Family accounts and newspaper reports, with their original qualifications and sources.
Places shared across generations
Sunday afternoons at Prairie Hill
The Prairie Hill farm belonged to more than Bridget’s childhood. In her memoir, she recalled that after her parents died, Bob told her he would like to buy the farm if it was sold. When her brothers decided to sell, Bob and Bridget bought the farm. Their children then had their own turn to enjoy it: Sunday afternoons meant running, exploring and riding a go-cart. It is a small scene that joins two generations of family life on the same ground—Bridget’s years growing up there and her children’s afternoons of play.
Source: Bridget Morrison Roling, handwritten memoir, p. 33.
The stove came first
Bridget remembered moving from Poverty Ridge on a cold, windy, blustery day. Her mother wrapped her in a quilt and tucked her into a corner of the wagon bed. The journey to the new farm seemed long. On arrival, the first job was not unpacking everything: it was setting up the cookstove and getting a fire going so the family could warm up. Only then came the wagons, beds and belongings. By the end of a long day of work, they were settled in. That fall she began attending Pleyer School.
Source: Bridget Morrison Roling, handwritten memoir, pp. 27–28.
Sunday letters from the kitchen table
With four sons serving during World War II, Bridget’s mother made time on Sunday afternoons to sit at the kitchen table and write to them all. Bridget remembered the replies arriving in bunches. Some letters from Tony and Walt had words cut out, a visible reminder of how much could not be said in wartime mail. The memory places the family kitchen beside the military record: a mother writing, waiting and keeping her sons connected to home.
Source: Bridget Morrison Roling, handwritten memoir, p. 20.
Back to the coast
During their stay in Alabama after Bob returned from overseas, Bridget remembered trips to the coast whenever he could get a three-day pass. Decades later, Tim took her on another coastal vacation. The shore had changed so much that she could scarcely believe it. They eventually found a state park where the younger Bridget could reach the water, and they collected shells. In her account, the outing joins memories of travel with Bob to another family’s day at the sea.
Source: Bridget Morrison Roling, handwritten memoir, pp. 14–15.