A Little Pile of Treasures

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My dad and I have spent much of the last forty years either estranged or annoyed with one another.

When he remarried when I was 14 years old to a woman only 9 years older than me who spent a lot of time subtly sabotaging our relationship, we were never the same. Then, though many years younger than my dad, his wife died last December, quite unexpectedly. In that moment, our relationship moved from eternal darkness to dawn.

As his life went on, the retired Army recruiter, his son and wife, plopped themselves down in a house near a major military base in the Midwest. He made his home there for over 20 years. A rambling house, of good bones, but which had little attention in the past few years as my dad became more and more challenged to finish projects, it had become too much for him to care for. Now, he's moving out of his home and to a new adventure in a seniors community here near me.

My sister and I helped for a week organizing him in the first step to prepare and in the meantime, I located photos he hadn't seen in forty years. Photos he'd forgotten about. Photos no one else living had seen. I got my first glimpse into the childhood of my dad and his brothers. Into my grandmother's relationship with her first family's children. Into what my grandpa looked like with hair. No one knew him then. I don't think they ever owned their own camera, strictly based on the fact there are so few photos. I have a lot of work to do.

What a treasure.

Remembering Florence Miller

DAVID OWENS m Sarah Hollar > LUCY OWENS m Ira Miller > FLORENCE MILLER m Charles Linsey

Today, I'm remembering my great grandmother, Florence Miller, who was born 132 years ago on a farm in rural Iowa. She was my paternal grandfather's mother.

Wedding of Florence Linsey, 1903

Florence Miller Linsey was born 17 Sep 1884 to Ira S Miller and Lucy “Lizzie” Owens Miller. The Millers farmed outside of Center Point, near Urbana. She married Charles Lindsey (later Linsey) 12 Aug 1903 in Vinton, Benton County, Iowa.

Florence and Charles had three children survive. Charles, a laborer, died in 1933, leaving Florence a widow left to support herself and the remaining child at home, Charles Jr “Junior.”

She went to work as the laundress and kitchen staff for the Iowa School for the Blind and could be seen walking the two miles each way back and forth to work each day until her retirement in the 1950s. She lived in the same home for many decades on the east side of Vinton.

The very small home, which had had a bathroom and small bedroom added in the 1930s to give it two bedrooms, originally had an outhouse that was later converted to a garden shed. Florence planted a large garden each year and from the bounty of that garden, was able to subsist quite well without outside assistance. The room most used in her home was also the largest – the kitchen. She spent hours upon hours each year canning vegetables and making preserves which would later be stored in the dirt cellar accessed by pulling up a rope in the middle of her kitchen floor and traversing the treacherous stairs to dimly lit room.

About 1962 in Vinton with son Leo and grandson
Larry

Once the children were grown and gone and the grand children and then great grandchildren came to visit, they could invariably be found either playing in the large back yard or in the small bedroom with the ancient erector set and tinker toys.

 At 72, she had a heart attack and the doctors, according to Florence, said, that the reason it didn’t kill her is that she walked so much. She blamed her health problems on hard work and the doctors said she’d live to 100 because of her hard work.

 A proud and often stubborn woman, she refused help of almost every kind, even as her hearing and sight began to fail. In 1980, at the age of 95, she was interviewed by the Cedar Rapids Gazette about her acquiescing and accepting energy assistance. She was quite perturbed by having to do so, but her small Social Security income and small work pension just didn’t stretch as far during those high-cost energy years.

She admitted to the Gazette, “I’m awful savin’ on my oil. I cut down, but the way my house is cut up, I have to have two fuel sources.” She had an oil-burning stove in her kitchen and gas heater in her living room. She added, “I was awful afraid I wasn’t going to make it last year. This takes so much,” she said pointing to the gas heater. “One month, it was $71. It took both checks.”

She stayed in her home, despite her growing blindness and the need for a cane and continued to care for herself until a serious fall in her beloved kitchen, breaking her hip at age 97. She spent some time in hospital and then moved to the Sunnycrest Nursing Home in Dysart, Iowa where she passed away, just shy of her 99th birthday. Her daughter Lucy and son Junior survived her. Her son Leo preceded her in death along with an infant daughter and two infant sons.

The Cappoens/LeRoy Line: Leo Linsey

Leo Lee Linsey was born the oldest child of Florence Miller and Charles Lindsey (later Linsey) on 18 Jun 1904 in Benton County, Iowa. Florence was a farmer's daughter, having been raised in the rural Benton County area prior to her marriage. They resided at 410 11th Ave in Vinton, Iowa.  They would have two other surviving children; Lucille and Charles, Jr. who went by "Junior" his entire life.

Charles was a working man, working various jobs and spent the last 12 years of his life working on a section gang for the railroad.

Leo would grow up to be a pressman, but also was a sales delivery man for a company for a while. He spent his longest working stint with a printing company in Waverly, Iowa until his retirement. On 12 Apr 1930, he married Hazel Batchelder in Vinton. She was the daughter of Lottie Berry and Lester Batchelder. From this point, things get dodgy. They filed for divorce in 1935, each slinging accusations at each other which made the paper in great detail and the wife requesting Leo be institutionalized (mostly likely for alcoholism). Eventually, the request for commitment was dropped, a demand was made by the court that they stop slinging mud, custody was awarded permanently to Hazel's mother of the son. Leo had very little contact with his son from then on. That son had a successful life and looks back very fondly on his grandparents who raised him. Hazel and Leo were divorced at last in 1936 for the 1st time.

But, lo and behold, come just months after the protracted legal battle, they announced their intention to marry again. I'm guessing this engagement was on and off until they finally remarried on 12 Dec 1936. They separated within months, but did not divorce immediately.

By 1937, Leo was living and working in Waterloo, Iowa. He began cohabitating with Verlie Smith Michaelsen sometime that year. Both were still married. Verlie's husband finally filed and was granted a divorce in 1941 and he remarried in April 1942. It is presumed that Leo's divorce from Hazel was finally finalized sometime prior to her marriage to Jack Ritzman in the mid-1940s. 

Verlie's relationship with her first husband, Ted Michaelsen, was marred by spousal violence and alcoholism. It was also the depression and things were very dire financially for her. Verlie had four children by her first marriage. Many children ended up in orphanages during this time as many did not have the means to even feed the children. Three of the children of this union were adopted by various family members after stays of various lengths in the Bremer Lutheran Children's Home, and the youngest was adopted to a well-to-do Lutheran couple. Two girls were adopted by a paternal aunt and uncle and the oldest was adopted by a maternal aunt and uncle. After extensive conversations with the children of the first marriage, one can only presume that while difficult for all involved, the children ended up in safer, more stable environments. All but one of the children of that marriage maintained a relationship with Verlie her entire life.

Leo and Verlie had three sons between 1939 and 1944. The couple did not marry until 1965, when they drove up to Minnesota and tied the knot 12 Jul 1965 in Fillmore. Leo reportedly wanted to ensure that Verlie was able to get his Social Security. They generally lived on the edge financially their whole lives. Near the end of Leo's life, which had ritually involved stopping off at the tavern after work and after getting a paycheck, he and Verlie separated. Their decree of separate maintenance appeared in the Marriage Dissolutions column in the Waterloo Courier in 1975 and terms were, "She gets household goods and furniture, he pays debts incurred during their marriage." He died on 04 Feb 1980 in Waterloo of a heart attack. His final years were spent with his companion, Elsie Stoner. Verlie lived on until Nov 1986 and died at Ravenswood Care Center in Waterloo. 

I have incredibly fond memories of both of my grandparents. Leo was quiet and smoked stinky green cigars outside. He affectionately called me his "Little Kraut" because I was born in Germany. He mostly liked to sit back in his recliner and watch Lawrence Welk on Saturday nights. Grandma made the best fried chicken dinners and a had a little candy dish on her buffet waiting for all of us when we came for Sunday dinner after church. She was the typical grandma, baking and cooking her way into each of our heart's.

It's much easier to step back and look at their lives from a dispassionate perspective now, with them both gone for over 30 years. They made a lot of probably not so good choices in their lives, but managed to have a bunch of kids between them that did what America is great for -  providing opportunity for each to find their own success and doing it better in the next generation.

Simeon LeRoy dit Audy

Christina Cappoens was the mother of one side of the family that eventually became the Linsey family and can be read about here and here. The father of the other side of that equation was Simeon LeRoy dit Audy, a Frenchman who became a French-Canadian. Rather than excerpt his story, I share this link with you, which details his life and addresses some of the mysteries of his life in a way I think most plausible. It's written by Lorine McGinnis Schulze: Simeon LeRoy dit Audy

I hope to be uncovering more about the LeRoy family in the coming weeks. The visual of descendancy is below. You may recognize names like "Owens," a family well-documented within this blog:

He Looked Down Upon Me and Laughed

In the little town of Vinton, Iowa, just down the road a spell from the big state mental hospital, and home to of the best popcorn fields in the world, there sat a little tarpaper shack, where the weeds grew unchecked between the cracks of the neglected tar and gravel street, down near the railroad tracks.

The house sat right up against the street, with two lop-sided, rotting wooden stairs leading to the front door. The yard was huge and full of all types of Iowa wildflowers and a large, meticulously tended vegetable garden. In the back was an old outhouse that eventually became the garden shed. The entire house was probably 700 square feet. The floors sloped and waved and jutted from 70 years of settling and warping. The bare floor was sprinkled liberally with simple hand-made throw rugs to keep the chill of an Iowa winter at bay.

The house had that aged, musty smell yet was invariably spotless. Long-faded wallpaper with patterns out-of-date by the 1920s covered each wall. The kitchen was the largest of the rooms and obviously the most used. Under the simple kitchen table was a small rope with a knot in the end that served as the handle to lift up the cellar door. Once open, stairs led perilously down several rickety stairs to the tiny, pungent, dank, dark, dirt room where the year’s food supply, culled from the bountiful garden, were stored.

The living room was small—with a coal burning stove eventually replaced by an electric heating stove. A short couch lined one wall, and directly in front of the couch; facing the same direction as the couch, sat the one comfortable chair in which a woman sat for much of her day watching the small black & white television at the other end of the room. Hanging above the television, a small, lonely picture of Jesus looked down upon the room, surveying the every thought, word, and deed of generations.

The woman, who lived to somewhere between 99 and 101 years old, depending on who you took as authority on such things, was tall and lean. Her dress was always immaculately ironed. Her hair was white as pure driven snow, and was always covered by a hairnet. When she spoke, her voice warbled and rasped from too many years of use. Age and gravity had some interesting repercussions. Her face was very, very long, reminding me of a tired old Bloodhound with wrinkles on top of wrinkles. Her earlobes had somehow managed to extend nearly to her shoulders, and her breasts, well, she was never one to bother with such frills as a bra…she was old, let’s leave it at that. Whenever I saw her, a particular Girl Scout song would pop into my head, “Do your ears hang low, do they wobble to and fro, can you time them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow, can you throw them over your shoulder like a continental soldier, do your ears hang low?”

As a child, I paid little heed to her, and as my conversation wasn’t very interesting to her, we never made a connection. I probably spoke a total of 10 words to her my entire life. She visited freely with her son and grandson (my grandfather and father), but my sister and I were left to our own devices playing on most visits at the back of the house in the tiny closet-sized bedroom, with an ancient erector set and tinker toys. All I really knew is she spent over 65 years a widow, raising her kids the hardscrabble way, but most of it was spent alone in that little house, taking care of her business.

Our last visit came when I was about 20, on leave from Germany. Her hearing was nearly shot and her eyesight failing. My father pulled up a straight chair to be near her. She sat in her chair, facing the same direction we faced sitting on the couch behind her—which was always so odd to me—looking at the back of her head. My senses dulled as I listened vaguely to them speaking. Finally, out of the blue, she said, “Lori, where are you?” I snapped out of the daydream state I invariably slipped into, thinking, “Wow, she is actually speaking to me.”

I reached forward and gently and lovingly placed my hand on her arm, feeling suddenly quite warm and sentimental, sure she was asking because she could neither hear nor see me from her current vantage point, and said, “I’m right here Great Grandma.” Perhaps at last, we'd make a connection!  And, then she sighed heavily, and I swore I heard Jesus laughing as he looked down upon me.  She said, “No GOD DAMN IT, where are you in Germany? Larry, what is wrong with the girl?”

Copyright,  2008