Portland, Ore. – I first met Helen Weigel six months ago. She was sitting on her front porch, which is four doors down from my own in Portland’s quiet Belmont neighborhood. Helen was bent over some needlepoint, and I had just learned to knit; she invited me to take her spare chair.

After a matter of minutes I learned that Helen grew up a short drive from my father’s home (near Sherman, South Dakota) in a small town just across the North Dakota border, and that she had made the trek to Portland with her sister in the 1940s to work in the shipyards. “That was like gold to us,” she said of her 95 cents/hour earnings.

During the recorded interview in August, Helen talked at length of life in middle America, growing up on a farm as one of 11 children, riding sleighs through storms, and making thick cream. These memories animated and invigorated her. Helen’s eyes, milky with age, sparkled a deeper blue, and she set her needlework down so she could speak with her hands.

After an hour Helen could hardly stand to see us leave. She took us on a detailed tour of her home, showing her bedroom, her bathroom, the cupboards her husband had built. She offered cookies, fresh fruit, and an open invitation to return.

When we pass Helen’s house now, which we do frequently, I don’t know if she remembers exactly who we are, but she is always trusting, and welcoming, and gentle. She comes from a time that is all but lost in this country – a childhood without cell phones, televisions, a family car – and the 88-year-old widow, mother, grandmother, and great grandmother helps me understand the true value of documenting, in all its ordinary grace, what came before.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Wednesday, September 13th, 2006 | Email This Post

This entry was posted on Wednesday, September 13th, 2006 at 12:40 pm. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.