Wednesday, December 10th, 2008
The Memoirs of Annie Crook La Shell, as transcribed and edited by her granddaughter Bethany S. LeBedz.
On July 23, 1913, in a home on the old Military Road in Jacksonville, Arkansas, a wee brown-haired, brown-skinned baby girl was born to James (Jim) Matthew Crook and Margaret (Maggie) Elvira Lamb Crook.
There is a discrepancy. According to my mother, the above is the way it is and all of my records are that way except for Social Security. My brother Tom, who is approximately ten years older than I am, took me to school on my first day and gave the above information, so of course all other records are the same. At that time, births were not required to be registered, and mine wasn’t. Come retirement time, no birth registered, a must-have for Social Security. Tom died several years previously and only my brother Sam, who is approximately eight years older than I am, remembers where and his memory is North Little Rock, Arkansas, and he refuses to sign unless I agree. He distinctly remembers pushing me around in my baby buggy, which I am sure is true. We moved there when I was about six months old and stayed ‘til I was maybe two or three.
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Friday, November 28th, 2008
When I was about the age you are now [Erik, CoevalBlog Admin], Japan was at war with America. The war had been carrying on for far too long, and it seemed obvious to me that it would never be won, even as a young girl. I’m sure it’s hard for people who see me now as an old Obaa-san to imagine that I once had a youthful face. But I digress. Our nation was weighed down by the idea that the gods were on our side, that what we were doing was divine and right. Everyone, not just the army but everyone I knew, was committed to do anything they could to help the war effort until the bitter end. I decided with some young girlfriends of mine that the best way in our power to help would be to bake cookies and bring them to the local Air Force base. We marched down to the gate of the base, all looking very cheerful in our little school uniforms. I walked at the front, holding a basket of cookies by my side.
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Wednesday, September 3rd, 2008
It was late April 1945 and the area around Munich, Germany was covered with snow from a freakish storm. I was leaning wearily against a wall while guarding 35 German prisoners, bone tired and my feet were killing me. My company had been on a task force speeding from Nuremberg to Munich, bypassing burning tanks and enemy batteries to outflank the Nazis. We launched a surprise assault on the city, marching all night through swampy fields and bombing autobahn roads. After a fierce firefight, we charged over a railroad bridge and helped capture Munich.
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Wednesday, August 20th, 2008
BY COLIN GEORGE MCINTOSH
As the bony fingers of the Great Depression stretched across Canada in the 1930’s, my carpenter father found himself out of work with two growing boys to feed. My mother had decamped to the States with my older sister, leaving my brother and me in my father’s custody. He was happy to have us with him, but filling us up three times a day was not an easy task. In that hardscrabble year of 1934, I was ten, Jim was twelve, and we were permanently ravenous.
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Tuesday, August 12th, 2008
One of the most pleasant years of my residency in the 1950’s was spent in Camarillo, California, in a mental institution. We residents at Hollywood Presbyterian needed training in women’s surgery, thus I found myself in a madhouse, doing just that.
I must say I was somewhat intimidated by the thought of spending the next year taking care of crazy ladies. I was a gynecologist, not a psychiatrist. My only experience with mentally ill patients had been earlier in medical school at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital in Washington D.C. At that time, it was not only the largest mental institution in the world but the wildest—Bedlam, USA. That was the extent of my psychiatric knowledge. No doubt they had showed us their most bizarre cases, but as a result, my memory of the experience rivaled movies like “The Three Faces Of Eve” and “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”
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Sunday, August 10th, 2008
Thank you Eric Weinstock who was the transcriber and son of the narrator of this story. Enjoy!
“I was born in 1925 in Middle Village, in Queens, New York. I was the youngest son of five children, but the youngest by almost 12 years. It was almost as if I had six parents I could go to; my father, my mother, my two sisters and two brothers. I was spoiled.
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Thursday, July 31st, 2008
Dear Readers,
Finding stories has proved more difficult than I expected. Some great stuff has been submitted for the site, but, it’s not exactly what I’m looking for; One guy from India wanted to send in a story about the ghosts his grandmother (claims) to see, someone else sent in a (potentially fake) depressing memoir and another guy submitted an excerpt from a published book (plagiarism).
So, I’ve got one fellow who’s interveiwing his father this week and should have something for us shortly. Keep your fingers crossed!
-Erik
Friday, July 25th, 2008
Hey Folks,
We’ve got a great story coming for Monday, Sit tight, hold onto your pants, and try not to drink too much over the weekend, this is going to be one of our best yet!
-Erik
Wednesday, July 23rd, 2008
Michelle sent in another 2 part short story on her grandmother’s first year of marriage. It’s truly a great story; amazing to see how different life was. One can only imagine what it would be like for two newlyweds to live such a lifestyle today. Enjoy!
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Monday, July 21st, 2008
Here, here! We have Coevalblog’s first post. This one was sent in and transcribed by, Michelle Schultz, from her 93 year old grandmother. Thank you Michelle, we look forward to hearing many more great stories from your Grandmother in the future!
“When I was young, the only mode of transportation was horse and buggy or wagon. There were not any of those new fangled “iron horses” around until I was a little older. We drove the horses everywhere we had to go. It beat walking.
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