Category: photography

  • my paternal grandmother’s legacy was hilarious O.G.

    my paternal grandmother’s legacy was hilarious O.G.


    my grandmother Ma’s birthday was today

    October 23, 1903 (d. May 28, 1983)

    My paternal grandmother I called Ma is the beaming woman second from the left in the middle row. That smile was directed at one of her grandchildren who was misbehaving for the family photo. I’m guessing it was one of my Uncle Ray’s twin boys because they never were interested in following rules, and the little boy turned around toward her certainly looked like he was entertaining his grandmother. (I am the unsmiling little girl on the bottom row. I’m sure my mother had instructed me not to smile. Typical.)

    This family photo taken in the mid 1950s speaks volumes about the woman Betha Day Robinson Morris who was my grandmother. Her family meant everything to her, and she ruled all of us with a firm hand. She dearly loved her actual DNA matches, her children and especially her grandchildren. Unfortunately, the in-laws, the spouses her children chose to marry to pass along her DNA never were what she hoped they would be – for different reasons – but all three equally unacceptable.

    I have a few favorite pictures of Ma in my office – and this one is at the top of my most treasured. I’m guessing she was in her early 40s here which is how she must have looked when her first two grandchildren were born in 1946. Just imagine. Women of that era had grandchildren when they were so young because they married very young. Betha Robinson was fifteen years old when she married twenty-year-old George Morris. They had both grown up in Walker County, Texas on farms that weren’t far apart. Their marriage spanned 65 years. She outlived the grandson smiling at her in the picture, another grandson who died in infancy – as well as her youngest child Glenn (my father). Later letters I found revealed she was unable to fully recover from those tragedies.

    I have written about my grandmother’s influence on me and my storytelling in great detail in many of my published books – particularly Deep in the Heart: A Memoir of Love and Longing. Ma’s kitchen table was the stage for her hysterically funny stories; her audience was usually my grandfather and me since I lived across a dirt road and down a little hill from them. Pa and I both thought she was the funniest person on earth. We waited every Sunday to hear her roast the preacher Brother Whoever at the First Baptist Church of Richards. We were never disappointed in her assessment of the worship service, her Sunday School class members, the special music which she hoped would be her granddaughter’s singing. At a very early age I learned Ma wanted me to do well.

    Ma made my school and church clothes using a Singer sewing machine that aggravated her as often as I get aggravated with my slow outdated Windows 7 operating system. She bought patterns and material in Navasota, the bigger town in Grimes County where she carried the dry cleaning back and forth to the Lindley’s larger dry cleaners twice a week – once to deliver, once to pick up. Navasota was 20 miles from Richards, the little town that Pa had chosen to establish his single chair barber shop with dry cleaning on the side to make a little extra money.

    Money that Ma controlled down to the last penny. I saw the weekly ritual of Pa handing all of his cash for the week to Ma who put most of it in the bank in Anderson that was 10 miles from Richards. Ma did front Pa an allowance that was sufficient to buy me an ice cream cone or Coke for a nickel at Mr. McAfee’s drug store across the street from his barbershop whenever I walked to town for a visit – I’m not sure what else he did with his allowance.

    My maternal grandmother’s birthday was just three days ago on October 20th. I hope you had a chance to read my post about her. Yesterday and today I’ve been thinking about how very different these two grandmothers were. I’m not a Zodiac sign follower, but I was interested in my discovery that Libra changed to Scorpio today. My maternal grandmother I called Dude was definitely a Libra: charming, beautiful, well balanced, peacemaker.

    My Ma wasn’t a Scorpio I would describe as a “queen of the underworld”but she had a cruel streak I observed in many forms against others – never me, however. I saw the Scorpio with the magnetic personality, an aura of mystery, definitely a disturber of the peace whenever she had a chance but she made me laugh with her about her high drama.

    I think Ma and Dude had a race with their packages of homemade goodies to me in my college days at UT-Austin in the 60s. Ma alternated different flavors of her fried pies that I tried to hide from my friends in the dorm. She also sent chocolate chip cookies which were my only claim to fame in those days.

    I loved both my grandmothers with a love I continue to feel today. They were pillars of strength in their own ways, women who had few years of formal education but wisdom born of pain. I wish I could celebrate with them today – even for a few minutes of conversation. I broke both of their hearts when I moved to Seattle in 1968. I was on a journey searching for authenticity, and I thought I had to travel 3,000 miles to shed the imposter, to become the real me. I was never home in Texas on either of their birthdays again. Shame on me for squandering those special days and most other holidays with my family.

    For the past two years I’ve had an unbelievable, unexpected glimpse into the feelings my grandmothers had for me. Wow. I hope the thirteen years I lived with them in Richards brought them the joy our granddaughter brings to us every time we see her.

    Every choice we make matters – to us and to others. Time is fleeting. Choose wisely. Celebrate your legacies.

    *************

  • boo at the zoo, are we there yet? not yet

    boo at the zoo, are we there yet? not yet


    My friend Dick Hubbard who has been my most faithful reader since the days of the OG Red Man (the rescued Welsh terrier that became my alter ego in Red’s Rants and Raves) called me after my last post to say that my “grandmother inspired” posts were excessive. Now Dick is the only person who consistently rates my blogs as 5 star excellent so I want to apologize in advance to him for yet another Ella inspired post.

    Yesterday Pretty and I planned an adventurous outing at Riverbanks Zoo for the annual Boo at the Zoo experience in October. Please ask me if we have ever gone to this annual Halloween celebration. The answer is No, negatory, nunca in our 20 years together, but I ordered our tickets to take Ella and her mother Pretty Too later this month. The tickets come with complete instructions for costumes, trick or treat buckets, masks for adults, etc. I didn’t expect Boo to be so complicated.

    I hope Boo at the Zoo will be as fun as our first visit with Ella to one of Pretty’s favorite haunts: Barnes and Noble.

    Naynay, please?

    Pretty and I seem to struggle with setting boundaries.

    ***********

    Stay safe, stay sane, get vaccinated and please stay tuned.

  • dreamers shipwrecked in Galveston in 1868


    “We were eleven weeks on the ocean [leaving Bremen in the Province of Hanover, Germany on the Bark ship Fortuna for Texas] and when we were right near Galveston, the ship ran on a sand bar. We stayed there all night and part of next day before we were taken off. The ship had broken in the middle and was about to go all to pieces. By that time all our belongings were wet from salt water. At that time I was less than two years old but I have often heard my father say there was a family on board that kept praying and all the other people tried to get to them because they were all afraid except those who were praying.

    On the ship with us was my father’s mother and my mother’s father. My father’s brother John Koym and his family, Ferd Koym who was single, and my mother’s brother William Buls and his family, Andrew Buls, also single, as was Sophie Pletzech, who came along, too.

    There was a family by the name of Poshen, and a single man by the name of Carl Rando.

    I remember all of them very well. We stayed in Galveston several days and dried the belongings the best we could and then we moved to Brenham by train and from Brenham, on an ox-wagon driven by a negro driver we went about two miles out in the country, to an acquaintance of my father, where they were farming. Then we went on to Weimar. We lived there about 16 years and after I married Lena Reinhardt. I and a good many of my people moved to East Bernard, where we have lived all these years…”

    German immigration to Texas in the nineteenth century after the Civil War was partly driven by advertising in their newspapers for farm laborers to replace the African American men, women and children who once were slaves but now were free to leave the cotton, corn and tobacco fields of their masters to seek paid wages elsewhere. Many slaves left the farms without a backward glance which meant white landowners needed help with their cash crops, help to do the manual farm labor they couldn’t or wouldn’t do.

    Enter the Germans who faced political revolutions of their own, declining opportunities for farming in their homeland, varying degrees of religious persecution – murmurings among friends to brave the ocean voyage for a new life in America grew louder. The Koym and Buls families in the Province of Hanover in Germany shared not only a passion for economic improvement but also a two year old grandson named Hermann (who many years later wrote the above newspaper article about the shipwreck for the Galveston Daily News). A German friend who was already established on a farm two miles outside of Brenham in Washington County had sent word to Wilhelm Koym that Texas was the promised land. Friedrich (William) Buls was 62 years old, a widower with four adult children who were planning to risk their lives for fortunes and adventure across the high seas.

    The Bark ship Fortuna was a cheaper form of sailing vessel for the immigrants which indicated this group’s unremarkable socioeconomic status. Tens of thousands of poor working class Germans crossed the Atlantic in similar difficult conditions, but this small band of wayfarers was significant to me.

    Hermann’s maternal grandfather, Friedrich (William) Buls, was my 3rd great-grandfather, the widower who made this voyage at the age of 62 with his four grown children. His eldest son 32 year old Joachim Andreas Christian Buls (Andrew), the “also single” son in the newspaper clipping, found a wife in Texas and married Sophie Bartels Schawe in Salem, Washington County one year after the Galveston shipwreck. Sophie was a widow with three children when they married; she became the mother of another four children with Andrew Buls.

    The third child born to Andrew and Sophie on August 02, 1873 was a daughter, Bertha Emeline Selma Buls. Selma grew up on the family’s Washington County farm, spoke German in the home, had no formal schooling. When she was seventeen years old, she married another German Charles C. Schlinke who had been born in Brenham in Washington County.

    Selma Buls Schlinke was the woman I called Grandma Schlinke when she visited us in Richards, Grimes County, Texas throughout the 1940s and 1950s until her death in 1956. Grandma and Grandpa Schlinke had 12 biological children – one died as an infant – my grandmother Beatrice Louise Schlinke was their fifth child born October 20, 1898 in Rosenberg, Texas. A circuitous journey brought my grandmother Louise (with her husband James Marion Boring, Sr.) to live in the little town of Richards that was a hundred miles west of Weimar where her mother Selma was born and raised.

    Several additional twists of fate brought my daddy, mama (named Selma Louise) and me to live with Louise Schlinke Boring when I was two years old in 1948. My grandmother Louise who I called Dude as a toddler (because I dropped the second syllable of “Dudese” which I’ve never understood until our granddaughter began skipping unimportant second syllables in her initial communication of language) had a small house in Richards but the hospitality was warm just like she was so we had regular visitors every year. Grandma and Grandpa Schlinke visited us in the summer for a week or longer – they loved to get away from the big city of Houston where they lived with a son Otto and his wife Patrina on Posey Street, a lower middle class neighborhood of blue collar workers and small entrepreneurs. My Uncle Otto owned a grocery store located behind his house.

    Faded photographs I found this week plus a folder marked simply “Buls Family Genealogy” captured my interest about my mother’s maternal ancestors. I have several tiny pictures that I believe were taken of Buls relatives in the 1920s or 1930s on a farm which could be in Washington County. I don’t know the names of these German Texans because none of them were identified by my grandmother, but she carefully saved these 3×2 inch images of a particular time and place so I understand their importance to her; whether they are my family or yours, I found them compelling.

    Harvesting crops was a family affair

    Truly “horse and buggy” days in Brenham, Texas

    Typical farmer with his plow

    High Corn (not High Cotton)

    Texas farmer and his hardest workers

    Texas woman riding a horse – in my DNA

    Finally, I’ll close with one of my favorite pictures…taken before 1953.

    I am standing between my mother Selma –

    and my grandmother Dude.

    Grandpa and Grandma Schlinke are seated.

    I am the child of shipwrecked dreamers who refused to give up when their ship went down in the salty sea on the Texas coast, who then traveled by train, and then by a cart pulled by oxen to arrive in a beautiful country where no one spoke their language. I honor their memories as I celebrate the dreams of all who still dare to dream today that America is a land of hope.

    Onward.

    **********

    Stay safe, stay sane, please get vaccinated and please stay tuned.

  • ain’t no slide steps high enough

    ain’t no slide steps high enough


    Our granddaughter Ella James will be two years old this week on Friday, October 1st. so Pretty and I decided last night we would have a zoo day today to celebrate her day off from school (Jewish high holiday). It was a memory maker, as my mother would declare on the days before she lost hers. Whenever I get discouraged, whenever I feel like the world brings us all too many problems, I find a day’s dose of Ella James with Pretty works wonders.

    Pretty and Ella make joy real

    None of us quite understood proper bird feeding

    Cherry Icee fabulous

    Uh, oh. The Icee fell down.

    What’s this? Ugh. I get no respect. Seriously?

    Ain’t no slide steps too high for me to climb

    Do I know you? I don’t think so.

    Wheeee – let’s go, Nana!

    Bye, Bye, everyone – see you next time!

    (Another highlight of our day was the wonderful carousel ride which Ella rode twice, but my pictures weren’t suitable. Next time.)

    Ella and I were very tired after our morning at the zoo so we sat on a bench outside the entrance to wait for Pretty to bring the car around to pick us up. Unfortunately, my perfect granddaughter threw several wipes on the ground after she snatched them from the pack of wet wipes we brought for emergency use. Ella, I said sternly with my most authoritative voice, I have to tell you something very important. We never throw any trash on the ground.

    She looked at me with the same look Pretty gives me whenever she gets aggravated at something I say.

    Hush, she whispered. Hush.

    I burst out laughing. And that’s the way we roll.

    Thanks so much for indulging our zoo day pics – stay safe, stay sane, please get vaccinated and please stay tuned.

  • lesbian jungle

    lesbian jungle


    Vintage Paperback & Pulp Fiction Cover Art1966

    “I don’t know why, but of all the girls I’ve had in my life, Renna has always been different … special … but I’m afraid things will never be the same between us. I’m a full-fledged butch, now, and I feel, at times, that it repels her”–Cover blurb.

    Pretty had a large collection of lesbian vintage post cards in Bluestocking Books in the early 1990s, and one of them is now part of my little sandwich bag conglomerate collection of cards on my desk. Oh yes, I “rediscover” these gems periodically, and Lesbian Jungle is a favorite. Imagine.

    Today I needed something fun to distract me from the Biden Administration’s recent disasters. Don’t get me wrong. I love Joe and the folks he has working for him but please don’t say drone s—-e, immigrants under b—-e in Del Rio, Texas. C—d anything. French ambassador r—-l. These words seriously make me cringe in horror today. You have to do better, Joe. Where is Kamala?

    Instead, I bring you a cheerful picture of the cover of a lesbian pulp paperback published by Publishers Export Company in 1966. The cover artist was unknown, but Jeffrey Luther with PC Design copyrighted this post card of the cover in 1999. Thank goodness the French Line (see top left of post card) survives as hopefully my French followers who rank #4 on my international blog stats will, also. Please stay with me, Annie and Animal Couriers – what would we do without you?

    I was interested to see that censorship of this particular literary genre in the 50s and 60s required the story to end unhappily for the lesbian heroine. There could be no happy homosexuals which probably explains the grumpy little girl in the picture frame next to the post card above. I know 100% she was too young to read lesbian pulp at the time she posed for this picture, but she already understood the endings.

    It’s a jungle out there so stay safe, stay sane, please get vaccinated, and please stay tuned.