Bucket of Love

When I was a little girl my Grandma Hilda had a small doll-like wooden bucket sitting on a shelf over her kitchen sink. It held toothpicks, but I didn’t see it as a toothpick dispenser. I loved dolls, and to me it would make an ideal bucket for my Barbie.

I never asked Grandma if I could play with her bucket. After all, it wasn’t just a knickknack, she was using the dispenser. I never saw my grandfather with a toothpick, but it was common to see Grandma with one. She had a habit of occasionally walking around her house with a toothpick in her mouth. It was something that drove my mother crazy, as she was always worried grandma was going to hurt herself.

So, even though I never asked, I always noticed the miniature when I visited her home.

As I grew up, and no longer played with dolls, I didn’t necessarily see the bucket and think of Barbie. Oh, I still thought about my childhood fascination with the miniature, but now the object also reminded me of Grandma, bringing to mind her penchant for chewing on toothpicks. Over the years, I had formed a sentimental attachment to the little object.

Shortly after my Grandmother died, I visited my Grandpa Pete at their El Monte home. When I spied the small bucket, sitting forgotten and forlorn on the shelf, without Grandma to use up its supply of toothpicks, I was suddenly that little girl again. I wanted that bucket. But, I longer wanted to take it home and share it with Barbie. I wanted to take home part of grandma.

The idea of asking my Grandpa for the bucket seemed inappropriate, and in many ways, out of character for me. Yet, something in me forced me to ask.

I understand that when people die, it is not uncommon for family members to descend like vultures, and see what they can get. I never imagined I would ever ask for anything. But, for some reason, I wanted that simple, sentimental, wooden bucket.

I mustered my courage, and asked Grandpa Pete if I could have it. And not surprisingly, he gave it to me.

The little bucket sits on the windowsill in my kitchen, as it has for most of my married life. To others it looks like a quaint toothpick holder. To me, it is a sentimental piece from my childhood.

Cracker Jack History

I always appreciate the genealogy research of family members, treasuring the rich information they contribute to our ever growing accumulation of family history. One such person is my mother’s cousin, Virginia, who has always been an invaluable resource.

Virginia was much closer to her grandparents than my mother ever was, and from Virginia we are able to gleam more accurate information than might be found from any other family member of her generation.

Virginia has in her possession my great-grandfather’s Day Book, which she has been transcribing. Occasionally she will send us a bit of her work, sharing with us a glimpse of my great-grandparent’s day to day life.

We’ve learned that Great-Grandfather Bakken’s average monthly wage was $61 in 1899. He would often work two weeks straight, yet tried to come home on Sundays. A favorite gift for his children, on his homecoming, were boxes of Cracker Jacks.

When I first read about the Cracker Jacks, I wondered about the “Prize in every box”. Were the prizes much different in my Grandma’s day, than when I was a child? But then I learned (after checking out the Cracker Jack website) that prizes weren’t introduced until 1912, when my Grandma Hilda was 20.

The Cracker Jacks my grandmother enjoyed as a child, did not come with a prize in every box.

(Photo: Andrew & Louisa Bakken Family)

Women's Work

My Grandma Hilda was just 48 when my grandfather passed away. Together they had three grown sons, and two young daughters. They owned and operated the El Monte Laundry, and as was done in those days, the laundry went to the three sons, soon after George’s death.

The youngest son wanted no part of the family business, so it went to the two older boys, who then took on the responsibility of looking after their mother and two sisters.

Hilda had always worked alongside her husband, the two a team. Yet, in the midst of her grief, a family friend convinced her it would be best for all concerned if she turned the laundry over to the sons.

As time went on, and she learned to live with her grief, my grandmother was ready to find her new place in the world. Hilda was always known for being impeccably groomed, her outfits were always stylish and neatly pressed. Her daily routine included a modest application of face powder, a bit of lip stick, and of course her earrings, and other accent jewelry. (I especially remember her pop-beads.)

Grandma decided to apply for a job at one of the upscale department stores in Los Angeles. I expect she was considering something at the cosmetic or jewelry counter, perhaps in fashions. People loved her, and I imagine she would have been very good at the job. Although Grandma didn't drive, she frequently took the street car, which was about a 30 or 40 minute trip from El Monte to Los Angeles.

Yet, before the job became a reality, her sons put their foot down. No, their mother was not going to work. Not only was it unseemly, they were determined to look after her.

My uncles were good men, and I know they loved their mother. I imagine their intentions were pure, if not somewhat archaic. They believed they were acting in the best interest of my grandmother.

I often think of that story, and it makes me realize how so much has changed in the last sixty plus years. That job probably would have been very good for my grandmother. Funny how men in those days often overlooked the fact their women would do backbreaking work (such as my grandmother’s time on the farm or her work in the laundry), yet should they want to step out and try something like my grandmother proposed, it was considered unseemly, and suddenly the men in her life would make the decision that it was “unnecessary”.

Years later my Grandmother confided to her youngest child (my mother), that she regretted not pursing the job. It was something she wanted to do. Yet, in those days women often abided by the decisions of husbands and older sons. And even the men who wanted what was best for the women in their lives, often failed to recognize that their view was not always accurate.

(Photo:Hilda and her daughters, Margaret and Caroline)

Joy Ride

When my father was a young boy he lived with his grandparents, in Flint Michigan. Each week his grandfather, Thomas Clint, would go bowling, and sometimes dad would go with him. Once, when Dad was about 13, he grew a little restless waiting for his grandpa to finish bowling.

Dad decided to go for a bit of adventure, so he slipped from the bowling alley and took his grandpa’s car for a spin. He drove around town, having a grand time, when he realized it was about time to get back to the bowling alley, before his grandpa discovered he was missing.

When he returned, Dad realized someone had taken his parking space. In fact, the parking lot was full. He had no choice but to park the vehicle a distance from his original parking space.

Later, when Dad and his grandpa walked from the bowling alley to the car, Thomas looked perplexed, shaking his head as he mumbled to no one in particular, “I didn’t realize I parked this far out.”

(Photo:Thomas Duncan Clint)

Thief in the night

My mother turned 80 this month. She is a young 80, who stills does house work, and enjoys doing laundry. That is a good thing. You see, Mom lives with us.

I’ve been asking her to share with me memories and antidotes from her childhood. Tonight she told me of a story about her father, which occurred around 1935, in El Monte, California.

Her parents owned El Monte Laundry, and the family home was located next door.

In spite of the fact that they lived close to the business, the laundry was experiencing nightly break-ins. The thief was finding his way into the building, and taking what was left in the cash register, which happened to be the change. The bills were locked up each night, but the change in the drawer was being routinely lifted.

My grandfather, George Glandon, teamed up with his best friend, to set up a make shift burglar alarm, their goal was to catch the thief.

And so, Grandpa and his dear friend set the trap. It didn’t take long to catch the culprit, and to everyone’s dismay, it turned out to be the dear friend’s young son.

Of course, there was much embarrassment. I’m sure the last person the friend expected to see when he helped Grandfather play private eye, was his own son!

Barefoot, again

For as long as she can remember, mom has had an aversion to shoes. Whenever convenient, she would kick them off and go barefoot. It is something she can do as an adult, but as a child, it drove her parents crazy.

My mother was just eleven when her daddy died, yet she has many treasured memories of her father.

George Glandon, my maternal grandfather, was a fastidious, hard working man. A priority for him was that each of his five children were well dressed and groomed. This was not always an easy task during the depression. His wife, Hilda, normally wore dresses, and would never think of leaving behind her gloves and hat, should they go out. George would normally wear a suit and tie.

George had a pet peeve against parents who dressed their children as rag muffins, yet they themselves were well dressed.

When mom was about seven her father gave her a white hand muff. She loved the gift, and carried it with her everywhere. One afternoon, the family prepared for an outing, and they all dressed up in their Sunday best. In spite of the warm weather, mom insisted on taking along her muff.

When the family arrived at their destination and began unloading from the car, my grandfather was horrified to see his youngest, my mother, had failed to put on her shoes and socks (and had left them at home). She was barefoot.

Yet, she did have her muff.

A Bucket of Beer

When my Grandma Hilda was a little girl they sold beer by the pail. It was not uncommon for parents to send off their youngsters to fetch a bucket of brew.

As a child Hilda was a delicate Scandinavian lass, with clear blue eyes, fair skin and golden hair. She was not a hearty child, and her family often hovered over her. She lived in Minnesota with her four siblings and loving parents.

Hilda’s sister, Lena (whom our family called Helen), was just a year younger than Hilda, and the two were almost as close as twins.

Once, when talking of their childhood in Minnesota, she and Helen told of their brothers being sent to buy beer for their father, and suspected they occasionally helped themselves to the brew.One time, Grandma explained, she and her sister Lena grew curious, and so they went to fetch a bucket of beer, yet instead of taking it home to their parents, they found a place along the way home to sit comfortably and drink a fair share.

I have this vision of these two feminine little girls, with golden curls and innocent eyes, sitting down to try a taste. The beverage would not have been cold, if they were lucky it was cool and not warm. I imagine the giggles and air of forbidden pleasures, and I also imagine the tummy aches, that undoubtedly followed.

(Photo, Hilda & Lena Bakken)

Real Estate, it's in the blood

I always find it interesting when we discover an ancestor who shares a similar interest or occupation. My husband, Don, is the Broker at our real estate office. It is a career he enjoys, and definitely has an aptitude. When researching his lines, I learned (from the census records) that his great grandfather (on his mother’s side) was a real estate agent.

At a Holmes family website (on myfamily.com), to which Don is a member, one contributor wrote in about Pemberton Holmes, reportedly the longest running real estate company on Vancouver Island. I have no idea if Don is in someway to related to this Holmes, yet I found a photograph of Henry Cuthbert Holmes (who married a Pemberton), and thought the photograph looked eerily like one of Don’s Holmes uncles.

While this Holmes is no great grandparent (we already have record of that line), the resemblance does make me wonder if he is some cousin.

(Photograph of Don's great-grandfather, Charles Talbot)

Family sleigh bells

Keys to our heritage can often be found by examining the objects in our home. Of course, there can be false leads, take for example the Menorah which is displayed in our oak hutch. As far as I know, we have no Jewish ancestors (although I have wondered about the Sontag line). The Menorah was a gift from my sister (also a non-Jew). Both Lynn and I have always appreciated the symbolism of that Jewish celebration, appreciating the show of faith and God’s ever presence.

But, if you look to our front door, you will find an obscure clue to our Norwegian ancestry. It is a pair of sleigh bells that have been hanging on the front door of my home for practically my entire married life.

My great-Grandfather, Andrew Bakken, came to this country from Norway. He brought with him bells that had adorned his sleigh back in his mother country. The bells that were handed down to my grandmother, Hilda Bakken Glandon Meredith, were eventually divided. Hilda gave some to each of her five children.

My mother, Caroline Glandon Johnson, divided the bells given to her, to my sister, Lynn, and I.

After I was married (back in 1976), I tied the bells to our front door. A few years later, after we moved to Wrightwood California, I took the set of bells to a leather worker, who created the holder to which they are now fastened.

Whenever our front door opens, that familiar chime has heralded the comings or goings of our family and friends. When our children were older, they told us how they often cursed those bells for tattling on them when they attempted to slip from the house unnoticed.

Someday those bells will be divided again, one for our daughter, and one for our son. I hope they too carry on our tradition, and hopefully the children they may one day have, will know the bells’ origin, and about the long ago grandfather who came to this country from Oslo, Norway.

Books on a table

This afternoon I was one of the authors participating in the local book fair. Sitting next to me was Sharon Kossieck. I’d met Sharon earlier this year, when she asked me to speak at the local genealogy society’s monthly meeting

Sharon was displaying a genealogy book that she had prepared with her mother, with contributions from assorted cousins. The book was over 700 pages, an impressive volume, attractively put together and distinguishly bound.

We started to chat, and I noticed one of the names on the book’s cover was Catlitt. A not so common name, and one that pop’d up while researching my father’s line back to his great-great grandfather Johnson, and that grandfather’s father-in-law, Hugh Henry.

It turns out Catlitt is one of her family names. We both wondered, is there a connection?

Interesting how genealogy leads will pop up at the most unsuspecting times, and how ironic we were sitting next to each other at the book fair, each with our own book on family history on the table.

A little kindness on the Internet

I can’t think of any hobby (or obsession) that has benefited from the Internet as much as genealogy. Instead of making a trip to the local library of the Latter Day Saints, I can now surf to their website http://www.familysearch.org and do a little research from the comfort of home.

I love ancestry.com, yet I understand not everyone wants to pay for information. One of my favorite finds was http://www.sevierlibrary.org/genealogy.html , one of those great regional sites with all sorts of meaty documents and records, posted online for easy and free research access. I’ve done a lot of family research at that one site alone.

If those regional online docs aren’t enough, and you need a little human intervention, one of the more positive sites is Random Acts of Genealogical Kindness, http://www.raogk.com , where volunteers in other parts of the country can help you, when you can’t be there yourself. The service is free, although you are expected to repay any expense incurred by the volunteer.

I like the idea of “kindness” on the Internet.

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