Stories Involving My Dad – Earth and Midnight

A Field Day

Here’s another idea for anyone interested in family history: field trip!

In May, I visited my family in Illinois. My dad showed me some of his keepsakes: the stamp collection he started as a kid, arrowheads collected by his grandpa (who was a farmer and found them as he plowed the field), the watch his parents gave him as a high school graduation present, drawings made by his grandfather (when his grandfather was 10). Then there’s the ring that used to be his uncle’s. My dad doesn’t wear jewelry and rarely dresses up, so it always cracks me up when he models the ring. It’s so out of character.

The town my dad grew up in (that I was also born in) is about a 35-minute drive from where he currently lives. He took my brother and I on a tour of houses he used to live in, places he went to school, parks he played at, where he worked in summers during college, where my grandma worked before she had kids.

If you get a chance to go on- or lead- a guided tour like this, I recommend it. Even though the area looked different than it did when he was a kid, seeing the places my dad inhabited gave me a greater understanding of what life may have been like for his family than I had from just hearing stories about it.

As a kid, one of the places my dad lived was near an A&W restaurant with a gravel parking lot- the kind of restaurant where you park your car and the waitstaff comes to your car to take your order and deliver your food. He used to go there when the restaurant was closed and look for coins on the ground. Then he’d take his findings to a mom-and-pop store a block from there and buy bubblegum.

Sitting in the car outside of one of the houses, my dad described how he kept rabbits in a hutch behind the garage. That’s the first time I remember hearing about him having pet rabbits. These stories seem to have come up only because we drove past the old house and the lot where A&W used to be.

We saw the field of corn where my great-grandma used to gather young ears of field corn [grown to feed livestock] and boil them for her family for dinner. When I first heard the story, I wondered if she had to slink to the field after dark so she wasn’t seen by the farmer or passing cars. After seeing the area, I can tell that wasn’t necessary. Her house was almost the last house on a dead end street, just one lot away from a huge cornfield, no farmhouse in sight.

New versions of old stories play like movies in my head, apparitions at dusk replaced by brazen sunlight.

Telling Stories

Some characters in movies and books bore their relatives by repeating family stories to the point where other characters roll their eyes and finish the sentences themselves. Those annoyed relatives don’t know how lucky they are. When my brother and I were teenagers, we had to ask our parents how they met because they had never mentioned it. I have a feeling this is typical of the times. Hopefully the quarantine acted a catalyst to get families talking to each other more.

In my last post [here], I talked about looking through heirlooms and photos to find out more about your ancestors. But plenty of family stories have no keepsakes attached to them.

Lately, I’ve been interviewing family members and writing down some of their history, partly for posterity and partly just to know them better. I recently finished typing a collection of stories from my dad’s childhood, his college years, his time in the army, and anecdotes from his workplace. In retrospect, I probably should have recorded the stories on video or audio for a richer experience. But one benefit of writing is that, as story fragments are added to over time, I’m able to present fuller stories on paper.

I would recommend asking your relatives about their lives. Especially if you are in a younger generation, talk to people while you still have the opportunity. Ask them about themselves and about older generations, since they may be the last link to those who have passed on.

I also recommend talking about your life, especially if you are in an older generation. Talk even if no one asks, even if you think you have nothing worthwhile to say, even if you assume no one would care to hear about your time working as a cashier in a hardware store. It matters.

Another option is to write your story yourself. If you do this, I would share it with your families now. That way, you can answer questions and clear up any confusion. Also, knowing more of your history and more about you can promote understanding, empathy, and respect.

Pick a person. What can you find out about their family, friends, hobbies, jobs, vacations, and their favorite things (book genres, music, food, holidays, movies, sports, etc.)? What challenges did they face? What have they overcome in their lifetime? What lessons did they learn? What mistakes did they make? What do they wish they’d done differently? What goals did they have? Did their goals change over time? What did they accomplish?

I’m interested in not just what people did, but why. Why did they choose that job? Were they attracted to that line of work? Were they following in another relative’s footsteps? Was the job close to where they lived? Did it offer the best pay? Did they know the manager? Their reasoning can give insight into their personality. Even learning why someone likes to watch specific TV shows can be enlightening.

Find out what’s cool about your relatives! What makes them unique? What’s memorable about their behavior or character? The last three generations of women on my mother’s side have been a Charleston dance champion, a candidate for public office, and the first woman hired as an Engineering Technician by the Illinois Highway Department.

I think the best stories showcase a relative’s personality, and often have nothing to do with facts that can be verified by records. It’s a catchphrase or habit or attitude. If they work the line “Here’s the kicker” into every story, remember that. Write it down. That’s the kind of stuff you won’t want to forget.

Junk in the Trunk

For my birthday several years ago, I asked my aunt if I could look through two wooden trunks she owns. I knew my grandma’s keepsakes were in them, but I had never seen what was inside. A few other family members came over to my aunt’s house that day. The trunks were in a spare bedroom. People hung out in the kitchen or living room when they wanted, and came into the bedroom at intervals to see what was being unearthed.

Some of the treasures:

– a wool shawl with a note pinned to it, saying it belonged to my great-great-grandparents in 1872, the year those relatives sailed to America

– an antique curling iron. It looks like a modern curling iron, only thinner and with a wooden handle. And of course, no cord or plug.

– crafts my grandma and other family members made: needlepoint pillow covers, crocheted afghans, latch hook rugs, wood burned pictures

– Easter eggs I had decorated decades earlier. I had no idea that hard boiled eggs, if left alone, dry out and can be preserved! The innards sounded like they’d dried into a ball, and when I shook the egg (gently), I could hear that ball hitting the thick, heavy shell.

– decorations I had made by wrapping latex balloons in papier mache and then painting them to look like Easter eggs

– handmade cards my brother and I had given my grandparents when we were kids

– my aunt’s curly hair. When she was young, my aunt’s hair was naturally curly. I had heard that my grandma saved some of it once, after giving my aunt a haircut, because it was so pretty. I was thinking she’d saved a ringlet or two. There was a whole bag of hair- enough to make a wig out of!

– clippings of my dad’s hair when he was a little kid, when it was blonde. And clippings of my grandma’s red hair from those same years.

– assignments from my dad’s art classes in college

– notebooks from classes my dad took in the army

– newspaper clippings featuring family members (usually in group photos relating to their workplace or civic organizations they belonged to)

– lots of old photos

There was so much stuff we didn’t even go through everything. If we had spent the whole time only looking at photos, I don’t know if we would have made it through them all!

Digging into the trunks ended up being a memorable and satisfying way to spend a special day. The activity encouraged people to share their memories, and I learned new information about my relatives.

I’m not telling everybody to spend their birthday the same way I did. But I would recommend asking older family members if they will show you some of their souvenirs, keepsakes, and photos while you have the chance. I would also take notes because when they’re gone or if they lose their memories, how much will you know about the items left behind? In a pile of jewelry, would you know which pieces held sentimental value and why?

I was thankful that my grandma had labeled some of the items in the trunk, noting a date, where it came from (especially if it was handed down), or other pertinent information. You might consider labeling some of your own belongings that hold special meaning.

Do you know who all the people are in old family photos? It’s even better if you can find out not only their names, but what was happening in the pictures and the stories behind the pictures. “That’s Mildred and Harold. They had just gotten engaged. They were on a picnic by Whitefish Lake with another couple they were friends with. Harold’s buddy was a real jokester- that’s why he’s making that face.” That kind of thing. The stories you hear will probably be worth more than any of the antique furniture or knickknacks.

I would recommend writing names and dates on the backs of at least one group photo in each era. For example, gather pictures that include your grandma with her family when she was a baby, kid, teenager, adult, and senior and label everybody. This will help you recognize her family members at different stages of their lives when you see them in other photos later.

If you’re looking for destination to celebrate a holiday or your next family get-together, you might consider a trip down memory lane.

Taken By Surprise

It must have been early summer. This happened years ago. My dad asked, “Do you have 10 minutes where I can show you something?” Wouldn’t say what it was about. He drove us to the cemetery. Out of the car, he led me away from the gravesites, down a hill toward a swampy area where cattails grow. Our footsteps squished down the incline, then splashed as the ground became saturated, and then he stopped. I’m sure I didn’t notice and he had to point it out to me. Miniature frogs, each about the size of a short fingernail, latticed the ground, leaping in every direction. So this was their breeding ground. They looked like static fizzling in front of me as I tried to catch them in my hands. I don’t know how my dad discovered the frogs, since none of our relatives are buried in that cemetery.

We walked around the area for a little bit and discovered, amid a clump of tangled vines and other wild plants, a rare Michigan lily in bloom. I got a good picture of it, which my dad now has hanging on his dining room wall.

What if my dad had mentioned, “I saw a bunch of little frogs the other day”? How much more exciting to let me experience the wonder firsthand! This is the kind of surprise that’s better than any gift you could wrap. Now I’ve got the memory.

The frogs would be gone within a week or so. The next year, we went back, and the park had mowed down that whole section of wildflowers. I like to think that someone dug up that lily and took it home, but I have my doubts. People are honest. Memories and photographs might be all that’s left of it.

Welcome, 2019!

I was out to dinner with family recently. The pizza arrived at our table, extremely thin and smaller than any of us expected. My dad, having only eaten two slices, ordered dessert- an uncharacteristic move. “Somebody’s gotta be over the top,” he rationalized.

Following in his steps, my theme for 2019 is Make It A Monumental Year. Make it The Best Year Ever.

Before starting on my big road trip, I thought, even if I don’t do anything else noteworthy, even if I hate my life afterward, at least I’ll have done something that I wanted to do, and I’ll have the memories. Now, after making one bold move, there’s no way I could settle for a milquetoast existence.

I’ve lined up some adventures near the beginning of the year- sports like mountain biking that I’ve never tried and am a little afraid to try. Mainly, these activities are in place to provide a sense of accomplishment. Even if I’m horrible at it and hate everything about it, I participated in something I was curious about, and now I can check it off my list.

More importantly, my hope and intention is to be more honest, to make inspirational choices and fearless decisions. In some cases, it’s enough to make a decision, period. Indecision leads to inaction, which leads to a waste of life. Lately, when I cannot decide, I leave the answer up to chance. I write all the options I can think of on little slips of paper, mix them up in a container, then pick one and stick with it. With an answer, any answer, I can move forward. [One slip of paper usually says “something else,” to leave room for a better option I didn’t think of. So far, I have never picked that wild card.]

I’m not a fan of sharing goals in advance because I can’t trust myself to treat my personal ambitions as serious objectives. Instead of motivating me to work harder, I just end up feeling inadequate when I fail to reach the goals I broadcast. But I’m all about getting real this year, so I’ll tell you.

I wanted to pick one measurable goal. I couldn’t decide. Should I write a song, record it, and post it on YouTube? Should I work toward making a living as a full time blogger? I wrote down all the options that grabbed my interest (plus ‘Something Else’) and blindly picked a slip of paper.

The answer said to write one poem a week. I felt deflated. Now, after having chosen it, it sounded so insignificant. I sat with my choice for a while, though, and realized that it will probably help incorporate writing into my lifestyle as more of a routine, no matter what else is going on. I think it will help me build an important foundation. Plus, even though writing poetry and song lyrics is agonizing, painfully slow work, and even though the results are usually abysmal, the process is ultimately more satisfying than writing prose. It’s more challenging, and I like being in the headspace of no limitations. I’ve missed it. There’s no expectation for the quality of results of this experiment- they could be trash. Guess what? You are going to get to read them!

I figure the worst thing that can happen is I fall short of the goal and then I have to try making 2020 The Best Year Ever. That doesn’t sound so bad.

Whatever your goal is for the new year, or whatever your lack of goals, I hope 2019 treats you well. And I hope you treat it well, too.

Tangerine Dreams

Almost twenty years ago, my aunt in Florida got married. At the time, there were no chain hotels in her town- only small, independently owned motels. When my family convened to fly down, my mom informed us that my aunt had arranged motels for all the out-of-town guests.
“Where are we staying?” my brother asked.
“The Tangerine Inn,” my mom announced, enunciating each word.
There was a moment of silence. “Sounds…classy,” my brother commented.

For years- decades- afterward, I compared every hotel room I stayed in to the Tangerine Inn, and every other hotel room won. The room contained two beds, a TV, and a dead cockroach. That was it. To be fair, it was better than finding a live cockroach. I have minimalist tendencies, but this was beyond bare bones. There was no handle on the bathroom door- only a hole where the handle should have been. There was no towel rack or hook to hang a wet towel.

One morning, after a shower, I discovered I was trapped in the bathroom. With no handle, I couldn’t get a good grip on the door, and there wasn’t enough room to get any leverage to pull it open. Luckily, even though everybody else was outside, my dad and brother heard me yelling for help and rescued me. I guess that’s the upside to paper-thin walls.

After that visit to Florida, the first thing I’d do after arriving at any hotel room was flit around, opening doors and drawers, calling, “Look! There’s an iron and ironing board! There are hangers! A coffee maker! Cups! A hair dryer! Kleenex! A miniature bottle of shampoo! A towel rack! A microwave! A refrigerator! A pad of paper! A pen! A chair! A desk! A phone book!” I was like a starving child who had stepped into Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. Even though I don’t drink coffee or blow dry my hair or have a reason to iron clothes, what a rush to know that extras were included.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

While visiting coworkers over Thanksgiving, a couple of them assumed, “You have to feel more confident” (after my recent travels). I don’t know about that, but I may have become more blasé.

One side effect of the camping lifestyle is that I can tolerate the cheapest of motels. Overwhelmingly one-star ratings? No problem. So the security door guard is broken. Maybe it smells like cigarette smoke. There are hairs on the sheets. The bathroom isn’t exactly “clean.” Hey, I’ve showered with scorpions. (Good thing I was wearing flip-flops!) I’ve had to stuff my tent with water jugs and bins full of notebooks just so my tent wouldn’t blow away. I’ve showered in a bathroom that had no roof on it. (Thankfully, I did not see any drones or low-flying planes.) I’ve had sand rain down inside my tent all night long. And I realize that I was lucky to have a tent in the first place, plus any kind of shower and a modern bathroom, not to mention a car filled with items to satisfy practically every want and need.

On nights when I was freezing or staying in run-down RV parks with makeshift tent sites, I probably would have welcomed a stay in any motel, even one with a missing door handle and a dead cockroach. After all these years, I think the Tangerine Inn has been redeemed.

Do You Feel Lucky?

My dad was drafted into the army after college. It was during the time of Vietnam. After basic and advanced training, orders for each soldier’s next assignment were posted on a bulletin board outside of their barracks. “Vietnam” was printed on the sheet, with thousands of names listed underneath it. After that, it said “Germany.” Two people were listed, and my dad was one of them.

I recently visited The Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial in Washington, DC. The walls were thinner and shorter than I thought they’d be, but still, the amount of names was sobering. Someone had left note cards at the base of the wall with info on select soldiers: their picture, their name, where they were from, how old they were when they died. 20, 21, 24… I’ve heard the statistics before, but the older I get, the harder it is to imagine dying so young. I kept thinking how lucky he was, not to end up a name on that wall. For those of us who know him, we are lucky, too! Happy Father’s Day!

Photo: azaleas at BP gas station, Galax, VA

Speaking in Tongues

My dad has this supersonic connection to sandhill cranes. It started a few years ago, when he didn’t even remember their name. “What are they called again? The storks” he’d ask me.

He’ll be in his kitchen or living room in March or November when all the windows are closed and the storm windows are down, in the middle of a story, and suddenly he’ll stop and say, “The cranes are out.” Everybody gets quiet, listening. “I don’t hear anything,” I’ll say. He opens the front door, and as we walk out, he points to a tiny cluster of spots in the sky, and I hear the cranes’ distinctive, ricketing call.

He can also imitate their trill really well, which is kind of a bizarre sound for a person to make. It’s like he understands them and can innately speak their language.

Sometimes, morbidly, I think I already know what I’ll remember about people after they die. I know I will think of him every time I hear a sandhill. I already do.

Photo: cranes near Kearney & Gibbon, NE

How Quickly They Forget

In August, I bought a tent. I set it up in my dad’s backyard to test it out. My first night in the tent, around 2 a.m., I noticed the walls glowing. Maybe the neighbors have flood lights pointed at their lawn, I thought. During breakfast, my dad mentioned, “It’s almost a full moon.” I HAD FORGOTTEN ABOUT THE MOON. It hadn’t even occurred to me as an option for the source of that mysterious light. I had even considered UFOs. Horrified, I realized how badly I could use some communion with nature. I want to breathe fresh air. I want to feel the wind and the rain and the sun. I never want to forget about the North Star.