Secret Hideaways

Some of the photographs we inherit from our now-long-gone relatives are of the non-labeled type maddeningly portraying people we are sure must be family members. We agonize over such pictures, wishing to know which faces might match the names from our research database—those names we already know too well.

Some snapshots, however, capture the sights from our relatives’ past, constructing for us a tale of the places they’ve been. Usually, we can guess—or, more happily, even infer—identities of such locations, based on our knowledge of the whereabouts of our ancestors.

In the case of Bill Bean, however, the act of guessing may not come remotely near the fact of the matter. In his later years, Bill—along with his wife, Ellen, of course—was quite the traveler.

Such is most likely the case with one picture in Bill Bean’s collection of unmarked photographs. Set in a geography I can’t quite place, the subject of the composition is not Bill, not his wife, not even “natives” of the area he was visiting.

The subject is a building.

Set on what appears to be a sandbar at the edge of a lake perched near bald hilltops, the building looks like a hotel—all except for one distinguishing detail: no people. Oh, there may be a speck or two on this photograph that might be human, but the building is conspicuously void of the throngs of people one might assume would accompany a building of this size.

Another surprise: the building seems to lack any of the customary signage of such a commercial enterprise. What kind of building is this? And why was Bill there to take its picture?

Granted, my eyes have already failed the test of determining telltale clues. I’ve already mistaken geese for fish, not to mention a mother-and-daughter duo for twin teenagers.

So perhaps I had better leave well enough alone, and leave it to you: what do you think? Is this a remote mountain hideaway? An exclusive resort of a bygone era? A wealthy recluse’s compound?

You may be noticing my romantic muse is getting carried away with itself.

Please rescue my runaway imagination and weigh in on the verdict: where is this place, anyhow?!

Twins?

Since last Saturday, when I had mentioned struggling with some family health issues, things had moved from crisis status to a more stable situation—but last night, well, let’s just say it was a difficult night.

Difficult enough to make me lose all ability to think. Or write.

Considering how therapeutic the writing task can actually be for me, that is saying quite a bit. But that’s the way it was. I didn’t want to not write. But I couldn’t actually sit down and write.

So I chose a different approach. I reached into what seems to be the bottomless pit of unidentified family memorabilia in Bill Bean’s box of photographs, and pulled out one that makes me smile.

I hadn’t planned to ever post this picture—mainly because I have absolutely no clue who two of these people are. And, of course, there is no label on the reverse.

Well, that is not entirely true. As it turns out, the photograph, which was once pasted into an album, then subsequently torn out, has a layer of paper obliterating all but two letters of a handwritten identification.

All that’s left me now are the first two letters: “No—”

The woman in the middle I can safely say is Bill’s sister, Leona Bean Grant. As for her smiling young escorts, I have absolutely no idea of their identity.

While I am no expert at dating cars by the changes in a model’s appearance over the years, at least that is not the only clue to rely on in this photograph. I can guess that the picture was taken in the 1960s, judging by the hair style of the two women.

Although these two strike me as possibly being twins, they are likely just sisters of a more average variety.

At any rate, they make me smile.

And I could use something like that right now…

Someone Might Want This Picture

It’s the rare photograph, from among the collected odds and ends saved by Bill Bean, that managed to include any identifying labels. Today’s picture includes just enough to make things frustrating.

Clearly, the first line written on the reverse of this composition states, “Leo Harrington.” The last line adds, “Stanford U”—presumably referring to the well-known college in Palo Alto, the town where Bill, himself, grew up.

If that were all that was included in the label, this might have been a straightforward search. There does happen to be a Leo W. Harrington listed in a directory of Stanford students (Ancestry.com subscribers can view the directory here)—the only drawback being that the directory dates from 1914. Assuming that this Leo were born the same year as Bill Bean—1896—that would mean he was a freshman at Stanford University at that point. Perhaps Leo and Bill were childhood friends?

There is, however, a glitch. The label on the back includes one more word. On a line of its own, another word is inserted: “Tonopal.”

What is that supposed to mean? Is this a picture of a man named Leo H. Tonopal? Hardly. At least, not according to records I could find on Ancestry.com. A search for that surname draws a blank.

And don’t suppose that is the name of Leo’s residence hall. According to the directory, the men’s dorm was known as Encina.

Nor is it the name of the street pictured behind this mystery gentleman. There is no street by that name in Palo Alto.

At this point, unless the real Leo Harrington—or one of his descendants—stands up and claims this picture, “Tonopal” will just have to remain an enigma.

Honoring Fathers

If you live anywhere in the North American continent, this is the Sunday in which you will most likely celebrate Father’s Day. While it is quite fitting to acknowledge the indispensible role of fathers in family life, however, I say “most likely” because not everyone will actually be celebrating this occasion.

Some, like both my husband and myself, no longer have their father present to regale over dinner or at a barbecue, or pamper with all the traditional masculine gifts.

It’s for this reason that I prefer to call this Fathers’ Day: a day to honor all our fathers. Not just our dad. But his dad, and his dad—as far back up the line as we can remember.

While I have yet to conquer the insurmountable brick wall of my own father’s line, I can take a moment here to honor my husband’s father and his paternal ancestors.

You’ve already met my father-in-law, Frank—the one who wrote all those letters home from his assigned station in the Pacific during World War II. Indirectly, as that story unfolded, you also got to know a bit about Frank’s father, Will.

I have yet to bring you back through all the stories about Will’s younger days in his native Fort Wayne, Indiana—or his father’s escapades while serving on the police force of that city. Introducing you to more of the story of Officer John Kelly Stevens is something I hope to accomplish in the near future—and at the same time, honor him for his role in shaping my husband in his own career choices and outlook today.

There is yet one more generation that we are aware of in this particular Stevens family—one which I’ve found very little about, so far. I know one thing, though, for which we are grateful: John Kelly Stevens’ father—also named John—was the one who braved the cross-Atlantic trip to emigrate from his home in County Mayo to a new start in America. His trip, made during the era of the devastating Irish famine, must have been at great cost and great risk. Yet, if he hadn’t faced up to that challenge, how different life would have been for subsequent generations—if he would even have lived to pass the benefits along.

When we honor today’s fathers—both those who currently have the responsibility of raising little ones, and those whose parenting duties are now completed—we are quite conscious of the imprint these fathers leave upon their children’s future. Just as the choices made by our great-great-grandfathers have trickled down to our times and ultimately have shaped us, today’s fathers are making an impact on future generations through the actions they take with their own children. While we hope what we do on behalf of our children will be positive—though we all make mistakes—one of the most valuable gifts we can leave the next generation is a sense of the heritage they are receiving not just from their father, but from a long line of traditions, choices, and abilities we’ve inherited from all of our fathers.

Happy Fathers Day. May it become an inspiration to pass along the legacy of all your fathers.

Happy Trips, Sad Trips

While I’ve already shared with you the fun of my latest trips—and some of the vacation photographs from Bill Bean’s own forsaken collection of memorabilia—it looks like there may be another trip following close on the heels of the previous ones.

This one, however, may not turn out to be one of those happy trips.

When I think of all the trips photo-documented in Bill Bean’s collection, I see many happy times represented. They show activities that Bill evidently gained much pleasure from—like, for instance, his many fishing and camping trips.

Take this photo, unlabeled and undated as was Bill’s custom. Thankfully, the scene included the sign naming the location of this one fishing spot:

Richmond Court

Campbell River BC

Wherever Richmond Court on the Campbell River was located in British Columbia, I can’t determine. For the term, "Richmond Court," a Google™ search yields only locations of jurisprudence—hardly a stellar spot for recreation. The Richmond Court that I’m speaking of, however, did yield, apparently, a catch that one unidentified sportsman could be proud of making.

Or how about this next photo, uncharacteristically labeled with a date and partial identification:

Nov 10 – 57

       The Opera House

Went to see the Glass Curtain

Unfortunately, the question still remains: which Opera House? Since Bill lived for many years in the Bay area, I had presumed it was the War Memorial Opera House in San Francisco. However, taking a look at pictures available online, unless the San Francisco structure underwent radical earthquake retrofitting, the Opera House where Bill saw the Glass Curtain had to have a different identity.

Granted, Bill and his wife, Ellen, did a lot of traveling. See, for example, a trip to an undesignated exotic location such as this one (note: complete with fishing catch, though I presume not his own!).

These, however, are all tokens of happy memories. We rarely go out of our way to capture photographic memories of less joyful moments.

And yet, because of such less joyful moments, I may be traveling across country in the next few days.

Though as genealogists, we thrive on researching all the details on our long-gone ancestors, sometimes, like all people, we are called upon to set our daily tasks aside in favor of the needs of the family still with us. Usually, these are crisis times, admittedly. Who among us who value family, however, wouldn’t be ready and willing to do so?

For the past six months, one of my close family members has struggled with a health issue that appears to be at an irreversible point. I alluded to the struggle last winter, and during my trip east back then, managed to schedule enough posts to fill in for the days of my absence.

With this trip catching me so suddenly, though, I may have to take a rain check on our daily visits when you stop by to read A Family Tapestry. Some things simply allow us no time to prepare.

Hopefully, I’ll still catch a minute each day to check in—but I have to admit the stress of knowing what is facing a loved one has already taken its toll on me. On the other hand, having your company along the research way has been such a boost that I hate to miss any opportunity to connect with you each day.

If you are a praying person, I certainly appreciate your prayers for our family. And if you show up on these pages one morning and my customary post is not there to greet you, well…you’ll know I’m okay.

Just terribly sad.

The kind of sad that no one wants to capture in a photograph.

Ever Do This?

It’s vacation time. Time to travel to exotic destinations. Or cool ones. Somewhere away.

You’re in the picture-perfect place, and you decide to capture the ambience. You pull out your iPhone—or Android, if you are locked in our family’s perpetual battle of iPhone versus ’droid—and snap the moment.

Before you can tuck your camera back in its carrying place, a stranger approaches you with a question:

Would you mind snapping a photo of me?

Well, I don’t suppose it would happen exactly like that in this age of the ubiquitous smart phone. Perhaps during Bill Bean’s earlier years, however, the much-rarer camera-toting tourist would have achieved an enviable status.

In going through the many photographs Bill Bean left behind, I’ve puzzled over one shot taken in a very Yosemite-like vicinity. The sole subject of the photo had me stumped: wearing what looked like open-toed heels, this person could hardly be classified as a hiker.

That, however, wasn’t the main reason I was puzzled over this photograph. It was the note on the back.

Best I could make out, the scrawl said something like this:

                                                        Douglas 6565

J. P. Aikman [Arkman?]

2^nd floor

J. E. Sompkins

186 N. W. Montgomery

The “Douglas 6565” was most likely someone’s phone number.

The rest? Well, I just presumed Bill had done the equivalent of that small networking faux pas that we all find ourselves doing at some point: grabbing one of our own business cards to write down the contact information of someone we’ve met—and then forgetting to follow through, perhaps passing the slip of paper along to yet again someone else.

However that note got on this photograph—and whoever it was intended for—I’ll never know. I doubt it was for anyone significant in my own search for family history stories.

Today, though, it occurred to me that perhaps there was an alternate scenario playing itself out. What if Bill, the consummate shutterbug, had been taking pictures, was spotted and befriended by a tourist, and pressed for the kindness of his immediate services.

Yeah, sure, he’d get the photo back to the stranger as soon as he got it developed. Perhaps, when it was developed, he set it aside, scrawling the note on the reverse to remind himself of the tourist’s name and business location.

And then…life got hectic, as it always does, once we return to work after a vacation.

And the picture just sat there on the desk.

He meant well, I’m sure. But Mr. and Mrs. Aikman—or Arkman—it looks like you never got the photograph you were requesting.

It’s still in Bill Bean’s box of photographic memories.

And I have no idea, now, who you are.

Found Another Photo

From the universe of blonde sisters comes another photograph. I hadn’t noticed this one before in the collection handed down to me from Bill Bean’s box, mainly because it looked like it had landed on the floor and been stepped on—then shoved in a corner where it was wedged, out of view.

The more I look at it, the more I wonder if it belonged with the sets of two blonde sisters that we’ve already seen. One part of me wants to say, “Yes, this belongs”—but only because it’s getting wearying, poring over all these jigsaw puzzle pieces of pictures with no identification.

The other part of me wants to shout and jump, because at least this photograph includes some identification.

Warning: the identification in no way confirms the surname for the mysterious “Sid, Helen, Diana and Judy” of those Christmas cards from so long ago.

Actually, scratch any notion of Sid or Helen.

This photo proclaims, “Loretta + Husband + Children” and bears the date, “May 1967.”

While I’m nonplussed with the addition of this mystery family to the photograph collection, I have to admit this does add a bit of information to chip away at the puzzle.

A bit.

A very little bit.

Now, I’ll be on the alert to look for any signs of a Loretta in this family line—a family that seems to have more than its fair share of blonde sisters posing in cute Easter dresses.