The Boy Felt Lost

It was one of those almost perfect early summer days. The boy sat on a large lower branch of the ancient oak tree 8 or 10 feet above the ground.  Above him a hawk circled against the bright blue sky.  He was so glad that school was out for the year. He was looking ahead to a summer filled with wading in the creek, fishing, riding his bicycle, swimming, playing in the woods, or building hay bale forts in the haymow of the barn.

The school year that had ended two weeks earlier had not been a happy time. Teachers told his parents that he was a bright boy but not working up to his potential. His grades were not failing, but achievement seldom exceeded average.  He really didn’t understand how it was possible that he was “bright” when he found school so challenging.  It was hard for him to stay on task, his mind wanted to go everywhere except to the task or subject at hand.  

Those academic issues had been difficult for his father to understand or to know how to help.  His father had been an exceptional student who had brought home report cards full of A or B grades.  His Dad would get so frustrated trying to help with math...Often that frustration turned to angry frustration,  and his anger just made those sessions all the more unhelpful. His father had also been a good athlete and had excelled and enjoyed both baseball and basketball during his youth.  Throwing, hitting, or kicking balls felt awkward for the boy.  

The boy idolized his father.  He always had. Even before he knew the definition of the word ‘hero’ he thought of his father in that way.  He wanted to be the man that was his father.  He wanted to please his father but had no idea how to do that.  He often felt that he didn’t fit in at school, he felt adrift and in some indescribable way he also felt different, but couldn’t explain that either.  He climbed down from the tree and then over the fence into the adjoining open woods where a dozen cattle grazed quietly.  

The boy moved effortlessly through the herd and down the hill to the creek where he found some small flat stones which he skipped over the smooth surface of the slow moving water.  A trick his dad had taught him.  

A splash in the creek got his attention…it was a muskrat and the sound had startled him out of a day dream.  He decided it would be a good day to do some fishing and he walked back home, found a can in the trash and went looking for some bait.  He easily found a dozen or so worms under some old boards out in the barnyard, got his fishing pole from the shed and returned to the creek where he made himself a nest in the thick grass at the bank, baited the hook and dropped it into the water.   That day he caught a couple of sunfish, a bluegill, 3 small catfish, and some 6 or 8 inch chubs.  He released them all back into the creek.  He wondered if he had ever hooked any of them before. 

Today that boy (me) is more than 70 years old but occasionally he feels as if  he is still recovering from his childhood.  "What the hell?" you say, and if you know me you would be right to feel surprised by my statement.  My childhood wasn't tragic, I wasn't abused, didn't go hungry, had a warm bed every night of my life, had friends and a 320 acre farm including a creek and woods to play in.   There were fish, frogs and turtles to be caught, hay mows to climb in and bikes to ride.  I just wish my relationship with dad had been closer.  There are times when I still get a nagging feeling that I disappointed him.  I understand that might just be stuff in my brain and not having any relationship to the truth.  

 

 

Many of us, or maybe it would be more accurate to say "most of us" have dozens, or hundreds of photographs of family members that we treasure.  If we are lucky we could have photographs of 5 or 6 or even 7 generations all carefully and lovingly organized into scrapbooks, photo albums, or stored in boxes, file folders or maybe framed and hanging on the living room wall.   They are pictures of ourselves, our siblings, parents, children, grandchildren, grandparents, great grandparents, cousins, and other relatives and friends.  In total that big collection of photographs make up the visual history of ourselves and our families.  

Would you be willing to gather up your family photographs, pile them in the back yard, douse them with gasoline and strike a match to the pile?  Of course not,  but many of us are blindly setting into motion that very ending of those cherished pieces of our history.  A lot of us will go to great lengths to make sure that such family treasures get passed along to those who will appreciate them but let me describe one oversight that too many of us, and our grandparents have made that makes it much less likely that those treasures will survive into the future.  

The one thing that will doom the preservation of those photographs by those who follow us is the lack of identification on them.  Just that simple.   Document the faces or those faces will become lost to history sooner than you ever thought. 

 

I WAS NOT READY FOR THIS!!

 I had no preparation for this at all, and nothing I ever heard about it ever registered in my head.  Maybe I thought if I just ignored what I was hearing it wouldn’t happen to me.  Denial and deliberate ignorance provided comfort once upon a time, but did little to prepare me for the brutal truth.  So, what is the horrible thing I was deliberately unprepared for?  A fair question and the short answer is “old age”.   That however is an incomplete answer that only touches around the edges of the problem.   

I’m 73 years old, and to be honest I really never considered that number to be “old”….getting close maybe, but not quite old.  I always thought that “old age” is more than a number.  Health, happiness, energy, enthusiasm, activity, engagement….those are all part of the formula.  If you assigned a “score” of 1 to 5 to each of those parts of the formula then I would estimate that a total score close to 30 would potentially subtract numbers from that base age number….a total score of something less than 15 might start adding to that base age number.  

When I was a child, youth, & younger man health was never something I worried about or even thought about because I was hardly ever sick and was never injured seriously.  I think the sickest I ever felt was when I had the mumps at about age 15.  That laid me flat for several days.  Aside from that episode of the mumps I had the usual colds, stomach flu, and I’m allergic to ragweed pollen and live in the ragweed capitol of the world.  None of that prepared me for the realities of aging and my paternal grandparents didn’t help much either.  My grandmother lived to just short of 100 and had lived alone into early 90’s and grandpa lived to 86 without any major issues up to the end of his life. 

I had my right knee joint replaced in 2007 just before my retirement at the end of that year.  I healed quickly and regained and exceeded my former activity levels and, of course, adding to my unrealistic expectations about my health.  My wife has had a sort of opposite experience as far as health.  She’s had various health issues much of her adult life.  Not life threatening stuff, but just enough to give her some experience and a realistic view of what old age might feel like.  

Oddly my introduction to “old age” happened right around Father’s Day, the year I turned 70.  One of my daughters suggested I should go get one of those $49. Heart scans.  My blood readings and annual physicals had always been decent, heart trouble was not suspected but, I love a bargain, and $49 sounded like one.  As expected the old heart looked to be in pretty good shape but there was something else seen on the scan they thought I should have checked….a spot on my left lung.  After a whole bunch more scans and x-rays and then a biopsy I learned I had a tumor….I use the word tumor because it sounds a little less scary than saying CANCER.  The cure was the loss of half of my left lung, but I was spared Chemo treatments.  I’ve written before of the moment in the hospital when the reality of the whole thing finally registered in my head.  How lucky I was and how humble I felt right then.  But you know what? I really didn’t learn anything.  Since that day I have continued believing I’m “immune” from my body wearing out.  It’s interesting how easy it is to lie to yourself, even as the evidence is staring back at you in the bathroom mirror every morning.  

Then came 2020 and another wake up call.  The year started out just fine. We were making big plans to do some traveling and of course that didn’t happen. First came Covid and thankfully we have both managed to avoid that mess but there was something going on inside my head that was waiting to give me another ugly surprise.  That Summer I spent a lot of time working in the gardens, making some changes and cleaning up from the neglect of 2019.  One very typical, hot, and steamy afternoon I was out working up a sweat and decided I should go inside and cool off.  

That’s the last thing I actually remember.  

We had gotten new appliances delivered to the house during a kitchen remodel we were having done.  Those appliances sat in our dinning room for more than a two months  before the work was done and they were installed.  On that hot August afternoon they had been there for several weeks already.   I walked into the dinning room, looked around, confused and asked Camilla what was in the boxes.  She thought I was joking around.  Sadly I was not and after a bit more conversation it became apparent to her that I was quite serious, and quite confused.  

She sat me down in my recliner and after a sort of groggy rest of about 10 minutes the brain started working again.  We thought maybe I’d had a heat stroke or something related to the heat.  After talking about the episode for a couple of days we decided I should check with the doctor.  Alarm bells went off as we explained the incident to the doctor.  He thought I could have had a stroke and ordered an MRI which showed no evidence of a stroke.  Three or 4 months later as we were sitting at our computers in the upstairs office near bedtime Camilla asked me “how are you feeling now”?   I told her I felt fine and asked why.  She said she was just concerned since I had thrown up that afternoon.    WELL CRAP…I HAD NO MEMORY OF THAT EVENT AT ALL, WHAT IN THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME?  

Finally 2021 arrived and we made it all the way to March without any strange events.  March 16th I passed out when I had walked into the pantry to get some dessert after dinner.  That got me an ambulance ride to the hospital, which I didn’t even get to enjoy because I was mostly out during most of the trip, though I do recall being irritated that the medic kept talking to me and all I wanted to do was go to sleep.   Of course all of that excitement led to a whole bunch more testing and at my first meeting with my neurologist he informed me I had been having seizures.  

My experiences most closely match a type of seizure called Complex Partial Seizure one of many different types of seizure activity that can come with Epilepsy.   Well, I sure as hell didn’t see that one coming!  On the positive side seizures don’t hurt and I don’t remember them but my fear is that there may be more mayhem happening up there that I’m just not aware of.   I’m taking one of the standard anti seizure meds and that kept the number of seizures at a minimum up to the last 3 months.  I’ve had two in the past week….so now it’s back to the doctor for further evaluations and possibly a change of medicine.  

I really wasn’t prepared for this but I now realize I might as well get used to it.  Update: the dosage of med was adjusted and I've been seizure free for months. 

THE BUSY CORNER OF 9TH AND MAIN

 

I live in an historic neighborhood near downtown. I like to think I have a fair idea of what my neighborhood and nearby neighborhoods were once like, and while I do have a fair grasp of the "historic facts" of my neighborhood, what I really lack is understanding the "flavor".  I can imagine to some degree what it looked like, based in large part on what has survived, but what about the "flavor", what did it sound like, or smell like? In short, what did it feel like?   We talk a lot about historic preservation, and that's a positive thing, but I thought it might be fun to see if I can paint a bit of a flavor photo of a certain corner not far from where I live.  

This is the northeast corner of 9th and Main st. about 1950

The northeast corner of 9th and Main looked much the same for 100 years.  The history surrounding that corner is full of flavor.  The Heinmiller Grocery Company was located in that frame building from mid 1890's until October 11, 1951.  A fact, but not really much "flavor" .  The interesting thing about that corner is that a bit of investigation leads us to all kinds of stories.  We can be led to the Perrin Avenue neighborhood where business partners built new homes side by side, or we can look at German immigrants Adolph Schwarm, a native of Bavaria, who arrived in NYC from Hamburg, Germany on June 5th, 1871 and John J Heinmiller who arrived in America in 1872.  Want to go a little farther afield and I can tie that corner to a couple of different (but related) forms of transportation, and finally, how about some good old fashioned religion? 

                                   From the 1885 Lafayette, Indiana Sanborn Fire Insurance Map

Maybe it will be best to begin at (or near) the beginning for that corner.  Lafayette began development near the river and gradually development moved eastward toward the hills. The building in the above photo was constructed in 1851 for a Universalist church but from 1861 to 1892 it served as the German Reformed Church with a residence at the rear for a parsonage and an adjoining wing to the east for a parochial school.  About ten to fifteen feet were added to the front of the structure when it became a grocery store.  The first store was  a partnership between two young German immigrants, John J. Heinmiller and his friend Adolph Schwarm. The Schwarm & Heinmiller firm actually began in the building at the north west corner of 10th and Main about 1881.  

I called the business partners "friends" and I don't honestly know that for sure, but I do know that Schwarm and Heinmiller built two new homes on Perrin Avenue at 613 and 625 next door to one another.  The Italianate style homes were built in 1884 and Schwarm and Heinmiller raised their families in those homes and lived in them the rest of their lives.  In 1906 The Schwarm and Heinmiller partnership was dissolved and Schwarm opened another grocery near 8th and Main while Heinmiller remained at 9th and Main.  Eventually John Heinmiller was joined in the business by his son Otto.

The German Reformed congregation sold the building at 9th and Main after they completed construction of an imposing new brick church at the southwest corner of tenth and Ferry.  More on that building to follow.  

As I said earlier, 9th and Main was once a happening place and part of the activity at that intersection was due to the fact that the routes of several Lafayette Street railway system all connected to the Street Railway Barn which was located on the north side of Ferry street between 9th and 10th streets so many of the city's street cars passed 9th and Main several times each day.  Not only that, but in addition two different interurban lines served Lafayette and one of those lines came down Main Street Hill to 9th St. and made a right turn onto 9th street.  The Interurban cars, like the street cars, were both electric but think of the Interurban cars as being larger with a much more formal decor inside...more like the lounge car on the railroad vs a more standard passenger car.  

1920 Indiana Railroad and Interurban lines shown in red. 

The late David W Chambers who grew up in West Lafayette had more than 20 years of personal history with our Lafayette Street Cars  and later wrote a history of the Lafayette Street Railway system. He was great at painting some of that flavor I spoke of.  He and his mother often rode a trolly from their home on Salisbury to Central Presbyterian Church.  He recalled the hot summer Sunday mornings when they rode the colorful little street cars to and from church.  The cars all got a fresh coat of paint every Summer.  "how fresh and clean the newly painted car would smell and what a colorful sight to behold.  The lower body was painted bright yellow, the upper portion was cream and the roof and window sashes were cherry red, the motorman wore a dark and light blue uniform that contrasted the bright yellow."   Chambers also described what it felt like and smelled like inside one of the cars.  "street cars had their own distinctive odors, which besides fresh paint in the summer included hot brake shoes, oiled wooden floors, wicker seats and the ozone from hot electric motors.  Until 1929 State Street was paved with wooden creosote blocks and on a hot summer day with all the windows open that odor joined the others."

"At Ninth and Main I could view a lengthy interurban just arriving from Indianapolis. These were magnificent traveling parlors over 50 feet long, but they were formidable looking with big sweeping cow-catchers and projecting headlights.  Cautiously these interurbans would round the sharp curve at Ninth and Main, their green bodies coming precariously close to the wooden sidewalk awning in front of Heinmiller's Grocery.  If an interurban had weak right springs, the body would rub the awning boards loose, and a repairman from the car barn would have to do some prompt re-nailing.  As the interurban negotiated the turn the heavy electric motors would arc, flash and pop, suggesting lightning."  The last interurban came down the East Main Street hill in 1930. The City street cars remained in service until April 1940.  

John Heinmiller retired in 1933 and died at age 88 of injuries suffered in an auto accident.  His son Otto remained in the grocery business at the same location until Oct 8, 1951.  In December 1954 the building was demolished to make room for a 30 car parking lot.   Paul Heinmiller, brother of Otto had a lifelong career with Fairfield manufacturing eventually working his way up to become President of the company. 

                                   December 16, 1954, Lafayette Journal and Courier

The brick church that was built in on the opposite corner of this block to replace this frame building actually did not last much longer than this much older building.  Following several mergers the congregation purchased land just north of Cary Home on South 18th Street. The building at 10th and Ferry was gone before 1960.  In some ways the same forces were at work in the loss of both of those buildings.  The church building at 10th and Ferry had no extra parking space so parking for Sunday services and events was all "on street" parking. In short, the rise of the automobile in American life drove a need for more parking space and a lot of our historic buildings were lost to create that parking.  

I Hate Winter

It's February and still several weeks until Spring arrives in the Wabash valley. We've had a fairly mild Winter thus far with only one "big" snow of 14 inches and so far the extreme cold single digit or below 0 weather has been fairly limited also.  It was 11 degrees last night and I'm in the mood for Summer!  

Winter!  As a kid I loved playing outside in the Winter almost as much as in the Summer.  In addition to the usual outside activities, there was ice skating, building snow forts, and sledding, all of which I loved. Blizzards often left drifts taller than our heads.  We could make tunnels under some of them. 

The Monon Railroad went through our farm. It was always a blast watching the first train pass through after a big snow. If large drifts were expected the railroad company attached a big snow shovel to the front engine. At 50 or 60 miles an hour that snow shovel threw snow a hundred feet into the air as the train passed.  In those days railroads had schedules that they stuck close to so it wasn't hard to know if a train was due to pass at or near a certain time each day.  Sometimes when we knew the tracks were being covered by drifting snow we would try go down closer to the tracks when we knew a train was on the way.  The closer the better.  Occasionally we were "snowbound" meaning there was so much snow and such big drifts that we were stuck at home for a day or so until dad was able to get the snow blade attached to one of the farm tractors. We were seldom stuck at home very long.  

Winter weather soon froze Moots Creek and we knew it was time to polish up our ice skates and that presented endless hours of entertainment.  

Between our house and the creek was a row of hillsides perfect for sledding.  Our first sleds were often Christmas gifts.  

Thrills, spills, and chills were the order of the day.  The steeper the hills the bigger the thrills. 

My mind holds many great memories of Winter and as a photographer I love and still appreciate the sometimes spectacular beauty of a winter landscape.  That said, I have to admit my attitude toward dealing with, and being exposed to Winter has made a 180 degree turn from my childhood appreciation of Winter.  

I have a neighbor who is my age who still loves winter and can't understand why I now say that "I hate winter".  She loved winter as a kid and her attitude hasn't changed in 70 years. I got to thinking about that a while back, trying to figure out what brought about that change in my attitudes about seasons. As often as she has heard me say I don't like winter I doubt she would ever imagine that I once enjoyed it as much as she did and still does.  

What I finally decided was that I can blame that change on my career as a police officer.  During the first couple of decades of my life I could, and did, go out and play in the snow anytime I wanted to.  I always had a choice, I could stay in or go out and when I made the choice to go out I'd dress warm and have a blast and I could return to the warm house whenever I wanted.  

      During my career, that choice was removed from the equation.   I went out when it was required, whether I wanted to or not, whether I was comfortable or not, whether I was warm or not. I stayed out until the job was completed regardless of my own level of comfort. 

 

As odd as it might sound, fashion was also part of the problem.  I'm talking about police uniforms and how those evolved over the years to what they became in the 70's.    When my father-in-law joined the Lafayette Police Department in 1954 both the winter and summer uniforms were better adapted to their respective seasons.  Summer uniform shirts were light gray cotton.   The winter uniforms were dark blue wool shirts and pants and the coats were heavy wool, knee-length, "reefers".  

By the time I joined the police department in 1976 both summer and winter uniform material was either all polyester or a polyester-cotton blend. Believe me...those polyester winter uniforms were not nearly as warm as the wool uniforms they replaced.  The coat style had also changed to a waist-length "bomber jacket".   Again, not nearly as much protection from wind and cold as what they replaced.  Not too long after I joined the department we officially changed all uniform colors to dark Navy blue....almost black.  A color that just soaked up the summer sunshine and didn't breathe well. 

During my career I was required to stand in the street directing traffic under every possible weather condition.  From boiling hot and humid August afternoons or summer thunderstorms to freezing rain, snow, or blizzards.  If the job required me to be outside then I was outside and the weather never entered into the decision.  I was never free to say, "no, I think I'll sit here in the car with the heater running".  

I never developed quite as much disdain for being out in the rain because we did have good raincoats and our "campaign" hats had a plastic rain cover that could be put on which made the hat almost (but not quite) as good as an umbrella.  

I still hate Winter, But again... I do greatly appreciate the opportunity Winter can provide for some photo magic.  

Why Historic Preservation is so difficult....it is our own fault in some ways.

                           

                       Southeast corner of Sixth and  Columbia Street, circa 1890. 

In addition to my own personal Facebook page which I largely devote to family and photography, I am a “moderator” for the Preserve Historic Lafayette page and an “administrator” for the Tippecanoe County Historical Association page.  On both of those sites my posts are often historic photographs of people, places, or things involving the history of Lafayette, Indiana and Tippecanoe County.  Many of the most popular posts are photos and history of long gone buildings.  Almost without fail someone will comment something like “It’s beautiful, why would they ever tear something like that down?" Followed by a “sad or angry” emoji.  

I understand the feeling of loss when looking at a photo of something that was so beautifully constructed but no longer exists, however,  maybe it’s time to inject some harsh realism about historic preservation.   I also want to assure all readers that I believe preservation is worth the effort in the long run.  

To put it in the most blunt terms I can think of, historic preservation is backbreaking, dirty, hard, and frequently very expensive work. Often the problems you encounter require solutions that I can only describe as “inventive”.  Modern tools and materials are sometimes, quite simply, not suitable replacements for repairs or replacements for an 1865 structure.   Materials that were once easy to get, and craftsmen with knowledge and skill to use those materials are rare today and if available are more expensive than the standard materials used today.  Lumber is a great example.  Nineteenth century buildings were full of hardwood.  Oak, walnut, poplar, and cherry, all are still available but more difficult to find and always twice or more the cost of softwoods.  Flooring is a prime example.  While a pine floor might cost from $2 to $4 a square foot an oak hardwood floor will range from $8 to $15 per square foot and much more if you want wide planks.   So the question naturally arises, is it financially practical to attempt to save an old structure?  

Aside from all the physical and financial things that make preservation such a challenge is a very common human trait that works against preservation.   That trait is that humans in a lot of ways have short attention spans and at the same time they love change (as much as we claim not to).   While we can claim to be devoted to preservation we also love new styles and trends.  Furniture, clothing, automobiles as well as the houses in which we live are all victim to almost constant changes in tastes.  Some of that change comes from the top down, designers and manufacturers want to create new excitement to sell more products. As much as we might not want to admit it, a good bit is driven from the bottom up, you simply get tired of wearing the same style of shoe and stop buying it in favor of something new.  With fewer sales of said shoe style the shoe company tries something new.  It is no different with buildings.  

Another factor that affects what gets preserved and what drives style changes are general changes in society and living conditions. Changes in family size is one example.  In the 19th century families often consisted of 4,8, or even a dozen or more children.  Today the average number of children in a family is a bit less than 2 so less physical space is needed in a home today.  Can you imagine a family of 10 in a typical 3 bedroom 1950’s tract house?   Another example is that during the depression when money was short, and immediately following those years of financial hardship came WWII and that resulted in a general shortage of all sorts of materials…those two decades saw homes generally become much smaller and plainer than during the early years of the century.  

  Here is one last issue that affects preservation.   Land is limited, and while we can change the city boundaries the space within any given boundary stays the same.   Certain parts of the town become seen as more desirable for certain activities as towns develop and grow. Very often, in the beginning, residences, businesses, and even industry were all mixed together. An individual would arrive in a brand new little town and decide they want to open a dry-goods store.  They would build their store first and right next door they then built their new home after the business was up and running.  Across the street their neighbor has established his brick making company and his house is at the rear of his brick factory.  Eventually residential areas develop away from business areas or industrial areas.  A residential location near the business area in town in the period leading to the Civil War era would have been a popular option but as time passed that same location was seen as less desirable for a new house to be built.  People wanted to be a bit away from all the traffic, noise, and congestion of the central business area.  A specific piece of land with a big house at 6th and Columbia would not have been as desirable as that same house away from downtown, in a location like Highland Park or the Perrin neighborhood.  Still the land itself had value aside from the value of the house sitting on it.  In that way, houses were often removed  to make room for a structure more suited for the central business area.  Using the example of 6th and Columbia, a grand old house became a public library, which was then torn down to build a high school, which later became City Hall, followed by a parking lot, and soon a grand new police department headquarters will be there.   During the early days of our community there were many residences located in or near what we today call “downtown” but by the end of the nineteenth century those were disappearing.  Residential Lafayette was moving up the hills south and east of downtown.  The suburban village of Linnwood developed to the north.  As land closer to the central business area became more valuable for “business” purposes even Lafayette’s first city cemetery at 9th and Ferry was seen as being “in the way” of progress. 

It has been interesting to witness a very real and substantial reversal of the trend toward people moving away from downtown and with that trend it is my hope than some of the remaining grand old residential properties will be preserved and restored. In my view, historic preservation implies more than just not tearing an old building down.  My hope is that in the future many of those old homes in the downtown area that have managed to survive will be restored, and that those old single family homes that were converted to multiple apartments will be preserved/restored, and returned to single family occupancy, their original purpose.      

Why am I here?

What am I doing here?  I mean, what draws me here,  and where does this desire to write come from? I was certainly not trained or educated to be a "writer", and maybe I'm not even that good at it.  I think of myself more as a story teller.  You can have a good, interesting story in your head that you want to tell someone, but sometimes getting the words out is a little more difficult than you anticipated....  what I discovered was that if I write the story down I am better able to organize the words into a smoother flowing, more logical order, without the story getting all jumbled up from starts and stops and repeats and missing thoughts that happen when I try to tell the story vocally. 

I guess you would say that is the practical reason you find me blogging, but there is a much deeper reason that drives me to write.  

I had a close relationship with my paternal grandparents, especially my grandmother.  We were a farm family and my dad and his 2 brothers all lived within a mile or so of my grandparents, and farmed my grandfather's farm along with their own land.  The physical proximity made it easy for me to spend lots of time with them...and my grandmother lived to be 99 years old.  My children all got to know her too. During her lifetime she told me lots of stories.  Stories about her childhood and youth, about her parents and grandparents and other local folks and there were so many times I thought to myself how neat it would be to be able to go back in time and get to know the subjects of those stories, to ask them questions.  I heard many of the stories often enough that I became familiar with all the highs and lows of her life, including the deaths of three of her children and the loss of their home to fire in 1929.  

One of the first of my ancestors I learned a bit more about was my great-great grandfather Jesse Robinson and if I could chose only one ancestor to get to go back and meet it would probably be him.  I'd ask him to tell me what this family land looked like when he first came here, why did your parents come here, what were your hardships, Tell me about Lafayette in 1850, tell me about your parents and grandparents....so many questions I could ask him. He served during the Civil War, what were his thoughts on the war, his thoughts on the causes, was it justified, did he support Lincoln?  How well did he know his maternal grandfather who was a Revolutionary War Veteran.  

By now you might be able to guess where this is leading and how it relates to my original question, What am I doing here? I have 7 grandchildren, and so far I  also have 4 great grandchildren.  I am 72 years old and the truth is, I want my great and great-great grandchildren and those after them to be able to know something about me.....to remember that I existed.  Not simply a tombstone in a cemetery, but more than that. What was my life like?  What was my job like? What were my passions?  It's probably just that simple.  I'm leaving a little trail of bread crumbs in the way of blog posts and other writing.  I don't know what questions my great great grandkids will wish they could ask, or if they will even care, so it's a little like baking a cake without  a recipe, but at least there will be something if they are curious.