Inspiring story from a fellow reader.
The Civil War battle, reenacted with crumpled paper that served as bullets we threw across the room, helped me fall in love with history. As an eighth grader, I was proud to fight against the other half of the class for the Confederate States because I knew that my ancestors probably did the same.
My husband, Bob, was three years old when his father was killed during World War II. When Bob turned sixty we got serious about gathering everything we could about his father—stories, photos, and ancestry.
My husband, Bob, was three years old when his father was killed during World War II.
In my mind, there’s only one thing nicer than a cemetery—a cemetery decorated for Memorial Day.
In my mind, there’s only one thing nicer than a cemetery—a cemetery decorated for Memorial Day.
In high spirits, I drove into the entrance of an Iowa cemetery on Memorial Day, intent on adorning my ancestors’ graves.
When I began digging into my family history in the late 1970s, I asked my mother about her forebears.
“They were all preachers or printers,” she proudly told me. Mom was a healthy not-quite-senior citizen at the time, and her memory was tack sharp. “Why wouldn’t she remember correctly?” I reasoned with a beginner’s innocence. She seemed so sure of her facts.
Have you ever noticed that it’s often the cups and saucers that are missing in old sets of china? I have come to believe that there could be a message in those missing pieces. Maybe our ancestors who cherished these delicate cups understood something we haven’t quite figured out.
Pasta sauce is nearly sacred in my family. The thought of life without it would be unbearable. While other fami lies might have inherited municipal bonds, money, or real estate, our inheritance was the original recipe for pasta sauce. This is, of course, a great source of pride to us all.
My father was a big man and the small kitchen was his domain.
My mother Effie died from an illness in 1948 when I was four weeks old. Memories of her were dim or nonexistent for the five young children she left behind.
Throughout my childhood my father Ray didn’t talk much about my mother. He had been devoted to her in their marriage.
I learned the bare outlines of the tragedy from a distant cousin. My great-uncle Solomon Laskin was fatally injured as a child while lighting firecrackers with his brothers on the Fourth of July. Cemetery records provided the date of death, and the death certificate confirmed that the nature of the injuries was consistent with the family story.
I must admit to a significant amount of skepticism regarding family stories because many of my family’s stories have turned out to be untrue. But my husband’s family stories have proven to be quite accurate, and this one was no exception.
I’m a writer-turned-genealogist. My research has been rewarding but frustrating. I haven’t been looking for law-breakers, but I’ve found some. I wasn’t looking for royalty, either, but it would have been nice to find a court jester. I’ve also found a lot of interesting people about whom I’d really like to know more.
