Breakfast Table History

I like history.

Not the history that I was taught in grade school. Not even the history that I was taught in college. That history all seemed so boring. It didn't jump off of the pages of the circa 1970 text book and come to life. It was not relevant or important to who I was, whom I might become. It was education by rote.

One plus one equals two
I before E except after C
No taxation without representation

ZZZZZZZZZZ...Boring!

There was one exception. In middle school my fellow classmates and I were presented a social studies course on local history. We learned about Chief Cobmoosa, a steamboat named Paragon, and a french fur-trader by the name of Daniel Marsac. I began to realize that history was also about me, not just about things that existed before my time and beyond my grasp. History was no longer flat and lifeless. It was important and vibrant. It gave me dimension.

History was also part of my family life, especially on Sunday mornings. Church services were not part of our weekly ritual. But there was a ritual to Sunday. On that day of the week, history came to life at the breakfast table. My father would tell stories about growing up in a small town during World War II, his experiences in the Marine Corp., attending a one room school, and working on the family farm. Each week would bring a new story about an event or experience that came before me. Stories that were an important part of my history. I discovered things about my parents that might have otherwise been lost. And, I became acquainted with family that I never met:

My great grandmother, Edna Weitz, who caught the attention of my great grandfather, Henry Alden Johnson, as she rode her bicycle (the kind with the big wheel in front) past his farm on her way to teach school.

My Great Uncle Morse (Henry's son), who once tried to pass a truck while riding his bicycle. He survived the attempt, but his arm was broken in the process.

A distant cousin, who in the 1800's, killed her children and herself. Her husband discovered the bodies upon his return from work.

But, despite the stories my parents told, there were two individuals that felt lost to me. My paternal grandmother, Rosetta Boughner Johnson, ran off with another man in the early 1940's, leaving behind my father, my uncle and my grandfather. And my maternal grandfather, Leo Augustine Hoover, who died when my mother was in the eighth grade.

I did not want to learn about these people through stories. I wanted my grandfather to be living and breathing. And, I wanted to know if my grandmother was still alive, where she was, and if she ever wondered about the family she left behind. I would eventually get answers to some the questions I had about my grandmother, but that is another blog for another time.

My grandfather came from a large family. He was one of ten siblings. Nine boys and one girl. At family reunions I would watch my grandfather's siblings interact with their grandchildren and children. I was often envious of my cousins. They knew their grandparents. I wanted to know mine. I wanted to know how he smelled. I wanted to know what his voice sounded like. I wanted to know if his eyes really twinkled when he smiled, like my mother told me. Other times, I was simply curious. Which of his siblings was he most like? And despite my curiosity, it wasn't until I was an adult that I learned the unique stories of George, Henry, Andrew, Ernie, Ollie, Gerald, Michael, Jacob and Kate. I was so concerned with what was not, that I did not take the time to get acquainted with what was.

My Great Uncle, Michael, has spent countless hours compiling his family history. Like the stories my dad used to tell at the breakfast table, the stories and information that my Uncle Mike has compiled help me to understand more about who I am. They also helped me to discover more about the grandfather I never knew, and the family from which he came.

Five of my grandfather's brothers (Henry, Michael, George, Andy and Jacob) were in the service during World War II.

Henry John Hoover was working at the Fisher Body Plant in Pontiac, Michigan when the United States entered WWII. He enlisted in the Navy just prior to being drafted.

On June 5, 1944, Henry spent the night aboard a ship in the English Channel, arriving at Omaha Beach the next morning, as the first D-Day landings were getting underway. That evening, his regiment was taken closer inland and placed upon a ship that "had been sunk for a breakwater." When the sunken freighter came under fire, the LCI (Landing Craft Infantry) that had transported the regiment to their position cut free of the freighter leaving Henry and 114 other men behind. The Coast Guard eventually arrived, taking the men back to sea. Henry then volunteered to go ashore, staying in France until August of 1944. He was later sent to Okinawa, where he remained until the end of the war.

Henry died on March 26, 1995, one month shy of his 85th birthday.

Michael Clarence Hoover volunteered for service in March of 1941. He served in the Army, training to become a pilot. His first ride in an airplane was also his first training flight. Michael was eventually assigned to the 466th Bomb Group, where he piloted a B-24. The 466th flew its' first combat mission, bombing Berlin, Germany, on March 22, 1944, for which the 466th received an official commendation from General James H. Doolittle. Michael flew a total of 32 combat missions over France, Belgium, Holland and Germany. Including missions on June 5th, 6th and 7th, to help the Allied Forces on D-Day. On July 23, 1944 the 466th flew their last mission at the battle of Saint Lo in France.

Michael was awarded the Air Medal with three Oak Leaf Clusters and the Distinguished Flying Cross. He currently resides in Jacksonville, Florida with his wife Pauline.

George Kasper Hoover was drafted into service in 1942, at the age of 34. He spent seven months in North Africa, participating in the Tunisian and Algeria-French Moroccan campaigns. George received the Bronze Star for his actions in the Tunisian campaign:

"...On January 31, 1943, Private Hoover voluntarily manned an antitank gun and, although subjected to heavy fire, succeeded in destroying the hostile emplacment. Private Hoover's heroic initiative was instrumental in the capture of important objectives."

In July of 1943, George was in Gela, Sicily when, for four days, his regiment was heavily engaged. He and the other members of his regiment received Presidential Unit Citations:

"The regiment pushed inland, encountering intense enemy artillery, tank and machine gun fire. Lacking armored support, this battalion repulsed a savage enemy attack with three 37-mm guns, a few rocket guns and small arms. When enemy tanks overran the battalion's position...the men stood fast and fought gallantly and furiously at close range destroying and routing enemy tanks with rocket gun fire...Distinguished bravery and Spartan efforts enabled this organization to repel the attacking forces. When its' position was cut in two and the battalion commander was wounded and evacuated, the men fought heroically and made important advances...after a bitter engagement meted out a decisive defeat to the enemy."

On June 6, 1944, George and his regiment were among the first to storm the beaches at Normandy. He also participated in campaigns in North France, Rhineland and Central Europe. His decorations and citations include: Bronze Star Medal, Distinguished Unit Badge with one ribbon, Bronze Oak Leaf Cluster, Good Conduct Ribbon, European-African Middle Eastern Theater Ribbon with one Silver Star and two Bronze Battle Stars, and five Overseas Service Ribbons.

George Kasper Hoover died on July 12, 1988 at the age of 80.

John Andrew Hoover and Jacob Vincent Hoover also served during WWII, but never saw active duty.

My grandfather, Leo Augustine Hoover, died in 1953, at the age of 37. He was younger than I am now. I have read the newspaper articles that tell the story of his "tragic death.

"The father of four school-age daughters was dead on arrival at Butterworth Hospital Tuesday morning after coming in contact with a 6,900 volt power line. The accident occurred while Hoover and other employees of the municipal light plant were installing a new transformer."

It seems ironic that my grandfather would die at such as young age and that his brothers would survive WWII. But that's history and such is life.

Everywhere, all around me is history. The person driving too slow on the freeway. The cranky cashier at the grocery store. The old lady at the library who always wants to talk a little too long. My Great Aunts and Uncles. They are all history.

I want my children to know who they are. I want them to know who came before them. I will tell them stories at the breakfast table.

I like history.