Getting There.....Sepia Saturday

Inspired by this weeks Sepia Saturday Series.......


A little from my mom's side of the family, and quite a few cars.

My Maternal Grandfather, John Hickman in Crisfield, Maryland, with his first car, Lina.
My soon to be Grandmother, Frances Campbell and her friend. "Pals"
John, 1928, with unknown girls. Cousins or nieces perhaps. What the picture can't say is he had flaming red hair and lots of freckles.

The happy couple, Mr. and Mrs. John Hickman. They were married in 1933, and stayed that way for almost 40 years until 1972.
John, fishing on the Chesapeake Bay. By trade, he was a farmer, a blacksmith, a carpenter, a cabinetmaker, an electrician, a mechanic and a master story teller. There was nothing he could not do. He worked most of his life as the caretaker and manager of a 200 acres historic farm, Beverly of Somerset, in Princess Anne Maryland.
Frances, his wife, a nurse, a farmer's wife, seamstress, lacemaker, artist. There was nothing she could not do.

Their daughter, my mother Harriett, working on the farm in the 1940's. There was nothing she could not do. And yes, she's actually driving the tractor in this picture.
Alternate means of transportation for Harriett. This was a working horse.
Harriett with her date, thankfully things did not work out. Frances sewed the outfit. John built the house himself, to retire in. but he didn't get more than a few years there. (I remember that we were allowed to ring the dinner bell when we visited as kids. )
She instead chose a man who looked to be trouble, my dad Peter, but he turned out to be anything but. He enlisted, got shipped overseas as the war was ending, and my mom followed him to Germany. Her parents sat for their first and only portrait to send to them.



My parents married in July 1955 in Mannheim-Sandhofen Germany, living there for another year before Dad's tour ended. They were married almost 53 years. They had this painting commissioned by an artist who worked from the newspaper clipping. He did a pretty good job. So did they.

Fish Tales...Sepia Saturday

Fishing has been a part of my family's life for generations. If a man had a boat and a fishing pole, his family would not go hungry. But fishing was much more than a means to put food on the table - it was almost a religion, a quest, an addiction. A man could test himself against the water and the fish. If he were feeling brave or adventurous, he could test himself against the Atlantic Ocean, out beyond the bay. No matter that the boat was small or the swells huge, because the big fish were out there, waiting to be caught.

This is my father, Peter, with his pride and joy, his first boat.

This is my grandfather Pete, doing what he loved best - fishing on the bay.

Peter and Pete showing the catch of the day to Susan.

A good day on the water, and a good day's work.

A beauty, almost more than a man can lift.

Two brothers and a son - three men and a boat, a spark plug for bait, 

and a 40 pound rock fish to show for the day.

My cousin Lee, who grew up to be a boat captain, a harbormaster and a master fisherwoman.
Like this photo of her, my earliest happy memories involve water and catching a big fish.

My dad taught me to dig for worms, bait a hook, be patient for a bite, reel them in slow, clean them and cook them and enjoy eating them. I caught my first fish when I was five. I remember. It was something. Yes, I remember - hot sunny days at the quarry, long days rocking on a boat, quiet days on the lake, fishing pole in hand, bait on the hook, waiting for a bite on the Chesapeake and Delaware Bays, and the waters of the Delmarva Peninsula.

The fish are much smaller now, as the waters are overfished and the pickings are slim. But we have our photos and our fish tales to tell. We remember, and that is worth something.

Post inspired by the Sepia Saturday series.

UnStuck a Little

I started this post two months ago for the Sepia Saturday series and got stuck. I should have known not to try a post about Dad so near his birthday. I couldn't finish it and surrendered. I've felt stuck since he died, which will be two years this July. Two. The pictures can't begin to capture who he was or the life he led, and words fail me lately. Who is there to tell things and discuss the world with if he's not in it? But I got unstuck a little and wanted to finish what I started, to move forward a bit. I'm gardening again, and trying to be hopeful, it's the least I can do to honor him. Here's a few highlights from the amazing life of a wonderful man I called Dad.

Dad's Tree

Memories, mementos.

A rose is not just a rose.

He watered and filled the birdfeeders almost up to the end.

He shaved his head with Mom when chemo took her hair.

50th Wedding Anniversary. Mom was diagnosed with breast cancer days later.

Happy times in the mountains of North Carolina, multiple childhoods revisited.

The Salisbury Zoo, MD, our favorite family day in the park place.

Road trip to the Dakotas with the grandkids.

The first grandchild, a manchild.

25th Wedding Anniversary.

Family of the year, literally, and pillars of the community, small town, USA.

A wedding on short notice, a prostitute paid to stand witness.

You may now kiss the bride. Some more.

Just Married.

Soldier Boy.

Scenes from a Birthday Cake.

On the Beach.

Fisherman, with Uncle and Dad. Bait used: spark plug.

Fine young man.

Handsome teenager.

Pensive boy.

Sickly survivor child.

Good boy who wrote to his Mom on the back.

He never knew how to ask for much. But he was all heart.

Loving and beloved Brother.

Beloved Child.

Waif.

Intrepid explorer.

Life Force.

Beloved.


Peter Ransom MacVeigh. Almost bled out at birth from his circumcision and a clotting problem, bit by a rabid cat and survived the injections, hit by a car with multiple head injuries and shattered ribs and legs, electrocuted twice saving a friend stuck to a power line and temporarily blinded, radiated with xrays and uranium to treat mastoiditis and perform adenoidectomies, lived in poverty and hunger several times in his childhood, nearly drowned surfing paddleboat wakes in a canoe on the Mississippi, surprisingly unmaimed or killed playing with dynamite caps and explosive coal mine chemicals with hooligan friends, shuttled across the Atlantic in a rusty transport that sank in the harbor as it arrived in Germany, again, surprisingly unmaimed or killed from ordinance duty in the war's end stage, survived a heart attack and quadruple bypass in his 40s and triple in his 60's, plus emphysema from smoking and living asbestos and lumberyard filled childhoods, until finally, his heart gave out in his 70's. Neither his sense of humor or grace in the face of life and death ever surrendered. I worried he wouldn't live to see me graduate college, or marry, or have grandkids, or celebrate his 50th anniversary, but he made it to them all, and then some, always grateful, always smiling, blue eyes twinkling, happy to be here, alive. I was always a mixture of scared he was going to die, and hopeful only Kryptonite could get him. He wasn't afraid at the end, only worried he was a burden to Mom and that he hadn't done enough for those he loved. Silly, I know.

He is loved and missed irrationally for someone who wasn't supposed to be here in the first place. We were lucky to have him as long as we did. But still. His absence is acute, some days more than others. I watch the kids and think, he'd be so proud. I watch the news and think, he'd be so pissed about the Gulf Oil Spill, he loved the water and he always hated greed and shortsightedness. I see my garden and think, he'd love these flowers. I hear the birds and think of him watching them for hours, turning his yard into a sanctuary. I watch the sunset and think, he'd marvel at the colors. He knew how to appreciate the little things, make the best and be happy. I wonder if he had any idea how hard he'd be to miss.