Random Stories & Tidbits – Page 2

Taking the Field

When we were kids, my grandma would periodically take my brother and I to feed wild ducks by the river that runs through the town she lived in.

My grandparents kept a metal trash can in their garage filled to the top with dried corn kernels. Grandma would dip a plastic bucket for each of us into the trash can. Then she drove us a mile or so to the river- back then, it seemed a lot farther.

We’d park near the same patch of grass each time, the ducks waddling toward us before we even got out of the car. What a thrill, flinging handfuls of corn to rain down on our fanbase! They devoured it and baby stepped toward us, chattering, emboldened by greed.

Later, when I was a teenager, my grandma once again scooped kernels into buckets in preparation for another visit to the river. I asked where she got the corn, wondering if it came in fifty-pound bags the way other birdseed did. She gestured toward the farm kitty-corner to their block. The cornfield.

“You stole it?!” I asked with astonished eyes. I hadn’t thought of my grandma as a thief.

She flinched at the ugly word, as if it were a wasp flying straight for her face. “You don’t steal it,” she said defensively. “You just…take it.”

I was at a loss for how to respond.

Incidentally, I’m currently rereading Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and Huck talks about “borrowing” melons and other produce from farm fields while he’s on the run. His dad told him that it isn’t stealing if you intend to pay the farmers back someday, which, of course, he doesn’t.

In the last story [here], I mentioned my great-grandma picking corn from someone else’s farm field. So maybe yoinking crops was in my grandma’s DNA. Her perspective could’ve also been shaped by her parents, who had been farmers. Maybe they were generous with their own produce and assumed other growers held a similar attitude. Or maybe they were cheap and self-centered. Mother and daughter had both lived through the Great Depression, when people may have had to bend the rules to survive.

As for the ducks, there are now signs posted by the river saying not to feed the animals. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out the signs were posted back then, too, seeing how my grandma made her own rules.

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.

An A for Effort

One student at the community college where I used to work had some issue where his legs didn’t work normally. He walked using crutches attached to his forearms, and even then, he limped down the hall, swaying and staggering, as if he were a marionette controlled by someone continually being stung by bees. Just seeing the amount of time and effort it took him to get to class put other students to shame. I’d see him studying in the hall, the tutoring center, the library, and the computer lab. This was while some other students skipped class and didn’t bother to do their homework.

He came to mind recently, and I used him as a measure of hard work and dedication. I had to take a look at my goals and ask myself if I showed up every day, if I was putting in as much time and effort as I could, if I kept going even when things weren’t easy, if I was living up to my potential. Not at all.

Some days, the most challenging part of working on a project is getting started, getting in the flow. My new trick is that I vow to put the same amount of effort into my project as I imagine it took for that student to get to his classroom. After that, it’s usually smooth sailing.

Better Living Through Haiku

When I notice I’m living in my head too much- for example, if I start getting emotional about imaginary situations- I find that writing haiku is a good remedy. It brings my attention back to my senses and into the present. What do I see in front of me? What do I hear? How does the air feel against my skin? What’s happening right now? Write about that. Haiku is a good medium for capturing the immediate. Working on a haiku makes me feel more real.

I start by writing down what I notice. All or most of these lines are dull. “lots of clover on the lawn,” “wet cement,” “white blooms.” But if I keep at it, a line or word might spring into my head that surprises me. A poetic phrase might appear. I might not even know what it means. Those are the rewards of creativity. Or work. The magic of thought. It’s what makes the sometimes excruciating writing process worthwhile. Poetry is the heat that transforms ordinary, mundane sand into stained glass.

Surprise! Part 4

In the panhandle of Texas (and some other areas of the Southwest), I drove through towns where it was hard to tell which businesses were open and which had been long abandoned- both were crumbling to the ground. Towns looked like salvage yards, with buildings sagging, barns collapsing, metal water tanks disintegrating. A vintage pickup truck, the paint long gone, the body pure rust, might be settled on someone’s front lawn. The photographer in me itched to jump out and take pictures, but I wasn’t going to treat people’s homes and yards like a freak show. And I didn’t want to get shot.

I’ve seen plenty of areas around the country that look like scrapyards- houses dirty and in need of repair, yards like trash heaps, sometimes graced with the classic toilet-bowl-turned-flowerpot outdoor decor. Although run-down, the houses still look inhabited. There’s something about the arid landscape of the Southwest that made those Texas cities look like ghost towns. Like not only had a few boards disappeared from the shed, and the paint had flaked off the Studebaker, but even the plants had left town. Part of the shock was seeing people running errands and going about their day in what looked to be a ghost town or movie set.

I also noticed that people there seemed especially nice. It was refreshing to think that whoever lived there must not waste much concern over appearances or keeping up with the Joneses. Unless there was competition around owning the rustiest vintage car.

Surprise! Part 3

I blindly chose a campground in Tecopa, CA, as a destination for the night. It wasn’t until I got there that I learned the water is undrinkable. In the whole town. My campground offered free showers and soaking pools for visitors, taking advantage of the spa-like qualities of the water: its naturally hot temperature and high mineral content. However, the high content of arsenic and other minerals makes it unsafe for ingesting. I can’t imagine living in a town -especially a desert town- where you can’t drink the water. It’s bad enough hearing stories about cities like Flint, MI, where the water becomes contaminated. But who would knowingly move to a town where the water is inherently undrinkable from the get-go?

Surprise! Part 2

The Visitor’s Center in Calumet, MI, was also a National Historic Park filled with exhibits detailing the era when Calumet was a boom mining town. This would have been around the time of the Wild West, only it was the Wild Midwest. One of the displays listed crimes committed back in the late 1800s to early 1900s and the punishments that criminals received for them. For example, killing a baby was punishable by a certain number of days or months in jail. I don’t remember the number, but let’s say it was 68 days. [I’ve wanted to contact the museum for specifics, but it has been closed since the coronavirus lockdown in early 2020.] Whatever the number was, it was shocking- but also understandable. It’s interesting to see how crimes were ranked and dealt with when there simply wasn’t space to hold criminals or law enforcement officers to look after them.

Surprise! Part 1

A question I got asked when I visited my hometown during my yearlong road trip of the country was, “What surprised you?” or “What were the most surprising things?” I tend to keep to myself, and I don’t seem to get involved in nutty situations the way some people do, so bizarre situations were rare. But a few things did surprise me.

In Arizona, I drove through U.S. Border Patrol. When it was my turn, I rolled down my window and a police officer asked me, “U.S.citizen?” I answered, “Yeah.” “Have a nice day,” he said, and motioned me to drive ahead. That’s it? They didn’t want to see any proof? They didn’t want to open my trunk to look for stowaways? They didn’t want to search my car for contraband? I’m not complaining. It was convenient that the interaction went so quickly. But it surprised me how minimal the screening was. I’m in favor of immigration- don’t get me wrong- it just seemed like, What’s the point?