Thursday, August 27, 2009
I expect my newest child and I will bond well, but we may have difficulty communicating at first. I'll need to figure out what he likes to eat by watching his facial expressions. I'll also monitor his sleeping habits. If he coughs or sneezes too loudly, I'll run in to check just like I did with all the others. No doubt my other children will help him fit into our family.
My newest addition arrives with many characteristics that my three other children did not, however. First, he is much bigger. Owen is already a tennis champion. He studies calculus, plays the piano beautifully, and needs to shave. He is bilingual and has traveled the world in his young life. Owen is 17, and will join my family for a year as a foreign exchange student from Jiujiang, China. We are very excited that Owen's parents are entrusting him to us.
Saturday is the big day. Owen will come to our house to stay. He's been in the country for less than a week now, and we've met him at the school. He has been staying with the Chinese teacher this week to ease the transition and give me time to breathe during this first week of school. Gary has been getting his room together. Owen seems very sweet, but shy and not confident about his English. I know what a huge difference living with an American family will be for his confidence, and I can only expect the difference on my family for having known Owen will also be life-changing.
Waiting for Owen to join our family is similar to waiting for a baby to be born. The nerves are there, as is the excitement of the unknown. The reality is my family will grow to include his parents and grandmother, half a world away. The relationships may last a lifetime. My oldest son is already planning to visit China and stay with Owen when he gets there.
How do these types of relationships find their way into a family tree? I'm not too sure right now. But over the course of the next year I plan to figure it out.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
The first Amish buggy we encountered was quickly followed by a sighting of two barefoot, bonnet-clad young girls walking on the side of the road. About two miles later, strapping field horses pulling a flat bed yielded to my Honda Odyssey. Kevin’s questions began to come quickly now-Why do Amish People live without electricity? Do they use American money? Had I ever seen Amish people at Kenyon College, my alma mater in Gambier, our destination on this leg of our four day adventure? My answer was resolute, “No, I do not remember ever seeing Amish people in downtown Gambier during my four years there.”
Kevin and I had set out on Wednesday morning to meet my father and aunt in Massillon, Ohio. From there we would spend two solid days traveling throughout West Virginia, stopping to pay respect to many Martin ancestors, and visit with many Martin relatives who are still very much alive.
Bringing Kevin on this journey was vitally important to me for many reasons. First, he is my child who absolutely thrives on the one-on-one attention afforded to him by his parents. Given that he had just returned from two weeks away at camp, I missed providing this attention as much as I knew he missed receiving it. Kevin has also shown an interest in my genealogical pursuits over the years. He is a reliable photographer and videographer. More importantly, he asks really great questions. I often have to adjust my perspective before responding, considering different points of view to answer thoughtfully and honestly.
The top rationale for Kevin’s presence is also the most sentimental; Kevin represented the future of the Martin family tree, a flesh-and-blood link to the fourth generation around the table with my great aunt and uncle, and the eighth generation as we traversed the banks of the Monongahela River in search of Allen Martin. Can you imagine your great, great, great, great, great grandchild on a quest for your gravesite 200 years from now? My family history, Kevin’s family history, is still relevant today.
Due to the reading I had done in preparation for this trip, I was ready to meet the relatives who warmly welcomed my traveling group into their homes. Lucie Anne Mellert, my father’s first cousin, is the daughter of Grace Martin Taylor, a famous West Virginia artist most renowned for her block paintings. Grace is the older sister of my paternal grandfather, Howard Garrison “Abe” Martin. Lucie Anne, her husband Bill, her son Jim and his wife Mary, enlightened us on Grace’s life and her career. Lucie Anne personally led a tour of the University of Charleston’s Erma Byrd Gallery, the permanent exhibit of West Virginia women artists in which three of Grace’s works are prominently displayed. I left Charleston with a deeper appreciation of this pioneer of the art world and a 1928 self-portrait that I hope will be a catalyst for many proud discussions in the years to come.
No “roots” trip is complete without stomping through cemeteries. We certainly had our fill. The Martin family is well-known through Monongalia County history, both before and after the Civil War and the succession from Virginia. Some Martins were even delegates when the new state of West Virginia was recognized in 1863.
Allen, the first to come to the territory from Maryland in the early 1800’s, and his wife Arlotta Maddox Martin, “were buried at a place called a Bend of the River near Little Falls” (Morton, A History of Preston County, West Virginia, 1914). My father Gary, my aunt Kitty, Kevin and I all walked along the bank of the Monongahela River on the land once belonging to the Summers brothers. Alexander and Jonathan Summers witnessed Allen’s will in 1817. Other sources in the area confirm a Summers Cemetery along these shores, though the recent (in the last century) damming of the river certainly changed its course in some places. Regardless, our foursome retraced my father’s bike route from four years ago to pinpoint the place where he had found many large field stones, most probably used as grave markers in the early 19th century. While not completely successful in finding Allen during this trip, we still remain confident that he is resting exactly where he wished to be.
Allen’s son, Turner, remains the most elusive of the ancestors, and my group needed reinforcements before tackling his mission. We, therefore, drove for just a few minutes to Oak Grove Cemetery in Morgantown to visit our Civil War hero and Turner’s son, John Wesley Martin. Not as remarkable then as it would be now, John Wesley fathered twelve children. Three of the last to be born to John Wesley and his wife Mary Ann died at an early age and are buried neatly in a row next to their parents. After recent interest in this family’s history, a new grave marker commemorating the lives of these three children was erected alongside the three, small illegible stones.
Just up the hill (more like a mountain) from Oak Grove Cemetery, lies East Oak Grove Cemetery, the final resting place for John Wesley’s son, Joseph. Joseph and his wife Anna broke tradition and chose to be buried in a huge mausoleum building in the center of the cemetery, overlooking the city of Morgantown. The mausoleum is surrounded by family plots, however. We found more Martins, Bowlbys, McClures, and Breakirons within eyesight of the formidable front steps of Joseph’s final home. My dad and aunt had been here before, as Joseph lived a very long life and passed away in 1970. I was born by then, but do not remember him.
Joseph’s residence in Morgantown, the one in which he lived the majority of his life, still stands just minutes from East Oak Grove Cemetery. Joseph’s four children grew up at 240 Franklin Street, and the house and property remain in the Martin family. The youngest of these four children lives just two blocks away from his childhood home. Hubert, the 89 year old younger brother of my own grandfather, and his wife Traudel, invited us to their lovely home for a small reunion of sorts. Hubert and Traudel’s children Liz and Chris (again, first cousins to my father and aunt) were also there. The youngest of Hubert’s children, Glen, was out of town on business, but kindly sent his own son as a representative of his family.
The brunch was excellent, as usual, but the conversations in that home last Friday were extraordinary. Traudel revealed how she was working in her native land of Germany as an interpreter for the army when she met the young Dr. Hubert Martin, a dentist assigned to the occupation forces in Heidelburg. Kevin and I were able to corner Hube, himself, at the end of the dining room table and invited him to speak of his own experiences during WWII. Uncle Hubert is a quiet man, so engaging him in conversation, especially a conversation in which he is the main topic, is a tricky prospect. Maybe because it was a child asking that Hube enthusiastically answered every question asked with vivid detail.
Our large group began to splinter after brunch and I followed my dad and Uncle Hubert out to the back porch. Three generations of Martin’s discussing the evolution of the family from hard-working farmers on near desolate land, to a teacher in a one-room school house, to a mail carrier who lost his job whenever the “wrong” political party came to power, to the prominent professions of Hubert’s siblings, my dad and aunt, and now me. As Kevin arrived on the scene to document the moment on film to support my own note-taking, we all just looked at him and wondered about where his life will lead him, the fourth generation present on this day.
This party would not end until we would wind our way up to another mountain top cemetery. The Bethel Church is no longer standing, instead replaced by a fairly modern single family home. However, the cemetery that was attached to the original church survives and has been expanded ten-fold. The stone for Amelia Martin was not difficult to find. It was close to where the old church had stood in the late 1800's, and her stone was modern, relatively speaking. The fact that Amelia’s 1882 grave is in Bethel Cemetery is not the impressive aspect of this story; the mystery is that Turner, the husband who died some 30 years before his wife, is not there.
Why Turner and Amelia’s grandchildren would erect a new stone for Amelia with her vital statistics engraved, then add “Also in tribute to her husband” remains the most elusive unsolved puzzle on the Martin genealogical quest.
With full stomachs and the stories provided by Hube, Traudel and Liz while up at Bethel Cemetery swirling in our heads, dad took the wheel once again and drove Kitty, Kevin and me to the home where he and Kitty had grown up outside of Wheeling. We were now entering my reality, my memories. I had visited my grandparents, Abe and Ruth Martin, at 833 Mozart Road, many times during my childhood. My grandfather had attended my wedding in 1994 and he had met my two oldest sons. In my youth I had played on the swings at the end of the driveway, sled down the steep slopes in winter, and chased a few crazy dogs around the big back yard. My three most vivid memories are watching my grandmother make animal shaped pancakes, snuffing out the candles on the dinner table, and riding my bicycle around and around the basement garage. It was a beautiful home.
Unfortunately, the home we approached on this last part of our trip did not live up to our memories. The house and the grounds were just not kept up to the standards of the Martin family, and we quickly left. I’m not sure if any of us will ever return to “the house on the hill.”
My grandparents are buried not far from their hilltop home, on a steep slope of Halcyon Hills Cemetery. The story goes that my grandmother wanted to be at the top of the hill, near the road, so that she would have something to do by watching the cars. I remember my grandfather’s funeral much more than my grandmother’s which makes sense. I was in sixth grade when Ruth died in 1980 and grown, married with two children when Abe passed away in 2000. The four of us spent a few minutes clearing off the flat plate that bears their names, commented on the vastness of the countryside, and then we were on our way back to Massillon.
Kevin and I left early Saturday morning. Our goodbyes and thank yous to my dad and aunt were pleasant, yet efficient. I planned to stop by Kenyon on the way home since I hadn’t been on the beautiful campus for nearly ten years. I also wanted to share that part of my life with Kevin. Afterward, we planned to stop by the Kinney’s house in Beavercreek for a late lunch and arrive home in Henryville by 8:00 pm . We left Kitty’s house at 8:15 am.
The drive up the hill to Kenyon’s campus reminds me of the drive up to my grandparent’s old house on Mozart Road. Kevin and I are both excited. We’ve had great conversations and did some serious mother/son bonding. I felt strongly that I could easily and quickly write a blog about this trip, getting back into doing what I love doing best. I have several other genealogy subjects for which I can write on, as well. In the near future look for a story about searching for the Staats Cemetery in Fortville, Indiana, assisting a man who lives in California find the family cemetery in Indiana in which he will now spread his mother’s ashes, and an on-going project to help a woman better understand the life and death of her mother.
As we reached the top of the hill in Gambier, with the splendor of Middle Path on our right, I turned the van left and headed to park in front of the bookstore. It was at this exact moment that the black buggy caught my eye. Right there, in the middle of Gambier, Ohio, the center of Kenyon College, three young Amish women were setting up a stand to sell homemade baskets. Less than thirty minutes before, I told Kevin I had never seen Amish in Gambier. Obviously, things change. But it is the constant of family that keeps change in check and manageable. I now hope every time Kevin sees the circular, double pie basket we bought in Gambier he remembers our “roots” trip to West Virginia and will pass along the stories of his family to his own children.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Early in December I learned that my portfolio had been rejected from the Board for the Certification of Genealogists, the most prestigious certifying organization in genealogy. The news was devastating. I did not earn the title of “Certified Genealogist.” I worked so hard for an entire year researching and writing the different projects that make up the application. When I submitted the portfolio last June I was realistic enough to know that my work had flaws, that there were areas in my research that could have been stronger. Yet, I was also hopeful that the research was solid, the stories compelling, and the writing free from grammatical errors.
The three certified genealogists who reviewed my portfolio detailed several areas of commendation, along with recommendations for improvement. In the end, I agree with most of the criticism. The harder pill to swallow is the realization that if I should choose to reapply for certification through BCG, I cannot use any of the material from the first portfolio. I will have to start completely over-brand new stories, brand new sources. I will also have to dedicate another full year to research and writing. Given my current personal and professional obligations, I don't see how this is possible.
The questions laced with self-pity immediately swirled in my head. Did I have the time and determination to go through the process again? Why is certification important to me? Or is it the “idea” of certification that is intriguing? What did this setback mean for the classes I teach or for this blog?
The weeks passed. I went through the typical roller-coaster of emotions that any person in mourning goes through, including anger and denial. Rarely have I failed to succeed at something I wanted so badly.
Just before Christmas I was scheduled to teach my fourth class at Ponder Creek Estates. For the first time since my introduction to this group, I was nervous. I knew that the classes were going well and the students enjoyed the time we spent together. But the letter from BCG had shaken me. Perhaps I should not be teaching. Was this just a charade? Was I a fraud? Would the lack of certification make my students feel differently toward me even though I do not need it to teach and they had no idea of my application in the first place?
A twist of fate relieved the initial trepidation. The week prior to my scheduled class at Ponder Creek Estates found many students at my school battling a severe case of the flu. My own child was among the suffering. Though I was prepared with a lesson plan and didn’t wish to disappoint the group, I called to cancel the class. I simply could not expose my octogenarian friends to sickness.
Fast forward to Saturday, January 17, 2009. A new year fosters a new attitude. I focus more on the commendations written by the BCG judges instead of the critical recommendations. I am determined to learn from this experience and hone my research and citation skills. I decide the denial of certification is not a reflection of my passion, writing or teaching, but rather an opportunity to make my mark in the field in a future year when I have more time to seriously dedicate to it. I truly believe I will reapply for certification when my personal and professional lives settle down a bit. I’m excited about this plan.
Ultimately, the extra month between classes was great for me. The smiling faces that greeted me yesterday at Ponder Creek Estates boosted my recovering confidence even more. Nearly every student came to our meeting prepared to share new information collected from family members over the holidays. Most of these new stories were inspired by research I had initiated since our first meeting in September. For example, Lou Ann brought a beautifully framed presentation of a newspaper article written about her brother who died in WWII and several medals he earned.
As I listened to the voices around the table, my heart warmed. Half of the mission of Murphy Genealogy Services has been achieved. Students are engaging other family members in their quest for information regarding their ancestors. The second part of the Murphy Genealogy Services mission is to help preserve life stories to share with future generations. During my fifth and final class in a month’s time, I will create a personalized interview for each student that will be videotaped and shared with family members.
Leaving Ponder Creek Estates yesterday, the last missing piece of my recovery fell into place. It was clearly evident that my students do not care if I am a Certified Genealogist. They simply appreciate that I show up, share my passion, and have a goal to move the mission forward. I am happy with my place in the genealogy world once again.
My ego mended and my confidence restored, I am moving forward with my new, personal research projects. I hope to meet my father in St. Louis soon to interview my Great Aunt Betty and learn more about the Osborne side of the family. Also of interest is a small tin-type photo (circa 1860) of my great, great, great grand uncle, Peter C. Staats. This young man successfully survived his tour of duty as a Union soldier attached to the 12th Indiana infantry, yet he inexplicably died in Hancock County, Indiana three weeks after his release. Pinned to the picture is a laurelwood ring supposedly handcrafted by Staats during the Civil War.
The most intriguing aspect of this story, in my opinion, is where Peter is buried. In the middle of American Legion Park, just north of Fortville, Indiana, is Doty Cemetery, a small family plot. However, it is not the Staats Family Cemetery. Why is Peter buried there? What was the cause of his death? What was his relationship with the Doty family? I see a road trip to Fortville in my very near future.
The time between Thanksgiving and today has been both difficult and encouraging. I have learned how to improve my craft while, at the same time, I have learned that my passion for genealogy research, writing and teaching remains undeniable. Hectic schedules at home and school may still preclude me from writing this blog as often as I would like. But it’s nice to know that I am no longer standing in my own way. Writing this blog today is the culmination of my healing process. It’s good to be back!
Thursday, November 27, 2008
These dreams include writing this genealogy blog. Sure, there are selfish reasons to do this; I wish to leave my words as a legacy for my own children so they may understand their family history. And it fulfills my inner-desire to write regularly. But in writing this blog, I have also learned the power of communication, of sharing, and of family bonds. The people I have met in the past months because of this blog have enriched my life considerably, and I am so thankful for their presence in my life.
Earlier in this blog I described the first stop in a genealogy road trip by my sister and me after the death of our father in 2000. It told of our emotional experience in Bancroft, a small community in southern, West Virginia. Bancroft was the girlhood home of our mother and the destination for many trips in our youth to visit Grandma Osborne.
Although there are many choices for genealogy research on both sides of my family, I have always been drawn to John Wesley Martin, our paternal great-grandfather who served with distinction in the Civil War. John Wesley must have been a busy man having found time both before and after the war to father 12 children with his wife Mary Ann while scratching out a living as a farmer in the hills around Cassville, West Virginia.
Children Without Names
Hube and Cousin Chris guided us to Oak Grove Cemetery where we found the marker for John Wesley and Mary Ann. The inscriptions were very clear and informative but I was immediately drawn to the nearby small unreadable stones. We were told by Hube that these were placed there by John Wesley and Mary Ann to mark each of their three children who died shortly after birth. Reflecting the modest income of a farmer, the children’s markers were of fieldstone - perhaps taken from the family farm.
Although admittedly a strange thing to do, I’ve been known to stop in country cemeteries during pleasure drives to read inscriptions and try to visualize the people who are buried there. I’ve seen many markers that are too worn to read and they had no effect on me. However, looking at the three unreadable stones caused a completely different emotion perhaps because of the blood relationship or the fact they were children. I promised myself to give the children back their names.
The process was not easy. Charcoal rubbing techniques which worked well for me on other stones yielded no results. Cemetery records were helpful but not complete. After despairing that I had reached an impasse, a friend suggested searching pension application forms which were filled out periodically by Civil War veterans in order to continue their pension payments.
A genealogy crazed relative and I have a running joke about a gigantic family reunion in heaven attended by all the Martins of our lineage both past and present. After all the feasting, drinking, and story telling, the meeting is called to order by Michael and Jillian Martin who started all this by coming to America from England in 1680. The first order of business is to take nominations for the prestigious Martin Family Genealogy Award - an honor given to the relative who did the most during his/her time on earth to document family history. At one time I thought I held the lead in this competition. However, whatever lead I may have had is now diminished as more and more relatives find themselves intrigued by unraveling mysteries within the family.
As Martha Stewart is fond of saying, “this is a good thing”. It could be a close race!
Sunday, November 23, 2008
The deadline for this post came and went a week ago. Of course, this deadline doesn't mean a thing. My livelihood does not depend on it nor is it necessary for me to maintain a healthy lifestyle. It is a self-imposed, personal goal. I was on course to write an entry for this blog every week and I had accomplished this goal for 10 straight weeks. Creating this has become important to me. So when I simply could not sit down at the computer last Sunday to transcribe my scribbled notes and I knew I had a very busy week at school ahead of me, I took a deep breath, swallowed my type-A blogging pride, and decided it was best to wait until I had time enough to get it right. I still strive for quality, after all. But I'm glad this day has arrived. I know I'll feel better when it is published. Some people drink wine or gamble to make themselves feel good. I write genealogy blogs. Go figure.
Last weekend was a bit of a whirlwind as my family drove from our home to New Castle, Pennsylvania to celebrate my father-in-law’s 80th birthday. It was a wonderful time for family and friends to get together, reconnect, laugh, and reminisce. On the six hour drive home Sunday afternoon, my husband and I talked about the scenes we had just witnessed. I had already written an opening for the blog, wasn’t too happy with it, and began asking Gary questions about the characters involved. Gary opened up like he never had before. And when he didn’t know the answer, he called his sister, Diane, who, with her own family, was about an hour ahead of us on the highway.
I can’t help but smile as the purpose of writing these blogs has once again been achieved without me writing a single sentence. My questions forced these two siblings to seriously consider the impact an older generation had on their lives. And while Gary and Diane knew full well I intended to write about the experience, that was not the motivating factor. The conversation was good for them as they shared their perspectives. And maybe these perspectives will now be preserved for their children.
I certainly do not mean to leave out Tom and Susan, Gary's other siblings. We had just spent the weekend together and they shared equally in this historic event. Their perspectives are reflected in this piece, as well. I was simply witness to the conversation between Gary and Diane, and received immediate feedback from them regarding my questions.
Finally, here it is. In my short blogging career, this is the entry that has taken the longest to write. Not because I didn’t want to write it, mind you, but because I want to capture a few moments of the weekend well. I wrote most of the introduction in the car on Sunday afternoon, and then took copious notes while Gary and Diane spoke by phone. Therefore, it is also important to me to weave in Gary’s thoughts and memories into this story. By adding a few pictures and videos to the blog, I hope this entry is well worth the wait. So…
Imagine eight friends sitting around a kitchen table celebrating a milestone birthday. The setting is simple, the plot all too common. If this scene were described on the back of a novel in the sale bin at a used bookstore, you’d certainly throw it back in a flash. No need to read on. Boring, mundane, routine.
Only a person who truly understands the old adage “Don’t judge a book by its cover” would know that what the cover does not reveal is the depth of the characterization found within the worn pages. This person might just take the time to crack the binding just once, though, and be absorbed by the emanating laughter. The book takes hold and keeps the reader turning page after page.
The story is so real and so human. It tells how each of the people sitting around the table brings out the best in the others. How they have depended on each other through good times and bad. The weekends at the lake or trips across country, the building of each other’s homes and their plans for the future. No, the cover on this book definitely conceals the treasures found within. And to be that person who takes a chance on this story, you have to be drawn to these characters. You have to understand the significance of this otherwise common setting and plot. You almost needed to witness the event itself to fully appreciate the magic that transpired around that kitchen table, as it did last night at the Murphy's house. I was one of the lucky ones; I was there.
As I write this account I am driving home from New Castle, Pennsylvania. Actually, my husband is driving, one son is asleep, and the other two boys are arguing over a new video game. I should be working on a presentation for school tomorrow, but I am not. The first snow is falling and I can’t get the images and sounds from last night out of my head. I just need to write this down. It’s like the reverse of writer’s block; I can’t do anything else until I get these thoughts out.
Yesterday was my father-in-law’s 80th birthday. Reginald Stephen Murphy was born on 15 Nov 1928 in Cleveland, Ohio, the fourth of six children born to Ronald and Valeria Murphy. I could continue with the genealogy of his family, but that would not help alleviate my need to write about yesterday. So the rest of the Murphy family tree will have to wait.
Reg and Bonnie Murphy’s four children have been excitedly planning this weekend for nearly a year. Each had ideas for the best way to celebrate, but all were united in their belief that this birthday should be a family affair. Nothing extravagant and as little stress as possible was the motto. All of the children, and eight of ten grandchildren, would be present. In the end, a surprise party was planned and my family would be instrumental in its successful execution.
The cold, windy night provided the first glimpse of the Pennsylvania winter ahead, but the bitterness did not dampen spirits. Reg was certainly surprised when he saw his other three children at the restaurant, and was even more overwhelmed by the reception of friends and grandchildren waiting for him at his home. With cameras rolling, Reg showed this emotion as he blew out the candles on his cake.
As a testament to his friendship and loyalty, many close friends braved the weather and journeyed to Penny Lane. Of these friends, six, in particular, are most special. This group, forever known as “the gang,” has been friends since high school. Throughout their lives they played cards together, they bowled together, they celebrated births and consoled each other in difficult times. Every Christmas Eve was spent at the Murphy's, every Christmas night at the Yoho's, and every night between Christmas and New Years at a different friend's house. The families always spent every Memorial Day and Fourth of July at Lake Latonka near Mercer, Pennsylvania. Nearly every Saturday night for the remainder of the year the gang met at Troggio’s Restaurant. Rarely a week would pass without some form of gathering. Many serve as godparents for children of friends. Greetings of “Aunt” and “Uncle” are commonly heard from Gary’s generation. The bond among the friends in this gang is almost tighter than family.
By 7:45 p.m. all but two of the surviving original members of the gang had arrived. Those that could not move well found a seat around the kitchen table right away and stayed put. Those still mobile played musical chairs around the house while serving food, clearing dishes and socializing with other guests.
Eventually, the allure of laughter and storytelling brought Reg and Bonnie Murphy, Wayne and Betty Jean Yoho, Bob and Joanne McClintock, Mary Lou Hannon and Rosemarie Andrews together around a single table for the first time in many years. The voices of Tom Hannon and Chuckie Andrews were missed as they are every day; Russ and Dee Capitola are currently home bound but called in their best wishes during the festivities.
Like waves formed after throwing a stone into a puddle, the children of my husband’s generation, the kids who grew up together as close as siblings, formed a semi-circle around the table. Side comments added their own perspectives to stories told by their parents. By generation, inside jokes hung in the air as thick as smoke. Those of us who married into the family sat on the outer ring watching this incredible event unfold. And it was from the comfort of a living room chair that I began to take notes, thinking this is the stuff genealogy blogs are made of.
Someone in the crowd suggested we record the conversation unfurling at the kitchen table. Gary set up the camera on the counter and let it roll, unbeknownst to the guest of honor.
Analyzing the cast of characters, there is no doubt that Wayne Yoho has served as the group’s comic relief since its inception. His jokes and antics are legendary. In one of the few lulls in the evening, though, while everyone was trying to catch their breath from laughing so hard at one of the many stories told, Wayne turned philosophic. “We never made much money but we had a hell of a lot of fun.” Nothing seems truer.
The biggest laughs of the evening came at the expense of the most unassuming man around the table. Bob is a very good sport. He is one of the oldest of the group and quite possibly, the healthiest. Bob, Wayne and Reg graduated from high school together, joined the Navy and worked for the railway. He is a true gentleman and maintains a dry sense of humor. While Reg is second in command to Wayne’s outspokenness, Bob is confident to stay one step behind. This does not mean that he isn’t involved; rather, Bob’s leadership is simply more understated than the rest.
For example, Bob is the kind of man who steps forward to speak at a funeral when no one else will. It is this thoughtfulness, his affinity for the computer, and the belief that he will outlive all of the rest, that the group has nominated him as the official eulogy writer. As Rosemarie said, “Just write one for each of us now, save it on the computer, and pull it up when you need it.”
In addition and in true form, Betty Jean dared Bob to grab her breasts while she lay dead in the coffin at her own funeral. This dare was given partly as a testament to their friendship, but partly because Bob would be the least likely to actually go through with the action. Turning red and sliding his chair back from the table, Bob raised his hands in mock surrender as if he could not fathom participating in such an act of disrespect. In the next breath and with a crooked little smile, Bob started toward Betty Jean and quipped, “Why don’t I just practice now?”
Later, while taking a group photograph to commemorate Reg’s party, Bob snuck up behind Betty Jean and grabbed her breast. No less than four cameras captured the shot. (Unfortunately my flash was a bit sluggish and the image is blurred. When I receive another, clearer version, I'll replace the one I have.) Laughter erupted once again and Reg was the happiest I had ever seen him. He was surrounded by family and friends. It was as if time stood still. He, Bonnie, and their friends had fought off the signs of aging and had mustered the energy to be together one more night.
Back in the car on the Sunday afternoon drive home, Gary just got off the phone with Diane. He was thoughtful as he recounted, “Everyone there understood how important it was to reconnect with people you love. It was more than a physical effort. This group of people has been together for over 60 years. They are family and they need each other.”
Since I began writing the snow has stopped falling and the sun is fading quickly to my right. Gary and I have had great conversations. We have collaborated with other members of the family by phone to fill in missing information. We have even debated the appropriate time to turn these blog entries into a book. Having a hard copy version of this is probably the best way to preserve significant moments in our family’s history, moments like Reg’s 80th birthday party and the importance of “the gang” in his life. Creating a book is a goal I will tackle in the years to come. But there is no hurry and I’m not expecting a best seller. But when I’m ready to pursue this dream I’ll make sure the description on the jacket cover is as special and exciting as the stories found within.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
I hope one day to finish the work my grandmother began. She understood the significance of preserving family history and has given me the gift of her memories, in her own words. "The Farm and Its People" has provided a glimpse into the life of my grandmother that I didn't know existed. She was still a complicated person. But I'm beginning to understand her a little bit more.
All around this yard was a fence-a picket fence, a big picket swinging gate at the driveway. We had all the old fashioned plants and flowers, tiger lilies, roses, violets, star-of-Bethlehem, a soft red blooming bush. On the other side of the drive there were lilac bushes, more trees. This side was fences from the horse field. The driveway led past the long open porch, on the south side of the house. To the back of this yard and to the south was the buggy shed-outside of this on the driveway, our father would shoe his horses- Bessie, Silveretta, and others driven to the buggy, I cannot remember the names. Right next to the buggy or carriage shed was the chicken house. These were torn down in later years. I can barely remember them. The drive way went thru the yard, went to the carriage shed around the back of the house thru a gate, down a hill, into the barnyard. Walking straight thru the driveway, you went down a hill, past the smoke house. At the bottom of the hill was a well built wooden, spring house. The water was cold and fresh, gushing from this spring-it went into troughs in the spring house out the back into the horse trough. In the spring house we put the milk in crocks. Some of the milk we let the cream come to the top which we skimmed and put into the churn to make butter. I used to like to churn, and work the butter, add the salt, and put it into rolls. The plug would be pulled first to let the buttermilk run out. I never liked buttermilk. In later years we had the separator. It was in the kitchen, one in the corner near the cellar door. How I hated that separator! Washing those discs!
In later years a huge walnut tree grew over the spring house, but the wooden house was replaced by a cement block house. It was never the same. When the boys caught fish they used to keep them in the horse trough. The land was swampy around the springs. We use to make water wheels from buts of shingles and sticks-this spring water went out into the horsefield and there was a little stream. Along this stream, willow trees grew. Paul and Mary Margaret made a Flying Dutchman between a couple of trees in the horsefield. We had a lot of fun there, until one day Frances flew off and wrapped around a tree, knocked the wind out of her-we though she was gone. I never played there much after that. In the barn lot, not far from the horse trough was the duck house. I never liked the ducks much. I never liked to get them off the old canal, or from the horsefield streams, in the evening. It was Paul’s job for many years, until some of the rest of us grew up, and it was passed down from one to the other. Whenever I smell the mint from fresh mown (cut) hay, I think of the horsefield.
Going thru this barnyard there was a bridge over the canal, and then crossed the railroad. We all loved the horse barn, stalls for the work horses, Old Molly and Joe, etc. harness on pegs along the walls, behind the stalls-smell of hay in the haymow-crunch of corn in the feed boxes-hay thrown down from the hay mow and sometimes a handful of brown sugar thrown in the feed boxes from the sugar barrel beside the door. Then there was the cow barn attached to the horse barn. There was a box stall for the mother and colt.
In an open spot where there was sort of a hollow, watercress stayed green all summer and winter. Many trees grew along this hill from the orchard to the canal. Buttercups bloomed in the spring water. We had paths thru these hills-made by animals and us. Wild cherry, wild plum etc. bloomed in the spring. We loved the big wild cherry tree.
In our world there were Father, Mother, Mary Margaret, Paul, Elizabeth, Gertrude, Frances, Cornelius, Blanche, John and Olin. I can’t remember the name of Agnes? Hubble who used to help at the house for a while. Then there was John Kraus who came as a hired man. He stayed on and became a part of us. When I was 13 my mother died. Olin was barely two. Mary Margaret was a senior in H.S. Our mother’s family lived in Glendale, Ohio. Aunt Mary and Grandpa Driscoll came to live with us. I cannot remember my mother very well. Aunt Mary was a mother to us. She taught us the beauty of nature, hills, music, sunsets, skies, her church and religion meant so much to her.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
To tell the truth, I hadn’t heard much about Aunt Betty and her family until these past few weeks. I don’t think we’ve ever met. But I do know that my grandmother, Ruth Osborne, and her younger brother, Joe, were very close throughout their lives. They visited often as adults and ensured their children knew each other well. My dad has fond memories of his cousins, aunt and uncle. Yet now, although still technically strangers, Betty and I share a common vision. We both desire to preserve the family’s history and we are working toward that goal. She is the link to a generation of people whose memorable moments have remained slightly elusive to this day. This blog brought Betty and me together; we will continue to use is as a forum to safeguard our shared vision.
Recently, I sent Betty a series of questions that highlight her own family’s genealogical data. As I told her, it is important for me to understand a bit of her life story before I delve into her interactions with the Osborne family. I also included several writing prompts to spur specific memories of the Osborne’s. My dad helped facilitate these prompts.
Evidently, Betty was ready to write. Within a few days, she had written answers for every question and promised more in the near future. Her insights into the lives of the Osborne family members are particularly valuable as there is very little documentation that exists today. As an example, no one is really sure of the name of Ruth and Joe’s grandmother. It is one of the greatest mysteries of my short genealogical career. Possibly, with Betty’s help, it will be solved.
It is with extreme gratitude to Betty and her children (who continue to send me wonderful family photos to add to my collection) that I can publish the writing prompts and recollections here.
3. My first impression of Joe's parents was : Met the senior Osbornes in March of 1939. When I was in Charleston on spring break at my college roommates home, Joe had gotten a job with Monsanto. Took me to meet his parents at that time. Mr. Osborne was in a wheel chair (he was very pleasant). Mrs. Osborne was not quite as receptive. They knew that we were married, but I did not. (Now I know she was concerned about their circumstances - and about help Joe could provide.)
5. Joe remembers his mother as: Great respect for his mother - helped her in anyway he could. Talked about errands he helped her with, chores about the house. The years after she and Dorse moved to Bancroft he visited weekly and after the war, when we had no car, would go by Greyhound bus for a visit. Approximately about 15 miles from Nitro.
6. Joe's siblings were: Macel and Lesa (half sisters). John, Edward, Gilbert, Ruth, Harry Clay, Dorse and Joe. (Harry Clay died Nov. 5, 1918) before Joe was born. Died from the flu epidemic of 1918.
8. A memory of Joe's childhood that he shared with me was: As a boy scout - his troop was to attend a church service - he was concerned about his shoes and asked to go get new ones. His mother nixed the idea, but his father took him to get his new shoes!
14. The last time I was with Ruth: Really can't remember the last time I was with Ruth. I do remember the terrible feeling Joe and I both had hearing about her death. She and Abe had both come to Charleston when Joe had his first aneurysm surgery in 1975. Joe came home from work when he got the news and sat out on the back steps and cried. They were very close.
For now, Betty Osborne and I remain email correspondents. We will continue to exchange our stories using available technology until we meet in person. I truly hope this will be soon. Every bit of information provided here is a launching pad for new investigations and there is still so much to learn from each other.