Fond Adeiu, Old Friends

My friend in Michigan would probably disagree.  In fact, he would scold me . . . call me a young whipper snapper . . . and remind me that I am not that old.  Clif is in his 90s and is as sharp as ever, though his body might disagree.  But as I write this, I feel old.

I probably should not have read the newspaper this morning.  The Billings Gazette is doing what most newspapers do the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day—they are running articles highlighting the events and people of the past year.  Today’s paper shared a list of names of those who have died in 2023.  Only the names of those people deemed famous or important.  Being curious, I read the list.  Man, I feel old.  There were a lot of people on that list that I knew and admired—some more than others.

 

There were so many I had to break them down into groups.  The groups I came up with were entertainers, musicians/singers, sports, and everyone else.  Each person sparked some sort of reaction or memory.  I guess I am fairly normal in thinking that my favorite stars, performers, and athletes would never age . . . actually never die.  That they will live forever.  That’s stupid.  Everyone dies.  Death is the great equalizer.

 

Entertainers

 

Lisa Marie Presley.  Daughter of Elvis and Priscella Presley—a direct connection to the “King”.  She lived an entertaining and interesting life including a stint as the spouse of Michael Jackson.  The Evis myth dies hard.

 

Raquel Welch.  One of my prepubescence crushes.  Not the most talented individual, but beautiful.  She made me long for the Stone Age after watching One Million Years B.C.  I admired her, especially how she maximized her assets and beauty to become an icon.

 

Jerry Springer.  Mudslinger extraordinaire before slinging mud was commonplace and monetized.  He was the first to bring humanity into the gutter at the expense of others.  It was like watching the news from the trailer park.  I guess he was good for killing an hour or so.  I still wonder where he found his guests.

 

Paul Reubens . . . Pee Wee Herman.  He struck it big while cashing in on his quirky weirdness as a popular entertainer for children.  I didn’t quite get it and found him immature . . . which was great if you were drunk or high.  Of which I was not most of the time.  Then he got in trouble at an adult theater for an incident while watching porn.  The famous fall hard.

 

Bob Barker.  I am not sure how this became a star.  I guess you can tell I was not a fan of his.  I cringed whenever I saw him on television.  He reminded me of that creepy guy down the street who thought too highly about himself and liked hitting on women.  At least he wasn’t like Richard Dawson who would grope the female contestants and ask them for a smooch on Family Feud.  The price was never right for me with Bob Barker.

 

Suzanne Somers.  Another crush in the beginning of her career.  She was another who made the most of her beauty and stereotypical “dumb blonde” looks.  Turns out she wasn’t so dumb and made millions on her assets, especially wearing spandex and hawking her exercise videos and the infamous Thigh Master (“I must, I must, I must develop my bust!”)  I liked her best when she was the innocent preacher’s daughter from the sticks on Three’s Company.

 

Ryan O’Neal.  Not much of an actor, but somehow got famous.  Better known as Tatum O’Neal’s father.  I thought he was such a wimp in Love Story.  I do wonder how he ended up married to Farah Fawcett.  Always did regret never having her poster hanging up in my college dorm room.  Sorry, Ryan . . . I didn’t love you.

 

Alan Arkin.  The guy had a sense of humor of I appreciate and love—dry and sarcastic.  Wonderful actor.  Enjoyed him and his performance with Michael Douglas in The Kominsky Method.  Watch the series if you have not seen it . . . it is worth it.

 

Norman Lear . . . what can I say?  All in the Family.  Never missed it.  It was the reality of my teen years in America.

 

Sports

 

Bobby Hull.  Hockey royalty even though he played most of his career for the wrong team—the Chicago Blackhawks.  Even though I have been a life-long Boston Bruins fan, I admired him as one of the all-time greatest.

 

Dick Fosbury.  If you don’t know track and field, you probably don’t know who this guy is.  He revolutionized the high jump when he went against tradition and started “flopping” over the bar.  Instead of doing the usual “scissors” jump, he rolled over with the “flop”.  He was the laughingstock of the world of track and field . . . but he had the last laugh.  Changed high jumping forever.  Everyone “flops” now.  I loved this guy even though I never high jumped.  My best jumping is to conclusions.

 

Jim Brown.  Tough football player who went on to act.  Big civil rights activist.  He played football better than he acted . . . actually is in the National Football League Hall of Fame as one of the greatest.  Never got an Oscar.  My favorite movie?  The Dirty Dozen.

 

Dick Butkus.  The only thing about Butkus is that played on the wrong team—the Chicago Bears.  But he was an Illinois kid.  Being a Minnesota Vikings fan, that bothered me, but he was my favorite linebacker.  Loved his game attitude.  It was simple . . . he would declare that he had a “good” game if he sent one player on the opposing team off the field on a stretcher.  I loved him as Mongo in Blazing Saddles.

 

Bobby Knight.  The man everyone loved to hate when it came to basketball.  He was a stick of dynamite with a short fuse.  He had anger issues.  He was mean and difficult towards his players, but the man could coach basketball.  He got the most out of what he had.  I will never forget him tossing a chair across the basketball court when he had a disagreement with a referee.  Entertaining.

 

Music

 

Jeff Beck.  A member of the Yardbirds, but more importantly was one of the greatest guitarists who helped change rock and roll.  Introduced the masses to “world music” bringing in different cultural music into his songs.

 

David Crosby.  Huge loss in my life.  One of the best groups . . . Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young (or other manifestations of the individual members).  The man could sing . . . harmonize with the best of them . . . musical genius at times.  He was also an adventurous and outspoken soul.  I will miss him.

 

Burt Bacharach.  Grew up listening to this music because my parents listened to this music.  This was before I went to the dark side of rock and roll.  The man wrote for himself and slew of others: The Drifters, The Sherelles, Perry Como, Andy Williams, Dionne Warwick, Bobby Vinton, Doris Day, Tom Jones, Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, Dusty Springfield, B.J. Thomas, The 5^th Dimension, Roberta Flack, Neil Diamond, and the Carpenters.  He was a hit-making machine.  He wrote the soundtrack of my childhood.

 

Gordon Lightfoot.  Wasn’t really thrilled with him but I did appreciate some of the songs he sang.  He wrote some great ones: The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, If You Could Read My Mind, Carefree Highway, and Rainy Day People.  He wasn’t bad for a Canadian.

 

Tina Turner.  Great performer.  Fell in love with her in eighth grade when I heard my first Ike and Tina Turner Revue album.  Proud Mary is a classic and so was she despite her tumultuous life.

 

Tom Jones.  Elvis created the hip thrust, but Jones perfected it and made a career out of it.  Had too, he was an average singer.  Plus, he couldn’t button up a shirt if his life depended on it.  Always showing off his hairy chest.  I never could understand why he could make the women swoon and throw panties on the stage.  If I tried something like that I would get thrown off stage and into jail.

 

Jimmy Buffett.  Yup, I have enjoyed a few brews listening to Jimmy.  Free-spirited and enjoyed life.  My favorites: Margaritaville and Cheeseburger in Paradise.  Went to see the minor league baseball team he owned in Madison, Wisconsin . . . pure Buffett.  The most fun I ever had at a minor league game.

 

Tommy Smothers.  As a kid I could not wait to be allowed to stay up and watch the Smothers Brothers Show.  Couldn’t wait to see how Tommy would mess with his brother, Dick.  He was a funny guy with a conscious—stood up for things he believed in.  Was an excellent singer and musician.  Loved the show and he was my favorite Smothers brother.  Helped me love folk music.

 

Harry Belafonte.  A great man.  Loved his voice . . . so elegant.  Loved it when he sang calypso, especially Day-O and Jump in Line.  Great civil rights activist who was always at the front pushing for equality.

 

Others

 

Theodore “Ted” Kaczynski.  The “Unabomber” held everyone in his grip for years with his crazy manifest and sporadic bombings.  Ended up being caught in Lincoln, Montana.  No one there likes to talk about him . . . so don’t go asking about him.

 

Sandra Day O’Conner.  First female justice in the United States of America Supreme Court.  Tough lady for cracking the men’s club.  She paved the way for other women to follow.  I admired her.

 

Henry Kissinger.  Well, he is definitely historical.  One of the Richard Nixon cronies.  Was a major player for many year.  How could anyone miss this guy.  He talked funny.  Was not good-looking but always had a beautiful woman on his arm as he hobbed knobbed among the rich and famous.  Wasn’t too fond of him or a lot of the history he made.

 

Rosalyn Carter.  Classic southern lady.  The rock of Jimmy Carter’s life before and after his presidency.  Kind, gentle, and always classy.  A big part of a great love story.

 

Pat Robertson.  He discovered how to suck the money from the evangelical masses creating the CBN (Christian Broadcasting Network).  I disdained the man who duped so many in the name of Jesus.  Sold faith down the river and took a lot of fools with him.

 

So, there you have it . . . at least according to the list in the Billings Gazette.  I’m sure there were others . . . politicians, scientists, medical experts, lawyers, inventors, industrialists, and other famous people I have never heard of.  As I said, I shouldn’t have looked at this list.  My past was fading with each obituary.  Made me feel old.  True, not as old as my friend Clif, but old none the less.  Especially when I attempted to explain it to my children and grandchildren who had no idea what I was talking about.

 

Oh well, though gone, I will remember.  These are the people who populate the memories of my mind . . . who are the soundtrack of my life.  The people who inspired me or made me mad, provided me with wonderful memories, and laughter for the soul.  They were and are a part of the fabric of my life.  They will be missed but not forgotten.  As Archie and Edith Bunker used to sing: “Those were the days!”

Down the Rabbit Hole, Part Two

 

Family stories . . . every family has them.  Stories are the means of bringing facts to life, of making the abstract concrete, and bringing the listener into a realm that allows meaning and connection.  Then, again, stories are also entertainment and meant to be nothing more than they are . . . stories.  They can be factual.  They can be mythical.  Odds are that the truth is somewhere between.  That is the fun and joy about stories.

That’s why so many of us jump down the genealogical rabbit hole. We want to know.  We want to know the truth or a semblance of the truth.  We want to know whether or not our family stories are the truth or a whole bunch of hooey.  As I said in my last blog post, it was the story of my mother’s childhood that had me leaping down the rabbit hole.  That story revealed the thin nexus of truth and how others attempt to explain things.  As much as I had wanted my mother’s story to be true—it was not.  The downfall wasn’t in the words that were spoken, but in the DNA test that was submitted.

 

As long as I am wallowing in the rabbit hole, I want to share another story from my mother.  This one I remember being told during my elementary school days and beyond.  It is a great story.  The story is set during the Great Sioux Wars that occurred 1876-1877.  Her story had to do with a relative who she claimed survived the Battle of the Little Bighorn.  You might know the battle under its more popular and white culture name of Custer’s Last Stand.  That was her story . . . a relative survived the battle and lived to talk about it.

 

In all honesty, that story fascinated me when I heard it way back in grade school . . . and it still does today.  Like millions of others the story of the demise of George Armstrong Custer at the battle at Greasy Grass (Little Bighorn River) grabbed my attention.  To discover a connection to the battle through the story only makes the battle more intriguing.  I remember being taken to the small museum in Marion, North Carolina and seeing the newspaper account of the battle as recalled by this relative.

 

Who was this relative who survived the infamous Custer’s Last Stand?  If the genealogy is correct, it is my cousin four times removed—a fourth cousin.  His name was Daniel P. Kanipe, a sergeant in Company C of the Seventh Cavalry under the command of Lt. Colonel George Armstrong Custer.  He would be the first of two couriers sent with the message from Custer to bring the pack team to the battle.  Little did Custer realize that in sending my cousin back he was saving his life. Neither he nor the pack team would make it back before Custer was wiped out.  That is how my cousin, Daniel Kanipe, survived the battle.

 

Of course, being a survivor of the worse military defeat in the history of the United States Army had its advantages.  It made my cousin famous . . . a celebrity of sorts among the admirers of the “Old West” and researchers of the battle.  Sharing his experience of what took place made him quite popular.  His recollections have been the basis of many of the accounts of the battle.  Over the years some of the details of his account have come under scrutiny.  Especially as the accounts of the Native American survivors of the battle have been shared about their experiences in the battle.  It seems as if ol’ cuz told a fluctuating story as he got older.  Much has been written about his changing story.  The great debate is over whether or not he was a hero or a coward.

 

Whatever he was . . . he survived.

 

When I moved to Montana fifteen years ago, one of my goals was to find proof of my cousin’s presence at the actual battleground.  The battleground is approximately 90 miles east of Joliet, next to Crow Agency (the Crow Nation’s tribal headquarters) on the Crow Reservation.  I made one pilgrimage to the battlefield during the first year to look for any mention of my cousin.  I scoured the museum and found nothing mentioning him in the displays.  I couldn’t find anything.  Being short on time I vowed to return another day.  I also bought a bunch of books about the battle.  He was mentioned in the books.

 

But it still didn’t seem real.  On a visit to Montana, my sister and I made another trip to the battlefield with the intention of finding something.  I figured two sets of eyes would be better than one.  And, again, we struck out in the museum.  Striking out in the museum we decided to take the “auto tour” of the battlefield.  Down the road we wandered as it started to rain and snow to explore the battlefield.  Having reached the area known as Benteen’s Hill, with the snow now beginning to stick to the road, we decided to start back and head home.  We turned around and headed back.  It was not long before we came upon a historical display on the side of the road.  So, we stopped.  Why we stopped in the heavy snowfall we didn’t know, but we stopped and looked at the sign.

 

Lo and behold, there it was!  Getting out of the car I noticed a picture of a soldier.  Under the picture was the name of Sergeant Daniel Kanipe and his story.  We were elated . . . the story was true.  We were at the battlefield . . . standing on the actual battlefield . . . where we had pictorial evidence of our surviving relative.  The National Park Service confirmed it.  Needless to say, we were both excited about our discovery.

 

Since then, I have found an endless array of evidence about Daniel Kanipe’s presence at the Battle of the Little Bighorn.  It is astounding how much has been written about this battle—hundreds, if not thousands of books.  It is the most written about military battle in history.  In most, Daniels Kanipe is mentioned.  Sometimes in a good way, other times in a bad way.  The verdict on Daniel Kanipe and his role in the battle is an argument for the generations.  Was he a hero or a coward?  I don’t know.  What I do know with certainty is that he was lucky that day.  Lucky that he was chosen to be the courier to retrieve the pack train.  Unlike his mates in Company C . . . he survived.

 

The story my mother told was plain and simple . . . our cousin survived.  For years I sort of gloated at my connection to the battle . . . gloated that a relative had survived.  It is kind of neat being “connected” to a famous place.  I liked telling the story.  Unfortunately, no stone shall be left unturned in searching for the truth.  The battle has been analyzed and picked apart from the day it took place.

 

One Christmas my wife got me a book analyzing the story and letters my cousin wrote during his lifetime about the battle.  The author scoured the material with a fine-tooth comb.  It seems that the story was something that changed as my cousin got older.  Contradictions started appearing.  Questions arose.  It challenged the story against the reality . . . questioned the “heroics” of the storyteller.  In short, it set out to debunk my cousin’s role in the battle.

 

I don’t think my wife intentionally set out to “pop my balloon”, but it sure felt like it by the time I had finished the book.  Whatever, she gave me the book.  That was years ago, and I have forgiven her.  But the question remains . . . was he or wasn’t he?  Hero?  Coward? Or just some smuck making the best of a situation?  Who knows.  We weren’t there and all we have are the stories as they are best remembered by those who told them.  The truth of those stories are between here and there.  It is up to the listener to decide for themselves what they believe.

 

What I do know is that Daniel Kanipe—cousin, four times removed, survived the battle, and got to live another day.  The story as my mother told it and as I heard it was true.  It is verified with evidence.  He was there.  He survived.  It is a great story.  I don’t brag about it much anymore, but neither do I shy away from repeating the story as I know it.  It is a story that can be passed down as certifiably authentic.  One I can tell my children and grandchildren.

 

In this jump down the rabbit hole the story was true.  It is a historical record and just some fanciful family story told around the dinner table.  It has been cool traveling down the genealogical rabbit hole . . . cool to see who I might run into.  Even cooler is when all the pieces of the family puzzle come together.

 

There is more to come!  Next, I encounter some of the stories on my father’s side.

 

(The picture accompanying this blog is a drawing by the artist Kills Two.) 

Down the Rabbit Hole, Part One

We tell stories as we remember them.  It is not always the same with each retelling of the story, but the story remains consistent in its telling and meaning.  The story might be told to illuminate some point, or it might present more questions than answers.  Whatever the case, stories are told and passed on through the generations if the young are willing to listen.  Often for the listener, stories take on a mythical power.  Whatever the case, the storyteller makes his or her best attempt to tell the story as it is remembered.  Age plays a role in the storyteller’s telling of the story . . . some of the rough edges are smoothed, details are forgotten, and gaps appear.  But the story is told.

Sometimes the myth is better than the reality when it comes to family stories. 

 

Growing up my mother told the story of her early childhood.  My mother was born and raised in the mountains of North Carolina.  Her father was Francis P. Ireland.  Her mother, Frances Elizabeth Kanipe.  She was the only child born in this brief marriage.  As the story goes, my maternal grandfather was Native American . . . the Cherokee Tribal Nation.  He was also a drunk and a womanizer.  This would be a major factor in the demise of the marriage . . . especially the womanizing, as my grandmother left the marriage and divorced my grandfather.  This took place while my mother was still a young child.  She was left with my great-grandmother to be raised on the family farm with several of her uncles.  My grandmother moved north to begin a new life promising to reunite with my mother once she got settled.

 

It never happened.

 

My great-grandmother and her sons raised my mother.  In the meantime, my grandmother remarried.  Her second husband was Elmer Francis Deibler . . . a gentle and quiet man.  While my mother was growing up in North Carolina, my grandmother started a new family.  Into this family were born three children: Alton or Uncle Buddy as I knew him; Aunt Janet; and, Kenneth, or Kenny.  I did not call Kenny “uncle” because we were too close in age.  We were born two years and four days apart.  He was more like an older brother than an “uncle”.  The point is that my grandmother never reunited with my mother as a “traditional” family when the opportunity was there.  I am not sure my mother ever said why . . . I know my grandmother never did.

 

The part in the story that was often emphasized was that my maternal grandfather was Native American . . . Cherokee.  It seems ol’ Francis P. Ireland was fifty percent Cherokee.  At least that is what we were told.  According to my mathematics that would have made my mother a quarter Native American.  It would have made my siblings and I . . . well, 12.5 percent Native American.  Now I may be off in my math, but I never said I was great at math.  Whatever the case, the point is that there was Native American blood in the family.

 

At least that is how the story goes.

 

Now genealogy is a funny rabbit hole to go exploring.  My mother’s maiden name was “Ireland”.  What is more “Irish” than “Ireland”?  Because of this I never wore green on Saint Patrick’s Day because I assumed that I was Irish . . . after all, my mother’s maiden name was “Ireland”.  A few years ago, jumping down the genealogy rabbit hole, I learned that “Ireland” is not Irish at all.  Nope . . . it is Scottish!  Ever since, I wear green on Saint Patrick’s Day.  I don’t like getting pinched.  The Scots and Irish are close, but they are different. But really, whose idea was it to have “Ireland” as a surname and it have nothing to do with the “Irish”?  That was a tough one to swallow as I loved to brag about my “Irish” roots.  Come on!  My mother’s maiden name was “Ireland” . . .

 

On well . . . back to the story of my Native American roots. 

 

Jumping down the rabbit hole I did some exploring and digging about Francis P. Ireland.  What did I discover?  Not much.  Ran into a lot of dead ends.  Bits and pieces were found, but nothing substantial that could enhance the story . . . to put some meat on the family skeleton.  There was the confirmation of my mother’s birth with her birth record between my grandmother and grandfather.  Beyond that, there was not a whole bunch to go on.

 

I attempted to look at tribal records, but that led nowhere . . . just deeper down the rabbit hole.  I asked questions of family members of my great uncles who helped raise my mother on the family farm.  Once again, not much information there beyond a diagram of the family tree confirming what I already knew.  No real evidence could be found about any Native American blood or connection.

 

Like many who jump down the genealogy rabbit hole, life comes along and pulls us in other directions.  I gave up the chase for information and decided to just embrace the story and myth . . . but, at the same time preface the information as being a “story” that is still being explored for its factuality.

 

About a year ago, my sister gave me one of those DNA test kits to find out what my real roots are.  It was a wonderful, but anxiety inducing gift.  I followed the instructions meticulously . . . I spit in the little tube, sealed it, packed it up in the postage box, and shipped it off to be analyzed.  Then I waited . . . waited a long time for the results. 

 

Then one day the results came in.  The truth of who I am genetically was about to be revealed once and for all.  I couldn’t wait!  This was the big moment.  The truth!  This is what I learned about my DNA:

 

England and Northwester Europe—48%

Scotland—31%

Wales—11%

Sweden and Denmark—5%

Germanic Europe—4%

Mali—1%

 

Amazing what one can learn from a little spit.  I am a smorgasbord of ethnicity pretty much centered in the land of Great Britain—90 percent!  There is a little Nordic thrown in there, some German (which I knew and expected more as “Keener” is German), and one percent Mali.  That one has piqued my interest as Mali is on the continent of Africa.  It probably shouldn’t as Africa is called the Cradle of Humankind and all of us probably have some percentage within us.

 

Though it was great to see what my genetic make-up was . . . I was crushed.  There was not one ounce of Native American blood in me.  Not one drop.  Shot the family story right out of the water!  Crushed the myth.

 

Though disappointed . . . it is okay.  Like my “Irish” roots, I now know my “Native American” roots.  They are non-existent.  I am not a Cherokee “princess” or in my case, “prince”.  For some reason, within the United States, family stories of indigenous ancestry seem to refer to a Cherokee princess.  You’ve heard the phrase, “My great-great-great-grandmother was a Cherokee princess.”  Sometimes it is true, but more often than not it is more fiction than fact.  Most of the stories are myth. Mine was.

 

As I said, that is okay.  It was a good story as it was told.  Yet, at the same time, it ripped open a whole new story line about the family.  Both my sister and I are curious as to why this story was perpetuated by the family.  What was the reason for this version of what happened.  What really happened. Inquiring minds—my mind—wants to know.  I have my ideas based on what I perceive of the times when the story began.  It involves scapegoats, prejudice, and bias . . .

 

It is a story that my sister and I continue to slowly pursue.  It is a story we may never know.  It might not be as good as the one we originally heard . . . it might be better.  All we know . . . all I know . . . is that the reality of the story blew the myth out of the water.  As they used to say on the X Files, “The truth is out there.”  I want to know.

 

So, I dig deeper down the rabbit hole.  This is all new to me.   I am thankful to those relatives who have shared their discoveries about the family with me.  I am thankful for them giving me directions in which to learn more.   I am discovering some remarkable stories about the family of which I was born as I climb higher and higher up the family tree.  The stories are wonderful, and sometimes mythic in their telling.  But they are told as they are known at this time and place . . . as they are remembered . . . as they are shared.

 

At least with me, my parents did not tell a lot of stories about family . . . or at least I did not ask.  But as I have entered into the realm of grandparenting I long for the stories about family that I can share with my children and grandchildren.  I want them to know their roots . . . both real and mythic . . . to know the truth.  As the adventure begins, there is much to learn.