Empty Nest Full Heart

Real Life History

One of my educational regrets is the fact that my knowledge of history is so very weak.  I think my high school US history teacher and I could share the blame for this.  She had a policy that if you wrote a paper on the chapter and got an A on it you wouldn't have to take the chapter test.  Being a person who liked to write, I jumped all over that one and wrote a paper for every chapter.  This was supreme laziness for me because it was far easier for me to write than to read a chapter and take a test.  I did a little research on the time period, wrote a paper and called it good.  On top of it all, if you got an A on each of the papers, you were not required to take the final.  I got an A in US history without ever cracking the book.  And for some weird reason, the only high school history that was required in the state of California in the early 1970s was US history and a semester each of civics and economics. 

So, needless to say, having never taken any history in my brief college career either, the history portion of my brain is pretty vacant.

Now, as I am learning more about family history through genealogy research I am experiencing history in a new way and am enjoying it more than ever.

Take Richard Platt and Mary Wood.  They were born in 1603 and 1605 respectively, in England, and were married in Essex in 1619.  Influenced greatly by the teaching of Charles Chauncey (vicar of the church in Ware, Richard's hometown, from 1627-1633), who later became the first president of Harvard University, they decided to venture to the new world in search of opportunity.  They were not so much dissatisfied as they were desirous of living in a place where they could, as a part of a group from Hertfordshire, start their own settlement based on the ideals of their faith.   Upon their arrival in Connecticut in 1638, Richard, Mary, and their four children were among the first settlers in New Milford.  Richard, first trained as a tailor, got his beginnings in early America as a planter and two of his sons, John and Josiah, are on record as some of the earliest business owners in New Milford.  Richard was appointed as a deacon in the first church in New Milford in 1669.  Ever aware of his responsibility to leave a legacy, he desired that his sons become scholars and he willed Bibles to 24 of his grandchildren.

This story is not about some random person in an obscure history book.  Richard Wood was the 9th great-grandfather to my own father.  His story has personal meaning to me and to my family.  I believe that were he able to know the future, Richard would be pleased and proud to learn his legacy has indeed survived the generations.  His seed has borne people of faith and scholars alike.  I am struck by Richard and Mary's courage in setting out across an ocean to follow a dream and I find myself proud to be connected to them.

And were it not for recorded history, their story could have been lost forever.  I am garnering a whole new appreciation for history and every time I happen upon a story like this one, I can hardly wait to find the next.

Rabbit Trails Can Lead You Home

Every generation that is added to the family tree makes it a little more convoluted, even a little gnarly, as the branches on one side stretch farther than the other.  This is particularly true in my tree, since I have been able to find much more information on my father's side than on my mother's.  The stories continue to unfold, and even with good software, it's hard to keep track of it all.  These days, when I open my program, sometimes I'll just click on a random name, see where they fit into the big picture and try to learn something new about them. The Internet has revolutionized genealogy research and information there is updated all the time.  I've had a couple of dead ends through the years only to find that a random book from some library in Virginia has been uploaded by Google.  And I can access it.  And it contains some nugget of information that I'd never found before.

I think I should have been a researcher.

And then, for all the searching, sometimes answers come to you when you're not even looking.  Like yesterday.  Yesterday, someone commented on my blog regarding our connectedness in the tree.  This woman's great-grandfather was the brother of Flyboy's great-grandfather.  They came from Germany in the late 1800s, parted ways, and settled in different parts of the country.  She has been researching, and with most of my information on this line coming from a cousin of Flyboy's, I am anxious to hear the story of the Alabama brother, and hopefully learn about their voyage to the new world.

So cool.

Fifty-six Years

As I am typing on October 29th, early in the evening, somewhere in the world it's already October 30th.  In fact, in England, where the Incredibles reside, Big Ben has already struck midnight, and on this date, 56 years ago, my parents were married in Ponca City, Oklahoma.  They both grew up in Ponca City and that's where their story began.  Children of a grocer and rancher-turned-automobile owner respectively, my mother and father grew up in the Depression and are a part of that tough, never-say-die generation.  

In an era of throw-away containers and throw-away marriages, I am honored that my parents have stuck together through it all.  They are an example to my brothers and their children, my children and my grandchildren.  There is something special about having spent 71% of your entire life married to one another.  It is an inspiration.

In their honor, and because everybody's story starts before they were born, I'd like to share a recent find.  I've said here before that many of our lines trace back to England, and I found some substantiating evidence recently to support that claim.  My parents come from long lines of pioneers and courageous seekers of a better life, going back to the brothers Marvin, Reinhald and Matthew. They came to the New World within several years of one another. Matthew is our descendent of interest. He and his wife Elizabeth and their four young children set sail on the Increase in 1635 from London and were some of the earliest settlers in Norwalk, Connecticut. Matthew and his cronies, known as "The Adventurers" were there from the beginning, building and governing.

Eight generations later, as the Marvins worked their way west, they settled in Clark County, Illinois. There, daughter Rachel Ann Marvin married Charles McClure Poorman, and their son William married Mary Florence Wilson, and they moved farther west to settle in Kansas. Their daughter Edith married a young man named Clyde and to them, Charles, my father, was born.

And the rest is history.

This family line is just one of many, and while I've thus far been able to chase a number of lines back to England, this is the first one with passage information attached. That is a first in my years of research, a milestone of sorts, and it happened today, on my parents' 56^th anniversary. I think this is significant because at the same time we celebrate this momentous occasion, we are reminded that we are part of a greater story and every twist and turn has led us to where we are today.

On this day, we say "Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad!" and we are so grateful for your example and your love.

Where It All Comes Together

I'm feeling a little philosophical tonight, knowing it's time for a "Roots and Shoots" post since it's been way too long.  My niece commented in facebook that she likes the genealogy updates and that got me thinking.  I'm thinking about how we all have a story - and our story is a culmination of the influences of the past merging with the place we find ourselves in the present and everything inbetween.  Our story is uniquely our own, because no two people have had the exact combination of life experiences.  Our story is important, not only to us, but to those we impact in our lives.  Our story has meaning because it has formed who we are and who we will become.  And our story has purpose.  I love this passage in 2 Corinthians 1:3-4:   ³Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, ⁴who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.   Our pain is never for naught - it plays a part in our personal growth, and it allows us to empathize with others, bringing comfort when we've survived the same struggle.

This is the bigger picture of genealogy.  Knowing where we came from helps us to understand our own story even better.  As a person of faith, it has fascinated me to find roots from both my mother and my father's lines that reveal a heritage of faith from way, way back.  It is generally assumed that many of the early settlers in the United States came to find religious freedom.  Our lines go back to the earliest settlers, coming to the New World, many as early as the 1600s.  It doesn't get much earlier than that.  Some were Quakers, who were persecuted by the Puritans and actually exiled and imprisoned.  (So much for freedom...)  They stood by their faith, even as their family members petitioned for their release while they rotted away in a rock cell on a cold and damp island off the coast of Massachusetts.  This story, in my dad's lineage, is a part of my story.  It brings me great encouragement and hope. 

On my mother's side, her great-grandfather was a circuit rider, sharing the Gospel in wild and uncivilized times to settlers moving west and native Americans alike.  This story is a part of my story, and reveals another little piece of why my faith is so important to me now.  It is a part of who I am.

And now, today, as my niece prepares for her wedding next spring, I'm more than a little chagrined that I have spent so little time really knowing her.  We all understand the difficulties of long distance relationships, but the only parts of her story I hear are the tidbits I pick up from my parents or my brother.  I am again convinced of the importance of sharing our stories and seeing how, like puzzle pieces on a tabletop, we do all fit together.

Capturing a Story

While I've not talked about it much lately (and that would be because it's been virtually ignored in my life lately), the study of genealogy really fascinates me.  No, I'm not a Mormon, and I don't have any religious reasons for being intrigued by it.  I think that the part I love the most is stumbling onto a story about somebody with whom I have a teeny tiny blood connection.  It's the little stories that capture me, and then the putting together of all the pieces into a better understanding of where I came from and how it has impacted this place where I live.

I've mostly been focusing on my dad's lines, because, save a few, they have been the easiest to follow.  I've mentioned before that except for one line that leads to Germany, the rest have led back to England.  I was looking last night at one of my mother's lines, because she deserves equal attention, and I had forgotten that the Cross family came to this country in the 1600s, too.  I'm reinvigorated to learn more about Rachel Proctor who married John Crosse - did they marry before they immigrated?  Did they meet on the boat?  Did they come to Boston (their point of entry) as children?  What must have it been like to come to America, this vast and wild land? 

The other reason I'm taken by these early families who left England to cross the sea in search of a new life is even more personal.  My daughter, Elasti-girl and her familiy are about to cross the ocean, returning to the seedbed of her roots, serving as missionaries in England.  There is something quite poignant about this whole idea, and visiting her there will no doubt provide endless opportunities to learn more. 

Interestingly, the 1600s isn't that long ago in England.  For us, it seems like there was nothing before that time, because our heritage in America begins then.  But my friend Lulu, vacationing in England these past two weeks, visited a building erecting in the 900s.  History takes on a whole new meaning in England.  You put all this together, and you have the past, present and future meeting together in this moment, and another chapter to this story is born.  I'm trying to capture it as we go, bringing in elements of the past and visions for the future, and looking for the meaning in it all.  Nothing happens by coincidence and it all has significance in the course of our journey on this earth.

For me, what makes the pieces of this grand puzzle even more eye-opening is the spiritual thread running through the entire story.  What happened then impacts what is happening now, and my part of in this story will somehow leave a mark (good or bad) on the future. 

Rebecca Nurse

One of the most fascinating and rewarding parts of genealogy study is the uncovering of the stories of family you didn't even know you had. In my dad's line, I've been able (save a few) to trace back most of the lines to his ancestors' point of entry into this country, before the Revolutionary War. This in itself is quite a find, and brings a sense of pride, knowing that you don't get much more American than us.

The following of one line has led back to Salem, Massachusetts. Yes, that Salem. And yes, during the witch trials. Rebecca Nurse was a fine, upstanding, well respected member of her community. She, like a number of others, was sucked into a very sad turn of events based on the testimony of a couple of young teenage girls who got spooked by the ghost stories of a slave nanny. These girls started seeing "apparitions" of various people in the community (who, coincidentally, had gotten on the wrong side of the town leaders over some real estate). The whole city was in an uproar over the "witches" and they were tried and convicted. All 20-something of them.

This is certainly fascinating enough in itself. But the most interesting chapter in this story is the fact that our many-greats-grandmother all the way back then was the only accused to be found innocent by the jury. She was a little hard of hearing, being in her 70s and didn't answer some of the questions in the context of their asking, but the message that did come through loud and clear was that she was confident that no matter what happened in the courtroom, she would be exonerated by her God, who would defend her at the final judgement. She was soft spoken but firm in the conviction of her innocence.

The jury was taken by the inner calm of Rebecca and in an unprecedented move, found her innocent, the only accused of the whole lot to be acquitted. The galley was uproarious, shouting that she was a witch, no matter what the jury decided. Fearful of the mob, the judge sent the jury back to "reconsider", and this time, Rebecca was found guilty. She was executed by hanging.

If this were the end of the story, it would be tragic enough, but there's even more. One day in heaven, Rebecca and I will sit down together over a cup of tea and I will hear her story firsthand. And I will learn of the legacy she passed on through the generations of faith and strength in hard times. These are the stories I love digging up because of the depth of meanng they have to me in understanding that faith in my family goes way, way back. And we are dedicated to passing it on. What a blessing.

The Symbol of Love, Part 2

The engagement dinner (minus the groom) was a success because my mother had the ring to prove they were indeed betrothed, even if my dad wasn't there to do the honors. It was a beautiful night nonetheless, and the symbol of my dad's love for my mother sparkled brightly in the light. She marveled at its many facets and at how different her hand looked now that it was sporting a diamond. It shouted to the world, "I'm taken and I don't care who knows it!"

My father was to return home to claim his bride in less than two months time, and my mother got right on planning their wedding. It had to have been difficult, being faced with decisions she had to make alone and wondering if he would have had a preference were he there. Engagement is an important time of sharing dreams for the future and picking china patterns and furniture and talking about whether you squeeze the toothpaste from the middle or roll it up from the bottom. They had none of this time together, and after the wedding, my dad whisked my mom off to Kentucky where he finished the last of his assignment there before shipping out to Korea. Barely were they adjusting to one another and then the day came and he was gone...for sixteen long months.

My mother went back to Oklahoma when he left, and determined to finish college while he was away. Her wedding ring served as a reminder of the love they had pledged to one another. And when she missed him the most and wondered at the wisdom of getting married just to be apart, she gazed at the beautiful diamond, the symbol of their love, and was fortified.

For nearly 56 years it has never left her hand. She was not one to ever take her rings off for any reason, believing that the commitment to marriage was for life and was further symbolized by the commitment to never take off her ring. Both my mom and my dad have stood fast, in the easy times and the hard, and have remained true to their vows. Their example has blessed us all.

All this said, you can imagine my utter shock and inability to barely speak at all when, on the last morning of my visit there last month I found a box at my place at the breakfast table. It was a ring box, and when I opened it, there was my mother's diamond. The only thing I could thing to say was, "does Dad know about this?" She had mentioned the idea to him but he did not know she was parting with her beloved ring on this particular morning. She said something about the fact that I would get it after she died anyway, and how she wanted me to have it now. I was still so stunned I hardly knew how to respond. I was concerned that my dad would somehow feel betrayed, but he quelled that fear by saying, "if she'd waited until she was gone she would have missed the look on your face right now." But how could she part with her wedding ring? And why would she want to?

As I have pondered this in the past weeks since returning home, this is how I make sense of such a gift. There are times in our lives when we feel such love for another that we struggle to express it...it is bubbling up and pouring over and we feel that nothing we could say, do or give would be enough. One thing I know beyond a doubt is my parents have always loved me more than life itself. This visit, even apart from the gift of the ring, was one expression of their overflowing love after another. They know what a difficult year this past one has been and what they wanted more than anything was for me to know they love me. We live a thousand miles apart and we can't be together very often to hold one another up in the tough times. But when I look at the symbol of their love for one another dazzling up at me, I feel their love for me...the kind of love that transcends words, the kind of love that symbolizes commitment and sacrifice and beauty and hope and everything that is right in the world. This is the kind of love they have shared with me. And now, a month later, I'm still speechless.

The Symbol of Love, Part One

Last month, I made my annual pilgrimage to visit my parents in Oklahoma. Having not seen them since Bamm-Bamm's wedding last September, I knew I wanted to get a trip in before the end of summer, and while I sill had a summer Friday off at work (we had six) to combine with a Monday for a long weekend. While my parents loathe flying through Chicago's O'Hare Airport, I love it. Atlanta, I can do without, it's looonnng distances between terminals connected by moving walkways and underground trains and absolutely nothing to see inbetween. Not so in Chicago. The sights are rich, and a walk between terminals is like a trip to a bustling mega-mall. There are splashy banners everywhere boasting the fact that Chicago is a candidate city for the 2016 Olympics. I can just imagine how it will explode if they are actually chosen.

But my favorite part of the O'Hare Airport? The bathrooms. Not true throughout the entire airport, the newer bathrooms are almost completely touch-free; the only thing a person has to touch is the latch on the stall. The toliet seat covers even replace themselves between users. The soap, water, and hand dryers are all motion-sensitive. I always feel like I'm at the Jetson's house when I'm at O'Hare.

But I digress.

I've already talked about my trip (here), but I left out a particular story for a future post. I think I'll start it now.

A little background first...

My parents were in the same high school class, and though they were acquainted, they didn't run in the same circles. My dad was a cheerleader, whose dad owned a car dealership. My dad leaned more toward the country club crowd, while my mother was a hard working young lady who, when she wasn't practicing the piano or spending time with friends was checking groceries at her father's store.

It wasn't until later, over a holiday break when they were both in college that they stumbled across one another again. My dad had landed a job over break delivering mail, and while taking a stack to the box at my mother's family home, they collided on the front porch and chatted about what they'd been doing since high school. That little chat turned into one date after the other, and as their college careers started to come to an end, they knew their life together was just about to begin.

After graduation and his commissioning into the U.S. Army, my dad headed off for tank commander school. It wasn't long before he knew he would be deployed to Korea and as he contemplated it all, he knew he didn't want to wait until his 18-month tour of duty was completed to marry my mother. As he studied the calendar hanging above his cot, he laid out his options and his heart and examined all the obstacles. He would not be home again until his training was complete, and then there was only a four month window until he would leave for Korea. As he pondered, a plan began to come together, and he knew that for it to work, he'd need help.

The first thing he had to do was propose to my mother. That would require purchasing a ring and popping the question. But he was here and she was there and if he waited until he saw her again there would be no time to plan a wedding before his deployment. This is where he relied upon the one person in his life he could trust with such an important mission - his dad. PoPo (as we called him growing up) was indeed the man for the job. With my dad's direction, PoPo picked out a beautiful ring - a round cut full karat solitaire diamond in a square white gold setting with a matching wedding band. How he knew that this ring would be the perfect choice for my diminutive mother with petite little hands, I'll never know. But he found it. And the plan was in place. He and my grandmother would take my mother and her parents out for dinner one night, and on behalf of my father, PoPo would present her with the ring.

In a follow-up letter to my dad, explaining how he figured this would all play out and the plans he'd made, PoPo offered some advice to his son regarding his upcoming marriage:

1st. Marriage is a deal that is supposed to last from now on, and if two people love each other, as they should if they marry, there is no reason for it not lasting, if they both will try.
2nd. Just remember, it is a give and take deal, mostly give, and when things come up, that you differ on, just stop and think before you talk. Remember, she is changing her whole life. She has changed her name, her way of living, she is away from her people, she is with someone that she was never with before, it is all strange and different. I am of the stronger sex, I am supposed to give in and protect her, she looks to me for everything, so mebbey I am wrong. I know that there will be times when this will seem a little hard to do, but do it any way and I am sure that things will work out O.K.
3rd. I know that you love children the most in the world, and have wanted one of your own, but Son, I would wait for at least a year before you start that deal. By that time you can both become better used to each other, understand each other better, and I am sure will be in a much better way to start raising a family, then that will give you a year to be together, get your running around sorta over, and have had your fun. There will be plenty of time to raise the kiddies, but don't forget the first must be a boy, for the family name will play out if someone don't do something about it.
P.S. Dear Son, I feel might happy and proud, that you would want me to give the ring to her for you. So many would want to send it in the mail, so it makes me might happy to think that you think enough of me to do this for you. I will do my best. Love, Dad

Memories from Home

Going back home is always a trip down memory lane. You remember things long forgotten, and the past comes back to life. Usually, when I'm here at my parents' house I'm drawn to photos and memorabilia from previous generations. But as the fairly newly appointed family historian, I have most of that at my house now. This visit, I'm struck by things my mother has kept...things that stir memories deep within...quirky things, poignant things, all kinds of things.

Like this - the cowboy cup. There were three of us and two cowboy cups. We loved it when it was our turn for the cowboy cup. I can still see my mom stirring Nestles Quik into a glass of milk in the beloved cowboy cup.

Here is my Barbie case! Besides doll clothes, there is the mattress from the bed from the Barbie house my dad built, the only piece of that labor of love left. All the granddaughters have played with Barbie and Skipper, and even though they are grown, the Barbie case still remains.

As I recall, this lamp was made after my grandfather completed a successful deer hunt. Even though I grew up with this lamp (first in my grandparents' house and then in ours), I always thought it was kind of creepy, and so did my kids.

Now here is an item of interest...this blue desktop Christmas tree was in our house for as long as I can remember. I don't know where it came from, but it was made with blue nylon netting scrunched and glued to a chicken wire cone. It must have a special place in her heart because it sets out year round.

No matter where we lived when we were growing up, this drawing (along with a couple of others) was always on display. They were done by my dad as part of his senior project when he was a commercial art major in college.

What fun it has been to remember, and to be grateful for parents who have given us a family history of love.

Ooooooo-klahoma

I grew up in Oklahoma, with a slight detour to California for a few years here and there. And while I can't speak for anywhere else, I can say with certainty that Oklahoma raises its sons and daughters to be proud of their heritage. I spent 5th and 6th grades in California and then high school, and nobody I ever met there could sing the California state song, nor did they know anything about their home state, other than the fact that tons of people flooded it in the 1800s looking for gold. They didn't know what their state bird was, for crying out loud (Oklahoma's is the scissor tailed flycatcher) or even the state tree (Oklahoma Redbud.) Growing up in Oklahoma, you just know these things, like you know your own middle name. In fact, like me, most of the people I knew in California were transplants and had no heartfelt allegiance to the place...it was where they lived...it was where their dad, like my dad, worked. My best friend in high school was from - you guessed it - Oklahoma, and to this day, we'll catch up with one another every now and then, usually through Christmas letters, and most recently through Facebook.

Oklahoma, while some of its history with the Indian is a bit sordid (along with every other state that warred with the red man), is proud that Native Americans still call Oklahoha home. The fact that Oklahoma is native America is even boasted of on every license plate. And while the house where I visit my parents is not my "home" (they've lived in four different houses since I've been an adult), coming home to Oklahoma, and more specifically, to see them, is a trip straight back to my roots. While chatting with a social studies teacher at school before I left (he is from Kansas), I happened to mention that my great grandfather was a part of the Oklahoma land run in 1888. And when I told him I have copies of the original land deeds, he lit up like a Christmas tree, and asked very nicely if he might have copies for himself before they get to that part of 8th grade US history next year. You see, I am about as Oklahoman as they come, and coming back to Oklahoma reminds me of that fact.