L. Roy Wilcox, PhD - Autobiography, Part 7

E3: ELEMENTARY SCHOOL GRADES 7, 8; AGES 11-13; 1923-1925

The Wilmette house was a bungalow of one story (plus attic and basement) with but two bedrooms, in contrast to the Chicago house of two stories (plus basement) with three bedrooms. Yard space, fortunately, was quite adequate. My parents picked the front bedroom, and of course Grandmother Gertrude got the rear one. I was assigned the (heated) rear “sun-porch.” And, wonder of wonders, I had a private entrance from the outside (in addition to the interior entrance from the kitchen).

Roy at his private entrance

The neighborhood was far more attractive than anything I had seen in Chicago; and there was a park only a couple of blocks away. However, we were about as close (within a block) to the railroads – Northwestern (North Branch) and North Shore (interurban) Line – as we were in Chicago – Northwestern (Northwest Branch), but [sic.] we were used to the noise.

One of the first things we learned about Wilmette is that, like Caesar’s Gallia, it was divided into parts – however, not three but two: “East Side” and “West Side,” between which there existed considerable rivalry approaching animosity. The East Side contained large, expensive houses and the “snooty” Wilmettites; it lay between the shore of Lake Michigan and the Northwestern Railroad tracks. The West Side, which lay in the four block-wide region between the tracks and Ridge Road, contained smaller, less expensive houses and the common people (including, of course, us). (Now the West Side extends variously 1 to 3 miles farther west, the extension encompassing land, west of Ridge Road, which was mostly farmland at the time of our move.)

The East Side had three public schools – Laurel, for grades K – 4, Central for grades 5 and 6, and Stolp for grades 7 and 8. The West Side had but one public school – Logan for grades K – 6. Hence seventh-and eighth-graders on the West Side had to cross the tracks to attend Stolp. These trips were made on foot, since there were no buses. (Nowadays, no Wilmette children are required to walk to school if tracks have to be crossed.) For me as a seventh grader from the West Side, the trip was about ¾ miles each way, noticeably greater than what I had been accustomed to in Chicago!

Stolp was not called a junior high school; but it was in effect such. In fact, it was more of a junior high school than the Wilmette Junior High School of today. Each of grades seven and eight occupied one floor, with four rooms each. Every room served as a “homeroom,” the teacher in charge of which was also a special subject teacher. Mine taught arithmetic; the others taught respectively English, geography, and history. Each day had five periods, one for homeroom activities and one for each of the four academic subjects; in addition there was an hour for a round trip home for lunch, and a final period was devoted to such miscellany as gym, music, and “current events.” In general the four classes of a grade moved as a units, disjoint [sic.] from one another, from one location to another in each case. [1]

My penchant for getting lost on the first day of school came to the fore again. After school I had no idea how to get home and had to call my mother. Since she didn’t know how to steer me home, she called Mr. Abramson, our contractor, who then dashed to where I was and drove me home. No more trouble thereafter.

I soon became adjusted to the school program and in fact enjoyed it immensely. I was particularly impressed by the excellence of teaching (completely unmatched in Chicago, I thought). Curiously my best teacher was a Mrs. Vernon, who taught history – later the subject I came to dislike intensely. A close second was a Mrs. (?) Anderson, who taught English – later a subject that I didn’t care for. My homeroom teacher, a Mrs. Jones, taught arithmetic. She was quite good, but I didn’t care much for the subject, because as taught it was too routine and devoid of ideas; of course I did well because of the ease with which I had learned to handle rote processes.

It became clear almost immediately that English was the area most neglected at Belding School. In Wilmette the students had been taught grammar – parts of speech, sentence structure, proper usage, etc. – in sixth grade, and probably even earlier; in Chicago I had learned none of this. So I went to work, devoting extra time to grammar, if only to overcome my clear inferiority to my classmates. As a result, my big achievement in seventh grade was to learn, and learn well, what I had missed earlier, and indeed to come to enjoy this subject far more than any of the others. As it turned out, when I got to eighth grade, I had acquired the title “grammar expert”; even the English teacher, a rank beginner, often looked to me for help. (I recall setting her straight when she claimed that “the” was an article, not an adjective!)

In passing, it’s worth noting that in those days there was general acceptance of a vague authority on what is good grammar, usage, etc., and what is not. Dictionaries stated in no uncertain terms what is right and what is wrong; the big ones usually cited as authorities famous writers. (The 1889 addition of the Century Dictionary states under prove: “. . . proved, sometimes incorrectly proven,” and follows with two examples, both with proved.) The present widespread attitude that there should be no rules, that “anything goes” is a product of the growth of anti-intellectualism during this century; it contributes to a lessening of effectiveness of language as an instrument of communication.

Being something of a shrinking violet, I didn’t gain many friends during the year of grade 7. By avoiding normal athletic participation to the extent possible, I locked myself out of some social contacts. And the prejudices of East Siders against West Siders didn’t help. But I did find a few friends with whom I had something in common. One was even an East Sider – George Glover. My interest in him was partly due to the fact that he had a bicycle – a conveyance I had not traveled on. As it happened, George had a paper route. Since papers had to be placed on front steps, the bicycle didn’t help much. I offered to help him: he could ride the bike, skipping every other house, to which I would deliver a paper; in that way time would be saved. In return he offered me a lesson or two and the privilege of riding from time to time on his bike. Once I had learned, I could talk my parents into buying me a bike for Christmas. I was leery about riding it to Stolp School, but the next year I rode all over. Wilmette was kind to us riders: we could ride on the sidewalks, at corners the curbs were joined to raised inner edges of the street gutters with steel plates, thus making for pretty bump free rides.

In the summer of 1924, my mother and I, and for a couple of weeks my father, spent most of the time in Henderson, Michigan with the family we had visited several times earlier. 

Gertrude on the Mueller Farm, Henderson, Michigan

(The mother – Mrs. Mueller – and mine had been friends in Chicago in earlier days before her marriage.) While I wasn’t capable physically of being involved in all types of the farm work, I did help with some chores, even to the point of carrying bags of grain after threshing. But I learned much about farming of the time.

The Mueller farm was essentially 100% primitive. No electricity, no running water, no bathroom (outhouse 50 feet from the home), no refrigeration, no radio, no mechanization (except for a model T Ford for transportation to town). The Muellers had had six children, four older than I, one my age, and one younger (children in those days were a source of cheap labor; the result was that most home as soon as possible and did not go into farming.) I learned a lot and got along well. I rode a horse bareback and fell off; I learned how to milk a cow, even squirting the product into my mouth, warm as it was. I engaged with my playmates in a stupid game – climbing a ladder and jumping into a pile of hay – and jumped far too great a height, missing the hay. The result was two broken (foot) arches [requiring arch] supports to be worn for decades.

Eighth grade was a distinct improvement over seven in many ways. I learned before school started that a new school called “Howard” (on the West Side) had been completed and was ready to take upper grade West Siders. Though it was closer than Stolp (about a half mile away), my tendency to avoid the new led me to go back to Stolp. But when I was discovered, I was promptly sent over to Howard. In a short time I had a pretty good circle of friends (no more East-West prejudices afoot), and I took an interest in baseball (soft, of course) to the extent that I normally bolted down my lunch to get back to school and into the new game.

Among my newly found friends were a few who caddied and had learned to play golf. They persuaded me to go with them to the Indian Hill Club (shortly west of Kenilworth) and to become a caddy. The pay was $.25 an hour ($.50 when caddying double), more on Sundays. (There I was ruled out for religious reasons.) No tips, unless one caddied for a guest (who didn’t know the rule). After a time I became an “honor caddy” with a 20% increase in pay! Since caddies could play (except weekends and Wednesdays), I bought four clubs and a bag and learned the game. I never quite made par but did make some holes in 2. In the summer of 1925 there was a caddy tournament of 9-hole matchings. I was adjudged right for the third flight (next to lowest) and proceeded to reach the final match. My opponent and I were even up after our nine holes and so we replayed hole 9, 160 yards, par three. My first shot was off the green, but fairly near and his was on the other side of the green. It was agreed that I shoot while he walked toward his ball. I did so, sinking the approach for a 2, he failed on his, but claimed I had cheated by placing the ball in the hole by hand behind his back. There were no witnesses and it was his word against mine. The caddy master accepted my story and gave me the prize – a club to round out my set (now of five).

Eighth grade and graduation went off without a hitch. During the summer of 1925 my father took me and two other boys – Roy and Bob – on a camping trip to Crystal Lake, Illinois. Roy was older than I by about two years and was able to drive a car. So my father bought (for something like $30) a 1917 model T Ford. Roads were awful and very hard on the tires. We must have stopped 15 or 20 times to remove and repair damage to them. (Wheels were not removable – the tire rims were part of them.) The trip of about 40 miles took a day.

rare photo of Roy with his father Lee, shortly before the camping trip

Since my father had been to Crystal Lake in connection with Scout camping when he was at Galewood, he knew the woman who owned the land along the lake suitable for a campsite. Perhaps he had written her earlier. In any case, we located near the beach, put up our tent, and prepared to spend a week or 10 days. My father was the cook and we boys the dishwashers. In all, this was a good experience all around. For one thing, I learned (all by myself) to swim and, of course, to get badly sunburned. I also learned that a father may well boss his own son around more than other boys. I had one important first experience. We boys one evening heard musical sounds which invited investigation: what we found was a dance pavilion complete with a dance orchestra and dancers. I might have heard orchestras on the radio, but I’d never heard or seen a dance orchestra live. A song that was played stuck in my mind long enough for me to recall it much later and find sheet music for it (which I still have). It was “Going Home.” A day trip (with more car repairs) got us home.

We delivered our boys to Chicago, where they lived, and it was then my job to drive to Wilmette. (I’d had no experience up to that time.) I didn’t know that the clutch pedal had three positions – down for low, up for high, and middle for neutral (no gear shift, of course). (Because I knew – clutch in neutral, middle pedal down.) So when my father cranked up (hand start), I’d forget to keep the clutch in neutral and would let it out. Of course this killed the engine. He cursed (words I’ve never heard him use before), and cranked again. Somehow I eventually got the hang of it and we proceeded home via Sheridan Road. The car was parked in the yard you’re the alley, used a few times, and soon sold to one of my classmates for $15!

I was now ready for New Trier.

---

[1] The departmentalized instruction used here was evidently copied verbatim from that in use in high schools; I shall return to this subject later.

Tombstone Tuesday - 23 November 2010 - Bayhnum Brooks Wilcox

Bayhnum Brooks Wilcox, wife of my granduncle, Roy Edward Wilcox. Buried in Oakland Cemetery, Dallas, Texas.
Bayhnum was born 9 June 1886 and died 21 November 1978 (32 years ago Sunday). I never met her or her husband, though my grandfather idolized his older brother and was heartsick when he died (in 1965). They had no children. My father was named for Roy, who is buried next to his wife.

Tombstone Tuesday - 28 September 2010 - Rosannah Stuyvesant Wilcox

Rosanna M. Stuyvesant Wilcox, b: 11 November 1832, Watertown, Jefferson, New York; d: 30 September 1894 (116 years ago this week), Decatur, Van Buren, Michigan. Buried: Prospect Hill Cemetery, Paw Paw, Van Buren, Michigan.

Married to my great-great-grandfather's brother, Calvin Wilcox, on 26 October 1851, Watertown, Jefferson, New York.

Tombstone Tuesday - 17 August 2010 - Remembering a forgotten grave, Nathan W. Wilcox

A slightly different "Tombstone Tuesday" - about a tombstone that has been a long time in being placed and properly adorned.




Once upon a time, a Yankee, born in Oswego, New York and relocated to Jefferson County, New York, married the girl next door. That Yankee, Nathan W. Wilcox, son of Peter C. Wilcox and Mary Youker, moved with his bride, and later joined by the rest of his family, to Van Buren County, Michigan, where he commenced to work at his trade, the same one his father taught him many years before: carpenter, joiner, and architect. Michigan provided a wonderful frontier for his efforts, but this Yankee soon wanted a wider territory, where there was a great need for people with his skills. He moved his little family (wife and 2 children) to New London, Henry County, Iowa. There 2 more children were born, though one was buried almost as soon as she came into the world. And, within a couple of years, another child was on the way. Also on the way: the splitting of a nation! So Nathan W. Wilcox went to see the recruiting officer who came to New London and signed up, at the ripe old age of 33, to be an engineer in Lincoln's army. He also recruited about 20 additional men, though probably not all experienced builders. He sent the recruits on ahead while he awaited the birth of his latest daughter, bade goodbye to his young family, and joined the troops in St. Louis, MO - Nathan W. Wilcox became 2nd Lt. Wilcox of Col. Bissell's Engineering Regiment of the West out of Missouri.

In the regiment, Nathan distinguished himself as being one of the few who really knew his trade. He often was sent to other companies to teach and help the men in their efforts to build bridges, railroads, and roads; and then, when the battle was over, destroy those same transportation options to thwart the enemy's advances. (Meanwhile, back home in Iowa, another of Nathan's children died - only three remained of his five babies.) Nathan was advanced to 1st Lt. after the successful building of the canal to advance Union troops around New Madrid, Missouri and Island #10.




Nathan continued to be effective in his duties as an engineer and soon was promoted to Captain. But the war was nearing a crucial point and the Engineering Regiment was joining up with an Infantry regiment, meaning that the engineers would see more battle action and there would soon be a surplus of higher officers. Nathan requested discharge and it was granted, largely due to his poor health from the canal building (causing the men to stand in waist high swamp water at all hours of the day and night).

Nathan was in Nashville, Tennessee when he was discharged and he promptly went to work under contract to the government, doing surveying work. He drew battle lines for the upcoming Battle of Nashville and, later, he relocated to Knoxville where he helped to rebuild the university campus, virtually destroyed during the war (his brother came down from Michigan to help, too).

This is how a New York Yankee became a Tennessee resident. He sent for his family. Lost another child (to cholera symptoms) and fathered another. He designed homes. He helped rebuild the south, but not as a carpetbagger; as a member of the community. He lived in Nashville, Clarksville, Knoxville, and all over Franklin County. His youngest son followed in his father's footsteps, being involved in various aspects of building, and took him in during the Captain's old age. Nathan W. Wilcox died in Nashville in September 1891; he was buried in the "single graves" area of Mt. Olivet Cemetery where whatever grave marker he received disappeared a long time ago.

Enter me, ready to give this man, my g-g-grandfather, the recognition he deserves. On Aug. 14, 2010, with a small group of dedicated folks (it was about 105 degrees that day), we celebrated the life of Nathan W. Wilcox. His tombstone was provided by the Veterans' Administration and the good people at the cemetery placed the stone earlier in the summer so that we could gather around it and dedicate the grave.



In attendance: Capt. Wilcox's g-g-g-granddaughter, Sandra Dodge; his g-g-g-g-grandsons, Tyler Dodge and Brad and Drew Schmidt; his g-g-grandson-in-law, Lynn Hibben; me (his g-g-granddaughter); Abraham Lincoln (portrayed by Dennis Boggs); Kraig McNutt, a local historian who blogged about the event; historian Jim Swan; and, from Ft. Donelson Camp #62, Sons of Union Veterans of the Civil War, bugler Chad Gray and Cpl. Nelson Hughes .


We began with the presentation of colors and flag salute by boy scout Tyler Dodge and, after an opening prayer, learned about the man we honored, sang "Tenting on the Old Campground,"

placed the GAR marker and flag by the stone (thanks to the Ft. Donelson Camp #62 SUVCW and Cpl. Hughes, above with me),


heard some moving remarks by Pres. Lincoln, and witnessed the grave dedication by Lynn Hibben, followed by the playing of taps, courtesy of Chad Gray. It was a moving experience and I am grateful to all those who came to honor my great-great-grandfather.

Sam Gant, of the Ft. Donelson Camp #62, SUVCW, sent me this email:

"Dr. Hibben planned and presented an excellent program for her ancestor, and, in doing so, remembered and honored a soldier of the Grand Army of the Republic whom we of the Fort Donelson Camp # 62 have pledged to perpetuate his memory. Capt. Nathan's basic military information and burial location shall be entered in the SUVCW Graves Registry."

All I can add is "Wow"!




(photos courtesy of Jim Swan & Kraig McNutt)

Wordless Wednesday - 11 August 2010 - Aunt Kate (Katherine Wilcox Weaver)

Aunt Kate (Katherine E. Wilcox Ireland Johnson Weaver) - back row, third from the left (see yesterday's Tombstone Tuesday)

Tombstone Tuesday - 10 August 2010 - Kate E. Weaver

Katherine E. Wilcox Ireland Johnson Weaver (Aunt Kate)
b: July 1861, New London, Henry, Iowa
d: 13 August 1936, Dallas, Dallas, Texas
buried: Oakland Cemetery, Dallas, Texas

Treasure Chest Thursday - 5 August 2010 - Mema's watch

Among my grandmother's things was this "travel watch." The watch can be worn on a fob or chain, but also fits nicely in this little case, that then can be closed for easily transport. I haven't taken the time or money to get it running again, but plan to do that one of these days. Meanwhile, it sits on display in my home, a reminder of my grandmother, Pauline Elizabeth Miller Wilcox - we called her "Mema" - and her insistence that things happen in proper order and on time (I dusted her house every Saturday for a quarter, and I dared not be late!).

Tombstone Tuesday - 27 July 2010 - William Caldwell

My g-g-grandaunt's husband, William G. CALDWELL:
b: 30 October 1831, Danville, Montour, Pennsylvania, USA
d: 27 July 1905 (105 years ago today), Three Rivers, St. Joseph, Michigan, USA
buried: Section N, Riverside Cemetery, Three Rivers, St. Joseph, Michigan

married Martha Amy WILCOX, 28 December 1858, Three Rivers, St. Joseph, Michigan

Wordless Wednesday - 7 July 2010 - Wilcox Burial Records

Pieced together from:



Cemetery records, Oakland Cemetery, Dallas, Dallas, Texas

Tombstone Tuesday - 6 July 2010 - Roy E. Wilcox

The grave of my grandfather's beloved brother, Roy Edward Wilcox (Edward after his father, Edward Wilcox, who was named after his grandfather, Edward Freeman - I love how the names are kept alive! My father was then named Lee Roy, after is father and this uncle).

Roy was born 1 October 1882 in Dallas, Dallas, Texas and died 9 July 1965 (45 years ago this week) in Grand Prairie, Dallas, Texas. He was buried the next day in Oakland Cemetery, Dallas, where he is interred next to his wife, Baynhum Brooks, who died 21 November 1978. Roy and Baynhum had no children so the only son to carry on the Wilcox name was Roy's brother, Lee Alfred (my grandfather). For this line of the Wilcox family, the Wilcox name ends with my brother, Robert, who has no children.

I visited this grave with my second (half) cousin a few years ago. It was a memorable excursion and the caretaker of the grounds allowed us to look at the records (there was no copy machine available, so I took a photo of the index card - see tomorrow's "Wordless Wednesday" posting).

Treasure Chest Thursday - Usedit

This is part of a game I inherited from my grandaunt, Mary Louise Wilcox Brown. I suspect she received it from the game's creator as it has (not shown here) score sheets in an obviously home-crafted bag; the graphics all appear to be created as a sample - one copy of each game form - so this might have been the prototype. Here's what I know:

The apparatus works like a roulette wheel - you push a lever on the side and the wheel inside spins, sending a little ball around and around until the spinning stops. Then, depending on which of the many games one is playing, the cards or pieces are played accordingly. This is obviously many games in one. According to the Catalog of Copyright Entries, Third Series: 1964: January-June, the copyright was applied for in 1964 as "the atomic game of the atomic era"; it is called "52 card roulette." As can be seen on the box, this copyright is 1949 with the phrase "the atomic games [plural] . . ." and notation that it is registered in the US patent office. Was this ever actually sold? Googling "Usedit" gets me nowhere (except to sites where someone forgot to put a space between "used" and "it" . . . lots of sites with that!).

As can be seen on the box, the pronunciation would be "U-sed-it" (as in "you said it"), not "usedit" (as in "used it"). But I see no indication of anyone "saying" one thing or another, so its name alone could be confusing (maybe that's why it was changed by 1964 when the Fiedler names - Irving and Marty - are given as you see them listed here . . . maybe one was the creator and the other was the financial backer . . . Marty Fiedler is listed in another source on games as a "California entrepreneur"). The phrase "flying disc of games" is not included in the 1964 explanation of the product. I would love any ideas on what it is I really have . . . something my grandaunt's friend created? something she picked up at a garage sale? She and her husband, John Brown, played many games and often with friends (they lived in Studio City in the San Fernando Valley of Los Angeles County, California, from about the 1930s until Mary Louise's death in 1995 when John returned to their home state of Texas), so it stands to reason that, if one of their friends had created or come upon a new game, that they (my relatives) would have gotten their hands on it; but it shows little, if any, actual use.

Is it a treasure? You tell me! It was in their game chest, so it's a treasure to me.

Wordless Wednesday - 23 June 2010, Remembering Mom

MOM
Virginia Marie Johnson Wilcox
b: 24 August 1911
d: 24 June 1994
(16 years ago tomorrow . . . missed every day)


ca. 1913, Milwaukee, Milwaukee, Wisconsin

ca. 1929, Riverside High School, Milwaukee, Milwaukee, Wisconsin

1933, Carroll College, Waukesha, Waukesha, Wisconsin

1935, Marquette University, Milwaukee, Milwaukee, Wisconsin

ca. 1973, McGregor, Aitken, Minnesota

SUNDAY SINGALONG - More Gospel Songs

Last Sunday I decided to institute a Sunday Singalong on my blog, but I didn't post it until fairly late since I had been at Jamboree until mid-afternoon, so a lot of folks didn't learn about it until the next day. So here I will repeat some of my ideas on how this can go:

I will propose a general topic and you search your memory (but it's an "open book" exercise, so go ahead and look at music books in your home or look at old photos to jog the mind) and suggest a song that will fit the theme. If you want to share some of the words from your preferred version, that would be great, but if lack of time dictates that you to keep it short, then just enter a title! Links to lyrics, MP3s, or YouTube videos would also be a nice addition. You can also add why the song is significant or memorable to you.

Last week I proposed the topic "Gospel Songs," but since most folks didn't get a chance to play the game, I'm going to repeat that topic. I have a selfish reason for that as well - since this is Father's Day and since my Dad, though a devout heathen (self-proclaimed) throughout most of his life, played Gospel songs on the organ and was the son of a woman (my grandma) who was a prolific writer of Gospel songs, I want to honor Dad with this topic.

My offering this week: The songs of Pauline E. Wilcox, who sometimes enlisted the aid of my dad, her son, to write the music, but often used the artistry of Merrill Dunlop to carry her message. Merrill Dunlop was the music director for the Chicago Gospel Tabernacle, presided over by Paul Rader.



Dad always said that he liked Mr. Dunlop's compositions because they were challenging to play (for Dad, "the more difficult, the better" was his motto). Dunlop's collections are now housed in Wheaton, Illinois (I donated a number of things to their archives) but I do have a couple of his hymn books, at least one with some of my grandmother's songs:



So here is my "offering" for our Sunday Singalong - one of the songs written by Mema (that's what I called Pauline E. Miller Wilcox, my paternal grandmother):


I like to think that there is always a better day coming (I know, that's not what my grandmother meant by the phrase). Hope your life is filled with better and better days! Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there!

Family singalongs, organs, and connecting generations

I guess singalongs are really on my mind right now . . . perhaps that is because the one we had at Jamboree last week (see earlier posts) are still generating comments and various posts. I am grateful to the many who have advised me of the links for videos and photos posted to Facebook (check my own FB profile page to see them . . . you may need to scroll down quite a bit . . . they were posted this past week).

My friend Susan Kitchens took some of the photos and told me about how the singalong we did reminded her of the "porchsings" she had with her own family. Her recollections, along with her impressions of an Arlo Guthrie concert in 2005 really affected her, can be found on her blog - it's great reading for anyone who is interested in how music reaches over the generations to connect people.

Tomorrow is Father's Day and in the past couple of weeks - the period between my Dad's birthday (June 8) and Father's Day - I have blogged about his family (Wilcox), his artifacts that I now have stewardship over, and photos of him at different times in his life. One of the photos show Dad & me in front of his Schober organ, created from a "kit." That organ was the culmination of many years of dreaming and planning and then, finally, creating. He and Mom made the organ together - Mom became quite the solder gun queen, soon learning the finer points of the craft (at Dad's tutelage, of course). And Dad built the console in his basement workshop, choosing only the best woods. Problem: once created, the framework, which would hold 3 manuals and a full pedal board, would not fit up the basement stairs into the waiting living room (a huge space had been cleared and was all ready for its new occupant). I still remember, being fast asleep one night, the snow having just stopped outside, when I was awakened by a rumbling down the sidewalk. Our home sat on a corner so the door from the basement to the outside could take a person right to Green Bay Rd - one of the busiest streets in Wilmette, Illinois (though not all that busy on a winter night sometime around 11 pm). My brother was home from college for the weekend and had a friend over for the evening; Dad found them to be the perfect assistants. Dad removed the door from the basement to the back yard and the three guys (Dad, my brother, and his friend) muscled the organ framework up and out and, since it was equipped with casters, rolled it around the corner (past my bedroom window) to the front door. I went downstairs in time to see it slipped right into its new home against the living room wall, where it sat for the next 30 years.

Mom and Dad created the manuals and made the connections so that the organ made its first sounds before it was actually assembled (which was also a rather weird experience). I did the finish on some of the pedals . . . but my ability to apply deft (the finish Dad preferred) left much to be desired so he took that task back. Once assembled and operating, the organ was used to entertain countless people who came to visit. I was always proud to show off Dad's amazing instrument and we had many great times playing duets (me on guitar). Those are some of the best memories.

That organ has a new home now, with a "fan" of Dad's who lives in New Jersey. He has both the musical and electrical backgrounds to play and keep in good repair that organ that represents a large part of my life. Happy Father's Day, Dad; I'll play a spiritual for you at the Riverside Folk Song Society tonight.

Treasure Chest Thursday - 17 June 2010 - Another Wilcox Memento

Dad (L. Roy Wilcox) died in 1999 and lived the last years of his life disgusted with modern technology (he had no use for cable TV, VCRs or video cameras), but he had been on the cutting edge of computers with his work at the Illinois Institute of Technology (he had wanted to build his own computer, but never got around to it). Nevertheless, whenever I would get a new gadget, he would scoff at it, declaring that the "old stuff" was good enough for him (he "preferred" audio recordings to video, perhaps a throw-back to the radio era, and would record on his homemade, mammoth reel-to-reel recorder any television shows that struck his fancy).

But he was not always that way. When my brother was born, it took him only a couple of years (and a hatred of borrowing equipment that belonged to friends of the family) to purchase an 8mm movie camera, projector, and screen. In fact, when a home audio recording system became available - allowing someone to actually make his own records that would play on a standard record player (78 rpm) - he purchased the entire system. I still own blanks of those "vinyl" (not really - these are breakable) records and the metal disc that was used in preparing the final product. I also have all the original recordings made of my brother and me singing songs that need not be reproduced here or anywhere, reciting nursery rhymes, and even creating and performing in our own "radio quiz show" (don't ask). The actual machine that recorded the material and cut the grooves is long gone (discarded when tape recorders became affordable and Dad built his first one from a Heath Kit), but the microphone remains! Here is the microphone from those early recordings (done in the late 1940s and throughout the 1950s) and is maybe why I have no problem using a microphone today (hey, I was weaned on one!):


(manufacturer: Turner Crystal)

Wordless Wednesday - 16 June 2010 - Another Wilcox Photo

With my dad: Dr. L. Roy Wilcox - mathematician, linguist, musician, carpenter, electrician (FYI: he built that organ from a kit, but designed all the bells and whistles himself). Wilmette, Cook, Illinois, ca. 1981.

Tombstone Tuesday - 15 June 2010, Edward E. Wilcox, d: 15 June 1943

Edward E. Wilcox, son of Luther T. and Rebecca (Caldwell) Wilcox, b: 1862, Van Buren County, Michigan; d: 15 June 1943 (67 years ago today), Los Angeles, Los Angeles, California; buried: Riverside Cemetery (section J), Three Rivers, St. Joseph, Michigan.

Edward had been married to Carrie Wolf, who died in Los Angeles in 1939. She is interred in the same plot with her husband.

Edward was my 1st cousin, 3 times removed. It is possible he was named for my great-grandfather, Edward Everett Wilcox (who was named for his grandfather, Edward Freeman), but I don't know that for certain.

Treasure Chest Thursday - L. Roy Wilcox, student and educator, 10 June 2010

My father attended an elementary school that, many years later, he destroyed (he was the president of the Board of Education in Wilmette, Cook, Illinois when it was decided that the old building - where he had attended school at the end of his elementary school experience - had to be torn down: it was more cost effective than rebuilding it . . . one of his school board colleagues mentioned that he had a chance to do what most children only dreamed of: destroying his grammar school! But Dad told them that, for him, it was rather sad: he enjoyed school). I suspect that this slate was actually used in his earlier educational experience in Chicago, Cook, Illinois, but it is definitely the slate he used at some point in his life; he gave it to me when I was a child and I have treasured it ever since.



The only one of Dad's readers that survived. It has "Roy Wilcox" written inside. I imagine it was the beginning of the man's love of the English language (though a mathematician, Dad was also a lexicologist and grammarian; he loved to watch the news and keep track of the errors in syntax and grammar that announcers committed . . . we all have our hobbies!).

Dad would have been 98 years old two days ago (b: 8 June 1912; d: 31 Dec 1999).

Wordless Wednesday - 9 June 2010 - Dr. L. Roy Wilcox

Roy with parents Lee Alfred Wilcox and Pauline Elizabeth Miller, 25 Nov 1915, Chicago, Illinois

Roy with mother, Pauline Elizabeth Miller Wilcox, and maternal grandmother, Gertrude Miller; 16 Nov 1916, Chicago, Illinois

Dr. L. Roy Wilcox (8 June 1912 - 31 December 1999) - Belated happy birthday, Dad.

Treasure Chest Thursday - 3 June 2010

I am thrilled that the article I wrote about my father - L. Roy Wilcox - was printed in Family Chronicle magazine (May/June issue - still available at Barnes & Noble in some places, though Riverside & Corona stores are sold out). The article discusses his experience with bootlegging (he was only 16 and not really aware of the events until it was too late to disconnect himself). Anyway, Dad went on to become a mathematics professor - and very well known in his field - spending some of his post-graduate time at the Institute for Advanced Study at Princeton, working with Einstein and Von Neumann. He played the flute in the Princeton orchestra (I still have that flute . . . maybe I'll blog more about that experience of his at a later date). When we cleared out his things when he sold the family home, I came on many of the tools of his trade. They are now part of our family museum. Dad's love of mathematics and music, and his ability to speak at least three foreign languages, were cause for his being highly respected among his peers. After his passing, I really began to understand all he had done in his life; I wish I'd known while he was still alive! Get to know your living family members . . . you never know what amazing things they did (and are doing) in their lives!