tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31662944474494571232024-03-14T01:50:34.735-07:00Evermore LegaciesInspiration and help for creating your personal histories and memoirsAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02737164912627675028noreply@blogger.comBlogger9125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166294447449457123.post-1407404142784934272016-05-12T18:53:00.005-07:002016-05-12T18:53:51.379-07:00<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: red;"><b>Read My Diary and I'll Have to Kill You!</b></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXTSFfvMpC_PfDyQIB7fiOYT8yKtv2Xja9gOo4tDdDVJoh1DBggmIEfoJZpBOqCGAuJwqKdHuvtbEMzSL39Xlzs7yuERe8OLIUE1AZ8COnz7VGpytBOwu-4RqPlmYdepqh1Zo3o1qYAu8/s1600/woman-975339_640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXTSFfvMpC_PfDyQIB7fiOYT8yKtv2Xja9gOo4tDdDVJoh1DBggmIEfoJZpBOqCGAuJwqKdHuvtbEMzSL39Xlzs7yuERe8OLIUE1AZ8COnz7VGpytBOwu-4RqPlmYdepqh1Zo3o1qYAu8/s320/woman-975339_640.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In that box of heirlooms, forgotten letters, award certificates, teenage diaries, and theater programs, you may have some real bomb shells. Or, at the very least, some mortifying expressions of love and angst. If you are looking for fodder for a personal history, or just want to declutter, you may face a real dilemma: What to save? What to recycle? And what to absolutely destroy—burn, bury, obliterate for all time! <br /><br />A long-time friend of mine posed this very dilemma to me recently. What do people do with their old journals, especially if some of them contain embarrassing information? As a personal historian, I am loathe to advise anyone to purge without taking the time to evaluate things. As embarrassing as something might be to us at the time, some accounts could have lasting value for those who come after us. <br /><br />As I told my friend, we can imagine someone from past generations destroying all evidence of an unintended pregnancy and a child offered for adoption. To avoid scandal and to salvage relationships, things like that may have been carefully guarded family secrets. But what about that child, or the child’s children who seek to find their roots, who want to know their true biological and genetic heritage? We also know that times change, and we can imagine the ache of never knowing the truth and the decisions that played into it.<br /><br />Sometimes painful incidents that we may not want to revisit or reveal could humanize us and create inter-generational connections. In an old family photo album, there is a snapshot of my grandmother at about age 18. The sad and lonely expression on her youthful face is heartbreaking. In real life, I can’t remember ever seeing her look so plaintive. When I asked why she looked that way, her answer was coy, “Oh, someone I liked went away.” And then she changed the subject. I wanted to know more, but I was too shy—or polite—to press her. To this day, I wish I knew who that someone was. A boyfriend? Fiancé? Clo<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">se fr<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">iend</span></span>? Some unrequited love? If only there were a journal or diary in which my grandmother had laid out her soul. Knowing the tale, however innocuous, would only add a new human dimension to the woman I knew only as an elder. <br /><br />Amid the boring drivel in my old journals—and there are a crate full—there is plenty of pretty silly and slightly embarrassing stuff: like the letter I wrote to Michael Landon in hopes of winning a contest to be his date, the vow to my steady that nothing would ever separate us, my description of the first time I kissed a man with a beard. In fact, some people’s childhood writings make good comedy. If you think you have embarrassing stuff tucked away, check </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD5kkgjdkim5hUg5zMEeUF-S8aZmqQCBvArEjxhRExCJ6aCMg6t12m7SLgGtVQ_nPlCbtLo6WXZiCd8qkAJoQrqzgj2t7HJehImHLeggeT-sefVOrv5nME6CurirjAHaH4BVQc6oiZpho/s1600/man-379800_640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD5kkgjdkim5hUg5zMEeUF-S8aZmqQCBvArEjxhRExCJ6aCMg6t12m7SLgGtVQ_nPlCbtLo6WXZiCd8qkAJoQrqzgj2t7HJehImHLeggeT-sefVOrv5nME6CurirjAHaH4BVQc6oiZpho/s200/man-379800_640.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">out <a href="http://getmortified.com/" target="_blank">Mortified</a>, a live forum where adults read the hilarious things they committed to paper as children and teens! <a href="http://getmortified.com/podcast/" target="_blank">Podcasts</a> from the live show are available, as well as a movie on <a href="http://getmortified.com/film" target="_blank">Netflix</a>. So before you toss that embarrassing tale, it just may be your 15-minutes of fame, if you can bear to “share the shame.”</span><br /><br /> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Bottom line:</b> there are <b>two steps to the question</b> of what to do with old journals. <br /><b>First, decide what is worth keeping.</b> Is there positive value in the writings? Do they add something important to your legacy? Do they illuminate for future generations the time in which you lived or something about you as a person? Do you need the writing to understand and remember something that happened? Do they tell a good story that others would enjoy reading or could learn from? Yes? Then keep them. On the other hand, are there entries that would be hurtful to others? Do they contain vitriol from a breakup or loss that serves no purpose and that you have moved beyond? Do they lack any positive value, historic or otherwise? Then let them go. Remember, you can always decided to keep only part of a diary—the most interesting, funniest, helpful, enlightening parts—and throw away the rest. </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz6A-02nWLzatFWraGrGX04eqsjrNHKuO9ikY3HI8orwUKZKKRVxiat0bBilS07OcOyHe4LHZCDkvFeVxjid2linLSu5_bwR51HZqxhSk76fzZORraa21lyGxJrTs8SGrmBUxofpn-pzs/s1600/leave-839225_640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz6A-02nWLzatFWraGrGX04eqsjrNHKuO9ikY3HI8orwUKZKKRVxiat0bBilS07OcOyHe4LHZCDkvFeVxjid2linLSu5_bwR51HZqxhSk76fzZORraa21lyGxJrTs8SGrmBUxofpn-pzs/s320/leave-839225_640.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>The second step</b> is to <b>decide how you want to preserve the journals you decide to keep. </b>Archivists agree that things we want to save should be preserved in multiple ways and in multiple places. Actual journals and diaries written in bound books or notebooks should be stored in acid-free archival boxes in a cool, dry place such as an interior closet. You can digitize the contents by scanning pages and combining into pdf files. Alternatively, you can hire a transcriptionist to input the writing into an electronic document. Digital files should be stored on multiple devices, your computer hard drive, an external storage device, or on a cloud service. Sorting and storing your journals by chronologically, and adding an index of significant events would be helpful. Your descendants will thank you. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>For more information on preserving your things, see <a href="http://www.ala.org/alcts/preservationweek/advice/diaries" target="_blank">Preservation Week</a>, a project of the American Library Association.</i><br /></span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02737164912627675028noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166294447449457123.post-57706638060502592912012-08-27T16:37:00.000-07:002012-08-27T16:38:14.723-07:00 Not Quite Home published!I am pleased to announce the completion of a very special personal history book: one for my parents, Paul and Ann Long. The book was published in August 2012 on Blurb.com, and concerns the eight years when my folks were starting out on their own in the Corn Belt of central Illinois. My dad had just graduated from veterinary school at Oklahoma State University and was off to practice his profession with my mother, my two brothers, and me in tow! It was an idyllic beginning for us kids, but certainly not the easiest of times for my parents.<br />
<br />
Creating this book was a true joy and my family will treasure the memories.<br />
You, too, can record family memories in book form. Many resources are available on the web, and Evermore Legacies stands ready to assist you with writing, editing, and book design.<br />
Contact me at <a href="mailto:laura@evermorelegacies.com">laura@evermorelegacies.com</a> <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left; width: 350px;">
<object data="http://www.blurb.com/assets/embed.swf" height="270" id="myWidget" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="350"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param>
<param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param>
<param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></param>
<param name="movie" value="http://www.blurb.com/assets/embed.swf"></param>
<param name="FlashVars" value="book_id=3502222&locale=en_US&token=bf31c02a09bd13b56f7a0fe81b07e35a770fc81e&token_id=2883843" /><a target="_new" href="http://www.blurb.com/books/preview/3502222?ce=blurb_ew&utm_source=widget"><img src="http://bookshow.blurb.com/bookshow/cache/P5188041/md/wcover_2.png"></img></a></object><br />
<div style="display: block;">
<a href="http://www.blurb.com/bookstore/invited/2883843/bf31c02a09bd13b56f7a0fe81b07e35a770fc81e?ce=blurb_ew&utm_source=widget" style="margin: 12px 3px;" target="_blank">Not Quite Home Starting Out in the Corn Belt by Paul and Ann Long ~A Personal History~ 1956-1965</a> | <a href="http://www.blurb.com/landing_pages/bookshow?ce=blurb_ew&utm_source=widget" style="margin: 12px 3px;" target="_blank">Make Your Own Book</a></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02737164912627675028noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166294447449457123.post-87809908650292723552012-04-26T18:54:00.001-07:002012-04-26T22:04:16.907-07:00Pooh Bear<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi60J1fPVPg6bpEcokNpDuMYp3XRQ69-NOIF2wB7ggko4UOLtOa8NE00wPOwjdiYVDTk57zmKfBatNH-kliWckOjdnXLcnTBfbldWujQ91G2zBH2_RBuYQ6EfI-S6DL6dibygyuuolM-iY/s1600/IMG_0576.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi60J1fPVPg6bpEcokNpDuMYp3XRQ69-NOIF2wB7ggko4UOLtOa8NE00wPOwjdiYVDTk57zmKfBatNH-kliWckOjdnXLcnTBfbldWujQ91G2zBH2_RBuYQ6EfI-S6DL6dibygyuuolM-iY/s400/IMG_0576.jpg" width="298" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">For Christmas of 1955, when I was three-years-old, Santa
Claus brought me a teddy bear that was as almost as big as I was tall. I was
amazed at my good fortune, and smiled with pride when anyone would remark: “My
goodness! That bear is about as big as you are!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">But that’s all I remember about “the bear that is big as me”
because it was lost when we moved from Oklahoma to Illinois that next June. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">When my dad graduated from Oklahoma State’s veterinary
school in 1956, he landed a job working for another veterinarian in Pontiac,
Illinois. That summer, my family of five set out for new adventures. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We had one car and not much money, so my parents packed up
all our belongings in the car and a small trailer. The plan was that my dad
would drive the car to Illinois and my mom, my two brothers, and I would follow
on the train. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Somewhere en route, my dad had a car accident on Route 66
and was thrown from the car. He was not badly hurt, but the car was wrecked.
Dad took all our stuff out of the car before it was hauled off to the
junkyard—or so he thought. But when I asked about my bear, it was nowhere to be
found. I had placed it in the back seat of the car, and all anyone could
imagine was that the impact of the accident had pushed it under the seat out of
sight. I couldn’t understand how a “bear that is big as me” could be lost, but
there you have it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I wailed, I cried, I thrust out my lip in a heart-broken
pout, and I refused to be consoled—until my older brother, Curt intervened. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“Here, Laura, you can have Pooh,” he said, and handed me the
little golden-colored teddy bear that he had received when he was about my age.
The A.A. Milne tales of Winnie the Pooh and Christopher Robin were favorites of
Curt’s in his early years, and he had aptly named his teddy for the lovable
“silly old bear” in the stories. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Maybe Curt thought that a seven-year-old boy was too grown
up to have a teddy bear any longer, or maybe he just wanted to coax a wailing
sister into quieting down. But whatever the reason, his generosity shocked me
into grateful silence. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Pooh became my treasured companion. Thereafter, I slept with
Pooh bear every night, and when I occasionally would awake, trembling, with a
nightmare and creep into my parents’ bed, Pooh would come along. In the
morning, I often would discover that Pooh’s little black nose had fallen out from
his snout, and my mother and I would search through the bed sheets and blankets
until we found it. No amount of gluing ever seemed to permanently secure Pooh’s
nose in place. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Today, Pooh has an honored spot on the bed in our guestroom.
He has been to camps and to college; he has lived in dorms, apartments, and
houses in fourteen cities or towns in eight states. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">After more than fifty
years, Pooh surely has paid witness to many things, but the sweetest would
still be a big brother’s generosity.</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02737164912627675028noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166294447449457123.post-79358019258000692912012-04-10T14:36:00.002-07:002012-04-10T14:38:25.286-07:00Fact Checking Your Personal History/Memoir<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Memories and facts are not the same thing, but both are important in your personal history. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Facts can be checked and verified in some objective source, such as reference materials or people who were on the scene at the time or know about the places and events. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Memories, on the other hand, encompass all the shades of meaning, the lens of experience, the emotional connections that color and shape a place and experiences. Your personal history can't be "true" without both facts and memory. Together, facts and memory combine detail, emotion, and meaning into a good story. </span><br />
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqgcu5BQHL58UXeVzKeGmRK5cd-tjjjIzfnQGq6jTPaLt8nfIc1R6xvj_bdea0549GleQG29rDepGjUCbYOACEw8nYwmAcHQ5T5XTLBmHnCk6HetpuA9qR8hQrf85PJgHkjYJm0JepMDY/s1600/300px-RMS_Titanic_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqgcu5BQHL58UXeVzKeGmRK5cd-tjjjIzfnQGq6jTPaLt8nfIc1R6xvj_bdea0549GleQG29rDepGjUCbYOACEw8nYwmAcHQ5T5XTLBmHnCk6HetpuA9qR8hQrf85PJgHkjYJm0JepMDY/s400/300px-RMS_Titanic_3.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">RMS Titantic, courtesy Wikipedia</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A good reporter knows this. The <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Titantic" target="_blank">RMS Titantic</a> sinks, and you can get "just the facts, ma'am":</span></div>
<div>
<ul>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">On her maiden voyage, the ship scrapes an iceberg at 11:40 p.m. April 14, 1912;</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Five compartments fill with water in ship built to stay afloat with water in four;</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The ship's 20 lifeboats can accommodate only 1,178 persons; more than 2,200 were on board;</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">At 2:20 a.m. April 15, 1912, the Titantic sinks;</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">1,514 people are killed. </span></li>
</ul>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Now that's a tragic and compelling story, but don't we want to know more? Don't we want to know who these people were, the heroes and villians, the compassionate and the self-absorbed? And even when the facts are invented (think Rose and Jack in James Cameron's 1997 movie, <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Titanic_(1997_film)" target="_blank">Titantic</a>),</i> the story has its own truth.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">With personal histories, many facts can be verified and checked to bolster your story and to add details for the reader. The Internet, of course, is a treasure trove of information. (I found a picture of the "Jumbo" that I used in my <a href="http://evermorelegacies.blogspot.com/2012/03/how-topography-intersects-personal.html" target="_blank">March 12, 2012 post</a> on the Roanoke, Illinois Web site--thank you, Cheryl Wolfe--as well as a Centennial History of the town that I purchased on E-Bay.) And Google Maps lets you zero right in on streets and buildings in places far away, refreshing your memory in a way that's almost as good as time travel. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Too, if never hurts to check your memory with family members, friends, colleagues, or others who shared your experiences or lived in the same time and place. Their information may adjust your memory or just add to the story.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">On a recent trip to see my folks in Oklahoma, my dad and mom "adjusted" my story about the night when my pals, Jim and Chuck, came calling after dark and got the wrong bedroom window (See "<a href="http://evermorelegacies.blogspot.com/2012/03/night-visitors.html" target="_blank">Night Visitors," March 20, 2012</a>, below). </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">When she was awakened to a flashlight shining into their bedroom window, Mom said her first thought was "carnies!" The carnival that was in town employed a group of rather seedy looking characters whom she thought might easily be capable of mischief, especially in semi-isolated house outside of town. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">She recollected not only screaming, but calling out, "Get the gun!" a demand meant to scare the culprits, because the only gun my dad owned was a shotgun for hunting birds, which was kept--unloaded, of course--in its case way, way back in his closet behind some heavy garment bags. But just the word "gun" surely lit a fire under Jim and Chuck as they made a hasty retreat through the cornfield. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Although I thought my dad had figured out who the visitors were on his own, he had a slightly different memory. He told me, "When I went into town the next day, the story was already all over town. Jim and Chuck had been bragging about it. Somebody, I don't remember who, asked me about it. So when I saw Jim, I let him know that I knew what they'd been up to."</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A-ha! So it wasn't Jim and Chuck's reputations that gave them away. It was just their big mouths! </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Still, I imagine they would have their very own versions of the truth.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02737164912627675028noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166294447449457123.post-32449697266221413282012-03-20T16:34:00.001-07:002012-03-20T21:21:14.865-07:00Night Visitors<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/katerha/6017294161/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="Ferris Wheel by katerha, on Flickr"><img alt="Ferris Wheel" height="320" src="http://farm7.staticflickr.com/6030/6017294161_17c61da3b0.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Kate Ter Haar</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Even at 11 o’clock at night, the August air was as thick and
sticky as the cotton candy that my best friend Debbie and I had devoured at Roanoke’s
weekend carnival. The community fundraiser was set up on village’s south side, in
the American Legion park, past the railroad tracks. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Giddy with excitement—and too many sweets—we lounged on my
bed, sweating in the moonlight that streamed through my open bedroom window. Not
even the slightest breeze stirred the curtains as we whispered about the
evening’s fun and waited for our expected midnight rendezvous. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We had met our school friends, Chuck and Jim, at the
carnival that Friday evening, where we were allowed some pre-teen independence in
the waning summer days before we would start seventh grade. With our allowances
stuffed into our shorts’ pockets, we careened around the midway, throwing down
dimes and quarters on games of chance, sideshows, and snacks. And, of course
there were the rides. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We screamed on the Wild Mouse, squished unnaturally close
together on the Scrambler, and cuddled at the top of the Ferris wheel, with all
of Woodford County laid out below us. Or at least Chuck and Debbie cuddled, as
Chuck clearly had a gleam in his eye these days when he looked at perky,
button-nosed, brown-eyed Debbie. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">To me, Jim and Chuck were just friends. We had gone to
school and the Methodist Church together since kindergarten, playing
softball in the school fields, riding bikes to the creeks, climbing the Jumbo.
The two of them were lots of fun and full of mischief, but the familiarity crowded out any
notion of romance for me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">That night at the carnival, the four of us quickly
discovered an intriguing symmetry—Debbie was spending the night at my house,
and the boys were camping out in a tent in Chuck’s backyard. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A plan was hatched. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A little before midnight, when parents would surely be asleep,
the boys would sneak due north through the cornfields to my house, which was
just a half-mile out of town, and rendezvous with us. We girls agreed to leave
a lawn chair under my bedroom window so the boys could recognize where to find
us. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As the minutes ticked past midnight and on towards 1 a.m., all
was quiet in the house. We had heard my parents go to bed an hour ago in the
bedroom next door. We yawned and stretched out, trying to find a cool place on
the sheets. Clearly, the boys weren’t coming. Maybe Chuck’s parents had caught
them, maybe they’d gotten lost in the corn and turned back, or maybe they’d
just changed their minds. We yearned for sleep, which seemed impossible in my
stifling bedroom.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/wattagnet/6721768961/" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="Corn field by wattpublishing, on Flickr"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><img alt="Corn field" height="225" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7001/6721768961_0f9e09258d.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Photo by <a href="http://www.WATTAgNet.com/" target="_blank">Watt Publishing</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Even as a wind was starting to kick up, Debbie and I
gathering up our pillows and sheets, and headed for the basement playroom, a comfortably
cool retreat on a night like this.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Some of what happened next is still in dispute as everyone
had a little bit of the story. But this much is pretty clear:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Sometime after 1 a.m., two figures, flashlights in hand,
emerged from the cornfield on the south side of our lawn. The house windows
were all dark. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Suddenly, my mom awoke to a light panning across her bed. Seeing
a face at the open window, she uttered a dry-mouthed scream, and my dad leaped
from bed toward the window. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“Hey! hey!” he yelled, spying two figures scrambling off,
lickety-split, into the corn. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“Who was it?!” my mother asked, her heart still racing. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“Just kids,” Dad said. “I think I can guess who.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">At the breakfast table the next morning, my mom casually
asked, “Did you two have a plan for Chuck and Jim to come by the house in the
middle of the night?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Debbie and I passed surprised glances, and then, feigned our
most innocent expressions as Mom told us about the fright she’d received. As
quickly as possible, and saying little, we high-tailed it to the bedroom to
giggle about the boys’ mistake:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<ul>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Can you believe they got your parents' bedroom?"</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Why would they DO that when we told them that the window was the closest to the porch, and that's where the chair was?"</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"I can just seem them running off into the field! Probably tromped down a couple rows!"</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"It's a good thing Dad doesn't keep a gun!"</span></li>
</ul>
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Later that afternoon, my dad stopped by Jim’s house to
return a cake pan to Jim’s mother that she had left at the Boy Scouts’ bake
sale at the carnival. As he was leaving, he spotted Jim in the yard, and
remarked with a chuckle:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“I see you made it out of the cornfield last night, Jim. I
figure Chuck did, too.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Never ones to believe their reputations might precede them, Jim and Chuck were convinced that we had ratted them
out—an argument that raged for years, and chances are, could still be
resurrected with renewed vigor.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02737164912627675028noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166294447449457123.post-48381516232240627382012-03-12T12:18:00.001-07:002012-03-15T09:30:29.116-07:00How Topography Intersects Personal History<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A child of the flatlands, I have always loved the wide-open
spaces—unrestricted vistas from east to west where it is possible to see the
sun appear on the horizon at daybreak, ascend to the zenith, and sink below the
edge of the earth in the evening, one day, whole and complete. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I have lived in places with trees or buildings or cliffs, where
open sightlines are not possible. Such places wear on me and begin to feel
confining. But if I can get out, away, on higher ground and see the arc of the
earth against the sky—ah, that’s freedom, and my soul soars. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Topography must influence our personal histories in some
way, certainly in the experiences we encounter, and perhaps also in our very outlooks
on life. Can a person who born on the savannah see life the same as someone who
grew up beside a great river? Wouldn’t folks living at 8,000 feet have
different experiences from those on the coasts? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Few places are flatter than central Illinois. The rolling
fields, mostly corn or soybeans, go on and on, unbroken until there is a creek
or a river. But a “mountain”—the Jumbo—also defined our town, Roanoke, and
still does, I suspect. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEpJ-gNS-c0ENNu2X_MxUoKEbD4rfDYDTBoiSj-3zUkZqX92rxuLEtkpdZ1dmp9WLqamSkDzHRKyCixt8vjpx7DFnkGZECnlJdnBKayIFRTQ_HhGbqD09IA8vcfaDQY-vhAdVqqzLN98U/s1600/thejumbo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEpJ-gNS-c0ENNu2X_MxUoKEbD4rfDYDTBoiSj-3zUkZqX92rxuLEtkpdZ1dmp9WLqamSkDzHRKyCixt8vjpx7DFnkGZECnlJdnBKayIFRTQ_HhGbqD09IA8vcfaDQY-vhAdVqqzLN98U/s400/thejumbo.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roanoke's Jumbo, courtesy Cheryl Wolfe, www.roanokeil.org</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Rising from the prairie at the southeastern corner of town,
the Jumbo is the tailings of the Roanoke Coal Mine, sunk in 1881, the second
shaft in Woodford County. Although only a couple hundred feet high, the Jumbo stands
out for miles around, it’s odd gray and red color contrasting with the rich,
black top soil. The Jumbo is Roanoke’s distinctive symbol of place.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Against the Jumbo's weathered backbone, the annual Independence Day fireworks show was mounted, as families gathered in the park at its base. At Christmastime, a lighted star was displayed from the Jumbo's summit, and today there waves an American flag. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">For us kids in the 1960s, the Jumbo was a place for
adventures. We would pack a lunch, a canteen of water, and ride our bikes to
the park below the Jumbo and hike to the top. The old railbed, along which rail
cars had hauled and dumped the dirt and slag, provided the easiest climb. But
some kids liked to try the steeper side. The mound, an uneven pile full of
gullies, steep faces, and coarse soil full of sharp gravel, and bits of coal could
be slippery. Fall down, and you were likely to sustain a nasty scraped knee or
thigh.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Kids liked to tell tales about the Jumbo:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ul>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">a cave-in had
trapped miners inside and their bodies were never found; </span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">the place was haunted
by the ghosts of dead miners; </span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Boy Scouts had seen eerie figures sitting on
timbers where the tipple had been;</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">some kids knew a secret entrance to the
shaft; </span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">and the mine had once blown its top off.</span></li>
</ul>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Not much of that was completely true, of course. Here’s a
few facts from the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Roanoke Centennial
History</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">:</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ul>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The longest shaft ran two miles east and a
little north of town, on a downward slope.</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Originally, mules were used to pull the coal cars
through the tunnels, and a room was carved out at the bottom of the shaft where
the animals were stabled during the mining season, September through April.</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">In 1890, the mine produced 42,000 tons of coal,
selling at $2 per ton.</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">At its peak, the mine employed 300 men and
hoisted 500 tons a day.</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">For two weeks in late summer, the mine was
opened so that farmers could purchase coal to fuel the thrashing machines that
traveled through the countryside during harvest time.</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Two men were killed in separate cave-ins in the
mine in 1905, prompting extensive repairs to improve safety and efficiency.</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Clay brick and tiles were manufactured after the
turn of the century adjacent to the mine, utilizing coal-fired kilns.</span></li>
</ul>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">But the most dramatic events were these:</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ul>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b>On June 29, 1906, quicksand shot into the mine shaft
70 feet below ground, tearing a scaffolding from the walls, and plunging four
men 400 feet to their deaths.</b> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Roanoke
Call</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> published a special edition the next day, recounting the tragedy. The
four victims—Andrew Mitchell, August Mueser, Camille Faucon, and Joseph
Dewasme—all under forty, first-generation immigrants from Scotland, German,
Belgium, and France, respectively. Each had married Roanoke women less than ten
years before their deaths, and each left young children.</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b>On April 14, 1941, several years after the mine
and brick factory had closed, the mine tipple collapsed with a roar into the
shaft, creating a crater 60 feet deep and wide, and shaking the earth for
miles.</b> The </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Centennial History </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">reports,
“The hole filled the next day with the bluest water anyone in Roanoke had ever
seen.” The dramatic event marked the end of the mine. The state ordered the
crater filled and sealed. The equipment was sold. Only the Jumbo remains of
Roanoke’s mining days.</span></li>
</ul>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Topography holds ambience,
history of time and place, and particular experiences for those whose lives it
intersects. <i>How has topography affected your personal history?</i> </span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02737164912627675028noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166294447449457123.post-91447056913348203352012-03-04T21:11:00.001-08:002012-03-04T21:15:43.936-08:00for those who stand and wait ...<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">That day’s blizzard was not the first snowfall of the winter
of ’62–’63, but it came with a singular speedy intensity. By afternoon, the
decision was made to close school an hour or so early and send everyone home
before the roads got any worse. The drifts on the country roads were already
too much for the school buses, and parents were phoned to make other
arrangements to get their children home. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-eGrgON3UBk0cnCS7tAcTVYt9JJnpiBeUk1FfR1gj2_4sExImNX2MtGuuk6gVRHev5Hjpx1sOXcyrwbcJFFOba4rwR3VbK9d53W_2CgnSvyjEpJ4OvWVpChDsXgDWxdvGpB_2_kfTCo0/s1600/MC900189593.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-eGrgON3UBk0cnCS7tAcTVYt9JJnpiBeUk1FfR1gj2_4sExImNX2MtGuuk6gVRHev5Hjpx1sOXcyrwbcJFFOba4rwR3VbK9d53W_2CgnSvyjEpJ4OvWVpChDsXgDWxdvGpB_2_kfTCo0/s320/MC900189593.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: right;">Microsoft File Art</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Schoolchildren in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roanoke,_Illinois">Roanoke, Illinois</a>, population
1,800, belonged to one of two groups—the town kids or the country kids. Town
kids walked to school (rarely did anyone’s parents drive children to school);
country kids rode the school buses. Inclement weather sometimes kept the school
buses from running, giving the country kids a day off until the plows could
clear the roads. I started kindergarten as a town kid, and I often envied the country
kids’ extra “snow days.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">But this winter, my fifth-grade year, was the first my
family spent in our newly built house located just a quarter mile north of town
on a corner plot my dad bought from a farmer. A country kid now, I rode the
school bus to town, and extra snow days were a distinct possibility. But I
hadn’t figured on getting stranded at school. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">When we students learned school was letting out early, some
parents—country and town alike—were already waiting outside in cars. Townies
who lived near by bundled up and headed out to walk home. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">My teacher, Mr. Castro, passed the message from my mom: “Stay
at school and wait for your dad. He’s out on a call, but will come and get you
when he’s done.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">My heart sunk. My dad was a veterinarian, and his “calls”
could take him to far-flung farms across the Illinois River valley, and the
duration of his visits were unpredictable. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Happy to get home early, all my friends skedaddled out of class
in a blur, leaving me—the last kid. As the minutes ticked by, the custodian
seemed to be the only soul in the building as I waited and waited at the school
door, a lump growing in my throat. Did Dad get detained? Had he slid into a
snowy ditch? There was no way to know and nothing to do but wait.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Unless . . . </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKDgGH3MZeL6t42EK5ubPc_M-2EGDYDxllImr-S1X-yQr1Qyuh4vVBe5Od-i1qeJgCC1nyha1HGb1_mz6hu3vn5r5hDXoFC6dTagU2d6dfcAiNdq71Fjx9LONg9W3HYA6VpSNTGgzw5a4/s1600/MP900227668.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKDgGH3MZeL6t42EK5ubPc_M-2EGDYDxllImr-S1X-yQr1Qyuh4vVBe5Od-i1qeJgCC1nyha1HGb1_mz6hu3vn5r5hDXoFC6dTagU2d6dfcAiNdq71Fjx9LONg9W3HYA6VpSNTGgzw5a4/s400/MP900227668.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: right;">Microsoft File Art</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The <a href="http://www.rb60.com/">school</a> was on the
northern edge of town, its athletic fields backing up to a cornfield. And
beyond that field, at the intersection of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Section_line_road">section line road</a> and
the gravel extension of Main Street, was our house. In the summertime, I often
took my bike down the gravel road into town. Or, to avoid the dusty road, we
kids would simply take off through the cornfield, following the straight rows
until they ended at “civilization.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Now, with the field empty save for the snow, I could easily
see the gravel road from the school, and I knew that at the field’s highest
place, I would be able to see the roof of our house. There was no way to get
lost. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And so, taking charge of my own fate, I headed out the door.
Rounding the school building, I slammed into an icy wind blowing with ferocity off
the flat, expansive prairie. I caught my breath, and for an instant, hesitated.
Then, pumping up stubborn determination, I thought, “I can do this. It’s not
far.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">On I trudged, into the field, snow swirling and blowing
around me, heading due north to home. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The going was easier at first, snow just to my boot tops.
But the farther I went, the deeper the snow became. Soon I was up to my knees,
and it was a slow slog. Clearly, the trek was going to take longer than I figured,
so I determined to angle off toward the road, hop the fence, and take the road
home. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Reaching the rise, the older snow was packed hard from the
dry wind. I could walk on top of it as I turned toward the road. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Then, whoosh! The snow bank gave way and I went down into a
gully. I was over my head in snow. Flat on my back, staring up at the steely
sky, I was spent. This was a dumb idea, and I was going to have to eat crow, if
I was ever again warm enough to chew. No matter—dry clothes and a warm house
was all I wanted. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As I struggled to get free, the snow felt like quicksand
around me. Recalling the extraction technique demonstrated in some old movie, I
rolled over and over on my belly until I was back up on hard snow. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Straight ahead of me, not a hundred yards away, stood the
last house on Main Street where my friend Beverly and her family lived. They
would take me in! I lumbered forward, snow packed in my sleeves, my boots, my
cap, and falling down my back. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I must have looked quite a sight when Bev’s mother opened
the back door to my knock.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAzk601zurgHV8HJ209zERGqRwakE2OEYrFTnjleBBk9yIfFRTYXAuO37jhlm2vcfyCLc5VkSoz3SpgGXlzTbLSPZU63hh9yI3PzW8L-6BGbMkY9RbpBYtypgAh_QLFgu6aeSi451ate8/s1600/MP900442612.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAzk601zurgHV8HJ209zERGqRwakE2OEYrFTnjleBBk9yIfFRTYXAuO37jhlm2vcfyCLc5VkSoz3SpgGXlzTbLSPZU63hh9yI3PzW8L-6BGbMkY9RbpBYtypgAh_QLFgu6aeSi451ate8/s320/MP900442612.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: right;">Microsoft File Art</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“What in the world...</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“Mrs. France, can I stay here until my dad comes to pick me
up?” I asked. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“What <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">happened</i> to
you?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The Frances graciously took me in, warmed me up, gave me dry
clothes, and fed me the most delicious potato soup I’ve ever had. </span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02737164912627675028noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166294447449457123.post-7146826572160563282012-02-27T11:15:00.002-08:002012-02-29T11:29:04.812-08:00Friendship 7: Confidence and adventure<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHqCoa_RpM2dJJUUSqhyphenhyphenQCrp_od-ia8A_jYJDHA-Vq-j8dVub6-7Un67riLVmczoYzsyqt1u679TzdD-bUm1B8nL2sQlyoKPxW8jidLxVAimqGHNmtd39zWGWydyCWNOe4ycuMAKDcaEw/s1600/John+Glenn+-+NASA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHqCoa_RpM2dJJUUSqhyphenhyphenQCrp_od-ia8A_jYJDHA-Vq-j8dVub6-7Un67riLVmczoYzsyqt1u679TzdD-bUm1B8nL2sQlyoKPxW8jidLxVAimqGHNmtd39zWGWydyCWNOe4ycuMAKDcaEw/s200/John+Glenn+-+NASA.jpg" width="131" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John Glenn <br />
(Courtesy of NASA)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">On February 20, 1962, our fourth-grade classroom was abuzz
with excitement. At 8:45 Central Time that morning, astronaut John Glenn had
been launched into space aboard Mercury capsule, <a href="http://history.nasa.gov/friendship7/" target="_blank">Friendship 7</a>, destined to be
the first American to orbit the earth.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">How much more fun it would have been to stay home that cold
winter day in central Illinois and watch the flight on TV. There were no TVs at
school, and our classroom had only a radio to broadcast updates on Friendship
7’s more than four-hour adventure. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Nevertheless, Mrs. Wendley pulled down the world map above
the chalkboard, and we took turns marking John Glenn’s journey, once, twice,
three times around the globe. A team of boys—clearly unfair to us girls!—took
turns huddling around the radio, reporting the progress of the mission as the
day’s regular classroom lessons and activities proceeded. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCwjLpse6s38n9R_qwqKAeS8OsD8pnLFRJYsj2H8l6Ji7mqBJzs4ZJ3SAnEeduUnwuiLbdCiYY9XQbrhjcT8-BQ92PeVfhtac3qn6VOs-xBoEZX82gV40qO5Pn4tq7znXoU6663-f9mm0/s1600/john-orbits-01png-6c1dd092e79bf000.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCwjLpse6s38n9R_qwqKAeS8OsD8pnLFRJYsj2H8l6Ji7mqBJzs4ZJ3SAnEeduUnwuiLbdCiYY9XQbrhjcT8-BQ92PeVfhtac3qn6VOs-xBoEZX82gV40qO5Pn4tq7znXoU6663-f9mm0/s320/john-orbits-01png-6c1dd092e79bf000.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Friendship 7's three orbits (Courtesy of NASA)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmOW5pNPXasGtDa_VA4IFT7wxdtNEX6CR60JsJC21zVZkwY0WQ1DXitpZbxU1dTCAbwBToRfTxUyWibf6Tz9Nr0bTJx3XvKMRkR5LgivdrLkPxOog-ZrhkeirAJru6vPxnBhroCsqyJSQ/s1600/sunset+from+Friendship7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmOW5pNPXasGtDa_VA4IFT7wxdtNEX6CR60JsJC21zVZkwY0WQ1DXitpZbxU1dTCAbwBToRfTxUyWibf6Tz9Nr0bTJx3XvKMRkR5LgivdrLkPxOog-ZrhkeirAJru6vPxnBhroCsqyJSQ/s200/sunset+from+Friendship7.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset from space (Courtesy of NASA)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The first orbit was the most exciting. Enthralled, we
listened as Glenn described the beautiful sunset from orbit over the Indian
Ocean. In the black, black sky, a thin blue band hugged the earth’s horizon.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Travelling 17,544 miles per hour, Glenn was in for a short
night—45 minutes—before describing the brilliant sunrise: </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i>“I am in a big mass of some very small particles. They're
brilliantly lit up like they're luminescent. I never saw anything like it . . .
They're coming by the capsule and they look like little stars. A whole shower
of them coming by. They swirl around the capsule and go in front of the window
and they're all brilliantly lighted.”</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">For a few minutes, the sun had lit up ice crystals flowing
off the spacecraft’s surface, a magical phenomenon we could only imagine. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">How proud we were to be Americans! Our nation was meeting
President Kennedy’s challenge to land on the moon by the end of the decade. At
that moment, each of us shared in the possibilities that seemed endless—at
least in that insular, bucolic world. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">But the mission’s success was not guaranteed, as problems
emerged:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ul>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A bolt was broken during installation of the capsule hatch,
delaying the launch.</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The capsule’s yaw attitude control jet jammed in the first
orbit, and Glenn had to use manual controls to keep the craft on the proper
trajectory.</span></li>
<li><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And </span></o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">especially nerve-racking, indicators showed that the heat
shield may have been compromised, which could mean a fiery reentry and the end
to Freedom 7, and Glenn.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span></li>
</ul>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">But always the safe guards worked, the indicators proved
false, or difficulties were overcome. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Glenn emerged triumphant from the capsule after it plunged into the sea, 800 miles off of Bermuda.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The power and expertise of
American engineering seemed to us unstoppable. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Despite the Cold War, Kruschev’s ragings, and the arms race,
and even as discord was growing in the land, the space program lent feelings of
well-being, efficacy, and power. We had the know-how to make things right. We
would be safe.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i>(What do you remember about the space program and its
effect on you or the wider political and social attitudes?)</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02737164912627675028noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3166294447449457123.post-77671453105931153522012-02-23T08:18:00.000-08:002012-02-29T11:30:08.805-08:00"There is no one alive who is Youer than You!" -Dr. Seuss<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div style="font: 16.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Stories are the stuff of life. And if you think you have none to tell, think again. Every life brims with effervescent joy, gut-wrenching sorrow, poignant moments, fortunate turns of fate, miscalculations, and the details that define a particular time and place. Consider the declaration of Dr. Seuss: "There is no one alive who is Youer than You!" And, let me add, there never will be. What's more, some day those who come after you just may puzzle over your name and wonder … </span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div style="font: 16.0px Palatino; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 20.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 16.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Sometime ago, my uncle Charles Johnston produced a comprehensive genealogy of my mother's side of our family, the Johnstons. He uncovered and included details of these people's lives three and four generations removed, but beyond that, the pickings were few. Farther back, there are only names, dates for their lifespans, locations where they were born, married, died. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Some of the stories are tantalizing:</span><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">William Johnston strung the first barbed wire in the area around Pilot Point, Texas;</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">the Younger brothers helped themselves to some fresh horses on the Johnston Texas ranch, but kindly strapped some cash to a post in payment; </span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">great-great-great uncle George Haley attempted, unsuccessfully, to get on the Dawes Rolls in 1902, based on his grandmother's claims that she was an Indian from Alabama; </span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">the family dogs decided they didn't like the territory when the family headed north across the Red River into Oklahoma, so they high-tailed it back to Texas in just four days, a trek that the wagons had taken twelve days to make. (I'm not so sure about the intelligence of those dogs!)</span></li>
</ul>
</div>
<div style="font: 16.0px Palatino; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 20.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">But as I study my uncle's well-drawn family tree, tracing the names back and back through time and place, I find pretty much everything is left to the imagination: </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Allathy Hale, Thomas Allen, Nancy Toliver, Coonrod Dick. </span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Who were these people? How did they make a living? Why did they leave North Carolina and Virginia? What was life like on the Tennessee frontier? What were their aspirations? What were their great joys and sorrows? Genealogy is great, but what are the stories? We will never know. </span></div>
<div style="font: 16.0px Palatino; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 20.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 16.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A talented storyteller, my aunt Geneva Hudson was determined to leave a legacy rather than speculations about her life. In her memoir about her "growing-up years," <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Barefoot-Oklahoma-Sticker-Patch-Childhood/dp/1588203549"><span style="color: #1d37ef; text-decoration: underline;">"Barefoot in an Oklahoma Sticker Patch</span></a><span style="color: #1d37ef; text-decoration: underline;">,</span>" she tells about her life in Oklahoma City during the Great Depression, the daughter of proud, hard-working, and independent folks. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpJcE9HT-z36CbLsIleCyU3iSsdItT5xz7NN0lPSQJFq7cLbuf0zrI0M0QZEOpBMkJvl871T8dM-2LyeopOACD_QP5bokWGUqEvYAnOAZeL_yuqE8s5PzbkZQUj91fn4uZzvP7WIT5oyM/s1600/Geneva's+book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpJcE9HT-z36CbLsIleCyU3iSsdItT5xz7NN0lPSQJFq7cLbuf0zrI0M0QZEOpBMkJvl871T8dM-2LyeopOACD_QP5bokWGUqEvYAnOAZeL_yuqE8s5PzbkZQUj91fn4uZzvP7WIT5oyM/s200/Geneva's+book.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Her stories are a treasure that acquaint me with a grandmother I hardly knew. With her book, Geneva has preserved family memories and given roots to subsequent generations of our family. And others, looking for a charming and poignant account of those years in that place, have enjoyed it, too.</span></div>
<div style="font: 16.0px Palatino; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 20.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 16.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">You have stories to tell, and so do I. Big or small, they have value in the telling. In this space, I plan to share some of my stories that I hope will inspire you to write down a few of your own. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It really doesn't matter whether you want to share your stories with only friends and family or whether you would like to offer them to perfect strangers in a memoir. Writing down your stories fills in the gaps between names and dates on a page. Your stories tack down your life and are a treasure to be shared for those who come after you. They are your personal history of the human being who is you and only you -- your legacy, evermore. </span></div>
<div style="font: 16.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 16.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Let's get started!</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02737164912627675028noreply@blogger.com2