Goodbye, Grandmother Gorton

I looked for a picture of you, certain that there had to be at least one.

Didn’t we capture the moment when you visited our home in Virginia,or did we visit you in Florida?  I remember that I was a mature eleven-year-old who lived and died for books, but I was excited to finally meet my American grandmother.

I don’t know what I expected; actually, I don’t even remember meeting you.  All I remember was how angry I was that you gave me a tin dollhouse. Mostly, I was hurt that you didn’t know me well enough to know that I was too old for dolls, and that all I ever wanted was more books.

There had to be photos from the next time I met you, but they probably weren’t too flattering.  I’d put on the Freshman 15, after a couple years of college, and I wore what was probably a hideous outfit to my cousin’s wedding.  I’m pretty sure we posed together for a photo, but I don’t know who took it, and I can think of several reasons why it might not have survived.

Finally, I saw you one more time last Autumn, when we gathered for a funeral.  You were too frail to attend, but I took the kids to meet you at your home.  I wanted to take a picture, but I was afraid that it was rude to ask, and I didn’t think you’d want to be remembered that way.  You were emaciated, house-bound, surrounded by stacks of papers and books you could no longer see, but still fiercely independent.

My only photos of you, after all, are from your son’s, my father’s, wedding in 1964.

I am the self-appointed  keeper of our family history, but it’s all slipping away, unrecorded, unremembered.  I’ve salvaged a few items, including my parent’s wedding album, but it isn’t much.  I don’t really know who you were, or much about my father’s family.

You were the record keeper, one of the last direct descendents of Samuel Gorton, I think?, who settled Rhode Island long ago.  Somewhere, I hope, is the family tree that you labored to produce.

Yes, you were the forward-thinking, tech-savvy grandmother who researched our ancestry online, who never sent me a letter, but who sent me a few emails.  Maybe it’s pathetic, but I printed and saved those few emails, even the ones addressed to my sister:

Dear Christina,

It never ceases to amaze me how far apart our really small family has become.  You asked, “How are we related?” At first I thought you meant how am I related to you.  Of course, I am your grandmother on your father’s side.  Then I realized you meant how are you related to Michael Gorton of the Gorton Fisheries…

Our line of Gortons are descended from Samuel Gorton who founded Warwick, Rhode Island.  He was a great friend Myontonoma, a Narrgansett Indian Chief who with others of his tribe deeded the land to Samuel Gorton and a few of his friends.  This was all in the 1600s.  I have a reproduction of the deed and Myontonoma’s signature looked like a little sail boat as they did not write as we do or did.

I am a 10th generation Gorton, your father is 11th generation, and you are 12th generation.  Sandra’s child, Kayla, is 13th generation.

Grandma G.

R.I.P. Mary Jane Gorton, 1921-2009

Related Articles

• Learning From Our Elders

American Family History On My Father’s Side

• Family History and Story of Samuel Gorton
• Samuel Gorton on Wikipedia

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