tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15449126066640811012024-03-13T14:08:23.421-07:00History by BrubakerMike Brubakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02022055095971365170noreply@blogger.comBlogger172125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1544912606664081101.post-42323637217259370372016-05-27T07:33:00.004-07:002016-05-27T07:33:51.912-07:00Grandpa Brubaker's Draft Registration CardsI have already posted these on facebook, but this seems a more permanent record. And, more accessible. So here they are:<br />
<br />
Grandpa Brubaker's Draft Registration Cards for World War One and World War Two. Imagine, a 50 year old man having to register for the draft in 1942! Be sure to read both sets of cards. They both rpovide some new details about Charles Edward Brubaker, Sr.<br />
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Mike Brubakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02022055095971365170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1544912606664081101.post-13774143085220600242015-11-19T10:27:00.000-08:002015-11-19T10:27:27.246-08:00Thank Goodness For Mr. Coffee<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">As
I poured my third cup of coffee this morning, I remembered an earlier time when
coffee was a bit more difficult and a challenge to make. I have always used some type of drip coffee
maker, a plastic device with a clock and timer built in. Yet, I think back to the days of the electric
percolator and marvel at the process of an earlier time. The pot consisted of steel and chrome with a
plastic resin base with a heater installed.
I remember Dad and his work to create that perfect cup of coffee. Making coffee each day, it is no wonder the
man had the patience of Job. There were
precise steps for making coffee. The
steps had a reason and they had to be followed precisely.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">To
make that perfect cup, be sure to disconnect the electric cord from the
pot. Getting water in the wiring could
short circuit and ruin the pot. That
would mean no coffee for a few days until the broken pot could be replaced.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsSLt-knAoiY-qgiHL5m_2cD24OqwzN7JIjuBR0anu8VJgE-8QMtHAEHY1hgBslILlFgrpWTP-QIOjLZkas4OHpKEVoCyBuuCNUM1eskmzLrxIuNyncUJm4g3KHnTasA6aVPH089xET2f-/s1600/005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsSLt-knAoiY-qgiHL5m_2cD24OqwzN7JIjuBR0anu8VJgE-8QMtHAEHY1hgBslILlFgrpWTP-QIOjLZkas4OHpKEVoCyBuuCNUM1eskmzLrxIuNyncUJm4g3KHnTasA6aVPH089xET2f-/s320/005.JPG" width="238" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Next
fill the pot with cold water up to the line that was clearly marked with water
stains from the many hundreds for previously made pots of coffee. It had to be cold water. Luke warm or hot water and you might ruin the
heating element.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Pour
three heaping scoops of coffee from the Folgers three pound can into the coffee
filter. More than three scoops made the
coffee too strong, and less than three heaping scoops and you may as well be
drinking dirty water—too weak.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Place
the filter in the pot. This required a
certain bit of dexterity and coordination.
The filter was held together by a metal shaft running up through the
middle of it. On the top rested a tin
lid to aid the percolation process.
Putting the filter in the pot meant holding this contraption together
with your fingers while guiding the metal shaft down to the bottom of the
percolator where it would sit </span>snugly<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> in a recessed circle. All the while, water would do its natural
best to float and disassemble the entire filter assembly.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">At
last, put the lid on the pot and plug the cord first into the pot and then into
the electrical outlet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">While
the percolator brewed the perfect cup of coffee, Dad would sit and smoke two,
maybe three, cigarettes. It is no wonder
Dad smoked two packs a day. After the
cigarettes, walk outside and get the morning paper. By then the wonderful smell of nirvana
permeated the kitchen. The coffee was
ready. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">When
that first pot of coffee was drained, a fresh pot was brewed (repeat steps one
through six). Coffee was always present
in the house. Up until ten o’clock at
night the coffee pot remained hot, although not always fresh. At ten o’clock, with the beginning of the
news, the pot was unplugged, drained and rinsed. The filter was rinsed and placed upside down in
the dish strainer so that it would dry and ready for service in the morning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I
think back on this and appreciate Dad a little bit more. I can appreciate the pleasure he must have
experienced with the purchase of his first Mr. Coffee. Even today, I appreciate the wonders of
modern technology and my Mr. Coffee.
Every night at ten o’clock I make my coffee. I still use three heaping scoops of coffee. Now, I use Starbucks
medium blend instead of folgers. But I set
the alarm on the coffee pot and go watch the news. I wake up the next morning to the smell of a
glorious cup of coffee waiting for me.
No patience required, just make the coffee, set the alarm and sleep
through the night.</span></div>
Mike Brubakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02022055095971365170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1544912606664081101.post-35005976926734187602015-11-18T08:40:00.002-08:002015-11-18T08:40:43.339-08:00A New Use For The BlogThe Sherburne County Historical Society, where I am Executive Director, has just gone live with a crowd sourcing fundraising appeal. This is for a great project to exhibit quilts in Sherburne County and highlight the unique artistry of the people making the quilts.<br />
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Please share this appeal with all of your friends and anyone you think might be interested.<br />
<br />
Thank you in advance.<br />
<br />
http://igg.me/at/sherburnequilts/x/12760328<br />
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Hey, we all need some advertising in our lives.Mike Brubakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02022055095971365170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1544912606664081101.post-1871425068109477332015-11-14T08:45:00.001-08:002015-11-14T08:45:51.750-08:00More Memories of GrandmaIt has been a couple of months, for that I am sorry. But here is another bit of memory of Grandma Ruth Brubaker. My sister Micki shared this with me:<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>Grandma was generous.
Uncle Bud told me that when he was a boy, a teenager, he had two pairs
of pants, one with holes that were for everyday and one without holes for
church. One day he was looking for his
good pants. Grandma told him she had
given them away to some poor kid who didn’t have any pants without holes. Uncle Bud, exasperated, said “Ma, now I don’t
have any pants without holes.”
Apparently, she didn’t think of her and Uncle Bud as poor. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I am back to writing if anyone wants to share stories about the Brubakers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Mike Brubakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02022055095971365170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1544912606664081101.post-69232179880608736872015-08-19T08:12:00.000-07:002015-08-19T08:12:37.639-07:00Grandma's New York Trip<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Reading Ruth Harmon Brubaker’s travel journal about her trip
to New York gives some insight into her personality. The excitement she put on the page as she travels
by train from Idaho to New York reveals new aspects of her personality. She has been described as patient and loving,
the journal shows an adventurous side of her life, an excitement to experience
more of life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“We are in Erie, New York & it’s an immense industrial
city—Bethlehem steel plants on one side of the landscape—great cement plants,
etc., etc.—we’ve come thru miles of it,” she wrote. “We’ve followed along the shore all
morning. Boats, lovely one by the 1000s
just below us. Yesterday I saw a real
old Missouri steamer—3 decker but no way to take a picture of it.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Grandma shows an interest in other travelers. She visits with everyone, she trades
magazines with nuns going to Chicago.
She engages a college student on her way home from North Eastern
University to Niagara Falls. In addition to her new student friend she strikes
up new conversations with interesting observations with others seated around
her.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“A man looks like a second Wallace Berry sits in from of me
and is going to his brother’s golden wedding,” she wrote. “He’s a grand person and had 11 sons and
nephews in the war—all came back safe but one nephew. Every few minutes he says ‘I wish Mama was
along but she ain’t so well—but she made me come anyhow.’ Well its noon and the little girl got off
& her folks just met her, they came to our window to tell us (me and the
man) goodbye. Swell, common friendly
people.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The pages of Grandma’s travel journal reveal a very
intelligent woman, very observant and excited with every new adventure that
comes her way. I don’t think anything
really surprises her. Grandma marvels at
the immensity of life. Early in her
journey she notes the speed of the train.
“We are sure traveling fast—will cross the whole state of Nebr. in the
nite.” She is amazed, and marvels at the wonders she
encounters in her travels. But I don’t
think she is surprised.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Reading her journal shows an interesting side of her
personality. Grandma is well educated,
well read, and very intelligent. She is
patient and loving. She is truly a
fascinating woman with an array of gifts and talents.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Mike Brubakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02022055095971365170noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1544912606664081101.post-30498747576011718252015-08-03T08:17:00.000-07:002015-08-03T08:17:16.530-07:00Grandma Was A Catholic<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As I
investigate Ruth Harman, questions that continue to arise include: what she thought and how she felt. An important question: how
did she develop such a strong Catholic faith?
Raised a Methodist; her father a minister, yet the entire family
remembers her as deeply faithful to the Catholic Church. It must have been difficult to move away from
the faith of her family and accept Catholicism.
An important question if we want to fully appreciate Grandma and her
life: How did she reach such faith in the Catholic Church? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It should
also be noted that her faith didn’t go unrewarded and her faith inspired
others. Mary Jane Hislop (Mom)
attributes one specific miracle to Grandma’s faith: When just a few months old Micki, my older
sister, suffered from a blockage. Her
stomach became blocked or her intestine was twisted, or something. The doctors wanted to operate. Micki hadn’t been baptized yet. Doctors gave her low odds of survival.
Grandma insisted that a Catholic priest come into the hospital and baptize
Micki before the surgery. Sometime
between the priest coming in and the scheduled surgery the blockage healed
itself. Mom knew divine intervention
healed her baby through Grandma’s intervention. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Grandma’s
strong Catholic faith included the education of her children. When the family could afford the tuition,
each of Grandma’s children went to private Catholic schools. The apocryphal story concerns Uncle Pat, who
was expelled from the Catholic School by the nuns because he kept spitting on
the floor. This same son later
studied for the priesthood. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">At her funeral, Dad proudly noted, three priests participated in Grandma's funeral mass.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Obviously,
Grandma Ruth Harman Brubaker was very Catholic.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">
</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">She came from a Methodist family and married into a Catholic
family.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">How did she arrive at her faith?</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Why did she hold such a strong faith?</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">These are interesting questions with no easy
answers.</span></div>
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Mike Brubakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02022055095971365170noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1544912606664081101.post-960572393803815822015-07-24T14:28:00.000-07:002015-07-24T14:29:48.278-07:00Life IN Boise<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Ruth
Brubaker (Grandma) was the amazing glue that kept the family together. Throughout the family history, she is the one
constant force, apparent in either the background or leading the charge to live
life as a Brubaker. A well-educated
woman, she graduated from the Nebraska State Normal School and began teaching at
age 16. She married Grandpa and raised
her large family during the terrible economic times of the 1920s and
1930s. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">An example
of Grandma Brubaker and her inner
strength comes from a collection of memories and oral histories, they all tell
the story about Grandma and her extended family when they moved to Boise, Idaho
in 1937. In an oral history from Charles
Brubaker, Jr, he explained: “We didn’t see dad (Grandpa Brubaker) much because
he was on the railroad. He worked
sixteen hours a day, when he worked.
When we moved to Idaho, he was supposed to trade seniority with a guy in
Idaho but the guy backed out. Dad was
stuck in Cheyenne while we were in Idaho.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Grandma’s
extended family seems huge, and that caused some problems. In the Boise home the landlord allowed only
three children in the house. “When the
landlady came to collect the rent, us kids would have to hide,” dad said. “My
uncle was living with us; his wife and three kids; my mom and us eight kids and
my brother-in-law. It was wall to wall
people.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Feeding this
huge group was another challenge to Grandma and the rest of the family. “My uncle and brother-in-law Bill went out to
pick fruit,” Dad remembered. “When they
got done the farmer couldn’t pay them (in cash) so he paid them in plums. We had a whole garage full of plums. We all ate those plums. I hate them to this day.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Life in the
Boise house lasted only about one year. In
1938 the family moved to Midway, and later that same year moved into the city
of Nampa. Grandma’s resilience and
strength continued to shine through. But
those are more stories to tell at a later time.</span>Mike Brubakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02022055095971365170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1544912606664081101.post-37991716160526302842015-07-07T11:58:00.000-07:002015-07-07T12:09:00.711-07:00Summer Means Swimming<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In a long,
hot summer thoughts inevitably turn to beaches, swim suits, and swimming. It is an ubiquitous idea (how’s that for a 21
million dollar word). Today, most people
think public swimming pool. Yet, in the
not too distant past, people might look forward to the local swimming pool, the
neighborhood fire hydrant, or the local lake.
The Brubaker’s of Idaho looked forward to “water day.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvsqCM7-KMEQPyph3DX9FHv4EyLZt5IWP1DbT4fn7zAt6wwrP3VtpjgHxzgVid3oZUSGYDTm7iRN7trrvJ39IWwLzbaRQUNJ6XiTw-zHyZk75tIJZzbk5qS_6rGKa_mAbZJRHka2pZVzYV/s1600/cheesecake+1959.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvsqCM7-KMEQPyph3DX9FHv4EyLZt5IWP1DbT4fn7zAt6wwrP3VtpjgHxzgVid3oZUSGYDTm7iRN7trrvJ39IWwLzbaRQUNJ6XiTw-zHyZk75tIJZzbk5qS_6rGKa_mAbZJRHka2pZVzYV/s320/cheesecake+1959.JPG" width="308" /></a><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As my cousin
Barbra Ellen tells the story, “We all spent a lot of
time at her (Grandma Brubaker’s) house playing and especially water day.
Homeowners got to use irrigation water one day a week and it was flood
irrigation. She would take the water blocks out of the main ditch and the
entire yard front & back were flooded. The ditch was
actually in the front of the houses & underground. We played in the
water all day.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">This
picture does not depict the Brubaker’s of Idaho, and yes, I have used this
picture before.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">These are my sisters,
Micki and Trula, at around 1959.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> In all likelihood they are in Idaho, but this is definitely not "water day." Yet, s</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">wimming in the summertime was a universal idea.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div>
Mike Brubakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02022055095971365170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1544912606664081101.post-48308340687058500112015-06-26T07:54:00.001-07:002015-06-26T07:54:32.046-07:00More Memories of Grandma Brubaker<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Until this week, I don’t
think I had seen a picture of Grandma as a young woman. The only images I conjure up, put her at Mom
and Dad’s wedding in the mid-1950s. By
that time, Grandma was in her sixties.
Well thanks to my dear cousins, Barbra Scott and Debi Ragsdale, I now
have some new information and new images of a remarkable lady. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuO7wqf19hnwTLu1fNoagnO4iYVeIZbZwoWiJ0ZN3KXU4dKmzMmYLcW4ba8Kghyphenhyphen8GO4MdoWdWEviYro2C_l85BVI_4aWugLtRXErtY99CZZWzJr3BJgIB5lr6QdTXzOFC_5WgOmBuz_to8/s1600/Gram+l930s+Wyoming.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuO7wqf19hnwTLu1fNoagnO4iYVeIZbZwoWiJ0ZN3KXU4dKmzMmYLcW4ba8Kghyphenhyphen8GO4MdoWdWEviYro2C_l85BVI_4aWugLtRXErtY99CZZWzJr3BJgIB5lr6QdTXzOFC_5WgOmBuz_to8/s320/Gram+l930s+Wyoming.jpg" width="232" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Barbra described Grandma
as “vibrant, sociable, fun, kind and patient.”
Physically, “she had very long black hair and wore it braided, with the braids wrapped up and around,
circling her head. She suffered with
headaches and those went away after her hair cut. Aunt Becky and Uncle Bill paid for her to
take the train and visit them in Fort Knox, Kentucky. It was on the trip that Aunt Becky took her
to a salon and had her hair cut and permed.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Mom used to remember
Grandma with all of her pets. Grandma loved
cats and dogs, always seemed to have them around the house. Mom also thought she remembered a bird or
two, but couldn’t be sure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Debi sent me a couple of photographs
of Grandma. Here she is with a couple of
her pets in Wyoming. so this dates the photo at the early 1930s. I would never
have imagined her with long black hair. But
this photo, along with these memories, brings Grandma closer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Mike Brubakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02022055095971365170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1544912606664081101.post-73036950167127156362015-06-23T08:12:00.001-07:002015-06-23T08:13:41.324-07:00Memories of Grandma Brubaker<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A few months
ago I wrote about a few memories of Grandma Brubaker. Well, I realized I really don’t know a great
deal about Grandma’s personality. So,
I’m trying to collect and remember more about Ruth Harmon Brubaker—Grandma.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Grandma
Brubaker died in 1970, when I was about ten years old. So memories of her are not all that
great. My memories of her start and stop
in a hospital. Whenever we would visit,
she was sick.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">1969 we
traveled to Idaho to the funeral of Uncle Bill Brown. Grandma was in the hospital, possibly in a
care facility. When we went to visit
her, we were not allowed to speak of the death of Bill Brown. It may have been the visit in 1969, or it may
have been another time: I remember visiting her, the family gathered around her
hospital bed. Dad is as close as he can
get, so that he will hear and understand her mumbled conversation. I am on the other side of the bed looking at
this frail woman. For some reason, I
think my cousin Butch was in the room, standing behind Dad. He started to make faces at me and I started
to laugh. It was not a nice ride back to
Uncle Pat’s house when the visit ended.
I took the heat for that indiscretion.
How could I explain that Butch was making me laugh? I couldn’t, so I was in trouble. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A little
more than a year later, we were traveling from Salt Lake to Caldwell, Idaho to
her funeral. And the memories are at an
end.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I distantly
remember her house. I think we once
visited there. I remember the bathroom because
there were no windows and no light switch.
To turn on the lights in the bathroom you had to walk to the center of
the room, reach up, find the pull chain and turn on the lights. That bathroom remains forever burned into my
brain, like a traumatic life threatening disaster.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Imagine the
difficulties of an undersized, most people say short, young man that has to
pee. He knows he can’t reach the pull
chain in order to do his business in peace!
At a certain age, no boy should have to ask an older sister for help in
using the bathroom. Let your bladder
burst or ask for help, these were the only two choices. Pride went out the window when first one
sister refused to help. The other helped
only when I started to cry in pain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">That
bathroom and the trauma it created are both indelibly burned into my brain. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Unfortunately,
I don’t much remember Grandma Brubaker.
I have stories from Dad, but otherwise I don’t know her. If anyone would like to share some stories
about Grandma Brubaker, I would really like to visit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Mike Brubakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02022055095971365170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1544912606664081101.post-943772065555219472015-06-18T13:28:00.001-07:002015-06-18T13:28:12.945-07:00Change For The Sake of Change: A Rant of Frustration<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">There
is a comedy routine, a group of engineers are helping a young business woman
improve her assembly line and enhance sales of her product. She manufactures up-scale hair barrettes. The engineers insist that they need to add blue
tooth wireless technology to the barrettes because everything is better with
blue tooth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
routine is a ridiculous example of technology geeks advocating change for the
sake of change. Yet, this pattern of
changing technology simply because we can change technology is reaching these
ridiculous extremes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I
will admit that I have been called a Luddite.
And, I may be. But do we really
need so much change, so quickly? I used
to own a flip phone. I now have a smart
phone, only because people around me were embarrassed whenever I would answer
the telephone with my antiquated contraption.
The only advantage to my smart phone is the numbers are larger than my
flip phone. It is now easier for me to
see the numbers when I dial.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I
am trying to muster as much sarcasm as possible as I write: I can’t wait for
the next installment of windows or Microsoft office. I am so excited with the new procedures for
writing documents that require me to change the type font to Times Roman because
some mental giant has decided that Calibri is more appropriate as a default
font and 11 point type is better than the larger and more legible 12
point. And, I so enjoy changing the spacing
from “normal” to “no spacing” every time I create a document. Thank you to all of the Microsoft and windows
engineers and programmers for allowing me to determine the page layout every time
I create a new document and forcing me to utilize too much of my time to reset
pages that should be default standards. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">While
I am at it, thank you to every telephone manufacturer in the world for
determining my telephone needs to be something more than just a telephone. I don’t remember how I managed to live
without a camera in my telephone, along with text messaging and wireless
technology. Special thanks goes out to
the singular “genius” that determined my telephone needed to be so much more
than just a telephone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Today
is one of those days when the standard of change for the sake of change is
overwhelming. This morning I had to work
with a new index for genealogy research.
Some “genius” decided to combine several indices to make research more
of a muddled mess. It appears to be
change for the sake of change. Honestly,
I don’t need any more new and improved “whatevers” in my life. Is it too much to expect the technology in
life to simply function in the manner that it is expected? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">A
second cliché keeps running through my brain: “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” To all of those techno-geeks, engineers and
computer programmers out there, stop fixing it, it ain’t broke.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Mike Brubakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02022055095971365170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1544912606664081101.post-75924903537105617942015-06-15T12:10:00.000-07:002015-06-15T12:11:52.073-07:00Memories of the Summer Canning season<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I recently realized harvesting fruits and
vegetables and preserving food generate strong memories about growing up in
Salt Lake City. Each summer certain
activities took place that, to this day, give me a sense of home and
security. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Visiting the farmers of Salt Lake and the “pick
your own” farm lots to buy cherries and peaches, tomatoes and cucumbers remind
me of the innocence of a distant era. All
of these fruits and vegetables purchased would be taken home and prepared for
the canning jars. There is a certain
satisfaction to the plop and squeak sound of the cherry pit machine as you removed
the seed from each cherry. Put a cherry
under the trigger, pull the spring loaded trigger. The seed would fall down into a jar of seeds,
and then throw the seeded cherry into the bowl for canning. Each cherry pitted required payment of a cherry
to eat. As many fruit passed my lips as
did through the cherry pitter. The
peaches witnessed a similar preparation process: blanch the peaches, peel the
peaches, cut them in half and remove the pit.
Peaches are larger, so fewer are eaten.
Yet, the sticky juice running down your arms as you sliced the peaches
made the process memorable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Preparing tomatoes for canning
required a bit more care. The boiling
water, and processing the tomatoes usually disqualified me from working the
tomato canning process. The cucumber
were perhaps the most memorable and time consuming. Cucumbers soaked in brine for two weeks,
preparing them for the pickle jars.
Packing the jars and the smell of hot vinegar and dill told everyone
that in a few weeks the dill pickles would be ready for eating. And later, the sweet and sour pickles and the
relish would also find their way onto the dinner table.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Today the tomato plants are in the ground
in my own backyard. We have added
lettuce and onions to the garden. In a
few months the harvest will begin. In my
kitchen, I will cook up salsa and the satisfaction of preparing my own food
will generate memories of a great childhood, helping Mom and Dad can food. And, the memories will continue.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Mike Brubakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02022055095971365170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1544912606664081101.post-29846974844358371772015-06-08T07:44:00.000-07:002015-06-08T07:44:33.696-07:00Henry Hislop's Teeth<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">I
thought I had posted this, but no. </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">So,
here we go …</span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">A
story Mom liked to tell about her Dad, Henry Hislop, concerned his health. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Just
after Mom was born, in the mid-1930s, Grandpa Hislop got sick. He seemed very lethargic, absolutely no
energy at all. Being in a small town in
the middle of the Depression, there wasn’t a whole lot of money for doctor
bills. So, Henry talked around with
friends and neighbors to self-diagnose.
Well somehow, with the help of his neighbors, he concluded that there
must be something wrong in his mouth. Someone
convinced him he needed to remove all of his teeth. Well Grandpa went to the dentist and had all
of his teeth pulled out. I hope he got
dentures, but Mom never mentions this detail in the story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Well,
the trip to the dentist didn’t cure what ailed him. He was still lethargic, always tired and no
desire to really do anything. Keep in
mind, this condition was very odd for Henry Hislop. In all of the stories I have read and heard,
this was a man that enjoyed hard work.
This was a man that when he was nearing 60 years old helped build the
local church. He got down in the trench
to dig. He worked in the cold to lay
brick and mortar into place. He enjoyed
manual labor. For him to feel lethargic
was a sign of something serious.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Unfortunately
the diagnosis of pulling his teeth didn’t work.
He seemed forever tired. Finally,
the family persuaded him to travel the fifteen miles down the canyon from the
small town of Huntsville, to a doctor in the larger town of Ogden, Utah. A simple visit to the doctor and he diagnosed
with anemia. He was given pills to add
to his diet and his energy quickly returned.
He was back to enjoying his work in a very short time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">After
this episode with his teeth, Henry Hislop lived another 20 more years. Forever working hard and seemingly enjoying
it all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Mike Brubakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02022055095971365170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1544912606664081101.post-35401810347040651312015-05-17T18:42:00.001-07:002015-05-17T18:44:10.644-07:00Dad Liked His Beer<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
stories about Dad and his beer usually start by mentioning that after his
service in the Navy he spent a lot of time in the Idaho bars. A favorite hangout was a place called The
Schooner. Although he didn’t have much
of a belly at the time, a joke he used often: he would walk up to the bar,
stick out his stomach as far as he could and tell the bartender “fill it up!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">My
favorite Dad and beer story happened many years later. When Dad was sick, he had trouble
sleeping. When I came for a visit, I
bought a six pack of LaBatts beer to drink.
Dad had stopped drinking beer, at least twenty years earlier. He claimed he no longer liked the taste of
it. Well Dad was at the table in his
wheelchair, and I was standing next to him, slowly nursing a beer. It seems like the entire family was standing
around joking when my sister across the table noticed Dad drinking my
beer. Before she could say anything, he
chugged the entire bottle! It is good
thing he didn’t like the taste of it!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">That
night, for the first time in a number of months, Mom said he slept like a
baby. After that night we kept a supply
of beer in the refrigerator to help Dad sleep.
I don’t think he ever drank one of them.
But, for a brief time, he was back in The Schooner, “filling it up.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Mike Brubakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02022055095971365170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1544912606664081101.post-77531730082642744562015-05-04T08:14:00.000-07:002015-05-04T08:14:26.833-07:00Free Association Thoughts about Dad, Dogs, and Cartoons<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Something
recently came to mind, I was folding some towels when I came across a towel
with Snoopy, the character from Peanuts comics.
I remembered how much Dad enjoyed cartoons. He loved to just contemplate about Snoopy and
all of the challenges faced by this one beagle.
Every year we were watching <i>The
Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown</i> and <i>It’s
a Charlie Brown Christmas</i>. Every
year Dad would laugh at the very idea of Snoopy climbing into his sopwith camel
and flying off to face the Red Baron and finally landing in Linus’ pumpkin
patch. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We
once got a small dog, she was supposed to be hunting dog but that never really
completely developed. Dad, I think,
wanted to desperately name the dog Snoopy.
He kept suggesting, “Let’s name her Snoopy.” Us kids kept insisting, no there has to be a
better name than that. Being young
teenagers we were oblivious to his wants.
We wound up naming the dog Penny.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Another
cartoon Dad loved was the roadrunner series.
He would really laugh, I mean out load, belly laugh type of laughter, at
the road runner and the coyote. Mom used
to tell the story, when her and Dad went to a movie, a road runner cartoon was
showing before the feature. Dad was
laughing and waving his arms. Mom had to
move over one seat so the Dad would stop bumping her every time he laughed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Just
some more random thoughts about Dad: he loved his dogs and his cartoons<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Mike Brubakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02022055095971365170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1544912606664081101.post-11401871298504712542015-04-16T14:09:00.000-07:002015-04-16T14:13:55.210-07:00Trula, My Sister<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I haven’t mentioned my brother and sisters because I have
adopted a special standard of personal privacy.
I don’t write about anyone that is alive. That way, no one gets in trouble. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">But, it has been nearly 30 years since my sister Trula has
died. It seems about time to write about
her. But, this is not a simple
biography, no dates to hang your hat on.
This is a brief remembrance of a sweet woman.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I have never been able to figure out she got her name. Mom and Dad could never remember how they
came up with Trula, but they did.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkuvX8haihFhbMHA0gB82oVUemY5_TXFL9wUSPZMu3q2aWJkaVYtl1HexsrUmAIDOKb3HHTQnKKB2noW8oaQv6Ns_04Fw8W3O6SGKUpuXTCMBQuK8D9etQGLL9ssgWAfFpG5_1I1Ec6lAg/s1600/Trula.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkuvX8haihFhbMHA0gB82oVUemY5_TXFL9wUSPZMu3q2aWJkaVYtl1HexsrUmAIDOKb3HHTQnKKB2noW8oaQv6Ns_04Fw8W3O6SGKUpuXTCMBQuK8D9etQGLL9ssgWAfFpG5_1I1Ec6lAg/s1600/Trula.jpg" height="320" width="268" /></span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkuvX8haihFhbMHA0gB82oVUemY5_TXFL9wUSPZMu3q2aWJkaVYtl1HexsrUmAIDOKb3HHTQnKKB2noW8oaQv6Ns_04Fw8W3O6SGKUpuXTCMBQuK8D9etQGLL9ssgWAfFpG5_1I1Ec6lAg/s1600/Trula.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"></span></a><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Trula was five years older than me. She was in high school before I was really
cognizant of the life around me. In high
school I remember her art work. She liked
to work in clay, throwing pots and other pieces. A piece that she was particularly proud of
was large vase. It had a glaze that was
several shades of yellow. Inside she had
dried flowers and a peacock tail feather.
I remember this pot because I once tripped and my head fell into the
dried flowers. Some bizarre little ball
of burrs landed in my eye and I was forced to visit the doctor. For a week I was soaking my eyeball in warm
water and Epsom salts. At the same time
the doctor was picking little slivers out of my eye. I remember that vase very well!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Physically, Trula was short.
Around her, I felt tall! But,
beyond height, I couldn’t measure up to Trula.
She was hard working and persistent.
After high school, she put herself through college, first obtaining an
Associate’s Degree in accounting, they later transferring to a four year
college, the University of Utah. There
she acquired her BS in mine engineering.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">The one story I wonder about, but Mom swore that it was
true: Dad always wanted an engineer in the family. Neither John nor I had the interest. Me, I didn’t have the aptitude. Well Trula knew Dad wanted an engineer, so
she majored in engineering. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Dad was also proud of Trula and her intelligence. In her senior year at the University of Utah,
she won an award from the Mine engineering Department. Dad was very proud of Trula, that night. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">While she was at the University of Utah, she worked at a
credit union. She helped me negotiate a
loan for my first car. I was able to buy
a brand new, metallic blue Chevette with her help.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">After graduation she worked in coal mines in eastern Utah
and Western Colorado.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Trula was generous to everyone. During one of the several times that I was
unemployed, Trula offered me a place to stay if I wanted to come down and work
in Carbon County. I stayed in Salt Lake,
but her house was always open. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Trula died too young.
She had two young boys. Unfortunately, I have not kept up with these
two, but they have grown up into fine young men. I am
certain she is very proud of her two sons and her two grandchildren as well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Trula was a unique lady.
She was kind, generous, and incredibly intelligent. To this day, I miss her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F-jQDRAe09SIY%2FVTAkJv-QM4I%2FAAAAAAAAAFw%2FdP7ritG_QGY%2Fs1600%2FTrula.jpg&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" with "https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkuvX8haihFhbMHA0gB82oVUemY5_TXFL9wUSPZMu3q2aWJkaVYtl1HexsrUmAIDOKb3HHTQnKKB2noW8oaQv6Ns_04Fw8W3O6SGKUpuXTCMBQuK8D9etQGLL9ssgWAfFpG5_1I1Ec6lAg/s1600/Trula.jpg" --><!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkuvX8haihFhbMHA0gB82oVUemY5_TXFL9wUSPZMu3q2aWJkaVYtl1HexsrUmAIDOKb3HHTQnKKB2noW8oaQv6Ns_04Fw8W3O6SGKUpuXTCMBQuK8D9etQGLL9ssgWAfFpG5_1I1Ec6lAg/s1600/Trula.jpg" with "https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkuvX8haihFhbMHA0gB82oVUemY5_TXFL9wUSPZMu3q2aWJkaVYtl1HexsrUmAIDOKb3HHTQnKKB2noW8oaQv6Ns_04Fw8W3O6SGKUpuXTCMBQuK8D9etQGLL9ssgWAfFpG5_1I1Ec6lAg/s1600/Trula.jpg" -->Mike Brubakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02022055095971365170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1544912606664081101.post-72602934044098123872015-04-06T09:08:00.000-07:002015-04-06T09:08:38.580-07:00Papa Was A Rollin’ Stone<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Land records
make for some interesting and confusing details about family history. In the case of the Brubaker/Tiernan clan, I
have found that Ellen Tiernan Brubaker and John Brubaker filed for at least
three different land parcels under the Homestead Act of 1862.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In 1893,
Ellen Tiernan filed for the final title of land on Section 15, Township 24,
Range 51. Family lore said that all of
the Tiernan children filed for land then sold to her father John or her brother
Charles Tiernan after title came through on the Homestead Act. This may have been true. The plat maps for the area round Snake Creek Township
shows that John and Charles Tiernan owned a lot of land in that part of Box
Butte County. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Just ten
years later, Ellen T. Brubaker was filing for more land located on Sections 32
and 33 of Township 23, Range 44. I
believe this is an area south of Lakeside, Nebraska. Ellen Brubaker claimed the land was filed
under her husband, but he had deserted her.
Her petition stated he had left in July of 1904. She stayed on the land until October. She felt she could not care for her five
children and work the land. She left the
claim and “went to her own people in Box Butte County.” But she did not want to lose the land. She petitioned the land title be assigned to
her name. She could not produce the
original receipt of entry because John Brubaker had taken it with him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Her petition
must have been denied. She remained
married to John Brubaker. A decade
later, John H. Brubaker obtained 480 acres in Section 12, of Township 21, Range
50.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This all
reminds me of the song: “Papa Was a Rollin’ Stone." I think it was fairly
typical to move from one parcel of land to another to try to improve your
economic condition. In the defense of
John Brubaker, he worked for the railroad and was constantly moving for
work. This may have been the situation,
or something less favorable may have occurred.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I don’t know
the circumstances. But John Brubaker and
Ellen Tiernan remained married and are buried together in Alliance, Nebraska. The land records simply add to the confusion
of their relationship, yet it is really very interesting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Mike Brubakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02022055095971365170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1544912606664081101.post-52272876203778367392015-03-25T06:39:00.001-07:002015-03-25T06:39:59.989-07:00Happy Birthday Mom<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Mom
was born 83 years ago on March 25, 1932<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe0Y2IoLJ_F6D0SEO-Ia1HP7oPsFzCxhyphenhyphenAd6LptUvXKEKZuwl6i1HjfMe98J36GVmKstlsBgKkfNfumGXtJrRFsySGO8OP1zTkTkq_4_3A6CAeKgutQeIdCUiCTFJoW4_8N94bV3_XL3Ni/s1600/Mom+2010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe0Y2IoLJ_F6D0SEO-Ia1HP7oPsFzCxhyphenhyphenAd6LptUvXKEKZuwl6i1HjfMe98J36GVmKstlsBgKkfNfumGXtJrRFsySGO8OP1zTkTkq_4_3A6CAeKgutQeIdCUiCTFJoW4_8N94bV3_XL3Ni/s1600/Mom+2010.jpg" height="320" width="316" /></a><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I
don’t think I can adequately describe Mom.
She was very direct, very proud, and very protective. The stories about Mom protecting the family
are too many to relate. But to
illustrate the point, think of the story she liked to tell, about some neighbor
kids teasing me and John. She came out
of the house, into the backyard waving a large, silver butcher knife. She told the kids she was going to “cut their
damn ears off” if they didn’t stop. They
stopped. Or, when the Hislop family
reunion came around, Uncle John liked to tease the kids and my brother John was
afraid of being teased. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> And Mom told
brother John to just avoid Uncle John because Uncle John was “just an old
blowhard” and to not pay attention to him.
And that was fine, until brother John repeated it to Uncle John’s face. Mom choked on the peanuts she was eating.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Mom
and Dad got married in November of 1953 and had a good life until Dad died in
2007. In the early years, Dad liked to
go out drinking with his buddies. After
a short time, Mom made Dad transfer out of Idaho. She gave him a choice, either keep drinking
with his buddies or stay married to her.
After they moved to Salt Lake, I don’t think they ever seriously
contemplated moving back. Just another
example of Mom protecting her family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ZE2Oe25Bu3UsfxpIIzInveJT6nKwWAeGXfeiGepdZlLhDZm_SNB8-CPl-Qum6Myr3k3KNx3qlhgZjAbnAl_Y1uda_JSS3l2vj2pdeiBdHmD9j7VTknlEn5U75yEkKCprEXNW4XXd-aJy/s1600/Mom+and+Dad.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ZE2Oe25Bu3UsfxpIIzInveJT6nKwWAeGXfeiGepdZlLhDZm_SNB8-CPl-Qum6Myr3k3KNx3qlhgZjAbnAl_Y1uda_JSS3l2vj2pdeiBdHmD9j7VTknlEn5U75yEkKCprEXNW4XXd-aJy/s1600/Mom+and+Dad.JPG" height="200" width="193" /></a><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">There
is no doubt Mom and Dad loved each other.
The five years between Dad’s death and Mom, she talked a lot about how
much she missed him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Mom
was a talented woman. She could play the
violin and the organ. Newspaper reports
when she was 16 years old commented on the quality of the recitals she
presented. She was also a pretty good
cook, but she didn’t ever enjoy cooking.
I remember the favorite dessert she would make for the Hislop Family
reunion was a cherry cheese cake. Very
few people ever got a slice of the cheese cake because it was gone so
quickly. Pizza from hand-tossed pizza
dough, and lasagna with fresh sausage, ham and pepperoni tossed in, were just a
couple of her dishes. Unfortunately, as
she got older she stopped cooking. To
her, after so many years of cooking for seven, a good meal came from one of
several restaurants in the area. I think
Olive Garden was high on her list in the years before she died.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Mom
was talented and encouraged her children.
She was very protective of us all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Anyway,
just some memories of Mom. Happy
Birthday Mom. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Mike Brubakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02022055095971365170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1544912606664081101.post-82245869288989692002015-03-23T09:22:00.000-07:002015-03-23T09:22:43.201-07:00Nicknames Are Interesting<div class="MsoNormal">
For years the family has marveled at the multitude of
nicknames we have had for each other.
Inevitably the nicknames would be credited to Mom and Dad. I won’t go into any of the names we had for
each other, because I don’t want to embarrass anyone. After all, you probably know as many
embarrassing facts about me as I about you.
The threat of mutual embarrassment is an excellent deterrent. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want to share one set of nicknames for Mom and Dad. I found this particular nickname in the
letters they sent to each other when Dad was working out of town on the
railroad. Dad was stuck in Ogden, Utah
or Idaho Falls, Idaho. Mom was living in
Nampa. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know where it comes from. I had never run across this before. Mom and Dad called each other “chicken.” A letter from Dad in July of 1953 starts off
with the greeting, “Dear Janie, Hi Chicken.”
In a letter dated a few weeks later, in the body of the letter Mom
writes, “I miss you so much chicken.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am not exactly sure what this says about Mom and Dad. But, I thought it was interesting.</div>
Mike Brubakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02022055095971365170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1544912606664081101.post-51765307777348092062015-03-20T07:50:00.000-07:002015-03-20T07:50:59.368-07:00Food and Dad: An Interesting Combination<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Another story Dad liked to
tell related to how poor they were growing up.
During the Depression, whenever there was a dinner to be served and not
enough fired chicken to go around, Grandma would call the kids into the kitchen
and instruct them that would not take any chicken for dinner. If they were asked why they weren’t eating
the chicken they were supposed to respond that they really didn’t like the
taste of chicken. According to Dad,
Grandma always chose to eat the neck because that was one of the least desirable
pieces of chicken. But in reality, Dad
maintained that it always had a lot of good tasting meat on it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Dad had some interesting
food memories. He hated homemade
bread. He grew up eating butter
sandwiches with two thick slices of homemade bread and a slather of
butter. He grew to really hate homemade
bread.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Something I never quite
understood. He hated pork. He would gladly eat bacon and ham. But I don’t think we ever, or rarely, had a
pork roast at home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Oh well, just some random
thoughts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Mike Brubakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02022055095971365170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1544912606664081101.post-57078074869639438972015-03-11T12:55:00.000-07:002015-03-11T12:55:41.237-07:00Grandma Brubaker: Dynamite in a Small Package<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I didn’t ever really know
Dad’s mother. By the time I was born, we
were living in Utah and we got to Idaho once each year to visit. I only remember Grandma as being a sick lady
that suffered seriously from Parkinson’s Disease. Most often, we saw her when she was in the
hospital. She died when I was ten years
old. From the stories I have heard, she
may have been small, or short in stature but she was very feisty. I think of her when I remember the cliché: “dynamite
comes in small packages.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Dad told us that Grandma
was a small woman, very short, probably didn’t measure over five feet tall. She would chase her children with a broom because
she could never get close enough to them to really smack them for whatever
crime they might have committed. And,
these boys were very close to juvenile delinquents. Uncle Pat, according to Dad, was once thrown
out of the Catholic School because he kept spitting on the floor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBOOkRkiREe4Ijeai5msF2AVOA2pNQB0n8ZXtUz7lsI8q3tdwmrtIEnLwWkmxEB5kGZFaEYd0x6jHm97ECwCZ4wryAd9i7Qo2o4uf0lvOU1mCw2xRgyIH3BPFOJQDQDS2h6UgwnYkWMcmc/s1600/Grandma+Ruth.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBOOkRkiREe4Ijeai5msF2AVOA2pNQB0n8ZXtUz7lsI8q3tdwmrtIEnLwWkmxEB5kGZFaEYd0x6jHm97ECwCZ4wryAd9i7Qo2o4uf0lvOU1mCw2xRgyIH3BPFOJQDQDS2h6UgwnYkWMcmc/s1600/Grandma+Ruth.JPG" height="320" width="244" /></a><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Grandma could never punish
her sons because they would run away.
But they had to eat. So each
night, when they sat down for dinner, she would smack them in the head. “What was that for?” they would ask. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“I don’t know,” she
said. “But I’m sure you did something to
deserve it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Mom also remember
Grandma. When Mom was taking lessons to
become a Catholic, she was preparing to enter a confessional for the first
time. “Don’t worry Janie,” Grandma
said. “Tell the priest whatever you want. The rest is none of his business.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Grandma was dynamite in a small container!</span></div>
Mike Brubakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02022055095971365170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1544912606664081101.post-74166371804051092012015-03-09T09:02:00.000-07:002015-03-09T09:02:08.980-07:00Some Photos From CBI WWIII am slowly sorting through several photograph collections. I wanted to share a couple of images taken by my Father-in-Law. Mark Nider served in the China-Burma-India theater of World War Two. He took hundreds of photographs and gave each one a title. Here are just two. The first is entitled "Burma" and the second "paddies." They are interesting photographs. It will take some time and thought to really understand his collections. But here is just an example of what he witnessed and experienced. It also well documents the work that lay ahead for the men that served in this particular area during the war.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipLgPWOPeDk7N50AbM1m1M74vintRdLBVxs25JaYFiTqQDKc45nE3IrzLDRWijnTpZ_xHHSn1AdaB6CWNuwujMH7NM1p_lCPV5x6keqkj1ds_zj1Jg8by-g-BCYQ9q1tl6j1Po8ZU56v-0/s1600/Burma.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipLgPWOPeDk7N50AbM1m1M74vintRdLBVxs25JaYFiTqQDKc45nE3IrzLDRWijnTpZ_xHHSn1AdaB6CWNuwujMH7NM1p_lCPV5x6keqkj1ds_zj1Jg8by-g-BCYQ9q1tl6j1Po8ZU56v-0/s1600/Burma.jpg" height="198" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvwNtNK2SGf4LLs08NlbZ7mCGwlazK7y6-Dq61On1JfSRLdeQYhRIwQJyM_rzLeaOxQg0Y7kExFgTyAk1zYQaZ3hVJmqUbenil9DIxLT4J840-8pxAneMc5LPQzKtnh1507Z8oks3Y3Kmp/s1600/the+paddies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvwNtNK2SGf4LLs08NlbZ7mCGwlazK7y6-Dq61On1JfSRLdeQYhRIwQJyM_rzLeaOxQg0Y7kExFgTyAk1zYQaZ3hVJmqUbenil9DIxLT4J840-8pxAneMc5LPQzKtnh1507Z8oks3Y3Kmp/s1600/the+paddies.jpg" height="219" width="320" /></a></div>
Mike Brubakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02022055095971365170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1544912606664081101.post-54836843690541435342015-03-04T07:10:00.000-08:002015-03-04T07:15:57.092-08:00Dad's Navy Portrait<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigUAmc-yY_v4pJbVT5bMcAJA3c7BNHFhsgGjVIX7jhpdrliXgTX8HwB0o43FrcaG2NGqTBQy7LHHlb9GD2U_mv3H3qkCmHMQY8QfInBzvtA7_q_QqcrGzO4AyAofoJdNQPZmctHQKysDxn/s1600/Dad's%2BNavy%2Bprotrait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigUAmc-yY_v4pJbVT5bMcAJA3c7BNHFhsgGjVIX7jhpdrliXgTX8HwB0o43FrcaG2NGqTBQy7LHHlb9GD2U_mv3H3qkCmHMQY8QfInBzvtA7_q_QqcrGzO4AyAofoJdNQPZmctHQKysDxn/s1600/Dad's%2BNavy%2Bprotrait.jpg" height="320" width="228" /></a>My sister Mary sent me this copy of Dad's Navy portrait. I don't have a date, but I suspect it was done around 1947. Dad served in the Navy right after high school graduation. He liked to tell the story about graduating from high school one evening and going down to the Navy enlistment the next morning. By the time he enlisted the war was over but the draft was still in place. Dad really didn't want to serve in the Army. So he enlisted. The other story about his Navy service, he wanted to serve in submarines but he liked to say that he must have completely failed the psychiatric test because they made him an airplane mechanic!<br />
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A detail about his service that not many people know is that he was injured in the Navy. One day there was an explosion in the hanger Dad was working in. A piece of flying metal went into his leg. I was told that he had an ugly scar for the rest of his life. I was also told the metal stayed in his leg for the rest of his life. Dad died a few years ago, so I can't (easily) confirm either of these stories. But, there you go. <br />
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Here is Charles Edward Brubaker, Jr. in the Navy!Mike Brubakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02022055095971365170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1544912606664081101.post-41421127967419063912015-03-02T09:04:00.000-08:002015-03-02T09:04:33.379-08:00I Will Try This Again<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Okay, it has been almost eight months since my last
post. And, I know I promised to post
more often. Well, I will try this
again. More information to come in the future. But to start off, I found an interesting
quote that sums up family history very well:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">“He who has no fools, knaves, or beggars in his family was begot
by a flash of lightning." </span></b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">-- Old
English proverb.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I will try to post more often in the year
2015.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Mike Brubakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02022055095971365170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1544912606664081101.post-3711838010533932662014-07-16T08:05:00.000-07:002014-07-16T08:05:13.090-07:00The Summer of Silliness<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It occurred to me this morning that this summer, 2014, is
truly the “Summer of Fun Filled Silliness.”
In the past month, I have had the pleasure of having my head shaved as
part of a fundraiser for the Sherburne County History Center in Becker,
Minnesota and I had the pleasure of playing a really bad, but historically accurate, game of
baseball. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I lost my hair when I challenged the Sherburne History
Center group to raise $3000 and I would shave my head. The early reactions to all of this included
people asking about my sanity. I received
one particular e-mail that asked: “Are you in your right mind?” Well, just call me baldy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Last weekend, July 13, I had the good fortune to participate
in a Vintage Baseball Game, playing by 1860s rules. My wise brother has always maintained that
Brubakers, especially me, we have no business participating in any type of
athletic endeavor. Well, he is right but
I didn’t listen. At my first at bat, I
managed to hit a decent fly ball, just out of the reach of the shortstop. I instantly discovered a significant genetic
failure: Brubakers, especially me, we can’t run 90 feet. I fell on my face about 20 feet short of
first base. Needless to say, I was out. You won’t see any pictures of that fateful
tumble, I have threatened the staff: if photos appear, I will fire them all! But, there it is.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The County Fair is coming up. I can’t wait to see what I tumble into next!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Here are photos of my beautiful bald head and my
intimidating stance in the batter’s box.
If Babe Ruth were alive, no doubt he would be worried.</div>
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Mike Brubakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02022055095971365170noreply@blogger.com0