12 Photos: January = Grandparents - Joy in Their Eyes: Firman and Leona Robinson at a 1940's Convention

In a faded photograph, my grandparents stand side by side at a convention assembly of Jehovah's Witnesses. Their smiles, though gentle, radiate a quiet joy that transcends the decades between then and now.

My grandfather, Firman Joseph Robinson, emerges from family lore as a testament to resilience in the face of crushing responsibility. At eight years old, he shouldered the weight of his father's passing by working the farm to feed his mother and five younger brothers (Albert Earl, Otto Charles, Monte Guy, Robert Willliam, and George Marvin). Yet even as his calloused hands worked the soil from sunrise to sunset, his spirit yearned for something more. Under cover of darkness, after his younger siblings were tucked into bed, this young farm boy would break into the local schoolhouse, his hunger for knowledge burning brighter than the lamplight that illuminated borrowed books. Those stolen hours of learning shaped him into the thoughtful, integrity-filled man who would later capture my grandmother's heart.

Leona Catherine Budd's story begins intertwined with that of her twin sister, Naomi, their bond so close they shared not just DNA but a home in Des Moines, Iowa in 1925. I can almost picture the sisters in their shared apartment, taking in a boarder, perhaps sharing quiet conversations about their dreams over evening tea. Did they imagine then how their lives would unfold? Did they know they would remain inseparable even as they built their own families?

The timeline offers tantalizing glimpses: a spring wedding in Oskaloosa, Iowa in 1928, Firman's role as a caretaker of U.S. Government property in 1930, the blessing of three children between 1929 and 1935. Then came the western migration to Raymond, Washington, the twins and their families traveling together toward new horizons, Firman finding work as a lumber grader at Weyerhaeuser.

But what the documents can't capture is the depth of Leona's grief when she lost her beloved twin after their move west. How do you measure the absence of someone who has been by your side since before birth? This photograph, taken years after that loss, shows a woman who found joy again, standing beside the man who helped her carry that sorrow.

In this single moment captured sometime in the 1940s, my grandparents stand as testaments to faith, both in their chosen religion and in each other. Their matching name tags and coordinated attire speak to their shared journey, while their genuine smiles – the kind that crinkles the eyes and warm the heart – hint at a deeper happiness that even time couldn't fade.

Though I never knew Leona, and my time with Firman was cut short by his passing when I was sixteen, this photograph bridges the gap between what was lost and what remains. In their expressions, I see echoes of the kind, quiet man I remember, the grandfather who showed me what integrity looked like in human form. And in Leona's smile, I glimpse the grandmother I never met but whose story, however incomplete, helps me understand the tapestry of my own history.

This photo, more than the others I have of them, really shows their kind, loving, joyful personalities. You can see their smiles, though small, reach their eyes, sharing their joy in the day and each other.

*Source documentation for these ancestors can be found on their linked profiles at WikiTree.

This blog post is in response to the WikiTree monthly 12 Months of Photos prompt on the Genealogist to Genealogist forum (G2G), 12 Months of Photos January 2025 Grandparents