35 Off to Work: My Rosie the Riveter Grandmother

Elizabeth Moore Nolen – My Maternal Grandmother

52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks

Week 35 – August 26, 2025

Prompt: Off to Work

During World War II, millions of American women went “off to work” in ways their families had never imagined. Factories, shipyards, and aircraft plants became places where women stepped into new roles, mastering machines and tools while helping to keep the war effort alive. My maternal grandmother was one of them. In 1943, she worked at Spartan Aircraft Company in Tulsa, and by 1944 she was employed at Douglas Aircraft, joining the ranks of the women we now remember as Rosie the Riveters.

The Douglas Aircraft Plant in Tulsa. Oklahoma was a massive facility, nearly a mile long, designed to operate around the clock under strict wartime conditions. There were no windows in the main assembly building — blackout regulations required secrecy — so the vast interior was lit by thousands of fluorescent bulbs. Inside, men and women turned raw materials into bombers at a pace that astonished the nation. Tulsa’s plant became the most productive B-24 Liberator factory in the United States by 1943. And my grandmother was right there among them.

The Job

I know from family tax statements that in 1943 she earned $1,145.96 working at Spartan Aircraft, and in 1944 she made $1,636.96 at Douglas. She was assigned to Department 545 and worked the third shift — the long overnight hours that kept production moving.

One surviving document, a July 1944 letter from Spartan Aircraft, shows how carefully the company tracked and recalled its workers during the war.

I have one surviving payslip from July 30, 1944. It shows her earnings for the period were $42.12, with $1.25 withheld for U.S. Savings Bonds — a small but steady contribution to the war effort embedded right into her paycheck. I also have a November 15, 1944 plant-wide memo reminding employees to be “tool conscious,” a reflection of how carefully precision was drilled into every worker.

Her pay and her presence at Douglas were more than numbers. They were part of a larger story, one that rippled through family life.

Life Around the Swing Shift

My grandmother’s unusual schedule shaped the rhythms of the household. My mother, still living at home, wrote to my father in September 1944 — letters that captured the family’s adjustments.

On September 14 she wrote:

“Daddy is going to meet Mom at 1:00 tonight [corrected to say in the morning] and take her to the swing shift show.”

And the next day, September 15, she wrote again:

“Daddy went to Bristow last night and came home about 12:00. He wanted me to go with him to meet Mom and go to the swing shift show with them. But I didn’t go ’cause I thought it would do them good to go out by themselves. I just told him I was too tired. They both slept late. I fixed breakfast for them and we ate about 11:15.”

She also described her own responsibilities at home:

“I got up at seven and got the kids off to school. I feel like a school teacher. The kids study around the dining room table every night and I help them. Last night I helped Sonny with English, Betty with bookkeeping and Sue with arithmetic. I actually worked harder than they did.”

Through these letters, I can see how the family adapted to her job. Late-night drives to pick her up, movies after midnight, breakfasts closer to noon, and school lessons around the dining table — all because she was “off to work” on the swing shift, helping to build airplanes that would fly halfway around the world.

They Were Rosies

My grandmother was not alone. She was one of millions. As the American Rosie the Riveter Association reminds us:

They were daughters, mothers, sisters, wives and grandmothers. They worked as riveters, buckers, sanders, welders, crane operators, bus drivers, uniform makers, bullet makers, parachute folders, clerical workers, shipyard workers, assembly line workers, Red Cross … so much more. They came from every corner of the country, from teenagers to senior citizens, united by one purpose: to help win the war. Together, they built 80,000 landing craft, 100,000 tanks, 300,000 aircraft, 15 million guns, and 41 billion rounds of ammunition.

In 2025, I joined the American Rosie the Riveter Association as a descendant of a Rosie who rendered distinguished service as a working woman of World War II. For me, it is both an honor and a responsibility to remember her story — not just as my grandmother, but as part of a generation of women who answered the call.

Closing Reflection

When I look at her payslip, her tax returns, and those family letters, I see more than numbers and ink on paper. I see the story of a woman who went “off to work” during a time of global crisis, when every rivet, every shift, and every paycheck mattered. My grandmother’s hands helped build the bombers that carried soldiers into the sky. Her story is a reminder that work reshaped family life and history alike, and that even in Tulsa, Oklahoma, the fight for victory was being waged on the factory floor.

34 Tunes by the Campfire: The Story of a Fiddler Soldier

Samuel McCorkle – Maternal 2nd Great Uncle

52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks

Week 34 – August 20, 2025

Prompt: Playtime

When the Civil War interrupted daily life in Warren County, Tennessee, soldiers carried with them not only muskets and haversacks but also bits of home that brought comfort to the camps. For my 2nd great uncle, Samuel McCorkle, that comfort came in the form of a fiddle. Music provided playtime in the midst of war—moments of relief around the fire when soldiers could laugh, sing, or simply listen to the familiar strains of a tune. Samuel’s fiddling was memorable enough to earn a place in the Southern Standard newspaper, where his story was preserved in colorful detail.

Southern Standard, McMinnville, Tenn., Friday, Aug. 14, 1959

McMinnville MEMORIES

By Joe Nunley, Commander, Warren Post 173, American Legion

“Fiddlin’ Sam McCorkle”

Music hath charms to soothe the savage beast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.

It seems that in time of war human emotions are very vulnerable to music. It often furnishes the force that makes a man of indecision one of conviction. The recruiters of World War II knew that. They almost filled up the wild blue yonder with that “Off We Go” song, and the same could be said for “Anchors Aweigh” and the “Marine’s Hymn.” They were songs of inspiration, songs that implied immediate action.

On the other extreme, wars produce music with themes of sadness. The ballads that play on a soldier’s memories can blind him. They bring back thoughts of home, or better times, and “the girl I left behind me.” Not too many moons ago, Sammy Kaye worked the tear ducts of countless GI thousands with his rendition of “You’ll Never Know” and “Dear Mom.” And many a lonesome mountain lad choked on his English beer as Roy Acuff caterwauled “The Great Speckled Bird.”

Music, coming from one who can produce it, can touch hidden emotions in any man. During the 1860s, Sam McCorkle of Company H, 16th Tennessee Regiment, Donelson’s Brigade, Cheatham’s Division, Army of Tennessee, was the man who could produce it.

Bragg’s Sternness

In May of 1862 General Braxton Bragg became the commander of the Army of Tennessee. He was a man whose inhuman sternness was aggravated by ulcers and headaches; a West Pointer who knew the finer points of military discipline and who intended to apply them to the volunteers he had inherited.

Men who had signed up in the summer of ’61 for one year’s service found themselves in for the duration. No furloughs were permitted, and if a man sneaked home anyhow, he regretted coming back because he was court-martialed and shot. Milder offenses were punished by riding the rail or being chained in the stocks. Such was the discipline of General Bragg, and though he had little competition in being the most hated man in the army, at least he had a semblance of organization.

Sam McCorkle brought his fiddle with him when he walked stoically into McMinnville to join Colonel John Savage’s regiment. He soon became a hit with the men because of the music, and the officers tolerated him because he kept the men amused. That’s why the wagon that hauled Company H’s equipment carried the fiddle when the huge army moved out of Chattanooga on August 7, 1862, and turned north toward Kentucky.

For two weeks they moved leisurely up the Sequatchie Valley. They were well fed and well rested. They had been sharpened by drill and discipline as General Bragg sought to transfer their hatred from him to the Yanks. They were on their way to battle in the North, and they welcomed it as a contrast to the camp life they were leaving.

At night, Sam’s gifted fiddle would send the inspiring notes of “Dixie” out from Company H’s area, and an audience of back-slapping, hat-waving men would gather. This pleased Colonel Savage. He wanted his men eager. He was a veteran of the Seminole War and the Mexican War, and he knew the value of morale. He also knew that most of his men were from Van Buren, Grundy, and Warren Counties, and that they hadn’t been home in thirteen months — and home was just one mountain away.

Samuel McCorkle, a 23-year-old Confederate soldier, found playtime in camp with his fiddle, bringing music to weary soldiers gathered around the fire

Camping Near Home

Lieutenant Etter was from Northcutt Cove, and the girl he left behind was still there. When the army moved far up the valley, he saw that McMinnville was bypassed, so he asked Colonel Savage for permission to make a trip home. It was emphatically refused.

On the night of September 1st the army camped on the mountain near Pikeville, but Lieutenant Etter found little consolation in being so near home — and few in the 16th felt differently.

Old Fiddlin’ Sam had by now become an institution to the entire regiment. Every night he gave them a diet of “Dixie,” “Bonnie Blue Flag,” and “Soldier’s Joy.” Sam was older than most of his companions, and time had made a stronger shell over his emotions. It amused him to watch expressions change in his audience as he changed the tempo of his songs. It especially amused him to watch Lieutenant Etter turn his head away from the firelight when he struck out the mournful notes of “Lorena.”

Often Sergeant Parkes sang, and the camp area of the 16th hung on every word until he finished all six verses.

As they went into bivouac September 2nd near Cane Creek, Colonel Savage called in his company commanders and warned each to be careful of the men that night. They were close to home, and Bragg was still punishing deserters with death. He gave Captain Meadows notice that he should double the guard around Company H and be especially watchful over that homesick lieutenant.

When the sun went down behind the White County hills and the cook fires settled to a yellow glow, Sam broke out the fiddle. “Soldier’s Joy” and “Fire in the Mountain” rang out on the side of the Cumberlands. The usual joyous response was not there, so Sam switched to the mood that had captured the thoughts of the 16th Regiment. “Carry Me Back to Ole Virginny” silenced them, and Sam realized, almost gleefully, that his concert was timed perfectly. He softly played the strains of “Lorena.” Sergeant Parkes took the cue and sang as soft and sad as a mourning dove:

“The years creep slowly by, Lorena,

The snow is on the grass again …”

Sun’s Low

How long had it been since they had been cheered at the depot on the day they left? They were all heroes then, going to whip the Yanks and be home for supper. The cheers had been drowned by the noise of the train, and the waving crowd soon disappeared until only the point of Ben Lomond marked home.

Men began to look toward the shadows and swallow back the tight places in their throats:

“The sun’s low down the sky,

The frost gleams where the flowers have been …”

Lieutenant Etter rose from his seat on the ground, stepped out of the fringe of light, and disappeared into the woods. A few stared at the sky and others frantically blinked at nothing.

Old, tough Fiddlin’ Sam looked at his audience. He had them where he wanted them, and none looked back.

“Our heads will soon be low, Lorena.

The past is in the eternal past …”

The firelight faded as Sergeant Parkes finished the last line. Katydids rasped their song of fall, and a whip-poor-will whistled far down in the valley, and a tear dropped on the fiddle strings.

At daybreak, September 3rd, the morning report was made to Colonel Savage, and the fiery little soldier blistered the air with his denunciation of the one deserter in the 16th.

“If Bragg doesn’t shoot him, I’ll hang him myself,” he said.

“Meadows, I told you to watch that man.”

“I did, Colonel,” replied Captain Meadows. “Etter didn’t leave. It was Private Sam McCorkle.”

The knotted oak had bent.

Closing Reflection

Samuel’s story reminds us that “playtime” during the Civil War wasn’t always innocent or carefree. For him, the fiddle was both a pastime and perhaps a way of coping with the chaos around him. His absences from the regiment show a restless spirit, but the notes of his music linger as a reminder that even in times of war, soldiers still found ways to play.

Footnote from The History of the Sixteenth Tennessee Volunteer Infantry Regiment, Vol. I by Jamie Gillum:

“Samuel McCorkle of Company H, left the ranks AWOL on August 29, 1862. He was present by December 1862 and deserted on January 1, 1863. He was brought back into custody and in the guard house and somehow released. He was paroled in McMinnville in July 1863 at 23 years old.”

33 Murder, Mischief, and Moonshine : The McCorkles of Warren County, Tennessee

Dan McCorkle - My Maternal 2nd Great Grandfather

Sam McCorkle - Dan's brother

Carroll McCorkle - Dan's brother

Stephen McCorkle - Dan's cousin

Robert McCorkle - Dan's uncle

52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks

Week 33 – August 13, 2025

Prompt: Legal Troubles

When some families show up in the records, it’s through land deeds or census lines. My McCorkles of Warren County, Tennessee left a very different kind of paper trail — in the courthouse. From attempted murder indictments to one-cent liquor fines, it seems there was always a McCorkle before the judge.

This week’s prompt, Legal Troubles, could hardly be more fitting. The cast of characters includes my 2nd great-grandfather, Daniel (Dan) McCorkle, and his brothers Samuel (Sam) and Carroll. Their uncle Robert and cousin Stephen also appear. Together they built a reputation for mischief, mayhem, and a little moonshine on the side.

(Readers may remember Daniel and Samuel from Week 15: Two Deserters and One Big Mistake—Mine, where Sam’s fiddle could lift or break the spirits of a whole regiment. This week, though, they’re not in camp — they’re in the courtroom.)

Murder and Mayhem

The most serious charges came in October 1858, when both Carroll and cousin Stephen were indicted for assault with intent to commit murder in the first degree against their neighbor, Elijah Poe. The language of Stephen’s indictment drips with 19th-century fire and brimstone:

“Not having the fear of God before his eyes, but being moved and seduced by the instigation of the Devil…”

Two years later, Carroll was indicted again, this time for obtaining goods under false pretenses. By October 1860, a jury found him guilty and sentenced him to three years of hard labor in the state penitentiary, with the added humiliation of losing his right to hold office.

Meanwhile, Sam — the most notorious of the brothers — was no stranger to trouble. In 1866 he was indicted for assault to kill. When he failed to appear in court, his uncle Robert and a neighbor who had put up bond forfeited $500 each. By 1874, Sam faced charges of attempting to shoot a deputy sheriff and shooting at a hog. Both indictments were eventually dismissed with costs, but his reputation for violence only deepened.

The most dramatic case came in May 1880, when Sam himself was the victim. 

Southern Standard

McMinnville, Tennessee – 1880 (exact date missing; advertisement on page confirms year)

Samuel McCorkle Waylaid

Samuel McCorkle was waylaid near his home in the southeast portion of this county a few days since, and shot. Seven balls took effect, inflicting severe, if not fatal, wounds. Suspicion points to Van Tanner and Bill Taylor as the guilty parties. They have left for parts unknown. The matter is supposed to have grown out of a former difficulty between the parties.

The latest report is that McCorkle will doubtless not recover.

Whoever reported that Sam would not recover didn't know Sam. Farmer Boy tells the story. 

Southern Standard

McMinnville, Tennessee – June 5, 1880

County Correspondence – East Warren (by “Farmer Boy”)

I will give you something about Uncle Sam’s case. Sam McCorkle is well known in this county, though not by his good deeds. A few days ago he went upon the mountain to help George Akeman load tanbark, and was, on his return home, fired upon by a party unknown. He was severely wounded, seven balls taking effect — six in his body, and one struck him in the head and has not been found yet. Some think it bounced out.

I therefore advise his enemies, if they want to kill him, to try what virtue there is in stones, for he has been tried often enough with lead, having had forty-two holes shot into him by different men. One of his neighbors says the only way he can be killed is by cutting his head off and putting it where he can’t find it.

The old coon is today as “peart” as a cricket. So I will close by asking you to make all crooked straight.

Farmer Boy

Mischief and Minor Offenses

Not every McCorkle case was life-and-death. Sometimes they were downright comical.

• In 1856, Robert was fined $5 for assault and battery.

• In 1866, he lost a trespass suit to his neighbor A. J. Savage and paid a mere $2.50 in damages.

• In 1882, Sam was accused of wounding and disfiguring a mule but was acquitted.

• In 1887, another assault charge against Sam was dropped when he paid court costs.

• And in 1888, Sam turned up as a witness in a sheep-stealing case — showing he wasn’t always in the defendant’s seat.

Moonshine and Retailing

The McCorkles also dabbled in the liquor trade - usually without bothering about licenses. 

In 1873, Robert was fined the princely sum of one cent (plus costs) for manufacturing spirituous liquors without bond or oath. A symbolic slap on the wrist, it still made the court books.

My 2nd great-grandfather, Dan, was a repeat offender for retailing without a license. In October 1880, he pled guilty and was fined $1 and costs. But Dan was stubborn. Over the next year, he filed motions to reduce or postpone the court costs — February 1881, May 1881 — each time continued to the next term. His persistence is almost comic: as if a single dollar fine were tolerable, but the court costs were a bridge too far.

By 1886, Robert was indicted for retailing as well, but the case was dropped. It seems moonshine was a family sideline — one cent here, one dollar there, and plenty of laughs for the neighbors.

Odd Outtakes

The courthouse records also preserve moments that are hard to classify:

• In 1872, Carroll was paid $3 for providing a pauper’s coffin.

• In 1886, Sam collected bounties for two wildcats and four fox scalps.

• In 1892, he was paid again, this time for one fox scalp.

And then there’s the gem from 1845 — when a runaway notice appeared in a McMinnville paper:

“Ran away from the subscriber a few weeks since, a bound boy by the name of Stephen McCorkle, 13 years of age. I will give the above reward for his delivery to me — but no thanks.”

– Robert McCorkle

It’s hard not to smile at the dry humor: one cent reward, but “no thanks.”

Closing Reflection

Together, these cases paint a portrait of the McCorkles as regulars in the Warren County courtroom — sometimes feared, sometimes laughed at, but never ignored. From indictments for attempted murder to fines measured in pennies, their stories remind us that our ancestors were as complex and flawed as any of us.

And the most notorious of them all was Sam — who could survive forty-two bullet holes and still fiddle a tune by the fire. In camp during the Civil War, he could bring a whole regiment to tears with the mournful strains of “Lorena.”

But that’s next week’s story. For the prompt PLAY, we’ll look back at Sam McCorkle not in the courtroom, but in the Confederate camps, where his fiddle strings carried both joy and sorrow across the Tennessee mountains.

32 I've Got Some Swamp Land to Sell You

Elizabeth Nolen – Maternal 3rd Great-Grandmother

52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks

Week 32 – August 5, 2025

Prompt: Wide Open Spaces

Elizabeth Nolen’s maiden name remains a mystery. She was the wife of Anslum Nolen, and I have assumed they married around 1822 in Tennessee. Their first six children were born there between 1822 and 1835, including my 2nd great-grandfather, Parmenas James “Pet” Nolen, born in 1831. From 1835 to 1847, five more children were born in Marshall County, Mississippi.

The 1850 census lists Elizabeth’s birthplace as North Carolina, about 1800, but the 1860 census states Tennessee, about 1797. She died sometime between 1861, when she signed her will, and 1866, when her estate entered probate in Woodruff County, Arkansas. The only census record I have found for Anslum is from 1850, which gives his birthplace as Virginia around 1786. He died about 1852 in Mississippi.

The Nolens understood the value of land. An 1837 tax record for Hardin County, Tennessee, shows they owned land worth $300 and had one slave. In 1840, Anslum purchased 160 acres in Marshall County, Mississippi—the first recorded owner of land that had belonged to the Indians. By 1850, it was valued at $650. The 1850 slave schedule lists four slaves, likely a couple with two young children.

By 1860, Elizabeth was a widow living in Richland Township, St. Francis County, Arkansas, with her four youngest children, ages 17 to 23. The nearest post office was in Cotton Plant, in Woodruff County—a rich cotton-producing area. She is listed in the census as a farmer with $600 in real estate, likely growing cotton. Elizabeth also appears in the 1860 slave schedule index, though the number of enslaved people is not given.

Before settlement, Woodruff and St. Francis Counties were densely forested, laced with bayous, sloughs, and swamps. The area’s fertile soils drew settlers, who cleared the land for row crops.

The Federal Swamp Land Act of 1850 aimed to transfer federally owned swamplands into private hands. It defined swampland in part as “those swamp and overflowed lands which may be or are unfit for cultivation…” The act ultimately ceded about 65 million acres to more than a dozen states. Arkansas, the third-largest recipient after Florida (20.3 million acres) and Louisiana (9.4 million acres), received over 7.6 million acres. States sold these lands—often at little cost—on the condition that they be drained and made productive, usually for agriculture.

Volumes like these once recorded Arkansas's swamp land purchases - including 43 acres my 3rd great grandmother Elizabeth Nolen bought for seventy-five cents an acre in 1861. 

On July 18, 1861, Elizabeth applied to purchase 43 acres of “Swamp and Overflowed Land” at 75 cents an acre. The tract was described as the NE 1/4 of NE 1/4 Sec 2 T5N R3W. I located it on a map: it lies between Howell and the Cache River National Wildlife Refuge Headquarters. In the 1860s, this land was in St. Francis County; it became part of Woodruff County in 1870. Today, the refuge serves as an overwintering home for ducks.

When I visited the area in January 2016, I saw many fields flooded for the season—and plenty of duck hunters taking advantage of it.

It’s hard to picture Elizabeth’s 43 acres in 1861—likely a mix of soggy bottomland and dense timber—but she must have seen its potential. Today, it’s part of a thriving wildlife refuge, valued far beyond its agricultural worth. And while the phrase “I’ve got some swamp land to sell you” is usually a joke, in Elizabeth’s case, it was no joke at all. She really did buy Arkansas swamp land—43 acres of it—for just seventy-five cents an acre.

⸻