You are a leaf on a family tree whose branches touch and caress one another. You are the child of your grandparents’ child. You have DNA that was engineered by the Creator. You can claim hundreds of surnames that are a part of you. You can look up at the stars and count your ancestors. You can find a document that tells the exact time of the moment you first drew breath. You have ancestors that traveled hundreds and thousands of miles to bring you to where you are today. You are a collection of all of your experiences and life lessons. You are a library of information radiating from your talents. You are your family historian and author. You are the treasurer of family stories and memories. You hold sacred the lives of those who came before you. You reverence the past. You are a record keeper, a document expert, a researcher, an archivist. Perhaps, You will meet yourself for the first time when the 1950 Federal Census is unveiled in 2022. You are a marvel of your generation…You.
Check List of Family Tree Projects for 2020
- complete heritage scrapbook about my great grandmother, Naomi Ruth Stevens
- begin heritage scrapbook about my mother, Merna Mae Storer
- continue blogging with 52 Ancestors
- try to generate some little spark of interest in my brothers about our ancestors…talk about hitting a brick wall!!!
- enjoy, grow, research, document, repeat
Oh by gosh by golly, it’s time for mistletoe and holly…tasty pheasants, Christmas presents, countrysides all covered in snow (as written and sung by Frank Sinatra and first recorded in 1957)
It was the most wonderful time of the year…for a kid, of course! In our neighborhood lived our own Grandma Smith. Her real name was Mrs. Velma Smith. She was not really our grandma, and she was not anyone’s grandma as she had no children. She adopted us out in our growing up years. She began a tradition that we celebrated each year before Christmas. She assigned each of us a special day to go out with her. We would ride the bus downtown to McCrory’s Five and Dime. We ate lunch at the counter, and I was allowed to order whatever I wished including dessert. What bliss! Afterward, we visited Santa in the back of the store. I whispered my list into his ear. What happiness! Then, Grandma led me to the toy department where I could pick out some small presents for myself. Usually, I selected paper dolls to cut out and dress, a coloring book with puzzles, and a fresh pack of crayons. What excitement! Last, she had me select small gifts for my parents and brother to take home and wrap. What fun! On the bus ride home, Grandma and I would smile at each other…you know that secret smile shared between a “grandma” and her “grandchild”.
Every year, I loved sharing this with Grandma. It wasn’t the lunch and shopping. I loved sharing giggles, smiles, and Christmas joy with someone who made me feel loved and special.
The craft of writing has been a passion of mine since childhood. I am a storyteller. I weave tales of fact and fiction. When an idea comes, I begin by “writing in the air” and listening to the sounds of the words and phrases. I twist and turn the ideas and themes. Sometimes I use alliteration. Sometimes I balance the phrases by repeating parts of sentences. I revise and edit as I go along with word processing and not paper and pencil. I am a lifelong reader so my computer brain stores up other authors’ nuances and wording. I am a lifelong writer so my computer brain downloads techniques and styles. I write blogs, prayers, poems, greeting card sentiments, bios, journals, instruction books, genealogical notations…whatever the challenge that I can fashion for myself. This is my craft.
She was a thief. She was a little scoundrel. She had stolen his heart pure and simple. He would love her forever. Looking into her eyes made his heart pound. There had been no other love like this for him, but he was at the mercy of this tiny thief. When he gazed at her face, he discovered himself in her. It was Tuesday, 6 December 1949, at 2:17 a.m. His sweet daughter Mary Anne had just been born. She would be Daddy’s little girl and would grow up to be her father’s daughter. A thief can snatch a heart in a second!
It was not his choice. It was a command, a demand, an order. He would leave his Polish village in the mountains and become one of them. It did not matter that he was a man of peace. It was no concern of anyone that his heart and soul did not want to be a part of this. He was conscripted with no choice. It was the early 20th Century, and it was his turn to take his place as a soldier. Reluctant, strong-willed, he did as he was instructed to wear the uniform and live the life of the lowest rank in the Prussian Army. Franciszek Slabik would do his service as instructed. He would serve with a heavy heart, and he would serve in selected silence.
In time, Franciszek would emigrate from Poland in 1912 to travel to this dream of America. He had escaped the Great War on the European continent. He married and had a daughter and two sons. His sons would serve during World War II. His older boy was a parachutist who was shot down over Belgium; later he received a Purple Heart. His younger son would fight against the Japanese in the Pacific. Soldiering had continued in his family.
Later, his first grandson would become a cadet at West Point. Proudly, he shared with him his picture in his Prussian uniform. “Be as good a soldier as I was, ” he instructed the young man. His grandson would have a lifelong career in the military and achieve high rank.
Soldier, soldiering…what is its real meaning of sacrifice and honor?