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.

You can click on the highlighted phrases to go to a related website for further information.



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.