Rationing

Today, as I was dusting, I came across a small tissue paper wrapped package.

“It must be something old,” I hoped, as I carefully unwrapped it.

And there it was. I remembered this summer, in my aunt and uncle’s kitchen as they handed it to me,

I remembered this summer, in my aunt and uncle’s kitchen, “We thought there might be a story here,” they had said, “you should have it.”  

I leaf through the soft browning pages. Allowing the softness to touch my skin. Virginia Whitecomb
Tarbell of East Washington Street, Ann Arbor, Michigan on the  24th of September, 1942 was issued a
war ration book, upon the basis of an application signed by herself. The box checked. Herself.  

My great grandmother was 59 years old on September 24,1942. It was two years before my mother
would be born to Virginia's daughter, Olga Tarbell Tydings, in Skaneatles, New York. Virginia, who was
always called Virgie, had left Swift Tarbell. It had been decades of separation. How alone in the world
she was, I truly do not know.

I wonder, did Virginia Whitcomb Tarbell need to read the instructions when she picked up the booklet that
day?

1 This book is valuable. Do not lose it. 

Number four seemed more necessary. 

4 Do not throw this book away when all the stamps have been used, or when the time for their use has
expired. You may be required to present this book when you apply for subsequent books.  

Subsequent books.

Did it take her breath away as she signed her name? Are the two sugar stamps that remain in the book
something she carefully saved? Was she deeply aware of the sacrifice that would be needed in the
coming months and then years?

It is Sunday, March 29, 2020 and here I am sitting with Virginia Whitcomb Tarbell's ration book. It has not
been thrown away. 

I never met my great grandmother, Virgie. She died before I was born. As a child, my mother always said
to my sister and I that we came from strong women and it was never difficult to believe. The women that
I did know and love were such forces that it felt as if tree branches swayed with the simple and elegant
turns of their wrists.

My mother filled my childhood with familial stories. The details, personal and sometimes salacious, but
filled with messages always clear, beautiful and important. Live. Survive. It's never wrong to take risks for
love. Themes one could build a life on. And when life has felt difficult to bare I have often turned to them.

I sometimes think of it as the Chinese would call, ancestor worship.

Riley once said, "If our great grandmothers could do what they did in the 1920's, then we certainly have no excuse to hesitate now."

Global pandemics and national quarantines can give times of pause and reflection and now, I suddenly
feel shy. I am hesitant to put any words to the emotions that are running through my veins. Today, it
simply feels right to honor Virginia Whitcomb Tarbell. To say out loud to anyone who is reading that she
has not been forgotten. The details of her life may be blurry to me, but the big themes live on. She still
gives me strength and I am grateful for the remembered treasure found while dusting.