The Original Memoirs of Nellie Mae Owings
This book is being written under protest. For some fifteen years now I have been engaged in a genealogy search for at least nine generations of my ancestors. Much has been discovered that was beyond my wildest imagination, but much has yet to be uncovered. I have been of the opinion that the proper procedure would be to accumulate all of my information before beginning to put it all together in some semblance of order. My husband feels that it would be best to assimilate the material already on hand so that it will present some cohesion for posterity and not worry about the uncompleted parts. So I have settled on a compromise -- I will start to put my material in book form, but will continue my research, as time permits, with the hope that by the time I reach a blank wall, something will have occurred to light the way.
This is not an autobiography, but it does seem sensible to make a reader somewhat aware of the writer, since she is the end result of generations long gone. I rather suppose that most outstanding thing ever done in my lifetime has been the accumulation of the facts within this book, for none of my immediately has ever been interested enough in family history to make me aware of some of the people and relationships discovered. But there have been extenuating circumstances, I presume, in that my parents lived through the terrible depression and they had their hands full just making ends meet.
The ancestor of whom I am most proud is one Thomas Price who had the fortitude, spirit of adventure, and just plain guts, to cross the Atlantic on the Ark and the Dove expedition and begin a new life in Maryland. He was a Welshman, as were many of my ancestors. A simplified genealogy chart which follows will explain the lines of descent and I will endeavor to fill out the lives of persons involved so that they become living, breathing people in one's mind. That has been my approach to this whole study-- I have visited many homes still in existence- and many are, or were- obtained photographs of persons involved, found their gravestones and learned about their families. Names alone were not enough to make it real.
One thing longed for many times during this search for people has been some personal account of the persons encountered and so, in the event that one hundred years from now someone might read this epistle, I am going to give a thumbnail account of myself and the people I know and remember. We shall start with me and work backward.
At this writing I, Nellie Mae Owings Chaney, am 73 years old, having been born in Baltimore City on Ashburton Street on December 3, 1915. At the age of one year the family moved to Main Street, Elkridge, Maryland and resided in the house now known as the Fuchs house. Probably I am extremely lucky to be here now because while living in that house, which was heated by a Franklin stove, the chimney clogged one night and the house filled with smoke and fumes. Luckily, my father was awakened and he managed to crawl to a window and break it, admitting life saving air. My dear aunt, Mother's sister Alice, tells of visiting us there and seeing me playing blissfully in a large packing box which was being pressed into service as a playpen.
From there, the family moved to a house on McKendree Road in Cooksville, Maryland to a house owned by my aunt and uncle, Herbert and Alice Musgrove. This was situated on their large farm called Oakhurst -- formerly a Hobbs land grant and inherited by Herbert's father, Stephan Musgrove, and then by Herbert. Here my brother, John Hall Owings, Jr., was born in 1917. Frankly, I cannot personally remember any of these details. The earliest recollections I have are of Fayeteville, North Carolina where my father went to become vice president of Husky's Seed Company.
In Fayetteville, I remember during the war years (WW1) after the death of our president that his body was carried north from Fort Bragg on a funeral car for burial and a great crowd gathered at the station to watch as the train went by. It was a sad occasion. I can still see the black draped cars. In that little city, I went to a private kindergarten and became a somewhat spoiled child. I could remember my mother complaining to a friend that I simply would not go to school if I could not wear a silk dress. It never occurred to me that that could present a problem. At any rate, I got silk dresses. My mother was an excellent seamstress and made all of my clothes, so it was no doubt less expensive than would otherwise have been the case. In a school exhibition of talents at "graduation" I had to be a sunflower, attracting bees. Being a very shy child, this was a hard thing for me. At first, we lived right downtown, but then Dad had a new house built up on the heights beyond town and we were all very happy there. I had a nice black child's nurse named Irene who took very good care of me and sometimes we took walks through lovely sandy lanes over to where she lived. In today's atmosphere of racial tensions it is amusing to remember that Irene had standards of her own- she had to approve of my playmates, and once turned thumbs on the daughter of "that po' white trash!" The Cape Fear River ran close to the town and Crepe Myrtles grew wild on its bank. It was so beautiful.
After beginning elementary school, it became necessary to join the local library so that I could have enough books to read. Reading was easy for me and it became a lifelong passion. Another fond memory was being allowed to go to the library downtown all by myself. It was in what used to be an old slave market in the center of town and underneath it was a livery stable. That was a real adventure! The sights and smells and sounds and people amazed me.
Another acute memory of fayetteville was being allowed to visit my father at his place of business. On one occasion, someone had a pet monkey which had escaped and was flying from perch to perch and was driving everyone crazy trying to catch it. What a funny day that was! On the corner beside the railroad tracks, there was an old fashioned ice cream parlor and when mother wanted to have ice cream for desert she would give me a beautiful cut glass bowl to carry over there and they would fill it up with all different colors and flavors of hand dipped ice cream, which I quickly ran home. It made me think of a rainbow in a bowl. Gorgeous site! Ice cream parlors of that day were a memory to be cherished. when I was especially good, Dad would take me there for a chocolate sundae or some penny candy and nothing could beat that for a treat.
My grandmother Hutchins (mother's mother) lived with us in Fayetteville and she has always been one of my favorite people of all time. Every morning I would crawl into bed with her to be cuddled and tickled and every day started with a laugh. She was a warm and loving person. Her husband had died when they were very young and grandmother was a widow. There was a huge giant of a man who visited us daily,-- Mr. Dunlop. He had a shock of thick, red hair and a booming roar of laughter. He wanted grandmother to marry him, but she didn't. From some remembered conversations, I realize now that he was a member of the Ku Klux Klan, because there was talk of tarring and feathering someone and running them out of town. Grandmother was a very gentle person and no doubt that did not appeal to her.
My sister, Adah Lee, was born in fayetteville. She was a beautiful baby. She grew up and attended Towson State Teacher's College, from which she graduated and then obtained her Masters Degree. She became a most valued teacher in the Howard County, Maryland school system because of her success with dyslexic children. She had one daughter, Jean, who married Lester Brinsfield. Adah married Walter Wyatt who died some years ago and she now makes her home at Cooksville with Jean. Jeans son, Alan, is now a college graduate and established in a position of trust in the banking field. I have asked Adah to write an account of her life which hopefully can be incorporated into this book. She had a severe heart attack in 1988 and is somewhat of an invalid still, so I hope she will be able to complete that.
There is another outstanding memory of fayetteville. There was an outbreak of smallpox and mother contracted it. She was very ill but did recover. Then I got it. I can remember the terrible fever to this day and mother bedding me down in a Morris chair - the early recliners - so that she could watch me every minute, even in the kitchen. The disease left mothers face pockmarked and she went to a masseuse all the time we were there to try to eradicate the effects. It worked very well for her but my face was left marked and spoiled for life, a fact that later acne added insult to injury. That was a bad time. The only good time was when mother went to the salon for her treatments because she took me with her and we rode in a big, old Stanley Steamer or some such car that was used as a taxi at that time. That was worth all the trouble. I thought I was queen of the may!
I must have been about eight years old when we returned to Baltimore. Dad returned to his old place of employment, Meyer Seed Company, and we lived for a brief time in an apartment, owned by his mother and father, on Walbrook Avenue. Then we rented a row house just off of Edmondson Avenue for a year. Here I had two special friends, Mary Frances Harget, and Ned Obrecht. Ned used to walk me home from school everyday and carry my books, like a little gentleman. I spent a lot of time at his house, playing. He had a brother, and we got into trouble once, because we became embroiled in a pillow fight, which left feathers all over the place. Such naughty children! Ned and his parents took me, a couple of times, to visit his grandmother who lived, in the summer, in a big old Victorian house down by the water. I think it was in Sherwood Forest, and I believe I remember, her name is Hurst, but am not sure after all this time. After the hot city, that was a wonderful treat!
Mary Frances was my special girl friend,and the families kept in touch for a long time after we moved out of the city. Mother had rigid ideas of whom I was to play with, and these two children constituted my allowed circle of friends. At school, I was always making friends with strange, shabby children, who lived in unknown places, and when I'd bring them home, Mother would have a fit! Somehow it seemed like I always liked the people nobody else liked. To be honest, that trait hasn't changed a whole lot over the years. I can still find wonderful things in people others can't stand. Must be something wrong with me. And, a secret - the same thing is happening between my granddaughter and myself now - she is forever bringing home stray cats, dogs, and children, and I am doing just what my mother did - having a fit! Strange cycle!
Our next port of call was back to Elkridge, where we had lived when I was one. Mother had a dear friend there, a cousin, Alice Petticord, and they remained close all their lives. Alice had two children, Virginia, the oldest, and Nancy. Virginia and I became close friends, and that too has remained unchanged over the years. In Elkridge, Dad had a new house built on Landing Road, and we all worked hard, after it was built, digging up corn plant roots,which covered the front lawn, originally a corn field. I simply hated that job but it had to be done and eventually it was conquered. Dad, being a horticulturist had very definite ideas about beautifying his grounds, and worked at it constantly. Dad and Mother named the place Sunset View because of the gorgeous sunsets directly across from it. Dad was a very talented person with plants, and knew how to graft, so that his collection of hybrid Dahlias was outstanding. He had about an acre, of his twelve acres, planted in Dahlias. He often won prizes for his entries at the garden shows held at the Fifth Regiment Armory.
Dad was a quiet, loving, gentle person whom everyone loved. He had not an enemy in the world. Mother was a firm disciplinarian, obviously a necessity in a household where Dad "spoiled" us whenever possible.
We had a raspberry bed, asparagus bed, a small truck garden for vegetables, and a lot of chickens; the chicken yard enclosed with a high wire fence. Which brings to mind a funny story. Mother had sort of semi-adopted two children, who had no responsible parents, Dorothy Harmon and William Jordan. They lived with us from infancy until my mother's death. At the time I speak of, these two were about eight years old - maybe even six. At any rate, Mother went out back one morning and found this six foot high wire fence mashed down to the ground in one place. The questions began immediately, of course - "who did this?" Bill and Dorothy immediately had the proper explanation - "Grandma did it!" I still laugh when the impossibility of that strikes my mind.
Dad hired a village character, a huge black mane, Walter Cager, to plow and tend his gardens. Walter had a great sense of humor, ad his tremendous booming laugh could be heard for half a mile around. He lived in a log cabin on the Devan farm, across the road from us. There was a strawberry patch right beside it, and in the summer, we were allowed to pick all we wanted for ten cents a quart. Daddy soon put in his own strawberries, and that became unnecessary. Walter needed a horse, of course, to draw the plow, so Dad bought "Frankie Horse", as we called him. He was the drollest picture of a horse you could ever find - his back sank in the middle most amazingly - but he was loved by us all.
There were wild blackberry bushes all over the fields surrounding our farm,and in the summer, we children had the job of blackberry picking, so that Mother could make blackberry jelly. Mother worked all summer making jams and jellies, and preserving fruits and vegetables for our use during the winter. Our cellar was a sight to behold! But it was certainly hot, hard work.
Two streams ran through our property, and brother Jack dammed up one of them, creating a small pond, which he used to sail homemade wooden boats upon, some with little engines, in later years. He liked to wade in the water, but I was always afraid of snakes and wouldn't try that. Jack was always quite inventive. He took one unused field and built a nine hole miniature gold course on it. That was great fun, and we were quite proud of his effort. There was little around for amusement in those days, and very few people out in the country, away from the village where we were, so we had to amuse ourselves. On Sundays, after Jack got his license to drive, he would take me for drives all over the state. That was a great pleasure. We went to Gettysburg, Manassas, and any place that helped to foster Jack's intense interest in the Civil War. I think he must have been in that war in a former life, so interested was he, in it. And now, my own son, Jim, has inherited that intense interest. Spooky! After my mother died, Dorothy and Bill had to be sent to an orphanage in Baltimore, and Jack and I always went to visit them there, so they would know we still loved them, and wanted to help however we could. It was so hard for them. They grew up thinking that Mother and Dad were their real parents, and they couldn't understand how this could be happening to them. When little CharlesVeazey went to Kernan's Children's Hospital for treatment of his crippled legs. We visited him every week also. Charles was another one of mother's adoptees. He suffered from cerebral palsy. I was appointed to take care of Charles from the time he came to our house. He was a couple of years old and still couldn't sit upright or feed himself. It was so pitiful. I loved him very much. His mother eventually came to live with us to be with him. Her name was Della Veazey and we became best friends and stayed so until her death. She eventually married a man by the name of Steve whom we liked very much and they moved to York, Pennsylvania to take advantage of programs there for the handicapped which were unavailable in Baltimore. Charles was a whiz at electricity. He obtained work and later married and had a child. The last time I saw him was when Della died and we attended her funeral. He still called me by the pet name he gave me-- "Nannie." That came out because he could not pronounce "Nellie."
I must have been about eight years old when we returned to Baltimore. Dad returned to his old place of employment, Meyer Seed Company, and we lived for a brief time in an apartment, owned by his mother and father, on Walbrook Avenue. Then we rented a row house just off of Edmondson Avenue for a year. Here I had two special friends, Mary Frances Harget, and Ned Obrecht. Ned used to walk me home from school everyday and carry my books, like a little gentleman. I spent a lot of time at his house, playing. He had a brother, and we got into trouble once, because we became embroiled in a pillow fight, which left feathers all over the place. Such naughty children! Ned and his parents took me, a couple of times, to visit his grandmother who lived, in the summer, in a big old Victorian house down by the water. I think it was in Sherwood Forest, and I believe I remember, her name is Hurst, but am not sure after all this time. After the hot city, that was a wonderful treat!
Mary Frances was my special girl friend,and the families kept in touch for a long time after we moved out of the city. Mother had rigid ideas of whom I was to play with, and these two children constituted my allowed circle of friends. At school, I was always making friends with strange, shabby children, who lived in unknown places, and when I'd bring them home, Mother would have a fit! Somehow it seemed like I always liked the people nobody else liked. To be honest, that trait hasn't changed a whole lot over the years. I can still find wonderful things in people others can't stand. Must be something wrong with me. And, a secret - the same thing is happening between my granddaughter and myself now - she is forever bringing home stray cats, dogs, and children, and I am doing just what my mother did - having a fit! Strange cycle!
Our next port of call was back to Elkridge, where we had lived when I was one. Mother had a dear friend there, a cousin, Alice Petticord, and they remained close all their lives. Alice had two children, Virginia, the oldest, and Nancy. Virginia and I became close friends, and that too has remained unchanged over the years. In Elkridge, Dad had a new house built on Landing Road, and we all worked hard, after it was built, digging up corn plant roots,which covered the front lawn, originally a corn field. I simply hated that job but it had to be done and eventually it was conquered. Dad, being a horticulturist had very definite ideas about beautifying his grounds, and worked at it constantly. Dad and Mother named the place Sunset View because of the gorgeous sunsets directly across from it. Dad was a very talented person with plants, and knew how to graft, so that his collection of hybrid Dahlias was outstanding. He had about an acre, of his twelve acres, planted in Dahlias. He often won prizes for his entries at the garden shows held at the Fifth Regiment Armory.
Dad was a quiet, loving, gentle person whom everyone loved. He had not an enemy in the world. Mother was a firm disciplinarian, obviously a necessity in a household where Dad "spoiled" us whenever possible.
We had a raspberry bed, asparagus bed, a small truck garden for vegetables, and a lot of chickens; the chicken yard enclosed with a high wire fence. Which brings to mind a funny story. Mother had sort of semi-adopted two children, who had no responsible parents, Dorothy Harmon and William Jordan. They lived with us from infancy until my mother's death. At the time I speak of, these two were about eight years old - maybe even six. At any rate, Mother went out back one morning and found this six foot high wire fence mashed down to the ground in one place. The questions began immediately, of course - "who did this?" Bill and Dorothy immediately had the proper explanation - "Grandma did it!" I still laugh when the impossibility of that strikes my mind.
Dad hired a village character, a huge black mane, Walter Cager, to plow and tend his gardens. Walter had a great sense of humor, ad his tremendous booming laugh could be heard for half a mile around. He lived in a log cabin on the Devan farm, across the road from us. There was a strawberry patch right beside it, and in the summer, we were allowed to pick all we wanted for ten cents a quart. Daddy soon put in his own strawberries, and that became unnecessary. Walter needed a horse, of course, to draw the plow, so Dad bought "Frankie Horse", as we called him. He was the drollest picture of a horse you could ever find - his back sank in the middle most amazingly - but he was loved by us all.
There were wild blackberry bushes all over the fields surrounding our farm,and in the summer, we children had the job of blackberry picking, so that Mother could make blackberry jelly. Mother worked all summer making jams and jellies, and preserving fruits and vegetables for our use during the winter. Our cellar was a sight to behold! But it was certainly hot, hard work.
Two streams ran through our property, and brother Jack dammed up one of them, creating a small pond, which he used to sail homemade wooden boats upon, some with little engines, in later years. He liked to wade in the water, but I was always afraid of snakes and wouldn't try that. Jack was always quite inventive. He took one unused field and built a nine hole miniature gold course on it. That was great fun, and we were quite proud of his effort. There was little around for amusement in those days, and very few people out in the country, away from the village where we were, so we had to amuse ourselves. On Sundays, after Jack got his license to drive, he would take me for drives all over the state. That was a great pleasure. We went to Gettysburg, Manassas, and any place that helped to foster Jack's intense interest in the Civil War. I think he must have been in that war in a former life, so interested was he, in it. And now, my own son, Jim, has inherited that intense interest. Spooky! After my mother died, Dorothy and Bill had to be sent to an orphanage in Baltimore, and Jack and I always went to visit them there, so they would know we still loved them, and wanted to help however we could. It was so hard for them. They grew up thinking that Mother and Dad were their real parents, and they couldn't understand how this could be happening to them. When little CharlesVeazey went to Kernan's Children's Hospital for treatment of his crippled legs. We visited him every week also. Charles was another one of mother's adoptees. He suffered from cerebral palsy. I was appointed to take care of Charles from the time he came to our house. He was a couple of years old and still couldn't sit upright or feed himself. It was so pitiful. I loved him very much. His mother eventually came to live with us to be with him. Her name was Della Veazey and we became best friends and stayed so until her death. She eventually married a man by the name of Steve whom we liked very much and they moved to York, Pennsylvania to take advantage of programs there for the handicapped which were unavailable in Baltimore. Charles was a whiz at electricity. He obtained work and later married and had a child. The last time I saw him was when Della died and we attended her funeral. He still called me by the pet name he gave me-- "Nannie." That came out because he could not pronounce "Nellie."
Our Aunt Alice's son, Bert, visited us often and he and Jack and Bill Warfield and I would go bowling in Halethorpe during our teen years.There was a street car line in Halethorpe and whenever we went to town someone would have to get us by car that far and we'd take the trolley from there, with the necessity of having to be met on the return. Halethorpe was five miles from our home. In 1926, right after we had moved to Elkridge, Dad had purchased his first car - a brand new 1926 Ford Model T! How thrilled we all were! But when the weather turned cold every morning the engine was frozen and he had to spend long hours thawing it out so he could go to work. When it finally started running, though, it was a real luxury and we sat in the back seat all bundled up in the winter, snug as bugs with the eisenglass windows protecting us from the wind.
After I graduated from high school, a Saturday night dance was instituted at Halethorpe and Aunt Alice (I always called her Lallie) and Uncle Herbert loved to dance so they would pick me up and take me with them over to the Halethorpe dance. A lot of my friends would be there too so it was a pleasure eagerly looked forward to. They also took me to dances out in the country at Burtonsville when they established a regular dance schedule there also. It was great fun. I loved to dance.
I had a cousin, Helen Wheeler, now Helen Blondell, who lived in Walbrook during my teen years and we visited back and forth often. That was nice. The highlight of a visit to my house when we were younger was making a pot of chocolate fudge and then snuggling down beside the radio listening to "The Shadow" or the Lucky Strike Hit parade of top songs - and making ourselves with a surfeit of chocolate. At her house, Helen's mother was a hairdresser and she often worked on our hair or we'd go for walks in a nearby park with some of her friends. It was a lovely, carefree time.
When I was in my early teens, one of my greatest hobbies was dollhouses -- or trying to get one, I should say. Since that was out of the question, I rescued orange crates and other assorted boxes, put them together and made my own. Than I'd take cardboard and sew or glue it together into shapes of my own choosing, cover it with cotton and finally with figured and make upholstered living room furniture. I got so I could even make wooden bedroom furniture with drawers yet! and I loved every piece of it. But there were never any tiny people to put in it, something always longed for.
Today, I am the proud owner of a beautiful Tudor dollhouse mansion which was a Christmas gift from my daughter-in-law Marie several years ago. I have furnished it piece by piece with expensive custom pieces bought everywhere from Scotland to Florida and Texas, and it is my favorite possession. Every room is furnished down to the smallest details and Marie has even electrified it. At this point in life, I have just started planning and executing the grounds around the house where I want to have gardens, and a horse and buggy, and a veranda with white wicker furniture. I'm sure it will never be complete. But it does have a beautiful Gibson-Girl Mother, and a precious little daughter, in pantaloons, and an Aunt Jemima in the kitchen, and matching butler to greet guests. Haven't found an appropriate Daddy yet, but he will come. You know what they say about "a good man nowadays is hard to find".
Mother loved children, and during the great depression, she used this love to help Dad keep things going. It was a hard, hard time. Dad had resigned from Meyer's after his long years there, and opened his own business - another seed business, of course, on Wilkens Avenue. The Depression hit right after he started, and he eventually lost his bid for independence. I hated to see him so disappointed. At this time Dad's brother, Will, was caught in the financial crisis,and committed suicide. I can still see my father actually shaking from head to toe, when he heard the news. We had always been close to his brother and his wife, Aunt Myrtle, and their two children - Marguerite and William Jr., whom we knew as "Buddy". Marguerite died at the age of 13 of tuberculosis, and that was another difficult thing to cope with for everyone. It was strange - after Uncle Will's death, Aunt Myrtle met someone who wanted to marry her, but he lived in California. Aunt Myrtle thought it best not to disrupt her children's lives by taking them so far away; and then Marguerite died so suddenly, it made her feel that had she gone to California, Marguerite's health might not have taken such a cruel turn. One never knows what to do, does one? Can't win for losing. The last thing I heard of Aunt Myrtle, she was in a nursing home in Baltimore after having broken a hip, and William Jr was married, and living in Baltimore, and had adopted a child. I haven't seem any of them since Marguerite died.
Mother took in foster children, who were wards of the state, during The Depression. There were always hordes of small fry around. Except for Charles Veazey, whom I spoke of earlier, the others created as much noise, and trouble, and confusion, and overcrowding in our house, that I outgrew any natural love for children, I may ever have had. Or maybe I ever had any. Of course, I loved my own children extravagantly, but I have never had much patience for other people's offspring. I figure if we each of us can just take care of our own family, we've got enough to handle. I must be one selfish character. But my own have been such a handful for me to raise, it would have been impossible for me to cope with anything further. I always had to work outside of the home to help keep things going, and with a full time job and four children to raise, enough is enough.
I graduated from Elk Ridge High School in 1932, and spent about a year trying to decide where to go from there. I was a good student and worked hard enough to win the yearly scholarship award for three years in a row. The last year, I only came in second in my class, because I had, by this time, discovered that boys were interesting, and one particular one had shown a decided interest in me, so schoolwork took a back seat for the first time. Knowing my own inability to discipline children, it seemed that teaching school would be entirely beyond my capabilities. Mother and Dad gave me two choices - there weren't many others available at that time anyhow. I could go to State Teacher's College at Towson, or to Strayer's Business College. So I chose the latter, from which I graduated after a one year secretarial course.
During adolescence, Mother arranged for me to take piano lessons from a Peabody graduate, Ethel Inglehart, who lived not far from us. I studied for five years and learned to read music, for which I am grateful. I haven't had a piano for many many years, but I recently bought a little electric organ, which produces beautiful music, and is just enough to enable me to pick up some of my long forgotten piano playing. We really have no space for a big piano of any kind. I enjoy that very much.
After high school graduation, during the year spent floundering around trying to decide in what direction to go, Mother arranged for me to be tutored in French, by my high school French teacher, Miss Marion Curling. I had the thought that it would be wonderful to be fluent in that language, and be a translator, maybe in government work. I did learn to read French rather well, but after Miss Curling took us to a French play at Ford's Theater, in Baltimore - Cyrano de Bergerac, I realized that maybe one hundred years from now, I might be proficient enough for conversational French, so that dream went out the window in one night. But I've always been glad that I learned the rudiments of the language, in any rate, because it has been helpful in reading and understanding, and it also helped me to be able to assist my daughter,when she reached high school age, and was studying Spanish. The two were alike in some ways, I found at that time, and it was nice to be helpful.
When I was eighteen, my parents quite unexpectedly presented us with a little brother, Jerold Keith. All red and wrinkled when I first saw him, he grew mischievous and adorable. Twice married, he lives happily now in Florida, and has two children, Douglas Keith, and Karen, and one new grandchild, Ryan; a gift from Karen and her husband, Steve Miranda. Jerry has told me recently that he never remembers me being at home. That struck me as impossible at first, but on reconsideration, I can see why he said that. I had gone to work in Baltimore by the time he could remember things , and although I visited home often, and spent a lot of time running around trying to find housekeepers to keep the house, and Dad and Jerry going. I can that he never knew about all of that. When I ran out of housekeepers to stay at the house, I begged relatives and friends, one after another, to keep Jerry at their homes. Since all of them had known and loved my mother, they did this willingly. He was taken in first by Ruth Kuhn, wife of Howard Kuhn, a cousin who lived in Catonsville, and later by Mary Dowell, who had lived with our family for quite a few years, from the time we moved out to Elkridge until her marriage. Mary was like a sister to me, always. We called her "Sister Mary" when we were small. This had all become necessary because Mother died in 1937, after long years of suffering caused by adhesions from an old appendectomy. She refused hospitalization until it was just too late, and she was too weak to fight the pneumonia that set in. She was positive she had cancer and that an operation would kill her. Had she only gone for treatment earlier, she might have lived to a ripe old age, because there was no malignancy. As President Roosevelt so aptly put it "We have nothing to fear except fear itself!" Or was that Churchill's phrase? At any rate, it seems to be true.
Thinking about Jerry when he was little brings to mind an episode which he probably does not remember. I was living in my first apartment - my first real separation from the family, just before Mother's death. It seemed very exciting in my imagination, but it was extremely lonely. I arranged for Jack, I believe, to bring Jerry and his little friends, Lois and Bobby Stamer, to my apartment for a party. It being Washington's birthday, I ran around having a great time, making a special cake for the occasion. I had thought it would be impressive if the cake were iced in red, and trimmed with blue and white. Very patriotic! Well, those kids took one look at my masterpiece and were terrified! They had never seen a red cake, and obviously thought it was poisoned or something equally as bad. They refused to eat it! Such is life!
After a couple of unsatisfactory jobs, I obtained a position as secretary in the Phipps Psychiatric Clinic at Johns Hopkins Hospital. That became the most interesting job of my life. I learned a lot of information about psychiatry that stood me in good stead throughout my life. Fascinating subject. I stayed there for five years, until my marriage in 1939 to William Philip King of Baltimore. Even, in fact, after that. My first child, Patricia Ann King, was born in 1941 while we were living with my father in Elkridge. The effects of The Depression were still much in evidence, and jobs were hard to come by. There were not many early marriages at that time because no one could afford to marry and support a family. Eventually, Phil obtained employment however, and we moved to a section of Baltimore called Irvington, near my cousin and friend, Virigina Petticord Dunkerly. Irreconcilable differences in temperament between my husband and myself resulted in eventual divorce.
Mother took in foster children, who were wards of the state, during The Depression. There were always hordes of small fry around. Except for Charles Veazey, whom I spoke of earlier, the others created as much noise, and trouble, and confusion, and overcrowding in our house, that I outgrew any natural love for children, I may ever have had. Or maybe I ever had any. Of course, I loved my own children extravagantly, but I have never had much patience for other people's offspring. I figure if we each of us can just take care of our own family, we've got enough to handle. I must be one selfish character. But my own have been such a handful for me to raise, it would have been impossible for me to cope with anything further. I always had to work outside of the home to help keep things going, and with a full time job and four children to raise, enough is enough.
I graduated from Elk Ridge High School in 1932, and spent about a year trying to decide where to go from there. I was a good student and worked hard enough to win the yearly scholarship award for three years in a row. The last year, I only came in second in my class, because I had, by this time, discovered that boys were interesting, and one particular one had shown a decided interest in me, so schoolwork took a back seat for the first time. Knowing my own inability to discipline children, it seemed that teaching school would be entirely beyond my capabilities. Mother and Dad gave me two choices - there weren't many others available at that time anyhow. I could go to State Teacher's College at Towson, or to Strayer's Business College. So I chose the latter, from which I graduated after a one year secretarial course.
During adolescence, Mother arranged for me to take piano lessons from a Peabody graduate, Ethel Inglehart, who lived not far from us. I studied for five years and learned to read music, for which I am grateful. I haven't had a piano for many many years, but I recently bought a little electric organ, which produces beautiful music, and is just enough to enable me to pick up some of my long forgotten piano playing. We really have no space for a big piano of any kind. I enjoy that very much.
After high school graduation, during the year spent floundering around trying to decide in what direction to go, Mother arranged for me to be tutored in French, by my high school French teacher, Miss Marion Curling. I had the thought that it would be wonderful to be fluent in that language, and be a translator, maybe in government work. I did learn to read French rather well, but after Miss Curling took us to a French play at Ford's Theater, in Baltimore - Cyrano de Bergerac, I realized that maybe one hundred years from now, I might be proficient enough for conversational French, so that dream went out the window in one night. But I've always been glad that I learned the rudiments of the language, in any rate, because it has been helpful in reading and understanding, and it also helped me to be able to assist my daughter,when she reached high school age, and was studying Spanish. The two were alike in some ways, I found at that time, and it was nice to be helpful.
When I was eighteen, my parents quite unexpectedly presented us with a little brother, Jerold Keith. All red and wrinkled when I first saw him, he grew mischievous and adorable. Twice married, he lives happily now in Florida, and has two children, Douglas Keith, and Karen, and one new grandchild, Ryan; a gift from Karen and her husband, Steve Miranda. Jerry has told me recently that he never remembers me being at home. That struck me as impossible at first, but on reconsideration, I can see why he said that. I had gone to work in Baltimore by the time he could remember things , and although I visited home often, and spent a lot of time running around trying to find housekeepers to keep the house, and Dad and Jerry going. I can that he never knew about all of that. When I ran out of housekeepers to stay at the house, I begged relatives and friends, one after another, to keep Jerry at their homes. Since all of them had known and loved my mother, they did this willingly. He was taken in first by Ruth Kuhn, wife of Howard Kuhn, a cousin who lived in Catonsville, and later by Mary Dowell, who had lived with our family for quite a few years, from the time we moved out to Elkridge until her marriage. Mary was like a sister to me, always. We called her "Sister Mary" when we were small. This had all become necessary because Mother died in 1937, after long years of suffering caused by adhesions from an old appendectomy. She refused hospitalization until it was just too late, and she was too weak to fight the pneumonia that set in. She was positive she had cancer and that an operation would kill her. Had she only gone for treatment earlier, she might have lived to a ripe old age, because there was no malignancy. As President Roosevelt so aptly put it "We have nothing to fear except fear itself!" Or was that Churchill's phrase? At any rate, it seems to be true.
Thinking about Jerry when he was little brings to mind an episode which he probably does not remember. I was living in my first apartment - my first real separation from the family, just before Mother's death. It seemed very exciting in my imagination, but it was extremely lonely. I arranged for Jack, I believe, to bring Jerry and his little friends, Lois and Bobby Stamer, to my apartment for a party. It being Washington's birthday, I ran around having a great time, making a special cake for the occasion. I had thought it would be impressive if the cake were iced in red, and trimmed with blue and white. Very patriotic! Well, those kids took one look at my masterpiece and were terrified! They had never seen a red cake, and obviously thought it was poisoned or something equally as bad. They refused to eat it! Such is life!
After a couple of unsatisfactory jobs, I obtained a position as secretary in the Phipps Psychiatric Clinic at Johns Hopkins Hospital. That became the most interesting job of my life. I learned a lot of information about psychiatry that stood me in good stead throughout my life. Fascinating subject. I stayed there for five years, until my marriage in 1939 to William Philip King of Baltimore. Even, in fact, after that. My first child, Patricia Ann King, was born in 1941 while we were living with my father in Elkridge. The effects of The Depression were still much in evidence, and jobs were hard to come by. There were not many early marriages at that time because no one could afford to marry and support a family. Eventually, Phil obtained employment however, and we moved to a section of Baltimore called Irvington, near my cousin and friend, Virigina Petticord Dunkerly. Irreconcilable differences in temperament between my husband and myself resulted in eventual divorce.
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