Today, September 6, is the 122nd anniversary of the birth of George Warren, my adoptive father. He was born in Kansas to another George Warren, who immigrated from Ireland with his brothers. The family lived in a sod house; Kansas settlers on the prairie built shelters from squares of sod. Dad remembered outlaws coming to the house, looking for something to eat, and Native Americans (he said “Indians,” of course) also seeking food. One wouldn’t think early Kansas would’ve had wanderers like that but there they were.

When Dad was little, his father had him dance jigs in saloons to raise money for drinks. After Dad’s death, we found the remnants of a green vest that was part of the suit he wore on these occasions. Dad was the oldest of thirteen children. He quit school in the third grade, a sad thing since he was intelligent and could work complex arithmetic problems in his head. But he felt responsible for the younger children. The photo must have been taken about the time he quit school; I don’t know which brothers are in it.

Dad worked hard all his life, mostly as a farmer but some in a meat-packing plant in the 1930s, when he also rode the rails some. He had an impressive stock of stories about Kansas in those days, ranging from Indian raids to bank embezzlement, as well as rabid dogs and flooding creeks.

George Warren worked hard all his life. He raised two families, providing for them as well as he could. There’s much more I could say about him, but this much will recognize this anniversary of his birht.