We had all grown up with the stories. Contrary to the normal German mind set my father, my uncle and their sister had given us a rich legacy of story. The details were a banquet that nourished us at family holidays and sustained us at family funerals. Like all families we had skeletons locked away in closets. They did not matter as much as the stories with real flesh to the bones.
The earliest story was of my father, Richard and his brother Delbert. The family compound encompassed an area of several blocks. Surrounded by aunts and uncles
within a stones throw from the Niagara River, they had free roam of the streets of Tonawanda, New York.
My father idolized the Tom Mix cowboy character. Adorable, mischievous and the youngest, he had everyone of his aunts and uncles eating oatmeal so he could obtain an authentic Tom Mix outfit. Eat enough boxes of oatmeal and you could order an entire Tom Mix cowboy outfit for a few dollars. Perhaps an explanation as to why they all lived into their 80's and 90's and a tribute to the properties of oatmeal, he received his outfit.
Only young enough to ride their tricycles, they decided Tonawanda in the early 1930's was not wild enough. They would travel out west. But how? They did not have access to a map and even if they did they weren't old enough to read it. My father decided Tom Mix, the cowboy would help. Surely he would know the direction west. If they couldn't consult Tom then the next best thing was his hat. Believing it to be the real thing, they tossed it into the air. Wherever the tip of the hat landed would point them in the direction of the wild west. And, so they rode, on toward Buffalo. To make matters worse for my grandmother who frantically looked for them when they did not return home for dinner, they saw a matinee featuring Tom Mix. Located no less in Buffalo!
The story told is of my grandmother sobbing at the home of her sister while the police dredged the Niagara River, fully expecting a retrieval, not a rescue. Somehow after the evening newspaper ran an article the boys were found. Cold and hungry when the movie ended they decided Tom Mix didn't know worth beans about the west and they sought the comfort of their mother's loving arms.
Tonawanda, New York sat directly across from Grand Island which was in the middle of the Niagara River. The only way to get to the island was by ferry or swim. This island had a rich and varied history, belonging at times to the Iroquois, to Canada, and finally the United States (even at one time being designated a part of
Tonawanda). Grand Island's west river looked over to a tranquil and pastoral Canada. The east river looked to Tonawanda. The west river was home to wealthy New Yorkers, presidents, authors, poets and actresses who would spend summers at their mansions. The rest of the island was rural farms. Grand Island was about the size of Manhattan Island. Situated between two Great Lakes of the inland seas, Erie and Ontario and up river from the mighty Niagara Falls, mist rising from those waters could often be seen from the island's northern most point.
Rivers and the Great Lakes were no strangers to our families. Indeed, the middle class families of western New York would take the expensive ferry across river to
the island for weekend picnics and family gatherings during the summer. But the island also had a dark side to its history. It had been stripped and ravaged. All because of the white oak trees which grew in abundance and were in high demand for
their wood. (This forgotten piece of island history would later tie a chef, a lighthouse and a winery to me in another serendipity moment.)
Edward's nephews would swim the mile across the river to Grand Island. In the remaining forests they would camp overnight. The stories told would be adventures to match those written by Mark Twain. Foggy summer nights were warmed by camp fires lighting the way to catch bull frogs whose tasty legs were grilled and eaten by hungry young boys.
And, there were other things to be interested in when you were a young boy. Airplane flying. It was a consuming passion for my father. By the time he was old enough to
solo he could fly an airplane. The day he turned sixteen, the legal age one could obtain your pilot's license he soled. Perhaps that was why Edward had kept the photograph of the bi-plane. A souvenir for a nephew who loved to fly.
Yet, it was not to the skies my father headed when WWII swept across Europe and the Pacific. It was the Navy, the ships and the ocean's call that he answered. His brother joined the army and marched across Italy. Richard ignored the wings of the airplane for the decks of PT Boats. Borneo, Fiji, Australia and the Hawaiian
Islands were his to call home the next several years. They also provided a backdrop for the stories told to a young daughter, not yet a reality, but who soon would be born. And, these stories would influence her decision twenty-four years later to major in anthropology and minor in museum studies.
Soon another war was being fought. The Korean War was now in full force and Richard was again on a ship in the ocean. He was sailing in the waters off Cuba and Haiti because after returning home from WWII he joined the inactive Navy reserves. When the Korean War began they were the first to be called into action.
His wife, who had been diagnosed with a rare life-threatening autoimmune disease followed him to New Port, Rhode Island because Richard had been told his unit would be stationed there for the duration of the war. Now Richard was out to sea and she learned to her dismay she was pregnant. She had already lost a set of twins and this was not good news. To complicate the matter was the RH factor and this was her second pregnancy. Alone and without any family, she felt her fate had been cast. The Navy doctors told her they did not think she would survive. They also did not think the baby would live. Her doctor, a three star general told Richard to prepare for the worse. He should request and it would be granted at least a month's leave or more for the birth, death and burial of his wife and baby.
The earliest story was of my father, Richard and his brother Delbert. The family compound encompassed an area of several blocks. Surrounded by aunts and uncles
within a stones throw from the Niagara River, they had free roam of the streets of Tonawanda, New York.My father idolized the Tom Mix cowboy character. Adorable, mischievous and the youngest, he had everyone of his aunts and uncles eating oatmeal so he could obtain an authentic Tom Mix outfit. Eat enough boxes of oatmeal and you could order an entire Tom Mix cowboy outfit for a few dollars. Perhaps an explanation as to why they all lived into their 80's and 90's and a tribute to the properties of oatmeal, he received his outfit.
Only young enough to ride their tricycles, they decided Tonawanda in the early 1930's was not wild enough. They would travel out west. But how? They did not have access to a map and even if they did they weren't old enough to read it. My father decided Tom Mix, the cowboy would help. Surely he would know the direction west. If they couldn't consult Tom then the next best thing was his hat. Believing it to be the real thing, they tossed it into the air. Wherever the tip of the hat landed would point them in the direction of the wild west. And, so they rode, on toward Buffalo. To make matters worse for my grandmother who frantically looked for them when they did not return home for dinner, they saw a matinee featuring Tom Mix. Located no less in Buffalo!
The story told is of my grandmother sobbing at the home of her sister while the police dredged the Niagara River, fully expecting a retrieval, not a rescue. Somehow after the evening newspaper ran an article the boys were found. Cold and hungry when the movie ended they decided Tom Mix didn't know worth beans about the west and they sought the comfort of their mother's loving arms.
Tonawanda, New York sat directly across from Grand Island which was in the middle of the Niagara River. The only way to get to the island was by ferry or swim. This island had a rich and varied history, belonging at times to the Iroquois, to Canada, and finally the United States (even at one time being designated a part of
Tonawanda). Grand Island's west river looked over to a tranquil and pastoral Canada. The east river looked to Tonawanda. The west river was home to wealthy New Yorkers, presidents, authors, poets and actresses who would spend summers at their mansions. The rest of the island was rural farms. Grand Island was about the size of Manhattan Island. Situated between two Great Lakes of the inland seas, Erie and Ontario and up river from the mighty Niagara Falls, mist rising from those waters could often be seen from the island's northern most point.Rivers and the Great Lakes were no strangers to our families. Indeed, the middle class families of western New York would take the expensive ferry across river to
the island for weekend picnics and family gatherings during the summer. But the island also had a dark side to its history. It had been stripped and ravaged. All because of the white oak trees which grew in abundance and were in high demand for
their wood. (This forgotten piece of island history would later tie a chef, a lighthouse and a winery to me in another serendipity moment.)Edward's nephews would swim the mile across the river to Grand Island. In the remaining forests they would camp overnight. The stories told would be adventures to match those written by Mark Twain. Foggy summer nights were warmed by camp fires lighting the way to catch bull frogs whose tasty legs were grilled and eaten by hungry young boys.
And, there were other things to be interested in when you were a young boy. Airplane flying. It was a consuming passion for my father. By the time he was old enough to
solo he could fly an airplane. The day he turned sixteen, the legal age one could obtain your pilot's license he soled. Perhaps that was why Edward had kept the photograph of the bi-plane. A souvenir for a nephew who loved to fly.BEING BORN OF REBELLION
(Two Wars and A Child)
Yet, it was not to the skies my father headed when WWII swept across Europe and the Pacific. It was the Navy, the ships and the ocean's call that he answered. His brother joined the army and marched across Italy. Richard ignored the wings of the airplane for the decks of PT Boats. Borneo, Fiji, Australia and the Hawaiian
Islands were his to call home the next several years. They also provided a backdrop for the stories told to a young daughter, not yet a reality, but who soon would be born. And, these stories would influence her decision twenty-four years later to major in anthropology and minor in museum studies.Soon another war was being fought. The Korean War was now in full force and Richard was again on a ship in the ocean. He was sailing in the waters off Cuba and Haiti because after returning home from WWII he joined the inactive Navy reserves. When the Korean War began they were the first to be called into action.
His wife, who had been diagnosed with a rare life-threatening autoimmune disease followed him to New Port, Rhode Island because Richard had been told his unit would be stationed there for the duration of the war. Now Richard was out to sea and she learned to her dismay she was pregnant. She had already lost a set of twins and this was not good news. To complicate the matter was the RH factor and this was her second pregnancy. Alone and without any family, she felt her fate had been cast. The Navy doctors told her they did not think she would survive. They also did not think the baby would live. Her doctor, a three star general told Richard to prepare for the worse. He should request and it would be granted at least a month's leave or more for the birth, death and burial of his wife and baby.
Now Richard's commanding officer was not known for much and certainly not for his compassion. In fact, the only thing anyone knew about him was that everyone hated him. When a young sailor standing ahead of Richard requested a leave due him he was told no, and not given an explanation. Without looking up the officer said, "Son, I bet you'd like to spit on my grave right now, wouldn't you?" "No sir." came the reply, "I wouldn't want to stand in line that long".
Richard was not hopeful, but asked to be granted the month's leave and explained the circumstances. It would be granted on one condition. The ship which was now in dry dock would have to be completely over-hauled, cleaned, painted and ready for sailing in less then a week's time. It was an impossible task. Never-the-less, Richard assembled all the men of the ship. He was told not to worry, he would get his leave for they would all work 24 hours round the clock. The ship would be ready!
On the fifth day the ship stood freshly painted, cleaned and ready to sail. The men had made good their promise to my father. The commanding officer would not. Standing before the men on the deck of the ship he acknowledged that an impossible task had been accomplished. And, promptly rewarded Richard with a scant one week leave, barely enough time to get from the ship to New Port let alone be with a wife and unborn baby who were going to die and would need to be buried.
History's fate often has other stories to tell. Sometimes these stories have very different endings. My father's Himalaya was climbed and the ending of the story told over and over again. His wife lived, in fact she eventually out lived Richard. The baby lived. A girl, his daughter would be named after one of the characters in a Mark Twain novel-those same adventures that had inspired Richard's camping trips to Grand Island. In fact, one day they would all live in a house on that island, built by Richard and his father. The very same house where his daughter would meet Ed, the Lighthouse Keeper from Marblehead, Ohio.
This daughter however, was not to be born of the river or the inland Great Lakes. Instead, she would be born of the sea and rebellion. On his return from her birth, Richard assembled the men on the deck of the ship along with his commanding officer. He announced the good news to the applause of the men. Both the wife and the new
daughter were alive and doing just fine. He then passed out very expensive cigars. As was the custom, the commanding officer would be given the best, most expensive cigar last. When all the cigars had been given out to the men assembled, Richard turned to his smiling commanding officer. He placed in his hand a small white cigarette. "What's this!", demanded the officer. To which Richard responded, "Well sir, Big leave, big smoke, little leave, little smoke!" Again, to the applause of the men assembled on the ship's deck. Sometimes history's ending is most unexpected. And, its story told has far reaching influences. And, sometimes it might just take a whole generation to unfold.
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