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In Mourning

1/6/2014

It used to be the custom, almost the fashion commandment, that when you lost a loved one (as happened much more frequently in those days before germ warfare and penicillin), you donned mourning clothes. Back in Victorian times, there were strict social customs, especially for women, that dictated the type of clothing (crepe or some other dull, lusterless fabric; nothing shiny), the accessories (a "weeping" veil, no jewelry for the first year) and the length of time (depending on who was deceased & their relationship to you, it could be six months to four years). Entire businesses made a good living by creating and selling mourning clothes, wreaths, window drapings, and there was a cottage industry in England of those who could dye regular clothes for the poorer folk, who could not afford a separate wardrobe.

Now I would not want to go back to those times, of strict, stifling social mores, of staying "at home" and not going anywhere, except for church, or of wearing dull materials or a long black veil. But currently, as I'm grieving the loss of my youngest brother Craig Cameron Reed, I find myself longing for just a little of this custom. For me, what I'm wearing, if it were black or purple, would be an outward expression of my inward feelings. It would explain, without words, why I am not cheerful nowadays, and why my facial expression is somber, my mouth downturned. Wearing black would help me, and others, recognize that I have suffered a profound loss, and that I need to give myself time to grieve.

For instance, it would be nice, going into the local grocery store, if what I'm wearing could be an outward signal. Perhaps the clerk could look at me and just say, "I'm sorry", instead of a chirpy, "Have a wonderful day!" At church, where I am still a newcomer (having moved to this community only two months ago), it would be nice to have people inquire sympathetically about my loss and how it's affected me.

Wearing black does not have the same connotation any more. It's very common for professional women to wear black slacks and a jacket. I wear black or dark blue slacks quite often, especially when I'm meeting with a client, or doing a library presentation. In today's society, clothes of whatever color or style are taken for granted (teenagers in pajama pants, anyone?), so wearing black or other dark colors isn't worth a second glance.

So I think, for the next few days or weeks, I will be wearing black, dark blue or purple intentionally. It can be a signal to myself that I am grieving, and to give myself time and space, and lots of rest, to come through it. Outward appearances do convey a message, even if it's only to myself.

Keeper of the Memories

1/5/2014

It's an odd sensation, being the last surviving member of the family you grew up with. My mother-in-law, the youngest of six children, was the last surviving member of her family at age 78, and lived for
another ten years before she joined them. But as for me - at age 59, only I remain, of a family who all died at fairly young ages. My mother at 65, my father at 68; my next younger brother Chris at 50, and just three days ago, my youngest brother Craig at age 54. It's a slight comfort to tell myself that I am in better health (if not better shape) than any of them, and to think that at the very least, I can attempt to outlive my mother.
But with everyone in my family gone, who is left to tell the stories? Who is left to share the memories? Memories of growing up in the 1960''s, in the big yellow house on Crenshaw Lane in Forest Park, Ohio. Memories of going sledding down the hill, in our aluminum saucer sleds - the neighborhood kids all looked cross-eyed at us for being "different", but we felt superior in our ability to spin around and around on the ice and snow. The memories of playing caroms in the living room, with its frost-covered picture window, or taking Easter Sunday pictures outside on the back patio next to mom's iris.
There are so many memories of Michigan - the state where my parents grew up, and where we went every chance we got. Grandma and Grandpa Stoelt's big 3-story brick house in Detroit, covered with ivy and holding treasures such as the pull-down stairs to the attic, the screened-in back porch, and (most delightful of all) the laundry chute. Memories of creeping down the stairs on a bright summer morning - no matter how early it was, Grandma would be in her needlepoint rocking chair in the living room, reading her Bible lessons for the day. Memories of the drive north to Beulah, coming down the hill on US 31 from Benzonia, seeing Crystal Lake in its icy blue loveliness. Driving further north and crossing the Mackinac Bridge, on our way to the Hiawatha Sportsman's Club, where we rented a cabin on Millecoquins Lake every summer. I am now the only one who can tell the story of the Curse of Hiawatha, and the mishaps that occurred every single summer, some of them conspiring to keep us there until Dad got a new pair of glasses shipped from Cincinnati (he lost his diving into a wave in Lake Michigan), or our car waited for a new transmission (it went out on us while on a drive deep into the forest, where Dad had to walk two miles to the nearest sign of civilization).
There are memories of Florida, and our move there in 1967 when Dad got a job at Cape Canaveral, working in the space program. Our first walk on the beach, where we made our first (ouch!) acquaintance with sand burrs. Our first experience of a rocket launch, where we watched the launch on TV and then ran out in the back yard to see the white smoke trail towering upward. Memories of the motorboat that Dad bought (and by a unanimous decision, named "Hiawatha"), and that we took out on the canals and waterways, exploring Florida. Memories of driving across the state to Bradenton to visit Grandpa Reed, and of having not one, but two Airstream trailers parked beside our house, when Grandma and Grandpa Stoelt, and Auntie Jean and Uncle David came for Thanksgiving.

  Those are my memories. There are also the memories of our parents and grandparents, kept alive through the stories they told to us. My mother's stories of going to the Hiawatha Club with her parents in the 1940's, and having to use outhouses in back of the cabins. My father's memories of his home in Lansing, as the only boy between two sisters. His stories of going to Beulah every summer, camping in tents on the shore of Crystal Lake, on the land Grandpa Reed would buy in 1940 "for a dollar and other considerations". His memories of engineering school at Michigan State University, and of hitchhiking to Beulah on long weekends and breaks.

There are the stories Grandma Stoelt told, of growing up with a brother and three stepbrothers, and how she became a tomboy "out on the farm in Oxford" in the 1920's. She told stories of meeting and marrying my grandfather, who had a motherless one-year-old (my mother) to care for. She told of teaching English to evening classes full of immigrants at the high school, and how she loved those classes most of all, "because they were there to learn!"

I'm the only one left, now, to tell the stories. It's up to me to keep those memories alive, not just to pass along the family stories, but to give my children a sense of what it was like to live "way back when". What it was like to have the doctor make house calls, as he did when I was sick with the measles in 1962. What it was like to have only one car, so that Mom had to call the cab to go to the grocery store. What it was like to have one phone in the house (a black rotary-dial), and to be on a party line, so that we had to take turns with our neighbors down the street, to use it. What it was like for my Grandpa Reed to buy his first car, in order to make his job as a truant officer easier. What it was like to have a "Quarantine" sign slapped on the front door, or (as my Aunt Lois was) be hospitalized with pneumonia and be saved in the very nick of time by the brand-new medication, penicillin.

So from now on, at every family get-together, at holidays, celebrations, weddings and funerals, I will be talking about those stories. I am the Keeper of the Memories, and I will do my best to hand them down to future generations.

Writing an Obituary: Excerpt from Genealogy Offline

1/4/2014

I received a phone call yesterday morning from the King County Medical Examiner's office, to let me know that my brother Craig died in his sleep during the night, and was found by his caregiver. Although sudden, this news was not a surprise, as Craig had struggled with significant health problems all his life. Several years ago when a heart attack landed him in the hospital he was informed he was diabetic; more recently he endured kidney failure and the resulting several-times-a-week dialysis. He was a loner all his life, and never married or had children. As the genealogist and family historian, I feel that I need to write an obituary for a print and online medium, foretelling the day a hundred years from now, when my great-great grandchildren will want to know what happened to my brothers.

But I think I have a fairly narrow view of Craig, from my vantage point as older sister and family matriarch and caretaker. When I posted the news of his death and his pre-written message to his favorite listserves, the expressions of sympathy and loss, along with the memories of his friendship and companionship were heartwarming. And it occurs to me that in writing his obituary, I need to solicit memories of him from those who, perhaps, knew him better than I did.

In my book, Genealogy Offline: A beginner's guide to family history records that are not online, I've made a point of describing records that are only found in libraries, archives, historical societies and museums. Here is an excerpt, describing an obituary I found for my great grandfather, Henry Hickox Chase:

A few years ago I was visiting the Manistee County Historical Museum in Manistee, Michigan, a treasure trove of artifacts, photographs and historic information about life in Northern Michigan over 100 years ago. I happened to mention to the director that I’d never found an obituary for my great-grandfather Henry Chase, who had lived in Bear Lake for decades. He asked me the name and date, and disappeared downstairs into the basement. Before too long, he came upstairs with the original copy of the Manistee County Pioneer Press for Friday, September 13, 1940, and right there on the front page was the obituary I needed.

In Mourning

Keeper of the Memories

Writing an Obituary: Excerpt from Genealogy Offline

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