“Petty” Tips for a great family vacation

Over the years of traveling with family, I have learned a few things that make the trip run smoothly.

1.        Pack plenty of activities to keep kids busy in the car.  Our family vacations were pre-video players in cars.  So we had to carry LOTS of things to do.  Tip:  Crayons melt in hot cars in the summertime.  Once I bought a lot of small, inexpensive toys and placed them in brown paper lunch bags, stapled shut.  When the conversation in the car became “She’s looking at me” and “Mama, he is touching my car seat”, it was time to open another bag.

2.       Pack plenty of snacks and liquids to drink in the car.  Tip:  Chocolate melts in hot cars in the summertime.  Jimmy always wanted apples and chewing gum.  Small packages of crackers with cheese or peanut butter were great.  Bottled water was not a staple back then, so a thermos of ice water or lemonade and cups with lids were the rule to quench thirst.  Jimmy also liked for his mom to make him a bunch of her “smush burgers” for him to eat.  When he was a kid, the family packed a stalk of bananas and a 3 lb. pack of hot dogs to eat on the way to Chattanooga.  Yes, you could buy bananas still on the stalk back then.

Rock City, Lookout Mt., TN

Wading at Cades Cove, Great Smokey Mountains
 

 

 

3.       Take plenty of rest stops. I wonder if John, Anne & Kathryn realized that those jump ropes and Frisbees that we took on the long ride to carry Kathryn home from Mississippi to Ohio were to wear them out at the rest stops on the interstate so that they might want another nap on the way.

4.       Be prepared for disagreements between the driver and the navigator.  Now days it is the GPS that gets the blame for a wrong turn.  Back then the person in the front passenger seat kept a paper map that could never be refolded properly to navigate the path to the vacation destination.  Inevitably, turns would be missed and the kids in the back seats were able to add new words to their vocabulary.

 

5.       Pack for every possible emergency.  We must have believed that vacation destinations did not have pharmacies, grocery stores or general merchandise stores.  We packed our suitcases on the “what if” principle.  That made packing the car a challenge that even Einstein would have wanted to avoid. Two items that Jimmy always insisted on packing were a roll of paper towels and a spray bottle of window cleaner.  He couldn’t stand having bugs on the windshield.  Paper towels also came in handy with kids’ messes.

 

6.       Families with more than 2 children or with an older teenager need a van with at least 3 rows of seats.  The back seat is the only place for a teenager on a vacation.  Space from the rest of the family is necessary for the coexistence of family members related to a teenager.  The back seat needs to be outfitted with a pillow and blanket and some form of sound emanating from a device that uses earphones.

7.       Take lots of photos.  The photos will be necessary to embarrass your children years later when you blog online.  Be aware that the willingness of children to be photographed on family vacations decreases with age.  That is the reason that the older sibling appears less frequently in vacation photos.

 

 

 

 

 

Disney World

Kennedy Space Center
 

The Evolution of the Jim Petty Moustache

When I first Jim Petty in college his face was as bare as it was the day he was born.  His venture in the world of "hair statements" in the early years of our marriage was to let the locks on top grow to the shaggy stage.  We both went long with the hair in the young days.


1972

First year teacher 1970

Young Junior High Principal late 1970s



Late 1980s
 

Campaign poster 1994

Chemo did not defeat the moustache!
 


As a first year teacher, he remained clean shaven for his yearbook photo.  But soon the lure of facial hair began to intrigue him and his experimentation began.  I wasn't quite sure if I would like a moustache at first.  It didn't take long to get used to seeing him taking as much care grooming the hair beneath his nose with a tiny moustache comb and pair of small scissors to keep the "look" in shape.  At times he spent more time in front of the mirror as I did.

The most difficult moustache look to groom was the handlebar that he sported for a while.  Unfortunately, we neglected to get of photo of him with the ends curled up like the villain in a melodrama. He had to buy special wax to keep the curl from drooping at the ends. 

When deer season started to approach, the razor went on holiday.  Beards help keep the face warm in a freezing deer stand was his justification.  I got used to that, too.  But warm weather meant the razor went back on duty.  Hot summer days in the south are not easy on beards.  I don't know how the Duck Dynasty bunch maintain their beards in the Louisiana heat and humidity.

Most folks who knew Jimmy as an adult probably thought he had always had some kind of hair adorning his face, or at least his upper lip.  I don't think our children ever saw him without at least the moustache.  When chemo came into the picture, we wondered what would happen. Jimmy had me shave his head after the first treatment because, as he said, he "didn't want his hair to fall into his Rice Krispies" one morning.  But he didn't want to touch the moustache.  And the chemo didn't touch it either.  The eyebrows disappeared, but the moustache never gave up.  He still had the same smile peeking out from under the moustache and the sense of humor that was the hallmark of Jim Petty never stopped. 

150 years ago today, four members of my family tree were taken as POW at the fall of Vicksburg.

As most native southerners, I have many names on my family tree who saw service during the Civil War. So far I have identified at least nine soldiers in my lines (both Confederate and Union) and three on Jimmy's lines.  There may be more who yet to be identified.  Four of the names I have identified fought during the siege of Vicksburg and were taken as prisoners of war at the surrender.  They were:    

Richmond J. (Jake) Peavy, Pvt. Co. K  40th AL (first husband of my great-grandmother,  Mary Frances Mundell and father of James Edward and Joseph L. Peavey)

W. A. Warner, Pvt. Co G 40th AL (husband of Frances T. “Fannie” Wiggins and brother-in-law to my grandfather, Richard W. Wiggins)

Lemuel B. Pollock, Pvt. Co A 35 MS  (GG-grandfather of my late husband, James E. Petty)

John F. Burkhalter,  Corporal Co. K 38 MS Cav  (son of my GGG-Grandfather, Elias Burkhalter)

All four of these men signed the Oath of Allegiance after which they were released.  By signing this oath, they promised not to take up arms against the United States until an exchange of prisoners had been executed.  But most of the men who signed these oaths immediately rejoined their companies to go on fighting elsewhere. Some were even taken prisoner again in other battles and send to prisoner of war camps. 

Jimmy's GG-Grandfather was one of those who was captured again.  The second time was at the battle of Resaca, GA.  He was sent to Camp Douglas, Illinois, where he remained until after the end of the war.

Back when Alise was little and before John and Anne had joined the family ranks, Jimmy and I took Alise to Vicksburg to see the military park.  It was a hot summer day much like the weather during the siege. Re-enactors were outside the visitor center in a simulated artillery post.  While we were there they fired the cannon.  Jimmy took pictures of the men resting in the little shelter from the sun, loading the cannon and firing the cannon.  We were miserably hot that day in our cool summer clothes.  I got a taste of what the heat must have been like for those soldiers as they held out from May until the city fell on July 4, 1863.

 

 

Jimmy's Doughboy Grandpa

Albert Petty June 19, 1919, one month after discharge. Original in the possession of the author.

Albert (Buddy) Petty and Nona Pollock at the Neshoba County Fair August 1919.  Original in the possession of the author

There are as many stories of the origin of the nickname, "doughboy", for American soldiers during World War I as there are days on a calendar.  In fact, the soldiers in WW I weren't the only soldiers to be called doughboys.  I will leave it to you and your preferred search engine to chase some of those stories.  I just know that Jimmy's paternal grandfather, Albert Petty, was a doughboy who saw action in Europe.

Albert Petty in WW I uniform, June 19, 1919. Original in the possession of the author.
 

Buddy, as the family called him, was inducted on the 19 of July, 1918, three days after his 23rd birthday.  He was inducted in his home county of Neshoba in Mississippi.  The clerk who typed his statement of service card must not have been familiar with Neshoba County and its county seat of Philadelphia, because he entered Philadelphia, Pa. as the place of induction.  Soon he was on his way to Camp Shelby south of Hattiesburg, MS.  By the 5th of October, Buddy was officially listed as serving overseas.  During his time in Europe he served in France and England.  I don't have any details of his experiences while in Europe.  I do know that he did not receive any injuries while he was there. 

 

When he was discharged he was issued one hat, one pair shoes, 4 pair stockings, one overcoat, one poncho, one shirt, one undershirt and one pair drawers "in compliance with W. D. cir. no. 166, 1919".  I notice that pants were missing from the list of clothing.  Was that another typist error?  I hope so.  He is certainly wearing uniform pants in these photos.  He was still in uniform when he went to the Neshoba County Fair in August a few weeks later with his wife to be, Nona Pollock.  That uniform may have been the best clothes in his wardrobe or it may be that the returning soldiers were still basking in the glory of victory.  Or maybe the fair offered free admission to veterans in uniform. 

 

It would be several more years before Buddy and Nona eloped and married in Meridian, MS. But that is another story for another day.

Even Daddy would be surprised to learn the truth behind this photograph!

The portrait of my grandfather, Richard W. Wiggins II, hangs in my living room.  I thought it was taken in 1913 when he played Joseph in a play about the Biblical story of Joseph of the coat of many colors.  Many times I had heard the retelling of the event that had taken place before my father’s birth.  So, I suppose my father could be excused for having gotten the facts a bit out of order. 

 

Granddad's portrait in my living room.

 

I had heard about the play being presented in the Grand Opera House in Meridian, MS , about 1913. The family must have been present because the tale is that Granddad’s niece, Annabelle, was in the audience.  When she saw her Uncle Dick on the stage, she hollered out a greeting to him right in the middle of the performance.  After all she was just a small child, Daddy said. 

I have held the wig that my daddy said was a part of Granddad’s costume as Joseph.  I have memories of seeing the sandals he is wearing in the photo, but maybe that memory is the kind that seems to be born of hearing a story so many times that reality and true memory seem to blur.

I found a program from the event that had been put away as a souvenir and remained out of sight until I had to empty the house on 15^th avenue for Mama and Daddy to sell.  I was too busy to look through the program at the time, so I, too, put away the program along with smaller versions of the photograph on my living room hall.  There was also a printer’s woodblock of the photograph that had been used to print Granddad’s image in costume in the playbill.  The printer’s block was the same image as the portrait in my living room.  I had a “complete” souvenir package of my grandfather’s stage appearance as Joseph.

Then the day came that I had time to bring out the “playbill” and photograph the pages to document it for the family history.  That was the day that the truth was revealed to me.   If I had only taken the time to even read the cover when I found it, the tale would have gone up in smoke.  The booklet is titled “Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite of Freemasonry.  Valley of Meridian.  Orient of Mississippi”.  Inside the program I learned that it was the  forty-first reunion held in February of 1920 at the Scottish Rite Cathedral on Twenty-third Avenue.  How could I have not noticed that!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wrong date.  Wrong place. Wrong event.  Right photograph.  Yes, the portrait that hangs on my living room wall is the same portrait of my grandfather in the program booklet , but he is not identified as Joseph son of Jacob.  The caption reads, “ R. W. Wiggins, 32 Degree, as Zarababel, in the Fifteenth Degree.”  I don’t know any of the secrets of the Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite of Freemasonry, so I can’t explain the caption.  I can only assume that he had some role in the rites of the degree process in the Masonic lodge.

If I had not been caught up in the story Daddy told me from the time I was a child, I would have noticed some clues as to the errors in the story.  The strongest clue is the reference to my grandfather’s niece who in a childish way called out to him from the audience.  I could have put two and two together to realize that she was much too old in 1913 to have behaved in such a manner.  She was about 12 years old then. 

Granddad may have actually acted in a play in the Opera House.  There are other costume pieces and stage equipment that were found in the attic and outbuildings at the 15^th Avenue house.  Annabelle could have, as a young child, greeted her uncle on stage.  But that is not the story of the photograph.  Daddy may have heard the various stories and may have as a child blended the facts into his own memory.  He certainly was not trying to fool me or to pass on a false story.  He really thought the photograph represented Joseph.  But the truth, in the end, does come out.  And that truth is a good story all its own.

The house on 15th Avenue. 100 years of a family's memories.

1908 Four Generation Wiggins-Peavey family.  Original photo in possession of author.

15th Avenue house.  Date of photo pre-1950. Original photo in the possession of the author.

Photos of three, or four, or sometimes five, generations are a staple of family photo albums.  They are usually taken at family reunions, weddings, funerals and sometimes at the birthday celebration of the oldest generation or the birth of the youngest.  Not many photos are taken because all four generations live in the same house. 

What you see in the photo of the four people above are my great-great-grandmother in the rocking chair to the left.  Her daughter (my great-grandmother and my paternal grandfather's mother) sits sternly next to her.  One of my great-grandmother's sons (and half-brother to my grandfather) is the only gentleman in the photo.  His daughter  (my grandfather's niece) is the only child.  Their names are almost as long as the description of the seating arrangement because both women were married twice.

 The four people on the porch were not the only occupants of the house.  My grandfather was there.  He bought the house for his mother in 1901.  He had just probably turned 21 and he wanted his mother to live in a house that she did not have to move (or "remove" from as they said back then) when the landlord decided to sell his rental property.  It had happened to them before.  My grandfather's half-brother had a wife and, by the time of the 1910 census an additional daughter of his who all lived in the house.  Also in the 1910 census the other half-brother had moved in with his wife and three sons.  Twelve people occupied a six room house that did not have an indoor toilet at the time. 

As the years came and went, at least four additional family members cycled in and out as residents of the house on 15th Avenue.  One of those family members was my father who was born in the house.  They left bits and pieces of their lives there.  My great grandfather who died prior to this photo, left his tool chest that he had used since he was a carpenter in Green County, AL, in the 1850s.  His step-father-in- law left the tools of his shoemaker's trade.  My grandfather's half brother who is pictured left remnants of some of his inventions.  As children, we played with the funny sunglass- looking pieces of plastic that I did not learn until a few years ago were part of his prototype made for the patent he obtained for a "glare shield".  He also left behind some of the pay telephones from the telephone companies he managed. 

Many pieces of furniture also lasted longer than the people who used them.  The wicker rocker that my GGGrandmother sits in on that porch now sits in my sister's home.  At one time it found a place in my own home.  Some of the furniture that my carpenter great-grandfather made are in my home and the home of one of my daughters.  Some furniture awaits in storage for younger generations to have in their homes. 

And of course there were the family Bibles and the photographs and a few letters.  There were the quilts, tatting, embroidery and even a few pieces of clothing made by the women in the family who were masterful with a needle and thread. 

It was a hard decision for my parents who were the last of the generations to occupy the house as a primary residence to finally sell the home.  After all, it had been the place where memories had been made for the family for 100 years.  In 2001, my parents moved to live near me.  In 2003 they decided it was time for a new family to make memories there.  It must have been the right decision because, in an old neighborhood where "for sale" signs would sit for years, the house of 15th Avenue was under contract within two weeks.

I might drive by the house on my way home after my week at Genealogy Camp.  The current residents are restoring the house.  I can't say their choice of paint would be my choice.  But their choice to love the house of my family's memories definitely gets my OK.

One man behind the men on D-Day. How Daddy played his part.

Daddy on cold day in England wearing a sweater from the Red Cross.  Original photo in the possession of the author.

Daddy in fatigues at Knettishall RAF, Suffolk, England.  Original in the possession of the author.

"Daddy, what did you do on D-Day?"  we would ask when the subject of WW II came up.

"Not much", he would always say.  "I was on leave.  The base was on lock-down and I couldn't get back on."

All through our childhood our father played down his military service.  He made it sound to us that he pretty much goofed off all those years he spent at Knettieshall RAF in Suffolk, England.  It wasn't until I was an adult and my husband and I got to see his papers from his time in service that I learned the truth.  Jimmy, my husband, was the first to realize what Daddy had done during the war.  Jimmy started asking questions and he got answers that Daddy never shared with Lydia and me.

The papers Jimmy was looking at were Daddy's certificates of his pre-deployment training.  I knew he had spent time in Pocatello Idaho and maybe in Salt Lake City.  I didn't know what kind of training he had been doing. His separation papers said that he calibrated and made minor parts for the Norden (Norten?) bomb sight and the Honeywell automatic pilot.  Daddy had told us he had worked on B-17s.  He had prepared all the planes from that air field that were among the first planes to fly over the beaches of Normandy on D-Day.  He wasn't there in the planes that day.  But without his precision work on those bombsights and autopilots, the success of the men who did fly would not have been achieved. 

To further emphasize the importance of his role, we eventually learned that he was one of only two men on the base who calibrated the sights.  Daddy finally told us that he worked under armed guard to protect the security of the bombsights.  Sounds to me like Dad played an important role on D-Day.  He may have been on leave the day the planes flew, but without his preparation on those planes and that of countless other men who did prep work and stayed behind, D-Day could not have happened.

A few months ago, Lydia and I decided to do a little research on Daddy's time in service.  We found internet sites with information and pictures of Knettieshall RAF.  Lydia found a site that had pictures of the nose art of some of the B-17s at that air field.  When she enlarged the photos, she noticed that one called "Gremlin Gus II" had a man in the nose canopy who appeared to be working on something inside that area of the plane.  It sure looked liked Daddy.  Other websites on the Norden bombsite indicated that the nose canopy was the location of the sight. Since only one other man on base did the same type work that Daddy did, it is a 50% chance that it is Daddy.

  I definitely like to believe that I have had a glimpse of my daddy doing what he did almost seven decades ago getting the planes ready for the men who flew on D-Day.  It is ok that he was on leave the actual day of the Normandy invasion.  Daddy's job was already done.

It pays for a Mom to have a talented son who understands things about computers that are unfathomable to her!

Notice something new?  Look at the top of the page.  My son, John, has created my very own personal graphic for my blog.  He has done some very creative art projects on computers that I have seen.  This is the very first time I have been not only the recipient, but also the subject of one of  his creations.  I love this new graphic.  Thank you so much, John.  His inspiration was  my first grade school photo.  He even included my little hair barrette. I am sure he will be as surprised as me to see that I was able to insert the new design into my blog layout without any outside help.  This helps to make the blog page my own.

Back in the 70s, camping in the Great Smoky Mountains meant be prepared for BEARS!

When Jimmy and I first started camping in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, the greatest attraction for us was the beauty, the peacefulness and the bears.  My only experience with the Smokys in traveling with my parents had been one day trip from Knoxville where we saw a couple of bears along the side of the road causing a “bear jam” of cars and family photographers snapping souvenir shots of the bewildered bear.  I had no idea that camping overnight in the parks campgrounds could bring me face to face with multiple bears every evening and, sometimes, in the morning as we sipped our coffee.

Jimmy and I were young and camped in our bargain canvas tent sleeping on the hard ground.  Jimmy had camped many times with his family as a kid in these very same camp grounds and he knew “the drill”.  1. Eat your evening meal before sunset.  2. Lock your ice chest in your car between meals.  3. Leave no food on your picnic table at night (unless you are seeking bear-type visitors). 4. Never, never eat or keep food inside your tent.  He told me that I would get an advanced warning when bears were in camp because I would hear other campers banging on pots and pans to scare the bears away.  It did not occur to my naïve mind that I might possible be that first person who spotted the bear approaching.

Bear on the side of the road.  Not a good idea for these folks.  Original photo in possession of author.

Black Bear at Smokemont Campground. Original photo in possession of author.
 

Bear on top of picnic table.  Original photo in possession of author.

The bears that make the Smoky Mountains their playground are Black Bears.  They are smaller than the Grizzly bears found in the Rockies and Alaska.  Their smaller size does not mean smaller danger.  They have great strength, long claws and sharp teeth embedded in strong jaws.  The park visitor center has displays of the dangers and damage done by bears to items like lunch boxes, etc.  I knew this was not a petting zoo experience.  But I was excited to see the creatures moving around the tents.

 

 

 

Over several years of camping in the Smokys, Jimmy and I experienced several memorable bear encounters which we attempted to record on film.  That was not easy to do considering the fur color against the blackness of the late night campground.  Sometimes you have to look closely at our old photos to make out the shape.  But we did get a few shots for the album.  Fortunately, the snapshots of the moments that make up memories don’t need Photoshop to make the image clearer.

Once we watched a bear open a jar of jelly someone had left on a table.  The bear lay on top of the picnic table on his back with the jar in his paws and the lid in his jaws.  He clamped down on the lid and rotated the jar in his paws.  The lid was soon history and his tongue scooped out the jelly all the way to the bottom of the jar. 

Another time we watched a man who did not believe the advice given him by seasoned campers about eating before sunset.  The man set out his Coleman stove and proceeded to fry chicken for his family.  I know the aroma was like ringing a dinner bell for the bears already spotted in camp.  The man was so intent in preparing the meal that he did not notice the bear approaching.  The bear quietly climbed on the table bench and sat waiting for his supper.  The man placed the chicken on a plate and as he sat the plate on the table, he noticed the bear.  The man screamed, grabbed his Coleman stove and ran inside his camper on the back of his pickup truck.  I think he broke all the rules that night. True Story!

Once we arrived back at camp after a day of sightseeing too late to eat before sunset.  I had a migraine and Jimmy said he would prepare a quick meal of hotdogs before the bears came around.  I laid down in the camper to rest (we had upgraded by then).  Within minutes Jimmy was sticking his head in the door of the camper announcing that we had to go back into town to get some supper.  The bear had enjoyed the hotdogs that were meant for us.   

I don’t think that bear encounters are as numerous now as they were back in the 70s when we were a young couple looking for a fun, inexpensive vacation.  I don’t know if the bear population is dwindling or if the rangers are keeping the bear population and the human population separated.  My last visit to the park about ten years ago did not produce even one bear sighting.  I am glad I have the memories.

 

 

 

  


 

Summer camp isn't just for kids. This Grandma has her own camp to enjoy!

 Camp!  A great ritual of childhood, camp comes in a variety of forms.  There are scouting camps. There are church camps. There are special interest camps. Whatever form camp takes, it is usually a kid’s first experience of “being on their own” for a short period of time. 

My sister and I went to a church camp that was about 2 hours away from home.  We were campers there in the late 1950s.  In the 1960s I was a cabin counselor, helping a dozen girls each week have a good experience that was free of homesickness.

One staple of packing for camp included heeding the “do not bring” list.  My sister and I did not have many things to have to avoid.  No chewing gum and no transistor radios covered most of the list.  I can imagine that the list of “no haves” has grown to include. I am sure that cell phones, iPads, video games and laptops need to stay at home.

In the 1950s my sister and I were required to wear dresses or skirts to our morning classes of Bible study and missionary talks.  After lunch we could don shorts for an afternoon of recreation.  We had swimming, crafts, ping pong (on concrete ping pong tables under the trees) and a trip to the Canteen for a snack. 

Daddy went to boy scout camp in the late 1920s.  I don’t know what would have been on the “do not bring” list back then.  Electronics did not exist unless you count home-made crystal radios.  Prohibition would have made alcohol difficult for kids that age to access.  I know that swimming was a staple activity because he took several photos of the lake with the pier stretching out to the deeper area.

I still go to “sleepover camp” in the summer.  I will soon be headed for “genealogy camp”.  I will get to make new friends who know what it is like to find the one record you have been seeking for years.  I will get to talk to people whose eyes do not glaze over when I talk about a pension application I found.  I will get to sit with a group of people who are eager sit for hours in a classroom to learn new techniques, new research sources and new search strategies to improve our research skills. 

At the end of the week I will not be bringing home a craft I made.  I will not be sunburned.  I will not suffer mosquito bites.  I will have a new list of genealogy contacts.  I will have a list of research ideas I am anxious to use to find those elusive ancestors.  I might even have a few new books for my reference shelf. My head will be about to burst with new knowledge and my body will ache from hours of concentration in class.  In other words, I will be so satisfied with the experience and I will be ready to start figuring out which class I want to take next year.

My two oldest grandchildren will be headed to sleepover camp next week.  I know they will have a great time meeting new friends and having tons of fun.  Have a great time girls, and remember even Grandma can still have a good time at “camp”.

Playing ping pong at camp in the 1950s. Original photo in the possession of the author.



Swimming pier at Daddy's boy scout camp in 1920s.  Original in the possession of the author.

I can still see him rocking in his wicker-backed chair with an opened book in his hands.

It isn't the best photograph in the world and even my autofix on Adobe was not the "automatic fix" that was needed.  Nevertheless, my memory is more clear than the photograph.  My mind fills in the details that the border of the photo cuts off.  I see the dresser to the left where Granddad kept his record collection.  He loved music.  He loved Gilbert and Sullivan. He loved John Phillip Sousa marches.  He loved Irish ballads. These records were the old style, 78 rpm, records that could break as well as become scratched.  He had two albums to play for my sister and me.  One was songs from Looney Tunes cartoons featuring Bugs Bunny.  The other one was Mickey and the Beanstalk.  It was a narration of the Disney animated short by the same name.  But he had other interests that are visible in the photo.  The rocking chair was His Chair in the bedroom that he shared with my grandmother.  The bookshelf you see was made by my father in his building trades class when my father was in junior high.  It is oak and it sits in the living room of my oldest daughter today.  His radio is on the top of the bookshelf to the left of the photo where you see a short row of white dots.  Those are dots are part of the tuning dial on the radio.  There was nothing automatic about the radio.  The knobs had to be turned "just so" to hear the stations he like.  Granddaughters could get a scolding if little hands messed with those knobs.  The funny shaped thing between the radio and the stack of books is his reading lamp.  That lamp shade was red with a white trimmed ruffle around the bottom.  He is reading a book in this picture.  He loved to read and he loved books.  He had a variety of books.  Many of the books in his collection were related to his occupation as a machinist.  He had books on gunsmithing.  He had a copy of Ben Hur by Lew Wallace.  He had books on Free Masonry. He had books on weather prediction. He had his Bible.  His encyclopedia was a one volume reference called Lincoln Library.  He loved to learn.  As you can see, he surrounded himself by his books.  My grandparents' bedroom was almost like a studio apartment.  That was because they shared the house with my grandfather's half-brother's family.  Family privacy for reading and listening to the radio was reserved for the sitting areas of the bedrooms.  The living room was for large gatherings and special occasions.  Time together for the two families when I was a child was sitting in rocking chairs on the front porch.  The living room had no radio and no television. My grandparents finally purchased a television for their bedroom about 1955.  This photo is prior to the inclusion of the TV in the bedroom because Granddad turned his chair to face the opposite direction when the television became a part of their lives.  All of this ended in 1957 when Granddad passed away in July.  I was eight years old.  Yet I can remember the details of Granddad's corner of the bedroom as if he were sitting in that rocking chair today with a book in his hand and a little Gilbert and Sullivan emanating from his record player.



My Grandfather, Richard W. Wiggins II. Original photo in the possession of the author.

The old stone church is still there just like it was when Daddy worshipped there during WW II.

Cemetery at St. Mary's Church.  Original in the possession of the author.

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My father, S/Sgt. Richard W. Wiggins, with his camera while stationed at Knettishall RAF in Suffolk England.  Original in the possession of the author



St. Mary's Church, Coney West, Suffolk, England. Original in possession of author.



Rev. Morgan, St. Mary's Parish Church, 1944. Original in the possession of the author.

Daddy's description written on back of photo of St. Mary's Church. Original in the possession of the author.

Many people have letters written home from the frontlines of various wars by family members.  The letters were saved by mothers, wives, girlfriends, etc.  My grandmother did not save the letters her son (my father) sent home.  She saved the photographs.  Daddy’s lifelong hobby was photography.  His camera went with him to the various places in the U. S. where he received his pre-deployment training and it went with him to Knettishall RAF, Suffolk, England, where he served until the end of fighting in the European theater. 

On the backs on many of the photographs are his notes and descriptions of the person or scene in the photo.  Many have dates.  A few photos have numbers that correspond to numbered lists of description written on military stationary.  I was very interested in the pictures of a stone church.  On the back he indicated that he attended church there most Sunday’s.  Another photo of the same church gave the name St. Mary’s Parish Church.

 I did an internet search and found the same church in Daddy’s photos, but this time it was present day and in color.  I now know that the church is St. Mary’s in Coney Weston, Suffolk which is in England. What a great experience to see that the church Daddy attended while stationed in England still exists.  One of the photos on the webpage for the church is taken from almost the same viewpoint where Daddy stood when he snapped his photo.

 His photo is actually two separate photos printed on the same piece of photographic paper.  A lot of his photos were printed that way.  It might have been a conservation measure due to war shortages.  The originals are also quite small.  I think I like have his photos and notes more than just having letters.  I can actually see what Daddy saw. 

Maybe I will eventually find more of the images in his photos still exist like St. Mary’s Church.  If I ever travel to Suffolk , England, I am going to have to find more places and stand where he stood as he snapped the shutter of his camera. Or maybe my children or grandchildren will make that trip and feel a connection with my Daddy.

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At the concert last night I learned that Paul McCartney and I have something in common. Who knew?

It's photos we have in common.  Old photos from childhood, from past events and of people meaningful to our lives.  Imagine how surprised I was to see a slide show of a collection of photos opening the concert on the very day I started a blog that will feature the same type of photos in my life.  Of course his slide show was much more creative and complex than anything I could do on my computer.  Still, it made me start thinking about why theses pieces of chemically coated paper and tin (and now days in digital format) are so important to us.  Why is it when we watched the residents of Moore, Oklahoma last week searching through the rubble of their houses, they were so excited to find a single photograph?  If they found no photos, why did they lament the loss?  I think it is because we want to have tangible proof of our memories.  Before photography was a staple of our lives, locks of hair or portraits of the rich were the objects to which we attached those memories.  Even prehistoric cave paintings show a need to capture a memory in a way that could be preserved.  Photos without a story attached can be art or it can be just a snapshot thrown in a shoebox.  Photos with a story attached becomes a memory that can be recalled or retold with every viewing.  That is the premise of my blog.  Sometimes a photo I will use recalls an event and the details surrounding the event.  Sometimes a photo of a person recalls my fondness and love for that person.  Sometimes a photo shifts from the person who is the central figure to the details in the background generating an entirely different set of memories.  Sir Paul's photos and videos showed us glimpses of his childhood.  The photos took us into the studio recording sessions.  The photos showed us events in his life that were important to him.  We may not know all the stories attached to those photos, but he does.  We all have something in common with Sir Paul McCartney besides his music.  We all share with him the need for tangible evidence of memories.  We need photos.

Photo my son took of me in the lobby of the FedEx Forum.  Used with permission.

From Facebook poster to Blogger!

The blogging journey has begun.  When I began posting old family photos on Facebook and writing a memory about the person or event, I was just looking for a way to share these photos and memories with my family.  My children seemed to enjoy what they saw and read.  Then they actually began to write comments of their own to add their memory or pose a question.  Most of the time the "like" button was the only feedback I got.  That was enough for me.  The connection had been made. 

Soon I saw that conversations began appearing in the comments creating a dialog among siblings and cousins.  My greatest surprise came when the names in the "likes" list and attached to the "comments" were names of my friends, not just relatives. Eventually the "blog" word started being thrown about as in "you should do this as a blog". 

I had no idea how to start a blog.  I read and enjoyed the blogs of others, but to do my own was a different matter. I finally feel ready to launch the blog, "From the Heart of Dixie".  It isn't fancy.  As I learn more about moving around in the blogging world, the page might get a little fancier.  But for now, the toes have been dipped into the water.  The water seems fine.  So, I am ready to plunge into the pool.  Today is just the inaugural post.  I can't promise a new posting everyday.  I am just a learner. 







Photo of Dixie Wiggins.  Original photo in the possession of the author.