We live because you remember
My Uncle Roy died last week. A World War II veteran, he was eighty-eight years old. He and my Aunt June, who is still living, were married for sixty-six years. Aunt June was the youngest of eleven children born to my Morningstar grandparents, and is now the last living relative of my father’s generation. She is the only one left who can tell me about my father who died when I was four years old, and the Morningstar grandmother I never knew. Two years ago I received a letter from my aunt. We were living in a log cabin in northern British Columbia at the time, and our experiences reminded her of her own mother’s (my Grandmother’s) life on their homestead in the Coast Range foothills outside of Drain, Oregon. Aunt June wrote:
“What a hard life your Grandmother Morningstar must have had, having eleven kids… no water but for a spring above the house, no electricity. Can you think about washing for eleven kids? She had to cook on the wood stove, and one thing she taught all of her kids was to be great cooks. Your Dad was so good at making baking powder biscuits that he told us kids to stay away from the oven door because they were so light they would be flying out of the oven!” There was an old log cabin on my Grandmother’s place. Aunt June remembers she and my Dad going there in the spring time “when the lady slippers and water lilies were in bloom; we could find lots of them. When I was in school we used to see how many kinds of flowers we could find and name. When we were down in the woods at the cabin, the owls would hoot and scare me. Also bobcats, cougars, and sometimes a bear.”
Aunt June’s memories give me something to hang onto. They make a living, breathing person of my grandmother and father, rather than the solemn faces that peer at me from sepia toned photos in the family album… my father is baking biscuits, my grandmother is washing clothes, my Aunt June is scared when the owls hoot and a bobcat is near. We live on in the fragmented memories of others. And when we cease to be a memory, we cease to exist. So tell your stories to your children and grandchildren. Pass your memories on.
... PLM
“What a hard life your Grandmother Morningstar must have had, having eleven kids… no water but for a spring above the house, no electricity. Can you think about washing for eleven kids? She had to cook on the wood stove, and one thing she taught all of her kids was to be great cooks. Your Dad was so good at making baking powder biscuits that he told us kids to stay away from the oven door because they were so light they would be flying out of the oven!” There was an old log cabin on my Grandmother’s place. Aunt June remembers she and my Dad going there in the spring time “when the lady slippers and water lilies were in bloom; we could find lots of them. When I was in school we used to see how many kinds of flowers we could find and name. When we were down in the woods at the cabin, the owls would hoot and scare me. Also bobcats, cougars, and sometimes a bear.”
Aunt June’s memories give me something to hang onto. They make a living, breathing person of my grandmother and father, rather than the solemn faces that peer at me from sepia toned photos in the family album… my father is baking biscuits, my grandmother is washing clothes, my Aunt June is scared when the owls hoot and a bobcat is near. We live on in the fragmented memories of others. And when we cease to be a memory, we cease to exist. So tell your stories to your children and grandchildren. Pass your memories on.
Charles and Jennie Morningstar with eight of eleven children.
My father is in front row, extreme right. Aunt June had not been born yet.
My father is in front row, extreme right. Aunt June had not been born yet.
My father (top center) and his students at Dearhorn School, Oregon, 1936
... PLM
posted by Looking for Hope | 7:29 PM
3 Comments:
I have 2 grandsons and I keep a journal for each of them including memories of our lives together and memories of my own childhood. I hope they will some day treasure it. I think family memories are so important. I hope you are feeling well today. Thanks for the story.
Doc's Girl
Morningstar, did you receive your gift of words from family members, as well as your artistic gifts? Or are you pioneer of these treasures that may be passed on to those yet to come in your family?
I hope Friday, with all of it's technical sterility was over quickly for you.
Kathi
Kathi and Doc's Girl
I would say that my birth father had a lot to do with my artistic bent and love of nature. As I mentioned in my posting, he died when I was only four years old, but in the brief time that we had together he laid the foundation for the person I was to become. He was a teacher, an artist, a poet, a 4-H leader, a lover of nature and an avid outdoorsman. He was a family man, helping his widowed mother with the farm and stepping into the father role for his youngest sister. He did the same when his brother died in a logging accident, helping his sister-in-law and her young children. One leg was shorter than the other so he walked with a noticeable limp, but still coached the baseball team in the small rural schools in which he taught. There is very little left of his material things; a small watercolor painting, his journal of ink-penned poetry, a set of encyclopedias, a book by Gene Stratton-Porter, and sepia toned photos of my father and his ragtag depression era pupils. I treasure those things for they tell me much about my father, but his true legacy lies in the affect his life had upon me, and others. One of the poems he wrote was almost an epitaph, saying that if he could make a difference in even one child’s life, his life would have been well lived.
The MRI brain scan gave us bad news… the cancer has metastasized to the brain. Medication and plans for radiation has already begun. Bob will be writing a full Update report.
Thank you for caring,
Morningstar
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