Dinner Party in Heaven

http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Berlin-_Dinner_table_at_dance_room_in_the_Mitte_-_2664.jpg

The other morning as I was driving to work in traffic, I remembering the presentation I gave for the Livermore-Amador Genealogical Society.  I was thinking about other presentations I could do for a smaller group that I’m in and I thought of the Pioneer Corps of the Civil War.  I want to learn more about them, so why not also do a presentation?

Then my mind wandered (as it often does…).  I considered my grandfather from the Civil War, Miles Price-- how much I know about him and how I could give a whole presentation about him in general.  Then I wandered in my head to what I DON’T know about him.  Then it wandered to Dad and I working together to learn more about him.  Then it wandered to Dad-- as most things do.

I was pondering what happens After.  Is there an After?  If there is, what do I want it to be?  So then I planned a Dinner Party in Heaven.  If I can just decide what is After, I’m deciding that it’s all my ancestors at my beck and call.  I will throw a dinner party, featuring a long table with towers of cheese (my favorite food), bottles of wine, and all kinds of delicious delicacies.  I sit at the head of the table (it is MY heaven, afterall).  To my right is my dad and to my left is Miles Price.  Dad and I have our heads close together, balanced on our hands in rapture with Miles’ voice.  As if engulfing our minds of all he is telling us makes our heads too heavy to hold up without our elbows’ support.

Miles will acquaint us with his childhood in Pennsylvania.  Who he lived with, what happened to his parents, the names of his parents.  Miles will talk of his trip from Pennsylvania to Illinois. When it was, who he traveled with, how they traveled.  He will tell us of meeting his wife, of his first born child, his political views.  Miles will share the FEELINGS he had during his time in the Civil War.  We know what he did and where he went.  Until he shared those stories, we didn’t know how he felt.  He will let us know he was glad to be chosen for the Pioneers.  Or maybe he wasn’t.  He will recount us of his time spent in the makeshift hospital on train cars while suffering the measles.  He will let us know his most prideful times.  His embarrassing moments.  He will reveal what it was like to leave Illinois to make his home in Iowa.  Then he will hint of his daughter, my second great grandmother.  What she was like as a child.  She will be to his left at my dinner table, smiling at his words that she’s heard so often.  I’m not ready to hear from her yet—I’m devoted to her father for now.  Her time will come, so for now she smiles a lovely smile.

Miles will spill the beans about how the names of his children were chosen.  Who they were named for, why.  He will  everything, until we know Miles as we know ourselves.  It’s only then that I can change positions to focus on another ancestor.  Perhaps his daughter, Hattie.  Perhaps other faces at the table will become more clear and my focus will be shifted at my Dinner Party in Heaven as it is on my genealogy on earth.

Maybe I will see my maternal second great grandmother, Laura Wilkinson.  I have some questions for her about her life, too.  Perhaps I will notice down at the end is my second great grandfather, husband of Hattie.  I can give him a hug and a kiss.  He remembers me from that time we met when I was two years old.  My great grandfather is to my Dad’s right, with his wife and my two grandmothers next to her.  They all knew each other and are talking amongst themselves until it’s their turn.

My Dinner Party in Heaven will be wonderful and may be so long that turn into my Breakfast Party in Heaven… days later.  I think I’ll start mapping the seating arrangements and planning the menu.

Jack, My Pumpkin Cat

Jack was our 17-year-old.  Our cat from Oregon.  We picked him out on Dad’s Mountain one Thanksgiving trip and brought him home as little cat.  He grew into a great big fat cat and amused us for many years.  Jack wasn’t the smartest of cats.  His inbreeding showed through in his slight naiveté and propensity to vomit when he could see the white at the bottom of his food dish.  But he was my Pumpkin, so nicknamed for being my Thanksgiving Kitten.  He was my purring cat who followed me into the bathroom every single morning.  I’d pet him and he’d purr.  He’d sit on the toilet for petting while I brushed my teeth and then he’d join me in the kitchen for his breakfast while I made my coffee. We’d go our separate ways after this, until later when we’d meet back up.

Jack liked to vomit.  Much and often.  Through his life, this was his hobby.  Vomit and purring.  He also liked to lick when getting scratched.  Lick lick lick.  STOP LICKING ME! I’d yell at him in frustration.  And then I’d pet him some more and he’d contain his licking for a bit. 

Jack slept for at least half his night each night with his ass curled into my stomach.  He didn’t like to be held there or cuddled.  Just his ass, my stomach.  And purring and licking. 

Over the past year, Jack lost a lot of his fat. Rather than people laughing at him, they just thought he looked normal. I knew it was old catness, though.  Last weekend, his stomach got big and hard. He acted normal, but he couldn’t be.  His stomach looked like he had a litter of unmoving kittens.  Last night he wandered a lot.  He was with me, with William, with Jones. 

This morning, I asked Marc to take him to the vet.  Marc thought he was constipated (he also has a propensity for this), but I knew it wasn’t.  I knew it was bad.  This was my living link to Dad’s Mountain and I knew it was over and that it was time to say goodbye.  Which I did last night while we listened to the thunder and this morning in the bathroom during our morning time together.

Rest in Peace, Jack.  Grampa has a lap and a pain-free petting hand waiting for you. 

I Was A Genealogy Speaker!

My local genealogical society, Livermore-Amador GenealogicalSociety, asked two of us to be speakers for the May meeting.  The topic was Self-Publication Process.  Jane Southwick and I both have books that we wrote, but we both went about publishing two different ways.  The gist of our presentation was showing the audience two different routes to get to the same end result (although Jane’s was much nicer looking!).

I enjoyed speaking and I have to say that I felt like I was in my living room talking to family.  It’s such a warm, loving, supportive group and I love sharing with them.  Jane did a terrific job sharing how she worked with Stories to Tell Books.  What most impressed me about Jane was her speaking style.  She used a full written speech, but didn’t read it.  She was just wonderful with eye contact and clear speaking.  I was very proud and in awe.  Top that off with the amazing book she wrote and all I can say is that she is my hero.

The editor of our newsletter, Roots Tracer, asked Jane and I to write an article of our speeches for those that don’t attend.  Once I do that, I will link to it here.

Here are Jane and I speaking:

Thank you, Howard Albert Conner.

Memorial Day is to honor those who have died in war.  I’m lucky that many of my ancestors seem to have either missed serving or survived.  But in the past couple of years I have learned about my grandfather’s cousin, Howard Albert Conner, who died in World War II in a plane crash in Panama. 

Howard was born on August 23, 1918 in Huron County, South Dakota, just six months younger than my grandfather.  While he was in high school in Huron, South Dakota, he worked at the theater and in the shoe store. 

There is a write-up about Howard in the South Dakota World War II Memorial site.  The site is, “…dedicated to the tens of thousands of South Dakota men and women who contributed to the victory in World War II. Today, we know them as our parents, grandparents and great-grandparents.”

It is my goal in this post to make sure that even though Howard has no descendents of his own to remember him, he has many of us, both in and out of the Conner family,  who remember and thank him.  He was and always will be important.

Front (left to right): Harriet Conner, Fern Conner (Grampa’s sisters)

Middle (left to right): Pierre Conner (GRAMPA!), Howard Conner

Back (left to right): Lucille Conner, Irene Conner (Howard’s sisters)

Left to right: Pierre Conner, Howard Conner

Left to right: William Conner (grandfather to Pierre Conner), Howard Conner, Lucille Conner, Hattie Price (grandmother to Pierre Conner)

From http://mva.sd.gov/sdwwiimemorial/SubPages/profiles/Display.asp?P=363:

In Memory of
2^nd Lieutenant
Howard Albert Conner
Huron, South Dakota
Beadle County
August 23, 1918 – March 26, 1944
Killed in Plane Crash near Cape Pacora, Republic of Panama

  

Howard Albert Conner was born August 23, 1918 in Huron, South Dakota.  Howard was the third child of Albert and Mary Jane Conner.  Howard had two sisters, Mrs. Marvin R. Murphy and Mrs. Loran R. Blackford.  Howard grew up in Huron, South Dakota, attending Huron High School, graduating  in 1937.  While he was in school, he worked at the Huron theatre and as a clerk at Tunnell’s Shoe Store for one year.

He entered the Army in February 1941 taking his training at Fort Snelling, Minnesota and transferred to Fort Lewis, Washington and in August 1942 to Camp Gerber, Oklahoma.  He served with a tank destroyer battalion until January 1943 when he transferred to the Army Air Force.  On November 3, 1943, he graduated at Aloe Army Air Field, Victoria, Texas receiving a commission as a second lieutenant.  From there he went to Panama where he completed a transitional course at Sixth Air Force Fighter Command School.  He was assigned to a fighter squadron in the Caribbean area.

2^nd Lieutenant Howard Conner perished in the Republic of Panama on March 26, 1944.  His plane crashed near Cape Pacora, Republic of Panama, which is in the Panama Canal Zone.  He is buried at the Riverside Cemetery, Huron, South Dakota.  His name is also inscribed on a granite obelisk in front of the Huron Public Library. This memorial remembers “those who served and those who died.”

This entry was respectfully submitted by Brandi Levtzow, 9^th Grade, Redfield High School, Redfield, South Dakota, May 17, 2002. Among the sources of information for this entry were an application for a SD veteran’s bonus payment and newspaper clippings.

My Best Friends Lived in Books

Back when I was nine, we lived in the middle of nowhere.  I had only my classmates and my little brother for friends.  My class consisted of twelve students, grades 2 through 8.  Only one other student my grade and he was a boy.  My little brother had a triple-whammy of a friend strike in that he was not only a boy, but younger.  And my brother.  So the characters in my books became my friends.

Nancy Drew was my first book friend.  Although she was older, richer and ran in a difference crowd than I did, I came to adore Nancy, Bess and George.  Although George once caused a family argument.  After my second or third Nancy Drew book, I realized that I had no idea how to pronounce G-E-O-R-G-E.  I asked and an argument started when they didn’t believe me that George was a girl.  It was my first taste of not being believed, even though I was so sure. 

I was with Nancy on all her adventures. I read as often as possible.  Sometimes even more often than possible.  My parents would tell me to stop reading and go outside to play.   I’d go, but sneak my book with me.  I got tired of the wasted time biking somewhere so I rigged a book holder to my handlebars.  Then I could read while biking our dirt roads.  Our house had no electricity and thus a flashlight was brought to bed each night.  My parents would wonder why my batteries died faster than my brother’s.  It was because I often was up into the wee hours reading under the covers… only to rise early to get through the next chapter.

In school, my book reports were all Nancy Drew books.  We made a book as a school project and I made mine Nancy Drew related.  The public library was two hours away and we visited only twice a month.  I would check out the maximum number of books (five) and they’d all be Nancy Drew.  One trip, I stayed home and gave my parents strict instructions to get five Nancy Drew books and a chart of which ones I had not yet read.  They came home with one Nancy Drew book and The Yearling, requesting that I broaden my reading knowledge.  I still can’t even talk about that dreadful day and I still have not read The Yearling, nor can I speak its title without making a face.

Once I went through the whole Nancy Drew series, I ventured to another section of the library series shelves and noticed books that looked like Nancy Drew.  Cherry Ames.  Cherry was a nurse.  In every book, she was a different kind of nurse.  Student Nurse, Army Nurse, Cruise Nurse.  I of course read two and then wanted to be a nurse. My freshman year of high school I even was in a club for future medical professionals.  That’s when I found out nurses give shots and clean up poop.  And that was the end of my Cherry Ames nursing career.  The Cherry Ames books were hard to find, though, so I read only four or five of the series.

For my eleventh birthday, I received a $20 check from my grandfather.  Mom took me to K-Mart in Milpitas, California to pick something out and I chose the first four Trixie Belden books.  I remember Mom questioning me.  “Are you sure you want books?  Not toys or a game or clothes?  Books?  Really?” and I really did.  I read those first four books, Secret of the Mansion, Red Trailer Mystery, Gatehouse Mystery and Mysterious Visitor, over and over again.

Trixie and Honey and Jim and Brian and Mart and Bobby and all the others traveled with me on the move to Minnesota.  And the move back a few months later.  I had only four books, but I made good use of them, over and over again.  Our libraries didn’t have Trixie Belden books, so after moving back to California, I started earning money babysitting.  I’d take that money to Stacey’s bookstore at Stanford Shopping Center and spend it collecting the series.  I even re-purchased Secret of the Mansion, as I’d loaned it out never to be seen again.

Every bit of the Trixie Belden series is imbedded in my mind.  I can close my eyes right now, over 30 years later, and picture Trixie’s home, Honey’s mansion, and the trailer they had a number of adventures in.  I can picture Nancy Drew’s house, her father’s briefcase, her car.  I can close my eyes and see Lex admiring Cherry’s nurse uniform and the hopeful faces of her injured and sick patients watching her approach.

The feeling I get though when I close my eyes and imagine the time I spent with all these friends makes me glow.  Real friends are great.  But real friends who you can share books with?  Priceless.

P.S.  Earlier this year, I got tired of my ten-year-old daughter only reading Diary of a Wimpy Kid books.  I assigned her the first Trixie book, Secret of the Mansion, to read for school.  Now she can’t say Trixie Belden without making a face and I do believe that she will never pick another up again.  Or any of my other suggestions.  Sorry about The Yearling, Mom.  Now I know how you felt.