Rebecca Staab Topless
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Hello Hello!!! Welcome to my "fan" page!! FINALLY got one put together!! HAHA!!! Please come back often, as I plan to update it frequently with pictures, fun videos, and good conversation! Let me know you're here -- leave me a message and say hello! Feel free to SHARE THIS LINK -- I appreciate your friendship and support!
Jill Davis Forshey So awesome! So proud of your accomplishments. Love hearing your updates! BREAK A Leg, again, again, again ....again & again!
Stephanie Greene My babies, Nalla (L) and Sweetie (R).
Rebecca Staab Stephanie Greene awwww!! 😍🥰
TODAY catch up on earlier episodes, then join us TONIGHT for a brand new one!
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Spend your afternoon catching up on Alex McPherson's (Alison Sweeney) previous exposés with a "Chronicle Mysteries" marathon beginning at 2/1c, then tune in at 8/7c for her all new Signature Mystery "Chronicle Mysteries: Helped to Death."
Tune in TONIGHT to Chronicle Mysteries on the Hallmark Movies and Mysteries Channel!
Tune in TONIGHT, Sun Feb 21, for a brand new "Chronicle Mysteries" episode on the Hallmark Movies and Mysteries Channel!!!
Susan Gabryszewski Watching and recording !
This Sunday evening, Feb 21!
Join us!
GIVEAWAY!!! Get home movie night ready and tune in to watch Chronicle Mysteries on Sunday 2/21 at 8 pm ET/7 pm CT on Hallmark Movies & Mysteries with all of us!… We’ve teamed up with some of our favorite female owned brands for a Glam Edition: Movie Night Giveaway! Enter today for a chance to win over $1,000 worth of goods. Head to @alisweeney on INSTAGRAM to enter to win! (This giveaway is not affiliated with Instagram or Facebook in anyway)
Though this is a long “read,” it is WORTH every single word of this amazingly hard-working woman’s life of gathering and preserving history. I HIGHLY encourage everyone to read and share this tribute to Bertha Calloway— the comments contain priceless historic news articles and photos as well. This story of the museum that she single-handedly established and curated is a major foothold in history too often overlooked.
Please don’t be “too busy” to appreciate and honor this woman and her amazing story.
Those roping, riding, herding, branding, lassoing cowboys took a hold of me. There was no obstacle that they couldn’…t ride through. The work was rough, gruelling. laborious and lonely. The pay was inconsistent. Yet, their work helped win the West.
You might think I am talking about the Lone Ranger, Roy Rogers, Billy the Kid or Hopalong Cassidy..nah. Sure they were cool, but I am talking about the cowboys with black skin. They weren't known by a single name. They were the ones that looked like me and grandpa.
Ever hear of Dusty Demon? - He was the greatest sweat and dirt cowboy who ever lived. Bill Pickett? - He invented cow punching. Ever hear of Big Jim Kelly? Nate Love? Cherokee Bill? Islom Dart? Tracy Thompsen?
When I saw them, I thought I was looking at myself or Papa. The white guys were o.k., but the black cowboys, they were the ones who combated obstacles with more obstacles while saving the day with their ropes and their riding skills. When I saw those black cowboys, something deep inside me woke up. They were not the ones being celebrated in western comic books and movies, but they were the ones I wanted to celebrate, and the fact that America didn’t even notice the black cowboys, just made me want to know more.
This feeling of wanting to fill in the missing pieces was something that would linger for a lifetime. Not just the missing history of the black cowboy, but the missing history of almost everything that was important to me became my quest.
Cowboys always wore rugged clothes, Stetson hats, boots, and wide belt buckles.
Grandpa always wore those things back in Colorado. Although when I tried to remember him as a cowboy later, my mother said ‘Papa wasn’t a cowboy; He just roped, branded and went from one ranch to the other.
There were about 6,000 black men who rode the ranges from 1865 until the end of the trail rides. I would beg Papa to tell me the stories of the black pioneers in Texas. You COULDN’T hear these stories in school. I had to beg Papa to tell me more. Tell me more. All that begging for stories of the black people on the Great Plains would set me up for my calling later in life.
In my mind, I could see them galloping into the sunrise on their mission. From looking at them from behind, you would never know they were black men until they turned around. I was intrigued with how they moved on the land. In those days on the Great Plains, they traveled without boundaries of state lines or county lines or property lines. A good hat, the animals, the blue sky and the horizon was all they needed. When you look at those photos there are no harsh borderlines between Nebraska or Colorado or Kansas or Oklahoma. There are no signs that say “Welcome to Nebraska” or “You are now entering Colorado.” There was just the Midwestern land, the railroads that cut through all of it and the people.
My black cowboy fascination didn’t end in childhood. My obsession carried with me into adulthood. In my life I would go on to write a book, a tv series, a tv special, and be part of a research team to create nationally funded documentary on the experiences of the African American cowboy.
Let’s take a break from my black cowboy obsession for a minute because I know that’s not why you are here. You don’t get a street named after you in Omaha, Nebraska for telling cowboy stories. There are a half of a million people and there are only about five streets named for women and I’m one of them. They named a street after me because I just wouldn’t quit and my legacy lives on today in a museum.
You heard that if Omaha had an “Oprah Winfrey” that it was me. I will take it as a compliment. I lived a long, proud life. I did broadcasting, book writing, playwriting, beauty pageant producing, and house flipping. I bought and opened the only black history museum west of the Mississippi and it stands today after my death. In my spare time, I waged an American civil liberties battle against every downtown lunch counter that wouldn’t let a person with dark skin sit there and drink coffee. I fought bus companies, housing authorities, private businesses and city hall.
So pull up a chair and sit back. You can call me "Bert." Everybody does. Oh, you might have to clear away some of those boxes of newspaper and magazine files. You see in your generation, all your history files are digitized, nice and neat on the computer. But in my day, a file and a folder was actually a file and a folder that took up space. When you cut and paste on your desktop, it's smooth and easy for you. But in my day, we actually had to cut with the scissors and use glue to paste...So you will understand why I have so many files and boxes.
To start, I was not born in Omaha, but I was born in the midwest. I was born on July 14, 1925 in Denver, Colorado.
It bears repeating: my life has been a quest to find the missing pieces. In my stacks and piles and boxes of books and magazines and newspapers, I have always been searching for the answers.
I arrived in Omaha in 1946. I was 21 years old. My mother bought a restaurant in North Omaha and worked there until the day she died. She always begged me to follow in her footsteps and take the restaurant over. But that wasn’t for me.
In 1948, three other female friends and I went to a lunch counter in downtown Omaha for hot chocolate and doughnuts. The manager came over and said, “ We don’t serve you girls” and walked away. We didn’t come in with a chip on our shoulders and we didn’t go out with one either. One of my friends was close to tears. The other three of us talked to the manager quietly in the kitchen. He said that he was sorry that he hurt our feelings, but that he couldn’t serve us. We said we would eat and leave in five minutes, but it made no difference. It made no difference that we were quiet and well-behaved and had money to pay. It made no difference that we were fellow citizens and countrymen and in this case, his fellow Christians. He didn’t care that one of us was a student at one of the Catholic girls colleges in Omaha, that two of us were alumni of Creighton University and that one girl was a mother with two small children. No, none of it mattered at all because two of the four girls sitting at that lunch counter had black skin. Two of the four girls would have no problem going back tomorrow to get served; they had no difficulty in getting a hotel room; a job, a meal, an education, a church affiliation, a seat in a theater, service in a store or a beauty parlor or a home to live in a certain neighborhood. This experience was written up by one of my friends and she signed all four girls names to the letter. My name appeared in the Omaha World Herald on May 23, 1948 and I couldn’t stop staring at it. I existed. I mattered. That pain of wanting to sit at that diner and have a hot chocolate with my white and black friends counted for about 150 words in the evening paper. That was the first time my name appeared in the city newspaper - but oh no, it would not be the last.
Maybe that’s why I kept turning my mom down when she begged me to take over her cafe. A life of pouring coffee to a quarter inch below the rim wouldn’t get me in the newspaper where everyone could see me and all my dark skinned brothers and sisters and know I counted - that we counted - that we mattered.
The next time my name appeared in the newspaper, I wrote in to advocate for a skating rink in North Omaha just a year later in 1949. That type of thing has always been important to me. All children - white and black - should have places to play like swimming pools and skating rinks.
In the mid 1940s, as soon I stepped foot in Omaha, I attended Creighton University on a scholarship. With a group of friends, we started the “De Porres Club.” Our mission was to fight for the civil liberties in Omaha and stand up for our people. Over the next 2 decades, the club fought the parochial schools, dentistry clinics, laundromats, hotels, roller skating rinks, ice cream shops, restaurants, the streetcar and the bus company. The De Porres Club fought against employment discrimation over and over again.
I became a mother of three children and a wife of an Army officer. We lived in Washington D.C. for a short time and I worked at the Corp. of Engineers there. When I was in Washington, I thought of my mom and her friends back in Omaha. I walked down to the DC mall where all the beautiful museums are free. I was so moved with the reverence that the museums held for the past. That feeling you get when you walk in a tall, strong historic building to experience the humanity never left me. I wanted my midwestern cowboys to be upheld in that same reverence that the Washington DC museums upheld George Washington. I wanted black history to be honored and institutionalized the way the folks in DC honored the European Americans.
When my family returned to Omaha in the late 1950s, I came back with more fight and vision than I had before I left. I became an officer on the board of the Near Northside YMCA. I advocated everyday for clean healthy recreation for children in North Omaha. I hosted family picnics, and pool parties at the Kellom pool and my name was constantly in thd newspaper.
In 1962, I along with 8 other colleagues formed the ‘Negro Historial Society of Nebraska.” We called it our “little project.”
Five years later as Nebraska came close to celebrating its centennial in 1967, the Nebraska State Historical Society began to publicly recognize our efforts. They were encouraging us to set up a cultural display for the state’s centennial celebration and started to talk about offering scholarships to young people in Lincoln for studying African American history as a serious pursuit. They finally printed what I had known my whole life: “The public schools of the state were inadequately presenting the African American’s role in history.”
I mean the whole thing was bitter sweet and confusing. Here was the head of the state historical society saying what we had been saying for years, but then, he had to frame it in such a gruesome way - right there in Sunday World Herald, January 2, 1966. He said that black people deserved to be recognized because they had been in Nebraska as long as anyone else. He said, “They accompanied Lewis and Clark in 1804.” We had achieved recognition in his eyes because many African Americans were stationed at Fort Robinson and fought with the army “against the Indians.” Imagine that. We were being given a cultural table at the Nebraska Centennial Fair because we helped in the fight “against the Indians.’
In the 1960s, I got a chance to audition and interview for a professional job at WOW-TV.
I became one of their first black female broadcasters. The Omaha World Herald wrote in an editorial and described me as the black girl doing the community news. My official job title was “Community Affairs” and I was charged with reading out the community calendar. I had many roles at WOW from public affairs to hosting a children's show. The children's show was called "Missy's Trunk." I used my mother's stories to create African American children's tales about the pioneer days that started when I opened up a trunk at the beginning of the show.
In 1969, I took a leave from WOW-TV when I got the call of a lifetime.
I was asked to be a senior researcher on what was known to be the first historically authentic tv series on the role of the black man in settling the West. The 1970 series was called “The Black Frontier.” I was dancing and jumping around the house like you wouldn’t believe. The Ford Foundation provided $200,000 to UNL to produce the series. That was a lot of money in 1970. It was the first time I got to understand how grants and foundations and the power of presenting history with all the proper paperwork could get stories told.
The project focused on the period between 1800-1890 and I was part of a team that scoured documents from the Mississippi to the Rocky Mountains looking for diaries, letters, artifact anything that would give us insight into the black pioneers, fur traders, soldiers and cowboys. It was the job of my dreams and Glen Campbell’s “Rhinestone Cowboy” wouldn’t even be a hit for another 5 years. We were living in a world after our time and before our time, if that makes any sense.
I had a husband who supported me and liked what I was doing. Sometimes I had just ideas and dreams, but he listened and never stopped me. He never told me I couldn’t do something.
In 1975 we made history together. My husband and I purchased the Webster Exchange Building at 2213 Lake. It was an old Nebraska Telephone building built in 1906 by a famous architect named Thomas Kimball. Hopes were high. My husband and I filled out all the paperwork and got the building listed on the National Register of Historic Places. There were three floors with 32 rooms. I filled each room with the black experience - being black, thinking black, black music, black cowboys, black soldiers, black settlers, athletes and civil rights leaders, etc. We had exhibits on Mildred Brown, Malcolm X and Bob Gibson.
My office had my grandfather’s holster and branding iron on the wall, of course.
The museum was only supposed to be open for 2 years in celebration of America's bicentennial. I was the recipient of a federal grant to create the black history museum as part of a bicentennial project from 1975-76 and that was the commitment. The American Revolution Bicentennial Administration gave me a grant for $101,000. It sounded like a lot of money at the time, but it was a one time grant - not a sustaining contribution - and the money did not last long. The strength of my vision and all the archives I had been collecting had to last longer than two years - surely. In my grand dream, I had to take this museum into the future, into perpetuity. That dream was my strength and my biggest problem.
Our own family home near 25th and Evans was so over-run with books and magazines and boxes of documents. My husband, son and 2 daughters were so happy that this history would have a home besides our own personal home.
The museum officially opened in 1975, but I had been planning it in my head for 28 years, and had been collecting materials since I had been back in Omaha for 12 years and storing it in my own home. It’s hard to count the hours of planning that went into the museum, and like I said before, it was all about putting missing pieces together. Adding pieces here, buying pieces there, collecting, going into old houses, saving things with the hopes and dreams that maybe there would be someplace to house them eventually.
People came from all over the world to see this little museum in Omaha, Nebraska. Our guestbook had names from Eureope and Africa. But even with all those visitors, it was a day-to-day struggle to stay open. I realized that we were in a low income community. It would have been nice, you know, if a little of the money came from North Omaha, but our main financial support came from grants. There are people who came in and handed us donations, which was nice, but it would have been wonderful if we could have gotten one dollar from every black person in Nebraska, then we might have had about $50,000 more to work with each year.
But when there was no money, that was when I really had to go to work and use my energy to scare up money and get volunteers.
Finding things for the museum wasn’t as easy as going to a garage sale in a black neighborhood. The pictures, the letters, the documents, those things we really needed to say “something happened here” were the things that people didn’t want to give up.
I spent hours following leads and speaking to older people in North Omaha. If the word got out that a house was condemned or ticketed for demolition, I wore my oldest clothes, put on my waffle stompers, grabbed my bags and headed over to rummage before the bulldozers got there. Every once in a while there would be a piece of black lore. Once I was in a condemned house on Indiana Street and I unearthed a rare book of African American poetry and a 1894 copy of an Alexander Dumas novel.
The Omaha scavenger hunts were fun at times, but I want to be clear that the museum serves “The Great Plains.” It’s not just Omaha. The African American experience throughout the whole midwest had similar themes and I wasn’t about to put up any city or state lines on what it meant to be a person of color in the Midwest. I had collected artifacts from Nebraska, Iowa, Missouri, the Dakotas and my birthplace of Colorado dated from the time of the Emancipation Proclamation.
The year 1976 came and went; and I did not close the museum when the original grant money ran out. I kept it going somehow. But for the record, I not only was a working mother running the museum and tending to three kids while advocating for our civil rights in a very racially divided Omaha in the 1970s - but I also was a working mother. I had a day job to pay the bills. I mean I held down day jobs during all of this to keep the family and the museum afloat. I worked in a hospital and wrote for the Omaha Star newspaper and I voluntarily served on board after board after board. There were no weekends or days off or holidays, there was just passion and labors of love and doing what I was driven to do without apology.
I got tired of attending cocktail parties with the “martini set” and showing up at banquets to raise money for the museum. In 1977, my husband a
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