I’ve been delving into family history recently, and my mom has been answering questions about her fascinating lothario father (above, right), who died the year before I was born. From recent email:
Daddy was married 13 times, I think: once before he married Granny, then 2-3 times to Christine…. I have a letter here from Gran [from] when Daddy was running around with her when I was a baby. Perhaps it has a last name on it. Next (I think) he married a woman named Evelyn…. She may be the one he was married to when he was shot in the gut and nearly died. I think she shot him but don’t know for sure.
Oh, sure. Back when he was shot in the gut and nearly died. . . . I’m sorry, what? Every time I think we’ve exhausted all the homicidal events my family was messed up in, my mother trots out something like this.
Earlier this week she supplemented her stories with two boxes and a large padded envelope full of family photos, letters, assorted official documents, and other genealogical paraphernalia. I’ve spent the last few nights digging through all of it. I feel like a kid snooping through drawers, except I’m finding all the good stuff, and no one’s going to round a corner, flick on the light, and ask me what the hell I think I’m doing.
In lieu of the old Friday sign-offs, which I’ve been missing, I’ll post favorite pictures and whatnot for the next few months. As with all my personal ramblings, just skip ’em if you’re not interested.
The picture at the top of this post is of Mom’s parents. (Larger version here. According to the decorative cover, the photo was taken at Dallas’ “Italian Village,” 3211 Oak Lawn. Rooting around online, I found a postcard ad that says the place was “famous for spaghetti and big steaks with Idaho baked potato.”) Looks like a real rip-snorter of an evening, huh?
