Permission: Everyone has permission to use my photos, biographies, stories, etc. for their family history, including those on internet sites such as FamilySearch.Org and Ancestry.Com.

Bio:
“The Spider’s Web By E.B. White
The spider dropping from twig.
Unfolds a plan of her devising.
A thin premediated rig. To use in rising.
And all the journey down through space.
In cool descent and loyal hearted.
She spins a ladder to the place
From where she started.
Thus I, gone forth as spiders do,
In spider’s web a truth discerning.
Attach one silken thread to you
For my returning.”

This project started with when a teacher said, “Your project this year is to make a book about your family, grandparents, great-grand parents, and other ancesors.”

At the time, my family was living in Chatsworth, a suburb with walnut trees and orange groves, about forty minutes from Malibu Beach, and nestled against the Simi Mountains – which we could see when the smog cleared.

Chatsworth was mostly a diverse community of aerospace engineers from Lockheed, Northrop, and Litton corporations.We lived in newly built tract homes and were on the cutting edge of fashion – with button down blouses, cotton candy pink pleated skirts and sling-back patent leather shoes.

The Beach Boys were popular, the Beatles unheard of – and miracles still rare enough that we believed in them. Anything was possible. We could put a man on the moon, became a movie star or a g-r-e-a-t writer like Carolyn Keene, author of the Nancy Drew mystery books.

Like Nancy, I set out, to uncover family secrets. But, my father’s family told me, “We don’t know nothin’ about nothin’.”

Well, I couldn’t ask my mother because she had died in childbirth when I was four.

So, I did the next best thing. I wrote a letter to her mother, Gran’ma Ruby, who lived in Salina -- a cattle town in central Utah. Gran’ma loved crocheting, cooking and having dinner parties. She had ran “Mom’s Cafe” back in the days when you had to kill your own chickens and she was known for her cooking – especially chocolate candy, apple pie, chili and spaghetti sauce. When she was in her 80’s, the newspaper printed her secret spaghetti sauce recipe. It had a catsup base. But, she’d dropped out of high school; and, reading and writing were not on her list of fun things to do.

So, I doubted if she could help me and I wasn’t surprised when she didn’t send any information. I thought “Well, Nancy Drew never had a family like mine!” This project was going to be harder than I thought.

That November during deer hunting season, we took a week off school and spent all night driving to Salina. The next day, blue skies had replaced the California smog and red mountains loomed in the horizon.As we drove past the hay fields, our excitement grew. We passed the cattle auction yard then entered town.

Talk about culture shock. From a city on the cutting edge of technology and Hollywood fashion to a town that never passed the turn of the century.

Utah towns are planned communities, with streets running north and south, east and west; and, almost all of the homes are made of brick. Some, like Gran’ma’s, are two-story Victorians with a basement, and others one-story with a basement. Along side these, were the basement homes. Their owners put in the basement and moved in, planning to complete it when they had more money but to this day, those homes are only two feet above the ground.

After Daddy parked alongside the two-foot wide irrigation canal that bordered of Gran’ma’s yard, I opened the car door. Ahhh. The crisp, cold air greeted us and the smell of coal heat wrapped around me like a flannel blanket. I jumped the canal, ran to the house, up the steps and threw open the door.

Grandma was way before her time, in one thing - she liked the open concept so way back before I was born, she asked Grandpa to remove the wall that separated the living room and the dining room. So, her front door opened into a great room with her living room on the left hand side and and dining room on the right. The living room had a fireplace with a grand oak mantle, blazing fire, couch, tv, and gran’pa’s green lazy boy chair that had numerous cigarette burns. The dining room had a pump organ, china cabinet, buffet, and a polished cherry wood table, with two claw pedestals, and that seated 10 people. It now sits in my dining room and is often covered with family history papers.

Gran’ma was hurrying down the hall toward us. She was five feet tall and had a soft, round body, like Aunt Bea on the Andy Griffith show. Her red hair had been done up at Marjorie’s beauty parlor, which by the way was in Marjorie’s basement home. As always Gran’ma was wearing a dress with a belt at the waist, nylons and pump heels – she always wore heels, even when we went fishing.

Gran’ma smiled at me then looked at her table. Always before, it had a hand-crocheted tablecloth and a seasonal centerpiece – of which an almost identical one could be found in every Salina home. The women liked to make things for their homes and if someone found something fun to make they all made it – just in different colors. They made beautiful quilts, embroidered pillowcases, crocheted edgings, and tablecloths.

One year, Gran’ma and Aunt Rene decided to make a “Hollywood” bedframe – just like the one I had in Chatsworth. So they cut the elaborate scrolling grillwork off an brass headboard from the 1800’s, leaving only the bars and two post. Then Gran’pa found some doorknobs to cap the posts. It wasn’t anything like mine in Chatsworth ­– but after Grandma died, I used it for years as my headboard.

One year, for table centerpieces, the women glued animal crackers on round boxes to make carrousels. That also wasn’t anything like the decorations in Chatsworth that year – we had plastic fruit in bowls.

Another time, they collected high heeled shoes, then glued elbow macaroni to the shoes, spray painted and glittered them, and then put artificial flowers in the shoes. Grandpa said, “If there’s another depression, we kin wear the shoes and eat the macaroni.”

But, that year, instead of a centerpiece, the table had stacks of paper. Gran’ma said ‘Uncle Merrill, Aunt Bea, and the others sent stories up ta ya about our family. Aunt Rene and me are making books for you and your cousins. Your sister Donna K’s only 8 your ol so she’ll have ta wait.”

Photocopiers and computers had not yet been invented. So Grandma paid someone to type out family group sheets and stories about our ancestors She and Grandpa drove up to Provo to have photographs copies. And, she purchased glittery greeting cards to decorate the pages. It was an elegant work of art. An an expensive one. Now Grandma and Grandpa lived off the land and well-knew the value of a dollar and the importance of saving for a drought year. But, to them it was money well spent. Grandpa told my sister, “It’s important to remember about people - whether they’re dead or alive.”

That week, Gran’ma also gave to me a tablet of paper and a pencil, then said, “Now you kin axt people about their lives and write their stories.” Although not all of my relatives would agree, that tablet was one of the best gifts I ever received.

Since then I’ve written a lot of family stories, some funny, some inspiring and some . . .Well, it may be that for some people, their sole purpose in life is simply to serve as a warning to the rest of us – or provide us with family jokes

Well, it’s been almost sixty years since I started collecting stories, and now I tell them to about anyone who will listen and I encourage others to record their family stories.

Some people think that the whole point of family history is to prove your from a line of nobility or the Mayflower settlers. That’s not the point at all.

The point is that once we know our family history, we’re never truly alone. In the worst of times, we can take heart in that other family members have survived unstable conditions, insecurity, and tremendous personal loss. Everyone has hard times in life and family history gives us strength and resilience.

In the good times, we can rejoice and be grateful that their sacrifices gave us a better life. Psychologists say gratitude is one of the key factors of happiness.

The key is simplicity. Begins with your own stories and those of the living relatives. Don’t try to write a chronological history, just write or record each story – one at a time. And, don’t try to make it perfect. Perfection has nothing to do with this project. If you had a notebook written by your gran’ma of her family stories, and it had cross-outs, additions above the line, coffe spills, would that spoil it for you? Of course not. That’s what makes it personal.

Instead of trying to make it perfect, put that energy into adding more stories. The more imperfection your history has, the more it will truly be yours.

It is gift of tremendous value and one that is only yours to give. Life is like a series of dance lessons and sometimes the lessons are hard and it’s easy to get lost.

But, the stories about how our families struggled, survived bad times and celebrated the good times connects us to them, and when we learn their stories, they’re in our hearts forever.

So that, even in the worst of times, we can feel our family dancing beside us.

Best wishes in your endeavors to record your family history. And thank you for your work on FindaGrave.

Permission: Everyone has permission to use my photos, biographies, stories, etc. for their family history, including those on internet sites such as FamilySearch.Org and Ancestry.Com.

Bio:
“The Spider’s Web By E.B. White
The spider dropping from twig.
Unfolds a plan of her devising.
A thin premediated rig. To use in rising.
And all the journey down through space.
In cool descent and loyal hearted.
She spins a ladder to the place
From where she started.
Thus I, gone forth as spiders do,
In spider’s web a truth discerning.
Attach one silken thread to you
For my returning.”

This project started with when a teacher said, “Your project this year is to make a book about your family, grandparents, great-grand parents, and other ancesors.”

At the time, my family was living in Chatsworth, a suburb with walnut trees and orange groves, about forty minutes from Malibu Beach, and nestled against the Simi Mountains – which we could see when the smog cleared.

Chatsworth was mostly a diverse community of aerospace engineers from Lockheed, Northrop, and Litton corporations.We lived in newly built tract homes and were on the cutting edge of fashion – with button down blouses, cotton candy pink pleated skirts and sling-back patent leather shoes.

The Beach Boys were popular, the Beatles unheard of – and miracles still rare enough that we believed in them. Anything was possible. We could put a man on the moon, became a movie star or a g-r-e-a-t writer like Carolyn Keene, author of the Nancy Drew mystery books.

Like Nancy, I set out, to uncover family secrets. But, my father’s family told me, “We don’t know nothin’ about nothin’.”

Well, I couldn’t ask my mother because she had died in childbirth when I was four.

So, I did the next best thing. I wrote a letter to her mother, Gran’ma Ruby, who lived in Salina -- a cattle town in central Utah. Gran’ma loved crocheting, cooking and having dinner parties. She had ran “Mom’s Cafe” back in the days when you had to kill your own chickens and she was known for her cooking – especially chocolate candy, apple pie, chili and spaghetti sauce. When she was in her 80’s, the newspaper printed her secret spaghetti sauce recipe. It had a catsup base. But, she’d dropped out of high school; and, reading and writing were not on her list of fun things to do.

So, I doubted if she could help me and I wasn’t surprised when she didn’t send any information. I thought “Well, Nancy Drew never had a family like mine!” This project was going to be harder than I thought.

That November during deer hunting season, we took a week off school and spent all night driving to Salina. The next day, blue skies had replaced the California smog and red mountains loomed in the horizon.As we drove past the hay fields, our excitement grew. We passed the cattle auction yard then entered town.

Talk about culture shock. From a city on the cutting edge of technology and Hollywood fashion to a town that never passed the turn of the century.

Utah towns are planned communities, with streets running north and south, east and west; and, almost all of the homes are made of brick. Some, like Gran’ma’s, are two-story Victorians with a basement, and others one-story with a basement. Along side these, were the basement homes. Their owners put in the basement and moved in, planning to complete it when they had more money but to this day, those homes are only two feet above the ground.

After Daddy parked alongside the two-foot wide irrigation canal that bordered of Gran’ma’s yard, I opened the car door. Ahhh. The crisp, cold air greeted us and the smell of coal heat wrapped around me like a flannel blanket. I jumped the canal, ran to the house, up the steps and threw open the door.

Grandma was way before her time, in one thing - she liked the open concept so way back before I was born, she asked Grandpa to remove the wall that separated the living room and the dining room. So, her front door opened into a great room with her living room on the left hand side and and dining room on the right. The living room had a fireplace with a grand oak mantle, blazing fire, couch, tv, and gran’pa’s green lazy boy chair that had numerous cigarette burns. The dining room had a pump organ, china cabinet, buffet, and a polished cherry wood table, with two claw pedestals, and that seated 10 people. It now sits in my dining room and is often covered with family history papers.

Gran’ma was hurrying down the hall toward us. She was five feet tall and had a soft, round body, like Aunt Bea on the Andy Griffith show. Her red hair had been done up at Marjorie’s beauty parlor, which by the way was in Marjorie’s basement home. As always Gran’ma was wearing a dress with a belt at the waist, nylons and pump heels – she always wore heels, even when we went fishing.

Gran’ma smiled at me then looked at her table. Always before, it had a hand-crocheted tablecloth and a seasonal centerpiece – of which an almost identical one could be found in every Salina home. The women liked to make things for their homes and if someone found something fun to make they all made it – just in different colors. They made beautiful quilts, embroidered pillowcases, crocheted edgings, and tablecloths.

One year, Gran’ma and Aunt Rene decided to make a “Hollywood” bedframe – just like the one I had in Chatsworth. So they cut the elaborate scrolling grillwork off an brass headboard from the 1800’s, leaving only the bars and two post. Then Gran’pa found some doorknobs to cap the posts. It wasn’t anything like mine in Chatsworth ­– but after Grandma died, I used it for years as my headboard.

One year, for table centerpieces, the women glued animal crackers on round boxes to make carrousels. That also wasn’t anything like the decorations in Chatsworth that year – we had plastic fruit in bowls.

Another time, they collected high heeled shoes, then glued elbow macaroni to the shoes, spray painted and glittered them, and then put artificial flowers in the shoes. Grandpa said, “If there’s another depression, we kin wear the shoes and eat the macaroni.”

But, that year, instead of a centerpiece, the table had stacks of paper. Gran’ma said ‘Uncle Merrill, Aunt Bea, and the others sent stories up ta ya about our family. Aunt Rene and me are making books for you and your cousins. Your sister Donna K’s only 8 your ol so she’ll have ta wait.”

Photocopiers and computers had not yet been invented. So Grandma paid someone to type out family group sheets and stories about our ancestors She and Grandpa drove up to Provo to have photographs copies. And, she purchased glittery greeting cards to decorate the pages. It was an elegant work of art. An an expensive one. Now Grandma and Grandpa lived off the land and well-knew the value of a dollar and the importance of saving for a drought year. But, to them it was money well spent. Grandpa told my sister, “It’s important to remember about people - whether they’re dead or alive.”

That week, Gran’ma also gave to me a tablet of paper and a pencil, then said, “Now you kin axt people about their lives and write their stories.” Although not all of my relatives would agree, that tablet was one of the best gifts I ever received.

Since then I’ve written a lot of family stories, some funny, some inspiring and some . . .Well, it may be that for some people, their sole purpose in life is simply to serve as a warning to the rest of us – or provide us with family jokes

Well, it’s been almost sixty years since I started collecting stories, and now I tell them to about anyone who will listen and I encourage others to record their family stories.

Some people think that the whole point of family history is to prove your from a line of nobility or the Mayflower settlers. That’s not the point at all.

The point is that once we know our family history, we’re never truly alone. In the worst of times, we can take heart in that other family members have survived unstable conditions, insecurity, and tremendous personal loss. Everyone has hard times in life and family history gives us strength and resilience.

In the good times, we can rejoice and be grateful that their sacrifices gave us a better life. Psychologists say gratitude is one of the key factors of happiness.

The key is simplicity. Begins with your own stories and those of the living relatives. Don’t try to write a chronological history, just write or record each story – one at a time. And, don’t try to make it perfect. Perfection has nothing to do with this project. If you had a notebook written by your gran’ma of her family stories, and it had cross-outs, additions above the line, coffe spills, would that spoil it for you? Of course not. That’s what makes it personal.

Instead of trying to make it perfect, put that energy into adding more stories. The more imperfection your history has, the more it will truly be yours.

It is gift of tremendous value and one that is only yours to give. Life is like a series of dance lessons and sometimes the lessons are hard and it’s easy to get lost.

But, the stories about how our families struggled, survived bad times and celebrated the good times connects us to them, and when we learn their stories, they’re in our hearts forever.

So that, even in the worst of times, we can feel our family dancing beside us.

Best wishes in your endeavors to record your family history. And thank you for your work on FindaGrave.