Following the death of someone, it's amazing how memories of ones who have passed earlier come swirling to the forefront of the mind. There are many nuggets that pass from generation to generation in my family.
While many can not picture Long Island (near New York City) without the infamous bumper-to-bumper, traffic-packed Long Island Expressway. My father shared his childhood memories of riding his bike with his friend over to the construction site in the late 1940's and early 1950's when they were building that highway for the first time.
While my father, brother and nephew share identical names, my father received his name from his uncle. The uncle and his father also shared the same identical name. My dad's uncle had no kids of his own, having died in Pearl Harbor in 1941. In my mom's basement, a US Navy sea chest bears that name. In a twist of "lost luggage" my great-uncle made it to Pearl Harbor, and his sea chest was delayed. The sea chest came home; my great-uncle didn't. Two generations later, my brother spent the last 23 years in the Navy, being stationed TWICE in Hawaii. The sea chest with his name on it still has yet to get there. :P
I once asked my paternal grandmother to tell me stories of her visit to the New York World's Fair. I knew of the one in 1964. She gushed over her outfits, the food, the sights and many other details, particularly the way the young man (her boyfriend) was a proper gentleman. I was a bit confused until I looked it up online. She wasn't talking about the 1964 Worlds Fair; she was recounting the 1939 New York World's Fair! :D
While many know about the Great Depression and devastating mid-west "Dust Bowl" from history texts and John Steinbeck's books, my maternal grandfather shared a different story. He and his elder brother attended college in the 1930's. They were not rich; they were just two of many kids on their parent's North Dakota farm, where the drought did not reach them. Colleges were so desperate for students that four-years of tuition, room and board, plus all text books and lab fees was $200 each. One became a doctor and my grandfather became a chemist at a paint company in Brooklyn, NY. After moving there, he attended a "dance-till-you-drop" event, where he met my maternal grandmother. My grandmother, also from a large family, was at that time the only one in the family who had a job. She worked as a switchboard operator in New York City. Those were the days when phone numbers started with a word or place name, and you used a real-person operator to connect your call. I recall her home phone number when I was a kid still had the "Ivanhoe-6" prefix (IV6-3015), the last remnant of a long-gone past.
There are many stories of immigrants coming to America. My family is no exception. One of my great-great-great-uncles came to America via a Philadelphia port. He found a coal company recruiting and moved to North-Eastern PA to work in the anthracite mines there. After working for a year or two, and seeing most of his earnings disappear into an ever-growing debt at the company store, he literally walked away from the job. Moving to New York City, he eventually found a job manually sweeping the city streets and shoveling horse manure (pre-automobile days) in Manhattan. To his dying day, or so I've been told, he swore that was the BEST job he ever had. He had sunshine, fresh air and could breathe without the impending roof of unpredictable rock over his head.
I learned that nugget when I, myself, lived in the same PA town generations later. A check into the town records showed that a great-great-grandfather of my friend there was the foreman of the coal mine shaft where my great-great-great uncle worked. Small world.
The reason I share these little snippets from the past with you today, is I hope you find some of your own. Even if it's not your own family, there are many elderly in the neighborhood that are quite willing (some are even desperate) to tell their stories before they no longer can. Do we take the time to listen?
Take a moment to look behind.
Listen while the story is still there
Before time passes and the nuggets disappear
-ESA
While many can not picture Long Island (near New York City) without the infamous bumper-to-bumper, traffic-packed Long Island Expressway. My father shared his childhood memories of riding his bike with his friend over to the construction site in the late 1940's and early 1950's when they were building that highway for the first time.
While my father, brother and nephew share identical names, my father received his name from his uncle. The uncle and his father also shared the same identical name. My dad's uncle had no kids of his own, having died in Pearl Harbor in 1941. In my mom's basement, a US Navy sea chest bears that name. In a twist of "lost luggage" my great-uncle made it to Pearl Harbor, and his sea chest was delayed. The sea chest came home; my great-uncle didn't. Two generations later, my brother spent the last 23 years in the Navy, being stationed TWICE in Hawaii. The sea chest with his name on it still has yet to get there. :P
I once asked my paternal grandmother to tell me stories of her visit to the New York World's Fair. I knew of the one in 1964. She gushed over her outfits, the food, the sights and many other details, particularly the way the young man (her boyfriend) was a proper gentleman. I was a bit confused until I looked it up online. She wasn't talking about the 1964 Worlds Fair; she was recounting the 1939 New York World's Fair! :D
While many know about the Great Depression and devastating mid-west "Dust Bowl" from history texts and John Steinbeck's books, my maternal grandfather shared a different story. He and his elder brother attended college in the 1930's. They were not rich; they were just two of many kids on their parent's North Dakota farm, where the drought did not reach them. Colleges were so desperate for students that four-years of tuition, room and board, plus all text books and lab fees was $200 each. One became a doctor and my grandfather became a chemist at a paint company in Brooklyn, NY. After moving there, he attended a "dance-till-you-drop" event, where he met my maternal grandmother. My grandmother, also from a large family, was at that time the only one in the family who had a job. She worked as a switchboard operator in New York City. Those were the days when phone numbers started with a word or place name, and you used a real-person operator to connect your call. I recall her home phone number when I was a kid still had the "Ivanhoe-6" prefix (IV6-3015), the last remnant of a long-gone past.
There are many stories of immigrants coming to America. My family is no exception. One of my great-great-great-uncles came to America via a Philadelphia port. He found a coal company recruiting and moved to North-Eastern PA to work in the anthracite mines there. After working for a year or two, and seeing most of his earnings disappear into an ever-growing debt at the company store, he literally walked away from the job. Moving to New York City, he eventually found a job manually sweeping the city streets and shoveling horse manure (pre-automobile days) in Manhattan. To his dying day, or so I've been told, he swore that was the BEST job he ever had. He had sunshine, fresh air and could breathe without the impending roof of unpredictable rock over his head.
I learned that nugget when I, myself, lived in the same PA town generations later. A check into the town records showed that a great-great-grandfather of my friend there was the foreman of the coal mine shaft where my great-great-great uncle worked. Small world.
The reason I share these little snippets from the past with you today, is I hope you find some of your own. Even if it's not your own family, there are many elderly in the neighborhood that are quite willing (some are even desperate) to tell their stories before they no longer can. Do we take the time to listen?
Take a moment to look behind.
Listen while the story is still there
Before time passes and the nuggets disappear
-ESA
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