A Family Story

Yesterday, a minor yet nevertheless noteworthy event occurred that has set me to thinking about my great-grandparents, Turner and Anna Hefley, whom I’ve written about before (see in particular “The Honey-Do List,” December 12, 2016).

William Turner Hefley, a 22-year-old coal miner, and 19-year-old Anna Isabelle Conley were married in 1891 and went to housekeeping, as they used to say, in Hillsboro, Illinois. By 1906, Anna had borne five daughters, of whom the third, Blanche Alberta, was my mother’s mother. (A son would finally arrive in 1915.)

By all accounts, Turner was a hard-working, conscientious fellow, well respected in the community. Although never well to do, he provided adequately for his family, and Anna managed the household well.

A good seamstress, she saved money by making clothes for the children, but she longed for a sewing machine to make the work easier and go more quickly. Turner thought $69.95 was too much to spend on a contraption, and although she argued that it would save money in the long run, he would not agree to its purchase.

Then one evening as he was walking home from work with his months’ wages in his pocket, Turner passed by the music store. On display in its window was a beautiful upright piano of dark, polished wood. He stood gazing at it, imagining his house being filled with music, his daughters taking lessons and becoming accomplished young ladies who could play and sing.

With hardly a thought, he went into the store and bought the piano, then rounded up some pals to help him get it delivered to his house where he installed it in a prominent place in the parlor.

The next day, her handbag weighed down with the coins she had squirreled away from her household allowance, Anna went to the dry goods store and bought a brand-new 1906 Singer sewing machine.

The last time I saw that piano was at my grandmother’s house in Litchfield, Illinois, in 1968.

The last time I saw that old Singer sewing machine was yesterday when my niece and her husband hauled it out of my basement and loaded it into their van. It has passed to the next generation, the fifth to own it and, I hope, to remember its provenance.