Fireworks explode overhead. Children make designs in the air with hot, sparkly rods of metal. Bands play songs that are impossible to listen to without tapping our toes to the rhythm. It’s all a part of the annual birthday party that is uniquely American. Looking around in the crowd, we see so many different types of people, each with their own story.
Each branch of our family tree has its own tales. Older family members have passed them along, some as simple narration of facts, others with much embellishment and bravado. All together, they make up the rich fabric that makes us who we are today.
My dad’s side of the family, the McLeods, originated in Scotland. My grandpa’s grandpa and grandma arrived in the US around 1880. Times had been hard in the Scottish Highlands. John McLeod came to America first, and after moving from the Pennsylvania coal mines to Eastern Kansas, he sent for his wife, Mary Whiteford McLeod. She and her four small boys set out across the Atlantic, and in the midst of the difficult journey, their fifth son was born. Once in Kansas, they left the dark world of the mines to become ranchers.
My Mother’s grandfather, Karl Maurer came to America just a few years earlier from Germany. Not speaking any English or having any family in his new home, he enlisted in the Army. His several tours of duty took him through Oklahoma, Kansas, and points west. Because the army was engaged with making the frontier safe for white settlers, much of his time was spent working with the Indians. After a twenty year military career and becoming an American citizen, he married the daughter of an Army musician. Though twenty years younger, she was also of good German stock. They settled near his last assignment, the Presidio in California.
My husband’s family stories all take place in the United States. It seems that on both sides, his ancestors have been in America much longer than mine.
The Carlisle legend centers around four brothers who were shipwrecked in North Carolina. Though I haven’t been able to verify the shipwreck, the location is correct, and for generations, there is a tradition of Carlisle boys traveling and settling together. As to where they came from, or why, indications seem to lead to the importance of their faith. During the Revolutionary war, they were not soldiers, but there is a Carlisle who was a shoemaker that traveled with the Army. Conscientious objector? After moving to Mississippi, they were reportedly Mennonites. In Arkansas, they are listed as founders of a church in Grant County. Doing what is needed for the local congregation is a tradition that continues today.
My husband’s Grandpa Weaver’s grandmother was a survivor of the tragic massacre at Mountain Meadows in Utah in 1857. After returning home to Arkansas, these children made it their life’s mission to share the truth of what had happened to their families. Though the official story involved an Indian attack, the children had seen past the war paint and recognized the murderers as the same Mormon settlers who had earlier promised to protect the wealthy wagon train. Their courage helped bring the story out, and the misguided zealots to justice.
What’s your story? I know you have more than one. Have you shared it with your children and grandchildren? If they don’t seem interested now, write it down. Someday, they will want to know, and they will be proud to understand more about where they came from.
Whether or not you know why your ancestors came here, these stories are so uniquely American. Nowhere else on earth do so many different threads converge into such a rich, warm quilt.
Happy Birthday America! We love to hear your stories!
Monday, July 18, 2011
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Our Most Momentous Memories
“No, you’re lying.” I didn’t believe what my six-year old friend told me at school that day in 1963. We had been playmates before we were schoolmates. I didn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.
“No, really. Somebody shot the president. He died.”
For Baby Boomers, the assassination of President Kennedy is one of those “Where were you when you heard the news?” moments. It begins a string of common memories, our parents being so very quiet and sad, staying home from school to watch a funeral on television. Tiny John-John saluting as the casket rolled by.
There have been times during my life that formed collections of memories. I can tell you many details about my wedding day, the days each of my children were born. I probably recall everything so well because my emotions were at a peak. I knew that this would be an important event, to be remembered for a lifetime.
There are some moments, though, that stand out even more. When retelling these, we actually go back in time, we relive the whole thing. We smell the same smells, hear the same sounds.
One such memory was related to me at my “day job”. The mere mention of a date on the calendar prompted my friend to tell about what happened to her twenty-five years earlier. She was in labor, about to deliver a daughter. Her husband was in the bathroom at the hospital, putting on a protective gown over his clothes. “Hurry up,” the doctor admonished, “You’re about to miss the whole thing.”
The daddy’s voice came into the delivery room, “I can’t figure out what to do with these ties.” The obvious next request was “Honey, can you come help me?” Luckily, he didn’t say it. She was, after all, a little busy.
Some moments are remembered because of the irony of the whole situation. Another friend told of a very sad occasion, when the family was assembled at church for a funeral. As she and her sister prepared to go in for the service, a dog somehow slipped in to the sanctuary. As quietly as they could, the two tried to move the intruder outside. When the sister employed her foot, the dog yelped loudly, prompting smothered laughter from both ladies. But-it gets better. Years later, the sister passed away, and you guessed it-a dog attended her funeral. Of course, my friend was again consumed with the giggles.
One very vivid vision is stuck in my head, and I’m not really sure why. I’m sitting on the wood floor next to my parents’ bed, which is covered with a white chenille bedspread trimmed with pink flowers. The sun streams in from the window as I move the tiny plastic furniture around in my new metal dollhouse. My Daddy’s arm hangs over the side of the bed, and he responds to my “Look Daddy” with a non-committal “Mmmpph”. I’m not upset about his lack of concern, just content to sit near him and play while he sleeps. From pictures I’ve seen, I think this may have occurred on my third birthday, but even without the pictures, I’m there, reliving what may be my earliest memory.
Walking down the hallway after a first-thing in the morning meeting at work, someone says a plane has hit the World Trade Center in New York. I picture a small craft, maybe a daredevil who ventured too close while trying to “buzz” the skyscrapers. Someone has turned on a television in one of the cubicles, and we alternate between being transfixed and turning away as the unbelievable horror unfolds. We try in vain to continue our day to day routine, and gradually drift out, wanting only to find our family members and hold them close.
It’s almost time for the ten o’clock news on the Sunday after Easter. My daughter calls, telling us to tune into Fox, where they are reporting that Osama bin Laden has been killed. Soon, all of the networks are in the same holding pattern, waiting for the President to confirm what has already been leaked. Commentators try to turn speculation into verification, and we are finally relieved to hear the news from the commander-in-chief himself.
Our memories are part of us, whether shared with the world, or alive only in our own minds. Flashes of intense emotion can re-emerge without warning. They define who we are, give us something in common, make us human. Troubling recollections should be shared so that they don’t burden us. Happy ones should be treasured, and saved for a time when we may need to smile again.
“No, really. Somebody shot the president. He died.”
For Baby Boomers, the assassination of President Kennedy is one of those “Where were you when you heard the news?” moments. It begins a string of common memories, our parents being so very quiet and sad, staying home from school to watch a funeral on television. Tiny John-John saluting as the casket rolled by.
There have been times during my life that formed collections of memories. I can tell you many details about my wedding day, the days each of my children were born. I probably recall everything so well because my emotions were at a peak. I knew that this would be an important event, to be remembered for a lifetime.
There are some moments, though, that stand out even more. When retelling these, we actually go back in time, we relive the whole thing. We smell the same smells, hear the same sounds.
One such memory was related to me at my “day job”. The mere mention of a date on the calendar prompted my friend to tell about what happened to her twenty-five years earlier. She was in labor, about to deliver a daughter. Her husband was in the bathroom at the hospital, putting on a protective gown over his clothes. “Hurry up,” the doctor admonished, “You’re about to miss the whole thing.”
The daddy’s voice came into the delivery room, “I can’t figure out what to do with these ties.” The obvious next request was “Honey, can you come help me?” Luckily, he didn’t say it. She was, after all, a little busy.
Some moments are remembered because of the irony of the whole situation. Another friend told of a very sad occasion, when the family was assembled at church for a funeral. As she and her sister prepared to go in for the service, a dog somehow slipped in to the sanctuary. As quietly as they could, the two tried to move the intruder outside. When the sister employed her foot, the dog yelped loudly, prompting smothered laughter from both ladies. But-it gets better. Years later, the sister passed away, and you guessed it-a dog attended her funeral. Of course, my friend was again consumed with the giggles.
One very vivid vision is stuck in my head, and I’m not really sure why. I’m sitting on the wood floor next to my parents’ bed, which is covered with a white chenille bedspread trimmed with pink flowers. The sun streams in from the window as I move the tiny plastic furniture around in my new metal dollhouse. My Daddy’s arm hangs over the side of the bed, and he responds to my “Look Daddy” with a non-committal “Mmmpph”. I’m not upset about his lack of concern, just content to sit near him and play while he sleeps. From pictures I’ve seen, I think this may have occurred on my third birthday, but even without the pictures, I’m there, reliving what may be my earliest memory.
Walking down the hallway after a first-thing in the morning meeting at work, someone says a plane has hit the World Trade Center in New York. I picture a small craft, maybe a daredevil who ventured too close while trying to “buzz” the skyscrapers. Someone has turned on a television in one of the cubicles, and we alternate between being transfixed and turning away as the unbelievable horror unfolds. We try in vain to continue our day to day routine, and gradually drift out, wanting only to find our family members and hold them close.
It’s almost time for the ten o’clock news on the Sunday after Easter. My daughter calls, telling us to tune into Fox, where they are reporting that Osama bin Laden has been killed. Soon, all of the networks are in the same holding pattern, waiting for the President to confirm what has already been leaked. Commentators try to turn speculation into verification, and we are finally relieved to hear the news from the commander-in-chief himself.
Our memories are part of us, whether shared with the world, or alive only in our own minds. Flashes of intense emotion can re-emerge without warning. They define who we are, give us something in common, make us human. Troubling recollections should be shared so that they don’t burden us. Happy ones should be treasured, and saved for a time when we may need to smile again.
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