This week’s Cemetery Traveler post was guest written by my
friend, Cynthia Solem. - Ed Snyder
My mother, Violet, was born in Philadelphia. On her mother’s
side of the family, she was a seventh generation Philadelphian, as she was
descended from the Krefelders, the founders of Germantown. Her father was the
son and grandson of German immigrants to Pennsylvania.
Photo below: Alice Marker
Robinson and children: Alyce, Violet,
and Ray, Wildwood, New Jersey(?), Circa 1933. (Family archives)
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| Alice Robinson and children, c. 1933 |
Violet’s father, like his father, worked at the Philadelphia
Naval Yard. My mother, along with her two siblings, spent her early childhood
in South Philly, in a neighborhood for shipyard workers. During the Depression,
this was an excellent job to have, as Grandpa had a steady income. One of my
grandmother’s relatives had a beach house at Wildwood, New Jersey, and, when he
was about to lose it for unpaid taxes, my grandparents bought it. For the next
several years, my mother’s favorite place was Wildwood in the summer. My
grandmother, as befitting her Pennsylvania Dutch origins, was a neatnik, but
she relaxed the rules at the beach. My mother and her sister and brother were
given a lot of freedom to go to the beach and the Boardwalk. As a teenager, my
mother became friends with several lifeguards, and, after they got off duty,
they would all go out to swim with the dolphins. For my mother, the ocean always symbolized
freedom.
World War II intervened and spoiled this lovely family time.
My mother (who had by this time changed her name to the more-modern Vicki)
joined the Cadet Nurse Corps, and studied at Presbyterian Hospital to get her
nursing degree. My uncle joined the Navy. Aunt Alyce took a job as personal
secretary to the head of a department store. (Strawbridge and Clothier’s) but
still found time to attend USO dances. At one dance, she met two nice Army
sergeants from Wisconsin who were about to be shipped off to North Africa. She
invited them home for Thanksgiving dinner. My mother was studying for exams,
but Alyce was very persuasive and said it was her patriotic duty to take these
young men, who might die, after all, on a tour of the City of Brotherly Love.
One of the young men, Bob, was apparently quite smitten by Vicki, who had just
turned eighteen. He asked if he could write her, and she agreed.
Bob was sent to North Africa, contracted malaria, was part
of the invasion of Sicily, was sent to a hospital in England to recover, then
was sent to Omaha Beach during D-Day. He had a relapse, and then was sent back
to hospitals in New Jersey, Florida, and Colorado. Bob was a good letter
writer, and apparently a persuasive man because, even though he didn’t really
know her, he eventually got my mother to promise to marry him and move to, as
she put it, “the wilds of Wisconsin." My mother, a big city girl, was quite
out of place in the small Wisconsin town where they lived first with my
father’s parents and then in a trailer park for returning GIs on the University
of Wisconsin‘s Camp Randall Field.
My brother was born and my mother took the baby to meet his
Pennsylvania relatives. My Philadelphia grandfather was ecstatic about having a
grandson, but he didn’t have long to enjoy him because Grandpa died shortly after,
at 54, of a massive heart attack.
My grandmother sold the beach cottage and the family home
and moved to Wisconsin to live with us.
Every summer, Grandmom went to Ocean City, to visit my uncle
and his family, and to Wildwood. She faithfully sent her Midwestern
grandchildren salt water taffy. Our
family joined her a number of times and my brother and I learned to body surf
and love the sea, just as our mother did.
My father died young, so my mother was widowed at forty-two.
I asked her if she wanted to move back to the East Coast, but she had a family,
a job, and friends in Wisconsin. As she got older, she was adamant that she did
not want to be buried with my dad and the rest of his family at the family
grave in Spring Green, Wisconsin. “I want you to scatter my ashes off the shore
at Cape May,” she said.
Though my mother lived another forty-six years, it was still
a shock when she died last year. Though she hadn’t left any written
instructions, my brother and I both knew what her wishes were.
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| Rainbow over Cape May, September 10, 2015 (Photo courtesy of
Martha Kendall) |
Last summer, our families and two of my cousins and their
spouses all gathered at Miss Chris Fishing Center in Cape May. My mother’s
ashes were in a cardboard tube decorated with sunflowers. My son’s fiancée had
brought a bouquet of flowers. To our surprise, the boat slowed right outside
the Boardwalk at Wildwood and the captain told us it was time to begin the
ceremony. It was a lovely day and laughing gulls were flying above the boat. My
brother tossed the ashes, in their container, off the stern. Then each of us
took a flower, made a blessing, and placed the flower in the water. We laughed,
cried, and hugged.
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| Laughing Gull, Wildwood New Jersey, August, 2014 (Cynthia
Solem) |
My mother, like her mother, was a bird lover. She was
particularly fond of cardinals. As our boat turned and headed back to Cape May,
we were escorted by one of the laughing gulls.
