All My Ancestors

This is my great Uncle Lloyd. I feel so fortunate to have gotten to get acquainted with him in the last years of his life. I’d always heard about Uncle Lloyd who’d done a stint in a prison camp during the war. But he and Aunt Marge lived in Houston and then retired to Oregon so I didn’t get to see them all that much when I was growing up. Aunt Marge was my (paternal) Grandmother Osborne’s youngest sister, and she was married to Uncle Lloyd.

Uncle Lloyd was the only survivor of his B-17 bomber group. They were on their 4th mission, flying over Holland when they were shot down.

Recently, Footnote.com put up Missing Crew Reports as part of their holdings. I searched on Uncle Lloyd’s name, not knowing what to expect, but up came the report for his crew. All the names are there as well as Uncle Lloyd’s account of the 11 January 1944 incident. Perhaps the most poignant portion of this packet of materials is the “Individual Casualty Questionnaire” that Uncle Lloyd had to complete for each of his crew. He had to write “I think he was killed by enemy gunfire in ship” 9 times, once on each form for each crew member. Once it is crossed out and replaced by “He probably was killed when ship crashed.” This last was about the navigator who had opened his chute by mistake in the nose of the plane and couldn’t be persuaded to jump when it was time to go.

This packet of materials was evidently sent to him about 2 years after he returned home. His letter is dated 15 March 1946 from Blanco, Texas. He and Aunt Marge went to the Hill Country of Texas to a sheep ranch for some recovery time. Aunt Marge has written about the healing time they spent there in her own memoirs.

In 1979, Uncle Lloyd responded to another grand-niece’s request for an interview of a combat veteran. It was the impetus that let Uncle Lloyd finally talk to us about his war experiences. He eventually wrote Every Twenty-Nine Seconds which tells of his experiences during World War II. He said one of the first things he recalled was being in the nose of the B-17 before daylight. There were about 6 of the big birds ahead of his on the runway awaiting take off, and they were supposed to clear the runway every twenty-nine seconds. He tells about seeing the Zuider Zee as he was floating down out of his “ship,” and the Dutch woman whose thatched roof he landed on giving him gingerbread and milk before some of Goering’s Youths took him into custody.

He included some correspondence he had with some of the crew members’ family members and with a Dutch researcher. The researcher asked Uncle Lloyd if he would go again. Here’s his reply:

As terrible as it was, it was the price that we had to pay to keep America free. Yes, I would go again. If we had not gone, this present generation would probably not be allowed to ask questions to search for the truth.

The freedom to ask those questions was really really important to Uncle Lloyd. He was a gentle, funny, loving man. This Memorial Day I’ve been thinking about him a lot.

Today is the 100th anniversary of Oklahoma’s statehood. She entered the Union 16 November 1907.

That’s a pretty young state. At work, where we do lots of research for folks with ancestors in Oklahoma or Indian Territory, we spend a lot of time explaining that there just aren’t birth or death records for their family members. Vital records were supposed to be kept as statehood began, but the reality is that such records really aren’t reliable until the mid 1930s.

I usually consider myself a Texan–my dad’s family was there before statehood–the Coopers came from Tennessee in 1841–and I was born there, which makes me a 6th generation Texan. But, as I always say, I’ve lived in Oklahoma much longer than I lived in Texas.

My mother’s family was here in Oklahoma Territory before statehood, but as noted, statehood for Oklahoma is much more recent. My mother’s mother was born in what was eventually Beckham County, prior to statehood, in 1906. They had come from Alabama to file on land available south of present day Elk City, down around Mangum. Granddad was born out in Dewey County just as Oklahoma turned a year old–in 1908. His grandparents had come from Russia in 1874 to near McPherson, Kansas, and then came south to Woods County, Oklahoma Territory when that land opened for settlement.

I did find what are called “delayed birth certificates” for each of my maternal grandparents. They had filed them in the 1950s while they still lived in South Dakota. They had to have affidavits from other family members and they filled out the forms themselves–another type of interesting vital record–a birth certificate form completed by the person.

The Oklahoma Genealogical Society’s First Families of the Twin Territories has seen a flurry of activity with people documenting and submitting their lineage from a family member who was in Oklahoma or Indian Territory prior to statehood on 16 November 1907. I submitted one side of the family early on–I only had to document back to my grandmother and that was easy. I need to get the other side done. For a while, I was stumped on finding a marriage record for my granddad’s parents, but that was finally located in Zoar Mennonite church records in Goltry.

So happy birthday, Oklahoma, and congratulations to my ancestors who braved the wind and the drought and the dust to come to settle this grand land.

John and I are first cousins, 3 times removed. His father Thomas (1810-1871) and my great-great grandfather John (1808-1865) were brothers. They were two of the ten (!) sons of Jonathan and Martha Roland Osborne of Mecklenburg and Haywood Counties, North Carolina.

I first found John years ago when I was searching through the Tennessee Civil War Vet’s Questionnaires (the index is available there as well). I’d heard about these documents and since so many of my Osborne ancestors went to Tennessee from North Carolina, I thought I should take a look. Sure enough, Cousin John took the time out in Tacoma, Washington, to fill out his form and send it in. As the website says, these questionnaires are a rich source of information about family and life in the early 19th century in Tennessee. He was a veteran of Company F, 43rd TN Infantry, serving from Roane (now Loudon) County. As far as I know, these questionnaires are not available online, but the forms used (questions asked) can be viewed here.

This is a rich resource that not many people seem to know about. The information has been transcribed and published in a multi-volume set and is available in many libraries (published 1983 by Southern Historical Press is one printing). The originals have been microfilmed and are available at the Tennessee State Library and Archives. They are also available through the Family History Library.

John’s questionnaire provided me with an interesting picture of his family life and his schooling. Here’s a summary of his response:

John Wright Osborne is living at 1706 N. Alder in Tacoma, Washington, and gives his age as 79 yrs., 8 mos. & 11 days. He was born in Roane, now Loudon County, Tennessee, states that his father, Thomas Osborne, was a farmer and a trader. Thomas was born in Haywood County, North Carolina, and lived 4 miles from Philadelphia, Tennessee, where he had a white man for an overseer of his 22 slaves and 5000 acres of land. He placed a value of about $110,000 on his father’s property at the beginning of the War. Their home was described as built of bricks, two full stories, 9 rooms, with a full basement and attic. He says that his mother had a white seamstress.
His mother was Mary Jane Wright, and her parents were John Wright & Mary Hines who lived at Wrightsville in Roane County on the Tennessee River. John Wright Osborne states that his grandfather Johnothan [sic] Osborne was of English descent, lived in NC and fought with the patriot army against the British in the American Revolution. His grandfather John Wright was born in Ireland, and came to American about 1810.
He states that he attended a school partly supported by public money, and partly by private subscription. His total schooling is described as 27 months in the semi-public district school, 18 months in private high school, and two years at Ewing & Jeff College.
Of his military experience, he says that he enlisted in June, 1861, in Co. F, 43rd Tennessee CSA. This company of infantry was afterward mounted. His company was first sent to Loudon to guard the railroad bridge across the Tennessee River. About six months after his enlistment, his company was engaged in its first battle at Harrodsburg, Kentucky.

His account of the war:
From Harrodsburg we went back to East Tenn. Then to Vicksburg, was sent from there to exchange camp in Georgia. Then became on of Capt Tom Osborne’s scouts, operating in Upper Tennessee. After his death rejoined my old command in Valley of Virginia with Gen. Earley. Took part in battle of Kernstown, White Post, Newtown, Bunker Hill, Perryville Pike and Winchester. Returned to east Tennessee, was captured near Bristol and sent to Camp Douglas (Chicago). Had small pox and suffered from lack of clothes, medicine and nursing.
He was discharged 8 Mar 1865 at Richmond. He was exchanged as a prisoner and sent to Richmond. There he was put on a freight train, taken a short distance east and dumped off. From there he walked to a sister’s home at Franklin, NC, where he was at the time of the surrender.
After the war, he worked with his father on his farm for 2 years and then went to his own place on Post Oak Island which had been confiscated for Freedman’s Co. for 3 years. He engaged in farming on his own land which he inherited from his mother in 1867. This land was the fertile Post Oak Island in the Tennessee River twelve miles from Knoxville. He remained there until 1882 when he sold out and started west. He went through Texas, Wyoming, Montana, Idaho to east Washington. This trip took about 2 years. He settled on some government land in eastern Washington, but went on over to western Washington about 1885. He resided there except for about a year spent in Arizona, and about 2 years in Alaska–1896 to 1898. The first four years in Washington were spent farming government land and in a mail contract. After his return from Alaska in 1898, he engaged in lumber business with nephews in Pacific County, Washington. “I have been exceedingly fortunate in the lumber business and my financial affairs are in very good shape at present.” He attends First Presbyterian Church.
Among those listed in his Co: Walter Lenoir, James Jones, Lt. Reps Jones 2nd, Hardy Jones. He suggests that a complete roster might be had from Mr. Walter Lenoir, Sweetwater, Tennessee. He lists about 6 other vets as living in Tacoma–indicating that he may have been active in some sort of veteran’s organization.

His account is a fascinating depiction of life leading up to the Civil War and his life afterward. He is also not my only ancestor to serve time at Camp Douglas, sometimes known as the “North’s Andersonville.” Three Cooper brothers from Texas’ 18th Cav., Co. A, were captured at Arkansas Post and sent to this dreadful place where two of the three died. More about them later.

I’ve always thought the Osbornes had a wandering gene, connected to seeking land. John certainly exhibits such traits, though his movement west was fairly typical of the time after the War. I thought it was fascinating that he had been such disparate places as Arizona and Alaska.

John never married. He is listed on the 1920 census as living with his niece Harriet Siler, in Tacoma. He is 77 and she is 43. I believe Harriet is probably the daughter of John’s older sister Martha J., who married David W. Siler in Roane County, Tennessee in 1862.

In December of 1922, John Wright Osborne dies in Tucson, Arizona, of a skull fracture, on a railroad right of way. His death certificate is online at the Arizona Department of Health Services site (thank you, Arizona).

And, of course, this document raises so many more questions–what in the world was a man of his age doing in Arizona? Was he hit by a train? How did this happen? Who was the John Owen who provided the information for his death certificate?

John Wright Osborne’s life is an interesting bridge from pre-Civil War time in east Tennessee to the early 20th century migration to the northeast, with at least a couple of interesting side trips to the southwest and Alaska. Along the way are mentions of schooling, Freedman land dealings, and the timber business. His Civil War Questionnaire is unique in that it meets that desire we genealogists frequently express, to be able to interview those who have gone before.

This morning I was chatting with a friend whose great-uncle had died. She was remembering that when she used to visit this aunt and uncle down in Haskell, Texas, that they always gave her Dr. Pepper, in a glass bottle. For a person of her age (read: young), I suppose a glass bottle was a novelty.

Her story made me think about going over to visit my own great aunt and uncle–we went into their house through the back door. On the back porch (though it was completely enclosed it was still called “the porch”), there was Aunt Eva’s kiln where she fired the china she painted, and a small sink for Uncle George to “wash up” when he came in from the field. And under that little sink usually sat a six-pack of small glass bottles of Dr. Pepper. There was a pantry on further down the way, but the Dr. Pepper didn’t belong in the pantry. It sat out there in plain sight for me to long for. Sometimes I got lucky and was offered one of the drinks–I couldn’t ask for one, y’know, it just wasn’t proper.

This would have been the 1950s and a time when soft drink consumption was way lower than it is now. In fact, we just didn’t drink pop, that I recall. It was a real treat when I’d go to South Dakota for the summers to stay with my maternal grandmother–she owned a country store that actually had pop in the refrigerator. I wasn’t really supposed to drink without paying, but Granny didn’t monitor me, or the inventory, too closely. The cowboys would come in at noon to buy their lunches–a can of vienna sausages or a sliced bologna sandwich, and buy some pop. But that’s the only time I can remember drinking pop as a child–sometimes I’d buy one while in the bus room after school, but not often.

I also remembered my brother and I going up and down the road in front of our house, inspecting the bar ditches for pop bottles. Seems like we could redeem them for 2 cents–it may have only been 1, but it was a way for us to earn some spending money. I have no memory of what we spent it on–but we worked very diligently to gather those bottles. Then began the campaign to get some adult to take us to town so we could cash them in, usually at Bryan’s grocery store.

In high school, in the Texas panhandle, anyway, Dr. Pepper was the drink of choice. I remember having a tower of empty waxed paper cups almost reaching the ceiling in my bedroom–I somehow decided it would be a good thing to save them. But we went faithfully through the Dixie Dog drive-in to keep ourselves well-oiled with the Texas elixir. Later, in college, I drank DDP–Diet Dr. Pepper. We had a favorite convenience store at 23rd and Meridian in Oklahoma City where we bought our drinks–one friend always had Tab, but most of us drank DDP. And the backseat floorboards in our cars clanked with the empties.

I was recently on an overseas flight when a young middle-easterner requested a Dr. Pibb from the flight attendant serving drinks. She asked him to repeat his request and they finally determined that he meant Dr. Pepper–he’d confused it with the Mr. Pibb Dr. Pepper knock-off. She laughed and said she was out but thought there might be one more in the back. Sure enough, she later brought him a can of Dr. Pepper and told him to take it with him. He was thrilled.

Dr. Pepper started in Texas and it’s still very popular there. It is my husband’s drink of choice, but then again, he always orders sweet tea at a restaurant. Maybe it’s his Texas roots–all that sweetness.

One of the first things I saw in Ireland was this:

Who knew there were palm trees in Ireland? I certainly didn’t.

And then one of our side trips took us to Newgrange. What a wonderful site. I’m so glad my traveling companions made arrangements for this excursion.  This mound is older than the pyramids and I got to go inside!

On the way to Newgrange, our terrific tour guide Mary read us an article from the Irish Times entitled “No Petty People, the Ulster Presbyterians,” published 15 May 2007. She read it to us as we traveled through the Boyne Valley, beside and across the River Boyne, scene of the Battle of the Boyne in 1690. One of those battles I’d probably read about in some history class, but it only came alive to me when I was there and hearing about the Ulster Presbyterians, aka the Scots-Irish, in the article.

These folks came to America in the early 1700s, were largely Protestant, particularly Presbyterian, and worked the land. I’ve come to believe that Christopher Osborne was probably Scots-Irish–he’s found in western North Carolina before 1750, he’s Presbyterian, and he worked hard to acquire land. That, of course, does not prove the issue, but it does provide some clues. I think I remember my dad saying some of his family were Scots (he said “Scotch”) Irish–honestly, I don’t know if he was talking about his father’s Osborne line or his mother’s Cooper and Landrum lines. I do believe the Landrums were from Scotland, however, not necessarily via Ireland, according to the research of others that I’ve read. The earliest Coopers we’ve found in our line were in Hampshire County, WV and Maryland.

I have read both James Leyburn’s The Scotch Irish: A Social History (1962) and David Hackett Fischer’s Albion’s Seed: Four British Folkways in America (America: a cultural history). The latter uses the term “borderers” rather an “Scots Irish,” and notes that these folks have substantial Anglo-Saxon and Viking and/or Scandinavian heritage–again, this matches what the Christopher Osborne DNA test reveals. Fischer says,

Some historians describe these immigrants as “Ulster Irish” or “Northern Irish.” It is true that many sailed from the province of Ulster… part of much larger flow which drew from the lowlands of Scotland, the north of England, and every side of the Irish Sea. Many scholars call these people “Scotch-Irish.” That expression is an Americanism, rarely used in Britain and much resented by the people to whom it was attached. …”

So I have more work to do–learning more about the “borderers,” the Scots Irish, and determining what, if any records exist of their migration. The better I understand the people and their history, the more clues I’ll find in the pitifully small amount of information known about Christopher.

Despite finding palm trees in Ireland and learning more about what I don’t know, I think I can move on.

I know enough about the nature of information to know that the more you know, the more you want to know–sort of a variation on the genealogist’s old saw, “You get one question answered and then you have at least 2 more.”

Today I was reading Kimberley Powell’s posting of the same title.

My first thought goes to the irksome Christopher Osborne. He’s the one that I can’t get beyond. He may be my immigrant ancestor, but I can’t find his origins so I don’t know for sure. I’ve written about him before, including what I found by going with the DNA test.

But I’d also like to talk to my 3rd great-grandmother, Elizabeth Landrum Cooper. I’d like to know more about her mother and father, and I also would like to talk to her about her losing 4 sons in the Civil War. Would knowing about her descendants and their admiration for her provide any comfort? What was the impetus for her and her family to pull up fairly deep roots in Tennessee and move to Texas in 1841?

And then there are those enigmatic Germans from Russia–the person from that line who I’d most like to talk to is probably my great-grandmother Matilda Amanda Buller Unruh. Yes, she’s the one who shot herself, and I do have some questions for her about that violent act. But I’d also like to know some more about her family and their journey from Russia to Philadelphia to Kansas to Oklahoma. She wasn’t on the original voyage, but her parents were and I guess I think talking to her would be the “most efficient” way to find out about her and her ancestors. And maybe knowing more about her descendants would bring her some peace as well.

The bottom line is there are too many I’d like to talk to. And while it’s not perfect, searching for details about their lives is the only way I know to converse with them. I’m determined that Christopher will give up his secrets.

We’ll see.

Do you have any ancestors you’d like to meet?

Update2: OK, here’s another website to see this great video. Thanks go to one of my descendants for finding and sharing this site.

Update: Evidently this wasn’t provided by the Lincoln library, at least knowingly. So the video is gone. Sorry. It was a great overview of the War.

I love this! And it even has the music!

Thanks to Abraham Lincoln President and Museum for making it available.

I’ve always been a “big picture” person, and this certainly provides one. On a personal level, it helps me understand more about the capture of the Arkansas Post, where my gggrandfather and 2 of his brothers were captured.

And it gives a whole new meaning to Sherman’s march to the sea.

Delilah Jackson was my 4th great-grandmother. She was married to Merriman Landrum and outlived him by several years.

I get the impression that Delilah was from a locally prominent family from Union County, South Carolina. Her father was Ralph Jackson, Jr. and her mother was Delilah Murphy. Ralph Jr’s mother was Amy Williams. Amy is a patriot, in the sense that if I were so inclined, I could use her as my ancestor to join the Daughters of the American Revolution (DAR) since she is on record as having furnished forage to some of the Revolutionary soldiers’ horses. Delilah inherits, among other things, a “dutch fan” at her father’s death. I’ve spent some time trying to determine exactly what this item was, and I think it must have been a hand-held fan used by ladies in that day that came from Holland. Simple enough, but probably highly prized in those steamy South Carolina times.

Much of the information I have about Delilah comes from a book about her son. Her oldest son was John Gill Landrum, a Baptist minister of some note in South Carolina. He seems to have been a fairly conservative fellow, but I did like the fact that when he married a Methodist woman, he had apparently had no issues with her attending her own congregation while he tended his. My “genealogical advice” here, however, is to repeat the “search the whole family” mantra–if I hadn’t found this biography of my grandmother’s brother, I would be much the poorer for it. Another serendipitous path discovered through the reading of this book is that John G’s son, John Belton O’Neall Landrum, usually referred to as JBO Landrum, authored a history of Spartanburg County, SC, and in the preface to one of his books, he notes he is writing it from Guthrie, Oklahoma Territory. whoddathunkit?

The book is entitled The Life and Times of Rev. John G. Landrum, written by H. G. Griffith in 1885. It was reprinted in 1992 by Brent Holcomb, to whom I am most grateful for making this book more readily available. The book was the result of an article Mr. Griffith was asked to write for the Baptist Courier, a South Carolina Baptist publication, about Rev. Landrum. Despite his birth in Tennessee, John Gill Landrum evidently made his claim to fame in South Carolina. After the death of his father, Merriman, he was sent back to South Carolina for schooling and as with many students who go off to study, he made his life where he was educated. (This 6th generation Texas has now lived in Oklahoma much longer than her time in Texas, Oklahoma being where she went off to college, married, and has her life.)

Not all of the family information in The Life and Times is correct–but the general outline is there. The author evidently went to great length to contact Landrum descendants–there is a quote from my 3rd great grandmother, his older sister, Elizabeth Landrum Cooper who was living in Texas at the time. Delilah’s daughter, John G.’s sister, Elizabeth was among the first of my relatives to come to Texas, resulting in my being a 6th generation Texans. Elizabeth and her husband Job Cooper were my entre into the Daughters of the Republic of Texas

My favorite story from this book is that of Delilah after the death of her husband and while she was still living in Tennessee. Her youngest daughter Mary wanted her mother to go to a neighborhood revival meeting. This was not the church to which they usually went, but she agreed to go with her daughter. This description took me right back to my own youth in way too many revivals

“The preacher soon rose to fever heat, and his audience indicated their sympathy by shouts and groans, and many other noisy demonstrations. When the excitement had reached its climax, the preacher, in the tones of a trumpet, demanded that all who wanted to go to heaven should rise from their seats and clap their hands. The whole congregation, with the single exception of Mrs. Landrum, rose and gave the required response. The quick eye of the preacher noted the defalcation, and he immediately added: “And all who want to go to hell, will please keep their seats.” Mrs. Landrum still calmly k3ept her seat to the grat horror of the zealous worshipers, and especially to that of the little daughter Mary. The latter, on reaching home, came to her mother with a heavy heart, and, in childish simplicity, said: “Mother, do you want to go to hell?” “No, my child,” replied Mrs. Landrum; “but that preacher is not my captain. God knows the hearts of all his people, and it is not necessary to make unnatural and unbecoming demonstrations in order to merely gratify the curiosity of others.”

I don’t know if this passage would have eased my way as I navigated through the religious minefield that comprised my own youth, adolescence and young adulthood. I like to think it would have, but I do know that it mightily soothed me when I found it a few years ago. Part of me wanted to proclaim, “See, it’s genetic!” when I recalled how I couldn’t bring myself to pray aloud when called upon in church to do so, or to stand and give a “testimony,” to resent having to “shut my eyes and bow my head” and to raise my hand when the evangelist was taking some sort of heaven-bound poll. I didn’t have Delilah’s strength, but I like to think some of it has come my way as I’ve worked out my own spiritual path.

Some forty years after the death of her husband Merriman in Tennessee, Delilah died and is buried in Texas in an unmarked grave. She probably rests beside that youngest daughter Mary and Mary’s husband Thomas Ballenger in New Prospect churchyard in Rusk County, Texas.

Mother’s Day 2007 seems like an appropriate time to express gratitude for strong foremothers, and for the satisfaction that comes my way when I find such gems as The Life and Times of Rev. John G. Landrum to make her come alive and inform my own 21st century existence.

This week’s peanut butter scare got me thinking about after-school snacks. And more.

Our mom didn’t work “outside the home” as they say–but I don’t remember any snacks awaiting us as we alighted from the school bus. I do, however, remember occasionally getting a couple of nickels to buy a coke and candy bar (those were the days!) after school. In the first grade, I got out of school at 2:30, but I had to wait in “bus room” until 4:00 when the school buses ran. The teachers rotated bus room duty a week at a time–I was terrified when it was Mrs. Ryan’s week–she flew into a rage one week and hit me when I got out the sewing cards to pass the time. I still don’t know why that was the wrong thing to do but I do remember the terror and not being able to explain to my great aunt who kept telling me how great a teacher she was. That was the 1950s and teachers were always right and nutrition didn’t preclude lots of sugary treats. It was one of those coke machines with the bottles lined up in a vertical row down one side of the machine and all you could see were the pop caps through the skinny glass door, and you pushed down a short, fat metal lever after you put your nickel in. It was a real luxury to get to stroll down the hall, past Mr. Wright, the Principal’s office, and all the other now-darkened 1st and 2nd grade rooms, to the snack machines standing just outside the cafeteria. Sometimes we bought peanuts and put them in our coke bottles–it wasn’t the food as much as it was another way to pass time until it was time to home.

The other thing I remembered was one of the times we got to go over to our great Aunt Eva’s after school. She was our Granddad Osborne’s sister and married to our Grandmother Osborne’s brother. Our dad worked for her husband Uncle George and we probably saw them more than we saw our Osborne grandparents because we often lived just across “the orchard,” (home of one pear tree and several failing elms and at least 2 of our tree houses) from them. We loved going to Aunt Eva and Uncle George’s–they had a television, a big yard, a piano and a pump organ, indulgent ways, two lily ponds in the yard–those terrified my mom but they fascinated me–see indulgent ways above :-)–Aunt Eva had a yard full of flowers and a huge vegetable garden. She was also likely to have guineas and bantam chickens (sometimes she kept the chicks in a box in the chair beside her in the house) and very, very fat pug dogs, which her grandchildren called “JinglePig” because they wore so many tags as they waddled through the house. She did oil painting and china painting and had a kiln in her house and had little tiny bottles of Dr. Pepper under her sink out on the back porch that we had to walk right by to enter her house. We looked at those particularly longingly each time we went in. She let us paint and fired our tiles for us. We still have them. There was a big bell out in the yard that her parents had used to call the family and workers to dinner–they didn’t care if we rang it at will when we came over. One of my mom’s favorite stories was one day when she’d relented and let me go over for a visit, she asked me if I’d told all the family secrets (which gives you a read on how she felt about us kids going over there). My answer was “What family secrets?”

But I remember one day getting to go to Aunt Eva’s after school and her fixing my brother and I a snack–leftover biscuits from breakfast, some sort of meat–probably a piece of steak, lettuce, tomato, and what I found the strangest of all, French salad dressing. I can’t really tell you why that is such a vivid memory for me. Aunt Eva and Uncle George had a table that folded down from the wall–it was put down, my brother and I were perched there at the table, and there was a little room off where that table was, and in that little room was the stove and fridge and a little counter space, and when she brought those little sandwiches out, I just remember being so amazed that someone would put French salad dressing on a sandwich. In retrospect, I’m not surprised. Aunt Eva didn’t follow rules recipes, of any sort. And I have to admit to being that way myself. I find myself reading through recipes–whether for making food or building something or crafting an item–but then I start thinking about ways to “make it my own.” My visiting brother was looking at my house shoes the other day–I’d cut the toes out of them. I told him I was channeling Aunt Eva–they were hot but I still needed to have them to wear for the sole support. So I’d modified them. I thought she would approve. And I’ve been known to put French dressing on a sandwich now and then as well. I think she was just ahead of the curve of putting Ranch dressing on everything.

Back to peanut butter. My brother was the master of peanut butter for after school snacks. He had it down. He’d get out the peanut butter, the jelly, sometimes honey or syrup instead, get out the bread, and always a saucer and a knife. Through lots of experience, he’d mastered the precise proportions. First he’d scoop out the peanut butter. Just the right amount amount, scraped off on the edge of the saucer and then moved to the middle of the saucer. Next came the jelly or the honey. It was ok to use the same knife in the jelly jar because he could scrape off all the peanut butter on the edge of the saucer–it was usually strawberry jelly–our dad didn’t like grape jelly, but we did, so sometimes it was grape. But it could also have been apple butter or some other kind of jelly. Or honey. Or maybe even pancake syrup. Like I said, he had it down–he liked “mixing it up.”

And then he really did start stirring up the peanut and the sweet additive of choice. When it reached just the right consistency, then he started spreading it on the bread. It was usually white bread, of course. Sometimes it was saltine crackers, but usually bread. He topped it off with another slice, and with a glass of milk, he was set. There was never any peanut butter left over–he always got just the right amount for one sandwich and that’s all he ever ate. And he cleaned up after himself. What a guy.

I don’t remember what I ate–I know it wasn’t peanut butter. I really didn’t like peanut butter. I had a roommate who ate peanut butter for breakfast which I thought was slightly gross–she probably thought the same thing about my eggs and toast. I’ve grown to like peanut butter very much. But I remember my brother eating it often–he loved it. The peanut butter in my cabinet had the magic 21111 number. I probably won’t get around to sending in the lid, but I’ve pulled the jar out and bought a new one.

Amazing what the talk of salmonella can bring back.

Remember this?

Yesterday I got the letter saying I wasn’t a blood relative and I wasn’t qualified to have these records.

I am not happy. So, of course, I called ‘em up. I tried being nice, being reasonable, being mad, being loud, being rational, being irrational–nothing worked. They just kept saying someone like the parents or children of these folks were the only ones qualified to order death certificates before 25 years had lapsed. Well, their parents have been dead since the 1970’s, but that had no effect. Two of the four had no children and their spouses are dead. Their living siblings are not exactly able to go through this process–one with dementia is in a veteran’s home, another is in a nursing home, and the third is a young 78 still farming.

I asked how they would know if the person sending in the request was really a sibling. They kept spouting the company line–I began to wonder if it was code for “Lie on your next application and we’ll send them to you.”

So I called my uncle and asked him if he would sign the requests and send them in for me. He said he would–but he also asked when I was going to get my great-aunt Margaret Cooper Crabtree’s memoirs published.

I hate it when that happens. quid pro quo?