My grandmother was a Shoebox Baby. Born June 16, 1907—104 years ago today—in Oklahoma Territory, she and her identical twin sister are said to have weighed less than five pounds, combined. The conditions being rustic and medical facilities nonexistent, the twins were swaddled, put into a shoebox, and placed in the oven so that the pilot light could keep them warm. I was told years ago that a wet nurse was hired—a Negro woman who suckled them and nourished their fragile little lives. Velva, my grandmother, and her twin sister Velma came into this world with only a fraction of a chance of surviving, but survive they did, as both lived into their nineties.
I had heard stories of my grandmother’s birth when I was a child, but it never occurred to me that my Nonnie and Auntie Velma must have been born prematurely. Given that a wet nurse was hired, their mother must not have been well after the delivery—or at least was not robust enough to nurse both babies.
It didn’t occur to me until the birth of my own “shoebox babies,” born 94 years and six days later. At 2 pounds, 0.8 ounce and 2 pounds, 14 ounces, Elizabeth and Katherine’s combined weight was a bit less than five pounds, and their “shoebox” was a high-tech incubator at Saint Francis Hospital. Although born eleven weeks early, they had over a 95% chance of survival and a reasonable chance of having no long-term ill effects from their early arrival. The first couple of weeks we waited to see. . .
Nonnie and Auntie Velma were devoted to each other, and they both loved music. In fact, every photograph of my grandmother that I can recall is either of Velva and Velma together, or of Velva with a musical instrument. My grandmother’s most cherished instrument was her mandolin, but she had a baby grand piano, two saxophones, an accordion, a banjo or two, several guitars, an African kalimba, and an old Victrola. Everywhere in her house there was music. Auntie Velma was much the same; I recall her excitedly trying to teach me about the “circle of fifth,” showing me a dial I didn’t understand at the time and hoping to convey her love of music to me. This love of music lasted throughout their lifetimes; even when Nonnie had forgotten most of the details of her life, when Alzheimer’s disease had robbed her of her precious memories, she still responded to the music that had filled her life.
Auntie Velma died at the age of 92, and my grandmother Velva died a year later. They were strong women—surviving their tenuous birth in Oklahoma Territory, spending part of their childhood on an Oklahoma oil field, each raising two children and each outliving her husband by many years. As I was told nearly a century later by a nurse in the neonatal intensive care unit, preemies who survive tend to be very strong-willed individuals, and these two women definitely had a strong life force.
After two weeks in the NICU, Beth reached up to her face, grasped her feeding tube and air tube with her tiny hand, yanked, and extubated herself. When I held her an hour or so later, the nurses explained how they had scrambled to re-intubate her. Feeling as if a tremendous weight of worry had been lifted, I looked down at my child through teary eyes and whispered, “You’re going to be fine, I know now. You’re a scrapper.” Thinking of her great-grandmother, I added, “You’re made of strong stuff.”
Nonnie and Auntie Velma would have loved knowing Katy and Beth. Not only are they twins, but they share a love of music, too. Velva and Velma would have delighted in attending Katy’s violin concert this afternoon and seeing Katy and Beth play a duet—Katy on violin and Beth on piano. I can almost see them now, smiling, clapping, and tapping their feet.
I thank you, my wonderful shoebox grandmother, for your gifts—passed through my mother, through me, and to my daughters--of strength and music. Happy birthday, Nonnie.
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