The Book of Me, Part 11: Military Ties

This is my entry prompted by The Book of Me, Written By You project created by Julie Goucher of the Anglers Rest blog. The concept: a series of blogging and writing prompts that help family historians capture their own memories and write about themselves. Go to http://www.anglers-rest.net for more information.

This week's assignment:

The continuation of the 15 month, weekly writing project about my life and memories, created by Julie Goucher.
This week’s prompt (week 11) is Military

• Did you join the military?
Were you encouraged or discouraged?

• Did a family member?
• o Regular or for a particular incident

• Did you or your family serve overseas in the line of Service either during a war or a posting

• Any thoughts, photographs, memories relevant


My father was drafted and served in the U.S. Army during the Korean War.  He was only 19, leaving behind his sweetheart (my mother) and his parents.  He did not speak much of his experiences, and it took me some time after his death to realize that it must have been traumatic for him.

Dad in his high school ROTC uniform, cir. 1946-47
Copyright © 2013 Linda O'Donnell All Rights Reserved

Dad spoke of the intense loneliness when first leaving home, sleeping on a bunk in a room with a bunch of strangers, longing for the comfort and familiarity of home.  He said there were a few guys crying softly that first night, overcome with not only being away from home, but the enormity of the task ahead.  The only other incidents that Dad spoke of were ones that undoubtedly left him changed.  The first was seeing a buddy get shot and killed, right next to him.  I cannot even begin to imagine the emotional trauma it must have caused.

The other incident occurred when my dad was told to take a Jeep and go on patrol.  I don't know the details of where he was going or the ultimate goal of the patrol, but somewhere along the way, the Jeep got stuck in the mud.  Dad was going nowhere.  He was alone, in a hostile country, and had no way to get himself unstuck.  That is, until the snipers started shooting at him.  The fear caused his adrenaline to kick into high gear, and he would tell often tell us how surprised he was that he was able to single-handedly lift the back end of the Jeep out of the mud, and high-tail it out of there.  He always said that an angel helped him out, and I would have to agree.  Dad did suffer from back problems for the rest of his life, though, I often wondered if lifting a Jeep could have done some damage.

Dad, in Korea, cir. 1951
Copyright © 2013 Linda O'Donnell All Rights Reserved

Dad had the added emotional trauma of having to interrupt his service in Korea to return home, because his mother was dying of cancer.  He did arrive in time to see her before she passed, and was able to attend her funeral.  Then, back to Korea, active combat, and suppressing those emotions of loss.  How awful that must have been for him.

Dad on bereavement leave, 1953
Copyright © 2013 Linda O'Donnell All Rights Reserved

My mother, a high school student at the time of my dad's deployment, wrote to him every day, and he wrote back.  I can remember seeing a stack of letters he'd written to her that she'd saved, wrapped in ribbon, with his familiar block printing.  I was embarrassed at the "SWAK" (Sealed With A Kiss)  notation he had on the back of every envelope, and his "Hubba-Hubba" on the front was intended to compel the Post Office to deliver it quickly.  How much they must have missed each other!

I am fortunate in that I've never had to serve.  The Vietnam War ended while I was in high school, so none of my contemporaries were drafted.  My husband, who is nearly 10 years older than me, did serve during the Vietnam era, but was fortunate enough to be stationed in Korea and therefore missed most of the dangerous stuff.  While my father may have had many flaws, I am proud of his service to our country, his lifelong patriotism, and his courage.  I have a deep respect, admiration and gratitude for all of the men and women who serve in our military.  They make great sacrifices, not only by being in danger, but also by being away from their families and loved ones.  It's no cake walk, and I feel a strong sense of indebtedness to our heroes who help keep us safe.

Happy Veteran's Day, and may God bless all military personnel and their families.  And to my dad, who is with the angels now, I'd just like to say, thanks for your service and sacrifice.  

The Book of Me, Part 10: Unexplained Memories

This is my entry prompted by The Book of Me, Written By You project created by Julie Goucher of the Anglers Rest blog. The concept: a series of blogging and writing prompts that help family historians capture their own memories and write about themselves. Go to http://www.anglers-rest.net for more information.

This week's assignment:

The continuation of the 15 month, weekly writing project about my life and memories, created by Julie Goucher.
This week’s (Week 10) prompt is Unexplained Memories

Do you have an unexplained memory or memories?
Items
Places
People

Things and times you can remember, but you are not sure where they fit into your past.

Wow, another hard one.

The first thing that pops into my head when addressing this assignment is the image of my father, standing in the doorway of my bedroom one night, the lit end of his cigarette glowing in the dark.  I am pretending to be asleep, so that he will leave.  There were times when his alcoholism would get the best of him and he'd drag me out of bed for a beating, so I guess that's why this memory has stayed with me.  It was a volatile household, at the mercy of my father's wild mood swings, so we always held our breath, waiting for something to happen.  But, Dad didn't drag me out of bed frequently (only a few times that I specifically recall), so I'm not sure why I remember this incident.  I have no memory of anything happening other than my father just standing there.  I shared a room with my sister, so I'm fairly certain there was nothing of a more sinister nature associated with it.  I don't know how old I was, but I do know it was after we moved into our second house, so I was at least 8.  I'm sure Freud would have something to say about this, but I think it was just a coincidence that I happened to be awake one night when my father popped his head in to check on us.

What's weird is that this triggers another memory, one that I do remember so vividly.  I guess it's because it involves me being in bed at night. It was July 1970. Our beloved Grandpa had been out for a visit the previous weekend to celebrate the Fourth of July.  My brother was in bed in his room, and I in mine, both lying awake when we heard the phone ring at about 9:30 pm.  We heard our mother cry out, "Oh no!" and knew instinctively that something was wrong.  I don't know which one of us said it, but we wondered aloud, "Do you think it could be Grandpa?"  Deep down, we knew it probably was, but we really didn't want to go downstairs and find out.  We wanted to sleep one more night believing that Grandpa was still with us.  In the morning, we found out that the very thing we were dreading was true...Grandpa had died from a massive heart attack.  My brother and I remember that night so vividly--what was playing on the television (Hawaii Five-0), the time, the tone of our mother's voice, and that sense of foreboding we both had regarding the loss of our sweet Grandpa.  Life would never be the same.  I think for both me and my brother, it changed our view of the world, forever. 

I can't think of anything that I haven't figured out an explanation for, or a complete story to go with.   I have questions about things I remember, but alas, no one to answer them for me.  I just need to leave those in the past.

The Book of Me, Part 7: Grandparents

This is my entry prompted by The Book of Me, Written By You project created by Julie Goucher of the Anglers Rest blog. The concept: a series of blogging and writing prompts that help family historians capture their own memories and write about themselves. Go to http://www.anglers-rest.net for more information.

This week's assignment:

The continuation of the 15 month, weekly writing project about my life and memories, created by Julie Goucher.

The prompt for week 7 is Grandparents

What were their names?
Where were they from?
Were they related? – Cousins perhaps
Where were they born, another Country or state/area
Photos
What did they do?
Did you know them?
What was your relationship with them?
If you didn't know them have you researched about them?

Eva and Thomas Barski, cir. 1948
Copyright © 2013 Linda O'Donnell All Rights Reserved

I have always felt like I was cheated when it came to grandparents.  Many of my friends had grandparents with whom they had active, loving relationships.  Me, not so much.  But what I've learned about them (and from the one good grandparent I had in my life) has influenced me more than I originally realized.

Let's start with my father's side.  My father, Thomas, was the second of two children born to Thomas and Eva Barski, and the only son.  Eva was born in Austria (also called Galicia at the time), and came to the United States as a very young child with her mother after her father died, around 1910.  My grandfather, also named Thomas, was the youngest of three boys born in the United States to Polish immigrants.

I do not know how they met.  Eva died, tragically, of colon cancer (the same disease which claimed my father's life) in her early 50's.  Thomas Sr. took her death so hard that he decided to move away from the Chicago area and took up residence in southern California.  My father, who had to be called home from serving in the Korean Conflict, made it home to say goodbye to his mother and then promptly got shipped back to Korea after her funeral.  I cannot imagine how this must have impacted him.

Thomas Sr. was known to be somewhat less than dedicated to his jobs (apparently he had quite a few), and when times got tough, Eva somehow scraped enough money together to open a neighborhood grocery store, where she sold homemade sandwiches, cakes and salads.  She was known as the sensible one, the one who handled the finances, served as the emotional backbone of the family.  My father told me that his mother was always home when he arrived at the end of his school day, and I also remember him attempting to recreate many of her homemade recipes for Austrian concoctions that were met with varying levels of enthusiasm from us kids.  I wish I had met her.  From all accounts, Eva was kind, hard-working, and sensible, all traits I admire very much.

I only met my grandfather Thomas Sr. twice; once when I was 7 and once when I was 14.  During both visits, he was short-tempered, abrupt and rude.  Knowing that he ceased to be a part of my father's life when Eva died has given me insight into my father's own emotional shortcomings. Thomas Sr. died in 1980 in California, and apparently my father's reaction was one of disinterest.

My mother was an only child, the product of a marriage that probably should never have taken place.  My grandfather, Carl, was the only child of Swedish immigrants in Chicago, and my grandmother, Esther, was the oldest of three, born in Denmark and immigrated as a toddler.

Me & "Esther" on my wedding day, 1980
Copyright © 2013 Linda O'Donnell All Rights Reserved

I am also unsure how they met.  I know that Esther was a nurse and Carl was an accountant.  He was a sweet, gentle soul who wouldn't hurt a fly.  Esther threw dishes and vases at him when they argued.   They divorced when my mother was young, and Esther moved to Shreveport, Louisiana when my mother was in her early teens, to marry her second husband, Larry, leaving Carl to raise their daughter on his own.  This impacted my mother dramatically, and I don't believe she has ever coped with the sense of abandonment.  Carl never remarried...I think he loved Esther until the day he died.  God only knows why.

Esther would visit us once in a while, and her perfume would permeate the house for weeks after she left.  I have no doubt that she loved us, but she wasn't very demonstrative of it.  She was self-centered, judgmental and not very patient.  She would send my mother a check for our birthdays and Christmas, never taking the time to personally choose a gift.  My father detested Esther, and she hated him right back.  I heard stories of how my father threw her out of our house when I was a baby, because she was already trying to tell my parents how to raise me and was always critical of my dad.  When I relocated to Texas in the 1980's, Esther moved to Texas, and I would visit her occasionally, but I never developed the warm relationship with her that I craved.  We never baked cookies together, went shopping, or shared secrets.  She was Esther, not "Grandma," and as I got older, I found that I resented her for divorcing my beloved Grandpa.  When she suffered a stroke in 1998, I visited her in the hospital as much as I could, but we had very little to talk about.  I hate to admit that when she died, I didn't feel a huge sense of loss.

Me and my Grandpa, Cir. 1960
Copyright © 2013 Linda O'Donnell All Rights Reserved

As I mentioned in an earlier post, my grandfather Carl played a huge role in my life, for the short time I had him.  He adored me and my siblings.  He was very interactive with us, taught me to love Chicago sports, and always demonstrated his love, sense of humor and patience with us.  My father loved Carl more than his own father, and was devastated, like the rest of us, when Grandpa died suddenly at the age of 66.  I was 12.  My parents were never the same after Carl's death, and his loss caused whatever emotional stability we might have hoped for in my family to evaporate.

I had the opportunity to visit Grandpa's gravesite this past July.  He is buried in a huge cemetery...more than 40,000 souls are interred there.  My friend Carol and I went to the office, got ourselves armed with a map and set out to find him.  Even with the map, however, it was difficult to navigate the site, and the row markers were buried beneath overgrown grass.  So we decided to divide and conquer.  Carol went off in one direction and I in the other.  I encountered a young man, quietly sitting under a tree, who asked me who I was looking for.  I told him Grandpa's name, and as soon as the words left my lips, a huge, sustained gust of wind nearly knocked me over, creating a vortex of leaves and flowers, though there was not a cloud in the sky.  The young man joked that Grandpa must have known I was there.  We determined that his marker was on the other side of the section, so I walked back over to Carol and we drove around to access the proper spot.  When I mentioned the huge gust of wind, Carol had no idea what I was talking about.  Although she had only been about 25 feet away, she never felt the wind, saw the mini-tornado or heard a thing.  I began to cry...and once we found Grandpa's marker, I found myself talking to him, sobbing, telling him how much I loved him and missed him...43 years after he died.  That big wind was likely a coincidence, but I really felt connected to Grandpa that day.  Of all the adult figures in my childhood, he was the one who showed me unconditional and unwavering love and encouragement.  I think about him every day, and will miss him always.

Grandpa's marker
Copyright © 2013 Linda O'Donnell All Rights Reserved

Learning what I have about my grandparents and their lives, however, has given me a sense of the struggles my parents endured in their childhoods.  Perhaps it is why they were not the ideal parents to grow up with...although I am a firm believer that we all have the ability to choose how to treat others, especially our loved ones.  My dad's sister (my aunt), and her six children, are all warm, funny and intelligent people, so why did their family thrive while ours was always in turmoil?  There is no sense to make of it, no Monday morning quarterbacking, etc., that can give me concrete answers.  I've come to believe that they all did the best they could with the resources they had.  Some of us have more strength than others, and cope with the challenges of life in more positive ways.  I am thankful for the life lessons I learned...an innate sense of knowing right from wrong, a strong work ethic, passion, even humor.  I also learned that I wanted to be different in many ways-- a hands-on parent, an encourager, someone with patience and empathy, and I think, while I have my flaws, I have succeeded in achieving those things, for the most part.  I like to think I have most emulated my beloved Grandpa...showing love...not only to my family, but to friends and strangers alike.  What better tribute could I pay to him?

Blessings to you,

Linda

About My Dad...What I Learned Through Genealogy

Genealogy: it's more than the who/where/when type of facts that make a difference to me.

What have I gained from studying genealogy?

• A reunion with long-lost family members
• Insight into my father's alcoholism
• A degree of closure about my relationship with my father
• Info about family members I've never met

I think I've alluded to the fact that my upbringing was less than desirable.  My father was a lifelong alcoholic, and he often became physically abusive when intoxicated.  The environment at home was like walking through a minefield--you had to tread carefully, lest you incur Dad's wrath.

As an adult, our relationship remained dysfunctional.  Both my father and my mother were extremely reclusive.  They had no friends, rarely went out, and didn't really even want our company (me, my brother, our families) unless it was a holiday.  They were critical of many adult decisions I made, even though I know I made many choices in an effort, however fruitless, to please them.  It took years and lots of counseling for me to figure out it wasn't me.

There are several things about this relationship I find interesting, though.  My dad was an avid Chicago sports fan (especially the Blackhawks hockey team and Bears NFL team), and I have that same passion.  He also loved old movies, especially those with a war theme, and I have the same fondness for classic films, even war movies.  It was something I did with him during some rational moments, and it makes me remember him in a favorable light.  He loved cars, and so do I.  I share many of his passions!

My mother was an only child, but my father had a sister, my aunt.  Unfortunately, Dad had a falling out with his sister when I was about 10, so she, my uncle and six cousins were never mentioned again.  When I began my family research, I discovered that my aunt was still living...and after some communication, I was able to reunite with her and my cousins this summer...after 45 years!  I must admit to feeling some trepidation before our meeting...would they be normal?  What would they think of me?  Was there any animosity?

They are...simply incredible.  My aunt, who will be 90 next month (her hubby passed a few years ago), is kind, funny and sharp as a tack.  My cousins are wonderful people with families that are close-knit and supportive of one another.  It's a foreign concept to me, but they accepted me into their fold and now, my brother and I are no longer orphans.  It's an amazing feeling, and I have genealogy to thank for it.

The other thing that came from this meeting was insight into my father's mind.  My grandmother passed away at the relatively young age of 52.  My father had been in Korea, serving in the Army and in active combat, when he was called home to her deathbed.  Upon her death, my grandfather lost it and moved away.  He'd apparently never been much of a father to my dad, and losing his wife left him completely devastated emotionally.  My father must have felt the same way, and I cannot imagine how difficult it was for him to return to the war immediately after losing his mother.  Dad rarely spoke about his family, nor about his experiences in Korea.  I suspect there was some trauma that impacted him on a deep emotional level, and he was simply unable to cope without turning to alcohol as a crutch.

Dad & Me, my first wedding 1980
Copyright © 2013 Linda O'Donnell All Rights Reserved

Dad passed away in 2008, from the same cancer that claimed his mother.  I was holding his hand when he took his last breath, and I have complete peace about him.  He is in a better place, and when I see him again, we will at last have the father-daughter relationship I've craved my entire life.  I know that he was a tortured soul, and while he may have mistreated me, I think it was because he had personal demons he just didn't know how to deal with.  People of his generation rarely sought counseling, and he never did respond to my efforts to talk about things with him.

Dad knew I loved him, and I know he loved me.  He helped make me who I am, and I turned out okay.  It wasn't a great relationship, but after doing genealogy and finding out more about what he endured, I have compassion for him, and a sense of closure for myself.  Knowing just the dates and names would never have provided me with this kind of insight...it's the stories behind the facts.

This is dedicated to the memory of my dad:

My father and me, circa 1958
Copyright © 2013 Linda O'Donnell All Rights Reserved

Thomas D. Barski (1931 - 2008)

Blessings,
Linda

Why I'm Researching my Family Origins

credit below

The word "dysfunctional" has become so overused these days that it ceases to carry the impact it was originally intended to convey.  I was raised in one of those dysfunctional households; one that was so turbulent that even now, in my mid-50's, I cannot tolerate watching people in conflict on TV, because it triggers memories of the volatile atmosphere of my childhood.  Unfortunately, even in adulthood, the overall health of the family relationships did not improve, but what I got out of it was that I knew I didn't want to be like them, and I think I succeeded in that desire.

I started on a genealogy project for the daughter of a dear friend as a wedding present, and found myself fascinated not only by the work itself, but also the stories of the people--how they met their spouses, what motivated them to immigrate to the United States, the roles they might have played in their communities, and the tragedies they endured in trying to build their own version of the American dream.  In spite of the fact that my parents weren't Ozzie and Harriet (i.e. "ideal" for you younger readers), I wanted to know more about my family's origins.  Perhaps my research might lead me to a better understanding of how they became the people they were, how they were influenced by their own parents and life events.  I've always loved history, and having the ability to discover even a little bit about my ancestry is very compelling to me.  Perhaps I can gain some insight as to why my family was, shall we say, not like the Brady Bunch.

Many researchers are fortunate enough to have a lot of information available to them before they even start on their family trees.  Not me.  Here's what I knew when I started:

• Dad's birth date and location
• Moms' birth date and location
• Their marriage date and location
• Maternal grandparents' birth dates, one location
• Paternal grandparents' names and general date of death

I also knew my dad had a sister, my aunt.  They had a disagreement when I was ten or eleven, and due to my father, I didn't see her, my uncle, or my six cousins until this summer, 45 years later.  (More on that later.)  That's all I knew.  It's not much.  I also knew that my maternal grandfather's parents came from Sweden.   My maternal grandmother was born in Denmark and came over at age two.  But the bad part on both of them was their surnames--Johnson and Jensen.  These are so ridiculously common that it has made my research very difficult.  But, I never back away from a challenge, so I will press onward.  I know the journey itself is going to be as rewarding as reaching the final destination!



(Picture courtesy of freedigitaldownloads.net;  David Castillo Dominici, published on 08 October 2012
Stock Photo - image ID: 100105897

The Book of Me, Written by Me, Part 2

This is my entry prompted by The Book of Me, Written By You project created by Julie Goucher of the Anglers Rest blog. The concept: a series of blogging and writing prompts that help family historians capture their own memories and write about themselves. Go to http://www.anglers-rest.net  for more information.]

Prompt 2: Your Birth

• Do you have any baby photos?
• Where were you born?
• Who was present at your birth?
• Dimensions?
• What day was it? Time?
• Did you have hair? Eye colours
• Are you a twin?

My answers:

There are many photos of me since I am the first born and was the first grandchild on my maternal side.

I was born in Chicago, in the Near North neighborhood, not far from what is now called Wrigleyville.  (That must have been a factor in my irrational support of the Cubs for many years.)

My mother was there, although she had been given "ether," an anesthetic, so she wasn't as active a participant as most mothers are these days.  But, she was crucial in the process!  My dad was pacing outside the hospital, throwing up.  He never could handle hospitals.

I'm not sure what my exact dimensions were, but around 7-1/2 pounds.  Pretty average.  On time, too, I think.  It was an early Monday morning, on a rainy fall day in October.

My eyes were blue until about age 3 (now they are green), and I had brown hair that turned blonde when I was a youngster.  Now my blonde comes from a bottle. (Thank goodness for Lady Clairol!)

Not a twin.  A brother and sister came later, though.