I am not my father's daughter. I am not my mother's daughter. Okay, I am still my brother's little sister - he isn't getting rid of me that quickly.
But I am my grandfather's granddaughter.
And here is the proof.
In the 1930s, my grandfather's family started migrating to California from northeast Ohio. First to go was my great-great Uncle Allen Saint. That makes Uncle Allen Saint my grandfather's uncle.
Uncle Allen settled in Pasadena. After WWII, more family migrated, and everyone moved into Uncle Allen's big house on Garfield. My grandfather (and Grandma) moved in to the house in 1949 or 1950. They pretty much took over Uncle Allen's household. Grandma ran the kitchen, Grandfather did the household repairs, fixed the cars and maintained the garden, and Uncle Allen paid the bills.
Grandfather got a job at a factory called M&M. They manufactured stuff. I don't know what, since I wasn't around back then to ask. It wasn't the candy factory, I do know that.
My uncles and their friends all spent time living at Uncle Allen's (big) house. Lots of the Saint family members spent a month or two or three until settling in Monrovia, Hollywood, Altadena, and even Whittier. Uncle Allen's niece, Eva Marie Saint, is said to have stopped by for a hello and a meal.
But Grandfather, his heart never left his little town in northeast Ohio. As soon as he would spot a car with Ohio license plate, he had to stop and talk. It was nothing for Grandfather to cut off someone in traffic on E. Orange Grove Blvd. just to pull up next to an Ohio car. "Hi there, friend. Where 'bouts in Ohio are you from?"
If the 'friend's' answer was Toledo or Dayton, Grandfather would thank them and drive off. If the answer was Cleveland... well, traffic could just 'darn hold their horses' till last names exchanged, street addresses were discussed, acquaintances made. Grandfather was a friendly sort, if you were from northeast Ohio.
SO, this past Tuesday I was out walking Shado, one of our dogs. I come up to a BIG pickup truck - the kind with four doors and plenty of room for four adults inside. The truck is stopped so that it has blocked the sidewalk that Shado and I are walking on. I seethe... 'idiot driver'. Why can't he just park parallel to the curb like anyone else would?
Then I see the big truck's license plate is Wisconsin. I'm not from there, but E. is. E. has taken me back to Wisconsin several times, and everyone there seems the friendly sort. Anymore, I kinda view Wisconsin as my future home.
The driver of the big truck lowers his window and says "Let me pull forward, out of your way." All I can say is "What part of Wisconsin are you from, friend?"
Turns out 'they' are from Waupaca. "We" are from Wautoma. But they know E's best friend, Alex. Of Nimphius Boat fame. "Oh yea, the Chris Craft" guy!"
Grandfather would be proud of me.