An Anniversary

On June 9, 1952, my mother and father were married in Woodville, Mississippi. Neither family nor friends were present for the ceremony. Sadly, there were also no pictures to document this important event. My father, whose unit had been activated in August 1951, was stationed at a nearby army base in Louisiana. Because they didn’t know when or if Dad’s unit would ship out for Korea, the young couple decided it was a good time to marry. So my mother, with the knowledge and approval of both of their families, traveled to Louisiana to meet my father. The two slipped over into Mississippi, a state with friendlier age of consent laws, and eloped. The picture below was taken a month later when they were part of another couple’s wedding. It is the closest thing we have to a wedding picture.

 

There is my mother with that winning smile and my father handsome in his army uniform. Both so very young and so unaware how soon they would be parted. Two months later my dad was aboard a ship leaving for Korea, and my mother was on her way back to Fremont to live with her sister. A lucky break for dad occurred when he was one of three men aboard the ship chosen for reassignment to a base in Japan. He remained stationed there as a supply sergeant until the end of the war. 

In August 1953, Dad came home. His ship, which docked in San Francisco, was the first ship to arrive in the United States at the close of the war. He flew back to Ohio where his wife and four-month-old daughter (me) eagerly awaited his return. Four children, seven grandchildren, and two great grandchildren later, they celebrate their fifty-sixth anniversary.

Congratulations, Mom and Dad!

© 10 June 2008, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder 

Momma's Smile

If you know my mother, then you know her smile — “the smile.” It's always there warm, welcoming ready to greet friend, family or soon to be former stranger. My siblings and I were often recipient's of “the smile.” It was a great way to grow up — with momma's smile and my dad's own brand of humor — is it any wonder there's always laughter when we all get together?

So here's to you mom, Happy Mother's Day!

Note this post first published online, May 9, 2008, at Desktop Genealogist Blog at The News-Messenger Online http://www.thenews-messenger.com/apps/pbcs.dll/section?Category=BLOGS02

© 9 May 2008, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder 

The Year of the Great Bean Soup Dilemma

When you are number seven in a tribe of nine children, there are CONSEQUENCES. Consequences like big brothers who think it's funny to tell their little sister in graphic detail exactly where ham comes from - from a pig, from a pig's, well, butt to be exact. And when you are six, and a teensy bit headstrong and definitely repulsed by the image of ham coming from — well, a pig's butt, then you do what any reasonable child would do under the circumstances — you refuse to eat ham, ever. No exceptions.

Now normally, this ban on ham eating would not be a problem, unless of course, you happen to be going to a rural school in Arkansas in the late 1930's, and they happen to serve a lot of bean soup with ham for lunch. They served the soup so often that it was noticed that the little Ohio transplant wouldn't touch the stuff.

Cajoling wouldn't change her stance, nor reasoning (the beans and soup TOUCHED the ham — you just can't reason something like that away!) and finally, when all else failed, threats were made.

And not just any threats, they made the big threat — “We're going to write a note home to your mother!” And when the little girl still refused to eat the soup, the school followed through and sent a note home detailing the child's refusal to eat.

To say that her mother was unhappy about receiving the missive from school is to understate the response by a couple of miles. As my mother put it, she caught holy heck from her mother.

But even this didn't change my mother's mind on eating the soup. Finally, everybody just gave up trying to get her to eat it. Curious, I asked her, what did you eat instead? Mom said she didn't know what she ate on those days when bean soup was on the menu, but she knew what she didn't eat — bean soup with ham.

So in a little country school in Arkansas, where some of the children went to school barefoot, and where all the first-, second- and third-graders were taught in the same one-room building, my mother learned a couple of lessons.

She learned that listening to the big third graders reading out of their more advanced readers made her a better reader, which turned out to be a huge advantage when she went back to Ohio to finish her education.

She learned at the ripe old age of six, when it was important, she had the power to say no and to make the no stick.

And she learned that a person could live a full life without eating bean soup with ham.

And that my friends is the answer to the Carnival of Genealogy's question, “Mom, how'd you get so smart?”

Until Next Time!

Disclaimer: No pigs were harmed in the writing of this post. Opinions expressed do not necessarily reflect the writer's own thoughts on the subject of pork and or ham. In fact, they no longer reflect the author's mother's feelings on the subject of pork and or ham. In do course, and as a cognizant request, please do not send any brochures from the “Council on Pork,” nor from the “Save the Pigs” foundation. Really, we are just a normal everyday family - normal, normal, normal.

Note this post first published online, May 8, 2008, at Desktop Genealogist Blog at The News-Messenger Online http://www.thenews-messenger.com/apps/pbcs.dll/section?Category=BLOGS02

© 8 May 2008, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder 

The Art of Painting Pictures

The little girl hurt. She thought she could hear her daddy's voice. She wanted to tell him about her pain, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't talk and tell him that her throat hurt. She opened her eyes, and saw the sheets of her bed and thought it strange that a hospital would have red sheets.

Her mother in the waiting room didn't have the luxury of her daughter's confusion. When she saw the nurse running through the hall, she knew instantly what the red soaked nurse's uniform meant. Something had gone wrong. She knew, as only a mother could, that the red blood splashed over the front of the nurse's clothing was that of her child. 

It was a simple procedure, a tonsillectomy. Children had them all the time. The little girl, 7 years old, had suffered repeated bouts of bronchitis, and the family physician had said the young girl's tonsils were bad and needed to be removed. It would be an adventure, the mother had told her daughter, and the 7-year-old listened to her mother's words and believed them.

Instead, when the physician finally came and found the woman, his own eyes laced with concern, he told her they were trying to stop the child's bleeding and doing everything they could. He shook his head, patted her hand and walked back to be with his patient. 

The mother stood there by herself. Her husband, lulled by the routine nature of the surgery, had gone to work that day. The mother dazed and in disbelief, waited until they came to take her to her daughter's bedside in recovery. 

The little girl looked small and fragile. The mother thought her heart would break. The little girl moved in and out of consciousness, only vaguely aware of her surroundings those first two days in recovery 

The mother left that first night exhausted, and came back early the next day. She stayed at her daughter's bedside, leaving only long enough to shower, change and occasionally sleep. The child, once reunited with her mother, felt the comfortable safety that she always felt in her mother's presence, never once understanding how close she had come to death. 

The child never saw, never felt the fear behind her mother's smile, she heard only her mother's comforting voice, talking of things they would do when the girl was better. The mother's words were strong, and the picture painted in the little girl's head so clear, that not for even the tiniest of moments did the little girl think it would be otherwise. 

Slowly the little girl recovered. The surgery, the hospital were just a bad memory for the girl, nothing more. 

As the daughter grew, again and again, as life presented each new difficulty, she would come to her mother, listening intently as her mother found ways to paint a picture of a positive outcome, no matter how serious the problem. 

When the girl grew into womanhood and the problems became larger, the mother's words continued to create positive pictures. Even when the young woman didn't believe, her mother's words were so powerful, so filled with detail that the young woman moved forward on faith alone at the sound of her mother's words. 

It happened when the young woman lost her own baby daughter. The mother drew the picture of another baby, this one healthy framed in the young woman's arms and it was so. 

It happened when the young woman, in the midst of a broken heart and marriage, listened as the mother painted the picture of another love, a perfect partner for the young woman, and this too became so. And so it went, the mother teaching the daughter how to paint the pictures in her mind.

It would come as no surprise that the mother, who for years had been painting pictures in the mind, now put those pictures on canvas, sharing her talent with friends, family — charming even strangers with her work. 

And the daughter, who had not inherited her mother's artistic talents, found her own way to create pictures, creating them with words. 

Though many women have had an impact on my life, none more so than my own mother. It has been her strong words that have propelled me through the rough times (tonsillectomies and all) and helped me soar through the good. 

This tribute is written for you, Momma — for your wit, wisdom and warmth and most of all, for teaching me to paint pictures. I love you.

Until Next Time

This post is in honor of National Women's History Month and the Carnival of Genealogy whose topic is to “Write a tribute to a woman on your family tree, a friend, a neighbor or historical female figure who has done something to impact your life.” 

Note this post first published online, March 13, 2008, at Desktop Genealogist Blog at The News-Messenger Online http://www.thenews-messenger.com/apps/pbcs.dll/section?Category=BLOGS02

© 13 March 2008, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder