Jaci Dawn

Add another May date to the previous post (May dates to remember): May 5, 2011.

I had barely walked into the house last night when Don told me the news: my dad was gone.

I just talked to him on Sunday.

It wasn’t altogether a surprise: he had COPD and was on oxygen. Sunday he was feeling terrible and weak. But it was still unexpected.

My brother had to drop everything he was doing to drive over to Ely and take care of arrangements: cremation, banking, all that stuff. My dad had everything written down and pretty much spelled out, so it is just a matter of implementation. But it is all on my brother’s shoulders because he has power of attorney and he lives that much closer than I do.

I picked up the phone calls – at least some of them. I can think of some family friends who still need to be notified and if I get a second wind tomorrow, I will probably call them. Or if Terry finds Dad’s personal phone book and sends me the phone numbers.

It’s strange: I never talk on the phone. I hate talking on the phone. Last night and today I have talked more on the phone than I usually manage in a year’s time. I’ve spoken with cousins that I haven’t seen in ages.

I haven’t cried much: that will come later.

I did remember that I was supposed to ask Levi a technical question for Dad. Then I remembered I couldn’t tell Dad the answer. I still do that sometimes with my mom: think of something I want to tell her and then remember she’s been gone since 1995.

I’m not thinking clearly enough to do a cohesive post on my dad. That will come later.

I’m rattling around, starting things and forgetting to finish them, operating in a fog: that is the first stage of grief. It’s a kind of adrenaline that comes and you move into high gear, take care of things, clean house, keep moving because you’re afraid if you stop you will collapse.

You won’t collapse.

So many good memories. I went looking for a particular photo I wanted to scan today and it wasn’t in the photo album. I must have removed it at some point in time for some reason and now it’s loose in a box somewhere. My folks were dressed up for a Hallowe’en party: Dad was in a yellow dress with black polka-dots, nylons & a wig. Mom was in a suit coat and sported a big black moustache. I want to find that photo but I don’t know where to look.

Dad was always doing something for Hallowe’en. He had this Frankenstein head that was made out of papier mache. I think my mom made it. We kids thought it was the best costume ever and we never let Dad get rid of that head. I think – I hope! – Terry has it now.

My mind runs from year to year, picking out events and dates – mostly the good stuff. There was a lot of ugly stuff, too. Dad was a very strict father. He lived by the rule that children should work. I used to think of him as having a snaking long bullwhip that he cracked over our heads whenever we were idle.

I think of the on-going war he had with my best friend. There was a black board in the kitchen where my parents wrote notes (usually lists of chores for us kids to do when we got home from school). Dad also wrote strange things on it like “Gung Hay Fat Choy!” every February. (To this day I am amazed when someone says, “What does that mean?” What? Were we the only WASPs that celebrated Chinese New Year every year? Apparently so.)

One day my best friend took the chalk and did the unthinkable: she wrote on the blackboard. Worse, what she wrote was off-the-wall and bizarre and she drew a picture to go with it: Krazy Kat was here!

She didn’t even sign it. My dad would see that and think one of us kids did it and … and …

And he thought it was the funniest thing. He wrote a message back to Krazy Kat.

For the rest of the years that we lived in that house, my dad and my friend left each other messages on the black board. Off-the-wall funny messages. And they pretended that they did not know who the other party was, writing their messages when the other one was not looking.

I’m still in shock. Still thinking of things we need to get taken care of and wishing I could be there to help my brother out.

For the next few days I will be blogging about my dad.

But it’s Mother’s Day! So here’s the irony about the date on the calendar this weekend: in 1995, my mom died on the day before Father’s Day. In 2011, my dad chose to join her on Mother’s Day weekend.

Maybe that’s why I want to find that photo…

Love you Mom & Dad!!

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I am sitting here and looking at my calendar. May.

Tomorrow my son-in-law, Sam, officially graduates from Bible College. He actually finished last autumn but they made him wait to receive his diploma with the rest of the class. the funny thing is, the rest of the class he started with graduated long ago. Sam achieved a 2-year degree over the course of four years. Or something like that. He got married, became a father, got a job, became a father again, lived with his in-laws, became a father AGAIN, and all the while he plugged along at Bible College.

Tomorrow he gets his diploma. And we are very proud of him. Congratulations, Samuel!

Thursday is Cinco de Mayo which means nothing to me except we will probably have a Mexican dinner. When it comes to food, I love diversity. Hey, I celebrate Chinese New Year, too.

Friday is Chrystal’s birthday. It’s a milestone birthday but not a Milestone birthday. She won’t be old enough to drink legally in Oregon. I remember her birth. I was a thousand miles away and only vaguely aware that my sister was pregnant. I had no idea when the baby was due. But I went to bed on the 5th of May and had a very vivid dream in the wee hours of the 6th. I dreamed about a baby girl that was born and a battle between good and evil in the room where she was born. I was in the room. That I remember well because in the end, the baby girl was handed to me. Little did I know that my sister gave birth to a baby girl that would be “handed off” to me in the future!

I was thrilled when I got the call that Chrystal had been born and I wrote the dream down.

May 6th is also the anniversary of the death of my dear sister-in-law’s oldest son, Jared. Jared drowned in 2009 in the wilds of Alaska and I know Julie still hurts with every anniversary and event.

Jared’s school picture.

The 8th is Mother’s Day.

The 11th is my childhood best friend’s birthday (Happy birthday, Lisa!).

The 12th is my Aunt Phyllis’ birthday. She’s my mother’s oldest sister.

The 15th was my sister’s birthday. She would have been 52. She didn’t live to be 41.

The 17th is my dear friend, Rosie’s birthday. Happy birthday, Rosie! (Sorry about the loss of your beloved fur-friend, Pepper. Dang.)

May 18 is the 31st anniversary of the cataclysmic eruption of Mt. St. Helens (two weeks before my wedding).

May 22 is my oldest child’s birthday. She was “due” on the 1st but she wasn’t ready. I was, but she wasn’t. Happy Birthday, Arwen!

The 24th is my youngest niece’s birthday. She will be 14. I can’t handle this. Her mother has been gone since 2000. She was just a baby. Happy birthday, Jessica!

The 26th is my sister-in-law’s birthday. Not the sister-in-law whose son died, but the older one. Happy birthday, Debby!

And the 30th is Memorial Day. A day to honor our fallen soldiers although some have taken it to be a day to honor our dead. I’m not picky: you celebrate it how you will. Just do not forget our fallen soldiers.

And then we’re into June and a whole ‘nother litany of dates I have to remember.

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My but the first of May 2011 was busy! The sun came out to play in the Willamette Valley and the rain stayed away.

I got that flower bed weeded. Harvey helped.

My uncle in Texas called and talked to me for the better part of an hour, filling me in with vital family history and vignettes of family lore. It was wonderful and I kept a little note tab by the phone where I jotted dates & names.

Less than half an hour later, my dad called. He didn’t know I’d just been on the phone with his younger brother. Dad had more stories and names and dates for me. We also exchanged a little “bird talk” because I was watching my bird feeder and telling him what birds were visiting.

The olive-backed Lesser Goldfinch that I was watching while I talked to my dad.

I told him about the osprey that was flying over my house as I weeded.

I seriously need a good telephoto lens.

At least one osprey does this every year: “scree-scree-scree-scree-scree” it calls as it circles, dips and dives over the cliffs just a half mile from my house. It hangs suspended over the Willamette River, trying to impress some phantom female.

My dad told me he did not know I had osprey up here. They had osprey in St. Anthony, Idaho where he grew up. There’s a huge nest on “the steel bridge”. He added that he hoped vandals could not get to the nest.

I hope so, too. It would be a Federal crime to destroy an osprey nest (or any protected bird).

I love the ospreys we have that fly over in the spring, calling to their mate.

Of course, that wasn’t all of May 1, 2011, but I leave the rest in the hands of historians as to whether or not the date is significant enough to record. For me – the family stuff is enough.

ttfn –

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What a night!

My Uncle Mike called and talked for a long time, telling me all kinds of stories about the family (my great-grandfather, my grandfather, the dog “Midge” in the family photo, and his mom). My Uncle Mike is The Source for genealogy on the Wilcox side and I really enjoyed our long talk. He’s in his 70’s.

My plan was to watch Lara Logan on 60 Minutes and I only got fifteen minutes into that painful interview when the phone rang again: my dad. My dad had lots to say, too, and much of it was about genealogy. We also talked a bit about birds.

This came about because I had a “new” visitor to my bird bath: an olive backed lesser goldfinch male. “Cool”. My dad said he’d never seen one.

I told him about the osprey that was circling overhead this morning, calling out “chree-chree-chree” over and over.  I live above cliffs that overlook the Willamette River and the ospreys love to fish in the Willamette. But this one was doing a mating song.

(What I would give for a good telephoto lens some days!) There he is, declaring his love over and over and over.

My dad told me that there is an osprey nest on the steel bridge out of St. Anthony, Idaho – if vandals haven’t gotten to it. I hope vandals haven;t gotten to it: they are a Federally protected raptor.

I no sooner hung up the phone with my dad when CBS interrupted “60 Minutes” with “breaking news” about Osama bin Ladin. Wow.

But family history pre-empts that. Sorry, I’m not making any political statement outside of “wow”. We’ll see what that news brings us on the morrow.

I learned more about my family tonight, small stories that bring things into focus. My Uncle Mike is much younger than my dad and has a different perspective. He often accompanied my Great Grandfather. He had a wonderful rapport with my grandfather. He told me about his mother, Virginia (Bellinger) Newby, who mas my dad’s step-mother. (I think I spelled Newby right. I have it right on Ancestry.com). Uncle Mike promised to share things with me as I research my family & email him questions.

My dad has more on his mother’s side, the Cusick’s. I have hardly anything on the Cusick’s. Dad found things in his bachelor uncle’s estate (my beloved Uncle Frank) that he wants to share with me. Can you say “excited”?

I am so interested in all this. All this history… roots in the ground. Roots in American soil, in Wales, Ireland, Scotland and England. Roots in Holland, even. War heroes and… cowards as well. Men who could not serve because they were new immigrants. Land deeds.

So before I close tonight, here’s a question for you: do you know the difference between “immigrant” and “emigrant”? It’s an important distinction. My husband has a rich history of emigrants on the Oregon Trail. I have uncovered a rich history of immigrants from the Old World.

God Bless America. The America my ancestors fought to create.

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Don took off for the mountains yesterday. His plan was to camp out one night & be home tonight but he would check in with me via his SPOT GPS. Funny thing is: it only works in certain places and it only works when he turns it on. I don’t know if he had it on and tried to send me updates or if he just forgot but the only update I had as of 8:00PM tonight was where he was yesterday at 1:00PM.

Not that I worry. I got him the SPOT because he spends an inordinate amount of time in the woods and it’s just wise to let people know where you are so *if* the unthinkable happens they can find you. But he’s only had the SPOT for a year and we’ve been married for almost 31 years. That means there’s been 30 years of trust between us. Trust that he’s OK in the woods alone and he might be spending an extra night.

I was going to blog at 8:00 and upload a bunch of Don’s photos from his computer just because I could. I figured he was spending the night in the woods (again).

At 8:01 he sent me a GPS signal that interrupted my blogging and confirmed my assumption: he was spending another night in the woods.

I got side-tracked after that.

But I am back and before it becomes tomorrow I thought I’d hijack Don’s computer and his vast  collection of photos. Don’s world, as it were.

Murphy is in a lot of Don’s photos.

That’s my husband. He’s somewhere “out there” hiking, camping, observing.

I know where he is right now. I know where he will be tomorrow night at this same time.

In between… He’s out where no one else is.

And that’s pretty cool.

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Gamma eagerly awaits the arrival of the closest grandsons with a table laden with gifts. OK, most of it isn’t gifts – I’m not parting with my ceramic chickens and the kids couldn’t have any of the candy and no one was very interested in the fruit bowl, but… The little watering cans with garden tools and the big rubber ball were just waiting for grandsons.

Then the boys got here. Eli came in with his mama while the older two took a nap in the van & Daddy sat in the van waiting for them to wake up.

Gamma actually forgot to get the camera out again. She spent five minutes alone with Eli and all the Easter photos were of this fat little face.

The older boys came in, we had a little plastic egg hunt, and they all got their toys from the Easter Bunny.

You’d think I only had one house-guest today.

But there were more.

I already miss them.

Happy Easter Little Grand Boys.

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I really don’t know who this is a photo of. Somewhere along the line I thought it was Mary Elizabeth Wilcox (the first Mary) but I really am not certain. It could be a photo of my father. It’s undated and there’s no way to know the sex of the child in the photo because little boys were dressed like little girls.

But let’s pretend it is Mary Elizabeth Wilcox. Just because there’s a story here.

My grandfather, Fred Orson Wilcox (“Fritz”) was born in 1898. August 30, 1898, to be specific. When he was 8 years old, his parents brought him a little sister.

Mary Elizabeth Wilcox was born on November 2, 1906.

In August of 1907, she died. It was a tragedy that haunted his parents and my grandfather.

Gramps was thrilled to become the father of a little girl on the 4th of January 1927. He named her after his sister: Mary Elizabeth Wilcox.

The whole family in 1943: step siblings Dick, Peggy & J.R. Bromley on the left with their mother, Thelma Wilcox. Fritz is beside Thelma (I knew Thelma as my “Granny”). Mary E. & Jack to the right with Fred Phillip (“Mike”) Wilcox on the very far right. Mike is my dad’s half-brother. That’s “Midge” in the background (I find it funny that all the old family photos name the dogs or cats).

Mary E. and John T. (“Jack”) were born to Gramps’ first wife, Sylvia Cusick Wilcox. Sylvia died in 1930. I never think of her as my grandmother because I never knew her – I only knew Granny.

There was a second wife in there (Uncle Mike’s mom, Virginia Newby).

Fast forward to 1945:

Mary E. Wilcox looking all sultry and divine, modeling an outfit some sailor sent her. (I love the shoes. I would own those shoes. I want those shoes.)

Fast forward to 1948 when Mary was 21. I don’t know much of the details. She had a daughter in Montana and she was married. But she was driving home to Montana by herself and she was not sober. She rolled the Jeep she was driving and she died.

On the 2nd of November many years later, my father became father to a little girl. I’m sure that freaked my grandfather out a little bit: I now shared the same birthday as his long-lost baby sister. But I wasn’t named after her.

That came later. My parents had another little girl in the very late 1950’s and this child they named after the two Marys. Except for one thing: they changed her middle name so she would not carry the “curse” of early death. It was assumed that the name Mary Elizabeth Wilcox was a cursed name.

Sadly, the middle name had nothing to do with the curse. It was just the combination of “Mary” and “Wilcox” that did the deed.

My sister, Mary Denise Wilcox, died at the age of 40 (almost 41).

My mother, Mary Lou Melrose Wilcox, died at the age of 63.

The moral of this story is: don’t name your baby girl Mary Wilcox.

I made all that up about the family curse.

I still don’t know who is in this photo. But I think it makes a great family legend to perpetuate the myth that it is Mary Elizabeth Wilcox and her name was cursed.

My brother will bop me on the head. He’s a “Just-the-facts-ma’am” kind of guy.

Me, I like the mystery.

(I did not make up the dates or the deaths. Those are facts.)

So what skeletons are hanging in your closet?

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I eat beef. Please don’t yell at me. I tried to be a vegetarian once. Really. It didn’t last. I have nothing against vegetarians or vegans, so I ask you to please not have a problem with me for being an omnivore. I love meat and I like red meat. It’s just how it goes.

All that said to cover this story I just read on KATU’s news site. Truck carrying frozen beef hits cow.

I want to tell you it ended well, but the cow died.

The story reminded me of this song by Dana Lyons:

Watch out for those cows, folks. They’re gonna jump into the road and yell “TORA TORA TORA!” next time you transport antibiotic-laden, grain-fed, feedlot beef down the freeways of America…

(Why cows would shout “Tiger! Tiger! Tiger!” is beside me. You just have to trust me that this was probably a planned suicide attack by a terrorist cow that had been groomed by & trained by the Bovine Jihad – which is not affiliated with any religious movement of human nature)

Next installment: Homeland Security steps up its security screening of milk and beef cows with invasive udder pat-downs and hoof-print screenings…

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Digging through old photos again. I am just amazed at how much history my family has managed to preserve, including a few old photos here and there.

Generations.  Sarah Lord Wilcox, mother of William Orson Wilcox, father of John T. Wilcox I, father of Fred Orson “Fritz” Wilcox (not pictured), father of John T. Wilcox II.

I have photos of my dad’s father but they’re buried in another box and I didn’t feel like digging it out just to make the generations flow there. Besides which, there was a continuity of generational looks that I wanted to keep intact. Gramps (Fritz) doesn’t quite fit in between the John T.’s. And I never cease to be amazed at how much the John T.’s look alike.

How about this one:

In this undated photo we have two small children and a very dead deer. The deer was dinner and in the early 1930’s, it meant several meals. So don’t email me about animal cruelty or I’ll tell you the story of the two children in the photo.

I’m going to tell you about them anyway. On the left, John T. Wilcox II. On the right, his older sister, Mary Elizabeth Wilcox. He’s holding a shotgun & she has a small caliber rifle in her hand. I have no idea what her other hand holds but it looks like a toy chicken. The photo is circa 1934-1936. I’m leaning toward 1934 because he looks about 6 years old.

They lost their mother in 1930 to something that sounds terribly like flesh-eating bacteria as recorded in my grandfather’s journal. The Great Depression wiped out the family finances. Their father had a series of live-in “house keepers” that were not exactly kind to the children. Jack, the boy, remembers picking strawberries with his sister. He hates strawberries. He also hates chicken. That deer was a welcome change in their diet.

Mary Elizabeth was named after an ancestor of the same exact name who died as an infant.

Mary Elizabeth died young. In her 20’s, she was driving drunk & rolled the jeep she was in, dying instantly.

The boy in the photo gave up hunting as an adult. He dedicated his life to conservation. He’s also my dad and I’m kind of fond of him.

This is a fun one. The man on the left is my father’s Uncle Ed Cusick. It’s his photo ID so he could be a bartender. The man on the right is my father’s grandfather (and Uncle Ed’s father): Oscar Cusick. He was sheriff of Fremont County, Idaho from 1919-1920. They sure look alike, don’t they?

Uncle Ed’s sister, Sylvia, was the mother who died young and left behind Mary & Jack.

How about something from the other side of my family? I found this cool photo of my great-grandmother Robinson:

This is my Great grandmother Robinson. She’s my mother’s grandmother. She had a slew of children, all of whom lived to be over 80. My Great-Aunt Cindy and my Great Aunt Doris really favored her. Well, Great Aunt Doris still favors her at age 101. My great-grandmother looks like such a lovely person.

When I put these two photos side-by-side I had an epiphany.

The woman on the right is my mother.

Look at the facial similarities with her grandmother. Can you just say “wow”? because I did.

I have always wondered what my mom would look like if she had not died at the young age of 63, when her hair was still dark. I think I now know.

She would have looked like her grandmother. Still beautiful.

I love old photos.

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