Sunday, May 18, 2014

May 17th 1964

There were four of us in the park that day, but I am the only witness left.

It would be easy to tell the story as, “We went to a dog show and my dad died of a heart attack.”  It would be easy and….so… incomplete.  That is the end of the story, but not what happened.  Does what happened that day matter, when we know the end of the story?  I have lived for 50 years with what happened.  I have told the story only a few times.  I was 10 the day it happened.  I was 40 before I could tell the story.

Sunday outings were common with my parents in the early sixties.  Sometimes we visited friends, sometimes we had picnics or flew kites and sometimes we just took a drive in the afternoon.  We would have a big breakfast after Mass at St Paschal’s and at some point in the next hour or so, as my parents were reading the Sunday papers, my father would say to my mother, “Want to take a ride?”   And it would begin…another Sunday adventure. 

The previous year had been tough, Daddy had a heart attack on May 2, 1963 and both my parents had been on edge ever since.  They had several big arguments that year...a result of serious stress…my mother was convinced my father was not caring for himself very well, working too hard and spending too much time in the office.  My dad was bored blind by the limitations the doctors had placed on him.  They were both scared to death.

One of my father’s new and doctor-approved hobbies was the German Shepherd puppy that had come into our life the summer after his heart attack.  “Rocky” (AKC: Sir Rocko’s Black Knight) was a gift from one of my father’s customers and our entire family embraced this much larger-than-normal puppy as the new baby in the family.  For my dad, training and playing with the puppy was one of the few things he got to do that made him feel like himself…like himself before we ever had heard the words coronary thrombosis.

Rocky’s lineage was pure-bred-show-dogs and while his breeder had warned us that our puppy was clearly going to be too big of a dog to ever compete, my dad liked the affiliation with the other owners, so we went to a few dog shows that year.

On this Sunday there was a dog show in Palo Alto.  But, when my dad said, “Want to take a ride?” my mom did not jump up and pack a lunch.  She did not want to go.  She hesitated…and pointed out that they had been out with friends the night before and maybe dad should “rest” on this afternoon.  My dad pouted.  There is no other word for it…my dad was a world-class pouter.  Mom got cranky, but relented and as we prepped for the outing it was tense in the house. 

My brother Tom was 18 and off with friends.  My brother Don was 12 and had been invited to go fishing with some buddies.  So that left 6-year-old Sammy and me in the backseat of the station wagon with the puppy in the “wayback” to head across the Bay Bridge from Oakland and down the peninsula to Palo Alto.

As we pulled out of the driveway, my dad stopped the car in the middle of the street and ran back into the house.  When he climbed back into the car, my mother, who was still in a bad mood, said, “What did you forget?”  “Nitroglycerin,” was the response.

My father loved the San Francisco Bay Area and a drive across the Bay Bridge (which he did every day, his office was in San Francisco) was seeing the world anew for him.  And, my mother was recovering from her crankiness, so Daddy was using all of his charm on that trip.  That is all I remember of the car ride…thinking, “ok, they are happy again.”

The park in Palo Alto was at Embarcadero and Middlefield Rds.  The place was mobbed with dog owners and hundreds of German Shepherds.  There was a festival feeling to the event with sign-in tables under some trees and a few tents with folks selling dog-related product and a voice over a loudspeaker directing the festivities and announcing events.  People were spreading picnic blankets out a few hundred feet from where the show-rings had been staked off.  We spread our sand colored picnic blanket (two old Navy blankets my mother had stitched together) out under a huge tree on the Embarcadero side of the park…farther away from the show-rings.

My father instantly struck up a conversation with folks around us.  My father might have been the most profound extrovert ever put on the planet.  He admired their dogs, asked about their involvement in the show, asked for interpretation of the event and offered them whatever refreshment we had on hand…he found common ground and then made them laugh…my father made everyone laugh.  In a short time Daddy was the center of a small crowd entertaining them and joking around.

One of the men from a neighboring picnic mentioned that they had not closed the registry for the 1-year-old puppies.  He encouraged Daddy to sign-up Rocky and show the puppy, “just for fun.”  Daddy thought that was a great idea and took the dog off in search of the registration table while Mom, Sam and I looked around.

Dad returned quickly and explained that the puppies were “on” right now…so we made our way to the show-ring and tried to find a place to watch.  It was crowded and Sam and I could not see well.  I remember seeing my dad trot by with Rocky on a leash, I caught just a glimpse of his brown pants and white shirt.   I could not see his face.  Rocky was eliminated on the first rotation….and daddy and the puppy came walking out of the ring…both a little winded.  Dad was flushed.  We walked back to our blanket.

“Are you ok?” my mother asked my father.  “Sure, I am just going to sit here a minute,” replied Daddy, “I’m fine.”  Rocky was already asleep in the grass next to the blanket.

She hesitated a minute and then said, “I am going to watch the rest of the puppies,” as she took Sam’s hand and turned away.

I started after my mom, but paused and I said to my dad, “Maybe I should have run around the circle with Rocky?” 

“Don’t be silly, honey,” were my father’s last words.

I was about ten feet away from our blanket when a woman touched my arm, pointed and said, “Look!”

My father was lying face down with his arms under him…his fists at his face. 

I turned for my mother…I had to run a few steps and grab her hand….all I could say was, “Get….daddy!”  And I ran back to the blanket.

Mom called out, “Bob! Bob! Bob!”  As we both knelt down next to him.

“Help me turn him!” she said to me and together we rolled my father over.

His fists were still at his face his arms close to his chest.  His face was purple and grey.

She kept calling, “Bob!”

“His medicine!”  she said…”in his pocket..”

I climbed over my father’s stomach and patted his right pocket…no pills…I reached back to his left side and worked my hand into his pocket and found the pills.  Opening the little, square, flat container with the tiny Nitroglycerin pills inside.  I took one and Mom said, “Under his tongue, it has to go under his tongue.”

And then she fainted.  Mom stood straight up next to my father and then fell backward like a tree. 

I just looked at her for a second and then went back to trying to get the pill under his tongue.  I could get his lips apart, but his teeth were clenched shut.  I could not open them.

I heard my mother stirring and looked over at her.  I had entirely lost track of Sammy….”Bob!” she cried as she regained consciousness….”Noooooo!” she wailed, “I cannot live without him!”  My mother crawled next to me. 

“I cannot get his teeth apart….” I said….
“Pry them apart!” 

And then mom knelt upright and fainted sideways alongside my father. 

I went back to his pockets and found his comb…I placed the back of his comb between his teeth and started prying his teeth apart…I was kneeling next to his head and could not get any leverage….I moved to straddle his chest….I got the comb between his teeth and just as I thought I had succeeded the comb broke and half of it went flying into the crowd that had gathered….

That was when I was first aware of the crowd.  I have no idea how much time had passed since that woman had touched my arm…2 minutes?  2 hours?  But enough time for a crowd to gather.

I looked up at the people who had gathered around us.  The broken comb in my hand, my mother unconscious next to my obviously dying father…there were so many of them watching us.

I heard a woman’s voice softly say, “Oh, please, someone help her.” 

And then things started moving at a faster rate of speed.  Two hands took me by the shoulders and lifted me up off of my father and into the air.  When I was set down on the ground, I saw Sammy.  He was standing about 25 feet away holding the hand of a beatnik.  A man dressed all in black with a black beret and a black goatee.  He was simply standing there watching, holding Sammy’s hand.

A group of men closed in around my father.  Some others were attending to my mother.  I heard her voice…”No! No! NOOO!”  She stood up and again fainted dead away like a tree.

The men worked on daddy.  Uselessly.  We were all useless that day.  They were pumping his legs and moving his arms about (this was 10 month before Asmund Laerdal invented CPR).  Useless.

I heard the ambulance sirens.  Two.  One for Dad and one for Mom.  Mom was conscious again, sitting in a chair someone had brought to her…with her head down.  When the ambulance attendants tried to put her in the ambulance without my father she refused and I can still see her climbing into the back of the ambulance with Daddy…her slip was showing and it was dirty from where she had fallen.  She never looked back at us.  And then the ambulances were gone.

And Sammy and I were left in the park. 

For the next few hours Sammy and I sat alone on a swing-set in the park at the corner of Embarcadero and Middlefield Rd in Palo Alto, California waiting for our lives to come back to us.

A teenaged girl, daughter of one of the men my father had charmed just a few hours ago, came to check on us every 15 minutes or so.  I realize now that none of the adults came to check on us, because they knew we would ask questions they did not want to answer.  At one point she told me that her father had driven over to the hospital and there was a red-headed man sitting with my mother in the waiting room.  I assumed it was my Uncle, Tom Naddy, who lived not far from Palo Alto in San Carlos.

One of the other families that had shared pleasantries with us earlier, had Rocky staked to their picnic blanket and had given him a bowl of water.

Every few minutes during the second hour, over the loudspeaker, a voice would ask, “Tom Householder, Please come to the registry desk.”
I explained to the teenager that Tom was not with us…and she promised to tell whoever was in charge.  But the request for Tom continued until the dog show was over.

And the dog show had ended…the park had cleared out.  These two families remained in place…one watching our puppy up-close and one watching two small children from afar.

The teenager returned and said, “Your mother’s back.  She is in the parking lot.”  And she led the way for Sammy and me.

It turned out that it was a red-headed stranger not my uncle Tom with my mother.  When I approached her in the parking lot he was standing next to her with his arm around her shoulders.  I was confused by this, but I did not ask her about it for several years.  It turned out he was just a guy that realized she was alone and followed her to the hospital.

The two families were deep in discussion figuring out a way to drive us back to Oakland.  They settled on Mom, Sam and me in the back of one car, the dog in another and one of the adults from these two never-having-met-before good Samaritans following in our car.  Mom was participating in the discussion and smiling at all involved.  Perfectly calm.

I listened to all of these arrangements for several minutes before getting my mother’s attention.  “How is daddy?”  I asked.

“Oh, honey, daddy died.”  My mother said.  And then she wrapped me in her arms and swayed back and forth for a while.

“My father went to a dog show and died of a heart attack.”   That description has always tormented me.  It is accurate for my siblings who were not there that day, but it is not the comprehensive.

We went to a dog show on May 17th 1964 and everything about our life changed. 

I changed forever that day.  When I saw daddy’s face, I changed.  When my mom fainted, I changed.   When I dug in his pockets for pills and a comb, I changed.  While waiting in that park with Sammy, I changed.

I am the black sheep sister in a family.  I became the black sheep fifty years ago in a park in Palo Alto.  I am not sure Mom ever forgave me for failing to get the medicine to daddy in time.  I am not sure my older siblings have ever forgiven me for being there when they weren’t.   None of them have ever asked to hear the story of that day.  And who can blame them, it is not pleasant.

But, we went to a dog show one day and my father charmed the crowd, showed his adored puppy and had a heart attack; my mother became hysterical, could not remain conscious of the events and left a ten year old to manage it, then, ultimately in her fear and grief forgot she had two small children with her and climbed into an ambulance without ever looking over her shoulder at them. 

Strangers came to our rescue, watering the dog, minding the children, following her to the hospital to assure she was not alone, waiting long after they needed to be there and then driving us a long way home to the Oakland hills.  So far out of their way as it turns out, that one family did not get home until long after midnight that night.

That is what happened on May 17th 1964.


The rest is the end.

Sunday, March 17, 2013

I Am Just Not That Fookin Irish

This morning I got up at 7:00am, early for me for a Sunday morning, but I had to get the corned beef going.  It is St. Patrick's Day!

I am not boiling the dinner on the top of the stove as my mother and grandmother did.  No, I am braising the meat in the oven in a mixture of brown sugar and beer (did not have Guinness in the house, so settled on Blue Moon).  The braising will take 6 hours or so.  I am not boiling the vegetables in the broth as Rita and Clara taught me...I am roasting cabbage, carrots, potatoes and turnips later.  I am not making Soda Bread as my godmother Nadine so loved to do...you see, I am allergic to bread...it makes me break out in fat.

While I am not following my maternal lineage's recipes, I am following their tradition and making the most iconic Irish-American meal (and my brother Don's favorite) as we always have and until recently assumed we always had...I mean, my mother was an Irish Catholic girl from the south-side of Chicago, as Irish a place as one can imagine without having to hum "Four Green Fields".  But it turns out....I am not that Irish....until recently, I was under the impression (artfully impressed upon me by Rita and Clara) that not only my maternal grandfather Naddy's genes were Irish, but also my maternal grandmother's Coleman DNA ran green.  Alas, it is not true.  I mean not at all true...with the help of the Morman Church and Ancestry.com I have discovered that my Irish-Catholic grandmother....did not have a single drop of Irish blood in her!

Clara Ann Coleman Naddy Youwer was three-fourths English and one-fourth German.  Full stop.  No Irish at all.  Apparently, Clara married my handsome Irish grandfather (Richard Francis Naddy, of the Kilkarney Naddy's) and so wanted to be part of the clan, she let us all believe that the Coleman's were Irish.  God bless her.

My mother often said, "If you are raised by an Irish Catholic mother you have no hope of ever being anything else!"  My mom did not know that her mother was not Irish.

Clara Coleman was descended from a very impressive line of English blood.  I have traced her roots back to my 16th great grandfather,  Nicholas Coleman 1395-1455.  Our first grandfather to land in the new world was Robert (8th great-grandfather) 1622-1689, who arrived in Virginia in 1637.  Robert arrived as "landed gentry," with land granted to him by the King.  Robert was the grandson of a Knight, Sir James Coleman, 1578-1628.  Sir James was married to Mary Spencer, Princess Dianna's 13th great-aunt.

So my thoroughly Four-Leaf-Clover-Irish Grandmother was really an English Rosebud.

And my formerly three-fourths-Irish mother and uncles were only half Irish, still Irish, but not the majority of their blood. 

When my three-fourths-English-one-fourth-German-father would try to annoy my mother or my uncles he would say that he pricked his children's fingers when they were born and squeezed all the Irish blood out....turns out he probably could have.

Saturday, October 6, 2012

Girls and Boys

In 1972 I never saw 2012 coming.  I sometimes thought about 2000...and would giggle at the thought of being 46 when the new century arrived.  But I never considered 2012 and 58-year-old-Nancy.  I never even tried to picture her. 



And I never tried to picture the 40th high school reunion that is happening tonight at Marian Catholic High School.

I am still having a hard time picturing it.

No matter what I see in the mirror these days (and some mornings it just plain frightens me), I still picture my high-school chums as kids.  As beautiful, sweet-faced, fresh-scrubbed teenagers.  For whatever we thought of each other at the time, in the air-brushed-golden-glow of my memory all the girls were Breck Girls and all the boys looked like the cast of The Outsiders.  We were all just so damned cute.

Wait a minute.  Were we all so damned cute?  Let me concentrate a second and really try to remember.....no, no, we weren't all so damned cute... the truth of it is that some of us were awkward, some had bad skin, some were not as cool as others, some were  skinny, some chubby, some had bad-breath, some had not yet figured out how to be kind to each other.  Huh?  Why do I remember them all as movie stars?

Let's see, what do I remember about them that might color my memories?

Angie Speca was spectacular at math and could play the drums, two things boys were good at and admired...and I always thought that if I had her talents and my "upper-frontals" I could rule the world.

Bernie Goodrich was a not-so-fragile-blonde-beauty who made perfect grades and all her own clothes.  Such a show-off!  She is also one of the most generous people I have ever known.

Mike Savage was my first real crush (when I was in 5th grade) and I should have known then that I would never settle for any man in my life who did not make me laugh.  MaryAnn Durkin is a lucky girl.

Marita Cunningham was smart and had a serious potty-mouth.  She also had 5 bothers (I had 4) and the first time I went over to her house and went to use the bathroom, she called down the hall to me "Better wipe the seat first!" and I knew I had found a soul-sister.

Walter Scott Fay has been in my memory since I was about 5 years old.  He has always been smart and a know-it-all-pain-in-the-ass....I have ALWAYS had a crush on his brain...and for six months in our junior year of high-school I also had a crush on his body.....which has made it easier to put up with the know-it-all-pain-in-the-ass part.

Connie Sinopoli had beautiful hair and that perfect low gravelly voice.  She hung out with a slightly different crowd than I did, but I remember that she was always laughing and having fun and I admired the sexy voice and the laughing.  And I thought her name sounded like music....

Amber Kloss  had a more quirky style than the rest of us and on her the dress code looked hip and cool.  On me it just looked....."Catholic".

Mary Irene Bramlette was also a friend back in grade-school.  We were chubby-cheerleaders together in 7th and 8th grades and I have never known anyone as comfortable with themselves at such a young age.  She knew things at 14 I did not learn until I was 44.

Armand Napolean....did not know him well, but who forgets anyone named Armand Napolean?

Diane Moriarty just always seemed to be having fun.  She WAS fun.  I envied her ease and her gift of making friends.

Nancy Napoli was so sweet and well-liked that it just did not seem fair that she also got to be a Liz Talyor look-alike. 

John Kennedy was the most thoughtful teenage boy I ever met.

Jay Steinmetz was the class heart throb. And let's face it....he knew it.

Jim Steinmetz was just as cute as his brother, but seemed less aware of his appeal.  They are both great guys...good looks and all.

I do not remember Marrie Bulczak.

Dave Zerante was the boy every girl was in love with...he also had a sexy-gravelly voice....and that perfect smile that haunted my adolescent dreams.

My mother loved Ron Schmitt and she believed he had the most beautiful hair she had ever seen on a boy.  She told me she envied me because she assumed that while I was dating him I got to touch it.  A few years later when she was dying, Ron came to see her in the hospital and he bent down and gave her a kiss on the cheek, and she quickly put her hand up and touched his hair...then she looked over at me and winked....I think he might have been her last crush.

Dennis Diemer was smart and funny and a great companion to have in a boring Current Events class.

Tom McCauley and I made each other laugh so much that I had to avoid eye contact with him if I wanted to maintain any decorum at all.  He could kill me with a raised eyebrow and I would be caught in a fit of giggles, end up scolded by Kay Brossmer while Tom would be across the room with this perfectly innocent and angelic look on his handsome face.

Diane Schlachter was a hoot-and-a-half....I always assumed a slumber-party at her house could end up with one of us needing bail-money.

Bobby Chisholm was the boy all the boys wanted to be...and all the girls wanted to do.  It can finally be said.

I also went to grade school with Roch Shipley.  Brain-iac Roch was always a fascination for me and he set the ground-work for my ability later in life to hold a bit of my own with the pointy-headed-technologists I spend so much time around.  I think big brains are sexy.....what can I say?

Janet Boyle was so small and petite and cute that it would have been really easy to dislike her...excpt for the fact that she was a little wicked under that sweet countenance.

Jan Jarema was a stellar musician and the first person my age that I saw fall in love.  It was teenage love, but it was real and I envied and pitied the feelings she held for a boy that probably did not deserve her affections...I cannot for the life of me remember who the boy was.

I teased Gary Hambel too much when we were kids.  Another grade-school friend, he avoided me like the plague in high-school.  Who could blame him?  But I could have predicted he would be a cardiologist...he is on a quest, as we all are, for that which we do not possess.  Sorry, Gary, I had to take one more shot!!!

Barb Cialkowski was the girl all the girls wanted to hang around...funny and kind to all...she did not seem to take any of it too seriously.

Mary Lynn Schanzlin was a rebel...I admired her courage.  When others of us would crumble under the glare of an authority figure, Mary Lynn never blinked.

Carl Tintari just seemed to know some joke the rest of us had not caught on to.  I think it might have had something to do with pharmaceuticals.  God love and keep him.

There are so many more...they are swirling in my head as I move down the hallways of Marian in my memories, laughing at their lockers, crying in the Senior Girls Bathroom, fretting over trivia, practicing for band and  football and adulthood.  Yes, even as I try my hardest to remember the flaws all I can see is the beauty of our youth, the glow of our innocence and the shimmer of our first yearnings.  I feel like Thornton Wilder's Emily Webb...why couldn't we see how beautiful it all was?

And how did we let 40 years go by?

I wish my classmates a wonderful celebration tonight.  I had hoped to be with them, but life got in the way.  If any of my classmates read this....please take and post photos.

And know that in my brain you are all dancing in the gym with your shoes off, 18 and fearless with 40 years ahead of you before it is 2012...which I never saw coming.









Saturday, August 27, 2011

I love being an Aunt

Nieces and nephews are truly gifts.
These are kids we get to love, spoil, tease, torment, teach, torture, embarrass, enjoy, corrupt and console. 
I love the role of "Aunt Nancy".  
Come to my house, children of our siblings, and you get milkshakes for breakfast and stay up as late as you want. 
My job is to make you laugh, teach you to dance and break a few parental rules. I leave it to your parents to worry about your future prospects and potential while we play and plot mischief.

Sunday, June 19, 2011

The Book of Love

Kem is the stay at home, change the diapers, go for walks, learn to talk, learn to read, Tuesdays at the library, Thursdays at the Museum, every day at the zoo, ride a bike, walk to school, walk home, listen to the day, do the homework, bake for the class, kiss the hurts, go to Bullwinkles, sign the permission slips, supervise the friends, eat your vegetables, comb your hair, here's your allowance, go-talk-to-the-teacher, work on the science project, practice the piano, learn the multiplication tables, read Dear Mr Henshaw, clean the rabbit cage, sit up with the chicken-pox, practice the cello, make your bed, listen for the trumpets, make a movie, call your mother-after-school, drive to the city, listen to the dreams, sit-up with the injured hand, go to baseball games, drive around town looking for him, go to the movies, drive to boot camp, listen to the bass guitar, send money, listen to the broken-heart, drive to San Diego, listen to the broken-boy, drive to North Carolina, write the wedding music, loan money, drive to the hospital, listen to the proud new daddy, kiss the new baby, change the diapers, go for walks, learn to talk…….Father.
Happy Father’s Day to a man who has always understood it was never a part-time job.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

The Householders

The picture below is of my grandparents on my father, James Robert Householder's side of the family.

James Harold Householder (1882-1969) and Della Hodges Householder (1885-1918) are pictured with their oldest two children, Mayford (about 2) and Vera (under 1 year).  This photo was probably taken in 1911 or 1912.  One hundred years ago.


I know I am biased,  I think all of my grandparents were remarkably attractive people, but the Householders look so contemporary in their beauty.

James and Della were married on September 18, 1907 in Knox, TN.  They had been raised six miles from each other in that small, rural, religious community.

James' father, William Matthew Householder's family came to this continent in the early 1700's.  My grandson Drew is the 16th generation of Householder descendants since the family immigrated from Russheim, Germany.  It occurs to me that my cousin Karen's great-granddaughter is the 17th generation.  During his life William sometimes spelled his name Haushalter, Hausholder  or Householder. 

James' mother, Rebecca Whittle, was part of the famous Whittle family http://www.lib.unc.edu/mss/inv/w/Whittle_Family.html.  Movers and shakers from the time they stepped off of the boat quite a few years before the Householders showed up.

Della was a Hodges, descended from one of the three Hodges brothers whose parents came to the colonies in the mid 1700's as privileged land owners, raised their children as good English subjects and them watched as their sons rejected the Crown and fought along side the Revolutionary forces.  The parents returned to England and the sons were subsequently disinherited by their father.  Her ancestors settled the "Cumberland Gap" area and were merchants and land owners.  The girls in this family were educated and according to my mother, Della married late for her generation, age 22, because she went to college for two years and then returned home when her mother Mary was ill.  But the college story has a few holes and in a later paragraph you will see why I have some doubts about what Della was doing when she was away during that time.

My grandfather was over 6'3" (very tall for his generation).  He stares at us in this picture, unsmiling, but with the same kind eyes I remember as a child.  He is 29 or 30 in this picture.  I can see all of my brothers and my son in his handsome face.

I understand that Della was quite short. She appears slim and is so beautiful with light blue eyes and her "Gibson Girl" hairstyle.  She too is unsmiling (not even the babies are smiling) but the shape of her face and mouth remind me of the women in my fathers family, especially my sister Joy.    Della will have two more children, Reba in 1913 and James (my father) in 1915 and then she will perish in the flu epidemic of 1918.

This family has secrets as well.  I was always told that James and Della lived in Tennessee until James sought work with one of his brothers in Pennsylvania.  He was in PA when Della, bringing their 4 children to meet him, became ill with the flu and died aboard the train on which they were traveling.   My father told me that the only memory he had of his mother was her body lying under a sheet on a bench in a train station, waiting for his father to come to them.  After Della's funeral the kids returned to PA with their father but soon moved to central Illinois where another of James' brothers was thriving as a farmer.  This would have put the Householder clan in Illinois in 1919 or so.

But I have my doubts about that story.  First, the 1910 census puts James, Della and baby Mayford (10months) living in Sagamon County, IL.  I had never heard that Della lived in Il.  Second, I visited Sevier County, TN a couple of years ago and searched through 9 or 10 cemeteries searching for Della's grave.  I finally found it, in Boyd's Creek, TN where she is buried as Della E Hodges in a grave she shares with her sister Laura.  No mention of her married name on the headstone.  The grave of an infant is right next to her.  "Infant Hodges, 1905" says the marker.

Why my grandmother, who had been married 11 years and had 4 children is buried under her maiden name I cannot imagine.

It is a mystery I intend to solve though.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

James Robert Householder July 1, 1915 - May 17, 1964 Rest in Peace?

Rest in Peace? 
No, Daddy, rest in fun. 
Rest in laughter. 
Rest in math puzzles. 
Rest with sleeping babies on your chest. 
Rest with Christmas trees.
Rest teasing your in-laws.
Rest in a water fight with Joycie. 
Rest drawing boats with Sammy. 
Rest in the arms of my mother. 
Rest in the presence of God. 
Rest in love. 
Rest in Peace.