Jaci Dawn

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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I have a group of friends I see about once a year, maybe once every other year and sometimes twice a year. Our friendships date back over 20 years to the time when we were all young Christians and involved in a denomination that is borderline cult. Some of my friends were more into it than I ever was: shortly after we started attending Victory Chapel in Oregon City, our pastor cut all ties with the cult and formed a non-denominational church he named New Beginnings. And most of those friends from Victory Chapel & Potter’s House also attended New Beginnings, if only for a short while.

Don & I attended NBCC for over 15 years before the go-go-go demand got to us and we found we could no longer burn the candle at both ends. We followed many others out the door and into the world of the un-churched, which is where we remain to this day.

Some of my girlfriends are involved in different churches and one of them remains at New Beginnings. Some of us are un-churched but only in the sense that we don’t have a church home anymore.

Not all of us have children but most of us do and our children are close enough in age that they all knew each other and were maybe even friends (or still are). We range in age from 40 to 55. Only two of us are grandmothers.

I love seeing these women. We don’t agree on everything, we don’t have all the answers, we’ve all been through some sort of hell (usually having to do with children or spouses – or both), and we all have a strong connection to our faith. Not all of us were able to be at the party today.

Today’s excuse for a get-together was Julianne’s 50th birthday. She came all dressed up and wore a tiara, a birthday hat, and carried a magic wand (balloon).

The cake was gorgeous!

I love these women: DeeDee, Kathy, Julianne, Diane, Christina, Ardith, Christina, Jaci & Reva.

What’s not to love?

They are witty, intelligent, loving, non-judgmental, strong women.

I’m not sure what Julianne was doing with that last candle. Choking, I think.

We are also peri-menopausal and post-menopausal. We talk over each other. We share our hurts and bare our hearts.

And the only reason we ever get together is because of Ardith.

That’s Ardith on the right with the bright purple shirt and the glasses. Ardith is committed to getting us all together and keeping the fires of friendship burning in our hearts. Friendships that may have died because we all went our separate ways are kept strong because Ardith has this gift to pulling us all back together.

That’s Kathy, Julianne, Christina & Ardith in the photo. Christina is the youngest.

I just want to thank Ardith for her wonderful gift of friendship and for always bringing us back together when our natural tendency is to wander off.  Ardith: you rock as a friend.

Christina (Julianne’s sister), Ardith, Christina, Diane, Kathy, DeeDee & I all around Queen for a Day, Grandma Julianne.(Reva already left – sorry you missed out on this photo, Reva!)

Happy Fiftieth, Julianne!

Friendship is a wonderful gift.

I love you, Girls!!

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Mom-mom visited her little blond grandboys today. She learned all kinds of interesting things about “Bawb Bawbub” (I’m told that means “Bob the Builder”). She met the new lizard, a Chinese Water Dragon named “Starbucks”. (Do you have to add the ™ when you name a pet with a Trademark?) She fielded a dozen inquiries about where “Buppy” was (home, in his kennel, where he belongs).

Gamma (who is the same as Mom-mom, it just depends on who is doing the talking) took her camera.

“Take a pitcher of my hand, Gamma”

Silent, like Harpo Marx, the middle child poses his hand, too.

“Take a pitcher of us, Gamma!”

Harpo sticks out his tongue.

“Take a pitcher of me and Eli, Gamma.”

Very generous of you to include Eli, Z.

Harpo is silently praising himself for the tongue-sticking-out strategy. Smile, Mom-mom!

“Look, Gamma! I’m a fish!”

Nom-nom-nom. Harpo may be silent by choice but Chubs here is just silent. Nom-nom-nom.

Which brings me to a question: what do you do with two orange rubbery dog-biscuit holders when your dogs are more likely to chew them up than wait to appreciate the imaginary treats inside? Why, give them to your grandsons to use as coin or “treasure” purses, of course. Or teething toys.

Of course, there’s Harpo’s use, too. He walked from the kitchen to the living room with his rubber dog treat/coin purse on his head.

“He wants us to sing ‘Happy Birthday'” his mother explained.

“Look Gamma! We’re both wearin’ our birfday hats!”

“Oh, hahahaha hoo hoo hahahahaha”

My thoughts exactly, Eli.

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