It was obvious…right there at my fingertips…right in plain view. Yet I did not see the real connection. I did not feel it. It took a couple of years before I had that “aha” moment that should have occurred instantaneously upon discovery. He was named after his grandfather, a grandfather he never met or knew.
The grandfather was born in Maine when it was still a part of Massachusetts in 1817. His parents were farmers. He, however, had wanderlust in his blood. As a youth, he headed out for Boston to work on the ships. Ill health drove him back home to his family. When he regained his strength, he took off again as he traveled through the territories of the Midwest: Minnesota and Wisconsin. For a time, he lived near Chicago. He tried his hand at different occupations. He married, but his wife and newborn son died. He was restless and itchy…he made his home for short periods of time in many places. While in Wisconsin, he managed a brickyard. He met a mother and daughter who were the first women to settle in the village. He had his eye on the daughter and admired her work ethic and strength. They married, and together they roamed through Iowa. Finally, they settled in Osborne County, Kansas. He became a successful sheep farmer. They parented nine children. He was finally putting down roots. His name was Andrew Storer…no middle name graced his name. He died in 1895.
The grandson was born in a cave on his parents’ farm…the year after his grandfather’s death. He had a twin sister. The family farm eventually expanded and included a real home, a real farmstead. The grandson learned to farm and to acquire a love of the land. He loved horses and dogs. He was shy and soft-spoken. He remained in Osborne County for his whole life…wanderlust was not part of his inherited genes. He married a local girl and raised two daughters. His name was Andrew Earl Storer…a middle name did grace his name. He and his grandfather shared the same name. He died in 1977.
What was it like to be named for someone he did not know? Were stories told to him of the feats and fates of his grandfather? Did he ride his horse on his grandfather’s land to survey all that his namesake had settled? Did he tell his daughters about his namesake? All the voices are quiet now as the wind blows through the wheat fields of these farmlands. All is just speculation, dreams, and questions.
Across an ocean and across a continent, they all wait to introduce themselves. Their faces are hidden in a mist. They are surrounded by the Carpathian Mountains and forest lands. Most of them lived as peasant farmers; perhaps, they were serfs. They were under educated…they were hanging on to survive. How did they learn about the American dream? Who shared that with them? How many actually reached the shores of America? And the ones who were left behind and the ones who came before them, just who are they to me? I only know of nine of them. Through the mist, I cannot reach the thousands of others. They remain unknown to me.
Returning from this quest, I consulted the wise matriarch. I shared with her the unfulfillment of my journey. Her advise was to look close to home, for there I would meet thousands…right there at my fingertips. So I reached out…they were exactly where she said I would find them…close to home.
In the first part of my journey to look across an ocean and a continent, I searched for my father’s family. They were Polish peasants. On that half of my family tree, I grafted two branches and nine people. That is all I know…hidden in the mist. Can you imagine a genealogist with only nine people on one side of her tree?
The wise matriarch, my mother, told me not to despair. She guided me to look close to home right here in America. She bragged that we are related to everybody. Family stories stated that a grandfather was a Pilgrim right off the Mayflower…George Soule himself. Other grandfathers fought in the American Revolution, Civil War, World War I. There they were! There were pioneers, cowboys, housewrights and carpenters, seamstresses, teachers…strong men and women. This half of my tree had many branches and thousands of leaves. Can you imagine a genealogist with such a delightful assortment of ancestors…bet one can?!
Lessons learned: first, look close to home before checking the far horizons. Discoveries await right here. Second, listen to Mama…she flows in wisdom.
They left more than 50 years ago. They took with them pieces of my heart. Their partings were sudden and unexpected. What were you thinking, Lord? I was young…a teenager unformed in maturity and experiences. They were guiding lights and beacons to see the world out of the shadows. Why did they have to go? I was learning so much, and the lessons seemed to be abruptly cut off. Or were they? They left me a legacy, one of a social conscience and one of an attitude of gratitude.
They left more than 50 years ago. They are part of the long line of fallen heroes who graced my life and touched it. Forever grateful and forever remembering John Fitzgerald Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr.
Hiding in a drawer…tucked away from view…longing to be discovered…just waiting for someone’s intake of breath when viewed…I had never seen a photo like it. Was the photo taken to celebrate a wedding? The couple had been married on 27 April 1918 so the picture was more than 100 years old. In studying the photo, I was wondering why the bride was not facing the camera? To me, that added an exquisiteness to the pose. She appears to be wearing engagement and wedding rings when I look closer. The photo was taken at the Bennett Studio in downtown Waynesboro, Pennsylvania. The couple had been married in Hagerstown, Maryland, about 15 miles away. Daniel Johnston Haffner, 22 years old, and Anna Rebecca Flegel, 20 years old, were touted as a much loved and popular young couple according to the newspaper. They would be married for almost 40 years before Anna passed away in 1957. They would parent four children.
This little gem of a photo was discovered by me last year. The couple are my husband’s grandparents…it is a favorite of mine.
What was the question…what was the answer…what was the explanation? Who was involved in the decision-making? Who planned the moves forward and eventually westward? What compelled them? What led them? Were these moves each obviously a fresh start?
William Henry Stevens was born in London in 1844. During the Civil War, he immigrated to America and joined the Union Navy. Was that meant to be a fresh start in a new place? His assignments as a landsman were documented in his military and pension records. He was a mere 22 years old when this adventure began.
At the age of 24, he married Isabella Couchman in New York City. They also resided in Jersey City, New Jersey. They would parent a total of ten children…some born there and the remaining in a final start over location. Was this meant to be a fresh start in a new place?
For while, the family lived in Memphis, Tennessee, where Will worked at the gas company. Was this move to the South meant as a fresh start in another new place? It was a city albeit smaller in size than New York.
Will’s final start over was in Osborne County, Kansas. He became a farmer. A London-New York-Tennessee transplant making yet another fresh start in the early 1870s. What prompted this move when he knew very little about farming?
None of Will’s and Isabella’s real thoughts and ponderings have ever been discovered. Are they just dust in the wind?
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.
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!