Category Archives: Something to Remember

Sepia Saturday: In Search of U

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Sepia Saturday provides bloggers with an opportunity to share their history through the medium of photographs. Historical photographs of any age or kind become the launchpad for explorations of family history, local history and social history in fact or fiction, poetry or prose, words or further images. If you want to play along, sign up to the link, try to visit as many of the other participants as possible, and have fun.
The prompt photo this week features a man repairing an umbrella. I am in short supply of photos that feature umbrellas. The only two I have, I shared in a Sepia Saturday post back in 2013: Umbrellas for Rain, Shine, and Romance

I used one of those umbrella photos again a few months later.

Me in front of Elsie Swick’s house on Brick Row, Ottumwa, Iowa

Although not a Sepia Saturday post, it has a Sepia Saturday connection. Co-founder Kat Mortensen helped me locate a book from childhood. The book includes an illustration much like my photo above. See:
A Rediscovered Book from Childhood

I learned the value of having an umbrella handy when I was a freshman in college. On one particular day, I found myself across campus from my next class without an umbrella during a downpour. I must have really needed to attend that day, because instead of heading back to the dorm, I walked as fast as I could to the class. I entered the old building with wooden floors where my German class was about to begin. I lowered my head and mustered my courage as I dripped and sloshed and squeaked, trying to slip quietly into a desk right next to a boy I had just started dating. Puddles formed at my feet as I dripped from head to toe. There was no look of recognition or sympathy from that boy! He didn’t recognize me! I took umbrage!

But I married him anyway.

According to dictionary.com:
J.K. Rowling chose the name Dolores Umbridge to reflect her character. Her first name comes from the Latin word for “sorrow” or “pain,” dolor. Umbridge is a play on umbrage (“offense” or “annoyance”), which comes from the Latin umbra (“shade” or “shadow”). The word usually appears in the phrase to take umbrage. 

I have dressed up as Dolores Umbridge a couple of times for the Halloween party and class we have for our adult ESL students. That’s a quill in my hand.

I dressed as Dolores Umbridge for our Halloween class again this year, but since it was on zoom, I only had to be in costume from the waist up and found an image of her office that I could use as a background.

I looked at my family tree to see if there is someone I could feature who has a name that begins with U. Unknown is a fairly popular name in my tree.

U. M., Ulysses, and Uriah are essentially unknown to me as well due to their distance on the family tree.

One of my family lines is STRANGE, which means unusual. I get very frustrated when I search old newspapers for my kin. STRANGE may be an unusual surname, but it is a very popular word! Here is my 2nd great-grandfather, John Sylvester Strange

An old meaning of the word umbrage is shade or shadow, especially as cast by trees. There is a family story about one of our Stranges who met his demise in the umbrage of a beech tree. My grand aunt, Woodye Webber, was the family genealogist and wrote two family histories. She recorded the story in Ancestors – Kings? Horsetheives? Or What?

Before going on, a story written during the depression by WPA writers is one we heard many times from Mother. This is about one of Grandfather Strange’s  uncles.
The village of Strange Creek was so-named because of the young survivor who was stranded from his companions in the year 1795. No amount of searching for either the party or William was successful. Years later, on the bank of the creek William Strange was found – his bones beneath a beech tree, his rifle leaning against it with the shot pouch dangling from the ramrod. Carved in the tree was the following message:

Strange is my name and I’m on strange ground
And strange it is I can’t be found.

Since she mentioned the WPA, I went in search of the story. By googling the entire message carved into the tree, I found it referenced in a couple of modern newspaper stories about name places with unusual backstories. Besides a mention of the story in a couple of other books, I found the passage contained in The WPA Guide to West Virginia: The Mountain State. It reads as follows on page 406:

STRANGE CREEK, 21.3 m. (807 alt., 60 pop.), has its center across the Elk River at the mouth of a stream of the same name. Originally called Turkey Run, the creek was named for William Strange who wandered from a surveying party near the headwaters of the Elk in 1795; his companions searched for him in vain. Years later, on the bank of Turkey Run, 40 miles from the spot where he was last seen, his bones were found beneath a great beech tree, against which leaned his rifle, the shot pouch dangling from the ramrod. Carved in the bark was this couplet:
Strange is my name and I’m on strange ground
And strange it is I can’t be found.

Pretty much what Aunt Woodye wrote… although I believe she meant to type surveyor instead of survivor.

Another source, found on the West Virginia Explorer website, Old Legend of Strange Creek Might Never Be Confirmed, provides more details to the legend, as well as the author’s attempt to authenticate it and find the location where William is said to have met his lonely fate. This article includes the story as told by a West Virginia historian named Charles Carpenter. Carpenter states that the first printed record of the story appears in the 1876 book History of Kanawha County, written by George Atkinson, who later became governor of West Virginia. Atkinson devoted a full two and a half pages to the story of William Strange and Strange Creek. His description of William is rather unflattering: “Mr Strange was a very indifferent woodsman, and to him was assigned the duty of taking the pack-horse from one camping place to another.” Apparently William wasn’t very good at following directions and got lost.

I’m not exactly sure where this William Strange should be included in my tree. Woodye said in the quote above that William was one of her grandfather’s uncles, but the 1795 date would put him another generation back. In a later family history, Woodye writes a similar story, but names the Strange as Charles. All of the books and articles I found online reference a William. It is all so unclear! Possibly unknowable. Family lore connects him to us and Strange is not the most common surname, so l hope to figure out our real relationship some day.

The story of William Strange is very unfortunate. For some reason, I keep thinking of a song I learned as a child in Girl Scouts:  Under the Spreading Chestnut Tree. It is a much happier tale. Here are some unlikely folks singing along:

Sometimes I begin a Sepia Saturday post unsure of what to write and unaware of where my thoughts and searches may take me. Undoubtably, this is one of those posts.

Please understand that the unique pleasure of Sepia Saturday is visiting all of the participants. U can do that here: Sepia Saturday.

Sepia Saturday – A Teacher of Atypical Students

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May 5-11, 2019 was National Teacher Appreciation Week in the U.S. One of my friends posed this question on Facebook: Can you name your teachers K-5th or 6th grade? No. I can’t. I had three teachers at three different schools in 6th grade and I have no idea who they were. I think I slept my way through Kindergarten. I remember my teacher’s name, but not much more. I have some memories of 2nd grade, but not sure of the spelling of the teacher’s name. 4th grade is a bit of a blur. My 3rd and 5th grade teachers were memorable, but my 1st grade teacher is the one I remember most fondly.

Miss Willard, 1st grade teacher at Franklin Elementary School in Ottumwa, Iowa.

Georgia Willard

I was the youngest student in Miss Willard’s class; I didn’t have my 6th birthday until mid October, just two days before the cut-off date.

There were more than thirty students in our class and over the course of the year, six of us were named Kathy or Cathy. Miss Willard had to resort to numbering us to clarify who she was calling on. I don’t remember my number – they were only needed if two of us had the same last initial, which apparently happened for part of the year.

The school was already decades old when I attended. Our classroom was rectangular, Miss Willard’s large wooden desk at the front. Was it elevated on a platform a step higher, or does a childhood memory place my teacher on a higher plane?  Wood and iron desks on a wood floor. Windows along the side to the students’ right and windows at the back of the room were opened on warm days. Miss Willard had a few plants on window sills. Built-in cabinets on the lower half of the other side wall. Miss Willard occasionally brought in something she had gathered from nature to place in the room. The one I remember is the bouquet that included pussy willow that grew in the wild. It was the first time I had seen it or heard it’s name and I was intrigued by the look and feel of it.

My little brain hadn’t quite developed by the beginning of 1st grade to be able to do all that was expected – and this was 1959. I can’t imagine how “behind” I would have been with today’s expectations and testing of young students! We were grouped for some subjects and I was in the bottom group for everything that had a group. I wasn’t told I was in the bottom group; the groups were named by color or animal or something, but I caught on. My report cards were filled with U’s for Unsatisfactory.

I guess I couldn’t even sing on key when I started 1st grade. I remember Miss Willard pulling me aside one day and asking if we had a piano at home. We did, although no one played it. She told me to ask my mother to play the C scale for me and I was to sing along and match the tones. She gave me singing homework! But I was happy about it. I didn’t mind at all.

You may be wondering why I was so fond of Miss Willard since I was aware that she thought I was at the bottom of my class. I guess it is because I was never made to feel badly. Miss Willard was kind and encouraging. She liked me. I don’t think I could have put it into words, but I must have felt that Miss Willard wanted me to succeed. Also, my favorite people in the world were my grandmothers and Miss Willard was much like my grandmothers.

And there was that cabinet on the side wall …

If a school-wide assembly was about to occur, Miss Willard would tell us what to expect and what she expected of us. If we behaved ourselves, when we returned to our classroom, Miss Willard would compliment us, telling us we behaved better than the older students. Then she might go to that cabinet and pull out a big box of animal crackers and start passing them out. She didn’t bribe us ahead of time – it was a surprise to me, or a hope, once I caught on that she had treats in that cabinet.

And at the end of each grading period, she would hand out little rewards for improvement. Nothing big – just a couple of animal crackers or vanilla wafers or maybe a piece of candy. But your effort was recognized. And rewarded.

As the year progressed, I moved up from the bottom groups and in the spring, those U’s on my report card began to turn into S’s, for Satisfactory.

On the last day of school, Miss Willard recognized the improvements everyone made throughout the school year. I had made the most improvements of anyone. Accordingly, I received the most rewards! Again – just little things, but this time we may have gotten to choose which treat we wanted. I may have even received a certificate to document my accomplishments. If I did, it is long gone.

My first grade year was Miss Willard’s last year to teach. She retired. I felt sad that she would not be there when I returned in the fall. I helped Miss Willard pack up her belongings that decorated our classroom. I remember it as “me” helping her, but I’m pretty sure there were a couple of other students besides me. We must have stayed in during recess to spend this time with her. Miss Willard told us we could choose something to keep. I chose a pretty, but chipped, china saucer that she had placed under a plant to catch water. I kept it for a long time.

Me and Miss Willard

When I decided to write this, I only knew my teacher as Miss Willard, but a look around genealogy websites gave me her full name, Georgia Vivian Willard. I knew that Miss Willard had never married, but that was the only fact I knew about her. A look through some old newspapers shed some additional light on my beloved teacher.

One of the first things I found was her obituary, which provides her birth and death dates, as well as family members and how many years she dedicated to teaching – almost 50!

Ottumwa Courier, 16 Jan 1963

My mother and I also attended First Methodist Church. Why did I not know this? I don’t have any memory of seeing Miss Willard there, yet I know from some older newspaper articles that she had been an active member – at least during her younger years. I would imagine that she remained active. Well, sometimes kids miss a lot of what is going on around them. I know I did. Also, we moved away in the summer after 2nd grade, so my time and memory there was limited.

I even found the advertisement of the auction for her estate.

I read that Miss Willard played bridge, participated in a number of weddings and hosted showers for friends – mostly fellow teachers at Franklin School. She was a member of the PTA – in fact, she was the first president of the organization at Franklin School. She also served as Treasurer for several years.

Ottumwa Daily Courier, 18 Feb 1933

Interestingly, I even found out what kind of car she purchased in 1937 – a Nash Lafayette sedan. I guess it was news?

Ottumwa Daily Courier, 12 June 1937

As I continued to search, I learned that Miss Willard was respected as a teacher of the “atypical” student. In fact, she was considered a pioneer. When I read the article below, it made perfect sense that Miss Willard was just the teacher I needed in 1st grade.

The Daily Courier, Ottumwa, IA 25 May 1935

I’m not sure exactly when Miss Willard began to focus her teaching on students with learning differences and pioneered an ungraded classroom to serve students with special needs. The above article is from 1935. During the Iowa State Teacher Convention in 1932, she was elected president of the group “Teachers of Atypical Children.” At the convention in 1933, she presided over this part of the program.

A brief look around the internet for the history of special education didn’t yield much information. Much of what is written follows the passage of the Education for All Handicapped Children Act and the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act – both passed in the 1970s. The beginnings of a grassroots effort by parents and advocacy groups for the inclusion and accommodation of special needs children apparently began in the 1930s. Prior to that time, these children were either educated at home or sent to institutions or private schools. Miss Willard was right in there at the beginning of the movement and the use of the word “pioneer” seems appropriate – especially in a small town in Iowa.

As for my experience in Miss Willard’s 1st grade classroom, I think she approached us with the same principles described in the article above. Miss Willard focussed on the individual needs of each student. Her classroom had an atmosphere of contentment. She hoped to instill in us a desire for education. Her classroom was cheerful. There was singing and story telling and character training.

As a child who was not quite ready to perform what was asked, how differently might I have felt about school and myself if not for Miss Willard?

I do wish I still had that saucer, but feel very lucky that my mother took these photographs of Miss Willard to help keep her memory alive for me.

This is my contribution for Sepia Saturday this week. Miss Willard never looked like the folks in the prompt photo! Prepare for stern looks as you visit other participants here.

Sepia Saturday provides bloggers with an opportunity to share their history through the medium of photographs. Historical photographs of any age or kind become the launchpad for explorations of family history, local history and social history in fact or fiction, poetry or prose, words or further images. If you want to play along, sign up to the link, try to visit as many of the other participants as possible, and have fun.

9/5/2022 I just learned about a blog party at The Family Heart blog and linked this post there.

Sepia Saturday: Lola – When she was Zsa Zsa the Poodle

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Sepia Saturday provides bloggers with an opportunity to share their history through the medium of photographs. (I usually stop here when I copy the description…)

Historical photographs of any age or kind (they don’t have to be sepia) become the launchpad for explorations of family history, local history and social history in fact or fiction, poetry or prose, words or further images. (… but this week, I’m taking that “don’t have to be sepia” and “any age” to heart.)

I’ve been wanting/needing to write about our recently departed pet. After all, she was a part of our family and deserves to have her story told too. So I’ll take advantage of today’s prompt photo and see where it leads. (Non-spoiler alert: I succeeded in not going to the sad place today, so it’s safe to read on.)

Our family’s first dog was a sweet sheltie named Ginger. She died on the night of my son’s high school graduation while he was at the senior lock-in and I was a volunteer mom helping out. In the picture below, you might recognize my mom from last week. The boy holding Ginger is the future graduate.

After Ginger died, we were all so very sad and my husband wasn’t convinced that we should get another dog. Our youngest daughter had already been nagging us for a puppy before Ginger died, so she kept up her online search of rescue puppies. My son said if we were going to get another dog, to please do it before he started college so that he and the dog would have time to know each other. I got onboard, but I kept looking for shelties to rescue because Ginger was such a sweetheart.

My daughter found a young poodle online that looked like a good candidate, so I called the rescue group about him. The rescue group had a “meet the pups” event scheduled, so we went to meet him. Unfortunately, we just didn’t “click” with Freeway. We sat there on the floor with a room full of dogs and people hoping to make a match. Our match was not there.

A volunteer came over and sat with us. She had questions:
Had we had a dog before?
Did I work outside the home resulting in long periods of time with no one at home?
Did we have other pets?
Were there younger children at home?
Yes. No. No. No.

She called to another volunteer to join us and told us that there was another dog that they had not yet made public because she was so young. They were looking for the right family for her. Would we be interested in meeting her?

Why yes, since you think we are the perfect family!

She told us that she was fostering the little puppy in her home. A sixteen-year-old girl bought the puppy for $200 out of the back of a pick up. When she got the puppy home, it wouldn’t eat. The girl and her father took the puppy to a vet who told them that the puppy was too young to have been separated from her mother and needed to be bottle fed. The dad convinced his daughter to relinquish her and that’s how the puppy ended up with the rescue group.

We arranged a time for the foster mom to bring the puppy (a poodle) to our house so we could meet her. We fell in love with her tiny cuteness. The foster mom bragged about how smart she was. She was so young, but had already learned how to use the doggy stairs to get up on their couch! Her husband worked at home, so he spent hours holding the puppy and was really attached to her. They had given her the name Zsa Zsa.

Zsa Zsa sounded like she might already be a wee bit spoiled.

By now, Zsa Zsa could eat solid food so we arranged a two-week trial adoption. My daughter and I drove to the nearby shopping mall where we had agreed to meet the foster mom in the parking lot by Sears.

Zsa Zsa seemed excited to see us, and the foster mom was sad to see her go because she had become so attached to her. She left us with a pink fleece blanket and said maybe it would be a special blanket to her. I vaguely remember meeting up with the foster mom at an emergency vet not long after – I don’t remember the circumstance – and her former mom brought a toy for her.

Zsa Zsa was so tiny (1.6 pounds if I remember correctly), that I went all around the house and yard blocking spaces that she might slip into or out through and get into trouble. The space between the refrigerator and the wall. The space between the gate and the fence. The spaces in the wrought iron gate. The space between the piano and the wall. We kept a close eye on her outside because she could have slipped between the spaces in the chain link fence and I could imagine a big predatory bird flying off with her.

The foster mom told us that Zsa Zsa slept in a crate at night with no problem. I think she lied. Zsa Zsa sure put up a ruckus when we put her in her crate that night, carrying on and on and on. My daughter wanted the puppy to sleep in her room, but when she got no sleep, we put her in our room the second night. My husband couldn’t take it, so he took her out of the crate and put her in bed with us. I was not pleased. We did sleep, though.

The name Zsa Zsa didn’t really fit her personality. Too frou frou, we thought. We tossed around names for a couple of days and finally settled on Lola.

Lola was never reserved or shy. She believed everyone should know and love her. It was her life’s purpose to make it so. She loudly proclaimed her desire to love and be loved every time someone new entered her space.

Lola was so young when we got her that she had not been vaccinated. The first time I took her to the vet there were quite a few people and pets in the waiting room. I did not want her down and exploring since she hadn’t had her shots, so I kept her on my lap. Lola made a lot of noise. It was embarrassing. When we were finally called back, the vet tech said, “She sounds like she is in pain. I should get the vet to check her out.” “No,” I assured her, “She just wanted to get to all of the people in the room. She’ll be fine now.” Lola had stopped wailing and focussed her attention on the vet tech, confirming my diagnosis.

As Lola grew, she began to get shaggy and needed grooming.

I took her to the groomer we had used for Ginger. When I picked her up, the groomer suggested that we be very regular with her grooming so Lola would get accustomed to it. The second time I took her, the groomer called me to come for her before she was even finished. I knew she wanted Lola out the door as soon as possible. Obviously, the groomer was not a fan of Lola’s loud protests at being crated and wanting attention. Also, I said something about Lola being a poodle. “This is no poodle!” she said with disdain in her voice. “I breed poodles and this is no poodle. This is a bichon.”

We never went back to that groomer.

Zsa Zsa the poodle was now Lola the bichon.

And the man who thought we shouldn’t get another dog was smitten.

Just like Zsa Zsa’s foster father before him, my husband spent a lot of time holding Lola and became very attached to her.

We signed the adoption contract on October 28, 2007.

We were a match.

Dog tales, I’m guessing, at Sepia Saturday this week. Walk on over and meet a few more of man’s best friends.