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.