I think we might need a little genealogy right about now--just enough to get a grasp on what I would call immediate family. The Weigel's and the Crowley's. Theoretically, I never had grandparents. They existed, of course, but three of the four had "shuffled off his or her mortal coil" before I was born. The fourth quietly rocked in a chair, positioned near a sunny window, but never spoke nor acknowledged anyone's presence. I remember visiting Kansas City when, after our arrival, we would be taken into the living room and presented to Grandmother Weigel. For me, it was as terrifying and choreographed as meeting the Queen at Buckingham Palace.
On Mother's side, Memorial Day required a trip to Pratt to visit her parents' graves. I don't think Daddy really liked to go--that was the era when Dodge City had motorcycle races and car races and even an occasional horse race on summer holidays, so he was, no doubt, missing one of those events when he drove her to Pratt. In fact, I don't remember him ever getting out of the car. Just sat and waited during her many stops. And, it was always an all-day affair...sometimes with dinner on the grounds. You know, it just occurred to me that I never wondered why she didn't drive herself to Pratt. I know that when I was finally old enough to be trusted not to embarrass her, Mary got a reprieve, stayed home and I was alone in the back seat.
Actually, visiting graves became an annual (or whenever the mood struck) life-time outing for Mother and me. It was one of the last things she gave up and, each visit was identical to the visit before. We followed the same route through the cemetery, while she made the same comments about the same people; always surprised at how long her friends had been dead. Much like I am every time I look at Daddy's grave and hers.
MATERNAL GRANDPARENTS:
My maternal grandparents were John Walter Crowley and Mary Agnes Ryan Crowley. They both died before I was born, although there are tiny black and white snapshots of them holding Mary when she was a baby. For me, sadly, they could be any older couple, but I know they're my grandparents because my Mom identified nearly everyone on the backs of most of her photos. Not on all of her photos, however, so we still have an unknown person here and there who could be the very one responsible for my questionable temperament, mousy brown hair, or weakness for sugar. We'll just have to guess.
I am serious in saying that I wish I'd actually heard their voices and inflections as they spoke. Did they discuss politics and, if so, who was their Trump of the day? I'm sure there was gossip. There's always gossip...but I missed it. Without all that, they're not as real as I would wish. Mother had stories, of course, but not as many as you might think. The few I remember were repeated again and again, and so it's a very thin biography I pass down to you.
Ancestry.com has offered glimpses of basic information on the grandparents. It tells us that Grandfather John Walter Crowley was born in March of 1870 in Iowa. That's it for birth records--they're a bit sparse from early-day Iowa. Ancestry agrees with Mother's story that John Walter's father (John Crowley) died in 1875 at the age of 25. We don't know how or why, but I've always heard it was an accident on the railroad. Grandfather John Walter turned five that year.
As to John Walter's mother, Ancestry is silent. I don't even know her name. I do know, per Mom, that she also died very young, and John Walter was orphaned before he was twelve. Did he have brothers and sisters? I think so, but I don't really know. Many of the photos under the bed are without labels or with first names only, and that's no help at all.
Mother told that sad story this way: John Walter's mother had been sick and knew she was going to die. On the morning in question she hugged and kissed her children good-bye as they left for school knowing she wouldn't see them again. When they returned later that day, she had indeed died. That story terrified me as well as made me terribly sad. She had (reportedly) Mastoiditis, an infection of the mastoid bone located just behind the ear. Before the era of antibiotics, Mastoiditis was the leading cause of death in children. (The infection, apparently, goes into the brain.) Even today it can be hard to treat...per Web MD.
My maternal grandmother, Mary Agnes Ryan, was born on September 9, 1871, in Lockport, Illinois. Mary Agnes' father was John Joseph Ryan (1836-1904) and her mother was the notorious Catherine Connor Ryan who sailed alone to America in the 1850s, wrapped only in Aunt Hettie's shawl to keep her warm. By the way, Aunt Hettie's shawl is here, carefully wrapped in tissue paper in the little chest that looks like a pile of suitcases. I haven't looked at it very much since Dr. C. told me that Anthrax spores could live for centuries. A word to the wise: View it, but don't wrap any of the grandchildren in it.
Great-Grandmother, Catherine Connor Ryan, was born in 1844 and died in 1918. I hadn't thought of it before, but I have to wonder if she was caught up in the Spanish Flu epidemic. She died while she was visiting Pratt, spending a month with Mary Agnes, John Walter, Helen and Mother. After her husband, John Joseph Ryan died in 1904, Catherine Connor Ryan simply floated from one adult child to the next, spending a month with each before beginning the circuit again. Mother has suggested that a month with Catherine Connor Ryan in the house was a very long time, and her father simply remained silent and hid behind the newspaper when he was home. Catherine Connor Ryan gave birth to a number of children, but Ancestry seems to skip one or two, and double up on others. My grandmother might have been the second child, but I don't know for sure. I counted nine children, before Catherine Connor shut it down by 1890.
Mother, I'm sure, was named after her (Catherine Connor...Catherine Constance) and, good Catholic that she was, told us often how Catherine Connor Ryan convinced the bishop of Salina to build a church in Caldwell, Kansas, simply by outlasting the poor man. She saw no reason why Caldwell didn't have a church, and she remedied the situation. I've always thought she was fascinating, maybe the tiniest bit on the strong-scary side, but you never forgot her. I have a distant cousin researching the Ryan roots, and she has come across two diametrically opposed stories on Catherine Connor's fate after reaching the United States. One: She worked as a housemaid somewhere; and, Two: She attended an elite private girls' school in Chicago. Hmm...interesting choice, take your pick.
In this case, it is Catherine Connor's husband, Great-Grandfather John Joseph Ryan about whom I know nothing. Since he died in 1904, two years before Mom was born, she knew very little. I don't think she ever mentioned him. Poor John Joseph...I assume he did support all of those kids, but that's about it. He was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania in 1836 and died in Caldwell, Kansas. Everything in between is a mystery.
Finally, let's meet Mom's mother, Mary Agnes Ryan Crowley. She who was born in Lockport, Illinois, died on her 68th birthday, which is pretty sad...and a little spooky because, as of this minute, I'm three years older than she was when she died. That happenstance makes me feel that I should get out of my chair and do something great and wonderful...but I never do. She died of a stroke or, the effects of a stroke. Her obituary would lead me to believe that she was something of a mover and shaker in Pratt--particularly focused on women's organizations and do-gooding. After her death, Mom spent time in Pratt helping her dad pick up the pieces, but I don't know how much or when. He sold the house within a relatively short period of time, and moved into the hotel in Pratt. Mary would have been turning one during this time frame and I remember Mom talking about her various baby-sitters when she was in Pratt looking after her Dad.
John Walter lived only a few more years, dying in 1943, and Mom and Daddy paid off their Oak Street House with an inheritance from him. I don't know, but I think he was a quiet man (his pictures look that way) and definitely a worrier...but, why not, after losing a Dad and Mom so young? Mom used to tell the story that every time he returned to Pratt, finishing his run, he slowed a little at a specific curve in the track where he could see his house on Main Street. Each time, he was checking to be sure it hadn't burned down. I'm sure I inherited Mary Agnes' blood pressure and John Walter's worry genes.
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