Wordless Wednesday ~ Schlitz, Anyone?

I think this might be one of my all-time favorite Pointer photos ~ My husband's grandfather, Forrest Pointer [standing, 2nd to left]. A moment of relaxation stolen in the midst of war. Schlitz, anyone? And what I wouldn't give to hear the story that's being told.

Forrest Pointer [Standing, 2nd to left.] in Kodiak, Alaska during World War II.

Tombstone Tuesday ~ 'Family Stuff'

Just yesterday I tweeted the following:

"Why is it the collaterals with no descendants that capture my attention the most? It's like my heart adopts them automatically."

And

"Their faces tug on my heartstrings just begging me to tell their stories."

What inspired those? I had been sitting at my father-in-law’s table poring through more old photos and more of Pearl’s composition books.  I had originally gone over there to photograph an old family toy for an article that I’m writing for Shades of the Departed, when my father-in-law said, “Here’s some more family stuff.”

[Gawd. How I love that “family stuff.”]

Pearl (Williams) Pointer

That “family stuff” got me to thinking in several directions.  As I flipped through Pearl’s school composition books, where she’d dutifully practiced her handwriting and no doubt answered her math and geography homework questions, I wondered if any of my descendants would be as awed by my school homework? [That is, if I can keep my non-packrat husband from throwing it away. ;)]  Would they pore over every letter hoping that some curved line would reveal just an inkling of what I was thinking, feeling? Would they pull out their magnifying glass to analyze my boredom-induced doodles in the margins hoping to see if they revealed what my hopes, dreams, and regrets had been? [Yes, Pearl doodled. Lots.]

Then I flipped through the scrapbook album. Some of the photos I’d already seen thanks to Great-Uncle Donald and his awesome digitizing, but there were many that I’d not seen. This had been my husband’s grandfather’s album [Great-Uncle Donald’s younger brother], and it’s interesting to see what photos Grandpa Pointer included in his album and how he grouped them as compared to how Great-Uncle Donald had done. Perhaps I’m analyzing it too much [So sue me.], but it reminded of what Great-Uncle Donald had told me last summer about the dynamics of the relationships between brothers.  And yesterday I thought to myself how lucky I was to have so much of the family artifacts to look at.  It’s like hearing a different viewpoint of the family story, which is important, because, in my opinion, somewhere in there lies the truth.

Back: Harold, Lester, Wayne, Glen. Front: Forrest & Donald

Flipping towards the back of the album, I found Great-Uncle Lester’s high school diploma. And it brought tears to my eyes. [I’m such a girl. I know.] You see, Great-Uncle Lester [U.S. Navy] died during World War II of a brain tumor. He had been married, but had no children. And that’s what broke my heart. No descendants to wonder and mull over the “stuff” he’d left behind. No one to wonder if they had the same eye or hair color as Lester. No one to wonder what his hopes and dreams had been. No one to wonder what his handwriting reveals about himself in his letters home to mom [Pearl].

However, if all of the copies of the newspaper articles of his illness and death, and if all the letters and postcards of his that were saved over the years are anything to go by, he had made a big impact on his family.

But Lester wasn’t the only Pointer to be sacrificed in World War II. His brother Staff Sergeant Wayne H. Pointer (Air Corps) had been listed as missing in 1943 after his plane went down over Brazil, and he was later declared dead. He had not been married nor did he have any children. However, his letters home to mom were carefully saved and his photos were neatly stored by at least 2 of his brothers. Great-Uncle Donald even has specific stories about Great-Uncle Wayne in his memoirs.

It still saddens me whenever I find “collaterals” [siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, etc.] that have no descendants to tell their hopes, their dreams, their regrets, their stories. And with each one that I uncover, I feel compelled to adopt them. To find and tell their story so they won’t be forgotten.

 As I look into their fading faces and as I read their fading handwriting, I just want to say, “Don’t worry. You won’t be forgotten. Someone will know your story.”

U.S. Navy Chief Petty Officer Lester Laverne Pointer. b. 26 Nov 1915; d. 14 Oct 1942;
buried at Arlington National Cemetery

~C

Genealogy, Catholicism, & Managing Women...

Mary Alice (Truitt) Blacketer

Drumroll, please...here is my Gran. If you've been reading my past stories then you know who I'm talking about. [If not, after this post read: "My Gran's Southern Hash," if you like...] She was such a sweet little lady [unless you got on her bad side, which I didn't because I was her favorite :)]. I don't have a whole lot of photographs of her, but I managed to find some "Mom" pics with all her kids over the years. One of the pictures [a copy actually] I stumbled upon when I found her passport application [way cool]. In it she's holding her infant daughter my Aunt Happy [a name worthy of another story], and an unidentified other woman, who, if I had to guess, is probably my Gran's sister, my Aunt Anne, but I don't know for sure. My Gran and her mother, my Boo [yes, there's a story behind that name, too] raised Gran's eight children together during World War II. My Gran worked several jobs outside of the home, and my Boo took care of things on the homefront. Like so many other mom's, they worked hard to "make it happen."

From Ireland to a Deck in Texas

My Gran's Gran, Annie O'Brien, who came to America [thru New Orleans, LA] from Dublin, Ireland was Catholic. [Shocker, right?] I was baptized a Catholic and remained one for only the first 3 years of my life. My dad didn't really like the Catholic Church, and he'd been raised a Methodist. So my mom and dad compromised and we became Episcopalian [can't say we aren't problem-solvers]. "Why didn't my dad like the Catholic Church," you ask? Well, if you read my 6-part series [yes, I said 6] on "Secrets" of my grandfather's then that might shed some light on it...So, what does this have to do with my Gran? One of my most vivid memories of her [other than her Southern hash] was that she was a devout Catholic who prayed religiously [pardon the pun]. She had her Saint Prayer Cards and her Rosary always in her pocket and she'd go outside to be in nature and talk to God...everyday...several times a day...without fail [in the rain, she'd sit on that same deck that my dad built...the one mentioned in "Runaway Bunny"]. And I remember when I was little thinking at the time that she and God sure talked a lot...[She was probably praying for my dad's non-Catholic soul! lol]

Three Managing Women

So here's to [really] 3 mom's my Gran, my Boo, and the outlandish Annie O'Brien [yeah, there's some stories there, too] - 3 hardworking, managing, Catholic women who never stopped and asked, "Why," but just kept working together to keep their homes together and their children healthy and happy...Happy Mother's Day, Gran, Boo, and Annie!

Caroline

Tombstone Tuesday: The Only One Left To Tell...

Growing up I loved to climb trees. In fact, my dad bought me my very own oak tree. It was rather big for one you'd buy and plant in your backyard, and it came ready-to-climb. Oh, and it was such a good climbing tree. It had a branch that was just low enough that if I jumped high enough, I could grasp it with both hands, "walk" the rest of my body up, and flip myself over onto the branch.

I used to run around barefoot all the time, and I got very good at hoisting myself up my tree. I used to climb the branches, going here and there. I never broke any branches, nor did I fall from my tree. [I did fall from others, but no broken bones.] I wonder, though, in my haste to explore yet another branch, if maybe I missed something - maybe the perfect view of the sun setting in the Texas sky, or maybe the most comfortable spot to sit and rest for awhile.

Well, I realized yesterday that I had done this very thing. No, I wasn't actually climbing a tree. [I haven't done that in, well, years.] I'm talking about my family tree. Remember when I talked about my "long line of managing women" yesterday and I mentioned my Aunt Anne [my Gran's sister] having driven an ambulance in WWII in France? I realized that, other than finding out who she married, I never explored her story. [I know...I know, shame on me.]

The first time I ever actually remember being around her was when my mom & I transferred her from a nursing home in Houston, Texas to one in San Antonio, Texas so that she could be with her older sister [my Gran]. I still remember watching them sitting together in the activity room - happy as 2 peas in a pod - finally together again.

I wish I had known then to ask about her story. It's funny what can happen to a piece of information that's been given to you. You "file" it away, then you find it again, only to find out you needed it sooner. I mean, I knew that she'd driven that ambulance in WWII. I just didn't realize how important it was. Then years later, I skipped right over her again in my haste to climb other branches.

I did do some brief research on women who drove ambulances during WWII, including overseas. Wow! What a story! [Thud...Thud...do you hear that? That's me kicking myself in the backside!]

My Aunt Anne passed away in 1995, twenty years after her husband [who also served in WWII], and they never had any children. No one to pass on their story. It's just been sitting there waiting patiently to be found...

Well, I don't have her firsthand account of what happened in France, but I sure wish I did. What was it like to be a woman in the U.S. Navy during WWII? What was it like to be one of the very few women driving an ambulance in France?...exciting?...scary?

So many women provided support services during WWII - from working in factories on the home front to serving abroad. Among all the hullabaloo, though, these women seem to be forgotten sometimes. I have more to study about my Aunt Anne in hopes of uncovering her story and sharing it, and I can't wait! Today my Aunt Anne is with her husband, amongst many other veterans, in Houston National Cemetery.

So, when climbing your family tree, don't forget to slow down and explore every branch, even the smaller ones. You never know whose story you might find...and you might be the only one to tell it. And to my Aunt Anne and all the women who served in WWII, thank you...you are not forgotten!

Caroline

"Mom, They Called Me Bossy..."

My daughter came home from school, and said that she'd been called bossy. [I must confess: I've had the same thought a time or two about her, but it stayed just that. A thought.]


So, I told her this story:



"Mom, they called me bossy!" I cried as I ran into my mom's arms with tears running down my face. My mom comforted me and dried my tears. Then she looked me in the eye and said, "Don't ever let anyone call you bossy. If anyone does call you bossy, then you tell them that you are not bossy. That you just come from a long line of managing women!"


[A long line of managing women?]


She went on to explain that my Gran's Gran, Annie O'Brien, came from Ireland by herself at the tender age of 17 to New Orleans, Louisiana. Also, her daughter, my Gran's mom, "Boo", and my Gran raised Gran's 8 children [my mom's #7]. My Gran had multiple jobs while "Boo" took care of things on the home front. Lastly, [and I think this is kinda cool] my Gran's sister, Aunt Anne, drove an ambulance in France during World War II.


She ended this quick family history of my "managing" maternal line with, "Don't forget: you come from a long line of managing women."


I now wonder, "How many times this story has been told in my mom's family, and who it started with?" I didn't realize that day how that "talk" would profoundly affect my outlook on life and myself.


And what great genealogical clues she'd given me.


And what I'd find out about my family.


And what great stories they'd make.


And that I'd be sharing them with you.


So, then I looked my daughter in the eye and I told her, "Don't let anyone call you bossy. If someone does call you bossy, you just tell them that you're not bossy. That you just come from a long line of managing women." 


[But, I also added that she was not allowed to "manage" me. Ever.]

My Gran's Southern Hash

The term, "hard times" has been tossed around lately, and I don't think that everyone knows what it means exactly. I'm not talking about politics or the market, though. While those are important for the "why", I'm talking about the "how." How did it affect the everyday family?

Just what did it mean to the everyday family?

I can still remember interviewing my Gran (my grandmother on my mom's side) for my family tree project my senior year in high school. I remember asking her, "how was life 'way back then'?" [My interviewing prowess showing even then! lol] While my technique obviously needed work, I think, in this case, it may have have been the right approach. Her answer was so clear and simple, but powerful. She replied," Dear," [my Gran always started a story with "Dear,..."] "during the war, we would wait in line on 'meat' day with our ration books." [Huh?]

Since we were sitting at the dinner table with full tummies and my mom in the kitchen doing the dishes, her reply caught me offguard. As a friend of mine likes to say, "I just don't have a slot for that." I couldn't compute that statement.

She went on to explain about rationing books and not having enough meat to go around during World War II. They were allowed only so much meat [and other goods] per week per person. Could you imagine - in this day and age in America - standing in line with your neighbors every week with your ration coupon books clutched in your hands in order to receive your ration of food items for the week for your family? [And to think I complain about having to go to the store...]

I also now understand my Gran's recipe for Southern hash. You see, my husband & I disagree on what hash really is. He was born in Iowa, but got to Texas as fast as he could, and I am a Texan, born and raised. [Hey, y'all!] Whenever my Gran would visit, she'd make hash at the end of the week, which consisted of all [and I do mean all] the leftovers in the fridge and homemade biscuits. And everytime I make it for my family, my husband always says that it isn't really hash, but a stew concoction of sorts. He says that real hash is made with corned beef and potatoes and served for breakfast. [Well, my Gran's Gran was 100% Irish, and I know what corned beef is. It's what you eat with cabbage on St. Patty's Day] To be fair, though, I have had corned beef hash, and it makes a wonderful breakfast. O.K., so there's 2 types of hash: Southern and not-Southern [but my Gran's hash is the real one - at least for me...]

While I make Gran's Southern Hash for my family [and "stew" for my husband] out of nostalgia and comfort [and yes, sometimes out of laziness - I really hate going to the store], my Gran made it out of necessity in order to feed the mouths of 8 growing children. My Gran's story about "hard times" during World War II is similar to a lot of other people's stories who went through it.

They scraped.

They saved.

They made "do" with what they had.

They hunkered down. [Texas-speak]

They worked long and hard to put food on the table for their families.

That's their family story.

It's my Gran's family story.

And it's my family story, too...

Caroline