A Brief Bio of Jake Sommer

The following was taken from an Altoona [PA] Mirror article called “Down Memory Lane” written by Os Figard. It gives a lot of info we would not otherwise know regarding Jacob Sommer, grandfather of Arlene Sommer Glass.


This picture is the Jacob Sommer house at 1922 First Ave., Altoona, PA. This was taken in 2007. When Jacob and Anna Sommer lived here, the porch was enclosed. It did not have siding and it was not pink. This is the house where Os Figard interviewed Jake Sommer for this article.

“Down Memory Lane”
French Foundry for 9-Year-Old
By Os Figard

It was on the evening of June 1, 1930, that we received a telephone call from that grand old man with a legion of friends known as Jacob [Jake] Sommer of 1922 1st Ave. He was not feeling too well and asked me to come see him.

When we arrived at his home he was apparently worrying about some illness in the home and thinking, too, of his sons who at that time were with the Navy at Norfolk, VA., but he snapped out of his slump and began telling of his life’s activities. We received enough information to compose it into a brief biography.

Mr. Sommer was born April 29, 1867, and while we were having this chat he was then living his 63rd year, and even at that age was known as one of the most capable tenpin keglers in the city.

Mr. Sommer was born in France, and he told us of his 15 years in France which at that time was under the control of the German government, and the years were anything but pleasant ones. He informed us that the young men had no time for sports during those years and he was only 9 when he was placed with a company in which he drudged around in a foundry and machine shop and never earned more than $1 per day for 10 or 12 hours’ work. His first two years were served as a beginner-helper and he was given just 10 cents at the end of the day. At the end of two years he was manufacturing fine art enamelware and earning 40 cents per day.

Said Jacob, “Os, I can think of very little worthwhile subjects to talk about from my 40-cents-per-day job until I learned that I was to sail on the vessel Pennsylvania for the United States and I ran up and down along the handrail of the ship singing an old French song. I have forgotten the name of the song. The first one I learned to sing after settling here was ‘America.’ Never for a day have I ever thought of France and never for a day have I forgotten to give thanks that we are in America.

Mr. Sommer spoke briefly of his trip across from France, saying they arrived in America Aug 8, 1892.

“The first thing I did was board a train for Altoona, went to the lower shops and met a man named Gamble,” he said, “Through the kindness of this man I was able to land right in the main office and they hired me as a clerk and the date of entering the PRR shops here was April 3, 1893.

Jacob Sommer died January 12, 1949.

More on Cousin Linky

Gladys [Linky] Sommer Brokhausen was Gma Fanny's first cousin. Arlene's father was George Sommer. His brother Henry was Glady's father. They had little contact since Henry and family moved to Louisville, KY. when they were very young. Another brother, Uncle Karl and aunt Dot, lived in Altoona.

7 September 2007

Dear Arlene……………..

Next time has come already. Since I don’t know when this will get mailed, I thought I might tell you a bit about my adventures once I left home. Cannot ever recall being more than fifty miles from home without my mother until I joined the Navy in early 1944. Then it was off to Hunter College in NYC. NAS Atlanta for Link school. NAS Richmond, FL. NAS Pensacola (The Annapolis of the Air). Coronado, CA. Hope, ND. Los Angeles. Los Banos, CA-in the San Joachim Valley. Chicago, Baltimore (The most peculiar place I ever tried to live. The 16 months we were there were the longest ten years of my life.). Orlando. Oviedo, FL. Vestal, NY. Gilroy, CA-the garlic capital of the world. And finally lit here in early January of 1977. All those moves did tend to get closets cleaned out!!

I had become engaged a few weeks before Pearl Harbor. The family called him, “The Great Dane” because he was a tall blond fellow of Danish extraction. He shipped out to the Pacific late the following spring. When the legislation was passed to allow women into various services, I was only vaguely interested, because, as was the custom then, it was understood that I would be there waiting at home when he returned. He was killed in mid-1943, and I went into deep mope mood for quite some time. As the VFW auxiliary was involved in keeping the USO perking, I went to dances. Talked to the WACs who came in from Ft. Knox, and it seemed that all they did was office work and drive trucks. I was working for Standard Oil as a secretary (and bored out of my pointed little head) and I didn’t drive. So, I investigated the Navy. The jobs available sounded much more challenging. And their uniforms were much more attractive, too. So, one day I went into the recruiting office and signed up. I hadn’t even let anyone at home know I was considering enlisting. When I told Mom and Grandma they just had a fit, “No nice girl from a good family belongs in the Navy!!” After a few days they simmered down, and I mistakenly thought they were coming around. Nope. They had come to the conclusion that I was so skinny that I would never pass the physical.

Boys of seventeen could enlist on their own, but females had to be 19 with parental approval (it had just dropped from 20). Or 21 on their own recognizance. Plus we were required to supply three recommendations. I gave our minister, the dean of girls from school, and a family friend who was an FBI agent. Don’t know about the others, but the agent told us about the teasing he got in the office. He didn’t mention, and I didn’t know for several years, but I was probably one of the very few women who went into the Navy with full security clearance. Men were pretty much processed where they enlisted, but we gals had to go to ONOP in Cincinnati. We had just picked up our pencils to start the written tests (guess they wanted to find out if we had brains before they wasted time checking for beating hearts) when a young officer came into the room and asked for 5 volunteers to take the NavCad tests. Seems there had been much bitching because the tests were so difficult that many men flunked. If we passed, we were through with tests for that go round. Should we fail, we could then take the WAVES test. All finished in the first 10 done, and all passed with flying colors. Surprising, considering we were mostly educated to be housewives. Ergo, there were some very weird questions to answer. The examiners had what they wanted. And I later realized that we had been insulted. If the test was easy enough that mere women could pass it, the men had nothing to complain about.

On down the hall to the medical department for our physicals. And my weight, or lack thereof, did rear its head. I was quite a bit below the set minimum for my 5’7” frame. In my youth I had ears like an owl, and I could hear the three doctors on the other side of the room discussing me. Finally, one of them said, “Other than being so skinny, she seems health as a horse. And look at those grades. Let’s waive her.” So, the three of them signed a wavier that made two women at home very unhappy.

Home for a few days and then off to NYC and Hunter College, quite close to Yankee Stadium. Every two weeks a regiment 1680 women arrived, to spend six weeks learning to speak and act Navy, etc. The first morning, we were lined up by height and as usual, I was in the front rank. The young petty officer barked, “Forward march!” and I did. “Halt!” and I did. But the tubby gal behind me didn’t and I was thankful for my ability to dance, for it took some fast footwork not to go face down in the street. This maneuver brought a bark of, “You!” and a finger pointed at my chest. “You’ve marched before!” I had to admit it. “Where?” “Drum corps.” “Fall out! You’re our platoon leader.” Talk about confused. But I quickly learned that I was to help teach the other 39 women to march. Plus, should she be busy elsewhere, I was to get the platoon to wherever we were scheduled to be. There was one good thing about this. Being platoon leader meant that my name did not show up on any other duty roster. And that is how I got through my entire Navy career without ever pulling KP or Captain of the Head….

We had many classes, plus shots, marching, uniform fittings, and many tests to find out which square hole they would be trying to squeeze us into. Heard that there were 16 hours of the multiple-choice tests. We were told that we were not expected to finish them, but just do as much as we could. Always read fast—so I finished them all. The officer who interviewed me for assignment told me that I pulled one of the top 10 grades in our regiment, and that as far as she was concerned I could have any school that I wanted. Was there anything that struck my fancy? I had heard about Link Trainers, but the first two requirements for that school were two years of college and a math major. Neither of which I had. But I asked anyway. And found the curriculum no more difficult than most. It was alien material for all of us. In addition, we did the course in half the time allowed for the men who had preceded us. It was so hard that we were made petty officers upon graduation. One of only two school to do so.

Off to a duty station. The rest of the class went off in small groups. I was sent off alone. To a blimp base. And everything I had been taught applied to planes. So we (my commanding officer and I) had to make up what I was going to teach. As if that weren’t problem enough, there were six WAVES already in the dept. into which I came. None of them was rated, although they had been there for varying lengths of time. The “crow” on my sleeve meant I was the ranking gal and was in charge of the others. Luckily they knew the “Navy way” and none of them got bent out of shape when the greenhorn tried to run things before she knew what was going on.

As I had to be able to do what I was teaching, I could fly the various aircrafts in the air. I just couldn’t get them up there and back down again. Eventually I had flown a Fairchild (a small cabin type), a Grumman Goose, (amphibian with room for 6) blimps, SNJs (single-engine trainer), SNBs (twin-engine training and utility plane tenderly known as bugsmasher), and a PBY seaplane which was often called Dumbo because of its big wings. By this time I was at Pensacola and attached to the PBY training squadron. In early 1947 I decided that I wanted to learn to land and take off, so started taking lessons at a little flight school started by a pair of WWII Navy pilots. I didn’t have to take ground school, and pretty much started the flying well past the basics. Had 8 or 9 solo flights under my belt when I got married. At that time Brok was flying the really big seaplanes, and was a worry wart where I was concerned. As a result my flying lessons went no farther. He stayed on active duty until May 1950, and then stayed in the reserves until 1973. Retired as a Commander. Early on he used the GI Bill, and was hired right out of school by the company that built the big seaplanes he had been flying around the Pacific. His last 20 working years were with IBM (I Been Moved), part of it on the Saturn-Apollo moon shots. I was more interested in that than most wives because Shepard and Schirra (of the first astronauts) had been in a group I had given an indoctrination talk to, and Shepard had been my student when they were in flight training.

In 1992 they had a convention in Norfolk celebrating 50 years of women in the Navy, and three of us who had worked together at Pensacola planned to meet there. Only two of us made it. But had a wonderful time, and lots of us went on up to D.C. together. When I got back home, a professor friend who was then head of the history dept. at Southwestern University, the small liberal arts school here in Georgetown, asked me if I would talk to one of her classes about “Women in the Military.” Having more guts than good sense, I agreed. None of the kids went to sleep and fell out of their chairs, and they had questions, so I felt like it was not a failure. Few years later our ham radio club was hard up for a speaker at the monthly meeting and called upon me. Next was the one for Senior University, a series of seminars started by the folks at Sun City. Think that is the one you have the newspaper piece about, as I had sent a copy to Shirley. I was wired and the tapes and my papers went to the Library of Congress. When I was gathering up my books, etc., a man walked up to me and said, “I don’t like you very much.” This tends to take one aback. Then he grinned and said , “I’m doing next weeks program, and you’re a helluva act to follow.” Pretty nice compliment. Every now and again someone calls—and I do it again. Have done it for a Woman’s Club. For a gathering of Descendants of the Mayflower. And the last time just this past May at a local Baptist Church. A group has a potluck and program one Saturday each month. I just have a list of subjects to hit upon, and wing it. Stress different facts and subjects according to the group. Don’t know what has come over me, as I used to be absolutely petrified to talk in public.

The book, “Texas Women in World War II” has gotten me a lot of attention, too. There is only one other woman in it from this area, and her health isn’t that good. It has gotten me a ride in a Black Hawk helicopter, rides in parades, and other outings. And they usually feed me. Sure does an old biddy’s heart good.

It also got me on a TV show. The Austin PBS station sent a camera crew out here some weeks ago for a program on C....Tex WWII vets that is going to be shown along with Ken D…. series on WWII. Just after I turned off the printer, the producer phoned to tell me the show dates. Will not be shown out of state so far as they know at this time. Same station produces "Austin City Limits," which is shown all over.

Gma's Cousin, Linky

Sometime ago, Gma [Arlene] decided to write her cousin in Texas. We weren't even sure if she was still living. Many weeks passed. We figured she was either dead or not interested in writing. Then it happened. Arlene came in from the mailbox with this long epistle. It's really two letters in one. I'll share the first one. The second one will come on the next post--I hope.

Love Gpa G

2851 C R 104
Georgetown, TX 78626-7427
6 September 2007

Dear Arlene:

You letter came as quite a pleasant surprise, and would have been answered sooner if this Thinkpad hadn’t decided to act up. After I printed a letter, it developed a glitch where it would neither turn off nor turn on. Merely showed my screen saver (a lovely picture I took from a Black Hawk helicopter in 2004) and wouldn’t budge. No icons. No nothin’. I learned early on that my copy of Windows for Dummies may work for desktops but not for laptops. Neighbor teenager gave me a suggestion that worked better that hitting the screen with a brick, so I am back at it. I have been using a computer as a word processor for over twenty years—was on staff of one newsletter and editor of two others during that period—but am not really what you would call computer literate. I am not on line, and have no desire to be, so have no e-mail address to pass along. While I think of it—telephone—512-863-6215. Cell phone—512-635-9470. Carry the cell in my pocket just in case I go face down in the yard or whatever. Most of me is a young 86, but my feet are 130, and that’s on good days. As a result I frequently walk as though I just had a three-martini lunch and they were all doubles. Life is sometimes precarious.

I am delighted to get some of the information you have passed along. I had known that Grandpa was born in Alsace, but could not remember the town. Knew where Grandma was born, but had a different spelling for the town. My other grandmother was born in Kentucky, either in Louisville or nearby, but her parents came from Germany. Have no idea where. Grandpa’s people where already settled in Bullitt County, Kentucky, when Kentucky became a state. There is a town there named Samuels. Father named John. Mother Elizabeth Wise. Grandpa claimed to be Irish. But my matron-of-honor was born and raised in Wales, and she claimed that Samuels is a Welsh name. So I’m not too sure ‘whut I is.’

Father dear was not very good about passing on information about family. If it did not apply to him specifically, it was not worth mentioning. He had his children’s names chosen before he ever married. His first son was to be Michael and the second was to be Patrick. He got Gladys, Gloria, and Patricia—and never forgave us. Needless to say, Pat and I did not have the most happy of childhoods. There were many years when I felt Gloria was the lucky one—she died before he could break her heart and warp her personality. Mentioned to Pat last week that I was 47 when he died, and all those years he never paid me a compliment of any kind. Her reply? At least he didn’t play favorites. Seems he shared his put-downs between us fairly evenly. We did hear that he bragged about us to his friends. But that really had nothing to do with us. It was just so he could play the my-kids-are-smarter-than-your-kids game. When I won a National Merit Scholarship, his reaction says it all. “Like hell you’re going to college. It would be wasted on you. Get off your keister and get a job. You’ve free loaded long enough.” At a later date he admitted to me that he had resented the food I ate because I wasn’t a son. I guess that I was the biggest disappointment because I was the first child. Lord only knows what he might have said to Pat. She wouldn’t even attend his funeral. I honored the title of father and had always dropped by to see him whenever our travels took us near. You would have thought he was the shah granting us audience. He was the best looking of the three brothers, I think. He had a real gift of gab, could be as charming as all-get-out when he wanted to be, so that people loved him. Had friends galore. But they did not have to live with him. Especially when he had been drinking. There was never any physical violence, but he would say things that left scars to this day. It was as though alcohol honed his tongue.

As for some of Dad’s history, he was with the 7th Calvary down on the Mexican border chasing Pancho Villa when the U.S. got into WWI. He volunteered to go and was transferred to the 1st Infantry Division (the Bib Red One) and off to France. Came back with a Silver Star. Think he was planning a career with the Army. Was returning to a temporary camp at Louisville and ran into a redhead. From things I heard at various times, I think his idea was that they would be married, and that he would leave her with her parents while he was off doing his thing and would visit her when so inclined. Her idea was that a wife belonged with her husband. So he left the army. They came to Altoona for a time. I know I had my first grade there, and Pat was born there. But could get better work back in Louisville. Spent most of his stay prior to WWII on the Louisville police force. I have pictures of him in his Sgt.’s uniform. Very active in VFW and American Legion. Was Department Commander of VFW one time. Came WWII and he chomped at the bit until early 1943, and went down to enlist. His VFW buddies scoffed at his chances—but they took him in the Engineers and he was off to England. Waiting for D-Day. His group came along behind the invasion to rebuild things. There was a divorce. Even though we had felt it was only a matter of time for some years, it was still a shock. Some time in the ‘60s he remarried. A lovely lady named Katie. He did have good taste in women. He died on 7 Jan. 1969. Katie went one month later on 7 Feb.

I knew that Uncle George was with the Post Office. When I was a little kid, the age when children never got mail back in those days, he would send each of us a little Christmas envelope with a dollar bill. Getting mail was much more memorable than the dollar. Though in those days having a dime was riches. During WWII, when Uncle George was stationed at Norfolk, I was at NAS Richmond, FL, and we corresponded now and then. Mail from the Shore Patrol in Norfolk brought some strange questions when mail was sorted in the WAVES barracks. I think most were wondering how I could get in trouble in Norfolk when I was southwest of Miami.

Before the telephone or other interruptions kick the caboose off my train of thought again, I’m going to write down a few things that are rambling around my memory:
1. We always knew my father’s name as Henry John Jacob Sommer. However, at one time I was holding some of his papers for him and noticed that his christening certificate gave his name as Henri Johann Jakobus Sommer.
2. My birth certificate has me as Anna Gladys. My other grandmother was fond of bragging that I was named for her—she was Anna Christina Weigand—which I wasn’t. To put a cork in her bragging, when I was christened, Mom added the Katherine for Grandma Sommer. I was always told that her middle name was Katerina.
3. If you should ever desire to be on speaking terms with Pat, please forget the names “Patty” and/or “Patsy.” I can remember her, at maybe age five, standing with arms akimbo, loudly telling her Sunday school teacher, “I am NOT Patty. I am NOT Patsy. I will answer to Pat or Patricia!!!” For some reason she has always gotten very irritated when people call her by the unwanted names. And don’t ask me why. I haven’t the foggiest.
4. Please do not call me a Link Trainer. The Link Trainer was the machine, the aircraft simulator—a quite lumpy hunk of machinery. We Link Trainer Instructors fought this battle from day one. Admittedly, I have lost my sylph-like figure, but I still am not quite as bulbous as the Link. I am trying to say this with humor, so that I do not hurt your feelings. I’ve never met any Sommer clan that did not have a sense of humor. Just wanted to be sure you were reading me right. I have moments when I feel kin to the woman who only opened her mouth to change feet.

Until next Time………………….
S/ With affection—
Linky

“I am fairly easy to catch at home. Except Tuesday, which is my regular volunteer day.

Pat’s Address:
151 Rumford Ave., Apt. B
Mansfield, MA 02048
508-339-