"He Didn't Do His Farming at the Tavern"

Earlier this week I dug into the box of family history salvaged from my mother's place when she died nearly five years ago. I'd never bothered to look at it before Wednesday, the day before my 4th-grader's Ellis Island project was due. 

I always work better with a deadline.

My favorite line from a letter written by my Grandma Anderson, when my Mom and I were compiling the histories more than two decades ago, was the one about my Great Uncle Jack Martin, who, according to his niece-in-law, my Grandma A., "never lost any money farming because he didn't do his farming at the tavern." I'm not sure if that was supposed to be a compliment or simply a slam on the relatives who lost their farms in the Depression and the years following, all who and ended up becoming successful railroad men.

The box is rich with history, although there are a lot of holes I need to fill. I'm hoping an uncle on my Dad's side can fill in the details for the Bennetts, but it'll be a little more difficult for the Thompson/Anderson/Hogle side of the family, as my mother was an only child; her mother had been adopted (although we do have stories of her biological mother, including the one of her stealing my grandmother, forcing my great grandparents to move from Minnesota to North Dakota to try get away from her!); and my grandfather was also adopted, but never legally, after his biological mother died a few month after giving birth to him, her 10th child, in the flu pandemic in 1914; so things are a bit of a mess here).

For Luke's project, I sent him to school with a picture of the trunk, pictured here, that my Great Grandmother Anderson (then a Hansen) brought with her on her voyage, alone, from Norway to America at the tender age of 17. She came in steerage and went through Ellis Island, according to the notes I've discovered.

I also sent with him the same woman's wedding dress. Her actual wedding dress! Why was that in a Sharper Image paper sack in my flood-friendly basement?! Horrors! (I am now in the market for a dress dummy I can use to display this simple but beautiful $6 JCPenny dress worn in 1910 in Ransom County, ND.)

Luke was required to include 'three interesting facts' about his ancestors in his report. He included a story of his great, great, great grandfather (Thompson) who was shot to death and robbed of $300 of gold he'd withdrawn from his bank before walking 28 miles to Fargo, ND, with the intention of buying farming supplies. He included a story of my great great grandfather Anderson, who is said to not even be an Anderson ... that his name was likely a form of Buvick when he came to America but was allegedly told there were too many people already with that name, so he had to change it. We don't know if this is true, but I've heard of similar stories of immigrants having to change their names upon entering the country. And he included the story of my Nora (Hansen) Anderson's emigration from Norway, with said trunk, with a job lined up as a farmer's wife's helper in North Dakota.

So a routine 4th grade project has reignited my interest in my ancestry. Of course, this family tree project will have to get in line, right after pulling together my boys' baby books, cleaning out my linen closet and learning to knit.

Wish me luck. I might just be successful, if I can keep away from the tavern.

Cheers!

Memory Road Trip

Of my most vivid, positive memories of growing up the only daughter and middle (favorite) child of John & Luella, our weeks-long, summer road trips are among my favorites.  Granted, I'm not sure I thought so at the time. My father didn't meet a roadside historical marker he didn't want to stop to see. My mother wouldn't let my father pass a greasy, local diner where she might find a reputable BLT or piece of cherry pie. (This picture is from one of those trips, but none of my folks' slides -- which I recently had digitized -- were dated or marked in any helpful way, so I have no recollection of where we might be.)

These were the days before straight-jacket-styled car seats and booster seats, so my two brothers and I were free to annoy one another in the back seat of our purple-ish Ford LTD (complete with "UffDa" license plates and stickers in the back window of every state we'd visited). Lines were drawn dividing the back seat into three parts, but, with a brother younger than me by nearly eight years, difficult to enforce. We enjoyed the requisite road trip games, including trying to spot license plates from the most 'foreign' state, or, even, crazy as it seemed then, from a province of Canada. Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall was sung. A lot. (And no one thought it might be inappropriate at the time.) No hand-held computer games, no cell phones, no I-Pods. Not even much radio, considering all of our trips started in Chicago and ventured west. Lots of dead air there. 

Central Kansas was always on the route, given that's where my father's family was. North Dakota was usually on the itinerary, to visit with the few members of my mother's family. In between these requisite family visits we saw the Badlands, the Rockies, Yellowstone, Mt. Rushmore. I didn't appreciate any of it at the time (just being honest here), but I do now.

What I do remember valuing was staying at various Holiday Inns and Howard Johnsons, where we would eat puffed Cheetos and drink root beer poolside with my Dad. My mother didn't like the water. She'd spent too much time, and money, on her hair to want to ruin it. But my Dad was all about the end-of-the-day swim with my brothers and me. Like most dads of that era, he spent a lot of time at work and not a lot of time doing dad things, non-disciplining dad things, that is. 

Monday would have been his 78th birthday, if he hadn't died too soon at 69. I'm not terribly sentimental, but I am very sorry my sons didn't know him. And I do miss him.

So, to John R., cheers.