Ladies Home Journal

Two institutions of my young life are inextricably linked--the Ladies Home Journal and my grandmother. Together they shaped my understanding of the world and guided me through rough times. So, the announcement that the magazine would end monthly publication has hit me hard. As my marriage ended, I often reflected on the advice I had gleaned from the LHJ column, “Can this marriage be saved?” and realized that in contrast to the happy endings portrayed in those pages, sometimes the answer was, “No.”

To me, my grandmother seemed eternal and unchanging, as if one day she had appeared, fully formed, in her kitchen and would stay rooted there forever.   Around her there swirled the scent of cinnamon and yeast, reminiscent of apple pies and freshly baked bread. A bird book stayed by the kitchen window, a crossword puzzle lay on the day bed on the sun porch, a bag of needlework by her living room chair.

Standing by the old wringer washer in the basement, in her faded blue house dress, white anklets peeking over shoes bulging with bunions, there was nothing pointy about her.  Warning us never to stick our fingers in there, we would watch her spotted hands pull at the heavy wet sheets as they ran through the wringer. Her gray hair curled around her wrinkled face while she wrestled the laundry basket up the stairs and out to the lines crossing between the apple and elm trees. Sitting in the grass, handing her clothespins, we would search for four leaf clovers that she would carefully press between the yellowed and stained pages of her biggest cookbook.

I had seven brothers and sisters and our house was often loud and chaotic. In contrast, my grandmother's house next door seemed an island of calm. For years we didn't own a television, and for many years only a black and white set. On Sunday evenings my two older sisters and I, the "big girls," would walk across the lawn to watch The Wonderful World of Disney, in color, with my grandparents while my mother put the "little kids" to bed. 

Walking through the back door we would follow the scent of our Grandfather’s pipe tobacco to the living room where our grandparents sat, each quietly busy with their own activities. Grandma’s rules were followed without question or complaint and heeding her command not to sit any closer or we’d ruin our eyes, we took our spots on the rug just behind an imaginary line drawn from the hall door across the room.  Any cares or concerns we brought with us were vanquished as Tinkerbell’s swirls of color appeared on the screen.

We didn’t rush home when the program ended, but climbed onto couches and chairs, picked up a magazine and leafed through the pages of recipes, advice, stories, and decorating tips.  Many of my ideas of adulthood were formed in those quiet evenings devouring the pages of Good Housekeeping, Better Homes and Gardens, Redbook, and Ladies Home Journal.

I was especially taken with the column, “Can this marriage be saved?”  Reading the personal and intimate details of married life I imagined a future spouse and the careful and considerate way we would address our conflicts.  I marveled at the selfishness, callousness, and downright bad behavior of married men and women.  But, I was comforted by the fact that there were happy endings to all of the stories.  The wise counselor would trace the root causes back to dynamics in the family of origin, and the bright light of knowledge would shine. Thus enlightened a couple would conquer their differences and emerge stronger than ever. Curled on Grandma’s couch, life seemed simple and safe.

When it was time to close the magazine, Grandma walked us to the backdoor and turned on the outside light, watching as we would run through the dark, across the lawn back to the safety of our own backdoor light.  Walking into the house we would switch off our light and look across the lawn to see her light blink off, too.  Time for everyone to go to bed.