Estelle Kraemer never dreamed of stepping on her older siblings’ literary toes. Her sister Berdie, in her day, had been a successful women’s magazine writer and local poet laureate. Her brother Morrie worked his way up from cub reporter at the Newark Ledger to editor for the New York Tribune and Daily News. At age 95, Estelle decided it was time to bust loose.
Our Friday morning workshop at Seabrook Village she explains: “wakened something dormant in me, allowed me to think differently, to ‘let it all out.” From 2012 to her death in February, 2016, Estelle wrote every week inside and outside our workshop and—with the help of her family—published an anthology titled Mom, Grandma, Grannie, Great Grandma ‘Stell’s Poems, Stories and Memories each year.
Growing in confidence, she took her show on the road, reading at local coffeehouses with a busload of groupies in tow. No subject frightened her off. She allowed herself to feel the full spectrum of human emotion.
From childlike awe:
NEW FRONTIERS
As a country girl,
Living outside of the big city
Just the experience of riding in a trolley car
For the first time was a thrill to me.
But the first real ride I truly remember
Took place one Sunday in a car.
The car my mother’s bridge-player friends—
Mr. and Mrs. Furstenburg—owned.
There I was in the passenger front seat.
I remember Mr. Furstenburg asking me
“Why are you so quiet?”
How could I explain
That I was so in awe
Just seeing what I was seeing
What I had never seen before.
Even now,
on occasion,
I still remain silent
Without the need
for the spoken word.
© Estelle Kraemer
To grown-up sorrow:
THE GLASS THAT HOLDS MY GRIEF
Like Issac Newton’s theory,
Gravity, weight, the heaviest
falls to the bottom.
Much of my past grieving is
at the bottom of that glass.
But—
there is still room
at the top.
Hopefully,
future
happiness
that will fill
that emotional glass.
© Estelle Kraemer
“Shelley’s words give me courage to write my thoughts and memories. I am truly enjoying each Friday morning at ten-thirty.” –Estelle’s 2012-2013 Anthology
Poetry became, for Estelle, a vessel in which to pour out those joys and losses, hold them to the light, and savor them—in all their bitter sweetness—more fully.
Through it all, she retained her sharp mind. kept her youthful playfulness. Like the genie in the bottle, ever present was that bit of mischief in her eye. I understand from her son Ken and daughter-‐in-‐law Doris, Estelle was playing poker with her grandchildren on the day she died. They tell me she pulled a royal flush.
Take a moment to enjoy that joie-‐de-‐vivre in the poems that follow:
WHEN I BEGAN TO LIVE
by Estelle Kraemer
“What a solemn-‐looking broad!” Those were the words
my new “beau” wrote
on my high school yearbook picture. That was when I began to live.
No more school but a new environment,
new friends, and a new me.
All different than the way it had been. I was discovering “me,”
breaking out of my shell,
gaining confidence,
learning about life,
expressing myself.
What a joy—
leading to a life of
memories and happiness.
© Estelle Kraemer
THE YOUNG WOMAN WITH THE WATER PITCHER’S MISCHIEVOUS SMILE
(inspired by Vermeer’s painting)
by Estelle Kramer
Oh, what is that sound from outside the window? Music? Knocking?
Isn’t that the fellow who followed me home yesterday? What does he want? To woo me?
I admit: he’s not only cute but nice,
but what would my parents say?
Should I invite him in?
How will he know I see him?
Oh, I know what I should do.
I’ll pour this pitcher of water over his head.
© Estelle Kraemer
ACTING MY AGE
by Estelle Kraemer
Act my age—why? I see no reason to. I don’t want to be remembered
as a rocking chair grandma,
but I have to know my limits.
There was a time I’d sit on the floor
to play with my grandchildren,
but now, when I try to get down,
I wonder how I’ll get up.
Are children more active today,
having more activities?
It seems to me they would rather run
than sit and read a book.
A few years ago, I learned to jitterbug
so I could have fun, too.
But now, when I move my feet,
I quickly lose my breath.
I am learning to accept these things
as I get older—
my family is, too.
So hopefully they don’t expect me
to do the things I used to do.
Before long I suppose I’ll be
the grandma in the rocking chair.
If I could only figure out
how to knit.
© Estelle Kraemer
