Neva was fun but held high expectations. She’d walk up to me, wet her thumb with her tongue and wipe the makeup from the exterior corner of my eyes. No cat eyes. Excess – no. Minimalism for her teenaged niece.
She wore Nan Duskin (always) and drank expensive scotch whilst reading the WSJ.
Years after her husband, my uncle George, died she came to my home with boxes and boxes of his curated collection of crystal stemware.
“Your uncle liked Orrefors, which is too severe for my taste.” I’ll never forget her use of the word “severe” to describe crystal and I’ve learned to use it in my own descriptions of housewares. Neva lived forever and was a beloved fixture on Rittenhouse Square.
Neva, bottom right against wall circa 1937
Aunt Jane wouldn’t have minded my cat eye makeup. Everything I did was absolutely perfect – or at least as far as I knew. I felt perfect in her eyes. What a gift!!! I loved both of my aunts and Wow! How they loved each other. They were the perfect pair for a niece like me.
Neva in front of her home at 1832 Addison Street, Philadelphia circa 1995.
Me, my aunts and the kitchen….
We, kids, would then bundle up and execute our games of Tag or Hide and Seek. Leaves crunching under feet ruined any sneaking. We’d come in all red faced and hungry. Uncle Gary would be on his knees at the fireplace, with a fire poke, making it roar.
We’d sit – at the Thanksgiving table.
My grandfather, missing a thumb from his employment at the Curtis Publishing Company, took center stage as the turkey carver.
Grandpop carving, as always.
A grand display was made of the sharpening of the carving knife. What is that thing called that you sharpened the knife against? I don’t know. Grandpop would stand and sharpen – sweeping movements of knife and stone with much more animation than necessary. He’d glance around the table, ensuring our attention and amusement.
He’d carve, and we’d pass plates in a clockwise motion. It was my grandfather’s personal mission to make you eat as much of the turkey as he could. He would monitor plates form his position at head of the table, and the minute your portion was low, he’d pursue you with his carving apparatus – Raising his eyebrows and pointing to the extra pieces on the platter. This was your cue. You were obliged to pass your plate and accept, as though the great famine was upon us. Grandpop was born in 1897. He was Oliver Gilbert’s grandson.
Oyster stuffing.
Oysters stuffing was Aunt Jane’s signature. Need I say more? I’ve never found the recipe and have yet to replicate it, despite years of attempts.
After dinner, I executed my other annual job: taking the dessert order. Aunt Jane had the dessert list already written on one of her decorated pieces of cardboard. It was made just for me and decorated with hand-drawn flowers.
At this point, everyone was in the library feeling sleepy in their turtlenecks and Fall-themed sweaters (playing board games) or the living room watching football wishing they could have been transported home by teleportation. I’d walk into the rooms, and they knew exactly why I was there. Year after year, the scene repeated.
I’d announce the pies listed on my cardboard checklist: sweet potato, apple, pumpkin, rhubarb. They’d choose. I’d ask: iced cream or whipped topping? Coffee or hot tea? Names were written into the corresponding columns.
Each year, always the same. Aunt Jane never discarded the hand-drawn floral menu cards – they’re now in my little history center, in a box labeled “Aunt Jane”. Aunt Neva has her own boxes because she, too, was a curator of family treasures….as am I.
At this point in the evening, my grandfather was having his usual after-dinner glass of sherry. It was the only thing I’ve ever seen him drink. And my dad was asleep on the sofa. Predictable!
Jane and Grandmom at Chestnut Hill College
We hated to leave. My cousins, Joe and Ben and I I didn’t see each other in between Thanksgivings – unless and until our Jack and Jill activities coincided.
But, we ALWAYS had the next, predictable Thanksgiving to look forward to.
Aunt Jane left us rather suddenly in 2000. I barely had time to give Gabbi her name.
She hosted her last Thanksgiving in 1998. She was very sick – none of us understood how much.
She sheltered us from the gravity of her illness and honored her hostess tradition by ordering catering from Boston market. It was perfect. The next year, we begged her to host (silly of us). She confided in me: ‘I just can’t’, she apologized. Three months later, she was gone.
It took a while for us to recover our Thanksgiving mojo. We bounced around for a few years. It was the saddest thing.
2009: Jane and Gary are gone. While emptying the home’s interior contents, full of more happy memories than I deserved, I parked myself on the floor of the ‘library’ (as Uncle Gary had called it) and began to empty bookshelves which flanked the fireplace. Uncle Gary, an architect, had himself built the library on the concrete foundation of the home’s original side-porch.
Whilst ensuring that each crevice was emptied, I found a small sliding door panel near the floor, revealing a recessed area in which a pink, silk keepsake box was stored. The box contained 19th century photographs, an antique diamond ring, my grandfather’s WW1 troop-movement journal from France, letters to and from WW1, documents and skeleton keys, along with one of Julia Gilbert’s handwritten summaries………..entitled ‘Grandfather Gilbert’. I’d erroneously assumed it was about MY grandfather, Arthur Gilbert, or perhaps Jane’s grandfather, Stanley. I tucked it all away for future inspection.
Later that evening, I sat at home with that box and unpacked stories and lives I’d never known. And I read about a ‘slave’ named Oliver.
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