The Quest

Bloom where you are planted. That saying is ubiquitous with my Aunt Melinda in my mind. It was on the wall in her guest bathroom, which I frequented with such regularity. It was so ingrained in my psyche that I thought it was Melinda’s personal challenge to me directly. She probably never thought about it again after she hung it there, but it seemed to me to be what she was doing her whole life long… blooming. Melinda repainted this plaque to be pink when she decided to change the color of her bathroom. She also meticulously repainted every orange-ish yellow flower on the wallpaper in the bathroom pink to match her new decor. I wrote a lengthy remembrance of Melinda for her obituary, which I honestly thought my family wouldn’t go for. I had prepared myself to post that here on my blog, thinking the long version wouldn’t see the light of day in any other way. But since they did go for it, I can link to that and use this space to say all the things I forgot to say there. In preparation

This post is a continuation of remembrances about Jennie Rachel Gay Robinson (see Part I and Part II ). Jennie’s grandchildren remember her quilts, tablecloths, and affinity for cast iron skillets. She left both completed quilts and quilt tops, each pieced together and hand-sewn. Some still remain unfinished, others have been transformed into their final form by more modern-day quilting methods. My mother's well-used Jennie quilt, often found at picnics. This tulip quilt by Jennie now lives in a trunk in my bedroom. It's one she completed herself, so is too delicate for use. Jennie quilted this top and my mom had it finished for me for high school graduation. I stopped using it regularly some years ago because it can no longer be safely laundered due to the delicate condition of some of the fabric pieces. Other sections are standing up quite nicely! “Grandmother made [a tablecloth] for each of her children when they were married,” Aunt Sharon explains. Often, those

This post is a continuation of remembrances about Jennie Rachel Gay Robinson (see Part I ). Even as Jennie was gentle and genteel, one of the most prominent recollections of her living grandchildren can be summed up by the words of Robert George Robinson–my Uncle Bob: “She was a small grandmother who dipped snuff.” Without exception, all of the grandchildren I heard from mentioned the fact that Jennie dipped snuff, and my mother’s cousin Willis Knierim (son of Beulah) still has one of her snuff cans. “She was very subtle about it, using a very small Garrett’s Snuff tin and a small wooden stick which she called her ‘toothpick,’” he recalls. “She would always excuse herself briefly and return smacking her lips. When she passed, I asked for and was given the tin by Oran.” The second most vivid recollection among Jennie’s grandchildren was her relationship with her twin, Minnie. “The two of them were very close and when they were together they seemed like a matched set in appearance, manne

My great grandmother Jennie was born in Vashti, Clay County, Texas on 17 Dec 1879, alongside her twin Minnie. Her parents were John Preston Gay, a farmer and preacher who was born in Tennessee and moved to Texas in 1873, and Dorothy “Dollie” Rachael Cappleman, who was born in South Carolina (the two were married 21 Oct 1874 in Texas).  When Jennie and Minnie were born, their older sister Louisa was almost two years old. Their parents gave birth to a brother John two years later, who didn’t survive infancy. Two years after that, their sister Martha “Mattie” was born, and another two years later their youngest sister Mary Elizabeth was born. The five Gay sisters grew up surrounded by the rich farm and ranchland of Clay County, with their father—who had been ordained to the ministry in 1890—serving as a Baptist minister.  Because of their fathers’ ministry in churches, the girls sang and accompanied themselves: Jennie played the accordion; Mattie (Martha Washington Gay) played the organ;

My dad Russell Terry Mason was 10 years old when his maternal grandmother—my Grandma Jessie Mae [Terry] Mason’s mother Flora—died. As the oldest grandchildren—my dad’s older sister Marilyn and his cousin Pat Henry—have already passed, I decided I should get busy asking for my dad’s recollections, as well as those of his younger sisters, Melinda and Martha, and their cousins. Melinda was 8 when Flora died, and Martha was 6. My great grandmother Flora was born in Carterville, Missouri in November of 1883 or 1884 1 . Her parents were Mathias Zogg, an immigrant miner and farmer from Switzerland, and Anna Margarethe Knust, a young immigrant from Germany.  I’ve often wondered at Flora’s full name. It seemed like such a mouthful. To look at a newborn baby and name them Flora Margarethe (pronounced like Margaretta) Augusta Zogg seemed to indicate the grand expectations her parents had of her. I imagine her first name came from her grandfather Florian. Her middle name Margarethe was her mothe

When I started writing about Flora Zogg a few months ago, I reached out to extended family members with whom I hadn’t communicated in years, hoping they had memories to share. After a few email exchanges, I hadn’t received much information other than what my more immediate family had shared. The eldest cousin had already passed, and the younger ones never knew Flora. In one communication with the youngest cousin, we exchanged contact information for her older brothers and she asked for my own mailing address. I didn’t think much of it, until weeks later when a well-secured package arrived in the mail. I couldn’t imagine what it might be, but I opened it eagerly. I gasped as I pulled back the layers of bubble wrap to reveal a glass cup with my great-grandmother’s name inscribed around the lip! I had never seen it or anything like it, and couldn’t believe my dad’s cousin had sent it to me. Since Flora married in 1906, I knew that the cup had to be older than that, as it was inscribed wit