tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49812105826353046702024-03-19T01:47:48.032-07:00Kathy's SearchKathy Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07081078362823193683noreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4981210582635304670.post-4168339970513167232022-02-27T13:54:00.010-08:002022-02-27T14:05:42.493-08:00 Harold (Brix) William Sundberg Obituary <p><i>While I realize my rewritten obituaries do not reflect what those loved ones at the time would have written, this is another attempt at giving meaning to that dash between birth and death years. My grandfather's original obituary (below) captures none of the essence of the man known as Brix. I share my new obituary for him with the full acknowledgement that it is written only from my viewpoint. His contemporaries would likely have had different memories of the rich tapestry of my grandfather's life. But his wife, daughter, and friends are no longer here. It is up to me to share my limited view, as a granddaughter, for posterity. </i></p><p><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> <b> </b></span><b>Original Obituary </b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2Q5r0hp-VI1VaWhMSAQx6d2dxrra7f9NLTdM0zgwshqdxTx3jjmkwYS-ayYwIswV38uZI4d9Vt8hVxBPoNIpZ15fMGnFGBGBeARrluHNPISqGIsYJXMl5bVJpElQjFKkitV-68U-mV67lBv6jRzeNRqL5AydrCCgJgGMIHlj-n2rEyfKnys4-nA=s2013" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1417" data-original-width="2013" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2Q5r0hp-VI1VaWhMSAQx6d2dxrra7f9NLTdM0zgwshqdxTx3jjmkwYS-ayYwIswV38uZI4d9Vt8hVxBPoNIpZ15fMGnFGBGBeARrluHNPISqGIsYJXMl5bVJpElQjFKkitV-68U-mV67lBv6jRzeNRqL5AydrCCgJgGMIHlj-n2rEyfKnys4-nA=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span><b><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>New Obituary <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></b><span> </span></span></b><span> </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>(I am still looking for a better photo.) </i><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><b><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span><br /></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgAjzzQpB_YT247TdIUYJEcOvfDJdgE1oNwXtDOIYuRG4fxqv5MktUfGtHL0OiRg7J8sYcXcChhx8xY2aclh3AAMJvZDXKtnD_TWXjr0C7qvcFuE25116B9p6yk4LAVCaQNphtIQpNUSmRCLo5RxmOkh8S8IM_P7mX5mntjOEGXwFe9jWFOYhBcFw=s261" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="261" data-original-width="249" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgAjzzQpB_YT247TdIUYJEcOvfDJdgE1oNwXtDOIYuRG4fxqv5MktUfGtHL0OiRg7J8sYcXcChhx8xY2aclh3AAMJvZDXKtnD_TWXjr0C7qvcFuE25116B9p6yk4LAVCaQNphtIQpNUSmRCLo5RxmOkh8S8IM_P7mX5mntjOEGXwFe9jWFOYhBcFw" width="249" /></a></div><br /><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Harold
William Sundberg of 754 Juniper Street, passed away on Sunday, July 10, 1983 at
St. Luke’s Hospital in Marquette after a battle with lung cancer. Affectionately
called “Brix,” no one recalls how and why he was given this nickname that
had followed him since childhood.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">A lifelong
resident of Ishpeming, Michigan, Brix was born to Frank and Erika Wilhelmina
(Jerling) Sundberg on May 7, 1902. His parents had immigrated from Sweden and
the family treasured their heritage, with Brix especially valuing his family’s
Swedish cuisine. The family struggled, forcing Brix to leave school early to help
with finances. This, along with the ravages of the Great Depression, left a lasting impression
on him. Not one to trust banks, he dealt in cash until ill health forced him to
travel to the Mayo Clinic last year when he had to open his first checking
account. But he still maintained his propensity to carry cash and would often
astound his granddaughters by pulling out hundred dollar bills from his wallet.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">After
meeting Myrtle Richards in high school, the couple enjoyed many happy times
with their cousins, Clayton and Inez Simons. Brix was related to Inez and
Myrtle to Clayton, so it seemed fitting that they stood for Brix and Myrtle
when the couple married on August 12, 1925. The newlyweds moved into the Richards family
home on Superior Street, with Myrtle’s parents living on the first floor. They
lived here until 1963 and this meant Brix spent over 35 years surrounded by
Cornish traditions and food. In his later years, he embraced making pasties with Myrtle and
relished peeling potatoes and rutabagas as he told her how to make the crust. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Brix and Myrtle’s
only child, Barbara, was born on June 17, 1929. Brix doted on his daughter and
enjoyed supporting her musical and speaking activities. He was thrilled when
she married Coach Bill Hart, although listening to Bill’s football games on the
radio made him nervous and he often turned the dial up and down depending on
the score of the game. The family had many happy times at their camp on Helen Lake,
with holiday gatherings spent with the Simons relatives. Brix’s buddies enjoyed
Helen Lake, too. Hunting parties meant saunas, good food and drink, along with poker
added to the bird, rabbit, deer, and bear season activities. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Brix was delighted to become a grandfather to Kathy and Claudia and often drove to Marquette
to see them bringing them savings bonds or a few dollars, which they often used
to purchase “dime store” turtles. He loved this as the girls usually named
these little pets Myrtle and Brix. Kathy and Claudia have fond memories of
their grandfather dressing as Santa during the holidays they shared with the
Simons’ clan and of Brix exclaiming, “It’s a daisy” as he watched the family
fireworks displays on Helen Lake to celebrate the 4<sup>th</sup> of July. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Brix was
proud of his daughter and granddaughters and was sure he would have a great
granddaughter. He was happy when his wish came to pass. He loved holding Kathy’s
daughter, Jennifer Lynn, and was proud to be at her baptism last December
as he had become more involved with church activities in his later years, which
pleased his wife. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Brix enjoyed
travel, but on his terms. Often the family would drive to Milwaukee for trips but
Brix, not liking what he believed to be a long car drive, often flew. He spent
time in Canada with friends hunting and fishing and liked to meet his buddies
on the golf course. In later years, he and Myrtle spent winter months in
Florida. He had a rich life, lived his way, refusing to give up his Camels and Brandy
even when diagnosed with cancer. He was determined to enjoy his final days.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Brix was a
lifelong employee of the Cleveland Cliffs Iron Ore Company. He served as their purchasing
agent, retiring after 50 years of service. He was a member of the Elks Lodge,
the Ahmed Temple Shriners, the Ishpeming Masonic Lodge, and the Wesley United Methodist
Church. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Brix was predeceased
by his parents, and his siblings, Albert, Amelia (Malloy), and Ernest. He is
survived by his wife, Myrtle, daughter, Barbara, her husband William Hart,
granddaughters Kathy and Claudia, and great granddaughter, Jennifer, along with
several nieces and nephews.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Friends
may call at the Bjork and Zhulkie Funeral Home on Tuesday, July 12 from 4 to 9
pm. Services will be held at 1:30 on Wednesday, July 13 at the funeral home with
the Rev. George Luciana officiating. Burial will be in the Ishpeming Cemetery. </span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Kathy Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07081078362823193683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4981210582635304670.post-54514273482576029742021-09-26T05:00:00.005-07:002021-10-27T08:22:00.020-07:00The Party<i>I wrote of this experience on September 26, 2010, my dad's birthday, the first one after his death. Recently I came across this piece. After several tragedies in my life since that time, it gave me an overwhelming sense of serenity to reread it so I share it here, on the day my dad would have celebrated his 95th birthday and the first one in those eleven years that my mother is once again with him. I will leave it to my readers to make of it what you will. Happy birthday, Dad! </i><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><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/AVvXsEjtwDHt0qUFjBrN7XOHrfKgq6xL1-dT6APqePy2WNlKDOItzLd4FTvnKVuxikYrPGV1Mkf-QZyLX7Ti8D6vQFy-uD99BNKcAoDfzIWhwQ6hI-PO8MswC-Nbnu4Q7rGF5gnO871D6TENjQ/s691/64baf5a2-98fc-4bfa-8d82-f6f5f633acd0.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="691" data-original-width="464" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtwDHt0qUFjBrN7XOHrfKgq6xL1-dT6APqePy2WNlKDOItzLd4FTvnKVuxikYrPGV1Mkf-QZyLX7Ti8D6vQFy-uD99BNKcAoDfzIWhwQ6hI-PO8MswC-Nbnu4Q7rGF5gnO871D6TENjQ/s320/64baf5a2-98fc-4bfa-8d82-f6f5f633acd0.jpg" width="215" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The only grandparent I never knew, Essie Bennett Hart. After reading my account below, my Aunt Betty, Essie's youngest child, gave me this black and white image. She told me the coat she is wearing in the photo was her favorite. And was baby blue in color.</span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><p></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"> The Party</span></b><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t really know if it is accurate to call
this a dream or to even use this word at the outset. Perhaps it will preclude
more precise understanding. But, for lack of a better word I’m going to call it
a dream. Sadly, that word can’t come close to describing what this really was. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The
part of me with great respect and awe for Southeast Asia would like to call it a
meditative state or a transcendental experience. But I really don’t know much
about these states of “being.” The intellectual part of me would like to analyze
the shared banquet imagery in most of the world’s religions and offer
interpretation of the metaphors. But that would take away from the actual
experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wouldn’t allow for the
way this “dream” made me feel, for the intense serenity that washed over me
when I woke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would like to use the
word, <u>joy</u>, but I can’t because there was a sense that “of course” this
happens. What else would you have possibly thought, Kathy? I have played with
different ways to describe my feelings about this occurrence, but I can’t come
up with anything accurate. I can only approximate: thankful that I was able to experience
this, peaceful that I had been gifted with this view, and humbled that I had been
allowed to feel this banquet. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">When
I entered the room, I seemed to be an intruder as the guests were engrossed in
the meal before them and in the conversation they shared. At first I felt this
was my dad’s funeral luncheon, but nothing seemed right. It wasn’t the church
basement, but it did seem to be a spiritual hall. And there was a sense of
natural, muted gaiety. The lights were so dim that I couldn’t always make out
the guests or what they were eating. Part of me wondered why my sister had
turned the lights down so at the luncheon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There wasn’t candlelight or any kind of artificial light and it wasn’t a
fog. It was simply a quiet dim. The word <u>quiet</u> isn’t quite right either
as I was aware there was talk and sharing. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Somewhere
deep inside me, I felt a profound connection to the people in this room, but I
couldn’t name them, that is until I saw my grandmother, Myrtle, and relative, Inez.
Even now as I write, I can’t describe them or explain why I identified them as Myrtle
and Inez, for they weren’t any age in particular. My grandmother didn’t look like
her high school yearbook picture that sits on my credenza. Inez didn’t look like
the matron of honor in my grandmother’s wedding photo. But neither looked like
the photos of later years, standing next to my dad at the Hall of Fame dinner
or posing at camp dinners together. They were neither young nor old. They were
just Myrtle and Inez. As I had been working on family genealogy, a feeling of
great excitement jabbed through me. I tried to get Inez’s attention. What an
opportunity to ask her the name of her great grandmother. But she ignored me.
She just kept chatting away and laughing with my grandmother. I persisted. But
there was no acknowledgement of my presence. It was then I was aware no one in
the room would speak to me. I felt they were cognizant of me, floating around them,
not just above, but below, next to, and around them. The players simply went
about their business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked at Myrtle
and Inez’s plate as I wanted to see if this meal matched what my sister had chosen
to serve at my dad’s funeral luncheon. See, I was still thinking these people
were gathered for my dad, yet nothing about the luncheon seemed to be the way
we had planned for his funeral. And where was my sister? I looked back around
at the guests. Yes, they seemed familiar. I knew them all but yet couldn’t name
most of them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They weren’t the people
who had gathered in the First United Methodist Church that Friday night after
his service.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Suddenly
I heard a pounding at the hitherto unnoticed immense glass doors. I think it is
necessary to point out they were glass. Anyone looking could see through them,
if they wanted. My sister was knocking on the door. I motioned to her to come
in but she refused, pointing at her blue jeans. “I can’t come to the party. I’m
not dressed right.” I was confused as I knew it didn’t matter what anyone wore.
In fact, <b><i>I</i></b> wasn’t even aware of what these people were wearing.
And not because I couldn’t see it, but because it just didn’t seem to be
important. For someone who writes down what she wears to work every day, that
seemed a strange feeling. But, at this gathering, the clothes didn’t matter. That
is all except for a woman in a soft blue coat. I could make out her coat’s hue
of blue among the other nondescript or unremembered garments. I was aware that she
was the only one in the room who had a deep desire that I see her. No, the verb,
<u>see</u>, is not correct.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think this
woman wanted me to <i>feel</i> her deep love. For everyone else in the room,
that feeling was somehow taken for granted. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">And
then I felt him. My dad. Now I was confounded. Why was he at his own funeral?
But, he seemed to belong here and all seemed to be celebrating him. Now, when I
write <u>reminiscing</u> and <u>told</u> here, I don’t mean that I heard his
voice with my ears. That’s not it at all. I mean I felt it. Dad was
reminiscing, pointing his finger at me, reminding me of the time his watch had
been found in Lake Superior, many years after he had lost it on the beach, in
that narrow muddy place where sand gives way to water. When the watch was
found, everyone was amazed. The astonishment grew when, after being wound
again, the watch worked. Gordon Lightfoot’s words, “Lake Superior, it’s said,
never gives up her dead” did not apply to that watch. The parts to the Timex
still ticked after all those seasons enshrouded deep within the mud of the Lake
that supposedly kept her dead buried. He told me to think of his watch. It
seemed so important to him; important that I remember the watch that had ticked,
despite its years encased in mud. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The
celebration continued. The room had become so large that it ceased to be a
room. The aura was a babbling brook of sharing and contentment. There was a
natural feeling of blissful connectedness here. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">This was a dream from
which I didn’t want to wake. I didn’t want to see the bright sunlight angling
for my attention from behind the blinds. I didn’t want to hear the cheery sounds
of my house, the tick of the dog’s nails as they clicked in ecstatic play. And
even though my daily life is joyful, I wanted to remain here, in the weave of harmonious
union. I was aware of my internal fight to stay at the party. I looked around
in anticipation. Could one of the guests keep me here? But no one reached out
to do so or even to bid me good-bye. Even my dad seemed to smile a “see you later”
look as he bent over the woman in the blue coat. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I was fully awake. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Or was I?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What is awake? </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Happy Birthday, Dad! </span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p><p></p>Kathy Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07081078362823193683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4981210582635304670.post-20164956708869941892021-08-31T07:37:00.001-07:002021-09-01T13:45:19.493-07:00And Now The Pitfalls of Birth Certificates <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;">Previously
I wrote about the dangers of relying on only information from death
certificates as memories can be faulty when a loved one is asked for grandparent’s
middle names and the like at a time when emotions are fraught. This reminded me
of the equally perilous point that birth certificates can also tell a story and
I need look no further than my own parents for this evidence. Here is their
story.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;">William (Bill) Robert
Hart</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;">Once
my Aunt Betty, my dad’s sister, had mentioned as an aside to me, “Well, my
mother put one over on my dad with your father’s name.” Sadly, I never followed
up on that comment and now she is gone as was my dad by the time I uncovered the
evidence that there was indeed something amiss with my dad’s name. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;">In
cleaning out my parent’s house as my mother had moved into an assisted living
facility, I came upon their strong box, the place where they “filed” all
important papers. It was then, sitting on the floor of their closet that I saw
my dad’s birth certificate for the first time. Right there, clearly stated,
First name – Robert. Middle name – William. Huh? All my life I had not only
been told but had seen my dad’s name listed as William Robert Hart. He was
called Bill and no one had ever indicated William was anything other than his
first name. Confused, I turned to his passport, which by the way was obtained
after September 11 when security and documents required for such credentials
was heightened. Sure enough, that passport, the first one he ever had, listed
his first name as William. How had that happened? He must have had to present
his birth certificate. I quickly rifled through the rest of the pile in that
strong box. There were my dad’s naval service records and ID cards from World
War II. And again contrary to his birth certificate, his name was written the
way I had always believed it to be, William Robert Hart. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;">This
conjures up many questions. What had my Aunt Betty meant when she said their
mother had put one over on their father with my dad’s name? Had she wanted his first
name to be Robert? Or had she intended it to be William and her husband completed
the birth certificate? Had she then just called him William until it stuck? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In searching for an answer, I wondered if
there had been either a William or a Robert in the family tree of either my paternal
grandfather or grandmother that might explain what must have been a
disagreement between them about my dad’s name. The closest relative named
William was my grandmother’s great grandfather, William Bennett. There was no Robert
anywhere. This did not seem a likely explanation for the mystery of my dad’s
name order. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;">And
now, they are all gone. The mystery will never be solved. If only…I had asked
my Aunt Betty to explain her meaning, If only…I had seen that birth certificate
sooner and asked my dad. So many questions, not the least of which is, how did
he manage to obtain a passport in times of heightened security, showing his
name as the one he always used, despite what official documentation of his
birth showed? </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;">I
will never know. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;">Barbara Claire Sundberg
(Hart)</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;">During
that same day as I paged through the documents in their strong box, I almost carelessly
tossed my mother’s birth certificate into the pile I was putting aside for my
genealogy box. I would file it later. My mind was still reeling from the
questions regarding my dad’s birth certificate. But, a little voice told me to
unfold it and look, especially as she was alive and could answer any questions
about hers, which I did not expect to uncover. But…there it was. Another discrepancy.
</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;">I
had always seen my mother’s name written as Barbara Claire Sundberg (Hart).
Here on her certified birth certificate, her middle name was spelled, Clare.
This made a bit of sense to me as her grandmother’s name was Clara and this
spelling of Clare seemed closer. But, again, her entire life, including that
post 9/11 passport listed her middle name as Claire. When had this changed? Who
had changed it? Finding at least a partial answer was a bit easier as I just
needed to drive over to her assisted living apartment. When I asked, she nonchalantly
shrugged her shoulders and waving her hand, replied, “I just liked the spelling
with the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">i </i>better so I wrote it that
way.” Okay, but again, who in the County Courthouse had issued a passport to
her with the incorrect spelling? I thought the country was on high alert and
documents were being scrutinized. My husband and I had bought and sold two
houses in this era. I knew the paperwork required and Greg had even been subjected
to several rounds of affidavits swearing that he was not another Gregory James
Smith with a criminal record. Our ten year-old son was once stopped in an
airport over a confusion that he was another Andrew Gregory Smith on the no fly
list. But my mother had no answer to my query other than, “People know us” when
I questioned how it was that she had received a post 9/11 passport with the
wrong spelling of her given middle name.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;">And
the lessons? Ask questions. Assume nothing. Scrutinize documents but always remember
we are humans. We make mistakes. We have our agendas, as my paternal
grandparents clearly did. I wish I knew that story. Do you know yours? </span></p>
<p><style>@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Kathy Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07081078362823193683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4981210582635304670.post-62111570063750057562021-08-14T07:31:00.002-07:002021-11-18T11:52:48.769-08:00Giving More Meaning - A Rewritten Obituary For Myrtle Richards Sundberg<p> The obituary that appeared in The Mining Journal on January 20, 1989:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkP4C0gOIPZgYYJoScQpUvcOAEYL-zos1MrvhZ8E8ike8fGLGNUR9YasJlVx_3yQ35IeEBPgzMw6qMQl_wwt5vvmwNpYbmwexpsB8vNEbdheqrvji3xiHT0KzG9eo8wtIUUrhUrfZXqw/s2048/IMG_6614.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1351" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkP4C0gOIPZgYYJoScQpUvcOAEYL-zos1MrvhZ8E8ike8fGLGNUR9YasJlVx_3yQ35IeEBPgzMw6qMQl_wwt5vvmwNpYbmwexpsB8vNEbdheqrvji3xiHT0KzG9eo8wtIUUrhUrfZXqw/s320/IMG_6614.jpg" width="211" /></a></div><p></p><p>The rewritten obituary. This time with a photo!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7_VoAvpmDrufiAQZXTUmS_3MgqNhlRzxyPirDuOwSffR2tAqcSuyU_7ZMCdRz_Yz0f30G89I3omM1uKpDmKwsRBIW3eSgBs8vYra7WeuEV6Mm8wKWR6Bhls0BWGBjZg2hME-ZBWxusw/s404/Myrtle+OBIT+PIC.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="404" data-original-width="378" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7_VoAvpmDrufiAQZXTUmS_3MgqNhlRzxyPirDuOwSffR2tAqcSuyU_7ZMCdRz_Yz0f30G89I3omM1uKpDmKwsRBIW3eSgBs8vYra7WeuEV6Mm8wKWR6Bhls0BWGBjZg2hME-ZBWxusw/s320/Myrtle+OBIT+PIC.jpg" width="299" /></a></div><br /><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Myrtle
Lois Sundberg passed away after a long illness on January 19, 1989, two days
shy of her 86<sup>th</sup> birthday. Born on January 21, 1903 to Clara Jane
(Millman) and Thomas Richards, Myrtle lived in the house her great grandparents
purchased on Superior Street in Ishpeming after they arrived from Cornwall,
England via Vershire, Vermont. This location gave Myrtle a busy life, from
playing Bridge with her many cousins and second cousins to walking to the
Wesley Methodist Church to bake her beloved pasties. In fact, when the Church
moved to its current location off of Highway 41, many laughed as Myrtle and her
husband Harold (Brix) Sundberg moved to Juniper Street and were once again
within walking distance of the Church. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">After high
school graduation, Myrtle worked at various Ishpeming establishments until she
married Brix in 1925 with relatives, Clayton and Inez Simons, as witnesses. Their
daughter, Barbara, was born in 1929. Like many women of her era, Myrtle was a
homemaker, seeing to her husband and child’s needs along with caring for her father
and ailing mother who lived on the first floor of the family home. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Myrtle saw
many historical changes during her lifetime, from women gaining the right to
vote to the popularity of television and telephones. She could often be found
sharing recipes and news with her many friends via phone. She prided herself on
her ability to bake just the right pasty for each person, depending on their
likes and dislikes. The family enjoyed spending time at their camp on Helen
Lake where many happy summer days were passed playing cards, taking saunas, and
eating the good food she prepared in the kitchen, which did not have a faucet,
only a handpump. Cold food had to be stored in a true ice box as the camp did not have a refrigerator. <br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Despite
being an only child, Myrtle surrounded herself with extended family, including
cousin, Shirley Kellan and the Simons’ family. She was thrilled when her
daughter married William (Bill) Hart. Bill became an additional chauffeur as
Myrtle never learned to drive. She loved to tell the story of how she and Inez,
sitting in the backseat of the car, were being driven to a picnic by her new
son-in-law. They asked him to stop, run into the store, and buy napkins. The
two ladies fell into fits of laughter when he returned to the car with Kotex. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Myrtle was
always busy! She was an active member of the Order of Eastern Star and the
Pythian Sisters along with Bridge clubs and numerous Church societies. She
enjoyed creating cookbooks with the various organizations to which she
belonged.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Myrtle was
excited to become a grandmother to Kathy and Claudia. She enjoyed weekend
sleepovers with her granddaughters, teaching them to play cards and Rummy
Royal. At Helen Lake, Myrtle loved to watch them play in the lake and kept a trusty box of salt nearby in case a bloodsucker attached itself to one of the girls. Myrtle continued to bake pasties and loved to tell the story of how she
slipped on the icy driveway, fell under the car, but managed to hold up the
tray of pasties. Not a single one was damaged! </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Myrtle was
again thrilled when her family expanded in 1982 and she became a great
grandmother to Jennifer. A great grandson, Matthew, was born in 1986, and she was
looking forward to the birth of another great grandchild this summer. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Myrtle spent
the last month as a patient at the Valente Medical Facility. She was preceded
in death by her parents and husband and is survived by her daughter,
son-in-law, granddaughters, and great grandchildren. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Services
will be held on Myrtle’s birthday, January 21 at 1 p.m. at the Bjork and Zhulkie
Funeral Home in Ishpeming with the Rev. George Luciani officiating. Burial will
be in Ishpeming Cemetery. Friends can call at the funeral home from 4 to 8 on
Friday and from noon on Saturday until the time of services. </span></p>
<p><style>@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;">* I recently began a project to rearrange and organize the unfinished
space in my basement prior to it being converted into a bright laundry space,
puppy area, and neat storage. In doing so, I keep getting waylaid by the many
genealogical “treasures” I have collected through the years. After recently
writing my mother’s obituary, I was struck by the scarcity of details in my
grandmother’s 1989 obituary. I decided to rewrite it and am providing the link
for those relatives who may be interested. Now I’m on a mission – rewrite the obituaries
of those who have passed on – the obituaries that appeared before the
detail-laden ones we Mining Journal aficionados see today. It is a way to
provide meaning for the dash between birth and death. </span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p><p><br /></p>Kathy Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07081078362823193683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4981210582635304670.post-15872584946426601682021-08-13T12:32:00.004-07:002021-08-13T12:32:53.329-07:00The Pitfalls of Death Certificates <p class="MsoNormal"> As an amateur genealogist, I have studied death certificates
in anticipation of adding to my family tree. A few days ago, I realized why it
may not always be the best idea to trust the information. As with all
documents, verification is necessary. This may be especially true with death
certificates. Loved ones are providing details at a time of high stress. Memory
lapses can occur all too easily. After the death of both my father and mother
this was the case. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My dad died unexpectedly. Despite the fact that he was in
his mid-eighties and had overcome a myriad of health challenges, the news that
he had passed filled my sister and me with great sorrow. We sat in the funeral
director’s office as he posed the usual questions for the death certificate. At
that point in time, I had constructed an extensive family tree on Ancestry and
had visited the gravesites of his great grandparents in Linkinhorne, Cornwall. But
when asked for his mother’s maiden name, my sister and I looked at each other
blankly. Neither of us had an answer. We had to text a cousin who reminded us
it was Bennett. And yes, I had photos of me kneeling in front of a Bennett
gravestone in the graveyard of St. Mellor’s Parish Church but my mind was not
working properly during that time. I wondered what would have happened if we
did not have a cell phone handy for surely our ancestors did not and likely
were just as grief-stricken. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Fast forward to 2021. My mother’s death was not a surprise.
She had been failing for over a year and her final weeks were difficult. Still,
when we once again sat in the funeral home, we had no clue if our grandma’s
middle name was Lois or Louise. I could see that L, always written with a
flourish, but what did it stand for? Shrugging my shoulders, I said, “I’m fairly
certain it was Louise.” Fortunately, we finally decided to play it safe and
report my mother’s mother’s maiden name as Myrtle L. Richards. When I finally had
a chance to look through my paper documents I confirmed her middle name as Lois.
Good thing we did not go with our memories! </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That got me to thinking. What was on my husband’s unique
death certificate? He died in Beijing, China, unexpectedly, in 2014 while on
government business. He would have loved his rare death certificate, for the
original was in Chinese. The Embassy later provided me with a translated, notarized
copy, containing none of the usual reporting details. But I did relish in
handing that original Chinese death certificate to the Social Security Office
and giggled a little as I did so, for I could feel Greg’s laughter. He always
liked to be distinctive. But, what might this mean for future genealogists, 200
plus years from now? </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">These vignettes provide a snapshot into the pitfalls of
death certificates. We need to remember that those who are reporting the facts
of a loved one’s life are dealing with stress and grief. Details may be
forgotten or easily confused. Or, as in Greg’s case, information may be missing
or even written in a language that is difficult to easily translate. We need to
check and doublecheck! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p><style>@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Kathy Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07081078362823193683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4981210582635304670.post-80406442941688700492021-08-07T05:37:00.006-07:002021-08-07T07:27:02.974-07:00Barbara Hart Obituary <p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Barbara Claire
(Sundberg) Hart passed away after a long illness on July 29, 2021. Born June
17, 1929 to Harold (Brix) and Myrtle Sundberg, Barbara grew up on Superior
Street in Ishpeming next to her Simons’ relatives who gave this only child a
close extended family throughout her life. Summers spent at Helen Lake and
holidays with Charlotte, Colleen, Claudie, and Chuckie provided wonderful
memories for Barbara. She enjoyed her childhood and teenage years as part of
the Methodist Church and could play many hymns by heart on the piano and pump
organ. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">In the
late 1940s, Barbara enrolled at Northern Michigan College of Education. After
graduation, she taught for several years in both Marquette and Ishpeming, often
reminiscing about her former students. She later enjoyed substitute teaching in
Marquette. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">While at
Northern she met Marquette native William (Bill) Hart and thus began many years
of attending football games and other sporting events as she cheered for her
husband’s high school teams (and, of course, the Packers). Barbara and Bill built
a home on Kaye Avenue in Marquette where they raised their two daughters with
Barbara involved as room mother, Sunday School teacher, <span style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;">advisor to her daughters’ Jobs Daughters Bethel,
supporter of her husband’s Masonic activities, and avid bridge player in her
Wednesday night club. </span>Later the couple moved to West Avenue where they enjoyed
their bird carving business and the company of their grandchildren. <span style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;">She valued her time at the family’s
camp on </span>Lake Superior in Big Bay. During the last 8 years, Barbara
resided at Mill Creek Assisted Living, where she was known for her fashionable
dress, down to her matching shoes. She relished taking part in their many
activities, especially Bingo. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">She adored
her grandchildren, Jennifer Hart (Jeff) Scaggs, Matthew Hart Orr, Melissa Claire
(Tim) Yeh, and Andrew Gregory (Julie) Hartsmith. She loved being a part of
their lives and carefully constructed many photo albums throughout the years to
document their adventures. Barbara was thrilled to become a great grandmother
to Bennett Gregory Hart Chander, Hudson Hart Orr, Clara Jane Yeh, and Rory Kathryn
Hart Scaggs. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">In
addition to her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren, Barbara loved
the dogs that had been an important part of her life. She asked their names be
included in her obituary, but as there have been so many throughout the years
her daughters have chosen to name only the dog that Barbara doted on throughout
their childhood, the Wire-Haired Fox Terrier, Candy. She even kept a statue in
honor of Candy in her Mill Creek apartment.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Barbara
was preceded in death by her husband Bill, her parents, and her son-in-law Gregory
Smith. She is survived by her daughters Kathy Hart and Claudia Hart, her
son-in-law Mark LeBoeuf, her grandchildren, great grandchildren, and several
nieces and nephews. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">The family
is grateful for the wonderful care she received at Mill Creek. In her final
days, Barbara was always served her favorite foods and the staff made sure she
was dressed in her best clothing. She was treated with love and respect throughout
her stay. We appreciate their kindness. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Given her love of dogs, memorials
may be directed to Upper Peninsula Animal Welfare Shelter (UPAWS).</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><p> </p><p><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Written by K. Hart </span><br /></p><p><style>@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Kathy Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07081078362823193683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4981210582635304670.post-22938585474467765282021-07-22T11:09:00.004-07:002021-08-31T08:57:02.799-07:00A Meditative Walk <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgENPViXge5ewHNtpJ8ntBtbrvp5cNZXZgsu0UB4aRqHZGwTEGBl53Pr93jLItDgtg1l_PTqEQ4JyYB4vRsuLJzCU0rMyu-z5RGeFc92oBeEE4PjnAISHnxk5dS6xopNdIFIge7ufJTFw/s2048/IMG_6313.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgENPViXge5ewHNtpJ8ntBtbrvp5cNZXZgsu0UB4aRqHZGwTEGBl53Pr93jLItDgtg1l_PTqEQ4JyYB4vRsuLJzCU0rMyu-z5RGeFc92oBeEE4PjnAISHnxk5dS6xopNdIFIge7ufJTFw/s320/IMG_6313.HEIC" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbVj3xIRlMiegZ_qwr-pnOpWb8n-OtX6NrSQtuO0RWuAbCHM4scApEeFcXHVOtUGxySRlnCHzsnKKMWmAW-0clhxZ7ubQ0Vk9BTl2UNJqAc4UGiVx-pGarx1CF3jhINKAL_lrdS4P2Zg/s2048/IMG_6311.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbVj3xIRlMiegZ_qwr-pnOpWb8n-OtX6NrSQtuO0RWuAbCHM4scApEeFcXHVOtUGxySRlnCHzsnKKMWmAW-0clhxZ7ubQ0Vk9BTl2UNJqAc4UGiVx-pGarx1CF3jhINKAL_lrdS4P2Zg/s320/IMG_6311.HEIC" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEg_qgdflbHa6RSH96kpRdr3ZotrTYXMYB_qmjt6wP8RtlTBRSd-eIpXBX9C1CH5xcNa8Bc-iLqrPUcIVlvVohcF0uW5gZPgl2ZCsJWhZ2p67_TzBklh5xhgPBR2tQWs_9PprIAmcxhg/s2048/IMG_6308.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEg_qgdflbHa6RSH96kpRdr3ZotrTYXMYB_qmjt6wP8RtlTBRSd-eIpXBX9C1CH5xcNa8Bc-iLqrPUcIVlvVohcF0uW5gZPgl2ZCsJWhZ2p67_TzBklh5xhgPBR2tQWs_9PprIAmcxhg/s320/IMG_6308.HEIC" /></a></div>
<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">This morning I did a thing…so tired of the statements from
the FG about Senator John McCain, I decided to take advantage of my proximity
to his grave and pay my respects to this hero. He is an example of what this staunch
Democrat respects in the Republican party. I will always remember that late
night (or was it early morning?) when I gleefully clapped at his thumbs down,
thus saving healthcare for millions. I was fortunate enough to meet Senator
McCain at an embassy gathering having something to do with Vietnam. Yes, there
were so many of those back when my husband was working diligently with that
area of the world, it is sad I can’t recall specific details now. But I do know
I was impressed that after being held captive for so long, Senator McCain was
now working to bolster the economy and environment of Vietnam. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><span style="font-family: arial;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">While I did not vote for Senator McCain, I always respected
his service. My dad, a Navy man himself, was torn in 2008 but finally voted for
President Obama (yay dad!). He first ignored my pleas and arguments to vote for
Barack Obama. It wasn’t until another military man, Colin Powell, endorsed
President Obama that my dad declared his intentions. “If General Powell is
voting for him, then that is the endorsement I need." So much for listening to
your daughter! But I knew he was conflicted and had great admiration for John
McCain. In fact, my dad wished he could have attended the Naval Academy
himself.</span></p><span style="font-family: arial;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><span style="font-family: arial;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Back to my stroll this morning. Like many who live in
historic areas, I often forget to appreciate what is all around me. Walking
onto the Naval Academy grounds made me immediately swell with pride, for those
who served, for those who love this country enough to protect it (and yes, that
means getting vaccinated, too!), and for my dad who served in and respected the
Navy throughout his life. </span></p><span style="font-family: arial;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><span style="font-family: arial;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">The walk to the Senator’s grave was just as promised,
beautiful and serene. As I sauntered over the footbridge, watching the
billowing white sails on the Severn River, I thought of not just Senator
McCain, but of Greg and his love of sailing and Annapolis, of my dad, so
devoted to the Navy, and of all those buried in this cemetery. Taps cut through
the air, as another burial was taking place. This added to the sensory
experience that enveloped me. The walk almost seemed like a meditation.</span></p><span style="font-family: arial;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><span style="font-family: arial;">
<span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I stood alone in front of Senator McCain’s unassuming
headstone and murmured my thanks, my apologies for how the FG treated him, and
my belief that history would honor him. I am not posting photos of his grave.
Somehow that feels intrusive. The photos above were taken on my walk through
the grounds. I encourage anyone who visits Annapolis to share in my experience
of the morning. </span></span>
<p><style>@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Kathy Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07081078362823193683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4981210582635304670.post-29249866986678154002021-02-22T05:17:00.002-08:002021-02-22T10:35:23.414-08:00A Big Lie <p class="MsoNormal"><i>How could you let those criminals into our country? It is
terrible when aliens from other countries sneak into the United States and lie
about their immigration status. We must keep illegals out of our country.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Have you heard these statements? Donald Trump demonized
immigration from the moment he descended his escalator and announced his
candidacy for president. Throughout his tenure in office, he called immigrants
<u>illegals</u>, decried the caravans he claimed were moving to the border, tried to
construct a wall on the country’s southern border, separated families and put
children in cages. I could go on and on. But if you lived through the Trump
years, you are fully aware of his efforts to garner support by making
immigrants the enemy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I know of one immigrant to the United States who was a
criminal. He came to the country without documentation and then lied on his naturalization
papers. No one detected his perjury and he became a citizen. And like so many
others, he took a job doing what many Americans did not want to do. His family
came to the new country, too, and they also became productive citizens. Fortunately,
those were the days before family separation. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Who was this man? </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He was my third great grandfather. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In those early days Thomas and other family members worked as
miners in the Ely Copper Mine that is now a U.S. EPA Superfund site due to the
hazardous mining practices which took place when my 3x great grandfather <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>worked in this area. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">First, let’s go back to his “criminal” record. In 1848, Thomas
Symons (spelling at the time) was arrested as a 9 year-old boy who was working
at that tender age as a miner. He was thrown into Bodmin Gaol as he and his
brothers, Charles and Stephen, stole “bread, cake, beef, etc.” Records show the
boys’ father had recently died and we can surmise they were struggling to
survive. Because of their larceny, the trio were whipped and released. But the
criminal records of these youngsters remains as can be seen by the photos below.
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieNLW6zVhZLIm7iN7n3LJLZImiMeXUuZYDtDXkU0YGDmGyfTW_jkH-VkTWx6Vu1KKg3ZhRpvWW9lwy4U2pFnURIklYvpkFJc-fVME1muJOkVpGc-2y_LLAefyi9Op8xqb4y87SpRo0Xg/s2048/IMG_4918.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1829" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieNLW6zVhZLIm7iN7n3LJLZImiMeXUuZYDtDXkU0YGDmGyfTW_jkH-VkTWx6Vu1KKg3ZhRpvWW9lwy4U2pFnURIklYvpkFJc-fVME1muJOkVpGc-2y_LLAefyi9Op8xqb4y87SpRo0Xg/s320/IMG_4918.heic" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6ZXBwN_U-45DbzoaR3sZDmytPPFebfrmoNZYLe_Lc8Qo4rbOZ7qJ0VUWoQe-p3JPKLA6ZpH2gdPTJ4FLdMwvW_dokBaOny2oCOhDXzABDr1MUC-L0ZiFv7UWnAfaLIHpxdVQscWjd_Q/s984/Screen+Shot+2021-02-21+at+4.45.58+PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="984" height="118" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6ZXBwN_U-45DbzoaR3sZDmytPPFebfrmoNZYLe_Lc8Qo4rbOZ7qJ0VUWoQe-p3JPKLA6ZpH2gdPTJ4FLdMwvW_dokBaOny2oCOhDXzABDr1MUC-L0ZiFv7UWnAfaLIHpxdVQscWjd_Q/w415-h118/Screen+Shot+2021-02-21+at+4.45.58+PM.png" width="415" /></a></div><br />
<p class="MsoNormal">After marrying a widow, Mary Ann Hill Davey (my third great
grandmother) in November 1858, and becoming a step-father to her daughter, Mary
Jane, Thomas and family took up residence in the St. Ive area of Cornwall. Almost
a year after the wedding, my second great grandmother, Harriet Simons, was born
to 20 year-old Thomas. Her birth was followed by Mary Ann in 1861, Thomas in
1863, and Charles in 1868. All records show Cornwall as the place of birth. Between
the years, 1863 and 1868, disease swept through the area. Daughters Mary Jane and Mary
Ann died. Their death certificates indicate they died on Higher Luxe Street in Liskeard.
These stories are detailed elsewhere in this blog. But the dates are provided
here for context. Thomas Symons lived in Cornwall in the 1860s, with the family’s
residence listed as St. Ive in the 1861 census. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And herein is the big lie. In his naturalization application
of 1879, completed in what we know was the family’s home in Vershire (Ely)
Vermont, Thomas attests he came to the United States as a minor under the age
of 21. He swears that he arrived when he was 17 and had resided in the United
States since that time (1856/57). Clearly, dates
and documents show this was not true. My third great grandfather lied on his
citizenship application. Added to that, he was a convicted criminal. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In Trump’s America, Thomas Simons (later spelling) would not have been welcomed.
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What families with great potential did we turn away? One
hundred and fifty years from now, what stories will not be told? </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Our point of view often shifts when we have a personal connection. #Perspective </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Kathy Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07081078362823193683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4981210582635304670.post-58948367055060329922021-01-09T10:23:00.008-08:002021-01-09T10:23:58.790-08:00What? You Think Impeachment Is Just About The Few Days Before Jan. 20? Think Again! <p> </p><div><div class="" dir="auto"><div class="ecm0bbzt hv4rvrfc e5nlhep0 dati1w0a" data-ad-comet-preview="message" data-ad-preview="message" id="jsc_c_q"><div class="j83agx80 cbu4d94t ew0dbk1b irj2b8pg"><div class="qzhwtbm6 knvmm38d"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa fgxwclzu a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"><div class="kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">As a first grade teacher, I took children on many field trips. I didn’t always like these days, but they were expected and part of the curriculum. One trip is etched into my mind. I won’t share the Maryland County where I taught, but will say it was a fairly long bus ride to the Baltimore Aquarium. As we returned to the school parking lot, I discovered that a child had stolen a little toy from the gift shop. I was horrified and immediately walked to the car where his mother waited. I prompted him to tell her what he had done. When he finished, she began lecturing him about the reasons his actions were wrong. And then, despite it being a Washington/Baltimore rush hour (and those of you who live in the area will appreciate that detail), she told him they were making the drive back to Baltimore where he would be expected to apologize, return the item, and then would be punished for several weeks at home. </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Of course, the other children in the class observed this. The next day on the playground, this child weepily told his painful story of returning the toy. I heard him say that he had promised his mom he would never do anything like that again. </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">The incident did not just influence this boy’s life. It taught an important lesson to others. Through the years children in that class have contacted me. They said that day not only helped them to follow laws, but they were always careful to steer friends away from doing the wrong thing. They remembered the boy’s tearful face as his determined mother left the parking lot. They said they never wanted to be in his position nor did they want their friends to have this type of trouble. </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Important lessons are learned from our parents and on the playground. </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Despite being in a rush hour toward Inauguration, the title of Mr. President must be returned immediately. The country never needs this type of trouble again. </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">K. Hart 1/8/2021</div></div></span></div></div></div></div></div>Kathy Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07081078362823193683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4981210582635304670.post-17189731314314706452020-10-29T05:00:00.002-07:002020-10-29T06:13:09.067-07:00My Election 2020 Statement For Future Generations <p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">To My
Descendants: </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I feel so
fortunate for the life I have lived. Some might view the many moves my husband
and I made as a negative. I counted; I lived in 18 different places in my adult
life. Here, with 2020 eyes, I see these moves as a gift. I realize this country
is made up of a rich tapestry of culture. From living in my 20s in
Massachusetts to spending 5 years in Louisiana, to the many communities in
between, I saw a diverse nation. I am fortunate to have friends all over the country. I
witnessed enough to understand the need for the Black Lives Matter Movement.
And, I have experienced enough to know I am not an expert, but rather need to
be a good listener and an avid reader of Black authors. I know that I am still
learning. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">So, yes, I
see Donald Trump as a racist. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">The
travels that Greg and I were privileged enough to experience helped me to
appreciate the peoples of the world. We avoided “resort travel” and walked the
villages of rural Cambodia, talking to residents. We visited communities in
Botswana and spoke with people in South Africa. We became fast friends with
many in Russia and throughout Asia. I could go and on. But I note this not to
uplift our travels, but to say that these experiences helped me to see the
world as my home. When I hear “America First,” I shudder. This phrase negates
my fellow humans with whom I share this planet. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">So, yes, I
see Donald Trump as a xenophobe. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Throughout
my life, I have experienced discrimination because I am a woman. In other
writings, I have detailed these experiences. Some, I tried to fight, but in
other cases, I left beloved jobs because of pay discrepancies. I want you to
know I am not a hypocrite. If I say I believe in equal pay and fair treatment
of women, I vote for these principles. This is essential in Trump’s America
where, as just one example, he has nominated yet another Supreme Court Justice
who will ignore the need for equality. And Republican senators blindly
follow him.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">So, yes, I
see Donald Trump as a misogynist. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">My husband
devoted his professional life to science. He died in China as he was working on
climate change, a pressing issue for the health of our Planet. I observe people
concerned about the health of places such as the rising Great Lakes. But many
of these same people deny the reality of climate change. I feel fortunate that
I am an educated individual who lived with a scientist. I know the truth. This
anti-science stance of Trump has also manifested itself in his refusal to take
the COVID virus seriously. He does not to listen to medical doctors with
specialized degrees in epidemiology, he embraces false treatments, and ignores
the advice of experts that would have saved thousands of lives.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">So, yes, I
see Donald Trump as a luddite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">For much
of my professional life I was a teacher. Many of those years I spent as a zany
first grade teacher and loved it! I adored my students and tried to create a
happy family among “my” children. I was a hugger and someone who played tag at
recess, even in my high heels. So, when I hear Trump call people names, make
fun of those with special needs, and interrupt fellow human beings, I am
sickened. He is a horrible example for the children of this nation and is
contrary to everything I tried to accomplish in my classroom.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">So, yes, I
see Donald Trump as a bully.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I am appalled
that so called Christians follow Donald Trump without question. Not only has he
married and divorced several times (although I have no real issue with that)
but he freely admits to several affairs, sexualizing women, and has rarely, if
ever, attended church. He can’t even quote Bible verses correctly. It seems anti-abortion
is the only reason evangelicals support him. Never mind that he was pro
abortion until he figured out that he could use and manipulate those who are “pro-life.”
Wait – pro-life? He puts small children in cages, separates them from their
parents, and to date, Trump’s officials do not know how to contact the families
of over 500 children in their “care.” Is this Christianity? Is this pro-life? Absolutely
not! Not to mention, he does not support policies that would aid the most
vulnerable in our country. This is definitely not what Jesus would do. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">So, yes, I
see Donald Trump as iniquitous. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">And so,
dear descendants, I have you in mind this election for I believe Trump is a
danger. I have only touched on a few points here. I remain concerned about so many other issues, including my fear for the rights of the LGBTQ community. I view my vote as one for the greater good. I believe in years to come,
families will wonder where their ancestors stood in 2020. I wanted to make this
statement so there is no question what Kathy Hart (Smith) believed in and
worked for between 2016 – 2020. I dream you will live in a fairer, healthier
world.</span></p>
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<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Following is a compilation of posts I shared over two years. They trace my quest to know my great great great grandmother, Mary Ann Simons. Personal circumstances call me back to Mary Ann's story now. Below, I share my search for her. It is a multi-layered journey that gave me many gifts that "now more than ever" I treasure. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I had puzzled over the names on the family tree for so many
months, desperately trying to get “just one more back.” But I was never
satisfied when that "one more" was revealed. I always wanted another.
And then it hit me. I had become the genealogical equivalent of a quantitative
researcher, a style that I had never embraced in my academic career. I was
merely looking to place as many names on a chart as possible. Looking at my
work, I realized it was too numeric, too sterile. I wanted to understand my family
beyond their birth and death dates. I yearned to know who they were, why they
made the choices they did, how their past had tumbled forward to affect my
present, and would likely influence the future of my children and
grandchildren. I wanted to put my qualitative skills to work.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When I felt the pull to do this, it was easy to choose the
person to study. Mary Ann Simons had caused me the most frustration as I filled
in the names and dates on my ever-growing chart. I had a handwritten family
tree from the early 1900s but as it turned out, this voice from the past gave
me the misplaced confidence that my Simons' branch would be the easiest to
place on my family tree. It was one of the most frustrating. New names could
not be found. The family's constant moves made them difficult to track.
When other branches revealed themselves with so little effort on my part, this
one continued to hide in the shadows of poverty of mid-nineteenth century
Cornwall. But more about this later.</span></div>
<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/AVvXsEiNWPdRPfrmYkecda9aeBFB_SrZVEVNrQgAJBuY9h1-NxEu3fpfoAfKbsaDwkFh9Ca5lAe9da7Ij4ew50Wzyr9z_8jD91W9MPFPocwcxqWGBgKQcvI3l8Mb7jI_Yx5ENsu78hT9Sch0YA/s1600/Kissing+Cousins+-+My+Garandmother%2527s+House%252C+Superior+St.+Ishpemin+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNWPdRPfrmYkecda9aeBFB_SrZVEVNrQgAJBuY9h1-NxEu3fpfoAfKbsaDwkFh9Ca5lAe9da7Ij4ew50Wzyr9z_8jD91W9MPFPocwcxqWGBgKQcvI3l8Mb7jI_Yx5ENsu78hT9Sch0YA/s1600/Kissing+Cousins+-+My+Garandmother%2527s+House%252C+Superior+St.+Ishpemin+001.jpg" height="320" width="220" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Holidays and special events always included the larger Simons' clan.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Perhaps it was because I felt familiarity with this branch
of my family tree that made these ancestors so compelling. The family
gatherings at Helen Lake and the Christmas celebrations with the Simons’ branch
conjured up the warm fuzzy feelings of my childhood. </span><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/AVvXsEimXAaQ-4NbNv-RUnD0km8Rn02Ds1IuKYOQL_KQkbHsvmq3MrsDd8gogL5aJZIDv8hppxzZdvfMsrsexGKe4PTdteRXQrcK7j4pfERS7EtK_DxvwSX5PTSm7TBAd6lxUWhCxfLjhAaJtA/s1600/Negaunee+House+Photo+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimXAaQ-4NbNv-RUnD0km8Rn02Ds1IuKYOQL_KQkbHsvmq3MrsDd8gogL5aJZIDv8hppxzZdvfMsrsexGKe4PTdteRXQrcK7j4pfERS7EtK_DxvwSX5PTSm7TBAd6lxUWhCxfLjhAaJtA/s1600/Negaunee+House+Photo+001.jpg" height="228" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The picture in the gold gilded frame. I was fortunate in that long ago a relative with personal knowledge was able to identify the people and approximate years of the photo.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A faded framed photo
(above) of Mary Ann's daughter, Harriet Simons, and family had hung in a
prominent place in my home for so long. Its gold gilded frame a stark contrast
to the forlorn faces that stood silently in front of an old black and white
farmhouse. The picture had invited me into the family scene since it hung in my
own grandmother's house. In it, Mary Ann's grandson, Thomas “Pa” Richards, held
a large parrot, a precursor to our oft-discussed conversation of the “pet gene”
shared by so many in today’s family. <o:p></o:p></span><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/AVvXsEhmoIe9qX_mO1qSrDsfQeteUMVp2jo6vxh04-HZ9cBOTDfxZbwxJXKRdu3mSeEpVwtpuC86VQtiNIRpvOl1Ugd9q_0vijDmzEQpi-3XZ2jQOEzSgAa-lxD-J8sOAFxtYy2u0VuGwVM0Kg/s1600/Young+Tom+Richards.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmoIe9qX_mO1qSrDsfQeteUMVp2jo6vxh04-HZ9cBOTDfxZbwxJXKRdu3mSeEpVwtpuC86VQtiNIRpvOl1Ugd9q_0vijDmzEQpi-3XZ2jQOEzSgAa-lxD-J8sOAFxtYy2u0VuGwVM0Kg/s1600/Young+Tom+Richards.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of several "cabinet photos" of Tom Richards. It was the Richards side that seemed to favor taking these and sending them to England. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Pa was the only one of my great grandparents I ever knew.
Unlike his young, fresh face in the photo (above), my five-year-old self knew
him as an old wrinkled man who sat in a chair and rarely moved. I visited him
when I went to my grandparents’ house, but there were stark contrasts in that,
too. He lived on their first floor, separated by what seemed to be dark, steep
steps that took my little legs forever to climb. I remember standing at the
top, looking down, feeling fright. While the upstairs was filled with light,
sound, and the smells of my grandmother’s baking, below Pa’s quarters seemed to
be a dark, dank smelling set of confusing rooms. By the time I knew him, those
hands that once held the parrot and fed the many dogs he owned, were covered by
translucent, age-spotted skin. And in the unusual way touch and smell have of
allowing us to capture moments in time, I can still feel that hand, and I am
taken back to him when I open the china cabinet that once stood in his home.
That musty smell transports me to the late 1950s to Superior St in Ishpeming,
Michigan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLfNAmn1RwBGpOJqn-D8SQ0EneayKNhY3aA-ZaeQlX8JOQtVJi37_LXRUOLrtovJRKDFiiDz0ilwqiqwbsCyPpOdJUrq0iCuCC_-M32CndzKjXUMXE9Ken4xhhn9VB7VEzyTc_kXo4YQ/s1600/My+great+grandfather+and+me+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLfNAmn1RwBGpOJqn-D8SQ0EneayKNhY3aA-ZaeQlX8JOQtVJi37_LXRUOLrtovJRKDFiiDz0ilwqiqwbsCyPpOdJUrq0iCuCC_-M32CndzKjXUMXE9Ken4xhhn9VB7VEzyTc_kXo4YQ/s1600/My+great+grandfather+and+me+001.jpg" height="318" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "Pa" I remember. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The journey backward begins on the day I found the lined
paper in my grandmother’s top dresser drawer. We were cleaning the house after
her death, and as people do in such circumstances, items were divided, shared,
and discussed. I ignored the jewelry, newer furniture, and such as I was drawn
to the personal gems. My cousin could have the roasting pan. It was the recipes
and notations on scraps of paper that were my treasures. I held old birthday
cards that had been tucked into her dresser and felt part of a long lineage. I
remember holding up the frail paper, with the Simons family listed on it, birth
and death dates neatly entered. I asked if anyone wanted it. The negative
responses freed me to tuck it into my box of treasures. Little did I know
that the name at the top of that paper would merge so deeply with my own. Then
I did not understand the twists and turns of Mary Ann’s life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Part of my genealogical journey in that era, a time before
the Internet and ease of finding records on-line through Ancestry.com,
consisted of trooping to the Marquette County Courthouse and paying for
marriage licenses, birth records, and death records, anything to fill in the gaps
for at that time that was all I was interested in doing. But after returning to
Maryland, life took over. I put all those papers carefully away, waiting for
the time when they would speak to me again.</span></div>
<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/AVvXsEj9G6su6M47pMai_M1OUKJrRpVs9r7m7F_Tm1vxKZs_IGoUQRCZ9FtxKyx1eK5gvGrV9fqlzB0DJD9ZAxsIdit8PBZzVRzOH993JXJa_MMdD17DTfaLxSzO-zGES6651Wo87uqfEL5-Pg/s1600/Richards+Handwritten+Paper.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9G6su6M47pMai_M1OUKJrRpVs9r7m7F_Tm1vxKZs_IGoUQRCZ9FtxKyx1eK5gvGrV9fqlzB0DJD9ZAxsIdit8PBZzVRzOH993JXJa_MMdD17DTfaLxSzO-zGES6651Wo87uqfEL5-Pg/s1600/Richards+Handwritten+Paper.jpeg" height="320" width="235" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My treasured paper, one I believe was written by Harriet. It shows the variations of the Simons spelling.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My more recent foray into the past began just after my dad’s
death. It’s funny how death draws me to the family tree; perhaps I have a
deep-seeded need to feel connected at these times. I believe my search to be a
part of my personal grieving process. Somehow knowing that I am but one person
in a long line of family that has been and that will be, is comforting to me.
So, I tacked posters to my office wall, joined Ancestry,com and was off on the
journey to connect with my past. In that strange way “the universe” has of
speaking to us, it was not my dad’s family whose path I ventured on, but rather
my mother’s branch of the tree beckoned. Was it the familiarity of them that
drew me to their lives in particular? There is no answer to that yet, but I
remain open to all the possibilities. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I combed through old photos, scanned from the black-paged
album that was shedding its pages in my mother’s closet. The barrage of
questioning began as I strove to squeeze as much information from my mother as
possible. Never one to tell a detailed-laden story, replete with whose second
cousin married the neighbor in 1938; she is hesitant to pull details from her
memory. There is nothing wrong with her recall; rather I think she holds her
life close, perhaps not realizing the treasures she holds. I learned that if I
provided a key word or name, a valued anecdote might spring forth. Mentioning
Hjalmer G(J)erling gave me a story of her young excitement that there was
enough boiled dinner in the pot so he could stay for a family dinner. Gems like
this would have been told by my dad so many times that we could and would have
recited the details with him. But my mother is different. Once she
casually mentioned that my grandfather had provided for his parents during the
depression years. Had it not been for him, she said, they would not have had
food. This was a new swathe in her family portrait and made me realize how much
she holds that still needs to be painted onto the canvas. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As I began the process of uncovering my mother’s family, I
had that special paper of old to guide me as I searched for the names and dates
of the Simons’ branch. It held more information than the little I knew about
her Millmans and Richards, so I naïvely thought I would fill in those hand
drawn Simons’ tree boxes with ease. The word <u>naïve</u> is entirely accurate
here as I was a novice, easily shrugging off advice to look carefully at
siblings and the details of census records. I just wanted to move that family
tree to its tallest branch. I was fanatical about collecting a quantity of <u>greats</u>
in front of the words <u>grandmother</u> and <u>grandfather</u>. I paid for
marriage licenses and death but was not yet infatuated with the richness of
these lives. I just wanted to move from the 1900s to the 1800s to the 1700s.
But one woman stood in my way: Mary Ann Simons.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This nexus of personal connections and irrepressible
roadblocks likely resulted in my feelings of closeness to this great great great grandmother. She was my mysterious matriarch; yet, she was a barricade, the
gatekeeper that prevented me from traveling back in time along this family
line. Her name had been in front of me for so long on the decaying paper, but that was it. It ended
with the pencil scrawl at the top of that paper. She seemed to have no life
until she left England bound for Vermont. Who was she? She called to me, but I
could not hear clearly. There was no maiden name, no census record that made
sense before she stepped onto the boat as Mrs. Symons and alighted with a new
spelling, Mrs. Simons. As I set out to ascertain the details of this life, I
grew close to Mary Ann, even talking to her as I waited for search engines to
spider through records or for emails to arrive from parish clerks. I learned to
listen for her voice with every click of the mouse. I had to dig deep into what
life was like in Cornwall in the 1860s if I ever wanted to understand her. To
answer my “who” question, I had to first ask others: where, what, how, and why.
Ever so slowly, I grew into a qualitative genealogist, thanks to the mysterious
Mrs. Symons. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Traveling back to her past... <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbFRUyVFF0B2gmF8KQxeQW6LadlKKBFZutgGAIhygBU7DOoGsjthuB8M8uBOntyNOY45oauDoBeWA2zxMjmDBIDw9JiLXmTcHGv9BmVCbkENeH7T2MBbGo-Jku1PjLH0S4gwdv50Hm4Q/s1600/Ely+Vermont+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbFRUyVFF0B2gmF8KQxeQW6LadlKKBFZutgGAIhygBU7DOoGsjthuB8M8uBOntyNOY45oauDoBeWA2zxMjmDBIDw9JiLXmTcHGv9BmVCbkENeH7T2MBbGo-Jku1PjLH0S4gwdv50Hm4Q/s1600/Ely+Vermont+2.jpg" height="320" width="207" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My first trip to Ely, Vermont took me to the neatly manicured train station. </td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I knew Mary Ann’s first U.S. home was the tiny mining
village of Ely, Vermont. The town’s name is a legend in our family. Pa was
incredibly proud of his birthplace. In my mind, Ely conjured up a portrait of
serenity and beauty, for that was part of the story. Even the handwritten card
from Pa’s funeral, noted that he was born in Ely, Vermont. Ely and then life in Ishpeming, Michigan. That was the extent of my knowledge. But even that
wasn’t accurate as I was to later discover. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Mary Ann had come from somewhere in Cornwall. But where? My
first bit of information came when I typed her name into Ancestry.com. Was it
spelled Simons, Symons, Simmons, Symmons, or even Symonds? All of these did
eventually show up at one time or another. But my first bit of on-line
information should have more of a clue than I originally gave it credit for.
Instead, I concentrated on my disappointment as the steerage section of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Minnesota</i> lists a Mrs. Symons, aged 36
along with three children, Thomas, Harriett, and Charles. “How could they not
even list her first name?” I wondered and even mused, a bit angrily, on
Facebook. It seemed she had no identity beyond wife. But I was looking at the
list with my twenty-first century, progressive feminist lens, infused with my unsophisticated genealogy understanding, and my own name and date
passion. I was wrong. That entry held a panoply of clues which I ignored. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This first minor discovery, which later revealed more information,
did provide me with a starting point. She had arrived in New York on 13
September 1870. I rather dismissively added to this to my small stack of name
and date driven data about Mary Ann and sought more. For at that time, I merely
wanted her maiden name so I could trace her line further back. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Armed with the name Simons and location, Ely, I found her in
the 1880 United States census. By then John, age 7 and Stephen, age 4 had
joined the two older Simons’ boys, Thomas and Charles. Harriett was not listed
as residing in the household. A quick search revealed Mary Ann’s daughter had
married husband Thomas Richards and Pa was already a 4 year-old who had
siblings, Jennie, age 5 and William, age 6 months. Mary Ann was a grandmother
who had children around the same age as her grandchildren. Again, my 21<sup>st</sup>
century eyes found this strange. I didn’t think to wonder about the other
daughters, Mary Jane and Mary Ann, or even the son, James, whose names were
listed on that precious paper. I didn’t question the inconsistencies between
“the family paper” and the census evidence. This didn’t serve what was my
purpose at the time, as I was not yet consumed with the person who was Mary
Ann, I only viewed her as a vehicle to move further back along the family tree.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As the U.S. 1890 census was destroyed in a fire, I
nonchalantly searched the 1900 returns. I didn’t expect this query to return
anything that I could use to trace her further back. Seemingly, I was right.
Even the transcriptionist had carelessly noted her name as Mrs. M Mark Meous, a
widow. Yet, somehow, despite the mangled name, Ancestry’s search engine had
found her. The census taker, on that day in June 1900, had crossed out daughter
Harriett’s name and written in the name of Thomas as residing in the house with
her. I routinely saved the census to the profile I was creating of Mary Ann and
turned again backward. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I checked the English 1861 census and found her married to
husband Thomas Symons with children Mary Ann and Mary Jane along with my great
great grandmother, Harriett. But there was no clue as to maiden name, or so I
thought. I ignored the children as I had that information on the family paper
and forged ahead with my quest. The table was set with rich questions that I
hadn’t yet thought to ask. But I was focused on the pursuit for her maiden
name, which was fraught with more obstacles than either living family members,
or I had ever been aware. These I share with two goals: In
hopes others will not make my same errors and to validate the intense desire to
reveal the person that was and is Mary Ann. Throughout and likely because of
the search, I felt her presence. That much became clear to me. But for now, m</span>y search was at a standstill. Mary Ann was that inevitable
brick wall faced by so many. But I was wearing blinders. These needed to be
shed before I could break through what I thought to be a solid obstacle.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The treasured family paper gave me Mary Ann’s birthdate but
without a maiden name, I could not locate her parents and thus garner more
names for my tree collection. I became obsessed with finding this name. Either
her death certificate or even the death certificate of my great great
grandmother, Harriett should contain this precious information. Asking my
mother was of little use as she had never asked these kinds of questions or
remembered hearing what I considered to be essential family data. So, I sought
these certificates. Alas, Harriett’s death certificate showed that the
informant did not remember her mother’s maiden name. To make matters worse,
there was no certificate for Mary Ann in the Marquette County Courthouse. I
turned to another source and emailed a clerk in Orange County, Vermont who
located Harriett’s marriage license. The morning it arrived in my inbox, tears
came to my eyes as under mother’s name, only the words, Mary Ann, were listed.
Certain that there had been an error by the person looking for Mary Ann’s death
certificate at the Marquette County Courthouse, I asked my niece to go back,
but like me, she discovered no certificate existed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In subsequent visits to Marquette, I took to sitting in the
darkened microfiche room at the Peter White Public Library. Here I mined
through the local paper, pausing to see on the screen the reality of Mary Ann’s
world. I halted the machine’s reels to look at advertisements of the day. False
teeth for the exorbitant price of $20 and two pounds of hamburger meat for 25
cents made me smile. I laughed out loud at the articles announcing a person had
traveled to Ishpeming from Negaunee, the mileage a pittance by today’s
standards. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6cLPMf37ikQUrQVKVxzbfDCkRzxKmii5AK-uASXxsLFWR9nzMrwIs7CXK2_NGB7tDWu81DUCo6IOiPNVjLY1UGL0R49xVWzKE675Apkv-Z6gFPcF5iFk2GyzRwSriWMh2eynviX1RVQ/s1600/Mary+Ann+Obit.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6cLPMf37ikQUrQVKVxzbfDCkRzxKmii5AK-uASXxsLFWR9nzMrwIs7CXK2_NGB7tDWu81DUCo6IOiPNVjLY1UGL0R49xVWzKE675Apkv-Z6gFPcF5iFk2GyzRwSriWMh2eynviX1RVQ/s1600/Mary+Ann+Obit.jpeg" height="306" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It was a small notice in The Mining Journal, but one that held many treasures about Mary Ann's life. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When I found Mary Ann’s short obituary, scraps of
information began to take shape for me and paint a richer portrait of Mary Ann
than her name, birth, marriage, and death dates ever could. I learned she had
been confined to her bed since May with breast cancer. While I did not pay
attention to the children’s names mentioned in the paragraph, I was beginning
to consider Mary Ann’s canvas, the era in which she walked and talked, her
possible friendships, family relationships, and daily routine. The obituary
said she was “highly respected by all.” What had she done to receive that
accolade? The few sentences began to stir my sense of wonder. She had been
“ailing” for two years. Who had helped her? How did she manage? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The connections started to come into focus as I wondered
about the moment that census taker came to her door in June of 1900. Did he
come to her bedside? Did she struggle to the door? Could Harriett’s presence as
a caretaker for the day explain why her name was first written on the form and
then crossed out? I was moving toward a full portrait of Mary Ann Simons. These
are the steps I may not have taken had her maiden name readily appeared for me.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Mary Ann had become my focus. She was stubborn and
unyielding, her Cornish life shrouded from me. But the search for her changed
the way I view genealogy. The endless hours of frustration, puzzlement, and
reaching out for help enhanced my blossoming desire to know the person of Mary
Ann. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Because I could not move forward in my search, I began to
backtrack and re-examine my methodology. Knowing that the 1861 census listed her as living in
St. Ive, I began here, finally taking careful note that Mary Ann gave her
birthplace as St. Germans, Cornwall. The three daughters listed on the entry
were not a surprise as the family paper had listed Mary Ann, Harriett, and Mary
Jane. I was finally scouring the census for any little clues I could find, a
skill that accomplished genealogists regularly practice, and finally my novice eyes
were opening to those clues I had previously missed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I was pleased that I could take note of a transcription
error where daughter Mary Ann was identified as seven, but a check of the
original image of the census showed her age to be one. Numerals need to be
checked carefully. This meant that all ages matched that voice from my past
that provided me with my family’s names and birth dates. It gave me renewed
confidence in my treasured 1900s-era “tree.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The census did reveal a major obstacle; and while it seemed,
at first, an almost insurmountable hurdle, it revealed a more complex portrait
of Mary Ann. The surname of daughter, Mary Jane was not Symons. The census
taker had noted her name as Mary Jane Davy and identified her as the
daughter-in-law of the head of household, Thomas. What did this strange
designation mean? At seven years old surely she could not be married? Delving
into this, I learned that the term beside Mary Jane’s name was a common
designation of the era for stepdaughter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A range of emotions flooded me. I reached for my precious
paper, trying to understand why the writer (likely</span><span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Harriett Simons) had not indicated this on her family “tree.” I felt a punch of horror; first, I am ashamed to admit, only for myself, as this meant
my Mary Ann had been married before she married Thomas Symons. Selfishly, I groaned. There was an added
layer of married names now. This would make finding her maiden name even more
difficult. When this self-centered thought passed, I began to feel for Mary Ann. Here
was a woman, living in a time when life for a widow with a child to support was
difficult. How had she managed to provide for herself and daughter? How had
this impacted her life? Thinking back to the passenger list of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Minnesota</i>, I realized that neither
daughter Mary Ann or Mary Jane had accompanied the family to Vermont. I
wondered if the two sisters had stayed behind with the family of Mary Ann’s
first husband, Mr. Davy. Making connections between sources was opening doors
and inviting me into a new realm of my family. I wrote to Charles Simons’
granddaughter to ask if she had any knowledge of the two girls ever living in
the United States, but she did not. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Meanwhile, I began searching for the marriage record of Mary
Ann and Thomas, as now that I knew to look for Mary Ann Davy, I thought the
index search would finally reveal her. A bit of Ancestry detective work
revealed a Mary Ann Hill’s marriage to James Davey in the first quarter of
1852. But was this my Mary Ann? If I had been more experienced, I would have
immediately checked the 1861 census for near-by families. But my inexperience
reigned. I believed I had no way of confirming if this was the Mary Ann I
sought. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Later I noticed that a Thomas Symonds was one of three
people listed on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">England & Wales
Free BMD Marriage Index</i> for the fourth quarter of 1957. I reasoned that the
first two people were likely a couple and Thomas’ bride might be listed on
another page. But, because this seemed my last hope, I reached for my credit card
and purchased Thomas Symonds’ marriage license. The waiting began.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Almost 153 years to the date after Thomas and Mary Ann’s
marriage ceremony, my cell phone signaled an email from Ancestry. Glancing at
it, I saw the license was ready for me. I recall my hands were shaking as I
opened the file. Had my money been wasted or would this be the golden ticket? I
struggled to enlarge the green-tinted paper and gasped. It was my Mary
Ann! She was listed as Mary Ann Davy, a widow whose father was named
Christopher Hill.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 18.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Mary Ann Hill</span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Here she was, the family paper wrong about her marriage date;
however, being slightly math-challenged myself, I understood the numeral
exchanges that likely took place. Every detail on that license became a
treasure. Her story began to unfurl in front of my eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Closer than ever to the person that was Mary Ann, I
eagerly raced to Ancestry.com to take another look at that 1861 census. I had
overlooked a key detail that was plainly evident now: Her parents had lived
next door to her. Information lit up my computer screen. I easily went back two
more generations; but by this time, I was awash in the details of her life, no
longer focused on the race backwards. Now it was the richness of Mary Ann Hill
Symons I wanted to understand. Occupations, literacy, witnesses of marriage
ceremonies formed her story. I felt my great great great grandmother.
Now, in that moment, I knew I needed to understand her more fully. Yet, before
I could completely do that, more difficult lessons awaited me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In those days of baby steps, I brashly wrote a family
history, detailing the life of Mary Ann and her mother Jane Ruse Hill.
Details gleaned from census returns, such as Mary Ann’s days as a seamstress
and her ability to read and write were included in what I now view as merely a
factual list of her accomplishments. As I named her children, I was still
confused as to what had happened to Mary Jane and Mary Ann. They were listed
along with son, James, on the faded family paper. Like the two Cornish-born
daughters, James never appeared on a U.S. census but all three had been etched
into my mind thanks to the Simons' ancestor who wrote the family names and
connections on that lined paper so long ago. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Giving what I believed to be the finished product of Mary
Ann’s life story to my Simons’ relatives, I sat back, wondering where to turn
my attention. As I was in Marquette, my curiosity got the better of me, and I
once again made my way into the marble-lined hallways of the Courthouse, made
famous by the book and subsequent movie, “Anatomy of a Murder.” Here, the musty
smell and intricate woodwork conjure up the spirit of the past. The
leather-bound record books, with names that seemed drawn rather than written,
create a longing for the era when folks had time for these niceties of life. I
was not just in search of Mary Ann but was branching out to the Sundberg side
of the family. Rather than asking for specific information, I paid the nominal
fee to examine the index myself. As I paged through the 1930s, deaths of Mary
Ann’s children appeared. I decided to take a detour from the Sundbergs and asked
for the records of the Simons' brothers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And, I audibly groaned. It was a groan so loud that the
clerk asked me if I was okay. With each hand pound to my head, I chastised
myself for the rookie mistake of failing to look at sibling information. Yes, I
had studied Harriett’s death certificate and noted the blank section next to
her mother’s maiden name, but here were the others, the sons, whose
certificates bore the name, Mary Ann Hill. Had I just looked at the siblings,
the seemingly long road to her maiden name would have been shortened. It was a
mistake that had cost me time and money, but it was a lesson that was now
drilled into me and perhaps because of it, I had felt Mary Ann more fully than
any other ancestor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The second hard lesson came a few days later when Colleen
called, thanking me for Mary Ann’s story. She hesitated, but finally admitted
she had asked the living members of the Simons’ family and no one had heard of
James. “But he was on the family paper!” I thought. Confused, I was anxious to
return home and recheck my records. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Scrutinizing my treasure trove of records, the name James,
birth date 22 February 1877 was clearly listed under children on the family
record page. But he did not appear on any census transcripts. What had happened
to him? The question prompted a more thorough examination of the family’s
time in Ely Vermont as his birth clearly took place at this point in the family
history. This led to yet another revelation. The name Ely was actually
Vershire. The Cornish mining community had changed the name from Vershire to
Ely in 1878 to honor the owner of the mine; but economic tensions began to
swell in the area leading to a reversal of the moniker in 1881. This meant that
my exploration and photos of the railroad stop now called Ely was likely not
the exact spot the Simons’ family called home. At that point I realized another
trip to Vermont would be needed. But the question of James Symons remained.
Determined to prove his existence, I wrote to the Vermont Clerk’s office. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<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/AVvXsEg9_Nvotu-RWWJ-J_EDfrkgesyizGgnMxcSVWOgo1UFfXsKXLJ_0c2kdUld6fU_KWJhJWHMOnmeB16fYlY4n-4uBatAcuTktHc28zrMhk7wYGezBNtpF4u86YUi2FSO7kz1xEKIlonPvg/s1600/James_Simons_birth-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9_Nvotu-RWWJ-J_EDfrkgesyizGgnMxcSVWOgo1UFfXsKXLJ_0c2kdUld6fU_KWJhJWHMOnmeB16fYlY4n-4uBatAcuTktHc28zrMhk7wYGezBNtpF4u86YUi2FSO7kz1xEKIlonPvg/s1600/James_Simons_birth-1.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The birth record of James. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When his birth certificate arrived, I was faced with a harsh
reality. While it confirmed his birth on the exact date written on the family
paper, it forced me to consider his absence in the memory of the living Simons’
family. This, along with the notable exclusion of James Symons on any
subsequent census records, opened my eyes to the tragedy of Mary Ann’s life.
Her son must have died. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Writing again to the Vermont clerk, I requested her help in
searching for James in the death records. At this point I was beholden to so
many: the people at Ancestry.com, those in the Cornwall Family History Society,
the clerks at the Marquette County Courthouse, and now another person made it
her quest to solve the mystery of James, with no death date to guide her. The
only clue was his absence in the United States census of 1880. Had I paid more
attention to the census records, I would have noted his absence earlier.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The clerk's reply email, just a few days later, further
unraveled the complexities of Mary Ann. James had died, just five months after
birth on 30 July 1877 of Cholera Morbus. Mary Ann experienced the loss of a
child. I felt a jab. There is no greater pain. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The death of baby James cut through me deeply. There was the
initial stab of grief but then, a constant throbbing of pain continued, a kind
of connection with Mary Ann that I had not anticipated when I set out on my
genealogical journey. I felt one with her and the answer to the question that
had plagued me for several months was coursing through my veins, the fate of young Mary Ann Symons and Mary Jane Davey. I now knew the answer. Without ever
searching for the paper trail, their untimely deaths surged through the strands
of my DNA. Perhaps it had always been there, and I had been unwilling to admit
the awful truth. Despite the intense “knowing” within me, I had to see the
records. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Admittedly my hands were shaking as I searched for their
names in the death registry on Ancestry.com, but this was not an anxious shake
for I already knew the answer. This was a mournful shaking. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When their names appeared, within days of each other in
1868, I was not surprised, yet I still felt the stark reality of my own
emptiness. These two girls had been a part of my life and curiosity for so
long; and now 143 years later, I profoundly felt their absence. I mourned. This served to
intensify my connection with Mary Ann. I reached out to her through the years,
past the generations, to connect with and to console her. She had lost two
daughters within four days of each other. And she had been seven months
pregnant with Charles Symons.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnp4N7-KqFUY0zhkOCiBhQOL_ektD5K8LHxyU5bej7BNrT2RHIpcBQEFy5-7ouuPg8Y1vS_n98D2p4gpV-539mOqUPYNCWpYuD0o2MA5xzqzOsl5GkMFFIo8Op_0DbXul4tl77Tg-Udw/s1600/Mary+Ann+Symons+Death.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnp4N7-KqFUY0zhkOCiBhQOL_ektD5K8LHxyU5bej7BNrT2RHIpcBQEFy5-7ouuPg8Y1vS_n98D2p4gpV-539mOqUPYNCWpYuD0o2MA5xzqzOsl5GkMFFIo8Op_0DbXul4tl77Tg-Udw/s1600/Mary+Ann+Symons+Death.jpg" height="226" width="320" /></a></div>
<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/AVvXsEiYk603aZ7lnfLqH834Tu_7C-UtKh-YheYTjqf3IQv-A-4FEI10Sl1SeH0iQEk6A4YY_ftfB4FrGGRg0bWIjehVyQjIh53yhtLsjYHaR45tcB13AR7C39jtHiHgjgGgNQlnvrYuaglHQw/s1600/Mary+Jane+Davey+Death.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYk603aZ7lnfLqH834Tu_7C-UtKh-YheYTjqf3IQv-A-4FEI10Sl1SeH0iQEk6A4YY_ftfB4FrGGRg0bWIjehVyQjIh53yhtLsjYHaR45tcB13AR7C39jtHiHgjgGgNQlnvrYuaglHQw/s1600/Mary+Jane+Davey+Death.jpg" height="226" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Death records of "the little girls," Mary Ann's daughters. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It is difficult to convey the nexus of emotion I now felt.
My grief paired with concern and even amazement that she had been able to
continue caring for herself and other children. In the backdrop of these
trials, she had to ultimately make the decision to leave her small world in
Cornwall and cross the ocean, saying good-bye to her mother and sister. How had
she found this inner strength?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Suddenly I felt fortunate; and the colliding of events and
decisions almost overwhelmed me. Death had swept through Liskeard. In their
house on Higher Lux Street, two daughters were taken. Two children remained.
One of the spared was my great great grandmother. And Mary Ann was far along in
a pregnancy that would welcome the grandfather of a treasured part of my young
life into the world. These are the inexplicable accidents of the past that
interconnect in such a way to form us and even allow our existence. Is this by
design? In some mysterious fashion, like the colors of a kaleidoscope,
these events, sorrows, joys, and wrenching decisions, had woven fate into our
ancestral portrait of today.</span></div>
<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/AVvXsEhe9gxVlO4DOPcEg6J3kmdW2lPaGSTdQHRebWFmVRBnGOuiczr_gON-P-08_hQhLBaa5eJk9P_cAb_rqXuktScoq1c19wG_a16rFHva6sAWE1o-xMviIk_GGJ7DB0C0UYDBorh5Aw3c1g/s1600/St+Germans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe9gxVlO4DOPcEg6J3kmdW2lPaGSTdQHRebWFmVRBnGOuiczr_gON-P-08_hQhLBaa5eJk9P_cAb_rqXuktScoq1c19wG_a16rFHva6sAWE1o-xMviIk_GGJ7DB0C0UYDBorh5Aw3c1g/s1600/St+Germans.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The birthplace of Mary Ann. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I eagerly awaited my visit to St. German’s Cornwall, the
town where Mary Ann had come into this world on November 27, 1833. Records
indicate she was christened eleven days later in her mother’s home parish of
Menheniot, and spent most of her Cornish adult life in St. Ive, a small mining
community, making a triangle of towns. I wanted to walk the trails she walked,
touch the trees that grew when she called Cornwall home, and most of all, look
for the burial homes of “the little girls” our affectionate sobriquet for Mary
Ann Symons and Mary Jane Davey. As we had never been able to locate any records
indicating where they were buried, we were determined to scour all the
cemeteries in places the family had called home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<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/AVvXsEhCcaYDUKQKMcXfZ9Jc-ccXZF2oHpq_JgkbT_sCb78-sYjEg4EgEeGO1KPtI4g26CBXtwyG3SztXeG23KTUg0uJr-NQIQr23HSrgw5F_L2Tg_y0jBo1Gr87y4JEYSvb3nZt0pz1XHFjwA/s1600/St+Ive+Church.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCcaYDUKQKMcXfZ9Jc-ccXZF2oHpq_JgkbT_sCb78-sYjEg4EgEeGO1KPtI4g26CBXtwyG3SztXeG23KTUg0uJr-NQIQr23HSrgw5F_L2Tg_y0jBo1Gr87y4JEYSvb3nZt0pz1XHFjwA/s1600/St+Ive+Church.JPG" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amazingly enough, my dad's ancestors had also called the tiny hamlet of St. Ive home, about 100 years before Mary Ann lived here. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The day we pulled into St. Ive, it was gray and overcast,
made even gloomier by the early setting sun in the January sky. I knew Mary
Ann’s mother and sister were buried in the church cemetery here, thanks to the
parish clerk who had emailed me a photograph of their gravestone. Knowing it
was near the bare shrubs and crumbling hydrangeas that lined the perimeter of
the churchyard, I tramped through the mud with butterflies in my stomach. Several
months earlier I had been in Africa. Many people had told me when I walked
through the savannah or sat in the shade of a baobab tree, I would feel the
line of ancestral footsteps that had tread on this continent before setting
forth on the migratory journey that would populate our planet. To my dismay, I
felt nothing in Africa, my hollow feeling likely made barer because I expected to feel
these echoes. But, on this gray day in Cornwall, joy enveloped me as I walked
toward the gray stone church. </span>Reaching out to trace the names of Mary Ann’s mother and
sister, I felt closer to my roots than ever before. I stood among those cold,
dreary stones and felt the continuation of life. This was unexpected given that
the dull setting was void of life. But I felt them, all those names on my
family poster. The dash between their birth and death dates is an important
part of who I am and that reality profoundly filled me as I looked at their
names on that stone. Their existence echoed in my heartbeat. I stood reverently
and reverberated with the busyness of their lives, with their joys and sorrows.
I could almost hear the dusk breeze creeping through the dried hydrangeas
whispering, “thank you for remembering.” </div>
<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/AVvXsEh9nxhzE_HcVTPkjVwz6iDTll2AI82bBszshEd40hrOkWhAMM-C5VxNNLMVWsu7CrOtT1-Chc6rM3NGJX7snifbdjAQqMjndhWOoIxoZghjHk3w3CBGy3RA7Co2fXYBZSSF8Meyhm_m7w/s1600/Jane+Gravestone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9nxhzE_HcVTPkjVwz6iDTll2AI82bBszshEd40hrOkWhAMM-C5VxNNLMVWsu7CrOtT1-Chc6rM3NGJX7snifbdjAQqMjndhWOoIxoZghjHk3w3CBGy3RA7Co2fXYBZSSF8Meyhm_m7w/s1600/Jane+Gravestone.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I have visited this grave 3 times and each visit fills me with a powerful bridge to the past. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My quiet veneration was interrupted with the disappointed
voice of my husband. The more he had negotiated the car along the ribbon lanes
of Cornwall and Devon, the more determined he had become to find the graves of
“the little girls.” But they were not here. I could tell he was crestfallen and
loved him all the more for his deep and obvious dedication to my ancestors. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The next day, the search began in earnest for the marker
indicating the final resting place of Mary Ann and Mary Jane. Liskeard seemed a
logical beginning spot for this quest, given that both death certificates
listed Higher Lux Street, Liskeard as the location of death. Greg and I divided
the churchyard into search coordinates and began the examination of the
lichen-covered, deteriorating markers. So many were faded or falling, leaving
us unable to read the names of those who lay below. This churchyard stood on
high, spongy ground and the day was sunnier, giving us a lighter feeling,
matching our hopeful attitudes. And despite the sad nature of our quest, we did
feel hope. Finding their resting place and paying homage would honor their
lives and that of their mother, a woman who just two years after her daughters’
deaths would embark on a journey taking her to a new life in a new country. But
our hope soon turned to frustration. So many gravestones just could not be
read, and those that were legible, were not the ones we sought. <o:p></o:p></span><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/AVvXsEhkW0DSEQSpJadNN1g9bTa1n_1W8Xw1UeJtOXKeOpV7UQt4R_jRBu6ix-Ga4IMfG6Ay3b0L0-PDBx5HWtR6_faALpc4Qa2OCNAa-2z1MIhc0dS1Z4O0tZzu91FRIFsnuKT6VY1bXZsCmQ/s1600/St+Germans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkW0DSEQSpJadNN1g9bTa1n_1W8Xw1UeJtOXKeOpV7UQt4R_jRBu6ix-Ga4IMfG6Ay3b0L0-PDBx5HWtR6_faALpc4Qa2OCNAa-2z1MIhc0dS1Z4O0tZzu91FRIFsnuKT6VY1bXZsCmQ/s1600/St+Germans.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A 4:00 pm mid-January trek through the St. German's cemetery. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Greg is a master traveler and constantly asks questions.
This propensity led us to hidden graveyards of the era, ones we would likely
not have found without his tenacity. We were directed to different cemeteries
and searched through Menheniot, St. Anne’s, and little spots along
less-traveled roads. We tramped around the large, estate-like church at St.
Germans and eventually discovered the ghostly graveyard perched high on the road
across from the place of worship. The Cornish dusk was again laying its covers
on our shoulders, but determined, we brushed away the branches of the low-hung
trees and bristly shrubs of this aged hallowed ground. As we searched, ravens
swooped above us and screeched as if to warn the inhabitants of our intrusion.
Usually when looking, I craved serenity and avoided talking to or calling out
for Greg, but in this eerie place, I wanted reassurance of his presence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Finally, we hugged. We knew we were at a dead-end. We never
did find the graves of “the little girls,” Mary Ann’s daughters who had died
too soon. Later, we learned it was common for the farm laborers and miners to
simply bury the dead in unmarked plots in the churchyard. During the Victorian
era, the poor were often buried in layers, an unnerving explanation for why the
ground often felt springy as we searched. I had to be content with standing on
Higher Lux Street in Liskeard, the place where they had said good-by to this
world. So, we returned to this spot. Standing here, in my own quiet, I did feel
the souls I never experienced in Africa. This was my heritage, the place of my
mothers. I had come home. </span></div>
<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/AVvXsEhR3rEy-a5VhCgwsqC3eD2c_Tp6JMqLIJx8wHwrJqnQYyayBocVmzH7mM6dP7ah1givmporxM2YG0GvqbJcGSRzEA_YsRMCtjF5gZRMFHSzlqhTOSdZmici-_NInDwSmzz34NL9xdSA6Q/s1600/Higher+Lux+Street.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR3rEy-a5VhCgwsqC3eD2c_Tp6JMqLIJx8wHwrJqnQYyayBocVmzH7mM6dP7ah1givmporxM2YG0GvqbJcGSRzEA_YsRMCtjF5gZRMFHSzlqhTOSdZmici-_NInDwSmzz34NL9xdSA6Q/s1600/Higher+Lux+Street.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Feeling the past ~ Remembering Mary Ann's sorrow. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Ancestry.com records had given me a glimpse into Mary Ann’s first
steps on U.S. soil. I knew she had stood without her husband, her children in
tow, on the deck of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Minnesota</i> as
it pulled into New York Harbor that day in September of 1870. The U.S. census,
taken in June of that year showed Thomas was already at work in the mines of
Vershire, Vermont. I had little understanding of what this experience must have
been like for Mary Ann and her young family. So much has been written about
passengers chugging into this harbor, waving at the Statue of Liberty, but then
undergoing the humiliation and fear of Ellis Island. I knew Mary Ann had
arrived before either of these landmarks were in place. What had happened?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<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/AVvXsEgKfgmKYrUzLcwhot9nDSBQ5L-PB-VPk09qIrwrS50ACssI9PWaZ-iRnzQydnODml95sezv1FCSw9WLUIs4Qa9uYuDC0IJt1Vr9ISAvQfqV6dHlPgE33Ulogn0jIjp0cXfJzMcEnSo5Nw/s1600/Castle+Garden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKfgmKYrUzLcwhot9nDSBQ5L-PB-VPk09qIrwrS50ACssI9PWaZ-iRnzQydnODml95sezv1FCSw9WLUIs4Qa9uYuDC0IJt1Vr9ISAvQfqV6dHlPgE33Ulogn0jIjp0cXfJzMcEnSo5Nw/s1600/Castle+Garden.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The rain captured the feel of Castle Gardens. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It was by chance that I came across the name, Castle Garden,
while reading the novel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Shoemaker’s
Wife</i>. This place with the welcoming name was the entry point for immigrants
between 1855 and 1890. But it was not so welcoming. New arrivals were herded
off the ship that had held them for the two-week voyage. They were crowded
together for processing and examination. But the degradation didn’t stop there.
Once freed from the dank conditions that “greeted them to the land of
opportunity” hawkers of all sorts usually accosted them with false promises
ranging from a safe and inexpensive journey to an intended destination or
employment that resulted in years of slave labor. The streets of New York were
not kind to newcomers. We often conjure up a picture of the immigrant, beaming
with hope for the opportunities that waited. But the truth was far different.
Our ancestors likely felt trepidation, as they were not welcomed but rather
humiliated upon arrival and then taken advantage of by unscrupulous vendors. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I can only imagine Mary Ann pulling her children close
before finally boarding a train, clutching the directions her husband had asked
someone to write for her. Thomas was illiterate but Mary Ann could read and
write, likely thanks to her schoolteacher mother. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<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/AVvXsEikk7pSMrdH4QVyrB3fcFcVpKGHlXePxP6DUnyqu80H_BsB5DW6FSRJpe5WxR_j1LdTpza0tT5oBKju9BYBNsD4ndpm3QQb96jgEZYxFOa9Z788tKzsnoKxQvsnce0uDdavnpqLbQ9wDg/s1600/Train.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikk7pSMrdH4QVyrB3fcFcVpKGHlXePxP6DUnyqu80H_BsB5DW6FSRJpe5WxR_j1LdTpza0tT5oBKju9BYBNsD4ndpm3QQb96jgEZYxFOa9Z788tKzsnoKxQvsnce0uDdavnpqLbQ9wDg/s1600/Train.JPG" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Vermont locomotive of the era. The family likely were passengers on such a train. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Following the path of others like her, it is probable she
boarded a train for the next part of her journey. New England’s autumn
countryside was just beginning to glow with the beauty of the season showing
off its finery before the dark of winter descended. When the snow fell, the
landscape would hold its white covering for months, something unusual for a
family used to the more temperate climate of Cornwall. I have no clues as
to Mary Ann’s state of mind and am left to wonder if she felt excitement or
trepidation as she left her homeland, taking her children on such a journey,
and setting up a new household in this faraway place. It is likely she had a
panoply of emotions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The train stopped at White River Junction, Vermont.
Anecdotal stories passed down by others who had made similar journeys indicate
that the new family was in all probability met by a horse drawn buggy and
bumped along the last 40 miles to the mining community of Vershire, a place
that was populated by newcomers and run by those fueled with thoughts of
riches. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<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/AVvXsEijqIpNEy8mQrgQ4jxVpb39kL2wP1xcQtf4gSNO2GHG2DzghsDB_r_N89MO9_jBsIHXQfiAOhexmpvaWHcqy99UhnF_Ehbxy2VSknyNumI5FfPQ3CFz2AJVZfp3muE9S1JwLuNJCYFHzQ/s1600/Old+Mine+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijqIpNEy8mQrgQ4jxVpb39kL2wP1xcQtf4gSNO2GHG2DzghsDB_r_N89MO9_jBsIHXQfiAOhexmpvaWHcqy99UhnF_Ehbxy2VSknyNumI5FfPQ3CFz2AJVZfp3muE9S1JwLuNJCYFHzQ/s1600/Old+Mine+2.JPG" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The area is contaminated. The mines, long shuttered, did their damage to the environment. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Today this spot that once held so much promise for so many
is now an EPA Super Fund site. Its grounds are not safe for schoolchildren to
walk. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Here and there a rock still wears a jacket of the toxic
chemicals that once covered the area. </span><span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This
was to be home for the Symons and Richards families for eleven years. My great
great grandmother Harriet was married here at 14 years of age, and my great
grandfather treasured the memory of the town he called Ely to his dying day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<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/AVvXsEgH7n67gA3tD-g7tVuIIY15rcjDCeGblTuIbA8bLim7iW58xzzHPqk-M6mZgRIYwmy2JctmTpjMJBJGvqJNCPs3hP_QjyiuopCBweBsoJW1uGdbICbqEhx3EZxyhO_oNKuwm8nd00p5rQ/s1600/Vermont+House+Foundations.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH7n67gA3tD-g7tVuIIY15rcjDCeGblTuIbA8bLim7iW58xzzHPqk-M6mZgRIYwmy2JctmTpjMJBJGvqJNCPs3hP_QjyiuopCBweBsoJW1uGdbICbqEhx3EZxyhO_oNKuwm8nd00p5rQ/s1600/Vermont+House+Foundations.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the many possible house foundations. Several families in my "tree" lived in the area. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">On the crisp Vermont morning, I stood on the road, peering
at the spot where a row of homes once sheltered the people of this community,
my people. Today these places are reduced to square holes in the ground.
The foundations of these small shanties are now guarded by a century of
greenery and hide beneath the hovering branches and amongst the creeping
bushes. Looking carefully, I could see the remnants of my ancestors. Beneath
the occulting foliage, these apparitions of the past revealed the reality of
life. Standing in close procession to one another, privacy was not a luxury of
the community. This setting dictated all knew the business of others. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Here in these foundations of hardship, I felt the whispers
of my past. I bent to touch the rocks and wondered if “Pa” had once thrown one
of these stones. Although this was a world vastly separated in time and
distance from my own, I paused in that morning light, awash with the
pellucidity of all that had come before. I thought of the busyness and
insipidness of adult lives. In contrast, I imagined a fresh-faced Tom Richards
playing beside the creek and basking in the green of Vermont’s country. Too
young to be aware of the harshness of life in this mining community, his five
year-old mind only remembered the good, a likely reason Vermont always held
such allure for him. But for the older men, including twelve year-old Charles,
this place was a bitter master where heavy loads of stone were lugged up and
down the high hills and men spent dark days in the bowels of the earth. Women
did not fare well either. At fourteen Pa’s mother was pregnant with her first
child. And Mary Ann experienced once again the worst hurt. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<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/AVvXsEgkxIynn9AP7Uz622OuxCFSn34hog-Z3QylhjngK-3UvieybFvrBHDYB1-kfSeF_r7a8NdDPz0T-jQuDj2FMBVd_jOK53GArB9e9GOyhpfmePTltdmU4grGKTQ9AyaaR6xE00pyvS2xSw/s1600/Vermont+Graves.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkxIynn9AP7Uz622OuxCFSn34hog-Z3QylhjngK-3UvieybFvrBHDYB1-kfSeF_r7a8NdDPz0T-jQuDj2FMBVd_jOK53GArB9e9GOyhpfmePTltdmU4grGKTQ9AyaaR6xE00pyvS2xSw/s1600/Vermont+Graves.JPG" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It was Mother's Day morning when we visited the Ely Cemetery. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In my heart of hearts I was hoping for a tombstone marking
the place where James rested. Nothing would have given me greater pleasure than
gracing his grave with flowers that Mother’s Day morning. But there was no
monument to the baby who, until a few months ago, had not even lived on in
memory.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I no longer feel great despair at the failure of my
ancestors to mark the graves of such young children. My feelings had evolved
since the days I lamented this lapse in the Cornish churchyards devoid of
monuments for Mary Jane and Mary Ann. I made my personal peace as my
growing knowledge revealed their plight. Today, the absence of such a
shrine gives me an even greater understanding of all that happened in the
century between my life and theirs. In those years, my people rose from
austerity and the obscurity of often-illiterate paupers to professionals with
graduate degrees who are teachers, professors, councilors, and scholars. This
is the living memorial. <o:p></o:p></span><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/AVvXsEhKxhsMIhojMlViEmWt59GcpuA7RiBCn1CwEHdT2iMTjKQDKDGQ17UrHjlg-nvtWIkKJiNfu5iPf5ea3qbLI4_0FvCj0ZjiT1Vt6JQwpiu9KNqkqgwi8SIcs0GuIc24HRPmQpbIk0pRYQ/s1600/Simons+Grave.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKxhsMIhojMlViEmWt59GcpuA7RiBCn1CwEHdT2iMTjKQDKDGQ17UrHjlg-nvtWIkKJiNfu5iPf5ea3qbLI4_0FvCj0ZjiT1Vt6JQwpiu9KNqkqgwi8SIcs0GuIc24HRPmQpbIk0pRYQ/s1600/Simons+Grave.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Simons' marker in Ishpeming. As with many markers, years are a bit incorrect. Even my mother and other relatives had never noticed this gravestone. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times;">I had come full circle. I had first digitally chased
Mary Ann Hill Davy Symons through Ancestry.com and via email exchanges with
always-helpful Cornish Parish clerks. I then made the physical journey across
the ocean to her homeland and tramped through her towns: St. Ive, Menheniot,
St. Germans, and Liskeard Cornwall. In a fitting setting, I had stood in the
rain at Castle Garden where she first landed in the United States. I peered
into her life in Vershire/Ely Vermont. I knew where her monument marked the
place of her burial in the Ishpeming, Michigan Cemetery. I had found a child
that no living relative knew had existed. I solved the mystery of Mary Ann and
Mary Jane and in that solution gained a clearer understanding of the ways of
Victorian England. Here and there the unexpected disappointments resulted in my
greater understanding of Mary Ann, her circumstances, and ultimately of me. And
I felt very lucky. My great great great grandmother had survived whatever
horrible illnesses had swept through Liskeard in 1868. She had made fateful and difficult decisions that affected me. The “what ifs” haunted me for a while, but later I
came to terms with the ways of the universe. I studied the gold gilded framed
photo of her daughter Harriett and family in my living room and considered how
lucky I was to have it and to know the approximate date of the picture and the
identity of these somber faces. I felt content. Now, I merely had to write Mary
Ann’s story and then move on to another branch of my family tree.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times;">January 2012 brought the death of my dad’s sister,
the last of the Hart siblings. I traveled to Marquette for her funeral,
thinking this marked the turning point in my family history search. I would now
devote my attention to Wilhelmina Sundberg or Ann Bennett. But those were my
plans. As often happens, my ideas were not what is meant to happen. I
discovered that Mary Ann wasn’t done with me yet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times;">In that offhanded way my mother has of providing
valuable information, she mentioned that she had an early photo of the house
where she had lived with her parents and grandparents. When she pulled the
faded sepia photo with its missing corner from her plastic bin, I felt tingles.
For my mother, this was a photo of her house. For me, this was a photo of
people. Women stood in front of this home! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<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/AVvXsEiZYcq-TlVXdcIo1Dv4I9A5HFxHz96wEbo5_bhqsu1WQVPizhsUbQLXMPGOEIk6zaIS4iw7Cg1InuDCAkI4WSW7EVhL4VDS0i2pPihKg1cGbUQPoKd6oChM49p6e-TD8Ul3noAab-Q7PQ/s1600/120+Superior+St+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZYcq-TlVXdcIo1Dv4I9A5HFxHz96wEbo5_bhqsu1WQVPizhsUbQLXMPGOEIk6zaIS4iw7Cg1InuDCAkI4WSW7EVhL4VDS0i2pPihKg1cGbUQPoKd6oChM49p6e-TD8Ul3noAab-Q7PQ/s1600/120+Superior+St+001.jpg" height="258" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The photo my mother had labeled, "120 E. Superior St." </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Everything about this picture looked familiar. It was
the same style as the photo of Harriett and family in front of their house, the
photo in the gold gilded frame. Shaking, I turned it over. Even though I
recognized the stamped mark on the back of this photo as being the same as the
one in my Maryland living room, the researcher in me needed to verify this
vital information. I could have called my husband and had him send me a picture
of the mark, but in that moment, I felt a close, private connection to Mary
Ann. This was personal. It was something I needed to do myself. I had learned
to trust the feelings that bathed me in moments like this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I stared at the heavyset older woman wearing the white
apron, arm on her hip, in a determined pose. She stared back.</span><span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: Times;">Yes, she was of the age Mary Ann would have been
between 1897 and 1900 when the photo was taken. Had she lived in this house
then? My mother could only tell me that her father had purchased the house from
his in-laws, the Simons’ family. It was a step in the right direction. Could I
dare hope I was finally, after all this time, looking at Mary Ann?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times;">In Marquette, I did what I could and digitally used
Ancestry.com to verify that the 1900 U.S. Census showed Mary Ann living at 120
E. Superior Street in that year. One verification was made. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Even though every part of me believed this woman to
be Mary Ann, I breathed a sigh of relief when I returned home and compared the
marks. They matched. Another verification made. Someone from the Michigan View
Company in Saginaw, MI must have traveled through the neighborhoods taking
photos on a pleasant spring day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times;">While I could say it was my training that required more
proof, in reality because I had trailed Mary Ann for so long and made a
multitude of errors, I feared I would misidentify her. Perhaps at this point,
it was my emotions that pushed me further. My gold gilded photo had been dated
between 1897-1900. While I knew Mary Ann lived at 120 E. Superior Street in
1900, had she lived here in 1897? I would not be satisfied without this
information. I reasoned that a trip back to the Marquette County Historical
Society would allow me to examine city directories from these years. I just had
to be patient. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Several weeks later, I again logged onto
Ancestry.com, thinking it was time to turn my attention to the Sundbergs. Why
not? It might lead to a Swedish excursion! To my surprise, when searching for
Frank Sundberg, an Ishpeming City Directory for 1897 popped up. This was new or
I hadn’t seen these directories before. Almost forgetting my obsession with
Mary Ann’s residence, I examined the Sundberg list of addresses. Without much
conscious realization of my actions, I flipped back a few pages to the Simons’
listings on the digital directory. I saw it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Mary Ann Simons, 120 E. Superior St.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;">She
HAD lived here all the while! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2YANKmzUciYbDosfNbbQZZ174hzAaF6r-aIzVUuUt_7tipHVKTTGCPcfhURNDQuSvMndR2v_rA_VsWUTtfgiiysWKLHachpBcAy0wCdjY6-K1CEaKdzncYXUkCQreKGQG9ZTrjUm-_Q/s1600/Mary+Ann+ONLY.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2YANKmzUciYbDosfNbbQZZ174hzAaF6r-aIzVUuUt_7tipHVKTTGCPcfhURNDQuSvMndR2v_rA_VsWUTtfgiiysWKLHachpBcAy0wCdjY6-K1CEaKdzncYXUkCQreKGQG9ZTrjUm-_Q/s1600/Mary+Ann+ONLY.jpg" height="320" width="145" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times;">I picked up the photo to finally gaze into the face
of the woman who had intrigued me for so long. She had </span><span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">left her history as a type of scavenger hunt to be unearthed
in tiny pieces. Likely it never entered her mind that her great great great granddaughter
would long to know her story. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As I have walked this journey, I have learned about myself.
Somewhere deep in my DNA is the spirit of my ancestors' adventure and their tenacity,
the drive to change circumstances and overcome hardship. In the remembrance of
these intangible inheritances, I have learned what it means to forge ahead
toward a goal, despite the tragedies of life. It is in this intersection of
genetics and experience that we find ourselves, lessons from the past,
awareness in our present, and hope for the future. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In doing so, I can’t shake the feeling that Mary Ann is
here, watching over and feeling a bit of pride at how her family tree has
survived and branched into the world. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">******************************************************************</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This is the tale I told, over a course of numerous posts and years of my patient husband driving the winding trails of Cornwall, peering into microfiche screens, and becoming as excited as I over the discoveries. We shared the pain of the lost "little girls" and the realization that while some grave markers would never be found, we could hold these dear ones in our hearts. Through all of our adventures, Greg gave me the joy of finding Mary Ann. But it was more. Together, we traced a life, united in our shared laughter, frustration, and rich experiences. I am grateful for that gift he gave me. On April 11, 2014, he unexpectedly passed away in Beijing, China. I cannot write about that yet. I am filled with too much sorrow. But I look back to the Mary Ann we both came to know, and I draw strength, for I know she, too, lived with much pain and separation. I feel my great great great grandmother's presence as she whispers to me, penetrating my shroud of loneliness. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIUYKq07D4SOfDF-YZ1ri7wZf_qbqtGFV2K3kj4BUqSlEOZBac7MtNCo8BTxOigLFxR5eageS-oJbxDRJP2QcwGVyWfohsoudQVO_GxXX0L_T5clQ8qUHKfJOMQNmuzvpHQo9rhM-WGA/s1600/Greg+and+Kathy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIUYKq07D4SOfDF-YZ1ri7wZf_qbqtGFV2K3kj4BUqSlEOZBac7MtNCo8BTxOigLFxR5eageS-oJbxDRJP2QcwGVyWfohsoudQVO_GxXX0L_T5clQ8qUHKfJOMQNmuzvpHQo9rhM-WGA/s1600/Greg+and+Kathy.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Kathy Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07081078362823193683noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4981210582635304670.post-45156217036478679262014-04-01T14:53:00.003-07:002014-04-01T17:42:03.459-07:00Moving Memories<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/ggdTl2JYsj4?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
Moving pictures = a thousand words.Kathy Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07081078362823193683noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4981210582635304670.post-20047159994944858562013-12-15T16:39:00.000-08:002013-12-17T11:18:28.328-08:00Hope<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was a rare warm day on the beach of Lake Superior. There
were no rolling waves or cutting white caps. The sun shone on the near white
sand, the air free of biting black flies. The Hart clan was gathered, all four
siblings and spouses along with many of the cousins. For those who know, this
was also a rarity. There was conversation, shared food, and recreation. And while
this may have been enough to make this an inimitable day, an item emerged from
the Lake that “never gives up her dead” to make this day even more noteworthy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My cousin’s husband, Tom, had been lounging near the shore,
letting the soft sands and warm waters of the Lake slip between his fingers and
toes. In the tranquility of this oasis, he stopped as he encountered a metallic
item. Standing, he held a watch. To the astonishment of those gathered, my dad
identified it as a timepiece he had lost several years ago. Despite the furious
waves of autumn, the harsh snow pack of winter, and the treacherous ice floes
of spring, the watch had not only survived intact, but it had remained, buried,
in front of our cottage. This alone was an unimaginable phenomenon given the forces
of the wild Superior. But more was to come. For when the watch was dried and
wound, the ticking hands began again to circle the dial.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I invite you to ponder and sift this image through your personal
lens of belief. For me, Tom’s find is a powerful metaphor of hope: While we may
seem to have lost something precious, there is renewed life, often in inexplicable
ways. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Kathy Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07081078362823193683noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4981210582635304670.post-31290864272702391432013-05-03T10:49:00.000-07:002013-05-06T11:55:18.770-07:00Do I Remember? <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/AVvXsEgIq9b6-HZzL2fCO1QLJDRMMhPh4MbUndwLGfSDCDllccZzbWrhDfeMB5ansYOfxrkqPoJC6l7ZdyVrlLF1qfTmBFsU8wzU841oRsb1oJydYv1NIoUC9D0iXtVN5YztQ0FHjHY2FUPi4g/s1600/Louis+Essie+and+Betty+Hart.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIq9b6-HZzL2fCO1QLJDRMMhPh4MbUndwLGfSDCDllccZzbWrhDfeMB5ansYOfxrkqPoJC6l7ZdyVrlLF1qfTmBFsU8wzU841oRsb1oJydYv1NIoUC9D0iXtVN5YztQ0FHjHY2FUPi4g/s320/Louis+Essie+and+Betty+Hart.jpeg" title="Do I Remember?" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I believe my dad carried this photo of his parents and sister, along with dog, Trixie, to war with him. I love it for the memory of the pipe. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Usually I meander along a rolling stream
of consciousness process before I connect a family history/herstory discovery
with a Sepia Saturday prompt. But this week no such journey was needed. The connection
with smoking was direct and immediate. I remember fights with my maternal
grandfather over my dislike of his cigarette smoking. Even today I can’t stand
the slightest whiff of lingering smoke in a hotel room or on the clothing of a
hairdresser.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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But pipe smoke. That is different.
And likely for the powerful sensory memories that bring me back to a place and
time for which I have only a dreamlike memory. Thankfully, it answers a
self-doubt. </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjssRcs7EWpls-Nskonovitz32AIafQBLgpHVHNrSMUJVr7KxAzNfS62Xs1ferXU2Nsyw5jEi52JOHcDp_kjLscRFzMNyWw6xeufC5c9v_FoAkO4XG3zwdf4F53S2AmXBOZPe4nmZAZpA/s1600/Louis+Hart+Jr..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjssRcs7EWpls-Nskonovitz32AIafQBLgpHVHNrSMUJVr7KxAzNfS62Xs1ferXU2Nsyw5jEi52JOHcDp_kjLscRFzMNyWw6xeufC5c9v_FoAkO4XG3zwdf4F53S2AmXBOZPe4nmZAZpA/s320/Louis+Hart+Jr..jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Do I remember him or just know the photo?</td></tr>
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In the furthest reaches of
recollection, I am not sure if I really possess any visual memories of my paternal
grandfather. I have mind pictures of him sitting in a chair, holding a dog I
believe to be named Pooh-Pooh. But is that visual memory real or has it taken
shape thanks to the few photos I possess? I can’t be sure. </div>
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I never hear his voice in my mind’s
ear. Was he a storyteller like my father and his brother who could recount a
situation, replete with details of the subject’s family tree and the mishaps of
their youth, as the tale took its winding course, punctuated with the teller’s
index finger shaking the details at his listener? Had this trait been passed
from father to sons? I have no idea. </div>
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But that pipe aroma. Any hint of
pipe tobacco jars my sense of place along the time continuum and wafts me back
to where the memory of Louis Hart, Jr. resides. His pipe comes alive, its smoke
encircling my soul. In the mysterious workings of the brain, it is odor that invokes
the most powerful and vivid memories in all of us. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For me, that scent is the reassuring substantiation<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>that I did know my paternal grandfather
and he knew me. That is comforting. </div>
Kathy Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07081078362823193683noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4981210582635304670.post-29686558744140218962013-04-26T12:25:00.002-07:002013-04-28T06:24:02.217-07:00Dog Genes<style>
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This Sepia Saturday post should have been easier for someone trained as a
Reading Specialist, but alas, all the pictures I wanted to use are still in a
photo album in my mother's house. So, I began flipping through my photos and
found this perfectly staged picture for a 1960s Christmas card showing the
week's theme, reading. And what better subject for the Hart family then to have
a dog reading, for this sums up so much of our family history!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJts2KE2j-37xo0TC5omdATqUnfDJdRHEB00gfW86UrBLuHtHbui1Uhswk9eLmW2xuyoXH_R0csPIxASnytdcvyDTwlqz_HIpUN1qopTf4mAsXk8NjdmUnZoV5qLJoRuPw1dTMWZCKMQ/s1600/Candy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJts2KE2j-37xo0TC5omdATqUnfDJdRHEB00gfW86UrBLuHtHbui1Uhswk9eLmW2xuyoXH_R0csPIxASnytdcvyDTwlqz_HIpUN1qopTf4mAsXk8NjdmUnZoV5qLJoRuPw1dTMWZCKMQ/s320/Candy.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I read while Candy looks on. Oh, the other girl in the picture is my sister, Claudia. An apt afterthought given the story that follows! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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We have long joked about the "dog gene" in our family. We all have
had many dogs and know that we come by this adoration honestly. This was quite
apparent to me during my last trip to my mother's house. I love to page through
her old albums, take selected photos to her, and hope for a story to unfold. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like all our photos, they capture a tale, even
when clearly posed. Sadly, some pictures show faces that will never be known to me. I
mourn the loss of names that have been forgotten over the years so try to remedy
past oversights by captioning what photos I can. This quest gave my mom and me quite a
laugh as we looked at pictures like these from the 1930s and 1940s:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgov65AIk48Poi9nvh3C05rG9PPASgrYf6x_FRTbCUC-BmX7IMQKcyZmgeEBuO84TXBiVfOV-v6GGsr8xY0bA1tzdA3Ojqcn-idnrCivGgun-9XWGCS86rJ6CK-TwICkjmz9go75BmhLQ/s1600/Old+Prince+P.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgov65AIk48Poi9nvh3C05rG9PPASgrYf6x_FRTbCUC-BmX7IMQKcyZmgeEBuO84TXBiVfOV-v6GGsr8xY0bA1tzdA3Ojqcn-idnrCivGgun-9XWGCS86rJ6CK-TwICkjmz9go75BmhLQ/s320/Old+Prince+P.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix2P1nipgA05I_nRVlenAfyvOlUi95RYtO0qT5GiixKOx64vzGcDuZJElvbwdlub-PnwnFr_xMOvD6rdgj8P2uCtEBWweiNDJ4k7H3kUom6jvObTrl2m0IuqUp1xEyAoJNlEgZGp0YNg/s1600/Prince+P.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix2P1nipgA05I_nRVlenAfyvOlUi95RYtO0qT5GiixKOx64vzGcDuZJElvbwdlub-PnwnFr_xMOvD6rdgj8P2uCtEBWweiNDJ4k7H3kUom6jvObTrl2m0IuqUp1xEyAoJNlEgZGp0YNg/s320/Prince+P.jpg" width="215" /></a><br />
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This small sampling shows our well-known family love for dogs. But while
other family photos are missing the names of relatives and friends, the dogs in the
photos are always clearly labeled.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-plKCX2xlBF8TrFptOm3fDt905mnHiH_h9hWeW12x6PuzEVUPuGGNWt_SAhlTl1AdVhErsJCaZecy2cxLqfXaXCRbfiOLtuXAWQ6R2WX18ufoRGLbxKqrG1ZozPtUIF_0FQsBKNNznw/s1600/Old+Prince.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-plKCX2xlBF8TrFptOm3fDt905mnHiH_h9hWeW12x6PuzEVUPuGGNWt_SAhlTl1AdVhErsJCaZecy2cxLqfXaXCRbfiOLtuXAWQ6R2WX18ufoRGLbxKqrG1ZozPtUIF_0FQsBKNNznw/s320/Old+Prince.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi63zouw8MhGHVmNdgX8ezusxOSOuyXEpY4mZZpHfEQBeAcc85VP4gchI5MopBuKzIz59fmhlZRRZJWb0lhklAPSbrJRFkztTZW7qYkliAEc06oY3QE6lIgwP9hAYyWKO3DNnRbq8zpTw/s1600/Boots.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi63zouw8MhGHVmNdgX8ezusxOSOuyXEpY4mZZpHfEQBeAcc85VP4gchI5MopBuKzIz59fmhlZRRZJWb0lhklAPSbrJRFkztTZW7qYkliAEc06oY3QE6lIgwP9hAYyWKO3DNnRbq8zpTw/s320/Boots.jpg" width="188" /></a></div>
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My great grandchildren may not know the male
in the photo is their 4x great grandfather, Thomas Richards or their 2x great
grandmother, Barbara Sundberg is the dog-loving child, but they will know the hounds who lived on
Superior Street in the 1930s are Boots, Bugle, Young Prince, Old Prince, etc. I
wasted no time laughingly chastising my mom for this lapse. Yet somehow, the
omission reveals an overarching family trait: the deep love we have for the
dogs, who are not just our pets and companions, but our family.<br />
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This was never
clearer to me then when I returned home to look at photos of my own children.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm4X_AyhJRIQoDXiCNmVXr1kY-prEBUmIH_IyIApA3x_eHAwFSWyfCnfwrP7U4J3W647JJPlKDyFlNrFyRvhYtVrY27M-EqNvUCCNmBTDyx94AF-GNdA3BmF_B5g44B8R6XldWNClHNg/s1600/Sandy+P.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm4X_AyhJRIQoDXiCNmVXr1kY-prEBUmIH_IyIApA3x_eHAwFSWyfCnfwrP7U4J3W647JJPlKDyFlNrFyRvhYtVrY27M-EqNvUCCNmBTDyx94AF-GNdA3BmF_B5g44B8R6XldWNClHNg/s320/Sandy+P.jpg" width="219" /></a></div>
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Turning over the photo of Andrew revealed that some things never change. I had labeled the picture ONLY with the dog’s name. Yep, it does run in
the family! <br />
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<br />Kathy Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07081078362823193683noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4981210582635304670.post-54348042463816993702013-03-01T06:23:00.000-08:002013-03-01T10:11:26.366-08:00The Tale<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Boxes? Boxes? I had nothing for the Sepia Saturday prompt
about boxes. But then I began listing boxes in my head and ended up at
boxcars…boxcars, ah, trains! There it was – the tale of the Paulding Lights as
shared by my dad, William Hart. </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/AVvXsEiBhMlf-8hmVi7afyc9zhkm65pf7PS5p7hPUJ8BLcN__4MoTw1qQS6imxYUTXrdr34fpAMDohbwS-KdE-9vazc-ZwazaADK7nACgKo2B5SgL35hi-fmNUaKUYDVGlgpYruoLM4aTpaNag/s1600/Bill,+Essie,+and+Louis+Hart+(Trixie+too).jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBhMlf-8hmVi7afyc9zhkm65pf7PS5p7hPUJ8BLcN__4MoTw1qQS6imxYUTXrdr34fpAMDohbwS-KdE-9vazc-ZwazaADK7nACgKo2B5SgL35hi-fmNUaKUYDVGlgpYruoLM4aTpaNag/s320/Bill,+Essie,+and+Louis+Hart+(Trixie+too).jpeg" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div class="MsoNormal">
Here, my dad (kneeling) holds his dog, Trixie, while his
parents stand near-by. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who told the tale?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There it
is, down through those trees,” my dad’s outstretched pointer finger poked at
the car window to indicate what appeared to be a desolate spot in a forgotten
part of the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the place of
the famed Paulding Lights, mysterious glowing orbs that confound locals and
adventurers. But true to form, my dad knew their history and told it that day
in the car. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
His tale is one fraught with
fragments, now stitched together by his listeners for he is no longer here to
retell his version.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The yarn that lives
on is one I have struggled to authenticate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I interviewed those in the car, talked with cousins, and researched the
factual parts of the story. But memories are different or nonexistent. The
incidents relayed in the anecdote don’t match with documented facts. As a
researcher, this created an ethical dilemma for me: Do I share the story as
I’ve pieced it together? It may not be true. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But in the quiet of my night, the
answer was clear. This was not meant to be objective history; it was family (his)story.
It didn’t matter if the facts were accurate. Its value was in the sharing.
Even in the telling of it, my dad was communicating a slice of life, of his beliefs,
and of his days growing up on Bluff Street. I can imagine his mother, standing
at her gate or pinning her wet laundry to the clothesline, spinning the yarn,
and fascinating her son with the mystery of it all. Yes, true or not, this
fable is a part of my family lore. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
The bare bones of the tale are shared below. Believe it or
not! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It was a Saturday. Louis Hart, Jr. was
preparing to leave his home on Bluff Street to work his shift as a fireman on
the steam locomotive that ran out of Marquette. Thankfully, for the generations
that followed, he never made it to his post that night. That fateful failure
led to his survival and another’s demise, for the train crashed, just outside
of Paulding, MI. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Legend claims the souls
that perished never rest. They walk the tracks, swinging their ghostly lanterns,
in a never-ending quest to stop the inevitable. Years later Louis was one of
those startled by these spectral lights, reminding him of the fragility of
choices. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Today the
Paulding Lights are a mecca of sorts for ghost hunters, thrill seekers, and
those with a fascination for disproving the paranormal. The spot is marked with
a U.S. Forest Service plaque, has been featured on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fact or Faked: Paranormal Files </i>television show, and was the
subject of a Michigan Tech University study. Questions about this place remain.
But to me, it will always be the subject of Essie and Louis Hart’s tale as told
by my dad and now shared by family members who have memories of differing details. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Ah, families! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<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/AVvXsEg6Nx3LQAIEGzrlxh964siYvUdo6629gz1YNJONr_o5ZVQTFi__EtQe5zuxkRfwzDCqXu3vkVcxjDYPaqxfQoYEvUoy7vVudhx40lvINqaN0qDJhWwXR8EkQRlKAPVnS8MaU1uyxWiPNQ/s1600/Louis+Hart+Train.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Nx3LQAIEGzrlxh964siYvUdo6629gz1YNJONr_o5ZVQTFi__EtQe5zuxkRfwzDCqXu3vkVcxjDYPaqxfQoYEvUoy7vVudhx40lvINqaN0qDJhWwXR8EkQRlKAPVnS8MaU1uyxWiPNQ/s320/Louis+Hart+Train.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My grandfather, Louis Hart, Jr., in train garb. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He clearly notes on the 1920, 1930, and 1940 Census
Reports that he is a locomotive fireman, squeezing in the word, <u>fireman</u>,
on both the 1930 and 1940 forms. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<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/AVvXsEjK1SOxxF-Cc4607rTcywvJqpwvB8icUniBpR5ZdV2BSTAj_Y_bnAeRK_3m0QwoixOPMMTi1xDTwobI5uVfCTsvC_dnL7aVQUIYgTjb5xf9cOGIqc1Cy3JFC5SZ_A1mDPifnR715hqehg/s1600/Back+of+Photo+1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK1SOxxF-Cc4607rTcywvJqpwvB8icUniBpR5ZdV2BSTAj_Y_bnAeRK_3m0QwoixOPMMTi1xDTwobI5uVfCTsvC_dnL7aVQUIYgTjb5xf9cOGIqc1Cy3JFC5SZ_A1mDPifnR715hqehg/s320/Back+of+Photo+1.jpeg" width="287" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My dad always scoffed at family history, yet in his aged
handwriting, he captioned this photo for eternity: Dad Louis, and Jody
Kaufman. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Kathy Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07081078362823193683noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4981210582635304670.post-78316268886006072172013-02-20T15:15:00.004-08:002013-02-21T08:01:30.919-08:00Unexpected Destinations<style>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="128" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Cw6nWRXJMSM/URBDAtFwSjI/AAAAAAAAQrU/AUMV-NktjLk/s320/2013.02W.11.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Delighted to back with Sepia Saturday after a long personal drought. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The name of the town is familiar, Champion, Michigan. It is
one of those towns of my childhood where what seemed like endless, long dusty
car trips would result in the family pouring out of the back of a station wagon
to set up a picnic. But if the town scrapes the cobwebs of my mind, the stern
family etched in time, has no meaning for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The photograph is one of several that were once mounted in a maroon
velvet album, kept in my grandmother’s basement. As a child, I loved the smell of
that musty thing, and even more, adored paging through the photos, imagining
those people of old. It was silly of me to never have asked my grandmother for
the names of these unknown family and friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Now I struggle to put together the pieces. I show them to the 80
year-olds who squint and say, “Well, it could be a Millman or Richards,” and I wait
for the soliloquy regarding facial features. But as I’ve continued my ancestor
hunt, I find many of those supposed matches just do not fit. The child is too
old for the time they spent in Vermont or the identified person did not live in
the town during the year noted on the back of the photo. I sigh. And the only
way to make up for my abject failure to quiz my grandmother is to write
voraciously on the back of my own photos or to post them, heavily captioned, on
a family website.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnWw0QQGYWogZo5z981BAQh6DS9qGZXzPZwZS0M44CHBa_AuDyECeTdMfw8MQDWkbSyObHcm6GOhYS7v-9GMb0oVbPRr39Gqt6hseN1kJdvVDkC_0gl3ifBfffoQ5eqoyquS-yBB3CdQ/s1600/Unknown+Family.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnWw0QQGYWogZo5z981BAQh6DS9qGZXzPZwZS0M44CHBa_AuDyECeTdMfw8MQDWkbSyObHcm6GOhYS7v-9GMb0oVbPRr39Gqt6hseN1kJdvVDkC_0gl3ifBfffoQ5eqoyquS-yBB3CdQ/s400/Unknown+Family.jpeg" width="265" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The cabinet photo in question seemed to hold many clues. Champion is
and was always a small town. The name of the studio, scrolled at the bottom,
should have been an easy find I reasoned. But a search of the city directories, on
Ancestry.com revealed no L. Winsor Studio for the available years, 1894-1917, a
reasonable time frame based on the clothing worn by the females. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An Internet search indicates this photographer
may have had a studio in Champion in the early 1890s but then moved westward. At least I
had a date, but one that once more led me to curse the loss of those
precious 1890 census records. I scoured my family tree for cousins with the requisite
number of family members living in the area at the time. Coming up short, I got
out my magnifying glass and studied facial features, hoping to identify family
traits. Nothing worked. I returned to my tree and picked at families of
families. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then, an answer. It was that rush of joy that I had been
missing since I last engaged in this exploration, so many months ago. But, as
has been true with most of my genealogical investigations, the solution was not
the one I had been seeking. No, I still do not know the identity of this
family, lovingly saved in my grandmother’s basement. But the search of the
siblings clarified a nagging question: the mystery of why my family had chosen
Ishpeming, Michigan as their destination when the Ely/Vershire mining operation
was beginning to fail. The Richards and Simons branches, united by the marriage
of my great great grandparents in Ely, had pulled up their fragile roots in
that waning mining town to journey for frigid northern Michigan. I had often
wondered why the growing clan chose this spot to begin life anew. The photo
search unintentionally revealed a Richards brother, long ignored by me, who had
traveled directly from Gwinear, Cornwall with his wife and young son to the
mines of Upper Michigan. I now had the name of that ancestor who was the
impetus for the family move to “the Yoop,” the place where our roots would run
strong and deep throughout the 20<sup>th</sup> century. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That brother? Matthew Richards - a coincidence my family
will find amusing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The journey we begin
does not always bring us to the destination we intend. </i></div>
Kathy Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07081078362823193683noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4981210582635304670.post-71963542889444616042012-10-06T08:23:00.004-07:002012-10-06T08:35:57.761-07:00An Amazing Journey: Sepia Saturday 6 October 2012<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">As
I write this week’s Sepia Saturday post focusing on ships, I think of the
various vessels that brought my ancestors to the shores of the United States. I
ponder these journeys while eating a saffron bun, a treasured treat of my
Cornish heritage. As a child I grew with these dishes that were remnants and
reminders of the long ship journey from the homeland: pasties, saffron buns,
Cousin Jack cookies, Sunday roasts, goodies that remind me of how thankful I am
that despite my ancestors’ long ocean voyage from the rolling hills of Cornwall
to the frigid shores of Lake Superior, those recipes were treasured as mementos
of the home they left and were passed to us today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I
have been on a journey of a different sort. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And while not a journey on a ship, my journey
has spanned time and place as I unearth the lives of the families, mostly
miners, of my past. I began with my mother’s side of the family tree for she is
alive and valuable memories can be coaxed from her. The tales of my journey
into her family tree are told elsewhere on this blog. It is a journey full of
mouse clicks, Internet discoveries, travels to my home in Marquette, Michigan,
to Ely, Vermont, and the best journey, a trip across the ocean to stand in the
little villages my great grandparents and beyond called home. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha_hkZJvenrGD4y8T1aRcSQC4hqQdKrNIAFEdNU9_Ry5pDItJkzWuNlCYpBWX36Dgw623084JUSyh1cP7fVOmYEDoY-9XzDr8MsipWOrH3_sikjH6M8vLWiejmXlV371TxvNDO4BRWwQ/s1600/St+Ive+Parish+Church.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha_hkZJvenrGD4y8T1aRcSQC4hqQdKrNIAFEdNU9_Ry5pDItJkzWuNlCYpBWX36Dgw623084JUSyh1cP7fVOmYEDoY-9XzDr8MsipWOrH3_sikjH6M8vLWiejmXlV371TxvNDO4BRWwQ/s320/St+Ive+Parish+Church.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The St. Ive Parish
Church. The village of St. Ive, not to be confused with the seaside town of St.
Ives, had a population of 468 people in 1801. In 2001, 2121called St. Ive
home. </span><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The
photo above is of the parish church in a small Cornish village, St. Ive, where
one branch of my mother’s family lived. The opportunity to visit this roadside
village and walk among the markers took me back to the time when Jane Ruse Hill
and daughters must have journeyed from their home to Sunday service. I felt
their presence among the grave markers and in the rustle of the bushes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Lately,
I have let my mother’s genealogy rest a bit while I travel back through the generations
of my dad’s side of the family. Imagine my surprise when this same small
village cropped up in the census, baptismal, marriage, and death records of the
Doneys and Slades, names from his branch of our one family tree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">What
karmic destiny that centuries later and an ocean away, the descendants of two
families who inhabited this same tiny Cornish village would meet and marry! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Now
I plan to journey across that ocean again, to once more walk the churchyard of
St. Ive, this time to think about those ancestors on both sides of my family
tree who packed up their lives and memories, stepped onto a ship, crossed the
vast ocean so that their descendants could once again join together in the
Upper Peninsula of Michigan. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a
strange and wonderful journey we share. </span></div>
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--></style>Kathy Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07081078362823193683noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4981210582635304670.post-89871574232226741082012-08-30T14:51:00.000-07:002012-08-30T14:51:53.524-07:00A Ringing Force in Societal Evolution <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xi9G5po9eio/UCuRfrhFj0I/AAAAAAAAPGg/FnPlqqzCj58/s200/2012.08.WB.37.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="122" /></td></tr>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sepia Saturday - This week's theme
inspired me to complete my telephone story. For ease, I have included the first
part, again, here with its conclusion. As for the theme – how much have TIMES changed,
do we NEED clocks anymore… all those thought-provoking ideas (I may be watching
too much Mad Men!) If you read to the end, I promise this will make sense!</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It seemed to be a rite of passage,
a way to assert independence and communicate with the outside world. The
telephone. Its evolution seems to be a symbol for the generations of family who
walked this Earth during my lifetime. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An
impetus for social change, it symbolizes the mindset and cultural
transformation of each generation. Purposively, I use the present tense, as it
seems that each day brings a step in another direction as we communicate with
others. </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhps3EQaTCukfunvJclqBFNBG9PqsO3rHuFEvpwtlcUeMU5iSttdgNNu3q9G7AFm2S_JZW2z3fovkJ3ZraQxqjmbQ6hp5g9tgYe2lTESm0uzsblAV5RbPwQbilFmurmJQbfnPMjMN5LGQ/s1600/claudia+and+kathy+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhps3EQaTCukfunvJclqBFNBG9PqsO3rHuFEvpwtlcUeMU5iSttdgNNu3q9G7AFm2S_JZW2z3fovkJ3ZraQxqjmbQ6hp5g9tgYe2lTESm0uzsblAV5RbPwQbilFmurmJQbfnPMjMN5LGQ/s320/claudia+and+kathy+001.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The siblings with a later version of the phone I remember.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
One of my earliest memories is fear
of the curious apparatus in my grandmother’s living room. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t place my age when I first noticed that
black handset sitting on the wiry stand, but even today I shudder, just a bit,
with the memory of my grandmother’s rare scolding. Drawn to the mysterious
object, I picked it up, only to hear the words, “Central, number please.”
Grandma was right there admonishing me to “put that thing down” and extolling
me to never touch it again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The strange
voice I had awakened from the peculiar contraption frightened me. It was
something beyond my understanding, as were my grandma’s unusual harsh words. <span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
As I reflect on those first phones,
I am sure to my grandmother and many others like her, they inaugurated a welcome
sense of freedom. So many women of her generation never drove; rather they
relied on their husbands to transport them from place to place. Through those
telephone lines, recipes could be exchanged, gossip could be shared, and
feelings and worries had a receptive ear at any time during the long days at
home. Female bonding took on an enhanced role, thanks to the phone. <span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Time marched on and that sole
telephone in both my grandmother’s home and our home now sported a dial. The
boxy phone mounted on the kitchen wall would ring and was answered by the
mindlessly polite requirement, “Hart residence, Kathy speaking.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those were the days when you could pick up
that beige receiver to call for the time and the female voice would nasally
recite the hour and minute. You relied on the phone book and few ever used an
area code. In fact, the first two numbers were often a word. In our town, we
said <u>Canal</u> for the initial numerals 22. My grandmother’s number began
with <u>Hudson</u>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While today we
struggle with remembering our own cell number, I can still effortlessly rattle
off my best friend’s number and my grandmother’s number. They are deeply
ingrained. <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Sometime in my high school years, the
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mad Men</i> of advertising lured me with
the image that I could be a princess.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Along with most girls, I longed for the sleek dial phone with the coiled
cord, so captivatingly crowned, the Princess Phone. It was a status symbol and sitting
next to a bed, provided independence from parental ears. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
That sleek blue Princess Phone. I
remember well the day it was installed in my bedroom. I was royalty. No longer
a prisoner to the wall-mounted beige box in the kitchen, I could now close my
door and dial Katie, Rita, or Pam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of
course, my ears were always on alert for the telltale click signaling someone,
usually my sister, had picked up the other phone. This became a skill,
perfected like an artist’s craft.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An accomplished
stealth could slowly and almost silently release those knobs to discover the
innermost secrets of the speakers. Oh, the sibling fights and parental
questions! These continued with our race to answer the ring with the shout,
“I’ll get it,” a phrase that was destined to disappear in my lifetime. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This was an
era when the phone book was kept next to the phone, the busy signal an
annoyance, especially to parents, and the ring was universal. This slowly transformed
as my daughter grew. No longer were we chained and stationary. We could walk
and talk. The dial with the phone number displayed in the center, disappeared.
We punched buttons and raised the antenna. For my daughter the dial became a
perplexing contrivance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At a church
dinner, Jenn asked to use a phone that was tucked away in a corner of the musty
social hall. Returning to the table with a puzzled look, she announced, “It
doesn’t work.” Never having seen this “old fashioned” instrument, she had been
punching the dial rather than rotating it, a story that is told as often as
possible in our house. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
During my daughter’s growing years,
answering machines began the destruction of the busy signal, making one to free
to leave the house, even if an important call was expected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Call waiting birthed the phrase, “the other
line,” as we ignored one conversation for another, possibly making a listener
feel abandoned and signaling a sense that someone or something else was more
important. This only increased with the next rendition of the phone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Our son was born in the 1990s, the
same decade the cell phone began to emerge in American pockets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It felt like a splurge when my husband rented
such a device for me to carry in the car as I traveled across country. But that
spurge evolved into a necessity. At first it was merely a family cell phone that
we each reveled in carrying, just in case of emergency. But, at home, the landline
still reigned as necessary, especially when the family computer circulated its
connection tone. There were times when we would be “kicked offline” by a call,
sometimes leading to an unfair annoyance with the unsuspecting caller. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
By September 11, 2001, the family
cell phone had given way to personal devices. My daughter communicated the
horror of that fateful day via her flip phone from her dorm at Virginia Tech as
I sat helpless in my first grade classroom. Because carrying such a phone was
relatively new, policies regarding the use of them at work were almost
nonexistent. My daughter continued to relay the mounting terror from her
vantage point in front of the television. My mother returned from shopping to
hear a message on her home answering machine from my husband who called from
his cell phone, a generational image that telegraphed the differences in the way
we used communication. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
More importantly and sadly, victims
made final calls. And then as the hours seared the enormity of the tragedy into
our souls, our D.C. suburb was shrouded in silence as overloaded phone networks
became still, giving us a needed chance to reflect and mourn. It was almost as
if the network had to pause and consider, too. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
As the decade wore on, families
joined the fast track of communication. Landlines began to disappear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Computers didn’t need those home phone lines
anymore so why should we have them? Our cell phones could place a call to
anyone, anywhere. Networks touted their reliability over others. The infamous query,
“Can you hear me now?” was a favored shout into the phone and laughed about in
our family, especially after our trek through Tibet where we witnessed our
guide, cell phone in hand, speak softly to a guide on another mountain. Their
reliable network didn’t need the catch phrase that had become a hallmark of our
dropped calls and fickle connections.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
A new era was calling. Phones had
morphed into one-stop shops with cameras, videos, and texting capability to the
point where many actually let their fingers do the talking. We revel in our
ability to match ringtones to the personalities calling us. Our phones are the
answering machines, phone books, call screeners, and alert systems for news,
weather, and our friend’s most intimate thoughts. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I wonder what the future of the
phone holds. Back in the sixties my mother read that one day we would use
videophones. Today, my 20 month-old grandson connects my voice and face, thanks
to those video calls that are now the norm. (Face)Times, indeed, have changed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
If you’re like me, your smart phone
is a necessity, one that can even whistle “Dixie” as the old saying goes. I
need not list all the capabilities here, but this week’s theme? Clocks and
watches? Sadly, not needed anymore, a young relative informed me. For all the
planet’s news, weather, and time, simply tap the app! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
So, this brings me full circle back
to my grandmother’s admonishment, “Put that thing down.” Perhaps I need to live
those words today. My iPhone is always in my pocket, purse, or within easy
reach. I feel empty and positively naked when I accidentally leave the house
without it. Do I ignore others with my constant checking of that little screen?
Most likely and embarrassingly, the answer is yes. There are many times I
really should “put that thing down.” My grandmother was smarter than I gave her
credit for!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
Kathy Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07081078362823193683noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4981210582635304670.post-30385680100081445542012-08-24T16:05:00.000-07:002012-08-30T14:52:35.231-07:00Sepia Saturday - Weddings Wed Families! <style>
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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;"><br />
<br />
<img alt="" class="aligncenter size-thumbnail wp-image-1840" height="60" src="http://imagespast.files.wordpress.com/2012/08/2012-08-wb-12.jpg?w=150&h=60" title="2012.08.WB.12" width="150" /><br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA14WChqG-KdphuaDiiUKolSr_AOAQrx8ZQdsHCafUIkj2zEAe4Btj_IG2ou6dtKL1cGs8tGbdUDe_KejURt0VqXeOSA0j6tHnCg_kX4wzJmWlvlRicZGLxQ9ACEHnl4xfSH-AYo6ULw/s1600/Myrtle+and+Brix+Wedding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA14WChqG-KdphuaDiiUKolSr_AOAQrx8ZQdsHCafUIkj2zEAe4Btj_IG2ou6dtKL1cGs8tGbdUDe_KejURt0VqXeOSA0j6tHnCg_kX4wzJmWlvlRicZGLxQ9ACEHnl4xfSH-AYo6ULw/s320/Myrtle+and+Brix+Wedding.jpg" width="170" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Family and friends gather to celebrate the wedding of my grandparents. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a family member requested I not post my original Sepia
Saturday Wedding Story, I frantically pored through stacks of old photos to see
if I had anything else to offer. I came across the above photo that seemed to be
indicative of my confusion regarding my mother’s side of the family. The bride and
groom, Harold (for some reason everyone called him Brix) Sundberg and Myrtle
Richards, my grandparents, were married on 12 August 1925 and thus began the
tangled web of family tree branches, entwined in such a jumble that even today,
my mother, who grew up within earshot of these relatives, still does not know
how her contemporaries, much less the offspring, are related. It seemed appropriate I write one of my famously silly rhymes to illustrate the confusion of it all. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Just HOW Are We
Related?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
A Superior Street family was busy in their house,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Their only daughter, preparing to marry her spouse.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her parents from England were a likely pair,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stories, recipes, and culture, they would share.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These families from Cornwall boasted many surnames,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Millman, Richards, and Simons were some of their claims.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ignoring tradition, Myrtle married a Swede,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A handsome guy, Brix, all the Cornish agreed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The bride’s cousin, once removed, of the Simons clan,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stood at the wedding as the couple’s best man. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The groom’s Swedish first cousin stood for the bride,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But there’s more to this story – you will need a guide!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The bride and groom’s cousins were husband and wife,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Making for a confusing and intertwined life!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At parties and family gatherings by the Christmas tree,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I only knew these people were, somehow, “related” to me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Am I a great aunt or cousin twice removed?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What term is correct and genealogy approved?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, in the end does it matter if the relationships are
clear?</div>
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It’s the love and lasting memories that we hold so
dear. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<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/AVvXsEh3ciizyEBfvXW5lUSoktk_AWmisjxHXx8U9afXpnnUnSb3kmiz6QoFKBx4b2ss5fKvoZKsxLo2dceV2IbcbTN1SlmqTm7jkvJJDjSrnpCrULgeHB4yidnlc9gng2Cwf3ym3xUtoIIRPg/s1600/Myrtle+and+Brix+Wedding+Book.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ciizyEBfvXW5lUSoktk_AWmisjxHXx8U9afXpnnUnSb3kmiz6QoFKBx4b2ss5fKvoZKsxLo2dceV2IbcbTN1SlmqTm7jkvJJDjSrnpCrULgeHB4yidnlc9gng2Cwf3ym3xUtoIIRPg/s320/Myrtle+and+Brix+Wedding+Book.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A memento of the wedding day. Note the signatures of my grandfather's first cousin, Inez, and grandmother's cousin, once removed, Clayton.</td></tr>
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<br />
<br /></div>
Kathy Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07081078362823193683noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4981210582635304670.post-1915582966716902942012-08-18T08:26:00.004-07:002012-08-29T05:05:52.956-07:00Part 1: A Ringing Force in Societal Evolution <style>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhps3EQaTCukfunvJclqBFNBG9PqsO3rHuFEvpwtlcUeMU5iSttdgNNu3q9G7AFm2S_JZW2z3fovkJ3ZraQxqjmbQ6hp5g9tgYe2lTESm0uzsblAV5RbPwQbilFmurmJQbfnPMjMN5LGQ/s1600/claudia+and+kathy+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhps3EQaTCukfunvJclqBFNBG9PqsO3rHuFEvpwtlcUeMU5iSttdgNNu3q9G7AFm2S_JZW2z3fovkJ3ZraQxqjmbQ6hp5g9tgYe2lTESm0uzsblAV5RbPwQbilFmurmJQbfnPMjMN5LGQ/s320/claudia+and+kathy+001.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A later version of grandma's phone, a dial telephone still on its wiry stand. Note the fabric cord. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It has become a rite of passage, a way to assert
independence and communicate with the outside world. The telephone. Its
evolution reflects the vast social changes for those who walked this
Earth during my lifetime. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An impetus for
change, it symbolizes the mindset and cultural transformation of each
generation. I use the present tense, as it seems that every day
brings a step in another direction as we strive and grow in our communication with others. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of my earliest memories is fear of the curious apparatus
in my grandmother’s living room. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t
place my age when I first noticed that black handset sitting on the wiry stand,
but even today I shudder, just a bit, with the memory of my grandmother’s rare
scolding. Drawn to the mysterious object, I picked it up, only to hear the
words, “Central, number please.” Grandma was right there admonishing me to “put
that thing down” and extolling me to never touch it again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The strange voice I had awakened from the
peculiar contraption frightened me. It was something beyond my understanding,
as were my grandma’s unusual harsh words. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8rNGcNkLkXSU_2kKXjnY_dF1m5dGdOotIkrfiSaVxtXlFITXrHLqoPs0CN4RC-ytLf3o_-56h37ioPiyyhvRCa6umZYoG97da7wnYSXnBvcCnOQRTJQub8iUB-np-_BUsSue-FRYgdw/s1600/Grandma+in+Kitchen.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8rNGcNkLkXSU_2kKXjnY_dF1m5dGdOotIkrfiSaVxtXlFITXrHLqoPs0CN4RC-ytLf3o_-56h37ioPiyyhvRCa6umZYoG97da7wnYSXnBvcCnOQRTJQub8iUB-np-_BUsSue-FRYgdw/s320/Grandma+in+Kitchen.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My grandmother never drove but she sure could talk on the phone!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I reflect on those first phones, I am sure to my
grandmother and many others like her, they inaugurated a welcome sense of
freedom. So many women of her generation never drove; rather they relied on their
husbands to transport them from place to place. Through those telephone lines,
recipes could be exchanged, gossip could be shared, and feelings and worries
had a receptive ear at any time during the long days at home. Female bonding
took on an enhanced role, thanks to the phone. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Time marched on and that sole telephone in both my
grandmother’s home and our home now sported a dial. The boxy phone mounted on the
kitchen wall would ring and was answered by the mindlessly polite requirement,
“Hart residence, Kathy speaking.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those
were the days when you could pick up that tan receiver to call for the time and a female voice would nasally recite the hour and minute. You relied on the
phone book and few ever used an area code. In fact, the first two numbers were
often a word. In our town, we said <u>Canal</u> for the initial numerals 22. My
grandmother’s number began with <u>Hudson</u>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>While today we struggle with remembering our own cell number, I can still
effortlessly rattle off my best friend’s number and my grandmother’s number.
They are deeply ingrained. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometime in my high school years, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mad Men</i> of advertising lured me with the image that I could be a
princess.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Along with most girls, I
longed for the sleek dial phone with the coiled cord, so captivatingly crowned,
the Princess Phone. It was a status symbol and sitting next to a bed, provided
independence from parental ears. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stay tuned for the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Evolution
of a Princess</b></div>
Kathy Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07081078362823193683noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4981210582635304670.post-90716574945889711082012-08-06T16:58:00.002-07:002012-08-29T05:06:45.075-07:00Part 2: The Revelation<style>
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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/AVvXsEje0P_GRyEsRcitYX4EhtKSPQC2REJEJyIadRLuSUelLsrJ0Jt0Jm0LoPny-6JxbMOb5V9-FBT1FvmpHlKGoauruu7Sld8jp-d2I_qzMh58GXSjhNYRTtrlSct6oQXYQOK3Iu4SPUDLzQ/s1600/Clara+and+Elizabeth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje0P_GRyEsRcitYX4EhtKSPQC2REJEJyIadRLuSUelLsrJ0Jt0Jm0LoPny-6JxbMOb5V9-FBT1FvmpHlKGoauruu7Sld8jp-d2I_qzMh58GXSjhNYRTtrlSct6oQXYQOK3Iu4SPUDLzQ/s320/Clara+and+Elizabeth.jpg" width="216" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My great grandmother, Clara and great great grandmother, Elizabeth, keepers of the cup</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Perhaps it was this treasure that
made me think more carefully about the long journey, both in ubiety and in
cultural assimilation, of my family. It was a tale not just of crossing an
ocean but also a symbol of what I came to believe was longing and loss. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
My mother recalls the cup as a
fixture in her grandmother’s china cabinet for as long as she can remember,
placing it there from at least the mid 1930s. Juxtaposing records clearly
indicating the Millman branch arrived in the United States on 21 June 1889 with
the history of the Truro Cathedral, I could offer no conclusions as to how the
cup, bearing the image of a cathedral that was not yet complete at that time,
had come to grace my great grandmother’s cabinet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The foundation stones for the cathedral were laid
in 1880, the first section consecrated in 1887, and the Central Tower completed
in 1905. Even if a delicate china cup was sold with the image of an unfinished
cathedral, this branch of my family lived in Lamerton, Devon. How did this
family of humble laborers come to possess a treasure from what in those days
was a long distance away?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Nagging at me as I added names and
dates to my tree, the relic reminded me that no matter how carefully I checked
and rechecked source material, I had to somehow explain, if only to myself, how
the cup had come to live in the cabinet. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It taunted me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
On a rainy afternoon, I sat staring
at my computer screen. Where had my 3<sup>rd</sup> great grandmother spent her
final years? Once her daughter and grandchildren looked toward ‘the new world,’
Jane Martin Mitchell Richards Stacey seemed to leave Lamerton, Devon, too. On a
hunch that I cannot explain, I went to the Cornwall Family History Society’s
member area and typed in her name. To my amazement, she and her second husband
appeared, buried in Perranarworthal, Cornwall. The names matched, including the
middle initial of her second husband. To be sure, I immediately ordered her
death certificate, holding my breath until the copy arrived verifying both her
identity and move to Cornwall. </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrUBvGRZp60HpWkvdSlGj5DsRf6MiE77HhhP6fU0vTrnfYXqsESNpOICddZRkyzqkXWG4gKh4MHzco-d_rgkrv_a3ewa99Y_mJZeGPmMlg9wOhCYB96WxlH1LNP9chooRUH2ilBqxiow/s1600/Jane's+House.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrUBvGRZp60HpWkvdSlGj5DsRf6MiE77HhhP6fU0vTrnfYXqsESNpOICddZRkyzqkXWG4gKh4MHzco-d_rgkrv_a3ewa99Y_mJZeGPmMlg9wOhCYB96WxlH1LNP9chooRUH2ilBqxiow/s320/Jane's+House.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jane's last home in Cornwall, outside of Truro</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Now the long distance between Truro
and Jane Stacey didn’t seem as formidable. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had spent the final years of her life in
Perranarworthal, about 14 miles from the cathedral, making it more likely that
such a cup had come into her possession. But how had this treasure traveled to
the United States?</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh58264W4YEm5HBDIAdRv-lHh71HmHTGGsgDYExR4c5HFeAHLnBqfEL63VbJOoMpISzo2R1VsOlSenmEYI2yMIq9sNigV5B2PJlif99eI573QPjrHXFCHJhwRMG7HJAOWuaBolaJYyhdw/s1600/Kathy+Smith+Registration.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh58264W4YEm5HBDIAdRv-lHh71HmHTGGsgDYExR4c5HFeAHLnBqfEL63VbJOoMpISzo2R1VsOlSenmEYI2yMIq9sNigV5B2PJlif99eI573QPjrHXFCHJhwRMG7HJAOWuaBolaJYyhdw/s320/Kathy+Smith+Registration.jpeg" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A rare memento for this branch of my family</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
In a rare find, I came across a
1901 wedding invitation for Jane’s granddaughter, Clara. Holding it in my hand
and fingering the letters, piqued my curiosity. Could the cup have been sent as
a gift? The question sent me back to the darkened microfiche room of the Peter
White Public Library in Marquette, Michigan where I scrolled through old copies
of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mining Journal</i> hoping that the
wedding might be described in detail and the gift mentioned. Alas, only a small
paragraph mentioned the nuptials. But the cup as a wedding gift seemed the most
probable theory, so I told myself to be content with that explanation. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Despite the reasonableness of this
notion, I could not and would not embrace that contentment. Something did not
feel right. Again, a rainy afternoon brought enlightenment. In rechecking
immigration records, a new document suddenly appeared. My heart fluttered as I
recognized the familiar sentiment that an answer to a stubborn mystery was
about to be revealed. And it was. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
On 7 October 1906, Jane’s daughter,
Elizabeth, along with husband Frank Millman, and youngest daughter, Ellen,
returned to the United States from a visit to their homeland. Swallowing my
shock, as I had never heard an account of anyone in my family returning to the
“old country,” I picked up the phone to recount the find to my mother. I could
see her nodding and sending her memory into the past. “Yes, I do remember
hearing about them having traveled back to England, but it happened many years
before I was born.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
What had triggered such a trip?
This was still a modest family. Frank was the sole laborer in a family with several
children at home. Did Frank, Elizabeth, or both feel the pain of homesickness?
Was the permanent separation from family too much to bear?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was there news of a close relative’s illness?
One of Frank and Elizabeth’s young sons died in the early 1900s of scarlet
fever. Did the despair of this prompt longing for the stability of family back
home? And why was Ellen chosen to accompany them? I can only guess at the
reasons, but for the Truro cup, its story was complete.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I felt at peace as I walked in the
living room, turned the cabinet key in the lock, and cradled the teacup in my
palm. “You came here on that trip.” I murmured.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was not a question. I had my answer. I was content. </div>
Kathy Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07081078362823193683noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4981210582635304670.post-66530678905376167402012-07-13T12:04:00.003-07:002012-08-29T05:06:30.161-07:00Part 1: The Question of the Teacup<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp6nzHcc1yLBaIIaPAayDHp7XULEfaTwQAP3LZ0Zoy7vfGH9XLMnn1J0RSrPXEyRosL8QoelhuO6N7iEY6cmxWqSQeEWRsilBwKS4DcnU6U7ZkWODY28kJyH4lkECVaSg166zouW4ugA/s1600/Truro+Cup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp6nzHcc1yLBaIIaPAayDHp7XULEfaTwQAP3LZ0Zoy7vfGH9XLMnn1J0RSrPXEyRosL8QoelhuO6N7iEY6cmxWqSQeEWRsilBwKS4DcnU6U7ZkWODY28kJyH4lkECVaSg166zouW4ugA/s320/Truro+Cup.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
For years it had been just the sweet
little teacup. Had I been more observant and perhaps less afraid of the musty
and shadowy lower level that was the residence of my great grandfather, I may
have first noticed the cup in the curved glass cabinet in his abode. But I was
too anxious to venture below the steep of the stairs in my grandmother’s home
to explore her father’s quarters. After ‘Pa’ died, my grandparents moved, and
the cup had a new home in their more modern dining room cabinet. Here, it captured
my young eyes. Always entranced by any object sporting my favorite color, with
childlike wonder I would gaze at it in the thoroughly sleek 1960s china
cabinet, admiring its various pearly blue hues. Even in my earliest memory I
was captivated with the details of the painted church on the teeny cup. I use the
word, <u>church</u> for that was the only term my young mind had for what I
would eventually learn to be a cathedral, the Truro Cathedral to be exact. In
those days, if I could have read the words, I would have understood. But,
perhaps it best I was too young for deciphering those letters. It only added to
the intrigue of the cup. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After my
grandmother died her only child, my mother, divided the possessions. Not
surprisingly, my first choice was the item that continued to mesmerize me: the diminutive
cup. Throughout my many moves, Maryland, Michigan, Virginia, Louisiana, and
back to Maryland, I either wrapped the cup myself or implored the movers to be
extremely careful with this fragile treasure from ‘the old country.’ </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But despite my inadvertence and pleadings, near tragedy struck. Even today, my
breath quickens and my heart pounds when I consider how it was nearly lost to me.
Determined to be done with the unloading and unwrapping, the careless movers
failed to feel the cup in the mound of packaging. Stuffing the crumpled paper
into the now-empty boxes, they disappeared into the night.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The next morning when arranging my family
treasures, I was horrified and sickened to discover the cup’s absence. Nearly
in hysterics, I screamed to my husband who assured me the cup would be
returned. “How can he be so calm?” I panicked and furthermore, “How can he be
so sure?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But as it turns out, the cup was
destined to be at home with me once again. Greg drove to the moving company and
insisted that every piece of packing material be examined. And sure enough,
among the mountains of wrapping, my treasure was rescued from its tenebrous
grave. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
With ceremony, I returned the
cherished teacup to its home in my great grandmother’s cabinet. The treasure seemed to settle in. It belonged
here. It was then that the impact of the heirloom coursed through me. I was
only its guardian, its caretaker for my generation. It would and should sit in
this cabinet for hundreds of years when other small children might gaze at with
longing eyes and parents would impart the tale of its near loss. I was quite
pleased that I had not shirked my duties as the custodian of the cup. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But it was not done with me yet.
The nexus of my growing family tree and the painting on the cup began to haunt
me with the now apparent inconsistencies. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I was off on another genealogy
puzzle: How did that cup come to be in our family when my ancestors had all
left Cornwall before the building of the Truro Cathedral? Cornish history and my family history had to
be reconciled before the tale of the cup was complete. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Stay tuned for <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Revelation</i></b> </div>
Kathy Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07081078362823193683noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4981210582635304670.post-4897988084181545352012-07-07T07:33:00.000-07:002012-07-08T09:38:25.480-07:00The Cinderella Centenarian<style>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> Still trying to find my bearings on
Twitter, I scanned the Tweets of others in an attempt to learn the protocol of my
new universe. One Tweet caught my attention. Anne Mitchell, @f_f_stories, tweeted
her interest in the stories of maiden aunts and bachelor uncles. This shook a
branch on my own tree. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> When I was still in the early days
of fitting together my family puzzle pieces, I brought several mystery photos
to a relative in Ishpeming, MI. I knew these photos were from our Cornish side,
but in that strange way fate has of weaving us together, this relative not only
shared Cornish ancestors with me, but we also were connected through our
Swedish roots. Sitting in her kitchen that day, she opened one of those round
cookie tins, the kind that took me back to my childhood where prying the cover
open always revealed a homemade surprise. This cookie tin didn’t disappoint,
Here Colleen stored her photos of old. Pulling out a newspaper clipping from
our local paper, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Mining Journal</i>,
she told me the story of Auntie Grant, my married but childless Swedish
ancestor. Auntie Grant’s story was gripping. Not only had she lived to be 100
years old, but she had made a great escape from the Chicago Fire of 1871. It
was an escape with a familiar, but this time, very real component. I was
mesmerized. Who was this Auntie Grant and how was she related to me?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiELQr1bIlW8EGcTStbi39Ixi5B6WGncawuS2Q1qs1Rok4GRqcYIhxpJR9abDlzHriIiz2jWOUWznC-7Ni6aTXI9h2kKU8xpCcAPiEO8mX9J9sEZ3X-a8HQjeeALRQp9nPTbpNzWUEbzQ/s1600/Auntie+Grant+p+2+Mining+Journal+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiELQr1bIlW8EGcTStbi39Ixi5B6WGncawuS2Q1qs1Rok4GRqcYIhxpJR9abDlzHriIiz2jWOUWznC-7Ni6aTXI9h2kKU8xpCcAPiEO8mX9J9sEZ3X-a8HQjeeALRQp9nPTbpNzWUEbzQ/s320/Auntie+Grant+p+2+Mining+Journal+001.jpg" width="253" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A portion of <i>The Mining Journal </i>article</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Now, over two years later, I still
can’t be sure of all the details of her life. Swedish records are difficult to read.
Names and spellings were changed. Relatives’ recollections sometimes conflicted
with the printed word. And most importantly, key records were destroyed in the
Great Chicago Fire of 1871. But using Ancestry.com and dusting off the memories
of the living, I know Auntie Mathilda Grant was my 2<sup>nd</sup> great
grand aunt, a woman with no children or grandchildren to tell her story. I felt compelled to step in. Thanks to the sources available to me, and especially the story of
her 100<sup>th</sup> birthday printed in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Mining Journal</i>, I imagined that night in 1871, the one Auntie Grant relived
and retold for the remainder of her years. Although the details below are of my mind, the key facts honor the remembrances of Mathilda Gerling Grant. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">*********************************************************************</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Mathilda
lived in one of those beautiful wooden mansions that nearly touched one another
in the heart of Chicago. She often glided her hand along the intricate
woodcarving of the rail as she floated down the grand stairs into the kitchen.
She liked this waltz as it was one the few times when she could leave the
drudgery of her world and let her imagination fly. In this world she wasn’t the
twenty six year-old housemaid, the girl who made the beds upstairs and cleaned the furniture.
In these few moments, she was a princess, with a string of pearls, a lacey
dress, and high-topped shoes. But when her well-worn, brown shoe struck the
plank of the landing, Mathilda was brought back to reality. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">“Mathilda,
milk,” hollered the head cook. Mathilda knew this English word so she picked up
her long skirt, creaked open the back door, and tiptoed through the dry grass
spikes to the barn. She often envied the boys who spent their time tending to
the cows and chickens in the slatted barn. At least they had a bit of outside air.
Even though it was the first part of October, the weather had been so dry that
the house was even more stifling and humid than usual. The night air was a
welcome relief. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">The
barn boy nodded and handed her a pail. He didn’t speak as it would have been
useless. Like Mathilda, he only had a few words of English in his vocabulary.
She tried to peek in and noticed the lantern and few tiny stones that afforded
them a multitude of imaginative games. How she wished that she, too, could work
in the barn. At least nightfall would bring time for something other than work.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Mathilda
handed the milk pail to the cook, but tried not to meet her eyes. She didn’t
want to be pulled into the kitchen work. She turned around quickly and forced
her feet to run silently up the back stairs to her tiny quarters off one of the
daughter’s rooms. She could sleep tonight as the 14 year-old was not home to
yell for help. The family was returning from their summer home along Lake
Superior. Mathilda smiled. Her brother lived in Michigan. Perhaps they would be
carrying a letter from him. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Suddenly
there was a chorus of voices. These were frightened yells! Mathilda ran to the
landing. The window framed a strange picture. Men, boys, women, and girls were
racing from the houses that lined the street. For a few seconds she nearly
laughed as they streamed from the wooden shelters. Who knew this many people
were hemmed into Chicago’s rows of wooden homes and businesses? But the colors
that roared closer with each second slapped her back to reality. Brilliant
orange and red swaths lit the black smoke that bellowed down the streets.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> “Come Mathilda,” screamed Cook. Mathilda
didn’t hesitate. She raced down the stairs and into the streets. She was
panting, afraid to turn and look at the flames she was sure were lapping at her
back. Out of breath, she stumbled to the small bridge over the river; panic
lighting every inch of her already exhausted body. As her feet hit the uneven
planks, she nearly tripped. She lunged forward, heart racing, as she knew she
would be trampled if she couldn’t catch herself. In the struggle to stay
upright, Mathilda’s right shoe flew off. Her mind raced. This was her only pair
of shoes. But the frightened voices, yelling in what seemed like a hundred
different languages, spurred her on. As she ran forward toward the spikes of
grass, she hopped a bit to allow her shoed left foot to land more forcefully on
the ground. Rational thought gave way to the instinct as she joined the throng
of the frightened. Mathilda ran and ran and ran. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Eighty
years later Mathilda had no clear memory of how she got to Michigan. In her
mind, she just kept running….all the way from Chicago to her brother’s home.
But her recall of those few moments during the Great Chicago Fire was always
clear. She was the Cinderella of October 1871. She had escaped her life of servitude,
leaving behind her shoe; and in true fairy tale fashion, lived happily ever
after, to celebrate 100 years of age, when she shared this legend with those who
gathered to hail this Cinderella Centenarian. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<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/AVvXsEjjvM7oqUQi50rwBIVV62Q0kRt5DFF8_9NpXrCw5oKQBUukSPZVdlHO2N5WO7IDyiVdrUTX1G5Wj-4zrJZoaOhJMmSSErxF8o8HiNz3LPHeRd2JaCpGqx8TtQUELN9SPE_vQyzYL65nvg/s1600/Auntie+Grant+p.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjvM7oqUQi50rwBIVV62Q0kRt5DFF8_9NpXrCw5oKQBUukSPZVdlHO2N5WO7IDyiVdrUTX1G5Wj-4zrJZoaOhJMmSSErxF8o8HiNz3LPHeRd2JaCpGqx8TtQUELN9SPE_vQyzYL65nvg/s1600/Auntie+Grant+p.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Auntie Grant, my grandmother, and mother, circa 1932, Ishpeming, MI</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>Kathy Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07081078362823193683noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4981210582635304670.post-72322920744103305562012-06-27T05:49:00.001-07:002012-06-28T06:53:18.356-07:00Knocking Down a Brick Wall With a Mouse<style>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyeGKi-WfMAyUG32mUqDJnYHiVKa_ieF4TnVvdoi5a3vSpA9DAmEHFvhNGIPdNlmVgmit-EldliZx3mWPThtfgxeaHXsi-I5gD77AGEQvoBInHtGdKk6QYUZWrCtjrGn1zGWo8BTSJyw/s1600/Lamerton+Kathy+Sign+for+Blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyeGKi-WfMAyUG32mUqDJnYHiVKa_ieF4TnVvdoi5a3vSpA9DAmEHFvhNGIPdNlmVgmit-EldliZx3mWPThtfgxeaHXsi-I5gD77AGEQvoBInHtGdKk6QYUZWrCtjrGn1zGWo8BTSJyw/s320/Lamerton+Kathy+Sign+for+Blog.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A trip to Devon to unearth information</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Past – January 2012</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Are we going fishing today?” When
my husband asked, it took me a few moments to understand what he meant. Despite
his tramping through a multitude of graveyards and poking around registrars’
offices, I couldn’t imagine that he would want to take time out to cast a line
into the water. After all, we were in the rolling hills of Devon. Where might
he do this anyway? Then it dawned on me. He meant microfiche. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Greg had squinted at the dull
screen in far too many spots on my ‘ancestor search trip,’ far more than any
genealogy-obsessed wife has the right to expect. He had assisted me, even
encouraged me as we raced the afternoon setting sun to ascertain names on
lichen-covered markers and resolved to look at “just one more” microfiche reel.
After all, we had traveled from the United States to search, so we had to make
the most of these three weeks. But now
we were nearing the end of our expedition. And we were leaving with one mystery unsolved. </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja5lLGOZl3HGMThS_yzJEBpW_Pd8z2EBM9ijx_Ei2t1_RCKvc8w8lWgAgOENCSja_AjidTK_mYccURXJPJLUa1oh9EFAUGNTrkPA2n4PKQidrs-doRRP9e3vbvrdPdVCqxBhGZpoYs1w/s1600/Elizabeth+Richards+Scan.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja5lLGOZl3HGMThS_yzJEBpW_Pd8z2EBM9ijx_Ei2t1_RCKvc8w8lWgAgOENCSja_AjidTK_mYccURXJPJLUa1oh9EFAUGNTrkPA2n4PKQidrs-doRRP9e3vbvrdPdVCqxBhGZpoYs1w/s320/Elizabeth+Richards+Scan.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elizabeth's card, from her days as an unmarried girl in Lamerton, Devon</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
My 3X great grandfather, Thomas
Richards, had lost his life in an accident.
The circumstances behind this calamity mattered to me as I had resolved
to understand the women on whose shoulders I stood. If I wanted a complete portrait of his
daughter, Elizabeth Richards Millman, I had to know what happened to her
father, Thomas Richards. Yes, I had his death certificate, noting he died on
December 14, 1864. But Elizabeth was a
six-year-old child and surely this catastrophe impacted her greatly. What had
happened? Was this a work-related
mishap? Did he die in some type of altercation? Was there anything illicit? I knew there had been an inquest as this was
noted on his death certificate. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Because I believed his death likely
influenced young Elizabeth, I could not let it go with the words “in an
accident.” For a year and a half my
fingers had clicked through documents on various websites in an attempt to
resolve this mystery. Now, here we were in
Devon, hoping to finally solve the question of Thomas Richards’ death but
locals in Lamerton, parish records, and the Devon Family History Society could
shed no light on this calamity.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
As we checked out of the Browns Hotel
in Tavistock, the desk clerk suggested we try the local library as it likely
had old copies of newspapers. Could there be an obituary or report of the
accident? We headed for this repository
filled with hope only to be met with another failure. It was closed on Wednesdays! My husband
gritted his teeth and headed for Plymouth, determined to ‘fiche’ for Thomas one
last time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Pulling into the car park of the
university library, I felt the internal click of a clock, as I knew we needed
to be in London. Quickly explaining what we wanted, the research librarians
suggested several papers and brought reels of microfilm. Greg and I divided the
task, turning the knobs, squinting at the blurry screen as we hurriedly scanned
for any information. Nothing. This was a stubborn brick wall. Like so many of
my ancestors, Thomas was a laborer. He came from nothing and would die with
nothing. Likely his passing impacted few outside of his immediate family. Sadly
it seemed he was not important enough to deserve a mention in the paper. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I returned home with no more
information about Thomas as when I had left the comfort of my home office in
Annapolis, Maryland. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Present – June 2012</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
New to
Twitter, my feed seemed to be an endless string of information.
But something caught my attention. The British Newspaper Archive. This
had been dangling in the back regions of my brain. A librarian in Plymouth had recommended
it, and a writer in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Devon Family
Historian</i> mentioned the site, too. Now with a few clicks of my mouse, its
mass of data sat before my eyes. I typed Thomas Richards into the search
engine, but first made the mistake of limiting the area to Devon. Using the
dates December 14 1864, the day he died and December 16, 1864, the day of the
inquest, I next chose “All” for the area. As I waited for the circle to swirl,
I thought back, just six months ago to the eye-straining and backbreaking work
of ‘fiching,’ and said a soft thank you to the computer programmers who made
this so easy. And in those nanoseconds, I felt a pit in my stomach. My heart
fluttered. Somehow I knew.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And there
it was. An article in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The London Daily
News</i> finished Thomas’ story. He had died on his way to work at the Devon
Great Consols Mine. “The earthwork gave way” when they stopped at Wheal Josiah.
The man he was with died instantly. Thomas had injuries. I knew he wouldn’t
live to see the next sunrise. There was nothing sordid. There was nothing disreputable. Two laborers had simply left their homes,
walked to work, and died when the mined-earth opened. From where I sit today it
seems a simple story. But in 1864, for a six-year-old and her mother, it was a
life-changing event. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thanks to the British Newspaper Archive, my data are
complete. I now begin to write, Elizabeth’s Story. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSzYizMrM3GBKfP9Odd1cLFzlZLnPUBrm9TNCjaial6GDptOdy4H5RlTSb3sWCD2A_Jo4CNccwmGN_a8zTL7VsZAYRshFxIw3JoUS4kGV7pQpatTjgrFbt7B3-EJLO94TuZP3WWXpY6g/s1600/Four+generations+mom+myrt+cody+eliz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSzYizMrM3GBKfP9Odd1cLFzlZLnPUBrm9TNCjaial6GDptOdy4H5RlTSb3sWCD2A_Jo4CNccwmGN_a8zTL7VsZAYRshFxIw3JoUS4kGV7pQpatTjgrFbt7B3-EJLO94TuZP3WWXpY6g/s320/Four+generations+mom+myrt+cody+eliz.jpg" width="192" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Four generations: Elizabeth Richards Millman holds my mother, circa 1931</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">, Negaunee, MI, USA</td></tr>
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<br /></div>Kathy Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07081078362823193683noreply@blogger.com2