Two Sides of the Family--One Building

He's HOT!

So I started my first job. I was an editor for a scientific publication. When we finished editing one article, we got the next one from a pile. I grabbed the next article and went to my desk. Started reading. I didn't get far.

After the author's name was an acknowledgment and a thanks to Robert My Last Name (MLN). Huh? My last name is very rare. Very, very few people in the entire US have this name. How was this possible?

I decided to call this person. What a noive. Wandering around just one letter away from my name.

I called. A man answered. I asked for Robert MLN. He said it was him. I said I was Roberta MLN. I was about to tell him why I was calling when he kinda shouted, "Cousin Roberta!!!!!" Huh? "Aren't you the daughter of E and I?" Yes. How do you know me? I'm you're cousin M. He went by his middle name, not the name I knew him by. I remembered him from my childhood. Much older than me. I didn't remember his sister. We talked. We promised to talk again.

When I got home that night I told my parents what happened. My father kinda teared up. His nephew--and niece. The nephew was ostracisized from the family because he married someone who wasn't Jewish. Of course at this point almost everyone had married someone who wasn't Jewish. Who cared?

I eventually negotiated a settlement and a reunion. Out on Long Island at M's sister's house. The whole family together again.

I was beyond ecstatic. Not just because my father was thrilled, my uncle was thrilled, and my first cousins were thrilled, but because for the first time in my entire life I felt like I belonged with family.

I'm not suggesting that my mother's side didn't love me or welcome me. Far from the case. But I never felt that I fit in somehow. Hard to explain. I didn't talk loud. I didn't look like anybody. I was thin. I had different hair (an entire other story about the hair). Very different interests and things to talk about. Always felt comfortable. I knew these people well. But I never fit in.

I fit in with the cousins on the island. Felt instantly at east. Instantly a part of the family. Hard to explain.

I loved those people without hardly knowing them at all.

We remained in touch. I had friends on the Island I was visiting. M invited me for dinner. I accepted. I had a glorious evening. But the one specific thing I remember is typical of me and a little weird.

M warned me that the family dog could be a little nippy. I said not to worry. This dog could sense my MLN genes. He knew I was family. M was noivous. I was not. The dog loved me and vice versa.

This wonderful man died very young and very suddenly. Oops. Just started to cry. I miss him. I miss that sense of belonging.

One more thing about my cousin. He was one of the designers of the Lunar Landing Module. He was in Houston for the first moon landing. I'm so proud.

Such a post!

Ah, your missing links! This is wonderful to read, Roberta!



I can fully understand this. Not enough time belonging.
(And you just made me cry, too.)
What a loss.

This is absolutely positively the last time I'm going though those pictures!! Maybe.

Some of the pictures I chose are the kinds you guys seem to be interested in. Others I chose just because.

My father was the youngest of seven children, six boys and one girl. The young man in the picture was one of my father's brothers. He was born on December 31, 1900, and he died on June 17, 1917. I know this because it says so on the back of the picture.

My father spoke of this brother with great fondness.

I'm feeling a little strange. I may be the only person in the world who has a picture of his face and perhaps the only person who knows he existed.

My father in bootcamp before being sent overseas. Why this picture? My father is carrying a gun. A real gun with bullets! Seems almost inconceivable to me.

My father somewhere in Italy after the invasion at Anzio. Does anyone recognize that statue? Maybe we'll be able to figure out where he is.

familiar... I'll look around.
It looks similar to the Triton fountain in Rome, but clearly isn't..
not the neptune fountain in Bologna..

That's a wonderful photograph of your father's brother, Roberta. The expression on his face, the look on the horse's face! And he died at 17 years of age. Do you know about the circumstances of his death?

That picture confuses me. It seems to be in a studio -- a backdrop, not really outside. (There is a line where the sandy ground meets the [painted?] backdrop... this could be the edge of a cliff/ hill but I don't think so.) I think it's possible that the horse is fake too, or at least stuffed -- those eyes are a little off, and it seems to maybe be rather worse for wear on its forehead and on the "shoulder." (I think whithers are the back part of a horse, I used to know this stuff but have forgotten.)

But if it's fake, how was it strong enough to hold a person? Maybe the horse is just worse for wear (but a real live horse), posed in front of a backdrop.

Things had to be very still back then, right? Yeah, look how even his feet are a bit fuzzy. Horse is crisp though.

I can't tell.


At any rate, sad story. I understand what you mean about being the possibly sole caretaker of his memory. You just showed his face and told his story to a whole bunch of people, though.

Sorry, I don't know the circumstances of his death. It's possible my father didn't know. Certain words were not spoken then. My beloved grandpa died of cancer. Never once did anyone ever say that word.

Soz, I took another gander at the picture. You could be right. A studio. A backdrop. We'll never know. He appears to be around the age at which he would have died. Just don't know.

Osso, I had a strange feeling that you would be the one to find out about the fountain. Happy hunting.

My mother the turkey farmer's daughter:



My mother the ukelele player:



My mother the flapper:

I'm trying.

I suspect the fountain is a gonner.

I'm getting attached to it (well, I would). I am thinking it is local, not northern, including not roman.

I agree. we are listening.

Fbaezer may get a sense of the architecture, as would Raphillon, I think.

Both of them know way more than I do, I'm just the loud person.

Don't think I mentioned that my mother's mother was Big Grandma, and my father's mother was Little Grandma.

Big grandma in a fancy shancy coat in front of a store:



Little grandma, me, and Susie:

Love little grandma's face! Not to mention Little Boida's!

I agree...the horse is a taxidermist's work...likely stuffed over a steel frame or something to make it sittable upon.

I agree about the horse. Look at its hooves. They look like folded leather. One must (namely, me) wonder why somebody would pay to have a picture taken on a fake horse. We'll never know.

Glad you like the faces, deb.

This is one of my favorite pictures. Doesn't matter that it's me. I just love the picture. Very real, kinda sorta ethereal. Don't know if that's the right word. I just like the quality of the picture.



When I was going through my parents' things, I found this picture in my father's wallet, along with a lock of my hair. I think it's a good picture.

Oh, I suspect it was dead normal for new soldiers to have the fake horse.

Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!!!!!!