Mystery dinner invitations

It's one of those interview or cocktail hour questions: If you could invite [insert number here] people, past or present, to dinner, who would you invite? Common responses are people like Albert Einstein, Johnny Cash, and even Anakin Skywalker. 

But to the family researcher, this would be an amazing opportunity. I would love to hear from my great-grandmother Julia about the love affair that brought her daughter into the world--and how she felt about that daughter finding her birth father as a grown woman. I would also ask if she actually married my great-grandfather, and what on earth they were doing having a baby in a mining town in Nevada when their lives were in San Francisco. 

I would also invite my great-grandfather, who accepted Julia, a woman with a past (and a young daughter), and gave them his name and heart. I would want to talk to him about why he split from his family in New York, how he got across the country (was he aiming for San Francisco, or is it just where he ended up?). I'd also love to know how, if he wasn't speaking to (or about) his family, did he end up with his older brother's trophy. I actually would love sitting down with the entirety of the New York Walshes, even if they might well empty my stores of whiskey. 

I think I would enjoy talking with my great uncle Vincent, who drove a flashy car, married a new-age German woman (who sang opera and penned poetry), and who left his house to his secretary, a spinster who kept the business running while he was living it up with his wife. He's also the younger brother who stepped up for his nephew when my grandfather died prematurely. As an aside, I would let him know that we share a birthday, and ask if he knew the circumstances of his birth. We'd probably share some laughs, too. Of course, I'd set the table with his wife's silver, which was passed on to me. 

I might also include my Grammie, with whom we shared meals every Sunday, and for all her commitment to family research left us precious little about her own life and family. I know she was social, and I would love to sit with her, and have her tell me who the smiling people in the group pictures were. I'd really like to ask about George, who is clearly her beau, but did not become her husband. We would use her silver, monogramed with her maiden initials on the table.

I would be beyond ecstatic to fill my weekend calendars with dinner parties for each and every one of my brick walls, but alas, that is not part of the question, and those amazing conversations will never take place. 

They say that dead men don't speak, but the fact that part of them literally forms part of us in the form of inherited DNA, does give voice to them, confirming the family lore, or exposing secrets buried over the generations. Those of us with stamped letters and envelopes sealed with a kiss and Victorian hair art will hold on to them, as they may allow our ancestors to speak once more, even if we can’t invite them to dinner.

A message from the past that may speak to us

Secret sign

Among the treasures handed down to me is a small wicker box containing several medals and ribbons: some are from my father's military service, a whole bunch are tarnished medals from my grandfather Albert Walsh's short career as a one-mile walker, but the most elaborate are those from my grandfather's involvement with masonic organizations. Deeper research indicates that his brother Vincent was also a member of the order. Unfortunately, the fancy fez headgear did not survive. 

In his obituary we learn he was a member of "Henry Clay Lodge No. 95 F & AM, California Bodies Scottish Rite Islam Temple, Royal Order of Jesters," all part of the Masonic landscape. Sure enough, there are a number of Shriner pins (fez and sword), as well as some from the Royal Order of Jesters, naming Albert a "Light Comedian," and other bits adorned with Billiken, their chubby mascot ("The God of Things as They Ought To Be"). 

In her photo album, his mother Julia pastes pictures of Albert with his Shriner group; it seems ironic that the current Masonic Temple in San Francisco, across the street from Grace Cathedral, was completed only a year before he died.

My father knew his dad was a Mason ("wide mouth?" we would joke with innocent hilarity), but he never seemed to be a joiner; it was only in his 50s that he decided to join a church and the historical society. 

So there was some joy in hearing that in his 70s, he was invited to join The Ancient and Honorable Order of E Clampus Vitus, a fraternal organization dedicated to preserving western heritage (at the time, he was president of the Shasta Historical Society), known for placing historical markers throughout the west. But my father was never one to take things too seriously (his father was a light comedian, after all): the name of the group  is improper Latin that translates loosely as, "I believe it because it is absurd." In addition to placing plaques ("doin's"), they did fundraising for "widders and orphans," and held beer-fueled camps called colloquia. But the best part was that they had rituals: wear a black hat and a red shirt, give the "secret sign" to fellow Clampers if you should see them about town. He delighted in teaching the gesture to our toddler son; I can't tell you what it is, because it's a secret. 

Albert - back row, first on left

Edward and the mystery pitcher

My mother was the family historian, inheriting family charts, oodles of photographs, and of course, the odd family heirloom. The Civil War blanket that belonged to 3GGF George, the silver teaspoon from colonial cousin Polly, and the ornate Victorian Pitcher, won by Edward Walsh.

It is this latter item that was a mystery: the Walshes, family lore told us, came from Bandon in County Cork, Ireland; the immigrant ancestor was named Thomas, and his wife (according to a bank signature card) was Mary O'Brien. My father managed to track down Thomas and his large family in New York in 1850--a beautiful, clear hand had transcribed all the names legibly. A daughter born in Ireland, and other children are listed, but no Edward. The youngest son, David is the man my father remembered as his grandfather, a man who had left the Catholic Church and his family behind in New York. 

In the mid 1990s I had the opportunity to spend a month in Ireland. I took advantage of the Thursday evening hours to search microfilms of Irish Parish registers, and even ventured down to Bandon to walk the local cemeteries. I came home with some seemingly close matches, but nothing that popped out as "our people." For another twenty years, my father and I searched any index we could find to no avail; he built up a stack of microfilm request cards at the Family History Center. The path had grown cold.

My father and mother passed away, and I found a note that Edward's pitcher should go to our son, since he was studying fire science--somewhere along the line she had decided that Edward must have been a fireman, but it was a guess at best. And there was still no Edward in my tree, and I had no idea how to add him.

And then, in 2017, the family decided to do DNA testing; me, my brother, and son. At first, there were only strong matches on my mother's side, but after a couple of years, more, unidentified matches emerged--and by using Leeds sorting, I discovered three new surnames that could only be from my father's paternal side. I excitedly messaged each of them, and eagerly awaited their reply--could they help solve the Edward mystery?

To this day, none of the matches have responded, but I spent my waiting time building a tree for them. Based on the six relationships they posted, I traced their line up and down, and sideways. And then I found it: one set of matches connected to the Irish-born daughter, Mary! I turned my efforts to the next line, and there it was in a New York Times article: "Police Captain Edward Walsh died late last evening, after lying at the point of death for several weeks, at the home of his son-in-law." The son-in-law's name was in my DNA list, and the line seemed to fit, but I wanted to be sure.

I went through some of the more distant DNA  matches, and on a whim, contacted one in Ireland--in County Cork, but not in Bandon. Not only did she respond quickly, she was able to verify the two children born to Thomas and Mary--in Ballinhassig, County Cork. And one of them was named Edward. It all fit together, and the numbers in the DNA don't lie. Once I found a picture of him there was no doubt--he looks like his brother and nephews. 

And the pitcher? It was an award of valor for his role in defending his fellow officers during the Haughmont riots in New York, and it set him on a path to becoming a well-respected police chief.

The mystery pitcher

Putting the pieces together

Julia Ann Jordan was born 24 Aug 1847 in Bangor Maine, to Eben Jordan and Abigail Hutchinson. Between the birth of her brother James Eben in 1851 and 1865, her mother must have died, as she received a bible from Bangor elementary teacher Miss Eliza A. Thayer in August of 1865 (the newspapers describe it as a Flag Presentation where the teacher gave bibles to all her students), inscribed "God Bless the motherless child." Julia kept the bible.

Julia's inscribed Bible

Among Julia's possessions was also a letter addressed to Julia A. Jordan from a soldier stationed at White Oak Church during the Civil War, with the lyrics to The Girl I left behind me, a sentimental and popular tune during the war. The Church served as a camp from Jan 25 - Apr 28 1863. The soldier does not sign his name, but gives us his regiment number: 6th Corps 2nd Division, Co. I, 7th Regiment "The Voluntiers." From historical records, we know that after the Battle of Antietam the 7th Maine was sent home to Maine to recruit, leaving White Oak in Oct 1862, and leaving Bangor Jan 21, 1863. Julia would have been 15 years old. 

Julia gave birth to a daughter, Estelle Abigail, on 23 September 1864 in Bangor; Julia was 16 years old at the time. While there is no birth or marriage registered to Julia Jordan in Maine, in the 1930 US Census, Julia states that she was first married at age 17, and a birth is recorded on 23 September 1864 in Bangor for an unnamed child of undetermined gender to Richard and Julia Davis.

Records from the National Archives show that a Richard Davis of Bangor served in the Maine 6th Corps 2nd Division, Co. I, 7th Regiment during this time period. He mustered out in December 1863, and took 30 day's leave in his home state before re-enlisting--nine months before Estelle's birth. According to a 1904 newspaper article, Estelle was kidnapped from her father in 1869. Richard takes a new wife in 1870. 

Shipping reports indicate that Miss Julia Jordan arrived in San Francisco on August 11, 1865 on the Pacific Mail Steamship Company’s steamer Sacramento, coming from Panama (via Acapulco and Manzanillo; one Canadian passenger died on the trip). No child is noted. But she may not have been alone: the 1865 San Francisco City Directory shows an Eben Jordan as mate on the steamer Sacramento. Given that we have been unable to find Eben in any Maine census after the birth of Estelle, this seems too convenient to have been a coincidence. 

In the 1880 US Census for San Francisco, Julia—a “dealer in fancy goods”—is married to David Walsh (a teamster), and they have three children, all with the surname Walsh: Stella, 15 (at school); Vincent, 8; and Albert, 2. If David had officially adopted Estelle, the papers would likely have been lost in the 1906 earthquake and fire. What is clear, both from the paper trail and family lore, is that she was part of the Walsh family.

Estelle married Frank Henderson Cranford (a carpenter) in 1886 in San Francisco. They made their home in San Francisco, and had two sons, Richard Jules in 1887, and Carson Francis in 1889. Richard died before his first birthday; Carson, a painter of houses and film sets, survived to a troubled adulthood, and is found in several western prisons during his life. He died without issue.

But the past always comes back: A San Francisco Call article of 1904 tells of a visit by Estelle and Frank Cranford to Richard S. Davis of Brewster, Maine (across the river from Bangor), describing it as the reunion of a child who had been kidnapped by her mother. The newspaper recounts a happy reunion with the family, which would have included Richard’s wife of 40 years, and his son Charles Franklin Davis, and his wife and children.

Family described Julia as independent and strong-minded. After David’s death in 1910, she lived with her unmarried son Albert, who was a mining engineer and who traveled often. In May 1911, she gifted 160 acres to her sons Vincent and Albert near what is today the Long Ridge Open Space Preserve in the hills over Saratoga, California. 

When Albert and his bride Ruth Neely Thompson purchased the Biltmore Hotel in San Francisco around 1928, Julia moved into the hotel as a guest. Julia died of pneumonia on December 22, 1934, in San Francisco, survived by her two sons and Estelle. She was 89 years old. Julia is interred with her beloved David at Woodlawn Cemetery in Colma. 

Characters on the page

Given my heritage (Irish), my college majors (theatre & French) and my taste in literature (eclectic), it is safe to say that I have run into my share of characters in my life, both fictitious and real. In the genealogical sense, though, characters are often glyphs that we spend time trying to decipher. 

In the 1980s, calligraphy was all the rage, and I was sure I could parlay my nascent skills into cash, addressing wedding invitations and such. I was fascinated by the shape and form of letters, and the strokes that made them up, the feel of the nib on paper. In those days, when you wanted to use a specific font for a poster or program, the best you could do was to purchase rub-off letters in the font of your choice (your choice being predetermined by which fonts your office supply supplied), or to invest in overpriced pens and nibs and spend hours practicing. I did both, and even though I thought I could make a good living as a graphic artist, it turned out that before I could really get started, computers made it easy for anyone--regardless of their artistic sensibilities--to produce flyers and banners in cutting-edge dot-matrix fonts. The writing, as they say, was on the wall.

In graduate school, I indulged my love of farce and learned to read 15th century manuscripts--knowing myself how the pen strokes formed the letters and words meant that I could literally see and feel the actions of the scribe. The other part of the task, of course, was learning the old and middle French so I could make sense of the language made of these ciphers. Learning modern German was easy after that.

As a professional translator, I am sometimes called upon to decipher the odd handwriting in an official document, providing the holder with an official translation to pursue their chosen path in life. But what strikes me overall is the permanence of the written word. Poets before us have noted it, but the fact that I could spend hours hunched over a sheet of parchment that someone wrote on five centuries before I was even a twinkle in my father's eye is sobering. 

In general, if it was important enough for someone to write it, it was important enough to keep. In genealogy, we are fortunate that someone hung on to those traces of pen on paper; loopy handwriting, sloppy hen scratches, misspellings abound, but somehow they are nearly always recognizable (though there will always be the ink splotch or tear that will obfuscate just the number or letter we need for our research). 

I still write with a fountain pen--when I write by hand at all; the callous on my middle finger is all but gone. Decades ago, I spent many hours poring over microfilms of parish records in the national archives in Dublin, Ireland, armed with a steno pad, my trusty blue fountain pen, and paper; These records are now scanned--and indexed--and it is eerie to be able to revisit them. I am reminded that the lines not only trace the names of my ancestors in those characters, but these rural parish priests themselves were characters in the play called life--as they wrote notes, including IOUs in the margins to each other, they painted a more complete picture of these lives we strive to remember than any typewritten records digitized using the latest AI.

Edward Walsh's baptismal record

Odd one out

Aside from my German name changes of doubled consonants that became single during the World Wars--when things German were unpopular, there are very few challenges in the spelling department in our family. Except one. Mine.

As a small child, I was called by the first four letters of my name. I could read, and I knew how to write my name when I started nursery school. My mother even etched C-A-I-T on my banana that I brought for snack. So imagine how upset 4-year old me was when Mrs. Geraloman told me my name was spelled K-A-T-E. I told her in no uncertain terms that she was incorrect, and triggered my very first parent-teacher conference--on the very first day. 

I once asked my mother where my name came from: as a second generation genealogist, she constantly told us where my red hair came from and who my brother was named after; but there was nobody with my name in the tree. One thing I did learn was that there were naming traditions, and it was usually boys who are named after a father; girls, on the other hand, often just got names that sounded pretty. My brother was already named after dozens of others before him, and my mother now felt free to name me whatever she wanted.

And so it was, when my mother went into labor with me, that she packed her new transistor radio and a book for her week-long hospital stay. It was summer, and the San Francisco Giants were clearly headed toward the playoffs--and hopefully the World Series. The phenom that season was Willie Mays. Mom was thinking Willie or William would be a good name if I was a boy, but she was still stumped for a girl's name. So she cracked open her book to read: A Crock of Gold, by James Stephens. (If you haven't read it, it's a delightful collection of Irish tales, one of which inspired Finnegan's Rainbow). One of the characters, illustrated as a red-headed waif in typical 1920s style (her edition was from 1947), was Caitilin Ni Murrachu. Between my father's Irish roots and my shock of red hair, the lass from Gort na Cloca Mora won out over the star outfielder. 

There are now oodles of Katelins and Caitlyns out there, thanks to a surge in the name's popularity in the 80s--too late for me. However, eagle-eyed readers will note the spelling--three i's. I hope the next few generations of family historians will be kind and not decide it is a typo. It most certainly is not, and while I may have suffered the name as a child, as an adult it has become an important part of my identity. If you meet me in person, I will even tell you how to pronounce it in Irish. 

Caitilin Nu Murrachu and Pan

Footnote: in college, I met my very first Caitlin (she was missing an i, poor thing). She had never heard the tale or of the book, so I loaned her my copy. Unfortunately, it never came back to me, and I was never able to find the edition with the fine illustrations. In writing this, I checked online, and found these familiar-to-me images--on an independent bookseller's site. It's winging it's way to me now.

The Lone Arranger

excerpted from a Sunday lay sermon by Madge Richardson Walsh

...I daresay many of us have known other women who played significant roles in our lives. It’s too bad that there isn’t a day for special aunts, or even mothers-in-law—Ruth Walsh, my husband Bert’s mother, was wonderful to me. But the stereotype prevails, and [...] I can see that a tribute to the woman who became my mother-in-law has to be a special one. She was to be a role model for me, though I don’t think I will ever be able to match her kindness, her patience, or her serenity—she was absolutely unflappable, even though with Bert as her son she was tested many times.

Though I didn’t know it at the time, Ruth happened to be a dear friend of my Aunt Marjorie, who was the aunt who played a particularly significant role in my life. Aunt Marjorie had no daughters, so her nieces had to do. The older niece, my cousin Jean, was working for Pan American Airlines and dating pilots; Aunt Marjorie considered “flyboys” poor husband material and tried to introduce Jean to more appropriate young men. Jean did not cooperate, however (she never did marry); and so Auntie turned her attention to me. I was showing no signs of settling down with any suitable boyfriend (one of the latest ones was a very talented artist, but you know how unreliable & irresponsible artists can be!) Since my parents had so far failed to marry me off, Aunt Marjorie decided she had better do something about it. 

Aunt Marjorie knew that Ruth Walsh had an “eligible” son, and of course Ruth knew of Marjorie’s niece. Ruth appeared to be an innocent bystander, perfectly willing to go along with Marjorie’s arrangement of what appeared to be a spontaneous meeting. My parents were conveniently out of town, and I was “batching” it, so when Auntie invited me for dinner I was happy to accept, even though she was not much of a cook. Ruth was attending a meeting at my aunt’s house that afternoon, and Bert was to pick her up there, so it was natural for Marjorie to have both of them stay for the meal. 

Believe it or not, this seemingly casual but carefully contrived meeting actually “took.” Bert and I joke that we have an “arranged” marriage—we affectionately refer to Aunt Marjorie as the “Lone Arranger.” We like to remember both Ruth and Marjorie--and their meddling—with fondness and love. They cared what happened to us. 

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What's fun about this little essay is that my father Bert's recollection is a tad different: he had just came from a hard day of work, and Madge had come straight from an archeological dig, all hot and dusty. For years, he would wait until Madge had told her story, and then he would wryly smile and say, “I like sweaty women!”

Language barrier

My mother was the family historian, and when she passed on, I inherited dozens of sepia-toned photographs. And then there were the "contemporary" albums of her family's new house with her 1955 BelAir in the carport, and dusty kids in keds camping in the Redwood forests of California. And the envelopes of odd-sized school pictures, because even back then you had to buy 24 wallet photos in order to get two 5x7s--one for each set of grandparents. 

But of all the boxes of sepia corseted women, mustached gentlemen, and posed children, my favorite is a blurry film snapshot taken by a cousin at our wedding reception. My father, who spoke no German, is deep in discussion (about ankles? Argyle socks?) with my husband's Aunt Elfriede, who spoke no English. He was a Navy guy who grew up riding cable cars in San Francisco; she was a farmer's wife in a village in Swabia. And yet they are clearly connecting. When I asked each of them what they had found to talk about, they deflected. Dad said something about not needing language to understand each other. 

They are both on the other side of the rainbow bridge, and perhaps now, free of any language barrier, she and my father can continue the conversation. 

Extended Family

When my father married my mother, he brought with him a mostly-furnished house in San Francisco's Sunset District, a sweet mother, and a cat. By the time I met her, Kitty was an elderly brown tabby with a white face and kidney damage from eating some unspecified poison under the sink. Her diet was special cans of food from the vet. I assume she was named by the same young man—my father—as his boyhood dog, named Poochie.

Poochie

Kitty was queen of the roost, and nothing my well-bred mother could do would have made it any different. Mom could set the table with sterling silver and the good china, but Kitty would still sit in my father’s lap at the table. Not only that, if there was a piece of fat that he trimmed off his portion, it would find its way to the bottom of the plate, where a delicate paw would reach up and take it.

Kitty had a shabby Victorian overstuffed chair that was hers and hers alone. It sat along the long-windowed wall in our mid-century modern house in Saratoga, and afforded her sunshine the whole day. She tolerated us children during the day, but when Daddy came home, she was his shadow: in the kitchen, in the bedroom, mowing the lawn, pruning the orchard, napping in front of the TV.

Somewhere during this time, we got a second cat—a large grey tabby kitten, long and lithe, especially when compared to the matronly Kitty. My brother was responsible for naming her Tigger—the Disney movie had just come out and it did seem she had springs in her legs. Kitty did not like Tigger, and hissed at her every time they passed. Tigger was relegated to the sunbeams on the floor, even if the chair was unoccupied.

One evening, Kitty didn’t seem well, and in the morning, we learned that her kidneys had completely failed. As it was a weekend, taking her to the vet was not an option, so my father took her outdoors after we had gone to bed, and shot her. He was really broken up about it. He buried her behind the garage, next to his puttering shed. (Years later, an internet search of the property revealed the shed had made way for an ostentatious kitchen. In case the owners were wondering who they dug up.)

Tigger liked being an only cat and lived a long life. She moved to Redding with us and enjoyed the intense sun rays and the chair that had been Kitty’s. She even came camping with us in the summer—I don’t know how my parents managed to keep her near camp, as she never wore a leash, but there is a picture of a young me in my bathing suit holding Tigger. I still have the scar that came from holding her while Mom used her light meter to set up the picture.

One weekend, my mother and father went up to their rural acreage near Oak Run to putter, as was their habit. They chatted with the neighbor, who offered them a kitten from his calico litter. Mom took the most energetic girl, hoping she would help with the mouse problem in the cabin. The kitten promptly curled up behind the door and slept the entire afternoon away. And then she came home with them.

We kids were of course delighted—a kitten is so much fun! She played! We made toys from string and paper, and she chased us through the house. Tigger was not amused, but was marginally kinder to the young cat than Kitty had been with her. With such a tiny body, her purr was very loud, so she was named Butternut (after the brand of coffee they bought, and because she sounded like a coffee grinder)—by my mother.

As went many things in our family, my mother tried to maintain a sense of dignity and propriety, but it never really dovetailed with life with my father and her two feral children. Butternut became Butt-Butt, and eventually just plain Butt. Poor mom. Butt was a fun cat—never did any mousing!—but on hot days she would go for a dip in the pool in the morning. Because it was a Doughboy pool with a vinyl liner, my dad finally put in a permanent ladder so she wouldn’t damage the liner with her claws getting out.

I don’t recall when Tigger died, but it was a quiet slipping away, and she was buried in the family pet cemetery with a passel of goldfish and guinea pigs in the yard of our Redding house. Butt came with us in the move to Portland, Oregon, and quickly adjusted to being an only cat. Our new house had casement windows that cranked open, and we would leave the kitchen window ajar in fine weather, so we didn’t have to open and close doors for her. By now we kids were in high school, and there wasn’t always someone home to come to her beck and call.

Beginning in Redding, there was always a dog in our lives too (much to the cats’ disdain). One time in the hills east of Redding, we were heading home when Mom spotted a black nose in a three-foot snowbank by the side of the road. A shivering Australian shepherd had been abandoned, so we welcomed her into the back of the Scout. She promptly got sick all over us. A trip to the vet, flea combing and vaccines, and we had ourselves a dog--sweet and neurotic (clearly abused). Mom named her Scombre, telling us that it was the French verb for how she loved to plow through the snow with her nose. I have never verified this, nor do I want to.

Scombre was my father’s shadow, and he loved it. They were inseparable on weekends, exploring, swimming, mowing the lawn. We were her sheep, and she herded us in hallways of the house—she would even nip us if we didn’t behave. This prompted Mom to decide the dog needed obedience training. Scombre passed; our father failed. Scombre followed us to Portland, where she and Butt were joined by a chinchilla—a reject that my mother adopted from someone at church, and promptly named Reepicheep.

But nothing stays the same, and little sheep grow up. First, my brother went to college. Then it was my turn to head out. During my freshman year I picked up a boyfriend whose cat had had kittens. One of them was clearly defective, and his father was planning to drown it. The long-haired calico runt came home with me. She had palsy, which meant she couldn’t walk a straight line. But she was sweet and smart, and I kept her and dumped the boy when I moved out my sophomore year. I named her Boxer because she liked playing in boxes. By now you have noted our family is not talented in the naming pets department.

When I moved abroad, Boxer boarded with my parent’s menagerie. For a while, she had my father carrying her up and down stairs (going down was a painful experience for her and anyone watching). He finally stapled some industrial felt in a strip along the edge of the stairs so she could stop her falls with her claws.

Butt was NOT amused by this sweet creature and avoided her whenever possible. Scombre thought of her as another tiny sheep, and learned that if you herded it too hard, it would fall over.

The first to leave us was Butt. While I was in college, my parents came to a performance, and after it was over, let me know they had put her down. Boxer went out one day while I was abroad, and never came back. And then it was Scombre’s turn. Her hips were failing, and she was having trouble controlling her bladder. It was clear the time was near, so my father took a Friday afternoon off and took her to the vet to put her down. Daddy came home with an impossibly small cardboard box and buried her in the side yard under the forget-me-nots next to Butt.

I was home that weekend, and watched my father get up and make his coffee, put on his boots, and get the lawn mower. He did one round of the lawn and flopped down on the lawn to rest—as was his habit. But this time, there was no dog to play with while he drank his coffee and smoked his pipe. He got up, did another round, and flopped down. Then he got up, went inside, and poured himself a whiskey. I think Mom put the mower away later.

My parents went on to adopt other animals: Mollie, the lovely, sweet Aussie that was “Dog of the Week” in the newspaper in Portland—who was very pregnant and rewarded our altruism with seven puppies. When it was time for them to find homes, Daddy, freshly retired, would play with the puppies on the front lawn when the school bus dropped off kids. It worked the charm. Down to two puppies, a round Indian man, who was looking for a walking companion took the roundest of the puppies (Freckles) and we saw them walking the neighborhood for years. And the smallest, BD#2 (Brown Dog #2) stayed with her mama. Unfortunately, when we sent Mama Mollie to the vet for spaying, she bled out on the table.

BD#2 was re-dubbed Peggy after a woman in church that my father admired, though we could never tell her that. Peggy was their retirement dog, moving back down to California with them. When Peggy passed on, she was replaced by Nellie, another “Dog of the Week” from the newspaper--Redding this time. Nellie was a compact and gentle Aussie, and happily helped him explore the hills in rural Shasta County. She also patiently watched over him during his decline and delighted in the young grandchildren we provided to play with. She was a regular at church, quietly curling up under Daddy’s seat with his oxygen tank.

Daddy had also adopted a stray mama calico kitty who had moved her litter to under the portable building where he volunteered for the historical society. He spent a week feeding her and building trust, and then brought her home (her kittens went to the Humane Society). He named her Hester, as her litter was clearly the result of adultery.

Somewhere along the way, my mother adopted twin tabby boys, and they were dubbed Stan and Ollie. Essentially useless paperweights, they had to be locked up at night to prevent them from crowding my parents out of bed.

The winter my father died was the year of the tainted pet food: While Stan had died the year before, Nellie, Hester, and Ollie succumbed to the poison. Loosing so much was hard on my mother. She adopted a small, shy black cat who had been declawed. An indoor cat who was afraid of anybody but my mother, she was named Spook: quite inappropriate, but par for the course with an Alzheimer’s patient. Spook accompanied Mom into assisted living, and when she had to be put down because of a brain tumor, my mother was given a stuffed toy cat that filled the role.

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After Boxer, I spent several years overseas. On my return, we didn’t have the means to have a pet. But the year we both landed jobs and purchased our first (project) house, my Dear Husband surprised me with three birthday presents: a table saw, a pot of Shasta daisies, and a trip out to Monroe where he had reserved the last of the litter for me. A pure white short hair, we named her Milka after the German chocolate brand. She was small, affectionate and brave, and even treed a racoon when she was still a kitten. She was a great lap cat and deeply affected when we brought a baby boy home that displaced her from my lap. She finally got over it, and the boy learned to open a tuna can, he was acceptable. She slept in a red basket with a bright blue sweater, and it was there she passed away quietly in her sleep.

We lasted a few months without a cat, then the weekend after Thanksgiving, while everyone else was shopping for giant TVs, we headed to the Humane Society to see what was on offer. The boys were enthralled with a tuxedo kitten, and while they were playing, a quiet adult Siamese with impossibly blue eyes came and curled up on Alfred’s lap. She came home with us.

Hannah (the name given to her at the shelter) was a sensitive and direct cat with a checkered past. After the first few weeks, when she was making sure we wouldn’t leave her, she was always an arm’s distance from us—the corner of the bed, the other end of the sofa, and on her signature velvet pillow under the cedar trees on the deck, where she took her last breaths just this weekend.

Hannah