Time in My Family

my grandfather in his shoe repair shop

TIME IN MY FAMILY

Well, that title might be a bit misleading. I’m really talking about the watches we have had in our family. After my mother passed away, I found a zip-lock bag in her things. It contained a pocket watch with a strap attached. Mother had left a hand-written note in the bag . It said that the watch had belonged to her father and she remembered always seeing it tacked to the wall in his shoe repair shop. She said that she wanted the watch to go to my son—she thought it would look good with his suits when he was a lawyer.

There is another pocket watch that I have and it also involves my son. Years ago—after my paternal grandparents passed away, I was looking at some of the things that had been theirs. There was a box of old pocket watches, most of them were in silver (silver-tone) cases, but the case of one was different. It has a pinkish gold tone to it, not yellowish brass. It didn’t work but my father took it to the jeweler and had it repaired. Unfortunately, the jeweler replaced the button on the winding stem with a yellowish brass one—not really noticeable, but I knew. The watch was the style that had a covering that opened on the front and the back. When my son was little and watched some children’s show on TV where the characters had a “magic” something (I don’t remember exactly what the thing was—I’m just too old to recall something like that), he asked if he could use my pocket watch to play like the characters on the show. I let him and he had a lot of fun with it. By the way, that watch is safely back in my jewelry box.

Another watch that has seen multi-generation use in our family is my daughter’s Mickey Mouse watch. When she was younger (much younger), she got that particular watch for Christmas one year. She has asked for it and wore for some time, then set it aside (actually, she said I could have it, if I wanted it). Once again, I put a watch in my jewelry box (yes, it is a large jewelry box). Three or four months back, I came across the watch and had the battery replaced. I showed it to my granddaughter and told her how her mommy used to wear it. My granddaughter was fascinated by it, not because she could tell time or because it had belonged to her mommy (remember, she’s only three). No, what she really interested her about the watch was the two buttons on the left side of the watch. When you press one of the buttons the song It’s a small World After All plays and when the other button was pressed it plays The Mickey Mouse Song—you know M-I-C-K-E-Y-M-O-U-S-E. Mickey was on the watch face and his arms were the minute and hour hands. When the music played the hands moved faster and in time. When the song ended, the hands reversed and went back to the correct time. My granddaughter played both songs over and over and over and over. Fortunately, the volume on the watch wasn’t very loud.

This are other watches in my jewelry box, but those are the most interesting—at least, to me. Who knows, maybe if I think hard enough (remember, I getting older), I’ll remember more stories about those watches that are just sitting in that dark vastness known as my JEWELRY BOX.

Memory Monday: Precious Memories

four generations of our family

PRECIOUS MEMORIES

I was traveling in the car the other day and the song “Precious Memories” came on. The lyrics nestled in my heart. I thought of all of who came before me—the examples they left, the words of wisdom they shared, the stories of perseverance they left behind.

My grandmother raised seven children as she cleaned other people’s houses and took in laundry, while her husband had a shoe repair shop. The thing I remember most about my grandmother was when she was about 95 or so, she needed paint for her house but she insisted that it come with a 25 year guarantee. Oh, and another thing, my mother said Grandma didn’t care what grades her children got in school, as long as they got an A in deportment. She knew how her children acted and treated others was so important. Growing up, the thing I remember most about my grandfather was that he hated to have his picture made, even snapshots—NO PICTURES. That is until their 50^th anniversary—which by the way was when my grandmother got a wedding ring. After that, he seemed to love having his picture taken. I just realized that I have something in common with my grandfather—I hate to have my picture taken, too. Maybe when I have my 50^th wedding anniversary, I won’t mind so much.

My daddy always dreamed of trying to do things to improve his life, from reading to trying to start some type of business, to changing types of jobs. For him, it never seemed to work—BUT HE TRIED. I guess that’s where I got the part of me, where at 60 years old, I published my first three novels. My mother always voiced her acknowledgement of God’s working in her everyday life. When it rained, she would always mention how God had washed her car or watered her flowers and vegetables. Her words still live on in my heart and make me recognize how God is in all the things we do—big things and little.

I hope that my children have precious memories of me that will live in their hearts and minds for years to come, and maybe even be passed down to future generations.

I wonder what memories of me my granddaughter will cherish in years to come. Will those memories help her in trying times? Will they nestle in her heart and help her to be a better woman? Will memories of a loving grandmommy help her when she feels lonely or troubled as she goes through life?

What precious memories do you have of your parents or grandparents that have helped you through life? 

Memory Monday: Coffee in Our Family Part 1

my father and grandfather - they both loved their coffee

COFFEE IN OUR FAMILY—Part 1

I didn’t start drinking coffee until after I graduated high school, but I remember my parents and grandparents drinking it. My grandfather had a special cup that he used. It was oversized and part of a set of light yellow and brown plaid dishes that my grandparents always used. Every morning at the breakfast table, he would pour his coffee from his cup into his equally-large saucer, then sip it. As a child, I thought that odd, but later learned that was how many of his generation (and those before him) drank their coffee. My dad always had at least one cup of coffee before he got out of bed. My grandmother-in-law would only pour an inch of coffee into her cup at a time—she liked it really hot.

Today, my husband has a metal insulated mug that he fills in the morning and drinks from it all day. I, on the other hand, have several large glasses that I use to make iced coffee year round. I fill one of the glasses full with ice cubes, at a bit of fat-free half & half or heavy cream (depending on which diet I am currently on), a good splash of flavored syrup (sugar-free since I’m diabetic), then give it a good stir. This is the way I drink my coffee year round.

On the other hand, our husband and daughter always drinks their black and unsweetened whether it is from their Keurig, their French press, cold-brew container, or the local coffee place. (A side note—a couple of those coffee devises were lost when a tornado passed by their home.)

It doesn’t matter how we drink our coffee—hot, cold, black, sweet, unsweetened, or (as my husband says of mine) not real coffee, we love it.

Memory Monday: Could It Be?

my sister in front of my grandmother's house

COULD IT BE?

Last week as I was in the middle of re-posting my Thursday blog to several locations, something in the picture caught my eye. As I looked at the house in the background, something clicked. That house looked familiar in an odd way. You have to understand that that  photo had nothing written on the back of it to identify who was in the picture—I had just liked the look on the face of the woman. But the more that I looked at the house, the more I thought that I recognized it as my grandparents’.  The “bones” were the same—front door placement, windows placement, the height of the steps. The outside of the house was different. The posts were different. But my grandfather had bought the house sometime in the 1910s so it only make sense that some changes had been made in the sixty or so years that he owned it. I found a picture of the house (on Google Maps) as it looks now. It has siding covering it, as well as a metal handrail up the middle of the steps—the house was sold to an older couple years ago.

I remember the outside covered in a faux brick with concrete steps from a sidewalk up to the porch. The picture above was taken about 1949. Other than a block walkway and wooden (I think) steps, this is the way I remember the front of the house—even to the concrete planter on the concrete post on the porch by the steps.

All this led me to take a closer look at the woman in the picture from last week. Who was she? I enlarged the face as much as I could. The eyes look a lot like my grandmother who passed away when my father was nine years old. I compared her wedding picture (the only one we have of her as an adult) to the lady with the baby.  The lady with the baby has a fuller face. But if this is my grandmother, she would have been about twelve years (and two children, if the child she is holding is my aunt) older. My daughter and husband both looked at the picture and couldn’t decide if it was the same woman, but we all agree that it might be her mother. Unfortunately, the only picture I have of my great grandmother (She died in 1927, a year after her daughter.) is below and I don’t think that it is her in the picture with the baby:

So this still leaves me with my question—Is the woman with the baby the same woman who posed for her wedding picture twelve years earlier? Do I have a “new” picture of my grandmother? Below are the two pictures I have been comparing:

This was taken from her wedding photo:

AND

The above is an enlargement of the picture below:

Do you think these are the same woman?

Memory Monday: Treasures to Trash through the Generations

My grandfather and step-grandmother

TREASURES TO TRASH THROUGH THE GENERATIONS

My paternal grandfather lived in his house from the early 1910s until he moved into a nursing home in the late 1970s. There were so many “treasures” in that house, and I inherited three of them— the crystal stemware with matching plates, a bedroom suite, and a gold-upholstered chair. I used to stand next to the china cabinet at my grandparents’ house and make up stories about those dishes (with a family containing five small children, we never had crystal stemware). I was never allowed to open the cabinet and touch anything inside, but I loved it. After my step-grandmother passed away and my grandfather moved in with my parents, my grandfather gave me the crystal. The bedroom suite was always in my grandparents’ bedroom, although it was really the “everything” room since that was where everyone gathered to visit. Kitchen hairs were brought in so the adults had a place to sit while the children sat on the floor or played outside. The bed had tall, slender posts on the corners and all the grandkids swung on them. The dresser was one of those old-fashioned kind (as far as today goes) with the center lower than the drawers on the sides. It had three arched mirrors at the back—two of them hinged to the center one. After my grandfather passed away, my father said I could have that bedroom suite one day.  There was a wing-backed chair in the parlor of my grandparents’ house and my younger sister and I would take turns playing princess with that chair and the sit-down dresser in the front (guest) bedroom. It made for a lot of fun memories.

The years have moved on. The crystal is in its own special cabinet in my kitchen and I will hand it down to my daughter when she get a house. The bedroom suite stayed with my mother after my father died. When she passed, it came to me. My daughter has some memories of it in my mother’s house—she slept in it when she would spend the night there. She wants it for her daughter when she gets old enough to sleep in a full-size bed. That gold “princess” chair was willed to my older sister, but she didn’t care for it, so it stayed at my house. Neither one of my children want it, so I’m not sure what will happen to it after I’m gone.

The lesson I’ve learned from all this is that family “treasures” might only be treasures if there are memories connected to them. I can’t pass my memories to my children, so I can’t expect them to love the things I treasured. But that is only as it should be. They will create new memories and will treasure other things. Hopefully, the things they don’t want will become treasures to others who will create memories of their own and those things will become treasures again in another family.

Memory Monday: Just How Accurate Are Those Family Stories?

My daddy, his sister, and their cousin

JUST HOW ACCURATE ARE THOSE FAMILY STORIES?

As I was growing up, it was always an exciting time when we got to go to my mother’s parents’ home. There were often a lot of relatives since several of my mother’s siblings lived somewhat nearby. And then there were the times when one sister decided to come “home” and then one or more of the sisters would plan on coming at the same time. It was during these visits that I learned a lot of family history. Later, after I interviewed (and taped) these get-togethers with my mother, aunts, and grandmother. I am pretty sure the stories that I got were accurate—at least, as accurate as older women wanted to share.

Now stories from my father’s side of the family are a little sparse. One reason is my father had only one sibling—my mother had six. Another reason is my father’s sister lived far away and we hardly ever saw them. While we visited my dad’s parents, those visits were usually day trips. We would leave early Sunday morning, stop along the way and go to church, then get to my grandparents’ home in time for a late lunch. We hardly ever stayed the night. Usually, when we went we just played outside while the adults visited.

All that was said to explain why I don’t have a lot of stories of my father’s family. From a few things my dad had told me, I was able to piece together some of his side of the family. And thanks to Ancestry.com, I have also been able to learn more about that part of my family (and a bit more accurately). My sister told me that when she questioned my dad’s sister (our dad had already passed away when she needed this information for a college class) that she was told our grandfather had run away from home when he was eleven because his new step-mother was so mean. When I hear a story like that, I’m thinking he never went back home (and my aunt never said he returned). Well, when I looked at the census for when he was a little older, he is listed there living with his father and step-mother. He might have “run away” to his older brother’s house, which was only a few streets away, but he eventually came back home.

Another story I heard years and years ago, was that after my granddad married for the second time (my dad’s mother had died eight years before) was that my dad went to stay with his aunt (his mother’s sister) and her family during his last year in high school because she and her husband had lost a son the year before. I always thought the cousin who died was in his teens, like my dad—see the picture at the beginning of the article. I thought this was the cousin who had passed away. But today, I was to look at Ancestry.com to see if I could find just when this cousin passed away and what his name was. I got another surprise. While it is true that my aunt and her husband lost a son the year before my dad came to stay with them, the son that passed away died the same day he was born. I really think the reason that my father spent that year with his aunt’s family was he didn’t get along with his new step-mother—he called her “Madam” then and I never heard him call her anything but “Myrtle” as I grew up.

I think I need to spend more time on Ancestry.com. Maybe I will learn more about my dad’s family. I wonder what other stories that I’ve heard aren’t exactly true.

Memory Monday: My Daddy's 100th Birthday

My Daddy in 1917

Casper Office Phone Number

MY DADDY’S 100^th BIRTHDAY

I have been waiting for this month since last year when I was looking at my family tree on Ancestry. Daddy (yes, that’s what I still call him) was born in 1917. He was a baby during the First World War, a soldier in the Second World War,  a husband and father of two and a-half-children during the Korean War (I was born in the middle of that war), and went on to have three more children. He suffered through the death of his last child, who only lived overnight. Later, he saw his children married and loved seven grandchildren, but passed away before his last two were born.

Daddy lived through the loss of his beloved mother when he was only nine, was a protective older brother to his much-loved sister, and learned to live with a step-mother with whom he never had a close relationship.

During the Depression, there were nine people living in his family’s two-bedroom house (it did have a screen-in porch) when his father took in his first wife’s brother and his family. One of my daddy’s chores during that time at night was to cut out cardboard insoles to cover the holes in his father’s shoes so his father could walk to work at a grocery store.

My daddy wanted so much to get a college degree. After high school, he would work 40 hours a week or more, then take a college class at night. He tried doing this over the next eleven years—although WWII did come in the middle of that—but was never able to get enough credits to graduate.

He so wanted to make a success of himself. He tried many different ways to better his and his family’s life. But looking back over what I know of my Daddy, I can see how it never seemed to work out--he was an academically-minded man (think college English professor) trying to become a business success. It never worked out for him.

The thing I remember most about Daddy was his faith in God. At times, he was a weak man. At times, his temper took hold. At times, he said and did things he was ashamed of afterward. But he loved God and was a Christian. After he had a major heart attack and was able to attend church again, people said his prayer brought tears to their eyes.

Yes, Daddy was a man who lived in his time with its wisdom and attitudes—many of which are different in today’s world. He was flawed, but he loved his family. I learned a lot from him. And I love him and he is still very much a part of my life, even though he passed away over thirty years ago.

HAPPY 100^th BIRTHDAY, DADDY. 

Memory Monday: Photos in Our Family

PHOTOS IN OUR FAMILY

My mother always loved pictures—having her own taken and taking pictures of her family. I remember how she would take us kids outside—in the bright sunlight, and then tell us to open our eyes so she could take our picture. (Later, by the time her grandchildren came along, she had a camera with a flash, so all those lovely darlings didn’t have to go outside and open their eyes wide.) Through the years when money was tight, she would save up until she could afford to send off several rolls of film and get prints made. When she passed away, I found a lot of pictures of Mother from her teens forward. Even after my father passed away, she kept getting her picture made every couple of years at our Walmart photo studio. I also found all those envelopes with strips of negatives from the rolls of film she sent off to get printed from the fifties through the eighties or nineties.

Well, I never was interested in taking pictures, but my husband was. Which is fortunate for our children, otherwise we wouldn’t have any pictures to display when we had a celebration for our son’s Eagle Scout ceremony or a video to show of our daughter growing up for her wedding.

Recently, my husband got a new camera—his first in years. He’s still learning how to use it. He did get an interesting picture of our granddaughter. It’s the one shown above. By the way, she is wearing the glasses from the Potato Head toys that my children played with. And she insists on wearing them upside down. Ahh, young ones—when they set their minds on something, you can’t change them.

While I’m not interested in taking photos, I am so thankful that there are others in our family who do. This way the generations to come will have faces to put with names as they look back at those who came before them.

Memory Monday: Father's Day

My Son-in-Law and Granddaughter

FATHER’S DAY

I love the months of May and June because I love Mother’s Day and Father’s Day! I love the family get-togethers and dinners. And I love the presents, especially since I’m the mother now. What can I say—I love getting presents. But more than the presents (well, kinda), it is wonderful to see the next generation getting to share in the celebration—not as children honoring their parents, but as the ones being honored for the role they have taken on as parents. There is no way a child can understand the responsibilities (and worry, fear, joy, and hopes) of a mother or father until he or she becomes one. And only parents who see their children become parents can appreciate what their children are going through as they raise another generation (even though, the grandparents may wonder sometimes about what their children are thinking or doing).

This year is special with my granddaughter here now. I was privileged to share Mother’s Day with my daughter. In the same way, my husband will share Father’s Day with our son-in-law next week.

I want to say something to my father and father-in-law who have already passed on (as well as all the greats and grandfathers who came before them) as well as to my husband and son-in-law (and all those fathers who come after us): Thank you for the care you took to provide for your children, the examples you set, and the love you poured out on your families.

HAPPY FATHER’S DAY!!!

Memory Monday: Two Unknowns in My Family History

My great-grandfather and his second wife

TWO UNKNOWNS IN MY FAMILY HISTORY

In the last few years, I have come to love working on my family’s genealogy. Both of my mother’s branches were from Mennonite backgrounds and there are many records to use. In the same manner, my father’s mother’s history is well-documented. I know where all three of these branches of my family came from, when they entered the United States, and thanks to US census records, I know where they lived, what their occupations were, and how many children they had and when/when they were born and died.

There is problem with my paternal grandfather’s family. I know what his name was, when he was born, and in what state. But that doesn’t narrow things down enough. There were a number of families in that state with the same last name and many of them named a son born about the same time with the same name. (GR-R-R). After following several of the different families in that state through the years, I was able to dismiss all but one. Several things point to this being the right family—the age for my great-grandfather’s birth is right, the states where his mother and father were born are correct, this man’s father and mother (although divorced some time before) both had moved to the county and state where my great-grandfather was married, and the man’s father later moved from Iowa to the same county in Texas were my grandfather was born. (Are you thoroughly confused so far?)

Now I have two problems with attaching this man as my great-grandfather’s father. The first is that on one—and only one, and that being when he lived in a boardinghouse— US census, this man is listed as having been born in Ireland. All the other censuses have him born in Georgia. The other problem is that on my great-grandfather’s death certificate, his father’s name is listed as “Isaac,” not “Michael” like the censuses I have been following. The information was listed by one of his sons, while the other son gave the information on their mother’s death certificate.  The second son listed their mother’s father’s name as “Isaac.” Were both of their grandfather’s names “Isaac” or was there a bit of confusion? After all, both of their parents died in their 70s, and their grandfathers had passed on decades before. Oh, well, I’ll just have to keep searching.

The other unknown is about my great-grandfather’s second wife—they are picture above. He and his first wife divorced in 1904 and he married again the next year—he was 53 and she was 26. Other than her name showing up on US censuses and city directories, I can fine no  other record of her—what her maiden name was, where she was born, if she had any other family, and what happened to her after my great-grandfather died after more than twenty years of marriage to her. It makes everything so incomplete.

Well, that’s two of the unknowns in my family. Do you have any of those kinds of unknowns in yours?

Memory Monday: Outdoor Cooking in Our Family

My Mother and Daddy

OUTDOOR COOKING IN OUR FAMILY

Growing up, my mother did all the cooking (well, until she started working outside our home and us girls were old enough to help with the cooking. Not all of her lessons took really well—I remember the time first I fried chicken. It had a beautiful golden crust. I still remember Daddy’s first words after he bit into it, “This is raw!” Well, I had forgotten to start it on time—to be truthful, I remembered to start the chicken only 10-15 minutes before he was supposed to get home for lunch. So, I just turned the heat up to the highest it would go. How was I to know that the meat would still be raw if the crust was that beautiful golden color? But I digress.) The one thing Daddy—yes, we called him “Daddy” even when we were grown—did cook, or rather grill, was steaks. In his later years, he got a grill and would charcoal them. Mother loved it and would make sure he cooked enough so they could have them for several meals—and she wouldn’t have to cook herself.

Well, my son also likes to cook outside. Only he doesn’t grill, he smokes brisket, pork, and ribs. My mouth waters just thinking about how good he makes all of those. He’s even gotten me interested in helping him. He makes the rub and covers the meat with it. I put them in the smoker at night, take it out in the morning and put it in the oven for another ten hours, then slice it up—great division of labor. But then, he keeps his smoker at our house, so I really can use it anytime I want—like when I made smoked mac and cheese!

I wanted to tell about this because just I got a Lodge cast-iron hibachi and I’m having fun learning how to use it. Now I can have the fun of cooking like Daddy and my son. By the way, my son is named after Daddy—they both have the same middle name.

Do you like to cook outdoors? If so, do you grill or smoke? What is your favorite thing to make?

Memory Monday: Repeating Dates

My Mother

INTERESTING HOW DATES KEEP REPEATING IN OUR FAMILY

My mother was born in January (many years ago). I never could remember which day of the month—the 30^th or the 31^st. When I said that to my mother one time, she said she was born on the same day as Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

That has gotten me to thinking how other dates seem to repeat for those in my family. My parents married on July 16^th—the same day of the month that my dad’s sister and her husband had married a couple of years before. And if you think they planned it that way, you would be wrong. My parents only knew each other for about six weeks when they decided to marry. On July 15^th, they (along with another couple who would act as witnesses) went to get married, but there was some problem (I don’t remember what it was not). They had to wait until the next day and they tried it again. This time the deed was done.

February 15^th is another date that is another special date in our family. On that day, my parents-in-law married, a niece was born, as was my granddaughter.

August 12^th is yet another date that is the birthday of two members of my family—my grandfather and my son.

Do any dates keep repeating in your family?

Memory Monday: Missing My ParentsM

My parents in 1959

MISSING MY PARENTS

Early last month, I asked a friend what he and his wife planned for Christmas. Were they going to visit their kids and grandson? He said no. They were going to visit their parents. This stirred something in me that I haven’t felt in long, long time.

My father has been gone for more than 30 years, and my mother passed away over 12 years ago. Ever since that conversation with my friend, I have had an intense longing to talk to my parents—stronger than I have ever felt before. Now, often during the day, I catch myself thinking of something and wondering what one of my parents would have said about it. I miss my parents more now than at any time since they died.

For now (and for as long as God allows me to live here on Earth), I have a lot to look forward to with my family—more years with my husband, the shared love of our children, the wonder of our granddaughter and hopefully seeing her into adulthood, and maybe more books of mine published.

But something has shifted. I now look forward with a longing to that time when I will be with those who have gone before me. At that time, I won’t be concerned about how they survived in the Great Depression, the differences between the way I make ice cream and the way my mother did, or even “boasting” about how many books I published. No, at that time, it will be a time of reunion—marvelous reunion with those I love and haven’t seen in years.

Even though I’m in my mid-60s, I have a better understanding of “old” folks when they say they are ready to “pass over.” There is just something comforting in knowing that there are others “on the other side” just waiting for us.

Memory Monday: A New Year's Poem

My Grandmother

A NEW YEAR’S POEM

I have used the picture of my grandmother before. The more I think about her, the more I wish that I had known her. She married in 1910, but didn’t have her first child until 1917 (my father). How she loved her son. When my dad talked about her, you could hear the love in his voice for her, even though she died when he was only nine years old. From what I know about her, she had a strong faith (as did her parents).

Recently, I came across a poem that was written before she was born. The poem is from a book titled Verses for Christmas and the New Year. And it was written in 1885, and since she was born in the early 1890s, her mother might have even read it to her.

NEW YEAR'S WISHES FOR THE CHILDREN.

Give yourself to Jesus, darling,

   While the Year is new;

Place your hand in His, and let Him

   Lead you safely through.

Then how blest the Year will be,

   Spent in Jesu's company!

I send my love to Someone,

   With wishes kind and true;

I pray to God for Someone,

   I know He hears me, too.

Now don't you guess, my darling,

   That Someone must be you?

I can imagine my grandmother holding my daddy in her lap, snuggling close to her longed-for child and reciting this to him. And that warms my heart.

Memory Monday: What I Give Thanks For

My father, grandfather, and step-grandmother

WHAT I GIVE THANKS FOR

I love Thanksgiving and not just because of the turkey. Actually, we don’t have turkey. We have smoked meat. Last year, it was brisket and ribs. This year, it is pulled pork. See, we are equal opportunity meat-eaters—as long as we can smoke it on my son’s Traeger smoker. Now with that explained, let me share what I love about Thanksgiving. It is the THANKSGIVING. There is so much to be thankful for—the memories of those who have gone before me, leaving lessons lovingly taught about right and wrong, about helping, sharing, and giving, lessons lived out before me in the lives of my parents, grandparents, assorted aunts and uncles, as well as the stories passed down about those who lived before me. The lessons I value most  deal with faith. I have been blessed to have seen the faith of my parents. I loved to hear the way my father prayed, especially in his later years and the way my mother always spoke about how God had blessed her in simple little ways, like how He washed her car when He sent rain.

I am thankful that my father, as well as a large number of other men in my family, took up arms and fought for our country. My father is pictured above in his Army Air Corp uniform during WWII. I have family who also fought for America through the years, including a number who fought for our freedom from England in the American Revolution. There are also several of my generation who have served in our military, and for them, I am also thankful.

I am thankful for my wonderful husband of 44 years and the way he cherishes me, the way he takes care of the house so I can have time to write, and the way has been a wonderful father and example to our children through the years.

I am thankful for the generations that are coming after me—our son and our daughter, along with her husband and daughter. There is so much thankfulness in my heart for our granddaughter and the privilege and blessing of taking care of her while her parents work.

There are so many more blessings for which I’m thankful—things that God pours out on my family and me every day of my life. Thank you, God, for loving me, for blessing me, for Jesus. Thank You.

What fills your heart with thankfulness as Thanksgiving Day approaches (and every day)?

Memory Monday: Things My Grandmother Might Have Done

My Daddy as a Toddler

THINGS MY GRANDMOTHER MIGHT HAVE DONE

Maybe because I never knew my maternal grandmother (she died when my dad was nine years old), I like looking at books that were written after she married my grandfather. I like to see what she might have read or been told about housekeeping and cooking. One of the books I have used is titled Putman’s Household Hints and it was written in 1916—the year before my dad was born.

I would like to share a few of the things from that book. I really like the last one and might try it the next time my gravy is pale.

Soup poured through a cloth will have all the fat removed.

Place salt in the oven under the baking tins and the contents will not scorch on the bottom.

Never use bread and meat knives around the heat as it will temper the edges.

In cases of emergency, when it is necessary to cut fresh bread and the knife refuses to work proper ly, heat the knife and the bread will cut easily. To do this often, however, is death to the knife.

A teaspoonful of cornstarch added to a cupful of salt and mixed thoroughly will keep salt from sticking in damp weather.

When serving butter in cubes, if a small piece of the paper in which the butter is wrapped is placed over the blade of the knife with which the butter is being cut the edge will be smooth and even.

If a quantity of browned flour is kept on hand for making gravy, a great deal of time will be saved.

When gravy does not brown pour into it a table spoonful of coffee. It will brown immediately and contain no taste of coffee. This is quicker than browning flour when in a hurry.

How many of these hints have you heard of before? Which ones do you think you will try?

Memory Monday: Cornbread and Our Family

CORNBREAD AND OUR FAMILY

There were a number of things I learned to cook when I was very young. One of them was cornbread.  Mother had special pans for the cornbread. They were cast iron with indentions that looked like ears of corn. My mother taught me to put them in a very hot oven to heat while I made the cornbread batter by scratch from a recipe she had in her green cookbook. By the time it was ready the pans would be ready, too. I would carefully open the oven door and pull out the rack where the pans sat. I’d spoon in some melted bacon drippings, followed by the cornbread batter, then shove the rack back in and close the oven door. All of this had to done rather quickly so the oven didn’t lose too much heat. Twenty minutes later, I’d take out the best cornbread ever. We then would chunk up a couple of sticks apiece and put them in a glass and pour in milk (that my mother had milked from her cows that morning). It was crunchy and creamy and sweet—that’s because I liked “sweet” cornbread. I remember my dad saying occasionally that the cornbread seemed rather sweet—I didn’t tell him I was the one that made it that day and I always added a little more sugar than the recipe called for.

Today I only make cornbread from a mix and usually in an old metal 9”x13” and then only once every two or three years when we have turkey and dressing. But I still have my mother’s corn stick pans in the drawer below my oven. My daughter has already asked if she can “inherit” them. One last tidbit, I recently found a cast iron mini-corn stick pan. I bought it so when my granddaughter gets old enough to teach her how to make corn bread—from scratch—she will have her own special pan. The picture at the top of the post was taken yesterday--my mother's corn stick pan and the one waiting for my granddaughter.

Memory Monday: All the Family History Is Not Lost

Papaw, Mamaw, and my father, 1940s

ALL THE FAMILY HISTORY IS NOT LOST

Both of my parents and all of my grandparents have passed away. They all died before I developed an interest in family history (at least for the most part. I remember having a conversation with my Daddy about 35 years ago when he told me somethings that he remembered about his mother’s family—just general things—but I didn’t think to write any of them down).

My mother lived the last 25 years or so of her life in the same town as I lived. Her sisters visited and we had several family reunions with her side of the family. Both of which allowed me to learn about her side of the family, especially about the years she was growing up.

I had nothing like this for my Daddy (this is the name we always called my father)—just a few facts he had given us for our daughter’s baby book. But I have learned of a wonderful tool to peek into the life of my father—Ancestery.com. Below are a few of the things that I have learned just looking into the past censuses.

1920 census

Lived in house on Kirkwood

Papaw worked in a grocery store

Papaw, Daisy (my grandmother), Daddy

1930 census enumerated on April 12^th

Papaw-Widowed, Same house, owns house valued at $3500, owns radio, works as a salesman in retail grocery

Daddy—12 years old

Aunt—9 years old

Grandmother—77 years old, widowed

Great-uncle (deceased grandmother’s brother)-salesman in bakery

Great-aunt

Their three children—ages 2, 6, and 9

1940 census enumerated April 10^th

Papaw-same house, worked as a stock clerk in a grocery store for 52 weeks in 1939 and earned $1560, a week before census he worked 48 hours, he had completed 4 years of high school

Mamaw (step-grandmother), worked in home—housework, she completed 4 years of college

Daddy—attended college, worked as clerk for 52 weeks the year before and earned $1020, week before census he worked 36 hours

Aunt, attended high school (fourth year), worked as a waitress in 1939 for 15 weeks and earned $120, a week before the census she worked 48 hours

Mamaw’s mother—71 years old, lived in the same house for 5 years, attended high school for 2 years

Daddy’s military service

Enlistment Date: 2 Feb 1942

Release Date:  9 Jan 1946

Branch  Army Air Corps

Grade   Private

Term of Enlistment:  Enlistment for the duration of the War or other emergency, plus six months, subject to the discretion of the President or otherwise according to law Component Army of the United States - includes the following: Voluntary enlistments effective December 8, 1941 and thereafter; One year enlistments of National Guardsman whose State enlistment expires while in the Federal Service

Height   69 Weight 132

From the information above, I have learned several things about Daddy that I can put together with the things I already knew. I was very familiar with the house my grandfather (we called him Papaw) lived in because we visited him quite often as I was growing up. It was a small two bedroom/one bath house with a screened-in back porch. I didn’t know that he had lived there from at least 1910. He still owned it at his death in 1974. I knew that his mother (whom we always referred to as Daisy, probably because we grew up with a step-grandmother we called Mamaw) died from double pneumonia when Daddy was 9 years old. I didn’t know that in 1930, Papaw had taken in his widowed mother and his brother-in-law, along with his family—that was 9 people living in that two bedroom house (with screened –in porch). He also owned a radio—can’t you just see them all sitting around in the evening and listening to it—just like the Waltons. Ten years later, Papaw’s mother had passed away (I know this from other Ancestry records) and his brother-in-law’s family had moved out. Also, Papaw had married again and had taken in his new mother-in-law. As Papaw worked in a grocery store all those years to provide for his family, Daddy and his sister attended school and worked outside the home.

Also, Ancestry showed me that Daddy enlisted in the Army Air Corps less than two months after the attack on Pearl Harbor and was released January, 1946. I knew that he had left the army with the rank of staff sergeant because that was what he written in a few books he had acquired during the war and were in the bookcase mother had built him (see the post from 12-14-2015). Daddy met the lady who became my mother about the first of July, 1946 and they were married in the middle of July (Mother always said they married two weeks after meeting and their marriage lasted 38 years).

Have you every researched your family on Ancestry? What did you learn about your family?  

Memory Monday: My Grandparents' Marriage

My grandparents' 50th Anniversary

MY GRANDPARENTS’ MARRIAGE

My husband and I have recently celebrated 44^th wedding anniversary. This is longer than either of our parents’ marriages. Both of those marriages last about 38 years, and they only ended because my mother-in-law died of cancer and my father was killed in a vehicular accident.

My maternal grandparents’ marriage lasted over 56 years. I remember their 50^th anniversary. Before then, my grandfather was well-known for hating to have his picture taken, even a casual snapshot. After all the hoop-la and picture-taking at the party, he changed and loved to have his picture taken. Also (and something I didn’t realize before, being a kid and all), my grandmother never had a wedding ring all those years. But that anniversary, she got one and (as far as I know) wore it the rest of her life. Oh, and one more interesting tidbit, although it was not about their anniversary, but rather about their marriage—my grandmother said one of the reasons she married my grandfather was that she thought he would give her beautiful children. And he did—all seven of them.

By the way, for our 50^th anniversary, we are thinking of going on an Alaskan cruise.

How many years have you been married? What interesting tidbits have you heard about your parents’ or grandparents’ weddings/marriages/anniversaries?

Memory Monday: My Paternal Grandfather, A Man Who Suffered Much But Found Happiness

My Grandfather

A MAN WHO SUFFERED MUCH BUT FOUND HAPPINESS

Will Curry was my paternal grandfather. When I look at the picture above, I hardly recognize him. He looks so stern, sad, and almost hopeless. And then I think back on what I’ve heard about his life.

Here are some of the things I know about him:

--In 1904, his parents divorced when he was just a youngster. His mother, along with his sisters, left and moved to New Mexico with her new husband. He stayed with his father and his new wife (who was just about 10 years older than he was). At one time he left home because of the situation with her and moved in with his older brother—in the same town.

--At twenty, he married the woman he loved very, very much, but they had to wait for seven years for their firstborn (my father). They had a second child, a daughter, four years later. My grandfather was twenty-six and with two children—ages 9 and 4, when he became a widower. My grandmother developed double pneumonia and died. But he struggled through.

--Life was hard for my grandfather and his family. My father told me one of the jobs he had to do as a young boy for his father was to cut cardboard pieces to cover the holes in his father’s shoes so he could walk to the grocery store where he worked. There was just no money to buy new shoes or even to have them repaired. To make matters worse, sometime before 1930, his mother—now widowed—moved in with him, along with his late wife’s brother and his family. That made nine people living in a two bedroom house with a screened-in sun porch. (I know this house well. My grandfather still owned that house when I married. It was where we always went to visit him when we were growing up).

--When my father was sixteen, my grandfather married a widow. But things must not have been happy between my father and his step-mother, because my father went to live with his aunt and uncle in another town when my father was in his senior year of high school. My father never called his step-mother anything but “Myrtle” even though we always called her “Mamaw.”

--At approximately 78 years old, Papaw (which is what we always called him), left the home he had lived in for almost fifty years and moved into a nursing home with his second wife. She passed away in 1972—a week after I married, and Papaw moved in with my parents. He lived with them for two years before he fell, broke his hip and discovered he had cancer. He never left the hospital. He was 85 years old.

But the thing I remember most about my grandfather was how he learned to be content, even happy, after all the problems he had lived through.

Papaw and Mamaw

One last thing, our son shares the same middle name as my father, who shared the same middle name as his father. But my son also shares something else with his great-grandfather. Even though they never knew each other (my grandfather passing away in the mid-1970s, and my son not being born until the mid-1980s), they share the same birthday.