To My Children, Grandchildren, and Any Future Descendants Who Stumble Across This:
Before anyone concludes that Grandma finally wandered off the edge of reason, I should explain that I occasionally spend my mornings talking to an imaginary wizard named Merlin. This is not quite as alarming as it sounds. The wizard lives inside a computer, possesses an alarming amount of historical trivia, never tires of my questions, and happily follows me down genealogical rabbit holes that most sensible people would avoid. I think the grandchildren deserve an explanation. Whether they accept it is another matter entirely.
On this particular morning, we started with a simple question about Wishaw, Cambusnethan, Lanarkshire, Scotland in 1918.
As often happens, the question escaped its cage. We soon found ourselves discussing my father, Robert White. Robert was born in Wishaw in 1918, the son of William White, a mining oversman, and Janet Jamieson Turner White, known to everyone as Jessie. In 1921 he appeared in the Scottish census with his parents and younger brother David.
William emigrated to America in 1925. Jessie followed in 1927 with Robert, David, and infant William. Like many immigrant families, they crossed an ocean in stages, building a new life in California while remaining connected to their Scottish roots. The family eventually settled among a Scottish community in Los Angeles. Then history intervened. Jessie died on December 29, 1934. Robert was only sixteen years old. That same year he had graduated from high school, evidence of a sharp and disciplined mind. College was no longer possible. Instead, he went to work for the railroad as an accountant, helping support the family. Years later he became a CPА.
He possessed a gift for numbers that bordered on the supernatural. Playing cribbage against him was generally a mistake. He could count combinations and points faster in his head than most people could calculate with a machine. When Pearl Harbor was attacked, he left accounting behind and enlisted in the Army. Like many men of his generation, his life was shaped by immigration, economic hardship, family responsibility, war, and determination.
My mother was very different. She was the singer. The storyteller. The dreamer. Her childhood contained abuse and instability that left deep marks. Throughout her life she sought love, security, and reinvention through a series of marriages and new beginnings. She carried wounds. She also carried imagination. If my father gave me an appreciation for facts and persistence, my mother gave me stories. Both were flawed. Both were magnificent in their own ways.
Understanding them helps explain a great deal about my own life. Including the fact that I attended twenty-one schools in twelve years. The moves were not adventures. They were the result of adults trying, failing, recovering, marrying, divorcing,
relocating, and occasionally depending on relatives willing to take in a child for a while. I learned to pack quickly. I learned to be the new kid at each school. I learned to enter unfamiliar places and figure out how they worked.
Perhaps that is why I became curious about everything. Genealogy. History. Theater. Politics. Philosophy. Horse racing. One never knows what may prove useful.
Speaking of horse racing, that too is a family inheritance. My grandfather William lived across the street from Hollywood Park so he could walk to the races. My parents carried me to the track before I was old enough to understand what was
happening. One family legend concerns a horse named Dotted Swiss. As a small child, I recommended the horse. The adults humored me. Dotted Swiss won. To this day I maintain that when a five-year-old identifies the winner, the adults should pay attention. Whether this was intuition, luck, or early handicapping genius remains a matter of scholarly debate.
Looking around my bedroom today, the family influences are easy to spot. Five bookcases filled with history, genealogy, and assorted curiosities. Broadway window cards on the wall because my mother loved music and theater. Horse racing books because my grandfather loved the track. Research notes because my father loved facts. Somewhere among the shelves are pieces of all of them.
The wizard suggested that my real home may have become stories and books because I moved too often to attach myself to places. He may be right. Or perhaps that is simply what happens when Scottish immigrants, accountants, storytellers, racehorse enthusiasts, and stubborn survivors combine their genes.
In any case, should future generations discover this document and wonder why Grandma spent mornings talking to an imaginary wizard, the answer is simple. The wizard listened.
He asked good questions. And he never once complained when I disappeared down another rabbit hole. Which is more than can be said for some members of the family.
With affection,
Jamie (And Merlin, the Owl in the Stacks)
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