tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18212982227615038902024-03-15T18:10:05.269-07:00The Heritage HuntressAmberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00487334213435081867noreply@blogger.comBlogger181125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821298222761503890.post-62935877742002763452023-04-23T12:40:00.000-07:002023-04-23T12:40:14.725-07:00Sunday's Obituary: Mr. Mohney<p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">One of my favorite finds during my most recent access to <a href="http://Newspapers.com"><i>Newspapers.com</i></a> is also one of the most enigmatic. I am taking liberties in applying the term "obituary" to this article, but... it's my blog and I can do what I want. And I'm dying to write about this one. (No pun intended.)<br /><br /></span></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Clarion County.--A Mr. Mohney, who resided near Reimersburg, was kicked in the stomach by a horse from the effects of which he died in less than twenty-four hours. He was walking along conversing with a person on horseback, when to avoid the worst part of the road he crossed over behind the horse when the animal kicked him. He suffered most excrutiatingly [sic] until death came to his relief. Truly "in the midst of life we are in death."</span></span></blockquote><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><br />Why do I find this article so compelling? It doesn't even record Mr. Mohney's first name. It was originally clipped by another user, who titled the clipping "Adam Mohney Death," but I have yet to locate any substantiating documents for that name. <br /><br />Even so, the article supplies so many intriguing possibilities, and may even be a clue to my most recent brick wall. Most of my family lines can be solidly traced back several generations, but the parents of my great-grandfather John S. Brosius seemingly appeared out of nowhere in 1852. In that year, my great-great-grandfather Adam Brocius purchased 50 acres in South Shenango township, Crawford county, Pennsylvania. Before then, my Brosius line is a mystery.<br /><br />Adam Brocius' wife is remembered in my family as Margrette Mooney, but the surnames of numerous DNA matches suggest that her surname was actually Mohney. However, I have thus far been unable to discover exactly how she ties into the Mohney family. So the mere coincidence of the surname Mohney is not enough to attract more than cursory interest in this article.<br /><br />The surname Mohney combined with a kick of a horse causing death is clear reason for interest, though. As I have mentioned in at least one previous post, there is an oral history within the Brosius family of a grandfather dying by being kicked by a mule. Who the grandfather was who died in that way is inconsistent, depending upon the storyteller, sometimes being John S. Brosius himself and sometimes his father Adam Brocius. So it seems entirely possible that the victim wasn't either of them at all, but perhaps the story is a mangled remembrance of the death of Margrette Mohney's father, or at least someone in her line.<br /><br />Her parentage has not yet been determined, so it could be that this Mr. Mohney is her long-lost father. Naturally, proving such an optimistic hypothesis will take a great deal of additional research, but it gives me a starting place. I am reasonably certain that Adam Brocius and Margrette Mohney moved to South Shenango from elsewhere in Pennsylvania, but both surnames are surprisingly common in that part of the country during the appropriate time period, so any hint of a starting place is greatly appreciated.<br /><br />Mr. Mohney's death took place in 1858, when Adam and Margrette Brocius would have been a young married couple. No indication of Mr. Mohney's age is given in the article, so it is not impossible that he was of the right age to be Margrette's father. The location of his residence and death is in Clarion county, which is not far from Crawford county, sitting to the southeast, with only Venango county dividing the two. Even in those days, it would have been a reasonable distance to migrate while still remaining near enough to occasionally visit family for special occasions.<br /><br />So now my task is laid before me. I need to build out Mr. Mohney's family tree, and see if I can discover if he connects in any way to Margrette Mohney. If not her father, perhaps he is her brother or an uncle. Or perhaps this is just another wild goose chase.<br /></span></span> <span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Sources:</span></h2><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: small;">"<a href="https://www.newspapers.com/clip/32321919/adam-mohney-death/" target="_blank">Pennsylvania Items: Clarion County</a>," <i>Raftsman's Journal</i>, 6 Jan 1858, p. 2, col. 3; digital images, <i>Newspapers.com</i> (www.newspapers.com : accessed 18 Feb 2023).<br /></span> <span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: small;"><br />Crawford, Pennsylvania, Deeds Xeroxed by Gloria Brosius and sent to Amber Brosius, John Ralston to Adam Brocius, 30 Nov 1852; Crawford County Office of the Clerk of Courts, Meadville. </span></p>Amberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00487334213435081867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821298222761503890.post-67511883444703552862023-04-16T08:30:00.002-07:002023-04-16T08:30:00.188-07:00Sunday's Obituary: Rosa Fox<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Over the past two weeks I have featured my 2great-grandparents, Louis Fox and Cora Jones. This week it seems only fitting to feature their young daughter Rosa, my great-grandmother's sister. Sadly, she died quite young, at the age of only 11. She was a victim of the 1918 influenza epidemic.<br /><br />The <i>Sun </i>reported Rosa's death the same day that she passed.<br /><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;"></span></p><blockquote><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">Rosy Fox Dead<br /></span></p><div><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">Elliott, Dec. 12--Rosy Fox, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Louis Fox, died about 1 o'clock this morning from pneumonia, following influenza. Other members of the family who were sick are recovering. The funeral will be late Friday afternoon at 2 o'clock.</span></div></blockquote><div><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />I enjoy the fact that they referred to her as "Rosy." It feels so much more personal than Rosa, and I can imagine her friends and acquaintances calling her by that name on an everyday basis. I also find it interesting to learn that other members of the family also came down with the influenza; that is something I might never have otherwise learned.<br /><br />The following week, the <i>Red Oak Express</i> provided a more comprehensive obituary of Rosa's short life, plus a little more information on the experience of the rest of the family.<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><blockquote><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: courier;">WEEKLY LETTER FROM ELLIOTT</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier;">Rosa A. Fox Dies of Influenza...</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier;"></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><br />Rosa Adella Fox, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. L. A. Fox, was born in Montgomery county July 1, 1907. She was called to her reward Dec. 12, 1918, at the age of 11 years. The entire family except her sister Hazel was sick with influenza, Miss Rosa developing a case of pneumonia after a short illness. During her short life she endeared herself to all her associates in school as well as in the bible school and junior work. She was a member of Miss Hazel Collins' class in bible school and under Mrs. R. N. Collins and Mrs. McKee in junior work. She will be greatly missed by the members of these departments. She leaves to mourn her departure her mother, father, three sisters, Mabel, Hazel and Viola, one brother Clyde, besides a number of other relatives and friends. Short services were held at the home Friday afternoon conducted by Rev. J. W. McKee. Interment was in Elliott cemetery.</span></span></div></blockquote><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />Right off the bat, Rosa's reported name in this article provided me a small surprise. Here, it was recorded as Rosa <i>Adella </i>Fox. On <i>Find A Grave</i> and the index to "Iowa, County Death Records, 1880-1992" at <i>FamilySearch </i>it is recorded as Rosa <i>Adolla </i>Fox. However, <i>Find A Grave</i> does not cite a source for the middle name, and the photograph of her headstone shows that only a middle initial is inscribed. I have not yet been able to view an original document in the Iowa County Death Record database at <i>FamilySearch</i>, only the index, which could, of course, be subject to transcription errors. Naturally, newspapers are also notorious for misspelling names. Yet, "Adella" is a familiar name, as opposed to "Adolla." At this point, it cannot be determined with certainty which is correct.<br /></span></span><br /><br /><br /><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Sources:</span></h3><span style="font-family: georgia;">"Rosy Fox Dead," <i>Sun</i>, <a href="https://redoak.advantage-preservation.com/viewer/?k=%22louis%20fox%22&i=f&d=01011874-12312008&m=between&ord=k1&fn=sun_usa_iowa_red_oak_19181213_english_6&df=31&dt=40" target="_blank">13 Dec 1918, p. 6</a>, col. 2; digital images, <i>Community History Archive</i> (https://redoak.advantage-preservation.com/ : accessed 24 Feb 2023).<br /><br /><br />"Weekly Letter from Elliott,"<i> Red Oak Express</i>, <a href="https://redoak.advantage-preservation.com/viewer/?k=rosa%20fox&i=f&d=01011874-12312008&m=between&ord=k1&fn=red_oak_express_usa_iowa_red_oak_19181220_english_13&df=1&dt=10" target="_blank">20 Dec 1918, p. 13</a>, col. 4; digital images, <i>Community History Archive</i> (https://redoak.advantage-preservation.com/ : accessed 24 Feb 2023).<br /><br /><br /><i>Find a Grave</i>, database and images (<a href="https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/8643200/rosa-adolla-fox">https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/8643200/rosa-adolla-fox</a>: accessed 28 March 2023), memorial page for Rosa Adolla Fox (1 Jul 1907–12 Dec 1918), Find a Grave Memorial ID <a href="https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/8643200/rosa-adolla-fox">8643200</a>, citing Hillside Cemetery, Elliott, Montgomery County, Iowa, USA; Maintained by Marty & Harley (contributor <a href="https://www.findagrave.com/user/profile/47240226">47240226</a>). <br /><br /><br />"Iowa, County Death Records, 1880-1992," database, <i>FamilySearch </i>(www.familysearch.org : accessed 26 Mar 2023), entry for Rosa Adolla Fox's 1918 death; citing Death, Sherman Township, Montgomery, Iowa, United States, page 193 cn98, offices of county clerk from various counties; FHL microfilm 1,481,703.</span><p></p>Amberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00487334213435081867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821298222761503890.post-85733870231662760692023-04-09T11:30:00.052-07:002023-04-09T11:30:00.190-07:00Sunday's Obituary: Cora Mae (Jones) Fox<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Last week we did my 2great-grandfather, Louis Arthur Fox. Let's stay in that family for a bit and read about his wife, my 2great-grandmother Cora Mae (Jones) Fox, today. These articles are also courtesy of that wonderful Red Oak <a href="https://redoak.advantage-preservation.com/">Community History Archive</a>.<br /><br />Her obituary appeared in at least two of the local papers, the Red Oak Express and the Sun. First we will hear from the Express.</span></span><blockquote><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: courier;">Services Are Held For Mrs. Louis Fox</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier;"></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><br />ELLIOTT--Funeral services for Mrs. Louis Fox, 77, Elliott community resident since 1897, were held Wednesday, Mar. 31, at the Methodist church here with the Rev. A. Breeling officiating and burial in Hillside cemetery.<br /><br />She died Sunday, Mar 28, at the hospital in Red Oak, where she had been a patient four weeks.<br /><br />Cora Jones was born Aug. 12, 1876, in Missouri and moved to Coburg with her parents as a youngster. She was married there in 1897 to Louis Fox, who survives.<br /><br />Also surviving are three daughters, Mrs. Mable Peck of Elliott, Mrs. Hazel Hoyt of Council Bluffs and Mrs. Viola Leighton of Griswold, son, Clyde, near Stennett; seven grandchildren and six great-grandchildren.</span></span></span></div></blockquote><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Her obituary in the <i>Sun </i>gave much of the same information, but with perhaps a few more details. (And an erroneous middle initial for her husband, Louis Arthur Fox.)<br /><br /><blockquote><span style="font-family: courier;">Mrs. Louis Fox Of Elliott Dies<br /><br />Elliott, March 31--Funeral services were held Wednesday at 2 p. m. at the Methodist church here for Mrs. Louis F. Fox. Rev. A. Breeling officiated at interment was in Hillside cemetery, Elliott. <br /><br />Cora Jones was born August 12, 1876 in Missouri. When a small child she came with her parents to Coburg and was married there Dec. 19, 1897, to Louis Fox. They have resided in this community since that time. Mrs. Fox has been a patient invalid for a number of years. She died Sunday afternoon at Murphy Memorial hospital where she had been four weeks She is survived by her husband and three daughters and one son as follows: Mrs. Mable Peck, Elliott; Mrs. Viola Leighton, Griswold, Mrs. Hazel Hoyt, Council Bluffs, Clyde Fox, Red Oak. There are seven grandchildren and six great-grandchildren.</span></blockquote><br />As if two obituaries weren't enough, there are a couple further notes in the <i>Sun</i>, mentioning some of the guests at her funeral.<br /><br /><blockquote><span style="font-family: courier;">Mr. and Mrs. Lon Sheppard and Dave Morgan were in Elliott to attend the funeral of Mrs. Louis Fox, 77, which was held at the Methodist church Wednesday.<br /><br />Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth Jones attended the funeral of Mrs. Louis Fox in Elliott Wednesday. Services were held at the Methodist church.</span></blockquote><br />Kenneth Jones was Cora's nephew, a son of her brother John Martin Jones. I have not yet identified Lon Sheppard or Dave Morgan. They may have been relatives of some sort, or they may have been friends.<br /></span><br /></span><br /><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Source:</span><br />"Services Are Held For Mrs. Louis Fox," <i>Red Oak Express</i>, <a href="https://redoak.advantage-preservation.com/viewer/?k=%22louis%20fox%22&i=f&d=01011874-12312008&m=between&ord=k1&fn=red_oak_express_usa_iowa_red_oak_19540401_english_2&df=1&dt=10" target="_blank">1 Apr 1954, p. 2</a>, col. 1-2; digital images, <i>Community History Archive</i> (https://redoak.advantage-preservation.com/ : accessed 24 Feb 2023).</span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">"Mrs. Louis Fox Of Elliott Dies," <i>Sun</i>, <a href="https://redoak.advantage-preservation.com/viewer/?k=%22louis%20fox%22&i=f&d=01011874-12312008&m=between&ord=k1&fn=sun_usa_iowa_red_oak_19540401_english_2&df=1&dt=10" target="_blank">1 Apr 1954, p. 2</a>, col. 6-7; digital images, <i>Community History Archive</i> (https://redoak.advantage-preservation.com/ : accessed 24 Feb 2023).<br /><br />"Personals," <i>Sun</i>, <a href="https://redoak.advantage-preservation.com/viewer/?k=%22louis%20fox%22&i=f&d=01011874-12312008&m=between&ord=k1&fn=red_oak_express_usa_iowa_red_oak_19540405_english_2&df=1&dt=10" target="_blank">5 Apr 1954, p. 2</a>, col. 1-2; digital images, <i>Community History Archive</i> (https://redoak.advantage-preservation.com/ : accessed 24 Feb 2023). </span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p>Amberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00487334213435081867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821298222761503890.post-46297388931094610192023-04-02T10:58:00.002-07:002023-04-02T10:58:00.178-07:00Sunday's Obituary: Louis Arthur Fox<p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><span>Here's a tip: If you don't already have access to <a href="http://Newspapers.com"><i>Newspapers.com</i></a>, make sure to at least get on their mailing list. About once a year they provide free access to the site for an entire three-day weekend, but you can only take advantage of the offer through the link in the email. <br /><br />A little over a month ago, for President's Day Weekend, the offer appeared. It was an inconvenient time for me; my laptop had just died. And by died, I mean died. I could not get it to turn on. I bought a new one, but my genealogy program with all its tasks was still on the old one. There was no way I was going to miss out on free newspapers, though! I just couldn't be as strategic as I would have liked. My searches would have to be based on the bits and pieces I have in the cloud, and pure, fitful memory. Inevitably, searching this way resulted in finding some things I have found before, but I still made a considerable number of new discoveries. <br /><br />In the past couple of years since I first began taking advantage of these <i>Newspaper.com</i> weekends, I have developed a process. I clip and download as many relevant articles as I can in the time available, and when the weekend is over I go through the tedious work of transcribing and creating citations. That is what I have been doing every evening in the intervening days.<br /><br />So anyway, that was a long-winded way of saying that I have a whole new batch of obituaries, and they may be pretty random as to who they are or to which branch of family they belong. <br /><br />Let's begin with my 2great-grandfather, Louis Arthur Fox. This was my Grandpa Jack's maternal grandfather, and the only grandparent whose name Grandpa Jack was able to tell me. The reason he knew his name, he explained, was that one day when he was visiting, a package arrived that needed to be signed for. Louis Fox had lost an arm, and was holding something in his other arm, so he had Grandpa Jack sign for it. He told him his name and how to spell it. <br /><br />Incidentally, I also discovered a number of newspaper articles from the time that Louis Fox lost his arm, but I'll save those for another post.<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><span></span></span></p><blockquote><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: courier;">Services at Elliott For Louis Fox, 87<br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><br />ELLIOTT -- Services were held Wednesday, Dec. 3, for Louis Fox, 87 of Elliott, who died at his home here Monday, Dec. 1.<br /><br />He was born July 3, 1871, at Lebanon, Ohio, and came to Iowa when he was quite young. He was married to Cora Jones at Coburg in December, 1896. He lived in the Elliott community a number of years as a farmer, retiring in 1943.<br /><br />Services were held at the Elliott Methodist Church with the Rev. Clarence Landis, officiating.<br /><br />Survivors are four children, Mrs. Hazel Hoyt of Council Bluffs, Mrs. Viola Leighton of Griswold, Mrs. Mabel Peck and Clyde Fox of Elliott; seven grandchildren and seven great-grandchildren.</span></span></div></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><span> I realize as I paste in the citation that this article did not come directly from <i>Newspapers.com</i>. I discovered it as an indirect effect of the <i>Newspapers.com</i> weekend special. Searching for this family and not finding them on that website, I did a search for newspapers from Red Oak, Iowa, and discovered that there is a <a href="https://redoak.advantage-preservation.com/" target="_blank">free website of newspapers for that area</a>! My finds from there and from <i>Newspapers.com</i> are all jumbled up in my head, and will continue to be all jumbled up in the order I present them.<br /><br /><br /></span></span></p><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Source:</span></span></h3><h3><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></h3><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"Services at Elliott For Louis Fox, 87," <i>Red Oak Express</i>, <a href="https://redoak.advantage-preservation.com/viewer/?k=%22louis%20fox%22&i=f&d=01011874-12312008&m=between&ord=k1&fn=red_oak_express_usa_iowa_red_oak_19581204_english_2&df=1&dt=10" target="_blank">4 Dec 1958, p. 2</a>, col. 5; digital images, <i>Community History Archive</i> (https://redoak.advantage-preservation.com/ : accessed 24 Feb 2023).</span></span>Amberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00487334213435081867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821298222761503890.post-55365873367666098852023-03-26T09:00:00.005-07:002023-03-26T09:00:00.170-07:00Sunday's Obituary: Claude Robinault<div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Baseball runs in my family, though I thought it was on my dad’s side only. Much to my surprise, I have now learned that one of my Robinaults was also a baseball player. At another time I will have to go into his career, but here I will transcribe how his career was cut short. His name was Claude Robinault, and he was the son of the subject of the last Sunday's Obituary post, Robert Robinault.<br /></span></span> <span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />I have found a series of three newspaper articles regarding the end of his life, the first telling of his serious illness due to diabetes.<br /></span></span> <span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmu2fGeKNH8fK0tR1vTvYE9PBRGjPoTs2wuFZaCLqyFr6AOPgGjHqG9X0ZOyNQ0ZF3TtuIx1u1wSQ_8OuT0N83TC_zXuiScE4KkVmd1eB3CV6638CCsCeQAmCaxduoBlJoaUeNNNd1QdTQpBeZiIKykdw_oCpn8hMpdgteZ8CY2Uae0q882NEHeIzWAg/s617/1909-02-17%20Denison%20Review%20p1%20Claude%20Robinault%20at%20point%20of%20death%20(trimmed).png"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmu2fGeKNH8fK0tR1vTvYE9PBRGjPoTs2wuFZaCLqyFr6AOPgGjHqG9X0ZOyNQ0ZF3TtuIx1u1wSQ_8OuT0N83TC_zXuiScE4KkVmd1eB3CV6638CCsCeQAmCaxduoBlJoaUeNNNd1QdTQpBeZiIKykdw_oCpn8hMpdgteZ8CY2Uae0q882NEHeIzWAg/s320/1909-02-17%20Denison%20Review%20p1%20Claude%20Robinault%20at%20point%20of%20death%20(trimmed).png" /></a></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><blockquote><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">AT THE POINT OF DEATH</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;"><br />As we write Claude Robbinault lies at the very threshold of death and before this reaches our readers his soul will in all probability have passed away. For a year he has been a victim of diabetes although this last acute attack has been of but short duration. He has been in great agony for the past twenty-four hours and death will come as a welcome relief from suffering. Claude has been an industrious helpful young man, a great comfort to his parents and a favorite among his friends. Our hearts are with him and his loved ones as they pass through the Valley of the Shadow.</span></div></blockquote><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></span> <span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />The second article confirms his demise, and includes a long obituary. Judging by the strange spelling errors in the secondary heading, I whimsically like to think that the typesetter, whoever he or she may have been, was overcome with grief and unable to concentrate on the job at hand.<br /></span></span> <span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBhfblBBmOG8NoAWW0EkjeeOACd6iIudAU3AbPEh1wrtKAqSOeYqNtAARpfg9AnGZ8NbxDPl6bX-IaotayoNSJOEZK6jqKArhi7QrU5MHl8ejoDjamqfx_Qd5vUVa62cVGWvQVCU38YVmz_mYAlR1eeKw7vnU-ZpA7kvA4kP2uRHdgYVB8WD-T0OK7dQ/s1830/1909-02-24%20Denison%20Review%20p1%20Ora%20Claude%20Robinault%20dies%20(trimmed).png"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBhfblBBmOG8NoAWW0EkjeeOACd6iIudAU3AbPEh1wrtKAqSOeYqNtAARpfg9AnGZ8NbxDPl6bX-IaotayoNSJOEZK6jqKArhi7QrU5MHl8ejoDjamqfx_Qd5vUVa62cVGWvQVCU38YVmz_mYAlR1eeKw7vnU-ZpA7kvA4kP2uRHdgYVB8WD-T0OK7dQ/s320/1909-02-24%20Denison%20Review%20p1%20Ora%20Claude%20Robinault%20dies%20(trimmed).png" /></a><br /></span></span></div><div> <span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">DIABETES CLAIMS YOUNG VICTIM<br />STALWART YOUNG ATHTETE [sic] SUCCUMBT [sic] TO INSIDIOUS DISEASE.<br />ORA CLAUDE ROBINAULT DIES<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">Denison Home is Stricken and Many Friends Grieve for Prematurely Shortened Career.<br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;"><br />On the morning of Thursday, Feb. 18th, the soul of Ora Claude Robinault winged its way from the pain wracked body into the bourne from which not traveller returns. In our last issue we told of the death angel hovering over the stricken home and e’er the Review reached its readers the hopeless agonizing struggle was at an end. Claude, as he was called by all his loved ones was a young man just a little less than twenty-eight years of age. He was born in Goodrich township in this county on February 26th, 1881. His was the life of the country lad, working and helping in the field and with the colors going to school in the winter months and making the best of the opportunities afforded him. In 1890 his parents Robert Gillispie and Mary Lee Robinault moved from the farm to Denison and Claude was then given opportunity to receive better school advantages. He attended the schools of Denison, completing the junior year in the high school but leaving them to take up the burden of life. He was a light hearted cheerful boy, doing his work as a painter well and proving himself to be superior in athletic sports; it was this that lead him finally into the semi-professional base ball ranks and he gained a reputation as one of the best and most dependable pitchers in western Iowa. In the last few years he played with Ida Grove, Lake View, Bassett, Neb., Green River Utah and with Denison. He made the Nebraska trip with the Denison team last year and did excellent work. The nomadic life of the ball player spoils many young men, but it did not spoil Claude, he was temperate in his habits kindly in his relations with others, quiet, trustworthy and altogether like able young man.<br /><br />At Bassett he won the heart of Miss Gertrude E. Alderman and they were soon to have been married. It was about a year ago that he first learned that he had diabetes. He kept on with his work however and made a brave fight to overcome the disease. All this winter he had not been well but as late as Tuesday, February 16, he was down town bright and cheery as usual. Tuesday night he was taken violently ill and the final struggle lasted but forty-eight hours.<br /><br />Claude was a good boy, a loving son, a conscientious worker, an honest lover. He had much to live for and many hearts are saddened by his going.<br /><br />The funeral services were held on Sunday afternoon at the Baptist church, Rev. C. E. La Reau officiating and the large number present well testified the esteem in which he was held. Besides his parents Claude leaves two brothers, Charles and Raymond and his fiancee Miss Alderman, all of whom are heartbroken at his death. Mr. and Mrs. S. P. Alderman and Miss Gertrude Alderman of Bassett, Neb., and Mr. A. J. Robinault of Pritchard, Neb. were among those who came to be present at he [sic] obsequies. Our sincere sympathy goes to all the loved and loving ones.</span></div></blockquote><div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span> <span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />Finally, his parents published the customary "Card of Thanks" for the sympathy they received.<br /></span></span> <span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgocSUsRS_-_emHAjZHAhmqRiqdxobEsoqw-DUP4ANFLNAa5cPQ6Q8wUMihS6LMSsCa1ewe2kQVAzSwmTzLMo5cTDhYB8qmjbtviHSZlRAN8Xfbk7WRY8j2l2ej_M5AMgfAoqP0NMYxTG5ICwetGeWYHFhdDSbbAt78OVnbJ26waooqqHGJhhmBAB3zeg/s497/1909-02-24%20Denison%20Review%20p2%20card%20of%20thanks%20(trimmed).png"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgocSUsRS_-_emHAjZHAhmqRiqdxobEsoqw-DUP4ANFLNAa5cPQ6Q8wUMihS6LMSsCa1ewe2kQVAzSwmTzLMo5cTDhYB8qmjbtviHSZlRAN8Xfbk7WRY8j2l2ej_M5AMgfAoqP0NMYxTG5ICwetGeWYHFhdDSbbAt78OVnbJ26waooqqHGJhhmBAB3zeg/s320/1909-02-24%20Denison%20Review%20p2%20card%20of%20thanks%20(trimmed).png" /></a><br /></span></span></div><div> <span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span> <span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><blockquote style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">Card of Thanks.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;"><br />We wish to thank the friends for their sympathy and helpfulness during the sad hours of our bereavement.<br /><br />Mr. and Mrs. Robt. Robinault and Family. </span></blockquote><br /></span></span> <span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Sources:</span></span></h2><h2><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></h2><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"At the Point of Death," <i>The Denison Review</i>, 17 Feb 1909, p. 1, col. 4; digital images, <i>Chronicling America</i> (<a href="http://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov">http://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov</a> : accessed 19 Jun 2022). <br /><br />"Diabetes Claims Young Victim," <i>The Denison Review</i>, 24 Feb 1909, p. 1, col. 1-2; digital images, <i>Chronicling America</i> (<a href="http://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov">http://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov</a> : accessed 19 Jun 2022).<br /></span></span> <span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />"Card of Thanks," <i>The Denison Review</i>, 24 Feb 1909, p. 2, col. 5; digital images, <i>Chronicling America</i> (<a href="http://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov">http://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov</a> : accessed 19 Jun 2022). </span></span><div data-en-clipboard="true" data-pm-slice="1 1 []"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #010101;"></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div data-en-clipboard="true" data-pm-slice="1 1 []"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span> </span></span></div></div>Amberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00487334213435081867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821298222761503890.post-27519863990802482532022-12-10T13:56:00.000-08:002022-12-10T13:56:43.760-08:00Wade family from Kentucky to Ohio, part 3<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: small;"><i><span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Note: This series of posts deals extensively with the historical animosity between Native Americans and white settlers. Although the point of view of the Native Americans is underrepresented and deserves better recognition, my ancestors happened to be white settlers. Unfortunately, they participated in the historical travesties perpetrated against Native Americans. However, since this is a genealogical blog, it is primarily told from my ancestors' point of view, with an attempt to be sympathetic to both sides. The term "Indian" is used in reference to the indigenous peoples (when the nation or tribe is unknown) because it was the term most often used at the time, and because I have recently been informed that it is still the preferred term in many native cultures. I am not an expert in the subject, and humbly apologize if anyone finds it offensive. </span></span></i></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEDj3CZJV5pU4zov8ivEZSoRWx7U2FAX-9x1FfO0d0CcNXIyz7yMfaPJ63_5U_ze7qrSN_9-DttOtahKLHdnYoP5zkTC2Qvk8Xcs64dWfyf2-vskNChsfnSRlIajSYTniwXFQ4WkyjQ50ceMNMXWIsvL_O6alq7o2WH-DpcgBDknBSl3TQFmUrRcq1Xw/s859/Nathaniel_Massie_by_Henry_Howe.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="859" data-original-width="629" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEDj3CZJV5pU4zov8ivEZSoRWx7U2FAX-9x1FfO0d0CcNXIyz7yMfaPJ63_5U_ze7qrSN_9-DttOtahKLHdnYoP5zkTC2Qvk8Xcs64dWfyf2-vskNChsfnSRlIajSYTniwXFQ4WkyjQ50ceMNMXWIsvL_O6alq7o2WH-DpcgBDknBSl3TQFmUrRcq1Xw/w293-h400/Nathaniel_Massie_by_Henry_Howe.png" width="293" /></a></div><br /></span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Nathaniel Massie, destined to become an important figure in the lives of the Wade family, had been making expeditions into the Virginia Military District north of the Ohio River (now part of the state of Ohio) to locate and survey lands since the year 1788. This land, part of the Northwest Territory, had been reserved by the state of Virginia to disperse among veterans of the Revolutionary War. The recipients of land warrants employed locators and surveyors like Massie to identify and claim the property for them. These lands were deep in the territory of the Shawnee, who had already experienced the injustice of misrepresented treaties and were determined, under the leadership of Tecumseh, to fight back. The white settlers and the American government, however, considered the treaties binding, and the explorations of surveyors perfectly legal. Because of the danger inherent in these expeditions, the surveyors were often rewarded liberally by their clients, often with a portion of the land itself. In this way, Nathaniel Massie stood to amass substantial land holdings. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">On 10 Aug 1790, an Act of Congress passed “An Act to enable the officers and soldiers of the Virginia Line on Continental Establishment to obtain titles to certain lands lying northwest of the River Ohio, between the Little Miami and Sciota,” which opened up the Virginia Military District. Massie recognized opportunity. He knew that there would soon be high demand for his skills, but he also recognized that he and his crew could easily be annihilated by the Shawnee as they explored. He resolved to build a fort and settlement on the north side of the river as a base for his survey crews. "A settlement on the north bank would not only serve as a haven for the survey crews, it would also be a show of force to the Shawnee," Stephen Kelley explains in his article "The Founding of Manchester... Massie's Station."</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">After much deliberation and discussion, Massie decided to build his fort at a well known landmark of the Ohio River, known as Three Islands. These islands were located about ten miles upriver from Limestone and Washington, and the area was notorious for Indian ambush. "The river channels were narrow around the islands and proved a perfect place for the Shawnee to strike out into the river in their rapid-moving bark canoes and overtake the slower flatboats of the whites," says Kelley. Therefore the location would be ideal not only in its nearness to the lands needing surveying, but also in preventing further depredations on settlers traveling down the river.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">To this end, Massie began advertising in Kentucky for families to join him. He offered one in-lot, one out-lot, and one hundred acres of land near the new town to each of the first twenty-five families to sign on with him. In return, they had to agree to help build a fort and man it for a period of two years. The contract was written and signed in the town of Washington, and four of the Wade men signed it. The patriarch of the family, William Wade, along with his sons Josiah, Zephaniah, and George all put their names to the paper.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGjpnrh4jkx5B51H0amgZIw2aZoccwdPeyna_XMnMYYdLfg-A6nmJ03UBhlNFLJV9fw45vOgaeYVKPbBBOsEdqPHa24YHaOV7RRepEfkPg0qFp6OW5ux2YwIdbP0_ExU-uv5eoeG_uOkb5p8LYFwAq8m1sciQK6BqlI5VOQuCCi3R5y8auVZTA3zGFyA/s3994/20201015_121819%20Manchester%201%20from%20Manchester%202%20Michael%20Schramm%20USFWS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2996" data-original-width="3994" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGjpnrh4jkx5B51H0amgZIw2aZoccwdPeyna_XMnMYYdLfg-A6nmJ03UBhlNFLJV9fw45vOgaeYVKPbBBOsEdqPHa24YHaOV7RRepEfkPg0qFp6OW5ux2YwIdbP0_ExU-uv5eoeG_uOkb5p8LYFwAq8m1sciQK6BqlI5VOQuCCi3R5y8auVZTA3zGFyA/w400-h300/20201015_121819%20Manchester%201%20from%20Manchester%202%20Michael%20Schramm%20USFWS.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Manchester Island 1 as seen from Manchester Island 2, the two islands that remain today of "Three Islands"<br />Photographed by Michael Schramm, USFWS<br />Public domain</span><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> <br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table> <br />Work on the new town apparently began by November of 1790, because the contract stipulated that the men make it their "permanent seat of residence" by December first. Beginning the station in the winter was strategic; Massie knew that the Indians seldom attacked during the coldest months, being much more occupied with simply surviving.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">John McDonald, who actually lived in the fort as a child, says that Massie's group "went to work with spirit. Cabins were raised, and by the middle of March 1791, the whole town was enclosed with strong pickets, firmly fixed in the ground, with block houses at each angle for defence." The place was dubbed Massie's station, and is the site of present-day Manchester, Ohio. It was the first permanent white settlement anywhere in the Virginia Military District, and the fourth in what would later become the state of Ohio.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />Building the station was only the beginning of the work to be done. Once the fort was defensible, "the whole population went to work, and cleared the lower of the Three Islands, and planted it in corn. The island was very rich, and produced heavy crops," remembers McDonald.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />Nor did Massie forget his purpose in establishing the station. He continued to venture into the lands within a reasonable distance of the fort in order to survey them. On these expeditions, he was accompanied by a company of men. McDonald describes the process:</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><blockquote>Three assistant surveyors, with himself making the fourth, were generally engaged at the same time in making surveys. To each surveyor was attached six men, which made a mess of seven. Every man had his prescribed duty to perform. Their operations were conducted in this manner:--In front went the hunter, who kept in advance of the surveyor two or three hundred yards, looking for game, and prepared to give notice should any danger from Indians threaten. Then following after the surveyor, the two chain-men, marker, and pack-horse men with the baggage, who always kept near each other, to be prepared for defence in case of attack. Lastly, two or three hundred yards in the rear, came a man, called the spy, whose duty it was to keep on the back trail, and look out lest the party in advance might be pursued and attacked by surprise. Each man (the surveyor not excepted) carried his rifle, his blanket, and such other articles as he might stand in need of. On the pack-horse was carried the cooking utensils, and such provisions as could be conveniently taken. Nothing like bread was thought of. Some salt was taken, to be used sparingly. For subsistence, they depended alone on the game which the woods afforded, procured by their unerring rifles. (pp. 44-45)</blockquote></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Despite the precautions, these expeditions did not always go as planned. In April 1791, one group was surprised by some Indians arriving in a pair of bark canoes. The surveying crew fled, but one of them, by the name of Israel Donalson, tripped and was captured. Although he managed to escape after about a month and make his way back to the white settlements, and later penned an account of his adventure, such a conclusion was not the norm. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">This incident did not deter Massie in his efforts to survey the district. He enlisted help from many of the men at the station, including at least three of the Wades. <i>The History of Warren County, Ohio</i> records that a certain property in Hamilton Township was "Surveyed October 6, 1792, by Nathaniel Massie; Josiah Wade and Matthew Hart, chain carriers; Thomas Massie, marker."</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Shortly thereafter, "During the winter of 1792-3, Massie ... employed two men, Joseph Williams and one of the Wades, to accompany him to explore the valley of Paint creek, and part of the Scioto country," stated John McDonald in his <i>Biographical Sketches</i>. Unfortunately, I have thus far been unable to determine which Wade accompanied Massie on this exploration. The survey mentioned above, in Hamilton Township, cannot have been part of this expedition. That was located in present-day Warren County, which is not near Paint creek or the Scioto country. Of course, this does not necessarily mean that Josiah Wade was <i>not </i>the Wade in question; only that the Hamilton Township survey does not prove that it <i>was </i>him.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />Alternatively, the mystery Wade could potentially be Zephaniah, the subject of my <a href="https://heritagehunt.blogspot.com/2021/01/" target="_blank">first post on this family</a>. In <i>Portrait and Biographical Record of the Scioto Valley, Ohio</i>, it is reported that Zephaniah "bought 100 acres or more from Massie, paying Massie by assisting him in surveying lands in various parts of Adams, Highland and Ross counties, as chain carrier and marker." It is a vague statement, but at least it confirms that Zephaniah was present on some of the surveys. Perhaps the Paint creek trip was one of them.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />Finally, Jean Wallis records in her article "Putting ‘Hillsborough’ on the map" that Lot number 2513 in Highland County "was surveyed April-May 1795 by Nathaniel Massie, deputy surveyor. Chain carriers were Benjamin Massie and Joseph Wade, the marker was George Edgington." This brings a third Wade brother into the mix. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Therefore, we know from these sources that Josiah, Zephaniah, and Joseph all took part in Massie's surveying expeditions. Josiah and Zephaniah were two of those who had initially signed Massie's contract, and Joseph was a younger brother. He would have been only about fourteen years old when settlement at Massie's Station was begun, but, since his father and three of his older brothers had all joined up, it seems likely that Joseph would have been there from the beginning as well--or at least from when the men felt that their station was secure enough to bring their families. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Sources:</span></span></h3></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">Morten Carlisle, "Buckeye Station: Built by Nathaniel Massie in 1797,"</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">Ohio History Journal</span><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;"> 40 (Jan 1931); digital images,</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">Ohio History Connection</span> <span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">(</span><a href="http://www.ohiohistory.org/">www.ohiohistory.org/</a> <span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">: accessed 8 Apr 2021) 1-22.</span></span> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">Curran, A. F., "</span>Israel Donalson, Maysville's First School Teacher: His Thrilling Escape From the Indians<span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">,"</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">The Register of the Kentucky Historical Society</span><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;"> 15 (May 1917); </span><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">digital images,</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">JSTOR</span> <span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">(</span><a href="https://www.jstor.org/" style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">https://www.jstor.org/</a> <span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">: accessed 24 Jan 2021) 51-62.</span> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 11pt; text-indent: 8mm;">Nelson W. Evans and Emmons B. Stivers,</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 11pt; text-indent: 8mm;">A History of Adams County, Ohio From its Earliest Settlement to the Present Time Including Character Sketches of the Prominent Persons Identified with the First Century of the County's Growth and Containing Numerous Engravings and Illustrations </span> <span style="color: #010101; min-height: 11pt; text-indent: 8mm;">(West Union, Ohio: E. B. Stivers, 1900).</span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 11pt; text-indent: 8mm;"><a href="https://www.google.com/books/edition/The_History_of_Warren_County_Ohio/tyJEAQAAMAAJ?hl=en&gbpv=0" target="_blank">The History of Warren County, Ohio: Containing a History of the County; Its Townships, Towns; General and Local Statistics; Portraits of Early Settlers and Prominent Men; History of the Northwest Territory; History of Ohio, Map of Warren County, Constitution of the United States, Miscellaneous Matters, Etc., Etc.</a></span><span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 11pt; text-indent: 8mm;"> </span><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 11pt; text-indent: 8mm;">(Chicago: W.H. Beers & Company, 1882), 605. </span></span></span>
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Stephen Kelley, "<a href="https://library.biblioboard.com/anthology/e552f221-42f0-4b9b-963d-32739ee859fd" target="_blank">The Founding of Manchester... Massie's Station</a>," <i>Ohio Southland</i> 3 (Issue #2 1991); digital images, Adams County Public Library, <i>Biblioboard Open Access</i> (https://library.biblioboard.com/anthology/e552f221-42f0-4b9b-963d-32739ee859fd : accessed 24 Jan 2021) 19-25.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 11pt; text-indent: 8mm;">John McDonald,</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 11pt; text-indent: 8mm;">Biographical Sketches of General Nathaniel Massie, General Duncan McArthur, Captain William Wells, and General Simon Kenton: Who Were Early Settlers in the Western Country </span> <span style="color: #010101; min-height: 11pt; text-indent: 8mm;">(Dayton, Ohio: D. Osborn & Son, 1852).</span> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span><span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 11pt; text-indent: 8mm;">Portrait and Biographical Record of the Scioto Valley, Ohio </span> <span style="color: #010101; min-height: 11pt; text-indent: 8mm;">(Chicago, Illinois: The Lewis Publishing Company, 1894), 346. </span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 11pt; text-indent: 8mm;"> </span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
<span><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">Jean Wallis, "</span><a href="https://www.timesgazette.com/news/10602/putting-hillsborough-on-the-map" target="_blank">Putting ‘Hillsborough’ on the map</a><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">,"</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">Times-Gazette</span><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">, 28 Sept 2016, online archives (</span><a href="https://www.timesgazette.com/news/10602/putting-hillsborough-on-the-map">https://www.timesgazette.com/news/10602/putting-hillsborough-on-the-map</a> <span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">: accessed 4 Dec 2022).</span></span>
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</p>Amberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00487334213435081867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821298222761503890.post-16617841278293501272022-07-03T09:00:00.001-07:002022-07-03T09:00:00.160-07:00Sunday's Obituary: Robert Gillispie Robinault<div class="separator"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAu7_ZVBIpcxEmo4rwRh5N7r9vsmO4v02A1PQ7MagyBh81X61TId-dvgFMsXMON1fxq51m6rpiSzPr8XO3favPFXP7dVrKF-RCk6z9UyyB3HZj160xHf6kD6pnxy0kmZ_LVZ42xV9xGR-W4STqenVlkikjXPGJssDFh8lHNyqd-KuPz4nDiSOXNkvwQg/s672/1914-05-20%20Denison%20Review%20p1%20Robert%20Robinault%20death%20(trimmed).png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="672" data-original-width="282" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAu7_ZVBIpcxEmo4rwRh5N7r9vsmO4v02A1PQ7MagyBh81X61TId-dvgFMsXMON1fxq51m6rpiSzPr8XO3favPFXP7dVrKF-RCk6z9UyyB3HZj160xHf6kD6pnxy0kmZ_LVZ42xV9xGR-W4STqenVlkikjXPGJssDFh8lHNyqd-KuPz4nDiSOXNkvwQg/w168-h400/1914-05-20%20Denison%20Review%20p1%20Robert%20Robinault%20death%20(trimmed).png" width="168" /></a></div> <span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">For this post, I will stay within the Robinault family, as I have for the past couple weeks, but feature the obituary of a more distant relation. Robert Gillispie Robinault would have been a nephew of my 3great-grandfather <a href="https://heritagehunt.blogspot.com/2022/06/sundays-obituary-barney-robinault.html" target="_blank">Barney Robinault</a>: a son of his brother Jeremiah. That makes his relationship to me a first cousin four times removed.<br /><br />The obituary appeared on the front page of the <i>Denison Review</i> on 20 May 1914: </span><br /><br /></span><blockquote><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="font-size: large;">DEATH OF ROBERT ROBINAULT <br /><br />Pioneer Resident of Crawford County Dies at His Home in West Denison Last Wednesday. <br /><br />Robert Gillispie Robinault passed away at his home in Denison on last Wednesday, May 13th, after a long illness. Mr. Robinault was one of the pioneer citizens of Crawford county, coming to Denison almost fifty years ago. For a number of years he was engaged in farming in Goodrich township, moving to Denison in 1890, where he has since resided. Mr. Robinault has been in failing health for the past few years and death came as a relief from his long suffering. He has been afflicted for some time with hardening of the arteries and his death was primarily due to this. <br /><br />The deceased was born Sept. 16, 1849, near Meadville, Crawford county, Pa. At the age of sixteen he moved with his parents to Crawford county, Iowa, first locating on a farm in Goodrich township. He was united in marriage to Mar Lee, Dec. 15, 1873, and to this union three children were born: Charles and Raymond, living, Claude having departed this life Feb. 18, 1909. <br /><br />Besides his bereaved widow and two sons, he leaves to mourn his death two brothers, Jackson, of Purdum, Neb., and Henry, of Taft, Cali. <br /><br />Funeral services were held at the Baptist church Saturday afternoon at 2:30, Rev. Williams officiating, after which the body was laid to rest in Oakland cemetery. </span></span></blockquote><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /><br /> <br /><br /></span><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Source: </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></h3><h3><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></h3><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />"Death of Robert Robinault," <i>The Denison Review</i>, 20 May 1914, p. 1, col. 5; digital images, <i>Chronicling America</i> (http://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov : accessed 16 Nov 2014). </span><br />Amberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00487334213435081867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821298222761503890.post-75744447831394582522022-06-26T09:00:00.001-07:002022-06-26T09:00:00.161-07:00Sunday’s Obituary: Mrs. Barney Robinault<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">As <a href="https://heritagehunt.blogspot.com/2022/06/sundays-obituary-barney-robinault.html" target="_blank">last week’s obituary</a> explained, my 3-great-grandfather Barney Robinault was “twice married.” This obituary is that of his second wife. Although her given name is never revealed in the article, their 1892 marriage record calls her “Veronego Diedrich.” I suspect that Veronego is a phonetic spelling of Veronica. <br /><br />Barney and Veronego were married in Denison, Crawford, Iowa, in 1892. Both were previously married, but I have not yet looked into Veronego’s past, and cannot tell you the name of her prior husband. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNDZNdvgLjAlkohCrsO36hmNrPAtp5MZlFM-iG9hBKEKhCqWxiw0lLXuyu4q4qnDnz2ti70xqXFj7aevGfSfGSWuOzW_I8uyfcG9hDspHZWqIZ0RRnK5E5TWRkPjvqHXYm5VVobgk5YkjXM-92Uf_32mNhM4p1UZPNBMlNw7cy513z01rFn5JI4g0Vjg/s374/1903-07-29%20Denison%20Review%20p5%20Mrs%20Barney%20Robinault%20died%20(trimmed).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="248" data-original-width="374" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNDZNdvgLjAlkohCrsO36hmNrPAtp5MZlFM-iG9hBKEKhCqWxiw0lLXuyu4q4qnDnz2ti70xqXFj7aevGfSfGSWuOzW_I8uyfcG9hDspHZWqIZ0RRnK5E5TWRkPjvqHXYm5VVobgk5YkjXM-92Uf_32mNhM4p1UZPNBMlNw7cy513z01rFn5JI4g0Vjg/s320/1903-07-29%20Denison%20Review%20p5%20Mrs%20Barney%20Robinault%20died%20(trimmed).png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Her obituary appeared in the <i>Denison Review</i> on 29 July 1903: </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="font-family: courier;"></span></span></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: large;">Mrs. Barney Robinault died at her home in south Denison on Monday at six o’clock in the afternoon. The cause of her death was dropsy. She was seventy-six years of age and was born in Germany. The funeral was held yesterday. Her husband is very aged and almost blind and will miss the care of his wife, who was constantly looking after her wants. </span></blockquote><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">I presume there is a typographical error on that last line, and that it was intended to read “looking after his wants.” </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /></span></p><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Sources: </span></span></h3><h3><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></h3><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><i>The Denison Review</i>, 29 July 1903, p. 5, col. 4; digital images, <i><a href="http://newspapers.com/">Newspapers.com</a> </i>(<a href="http://www.newspapers.com/">www.newspapers.com</a> : accessed 20 Feb 2022). <br /><br />FamilySearch, "Iowa, County Marriages, 1838-1934," database, <i>FamilySearch</i> (www.familysearch.org : accessed 11 Oct 2015), <a href="https://familysearch.org/ark:/61903/1:1:XJZZ-XNP" target="_blank">entry for Barney Robbennolt and Veronego Diedrich's 1892 marriage</a>; citing Denison, Crawford, Iowa, United States, county courthouses, Iowa. Reference ID BK1 PG130 CN1679; GS Film Number 1035130; Digital Folder Number 004311126. </span>Amberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00487334213435081867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821298222761503890.post-9475322522820785652022-06-24T10:45:00.000-07:002022-06-24T10:45:03.712-07:00The Westbere Butts<p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgidLzR8nM9-lHfVvTdb6WqUsm9RKAI9slgzXX2i_INL_0IVM3SA_5eqrO8oAWdGSmr97-hV9cHnGaMXvq1hlcUcVf9_NJS2ZuVq7S8KhueT9l7JDozMOYYINAQpKnrzxCOi4URPBYBbpxEqOkHlX4-iEklGXkmd6yDvtrDwKMtVCNNBOSD9SagxHB4g/s1919/farm-restaurant-bar-rural-holiday-houses-978160-pxhere.com.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="865" data-original-width="1919" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgidLzR8nM9-lHfVvTdb6WqUsm9RKAI9slgzXX2i_INL_0IVM3SA_5eqrO8oAWdGSmr97-hV9cHnGaMXvq1hlcUcVf9_NJS2ZuVq7S8KhueT9l7JDozMOYYINAQpKnrzxCOi4URPBYBbpxEqOkHlX4-iEklGXkmd6yDvtrDwKMtVCNNBOSD9SagxHB4g/w640-h288/farm-restaurant-bar-rural-holiday-houses-978160-pxhere.com.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">When someday I finally make the trip to England, I will have to go on the ultimate pub crawl. Members of my family have been associated with any number of pubs around England—as my research progresses, the list only keeps growing. There is the Creeksea Ferry Inn, which I detailed in <a href="https://heritagehunt.blogspot.com/2011/04/creeksea-ferry-c-1878-c-1910.html" target="_blank">my very first blog post</a>, and which, alas, is now only a vacant building. And it isn’t the same building my great-grandparents would have known, anyway. There are also other pubs, with names like the Railway Hotel, the Chelmer Brig, and the Round House, some still in business under the same or different names. But one pub had the best name of all. <br /><br />It was called the Westbere Butts. <br /></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Say it out loud. It’s fun. <br /><br />The origin of the name is likely more prosaic than it sounds. It was located in the village of Westbere, Kent, just outside my ancestral village of Sturry. Thus the first part of the name. A butt is a name for a cask which may hold ale. This, I suspect, explains the second part of the name. Alternately, butt can refer to an archery range, and there are a number of places in England with names that refer to Medieval archery grounds. I have found no indication that Westbere Butts is one of those places, but then again, neither have I found anything to eliminate that possibility. </span></span></div><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/a4/English_wine_cask_units.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="284" data-original-width="800" height="227" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/a4/English_wine_cask_units.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Grolltech, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /></span></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I have found the Westbere Butts, in Kent, more difficult to research than those pubs located in Essex, so many facts remain missing at this time. Some of those missing facts pertain to dates. Usually I can find newspaper accounts of the precise dates that public house licenses were transferred from one publican to the next, but that has not been possible in this case, at least before the twentieth century. Nor can I ascertain the reason for this difficulty, as license transfers seem to have been published as regularly in Kent as they were in Essex. </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">However, I can state with certainty that Robert Gurney, a brother of my 4great-grandmother Mary Gurney, appeared in both the <i>Kentish Weekly Post or Canterbury Journal</i> of 20 Feb 1810 and the <i>Kentish Gazette</i> of 23 Feb 1810 with a concise marriage announcement referring to him as “Mr. – Gurney, of Westbeer Butts.” Assuming that Westbere Butts was the name of the pub only, this establishes that it was in operation by 1810. However, it could conceivably refer to the area, implying nothing about the alehouse. </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">There is more definite evidence in the 1838 directory. Robert Gurney can be found in the lists of both “Gentry and Retired Persons” and “Retailers of Beer” with the address of Westbere Butts, Sturry. That “Retailers of Beer” listing is a much stronger indication of a pub on site. </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">It is still not proof.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">As late as 1881, an article appeared in the <i>Kentish Gazette</i> discussing a desired change of license for a beer retailer in Westbere. The house was not named, but was in the tenancy of a Mr. Ede, who already held an off-license. He was requesting that it be changed to an on-license, and the article colorfully describes the difference between the two: </span></span></p></div><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="font-size: large;">The granting of an on licence would be a great boon to the neighbourhood as at present people had to stand out in the roads when they wanted a glass of ale and other refreshment that the house afforded. The Bench were asked to give permission for beer to be consumed on the premises as this drinking in the street must necessarily be more or less a nuisance. </span></span></blockquote><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><br />So it is possible that the Westbere Butts had been in a similar situation. It could have been permitted to retail beer, but not allowed to serve the beer in-house. Therefore, it might not have been a proper pub. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbIbYU_KuBr7MmIVwPB7frK2VAMwhmOm7N8zC7UIoHhliQGA1BV2nLlqRgSttyZFxD8xHquWa5CtiAHocg7bFPga7VuJSzAS_hbs26po1PcxjHhmPd7R0Kga5q2qaRT8guwcl9JosrxSaTKaQg3H8mJnVcejyVHOW5MtD9zzguj2Ggl4SDHrp8knJPKQ/s1101/1854-03-04%20Morning%20Herald%20p7%20Westbere%20Butts%20in%20list%20of%20hunting%20locations%20(public%20domain%20image).png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="571" data-original-width="1101" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbIbYU_KuBr7MmIVwPB7frK2VAMwhmOm7N8zC7UIoHhliQGA1BV2nLlqRgSttyZFxD8xHquWa5CtiAHocg7bFPga7VuJSzAS_hbs26po1PcxjHhmPd7R0Kga5q2qaRT8guwcl9JosrxSaTKaQg3H8mJnVcejyVHOW5MtD9zzguj2Ggl4SDHrp8knJPKQ/s320/1854-03-04%20Morning%20Herald%20p7%20Westbere%20Butts%20in%20list%20of%20hunting%20locations%20(public%20domain%20image).png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">"</span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Sporting
Intelligence: Hunting Appointments: Hariers,</span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">"
</span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Morning Herald</i></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">,
</span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">4
Mar 1854</span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">,
p. </span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">7</span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">,
col. 5; digital images, </span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>British
Newspaper Archive </i></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">(https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk
: accessed </span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">21
June 2022</span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">),
Image </span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">public
domain.</span></span></span></p>
</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />We do know that it become a pub at some point, though, and that point had to be prior to March of 1854 when the <i>Morning Herald</i>’s lists of sporting events included the “Westbere Butts Public-house” as one of the locations. But what of my family connection? <br /><br />Robert Gurney passed away in 1848, and his son William seems to have taken up the mantle of beer selling, although not immediately. In the 1851 census William was apparently an ordinary farmer residing in Sturry. It was not until the 1861 census that he was residing at the “Butts Inn” in Westbere, and his occupation given as “Innkeeper + Farmer.” In 1871, he and his family were still at the Butts Inn, but William’s occupation was given merely as “Farmer.” In my research experience, innkeeping often included being the proprietor of a public house, and any premises ending in the word “Inn” tended to be pubs. We do know that the Westbere Butts was considered a pub by this point, so it can be reasonably assumed that William Gurney was the proprietor. <br /><br />By the 1881 census, though, he had relocated to a place—still in the village of Westbere—known as Walnut Tree Farm. This was apparently an actual farm, as he was reported to be a farmer of 60 acres, who employed one man and two boys. The farm has proven even more difficult to research than the pub, but one website, “Hersden History,” claims that it is “now the sewage farm.” Somehow I prefer the older name. <br /><br />After the reign of the Gurneys, the Westbere Butts went on to be operated by a series of other publicans, none of them, as far as I have yet discovered, related to me. As the nineteenth century turned into the twentieth, license transfers for the pub began to make their way into the newspapers. In 1903, the license was transferred from Mrs. Emma Bentley to Frederick Luckhurst, and in 1904 the license was renewed. Presumably the license was transferred a few more times before 1936, but those transfers, like those of the earlier century, seem to have disappeared into the ether. The last notice I have been able to find has been of the temporary transfer from Ambrose V. L. Hogbin to Michael J. Lynch in 1936. <br /><br />Eventually, the Westbere Butts was converted into an Indian restaurant called Spice Master, and then the Mortar and Pestle, before eventually being abandoned. Last year plans were made for its demolition, and, according to a rejoicing comment on <i>Facebook</i>, it has since been demolished. Sadly, the former Westbere Butts with its amusing name will not be able to be included in my prospective genealogical pub crawl. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdfbskCTON0B1vRezcJOA5rI4atYlasgBBJQGsKRIf3wJQwk4WfMFqU12cCzodpha6vUWB5TdIlhLrasJypksfxTpUfW72uzWqb797NMZHPUI2Rbj8wjT3SZhvLHB_KSFFa_OI4qFwAhFYpvRfYuyd0vyQGtEwcr8EN9OWiWozP4HHxoK9sQBIQ_flSQ/s640/Westbere%20Butts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="351" data-original-width="640" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdfbskCTON0B1vRezcJOA5rI4atYlasgBBJQGsKRIf3wJQwk4WfMFqU12cCzodpha6vUWB5TdIlhLrasJypksfxTpUfW72uzWqb797NMZHPUI2Rbj8wjT3SZhvLHB_KSFFa_OI4qFwAhFYpvRfYuyd0vyQGtEwcr8EN9OWiWozP4HHxoK9sQBIQ_flSQ/w640-h352/Westbere%20Butts.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p style="border: 2px solid lightgreen; padding: 5px;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Mortar & Pestle (formerly Westbere Butts), Island Road, photo taken 18 July 2021<br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/">cc-by-sa/2.0</a> -
© <a href="https://www.geograph.org.uk/profile/26285" title="View profile">John Baker</a> - <a href="https://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/6937443">geograph.org.uk/p/6937443</a></span></span></p></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></p><p></p><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Sources: </span></span></h3><h3><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></h3><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />1851 census of England, Kent, Sturry, folio 155, page 4, household of William Gurney; digital images, Ancestry.com Operations Inc, <i>Ancestry </i>(www.ancestry.com : accessed 19 Jun 2022); citing PRO HO 107/1625. <br /><br />1861 census of England, Kent, Sturry, folio 8, page 9, household of William Gurney; digital images, Ancestry.com Operations Inc, <i>Ancestry </i>(www.ancestry.com : accessed 19 Jun 2022); citing PRO RG 9/522. <br /><br />1871 census of England, Kent, Sturry, folio 8, page 8, household of William Gurney; digital images, Ancestry.com Operations Inc, <i>Ancestry </i>(www.ancestry.com : accessed 19 Jun 2022); citing PRO RG 10/971. <br /><br />1881 census of England, Kent, civil parish of Westbere, village of Westbere, rural sanitary district of Blean, folio 42, page 6, schedule no. 30, household of William Gurney; digital images, Ancestry.com Operations Inc, <i>Ancestry </i>(www.ancestry.com : accessed 23 Jun 2022); citing PRO RG 11/961. <br /><br />“Adjourned Licensing Meeting St. Augustine’s Division,” <i>Whitstable Times and Herne Bay Herald</i>, 14 Mar 1936, p. 10, col. 2, digital images, <i>British Newspaper Archive</i> (<a href="http://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/">http://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk</a>: accessed 23 Oct 2021), Image © Reach PLC. Image created courtesy of THE BRITISH LIBRARY BOARD. <br /><br />Eason, Baldrick. 2022. “On a trip to Hersden yesterday, I was very pleased to see that the old Westbere Butts/Spice Lounge has finally been demolished.” [Post to Canterbury ‘grot-spots’ group]. <i>Facebook</i>. May 22, 2022. <a href="https://m.facebook.com/groups/1497870623854226/permalink/2799265447048064/?m_entstream_source=group" target="_blank">https://m.facebook.com/groups/1497870623854226/permalink/2799265447048064/?m_entstream_source=group <br /></a><br />Llewellyn, Ross. “Hersden History.” <i>Hersden Community Centre</i> (<a href="http://hersdencommunitycentre.co.uk/hersden-history/">http://hersdencommunitycentre.co.uk/hersden-history/</a> : accessed 23 June 2022). <br /><br />"Married," <i>Kentish Weekly Post or Canterbury Journal</i>, 20 Feb 1810, p. 4, col. 5; digital images, <i>British Newspaper Archive</i> (https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk : accessed 23 Oct 2021), Image © THE BRITISH LIBRARY BOARD. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. <br /><br />"Married," <i>Kentish Gazette</i>, 23 Feb 1810, p. 4, col. 5; digital images, <i>British Newspaper Archive</i> (https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk : accessed 23 Oct 2021), Image © THE BRITISH LIBRARY BOARD. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. <br /><br />"<a href="https://www.kentonline.co.uk/canterbury/news/indian-restaurant-to-be-bulldozed-for-10-homes-246145/">Plan to bulldoze Spice Master Indian restaurant in Canterbury and build 10 homes approved</a>," 24 Apr 2021, <i>Kent Online</i> (<a href="https://www.kentonline.co.uk/">https://www.kentonline.co.uk</a> : accessed 5 Nov 2021). <br /><br />"Sporting Intelligence: Hunting Appointments: Hariers," <i>Morning Herald</i>, 4 Mar 1854, p. 7, col. 5; digital images, <i>British Newspaper Archive</i> (https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk : accessed 21 June 2022), Image public domain. <br /><br />Stapleton & Co., <a href="https://archive.org/details/stapletoncostopo00stapiala/page/vi/mode/2up" target="_blank"><i>Stapleton & Co.’s Topographical History and Directory of Canterbury, Faversham, Herne-Bay, Sittingbourne, Whitstable, Boughton, Bridge, Fordwich, Greenstreet, Herne-Street, Milton, Ospringe, Sturry, Westbere...</i></a> (1838), 35-36; digital images, <i>Internet Archive</i> (archive.org : accessed 23 Oct 2021). <br /><br />"St. Augustine’s Petty Sessions," <i>Kentish Gazette</i>, 6 Sept 1881, p. 3, col. 2; digital images, <i>British Newspaper Archive</i> (https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk : accessed 20 Jun 2022), Image © THE BRITISH LIBRARY BOARD. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. <br /><br />“St. Augustine’s Petty Sessions: Licensing Business,” <i>Canterbury Journal, Kentish Times and Farmers' Gazette</i>, 12 Sept 1903, p. 7, col. 3, digital images, <i>British Newspaper Archive</i> (<a href="http://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/">http://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk</a>: accessed 23 Oct 2021), Image © THE BRITISH LIBRARY BOARD. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. <br /><br />“St. Augustine’s Licensing Sessions: Westbere Butts,” <i>Whitstable Times and Herne Bay Herald</i>, 6 Feb 1904, p. 7, col. 5, digital images, <i>British Newspaper Archive</i> (<a href="http://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/">http://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk</a>: accessed 23 Oct 2021), Image © THE BRITISH LIBRARY BOARD. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. <br /><br />St. Nicholas (Sturry, Kent, England), Kent, Canterbury Archdeaconry Parish Registers Browse, 1538-1913, "Burials 1814-1861," record for Robert Gurney's 1848 burial, p. 70, no. 559, image #39 of 60; digital images, <i>FindMyPast </i>(www.findmypast.com : accessed 26 Jan 2022). </span></span>Amberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00487334213435081867noreply@blogger.com0Westbere, Canterbury CT2 0HA, UK51.308437 1.14119822.998203163821152 -34.015052 79.618670836178836 36.297448tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821298222761503890.post-28926341050886692452022-06-19T15:45:00.000-07:002022-06-19T15:45:01.403-07:00Sunday’s Obituary: Barney Robinault<p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Since I have neglected writing anything on this blog for over a year (until <a href="https://heritagehunt.blogspot.com/2022/06/friday-funny-oh-you-naughty-man.html" target="_blank">Friday’s post two days ago</a>), I think I will attempt to get back into the habit by posting obituaries for the next several Sundays. This week it is for someone in my direct line, my 3-great-grandfather Barney Robinault. He was the father of my 2-great-grandmother Martha Robinault, whom you might remember as the wife of John Craig, who remained the <a href="https://heritagehunt.blogspot.com/2013/05/a-murder-in-family.html" target="_blank">victim of an unsolved murder</a> in Omaha, Nebraska. <br /><br />I am using the Robinault spelling of the name here, as that is the spelling used in this obituary. The name has a remarkable number of variant spellings including (but not confined to) Robbennolt, Robbenult, Robbinault, Robbinult, Robenolt, Robenult, and Rubenall. This makes doing newspaper searches for this family… entertaining. Fortunately, it is not a particularly common surname, so most results are bound to be relevant in some way. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIZcc2TYs1f6FjhB68UQVlQIiEpSP9iJzxjQ_lKjzfIJR7ps28MLVjDdg0ZjSVUkpMrh2XohnsEDWvGW7aXhCDltG6Wy3hZArYjoypr7U_MTgc-wgzb20TI3GYiBSVtUvC-uJ_4Dg65ylouruTYS_9aqCu4N8Xn7b9HVm7MXiIWy7eq-y-hIj4XOAdnQ/s1992/1906-08-16%20Denison%20Review%20p6%20Barney%20Robinault%20obit%20(trimmed).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1992" data-original-width="759" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIZcc2TYs1f6FjhB68UQVlQIiEpSP9iJzxjQ_lKjzfIJR7ps28MLVjDdg0ZjSVUkpMrh2XohnsEDWvGW7aXhCDltG6Wy3hZArYjoypr7U_MTgc-wgzb20TI3GYiBSVtUvC-uJ_4Dg65ylouruTYS_9aqCu4N8Xn7b9HVm7MXiIWy7eq-y-hIj4XOAdnQ/w122-h320/1906-08-16%20Denison%20Review%20p6%20Barney%20Robinault%20obit%20(trimmed).png" width="122" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /><br />Barney’s obituary appeared in the <i>Denison Review</i> on 16 Aug 1906: </span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><blockquote><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">ANOTHER PIONEER GONE. <br /><br />Barney Robinault Passes to the Great Beyond on Wednesday. <br /><br /> Barney Robinault, one of the pioneer residents and settlers of Crawford county passed to his eternal rest on Wednesday after an illness that has lasted for several years, at the home of Mrs. Lars Erickson who has taken care of him for the past three years. <br /><br /> He was a man of true Christian character and a friend well met, always jolly and jovial, and always endeavoring to do what was right and just with his neighbors, and by these manly traits had won to him a host of warm friends who will learn of his death with deep regret. <br /><br /> Mr. Robinault was born in Pennsylvania on July 31, 1820, and was 86 years old at the time of his death. He came to Crawford county about 35 years ago and has made his home here continually. He had been twice married and was the father of 16 children six of whom are still living, the remainder of the children together with his two wives having preceeded [sic] him to the grave. Of the six living children but one was present at the funeral and that was Mrs. Claus Hansen who is at present residing at Dow City. <br /><br /> The funeral was held this afternoon at 1:30 from the German Methodist church Rev. Gauger officiating and the remains laid to rest in the Denison cemetery. The family have the sympathy of the community in this sad hour of bereavement. </span></blockquote><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">The obituary mentions that he had married twice. I am descended from his first wife, Julia Ann Kimmey, for whom, unfortunately, I have been unable to find an obituary. (His second wife will be featured next week.) It also says that he was the father of sixteen children. Only nine appear in my family tree, so it seems I still have considerable research to do on this family. </span><br /> <br /><br /></span></p><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Source: </span></h3><h2><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></h2><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />"Another Pioneer Gone," <i>The Denison Review</i>, 16 Aug 1906, p. 6, col. 3; digital images, <i>Chronicling America </i>(<a href="http://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/">http://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov</a> : accessed 3 Jan 2017), The Denison review. (Denison, Iowa) 1867-current. </span></p>Amberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00487334213435081867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821298222761503890.post-35272844911829277642022-06-17T08:44:00.001-07:002022-06-17T08:44:59.532-07:00Friday Funny: Oh! you naughty man!<p> <span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Somehow over a year has slipped by since my last post. Since today is Friday, and I still have many post cards from my collection that I have not yet shared, here's a slightly risqué one from 1907.</span><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGUJnzMXI-nHyff1dKDJfe4KKuGBI-cxiqZcacOMQURwAcznewrQLw5sYpQwP_29Lxz9cZCiYok5qAarm1mgJzz_i-pxdo6iAb6OYTPauaMKVuqmFrv3DU6xE5k5sVLjpA3wxuxuZW0bgJRmAdTGdGilmiD72sqS6AFFT1EYycMgE__1E654nCWvSZTg/s1702/Scan_20170320%20(25).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1702" data-original-width="1087" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGUJnzMXI-nHyff1dKDJfe4KKuGBI-cxiqZcacOMQURwAcznewrQLw5sYpQwP_29Lxz9cZCiYok5qAarm1mgJzz_i-pxdo6iAb6OYTPauaMKVuqmFrv3DU6xE5k5sVLjpA3wxuxuZW0bgJRmAdTGdGilmiD72sqS6AFFT1EYycMgE__1E654nCWvSZTg/w408-h640/Scan_20170320%20(25).png" width="408" /></a></span></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">It depicts an man and a woman seated on a bench in the park. The caption records their conversation:<br /></span></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">What are you thinking about Tommy?<br />Same as you.<br />Oh! you naughty man!</span></span></blockquote><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">The way they are looking at one another, it is easy to guess what their thoughts may be.</span><br /><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3VmLl-EYkb9xYgYlOSc7x_L0LTTeYGMag_k_UAsmmffT0q0yIUguaLhaZJXGdIE69AQR4ar1eq7ezDbwFIKMvq8O61liYXFCkogR520v6w172L3d3Hqq8B_4Qus9ewDaRdIqn_y1p4L8B-iPW_eNV16_yKw7OGGTorqhNKbRePPmTTwfusJkGpC6dag/s3378/Scan_20170320%20(26).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2212" data-original-width="3378" height="421" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3VmLl-EYkb9xYgYlOSc7x_L0LTTeYGMag_k_UAsmmffT0q0yIUguaLhaZJXGdIE69AQR4ar1eq7ezDbwFIKMvq8O61liYXFCkogR520v6w172L3d3Hqq8B_4Qus9ewDaRdIqn_y1p4L8B-iPW_eNV16_yKw7OGGTorqhNKbRePPmTTwfusJkGpC6dag/w640-h421/Scan_20170320%20(26).png" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">The back bears the address<br /></span></span><blockquote><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Miss Marion Corelli<br />228 ½ Wash St<br />Portland<br /></span></span> <span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span> </span>Ore</span></span></blockquote><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">and is postmarked 25 May 1908 from Astoria, about 95 miles away on the Oregon coast.<br /><br />The message is signed with the initials "GWG" and reads<br /></span></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">How are you feeling<br />today little lady,<br />Can't say when I will<br />be back to the city,<br />soon I hope.</span></span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">With some cursory research, I have been unable to identify either Miss Marion Corelli or GWG. A Marion Correlli appears in Portland city directories in the early 1900s, with the intriguing occupation of palmist, but the address is not on Wash or Washington street, so the identification is uncertain.</span></span><br /></p>Amberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00487334213435081867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821298222761503890.post-85160079677433767382021-02-06T22:52:00.000-08:002021-02-06T22:52:02.010-08:00Wade family from Kentucky to Ohio, part 2<p><span style="color: #6fa8dc;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Note: This series of posts deals extensively with the historical animosity between Native Americans and white settlers. Although the point of view of the Native Americans is underrepresented and deserves better recognition, my ancestors happened to be white settlers. Unfortunately, they participated in the historical travesties perpetrated against Native Americans. However, since this is a genealogical blog, it is primarily told from my ancestors' point of view, with an attempt to be sympathetic to both sides. The term "Indian" is used in reference to the indigenous peoples (when the nation or tribe is unknown) because it was the term most often used at the time, and because I have recently been informed that it is still the preferred term in many native cultures. I am not an expert in the subject, and humbly apologize if anyone finds it offensive. Although quoting racial slurs has been avoided as much as possible, one case of calling the Indians "savages" has been included in this post because of the strength of argument intended in the original. It is not intended to convey any approval of the offensive language.</span></span></i></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div style="-en-clipboard: true; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #5898ff;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="-en-clipboard: true; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #5898ff;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="-en-clipboard: true; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #5898ff;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/1f/MeffordsFort.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="266" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/1f/MeffordsFort.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Mefford's Fort, a cabin built in Washington, Kentucky, in 1787 from the planks of a flatboat.</span><br /><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Greg Hume, <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0" target="_blank">CC BY-SA 3.0</a>, via Wikimedia Commons</span><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The settlement of Limestone stood <span style="line-height: 100%;">at the mouth of Limestone Creek where it emptied into the Ohio River and formed a natural harbor. It was located</span> at the bison ford across the Ohio River, north of the town of Washington, and the name was often applied to all of the larger area, including Washington. <span style="line-height: 100%;">Today it is the site of the city of Maysville, Kentucky, although at the time of this narrative it was still part of the vast Virginia frontier. </span>After becoming<span style="line-height: 100%;"> a byword in the 1770s, Limestone was seeing a resurgence in settlement following Lord Dunmore's War and the American Revolution, both of which had bitterly set Indian against white settler. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="line-height: 100%;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="line-height: 100%;">Near Limestone,</span><span style="line-height: 100%;"> frontiersman Simon Kenton had established a "station" in 1784, and there is confusion between various sources whether Limestone and Kenton's station were one and the same or whether they were separate fortifications. In either case, it seems the settlement </span><span style="line-height: 100%;">originally consisted of a stockade of cabins adjoining one another, with a blockhouse on the corner, ready to welcome and afford protection to incoming settlers.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="line-height: 100%;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="line-height: 100%;">In addition to these shared habitations, s</span><span style="line-height: 100%;">ettlers were beginning to erect individual cabins on their own personal claims, which could be a risky venture. As </span><span style="line-height: 100%;">G. Glenn Clift, in his</span> <span style="font-style: italic; line-height: 100%;">History of Maysville and Mason County</span><span style="line-height: 100%;">, explains, "</span><span style="line-height: 100%;">Barring the doors at night was not enough for these isolated dwellings. In the morning, the head of the house first climbed a ladder, always leaning against the left side of the door, and looked through the cracks for Indians.” He goes on to inform the reader that it was considered a “habit” of the Indians “to secrete themselves near the door and pounce suddenly on the unsuspecting pioneer as he greeted the sun.” (p. 49)</span><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="line-height: 100%;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="line-height: 100%;">Even so, a mere two years later, in 1786, the population around Kenton's station had grown so much as to be considered a village, and a petition was written to the Assembly of Virginia to establish it as a town. Permission was granted, and the town was named Washington after the Revolutionary War hero George Washington, still three years away from becoming the nation's first President. As such, it was the first town of many that would eventually be named in his honor. According to a local tradition, which may be apocryphal, it was given the name of Washington in the hopes of one day becoming the nation's capital. The new town of Washington's nine trustees, "authorized to make such rules and orders for the regular building therein... and to settle and determine all disputes about the bounds of the said lots," included famed frontiersman Daniel Boone, who had recently opened his trading post and tavern on the Ohio River waterfront.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="line-height: 100%;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="line-height: 100%;">Washington and the larger area, still known as Limestone, were located at the time within Bourbon county, Virginia, and the county seat was a good forty miles distant. "To attend any form of court proceeding," Clift writes, "necessitated a long, dangerous journey to the seat of government." The petition to grant the settlers a town had been successful, so, riding on the coattails of their success, they soon sent another petition, this time for a division of the county. In this petition they dwelt on the difficulties of the journey, such as "</span>the Intervention of a Mountainous tract of Barren Land running down on each side of the main branch of Licking Creek that cannot be inhabited," and the likelihood of being "surprised and murdered by the savages who frequently infest such places." This petition, however, met with opposition from elsewhere in the county and it took two more petitions and another year before a division of the county would finally be granted.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The third (and finally successful) petition, dated 25 Oct 1787 according to the Library of Virginia website <span style="font-style: italic;">Virginia Memories,</span> contains nearly three pages of signatures, each page divided into three columns, and the petitioners are <span>said to all "</span><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 10pt;">live </span><span style="color: #010101;">in the Limestone Settlements near the Ohio River." One of these names is Josiah Wade. This is the earliest confirmed date of a member of the Wade family in Limestone.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #010101;">Josiah Wade was a young man at this time, about 22 years of age. Perhaps he was the first of his family to arrive in the Limestone Settlements, or perhaps his family arrived with him and simply didn't sign the petition. At any rate, the family soon made their appearance. His mother had recently died, but his father William, at least five brothers--Zephaniah, George, Edmond, Joseph, and John--and at least three sisters--Margaret, Mary, and Abbie--are likely to have made their home in the settlement. Josiah himself may have been starting a family at this point; his probable son Joseph was born circa 1787. The exact location of the Wade family's residence is unknown at this time, but sources tend to place them somewhere in or near Washington.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #010101;">Also in the area of Washington lived a surveyor named Nathaniel Massie, who would prove to be an important figure in the lives of the Wade family. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #010101;"></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div></span></span><p></p><h3><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></h3><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #010101;">Sources:</span></div></span></span></h3><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">Bourbon, Virginia, Legislative Petitions Digital Collection, Accession Number 36121, Box 287, Folder 62, <a href="digitool1.lva.lib.va.us:1801/view/action/singleViewer.do?dvs=1610301258295~572&locale=en_US&show_metadata=true&VIEWER_URL=/view/action/singleViewer.do?&DELIVERY_RULE_ID=4&search_terms=legpet petition kentucky counties&adjacency=N&application=DIGITOOL-3&frameId=1&usePid1=true&usePid2=true" target="_blank">Inhabitants of Bourbon County: Petition (Division of County/New County)</a>, 25 Oct 1787; digital images, Library of Virginia,</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">Virginia Memory</span><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;"> (</span><a href="http://www.virginiamemory.com/" style="color: #010101; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">www.virginiamemory.com</a> <span style="color: #010101; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">: accessed 10 Jan 2021).</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">David I. Bushnell, Jr, "Daniel Boone at Limestone, 1786-1787."</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">The Virginia Magazine of History and Biography</span><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;"> 25 (Jan 1917); digital images,</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">JSTOR </span><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">(</span><a href="https://www.jstor.org/" style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">https://www.jstor.org/</a> <span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">: accessed 15 Jan 2021) 1-11.</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">G. Glenn Clift,</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">History of Maysville and Mason County </span> <span style="color: #010101; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">(Lexington, Kentucky: Transylvania Printing Co., 1936), vol. 1. </span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">Allan W. Eckert,</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">That Dark and Bloody River: Chronicles of the Ohio River Valley </span> <span style="color: #010101; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">(New York: Bantam Books, 1995), 180. </span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">Neal O. Hammon and James Russell Harris, "Daniel Boone the Businessman: Revising the Myth of Failure,"</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">The Register of the Kentucky Historical Society</span><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;"> 112 (Winter 2014); </span><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">digital images,</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">JSTOR</span> <span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">(</span><a href="https://www.jstor.org/" style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">https://www.jstor.org/</a> <span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">: accessed 30 Dec 2020) 5-50.</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">Stephen Kelley, "The Founding of Manchester... Massie's Station,"</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">Ohio Southland</span><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;"> 3 (Issue #2 1991); digital images, Adams County Public Library,</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">Biblioboard Open Access</span> <span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">(</span><a href="https://library.biblioboard.com/anthology/e552f221-42f0-4b9b-963d-32739ee859fd" style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">https://library.biblioboard.com/anthology/e552f221-42f0-4b9b-963d-32739ee859fd</a> <span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">: accessed 24 Jan 2021) 19-25.</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 11pt; text-indent: 8mm;">John McDonald,</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 11pt; text-indent: 8mm;">Biographical Sketches of General Nathaniel Massie, General Duncan McArthur, Captain William Wells, and General Simon Kenton: Who Were Early Settlers in the Western Country </span> <span style="color: #010101; min-height: 11pt; text-indent: 8mm;">(Dayton, Ohio: D. Osborn & Son, 1852).</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">James Rood Robertson M.A.Ph.D.,</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">Petitions of the Early Inhabitants of Kentucky to the General Assembly of Virginia 1769 to 1792 </span> <span style="color: #010101; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">(Louisville, Kentucky: John P. Morton & Company, 1914). </span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">Eleanor Duncan Wood, "Limestone, A Gateway of Pioneer Kentucky,"</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">Register of Kentucky State Historical Society</span><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;"> 28 (April 1930); digital images,</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">JSTOR</span> <span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">(</span><a href="https://www.jstor.org/">https://www.jstor.org/</a> <span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">: accessed 14 Jan 2021) 151-154.</span></span></span></div>
<p></p>Amberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00487334213435081867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821298222761503890.post-23028106360222674202021-01-30T20:10:00.001-08:002021-01-30T20:10:51.047-08:00Wade family from Kentucky to Ohio, part 1<p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="line-height: 100%;"><span style="color: #5898ff;"><i>Note: This series of posts deals extensively with the historical animosity between Native Americans and white settlers. Although the point of view of the Native Americans is underrepresented and deserves better recognition, my ancestors happened to be white settlers. Unfortunately, they participated in the historical travesties perpetrated against Native Americans. However, since this is a genealogical blog, it is primarily told from my ancestors' point of view, with an attempt to be sympathetic to both sides. The term "Indian" is used in reference to the indigenous peoples (when the nation or tribe is unknown) because it was the term most often used at the time, and because I have recently been informed that it is still the preferred term in many native cultures. I am not an expert in the subject, and humbly apologize if anyone finds it offensive.</i> </span></span></span></span></p><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="line-height: 100%;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/b2/Keelboat_and_flatboat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="401" data-original-width="600" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/b2/Keelboat_and_flatboat.jpg" /></a></span></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><span style="line-height: 100%;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></div><blockquote><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="line-height: 100%;">Come all ye brisk young fellows who have a mind to roam</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="line-height: 100%;">All in some foreign country, a long way from home,</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="line-height: 100%;">All in some foreign country, along with me to go,</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="line-height: 100%;">And we'll settle on the banks of the lovely Ohio.</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="line-height: 100%;">We'll settle on the banks of the lovely Ohio.</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="line-height: 100%;">-American folk song</span></span></span></div></blockquote><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="line-height: 100%;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="line-height: 100%;">Zephaniah Wade and Nehemiah Stites, both youths of about eighteen years old, along with Stites' dog, were traveling on foot along the old Buffalo Trace. They were somewhere along the eight mile stretch between the settlement of Mayslick and the town of Washington. The Buffalo Trace had been beaten down from centuries of American bison pounding through the bluegrass and canebrake from their ford on the Ohio River to the </span><span style="line-height: 100%;">salt licks in the interior of Kentucky. These were not narrow game trails; in some places they reached fifteen feet wide and were rutted six feet deep, especially around the licks. The buffalo traces had been adopted as roads first by the Native Americans and later by the white settlers, and now settlements were popping up along them, taking advantage of the plentiful wild game seeking salt. Mayslick was one of these settlements, and Nehemiah Stites was one of the pioneers there. Zephaniah Wade resided in or around the town of Washington. </span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="line-height: 100%;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="line-height: 100%;">The sources differ somewhat </span>in the reason for Wade and Stites' journey. Allan W. Eckert in his book <span style="font-style: italic;">That Dark and Bloody River</span> claims that they had been hunting on the North Fork Licking River, but Stites' cousin Mary Covalt Jone says in her journal that only Wade had been hunting; Stites was returning to Washington, where he was employed, from Mayslick, where he was "making a settlement," when he met up with Wade along the trail. </span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">In any case, Zephaniah's brother Joseph Wade later recalled that "because of the danger posed by marauding Indian bands, the two young men were not on the trail but traveling through the woods close by." A couple of Indians were in the area, spotted the pair of youths, and fired on them. Stites was instantly killed, "shot right through the breast over one shoulder & out the back" according to Jone. She goes on to say that "his dog stayed to defend him." Meanwhile, Zephaniah fled. His brother said that he "ran to a nearby tress, climbed part way up, and spied one of his attackers. Upon taking careful aim, he fired his rifle, wounding the Indian," whereupon the second Indian gave chase. At this point, Zephaniah took cover, either "behind a large root of a blown down tree" or "behind a bank." Jone adds that he could hear Stites' dog from his hiding place. Once he felt safe from pursuit, he hurried back to Washington, "barefoot but uninjured" (Eckert). He reported the death of Nehemiah Stites, and a company of men went out to retrieve his body and track the Indians. The body was retrieved, but the Indians got away. However, Joseph Wade adds, "they found an overcoat that had been worn by the Indian Wade had shot. They reported the overcoat had two bullet holes in it and had apparently been thrown off after the Indian was wounded."</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The <span style="font-style: italic;">Kentucky Gazette</span> of 21 Mar 1789 gives an account that took place the previous week which sounds remarkably similar to this one: "We are informed that on saturday the fourteenth instant, the Indians killed a man and wounded another, on the road from Lexington to Limestone, near May's lick... It is said they were pursued by about forty men who were determined to know to what place they belong." It is the same road, near Mayslick (May's lick), and the same number of white men mentioned, with one killed. The only detail disagreeing with the accounts of Zephaniah's experience is that the other man was wounded, while Zephaniah apparently escaped injury. Since no names are given in the <span style="font-style: italic;">Gazette</span>, it remains uncertain whether this indeed refers to the same incident, but it is quite possible that it does. If it does, it provides an exact date for the event. The other sources are a bit hazy on the date. Eckert <span style="color: #010101;">gives a date in the spring of 1787, but his source is not explicitly stated and is likely to be found somewhere within one of the many manuscript collections he cites for the chapter. </span><span style="color: #010101;">Jone recollects the event as happening sometime around late 1788 or early 1789, but the recollection was not written at the time of the event. The latest date, the fall of 1789, is given by Joseph Wade, whose 1863 retelling of the story is summarized in an article by Stephen Kelley.</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>The story, whenever it occurred, also includes two postscripts. Mary Covalt Jone, who, as you will recall, was a cousin of Nehemiah Stites, concludes that "the dog followed me many a day after that." It is easy to envision the heartbroken dog pining for its master. However, Allan W. Eckert (or his source, whoever it may be) opts for a more amusing epilogue:</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="min-height: 10pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></div><blockquote><div style="min-height: 10pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 10pt;">Back at Washington and Limestone word of the attack was quickly going the rounds, though in some tellings the dead man was confused with his friend.</span></span></span></div><div style="min-height: 10pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="min-height: 10pt;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="min-height: 10pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 10pt;">At the small tavern in Limestone, where Wade dropped in after the expedition returned, he was greeted with handshakes and cheers, and one of their neighbors gripped Wade's shoulders and commented relievedly, "Why, Zeph, we heard you was killed."</span></span></span></div><div style="min-height: 10pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="min-height: 10pt;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 10pt;">"Y'know," Wade replied dryly, "I heard that, too, but decided it was a lie."</span></span></span></div></blockquote><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The "small tavern in Limestone," incidentally, was at this time run by a man with a name very familiar to most Americans. His name was Daniel Boone.</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<h2><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span><div style="-en-clipboard: true; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span><span style="color: #010101;">Sources:</span></span></div></span></span></span></h2><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">David I. Bushnell, Jr, "Daniel Boone at Limestone, 1786-1787."</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">The Virginia Magazine of History and Biography</span><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;"> 25 (Jan 1917); digital images,</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">JSTOR </span><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">(</span><a href="https://www.jstor.org/" style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">https://www.jstor.org/</a> <span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">: accessed 15 Jan 2021) 1-11.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">G. Glenn Clift,</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">History of Maysville and Mason County </span> <span style="color: #010101; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">(Lexington, Kentucky: Transylvania Printing Co., 1936), vol. 1. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">Don Corbly,</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">Pastor John Corbly and his neighbors in Greene Township </span> <span style="color: #010101; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">(N.p.:</span> <a href="http://lulu.com/" style="color: #010101; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">Lulu.com</a><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">, 2011). </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">Allan W. Eckert,</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">That Dark and Bloody River: Chronicles of the Ohio River Valley </span> <span style="color: #010101; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">(New York: Bantam Books, 1995), 180. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">Neal O. Hammon and James Russell Harris, "Daniel Boone the Businessman: Revising the Myth of Failure,"</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">The Register of the Kentucky Historical Society</span><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;"> 112 (Winter 2014); </span><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">digital images,</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">JSTOR</span> <span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">(</span><a href="https://www.jstor.org/" style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">https://www.jstor.org/</a> <span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">: accessed 30 Dec 2020) 5-50.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">Stephen Kelley, "Lore, Legends & Landmarks of Old Adams,"</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">The People's Defender</span><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">, online archives (</span><a href="http://peoplesdefender.com/main.asp?Search=1&ArticleID=129868&SectionID=36&SubSectionID=360&S=1" style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">http://peoplesdefender.com/main.asp?Search=1&ArticleID=129868&SectionID=36&SubSectionID=360&S=1</a> <span style="color: #010101; min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;">: accessed 19 May 2012). No longer accessible.<br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="min-height: 9pt; text-indent: 8mm;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">"Lexington, March 18, 1789,"</span> <a href="http://rescarta.lexpublib.org/jsp/RcWebImageViewer.jsp?doc_id=4086b9c4-2fd5-4231-a294-0b3dbb3b0cfa/KYLX0000/20191112/00000061&pg_seq=2&search_doc=" target="_blank"><span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">Kentucky Gazette</span><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">, 21 Mar 1789</span></a><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">, p. 2, col. 2; digital images,</span> <span style="color: #010101; font-style: italic; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">Lexington Public Library</span><span style="color: #010101; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;"> (</span><a href="https://www.lexpublib.org/digital-archives" style="color: #010101; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">https://www.lexpublib.org/digital-archives</a> <span style="color: #010101; min-height: 10pt; text-indent: 8mm;">: accessed 8 Jan 2021), Kentucky Gazette 1787-1840.</span></div></span></span></span></div>
<p></p>Amberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00487334213435081867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821298222761503890.post-63492654575914434582021-01-11T21:12:00.005-08:002021-01-11T21:12:00.579-08:00Amanuensis Monday: Christmas dinner at home (Elsie's Christmas book part 5)<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>Now, wasn't that clever of me? I very carefully arranged this transcription of Elsie's Christmas Book to conclude during the Christmas season... and then forgot to schedule the publication date. So here it is, a week late, and after the conclusion of the Twelve Days of Christmas. Oops. </i></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/10/SnapDragon.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="369" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/10/SnapDragon.jpg" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span class="mw-mmv-title"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Fanciful image of a dragon playing Snap-dragon, from <a class="mw-redirect" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Chambers_(journalist)" title="Robert Chambers (journalist)">Robert Chambers</a>' <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chambers_Book_of_Days" title="Chambers Book of Days">Book of Days</a></i> (1879)</span><br /></span>The original uploader was Ziggurat at English Wikipedia., Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Here he comes with flaming bowl,<br />
Don't he mean to take his toll,<br />
Snip! Snap! Dragon!</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Although Elsie makes no mention of a rhyme, which she surely would have done had she remembered one, she does recall a game of snap dragon. This is a game with which I am familiar in only a literary sense; it is not commonly played in my part of the world. Knowing it as a game from Victorian England (although apparently it originated much earlier), I often wondered whether my Victorian English ancestors participated in it, and here Elsie gives me the answer to that question.<br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><blockquote><p><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Our Christmas dinners were a lot like we have today, with the exception of plum pudding, mince pies, mince meat tarts. Mother used to make me a white cake with lemon filling and soft white frosting. I couldn't eat raisins for some reason and all her Christmas dessert had a lot of raisins. I still like that kind of white cake.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The turkey was always placed in front of Dad at the table. Always at the head. of the table., that was his seat always andevery day, of the week. We all were at the table together every meal, that we were home. Especially for dinner. Imagine eight at the table every day and most every meal. Thats what it was like after all Mothers children were grownup.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dad would say a grace and give thanks for the day. He'd stand up with the craving knife an the steel to sharpen the knife. He would hold the knife in one hand and the steel in the other. He would rub them both together a few times and then he would start to carve the turkey. He was pretty good at it. I often wondered if the knife needed sharping every time.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He would ask us what part we wanted. White or dark. He usualy gave the drum stick. I never asked for it but he would say I know what part Sis wants and it was the drum stick. As I grow older I told him "Dad I think some of the others would like the drum stick." So he started to cut some of the meat off and make more drum sticks, we always had such big turkeys, there was enough for everyone.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He had a little saying while craving "You can have the wings and toes but I'll take part of the parson's nose." The parsons nose was the part the tail feathers came out.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dad had to have Brussel sprouts, if possible and Mom liked a little bit of celery, her words. Dad's dessert for Christmas was "little pigs in a blanket." They were made from little sausages rolled up in pie crust and baked.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Once Dad placed a lot of raisins on a heat proof platter and poured brandy over them, then he lit the raisins they flamed up. He told us to go ahead and eat some of them. I was afraid of the fire, we were told not to play with fire My brothers were really eating the raisins, saying they were good. Dad asked why I was afraid of them. The boys weren't. So very cautiously I took one at a time. They didn't burn at all, just no heat. They went out before you got to your mouth. I didn't eat many as I never liked raisins anyway. It was exciting to watch my brothers eating them. Dad called them snapdragons. Now I know how the fellows that swallow the flaming sword or sticks fool us. The fire goes out as soon as it hits your mouths. Alcohol is a cool flame.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="font-size: medium;">One night Santa came to our house early. We were going to have dinner early as Dad had an appointment for the evening. We were just a bout thru when Dad excused himself and said he'd be back as early as possible. He got up from the table and went into the bedroom. He came back all excited and in a hurry. "Santas been here I believe, theres something in the bedroom and the window is open." We all jumped up and ran as fast as we could to the bedroom. Dad was still mumbling "He must have come thru the window." He had us convinced. Behold he had been there. And left a lot of toys. The window was wide open and the curtains were waving in the breeze. No one in his right mind would open a window in the dead of winter. Our bedrooms were real cold in the winter time. Just a potbelly heater and the kitchen range to heat the whole house.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I am sure Dad never intended to go to any meeting that night. He stayed home and seemed real happy to enjoy our gifts.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This time we never had to wait for Santa to come, he was ahead of himself, no waiting, we still hated to go to bed Christmas Eve. It was so much fun staying up and playing with our toys. We got some real toys this year.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I enjoyed writing this, as it brought many memories.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Elsie May Crocker</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="font-size: medium;">April 15, 1990 </span></span></p></blockquote><p><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Citation:<br /></span></h2><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Elsie Crocker, "Christmas on the Farm when I was a Small Child" (typescript, 1990); copy in possession of Amber Brosius, 2020.</span></p><p><br /></p>Amberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00487334213435081867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821298222761503890.post-54376562602901806182020-12-28T11:38:00.011-08:002020-12-28T11:38:00.224-08:00Amanuensis Monday: Christmas dinner with neighbors (Elsie's Christmas book part 4)<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">On the fourth day of Christmas<br />My true love gave to me<br />Four calling birds <br />Three French hens,<br />Two turtledoves,<br />And a partridge in a pear tree.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FN7azPgKoMk/X9_0-HhYuyI/AAAAAAAAUAU/e_gKVf2QQ_EV5P-8KsA1a8fQVa5glRW5gCLcBGAsYHQ/s235/Three-French-Hens-N4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kfOpM7PMW2A/X9_2EnTdfLI/AAAAAAAAUAc/ORiOhoHukIE4rnH7B-IC-TB0yjAVjbdaQCLcBGAsYHQ/s235/Four-Calling-Birds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="235" data-original-width="235" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kfOpM7PMW2A/X9_2EnTdfLI/AAAAAAAAUAc/ORiOhoHukIE4rnH7B-IC-TB0yjAVjbdaQCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/Four-Calling-Birds.jpg" /></a></div><br /></div></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Contrary to popular belief, the Twelve Days of Christmas refers not to the days leading up to Christmas Day, but actually begins on Christmas Day and ends on Epiphany, the day celebrated as the arrival of the Wise Men. Therefore, it is currently still Christmas, and I am still fully justified in sharing Aunt Elsie's Christmas stories. Next week's transcription will also arrive during Christmas, and I will endeavor to complete the transcription in that week, and thereby avoid the sin of unseasonality.</span><br /></span></p><p></p><blockquote><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;">Mom always left her shopping until the day before Christmas. Getting her last minute preparations for a large dinner the next day. I don't see how she did it. Christmas dinner was always on time with out fuss. Dad always wanted his meals on time, all the time.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;">We always had plum pudding and mince pie and fruit cake. A old English tradition. We loved to watch her make her plum puddings and mince meat and her fruit cake. If we were lucky she would give us a taste of the candied fruit, raisins or currants.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;">A day or so ahead she made her mincemeat tarts. To be heated up the day of the dinner. She would make a sauce for the pudding the last minute, it was served warm. This sauce had brandy and vanilla flavoring. This time of the year was the only time I ever saw brandy in our house. I think they kept it on the top shelf of the pantry. Dad called it "Chinese tea" No one was suppose to touch it, used for medicine only. Dads words no one was to mess with it. To my knowledge no one ever did.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;">There were no mixes of any kind, Mom made everything from scratch. She had her own measuring devices. Like a measuring cup she had a tea cup, and a ordinary teaspoon, a tablespoon, a dessert spoon (a spoon less than a tablespoon) a pinch of this and a handful of that. I have to have good recipes. Let the other fellow do the guess work.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;">We had a large round table that sat eleven or twelve, five of us and neighbors family of four and a hired man or two.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;">I can't remember when we never has a turkey for Christmas. Of course it usually was one we had raised. Whether we bought or raised our own we had to dress it. The legs and the head were removed. Then Mom would pour boiling water over the feathers. We then picked off all the feathers and that left a lot of pin feathers. My job was to pick the pin feathers out. You had to be careful not to break the skin, when cooking the juices would leak out. The pin feathers are feathers not fully grown.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;">The enterals were removed, saving the liver, heart, gizzard and the neck. Wash the turkey very good inside and out. The liver, heart, gizzard and neck are cooked until tender. Can put in the gravy or in the dressing.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;">Everyother Christmas we had the neighbors over or they had us over. The Church's that were our neighbors had a girl my age and a boy Bill's age. Margart was the girls name and Charly was the boys name.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;">This was the Christmas we were going to the neighbors (the Churchs). for dinner. We got up early. It had snowed during the night. It was beautiful everything completely covered. The white glistening snow was just like a winter-wonderland, not a mark any where. A unbeleivabe fairyland.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;">We were thankful for having all our animals save and warm in their housings. This day they would stay inside and eat and stay out of the cold.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;">We even hated to disturb the out side walks. We had to tho in order to care for the animals. Our dog seemed to like it, but I don't think he knew what it was. He would get in a drift and had a hard time getting out. Us children had a lot of fun watching him. We were there ready to help him if he needed it, but he seemed to enjoy every minute of it.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;">My dad and my brothers cleaned off the sleigh and got the horses hitched to the sleigh. We would carry some warm blankets to keep us warm. The boys wore jeans, but not the girls We had to wear dresses all the time. It wasn't lady like to wear any kind of trousers. Thats by we had to wear long black stockings in the winter time to cover up our long jhons. Long jhons had long legs, sometimes you had to fold the legs at the bottom to fit the stockings. At Easter, off came the long johns. Then our legs would be cold, but we never complained for they might put them back on us.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;">We wore the warmest clothes we had. Mittens and scarves were a must. Our noses were as red as a big red cherry. We would blow out our mouths covered by scarves, to see how much steam we could make. It looked like smoke curling up. This would make our scarves wet, our scarves were wrapped around our neck and over our mouths to keep the cold from our lungs. The scarves would get wet and the dampness would freeze and make frosty ice crystals, it would look funny.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;">The ride to our friends was fairly short, but very pretty. The snow on the fences and bushes side of the road made us feel we were in a different world. The horses didn't seem to mind the snow, they seemed to pick up their feet a little higher, as tho they were strutting. Ever once in a while we would see small tracks acrossing the road probably some rabbits hunting some thing to eat.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;">The neighbors welcomed us with open arms, everyone talking at once. Asking how was the roads, did you have any trouble getting here. What did Santa leave?</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;">In side it was real nice and warm. The smells were wonderful. The chattering soon lessened. The fresh air gave us an appetite. We would eat right away as Dad had to have his meal at noon. The dinner was very good, but they never had all the goodies as Mom made.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;">We played with their toys for a while and then went outside to play in the snow. Mostly snowing snowballs at each other.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;">It was time to go home, saying our good byes, we felt bad that we had to leave our friends behind. We had had a super day. They lived just a short ways, away from us. Mother would say "just a stones throw away."</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;">We had a very nice dinner but my brothers missed the plum puddings and mince pie. The ride home was great but not as pretty as the ride in the morning, the roads were slushy from the traffic We couldn't see the tracks of the little rabbits.</span></span></p></blockquote><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">It is interesting to hear about the English Christmas traditions that traveled to the U.S. with the Underwood family, and ponder how they were lost before my generation. I have never so much as seen a plum pudding in person, let alone tasted one. I did taste mincemeat once, but it was not at a family Christmas celebration. Fruit cake, too, has disappeared from our family table, although I suspect that one was not a great loss.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I also find it interesting to discover that my great-grandmother's style of cooking did not work for Aunt Elsie. All of the Underwood girls were fantastic cooks by the time I knew them, and I had supposed they had learned it from their mother. However, it seems that Elsie, at least, must have learned her skills elsewhere. It makes me wonder where, as well as how her sisters learned to cook.</span><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Citation:<br /></span></h2><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Elsie Crocker, "Christmas on the Farm when I was a Small Child" (typescript, 1990); copy in possession of Amber Brosius, 2020.</span></p><p> </p>Amberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00487334213435081867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821298222761503890.post-33019558969372770692020-12-21T09:00:00.001-08:002020-12-21T09:00:15.975-08:00Amanuensis Monday: O Christmas Tree (Elsie's Christmas book part 3)<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><a href="https://heritagehunt.blogspot.com/2020/12/amanuensis-monday-christmas-on-farm.html" target="_blank">To read from the beginning of Elsie’s Christmas book, click here.</a></i></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">It’s time for part 3 of Elsie’s Christmas book. This time Elsie discusses her Christmas tree and the things under it, as well as some activities in the snow. </span><br /><br /></span><blockquote><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I remember the first real live tree we had, I wasn’t very old then. Mom decorated the high branches and Bill, Walter and I did the lower ones. This was a special event. We weren’t used to such luxuries, but I must say greatly appreciated. <br /><br />Dad had bought some clip on candles. The candles could be lit. The holders were clipped on the boughs. He had a pail of water handy in case of fire. He saw to it we were all together around the tree. Then he lit the tree. How beautiful we were spelled bound for a few minutes. <br /><br />Dad didn’t leave the candles burning only a few minutes. The tree was still pretty and smelled so good, we kept it until New Years night. I still like to keep my decorations up until New Years. <br /><br />Our stockings were filled with a orange in the toe some hard candy and a lot of peanuts in the shell. We liked the evening and shell peanuts and eat them. Once in a while we would get mixed nuts. Maybe a stick of peppermint. A small doll, a cloth book, pictures to finish with yarn, a toothbrush, anew comb, maybe some kind of a book. We got what Santa could afford to give us, but he never forgot us. <br /><br />One Christmas I got a bake set, the set contained flour, salt, baking powder, and you had to add some water to mix so you were able to roll it out a little thicker than pie crust. The set contain the rolling pin, a cutter and a pan to bake them in. So my brother Bill and I decided to make these crackers. We used Mom’s oven to bake them. We were proud of them, but no one wanted any so we were happy we ate them all. I had helped Mom but not really to bake anything from the beginning, this time was my very first. My brother and I were pretty proud they turned out as well as they did. We used a fork to make the holes in them. <br /><br />One year my brother Walter got a race horse set. He had been very ill that year, so Santa was very good to him. He shared it with our brother and me. We spent many of hours watching which horse would win. That was one of the joy of sharing. <br /><br />I always wanted a doll even if it was a very small doll I enjoyed sewing for it and made many clothes for it. Mother never sewed but our neighbors did and I was given a lot of pretty pieces of material. My doll was the best dressed doll in the neighborhood. <br /><br />Sometimes we got paper dolls that had their paper clothes to cut out They were fun too. <br /><br />One year I got a big doll with brown curly hair, that went to sleep. She didn’t sleep long My little sister poked her eyes out. Mother fixed the eyes but the doll don’t go to sleep again. </span><br /></span></blockquote><p> </p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rk1IGpUyOeM/X9giVeDGo_I/AAAAAAAAT_o/sidCchZGQ84KtJuqC7FhalPbsF9SX2GAACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/20201214_183616%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rk1IGpUyOeM/X9giVeDGo_I/AAAAAAAAT_o/sidCchZGQ84KtJuqC7FhalPbsF9SX2GAACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/20201214_183616%255B1%255D.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I don't know what ever happened to Elsie's childhood dolls, but this one belonged to Elsie's sister, my Grandma Aileen. She has had a visit to a doll hospital in later years, and is thus in tolerable condition despite her age. (Before the doll hospital, she was rather terrifying.)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> </p><blockquote><span style="font-family: courier;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">One Christmas Santa forgot to bring me a doll. I was unhappy that I cried but no one ever knew. That year Santa brought me a comb and brush set. I was always breaking the other combs my hair was so thick. I guess that was the sign I was growing up. <br /><br />In Idaho Christmas always seemed to be a beautiful day. There was clean white snow everywhere. On every thing a winter wonderland. It was pretty but very cold. Icicles hanging from the roofs of all out buildings, including the house. The icicles hung from six to twelve inches long. The sun during the day would melt the snow as it ran off the house would freeze making more icicles and adding length to the other icicles there. The warmth of our stoves made the roof warm, which made the snow melt. <br /><br />Some of the mornings I would get up and seeing my mom looking out the window, I would ask her what she was looking at. She would answer me “Oh, I was just looking out to see if we are going to be snowed in.” <br /><br />Sometime we knocked the icicles doun and made ice cream, of course we had to break the icicles up and add salt to it. It freezes faster with salt. <br /><br />We made ice cream in the snow, by using a tin bucket with a clencher lid (so the lid couldn’t come off and let the snow in the ice cream.) We used eggs, milk, and sugar. Of course we flavored with vanilla. We’d find a big drift of snow, then place our bucket in the snow. After a while we would lift the lid and see how it was doing. We took turns, turning the bucket. The ice cream was like our ice milk we have now. <br /><br />Christmas after the chores were done we could do what ever we liked. We loved to play in the snow, making angels snowmen and making forts. We would have two forts a small distance apart then we would get in one and some of the others would get in the other. One would throw snowballs back and forth. It was fun snowballing but some of the boys would get water soak them, then they hurt when they hit you. <br /><br />Even with wool mittens our hands would freeze, it was so cold. We had to change clothes when we came in to the house Mom made us soak our hands in cold water first than warm before we went to the stove. She was afraid chilblains. If they got warm to fast they would hurt. Mother never like to have us eat the first snow as she said all the germs in the air was in it. </span></span></blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The description of making ice cream in the snow reminded me of someone I knew years ago. Beginning in high school and on through college, I worked in an old-fashioned ice cream parlour, complete with a soda fountain. We had a number of regular customers, and I got to know some of them pretty well. We would chat while they enjoyed their ice cream treats. To this day I can still remember the usual order of a number of these people—as in, they could come in and say, “I’ll have the usual,” and I knew what to make. <br /><br />This particular person’s favorite was caramel butter pecan ice cream, but how he wanted it served would vary. Sometimes a cone, sometimes a dish, sometimes a sundae… if he’d ever said “I’ll have the usual,” I wouldn’t have known what to do. We often chatted about many things, but one of the things that has stuck with me through the years is his memory of making “snow cream.” His description of the process was rather similar to the process Elsie described for making ice cream, except for a couple things. Firstly, I was under the impression (whether correct or not, I cannot say) that the snow cream used snow as an ingredient as well as a way to chill it, and secondly, the snow cream was flavored with maple syrup. <br /></span><br /><br /></span><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Citation: </span></h2><h2><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></h2><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />Elsie Crocker, "Christmas on the Farm when I was a Small Child" (typescript, 1990); copy in possession of Amber Brosius, 2020.</span>Amberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00487334213435081867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821298222761503890.post-71216270244052025992020-12-14T17:03:00.003-08:002020-12-14T17:03:53.419-08:00Amanuensis Monday: The Schoolhouse and Santa (Elsie's Christmas book part 2)<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://heritagehunt.blogspot.com/2020/12/amanuensis-monday-christmas-on-farm.html" target="_blank">Last week</a> I discovered that Aunt Elsie really had written a Christmas book and I transcribed the first two pages. Now it is time to transcribe a couple more pages. <br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">You may remember that she was telling about how they would prepare for Christmas in the one-room schoolhouse she attended. Here she continues: </span><br /><br /></span> </p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;">The last school day before Christmas we would have a party. All the children were looking forward to it. We were to ask all our parents to come and enjoy our labors of preparing for the special day. <br /></span></span></blockquote><p> </p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NzGGRDwT9XY/X9f-68p7GRI/AAAAAAAAT_Q/HxT5M4PQt7cgQlEodw4pkm3CC5Du2ukdQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1803/underwoods%2Bin%2Bclass%2Bpicture.jpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1311" data-original-width="1803" height="291" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NzGGRDwT9XY/X9f-68p7GRI/AAAAAAAAT_Q/HxT5M4PQt7cgQlEodw4pkm3CC5Du2ukdQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h291/underwoods%2Bin%2Bclass%2Bpicture.jpg.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is the second of the two photos I have showing the actual school room Elsie describes. Elsie is sitting in the front row, second from the right, in a white dress. Her brothers are also in the photo. Bill is in the second row on the very end, wearing overalls. Walter is standing behind him, on the very end of the third row, also wearing overalls.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> </p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;"></span><span style="font-family: courier;"><br />I think all the parents were there, dressed in their best. We had a small program, then a sing along where every one joined in, parents and all. Some of us had to recite poems. My poem Dad told me. I was in the first grade. It was like this. <br /></span><span style="font-family: courier;"><br /><blockquote>“The first time I stepped upon the platform” <br />My heart went pitty pat <br />For I thought I heard <br />Someone say Who’s little girl is that? </blockquote></span><span style="font-family: courier;"><br />Refreshments were much the same as ours now: coffee, cookies and a mince ham bun sandwich. The children got lemonade. The very last thing the teacher would hand out a red mesh stocking, she had made out of the red mesh, she had bought for maybe five cents a yard. She sewed these stockings by hand or on a sewing machine she peddaled with her feet. Those days men worked for fifty cents to a dollar a day. <br /></span><span style="font-family: courier;"><br />In the toe of the stocking was a apple or a orange, a little candy and a few peanuts with the shells on. Sometimes a small candy cane. Gee! We were happy we could hardly wait to get home to see just what we had. We’d put everything back in the stocking to admire for a while. Little things meant so much. <br /></span><span style="font-family: courier;"><br />We got our chores done early that evening. Of course the chickens had to be fed, eggs gathered, woodboxes filled, the cows milked, horses beded doun. See that all gates closed, feed the dog. The dog always slept under our porch outside. We also helped Mom with the dishes. <br /></span><span style="font-family: courier;"><br />Sounds like a lot of work but we had a lot of hands. Many hands make light of the work. We all had our jobs to do If we got thru our jobs we would help the others get theirs done. Then the evening was ours to do what ever we wanted to do. <br /></span><span style="font-family: courier;"><br />I liked to sit on my dads lap and comb his pretty hair. At one time Dad had a mustache, I loved to curl his mustache. It curled up on the ends just like Grandpa Gene’s. Dad had some wax he used on the tips. <br /></span><span style="font-family: courier;"><br />It was time to hang up our stockings for Santa to fill. We each hung up our own clean stocking. We didn’t have a fireplace We laid them on the couch all in a row. We called the davenport a couch those days. Dad would smile seeing three different size stockings all in a row. I was afraid the boys having the largest stockings would get more than I but Santa saw to that. But I was mistaken, we all got the accurate amount. <br /></span><span style="font-family: courier;"><br />The excitement of Santa and his eight reindeers, with his big sack of toys, kept my brothers and I wide awake. <br /></span><span style="font-family: courier;"><br />We had a lot of snow, so we were expecting to hear his sleigh bells. It seemed so long before morning, we tossed and turned, so hard to settle doun. Wondering what he would leave us. <br /></span><span style="font-family: courier;"><br />My brothers room was next to mine, so we could holler back and forth, making it more difficult to fall a sleep. We listened real hard for his sleigh bells in the snow. <br /></span><span style="font-family: courier;"><br />This was a long night however we finally fell asleep Early the next morning we were awake. The first one awake would wake the others. One of us would tiptoe doun the stairs, to see if our stockings were filled. Then he or she would tip toe back up the stairs and tell the others. He had been there, what a rush, everyone jumped up at once. We ran doun the stairs into Mother’s and Dad’s room to a waken them. Of course they were already awake, with all this excitement going on, how could they sleep? They seemed as happy as we were, with our gifts. <br /></span><span style="font-family: courier;"><br />Looking back we never received much but no one could have been happier. <br /></span><span style="font-family: courier;"><br />Our stockings were filled with nuts and candy, not so full you couldn’t take a hold of the top and carry them around. <br /></span><span style="font-family: courier;"><br />Sometimes we had different kinds of candy allways wrapped in tissue paper, when it was put in our stockings. There was no waxed paper, aluminum foil or saran paper. Plastic was unheard of. <br /></span></span></blockquote><p> </p><p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZWU1hLQPbWc/X9gKmcN0e1I/AAAAAAAAT_c/7AlwJRfLDqIoPHvWRL00RtArL1JVRELGACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/StockSnap_V3B6DMUUCE%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZWU1hLQPbWc/X9gKmcN0e1I/AAAAAAAAT_c/7AlwJRfLDqIoPHvWRL00RtArL1JVRELGACLcBGAsYHQ/w266-h400/StockSnap_V3B6DMUUCE%25281%2529.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A platter of ribbon candy, a favorite of my mom's as well as Elsie.<br /><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo by <a href="https://stocksnap.io/author/travelphotographer">Travel Photographer</a> from <a href="https://stocksnap.io">StockSnap</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;"></span><span style="font-family: courier;"><br />We had peppermint sticks or hard candy with soft fillings, with different fillings and colors. We always liked these soft fillings, it was a surprise to see what color was inside. There was some round, round and flat with a pretty flower in the middle of it. These we never could [figure out] how they got the flower so perfect in the middle. We also had ribbon candy, it was different, it had different color stripes, it was about one and half inches wide and looped and pushed together like soft according pleats. This ribbon candy is still sold in the special stores today, at Christmas time. Also the candy sticks of different colors and flavors. <br /></span><span style="font-family: courier;"><br />We didn’t get all this candy all at once but what Santa wanted us to have or what he could afford. Sometimes Santa gets short of money. He has a lot of children to visit. <br /></span><span style="font-family: courier;"><br />When I was a little girl we were told, if we had been bad we wouldn't get any thing. He was supposed to have fairies to help him check up on us, if we had been naughty or not. </span></span></blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This time it is a little easier to choose a stopping point, as the subject changes slightly after this. <br /><br /><br /></span></span> <span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The reference to “Grandpa Gene” and his mustache puzzled me. I knew he wasn’t one of Elsie’s grandfathers; she never met either of hers, and their names were William and George anyway. After some cursory research, I am still puzzled. I am supposing that “Grandpa Gene” was a figure in popular culture at some point during Elsie’s life, obviously at a point prior to her writing of this memoir in 1990. Since I could find no mention of anyone with that nickname before 1990, I suspect that it may have been a local figure, well known in the Portland, Oregon area to a certain generation, but without a national audience to remember him frequently online. <br /> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I also chuckled at “We called the davenport a couch those days,” as one would be hard-pressed to find many people who still call a couch a davenport! Well, at least around here. Perhaps it is still common in other parts of the world. </span><br /></span> <span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /></span></p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Citation:</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></h2><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Elsie Crocker, "Christmas on the Farm when I was a Small Child" (typescript, 1990); copy in possession of Amber Brosius, 2020.</span></p>Amberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00487334213435081867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821298222761503890.post-71969566961352528282020-12-11T10:06:00.001-08:002020-12-11T10:06:01.170-08:00Friday Funny: A Strange Christmas Party<div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Recently, while browsing around at the <i>British Newspaper Archive</i>, I stumbled across a charming tongue-in-cheek article about a Christmas party, with the surprising facet of apparently being a thinly-veiled protest against a recently-passed muzzle law. Although it is long, as a dog lover I enjoyed the copious details and imaginative anthropomorphism. At first I intended to simply amuse myself for a few minutes with reading the article, but something about it has stuck with me, and I have at length decided to share it in this blog post, despite its length. (My fingers will become muscle-bound with the typing!) </span><br /><br /><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YwBfmvjI0Lo/X802IWYjc-I/AAAAAAAAT9E/UYVTYrVUjk4gkVvdmuGMXlrsijh3hYjGwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1920/dog-1436192_1920.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1496" data-original-width="1920" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YwBfmvjI0Lo/X802IWYjc-I/AAAAAAAAT9E/UYVTYrVUjk4gkVvdmuGMXlrsijh3hYjGwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/dog-1436192_1920.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">A St. Bernard dog</span><br />Image by <a href="https://pixabay.com/users/b1-foto-2445766/" target="_blank">b1-foto</a> from <a href="https://pixabay.com/photos/dog-st-bernard-switzerland-zermatt-1436192/" target="_blank">Pixabay</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">A STRANGE CHRISTMAS PARTY. <br /><br />BY AN IMAGINATIVE DOGMATIST. <br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br />A curious incident happened at the office of this paper one day last week. A large St. Bernard dog, waving his beautiful bushy tail in the air, walked quietly into the front office, and deliberately mounted on his hind legs, putting his front paws on the top of the desk. In this position the magnificent fellow’s head touched the brass rail, and the sudden apparition of a large shaggy face so startled the good gentlemen working at the desk, that, with a wonderful unanimity, they struck a bee-line for safety. “A bear from the menagerie,” thought our cashier, as he doubled up under the counter; an office boy, who had climbed to the top of a pile of newspapers, opined it was a lion broken loose from the same establishment—said boy’s zoological information being hazy. Meanwhile the St. Bernard, with his eyes smiling kindly (and dogs can smile, you know!) got impatient, and uttered a series of muffled barks, which made the accountant barricade his fortress behind the stove with an office stool. While the panic was in full force, I happened to enter the office, and, recognizing the dog as an old friend, cried out, “Hullo, old chap!” At once he bounded towards me, and before I could pat his back, or pass the time of day with him, he with some dignity dropped a package at my feet, and walked slowly out and down the street. Astonished, I picked up what he had dropped from his mouth, against the advice of the clerical staff, who had emerged from their retirement, and now suggested the parcel was an infernal machine—or an unpaid bill. It certainly was mysterious upon examination. The outside wrapping was a piece of old newspaper, so disposed that the headline, “Essex County Chronicle,” stood out bold and clear as the address. This was loosely and clumsily tied over a hard, heavy substance with long silky hair, which subsequently proved to have come from a collie’s tail. Eager now to solve the mystery, I tore open the wrapping and came upon a curved piece of earthenware, which had evidently formed part of a platter, and on the back of which was scrawled a message that, after a lot of trouble, we deciphered as follows:-- <br /><br /><i>The gentleman who kindly attended a meeting held by the canine race to protest against the pestilential muzzle is warmly invited to join them at a Xmas party to be held at—</i><br /><br />But I am not going to give my doggy friends away by telling you of their retreat. The epistle was signed “Hugo,” who, as chairman of the committee of management, was no doubt asked, “Will Hugo and invite him?”</span></div></blockquote><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">(I will interrupt here to admit that it took me several readings to realize that “Will Hugo and invite him?” is a pun on “Will you go and invite him?” and I mention it here for the benefit of other modern readers whose abilities are similarly sluggish.) <br /><br /> <br /></span><blockquote><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I took the broken platter to the editor and told him the simple story. Once having satisfied himself that Christmas festivities had not produced cerebral congestion, he said, “Go by all means, and write us something about the party.”<br /><br />So I went. Following the instructions on my invitation, I presently found myself in a dark and sloppy yard, with all the buildings shut up and gloomy. “No festivities here,” I muttered, as I withdrew one foot from a slimy puddle, “I must have mistaken the place.” Just then, I heard a door open up aloft (not “a loft,” friend printer; let us not wound tender susceptibilities); and I could see the wavy outline of Hugo. “Hist!” he called out in an undertone (once again I could understand that mysterious dog-language!) “Come up these steps.” With some difficulty I climbed up a steep ladder, and shook him heartily by the paw. Drawing a heavy curtain aside, he led me into a warm and well-lighted room, where I was welcomed with a multitude of happy barks and tail-waggings from the assembled canines. It was a hearty spontaneous greeting, quite free from effete conventionalities, as I recognised when a large black retriever licked my face in the exuberance of his feelings and a crowd of smaller dogs spoilt the symmetry of my pants with their forepaws. A French poodle caught hold of my right hand and hung on with his teeth <i>con amore</i>; with the other hand I restrained a spaniel and a terrier from pulling off my coattails. Ah! it was a cheerful welcome, and very jolly—when one got over the first shock. A number of puppies—curly black balls of retrievers and pert little rough-coated terriers—curved their tiny backbones at my presence and uttered barks of defiance, which were at once sternly checked by their angry parents. At last I was able to retreat to a friendly corner and survey the scene. <br /><br />The room—I again refrain from saying the loft—had apparently been used to stack hay in, for there were little wisps here and there on the uneven floor, and in the cobwebs which were spun from the rafters above. </span></blockquote></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">(I interrupt again to declare that I have no idea why the idea of a loft might be offensive, and plead that if anyone can enlighten me, please do!)<br /><br /> <br /></span><blockquote><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Not much of the roof could you see; for the walls and cross-beams were hung with a curious collection of rugs, shawls, coats, and table cloths, white and patterned. The lighting was also peculiar. In one corner glimmered a horn stable lantern; here and there dips were stuck in their own grease, and these dips, I noticed, were all scored with teeth-marks; a bedroom candlestick stood on a box; while from the centre beam hung a large brass drawing-room lamp. About thirty ladies and gentlemen were present, all most smartly got up in their cleanest and best fur. Several black and brown retrievers with white shirt fronts strutted about with that conscious full-chestedness that is sometimes noticeable in the ballrooms of other orders of animals. As for the plum-pudding dog, by nature so very Christmasy, he quite took the shine out of several lady pugs and the black poodle, whose curls had been most artistically treated.</span></blockquote><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> <br /><br />(I looked it up: a plum-pudding dog is another name for a Dalmatian.)<br /><br /> <br /></span><blockquote><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">They all sat or reclined in characteristic groups. Here was a lady fox terrier talking about sporting prospects to a beautiful setter, her two little pups peering out from over her haunches with sharp, black eyes full of astonishment. A group of young sirs were lolling and sniffing about near the door, casting doggish eyes at the girls the other end, whose coquettish barks and the smart [illegible] of whose caudal appendages were invitations sufficient to warrant a walk in that direction, had they but the courage. A couple of Great Danes were conversing in sonorous tones with a diminutive Dachshund, who had pronounced views on art. Near several dogs who were [discussing?] with much animation the price of Spratt’s biscuits and the relative merits of their flavours, reclined an immense Newfoundland, looking up adoringly into the eyes of his sweetheart, just as Hamlet glanced into Ophelia’s face during the acting of his play before the King. Watching the couple were a group of matrons who spoke in cautious voices. “A great pity,” I heard one whisper, “she might have had young so-and-so, who is in charge of his master’s yard, and has a kennel all to himself, with no limit as to perquisites. And yet she throws herself away upon that lanky fellow there, who hasn’t a bone to sharpen his teeth upon, and sleeps on a sack in a cart!” She looked disparagingly at the Newfoundland, and scratched her head with a hind leg in a contemptuous manner. With a suspicion that I had heard something of the sort before in human society, I hastened to meet Hugo, whom I saw approaching with stately tread. <br /><br />“Yes, I’ll tell you all about it with pleasure,” he remarked, as we sat down, I on a box and he on his haunches. “We all bring what we can lay our teeth upon in the matter of decoration. Rather an odd assortment to deal with, but I flatter myself they are hung with some taste,” and he cocked his head on one side with a look of conscious merit. “You see, we always have an annual gathering of this sort—a social tea, we call it, and by the way, I see you people have imitated us in that way lately. Helps to unite the community? Well (doubtfully), not much, I think. It brings the youngsters together—let’s ’em flirt, you know, under proper guidance. But the women get so jealous. Ever since my mother died—you’ll pardon this tear—” <br /><br />“Take my handkerchief,” I asked sympathetically. But he did it with his left paw. <br /><br />“She used to see to the catering, you know, but when she succumbed to circumstances—was killed because she bit off a child’s finger in play—it was agreed that the ladies should share the expenses and bring what each could. You never saw such jealousy! Perfectly disgraceful! Notice the smug smile on that lady retriever’s upper jaw? Not the one who is picking her teeth with a herring bone. The other. Yes, that one. Well, she brought that leg of mutton there—the best joint of the evening. Such pride, my dear fellow! Quite astonishing. I am afraid to ask the name of her butcher. It would be too personal and might lead to painful exposures. Then that black-nosed pug on the right. Her share was a bag of chicken bones and a lot of beautiful gravy all in a jelly. That’s why she looked at the ceiling so much. It’s her way of showing her ineffable conceit. But I see the time is come for our tea. Pardon me”—and he trotted off. <br /><br />We all sat down together, and were as jolly a Christmas party as you could wish. It is true that a sharp-nosed terrier upset the things by jumping up in haste and running to a corner. She apologised, however, and said she thought a rat ran across and she could not withstand the temptation. There was a little difference of opinion between the Pug and Great Dane, and I heard the former mutter something about the invasion of poor Germans to live on the fat of the land. To my surprise, also, an Irish terrier showed a glistening set of teeth at me and said I had reported his speech at the meeting of protest in a manner that was ridiculous. But everything was settled amicably. I squatted cross-legged on the floor so as to be on an equality with my four-footed friends. It was a trifle awkward and productive of cramp in the knee-joints, but I said nothing. First of all Hugo handed round a bone each, the size varying with the size of the recipient. I was rather alarmed at the idea of gnawing a bone, but Hugo passed me a package of buns, which I understood had been borrowed by a confectioner’s dog. How they spread themselves luxuriously on the floor and held the bones in their front paws while they worked away with their teeth! And the puppies, who had the tender chicken-bones! Presently, when that course was finished, a miscellaneous collection of crusts and pickings was distributed, and then came the chief joint—the leg of mutton. How their eyes glistened, how their great red tongues licked their mouths in anticipation. As dogs despise knives, Hugo decided, after some hesitation, to let each one worry the joint while he counted ten, the turn to go by priority of breed and station. I was surprised to learn that they had a strict code of precedence and caste distinctions as minute as you ever heard of. The joint was soon gone. It was wonderful to see the way they tore off the flesh while Hugo gravely counted ten. As an instance of the loving generosity of the race, it may be mentioned that a poor old collie, whose teeth were almost gone, was unanimously awarded a large strip of meat torn off by Hugo, to be eaten at leisure! The pot of gravy was eagerly lapped up, and the only other liquid refreshment was water, all the gentlemen carrying little round tins of the liquid in their teeth to the ladies. Before this was done I produced a flask of good old Scotch, and obtained Hugo’s permission to flavour—just flavour, you know, the water with it. He said they were strictly temperate as a rule—but this was Christmas time—he had no great objection, and so on. The spirits had a great effect upon the bow-wows. Their eyes sparkled, their ears cocked up, and the conversation at once became more general and more animated. When the dancing was announced, loud barks of approval were heard on all sides, and all the young fellows secured the best partners. <br /><br />While they were promenading the room on their hind legs, Hugo came to me with an air of perplexity which wrinkled up his broad forehead. “We’re in a fix,” he said, “a dog of our acquaintance who has great musical tastes, tastes of no mean order, indeed, has not turned up. The fact is,” he continued, with some hesitation, “he—he travels about the country and turns an organ while his master beats the drum. It appears he is much hurt at being asked to bring his instrument. It wounded his dignity. A dog of delicate sensibilities. Very delicate, indeed.” <br /><br />“If that’s the trouble, friend Hugo,” I replied, “say no more! I play a little on the piccolo myself, and brought it with me in case it should be of use,” <br /><br />So while I played they danced, oh! so comically! They had a polka and then a waltz, dancing the latter on all fours, the partners revolving round each other with delightful gravity. Fired by the excitement, added to certain libations from the tin pannikin, Mickey, the Irish terrier, volunteered a real Irish jig, which he gave amid immense enthusiasm. Not to be outdone, a young Collie followed with a Scotch reel, after which refreshments were served (sweets for the ladies) and biscuits, scraps, &c. <br /><br />Hugo remarked that it was getting late and they must indulge in a final howl and take their leave. First of all, however, he thanked me for coming round, and said some very handsome things about the way I had supported their fight for liberty from the obnoxious muzzle. [Applause.] Thank God, he said, they had thrown off the yoke, they had rid them of the muzzles for ever. <br /><br />A sudden thought came into my mind. “Is it possible, ladies and gentlemen,” I cried, “that you know not the news?” <br /><br />“What news?” growled the Danes, and all perked up their heads in alarm. <br /><br />“Why, don’t you know that the Board of Agriculture has issued an order requiring all dogs to be muzzled in public places? That order, alas! applies to nearly all England, and will commence with the new year!” <br /><br />Never saw I such happiness changed to suddenly to dismay and gloom. All sorts of wild schemes were proposed, and one bold deerhound suggested that they should march in a body through the land and devastate the towns <i>en route</i>. <br /><br />At last Hugo stilled the confusion with a deep chest note, and said: <br /><br />“Alas! my children, there is no help for it. You must submit. Now go home quietly. This is a sorry ending to our Christmas party. Good bye.” <br /><br />Obedient to the word of command, they all slunk home, a sorrowful set of dogs, with their tails between their legs and their heads hanging down. Who will relieve them of this dreadful incubus?</span></blockquote><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><br /> A sorry ending to a Christmas party, indeed. Not all Christmas tales have a happy ending. I shall think with pity of these poor Victorian dogs, and delight in the freedom to walk my dog, muzzle-free, through the town. </span><br /><br /> <br /></span><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Citation: </span></h2><span style="font-family: georgia;"> "A Strange Christmas Party," <i>Essex Newsman</i>, 31 Dec 1889, p. 3, col. 7-8; digital images, <i>British Newspaper Archive</i> (<a href="https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/">https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk</a> : accessed 6 Dec 2020), Image © THE BRITISH LIBRARY BOARD. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. </span><br /><br /> <p style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p>
</div>Amberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00487334213435081867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821298222761503890.post-22434256242583064972020-12-07T17:08:00.005-08:002020-12-14T17:22:40.091-08:00Amanuensis Monday: Christmas on the Farm (part 1)<div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I can’t believe it. I can not believe it. After all these years… <br /></span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I have always been a festive person, of the type who not only doesn’t mind, but actually enjoys hearing Christmas carols and seeing tinsel and holly long before Thanksgiving. So it should come as no surprise that I spent a portion of yesterday watching holiday videos on YouTube. With a renewed interest, I watched histories and recipes regarding a traditional English Christmas. I contemplated attempting a plum pudding, despite having never seen one in person, and was fascinated with the game of “snapdragon,” in which children snatch raisins from flaming brandy. To any British readers, this may seem a natural and ordinary part of Christmas, but to a plain Oregonian like me, it seems exotic and frightening. I wondered how my British ancestors celebrated Christmas and whether they had ever played snapdragon. I thought about <a href="http://heritagehunt.blogspot.com/2012/09/amanuensis-monday-elsie-crockers.html" target="_blank">Aunt Elsie’s typescript</a>, remembering that she had written “<a href="http://heritagehunt.blogspot.com/2013/06/amanuensis-monday-elsie-crockers.html?m=0" target="_blank">My Christmas book is separate form this one</a>,” and I wished that such a book actually existed. <br /><br />Yesterday, when I should have been strapping on my face mask and heading to the mall to finish up my Christmas shopping, I opened up my cedar chest and began flipping through the family files that Dad and I had hurriedly organized a few months ago, with the intention of scanning some of the more interesting items. And I did. I found some of my grandpa’s Army records, including his discharge papers, which I will examine more closely later. I found the pages torn from the Wade family Bible. I found the missing Civil War pension papers for Allen C. Wade. And then I found about a gazillion copies of Elsie’s typescript, all bound. (I will finally be able to make sure the pages of my copy of the typescript are in order!) <br /><br />Curiously, only one of the bound volumes was in the blue cover I remembered. The rest had red covers. I opened one up, and a chill ran up my spine. </span><br /><br /></span><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;">CHRISTMAS ON THE FARM WHEN I WAS A SMALL CHILD </span></span></blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;">read the first line. Was this truly the missing Christmas book? I read on… and on… and on. I closed the book with an exhaled “huh!” and a chuckle. I had actually found it. The lost Christmas book really did exist. <br /><br /></span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Naturally, the next step is to transcribe it. The same policies I used for the original typescript will apply to this one, namely: </span></span><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I intend to retain all of Elsie’s original spelling and punctuation except in the case when it is an obvious typographical error or when the meaning becomes unclear. Most of the manuscript was typed with the caps lock turned on, so the choices in capitalization are mine. </span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Elsie used few titles or divisions in her manuscript. All titles (i.e. title of the blog), except those included in the text, are my own. The divisions will be at my discretion and seldom original to the manuscript. </span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The original typescript was just that: a typescript. I hope to sometimes include relevant pictures. Any comment or caption to a picture is my own, and not original to the manuscript. </span></span></li><li><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Once or twice there are stories or names that would not measure up to today’s standards. Remember, this was nearly a century ago, when people had different notions about what was and wasn’t acceptable. I do not believe in revising history to suit modern tastes. This does not imply approval of the old attitudes, but rather an idea that we cannot deny our past and must be able to face what we were in order to move forward. </span></span></li></ul><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Now I will present the first couple of pages. </span><br /><br /></span><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;">Christmas on the farm when I was a small child <br /><br />Elsie Crocker <br /><br />This farm was located ten miles from Boise Idaho and six miles from Meridian Idaho. Right in the middle of the fertile valley of Boise, Idaho. The place my dad had been looking for. <br /><br />This ranch was called “Shaw’s and Dorr’s Orchard”. It was owned by two families, that lived in Boise. They visited the ranch often. They each had a family. The Dorr’s had a boy my age. The Shaw’s had a girl, whose name was Inez Shaw, whom my sister Inez was named for. <br /><br />We stayed on this ranch for five years. We had a new house and all the necessaries when we moved in. They had a well dug and had it run by a motor. This was great, lots of nice pure water to drink. It was used for the animals and gardens. <br /><br />Dad had hired men to help build the sheds, barn, and pig pen. We had two horses, one cow whose name was Queenie. One horse was coal black, his name was “Nig” The other horse was named Dick He was a pretty roan, with a white star on his forehead. Dick was a high spirited, but Nig was slow and easy. My mother thought Dick had a lot of “spunk” <br /><br />We finally got turkeys, chickens, a couple of pigs, and our first big black and white dog, which we all loved. We called him Blackie, he would wake us up every morning. <br /><br />Dad planted all kinds of fruit trees. The trees were small, so we had to wait a few years for their fruit. <br /><br />Dad’s real job was to plant eighty acres of prune trees. <br /><br />We finally got a root cellar where we kept our milk, eggs and fruit cool. The summers in Idaho were very hot Things spoiled fast in the heat. We never had an ice box, refrigerators were unheard of. <br /><br />We felt fortunate to have a real nice house to live in. Lots of good pure water to use anyway we needed. Good rich soil to grow vegetables, chickens for all the eggs, we needed, and Queenie to give us milk and enough to feed the animals. Milk to drink and whipping cream for cakes and goodies. Yes we made our candy and pop corn balls. Money was scarce but money isn’t everything, Dad would say. We had each other and we were very happy. <br /><br />Dad liked to see things grow, therefore we always had a lot of vegetables and flowers. Dad always planted violets close to Mothers bedroom window, she loved the scent of violets and always did. <br /><br />Dad would plant a lot of popcorn between the rows of squash, pumpkins, and melons. The summers are real hot and dry just the right for growing melons. Oh! How good they are right off the vine. We had enough to share with neighbors and school friends. <br /><br />We dried the popcorn on a spread out canvas or by twisting the tops together and hung up by the tops on a nail in the woodshed. <br /><br />The popcorn had to be real dry to pop good. The ones that didn’t pop we called “old maids”. I think we still call them that. <br /><br />My brothers and I had to shell the popcorn. We’d take two ears and rub them together. After the first kernels loosened up the others would come off easy. You had to be careful shelling the corn, because the popcorn had sharp points as sharp as a needle. That’s the way we could tell the popcorn from the regular corn. I think they have popcorn different now, without points. <br /><br />A few days before Christmas we would pop a lot of corn getting ready to take it to school, where we would thread it with cranberries to make garlands. We used a needle and a strong thread. The red and white was very pretty. <br /><br />Our tree wasn’t fir or noble as we have now. These kind of trees were scarce in Idaho. They had a few shipped in. I suppose they have all kinds there now. <br /><br />The school was a one room school with all eight grades one teacher for all eight grades. My brothers went there with me or I with them. It was nice to have some help making our decorations, from the older students. <br /><br />Our school Christmas tree was one the older boys, cut from the vacant lot next to the school house This tree was a willow or a shrub bush, no matter we loved it just the same. <br /><br />We made ring chains and cranberry and popcorn garlands. We made other ornaments out of what ever we had to work with. The teacher had a beautiful honeycomb big bell in the middle of the room. She kept this always for the next Christmas. It was snowy white. <br /><br />We would make paper doll strings, folding the paper many times and cutting a string of paper dolls, and holding hands. <br /><br />Of course we had to clean out our desks to be all clean for Christmas. <br /><br />This was a special day! </span></span></blockquote><p> </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i_s_Gm6U00c/X82EXnJfLvI/AAAAAAAAT9Q/hamkHw8MHjMFFIotY2DorlQpWSoJnQItwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1805/Underwood%2Bclass%2Bphoto%2Bat%2Bdesks.jpg.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1420" data-original-width="1805" height="315" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i_s_Gm6U00c/X82EXnJfLvI/AAAAAAAAT9Q/hamkHw8MHjMFFIotY2DorlQpWSoJnQItwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h315/Underwood%2Bclass%2Bphoto%2Bat%2Bdesks.jpg.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is one of two photos in my collection showing the actual schoolroom Elsie describes. Elsie is sitting in the front row, closest to the camera, wearing a white dress. Walter is in the front row closest to the teacher, wearing overalls. Bill is, from the camera's perspective, directly in front of Walter, in the second row, also wearing overalls.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <p></p><p><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I will arbitrarily end there, as this memoir is difficult to divide into chapters. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><a href="https://heritagehunt.blogspot.com/2020/12/amanuensis-monday-schoolhouse-and-santa.html" target="_blank"></a><a href="https://heritagehunt.blogspot.com/2020/12/amanuensis-monday-schoolhouse-and-santa.html" target="_blank">To continue with the next installment of Elsie's Christmas book, click here.</a></i></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://heritagehunt.blogspot.com/2020/12/amanuensis-monday-schoolhouse-and-santa.html" target="_blank"></a><a><br /></a><br /><br /></span></p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Citation: </span></h2><span style="font-family: georgia;">Elsie Crocker, "Christmas on the Farm when I was a Small Child" (typescript, 1990); copy in possession of Amber Brosius, 2020.</span>Amberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00487334213435081867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821298222761503890.post-89569035991937631352020-05-20T22:53:00.000-07:002020-05-20T22:53:41.778-07:0052 Ancestors Week 20: Travel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">This prompt is a week late, and there is a substantial gap since the last post. Although this quarantine theoretically provides more time, it has been hard to establish a routine. (It’s hard even to remember which day of the week it is.) In addition to that—or perhaps because of that—I have been finding most of the prompts uninspiring. An idea may spring to mind, but then I realize either that it has already been written about, or that there is a lack of information to support my ideas. However, this theme of “Travel” brings definite ideas to mind, and ones on which it is currently quite pleasant to dwell. Aren’t we all longing to travel? <br /><br />Last summer my parents and I took a road trip to eastern Washington state and into the Idaho panhandle, and the previous year we took a similar trip farther south. In the summer of 1911 my great-grandfather, John S. Brosius, also took a trip to Idaho, and saw some of the same country that we would see over a hundred years later. His impressions were reported in the <i>Sedan Times-Star</i> upon his return to Kansas. <br /><br />Reading that article, it is clear that he and I were looking through very different eyes. I was looking for beauty in the landscape and novelty in the sights. John S. Brosius was looking through the eyes of a farmer, judging the possibilities of planting, plowing, and harvesting. “The farms are mere hilltops… and a team must be driven corkscrew fashion around the hills. No team could begin to pull a load straight up the hill or hold it back going down,” he says of the land around Weiser, where he visited John Walker, Ben Steinweden, “and other Chautauquans,” relocated there from John Brosius’ own home of Chautauqua county, Kansas. <br /><br />My memories of the Weiser area are of a cute Old Town containing a decent music store and an offbeat furniture store, among other things, in the midst of picturesque velvety hills. To me, the rounded hills contributed to the charm of the place, and their steepness entered my mind only as adding a gratifying briskness to a jaunt, had I been given the opportunity to climb them. To me they appeared quite gentle. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />John S. Brosius lamented that “he does not believe the Snake river country, where many are taking claims, will be irrigated for years and years if it ever is.” I cannot speak to whether it has been irrigated in the last 110 years, although I suspect it has, because we drove over a dam, but the Hell’s Canyon area must have looked much like it looked to Great-Grandpa. While I admired the landscape, my mom’s comments were more reminiscent of John’s, if expressed in different terms. “It’s too dry,” she complained. <br /><br />“Mr. Brosius says the Blackfoot country looked better to him than any other part of Idaho,” offered the <i>Sedan Times-Star</i>, but “He would not live there, he says, on account of the dust. It is something awful.” My family’s road trips did not extend quite so far to the east. I will be curious to one day compare my impressions of that area to my great-grandfather’s.<br /><br /> <br /><br />Here is a transcription of the entire article of John S. Brosius’ unflattering description of Idaho: </span><br /><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">BACK TO SUNNY KANSAS<br />IDAHO’S LURE TOO WEAK TO TO HOLD JOHN BROSIUS.<br />SEES MANY DEFECTS THERE<br />“Corkscrew Farming” on Western Idaho’s Hills Has No Attraction for Him—Back Here to Stay.<br /><br />John Brosius returned this week from a trip to Idaho and the northwest and that he very much prefers Kansas to that country is very evident from his conversation. He saw most of the Chautauqua colony in Idaho and says that nearly all of them, if not all, are satisfied and happy. But as for him, he will stay right here at Sedan. The lure of the west is not strong enough to pull him away.<br /><br />Mr. Brosius visited John Walker, Ben Steinweden and other Chautauquans over near Weiser, iin the west part of Idaho. He found them happy and well although he says he would not like to farm such land. The farms are mere hilltops, he says and a team must be driven corkscrew fashion around the hills. No team could begin to pull a load straight up the hill or hold it back going down. The land is so steep that the grain is hard to harvest. Yet it produces good crops. Mr. Steinweden says he “cussed” his farm when he first went there but now he admits he “would not trade it for half of Chautauqua county.” Mr. Walker raised quite a lot of fruit last year but had difficulty in selling it as under the Idaho law fruit that is damaged cannot be sold at anything like a full price.<br /><br />Mr. Brosius says the Blackfoot country looked better to him than any other part of Idaho. He would not live there, he says, on account of the dust. It is something awful. He found Chautauquans there doing well for the most part, although some of them are still hunting work.<br /><br />As a whole, however, Mr. Brosius saw many drawbacks to the Idaho country. For instance, he does not believe the Snake river country, where many are taking claims, will be irrigated for years and years if it ever is. He says the farmers over at the other side of the state are likewise crying for water right now and can hardly get enough for any purpose. The whole country, he says, has a man for every job and in most cases, several men for every job. Some of the last delegation to Blackfoot are still out of work while others are in the beet sugar plant which will run only until Dec. 1. Mr. Brosius saw many men on the trains coming out of Idaho and most of them had, like himself, concluded that other countries were just as good if indeed not much better. </span></blockquote>
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Citation: </h3>
"Back to Sunny Kansas," <i>Sedan Times-Star</i>, 7 Sep 1911, p. 1, col. 4; digital images, <i>Newspapers.com</i> (www.newspapers.com : accessed 26 Jan 2020), World Collection. <div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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Amberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00487334213435081867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821298222761503890.post-2949639385548155982020-04-07T22:34:00.000-07:002020-04-08T18:49:20.547-07:0052 Ancestors Week 15: Fire<div class="tr_bq">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Bwl60rfR1TU/Xo5-nULVR0I/AAAAAAAASdI/MJWoZkt420gihuA0HeCo1K3NHxLSw7EVQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/1586396828911227-0.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Stroesser home, at 417 N. 40th, Omaha, Nebraska.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="tr_bq">
<br />
The first thought that came to mind upon seeing the prompt "Fire" was of the burning of the Hoyt house in 1948, but I <a href="https://heritagehunt.blogspot.com/2020/02/52-ancestors-week-9-disaster.html">already wrote about that</a> for "Disaster" in Week 9. So this week I am going for a more lighthearted approach. (With what is going on in the world right now, I'm not exactly in the mood to write about my 2great-grandmother who burned to death.) I'll write about a different sense of the word <i>fire</i>. This post will be about the time that shots were <i>fired </i>at my Stroesser great-grandparents' house. That would be Harry and Mary Stroesser of Omaha, Nebraska.</div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"></span><br />
<blockquote>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Shots in the Night Send Watch to Jail<br /><br />A shot pierced the stillness of the early morning hours in front of the home of Harry Stroesser, 417 North Fortieth street, Friday. Stroesser awakened, saw a man staggering towards the rear of his yard. Then came another shot. Police were notified.<br /><br />William Pickens, block watchman living at 2014 Farnam street, was found near Thirty-first and Farnam streets, his revolver showing four empty shells which had recently been discharged. Pickens was charged with drunkeness and discharging firearms in the city.</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"> </span><br />
Luckily the firing of these shots seems to have had no negative consequences, apart from the legal charges against the intoxicated shooter, which seems only reasonable.<br />
<br />
If the newspaper article were the only source to share for this event, it would be interesting enough. But there may be more. In 2002, I received a copy of the oral history as remembered by one of my cousins, a grandchild of Harry and Mary Stroesser. An incident, heard second-hand, is recalled in that typescript. It is possible, but probably not provable, that the information given in the newspaper article is only part of the story. There may have been more to the story, which would have been inappropriate to share with the authorities at the time.<br />
<br />
The date of the newspaper article was 26 Aug 1933, about three months before the repeal of Prohibition. "With...prohibition the rule of the day, Grandpa turned to a form of bootlegging," my cousin reveals. <br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Aunt Clara’s husband Tudd Hill says he remembers a still in the basement at the family home at 417 North 40th Street, but he says Grandpa never sold the drink. He would trade it or serve to his friends who came over for hours of cribbage in the basement, while Grammy stayed in the kitchen with the kids. <br /><br /> My dad (Joe) remembers men coming to the side window at night and sneaking away in the darkness. One man while sneaking away, bumping into the tire swing in the backyard and, thinking it was someone apprehending him, shot the tire with his pistol.</span></blockquote>
<br />
Could this be the real story behind the drunk block watchman firing shots outside the Stroesser house? His inebriated condition could be the logical conclusion of an evening of cribbage and bathtub liquor. The friendship between the shooter and Harry Stroesser might have caused them to change a fact or two around for the authorities: i.e. say that he was approaching the house rather than leaving it, so as not to implicate Harry as a possible source of the alcohol in his system.<br />
<br />
Of course, this is all pure speculation on my part. I have no proof, and scarcely any evidence, that the incident reported in the newspaper and that recalled by my cousin are the same. It does seem unlikely, however, that there would have been two such similar events. But if there were, it only adds to this week's prompt of "fire," with more shots fired!Amberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00487334213435081867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821298222761503890.post-34576663942438598052020-04-05T09:30:00.002-07:002020-04-05T09:30:51.278-07:0052 Ancestors Week 14: WaterGrandpa Red, Vinis Brosius, spent a lot of time in the water. My dad mentioned to me the other evening that he remembers Lowell (Red's
brother) telling him that Red had been a champion diver at (he thinks it was) Vancouver
Pool. I myself remember hearing that Red used to high dive at Jantzen Beach Amusement Park, a much beloved icon of Portland's past. Although I have seen no photos of either of these accomplishments, there are photos of him in his swimsuit, playing on the beach with his brother and future wife and in-laws.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uVHBPKSfuN8/XooG0w2IvTI/AAAAAAAAScY/Mi84Su7fm-8S6AV8G7PPtHPaySAx1tAjwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/lowell%2Binez%2Belsie%2Bvinis%2Bflora.jpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="351" data-original-width="552" height="404" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uVHBPKSfuN8/XooG0w2IvTI/AAAAAAAAScY/Mi84Su7fm-8S6AV8G7PPtHPaySAx1tAjwCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/lowell%2Binez%2Belsie%2Bvinis%2Bflora.jpg.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lowell Brosius, Inez Underwood, Elsie (Underwood) Jones, Red Brosius, Flora (Amos) Underwood.<br />This would be Red with his brother and future (or current, depending on the date this photo was taken) sisters- and mother-in-law.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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There are also stories of the time he saved a man from drowning in the Clackamas River. Once my dad showed me a newspaper clipping of that heroic event, but subsequent requests to see it again have resulted in the discovery that no one knew where it was anymore.<br />
<br />
Until just the other day.<br />
<br />
My dad opened up a box we had thought filled with photos, only to find stacks of letters, documents, charts, and more. The two of us spent a few hours rapidly sorting them into folders. Many of the items turned out to be things I have been seeking, such as the newspaper clipping about Grandpa's rescue, while others were things I didn't even know existed. It will be a pleasure to thoroughly examine each and every page later, but for now I can finally share that story.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FMAxGzTv00k/XooBjibv8hI/AAAAAAAAScM/Yc_by8oY1agEt_5W85BZsdXkOqyROOsowCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/1931-08-28%2BVinis%2BBrosius%2Bsaved%2Bman%2Bfrom%2Bdrowning.tiff" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1027" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FMAxGzTv00k/XooBjibv8hI/AAAAAAAAScM/Yc_by8oY1agEt_5W85BZsdXkOqyROOsowCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/1931-08-28%2BVinis%2BBrosius%2Bsaved%2Bman%2Bfrom%2Bdrowning.tiff" width="409" /></a></div>
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I don't know in which newspaper the article originated, but I imagine it was the <i>Oregon Journal</i>, because I have been unable to find it in the <i>Oregonian</i> archives. However, this clipping most conveniently preserves the date: Friday, August 28, 1931. It also consistently misspells Grandpa's name as Vinas.<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
While Vinas Brosius, 6105 73d avenue and Aaron Babcock, 75th avenue and 63d street were swimming in the Clackamas river near the fish hatchery last Sunday they did some good rescue work in saving the life of a man named Fred Wilson, about 25 years old. Vinas first saw the man go down, went to where he was and brought him to the waters edge and called Aaron to assist him in taking him out of the water. Others assistance was summoned and the man was soon restored to normal. Vinas and Aaron are both about 16 years old.</blockquote>
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This story is slightly different than I remember it. As I recall, it happened near High Rocks, a few miles downriver from the fish hatchery, and involved diving from a bridge. According to Dad, there were actually a couple of rescues that appeared in newspaper clippings, and perhaps it is the other one that I am recollecting. My quick search through the folder of papers we sorted out for Grandpa did not locate another article, but the folder is rather thick and it is possible I passed it without knowing. It is also possible that in our fast-paced sorting we accidentally mis-filed it, and I may later find it in someone else's folder.Amberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00487334213435081867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821298222761503890.post-81698154462691702802020-03-26T22:15:00.000-07:002020-03-26T22:15:08.601-07:0052 Ancestors Week 13: Nearly ForgottenIt is somewhat ironic that I nearly forgot to write a blog post this week, when the theme is "Nearly Forgotten." I was distracted from my usual routine by hearing the news that we can now upload our raw DNA to <i>Geneanet</i>. Immediately I went to the English-language version of that European genealogy website and uploaded my DNA. While waiting for matches to be found, I began to input my family tree. (Although it takes much time, I always input my tree manually. My gedcom contains too many unproven or conjectural lines and I don't want them to become internet "fact" without proper research.) Since I have previously seen trees at <i>Geneanet </i>which contain members of my Luxembourg families, I began with that quarter of my tree, under the supposition that it is the most likely branch on which my European DNA cousins and I will match.<br />
<br />There are a couple of twigs on my Luxembourg branch that extend quite far back, into the seventeenth century. As I typed in the information on these lines, I realized how sparse it was. When researching, it had been as a quick skeleton tree, finding only enough information to identify the parents of each individual and where to find the next record to move the tree back another generation. I had intended to return and fill in the gaps: locate full sets of records for each person and identify all the children of each couple. But I never did.<br />
<br />
Now I shall return to these nearly forgotten tasks. Perhaps you will hear more about it in the near future.Amberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00487334213435081867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821298222761503890.post-69954124456506827342020-03-17T21:08:00.000-07:002020-03-17T21:08:06.249-07:0052 Ancestors Week 12: Popular<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="text-align: center;">
How to be very, very popular</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
That is the subject, friends.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A gal with charm can walk off the farm</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And start earning dividends</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
If she's popular, popular, popular friends.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">-"How to Be Very, Very Popular" lyric by Sammy Cahn, 1955 </span></div>
</blockquote>
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MyHeritage recently released a new tool that has become quite popular, and for good reason. It automatically colorizes your old black-and-white family photos. For the most part, it does a very nice job. Like many others, I have been having some fun looking at my ancestors in color. Although the colorizations are simply guesses (you can't be certain that the couch or the shirt was really that color, and in some cases I can actually disprove the color choices), it does bring an immediacy to the old photos that can be surprising.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-y3452x_Zu-Y/XnEQweHXlzI/AAAAAAAASTU/w42gUdlo_D0FJauY0rL29YUco6DhU1sKgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Aileen%2B%2BRed%2BNetarts%2Bc-Comparison.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1285" data-original-width="842" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-y3452x_Zu-Y/XnEQweHXlzI/AAAAAAAASTU/w42gUdlo_D0FJauY0rL29YUco6DhU1sKgCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/Aileen%2B%2BRed%2BNetarts%2Bc-Comparison.jpg" width="261" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grandma Aileen and Grandpa Red Brosius in Netarts, Oregon, late 1930s or early 1940s</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GNQplDNt5HY/XnEQZukUwRI/AAAAAAAASXY/WtbohJzF25gtdO31V6ozYEfJFlx-Bz-DACEwYBhgL/s1600/0948a-1st%2Bleave-claire%2B%2Brose-Comparison.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="805" data-original-width="1167" height="275" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GNQplDNt5HY/XnEQZukUwRI/AAAAAAAASXY/WtbohJzF25gtdO31V6ozYEfJFlx-Bz-DACEwYBhgL/s400/0948a-1st%2Bleave-claire%2B%2Brose-Comparison.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grandma Rose Stroesser on her first leave from the Navy, with her sister Clare.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Not only do the pictures often seem more lifelike, but occasionally the color can bring out details that easily go unnoticed in the black and white versions.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8gADMup6PAk/XnEWQQdLTrI/AAAAAAAASa4/RX4w_4w3_M4d8cPcZLwWmEXp4i2cEnmRQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/lowell%2Bbrosius%2Bon%2Btricycle-Comparison.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="877" data-original-width="443" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8gADMup6PAk/XnEWQQdLTrI/AAAAAAAASa4/RX4w_4w3_M4d8cPcZLwWmEXp4i2cEnmRQCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/lowell%2Bbrosius%2Bon%2Btricycle-Comparison.jpg" width="201" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Great-uncle Lowell Brosius on a tricycle. Although clearly visible in the original, the barn in the background is much more noticeable in color.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Of course, sometimes the choice in colors goes humorously awry. I noticed a propensity for bare arms and bare legs to come out a greyish periwinkle color, very different from any normal skin tone.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tNANI7BEtDc/XnGX-jX9RTI/AAAAAAAASbE/GN-FWN28Zg0dIITnBYI3t_SEn1jqBlTzACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/aileen%2B%2Binez-Comparison.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="522" data-original-width="717" height="290" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tNANI7BEtDc/XnGX-jX9RTI/AAAAAAAASbE/GN-FWN28Zg0dIITnBYI3t_SEn1jqBlTzACLcBGAsYHQ/s400/aileen%2B%2Binez-Comparison.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grandma Aileen Underwood at her high school graduation, with her sister Inez. Her arms were never that color in real life, nor were either girl's legs.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The tool is a colorization tool, advertised as adding color to black and white photos. However, I was curious how it would treat a faded color photograph.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mXzxTEnqU_c/XnEPb_xX5FI/AAAAAAAASNc/rNClpfYplzkXEYQQDp4MDZzGavGDUmOBwCEwYBhgL/s1600/1958-11%2BDoris%2B%2BBills%2B25th%2Banniversary-Comparison%2B-%2BCopy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="814" data-original-width="1600" height="202" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mXzxTEnqU_c/XnEPb_xX5FI/AAAAAAAASNc/rNClpfYplzkXEYQQDp4MDZzGavGDUmOBwCEwYBhgL/s400/1958-11%2BDoris%2B%2BBills%2B25th%2Banniversary-Comparison%2B-%2BCopy.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Great-aunt Doris and Great-uncle Bill Underwood's 25th Anniversary</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In some cases I was rather impressed with the results. It seems, however, that the color photo must be converted to black and white and then colorized from there, because in some of the pictures the colors chosen for the colorization are most definitely not those in the original.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vWzbVmjYMU4/XnGcip7QQvI/AAAAAAAASbQ/q9TczySSzQ0MkM_heZ0M_cKBUhUSP-DcQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Photo1500303-Comparison.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="897" data-original-width="1243" height="287" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vWzbVmjYMU4/XnGcip7QQvI/AAAAAAAASbQ/q9TczySSzQ0MkM_heZ0M_cKBUhUSP-DcQCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/Photo1500303-Comparison.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grandma Rose and Grandpa Jack Hoyt. The original, though faded, is far more colorful than the colorization!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
All in all, I have been greatly enjoying MyHeritage's popular new colorization tool, despite its shortfalls. I appreciate the ability to download the results as a comparison between the original and the colorized version, as all the examples posted on this blog entry.<br />
<br />
I am not affiliated with MyHeritage in any way, except as a subscriber. Amberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00487334213435081867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1821298222761503890.post-39167407282998524642020-03-10T11:05:00.001-07:002020-03-10T11:05:45.953-07:0052 Ancestors Week 11: Luck<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://live.staticflickr.com/1867/43724457015_24ca27d445_4k.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://live.staticflickr.com/1867/43724457015_24ca27d445_4k.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A horse and buggy in 1909<br /><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/fylkesarkiv/43724457015/">On the road, 1909</a> by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/fylkesarkiv/">Fylkesarkivet i Vestland</a>, on Flickr. No known copyright restrictions.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
When I saw that this week's prompt was "Luck," the first thought that leapt to mind was of a certain newspaper report about an incident involving my great-grandma Cora's brother, Buchanan Wade, whom my Uncle Lowell (and probably the rest of the kids) called "Uncle Buck." But no, I reasoned, I have told that story too many times; it has featured in my Instagram feed and in my WikiTree comments. Surely I have written about it on my blog as well. A search of my blog posts, however, revealed that the story has yet to be told here, so I am free to share it this week!<br />
<br />
Upon reading the article, you will discover that the phrase "leapt to mind" was something of a pun...<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Horse Falls 30 Feet; Lands In Tree-Top and Wasn't Hurt<br /> It is said that a cat has nine lives but now it is believed that a horse belonging to Buck Wade has all the cats in catdom beaten a mile. Mr. Wade's horse jumped over the guard rails on the big fill by the ice plant Tuesday morning, fell fully thirty feet into the top of a tree and apparently was none the worse for its thrilling adventure.<br /> Mr. Wade was driving east along the north side of the fill when an approaching auto frightened his animal. The horse whirled to the guard rail and Mr. Wade leaped for his life, landing safely on the road side. But the horse went on and landed with the buggy on top of it in a tree at the bottom of the creek below. How it escaped instant death is a miracle. Probably such a thing could never happen again without fatal results either to the horse or its driver.<br /> Men in the vicinity rushed to the scene and got the horse out as quickly as they could. The animal walked away just a little stiff in some of its joints but otherwise apparently safe and sound. The buggy fared much worse, being torn all to pieces.</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I</span>t seems that both Uncle Buck and his horse had plenty of luck that day. Only the buggy did not share in their good fortune.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/d6/Firestone-Columbus-1909.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="418" data-original-width="550" height="303" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/d6/Firestone-Columbus-1909.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The article does not state what make of auto was involved, but this Firestone-Columbus automobile (in this case, chauffering presidential candidate William Jennings Bryan) was one of the vehicles on American roads at the time.<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Unknown author / Public domain</span></td></tr>
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Citation:</h3>
"Horse Falls 30 Feet; Lands In Tree-Top and Wasn't Hurt," <i>Sedan Times-Star</i>, 25 Nov 1909, p. 1, col. 5-6; digital images, <i>America's GenealogyBank</i> (www.genealogybank.com : accessed 15 Aug 2011), Historical Newspapers. Amberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00487334213435081867noreply@blogger.com0