Years before I married Farmer Gary, the first person I spoke with each morning was Ron. He was the morning deejay at WTCJ radio and I was the morning newsperson. This was back in the day when many small towns had their own radio station. Tell City, Indiana’s family-owned radio station had been around since the late 1940s. It was the summer of 1980, I’d finished college and was starting my first job. Before long I was put on the…
This story is dedicated to anyone who has ever become frustrated working on a family tree: Don’t give up. A year ago, we put together the story of Harry M. Nightingale. He fought – and died – in World War I. His connection to our family tree is through his widow’s second husband. We’re family. Harry wrote an incredible letter home while overseas. His mom gave it to the local paper to share with its readers. (That letter is reprinted…
There’s a handy-dandy feature on Ancestry‘s app that keeps the user up to date on birthdays and anniversaries. As long as the person is in your family tree, their name will pop up a day or two before that special day to remember. Noticing that Grandma Vayo‘s maternal grandparents’ anniversary was today, it felt like a good time to write about them. Only their anniversary was yesterday. That’s according to one document: Onze Juillet. Another marriage document: Douze Juillet. Onze…
The term “cousin bait” is intriguing. What it means, in my case anyway, is that a magnificent bonus while researching your family tree is connecting with a living relative you’ve never met. One example is second-cousin Richard, from Grandpa Cassidy’s side of the family. Another is third-cousin Irishman Adrian, who recognized a painting of his family’s homestead during an online search, which led him to this blog. And now … way over on the other side of our family tree…
Why would I dream about taking just one bite of a sandwich? And a Reuben sandwich at that! Farmer Gary is not a fan of rhetorical questions. He just shrugged in response. I so rarely remember my dreams that it was hard to let this one go. Until yesterday, neither Gary nor I had ever tasted a Reuben sandwich. He’s a fan of sauerkraut, but served with pork. Ham hocks and sauerkraut were a treat growing up, he tells me….
My godmother’s name fascinated me as a little kid. Her father’s name was George. Her mother’s name was Anna. And so they named their younger daughter Georgeanna. That formula sure wouldn’t have worked out as nicely for me. Haroldjoan doesn’t quite slide off the tongue as easily as Georgeanna. Born in Hartford, Connecticut, in 1932, Georgeanna Helen Lane grew up attending Catholic schools. It was at St. Joseph College that she met Mom. Sharing an interest in poetry, writing, books,…
He was assigned the rank of Musician in the U.S. Army when he enlisted from York County, Maine, during the Spanish American War. I asked Farmer Gary, who reads a lot of military-history books, if that meant he was a drummer. “Bugler, probably,” was his reply. That makes sense. From the start, I’ll confess to not (yet) finding a place for Augustus in our family tree. The more I dig around, though, the more it becomes clear his story is…
Another piece of paper so old it’s turning brown and brittle. It’s newsprint, which seems to age as it comes off the press. But still, 1980 was 46 years ago. This is a poem Mom wrote in 1977. When her alma mater asked for a poem to print in the Summer 1980 edition of their Alumnae News, I’m not sure they expected this: the cold eye the cold eye sleeps on sunday the devil turns his back the witch sits…
Nowadays, some tuck away good ideas and clever sayings on Pinterest. Others create a Vision Board to manifest their personal future. A hundred years ago, though? My grandpa had a Clippings Book. This 6″x9″ idea keeper is a scrapbook, really. It’s fascinating to gently leaf through the brittle pages and see what was important to Grandpa as a young man. Dad’s dad (my Grandpa Vayo, see The family scholar for his story) was born in Maine in 1899. As a…
When I wrote about my godfather, Bob Caplinger, last year (“The West Virginia Hillbilly”), I had a feeling there was something more. There was something else my parents had saved and I just had to find it. There it was, in amongst our family archives. In 1991, Bob wrote an autobiographical short story, dedicated it to my parents and younger brother, and dropped it in the mail to them. Here it is: SATURDAY NIGHT IN CAPITALS A short story by…