The Animals (Especially Horses!)

When I was age seven, my parents moved us from the city to the country. Out of the friends I made, a couple of the family’s owned horses. There was a five acre pasture next to our home that usually had a horse or two pastured there. I remember the first time my dad showed me how to feed a horse some grass. We stood on one side of the fence and my dad grabbed a clump of long grass. The horse knew what he was doing and waited expectantly. My dad barely started to move his handful of grass toward the horse and it pressed its body into the barbed wire fence, reaching its neck over, stretching to take the grass. I tried it next and felt the grass pulled from my hand. He showed me how to pet the horse’s nose which was so soft on the end, with warm air blowing from its nostrils, and soft lips searching for more grass or a treat. I was in love with horses.

 

We now lived in the same town as my grandmother and regularly I would spend Friday nights at her house. We would play “Go Fish!” and heat up some Jiffy Pop popcorn. We would also talk a lot. My grandmother would talk to me about my grandfather and she would often start her statement with, “Your Dad . . .” She forgot she was talking to her granddaughter instead of her daughter. I could tell she must have said these things to my mother over the years, the only way my mother could know all about the man who had died when she was five-years-old.

Because of my love of horses, I would question her about her experiences with horses. I heard some descriptions of her growing up on a farm. She was the oldest of eight children. She said they would walk home from school. Instead of walking up to the house, they would often ride to the house on the cows that were walking in anyway, getting ready to be milked. Sometimes, she said, they would try to ride the pigs. They were much more energetic than the cows and would run in circles with the children quickly falling off of them!

 

She said her father had a matching team of four black horses. This must have been equivalent to owning a sports car because her eyes would light up as she said how beautiful and well trained they were. She talked of her father harnessing them up and driving them, all in match step with each other.

She had her own horse, “a pretty little bay with white socks and a white star on its forehead.” She was so sad when she received a letter from home telling her that her horse had died. Her eyes held this sadness as she told me about it 40-50 years later.

She told how the town doctor had a matching pair of white horses to pull his buggy. One day, while he was on a call to someone’s home in town, two teenage boys took the pretty pair and the buggy and came to pick up my grandmother! They took her on a joy ride around the country side and returned her home. My grandmother must have been worth it because they were going to be in terrible trouble for this escapade! And with this account and the delighted smile on my grandmother’s face, I was being instilled with my family’s love of excitement and the telling of stories.

Red Hair

She had red hair down to her waist. My grandmother's hair when she was a teen was not that bright, orangey red, it was a deep, dark red. She said that her father, James Tribble, loved her red hair. It held a strong value as a symbol of their Irish ancestry. However, it was thick and heavy and gave her headaches. James Tribble would not let her cut it; it was too beautiful. She said that he had a temper and one would not want to cross him. She didn't dare to cut it.

She said she had wanted to become a doctor, but her father said that women didn't become doctors. However, Elizabeth Blackwell had already become the first American woman with a medical degree. She created the first medical school for women. She ensured it had high entrance standards, rigorous studies, and quality graduates. In fact, her medical school offered a better education than many of the traditional male medical schools. All of this was done before my grandmother stated she wanted to be a doctor. But James Tribble was not aware of this. She also had been told she had a beautiful voice and that she could be trained for the opera. But that was too scandalous. So when my grandmother, Lucretia Tribble, finished high school, she stayed in school one more year and obtained a teaching certificate.

Just before she left home, in defiance of her father, my grandmother had her hair cut to above shoulder length. The long cut-off section was saved in a box until it was sold for doll making. When she and her Aunt Rea, who was more like her sister because they were only a year apart in age, boarded a train to head out west, she felt light, excited, and free.

The Importance of St Patrick's Day

St Patrick's Day was a highly valued holiday in my childhood home. This was not simply because of the Irish bloodline of my mother, Joe Anne Lucretia Donahue. There was an intensity behind it due to the backdrop of my grandfather, Joseph Donahue, having died in a mining accident when my mother was five-years-old. This tragedy was in the background of our lives and was behind many of my mother's confusing emotional reactions. The effects of this tragedy were passed down to me and my siblings, molding us in ways we didn't realize.

But when St Patrick's Day came around, so did the pride of being Irish. The Donahue's originally came from County Meathe, Ireland. My mother's beliefs in what it meant to be Irish came through: "tough scrapper," "loud and rowdy," "quick with a joke,""loyal to friends and family," "love of crowds and fun." My mother embodied this in how she interacted daily with friends and acquaintances. Over the years, the descriptors would be repeated, "Your mother is such a card!" "Your mother cracks me up!""Your mother had us going!" "Your mother was the life of the party!" My mother was an extrovert whose humor usually involved a tease or razzing of someone. She loved a good story. She would tell them and encouraged her children to entertain her with stories as well. Within this fun-loving extrovert, however, there was sadness and discontent. At home behind the scenes, she would brood with her cigarettes and coffee. On weekends, she would sleep until noon, avoiding life's struggle for long hours. My mother passed away in March of 2009. I feel a sadness on St Patrick's Day and a lack of people around me who understand the meaning in it, my family's meaning. But my children have come to expect my peppermint patty brownies on this day, bringing the cheer of all things Irish and the wearin o'the green.

Namesake

My name, Lucretia, was passed down in my family. It was my grandmother's first name, my mother's middle name, and again my first name. I always felt I had a special name. My grandmother would introduce me to others as her namesake. It was an unusual name and when hearing it for the first time, people would always react and comment. I was frequently told it was a beautiful name. My grandmother, my mother, and I are all strong women, and I have been thinking of writing a historical novel following our lives, the difficulties faced, and the strength that we drew upon.

Starting when I was a teen and again and again over the years, adults would hear my name and respond ominously, "Oh, you know of Lucretia Borgia don't you?" Generally, they would tell me that she was a murderous woman who killed her husand(s). One of the first accounts given to me was that she ground up glass and put it in her husband's food. I didn't ever look it up, I just went along with the rumor that seemed to have survived for ages. Then I happened to see the PBS special on Lucretia Borgia. It turned out that she was the daughter of Pope Alexander VI and that he and her brother were power hungry and used her marriages to form politically powerful alliances. Lucretia's first husband was jumped on the street and stabbed multiple times and then while trying to recover, someone strangled him in his bed. It seems her brother arranged for him to be murdered. Other husbands were run off in other ways and Lucretia married off to form more and more advantagious alliances. When the Pope, her father, finally died, the political maneuvering and scheming died with him. Lucretia and her last husband had a respectable marriage and she had six or more children and successfully lived down the horrible reputation of the Borgia family. However, the rumors about her from that time are still passed on today. People associating me with her would imply that possibly I channeled her murderous tendencies. I would lead them to believe it was possible.

It was in a college English class that a professor told me of Shakespeare's "The Rape of Lucrece" which told the story of a virtuous and moral wife being raped by a Roman prince and her suicide from shame. Here was a more sympathetic association to my name. But by then, I had formed a bond with Lucretia Borgia.

Grandma's Year of Birth

My grandmother, Lucretia Tribble, was born April 4th, 1895. She grew up in or near Topeka, Kansas.

• Oscar Wilde's play, "The Importance of Being Earnest," premiered that year. I was the character, Miss Prism, in that play when I was in high school. Unfortunately for Oscar Wilde, that same year, he was accused of homosexuality and sentenced to two years hard labor for his behavior.
• Tchaikovsky's ballet, "Swan Lake," also premiered that year.
• The moving picture projector was patented as was a glass blowing machine.
• The first female PhD (in science) was earned by Caroline Willard Baldwin.
• Katherine Lee Bates published, "America the Beautiful."
• Alfred Nobel established the Nobel Prize.

The year Grandma turned 16 (1911),  the first Indianapolis auto race was run and the Mona Lisa was stolen from the Louvre (recovered in 1913).