My Great Aunt Jane, or Jennie, or Mildred Jane Wilson, a name that has persisted, unfortunately ever since a collateral Gregory married the great man’s aunt, Mildred Washington. Even my Aunt Mildred Gregory preferred “Aunt Bill.” That’s Aunt Bill circa 1935.

But, you must admit, Great Aunt Jane, or Jennie, was an enchanting little girl. She was born in Licking, Missouri, in 1884 and died in Yellowstone, Montana, in 1978.

So that’s Jennie, then Jennie with my grandmother Dora (a year older), then Jennie with her husband, Mr. Kofahl, and daughter, Sally Ruth, (who died in Taft, where there are entire regiments of Kofahls.)

So that’s Jennie, then Jennie with my grandmother Dora (a year older), then Jennie with her husband, Mr. Kofahl, and daughter, Sally Ruth, (who died in Taft, where there are entire regiments of Kofahls.)

What disturbs me a little is that Jennie, such a lovely little girl, looks more and more like Rasputin.

She did not get that from her mother—my great-grandmother, Sallie McBride Wilson. That’s Sallie, on the right, her sister on the left and my great-grandfather, Taylor Wilson, in the center. Sallie has such a sweet face; she died young and left Taylor the heartbreak he never got over. This photo, a tintype, was in a Texas County, Missouri root cellar for thirty-five years before it was restored to my father.

Then, good grief, I realized where Jennie’s expression came from. It wasn’t Rasputin. It was my Confederate ancestor, Gen. James McBride, for whom I am named. He was Jennie’s grandfather.

That’s the General’s look, which I always ascribed to chronic constipation.

However, Jennie evidently was a wonderful mother to Sally Ruth, and her brother, Jim Ed Wilson, was the police chief of Shafter.

Missourians like two names.

Three more Wilson brothers worked in the Taft oilfields–the top three in the photo. One of them, I think Cal, grew so frustrated with the camp cook that he threw him into a boiler. We have never ascertained whether it was lit. He must’ve been crabby, like the General.

Cal’s nephew, Robert Wilson Gregory, was stationed at Gardner Field in Taft—Chuck Yeager trained there—discovered that not only was the food terrible, but that the head cook was embezzling mess funds and serving substandard farm, when Army food was already awful, while pocketing the Army’s money. Busting the cook got Dad into Officers’ Candidate School.

Don’t mess with an accountant.

Or, I think, with Aunt Jane.