The Horsehair Wig

In 1988, Michael and I decided that we would take a road trip to Iowa to visit my grandmother. It was April, during that in-between time when the weather is restless and grumpy, like a woman who is seven months pregnant. We made it to a spot in the middle of nowhere west of Indianapolis on the first night. We figured that putting ourselves on the far side of the city would keep us free of morning traffic, but we hadn't counted on running out of motels as soon as we did. We finally found one called The Riviera, a twin for the one made famous by Alfred Hitchcock. The next night we stayed in Urbanna, Illinois. The following day put us in the middle of Iowa.


The first thing we did when we got to Grundy Center was check into the little motel east of town. I knew that if we showed up at Grandma's before we checked in she would barricade us in her home, because spending money on a motel was just crazy when she had plenty of room for guests. When I was growing up we would take a family trip to visit Mom's relatives about every third summer. I could always count on the color of Grandma's house and the color of her hair to be different than the last time I'd seen her.


On this trip, Grandma's house was still barn red, because she was now in a wheelchair. Since her leg amputation, she couldn't get out to paint her house like she used to do. Michael was nervous about meeting her, because I'd already told him that she either liked you or she didn't, and there wasn't any room between the two. It was dusk when we pulled into her driveway. Did I tell you this was a surprise visit?


We knocked on the door and Grandma swung it open, peering up at us. She looked first at Michael, then at me, and then back at Michael.


"Why, Michael!" she cried warmly, and ushered him in. She'd never even met the guy, and I was like a wagon he'd dragged along with him. I followed, feeling a bit neglected. And that was that; they were like two peas in a pod. We spent a wonderful evening with Grandma, drinking coffee and talking. She was outraged that we were spending good money on a motel room, but when I told her we had already checked in, paid cash, used the towels, and licked the water glasses she relented and let us return to the motel for the night.


I thought a motel would have kept Grandma from going to a lot of trouble. Instead, when we returned the next day we discovered that she had stayed up all night baking pies, bread, and cookies. She had also pulled out her old family photo albums. She knew how I loved to look through these pictures from the early 1900's, and we sat and drank coffee and ate pie while we turned the pages of the album. Michael and I sat across the table from Grandma, and she provided commentary and back-stories on the people in the old albums. Some pictures were studio portraits, but most were candid shots of daily life at the turn of the previous century.


Grandma thumped one picture with a gnarled, arthritic finger. It showed a very handsome man, and even though the picture was black and white, you could tell his eyes were as piercingly blue as my grandmother's. She told Michael "That was my dad. I didn't like him much." As I said, she either liked you or she didn't.


Another was a picture of a big old pig with swarming piglets. "That sow had fifteen pigs!" Grandma said in wonder. I thought of vintage Iowa chops and scrapple.


At the very front of the album was a studio portrait. At first glance, a woman in a beautiful white gown, hands clasped behind her, a handsome face framed by coarse, dark hair pulled back and secured at her neck.


"That was my teacher," Grandma said proudly, "He taught me how to tat."


Indeed, a closer inspection showed Michael that this was either a handsome guy, or a woman with unfortunately mannish features. D.G. Berg, formerly in the U.S. Cavalry, later a teacher in a one-room schoolhouse, lived with my grandmother's family. My great-grandfather was the head of the school board. Back then the term was "confirmed bachelor," and D.G. Berg always wanted to have a nice picture of himself in a dress. So, my great-grandmother made him a lovely dress; he got a horsehair wig and followed his dream.


There are at least seven other pictures of him in my grandmother's photo album. Some are formal portraits, others show him around the farm. He was part of my grandmother's household. D.G. Berg had served his country (one picture shows him in his Cavalry uniform), and then he served a growing farm community. He lived with them, played with them, helped with farm work and household chores, and taught my grandmother to read and write. She loved him.


He also taught her how to tat, and that was a beloved hobby that she continued until she died at the age of ninety-two.