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-