tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78779198593223107512024-03-05T08:47:15.609-08:00Leaf, Twig & StemA Genealogy Blogtheailurophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14291353148749332231noreply@blogger.comBlogger122125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877919859322310751.post-17663481807264482742023-10-27T21:21:00.002-07:002023-11-11T16:10:28.889-08:00Joseph Jerome Harrington<p><span style="font-size: medium;">In my continuing search for the members of Cassandria Hooper Harrington Rogers Kauffman's birth family, I'm always trolling for new records. Here again is what know about her. All her records say she was born in Worcester, Massachusetts. But those records don't specify "city of " or "county". In my experience, it's often somewhere in the county. She appears in the 1850 census as a mill girl, married my great, great grandfather and had two children. He went off to the Civil War and died. She lived for a while with members of the Rogers family but eventually remarried. She was married to William Kauffman and died just after the turn of the century. Her death record in Orange, Ma says father's name "Joseph" and mother's name "Nancy". Her marriage record to my gg grandfather says the same. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I have never found reliable records for either parent in Massachusetts. There is a marriage in Oxford which for various reasons I have doubts about. I have never found other siblings, a death record, anything I could verify.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My gg grandfather left behind a packet of letters from the war and in that packet were two letters to Cassandria from her brother: Joseph Jerome Harrington Jr.. The records I ordered from the National Archives refer to his name as Joseph Harrington (alias Jerome). Apparently he went by Jerome. He was a corporal in the 51st infantry. I found a few census records that I believe are him. And I found a death record in a veteran's hospital in Chelsea. It sounds like he was in bad shape at the end of his life. His death record says father's name "Joseph" and mother name "? Green". Parents from Connecticut. So armed with that I narrowed them down to Thompson, Windham County, Connecticut. I found a marriage record with the last name spelled Harrenton, but no birth, no confirmation of family connections and no death.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Once DNA came along I got a few hits for descendants of the Green family. So I'm on the right track. Still nothing for the Harringtons.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So back to Joseph Jerome. I went back to the state death record and found he was buried in Mountain View Cemetery right in Shrewsbury. He wasn't on FindaGrave. So I wrote the town clerk and told him where and when I thought he was buried. What followed was truly and act of genealogical kindness.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">This nice guy named Kevin told me first of all there was no charge to look up the lot card. Most cemeteries charge for everything these days. He discovered that Jerome was buried in the GAR plot in an unmarked grave.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-size: large; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg516ouSj0PZq2Whe2H7CSbtOrwmf3xXh7JGYx223UAScSXwAyG0ppgfiKXDTKVCd7C2JgTzIeUAsDBvA3mV8RUtMA39ecYbNYnCViPbr3KnzOr_cfDSjMCNa60lm6zZBcBNeV0SGplmqzgyS21m0Zy0HDYNsYRYbNK3ifRfjE99n9F13xlYbnNvK1kPwg/s504/Jerome%20lot.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="504" data-original-width="378" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg516ouSj0PZq2Whe2H7CSbtOrwmf3xXh7JGYx223UAScSXwAyG0ppgfiKXDTKVCd7C2JgTzIeUAsDBvA3mV8RUtMA39ecYbNYnCViPbr3KnzOr_cfDSjMCNa60lm6zZBcBNeV0SGplmqzgyS21m0Zy0HDYNsYRYbNK3ifRfjE99n9F13xlYbnNvK1kPwg/w480-h640/Jerome%20lot.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jerome's burial place<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">The black bar is where we think he is buried. So he went out, did the probe, took the picture and then contacted the veteran's agent to have a small metal marker put on this spot. All on his own initiative. He sent me records he and the agent found including a small obit.</span><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://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHx0Op6BiS9PaLqmFEgu210z5r1E6uikrAtCoRIogiriSrG2t7O8Eu3oo5XRdPQyaKrkIZOadgVy-0jKlIR8PqPl6m5co7hq6Lzq_aR30urzsiTMWoequyfL6qp6Er8155o9tbkkNQZckCP2DnKT-UnnLFz2fNTA2v6ph16eEvK8kYBPjkP61XRoSHohw/s1148/JJHarringtonobit%20copy.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="658" data-original-width="1148" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHx0Op6BiS9PaLqmFEgu210z5r1E6uikrAtCoRIogiriSrG2t7O8Eu3oo5XRdPQyaKrkIZOadgVy-0jKlIR8PqPl6m5co7hq6Lzq_aR30urzsiTMWoequyfL6qp6Er8155o9tbkkNQZckCP2DnKT-UnnLFz2fNTA2v6ph16eEvK8kYBPjkP61XRoSHohw/w640-h366/JJHarringtonobit%20copy.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the obit</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">So Joseph Jerome will get a marker with his name, dates and a remembrance of his service. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And all this from the kindness of a city employee.</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>theailurophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14291353148749332231noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877919859322310751.post-30412672519079367402023-04-17T15:20:00.002-07:002023-04-17T15:32:45.591-07:00New Discoveries<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv35t2nwoDZjcyn3okZLsGrh9OyH5iCxcXJb-8p3YbP-duBIHuL7UWj45XRDg9m5dw9oRsNLEWbsGfqoI_ivGq6bkQu10WXMyAxh0jFzY_6QVk8Gel55dr4BNVaJYpmpW0V7pU2sH5Aj3BRylu7LYs3Ooo9nk1Y4x--XgdgVm2ZjXrUQoTIIAfx1Zv/s1852/Gertrude_Haskins.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1852" data-original-width="1330" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv35t2nwoDZjcyn3okZLsGrh9OyH5iCxcXJb-8p3YbP-duBIHuL7UWj45XRDg9m5dw9oRsNLEWbsGfqoI_ivGq6bkQu10WXMyAxh0jFzY_6QVk8Gel55dr4BNVaJYpmpW0V7pU2sH5Aj3BRylu7LYs3Ooo9nk1Y4x--XgdgVm2ZjXrUQoTIIAfx1Zv/w460-h640/Gertrude_Haskins.jpg" width="460" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">You may remember that I blogged about this story in <a href="http://leaftwigandstem.blogspot.com/search?q=The+family+Scandal" target="_blank">2014</a>. To my mind it was a lesson about not taking the family legends too seriously. A story had made its way through the family about a child born out of wedlock. One of those skeletons in the family closet. But it wasn't at all. Henry James "Harry" Tapply had an early marriage to <b>Gertrude Haskins</b>. He then went off to World War I. Gertrude had the baby and died five weeks later. The death cert. we finally located said "anemia and nephritis", but I felt there had to be more to the story.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Lately, I've been trolling the pages of <a href="https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/newspapers/" target="_blank">Chronicling America</a> (a free site) and <a href="http://newspapers.com">newspapers.com</a> for family obituaries. And sure enough, I found this short obituary for Gertrude. The interesting part to me was "after an illness of five weeks" and "leaves an infant daughter five weeks old". This means that Gertrude's death WAS a result of some trauma around the birth of baby Amy Eunice. (who became June Walley after her adoption by Bess Tapply and Sam Walley)</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I've made a few other discoveries too. There was a nice obituary covering the life and career of <b>Richard "Wink" Tapply</b> and his wife Ruth. He went to art school at the Copley School in Boston. He also was loved and admired for his work in recreation services in New Hampshire.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There was another interesting obit for <b>Kathleen Gabel</b>, Donaldson Tapply's daughter. She served in the Navy, worked as a paralegal, managed a restaurant. And this is a whole branch of the family I knew nothing about.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I really enjoyed reading the obit for <b>Sharon Tapply Foster</b>, Philip's daughter and Kevin's sister. She was apparently a bit of a horse whisperer. She rode and trained horses after her retirement. I wish we had gotten to know one another.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Then there is the remembrance that was in the Globe for <b>William G Tapply</b>. He came from the Thomas J Tapply branch of the family. (Charles's older brother) You may have read one of his mystery books from the Brady Coyne series. They are some of my favorites. I still wonder why the branches of the original Tapply family didn't stay in touch. We have so many Tapply cousins out there.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">On the English side there is the obit for another <b>Richard Tapply. </b>This Richard lived in Kent, England, where the Tapplys hale from. He spent 54 years running the Wateringbury Brewery. He got quite a remembrance in the Kent and Sussex Courier.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">On the other side of my family, an obit dated 1917 put to rest a long mystery and "brick wall" in my research on my father's family. My grandfather's sister Honora or<b> "Nora" Fitzgerald</b> died at only 43. She was a question mark on my tree for a long time. It appears she had heart</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">trouble.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Another question mark was the exact death date for <b>Lotta Smith</b> from the Rogers side of my family. A friendly person with access to <b>Newsbank</b> helped me find her obit in the 1966 Worcester Telegram. With a little math I was able to get the date from the article and read a nice review of her career as a singer and soloist. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The other benefit of searching the newspaper archives is that if you do an open search, you get the occasional family story.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4fxYfYvXaz_kDUfM2JoiS4o5o2Rrhe0fUNb-UlQ6oi4qRRvPa9qnlBWy8fLH-4VxlljbTMovddgTzJCmKU0grNDSWQyUtCDQy6e__qwewnw9k13zxKLtPlcNEDhvHNhLgxJnno_-aT3vPtNjIPa2NXDp3nIfqBHlFI2O9jZjxsV10gBdXy4TI0Tzo/s1754/Deborah_Levin.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1754" data-original-width="1470" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4fxYfYvXaz_kDUfM2JoiS4o5o2Rrhe0fUNb-UlQ6oi4qRRvPa9qnlBWy8fLH-4VxlljbTMovddgTzJCmKU0grNDSWQyUtCDQy6e__qwewnw9k13zxKLtPlcNEDhvHNhLgxJnno_-aT3vPtNjIPa2NXDp3nIfqBHlFI2O9jZjxsV10gBdXy4TI0Tzo/w335-h400/Deborah_Levin.jpg" width="335" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This is a Christmas story from 1947 in the Rochester, New York paper featuring <b>Deborah Levin </b>and her mother <b>Helen Tapply Flaherty Levin</b>. Helen was Roberta's sister and Nell Tapply's daughter.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3KxnJbpSsotN9D46ptLk7ljGPp1LyJDQoenaCWDPz55oYNd8L_SOImk3Q0F7zdpvGjHancVWV0IOAqn8H9x81zr9tYXPKvqeHTvKOu6OkrXvgA4gslTmcYSnbaLS1WnC1CgNCVgC96imVNAbfxjwyOLwaVwA_74-AO5DS2bYF2EugAKEB4dNfOJnM/s1575/Roberta_Flaherty.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1575" data-original-width="1213" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3KxnJbpSsotN9D46ptLk7ljGPp1LyJDQoenaCWDPz55oYNd8L_SOImk3Q0F7zdpvGjHancVWV0IOAqn8H9x81zr9tYXPKvqeHTvKOu6OkrXvgA4gslTmcYSnbaLS1WnC1CgNCVgC96imVNAbfxjwyOLwaVwA_74-AO5DS2bYF2EugAKEB4dNfOJnM/w492-h640/Roberta_Flaherty.jpg" width="492" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">This story is from the 1939 Fitchburg Sentinel. Apparently <b>Roberta Flaherty</b> (Also Nell's daughter) was working there as a clerk. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that Roberta herself had a hand in composing the article. She was very witty and quite the writer in high school. A cute article.</span><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">If you are looking for good or interesting family stories, old newspaper article are the ticket.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Some require a subscription, but others are available through your public library. Certainly, it's worth giving it a try.</span></div></div><p></p>theailurophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14291353148749332231noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877919859322310751.post-5780595230282602072022-09-12T11:40:00.002-07:002022-09-12T13:58:21.727-07:00School Days<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://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh57SjMfNB_FMbhyVQ9IVYflaPsrZa-Be_bf0m_17aonGeTMvDdBvpXsxLBrSHu8tRWlcNqdKN8OtyuLl9vSWyzPC6y2oOUg2dRC5NG8ibvIj6qwEfAsm9lr5lT7w70zlE9mVXV39oN5GMvkyp5bu7wiRDw6guZ1t9Fn-XHT845XYAJfm5lNQHTVUaR/s244/EdgerlySchool19312ndgrade.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="170" data-original-width="244" height="446" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh57SjMfNB_FMbhyVQ9IVYflaPsrZa-Be_bf0m_17aonGeTMvDdBvpXsxLBrSHu8tRWlcNqdKN8OtyuLl9vSWyzPC6y2oOUg2dRC5NG8ibvIj6qwEfAsm9lr5lT7w70zlE9mVXV39oN5GMvkyp5bu7wiRDw6guZ1t9Fn-XHT845XYAJfm5lNQHTVUaR/w640-h446/EdgerlySchool19312ndgrade.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Edgerly School Second Grade- 1931</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">My mom came from a mid-sized factory town in central Massachusetts. Fitchburg was almost past its best days even when she was a girl. But a university was established there: Fitchburg Normal School, later Fitchburg Teachers College and now Fitchburg State College. The schools around the university became "lab" schools for the trainees. This is where my mom and her cousins went to school in the lower grades.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">From my mom's house on Garfield Street it wouldn't have been a terrible walk, but very cold and treacherous in the winter. My mom recalls wearing layers of clothes against the cold winds whipping down North Street. Brrr...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The second grade picture above shows my mom- second row far right grinning at the camera. That might be her friend Pauline Morency (Punky) right next to her. On the first row with the very straight bangs and shiny dark hair is Jane Tapply. We think the little girl with the white collar to Jane's left would be Ferne Tapply. The three cousins were in school together all 12 grades.</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/AVvXsEgfMi6bD4Dw2_mqDLxwFsV9oksZzfKlSXSfAzAJIoYFBa-ynBxvBocxJYaPzzLx3NJcLY89e-ZZsdV6DGzTUlMspBO_incEPnkEyUlVr7GtD_91EwuXEl8tyZyURboazTni9JjqQeY5tZeW6UB2YYKexvsLz5BQaiVzlwWzwaqYK7Qrw2yAR6DLhlzG/s411/EdgerlySchoolgr6.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="278" data-original-width="411" height="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfMi6bD4Dw2_mqDLxwFsV9oksZzfKlSXSfAzAJIoYFBa-ynBxvBocxJYaPzzLx3NJcLY89e-ZZsdV6DGzTUlMspBO_incEPnkEyUlVr7GtD_91EwuXEl8tyZyURboazTni9JjqQeY5tZeW6UB2YYKexvsLz5BQaiVzlwWzwaqYK7Qrw2yAR6DLhlzG/w640-h432/EdgerlySchoolgr6.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Edgerly School Grade 6- abt 1935</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">Here's some of the same group again in 6th grade. This time, my mom is the one at the end of the arrow. Second row, second from right. I can't be sure, but I think Jane is right in front of her. Jane was always very dark-haired and petite. We believe Ferne is to the far left on the front row with her hands clasped.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">School is back in session. It's picture day this month in a lot of schools. It made me dig out these pictures and take another look.</span></div>theailurophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14291353148749332231noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877919859322310751.post-61504377595718500672022-08-28T10:09:00.001-07:002022-08-28T10:09:39.352-07:00Women Who Paved the Way<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/AVvXsEjprFx4itCSgrZHl6D2sQnOc1iHWgJFfDVOv9H8hnL5VUfetkGyw92uC5GkcDGl1q0-cUQIb-LLglM8Tu1IDtY1ZX3FMlpo026gEuwMjsocyb1k2EM_j6mkLsxtmJ4Fz6IwZfMgP3JYDsMIIXXaYI2eQEsPQEHeAd-Wq1nVDrit-rS2-lOl1U28HCcP/s720/Cora.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="513" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjprFx4itCSgrZHl6D2sQnOc1iHWgJFfDVOv9H8hnL5VUfetkGyw92uC5GkcDGl1q0-cUQIb-LLglM8Tu1IDtY1ZX3FMlpo026gEuwMjsocyb1k2EM_j6mkLsxtmJ4Fz6IwZfMgP3JYDsMIIXXaYI2eQEsPQEHeAd-Wq1nVDrit-rS2-lOl1U28HCcP/w456-h640/Cora.jpg" width="456" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cora Elizabeth</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">This is Cora Elizabeth Rogers, née Smith. She was my great-grandmother. I am reminded of how the women in our past still shape our lives. By the 1920's she would be married to my great-grandfather Edward. Her son Harry and daughter Dorothy are adults. She was to be a force in my mother's life. In my mother's young life, Edward and Cora lived right next door to my grandparents on Garfield St.. But in the 1920's they lived on Charles St..</span></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://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRfuIx5qalci1Y2_uD2N_QEXj-_QZweo1NJXtqh21_evKLdKyWn55rmO090OLwu27CmQpWQ5kWUPtyZBGoTCWDffA_Ugms6AGIjdAVB_DL4AYBxPjB09kl6YTwOLm7SHKfc1e0LYp8FKvp4UuwUFI_w_NoAZd5aTbk82Brshr8_J0Uu4GgAtEEWaU4/s1008/146%20Charles%20St.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1008" data-original-width="784" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRfuIx5qalci1Y2_uD2N_QEXj-_QZweo1NJXtqh21_evKLdKyWn55rmO090OLwu27CmQpWQ5kWUPtyZBGoTCWDffA_Ugms6AGIjdAVB_DL4AYBxPjB09kl6YTwOLm7SHKfc1e0LYp8FKvp4UuwUFI_w_NoAZd5aTbk82Brshr8_J0Uu4GgAtEEWaU4/w311-h400/146%20Charles%20St.jpg" width="311" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">146 Charles St.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">Edward is listed at the Superintendent of the City Sewer Dept. in the 1920 census. He would rise to become Superintendent of Streets. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I was browsing the newspaper archives for the Fitchburg Sentinel and I found this story. It is the registration roll for the 1922 elections. The vote for women had been ratified in August of 1920. Interestingly, there are no Tapply women on the list. But there is my great-grandmother.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7fY6gm4ULVd0l1SrRyxi5fNj1SJt70er-9bGUKk3kuEc3_ZRMxexZMiC7-MjzEqlUd79UNOoqzQ0NHUFdIH3dSVgZ4LJAmE2KbZmz81220RGWysG-p-uC1Q0ZQe_VWuWKnq11wVG5DmdaBA8mk9Z2Kh3pJJFvstawTDj2FxiomhEBdMieQWmnh3ds/s2296/Vote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="972" data-original-width="2296" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7fY6gm4ULVd0l1SrRyxi5fNj1SJt70er-9bGUKk3kuEc3_ZRMxexZMiC7-MjzEqlUd79UNOoqzQ0NHUFdIH3dSVgZ4LJAmE2KbZmz81220RGWysG-p-uC1Q0ZQe_VWuWKnq11wVG5DmdaBA8mk9Z2Kh3pJJFvstawTDj2FxiomhEBdMieQWmnh3ds/w640-h270/Vote.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Voting was important enough to Cora for her to be on the first list of voters in Fitchburg. She is an example to us all.</span><br /><p></p>theailurophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14291353148749332231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877919859322310751.post-87929838602693181752021-11-07T07:52:00.002-08:002021-11-07T07:57:56.396-08:00Then and Now<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8TZm59DUipzeObpk6A7r_Te92IsoueU8n0tmrrJb7UhrVV-9QnqnQwlt9hIE6QQs_YjqZcXGwzKFUE-r9qMKpvbihkNw5ItqsgkDqqWdPBlzFKkfRxANcrbxSgHhqe2i2vTKEusPKw5M/s2032/Then+and+Now.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="827" data-original-width="2032" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8TZm59DUipzeObpk6A7r_Te92IsoueU8n0tmrrJb7UhrVV-9QnqnQwlt9hIE6QQs_YjqZcXGwzKFUE-r9qMKpvbihkNw5ItqsgkDqqWdPBlzFKkfRxANcrbxSgHhqe2i2vTKEusPKw5M/w640-h260/Then+and+Now.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"> <span style="font-size: medium;">This is the famous Quincy Market in Boston. On the left in 1904 and a current photo from Mr. Google. Long ago the street was closed off and made a walking street, but I remember going inside as a child and seeing whole sides of beef, fresh fish and vegetables for sale.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><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/AVvXsEjKtJPwXlJHqu7TvjFbwkp_1vr6c2iPTHP-RjSN91YwZG53Eju9cb1T0zVOirqa63plUznJiLVme1SUHrwZgCSs0rE82FzzvGL9JlXM_70GnQxOL6BwdQMrGCfdeBxtTnHdznVCKyRqJMw/s1897/butcher-Quincy.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1897" height="506" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKtJPwXlJHqu7TvjFbwkp_1vr6c2iPTHP-RjSN91YwZG53Eju9cb1T0zVOirqa63plUznJiLVme1SUHrwZgCSs0rE82FzzvGL9JlXM_70GnQxOL6BwdQMrGCfdeBxtTnHdznVCKyRqJMw/w640-h506/butcher-Quincy.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A butcher at Quincy-Boston Public Library</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">According to Boston Magazine, in 1823 Josiah Quincy, then mayor, didn't like the view from his office. He hired an architect, and the Greek Revival temple of food was born. It opened in 1826.</span></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><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/AVvXsEhUBTTOpsMXFFuOiOAwqeyEq0KTr2ZpVWkT7avm_hSIudF0bU6wJQ43KJVXGrFdaxJpDdcD6QUeM2ahMsjPvs46T_8-ddqaiECeox4ls7n94Nu_hW-O_Ewhja6XBPxOvlvum9DCKw_4O5M/s700/parade.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="472" data-original-width="700" height="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUBTTOpsMXFFuOiOAwqeyEq0KTr2ZpVWkT7avm_hSIudF0bU6wJQ43KJVXGrFdaxJpDdcD6QUeM2ahMsjPvs46T_8-ddqaiECeox4ls7n94Nu_hW-O_Ewhja6XBPxOvlvum9DCKw_4O5M/w640-h432/parade.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A parade through Quincy Market- 1876</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>It became a center of interest in the city, as this parade picture show. And here is the earliest image I was able to find. A lantern slide from some time before 1868. </span><span>Mostly what you see here is Faneuil Hall. (The correct name for the whole area is Faneuil Hall Marketplace)</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi00REMJxkvjs2pGXQtlnFx1CDcbWsr0hBjk-ZnggSTTJ0jlYNlrjo9JcnMAwo_pzLSvKqt6p39V1YXzcZUMaNtVILxJh9M6wUPpgx0KX_LbCwCE0X1FfeO_kbPvjQL5pmAM7aBMbt6gQQ/s2846/FanueilQuincy+1868.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1105" data-original-width="2846" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi00REMJxkvjs2pGXQtlnFx1CDcbWsr0hBjk-ZnggSTTJ0jlYNlrjo9JcnMAwo_pzLSvKqt6p39V1YXzcZUMaNtVILxJh9M6wUPpgx0KX_LbCwCE0X1FfeO_kbPvjQL5pmAM7aBMbt6gQQ/w640-h248/FanueilQuincy+1868.png" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Does this have any direct connection to my family? No. But this was a favorite spot to go as a child, even before it became the land of Urban Outfitters, Coach and Starbucks. I guess I wasn't the only one. This made me laugh and it's appropriate to the season.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><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/AVvXsEgbfr75NzPpCfQ0JmYXbB2LSL243rmazE-DpwyaPORxQuEsNQH9wQJPLq_ogYrwQVU1IlDYOzRVT70KHxwVd_vQjq_K2anIOVKohfJoEhhXAHZ4qWyHgIx-WktVxGvTioLXufTBEjKcxBs/s800/turkey1952.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="643" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbfr75NzPpCfQ0JmYXbB2LSL243rmazE-DpwyaPORxQuEsNQH9wQJPLq_ogYrwQVU1IlDYOzRVT70KHxwVd_vQjq_K2anIOVKohfJoEhhXAHZ4qWyHgIx-WktVxGvTioLXufTBEjKcxBs/w514-h640/turkey1952.jpeg" width="514" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A lady picking out her Thanksgiving turkey- 1952</td></tr></tbody></table></div></div><p></p>theailurophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14291353148749332231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877919859322310751.post-14806435196546184142021-10-22T14:27:00.005-07:002021-10-22T16:18:26.757-07:00Family Correspondence and a Lesson in "Telephone"<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxvb_GHtwJDdyZLjFvGfVAJ9khDf8k7t1T8juSE3bDATez0CkiIBmNKAFm3k6UFWR8RPFnzUOq6V-RQauYOr9OFpR0unWCfijhuUzZcCXhbzZYbYxhawqK-VPoOZsRgAwvX1QJtNR84AQ/s2016/Tapply+Tree.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1030" data-original-width="2016" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxvb_GHtwJDdyZLjFvGfVAJ9khDf8k7t1T8juSE3bDATez0CkiIBmNKAFm3k6UFWR8RPFnzUOq6V-RQauYOr9OFpR0unWCfijhuUzZcCXhbzZYbYxhawqK-VPoOZsRgAwvX1QJtNR84AQ/w640-h326/Tapply+Tree.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Long before I became motivated to actually ACT on my curiosity about the Tapply family, Mark Tapply and Jon Tapply were on the case. Jon has shared with me some of the correspondence which I will transcribe here. This is an object lesson on a family game of 'telephone'. One person makes a mistake, it gets repeated and before you know it you have 'facts' that are anything BUT. It started with Barrister Tapply. <b>Alan Tapply</b> who wrote <b>The Tapplys of Kent. </b> No doubt he did the best he could with what he had pre-internet. But as I dug and dug and dug I could find NOTHING proving our line came from James Gilbee Tapply. If you look at the tree above, which I believe came from Alan, you see James of Maidstone. I can find no such person attributed to James Gilbee. In fact, as I got access to English christening records I found my grandfather, his brother George, his sister Elizabeth and his brother Thomas. All were attributed to James Henry Tapply and his wife Elizabeth. I found records for George and Harry and Ann as well.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCXf1a_-oS4RA-jctt5psR2ykW3mP9C79xsiFlYCvIOYUY9HNeL4N_TynCJ2M13cmC2vj_-MRAWvKh3u8HY-LSThuOHOaMVRCHpfcLR26xNdFGqBlPFhF48EQCB7i1DF_2v9smc5sbnOI/s1040/ThomasJdeath.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="930" data-original-width="1040" height="572" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCXf1a_-oS4RA-jctt5psR2ykW3mP9C79xsiFlYCvIOYUY9HNeL4N_TynCJ2M13cmC2vj_-MRAWvKh3u8HY-LSThuOHOaMVRCHpfcLR26xNdFGqBlPFhF48EQCB7i1DF_2v9smc5sbnOI/w640-h572/ThomasJdeath.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">Here is Thomas's death record in Newton. I have christening records for all the children in the tree in the last blog post. They all show James Henry. Then I stepped back one generation.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><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/AVvXsEi_vnxyXW_8jM4mWFk2YOzOKI_Lu7yrkSBaloFaZ3X3n-tYpZwnGOVT3JDDUGReXTH93P0z-mY2n2W80L7Ebcx-qoqGUkUTNZxiN5OwfJBWZxI1YaEt4ty3h4j7ZofUNTDVMLaoUT37WAs/s784/James+H+Birth.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="462" data-original-width="784" height="378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_vnxyXW_8jM4mWFk2YOzOKI_Lu7yrkSBaloFaZ3X3n-tYpZwnGOVT3JDDUGReXTH93P0z-mY2n2W80L7Ebcx-qoqGUkUTNZxiN5OwfJBWZxI1YaEt4ty3h4j7ZofUNTDVMLaoUT37WAs/w640-h378/James+H+Birth.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">James Henry's birth<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><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/AVvXsEjR7FaEg6zhhUR4tWdd-0ZsCivxy68cG3SkYFasOfcLvWhmAY7nU0HcZMKrQ-wYIw4ZzaOSaZjW1ddnNCTEqLZxAOEYqjNIIGEXmOyZNd35I4coaqGYLT51Hsu3FwcloZw3gop1VPk7YVg/s2184/JamesHdeath.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="130" data-original-width="2184" height="38" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR7FaEg6zhhUR4tWdd-0ZsCivxy68cG3SkYFasOfcLvWhmAY7nU0HcZMKrQ-wYIw4ZzaOSaZjW1ddnNCTEqLZxAOEYqjNIIGEXmOyZNd35I4coaqGYLT51Hsu3FwcloZw3gop1VPk7YVg/w640-h38/JamesHdeath.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">James Henry's death</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">So the death record is a bit hard to read here, but his father was John (shoemaker in the tree above) and Sarah Lansdell or Lansell. This would explain Aunt Bea's middle name. This is the cordswainer I wrote about in a previous post. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So why so many mistakes? Well, the tree is full of Johns, James, Charles, Edward and Georges. </span><span style="font-size: medium;">They all lived in a small area in Kent and Sussex. Records weren't great or incomplete. People relied on family stories. And there was no internet. But the records are there if you know where to look. I got lucky tracing back through Charles to James Henry to John. As I fleshed out the records for Charles's brothers it became obvious that Barrister Tapply had missed some steps somewhere. So I will go through the letters and then try to explain.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">First, a letter that came to Robert Tapply's wife, Bethel:</span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Dear Mrs. Tapply,</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Greetings from one Tapply to another,</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Recently I responded to an organization calling themselves “Burke’s peerage” for a family heritage book including details of the whereabouts of all the other Tapplys around the world. As our name is not very common I thought this would be interesting. In the event the book turned out to be a standard publication on the origins and migrations of man, the origin and meaning of “Names”, how Coats of Arms originated and how to “Discover your Ancestors”. The only original submission was the address of 49 Tapplys worldwide! This was obviously not comprehensive since one of our own sons living here in England was omitted! However, your name was included and my wife and I thought it would be interesting to make contact with you to wish you well and enquire if perhaps we shared any close ties from the past.</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>My father, Hugh Lansdell, who died before his time in 1946, was a civil servant. A cousin had contacted him before the 30/45 war and had subsequently produced a book entitled “The Tapleys or Tapplys of Kent by Alan Tapply of the Middle Temple, Barrister-at-Law” I attach Appendix A and extract from a Genealogical Table which forms part of the book, which, incidentally, I find a bit difficult to follow in spite of the fact that it is clearly based on much scholarly research. This Table may help you to identify some forebears.</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Reproduced below are a couple of paragraphs which lead to the inclusion of my name and that of my sister:</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b>There was an excerpt from Alan's Tapply's book HERE.</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>When war came in 1939 I was 13 and with a friend we dug a hole in the garden and covered it with railway sleepers and earth. Immediately after hearing the war declaration the siren went and we all trooped down into our hole and stuffed bits of old sheet into every air hole to keep the gas out! But nothing happened and the ‘all clear’ sounded. After a period of phoney war the London air raids started. At that point father was transferred to a new factory making Erickson Guns at Newport in Monmouthshire, South Wales. My mother was glad because she thought it would be safer. But it wasn’t because the air raids became very heavy over South Wales and we spent many a night under our diningroom table which, in common with many folk at the time, was a “Morrison Shelter” made of metal with wire-mesh cage sides. Father used to go out fire-watching and often came back with bits of jagged metal from the bursting antiaircraft shell which landed in the streets.</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>On the 31st of August 1944, I joined the army and reported to a training establishment near Newcastle. After six weeks I was selected as a potential officer and went via Aldershot training battalion and pre-OCTU at Wrotham in Kent to an OCTU in the Isle of Man(which seemed about as far away from the war as one could get in the UK) Anyway, the war in Europe was over by then so we were busy learning about jungle warfare ready to be sent to the Far East. I arrived in Bombay as a young subaltern in the Royal Sussex Regiment for onward posting not to the Indian Army as expected but to the West African Frontier Force Reece Regiment with 82 West African Division upcountry in Burma. Once again the war ended before I got there! Soon we were off by troopship to Nigeria to demob our soldiers. This we did and then I seemed doomed to spend the remaining year of my service at Kaduna in Northern Nigeria. A fellow officer and I discovered that the only quick way home to England and English girls was to volunteer for a regular commission- something I had not thought of before! It worked like a charm and in ten days we were on a plane via the Gold Coast, Sierra Leone, the Gambia and Lisbon in Portugal to dear old England. Of course we then had to attend the selection procedure for regular commissions. As a result I was offered a regular commission in the Royal Army Service Corps. It was that option or going in penury to university so I was glad to accept. I then married Audrey Barlow who had been in the WRENS and I/we saw service in Hong Kong, Singapore, Cyprus, Kenya, Jamaica, North Africa, various UK postings leading to a final two year period with the Gurkha Division in Malaysia. By this time we had three children, Pip, Nick and Mark, but long periods apart do not help a marriage and, unfortunately, it fell apart. Whilst in Malaya I had decided to leave the Army at the age of 42 and try my luck in the big outside world. The children had all been at boarding school for some years and the parting of the ways of their parents didn’t seem to affect them too badly. By the time I left the service I had been fortunate enough to meet and team up with my present wife, formerly Edna Williams, an actress and drama teacher. With school fees to meet we attacked the challenge of building a new life with a will. Edna worked wherever I went. By another stroke of good luck I got a job the day after my service expired on April Fool’s Day 1968 to be exact, as East London Divisional Manager with Group 4, the Security Company. At that time, compared with the enormous international organization it is today, it was a relatively small organization. Helping to get the Company to its present position has been an immensely exciting adventure. I became General Manager of the Southern Regional Group 4, based in London and then Managing Director of the Irish Republic Company, based in Dublin, and then Operations Director of the whole of the UUK, retiring from an executive position in 1989. Since then I have acted as Chairman of the Northern Ireland Company which I formed whilst Managing Director in the Irish Republic and I finally retired from this position just this week as I approach the age of 70, have fully qualified as an ‘old fart’.</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>During all these exciting times the children have all married and each have three smashing children of their own. Pip married the heir to Lord Bolton and lives among the family acres (18,00 of them) in Wensley, North Yorkshire. Nick married Jenny Charlier, is a police inspector, and lives in the beautiful village of Saltwood, near Hythe, in Kent. (note we all seem to be pulled to that County!) And Mark married Debbie Holland and they have just gone off to live in Connecticut, where Mark, who has been with IBM as a Purchasing Manager for several years, has the enormous task of reorganizing his company’s purchasing systems worldwide. We </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>We are off to visit them next week for two weeks.</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>I trust I haven’t bored you to death with this brief history, but I thought that, if I'm approaching you to see if we have some common family past, I should tell you something of this member of the Tapply Clan.</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>With very best wishes, </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Yours truly, </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Pete</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>(Peter Lansdell Tapply)</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Jon came upon the letter and wrote to him. Here is the reply:</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>Dear Jon,</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>Many thanks for your most interesting letter. From what you tell me I think that there is a strong possibility that your great-grandfather was my grandfather’s brother. It all fits with what I remember Grandpa George saying when we stayed with him and his wife, Fanny, in their retirement home at Lympne in Kent. Before retirement I understood that he worked for the Post Office in Brighton which is where his son, my father, met May Garland, my mother. The time when my grandfather’s brother went to America would fit with the dates you give. I don’t recall mention of a sister emigrating but that is not to say that this did not occur.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>From another Tapply member now resident in the Isle of Mull in Scotland I received a letter (copy attached) together with a pretty comprehensive family tree (copy also attached). If my idea that we may be cousins is correct you are also connected with Robin Tapply, who wrote the letter, via a rather tortuous route! I have added to Robin’s family tree the two outlined additions which show your family (if I am right) and my family extensions.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>My son Mark is working at present at the IBM headquarters in Somers, NY. He and his family are living in Connecticut (personal details noted) He is about your age (37 to be exact). I mentioned to him on the phone the other day that I had heard from you and he would be keen to meet your sometime. I will send him a copy of your letter and this one with its attachments.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>My wife Edna-busy at present making a display for our daughters church flower festival in Wensley, North Yorkshire- and I would also be very happy to meet with you either over here</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>If you are visiting or, alternatively, in the US on our next visit to Mark- we were last there in April this year.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>Whilst I’m at it I’ll enclose a letter from another Mark Tapply who replied from Auckland, New Zealand to my original letter. It is interesting that he refers to Uncle George in Brighton. He also refers to his granny who lived on Montpelier Street in Brighton. This is odd because my mother lived in Montpelier Square or Gardens in Brighton. Small world ain’t it?</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>With kind regards,</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>Pete</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>(Peter Lansdell Tapply)</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Then there is the letter from New Zealand, from Mark Lawrence Tapply:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>Dear Fellow Tapply</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>Many thanks for the copy of your family tree. My son is over in England at the moment so my reply is for both of us. Although your tree does not appear to link up with me it does appear coincidental that my father came from Sussex next to Kent. He left Brighton prior to the 1st World War. He was Ronald Tapply. I was born in Buckinghamshire in 1916. As a child I stayed with grandma who lived in Momthelan (?)St. Brighton. I don’t know her christened name- she was just gran to me. I had an uncle George in Brighton- I never met him but I have a vague idea that my mother said he was a bookmaker. My father’s sister married a Patterson. My two cousins were both RAF officers during the 2nd war. I was army. I have only met two people with the surname Tapply in my lifetime- one was in about 1934. A lady divorced from her husband and apparently we were related. Her ex-husband the other W.O. in the army during the war. May- with my son he is divorced with two daughters living in Australia. It is very unlikely he will remarry but he might.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>Once again thank you for the copy of the family tree. Wishing you all well.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>Mark L Tapply</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Mark is correct. Tapply is NOT a very common name actually. To see more on that look at a previous blog post <a href="https://leaftwigandstem.blogspot.com/2016/04/common-and-uncommon-surnames.html">HERE</a>.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">And finally, there is a letter from Robin Tapply of Mull. And here we have a real mishmosh of Sussex Tapplys, Maidstone Tapplys and Wittersham Tapplys. Remember what I said about all the similar names?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>Dear Jon,</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>Thank you for your fascinating letter of 14 March. Every time I think I am beginning to make sense of the family tree a new growth appears!</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>The only information I have on James of Maidstone is that he had two brothers, Edward, who dies a young man and George of Tunbridge Wells who had two sons – (name unknown) and Ernest. More by inference than direct fact, one deduces him to have been the son of James Gilbee, who is quite well documented.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>Mention is also made of ‘John Henry Tapply of Maidstone, bricklayer” who proved what may have been a cousin’s will in 1879 (the deceased being Elizabeth, aged 59, possibly a daughter of John of Wittersham). The trail is a bit murky.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>My son, with his wife and son, live in Kent and always intend to revisit the family tombs to see whether any more facts can be gleaned. I have seen some of them- but it is too easy to be side-tracked into visiting the pubs the family used to own. (One of our ancestors had the sense to marry the innkeeper’s daughter and thus inherited the pub). The area in Kent which bred most of the recorded Tapply ancestors is comparatively small; the churchyards are some of the oldest in the country and though many of the tombstones are legible, there are a lot of them. The author of ‘The Tapplys of Kent” did a very good job; regrettably it appears the war stopped him from producing a second, and more detailed edition.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>I have correspondence concerning a family branch that went to Australia voluntarily but since returned. My only American leads are through William G Tapply, the writer of crime novels.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>(gives his address) He hoped his father would write to me about their ancestry but I have heard nothing. I don’t think he knows we moved to Mull from Edinburgh in 1986.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>Tracing ancestors and following the clues is more than a full-time occupation and I have only dabbled with it since I retired from the Royal Navy in 1980. I then spent five years working in Edinburgh for a Conservation Trust and then retired here. This small community keeps us occupied with various voluntary jobs while the garden keeps my wife out of too much trouble. Currently she is helped by a 9-month old Cavalier King Charles puppy who digs things faster than she can plant them. As we live on granite with a small layer of peaty earth on top, surrounded by salt water and blessed by strong winds, gardening here has similar problems to yours.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>My son travels the world inspecting the books of the Standard Chartered Bank; his 8 year old son goes to school in Tunbridge. His wife teaches on a fairly erratic basis, as she ‘fills in’ for absentees. She has access to proper historians and tries to help my amateurish quests.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>My daughter works at a variety of jobs in Vienna where she lives with her recently acquired husband, who come from Madras but also works in Vienna.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>The daughter of my father’s first wife lives in Bath and at the ripe age of 86 is a useful source of family data. Unfortunately few written records were kept and only recently have people realized what has been lost by this neglect.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>My wife’s family is worse hit as many records of her Irish ancestors were deliberately destroyed during ‘The Troubles’.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>Let me know if there are any other leads to investigate. Progress is usually slow but every now and then a piece fall into place and the ‘Tree’ becomes clearer.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>Yours Sincerely, </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>Robin</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>R M Tapply MBE</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Sadly the whole pedigree with James of Maidstone, George of Tunbridge Wells and Edward is so convoluted that I don't know where to start. The names that fit are all relatives of the very same John the cordswainer. His brothers, his sons, and well, you get the picture. As I collected birth records, death records and census papers it began to work itself out. The George of Tunbridge is John's son. The James may have been John's brother James who also married a Sarah- Sarah Colebrook. Or it could even have been James Henry himself or his son, who both lived in Maidstone. There is also a line that goes off into Sussex. Not even sure where to begin with that.</div></div><br /><br /><div>The letter-writers here are outlined in red. The colors indicate different generations. Mark and Peter are in the same generation. Robin Mark is one removed. There are notes where the tree suggests the ideas in the letters. Click through to enlarge.</div><div>So what conclusions can we draw:</div><div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><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/AVvXsEj3NYwbZOoUicPzfEbO2_8gV0205YYvuiiKYPm2OI0Zae-WtBTASbQiCDT5clOb1WYQVMXEV_SyUomVt8IUYwDnb1Q-NbM_5kDCWyh8fYkEQD5WwE616KqTW7FiP-24Xou-hg4e9qbReJU/s2048/TapplyChartnew.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1981" data-original-width="2048" height="637" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3NYwbZOoUicPzfEbO2_8gV0205YYvuiiKYPm2OI0Zae-WtBTASbQiCDT5clOb1WYQVMXEV_SyUomVt8IUYwDnb1Q-NbM_5kDCWyh8fYkEQD5WwE616KqTW7FiP-24Xou-hg4e9qbReJU/w658-h637/TapplyChartnew.jpg" width="658" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A partial Tapply tree</td></tr></tbody></table>Do your research carefully from the bottom up always looking for birth, marriage and death records to support your conclusions.</li><li>Verify very old records with supporting documents if possible. A prime example are the Kent parish records Alan would have relied on. They have simple first and last names. Often no maiden names for women. Frequently nothing to indicate relationships like "son of". They are very difficult to use for this reason. Especially when there is a John and Ann in EVERY generation.</li><li>Try not to rely on family stories without something to back it up.</li><li>Try not to commit to guesses. Indicate they are guesses. See the Ann Taply next to James Henry who married one Isaac White? This is MARY Tapply Alan has this as James' daughter Ann. Look carefully at years and generations and see if your conclusions make sense.</li><li>No matter who passes along a tree to you, do YOUR OWN legwork to verify.</li><li>Oh, and try to at least collect stories from the older generation before they are gone. They give you a place to start.</li></ul><div>I'm glad we have the stories of these three men and their families in any case. It gives us a place to start in documenting the current generation. We shouldn't forget them either.</div></div></div><br /></span></div></div><p></p>theailurophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14291353148749332231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877919859322310751.post-20503146971973484672021-09-27T10:49:00.002-07:002021-10-02T04:50:15.052-07:00The Letter That Started It All<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh944QsHqaRt6TyCUBJvemyXCfaXeiNsJzcafT60_Ba5HgwtdeY7FS1OIpSmyC2agc1fElGgP6TdFWTCdf5dySk-HSt7Xl_yRKwxo27TvWsIrxU8cF4shHGk_ssLvfHoZ9FeDEIoDxNwMQ/s1918/GeorgeTapplyletter.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1250" data-original-width="1918" height="418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh944QsHqaRt6TyCUBJvemyXCfaXeiNsJzcafT60_Ba5HgwtdeY7FS1OIpSmyC2agc1fElGgP6TdFWTCdf5dySk-HSt7Xl_yRKwxo27TvWsIrxU8cF4shHGk_ssLvfHoZ9FeDEIoDxNwMQ/w640-h418/GeorgeTapplyletter.jpg" width="640" /></a></div> <p></p><p>In 1940, the Blitz was going on in London. Bombers were flying over the city and the surrounding area every day. It must have been terrifying. My mother would have been sixteen. She got it into her head to write a letter to her grandfather's brother who was still in England. This is his reply. I have to say from what he says at the close of the letter, it is clear that Ellen Tapply and perhaps Robert had stayed in touch with him. More on that later. First, for the Tapplys who are not familiar, a basic family tree.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6ebIQCIGSbpnK_CoLIU1bAfgu67UV9SDvd-DCMkr7wlfd8CzDKeGV23KdzRS3tEJVS7umEuXn0EmqMxqePVGJKjYwyevNBn-w-SAZppBgE9dR95UhSivY5YUOOLh9gVLDgYo5VqrFcJE/s1450/TapplyChart.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1450" data-original-width="926" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6ebIQCIGSbpnK_CoLIU1bAfgu67UV9SDvd-DCMkr7wlfd8CzDKeGV23KdzRS3tEJVS7umEuXn0EmqMxqePVGJKjYwyevNBn-w-SAZppBgE9dR95UhSivY5YUOOLh9gVLDgYo5VqrFcJE/w408-h640/TapplyChart.jpg" width="408" /></a></div><br /><p>You can see the Tapply children here. Charles E Tapply was a middle child. Of those children, Thomas, Elizabeth, and Charles emigrated to America. I have not been able to trace Mary Ann, but I suspect that the photo in Holly Jones's family's possession is an image of her. James Henry Jr. emigrated to Australia and then returned to England. Harry came to America and returned to England. The baby of the family was George. He had a long career working for the British postal service in Brighton. When he retired, I think he wanted a place by the sea, but maybe not someplace as touristy as Brighton. (think Coney Island and you would have some idea) So they moved to Whitstable. My mother, seeing this return address, simply assumed that was where the family came from. They DID come from Kent, but from Wittersham just outside Maidstone. </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/AVvXsEiNQtVwIPIUAgqrGL01Mca_-e2aFKNBXlhZZM1fDiG5oswrGSunBmV4prNZfFSeiH1XWeT59qRMX3U96Tt18129pHbD9_RaewXJcMw0WJL7rjJdXnTdu2Vu_iEWWDolxsZdQQZ2t9gi1l8/s1728/Whitstable1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="504" data-original-width="1728" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNQtVwIPIUAgqrGL01Mca_-e2aFKNBXlhZZM1fDiG5oswrGSunBmV4prNZfFSeiH1XWeT59qRMX3U96Tt18129pHbD9_RaewXJcMw0WJL7rjJdXnTdu2Vu_iEWWDolxsZdQQZ2t9gi1l8/w640-h186/Whitstable1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where George Tapplyy lived</td></tr></tbody></table>As you can see, Tankerton is a small suburb of Whitstable. Whitstable is famous for its most delicious oysters. It would have been a nice retirement place, but during WWII, being right on the Thames Estuary was a liability. His good cheer in the letter is amazing.<div>Here is George's letter:</div><div> <i> </i><i><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> 21 Fitzroy Road</span><br /></i></div><div><span><i><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> Tankerton, Whitstable, Kent</span><br /></i></span></div><div><span><span><i>My Dear Grand Niece,</i></span></span></div><div><i><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></span></span>I am glad to have received your letter safely and trust that this will reach you. In </i></div><div><i>These days of War one cannot guarantee that a letter will cross the ocean safely. I knew that my brother Charley had grandchildren, but you are the first one to approach me and I certainly return thanks for your very interesting letter. I have five brothers and two sisters but they are all dead, your grandfather Charley being the last to go. I was the youngest of the family and I have reached 76 years. Since you are part Tapply I must tell you that the Tapplys have been domiciled in Kent, England right along from Saxon times. Quite recently, a cousin of mine, Allan Tapply, a barrister, (unreadable) copied a pedigree of the Tapplys and after (unreadable) years of inquiry, search and scrutiny of parish registers, Kentish records etc. etc. he published it privately and I am glad to say he sent me a copy. He traced our branch of the Tapplys back to 1600 direct, but other branches he quotes from early Norman and even PreNorman times. You find all manner of them in the pedigree, holders of ancient manors, farmers, (unreadable), mallsters, (unreadable), grocers, tailors, etc. etc.</i></div><div><div><i>There are not shown in the pedigree any knights in shining armor or at least swineherds so our people in the past have not been apparently been top or bottom. The pedigree seems to show a condition of life which is very (unreadable) in Humanity “some goes up and some goes down” as Brer Rabbit says to Brer Fox when he drowned him in the well. </i></div><div><i>However enough of the pedigree. Times are very serious and our England is now an armed camp and at present we are waiting to see what happens. People have no fear of invasion but we are afraid that it will be a long war.</i></div><div><i>There is plenty of food in the country and we get plenty although some things are rationed.</i></div><div><i>We frequently get (unreadable) alarms from the siren, but so far, we are not seriously troubled.</i></div><div><i>I have a son and daughter (who of course are cousins of your mother) Hugh is in the Civil Service and Muriel, who is not strong is at home. We live by the sea. Whitstable is near to Canterbury – 6 miles. Canterbury would please you. It dates straight back from the time of Julius Caesar who sacked it. It has a very noble cathedral about 700 years old and there are plenty of houses standing from 300 to 500 years old. We frequently go there since the architectural beauty of the old buildings pleases the eye. I think that it would please you since it is totally different to anything you have in the states.</i></div></div><div><div><i>Tell your father and mothers that I send my very best wishes to them and when you have finished with this letter please send it to your grandmother Tapply and Robert her son. And then I need not write to them on this occasion. And now, my dear girl, I wish you God speed and good fortune for the future. You have life before you and I believe you will use it well.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Yours Affectionately,</i></div><div><i><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>George Tapply</i></div></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>One note about Allan Tapply's book. I have a digital copy. While I find it very interesting, I am not in agreement with all his "facts". Allan Tapply claimed that in his interview with George he "knew nothing of his brother's families" which we can see is patently untrue. Maybe Allan wanted to stick to Tapplys still in England, but there are Tapplys in Australia and New Zealand as well as the descendants in the States of Charles, Thomas, and Elizabeth. For the most part, Allan's family research was pretty good.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is the letter I saw as a child that, in combination with the family reunion photo, got me started with an interest in family history. Who knew?</div>theailurophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14291353148749332231noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877919859322310751.post-12776298443508422992021-08-28T06:46:00.007-07:002021-08-28T06:48:48.365-07:00A Look Back<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRpy15j1n7uf28eJwgK15oR_aV7ZvBX_UyqUv77RBBFLSYaNU6TzvKVO32XOMz-aFRQFoMO91vwJLbPV0EQS4yFQK88kyhRnSQ0RxeBswxElvsNe1MRYErtTk6hKIIHpwooM35G0TkL08/s1353/AntiSlaveryPetitionAmosRogers.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1353" data-original-width="800" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRpy15j1n7uf28eJwgK15oR_aV7ZvBX_UyqUv77RBBFLSYaNU6TzvKVO32XOMz-aFRQFoMO91vwJLbPV0EQS4yFQK88kyhRnSQ0RxeBswxElvsNe1MRYErtTk6hKIIHpwooM35G0TkL08/w378-h640/AntiSlaveryPetitionAmosRogers.jpeg" width="378" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Just an image with a brief description today. (click through to look closely) This is a document I've never seen before. Obviously, it was preprinted as boilerplate to be distributed to all the small towns in the area. The person who posted it to Ancestry dated it to 1837. I haven't found an original source. Perhaps it originated with the American Anti-Slavery Society which was active at the time. But two of my relatives signed this antislavery petition: Cyrus Rogers and his son Amos are both on the signatures. They lived in Rutland, Massachusetts at the time. Cyrus was Jonathan's son. </div><p></p>theailurophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14291353148749332231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877919859322310751.post-5499002642389375832021-05-08T14:26:00.000-07:002021-05-08T14:26:38.771-07:00Curiosity about Names and the Second Great Awakening<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/AVvXsEg7KeSWx7nZfQgzkOQq_-cvRgUy9og6Oza1RCQPs-7UAjo_-ki2N9kQTt3FjiUbS6I1wb641lz3e6zCp-xr_xuj3dqTbM4o7-z4xtVGUSeDNx4cUw7zv5WhZO6pA6_c6APs7ZVCq4-JvrA/s640/Cassandra+HB.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7KeSWx7nZfQgzkOQq_-cvRgUy9og6Oza1RCQPs-7UAjo_-ki2N9kQTt3FjiUbS6I1wb641lz3e6zCp-xr_xuj3dqTbM4o7-z4xtVGUSeDNx4cUw7zv5WhZO6pA6_c6APs7ZVCq4-JvrA/w400-h300/Cassandra+HB.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The grave of Cassandra and Asher Bliss</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">When I first began working on my genealogy, I hit a lot of brick walls pursuing people by name. One example is my great-great-grandmother Cassandria Hooper Harrington Rogers Kauffman. I couldn't find any Harringtons that fit on census records in the Worcester area. I couldn't find a birth record for her or for her brother. And I never have, sadly. So I pursued Hooper. No luck. Finally, on a trip to New England, I consulted with a librarian at the <b>New England Historic Genealogical Society</b>. She didn't find anything but had another idea. Cassandria might well have been named in HONOR of someone. And it seems to have been the case.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Cassandria and Winslow Brainard Rogers were married in the Holden BAPTIST church, despite the fact that his grandfather was a founder of the local Methodist church. There may well have been a conversion, perhaps by his parents at the time he was born W. B.'s letters back from the Civil War are peppered with references of having Bible study or prayer meetings with his comrades. Cassandria is referred to in her obituary as "a godly woman". What was going on here? It was a phenomenon called The Second Great Awakening.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">The Second Great Awakening occurred around the country between 1795 and 1835. Think Henry Ward Beecher, Lyman Beecher, Timothy Dwight, and even Joseph Smith.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"<i><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a;">Many churches experienced a great increase in membership, particularly among </span><span id="ref1267966" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1a;"></span><a class="md-crosslink" href="https://www.britannica.com/topic/Methodism" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14599d; text-decoration-line: none;">Methodist</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a;"> and </span><span id="ref1267967" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1a;"></span><a class="md-crosslink" href="https://www.britannica.com/topic/Baptist" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14599d; text-decoration-line: none;">Baptist</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a;"> churches. The Second Great Awakening made soul-winning the primary function of ministry and stimulated several </span><a class="md-dictionary-link md-dictionary-tt-off" data-term="moral" href="https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/moral" style="background-color: white; border-bottom: 2px dotted var(--blue); box-sizing: border-box; text-decoration-line: none !important;">moral</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a;"> and philanthropic reforms, including </span><span id="ref1267968" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1a;"></span><a class="md-crosslink" href="https://www.britannica.com/topic/temperance-movement" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14599d; text-decoration-line: none;">temperance</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a;"> and the emancipation of women</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Georgia, serif;">"</span></i></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Primary themes were:</span></span></p><ul style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #181818; letter-spacing: 0.8px; list-style: inside none; margin: 0px 0px 30px; max-width: 100%; overflow: visible; padding: 0px 0px 0px 20px; text-align: left;"><li style="box-sizing: border-box; list-style: disc; margin: 0px; padding: 5px 0px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">All people are born sinners</span></li><li style="box-sizing: border-box; list-style: disc; margin: 0px; padding: 5px 0px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Sin without salvation will send a person to hell</span></li><li style="box-sizing: border-box; list-style: disc; margin: 0px; padding: 5px 0px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">All people can be saved if they confess their sins to God, seek forgiveness and accept God’s grace</span></li><li style="box-sizing: border-box; list-style: disc; margin: 0px; padding: 5px 0px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">All people can have a direct and emotional connection with God\</span></li><li style="box-sizing: border-box; list-style: disc; margin: 0px; padding: 5px 0px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Religion shouldn’t be formal and institutionalized, but rather casual and personal </span></li></ul><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; letter-spacing: 0.8px;">If all this sounds suspiciously like Jonathan Edwards, you'd be right. He was considered the father of this movement.</span><br /></span><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">It occurred in three phases, the later ones marked by the popularity of tent meetings, camp meetings, and revivals. There were waves of itinerant preachers who traveled all over New England and upstate New York. It is entirely possible Cassandria's mother and father, Joseph Herrington and Nancy Green, attended one of these meetings. Cassandra Hooper Bliss and her husband Asher were on the circuit. And Cassandra was a local girl, she grew up in Oakham and Boylston, Massachusetts.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.6; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Lato, sans-serif;">“</span><span style="font-family: times;">One of the families that welcomed the Hooper daughters warmly was the Whites [the subject family of the book]. Cassandra was a committed evangelical Christian, and from her arrival in 1830 she and her sisters Avis, Lydia, and Eunice were frequent visitors to the White’s elegant parlor, while matron Mary and her daughters returned those visits to the Hooper’s humble home. The nature of the visits is clear, as they were frequently made in company with the minister’s wife and other active evangelical women. Cassandra had apparently embraced evangelical Christianity before her arrival in Boylston; her younger sister Avis was “received to our Communion” along with eight other converts in March 1834; her sister Lydia made her public confession in October the same year. Though the family had fallen on hard times, their religious commitment marked them as genteel and pious folk and secured their respectability among Boylston’s better sort.</span></span></i></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.6; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><i><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">“Then, with no warning or advance preparations, Mary White made a surprise announcement in her diary. At the close of the afternoon service on the Sabbath of September 2, 1832, thirty-year-old Cassandra Hooper was married to a Mr. Bliss, and the couple left almost immediately to serve as missionaries to the Seneca Indians. They would continue in that work in western New York for the rest of their lives."-From A Crisis of Community by Mary Babson Fuhrer</span></i></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.6; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">The second bit of confusion was the origin of Winslow Brainard's names. For a while, my mother was convinced that we were somehow descended from John Winslow, of Mayflower fame. She was disabused of that idea by a genealogist or historian who could find nothing linking us to him. Again, I suspect he was named in honor of two people who figured in the Second Great Awakening.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.6; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Octavius Winslow was a prominent evangelist and Baptist minister. Although he died early, his ideas made it to America and he was revered among the revivalists.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.6; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">David Brainerd was a missionary to the Native Americans. He might have been forgotten altogether, but a biography of him by Jonathan Edwards was reprinted many times and boosted his influence. One of those periods of influence was during the Second Great Awakening. James Brainerd Taylor, his cousin, enjoyed popularity as an evangelist and was said to have been inspired by David's example.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.6; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I consider this a good example of when NOT to make assumptions in doing research about your family. There could be many needless dead ends in your research when you make the facts fit the theory and not the reverse. There's no way to prove my theory, of course, but I suspect I have unraveled this particular bit of family history.</span></p>theailurophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14291353148749332231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877919859322310751.post-14191404335127638952021-04-20T22:17:00.001-07:002021-04-20T22:17:23.228-07:00Tapply Lumber<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj93ekXSpM_5SriHxhAYyahrSKVc8gRB2bym6kaT92jzRhPZxPto8LnxNlI26pGRPTQV-xJVfPMCk6YqfmcsptTl57kQSrSztwGvxGddpmihsZuIsEFlHnlAc_kJrqcX4hHxjdE1m0x-Ng/s1080/Tapplylumber2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="624" data-original-width="1080" height="370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj93ekXSpM_5SriHxhAYyahrSKVc8gRB2bym6kaT92jzRhPZxPto8LnxNlI26pGRPTQV-xJVfPMCk6YqfmcsptTl57kQSrSztwGvxGddpmihsZuIsEFlHnlAc_kJrqcX4hHxjdE1m0x-Ng/w640-h370/Tapplylumber2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><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/AVvXsEi5dW4XKUAZWuCdMLdQHAMjHQkgYwpGrD6iIw3vjnRUrv7tTjHL4xJqFzQQOubbKdD7mu8u59yslp7UcQ4ws-JJPnBYSOp29ftL9p1t0vNnXAAkrzjm-ZCEcsJr5-Lc2WeKypGm8fNXejs/s864/Tapplylumber1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="613" data-original-width="864" height="454" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5dW4XKUAZWuCdMLdQHAMjHQkgYwpGrD6iIw3vjnRUrv7tTjHL4xJqFzQQOubbKdD7mu8u59yslp7UcQ4ws-JJPnBYSOp29ftL9p1t0vNnXAAkrzjm-ZCEcsJr5-Lc2WeKypGm8fNXejs/w640-h454/Tapplylumber1.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charlie and Bob Tapply outside Tapply Lumber</td></tr></tbody></table>Over the years, there have been a few pictures posted to the family Facebook group of the Tapply Lumber Building on Culley Street. By the way, these wonderful pictures are thanks to Buzz and Tina Tapply. I'm thinking they were taken in the forties, just based on clothing, but the tail end of the car in the top photo may place this more into the fifties. Everyone assumes I think, that this is where the story begins. However, Charles Tapply Senior, or Charlie (as I knew him) began in lumber a bit earlier.<p></p><p>Going through the Fitchburg Sentinel, I found an ad for the original Tapply Lumber location.</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/AVvXsEjHsNbqLgk_oSLSMDLqfBhD9Zex6Pqt7Wy2tV20TUiV_5mPuKYBsRBH5slmoSD7qSGcWcEDLg0wNRg0TdTyNxeaUn6lcCmtuXt16UANadyTDgPNmg_KXX6zIJu9HtEpiSKyDOpT1fuY66M/s690/Tapplyb4Culley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="130" data-original-width="690" height="75" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHsNbqLgk_oSLSMDLqfBhD9Zex6Pqt7Wy2tV20TUiV_5mPuKYBsRBH5slmoSD7qSGcWcEDLg0wNRg0TdTyNxeaUn6lcCmtuXt16UANadyTDgPNmg_KXX6zIJu9HtEpiSKyDOpT1fuY66M/w400-h75/Tapplyb4Culley.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tapply Lumber at 245 Lunenburg St.</td></tr></tbody></table>The location on Lunenburg Street, or Route 2a has a modern building on it. It's located near the crossing of 2a and the John Fitch Highway. With a little more searching I found the notice of the purchase of Culley Street and the fate of the old building.<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/AVvXsEhlVhPVHZiTrjxH0BxvuYsdM6teD9IxHhv5hgDmh7b8X4_XELt5GkcsNi5kKnBvMAvUraVGj6qkCUnarBX28dn_cBPlXXIdkZ_dny57H-gDeu6RtClPIdhnbior19pqvYxyGKj4OYNkz_A/s864/TransferOct1940.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="864" data-original-width="789" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlVhPVHZiTrjxH0BxvuYsdM6teD9IxHhv5hgDmh7b8X4_XELt5GkcsNi5kKnBvMAvUraVGj6qkCUnarBX28dn_cBPlXXIdkZ_dny57H-gDeu6RtClPIdhnbior19pqvYxyGKj4OYNkz_A/w584-h640/TransferOct1940.jpg" width="584" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">October 1940-The purchase of Culley Street</td></tr></tbody></table>This places the establishment of the Tapply Lumber as most of the family knew it in October of 1940. He and his son Robert Nathan or "Bob" took over the established business at that location. Buzz, Chuck, and Launa all have memories of the inside of that building. Both Buzz and Chuck describe the basement, where the custom cabinetry was built and lumber was stored. The upper floor had offices and 17 semiautomatic lathes. They all describe the elaborate belt and pulley system suspended from the ceiling that ran across the whole shop and powered the machines. Chuck described barrels in the basement the size of a 55-gallon drum. You would put in the wooden turned pieces with scraps of sandpaper and it would tumble them smooth similar to a rock tumbler. Launa has a particular memory of the loading dock which you can see more clearing in the contemporary pictures below.<div>She said, <span style="font-size: medium;">"</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><i>The area down on the right was a loading dock, inside on the left of it was a huge ancient scale about waist high. Behind that was bedrock graduating up to the ceiling(main shop floor and about 15-20ft beyond the spectacular elevator run with an ancient amazing big chain and wheels." </i></span>The back of the building had been built right into the granite ledge!<div><br /></div><div>So what did Tapply lumber produce? Anything turned; handles, spindles, decorative work for houses, cabinets... I found some ads that give you some idea of what came from their shop.</div><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/AVvXsEjlw0PWbSr47YFGES_V2bZb0aDk38oXIj8-7XwPC73BG-dDsrWSX-Vs-ZkAhjQIXmpI4NcWE-PijOolV8Oop6aBfL3m608VkbUigkVezXGNEfLr7d6_FSWioE9I1dRhB-iNJLrRPZW5edg/s894/Tapplyads.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="894" data-original-width="696" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlw0PWbSr47YFGES_V2bZb0aDk38oXIj8-7XwPC73BG-dDsrWSX-Vs-ZkAhjQIXmpI4NcWE-PijOolV8Oop6aBfL3m608VkbUigkVezXGNEfLr7d6_FSWioE9I1dRhB-iNJLrRPZW5edg/w498-h640/Tapplyads.jpg" width="498" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A few of the regular ads that ran in the Sentinel</td></tr></tbody></table>The ad for the knotty pine confirmed what I had heard; Charlie Tapply built my grandmother's last home on Rogers Avenue. Brainard's bedroom was completely paneled in that knotty pine. When it became a guest room, sleeping surrounded by all that paneling was a real trip.<div><br /></div><div>Buzz said that they also took part in a fifties craze. The tubing for the original Hula Hoop was made in Leominster. Tapply Lumber made the wooden plugs that joined the two ends and made the hoop. Chuck confirmed this and adds that the kids from the fraternities at Fitchburg State came to Tapply Lumber for the "paddles" used in initiations. </div><div><br /></div><div>And where did all the lumber come from? Well, Bill Tapply had a lumber operation in Brookline, New Hampshire. All in the family.</div><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/AVvXsEgAaW3d_eJX5jlHWmHUKnyriLuyBGPlnVlZ8BcrPyZ72FhaUEoOtEumjvinHczTiVyf52nmxCHQngTfR0n1UYTg9gklY_THwMr18_LdQimIiziAFr0OAxLYtyS3HrqoRjeDnM73eB9zO80/s1080/Bill+Tapply-+Tapply+Lumber.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="727" data-original-width="1080" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAaW3d_eJX5jlHWmHUKnyriLuyBGPlnVlZ8BcrPyZ72FhaUEoOtEumjvinHczTiVyf52nmxCHQngTfR0n1UYTg9gklY_THwMr18_LdQimIiziAFr0OAxLYtyS3HrqoRjeDnM73eB9zO80/w640-h430/Bill+Tapply-+Tapply+Lumber.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bill and company hauling lumber</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>It wasn't all smooth sailing, however. There was a large fire in March 1951.</div><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/AVvXsEiJMpb-nj-wqeHv5OrKoxRBjJs49EL4hdWwPI7wcpRyT517OAd_bMXPfw65X-J6_iZRezbsoesf-R-sWJgkxKEY4gLnnnMPvWdWe8hyphenhyphen6LTjA2miniwNS3PeirkZ5Zj6DKtJFkjkdkz7oZE/s1433/Fire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="996" data-original-width="1433" height="444" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJMpb-nj-wqeHv5OrKoxRBjJs49EL4hdWwPI7wcpRyT517OAd_bMXPfw65X-J6_iZRezbsoesf-R-sWJgkxKEY4gLnnnMPvWdWe8hyphenhyphen6LTjA2miniwNS3PeirkZ5Zj6DKtJFkjkdkz7oZE/w640-h444/Fire.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">19 March 1951</td></tr></tbody></table>It was a large enough fire to make the front page of the Sentinel. Here is a bit of their coverage.</div><div><i><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">“Although officials theorize that a spark from the basement boiler ignited shavings in a nearby waste bin, the cause was still being probed today…”</span></i><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>“The bulk of the loss was in the cellar where lumber was stacked. The office on the street floor of the one-story<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>brick and wooden plant was untouched as was the shipping room, storage room and the major part of the plant…”</i></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>“Flames lurked at the west end of the Mohawk Express Garage also owned by Mr. Tapply”</i></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>“Mr Tapply said that his full crew of 25 workers would work as scheduled today, despite the fact that heat destroyed some of the lathe belts. The lumberman also stated that the plant was engaged in ‘some government work’ including turnings for airplane emergency life rafts.”</i></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Launa said the ceiling downstairs was never the same after the fire. Leave it to Charlie and Bob, they were open and running the next day.</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Members of the younger generation also have fond memories of visits to the building.</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Kevin Tapply said, "<i>I have a few memories of visiting Grampa and Uncle Bob... I was enchanted with this overhead belt system that drove all the machinery. I can still remember the smell of the fresh-cut wood"</i></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">And Mark added <span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-size: 13px;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-converted-space">"</span>I'll always remember all the sawdust. It's not that much different from my shop where I build cabinets today."</i></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Charlie left the business eventually and Bob bought him out. Bob continued, according to Launa, until his death in 1977.</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Here are a couple of more contemporary pictures of the building. In the first, you can see the loading dock. The second is from the opposite side of the building.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip1wu3dEVU9fEMNDB2y6EXxvw-VL1uAu3usppOVeNFsprp_wiHrx0XoJX1NzzNp7m6C705hH0wQhcy1LULVsFGnapJDDeD_zIy6Z5hW0vgB0uZQ7uy6jtIKWjSytOz5XAht0ZlHqNz3yc/s960/Tapply+lumber.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip1wu3dEVU9fEMNDB2y6EXxvw-VL1uAu3usppOVeNFsprp_wiHrx0XoJX1NzzNp7m6C705hH0wQhcy1LULVsFGnapJDDeD_zIy6Z5hW0vgB0uZQ7uy6jtIKWjSytOz5XAht0ZlHqNz3yc/w400-h300/Tapply+lumber.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLX14sIuGMsEBL6oq2LnT3QL7m_hepexY-BlLd4rh0tf8Lhv8EOVK7Ff2HuoDYVaU7Gn04QwgvkCAICY4pHhsssOtduantSPAa0mV4FAZDARNWDcR0BsTroU7FP-sCXD2kW18UWEqej7U/s1656/Culley+St..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="374" data-original-width="1656" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLX14sIuGMsEBL6oq2LnT3QL7m_hepexY-BlLd4rh0tf8Lhv8EOVK7Ff2HuoDYVaU7Gn04QwgvkCAICY4pHhsssOtduantSPAa0mV4FAZDARNWDcR0BsTroU7FP-sCXD2kW18UWEqej7U/w640-h144/Culley+St..jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> Woodworking has definitely been in the blood of this particular branch of the Tapplyy family. My thanks to Buzz, Tina, Chuck, Launa and Mark for their help gathering information for this post.</div></div>theailurophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14291353148749332231noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877919859322310751.post-56163761537438745032020-09-30T19:17:00.004-07:002020-12-06T15:24:54.056-08:00Grandma Katie's Quilt<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://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVrWxStoOWKJVbjuXlTULocOWBPKBJqkG6lHr2-XizoBuW3vvc83QR70KGmlf-7K29xmevj7EQtfX2qSHl9ugKFlgZfMBS9VJEpg0xzfJCa_ZjSarQrmaV3R7vTR_1qGkTDrwRv47UmWo/s751/Katieoriginal.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="751" data-original-width="750" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVrWxStoOWKJVbjuXlTULocOWBPKBJqkG6lHr2-XizoBuW3vvc83QR70KGmlf-7K29xmevj7EQtfX2qSHl9ugKFlgZfMBS9VJEpg0xzfJCa_ZjSarQrmaV3R7vTR_1qGkTDrwRv47UmWo/w400-h400/Katieoriginal.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Katie Cooke Fitzgerald<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <span style="font-size: medium;">We've heard the story of Katie's birth in Ireland, her immigrant family, and some tales of their life in Boston and Charlestown. This is a much later story. After I was born in 1952, my mother renegotiated a relationship between my father and his mother and I was frequently taken to see her in her apartment in Charlestown. This is where I think this picture was taken.</span><p></p><div><span style="font-size: medium;">In 1957, in another picture taken at Thanksgiving or Christmas, we see Katie on a visit to our house in Burlington. This is when I think the quilts might have come into the family. This is not the story of a master quilter, far from it. I was not aware that Katie even sewed. I only know that in the late 1950s two tied quilts came to Lee and me; hers was in pink binding and mine in blue. They were on our beds in our childhood every winter and were much loved. They saw hard service. Lee's eventually fell apart or disappeared. Mine came to me when my mom made her last move. I set it aside up in a closet thinking I would do something with it </span><span style="font-size: large;">"</span><span style="font-size: medium;">someday</span><span style="font-size: large;">".</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Someday came during a pandemic. I was cleaning out that closet for donations and found the quilt. It was in rough shape: stained, dirty, and falling apart in places. I decided it would make a good project.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFOd0ZLCZsCoc9IeBqG1mvDLHpAdnraqTg9BDphJDlOcbezBmNQa8Z7zWGBHf6Sem_MgKiM4_yfj7GmnUX_OGbp_by9IwvWYON7Caw_BThmmaYiUfYxshWSZrJUQjsQNM5mFEe2oXQS-s/s720/Before+Full2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="540" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFOd0ZLCZsCoc9IeBqG1mvDLHpAdnraqTg9BDphJDlOcbezBmNQa8Z7zWGBHf6Sem_MgKiM4_yfj7GmnUX_OGbp_by9IwvWYON7Caw_BThmmaYiUfYxshWSZrJUQjsQNM5mFEe2oXQS-s/w480-h640/Before+Full2.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">It was a higgledy-piggledy arrangement of 2-inch charm squares set in a binding and backing of turquoise and tied, rather than quilted, with pink floss. Some places had orderly square corners and even seams, but sometimes things went off the cliff and small pieces were set in to make up the difference. The old fabrics were quite charming indeed.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2tjsJZUBM86z3qM1AdZk6TfCU9s2dJWKhBrnt_vzbnnmaVnrb6WCGrBlqYTp8kv26oObvTKQ8Vx5k2SSof2oXTYMmpFH9WAsP86paJiZiqq46Lk_c7gaFUn1XjzShtrZtk6qTvGj5-3c/s504/closeupbefore.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="504" data-original-width="378" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2tjsJZUBM86z3qM1AdZk6TfCU9s2dJWKhBrnt_vzbnnmaVnrb6WCGrBlqYTp8kv26oObvTKQ8Vx5k2SSof2oXTYMmpFH9WAsP86paJiZiqq46Lk_c7gaFUn1XjzShtrZtk6qTvGj5-3c/w300-h400/closeupbefore.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">There were whole sections of split or missing fabric, terrible stains, and other places where seam allowances dangled by a thread. And it smelled.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The first thing was to take it apart, wash the top, and see what was salvageable. So I began gently cutting the knotted floss, sliding out the ties, ripping the seams along the border, and easing the layers apart as kindly as I could. I put the top in a special quilt washing soap in the bathtub. Then I laid it gently over several lines of the clothesline so as not to stress the fabric. Immediately I began to see brighter color and things didn't seem quite so hopeless.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Now, this is a project that quilt conservators would run from. It's not a historic pattern, made by a master quilter. It's not actually quilted and its condition was poor. They would most likely say, </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">"Pick out the best squares, make a pillow for remembrance and move on". But I'm stubborn. This is one of a very few things I have that came from that side of the family. It came from Katie as her gift to me. She may not have even made it; maybe she commissioned it from a friend. Who knows? As I examined it, I saw lots of 40's and 50's fabrics, but I also saw some rougher weave fabrics that may have come from old sugar or flour sacks. I also began to see a method in the madness. She actually used the 2-inch squares to make blocks of 16. Some of these were in pretty good shape. It might still have life as a wall-hanging. The turquoise border and backing were obviously new fabric at the time and in the best shape. So I decided to separate out blocks of 16, add the turquoise as a lattice for strength, and create a wall-hanging.</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0c3s1pJ21AFF7uYRYPvNc6QHagNoROrUN29eFKGBZeFTFLQfd_9mgkSNerKsPPgjcRDTI5u6bUgPQt5nB-9Vr_82JIE2Z3Gs3LVq03ZSkxtWkmC3bTMk_0m8Cxzfl0bGMjGF9_keWCmI/s432/Example+2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="410" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0c3s1pJ21AFF7uYRYPvNc6QHagNoROrUN29eFKGBZeFTFLQfd_9mgkSNerKsPPgjcRDTI5u6bUgPQt5nB-9Vr_82JIE2Z3Gs3LVq03ZSkxtWkmC3bTMk_0m8Cxzfl0bGMjGF9_keWCmI/s320/Example+2.jpg" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">I began to pick out blocks of 16 and make repairs. Where the seams were shaky, or there were holes or splits, I used a light-weight fusible called Misty Fuse and pieces of muslin on the back. I replaced missing squares from elsewhere in the quilt. It started out with over 1, 000 small squares.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I was able to save about 500; twenty-five blocks of sixteen and enough left over to create a running border. I didn't fuss too much with making every block the same size or perfectly square.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">After I had the blocks assembled I laid them all out and arranged and rearranged until the rows measured more closely the same length and the arrangement was pleasing. Then I began joining the blocks and rows with the turquoise lattice. I tried to make things as even as possible, but I didn't fuss. The center would be an homage to the original, warts and all.</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYd07XPuBIZOy4zXIN95YgzkuMepUPeX1Eregfsx4gadJ2kKK4ROiK5MYi3cpNa6Y2p6cln0StnPEzeJDHWFThi84hgJyz7CEOb_0OBCjDpAVWdp_fcGukXET1qF-e2ontZ2WYx-LxG-w/s2048/First+Row.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYd07XPuBIZOy4zXIN95YgzkuMepUPeX1Eregfsx4gadJ2kKK4ROiK5MYi3cpNa6Y2p6cln0StnPEzeJDHWFThi84hgJyz7CEOb_0OBCjDpAVWdp_fcGukXET1qF-e2ontZ2WYx-LxG-w/w640-h480/First+Row.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: medium;">I took a picture of the back to show the extent of the repairs. It's a lot, I know, but I wanted to preserve whatever I could. The border squares were in the worst shape, but I think the border in the finished work is charming.</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIkJSqZABdd4veNsu2Wbkf4emTE6kbE9piTy8gh468xViaSAviGm4SNV5ATwvTZseJqxh3rAAReyZTgCau600LNvmQSxFAknclMnwe7EDQelKJBmslLOhp9EJOPEpVZv-nfXlYexlHh3g/s360/repair_a.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="327" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIkJSqZABdd4veNsu2Wbkf4emTE6kbE9piTy8gh468xViaSAviGm4SNV5ATwvTZseJqxh3rAAReyZTgCau600LNvmQSxFAknclMnwe7EDQelKJBmslLOhp9EJOPEpVZv-nfXlYexlHh3g/s320/repair_a.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: medium;">I added plain muslin on all four sides to make up the difference in the size of the quilt.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I thought a long time about what should go in the "sandwich" that makes up a quilt. I was cautioned that traditional batting would put stress on the old fabric when I tied the quilt. I decided that a length of flannel would be the best choice. I joined two lengths, added a muslin backing, and basted the whole thing together. Now it was time to tie the quilt. I used the same shade of pink as the original on the old work and a shade that matched the muslin on the new work. This also took a bit of time and patience. It was a good project for pandemic movie-streaming.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Last, I cut a muslin bias-binding and bound all the edges. I added a pocket to the back of the quilt which will contain as much as I know about it and instructions for its care.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">My nephew is the only child to come from my generation. He may not want a quilt on his wall. He may not appreciate its charms. But I hope he will put it away along with its story. Someday he may have a daughter, a granddaughter, or a daughter-in-law who will love it as I do. Maybe someday, someone will be curious about Katie and the Irish side of the family. At least if it doesn't hang on a wall, it can live in a chest of family memories. Someone will enjoy Katie's story.</span></div><div><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/AVvXsEh5eeKsbwFj4ygscfQF5ltXnTsdWH5kSXHPbp1EfSN69oBYvE9RL8Z4V1ARnCaPzrVy9SBR-YnybB5qVj7Lan0TQfj6RMSHbNramg7F74A8yvBwCqRDijre8ID-mtiD6W5jxbjmRWC_6Sw/s1080/Livingroom.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="987" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5eeKsbwFj4ygscfQF5ltXnTsdWH5kSXHPbp1EfSN69oBYvE9RL8Z4V1ARnCaPzrVy9SBR-YnybB5qVj7Lan0TQfj6RMSHbNramg7F74A8yvBwCqRDijre8ID-mtiD6W5jxbjmRWC_6Sw/w584-h640/Livingroom.jpg" width="584" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The quilt enjoys a place of pride in my livingroom</td></tr></tbody></table></div>theailurophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14291353148749332231noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877919859322310751.post-90334125762309706482020-09-15T11:36:00.002-07:002020-09-15T11:36:26.825-07:00A Pioneer Remembered<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/AVvXsEiEV7BMJ7_2BOF7EtP610hAgHo23D0LBPnuYyMaj5vULRRbfLUY8IwooRErl53m0PqQWsEiECuZXuCY0BLOrcHqYYsOC-bpjOuupmGMpBEXhT2_z6F5shlG652PxQSVh366wMFlhQU5Jsc/s1248/Montgomery+St+Sf+1850.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="854" data-original-width="1248" height="438" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEV7BMJ7_2BOF7EtP610hAgHo23D0LBPnuYyMaj5vULRRbfLUY8IwooRErl53m0PqQWsEiECuZXuCY0BLOrcHqYYsOC-bpjOuupmGMpBEXhT2_z6F5shlG652PxQSVh366wMFlhQU5Jsc/w640-h438/Montgomery+St+Sf+1850.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Montgomery Street, San Francisco, 1850<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">This year, 1850, was about the time that Michael Stinson Cooke arrived in the United States from Ireland. He spent some brief time in New York and then traveled west. What strikes me about this image is what is missing. You see some concentrated building in the foreground and the hills we know well, bare, in the background. Now imagine far beyond those hills, in the area we now call "the avenues" at the far west end of present-day San Francisco. That was where Michael and his family settled. Imagine how far that was by wagon from Montgomery Street and what passed for "civilization". </span></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://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjrf6jN4T0IsYtU6VFSQ7NUUV_tPGAGE7S6RKCKTf_6Lp33JTc9JueE9rlEQ_byW8DpxEd4QkoMgJMVxtyeG3atGBQ6gnT4prcUk400Nk5A1iBVh7bG31yrZbpfPJzJRjn75mmBt62k5c/s2048/CookePiratskySolari.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjrf6jN4T0IsYtU6VFSQ7NUUV_tPGAGE7S6RKCKTf_6Lp33JTc9JueE9rlEQ_byW8DpxEd4QkoMgJMVxtyeG3atGBQ6gnT4prcUk400Nk5A1iBVh7bG31yrZbpfPJzJRjn75mmBt62k5c/w640-h480/CookePiratskySolari.jpg" width="640" /></a><br /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">left: Alene Murphy Solari, top: Eva Piratsky Murphy, bottom: Ann Cooke, right: Mary Anne Cooke <br />Piratsky<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"> These are the women of the Cooke family sometime just before 1905 when Mary Ann's mother died. Mary Ann died in 1932, and in October the Oakland Tribune published a remembrance of her remarkable life and memories. Possibly it was largely penned by her husband James. I'm going to transcribe it here because it lends great color to the story of her life.</span></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://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc6RKrFqAmwlZq9hVR7vCE6XIMXlvmUAixyz7vtFW1m44aMprsUcUOdjcGNjMXDFMLu1fagDJxssspMLk7F7P_45millaJHC2AEKi-9CEKXGnWyoG_TG6VmMsbzqCjOUNxp_bA_jaouRo/s864/Oakland_Tribune_Sun__Oct_2__1932_a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="864" data-original-width="513" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc6RKrFqAmwlZq9hVR7vCE6XIMXlvmUAixyz7vtFW1m44aMprsUcUOdjcGNjMXDFMLu1fagDJxssspMLk7F7P_45millaJHC2AEKi-9CEKXGnWyoG_TG6VmMsbzqCjOUNxp_bA_jaouRo/w380-h640/Oakland_Tribune_Sun__Oct_2__1932_a.jpg" width="380" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oakland Tribune, Sunday, Oct. 2 1932<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Of the Old San Francisco</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"<b>Of the old San Francisco was Mrs. Mary Ann Piratsky, born here seventy-seven years ago. Her death at Watsonville, where her husband James G Piratsky has been a newspaper publisher for some years, has brought out reviews of an eventful and inspiring life. Daughter of San Francisco pioneers, Michael and Ann Cook, Mrs. Piratsky always claimed the distinction of being the first white child born in that metropolitan area now embraced between Larkin Street, the Golden Gate, Seal Rocks, and Twin Peaks. She often related how the shack in which she was born was built with lumber that, painstakingly, was transported a couple of pieces at a time on the back of a mule over the only trail out to where her father settled. The trail started at the corner of Bush Street and Grant Avenue </b><i><b>(</b>just blocks from where the photo was taken) </i></span><b style="font-size: large;">(at that time know at Dupont Street, one of the principal streets of San Francisco) and wound its way over the sand dunes out to the Odd Fellow Cemetery, which property was then known as "Cook's Milk Ranch". Cook took up considerable land thereabouts, and in partnership with a man named Williams owned all of Lone Mountain, which mountain was sold by Cook to Archbishop Alemany for $150, in later years because a movement was on foot to take over the mountain and on its top bury David Broderick (who had been killed in a duel...), Cook said he did not want the grave to overlook his holdings, and strenuously objected to the proposal. Fearing that the people of San Francisco would take the land away from him, he arranged the sale of the mountain to the bishop, and thus stopped the movement. Archbishop Alemany, in after years, sold off from the base of Lone Mountain over $50,000 worth of lots, and still had the mountain, which the church is now grading off to erect thereon an educational institution.</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: large;">On the Peralta Rancho</b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>The Cook family, when Mrs. Piratsky was about four years old, moved across the bay and took a lease on a large tract of the Peralta Rancho, about where Berkeley is now located. Cook raise grain on this tract and did so well that he was enabled to return to San Francisco in a year or so, and erect a two-story residence on P. Lobos Avenue (then known as Geary Street) which he occupied until his death, some fifty years afterwards. Thus it will be seen that Mrs. Piratsky lived in a pioneer age. One of her prized possessions was a book "Annals of San Francisco", which was awarded to her as a prize at the Denman Girls' High School, then located at Bush and Mason streets. Especially interesting was the account of the escape of the Irish patriot, Terence Bellew Mc Manus, from Sydney, Australia, where he had been transported by the British Government. McManus was a prominent Irishman, and the British Government was extremely glad when he made his escape in a vessel sent to Australia by the Irish revolutionists. In fact, England didn't care if he never came back. Mc Manus made his escape to San Francisco and was given refuge by Cook, who was also one of the revolutionists. McManus took up and settled upon, as a ranch, the greater portion of what now comprises Golden Gate Park. He died from the hardship incurred in Australia and was taken back in great state to Ireland where he was given an immense funeral. His sister, Isabel McManus, was swindled out of the property by squatters instigated by some of McManus' professed friends. The Cooks befriended Miss McManus until her death. Mrs. Piratsky was at her best describing the McManus affair. Her first school was the Sisters' School, connected with an orphanage attached to St. Patrick's Church, which church was then located on the site now occupied by the Palace Hotel. Across the street, where the Crocker bank now stands was an immense sand-hill. The corner was once offered to Cook for a couple of hundred dollars. The offer was turned down. Also turned down was an offer made Cook that if he would clear off the sand-hill on the corner of Bush and Montgomery </b><i>(on the same street as the photo)<b> </b></i><b>streets, he would be given one of the corner lots. The site was afterwards occupied by the Occidental Hotel.</b></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I love the sleight-of-hand pulled by Michael on the city of San Francisco. They were looking, at the time, for a place to have large cemeteries. Michael foresaw seizure by eminent domain and sold to the bishop for a Catholic cemetery. Later all the cemeteries moved down to Colma. University of San Francisco, a Jesuit college, was built on the spot and remains there to this day.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">As to his revolutionary leanings, it would certainly explain his very early exit from Ireland in 1850. He was eldest and would have inherited the lease on the land in Clooningan. That passed to his brother. I don't doubt that he had revolutionary sympathies, but it also wouldn't surprise me to find out that the McManus clan were cousins of some sort. I haven't found any McManus names yet in my tree, but the records may not be there. This was very early.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mary Ann Cook Piratsky had a remarkable pioneer life in San Francisco. It's always so rewarding to find first-hand accounts in your family history.</span></p>theailurophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14291353148749332231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877919859322310751.post-57808815413629006032020-08-13T09:03:00.003-07:002020-08-13T09:06:41.854-07:00A Trip to the Fair<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://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5XuQ1trAfFZ6sjH5l2Wa6yqFEkKHPc75G9OyBVjk5cCuQaQE6wk8Nx5ovnzgLbSYbaPxMj0Ku0uujwFude0L-hGqI2xkWePrg-00_wio3p1Rpxokqn_2tLhueVBzvHfR5dRWDpRCNv5Y/s700/California+Midwinter+Exhibition.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="456" data-original-width="700" height="417" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5XuQ1trAfFZ6sjH5l2Wa6yqFEkKHPc75G9OyBVjk5cCuQaQE6wk8Nx5ovnzgLbSYbaPxMj0Ku0uujwFude0L-hGqI2xkWePrg-00_wio3p1Rpxokqn_2tLhueVBzvHfR5dRWDpRCNv5Y/w640-h417/California+Midwinter+Exhibition.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The California Midwinter Exhibition of 1894<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>The California Midwinter Exhibition of 1894 was held in Golden Gate Park, just steps from Mary Ann Cooke Piratsky's parents' home. It was held from January to July 1894 following on the heels of the Columbian Exhibition in Chicago. The driving force behind this was Michael DeYoung, then publisher of the San Francisco Chronicle. Many of the exhibits from Chicago were brought west by DeYoung in addition to a number of new exhibits. There had been an economic downturn at the time, and DeYoung was looking to boost the local economy. The man who designed the layout of the fairgrounds was chief engineer Michael O'Shaughnessy. San Franciscans will recognize that name from the street and Muni route into the park named for him.<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://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeefGDvcfqDa28CAYM9HzZg3S9Kf8o6XCaugHbZnwQjgRMnubkTjfAe4ZGoddBbfkcj-Il13J6_Gn-jNBfnPeDaLKsYD68Nh8IFF3yHzfOU3-Gg6AWOO5C4gAEko0xW09iTFIqxhktStU/s1000/View_from_Strawberry_Hill_wnp15.081.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="785" data-original-width="1000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeefGDvcfqDa28CAYM9HzZg3S9Kf8o6XCaugHbZnwQjgRMnubkTjfAe4ZGoddBbfkcj-Il13J6_Gn-jNBfnPeDaLKsYD68Nh8IFF3yHzfOU3-Gg6AWOO5C4gAEko0xW09iTFIqxhktStU/s640/View_from_Strawberry_Hill_wnp15.081.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Fairgrounds from Strawberry Hill<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>The family connection here has to do with Mary Ann Cooke Piratsky. She was married to James, and seems to have been living in Hollister at the time. She was not allowed to write under her own byline, but wrote for men at the Hollister Freelance. The press pass labels her a photographer. Perhaps, she did a bit of that as well. James was beginning a long career in journalism. More about that later.<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/AVvXsEjPr0EHB6qwrX6vLsD9NHr6OwVj0xz7mWR9ffyphUtsifpANvM2MmWbPXN7FY7OW0CE2alkWP4zRGfFU61R80eJYIkw83UKgaJsJuub-3TeGLhSg5cnQLpRgaYQa_0k8z1903oNasNL0eI/s1004/James_Mary+Ann+Piratsky.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1004" data-original-width="636" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPr0EHB6qwrX6vLsD9NHr6OwVj0xz7mWR9ffyphUtsifpANvM2MmWbPXN7FY7OW0CE2alkWP4zRGfFU61R80eJYIkw83UKgaJsJuub-3TeGLhSg5cnQLpRgaYQa_0k8z1903oNasNL0eI/s640/James_Mary+Ann+Piratsky.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">James and Mary Ann Piratsky</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><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/AVvXsEjUOAU5_SlCa6xnwscQwS1-lKQbIxQR7ZCnhbqUYPtwEnVh3A-5w_Z3eQoTyWlQ_PjgQ-K7IfiIQgTkxu30IOthD1N5WfIHJGZYGyXdVYJF-CCh0OFvyLTO1mW4HngrSzxmlBtpUCFw-HE/s1269/MPiratskypress.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1004" data-original-width="1269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUOAU5_SlCa6xnwscQwS1-lKQbIxQR7ZCnhbqUYPtwEnVh3A-5w_Z3eQoTyWlQ_PjgQ-K7IfiIQgTkxu30IOthD1N5WfIHJGZYGyXdVYJF-CCh0OFvyLTO1mW4HngrSzxmlBtpUCFw-HE/s640/MPiratskypress.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mary Ann's press pass<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Some of the landmarks we know in Golden Gate Park date from that period. The building devoted to Fine Arts later became the DeYoung Museum.<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/AVvXsEgtZMOHeIKsBMPDn06dRzO4nc3F-u2y-6fTIgYvc8lITEftpcVpTNZxql82IJjl8UXGK453Vr3pLEUne2SSw4UXVpD1MMQkpYfZC2o9MBbAS2O8NVojM0WWRUVTwq5tBvBv9eSJy_6hIz8/s1000/Fine_Arts_bldg_wnp15.096.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="1000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtZMOHeIKsBMPDn06dRzO4nc3F-u2y-6fTIgYvc8lITEftpcVpTNZxql82IJjl8UXGK453Vr3pLEUne2SSw4UXVpD1MMQkpYfZC2o9MBbAS2O8NVojM0WWRUVTwq5tBvBv9eSJy_6hIz8/s640/Fine_Arts_bldg_wnp15.096.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Fine Arts Building<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>And the Japanese Garden later became The Japanese Tea Garden visited by so many people and one of my favorite places.<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/AVvXsEgyDIwvq04cWRSjL0C3ZZ1Z97rODl5BP1gNC8kegRqwiBa3O0OLdpu6vvGglFKRxIViIUY5NjB6-PYVg4c_xnbj2iSEe20iyuhxsj9fCwkBnK3rN5vt6SZSccRYJVqARzVslwMJFHN3cSs/s1000/Japanese_Tea_Garden_wnp15.117.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="794" data-original-width="1000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyDIwvq04cWRSjL0C3ZZ1Z97rODl5BP1gNC8kegRqwiBa3O0OLdpu6vvGglFKRxIViIUY5NjB6-PYVg4c_xnbj2iSEe20iyuhxsj9fCwkBnK3rN5vt6SZSccRYJVqARzVslwMJFHN3cSs/s640/Japanese_Tea_Garden_wnp15.117.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marsh's Japanese Village<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>But this was not without controversy. The developer of this exhibit wanted rickshaws drawn by real Japanese men. The Japanese community protested and the idea was changed...German men in makeup and costume pulled the rickshaws. Despite this misstep, the garden itself was salvaged by Park superintendent John McLaren and became the lovely place we know today.<div><br /></div><div> In addition to the coverage from Hollister by the Piratskys, it got a front-page in January in the Los Angeles Herald and in June from the San Francisco Call.</div><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/AVvXsEhHJZq-ZYXsNHBlAEjg9XGiA6gslSLiztuh8ai4-FpXXwchIamyYID5byiNltZEEa510uiEAaKdRF4HQcsfYYv1WVGS88dtCkQlnRhgJkTESE2EetRM_JnL2iQkcCqBNzs6m3SKl7_bXuY/s720/LAHERALD.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="547" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHJZq-ZYXsNHBlAEjg9XGiA6gslSLiztuh8ai4-FpXXwchIamyYID5byiNltZEEa510uiEAaKdRF4HQcsfYYv1WVGS88dtCkQlnRhgJkTESE2EetRM_JnL2iQkcCqBNzs6m3SKl7_bXuY/s640/LAHERALD.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">LAHerald - January 1894<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><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/AVvXsEjv3gF4NqFZbW7Bq_ReoWVNR40RhAuMG1-zNkKmOja5ZJddveFNYG_R3ES2Cvo5BSZy6zn_ieZB7l1XkcbS74R2_EuK8qowo2WfiGJtWSDNrFTUTlcjAcaxrD8EBzRig6Y907JLFnfUpkI/s720/SFCAllll.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="510" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv3gF4NqFZbW7Bq_ReoWVNR40RhAuMG1-zNkKmOja5ZJddveFNYG_R3ES2Cvo5BSZy6zn_ieZB7l1XkcbS74R2_EuK8qowo2WfiGJtWSDNrFTUTlcjAcaxrD8EBzRig6Y907JLFnfUpkI/s640/SFCAllll.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">San Francisco Call- June 1894<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Everyone seems to have made their money. Perhaps this coupon explains the illustration at the top of the post.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmHNCI0Lc6u1MPIfuE2vcEAnpHmeI0lVBEXuJQYpds6dUeNi9QKxVn9dF0b_60cG_Bv5cSYEyogv-YGVYHyERaCCjR3gQKjPPjJCCkfL8t4N-ylWbYwIZ3Ya79JQ0SZhUPs-5ae8t05u4/s1082/Coupon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="510" data-original-width="1082" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmHNCI0Lc6u1MPIfuE2vcEAnpHmeI0lVBEXuJQYpds6dUeNi9QKxVn9dF0b_60cG_Bv5cSYEyogv-YGVYHyERaCCjR3gQKjPPjJCCkfL8t4N-ylWbYwIZ3Ya79JQ0SZhUPs-5ae8t05u4/s640/Coupon.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br />Ticket sales were brisk, according to the papers and school children especially enjoyed the attractions.<div>The Midwinter Fair, as it was called, drew nearly two and a half million people during its run. By any measure, a success. </div></div>theailurophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14291353148749332231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877919859322310751.post-82063184175551943232020-07-20T21:16:00.001-07:002020-07-20T21:19:02.391-07:00John T. "Johnny" Cooke<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/q_tQ0rndT1Y" width="320" youtube-src-id="q_tQ0rndT1Y"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Go to full screen if the size bothers you.</div></blockquote></div></blockquote>theailurophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14291353148749332231noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877919859322310751.post-84425888072768777962020-06-09T13:50:00.001-07:002020-06-09T13:56:44.973-07:00The Battle of Fredericksburg- Returning to the Story of W. B. Rogers<br /><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/AVvXsEjGKgeSAN_jfSZ0KES1J8SgQ5ov-btyfQ-ZIBAOdHPDGcYZd1HZIiCE1uPFj8UdCnZAzWrPoaiUf59RSqb3tJJawzjGPu6pEbUneawZeTh4rXs4dytDm9jwWoFUTRszv7lNpH0fs-L-dlI/s1339/pontoon.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="892" data-original-width="1339" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGKgeSAN_jfSZ0KES1J8SgQ5ov-btyfQ-ZIBAOdHPDGcYZd1HZIiCE1uPFj8UdCnZAzWrPoaiUf59RSqb3tJJawzjGPu6pEbUneawZeTh4rXs4dytDm9jwWoFUTRszv7lNpH0fs-L-dlI/w640-h426/pontoon.jpg" title="pontoon bridge being laid on the Rappahannock" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the five pontoon bridges being laid across the Rappahannock<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><font size="4">For the Battle of Fredericksburg, we have to rely for and account of movements on the historic record. No doubt, Winslow B. didn't want to worry his wife and family. The stories in the paper at the time were lurid enough.</font><div><font size="4"><br /></font></div><div><font size="4"><i>The History of the 36th Regiment </i>tells us this:</font></div><div><font size="4">After shelling failed to dislodge the Rebel forces from the city, five pontoon bridges were laid and the order was given to cross and advance on the city. W.B.'s unit was part of the Ninth Corps. under General Burns.</font></div><div><font size="4"><span> </span><i>"That morning, several divisions of the Ninth Corps. were early in line; and as they reached the Fredericksburg side of the river, they were placed in position to the left of Sumner's Grand Division, and just below the city. In crossing, a few men were killed by the enemy's shells that fell short of our batteries at which they were aimed. Two men of the Thirty-Sixth were in this way slightly wounded.</i></font></div><div><font size="4"><span><i> That night we moved up into the city, and stacking guns spent the night on the sidewalk and in the deserted homes in rear of the guns. Early on the morning of December 13th, preparations were made for the approaching battle. Burns' division of the Ninth Corps., to which our brigade belonged, was assigned to a position below the city. There, across Hazel's Run, behind a rise of ground, we remained under arms in reserve, listening to the roar of artillery and musketry as the battle raged along the line from left to right expecting every minute to be called to participate in the terrible conflict; but no orders came until afternoon when we moved further down the river, crossed Deep Run and were placed in front of the Barnard House covering the lower pontoon bridge. At dark, the 36th moved forward and supported a battery in front of the Sligo House."</i></span><br /></font></div><div><font size="4"><span><span> </span>There was apparently a plan to engage the Ninth Corps. in battle the following day, but it was abandoned. The army advanced into the city and found it deserted. To the great disappointment of the men, they fell back to their previous encampment.</span></font></div><div><font size="4"><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/AVvXsEh7ODYzFHyutinO33gOhXUt804G_iasb7_JUpV3Nylb3yJ2V5ngNXyquYjWxSnf9aenQUyNxjj8g2hmgXfkhxfdtUSXxcvFXGCznPcO3HZ-kueg2inS1iwx5CPmN1CgznVMFQSqVnbFuWs/s4249/Battle+of+F%2527burgmap.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3417" data-original-width="4249" height="514" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ODYzFHyutinO33gOhXUt804G_iasb7_JUpV3Nylb3yJ2V5ngNXyquYjWxSnf9aenQUyNxjj8g2hmgXfkhxfdtUSXxcvFXGCznPcO3HZ-kueg2inS1iwx5CPmN1CgznVMFQSqVnbFuWs/w640-h514/Battle+of+F%2527burgmap.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Map of the Battle showing the position of the 36th Massachusetts<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>We know that the battle raged for four days and despite some advances was not considered a success. The 36th seems to have been held in reserve for a second charge that never came, a disappointment for the men, but fortunate for W.B. There were many Union losses.</font></div><div><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/AVvXsEgS1CjU_fcLwRbt57CUepnR776By5LO8XrqmPzFUv8bcWtopQz1hyphenhyphenkuJ0oCdJ8QsE_tfsrWGQRSieox1HQbxmHcnwS34hUp9xF5UQZRIZBgoA96XY9C65Qk22uc2rBE4Og199tOCpVJ-mU/s1023/attack+f%2527burg.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1023" data-original-width="885" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS1CjU_fcLwRbt57CUepnR776By5LO8XrqmPzFUv8bcWtopQz1hyphenhyphenkuJ0oCdJ8QsE_tfsrWGQRSieox1HQbxmHcnwS34hUp9xF5UQZRIZBgoA96XY9C65Qk22uc2rBE4Og199tOCpVJ-mU/w554-h640/attack+f%2527burg.jpg" width="554" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The attack at Fredericksburg<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><font size="4"><br /></font></div><div><font size="4">Here is W.B.'s account:</font></div><div><font size="4"><b><i>Fredericksburg, Virginia </i></b></font></div><div><font size="4"><b><i>December 15, 1862</i></b></font></div><div><font size="4"><b><i><br /></i></b></font></div><div><font size="4"><b><i>Dear Wife,</i></b></font></div><div><font size="4"><b><i> It is Sunday noon and I am sitting on the wharf of the Rappahannock. The bank of the river is crowded with troops and stacks of arms. We are having a terrible battle. It commenced on Wednesday at 6 o'clock in the morning and this is the fourth day. The firing has been less for two hours but I don't know but it will be resumed again worse than ever. We are in the possession of the City. We encamped in the city night before last and stayed on the floor of a little shanty in the yard of a nice rebel mansion. The buildings are completely riddled with shells and some are burned. The city is worse than burned. Oh the horrors of war no one can imagine unless they see it. I will give you an account of my experience of the battle. We were ordered to be ready to march at 8 o'clock Wednesday morning without knapsack. We formed our brigade just before our camp and stood until most sundown. We marched down towards the city about 3/4 of a mile and then turned about and marched back to our old camp and pitched our tents and stayed until morning. We were then ordered to fall in about daylight and started for the City. We crossed the pontoon bridges onto the wharf about where we are today and stayed there until dark and then we marched up on to the street and stayed until morning. We then started and marched about half a mile out and stood until most night. We were then ordered to fall in. We double quicked it a little farther through the mud and were drawn up in line of battle and stood until dark and then laid down on the ground until half past two. We then started and marched through the mud and water I suppose several miles and formed in line and were ordered to lay close on the ground expecting every moment a shell would come over. We laid until it begun to be light. We were then ordered to march back to where we lay the day before which proved to be about a hundred rods. We stayed long enough to make a little coffee. We were then ordered to fall in and marched double-quick to where we are now. I have not spoke of the firing. We have not fired a gun in the 36th Regiment yet but there has been a continual roar of canon and popping of musket shot but the shells have been flying over our heads the whole time and some burst near us. One piece came within a rod of me and some were wounded in sight of me. Most sundown. We are laying here yet and I must finish my letter as the chaplain is ready to take the letters.</i></b></font></div><div><font size="4"><b><i>From your husband,</i></b></font></div><div><font size="4"><b><i>W. B. Rogers</i></b></font></div><div><font size="4"><span><span> Seven years ago this month, I began writing this blog. I had done just enough genealogy to discover a few things about Winslow Brainard and his family. There are still some mysteries to be uncovered. I hope this inspires my readers to delve into their own family stories. <br /></span>Happy Blogiversary to me!</span></font></div>theailurophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14291353148749332231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877919859322310751.post-31589005560862015712020-05-05T16:42:00.000-07:002020-05-05T16:42:09.330-07:00A Life's Mission<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://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5vzDJjmrQl4R4oV3wZWKNMs83j88GsBbku1ujf4AMeBKTnoaGfPAkVe4y4-afKVKskPm8loYXbHMzYggxLpfhIqZ2-w5Q5BIu2QJu3uju7EIW-smc1djuQn9rXCkiUIHKMsFY2gTR5OU/s1600/Sister+C+portrait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1143" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5vzDJjmrQl4R4oV3wZWKNMs83j88GsBbku1ujf4AMeBKTnoaGfPAkVe4y4-afKVKskPm8loYXbHMzYggxLpfhIqZ2-w5Q5BIu2QJu3uju7EIW-smc1djuQn9rXCkiUIHKMsFY2gTR5OU/s640/Sister+C+portrait.jpg" width="456" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sister Columba (Belinda Cooke) probably on an celebration of her vows</td></tr>
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Meet Belinda Cooke. Belinda would be my first cousin, twice removed. She was my great-grandfather Michael's niece. Here's a small tree to help keep it straight.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4DEs6fHTvvR0SEeCC8IUFmadXxillkp2ORAJwJkQpCDil58SLd9eupdw05WBWu49m35fPrZnl8xLQfbkUOy0voLajim8NIKTh_EZERyeyMLEMzuBtFK7wtWUf3Y37_zqbH0TTr5fDg20/s1600/Belinda+Tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="603" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4DEs6fHTvvR0SEeCC8IUFmadXxillkp2ORAJwJkQpCDil58SLd9eupdw05WBWu49m35fPrZnl8xLQfbkUOy0voLajim8NIKTh_EZERyeyMLEMzuBtFK7wtWUf3Y37_zqbH0TTr5fDg20/s640/Belinda+Tree.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
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Belinda had five brothers and lived on the family farm in Clooningan. She was born in 1898, so this would have been long before much knowledge of modern illnesses, much less treatment. At some point in her childhood, she got polio. The family story is that she prayed that if she were cured, she would devote her life to missions.<div>
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In the early twenties she made good on this promise and went to the Convent of the Good Shepherd in Limerick. From there she went on to France, probably the mother house in Angers for her training as a teacher. At some point she took her vows and became Sister Columba. She took a trip home before going on her assignment and announced to the family she would not be back. Her assignment took her to a convent and school in Mysore, India. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeTYq0qNH0Iw2dxaNVcc85f5Ihn5Ovw2pT3Yb8jMLgR6L3kN3J1dkVrSSQdGMHjP955ceZR0BbIEr6VWkIWC__lrK68MuPVyXrT0Sm0qzniVw9tUvXkfZW6AT9CwDewa5jfl8XNWpij7Y/s1600/Sister+C+with+family.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="664" data-original-width="960" height="442" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeTYq0qNH0Iw2dxaNVcc85f5Ihn5Ovw2pT3Yb8jMLgR6L3kN3J1dkVrSSQdGMHjP955ceZR0BbIEr6VWkIWC__lrK68MuPVyXrT0Sm0qzniVw9tUvXkfZW6AT9CwDewa5jfl8XNWpij7Y/s640/Sister+C+with+family.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sister Columba on the right with Anne Leonard</td></tr>
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You can get some idea by checking out the background in the picture. You can see the students and a bit of the school and convent. My cousin, Anne Leonard, worked for an airline and was able to visit her.<div>
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And this also gives you some of the "flavor" of her world.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRDFdf4GfsB_7sdBhdopntDKd5setcV0TN4hSSBqLwL9lUT7fJUCabxNlZsuNugXJRJVd2IjfFvadkkQRhOoQzqwUHk5Nf-SP_C-oXHj4XepMoUaa0JSOvbd_jvpcm7rsSKzR5u-eQV6A/s1600/Sister+C+with+sisters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="693" data-original-width="1003" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRDFdf4GfsB_7sdBhdopntDKd5setcV0TN4hSSBqLwL9lUT7fJUCabxNlZsuNugXJRJVd2IjfFvadkkQRhOoQzqwUHk5Nf-SP_C-oXHj4XepMoUaa0JSOvbd_jvpcm7rsSKzR5u-eQV6A/s400/Sister+C+with+sisters.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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She also kept up a lively correspondence with her nieces and nephews in Ireland, Canada, and the United States. The letter I'm quoting from is from her to her grand-nephew Jimmy. My cousin Denise kindly shared.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi62nZ9zOHASX9TU1JfAIE2MNpPl-QP7tMkUYGg8TZYI2h1FUnA3HngC71KdUF3O9BY97BBak0eErustDeoxQ5J720vhlqn9l7vNOWN-MO3fKIBti8YuDV4l1hkktv54nroFRiDhvYHR4E/s1600/LettertoJimmy1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi62nZ9zOHASX9TU1JfAIE2MNpPl-QP7tMkUYGg8TZYI2h1FUnA3HngC71KdUF3O9BY97BBak0eErustDeoxQ5J720vhlqn9l7vNOWN-MO3fKIBti8YuDV4l1hkktv54nroFRiDhvYHR4E/s640/LettertoJimmy1.jpg" width="360" /></a></div>
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<br /><i>"You asked what subjects I teach. Well, dear I teach every subject except 2nd language and that is always the language of the country so I cannot teach it. Our classes here are very big I have over fifty. They are mostly all bright intelligent children. Last year I taught the boys, this year I have girls. Of course they are mostly all pagans; that is the sad part of it."</i><br />
I suppose this attitude, though a little uncomfortable for us, is not unexpected for a nun at the time. And she devoted her life to teaching them, so I can't fault her for that. I used to think classes of thirty were too big, I can't imagine fifty! She wrote another letter to Denise herself, but it is mostly personal and about family.<br />
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I usually do a lot more research on the people I blog about, but with a nun that's rather hard. Plus her order has fallen under a bit of a cloud, so information is hard to come by. This isn't the only person in the family to take vow, but she is in more recent memory so there are picture and relics to tell the story. And she kept her promise in a way I find admirable.</div>
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theailurophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14291353148749332231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877919859322310751.post-24341228786901589212020-04-05T13:42:00.002-07:002020-05-30T11:57:56.534-07:00Plague<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the Plague Doctor series-<a href="https://www.katherine-rhodes-fields.com/" style="font-size: 12px; text-align: start;">https://www.katherine-rhodes-fields.com/</a></td></tr>
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What could be more appropriate today than a plague doctor in his mask? It is certainly nothing new in the history of mankind. You might remember my post about how one small town where my Rogers ancestors lived dealt with an outbreak of smallpox. And how some surrounding towns took a more bloodless approach. Check that out <a href="https://leaftwigandstem.blogspot.com/2014/06/a-small-town-deals-with-smallpox_11.html">here</a>.<br />
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The plague of the 19th Century was tuberculosis. Before it was understood that a particular bacteria caused the disease, crowding, poor sanitation and poor hygiene killed large numbers of people in this country who contracted TB. No surprise, when people were removed to cleaner sanitariums they often recovered. I was startled to discover how many of my relatives died of tuberculosis as I worked on my tree. Finding them all to list them would have taken the better part of my month at home. So I chose the most striking examples. I would find some really well-kept registers that listed "consumption" or "<span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">phthisis pulmonalis" </span>as the cause of death. That's TB. There were probably many others, but before good records were standardized, an early female death would easily have been either childbirth or TB.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj70kQTRE8ECeH_UDF1d3QbeyL99hh7ISi0s3LTZTgIJbVwzlvOY7LOmrFYv6SRLiDlCfnvGBP5aVA3_37J9wMRZU0sUzL5ExDxD6garJGMdwBRHRln4Q0R5UgnjFzp1LTPqODlP8cp6Zo/s1600/JRSmith+Nov+1880.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="271" data-original-width="1600" height="108" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj70kQTRE8ECeH_UDF1d3QbeyL99hh7ISi0s3LTZTgIJbVwzlvOY7LOmrFYv6SRLiDlCfnvGBP5aVA3_37J9wMRZU0sUzL5ExDxD6garJGMdwBRHRln4Q0R5UgnjFzp1LTPqODlP8cp6Zo/s640/JRSmith+Nov+1880.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jennie R Smith- Nov 1880</td></tr>
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This is one of the saddest records I found. Jennie was my great-great-grandfather's youngest sister. She died at just nineteen. The worst part was that out of twelve children in this family, only 3 lived to adulthood. Jennie almost made it. On the same page recording her death in Waltham I found many other TB deaths.<br />
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Another story was that of the family of Moses Rogers of Holden. He was my third great grandfather's brother. In his family he lost 4 children to tuberculosis, one to typhoid, one to typhus and one to cancer. Seven out of his eight children. Some in adulthood, to be sure, but still... </div>
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I think about the things that killed people in the 19th century: disease and childbirth. Old age was a luxury. People were accustomed to death in a way we just aren't. And accustomed to outbreaks of diseases we have long left behind. On the register page with Jennie's death I found tubercular meningitis, tuberculosis and six cases of diphtheria. The outbreak at one point was so severe that people blamed vampires and began doing strange rituals to stop it. You can read about that <a href="https://www.history.com/news/vampires-tuberculosis-consumption-new-england">here</a>. Bleach and toilet paper hoarding may be more logical, but no less hysterical.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAu0MYoSfHZG7SvWv8k0fu23BZ4ctA5vnrr0hBT66X5IEZfSZqCJxOsciGj3_2v0QGM7awjbhPVihI3z_xmubjZJNCr6p3Io84Qshpuvj0qKVICXsklnHfE-nqYlKvxMwi1sviDwmszCA/s1600/JosieF.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="1600" height="494" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAu0MYoSfHZG7SvWv8k0fu23BZ4ctA5vnrr0hBT66X5IEZfSZqCJxOsciGj3_2v0QGM7awjbhPVihI3z_xmubjZJNCr6p3Io84Qshpuvj0qKVICXsklnHfE-nqYlKvxMwi1sviDwmszCA/s640/JosieF.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Josephine Payne Fitzgerald 1910</td></tr>
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This last record is the death of my great-uncle Robert Fitzgerald's wife Josie in 1910. Even then, tuberculosis was taking lives. Her infant son died the same month of "lumbar pneumonia", but who knows whether she passed it along to him? Robert was left to raise my cousin Katherine until 1917 when a freak accident killed him and she went to live with my grandparents.</div>
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I found stories like this all through the family tree as I have worked along. Now to be sure, tuberculosis was a slow death. People knew the outcome and had some time to accustom themselves to the eventuality; the average TB patient lived three to five years. There were no airplanes. People traveled less. The spread would have been slower. And living in an age where we are inoculated against the biggest killers of previous ages, we have no reference for what we are seeing today.<br />
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Here's a thought. Picture your family tree as a very large inverted triangle with you, the "distillation" at the very bottom. That image reminds me again of something that struck me early on in genealogy: I am the result of survival of every possible type of calamity. My ancestors survived pandemics, deaths in accidents, death in childbirth, war, famine just to name a few. My very existence is a kind of miracle. Until I did genealogy, I never really grasped or appreciated that. </div>
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Today, I do even more.</div>
theailurophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14291353148749332231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877919859322310751.post-43596604193335112132020-03-26T14:38:00.005-07:002020-06-11T21:13:21.295-07:00Throwback Thursday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeYi-35P1yEVATAWFN7HG5iamNX4krlKsb9KCA04wuWxOJ8DlWIK7sb9V8A_n58B0PWywEP0UMiWxyYR2jA6KaPcof3ac8LqBSvLdreEgm8lkBJIAIotZ-_lXazyaXZ5EELlgNUDWSDGc/s1600/Ann_Cook.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="983" data-original-width="1600" height="392" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeYi-35P1yEVATAWFN7HG5iamNX4krlKsb9KCA04wuWxOJ8DlWIK7sb9V8A_n58B0PWywEP0UMiWxyYR2jA6KaPcof3ac8LqBSvLdreEgm8lkBJIAIotZ-_lXazyaXZ5EELlgNUDWSDGc/s640/Ann_Cook.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
This is Ann Cooke, the widow of Michael Stinson Cooke in front of her home at the corner of Geary and Cooke St.. (San Francisco) I don't know the year, but Michael died in 1897 and she died in 1905 so my guess is somewhere in that time period.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbsE02f8gvhgOuYNcHjw3VTv_1pPqS9il8Oa_OsKywDTWCdc8eGng3cq11glAZ6UpANKiN_uxlEs0aJdkdAhQzXOy31hF7Rp98OrE6fSf76BYW27_9dYuGtT60S6UWJDpZ7BtLNav-EkM/s1600/Cook%253AGeary.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="582" data-original-width="660" height="563" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbsE02f8gvhgOuYNcHjw3VTv_1pPqS9il8Oa_OsKywDTWCdc8eGng3cq11glAZ6UpANKiN_uxlEs0aJdkdAhQzXOy31hF7Rp98OrE6fSf76BYW27_9dYuGtT60S6UWJDpZ7BtLNav-EkM/s640/Cook%253AGeary.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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This is that same corner today. Based on a previous much older photo, the house actually faced what is now Geary and sat where the tire store is located at about the spot you see the small tree.</div>
theailurophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14291353148749332231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877919859322310751.post-67577238820601708442020-02-01T04:37:00.000-08:002020-02-01T04:37:24.777-08:00A Sticky Disaster in the North End<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsXiEG2rDwZftlHSH4Si6rKgF_XqgNkjAHxAEirxaahFXTEBG8arMn6eNk3h1t7HoKEi5i-U6AlXI6EtiblqSIX578IZ3MpJhVe4zXVQ94QbIMh6nVM-c6pqNXvUn-Q6oKIkUSNTJr1g4/s1600/Clarke+off+Hanover1893.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="948" data-original-width="1372" height="442" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsXiEG2rDwZftlHSH4Si6rKgF_XqgNkjAHxAEirxaahFXTEBG8arMn6eNk3h1t7HoKEi5i-U6AlXI6EtiblqSIX578IZ3MpJhVe4zXVQ94QbIMh6nVM-c6pqNXvUn-Q6oKIkUSNTJr1g4/s640/Clarke+off+Hanover1893.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clarke at Hanover St. in Boston's North End about 1893-courtesy of the photo archives Boston Public Library</td></tr>
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This is Boston's famous North End neighborhood, just before the turn of the century. My Cooke relatives weren't living here at this time; they were living in Dorchester near Michael's workplace in the stoneyard. It gives you some idea, however, of what the neighborhood looked like. There were the famous buildings, the home of Paul Revere and the Old North Church, and then there were squalid tenements. The neighborhood was teeming with Irish immigrants. Indeed, the Cookes moved to 164 Endicott Street and were shown there on the 1900 census.<br />
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They didn't live there long. Michael moved the family across the Charles River to Charlestown and died in 1913. By the time our story takes place in 1919 the neighborhood was largely Italian immigrants. Michael's widow was in Everett with her daughter and my grandmother, grandfather and their family were living in Charlestown. But I tell this story as an illustration of what happened in immigrant neighborhoods in many cities at this time where there were industries side-by-side with poor housing and little regulation to protect the residents.</div>
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The story actually began before the first World War when the U.S. Industrial Alcohol Company began work on a very large tank on the waterfront on Commercial Street in the North End. The company planned to house large amounts of imported molasses awaiting shipment to its distillery to be turned into explosives. Right from the beginning, the enormous tank was cursed. It was put up quickly, with substandard sheet metal, it was never properly tested and when problems became evident, the company covered them up. Molasses ran down the sides of the tank inviting the poor neighborhood children to collect it in buckets. The company painted the tank rust brown to disguise the leaks. Workers heard shrieks and moans coming from inside the tank. People standing near the tank reported feeling the sides of the tank pulsing with the fermentation and gases inside. It was a disaster waiting to happen. </div>
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On January 15, 1919, disaster happened. The tank failed in a spectacular way and all at once. Rivets shot like artillery fire, metal panels buckled and an explosion of 2.3 million gallons of molasses created a 15 foot tidal wave on Commercial Street. It slammed into buildings, cellars, people and animals burying everything in its path. A section of the sheet metal sliced through the supports of the elevated train track, collapsing it. Only quick thinking saved two operating trains from coming down with it.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRtj9l5ET0a6P-cVgHhq5v1row91hty3yjVmCvw4q_39V7tlQ-A4w23_DgQK8leC-LFqJFPTZteh3v9V7UkFMkxWisN22ostTmCVejFA6vLCKco0cVcbneGYY3UO2v9jWrLB11EcCdoTU/s1600/annotatedmap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="924" data-original-width="1600" height="368" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRtj9l5ET0a6P-cVgHhq5v1row91hty3yjVmCvw4q_39V7tlQ-A4w23_DgQK8leC-LFqJFPTZteh3v9V7UkFMkxWisN22ostTmCVejFA6vLCKco0cVcbneGYY3UO2v9jWrLB11EcCdoTU/s640/annotatedmap.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The arrows point to the tank and the former Cooke home. the dots outline the extent of the molasses flood</td></tr>
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Buildings were inundated or destroyed completely. Horses could not escape the sticky mess and had to be shot. Twenty-one people died either immediately or within the week. Many more were injured. A firehouse immediately next to the tank was lifted from its foundation and moved trapping several firefighters inside. Some people were swept into the frigid Charles River and not found for weeks. One child, who had been collecting firewood from the train track, was crushed by a train car and drowned in molasses.<br />
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These pictures are from the archives of the Boston Public Library. They tell the story best.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8C5NAn4IoLzFvo0QZS0ontP6-KxeXbbmoMxVRRoW8Bal9Gi_Kg02MGD3zfPLMjpNQO6M96H3xk-02w0_3vjZhjzWISVqBNFKTMNU5rpeTgGzPpSyhTxOxDuxM_RL0aDmV5gcex_dnrc/s1600/Overviewmolasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1186" data-original-width="1500" height="506" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8C5NAn4IoLzFvo0QZS0ontP6-KxeXbbmoMxVRRoW8Bal9Gi_Kg02MGD3zfPLMjpNQO6M96H3xk-02w0_3vjZhjzWISVqBNFKTMNU5rpeTgGzPpSyhTxOxDuxM_RL0aDmV5gcex_dnrc/s640/Overviewmolasses.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An overview of the area immediately after the disaster</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpI3p-PVXJOI2IBTKHSaRzpPMZ2HtWlAlHuNcqB5g47EN-8WucRy7eXtV7x1bF6oBdZcwqjI59SEAkH2caMkEqAvASM0M3gXAa9wZrArAMrNPlRBgKoEBcqy3irT09eJxIMUn4Dkk8f5w/s1600/rescue1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1158" data-original-width="1451" height="510" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpI3p-PVXJOI2IBTKHSaRzpPMZ2HtWlAlHuNcqB5g47EN-8WucRy7eXtV7x1bF6oBdZcwqjI59SEAkH2caMkEqAvASM0M3gXAa9wZrArAMrNPlRBgKoEBcqy3irT09eJxIMUn4Dkk8f5w/s640/rescue1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fireman attempting to rescue people- the Cloughty house, in the background was directly across the street from the tank. Maria Cloughty was crushed instantly</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1061" data-original-width="1338" height="506" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV5Fu3tl29eypagg7bS4Ty2gjOEXMc9lnKCOCE-A9l5a2nHVD0E5-AqhWBNnX8EXvSmOkpCwCv9TpFBPqSF8RnhTXzYkdMnnIAa7SEe9fF0XY9b6HhpHARVgMCze9EK1aOso_Q0jPHgAQ/s640/track.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the collapsed train track with a combination of molasses and sea water underneath</td></tr>
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My father would have been a baby at the time, but his twelve-year-old cousin Catherine, who was living with them on Mount Vernon Street would certainly have been aware. I can't even imagine what that would have been like.<br />
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It took weeks of cleanup with salt water and fire hoses. That part of the North End was never the same. Today, the land is a park and ball field. They say that even today, on a warm summer day, you can smell molasses on Commercial Street. A lawsuit ensued, of course, and the company tried to pin the incident on dynamite planted by anarchists. They were not successful and damages were awarded. Cold comfort to those who lost their means of support or lived in pain the rest of their lives.</div>
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The Great Molasses Flood has become a piece of Boston history, albeit a rather bizarre one. It was well documented in Dark Tide by Stephen Puleo. Laws were eventually strengthened to protect the public, but it was the court case that had the most lasting effect as Puleo points out in <a href="https://youtu.be/24KWN6nH1fI">this video.</a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV5Fu3tl29eypagg7bS4Ty2gjOEXMc9lnKCOCE-A9l5a2nHVD0E5-AqhWBNnX8EXvSmOkpCwCv9TpFBPqSF8RnhTXzYkdMnnIAa7SEe9fF0XY9b6HhpHARVgMCze9EK1aOso_Q0jPHgAQ/s1600/track.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
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What brought this topic to mind was an explosion at an industrial plant in the middle of a residential neighborhood- right here in Houston. Some things just don't change.</div>
theailurophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14291353148749332231noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877919859322310751.post-17419212696762318502020-01-11T20:54:00.001-08:002020-12-09T20:41:42.046-08:00The Story of Isaac D Fuller<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://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipOhxtXfTUlCRfqM4yHQnkZ4lz-jlnFvKqe97_8SPECyItk6F4Vt3trDlU5E348VuVKEl4bG4eBBQBoAyoZHETS94HFRlKZTWgKafeukevEzUAxOJtxfRUQbmk1KDVheP94GIINWzt2FE/s1600/IsaacDFuller.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1298" data-original-width="973" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipOhxtXfTUlCRfqM4yHQnkZ4lz-jlnFvKqe97_8SPECyItk6F4Vt3trDlU5E348VuVKEl4bG4eBBQBoAyoZHETS94HFRlKZTWgKafeukevEzUAxOJtxfRUQbmk1KDVheP94GIINWzt2FE/s640/IsaacDFuller.jpg" width="478" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Isaac D Fuller</td></tr>
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Back when I was updating all the military record for my Ancestry tree, this photo popped up as a hint. "Ah, a terrible war injury", I thought. Isaac had enrolled in the Company A of the 30th Maine and served as a private. He enlisted in 1863 and mustered out in Savannah, Georgia in 1865. So, perhaps he was part of Sherman's march-to-the-sea. The tag on the photo gave the name of the Ancestry member who originally uploaded the photo. So I messaged her and inquired about the photo.<br />
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Now Isaac D. Fuller is not a close relative. His mother was a Farrar. One of the Farrars married a Lowell whose child in turn married a Smith. I descend from that marriage. But I love a good story and this photo just got to me. I was delighted when the person who uploaded it responded. Yes, she is his third great-granddaughter through one of his daughters. She knew the story. There has been an accident.</span></div>
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She told me what she knew.</span></div>
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In the meantime, other hints kept popping up for Isaac, for his four children and for his three wives. Isaac lived quite a life. Finally, recently, I decided to do a little looking again. From what this lady told me, the accident was quite the event. Surely it would have been covered in the local paper. Sure enough, I found this.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv11k3x3Ij6nKpQi6IfiM06DOokhqg5r8hCGYOWdDKpDAKToqzA5yyyIhUiMfasTKCpaePzsc9SDnkegH6lags6Sg55ugCY-tm52tA0cEhb-dw1Fbv1HLfz5RhEJts6mPN8DXBLPS8yxI/s1600/IsaacDFulleraccident.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="713" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv11k3x3Ij6nKpQi6IfiM06DOokhqg5r8hCGYOWdDKpDAKToqzA5yyyIhUiMfasTKCpaePzsc9SDnkegH6lags6Sg55ugCY-tm52tA0cEhb-dw1Fbv1HLfz5RhEJts6mPN8DXBLPS8yxI/s640/IsaacDFulleraccident.jpg" width="283" /></a></div>
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It was in the Oxford Democrat for the week following the accident. To save your eyes I'll put the text below.</span></div>
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<b><span face=""source sans pro" , "helvetica neue" , "arial" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #181a1c; font-size: medium;">The Buckfield Celebration</span></b></div>
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<span face=""source sans pro" , "helvetica neue" , "arial" , sans-serif" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #181a1c; font-size: medium;"><b>A Sad Accident Throws a Gloom Over an Otherwise Happy Day</b></span></div>
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<span face=""source sans pro" , "helvetica neue" , "arial" , sans-serif" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #181a1c; font-size: medium;"><b>"At Buckfield, as at most places, the spirit of Independence commenced to assert itself early. In fact, very little sleep was in store for the inhabitants of the place on Friday night, but a most sad and painful accident occurred which cast a gloom and dampness over the ardor of everybody. While engaged in firing the sunrise salute, Isaac D Fuller, who was in charge of the artillery for the day, was the victim of an accident which cost him both his arms, if indeed he escapes with his life. Mr. Fuller had been loading and firing an anvil. He was loading for another shot, when the weapon discharged with a tremendous report knocking him senseless. It was found upon examination that Mr. Fullers arms were so badly shattered that it was necessary to amputate them, and that he had probably lost the use of one eye. Drs. Caldwell, Bridgham and Decoster were immediately called and performed the amputation. It was thought during the day that Mr. Fuller could not live, but he rested comfortably Saturday night and on Sunday walked a short distance, from one room to another. It is hoped that his eyes may be saved. Truman Damon also lost or came near to losing an eye by the same explosion. The theory of the accident is, that Mr. Fuller was loading and firing too fast, not giving the anvil time to cool, and the untimely explosion caused by putting the powder into the hot weapon."</b></span></div>
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So Isaac survived two years on the battlefield only to come home and blow his arms off in a Fourth of July celebration. And then he survived even that! This is one tough character. Other articles popped up in the Democrat which painted an even more colorful portrait of Isaac.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Addendum: I belong to a Civil War forum to mine information from the people there in reference to another relative. I asked them about what an "anvil" might be other than blacksmithing equipment.</i><br />
<i>The response was unbelievable.</i><br />
<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><i>"<span style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #141414;">Anvil shoots have been a whacky form of entertainment going back centuries. The hollow space cast into the base of an anvil is filled with black powder. A second anvil is placed atop the other. Alternatively, the face of one anvil has an even layer of black powder laid on it. A second anvil, upside down, is placed atop the powder. From a (hopefully) safe distance the powder is ignited & ka-boom! An anvil weighing 100 pounds sails 100 or more feet into the air. This form of entertainment is still common today. Yes, it is wildly, absurdly, absolutely, insanely dangerous. The blacksmith forge I belong to raised money for a comrade who suffered traumatic amputation of some body parts in a premature detonation. I know this sounds crazy (my wife is rolling her eyes behind me as I type this). There really is something wildly entertaining about the improbable sight of an explosion & anvil shooting up out of a cloud of white black powder smoke. ('For some people, maybe.' says my sweetie.) Added to the thrill, of course, is that the ballistic qualities of an anvil make its eventual resting place a matter of conjecture only."</span></i></span></span></div>
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Should you care to browse old newspapers in search of your own relatives, Chronicling America has a wonderful resource <a href="https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/">here</a>. I even had some success finding out more about Isaac using their advanced search function. This is one site I'll be visiting often.</span></div>
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Sometimes my curiosity just gets the better of me, but sometimes the results are worth it.</span></div>
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theailurophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14291353148749332231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877919859322310751.post-24729481047369227592019-12-01T10:15:00.002-08:002019-12-02T16:59:44.809-08:00Black Sheep in My Tree<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2g6ODRnR5ZomLSjxesFY5mpl77JCj6nLqSqIFWF1XU5ehtLCyNFd1NDua4YMSE28sBuyKmUncQLuVV98DZn-QtTVbLh-d9QVDE47sUHcs2YwNREOAND8UGeiFFmWymBXA06cFMXqhVD4/s1600/bl+sheep.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2g6ODRnR5ZomLSjxesFY5mpl77JCj6nLqSqIFWF1XU5ehtLCyNFd1NDua4YMSE28sBuyKmUncQLuVV98DZn-QtTVbLh-d9QVDE47sUHcs2YwNREOAND8UGeiFFmWymBXA06cFMXqhVD4/s320/bl+sheep.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
This is a brief post about a not-so-close relative who qualifies as a black sheep. (his wife would be my first cousin 8 times removed) Truly things don't change much over the years as you shall see.<br />
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Hannah Rogers (my cousin) was the granddaughter of Joseph Rogers who arrived on the Mayflower. Her mother was Elizabeth Snow. She married Amaziah Harding in 1690. The story is that he was a miller in Eastham. We know that he inherited Eastham land from his own grandfather, but details about Amaziah are hazy. Together Hannah and Amaziah had nine children. It was not, however, a happy marriage.<br />
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The date of the drama would seem to indicate that the pair were in their sixties or later. Certainly their children would have been grown. This quote is from a book called <u>Legal Executions in New England; a Comprehensive Reference</u>:<br />
<b><i>"<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #4e453f;">Amaziah Harding</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #4e453f;">, white, age unknown, Murder. The crime was committed on July 18, 1733, at Eastham, Massachusetts, Amaziah Harding and his wife Hannah Rogers Harding (white, age unknown), had been locked in an abusive marriage for more than 20 years. The situation finally reached a climax on the above date when Mr. Harding beat his spouse to death. He then laid her body down upon their bed and carefully tucked it in with blankets because he wanted to make it look like she had died of natural causes. When Harding was satisfied that the scene looked convincing, he summoned a neighbor woman and told her that his wife has died. He also asked the woman to prepare the body for burial according to the local custom. When the woman removed the bedclothes preparatory to washing the body she saw numerous cuts and bruises on the decedent. This led the mortician woman to suspect foul play; she knew that </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #4e453f;">Hard</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #4e453f;">ing has been an abusive husband and she flatly refused to dress the body for burial until the coroner had been summoned. Harding scoffed at this and declared himself "well satisfied" that his wife was dead. When asked why he felt that way, he said that his wife "had been a plague to him</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #4e453f; font-family: "source sans pro" , "helvetica neue" , "arial" , sans-serif;">". </span></i></b><br />
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I have seen versions where he threw her down the mill stairs, etc. etc. but since the trial transcripts burned in a fire, this seems to be the most dependable account. The case was infamous even at the time. This appeared in the <i>Boston Weekly Newsletter</i>:<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4e453f; font-family: "times"; font-size: 16px;"><b><i>"We hear from Eastham on Cape Cod, That the beginning of last Week, amost barbarous Murder was committed there, on the body of one Mrs. Harding,suppos'd to be done by her own Husband Amaziah Harding; he having for agreat while before, as 'tis said, carried it very ill towards her, to theimparing of her Reason; and now being found in the Room alone with her,where she lay dead near him, with her Neck twisted and broke, and about herMouth and Throat much beat and bruis'd. The hard-hearted Man being thus surpriz'd, and charg'd with the Fact, by those who first discover'd it,endeavoured to put an end to his own Life, by stabing a Knife into hisBowels, which stroke not proving mortal immediately, he went to repeat it,aiming at his Breast, but was prevented by those about him, and on Fridaylast he was sent to Barnstable Goal."</i></b></span><br />
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All that strangling and stabbing! Grisly stuff.<br />
And the trial even featured the testimony of the neighbor herself, Mary Freeman and her daughter-in-law Hannah:<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4e453f; font-family: "times"; font-size: 16px;"><b><i>"Mary Freeman of Lawful age to give Evidence testifies [Information?] came hastily on or about the eighteen day of July 1733 and Informed me that my neighbor Maziah Hardings wife was Dead it being something surprising to me to hear so for I was informed by his son Corneilis less than one hour before that shee was well & in health whereupon I went immediately with my Daughter In Law Hannah Freeman to sd Maziah Hardings house & when I came there I met with sd Maziah Harding at the Door of his house I then asked him if his wife was Dead. He answered yes & he was glad of it whereupon I went in to sd Hardings house & there I saw his wives Dead body lay on a bed wrapped up in bed clothes & when I looked on her I saw a [proof?] on her cheek & on her throat & lip that the blood was jelled which seemed to me to be occasioned by some bruise or hurt. Then I asked sd Harding how his wife came so suddenly to her end whether he took notice shee had not been well. He answered shee was as well as shee used to be for ought hee knew & he sd shee had drunk her fill of Rum and sat on the Door sill & he laid on the bed & fell asleep & when he awoke he called for her but shee gave him no answer. Then he rose and went into the other Room and found her Dead on the bed. I took notice that sd Harding was in a strange frame and seemed to be disguised with Drink and often Repeated these words [to wit?]. Harding is a man shirt or no shirt every inch of him & he often Declared he was glad his wife was Dead. I reproved him and tould him I was sorry to hear him say so & asked him why he was glad of it. & sd Harding Replyed & sd because shee had been a Plague to him for above these twenty years past & he hoped now he should git somebody to keep his house clean & look after his things and many such like expressions. & sd Harding further sd his wife was now gone to paradise among the Royal breed & would be clothed in Robes of glory and many such like expressions. & then sd Harding was very urgent with me to help clean linen to bury his wife in & he would pay me for it & was very desirous that I would lay out his wife & sd he would help me to do it urging shee might be buried with all speed fore he sd shee was covered with lice, Rags & dirt. I told him I would not meddle with her nor advise any others till a Jurie had past upon her. Whereupon the sd Harding Replied & sd a Jurie, then sd he there will arise a Cursed Damnd Mobb & seemed to bee then something surprised & uneasy & [disembled?] and sd there was no occasion of a Jurie for others he named had died suddenly & no Jurie on them. Then I told him there was not the like occasion of a Jurie for others he named had died when several were present. Then he seemed to be more Restless in his mind & sd this id the fruite of mens wives taking their Neighbours parts against their husbands which has brought it to this & uttered many sensurious Reflections on his neighbors. "</i></b></span><br />
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It didn't take the jury long to render a verdict. It remains unclear whether the man was simply a chronic wife-beater or had snapped completely at age 63. I suppose it doesn't matter much.<br />
<i><b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;">"The Jurors of our Lord the King upon their oath present That Maziah Harding</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;" /><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;">of Eastham in the County of Barnstable aforesd Yeoman not having the fear of</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;" /><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;">God before his Eyes but being instigated by the Devil with force and arms and</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;" /><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;">of his malice forethought on the Eighteenth Day of July last at Eastham</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;" /><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;">aforesd and assault on the Body of Hannah his then wife and in the Kings peace</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;" /><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;">then being did make and then and there With force as aforesd then and there</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;" /><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;">Feloniously twisted the neck of the said Hannah and Dislocated the same, of</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;" /><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;">which the said Hannah then Instantly dyed so that the said Maziah Harding of</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;" /><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;">his malice prepense as aforesd Feloniously murdered the said Hannah his wife</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;" /><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;">Contrary to the Peace of our sd Lord the King his Crown and Dignity, and the</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;" /><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;">Law in that case made and provided Upon which Indictment the said Maziah</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;" /><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;">Harding being arraigned at the Barr pleaded not Guilty, and for trial put</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;" /><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;">himself upon God & Countrey, a Jury being sworn to try the issue between our</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;" /><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;">Sovereign Lord the King and the Prisioners Defense went out to Consider</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;" /><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;">thereof and returned their Verdict therein upon oath that is to say that the</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;" /><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;">said Maziah Harding is Guilty. Itfs therefore Considered and Ordered by the</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;" /><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #181a1c; font-size: 16px;">court That the said Maziah Harding shall suffer the pains of death."</span></span></b></i><br />
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The coroner's findings and the testimony of the two Freeman women did the trick. Here's the end of the article in the <u>Trials </u> article.<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">" <span style="background-color: white; color: #4e453f;"><b><i>Amaziah Harding was then charged with capital murder. A grand jury first indicted him and then a petit jury convicted him. A circuit judge sentences him to death. Amaziah Harding went to his doom reviled as an uxoricide. he swung from the gallows at Barnstable on June 5 1734."</i></b></span></span><br />
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An unrepentant Harding denied his guilt to the very end.theailurophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14291353148749332231noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877919859322310751.post-30811073238217265682019-09-15T14:48:00.000-07:002019-09-15T14:48:08.825-07:00Charming Old Photos Tell Us the Family Story<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://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxB-ZWBMd3n0UVnrW2Rql2aFGdAhtUlop04nU5yMfH74pVL-3O6ltA7NovuS37OdN9F5KwvIGD8LH-NgHV9wKrCgyuj73hadvBY_vfxU7dVhNvpSYy26G3RrmW_JOoImdtFww16VYbMxQ/s1600/Eugene.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="367" data-original-width="500" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxB-ZWBMd3n0UVnrW2Rql2aFGdAhtUlop04nU5yMfH74pVL-3O6ltA7NovuS37OdN9F5KwvIGD8LH-NgHV9wKrCgyuj73hadvBY_vfxU7dVhNvpSYy26G3RrmW_JOoImdtFww16VYbMxQ/s640/Eugene.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eugene H Rogers- Sign painter by trade, fine art painter by avocation</td></tr>
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When I look at the old photos that people add to their trees, I can often tell so much about the person by looking at the expression or the body language. But what fascinates me are the really old photos where the pose is not a formal portrait in a studio, but something that shows a bit about a person's profession or home life or surroundings. <div>
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Eugene didn't make his living as a fine art painter, but there's no doubt from this photo what his hobby was. Aside from the paintings, I can look at his clothing, the chair, the brocade wallpaper and the bare wood floor and tell something about the studio where he worked. I can also date this from 1880-1890 based more or less on the things I see.</div>
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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://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTLb_xjogUOW9FIWK9L9Ul4S5STLK8bunPtBQmX2cXoyoSnM_ASlidhYYxf8NbZO8KCj-z53qMxBf7FRyMoSLJzErEVeBvMJ45B11UHEGUG67PI-NMvacE0ApTV65UPyfOwF5925GTXb8/s1600/Daisy+Tapply+Schaefer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1234" data-original-width="1600" height="492" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTLb_xjogUOW9FIWK9L9Ul4S5STLK8bunPtBQmX2cXoyoSnM_ASlidhYYxf8NbZO8KCj-z53qMxBf7FRyMoSLJzErEVeBvMJ45B11UHEGUG67PI-NMvacE0ApTV65UPyfOwF5925GTXb8/s640/Daisy+Tapply+Schaefer.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daisy Tapply Schaefer and her husband George</td></tr>
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This picture show my grandmother's elder sister Daisy with her husband in a very early model of some sort of car. The very early Henry Ford Quadricycle was similar. From the clothes, I would say after 1900 but before 1910. She married George in 1902. <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://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ5Vvxc4qlHxyg40AUX4bq5isXbmoYrs3fRtTAt1vCZtU8gNcYWb5xOtl2BCohMVvQVzkDUw4EqCYZqwvLRC3sO0dA8Hm4FTGkcC5NF3K0hhHI7V0cbMBdV7G0j4pgJmEtW_Rb1U3jeAY/s1600/Clyde+M+Keene.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1288" data-original-width="859" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ5Vvxc4qlHxyg40AUX4bq5isXbmoYrs3fRtTAt1vCZtU8gNcYWb5xOtl2BCohMVvQVzkDUw4EqCYZqwvLRC3sO0dA8Hm4FTGkcC5NF3K0hhHI7V0cbMBdV7G0j4pgJmEtW_Rb1U3jeAY/s640/Clyde+M+Keene.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clyde Merton Keene- grocer</td></tr>
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This is Clyde Merton Keene, whose grandmother was one of my Farrar relatives. I like that he is pictured in his grocer's apron complete with stains. I didn't notice until looking more closely, that he is in a wheelchair. Probably a story there.<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://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh72hw_V44UBzM3uXaZHi0101M3-xdEXPm6dxP-lkjD4BJZM7uTFaW1shfO9ArjWaH-H6EG_qG7nsXao-hD1fOm6XlcRDMXWGRLVBbuTlf7ew6tx8_MHmaFw5l17uMaaaMec8V465YuCNQ/s1600/SidneyDFarrar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="613" data-original-width="780" height="502" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh72hw_V44UBzM3uXaZHi0101M3-xdEXPm6dxP-lkjD4BJZM7uTFaW1shfO9ArjWaH-H6EG_qG7nsXao-hD1fOm6XlcRDMXWGRLVBbuTlf7ew6tx8_MHmaFw5l17uMaaaMec8V465YuCNQ/s640/SidneyDFarrar.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sidney Douglas Farrar</td></tr>
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Sidney Douglas Farrar, another of my Farrar relatives, played first base for the eight seasons for the Philadelphia Quakers and later for the Philadelphia Athletics. The left one is a studio shot, but the right photo is a real gem complete with a player in motion in the background.<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://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFVLZPZlRuVEVim8yAUasxeYx0G6ywNMyW9oAqDYPTlpti1jARUfZ2GKKafp8fF_TdFEV75rmu_cLrUc11Fc7_0ZW_DpnBcNrll4_pVRya49UYNfP5pBSNM2EXft4Hm13FUaJiwG8UopM/s1600/Violet+Louise+Baldry.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="361" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFVLZPZlRuVEVim8yAUasxeYx0G6ywNMyW9oAqDYPTlpti1jARUfZ2GKKafp8fF_TdFEV75rmu_cLrUc11Fc7_0ZW_DpnBcNrll4_pVRya49UYNfP5pBSNM2EXft4Hm13FUaJiwG8UopM/s640/Violet+Louise+Baldry.jpeg" width="462" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Violet Louise Baldry</td></tr>
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Violet Baldry was the half sister of some of my English Tapply relatives. My guess is this nurse's uniform dates from some time in the 1920's.<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://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOTmXx2nfwpThgBzdqyqOLGwpR25fKELoIcd6QoLX1QtGAwOVtYMAflIkKNYRoVfdwjI-8MTcsZ42qfwkmsaXymxYNZ6qhU-EZKQauUxqApcR0CHHers0yIijuRsetGOpDSOCCPU87kj8/s1600/Helen+F+Harrod.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="335" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOTmXx2nfwpThgBzdqyqOLGwpR25fKELoIcd6QoLX1QtGAwOVtYMAflIkKNYRoVfdwjI-8MTcsZ42qfwkmsaXymxYNZ6qhU-EZKQauUxqApcR0CHHers0yIijuRsetGOpDSOCCPU87kj8/s640/Helen+F+Harrod.jpeg" width="428" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Helen F Harrod practices what she teaches</td></tr>
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This photo obviously came from a newspaper article about Helen F Harrod. She was a music instructor at DePauw University.<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://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEklCUX8uWsa4HzTsJBNRVObBC46Fxl0bqEKPg8WrfkjeWR-vbxPTGDjRur_yGJdij9IgPW-V2WEsBqZ-sieCEkZQLk0tTQyzmxqsTR7XhNm18t5EFBNhkfU6J4nVV4Tq2MC9w-GT06U8/s1600/IsaacEstillHarrod.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="315" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEklCUX8uWsa4HzTsJBNRVObBC46Fxl0bqEKPg8WrfkjeWR-vbxPTGDjRur_yGJdij9IgPW-V2WEsBqZ-sieCEkZQLk0tTQyzmxqsTR7XhNm18t5EFBNhkfU6J4nVV4Tq2MC9w-GT06U8/s640/IsaacEstillHarrod.jpeg" width="402" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Isaac Estill Harrod</td></tr>
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Isaac Harrod lived and worked for the railroad in rural Kansas. This was a studio shot, but he's wearing his everyday clothes and I just love the dog in the picture. You get a real sense of him as a character in this photo.<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://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsfzezw0NyYOkkn-eSw_7cnPsi2sJomJ7Vwyx6SWoweIbDYxViUB81IjES9gO9uH_SNBrSQP-N1poPse6eERHYmBVpJ4b-PQM-wdKnzILpkCfBPCNyL6xBid3KPOmSbK5wC_0epLLRHAU/s1600/MarieTapply.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="478" data-original-width="720" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsfzezw0NyYOkkn-eSw_7cnPsi2sJomJ7Vwyx6SWoweIbDYxViUB81IjES9gO9uH_SNBrSQP-N1poPse6eERHYmBVpJ4b-PQM-wdKnzILpkCfBPCNyL6xBid3KPOmSbK5wC_0epLLRHAU/s640/MarieTapply.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marie Tapply with Warren on her lap</td></tr>
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This is my Aunt Marie, Bob Tapply's wife. I'm told this was taken in the old Tapply home at the top of Pearl Hill Road. Again, look at the old stove, the china breakfront and the clothes. It gives this informal photo real character.<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://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoZSpBuyPrURBobjqfpL0fTV6YWgaCAkIKTfL5MntzsN_vMebMMgouL__dbVb4qpana-X2SWKWcgflLguSvYjpZRaGDyRjW91bfagYWS_3ObSudfyCI8gRBAyfMln0WeEOSKTfEt5s7Mw/s1600/Francis+B+Rogers.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="911" data-original-width="1561" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoZSpBuyPrURBobjqfpL0fTV6YWgaCAkIKTfL5MntzsN_vMebMMgouL__dbVb4qpana-X2SWKWcgflLguSvYjpZRaGDyRjW91bfagYWS_3ObSudfyCI8gRBAyfMln0WeEOSKTfEt5s7Mw/s640/Francis+B+Rogers.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Francis Braedreck Rogers family</td></tr>
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Here's the Francis B Rogers family in front of their home. Not only do you get a good look at the house, but each person in the picture is doing something a little different. You have the two children in front of the fence with their toys, the man by the steps reading, the couple posed by the hammock. I count no fewer than thirteen people in this clever photo. Rogers was my cousin through the Aaron Rogers line.<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://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0RF3EO_076bAII_rciRGx2mUnuUWQD7htMfoVoQhQeAoVMUtau_vUY0QxQgj_11SXjfBpJPbzYeF3gPn5KgXDFKSR_ObEX3iDpNWLVnczYciIicFBdAMLbztFzXgqTFjU4J7vfcpVQdU/s1600/BelindaCooke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="273" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0RF3EO_076bAII_rciRGx2mUnuUWQD7htMfoVoQhQeAoVMUtau_vUY0QxQgj_11SXjfBpJPbzYeF3gPn5KgXDFKSR_ObEX3iDpNWLVnczYciIicFBdAMLbztFzXgqTFjU4J7vfcpVQdU/s640/BelindaCooke.jpg" width="432" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Belinda Cooke aka Sr. Mary Columbia</td></tr>
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I have fewer photos from the Cooke side, but these two are gems. First my cousin the nun. A formal photo but in her full habit with what looks like a wreath of flowers circling her head.<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://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEPaLwVilmSNlhwTbrw-peNJSiz5wAu6ratFSbJpN9sYbz0HM_fIoB3_waUygnjC4STxsPJheAa-vhlOcpFrFiWUv3glYNw9KTYcfo4Cfaa8ftMgr8jdAqR_1mSCjlqcTUCQ_Xtefwfvo/s1600/Cookehome.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="761" data-original-width="1200" height="404" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEPaLwVilmSNlhwTbrw-peNJSiz5wAu6ratFSbJpN9sYbz0HM_fIoB3_waUygnjC4STxsPJheAa-vhlOcpFrFiWUv3glYNw9KTYcfo4Cfaa8ftMgr8jdAqR_1mSCjlqcTUCQ_Xtefwfvo/s640/Cookehome.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cooke home in Clooningan, Sligo, Ireland</td></tr>
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This is the Cooke homestead. My guess would be in the 1920's. Again you get a sense of the place. Look at the thatched roof, the whitewashed walls, the bicycle propped by the gate. It's a little slice of a moment in time.<div>
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When we share our family histories with people who aren't passionate about genealogy, I think photos like these bring history alive- especially for the very young. I can think of a million questions a young person might ask when looking at these photos. What a teachable moment! And don't forget to document anything you might know or might have heard about the photos in the family album. </div>
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If this topic interests you, check out Maureen Taylor's website <a href="https://maureentaylor.com/">here</a>.</div>
theailurophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14291353148749332231noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877919859322310751.post-87469218693545281132019-06-19T18:17:00.000-07:002019-06-19T18:17:53.542-07:00Putting the Clues Together- Research with David J Webb<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSzjzq_mFSNaNjiZvG4tS_3mdp0828fhyphenhyphenIAXxZTRuIACV5xZ9CK42rpTksCrd8rFO4JVBYcY59T-M7U4xuBScTC8hxboxaDnJ-CDv8CC0KEVNG-AqvkmnrSxPp_4WqhMWQ_M-300Nd7gs/s1600/EatonChapelA2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="999" data-original-width="1600" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSzjzq_mFSNaNjiZvG4tS_3mdp0828fhyphenhyphenIAXxZTRuIACV5xZ9CK42rpTksCrd8rFO4JVBYcY59T-M7U4xuBScTC8hxboxaDnJ-CDv8CC0KEVNG-AqvkmnrSxPp_4WqhMWQ_M-300Nd7gs/s640/EatonChapelA2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">As I teased in my last post, David Webb does an amazing job documenting old postcards of the Houston area. I asked him to describe his process because I thought it would be instructive in genealogy as well.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>(David did his own family’s genealogy for years) The way he came to this project is interesting. In 2000, he began taking photography classes at the local museum school. As his skills grew, he moved own to his own curriculum, inspired by the photography of Bernice Abbott. David says, “I was intrigued by the power of these images to make history come alive.” And, after all, isn’t that what we do as genealogists? He had seen an exhibit of 1930’s images taken by Abbott and contemporary images of the same places. It started a small fire in his imagination.</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: small;">At the time this began, David was a regular visitor to Galveston where he became infatuated with the Eaton Chapel adjacent to Trinity Episcopal Church. These are some of the oldest buildings in Galveston, having even survived the 1900 storm. David began taking photographs.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">He was already collecting old postcards of Bisbee, Arizona, the place where he was born. Now he began</span> <span style="font-size: small;">purchasing old Galveston postcards as well. It was then that the project that became <a href="http://www.houstontimeportal.net/">Houston Time Portal</a> </span></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: small;">began to form.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">Here is the story of Eaton chapel in David’s own words.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-size: small;">“Among the treasures of Galveston was Eaton Chapel adjacent to Trinity Episcopal Church. The chapel was built in 1879 by Nicholas Clayton as an act of philanthropy by Henry Rosenberg to honor Reverend Benjamin Eaton, first rector of Texas’ oldest Episcopal parish [well described in Galveston Architecture Guidebook, by Ellen Beasley and Stephen Fox, Rice University Press, 1996…… For a small building, Eaton Capel has a commanding presence… The first floor of the building is devoted to classrooms, and the second floor is a lofty auditorium.</span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-size: small;">Eventually, I obtained several other postcards of Eaton Chapel, ones that<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>had been mailed and teased at a hidden history that begged to be riddled out. The most intriguing one was written by “K E K” to Miss Henrietta Morgan, Taylor, TX on 22 February 1908. The author revealed a lot of personality in his message, which he scrawled across the face of the card in blatant disregard for the image. Certain details promised a portal into the history of the man even though he used only his initials. “</span></b></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRYZS0hyLaWQGfqBQqBoj0wBPwNq7IjotW6hYmjfN2za3YMJBegFQAPJKagA5V89fZvyF5zeHDOHerrS8GOWz6U9WVeodHCXe-p60ulTW3nKcHy4PA5wBZUHloQ0eeBIie_ph_UKDOuPo/s1600/EatonChapelC_Straight_Crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1010" data-original-width="1600" height="404" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRYZS0hyLaWQGfqBQqBoj0wBPwNq7IjotW6hYmjfN2za3YMJBegFQAPJKagA5V89fZvyF5zeHDOHerrS8GOWz6U9WVeodHCXe-p60ulTW3nKcHy4PA5wBZUHloQ0eeBIie_ph_UKDOuPo/s640/EatonChapelC_Straight_Crop.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">David's photo of Eaton Chapel</td></tr>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">Invariably this is how David proceeds. He will find the history of the building first, combing through old guidebooks and city histories. But being a genealogist at heart, he is equally intrigued by the messages on the cards. Who were these people? What connection did they have to this place?</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiY4v4pJyHqahCdPTqgpDpfFNQ0XKcPTZn5-8e-soWVqzRCk-4WPR0cd5DZnipFdEaoOIK_pRnvyc7VvHTKV4UDEN0CZHDuFXMLivfMTt5t7CL4Yvk3ei5TeK9SX9t1ViXQEy8JP0FwcI/s1600/EatonChapelB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1007" data-original-width="1600" height="402" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiY4v4pJyHqahCdPTqgpDpfFNQ0XKcPTZn5-8e-soWVqzRCk-4WPR0cd5DZnipFdEaoOIK_pRnvyc7VvHTKV4UDEN0CZHDuFXMLivfMTt5t7CL4Yvk3ei5TeK9SX9t1ViXQEy8JP0FwcI/s640/EatonChapelB.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Front and back of the card David purchased.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYA5Svtkcuuzdh7wGDRLGA-NHyBTuMx6HABgC4_6k634jHbAdRPZsbjVuOlpQoQZa-Nwh7nkoO1p9cs6fnv2TJLCZv2dUt5L4R4Oq2t5dNup8bH6DRXIyOyd7NUuPOe2kXKT3VNUDK8ns/s1600/EatonChapel_Adj.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1008" data-original-width="1600" height="402" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYA5Svtkcuuzdh7wGDRLGA-NHyBTuMx6HABgC4_6k634jHbAdRPZsbjVuOlpQoQZa-Nwh7nkoO1p9cs6fnv2TJLCZv2dUt5L4R4Oq2t5dNup8bH6DRXIyOyd7NUuPOe2kXKT3VNUDK8ns/s640/EatonChapel_Adj.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">David continues by giving us the message on the card,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">“<b><i>Society sure is doing in Taylor. You had better be glad that you are a society lady instead of a student who has to study Instead of running around having a good time. Exams are only two weeks off now and I have to get busy if I expect to pass them I know you will have a good time in Georgetown Danse one or two for me at the Mask Dance Tell Miss Stella hello for me. K. E. K. This is where I go Sunday? Mrs. Patric Campbell is billed to show here during exams isnt that a shame I think I will go see her in spite of the fact. Might never have the chance to see her again.”</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">So he looks carefully at the card for the clues to both the writer and the receiver….</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">And comes to a few conclusions about KEK. David says,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="s2">“</span><span class="s1"><b>Most importantly, he mentions that “<i>Exams are only two weeks off,</i>” and since he posted the card from Galveston, it seemed likely that he was a student. He seems a bit flirty with his correspondent, Miss Henrietta calling her a “society lady,” and contrasting himself as “a student who has to study.” He urges Henrietta to “<i>Tell Miss Stella hello for me</i>,” and speaks of “Georgetown Danse,” all of which suggests he is a college student, and not a secondary school pupil.”</b></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">Now David has a dilemma. As a college student, how can he find this KEK? David’s solution is to turn to a city directory.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">“<b>As a student, he would be more transient than a resident might be, so a search within a narrow time range is essential. Galveston published a city directory for 1908, so an examination of the alphabetical K-section might turn up a student at the Galveston Medical School. There are 11 pages of entries with about 80 persons per page, so only 880 possibilities to examine. K E K is probably male, nonetheless, females should also be noted: </b></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-size: small;">Kelly, Kate, Miss h 1414 Postoffice </span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-size: small;">Killeen, Kate J. Miss r 2002 L. </span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-size: small;">Kovocavich, Kirto, lab Mrs 3827 B’dway </span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-size: small;">Krivokopich, Krist, r 1909 Mechanic 4. </span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-size: small;">Krug, Kenny E. pharmacy student Mrs 828 Market </span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-size: small;">The last seemed such a likely candidate that I looked no further, and focused on Kenny. The name was quite adequate now for a census search, but that might be only circumstantial, even if compelling.”</span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">I might mention, at this point, that David has a research science background. He’s all about evidence and conclusive proof. So the next thing he looked for, given the time period, was a World War I draft card. There would be a signature. Can you see where this is going?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-size: small;">The strongest confirmation of his identity would be a comparison of his signature, and since K E K left a good record of his handwriting, another document with his signature might be definitive. He wrote another card to Henrietta on April 20, 1908, this one of Trinity Episcopal Church, similarly scrawled across the front, which I purchased in the same lot as the same as the first, and this he also signed, K E K. </span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-size: small;">When WWI started for Americans in 1917, all males of a certain age were required to register, and that document bears their signature. Although the cards were written nine years earlier, the signature should be fairly stable. “Kenneth Edwin Krug” of Brenham is described as medium height and weight with blue eyes and brown hair. His date of birth is 2 December 1887 and is 29 years old on June 6, 1917 in Brenham, Washington County, TX. He is a druggist with a wife and child, “crippled” from meningitis. The signature is a very good match, so with this handwriting comparison in addition to the biographical details, it is not likely that K E is a different person.”</span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>“Supporting this identification is all the usual genealogical records. In 1900 he is “Kenny Krug” an only child living with his father Adolph, a District Clerk, and mother E. D. in Brenham. Next door is C. J. Jensen, a druggist. In 1906 Kenny is listed on U. S. College Student Lists database, a druggist with Theo Schirmader, member of the Elks, living at </b><span class="s2"><b><span style="color: black; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">608 W. Alamo</span></b></span><b> at Main in Brenham. The small family is there in 1910 also, at </b><span class="s2"><b><span style="color: black; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">608 West Alamo</span></b></span><b>. In 1912 he married Myra Barnett, and had two sons, Kenneth Edwin, Jr. (1916), and Marion Estor (1919). He stayed in Brenham through the 1940’s at the same house. His son Kenny, Jr. was a Lieutenant in the Army Air Force in WWII, and died in service overseas on 29 February 1944. “</b></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">How did David do all this? Patience and a combination of the Federal Census, City directories, and draft information. Isn’t it amazing how this becomes a really accurate narrative of a person’s life?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">Now David moves on to Henrietta. Again, a patient examination of census records, old directories and other public documents fleshes out her life. And he speculates on how they met, much as I did in the <a href="https://leaftwigandstem.blogspot.com/2013/11/edward-winslow-rogers-story-of-railroad.html">post about my great-grandparents</a>.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">“<b>How Kenneth met Henrietta Morgan is suggested by the postcard messages. Henrietta was the eldest child of Sally Leda Pennington and Henry Julius Morgan, manager of a cotton compress in Temple, Bell County, TX. Brenham and Temple are medium sized towns in Central Texas about 93 miles apart. When Kenny wrote the postcards he was 20 years old. Henrietta was born 25 November 1890, so she was 17 when she received the cards. In February Kenneth mentions Georgetown Danse, which he says he will miss. Georgetown Is another mid-sized city in Central Texa, a college town about 40 miles south of Temple. From Brenham to Temple is only about 90 miles, and since trains then traveled mostly under 40 miles per hour, it was still only a couple of hours away. Of course, but carriage it was quite a trip, but that mode of transportation was mostly for local trips. Both seem to have been Episcopal, and they may have met through church groups, maybe especially those involving chaperoned dancing. </b></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-size: small;">Henrietta married Eugene Cecil Seaman in 31 January 1912 and settled into the routine of the wife of an Episcopal Minister. Eugene was the son of Sophie Seaman, a widow running a boarding house in Galveston to support her four sons in 1900 at 2002 Church Street. Eugene was a graduate of Sewanee, University of the South, and in due course became Bishop of North Texas in Amarillo, Potter County, TX. </span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-size: small;">Kenny Krug died in 1950 of pulmonary embolus and was laid to rest in Prairie Lee Cemetery in Brenham. Three years later Myra died and is buried beside him; also in Prairie Lee are his father and mother, and son Kenny, Jr.. Henrietta Morgan Seaman became a widow in 1950 with the death of her husband; she died 21 years later in Phoenix and she and her husband are buried in Llano Cemetery in Amarillo, as is their 5-year old son, Eugene Cecil Seaman, Jr. (1913-1918) and her father, Henry Julius Morgan (1863-1929). “</span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></b>David concludes,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">“<b>In addition to the black and white rephotograph of Eaton Chapel, I returned to Galveston on March 22-23 2019 and photographed Eaton Chapel again.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></b></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-size: small;">The 14 years between the two rephotograph shows considerable growth of the palm trees, but no alterations of the chapel itself. “</span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">So you can see what I mean about David’s amazing process. Simple genealogy for most of us, but he weaves a compelling narrative. David has meticulously purchased old postcards, many of Houston, gone to the spot where the building once stood(or may still stand), and rephotographed standing as nearly on the same spot as he can manage. Each pair has this same level of research.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">You can find the <a href="http://www.houstontimeportal.net/eaton-chapel.html">Eaton Chapel pair here.</a></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">The <a href="http://www.houstontimeportal.net/">main website is located here.</a> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">For those of you Houston history fans or anyone who just loves history, this is a true rabbithole. Enjoy! <b> </b></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">So now comes the challenge to all of you. What kind of narration can you weave using the documents you have collected?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It’s “history come to life” that draws in the next generation of family genealogists. Get busy!</span></span></div>
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</style>theailurophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14291353148749332231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877919859322310751.post-87757208154207955212019-05-26T10:55:00.000-07:002019-05-26T14:00:50.363-07:00Picturing the Past- Another Resource for Genealogists Part I<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibJorZ09q6fEzT6gmt7HrVu2BwKiahU0t8cElIqpO__I9JX5z_xEByWytMPPOYHxvKKit77Y1WvUAszMUsZpQGg7GjSYvmrCsv1ADR5D6F9S2THaBwmObaJaGsmm-pmZnucAc4Df2ABWM/s1600/Spencer40s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="971" data-original-width="1539" height="402" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibJorZ09q6fEzT6gmt7HrVu2BwKiahU0t8cElIqpO__I9JX5z_xEByWytMPPOYHxvKKit77Y1WvUAszMUsZpQGg7GjSYvmrCsv1ADR5D6F9S2THaBwmObaJaGsmm-pmZnucAc4Df2ABWM/s640/Spencer40s.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
As you can see, this is the town square of Spencer, Owen County, Indiana sometime in the late 30's or early 40's. (according to the database) I was noodling around again in Ancestry on the "newly added records" section which you find at the bottom of your home page. I found <a href="https://www.ancestry.com/search/collections/postcards/">Historical Postcards</a>. Of course I started entering names of places where I had large groups of ancestors right away. This is the best result I found. Spencer is the little town my great great grandmother, <b>Letitia Ellen Johnson</b>, came from.<br />
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You get some feeling for Spencer. The classic town square, the storefronts that must date from the 1800's, the memorial (probably a war memorial) in the square. It could be any little town in Texas just as easily. I've been to those little places. I turned it over to see what else I could learn.<br />
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What clues were here? Well Lyle and Charles are writing to "Eddie" or Edna in the fall of 1945. The war is over and they are visiting for some reason. The writing style is casual. These are youngish people. Edna Madison (we think) lives in York, Pennsylvania. So I turned this little mystery over to my friend David Webb. He is a real postcard sleuth. We spent a couple of days going back and forth over this. Was the name really Madison? Could we find her? Were these guys friends? Relatives? Did they have a tie to Spencer? Alas it was, as David put it, a "dry hole". He pointed out that after WWII, the cards are harder to search. More mobility and in this case too few clues.<br />
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These folks aren't related to me in any way I know of, I just thought it would be an interesting puzzle to solve. David has a very specific method for researching old postcards and has had a fair bit of success. More about David, his search methods and his website in the next post. Stay tuned.theailurophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14291353148749332231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7877919859322310751.post-83086751260999085292019-04-07T15:06:00.000-07:002019-11-17T08:54:54.168-08:00They Shall Not Grow Old<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGRU-Y31BUUr2qEqaz03ndDsPRoSJdfDdb7jo-DvM9Nj7lfI3xzZ3OuYfQ6dkvRDrWHMfIUqDMh0k8O2xiC8Ywb91dVl_m5OiYpAd84Dz0mi2JLOT0uwNQkuuAcTXQ9boQ-UhFHlGqnvI/s1600/WWI.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="535" data-original-width="960" height="355" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGRU-Y31BUUr2qEqaz03ndDsPRoSJdfDdb7jo-DvM9Nj7lfI3xzZ3OuYfQ6dkvRDrWHMfIUqDMh0k8O2xiC8Ywb91dVl_m5OiYpAd84Dz0mi2JLOT0uwNQkuuAcTXQ9boQ-UhFHlGqnvI/s640/WWI.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
This is a post I had meant to make back in November or December, but the research involved overtook me. November was the 100th anniversary. You may have heard about Peter Jackson's new film <i><b>They Shall Not Grow Old. </b></i>It's a wonderful film, long overdue, paying tribute to the soldiers of World War I. The best part of it is the fascinating technology involved in what Jackson did. He took old footage, colorized and cleaned it up and then sync'ed voices and dialogue with the film. The results are simply amazing. <a href="https://youtu.be/DUReYO2n06w">HERE </a>is a sample. If you are interested in HOW he accomplished this, there is another bit on YouTube <a href="https://youtu.be/_cSXfKSRKz4">HERE</a>. It's still out there in theaters and I urge you to try to see it.<br />
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What also interested me was the genealogical possibilities. Apparently that occurred to other folks as well. Lisa Louise Cooke recently discussed the documentary portion at the end on the Genealogy Gems podcast. After I saw the film I wondered just how many men in my tree HAD served in WWI. Now I have covered the service of my grandmother's brother, "Harry" Tapply, in a previous <a href="https://leaftwigandstem.blogspot.com/2014/08/james-henry-harry-tapply.html">post</a>. But it took me almost three months to compile a complete list. Some are American, some are from the British side of my tree. Many times, if the name was too common, I couldn't verify the service; there may be some omissions. Some of the older British soldiers served in the domestic "service corps" and some of the Americans in the Coast Guard. However, this is the list I came up with.<br />
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Right around 70 men in my tree served. Some gave their lives. I decided NOT to distinguish that here. Service is service. When I think about the men in Jackson's film telling their stories (he used old recordings from the British War Archives) I wonder what my relatives would tell us. I'll bet the stories would be fascinating.</div>
theailurophilehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14291353148749332231noreply@blogger.com0