A Unique Approach

         I really did not know my Grandpa James.  I was told that he was the black sheep in his family.  His biological mother died only a week after he was born.  He grew up having made quite a few errors.  He enjoyed smoking, drinking and older woman.  I’m not certain how he and grandma met as he was from Ogden and she was from Panguitch.  I think he may have had family living in Panguitch.  I don’t know.

          I would think he hadn’t joined the navy until after he married my grandma as they lived in Utah for almost four years.  My mom was two when the navy took them from Utah to San Francisco

         My maternal grandparent’s divorced after my mom had turned thirteen.  But I believe they were still married when my grandfather planted an early seed to discourage my mom from wanting to smoke or drink. Perhaps it was the year they divorced – I don’t know.  I just remember her relating the following (but I don’t know how old she was – or young rather)

         Her father took her aside and said, “[June], this is the day you get to smoke.”

         Both of her parents were heavy smokers, and I don’t know if she showed interest in wanting to smoke, if she ever tried stealing cigarettes or at least pretended to smoke. Perhaps he did it of his own free will with the hopes that it would discourage her.

         Mom said it might not have been so bad if he would have just given her a cigarette that had been a part of her life before birth – in the air she breathed and saw on a daily basis.  But Grandpa James lit up a cigar and gave it to her.  Of course she gagged and coughed and couldn’t (nor wanted to) finish.  And Grandpa James said something along the lines that it was okay, but that if mom chose not to finish the cigar than she might as well not smoke EVER

     

                            

         I don’t know if he tried the same trick with the alcoholic beverage.  It seems like mom did tell me something but I can’t remember the exactness of it.  I just know it left an impact on her that she remembered – and shared.  NOT a good experience, but an educational one.

         This is not a method that I’d be willing to try out myself.  But I’m glad that it worked out for my mother.  I think she did say she tried a cigarette when she was sixteen, but never made it past the first couple of puffs.  Good job, Grandpa James!

Mystery Solved . . . or at least Somewhat Satisfied

Amongst mom’s journals are more photos of – who are these people?

Corey scanned the photos he had come across and emailed them to me asking if I might possible be able to identify any of members.  We didn’t actually know if they were photos from our family or my mom’s stepfather and the only grandpa that we ever knew.

Uncle Bruce said he’d be coming to town to visit mom. I wasn’t certain what month he would arrive but said he could come to the Memorial Day BBQ if he happened to be in town at that time.  It wasn’t until we were at the BBQ that I learned he had initially thought he’d come in June, but changed plans for the BBQ.

I had told Corey to bring the photos to the BBQ and ask Uncle Bruce about them – as he might be the only one with some clue – though Bruce doesn’t seem like the sentimental type – not at all.  Nor does he really know his dad or his dad’s side of the family – which is where it was decided that most of the photos were from.  It was mom who provided the names and BJ would nod and say, “Yea, that could be . . .”

Even Roland was able to participate with his uniform knowledge.  As Grandpa Bruce and his brothers had all joined the navy, it was decided that Marine belonged to another family.

Patrick made jokes to lighten the mood (as he always does) and I appreciate his humor.  Even Corey has picked up a little of that.

Sadly mom did not even recognize her own brother.  She would ask what his name was before.  He’d been named after their father Bruce James Purdy – who was against having a Junior.  So they named their last son Bruce J. Purdy.  Always an initial – never a full name.  He had always gone by Bruce, never BJ. Their mom and dad had divorced when he was just seven or eight – and so there never really was that confusion about “Which Bruce?” But mom just didn’t remember his name.

She remembers her brother who passed away recently.  She knows he’s deceased.  Right now she’s aware that he was a man when he passed away.  I thought her mind would somehow convince her that he had died at the age of two. It won’t surprise if she ever does think that.

Corey keyed in the names that mom had provided him – happy to have the information that really seems closer to accurate than any of the rest of us could provide.  Unfortunately there are two family lines that we really just don’t have much information for – the Purdy’s being one of them.

Like a Fly to Cowpie

That’s how she described her passion for family history: “like a fly to cowpie”.  She had been raised on a dairy farm – it was a natural analogy – though I could think of better ones: “a duck to water” “a monkey on a cupcake” or Roland’s favorite: “like Godzilla on Tokyo”

        I don’t even have a passion for genealogy or family research (from an earlierpost) but wouldn’t have compared it to manure.  Family History is a good thing and works for a lot of people.  And there are many aspects of family history that I do enjoy – but research is a far cry from being one of them.

          It’s not just family history that gets her fired up.  I believe that it is everything that comes her way.  She greets it with her heart which shines in her smile.  I think she may have an even bigger love for life than my sister-in-law, Sunny, whom I truly admire. 

Sunny teaches pre-school.  Parents put their children on waiting lists and feel very honored when they get in.  Sunny is awesome at introducing children to their first steps to life.  May her students always remember her enthusiasm. I wish I had even just one ounce of that passion.

          In addition to the family history class, Hannah also has a calling as the enrichment leader.  She is so prepared and so excited and gets to know the sisters and invites them in and makes them feel welcome.  I think there have been some major awesome turn outs since she’s been put in. 

          Hannah and Sunny.  Share the joy.  You can’t help but smile along with them.  

Fading Photographs

Today I was looking through some old albums and boxes of photographs.  I remember getting on my mom’s case for having so many pictures in a box and not in an album.  I have come to learn that the box is actually better – or was rather.

Remember the magnetic albums that came out in the 70’s?  All that was required was lifting the plastic and setting the photo on page and presto – it was there for life.  Who knew that just twenty years later we would be scolded for ever having considered ruining our photographs by placing them on pages chalk full of acid.  We might as well have put our photos through a shredder.

I would say that at least 70% of the pictures could be thrown away.  If not ruined by acid, they just really had no business making it to the album in the first place.  But mom could never bring herself to throw such items away, no matter how blurred or butchered the picture itself turned out. 

And by butchered, I mean like the photographer was really meaning to take a picture of the background but somebody’s head got in the way, or others where the entire head didn’t quite make it into the photograph.  And if she couldn’t completely identify them then, why the heck is she hanging onto them over 40 years later?

If nothing else, it is important to write down the name(s) and date of the picture.

I wasn’t really looking for anything in particular, but I would love the opportunity to organize and to scan some of the better photographs to help preserve their lives for a little bit longer. 

Across from my mom's house live our good friends Peggy and George Bird.  Our families have been friends for generations.  We were surprised to learn it had gone back even further than Peggy and mom

One day (this example is from quite a while ago; before the magnetic albums perhaps) while my mom had gone across the street to visit Peggy, she noticed several photographs strewn all over the kitchen table.  Peggy had wanted to make a special gift for George which would include pictures of his lineage (George and Peggy's mother are heavy into genealogy.  Peggy shares the same exact passion as I do - which makes it hard among family history enthusiasts)

My mom said she had picked up one of the photographs and made a comment (referring to the background) that we had one similar to it - except with different people. Peggy said the man in the photograph was George's father, but they had no idea who the little boy was.  Turns out that he was my dad's uncle.

George's father had a best friend named James.  The photograph we had was of my great uncle James and my grandmother, Helen.  My mom had been told that the little girl in the photo was my grandma Helen - but didn't know who the man was that held her. 

George seems to know more about that side of my family than I do.  So my non-biological neighbor (who I do view as a second father) became a source of information for me, and has actually given me photographs.  Isn't that interesting?

I just DON’T have a passion for family history

          When I was twelve I took a family history class – only it wasn’t actually called Family History.  At that time it was referred to a genealogy. (Boring name; must be why they changed it) I was the only youth in the class.  The instructor was early 40s – possibly late 30s.  The rest of the class members were all over the age of 50.

Things were done on legal size paper.  There were Xerox machines (photocopiers) and pens.  No PAF, Ancestry.com, Google, etc.  I would imagine doing family research is so much easier now than back then.

My instructor had been raised in a foster care system and had always had a strong sense of getting to know and understand her family.  It was a very long process.

I understand why family history is so important to her.  To have a connection.  And when she did find connections, the discoveries were great.  As an adult she learned that she had a sister who had chosen the same profession and was married to a husband who served in law enforcement just as my instructors husband had.  And I enjoyed hearing her stories.

I enjoy hearing stories of my own youth.  Or those of my ancestors.  But after a while they are just names.  I don’t know if I am seriously related to these people or not.  I don’t like family research.  In fact, I loathe it.  It’s just not important to me to know where I came from or how my ancestors were treated or how they treated others. 

Even when names and stories are given to me and they become more than names or stories but actual people I have read about in books – I still don’t know the accuracy of our relationship.  So what if we’re related? So what if we’re not?  I just don’t care.

That’s not to say I don’t credit other people with finding their ancestors.  Spending countless hours searching for some sort of a clue.  All the more power to them.  If that it truly what they love and want to do, let them do it.  Kudos to their desire and passion.  Bravo.  It’s just really NOT my thing.

For years and years our family could be traced to William Button’s mother, Eliza Tate – a very unattractive woman.  Legend was that she sang opera with her three sisters who were in favor of aborting her baby.  Upon hearing their plans, Eliza had run away.

 Eliza had William out of wedlock.  Now that had bothered me.  Wouldn’t a child out of wedlock have the same name as its mother if dad was not even in the picture?  I don’t know.  As a twelve year old I accepted all information as being accurate and complete. 

Recently I was told by a cousin that the information that we have had for all these years is inaccurate.  There are no records of any Eliza Tates being born in that particular town (or village or city or whatever) or approximate year.  The woman supposedly never existed.  So who is it really that appears in the photograph?  And where did the photograph even come from.

My cousin got in touch with another cousin – a very distant cousin to the both of us.  Her records indicate that Williams mother (who had him out of wedlock) was Jane Button.  Okay.  She had him out of wedlock and had given him her name. I accept that.  But does my approval really make it fact or fiction?  How do I know?

I do enjoy the stories I’ve read about my great-great (how many generations?) grandfather.  He sounds like quite a personable man who loved his family – and though he had his feelings hurt for whatever reason – seemed to resolve them.  But they’re all second hand stories.  I still don’t know what is true and what is not.  And it really doesn’t matter.

All of my ancestors were part of the human race.  None was perfect – though each of them may have strived to live up to the good family name, parents’ expectations, the community’s belief, or whatever.  All have had struggles – whether with an occupation or family member, day to day routines, diseases.  And then there have been black sheep and orphans – raised as orphans and yet they were produced biologically.  And I’m sure they can be found by one who has the passion to find them.  I don’t have the passion. 

My ancestors most likely experienced pain and sorrow, laughter and joy.  There was wealth and poverty.  They endured their fair share of trials.  They were part of the human race.

I do keep histories and scrapbook for my own generation.  Does that count? My passion lies with the future – though I do enjoy stories from the past and can learn from them.  The past is not where my passion lies.

I am grateful to all of those who have the passion and for the enthusiasm one experiences with discovery and sharing.  I am grateful to those who are willing to accept my choices for not pressing forward with my own family research.  And for understanding that the passion is just not there.