Sepia Saturday

This week, I head back to the paternal side of the family, with William H. and Anna J. Wehr Shaffer:

William and Anna were my great great grandparents. Unfortunately, all I know about William so far is that he was born in 1861. Anna was born in 1868 and was, from what I've discovered, the great great great granddaughter of Simon Wehr, who came from Heidelberg, Germany to the colonies in November 1740. (After a comment left for my post last week, I've discovered the addictive joys of genealogical research. Thanks Meri!!)

Here's the Shaffers with their family:

From left to right, Grandmother Caroline Wehr, daughter Nora, Anna, son William Luther, William and son John Samuel (my grandfather).

Nora and John Samuel as children:


And although it's a rather poor quality photo, here's Grandma Anna with John Samuel's sons, my father John Felmy and my uncle William Franklin:


Sadly, I have no interesting anecdotes, no fun stories, but I love the photos and wanted to share them. I did not have the pleasure of ever meeting anyone here except for my father and uncle, but my search for information about them continues.

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Sepia Saturday

Today's episode of Sepia Saturday: The Other Side of the Family

I've spent the last few weeks introducing my father's side of the family. Today I'm going to venture into the maternal end of the gene pool.

This is my maternal grandfather, Joseph Raymond Royer:

I'm not certain when the photo was taken, but he looks fairly young. He was born October 15, 1898 to Adam and Louise Diffenderfer Royer, and it's possible that this may be a graduation photo. He married my grandmother, Susie Elizabeth Kleckner, sometime around 1917 and their first child, my Uncle Dayton, was born in October 1918:

My mother, Helen, was born in 1922. I'm guessing that this photo of Dayton, my Aunt Bernice and my mother was taken in 1923:

Eventually, there were five Royer children in all:

Helen (b 1922), Robert (b 1924), Dayton (b 1918), Betty (b. 1926) and Bernice (b. 1920)

I never knew my grandfather. As you can tell from the clothing in the above photos, my grandparents were not poor. I have no idea what my grandfather did for a living, but his family was fairly well off. All that changed when the stock market crashed in 1929. From what I understand from other family members, my grandparents lost everything. Grandpa took to drinking and eventually abandoned his wife and five children in 1931. Rumor has it that he left town with another woman, but her conscience got the best of her and she returned. Grandpa supposedly traveled west to Chicago. My Uncle Dayton looked him up when he was in Chicago while in the navy during the war, but he couldn't bring himself to actually go see him. His anger and hurt was too great.

My grandmother never divorced her estranged husband. She struggled on alone, working hard to raise her five children during the Great Depression. Sadly, she passed away from cancer in 1972. I remember very little about her, except for her hands. They were thin and very bony, with thick blue veins running along the backs of them just under the surface of the skin. They were worker's hands, yet when they held mine they were cool and soft and gentle.

I have no idea when my grandfather may have died or if he ever found happiness again. His abandonment left many unanswered questions and affected lives in ways he undoubtedly never realized and most likely never cared about. My mother once told me that when she was a girl, she'd often go to the movies and sit through the end crawl, scanning the credits to see if her father's name was there, hoping that perhaps he'd left them to go to Hollywood and work in the movies. Unsurprisingly, his name was never listed.

I wonder if she ever really stopped looking.


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Magpie Tales Tuesday

As always, thanks to
Willow for her wonderful prompt and for catering to our muses.



Rememberance

If someone had told me that I would one day be sitting in a hotel restaurant in Mumbai, India, waiting to meet the first man that my grandmother had ever loved, I’d have told them they were insane.

Yet here I am.

“Can I get you something else to drink?”

The waiter has been exceedingly patient, as I’ve been sitting here for well over three quarters of an hour, awaiting the arrival of my guest. I came down from my room early for fear I would miss him, but my table has an excellent view of the entrance from the lobby. I decline the offer for a beverage and return my gaze to the doorway, holding my breath every time a shadow approaches.

I’m rather nervous.

Actually, I’m not sure nervous even begins to cover my current state. I’ve never traveled this far from home alone, and have certainly never been given such a bittersweet task. I drum my fingers on the lid of the shoebox I have hidden on my lap, the secrets contained within placing a heavy burden on my heart.

My Gran, my mother’s mother, had been in failing health for several years, but her mind and her spirit remained strong. She was by far my favorite relative and I loved visiting her because she always shared such lively stories of her childhood in India. My great-grandfather had been appointed to serve in India at the personal request of Lord Irwin, and was, until the transfer of power in 1947, one of the Governor-in-Council of Bombay’s most trusted aides.

My Gran was born in 1931 in Bombay, and lived there until she was fifteen. She often talked about growing up in the city; about her ayah who took care of her and in whom she confided far more than her mother; about spending months at the sprawling house in the hill country because the heat in the city was so oppressive; about the fun she and her brother had playing with the Indian children and how mortified her mother would be every time she spoke Hindustani.

It was two months ago when Gran reintroduced me to the shoebox which housed her few treasures from her life in India: some letters tied with a piece of sky blue silk, a beautiful gold bangle bracelet, a veil, a carved ivory elephant, and a photograph. I remembered wearing the jewelry and dancing with the veil as a little girl, while Indian music played on the stereo. As an adult, I was more fascinated by the intricacy of the elephant, and by the clarity of the faces staring back at me from the photo.

Gran had taken the photo from my hands. “This slip of a girl is me, just before my father was told he was being recalled to England. The boy standing with me is Sajiva. I called him my Saji. He was supposed to be a companion for my brother, but Georgie didn’t like hunting salamanders or catching snakes, so Saji and I spent most of our time together. Of course, as I got older I no longer wanted to play with snakes, but Saji and I would go for walks or play card games. We were tutored together, so I’d help him with his lessons. Right around the time I turned fifteen, I came to the rather startling realization that my Saji was a truly beautiful boy. He had the bluest eyes I’d ever seen, with long, black lashes that kissed his cheeks when he blinked. God help me, but I was in love, or as in love as a fifteen-year-old can be.” She smiled at the photo, lost in thought.

“Did he love you, too?” I asked, curious that my Gran had experienced such passionate stirrings long before she’d every met my grandfather.

She shrugged her shoulders. “We’d held hands on several occasions, so I’d like to think he did, although we never spoke of it. Oh, my own father was rather progressive, a bit ahead of his time. He wouldn’t have minded if I cared for a Hindu, but Saji’s parents would likely have disowned him had they known.” Her voice grew soft as she sank further into her memories. “My last full day in Bombay, Saji brought me a gift, that little ivory elephant. He said he never wanted me to forget him, as he would never forget me. And then I did something impossibly bold.”

“You kissed him.”

She chuckled heartily. “However did you guess? Yes, child, I kissed him. It was clumsy and quick and took us both completely by surprise. Of course, once he recovered he didn’t mind kissing me good and proper.” Her smile faded. “And in that moment I realized I didn’t want to leave him. But he couldn’t ask me to stay.” I noticed a tear trickling down her cheek and reached over to take her hand.

She gave my hand a squeeze, then suddenly became all-business. “Elizabeth, I must impose on you. I have a wretched favor to ask you, and if you agree, I will make adequate financial provision for you to complete the task …”

Gran lived another three weeks before succumbing to pneumonia, and in those three weeks she found time to ring her solicitor and alter her will to include this trip to India, where I will spread her ashes over the hills she loved.

But first, I have a message to deliver.

As I glance at the doorway once again, I see a white-haired man, stooped with age, shuffling slowly towards my table, with a cane in one hand and being supported tenderly on the other side by much younger man. He’s wearing a finely embroidered red kurta and white yoga pants, but it’s his eyes, peering at me from behind round John Lennon glasses, which affirm what everyone has always told me: I look very much like my Gran.

The elderly man places his hands together and bows before me. I stand and repeat the gesture. “Namaste, Mr. Dubashi. I am honored to meet you.”

“Namaste. Please, call me Saji. This is my grandson, Jaival.”

The young man looks up and I’m startled to see the same eyes, the same cheekbones, the same chin as the young Saji in the photograph. Jaival smiles at me and I’m captivated by his deep blue eyes. I have immediate empathy for my Gran’s youthful plight and it’s all I can do to force myself to focus on the elder Dubashi.

After we have made ourselves comfortable, I slide the photograph across the table to Saji and spend the next hour telling him of my Gran, of her family, and of her limitless passion for life. He speaks of his life, as well, and I see Jaival’s eyebrows raise several times over the course of the conversation as he learns new things about his grandfather. As we reminisce, Saji and I laugh, we damn near cry, and then we toast someone we both loved.

“To Sophie.”

As I lower my glass, I remember there’s one more thing I have to do. “Saji, Gran asked me to deliver a message to you.” I lift the elephant out of the box. “She wanted you to know that she never forgot you.” As I hand it across the table to him, I see his eyes fill with tears.

He takes the elephant, smoothing his fingertips along its back and drawing his thumbnail down the ridges of its trunk. “Did she tell you she kissed me when I gave this to her?”

I laugh and nod.

“It was the first time I had ever kissed a girl. How I wished she could have stayed.” After a moment, he hands the elephant back to me. “You keep it, Elizabeth. In that way, may you never forget your Gran. A remarkable woman. I only wish I could have said goodbye.”

I can easily see why my Gran fell in love with him. I clear my throat. “I’m travelling tomorrow to the lake, to scatter Gran’s ashes. It’s what she wanted.”

Saji shakes his head sadly. “The estate house is no longer there. It was purchased by a developer years ago and is now a golf course and resort.”

“That’s all right. Gran understood progress.”

Jaival has said nothing while Saji and I shared our memories. Now he leans closer and asks, “Would you like Nana and I to accompany you?”

His gaze holds mine, and something inside me desperately wants to agree. “I can’t ask you to …”

Jaival interrupts. His accent is elegant, his English is cultured and nearly perfect. “You’re not asking. We’re offering.” He glances at Saji, who nods his agreement. “You need not do this alone, And we would consider it a privilege to join you in sending your dadi on her journey to her next life.”

“Thank you.”

We rise and I follow them to the lobby where we arrange to meet early in the morning. As I watch Jaival guide Saji outside to a waiting car, I consider myself extremely fortunate to have known my Gran and to have inherited some of her uninhibited tendencies. I only hope that, when I ask Jaival to show me around Mumbai, it will be an experience neither of us will ever forget.


You can read more Magpie Tales stories and poems -->**HERE**

Sepia Saturday

Last Saturday, I introduced my father and his love of dogs. This week, I'd like to focus on something else that my father had a mad passion for -- sports!

In high school, Johnnie was the all-around athlete:

soccer ...

baseball ...

and basketball.

He even played baseball outside of school and after he graduated:

Dad wanted to go to college so he could be a physical education teacher, but unfortunately he wasn't able to do so. Instead he went off to war (where he still managed to find time for sports):

then came home, went to business school and settled for playing with his kids and watching sports on television. Some of my fondest childhood memories include throwing a frisbee with him, playing badminton and tennis with him, and having the poor man try to teach me how to throw a baseball sidearm. (Sorry, Daddy! I can't help it I throw like a girl!) And once we finally got cable, he was in heaven! He watched every sporting event ever televised, including cricket and Australian Rules football! He was a hard-core Penn State fan, as well as a fan of the Phillies, the Steelers, and the Celtics. He occasionally played tennis at a local tennis club with his boss until he retired and then had to have his hips replaced.

Now I rarely watch sports, mostly because it just isn't the same without him.


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HERE!

A Dissertation on Food

I'm not much of a television watcher; the news and occasional documentary (with an episode of Mythbusters thrown in now and again) is about all I ever watch. Unless I have a day off in the middle of the week, that is, when I'm home alone. And then I indulge in my guilty pleasure ... ssshhh! ... The Food Network.

I enjoy cooking and love to try new dishes. Back before we had children, my poor hubby was the willing guinea pig for my culinary experiments. He was completely honest with me, too, which I appreciated. If a dish was a keeper, he'd tell me. If it did little to please his palate, he'd ask me not to make that particular dish again. It made for an excellent learning experience for both of us.

My mother, bless her heart, was not a creative cook. She had a few stellar dishes -- her meatloaf was nothing short of yummy and I use her recipe today to rave reviews -- but for the most part she was caught somewhere between the plain cooking of her Pennsylvania German mother-in-law, with whom she felt a keen competition, and the 1950s housewife whose "convenient" ingredients came out of a can. (Please, don't ever mention Spam in my presence unless it's in reference to Monty Python.) But she tried and, with the exception of her roast beef which I could chew for hours, she succeeded in making most meals satisfying. My own mother-in-law, a farm wife, is also a plain cook, as well, who rarely seasons anything beyond salt and pepper, has never tasted Mongolian beef, thinks Mexican food is just tacos, and thinks Italian meals consist of spaghetti and lasagna. Sigh. She has resisted enlightenment over the years, prefering her tired tried-and-trues, which makes me doubly grateful that her son is so accommodating.

Please believe me, I'm not knocking traditional Pennsylvania German cooking. There's something to be said for a good potato soup, or chicken pot pie with homemade noodles, or beef stew (which is on our menu this evening). Just not every day. I tend to look at food as more than a tasty way to satisfy hunger. For me, food is a way to travel and experience other regions and cultures without having to actually purchase the plane ticket. And given the fact that I am chief cook and bottlewasher to three teenagers (Sam will be 13 next week), traveling isn't in the budget right now. Of course, neither are exotic dishes where the ingredients are difficult to find in a rural area and cost a small fortune once found. Many times, plain dishes stretch further and fill teenaged stomachs faster and better.

Back to the Food Network. Today was my day off, and I was tickled to have a few moments with my sandwich, my knitting and the remote. Now, I have definite likes and dislikes with regards to the personalities on the Food Network. Rachel Ray, as popular as she is, annoys me. Although she has some fantastic party ideas. I love to watch Bobbie Flay in anything, especially in Throwdown. That's how I learned about Liege waffles. I also love the show Chopped, although sometimes the judges can be a bit harsh. It's fascinating to me to watch chefs attempt to prepare something wonderful out of three mystery ingredients. I need to learn how to do that with my refrigerator!

One person I do not normally watch is Paula Deen, not because she bothers me -- she's actually very personable -- but because I'm just not fond of southern American cooking. I'm not a huge fan of fried foods and a lot of her dishes seen 'heavy' to me. (I'm sorry. Fried macaroni and cheese?!?!) And the very idea of using lard makes me cringe.

So who's on Food Network when I take my break?

Yup ... Paula.

Yes, I watched anyway, and I must confess, her first recipe had me captivated: Smoky Portobello Soup. I'm going to have to try it (I'll let you know how it turns out.) The rest of the show was chicken-fried steak with biscuits and gravy and then oyster shooters. No thanks. I will try the soup, though.

And since I mentioned it, my mother's meatloaf recipe:

1 pound ground beef
1 pound ham loaf mixture
1 egg
1 envelope onion soup mix
1 cup ketchup
1/4 cup mustard
1 cup oatmeal
Salt & pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Spray loaf pan or oblong baking dish with cooking spray.

Mix all ingredients together. Since it's best if you use your hands to mix, I recomend allowing the ingredients to come to room temperature before mixing.

NOTE: The measurements for the ketchup, mustard and oatmeal are estimates. You may need to adjust amounts -- too dry a mixture (will not hold shape and will fall apart in your hands) may require more ketchup and/or mustard. Too wet a mixture (sticks to your hands and won't hold shape) may require more oatmeal.

Shape mixture into one large two pound loaf or divide into two small one pound loaves. Place in baking dish and cover. Single loaf, bake for one hour, then remove cover and bake 15 minutes more. Two smaller loaves, bake for 45 minutes, then uncover and bake for another 10 minutes. Also makes great meatballs.