Passing on the Story

The beautiful thing about riding in a car over many miles is the ability to read, re-read, and catch up on reading all of the books you have on your e-reader. I have read so many great fiction, non-fiction, and educational books that my mind is bursting.

One of the books I recently finished, Elizabeth Gilbert's, "Big Magic". A great book about creativity and living a creative life. In it she talks (at least I think it's in this book... maybe it isn't but here's a free advertisement for Elizabeth Gilbert anyway!) about our stories, the magic of creating that story, and telling that story. Everyone has a story, and everyone wants to tell you about it! Spoiler alert! I'm no different!

I have a brother, but no sister. I come from a long line of women with brothers but no sisters. I gave birth to two boys and one girl, so I have passed that tradition down to the next generation (willingly or not, lol).  The thing about family history- we all have one, we all have an interesting one, and most of us never listen closely enough to hear it. 

I have been thinking about stories a lot lately, particularly in relation to teaching, but also in relation to life. A story is a living entity. We tell it, and each time we do, we grow that story. And if we're lucky, someone else will take that story and add on to it with their own flare, and that story grows even more, maybe someday becoming a "traditional folktale" as we talk about in kindergarten. However, sometimes we tell that story, and it never goes any further, and that story dies. If I think too much, I tend to overwhelm myself with the thoughts of stories that are floating around with no where to land anymore, the stories that no one ever told again. 

Being back home, I've been trying to soak in some of the stories my Mom is telling me about my family history. I admit to not listening as closely to my Dad when he would tell his stories, and though I can't go back and change that, I can listen as my Mom shares. And as it turns out, I've got a pretty interesting family history!

Here are some fun things I've learned since I got to town:

My hometown, Rockford, Illinois, was always known for being a big Swedish city. One look through a phonebook (back when those were a thing) would yield you pages upon pages of Johnson's, Nelson's, and Peterson's, among other names. But it wasn't as if the Swedes were welcomed with open arms by the original settlers. As a matter of fact, there is a Scandinavian Cemetery not a mile from an "English" cemetery because back 100 years ago, Swedes weren't allowed to be buried in the other cemetery, so they started their own. In the true spirit of Scandinavia, anyone can be buried in their cemetery.

To make this a little more personal though, my maternal grandfather (William Howard King) wanted to name my mother Donna. He changed it at the last minute to Sharon because, "the Swedes were naming their daughters Donna." When going through all of the papers at the old house, we found this proof:

And when my mother married my father? Her father was none too happy she was marrying a Swede *and* a cop! Two strikes against my dad! Not sure if there was ever a third strike or not as Howard passed away 2 or 3 years before I was born.

We found more interesting things going through all of the papers. This was another favorite:

This is a picture of my great-great(?) "Aunt Rosella and her husband who tried to kill her". Apparently, he was having an affair and wanted to "take care" of the situation. Also, apparently, he used insufficient poison, because she lived. She ending up living with my great-grandmother and her family until the day she died. She would never look at magazines because they might advertise alcohol, and Rosella was an ardent member of the Salvation Army Church.

(This isn't new information to me, but it goes along with some of the other fun family information I know) Meredith Wilson, the man who wrote the musical Music Man was married to a cousin of my great grandmother. Apparently, though, she was the second wife and the "other woman" in an earlier affair with Mr. Wilson.

My maternal grandmother, Helen, has her own story that is as interesting and as heartbreaking as they come. Her father died when she was 10, leaving her mother to raise a young girl alone as a single mother back when there was no social safety net. As a result, Helen spent more time with her own grandmother (Grandma Fitz) than her mother, Clara. Clara was busy trying to make money at a time when wages were low, and even lower for women. Clara was a "Rosie the Riveter" during WW 2, working on shipbuilding in Oregon during the war. My great-great grandmother, Grandma Fitz, who took care of Helen, lived to be over 100 years old (there is a picture somewhere with her holding me, her namesake). I think Grandma Fitz spent the last 25 years of her life knitting and tatting day and night, because I have now inherited hundreds of doilies, afghans, and quilts.

Helen eventually grew up and, according to my Mom, was one of the smartest, most talented women she knew. She married Howard and had Mom (see above), and my Uncle Terry. But she was not a stay at home mom in the spirit of June Cleaver. She could have done many things, Mom said. She should have been a fashion designer, but when you were born poor and had no access to education, and a woman, careers like that weren't for you (I still have, and wear, a coat Helen made for my mom in the early 60's. A black and white houndstooth walking jacket. I absolutely love it). She did what she could, wherever she could find work. Mom remembers her doing hair in her basement when Mom was little, though that was the only time she did that. She went on to many other jobs as the years went on.

Eventually Helen and Howard divorced (something unheard of at that time), and she re-married a man in the Coast Guard (mom wasn't too fond of her step-father), and had my Uncle George. They lived in many coastal towns, including Honolulu, Hawaii, where mom eventually graduated from high school.

They moved back to the main 48 states, dropped my mom off at nursing school in Rockford (where mom remained) and moved to Florida.

While in Florida in the late 50s, Helen worked on the assembly line for the Vanguard Project (57-59), though she wasn't supposed to know that. According to Mom, she figured it out, though. The story goes that Howard Hughes was touring the plant, but didn't have the proper credentials. Helen, being the astute employee, but also not knowing who it was, reported him and told him he had to leave the floor. The plant manager was quite upset with her, but Howard Hughes himself said, "Don't worry! With that ethic, you can work in one of my plants anytime!" So, yes, my grandmother once kicked out Howard Hughes!

After living in Florida, they moved to Delaware, where she separated from her second husband (again, unheard of in the 60s), and raised her youngest son as a single mother. Here is where her story goes from an interesting life to a sad ending. On July 26, 1967, Helen Hall, in Detroit on business, became the oldest victim of the Detroit Riots. She was in her hotel room when a stray bullet went through the window, and struck her in the chest. 

Listening to these stories, and knowing my own mother's story- a working woman in a time when women were expected to stay home, mom was a nurse. In the early 70s she asked for a raise and was told, "You have a husband at home to take care of you, you don't need a raise." Mom got a raise. She worked until a few month shy of her 80th birthday. She, herself, has had quite the life.

Maybe someday, when I am older, I will have the chance to sit and tell her story to my own daughter, who can pass it on to hers. And my daughter? Her birthday- July 26, 1995. Exactly 28 years after her great grandmother was killed.