Category Archives: History

you, me & Winnie

30 Monday Nov 2015

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We make a living by what we get,
but we make a life by what we give.
[Winston Churchill]

Letter from Winston Churchill

When I was a child, my Aunt Esther always sent me birthday cards that were signed “you, me and Winnie.” The three of us shared birthdays. Today, I am 73, she would be 103, and Winnie would be 141. Until I went to school, I thought Winnie was a relative I’d never met.

When I was in grade school, I learned that Winnie was Winston Churchill, he’d been in the Navy (First Lord of the Admiralty) like Aunt Esther (yeoman cartographer, USN), and he worked for the British government (Prime Minister). Then I was assigned to write a letter in class. I labored to write to Mr. Churchill to share one of Aunt Esther’s cards with him, and to tell him that I figure the three of us were like twins since we shared a birthday. I told him I’d heard it was his 80th birthday and I was so glad he still had a job and hadn’t given up and retired. Then I wished him a Happy Birthday, and I mailed it.

I was home the morning Mama took a letter from the mailbox and almost fell off of the porch when she read the address. It was a response from Mr. Churchill! In the photo above, you can see that the letter has yellowed over the years. It reads,

10 Downing Street
Whitehall

I am so much obliged to you for your very kind token of goodwill on my birthday.

Winston S. Churchill

American Neighborhood

03 Friday Jul 2015

Posted by in Favorite Things, History, Knitting, Thoughts, Writing

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You have to love a nation that celebrates its independence every July 4, not with a parade of guns, tanks, and soldiers who file by the White House in a show of strength and muscle, but with family picnics where kids throw Frisbees, the potato salad gets iffy, and the flies die from happiness.  You may think you have overeaten, but it is patriotism.  
[Erma Bombeck]

2015-July4

Last evening, there was a spontaneous gathering of my neighbors. We were trimming our yards for the holiday, each helping the other. We represented a variety of age groups, nationalities, races, occupations, income levels. We were the poster group for the old-fashioned term, melting pot. I felt enriched. I’ve often thought that the best part of being an American was being heir to all countries, languages, cultures, and religions. I label myself with a new hyphenated term. I am an enriched-American.

P.S. My neighbors also liked the holiday socks that I hand knit last weekend.

the-wright-brothers-9781476728742_lgP.P.S. I listen to audiobooks while I knit and found this one stunning. David McCullough is one of my favorites, both as a writer and a narrator. This book captures the brilliance of Orville and Wilbur, and the world-changing nature of their achievements. When I was in Dayton to teach a knitting workshop, a friend took me on a tour of the city. We saw the Wright homes, the sites of the Wright printing company and bike shop, Paul Dunbar’s home, and the place where the brothers tested their planes. McCullough captures it all in this book. Reading it is time well spent.

Wounded Warrior Project

09 Monday Feb 2015

Posted by in History, Ongoing Projects, Thoughts

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In war, there are no unwounded soldiers.
[Jose Narosky]

The Vietnam Women's Memorial was designed by Glenna Goodacre and dedicated on November 11, 1993. It is part of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, and is located on National Mall in Washington DC, a short distance south of The Wall, north of the Reflecting Pool. Photo by Rudi Williams (American Forces Press Service).

The Vietnam Women’s Memorial was designed by Glenna Goodacre and dedicated on November 11, 1993. It is part of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, and is located on National Mall in Washington DC, a short distance south of The Wall, north of the Reflecting Pool. Photo by Rudi Williams (American Forces Press Service).

Fifty years ago, I reported in to U.S. Naval Hospital, Charleston SC and, by Christmas, we admitted one of our first Vietnam casualties. Within a year, our census doubled as air-evac flights brought us wounded Marines, Seabees and hospital corpsmen. Looking back, all I can remember was living in the moment—doing what I was able to do each day. Our hospital wards were big open rooms in stilt buildings that were left over from World War Two. I never thought about how poor the environment was for patient care, nor did I ever know what happened to our patients after they left our unit.

I was reading a novel about wounded soldiers from the recent conflicts. Their post-hospital situations were dreadful. Compound that with what I had heard on the news about veteran’s affairs problems and I was sick at heart. I asked myself if our folks had it as bad fifty years ago? Then I ask myself what can I do to help this generation who could be my grandchildren? Within days, I received information about the Wounded Warrior Project from USAA (United Services Automobile Association).

Here is what USAA had to say:

Honor and empower wounded warriors.

The purpose of the WWP (Wounded Warrior Project) is:

  • To raise awareness and enlist the public’s aid for the needs of injured service members
  • To help injured servicemen and women aid and assist each other.
  • To provide unique, direct programs and services to meet the needs of injured service members.

If this issue calls to you as it did to me, Here is the LINK to more information about WWP.

Fort Wayne’s Baker Street Station

29 Thursday Jan 2015

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History with its flickering lamp stumbles along the trail of the past,
trying to reconstruct its scenes, to revive its echoes,
and kindle with pale gleams the passion of former days.
[Winston Churchill]

A Story of Service and Survival

Celebrating rail history:
WHAT: The Three Rivers Railroad Heritage Council will sponsor a Railroad History Weekend at the historic Baker Street Station.
A new book about the station, “A Story of Service & Survival,” will be released at the event.
WHEN: 10 a.m.-5 p.m. Feb. 7-8
WHERE: Baker Street Station, 221 W. Baker St., at Baker and Harrison streets
COST: $5 per person for ages 13 and older, free for ages 12 and younger.
NOTE: Copies of the new book will be sold for $30 each at the event; normal price is $39.95.

Railroads have fascinated me since I was tall enough to see the model train set up on the ping pong table in our friend’s basement. That is why Skip Sassmannhousen’s article in the Fort Wayne News-Sentinel captured my attention at this LINK. Skip tells how his book came about and shares the following about the special event:

The Baker Street Station books will go on sale Feb. 7-8 at the annual Railroad History Weekend at the station, which is sponsored by the Three Rivers Railroad Heritage Council.

The theme for the 2015 Railroad History Weekend will be the New York Central Railroad, which played a major role in the transportation history of northern Indiana. Photos, maps, printed posters and other historical material will be displayed. Scale models of New York Central equipment will run model railroad layouts.

In addition to the New York Central materials, photos and drawings of the Pennsylvania Railroad’s Baker Street Station will be on display. [News-Sentinal, Jan. 24, 2015]

I hope to see you there.

Pearl Harbor

07 Saturday Dec 2013

Posted by in History, Technology, Thoughts

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… a date which will live in infamy.
[Franklin D. Roosevelt]

audible

Today, I have been listening to the audio book version of Pearl Harbor by Steven M. Gillion. This is my way of remembering.

The thought struck me that my blog readers might not know about the Audible daily deal nor the Audible app—two pieces of technology that bring me hours of pleasure. I knit (or clean, or cook) while I listen and I’m put in mind of the radio as it was when I was a child. The Audible website offers a service where by they email an offer at a greatly reduced price. Many of their offers don’t interest me. but this one did. I use the Audible app on my iPad and a Bluetooth speaker to listen to the books.

Brothers

18 Thursday Jul 2013

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To the outside world we all grow old.
But not to brothers and sisters.
We know each other as we always were.
We know each others hearts.
We share private family jokes.
We remember family feuds and secrets,
family griefs and joys.
We live outside the touch of time.
[Clara Ortega]

c.1950 - [back row] Irene and Emerson Hoffman [front row] sons: Ray, Bobby and Melvin

c.1950 – [back row] Irene and Emerson Hoffman
[front row] sons: Ray, Bobby and Melvin

2013 - Melvin, Ray and Bobby Hoffman

2013 – Melvin, Ray and Bobby Hoffman

The 2013 snapshot of the three Hoffman lads came in the mail this morning and reminded me that I had the 1950 photo scanned into my computer. Ray, editor of The Heritage Eagle for the J.I. Case Heritage Foundation, had his 730 John Deere over near his hometown of Sabetha, Kansas for a tractor drive. This photo was taken at an ice cream social following the drive. I think that you can’t get any more Kansas than that.

I only know one of these gentleman, but even I can see the lad in each of them. Some things haven’t changed in the intervening sixty years—the tip of Melvin’s head, Bobby’s grin and the impish expression on Ray’s face (and maybe even his overalls—I think he just lengthened the straps). I’ll bet a three-volume family saga could be written about those sixty years.

There is something universal in family photos—even photos of folks we don’t know. I was struck by the great good fortune these three brothers enjoy by being able to stand shoulder to shoulder and grin all these years later.

Another Christmas Story

24 Saturday Dec 2011

Posted by in History, Thoughts, Writing

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The best of all gifts around any Christmas tree:
the presence of a happy family
all wrapped up in each other.
[Burton Hillis]

In the late 1940s, my Aunt Esther was working on a masters degree in children’s book illustration when she composed and illustrated a book that told the story of my grandmother’s childhood in Kansas—Little Sister Sunflower. One episode in the book tells about the doll in the pink dress in this photo that I snapped this morning.

Gertrude Chamberlain, age 6

My grandmother, Gertrude Chamberlain nee Black (the Sunflower), was born in 1877. This Christmas story took place on Christmas Eve when she was six.

It was just the kind of weather for Christmas. It looked like the Currier and Ives print hanging in the front parlor. Snow covered this Kansas world, and the clouds were so low they looked like they were resting their elbows on the tree tops.

The Sunflower was leaning on the windowsill, blowing her breath on the windowpane. “Night will never come. It will just never come,” the little girl murmured.

Tonight was the district Christmas tree at Peebler school house. Ma had worked in the front parlor with the door closed most of the afternoon. Pa and the boys had the chores done. The sleigh stood at the back gate.

It was finally supper time, but the Sunflower was too excited to eat. Everything was so wonderful at Christmas time. The house smelled good with cedar and cookies and molasses taffy and good nature.

The Sunflower, as I remember her

Ma put on the Sunflower’s best dress of dark wool over her small hoop. Then she bundled the squirming child into the red velvet cloak and hood. Myrtle wrapped hot bricks in paper for foot warmers, and pa carried the box of gifts out to the sleigh. At last, they were finally in the sleigh. Francis and John William rode along side on horses.

The Sunflower closed her eyes. She had waited all day for this moment. The team dashed through the lot gate to the music of the sleigh bells on their harness. It was a merry trip with laughter and greetings to neighbors along the way.

The school house was packed. Each family in the district had brought their gifts to put under the community tree. The sunflower’s eyes were wide with wonder and amazement as she gazed at the tree with its hundreds of gleaming candles. Each time someone opened the school house door, the candle flames would bend and dance.

Almost at the top of the tree, tied to a big limb, was a beautiful doll. Her china head with painted hair glistened in the candle light. The Sunflower was sure the doll’s blue eyes were looking directly at her.

Santa Claus came in with a flurry of snow and sleigh bells. He laughed and began to hand out the gifts, but the Sunflower didn’t even hear what Santa was saying. She was carrying on an imaginary conversation with the beautiful doll.  Wonder who would get her? The Snarr girls? They never took care of their playthings. Maybe it was little Florence or Mattie Belle Deweese.

Jack Keck, who was helping Santa give out the presents, reached up and took down the lovely doll. He looked at the name tag and read out loud, “Miss Gertrude Chamberlain!”

The Sunflower couldn’t breathe, but she held out her six-year-old arms to receive the precious gift. The doll was almost as tall as the little girl. It had tiny china hands, and feet with painted shoes. It wore a dress like the Sunflower’s and had three starched petticoats.

The child held the doll close, kissing the cool china head over and over again. She saw no more of the Christmas party.

—Esther F. Clark, Little Sister Sunflower, 1948

Today’s The Day

11 Friday Nov 2011

Posted by in History, Nursing, Thoughts

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In war, there are no unwounded soldiers.
[Jose Narosky]

November 11 is the day I thank the powers that be for the opportunities I’ve had in life. I served from 1963 to 1969 so that makes me a Navy veteran, but I’m not a veteran in the sense that most people think of when they say veteran. I’ve never manned a gun in a ball turret, nor have I crouched in a fox hole next to a wounded buddy. I’ve never stormed a beach, driven a tank along a mined road, nor waded through a rice paddy with an M-16 in my hands. I wasn’t the 17-year old in bed #9 with a missing leg, and thousand-yard stare.

The Navy paid for my last two years of college, and I simply spent the next four years doing the same work I’d have done if I’d been a civilian, but getting better pay. The Navy launched me into my adulthood and shaped the direction of my life. I learned to grieve. I learned to serve. I learned to say, “No excuse, Sir.” I learned to truly care. I learned to hate the war, but love the warriors. I grew up.

Band of Brothers

22 Thursday Sep 2011

Posted by in History, Reading, Review, Thoughts, Writing

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Why do men fight who were born to be brothers?
[James Longstreet
about Ulysses S. Grant]

They were classmates and friends at West Point. They were army buddies and fought together in the Mexican War. Their high opinion of each other never wavered even when they were enemies during the American Civil War. They were friends after the war and then Longstreet paid his ultimate tribute to Grant upon hearing of his death, “General Grant was the truest as well as the bravest man who ever lived.”

I devour all sorts of history books—not only those about the American Civil War. Some books capture my interest enough that I go through them repeatedly. Most of these books are compiled, sorted and examined works by historians of a later generation. In my search for new histories, I came upon the memoirs of Grant and Longstreet at Project Gutenberg . Not only is the content of these books fascinating to me, but the prose is well-formed. These men who were raised without the most advanced of educational opportunities wrote in a clear, cohesive and interesting style.

From Manassas to Appomattox, Memoirs of the Civil War in America was written by James Longstreet and published in 1896. The Personal Memoirs of U. S. Grant were written in two volumes and published shortly after Grant’s death in 1885. I am reading them side by side since they discuss events in a chronological order from opposite sides. I’ve noticed interesting details that that give insight into the authors’ ways of thinking. For example, Grant called the northern army, the National Army instead of the Union Army. As I continue my journey through these two books, I grow in gratitude that these authors shared their experiences with us.

Poignant is the word I’d use to describe this reading experience.