Her Story: CIVIL WAR BULLETS AND VINTAGE POSTCARDS

CIVIL WAR BULLETS AND VINTAGE POSTCARDS

BY JAN KURTZ | SUBMITTED PHOTOS

Submitted photo.

For some, the death of an elder family member is recent. For others, it’s been years since the loved one passed. Regardless, someone is left with the task of distributing their lifetime of earthly goods. Early or late, this mission must be accomplished. We gaze into the mirror of genetics, startled to see our mother’s reflection staring back. Then, we survey the treasure trove of genealogy laid before us. What are we going to do with all this stuff? We have inherited our faces and the family heirlooms.

My parents downsized when they moved out of their home of 48 years. Despite selling Dad’s stamps, coins and gun collections, Mom and I were left with vintage postcards, scrapbooks from Auntie Wilma’s teaching days in the oneroom schoolhouse, and . . . what’s this? I open a two-inch square wooden box and gaze at three metal nuggets, two flattened and one shaped like a tiny rocket. The yellowing label with my father’s handwriting identifies them as Civil War bullets, Tennessee, found 1938.

“Without the label, I would have thrown them to the landscape rocks but now, I am holding history,” Kurtz says of her father’s Civil War bullets found 1938 in Tennessee.

Submitted photo.

Without the label, I would have thrown them to the landscape rocks but now, I am holding history. Wasn’t it enough of a struggle to sort through dainty doilies and patchwork quilts whose every square reminded Dad of its origin? “This gray wool came from my father’s winter pants and these pinstripe pieces used to be my college jacket,” he’d recall, thus catapulting scrap cloth into family stories circa 1910. Can’t give that away.

The slippery slope between stuff and sentimentality slows the sorting. This dissemination of a lifetime falls between house cleaning and an archeological dig. “My kitchen gadgets and linens can go to the Bolton Refuge House,” Mom helpfully suggested. It wasn’t until after her death that I discovered Sofas for Soldiers, donating wigs for cancer patients and hearing aid recycling. But, the little winged pin delegated to my Grandma Nellie during

World War II for scanning the northern Illinois skies in case of incoming Japanese bombers (yes, there was such a job), is guarded with Great- Great-Grandma Amanda’s wedding ring.

Kurtz says “the little winged pin delegated to my Grandma Nellie during World War II for scanning the northern Illinois skies in case of incoming Japanese bombers (yes, there was such a job), is guarded with Great-Great-Grandma Amanda’s wedding ring.”

Submitted photo.

Dating from 1905, Nellie’s name was penciled on postcards, chiding her for not writing, inviting her to dances, and asking if she’d help clean the church. There were flowery ones with poems from Grandpa, but the messages lacked romance. These hint of family character, and now represent period art plus collectible penny stamps.

When Mom died, it fell to me to empty her condo. Due to Covid, the usual work of packing dishes, dispersal of heirlooms, donations, and sorting did not include rafts of helpers. I pulled sweet grass baskets from the ceiling ledge and lined up pickle crocks on the floor. I pondered generations of pioneers building up homesteads, then leaving their hand-crafted rockers and spinning wheels to their adult children still occupying the family farm. That made sense. But now? A few generations out, are we expected to keep those and the curio cabinet full of salt cellars and 1898 World’s Fair Ruby glass?

“Back then, the people used the china, the embroidered tablecloths and the good silver on Sundays,” explained yet another consignment store owner. “Today, nobody wants the gravy carafe or leaded crystal pitcher.” However, when mere oatmeal cookies morphed into “Grandma Nellie’s oatmeal cookies,” we cherish the tattered recipe card. And, what’s in here? I lift the lid on the dinged-up tin picnic basket she used to carry meals for Grandpa’s bridge building crew and find. . . a dozen diaries.

As a writer, I scan each page hoping for stories. Like the postcards, I don’t find romance. I discovered how much she charged for eggs while supplementing their WWII income. She joined other women sewing quilts for new brides. Babies were born. Some died. Snow piles buried the railroad cars. The tracks were cleared by scores of shoveling men. Gas ration cards were tucked between the pages. Do I keep these mementos for the yet unborn future family genealogists? Is this baggage or cherished family lore? Am I a guardian or a hoarder?

Kurtz has been challenged with going through her deceased parents' things, trying to decide what to keep and what to donate. Items like this patchwork quilt whose every square reminded her dad of its origin. She recalls him saying, "This gray wool came from my father’s winter pants and these pinstripe pieces used to be my college jacket,” and thus determining she can’t give that away.

Submitted photo.

Kurtz has been challenged with going through her deceased parents' things, trying to decide what to keep and what to donate. Items like this patchwork quilt whose every square reminded her dad of its origin. She recalls him saying, "This gray wool came from my father’s winter pants and these pinstripe pieces used to be my college jacket,” and thus determining she can’t give that away.

Oh wait! Back home, I have 50-some journals – ranging from elementary school, through college, to marriage – oh, dear, some romance! I better do my own culling! Never mind the myriad photograph albums. Thankfully my predecessors only had a fist-full of dower family pictures, unlike our spewing of digital selfies. Will future generations view us as narcissistic cads, blotting out the Grand Canyon with our heads?

I’m in my fourth month of sorting. The Chippewa Historical Society took Mom’s wedding dress. An aspiring young artist was delighted to get my vintage baby cards. The 1835 German Bible still needs someone who understands German but, the Civil War bullets? Just a week after I mailed them to an enthusiastic collector, my daughterin-law mentioned that her mom might be interested.

Jan’s roots are in the north country, but Spanish continues to add extra dimensions to her life’s journey. Since retiring from teaching Spanish, her travels cycle between family, the Wisconsin cabin and the occasional foray across borders. She is writing a book about the surprising places and unexpected adventures opened to her by virtue of speaking Spanish. Find her writings at: www.janetkurtz.com.