My family lived through the Depression, yet I never would have known that had I not taken a US History class in high school. People just didn’t talk about those days. Actually, my family didn’t talk much about the past at all. I was a curious child, but there were no answers for me. I was a young adult before I started getting any answers.  All my grandparents were gone by then.

I asked my father’s older sister about his childhood, and she did tell me a few things. Their mother died when Daddy was young from milk leg, that’s what we call thrombophlebitis. This happened when she was giving birth to twins and all three of them died.  Dad’s two older sisters, my dad, and their father had a wagon they took from one oilfield job to the next in Oklahoma. They slept in a tent in the snow until the ten caught on fire and burned all their possessions.  At one point, Daddy had to walk close to an Indian Reservation on his way to school. His mother was Native American, and he looked very much like her.   His sisters were terrified that he would be kidnapped and taken to the Reservation to live, so every morning they would powder him with flour to dull his beautiful bronze coloring.

Daddy and his family migrated to California in 1929 just when the dust bowl started.  I was in an original play when I was in college that was created from the oral history project of the Oakie migration.  I tried to get Daddy to share stories of that time, but he wouldn’t talk about it.   I think he was embarrassed. I missed so much.

I didn’t know much about my mother’s family either.  She had 4 sisters and one brother.  I didn’t even know my grandmother had been married twice, and one sister and her brother was from that marriage.  I found that out when long after my grandmother died, and I was cleaning out my mother’s garage.  I found a pile of letters all tied up with a pretty bow. The letters turned out to be between Grandma and her first husband. He worked about 30 miles away from where they lived, so they only got together on weekends. He got sick at work one day, so they put him on a train to go to the nearest hospital.  He died of appendicitis on the way. Their letters and all the condolence letters people sent to grandma were beautiful and filled with love.

My growing up stories had to do with my parents being involved with Veterans of Foreign Wars. Even though we lived in a small town in central California, my Dad was able raise through the ranks to become Department (California) Commander. Mom and Dad traveled lots to meetings while I stayed with my grandmother or aunts.  I did get to go along on a couple of trips. One was to Detroit for a national convention where two presidential candidates spoke, John F, Kennedy, and Richard Nixon, then Vice President of the United States.  I attended both their speeches, and I got to actually touch Kennedy and shake hands with Nixon. I shook with amazement for days.

In the summer after sixth grade, we drove from California to Miami Beach for another convention. We had wonderful stops along the way at the Grand Canyon, Carlsbad Caverns, New Orleans, and more. What affected me most as an 11-year-old was seeing signs for White’s Only and Colored Only drinking fountains and on restaurant doors. My parents couldn’t explain to me why those were there. I started trying to learn all I could about something that just didn’t make sense to me.

I could continue to write about experiences I have had that led me to be who I am today.  These things are all my story, my beliefs, my priorities. Telling stories is an art that is passed down through generations. Our stories introduce who we are.  In my book I share stories of my grief and the grief that other people have experienced.  Often it is easier to get a point across when prefaced by a story.

What stories do you tell? What stories have you not shared? What stories do you want to be remembered for?

Tell your story.

Start now—

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