Wade family from Kentucky to Ohio, part 2

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.

 

 

Mefford's Fort, a cabin built in Washington, Kentucky, in 1787 from the planks of a flatboat.
Greg Hume, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

The settlement of Limestone stood at the mouth of Limestone Creek where it emptied into the Ohio River and formed a natural harbor. It was located 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. 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.  After becoming 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. 

Near Limestone, 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 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.

In addition to these shared habitations, settlers were beginning to erect individual cabins on their own personal claims, which could be a risky venture. As G. Glenn Clift, in his History of Maysville and Mason County, explains, "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)

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.

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 "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.

The third (and finally successful) petition, dated 25 Oct 1787 according to the Library of Virginia website Virginia Memories, contains nearly three pages of signatures, each page divided into three columns, and the petitioners are said to all "live 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.

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.

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. 

Sources:

Bourbon, Virginia, Legislative Petitions Digital Collection, Accession Number 36121, Box 287, Folder 62, Inhabitants of Bourbon County: Petition (Division of County/New County), 25 Oct 1787; digital images, Library of Virginia, Virginia Memory (www.virginiamemory.com : accessed 10 Jan 2021).

David I. Bushnell, Jr, "Daniel Boone at Limestone, 1786-1787." The Virginia Magazine of History and Biography 25 (Jan 1917); digital images, JSTOR (https://www.jstor.org/ : accessed 15 Jan 2021) 1-11.

G. Glenn Clift, History of Maysville and Mason County  (Lexington, Kentucky: Transylvania Printing Co., 1936), vol. 1.

Allan W. Eckert, That Dark and Bloody River: Chronicles of the Ohio River Valley  (New York: Bantam Books, 1995),  180. 

Neal O. Hammon and James Russell Harris, "Daniel Boone the Businessman: Revising the Myth of Failure," The Register of the Kentucky Historical Society 112 (Winter 2014); digital images, JSTOR (https://www.jstor.org/ : accessed 30 Dec 2020) 5-50.

Stephen Kelley, "The Founding of Manchester... Massie's Station," Ohio Southland 3 (Issue #2 1991); digital images, Adams County Public Library, Biblioboard Open Access (https://library.biblioboard.com/anthology/e552f221-42f0-4b9b-963d-32739ee859fd : accessed 24 Jan 2021) 19-25.

John McDonald, Biographical Sketches of General Nathaniel Massie, General Duncan McArthur, Captain William Wells, and General Simon Kenton: Who Were Early Settlers in the Western Country  (Dayton, Ohio: D. Osborn & Son, 1852).

James Rood Robertson M.A.Ph.D., Petitions of the Early Inhabitants of Kentucky to the General Assembly of Virginia 1769 to 1792  (Louisville, Kentucky: John P. Morton & Company, 1914). 

Eleanor Duncan Wood, "Limestone, A Gateway of Pioneer Kentucky," Register of Kentucky State Historical Society 28 (April 1930); digital images, JSTOR (https://www.jstor.org/ : accessed 14 Jan 2021) 151-154.

Wade family from Kentucky to Ohio, part 1

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.

Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Come all ye brisk young fellows who have a mind to roam

All in some foreign country, a long way from home,

All in some foreign country, along with me to go,

And we'll settle on the banks of the lovely Ohio.

We'll settle on the banks of the lovely Ohio.

-American folk song

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 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. 

The sources differ somewhat in the reason for Wade and Stites' journey. Allan W. Eckert in his book That Dark and Bloody River 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. 

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."

The Kentucky Gazette 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 Gazette, 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 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. 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.

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:

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.

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."

"Y'know," Wade replied dryly, "I heard that, too, but decided it was a lie."

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.

 

 

Sources:

David I. Bushnell, Jr, "Daniel Boone at Limestone, 1786-1787." The Virginia Magazine of History and Biography 25 (Jan 1917); digital images, JSTOR (https://www.jstor.org/ : accessed 15 Jan 2021) 1-11.

G. Glenn Clift, History of Maysville and Mason County  (Lexington, Kentucky: Transylvania Printing Co., 1936), vol. 1. 

Don Corbly, Pastor John Corbly and his neighbors in Greene Township  (N.p.: Lulu.com, 2011).

Allan W. Eckert, That Dark and Bloody River: Chronicles of the Ohio River Valley  (New York: Bantam Books, 1995),  180. 

Neal O. Hammon and James Russell Harris, "Daniel Boone the Businessman: Revising the Myth of Failure," The Register of the Kentucky Historical Society 112 (Winter 2014); digital images, JSTOR (https://www.jstor.org/ : accessed 30 Dec 2020) 5-50.

Stephen Kelley, "Lore, Legends & Landmarks of Old Adams," The People's Defender, online archives (http://peoplesdefender.com/main.asp?Search=1&ArticleID=129868&SectionID=36&SubSectionID=360&S=1 : accessed 19 May 2012). No longer accessible.

"Lexington, March 18, 1789," Kentucky Gazette, 21 Mar 1789, p. 2, col. 2; digital images, Lexington Public Library (https://www.lexpublib.org/digital-archives : accessed 8 Jan 2021), Kentucky Gazette 1787-1840.

Amanuensis Monday: Christmas dinner at home (Elsie's Christmas book part 5)

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.

Fanciful image of a dragon playing Snap-dragon, from Robert Chambers' Book of Days (1879)
The original uploader was Ziggurat at English Wikipedia., Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Here he comes with flaming bowl,
Don't he mean to take his toll,
Snip! Snap! Dragon!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I am sure Dad never intended to go to any meeting that night. He stayed home and seemed real happy to enjoy our gifts.

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.

I enjoyed writing this, as it brought many memories.

Elsie May Crocker

April 15, 1990 

Citation:

Elsie Crocker, "Christmas on the Farm when I was a Small Child" (typescript, 1990); copy in possession of Amber Brosius, 2020.

Amanuensis Monday: Christmas dinner with neighbors (Elsie's Christmas book part 4)

On the fourth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
Four calling birds
Three French hens,
Two turtledoves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

We played with their toys for a while and then went outside to play in the snow. Mostly snowing snowballs at each other.

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."

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.

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.

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.

 

Citation:

Elsie Crocker, "Christmas on the Farm when I was a Small Child" (typescript, 1990); copy in possession of Amber Brosius, 2020.

 

Amanuensis Monday: O Christmas Tree (Elsie's Christmas book part 3)

To read from the beginning of Elsie’s Christmas book, click here.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Sometimes we got paper dolls that had their paper clothes to cut out They were fun too.

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.

 

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.)

 

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Citation:

Elsie Crocker, "Christmas on the Farm when I was a Small Child" (typescript, 1990); copy in possession of Amber Brosius, 2020.

Amanuensis Monday: The Schoolhouse and Santa (Elsie's Christmas book part 2)

Last week 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.

You may remember that she was telling about how they would prepare for Christmas in the one-room schoolhouse she attended. Here she continues:

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.

 

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.

 

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.

“The first time I stepped upon the platform”
My heart went pitty pat
For I thought I heard
Someone say Who’s little girl is that?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The excitement of Santa and his eight reindeers, with his big sack of toys, kept my brothers and I wide awake.

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.

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.

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.

Looking back we never received much but no one could have been happier.

Our stockings were filled with nuts and candy, not so full you couldn’t take a hold of the top and carry them around.

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.

 

 

A platter of ribbon candy, a favorite of my mom's as well as Elsie.
Photo by Travel Photographer from StockSnap

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.

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.

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.

 

This time it is a little easier to choose a stopping point, as the subject changes slightly after this.


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.
 

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.

Citation:

Elsie Crocker, "Christmas on the Farm when I was a Small Child" (typescript, 1990); copy in possession of Amber Brosius, 2020.

Friday Funny: A Strange Christmas Party

Recently, while browsing around at the British Newspaper Archive, 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!)

A St. Bernard dog
Image by b1-foto from Pixabay

A STRANGE CHRISTMAS PARTY.

BY AN IMAGINATIVE DOGMATIST.

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:--

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—

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?”

 

(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.)

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.”

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 con amore; 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.

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.

 

(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!)

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.

(I looked it up: a plum-pudding dog is another name for a Dalmatian.)

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.

“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—”

“Take my handkerchief,” I asked sympathetically. But he did it with his left paw.

“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.

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.

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.”

“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,”

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.

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.

A sudden thought came into my mind. “Is it possible, ladies and gentlemen,” I cried, “that you know not the news?”

“What news?” growled the Danes, and all perked up their heads in alarm.

“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!”

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 en route.

At last Hugo stilled the confusion with a deep chest note, and said:

“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.”

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?

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.

Citation:

"A Strange Christmas Party," Essex Newsman, 31 Dec 1889, p. 3, col. 7-8; digital images, British Newspaper Archive (https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk : accessed 6 Dec 2020), Image © THE BRITISH LIBRARY BOARD. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.