Grandma Anna’s bedroom upstairs
I imagine Grandma Anna sitting by the window of this suite, rocking gently as she watched the traffic go by. She would have enjoyed the view but would have insisted on keeping an outhouse for herself—though she’d graciously accept indoor plumbing for guests. She once explained to me that using an outhouse was better for your health because the walk to and from your morning constitutional provided fresh air. Anna had firm views and an inner strength possessed by few.
Jody Stahancyk tells the story of her Grandmother
On December 12, 1912, my Grandma Anna (1885–1977) left her small town in southern Poland near Kraków, traveling with her two-year-old daughter, Mary (1909–2006), aboard a German ship. They rode in steerage, arriving at Ellis Island on Christmas Eve. From there, they took the cheapest train seats across Canada to Banff, Alberta, to reunite with her husband, Joseph, at his mining camp. Anna had never before left her hometown, spoke only Polish, and had only her small child for company—yet she never whined, cried, or relied on others to care for her.
That same resilience carried her through life on the Prineville ranch, where she lived with only her family for company, never mastering English yet never seeming lonely or bored. She always had a project—writing letters, reading the Chicago Polish newspaper, or watching television, giving the shows her own twist in the retelling.
She was an excellent cook and tried to pass those skills on to me, convinced I would need them since, in her opinion, I was “too educated” to find a husband. Upon meeting my future husband, John, she surprised everyone by saying in perfect English, “When are you going to marry her?” John, who had been warned that she spoke no English, turned to me, baffled. “What did she say?” he asked. I shrugged, “Who knows?” As soon as he turned his back, I stuck out my tongue, and Grandma Anna shot me an irreverent grin in return. She was sage, determined, and tough.
When I said goodbye to her in 1968 before leaving for my junior year in France, she told me she wouldn’t be here when I returned in the spring. Confused, I asked, “Where will you be?” Her answer: “With the angels.” And thus began the Anna-and-Jody routine. Each time I returned home, I’d tease, “Thought you’d be gone.” And each time I left again, she’d remind me that this was our final goodbye—never sentimental, just matter-of-fact.
Her journey to the angels in January 1977 was devastating for our family—but not for her. Prineville was in the middle of an ice storm when she made her usual trip to the outhouse without issue. But afterward, she decided to chop some wood for her fire. As she carried a heavy load inside, she slipped on the ice. Fortunately, my father found her and got her to the hospital, where she underwent surgery for a broken hip. She came through it like a champ—strong heart, strong lungs, strong constitution.
But when she woke up, she was furious. “You will not do surgery on me!”
The doctor replied, “Sorry, already done.”
“Get me out of here, NOW!” she demanded.
The doctor bargained—two weeks, then one week. My father rushed to the hospital and promised, “Just 24 more hours, and you can go home.”
“No.” She folded her arms, her lungs filled up, and by morning, she was in the arms of the angels.
Her strength, courage, and tenacity remain a guiding light for me, my daughters, my cousins, and my grandchildren. Our family’s rallying cry is simple:
Grandma Anna never cried, or gave up when times got tough, and neither will I.
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