Grandpa's Birthday

They say women marry men who are like their father. I can't say this has been obvious to me in the past but it might be possible; I need to consider this a bit more. The thought crossed my mind the other day that Bill was a lot like Grandpa: kind, patient, a tinkerer, someone who loves good, well made clothes for a very long time, sociable, a do-er more than a thinker.

Grandpa's father was a blacksmith. I remember reading or hearing somewhere that blacksmiths had an important position in their community, in part because they tended to be quite strong men who mastered fire and metal, but mainly because they were the makers of the tools that all the other craftspeople relied upon having. They were also frequently the repair shop for many household goods.  Not to mention that horses were the made mode of transport of their day and they were the source of horseshoes. The 1880 census says that Grandpa's father was a plough smith, so he was supporting the source of food. The 1900 census tells us he was now called a blacksmith, also that he immigrated from Germany in 1868, at the age of 27. He was 53 and his wife, Catherine 40, when Grandpa was born.

Grandpa's mother died when he was 11, in 1905, and his father when he was 17, in 1911 (and I thought I was young when mine died: 32 and 34). He was the youngest of eight children.  Three of Grandpa's siblings died before he was born: a girl aged one, another girl aged 16 (along with her twin babies) and a boy aged three. The rest of the family reached maturity. The last to die was Grandpa's eldest brother, John, who predeceased Grandpa by 10 years. I was seven years old when John died and I remember Grandpa being very sad. He said the John had largely raised him. 

I always count myself very lucky to have had Grandpa in my life. He is still one of the best men I've ever known.

Daddy's Birthday

I just realised I don't think about my Dad so much as I once did, which makes me sad. It also seems rather odd since I work at finding his birth father every day for at least a couple of hours. I sometimes get sick of it and feel it is a waste of time but most of the time I'm pretty determined to crack it. I wonder what makes me so obsessed about this. I think it is because I'm trying to replace what someone 'stole' from me. A decade or so ago I had a whole family tree, for at least several generations. Then the woman who snapped an illicit photo at the Minnesota Historical Society came along and 'chopped' my Dad's side away. I'm fighting to get that whole tree back. I think once that's cracked I might go back to having a more normal life, but don't hold you're breath. I only ever manage a faint facsimile of that concept.

I know quite a bit about my Dad's Norwegian mother and she has sparked my interest in Norwegian culture. As it happens, we are learning Fair Isle knitting at one of my craft groups. I subscribe to a newsletter called Craftsmanship and this month one of the articles is about a Norwegian woman, Annemor Sundbo (except that o should have a forward slash on top of it), dubbed 'the sweater detective'. It tells that she approached a man who had a wool mill because she wanted to study the weaving techniques but instead he sold her the mill and along with it came tons (actual tons!) of old knitted items. She studies the patterns in those as well as in old paintings, noting the variation of patterns. She is trying to get the special sheep that were bred for Norwegian wool, said to be especially hard wearing, to be raised again in quantity. 

Three things struck me from this article. First, her passion for all things wool and where that has led her is the stuff of fantasies for many interested in wool / craft / textiles / history. She's written award winning books and I expect I may try to obtain one at some point. Secondly, the discussion about the variation in knitting patterns from village to village sounded much like the knitted ganseys from this part of the world: wives knitted heavy woolen sweaters for their fishermen using the distinctive pattern developed for her village. Should the man be washed overboard and the body recovered, this pattern would aid in having the body returned to the right village. Grim, isn't it? But it makes perfect sense. It also rather reinforces the idea that Sundbo puts forward that there is a 'spiritual bond' between the maker and the wearer. Norwegian patterns have historical, mythic meanings. Which brings me to the third point. The article mentions Selbu, referring to the popular eight pointed flower called the Selbu rose pattern. Selbu is the village from which my Dad's birth mother's family originated. The pattern is now considered typically Norwegian, but Sundbo says it predates the mid-1800s when it debuted in Selbu and actually dates back to medieval times in Europe and even before in the middle east. The octagonal star has been around for a very long time.

From ThorNews, which I am now following!

I've not got very far on my Fair Isle, it being a rather complex pattern in spite of only using two colours on any given row. I've decided to use the Selbu Rose somewhere in this small bag I'm making. Should I live long enough to finish it, I'll be sure to show it to you. It makes perfect sense to use this pattern in my Fair Isle project given that the place, Fair Isle is pretty much square in between Norway and Scotland. And once I have the Selbu rose mastered, I can move on to the Norwegian 'lice' pattern (or not).

In addition to thinking of my Dad (as opposed to his genetic material) I'm also remembering his brother / half-brother, Albert, born one day and three years earlier than my Dad. Albert drowned in the Mississippi River at the age of 24. I have to wait until 2022 to access his adoption records and learn more about his story.

Mary's Birthday

Today my Dad's birth mother, Mary, would have been ... 139!  It sounds crazy to write, but she was 39 when she had him, he was 38 when I was born and I will be 62 the end of this month.

She was born on this day in 1879 on the family farm at Cerro Gordo, in Lac qui Parle County, Minnesota. Cousin Don kindly shared this photo of the barn on that property. The barn was notable  not just for its enormous size but for its amenities. Apparently there was a ramp to the upper level so that horses and a hay wagon could go 'upstairs'. There was also a turntable to allow them to exit facing front rather than backing out. 

I mentioned last month on the blog for my Dad's birthday that I had a copy of his adoption file. The phrase that has haunted me since was from one of Mary's letters to the officialdom that removed her children from her care in 1919. Having learned that her elder son died, aged 24, by drowning she was frantic to know the whereabouts of my Dad. She says

 'my bright happy days are taken away'. 

That letter was written in 1939, when she was 60, twenty years after she lost her children and was committed to a mental institution for eight years because she had two children out of wedlock. 

How much of these decisions were concerning the welfare of the children and how much it concerned upholding the morals of the middle-class Lutheran society, that of her background, I may never know. I am, however, awaiting receipt of what I think will be the last of the documentation from officialdom, about the Bethany Home for unwed mothers into which I understand she and her children were initially taken. 

I can't for one moment regret the grandparents who adopted my Dad and helped raise me. On the other hand, this woman who had such a painful life intrigues me. I wonder how much I might have inherited from her, what I might have learned from her, had things been different. I can't know any of that of course, but what I can do is to honour her memory and to uncover as much about her as possible.

Grandma's Birthday

It's been a funny sort of year pertaining to paternal grandma's. I write this for today to remember the Grandma who helped raise me.  On the other hand I've spent a significant amount of time searching for and learning about my genetic paternal grandmother.

I've spent a lot of time thinking about family and how I define it. Many times I've said that my friends are my family, in part because I haven't a large number of immediate family members left and also because I haven't a great deal in common with those family members who remain. However, for all our differences, and in spite of how fascinating it is to discover the stories of my genetic family, my 'real' family members are the ones I grew up knowing. The feeling of family comes most strongly to me when sharing memories of those loved ones long gone. I can listen to reminiscences about my parents and grandparents, about my aunt Rita for a very long time. 

I hope I take after my genetic grandmothers, as one lived to age 91 and the other to nearly 97! However, the older I get the more I appreciate my Grandma's qualities. 

I've been working through the pile of stuff in the attic while the weather is mild enough to make it bearable. It is as much a curse as a blessing to have a space like this. There have been times when I felt a bit dizzy at the top of the step ladder, looking around at the accumulation of shelves, boxes, bags, oddments, Bill's luggage collection, my canning jar collection. Christmas stuff aside I have at times looked around and worried I might have a DSM-5 code looming. However, with my new environmentally-friendly standards for clothing fabrics and a renewed commitment to wearing 'my' colours/contrast, etc., there has been a steady stream of upper-body strengthening donations to the Relate charity shop in Whitley Bay. 

Never thought I'd say bright sun was a nuisance...

Two items I came across that will be always remain are these aprons that belonged to Grandma. They were Christmas gifts from one of her sisters, I'm pretty sure from Myrtle who was her younger sister by three years. Grandma had a sister, Millie, just one year older but Millie died in 1961 when I was five. Myrtle outlived Grandma by nearly a decade.



I remember a green one and may run across it some time. I see there are some tiny holes in the brown apron which, as they are about 50 years old, I think can be forgiven. Given the long life of decent fabric I consider 'disposable clothing' an obscenity.




I rarely remember to wear aprons when I cook, a habit I keep thinking I'll change. However, when I do don one of the aprons hanging on the back of the kitchen door, it covers both above and below the waist. I always thought these little half-aprons sort of a house-wifey costume. Then again maybe in the 50s women weren't as sloppy as I am.




I was just thinking it was a shame I never wear these aprons and it suddenly dawned on me that I am developing the skills to cut a top piece and attach it to the bottom part. I remembered that the hems on these are quite deep - 4 or 5" - and so I could steal a bit of the hem to make a matching trim on the top. Or I could go all out and do some red and green cross-stitch. Pink, red and green aren't colours I would have mixed, but I must admit the roses are a nice design. As it happens I have quite a bit of plain white cotton that could be shaped with a loop for the head and some kind of trim. When and if this happens, I will be sure to share them with you. I can see a deadline of her next birthday post would be useful. 




The other thing I've done this past year is to knit dishcloths (no photos to hand at this moment so that will have to be another post). We have stopped buying sponges that wear out in a week. I've made dishcloths for Christmas gifts (not sure how well that went over). 




I gave one to my sister-in-law, Jane, when I knocked off a couple during our holiday together in Switzerland last May. I took a couple to our Thursday night craft group since there never seemed to be a sponge around for washing tea cups and I began to worry about the hygiene levels there. I've taken to drinking hot water instead of tea/coffee and though I know tea stains aren't important, I was pleased to be able to scrub a few off. I think some of the ladies at the craft group were pleased as well, from both a crafty and a cleaning point of view.




I know Grandma would be very happy to know some of her ideas have stuck with me. I also know that she wanted very much to be remembered after she passed, and so she will be for as long as I can see to that. 

Grandpa's Birthday

I've been thinking the past few days about what to write in remembrance of the three people born in September who were precious to me. The first birthday is of my Grandpa, born 10 September 1894.

I remembered Grandpa's bank box that I've kept all these years. It has fascinating bits in like his driving licenses from Oklahoma and from Wisconsin, both of which say he was 5'10" and weighed 185 lbs. There are legal papers for their burial sites in Minneapolis (which were never used), his WWII classification notice, a certified copy of his birth certificate from 1908 and another a few years later for Grandma. I found a photo she gave him of herself for his birthday in 1941. Also the bank book for their savings account. 

Bank books were never part of my life until I did business with a 'building society' here in Britain, probably the closest thing they have here to an American style credit union.  I have had several over the years, though I think they are called 'passbooks' here. 

I was fascinated to learn that Grandpa left over $7,200 in savings when he died. I've always thought that a remarkable feat for someone who was the sole support for his family, self-employed as a portrait photographer. His home and his car were paid off and he left no outstanding debt. It was a joint account belonging to him and Grandma. At his death the money was transferred to a different account with her name alone. Several withdrawals happened soon after, no doubt to pay for her nursing home stay.

Grandma's bank book had a more modern look featuring an image of the Local Federal Savings and Loan. 

Of course it looked a substantial building, something that had existed a long time and would stand forever. Kind of like I used to think of my grandparents.

Local Federal S&L is no more. It was taken over/ merged and moved a number of times then closed. The old building seems gone as well, replaced by a glass or mirrored building called "Leadership Square South". 




I was thinking 'Local Federal' was an oxymoron, but the new name is rather sickening. Just think how proud those men feel though, when they tell you their office is in "Leadership Square". 


The account was opened in 1960 and closed in 1973.  Bill and I reckoned that Grandpa turned 65 in 1959 and so the $2,000 he deposited initially was probably from his business account. I remember him doing the odd portrait photography shoot as late as 1968 and he still had his darkroom in the front bedroom, but not long after that. 

He made both deposits and withdrawals over the 13 years, but the final amount was more over three times more than what he deposited. The value of $1 in 1960 was the same as $8.26 today (so he deposited about $17,000). Sadly, the inflation of the 60s and 70s ate away at his savings, as the value of $1 in 1974 was $5.23 in today's money (still, he had the equivalent of about $38,000). I've not calculated what sort of interest he was earning or how much he deposited vs how much he withdrew. It sounds slightly mental that I might sit down and do such things, but it is a small way of spending time 'with' Grandpa, thinking about him. 

My thought in writing about this is that it is so representative of the kind of man he was: careful, painstaking and frugal. I will likely never be able to create the level of order that he and Grandma had in their home or in their lives (well, aside from my Dad, who was rather a tornado through all that caution), but I often think of them when considering where to put things and whether to keep something I don't have a place for.

If Grandpa had any character flaws I was never aware of them. I remember him as the most patient person I ever met, aside from perhaps my Mom (and I know several of her faults). So, I'm remembering Grandpa today and sometime this month I will be making meatloaf in his honour.

What I Know about Marit

Anyone who has followed the history of my Dad's adoption story knows that someone gave me a photo of a ledger from the state orphanage in Minnesota a few years ago. It gave his birth name (or it could have been a name given by the orphanage, but it turns out it probably wasn't) and my grandparents names as the adoptive family.

I did a DNA test, spent hours (months!) online searching and found his birth mother, Marit, or Mary as she was known. Once I knew who she was, there was a wealth of information on the internet on genealogical sites, including several family photos. A distant cousin, Stephen, found Mary's obituary for me. A 2nd cousin, Don, has shared some beautiful photos and some of his memories of Mary and her family. 

Mary is in the top left corner. This was taken before 1921.

Mary's parents and grandfather immigrated from a village in Norway called Selbu in the 1860s and their migration story is well documented in a book of immigrants' stories, published in 1921 and another in 1931. As it happens, the person who compiled all these stories was Mary's Uncle John, a Lutheran minister. According to the story, Mary's father and some of his cousins worked in logging camps - a dangerous occupation - until they had enough money to buy land. I gather that land ownership in Norway was increasingly scarce and families were starving trying to make a living farming on the increasingly small plots of land apportioned to them. 

Mary was one of seven children, the eldest of five who lived to adulthood, she had two sisters and two brothers. Oddly (to me anyhow), only one of the five ever married, a younger sister, Jennie. It was a descendent of Jennie who led me to my Mary, though I had to re-create her family tree to figure it out. She had entered the names of her mother- and father-in-law as her own parents and this was very confusing. 

Confirmation picture (Lac qui Parle Lutheran church); Carl is on far right of front row.

Mary was born - on this day - in 1879 in Lac qui Parle County. This means 'lake that talks' and I thought it a lovely place name. It is located on the western border of Minnesota, next to South Dakota. Her father had managed to purchase 160 acres in 1873, near the town of Cerro Gordo. She is on the farm with other family members in the 1880, 1885 and 1895 US and Minnesota Census records. Her medical records, obtained from the Minnesota Historical Society, indicate that when she was 9, in about 1888, she suffered from 'brain fever'. It seems likely that this was either viral or bacterial meningitis. She was lucky to have survived, but it apparently left her somewhat brain damaged. She attended school until she was 18 years old, but only attained a 7th grade education.

Jennie's confirmation picture. She is standing on the far right. Jennie's face is round with a square forehead, just like mine and my dad's - even Bill noticed this.

That said, in 1910 when she was 31, she is shown as the 'head of household' in the US Census, running a boarding house with her two brothers in Minneapolis. One can't help but wonder who supplied information to the Census taker. Did she see herself as the head, being older? Or was this a joke by one of her brothers? Or was she in fact the person who was running the boarding house? 

In 1911, Mary's sister Jennie got married to a Norwegian cousin. They moved west just over the border into Grant County, South Dakota. In fact, there is a great deal of intermarriage in this Norwegian branch of my family - Marit's parents were also first cousins. Intermarriage was common because small communities in Norway are often isolated by the fjords that separate them and then because immigrants often cling to the old ways when they can. Generations of intermarriage is called 'endogamy' and it makes distant cousins appear to be much closer than they actually are, the total shared DNA being larger than it would be if marriage occurred between members of different communities, 'exogamy'.

Mary's paternal grandfather. Cousin Don - who kindly shared this photo with me - remarked on how strong and worn his hands look. Definitely the hands of someone who has laboured long and hard.

In addition to ties to Revillo, in Grant County SD, at some point each of Marit's two brothers - and possibly other members of this family - obtained farmland in the North West of North Dakota, in Williams County. Mary's obituary says that she also homesteaded in North Dakota for a while. I wonder if this was perhaps the story that was put about by her family to explain her long absence from home...

On 18 Apr 1915, Mary gave birth to a baby boy, named Albert. Albert is named after his father, Albert Peterson. Uncle Albert's birth certificate says his father was born in 1876 in Sweden and was a carpenter. Mary's address appears on the birth certificate but it is different to the boarding house of 1910. She was 36 years old.

On 17 Apr 1918 - almost exactly 3 years to the date! - Mary gave birth to my father when she was 39 years old. No father's name appears on that birth certificate, not even my Dad's given name - which was, according to the orphanage, James. Mary has yet a different address. I don't have any DNA evidence that Albert Peterson was my Dad's father. In fact, I don't have any trail of any paternal grandfather line to follow, at least not yet.

Mary's Uncle John - the Lutheran minister responsible for compiling the fabulous books about the families who emigrated from Selbu. Thanks again to cousin Don for sharing this.

I can't help but wonder - well, loads of things - but to start with, how is it that both Mary's boys were born in mid-April? Counting backwards I wonder what happened (who visited) in July? Bearing children in her mid-to-late 30s doesn't fit the stereotype in my head, which is more about teenage pregnancy. Was Mary in a long term relationship, or did she fall prey to more than one man who took advantage of her vulnerability?

On the 22nd of Mar 1919, aged 11 months, my father was placed in the Owatonna Public School (the orphanage). His 4-year-old brother Albert joined him there on the 31st of March 1919. On the 22nd of February 1919, Mary was committed to the School for the Feeble Minded and Colony for Epileptics, in Faribault MN because - according to the record - she had borne two illegitimate children.  She wasn't quite 40 years old. Her hospital record is older than 75 years, so I was able to purchase it. The record lists all her family members, so I was certain I had the right person. It says she has a mental age of about 10, that she is 'excitable' but her habits are 'cleanly'. Her physical condition is poor. The state is supporting Mary because her father, Peter, is listed as 'indigent'. There is another name on those papers, a William W Hodson, who turns out to be connected to the child welfare agency of the day, ominously named the "Board of Control". Her unmarried sister Carrie and brother Carl are living with the parents in Marietta, MN, but brother Emil is farming in Williston, ND at the time of Marit's commitment. 

My favourite photo - also from Don - of Mary, Carrie & Jennie. 

The 1920 Census shows Mary as an inmate in the mental institution. Her father Peter is living on a farm in Augusta, rather than Cerro Gordo, still in Lac Qui Parle County, along with his wife, his single daughter and two sons.

My father was adopted by my grandparents less than a year later, in January 1920, in time for him to appear on the 1920 US census, just as he would have been had he been born to them. They may or may not have been told about Albert. It seems likely that they would have been. However, Albert was old enough to know he was adopted and I know they kept my Dad's adoption a secret from him. This wouldn't have worked with Albert, so Albert was left behind.

Mary's father, Peter, died in 1921, aged 75. Albert was adopted by an unknown family in 1922. His records won't be available until 2022. He will have been about 7 years old by then. I'm sure that he always knew he had been adopted. I wonder if he remembered his birth mother or his little brother. 

Mary's Statistical Record tells me she was 5'7" tall (1.7m) and weighed 130 pounds (59 kg), so she was relatively tall and slender. The records also indicate that Mary's IQ was tested a number of times. In 1921, she is said to have had an IQ of 73 and a mental age of nearly 11; in 1923 the numbers were 60 and 9 years; in 1927 her IQ had dropped to 56. It's clear that she lacked any intellectual stimulation in the 'School'. Only one 'vacation' is recorded for Mary, a month from 28 Jul - 28 Aug 1927, visiting her family. Presumably this was a trial period to see if she could leave the institution and rejoin her family. If this record is complete, she had no other vacations during her 8 years of incarceration.

In 1927, at the age of 48, and presumably because she could no longer bear children, Mary was released from the mental institution into the care of her youngest brother, Carl (even though her mother was still living - it was a patriarchal society, after all). If her IQ had dropped, at least her physical condition had improved during her stay, from 'fair' to 'good', so it is possible that she was unable to adequately care for herself and two small children on her own.

The 1930 Census shows Mary living with her mother, sister and two brothers in Augusta, MN. 

The 1940 Census shows Mary living alone in Minneapolis in a rented room, that she has an 8th grade education and she works as a maid. In 1940, Mary's mother, sister and two brothers still live together in Augusta. This suggests to me that she was a pretty independent woman. I wonder if she resented having lost her children and if she felt her immediate family had a role in this. Perhaps her uncle, the Lutheran Reverend had had a hand in the decision. Or it is possible that the laws of Minnesota were such that a woman couldn't be allowed to bear children out of wedlock and keep them.

My 2nd cousin, Don, first said of Mary 'she wasn't the sharpest tack in the box', which didn't much surprise me. He seemed to remember her as difficult to get along with, opinionated, perhaps a bit arbitrary. Then again, she was 65 years old when he was born and 20 years older when she came to live in his mother's house.  Later he told me she had made the local newspaper as she had enrolled in a mechanics course as an old lady. She had it in mind to help her brothers on the farm. She seems to have been capable with her hands, as Don says he has a wooden chest that she made and did a fair job of it.

One of the ways that he thought her stubborn was that she would never use the bus system in Minneapolis but would instead walk everywhere quite quickly. I can't help but wonder if this didn't add to her longevity!

According to Mary's obituary she retired from work at the age of 86 and moved in with her niece, Mabel.  Don says she went blind in her 80s, he remembers her getting out of her chair and feeling her way along the walls. I gather this presented challenges to her niece for keeping her safe. Mary was also hard of hearing and spoke in a loud voice. I'm full of admiration for Mabel for taking care of her difficult aunt. 

Mary's mother (also Mary) died in 1941, aged 86. Mary's married sister, Jennie, died in 1957, aged 70; her other sister in 1958, aged 76. The two unmarried brothers, Emil and Carl, died in 1963 (aged 79) and 1966 (aged 76). 

Mary lived to almost 97 years of age, dying in 1976. She outlived her parents and younger siblings by 10-20 years, outlived the couple who adopted her youngest son. My dad died in 1988, not knowing he was adopted and not remembering his birth mother.

Neither Hennepin County nor Steele County (the location of the former orphanage) has my Dad's adoption records. They would appear to have been lost.  I'm still pursuing other possibilities and hope eventually to identify his father - not least because I do wonder what, in a far more perfect world than that of the early 20th century, my Dad's and my surname should actually have been.

My Dad's Birthday

Today would have been my Dad's 99th birthday. My fascination with detecting his past has been one of several reasons I've not been here of late. I've written before about only learning my Dad was adopted when I was in my mid-50's and when nearly everyone who had first hand knowledge was long gone. I'm pretty certain he never knew he was adopted, though he may have suspected. I think now that my grandparents moved from Minnesota to Wisconsin to keep him away from cousins who might tell him. 

The earliest photo of my Dad...at Owatonna?

One of the most astounding things I've discovered is that my Dad had an older brother - I had an Uncle Albert. He is likely a half-brother, but who ever heard of a half-uncle?  

The fact that my Dad and I were both only children always seemed to me to be one of the major things that bonded us. Only-ness seemed to be a defining experience for us. No one else I knew understood the joy of solitude - or of companionable silence - in quite the way my Dad did. Something I ran across recently challenged readers to 'describe themselves in one sentence' and while I didn't know how that might go, I knew it would include 'only child' somewhere, maybe like 'Only child, addicted to reading, colour and textiles...' I'm sure there is more, but those are the first thoughts that come to mind.

Strangely, Albert's birthday is tomorrow (but 3 years earlier than my Dad). The part of Albert's story that I know is nearly as sad as their mother's. My Dad was placed in the Owatonna state school (orphanage) when he was 11 months old; Albert was 4. My Dad was adopted 10 months later; Albert waited 3 years to be adopted. So it is likely he always remembered that he was adopted. Whether he understood why these things happened to him I'll likely never know. Albert's adoption records won't be available until 2022. Hopefully I'll be able to get them then, if they still exist. Minnesota seems rather careless with some of their old records as some of my Dad's seem to have disappeared from Hennepin County.

Albert's birth certificate (now over 100 years old and so available on the Minnesota Historical Society website) says his father was named Albert Peterson, born 1876 in Sweden. My Dad's birth certificate - obtained with the help of the Minnesota Coalition for Adoption Reform - has no father listed, not even his given name (which according to the Owatonna records was James). It only gives his birth date and his mother's address. This is a large brick building near downtown Minneapolis (courtesy of Google) and I'm guessing she rented a room there. 

A maternal cousin in Sydney suggested I join an e-group called DNAAdoption, which I did. They are a group of 'experts' who volunteer to help people interpret their DNA results to follow the trail of their birth parents. I didn't ask for help, but I learned a great deal from them, enough to identify my Dad's mom (it takes hours and hours of work, mind). From that e-group I learned about the American Adoption Congress. They referred me to the Minnesota Coalition for Adoption Reform. Amazingly, a lawyer (who is an adoptive parent) contacted me and has worked on my situation for about about 7 months now, obtaining a court order for the release of records pertaining to my Dad's birth and adoption -- all for FREE! - can you believe it? He's a really nice man - I've spoken with him on the phone. He and his wife are visiting Edinburgh in May and I'm thinking it would be lovely to nip up there and meet him, if only for coffee or dinner or something. 

Getting records is all exceedingly slow and my patience has had a good workout. I'm currently waiting for frozen records to thaw (literally). If I get this right, there was a flood in the Steele County (location of Owatonna) archives and freeze-drying paper apparently is a salvage method. Given the anti-climax that was my Dad's birth certificate, I'm not holding my breath (well, as much not as I can). I'm thinking if anything it might tell me more about Grandma and Grandpa, the adoptive parents, and that would be nice, too. [Update: no records there, frozen or thawed, pertaining to my Dad's adoption].

Sometime around Thanksgiving, I finally worked up the nerve to contact some of my Dad's rather distant paternal cousins. I got a great response and they did their best with their local knowledge to help me find out more. One even came up with my paternal Grandmother's obituary (her name was Mary). (More about her next month, on - you guessed it - her birthday). From that obituary I knew where Mary lived in the last decade of her life. 

They also gave me some phone numbers to try for a 2nd cousin (we have the same great-grandparents). It took me even longer - a couple of months - to work up the nerve to ring him. Then I realised we are none of us getting any younger and I'd best get on with it. Turns out he is also a very nice man. [I begin to wonder why I'm always a little surprised by this.] Don's mother was Mary's niece and Mary lived with them from the mid-1960s until her death in 1976. Don will have been in his 20's and 30's and he remembers Mary. We've been writing back and forth as he recalls various details about her as a person. 

It's been an amazing journey - and I'm still on it. But hopefully I'll find time to squeeze in a post here and there!

Grandma's Birthday

In The Netherlands now, on our way back to the ferry at Amsterdam that takes us about 10  minutes from our front door. Am so ready to be home!  Today is Grandma B's birthday. She was born in 1890. Funny how quickly you can get back to the Victorian age!

Grandma, like Grandpa, was of German descent. I grew up thinking I was, too, but then a few years ago I discovered my Dad had been adopted, though they never told him. My DNA test has since informed me that my Dad was half Norwegian, which has been fun. My Dad wasn't put into the orphanage until he was 11 months old, so I'm thinking there is a story there about his birth family.

However, whatever I find out about my dad's original family, my Grandparents will alwayss be my Grandparents. I couldn't possibly have had better.

So I wanted to remember Grandma on her birthday. (She has more posts under her listing in the index on the right!)

Grandpa's Birthday

I'm in Germany just now, with limited internet and - even worse - only my tablet to peck on. In spite of this, I've been thinking about Grandpa, who was of German ancestry, and wanted to remember his special day. He has been gone 40+ years, but he is far from forgotten.

You can read more about him by clicking on Grandpa B in the index on the right.

Grandpa's Birthday

Grandpa was born on this date in Minneapolis, Minnesota, in 1894, during what came to be called the Gilded Age.  The name came from a book by Mark Twain, published in 1873, calling attention to the major social problems of the day which had been, rather than 'whitewashed', 'gilded' over. It was a period of great wealth for a few, mostly related to development of the railways, but also of great poverty for many. I do worry some times that we are heading back in that direction; I hope I'm wrong.

The year before Grandpa came along, there was the Panic of 1893. I read an excellent book by John Kenneth Galbraith when we were in Budapest, in July this year. I realise The World Economy Since the Wars sounds terribly dry, but I actually found myself reading out bits to Bill and we had loads to talk about and even laughed. I can't recommend it highly enough. It explains - in very readable terms - so much that we all ought to understand. For example, the terms 'panic' (which sounds very tabloid-extreme), 'depression' and 'recession' are all exactly the same thing. The names change as the politicians try to make it sound less serious than it is.

Grandpa was the youngest of nine children. His father was a blacksmith who made ploughs. Grandpa's mother died when he was 10, his father when he was 17. 

Grandpa in 1960-something.

The 1890s were also referred to as the Gay Nineties (in Britain they called it the Naughty Nineties) though things don't sound like they were all that wonderful. The 'hilarity' - because that's what gay meant back then - seems to relate to the writing of Oscar Wilde, the art of Aubrey Beardsley (art nouveau!) and the beginnings of the suffragette movement. 

Of course, a person doesn't really register much until they are much older. I think I may only have started paying attention to the world more when I was about 16. Grandpa would have been 16 in 1910. The census shows that his father, John (aged 69), was a still a blacksmith. His brother, Peter (21), worked as a butcher in a shop. His 28 year old sister, Clara and her 7 year old son, Johnny, lived with them. She had been widowed after only a couple of years of marriage; her son was only one at the time. My dad used to talk about his cousin, Johnny. 

I found some images for 'life in Minnesota in 1910' that are rather evocative and make me better appreciate the broad life experience Grandpa had during his 78 years (1894-1973); the world changed a great deal during his lifetime. 

On a slightly different tangent, Norma (my 2nd cousin) just lost her husband, Art. He passed away at the end of August at the age of 86. They were married for 62 years. I've written about our visits with them. I only spent perhaps a dozen days with Art, if that, but he was lovely. I really enjoyed his company not just because he was kind and interesting but also because his mannerisms and his speech reminded me so much of my Grandpa. 

That little boy, Johnny, who lost his father when he was only 1? He was Norma's father. She was the one who told me the whole family called my Grandpa 'Jake' (short for Jacob), not just my Grandma. Everyone else called him Jack. He and Grandma were married for 60 years. 

I was thinking the other day about 'family traditions' - about traditions of any kind. After listing the obvious holidays, birthdays and anniversaries I was noticing there weren't many we tend to observe in late summer/early autumn. Then I realised that three birthdays fall in September, Grandpa's, Grandma's and Rita's. I was thinking about them and trying to encapsulate what sorts of things each of them loved to do, things they appreciated, things that reminded me of them. My remembrance posts have become a tradition for me for all sorts of reasons, mostly because I'm really grateful I had such loving family members. Not everyone does.

So, sometime in September, I plan to do these things in remembrance of Grandpa:


- Read Mark Twain's The Gilded Age:  A Tale of Today

- Learn more about Aubrey Beardsley and his art

- Make a meatloaf (one of his favourite meals) from one of Grandma's cookbooks, using Grandma & Grandpa's meat grinder

- Play more cards! Grandpa and I spent hours playing spades and hearts, also checkers. He was always very proud when I was able to beat him. I made Bill play gin rummy with me when we were on one of our motor home trips earlier this year (can't remember if it was Budapest or Barcelona). I beat him fairly regularly, which is no way to get him to play more is it? I have a book of card games and we'll have to find one that we can learn together. I love playing cards; Bill only seems to love Spider on his computer...

- Look for some flannel shirts, wool trousers and/or black brogue shoes.

Do you have any traditions to do with your departed family members?

Poor Ad

Today is my Dad's birthday - he would have been 97. I can't really imagine him at that age, he was so poorly at 70. In trying to think of what to write about today I remembered that in the past year my genealogical research has led me to his first wife. Her name was Adeline. I've also had email conversations with her first cousin once removed (her cousin's daughter) in Minneapolis. The cousin's name is Barbara.

I found Ad with my maiden name listed on her mother's obituary. That gave me her maiden name and from there I found Barbara on Ancestry. Together we have pieced that Adeline remarried, had two children, divorced and found (possibly) two other husbands, the last with her til his death in 2000. She died in 2007, outliving my Dad by almost 20 years. Unlike my Dad she has grandchildren. Good for her.

Definitely my Grandma on the right; maybe Adeline on the left?

Although Barbara says Ad was her mother's favourite cousin, she doesn't seem to have any photographs of her. I shared this picture that I think may be her. I got this when we attended a family reunion of Grandma's family a few years back. I love the photo of my Grandma - she was such a clothes horse! - but I was really intrigued by the woman standing next to her. I think it may be Adeline, Grandma's favourite daughter-in-law. Mom told me everyone called her 'Poor Ad' because my Dad had divorced her. I've always been very curious about her. It was good to learn that she had remarried and had children. She ended up in Seattle, Washington which I believe is a beautiful place to live.

My mom in the 1940s.

I don't know if Barbara will ever manage to contact Adeline's children or grandchildren or we'll ever confirm the identity of the photo, but here are the reasons I think this may be Adeline: the clothes put the photo in the 1940s, when my Dad was married to his first wife. They are on a pier at a lake, which means either Minnesota or Wisconsin. The other reason is that the woman is dark haired, has high cheekbones and wears wire framed glasses....just like my Mom. I think that was my Dad's 'type'. 

Did you ever notice that men seem to be drawn to a certain 'type'?

Grandma's Cloths

Initially I was going to do a review of some of Grandma's fabulous clothes in remembrance of her birthday. Then I read last year that I was going to knit a dish cloth and I hadn't yet. So 'clothes' became 'cloths' and I set myself to knitting. 

I'd bought a 40 metre ball of string a couple of months ago for 50 pence. I cast on 40 with who knows what sized wooden needles. Though the photo looks roughly square, it is in fact rectangular folded in half, so I'd try 30 stitches for the next one, if this one works out at all. It took maybe an hour and I read blogs whilst knitting. 

I do recommend learning the 'continental' style of knitting. I've heard this called Russian and German and all sorts, but I think it's all the same. Once mastered it is much less energetic than American style knitting.  One of the ladies at my craft group was interested in my description. When I said that it saved one having to throw the yarn around the needle with the right hand and instead used a knitting needle a bit like a crochet hook, she summarized beautifully by saying 'So instead of being throwers they are hookers?'.  I've become a hooker then...

I think my Grandma would tell me I was a clever girl.

Grandpa's Purse

Actually this isn't Grandpa's purse, it belonged to Bill's mother, Ella.  Made of wool fabric, it has two pockets (I have cash in one, cards in the other) and a 'kissing clasp' closure. I never knew what that was called until recently. It's the shape and the kissing clasp that remind me of Grandpa; his was brown leather and had only one pocket in which he kept his change.

I'm not usually one to count out exact change, not wanting to delay the queue behind me. I remember as a child often seeing Grandpa count out his change and I grew up thinking of this practice as 'being careful' with your money.  Though he and Grandma lived off their Social Security (as did Mom and Daddy - quite possible if your house is paid for, or it was then), they left a bank account with $7,000 (I have the statement in Grandpa's old banker's box).

This is a birthday remembrance of my Grandpa, who was born 120 years ago (gosh that makes me feel old!)

Mom's Birthday

I'm sure I've mentioned at some point that I have over a hundred letters that my Mom wrote to my Dad during the first year of their marriage in 1944-45. My Dad was sent to Italy about a week after they married and she wrote him - and he her - several times a week if not nearly every day. I don't have my Dad's letters, but they would have been nearly impossible to decipher anyhow.

I have this wishful thought of publishing these letters, if only to be sure Mom is remembered after I'm gone. I know they are full of mush, but they have other surprising details about her life and the times as well. A fantasy idea, I'm sure, but I do plan to scan them to share with my Uncle Pat and type them up just in case...

                                                               Tuesday P.M.
                                                               Nov. 21 - 

Hello My Darling --

     Golly but it seems like years since I've heard from you - I wonder how much longer it will be - I miss you so much Lyle and miss your letters too -

     I've written you a letter almost every day - but haven't mailed them - the only kind I've been able to write wouldn't be the kind to send - I'm sure they wouldn't do a thing for your morale - I've been pretty far down in the dumps Lover - but I feel better now - I went home Sat nite and just got back this a.m. - Gee but I enjoyed it. It was like a tonic - you know - Mother didn't really believe we were married - She still isn't sure - She really tickled me - I told her I'd send the certificate for proof - She took your address - She has a new way to send candy overseas - so is going to make you some -

     While I was home I was going thru some things in my cedar chest and came across all those notes you wrote me and I left in various places - drawers pockets etc - while we were at the Cadillac - Remember? I enjoyed them all over again coming across them unexpectedly that way.  Golly Mr B - I sure do love you -

     Mother sort of outdid herself on my Xmas present - I had to go with her to buy it - a fur coat - a satin robe-bed room shoes to match - 2 boxes of stationery a box of matches with my name on them - How about that - nothing but the coat is a Xmas present - The other stuff she just bought at odd times - Oh yes and she wanted to know which we wanted her and Larry to buy us for Xmas - silver or china or crystal - I'm just leaving it up to her - 

     Rec'd a letter from your Mom today - She writes the sweetest letters - I enjoy them very much - 

     I was sure Lou and Mr Dunn would be quite unhappy with me - for staying in Okie City Mon too - but they didn't seem to be. Mother sent them a qt. of wine back - I think that helped a bit -

     Larry is Staff Commander of 7th Fleet - I wrote you that he was on the Admiral's Staff - didn't I? Mother is quite proud of him -



And so on and so forth... 

The strange thing is that although they were both professional photographers, I have no wedding photo for them. I can follow that, given that it was a JP marriage in Ft. Smith, probably in a hurry before he got shipped abroad. However, there are also no photos of them together. The Christmas card below is the closest I can find. There is one photo of me and my Dad when I was an infant, but none of me and Mom. I find that all very odd.  Perhaps what they say about the cobbler's children having holey shoes and the plumber's faucet leaking is true, eh?

Oh well, this is me wishing my Mom a happy would have been 96th birthday.