I've asked all of you to come up with a family story, so I'll share one of my own. You can post your stories as a response to this post.
Today I found a photo of my great-grandfather's burial site at www.findagrave.com, which I located after a short Google search. I knew he died as a young man, but I wasn't sure of the exact years of his birth and death.
Alonzo Winfield Allen was a stunt man in the silent movies. He died in 1918 at age 29 or 30, when my grandmother, Luella Allen Lindquist, was about five years old. The only thing she knew about his passing was that he had died of kidney failure. That was the story I heard as a kid, and, of course, I felt sad for my grandma that she didn't have her father around when she was growing up.
It wasn't until somewhat recently that my mom learned that the kidney failure was the result of an accident that occurred during one of his stunts. The injury he received, although not fatal at the time it happened, damaged his kidneys. I don't know how the accident happened.
My mom learned this only because a relative on the Allen side of the family was doing genealogical research and had contacted my mom. Apparently, the marriage between my great-grandmother, Katherine Matilda Coorough, and my great-grandfather was a scandal, and it's possible they may have eloped. "Tillie" and Alonzo were married in 1911, and it is possible that Tillie's family was scandalized because Alonzo was in show business. At that time, people in show business were considered to be low class. In fact, a very brief Google search on stunt work in silent films led me to an article called "Stunt Man," where I learned that many stunts at that time were done by people who were desperate for work.
The film industry provided little to no safety precautions. Many stuntmen--and women--died doing stunts. Now I'm more curious about the history of silent films, which might help me understand more about Alonzo in an indirect way. Since stuntmen rarely got credit for their work, chances are I could watch a silent film featuring Alonzo Allen, but I would have no way to prove it. I have never seen a photo of him.
Family Reunion- My family has a traditional get together every year that is everything but ordinary. Our tradition dates all the way back to July 27th, 1876. The "Burton Family Reunion" is on my grandmother's side of the family. Every August, during the hot and humid weather, we all meet together in southern Indiana. The place that we all gather is never a question. We always meet in a cemetery. The cemetery has all of our Burton ancestors in it. This tradition is very odd to some people, but to our family its always a fun time. We always have about ten long tables which always consists of Kentucky Fried Chicken, persimmon pudding, and homegrown vegetables. There are always games to play, debates, a play, an auction, and family business. Its always nice to know who your long distance family members are and to hear all of their stories. My grandpa used some stories from the reunion to trace our family all the way back to the Mayflower. I enjoy meeting with my family even though some people may view our tradition as a little odd, because there is not anything better than family, food, and fun.
ReplyDeleteMy dad has always been conveyed and prejudged as a ‘biker.’ Granted, he may have the beard, wears Harley Davidson clothing, and owns and work on motorcycles. However, there are a few characteristics that bikers have that he doesn’t. He doesn’t have tattoos, he is not part of an Outlaw group, and he doesn’t act like many of those people. This story is generally only told when people notice his scar, when they are talking about accidents, or when they are talking about weird coincidences. From all the times I have heard this story, I don’t think anyone has given me a different version of it. They have each heard other’s points of view on it and incorporated it into their own version, which is also the version that I’ve heard countless times. It can be categorized into all three of those circumstances perfectly. He has a scar on his neck from the top of his ear stretching down to his shoulder blade. This accident he was in nearly took his life. As a matter of fact, he flat lined in the hospital multiple times. The weird coincidence of this story is that the day this happened, it was also my birthday, only about 20 years prior to me being born.
ReplyDeleteHe was on his way to work and he would always take the back roads there and of course be riding his Harley. He worked very early in the morning and his Harley, like most of them, isn’t generally extremely quiet. One guy that lived along one of these back roads decided that he didn’t like waking up early due to the motorcycle. Now, you can’t really control who drives down your street at what time, or what kind of vehicle they will be driving. He was simply trying to get to work on time. It wasn’t like he was trying to wake people up on his daily route. However, this specific guy decided that he would get into his truck and wait for my father to pass in front of his house then press on the gas of his truck and hit the cause of this disturbance. There was a forest on the other side of the street that my dad went flying into. The man ended up crashing head first into a tree and dying instantly. A relatively large tree branch went straight through my dad’s neck, barely missing his artery. Some of my dad’s friends also took this way to work and luckily were close behind when this happened. They got a lady to call 911 and they also called my mom. When they got to the hospital, the doctors refused to see my dad but would only give him some gauze. His friends could also be prejudged to be an Outlaw just as my dad commonly was. It was for this reason that they refused to help him. They thought they were a dangerous group. My mom ended up calling the police. While in the waiting room, still with the branch, he flat lined. After that they finally took him back into surgery. Eight hours later, he was finally stable. There was little to no money received from the man who nearly murdered my dad but they did sue the hospital and they got that compensation.
The basic meaning of this story is that you can never judge someone simple because of what they look like or what interests them. Sure, my dad may look like a biker: having the motorcycle, the clothes, and the general ‘biker appearance;’ but he has never acted like one or ever considered becoming part of the Outlaws or any other biker gang. He simply has a passion for Harley Davidsons and likes having long hair and a beard. He proudly presents these things and I am glad that after this experience he wasn’t afraid to continue presenting them even after they almost took his life. This has been prominent throughout my life. He has always taught me that I should never be afraid to be who I want to be and after he told me this story I knew exactly why he felt that way. It also strongly has the meaning that you cannot become angry over things that you have no control over. You just have to learn to deal with them and handle them in a logical and mature manner. Going to the lengths that this man did was completely ridiculous and possibly as extreme of an example as you can get.
There’s something about apples and crisp autumn air that takes me back home. The brilliance of the trees reminds me of fond memories growing up as a child, spending time with my family in the fall. When October comes around, I am filled with excitement knowing that I will be reunited with my family once more with loved ones from both near and far; while also being able to become connected with loved ones who have passed away in a sense through our family traditions. Each year, during the time of the apple harvests, my family comes together to make homemade apple cider. The reason for this goes back a ways…
ReplyDeleteMy dear grandparents who started the family tradition of apple pressing were both first generation Americans born to thick-rooted, yet very diverse European parents. My grandfather, Herbert, (known to me as Papa) was born in Gary, IN, in 1929. His mother was a German- Transylvanian immigrant who worked as a house wife and his father was a Swedish immigrant who worked as a stone mason. Although I never knew my great-grandparents, Papa often shared stories of his parents’ prominent accents and his mother’s famous German cuisine; as language and food are common grounds that uniquely bound his family together. My grandmother, Jeanette, (known to me as Nonny) was born in Lake Station, IN in 1930. Her mother, Winifred, was an English immigrant who worked as a nurse in England and later in the United States. Her father was a Scottish immigrant who served in the Royal Scottish Air Force, where he met my great-grandmother who was a nurse that served on the air force base in England. I never met my great-grandfather, but I was blessed to have known my great-grandma, Winnie, for a short time as a child. Through her parents, my Nonny kept the tight traditions of continuing to make the cuisines of her parent’s countries and taught her grandchildren music, which was close to her father’s heart. Although my grandparents came from very diverse backgrounds, they each carried pieces of their ancestor’s culture and expressed them through their own families. Whether it was through meals or music, Nonny and Papa did the best they could to keep the traditions of their families alive through their children and grandchildren.
After my great-grandparents had passed away, my Papa decided to begin a new, blended tradition that he would pass on through his children for the purpose of having a common tradition that could be shared by both cultures that he and my Nonny had come from. With a small apple orchard in my grandparent’s back yard, my Papa bought an old-fashioned apple press one fall and made home-made, hand-pressed apple cider with his family, my mother and her siblings. Now, each year, since that one fall way back when, my entire family, from Ohio to California comes together for laughter, leisure and apples. Apple pressing has been a family tradition I have grown up into ever since I was born. The tradition itself isn’t even about the apples anymore, but it’s about the coming together of family. Through it, I have made my some of my fondest memories of my childhood with my family and my grandparents. This year was especially profound for me, as it was the first fall, the first apple pressing without my Nonny and Papa. Although it was saddening, I was thankful for my grandparents and for the tradition they started. Even without them, the family tradition lives on through their children and grandchildren just as the traditions of my great-grandparents had lived on through their children. There’s something about apples that has taught me the appreciation and blessing of strong family ties and through, them there stems a family tradition that I will cherish forever.
While no one in my family makes their money as a stand-up comedian, we have our fair share of pranksters with my uncle being the king of all practical jokes. However, there is a story I have heard on many occasions where the joke was finally on my uncle! A favorite victim of his practical jokes was my dad. New to the family, it was expected he would be picked on. Finally, after countless jokes and pranks, my dad decided it was time to retaliate.
ReplyDeleteIt was a normal day just any other and my mom, dad, aunt and uncle decided to go for a shopping trip. The day proceeded and eventually it became time for the stores to close. Just as my family began to leave to department store, my uncle realized he needed to use the restroom. My mom and aunt continued to go to the car and wait. However, my dad had an idea. He decided this was his chance to prank my uncle. So, as the store announced over its speaker that the store was closing soon, my uncle ran to the bathroom to do his business and my dad was close behind ready to scare the crap out of my uncle!
Walking in the bathroom after my uncle, my dad began to turn out the lights. Falling into my dad’s practical joke, my uncle said, “Hey! There’s someone in here!” My dad then distorted his voice and replied, “I’m sorry sir but the store is closing and you need to get out.” Worried he would be locked in the department bathroom my uncle quickly pulled his pants up and ran out of the store to the car. Once in the car, my uncle began to tell the others his frightening tale of how he was almost locked in the bathroom. As he told of the man who flickered the lights, my dad tried to contain his laughter. My dad then proceeded to ask my uncle “Did the voice sound like this?” After which, my dad repeated what he had said to my uncle in the same distorted voice he had used earlier. At first relieved that someone believed him my uncle began to proclaim, “Yes! That’s it, that’s it!” Not too much later, my uncle thought about it and realized that the man in the bathroom had been my dad. My dad laughed as my uncle realized he had just been pranked!
Although this story has been told countless times, it still manages to make everyone laugh (except my uncle of course). Even though I’m sure if the story were to be told by my uncle it would go a little differently, I still find the moral holds true; treat others how you want to be treated because you never know when you will be on the receiving end.
My family story may seem a bit morbid, but it is one that will forever be burned into my mother's memory. When I was younger, probably about four years old, one of our family's cats, Daryl-Ann, died. (She was named after one of the police officer's wives from NYPD Blue.) It was extremely sad because we had to have her put down in January. Her body had to be preserved at the vet's office because the ground was too cold and hard to bury her then.
ReplyDeleteOne day in March, the ground seemed moist and thawed enough to bury her properly. So my mother, my two-year-old sister, and I retrieved her body from the vet's office. The weather was drizzly before we left, but when we returned home, it was raining outright. My mother decided we would bury her anyway and that the rain would just make the digging that much easier.
Before we buried poor Daryl-Ann, my sister wanted to sing the Barnie theme song so we all sang "I love you, you love me...etc." After we sang the song, my mother began to dig the hole that would be her grave. As she began to dig though, the hole slowly filled with water. By the time she had dug a sufficient hole, half of it had filled with rain water.
My mother did not know what to do, but she knew that she had to bury Daryl-Ann's body, so she shoved the box that contained her body into the water-filled hole in the ground. The box would not sink though, so she had to hold it down while she attempted to cover it with dirt. She later wished she had thought to poke holes in it, but in the panic of the moment, she struggled with an airtight box.
She finally managed to cover the hole with enough dirt to hold the box down and fill the hole. For months after the incident, my mother worried that a large rain would uncover the box and she would have to deal with the situation again.
While I cannot say that I learned a lot from this story, other than to make sure not to bury things when it is raining, I can say that it serves a purpose for my family. My mother sometimes tells it when one of our cats dies to lighten the mood at the burial and remind us that it could be worse.
My family had been fostering a family of cats, one mom and five kittens.
ReplyDeleteOne day, my dad thought it would be a good idea to take the mom cat outside. Some cars went by blaring their horns and scared her. She got so scared that she scratched my dad, who dropped her, and she ran away.
We searched for her for hours on end without success. In the end, we decided to put an animal trap outside with some cat treats in it to try and lure her back to us.
The kittens, who had been born only five days before, needed their mom to eat! So my mom and I had to stay up and hand feed these helpless kittens by hand; which was very tedious work, as we had to be extremely careful with their delicate little bodies.
One day passed.. And then two.. And finally, on the third day, we checked the cage again at around noon, and there she was! Sopping wet and covered in mud. We were so excited that she had come back and that we wouldn't have to hand feed those kittens anymore. We gave her a bath and put her back with the kittens, who she held very close to her.
After this experience, no one in my family took any of the cats outside for fear that they might run away.
My family lived on a farm in Texas for a few years and we owned several beef cattle. We were interested in buying a horse and were given suggestions to purchase a gelding, which is a castrated stallion. Instead, we decided to buy a filly, which we named Bronzo, from an acquaintance. This was our first mistake because fillies tends to have more temperamental issues than geldings.
ReplyDeleteA couple weeks after buying Bronzo one of our cows was ready to calve, which we were able to watch from inside through the window. We observed that Bronzo was interacting with the cow and her calf during the birth, but we were completely ignorant of the effects this could produce. Throughout the days following the event, the horse would not leave the calf and the calf became utterly confused between its mother and the horse attempting to be the mother. The horse kept separating the mother and the calf, weaving between them when the calf attempted to nurse. We made an effort to stop these occurrences by providing Bronzo with a different pen. We still could not contain her as she became out of control, breaking through several fences trying to reach the calf.
The calf became more and more lethargic and weak. The cow became agitated since she had milk but the calf could not nurse. Finally, the cow went to be with the other cows and left the calf by himself to die. The calf became feverish, and we were very concerned that he would not live.
After not quite a week of this nonsense, we decided to return Bronzo to her former owner. Within a half hour after the horse was taken from our farm, the calf and mother reunited and the calf began to nurse. We still had to feed it from a tube both a mineral supplement and antibiotics because it was malnourished and feverish. Within a few weeks the calf was fine, and we never attempted to purchase a horse again.
According to my mother, my story begins on a typical, warm Sunday November afternoon, in Havana. It was around 3:00 p.m. and my father was on the balcony. He was sitting on his rocking chair looking at the Caribbean Sea and thinking about his recent trip to Moscow. My mother was feeding a diced mango to my little brother in the kitchen, and my sister and I were running all over the little apartment making a lot of noise. All of a sudden my sister and I had gotten quiet. My parents got suspicious and found us in their room playing with an empty bottle of medicine. When they looked closer they saw a little bit of the medicine spilled on the dresser. They asked my older sister, who was four years old at the time, what had happened. She explained that she was playing around and drank half of the medicine and made me drink the rest. It turns out the medicine was Water of Alibour, an old fashioned remedy made out of a solution of zinc and copper sulfates. It was meant for eczema dermatitis, not for drinking. “Don’t worry. That bottle was almost empty anyways, it shouldn’t be too serious.” My dad explained. “Oh my, its horrible! They look drunk!” my mother replied hysterically. After my parents discussed the matter, they finally decided take us to the hospital, since in some cases the accidental ingestion of that medicine could cause neurological problems.
ReplyDeleteOnce we arrived at the hospital, the doctors gave us a gastric lavage, commonly called stomach pumping, and kept us in the hospital for 24 hours. After that day, my parents kept all the medicines in the house in higher places and very well locked.
Whenever I think of a traditional family story, I immediately think of my great grandparents and the small southern town of Tell City, Indiana. My Grandma Toni and Grandpa Fiddle raised all seven of their children, including my Grandma Sandy, in this town bordering the Ohio River. My grandma's childhood house still stands to this day, a house which my Great-Grandpa Fiddle built with his own two hands. My Grandma Sandy and Grandpa Ron, along with their two kids (my dad and my Uncle Brian) would visit Tell City about twice a year.
ReplyDeleteI can remember it clear as day, being a young child and running through my great grandparent's house. Every now and then, I would take a short break and drink some lemonade with my family in the living room. During this time, my great-grandpa would play his fiddle (which he also built by himself) or tell extravagant stories of how he fell in love with my great-grandma and traveled to school "up hill both ways." Though his stories were many, there was always my favorite one that I remembered the best. That would be the story of my Grandma Toni's brother-in-law, Homer.
Fifty years back, my great-grandparents house was not surrounded by neighbors as it is today. On this particular night, it was cold, dark, and rainy. The perfect set-up for a strange occurrence. My Grandpa Fiddle heard a knock on the door, so he went to answer it. My Grandma Toni watched as he talked to a homeless looking man in a long coat and hat. A few moments later my Grandpa Fiddle came into the kitchen to ask my grandma if the man could come in and have a sandwich. My great-grandma said absolutely not, but she would give him a sandwich to go. Grandma Toni made the sandwich and walked to the doorway to hand it to the man. As she gave him the sandwich, he grabbed it quickly and threw it to the ground. He shouted, "if I'm not good enough to come into your house, then I don't want your darn sandwich!" After the man shouted at her, she noticed he was no stranger at all; it was her brother-in-law, Homer. Grandpa Fiddle and Homer had planned it for days!
Although this story caught my attention the most, it was a typical story for my Grandpa Fiddle to tell. He knew how to keep one's attention and make everything humorous. That was how he was, always playing tricks but in a lighthearted, clean, funny kind of way. Through his various tales, I learned to never take life to seriously. Enjoy the small things and always tell others how much you love and appreciate them, because you never know when they'll be gone. Also, always help out your fellow man, you never known what you may gain from helping someone. My great-grandparents both had extremely long and fulfilling lives, and I hope to carry on the lessons I have learned from them throughout my lifetime as well.
Ashley Ebert
ReplyDeleteEnglish 104
1/17/12
Box 23
My favorite family story from my childhood is told as a tribute to my late great-grandparents, and the irrefutable love they shared. When my great-grandmother, Margie Free, was just fourteen, she fell head-over-heels in love with a certain Herman Canup. He was around ten years her senior and from the other side of their small town in Georgia. To say Margie’s father was wary about Herman’s relationship with Margie would be a terrible understatement. He warned Herman away with nothing less than a hunting rifle.
Margie and Herman none-the-less continued their forbidden relationship by hiding notes to each other in a secret hiding place. They made a pact to marry, and they did shortly. However, as the marriage was done covertly, Margie returned home secretly married and lived at home for several months before gaining the courage to leave and live with her husband.
I never met Herman Canup; he died several years before I was born. My “Grandma Canup,” as everyone called her, spoke fondly of him often. When she died a year and a half ago, she left behind a very large, loving family that knew this beautiful story by heart. At her funeral a song was played that includes the following lyrics depicting my great-grandparent’s story:
“I read a note my Grandma wrote back in 1923
Grandpa kept it in his coat, and he showed it once to me
He said, ‘Boy, you might not understand, but a long, long time ago,
Grandma's daddy didn't like me none, but I loved your Grandma so.
We had this crazy plan to meet and run away together
Get married in the first town we came to and live forever
But nailed to the tree where we were supposed to meet instead
I found this letter, and this is what it said,
‘If you get there before I do
Don't give up on me
I'll meet you when my chores are through
I don't know how long I'll be
But I'm not gonna let you down
Darling wait and see
And between now and then
Til I see you again
I'll be loving you
Love, Me.’”
Grandma Canup told this story to encourage her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and two great-great-grandchildren to pursue their dreams and love whoever they choose to love. She was a free spirit, a wonderful caregiver, and a great wife. She helped to shape my personality through this story and many others.
It was a typical day. Well, a typical day for an undisciplined, hot-headed high school student. The sweet smell of toaster strudels lingered throughout the two story home. Steam seeped from under the upstairs bathroom. And then the final warning shot. The door slams as my father leaves for work. At that instance, the Parker household morphs into a chaotic, turbulent jungle. Where the black people dwelling within the parameters of this jungle confirms the historic theory and label once given to us as primates.
ReplyDeleteMy mother storms up the basement steps, casting out derogatory slurs not appropriate for an English 104 blog. Unfortunately, me and my two siblings are immune to coarse language. That was the problem. When a soul is as desolate and lonely as my mother's was, tragedy is inevitable. When the bottle could not assuage her grief, verbal and physical abuse towards her kids could.
Today was no different than any other day. A drunken mother at 6:30a.m. was considered normal. Until. "Thud!" I emerge from my bedroom to hear my little sister crying while lying on the floor. I knew that I served as her only protection from the out-of-control mammal, who unfortunately (that day) happened to be our mother. I go to hover over my sister to prevent this mammal from stomping her. That was not working. Therefore, I grabbed my mother and hemmed her against the wall. I then overpowered her and slammed her to the floor. That I was not proud of. However, what transpired afterward forever changed my family.
Fulfilling the role as man of the house, if only for a hour, is an overwhelming task for a sixteen-year-old boy. But that doesn't measure up to the difficulty level of my next task. While I constrained my mother on the floor, I then made the decision the call the police.
While this story illustrates and depicts the tumultuous, daily adventures that transpired in my household. It also is a story of perseverance. I did call the cops on my mother. My mother did go to jail. Child Protective Services did visit our home. But most importantly, my mom received help. When you love someone it is hard to recognize and admit they have a disease. You ignore it, and assimilate that dysfunction into your everyday life. You accept it as being normal. Well, I can honestly say my family is now normal.
One of my favorite things to do is listen to my grandma tell me stories about my family, especially my dad. I could sit and listen to her for hours, but it is normally cut short by my dad intervening in order to retain his pride. One of my favorite stories was on that involved both my dad and his sister, my aunt Kim.
ReplyDeleteWhen my dad was a kid My grandparents lived on a farm, which meant that there was a lot of chores that needed to be done. Not unlike most kids my dad and my aunt preferred to spend their time playing instead of doing work. One day when they were both given their list of chores they decided that they would rather go play in the barn, a decision they would come to regret.
They were always told not to play in the barn because it was a dangerous place for kids with all the sharp farm equipment and wild animals that called the barn home. In the middle of the barn was a large stack of hay bales that my dad and aunt would climb on. This particular day they decided to play king of the mountain on top of this pile. My aunt was the first on to the top deeming herself the “king”. As my dad climbed his way to the top my aunt, peering over the edge, waited to defend her position. My dad pulled himself to the top of the pile catching my aunt off guard. No sooner that he popped his head over the last row of bales my aunt’s initial reaction was to kick him. Catching him in the chin with her foot my dad went tumbling back down the pile. My aunt climbed down to make sure he was okay only to find blood running out of his mouth. When she kicked my dad it caused him to bite his tongue splitting it open. In fear of getting them in trouble they devised what they thought would be a foolproof plan. They decided to wrap my dad’s tongue with red electrical tape to stop the bleeding and hoped that my grandparents wouldn’t find out. Needless to say it was quite obvious what they had done, and they were both punished for not listening to my grandma.
While this story was quite comical I also learned an important lesson from it. While sometimes parents don’t let their kids do things which seem harmless in the eyes of the child, the parents do always know what’s best. I believe that is part of the reason my grandma told me the story, which at the time I only thought was for entertainment purposes.
I'll never forget the first time I went camping with my entire family. We went to this "camp" that was in the middle of nowhere. My cousins and I decided to go explore the grounds. As we was walking we came across a small waterfall along the creek. To get a better view we climbed a very steep hill. It seemed as though we could see for miles. When it came time to go back down we decided it would be easier to slide down the hill. My cousin was scared to go down, I guess he hadn't realized how high we had climbed. He refused to go down, so we had to get our aunt. He still refused to go down, but we finally talked him into sliding down with us. We got to go fishing and paddle the boat. We still laugh about this trip, and occasionally my cousin gets made fun of for his fear.
ReplyDeleteThe moral of my story was to show that even if someone is different, in this case have different fears than you, do not make fun of them. Even though at times we do make fun of my cousin. To this day my cousin tries to get back at us. For instance, another cousin is afraid of snakes. So, he will get snakes and chase my cousin with them. He has gotten us back on several occasions.
ReplyDeleteMegan Chase
ReplyDeleteTess Evans
English 104
12 January, 2012
A Certain Type of Hero
My maternal Grandfather Norman Meyer fought in the Korean War. He came from a small farm house located in Ossian Indiana, where most of my German family settled. At 18 years old all of his closest friends were deciding to join the United States military. He was one of the smartest in his class, but always independent in the decisions he made. The influence of his friends impelled him into joining the National Guard. This was decided simply because of the stereotype of how men should be: “If you do not join you are not man enough for your family or your country.” Later he met my Grandmother, Leona Meyer. She chased him down in Columbia where he trained for the National Guard and the two decided to get married. After the wedding, he was shipped to Korea to become a part of the intelligence branch within the U.S. army guarding prisoners and interrogation. He came back from a war never speaking of what had happened. My Grandfather was a hero to the United States, however he wanted more for his children. He did not have a college diploma. The only jobs available were to work on farms and check meters on houses. He built his home and the local church with his carpenter skills. They had four kids Daryl, Randy, Debra, and Brent. My Grandfather always embraced every one of them to go to college and get a degree, even though they would have to work themselves to pay it off. My Grandfather’s kids have made him proud and the tradition continues with his nine grandchildren.
This story was told to me by mother when I asked why my Grandpa joined the military or what he was like in his youth. When I was young I always saw my Grandpa wanting to give more. This gave me an incentive to make him proud. He taught me that you need to choose your priorities and every decision you make can change your life. He reflected onto my family since everyone has become successful in their careers. This story is a second generation story so there are not many alterations to it.
Hallie Young
ReplyDeleteReminiscing on traditions and indelible family stories, I revert back to vacationing every Thanksgiving break to St.Petersburg, Florida with my entire immediate family. As a young child, my fondest memories were spent under the warmth of the sun on the beach covered in the sand; drinking fresh pink lemonade. However, one trip stays engraved in my memory- my Grandpa's sudden, calamitous heart attack.
The day of his heart attack nothing was out of the ordinary. As a typical six year old, all I wanted to do was play "sharks and scuba divers" in the pool and build endless sand castles all day, however, that wasn't in the plans for November 24, 1999. My Grandpa (papaw) was in the process of getting ready to join all his grandchildren for lunch when a surge of pain pulsated through his chest. Thinking nothing of it, he continued with his daily routine and ventured out to the pool deck, despite being in a colossal amount of pain. Although he was trying his best to disguise his symptoms, my parents and aunts soon caught on that something was wrong when my Grandpa became short of breath and constantly grabbing at his chest. The next thing we knew all the children were rushed away to our rooms and met by the sounds of an ambulance.
My Grandpa suffered a severe heart attack and was transferred back to a neighboring hospital up in Indianapolis. He later passed away a few days later from all the damaging side effects.
Although this memory was one of the hardest times of not only my life, but my family as well, I gained so much from this one experience. I learned to ascertain any single moment with those who are close to you, and never take anything for granted. No matter how many times people say or what context they may use, life truly is short and can change at any given moment- cherish the time spent with love and happiness.
I never really knew my Grandfather, but I know much of what he was like. His name is Norman Dale Roser. He had a fiery personality, was very stern, loved to write, and loved his family. I know that as a child he loved to ride horses, he played many instruments and had a passion for teaching himself new things. At the age of 42, Norm was diagnosed with heart problems, he did not have much time to live and love. Married to Imogene May Roser, together they decided that heart surgery was a necessity for him to keep functioning as he was. He went under, on the table and the plan was to replace a heart valve with a pigs heart valve I do believe, not an uncommon surgery. The procedure worked, but Grandpa had to change his lifestyle, his diet, and most everything about his life. So began the "healthy age" when my Grandma and him would eat only certain heart healthy foods, hardly any fats and Grandpa has to force an outrageous amount of "horse pills" down his throat every day to keep his blood thinned and his heart pumping.
ReplyDeleteGrandma has commented on how utterly hard this diet and way of living was, and how she researched the heart and body, buying many books and getting out old college textbooks to learn everything that she could. Today she is still well versed in the anatomy of the heart. A few years later, Grandpa had a heart attack. A four-bypass surgery was needed, meaning that four arteries were needed from his own body to supplement his cardio blood flow. Before the chest was opened, arteries were harvested. One from each of his limbs, and in those days, an incision for an artery had to be as long as the artery itself, forcing my Grandpa to be cut from clavicle to wrist and from groin to ankle for the four arteries.
On the table, when his heart was exposed, it stopped beating. My Grandpa Norm's physical ability was shot, but his stubbornness and tenaciousness was not. Even in death he could not die. With some help from the physicians, electrodes restarted his weak heart. Only three of the bypasses were in place, but his heart could not handle the added stress, strain, and sedatives of the fourth bypass, they had to get him out of that operation room. The doctor closed him up, used wire to clench his sternum back together, sewed his muscle and cardio cavity back together, and woke him up. They gave him three months to live, he was about 53 years young.
Soon after, family could visit, my father, Phillip Andrew Roser, was a young man in his older teens, and had told me that seeing his father's every limb cut and bleeding was the most terrible sight imaginable. His father was pale white, weak and almost dead. He told my father that he would have kids, and at least one of those kids would be a horseback rider, so he shouldn't get rid of all of the saddles and tack that they owned.
My Grandpa Norm lived until he was 63. Ten years after his three month time limit. And I have been a horseback rider since I was seven, merely six and a half years after his passing.
To my family, the story of Norm reminds us how powerful our family is. He would write handwritten letters to my older brother and sister, and while he was very stern, he loved each of us to pieces, even the little six month old that he somehow knew would be a rider and follow in his footsteps. To me, his story has fueled my burning desire and passion about the human body. He is the reason that I am going into the health field, to save another little girls grandfather and give him the time to meet her as a young woman. When outsiders hear of his death and life, they should understand that his stubbornness, his will, and his riveting desire to achieve whatever he wanted is passed into the genes of every living and passed Roser. Though I do not know every detail and the perfect timeline, I know enough of the core to be able to tell this story, simply not as thoroughly as my father or Grandma Imogene whom loved him with all her might. Grandpa Norm, Rest In Peace.
Victoria Roser
DeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteA few years ago my "Uncle" Steve, from Arizona, came to visit his mom in Cincinnati. Now he's not really my uncle but a very close friend of my dad's so we call him uncle. He doesn't visit often but when he does he makes it an obligation to come stay at my house. So for this visit my dad a Shiner's parade he had to do. So like usual my family, plus Steve, piled into the van after my dad's mini Corvette was loaded onto the trailer and we were off. Like any other parade you have to get there early for good seats so we did. While we were sitting there, me next to my Uncle and my mom a few seats down vendors kept passing us selling balloons and such, typical circus things but at a parade. Little kids are screaming for the stuff and parents forking over the money to make the screaming stop. The whole time my Uncle and I were cracking jokes because he's really funny. Well one of those kids that got their way and had something bought was a little boy and he had a balloon attached to his wrist so it wouldn't fly away. Well his mom stopped right behind us and he stopped right behind my Uncle. Suddenly the wind picked up and the little boy's hit my Uncle on the back of the head three times really quickly and then the boy and his mom left. We didn't know who did it so we kept making jokes about drive-by's. Well my mom heard us laughing and asked what was so funny and we told her what happened. Without hesitation my mom used her one truly funny joke for the year by saying "So it was a drive by ballooning?" To this day my entire immediate family still joke about that day and it still gets a laugh all the time.
ReplyDeleteI think the family story I can tell best is that of my youngest sister Emily's infamous accident. The story starts with my aunt taking Emily and my cousin Daniel to a lakeside campground in Michigan. The three planned to stay for a few days and relax in the sun and the waves of Lake Michigan, but before they hit the beach, my aunt wanted to set up camp and unpack her camper a bit, so she sent Emily and Daniel to play on their bikes while they waited.
ReplyDeleteThe road that leads into the campground they stayed at is rather hilly, and the way the sunlight filters through the surrounding foliage made for an irresistible bike route for the two. They decided to take turns walking their bikes to the top of the tallest hill and flying down at breakneck speed; I realize this isn't the safest activity for anyone, and my aunt agrees, but she didn't know exactly what they were doing at the time. Most of us who grew up riding bikes have been cautioned by someone at one time or other that we should be careful with handbrakes that only stop the front wheels of our bikes because if applied too hard or too quickly, they'll cause the bike to flip end over end. Evidently, Emily hadn't taken heed to the advice if she'd ever heard it, because she got about halfway down the hill when the speed scared her and she slammed on her brakes.
Daniel says that she flew over her bike's handlebars headfirst (as opposed to hands-first) and landed on her face. As far as I know, he immediately took off on his bike to get his mom, who is a pediatric nurse. She drove the quarter mile or so to the scene of the accident, and she says that when she got there, the people who lived nearby had dialed 911 and come running when Emily started screaming, which she evidently did quite a lot of when she came to. Aunt Beth worked hard to keep the extremely bloody Emily from losing consciousness or moving her spine until an ambulance arrived. Beth and Daniel followed the ambulance to a small county hospital, where the doctors immediately called a helicopter from the Kalamazoo Children's Hospital.
The staff there cleaned her face wounds (mostly a series of small abrasions covering the lower half of her face), and found that she had broken several teeth, bitten through her bottom lip, and that her fall had caused a small brain bleed, in addition to other reasonably sever scrapes and bruises on her other body parts.
Somewhere in the middle of all this, Aunt Beth called my grandma's house, where my dad, my sister, my uncles, and I were having Sunday dinner. I was napping when my uncle woke me with the news, and I had no sooner walked into the living room with a frown on my face than my dad hung up the phone and announced that he was going to Michigan and if we wanted to go, we should be in the car in one minute. My sister and I threw together our belongings and grabbed our shoes as our uncle followed us to our Durango. I can confidently say that my dad drove more than twenty miles over the speed limit the whole way to Kalamazoo (normally a four hour trip from our house), calling family and members of the church prayer chain for the first half hour or so. My mom had spent the weekend at the Indianapolis 500 with friends, so we tried for an hour or more to get a hold of her, and when we did, she and her boyfriend left Indy at a slightly slower speed.
Emily spent four days in the pediatric ICU, waiting for her brain bleed to heal itself (praise God that it did without surgery), and for the doctors there to declare her healthy enough to make the trip home. Like many families, we all knew we were loved and cared for, but we never saw such a tremendous outpouring of love from each other until Emily had what we officially refer to now as "her" accident. So much happened that week, and I could go on about our four day stay in Michigan for a few more pages, but the real story here is that my family will never underestimate the value of a support system...or a helmet.
Knock The Greek Out of You
ReplyDeleteLike myself, my Uncle Mike went Greek his freshman year in college. He rushed Sigma Tau Alpha, which was his favorite fraternity at his college in Illinois. He became a very active member in the fraternity, having held the Recruitment Chair, Public Relations Chair, and being elected the Vice President of his chapter during his senior year.
After the elections were held and the winners were announced, the STA fraternity decided to throw a party. My uncle was the planner of this party and took great pride in how well he could throw a party. He talked one of his brothers into volunteering his house for the party. He made a guest list, ordered the beer kegs, and hired the DJ. Around 11pm, the guests officially began to arrive and the party began.
From what he told me, at about one in the morning a couple random African American men who reeked of pot came to the house and wanted to party with them. Since they were not part of the fraternity and also would fill the house with the smell of recently smoked weed, my uncle and a buddy of his kicked out the two crashers. With that problem solved, their night could go on as planned. Unfortunately the two rejected men didn’t agree with that.
Around two in the morning, a large gang of black men came to the house, led by the two who had been kicked out by my uncle. They broke through the garage door and into the garage (which is where the party was based out of) and then proceeded to beat the living crap out of my uncle and his brother who helped him out. Being at a fraternity party, this didn’t go over well as all of the other STA’s started to brawl with whomever they could get their hands on. My uncle told me that for about 4 minutes the whole garage was chaos. But at that fourth minute one of the gang members shot his gun into the air. He threatened to kill my uncle for kicking out the two gang members and literally had him on his knees. Fortunately, the neighbors had called the party in to the police for how loud it had been and the five-oh showed up right at that moment. Upon seeing the police, the gang fled and left behind a torn up garage and many frustrated STA brothers.
My uncle said that he had never been in a fight of that magnitude and that both he and all of his other brothers were lucky that they’re party was loud. If it weren’t for that, the neighbors never would have called the cops, the gang would have continued to beat the crap out of his brothers, and he would have been shot execution style. In the end, loud music really is a necessity at a party in some way.
My father, Bradford Hudson, was born in Elgin, Illinois. Of the five children my grandparents raised, he was the middle child. Just a year younger, Uncle Kenny and my dad were together all the time. They were best friends, teammates, classmates (due to dad getting held back in school) and partners in crime. Dad has recalled stories of the two playing pranks on their teachers, stealing from gas stations, and vandalizing other belongings in their adventures. I have listened to the two ramble on and chuckle about their deviant stories nearly every time the two talk at family gathers, being that they now live two hours away from each other. I have heard every story once or twice except for one, the newspaper heist. I must have heard that story fifteen times by now, every time making me laugh harder. It all started when the two found my eldest Uncle Bob’s newspaper route log…
ReplyDeleteUncle Bob over the years had established himself in the neighborhood as a trustworthy newspaper delivery boy. On the contrary, Dad and Uncle Kenny had just begun to form their criminal footprint. Upon seeing Uncle Bob’s record book on the table, as it was everyday, my dad thought of a brilliant idea to relieve his older brother of one of his many duties as paperboy. My father takes credit for devising the plan but both always agree that Uncle Kenny’s assistance on the route for the recent months sealed the deal. Being only middle schoolers, it took a few days for the two to muster up their courage to follow through on the plan. They were going to steal Uncle Bob’s money from throwing papers, and not from his pocket but from his customers themselves.
Coming home from school together, the two snatched the record book and went to “work”. The plan was to go to all of Uncle Bob’s customers and explain to the them they were doing their brother a good deed and collecting the money for him while he was off at his second job. They anticipated visiting every house on the route and because Uncle Kenny had assisted in collecting the money the recent times before, earning the customers trust was a nonfactor. So they hopped on their bikes and began their afternoon of thievery, making sure to skip the houses of the people who liked Uncle Bob. It worked better than they had anticipated.
Door to door they went, never having to stray from their original story. Every new door they came to their confidence grew in correlation to the money in their pockets. From grumbling men wondering why they had to pay their bill two weeks early to sweet women telling them that they were great for doing such a nice deed, the two raced through the route easily. They made nearly three hundred dollars that day. In 1978 that’s a chunk of change. As two kids it was a pretty good plan that earned them money quick. The two sped home, replaced the book, and didn’t tell anyone what they’d done.
ReplyDeleteTwo weeks went by and dad and Uncle Kenny walked home from school only to find an outraged Uncle Bob. It only took a few houses of customers explaining the story for him for Uncle Bob to know just what happened. Two hours after that the boys felt the sting of multiple lashing from a hot-wheel track via my grandfather’s hand, followed by an interrogation of the incident. Dad, Uncle Kenny, and Grandpa all laugh the hardest at the fact that Grandpa whipped them without even saying word to them first, and with their hot-wheel track! It didn’t take the boys long to apologize for their faults. On the other hand it took them months to pay Uncle Bob back with what they stole plus an extra one hundred dollars as extra punishment from Grandpa. Somehow they had managed to spend two-hundred of their dollars in two weeks. Dad always says, “It doesn’t take long to blow your money when you have a lot. “ I guess I get my money management skills from him.
To this day I don’t know what made those two think that they were actually going to get away with it. Looking back on it, Dad said he would do it again because, “it is just too damn good of a story now”. I still can’t picture my dad doing something so silly and wrong as to sabotage his brothers paper route. I suppose that it’s just a living statement that people change. I only wish I had a story like my Dad’s to tell to my son when I grow up. I guess I will just have to wait and see what happens in the years to come.
My parents have spent my entire life teaching me and my siblings about the value of money. They have always wanted us to know that we have to work hard to get where we want to be in life. My mom always comes back to the same story when she is reminding us. Her and my father were married young. She was 21 in nursing school and my dad was 23 just out of college. They were living in their first apartment and were far from wealthy. When my mom found out she was pregnant my dad got a second job working in a grocery store. They had student debt, my mom still in school, and a baby on the way but my mom always says, “We were blessed enough.” My mom continued schooling and raising my brother. She always gets chocked up when she says that there were days she didn’t have 75 cents for a cup of coffee but she brightens back up when she finishes the story. My dad was working one night at his second job when his boss from his first job came up to him. He asked about his job at the store. He told my dad to come see him in his office the next day, “I can’t have my best man working nights, I need him fresh during the day.” My parents have told me this story a hundred times. They have worked hard all their lives and have been blessed and they have taught me to do the same.
ReplyDeleteI have heard the story of when my Grandfather passed away many times, told by my father, usually in a bible study setting or when I am personally struggling with something in my life. My Grandfather passed away suddenly and expectantly leaving behind the family Insurance Business and his wife and kids. All this pressure ended up on my dad’s shoulders. He now had an entire business to keep alive, with only a little experience and his mom and younger sister to take care of. When all this happened he became very upset and bitter towards God. Where as normally praying and regularly reading the bile was a very important thing to him.
ReplyDeleteThings started very quickly going down hill for him. He was struggling with the business and figuring out how things worked and stressing about how he was going to take care of his mom and sister as well as his own wife and young baby. After more time of being in denial about turning things over to God, he finally gave all his worries about the business and his family to God. As soon as he did this everything started turning around and he has so much to show for it today. He has been very successful with the Insurance Agency and we as a family have been very fortunate.
When I was researching my family's history in regards with racism, my aunt told a story about a family vacation she went on in sometime during the 50’s. She and my grandparents were driving to Florida from Indiana to go to the beach. They were driving through Alabama as race riots were going on. She remembers there being National Guardsmen on every street corner. The guardsmen as the Indiana license plates and pointed their guns towards the car as they drove through. The guardsmen thought they were driving through to join the riots, when in all reality they were just going to the beach on vacation.
ReplyDelete