Tag: legacy writing

Legacy Writing 365:323

David recently made me aware that we lived in as many as four different places in Colorado, and that one of the houses was purchased by my parents in Fountain. I’m wondering if this is that house, because it’s obviously new construction. There’s no landscaping at all yet, and it doesn’t even look as if the driveway’s been poured. And that roof is perfect.

Note, however, that curtains are hanging in the windows, and I have no doubt that inside, even if we only just moved in, everything has been unpacked and put away, and the walls are hung with paintings. My mother’s packing efficiency was exceeded only by her unpacking efficiency. She used to say the reason she moved so much was because once she finally had a house exactly the way she wanted it, inside and out, she was bored and wanted to do it again. When that was impossible–and because they didn’t have the kind of income that would have allowed her to redecorate when she got restless–she just rearranged. I never knew what might be different every day when I came home from school. These days, she could probably hire herself out to people who are so busy that they still have boxes tucked away in closets or a garage years after they’ve moved in. She made moving an art.

What I love about the photo is that someone–my mother or father–is supposed to be taking pictures of their lovely children with Papa. But pride of new house has won out and we are nothing but little human specks in the distance. That’s still my favorite way to be photographed! 😉

Except for the blur and tilt, they did better on this one, where we sit on the front steps with both Papa and Miss Mary Jane.

Finally, here’s one Cousin Rachel sent us. Debby uses this one on FB as her user photo.

Legacy Writing 365:322

When we moved to Alabama, my father bought an old Ford Falcon to drive to work so my mother wouldn’t be left at home without a car. It looked something like this.

It was painted light blue, and either the original paint was flaking off, or it had been badly repainted. It had bench seats in front and back. The radio played even when the car wasn’t running and without the key being turned at all. Daddy’s drive to work was about ten miles, and Debby and I went to school in the same college town where he worked. The heater would finally start to warm up the car about halfway there on winter mornings, and the car always smelled faintly of gasoline. And cigarettes, because he smoked then.

He’d drop Debby off at the high school. My school was just across the street from the ROTC building. In the afternoons, Debby would walk there from school, and we’d sit in the car and wait for him to get off of work an hour and a half later. Sometimes she had after-school activities, and sometimes I went to my friend Pam’s grandmother’s house, which was just down the street from his building, and Pam and I would watch TV or feed apples to her horse–or someone’s horse–who was pastured nearby.

On the days that Debby and I sat in the car and waited for Daddy, we’d listen to the radio and she’d sneak cigarettes. One day I glanced toward the building and gasped. “Debby! Here comes Daddy!”

She hurriedly stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray and slammed it shut. It wasn’t time for him to go home; he was just coming to check on us, he said. He leaned his hands against the outside roof of the car on the driver’s side, where my sister sat, and talked to us for a few minutes. It wasn’t long before I realized that the fire from Debby’s cigarette had relit some of Daddy’s old cigarette butts, and smoke was starting to pour from the ashtray. While she kept him talking, I surreptitiously tried to wave the smoke toward my open window.

Finally Daddy went back inside his building and we almost collapsed from relief that he hadn’t noticed the near-fire that was going by that time in the ashtray.

Many years later, we were sitting around telling stories. Debby mentioned that she used to smoke in his car after school but he never knew it since he was a smoker, too.

“I could see you smoking every day from my office window,” he said. “Of course I knew.”

Ever The Snitch, I said, “Yeah, but you didn’t know about the time she set your ashtray on fire.”

“No,” he agreed. “Why would I have noticed plumes of smoke coming from the dashboard and you waving your arms around in the background?”

THEY ALWAYS SEE EVERYTHING.

Legacy Writing 365:321

This is my paternal grandfather Ellison Gustavus, also called Ellie Gus and E.G. throughout his life. We called him Papa. He was born in 1870, so that gives you an idea of how old this photo is. On the back, someone has written, “This print made from a tintype.” I don’t recognize the handwriting.

His face looks so sweet. And speaking of props (referencing comments to a previous post), he’s clutching an umbrella. Or perhaps his mother’s parasol. It would have been great if succeeding generations of mothers of Cochrane boys had seen this and let their sons be photographed in a similar pose–with an umbrella. I think that’s a newfangled trend, though, in family photography.

Have you ever heard the phrase “saucered and blowed?” It has a few meanings, but its origin is from the action of pouring a little of one’s hot coffee (or tea, I suppose) from the cup to the saucer. You blow on it and take little sips, and by the time the saucer is empty, the beverage in the cup has cooled enough to drink. If you want to read more about the phrase, you can find information here. I particularly like the story of Washington and Jefferson.

Every time I ever ate breakfast at Papa’s table, I watched him do this. It always seemed perfectly normal to me, and I never questioned why no one else did it. Maybe I thought it was just something special about my grandfather, like his whole wheat bread, the long walks I got to take with him, and his eyes that never dimmed right up until he died at age ninety-six. I loved him so much.

Legacy Writing 365:320

As I’ve said before, my mother was the youngest of fourteen children, twelve of whom lived to adulthood–six boys and six girls. It’s easy for me to get two of my aunts confused, because they married two brothers, and so ended up with the same last name. That means I could never have any hope of figuring out the tangle of cousins by name, even if I could remember meeting them. Family reunions were crazy crowded, so I never could keep but a few of the families straight. Especially since two of my uncles were married more than once and had children by different wives.

Looking backward to Mother’s forebears, this mingling of families happened before (and lots of the records are confusing because there are so many people with the same names). But I think I have the following set of relationships clear in my head.

One generation of the Missildine children born in England came to the United States. William David Missildine (and remember, this is my mother’s family, but Mother also married a William David and gave birth to a William David, as well) married Annie Jane Soles. William and Annie Jane had four children: John Robert, Joseph, Sarah, and James Monroe.

John Robert and James Monroe fell in love with the Freeman sisters. Susan Freeman married John Robert. Georgianna Freeman married James Monroe. At some point, the boys’ mother, Annie Jane, died. After that, I believe it was a bit of a scandal that their father, ol’ William David, married another Freeman sister, Sarah Ellen. So three sisters married two brothers and those brothers’ father: your sister was also your mother-in-law, and that sounds like too much of a good thing and also a lot like a Bell family soap opera.

The Freeman girls also had a brother, Montgomery, who ended up being called Uncle Gum. This is Uncle Gum, and all you guys growing your moustaches to raise money for Movember men’s health awareness and issues, tremble before his hirsuteness.

In the photo below, Ruth Missildine is on the back left. Ruth was the daughter of James Monroe Missildine and Georgianna Freeman. She was also my mother’s mother and so my grandmother.

The other girls are Helen and Gertrude Tunnell, and I don’t know how they fit into the family tree. Seated, on the left, is Uncle Gum, and on the right is Ruth’s father (so my maternal great-grandfather), James Monroe Missildine. Serious bunch, aren’t they?

Legacy Writing 365:319

I don’t know why I keep this thing.

It’s not as if I’ve used it since sometime in the 1970s. But I suppose since it doesn’t take up much space and is tucked among a lot of other things on that particular bookshelf in my office, I forget it exists.

It was printed in the late 1960s/early 1970s by a business in Tupelo, Mississippi, that appears not to exist now. There’s a bank on or near the site. Google Maps–so fun! With the Internet, this kind of book is extinct. Doing a quick online search, I can find the zip code for exactly the address I’m mailing to. (In this book, each city gets only one code. So Houston is 77000, though as of March 2012, the city apparently has 181 zip codes. We’re BIG.)

The book lists around 35,000 zip codes. Present day, there are around 45,000 zip codes. I’m supposed to be writing it ZIP code, because ZIP is an acronym for Zoning Improvement Plan. That little guy on the front is named Mr. ZIP. He was adopted to promote the use of the codes in the 1960s (when they replaced the old postal zone numbers) and the 1970s. Some people call him Zippy. He was originally drawn by the son of a letter carrier, Howard Wilcox, when Wilcox worked at an advertising agency in New York. That’s right: Mr. ZIP could have been created by that Mad Man Don Draper.


Woof. Now I’ll never be able to throw the book away.

Legacy Writing 365:318

It’s so strange to me that four years later, I still open little boxes or tins and find things of my mother’s I didn’t know I had. This bracelet is one of them. It reminds me of one I had when I was a ‘tween. I don’t know if mine is packed away somewhere, was lost through the years, or was stolen when my apartment was robbed. Regardless, the stones on mine were larger and the bracelet itself looked a lot more costume-y. This one is rather delicate.

I don’t recall seeing Mother wear it, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t, especially if it was a gift from a child (grandchild, great-grandchild). I know at least some of these stones are real–that is, not dyed, not synthetic. Real or not, I think they are, beginning to your left of the clasp: pink tourmaline, zircon, jasper, moonstone, obsidian, peridot, rose quartz, hemimorphite, garnet, fluorite, carnelian, amazonite, agate, sodalite. Of course, I could be wrong on any of those, so feel free to correct me if you recognize something I’ve identified incorrectly.

If you’re interested in any of the metaphysical qualities of these stones and you don’t want to google, ask me in comments. I’m happy to share what I know–I’ve had a lot of good and generous teachers.

Speaking of good and generous teachers, my friend Trish, who taught me Reiki and lots of other helpful stuff, has a Kickstarter project that might interest you. Trish has always been an enthusiastic supporter of my writing and came to our Houston signings. She and I have had many great discussions about our creative efforts through the years, and I’m always interested to find out what her next project will be. Trish is a playwright, and she’s seeking funding for a Christmas book based on one of her plays (and it has original music!): The Night The Animals Talked. You can check out her Kickstarter page here to learn more.

Two Indiegogo sites I mentioned in a post a couple of weeks ago–Michael Thomas Ford’s novel and the Markeroni project–were both funded. I don’t know if any of my friends and blog readers helped make that happen, but if you did, thanks! I’m looking forward to reading MTF’s Lily and to seeing Markeroni grow. Even when we can’t contribute a lot individually, many individuals can help wonderful things happen.

Legacy Writing 365:317

The November 12 that you were born was pretty much the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me. That’s saying a lot, because I’d had a life filled with some stellar moments up to that point. Your parents stayed with us for a few days when you came home from the hospital, and I couldn’t stop going into the room where you slept in your bassinet to stare at you.

You had a good, strong cry, but I didn’t mind when you woke the house to let us know that you were hungry, wet, or just needed to remind us you were there.


It was smart of you to be born so close to Christmas. You REALLY racked up in the gift department at your grandparents’ house. Like you cared. Though you have quite a grip on that little red stocking while your dad holds you. And you liked that shiny tree in the house, too, that your mom was showing you.

We all noted every one of your growing and learning milestones as if you were the most extraordinary creature in the world. Actually, you were the most extraordinary creature in the world. You still are. Though we can’t hold you up to a Christmas tree anymore.

Happy birthday, Daniel. I’m glad the planet is giving you lots of snow to celebrate with.

Legacy Writing 365:316

This is a brief video on the history of Veterans Day. Thank you to all who have served our nation in times of war and peace.

Mentioned in the video is the Tomb of the Unknowns. Here are a couple of photos from my visit there in 1995–one of the quietest places I’ve ever been. The sentinels on guard ensure that the area stays quiet and the visitors respectful. While they are standing sentry or walking the mat, the guards don’t wear any of their rank insignia, so that they’ll never outrank the unknowns interred there.

To my father, my brother, and my nieces’ and nephew’s father: Your family is grateful for your service.

Legacy Writing 365:315

It was a mild Saturday morning very much like this one on November 10, 2001. But it was an unusual Saturday because Tom and I took the car to Kingwood for a Taekwondo match being held in a gym there. It had been several years since we’d watched Jess spar and break boards, but on that day, it wasn’t Jess we were going to see.

I’ve mentioned before that for geographical and career reasons, I didn’t get to meet my late nephew Aaron until he was eight. He’d moved with his mother and younger brother to Austin, and both boys were involved in Taekwondo. Since they’d be coming to Kingwood for the tournament, Aaron’s mom Lisa suggested that it would be a good opportunity for us all to meet in person for the first time.

I was anxious all the way there. I’d be walking into a gym full of people. What if I couldn’t spot Lisa in the bleachers? How would I ever pick out one little boy I’d never met from a horde of children who’d all be dressed in identical uniforms? Tom reminded me that Lisa would be watching for us, and she’d point out Aaron and Alex to us.

So we stepped into the gym that morning. My glance swept the room–all those boys, all those faces. Then, as I described it to Tom as it happened, my heart leapt. I’d found Aaron immediately, even though he’d grown so much from the little boy whose pictures came in the mail. I just knew: He was my nephew and I fell in love every bit as much as I had the first time I saw Daniel, Josh, Sarah, and Gina as infants. We were linked by bonds between our hearts as surely as by strands of DNA.

From that day on, each time I saw Aaron, my heart would give that same little leap. Sometimes it’s impossible to believe it won’t happen again. He’ll always be here, though, in my heart. And as the years go by, Lisa and Alex will remain what they became that November day: family by choice, by love.

Legacy Writing 365:314

Recently Laura emailed me a photo of Lila (age four) in full-on model pose–taken during a photo session when she was dissatisfied with the photographer’s suggestions and finally struck a pose on her own. (Aries: I’ll do it myself.) I thought the photo indicated a future model, and Tim suggested she might be a future stylist. Either way, it was a pose-perfect photo.

Then my niece shared a Halloween photo of her daughter Morgan in costume as Little Red Riding Hood. At age ten, Morgan’s a few years older than Lila, but once again, the pose was dead-on model. Do we have an innate compulsion to strike that pose when a camera’s turned on us, or are we mimicking the models we see in print ads? Which came first: the model or the mannerism?

Me at around age thirteen. I don’t know who took it or where we were.