Children of Great Grandpa Peter Donahue

My cousin, Lyn, recently went onto ancestry.com and found this family photo of my Great Grandfather, Peter, and Great Grandmother, Julia, and their children including my Grandfather, Joseph James Donahue (farthest to the left). This sparked quite the conversation between several of us cousins through Facebook messaging! The consensus was that it would have been nice if my Uncle Paul and my mother, Joe Anne, had told us more about their aunts and uncles and explained the relationship dynamics in the family. Writing it down as a family record would have been useful. In any case, we could see how certain names had been passed down through the family. I am sure my mother would have been thrilled to know we were all taking such an interest in our ancestry.

Joe Anne Returns to Hailey, Reviving Her Angst

Joe Anne returned to Hailey, Idaho. Hailey welcomed her as if she were that little girl sitting on her daddy’s lap. All of her memories of her dad were in this town. Her mother still lived in the house they had all lived in together. There were old timers that had known her father and could tell her their memories of him. Joe Anne had graduated from Hailey High School in 1952. Several of her classmates and friends still lived in the area.

*Hailey High. Photo originally posted by Jeannie Savelberg Bradshaw

She took a job as a legal secretary in Ketchum, the town 15 miles north of Hailey. Ketchum was at the base of Baldy Mountain, the center of Sun Valley skiing. Ketchum catered to the tourists and to the rich. Joe Anne hated Ketchum with vehemence. It seemed extreme and stemmed from teenage rivalries between the Ketchum School and the Hailey School. While working there, she complained with disdain of the high priced amenities as well as too narrow streets and terrible drivers. She befriended Lucille, who worked as a bank loan officer. They ate their lunches together. Lucille also lived in Hailey. Eventually, Lucille and her husband, Martin, became the couple that Jim and Joe Anne socialized with on most weekends.

To ease my transition into a new school, Joe Anne tried to introduce me to a daughter of one of her high school friends. At another’s home get-together, I was taken to meet this little girl. She was shy and quiet and politely said 'hi' to me. Her mother and her aunt had been good friends of my mother. When I was older, I was told of a slumber party my mother had as a young teen in which they got a bottle of some alcohol and all drank too much. They drank themselves sick! Well, as I was just meeting this little girl, her already established friend walked up between us, took her hand from mine, and pulled her away to play in another room. At school that week, I walked up to Shy Girl at her locker and said 'hi'. Domineering Girl walked directly over, said, “Don’t talk to her. We don’t like her,” and said “C’mon,” indicating they should walk away. Shy Girl looked at me then turned and walked off with Domineering Girl. At this point, a split was put into place that lasted all through high school. Domineering Girl was part of the popular group, possibly its Queen Bee. I was not accepted into the popular group.

We attended the Catholic Church for a while. Joe Anne even volunteered and I accompanied her to the church on Saturdays to clean. I dusted the pews and she swept the wooden floors. However, I believe she never felt worthy and it was easy for her to assume she was being judged. I remember being at a church service with her one morning when the priest was trying to get everyone fully engaged. He wanted everyone to sing. My mother was insecure about her singing and thought she sounded terrible. She was singing, but quietly. The priest turned directly to her and urged her to sing louder. He insisted until she did. She was embarrassed. Embarrassment turned to anger. She never returned to the church for services. She said she couldn’t stand the hypocrisy of some who presented as good church-going Christians.

Several of her good friends were members of the Catholic Church, so Joe Anne remained connected in spirit. There were gatherings and events at the hall next to the church which Jim and Joe Anne would attend. The Catholic Church put on a St Patrick’s Day celebration annually which they always joined. My grandparents had met at a St Patrick’s Day dance, both of them having an Irish background. Joe Anne was proud of her Irish heritage and needed to honor her parents’ tradition. I had been baptized as an infant and went through the first communion ceremony when we were in Hailey. I stopped attending weekend mass, but continued to attend weekly catechism after school. I only went to mass when I occasionally accompanied my grandmother to the Christmas Eve service.

Joe Anne enjoyed her job as a legal secretary. She was good at it. Her verbal and written skills (vocabulary, punctuation, grammar, typing dexterity) were valuable. She was intelligent. James Reed started out in Hailey with his own appliance repair business. They were very poor at this stage in their lives, but they had hopes and dreams. They were very happy for the first few years in Hailey.

Halloween When I was Little

With Halloween approaching, I thought I would reminisce about this holiday when I was little and still living in Idaho Falls. I can still recall wearing the ghost mask and feeling my warm breath leave condensation inside the mask. I also remember playing with that little wand, waving it around. I thought it was great! I had a little friend from down the street who joined me in going home to home with the help of my siblings. It was a fun time.

To Grandmother's House We Go

My Dad and I walked in through the carport side-door into the dining area and I stood looking into the family room. The front door was open and there were men I didn’t know urgently going upstairs and back down to the main floor. There were large boxes. One box was tall and a man next to it asked my mother if it looked ready to go. I saw clothing from my parents’ closet hanging in the box as if it had been taken directly from closet to box. My mother stood in the middle of the room, energetically responding and giving her approval. The tall box was yellow on the side and had Mayflower printed in large letters that took up the whole side of the box. I knew the Mayflower was one of the three ships that carried the pilgrims to America. The man tilted the box onto a hand truck and pushed it through our front door onto a ramp leading to a large truck with the same Mayflower on yellow printed largely on the trailer. Another man leaning over a square box said to my mother, “I am about to seal this one up. Is everything in there that you want?”  Mom answered in the affirmative and tape cracked loudly as it dispensed across the top, sealing the box.

In the evening, we loaded ourselves into the car. I was in the back seat. We were traveling to my grandmother’s house. I had been there for Christmas the year before and we had gone during summer time. I was comfortable with the idea. My cat, however, was not used to riding in the car. My parents had heard that wrapping the cat in a towel might calm him and would protect us from thrashing claws. My Dad handed Smokey to me, wrapped in a towel and placed on my lap. It didn’t work. He yowled and cried. He sounded terrified and I felt terrible. There was no way for me to convey to him that it was alright. Eventually, I let him out of the towel and he frantically jumped around the seat, to the floor, up into the window, until he crawled under the seat as much as he could, remaining there for the rest of the drive.

It became dark. I looked out the window at distant lights of towns and houses until I became tired. I stretched out on the back seat to sleep. We didn’t worry about seat belts back then. My parents talked quietly. My mother periodically would roll the window down a crack while she smoked a cigarette. She opened the window in consideration of me so that I wouldn’t suffer from the smoke. Most people then didn’t concern themselves much with that, either. Eventually, Mom fell asleep and I watched the back of her head resting on the head rest and moving side-to-side with the car motion. My dad calmly drove, occasionally looking to the side of the road at scenery then back to the road ahead. (When I was a teen, he would explain to me that changing my viewpoint while driving long distance would help prevent eye strain and fatigue.) His driving habits were reassuring to me; everything was under his calm control. I slept until we pulled into my grandmother’s front, dirt parking area, our headlights shining on lilac bushes with pine trees over-hanging. We were there. We had left the city for the country.

I was happy enough at my grandma’s. Her house was an old log cabin that green shake siding had been placed over, while inside, wallboard covered the logs. She had a tall gas furnace that ran up one wall of her living room and it blew warm air out the front through lower and upper vents. I liked to sit on the floor in front of it with the warm air blowing on my back. I would read or draw and be disappointed when the warm air would turn off. Granny worried and fussed about my being cold. She would turn up the thermostat. I tried to assure her I wasn’t cold, “I just like the heat blowing on me. I am ok.” She never really heard and continued to fuss about her poor chilled granddaughter. The linoleum was old, worn, scuffed and it creaked as people walked across it. It just seemed cozy to me.

 

I was enrolled in school, second grade. I had to ride a bus for the first time. I had to wait at a stop about a block down. Soon, snow fell in this mountain town. City trucks would clear the snow off the streets and push it into large piles, especially at the street corners. These piles were several times higher than my height. Even the snow along the sides of the road came above me. It was amazing. It didn’t take me long to learn the joy of climbing on those piles, sliding down, digging caves. My cat wasn’t so happy though. As we became more confined to the house during winter, he became on edge. Granny would talk to the cat in a high pitched voice whenever she let him in or out and she would pat him on the head in a manner that caused him to flatten his ears and looked as if his brains were being jostled. The cat took his stress out on me.

My grandmother’s couch resided against a wall which held the opening leading past the entryway. Granny would let Smokey into the house and greet him in her cat-irritating manner and Smokey would run around the wall, jump onto the couch back, then jump onto my head with claws out on all four feet, tearing sharply into my scalp! I would scream helplessly. On more than one occasion, my Dad came running to smack the cat off of my head, leaving me crying. After one of these episodes, Dad rolled up a newspaper and placed it into my hands. He said, “Next time he does that, you take a newspaper and roll it up like this and hit him with it.” I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to hit my cat that I loved. He attacked me again, and again my Dad told me I had to hit the cat. Smokey’s behavior was becoming so predictable, I was ready with a rolled newspaper the next time he came into the house. I knocked him off my head but missed him with the paper. Dad yelled, “Hit him!” Smokey had landed with a splat on the floor and was crouched down. I hit him once on his back with his eyes meeting mine. It wasn’t a hard hit, but it was enough. He didn’t attack me anymore. I didn’t realize this was my first example that a good, nice person sometimes has to harden kind feelings and take action to protect oneself. I would come to realize this lesson a few more times over the years.

The cat wasn’t the only one being driven up the wall. Mom was also on edge living with her own mother. We had moved to Hailey because my parents had previously purchased some property there. The plan was to build a shop for my dad where he would run an appliance repair business. They would have a house on the property as well. The shop was built with a small entry facing a wall with an open window for my dad to serve customers. There was a door to the side entering a workroom with a small restroom.  My parents cut their stay at Granny’s short and we moved into the tiny shop to live. The idea of a separate shop/business was abandoned as we lived in it and they gradually built additions on to become our house.

 

 

Wildfire Anguish

A huge wildfire is threatening to engulf the town where I was raised. Hailey, Idaho in the high desert mountains near the famous SunValley ski resort has a huge fire rushing towards it. Only a hop skip and it would be over the Big Wood River that runs through town. At this time in August, the river must be fairly low. May is when the mountains are a pretty new green but they quickly turn brown from lack of rain. In August, those hills are covered in hot sun-warmed rocks, dry sagebrush, and smatterings of tough, dry, needled trees. This fire covers 140-some miles of land with winds blowing over the past few days as night falls at about 30-miles-per-hour. Residents of Hailey who live West of River Road, which parallels Main street just three blocks over have been mandated to evacuate. Main street is a portion of highway 75. In some places, the fire is just one mile from the highway.

The home I grew up in is across the valley to the east. It has been a relief to me knowing that the fire is not on Red Devil Mountain behind my childhood home. If the fire were to jump the river and the highway, it would be in the heart of town and could spread very quickly. There are over 600 firefighters working very hard to prevent that from happening. There have been three DC-10 aircraft bombers dropping fire repellent along with helicopters doing the same. Still, there are photos of tall fire tornadoes skipping around the mountain slopes. I have been very bothered by this dangerous action and the feeling of helplessness it evokes.
http://news.yahoo.com/aircraft-used-battle-idaho-fire-smoke-clears-231000602.html

But my reaction is more complicated. Only one other time in my lifetime has there been fire in the hills near my town. This was in August of 1994, the same time of year under the same conditions. My parents lived in the house and I received their interested and excited reports. My father was a small business owner who had only just retired two years before. I had visited in July and thought my father looked ill. He was naturally a thin man who looked even more thin and I observed him barely eating, seeming to struggle to even finish a bowl of soup. On August 23rd, I received the horrible phone call from my mom telling me that my dad had committed suicide. He was a man who valued duty to one's community. He had driven up into a canyon with the family car and carefully prepared the area around with a fire extinguisher. He then used the exhaust from the running vehicle to bring him the permanent sleep he had wished. He didn't want his actions to cause another fire for the community to have to manage.

Now, as I hear the reports and see the photos of the rapidly advancing fire threatening my home town and I feel this helplessness, it has another layer, the deeper layer of the helplessness I felt at the loss of my father. This wildfire of August 2013 is stirring up the wounds of August 1994.

Early Childhood Memories Through Lucretia's Eyes

Until I turned 7-years-old, we lived in Idaho Falls, Idaho. I have several childhood memories from that time. Some memories are cute and fun, some are hurtful (to a child), and they are wrapped up by suddenly moving away (It seemed sudden to me.) There are messages I received from my family and lessons I learned that affected my beliefs about myself and the world and contributed to choices I made in the future.

Those years were my brother’s teenage years. My mother loved a good story and my brother was having exciting times. He would come home and tell her all about it. I remember him describing having been at a party when the police arrived and he and his friend running to get out of there and hiding. I remember his being in a school musical. He was dressed as a cowboy with a hat and he practiced his singing number in our backyard using my rocking horse as a prop and dramatically ended with lifting the hat off of his head and holding it high. My brother made everything seem exciting. One day, he came home with a bottle of bright red nail polish for me. I sat still while my mother carefully painted my nails. She had me place my hand flat on the table with my fingers spread apart. She put a stripe of polish down the center of a nail, then would roll my finger to one side and spread the color from the center over the side of the nail, being careful to not get paint onto my skin. I had to be patient, this process took time.

 

My brother would stay home with me some evenings while my parents went out. We would have most of the lights out and he would play his record albums and we would sing and dance. I also remember him opening my piggy bank and spreading my change out on the floor. He showed me how to count my money. We made stacks of ten dimes and placed them neatly in a row. He would straighten the stacks and they looked nice and perfect. We made stacks of quarters and I remember counting the pennies, separating them out. I learned there was a system, a way to do it.

My dad emphasized always reading the instructions before beginning anything. I remember him holding the paper and saying, “Ok, let’s read this all the way through.” I also remember sitting in the kitchen and bouncing a little ball. My dad walked in and got a piece of paper and showed me how to make slash marks for each bounce of the ball. After the fourth mark, one makes the fifth mark as a slanted line over the other four lines. Then, you add by fives to get the total. Here was another system, and it made the counting easier!

My brother played basketball and football. One season, he got his head shaved as part of initiation for the basketball players. He goofed off with one of my mother’s wigs. He was also the football quarterback. He was amazing! One time, my mother let some cheerleaders in to decorate my brother’s room. There were streamers and balloons everywhere. Streamers covered the doorway and he would need to break through them to get into the room. They left a teddy bear hanging hammock-like in streamers from the center of the ceiling. My own teddy bear had most of the fur worn off from my constant carrying and snuggling. My brother’s bear had long brown fur. When my brother left for college, he asked me to take care of that teddy bear for him.

 

 

My sister came home in the summer from college. I had a stuffed tiger named Tigger. His fur was also worn off such that he had patches of material that were completely bare. He had begun to come apart at the seams. My sister repaired him for me. I watched her measure his stomach and cut out some orange fabric. I then sat next to her as she carefully sewed the fabric on being sure the stitches were small, neat, and even. Tigger was different but perfect again!

 

One day, my brother walked past me as he headed outside. He said something I don’t remember, possibly telling me something to do. I said “no” and he told me not to say that and then gave a little slap to my face. It wasn’t a hard slap, it was more symbolic. A little later, in an unusual moment, my Mom sat in the kitchen and pulled me over to sit on her lap. We were not generally an affectionate family, so this was different. I must have looked sad or something because she began rocking me and sang “Rock-a-by-Baby.” She was being light and playful. We looked out the window to the backyard where my dad was showing my brother how to mow the lawn using the electric lawn mower (taking care to keep the electrical cord off to the side so it couldn’t be run over and cut by the mower.) Mom made the observation that Mike was learning to mow the lawn and I broke down crying, sobbing. With shock and surprise she asked, “What is wrong?!” “Mike slapped me!” I said without explanation because I was crying and barely said the words. In an instant, my mother was in the back yard and I watched her grab my brother and pointing at his face she yelled, “Don’t you EVER slap her!” She continued yelling at him and was quite threatening. My dad stood by with a silent sigh and waited for her to finish. My brother appeased her. I watched and felt terrible. I had had no intention of getting him into trouble. I loved and idolized my brother and was simply deeply wounded by his disapproval. I later learned in psychology classes that the face is connected to our identity and a slap to the face is deeply personal. Though it barely hurt, it had great meaning.

Another day, I was like a lost child. I approached my mother as she loaded the dishwasher. I tried to talk to her but she was irritated and sent me away. Next, I was around my brother who was watching TV and he grouched at me to be quiet so he could hear the show. Then, I approached my dad who was working on something and before I could say anything to him, he swore in anger at whatever he was trying to do. I left him alone. That night, we did my bedtime ritual. Mom tucked me into bed. Dad came in and hugged me, kissed me, and told me goodnight. Mom came around to do the same. Then she asked me if I had had a good day. I broke down crying and said “no, everyone was mean to me and didn’t want me around!” As Mom got the information on what had happened and I continued to cry with tears running down my cheeks, my dad returned and so did my kitten, Smokey. He jumped up and laid on my pillow right next to my face and then reached out his paw and placed it on my cheek. Mom said, “Look at that! Smokey loves you and he wants you to not cry. He wants you to feel better.” It worked.

 

So my dad had been getting those migraines I talked about in my last post. He worked for National Cash Register and often would be called out in the evenings to repair machines while businesses were closed. I remember going with him to a bank and a pretty, nice young lady let us into the bank and into a large room. Dad took the panel off of a machine and began to make repairs. I ran around the room, colored on some copy paper, and watched him work some of the time. He had his shirt sleeves rolled back and his hands and arms in the machine. Over the years, this is often how I saw my dad with tools such as screw drivers, wrenches, and pliers, loosening wing nuts, bolts, and screws and removing them by turning them with his fingers. He would set these objects aside in a certain spot for safekeeping and in order of use.

Dad was also in a supervisory position at work. Evidently management had changed or company policies had. Employees were under pressure to meet quotas. My dad was under pressure to fire employees who were not meeting the quotas. He was getting migraines from it. As a child, I didn’t know this. I guess he took a vacation and didn’t meet his own quotas and then quit his job. I remember him coming to my school one morning. I was in the second grade. They were selling cupcakes that morning, pushing around a cart from room to room. Dad bought me a cupcake and we went home to leave. We were moving to Mom’s hometown, Hailey, Idaho.

On the Day I was Born

A few famous events took place on my birthdate, July 7th, 1967

The Beatles released, "All You Need is Love"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CLEtGRUrtJo

The Doors' "Light My Fire" became the #1 Hit Song
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fbFxzb-YIxE

The actress, Vivian Leigh, who played Scarlett in "Gone with the Wind," died at age 53
Here is the clip, "You Need Kissing Badly"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nACj50uq6_s

Here is the Time magazine published on this day
http://www.time.com/time/magazine/0,9263,7601670707,00.html