A Scrap of Time and Place

As newlyweds in 1921, my parents set up housekeeping on a farm near Ashton in northwest Iowa, one of two owned by my paternal grandfather (he owned another in Minnesota). When my widower grandfather died in 1937, his will called for the farms to be sold and the money divided among his seven heirs. My father could not afford to buy the farm we lived on and, due to the Depression, farms did not sell quickly, so our family remained there until the farm sold in 1940. After moving to town, my father worked nights at a construction company keeping a pump operating. Later, we moved to another small town a few miles away, where he worked as a carpenter for a construction company. After a heart attack in 1943, needing a less strenuous job, he became a veterinarian's bookkeeper.

Over the years, my mother sometimes reminisced about leaving the farm: "On the night before we moved to town, I found Frank sitting in the barn, crying. He had sixty-five cents in his pocket. I don't think he ever got over losing the farm. At least we had food on the table, and when things got really bad, Frank sold a pig and we got by. We struggled for years and then had to leave the farm just about the time farmers were beginning to make a profit again."

The new owner once told my brother Daryl, "When your dad left, he took everything that wasn't nailed down. He didn't leave as much as a scrap of lumber."

But he did leave something; something that would not be found for fifty-five years in a serendipitous discovery.

In 1995, on a visit to Iowa, Daryl drove out to the farm. The dilapidated barn looked as if a strong wind and a heavy rain could make it implode. When the owner said he intended to raze the structure soon, Daryl asked permission to take some boards for souvenirs. The owner told him to help himself.

Daryl searched inside and outside the barn, looking for pieces suitable to use as picture frames. He finally spotted a board that seemed the right size and shape. When he picked it up he noticed the letters F.D. carved into the board. Our father's initials.

When had he done this? Maybe as a kid, trying out a pocketknife he got for Christmas? Or before he left the farm as an adult, leaving his indelible mark? We'll never know. But had Daryl gone to the farm even a day later, the entire barn might have been gone, and with it the slab of board bearing those initials.

I have a piece of the weathered wood (not the initialed one) in a frame, along with a photo of the barn and another of the farmhouse where my father was born and raised and toiled and began a family. The collage hangs above my desk, grounding me to a place and time that meant a great deal to my father. And to me; it's where my life began.

A Knock On The Door

Years ago, researching family history, I discovered a cousin, CM, who disappeared from Minnesota in 1924, leaving a wife and three young daughters. The incident became a chapter in my book Swinging Sisters.

Subsequently, I learned that CM’s wife told the girls that their father fell from the barn loft, hurt his head and wandered off in a daze. Beyond that, she never spoke of him. Still later, I learned that CM borrowed his brother’s car that day and didn’t come home that night. Neither did ML, a girl who cooked at the lumber camp where CM worked. CM telephoned his brother the next day and said he’d left the car at the Fargo depot. It appeared that CM and ML left together. Neither was ever heard from again.

CM’s youngest daughter, Vivian, age four back then, later told her sons, “I day-dreamed that there would be a knock on the door and a man would say, “I’m your dad.” In 2000, determined to find CM for their mother, the sons posted inquiries on Internet genealogy message boards.

Meanwhile, in Minnesota, ML’s family posted inquiries on the Internet. And in Montana, the adult children of JB, who knew nothing about his parents’ past, urged him to conduct online searches. Using his mother’s maiden name, he scanned Michigan records (where she’d said she was born), but found nothing. In July, 2008, JB tried Minnesota (which his dad had mentioned) and found inquiries related to a man and woman who disappeared years ago at the same time. Curious, JB responded, and soon received a phone call. The pieces fit.

Overwhelmed with emotion, the families shared information and photos, and JB made plans to attend a reunion of his mother’s relatives. He read Swinging Sisters, which he loved for its family history, but at the same time saddened him that he had missed knowing some of these people. Recalling his father as a good man, a rancher and respected member of the community, JB struggled with the knowledge that this same man deserted his first family. He'd come to Montana with a new identity, reversing his given name and middle name and taking his mother’s maiden name as his surname. The 76-year-old JB remarked, “I went to bed with no relatives and woke up with dozens.” His granddaughter said, “We’re excited to hear we have a family history and our family tree does not start in the 1920s. Try explaining that to your grade school teacher when you had to map out your family tree.”

Sadly, the woman who day-dreamed about her father now experiences memory loss and confusion. The yearned for knock on the door came too late.

[Vivian Lloyd passed away in 2010]



Rich In Friendship

In March, 1973, Brother William Geenen, CSC, visited a colleague's father at Sarasota (Florida) Memorial Hospital. Although the elderly man was in intensive care, Brother Geenen was impressed with his positive outlook. "He was more concerned about his caregivers, especially his wife, than about himself. Still, I sensed loneliness in the man and wished I had more time to spend with him, but it was time to return home to Ohio."

Heading north by automobile, Brother Geenen found himself in the right-turn-only lane, when he wanted to go straight ahead. He turned and pulled into a vacant lot to check his road map. There, seemingly out of nowhere, an elderly man appeared at the car window and began talking. Brother Geenen says, "He told me about his wife's death, and his own illnesses. He seemed lonely and depressed, but there was nothing I could do right then. So I left him, as I had the man in the hospital."

Brother Geenen says he is not outwardly emotional, nor does he wear his spirituality on his sleeve, but that things do touch him. He couldn't forget about the two men. It struck him that in Sarasota, a retirement community often called Paradise, there must be many elderly people who are isolated and have no one to help them cope with the challenges of aging. "It weighed on me heavily and I asked myself who was going to do something about this problem. The answer came that possibly it was me."

Brother Geenen envisioned activity centers where aging adults would find companionship, as well as services that would enable them to live independently for as long as possible. This was the beginning of what would be his legacy to Sarasota and, ultimately, to communities across the country. He moved to Sarasota that same year, with a clear vision of his mission. "To respond to the loneliness and isolation of many older persons, to bring people together, to enable people to help one another, to share time, talents and resources."

With no experience in gerontology, but with ample faith in God and in his fellowman, Brother Geenen found a room in an old house to use as a senior center, and his first volunteer, Molleen Pust. He says, "I gave her my checkbook and told her to buy what she needed. She balanced it and asked, 'Is it correct that you have only seventy-nine dollars?' "

And so, Senior Friendship Centers (plural because Brother Geenen knew there would be more than one) was founded on seventy-nine dollars, a host of volunteers, and a simple slogan: People Helping People.

Today, providing services in five southwest Florida counties, the non-profit organization is considered one of the finest programs in the country. It has become the model for similar programs nationwide and has been recognized by the American Medical Association. Its paid employees are bolstered by thousands of volunteers, including dozens of retirees in the medical field.

Dubbed the Energizer Bunny, Brother Geenen is described as unassuming, compassionate, private, and humble but powerful. Kathleen Toale, a past board member, said, "I've never seen anyone like Brother Geenen who can low-key present his case and have people open their pocketbooks. When he speaks to people who have means, they give."

Still, the quiet man takes little credit for the success of what began thirty-five years ago. He says it's about people helping people. That may be true, but it took someone to recognize the need and to set a dream in motion. Because of Brother Geenen's serendipitous meeting with two elderly men who seemingly needed attention, senior adults in Southwest Florida enjoy an improved quality of life.

One might wonder: Who was that man who appeared at Brother Geenen's car window and why did he strike up a conversation with a stranger? If there are angels among us, perhaps one emerged in earthly form; his mission, to find someone to implement God's plan to assist this country's ever-growing older population. So he chose Brother William Geenen.

[Brother Geenen passed away in 2011]

Linked Through An Autograph Book 

Because I like vintage autograph books, I published an article about them in Yesterday’s Magazette. I described three books that had belonged to three generations of one family: William Lord, his young daughter Ethel Lord, and the adult Ethel’s young daughter, Evelyn Pruitt.    

The Lords lived in San Francisco when young Ethel collected verses in her book, dated from 1900-1903. The front cover is ivory-colored celluloid, on which is a landscape scene. The back cover is burgundy velvet. The first page in the book has a drawing of a table, on which sits a vase with flowers laid beside it. In the corner is a spider web. The page is dated October 8, 1900. The person who drew the picture and wrote the verse used script resembling calligraphy. He wrote:

        Dear Ethel: We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing,

            while others judge us by what we have done.  ~ Kingsley Cannon 

It appears, from the maturity of the verse and drawing, that Kingsley Cannon was an adult. He used black ink, whereas most of the children wrote in pencil and their faded verses are no longer legible. Perhaps he was a friend of the family and had given the book to Ethel for her birthday or another occasion.   

     
Three years after my article about these books appeared online, the publisher, Ned Burke, received an e-mail from a reader, Leesa Cannon. Leesa explained that she found the story while using Google to research her great-grandfather, Kingsley Cannon, of San Francisco. He was a lawyer, who adopted a son and named him Kingsley W. Cannon, Jr. Leesa’s father is Kingsley W. Cannon III. Leesa wrote, “Thanks for the familial clue.”

As a genealogist, I know the thrill and value of such clues. Since I had no family connection to the book, I responded to Leesa and offered to send her the book. She was delighted and, on receiving it, commented:

         Thank you for your generosity. Aside from the obvious family interest, it’s an amazing piece of history. I know that these sayings are passed down through generations; therefore, when asked to sign someone's book, I plan to use my great-grandfather’s quote. It’s also interesting to see the similarity between the written name in the corner and my father’s handwriting. But my dad is funny. He said, “‘How do I know it’s him?” 

I find it valuable, even if he does not.  

More than one hundred years ago, Kingsley Cannon sketched a picture and penned a verse to a little girl. She kept the autograph book in which it was written, and her daughter later kept the book. Neither would have imagined that one day, through an electronic conduit, the book and the verse would be treasured by the great-granddaughter of the man who wrote it.