And we lived to tell about it...

I was just transcribing one of my great-grandmother’s diaries, telling of their trip to the Oahe Dam in South Dakota.  The year was 1956; they all piled into my Uncle Ray’s station wagon: Grandma and Grandpa, their two daughters and sons-in-law, and 6 kids on a mattress in the back of the wagon.

Reading this, I could almost feel my brother’s elbows in my ribs, and getting squashed by a gaggle of cousins on any of the road trips we took under similar conditions.  Sometimes there were so many kids piled in the backseat that we really weren’t sure whose foot that was...  and to make things even more exciting, there were oftentimes a dog or two in the mix.

Sometimes we’d pile into the back of my dad’s yellow pickup truck for a ride; I can still feel the wind whipping my hair around violently like it was just yesterday.  It was so exhilarating...

Awhile back in our local paper, there was an article about winter safety, and they mentioned that pulling sleds with vehicles wasn’t safe.  Even with a long rope, out in the middle of a field?  No!!  I felt a pain through my very heart!  Again, another portion of my beloved childhood memories were relegated to the Hall of Shame.

I’m not saying any of this is good, or bad, just that it’s different.  Times change.  The world changes.  Are we better off?  I don’t know.  Did the parents of the 1950s look back at past generations and think them nonchalant where safety was concerned?  I wonder.  I know only one thing ... that I won’t be telling my grandchildren about the time we ... never mind.


Image courtesy of office.com

From Pedestrian to Motor Vehicle Operator: My First Car

Subtitled: “If you don’t like my driving, stay off the sidewalk.”

I guess no matter what generation you belong to, as teenagers, we all felt the same as we gawked with pride at our first cars.  No matter what the old pile of nuts and bolts really looked like, what the eyes saw was filtered by the heart, with a touch of hormones, and the end product was a sleek, mean, speed demon that would be the envy of all those pimply-faced pedestrians as it zipped past.

I was a mere fourteen years old when my father found a car in the classified ads of the local newspaper.  I wasn’t sure why he decided I needed a car at that tender age, but wasn’t about to argue.  We went over to see it, and my heart stopped.  There it was.  A 1967 Ford Galaxy 500 hard-top convertible, in Robin’s Egg Blue, with black interior.  It instantly became the car of my dreams, and after discovering it currently belonged to one of the most popular older girls in school, I was certain it was not my destiny.

I spent the next four months behind the driver’s wheel of that incredible piece of machinery, savoring every blissful moment, even if it was locked in the garage the whole time.  I had a countdown going until my 15th birthday, when I would get the keys and permission to drive back and forth to my friend’s house, six blocks away.

I spent the next two years practically living in that car – I bought an 8-track tape player, my friends sewed Robin’s Egg Blue and Black pillows for the back seat, and the car even had a name, which I won’t share.  Ok, it was “Growler”.  We spent our Saturday afternoons driving around our little town seeing who else was driving around our little town.  Everyone pitched in a buck or two for gas as they got in the car, and oftentimes I made enough money for gas for the whole week, plus a Diet Coke or two, but I never told them.

I’ve had many cars in the 35 years since Growler was retired, and I’ve not been quite that excited about any of them, nor do I anticipate it ever happening.  For it’s not just a First Car, it’s a rite of passage, and it’s One Per Customer.

A Sad Time

Burying a loved one is never easy, and I must say it’s even less easy when it’s a little child.  We lost our newborn grandson on Thursday, and among many difficult decisions to make was his final resting place.  Our side of the family are transplants here; we have no history or roots, which makes it all the harder.  Some years ago, I began researching the family history of my daughter-in-law, whose family has been in the area for some time.  Before going any further, let me clarify that burying a child never ever feels good, but sometimes you just need to make a decision that feels “right.”
Three years ago I discovered that my daughter-in-law had great-grandparents buried in a beautiful rural cemetery just outside of a tiny village about 6 blocks wide and about the same distance long.  I knew these folks had a long history in the village and throughout the township.  With my camera in tow, I picked a lovely early-summer day to drive the 15 miles to the cemetery, hoping to locate the graves, pay my respects, and take some nice photographs for her family history.   The cemetery was well-kept and full of shady evergreen trees, and the sounds of various birds accented the hum of a tractor in the background.  The weather was perfect.  It felt good.  I decided to photograph the entire cemetery, thinking that perhaps someone’s research might benefit from my efforts.  I can tell you now, the person who benefitted the most was me.
I found the great-grandparents about a third of the way through the cemetery.  I had done so much research on them, I nearly forgot this was not my family as I stood at the foot of their graves and felt a bit emotional at the thought of actually being there.  When I finished, I continued on my mission.  I had not gotten too far when I discovered the great-grandmother’s mother, Effie Mae, buried in the cemetery as well, with her husband, Will.  I kept going.  I found Will’s parents, and his grandparents there.  I found Effie Mae’s parents, and her grandparents buried there as well.  Eight generations back, our little newborn grandson’s ancestors rested, dotted throughout the small cemetery. 
Today my son purchased the plot next to the great-grandparents, the original focus of my search, and we will lay our sweet little angel to rest there in a few days.  I feel comforted that he is surround by history – HIS history – and that he will not be alone.  For the last 100 years, members of his family have gathered in that cemetery, burying grandparents, parents, children, nieces, nephews and cousins.  Now we will be among those to do so.  I’ll think of his great-great-great-great grandmother, Jennie, as she buried her own 5 month old baby there.  This still does not feel good, but it does feel right.

You Can't Go Home Again

You Can't Go Home Again. That's what they say. I never fully understood that phrase. You could always go home. If nothing else, you could always drive by your old home and remember the good times. And I often did that when I found myself back in my hometown.

The one place that was sacred to me in that whole town was the home of my grandparents, where we learned just about everything in life that we needed to know. I learned to hem my pants in that house, and it was in the kitchen that I learned to bake. It was where I learned how to control my temper and behave in a civilized manner. I learned about life and death there - watching with fascination as the guppy had babies, and in sadness when realizing the dog's bed was now empty...

The sight of that big Victorian-style house sitting on the corner lot, with it's white porch surrounded by the brilliant colors of roses, geraniums and zinnias, is a scene that will be etched in my mind forever, and it will still lower my blood pressure considerably just thinking about it. That house was more than just happy memories at Grandma's - it was a haven from the rest of the world, a little speck of normalcy in a life that was anything but normal. Turning onto their street and seeing the house sitting there like a beautiful fortress brings back just as many comforting feelings as it does tender memories.

The old folks had been gone a long time, but still I made it a habit to drive by on my rare trips back home. As I'd turned the corner, the eyes of my soul would see it all over again, and it felt good.

I don't know what happened. Perhaps I'd finally started seeing the old place with my eyes instead of with my heart. As I came around the corner, I saw a house much, much smaller sitting on an overgrown lot. The front steps, which we used to love to sit on, were sagging, and the paint was chipping off. I barely recognized it.

I spent the rest of the day driving around town, looking for something, but not really knowing what. I went to the park where we used to have family picnics. Everyone was gone now - just an empty pavilion remained. I drove out to the old family farm, to the site of the old grocery store, to the cemetery, past all of our old houses. Everyone and everything was gone. At some point, you truly can't go home again, no matter how long you drive.

It was several weeks later, back in the comfort of my current home with my family, working on a family history project, when my thoughts took me back again, walking through the park-like yard, holding onto my grandmother's hand while she taught me about flowers. And it was then I realized that while you can't go back home again, home can indeed come back to you.