June 1952
If these three women look like they’ve been through some things, it’s because they have. Meet Gladys, Flora, and Alma—three sisters who grew up on a Michigan farm, survived a childhood of chores and schoolhouse rules, made their way to the big city, and still managed to keep their sense of humor (and their impeccable fashion sense).
In this photo, they stand shoulder to shoulder, corsages pinned like badges of honor, looking like they’ve just finished either a deep family discussion or a round of playful bickering over who remembered things correctly. The expressions say it all—Gladys (left) has seen it all, Flora (middle) is just happy to be here, and Alma (right) is probably about to say something witty.
They weren’t always city women. Gladys (1903), Flora (1904), and Alma (1907) were raised in Novi Township, Michigan, back when kids were expected to earn their keep before they even learned long division. Their father, Wilson Cross, worked the land until he decided to swap plowing fields for factory floors, moving the family to Detroit, where he worked at Ford’s Highland Park Plant during World War I building aircraft engines.
The move to the city was a culture shock—fewer cows, more streetcars, and no more hauling water just to take a bath. But the Cross sisters adapted, like they always did.
Gladys was the first to take the plunge into adulthood—marrying at just 16 years old. She had her first daughter, Helen, in 1920, only to lose her at six years old to illness. That kind of heartbreak could have broken anyone, but Gladys was made of steel (and maybe a little bit of stubbornness). She remarried, raised more kids, and perfected the art of keeping a family together, pie crusts included.
Then there was Flora, the sweet one. The patient one. The sister who never raised her voice but somehow still got everyone to listen. She had four children of her own, but really, she had a soft spot for every kid who crossed her path. Later in life, she ran a daycare inside a bowling alley, proving that she could **handle screaming toddlers and crashing pins at the same time—**a skill that should qualify anyone for sainthood.
But Flora had a wild side—sort of. While she wasn’t one for big speeches or making waves, she had an adventurous spirit that took her to Florida and then on to California. She may not have been the loudest sister, but she lived a life worth talking about.
Alma, the youngest, watched her older sisters go through life and took notes. She didn’t rush into things—waiting until 1927 to marry Cecil Attwood, and when she did, she did it right. She had two kids, ran a household, and was the kind of person who kept things moving without making a fuss about it. If Gladys was the strong-willed one and Flora was the heart, Alma was the one making sure everything actually got done.
A Lifetime of Sisterhood
Looking at them in this photo, you can almost hear the conversation:
- Gladys: “I told you that recipe called for lard, not butter.”
- Flora: “Oh, it doesn’t matter, as long as it tastes good.”
- Alma: “Both of you are wrong, and I’m not telling you my secret ingredient.”
They had been farm girls, city women, wives, mothers, and grandmothers. But more than anything, they had been each other’s constant—through every burnt dinner, every lost loved one, every inside joke that only the three of them understood.
And judging by their faces in this photo, they’re still trying to figure out whose version of the story is the right one.
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