Did Dad Know? - Part lI

 

When my Aunt Mae Clayborn Damron, my Aunt Patty King Rendon, my brother and I met for the first time that July in 2011, one of questions posed later at the cemetery was how my grandparents, Thurston Clayborn and Pansy Hubbell, met.  This was a topic we would ponder for the next seven (7) years of Mae's life when we got together to visit.  

My grandmother would have been 19, and Thurston eight years her senior, or 27. One of the popular theories was that Clarence's wife, Esther likely was the one who introduced them, through a sewing club or some similar organization. Every person associated with that group are gone, so we likely won't ever know the truth.  

As to know what Dad knew and when, it wouldn't have been until my grandmother's funeral in 1985. He went alone, and Mae said she was looking for him, as she wanted to talk to him, but she was so busy she missed him. Mae thinks that Clarence went with him and my Uncle Billy.  So, he may have found out then.  Maybe, maybe not.  

One thing I've wondered is if he did find out, he never told my mother, as she would have told me. She never said anything. One fact that was shared is that my uncle did not want to go to the cemetery and my father insisted that he would be going, as it wasn't optional. The day of my grandmother's funeral was the last day that my dad and his brother were on speaking terms. After that time, he was estranged from the family until the day he died. The reason no doubt was that he didn't inherit any part of the estate of his mother. My dad and aunt agreed that all the money he had borrowed from his mother over the years would be counted toward his share of the estate.  In their eyes, this was only right. And, so it was. 

A final thought, reflecting as an adult on this story, and as a parent myself, as patterns repeat themselves. I know I certainly have, so I have no doubt that he did as well. I wonder if my father thought of his mother and her feelings when she came back home to her father's house pregnant, when I came back home in the same situation. I didn't know my grandmother's story then.  

But, as it's Father's Day today, I am remembering several difficult days during that time, and remembering how kind he was.  It was a time I felt especially close to him and thankful that I had a protector and a home to come to at a time when I needed one. I was blessed. 

Brothers and Sisters

Reflecting back on my childhood, the legend of "oldest child syndrome," definitely applied to our family and to me.  I was the "responsible one," the one expected to lead and take care of my brother, even from a young age.  The earliest memories I have are of a traumatic robbery when we were young in Hawaii (my brother was in a crib).  I also remember our old spanish home in National City, California, with hardwood floors and a phone with a bell ringer.  The ringer used to ring when we had earthquake tremors and wake us up.  My brother was a typical boy.  He used to pee through the fence on the kid next door in our duplex.  Hot summer days found us running through the sprinkler in the front yard, when my dad would set it up for us.  In Connecticut, we were close to my mother's New England family, which she liked, as my father was gone a lot on submarines.  It was hard raising a busy 2-year old boy.  For example, when a mailman didn't lock up his truck, my brother took the mail out of the truck and put in back in the mailbox.  When he got mad at a neighbor girl, he hit her over the head with a truck, leading to stitches.  Needless to say, Mom used to get plenty of moms knocking on her door about my brother. 

I was just over the age of three when my brother was born.  We happened to be in St. Petersburg, Florida, and dad had gone ahed to report for duty in Hawaii, while my mother

and I stayed in St. Petersburg with my grandparents until my brother was born, and it was safe to travel. To think she traveled by herself from Florida to Hawaii with an infant and a 3-year old alone to Hawaii.  She had it wasn't easy, as I was running all over the plane, with Ritz cracker crumbs everywhere.  Thank God I was potty trained. She said the Navy was no help to her in those early days. She was alone alot.  

I used to ask my mother where she found my brother, as I used to swear he fell off a turnip truck somewhere.  To say we are different, is a vast understatement (leading to my question).   He was short and round and I was tall and thin.  When he got stuck in the snow (up to his chest), I had to go rescue him at my mother's insistence. 

At the age of 3, my brother didn't talk.  He would point, and could not pronounce my name.  Even with extensive speech therapy, he used to call me "Pinda,"  Sissy was easier, but never stuck.  Mrs. Stovepipe was his speech therapist, and worked with him, enabled us to stay in Connecticut six months later so he could finish his therapy.

My brother was spoiled, and didn't have to do much to get my mom's attention or to get what he wanted. At Christmas, the base exchange would set up Toyland, and I remember being so excited to go see all the toys so I could pick out what I wanted for Christmas and to see all the decorations--It was really a wonderland. I remember thinking that I hoped my brother behaved himself as there was nothing worse than watching him through a fit in a store if he didn't get what he wanted.  Sure enough, it wasn't long as he was pitching a fit when he couldn't get some toy he wanted. I remember Mom telling him he had to wait for Santa, but he was having none of it.  I just kept walking as I couldn't take it.  I don't even remember how it all worked out, but eventually we all met up and got out of there.  I'm sure I got talked to about going ahead of them by myself. 

I was always "in charge," as far as my parents were concerned. Even before my mother took her last breath, I sensed a struggle.  When I told her he would be OK, she peacefully took her last breath. 

Did Dad Know? - Part I

  One of the most perplexing questions I have is whether or not my dad learned who his father was.   If he did, it was following the burial of his mother in February 1985.  My grandmother died suddenly following an aneurysm.  Actually, I remember when the call came in.  I was over at my parent's house and it was lunch time on the weekend.  My father leaned against the wall of the kitchen, while on the phone, with his head bowed.  When he hung up the phone, I remember asking what was wrong.  He was slow to respond and obviously upset.  I remember he quietly said he was just getting to know her and his voice cracked as he spoke and I sensed the profound loss in that statement.  The loss of what would never be.  The loss of a mother. 



Clayborn, Clarence & Esther 1977

   Dad went to the funeral alone as money was tight for my folks.  Also, my grandmother owned property so there would be an estate to start talking about, so he would be longer than just a day or so.  Being newly married,  I had no extra cash and I had just seen Grandma at my wedding.  So, everything I'm sharing is based on what I was told from my mother or my Dad's youngest sister, my Aunt Patty. 

Note that the first two paragraphs above were written on 2/3/13.  It is  5/4/25 and I just logged in and found this blog unpublished.  I still don't know the answer to this question, 12 years later.  I will tell you that I know not knowing who his father was left a tremendous hole in my father's life.  Even if my grandmother was trying to protect my dad from rejection (my daughter's wise summary of the situation), which may likely be true, it still left a void.  The absence of his mother during those early years,(She went to work during the week in Kansas City to send money home.) left an even greater void.  

The 1950 census showed Pansy Hubbell, declaring herself a widow, at the young age of 30, which while possible, is not accurate.  Rather, she gave birth out-of-wedlock to my dad on May 11, 1940, and named him James Thurston Hubbell, after her father and his father.  While I will not understand the circumstances of her relationship with my grandfather, Thurston Clayborn, I do know that she fell in love at the young age of 19.  

I added the photograph of Clarence and Esther, as they were a key to alot about our family.  Clarence used to check on my dad and my uncle.  At least that is what my Aunt Mae told me when I met her.  She said that Clarence was the one that came to her one weekend to tell her about the boys.  She told him she already knew about them.  He talked about my dad being in the Navy and about being careful about approaching my uncle.  She had pictures of my dad and uncle I had never seen.  

Who Do I Think I Am?

   As I've been researching my ancestors for the past couple of years, I've verified some family stories and have been surprised by others. My family is truly a mix of the earliest colonists, with a blend of 18th and 19th century German and English immigrants.  While blogging about my family research was the original focus, I have decided to include memories of my childhood, my parents and grandparents lives as a way to preserve some memory of them.  After all, my daughter only has some vague memories of my mother, and my father died when she was a toddler.  And, my grandparents were lost to this life when I was a teenager and young adult.  My hope is that my 3rd great-grandchildren will learn about what life was like during the 20th century, and that images from the 18th and 19th century of their ancestors will be preserved for a later time.  While I have always been a student of history, seeing and living history through the lives of those that came before me has taught me alot about who I am. 


Anna Gurke abt 1898

As the original Nana (Anna Wilhemena Gurke, July 3, 1888-February 18, 1963), my great-grandmother, left pictures that I have preserved, I realize it may indeed be my great-grandchildren that take up my research.  My college history professor's request to, "insert ourselves" into history, allowed me to explore the emotions of my great-grandmother as she deserted her German heritage to "become American."  What I failed to understand until I put myself into the context of time, was that the threat of world war forced immigrants to chose sides, rather than embrace and carry on the traditions of the Fatherland. 



Ernest Withycombe's Headstone

   While my German heritage was known and discussed, stories of my "Newfie" great-grandfather were not discussed often.  I knew he died young, supposedly of cancer based on my grandmother's stories, and that "Bub" was really the one that raised her.  Images of him were preserved by my great-grandmother's photos and I knew her last name was rare--Withycombe.  That's pretty much all I knew. The excitement of first finding his death certificate, which verified the cancer diagnosis, and then the awe when I received this picture of his headstone.  Reading the quote:  "To my beloved husband Ernest W Withycombe, aged 28 years," left me breathless.  Nana loved flowers, so the headstone looked like something she woudl pick out.  It was like I could feel her pain, the pain of a young widow.  They were married in 1910, my grandmother arrived in 1912 and he died in 1913.  The Newfie part probably surprised me the most-- Canadian--who would have figured that!  Apparently, migration from Newfoundland to New England was not unusual in the late 19th century.  The Withycombe and Chafe families have been prominant in St. John's, the southside for several generations.  I continue to search for connections to these families. 

   My hillybilly heritage has been the most interesting and the most mysterious, as it was never discussed in my childhood.  While most of the family originated in Jamestown, Virginia, in the 1600s, there is a German Rhineland line, as well as a French Hugeneot thrown in for good measure. 

Nancy Vertrees Headstone
 

   Pioneers is probably a better term for this family, although as they moved westward with the promise of become landowners, they did become hillbillies, as they settled in the Ozarks.  One story, in particular, is an example of the stories of pioneers carving a life out of the land as they moved westward, the story of Nancy Haycraft Vertrees (1782-1865), my 5th great-grandmother, from the history of Pike, Illinois. 
 

Nancy Vertrees is reputed to have had much knowledge of "wilderness medicine." She could concoct salves and ointments from roots and fibers of wild plants and could brew "teas" to allay illnesses incident to a new land. So widely was she known for her art that she was sometimes called many miles from home to cure a "white swelling" or an attack of "ager." Once, it is said (although this must refer to an incident in Kentucky), she was called to attend a sick child at a great distance from her home and with a wide river to cross. Her own youngest child was then of too tender age to be left alone so, mounting her horse, she took her child with her, and, arriving at the river and finding no means of crossing, she set her steed to the current and swam the wild stream, bringing succor as quickly as possible to the suffering child, whose life was saved by her knowing ministry.  So, from out of the lives of these old pioneers, gleams now and then a radiance that is almost divine.

 

  Who Do I Think I Am?  Definitely much more diverse than I could ever have imagined before I began this journey.  My ancestors all came here for a better life, for the life I enjoy in this generation with its opportunities and freedoms that they could only dream of. I look forward to finding out more about them. And, by more, I mean not just their vital statistics and their names, but more about the stories that made up their struggles, joys and hopes.  Stories like those of Nancy Vertrees.

For the Love of the Game

  The recent win of our Miami Heat as NBA champions brought back memories of all things basketball.  Actually, my first outing with my dad was to a San Diego Rockets game where they had a basketball giveaway for all the kids that came to the game.  I'm not sure of the year, but think I was about six or seven, and I just remember feeling special, as my dad explained the game. 



Rick Barry, 1975. 

Nana abt. 1972

   When we loved in Northern California (1974-1976), we used to go as a family to home games for the Golden State Warriors at the Oakland Coliseum.  Rick Barry, Clifford Ray, Butch Beard, were a few of the players that year for the team.  It was truly exciting that year to watch them proceed to the playoffs and then to win the NBA championship.  "Barry Duck," as my brother and I nicknamed him, was truly an outstanding athlete and role model.  To this day, I think he is one of the only players I've seen that throw free throws underhanded.  I'll admit that I tried this technique back in the day, but was never successful. 

   Our love of the game continued, when I tried out for youth basketball when we were stationed in Okinawa.  I made first string for the Zukeran Rookies, and shared the position of point guard with another girl named Carol.  I can handle the ball, and shoot well from outside the key, but I'm way too tiny to be down by the boards.  I remember my dad volunteered as an assistant coach, so we were able to share the experience of becoming division champions, undefeated against all teams.  I remember working hard and being in the best shape, primarily due to the half court sprints we had to do during practices.  And, dad never cut me any slack, and in fact, I probably had it harder than the rest of the girls. 
  At Kubasaki High School, I tried out for Jr. Varsity basketball.  Since there was only one American

kubasakihigh.com

high school on the island (over 3,000 students), we actually had 4 athletic teams for every sport within the school and played one another for sports.  The teams were always the Falcons, the Eagles, the Knights and the Warriors.  So, it was a little easier for everyone that wanted to play to make a team.  I took #24 on the Knights for my favorite warrior, Rick Barry.  I played most of the entire game for the JV games, and every now and then got to play a few minutes in a varsity game.  This was the year I started wearing glasses full-time, as I find it helped improve my depth perception, increasing the accuracy of my outside shooting.  We left Okinawa in February 1979, just before basketball season started, or I would have automatically got to play varsity.  Sadly, I never continued basketball at Lakewood High, as I had to get a job and work.  I doubt I would have made the team, as it was much smaller, with less opportunity. 

  I still love basketball, and showed my grandson how to dribble a ball, as well as teaching him the word, "B-Ball," much to the dismay of his football-loving father.  We'll see what sport he ends up playing.  As for me, I choose basketball every time. 

The Cat House

King, Linda 1965

   I've had cats ever since I can remember, and even earlier than that.  With Dad being in the Navy, we moved every 2 - 3 years, so I'd get attached to my animals and then have to find them good homes.  Actually, this picture was taken June 1, 1965 in Edinburgh, Scotland, so I was almost three years old.  When I asked my mom whose cat this was, she didn't know, but remarked they used to "find me."  You'll also note I'm playing with a Yogi Bear bubble bath figure, apparently toys were in short supply.  You'll see from this story that the animal lover in our house was my Dad. He was always finding some stray cat and providing a home for them, much to Mom's dismay.  She tolerated cats, but that was about it.  


Lele with her first litter of kittens.

  My first cat was Lele, a pure-bred seal-point siamese.  The name is Hawaiian, which is fitting since we adopted her in Hawaii.  When my Dad was considering the purchase, the breeder questionned him, as I was only 5 and she wondered if I was mature enough for my own cat.  Dad said not to worry, as he was confident I would be a good Mom.  Dad actually paid to fly Lele home from Hawaii to California and then on to Connecticut.  This was one cat I didn't have to give up when I moved.  This picture was taken at Grandma King's house and shows Lele with her first litter:  Loomis, Louie & Lester.  Grandma kept Loomis, a beautiful Lilac-point, and we gave away the other two kittens.  Before we went to the Panama Canal Zone in 1972, we drove back to Missouri to leave Lele with my grandmother.  That cat was the ultimate in spoiled, as my Grandma King used to make her an egg every morning for breakfast.  Lele lived a long life out in the country and kept my Grandma company, and Grandma would always keep me up-to-date on what she was up to.

Francine, July 1978

When I was thinking about this article, I remembered a joke when I was little (maybe about 8 or 9).  I used to tell my Dad that when I grew up, that I was going to have a house full of cats, a cat house.  He used to laugh like crazy, and, of course, I didn't realize he was thinking of the adult-version of a cat house.  In all honesty, I've always had cats and I enjoy the fact that they are their own people, independent, and still very loving and accepting.  To date, I've only had a max of 3 cats at a time, so I've never had a cat house.  Actually, my last several cats have been homeless and in need of adoption, rather than pure-breds.  I keep thinking if I'm ever home enough, I might try a dog for a change.  We'll see. . .

Memories of Mothers and Grandmothers

(L to R) Withycombe, Charlotte, Wood, Marilyn & King, Linda
abt. 1966

That's me with the two best mothers I've ever known.  So much of who we are as people comes from our parents.  And, in my family, the mother was responsible for bringing up the children.  This photo appears to be taken in front of our church in St. Petersburg, Florida--Fifth Avenue Baptist Church.  St. Petersburg was always home, as we moved from one duty station to the next.  We had just returned from Scotland, and mom was just a few months pregnant with my brother.  We would remain in St. Petersburg until after his birth in September and then join my dad in Hawaii.

Mom often told me how hard it was, particularly around this time to have to travel without my dad, with an infant and a 3-year-old, pretty much across the world.  I always remember Mom having an extraordinary amount of patience and long-suffering, which I always admired.  As a young Navy wife, she had to uproot her family and pack us up every 2-3 years.  As an adult, I can't imagine having to pick up and move that often.  I know she missed her mother, and back in those days, letter writing was the only option and they wrote every week or two to stay in touch.  My grandparents did come visit us on several occasions, including overseas trips to Scotland and Panama. 

My grandfather was in the Coast Guard for 30 years, so my mother moved as well, but not as often as we did.  She moved from her native Massachusetts to St. Petersburg, Florida, and attended Southside Elementary in 1946, and relocated again during high school to Rockville, Maryland, while her grandparents stayed in St. Petersburg.  Mom remembered how hard it was moving during high school.  I did the same, relocating from Okinawa, Japan back St. Petersburg in my Sophomore year.  "Take regular classes you can transfer," she said, recalling some of the credits she lost when she moved.  One of the qualities of a good mom is passing on wisdom to the next generation.  No mom wants to see her children make the same mistakes. 

I have warm, wonderful memories of being at home with Grandma and Granddad in St. Petersburg.  From mile-high ice cream cones at Webb's City, relaxing in the inner tube at Passagrille Beach, digging for baby crabs at Bay Pointe park, baking with Grandma and my most favorite, cuddling up for storytime with Grandma.  My favorite book was, "The Little Engine that Could," and Grandma always read the story with great feeling and emotion.  We'd be snuggled on the couch and I'd get caught up in the story and not want it to end.  Those were precious times that I'll always treasure.  I learned how to bake at my grandmother's elbow.  Molasses cookies, apple pie, homemade brownies, and bread pudding were some of her specialities.  Mom's baking skills were limited to Tollhouse cookies, and I was responsible for most holiday baking as an adult. 

Four Generations

I miss both of these women more than I can express.  As with most things in our lives, we don't truly miss our loved ones until they are gone.  I was very blessed to have had these wonderfully strong and loving women in my life and on this Mother's Day, I salute them.

My Grandmothers

This week I'd like to talk about my memories of my grandmothers.  I've shared a little about both my grandmothers in my earlier posts and they are polar opposites in several ways, but similar in other ways.  First, I'll give you snapshots of their lives: 

Pansy Nadine Hubbell  - (Grandma King) Born March 1, 1920, Angola, Indiana.  The only girl of 8 children, whose father was a farmer.


Pansy - 1938

Met my grandfather, Thurston Clayborn in 1938/9.  Got pregnant with my father, and returned home. 

• My dad was born at the University of Kansas hospital in Kansas City, KS on May 11, 1940.  She got back together with my grandfather and got pregnant with my Uncle who was born on Sept. 14, 1942.  
• Her parents raised both boys and she went to work at Montgomery Ward in Kansas City, KS, and lived in an apartment in the city.   
• Married Burham Martin King (18 years her senior) in 1954. Had my Aunt on Oct. 13, 1955.  
• Died on Feb. 9, 1985 of an aneurysm, following hospitalization from a broken leg from falling on the ice.  This was the first time I saw my dad cry.  He said he "was just getting to know her." 

All I remember about Grandma King while she was alive was tied to the King homestead in Minneola, Missouri.  Grandma grew corn, beans, and other vegetables and had chickens and cats.  Her home had a potbelly furnace in the kitchen area and no hot water when I was a girl or air conditioning.  We used to visit in summers and Grandma would have me help her collect eggs, pick blackberries, and snap beans.  She used to butcher her own chickens and can vegetables and fruit.  To this day, her lime pickles were the best I ever tasted.  The last time I saw her was on my wedding day in March, 1984, and she surprised me with a jar of lime pickles that she "found" in her suitcase.  That was the only thing I ate that day.  She never shared much about her life growing up and I wish I would have asked.  I got to know her by doing things with her on the farm, like snapping beans.  I never knew her as well as I would have liked.  I remember when my Aunt shared photos like those above with me at how beautiful she was and what a contrast she was when I knew her compared to her younger days.  The woman I remember used to hide change and a billfold in her bra and didn't always wear her false teeth. 

When I verified that Thurston Clayborn was my grandfather in 2011, I realized how my adult life was similar and parallel to Pansy's.  It surprised me, in a way, to realize how we shared similar struggles.  I always knew I had my dad's personality, so maybe I am more like Grandma King than I ever thought.    

Charlotte - 1930

Charlotte Margaret Withycombe (Grandma Wood) Born Feb. 1, 1912, Winthrop, Massachusetts.  An only child.  Her father, a traveling salesman, died the following year of rectal cancer at the age of 28.  Her mother must have moved back home with her parents and did remarry two years later in 1915.  Her step-father was a firefighter.

• Had many suitors -- one out the front door as one came in the back door (or so she said).  Met my grandfather, who was in the Coast Guard and had relocated from Michigan.  They married in 1935. 
• Three generations of the family lived together.  Actually, her mother found the home they relocated to in St. Petersburg, Florida in 1946.  The family moved to Rockville, MD in the 1950s due to Coast Guard assignment.  
• Died on Jan. 4, 1992, after a long illness.  She had been resuscitated following a heart attack/stroke and spent the last 2 years of her life in a full-time care center not recognizing any of us.  God used this time to remind me of all she meant to me. 

Grandma Wood & King -  My wedding
1984

Since my father spent some much time away from us during Naval training and transfers, I spent more time with Grandma Wood than I did Grandma King.  I spent half of first grade and a third of fourth grade in her home.  We moved back to St. Pete in 1979, following Granddad Wood's death.  Grandma Wood was a traditional grandmother in every since of the word.  I learned to bake Nana's apple pie at her elbow and my grandmother had a skill for baking homemade brownies (never dry) to homemade baking power biscuits.  Hers was the original Boston Chicken.  She used to set the table for breakfast, complete with flowers and little juice glasses.  Fresh-squeezed orange juice was a special treat Grandma reserved for my visits, as she knew how much I loved it.  I still remember cuddling up next to her on the couch to hear her animated reading of "The Little Engine that Could," my favorite book.  Reminiscing was done after a home-baked meal on a weeknight, which was a special treat for Mom and me after working a long day at the office.  She told me how she walked herself to the hospital when she was in labor with my mom.  (When I visited Winthrop, I judged the distance, and let's just say that I was impressed.)

Both my grandmothers lived through the Great Depression and never wasted anything--especially food. They counted pennies, and were the first women to work outside the home and were both high school graduates.   Grandma King was a midwestern farmer's daughter, and had two children out-of-wedlock.  While Grandma Wood was a northeastern, suburban daughter, and had a more traditional marriage and family.  Both women played important roles in shaping me and forming my values and I was blessed to have both of them in my life. 

Of Germans and Englishmen




Charlotte Schoppe, first 
generation American.  
 

My maternal 2nd Great Grandmother, Charlotte Schoeppe, was born in Lyon, New York, in 1861.  She was a "tailoress," and as you can see from the picture from 1909, was a sharp dresser.  I'm sure she made her own clothes.  Charlotte, I discovered, was the baby of the family, the youngest of five (5) children born to William Schoeppe and Emilie Woecker.  There were five (5) children, four girls and one boy.  Augusta (1847, Prussia), Maria (Feb. 1850, Prussia) & Matilda (1853, New York) and her older brother, George, (1859, New York)  I'm almost certain her first language was German, although I may never know, as I don't remember stories of Charlotte, from her granddaughter, Charlotte (my grandmother).  As you can see -- the generational repeating of names can be quite confusing.  The more I've studied the German immigrants from that time period, the more I found it was common to speak German in the home, until World War I.  With war, came a decision to identify as Americans or Germans.  Sadly for the generations from that time on, including me, was the loss of the native language and culture. 



(Left to Right) Charlotte and one of her sisters? 

Charlotte's mother, Emilie Woecker, was born about 1821 in Cottbus, Germany, near the border of Prussia.  Emilie's husband was William Schoeppe, born abt. 1819, also in Prussia.  I just found the city of Emilie's birth a few weeks ago, when I finally found her passenger record.  She arrived in the United States after she was already married, and I had been looking under her maiden name.  The
 ship was the Leontine and the date of arrival was 19 August 1850.  The passenger list includes the fact that she came from Berlin and she was a Tailoress.  With her were two young daughters, Augusta, age 3, and Marie, age 6 months.  While I first thought she traveled alone, I'm still following a clue of two other Schoeppe's, a couple, that may well be a brother-in-law and his wife.  I'm also still searching for William's passenger record, as I believe he came ahead to set up his tailor shop before he sent for his wife and children. 

My mom's paternal line is Wood, which is English from my research so far.  I didn't have much  information on this side of the family, only that I knew my grandfather and great-grandfather's names.  When I used to ask my grandfather questions as a little girl about where he came from, he used to say he was a, "Heinz 57," which meant he was a little bit of everything.  With my Nana's photo collection, I also have Wood pictures.  One old photograph with men with the youngest looking like John Wood, my mom's brother.  It is a picture of four (4) men that appear to be a generation portrait taken in Bay City, Michigan.  My assumption with the portrait was that the youngest man was my grandfather.  A little research showed I was wrong. 

Michigan has all of its death records before 1920 online, which is great for those of us that live so far away from the Bay state.  When I realized that my 4th great grandfather was a tailor in Bay City, Michigan, who died of old age in 1910,  I'll never forget how excited I got.  I realized that the picture I had was even older, in that the patriarch, William John Wood has to be the most senior in the picture.  Because the people in the picture weren't labeled, this was a great revelation.  After all, they all look like each other, so without the mark on the picture and the death record, I never would have identified the men.  Solving this puzzle, also lead to another conclusion about another photograph below.

Wood, Edwin, Carl, and Adah Louise Baker

The young man in this photo (taken around the same time), is my great-grandfather, Edwin Wood (based on the generational photo).  That means that the woman in this photo would be Adah Louise Baker, and the baby my grandfather's oldest brother, Carl.  This the only photo I have of Adah, as she died of a heart ailment in 1916, when my grandfather was just 9 years old. 

The one lesson that I've learned from Nana's old photo album, is that while I am grateful for her preservation of the photos, it would have been so helpful if she would have labeled the people in the pictures.  With that being said, without her efforts, my grandchildren would never see pictures of her and her family.  I've got many more faces to identify, so I'll keep at it, including the need to label my own photographs, so my granddaugher's children aren't left guessing about who is the photo. 

Guy Lombardo or Dick Clark and Cold Duck

New Year's Eve growing up was quiet.  We got to stay up late, but I honestly can't remember if I ever made it to midnight.  One unique thing that stands out in my memory was the traditional bottle of Cold Duck that was opened for the occasion.  This was unique, because neither of my parents drank alcohol on a regular basis.  Every now and then, something would be in the house, but it was rare.  Dad wasn't a beer drinker, but would partake out on a special occasion.  I remember one year I asked for a taste (I had to have been over 10 years old) of the champagne, and it was nasty and bitter.  One year, I remember Dad putting some of the bottle into the cat's dish to see if our cat (probably Lele or Frosty) would partake.  No such luck. 

Picture courtesy of Wine Chef Blog

According to Wikipedia, Cold Duck is the name of a sparkling wine made in the US that was at one time (mostly 1970s) the best-selling "champagne" in America.  The wine was invented by Harold Borgman, the owner of Pontchartrain Wine Cellars in Detroit, in 1937.  The recipe was based on a traditional German custom of mixing all the dregs of unfinished wine bottles with champagne.  All I know was it just confirms my opinion of it, as it must have been an acquired taste of the time. 

If we were home with Grandma Wood, we'd watch Guy Lombardo as he was Mr. New Years' Eve in the 1970's .  Apparently, his last show was ringing in the year 1977, at the end of the Bicentennial in 1976.  As a youngster, I was happier with Dick Clark, the following year, which is probably a generational thing.  My mother and grandmother loved Lawrence Welk and the big band sound, while I preferred contemporary music of the pop, rock and disco era.  There was not a selection for country music fans at the time, but I do remember Dick Clark incorporating various music styles as the years wore one.  I was saddened when Dick Clark passed this year, as I'm sure my mother was with the loss of Guy Lombardo.  He will be missed.  It truly is a generational thing and I'm not as impressed with Ryan Seacrest, Dick Clark's hand-picked replacement.  

I didn't start going out for New Years' Eve until I was married, and even then, we would typically plan to stay over at the guest's house to avoid drunk drivers on the roadway.  In the 1970s and 1980s, drunk driving on New Years' Eve was a particular concern, and still is to a degree.  

I have finally acquired a taste for champagne, but only over the last five (5) years or so.  My favorite is Rondel, as it has a smooth, crisp flavor and is available in Brut or Rose.  I continue to stay home or hang out with friends on New Years' Eve, and still prefer a quiet evening of reflecting on the past year and remembering my family and the simple joy of being together and the hope of a fresh start that a New Year brings. 

Christmas 1971, the Christmas that Almost Wasn't

Me - Passport Photo 1972

  The holiday season always has me reflecting back on my childhood, a time when life was simplier, a time when the family members I loved so much surrounded me, and a time of year when everything was magical.  Christmas was a big deal with the Wood family, especially my grandmother, who always made a big fuss over family visits.  Christmas 1971 was a Christmas I have never forgotten, because we almost missed Christmas that year.  We were in Groton, Connecticut and dad was in the submarine service.  Even though my mom hated my dad being out to sea three (3) months at a time, she did like living in New England, a place that reminded her of her childhood, growing up in Massachusetts.    We also loved being in New England, because it meant that we had family nearby.  Mom's sister lived in Maryland (an easy weekend trip) and my grandmother's stepsisters and their families were in Massachusetts.  For a military family that moved every 2-3 years, being able to be close to family was very rare, so we did travel quite a bit during our three (3) years there. 

   That year we planned to drive to St. Petersburg, Florida to be with my mom's parents for Christmas.  On the way down, we'd always stop-over at Aunt Pearl's house, no matter what time it was.  She lived in Waltersboro, South Carolina, which was about the half-way point for us when traveling.  This particular year, I remember that we ended up at Fort Bragg at the base hospital on the way down, because my brother and I were sick and running fevers.  He always got bronchitis and I had tonsillitis, and this time was no exception.  After a bottle of pink stuff (liquid Pencillin), and cough medicine it was just a short trip to Aunt Pearl's.  We had a light blue VW 411 station wagon, which was a "lemon."  Every weekend since Dad started having problems with the car, we'd make the weekend trip up to Orangeburg, New York to the main VW Distributorship, where Dad would meet with someone with the latest list of complaints with the car.  The car was the first to be fuel-injected, and it used to backfire and if you stopped to get gas and turned off the engine, it would not restart right away.  My dad was not a patient man, nor did he curtail his language in certain situations.  When he was waiting for the car to start, we couldn't move or utter a sound or we'd be the target of his frustration. 

   On this particular trip it was Christmas Eve, and we had to stop and get gas in Gainesville.  It was late in the evening and of course, the car wouldn't start.  I think Mom actually called my grandparents from a pay phone to let them know we'd be late so they wouldn't worry.  Just when we were thinking we may have to get a hotel room, the car started and we were back on the road.  It was close to midnight or early Christmas morning by the time we pulled in the driveway.  My brother and I were asleep, but I woke up briefly when we were being carried to the sofa bed in the Florida room off the living room.  My parents and grandparents waited until they thought I was asleep, and then went to unload the packages from the hood of the car.  I pretended to be asleep, but listened as they were bringing the presents in the house, and I could see through the sliders, as no one had closed the curtain separating the two rooms.  In our family, Santa's gifts were usually unwrapped, set up and ready to play with.  I think that year, I received a starter phonograph, along with a Carpenters' album and other gifts.  I told my mom the next day that I knew my parents were Santa and what I saw.  She swore me to secrecy where my brother was concerned and threatened if I told him, my gifts would suffer.  I'm thinking that it was several years before my brother realized that Santa had helpers.  I was eight (8) years old, and back in the day that was fairly young to stop believing in Santa.  However, I was always an "old soul," and was always pushing the envelope when it came to grown-up things and Christmas was not an exception. 

   The saddest part of my childhood is that I don't think many pictures or slides survived moving every three years, so I'll be making copies of the school pictures in the hands of my cousin and Aunt to have pictures of those years.  I'll be doing more blogs on my childhood and places I remember in the coming year, since we traveled the world courtesy of the US Navy.  At least a verbal history of my childhood will live on, even though pictures won't be as numerous.  I'm committed to preserving, through labeling and scanning the pictures of my adult years and those of my daughter's childhood so these can be shared with the generations to come.  Time passes quickly, and the memories of that Christmas night are still vivid in my memory, even though it was over 40 years ago.  Now, I'm the grandparent making memories with my own grandchildren and making them feel special, as my grandmothers did for me. 



 

Jack Wood - A Political Force

This recent election cycle and the proximity to my grandfather, Jack Wood's birthday, brought back memories of what a political force my Granddad was.  Jack Wood, was the youngest son of Edwin Wood and Adah Baker, born November 3, 1907 in Marine City, Michigan.  Like most of his generation, he completed the 7th grade, and according to my Uncle, John Wood, he worked on a railway line in the area until someone told him what to do.  Born John Charles Wood, he went by Charles J. or "Jack" when he was an adult.    He was a very smart man, with common sense, and a sense of justice and Midwestern values.  He was very stubborn and my mother and aunt were just like him. 

(Lt to Rt) Wood, Charlotte & Jack & me.

My grandfather was good friends with C. W. Bill Young, a congressman in the St. Petersburg, FL area for years.  He was a die-hard Republican and nothing made him more angry than seeing the waste in government.  He believed in less government, and disagreed vehemently with most of the early governors of Florida, including Lawton Chiles.  My grandmother was his secretary and used to type letters for him on her manual typewriter.  He was always firing off letters to one senator or representative or another on some topic. 



Jack Wood in Uniform

Most of us do get our political leanings from our families.  And, I'm no different.  My grandfather greatly influenced my beliefs.  Terms like "pork barrel spending," I recall from my childhood.  He believed in a strong military, and was a 30-year veteran of the U.S. Coast Guard, obtaining his commission to Warrant Officer in World War II.  He fought in the Pacific, and I have several pictures of him during the war.  When he visited us in the Panama Canal Zone in 1973,  he said it smelled the same as it did in 1942. 

My cousin told me the history of how Granddad went into the Coast Guard.  Seems he was involved with Al Capone's gangsters in Michigan during Prohibition, running whiskey between the US and Canada (right across the lake from where he lived), for work.  The Coast Guard recruited him to help them infiltrate the gang.  He insisted that they relocate him if he agreed or as he said, "they'd kill him."  For his information, they relocated him to Boston, Massachusetts, which is how this Michigander met my grandmother, Charlotte Withycombe.  I always wondered how they met and this story connects the dots.  I never would have figured that this devout Baptist and Deacon would have been involved with running liquor, but back in that time period, it was good money, and my grandfather, like most men were out on their own when they were young.  My cousin Suzanne, says that my grandmother asked why he was sharing this story and he said because it was the truth.  I'm thankful that he shared this with her, or I would never would have known. 

Happy Birthday and Happy Veterans' Day to my Grandfather, Charles J. Wood.  I have you to thank for teaching me about politics and the importance of the voting process and expressing our opinions to those elected to lead our country. 

The Proof is in the DNA

Gen. 1 - Thurston Clayborn

Gen. 2 - James Thurston King

My earlier posts provide a glimpse into my search for my paternal grandfather, Thurston Clayborn in Breakthrough Part I and Part II.   Really the only reason I began my trek into genealogy was to identify my paternal line.  Finding my Aunt, Mae Clayborn Damron, and her family, as well as cousins I've met since then, have created a richness to my life that I can't explain.  With the loss of my parents in the 1990s, there has been a sadness to the loss of close family that only those who've lost loved ones too soon can understand.  

Gen 3. - Scott Alan King

As a now avid geneologist, I struggled with the desire for "proof," that I am a Clayborn.  Although, looking at these pictures of the 3 generations of men, it's hard to deny that they are related.  The need for proof, lead to DNA, is a way to prove a link to my paternal line was through my brother, Scott.  As some of you may know, a father passes on his Y chromosome to his son, and this chromosome is virtually intact with some slight mutations possible, for up to 8 generations.  Well, my brother being the kind-hearted person he is agreed to submit his DNA to satisfy his sister's whim.  Family Tree DNA actually has an established Clayborn Surname project, meaning they have set up four (4) groups of different DNA that are established and verified to belong to the Clayborn surname, including a line that is not part of the Clayborn DNA.  Dr. Alex Waldrop is the researcher in charge of this group, and a documented Clairborne descendant. 

I'll never forget the excitement of June 8, 2012, when the results were in.  I immediately called Alex to interpret a group ID that was posted on the site.  I ran from the car to the house and felt the rush of adrenaline as I called him.  Being a geneologist himself, he said he was just preparing to call me when the phone rang.  The result indicated that my brother belonged to the most documented line known to be descendants of William Claiborne.  And, Alex is descendant from the same line so we were cousins.  Now I had my documentation.   And, I subsequently joined the National Society of Claiborne Family Descendants http://www.claibornesociety.org/home.shtml.  The Clayborns have been a welcoming group, with the invitation to join them in Richmond, Virginia, as their membership chair said she is excited to meet me and thanked me for the story of finding my paternal family. 

Fall Memories

With the feeling of fall finally in the air in South Florida, I've been reflecting back on fall memories of my childhood, which seems like it was a short time ago.  It seems it was just a blink of the eye since Jackie was just starting school in Spring Hill.  Fall is my favorite time of year for many reasons.  The change of seasons always refreshes me, and being outside is easier in the fall, with harvest festivals and family events.  As I remember about the generations before me, it seems the older we get, the quicker time seems to pass. 

For example, I can't believe that Nana's "Big Little, Silly Little," started Pre-K this fall.  For Daniel Colt Giddens, "big school," is something he loves.  He is extremely bright, which of course he gets from his mom and me.  It's good thing I wasn't there, as I would have cried.  His love of science and reptiles amazes his teacher.  At the end of one afternoon, when his mom came to get him, he said he was tired and hot, as they were playing pirate ship on the playground.  There is no substitute for creative play, and unfortunately, I think his generation will have a day crammed full of academics without the freedom to learn from play.  His illustration of his family, including his pet hamster, Cheyenne, and a pet snake (at pet he wishes his parents would let him get). 

Not much has changed in two generations when it comes to preschools programs, with the exception that the state of Florida now funds a half day of school for all, regardless of income.  For mom and me, we paid for the luxury of preschool attendance, but the programs were still a half day, with the goal of preparing little ones for kindegarten.  It was 1967, and we were stationed in Hawaii at the time I attended preschool.  My memories are spotty (it was 45 years ago), and include a fellow classmate that still had his bottle with iced tea at snacktime, and a travel trailer, milk for snack time.  I remember Mom coming to get me and snacktime must have been toward the end of the day.  I remember I didn't like white milk and snack always included a carton.  Our home was a simple two-bedroom row house or duplex, and we had a playground centrally located on the side of the rows of homes.  My brother was just one, and I remember we shared a room, as his crib was in the same room as mine.  I remember enjoying playing on the playground and had several friends and being outside most of the day until dinnertime, which was early afternoon for us as a family. 

King, Scott & Linda approx. 1968

My only other memories of Hawaii were all day kindegarten, my favorite jean napsnack, a one tramatic event.  One was a robbery in our home when Mom came into our room and I remember the symbol to be quiet with the door locked.  The bedrooms were upstairs, and her purse downstairs, which was a good thing.  Someone knew that the wives got their allotment checks and had wallets full of cash for the month.  The robber broke into the jalousie windows, with a knife and Dad worked night shift so we were alone.  I can't recall if the robber ever got caught, but several families were robbed that evening.  Now, as a adult, I know my mom had to be petrified, and thankfully, all the robber was after was the money, and it was in the wee hours of the morning, so everyone was asleep.  While the loss of money back then was hard for young families, the fact no one was injured was more important.   

Breakthrough Part II

My July trip to Kansas City was incredible.  Not only did I get to meet my dad's half-sister, Mae Clayborn, but we also had the first-ever Hubbell family reunion. 

Hubbell Family Reunion

Olathe Park was over 100 degrees.  Everyone brought a dish and we created a sign-in sheet for everyone.  My dad's cousins, Terry, Larry and Ann Marie came.  I met Larry back in 2003, and he reminded me of a younger version of my dad.  He said he never knew Jimmy really well, as he was a lot older than he was. 

Terry remembered that dad and Billy always got a ride to school and would make sure the others noticed that they were 'special' when the others had to walk. 

We talked and ate and tried to stay cool.  Next time, I'll have to plan a cooler time period (like April or May).  I collected as much information on family group sheets as I could and Terry suggested I mail this ahead of time in the future, so the information can be more complete.

Meeting Mae

My brother and I spent an entire day with Mae, going over what she remembered about her uncles and what she knew of my dad and Billy.   She mentioned a visit from her Uncle Clarence when she was an adult.  Clarence brought pictures of both my dad and his brother.  He said that her father had these two boys before he married her mother.  He said Jimmy was in the Navy and doing well and that Billy, not so good.  Mae told her uncle she knew about the boys as he mother told her. 

Clarence and Esther Clayborn, I believe, were the ones that kept in touch with my grandmother, and kept up with the boys through my grandmother.  There is evidence they went to one another's funerals and family events.  Mae remembers rushing to look for "Daisy," who came to her dad's funeral in 1972, just to miss her by a few minutes.  Clarence and Esther went to my grandmother's funeral in 1985, and my Aunt Patty's wedding in 1973.  As I mentioned earlier, my first clue to finding this family were school pictures with the "Clayborn" name on them, similar to those pictures of my generation, in 2003, that were in my grandmother's things.  I could not find these same pictures when I returned to Aunt Patty's this year. 

Mae had tried for years to find my dad or his brother.  One of the interesting obstacles was that the name my grandmother used was Daisy King, not her accurate name of Pansy King.  What a difference a flower makes!  Patty and I pondered if this was a nickname Thurston had for her or an intentional name change to make it difficult to be found.  She had the name Hubbell, but no success, mostly due to the name change. 

We went to the Olathe cemetary with Mae and Patty to visit graves and take pictures.  Another fascinating fact was that Earl Clayborn (Thurston's brother) is buried a row or two in front of my grandmother, Pansy King, and her husband, Burnham. 

Before Grandma was Grandma

Digging through a Hubbell box of pictures, we found many pictures that I don't remember seeing before.  One picture was dated 1938 and had my grandmother with another young lady.  My grandmother's notes on the picture said NYA (National Youth Association) Topeka with her name and 'Helen Graves' on the bottom.   The picture showed a beautiful young woman with the style of the day.  This was the summer after graduation from high school, shortly before she got pregnant with my dad. 

What did I learn?  The Kansas State Historical Society indicated this was the National Youth Association, the so-called New Deal for Women.  It provided jobs and training for young women.  As the WPA and other programs had been a god-send for many of my great uncles, my aunt said that she had no doubt my grandmother would have been encouraged to participate.

This was an interesting glimpse into the young life of a woman I never got to know that well.  What I imagine is that this training no doubt was empowering women to go out into the workplace, by providing them training and skills.  I'll be researching more about the NYA and the Topeka conference to see what I can find.

American Immigrants

The stories of my ancestors are no different than those of other Americans, containing a myriad or melting pot of immigrants, all coming to this country seeking the freedom that some many of us take for granted today. Many came to be free from religious persecution, seeking the opportunity to worship free from a State Church, looking for a better life and fleeing oppressive governments or extreme poverty. 

My father's side appears to be old stock immigrants, dating back to the Revolutionary War for both sides - English/Irish/Scottish to German and even a French Huguenot for good measure.  My mom's maternal line were first and second generation Americans, from Nova Scotia, Newfoundland, and Germany.  My maternal grandfather's family were Pilgrims and Puritans on his mother's side, and Irish on his father's side, part of earlier immigrant waves.  I've only researched back to my second great-grandparents on that side so I may find more surprises. 

It's my mother's side that have passed on stories one of which I I'm going to share today.  Many of our early ancestors maintained their culture and language when they came to this country.  The start of the 20th century saw a shift in this with the start of World War I.  My great-grandmother's first language was not English, even though she was born in New York on July 3, 1888.  My mom used to say she spoke broken English, saying "Make on the lights." and her mother, Charlotte, was known as "Großmutter", a German word for grandmother.  Charlotte E Schoette, was born in New York in 1863, but I believe was German also, although I've only traced the family to Nova Scotia thus far.  Anna Wilhemena Gurke, or Nana, as I grew up knowing her was a tough lady.  My uncle says that she was mean.  "She didn't like me and I didn't like her."  

My uncle recalls one story that I wrote an essay on for one of my history classes in college.  As the story goes, the Gurke household used to play the German national anthem, and during the time before the US entered World War I, many Americans with German heritage were having their loyalty to the US questioned.  Are you American or are you German?  See, my great-grandfather arrived from Germany to Castle Garden, New York in 1881, and was naturalized five years later in 1886.  The US entered the war against Germany in 1917, 19 years after Heinrich became a US citizen.  The very act of declaring war on Germany mandated that German-Americans take sides, and along else was unacceptable.  While I understand the reason my family abandoned our German heritage, I think it is a shame that some of the traditions did not get passed on to my mom or me. 

Nana died a few months before I was born in 1963.   My cousin was 8 when she died, and she does have pleasant memories of Nana's visits, unlike my uncle, who actually lived in the same home with her for nearly 20 years.  My mother used to say that my grandmother was just like her in the year we lived together (1979-80).  While I didn't notice, I could tell it drove my mother crazy.  When I told her to tell her, she said she couldn't say anything, but gave me full permission to set her in her place if it ever became necessary.  Strong German women, very opinionated and outspoken.  While I still see traits of this in my daughter and I, as well as a scary physical resemblance, I think we are strong, while still outspoken, but in good ways. 

While I treasure jewelry that was given to me that belonged to Anna, her ruby ring (I was the only member of the family born in July.), and her daisy diamond ring, both gifts from my grandmother, Nana's photograph collection dating back to 1906, allows me to see my ancestors in their daily lives.  However, most of what I treasure is the gift of freedom and the gift of being born into a country that has provided me opportunities that were only dreams to my ancestors.  As I've had the opportunity to be a guest in other countries, I can tell you I wouldn't trade the American experience for any other. 

Happy 4th of July to all of you, and Happy Birthday, Nana !  May all of us pause to reflect on how blessed we are to live in a nation founded on Godly principles and precepts.  Thanks seems such a simple word to those who have fought and died to create and preserve the American way of life.  God bless our troops! 

  

 

 

 

 

Father's Day

  Father's Day brings back many memories of my dad.  He was a midwesterner, a very down-to-earth guy that made sure his children never looked down on anyone.  A man who never met a stranger, a good friend and a person who sought to help and encourage others. 

One of my earliest memories was of going to a San Diego Rockets game with him.  They were giving away free basketballs.  This event shaped my love of the game that continued through my high school years playing junior varsity.  It was just dad and me, no one else, and it made me feel special.

Dad always had a soft spot for kids, especially those who didn't have anyone or have very much.  I remember him playing Santa for a children's home one year.  He was stationed in Groton, Connecticut, and he must have been home between his 3-month tours on submarines.  I can't remember much, except riding in the car.  I can't even remember where it was, as I was 7 or 8 at the time.  I just remember being impressed and proud that dad allowed me to come along and watch. 

Eating out with dad required best behavior.  I used to love to blow bubbles with my milk or tease my brother.  Dad wouldn't have any of it.  If you didn't stop when he asked quietly under his breath, you got a soft kick under the table with those military-issue shoes.  I survived on hot dogs and peanut butter and jelly growing up as I never had an appetite.  Dad would always have to finish up when I didn't eat, as it was not acceptable to waste food. 

When I say that dad never met a stranger, I mean just that.  Dad was a talker, and it didn't matter that all of us where in the car waiting for him.  His "quick stops," to drop something off, always resulted in long, lengthly waits.  It seemed he was always on the go, doing something, and never stayed home.  Dad was a junk collector, or a "picker" as they are called today.  He collected electronics, old radios, tubes and parts and had the stuff stuck everywhere, including renting a storage unit to hold it all.  He had many friends that he met as a result of this hobby.  Ham radio was another love, and he joined a local club in Okinawa. 

When I was going back to school, I took personality and skills test before I decided what to do for a career.  When I brought home the results of the personality profile and description, my mother said that I had dad's personality.  We are "feelers," people who base decisions on individual cases, in a subjective manner based on what we believe to be right within our individual values systems. 

Dad was a hillbilly.  He loved traditional country music (Jim Reeves, Patsy Cline, Boxcar Willie, Loretta Lynn).  Country music was always on in the car, and nothing else was an option.  If he was home on Saturday night, it was HeeHaw at 7:00 p.m., otherwise, Mom insisted on Lawrence Welk.  As kids, we prayed for dad to be home.  He had a thing for Cathy Baker, the blond on the porch with the hound dog.  My mom used to joke with him that she wouldn't have given my dad the time of day.  It didn't matter, we just had to quiet so he could linger on her every word.  When he was reading Loretta Lynn's biography, he chuckled and remarked that no one could have been as ignorant as she was.  As poor as he grew up in Kansas, Loretta was even more isolated in Butcher Holler, Kentucky.  He loved her music, a love that I adopted as well.  For my 13th birthday, the family got to go to the Loretta Lynn/Conway Twitty concert in Oakland, CA.  What a treat that was.  He purchased her biography for me and waited while I got her to autograph it after the concert. 

One of the most poignant memories of dad, were the various people I met, for the first time, that told me how much my dad's friendship had meant to them, how he came to see them in the hospital, and what an encouragement he was to them.  He's been gone 21 years this summer, and I still miss him.  My daughter was 3 when he died and she doesn't remember how much she loved bouncing on his belly and the fun trips in the wagon to see the egrets and ducks.  He loved being a grandfather. 

May Memories

I'll continue with the story of breakthrough next month.  For now, I want to talk about the month of May.  It is an eventful month and one full of memories for me.  Dad's birthday and Mother's Day are both in May and for many years it fell on the same day.  As kids, we always teased Dad about this. 

May is also a time that I reflect on a Memorial weekend loss in 1998 that forever changed my life.  I had plenty of life events before this one, but this was especially difficult.  It was Tuesday morning following a holiday weekend, and I knew the night before she had less than 24 hours left.  Tumors filled her lungs and one tumor in particular, was affecting her kidneys and they she would die of kidney failure.  She would go to sleep and they would make her comfortable.  Funny, but she always said that the people who died in their sleep quickly were to be envied.   It was a fitting end for a woman who had battled to a point of exhaustion for over six months.  While it was a relief to have the decision made for me, I didn't know how I could make it without her.  And, I would be an orphan at 34, as dad had died 8 years before.  My prayers were either heal her or take her as it pained me to see her struggle.

To those that knew my mom, she was strong, a rock of sorts.  She never showed illness or weakness to her children.  She was stubborn, hiding her illness and not seeking treatment until it was too late.  She was just like her father--waiting too late to get treatment.  My grandfather had done the same thing, even going to the extreme of having a local for abdominal cancer surgery in 1979. 

She would have a fever and you'd never know it.  The only time I saw her physically ill was following radiation treatment.  As an adult, it still shocked me, as nothing ever affected her.  Now I knew the real reason why I moved back home six months earlier, renting out my home, and uprooting my daughter.  I thought it was to follow a good job opportunity, which it was, but God had a better reason for me to be home.  Had I not been there when she was diagnosed, I would have had additional stress.  See, I was a full-time college student, single parent and working full-time.  God orchestrated the events to have me in a stable job, right next door to Mom so I could devote my time and effort to her during the last six months of her life.  I wouldn't change a thing about that time.  What I wished I would have done was document her life, instead of relying on my memories. 

She was typically of her generation, "the silent ones." She followed the social norms her parents gave her, but silently rebelled, leading the way for my generation to break out of traditional roles.  I remember the glow on her face when I'd step off a private plane, coming home after business travel, the excitement that she expressed when I bought my first home.  In her day, a woman could not get a mortgage without a husband.  The thrill she had with my success in college, as I was the first woman in her maternal line to have a college education.  She always wanted it, but didn't ask, as it was reserved for her brother, not for her.  She was expected to get married and while she could work, it was to be secondary to her home and her family.   Words like sacrificial, supportive, and unconditional were very descriptive of my mother.  I always admired her patience, as I have my father's temperament and learned patience the hard way, it was never a gift.  The mother and grandmother I am is a tribute to those that came before me. . . . Charlotte, Anna, Charlotte, Anna and Marilyn.  Even the name patterns are broken as we move forward with Marilyn leading the way for Linda, Jacqueline and Savannah. 

Thanks, Mom.  I love you and miss you.  Your great granchildren are beautiful.  Colt even has your fingers.  While they will never know you, they will hear of you often.  We will pass on the legacy of your love, sacrifice and caring to the generations to come.