Jess and I Compare Our Childhoods (March 28, 2008)

     I used to sit by the hour and listen to Jess tell stories of her childhood and I loved to compare and contrast her experiences with my own childhood.

     Jess grew up on a farm in rural Minnesota on land cleared of trees by her father; she lived in a family of twelve children.  I grew up in the town of Davis with one brother and lots of trees.  The winter temperatures in Minnesota frequently hit 40 below zero.  In Davis, our lowest temperatures in the winter would be in the 30s above zero.  Jess, however, always said it seemed colder to her in Davis than it did in Minnesota in the dead of winter.  Since it had been over fifty years since Jess lived in Minnesota, I guess perhaps she had forgotten just how cold 40 degrees below zero was in her childhood.  Jess shared a bed with three of her sisters and had lots of handmade quilts to help stay warm.  They had no central heat like we did, but they did warm up the house before bed with the wood burning stove in the kitchen. I had no sisters to share my bed with, but the central heater kept the house warm all winter.

     Growing up on a farm, everyone in the family had plenty of chores.  Jess said they all got up at five am to start the farm work and help their mother in the kitchen.  I slept until seven and only had to get myself ready for school.  My mom fixed the breakfast with the aid of the refrigerator, where we kept the milk, juice and eggs we got in cartons, and the bacon we got fresh from the meat counter at the grocery store. Sometimes we enjoyed packaged cereal from the store. The toast we made with store-bought bread popped out of our electric toaster. We could spread the toast with jam from a store-bought jar or use a cube of butter, which came by the pound in a package from the market.    At Jess’s house someone had to milk the cow to produce the milk for breakfast.  There was no refrigerator, so they had to get the milk fresh daily.  Jess said she enjoyed milking the cows.   Home grown meat--pork, chicken, or beef--was raised, slaughtered and hung in the smoke house, where it stayed cold in winter. Frequently, one of the girls would be sent to the smoke house to slice some pork for breakfast. Someone had to go to the chicken coop and collect the morning eggs, and someone had been up earlier to start the bread: mixing, kneading, rising, and baking for the breakfast meal.

     They didn’t have any toaster, but who needed toast when you had fresh homemade bread hot out of the oven. “Yummy!” Mom and the girls made jams and jellies from the fruit grown on the farm. They also made the butter, which they got by skimming the cream off the top of the fresh milk and churning it until it turned into butter—all without the aid of a mixer, which we considered essential in our kitchen.

     Jess, along with the rest of her family, bathed once a week.  They had no indoor plumbing; on bath night, one of the kids was sent outside to the water pump to get water in a bucket to bring into the kitchen to warm on the wood-burning stove.  Once warm, the water was poured into a large metal bucket that they used for a bathtub.  They had homemade lye soap and handmade wash clothes and towels.  I had the luxury of bathing daily in a nice hot tub or hot shower with indoor running water, store-bought soap, wash cloth and towels. 

     For his family of fourteen, Jess’s father built a two-seater outhouse, and they used Sears catalogs for toilet tissue.  Jess said that outhouse did seem mighty cold in the dead of winter or anytime at night.  I grew up with indoor toilets, both upstairs and downstairs, and store-bought toilet paper.  I have experienced outhouses while camping, but Jess’s childhood experience was daily; I cannot even imagine myself in that setting.  Jess herself said that indoor toilets were one of the greatest inventions every produced.

     In my next paper I will share more of the comparisons and contrasts of Jess’s childhood and mine.

To be continued

An Introduction to Jessie Belle Lemon Haggerty (March 7, 2008)

Kelly, Great Grandma Jess, Katie, Thomas & William (July 1974)

     My husband’s paternal grandmother, Jessie Belle Lemon Haggerty, played a very important role in my life as well as the lives of all of our family.  I want to write about Jess so that our grandchildren will learn about their Great-Great Grandma, who would have loved them dearly and played with them by the hour.

     Jessie Belle Lemon was born in Minnesota on March 24, 1889 to Thena Susan Grant Lemon and James Riley Lemon.  Jess often referred to herself as the sixth little Lemon out of a dozen. She had four sisters and seven brothers.  One baby brother died shortly after birth and one brother died at age nineteen of tuberculosis, but the rest of the little Lemons followed in the family history of longevity.  Jess’s mother lived to 94, and Jess herself lived to 94.  Her older sister Fanny died just three months shy of 100.

      Jess contracted tuberculosis for the second time when she was 24 years old and her baby boy Bill was only about 18 months old.  There were no medications to treat the disease in those days so she was sent to a sanitarium.  Jess said she knew she would get well; she wasn’t about to die and leave her baby boy and her husband Bill.  After eight months, the doctors released her to go home, but they warned her that her chances of living beyond thirty were very slim.  She didn’t accept that prognosis and she certainly proved them wrong.

     When Jess was approaching forty, she said she tucked her purse under her arm one Friday and was surprised to feel pain; she checked and felt a lump.  She headed straight to the doctor, who admitted her to the hospital right away and removed her breast.  She was home in two days and back to work in no time.  Illness never seemed to slow Jess up for long; I will continue to document her health concerns in my next story about her.

     I first met Jess in 1963 while visiting Hacienda Heights in Southern California.  David, my future husband, had invited me to his parent’s home to meet his mother, father, and ten year old sister Debbie.  Jessie Belle lived in Redondo Beach, but she had been invited to the Haggerty’s to meet David’s new girlfriend.

     David’s parents, Bill and Vivienne, seemed a little guarded on that visit.  David had brought just one other girl friend home to meet his family, and when their relationship ended, it broke his heart.  I thought that was probably why his folks were cautious with me, as they were probably apprehensive as to where our relationship was heading.

     Jess, on the other hand, was very warm and welcoming.  She and I discovered right away that we had been born only two days and fifty-four years apart.  The fifty-four years seem to evaporate into thin air and Jess and I felt like sisters.  I was twenty years old at the time and Jess used to say, “Every time I look in a mirror I am surprised to see an old lady there; in my mind I am only twenty-four years old.”  If you had known Jess, you would have thought of her as twenty-four also.

     Jess often said, “I was born before my time; if I had been born now, I would be a hippie.”  She was peace loving and full of fun and adventure.  With her free spirit, she would have made a wonderful hippie.

      Jess was five-foot, seven inches tall and slender.  She had beautiful, naturally curly hair, which she loved.  She wore it just above her shoulders and fluffy.  It was graying when I first met her, but as the years passed it turned a beautiful white and she always put a purple rinse on it.  To make it curl, she added a few dabs of water and, instantly, she had beautiful movie star-looking hair!  She had twinkling brown eyes, with a hint of mischief shinning through.  She had rosy red cheeks and a smile you could see for a mile.  She almost always wore slacks, not old lady dresses like my grandmothers wore.  She loved velour pants suits in bright colors, red and aqua being her favorites.  She always wore flats, usually gold or silver, studded with jewels.  When she got up in the morning she put on her jewelry, earrings, necklaces and bracelets.  She could go from bed to beautifully groomed in five minutes flat.

     Jess worked hard most of her life; but when I met her, she had retired. She was enjoying spending lots of time visiting with family and friends, and she belonged to the Redondo Beach Senior Center.  She always referred to her cronies and herself as Seasoned Citizens, not senior citizens.  She had very little money, but she could make a penny go farther than most people could make ten dollars go.  She knew how to have fun, and she made those around her have fun too.

     When I began this story, I said it was an introduction to Jess, and that’s all the space I have for now; next time you’ll be hearing more about Jessie Belle.

To be continued

A Change in the Family History (February 29, 2008)

Grace & Dean Bradley--50th Anniversary (1961)

Don & Dean Bradley (1961)

     The date that my family history dramatically changed still lingers in my memory. But, before I lose that memory, I decided I had better consign it to paper for the family record.

     The date was May 12, 1978. I remember it well because my father had died one week before on May 5, Cinco de Mayo. It was mid-morning that day when our phone rang.

     “Hello. Is Don Bradley there?” a sweet woman’s voice asked.  When my father had died, we asked the phone company to forward his calls to our number.

     “I’m very sorry to tell you that he died a week ago.  I am his daughter. Is there any way I could help you?”

    “ My name is Alice Gappa.  I have known your parents for a long time.  Is your mom still alive?”

     “No, I’m sorry to say she died two years ago.  Where are you right now?”

     “I am at a phone booth by the freeway.  I was just driving by Davis on my way home to Tacoma, Washington from visiting family in the Bay Area.  I decided I’d just stop and call to see if your dad was home so that I could come visit him.  Do you mind if I tell you something about your dad?”

     “I’d love to hear it.”  I said.

     “Did you know your dad was adopted?”

     “My mother always said she thought my dad had been adopted.”  There was a picture on her dresser of my father’s maiden Aunt Jane, who was Grandpa Dean’s sister. She had been an army nurse in World War I—the period during which Don was born—and she bore a strong and uncanny resemblance to Dad. 

     Grandpa Dean was about five feet, one inches tall and was baldheaded except for a rim of white hair around his bald spot.   

His appearance was nothing like my Dad’s when they were both sixty years old.   Dad at sixty was six foot one and had a full head of hair; it had a few grey streaks but was mostly dark brown. He was tall and skinny, while Grandpa Dean and Grandma Grace were both short and stout.  Mom always said she hoped Grandma Grace would tell her that Dad was adopted, but it never happened.

     “I found out because my husband, Frank, was your dad’s brother; they were fraternal twins.  Before the boys were born, both Don and Frank’s parents, who were best friends, moved from Superior, Wisconsin across Lake Superior to Duluth, Minnesota. When they returned a year later to Superior, they each had a baby son.”

     “Yes, my mother knew about the move and that Dean and Grace had returned with the baby boy.  That was another reason Mom suspected he had been adopted.”

     I didn’t bother to mention to Alice one more reason why my mother had always suspected that Dad was adopted. Grandma Grace was a chronic complainer about aches and pains; but Mom often commented on the fact that, in all the years she had known Grace, she had never even mentioned her labor and delivery. I’m sure my mother would have been very pleased that I was finally hearing the truth about the family history.

     Alice went on with the story. “The boys played together as children, never knowing they were brothers.  Grace and Dean moved to Klamath Falls, Oregon when Don was a junior in high school.  Eventually, Frank’s folks also moved west.  The boys kept in touch and, when we were married, I got to meet your mom.  I, like your mother, always suspected Frank was adopted and I too hoped that his mom would tell him before she died; but she never did.  It was her sister who told me the story of the twins after Frank’s death and that is why I decided I should stop and see your folks.”

     I invited Alice over to our house and we spent the rest of the day together, discussing our families.  Although Alice’s husband had died recently, she brought pictures to share.  We both agreed how sad it was that Don and Frank never knew they were brothers, but it was wonderful that they had grown up together and were always friends.

     We kept in touch with Alice for several years.  When we took our family for a trip to Washington, we stopped in Tacoma to visit her. One year our Christmas card to Alice was returned marked: Not at this address. This led us to suspect that she had died and we never heard from her again. We always felt fortunate to have met her and found out about our extended family; unfortunately, we never met her children nor obtained their addresses, so we weren’t able to continue a dialogue with that side of the family.

       I will always consider Grandpa Dean and Grandma Grace to be my grandparents, as they were wonderful to me. But it is nice to know the more complete family history to pass on to our children and grandchildren.

More about the Family Jewels (February 15, 2008)

     When my mother turned sixteen, Grandma Goldie and Grandpa Irving had a ring made for her to celebrate the occasion.  The ring was made of platinum with a large onyx stone and a small diamond set in the middle.  Mom wore that ring until her death in 1976.  At that time I put the ring in the safety deposit box, along with her wedding ring and the jewelry Grandma Goldie had left in my mother’s care when she died in 1970.

     Although my Grandpa Irving had left Grandma Goldie for another woman, he was generous with his gifts to Grandma.  He gave her a diamond watch, a diamond bracelet, and a large diamond pin with many small diamonds; he also gave her a beautiful diamond engagement ring with a large square cut stone in the center, complemented by two small square diamonds on each side.

      When Grandma moved back to Davis in 1954, she wore all of her diamonds every day.  She didn’t have Grandpa any more, but I think those diamonds gave her a feeling of warmth and kept her connection to Grandpa alive. The song Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend might have been a good theme song for Grandma.

     On my sixteenth birthday Grandma Goldie presented me with my second ring.  She took sixteen chip diamonds from her pin and had them set in a gold ring for me.  I wore that ring until our oldest daughter Kelly turned sixteen; then I passed it on to her.  Kelly had that ring for several years until someone stole it from her.  At that time I presented Kelly with my mother’s wedding ring, which was similar to the ring she had gotten on her sixteenth birthday.  I am happy to say Kelly still has and treasures that ring.

     When I got married, David and I decided to have wedding rings made by a jeweler in San Francisco.  Grandma Goldie took the remaining seven chip diamonds from her pin and gave them to me to add to my wedding band.  David and I got identical gold bands, but all the chip diamonds ended up in my ring.  I have always been sorry that we didn’t split them up between the two rings.  I’m sure that would have been fine with Grandma, as she loved David like a grandson.

     Grandma Goldie always told me she was giving my brother Michael her own engagement ring, as he was her first grandchild.  When Michael got the ring, after both Grandma and Mom died, he got into his car, drove over to my house and handed me the ring.  What a wonderful brother!

     On our daughter Kate’s sixteenth birthday, I gave her my mother’s sixteenth birthday ring.  That ring was in Kate’s jewelry box when our house burned down in 1996.  Remarkably, we retrieved it from the ashes after the fire, and she has it to this day.

     My mother always told me to never take my rings off.  She said removing them to clean or whatever was a good way to lose them.  I always followed mother’s good advice until we were heading on our camping trip in 1996.  Grandma Goldie’s engagement ring, which my brother had given me, was loose on my finger and I was afraid of losing it on the trip.  So I left it behind in my jewelry box.

     Twenty-four short hours later our house burned down.  I remember thinking at the time: “My mother was right! I should have secured that ring to my finger and taken it with me.”

     It took us eight hours to drive to Davis after we heard about the fire.  When we arrived home our son Bill, who came from San Francisco to survey the damage, walked up to the RV and pulled his key ring out of his pocket.  Dangling from his key ring was a soot-covered ring that he had miraculously spotted in the ashes.

     “Is this anything of value?” Bill asked.

 

     Needless to say my answer was a resounding, “Yes!”  It was Grandma’s diamond engagement ring. It remains today as one of my greatest treasures because it came from my loving grandmother.

     Unfortunately, Grandma’s diamond watch and diamond bracelet disappeared with the fire.  We had taken them out of the safety deposit box to have them appraised for our insurance policy at just the wrong time.  I am sure that only Grandma in Heaven knows where they ended up; someday, when we are reunited, she can tell me what happened to them.  I don’t grieve over the loss of the bracelet and watch because I will always have Grandma’s love in my heart and the rings on my fingers; they bring me warmth and the loving memory of my Grandma every day of my life.

    

A Treasure from Grandma (February 8, 2008)

                                                

     One activity I loved doing with my Grandma Goldie was going through her jewelry box.  She knew where each piece of her jewelry had come from, and she told me the stories that went with each piece as we searched through the box.  I never tired of looking at each item or hearing the stories about the original owners or the person who had given a piece to Grandma.

      One of my favorite pieces of jewelry was her mother’s engagement ring.  It was a gold ring with a delicate scroll design on the top and a chip diamond in the center.I loved it.  On my twelfth birthday, the year Grandma moved back to Davis, she presented me with a small white box with a beautiful red ribbon.

     “What is it Grandma?”

     “It’s your birthday present, Honey; go ahead and open it.”

     I carefully removed the ribbon and slowly opened the lid.  There, inside the box, on a piece of fluffy white cotton, lay my great grandma’s engagement ring.  Nothing could have made me happier. But I said, “Oh, Grandma, how can you part with it?”

     “My mother would be very happy to know that her great granddaughter loved and treasured her ring and wore it every day, just as she had done.”

     Tears of happiness welled up in my eyes and I threw my arms around Grandma, gave her a great big hug and kiss, and promised to wear the ring proudly ever day of my life.

     I still wear that ring, right above my wedding ring, to this very day.  I did have to remove it briefly when I was eighteen because the band had grown very thin. Grandma took the ring to the jeweler to have Great Grandma’s wedding band soldered onto the engagement ring to reinforce it.  The ring is a treasure that makes me feel directly connected, not only to my dearest Grandma Goldie, but to a great grandmother I never had the pleasure of knowing.

     Grandma Goldie had several diamond jewelry pieces that Grandpa Irving had given her; my next story will tell where those diamonds traveled.    

Grandma Goldie and Me—Great for Each Other (February 1, 2008)

Great Grandma Goldie, Grandma Eva and baby Kelly (September 1966)

Great Grandma Goldie and baby Kelly (February 1966)

Great Grandma Goldie, Don, Baby William, Great Grandma Grace and Kelly (February 1967)

 

     Grandma Goldie, my mother’s mother, was a kind and gentle soul.  She was my dream grandmother.  She stood five foot seven, two inches taller than my mother.  She had short grey hair and always wore flowered housedresses and sensible shoes, like most everybody’s grandmother did in those days.  My Grandma Goldie was very special to me because she loved me so unreservedly that I always knew it.  She made me feel special with her hugs and kisses and loving attention, and I loved her back with equal enthusiasm.  We were great for each other.

     In 1946 we moved to Davis and left Grandma behind in Klamath Falls.  It broke my heart because I missed her so much.  A year and a half later my mom and dad moved Grandma to Davis to be close to us.  What joy!  She moved into a little white house on G Street just south of 8th Street.  The house is still there and I think of Grandma every time I pass it.  I got to go to Grandma’s house on Fridays to spend the night with her.  She made popcorn and told me stories; she tucked me into the twin bed next to hers, where we slept happily side by side through the night.

     When I was seven years old, my Grandpa Irving, Goldie’s ex-husband, said he needed her to move to Santa Rosa to help my Uncle Buzz and Aunt Pat with their new baby and their farm.  Although I was heart sick to lose my grandmother again, I knew she would be wonderful with the new baby.  In two short years, Grandpa decided to move Buzz and Pat and little Susie to Oakdale to start a dairy farm.  He bought Grandma a little house of her own out on the edge of town in Santa Rosa where she was once again alone.  We visited Grandma often in Santa Rosa.  I remember she had a delicious pear tree in her back yard, which I loved.  I still enjoy eating pears and, to this day, they always bring to mind happy memories of my grandmother.

      Grandpa had left my grandmother for another woman in 1934 and then Grandma developed a serious drinking problem.  When we lived close to Grandma, she didn’t drink; but when we moved to Davis and left her behind, her drinking began again.  Her moves to Davis and subsequently to Santa Rosa made her happy and she quit drinking. Unfortunately, when she was once again left alone after Buzz and Pat moved away, the liquor bottles came out again.  Grandpa decided to put her in an alcohol facility, which really angered my mother; she went to Santa Rosa, checked Grandma out and moved her to Davis for keeps this time.

      Grandma settled into 417 B St. in the Town House apartments, across the street from Central Park and kitty-corner to my elementary/junior high school, which was just across the street from the high school.  Those two schools now house the central school offices and the Davis City administration buildings respectively.  I was in the sixth grade when she arrived and I saw her every day through my high school graduation.

     During this period Grandma’s alcohol consumption dropped to zero. Each day my brother Michael and I went to Grandma’s for a delicious lunch.  She often fried us chicken or made hamburger patties.  She even peeled grapes for us, the only time I had those in my life.  She also frequently baked homemade sugar cookies, my favorites. Yum!  Every day after school, I headed right to Grandma’s to do my homework and visit with her, my favorite thing to do!

     I again started to spend every Friday night with her, just as I had done when she lived in Davis before.  Friday night with Grandma was the highlight of my week--and hers too.  We settled in to watch our favorite TV shows: Jimmy Durante, Rosemary Clooney and Perry Como, among others.  We cracked almonds and walnuts my dad brought home from the campus.  We made popcorn, did crafts and looked at all of Grandma’s old family pictures. She told me stories of her youth and that of my mom; I heard about her brother and sister, along with all the other relatives on Mom’s side of the family.  I especially liked the stories she told about Irving’s sister Florence, who had been married five times. One of her husbands was an athletic trainer at least 30 years her junior.  Florence came to see grandma several times while I was visiting.  She was full of fun and also had great family stories to tell.

 

     Grandma kept a picture of Grandpa Irving on her desk in the living room.  She still loved him dearly and hoped he would return to her one day.  Unfortunately, that dream never came to pass; Grandpa died in a horrible car accident in 1956, just before I started the 8th grade.   Grandma was crushed, but we still had each other and spent every minute together that we could.  We were great for each other!

To be continued

William’s Second Visit to the ER (January 25, 2008)

William, our first born son, was not a hyperactive child; in fact, he generally took most things at a slow and steady pace. But this did not prevent him from having accidents. The occasion for one such incident was a Sunday in November 1968, when he was twenty-two months old. While walking across the living room floor, William seemed to trip on an air bubble and fell face-first onto the wooden edge of the living room sofa arm.  He hit his left cheek and it split open about an inch and a half.  I remembered thinking, “Why do these accidents always occur on a Sunday?”

        Our son William was born on a Sunday.  The poem we learned as children about Sunday’s child said: The child that is born on the Sabbath day is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.  This description fit William well; he was a very easygoing, cheerful child, but it did not address his propensity for accidents.

     Only four short months had passed since William’s incident with the dog that took him on his first ER visit.  Had this been a weekday, we would have headed to the pediatrician’s office; but it was another Sunday, so we had but one choice: another trip to the emergency room.

     I hoped that, if we were lucky, the ER doc would be willing to put in a couple of stitches and we would be on our way.  Unfortunately, in the big city (San Francisco) the medical establishment always feels the need to bring in the experts; so, once again, we found ourselves settling into the ER awaiting the arrival of the plastic surgeon on call.

      The ER doc who examined William said, “Because it is his face, we want to get a plastic surgeon so he doesn’t scar badly.”  We spent the allotted four hours per protocol in the ER, but, fortunately this time, the plastic surgeon allowed us to take William home after his ordeal.  He gave me an appointment card to bring William to his office in five days for his suture removal.

     We still had no car, so I gathered up a city map and the Muni bus schedules and planned our route. The office was not close to home. We had to make three transfers to get to the office, a trip that took about ninety minutes.

     We didn’t have to wait long before we were called into the doctor’s office on our appointed date.  The doctor was cheerful on his arrival, which put William at ease.  “How are you doing, boy?” the doctor asked.  “OK” said William. “Let’s get those stitches out.” I pinned down William’s chest with my upper body and held his head securely between my hands.  The doctor told William he had to lie very still, which he did.  Doctor clipped the sutures, pulled them out with his clamp and Presto: the suture line split open. So much for plastic surgery!  Rather than re-stitching, the doctor just steri-stripped the wound.  Had I done this in the beginning, we’d have saved a lot of time with the same outcome.

     Yes, the scar is still faintly visible on William’s cheek at the age of 41; but we don’t call it a scar, we call it a character line.

     Five years passed before William had another facial injury.  We had moved to Davis, and I had taken William to the family doctor’s office because he was complaining of severe abdominal pain.  Because his father had had a ruptured appendix a few years earlier, I wasn’t taking any chances with William.  By the time we were in the exam room and the doctor arrived, William’s pain had dissipated.  We chatted with Dr. Vaughn briefly and headed to the parking lot.  On the way to the car, William tripped over a concrete divider and split his forehead open.  Fortunately, we just walked back into the office and Dr. Vaughn stitched him back together again.

     William took all of his accidents in stride as a child when they occurred. But we have noticed they seemed to have had some long-term effect on him.  As an adult, William avoids doctors like the plague.