Family Tree Maker's Genealogy Site: User Home Page Book: Gearld Family History: Register Report of Frank Bemis

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Page 546 of 650

Descendants of Frank Bemis

Generation No. 3

3. AMY³ BEMIS (GEORGE², FRANK¹)¹ was born March 12, 1882 ^2,³, and died February 11, 1974 in Brooklyn, Indiana ⁴. She married WILLIAM HENRY LAMPE April 1921 ⁵, son of PHILLIP LAMPE. He was born August 16, 1883 in Ohio⁵, and died February 3, 1941 in VAMC Hines, Illinois.

Notes for AMY BEMIS:
Memories of My Grandma
by: Cynthia Gearld 11/26/96

"Help me! Please -- Oh God, no one can hear me." The ogre is chasing me again. He is going to catch me this time! I have been running so long that my lungs are on fire. It feels like someone has their hands around my throat slowly squeezing the breath out of me. I can barely pull air into my bursting lungs. My legs feel like lead weights. It is all I can do to pick one foot up and place it in front of the other to keep going. "Please, someone help me!" I know that if I slow down the ogre is going to catch me. Tears are streaming down my face. I glance over my shoulder and see that he is almost upon me. He has a huge, flat-topped head. His arms are like bands of steel. He is so close that I can see his enormous, gnarled, callused hands about to grab me. The ogre shouts at me, "Stop that bawling you stupid brat, only babies cry." I scream for help again, and Grandma is there, holding me in her arms, rocking me, and soothing away my nightmares.

Grandma practically raised me from the time I was three years old until I turned thirteen. I was only three years old when my parents got divorced. Today most people probably would not think that was anything extraordinary, but in 1956 in the small town of Brooklyn, Indiana, it was extremely unusual. I did not know any other kids whose parents were divorced until after I was in junior high school.

Mom had to get a job to support us after the divorce. Since there were no jobs in Brooklyn, and Mom did not have a car, she had to move to Indianapolis. The only public transportation between Brooklyn and Indianapolis was on Thursday afternoon and on weekends. Consequently, my older sister, my brother and I had to go and live with Aunt Met and Uncle Tip. Aunt Met was my mothers’ sister; she and Uncle Tip had six children of their own. Mom visited us on weekends. This living arrangement was supposed to be temporary, but somehow it turned into a permanent arrangement. As the youngest of nine children in the household I was easily ignored, forgotten about, or blamed for anything that went wrong. Fortunately for me, my Grandmother lived next door. Grandma took me under her wing. From as far back as I can remember, she was always there and always ready to stick up for me in any way possible.

We lived in a very small town by the name of Brooklyn, Indiana: population 575. Brooklyn was a typical small Midwestern town where everybody knew everybody else. There was one small grocery store, a gas station, both privately owned, an elementary school, a couple of churches, and a post office. Almost everyone in town was related to someone else in town in some way or another, and, as in all small towns, everyone knew everyone else’s business. There are no secrets in a small town. Brooklyn was really just a wide place on the highway. The most exciting way to spend a summer evening in Brooklyn was to sit on the front porch swing and watch the grass grow.

Grandma was old. Not just in the eyes of a three-year-old child, she was 73. She was 43 when my mother was born. Grandma was a small person, less than 5 feet tall and she weighed all of 94 pounds. She always wore dresses; I do not ever remember seeing Grandma in pants. From her size and stature (she was short and kind of stooped over) it was easy to think that you could get away with just about anything with her. You could not! She was a feisty old broad, (her words) and she did not take any crap from anybody. She had snow white hair that she always wore twisted into a knot on the top of her head. More often than not, her glasses were perched up there, and she always had at least one pencil stuck in her hair, usually two or three. I remember asking Grandma why she always had pencils stuck in her hair. She told me, "Well, you just never know when you might need a pencil. You know I like to do those silly crossword puzzles in the evening paper. If I have a story idea I like to jot it down so I don’t forget it. This way (touching the pencil in her hair) I always have a pencil when I need it. You don’t want me always asking for your pencil while you’re doing your homework, do you?"

We did not have a television in the house until I was nearly twelve years old. I never even missed having one because Grandma was a wonderful storyteller. She used to make up the best stories. She would use my name and the names of my friends for the characters in her stories. She used a different voice for each character, and her stories were always interactive. It was easy to get thumped in the head while listening to Grandma’s stories. It did not take long for me to realize that I should watch her hands in order to know when to duck. When she was not fabricating her own wondrous stories, she would read to me for hours. Her reading was as fun and interactive as her storytelling. She read fairy tales, bible stories, Reader’s Digest condensed books, even comic books to me. She taught me how to read before I started school, and I fell in love with books. I could go anywhere; do anything; be anybody by reading books. This was and is still a wonderful escape for me. My teacher was quite impressed when I started first grade and already knew how to read, but the other kids in the class just thought I was a show off. Since the same kids were in my class year after year, I carried the label of "teachers’ pet" all through my grade school years. Grandma let me cry on her shoulder more than once when I came home from school in tears after being teased; not only as teachers’ pet, but because my parents were divorced. Children can, unknowingly, be horribly cruel with words. It took a long time for Grandma to make me understand that I should not allow words to hurt me.

Grandma was a very spiritual person. She believed that everyone should go to church every Sunday and to prayer meetings at least twice a week. I enjoyed going to Sunday school, but I did not like the Wednesday and Saturday prayer meetings. Saturdays were supposed to be for fun things. I especially liked Sunday school at Christmas time. I was the only girl in my Sunday school class so I always got to play the part of Mary in the Christmas pageant. I always got to keep the doll that was used as baby Jesus in the pageant. The church bought a new doll each year. Most years that baby Jesus doll turned out to be the best present of all. Sometimes it was my only present. With nine children in the house Christmases were really lean. I remember one year when all I got for Christmas was a can of Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup. Yuck!

As I got older, I did not always want to go to church. I wanted to be out playing with my friends instead. Nevertheless, I went, because when I was growing up children respected their elders and did what they told them. I did not argue with Grandma because she would not allow it. She was a stern disciplinarian and punishment came swift and harsh when Grandma felt it was necessary. I had my mouth washed out with soap more than once for being sassy and talking back. It only took a couple of times of having soap put in my mouth for me to realize that keeping my mouth shut was the intelligent thing to do if I did not agree with Grandma. If Grandma handed me the garden shears with ‘that look’ on her face, I knew I was in trouble. Most of the time I did not even know why I was in trouble. More times than I like to admit though, she made me go cut a switch from the willow tree so she could use it on my behind. She was a firm believer in the adage from the Bible of "spare the rod and spoil the child."

I loved sitting with Grandma on the front porch swing, holding her yarn while she rolled it into a ball, (this was before pull skeins of yarn). We would talk about anything and everything while Grandma wound that yarn into a ball. Grandma knew all my secrets, even that I dreamed about exploring outer space. She did not ridicule me or try to make me feel foolish for my dreams; she shared them with me and even incorporated my dreams into her storytelling. She did think that I needed to keep myself anchored in ‘the real world’ though; so, when I was in the third grade Grandma decided that it was time for me to learn how to crochet and do embroidery. At the age of eight I was not the least bit interested in learning those particular skills, but Grandma refused to take no for an answer. She believed that every young lady should know how to do these things. She made me sit for hours learning the proper way to hold the yarn and the crochet hook, and how to read a crochet pattern. Grandma never hesitated to whack my knuckles if she thought I was not holding the hook just right. I remember trying so hard to get the stitches all the same size and tension that my hands ached for hours afterwards. I do not know how many times I heard the words, "Child, you pull that apart right this minute and do it over. If you can’t do it right, there is no point in doing it at all!" It probably took me six months to make my first crocheted scarf. Today I could whip out a simple scarf in about an hour. I am proud to say that I have designed and made several family heirloom afghans, not only for myself but for others as well.

Grandma did not see too well and had a hard time threading needles. I was very adept at threading needles for Grandma while learning embroidery. This talent probably saved my knuckles from being cracked numerous times. Grandma had this heavy wooden ruler that she used to smack my hands with if she thought I was not holding the embroidery work just the right way. She was very particular that each stitch be crossed in the same direction and that the tension be equal. After months of practice pieces, my first real embroidery project was a pair of pillowcases for Grandma. Even though Grandma did not see very well, I knew she would check those pillowcases with her magnifying glass. You can believe wholeheartedly that every stitch was crossed the same direction and the tension of every stitch was exactly the same. That pair of pillowcases took me four months to complete. Grandma thanked me for the gift and told me what a good job I had done. I was extremely proud of myself; I strutted around like a peacock for about two weeks. Today I am grateful that Grandma took the time and energy to teach me these skills, but at the age of eight it was a real bore.

Grandma loved to play cards, and she taught me how to play Canasta and Pinochle. She told me that this would help me learn how to think strategically and plan ahead. We would spend hours playing canasta together. Grandma always beat me! Sometimes I wondered why she would not ‘let’ me win; after all it was only a game, and nobody likes to lose all the time. When I asked Grandma why she would never ‘let’ me beat her she laughed. She said to me, "Child, do you think that life is going to ‘let’ you win? Life is a no win situation and you are going to have to fight for everything. You might just as well learn that lesson right now." The next couple of times we played after this talk, I beat Grandma, but it really did not feel like I won because I knew she had ‘let’ me win. I felt like Grandma had cheated me somehow. It must have been obvious by the expression on my face because Grandma asked me, "What is that disappointed look for? You won didn’t you?" I could not explain my feelings to Grandma at the time but I think she understood anyway. She just smiled at me and said, "Anything worth having in this life is worth fighting for, even if it’s just to win a card game. You remember that and never quit fighting for what want and what you believe in." After this explanation, imagine how ecstatic I was the first time I won a game against Grandma for real.

When I turned 13, the ogre of my childhood nightmares finally caught me, and he turned out to be my father. My dad was a construction worker. He had enormous hands callused from his work. He always wore his hair in the flattop style. He was a cold, unfeeling, opinionated, unforgiving, stubborn, bull of a man. Shortly after my thirteenth birthday my Dad decided that he wanted custody of me. My older sister was already married, and my brother had gone to live with Dad a couple of years earlier. My brother seemed to like living with Dad and encouraged me to do so as well. I was not too enthusiastic about the idea so I talked it over with Grandma. She told me that since Mom was unable to have me live with her I should go to live with Dad. She said children should live with their parents. I was not exactly overjoyed to have Grandma tell me this; I expected her to advise against it. We went to court and the court gave Dad full custody.

I was terrified! Grandma had let me down, and I was angry with her. I did not know my Dad at all because he never came to visit while we lived with Aunt Met and Uncle Tip. I knew only what I had heard repeated when no one thought I was around. Since the divorce had not been exactly amicable, the things I overheard were never good. The thought of going to live with a stranger petrified me, especially since he reminded me so much of the ogre of my childhood nightmares. Dad would never let me cry on his shoulder. He thought tears were a sign of weakness and ridiculed me anytime he saw me crying. This only reinforced the ogre image. It was not easy. On top of living with a stranger who scared me half to death, Dad made me break all ties with Grandma. I am sure he thought he was doing the right thing, but not having Grandma around left a big hole in my life. As time passed I did become more comfortable living with Dad but it never really felt like home to me.

Grandma died in February of 1974 at the age of 91, just three weeks before her birthday. By that time I was married and expecting my first child. I was two weeks past my due date and living in Junction City, Kansas when Grandma died; therefore, I did not get to go back to Indiana for her funeral services. Grandma instilled in me a lifelong love of books. She taught me some useful skills and a lot about life. She helped me develop a good work ethic which is the reason for my success today. She gave me the encouragement and the support that I needed during a very trying time in my life. She taught me to live life to the fullest and never to give up. I think about her often and I miss her.
[Phillip Lampe.FTW]

Amy's mother was cremated when she died. When Amy died in 1974 the container with her mother's ashes was buried with her.[Phillip Lampe.FTW]

Amy's mother was cremated when she died. When Amy died in 1974 the container with her mother's ashes was buried with her.

More About AMY BEMIS:
Burial: Brooklyn, Indiana⁵

More About WILLIAM HENRY LAMPE:
Burial: February 5, 1941, Clarksburg Cemetary, Clarksburg, Indiana⁵
Cause of Death: ⁵
Military service: Supply Sergeant, 79 Field Artillary, 7th Division, World War I⁵

Children of AMY BEMIS and WILLIAM LAMPE are:

4.	i.		AMY WILLAMETTE⁴ LAMPE, b. November 13, 1923, Clarksburg, Indiana.
5.	ii.		MARIE CELESTE LAMPE, b. December 4, 1924, Clarksburg, Indiana.