The Girls of Chicago's Providence High School . . . What Became of Them?

Providence High School - Chicago

 My mother, Gloria Kennelly, graduated from Chicago's Providence High School in 1942.  During that time period, Providence was a Catholic high school for girls.  She lived in the Garfield Park neighborhood, and so it was just a few blocks away on the opposite side of the park.  I wonder if she walked around the park or through it?


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My previous post about the home the Kennelly family rented for many years caused me to drag out the large cardboard box of photos I discovered on my closet shelf last summer and sift through it once again.  I always get bogged down looking through family photos. Time stands still as I pull my glasses to the end of my nose, tilt my head down so I can peer over them, and bring the photos up to within five inches of my face hoping to see some small clue that is hidden in it.  Invariably, I start to compare, sort, stack, and categorize only to find that even with my many, many categories, there are photos that don't really fit anywhere . . . or, conversely, fit everywhere.  What should I do?  So I gather them together, and, in true Scarlett O'Hara fashion, plan to deal with them tomorrow.

Well, tomorrow arrived.  Once again, I started to sort and stack. One of my stacks I mentally labeled as Providence High School.  As I pulled pile after pile of photos out of the box, the Providence stack grew larger. Naturally, my mother had not labeled any of the photos with names.  My curiousity about these girls grew as I saw them posing and laughing in photo after photo.  I love a photo set.  It seems to tell more of a story than a single photo, and I have shared photo sets before on this blog.

I wonder . . . whatever happened to them?  World War II was raging, the only eligible men were under 16 or over 40, and rationing of consumer goods had just begun. But in the faces of these 18 year old girls all you see is excitement and expectation for the life in front of them.  What were their lives like?  Happy or heartbreaking?  Exciting or wasted?  Do they have children or grandchildren who would cherish a glimpse into their grandma's past?  Are there 1942 graduates still around who could identify them?  Will you help me?

I present the Girls of Providence circa 1942

Coming out the front doors of Providence - March 1942. 

Compare to the photo above to discover the photographer for this photo. My mother, Gloria Kennelly, on far left.

 Watch those skirts, girls!

Chicago is the windy city.  Forget the hair . . . they're all smiles!

Let's take a break.   What else can we do?  Gloria Kennelly front right in plaid skirt.

Do you get a feel for personalities from this set?  Who is shy and who is gregarious?

Is the salute a sign of the times or are they saying, "Goodbye high school.  Hello life"

 On another day outside of Providence

The photo says February 1942, but this is not February in Chicago!  Gloria Kennelly, back row, center right.

Gloria Kennelly back row left.  Can you help me identify her friends?

Will I ever be able to identify them . .  or even a few of them?  In 1969, Providence merged with the all male St. Mel's becoming a co-ed school.The current school - Providence-St. Mel's is located in the original Providence building.  I called the school and inquired about their records.  They directed me to the alumni association, but it turns out that this is considered a "lost" period due to water damaged records.  They also suggested that I might try the Sisters of Providence, but I am not exactly sure how to do that. Did they have yearbooks? . . . I haven't found any yet, but I have a search saved to ebay just in case.  I do have a copy of the commencement program with the name of each graduate, but that doesn't match them to the girls in my photos.  I think the Beatles have the perfect song for this:

HELP

Help, I need somebody.

The 1942 Providence Commencement Program

Click to enlarge and read names

Click to enlarge and read names

Update! A 1940 yearbook has been found, and I have identified many of the girls - to the best of my ability.  Read my latest post to see the yearbook photos alongside the faces of the girls above.  With many thanks to Tony!

Repost #2 . . . The Artsy Craftsy Christmas Creche

The Artsy Craftsy Christmas Creche

Originally posted 19 Dec 2010

In our house, Christmas was always home made.  It might have been partly out of necessity, but it never felt that way.  In addition to having a sweet tooth, and being a sewing whiz my mother was very artsty craftsy.  Not only did she make all of my clothes, but she made EVERYTHING for our house.  She loved magazines and used many of the ideas she saw in their pages to adapt for our home.  She never seemed comfortable being ordinary or mundane.  As an example, our living room had one wall with a painted plywood false wall about 5"-12" in front with floor to window top arched cut outs in front of the windows and sheer drapes hanging in the arches.  I am sure this idea came from a magazine.  She was a big city girl living in a small town.  Her second husband, Merle and the best stepfather a child could ever have, always went along with her ideas even as he grumbled.  Mother always had to put her own spin on things.

Across the street from our house lived Mamie Schleeter, the mother of Merle's best friend since childhood.  She was like a second mother to him, and her hobby was ceramics. Mamie was exceptionally talented and sold a fair number of her ceramic pieces. So one year Mom and Merle ordered a complete nativity set with gold trim.  Merle was very handy (a much more important trait for a husband than wealthy) and I am sure envisioned making a nice standard wood creche for the figures.  He should have known better.

One day during the late Fall, Gloria and Merle were going for a "drive".  Going for a drive was a ritual in our family, and one that I didn't always appreciate when I was young.  As an adult, my husband and I often go driving around country roads after dinner, and now I love it.  As children we used to claim that Merle knew every gravel road in our county, and we drove along them feeling like the car was on a perpetual rumble strip.  Mother was always on the lookout  for natural items that she could use in one of her hundreds of craft projects.  Driving along mother would just yell stop if she saw something she wanted and then direct Merle to retrieve what she wanted if it was in a particularly difficult spot. Mom supervised.  She (meaning Merle) always gathered items such as bittersweet, cattails, rosehips and rocks for her arrangements and projects.  However, the creche needed a very special setting.  When they arrived home that day, the trunk lid was open indicating it held something so large that it couldn't close.  Mother had discovered a stump with roots on the side of the road, and amazingly, she was able to talk Merle into wrestling it into the trunk.  What a perfect natural setting for their new nativity set!

And so it was.  She cleaned that stump and covered the top of the television with a layer of the roll out cotton snow, arranged the figures in the spaces formed by the roots, and sprayed aerosol snow over the top.  She then fixed an over-sized angel and star at the top surrounded with evergreen boughs which hid the fact that the angel was out of scale. Televisions in those days were big, boxy freestanding pieces of furniture that were the main focus of the room, so it was a perfect location. It could hold the weight of the stump.















This was our nativity setting for many years.  So many, in fact, that my younger brother thought it was a piece of driftwood, because the bark had worn off.  Really??? We lived in central Indiana and never went on vacation.  Where would we get driftwood that large?  The years have passed, and my brother is now the official keeper of the nativity set, but he has the figures in the more traditional setting imagined by Merle originally.

Personal note:  This post was completely written and ready to post when an amazing, some might say providential, event occurred.  I was re-reading the text and adding the photos, when, as I was searching for photos and cropping the new ones sent by my brother, I noticed a curious looking thumbnail.  Could it really be??  I quickly closed the select window so I could open the thumbnail in question to see it more closely.  It was, it really was . . . It was an old fuzzy photo of the original stump on our television!  I shrieked shouted, "O.. M.. G..., I can't believe it!"  My fingers quickly called my brother who was in his garage making this year's gifts.  I asked if he knew about the photo.  No, he didn't remember ever seeing it and neither did I.  This is truly a family memory restored. I love my blog.

Happy Birthday Mom

Well, I have done it again.  This is nothing new, it happened every year when I was in college . . . I forgot my mother's birthday.  In college, we always seemed to have our first round of tests at the same time as her birthday and, despite my best intentions, I forgot it every single year.  I am such a terrible daughter*.  This year I intended to write a blog post about my mother for her birthday, but instead I forgot . . . again.

Mom would have been 88 years old on October 22 if she were still alive.  She died in 1996 of lung cancer.  She was from a generation besotted by Hollywood and glamour, and, at the time, it was glamorous to smoke.  She lived in the Garfield Park area of Chicago, her father was a movie theater manager, she attended Resurrection grade school and graduated from Providence High School (all girls)in 1942. World War II began her senior year.  She was splashy, sassy, and taller than most of the girls in her class.

Life had many hard knocks in store for mom; but here is a belated photo tribute to Gloria Kennelly . . . the early years.

Gloria is in the middle row, third from the right.  The occasion is unknown.

Gloria, about age 13, with younger brother Eddie

Sitting on the front porch railing with her cousin and a friend

Even in the 1940's, the pose was everything!

Happy birthday, Mom - late as usual!

  *Please note: I am from the guilty generation of women . . . our parents made us feel guilty that we weren't better children, society scolded us that we weren't better parents, and churches always made everyone feel guilty. If we stayed at home to take care of our children we were dull and lazy, but if we went to work, then we didn't care about our children and were selfish.  Guilt rained down upon the women of my generation daily.

My Mother was Born. . .

 This is a letter that my grandfather wrote to his mother-in-law when my mother was born.  It is a very sweet letter that gives a glimpse of my grandfather's personality.  It also gives the name of the theater where he was working at the time.  My grandfather did not follow in his father's footsteps and become a meat salesman (commission man as he was described) nor did he become a Chicago policeman like his two brothers.  He marched to a different drummer.  I love this letter.  It has a delightful sweetness . . . and they were living at 2338 W. Washington Blvd. when my mother was born.

"Doc" is the nickname for my grandmother's younger brother and, of course, Margel is their first daughter who died of spinal meningitis before my mother was born . . .and the aunt whose name I carry.  I wrote about my journey to find her in this blog post.

Mother's Pan is Mine for the Coming Year

My brother with THE PAN

Yesterday I received an email from my brother asking why I had not posted about THE PAN yet.  My response was T. I. M. E.   Since returning to school after the holiday, I have been drowning in work.  Most evenings I didn't leave school until after 5:00 so when I arrived home I would quickly sink into a comfy chair and enjoy my dinner in front of the television. 

But today is the day to report on  the new decoration for THE PAN.  I introduced this pan and our Christmas tradition several weeks ago in a previous post titled Holiday Fun for Genealogists.  As we were all working in the kitchen preparing our traditional prime rib dinner, my brother started telling me that he had discovered some new photos from when we were young.  He would show them to me later, he said.  Later, as we sat around opening our gifts, his words came back to me when I opened a box that was so large it had to be THE PAN.  I carefully lifted it out.  The first thing I noticed was that it had been shined up and had something tall protruding from the pan. I followed it down into the pan and then noticed that it had an electrical cord coming out from a hole in the pan.  Oh, it was a light!  At this point I heard my brother say that now I would be keeping it on my desk for the coming year.  He made a fitted wooden insert to hold my pen,  pencils, markers and calculators.  The only thing missing is a place for family photos . . . . wait. . . a few photos are tucked into a slot at the back and afixed to the outside. The photos are familiar, but . . . something is not right.  I protest, "These have been Photoshopped I claim".  "I don't know what you mean, he replies in a syrupy voice.  Now I ask you, do you think these are original or has some 21st century digital sleight of hand been employed?

My mother sitting in an oversized chair soaking her feet in THE PAN

A terrible photo of my grandmother and me with THE PAN

My mother and Merle wearing THE PAN

I now have a year to plan.  Any suggestions, but remember my brother reads this blog??

The Artsy Craftsy Christmas Creche

In our house, Christmas was always home made.  It might have been partly out of necessity, but it never felt that way.  In addition to having a sweet tooth, and being a sewing whiz my mother was very artsty craftsy.  Not only did she make all of my clothes, but she made EVERYTHING for our house.  She loved magazines and used many of the ideas she saw in their pages to adapt for our home.  She never seemed comfortable being ordinary or mundane.  As an example, our living room had one wall with a painted plywood false wall about 5"-12" in front with floor to window top arched cut outs in front of the windows and sheer drapes hanging in the arches.  I am sure this idea came from a magazine.  She was a big city girl living in a small town.  Her second husband, Merle and the best stepfather a child could ever have, always went along with her ideas even as he grumbled.  Mother always had to put her own spin on things.

Across the street from our house lived Mamie Schleeter, the mother of Merle's best friend since childhood.  She was like a second mother to him, and her hobby was ceramics. Mamie was exceptionally talented and sold a fair number of her ceramic pieces. So one year Mom and Merle ordered a complete nativity set with gold trim.  Merle was very handy (a much more important trait for a husband than wealthy) and I am sure envisioned making a nice standard wood creche for the figures.  He should have known better.

One day during the late Fall, Gloria and Merle were going for a "drive".  Going for a drive was a ritual in our family, and one that I didn't always appreciate when I was young.  As an adult, my husband and I often go driving around country roads after dinner, and now I love it.  As children we used to claim that Merle knew every gravel road in our county, and we drove along them feeling like the car was on a perpetual rumble strip.  Mother was always on the lookout  for natural items that she could use in one of her hundreds of craft projects.  Driving along mother would just yell stop if she saw something she wanted and then direct Merle to retrieve what she wanted if it was in a particularly difficult spot. Mom supervised.  She (meaning Merle) always gathered items such as bittersweet, cattails, rosehips and rocks for her arrangements and projects.  However, the creche needed a very special setting.  When they arrived home that day, the trunk lid was open indicating it held something so large that it couldn't close.  Mother had discovered a stump with roots on the side of the road, and amazingly, she was able to talk Merle into wrestling it into the trunk.  What a perfect natural setting for their new nativity set!

And so it was.  She cleaned that stump and covered the top of the television with a layer of the roll out cotton snow, arranged the figures in the spaces formed by the roots, and sprayed aerosol snow over the top.  She then fixed an over-sized angel and star at the top surrounded with evergreen boughs which hid the fact that the angel was out of scale. Televisions in those days were big, boxy freestanding pieces of furniture that were the main focus of the room, so it was a perfect location. It could hold the weight of the stump.















This was our nativity setting for many years.  So many, in fact, that my younger brother thought it was a piece of driftwood, because the bark had worn off.  Really??? We lived in central Indiana and never went on vacation.  Where would we get driftwood that large?  The years have passed, and my brother is now the official keeper of the nativity set, but he has the figures in the more traditional setting imagined by Merle originally.

Personal note:  This post was completely written and ready to post when an amazing, some might say providential, event occurred.  I was re-reading the text and adding the photos, when, as I was searching for photos and cropping the new ones sent by my brother, I noticed a curious looking thumbnail.  Could it really be??  I quickly closed the select window so I could open the thumbnail in question to see it more closely.  It was, it really was . . . It was an old fuzzy photo of the original stump on our television!  I shrieked shouted, "O.. M.. G..., I can't believe it!"  My fingers quickly called my brother who was in his garage making this year's gifts.  I asked if he knew about the photo.  No, he didn't remember ever seeing it and neither did I.  This is truly a family memory restored. I love my blog.

Christmas

As I mentioned in an earlier post my mother did not particularly enjoy cooking - except for sweets!  I don't have any memories of Christmas cookies.  Oh wait, there was a Christmas or two with Spritz.  I think grandma gave the cookie press to my mother, and a sense of obligation must have overwhelmed her.  Then again, I don't ever remember Grandma making Christmas goodies of any kind.

What I have a vivid memory of my mother making is candy!!  I remember pulling taffy and caramels so buttery that the mention of them can still make my mouth water.  The children had the job of cutting up squares of waxed paper and wrapping each piece individually.  Our reward was, of course, fresh caramels!  Ummmmmmmmmm. . . . . . . .excuse me I drifted off into caramel memory bliss.

But the memory that has become legend in our family is about the peanut brittle.  One Christmas, mom decided to add peanut brittle to her increasing Christmas candy tradition.  I am sure a neighbor gave her the recipe and told her how easy it was, but the exact origins have been lost in time.  She already had the candy making thermometer and other necessary supplies.  Since I worked at the candy counter of the local dimestore during the holidays, it was easy to purchase the raw peanuts.  In those days, the nuts were roasted at the store and then put in a rotating display. Everything went perfectly until it was time to turn it out to cool. The recipes said to turn it out onto a large enamel pan.  The originator of the recipe told mom that she could just turn it out on her stovetop because it had a large flat enamel section in the middle, and that she had done it many times that way.  Now here is where the story becomes murky.  Somewhere in the directions, the step to butter the surface was left out.  Mom, of course, said she was never told she needed to do this.  It looked so perfect as it cooled on the stove, but when she tried to lift it, she discovered it was stuck tight to her stove.  She chipped, chiseled, and pried that peanut brittle in an effort to get it off the stove, digging gouges in the enamel as she tried.  Some of the peanut brittle remained despite her efforts. We had peanut brittle crumbles that year as mom would never throw out candy.  The next year we had an enamel pan, and we buttered it first.  The story is that when she traded in that stove for a newer model, there was still peanut brittle stuck to it in spots!

For those brave souls, I am including her recipe.  Myself, I make cookies.

Peanut Brittle

2 cups sugar

1 cup Karo

1/2 cup water

Boil above ingredients until it threads then  add 2 cups of raw peanuts and 1 tablespoon of butter

Cook until 290 degrees stirring constantly  add 1 teaspoon vanilla

Remove from stove and add 2 teaspoon baking soda

Pour on to greased pan.

Lift sides until cools every once in awhile

 

Holiday Fun for Genealogists

Well, I have always known that I would write this blog post.  It has taken all of my willpower to save it for the holiday season where it rightly belongs.

Please note that the photo below is from left to right:  Gloria Kennelly (my mother), Mary McDonnell Kennelly (her grandmother), Berenice Moldt Kennelly (my grandmother).  I am including it because it is a wonderful photo, and I don't have any good Christmas photos of my mother later in her life.  Those that I could find, I can't bring myself to post for she would surely haunt me if I did.

During the holidays it is not unusual for families to laugh, reminisce, and share stories about past family times.  It usually starts "Remember when . . ." and ends with a smile and a warm family feeling in your heart.  Occasionally, accompanied by a smile or chuckle.  At our house, we usually began the litany of memories with "Remember that d*&#  pan of mother's?"  Except for sweets, our mother did not particularly enjoy cooking. While she loved new sheets and towels and had a whole room for her sewing equipment and crap craft supplies,  her pots and pans were gathered together from who knows where and never replaced.  We had knives that were dull, mismatched plates, rubber spatulas with handles that fell out, and cake pans that must have been passed down from gr-grandma.  Then there was THE PAN.  It was cast aluminum with an exterior darkened from centuries years of burnt oil, but the standout feature was the handle.  It had a wood handle with a long screw through the center.  The screw was fastened securely to the pan, but the wood handle had long ago worn larger in the middle.  This meant that the pan would swing and spin as you held the handle.  We begged our mother to throw it out every time we had to use it, and the contents would spill as the pan would sway and swing when we lifted it.  Mother was particularly fond of boiling macaroni  in this pan.  Pouring off the water was an exercise in frustration accompanied by loud swearing.  I told her that if she didn't throw it out, I would put it in the casket with her. . . . . and I tried to.  Little did I know that my brother retrieved it, sandblasted the oil off and wrapped it in Christmas paper for the following holiday.  Years have passed, and I don't remember what was in the pan that first Christmas. Since then it has been a planter, a clock, etc. Each year we pass it back and forth and talk about that D*&# pan and about our mother.

Last year it was my turn.  I never had any really inventive ideas.  Dahl, my brother, was the more creative one.  But last year was different.  He will have a hard time topping this. As I have said in an earlier post, my brother is the original genealogist in the family, but since I have joined him in this wonderful adventure, I have dragged him with me to various cemeteries in Chicago and Iowa.  I teased him about needing a "gravedigger" tee shirt since our adventure at Calvary cemetery pictured at right.  Privately, I had a brainstorm for THE PAN.  I filled it with dirt, covered the top with moss from Hobby Lobby, and painted small wood shapes to resemble tombstones.  A package of dollhouse scale flowerpots completed the look.  I decided to make him a "portable cemetery"!   It would be a representation of our past adventures searching for our ancestors.

And now to share it with you.

Click to enlarge and see detail

I included a tombstone for our g-g grandfather James Bush Allen because I was sure we would find it when we went to the cemetery - we didn't.  So I guess this is the only one he will ever have.  There is also a tombstone for g-g-g grandmother Anna Lyman, mother of James B. Allen who is buried in Canada, g-g-grandparents, Owen &; Bridget McDonnell, and our gr. grandparents Edward P. and Mary Kennelly.  Lastly, I put a headstone for Margel Kennelly and partially covered it with moss since we had dug up the original.  It was beautiful!!

My brother loved it ,and it has decorated the shelf above his computer for the past year.  It will be sad to see it go.  But, I wonder what he has in store for me??

Maybe you have a special object from a loved one who is no longer here.  I challenge you to think about the possibility of starting a similar tradition of your own. What wonderful fun to pass it around the family and laugh about times past and the family who came before us.

1942 High School Memories

Gloria Kennelly

It is the end of the first grading period, and so, as a middle school teacher,  I have been consumed with getting everything graded and entered into the grade reporting program at our school. I've graded tests, folders, and  worked with students after school to complete projects that were unfinished due to absence or . . .uhmm. . .poor use of class time.  As a student, I never fit in with the social butterflies or the bookworms (pre nerd term),but remember great conversations with my teachers. I loved my classes and always asked too many questions. Personally, I have a few great memories but many miserable memories of my time in high school. Most of us fall on one side of the fence or the other.  Few of us are neutral about our high school experience.  I have never attended a reunion and have no desire to in the future.  I am content leaving it in the past.

My mother was a more outgoing personality. Her father managed theaters and in the 40's, Hollywood was everything.

So, at this time, it seems appropriate that I share with you a few photos from my mother's time in school.  Gloria Kennelly attended Resurrection Grade School and  Providence High School for girls in Chicago.  She graduated in 1942. At 5'7" she was one of the tallest girls in her class.  Her best friend was the tallest.  She told of the time they skipped school and went shopping downtown - after all who would find out in a city so large.  Coming home that day they boarded the same bus as her next door neighbor.  There was no place to hide . . she had seen them.  My mother was a wonderful student, as you can tell from her report card, who loved Shakespeare and had big dreams of becoming a journalist.  I think my mother loved her high school experience, but it was 1942 and the world was at war just when she was about to leave the nest.  The future must have seemed so uncertain to her.

I would love to hear from any of the other students who graduated from Providence High School in 1942.  Do you remember my mother?  Do you have any stories to share?  Is there a yearbook with other photos.  Please contact me.



Providence High School - Chicago

Many report cards will be arriving in homes this week or last.  I hope this is a pleasant experience for you and your child.  Remember that it is just a waypoint on their way to becoming an adult. Contrary to what is in the news so much these days, your child's teacher works hard at his/her job.  I arrive at work at 7:30 and rarely leave before 5:00. Those who leave earlier, often take work home with them to squeeze around their own families in the evenings.  It is easy to remember the one teacher who you felt treated your child unfairly and forget the 30 who went above and beyond for your child.

Just know that we really do care about your child's success.

A Rite of Passage

Yesterday, I picked up my granddaughter to take her to her voice lesson and, as she jumped in the front seat, she opened her folder to show me that she brought her "learner's permit" with her.  "I'm all legal, if you want to let me drive home." she said with an "I love you grandma" smile on her face.  "We'll see."  I replied evasively.  In the end I gave in because grandparents are always suckers when it comes to their grandchildren.  I even let her drive on the highway for a short way before we made a right turn (I love her, but I'm not crazy) and turned down the back road to her home.   The best compliment was when she told me how great it was because this was the longest she had ever driven, and that I don't yell at her.  Oh. . . . . .she must be referring to her father, my son, who totaled our car two weeks after he got his license when he slid sideways on the ice into a railroad crossing gate.  I can still remember my husband's scream  shock when he went to the garage and saw it.

  This made me start thinking about cars and family. As Americans we love our cars.  I grew up in a central Indiana town that had many of the local citizens employed in a nearby auto factory.   When the new models came out, they were a constant topic of conversation.  My all time favorite will always be the Mustang.  I love seeing the cars in my family photos.  They really add a sense of time and place unlike homes that are static over time. Everyone has photos with family standing next to the family car ready to start a journey, whether just to Sunday church services or a longer family vacation.  A teenager getting their driving permit is both frightening and exciting, but tinged with a sadness that they are growing up. Cars and family are intertwined.

    I would like to share a few of the photos of my family with their cars and also a few short stories, because all genealogists know it is the stories that bring family history to life.

 

In the center back seat is "Auntie" Anna McDonnell, sister of my great grandmother Mary McDonnell Kennelly,  with Mary Kennelly , the youngest of my grandfather's sibling, in the middle in the front.  There was no way that Auntie was going to let Mary go unchaperoned!

 

My great grandparents Anna Mae Allen Moldt and Edward Thomas Moldt.  I love the chains on the tires.  I have a vague memory of stories about a car with a rumble seat.  I wish I could see if this car had one.  Can anyone identify what model/make this car is.  Are those bloomers DaDa Mae is wearing?

 

My mother, Gloria Kennelly, as a child. The year was around 1929 since she was born in 1924 and looks about five or six in this photo. Funny, I never noticed before how much my brother, Dahl,  looks like her in this photo.

My youngest brother, Dahl, loves anything with a motor.  He can also fix anything with a motor.  He definitely got all of the handyman genes in the family.  In his wild  younger years he had a bright orange car and his red hair and freckles made his nickname, "Orange Peel" a natural.

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

 During the mid-sixties, my brother, Flip, asked his favorite girl to the Senior Prom.  In those days, proms were held in school gymnasiums and decorated with tissue paper flowers and crepe paper streamers by members of the junior class.  For this big event, he asked to use the family car and was told that he could take the truck.  With great indignation, he said he wouldn't go if he had to drive the truck so he called his date and told her he wouldn't be able go because he couldn't get the car.  He never mentioned the truck possibility.  But this girl was not giving up and told him not to worry, that she could drive and so she did.

She picked him up in her family's truck!!

 *****************

I took my driving test in a 1949 Ford with a manual transmission.  I can't find a photo of that exact car so one taken from Google images will have to do.  I wasn't allowed to take my test until I could drive a stick and change a flat tire.  My dad didn't think you had any business driving if you couldn't do both of those things. When he took me out to "practice" driving, I knew we would always go by way of the Orestes hill.  I just prayed that there was no one behind me at that stop sign as I slipped back while trying to get the clutch just right. Yet, I don't remember him ever yelling at me.  I have used both of those skills, and I passed my driving test the first time I tried, unlike my brother, Flip, who took three attempts to pass.  I try not to mention this too often - loud giggle!  Luckily, he doesn't read this blog.

 

My youngest son with his first car, purchased after he graduated from college.  It is a Porsche that he bought used from an ad in the newspaper.  It had always been his dream to own a Porsche so he couldn't believe his good fortune to find one used at the very moment in time that he was looking.  I was flattered when he asked me to go with him to look at it. This invitation became clearer when the seller asked if he wanted to take it for a drive, he lowered his head and mumbled that I would have to drive it because he didn't know how to drive a stick!  I loved it.  He bought the car, and then I had to teach him to drive it.  But a Porsche is not meant for northern Indiana weather, and I am sure he was the only Porsche owner to buy snow tires for the car.

Recently, I have read several blog posts encouraging each of us to remember to record the family history we are creating now and not focus only on the past while letting the present slip by. Sometimes, it is difficult to know where to begin, but every family has automobile stories and these are a few of mine.  Stories don't have to be long.  Just snippets of life to pass on to those that follow.  

Won't you share a few automobile stories from your family