Of Cars and Memories

 

Sorting through the photograph collections of long-gone family members can give us an idea about what meant the most to our departed loved ones. While I didn't exactly inherit the pictures kept by Marilyn Sowle Bean—hers became a rescue project only because of the kind tip from another genealogy enthusiast—they augment the perspective I've gained about the Bean family from the photos I did inherit from other members of that extended family.

I've written before about the dealership in Alameda, California, owned in part by Marilyn's father-in-law's twin brother, Bill Bean. Years ago, when I had received his stash of photographs, there were several featuring that particular business enterprise. From examining Bill Bean's collection, I learned that not only did his dealership sell Chryslers, but they originally started with Plymouth and DeSoto. (That little detail I recently found corroborated in this website recounting brief histories of Bay Area car dealerships—scroll down the alphabetical listing to find Bean & Cavanaugh and the note that it became the second of Chrysler's dealerships established in California.)

Bill Bean's business partner was a man known as Lee Cavanaugh, though from Bill's collection of photos, I never saw any labeled with the man's name. Marilyn, on the other hand, with her tenacity about labeling photos, insured with this picture that I'd make not one, but two additional discoveries about that part of the Bean family's story.

The one, of course, was to find a photo which included what looked like a very reluctant participant—but nonetheless was labeled with his name: Lee Cavanaugh. The other was to realize the third man in the grouping, casually sporting a double-breasted business suit—possibly a clue as to his current occupation as salesman for the dealership—was Marilyn's own husband, Earle.

It is almost as if each person's photo collection comes with its own personality. While both family members included photos of the car dealership in their personal collections, the photos each person chose to keep reflected the angle at which they viewed the subject—even a subject as mundane as one's livelihood.

Above: Photograph from the collection of Marilyn Sowle Bean, circa 1951, showing Earle Bean on left, his uncle Bill Bean in center, and Lee Cavanaugh on the right. Likely location is the Bean & Cavanaugh car dealership in Alameda, California.

Runs in the Family

Yesterday’s photograph beside the long, sweeping lines of a 1930s Buick is turning out to be just one of many such automobile portraits in the collection of material I've inherited from my aunt.

Oh, there were people in the pictures, too. But I imagine there was one photographer who only had eyes for those gleaming steel machines.

I was going to include another candid shot, yesterday, of my mother and aunt during their later childhood, standing next to a car with—I presumed—their father. After scanning the original, though, as I magnified the subject to trim the border, I realized that the man in the photo wasn’t my grandfather, after all. Apparently, someone else in the family was a great fan of those handsome automobiles.

Looks like this picture will be the one to initiate a collective effort to identify the people in all these unlabeled photographs. Some of the pictures of my aunt and mother as younger children were labeled, thankfully—actually, labeled quite precisely, with each girl’s age, down to the month. But as the years wore on, perhaps my grandmother had other things more pressing on her mind than labeling snapshots of dozens of cars (and her own children and husband). After all, she knew who they were.

So, off I go, sending emails with attached photos to likely prospects among my relatives, in hopes that someone will remember a face from over seventy years ago.

That will be a tall order to fill at this late date.


Photograph, above right: Sisters Patsy Ruth Davis to the left and Sara Jacqueline Davis to the right of an unidentified relative in the late 1930s.

Daddy Loved His Cars

It should come as no surprise that, for a family for whom the term “road trip” could double as their home address, the head of that household had a passion for cars. Ever since the automobile became widespread enough to boast dealerships nationwide, my grandfather liked nothing more than to be a part of that dynamic world.

On my list of family-traditions-yet-to-verify, the very reason my grandfather met my grandmother involved an account of her Tennessee relative’s car business. She, by that time a twenty-something living in Florida, had come to Johnson City, Tennessee, to visit family. He, a country boy from Erwin, Tennessee, felt the lure of city life in nearby Johnson City, and had come to check out those new cars on display.

At least, those are the stories my mother told me. My aunt’s records and photographs seem to convey at least a tacit agreement. No matter what the details, those girls' "Daddy" loved his cars.

Perhaps that was the magnet that drew J. R. Davis—this southern boy from Erwin, Tennessee—up north to the alien turf of Detroit, Michigan: what was becoming the car capital of his universe was, in his mind, the place to be.

And sure enough: the 1930 census tells it all. There is the entry for Jack Davis, showing his occupation as a salesman—in the automobile industry.

From that point, there was no turning back. He had found his dream job. Why look for anything else?

Except, of course, if one’s entire economic world would come crashing down.

This, of course, was the census taken less than one year after such an unexpected event did happen. It would be a long, long ten years until Jack Davis could, for the 1940 census taker, give as his occupation again the heading, automobile salesman.

Photograph, above: Jack R. Davis and his wife, Ruth, standing alongside the love of his life in this undated snapshot.

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…

Working Arrangements

Not everything saved in Bill Bean’s box was a photograph. There were other items—old letters, membership records, identification cards. For whatever reason, Bill had chosen to save odds and ends like these. Each one becomes a token for me of what was important to him in life.

After finding a photograph of a cigar-smoking young Bill Bean on board a boat named, I presume, the Empress, I later found a San Francisco Port identification card for Bill. The card, complete with an updated photograph, was issued in 1942—much later than the time of that first picture—and bore the occupational label of “Garage Owner.”

The card included a watermark from the United States Coast Guard. The reverse of the card showed Bill's age to be 46, his height at five feet eleven inches, with hazel eyes and “grey” hair. The card confirmed that he was a natural born citizen by the initials, “N. B.,” and listed his place of birth as Redwood City in California. Under the entry for his serial number were the stern words, “Federal Fingerprints Taken.” A sample of the proof was entered just to the right of that, with the print from Bill’s own index finger squarely planted in the designated box.

The card was issued to Bill during the war years. It was no surprise, during that time, to see the government duly cautious about identifying those with business in and around the ports of the Bay area. Of course, Bill had been working in the automobile business for years; perhaps he was required to go to the ports to accept shipments for his business.

Whether saving the picture of himself from those earlier working years in and around the Bay, or this token from his more successful later years in his car dealership, Bill’s choice in what he tossed in that box for safekeeping becomes in itself a spyglass for those like me who, at a distance, try to piece together the lives of our long-gone relatives.

Is This That?

A smiling young couple, seated by the steps leading up to what looked for all the world like the “Beanery”—the Bean family home at 1807 Santa Clara Avenue in Alameda, California—seemed to be the very same couple as the one I had found in another picture in Bill Bean’s unmarked collection of photographic memories. I’ve been going over this mass of photographs, over and over, stacking them every which way, trying to find matches—or at least some sort of discernable pattern—to help me figure out who everyone was.

Thinking I might be on to something, I took the two photos in question and scanned them. I was hoping that a little digital magic might help confirm the match—especially as one of the photos had that rarest of benefits: a name and a date marked on the reverse.

Once again, my Photoshop program came to my rescue. Enlarging the picture to twice its size, I was able to make out not only the numbers posted to the side of the front door—1807—but I also discovered a shy young girl hiding in the doorway.

Of course, there was no label to tell me who these two—no, make that three—young people were. What I was hoping was that I would find a match in the second photo I had scanned, because that photo was the one which, unbelievably, provided the sparsest of information on the back.

This second photo bore the legend,

March 1951

D. + J.

McGinis

Of course, that was of little help—but who am I to complain at this point? While I don’t know what the initials stand for, and while I don’t—yet—have anyone in my database with a surname of McGinis, at least I know what names to bestow upon this young couple, wrapped up in togs befitting an early spring day in California.

Whether this second couple is one and the same as the first, I am not quite sure. Once I enlarged each picture, the only possible matching details I could find are that the two men both sport curly hair and tend to turn out their left foot.

Not much to go on.

But at least more than I had before.

Where’s Sammie?

In all these latest newspaper clues about the Samuel W. Bean family of Alameda, California, there is something missing that troubles me.

Have you noticed?

When Sam and Maud traveled south to visit Maud’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. William C. Woodworth, the Covina Argus newspaper announced the arriving couple’s names—but no mention of their newborn son.

When the Argus provided the surprising announcement that Maud was returning from Texas to spend an extended visit at her parents’ home—most likely during her pregnancy that resulted in the birth of her twin boys—it indicated Maud’s return as if she were traveling alone.

Where was her now-four-year-old son, Sammie?

I would normally have presumed that the answer to such a question would have been, “With his mother.”

In this case, though, I’m beginning to wonder. Perhaps it wasn’t a case of a newspaper refusing to make any acknowledgment of the very existence of children. Perhaps Sam and Maud were traveling the country—as some later newspaper articles explained—making public presentations and selling Sam’s books. With the challenge of arranging both business details and travel itinerary for a blind and deaf poet, perhaps Maud was not up for also being full time supermom.

While I don’t know this for sure, I am guessing that maybe that near-unnoticed silence on young Sammie’s behalf was owing to the fact that Sammie might not have been with his father and mother.

Maybe Sammie was still at “home” in Alameda, at 1807 Santa Clara Avenue, with the woman who still lived at that address: his grandma.

Was Ella Shields Bean serving as surrogate mother? I think back, now, to the pictures I have of a very young Sammie—hanging out with Uncle Bob Grant while he fixed cars. Perhaps Ella’s daughter, Leona Grant, popped in often to help with her mother’s new responsibility as grandmother.

Missing those regular newspaper reports that kept me up on Sam Bean and the details of his life, I forgot that maybe someone else also might have gotten swallowed up in that silence: a little boy whose parents were busy covering the miles to earn the “living” that ended up keeping them away from home.

Inside the Polaroid Land Camera Box

Since I mentioned Bill Bean’s wife Ellen yesterday, I may as well take the time now to share what little I know about her. At least I have pictures, even if I don’t have any more information.

Ellen seems to be a cornerstone upon which the identity of several mystery photographs hinges. I’ve mentioned before that I received all these family photos, jumbled up in one big heap, kept in a box labeled “Polaroid Land Camera, Model 95.”

Admittedly, the box—sturdy enough, I’ll grant you—may have made a handy make-shift storage container at the beginning. But after a lifetime, one would think a family could come up with a better storage solution.

And, of course, since that storage box ended up not only retaining the photo memories of Bill and his wife’s families, it also eventually got augmented by the photos that Bill’s sister Leona left behind at her passing in 1977.

It’s those photos from Ellen’s family that leave me clueless. How can I connect to a family for whom I have no surname?

Try as I can, I have not been able to find any record online of Bill’s marriage to Ellen. Since I don’t know which county Ellen came from, attempting to search each county’s records would be impractical—even if I did have the date of their marriage. And that I don’t have. I’m not likely to discover it, either, as Ellen passed away long before Bill did, and there’s no one left in the family to help me on this one.

Unless, of course, one of the many online genealogical resources just happens to add more data on California marriages that would include their information. I’d even take a newspaper announcement—if I could find one online!

At this point, I’m left with only those photographic hints left behind—surviving a second marriage, in fact—in Bill’s Polaroid box.

I mentioned before that Bill certainly liked having his picture taken besides some of his favorite cars. Well, that goes for his wife, too. I told you before that some of the Bean family women also sported some stylin’ wheels.

Take this example: Ellen in a photo dated December, 1957. When it comes to identifying makes and models, I’m no expert, but I’m sure someone in the Bean family favored this one.

One of the earliest photographs I have of Ellen is undated, but if you look closely at the background in this snapshot, you can see a car which might give an idea of the date of the picture. I wouldn’t be surprised if the scene of the picture was the Beanery in Alameda, which evidently was a duplex that Bill and Ellen split with Bill’s mother, Ella Shields Bean.

Judging from the many outdoor photographs in Bill’s collection, the couple enjoyed traveling, and seemed to favor the rugged grandeur of locations like Yosemite. While I can’t be certain of the location of this final photograph that I’ll share of Ellen, it certainly appeared to be a mountain getaway.

Along with Ellen and Bill Bean, I believe the woman to the left of Bill was his sister, Leona. A fourth person—the woman standing next to Ellen—is someone I can’t identify.

Yet.

Which reminds me again of how much easier this whole task of sorting out the Polaroid box contents might have been if someone had taken the time, back then, to label those photos. But when we take photos for our own benefit, why would we think of who else might be interested, later, in knowing?

Cars: Not Just For the Guys

Throughout the history of automobiles in this country, the plethora of car photographs may have led some to believe this was just the focus of the male of the species. Not so. The women—at least in the Bean family—liked to have their picture taken with their favorite vehicle, too.

Dressed for the occasion, two women and an unidentified man pose in front of their car in an undisclosed location. Why is that location undisclosed? Heaven knows—although if either Bill or his sister Leona would have thought to tag the back of the snapshot, I’d be telling you about it today.

Wherever this photo was taken, I can only suppose the man might be Bill Bean. The woman next to him might be his sister Leona. Or not. And I have no clue who the thin lady completing the trio might be.

The café they are standing in front of has a southwestern feel, but I can’t say for sure. All I can figure from the photo is that it is three doors down from the post office. Which post office, I don’t know.

A photograph of a woman in an old car parked in an untilled field next to a two story house does have a label, thankfully. It is dated 1935, but the names provided tell me absolutely nothing. First, in a penciled hand much different from any in this Bean family, a name is written: Martha Darneal. Then, underneath—whether to contradict the earlier information, I can’t tell—the name Leona Grant is penned in, in a handwriting that I recognize as Leona’s own.

Enlarging the photo sufficiently to discern details on the woman’s face doesn’t help much. I can only imagine that it doesn’t seem to resemble Leona. Perhaps it is Martha sitting in that contraption, after all.

I take to the usual genealogy websites to see if I can find anything on Martha Darneal. Unfortunately, while there are several Darnells and Darnalls, there are precious few Darneals listed with the first name Martha. I do find some entries in city directories for Bakersfield, California—explaining the dry and barren look of the land—in the mid 1950s. Some of the entries mention that her husband’s name is Earl.

Eventually, I locate Martha’s data in the 1940 U.S. census. There she is, with husband Earl, son Robert and daughter Jerry—not in Bakersfield, but in Hobbs, New Mexico.

However, since the photograph was labeled for 1935, not 1940, I take a look at where the census handily lists Martha’s residence for that earlier date. In 1935, she was a resident of Fullerton in Orange County, California.

Another thing about Martha. The 1940 census shows her age as twenty. That means in 1935, she would have only been fifteen years of age.

The more I look at the details, the more I wonder if either the photograph was mislabeled, or this census entry is for the wrong person.

Thinking this Martha Darneal would be more likely a friend than a relative, I decide to set the whole mystery aside and let it simmer for another day’s attempt at resolution. Maybe sometime later, I’ll run across that name again, and I can then connect the dots.

For the third photograph, though, I have little doubt as to the subject’s identity. The only writing on the back of the snapshot is the date: 1950. Standing in front of what must have been—for the time, at least—an impressive automobile was Leona Bean Grant, herself. The car might have been her brother Bill’s latest wheels, or perhaps the pride of her husband, Bob Grant.

However, knowing Leona and her independent ways, I kind of think this one’s her own.

Lifestyles and Their Cars

The ad people may just have gotten it right, after all: when it comes to cars, each model comes with its own ambience. Each one creates its own style.

For Bill Bean, that freedom that his wheels brought included not only a business life, but a private life. Cars got him where he wanted to go—whether that was to greater success, or to a greater fishing spot.

Now that the automobile has been on the scene for so many decades, I wonder what we can infer from our ancestors’ choice of vehicles. After all, once we got past the proverbial age of Ford—you can have your car in any color you want, just so long as it is black—there were so many choices. What did that say about the chooser in our family in each of the generations behind us?

From the Bean & Cavanaugh dealership in Alameda, California, there was plenty to choose from, for those who wanted style and had the pocketbook to support that taste in cars.

As for Bill’s own preferences, I can tell from the many photos in his collection that he liked his cars taking him wherever he wished to go—whether for business or pleasure.

I have no idea who the man is, enjoying the set-up this automobile afforded him, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he were a fishing buddy of Bill’s. No doubt, it was Bill taking the picture, himself. The only thing I know for sure about this photo is that it was developed on August 30, 1941, for that is what the date stamp reveals on the reverse.

I don’t know much about this other photo, either—except that I’m pretty sure it was Bill in the driver’s seat. Who knows what the story behind this vignette was. My guess—seeing the passenger door left open, too—is that Bill turned to his passenger and said, “Why don’t you hop out and take my picture?”

Again, no date—as was the case in so many of the photographs in this collection. Maddening that the guess work was left to others—but then, Bill probably had no idea anyone would be sifting through his stash of photographic memories, wondering about the back stories, after he was gone.

Can You Know a Man By the Cars He Keeps?

What can you find out about a person through the hundreds of unidentified photographs he has left behind? Not much, I used to think. However, now that I’ve reconsidered those many photos in the case of Bill Bean of Alameda, California, I’m beginning to connect those dots. Unbelievably, a picture is emerging. The big picture, that is.

The process does take time. It sometimes takes lots of breaks, so I can come back to the task with fresh eyes. I’ve left this stash alone for years—forgotten about it, actually—and yet, when the same-old-same-old wore off my eyes, the pictures started telling me a fresh story.

In Bill’s case, cars figured prominently in his life’s story. The very fact that he left so many unmarked snapshots of automobiles behind—visible memories he held onto all those years—was a monument to what was important in his life. This fascination with cars wasn’t just a business for him—it was a way of life.

Of the many pictures in his collection, one thankfully retained a date. Though faded, a date stamp still shows on the reverse of this first photo: August 29, 1920. My best guess is that this is actually Bill Bean in the photo, in the driver’s seat, parked curbside along a residential street looking much like the one in Alameda he called home.

I have no idea whether he was just showing off a new acquisition, or—who knows? I don’t even know enough to tell what make of vehicle it was that he was driving. But I did notice that the car parked behind him bore an insignia resembling that of the product of one of his competitors: Chevrolet.

I wish I had a date or other identifying mark for this next photo. Clearly, we’ve moved on from the 1920s into modern times. Parked next to a larger car, looking like it’s packed for an excursion, is a model from earlier days. I don’t know if the couple just hopped in to snap the picture for memories’ sake, or whether they were still actually driving that thing. There's really not that much I can tell about them, for unfortunately, I have no label to guide me in identifying the twosome.

Wherever it was parked, it was by the Phil Foster Esso station. I just wish I had an idea whether this was a stop on a trip from Redwood City to Fresno to visit Bill's mother's Shields relatives, or to Mendocino, or to another town where family lived.

Yes, cars told the stories of Bill’s life. It’s an incomplete story—so far, at least—for I have no idea who the people are sitting in those many contraptions, where they were going, and what events filled their lives.

If nothing else, though, I can tell that cars figured prominently in Bill Bean’s life—and that some of those times were spent doing the very thing cars were meant to do: get people to the places where they wanted to be.

More Cars

Bill Bean took his youthful admiration of the automobile and turned it into a lifelong business proposition.

I still want to do more research on the Bean and Cavanaugh dealership in Alameda, California. That will all come in due time.

In the meantime, I wanted to share a few photos of his business that he had saved over the years. These pictures are stored memories of a generation quickly fading off the scene. If anyone is going to remember these times now, it must be those to whom such pictures and stories have been passed.

While I’m familiar with the automaker Plymouth, the name DeSoto is just a blip on my memory’s radar. I couldn’t point one out to you if I saw one on the street—and that’s probably the key. If anyone saw one on the street nowadays, it would certainly be a collector’s item.

Can you imagine getting your hands on a model in the same pristine condition as some of these showroom specials from years ago?

Taking a look at the many photographs of this dealership and its cars stored in the "mystery photo box" from this family's heritage, there’s no doubt Bill Bean was as proud of his business as he was of his cars.

Cars: You Knew This Was Coming

It’s one thing for a young man to be in love with his car. It’s another thing when that young man decides to make cars his life calling.

That’s pretty much what Bill Bean did. Starting from that age which conjures up some sort of magnetism between cars and guys, Bill was always headed in whatever direction would lead him closer to the subject he loved.

There are quite a few photographs in the Bean family photo box that have proved to be absolutely no mystery to me, for I’ve always known about the car dealership in Alameda that Bill owned, along with his partner. While in the later days when I knew him, the only car it was permissible for anyone in the family to drive was a Chrysler, what I didn’t know was that Bean and Cavanaugh got their start not as a Chrysler dealership, but with Plymouths and DeSotos.

Some Guesses Are Better Than Others

I mentioned yesterday that, once I discover the identity of one mystery person in my heritage box of unlabeled family photos, I can begin the process of connecting the dots and getting names and faces put together.

That worked so nicely for yesterday’s photographs, where I was able to place the identity of a mystery man from 1923. It turned out to be the photographs of one Bob Grant, the husband of Leona Bean, the older sister of twins Sam and Bill.

I have a set of photos—one of which I’ve already shared here quite a while ago—which I started wondering about in just the same way. The set includes two subjects which remain the same: an older woman, and—of course!—a car. The angles for each of the photos shifts a bit, but I’m certain it is the same car and the same fence line.

I don’t really know much about photography, but in looking over these two pictures more closely, I also realize that one of these outdoor shots is more nicely framed, zoomed in on the subject, and not over-exposed.

My guess is that the man in one of the pictures swaps with the man in the other picture to take turns serving as photographer.

I already know the man in the over-exposed shot is Bill Bean. His mother, Ella Shields Bean, is the older woman—but just in case you doubt me, rest assured that the second picture includes a label, “Mother.” And a date, 1926.

The label on that other photo also includes another name, but I’m pretty sure it isn’t the name of that other man. It says, simply, “Lincoln.”

How much ya wanna bet that’s the car he’s talking about?!

My first inclination, in trying to identify the other man—the one in the photo labeled “Lincoln”—is to think of male relatives about the same generation as Bill Bean. Who else would be traveling with Bill to visit his mother—and probably show off his car—than another relative?

Who could this relative be? Well, for one thing, it wouldn’t be Bill’s twin. Sam, his brother, by now was afflicted with the side affects of the injury that brought about his blindness. The only other male relative would be Leona’s husband, Bob Grant.

Bob Grant it was, in my mind…until just the other day, when I re-examined those photos of Bob. While the few firmly identified photos I have of him aren’t sufficient to grant me the confidence of correctly matching his face with other pictures, I had thought that I was right. Now…I’m not so sure.

There’s the matter of the hairline, for one thing. And the glasses. Well, granted, we all can age and start needing help where we hadn’t, before.

A third photograph had once given me the idea that these dots could be connected. It’s a shot of a man who looks like he is halfway between the looks of Bob Grant and the mystery man in the photo with Ella Bean. Sometimes, I stare at that photo and think I have a match.

And sometimes I think I don’t.

Maybe it’s all become a matter of too much staring. I may have to just tuck a few of these photos back in the box and see what they look like again in a couple more years.

An Enigma Begins Taking Shape

As much as I don’t know about Leona Bean Grant’s husband, I think an idea starts taking shape in my mind as I begin to find other photographs of the man. All it took was that one key, identifying the face and linking it to a name, and now I’m equipped to start putting the photographic puzzle pieces together.

A secondary theme also begins to emerge in this family puzzle: the family’s love affair with that newfangled contraption, the automobile. I’d be tempted to say it’s the men’s domain, but Leona has her fair share of photographs next to some impressive vehicles through the years, too. Perhaps, thinking of my own sister-in-law, Leona’s grand-niece, this trait is genetic…

This fascination with cars spanned the generations, too, judging by a couple old photographs I found of the once-unknown Bob and a young companion. Both photos are labeled, “Bob and Sammie” and bear the date, 1923. Each of them also spells out the address where the Grants lived at that time: 48 Joice Terrace. No city is included, but I assume it was Alameda, California, where Leona’s brothers and mother also lived. One photo includes the note, “nr Fairmont Hotel.” Another photo states, “Amos + Andy Ford 1919.” (Whether that designates a particular version or car model, or the name of a specific shop, I don’t know.)

The “Sammie” referred to in each of the photos—at least I’m assuming as much—is Leona’s brother Sam’s oldest boy. Sammie junior was born in 1921, which fits right in with the appearance of the little tyke in the pictures. Looks like he and his uncle make great companions, whether at work or at play.

Actually, for this family, when it comes to cars, even work becomes play.