that ratty old quilt pt 1

I was in the kitchen packing a box with containers of green salad, baked potatoes, carrots, pot roast, and cheesecake for granddaughter Hayes Elizabeth to take back to the University. She was in the office upstairs, looking for an old textbook of mine, to use for research in a senior paper on health care. Her voice drifted down to me. “Gramma, who was Bettie Winkle?” “Bettie who?” I called back. “Bettie Winkle. Her name is on this ratty old quilt up here.” I put aside the storage bags and climbed the stairs, considering how best to frame an answer to her question. I knew exactly which ratty old quilt she was talking about. We had pulled it from the linen closet when we were cleaning out the house after Mom’s death. There were actually four quilts tucked at the back of the bottom shelf. One was done in perfectly horrendous dark solids and plaids and checks and florals, the sole touch of whimsy one tiny piece from a delicate balloon print. Fabrics from the time of The Great Depression were representative of the lack of everything including hope, and Depression-era families never threw away anything, so the explanation for the design was self-evident. Another quilt in soft greens and grays prominently displayed a regally beautiful Kwan Yin in the center square. My favorite was one with a red-white-and-blue star design that I today lovingly display in my bedroom. And then there was this one, in soft pinks and blues and yellows, stitched on a plain white backing. And even though it was literally falling to pieces, I simply could not bear to part with it. My HODAR had already learned (the hard way) not to question my choices on what to take away with us, and so simply added the quilts to the box of many-times-washed-to-the-point-of-being-threadbare linens nobody else wanted, a stack of stained hand-embroidered table cloths and napkins, knitted tea cozies, and crocheted fall-colored striped afghans. Mom had died three months earlier, but I was not willing to let her go. Hubby and I both knew it was not so much the articles I wanted to keep as the memories associated with each of them. And, yet, while this one particular pastel-hued quilt showed the most signs of wear, it was one I could not remember ever seeing used. Made of lightweight fabric, it was what Mom called a summer quilt, an aid to cut the chill of nights in the mountain region of Arkansas where she and her sister were born and raised. We had a coal furnace in the basement of our house in Birmingham, augmented by gas heaters in the common rooms. Not so lucky my northern cousins. The cooking fires burned brightly all day in that sprawling old farmhouse, but were banked at night, and no amount of socks or bricks or hot water bottles could completely remove the chill from our toes. I remembered one Christmas visit and a night so cold my four cousins and I actually burrowed between the goose feather mattresses in our efforts to keep warm.

that ratty old quilt pt 2

But how to describe the tradition of sleeping four or five to a bed to a grandchild who grew up with not only her own private bed but also her own private bed room? She didn’t wait for my answer, however, instead saying, as soon as she saw me, “Why have you never told me about these guys?“ Granddaughter had grown up hearing all about my Dad’s family and their immigration from England to Colonial Isle of Wight, Virginia. Pitts, Slaughter, Hembree, Chastain, Cordell, Johnston, and Thornburg were names she well knew. Names painstakingly recorded in Dad’s Bible allowed us to track each generation as they moved from Virginia to South Carolina, Georgia and Tennessee, Alabama and Texas. The oral tradition that Grandpa Lloyd found Texas too hot for his liking and went back to North Georgia for a wife was something we had always laughed about, in complete and rueful understanding, during our own sweltering summers here in Dallas/Fort Worth. But now, with this tattered old quilt, our attention turned to the nebulous realm of the Osburn side. No traditional family Bible remained from Mom to give us even a hint of who these people were. I sat down next to Hayes on the floor, and fingered the fading threads. “You know my Mother was an orphan, right?” She nodded and I continued, “Mom didn’t know much about her family. Of course she knew her sister, Iris, and her Papa Sam, but her Mother Pearl was a mystery. Pearl died when Mom was barely two years old. And nobody ever talked about how or why Pearl died. Mom didn’t even know her own Mother’s middle name, much less where she came from, or anything about her family. The names on this quilt are her stepmother Stella Nelson Osburn’s family,” I concluded. “Well, I’m just really surprised you haven’t done anything to remedy that situation. You’re the genealogist.” And with that gentle smiling reproof, Hayes got up from the floor and went back to searching the bookcase. An hour later, with a flurry of hugs and kisses, the box of food under her arm and a hundred dollar bill secretly tucked into the back pocket of her jeans, she hopped in her SUV and was on her way back to Houston and the Cougars. But for the rest of that day her words echoed in my head. Why hadn’t I done anything about it? I am the product of more than a single ancestral line. These folks, too, are, after all, my family, my blood, kith and kin. And so began the odyssey. Internet websites are my least favorite form of research. Too often the information is not only misleading but just plain wrong. It is, however, a good place to start. I searched the social security death index, and found the basic facts. But I wanted more. A search of archived newspaper obituaries for the relevant date returned not only the information about Bettie’s death but also listed surviving kin. And then it was off to the races with emails to cousins throughout the South.

that ratty old quilt pt 3

Among the names that turned up was one I recognized as being much more than a cousin. I discovered that Mother’s half brother is buried in the National Cemetery in Fayetteville, Arkansas, as a result of his Korean War Soldier status. Finding his survivors was a little more difficult, because the government is loath to give out information that could possibly be used for identity theft. I fully understand and applaud that decision, but it certainly did not help matters. Despite the painstaking research and helpful suggestions from Old Chisholm Trail Chapter sisters, the days were soon bereft of anything new. As my frustration level rose, enjoyable yet fruitless hours in the Dallas library found me with only eyestrain and a newly-developed sense of respect and admiration for real genealogists. So it was back to the obituaries and subsequent online telephone directory searches. The result is that in the past year I have been able to find and contact several family members who still live in and around the old homestead in Hazel Valley. One sweet cousin suggested I use the find-a-grave index. Well, duh, why didn’t I think of that! Many cemeteries now have online lists of all who are interred. In one such list I found not only my maternal grandparents but also the great grandparents burial locations. Some of the websites even list contact information of the person who took the time and trouble to record and post the information. Sometimes, if you’re fortunate, there’s even a picture of the headstone. Other links can direct your search to the homepages for various State and Federal agencies. A personal check sent to the Archives in Arkansas gave me a copy of my grandparents’ marriage license. The entry on the bottom line showed that the person who had performed the ceremony was my great great uncle. Further research on his name turned up the fact that he had been a circuit riding Baptist Preacher. Now I knew there were preachers on both sides of our family tree. Another cousin emailed an old newspaper article about a house in England that our Osburn ancestors supposedly sold to Queen Victoria. I’ve yet to prove the authenticity, but wouldn’t that be luv-er-ly! As the days flew by and emails from a widening circle of sources graced the inbox, one clue quickly followed another. I not only found censuses to support the family emigration from Virginia to Ohio, Indiana, Kentucky, Arkansas, and Oklahoma, but also discovered that Great Great Grandmother Perlina was a landowner under the Homestead Act of 1862. And, finally, one of the most cherished treasures of all, the Blevins ancestor who was a Revolutionary War Soldier/Spy from Virginia. WOOHOO!! Patriots on both sides of my family!! Supplement, here I come.

that ratty old quilt pt 4

I harken back now to my Mother’s small, sad voice as she spoke of her orphan status, and fervently wish that I had started my research while she was still alive. What a wonderful thing it would have been to give her not only cousins in six states but also a look at who her people had been and still are. I could have given her a family of more than the Osburn, Nott, and Smith names she knew, adding Belcher, Bennett, Blevins, Collins, Hill, LeMaster, Lyons, Powers, Remy, and Tackett to her list of ancestors. We could have talked about four of them in particular, and their service to our young country. We could have marveled over the stories of the things they packed and discarded along the way as they drove their wagons ever westward into newly-opened territories. We could have read the story of one brave explorer who, with his Abenaki wife, helped settle Springfield, Vermont. And perhaps we could have talked about this quilt, this wonderful representation of her history, given to my mother on the occasion of her marriage in 1932, embroidered with names of people I was never fortunate enough to know. If only, if only, if only. Thankfully, horse-drawn wagons, wood stoves, and sleeping several children to a bed have quite gone out of fashion. Regretfully so, too, quilting parties and the tradition of presenting a quilt to a new bride. The tradition of a family Bible also seems to have died in this day of quick-buy-new-throw-away-before-it-becomes-old. I almost understand this one, however, because maintaining such a record proves both a blessing and a curse in that the genealogy pages can be a wonderful source of information, but the space available for recording such information is limited. And, unfortunately, there can be only one inheritor of the family treasure. But I have found a way around that. In 2010 I revived the tradition of a Family Bible, but with a new spin. Under my Christmas tree were six small boxes, one for each of my grandchildren. Each box contained a brand new Bible. In the center of each Bible was a plastic sleeve; in it a compact disk. On the disk is a file that reaches back through time and space and presents a comprehensive list of ancestral names, relevant dates, and notes about their lives. My gift for the grandchildren’s future is our past, preserved in a lovingly recorded history of thirteen generations of family on one side and twelve generations on the other. And all because of Wonderful Granddaughter, her astute comment, and that ratty old quilt.

flying tigers

No, not Auburn on any given football Saturday. And not stuffed with cotton or fiberfill, but stuffed with people.

Yep, Flying Tiger Lines. The only civilian company back during the Vietnam airlift regularly transporting troops between the mainland and various islands in the big ocean.

Imagine, if you will, three hundred people on board a single aircraft, and fourteen hours in the air listening to what seemed like at least a hundred perpetually crying babies. Poor little tykes, takeoffs and landings were not conducive to sleep, and no amount of sucking on a bottle helped relieve the pressure on their tiny eardrums. After a while, for the most part, the moms just gave up and let them cry, while the dads did their best to focus on something, anything else.

No in-flight movies back then, thank you very much. We survived the tedium with walkmans glued to our ears listening to tapes (yes tapes) of favorite music. The Doobie Brothers, Journey, and Foreigner were particularly hot items, traded back and forth across the aisles, soldier to soldier, military spouse to military spouse.

The cabin crew consisted of eight, all but one of whom were female. These were women who had been there done that designed the tee shirt, you know, old frogs like me. The one young man (who was undoubtedly somebody's nephew since I remember that he mostly sat on his laurels while the gals did all the work) was strictly eye candy, before the phrase was coined.

The pilot and co-pilots were sharp-dressed knife-creased buzz-cut vets who had made their bones flying the corridors of hell, and were being rewarded with weekly trips between California and Manila, with stops in Alaska, Japan, Okinawa, Hawaii, Guam, and other assorted pacific rim rocks.

They flew us there, and brought us safely home when our tour was ended. God bless them all.

Never heard of Flying Tiger Lines? Yes you have, just not by that name. See below.

http://www.ruudleeuw.com/rem-flyingtigers.htm

helping hand

Thanks to a recent highway improvement project, our little town’s main intersection now has triple the number of lanes compared to last year. Subsequently, it takes longer for the traffic light to go through a complete cycle of allowing protected left turns and then straight ahead traffic for each of the four directions. And as a result of the longer cycle time, I have an opportunity to look around and notice things I probably wouldn’t otherwise see. In one of these interminable intervals recently I noticed a toddler in a child booster seat in the back of the vehicle next to me. The baby held up both hands, waved at the world and Mom in the mirror, did several high fives with imaginary playmates, made swoops and glides through the air, fashioned the letter “A,” and then went back to swooping like a happy bird, gleeful giggles and gurgles plainly audible through cracked open for springtime windows. And it made me wonder, at what age does the average person lose the wonder of and fascination with their own hands? I looked at mine just now; old, wrinkled, sun spots and age spots too numerous to count, along with assorted bruises that just seem to happen in a life filled with house work, yard work, volunteer work, and just plain old work in general. Remembering my mother’s hands, I realize I missed the genetic unlined boat. Of course, those hands could be strong as steel when pinching a miscreant child, and the snap of those fingers was enough to drive terror into the heart of anyone not acting per her wishes, but even at 83, her hands were still for the most part unlined, and always sported a meticulous manicure. Well, ok, it probably helped that she didn’t do heavy housework or wash dishes after the kids in the family were old enough to be saddled with those chores; after we all left home, help would come in on an as-needed basis, and there was a chrome dishwasher in the corner of the kitchen. I don’t remember Daddy’s hands as being anything other than gentle, but I know they must have been strong, too, for he was quite a successful carpenter. In my mind’s eye, I see my daughter’s hands as they cuddle a NICU baby. Garrett’s hands, when he hugged me, already felt Marine strong on my back. Slater’s hands are always so busy it’s hard to glimpse anything other than a blur; might as well try to catch lightning. Hubby’s hands speak silent volumes, in daylight and darkness sufficient to the task, whether it’s wielding a firearm, ripping shrubbery out by the roots, or giving me a back rub. All told, the hands in my world still can fascinate me. Recently, the one I most enjoy is grand daughter’s left.

What was I thinking?

With dreams of a mane gorgeous enough to rival friend Elizabeth's, decided four months ago to let my hair grow out. What was I thinking!!

Well, honestly, I figured if I started then it might be long enough to pull back into a stately bun or elegant chignon in time for granddaughter's nuptial. Sixteen months to achieve the nigh unto impossible.

Not that my locks don't grow. They do. I've put my hairdresser's two kids through college on what it cost to maintain that Jamie Lee Curtis style. And talk about thick. Heck, you could sew Army blankets with it.

No, the problem is not with what's on top of my head, it's with what's inside. Lived for years hearing my mother preach that no woman over the age of 30 should have hair longer than her earrings. And then, of course, the military echoed the same refrain, and by the time I was 40 I was totally resigned to wash-and-wear hair. Now it's long enough to scratch under my collar but not long enough to pull back without using eighty bobby pins (do they even call them that anymore?) and every morning I'm having serious doubts about the future of my do.

To compound the fracture, hubby looked at me when I got home from Church (remember Sunday’s rain and 60 mph wind gusts?) and told me my hair is too tall. Sigh.

Anybody got a spare babushka?