Posted on November 24, 2009 at 01:30 PM in The Mormor Stories | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBack (0)
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As a reminder, when Mormor writes "Papa" she is speaking to her grandchildren (my cousins, brothers and me) about her husband Carl (our grandfather), who was, among his many vocations and avocations, a dance band leader in Arcata, California, in the 1920s and '30s. Those of you familiar with Humboldt County and the northern California coast may recognize some of the locations mentioned.
Shortly after my sister, Eileen, graduated from St. Francis School of Nursing, she began to work as a nurse at General Hospital.
One Saturday night she was invited by a couple of friends to go to a dance at Loleta where Papa's orchestra was playing. So she dressed in her best and they started out.
As they neared the present off-ramp to the College of the Redwoods they came upon a wreck that had just happened, involving a motorcycle and a car. Two teenagers, for no accountable reason, had rammed right into a fast-moving car. Cars began to stop and someone started screaming for a doctor or a nurse. My sister rushed over, said she was a nurse, and asked people to move back. She quickly saw that one boy was so badly hurt and bleeding in spurts in many places that there was no chance she could keep him alive until an ambulance could get there. The second boy's slashes were mainly on one leg, which she hoped to save by putting on a tourniquet. No bandages were available so she tore up her beautiful new slip for the purpose.
Meanwhile, someone had raced to a phone to call an ambulance which arrived very quickly. While waiting, Eileen took a lot of static from bystanders who faulted her for not giving her main efforts to the other dying boy, so she did a few things for him that she knew were just gestures. She could not tell the people in his hearing that there was no hope for him.
As the victims were being put into the ambulance, the boy with the lesser injuries pleaded with her to come with him to the hospital. Since she was blood-stained, her dress ruined, and she was a soft-hearted darling, she went with them to the hospital. On the way, the one boy died, a fact she managed to keep from the second one by saying he thought his friend was unconscious. She stayed with him through the surgery and called his family.
Emergency treatment did save the second victim's leg, and in a short time he was able to leave the hospital. Before going he came to thank Eileen for saving his leg, maybe even his life, and for staying with him through that awful night. He also said he had no money to pay her for this, but if there was anybody around that she wanted licked, he was her man -- just let him know. Well, Sis couldn't think of anyone that she wanted beaten up, but promised to call him if anyone came to mind.
She did tell him she hoped he'd stay off motorcycles forever and ever, and he answered that he surely would as there might not be a good nurse handy another time.
Posted on November 01, 2009 at 12:04 PM in The Mormor Stories | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBack (0)
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The tiny communities of the redwood country in Northern California a century ago had none of the modern conveniences we expect these days, such as a high school within each community. (My stubborn great-grandfather refused to have electricity until sometime after World War II, although that was certainly not the norm.) Roads were sparse, narrow and rough, and horse-drawn wagons far outnumbered automobiles.
But the automobile was on the rise, even in that remote and rugged forest. This is my grandmother (Mormor) Esther's story about how she learned to drive.
Carl and Esther eventually married,
parted only by her death 62 years later. There were a few more Ford
transmissions in that 62-year marriage, presumably less miserable than
the first.
More of my Mormor's stories are found on the sidebar, under the heading "The Mormor Stories."
Posted on April 08, 2009 at 11:09 PM in The Mormor Stories | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBack (0)
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(Photo stolen from Paul-W on Flickr)
I can't
believe it was a year ago yesterday that I first thumbed through my
grandmother's folder of her true life stories in order to type one up
for this blog. It's been a labor of love, presenting these tales I've
grown up with, nearly one story a week for the past year. And yet I
have learned a lot of new things, too, as I have researched to try to
fill in the gaps or choose pictures to accompany her words. I hope my
readers have enjoyed reading Mormor's stories as much as I have enjoyed
sharing them.
This story of Mormor's bridges a childhood memory and a grown-up one.
It reminds me how stubborn, resilient, and kind she was as a
grandmother; she apparently had these qualities as a young parent, too.
We are very near the end of her tales of childhood in California's
redwood country, and will soon venture into memories from her adult
life.
All of Mormor's stories to date are on the side bar categories under
"The Mormor Stories." To start at the beginning of my grandmother's
stories, click here.
Posted on March 13, 2009 at 10:46 PM in The Mormor Stories | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBack (0)
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Posted on February 24, 2009 at 12:23 AM in The Mormor Stories | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBack (0)
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I knew my grandfather Carl, whom we called Papa, to be a serious and
honorable man, and I think he truly was. Self-sacrifice was his way.
Diligence was his middle name. So it was particularly delightful to
learn that he was not a perfect angel his entire life. From my
grandmother's stories, here is this little story about Papa. I have
changed only the way Mormor referred to Papa -- from Papa to Carl.
Because while her grandchildren had no problem with it, it's a little
weird for you folks to read about a pre-teen called "Papa."
*Remember that this story
took place in about 1915 or so, and so I don't know exactly what a
farmer's pickup might have looked like in that year, but it certainly
wasn't a Ford F250.
Posted on February 15, 2009 at 10:59 PM in The Mormor Stories | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBack (0)
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With a name like Elmer
Fulwider, you're bound to end up in a lot of stories, right? Read
about him sticking his foot in his mouth here,
or go back and check out the first Mormor post, so you
know who Mormor was and why I am sharing her almost-100-year-old
stories with you. And here is a story from about 1918:
Women did not yet have the right to vote, but no one had apparently set any rules about girls driving trains.
Posted on January 16, 2009 at 09:49 PM in The Mormor Stories | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBack (0)
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It's been a while since I've posted a Mormor story. We are nearly at
the end of her childhood stories, but there are several to come from
her early years as a teacher and a mother.
You can go back to the beginning of this series here; scroll
to the bottom for the very first post, and an explanation both of who
Mormor was and how I came to acquire these stories.
* * * * *
(Mormor as a teacher)
When I was in the upper elementary grades at South Fork School our
teacher was a Mr. Carlson. He knew, of course, how to teach the little
ones to read, etc., but found it hard to give them enough time so he
showed me how to teach these things. In a short time I became, in
effect, the primary teacher who was very busy from nine o'clock until
two, and busier yet after that getting my own school work caught up.
When Dad realized what I was doing he was about to put a stop to it but
I begged him not to because I wanted to be a teacher some day and
anyway I could do as much schoolwork in those two hours as the two boys
in my class could do in a whole day. Besides that he should wait until
he saw my report card.
Well, he did wait, and maybe the above was the reason I was financed to
go on to school and realize my dreams. Mom's comment was that I always
had my nose in a book anyway -- might as well do something about it.
p.s. Dad would have been a great teacher had it been possible financially in Sweden. Maybe I carried out a dream of his.
* * * * *
This is one of my favorite Mormor stories. It showcases her very
strong will, her resourcefulness, and early signs of the wonderful
teacher she would become. I have it on very good authority that Mormor
was a good teacher, because for a year (in 1943) she taught all three
of her children, my mother included, in a one-room schoolhouse. Tiny
Wooden Valley, a somewhat remote area of the Napa Valley, desperately
needed a teacher willing to make the drive, and one who could teach
kids of all ages at the same time. Mormor came with a bit of
experience in that arena. She had seven pupils, three of which were
her own kids, grades one through seven.
Posted on December 09, 2008 at 11:33 PM in The Mormor Stories | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack (0)
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(Photo taken from Monument Road by David Thomson and stolen from these guys)
Smedley got sick Monday and missed four days of school this past week; Chas took her to the pediatrician Tuesday because we were afraid she had a recurrence of Striders, which nearly caused a trip to the hospital when she was a toddler. All I can tell you about Striders is that it causes breathing to be horribly ragged and wet and the child sucks so hard to get air that the hollow depression at the base of the throat collapses with each inhalation. The doctor has to test the amount of oxygen getting into the child's blood, and if levels are too low the child must be admitted to the hospital. On that occasion Smedley barely passed the oxygen level test, but she did pass, and steroids quickly opened up her breathing.
This time the problem turned out to be croup, which was odd to me because I associate croup with a horrible cough, and Smedley wasn't coughing more than once or twice an hour. But again a steroid cleared things right up, so there go Smedley's Olympic dreams.
Sparky's cough, meanwhile, sounds like something a walrus might make. It's been a fun week with not much sleep. I can now put a notch in my parental belt for croup.
It's terribly frightening when your child isn't getting enough air, and having an 18-mile drive to the pediatrician can make for some hard choices. But when I'm complaining about these things I remember this short little story of my grandmother's and I give myself a big dope slap. From over 100 years ago, here's a tale to make parents shiver.
Posted on November 08, 2008 at 10:48 PM in The Mormor Stories | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBack (0)
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(Photo stolen from this site)
It's Halloween week. YOU may be thinking of ghosts, or monsters, or Vlad the Impaler, or maybe even Larry King, though really? I doubt it.
I'm thinking of the thing that scares me the most, OTHER than Larry King.
No, not wearing two different shoes to work, but thanks for that; now I'll have nightmares. No, the thing that scares me the most is the focus of this short little Mormor story, just in time for Halloween.
(Photo stolen from this guy)
Yes, that's right. I'm afraid of dust.
Posted on October 28, 2008 at 11:48 PM in The Mormor Stories | Permalink | Comments (13) | TrackBack (0)
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(Image stolen from these guys)
Because it is Columbus Day, I have found a Mormor story that honors him.
Sort of. Obliquely.
Not at all, really.
But it does reference Columbus, and therein lies the problem, actually: the reference is a tad indelicate, to put it mildly. It's an ethnic slur.
I thought long and hard about publishing this, and finally decided to go ahead. I hope no one takes offense.
*This
is a bit jumbled, but Mormor means that taking the night bus from
Arcata to Korbel, then a handcar from Korbel back to the camp, allowed
them the longest visit.
* * * * *
Happy Columbus Day, everyone, and please -- thank an Italian (and a Spaniard).
Posted on October 12, 2008 at 10:36 PM in The Mormor Stories | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBack (0)
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I have shared my grandmother's story of her mother's passage across the Atlantic and North America, and now here is the story of her father's journey. Humboldt County, California, with its booming redwood logging industry, was a destination for Swedish immigrants 100 years ago, and so speaking only Swedish was not as big a barrier as it would be today.
I should warn you: this story rabbit trails quite a bit, but it exemplifies Mormor's favorite phrase, "but I digress." The story is more jumbled than Mormor's other tales, which could be because it was not one of the many spoken-word stories that she knew by heart and told frequently, or that she wrote the story down in the twilight of her life, when it was a struggle for her to accomplish everyday tasks. Mormor hid most of her struggles from everyone, but I digress.
Laurie jumping in here a moment: I had always been told that my great-grandfather Martin was a draft dodger from the Swedish army. Huh.
[The cow story filled my imagination from a very young age, and to this day when I think of tornados, I worry about the cows.]
[My great-grandfather Martin died about two weeks after I was born, so I never got to meet him. "Momone," my great-grandmother Elise, had been gone a dozen years by then. I have been to their graves several times.]
Posted on October 07, 2008 at 12:30 AM in The Mormor Stories | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBack (0)
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There are very few stories about the early life of my grandfather, Carl McDonald, for a couple of reasons. First, his early life was apparently less than pleasant, dominated by a cruel stepfather. Second, Papa was a very reserved man with his grandchildren, at least most of the time; telling stories was not part of his social makeup, as it was with the girl who would become his wife, my grandmother Esther. Esther, therefore, was in charge of family lore for both of them, and so most of what I know about my grandfather was filtered through my grandmother, Esther, or "Mormor."
This story concerns a time when young Carl had left home, sometime around age twelve, and it is my favorite story of Papa.
(Photo stolen from this site)
I have searched the internet for information about Wahkel Harry, with little luck. While there is at least one photo of him which exists among the collections of Humboldt State University, it is not available on-line. There was an article with a photo printed about him years ago, because I read it, but it has not been archived on the internet either, apparently. "Wahkel" is the spelling my grandmother assigned to the name, although I have also found "Waukel," Wo'kel" and "Waukell" in reference to the area. I'm fairly certain that Wahkel Harry was a member of the Yurok tribe.
(Photo stolen from this site)
Posted on September 29, 2008 at 12:35 AM in The Mormor Stories | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBack (0)
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Living five easy miles outside of a town of 6000 residents, we have always tried to be conservative with our trips to town. With gas as high as it's been this year we're especially careful. Reading over the following story from my grandmother's writings reminded me that no matter how tough it might get for us, it can never be as tough as it was for her family, living in the wilds of Humboldt County, in the heart of California's coastal redwood forests, in the early 20th century.
Posted on September 21, 2008 at 12:24 AM in The Mormor Stories | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBack (0)
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I think this is the third time I've used this photo, but I actually have a story that works perfectly with it. No, the child on the right in the white dress isn't a girl, nor is it pro golfer John Daly -- it's my great-uncle Art, my grandmother's little brother. They were fine playmates for each other, most of the time, in a world without play dates, or organized soccer, or dance class, or Big Brothers/Big Sisters, or even electricity. Most of the time they played nicely, but Esther (Mormor -- for the introductory story click here) had a wicked streak, apparently. Here is another story -- a short one -- in Mormor's own words.
Posted on September 08, 2008 at 11:01 PM in The Mormor Stories | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBack (0)
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Road travel in my lifetime has been so insular: you get into your car and drive, stopping only to gas up, eat, or sleep. But 100 years ago travelers relied on the kindness of strangers along the way, from help getting unstuck to bed and board in a family's home. It's difficult for me to imagine the level of blind trust in strangers that was required of a person making such a trip, or of the families taking strangers into their homes. (At the end of Mormor's narrative I have a short story to tell, so stick around.)
* * * * *
* * * * *
Mormor was my mother's mother, and the events of this story took place nearly 100 years ago. But my father's mother's home, here in the Valley at about the same time, was also a stage stop.
(Photo stolen from the Wells Fargo blog)
Their ranch in north Chico was the final stop for stagecoaches bringing wealthy people from San Francisco to Richardson Springs, a spa retreat in the hills just north of Chico. San Francisco is about 160 miles from Chico, and the Valley is very hot and dusty, so you can imagine the shape the passengers were in when they reached the ranch. Wealth and position likely dictated that these elegant passengers dress up, not down, for their trip; living in San Francisco, they were probably freezing when they left and were wearing warm clothes (a huge mistake for the Valley, then or now).
(Photo stolen from this site)
Richardson Springs was quite close to my great-grandparents' chicken ranch, so the passengers were almost there and didn't require a meal or lodging, but they certainly must have needed cold water and a privy stop. My grandfather sold eggs to the resort, which the stage driver picked up at this stop. Those eggs represented important income for the family, who were dirt poor.
Richardson Springs Resort burned down in 1921, and while it was rebuilt and continued to operate for years, the depression and World War II hurt the hotel's business considerably. There was to be no chicken egg gold mine for my great-grandfather, and the family remained dirt poor for a few more years.
Two different parts of my family tree with very similar life experiences.
Posted on August 31, 2008 at 01:38 AM in The Mormor Stories | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBack (0)
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In honor of the fantastic performances of Michael Phelps and the U.S. Olympic Swim Team this week in Beijing, here are three of Mormor's stories about swimming. Mormor's family lived at the edge of Humboldt County's Eel River, and the three kids learned to swim in its waters.
(Photo stolen from these guys)
But clearly, Mormor, it was a good idea that your mother banned you from that diving ledge, because what have we here? The following tale obviously occurred at an earlier date, and nearly resulted in a tragedy . . .
Finally, skipping ahead a few years to Mormor's teen years . . .
(Photo stolen from alaspoorwho on Flickr)
Posted on August 11, 2008 at 11:38 PM in The Mormor Stories | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBack (0)
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Posted on August 02, 2008 at 12:42 AM in The Mormor Stories | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBack (0)
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What, another Mormor story, so soon? Well, the first part is a little story that Mormor wrote, and after it, in honor of independence Day, a story from the other side of my family. First, from Mormor . . .
Though my father was a naturalized citizen he always celebrated the Fourth of July
as a loyal American by going some place for a picnic, and by ordering ice cream and soda pop from Scotia. As we started out we stopped at the station in South Fork to pick up these goodies. Of course, Mother had used the previous day to cook all kinds of picnic food.Dad didn't own a car at first, so we traveled in the spring wagon to nearby places like the Green Point Ranch or the Patmore place near the base of Old Baldy.* Later, my father's cousin Alfred Anderson came out from Rio Dell to take us where there were public picnics planned for the day, such as at Devoy's Grove, Lane's Flat, or Bear Creek.
(I recall very vividly my excitement when Alfred drove up in his new Hudson Super-Six. It was black and had real leather cushions that smelled so good in the hot summer sun. Later he had other cars, but none so impressed me as that Hudson.)
*I often Google Mormor's site references such as Old Baldy and Devoy's Grove, and very often find no references. They may very well be archaic names which have faded in the past 100 years.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, a couple of hundred miles (and about 30˚F) away, the residents of Chico, a hot and dusty Northern California valley town, were enjoying the holiday as well. On one of those long-ago Independence Day picnics the Pierce family were at Children's Park, by the Bidwell Mansion in Chico, for the festivities. There were fireworks as the light faded, but something went horribly wrong on this evening. An errant rocket strayed into the crowd of onlookers, and killed a child. The toddler Helen, the youngest Pierce child who would one day become my great aunt, became separated from her older sisters in the ensuing confusion and horror, and stood screaming as crowds of people rushed past. Helen remembers being lifted up onto a picnic table by a man who was clearly uncomfortable with the idea of touching a strange child. Deposited on the raised table, she was safe from being trampled, but was still alone and no happier. Her sisters found her and scooped her up, whisking her to safety.
My aunt told me this story this spring, and since she is, at 90, the last remaining Pierce trying to remember an episode from her toddler years, it is unverifiable. However, her mind is as sharp as a tack, and her early memories were seared by the death of her mother at just about this same time; I tend to have faith in the very few memories she has brought forth from this era.
I hope all who visit Foolery today fully enjoy the holiday weekend ahead, in safety and togetherness with the ones you love.
Posted on July 03, 2008 at 12:26 AM in The Mormor Stories | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBack (0)
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My grandmother, Mormor, was a decent, upright citizen and a lady.
However.
No one could get a twinkle in her eye over something daring, something naughty, quite the way Mormor could. She was a fascinating mix of exemplary behavior and a taste for trouble. This story of Mormor's captures her mischievous spirit quite well, and the asides are all hers, not mine. Also, please keep in mind that she told this story to children when we were barely old enough to know what alcohol was.*
(Photo stolen from Matthew Harris on Flickr)
As a growing girl my folks allowed me now and then to go to the public dances nearby with the Lou Reid family, so I learned to dance quite young. Midnight supper was to be eaten in the hall with the Reids no matter who might ask me to be his supper partner. (Later on I was allowed to go to dances with the boyfriend of the moment, so usually ate supper in his car. However, I always managed to include another couple to eat with us. Foxy Mormor!)
To digress a bit, this was in the Prohibition era, so the dance was a fine sales place for moonshine liquor. I was told that the procedure was to lay a dollar bill on a certain stump in back of the dance hall, leave for a few minutes, and then come back to pick up a full bottle. The secrecy was because the government revenuers might show up any minute to arrest the liquor makers.
Well, one night they did just that as Fay Myers rounded the corner of the hall hugging his bottle. Then the chase was on. Someone turned on his car lights that shone right on Fay, and the officers took off down the dusty road after him. Somehow Fay escaped into the woods nearby with his bottle intact.
I shall always remember Fay's bow legs sprinting down the road with three men after him, and how we kids laughed at the whole proceeding.
*Foxy Mormor! (and that aside is all mine)
Posted on June 30, 2008 at 11:58 PM in The Mormor Stories | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBack (0)
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