Teenage Years Ages 13 to 19 by Gaby Levine

Memories of Manual Arts High School

I attended Manual Arts High School, on S. Vermont Avenue, from the middle of 10th grade until graduation.  I think I really grew up there, and developed confidence in myself.  The atmosphere at Hollywood High, my previous school, was definitely cliquey, plus I didn’t live very close to school.  Manual Arts was within walking distance if you had time (I’d walk home from school with a friend when the weather was nice), and I found it easy to be friendly with everyone.  Well, I do remember one boy I disliked.  We were both in a summer ceramics class, and he began boasting that he had poured gasoline on a cat and set it on fire!  Even then, I wondered if he was telling the truth, but still —-.  He showed up at our 40th Class Reunion, and seemed like a very normal person, but I didn’t ask him about my memories of ceramic class!

I was taking the college prep classes, but by taking summer school, I freed up class time for some electives.  I remember taking sewing, so I could get some expert advice when making my clothes.  The teacher very nicely agreed that I didn’t have to work on the beginner projects, as long as I wasn’t disruptive to the class!  I also fitted in Spanish for the whole time.  I really liked learning a foreign language, and although I don’t have time for more classes, other languages still intrigue me.  

Once I was 16 years old, I always had a part-time job.  For most of high school I worked at the Woolworth’s in downtown LA every Monday night.  I think that was their open-late night.  My usual job was taking care of the ‘small hardware’ counter.  That’s can openers, etc.  Not too many people come by Monday night and buy can openers, but we had to look busy, so no standing their with our arms folded, waiting for customers.  It took about five minutes to dust the whole thing, and that left about two and three quarter hours to rearrange the stock!  I started to accost passers by – “Wouldn’t you like to look at the nice new can openers?”  The trick was to leave AS SOON as the store closed, so that when you were out at the bus-stop in the dark, there were still a lot of people around.  I was late one time, and a man approached and wanted to start a conversation.  I was really scared.  I just told him I didn’t know him and didn’t want to talk to him, and turned away.  Thank goodness he didn’t persist, and I got on the bus with a great deal of relief!  Anyway, by working the one night a week, I was guaranteed full time work for the Easter week and Christmas holiday seasons.  That was usually daytime work, so no problem.  I often worked at the candy counter.  I remember that at Christmas they would have these big glass fronted bins of assorted loose candies under the counter.  People would indicate which assortment they wanted, and we would scoop out the amount they wanted and put it in little bags. The candy looked lovely, at least at first, with the bright, shiny colors and varied shapes.  I tried it, of course, but sadly, it all tasted the same!  

Later in the week, after we’d scooped for  a while, little chips would come off (the candy was not individually wrapped), and the containers would develop a rather dusty look.  One time one of the staff managed to drop a whole carton of candy while trying to refill the bins, and the little pieces spilled all over the floor!  Oops!  I couldn’t believe it when the supervisor told us to sweep it up — AND PUT IT IN THE BINS AND SELL IT!  Talk about the 3 second rule!  I have a feeling that’s what’s been going on at those peanut processing factories! 

We had a shopping center not too far from our house with a Broadway and a May Co.  They did pay a bit better than Woolworth’s, so when I heard that they were hiring temporary help for inventory, I went over and signed up.  I think it was the Broadway that hired me, and I was called in several times for inventory.  It was a bit frustrating, because they would give us the lists of items, and we just had to count up how many were on the shelf, and mark it down.  The problem was – say I was counting ladies lingerie.  OK – there are the blue, underwire bras, sizes 36C.  Four of them, mark it down.  Now, next to them are the pink plain bras, size 36C.  THEY’RE NOT ON THE LIST!  Have to find the supervisor and ask – what should I do?  It might be – write it in at the bottom, or it might be – add it to the pink underwire bras, or it might be – just forget about them!  It never made sense to me!

Birth to Five Years by Joan Peterson

Picture this……a modest, very modest, white clapboard farm house nestled in a hollow with a creek(Bear Creek) running along the edge of the farm and meandering through the south pasture a short distance from our house. Limestone bluffs covered with lush green vegetation bordered the creek.Tranquil, peaceful sounding? Correct. But some time (exact time unknown) on a Friday in April, the 13th in fact, 1934, this peaceful setting was probably interrupted by some loud wails coming from the bedroom of this unassuming farm house in rural eastern Iowa, three miles from the small town of Monmouth in Jackson County.

Bear with me for a moment while I put that momentous year, 1934, in perspective. What were some happenings in the U.S. and the world? The British liner Queen Mary was launched in September; the first federal prisoner arrived in Alcatraz in August; 2500 fans saw Babe Ruth’s farewell at Yankee Stadium in September; FDR dedicated Boulder Dam (Hoover Dam) in September; Hitler became head of state and commander- in-chief of Armed Forces in Germany in August. As for April 13, I was fascinated to learn that I was born on the same day as Thomas Jefferson, but not the same year! His

was 1743.

After six years of marriage, Verna Gladys (nee Marwitz) and Floyd Glenwood Propst welcomed their first-born bundle of joy, Joan (pronounced JoAnn) Dorothy Propst. This bundle of joy must have turned into a nightmare, as I was reportedly a very colicky baby for the first six months. Nevertheless,I obviously thrived from being showered with love and attention, for our extended family lived within a six mile radius of our home.

That extended family consisted of my mother’s mom (Grandma Mary Franck) and the families of my mother’s sister (Aunt Eva) and half-brother (Uncle Alvin). Grandma Franck lived by herself when I was born but she had been married twice before that. Her first husband, my mother’s father, Ed Marwitz, left the family when my mom and aunt were very young. There was so much anger and hard feelings toward him that when his body was found alongside the railroad tracks somewhere in Missouri, the entire Marwitz family refused to claim him; therefore left the authorities to do with himwhatever. (That seems so sad to me but then I don’t know the full story). As a result I never knew a grandfather on my Mom’s side. 

My Grandma later married Bill Franck, had one son, and then Mr.Franck also left her. No one ever talked about him, especially in front of my grandmother. In fact, it was not until I was married with two children, that my Mom asked me one day as she and my Dad were wintering with us in Aptos, CA, if we would drive her to Santa Cruz so that she and the rest of my family could meet and visit her step-father (my step grandfather!). I knew that such a man had existed but it was the first time that I realized he was still alive or that she might like to make contact with him.

It was an interesting visit, to say the least, listening to them talk about the past. My mouth is still agape on that one! My poor grandma, who was left with three young children to raise, showed much kindness toward me, always greeting me with sweet queries of “How’s my little Honey?”, but she must have been kinda hard on her husbands!

My father’s parents (Alma and Frank Propst) also lived on a farm not far from us. Since my Grandpa Propst died when I was five, I don’t have a lot of memories of him, but I do vaguely remember him at some family gatherings, looking very distinguished in his shocking-white full handle bar mustache. Seeing pictures of his father’s long flowing gray beard suggests that beards and mustaches were a fashion statement in their time. I was twenty before my Grandma Propst passed away, so I had fond memories of many family gatherings at her house in town. My father’s sister (Aunt Lena Pence) and brother (Uncle Ralph) lived with their families on nearby farms as well. Seven cousins resulted from the above unions, but they ranged in age from four to eighteen years older. My parents were in their late 30’s when I was born, which put me about half a generation out of sync. I was a pre-teen before they began to recognize me as an o.k. kid, especially the boy cousins. We did, however, grow to become quite close through the years. Three of them are deceased, but those of us who remain keep in rather close contact with my brother and myself, in an attempt to keep the family ties going for our children and grandchildren—but largely just because we want to!

When I was two and one-half years old, my brother’s birth on Nov. 5, 1936 increased our immediate family to four. He was given the name Galen Leroy Propst, but he unofficially changed it to Lee after leaving home to join the Navy following high school graduation. His birth also occurred at home.

Wow, what a brave Mom! Understandably, not many details were ever discussed about either of our home births.Being only two and a half, I do not have clear memories of his arrival or the months that followed. But I know that life was not easy for my parents. The country was just coming out of the Depression when I was born. My Dad worked hard farming the 105 acres, growing and harvesting corn, oats, alfalfa and caring for cows, pigs, sheep and chickens and raising cattle to sell. My Mom worked equally as hard taking care of two young kids, cooking, cleaning, gardening and helping with outside chores. 

Being poor never entered my mind when I was young, but I’d heard my parents talk about starting out with orange crates for end tables and hand-me-down furniture. I do not recall ever going hungry (photos will attest to that) or being deprived of basic needs. The doll I am holding in one of the photos was my prized possession and probably one of the few playthings I had beyond paper dolls and some books. In those early years, life was quite simple. We gathered around the kerosene lamps in the evenings (electric lines had not come through our region yet) and looked forward to Saturday night baths, as indoor plumbing came later also. Any form of entertainment centered around family or friends with occasional neighborhood potlucks and Sunday visits and dinner or picnics with grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. It always amazed me that, in later years, my parents, aunts, uncles, and their friends would refer to life at that time and in even in their earlier years as “the good old days”!

One of my first vivid memories occurred sometime in my fourth year. Having trouble breathing at night, snoring loudly and being plagued with frequent throat infections, the doctor recommended removing my tonsils and adenoids. Now that procedure was NOT done at home, but in a hospital some distance from home. I remember waking up in a world of hurts, both physically and mentally. My throat was on fire with each swallow as was my neck from an ether spill while being administered that common anesthetic in those days. “Coming to” in an unfamiliar sterile, high ceilinged hospital room was a frightening experience until I realized my Mom and Dad were at my bedside. After all, they had hardly been out of my sight since birth! I probably was released from the hospital that day, obviously survived the trip home and recovered satisfactorily. I continued to grow into the next phase of my life,that of starting school at the age of five in 1939.

My Family by Bob Pettis

During the second quarter of my first year at Cal Poly in Pomona, I took a class titled “Family Life,” taught by psychologist, Dr. Louis King. My roomies assured me it was fairly easy to get a good grade from him if I followed a few simple rules. Always be on time for class. Sit in the front row, and always volunteer to be one of the first to read your paper. 

Our first assignment was to write three pages on the subject of Parents. I was very careful how I wrote my paper. I had good parents. How difficult could this be? After reading my paper, Doctor King proceeded to tell me things about my parents that I could not have imagined. He said my dad was an authoritarian, the strong one in the family. My mother was the caring and nurturing one, and had a troubled past she dealt with almost daily. She sought stability in her life more than love. The one comment that still rings in my ears was, “no one in your family has ever told you they love you. Your parents can not express love verbally.” I was stunned. 

My mother was one of 6 children. Her mother died when she was just 12. Her father was not able to keep the family together, so the two younger girls were put up for adoption, and the remaining four were sent to live with relatives. Mom ended up in South Dakota. She excelled in school, and worked for families in the area to support herself. Following high school, she attended teacher’s college for one year, and then became a one room rural school teacher. She soon leaned to set goals, live up to them, and to be an effective disciplinarian.  Her first school included several farm boys who were older than she was, and a lot bigger. That didn’t faze her.

My father was one of four children raised on a farm in South Dakota. His mother and father had both been school teachers, and expected their children to excel academically. During the worst days of the depression, all four children attended college and all became school teachers. 

Mom and Dad married when he finished college. Dad started teaching high school in rural South Dakota, and then become a farm advisor. Dad had been in ROTC in college, and in 1941, he was called to active duty. Our family moved to Victorville, on the California desert, where dad helped open the new Army Air Field there. I was born just before we left South Dakota. Following the war, my parents chose to stay in Victorville. Dad bought a Laundry and Dry Cleaning business, and it became successful. Mother became active in the community by working for the Chamber of Commerce, and then becoming an activist in her passion of helping others in need. In that little, dusty town, she started several community service organizations which continue today. 

My father’s actions toward his wife and children were always caring and supportive, and in his way, loving. But, he never learned to say those three words that would have expressed his love for his family. Nor was he comfortable when they were directed to him. On his death bed, I was alone with him, and said “I love you Dad.” I hoped in that moment I might hear the words I longed to hear for such a long time. He replied, “I know Robert.” If he ever used the work “love” in talking to any of us in his family, I am unaware of it. My mother told me that in all their years together he never once told her he loved her, but they did love each other, even though it was unsaid from him. That, it turned out, was as good as it got.

The other member of our family is my sister, Lorna. She is three years older, and was treated differently than I was. Maybe it’s because she was first born, or just being a girl, but she was always the most favored.  Lorna was the beauty queen, got more presents at Christmas, and always found it easier to get favors from our parents. A family friend, whose wife was expecting a baby, told my dad one day that his wife had given birth to a girl. My dad’s reaction was “Oh, that’s too bad. You’ll find out you can always say ‘no’ to a boy, but never to a girl.” 

Doctor King was right. My father and to some extent my mother, were not capable of telling Lorna and me how much they loved us.  And neither of us ever heard our father say those three words, “I love you.” But we were raised in a home of stability, support, and loving ways. And in my case, I was given a lot of freedom and encouraged to set my own course. I have tried to make my life one that they would be pleased with. That has been as good as it gets. 

While they were alive, I was vocal about my appreciation for what they’d done for me. I did tell both of them before their lives passed how much I loved them both. I think that made a difference.

Grandma Peggy by Linda Langston Fredendall

It’s a family tradition…Grandma Peggy’s hot rolls for every special dinner.   Nothing evokes family memories like the smell of good food, especially yeast breads baking in the oven.

 I had the luxury of not working for two years when my children were teen-agers, so I was able to spend more time with my grandmother.  She was special to me as a little girl, but I really appreciated how special she was as I got older.  She had a bright sunny kitchen with a large-paned window that looked out over her fragrant, colorful flower gardens.  I went to visit her one day and as I sat at in her cozy kitchen, watching her make those rolls, I asked her for the recipe.  As I expected, she said “honey, I’ve never had a recipe.” So I stood at her side, pad and pencil in hand, and wrote down the approximate measures. Now my daughter and granddaughters vie for the honor of making the hot rolls for family dinners. They always call them Grandma Peggy’s hot rolls. 

 I’ve always adored my grandmother.  As a young child I felt so loved and so secure with her.  My father was remote and not demonstrative and my mother always seemed so busy with her young family, taking care of a small farm with a lot of animals, tending our garden and canning the fruits of the farm.  But Grandma always had time for me.  I was in truth a homely and introverted little soul. But Grandma always gave unconditional love, always making me feel that I was so important to her, that I was somehow special, that spending time with me was all she had to do that day. 

 My grandmother never had a high school education, probably third grade at best.  When I inherited her papers, I found little note papers with words and their meanings written on them, little snippets of poems, and bits of her life story.   She spent her life trying to make up for her lack of a formal education.  She married at fifteen and her in-laws were mean and harsh with her.  She had five daughters by the age of twenty-two. She lived in tents, rented houses, and an unfinished house that she and my grandfather were building, and lost, in the Great Depression. They went from South Gate to Santa Rosa, California. They lived in a tent in a cow pasture and picked apples from dawn to dusk.  They finally rented a little house with no electricity or running water. They cleaned and painted and impressed the owner so that he let them live there rent free.  Through all this she tried so hard to make young ladies of her three surviving daughters.  Teaching them how to eat, how to walk, and how to carry themselves; she desperately wanted a better life for them.

  I spent many, many days with her over a year writing her life story in short hand and transcribing my notes on my electric typewriter at my dining room table.  There was so much that I learned about her in those days.  Personal stories that I never would have known if I hadn’t taken the time to sit down with her.  She was one of thirteen children, although only seven survived until adulthood.  She was the middle child and she told me she never felt loved or particularly wanted. She wasn’t complaining about it, it was just a fact that she was the middle child, and she was just one of many.  Her mother was bed-ridden most of her life, and therefore didn’t play a role in her nurturing.  She told me the only person who ever made her feel special was her grandmother.  Her grandmother took her fishing and Grandma caught a big fish and her grandmother told all the family about it. It was one time in her young life that she felt special.  My grandmother loved to fish… deep sea fishing, fishing in rivers, fishing in lakes. I even have a picture of her in a bathing suit and high heels, fishing.  

 She divorced my grandfather in the early forties, and by the early 50’s she had bought her own home, had nice furniture, and a nice car, all on waitress pay. She was an extraordinary money manager.  She went to Hawaii four times, went dancing, gave wonderful parties in which a lot of good food played a part, loved Las Vegas, took vacations to places I only dreamed about, and was active in several clubs. She had beautiful clothes and sparkling, gleaming jewelry, which I was allowed to go through and play with. When I was in my 30’s we took two vacations together, one to Alabama to the county her father was raised in and one to Oklahoma for a family reunion.  We went to the horse races together at Santa Anita many times.  We laughed and cheered on our horses, although she laughed mostly at me, because I picked the winning horses by the color of the jockey’s shirts.  She was full of life and loved living it…and she loved living it with me. 

 She had four sisters, and they all adored each other. They never had a cross word with each other, they were there for each other whenever there was trouble of any kind, fiercely loving and loyal.  They always lived close to each other and at times took in each other’s children when needed, or even the whole family. Times were hard, they were raising their young children in the Depression but there was always room for one more.  These are the things that has made me love and appreciate every member of my family.  They were from Texas and had that earthy, home spun humor that made them so interesting, especially when they were all together.  So my great-aunts were a large part of my young life too. Their lives, their children, their wild and wonderful stories are interwoven into these beautiful memories, and I know I am blessed to have them to love me so. 

Country Bumpkin Goes To Town by Arnie Dowdy

 

 

 

May 18, 2008

Country Bumpkin Goes to Town

  Looking back it seems like the experience should have affected me more. But my memory says that it didn’t.

It was 1955 and my family had decided to move from rural Kentucky to Los Angeles, California. We had been living in Milburn, Kentucky, population about four hundred. You might have needed to count the people in the cemetery to get up to that number. Milburn was a bucolic, idyllic sort of town. It was situated in Carlisle County which is located in the western end of the state.

The town wasn’t much, and really never had been. It was kept alive in the most part by the farming community that surrounded it. Almost all of the town was built along a curving, winding road that was a part of a state highway. The road only had two intersections. One went past our house and dead ended, pardon the pun, at the cemetery. The other led down to the school and continued on as a gravel road to some of the more remote farm areas.

There wasn’t much in the way of businesses. There was a Post Office, a Masonic Lodge, one small “belly up to the counter diner”, a barber, two small groceries and one general store. The diner was where I sometimes ate lunch. It cost a quarter. I could get a chili dog, an RC cola, and a bag of peanuts. You put the peanuts down the top of the bottle of soda and drank through them finally eating the peanuts when the cola was done.

There were two small grocery stores. One was called Crider’s and we never shopped much there. The other was Roy Evan’s Grocery. We lived down the lane from the Roy Evans family so our shopping dollars were mostly spent there. The owner was called “Mr. Roy” by everyone in the community. Most everyone was indebted to him as he allowed the whole community to buy on credit. Cash money was not always available. Visiting Mr. Roy’s store on the way home from school was always good, especially if you had a nickel burning a hole in your pocket. He also had newspapers for sale and I enjoyed glancing at the headlines to know of the latest world events.

Mr. Roy’s store was also one of the first places we checked out on November 1^st each year. It was tradition that the young men would disassemble a wagon on Halloween night as a prank. It would then be reassembled on top of Mr. Roy’s grocery. As kids we loved it and never thought once about how it would come down. We just trusted that it would happen.

The general store was the most interesting place in town. It was run by an elderly man named D P Sanford. The store had been in his family for some years. It was an interesting eclectic collection of items to purchase. If what you wanted wasn’t on display, all you had to do was ask Mr. Sanford and it was likely he had it had it in the upstairs storage.

D P Sanford’s general store had one thing that no one else had. It was the only store with a real candy counter within ten miles. The sweet treasures located behind the glass at that candy counter tempted us every day. It was also in that counter that I discovered baseball cards. For a penny I could get not only a piece of gum, but a cardboard representation of a baseball player. These small pieces of cardboard thrilled the imagination of the young boys who bought and traded them. If I could get a player from my favorite team I was ecstatic for a week.

Alas! The candy counter has one horrible memory for me. One day after school as I was peering through the glass trying to decide what treat my penny should bring me, I threw up. I was so embarrassed. It was some bad sour kraut that I had eaten. Mr. Sanford tried to assure me that it was ok but I do admit that it took a few days before I was able to go back into his store. I also haven’t eaten sour kraut since.

Milburn had a collection of churches of varying protestant denominations. We didn’t discriminate. Each summer my brother and I attended each one’s vacation bible schools. It was just about the only entertainment available. We went just to have fun.

The school was located about mid ways along the curving state highway. Buses brought in all the students from the farms. My brother and I simply had to walk. There were a few crumbling sidewalks that had been constructed as a WPA project in the 1930’s. We walked past all of the homes, most of them starting to move towards varying states of decay. Most of the homes seemed to be occupied by elderly widows, no doubt waiting to join their spouse down past our house at the end of Cemetery Road. I loved these ladies; they were my best customers.

My enterprise as a young man getting ready to face his teens was that of a garden seed salesman. I had answered an ad from the back of a comic book and became affiliated with a seed company. They mailed me the seeds, I sold them and mailed in the money. Then they sent me whatever prize I had requested such as a baseball glove or a basket ball. Each year these widow ladies would wait to buy their seeds until I had visited with my selections. I wondered where they would get their seeds when I moved to California.

The walk to school each day was accompanied by our dog Trixie. She would walk with us as far as school and then turn around and go home once she knew we were safely there. The amazing thing was that she would come back to school in the afternoon to pick us up for the return journey. I know it sounds crazy, but that is what happened. My seed customer ladies would call out to each other that it was time for school to be out as they had seen the Dowdy boys dog heading that way.

Milburn school had students from all twelve grades. There were four rooms downstairs each holding two classes who were taught by one teacher. The upstairs, forbidden to us lower level students, was the high school. It always had an air of mystery. Every now and then we would get invited to come upstairs and purchase a treat for recess. I never was able to attend classes upstairs as we moved after my seventh grade year.

Milburn school also had one other building, much newer than the school itself. It was the basketball gym. Basketball in Kentucky is sort of a religion. Our team was the Milburn High School Blue Devils. Each year they would have tournaments at the grade level. First grade would play second grade and so on. I am convinced it was a way to find out which kids would be able to play on the high school team in later years.

Most of my Milburn school life was an experience of joy. There were a couple of exceptions that come to mind.

The first involved the game of marbles. The normal game for boys was called “for keeps”. You drew a circle around yours and your opponents marbles and you tried to knock them out side of the ring. If you knocked it out you got to keep the marble. Every boy traveled daily with his sack of marbles. I was no exception and considered myself a pretty good marble player. That is until I met up with an older boy. It was on a trip to the bathroom. An older boy, was also in the bathroom. He asked if I wanted to play marbles “for keeps”. Of course I did. A big mistake as it not too long afterwards I returned to my class with my marble sack almost empty. It was a difficult lesson to learn.

The second bad experience involved our high school basketball star, Sonny Fristoe. Sonny had caught me in the bathroom having a smoke with my buddies. All of us being raised in tobacco country thought nothing of trying out the commodity each time we could snitch some from our fathers. Sonny told me he was going to tell my parents. I was scared to death. To make matters worse Sonny worked in the grocery store in Mayfield where we went on Friday night to buy our provisions. Every time we went he would make my evening miserable. He was a stock boy there and he would peer around the end of the counter and hold up two fingers to his lips as if smoking. He would then point to me. I hated Sonny Fristoe. Maybe one of the reasons I was so happy to go to California was to get away from Sonny Fristoe.

A couple of years ago while visiting with my family in Kentucky I was driving back from Mayfield. Along the side of the road, I notice a sign that said Sonny Fristoes Truck Stop and Convenience Store”. It had to be him. It was just too much of a coincidence. Once inside the store I looked around to see if I could possibly recognize Sonny. There he was behind the counter. He asked if I needed help. I told him that he probably did not remember me, but that I had remembered him all my life. I explained how I had hated him because of what he had threatened to do to me. I also told him that I had now forgiven him. He was in a bit of shock, to say the least. Suddenly another couple standing near by started to laugh. It was Sonny’s daughter and son-in-law. They did so much enjoy seeing his discomfort. With a wave and a laugh I was out the door never to be troubled with the memory of Sonny again.

Arnie’s Birth by Arnie Dowdy

 

 

September 11, 2007

BIRTH

  The place of my birth has always seemed like an irritating accident to me. My Mom and Dad just happened to be there. It was a place not connected to our family but we were there due to the force of world events and family economy.

  The world event was World War II. The ability to find a good paying job had moved our family to the St. Louis area where my Dad was working in the war industry. His pay was certainly more than the one dollar a day he had been receiving as a farm laborer in western Kentucky. I am sure to him it seemed like a good thing.

  It is in this point that I came into the world. My birth was on December 31, 1942 in East St. Louis, Illinois. That was a part of the irritation. My whole family had been bred and born in the south. I was the first and only one with the dubious distinction of being born in the “north”.

Yes, I was born in the Land of Lincoln. I can only hope that at least my conception occurred in the south. After all, Lincoln did have the honor of being born in Kentucky.

My paternal grandmother had hoped that I would be born on Christmas Day. That was her birthday as well as that of Aunt Vivian, her oldest daughter. No Christmas Day for me as I held out for New Years Eve. Mom always told me that she was just sure that she would win the prizes for having the baby born closest to the new year. My arrival about ten in the morning even messed that up.

The hospital where I arrived has always been a source of irritation and even embarrassment to me and my Mom. It is because I was born in a “welfare” hospital. Of course, it was not the government welfare program that we know of today. That type of program did not exist in 1942. If there was such a program it is very likely that my families economic station in life would have let us qualify. My birth occurred at the Christian Welfare Hospital in East St. Louis, Illinois. The name did not in any way imply that it was anything other than a normal type of hospital.

The hospital has long been closed and the structure is, at last visit, simply a partial brick shell of its former self. Proving once again that the world is a small, small one, I met and became friends through Rotary International with the gentleman who was the last Hospital Administrator of the Christian Welfare Hospital in East St. Louis, Illinois.

Another irritation surrounding my birth is the confusion that was created about the year of my birth. As noted, I was born on the last day of 1942. Some many years later my Mom passed on to me a framed copy of my birth certificate. It is one of those typically ornate ones with fancy script and even a photo of the hospital. It also proudly identifies the birth as occurring at the Christian Welfare Hospital.

Some time after she had provided me with this documentation of my birth, I started to examine it in detail. “Holy Mackeral”, or some other less suitable expletive, I shouted, “My birth certificate says I was born in 1943″. My first assumption was that my parents had been lying to me about the date of my birth to protect my mothers reputation.

A quick phone call to Mom cleared it all up. This was the first birth certificate she had been given. The clerk who filled out the form some time after my birth simply made an error in recording the date and reflected the new year. I would have been much happier if she had filled out the certificate to reflect that I had been born in East St. Louis, Kentucky.

How many times a year do you have to fill out forms asking for your place of birth. I can assure you that it is very many. And how many of those forms leave room for someone to write in East Saint Louis, Illinois. With spaces and commas, that comes out to twenty five little boxes on those forms. Have you ever seen enough space on these forms to record my place of birth?

Many people proudly proclaim that they were born in some idyllic location that gave them a great start in life. East St. Louis, Illinois is not a place that you proudly proclaim anything. This city has, however, been given the honor of being proclaimed the worst city in the United States.

Their only current claim to fame is a river boat casino and a large concentration of nude bars. This city has been so corrupt and poorly managed that it actually lost title to its City Hall in a liability law suit and for many years rented their offices from the new owner.

I know it is difficult to believe, but the city could not afford gas for their police cars. Police Officers were forced to sit in the cars which were parked on the street rather than going on patrol. I can only imagine that they must have tried to chase down speeders on foot.

Life for me, began in East St. Louis, Illinois. About thirty days after my birth my parents made the wise choice to go to Detroit, Michigan where my maternal grandfather and an uncle were also working in the war industry. Mom stayed with her parents and worked in the defense industry. Dad went off to Europe to serve in Patton’s army.

I didn’t know it at that time but I was pleased that my Dad could see East St. Louis, Illinois in his rearview mirror.

EMCOLL 406 – COMPOSING YOUR LIFE STORY

Here is the Fall 2008 Composing Your Life Story schedule.  

Please note new locations and times.  Call Myla Collier with Questions at 543-9514

CENTRAL COAST OFF CAMPUS

CRN#       Days                        Time                                         Instructor                                 

71759      M                             1 PM – 4 PM                             COLLIER Myla                         

Above section meets 9 weeks (09/15-11/17/2008) No class 11/10/2008.

The above section meets at St. Timothy’s Catholic Church, 962 Piney Way, Morro Bay.

 NORTH COUNTY OFF CAMPUS

CRN#       Days                        Time                                         Instructor                                 

71671      T                              1 PM – 4 PM                             COLLIER Myla                       

Above section meets 9 weeks (09/02-10/28/2008).

The above section meets at Colony Park Community Center, 5599 Traffic Way, Atascadero.

 SOUTH COUNTY OFF CAMPUS

CRN#       Days                        Time                                         Instructor                              

71709      W                             9:30 AM – 12:30 PM                 COLLIER Myla                        

Above section meets 9 weeks (9/03-10/29/2008).

The above section meets in the Conference Room at 340 Pomeroy, Pismo Beach.

 CRN#       Days                        Time                                         Instructor                             

71876      F                              1 PM – 4 PM                             COLLIER Myla                   

Above section meets 9 weeks (9/05-10/31/2008)

The above section meets at the Avila Beach Community Center, 191 San Miguel Street, Avila Beach

 

 

 

 

 

The Smithsonian Veterans History Project Shirley Burns

My uncle is 83 years old.  Looking back at is life, in 2000 he wrote his autobiography, but deliberately skimmed over his World War II years as a seventeen year old soldier.  In 2006 he wrote a separate autobiography of his life between age seventeen and the day her turned twenty one;,  My husband and I were so involved, the first time we read it that we spent an afternoon taking turns reading aloud.  He titled this work, “A Boy’s Journey Into War.”  He sent a copy to me.

Uncle Bill had trained throughout California and Oregon and at both Camp Roberts and Camp San Luis. He was deployed from Hawaii to various sites in the Pacific. He was on Navy submarines that dispatched his reft to the local islands around the South Pacific so he could single handedly search out the Japanese installations, return to the submarines and report to hid military superiors.  He fought on several islands -Okinawa, Yap. Manus Island and participated in the invasion of Leyte.  In detail, he explained not only what happened. but how he felt then and incorporated now his emotions and meditations.

Over the next few years, I would occasionally read it again.  Talking to him on his once-a-year visits became rich for all of us. But he had only given twenty copies to his family and close friends.  As is true for most veterans of World War II, he seldom spoke of the war.  Modest to a fault, he never considered publishing.  He was a good writer, but had a very small audience.

I started attending Myla Collier’s Life Story course and learned about the Smithsonian Veteran’s History Project through the Library of Congress  http://www.loc.gov/vets/.

This project’s goal is to obtain as much direct information from the veterans and others  who were involved in any war in which the United States participated. This includes both oral history obtained through interviews and any writings, autobiography, letters, poems, as well as memorabilia such as medals and citations.  The materials will be catalogued and ready for researchers.

While I naively thought that all I had to do was to obtain my uncle’s permission and send it in, I quickly discovered that there was much more required.  In fact, the entire kit was some sixteen pages (although I only downloaded seven of them since I did not do any interviewing.)  See How to Participate http://www.loc.gov/vets/kit.html.

Included in the kit are forms needed such as information about the donor (you), information about the veteran, what service he/she was in, what Unit, Division, Battalion, Group, Ship, etc.  Where he served, battles he was in, his medals and awards. A permission from the veteran or his estate.  Special forms for photographs, video and tape interviews.  A complete service record is requested.

There are several pages on how to hold an interview session.  What to say and how to listen.  Even how to set up an interview session for the comfort of the participant.  All materials must be original, no photocopies.

The process, for me. took several weeks.  Bill had done such a thorough job that he had included all the information throughout the text.  I mailed the first set to him and he put the finishing touches like telling just where Leyte is located on the globe.  A final visit from him gave me his permission, a tiny picture of him as a seventeen -year-old  in uniform and best of all, his blessings on having me send the package on to the Smithsonian.

For those without a computer, the mailing address is Veterans History Project, Library of Congress, 101 Independence Ave., SE, Washington, DC 20540-4615

Ten Ways to Use Multimedia to Tell Your Life Story by Kristi Marie Gott

Clipped from Kristi Marie Gott’s  Life Story Telling website.

There are a variety of ways you can use multimedia to tell your life story. These days you can be very creative with multimedia and choices include some of the following.

1. Use a camcorder to record a video of some aspects of your life story, or all of it. If you are new to using video software try an easier program such as windows movie maker, since it comes with your computer.

2. Scan childhood and family photos into the computer and add them to the storyboard in the video software.

3. Add subtitles to the photos and video clips. If you are new to making videos this might sound complicated but it’s just more click and choose types of steps.

4. Make a vocal recording of a reading of parts of your life story, that plays while showing photos or video clips.

5. Visit your childhood home or other important places from your life and make video clips showing them today. Research on the internet to find vintage photos of places or things from different historical eras in your life. For instance, if you grew up in the 1940’s you might want to have photos of automobiles from that time.

6. Make lists of questions and interview your family members about shared memories, perhaps of holiday times or other events.

7. Add historical material to give additional interest and perspective to your life story. For instance, if you were a teen-ager during the 1960’s describe the national or world events that were taking place. What were you doing on the night the astronauts landed on the moon?

8. Tape record your memories when something triggers them. Try telling your story to a recorder and then transcribe it for a more spontaneous flow.

9. Combine video, music from eras of your life, photos scanned into the computer, subtitles, and more in a series of life stories from different parts of your life.

10. Add a graphic of your family tree to the video, and/or photos and videos of the family members.

AN ENLARGED FAMILY by Shirley Palmer

There was a family living up our block, four houses from us. which had three kids, the Mom and a big German shepherd. The father had died when the youngest was just one year old of A-plastic anemia, a blood disorder.  Our street was just one block long, so everybody knew everybody on the block. We were friends, but not close with this family as we were with others.  However we did have something in common – we went to the same church. The Mother worked two jobs trying to provide by driving a school bus every day and working as financial secretary for a couple of churches.

The Mother took ill and was hospitalized. I remember going down to St. Joseph’s Hospital in Burbank on Thanksgiving Day to visit her.  She was in isolation, so we had to “suit up” before entering her room.  She looked terrible – all yellow and even the whites of her eyes were bright yellow.  I’d never seen anything like it before. We chit-chatted, making small talk and finally she told us she was worried about the kids. I told her they were doing fine; that all the neighbors were keeping a close eye on them, but we’d make it a priority to check more often. Her kids were then a 17 year old girl named Louise who had her driver’s license, a 15 year old girl and a 13 year old boy.

One day I got a call from our minister telling me that somebody had reported this family to child welfare as living alone without an adult present and they were about to step in. He asked me what were the chances of the three kids staying with us at night. The church would furnish their dinners, but they had to sleep at our house. My husband and I talked it over and said “Absolutely” – without another thought. So within 24 hours my family changed and I now had one 17 yr old, two 15 yr olds (one ours), and two 13 yr. olds (one ours). We had a family meeting and set up our new schedule. The kids would be in our house by 8 P.M. at night. They would have showered and arrived with their clean clothes for the next day. I would get up, pack lunches for all five kids, make their breakfast and send them off to school. After school Louise would drive them down to the hospital to see their mother, then they’d come home, do their homework and eat the dinner which would be furnished by the church, clean up their kitchen and be at our place at 8 P.M. It sounded perfect, but slowly some of the church meals slipped away and they liked my cooking. So soon they were there with us for dinner as well. We put the two girls in our den on the hideabed couch, and got a folding bed to put in our son’s room for the boy to sleep on. Then their mother took a turn for the worst and was transferred out to Loma Linda Hospital out near Redlands, which meant the kids had no way of visiting her except on weekends.

In the meantime my food budget had gone down the tubes! It’s amazing what three extra teenagers can do to the food supply. Even though I was working full time,  this came as quite a financial blow. I was shopping at the day-old bakeries, such as Wonder Bread which wasclose to our house. where you got the bread at just about half price. Making five lunches and breakfast (not counting  my husband and I) took more supplies than I was used to! I also became an immediate master of the casserole:one that fed a lot!

Another memory I have: we’d been out on a Sunday outing water skiing. We came home and the girls were in my daughter’s bedroom, horsing around, when they were supposed to be getting ready for bed. All of a sudden I heard a scream!  It was Loretta, the 15 year old.  She had dislocated her arm at the shoulder trying to get her pajamas on. She was screaming in pain. I had no medical permission slip from their mother! Yikes!! I quickly typed out a medical permission note, had Louise (the oldest) sign it, and off we went to the hospital. We went to Holy Cross E.R. in San Fernando, and after a long wait they asked who the family doctor was and the girls told him. Well, we were told we had to go down to Burbankto St. Joseph’s Hospital, as that is where he practiced. So we bundled off again. Each hospital put me through the 3^rd degree about who I was and why  I was bringing this girl in, if I wasn’t related to her. We finally got her treated and back home about 3 a.m., and up for our regular schedule by 6. Then I had to take her to an orthopedic doctor for follow-up treatments.

We tried to plan some family outings on Sunday (that didn’t cost much) to get them out having fun. We did picnics in the park with baseball games. We had a small boat and went water skiing out at Lake Piru.  Each time we’d pack a big lunch and take it with us. Things weren’t looking good for their mother around Easter time. Then I remember on Mother’s Day we went water skiing to try to keep the kids from thinking about what day it was. She died shortly after Mother’s Day, at the age of 40. We had them with us over a year on and off, as things worked out.

During the months I had been helping Louise pay their monthly bills, which included a life insurance policy. I never pried into their financial affairs, but after the death of their mother I had to become more involved. Much to my horror I discovered that the life insurance policy we had been paying the premium on each month did not list the kids as beneficiary. The mom had been married very briefly about eight years before and it didn’t work out, so they divorced. But she had never changed her policy. I was just absolutely sick when I saw it. She left no will so things were a real mess. I finally took the kids up to an attorney who I had done a lot of escrow work for us, a really neat man, who I knew could help them.

Their bachelor uncle (their Father’s brother) tried moving in with them for awhile, but that was a total disaster. Their mother had two brothers. One was a youth probation officer in Redlands, but he had two kids and said he couldn’t take them in. The other brother was a minister in Oregon and he just point blank said “No Way”! So now Louise was 18 and it was legal for them to sleep in their home, but they were at our house most of the time as we had become their family. Every Saturday during my washing and house-cleaning I’d be interrupted to run down the street and stop a full-on fight among the “Mob” ( as I started calling them!) I kept trying to tell them that all they had was each other, that they should love each other and get along! When they were with us they’d argue, but nothing violent, like when they got out on their own.

The bad ex-husband took all the insurance money,so the kids didn’t get a dime. They were able to sell their house and not only enter college, but graduate. Louise graduated with a degree in music, but now works for an attorney in Century City. Loretta is a Registered Nurse and works for UCLA out in the San Gabriel Valley, selling UCLA services to doctors. Philip is the Assistant City Planner of Palm Desert. We still have close contact with all three, but sadly they do not have close contact with each other. They are all in their 50’s now, so what can I say, except I tried my BEST! I did learn from them that you can’t force siblings to love each other, if they don’t want to. They were three individual personalities and they just didn’t blend, or even make an effort to blend. I’ll never understand their thinking, but they are happy in their individual (and I might add) separate lives.