The Keeper of the Dead

That is your great-great grandmother, Catherine Madden;

my grandmother, the woman who raised me.

By: Kathryn Cardenas

My grandma carried around memories. She told stories of

those she had known, and those she had heard about. She
was burdened by them, but also enthralled with them.
Throughout my childhood she told me these stories. She
would tell my cousins too, but mostly they would only
listen, and not remember. My grandmother is the keeper of
her dead. At 84 years old she is the last person who
remembers their smiles, the color of their faces, and the
strength in their voices. Her vision of them is not in black
and white, but in color; where the wind blows, and the trees
whistle. As her aunts, uncles, cousins, and parents have
gone, she has kept their souls alive and vibrant by telling
their stories.

Do you know who you are named after, Katie?

At five years old she asked me this. There was an old black
and white portrait on the wall. She pointed to the woman;
with her lips glued tightly together, with her hair pulling
back the wrinkles of her face, with her dress up to her chin,
and with her eyes that always seemed as if they moved;
watching you as you crossed the room.

My grandmas mother had died in

childbirth. She had grown up in Nebraska
on a small farm with her grandmother,
her aunts, uncles, and her dad. They
raised cows, chickens, and pigs, and they
grew all sorts of vegetables. They were
self sustaining. My grandma grew up with
natures wealth around her and wanted
for nothing. She was surrounded by love,
for her grandmother was like her mother;
she taught her what it meant to be a
child, a student, a worker, a farmer, a
Catholic, and finally a woman.

She told the most amazing stories. I wish that there would
have been video cameras in those days, so I could hear her
voice again and see her face. She used to tell the most
enthralling ghost stories. They would send shivers down
your spine; brrrrr. There was nothing in the world like
them.

My grandma never told her grandmothers stories. They

were something that she kept close to herself. I always
imagined her staying up late at night and repeating the
stories before she went to sleep after saying her prayers.
The stories and their content were her secret memories.
However, it might have just been that she believed she

couldnt tell them the same way. Something that was so

special to her retold the wrong way could leave
disappointment on our faces. Instead of telling us the
stories, she always said that when we meet our great-great
grandmother that we could hear them ourselves first hand,
in Heaven.
Once my grandma and I made food for the soldiers coming
home from the war. 400 donuts, cakes, and cookies. All
made from scratch; nothing came in boxes then. People
worked back then; grew their own food, churned their own
butter, and slaughtered their own meat. People were better
then.

Catherine Madden died of skin cancer when my Grandma

was 23 years old. She never met my grandfather, or any of
my aunt or uncles, or my mom. My grandma moved to
California when my Granddads job was transferred. She
left her home, her land, and her state. She took her
children, her pictures, and memories. My grandma has
lived a full life, but she worries sometimes about what will
happen to her memories when she is gone. Throughout the
years her stories have become mine.

When Im gone I need you to take care of the pictures, and

the stories. I dont want them to die. I dont want to die.
My grandma passed all of the old
family recipes on to me. I can make a
Midwestern depression cake, stew,
chicken and dumplings, and peanut
butter cookies. She taught me how to
cook too; how to crack an egg, how to
fry a chicken, and how to brown meat.
We spent a lot of time together in the
kitchen; making cinnamon rolls,
peeling potatoes, and talking. We were
always talking.

We used to have barn dances on Friday nights. Pat and

Martin would play their fiddles and everyone would sing
and dance. Those were the best times. As your great-great
grandmother got older she would sit on the side and watch
and smile, and clap her hands to the music. I miss her
smile.

I have made a scrapbook with her old pictures and

documented her stories. When her eyes run over the
pictures she sees color and hears voices;
I can never have this. By learning these
stories, however, I have created a story
of my own with her. When I see those
pictures I hear my Grandmas voice,
and I see her smile, I smell her cooking,
and I feel her love.
She has made me responsible for her
memories, but I am also responsible for
my memories of her. Within me I hold
the secrets of her past, my moms past,
and my past. I knew the stories of
strength and love; I know who modeled
the women of my family.

Your great-great grandmother came over to this country

from Ireland, on a boat when she was two years old. Her
parents had a homestead in Kansas, and then she moved to
Nebraska after she was married. She lived a hard life;
always working and always taking care of someone. She
raised her children and then she raised me. On her
deathbed, the last thing she said was, Lord take care of
Viola. He didnt have to, because she had already given me
the tools, knowledge, and love so that I could take care of
myself.

When my Grandma passes I will become the keeper of the

dead. More distant than she is from the stories; I still feel
love for the people in the photographs. I hope someday to
have children or grandchildren of my own; those who listen
and a few who remember. Someday I will grow old and my
face will be wrinkled with wisdom, and my hair will be grey
with time, and my eyes will be alive with memories. I will
sit with my granddaughter and tell her of her great
grandmother.

Do you know who are named after, Viola?

She will sit cross-legged on the floor as we look at pictures

and I tell her stories. She will then create her own
memories, more distant than mine, but still as important.
When I die my grandmothers voice may be forgotten, or the
smell of her hair, but her stories will be remembered.

You take care of my pictures, Katie. You take care of my

memories. I never want her to die. I dont want to die. Hold
onto them and hold onto me, and you will always hold onto
our love.

The Pictures:

Viola Madden Means at the age of 20.

Katie Cardenas and Viola Means at Violas 50th Wedding
Anniversary in Susanville, CA. She married Willard Means
February 22, 1949 in Broadwater, Nebraska. They had
eight children, twenty-two grandchildren, and currently
have twenty-three great grand children with two more on
the way. Viola and Willards last child, Nancy is Katies
mom. Viola and Willard celebrated their 60th Wedding
Anniversary in 2009.

Viola Madden Means, her Grandmother Catherine Madden,

and her Grandmothers daughters: Mary, Maggie, and
Nellie. Probably taken in 1945 on the family farm in
Oshkosh, Nebraska.

Catherine Madden shortly before her death in 1947.

Viola Means in 2002.

Katie Cardenas in 2008.