In Search Of

Last month, I introduced a monthly blog series that would follow my attempt to learn more about my family line. In particular, I’m interested in exploring my maternal line. Truth be told, so far, I haven’t been able to get back any further than my great great grandfather, Henry Bumgardaner.

So as we take this little trip through my family history, I wanted to introduce you to a few of the people we’ll meet along the way, starting with my maternal grandfather, Francis Marion Bumgardaner.

My grandfather, known by F.M. or Marion, was born on Sept. 2, 1922. He was born in a small town in Southeast Missouri called Painton. Whenever we would drive by there on my way to visit my grandparents, I would wonder exactly where that little house where he’d been born once stood. Census records confirm that by 1930, my grandpa, about 8 years old, was living in St. Louis with his family. Every time we go to St. Louis, my mom points out the exit for the street we’d always believed he lived on as a child.

But by 1935, the Bumgardaners had moved back to Southeast Missouri. His parents must have divorced sometime during this period, though I’m not exactly sure when. By 1936, my great grandmother had remarried, and my grandfather soon had two half sisters.

My grandfather left school around 10th grade. It wasn’t a choice he necessarily wanted to make; he would have like to continue his education, my mom always told me. But the family needed an extra income, and Grandpa left school to earn his way. By 1941, he and my grandmother, Pauline, were married and by 1943, he had enlisted at Jefferson Barracks near St. Louis and was on his way to serve in World War II. He spent time in France, I know, but much of my knowledge of this time in his life comes from family stories rather than documented facts. Records list his enlistment date as 1943 and his release in 1946. My grandmother gave birth to their first child, my uncle, in 1944, and bought the house where they lived for the rest of their lives.

All of these things combine to form a historical record of my grandfather, but let me tell you a little about the man. My grandfather probably wasn’t the easiest person to love. He had a temper, and he was opinionated. His temper cost him a few jobs. Their home wasn’t always the happiest of places, either.

Not long ago, my mom and her cousin were talking about how they had been scared of him as children, and I listened in wonder. I never found my grandfather scary, but there is a difference in being a man’s child and his only granddaughter.

There was also another difference. My grandfather became a Christian when my mom was in high school. The grandfather I knew was a man who was by no means perfect, but he had been changed. To me, he was kind and loving. He was the hardworking man with calloused hands who got tears in his eyes when my mom had me sing a song for him, the first solo I’d ever sung at church.

He was a mechanic and a woodworker. He’d spent a lot of time remodeling that house my grandmother bought while he was “across the Pond” in World War II whenever they had scraped together the money to do it.

Soon after he retired from years of working as a mechanic, my grandfather was diagnosed with colon cancer. He died when I was 13.

I wish I’d had more time with him. Time to ask him questions about my family line, his time in Germany and France, his thoughts on a book he was reading (he, like me, loved to read). After he passed away, I learned that he’d also written some poetry. I’d like to talk to him about that, too.

I can trace the paper trail. I know where he was living in 1930 and 1950, when he died and where he’s buried (next to my grandmother at the foot of Perkins Hill, next to Perkins Missionary Baptist Church, across the street from my aunt and uncle’s house). But there are all those moments in between that I don’t know. How he felt when he first saw his children. What it was like to come back after those years abroad. What made him proud or sad or happy.

I got a glimpse at a few of the answers to some of those questions, though. Because I know, without a doubt, that when he looked at me, he was proud and he was happy. I never doubted that he loved me, and, that, I guess, is a gift in itself.

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Here’s a post I wrote about my grandfather several years ago on what would have been his 89th birthday: September 2.