Week 27: The Great Outdoors

I’ve never thought of myself as an outdoorsy kind of person. I’m pretty sure that those who know me don’t think of me as outdoorsy, either. I need a hot shower, a flushing toilet, and electricity for my hairdryer. And, I’m way too old and arthritic to sleep on the ground.

But, I may have to rethink that. I love to bicycle, but only outdoors. An indoor stationary bike is my version of torture. My usual path is along the San Gabriel Channel, which is always full of birds of one sort or another. Yesterday, there was a white heron, eating some smaller prey, either a fish or a frog. Last week, there was a whole family of ducklings, waddling behind their mother mallard. Occasionally, I will see a pelican or a turkey vulture. Always, there are loons, gulls, and smaller birds, unknown to me.

I’ve recently discovered the free app ‘Merlin’, developed by Cornell University Lab of Ornithology. It’s designed to listen for and identify birds in the environment around you, and it is fascinating. I think I might yet become a birder.

And, I have discovered these past few years love of love hiking. I’ve wandered along the South West Coast Path and in Shenandoah National Park. I’m hoping to go next year to Spain for the Santiago de Compostela, of course with my trusty hiking partner, my cousin, Sue.

Being outdoors has been healing these past few years, when so much of my life was upended during and after the COVID years. It’s not just me, either. There’s plenty of scientific research about the benefits, both physical and emotional, of being outside.

So, what does “The Great Outdoors” have to do with my family history?

Let’s find out, shall we?

Working Outdoors:

The earliest photo I have of my family outside was taken in 1885, in Thayer, Kansas. It is of my Gard ancestors, my great-grandparents. The family is posed outside their very simple wooden farmhouse. The Gards were farmers, so of course, their work meant long hours outside, whatever the weather. They didn’t need to find ways to be outdoors; rather the opposite, I imagine.

The next photo taken outdoors is of my grandfather, Charles Keene, Sr., in 1895, in Massachusetts. He worked out of a wagon and delivered produce in Saugus; again, this work was outdoors, and I can imagine that in Massachusetts, it could be downright dangerous at times. Charles is the young boy holding by the horse.

By the later years of the 1800s and into the 1900s, it was more common to have photos taken outdoors, especially with the advent of personal cameras which were portable. Still, professional studio photos continued to make up the majority of photographs.

Below is a photo of my great-grandparents, Willis D. and Eva Kesterson Gard, and their daughter, Vida Bula, my mother’s mother. It was taken in about 1898 in Los Angeles, in front of the store my great-grandparents ran.

Around this time, my great-grandparents must have purchased a camera, because I have candid outdoor photos of my grandmother, beginning when she was about two years old, in 1898-1899. My goodness, she was cute!

I don’t know who the man is in the photo below, but I do know that it was taken in 1907 in Wisconsin, depicting “sugaring off”; I’m going to guess that it is some one on the Norwegian side, my mother’s paternal grandmother. Like many Norwegians, they settled in Wisconsin, where the terrain and the weather were much like their homeland. Due to the lack of a studio marking, and the fact that it was taken outdoors, I’m surmising that someone in the family owned a personal camera.

Hunting and Fishing:

Around 1908, I begin to see photographs from hunting trips. The photo below is a postcard, made from photograph, to send to friends and family. It was sent to my great-grandfather Willis Wells from his sister, Hattie. It is their brother, Berton, and his freshly killed deer.

Our family had many hunters and fishermen through the years; Uncle Berton, my Grandfather Wells, my father, and my brothers. I know growing up that my dad’s hunting trips weren’t for fun or trophies; we ate the meat he caught.

The note on the back of this photo 1943 only said, “Dad’s pheasants.” I believe this is my mother’s father, as my father and his father were active military at this time.

Both my dad and Nampie Wells, my mom’s father, enjoyed fishing. Below is opening day for trout season 1947, in Nine Mile Canyon, up in the mountains above our Inyokern home.

Th photo below is one of my very favorites; it’s my Nampie Wells, august 1962, at Wickiup Dam, Oregon, enjoying a bit of fishing.

Cycling:

I am not the first cyclist in my family, either. The 1918 photo below is of my distant cousin, Homer Pratt, on his motorbike, which today would probably be called a moped.

In 1968, my parents bought us three younger kids a dirt bike. Oh, the fun we had! We made trails and jumps in the empty field next door and spent hours riding. we thought it was the coolest thing, but now, looking at the photos, it wasn’t much bigger than a banana-seat bicycle.

Hiking:

I’m not the first hiker in the family, too. the photo below is of my Grandmother Wells, taken in 1919, atop Mt. Wilson. It’s probably my favorite photo of her.

The Beach:

I confess I am not a beach person; I love the ocean, but the beach has too much sand for me. My dad’s family, however, spent many afternoons on the beach, around Santa Monica, which wasn’t too far from their Los Angeles home and even farther than their home in cold, wet, unsunny Massachusetts. The photo below, (one of many at the beach) is of my father, Charles Keene, Jr., and his grandmother, my great-grandmother Keene, taken in 1920.

The Keene and Wells families both spent time on the beach in Long Beach, as well. The photo below is from 1922, taken at Long Beach, and is of five of the six Keene siblings, Betsy, Bea, Emma, Charles, and Virginia. (Uncle George wasn’t born until 1923.)

This is a photo of my mom taken in 1926, on the beach at Long Beach. It’s one of my favorites

Below is a photo of my mother with aunt Ida and my great-grandmother Wells in Bixby Park, Long Beach, circa 1923-24.

Gardening:

Another outdoor activity enjoyed by my family is gardening. I am absolutely rubbish at it, although I still try from time to time. In vain. But I digress… The photo below is my mother, Bula, and her mother, Vida, in the garden of their home on Gertrude Street, Los Angeles, in 1922. My mother would love to garden her whole life, growing flowers and vegetables where ever she lived.

Nana’s mother, Great-grandma Gard, also loved to grow flowers, even into her 80s and 90s. The photo below of her in her abundant flower garden was taken in 1948.

The photo below was taken in 1956-57, when my parents still lived at China Lake, before the move across the valley to Inyokern. Mom is holding baskets full of apricots from her trees. Like I’ve said before, she made the desert bloom.

Playing:

Meanwhile, my dad’s family of six siblings seemed to be outdoors all the time, either at the beach or scrambling up the hillsides near their Los Angeles home. The photo below is of all six of them, in 1925.

Camping and Adventuring:

My dad’s family also liked camping, and when we were young, Dad often took us camping as well. The photo below is Death Valley, 1927, with the note, “Sunday dinner.” I bet whatever it was, it was delicious. I love food cooked over a campfire!

My mother’s family spent at least one Easter vacation, in 1938, in the desert. Below is my mom, ready for a shoot-out.

Then there is this… My Aunt Betsy in 1949, in Yellowstone, taking a casual photo with a bear.

By 1950, my parents had a travel trailer, heading most often up Highway 395 to Lake Crowley.

Below is one of my favorite photos of the two Keene brothers, Charles and George, on the fishing trip to Lake Crowley, 1950.

My mother’s grandparents (Willis and Theoline Soland Wells) eventually settled in Hamilton, Montana, where like many ancestors before them, they were farmers. But, that wasn’t the extent of their outdoors activities. My Aunt Mabel grew vegetables and fruit in her enormous garden and orchard. I have photos of the family enjoying the outdoors in the mountains and streams, picnicking or hunting. The photo below was taken in 1927-1928. I believe my mother’s father, Nampie Wells, is on the far left.

i have quite a few photos of my dad’s family picnicking up in the Sierra Mountains. The photo below is of my Nana Keene and Aunt Virginia at the Mt. Whitney Cafe, 1950.

Here’s another outdoor adventure from Dad’s family. My parents and their three older children joined my grandparents and aunts in the mountains, 1953. The photo below is of my aunt Bea (with the head scarf) getting a cup of cowboy coffee from my mom. seated behind Mom are my oldest sister, Jeanne, and Nana Keene. On the other side of the table is my brother, Bob (on the table), my father, and his father. What I loved in this series of pictures is that all the women are wearing skirts!

The photo below is of my younger brother, Richard, and me on a family vacation to Santa Cruz in 1970.

Horseback Riding:

I did not inherit my dad’s love of horseback riding; I admit, I am a scaredy cat. The photo below is of my two oldest siblings, Bob and Jeanne, in 1948, riding our aunt Virginia’s horse, Smokey.

My dad rode horses for most of his life. he was in the Cavalry in the Army, and when I was small, he and his friends would take pack mules up in the mountains to hunt. here is in 1973, on my brother Bob’s horse, Tinkerbell.

Swimming:

None of us are avid swimmers, but growing up on the desert, there’s nothing like dip in the pool to cool you off (I really wouldn’t call it “swimming.”) Here’s my mom and my three oldest siblings in what I think is the navy base pool, 1948.

Out in hot, dusty Inyokern, even a kiddie pool was a treat. this is 1960, and my brothers and I are enjoying a splash.

Well, this post is already too long and, but I had so much fun looking through my photos. I have loads more, but I will spare you and save them for another day. What I learned is that my family isn’t as indoorsy as I thought. We’re not exactly REI material, but neither are we afraid to occasionally get out and get up close and personal with nature (Too close, Aunt Betsy!).

And, nothing tastes better than a breakfast of pancakes and bacon cooked over a campfire. Am I right???

’til next time.

Week 26: Slow

You know what is slow?

Me. Keeping up with this blog!

It’s been a busy few months here at my house. I’ve been enjoying my Honolulu trips and layovers; feeling a bit more like a senior mama, now that I have 26 years. Still can’t hold an international schedule, but Hawaii is nothing to sneeze at.

I got COVID again. Twice. I got hit with the Paxlovid rebound, which happens in about 10-15% of those taking the drug.

And, then we spent some time in Virginia with our peeps there, and we were joined by our West Virginia kids for Easter weekend, too.

In Virginia, I went hiking with my cousin, Sue, which was a much needed portion of “grounding.” We struggled over rock rivers, scrambled to see waterfalls, and found the best little coffeeshops in town to fuel us.

Sadly, Sue had to cut our adventure short when it was apparent that her mother, my beloved Aunt Gwen, was near her last days here with us. Gwen had been diagnosed with cancer just two weeks earlier, and the doctor’s prognosis was that she had months, not weeks, left.

But, it turned out to be just weeks after all.

I was saddened that I didn’t get the chance to tell her how much her love for me enhanced and enriched my life. I hope she knew; I tried to see her as often as I could these past few years, bearing hugs and kisses, limes from our tree, and birthday flowers.

If I had had the opportunity, I would have told her that I always knew that she and Uncle George loved me. That they were always genuinely happy to see me, as I was to see them. Seeing Uncle George after my dad passed was such a comfort, as George and my dad looked so much alike. It was like being in Dad’s presence once again. George would always great me with, “Well, hello Little One.”

It wasn’t until just recently that I realized that I could have said the same thing to him!

I will treasure the memories we made last year on our grand tour of France, Portugal, and Spain with Sue, Gwen, and Gwen’s sister, Betty. Poor Gwen; she was so patient with me as I struggled to push her wheelchair over the cobblestones at Versailles, more than once nearly catapulting her right out of it. (Pro tip: when faced with such cobblestones and a wheelchair, go backwards!)

Gwen was my defender against the slings and arrows of interpersonal family scuffles. She always had my back. She was generous, kind, funny, and loved her family above all else on this green earth.

I was so privileged to be a part of that. I am going to miss her so.

Til next time.

Week 24: Last One Standing

My grandfather Keene, my father’s father, was the last one standing in his immediate family.

Charles L. Keene, Sr. (Grampie) had three half-siblings from his father’s (George Augustus Keene) first marriage to Ellen Piper.

1. Ellen, 1855-1939
2. Florence, 1861-1933
3. Alice, 1866-1955

After his father’s remarriage to Lydia Ann Thompson, there were five more births.

1. Annie, 1877-1919
2. George A, 1879-1880
3. Minot T., 1881-1882
4. Charles L., 1883-1959
5. Edith B., 1887-1890

You can see that three of his full siblings ( George, Minot, and Edith) never made it past infancy or the toddler years. By the time Charles passed away in 1959, at the age of 75, when I was about 6 months old, he was the last of his family. His father had died in 1919 and his mother in 1939.

Now, why, you may be asking, does this interest me now?

Good question! And, I think I have a good answer.

For three years during COVID,I was based in SFO (terrible timing of a transfer on my part), and I recently was finally awarded a transfer back to LAX this past October. And, to my delight, I have found that I can now bid and am awarded a schedule with Honolulu for layovers. (It might be temporary; one never knows…)

You see, since Grampie died when I was still a baby, I never knew him. I heard stories, and I saw photographs, but he always remained so distant.

He began his working life as a chef in hotels and on the railroads, but when he and his family arrived in California in late 1919/early 1920, he eventually went to work for the Matson Line shipping company, also as a chef.

(Did you see his weight??? My goodness!)

Guess where his regular route took him?

That’s right: Honolulu.

As I look out my layover hotel window in Honolulu, I have a lovely view of the Surfrider Hotel, which once was owned by the Matson Line. I stand on the beach, with a lovely view of Waikiki and wonder how much he saw and how different it must have looked in the 1940s, when he was there. The Royal Princess still stands, a lovely reminder of the glamour that once was Waikiki Beach.

Grampie isn’t the only traveler in our family to have ties to Hawaii. My dad, Charles, Jr., was stationed there in 1938-39 in the Army. My uncle George, Dad’s brother, was there in the Navy when Pearl Harbor was bombed. And, then there’s me, happily flying back and forth over the ocean where Matson ships used to sail with my grandfather.

Just now, looking for passenger manifests for Grampie, I found an immigration form dated December 6, 1941, documenting his arrival into Los Angeles harbor. (Remember, Hawaii wasn’t a part of the US at that point, hence an immigration form.) He had left Honolulu aboard the “Mahi Mahi” November 25, 11 days earlier. But, did you notice that arrival date?

December 6, 1941. The day before the Pearl Harbor bombing. Grampie missed being there by less than two weeks. I wonder if he and George met while Grampie was there. I know that my dad would often be able to see his father, when Charles, Sr. came into port.

There are dozens of records of Grampie’s comings and goings, passenger manifests and immigration forms. Far more than would be interesting to post here, but the records show that during the war, he went farther afield, to Scotland, New York, and Africa, but still often west to Honolulu.

Which is where I like to remember him.

‘Til next time.

Week 22: At the Cemetery

I didn’t do so well with “52 Weeks” assignment for 2023, did I?

In my defense, I had a lot on my plate and was struggling just to keep up with the laundry and get dinner cooked. Thankfully, some of those pressing issues are lessening, and I am looking forward to getting back to doing more of what I love. 

And, I love cemeteries. I love the peace and the reminders that we all are fragile. I love the tributes written in stone, love letters to lost ones. I love the feeling of connecting, on some unspoken level, with my loved ones once again, even if it just my wishful thinking. 

My brother, Don, visited a few months back, and on one cool and windy afternoon, we visited the cemetery where our Uncle George is buried. Don lives out of the country and hadn’t been back to see Uncle before he passed or to attend the funeral. 

It took us a few minutes to find the gravesite, and then, there he was. 

The grass hasn’t grown around the headstone much yet (but, it will, I am confident), so it looks a little unkempt. But, standing back, the view was lovely, across the still-green hills of Santa Clarita, with the five flags of the American branches of service fluttering in the wind above the memorial wall.

When I was a girl, I remember being at a lot of family funerals, so much so that I can conjure up a very vivid picture in my mind of my family’s section of cemetery at Rose Hills, complete with the train tracks and the occasional train.

In my very vague memories, it seems that there was a continuous stream of funerals in the years 1963-64, when I was 5-6 years old. The cemetery was a constant during those years.

My great-granduncle Maurice Gard passed away May 23, 1963. He, along with his brother, Frank, were siblings of my great-grandfather Willis Gard, who passed away in 1926. Maurice’s ashes, and those of his late wife, Alameda, are buried at Hermosa Gardens Cemetery, Colton, California, in the same gravesite as his mother, Phoebe Gard.

September 24, 1963, my maternal grandfather, Lawrence Wells, died. I can still vividly recall hearing my mother scream and moan in grief on hearing the news. I faintly remember the funeral and burial, but only, I think, because I have seen the photographs so often. (That’s me in the blue dress.)

Almost a year later, September 10, 1964, my great-granduncle Frank Gard passed away. He was the brother of my great-grandfather, Willis Gard. I have very strong memories of Frank and his brother, Maurice (mentioned above); they were the stereotypical little old men in many ways, with their waistbands somewhere around their sternums and a shared house full of cats. As a veteran of the Spanish American War, Uncle Frank was laid to rest at Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery in San Diego. His is one funeral of which I have no memory.

December 28, 1964, my great-grandmother Gard passed away. She was a constant, if not fairly silent, presence for my early years. She lived with her daughter, my Aunt Dola, and Dola’s husband, Frank, for many years. She is interred at Rose Hills next to her husband, Willis (brother of great-grand uncles Frank and Maurice), who died nearly 40 years earlier. 

There was a bit of a pause until the years of 1967-68, when in ’67 my grandaunt’s husband, Paul Kurtz passed, and in ’68 my great-grandaunt, Johanna Soland passed. 

There have been many more funerals, especially at Rose Hills, in the intervening years. It is always a loss, of course, but they are also a reason to reconnect with cousins, aunts, nieces, and nephews who I don’t see often enough. Funerals are a bit of a reunion, I think.

Cemeteries aren’t scary places to me; they are where I find my family. 

‘Til next time.

Week 19: Bald

The men in my family don’t seem to be prone to full-head baldness. Rather, they are plagued with male-pattern baldness, where their foreheads reach up as if to try to connect with the nape of their necks. At least, that’s how my sons see it! They have both dealt with it as my father did by cropping their hair very close.

This first photo is a military ID photo of my dad, taken in 1937, when he was around 18 years old. That hairline is already beginning to creep back wards. Even so, he was a handsome young man, wasn’t he?

By the time I was born, Dad had begun to cut his hair short, as seen in the phot below. My oldest brother is 16 in the photo, and you can see the beginnings of the same hairline. My other brother, Don, had a lovely full head of hair. This was taken in 1958, when I was a baby.

Check out MY hairline!

The next photo was taken in 1993; in it are my dad, my Uncle George, and my brother, Don. Dad has the top of his head towards the camera, and the hair there is pretty sparse. Uncle George, just a few years younger, never did seem to lose as much hair as Dad. Don still has a full head of thick hair, and he still does. I think he got the best hair in the family.

As for me, I think I was BORN with the Dad’s hairline! Sadly, it hasn’t gotten better with age.

‘Til next time!

Week 18: Pets

Hello again!

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? In between working and coming down with a whopper of a cold (still coughing), I haven’t gotten much done in the past few weeks.

But, I’m finally on the mend, and I have a work-free week, so let’s talk pets, shall we?

Growing up, we always had dogs. Most we acquired when someone from the “big city across the valley” drove out to the sticks where we lived and dumped their pets. It was, and still might be, a horrendous practice, but we got to have some wonderful dogs from other folk’s cast-offs.

The first dog I remember was Shep, a sweet Australian cattle dog, with a long, shaggy black and white coat. I don’t remember what happened to him, but out in the desert, dogs were always vulnerable to coyotes and cars. Our yard wasn’t completely fenced in, and he was an outside dog. I think that might be him in the photo above, but it isn’t labeled, so I can’t be sure.

One of my favorite dogs was named Tippy. I have no idea what breed of dog he was. He was golden brown, with a short, tight coat, and utterly the sweetest, most loyal dog ever. We had him for years, until he was sadly hit by a car.

During the years we had Tippy, my mom actually bought a dog, a wee miniature poodle named Peanut. He was the runt of the litter and had an apricot-colored patch on his belly. We rarely had him groomed in a poodle-do, so he always looked a little shaggy. He, too, was a sweet-tempered dog, and I loved him.

He and Tippy were the very best of friends, often cuddling together on the same blanket or dog bed and sharing the doghouse in the photo below. (behind the flowers) These were the first of our dogs that I can recall being sort of “inside” dogs and let in the house. Mostly, they preferred to be outside, roaming the farm.

Peanut and Tippy seemed to intuit when the school bus was on its way, bringing us home. Or, now that I think about it, they could probably hear the grinding of the bus motor! Regardless, they were always at the end of the driveway, waiting for us, tails wagging.

In the photo below, Tippy is under my legs, keeping watch on a new chick and a wee lamb.

Years after I married, once we had a home of our own, Mom decided that I should have Peanut. So, he was with us when all of our children were small. I never worried about him with the babies, and he was always very patient with them. He lived a good long life, I think until he was 14 or so.

Cats were a whole different subject around our little farm. We never had cats as pets. My mom was horribly allergic, and cats were considered a necessary working addition to the farm yard, as they kept the rodents and reptiles in check. I don’t even remember ever giving one of our cats a name.

Searching for photos for this blog post, I found the photo below, with my brother, Don, and me. The caption reads, “…with Blondie the cat.” So, I guess we did name a few of our cats!

For several years, Mom kept canaries. They were messy, scattering their seed all around, but Mom really enjoyed their songs. In the photo below, it looks like one of our cats was keeping a close eye on the canary.

And, I was a hamster parent for a short-ill-advised period. I will not be making a statement at this time.

I still feel guilty.

I’ve had a few pets as an adult, but despite growing up around animals, both as pets and as livestock, right now I am very happy being pet-less. Perhaps that will change one day. If I ever find another dog like the loyal, gentle Tippy.

‘Til next time.

Week 13: Light a Candle

My husband and I have been attending an Episcopal church for a few months now. It’s our first time at a more high-church liturgical tradition, and I must say that we are enjoying it. The liturgy is rich with Scripture, and the prayers are those that believers have been praying for centuries, connecting us to those who came before us. (I must say, however, that the music isn’t my favorite; the hymns are a little difficult to sing and unfamiliar to me.)

On the Saturday before Easter, Holy Saturday, we attended the Easter Vigil, which in times past used to be the main worship service for Easter, beginning late Saturday night and continuing through until morning. Now, it is a shortened service. We began in the courtyard, each carrying a candle, and we processed into the darkened sanctuary. A Pascal candle was carried at the front of the procession, and candles were lit at the ends of the pew as we walked up the aisle.

It was beautiful. The darkened sanctuary gradually illuminated with the warm light of a hundred candles glowing. Mid-way during the service, after the reading of the Passion of Christ, the lights were slowly turned up, to illustrate the dawning of Resurrection morning and light coming into the world. I gasped. It was glorious.

So, what you ask, does this have to do with genealogy and family history?

It made me reflect on the various faiths of our ancestors, as light is associated with most belief systems. So, I thought that I’d dive into the faith communities represented in my family tree.

On my dad’s side of the family, his mother, Nana Keene, was raised a Catholic, as are most French Canadians. Later in life, she attended a non-Catholic church with my grandfather. As far as I can tell, the only Catholics in our tree are all Nana’s ancestors. In my research of this side of the family, I found a few French Huguenots, but it seems that they either fled France or converted to avoid persecution. I was told that Nana Keene, while not a practicing Catholic for most of her adult life, still kept her saints’ medallions.

Her husband, my Grandpy Keene, attended the First Christian Church of Los Angeles, and his and Nana’s children, including my father, attended as well.

My Aunt Virginia, Grandpy’s daughter, sister to my father, wrote a lovely tribute to him upon his death in 1959 (when I was an infant).

She wrote:

“My father was a reverent man. Love of God, and faith in Him, were guiding principles in my father’s life. He was at home in any church, regardless of creed or denomination; they were all rooms in his father’s house.”

The photo above is from one of Grandpy’s many trips to Hawaii, in 1936. He is on the right, standing in front of a church on the big island of Hawaii, on the way to Kialua. The caption on the back of the photos said it was the oldest church in Hawaii. I think this is the same church my husband and I visited years later, although it looks much different and has been updated.

My mother’s mother, Nanna Wells, was a lifelong, very devout United Methodist. I remember as a little girl I would accompany her to the Montebello UM church on Saturday afternoons to set up the foyer display and sanctuary flowers. The photos below are from July 1969, commemorating Independence Day and a space launch.

My sister Jeanne, has written me that our dad was baptized in the Catholic church in Rockford, Illinois, where he was born as my grandparents made their way across the continent. Until the war, he was a member at First Christian Church of Los Angeles. The trauma of war left my dad’s faith broken, but in later years, his faith was restored through his membership in the Masonic Lodge.

My parents weren’t active in a church as I was growing up, but they would drop me and my siblings off at the United Methodist chapel in Inyokern for Sunday School. It was a sweet little place, and I remember it fondly. Inside, I remember it being cool against the harsh heat of the desert. The photo below was taken a few years ago on one of our many drives between Los Angeles and Fallon to see my mom or to pick up beef from my younger brother.

Going way, way back in time to my 7th and 6th great-grandfathers, father and son, John Allen and Abraham Allen, both residents of Marblehead, Massachusetts. There is no clear evidence of when John was born or when he arrived in North America. John had his children baptized at the First Church of Marblehead; son Abraham on December 15, 1689. Abraham’s would later all be married in Quaker ceremonies. They are just a few of the many Quaker ancestors I have.

One such ancestor is my 3rd great-grandmother on my father’s side, Eunice Breed Thompson. She was a member of the Society of Friends, as were most of her family, the Breeds. She married William Diamond Thompson, Sr., and their son, William Diamond Thompson, my 2nd great-grandfather, would carry on that same faith tradition.

The photos below are of William and Eunice Breed Thompson.

William D. Thompson, Sr., Eunice’s husband, was also a staunch Quaker.  His closely held beliefs moved him to be an abolitionist and an early member of the temperance movement.  His Quaker faith also influenced him to be a part of the anti-Masonic movement. 

Their son, William Diamond Thompson, Jr., followed in his parents’ footsteps and was a life-long Quaker and abolitionist.  Williams’s brother, Edwin Thompson, my 2nd great grand-uncle, became an ordained Universalist minister.  He, too, carried on the family tradition of temperance and anti-slavery work.

The photo below is of William D. Thompson, Jr.:

On my mother’s side of the family, my great-grandmother, Theoline, was a member of the Norwegian Church in Norway, and then later the Evangelical Lutheran church in America.  Theoline’s mother, Tori, came to the United States with her Norwegian Bible and the devotional book pictured below.

I think this is where I will leave off for today; this subject has already taken me on some interesting detours, and I could go on and on. (And, I haven’t even touched my husband’s side.) Our family has had Baptists, Pentecostals, Congregationalists, and more. It is a long line of people of faith, trying to figure out their place in the world and eternity. I’m glad to be among them.

“Til next time.

Week 12: Membership

For a few years in high school, I belonged to a fraternal organization called Job’s Daughters, loosely based on the three daughters of Job from the Bible book of the same name. To be eligible for membership, a young girl had to be either related to or referred by a member of the Masonic Lodge.

For me, that was my father, who had joined the Lodge (“Masons”) several years earlier, eventually rising up through the ranks to become Grand Master of his local Lodge. My brothers joined DeMolay, a sort of counter-point to the Job’s Daughters. (There was another organization for young women loosely affiliated with Masons, called Rainbow Girls; I was not a member, but many Job’s Daughters were also Rainbow Girls.)

The photo below is of my dad’s installation as Master. As you can see, it was a very celebrated event, with my grandmothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, and various in-laws from Los Angeles coming up to the desert.

Both my parents also joined the Eastern Star and dad became a Shriner. Our lives during my high school years revolved around the calendars of these organizations. There were regular meetings, monthly dinners, conventions, and cross-over with other fraternal organizations, such as the Knights of Columbus. I went to many Friday night fish fry dinners with the Catholics and loved it.

Below is one of the many dinners we attended, often with my mom cooking up a storm and decorating a cake. (I made that green suit out of polyester double knit; I was inordinately proud of myself.)

The last few years of high school, I became more involved in my church youth group and eventually dropped out of Job’s Daughters. My parents, however, continued in their organizations for the rest of their lives, forming many deep and lasting relationships.

In addition to all things revolving around the Masonic Lodge, there were other organizations that members of our family joined. For example, Dad was also a member of the Veterans of Foreign Wars; I remember attending a few functions there, too. Usually dinners, which I find to be best sort of “meetings.”

My oldest brother, Bob, was a member of 4H, raising rabbits and other animals. The photo below is of me, Bob, and my next oldest sibling, Don.

For years, I was also a Girl Scout, beginning at the Brownie level and continuing into high school. I’m in the front row, middle. I went to Girls Scout summer camp for years and sold a lot of cookies, mainly because Dad would take my cookie order form to work with him and sell for me.

My two older sisters were also members of Girls Scouts, and I just learned they were also members of the VFW Girls’ Auxiliary. My sister, Jeanne, was kind enough to send me the following two photos.

Going back a generation, my maternal grandmother, Vida Gard Wells, was a member of the Native Daughters of the Golden West, which I wrote about here. Below are photos of the evening installation of Nanna to the office of president of her East Los Angeles chapter.

Going back another generation, my grandfather Wells’ father, Wills C. Wells, was a member of the International Order of Oddfellows, beginning in 1927 until his death. 

Willis’ father, Mathias (or Matthias), my great-great grandfather, served in the Civil War and was a member of Grand Army of the Republic, the G.A.R.. From Wikipedia:

The Grand Army of the Republic (GAR) was a fraternal organization composed of veterans of the Union Army (United States Army), Union Navy (U.S. Navy), and the Marines who served in the American Civil War. It was founded in 1866 in Decatur, Illinois, and grew to include hundreds of “posts” (local community units) across the North and West. It was dissolved in 1956 at the death of its last member.  

Below is a photo  of Mathias and his wife, Alberta Pettingill Wells.  Mathias is wearing insignia, but as far as I can tell, it is not G.A.R..

There were other members of my family, mainly uncles, great uncles, and great grandfathers, who were also members of V.F.W. and G.A.R.  Organizations such as these and those mentioned above, pre-social media and the internet, were an important way for people to connect with others and form community.  Today, I know very few people who are members of fraternal organizations.  And, on reflection, I think perhaps, that’s a loss. 

‘Til next time.

Week 11: Lucky

I know I have written here from time to time about my Uncle George, my father’s brother. When I read this prompt, it triggered a memory.

Way back in 2016, I wrote a book about George’s experience at Pearl Harbor. In this post, I told you a little about it. Now, I’d like to add to his story explain why he always thought 13 was his lucky number.

Here’s an excerpt from his story, as he told it to me:

I wanted to join the calvary because Charlie (my father, his older brother) had been in the cavalry. Dad and I went down to the the recruiting office and told them I wanted to be the cavalry. And they told me they had no more horses.
Dad said, “Let’s go down and see what the navy has to offer.”
That was my fatal mistake. I signed up; I was only 17; I could sign up for three years, and of course, by the time the war was going on nobody paid any attention to that. Once you were in you were in. I went in March 14, 1941. I wasn’t 18 until April 21st, but that made no difference. Because, of course. after the war started, once they had you, they had you. But, that was OK, ’cause I wouldn’t have gotten out anyway.
I went to boot camp in San Diego, and when I got out of boot, I was assigned to the USS Idaho, a battleship that happened to be in Pearl at the time. But by the time I got from boot camp to Pearl Harbor, the Idaho had gone to Bremerton, Washington. So they put me in a pool there; finally I was assigned to the USS Hopkins, which was a 4-stack destroyer. It was built in 1921 and converted to a high-speed mine sweeper. It was out in Pearl at the time. Mine Squadron 2 was out there in Pearl, so I was assigned to that about summer of ’41.
The ships were all in a very dark black-grey paint at that time, and of course, they had their numbers painted on their bow. I remember how I felt when I first saw that old destroyer: black-grey paint with a big number 13 painted on the bow. And that’s been my lucky number ever since. I was on there for a couple of years. The Hopkins went all through the war and only lost one man.

There’s a lot more to George’s story, but I will save all that for another day.  

‘Til next time. 

Week 9: Gone Too Soon

A few years ago, I dragged my husband along on a trip to Massachusetts, specifically to find out more about my family history. He’s a good-natured guy.

While there, we visited a few tourist spots, but also places of interest to me because of familial ties, places like Breed’s Hill (better known as Bunker Hill) and the Old North Church. We also spent time in the Lynn Museum and at the Pine Grove Cemetery in Lynn.

As I wrote in this post, it was heartbreaking to see the number of childrens’ graves here.

• George Arthur Thompson, 10 months, 18 days
• Minot Tirrill Keene, 1 year, 5 months, 22 days
• Edith B. Keene, 2 years, 4 months
• Carrie Browne, 2 months, 19 days
• Arthur S. Keene, 5 months
• W. Frank, days
• Child Keene, days
• George A. Keene, 11 month

These eight little ones were all gone too soon, so I thought for today’s prompt, I would write a bit about each of them. While Lucy Keene (26) and Berthelma Keene (18) were not children, they too were both very young by today’s standards.

Below is the record of this family plot from the records office. It lists each person buried there, their age, burial date, and location. Sadly, most of the headstones were either missing or damaged, making it hard to determine where each person was laid to rest. A few were legible, and Doug and I worked out what we could at the bottom of the page.

The plot was owned by Lydia Thompson Keene, my great-grandmother.  She is buried there (88) with her husband, George Augustus Keene (87).  Also buried there is George Augustus’ first wife, Ellen Piper Keene (40).

From the records that I could find, all of George and (first wife) Ellen’s three daughters lived to adulthood.  Sadly, his wife Ellen passed away at only 40 in 1875.  By 1876 his daughters were grown, and eldest daughter, Ellen, was married to William Edwin Thompson. George (42) fell for his son-in-law’s sister, Lydia Thompson (25), and they were married a year and half after Ellen’s death.  Which while legal, I just find a little… complicated? … problematic?

George and (second wife) Lydia’s first child, Annie Louise, lived to adulthood.  Their next two children, both sons, died in infancy.  George Augustus Keene, Jr. was born on November 18, 1879, and died aged 11 months on October 16, 1880, from pneumonia.  Second son, Minott Tirrill, was born July 7, 1881, and passed away December 29, 1882, from gangrene.  

George and Lydia’s next child was my grandfather, Charles Keene, Sr., born 1883.  Then in 1887, little Edith Blake was born on September 21.  She died of meningitis at two years four months, on January 21, 1890.  

Of George and Lydia’s five children, only two, Annie Louise and Charles Lawrence, lived to adulthood.  Their little ones, George, Minot, and Edith, are all buried in the family plot.  

George’s daughter, Ellen, from his first marriage, married William Edwin Thompson on December 25, 1874.  They had a son, George Arthur Thompson on Mar 8, 1876.  He died of pneumonia less than a year later on January 26, 1877.  Little George is also buried in the family plot. 

Another little one in the family plot is Arthur S. Keene, who was buried July 15, 1872.  Arthur was the little son of George Augustus’ younger  brother, Edmund and his wife, Mary C. Homan.  He was only five months and died of cholera.  

Looking at the timeline for Edmund’s life gave me the information I needed for the child named “W., Frank,” who died in 1865. Edmund had a son named Frank Wallace, who was born on August 9, 1865 and only lived for a few days. I could not find his death record, and it is possible that it was never recorded.

The unnamed “Child Keene” who died in 1867 is identifiable. Both this little one and its mother, Lucy Keene, were buried on the same day, May 29, 1867. These two are the first wife and first child of George’s youngest brother, Washington Keen, Jr.  Lucy’s death record only records “fever.”  Knowing now what we do about medical hygiene, the most likely reason for her death is infection passed to her during childbirth.  There was no record of the baby’s death on the page where Lucy’s is recorded. 

I have written extensively in prior posts about Berthelma (Thelma), my grandfather’s first wife.  She died of typhoid fever at the young age of 18.

Also buried here is little Carrie Brown, who was born and died in 1897, aged two months and 19 days.  Her death record lists her name as Carrie E. Brown, daughter of George E. Brown and Mary A. Keene, of Lynn.  She died of whooping cough on December 12, 1897.  

Remember Great-grandfather George’s brother, Edmund, above?  His two infant sons are buried in this plot.  Edmund and his wife, Mary, also had a daughter named Mary, born in 1864.  I believe that she is the mother of little Carrie.  

All these little infants and the two young women buried in this family plot were all gone too soon and would have most likely lived had they had been born 100 years later.  While maternal deaths are still all too common in today’s United States, I don’t know of a single person who has died of typhoid fever, gangrene, or whooping cough.  

And, for that, I am extremely grateful.

‘Til next time.