tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43268097205472051622024-02-18T19:59:23.877-08:00Dorien Grey: a Life in PhotosWelcome to an experiment in sharing a life not only in words but in photos: the times, places, and people who have contributed to making one writer who he is.Dorien Greyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02368404433503621343noreply@blogger.comBlogger154125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4326809720547205162.post-46412480071289978152008-03-05T04:44:00.000-08:002008-12-09T15:22:33.897-08:00Hiatus<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIDG37CsTRP8fRULnRF8nUorPjMpB_2-Qpt67WBz2R7zNIj6SgUYaal4W6fcsasnWkzjYvaQ-bZ-Sy51YQsEzIQASAEWyB2eCZElt1CHKaE4Nr8XPohsvFDwwkWgEYJYMvfWWo2Ct0b5E/s1600-h/baby.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIDG37CsTRP8fRULnRF8nUorPjMpB_2-Qpt67WBz2R7zNIj6SgUYaal4W6fcsasnWkzjYvaQ-bZ-Sy51YQsEzIQASAEWyB2eCZElt1CHKaE4Nr8XPohsvFDwwkWgEYJYMvfWWo2Ct0b5E/s400/baby.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174238647807838610" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiUCg4EVW3IJCxtQcGdLrTky9ryJqEQcaKVRAVQJ_l6fMX_FsRE4x5WTBlZz1uMlTzVG-2c5CYinFCyXpJM1yHNYq_dPL6vuvUvKdzGZLiUn3LFYStw7j23gwMjK8koew3TaiQfsoT8wk/s1600-h/old+Roger.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiUCg4EVW3IJCxtQcGdLrTky9ryJqEQcaKVRAVQJ_l6fMX_FsRE4x5WTBlZz1uMlTzVG-2c5CYinFCyXpJM1yHNYq_dPL6vuvUvKdzGZLiUn3LFYStw7j23gwMjK8koew3TaiQfsoT8wk/s400/old+Roger.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174238806721628578" /></a><br /><br />And life goes on. I thank you for being with me on this photo journey through my life, and though the journey will, I pray, continue for quite some time, and while there are still many, many more photos of people in my life, I think it is time to take a break. Not sure whether I'll resume on a regular basis, or just do sporadic new entries, but again I think you for being with me.<br /><br />And while this blog has emphasized my exterior, I hope you will now consider exploring how my mind works through my other blogs (http://www.doriengreyandme.blogspot.com), "A World Ago" (http//www.doriengrey.blogspot.com) and my books.<br /><br />And remember, too, that you can always contact me at doriengrey@gmail.com. I'd love to hear from you.<br /><br />Later, my friend.Dorien Greyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02368404433503621343noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4326809720547205162.post-297236633393820542008-03-04T07:02:00.001-08:002008-12-09T15:22:33.998-08:00Roots 16<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZaG5G6b_grHdTcsePU4KgUWARMRHPiuH6petbdaQ1YS7Iq85z4aUcfpSY6JcN5l3Z-LAztTmuh21elIlAhE5xW2mhqdINoC-IRY502R51vKBZ1xVMWZX9gZ3TYFVAZHRJe7oRrMCYiVU/s1600-h/Adams.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZaG5G6b_grHdTcsePU4KgUWARMRHPiuH6petbdaQ1YS7Iq85z4aUcfpSY6JcN5l3Z-LAztTmuh21elIlAhE5xW2mhqdINoC-IRY502R51vKBZ1xVMWZX9gZ3TYFVAZHRJe7oRrMCYiVU/s400/Adams.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173902205136671474" /></a><br /><br />One of the saddest things about our society is how soon and how easily we forget those people without whom we would not exist. This early 1930s photo of dad's maternal grandparents, the Adams (I am ashamed not to remember their first names!). Both died when I was very young, but I remember that Dad adored Grandma Adams, and that she always kept cookies...ginger snaps, if memory serves, which it often doesn't...in a round tin. I remember almost nothing about Grandma Adams except that he was a crusty old soul who smoked a pipe and didn't say much. As I mentioned in an earlier entry, my dad'd middle name, Guerdon, was the name of the captain of the boat on which Grandma Adams came over from Ireland. Why do I not know more? Why do <em>you</em> not know more of <em>your</em> forebearers?Dorien Greyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02368404433503621343noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4326809720547205162.post-42096451048930426972008-03-03T04:54:00.000-08:002008-12-09T15:22:34.146-08:00Roots: My Family 1<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8L6z8Za05SOOOGIX-XFD6J1r61DLab0umTXdVcwTjvRyp1Wyvl9wL9l8JPdnA9RvVjVJ2A0RFoVHhVgYswrvc28bpnqOH_EQxzBg9ZjRrIz60Fvt5K2BCRY5f44R3AqKaYldkSIxsZQc/s1600-h/Family,+Dad.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8L6z8Za05SOOOGIX-XFD6J1r61DLab0umTXdVcwTjvRyp1Wyvl9wL9l8JPdnA9RvVjVJ2A0RFoVHhVgYswrvc28bpnqOH_EQxzBg9ZjRrIz60Fvt5K2BCRY5f44R3AqKaYldkSIxsZQc/s400/Family,+Dad.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173499159441659170" /></a><br /><br />And as this photoblog comes to a close (there are many more photos, but they are largely strolls from the main path). So I thought I'd put up this picture of Dad's side of my family, taken somewhere in the 1950s: Dad's mom is front row, left, his half-sister Marjorie (Bonne) beside her. On the couch from left are Pete Bonne, Marge's husband, their daughter Shirley, Al Ameeley, Grandma's husband, holding Sandy Bonne, then Dad and Mom. I'm on the floor, right. Since Aunt Marge's death two years ago, I have totally lost track of Sandy and Shriley, the only remaiing members of Dad's side. Life is strange.Dorien Greyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02368404433503621343noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4326809720547205162.post-55861693180625700532008-03-02T04:48:00.000-08:002008-12-09T15:22:34.305-08:00Roots 15<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD4doTRBuUGatKH0m1ckghA2CqEZeQ6q9wCQmtCuGTXr9isqKANutdBTF8aeFJ6Q0knifF0PvcKPyPsWNP6LTy4E0QzDBFZdninR-_F5VrC7m5zy54WbhW0HgJOW_fZhdC9q4wgKZu25s/s1600-h/mom.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD4doTRBuUGatKH0m1ckghA2CqEZeQ6q9wCQmtCuGTXr9isqKANutdBTF8aeFJ6Q0knifF0PvcKPyPsWNP6LTy4E0QzDBFZdninR-_F5VrC7m5zy54WbhW0HgJOW_fZhdC9q4wgKZu25s/s400/mom.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5173127498741667090" /></a><br /><br />A "typically average" young woman stands on the "typically average" porch of a "typically average" American home in the early 1920s. And in some ways, my mother was a typically average woman of her time. But "average" is a surface word, hiding the fact that every human being is unique in the universe. No one had her smile, or her laugh, or all those millions of little things which separated her from everyone else. And no one could possibly have been a better mother.Dorien Greyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02368404433503621343noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4326809720547205162.post-72106713056645425582008-03-01T05:12:00.001-08:002008-12-09T15:22:34.654-08:00Roots 14<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJYEwjqinXlnPiZ0UmO1TaFEg-MsMMYnMTVpmrbE9Ld_mqASOHVMOYrMwo4aCQEPIjoKaw7OtWdTy9acKMdenOfSbNpYDYlX7sn276XhhE3t8-JADLxoA-vg-AsgY1NXm15IDCxELcx8E/s1600-h/BaseballDad.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJYEwjqinXlnPiZ0UmO1TaFEg-MsMMYnMTVpmrbE9Ld_mqASOHVMOYrMwo4aCQEPIjoKaw7OtWdTy9acKMdenOfSbNpYDYlX7sn276XhhE3t8-JADLxoA-vg-AsgY1NXm15IDCxELcx8E/s400/BaseballDad.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172760691354719490" /></a><br /><br />Dad loved sports, and poses here, somewhere around 1940, in his baseball uniform, probably from an amateur team organized by his work. I always felt I was a great disappointment to Dad because I did not share his sports interests or abilities, and only recently have come to realize that even if he was disappointed, it in no wasy affected (as I feared at the time) his love for me.Dorien Greyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02368404433503621343noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4326809720547205162.post-42392610088307731332008-02-29T04:56:00.000-08:002008-12-09T15:22:34.977-08:00Roots 13<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXAYHtrXPmxJJVmeqJgW0IO_BQHTqgNTj5Hai9KMy0bOQuZQRwXIU_ii3eVPUPnEdKNBMy8z-deVmNmsXHpCGu3JNkyZe3g7FyL2Atd83l9dVgr_GB4eScdU2efznmhyphenhyphen7zc91xNpFxsZo/s1600-h/Dad+%26+Grandpa.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXAYHtrXPmxJJVmeqJgW0IO_BQHTqgNTj5Hai9KMy0bOQuZQRwXIU_ii3eVPUPnEdKNBMy8z-deVmNmsXHpCGu3JNkyZe3g7FyL2Atd83l9dVgr_GB4eScdU2efznmhyphenhyphen7zc91xNpFxsZo/s400/Dad+%26+Grandpa.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172385607565792498" /></a><br /><br />Photos often raise more questions than they answer. This early-1930's photo is obviously of my dad, left, and my grandfather Gus, right. But who is the man in the middle? When, exactly, was it taken? Where? And why are dad and grandpa Margason looking so dapper...even to the point of Dad sporting a cane? Time steals facts so quickly. And it is our fault for not marking each and every photo we take with some sort of identification for future years.Dorien Greyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02368404433503621343noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4326809720547205162.post-86906458598362689422008-02-28T04:43:00.000-08:002008-12-09T15:22:35.275-08:00Roots 12<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM6Xk8nRgV4kmcMbeYLqMUGToKvWouSwVDvPq-9NYtsoWbNz4Lcxyb7l_CI93vMRU1ziDes3H7HQjgPUXdb32yzAB4vJvcyj3YxPhdU-5Gm2Jq0Tg7gLKkw6pYJ8esFC9p1cHHlFjTfms/s1600-h/Dad+at+gas+station.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM6Xk8nRgV4kmcMbeYLqMUGToKvWouSwVDvPq-9NYtsoWbNz4Lcxyb7l_CI93vMRU1ziDes3H7HQjgPUXdb32yzAB4vJvcyj3YxPhdU-5Gm2Jq0Tg7gLKkw6pYJ8esFC9p1cHHlFjTfms/s400/Dad+at+gas+station.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172011173465754162" /></a><br />The concept of "now" is difficult to really grasp. But look closely at this photo. It's not just of my dad working at a gas station in 1929 Rockford, Illinois (I'm sorry I do not know the name of his friend), it is a tiny piece of now captured forever. It may not be the now through which we are traveling at this instant, but it is, for dad and the world captured in this photo, just as real as ours.Dorien Greyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02368404433503621343noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4326809720547205162.post-33812211774986448222008-02-27T04:55:00.000-08:002008-12-09T15:22:35.396-08:00Roots 11<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio4FxiyDri77GL1WEpcjiCCM4PuoKwbimJanfGkBsWi1puYk9fF2zzM_Q-bcOuuo6xV_FRG0qFh-jHSHJkTatxL-tNhmwd2JXPkIo-Hoau9JqZ69C94TgEUndC5y6X_eWqbfsJooQLuAw/s1600-h/Aunt+Thyra+1916.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio4FxiyDri77GL1WEpcjiCCM4PuoKwbimJanfGkBsWi1puYk9fF2zzM_Q-bcOuuo6xV_FRG0qFh-jHSHJkTatxL-tNhmwd2JXPkIo-Hoau9JqZ69C94TgEUndC5y6X_eWqbfsJooQLuAw/s400/Aunt+Thyra+1916.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5171643451250772514" /></a><br /><br />I'd posted this 1916 photo of my beloved Aunt Thyra in her confirmation dress some time ago on my Dorien Grey and Me blog, but it is such a lovely photo, and since we're now focusing on important people in my life, I couldn't resist. I hope you don't mind.Dorien Greyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02368404433503621343noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4326809720547205162.post-24888971679085093322008-02-26T05:27:00.000-08:002008-12-09T15:22:35.584-08:00Roots 10<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSvsY_wMaNoqWpHOD64TamWHgyjqdWLiI6EFQ0QOo66MIkkSviucGFKjeNkSH3lywFFl3NhagZ5mGCXqlFqRXbIb3ZsE_ogDJeXkC3TpKINkx6MNowwgMIb6f7CgRFb3-FtlaQ620PIPI/s1600-h/Mom+%26+Dad2.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSvsY_wMaNoqWpHOD64TamWHgyjqdWLiI6EFQ0QOo66MIkkSviucGFKjeNkSH3lywFFl3NhagZ5mGCXqlFqRXbIb3ZsE_ogDJeXkC3TpKINkx6MNowwgMIb6f7CgRFb3-FtlaQ620PIPI/s400/Mom+%26+Dad2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5171280754147527186" /></a><br /><br />And then, sometime around 1929, Franklyn Guerdon Margason met Odrae Lucille Fearn, leading inevitably, four years later, to the birth of Franklyn Roger Margason, who would be the last of one branch of the Margason tree. (There are Margasons out there, just none who are related to me.) And time, as they say, marches on.Dorien Greyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02368404433503621343noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4326809720547205162.post-51607179296076669792008-02-25T04:50:00.000-08:002008-12-09T15:22:35.702-08:00Roots 9<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz2P6ahqaWAYSiBQortykQVxjmW-gnxRGNEy9EpZd5hjNLS8AjOWjFXnfmk051EbN-IXnOftasrOWjtfE6IFAsoBrAV-Mm2f3lVmH0lOgtRcKdJ8SyaUyvkNBu1QBu8uDUhFVCIGbk49o/s1600-h/dad.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz2P6ahqaWAYSiBQortykQVxjmW-gnxRGNEy9EpZd5hjNLS8AjOWjFXnfmk051EbN-IXnOftasrOWjtfE6IFAsoBrAV-Mm2f3lVmH0lOgtRcKdJ8SyaUyvkNBu1QBu8uDUhFVCIGbk49o/s400/dad.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170900082606148082" /></a><br /><br />I ran this photo of my dad, circa 1925, some time ago on my "Dorien Grey and Me" blog, but since I have so few photos of dad's early years, felt it appropriate to run it again. His expression is guarded, as though he were not quite sure what to expect next. I seem to have inherited that trait from him.Dorien Greyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02368404433503621343noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4326809720547205162.post-1626771805323453242008-02-24T04:53:00.000-08:002008-12-09T15:22:35.712-08:00Roots 8<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKpouhJ85e7Zxot6cYnLClCU0lqosWVeRVWG5yEHKLS2hCgK2tWcYClPKQkLmrKTGDZklVgR97WbJox1YHjMf2fXPXkRx4RTXXrCvc7TDPSK1t6z5ae-pIqYYek_RZpBrCZJMNa3OHtGA/s1600-h/Dad,+1918.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKpouhJ85e7Zxot6cYnLClCU0lqosWVeRVWG5yEHKLS2hCgK2tWcYClPKQkLmrKTGDZklVgR97WbJox1YHjMf2fXPXkRx4RTXXrCvc7TDPSK1t6z5ae-pIqYYek_RZpBrCZJMNa3OHtGA/s400/Dad,+1918.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170529349619091938" /></a><br /><br />Franklin Guerdon (named for the captain of the ship on which my great-grandmother Adams came over from Ireland) Margason was born October 11, 1912, and was therefore about six years old when this photo was taken posing proudly with his mother, holding a stick rifle. But while he loved playing soldier as a boy, when WWII came along, he was married and had a child and workig in a defense plant,which deferred him from the draft. Therefore, like an entire generation of young boys playing solier, he never had to become one.Dorien Greyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02368404433503621343noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4326809720547205162.post-50013453870722917132008-02-23T05:10:00.001-08:002008-12-09T15:22:35.851-08:00Roots 7<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm3HX4tfd3OqWiP5H8kS8n_l6HAygz3JmtB25wKWLhe6dBECXI1W2jlo5NEvq_irSmlBwug9aW8JVMITOSqykV3dYX5byy09OIIESBNMHyalqsikdAL85nuGrvvxBOsgXh-Str1vB0P0E/s1600-h/Mom2.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm3HX4tfd3OqWiP5H8kS8n_l6HAygz3JmtB25wKWLhe6dBECXI1W2jlo5NEvq_irSmlBwug9aW8JVMITOSqykV3dYX5byy09OIIESBNMHyalqsikdAL85nuGrvvxBOsgXh-Str1vB0P0E/s400/Mom2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170162542232144338" /></a><br /><br />Mother was born into a far different world (here probably around 1916)than she left. It was a comfortable world of comfortable homes and ornate furniture, where little girls---before such conveniences as washing machines---wore crisp white dresses with bows in their hair. But it was also a world in which disease swept unchecked across the world, as the influena pandemic would prove two years later when it claimed my grandmother Fearn, mother's mom.Dorien Greyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02368404433503621343noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4326809720547205162.post-26244858264597277232008-02-22T04:51:00.000-08:002008-12-09T15:22:35.995-08:00Roots 6<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6RB6d6YgAO8ZKVh5JrhzouAcXRqBED4bY_o_rnnbTfHeTWC1EamPoP8bAEuJPky2xMWBx-FSchepMmnf2Gms4lB51-OLTfP48Ciwf9rEwLm4j68acX3ewQnBTHf0YM2V9V51Dz8Lcdpg/s1600-h/mom.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6RB6d6YgAO8ZKVh5JrhzouAcXRqBED4bY_o_rnnbTfHeTWC1EamPoP8bAEuJPky2xMWBx-FSchepMmnf2Gms4lB51-OLTfP48Ciwf9rEwLm4j68acX3ewQnBTHf0YM2V9V51Dz8Lcdpg/s400/mom.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169787338184133058" /></a><br /><br />A three year old Odrae Lucille Fearn looks calmly into the lens of time. The year is 1912, and people are still talking of the recent sinking of the Titanic. Fifty-eight more years of life lie ahead of her: a long time looking forward, not the flicker of an angel's eyelash looking back.Dorien Greyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02368404433503621343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4326809720547205162.post-3972284146418546302008-02-21T04:45:00.000-08:002008-12-09T15:22:36.153-08:00Roots 5<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_b0yY7xAjlJpVa3USc7cNFAGEaDTbqYWnnMsz30tkQID3zl1eqiqf-NgwIAO5rRsA8onTsBtmPqZl-0xZfeYGxiVxx8v7cSibvEFCvFQzJBVG4JiMsjBFUsebL1YzkHUxJBWEZZAoxbk/s1600-h/Uncle+Buck+and+Mom.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_b0yY7xAjlJpVa3USc7cNFAGEaDTbqYWnnMsz30tkQID3zl1eqiqf-NgwIAO5rRsA8onTsBtmPqZl-0xZfeYGxiVxx8v7cSibvEFCvFQzJBVG4JiMsjBFUsebL1YzkHUxJBWEZZAoxbk/s400/Uncle+Buck+and+Mom.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169414139885849010" /></a><br /><br />In the 42 years they had with one another, Uncle Buck (Charles, born 1900) and Odrae (born 1911 and named Odrae because her Norwegian-born mother assumed that was the way to spell "Audrey")were textbook syblings. Uncle Buck's job was to protect his little sister, and mother worshipped her big brother. Both were heavy smokers and both subsequently died (Uncle Buck in 1953, Mother in 1971) of cancer. Their families take great comfort in the assurances of the tobacco industry that there is no link between smoking and cancer. Well, their saying so is certainly all the proof I need.Dorien Greyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02368404433503621343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4326809720547205162.post-67728199229252395972008-02-20T05:24:00.000-08:002008-12-09T15:22:36.339-08:00Roots 4<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoKQwyv13aKilYWLzn8J1SE9urHvFPOYpUMy-3IuR7PABnW9QhZgKVwNQdEKrw5vdfNMTbga52r54LRp3fLQW99JHWbMMV4XaL3PQ-q0nJNgg_PsB5FXCtCI3NksuxZOTeiOl7SJxy_Eg/s1600-h/Uncle+Buck.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoKQwyv13aKilYWLzn8J1SE9urHvFPOYpUMy-3IuR7PABnW9QhZgKVwNQdEKrw5vdfNMTbga52r54LRp3fLQW99JHWbMMV4XaL3PQ-q0nJNgg_PsB5FXCtCI3NksuxZOTeiOl7SJxy_Eg/s400/Uncle+Buck.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169053031920503202" /></a><br /><br />Charles Fearn entered the world in the first year of the 20th century: a world without radio, without television, without computers, without airplanes . His sister, Odrae, came along nine years later. He went on to have three children of his own, and to become "Uncle Buck" to Odrae's son...me. If love were our standard of wealth, he would have been a very wealthy man.Dorien Greyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02368404433503621343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4326809720547205162.post-17992177979922520692008-02-19T04:48:00.000-08:002008-12-09T15:22:36.602-08:00Roots: American Dreams<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhebWjV7cXggbxfuZij3Nar2JwUBOc4bW3rh08F5YFUWjEpmpsontJFFbSRdcn0g-6Rf99h3Aj07Lv8JsIbmc7tCBnwdI_r5UBdbvicfaJmE_HpKLX0lYigR6A9emrRkzVel2022wXvR44/s1600-h/School+ST..jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhebWjV7cXggbxfuZij3Nar2JwUBOc4bW3rh08F5YFUWjEpmpsontJFFbSRdcn0g-6Rf99h3Aj07Lv8JsIbmc7tCBnwdI_r5UBdbvicfaJmE_HpKLX0lYigR6A9emrRkzVel2022wXvR44/s400/School+ST..jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5168672953084610962" /></a><br /><br />This house, built somewhere around the turn of the 20th century, was the Fearn family home until my mom sold it to move to be with me in California in 1969. It was built by my grandfather, housed him, my grandmother, their son and daughter. It witnessed history, and laughter, and tears. It was the quintessential American working middle class home on School Street (even the name is Americana), an elm-tree lined street of similar homes in Rockford, Illinois, then known as "The Forest City".<br /><br />Today it is a treeless ghetto of slum properties where it is unsafe to drive down the street. The Fearns are gone from School Street. So, for many, is the American Dream.Dorien Greyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02368404433503621343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4326809720547205162.post-74258326091873239962008-02-18T04:58:00.000-08:002008-12-09T15:22:36.801-08:00Roots 3<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLP3_pcGjUVRWWBQEMs997KEoBS6jky3h20JdFbCZFKJ_kI52tEEjSAeAwqUiQe3cNLXZJX_D-UNYBL5j3N8ie6PEplfprTR00Mkgork8hA4JmwT7ivseAD8BCPzbTiqRenLw2xGObZ_I/s1600-h/Grandma+and+grandpa.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLP3_pcGjUVRWWBQEMs997KEoBS6jky3h20JdFbCZFKJ_kI52tEEjSAeAwqUiQe3cNLXZJX_D-UNYBL5j3N8ie6PEplfprTR00Mkgork8hA4JmwT7ivseAD8BCPzbTiqRenLw2xGObZ_I/s400/Grandma+and+grandpa.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5168304225847282050" /></a><br /><br />That I do not know when or how Annabelle Erickson met Chester Fearn (the photo above was probably taken around 1905) only goes to underssore how little we know of our past and how quickly entire generations without whom we would not exist are lost to time.<br /><br />To quote a memorable epitaph: "As you are now, so once were we. As we are now, so shall you be."Dorien Greyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02368404433503621343noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4326809720547205162.post-27888208545665569742008-02-17T04:50:00.000-08:002008-12-09T15:22:36.975-08:00Roots 2<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsW4jiMJnuMLfkwq27cCRpC1tR3qE9M2e9ea9LOaS2yl71_Y0nKA2ZP3qph2ovi8Z4LHiqotlRom39JKGfo2bsENEAl7XvAA8Xbh-9wgZnqrrciYI3djYFQLG-dKMgtNWZ6WPH5YGSV_Y/s1600-h/grandpa.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsW4jiMJnuMLfkwq27cCRpC1tR3qE9M2e9ea9LOaS2yl71_Y0nKA2ZP3qph2ovi8Z4LHiqotlRom39JKGfo2bsENEAl7XvAA8Xbh-9wgZnqrrciYI3djYFQLG-dKMgtNWZ6WPH5YGSV_Y/s400/grandpa.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167931680384026994" /></a><br /><br />My maternal grandfather, Chester Fearn, circa 1905 (?). I wrote a blog on him (and one on grandma Fearn) quite a while back. Born in Pena, Illinois around 1872, a runaway at 12, he worked most of his life in foundries in Rockford, IL. His great loves were dancing and an occasional pinch of "snuss"...a finely ground tobacco snorted through the nose.Dorien Greyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02368404433503621343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4326809720547205162.post-67710471642333535662008-02-16T05:16:00.001-08:002008-12-09T15:22:37.093-08:00Roots<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcgBGflbZfID-u9DpZRiQw5LusX_xxXL2G-DrOwsSYuvxFthFC5nK92lNk0lWWU4-ZSSvv3HZdxFJ6Ys0O_4c5JI9REFH810cdfSmw7nlxg6r3XGAWzmEarfs3gZT_jMyoNZFqNEcuUKE/s1600-h/Roots.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcgBGflbZfID-u9DpZRiQw5LusX_xxXL2G-DrOwsSYuvxFthFC5nK92lNk0lWWU4-ZSSvv3HZdxFJ6Ys0O_4c5JI9REFH810cdfSmw7nlxg6r3XGAWzmEarfs3gZT_jMyoNZFqNEcuUKE/s400/Roots.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167566543739357538" /></a><br /><br />The purpose of this photoblog has been to lay out one writer's life in photos, and after several months, they have been pretty much exhausted. But no man, as they say, is an island, and I'd like to introduce you to some of the people without whose lives I could not be the person you've been seeing in all these photos.<br /><br />This first photo is of my maternal grandmother, Annabelle Fearn (nee Erickson, born in Norway), taken around 1900.Dorien Greyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02368404433503621343noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4326809720547205162.post-45915969444220382032008-02-15T04:16:00.001-08:002008-12-09T15:22:37.304-08:00Then and Now<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-H8NEMfBkDwukNj9j9vDsDc2L6HWdJ2_3bJAn6ej_Df2gHjEg7L2z8Vpekr0EDG-IpVR8dEgJyREP3f6-viHteVYzZpZu1wBu8NVf9CntXkZJORR1uuiwPoKG4QbTJhJqpawHkAfUJeo/s1600-h/NIU2.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-H8NEMfBkDwukNj9j9vDsDc2L6HWdJ2_3bJAn6ej_Df2gHjEg7L2z8Vpekr0EDG-IpVR8dEgJyREP3f6-viHteVYzZpZu1wBu8NVf9CntXkZJORR1uuiwPoKG4QbTJhJqpawHkAfUJeo/s400/NIU2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167181100489312594" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT5YLBh236U4KeXnHXLQd1FZg2u8xtpAWChvxJQU7wXDxoRDxwiWdbdy0Icj_S_aVV76w6edETgBNIB335EZ0J_9lGTnTh18QnJTouDeLkIyqEnck1EQNg1_1Detbgy55BmVRdSJLk90o/s1600-h/NIU+1.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT5YLBh236U4KeXnHXLQd1FZg2u8xtpAWChvxJQU7wXDxoRDxwiWdbdy0Icj_S_aVV76w6edETgBNIB335EZ0J_9lGTnTh18QnJTouDeLkIyqEnck1EQNg1_1Detbgy55BmVRdSJLk90o/s400/NIU+1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167179872128665922" /></a><br /><br />College then, college now. (photo by AP Photo/Charles Rex Arbogast)Dorien Greyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02368404433503621343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4326809720547205162.post-35676373711000582542008-02-14T04:47:00.000-08:002008-12-09T15:22:37.544-08:00Flashback on L.A.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi-X7HN4WEX4L2_FphI9Go3FxTIthlS88sKcl_gMWUQhnn-fPB869uUxPJB1y5NK7hcJpEpHtnY3MNl2Fqgm_zItxN2NFUjBBFlCweZZJbW_YTvQNN36PO6X-fON-Dtzvh3P3pHd8tpqk/s1600-h/Dec+31+1977.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi-X7HN4WEX4L2_FphI9Go3FxTIthlS88sKcl_gMWUQhnn-fPB869uUxPJB1y5NK7hcJpEpHtnY3MNl2Fqgm_zItxN2NFUjBBFlCweZZJbW_YTvQNN36PO6X-fON-Dtzvh3P3pHd8tpqk/s400/Dec+31+1977.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5166817454198294834" /></a><br /><br />Two of life's many perversities are: 1) We seem incapable of appreciating what we have when we have it,, and 2) Things often seem rosier in retrospect than they did at the time. This shot, taken with Ramon on December 31, 1977, during my days as editor of In Touch for Men magazine, demonstrates both principles.Dorien Greyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02368404433503621343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4326809720547205162.post-57863878215874787392008-02-13T05:48:00.000-08:002008-12-09T15:22:37.685-08:00Friends and Time<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih3k-EdKmsMWsHzSqpvozbtYSTTmT7j4GCiUf0SGbHkU_Lqtco0fcgFvOyqDtvzs1GpTEgGuX8mAx06_BWwUcnLYwogPfuvQmyR0gRLMbZHphruJfKC0r7mY0a-hPDlBw98XjhTRkV8aA/s1600-h/Pals2.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih3k-EdKmsMWsHzSqpvozbtYSTTmT7j4GCiUf0SGbHkU_Lqtco0fcgFvOyqDtvzs1GpTEgGuX8mAx06_BWwUcnLYwogPfuvQmyR0gRLMbZHphruJfKC0r7mY0a-hPDlBw98XjhTRkV8aA/s400/Pals2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5166461633337690386" /></a><br /><br />I'm not sure how many people are (or will be, if they live long enought) blessed with having the same friends for 50 years, as I have in Tom (right) and Franklin (center) in this photo taken during their visit to me in Northern Wisconsin around 2000. One of the best tests of friendship is the ability, as with Tom and Franklin, to be physically separated for long periods of time with little actual contact, and then to be able to pick up a conversation in mid-sentence when you once again meet.Dorien Greyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02368404433503621343noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4326809720547205162.post-82755198364571534902008-02-12T04:47:00.000-08:002008-12-09T15:22:38.095-08:00Time and the Family<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3DrbyQoWodGA9JGmRsLdaWUv0HZDjkik6qKh-c8FIW3upwiifY9SO_dgsCccx-pKSjiGyVA4fTIifrQZBNdfpFOB7nfGinNCgl-wJwc_4PunEijrGuXGprqzHM6zs8Lig2KHKuABnLUc/s1600-h/Fearns2.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3DrbyQoWodGA9JGmRsLdaWUv0HZDjkik6qKh-c8FIW3upwiifY9SO_dgsCccx-pKSjiGyVA4fTIifrQZBNdfpFOB7nfGinNCgl-wJwc_4PunEijrGuXGprqzHM6zs8Lig2KHKuABnLUc/s400/Fearns2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5166074991791769858" /></a><br /><br />The last family photo ever taken with my cousins Cork, Veda (Jack's wife) me, Nornie (Cork's wife), Jack, Shirley (Fat's wife), and Fat, probably 1992. Now there is just Jack, Veda, and I. Have I mentioned that life is not always fair?Dorien Greyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02368404433503621343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4326809720547205162.post-16430236909683512272008-02-11T04:54:00.001-08:002008-12-09T15:22:38.278-08:00And then there was one<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP9YxjypKLgtYMaesPYpl8g5LeqrgVn3mYOYOn14f9twZH7CKlUwsua72QUQbRZE2BYo1LUUY86IJnkEUCj21Zi-YvzkGeAcmzyAm5U_c0wkQIyPRR8Gk7FrbmnQGcp0mE_e1j-XaUadM/s1600-h/And+Then+There+Was+One.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP9YxjypKLgtYMaesPYpl8g5LeqrgVn3mYOYOn14f9twZH7CKlUwsua72QUQbRZE2BYo1LUUY86IJnkEUCj21Zi-YvzkGeAcmzyAm5U_c0wkQIyPRR8Gk7FrbmnQGcp0mE_e1j-XaUadM/s400/And+Then+There+Was+One.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5165705469985491186" /></a><br /><br />After Mom died in 1971, a visit "home" in 1974 gave me this photo or Aunt Thyra, my cousin Fat and his wife Shirley. Now I am the only one left. In addition to Aunt Thyra, Fat, and Shirley, I've also lost my cousin Cork and his wife Nornie, leaving only one first cousin, Jack and his wife Veda as the only survivors of an entire generation. I can realize that this is the way life is, but I certainly don't have to like it, and I don't.Dorien Greyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02368404433503621343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4326809720547205162.post-33411458830341083352008-02-10T05:41:00.000-08:002008-12-09T15:22:38.422-08:00Once Upon a Lake<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5dtsJ-i9mczqH_Vxe-5Wrs3B4Vr7eUOxwK4HgW_7bEwz1Oc_ENeLVsIn7TOXk9BIx9p9qMZDqjObdKnVT_-8KnAxDyzqEsBvzoy9CGuSIS57d4_xd9DR2TYoAbpy0PUNUrdDdjZpZkiE/s1600-h/Lake.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5dtsJ-i9mczqH_Vxe-5Wrs3B4Vr7eUOxwK4HgW_7bEwz1Oc_ENeLVsIn7TOXk9BIx9p9qMZDqjObdKnVT_-8KnAxDyzqEsBvzoy9CGuSIS57d4_xd9DR2TYoAbpy0PUNUrdDdjZpZkiE/s400/Lake.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5165346719957190882" /></a><br /><br />1960. Not that long ago, really. No,really. Just a dream or two away, and I was at my folks' cottage on Lake Koshkonong. That so much that was then is not now is a concept I find it impossible to accept. To me, it was, therefore it is.Dorien Greyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02368404433503621343noreply@blogger.com0