52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks (Week 12): 12

12 Reasons Why I Love Genealogy and Family History

I am an occasional list maker, and this topic ("12") lends itself to just that.  Oh, genealogy and family history, how do I love thee?  Let me count the ways... there are at least twelve!

1.  Perpetual Learning

Family history has opened up various avenues for creativity and study.  There are endless learning possibilities, whether it is keeping abreast of ever-changing software, databases and other resources, or honing computer and research skills, in general.  Wanting to know more caused me to enroll in a year-long Genealogy and Family History certificate program at the University of Washington.  It also led to participation in three years of seminars dealing with history writing and research methods.  I continue to learn from my own investigations, and from conferences, online sources, and also friends involved with genealogy who provide inspiration and comraderie.

2.  Building Expertise

Perpetual learning associated with genealogy naturally leads to increased knowledge.  Through this process I have become more organized in my research, improved my writing skills, gained experience in both publishing and self-publishing, and have even given presentations at a few different venues (who woulda thunk it?)

3.  Thrill of the Hunt

Anyone who is truly passionate about family history is familiar with the "happy dance" that occurs inside (and sometimes manifests itself physically), whenever a tempting tidbit of information is finally located.  The results are even better if you have had to chew on a mystery for some time, and wait patiently for further inspiration or a chance detail to present itself from somewhere in the ether.  Solving problems in genealogy is like the best Easter egg hunt ever!  Or, wait... maybe it is more like finally discovering what Santa has left you on Christmas?

4.  Answering My Own Questions

I began genealogy research at about the time I completed a long-desired college degree.  A first trip back to my mother's childhood home in Minnesota combined with suddenly having "spare time" no longer needed for studying, propelled me into the wonderful world of family history.  There were questions for which the answer was not readily available, such as:  what was Great-Grandpa's Norwegian name, and where in Norway did he come from?  When I purchased my first computer and acquired a few initial answers from a cousin, the gong sounded. The journey to discover my origins had begun.

5.  A Sense of Connection

Little did I realize how profound the sense of connection with my ancestors would turn out to be as I began discovering their personal histories.  Some of the information available was more than I ever would have expected, while some remained frustratingly sparse or out-of-reach.  But, overall, the experience of genealogy research has provided me with a bigger picture that gives not only perspective but added meaning to my life.

6.  Discovering Social History

Have you ever wished you could go back in time and experience an era for yourself?  I mean, taking it a step beyond admiring those vintage photographs or drawings and the curious fashions and hairstyles.  Studying the customs and events that your ancestors lived through, when combined with the details of their personal lives, is as close to entering a Time Tunnel that you will experience.  Researching social history has helped me to understand why my ancestors engaged in certain activities (like relocating or changing jobs), and offers a broader perspective on the actions of those who can no longer speak for themselves.

7.  Satisfying a "Need for People"

As an introvert, genealogy fits right in with my need for a solitary sort of a hobby.  I can go as slowly as I like, or run in wild abandon, and I don't have to worry too much about pleasing anyone but myself.  According to the Myers-Briggs personality assessment (which I have taken three times), I am an INFJ type (Introversion, Intuition, Feeling, and Judging).  Experts say that this is the rarest of sixteen personality types, making up less than one percent of the population.  The short story is that while I am a tried and true introvert, I need people more than other introverted types.  But, that need is specifically for meaningful relationships, as opposed to just social contact.  I value close friendships, family, and a sense of belonging most highly...  I love being married, for example, but I hate the dating scene.  Researching family history provides a similar but equally valuable connection with others that I can access any time I wish.

8.  Appreciating the Past

When I was in the seventh grade, if someone had told me that I would one day major in history in college, I would have laughed.  History???  Only the most boring class ever... full of meaningless dates and details to memorize.  Boy, was I wrong.  It took genealogy to help me see the light, and I did indeed get my degree in history.  Thanks to the personalization that family history has brought to the larger topic, I now have an appreciation of the past in a way I never could have imagined as a school girl.

9.  Understanding Human Nature

Everyone has secrets, and in today's high tech world with DNA tests offering few hiding places, it becomes more likely that certain secrets will no longer stay in the shadows.  When interpreting the actions of those who are no longer alive to defend themselves, we must tread carefully.  By studying the social, cultural, and even family expectations of the times, it is easier to determine possible reasons for behaviors and events.  Human nature is complicated, and extenuating circumstances are almost always involved.  I appreciate how studying family history has encouraged me to think on broader terms and enabled me to avoid putting someone "in a box" as far as expectations go.

10. Preserving Stories

I love biography, and fortunately, I love to write.  As I uncover the bits and pieces of my family's history, I can think of nothing better than to give new life to nearly forgotten stories.  Through compiled data, social history, photograph identification, oral history, and other methods, I try to build an unbiased and mostly accurate impression of someone's experiences.  Each life contains a library of information and inspiration just waiting to be rediscovered!

11. Making Connections

If you blog it, they will come.  It's true!  I have met many cousins thanks to my family history blog, a dedicated Facebook group, and my online trees--many more than through DNA results alone.  If someone is searching for information on a particular family member that I happen to have written about, I inevitably get contacted.  It is always nice to meet family, whether virtually or otherwise.

 12. Sharing With and Helping Others

I have never understood why some people will go to the trouble of creating an extensive family tree on Ancestry.com, for example, and then keep the information private.  Knowledge is for sharing--spread the love!  I am more than happy to share or discuss information with interested parties if asked.  All I want is to be given proper acknowledgment and have copyright concerns respected (especially when it comes to photographs) if material I provide is used elsewhere.  If we could search into the past far enough, we would find that we are all cousins.  What a lovely thought.  Why not help each other toward the same goals?

A Family Historian Blinded by Science

My family and friends know how passionate I am about genealogy and history, especially Norwegian-American and pioneer history.  But, there are other topics that also manage to get my heart jumping in a joyful pitter-patter.  I confess--I am not just a family history nerd, but a bit of a science nerd, too.  I have Moon in my Room on a wall in my house, and I have been known to buy calendars with nothing but photos of Albert Einstein gracing the parade of months.

Like many, I can trace an avid interest to a pivotal time or moment during my youth.  I was in junior high school when a perfect storm of events catapulted me into a lifelong long interest in astronomy and science-fiction.  Many years later, it led to a relationship with my husband.  Well, sort of.  Before me, he had never met a woman who appreciated classic science-fiction.  When we met at a dance many years ago, he asked what my favorite movie was.  I responded that it was War of the Worlds (the 1953 version produced by George Pal), which was one of my all-time favorite confort movies to watch and rewatch.  His face lit up and he asked:  "Will you marry me?"  While he said it in jest then, he meant it more a little later on!

Today, I have limited time and energy to keep up with all the news on the science front.  But. I will never forget the sequence of events that began in the eight grade, opening my mind and changing my outlook on the universe... forever.

A traditional planetarium with an ant-like Zeiss projector never fails to get me twitterpated.

During the autumn of 1966, the first episodes of a new television series, Star Trek, aired, and the lunch-time crowd I hung around with at school was obsessed by it.  While I was becoming enamored of Mr. Spock on TV, I was also invited to join a Camp Fire Girls group.  The first outing I participated in was an educational visit to the old Chabot Observatory and Planetarium on Mountain Boulevard in Oakland, California.  Within the domed and darkened planetarium, the tall, bespectacled astronomer dazzled us with images of a breathtakingly starry night sky.  We also experienced sunrise and sunset, the Aurora Borealis, constellations rotating through the seasons, and we did not even have to go outside.

For Christmas that year, I was given a book on astronomy and a modest-priced telescope.  It was a refracting terrestrial model that was better suited for marine landscapes and bird watching, but I didn't care.  I was "over the moon" to have it, and it felt like the mysteries of the universe were at my fingertips, waiting to be caressed.  Later on, I added star charts and a subscription to Sky and Telescope magazine to my hobby supplies.

I began haunting the science-fiction section of my local library for novels and stories to read.  When I learned to drive, I explored library holdings all around Contra Costa County.  My favorite destination was the Pleasant Hill Library, which meant a scenic 20-mile drive from my El Cerrito home along a rural county highway.  I discovered so many other-worldy worlds within the library stacks thanks to:  Isaac Asimov, Robert Heinlein, Andre Norton, Ray Bradbury, Arthur C. Clarke, and more.

Then came Creature Features--a program that aired weekly in the Bay Area, with dry-humored, cigar-smoking Bob Wilkins as the host.  There were a lot of campy, low-grade horror movies watched on those Friday nights, but once in a while, the program delivered a classic of the type I appreciate to this day.  Included in these gems were the original Day the Earth Stood Still (1951), and the innovative Forbidden Planet (1956)--known for its Robby the Robot character and often considered to be the best science-fiction film of all time.  I was then on the hunt for more films of the same caliber.  Carl Sagan's Contact is one of the more modern sci-fi films that speaks to me in a poignant way.

A school friend of mine, Margot, had a father who belonged to the Bay Area Science-Fiction Club.  Through his membership, he hob-knobbed with some of the local authors whose work I had been selecting from library shelves.  When I was asked to join Margot and her father at a couple of science-fiction conventions, you had better believe that I lobbied my mother with all my might to be able to go.  Luckily, she did not find any reason to keep me at home.

One of the events we attended was Baycon (1968)--the 26th WorldCon (World Science Fiction Convention).  After presenting our admission tickets, Margot and I were let loose inside Berkeley's Hotel Claremont to discover things for ourselves, while her father went about on his own agenda.  There were exhibits of science-fiction art like I had never seen before.  There were hidden rooms down long hallways where authors, including the highly respected Ray Bradbury, and others in the publishing business, gave talks or had discussions.  In an area near the lobby, a panel of people sat behind a length of tables.  Margot pointed and said, "There's Gene Roddenberry!"  The screenwriter and producer of Star Trek, Gene Roddenberry, was being honored by authors in a field where television was little recognized at the time.  What we were witness to, but could hear little of due to the massing crowd, was Robert Silverberg's presentation of a Hugo Award to the relative newcomer, Roddenberry:

Robert Silverberg (popular science-fiction author and toastmaster of the Baycon Hugo Awards Ceremony, 1968):

 "What shall we do next? We have such a long, long list of events. I’m standing, I have my shoes off, it’s quite comfortable up here. Let us give out another of those little plaques now. There, that shiny one down there. Is there a Roddenberry in the house? I have here a plaque with long pointed ears. This is National Kiss an Executive Producer of Star Trek Week–Harlan [Ellison], kiss him for me... This object says “To Gene Roddenberry for Producing Star Trek, 1967, presented by the Baycon Committee September 1, 1968.” 

Gene Roddenberry:

 "Thank you so much. I’m touched. I am also thankful to Harlan for his response." 

(Baycon Hugo Awards ceremony)

All I can say is "Wow"--that I, as a 14-year-old girl, should have been so lucky.  Margot and her father also took me along to the Bay Area Science-Fiction Club's private release showing of the 1968 movie, 2001: A Space Odyssey, at a theatre on Market Street in San Francisco.  For the time, the movie was nothing less than jaw-dropping.

My budding interest in science turned more than just skyward.  Margot's mother took us to explore the Lawrence Hall of Science in the hills above the University of California Berkeley campus.  The view of San Francisco Bay from the parking lot was something to behold in itself.  But, the main thing I remember about the Hall in those early years was the large and dark lobby with many lighted cases where mineral spheres of all different sizes, colors, and patterns were on display.  They were mesmorizing.  My favorite pages within the Encyclopedia Britannica had always been the color photographs of gem and mineral specimens.  Lined up like smooth and precious marbles, the spheres hinted at a story deep in the Earth that I longed to know more about.  Sadly, the geology class I later took in college did not stimulate the romance I was looking for.

Lawrence Hall of Science in Berkely, California (postcard view).

As I continued to pursue interests sparked by the influence of some special friends during my middle school years, I attended several Star Trek conventions.  I have autographed souvenir photographs of cast members as proof.  I did not actually meet Leonard Nimoy ("Mr. Spock"), however, until many years later, when he gave a talk at the University of Washington campus while promoting one of his books.  As I reached the head of the line of people waiting for an autograph, he looked at me expectantly.  Suddenly I felt like I was in the eighth grade again.  I was so nervous that all I could do was smile bashfully.  Did I just lock eyes with Mr. Spock?  The historic moment did not fully sink in until later.  Spock was second in a short timeline of childhood crushes, preceded only by the "cute" Beatle, Paul McCartney.
 
When I lived in the Bay Area, I took every opportunity to visit the Morrison Planetarium in Golden Gate Park, San Francisco.  Morrison was one of the largest planetariums in the nation.  It has been modernized and is now a digital planetarium, but when I visited it was still operated by aprojector.  Attending evening planetarium shows when the California Academy of Sciences building was closed to the public meant lining up in a roped off area alongside towering models in the hall of dinosaurs--an added treat.  Also in the direct pathway of the line-up was the museum's famous Foucault Pendulum.  The pendulum's heavy bob, a hollow 16-inches in diameter brass ball, is suspended by aircraft control wire of a carefully determind length, and anchored to the ceiling.  As the bob swings across a wide pit, the Earth's rotation causes the direction of swing to "precess," or turn clockwise above the floor.  With so many cool things to look at within the building, and freedom from daytime crowds, I loved waiting in line and anticipating the planetarium show as much as the show itself.

Another experience I consider to be a highlight of my life were trips to Lick Observatory and its Summer Visitors Program.  As the world's first permanently occupied mountain-top astronomical observatory, Lick Observatory is reached by a well-constructed mountain road winding eastward from San Jose, California and the Silicon Valley, or by a much longer way around--south along the Mines Road from the backyard of Livermore.  From 1888, the observatory has been under the guidance of the Regents of the University of California.  The Visit Information website has a video of Lick's mountaintop location that was filmed by a drone, offering unique views.

Lick Observatory, Mount Hamilton, California

The Summer Visitors Program has been active for decades.  Once you reach the mountain top location, be prepared for a long evening.  Ticket-holders can enjoy the scenery of the Santa Clara Valley below and have time for a picnic dinner before the doors are opened.  After perusing the exhibits and gift shop in the main building, you can attend a lecture on a selected astronomy topic.  Visitors then have the opportunity to view the 120-inch Shane Reflector Telescope from behind a glass window inside its domed building, or look through one of two other telescopes.

The most popular event of the program is the chance to get up close and personal with the instrument the observatory is best known for:  the 19th-century 36-inch Great Refractor.  A select number of people are allowed inside the big dome at any time.  Stepping up and over the track where the dome turns atop the base of the building, you find yourself on a catwalk that hugs the inner curvature of the dome, but made safe by a railing. Then, in even smaller numbers, visitors are allowed to step down onto the wood floor and position themselves near the earth-end of the monster telescope.  But, instead of using just a stepladder to reach the eyepiece, the operator pushes a button to raise or lower the entire floor to bring the eyepiece in alignment with your eye!  I will never forget my first glimpse of the universe through that huge and historic refractor.  Within the dark view field sparkled Messier 13 (M13)--the Great Globular Cluster in the constellation of Hercules.  It was discovered in 1714 by none other than Edmond Halley, of Halley's Comet fame.  With a linear diameter of 145 light years, the Globular Cluster shone like a scattering of diamonds on a black velvet cloth.

Over time, there have been many other events that have fed my interest in science, especially astronomy.  Not least was the documentary series Cosmos:  A Personal Voyage, and its charismatic host and writer, astronomer Carl Sagan, with his penchant for explaining "life, the universe, and everything" in digestible, yet utterly fascinating, snippets.  And, let's not forget the launches of Voyager I and II, and years before those--the memorable day when humankind first set foot on the surface of the moon:  July 20, 1969.

Oh, and did I mention that I once took a drive to a comic book store some distance away from home, just to see a life-size paper mache model of the Martian made for the 1953 War of the Worlds movie?  I told you--a science and science-fiction nerd!

You may wonder what a post of this kind is doing in a blog that is all about Norwegian-American family history.  Since I am part of my own family's story, perhaps some of my tales are worth telling, too.  This is exactly the kind of detail that I often wish I knew about many of my departed relatives.  What did they find interesting or challenging?  What did they cherish the most?  What did they look forward to on a day-to-day basis?  What fueled their dreams and aspirations?

Have you thought about what sets your own heart to beating faster?  You have an opportunity to tell your story and eliminate a lot of guess work later on.  You never know who, present or future, may be listening!

Halloween Memories from 1987

Our beloved Kippers on the back deck with a cat Jack-O-Lantern pal.

 Happy Halloween!

from 26 years ago...

Go out and make some memories

An impressive ghoul and a fine old fashioned lady (Ian and Courtney), both sensibly dressed for the occasion in athletic shoes.

Family Bonds--Fast Forwarding the Years

Getting together with my first cousins in August reminded me of how quickly time passes, leaving memories a bit faded, but the impressions as vivid as ever.  We shared a few precious visits together during our youngest years, and they were very bonding experiences.  One visit occurred when I was about two and a half years old.  Dad drove me down to Campbell, California from our home in Richmond so that I could stay with my mother's sister, Phyllis Rice, while Mom was in the hospital for a routine procedure.

Although I do not remember the exact event, my cousin Cheryl tells me that before Dad even left to go back home, Cheryl and I managed to get into a jar of Vaseline and experimented with it as beauty cream and hair gel.  She chided me that while Dad took me immediately to the bathtub to scrub the sticky grease out of my hair, she was left to deal with her own unfortunate circumstances.  Being the only girl in a family with two boys, she was often expected to be a tad more responsible than her years.  She probably also had to look out for me after Dad's departure, being the elder of us two girls.  Ah, the unfairness of childhood.  And, we were off to such a fine start with the Vaseline incident!  I'm sure that Dad drove away wondering if Aunt Phyllis would ever want to babysit me again.



"Our Gang" in 1956

Three siblings and a first cousin at the Rice home in Campbell, California, 1956.  Left to right:  Curtis Rice, Chery Wheeler (me), Craig Rice, and Cheryl Rice.  Cheryl and I are wearing matching dresses with multi-colored pockets, made for us by my mom.

My cousins and I had a grand time during those visits in Campbell.  I have always felt sorry that my sister was born a few years too late to be a part of it all.  We were all about the same age, with Craig born the same year as me, Cheryl one year older, and Curtis, the eldest, was two years older.  We often resembled a step ladder while standing all together.  I was a little frightened and lonely after Dad drove off and left me behind for that first stay of about a week.  Being so young, I did not understand what had probably been explained to me quite thoroughly, about staying with my aunt and cousins for a short period of time until my parents could return for me.

That visit at age 2-something is the first real memory I have of my aunt and cousins, though they were familiar to me at the time from our earlier get-togethers in Richmond, where my parents lived and where my Aunt Phyllis lived before moving to Hanford, and then Campbell.  After allowing myself to mope a little about being left behind, I set about to have some fun with my cousins.  We spent hours tearing around as Cowboys and Indians, and climbed on the dead tree trunk in the yard.  We scrounged for prune plums through and over the fence of a nearby orchard, and hunted polliwogs, caterpillars, and other unsuspecting creatures.  We caught glimpses of shows like "Annie Oakley" and "Tugboat Annie" on my aunt's console television while waiting to get our hair washed in the huge laundry room sink.  At meal times, I admired the multi-colored octagonal Fiesta ware plates that my food was served on.  I was just starting to get used to the idea of hanging out with my cousins when my parents returned to take me home again.


"Our Gang" in 2013

Three siblings and a first cousin at the wedding of Matthew and Chelsea (Johnson) Rice in Aurora, Oregon, August 17, 2013.  Left to right:  Curtis Rice, Chery (Wheeler) Kinnick, Cheryl (Rice) Nibler, and Craig Rice (father of the groom). Although it was not planned, Cheryl and I are again wearing clothes with  a similar pattern and colors!

I still enjoy hanging out with my cousins whenever I have the opportunity, which has not been frequent due to our inevitably busy family lives and work schedules, plus the driving distance between states.  But, we have found ourselves in each other's company a couple of times over the past several years, as our children graduate from college and settle down to married life.  Soon, those children will have children of their own, and there will be new little cousins to form bonds with each other.  The importance of extended family is sadly neglected in the increasing busy-ness of modern life.  But, I can say that whether my cousins and I are near or far from each other, it is comforting just knowing that Curtis, Cheryl, and Craig are out there, sharing some of the same childhood memories and family experiences.  I hope we will continue to have many such reunions as the years progress, though our activities and conversations are bound to be a bit more sedate than those of decades past!


A Tribute to Great Aunties: The Johnson Sisters




Mabel Johnson, Thea (Johnson) Humberstad, and Cora (Johnson) Moen.  Richmond, California, November 6, 1946.

At times, I have a longing to hear the Norwegian-American brogues of my great aunties again. These women, who have been gone for many years now, were especially important to me as a child, since I did not experience the love and indulgences of a grandmother while growing up.  My maternal grandmother died of tuberculosis when Mom was not yet two years of age, and my adoptive father was orphaned while still young.

My great aunts were among ten children born to Ole and Malla Johnson, who were both of Norwegian-American immigrant families.  The Johnsons began their married life in Chippewa County, Minnesota, and then moved to in Fosston in Polk County, and spent the last decades of their lives farming near Leonard in Clearwater County, where my mother was raised.  The ten children were:  Bennett, Ernest (my grandfather), Cora, Thea, Odin, Mabel, Oral, Ruben, Carl, and Frank.  All lived to a ripe old age;  I'd say that was quite an accomplishment for young parents starting a family in the late 19th century.

One of my cousins jokingly refers to the photograph of the middle-aged Johnson sisters in their winter coats as "The Three Stooges."  I had to laugh the first time I heard that, because there does seem to be something reminiscent of the mock severity of a Moe, Larry, and Curly portrait in their demeanor.  But, perhaps the joke is on us, because both my cousin and I are now older than our great aunts at the time their photograph was taken. How time changes one's perspective!  But, no one can deny that they were once the sweetest little babies, as cute as a mother could ever hope for...

Cora and Thea Johnson, ca. 1893.



Cropped image of Mabel Johnson, ca. 1899.  Granite Falls, MN.

Thea was the first to leave her home state of Minnesota for Oregon, where her husband, Carl Humberstad, a lumberjack, saw job prospects with the prolific west coast lumber business. Cora and her husband, Emil Moen, followed to Oregon soon after. Mabel, who never married, left her job at a hotel laundry in St. Paul, Minnesota, to ride west on the train with my mother, Doris Johnson, in 1945. The pair were following my grandfather, Ernest Johnson, and my aunt, Phyllis Johnson, to Richmond in the San Francisco Bay Area.  Mabel rented an apartment in a Richmond four-plex until she retired in the early 1960s and then moved to Salem, Oregon, to be near her sisters again. After that, it was necessary for my family to go on vacation in order to see nearly everyone in my mother's family, especially after Grampa Ernest moved to Salem, as well.




Cora Johnson Moen:  born July 15, 1891 in Montevideo, Minnesota; died May 28, 1975 in Salem, Oregon.





Cora, the eldest Johnson sister, lived with her son and daughter-in-law in a house that backed up to my Aunt Phyllis's house in Salem.  Cora was my mother's favorite aunt, because she was the most maternal to my mother when she was a girl.  To some, Cora seemed a little too serious, and too much of a disciplinarian.  But, her "no-nonsense" attitude was formed by necessity as the eldest daughter on her parents' farm.  Expectations on her were high, and she was required to take on a heady round of day-to-day responsibilities up until the time she left home as a married woman.  Cora and her husband, Emil, had only one child, Harvey, and she was devoted to both of the men in her life.  Cora had the great misfortune of suffering the loss of both her parents and her husband in the same year, 1948.  In about 1960, she bought a new ranch-style house in Salem, and apparently gave her previous home to her sister, Mabel.  The new home had a large brick fireplace with built-in shelves on either side, all filled with good-sized animal ceramics that she collected.




Cora with her husband, Emil Moen, and their son, Harvey.  Clearwater County, Minnesota, ca. 1930.

Thea Johnson Humberstad; born April 28, 1893 in Montevideo, Minnesota; died February 6, 1967 in Salem, Oregon.





Thea, the next eldest sister, caught people's attention not only because of her short, round stature, but also because of her jolly nature and light-hearted, tittering laugh.  Thea possessed plenty of farm girl sensibility, but it was coated by an overall good sense of humor.  She and her husband, Carl Humberstad, were well-loved by many.  Thea gave birth to two sons:  Curtis, born in 1925, who died four days after birth, and Wesley, born in 1927.  The Humberstads owned a small white house with pink trim in West Salem, and they filled the yard with flowers and whimsical wooden yard ornaments made by Carl--everything from sunbonnet girls and painted tulips, to bird and duck whirly-gigs, and a windmill, of course.  Inside the house, nearly one wall of their tiny living room was filled with a salt and pepper shaker collection that would have been the envy of any antique dealer.  An old spinning wheel, brought from Norway by Carl's mother, took up another prominent corner of the room.  Not one to enjoy anything without a bit of whimsy added for spice, Carl painted his mother's old constant friend a bright shade of peppermint pink.  Thea was the first of her siblings to pass away, in 1967.



Thea (Johnson) Humberstad standing on the porch of her
 West Salem house, early 1960s.

Mabel Johnson:  born February 10. 1898 in Montevideo, Minnesota; died July 23, 1983 in Salem, Oregon.





Mabel, the youngest sister, was never married.  My grandfather thought this sister of his was a little too silly at times, even though she did work hard as a youngster in addition to seeking out friends and fun.  Mabel had to do all of the baking on the farm after her older sisters married, and became responsible for sewing all the clothes needed for her young nieces, Phyllis and Doris.  In late summers, she often traveled to South Dakota to serve as cook for threshing crews.  I felt particularly close to Mabel, because we lived with her when I was a baby, and she occasionally babysat for me in the years to follow.  I liked nothing better than to revisit her old apartment overlooking the railroad tracks in Richmond, and then later, her little bungalow in Salem, which had probably been given to her by her sister, Cora.  She was the only adult I knew who would play endless rounds of "Go Fish" or "Old Maid," and she preferred to distract kids from arguing by using a metal clicker, like in dog training.  After Mable moved to Salem, her only income was Social Security and a little babysitting money.  She was very frugal--buying only at second-hand stores, going without a telephone or garbage service (her brothers carted it away), and retiring for the evening whenever it got dark, in order to avoid using electricity as much as possible.  At her house in Salem, she usually had a dog to keep her company.




Mabel Johnson out riding.  Fosston, Minnesota, ca. 1912.

The long drive from the Bay Area to Salem, Oregon only made our visits with the relatives even more special for me.  We made sure to stop and see each relative from the home base of my aunt Phyllis's house.  This included my grandfather and all of his Oregon-residing siblings, plus some cousins.  My parents, sister and I were so stuffed from doughnuts, cookies, sandwiches, pasta or jello salads (and endless cups of coffee for the elders), we thought we'd never make through the day.  From those summer vacations of decades ago, I have lasting memories of my great aunts and the way they lived, laughed, and coped.  They turned the other cheek at any sign of trouble, and never let on if they felt nervous or afraid.  As capable as their pioneering parents and the Norwegian farmers before them, my great aunts lived each day as if tomorrow could not phase them... whatever the weather. 

Treasuring the Message of Family Artifacts, or, How Not to Break A Grandparent's Heart

This post has little to do with anything exclusively Norwegian-American, but everything to do with the importance of treasuring one's heritage through family artifacts.

Family historians thrive on the detective work of eeking out details of their ancestors' lives and placing their experiences within the context of social history.  It is a challenging, but very rewarding effort.  With all the time and work involved in ferreting out past data and fading stories, the results are incomplete, at best.  Primary resources that are actually created by ancestors, such as letters or memoirs, are more valuable than gold.  Not only are they rare, but they offer intimate insight into the ancestor's own thoughts, attitudes, and activities, and give us a much greater connection than we would otherwise have.

Most people, let alone genealogists and family historians, understand the value of keeping safe any kind of personal family memento handed down to them.  These are usually irreplaceable, one-of-a-kind items.  This general rule of thumb stands even more for materials that were written or created by an ancestor and autographed/inscribed for a particular family member.

In my spare time, I research and write about family history, but I also research topics for historical non-fiction projects, especially biography.  It is inevitable that once I start to get familiar with a person as a research subject, I experience many of the same feelings of closeness and empathy for unrelated individuals, as I do for family members and ancestors.  This leads to my story about a recent book purchase, where the author is one of these non-relations.

A few days ago, I ordered a used copy of a book online, because I saw the author had made several references to one of my current research subjects.  When I received the book in the mail from Amazon.com, I happily found the inside cover to be signed by the author himself.  But, what the author had written along with his signature tore at my heart:  "Christmas 2004.  To ('Name') with love, Grandpa B-----."

Here then, were memoirs written and published by a local Seattle man, regarding his passionate, lifelong involvement with a fascinating and unique hobby.  He had inscribed a copy of the book, newly published in 2004, to a grandchild or great grandchild, only to have the copy wind up at Goodwill a few short years after his own death.  This saddens me.  Any of us who engage in personal or family record-keeping live in the hope that our family members, both now and in the future, will handle our dedicated efforts with care and respect, if not full appreciation.

Perhaps I am taking this too personally, because as a little girl, I longed to be close to my grandparents and other elders, but the opportunity did not arise. My one living grandfather resided far enough away that I saw him only occasionally until his death when I was 16, and my maternal grandmother, whom I miss knowing every day, died when my mother was not even two years of age. Perhaps it is easier for people to take things for granted now, when the increasing busy-ness of modern life offers so many distractions. Or, perhaps for those who have extended family in their daily lives, it is common to focus on negatives instead of the good fortune of having the intimacy of family nearby in the first place.  But, I assure you that if I had a book of memoirs written and published by a grandparent that was personally inscribed to me, you'd better believe it would be harbored in the safest place imaginable. 

I realize there may be extenuating circumstances involved, but the family historian in me, and especially the sentimental woman/daughter/granddaughter, etc., just wants to cry out:   "What the hell happened?!"  How is it that this book, signed by the recipient's grandfather, was not held safe, or at least passed along to another family member?  A little "Googling" quickly showed me that extended family does exist, and so, I am being intentionally vague in this post out of privacy concerns.

I suppose it is possible that the recipient of the book experienced a change of circumstances.  Perhaps he/she was moving and wanted to discard any extraneous items, for example.  Although books are often the first to go in such situations, and another copy might eventually have been acquired in the future, it would not be the one that was personally inscribed by the grandparent.  If I knew who originally owned the book, and if a return were requested out of regret, I would gladly give it back.  But, sorry... in my mind, not even moving is a legitimate excuse for discarding the memoirs of a relative, whether published, or not (I hope my children will take note here).

I will probably always be in the dark about why a book of autobiographical essays given to a grandchild as a Christmas present, ended up at a second-hand store so soon after the grandparent's death.  But, I will read and learn from "Grandpa B's" memoirs, and will quote them as appropriate in my own work. The copy will then sit safely on my shelf, beside other collectible books on topics that are of great interest to me.  I hope that "Grandpa B" will rest in peace with the assurance that his voice has been heard, even if his heart's desire could not be protected from the uncertainty of time's passing, and the unpredictability of human nature.

Hold fast to your family treasures, because once they are gone, they are gone... and forever is a very long time.

New Book Review of "A Long Way Downstream"

Much to my surprise, I found a short new book review of my family history, A Long Way Downstream: The Life and Family of Thibertine Johnson Winje, Norwegian-American Pioneer at the Minnesota Historical Society. Oh wait, can it get any better? Apparently, the curator at the library recommended my book to the National Library of Norway, in Oslo. My great great grandmother Thibertine is now off in the mail, returning to the Old Country. You'd better believe that I'm tickled purple over that!

"A Long Way Downstream" Has Arrived

In July, I picked up the fruit of my labors at Gorham Printing in Centralia, Washington--a short-run printer of the finest calliber. The photographs below are proof: the Johnson/Winje family history is done, at last! My somewhat reserved, 88-year-old, Norwegian-American mother just finished reading A Long Way Downstream and gave me the ultimate compliment: "It's just like a real book." If she noticed that I had written about some tidbits she previously asked me not to, she was diplomatic enough not to bring up the subject. Somehow, it all squeaked by, uncensored!

A Long Way Downstream: The Life and Family of Thibertine Johnson Winje, Norwegian-American Pioneer

by Chery Kinnick

Self-published, 2008. Hardbound in blue imitation leather with silver foil cover text; 350 pages; documents; photographs (black & white and color); translations; maps; genealogy charts; appendices; bibliography; extensive endnotes.


Whew; I can hardly believe it. All those hours at the computer are just a fond memory now...

Why did I choose a short-run printer? Due to the nature of the book, I did not plan on sales through booksellers. It made sense to keep production to a minimum and go with pre-orders from relatives and interested parties. A short-run printer is perfect for this sort of thing, and don't feel that you have to go specifically with genealogy printers. Another reason for short-run printing is that it is difficult to make money on this kind of endeavor. When you add together the cost of your time with resources and training, well, trust me... you should write a family history for the love of it, unless you can somehow find a way to make it commercially viable. There are ways to do that, but it's not what I had in mind for this project.

I did not arrange for an ISBN (International Standard Book Number)--used primarily for pricing--because the book was not planned for public sale. But, I did secure a Library of Congress Control Number (LCCN), so that libraries could readily obtain cataloging information. This was the most important thing, because I planned on sending copies to various libraries and historical societies in locations. Two copies have been sent to the Library of Congress: one for the LCCN program, and one for copyright. Then, how could I not also give a copy to the lady in Norway (Astri Wessel) who shared letters my ancestors wrote her ancestors during the 19th century? And, ja sure, you bet I also sent a copy to my main translator, Ed Egerdahl of the Scandinavian Language Institute here in Seattle. He spent plenty of hours struggling over that old handwriting and dialect, and deserved much more than I could pay him. Ed, I hope the credit and fame makes some amends...


Image of lead photograph and first contents page


My relatives and local writing buddies (footnoteMaven is high on the list) I cannot thank enough. I found that I am entirely rich in friends and cousins, and especially, helpful friends and cousins. I hope A Long Way Downstream meets their expectations and gets at least a few people interested in doing their own family research. The more, the merrier.


Chapter Six: "Ole Martin Johnson," and washout photograph of homestead barn on facing page


For those who are curious, in a future post I will share the Preface, which is an informal look at the community effort it took to create such a book.

Now, it's on to the next writing project, which is not related to my family history, but, it is someone's family history, after all. My project for the Nearby History seminar this autumn will involve continuing research and writing on the life of a Pacific Northwest explorer and nature photographer.

A Long Way Downstream: Update

I have relatives out there who I'm sure are wondering what is happening with the Johnson/Winje family history I have promised them. Please don't send the posse just yet! The 350-page book is now at the printers; the printing process takes several weeks, but an end is in sight. And, believe me, I am just as anxious to see it completed as anyone who has been patiently waiting.

The introduction to A Long Way Downstream: The Life and Family of Thibertine Johnson Winje, Norwegian-American Pioneer begins:

There is an old Norwegian emigrant prayer that reads, in part: …The ties that bind me to home fire my courage and strengthen my soul. Should all things perish, fleeting as a shooting star, O God, let not the ties break that bind me to the North. (1)  Norwegian emigrants had a strong attachment to the land they left behind, and clung to centuries of beloved folklore that resulted from scratching a living out of the unforgiving Nordic landscape. What caused home loving Norwegians, like Baard and Bertina Johnson, to cross an immense ocean, bid goodbye to family members, often forever, and risk their lives and those of loved ones? How did they summon the courage to leave familiarity and family for uncertain gain? Despite their ties to the homeland, the great migration to America during the 19th century is unrivaled in the history of Norway except for the westward sweeps of conquest and exploration during the Viking Age, a heritage treasured by Norwegians.

I can give any number of excuses for the delay, including the worst winter commute on record, fussing with the sale of two properties, my elderly mother moving in, writing seminars and activities on top of working full time, and now a history column, to boot. I have really tried to keep the delay to a minimum, but have failed. But, as I said, an end is in sight, and your copy or copies should be coming your way soon.

It's time for me to move on with other projects, and I do have a few in mind that deal with either family or Pacific Northwest history: pioneers in Coon Valley, WI, miners/photographers in the Cascade Mountains, Scandinavians and their involvement in Seattle's 1909 Alaska Yukon and Pacific Exposition, and even a fictional novel or two.

Now, I just need to get multiple households and storage units merged into one place so I know where everything is, set up a quiet workspace, cut my commute in half, and find that clone who is off hiding again. She's not very good at cooking or organizing, but at least she lends a fair amount of moral support.

 

 Sources:

(1) Theodore Blegen, Martin Ruud, and Bunner Malmin. Norwegian Emigrant Songs and Ballads (1936).  Christian Hansen's prayer, "Evening Prayer on the Atlantic," originally titled "Attenbøn paa Atlanterlavet" in Norwegian, was first published in Morgenbladet on July 19, 1846.

What Started the Family History Ball Rolling?

There are as many reasons as stars in the sky for a person to dive into family history research, or for a writer to be compelled to express him or herself. We blog about genealogy and family history not just because of the love of the hunt and a need to imagine and divulge the past, but also out of an urge to share, and also for many, an urge to write.

Was there a pivotal moment when you decided this was something you wanted to do, or were compelled to do? When did it become clear that the web of genealogy, family history, and writing was your calling?

Did someone else instigate it?

Was it something you read?

Was there a certain discovery that piqued your interest?

...Did the Devil make you do it?

About seven or eight years ago, my head suddenly became filled with questions about my mother's Norwegian-American family. Where did they come from in Norway? Who came before my grandfather and his nine great aunts and uncles? Those questions, and a hundred others suddenly reared up, and time was of the essence.

I sent a letter to an older cousin who I thought would have a few answers, and he did. But there was so much more to find out. So, I began what I thought would be a joint project to collect information and photographs. But, early on in my quest, after standing at a photocopier for a solid half-hour, I realized just how quickly I had arranged several interlibrary loans and tracked down multiple books and articles to read. My head was spinning with everything I knew had to be done, and I wondered if anyone else could keep up with the pace I had already set for myself. It hit me with a shudder that I had to accept the responsibility for finding out and collecting what I wanted to know.

Accept, I did, and I haven't looked back (figuratively, of course) ever since.

Protecting the Future For Families

While researching and writing about family history and the past, we should not ignore the future. Although it is not a pleasant thought, global warming and other potential disasters can severely affect generations to come. I was reading CNN online today, and came across an article about a large underground seed vault built inside a frozen mountain in Longyearbyen, Norway. It just took its first delivery of seeds--the start of a collection that will eventually contain every variety of most important food crops in the world.

Hmmm.... I guess you could say that Norway is helping to protect the future of family history in a big way.

"Dubbed the "Doomsday Vault," the seed bank on a remote island near the Arctic Ocean is considered the ultimate safety net for the world's seed collections, protecting them from a wide range of threats including war, natural disasters, lack of funding or simply poor agricultural management."

The idea for an Arctic seed bank began in the 1980s but became a possibility only after the International Treaty on Plant Genetic Resources came into force in 2004, which provided the necessary international framework.

The Norwegian government has paid about $9.4 million to build the seed vault: now that's putting your money where your mouth is.

It seems that much of the science-fiction I read about in my youth has already become reality.

I'm sure you'll want to read the original article at CNN



Image credit: http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/

Not Without My Car

I wrote this blog article back in February after being socked by inspiration like a deer mesmerized by headlights. Happily, I find that the 45th Carnival of Genealogy topic fits the topic just like a whitewall tire on a shiny Chevy rim.

My Family History and the Automobile

"There's a Ford in your future," 1945 ad.

When I was very young, my mother recorded diligently in my baby book that among my first words, second to the ever-important Mama, came car, or ca, as I pronounced it.

My fascination with automobiles continued when, as a young girl, I found toy vehicles much more interesting to play with than dolls or games. A favorite activity was building cities with blocks and empty containers out on the lawn, using baby powder and baking powder cans, spools--whatever had been saved and recycled. I would then park and drive my little cars through the grass-filled streets and alleys. Among the toys that stand out in my memory were: a large green and yellow dump truck, and a turquoise and cream Edsel wagon--both given to me by my grandfather, Ernest Johnson, and a little red T-Bird convertible that came free from the Ford dealership when Dad bought a station wagon in 1957.

Even before peace was declared in 1945, politicians and industrialists had been laying plans for the postwar reconstruction of the economy; one cornerstone of those plans had been the assumption that there would be a seller's market for automobiles for quite some time. [1]

Then came the piece-de-resistance: when I was 11, there was no doubt that my favorite car in the whole world was the Jaguar XKE. What a surprise it was that Christmas when I found that Dad had spent many nights secretly piecing together a large, intricate model just for me. That XKE held center stage on my dresser for quite some time.

For those of use who drive, many of our personal and family memories are tied to car ownership, good or bad. The automobile has been an inextricable component of the Baby Boomer generation's experience; it transformed the world, especially America. Cars gave people freedom to explore their surroundings in ways they never had before, but at the same time, created a reliance that hasn't always been affordable, or even constructive.

The automobile and the mobility it brought to the individual was in large part responsible for the beginning of the breakdown of families. With the ease of travel, families began spreading out all over the map. Close relations who once lived together and depended upon one another began to find themselves increasing isolated, geographically, from other family members. The journey to Grandma's house was no longer just over the river and through the woods; instead, it was 250 miles distant.

. . . In the postwar years, as the American economy became increasingly dependent on the internal combustion engine, the price and the supply of fuel for that engine became increasingly dependent on the vagaries of international and domestic politics. [2]

Like many other women born before World War II, my mother chose not to learn to drive. She would ride in cars, but she was afraid of taking the wheel. Automobiles were not part of her early experience, since there wasn't a car on her grandfather's Minnesota farm until the 1930s. Even after Ole M. Johnson bought a 1932 Chevrolet, he never drove it himself. He got it for his sons so they could make faster trips into town. The family's usual means of transport into the 1930s was horse and buggy.



Ole M. Johnson taking some family members on an outing in his four-seater buggy.  Polk County, Minnesota, 1912.

Dad's '53 Ford sedan parked in front of our family home on Carlson Blvd., Richmond, California, about 1954.

When my parents married, Dad owned a navy blue 1953 Ford sedan. A few years later, he traded it in for a wagon. The '57 Ford Ranch Wagon came in handy for a family man. Almost anything could be tossed into the roomy back: furniture, a dead deer, lumber to build a new shed, the family beagle, trash headed for the dump, and even a kid or two. I remember many exciting trips to the dump in that wagon, watching as seagulls surfed the Bay breeze over a sea of fluttering, multi-colored trash, while my stomach suffered from a continual state of excitement as Dad navigated over and around bump after rolling bump.

During drives from the Bay Area to Oregon for summer vacations with relatives, Dad would throw a mattress in the back of the wagon for my sister and I. There were no seat belts or buckle-up laws back then. We slept as Dad drove all night, and Mom struggled to keep her eyes open to make sure he stayed awake. After arriving at Aunt Phyllis's house, Dad hit the sofa, snoring. The rest of us struggled through the day and looked forward to "hitting the hay" early that evening.

Our family's red and white '57 Ford Ranch wagon parked in front of my aunt's house in Salem, Oregon, 1965. In the yard are my cousin, Cheryl Rice, and my sister, Becky Wheeler.

A restored '57 Ford Ranch wagon, in living color.

Whether big or small, foreign or domestic, automobile ownership had become an economic necessity for most Americans by the 1960s.[3]


I learned how to drive in one of a fleet of nondescript white Dodge sedans, enrolled in El Cerrito High School driver's training class. It was full speed ahead on East Bay freeways: three lanes, side by side, inches to spare, and take no prisoners. My driving partners/classmates and I were all in the 10th grade, and I was the only girl. I was fairly petite in height, but the boys were all shorter than me. One of them could hardly see over the steering wheel, so the instructor made him use a cushion. Though I didn't have to resort to using a cushion, I did feel rather odd about being the only girl. But, I am proud to say there were never any "woman driver" remarks from the guys in the back when I was behind the wheel.

The photo from one of my earliest California driver's licenses. At the time, California took profile shots of anyone under the age of 25.

My early at-home driving practice time was spent in Dad's '57 Ranch Wagon: the red and white tank with a masterful-size steering wheel. When I was in possession of my new learner's permit--barely creased--Dad asked spontaneously one day if I wanted to drive him to the store. I was outside on the lawn and didn't have any shoes on, but thought he might change his mind if I took too long, so I got into the car as I was. Dad commented on my lack of shoes, but as a typical 15-year-old, I shrugged it off and started the car anyway.

My boyfriend in high school owned his own car, or rather, his parents did. They allowed David to drive it as long as he also transported his mother (who like my mother, did not drive), and six wriggling, younger siblings to medical and dental appointments, whenever necessary. It was pretty unusual for a high schooler in the suburbs to have a car then, but, oh how embarrassed he was that he had to drive a Rambler. Here was a tall, slender young man who wore a lettered jacket and fringed cutoff jeans on the basketball court--busily working on various stages of coolness--and he was stuck with a Rambler. Worse than that, it was a mauve Rambler. Well, time has a way of healing all things. We went on our first date in that car, to the Berkeley Theatre, and were later married. I swear I never held his driving a Rambler against him...

In the same years that Americans were starting to worry about whether they could safely drive their cars, they were also starting to worry about whether they could safely breathe their air.[4]

The first car I could call my own wasn't any better than a Rambler. It was inherited from my grandfather when I was 16: a squat, dull beige 1962 Chevy Corvair. Yes, THE car famous for its carbon monoxide scare. I think the only reason it came to me is because no one else in the family would have anything to do with it. One summer, my grandfather, who was nearly 80 at the time, drove my aunt and three cousins from Salem, Oregon to the Bay Area for a visit with my family. But, somewhere in northern California, Grampa Ernest swerved to avoid some road construction he had not seen in time because of his failing eyesight, and he overturned the car in a ditch. Thankfully, everyone came away from that experience in reasonable condition, but it left a lasting impression of the Corvair upon my cousins that was akin to a bad taste in the mouth.

Ernest Johnson's '62 Corvair parked in front of his trailer in Salem, Oregon, 1965.

I welcomed the Corvair into my life and drove along happily in my fake, belted Leopard-fur coat and black Italian leather lace-up boots. The question circulating around high school back then was: "Are you a surfer, a mod, or a rocker?" I may have been driving a Corvair instead of an XKE, but there was no doubt that I was a mod, and one who aspired to be like Jane Asher: long hair, white lipstick, mini-skirt, and all. Before raising an eyebrow, you should be made aware that for the average school girl around 1970, miniskirts were not incredibly short. The mini-minis were left to the super-skinny models in the magazines. We were just acquiring the right to wear jeans to school, let alone super-short hemlines.

I have to admit that I also did my share of escorting my mother on errands. But, I liked the Corvair well enough; it was small, like me, and easy to get in and out of. My first husband and I even took it on our honeymoon, to the Northern California coast. It ran just fine, as long as you pretended not to notice when it struggled up freeway hills at 40 mph, as semi-trucks and loggers honked and swerved menancingly into a passing lane.

Married life became a march of steady and predictable Fords. Dad owned the same Ford successfully for over 15 years, so why go against the grain? It was a virtual festival of Fords; Henry would have been proud:

Maverick--totaled by a drunk driver after 3 months of ownership
Pinto hatchback--something new on the scene
Pinto wagon--not bad after adding multi-colored, tie-dyed curtains
Mustang ('76, 2-dr)--just try and take two kids in and out of car seats in the back
Escort wagon--beige and boxy, but easier on the lumbar region
Tempo--typical, boring sedan that never turned a single head
Tempo, again--a wee bit more noticeable than the first one, with red trim
Probe--great car, but low & gray-matched the pavement and had to be driven with the lights on at all times

Since the 1980s, American policy makers, politicians, manufacturers, and consumers have all been behaving in roughly the same way--with roughly the same lack of success--trying to develop solutions to the problems without giving up the automobile. [5]

Then I met John, who came into my life along with his 1990 red Volvo wagon. I'd never been with anyone who had a European car before. On that first date, the wagon spoke to his commitment as family man and business owner. I must admit, it made a nice secure impression. The red color indicated to me (along with his fast and unpredictable driving habits) that here was a guy who liked to have fun... as long as the work got done first. Red Volvo and all, John captured my heart and we were married shortly after.

John waves goodbye as the two of us depart the scene of our wedding in his '90 Volvo.  Snoqualmie Pass, Washington. 1992.

After marrying John, life then became a succession of German cars: Audis, in particular. One main reason is that we moved to the mountains, and our long commutes demanded cars with all-wheel drive that could take on plenty of mileage with few pitfalls. But, even more importantly, they had comfy seats, and could be found used for less money than Volvos. And, I won't even mention the toy that currently sits in the garage right now. No, I won't mention the _ _ _ _ _ _ _, because we have no real excuse other than we wanted one. But, when I remember that my g-g-grandmother's second husband spent equivalent income to buy a steam launch in which to putter around the 1890s waterways of Duluth, then I don't feel quite so alone.

Technological systems, once they are in place, have enormous staying power. [6]

Please don't get me wrong. For me, car ownership is not about keeping up with the Joneses. If something works, I stick with it until it becomes unreliable, or impractical. But, the freedom and privacy of movement made possible by the automobile is something I would miss if I had to give it up completely, even though, as we speak, I am taking steps to be able to make far better use of public transportation.

My '91 Ford Probe, dwarfed by winter snow build-up.  Snoqualmie Pass, Washington, 1997.

I can't think of anything else to replace the feelings of freedom I had, when as a new and youthful driver, I cruised alone out a county highway for the first time. Though my destination was a public library, I told myself that the drive to a distant branch was okay because of its uniquely large science fiction collection. In reality, that long country drive was my initial flight from the nest. I had stepped off the edge, and I was learning to fly.

I have many fondly remembered driving experiences, including one of joyful, innocent abandon when my then 13-year-old daughter and I were stopped at the I-5 bridge bordering Washington and Oregon. It was a warm summer's evening on one of those long trips to Grandma's house. With the windows rolled all the way down to let in the coolness of the Columbia River, we waited for the draw bridge to come down as "Billie Jean" blared from the CD player in full bass, and smiles darted our way from inside neighboring vehicles.

There were also moments of revelation about human nature, involving automobiles, like the first and only time I remember seeing my grandfather angry. I was just a toddler playing on the lawn with my cousins in Campbell, California. We all watched in alarm as Grampa began running and yelling, brandishing a big stick after some boys who had been snooping and hanging inside the driver's window of his big and toothy early 1950s Buick: a car I always thought of as angry-looking itself.

A 1950 Buick sedan, similar to the one my grandfather owned.

No simple, single set of incantations will make ['automobility' and its problems] go away. [7]



Let's face it, automobile emissions are in large part responsible for the negative human impact on our planet. There are many strikes against our faithful servant, the car. But, it has been an undeniable part of my generation's social and family history. The very word is fixed on the lips of our newborn children. Depending upon the future needs for society and the ecosystem, the automobile, as we know, it may become a thing of the past.

I do not deny that change is in order. But, during the heydey of the automobile, and during my lifetime, it's been quite a ride.


To read further about automobiles and their cultural/social impact:

Cowan, Ruth Schwartz. A Social History of American Technology
Flink, James J. The Automobile Age
Flink, James J. The Car Culture
Foster, Mark S. A Nation on Wheels: The Automobile Culture in America Since 1945
Lewis, David L. The Automobile and American Culture
McShane, Clay. Down the Asphalt Path
Mintz, Steven. Domestic Revolutions: A Social History of American Family Life
Scharff, Virginia. Take the Wheel: Women and the Coming of the Motor Age
Volti, Rudi. Cars and Culture: The Life Story of a Technology
Wollen, Peter. Autopia: Cars and Culture


[1-7]. Ruth Schwartz Cowan. A Social History of American Technology. New York: Oxford University Press, 1997, pp. 224-248.