Life had etched itself deeply into her face, and her fondness for a drink and too much dessert had done her no favors. If she laughed, I don't recall it, and she had deep, discolored bags under her eyes that dragged her expression down into that of the perpetually aggrieved.
And she cheated at cards - even Solitaire. My father, her son, made a board for her to lay across the arms of the upholstered chair she claimed as hers when she visited, and she'd play endless hands of Solitaire while seated there. Now I would guess it was because when he was at work, she was largely ignored, and found a means to amuse herself until it was time to go up to her room on the third floor and "say her beads," which really meant have a few shots from the bottles she'd order from the liquor store - always trying to meet the delivery boy at the door so my mother wouldn't know how many she went through in her two-week stays.
Sometimes she was able to talk me into playing cards with her - Gin, or Hearts, or even Go Fish. But she cheated, somehow taking pleasure in beating a 6 year old at a silly card game, until one day, in a fit of anger, I kicked her in the shin of one long, elegant leg. It left a bruise, a big ugly one. Because as I know now, she was dying, even then.
Barbara, from photos I have seen, faded early, but had, in her youth, been stunning. She was tall for a young woman in the early 1900s, and the time-bleached black and white photos didn't disguise her upright posture, her imperious look, or her lovely figure. The grey hair she wore close-cropped and curled when she had been my grandmother was luxurious and, in early photos, stylishly worn in a chignon at the back of her neck - though it was hard to get a sense of the color, and of course ladies always wore hats.
My mother told me once that she had kept my father in her room until he was seventeen, leaving the other bedroom in the small flat she lived in to her daughter, my father's half sister, Jeanne - the pampered, attractive, chatty daughter seven years my dad's senior, who always wore too much perfume and dressed so that it was clear to us all how much wealth she had married. I was repelled by my mother's report of my dad's having to sleep in his mother's room, and my sister's later clarification that it was actually in her bed, until one day it dawned on me that she was simply trying to make sure her daughter married well - very well - and would never also be a lonely widow with two children living in her cousin's house and getting old far too early and too quickly.
That's when I decided to look for some trace of her - and found my grandmother's letters.
* * * * *
Barbara wasn't the most prolific saver I've ever seen, but she was a careful librarian. Things were in order, pictures were labeled and dated, and she'd kept her treasures in dry and sturdy boxes. It must have been my father who saw to it that her mementos were preserved - I'm sure had it been up to my mom they would have been "lost" in one move or another. But, like most things to do with Barbara or her husband, I inherited her things when my parents downsized the last time.
I suppose it was the piano and the mantle clock that made that happen. I was the musician in the family, and from the time I could climb up on the mahogany bench, I'd spent a good deal of my play time sitting at it, making noise, picking out melodies, and learning to read music.
The piano was a parlor grand - about 6 feet long. Not a big concert grand, and not as small as a "baby," it had a simple elegance, and I learned later from playing other pianos, a delightful springy "touch," that was probably partly the careful craftsmanship, and partly the fact that it had real ivory keys, something piano manufacturers in later years couldn't provide. But in 1911, the Knabe piano company in New York City, who made the piano for my grandmother and her first husband, had used all of the finest materials - and 80 years later when the piano became mine, though the keys were a little yellow and worn, and the finish on the sides slightly bleached where the sun had shone on it, it was probably much the same as it had been when it was delivered to the newlyweds.
When I got the boxes from my parents, I stored them away in the basement, barely glancing into them, so I had little idea what was there. But now I was on a quest for my grandmother, so I dragged them out, stacked them in the living room, and set to work. I opened the first large box, a plastic tub, so it must have been my dad's hands which had buried Barbara's treasures deep in the safety of bug-proof, water-proof containers. And right on top was a photo, from 1931, posed and painted and looking for all the world like F. Scott Fitzgerald and a flirty fan - my dad and his half sister, Jeanne. His eyes had been painted the same faded denim blue I remembered, a twinkle in them even at 13. But his cheeks still had the roundness of boyhood, though I could see - remembering the photo of his own father he kept on his dresser - the man he would become. He was the image of his dad later in life, which must, I realized, have been both a joy and a wound to my grandmother.
Below the photo, an 8x10 in the photographer's cardboard envelop that used to be the hallmark of a portrait photograph, was the first album.
I opened it, and in a plastic liner, addressed to a location in Germany, was the first letter. It had been written by Barbara's sister, Justina - a woman I had always heard spoken of as "Aunt Teeny."
The ink was faded almost brown, the paper thin and delicate, and every inch of it was covered with the self-conscious, carefully scripted handwriting of another era. Both sides of the paper were written on, and the writer had even turned the paper and written in the margins, no doubt to save postage rather than add another page for what started out as a few words and eventually curled around the entire paper's margins.
"July 12, 1909
Dear Barba (did I know my tall and crabby grandmother had ever been called a pet name?),
I hope you are well and enjoying your studies! How I envy you and Mary, traveling and pursuing your musical careers! I have found all the reviews of your performance at The Met that I could locate, and have saved them for you. I think you must have impressed the school, and would be welcomed back on the stage there should you choose.
Neuschwanstein as you have described it is something I would delight to see! I cannot imagine such a place, and your postcard appears more as a child's fairy tale illustration than a real castle. (The Fairy Tale King, Ludwig of Bavaria, had built this mountain palace - I have a tin box decorated with its image and had dreamed as a child of going to see it. Why did my grandmother never tell us about her visit, I wonder?) I hope that your German is more polished than my own - I am not certain I could hold a proper conversation, let alone study in Berlin.
Have you found any further information about Mama's home in Bavaria or the Schwabenbauer family? What you have shared with us about the Schneider family and Father's history is quite fascinating. Such a different life to our own. I wonder how he managed to leave his homeland and start a new life here, ending up in little Oil City, Pa. Your description of the clothing and festivals set us all laughing. It is hard to think of Father in leiderhosen dancing in the streets!
Things here are as ever. That young man, Harry Waslohn, I believe you met him, continues to court me, and I do admit to finding him most agreeable company. He escorted me to a church picnic, for which I prepared far too much food! But I was uncertain about his preferences, though it appears my meatloaf sandwiches were a favorite. He brought a large bottle of beer, which we shared. I suppose my fondness for the stuff is a result of our Bavarian roots?
And do tell us more about your young man, Dr. Dennis? What a glamorous couple you must make, he a surgeon, and you an opera star!
Please write to us as often as may be, we do enjoy your letters and picture postal cards.
With much love - your sister,
Justina"
I wandered over to the piano after reading the letter, and rummaged around in the mahogany music stand that was its match. Pulling out of folder marked "Voice," I found selection after selection of yellowing sheet music, some of it marked with notes - sometimes dated - of improvements to be made or when it was performed.
I remember sitting with my grandmother at the piano, in our big old Edwardian house in Buffalo. The piano was in the second area of the parlor, between the front section with its fireplace and bow window, and the dining room, which could be shut away with a pocket door with its mysterious latch that when pressed sprang out to release a handle.
She didn't play much, though she did sometimes watch over my playing. It was the one thing I did she seemed to approve of, and she would sometimes hum along. Once, when I played a march, she got up from the bench and marched back and forth across the room. She raised her hand to her forehead in a military salute, and eventually, began to cry, though never taking her hand down to wipe away the tears. I didn't understand why, but I felt I had to keep playing it until she finally tired and sat back down.
"I'm a military widow, you know," she said to me. I had no idea what that meant.
"A war widow," she explained, making me even more confused. The odd thing was that as curious a child as I was, I didn't ask her, nor did I ask my parents. I knew that my dad had never known his father, that nobody talked much about him, and that my grandmother liked to march and tell us she was a War Widow. It seemed, somehow, to be some sort of forbidden topic.
*******
The next pages of the book contained programs from The Metropolitan Opera, and a program from the Institute of Musical Art. I opened this last one first. The program was for a recital of the first class at the Institute in 1907, performed at The Met. My grandmother would have been 21. She was featured prominently as a mezzo soprano playing Carmen. I know next to nothing about opera - I think I had seen two, being forced to go in high school. They weren't bad, but didn't excite me the way the piano did. Still, I had to find out more.
I found and played a clip from Carmen on YouTube - The Habanera. And suddenly, there she was in my imagination: Barbara standing in the parlor by the carved newel post of the staircase in the Buffalo house. I wondered now if she didn't choose the spot to frame herself against the two-story stained glass window - it was the kind of dramatic gesture she liked. Her speaking voice was nothing special, if anything a little waspish. But when she sang her entire personality seemed to alter. Head up, eyes fixed, hands moving with the music. I could hear her singing the famous song, and at the same time I wanted to giggle, as I probably did when I was little. Opera was Mighty Mouse, not high drama.
Next I looked up The Institute. It turns out it was the predecessor school to Julliard - and suddenly my admiration for Barbara shot up a few points. "...on the premise that the United States did not have a premier music school and too many students were going to Europe to study music..." the Institute opened in the former Lenox Mansion, Fifth Avenue and 12th Street in New York City.
Now I was sidetracked yet again: I'd not spent a lot of time in Manhattan, but 5th Avenue wasn't a bad address, though more or less commercial in my recollection. Back in the Revolutionary War era, this part of the city was still farmland - and the property had been bought by a Scot from Kirkcudbright, Robert Lenox, who emigrated in 1783 and made a nice fortune in the East India Trade. His son James became one of the wealthiest of New Yorkers, and a bit of an eccentric collector. He built the mansion, and in his library was the first copy of the Guttenberg Bible in North America, all the known editions of Milton's Areopagitica and Paradise Lost, and first editions of Shakespeare's plays. The place must have fairly reeked of ghosts and the arts. It went through several hands before it was bought for the music school. What I didn't have was any idea of how my grandmother had ended up going there. I tried to conjure up a 20 room Gothic revival building with Italian marble fireplaces, frescoed ceilings, and gracious rooms - but all I could see was Barbara singing at the staircase.
And then I heard my mother sneering: "You're just like your grandmother McInerey. Always the drama."
And then this bit caught my eye: "The Institute moved in 1910 to 120 Claremont Avenue in the Morningside Heights neighborhood of Manhattan, onto a property purchased from Bloomingdale Insane Asylum," and I dissolved into laughter.
*****************************
In the next plastic sleeve was a card, carefully written, announcing the marriage of Barbara to Bernard Dennis in St. Ludwig's Church in Berlin, March 12, 1910. Pressed flowers tied with a ribbon, a picture postcard of the red brick Gothic church. Beneath that was an announcement in the Oil City paper indicating that the young couple would be honeymooning on a tour of "the continent." And in a cardboard photographer's presentation folder was a formal portrait of the pair: both looked a bit glum by today's giddy wedding photo standards, but then I suppose standing for a long time while a photographer fiddled with equipment and your feet hurt from too-small rented shoes wasn't a lot of fun. Her gown was high-waisted with a dropped over-skirt trimmed in a wide panel of lace, a squared neckline, and a bouquet of long-stemmed white flowers were held as if dropping from her hand by her side. He stood next to her in a suit too short for his long arms, his dark hair slicked back from his forehead. Oddly, they seemed to be gazing in different directions. Beneath that a treasure: notes from Barbara herself she wrote on her travels.
To trace their travels I had to look up a map of Germany, but Germany wasn't just "Germany" in 1910 - it was big, and powerful, and known more commonly as "The Imperial State of Germany." It was sort of divided into smaller states, along the lines of the US, which had been the holdings of German princes, and had a unique way of speaking German. My grandmother's objective, after enjoying the cultural life of Berlin (in the state of Brandenberg - I immediately thought of The Brandenberg Concerto) was to see Bavaria, where her family was from, and then on to any young person's paradises at the time: Vienna, Paris, Rome, and the Riviera.
From her not-very-precise, somewhat breathless, handwritten notes, mostly written on scraps of hotel paper, or the margins of musical programs (she evidently didn't have a diary), the only thing Bernard appreciated about Germany was its excellent medical education. Studying advanced surgical techniques there, the young doctor liked their precision but otherwise found the Germans harsh and superior, especially to an Irishman like himself. Barbara's absorbed fascination with Bavaria's Fairy Tale castles and leiderhosen left him cold, though he did enjoy the beer, and while he wasn't the amorous, romantic husband I think Barbara had hoped for, by the time they reached Rome in the late fall of 1910, she was pregnant.
Another letter from Teeny.
"Dearest Barba,
How thrilling to hear of your news! Please don't carry on about your singing career - how much more exciting that you and Bernard will be starting your family. Your music will always be with you, to bring you happiness, and perhaps one day you can resume it professionally. Mary's studies continue, so she will remain in Germany for another year. However, we are looking forward to your return and the birth of your sweet baby.
In other news, my Mr. Waslohn has asked for my hand, and father and mother approve. We eagerly await your return so that our small ceremony can be held with you as my matron of honor! The exact date is to be determined, but be assured it will be as soon as ever you are with us again. (Of course my grandmother wouldn't have waited for her parents' permission or approval before marrying! Neither would I, and as my mom reminded me so often, I was just like her.)
Please take good care of yourself as you enjoy your final days in Europe. I have been collecting all your postcards and visiting these stunning venues in my heart as I study them.
Much love from your sister,
Justina
************************************************
The next pages were some menus from the ship home, and a newspaper clipping of her arrival in the Oil City paper's society column. By then her father and brother-in-law had made some money wild-catting oil, and were established in the community. And she had been to Europe, after all. It was all so fussy and formal, but I considered her imperiousness when we were children - though she also played the "poor war widow" card, and it started to make sense. She'd been a talented young singer when women could finally perform as artists on stage. Her family was new to comfort if not wealth and she had been sent to Europe to develop her talent. She'd met the man all young women want to marry - a doctor - and was returning home, triumphant. For a woman of her era, she mattered, and all on her own. She must have hated it that we didn't know. But the odd thing is, she never really told us, either.
************************************************
The next few sleeves were an unsorted collection of birth announcements, cards and notes to the new parents, a formal photo of the mother and newborn, and a baptismal announcement. The baby was Jeanne, named, my sister told me years later, for Jean d'Arc, with whose grand and romantic story my grandmother must have romantically identified. The young couple moved to Buffalo and into a house on what I recall from childhood as being a fairly nice, wide, tree-lined street near Delaware Park. Buffalo at that time was a thriving, beautiful city with old money, new money, industry, parks, museums and must have been a welcome step up from Oil City, though there she was somebody, and in Buffalo, she was simply the wife of a doctor, even though that was at least somewhat respectable for the Lady Barbara.
Another letter from Teeny sits in its own sleeve, evidently much read, and with what appear to be water or perhaps tear drops on it.
"April 21, 1913
Dear, dear Barba,
Do not take on so! I know that Bernard is not the most kindly of husbands, but then, which men are? I often think when my lady friends swoon over their men it is merely to show-off and make themselves look grand and enviable. My own Harry, a German temperament if ever there was one, is a good man, but not affectionate, and can be quite harsh. In fact, the only time he was ever quite doting was when our little Robert passed away so quickly. He cried on my shoulder every night for a week. Do try to find it in your heart to forgive the doctor; his burdens from the surgery must be great.
But enough about that! Barba, I have some good news - Harry has found work in Buffalo, and we shall be moving soon. We are expecting again, as I believe I told you, and we would like to be settled as soon as may be. We will, if we can afford to, look to find a home as near to you as we can. I will so much enjoy seeing little Jeanne, and you of course. And when our little one comes, the cousins will be the best of chums! Though of course I will miss our sister. Mary is such good company, and while she has many music students I do believe she would rather be married with a family of her own. She has a beau, though there has been no talk of marriage yet. Mother does well and stays busy. A sturdy Deutsche frau!
Please do write to me and tell me that all is well with you and Bernard. He may be stern, but I am sure he loves you and Jeanne dearly.
Much love from your sister,
Teeny"
So, this letter, as it turns out, told a bigger story. My mom told my sister - which sounds like the beginning of a bad joke - that Barbara and Bernard were not exactly a match made in heaven. Big egos both, she was dramatic and he was cool, and I can only imagine how they must have infuriated one another. Evidently things reached a terrible moment one evening after Jeanne had been undisciplined (she was only 2, after all), dinner wasn't ready on time, Bernard was tired and feverish, and Barbara was in a snit. She pulled out her rosary in her typical gesture of holier-than-thou piety. Bernard did the unthinkable: he pushed her to her knees in a fit of anger and shouted "You better pray for me! I'm going to die!"
I don't know what would have gone through the young mother's head. Of course, had I been Barbara, probably she tossed it off as a dramatic remark she'd make when she was angry. In later years, she would call my father or my aunt and threaten to bite her wrists if they didn't come and attend to her immediately - she wanted to die and evidently biting her wrists was the only method available to her, or at least, the only one that would make a sufficient impression.
The next sleeve contained the sad end to this chapter. Bernard Dennis was, indeed, dying. He had cut his hand during surgery, infecting it, and the infection had spread to his blood resulting in an incurable sepsis. He had known for quite some time that he was going to die, as there was no cure for blood poisoning at the time, though he must certainly have tried every method available. How could she not have noted his deteriorating condition? He might have felt unusually tired, or seen inflammation at the site of the wound. Certainly he'd have known he'd cut himself during the surgery, and depending on the nature of the surgery being performed - it might have been a death sentence from that moment on. Over time, he might have developed a fever, or felt cold. And gradually he'd have gone downhill with strange symptoms and an increasing knowledge that he was not going to live to see his daughter grow up, himself and his wife grow old and see their grandchildren. He returned to Oil City, where he died on July 31, 1913 and then was buried in Rochester at the Holy Sepulchre Cemetery. He was 36 years old. My grandmother was now 27.
I read the clipping again and again, and wondered how she felt. She was so young. But no, in 1913, she was verging on her sell-by date, if not beyond. She was almost 30, and had a child, and was not rich. It was a blow hard for me to wrap my mind around. Times are so different today. Then I began to wonder - maybe Barbara's threat's to bite her wrists weren't just a scene she was playing out for attention? How would she have felt, even if Bernard wasn't her soulmate, facing a life alone with a baby daughter and a lost career in opera?
I remember when the daughter of my parents' neighbor divorced, at 27, with two small children. A young woman with a college education, she had little to fear. But my father had darkly hinted that she had better hurry and find a husband "before it was too late." He seemed more angry than concerned, and his remark took me by surprise.
I turned to the next sleeve.
*********************************************
It was a muddle of scraps and photos, cuttings and notes. Barbara had evidently lived for a time in Buffalo, eking out a living on what remained of Bernard's estate. It apparently wasn't large enough to support her and Jeanne long, or she wasn't good at managing her money, so by spring 1914 there was a clipping from the newspaper with an ad for surgical equipment to be sold by the widow of a "renowned surgeon in Buffalo." There was a card from a "Dr. Edward Glenn McInery" of Buffalo, a photo of a slightly haggard but still lovely Barbara holding a toddler by the hand, and a photo of the little girl holding a doll and smiling a practiced but lovely child's smile. There was a small appointment book with singing engagements and lessons noted in it - Barbara sang in churches and for social engagements, and taught singing to young ladies, no doubt augmenting her money from Bernard, but in the most dignified of ways. There were also menus from three or four Buffalo night spots - evidently Barbara got out once in a while - and household notes from Teeny. It appears Barbara and Jeanne moved in with Teeny and her husband and kept house with them while they awaited their child. A birth announcement was in the pile - Teeny had had a girl they named Marion.
Amid the cuttings from the Buffalo papers was an announcement that on May 7th, 1915, the RMS Lusitania was sunk, and 128 Americans aboard had died.
******************************************
There was a gap in the record. Oh, sleeves were filled, but mostly with menus and programs, greeting cards and an occasional letter, and evidence of Barbara having lived something of a social life, until I uncovered a letter that indicated Barbara had returned to Oil City, apparently to take up residence with her mother, Theresa.
August 23, 1916
Dearest,
I am so sorry that you are no longer with us, and even more greatly distressed if Harry caused any turmoil in your leaving. He is not a patient man, and the apartment is small - and with little Marion so active and now walking, it was too much for him. I hope you understand. And of course, Mama needs you, too. With Mary to wed, she has much on her mind and needs you so.
I have no doubt but that your young man, Glenn McInery, will continue to court you. I know that you worry about your age difference, but Barba, you look so young and elegant, and he is obviously quite smitten! And your fussing about Jeanne - she is an adorable child, so well-behaved and charming. How he could not love her as well is beyond anything!
Now I must hurry. Marion is stirring from her nap, and will want to be off to play in the park. I will write again as soon as may be. And if your young man asks after you - as he always seems to do when we pass by him on the way by his offices - I will let you know immediately.
Much love to you, Mary, and Mama,
Teeny
Around the edges of the letter, in what I now knew as Barbara's hand, was the word "War. War. War." repeated over and over again. Of course - Glenn McInery was a young man, in his 20s, and World War I was raging. The United States wasn't in it, but 1916 was an election year, and Roosevelt had called the Lusitania sinking an act of piracy.
War. War. War.
*****************************************
In the next sleeve were several cards and letters, carefully folded and organized in order by date. Nothing else in the book were so carefully tended. So I knew before I looked that they were from Glenn. Or Edward. Edward Glenn.
A card, in early September, 2016
Missing YOU
A heart carved on a tree with a bird carrying a banner and his name entered into it. In shades of blue and grey.
A note, mid September, 2016 (His handwriting was very precise and neat - funny, I wondered if my father had inherited this trait from his father. My dad's handwriting was perfect - alignment, letter formation and size. And artist's hand. Curious.)
Dear Barbara,
I am looking forward to visiting with you and your family on the week-end. I think of you often, and miss our enjoyable evenings, and hearing your voice. I intend to motor down Friday, leaving about noon, so you can expect me early evening if all goes well.
Fondly,
Glenn
A Halloween card.
Whoooo misses Yooo?
Me that's Whoooo
With an owl perched in a tree and a little ghost flitting by holding a pumpkin with a smiling face.
A note, mid November, 2016
Dear Barbara,
I am so pleased you have included me in your Thanksgiving holiday, and look forward to spending a nice long weekend with you and your family. I am anxious to see you again and must say that I miss you a great deal. We can celebrate the re-election of President Wilson, and the hopes that our little nation will remain peacefully out of that dreadful war.
Your boy,
Glenn
Another note, December, 2016
Dearest,
I will miss you greatly this Christmas, but I do have some important business to transact out of town immediately after the holiday, as you know, so I will not be at home. I am looking forward, however, to our first New Year's together. Mother is pleased that you and Jeanne will be staying with her, and has planned many outings during your visit - and insists on being the child care while you and I are out on the town! Buffalo's night spots have missed us. I will await your train on December 27th with great anticipation, my dear.
And perhaps there will still remain something for you under the Christmas tree!
Much love from
Your boy, (my mom told me once he called himself "her boy," which might have irked her some, since he was about 3 years her junior - and a woman of her years may not have found that amusing... though later she referred to him sometimes as "the boy")
Glenn
*************************************************
I tried to picture the young man. There were only two images of him that I had ever seen. One was a formal portrait my father kept of him on his highboy dresser. He was dressed in his Army uniform, looking serious, rather handsome and more than a little like my father. The other was a group photo of him and his Army unit, stationed, as the hand-lettered caption read, "somewhere in the United States" (apparently they couldn't divulge their location). He's sitting on the ground, looking relaxed, happy, and with a smirking smile on his face that I recognized from his son's. He looks like laughter in human form.
*****************************************
In the next sleeve were several cards and letters, carefully folded and organized in order by date. Nothing else in the book were so carefully tended. So I knew before I looked that they were from Glenn. Or Edward. Edward Glenn.
A card, in early September, 2016
Missing YOU
A heart carved on a tree with a bird carrying a banner and his name entered into it. In shades of blue and grey.
A note, mid September, 2016 (His handwriting was very precise and neat - funny, I wondered if my father had inherited this trait from his father. My dad's handwriting was perfect - alignment, letter formation and size. And artist's hand. Curious.)
Dear Barbara,
I am looking forward to visiting with you and your family on the week-end. I think of you often, and miss our enjoyable evenings, and hearing your voice. I intend to motor down Friday, leaving about noon, so you can expect me early evening if all goes well.
Fondly,
Glenn
A Halloween card.
Whoooo misses Yooo?
Me that's Whoooo
With an owl perched in a tree and a little ghost flitting by holding a pumpkin with a smiling face.
A note, mid November, 2016
Dear Barbara,
I am so pleased you have included me in your Thanksgiving holiday, and look forward to spending a nice long weekend with you and your family. I am anxious to see you again and must say that I miss you a great deal. We can celebrate the re-election of President Wilson, and the hopes that our little nation will remain peacefully out of that dreadful war.
Your boy,
Glenn
Another note, December, 2016
Dearest,
I will miss you greatly this Christmas, but I do have some important business to transact out of town immediately after the holiday, as you know, so I will not be at home. I am looking forward, however, to our first New Year's together. Mother is pleased that you and Jeanne will be staying with her, and has planned many outings during your visit - and insists on being the child care while you and I are out on the town! Buffalo's night spots have missed us. I will await your train on December 27th with great anticipation, my dear.
And perhaps there will still remain something for you under the Christmas tree!
Much love from
Your boy, (my mom told me once he called himself "her boy," which might have irked her some, since he was about 3 years her junior - and a woman of her years may not have found that amusing... though later she referred to him sometimes as "the boy")
Glenn
*************************************************
I tried to picture the young man. There were only two images of him that I had ever seen. One was a formal portrait my father kept of him on his highboy dresser. He was dressed in his Army uniform, looking serious, rather handsome and more than a little like my father. The other was a group photo of him and his Army unit, stationed, as the hand-lettered caption read, "somewhere in the United States" (apparently they couldn't divulge their location). He's sitting on the ground, looking relaxed, happy, and with a smirking smile on his face that I recognized from his son's. He looks like laughter in human form.
Oddly, Barbara kept no other photos of him. I wondered why, since he was a good looking man - not in a classic sense, perhaps, but in a fun, happy-go-lucky way, with a gleam in his eye that told you he was not just a wit but a serious mind. And his choice of careers underscored that.
*************************************************
*************************************************
The next sleeve contained little, but I knew enough to read into the empty space.
There was a clipping from the newspaper that the United States had declared war on Germany, April 6, 1917. I tried to imagine the conflict in Barbara's heart - her family was German. She had surely loved Germany. Among the things my mother passed along to me were two etchings Barbara had purchased while she was there; a village scene, and a castle high in the mountains. She used to teach me words and phrases in German when she was feeling friendly and grandmotherly. And yet now Germany was the enemy.
Then there was a wedding announcement. Barbara and Edward Glenn married on August 28th, 1917. He was 28, she was 31. They were married in the Grace Methodist Church - which I guess explains the lack of photos and other happy memorabilia. Devout German Catholics, her family would not have been pleased that she was marrying "outside the church." In fact, thinking about it myself, I had to wonder how she brought herself to do it, and why she couldn't persuade him to marry her in the Catholic Church. She was eligible - she was a widow, not a divorcee. I suppose, though, marrying again at all was a prize. Maybe that was the story right there.
I wondered, too, whether their marriage had been one of happy conviction, or the knowledge that he might be soon called to active duty. In that same sleeve was a letter from the State Committee for Council of National Defense for Pennsylvania, Western Division, dated November 28th, 1917, with his commission as a First Lieutenant in the Army. It included a provision that he would not be called to active duty until March, 1918.
There was a clipping from the paper, and for all that Barbara was known in the Oil City, it was a modest announcement, and simply indicated that the couple had married and would be setting up their home in Buffalo, New York, where he would be practicing medicine and she would be teaching voice. And, looking a bit forlorn, there was a lone pressed white flower, tied with a yellowing silk ribbon, that Barbara must have carried down the aisle.
***********************************************
A letter from Mary, Barbara's next younger sister.
JMJ (here was a clue: as Catholics, especially devout ones, it was common to write "JMJ" at the top of letters, or in school for children to put it at the top of papers. It meant "Jesus Mary Joseph" - the Holy Family. So Barbara had been strong-willed to stand up to that kind of piety and marry the man of her choice, against what must have been objections and worry from her faithful family. Or she really loved Her Boy!)
January 5, 1918
Dear Barbara,
I am happy to share with you the news that Milt (her husband), Glenna and I will be moving to Buffalo within the month as Milt has gotten a very fine job. Mother will join us as soon as we are settled, and we hope to find a home not too far from you and Glenn. We miss having our family close. This terrible war should be warning to us all to love God and our families. I am only grateful to God that Milt is a family man and not likely to be called to fight. I hope that you are saying your beads, and attending Mass. God will understand your marriage, I am sure, for while it is irregular, it is not a sin as long as you remain faithful, and bring your children up as true Catholics.
I have also shared our good news with Teeny, who tells me that you and Glenn live not too terribly far from her and Harry, and that Jeanne and Marion enjoy one another as cousins do.
Do give our best to Glenn, and take care of yourself.
With love,
Mary Gertrude
************************************************
The next sleeve was another muddle of odd things. I guess when Barbara was emotionally taxed her limited powers of organization went completely out the window.
There were clippings from the newspaper about the Spanish Influenza, which had first broken out in Kansas among soldiers stationed there, and about its rapid spread. It looked like Glenn might have been keeping some of them with medical interest, as they were paper-clipped together in order by date, with underlined passages about the symptoms and speed of the spread.
There were household notes, mostly reminders from Glenn to Barbara to order something from the grocer, or change a light bulb, with silly hearts and love messages attached. There was a Valentine's Day card from Glenn, and a hand-drawn one to Momma from Jeanne. It was hard to see Barbara in this light - a woman who could instigate a fight between her son and his wife, my parents, and then sit back and enjoy the fireworks, a fight that escalated to a physical slapping and scratching, while the children, her grandchildren, my sister and I, cried - as she calmly asked the youngest if she planned to eat her dessert. Could she once have been light-hearted and silly, loving and funny and cheerful?
Then this: Glenn was required to report for active duty. His deferment, based upon his commission and agreement, had expired, and doctors were needed to treat the growing pandemic, both here and abroad. The notice was dated May 21, 1918.
And finally, a note, in Barbara's carefully childlike hand, that she had an appointment with an Obstetrician-Gynecologist on June 4, 1918.
************************************************
The next sleeve contained letters from Glenn to Barbara. They were in brief but affectionate, and she had organized them more or less by date, beginning in late May when he had evidently reported for duty.
They were mostly jolly notes. I think I would have liked the man - and somehow his sense of humor had passed along to the son who never knew him. He would set up an elaborate story to tell her about camp, only to have it be a punch-line ending before he signed off, always with love.
It seemed he could not tell her where he was, but on their first anniversary, August 28th, 1918, he reported to Chickamauga Park, GA, for Medical Officer's Training. When he first reported in May, he was put to work dealing with the outbreak of the Spanish Influenza, which had begun sometime in February, 1918. By the time Glenn was called into active duty, the flu had run its first deadly wave, and seemed to be tapering off, though he was soon busily treating patients in poor mining towns.
From one of his letters in late spring: "I stepped into a home in this small mining town, Barbie, and the floor of the kitchen was dirt! It was a step up into the parlor, where a single pot-bellied stove was heat for the entire place. Around it, sitting in an assortment of wooden chairs and stools, were men and boys of all ages, one toothless young woman cuddling a tiny infant I knew would not last. Two of the seven or eight men were coughing and feverish, and on a cot toward the front of the parlor was my patient. It was far too late; the young woman was blue and gasping. I could do nothing to help her but urge her family to open the windows from time to time to freshen the air, and wash their hands often, and keep the baby away from the sick girl. I told the two sick men to isolate themselves, drink fluids and try to stay quiet. I watched them passing a bottle, and knew this wouldn't happen. My aides and I washed up as well as could be and left the house, dropping our soiled masks into the contamination sack, and continuing on to the next home.
It frustrates us so, dearest, to be unable to do anything to aid these poor souls. We have no medicine, no magic, no hope, to offer them.
But I remain healthy and strong, and curiously certain that this very illness will end the war before it kills too many more. Sing to Jeanne, dangle your prayer beads, and dress every day as if it's the day I'm to come home - and perhaps it will be!
With love from your boy,
Glenn"
***********************************
A postcard on October 15, 1918 from Harrisburg, PA, to Mrs. E. G. Henry.
"Tuesday Morning
My dear Family
I arrived here at 6 o'clock, had a fairly good sleep and have just had breakfast. Will leave here at 7:55 and shall then write as soon as possible. Hope you are all well as when I left you.
Love to all
Your Boy,
EG"
On Oct. 27th 1918 he shipped out from Hoboken, N.Y. on the Leviathan, bound for England, and ultimately, France. Glenn wrote Barbara a jaunty postcard, showing a soldier kissing his sweetheart farewell on the front, and a "C U Soon" with a heart beneath it. Then "And Baby Too!"
I laughed, thinking about how this silly, noble man had anticipated our texting shorthand, and had his spirits high, even after all he had seen before he left for the front.
I laughed, thinking about how this silly, noble man had anticipated our texting shorthand, and had his spirits high, even after all he had seen before he left for the front.
The second wave of the influenza had begun, and doctors were desperately needed everywhere. With luck, he would remain at an Army hospital, caring for the sick and wounded, and not have to face the horror of the front with its trenches, mustard gas, whistling bombs, severed limbs and blood drenched fields.
*******************************
In the next sleeve is a card announcing the birth of a baby boy, Edward Glenn McInery, November 5th, 2018, in Oil City, PA.
Then, by itself, a letter from the American Red Cross, dated November 19th, 1918.
"My Dear Mrs. McInery,
It is with deep regret that I write you regarding the death of your husband Lieut. Edward G. McInery, which occurred on November 7th 1918 at 9.55 a.m. after transfer from the steamer "Leviathan" to the American Red Cross Military Hospital No, 4, Mossley Hill, Liverpool.
"We are exceedingly sorry to say that he is one of a large number who have succumbed to an epidemic. In its first stages it is a very peculiar form of influenza, but develops very rapidly into a virulent kind of bronco pneumonia. Notwithstanding the skill of our efficient medical officers, and the constant and unremitting care of the nurses, the patients seem to pass away very quickly."
There follow several more letters of a similar kind, but evidently the widow and new mother didn't learn of the death of her husband until nearly two weeks after the event, and he had died 2 days after the birth of his son, and, most sadly of all, four days before the end of the war.
His war record explained: "After leaving Camp Greenleaf Surgical Group No 2. were sent to Allentown and from there were sent to surrounding towns to care for Influenza patients worked day and night then were put on S.S. Leviathan and sent to Europe while on boat also cared for flu patients to prevent epidemic worked up until two days before he landed with temperature of 101. Taken from ship Nov 5 and died Nov 7."
As I closed the last sleeve of the final book, I pictured Barbara: old, grey, but her posture straight; perhaps a little tight from the afternoon's "prayers," marching up and down our living room with her hand to her forehead in a salute, dramatically declaring, "I am a war widow. A war widow."
____________________________________________
Henry - Thomas 1755 Chester County - fought in the American Rev - ended up in Mifflintown, PA. Was a tanner, had a brother John who also settled there. A man named Evans in his company in Rev - he married Dorothy Preston, had several children. 1820 Thomas died, all of kids went to western PA or OH. William Henry was our progenitor, worked in lumber and was a farmer. He married Keister (they had Samuel Custer, Samuel Maze married Emma Kerr, they had Edward Glenn our grandfather, then our dad). Edward (name) came from Kerr's, who were from Ireland (originally from Scotland).
Barbara Schneider (changed to Snyder) were Bavarian, father of the family in Germany was married twice, some came to US - Philip Snyder had a sister Justina who married Linch (a man) - they were teamsters. Came to western PA because Justina's husband started to dabble in oil, drove wagons for oilers. Then the brothers got into oil speculation. Theresa Schwabenbauer was our great grandmother who married Philip Snyder. They had a boy Henry who died, then had Barbara, Mary Gertrude and Justina (Aunt Teeny).
Barbara went to school in NYC - precursor to Julliard - for music. She finished there, went to Germany for further study with Aunt Mary (her sister). The girls were born in Oil City Pa. She went to Berlin, and there she met Bernard Dennis (he was a Catholic too, one of his sisters was a nun). He was studying medicine - he was from Rochester area, Irish, got into police work - to this day there are Dennis's in Rochester, NY. Bernard was named after his grandfather, and was oldest. He did a surgical residency in Berlin. They were married in St. Ludwig's church in Berlin. They toured Europe, visited France, etc. Shortly after they returned they had Aunt Jeanne (who was named after Jean d'Arc). He studied surgery. (Bernard Francis Dennis). Aunt Jean born in 1911, 1913 Dr. Dennis dies. He got sepsis - he cut himself during surgery and got sepsis. He knew he was going to die. (Our mom said they didn't have a good marriage... supposedly they had a fight, and he pushed her down on her knees and said "You better pray for me, because I'm going to die.") He left her with not much - he had set up surgical practice in Buffalo, but returned to Oil city to die. He was buried in Rochester - Holy Sepluchre Cemetery. Died July 31, 1913, 36 years old.
Then she was left with little, she sold off his medical equipment, and in the process met Edward Glenn, he was starting his practice. They met that way and fell in love. Married Edward in Methodist Church (he was not Catholic). Oil City August 28th 1917. (He would have been 28, she would have been 31) November 7 he died, Oct. 27th 1918 he left from Hoboken, NY. West Darby, Lancashire, he died. Ship landed in Liverpool. He's buried in Brookwood, outside of London. He had been treating patients here - people with flu. He was born Feb. 23, 1889 (29 years old at death)
Barbara and Edward lived in Buffalo. Mary Gertrude married Milton Reynolds, and he takes a job in Buffalo. Rest of the family followed. Eventually even Theresa moved to Buffalo (she had worked in the family restaurants which they owned). Dr. Dennis had also practiced in Buffalo, and they had lived there for a while, too. They had a place nearby the Reynold's. She and dad shared a bed til dad was 16. Gramma always envisioned Dad would never marry, would stay and take care of her. Gramma sang in various churches to make a little money. She gave music lessons (voice). Aunt Mary was pianist. Widow's pension, added with music lessons.
Gramma died of Henry cells. Overabundance of red blood cells - too rich. She'd bruise easily.
George and Marian - Justina (Aunt Teeny was Marian's mother). She married Harry Waslohn. They had Robert and Marian. Robert died young. They lived in Buffalo. George married Marian. Harry Waslohn was born in Germany, died in Buffalo. The little boy who died was born in Oil City.
Aunt Jean said to Missy my mother was a very difficult woman.
| BIRTH |
Snydersburg, Clarion County, Pennsylvania, USA
|
|---|---|
| DEATH | 16 Sep 1961 (aged 75)
Buffalo, Erie County, New York, USA
|
| BURIAL | Kenmore, Erie County, New York, USA |
Her father:
Bad Kissingen, Landkreis Bad Kissingen, Bavaria (Bayern), Germany
| |
| DEATH | 29 Nov 1906 (aged 60)
Cleveland County, Oklahoma, USA
|
|---|---|
| BURIAL | Oil City, Venango County, Pennsylvania, USA |
Her mother:
Theresa M Schwabenbauer Snyder
| BIRTH |
Tylersburg, Clarion County, Pennsylvania, USA
|
|---|---|
| DEATH | 24 Dec 1925 (aged 67)
Buffalo, Erie County, New York, USA
|
| BURIAL | Oil City, Venango County, Pennsylvania, USA |
Edward Glenn
Marienville, Forest County, Pennsylvania, USA | |
| DEATH | 7 Nov 1918 (aged 29) Lancashire, England |
|---|---|
| BURIAL | Brookwood, Woking Borough, Surrey, England |
| PLOT | Plt D, Row 5, Grave 3 |
