tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45263092045620587612024-03-16T10:01:37.735-07:00Ohio's Yesterdays Stories about Ohio's people, places, and events inspired by the Manuscripts Collections of the Rutherford B. Hayes Presidential Library and Museums.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger308125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526309204562058761.post-8954778290513638472024-03-14T13:18:00.000-07:002024-03-16T10:01:05.760-07:00 John Brown Jr. and the “Pirates” of Put in Bay<p style="text-align: center;"> <i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large; text-align: center;"><b>Guest Post by Nathaniel R. Ricks</b></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><b> HPLM Summer 2023Manuscripts Intern</b></i></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;">In 1867, long before its heyday of partying, the</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"> village of Put in Bay on Lake Erie’s South
Bass Island was just barely developing a knack for hosting tourists. Drawn to
its War of 1812 connection, beautiful vistas, mild climate, easily accessible
caves, and growing number of vintners, it became common in the postbellum
period for individuals, families, and even large groups to visit the island for
a day of merriment. Several services began
offering regular excursions to Put in Bay when the lake wasn’t too stormy to
navigate. On September 4, 1867, for
example, a large group from the Cleveland Fire Department made the trip on the
steamer </span><a href="https://greatlakeships.org/2899395/data?n=2"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;">Ironsides</span></i></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;">. Unfortunately, sharing their boat that
Wednesday was “a gang of roughs and bullies,” wrote island resident John Brown,
Jr., the kind of people in his experience “who attach themselves more or less
to all excursion parties.” In a letter
to his sister-in-law Isabelle Thompson Brown, John described the “sacking” of Put in Bay </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">After touring one of the island caves, the ruffians
“called at the School house and used insulting and obscene language to the
teacher and on leaving threw several stones against the school house.” They then “vented their passion” on the
church building, as <i>The Sandusky Register</i> phrased it a few days later,
“by breaking windows and stoning the building.” Brown also reported that they
broke several lights at the church and “stripped Mrs. Fry’s peach trees,” which
would have been in full fruit in early September. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Upon arriving back at the docks, the bandits stumbled
upon Salmon Brown fairly alone, watching some melons that Lemuel “Lem” Brown, had prepared to sell to
tourists. While keeping one eye on the
melons, Salmon was getting ready to lead a few other gentlemen on a quick boat
tour of the area when “ten or a dozen of these roughs came along and jumped
into the boat attempting to control it entirely.” When Salmon protested, “Some
others of the gang then pitched Salmon off the Dock into the Lake.” In blow-by-blow detail, John described for
his sister-in-law the brawl that ensued, a brawl that would leave him with a
grave injury:</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Salmon got into the boat
as soon as he could and threw the line to have some one make fast, when he was
Knocked down into the boat and beaten.
By this time Lem. came to the boat from the shore through the water and
ordered the scamps out of the boat: upon
this, they set upon him, clinched him, struck and kicked him. – he finally
broke away and seizing an oar gave them a number of good strokes when one of
their number came into the water behind him and Knocked him down and held him
under the water while the mob around shouted “kill him! drown him!” Up to this time I was at the Hotel reading a
newspaper; noticing a rush at the door I looked out and saw the melons flying
from the Dock, and judging that Salmon or Lemuel were in trouble I ran down to
where the crowd was when I saw Lemuel and a man apparently much larger
struggling in the water at about waist deep, Lem appearing to have the worst of
it as he was frequently put under the water, the crowd yelling “drown
him!” I went in immediately to where
they were and seized by the nape of his neck the fellow who was holding Lem
under. I gave him such a jerk as made
him let go pretty quick when he turned on me striking at and endeavoring to
clinch me, but I had such a hold that his shirt collar became too tight and I
shortly had him on his back and under water and commenced towing him ashore. When I had dragged him to within 8 or 10 feet
of the shore some one from the crowd threw a heavy stone hitting me in the
face. My next remembrance is, that some
persons were aiding me up the bank. It
seems that I fell back into the water, and the general word was that I was
killed. This alarmed the mob and they at
once hurried aboard their Boat. I was
the worst hurt of any: the left nostril
of my nose the lower part was cut off, barely hanging to my face, a shocking
gash extending back to the bones of my face.
I was assisted at once to the Hotel, & Dr Elder sewed up the wound,
fastening it also with adhesive straps.
It has now entirely healed externally and I have yet a tolerable nose
left. There will always remain a scar,
shall not otherwise be much disfigured – Am exceedingly thankful it is no
worse. Had the stone hit me in the eye,
fairly on the bridge of the nose instead of the side, or on the head the result
would have been far different. Such a
blow on the skull would in all probability have killed me. Salmon was severely beaten with fists about
the head and face. Lemuel the same, and
in addition had a severe cut with some sharp instrument on the elbow. My coat was cut through with a knife, on the
shoulder I think it was done when the
fellow let go his hold of Lemuel and struck at me. Salmon was bitten on his cheek by the man who
Knocked him down in the boat. We are now
pretty well recovered. The bones of my
face are yet a good deal painful indicating a disturbance there which is not
yet settled. A number of my teeth were
loosened but they have become quite firm again.
If the bones of my face get well without any piece coming out I shall
every reason to feel thankful.</b></span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf9ekBoQXxH0HUOijpgzOBc86sSzo5aVfLVFX59UKwUb0e_AAOIypWMmHq9MSSflDxtCtiUOszY4deZ4wN_XNFLbVgBo_h7v5Q2WNFp4oX6SK9icwYKOpF21vwpQlzsg91j3sOlklLM8a25YTcobP5VS9Ei5qNiwPs6sWX0dMo9DxcfIl10aMAqmkdN-1K/s1177/johnbrownletterforguestpostfromNate.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1177" data-original-width="913" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf9ekBoQXxH0HUOijpgzOBc86sSzo5aVfLVFX59UKwUb0e_AAOIypWMmHq9MSSflDxtCtiUOszY4deZ4wN_XNFLbVgBo_h7v5Q2WNFp4oX6SK9icwYKOpF21vwpQlzsg91j3sOlklLM8a25YTcobP5VS9Ei5qNiwPs6sWX0dMo9DxcfIl10aMAqmkdN-1K/w496-h640/johnbrownletterforguestpostfromNate.jpg" width="496" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>A Portion of John Brown Jr.'s Letter to his sister-in-law<br />John Brown Jr. Papers<br />Charles E. Frohman Collection<br />Hayes Presidential Library and Museums</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%;"><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: medium;">While the attackers escaped initially, within a few
more days the main “ringleaders” had been rounded up on charges of attempted
murder. John Brown did, indeed, suffer
the worst of the injuries sustained that day, and by November he had
deteriorated to necessitate institutionalization for two months at the
Northern Ohio Lunatic Asylum in Newburg, Ohio. His symptoms included uncharacteristically
violent outbursts and mood swings, continuing headaches, panic attacks, lapses
in attention, and “a sort of mental stupor,” he told his sister-in-law in later
letters, “which has unfitted me for writing at all.” He experienced “flashes”
of pain, “up along the left side of my brain much as a great light seemed to
flash up when that stone struck me.” It seems
likely that he suffered what we would call today post-concussion syndrome
following a mild traumatic brain injury from the blow to his face. Exacerbated by exhaustion from tending to
both the Fall grape crop and the injured Lemuel Brown, who broke a leg
during the harvest, John’s mental deterioration in the fall of 1867 seems
unsurprising. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: medium;">After his stay in the asylum, John made a full recovery of his mental faculties, enduring at most a "dizzy feeling at times, with a tendency to faint." He also experienced a great deal of lingering anxiety, anticipating the attackers' May 1868 trial, which he did not want to attend, but was subpoenaed. He avoided writing about the incident after returning home, preferring to move on from the problem with the "pirates." Rather he focused on proving to his family and friends that he was firmly rooted in sanity once again.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia4AFMs9xy0KJ6DQRf0f_l1zoOXPyg_V1-l88EJw8mXuTKGo6djz_MZmuUmqz-KJs513_fRNWbrSJTVD6N-7MbmUFimWiH5M6yu075qvxEH7dIA8fmh00yHmFJAW11rjyoWcClYxe3j05gybkvPihkzFSzfIpcGdf3L3L0O5HzFim55kuvgW9vgPiGAF_m/s406/johnbrownjr2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="406" data-original-width="250" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia4AFMs9xy0KJ6DQRf0f_l1zoOXPyg_V1-l88EJw8mXuTKGo6djz_MZmuUmqz-KJs513_fRNWbrSJTVD6N-7MbmUFimWiH5M6yu075qvxEH7dIA8fmh00yHmFJAW11rjyoWcClYxe3j05gybkvPihkzFSzfIpcGdf3L3L0O5HzFim55kuvgW9vgPiGAF_m/s320/johnbrownjr2.jpg" width="197" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>John Brown Jr<br />John Brown Jr Papers<br />Charles E. Frohman Collection<br />Hayes Presidential Library and Museums<br /><br /></i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span><span style="text-align: left;">John Brown, Jr.’s account of the “brawl” and
descriptions of his condition can be found in his letters to Isabelle Thompson
Brown (“My dear Sister Belle,” ) dated September 6, 1867; December
8, 1867; December 25, 1867; and April 26, 1868, all contained in the John Brown
Jr. papers, part of the Charles E. Frohman Collection at the Rutherford B. Hayes
Presidential Library and Museums.</span><a href="https://www.rbhayes.org/collection-items/charles-e.-frohman-collections/brown-john-jr./" target="_blank"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes; text-align: left;"> <b> </b></span><b style="text-align: left;">Learn
more about Brown’s history and his collected letters at our website</b><span style="text-align: left;">: </span></a></div></span></span></span><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526309204562058761.post-28480619640476912652024-02-25T13:37:00.000-08:002024-02-25T13:37:03.454-08:00WWII Congressional Medal of Honor Recipient Pvt. Rodger Young<p> </p><table align="center" bgcolor="#ffffff" border="0" cellpadding="8" cellspacing="0" style="background-color: white; height: 227px; width: 454px;"><tbody><tr><td align="center" valign="top"><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF6ayJXKy_mI7kWMmY2HL5_LH9Ska8GlBqiFKjVCpeuhz9aDFCHseZhYPSFmtenT2jpgno0QzNVDxxfQju22sWzVnn6OgU0KvH0T-o_oO6u6_mRzlJ9MWu0p6Dg_zdhAIZwJ5DEOq_YqvxZKmYyyi9zFkwQkSeSwzk77xVb1oK9kLv3IJzQbY1kwzhwEid/s529/Rodger%20Young.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="529" data-original-width="375" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF6ayJXKy_mI7kWMmY2HL5_LH9Ska8GlBqiFKjVCpeuhz9aDFCHseZhYPSFmtenT2jpgno0QzNVDxxfQju22sWzVnn6OgU0KvH0T-o_oO6u6_mRzlJ9MWu0p6Dg_zdhAIZwJ5DEOq_YqvxZKmYyyi9zFkwQkSeSwzk77xVb1oK9kLv3IJzQbY1kwzhwEid/w284-h400/Rodger%20Young.jpg" width="284" /></span></a></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /><span style="color: #990033;"><b><span style="color: #0000cc;"><span style="color: #990033;"><b><span face="Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="color: black;"><b>Biographical Sketch of Rodger W. Young</b></span></b></span></span></b></span></span></p></td></tr></tbody></table><p align="center"><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="font-size: medium;"><b>Written by: Larry Cook</b></span></p><p><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="font-size: large;">Rodger Wilton Young was born April 28, 1918 in Tiffin, Ohio to Mr. & Mrs. Nicholas Young. He had three brothers and one sister. The Young family lived in Green Springs, Ohio, moving to nearby Clyde shortly before the outbreak of World War II. While growing up Rodger spent much time fishing and hunting and acquired the nickname "Fuzz" one day hunting rabbits.</span></p><p><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="font-size: large;">Rodger joined Company B 148th Infantry (the Fremont Company) of the Ohio National Guard in January 1938. At that time Rodger, who was always small, was 5'2" tall and weighed 125 pounds - one of the smallest men in the outfit. In October 1940 the Guard unit was activated as part of the 37th Infantry Division under Major General Robert Beightler. The company trained at Camp Shelby, Mississippi and Indiantown Gap Military Reservation, Pennsylvania. Rodger served as an instructor on the rifle range, won marksmanship medals, and was a sergeant and squad leader when the company left the United States for the South Pacific.</span></p><p><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="font-size: large;">The unit went first to the Fiji Islands and then to New Georgia in the Solomon Islands. Rodger suffered from poor hearing, the result of an incident during a high school basketball game and aggravated by the sound of gunfire at the firing range. Concerned that he would not hear an important order or some significant sound in the jungle during a mission, he asked to be demoted back to the rank of private and have someone else lead the squad.</span></p><p><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="font-size: large;">On July 31, 1943, Young's squad was pinned down by a hidden Japanese machine gun nest protecting the Munda airstrip on New Georgia. Rodger, wounded by the initial burst of fire, spotted the location of the gun. Firing his rifle and attracting the fire of the enemy, he crept forward and was wounded a second time. When he was close enough, he began throwing hand grenades, was hit again and killed. His heroic efforts allowed his squad to withdraw with no additional losses while inflicting several casualties on the Japanese. For this action, Rodger Young was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor in January 1944. About a year later this story came to the attention of Pfc. Frank Loesser who, already established as a writer of popular songs, wrote "The Ballad of Rodger Young".</span></p><p align="center"><br /></p><p><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="font-size: large;">The Governor of Ohio, Frank J. Lausche, proclaimed March 25, 1945 as "Rodger W. Young Day" in Ohio. On that day a celebration was held in Fremont, Ohio honoring Rodger and his gallantry. The day's activities culminated in the dedication of Fremont's Water Works Park as Rodger W. Young Memorial Park.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipYzJzjwM8r4VxEjXwq8dZvfpulgvFI7rmLrpFa_VfqzTagRYs7RYLwH_91B0MEGYQOlmAE8M_YF3A8V0LVh_qdGHi9Micl7j-VRD75Ds9Beh0_r2VjOBOziT90AasOU-Vrdru3CDUHafCmccapmpMqdW6dkMbIkiJ_CD0nU6qnSSWfPSf3usscx1RIG73/s504/Roger%20Young%20Parade_jpg.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="504" data-original-width="367" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipYzJzjwM8r4VxEjXwq8dZvfpulgvFI7rmLrpFa_VfqzTagRYs7RYLwH_91B0MEGYQOlmAE8M_YF3A8V0LVh_qdGHi9Micl7j-VRD75Ds9Beh0_r2VjOBOziT90AasOU-Vrdru3CDUHafCmccapmpMqdW6dkMbIkiJ_CD0nU6qnSSWfPSf3usscx1RIG73/w291-h400/Roger%20Young%20Parade_jpg.jpg" width="291" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Pvt. Rodger Young Parade, Fremont, Ohio<br />Courtesy of Hayes Presidential Library and Museums</b></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="text-align: left;">In 1949 Young's remains were returned to the United States and he is now buried in McPherson Cemetery, Clyde, Ohio.</span></span><p></p><p align="left"><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p align="left"> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-oPnwyBWzyAMCr2FY7l7Vhaun-jIf_arkukmELU7y4Sid98awBBMJhcp_VisAFjH-0rYtEDrjLahcKzpLpdPWeSKPZMcfB_TRsO-3siWwvKCl6YosIhtgivCTa739td9JBE0DCRhtBPH8aBx1szqglgLhF2xhwiNlSO0nszeSZBDCWs3Q3DogDfaPwbzs/s408/RodgerYoungcoffin.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><i><b><img border="0" data-original-height="271" data-original-width="408" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-oPnwyBWzyAMCr2FY7l7Vhaun-jIf_arkukmELU7y4Sid98awBBMJhcp_VisAFjH-0rYtEDrjLahcKzpLpdPWeSKPZMcfB_TRsO-3siWwvKCl6YosIhtgivCTa739td9JBE0DCRhtBPH8aBx1szqglgLhF2xhwiNlSO0nszeSZBDCWs3Q3DogDfaPwbzs/w400-h266/RodgerYoungcoffin.jpg" width="400" /></b></i></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Return of the Remains of Pvt. Rodger Young<br />AP Photo: Courtesy of Hayes Presidential Library and Museum</b></i>s</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p align="center"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx24K340XRFs-7jKdXIaMQb5tV8l3ZcLTcPtMm-9DNWTdeNi6TqMShxuvfPffI3-wVCpqfeOXf_7e5xof8Ape5Z3NN6l3WBF9vp-7knAQ7jZ0cEsilnRAkYZLn47yC1g0S3q-tWTVz0GpmNFNUbIPH7UEOpqYd5-8joURdsrlJGom7tNs05ZHdV2NrpjiR/s2590/tombstone2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1934" data-original-width="2590" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx24K340XRFs-7jKdXIaMQb5tV8l3ZcLTcPtMm-9DNWTdeNi6TqMShxuvfPffI3-wVCpqfeOXf_7e5xof8Ape5Z3NN6l3WBF9vp-7knAQ7jZ0cEsilnRAkYZLn47yC1g0S3q-tWTVz0GpmNFNUbIPH7UEOpqYd5-8joURdsrlJGom7tNs05ZHdV2NrpjiR/w400-h299/tombstone2.jpg" width="400" /></a></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Rodger Young Gravesite, McPherson Cemetery, Clyde, Ohio </i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="text-align: left;"><b>Courtesy of Find a Grave</b></i></div><p align="center"><i><b><span style="font-size: large;">*************************************</span></b></i></p><p align="center"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><i>[Text of President Franklin D. Roosevelt's citation upon presentation of the Medal of Honor</i>]</span></p><p align="center"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br />The President of the United States takes pride in awarding the Medal of Honor posthumously to</span></p><p align="center"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">PRIVATE RODGER W. YOUNG, COMPANY B, 148th</span></p><p align="center"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">INFANTRY, UNITED STATES ARMY</span></p><p align="left"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> for service as set forth in the following</span></p><blockquote><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">CITATION:</span></p></blockquote><p align="left"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">"For distinguishing himself conspicuously by gallantry and intrepidity above and beyond the call of duty in action with the enemy on New Georgia, Solomon Islands. On 31 July 1943, the infantry company, of which Private Young was a member, was ordered to make a limited withdrawal from the battle line in order to adjust the battalion's position for the night. At this time, Private Young's platoon was engaged with the enemy in a dense jungle where observation was very limited. The platoon suddenly was pinned down by intense fire from a Japanese machine-gun concealed on higher ground only seventy-five yards away. The initial burst wounded Private Young. As the platoon started to obey the order to withdraw, Private Young called out the he could see the enemy emplacement, whereupon he started creeping toward it. Another burst from the machine-gun wounded him the second time. Despite his wounds, he continued his heroic advance, attracting enemy fire and answering with rifle fire. When he was close enough to his objective, he began throwing hand grenades and while doing so was hit again and killed. Private Young's bold action in closing with this Japanese pillbox and thus diverting its fire, permitted his platoon to disengage itself, without loss, and was responsible for several enemy casualties."</span></p><p align="left"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Franklin D. Roosevelt </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfp6YWNdNcj9hIoXXONtPmmE1xyLMaYR3llALi37a7mMf_cqH-j6V3ARqtvW6Lsb8rp2ZN5FpEihGnVOub60RVM_Ht_uEOtj1B8M9pS562XTGP6l0t4QvtF6pO8hwz6r8OAnaQiChwgq73pe9bpGA7QM6WXiYnzozNEcLVcSQ11SmIxLxY4mvoWcpqwMTU/s640/RodgerMedal%20of%20honor.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfp6YWNdNcj9hIoXXONtPmmE1xyLMaYR3llALi37a7mMf_cqH-j6V3ARqtvW6Lsb8rp2ZN5FpEihGnVOub60RVM_Ht_uEOtj1B8M9pS562XTGP6l0t4QvtF6pO8hwz6r8OAnaQiChwgq73pe9bpGA7QM6WXiYnzozNEcLVcSQ11SmIxLxY4mvoWcpqwMTU/w400-h300/RodgerMedal%20of%20honor.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-weight: bold;">Private Rodger Young Medal of Honor</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Courtesy of Hayes Presidential Library and Museums</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span><span style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;">**************************************************</span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br />Reminiscence of Fellow Soldier William Ridenour</span></span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p style="font-style: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white; text-align: -webkit-left;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">"We didn't know how we were going to get out - we were surrounded by the Japanese. We were all in a semi-circle, and we lit up our ammunition. We had to burn it up. That's one of the lessons you learn, not to leave any ammunition for the enemies to use on you." - William Ridenour, saved by Pvt. Rodger W. Young during World War II in the Solomon Islands, July 31, 1943. </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="text-align: left;">B</span><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">eing shot at by the Japanese, with only his fox hole to curl into, William F. Ridenour, now 72, of Fremont, thought he was a dead man that day in 1943.</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large; text-align: left;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">And then came Pvt. Rodger W. Young, the man who, despite being injured, continued his drive to save the lives of his comrades. He lost his own life doing just that. </span><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">"He was a good guy, a little strong-headed," Ridenour said, reminiscing about that fateful day, 50 years ago today. "A lot of times, he didn't hear." </span><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">It was that "hearing problem" that led Young, only six weeks prior to his heroic acts, to ask his captain that he be reduced in rank, from staff sergeant to private, so he would not jeopardize the lives of his comrades. </span><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">We were given up as annihilated," Ridenour said about his fellow soldiers, members of the 148th Infantry, 37th Division, company B of the Ohio National Guard. "You had to keep your tail down."</span></span></p></div><br /><span style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;">Excerpted from a Fremont News Messenger article by</span><br /><div style="font-size: large; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Shari L. Veleba dtd. July 31, 1993</span></span></i></div><div style="font-size: large; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></i></div><div style="font-size: large; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>***************************************************************</span></span></i></div><div style="font-size: large; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></i></div></span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b><span style="font-size: large;">A version of this post once appeared on Sandusky-County-Scrapbook</span></b></i></div><p align="left"><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p align="right"><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526309204562058761.post-3564055637601402132024-02-20T12:21:00.000-08:002024-02-20T12:21:53.133-08:00An Ohio Nature Journal<p style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><b>Guest Post by Barbara Paff </b></span></i></p><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Some thirty years ago, Barbara Paff began keeping a nature journal, detailing the pleasures of rural living in Rice Township<span style="background-color: #fdf869;">,</span> Sandusky County, Ohio. During those years, Barb was a librarian at the Hayes Presidential Library/Archive, while her husband, the Rev. Richard Moe, was pastor of Trinity Lutheran Church<span style="background-color: #fdf869;">,</span> then located at 3077 County Road 170 in Rice Township. They lived in the parsonage on the south side of the church. In 2004 they moved to Barb’s home town of East Lansing, Michigan, where she continues to enjoy gardening, albeit in a much smaller urban space…but still with plenty of wildlife.</span></span></i></p><div dir="ltr" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>An enthusiastic observer of nature, Ohio's changing seasons, and the wildlife around her, Barb has shared some of her insightful journal entries, recorded during her time in Ohio, describing quotidian events, plants and creatures that interested and delighted her</i>. <i>Enjoy!</i></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br clear="none" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /></div><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b><i>1993</i></b></span></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-656b6b07-7fff-1025-cfd6-2d55c9224852"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><b>Jan 3</b> </i>- On New Year’s Day, after 3” of rain, the creek flooded almost up to the road, leaving a dead pumpkin in Jim’s pasture, along with piles of sticks and other flood detritus.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Some of the mornings and evenings lately have been so still that you can hear a bird’s wings as it flies overhead–even small birds. The flocks of Canada geese sound like a rope whipped in circles. Saw a coyote again, early morning, as before.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Strange weather for January—vacillates every few days, from 50 degrees to 15 degrees, and back again. Can’t be good for plants. Forsythia bloomed this past fall—lilac buds are ready to pop now—rose bushes may not survive even with heavy leaf mulch.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7xWFkqXJoU8CvxV1ANVHxqZ3BxicZSCnvKlrYtamfVHqWYKHIm70VFCZSU7CR-Hix2bsIBCEcIs5y8z1AOqC9sTseIdeuXK07S-dHVXZjh7wnQBQR75qwInYS1jNw7wt1xK5hMfh3BrSU9Bsn-MkGOmDDLvfj1KZF14mN_GCqpEb5G09p3aWqGx2vXWmt/s940/floodedfieldedited4.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="651" data-original-width="940" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7xWFkqXJoU8CvxV1ANVHxqZ3BxicZSCnvKlrYtamfVHqWYKHIm70VFCZSU7CR-Hix2bsIBCEcIs5y8z1AOqC9sTseIdeuXK07S-dHVXZjh7wnQBQR75qwInYS1jNw7wt1xK5hMfh3BrSU9Bsn-MkGOmDDLvfj1KZF14mN_GCqpEb5G09p3aWqGx2vXWmt/w400-h278/floodedfieldedited4.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Flooded Fields <br />Courtesy of Barbara Paff</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i style="font-weight: bold;">Jan 4 - </i>More rain, 1-½”, still raining, 55 degrees.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpXiHZjmNnMMlDUzW_3tVOfFqZCLZ2O7H_SrbhJW5__2BFCZthvscCxOwNOJ-Rs2WZmJV7Eau5Gmfh7PQkR274pLXtz-7mYl5epXVylLDJXs5EA1UaX72BYeioImtV-Ku9na0X5MFwZirxdvXMxTLiEDUECsEvDp_gF1DsbIUoqWbLFExLFBVeB2QInb6x/s888/floodedfield2edited2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="608" data-original-width="888" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpXiHZjmNnMMlDUzW_3tVOfFqZCLZ2O7H_SrbhJW5__2BFCZthvscCxOwNOJ-Rs2WZmJV7Eau5Gmfh7PQkR274pLXtz-7mYl5epXVylLDJXs5EA1UaX72BYeioImtV-Ku9na0X5MFwZirxdvXMxTLiEDUECsEvDp_gF1DsbIUoqWbLFExLFBVeB2QInb6x/w400-h274/floodedfield2edited2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Flooding<br />Courtesy of Barbara Paff</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i style="font-weight: bold;">Jan 8 -</i> Cold, with NE wind and flurries. Feels more like January should. I’m uneasy when it’s too warm and no snow. One nice thing about all this rain (for me, not for the farmers) is that it’s too wet to plow, so the fields around us still have cornstalks to soften the landscape, and a bit of corn for the doves and geese to glean. Looks the way winter fields</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> should</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> look!</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i style="font-weight: bold;">Jan 12 -</i> Real snow and bitter cold this week, and I found out the mourning doves are out there. Counted about 20 at the feeder this morning. Before, hadn’t seen more than one or two. Hearing a lot of geese lately, too—wondered all fall where they were. The snow this week also brought us a pair of cardinals and numerous juncos. Have not seen the wacko male cardinal who pounds on windows, though—he was around until recently, thwacking the panes.</span></p><span><b><i><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/AVvXsEg5q5yPUEp-zOfEIjiq3mkPushqub9mgdRtRweDgiWW8iqfP5kyxxfvCz50R9hHUpvhSx2ZY5Ba3_l0EJBnJpzH8HVxPPev56U0QXYGbrRpiA3Ar4HhTsL-VN52LH4lX8niVJYNVxM6XqfzRLyoD9JGzAfDE3Bsgb8DB0L5MLq5TCBzXqKC9xEvWMmga9R0/s480/junco.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5q5yPUEp-zOfEIjiq3mkPushqub9mgdRtRweDgiWW8iqfP5kyxxfvCz50R9hHUpvhSx2ZY5Ba3_l0EJBnJpzH8HVxPPev56U0QXYGbrRpiA3Ar4HhTsL-VN52LH4lX8niVJYNVxM6XqfzRLyoD9JGzAfDE3Bsgb8DB0L5MLq5TCBzXqKC9xEvWMmga9R0/s320/junco.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Junco<br />Courtesy of allaboutbirds.org</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="font-size: large; text-align: center;"><br /></div></i></b></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i style="font-weight: bold;">Jan 14 - </i>Yesterday they were cutting dead trees at Spiegel Grove, and dislodged a raccoon who was undoubtedly cozily nested for the winter—I wonder how many weeks’ worth of stored fat hibernation energy it lost in escaping and trying to find another safe place? At least it seems likely there’ll be food available in the grove, even just corn or birdseed.</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i style="font-weight: bold;">Jan 15 -</i> Today there were 3 redwing blackbirds at the feeder, at least 4-5 weeks earlier than I’ve ever seen them in the 10 years we’ve lived here. Usually it’s late February.</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b style="font-style: italic;">Jan 16 - </b>A killdeer, in January? Saw one fly up out of a field at dusk tonight. Seeing lots of geese—odd they weren’t around in Nov-Dec when corn was picked.</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b style="font-style: italic;">Jan 22 - </b>Lots of geese today, circling, landing, circling again. Walt’s unhappy that they’re eating (and killing) the winter wheat sprouts—green salad, to them! Too much gray weather—Black Swamp weather, we call it—rained all day again. But on clear days, the sun is higher—stays light out until nearly 6 pm!</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b style="font-style: italic;">Jan 31 </b>- Very windy since Fri., but so sunny today it seemed like spring (40’s). Tulip and daffodil tips are up, on north side of the church. Not many birds at the feeder—must be finding food elsewhere when there’s no snow.</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i style="font-weight: bold;">Feb 6 - </i>COLD again—a touch of snow. The air was full of diamond dust all day. Full moon tonight, skating between the clouds. Somebody has dug a burrow under the front window…somebody small-ish. Not a woodchuck, anyway.</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i style="font-weight: bold;">Feb 7 - </i>Today I found a vole in a tree—a dead vole, to be sure—in a 2-foot spruce, about 18” up, lying on its belly on top of a branch. Dropped there? (How likely is THAT?) Not a likely place for a nap—nor a likely hiding place! Strange. Lovely day, 40 degrees, though the wind was sharp. I took Gabe for a walk up around Jim’s pond, and he couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t let him run out on the ice (it looked pretty thin), so he bit off pieces and </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">chewed</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> it instead. Yup, it’s what retrievers do…</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i><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/AVvXsEiNjjEKRD8sGRpjB9vI93XPYsYTqWgQ_0JXnXptpw-S1aYBoaIsmOiDgXvHahvVj0Mcimf89S-HD3bN_cYisRhgeF-z6CXUsyBlccFCAUnIs-ZRb0qcjfM9OxacCTEiOP9WUyYXU963uXgZYtyWhH6EzVzIL4tMuKd0VryNxnoPYLW-VLX062DnWFn3rZZ3/s665/vole.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="410" data-original-width="665" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNjjEKRD8sGRpjB9vI93XPYsYTqWgQ_0JXnXptpw-S1aYBoaIsmOiDgXvHahvVj0Mcimf89S-HD3bN_cYisRhgeF-z6CXUsyBlccFCAUnIs-ZRb0qcjfM9OxacCTEiOP9WUyYXU963uXgZYtyWhH6EzVzIL4tMuKd0VryNxnoPYLW-VLX062DnWFn3rZZ3/s320/vole.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Vole<br />Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></i></b></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i style="font-weight: bold;">Feb 15 - </i>Wrong about burrow under the window. Creature moved a chunk of cement. Could </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">well</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span> be a woodchuck! Snow on the way—they say up to 6” by a.m. and another 6” tomorrow</span>.<span> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I’m supposed to be at work, and my car has a flat tire. I hope at least “the electric” will stay on, so we have heat and water.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><b>Feb 23</b></i> - Sort of snowed in. This whole last week‘s been Winter….snow, sleet, more snow, and COLD Still some ice on trees, and definitely on everything else. Gabe has noticed that something has burrowed under the window. Paw prints like a human foot, only fat. Coon or possum? Don’t know if it’s still under the bush or just its scent, but Gabe is fascinated. Anyway, it isn't in the original burrow, and it can’t be digging far in this weather (10 degrees).</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b style="font-style: italic;">Feb 24 -</b> New bird at the feeder—a horned lark. We saw them once before, several years ago, also during a bitterly cold, windy spell with a lot of snow. Couldn’t see the “horns” on this one, but the markings are very distinctive. Last time, there was a whole army of them, and they marched along looking for food, in synchronized choreography.</span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Y2WfGOVeuxm8qiKEEk_ujlPLeARjjejzfw7TvDN28vhH2BsWrDB7sn7wjgmIkaxlEFKGswPnVRG8DToc-BWOx8XUBCfUz-UGpSSGGolfVe9kMVp5XlIcLDUqmAdnVJTrKWsRkbwmZU6rGoPT7wt3Hck0lP4lDgyQxIoXx56eUchnJz7REniGHC1a9tS7/s1200/larkspur.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="635" data-original-width="1200" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Y2WfGOVeuxm8qiKEEk_ujlPLeARjjejzfw7TvDN28vhH2BsWrDB7sn7wjgmIkaxlEFKGswPnVRG8DToc-BWOx8XUBCfUz-UGpSSGGolfVe9kMVp5XlIcLDUqmAdnVJTrKWsRkbwmZU6rGoPT7wt3Hck0lP4lDgyQxIoXx56eUchnJz7REniGHC1a9tS7/s320/larkspur.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Horned Larkspur<br />Courtesy of allaboutbirds.org</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></i></b></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i style="font-weight: bold;">Mar 5 -</i> Another ice and snow blast yesterday, after some “springlike” days. Power out for 13 hours—lots of birds and bunnies at the feeder—the lark pair disappears when it’s warmer, but they were back yesterday!</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i style="font-weight: bold;">Mar 8 - </i>Thousands of geese—in the sky, in the fields—I watched 6 swans with one flock. Hmm, isn’t it “6 geese a-laying, 7 swans a-swimming”? Well, this was 6 </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">swans</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">—white, </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">long</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> necks, black feet and bill. My books say probably whistling swans. Thought maybe snow geese, but their necks were so long—can’t find a good description of snow geese.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Lots of cowbirds at the feeder. The earth seems poised for spring… Haven’t seen redwings again, though. One of these mornings they’ll be out there shrieking with that piercing SCREEK!</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQUHWMqKps60xTcKyMqB2iUB9sy6HMdxB9dL27ZsHMSa5vhQJ4BukP-di69xdTeONLBsqQS_Er2rxiFZIVn-fGboB-yAfY-dhJ0aCC4JnpUiwg3R9rwn_nx7xVN9feoqFdY3mE9wA0YsBPXXwzNjXjD8YoEZCU49225w2-jTD-Dq6Cd-QoD7mJSvC5EARp/s612/swans.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><b><i><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQUHWMqKps60xTcKyMqB2iUB9sy6HMdxB9dL27ZsHMSa5vhQJ4BukP-di69xdTeONLBsqQS_Er2rxiFZIVn-fGboB-yAfY-dhJ0aCC4JnpUiwg3R9rwn_nx7xVN9feoqFdY3mE9wA0YsBPXXwzNjXjD8YoEZCU49225w2-jTD-Dq6Cd-QoD7mJSvC5EARp/s320/swans.jpg" width="320" /></i></b></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Whistling Swans<br />Courtesy of G Johnston Photos</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i style="font-weight: bold;">Mar 9 -</i> Looks like another year for sick raccoons—had to call Walt this a.m. to shoot one that was huddled against the parish hall, shivering. It didn’t even try to run from Gabe (who was a good boy and left it alone when I told him to).</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Tonight at dusk, I saw several small flocks of swans flying low overhead—they sound quite different from geese, not quite as strident, and their wings make a different sound from the whistling of goose wings—there’s a kind of “burr” in it. I think that now I could tell them from geese even if they were really high—their necks are so long, and they fly with necks extended<i style="font-weight: bold;">.</i></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b style="font-style: italic;">Mar 11 - </b>Saw a BIG flock of swans today. Flying against a backdrop of “cloudy and snowing,” they are like ghosts. Their bodies almost disappear into the grey, but their graceful necks show up, and their wings, being whiter, seem to shimmer rather than flap. Reminds me of an illustration somewhere in a children’s book, which I assumed at the time to be a fantasy rendering. (Maybe Hans Christian Andersen?)</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Redwings are everywhere now, and at the feeders. Gotta find out when to put up bluebird and wren houses.</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i style="font-weight: bold;">Mar 27 -</i> Fog. Seems like weeks of it. Depressing. The good news: bulbs and other things are sprouting, sweet peas, rhubarb, etc. A pair of cardinals is nesting in the big pine. Did I mention that song sparrows and white-throated sparrows have been back for weeks?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">The sad news: someone dumped a box with a litter of half grown kittens on the road—the mother was hit and killed, and the kittens stayed huddled together by a post, waiting for her to come back, I guess. They didn’t run from me, but were watchful. Fed them—they were REALLY hungry—took them home, but had to take them to our vet. They will probably be put down, but at least won’t freeze or starve, or be eaten. The little black and white one was so scared, she cowered—her little face haunts me. Why are people such utterly cruel and irresponsible jerks?? </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8QHoTHRjyJNjGAC5bmTaU9saEGcUEkikkC8iUVoPI0yJmn94cD-ro-fqXSkiqFVgSQLsSrrVBMDxVZzy_Q5DIBSShtyUeZPU0h-aemIJF8a56ZMXZmv4BLGDpgfv3VzdC_f3hlz9xHHHnDwFjuI4CbS-YF0D2LdhCnYVkoy8SQmT0lEs3Dm2d4AF1ZRbF/s1080/daffodil.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><b><i><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="813" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8QHoTHRjyJNjGAC5bmTaU9saEGcUEkikkC8iUVoPI0yJmn94cD-ro-fqXSkiqFVgSQLsSrrVBMDxVZzy_Q5DIBSShtyUeZPU0h-aemIJF8a56ZMXZmv4BLGDpgfv3VzdC_f3hlz9xHHHnDwFjuI4CbS-YF0D2LdhCnYVkoy8SQmT0lEs3Dm2d4AF1ZRbF/s320/daffodil.jpg" width="241" /></i></b></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Daffodil Sprouting<br />Courtesy of Barbara Paff</b></i></td></tr></tbody></table><b><i><br /></i></b><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i style="font-weight: bold;">Mar 29 -</i> Found 3rd kitten, in the corncrib—longhaired, gold and white with amber eyes, very affectionate, not at all afraid of Gabe. Called the vet. The other two had been adopted, and they thought they knew someone who’d want this one, so I zipped him in to the clinic. Very grateful to them for providing this service to the Humane Society, which has no shelter.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0s3GiSINiHWfk3c1KB1qysPK0YNInDJimNjBcnrQZ4smq5n2Kw24el9Q2L62x-0d7l5VjG7ws3o1qyqQybypuitKSVxrRoKoTecS8V2YtBQW5G3-LhoNdnILWdL5lfEAkUmLgyEaBIgElAyMEJtasc8vWXhGPLLbce2o33Kr-rz7xTeEznMuTZfPofYDJ/s1080/scilla2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0s3GiSINiHWfk3c1KB1qysPK0YNInDJimNjBcnrQZ4smq5n2Kw24el9Q2L62x-0d7l5VjG7ws3o1qyqQybypuitKSVxrRoKoTecS8V2YtBQW5G3-LhoNdnILWdL5lfEAkUmLgyEaBIgElAyMEJtasc8vWXhGPLLbce2o33Kr-rz7xTeEznMuTZfPofYDJ/s320/scilla2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Scilla<br />Courtesy of Barbara Paff</b></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i style="font-weight: bold;">Apr 4 - </i>The man who delivered our new table said he saw a bald eagle take a fish out of Jim’s pond, just across the road! Yesterday Rich saw what he thinks was a heron with a light-colored head. Hmmm… Saw 2 cock pheasants strolling on the turnpike last Sunday—we rarely see or hear those.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b><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/AVvXsEi9L6_I0Zt0y1oBVFwHXz5yjZ_DQbegv7B9sYGVvZ0zf6z3AUHFoftyyQg8g_KfKmpXn0DQZF5wa-0iIL-0mfJsxZKz1vR_OqWQvWVSTkTJgxrXujBPq08sOg9JpQret6aVYk4vU3NUo_TTcCfp9X_caDH113pMcYGovxYk3EiWuevWxSWVYTi-44A_T-h3/s937/cornstubbleedit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="655" data-original-width="937" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9L6_I0Zt0y1oBVFwHXz5yjZ_DQbegv7B9sYGVvZ0zf6z3AUHFoftyyQg8g_KfKmpXn0DQZF5wa-0iIL-0mfJsxZKz1vR_OqWQvWVSTkTJgxrXujBPq08sOg9JpQret6aVYk4vU3NUo_TTcCfp9X_caDH113pMcYGovxYk3EiWuevWxSWVYTi-44A_T-h3/w400-h280/cornstubbleedit.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Heron Flying over Field of Corn Stubble<br />Courtesy of Barbara Paff</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></b></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></i></b></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b style="font-style: italic;">Apr 7 -</b> Warm enough (50’s) for yard cleanup—I’ll be aching tomorrow! </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">So much illness around-not winter stuff, but elderly friends requiring surgery. </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">On the bright side, we did see the sun for a few hours today, and a lovely full moon last night. There are grape hyacinths and at least one tulip coming up where the well was dug up last year and I thought all the bulbs were lost!</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-y5nWO9AfKwg4am0ijojYzYXQAWvc0HLuvKtzjCu7gyBY6lc1Pqf5oMe53fOaK7xiH1th4jf_fvDmRP1yKh_SM0zDl7P0c0r4bezD9GN_ysL4E9jBDEa6ake-PCwPjEaneRyGUw1uJUVJjecAxxmI3877RTpPlbfxQvZmXz-NEtHFjTD5D9fwU2HwpmjG/s1440/grapehyacinth.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><b><i><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-y5nWO9AfKwg4am0ijojYzYXQAWvc0HLuvKtzjCu7gyBY6lc1Pqf5oMe53fOaK7xiH1th4jf_fvDmRP1yKh_SM0zDl7P0c0r4bezD9GN_ysL4E9jBDEa6ake-PCwPjEaneRyGUw1uJUVJjecAxxmI3877RTpPlbfxQvZmXz-NEtHFjTD5D9fwU2HwpmjG/s320/grapehyacinth.jpg" width="240" /></i></b></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Grape Hyacinth<br />Courtesy of Barbara Paff</b></i></td></tr></tbody></table><b><i><br /></i></b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b style="font-style: italic;">Apr 12 -</b> We’re easily entertained. When the ad comes on TV with the pizza delivery man ringing the doorbell repeatedly, we say “Come in!” and Gabe rushes about, trying to decide which door to wag at!</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b style="font-style: italic;">Apr 13 -</b> Saw a kingfisher—first time in several years. Scilla and spring beauties blooming, forsythia too (but only 3 branches at the bottom, because birds picked off all the buds higher up…I watched them during the winter). Somebody has filled the bluebird house with grass—don’t know who—nobody’s in there when I peek.</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b style="font-style: italic;">Apr 20 - </b>Violets blooming, south end of house, purple and white. I miss the big clump of white ones that used to be by the well.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i><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/AVvXsEjfs8SgRStfMIFtPleY-1xWaRzLvWBq1ZcUacBu_uc4OB5dnDLB9clBBYwnfOMKp0NhxwnOu_WKGPiNNz11MtXGrPGbO7fXkbu-a6oBEFKa9PKYG2R2709bPEY6Picxxaq_72Z6aD-pLSKWKAZn0bUuQ3qdDhGvnjmMqGBahsZGxuFrkPsTyZLeJa6PYqf4/s1440/violets.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfs8SgRStfMIFtPleY-1xWaRzLvWBq1ZcUacBu_uc4OB5dnDLB9clBBYwnfOMKp0NhxwnOu_WKGPiNNz11MtXGrPGbO7fXkbu-a6oBEFKa9PKYG2R2709bPEY6Picxxaq_72Z6aD-pLSKWKAZn0bUuQ3qdDhGvnjmMqGBahsZGxuFrkPsTyZLeJa6PYqf4/s320/violets.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i> Violets<br />Courtesy of Barbara Paff</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></i></b></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b style="font-style: italic;">Apr 27 - </b>Last Fri. was glorious, sunny and 60’s—I had the whole day to myself, got lots done, most of it outdoors. Next day ACHING, but it was worth it. Dogtooth violets have leaves but no sign of flowers. Lunaria blooming—didn’t know they came so early. Grass thick enough to mow—looks like summer, but still cold. Foggy this a.m., looked eerie and lovely when the sun broke through, like a volcano land, with wisps of steam rising from the fields and fencerows. Chlorinated the well—hate that job, but if I do it myself I can at least decide WHEN. It takes quite a while to drain off the bleach and empty the water heater.</span></p><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div style="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/AVvXsEje5Qolho0lIHTXVUeFRhEFLQQrYXy3mh48xmSfA-xeb2BQLsunjGDKx7JeuqM93frr-diLYQ4XVosj8vd7fZ_gN933mFBgJQHshaLsMOkVOHK7Xsz3BFX37clMpmwJl7VmVxAsAjT27x-w7t62sKDMgdStNjmV5xPUeWHtrpsDtObmxCgN5EGhqkuf7Oe_/s1080/lunaria.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="813" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje5Qolho0lIHTXVUeFRhEFLQQrYXy3mh48xmSfA-xeb2BQLsunjGDKx7JeuqM93frr-diLYQ4XVosj8vd7fZ_gN933mFBgJQHshaLsMOkVOHK7Xsz3BFX37clMpmwJl7VmVxAsAjT27x-w7t62sKDMgdStNjmV5xPUeWHtrpsDtObmxCgN5EGhqkuf7Oe_/s320/lunaria.jpg" width="241" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Lunaria with Seed Pods<br />Courtesy of Barbara Paff</i><br /><br /><br /></b><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div style="font-size: large; text-align: center;"><br /></div></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b>Apr 30</b> - Dogtooth violets–one is blooming, finally, and they must be multiplying—there are at least a dozen plants!</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Lovely, perfect day—we took “vacation” and went to Crane Creek. Lots of birders there, mostly “older,” and friendly. Watched tadpoles, yellow and other warblers, blue-gray gnatcatchers, hundreds of geese, and a frog. Plus other birds we couldn’t identify. Rich had heard from Ray and Jane Grob that the geese had goslings, but we never saw even one. Herons, egrets, but no goslings. Lots of ducks, muskrats, and a herd of carp boiling around in a shallow, swampy area (spawning). Big ones, 18-20” long.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG-f7Gbssh_Tug3_6wsMeEDz45No6RIxbV5erNfBdFxWVMp5uknbJMiykblNp3hMhbyK10AwFOou1lR8EjJjRR16s4tL2K-R1JmnzIujn9UlCd95aE5h4_nE5KlUjNVCmlTH2cufDKdvc3__05L6SriNXrZWa7b30P4w4pdMebnXp3ScX-yKAubtb9cyD7/s800/dogtoothviolet.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="523" data-original-width="800" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG-f7Gbssh_Tug3_6wsMeEDz45No6RIxbV5erNfBdFxWVMp5uknbJMiykblNp3hMhbyK10AwFOou1lR8EjJjRR16s4tL2K-R1JmnzIujn9UlCd95aE5h4_nE5KlUjNVCmlTH2cufDKdvc3__05L6SriNXrZWa7b30P4w4pdMebnXp3ScX-yKAubtb9cyD7/s320/dogtoothviolet.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Dogtooth Violets<br /> Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span><p></p><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526309204562058761.post-79535617680964663672024-02-05T12:02:00.000-08:002024-02-05T12:02:35.516-08:00Soldiers of the Soil<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">During World War II, my mother told me about planting Victory Gardens that helped feed the nation, while farmers worked not only to feed citizens, but also our soldiers here and overseas. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">In reality “war gardens,” as they were
originally called, began in 1917 when a severe food shortage occurred in Europe. During World War I, farmers were recruited into the military and land soon became battlefields. It
fell to Americans to feed the millions starving in Europe</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Businessman Charles Lathrop Pack began the National
War Garden Commission. He encouraged citizens to use every bit of available
land – parks, schools, companies, backyards, apartment rooftops, and vacant lots
to grow their own fruits and vegetables. He believed this would ease the
pressure on farmers who were trying to feed Americans, our allies overseas, and then our soldiers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>President Woodrow Wilson
said gardening “is just as real and patriotic an effort as the building of
ships or the firing of cannon.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><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/AVvXsEiMVE9jZ16poPDSo0X7mml0fLyMofW1MkCxN8t439B62RO5EHopbrY8UcqIxkBUvoceODLakHZM-qvUbytrkfrsxQUjgxmD2YjDI_aVm1Ne75tPHC8bzy51XZYOC76dKDomQQEqkcumt9b0rTlzBE0Op4c_2P9BbAWsRVkwtTqB-VugxwKH0i2WM6wxCMya/s699/schoolgardenarmy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="699" data-original-width="699" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMVE9jZ16poPDSo0X7mml0fLyMofW1MkCxN8t439B62RO5EHopbrY8UcqIxkBUvoceODLakHZM-qvUbytrkfrsxQUjgxmD2YjDI_aVm1Ne75tPHC8bzy51XZYOC76dKDomQQEqkcumt9b0rTlzBE0Op4c_2P9BbAWsRVkwtTqB-VugxwKH0i2WM6wxCMya/s320/schoolgardenarmy.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Courtesy of USDA</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The federal Bureau of Education created the U.S.
School Garden Army to urge boys and girls ages 9 to 15 to enlist as “soldiers
of the soil.” Funded by the War Department, the Bureau of Education distributed
thousands of posters to schools and libraries.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Teachers, women’s clubs and civic groups spread the word. The program
became so popular that pamphlets and radio broadcasts provided young gardeners
with instructions on how and what to grow. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Like many seed companies, Wagner Park of
Sidney, Ohio promoted the program in its catalogs. The project not only raised
food, but also morale and patriotic spirit.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><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/AVvXsEgcAg_dhMtgGuzlk_ue_GGlwiZGFhhMCpqZli5EKlFR_3ADyfKesn97lBTok6l3EMtLIGci82trG5o9n4vMQnTpH9DkX-NoPBG04UQn9yRY5BsYmYvHk-DGG7npgre1JDyyoakS8MnCXFPr-T_7IXFxopLXxvIkOQkT6p5_VEsxLvmYmZVCeJSr-rv3aSWq/s600/schoolgardenarmybynationalhistorymuseum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="450" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcAg_dhMtgGuzlk_ue_GGlwiZGFhhMCpqZli5EKlFR_3ADyfKesn97lBTok6l3EMtLIGci82trG5o9n4vMQnTpH9DkX-NoPBG04UQn9yRY5BsYmYvHk-DGG7npgre1JDyyoakS8MnCXFPr-T_7IXFxopLXxvIkOQkT6p5_VEsxLvmYmZVCeJSr-rv3aSWq/s320/schoolgardenarmybynationalhistorymuseum.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Courtesy of USDA</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;">More than one million school children enrolled in the
School Garden Army. Agriculture education became part of the curriculum at many
schools. Students learned about nature and how to maximize productivity, record
germination rates, and note diseases and pests.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>According to The Encyclopedia of Cleveland History, the gardens of 50
Cleveland area schools raised and canned produce valued at $100,000! The Cleveland
Board of Education thought the program so important it purchased property so
that gardens could become permanent. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Nationwide, children planted more than 5.2 million
garden plots by 1918. An article in “History” estimated that the school garden
army produced 1.5 million quarts of canned fruits and vegetables. When World
War I ended, home gardens, by then known as Victory Gardens, declined, only to
re-emerge in force when the United States entered the Second World War. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526309204562058761.post-90144968166805400222024-01-27T12:42:00.000-08:002024-01-27T12:42:21.923-08:00Civil War Letter of Lt. Amos E. Wood of Woodville, Ohio<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1471" data-original-width="1180" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrEHRCfChyphenhyphenMDG41P2V3SpS1jKJSSgZNvWqwS-H7J4Wc-nVkq555ibo1HVHGgQMxILPZ5ta9H2WlO9d-Qu-nmZclvtTQwfkOn9PhUh0vxGX68Z27wObCLQKas9XieWCWOCznDFoCwCpWkEGIBeSjpPF-C7oC51pexn-SQKNLZeuDOoK0JwDUhS3vX7TzuIl/s320/Amosewood.jpeg" width="257" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Lt. Amos E. Wood</span><br /><i>John B. Rice Collection<br />Hayes Presidential Library and Museums</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <span style="font-size: large;">The following is a transcription of a letter written to Sgt. Robert H. Caldwell of Elmore, Ohio by Lt. Amos Eastman Wood, Jr. of Woodville, Ohio. Both men enlisted in Company I, 21st Ohio Volunteer Infantry in the fall of 1861. They had fought together at the Battle of Stones River on December 31, 1862. Robert died February 8, 1863 of wounds received in that battle. Obviously, his friend, Lt. Wood had no knowledge of his death, but believed Caldwell had returned home to Elmore, Ohio. The Grand Army of the Republic Post in Elmore was named for Sgt. Caldwell. Lt. Wood was the elder son of Amos E. Wood, Sr., for whom the town of Woodville, Ohio is named. Lt. Wood died of disease in a Murfreesboro, Tennessee hospital in June 14,1863. </span><p></p><div> ****************************************</div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Camp at Smyrna Run</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Feby 18th 1863</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Dear Robert</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I promised you when I wrote you last that I would write again someday, but the fact is, Robert, a soldier has no business making promises, for he makes them only to forget them. He cannot tell what a day may bring forth, but what he may be on duty or something of that kind. I hope by this time<u> Dear Boy</u>, you are<u> much</u> <u>better</u> and have arrived safe in Elmore (as I was informed you were in Cincinnati when I last wrote you. I thought you were at home until after I had written.) You cannot imagine how surprised I was this afternoon upon hearing of the death of Geo. Rice. I was up to Murfreesboro the other day and he was then so much better I thought he would soon get well, but poor Boy was taken away while far away from friends and home. How <u>many many</u> young men left home bouyent with hope, that they would live to see the time when <u>peace</u> would restore them to their <u>loved</u> friends, now are <u>gone </u>to their long homes and their remains left to bleach in the blood stained ground upon which they fought for their country's freedom. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">How hard it seems Robt to have those whom you love and respect, shot down by your side and then your forced to leave them to the mercies of the insolent foe, and while breathing their last to be stripped and <u>damned</u> by them. After the battle, I walked over the battle ground and there saw Veon [probably Cpl. Alanson J. Veon of Co. I, 21st OVI who was killed at Stones River, Tennessee on Dec. 31, 1862] and others stripped of their clothes as if some uncivilized being had rumbled over the ground and perpetrated this barbarous act. And then I thought "why" this was done by men who profess to be <u>educated</u> and <u>refined</u>, how can men who have been raised in a Christian land act thus? Surely it is as "Burns" says "Man's inhumanity to man, makes countless thousands mourn."</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Robert, I have thought lately about being a <u>Christian</u>. I would give anything to be a good Christian, an honest one. I have thought since the fight, more about this than ever before. I was kindly cared for during the fight, and brought without a scratch, and to whom should I be thankful but to God who has watched over me and supplied my every want thus far in life. I am satisfied that I shall <u>never</u> be happy until I am [a] humble Christian. Robert, will <u>you think</u> of me in your prayers? Ask that I may become better; I will endeavor to be better by daily watchfulness and prayers.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I am well pleased with the place I now have, though it was quite hard for me to leave the Boys. Michael Rice [sergeant in the 21st OVI] is with me, he sends love, and says tell Robert to hurry and get well. I think the army will make another <u>ground move</u> soon for Chattanooga (or perhaps this side). If so, you can look out, for Rosecrans is <u>sure</u> to <u>win</u>. Our Army has received quite a large reinforcement since you left, and they are all good men, all of them old troops, at least most of them. Robert, you must write me and give me all of the <u>news</u>. Write soon for I shall be uneasy untill I hear from you. My love to all inquiring friends, especially to your father and mother. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><u>Your friend as ever</u>, </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Amos E. Wood</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">1st Battalion, Pioneer Corps</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Murfreesboro, Tenn. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Lt. Wood's letter is part of the Robert Caldwell collection of Civil War letters at the Hayes Presidential Library and Museums. The Caldwell letters have been transcribed and appear on its website. </span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526309204562058761.post-64026331106097942232023-11-27T08:37:00.000-08:002023-11-29T06:31:19.672-08:00 Ottawa County Museum Continues to Honor Purple Heart Veterans<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">On August 7, 1782, in the waning days of the
Revolutionary War, General George Washington established the Badge of Military Merit.
Prevented by the Continental Congress from granting commissions and promotions
in rank to his soldiers, Washington hoped to encourage and honor meritorious
service with this special award. The
honored soldier was to wear “over his left breast, the figure of a heart in
purple cloth or silk edged with narrow lace and binding.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">After the war, the award of merit was nearly forgotten
until the 20<sup>th</sup> century when it was revived at the bicentennial of
Washington’s birth. In 1942 President Franklin D. Roosevelt authorized the
award for all armed services and also to be given posthumously. Congress
chartered the Purple Heart Medal in 1958. Presently, more than 1.7 million
Purple Hearts have been awarded to our armed forces. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">David Barth, a member of the board of directors of the
Ottawa County [Ohio]Museum is researching and collecting information and photographs
of Purple Heart recipients with connections to Ottawa County. He is asking
those who have received the award and the family members of deceased recipients
to fill out a Purple Heart Registry form. Those forms will be included in a book
that is updated twice each year – August and February. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Mr. Barth can be reached at </span><a href="mailto:drb360@gmail.com"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">drb360@gmail.com</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">
or by phone at 419-357-2057.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">The Ottawa County [Ohio] Museum held its first Purple Heart
Day ceremony earlier this year. Thirty-five recipients and families were
honored. Their information was compiled in a book titled “Ottawa County’s
Heroes: The Stories of the Life and Service of Those with Ties to Ottawa County
who were Recipients of the Purple Heart Medal.” This resource book is available for
viewing at each county library, Ottawa County Veteran Services Department, and
the Ottawa County Museum (126 W. Third St., Port Clinton, Ohio) <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY3CUvCw9_hD4vn03VBBnnfXuZEHQtVSYeCmAQ9jv_y5mGba_yx8Mw5jtc5LpIdPZxzGMK4sXnxnzOu0Wzu8_2fZ_bNGBRskbKhtMTW4FKJc8kjTiM9CKaAwXI5NxF2EXy6vElYCzT0IulqnSlGNnIneYD3IjhV9wU6Uv_Cbm49ds_rRqhSLZe9rmGXOLh/s2653/purpleheartMedal.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2653" data-original-width="1346" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY3CUvCw9_hD4vn03VBBnnfXuZEHQtVSYeCmAQ9jv_y5mGba_yx8Mw5jtc5LpIdPZxzGMK4sXnxnzOu0Wzu8_2fZ_bNGBRskbKhtMTW4FKJc8kjTiM9CKaAwXI5NxF2EXy6vElYCzT0IulqnSlGNnIneYD3IjhV9wU6Uv_Cbm49ds_rRqhSLZe9rmGXOLh/s320/purpleheartMedal.JPG" width="162" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">The Purple Heart Medal criteria has gone through many
changes over the years. Presently it is awarded to members of the armed forces
wounded in combat with an enemy force, posthumously to next of kin of those
killed in combat, and those wounded or who died while a prisoner of war (2008).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">The Ottawa County
Museum has the distinction of </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">of being one of only 15 museums across the nation
designated as a Purple Heart Trail Museum. The trail begins at Mount Vernon
near the grave site of George Washington. Each trail museum maintains a database
of Purple Heart recipients and creates a museum display. Each trail museum honors
those who have received the medal at a ceremony held each August 7, the
National Purple Heart Day.</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526309204562058761.post-8238951623762606092023-11-27T08:28:00.000-08:002023-11-27T08:31:03.617-08:00John H. Martin: Buffalo Soldier <p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">In July 1866, the United States Congress authorized
the formation of the first peacetime all-black regiments in the U.S. Army. The
regiments, composed of the 9</span><sup style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">th</sup><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> and 10</span><sup style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">th</sup><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> Cavalry and the
24</span><sup style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">th</sup><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> Infantry (reorganized from the 39</span><sup style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">th</sup><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> and 40</span><sup style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">th</sup><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">)
and the 25</span><sup style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">th </sup><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Infantry</span><sup style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </sup><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">(reorganized
from the 38</span><sup style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">th</sup><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> and 41</span><sup style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">st</sup><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; line-height: 107%;">According to the Buffalo Soldiers National Museum in
Houston, Texas, the nickname derived from the Cheyenne warriors during the winter
of 1877, who thought the soldiers fought like “wild buffalo.” However, Colonel
Benjamin Grierson, who commanded the 10<sup>th</sup> Cavalry, recalled the name
much earlier, during the 1871 campaign against the Comanches. They thought the
soldiers’ curly hair like that of the bison. Another source comes from the
Plains tribes. They gave them the name because of the bison coats worn by the
troops in winter. Eventually, all four regiments proudly became known as the
Buffalo Soldiers. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoAxgXAY4ZwTfRySpf5VQ_BPAI66s7bZgvK2NVuuFt74QpWpvpd7VCWN2IPK5v-LluB_M00OY-JmZRw8W53hnbWwm3x_ymwze7pljoFWY__5PMTDq0o6I7QNR1w-sEbq-ZNLsAmwRCwndGNidI2lCZJeY8RRXH7JFrEqZqkfOnFy2qwSJBpKaG89OGUR2a/s800/Buffalosoldierstatue.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="800" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoAxgXAY4ZwTfRySpf5VQ_BPAI66s7bZgvK2NVuuFt74QpWpvpd7VCWN2IPK5v-LluB_M00OY-JmZRw8W53hnbWwm3x_ymwze7pljoFWY__5PMTDq0o6I7QNR1w-sEbq-ZNLsAmwRCwndGNidI2lCZJeY8RRXH7JFrEqZqkfOnFy2qwSJBpKaG89OGUR2a/s320/Buffalosoldierstatue.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Buffalo Soldier Statue at Leavenworth, Kansas</span></i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">John H. Martin was born in 1848 in Cleveland, Ohio, to
Robert and Emily (Hall) Martin. He had served with the United States Colored
Troops during the Civil War. His regiment, the 25<sup>th</sup> Infantry, had
disbanded along with other USCT in the fall of 1865. But Martin, like
many USCT veterans chose to re-enlist with the newly formed black regiments.
According to his obituary, John Martin served as a musician in the 25<sup>th</sup>
Infantry for fifteen years. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">The regiments were stationed at Army posts in the
Southwest and on the Great Plains They fought during the Indian Wars, built wagon
roads, constructed telegraph lines, protected settlements, served as scouts, and
escorted the U.S. mail. Portions of the Buffalo Soldier regiments fought the
Apache in New Mexico and pursued Victorio in Mexico. Despite their courageous service,
many experienced racial prejudice from settlers as well as members of the U.S.
Army. The first black commissioned officer to lead the Buffalo Soldiers was
Henry O. Flipper, the first African American graduate of West Point in 1877. At
least 18 Buffalo Soldiers received the Medal of Honor during the Indian Wars. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <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/AVvXsEhSfYIdIyhmcyAeMwcqH8sSSGDapHY4pvrYA4jYjKnRRBgUgiIiXhZ_-8O9dARxeN4DB8O8bpqkGbu4hrmLiaWWZkL7gXs5Smf67yaZyZQdMJCRyJVrw9095shvSttY_uu59aa_5uXwC4cMpiFt7Dhrjj86KLpYOQjv8ONHUMpjjyHVhEgZJfnbXc5bqOO4/s835/hof.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="835" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSfYIdIyhmcyAeMwcqH8sSSGDapHY4pvrYA4jYjKnRRBgUgiIiXhZ_-8O9dARxeN4DB8O8bpqkGbu4hrmLiaWWZkL7gXs5Smf67yaZyZQdMJCRyJVrw9095shvSttY_uu59aa_5uXwC4cMpiFt7Dhrjj86KLpYOQjv8ONHUMpjjyHVhEgZJfnbXc5bqOO4/s320/hof.jpg" width="245" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Lt. Henry O. Flipper<br /><i>Courtesy of West Point</i></span></b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> </span></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Following his service, Martin returned to Ohio. On
November 4, 1885, he married Mary Ann Davison at Oberlin, Ohio, the daughter of
James and Lucy Bell (Roberson) Davison, originally from West Virginia. The couple settled
in Fremont, Ohio on Sandusky Avenue and then Whittlesey Street. Martin was
employed for many years as a silver polisher at Claus Shear Works. They were
the parents of five children. Mary Ann passed away in 1922. John Martin spent
his final days at the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Home in Sandusky, Ohio. He died there
March 26, 1926 at the age of seventy-seven. Both he and Mary Ann are buried in
Fremont’s Oakwood Cemetery. The image below is courtesy of Find A Grave.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDd4ft3xp-KfSdqxArTnBpOeXwcJJbCSvUIlhCbJEKNy1IejX6UzWHkfmU_KParq1KzeoI6lXmXH0iVx3UjiL57ynHsGKZB2dcDHmmWf9XspK2skQKLt1mMMhV7iHYJNWVvIcqBfYkawuSgsIRza-HY9v3Ml8nZPyWAmuI7tfCVLF00tyBGm7CMczOrUzC/s1483/john%20martin%20grave%20marker.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1483" data-original-width="1164" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDd4ft3xp-KfSdqxArTnBpOeXwcJJbCSvUIlhCbJEKNy1IejX6UzWHkfmU_KParq1KzeoI6lXmXH0iVx3UjiL57ynHsGKZB2dcDHmmWf9XspK2skQKLt1mMMhV7iHYJNWVvIcqBfYkawuSgsIRza-HY9v3Ml8nZPyWAmuI7tfCVLF00tyBGm7CMczOrUzC/s320/john%20martin%20grave%20marker.jpg" width="251" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> .</span><o:p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"></o:p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526309204562058761.post-52449112484487658142023-11-02T07:21:00.002-07:002023-11-02T07:21:38.564-07:00The Grim Reaper<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">“Mr. Leezen has the ague and the fever, Eliza the
headache. Mr. Thomas Gallagher had the intermittent fever and his son the
remitting fever. Many sick at the river at Green Creek. Mr. Rogers is yet
hearty, but his housekeeper has another visit from the fever and ague.” These
were just a few of the quotes from Josiah Atkins’ letters to his brother back
in Ashtabula, Ohio.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">In 1824, Josiah, a personable young man, had come to
Lower Sandusky [Fremont, Ohio] to manage the sale of lands through the 20 miles of
Black Swamp to Perrysburg, Ohio. The tracts were the last federal lands for sale in
Ohio. Settlers ditched, grubbed, dug, chopped, and burned their way through a
120- foot right- of-way in the massive quagmire that would become the Maumee and
Western Reserve Road. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Like the settlers, Atkins soon became sick himself. He
wrote that he was at last freed from the shaking and fever. Yet, he told his
brother, “I am not well – there is something hanging or clinging about my
springs of life that tells me I am not well. My head is dizzy, my knees are
weak, my breath is short. I am anything less than half such a man as I was when
I came to this good and great city of Lower (than hell) Sandusky.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYFkmyDgKcdFXCsLJdvGvY3JtBC7drPaqfHo3iWDN8geOxsIxlOrzuMA_1RcSErTrYMMAUkp6DSRwt7Bk9MOXAIqkTqw9zZmeqllMuYaNdpKiHmAxE_yUIyrS8WjB96_eoDeJ8Jx2uFvrdo1zbYMSWuhbB4ar9EZKoW3o5cT3XyuM3kc7PwEMWYBMrr_jt/s1200/Woodland_Mosquito_(7469978464).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1200" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYFkmyDgKcdFXCsLJdvGvY3JtBC7drPaqfHo3iWDN8geOxsIxlOrzuMA_1RcSErTrYMMAUkp6DSRwt7Bk9MOXAIqkTqw9zZmeqllMuYaNdpKiHmAxE_yUIyrS8WjB96_eoDeJ8Jx2uFvrdo1zbYMSWuhbB4ar9EZKoW3o5cT3XyuM3kc7PwEMWYBMrr_jt/s320/Woodland_Mosquito_(7469978464).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Woodland Mosquito</span></b></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i>Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons</i><br /></b></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Some thought it was the foul air and the swamp's gases that
was making nearly everyone sick. In reality, it was the ever present mosquitoes
that thrived in the pools of stagnant waters. They were the culprits that spread
malaria among these early pioneers. Many became so ill, they lay shaking in the
cabins, unable to work or care for their families. More than a third who came
gave up and moved on. No one really knows the exact death toll.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Mosquitoes carrying malaria not only brought death and misery
to the settlers of the Black Swamp, but as far back as the Bronze Age, they contributed
to the collapse of the Greek and Egyptian civilizations. For centuries
mosquitoes harboring malaria had sapped the strength of armies. At the surrender
of Yorktown, nearly half of Cornwallis’ soldiers were unfit for battle due to
malaria. According to historian Amanda Foreman, the Panama Canal was only
completed because of quinine and better mosquito control. In World War II, General
MacArthur believed that for every one of his Pacific Theater divisions, two
were unfit to fight because of malaria. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Today, the Grim Reaper continues to take its toll.
Each year, more than 400,000 die from malaria throughout the world. Two thirds
are children under the age of five. Welcome news has finally come! This year
for the first time, the World Health Organization has approved a childhood
vaccine against malaria! <o:p></o:p></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526309204562058761.post-20092119351357310952023-10-31T07:45:00.003-07:002023-10-31T12:48:23.016-07:00Remembering the Great Black Swamp<span style="font-size: large;">The Rev. Joseph Badger described the area as "generally low and interspersed with gentle swells of excellent land, well-timbered, but between the ridges lie streams and hideous swamps of two, three, four miles in width. Stretches of mud and water from knee to belly deep to our horses extend from 8 to 10 miles."</span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">The pioneer missionary was describing the Great Black Swamp, that immense low-lying tract of land that dominated the thirty-mile expanse between Ohio's Sandusky and Maumee Rivers. In total, the swamp covered 1500 square miles and affected a portion of ten of Ohio's counties. So daunting was the swamp that northwest Ohio was the last place settled in all of the state.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijL6godB7dTFixS0fIsxaqp0prL7DLL0deunSk2-HT6E2TKPublvsLosGLb34oTurt6bqrWcKBkE0LXImS2LSHO-CoqOL-8o_SouQFJCyNOdnlJsANkNcLEBUQDRPX4JSLEC2uGMcKqB23E2q6ocDhdOOcAdLRTfw0daCJTeiolfuXqvIADh5dV7RoMk8w/s330/GreatBlackSwampMap%20(1).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="330" data-original-width="330" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijL6godB7dTFixS0fIsxaqp0prL7DLL0deunSk2-HT6E2TKPublvsLosGLb34oTurt6bqrWcKBkE0LXImS2LSHO-CoqOL-8o_SouQFJCyNOdnlJsANkNcLEBUQDRPX4JSLEC2uGMcKqB23E2q6ocDhdOOcAdLRTfw0daCJTeiolfuXqvIADh5dV7RoMk8w/s320/GreatBlackSwampMap%20(1).png" width="320" /></a></div><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Great Black Swamp Map</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i>Courtesy Wikimedia Commons</i><br /></b></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Beech, oak, hickory, and elm trees reached more than 100 feet above the swamp's jungle-like vegetation, choked streams, and marshes. The canopy blotted out the sunlight, making the Black Swamp a dark, depressing, and lonely place for many of those first settlers. It was such a forbidding landscape that even the Native Americans left it to the wolves, snakes, horseflies, and the massive swarms of mosquitoes. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">More than one-third of the pioneers who settled in the Black Swamp gave up and moved on. It took determination and endurance to remain. The Goll Woods is one place that some remnants of the swamp remain and can be experienced today. Lying a mile and one-half north of Archbold, Ohio, in German Twp., Fulton County is a 321-acre preserve that is believed to be the least disturbed woodland area in this part of the state. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Immigrants from France, the Peter Goll family purchased 32 acres in Fulton County in 1834. Eventually, the Goll land grew to nearly 600 acres. It remained in the family for generations. The state of Ohio acquired the land from Peter Goll's great granddaughter in 1966 and dedicated it to a nature preserve in 1975. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEJLS17wsEIBJ3gXfP-M0KrFsYAqH_LIuV2Bl1qdjtlX0WYLqqS7Izj_0cP8sVpI1xqfVVbCX_29jllyOdk2UjNLKe4X8zBge4VFh0dDg2oAQyo-o9jqh5nKXkPVTwjc1_ryAnGv5WZSGhZjx-BgtimZALMfLvI6SC1p368i5tUhWn4BGndh5odCTa9HeE/s550/goll%20Woods%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="413" data-original-width="550" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEJLS17wsEIBJ3gXfP-M0KrFsYAqH_LIuV2Bl1qdjtlX0WYLqqS7Izj_0cP8sVpI1xqfVVbCX_29jllyOdk2UjNLKe4X8zBge4VFh0dDg2oAQyo-o9jqh5nKXkPVTwjc1_ryAnGv5WZSGhZjx-BgtimZALMfLvI6SC1p368i5tUhWn4BGndh5odCTa9HeE/s320/goll%20Woods%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><b>Goll Woods</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Courtesy of ODNR</b></i></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">The old growth forest has some of the largest trees remaining in the state of Ohio and is truly reminiscent of the Great Black Swamp. Selective cutting only took place once - during World War I. Eighty acres of the preserve is virgin forest that the Goll family called the "Big Woods." You will see 200-to-400-year old trees; some of which have trunks four feet in diameter. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span>There are cottonwood; sycamore; pin, bur, and white oak; pine; ash; and tulip trees. Their canopy is so dense, it still presents the eerie gloom of the Black Swamp that our ancestors felt.</span><span> To learn more about the Goll Woods, go online to<u> Goll</u> <u>Woods State Nature Preserve.</u> </span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Lightning and windstorms have felled come of these majestic trees just as they have for thousands of years. They lay on the swamp's floor, decomposing in the dark shade amid the native wildflowers and wood plants of ferns, lilies, violets, elderberry and raspberry bushes, and Solomon's seal. Look ever so closely and you will see salamanders, toads, woodpeckers, an occasional wild turkey or a whitetail deer. And, always, always there are the mosquitoes. For our ancestors, it was a hostile landscape that took everything they had.... and for many - it took their very lives. For us, it is a natural treasure that gives us an appreciation for what our ancestors experienced in the Great Black Swamp.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526309204562058761.post-59825010435106066182023-10-29T11:54:00.001-07:002023-10-29T11:57:56.265-07:00Lower Sandusky and the U.S. Indian Factory System<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Initiated in 1795 by President George Washington and later
supported by Thomas Jefferson, a non-profit fur factory system was set up to
undercut the influence of British traders with Indian tribes. Washington also
believed America would develop better relations with the Indians and in turn reduce
Army expenses necessary to protect the frontier. Washington insisted there be
no fraud and goods were to be supplied to the Indians at fair prices.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 171.6pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Government factories were established mostly at forts where
soldiers could handle transporting goods and protect against theft and violence.
In all 17 factories were created. Lower Sandusky (now Fremont) was the sole
Ohio fur factory. It was located at the site of Ft. Stephenson (now the site of Birchard
Public Library). It fell under the direction of the older Ft. Wayne agency
whose factor was John Johnston, federal Indian Agent. (The restored Johnston
Farm and Indian Agency can be visited near Piqua, Ohio). Benjamin Tupper became
Lower Sandusky’s first factor, receiving $750 a year. Factors also received
$200 for furnishings and $20 each year for upkeep, indicating that houses were
also provided for the factors. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 171.6pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Hides of deer, beaver, muskrat, wildcat, bear, otter, fox, mink,
and rabbit were traded for the “white man’s goods” all supplied with government
funds. Deer hides far outweighed all others. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 171.6pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The private Hudson’s Bay Company and the American Fur
Company deeply resented these government, non-profit agencies who paid higher
than market prices. In fact, when there was no market at all for deer hides,
agencies continued to buy them. Losses escalated with hides suffering from worm
and moth damage and transportation problems from Ft. Wayne down the Maumee
River. Lack of clerks caused poor baling of hides that needed to be wrapped in
smoked elk or deer hides to keep out moths and worms<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 171.6pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In exchange, Indians traded for beads, bullet molds, fabric,
jugs, cups. mugs, tallow, beeswax, traps, muskrat spears, moccasins, drinking
glasses, silver arm bands, soap, coffee, blankets, sleigh bells, guns and gun
powder, lead, needles, combs and even eye glasses (requested at Lower Sandusky
for “old” Indians). Nearly $10,000 of merchandise was sent to Lower Sandusky in
the years between 1808 and 1811. Nearby is an 1822 Detroit broadside from the
closed Chicago and Green Bay factories, listing goods typically traded. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 171.6pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6C1stu7t5BBHPPQn2sPscg02G1ZxYbZmAV7H0yLs2tcVBWk2W6Ha1Qra_me-TCWFglPWRbKUMDkzIuU21EduatRtTcxZdZycG4WorcUfv87GBvz7o7s-cKTQ4exVjjNSlBt30hy5qN6Qcu4yx1NwRH9OHdrVLacwM90lR9CvZCH8lrxiEnVPIt6tSDJPQ/s1292/Indian_goods_auction_1822.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1292" data-original-width="800" height="451" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6C1stu7t5BBHPPQn2sPscg02G1ZxYbZmAV7H0yLs2tcVBWk2W6Ha1Qra_me-TCWFglPWRbKUMDkzIuU21EduatRtTcxZdZycG4WorcUfv87GBvz7o7s-cKTQ4exVjjNSlBt30hy5qN6Qcu4yx1NwRH9OHdrVLacwM90lR9CvZCH8lrxiEnVPIt6tSDJPQ/w297-h451/Indian_goods_auction_1822.jpg" width="297" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons</span></i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 171.6pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">During the War of 1812, the British and their Indian allies
burned Ft. Wayne and massacred Chicago while nearly $4,000 worth of goods were seized
at Lower Sandusky. As war descended, then Factor Jacob Varnum fled with others to
Delaware, Ohio. The factory did survive and was eventually “restockaded.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 171.6pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The arrival of Major George Croghan and his victory at Fort
Stephenson during the War of 1812 ended the importance of the factory system at
Lower Sandusky. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Many thought the system a success because some tribes
remained loyal to America during the War of 1812. However, these were mainly philanthropists,
religious reformers, and government officials. But like the Chicago agency, the
bulk of sales eventually went to white settlers. Much of the trade goods were of poor
quality.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> Additionally, </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;">Washington officials knew
little of tribal needs on the frontier. When the losses became exorbitant, the
system was declared “useless.” With continued pressure from private trading
companies, Congress took steps to abolish the entire program. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 171.6pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 24px;"> ****************</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 171.6pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">More about the U.S. Indian Factory System appears in an article by Royal V. Way in the "Mississippi Valley Historical Review" and in </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><i>History of the United States Indian Factory System, 1795-1822</i> by Ora B. Peake.</span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526309204562058761.post-70905024425867644972023-09-30T09:02:00.000-07:002023-09-30T09:02:57.916-07:00The Troubles of Charley Loo<p><span style="font-size: large;">Americans of today often struggle with the acceptance of the millions of migrants entering the United States. But native born Americans of the 19th century were no less threatened by the boatloads of immigrants who came by the millions and poured into the United States from around the world. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">They were particularly intolerant of those whose customs and rituals were far different from their own. They responded by exerting not-so-subtle pressures on newcomers who failed to conform with what they believed was the traditional "American way of life." Those who persisted in what was termed strange customs found themselves, at the very least, harassed, ostracized, or the but of jokes by neighbors and the local press.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And so it was in May of 1896 when a <i>Fremont (Ohio) Daily News </i>reporter arrived at "Chinatown," then known locally as 313 Garrison Street, the site of the Chinese laundry. He was there to investigate a disturbance that had awakened the neighborhood, and filled the "air with flying pig tails, flat irons, and Chinese swear words."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">After much "pig-tail talk," the reporter learned that Charley Loo and his brother were arguing over money. To resolve the matter, the Loos sent for One Lung of Toledo. But it seems One Lung was more interested in Mrs. Loo than in settling the dispute. A "free-for-all" between One Lung and the jealous "washee-washee proprietor" broke out. The police finally gained control and "once more peace reigned supreme in Chinatown"...but not for long.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">By noon the following day, the <i>News </i>reporter was rushing back to 313 Garrison, where the drama continued. He and Dr. Thomas found Charley with "barely a pulse and eyes protruding from the sockets." So distressed over his wife's infidelity, Charley decide to end it all by taking "enough opium to kill several ordinary men." Despite Dr. Thomas' efforts, Charley passed away within hours. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Struggling to understand the "Chinese chatter," the reporter and undertaker Tschumy attempted to carry out the Loo family instruction as best they could. In fact the customs they found so strange were traditional Tao burial rituals. After the widow washed the body with "buying water," she dressed Charley in his finest clothes, hat, and best sandals. She placed a coin in his mouth, a fan in one hand, a handkerchief in the other. Coins and colored paper surrounded Charley's body as it lay in Tschumy's plain, black coffin with feet toward the door. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Arriving at Oakwood Cemetery, the Loos prepared to burn Charley's possessions. All was about to go up in smoke when Charley's brother pulled an item belonging to One Lung from the "bonfire." Nothing of the man who had destroyed the Loo marriage must be allowed to enter the "spirit land" with Charley. Ridicule began to give way to respect as the reporter attempted to help Tschumy and the Loos make Charley's "transition" to the "spirit land."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But it seems the drama would not end! Rumors soon flew around the city that Charley's corpse had been stolen from Oakwood Cemetery. Finally, Loo's brother insisted the body be exhumed. Charley was still there. But he would not remain there forever. Thirteen years later, Loo's brother ordered Charley exhumed once more. This time his remains were bound for China on a ship commissioned by relatives to return him for burial in his homeland...May you always rest in peace Charley Loo!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526309204562058761.post-64046825744035715072023-08-20T10:50:00.000-07:002023-08-20T10:50:59.280-07:00General James B. McPherson's 17th Corps Medal<p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; text-align: left;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; text-align: left;">After a siege of more than six weeks, the city of
Vicksburg fell on the 4</span><sup style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: left;">th</sup><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; text-align: left;"> of July 1863 to Civil War General Ulysses S. Grant’s Union
forces. The honor of leading the victorious troops into the captured stronghold
fell to General James B. McPherson’s 17</span><sup style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: left;">th</sup><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; text-align: left;"> Corps of the Army of the
Tennessee. As commander of the Union's occupation forces at Vicksburg, McPherson, on
the 2</span><sup style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: left;">nd</sup><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; text-align: left;"> of October 1863, authorized a medal to be awarded to
officers and enlisted men of the 17</span><sup style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: left;">th</sup><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; text-align: left;"> Corps who displayed “gallant and
distinguished service in the field.” Sometimes called the “medal of gold,” it
remains among the rarest of Civil War memorabilia.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNCgD1lWzokYCjEP_B96Ujth_b25Tf-NyrmLtMGvuubf6X0eIyV0dcsDHkAmOu25TAOGy7fNST6AK_GR-XTloAv8d4XwZx2KShW1kP0HnKXoajUxr4pf0xJHnIBdlV1iSVrBV7K39zRb2YKMJOZWZWIOYjawz99DCIAAIBlYgYgJaMd0ynHNQlR1gnkRJM/s525/medalofgold17thcorps.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="525" data-original-width="467" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNCgD1lWzokYCjEP_B96Ujth_b25Tf-NyrmLtMGvuubf6X0eIyV0dcsDHkAmOu25TAOGy7fNST6AK_GR-XTloAv8d4XwZx2KShW1kP0HnKXoajUxr4pf0xJHnIBdlV1iSVrBV7K39zRb2YKMJOZWZWIOYjawz99DCIAAIBlYgYgJaMd0ynHNQlR1gnkRJM/s320/medalofgold17thcorps.webp" width="285" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><b>17th Corps Medal</b></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><span style="font-size: medium;">Exactly how many and to whom the medal (pictured above) <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;">was awarded is unknown. One who received it was Major L. S. Willard,
McPherson’s senior aide-de-camp. He and others of McPherson’s staff accompanied
his body to Clyde, Ohio after he was killed during the opening rounds of the
Battle of Atlanta. Three weeks later, Willard wrote his friend and comrade Lt. Augustus.
C. Blizzard, also a recipient of the medal. </span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrTOQBViSt7Gr8Xkp2q4pYrCEwtJmAVEdyIy_Kj6AzJ-JL_HJE9II6w0fHPqwej5x8hQRTnfzEiDtrfXOzxWTH_1UU-KXm5p8CPCSoH8uuZsv0i3Vxc5IxQaQ1TmA7_whCt_AUzPtVRU28gVVb0qV14g2HGTK9VGELAwWQ40ZGOgxPTa_JHO3TlUdxZ4d1/s1068/blizzardcdv.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><b><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="690" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrTOQBViSt7Gr8Xkp2q4pYrCEwtJmAVEdyIy_Kj6AzJ-JL_HJE9II6w0fHPqwej5x8hQRTnfzEiDtrfXOzxWTH_1UU-KXm5p8CPCSoH8uuZsv0i3Vxc5IxQaQ1TmA7_whCt_AUzPtVRU28gVVb0qV14g2HGTK9VGELAwWQ40ZGOgxPTa_JHO3TlUdxZ4d1/s320/blizzardcdv.jpeg" width="207" /></b></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><br />Lt. A.C. Blizzard<br /><i>Courtesy of<br />Harry Blizzard</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">On August 15<sup>th</sup>, Willard wrote from Peoria,
Illinois, <i>“I am now at home waiting to see what will be done with me after
accompanying the remains of our beloved commander to their last resting
place…It was a very sad duty Capt. Gile, Steele, and myself had to perform. It
must have been a sad and lonely Head Qtrs. the night of the 22<sup>nd</sup> of
July with the tent of our beloved General vacant and vacant forever. That Army
felt that night as though a loss unrepairable had befallen them; to me the
thought was fearful it seemed as though with the death of the General the Army
of the Tennessee almost became extinct. His relatives in Ohio felt the loss as
only Mothers and Sisters can, everyone paid the greatest respect to the
remains.” </i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="text-align: center;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">After leaving Clyde, Major Willard resigned his
commission at Cincinnati and left the military. He had been with the 17<sup>th</sup>
Corps since the Battle of Shiloh, Today, other war date letters written by
Willard are preserved and online at the Newberry Library in Chicago.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIhGJjGUV86ns3KCyJL4QMqQ0T-Aob6xbAXodZjjfyAAcssHXTO8uWKuFRopMTKgP7v8FpJSZKU8DJGFyzHFcSsAHchFtg6UHtryTqXKbZ-nmSuVQA4ku2UzJU4Njo6o05KNENzsWWQF-aQE_zW0NFSzJ6pJMphx2veLH0wUhF4QlACGr9_fLoKmtoUJMM/s3060/McPherson%20Staff.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2477" data-original-width="3060" height="324" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIhGJjGUV86ns3KCyJL4QMqQ0T-Aob6xbAXodZjjfyAAcssHXTO8uWKuFRopMTKgP7v8FpJSZKU8DJGFyzHFcSsAHchFtg6UHtryTqXKbZ-nmSuVQA4ku2UzJU4Njo6o05KNENzsWWQF-aQE_zW0NFSzJ6pJMphx2veLH0wUhF4QlACGr9_fLoKmtoUJMM/w400-h324/McPherson%20Staff.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>General McPherson's 17th Corps Army of the Tennessee<br />Balfour House, Vicksburg<br />(Lt. Blizzard standing at far right)<br /><i>Courtesy of the Old Courthouse Museum<br /><br /></i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18.6667px;">Lt. Blizzard was proud of his appointment to General McPherson's 17th Corps staff. Like Willard, he too resigned shortly after McPherson's death. He returned to Iowa where he lived a long and useful life before his death in Malcome, Iowa in 1909. His obituary mentions his being awarded "the "Medal of Gold" for gallant and distinguished service in the field. Engraved on same, Battles of Shiloh, Corinth, Raymond, Jackson, Champion Hills, and Vicksburg July 4th, 1863"</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"> </p></blockquote></blockquote><p class="MsoNormal"><br /> </p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526309204562058761.post-35975916696167349992023-07-06T09:17:00.000-07:002023-07-06T09:17:08.349-07:00Renowned Phrenologist Nelson Sizer corresponds with John Brown, Jr.<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: left;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Guest Post by Manuscripts Intern Nate Ricks</span></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3KJmL4IMufwPYQRFDYdvAu455OdvAhRUXs7Mcz_ycyTt_RJsmJ9rhT-vTDRBptAmhZrWk_hGnZeFbL7fpxsMqgg4epV_7HNcnhssVgzcUDyl4l28GrMlF7LW-qGi6MNv06Toqie5rgp_hK1jPgtviAH86NHVGesWEubo-uhDdvbOKhDrm_aWpkGTHcuw4/s1430/JBA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1025" data-original-width="1430" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3KJmL4IMufwPYQRFDYdvAu455OdvAhRUXs7Mcz_ycyTt_RJsmJ9rhT-vTDRBptAmhZrWk_hGnZeFbL7fpxsMqgg4epV_7HNcnhssVgzcUDyl4l28GrMlF7LW-qGi6MNv06Toqie5rgp_hK1jPgtviAH86NHVGesWEubo-uhDdvbOKhDrm_aWpkGTHcuw4/s320/JBA.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b> Nelson Sizer's letter to </b></i><i><b>John Brown Jr.</b></i></div></i><p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: left;"><i><b>March 26, 1860</b></i></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: left;"><i><b>John Brown Jr. Collection</b></i></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: left;"><i><br /></i> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">John
Brown’s 1859 raid on Harper’s Ferry, Virginia (and his subsequent execution)
solidified Northern and Southern sentiments regarding slavery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some began to act out in their own private
“attacks,” as demonstrated by a letter found in the Hayes Presidential Library
& Museums' collections.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRbjvdhq2AZeMFKk1TGFdg3skDUevzFpnHcYSR4ii0hSc5S459XaVf8P_cnAF91TdyK8bpIdafgFKUeeHmxj0QcdM6Sm0Bf-MDQmTWNL4TR1gA-7bVl1h1xSz4WAoC-DoU9vZYbXGdnRVaKutB9kVzfJy2qIMpAEccEWBOzBdN-hXT1q1HFl2BtqsPUtpL/s1300/John%20Brown%20Jr..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1300" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRbjvdhq2AZeMFKk1TGFdg3skDUevzFpnHcYSR4ii0hSc5S459XaVf8P_cnAF91TdyK8bpIdafgFKUeeHmxj0QcdM6Sm0Bf-MDQmTWNL4TR1gA-7bVl1h1xSz4WAoC-DoU9vZYbXGdnRVaKutB9kVzfJy2qIMpAEccEWBOzBdN-hXT1q1HFl2BtqsPUtpL/s320/John%20Brown%20Jr..jpg" width="197" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><i><b>John Brown Jr.</b></i></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">In March
1860, the noted phrenologist Nelson Sizer conducted a mildly subversive one-man
campaign in Virginia. The state had been nicknamed “The Mother of Presidents”
by this time for birthing seven chief executives: Washington, Jefferson,
Madison, Monroe, W.H. Harrison, Tyler, and Taylor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Sizer and other abolitionists were
scornful of the role Virginia played in violently perpetuating slavery and
proudly executing Brown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wrote to
John Brown, Jr., the grieving eldest son of the martyred abolitionist:</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">“The
other day I went to Washington and I walked three miles & across the
Potomac bridge for the privilege of spitting on the state of Virginia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I met a negro slave near the end of the
bridge in [Virginia] & asked him if he ever heard of the [Underground
Railroad], & his Eyes brightened as he replied, “Yes Massa, heap o’times.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I said, “Some of your boys get away to a land
of freedom on the [Underground Railroad], do they not[?]” He answered, “deed
they do, sir.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I call that tampering
with a slave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did it out of contempt
for the “Mother of Presidents,” and now of a race of braggarts and cowards.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Such
personal demonstrations became popular sentiment, leading to the election of
Lincoln later that year, and the outbreak of civil war in April 1861.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Sizer’s
letter to John Brown, Jr. is one of about 600 letters in the John Brown Jr. Collection found in the Hayes Presidential Library’s Charles E. Frohman
Collection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>John Brown, Jr. settled at
Put-in-Bay, Ohio, and received correspondence from many prominent abolitionists
and reformers of the late 19<sup>th</sup> Century.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Learn more about this collection: </span><a href="https://www.rbhayes.org/collection-items/charles-e.-frohman-collections/brown-john-jr./"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">https://www.rbhayes.org/collection-items/charles-e.-frohman-collections/brown-john-jr./</span></a></b></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526309204562058761.post-19794980826774359292023-06-08T06:46:00.001-07:002023-06-12T06:28:53.954-07:00Migrant Crisis: Then and NowDuring the past two years much has been said and written about immigration at
America’s southern border. Unable to house, feed, and care for the thousands
entering the country, governors have bussed many to sanctuary cities. In New
York City, the mayor was forced to put up migrants in police stations for lack
of housing.
Such a crisis isn’t new to America. During the 1890s, New York
City’s police housed as many as 148,000 immigrants in their barracks each year.
According to an article in the Wall Street Journal, Chicago’s population
increased by 54% from 1890 to 1900. City commissioners quickly constructed
ramshackle tenements for the enormous wave of immigrants that poured into their
cities. Thirteen-foot rooms were often occupied by as many as a dozen men.
Flophouses charged 25 cents for a cot, locker, and screen. Many who could not
afford that amount were forced to use a hammock for 7 cents or a spot on the
floor for five. Others slept in the streets despite cold and snow. Unemployment
was rampant.
<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/AVvXsEhrKRslwpmikPsoH-ZLs4kQrGlz-AVWnSDotq4XJKQrUK6LRzvm2RUuAgDsbcV5l9u2QU8QV5nIm2q0-oydY5HctRNiPdYaeVWo2L85PXtl88KHcZuAnMuwIssCBGvRsyROpeQDTIFn7a8BNjw5QTKRE7ByhtDdmTL8-S9r0kq9H3auUFjH-WPI8xq-Sw/s1200/riis%20photo1.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="957" data-original-width="1200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrKRslwpmikPsoH-ZLs4kQrGlz-AVWnSDotq4XJKQrUK6LRzvm2RUuAgDsbcV5l9u2QU8QV5nIm2q0-oydY5HctRNiPdYaeVWo2L85PXtl88KHcZuAnMuwIssCBGvRsyROpeQDTIFn7a8BNjw5QTKRE7ByhtDdmTL8-S9r0kq9H3auUFjH-WPI8xq-Sw/s320/riis%20photo1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Jacob Riis Photo of Tenements<br /><i>Courtesy of Library of Congress</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><br />
There was little or no safety net for those who were weakened by
hunger and disease. Saddest of all were the orphaned children who were
frequently cared for and fed by the police. What prompted the first change in
these enormous slums? It was the work of Jacob Riis. An immigrant himself, Riis
came to the United States from Denmark in 1870. Ten years later, he found work
as a police reporter and saw, wrote about, and photographed the filth, squalor,
poverty, and overcrowded slums. His book “How the Other Half Lives” threw light
on the misery of New York City’s poverty-stricken, homeless immigrants. More
than his words, it was his photographs of the crowded tenements that effected
change. Theodore Roosevelt, then the city’s police commissioner, said “I have
read your book and have come to help.” And help he did! <div><br /></div><div>Tenements were torn down
and replaced with decent housing for the city’s population of which a quarter
were mired in poverty. Streets were cleaned up. Reformers and missionaries
opened day nurseries and schools for thousands of homeless children. “Out
placing” by the Children’s Aid society began the Orphan Train Movement that
found homes, some good and some ruinous, for more than 200,000 children. Nearly 8,000 were settled in Ohio. (See 2012 post "Following the Orphan Train Riders.")</div><div><br /></div><div>Roosevelt once said he hoped that coming to the “new land would be a turning
point in their lives; wished that they might find there all their dreams had
painted for them; and how earnestly he, as a citizen of the great republic;
welcomed them to it.” It took years of reform and constant effort to make that
promise a reality.
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526309204562058761.post-60070197778564949852023-05-10T05:10:00.000-07:002023-05-12T09:16:34.045-07:00The Croghan Congressional Gold Medal<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Nearly all Sandusky Countians know of the brave
defense of Major George Croghan and his men at the Battle of Fort Stephenson during
the War of 1812. The 21-year old was brevetted lieutenant colonel for his
heroic actions by President Madison.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">During and after the war, Congress approved several
gold medals for victorious military actions. But it was not until February 1835
that legislators belatedly recognized Colonel Croghan for his defense of Fort
Stephenson. In that same resolution, Congress also ordered the president to present
swords to six of Croghan’s officers: Captain James Hunter, Lieutenants Cyrus
Baylor and John Meek, Ensign Joseph Duncan, and the nearest male representatives
of Lieutenant Benjamin Johnson and Ensign Edmund Shipp. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="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/AVvXsEic96e4ldRVc8Kv6epZTrPeg9fqBtRS8yhMdkS9108nHw7mjbCLLIxIyKwYvXd0dA1d9tzOhH9OLe9faCR7EoFsRlqXnJOl5CYNCEQX_ZNLgMqRjZfyrzPs9ZrdcPew16qv--Xxarrbs6k3hkYeJjqnxRxXhrrdXYu1GVy21xJ6An4AhlKbn1jCIn94jQ/s640/croghan%20medal%202.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic96e4ldRVc8Kv6epZTrPeg9fqBtRS8yhMdkS9108nHw7mjbCLLIxIyKwYvXd0dA1d9tzOhH9OLe9faCR7EoFsRlqXnJOl5CYNCEQX_ZNLgMqRjZfyrzPs9ZrdcPew16qv--Xxarrbs6k3hkYeJjqnxRxXhrrdXYu1GVy21xJ6An4AhlKbn1jCIn94jQ/s320/croghan%20medal%202.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Croghan Congressional Medal</span></b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; text-align: left;">West Point engineer Washington Hood, who also worked
as a portrait copyist, designed the reverse of the Croghan medal. His sketch
portrayed the battle scene at Fort Stephenson with three ships in the distance representing Perry's fleet. According to the “Numismatic News” Hood’s drawing differed from other army
medals in that he included the Latin phrase “Par Magna Fuit” (His Share Was
Great). The obverse was reserved for a portrait of Croghan to be prepared by
Moritz Furst, the Philadelphia Mint’s contract engraver.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Croghan asked his brother, then living in Pittsburgh,
to provide Furst with a miniature portrait as a personal sitting was not
possible. Furst used Hood’s work and the portrait to create the engraving. He
received $1800 for his work. Congress appropriated another $250 to cover the
cost of striking the medal, the gold, and a case. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">By March of 1836, Furst had completed the medal. However,
a year later the medal still remained at the mint! Prodded by an agitated former
Secretary of War Lewis Cass, the mint finally shipped the medal to Washington,
D. C.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At long last, the Congressional gold medal was
presented to Colonel Croghan by President Andrew Jackson - the final War of 1812 medal awarded.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5gCB2cDZZM6k3101YVkxHiDcvxk8MHTKLL55zTOAXXL0pFILV5NICOQfW3_PuRsAh69LtTLLPwryEFIlqi1WRqyMl1ytLy0NFOnu5yU1ZWwjZ9hZdeREMMyyP-AZMZfeKksqsiYw6UR1krRfoVaM3Xw9MuKo2fZDsU4aGKRSE12KVhF_1xC0T5H63nQ/s250/croghan%20medal.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="127" data-original-width="250" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5gCB2cDZZM6k3101YVkxHiDcvxk8MHTKLL55zTOAXXL0pFILV5NICOQfW3_PuRsAh69LtTLLPwryEFIlqi1WRqyMl1ytLy0NFOnu5yU1ZWwjZ9hZdeREMMyyP-AZMZfeKksqsiYw6UR1krRfoVaM3Xw9MuKo2fZDsU4aGKRSE12KVhF_1xC0T5H63nQ/w360-h183/croghan%20medal.webp" width="360" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Croghan resigned from the U.S. Army after the War of
1812. He lived in New Orleans where he was appointed a postmaster. He later
rejoined the army and in 1825 was promoted to colonel and served as one of two U.S.
Army inspectors general. He fought with Zachary Taylor at Monterey in the War
with Mexico. Croghan died during the cholera epidemic at New Orleans in 1849.
He was originally buried in the family cemetery in Kentucky.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Colonel Croghan’s body was brought to Fremont for
re-burial by Colonel Webb C. Hayes. Hayes contacted his descendants, hoping to locate
the Congressional gold medal. None appeared to know of its whereabouts. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Using Furst’s original dies, the Philadelphia Mint
began producing bronze copies of the medal. “Numismatic News” stated that
collectors could still order them as late as 1901. Many museums, including the Hayes
Library and Museums hold copies of the bronze medal. The Smithsonian has a
dozen in its collection.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526309204562058761.post-17584149006430346452023-05-08T08:12:00.001-07:002023-05-08T08:12:45.845-07:00The Journal of Lt Charles R. Noyes during his days with the Hayeses on the President's Western Trip<p> <span style="font-size: large;">President Hayes began
an extended tour through the western United States. It was the first time a
sitting president had ever traveled to the West Coast. The journal of Lt.
Charles R. Noyes, albeit brief, is one of the few firsthand accounts of Hayes'
Western Trip.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li style="text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIaZKidsW_RmGdIOSmJIEc38r-WJbsYo1rwgMyBHDjBRoFgmTGL5P2_nm9O1ok_MYkpy5FmU76LzMrCnmkL6VmcHTpkuQr1tb3rjbKW5s_npOz171nzyPZUSStT59xZLmCZTHgJd3SHd-OEh6G0BP_Q_CVloalgvdx7-35Q28zpRAwIyyX9l6nBXejTw/s300/yosemite.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="235" data-original-width="300" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIaZKidsW_RmGdIOSmJIEc38r-WJbsYo1rwgMyBHDjBRoFgmTGL5P2_nm9O1ok_MYkpy5FmU76LzMrCnmkL6VmcHTpkuQr1tb3rjbKW5s_npOz171nzyPZUSStT59xZLmCZTHgJd3SHd-OEh6G0BP_Q_CVloalgvdx7-35Q28zpRAwIyyX9l6nBXejTw/w320-h251/yosemite.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></li><li style="text-align: center;"><b>President Hayes at Yosemite during Western Trip, 1880</b></li><li style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Courtesy of HPLM</i></b></li><li style="text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></li></ul><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p>President Rutherford B. Hayes and First Lady Lucy Webb Hayes left Chicago, Illinois, in September 1880.</o:p>As the President and First Lady's special train steamed
westward across the plains, Lt. Noyes discovered his post was one of the scheduled
stops. Lt. Noyes, then only twenty-one years of age, introduced himself to the President. Hayes and General William T. Sherman invited Noyes to join the
entourage for the four-day trip by rail through Wyoming to Salt Lake City,
Utah.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p>Lt. Charles Rutherford Noyes was the son of Horatio S.
Noyes, a first cousin of President Rutherford B. Hayes. Noyes was born in
Newtonville, Massachusetts, in 1858 and graduated from the United States
Military Academy in 1879. Following graduation, he was stationed in the West.
He later returned to West Point to teach mathematics. In 1898, Noyes married
cousin Gertrude Noyes. Major Noyes was severely wounded during the Boxer
Rebellion.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p>Noyes' daughter Margaret Noyes Goldsmith donated a
transcript of her father's journal to the Hayes Presidential Library and Museums in 1956. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCU_jEqpACru5oLS9hdmOAITx4IitVSnz_kljs0XLl5BX1TBaxV-l9bB5H7F8X6PhS007PnwPJgh9PQBsqCpUaxP-T1KbiQtY11CD5pyyEtggLsVCQiUYZrkAQi8uGUoM81fNmQaN-jecrAgxEYxivq8AdNKLGw5j1UrxWrXNLaLbjcdh-v66C8m22Rw/s381/Noyes.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="381" data-original-width="250" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCU_jEqpACru5oLS9hdmOAITx4IitVSnz_kljs0XLl5BX1TBaxV-l9bB5H7F8X6PhS007PnwPJgh9PQBsqCpUaxP-T1KbiQtY11CD5pyyEtggLsVCQiUYZrkAQi8uGUoM81fNmQaN-jecrAgxEYxivq8AdNKLGw5j1UrxWrXNLaLbjcdh-v66C8m22Rw/s320/Noyes.jpg" width="210" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span> <b> </b></span><span><i><b>Courtesy of Find a Grave</b></i></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p>Journal of Lt. Charles R. Noyes</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p>Friday, September 3, 1880</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p>Tomorrow President Hayes, Secretary of War Ramsey, and
General Sherman with party will pass through town en route west. Extensive
preparations have been in progress for some time to receive them with honor. I
wonder if R.B.H. will know me.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p>Saturday, September 4, 1880</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p>All the officers of the Depot with their ladies made an
early rise to finish breakfast in time to take the special car which was to
carry us to meet the President and his party. We did not get started until
eight o'clock, however, and when once we were off we found that we numbered
about twenty-five, a committee of gentlemen from town accompanying us with
their ladies. We were a jolly party and the fast trip down the road to Egbert,
thirty miles, was exhilarating. Arriving there we had not long to wait before
the President's special train came along. I do not think the President's party
had any intimation of this coming forth to meet them, but when the car had been
attached and the proper officials stepped into the President's car to greet
him, he at once with others of the party returned to our car and introductions
ensued. The President led, and as he was introduced to me, he did not
apparently recognize me, so I proceeded to make myself known as the son of his
cousin, Horatio Noyes. He had no opportunity to speak with me longer then, and
after receiving an introduction to Honorable Secretary of War Ramsey, and to
General Sherman, I went with some other officers into the President's car,
found there several members of the party among whom was Mrs. Hayes, and to her
I at once made myself known. She arose and received me with great cordiality,
and at once introduced me to all in the car. It was then that I first met
Birchard and Rutherford. Although I did not catch all the names at first I
afterwards found out who constituted the party. There were as follows:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">The President<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">General Sherman<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Mrs. Hayes<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">General A. McD. McCook<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Mr. Birchard Hayes<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Colonel Barr<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Mr. Rutherford P. Hayes<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Mrs. Hunt<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Mrs. Mitchell<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Mrs. Audenreid<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Mr. Herron<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Miss Rachel Sherman<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Mrs. Herron<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Mr. Furness<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Secretary of War Mr. Jamieson<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">There were five cars in the train, one carrying the baggage,
the second, a C.B. & Q. dining car, the third, C.B. & Q. directors car
occupied by Secretary of War, General Sherman, and the ladies of their party.
The fourth, a Pullman sleeper occupied by General McCook and other gentlemen of
the party, also by Colonel and Mrs. Barr and Birchard and Rutherford Hayes. The
fifth was the Union Pacific Directors car occupied by the President and his
party excluding the boys. After chatting for a few moments with several of
those to whom I had been introduced, I invited Miss Sherman to go with me to
our car to be introduced to the ladies and gentlemen there. Mrs. Hayes had in
the mean time gone back with somebody to be introduced. Upon our return we
found the car quite full and everybody talking away as fast as possible with
the President, Secretary of War, General Sherman, Mrs. Hayes and others who had
come in. After introducing Miss Sherman as far as I could, I left her with some
ladies, and finally found myself near a party of ladies of which Mrs. Hayes was
the central figure. She was soon called away by some others, much to the regret
of Mrs. Nash and Mrs. Heath who were charmed with her conversation, and another
lady was introduced - Mrs. Hunt. Just then Rutherford Hayes came in from the
President's car and said his father wished to see me. The President had
returned to his own car and was conversing with one or two gentlemen as I came
in. He bade me take a seat near him and moving close beside me himself asked me
several questions about my station and my duties. "Where are you
stationed?" "What are your duties?" "How long have you been
stationed there?" "Are you much employed, do your duties confine you
closely to your post?" To which I replied they did not. "Well, how
would you like to go on with us a little way, say to Salt Lake? We would be
pleased to have you accompany us." I expressed myself as willing and
delighted to accept the invitation. "Who is your commanding officer, to
whom should I speak to have you accompany us?" I informed him that
Lieutenant Bowman was the proper person, and with the remark that he would
speak to him about the matter, he left the car. I happened then to be near
Secretary of War who inquired of me if I was a relative of the President, and
where I was from. Shortly afterwards Mr. Jamieson who was in charge of the
party as _____ inquired of me my name, rank, and station, and I realized that I
was booked for a short journey with the President. He told me to report to
General Sherman, which I did immediately finding him in our special car
conversing with some on the folds there. Upon reporting to him he exclaimed in
his quick, peculiar way:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">"Oh, you are the young man who is going along with us.
Very well, sir, make your preparations as quickly as possible when we reach
Cheyenne and be ready when the President returns to the Depot. Don't take your
uniform with you - you'll not need it, we are not military at all, simply
citizens - just an ordinary suit such as you would wear with the President
anywhere. Better take some money along with you too. Got some money? All right,
you may need it to come back with. That's all."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">His active mind was ready to grasp the situation and able at
once to let me know even to such minute details all that I wished to know and
without questions on my part.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p>We soon reached Cheyenne, and after the party had been
conducted to a platform erected for them and as the speech making began, I
slipped away, found Lt. Heath's horse and buggy which he had kindly offered,
had his man drive me out to the Quartermaster's Depot, and hurrying to my
quarters changed my dress uniform for my half dress cits.[citizen's?]. I packed
my valise with the necessaries for a four days trip. Then I returned at once to
the train. The President and party had in the mean time gone away for a short
drive through town and out to Fort Russell. I was surprised to find General
Brackett at the Depot in citizen's dress and afterwards learned that he made a
great botch of the reception in that he failed to be present at his post when
the President passed through and that he had not ordered any review of the
troops. Nobody was there to receive the party and in some way a great error was
committed. About one o'clock the party returned and as they alighted from the
carriages I reported to the President again, and in my new dress was scarcely
recognized again. I soon got the opportunity to talk with the boys for a few
minutes, and at this moment Rutherford thought he ought to take the time to get
shaved, so off he went on a run to the Inter-Ocean Hotel telling Mr. Jamieson
to detain the train until his return. I took the opportunity to say goodbye to
the ladies and officers at the depot and the adieux from all were most cordial.
Major Lord got in some of his ridiculous remarks producing greatest mirth, and
his assurance that he was now confidant that I was to be selected to fill
General Myer's place as Chief Signal Officer caused considerable merriment.
Captain Bowman kindly offered me money and told me to draw on him at the Desert
National Bank at Salt Lake for any amount I might need. As I had just drawn my
August pay I thought I would have no occasion, and thanked him for the kind
offer.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p>I then got aboard the train and it soon started. I conversed
with Mrs. Mitchell for a few minutes after starting, and inquired what
relationship we bore to one another. It seems that her mother was the
President's sister, and she herself was therefore his niece. Rather difficult
relationship to express.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p>As we went along up the steep grade toward Sherman [post
station on the Union Pacific Railroad in Albany County, Wyoming] I had the
pleasure of a short conversation with the President of a general nature -
nothing personal. He remarked that he had great faith in the future of this
western land sterile as it appeared at present. He thought that as the country
became settled and cultivated and more and more of it ploughed up, the rain in
falling upon it would be held where it fell and not run off as now from the dry
hard soil into the streams, and as it evaporated from these more extended
surfaces would again collect and fall, thus giving more frequent rains and
greater amount of vegetation.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p>As we reached Sherman, the General interested all the party
in pointing out points of interest, and in asking them to guess the distances
to large rocks which appeared less than half a mile away. He surprised them
with the information that they were five miles distant - distances were so
deceptive in the high altitude of Sherman.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p>In the course of the afternoon's ride the President inquired
about my father and my brothers, and made some very few inquiries about my
doings. During this time we went down the slope to Fort Sanders and Laramie
City. At Fort Sanders the troops were drawn up in line near the railroad and as
the President descended from the train presented arms. Afterwards the officers
advanced to the front to meet the officials, and I got out to have a handshake
with some of my friends. I saw Ducat and Leyden, also Dodd of the 3rd Cavalry.
Ducat and Leyden were of course surprised to see me, and Ducat remarked that he
would like to be in my boots. The train stopped only a few minutes, and ten
minutes ride brought us to Laramie City. I believe it was just at this time I
was struggling with a cinder, which had gotten in my eye, and the President
also had met with the same misfortune, and while engaged in removing it he sat
beside me and explained the way he usually adopted in ridding himself of a
cinder. His theory was that in keeping the eye perfectly quiet for a few
minutes not rubbing or interfering with it in any way, a kind of coating would
naturally form all about the cinder covering the sharp angles, and then could
be worked out without any irritation or injury to the eye. But I did not have
time to follow out his rule as we were soon at Laramie and I much needed [to]
take a walk about the square with Miss Sherman who wanted to see all there was
to be seen. When we returned the President had just finished a few remarks to
the assembled crowd in which he referred to the Secretary of War as a man whom
he had thought knew much about war, but a good man for the place in time of
peace. The Secretary being thus introduced made a few remarks complimentary to
the good appearance of the country and people, and soon after the train went
off. I then engaged in a game of cribbage with Miss Sherman and beat her the
rubber. Returning to the President's car I found Mrs. Hayes, Mrs. Hunt, and Mr.
Jamieson singing in the rear compartment of the car, and I joined the party.
Mrs. Hayes entertained us then with a recital of the Star Spangled Banner a la
Mrs. Landers (?) of Washington, and afterwards Barbara Freitchie was given.
Then dinner was announced and I accompanied Mrs. Hayes to the dining car, Mrs.
Hayes, Governor Hoyt, and myself sitting at the same table. The party seemed to
be divided up into couples and trios at dining, generally occupying the same seats.
On the right as we entered the car, Mrs. Hayes usually sat with Dr. Huntington
as her usual vis-a-vis; opposite this table were General Sherman, Mrs.
Audenreid and Mrs. Hunt; next on the right were the Secretary of War and Miss
Sherman; opposite them Colonel and Mrs. Barr and Mr. Furness; next on the
right, the President and Mrs. Herron; opposite them, General McCook and whoever
happened to be with the party for a way. Last on the right, Mr. Herron and Mrs.
Mitchell with one or both of the sons, Birchard and Rutherford. Last on the
left, Mr. Jamieson with one of the sons, usually Rutherford.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p>While at supper, Governor Hoyt monopolized the conversation
with descriptions of his visit to the Indian tribes in the Territory and his
ascent of mountains in Colorado. I was slightly bored and I suspect Mrs. Hayes
was, too. He talked so incessantly that he got little to eat, and this
notwithstanding we were the last to leave the car. Mrs. Hayes partook of almost
all the dishes served, and appeared to enjoy her supper or dinner very much. We
returned to the President's car, and after some general conversation as we were
all sitting in one compartment of the car, games were suggested. First we
played "Here comes a ship laden with__." "B" was our letter,
then we had several games of "Shouting Proverbs". It was about nine
o'clock when Mrs. Jamieson interrupted us with the information that we had
reached Fort Steele [Fort Fred Steele located on the Union Pacific Railroad in
Carbon County, Wyoming] and officers and men were out to see the party. It was
quite dark and of course there was no ceremony. The President did not appear
but the Secretary of War and General Sherman spoke a few words to the officers,
General Sherman inquiring of Lieutenant King if he was a captain yet. I had the
opportunity to shake hands with Beach and say a few words to him. After we were
started we bid good night and withdrew to our separate cars. My berth was in
the fourth car opposite the one occupied by Rutherford Hayes. We conversed for
a few minutes and he informed me that he intended studying up railroad
engineering as a profession. Before retiring I wrote a letter home, also wrote
up some notes for my journal, and eleven o'clock appeared before I turned in.
When passing Rawlins [Wyoming] a crowd of roughs, there, made great
demonstrations and frightened some of the ladies, as we afterwards learned.
Rawlins is probably the roughest place on the railroad now.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Sunday, September 5, 1880</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p>The night and early morning were rather cold. Woke up at
seven o'clock. Rutherford and Birchard slept later. General McCook said he did
not stay awake to see how he slept. The morning found us in alkali soil and
sage brush. An occasional cottontail skipped away as we passed and the prairie
dogs wiggled their tails and dodged into their holes. A few antelope were seen
in the distance. Presently breakfast was announced, and on this occasion I
breakfasted with Secretary Ramsey and Miss Sherman. The Secretary was good
natured and pleasant. Conversation ran along on general topics, the Secretary
punned - what was the difference between a cantelope [sic] and an antelope -
only a C (sea), and the breakfast was in every respect first class. While at
breakfast we passed Hilliard where numbers of charcoal burning ovens were, and
General Sherman informed us that the wood was floated in an artificial narrow
canal for fifty miles.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p>At Evanston [a city on the Bear River in Wyoming, 75 miles
northeast of Salt Lake City, Utah] we saw the same, and there the train stopped
to change engines. A fine breakfast had been prepared by the citizens of the
place in honor of the President, but he would not stop, as I suspect, because
it was Sunday morning and he did not wish to speechify on that day. We walked
about the town a little and I was much pleased with its appearance. It was here
that Mrs. Mitchell met a nephew of hers, a nice appearing young fellow. There
President also invited on the train a Mr. Charles Smith whom I believe he
introduced as the youngest member of his old regiment in the War. At Evanston
we also saw a couple of Indians, one in citizen's dress, the other, a squaw, in
the dress of her people with blanket and buckskin. They were Shoshones. A short
ride further during which I had a few moments talk with both Mrs. Hayes and the
President and pointed out to them on the map of the Territory the position of
Camp on Snake River, and we arrived at a station called Emery [a village in
Emery County, Utah], and upon invitation of Rutherford Hayes I ran forward to
join a party on the cow-catcher for a ride through Echo Ca–on. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbwDK2jB1n9nJYx9QWjG5W5egkYCvb6KWbPMWCBywyVn0bv7_N94cy--lrdilo4zqg7_TlECX0s4Pi2-rc1h7LiOLvkKjBEogUzq4FKpTpJUfMWEkvrYXKInR-tbRxvAX0Mb2yhYGiXUllH_L_b2qQAkzxkQ9NZzMNkNEzxKqJJ9rQ9MzTqB31sYt4sA/s640/echo%20canyon.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="496" data-original-width="640" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbwDK2jB1n9nJYx9QWjG5W5egkYCvb6KWbPMWCBywyVn0bv7_N94cy--lrdilo4zqg7_TlECX0s4Pi2-rc1h7LiOLvkKjBEogUzq4FKpTpJUfMWEkvrYXKInR-tbRxvAX0Mb2yhYGiXUllH_L_b2qQAkzxkQ9NZzMNkNEzxKqJJ9rQ9MzTqB31sYt4sA/s320/echo%20canyon.jpg" width="320" /></span></b></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Echo Canyon<br />Photo by O'Sullivan, 1869<br /><i>Courtesy of Library of Congress</i></span></b></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">There were six
of us on the cow-catcher, Mr. Herron, Mrs. Mitchell, Miss Sherman, Rutherford
and Birchard, and myself. The President, Mrs. Hayes, Doctor Huntington and Mrs.
Herron rode with the engineer in the cab. The ride was down hill all the way
and for twenty or twenty-five miles through a most beautiful ca–on with
magnificent mountain scenery on both sides. The railroad followed a small
stream for several miles which finally flowed into the Weber River [river
through the Wasatch Mountains], and then the Weber was followed down. At places
the valley was wide enough to allow of fine wheat fields, and the houses were
quite numerous, probably all Mormon settlements as we were by this time within
the limits of Utah. One crop which we noticed and which covered quite large
fields, we afterwards learned was alfalfa or Luzerne [sic]. Its brilliant green
color attracted Mr. Herron's attention and no one knew at first what it was. It
is said to make excellent fodder for animals and three or four crops can be
harvested in a year, giving as many as nine tons to the acre. The wonderful
rock formations on both sides of the track and the high cliffs attracted our
attention. We noted the Devil's slide, and the Devil's Gate, also the one
thousand mile tree, all of which we passed during the ride. The track crossed
the stream whose course it followed many times and twice plunged through short
tunnels where the very circuitous course of the stream could not be followed.
On several occasions, as we sped along, it appeared as though we were about to
run full against a mountain side, but just before reaching such places the
track by a sudden turn curved through some narrow defile, and thus we passed
from open glades to steep sided ca–ons, and back again to open glades and
thrifty farms. It was a most delightful ride, and at the end of twenty-five
miles we returned to the train much pleased with our experience. This was at
Weber, and there we passed the regular east bound train which had brought a
special car from Salt Lake City with members of the Reception Committee who had
come out to meet the party. We arrived at Ogden at about one P.M. and there
found a crowd and a brass band. No speeches were made, the dignitaries did
scarcely more than show themselves at the door of the car and bow. General
Sherman said they were not traveling to make speeches, had only come out to see
the country and "find out what you fellows are about". The President
had given the example, which the others followed, refraining from speeches
principally on account of the day - the Sabbath.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p>The whole train was transferred from the Union Pacific to
the track of the Utah Central, and soon we were speeding along toward Salt Lake
City. This was another delightful part of the trip. The views across the Lake
on our right were charming, and on our left were farms with wheat fields,
gardens, and orchards, most of them the properties of Mormons, but all
presenting a thrifty appearance. The train made two or three stops to ennable
[sic] the people gathered at the stations to catch a glimpse of the President.
At one stopping place a great many children were gathered together having
numerous banners with Mormon mottoes and devices, apparently Sunday School
children. The President stood on the steps shaking hands with many of them, and
being desirous that Mrs. Hayes should see the children, he turned to me with
the request that I find Mrs. Hayes and invite her to come out on the platform
to see the numerous gathering. She joined Mr. Hayes and a great many children
passed by them shaking their hands. It was at this station that my attention
was called to the domineering spirit of the leaders and the crowd and cringing
look of those who were ruled. Of all this crowd one man seemed to have control
- independent in thought and act, all others were passive and submissive to the
authority exercised by the one, who was probably Bishop or Elder among them. As
the train moved away a tall ungainly youth who had been interested in what took
place and felt some enthusiasm which he was almost afraid to express, called
out in a drawling, hesitating manner, "Three cheers," shrinking back
ashamed of his enthusiasm and impudence. The cheers were given but not with
much spirit.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p>As we went along down, the arrangements were made for
distributing the party among the members of the Reception Committee, and
assigning to carriages. I was introduced to a Mr. Hollister and found upon
arriving at the City that I was to ride to the hotel with this gentleman, Mr.
Herron and a Mr. Kimball. We were driven at once to the hotel. There the 14th
Infantry band was playing, and upon being shown to the parlors a number of
ladies were found waiting, and an informal reception took place. To satisfy the
crowd outside President Hayes was obliged to step on the balcony and speak a
few words to them, but he excused himself quickly. While in the parlors I met
Colonel Trotter and was introduced by him to Mrs. and Miss Chettain, whom
Captain Bowman had charged me to find out as they were particular friends of
his stopping with General Smith. I had a few minutes pleasant conversation with
them, then secured a room or rather was assigned to one by General McCook, but
before cleaning up I started away with Mr. Herron, Rutherford and Birchard
Hayes, Doctor Huntington and two or three Salt Lake gentlemen to visit the
Lake, hardly knowing how much of a trip it would be. A carriage took us to the
depot of the Utah Western Railroad (narrow gauge), and at four fifteen we
started thence by train for Black Rock, a complimentary ticket for the party
being furnished by the superintendant [sic] of the road who accompanied us. The
direction of the road was straight across the valley, an hours ride, 22 miles,
brought us to our destination. During this ride conversation ran on the
question of irrigation and the fertility of the soil. All that land, presenting
now a very barren appearance, was reported to be capable of producing great
crops, if water could be gotten on it. It is the alkalie [sic] soil covered
with sage brush and grease wood which constitutes such a great extent of this
western country, and all experience so far goes to show that this land can all
be cultivated, if only water can be obtained in sufficient quantities for
irrigation. Arriving at Black Rock, we proceeded at once to secure bathing
suits and have a bath in the Lake. Most remarkable experience! The water is so
saturated with salt that it can hold no more in solution, and its specific
gravity is greater than that of the human body, so a person can float for hours
without exertion. I floated for five minutes without difficulty, lying on my
back with head and toes out of water, and spreading out my arms to keep
balanced, for the tendency was to turn over on my side as a barrel hoop would
in fresh water if placed in the water with the curve down and the two ends out
just above the surface. With a little exertion I could maintain an upright
position and walk along without touching bottom. While swimming as in fresh
water I experienced difficulty in keeping my feet under water. We were
cautioned before entering the water not to let any get into our mouths or eyes,
and I was careful to observe this caution. Rutherford Hayes was not so
fortunate, and when way out beyond his depth got mouth and eyes full, nearly
blinding him for the time being. He struck out for land with his eyes shut and,
without presence of mind, tired himself out with his exertions to reach a point
where he could touch bottom.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Before returning to the city we took a slight supper in a
restaurant near by and climbed to a high rock where we could witness to
advantage the setting of the sun. It was a magnificent sunset viewed across the
lake and surrounded by such ranges of high mountains, distant twenty or thirty
miles and more - the whole scene was beautiful. While on the train returning to
the city I sat near the superintendant [sic] of the road, and had a long talk
on railroads and various other matters. He said he had been connected with
railroads for two years - never received any extended education except such as
he could get in this western country and when not obliged to work for his
bread, began his career in railroading with a pick and shovel on the Union Pacific
Railroad, afterwards became a subcontractor on the same road, and so on. It
seems to me his present position is a very desirable one.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p>Upon arriving at the hotel I went to my room to clean up,
but my valise was not there, somebody else's trunk was, and I concluded some
mistake had been made. My room was the one which had originally been assigned
to Mrs. Mitchell, but she had gone elsewhere in town, and I found myself
place[d] between Mrs. Hayes' room and the two sons! The President occupied
another room of the same suite beyond Mrs. Hayes', and all the rooms had doors
opening one into another. I waited in the hotel entrance in conversation with
McCammon and Murphy, lieutenants of the 14th, until the boys had finished their
supper which they had taken without waiting to dress, and Rutherford then made
a search for me in his parent's rooms, where my valise was finally found. In
the meantime, however, I had missed a royal dinner, as I afterwards learned. I
attempted nothing further than a letter to Captain Bowman that evening retiring
at about ten. I found the boys already in bed when I repaired to my room, and
they were asleep before I turned in.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p>Monday, September 6, 1880</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p>I had a very sound sleep during the night and awaked when
called at about six thirty. I dressed in clean linen, and just here I must note
my surprise at seeing the garment which one of the boys put on for an
undershirt. It was evidently intended for use in an exceedingly warm climate
(!), and as it could not possible [sic] withstand the rigors of another passage
through was[h] tub and over a wash board, the wearer must have labored for some
weeks previous with it to get is money's worth before it was finally doomed.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p>While dressing, Mrs. Hayes called at the door, and I
withdrew to the boy's room, while one of the sons communicated with his mother
at the door leading from my room to hers. Soon after, the President himself
came in, in his nightshirt, and inquired who occupied the rooms. Rutherford
informed him that he, Birchard, and Noyes occupied them.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p>"Ah! And where's Noyes?"</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">I was standing behind the door in the boys' room in
undershirt and drawers and in the act of wiping my face after a wash.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">"Here I am, sir," I replied, showing myself.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">"Well, what kind of a time are you having, Noyes?"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">"Oh splendid time, sir. I have enjoyed myself very much
indeed."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">"I am glad of that; can't you go along farther with
us."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">I thought I could if he wanted me to. Then it occurred to
him that I was a soldier and traveling under orders<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">"Have you your orders yet?"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">"Yes, sir."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">"How does it read?"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">"It orders me to accompany you as far as Salt Lake
City, return to Ogden and from there return to my station."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">"Aha!"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Upon this he returned to his own room, and thereupon all
hopes of further invitation were done away with.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p>After getting a shave I returned to the hotel and repaired
to one of the parlors where breakfast was being served to the Presidential
Party. All were seated upon my entrance, except Birchard who entered just about
the time I did. It was a very fine breakfast, and everything was well served.
At about nine o'clock, everything in our rooms being left in shape to be taken
directly to the train, the party was divided up for a ride about the city to
see the sights. I went in a carriage with Mrs. Herron, Rutherford Hayes, and a
gentleman whose name I did not catch, one of the committee of reception. I wish
to make a note here before going further with my account, of the question the
President asked at the breakfast table concerning father, and of the pains he
took to send his regards, desiring me to give expression to the same when I saw
him. My seat was near the President's and beside Birchard. Opposite were Mr.
Jamieson, Colonel Barr, and Miss Sherman. Secretary Ramsey occupied the chair
at the farther end of the table, opposite the President's, and others of the
party were distributed on both sides without any apparent arrangement.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p>During our ride we had all points of interest called to our
attention. The Lion's Cooperative Mercantile Institution, the Tithing House,
and the Tabernacle, where we descended from the carriage to take a look at the
interior, the janitor in attendance explaining and exhibiting all its wonderful
characteristics. The ease with which the human voice could be heard at the most
extreme point from the speaker's platform was very remarkable. We could even
hear a whisper, hear a man brush his pantaloons, or a pin drop. This was at a
distance of two hundred and twenty feet. The President and General Sherman as
well as others of the party were very much delighted with this exhibition. The
janitor played a few chords on the organ, also. The regular organist was to
have been there a little later but we could not wait. In another large building
near by, called the Winter Temple, the frescoing on the ceiling and walls was
rather remarkable. Another very large temple is in course of construction, and
when finished the walls will be a hundred feet high. The carriages did not keep
together during the drive; ours passed along some of the principal streets by
many beautiful residences, some of them Mormon, others gentile; an old gray
haired man standing at his gate as we passed was said to be "old man Wells"
who had eight wives, and the Lion House where Brigham Young had had his office
and a number of his wives. Opposite this was a magnificent residence in which
his favorite wife had lived. Our carriage took us to the top of a hill from
which we obtained a magnificent view of the city, the valley, and the high
mountains on all hands. One peak in the dim distance was said to be ninety
miles away; snow lying on many of the nearer mountains. We returned to the
hotel at ten o'clock and the President had a reception at that time; but almost
immediately upon reaching the hotel I joined Mr. Herron and Birchard Hayes in a
trip to the Warm Sulphur Baths, which we reached in fifteen minutes ride. The
bath was very pleasant and refreshing, and we had just time enough to reach the
hotel before the procession of carriages was formed for the ride to Fort
Douglas. This was a tiresome and dusty ride of three miles, almost all the way
up hill, but we arrived in good time. A salute of thirty eight guns was fired
as the President's carriage approached the post, and upon entering the gates,
the six companies of the 14th Infantry were found drawn up in line to present
arms. K Company was on the left of the line near where our carriage stopped,
and I recognized Lieutenant Gustin and Captain Carpenter of that company.
During our stay at the post, and while the others of the party were partaking
of a lunch in General Smith's quarters, I met all the officers of the 14th with
whom I was acquainted. Mrs. and Miss Chettam were present, the former
apparently having the care of the ceremonies at the house, acting as hostess.
Just before leaving I hurried off with Gustin to take a look at the Officers'
quarters. They appeared to be substantially built brick quarters, and the post
itself presented a very cosy [sic] attractive appearance. From Fort Douglas
[military post 3 miles from Salt Lake City] the party was driven directly to
the depot where the train was found in readiness, the engine beautifully decked
with flags, and at one thirty we started back for Ogden. During this ride I
beat Miss Sherman a rubber at cribbage, the[n] took the time to see all the
party and make my adieux, thanking the President, General McCook, and Mr.
Jamison [sp] for the pleasure I had enjoyed and for several favors. I was much
pleased with the cordial adieux from Secretary of War and from General Sherman.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p>Upon arriving at Ogden [located in Weber County, Utah, 37
miles north of Salt Lake City] the party changed cars to Central Pacific
sleeping cars, and the director's car of the Central Pacific was in readiness
for the President. This was the finest car, which I think I ever saw, its
upholstery was of the richest, and all its appointments complete.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">I had my baggage taken to the hotel which was right at hand,
and while the train was being made up, took dinner, afterwards having a final
adieux, not leaving the train until it started westward away, and as it went
round a curve out of sight, I was left standing on the platform of the railroad
station, once more a mere citizen, a spectator.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p><span>I devoted an hour to walking through the town,
left a card at Captain Howell's office (Q.M.D.), and in the evening interested
myself watching operations during the arrival and departure of trains. Was much
interested in the Utah and Northern Railroad, which is a narrow gauge starting
from Ogden, running two hundred and fifty miles north into Montana.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526309204562058761.post-60891398403139892512023-03-29T14:28:00.001-07:002023-04-01T07:36:32.096-07:00Moses Fleetwood Walker and the Toledo Blue StockingsThe Major League Baseball season is underway. Most people believed the
phenomenal athlete Jackie Robinson was first to break the color barrier in 1947.
It was Moses Fleetwood Walker who holds that distinction. Born in Mount Pleasant
in 1856, Walker, better known as “Fleet,” was the son of Moses W. Walker, one of
Ohio’s first black physicians and a Methodist Episcopal minister. Fleet and
brother Weldy both enrolled at Oberlin College where in 1880 they played
intercollegiate baseball.
<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/AVvXsEjgVoKUD4R2Yha8W01vnfIc7p8tzRlpRx371vVAIzS0GxWLr7Ear1zE2X_sCljsxoLeseek67UnngOQgpHldAZSCIuV7rY92ufnrgS3QMr4xDEld1KDpxtRN1yGwOmPEGYPjnyBXiw2tY9NYvsaK5_ISs6LvSmIgP_uByeY5k9haAJFRjnu2M_oEmYedQ/s824/Moses%20Fleetwood%20Walker.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="824" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgVoKUD4R2Yha8W01vnfIc7p8tzRlpRx371vVAIzS0GxWLr7Ear1zE2X_sCljsxoLeseek67UnngOQgpHldAZSCIuV7rY92ufnrgS3QMr4xDEld1KDpxtRN1yGwOmPEGYPjnyBXiw2tY9NYvsaK5_ISs6LvSmIgP_uByeY5k9haAJFRjnu2M_oEmYedQ/s320/Moses%20Fleetwood%20Walker.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Moses Fleetwood Walker<br /><i>Courtesy of Wikimedia</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgVoKUD4R2Yha8W01vnfIc7p8tzRlpRx371vVAIzS0GxWLr7Ear1zE2X_sCljsxoLeseek67UnngOQgpHldAZSCIuV7rY92ufnrgS3QMr4xDEld1KDpxtRN1yGwOmPEGYPjnyBXiw2tY9NYvsaK5_ISs6LvSmIgP_uByeY5k9haAJFRjnu2M_oEmYedQ/s824/Moses%20Fleetwood%20Walker.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><br /></a></div>
So impressive were the Walkers, they were recruited by
the University of Michigan, where Fleet studied law. With Fleet as its superb
catcher and power hitter, Michigan won 10 of 13 games. That summer he played for
an amateur team at New Castle, Pennsylvania. Local papers referred to him as a
“wonder.”<div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcmggvyqFx53YVVsQYI-3H5g5G2Rx7WpjY3GNKv5DwtkXnZPWplf9mP7tsJv2LJD0faAmYYGSZLzvRTgO4TZRTmdsWAmoZxUpj_KsmwCXL-mcaugMseftNEv05I6r_XLhIDUJ2HuCQ8gRAVMG6a3WD43FNO9WwnAJh-RNzf3J81k47jeNa4S0qPLRMdQ/s640/640px-1882_University_of_Michigan_baseball_team.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="555" data-original-width="640" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcmggvyqFx53YVVsQYI-3H5g5G2Rx7WpjY3GNKv5DwtkXnZPWplf9mP7tsJv2LJD0faAmYYGSZLzvRTgO4TZRTmdsWAmoZxUpj_KsmwCXL-mcaugMseftNEv05I6r_XLhIDUJ2HuCQ8gRAVMG6a3WD43FNO9WwnAJh-RNzf3J81k47jeNa4S0qPLRMdQ/s320/640px-1882_University_of_Michigan_baseball_team.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>1882 University of Michigan Baseball Team</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>(Walker, bottom third from right)<br /><i>Courtesy of Wikimedia</i></b></div><br /> In the spring of 1883, Walker left school to play pro ball in Toledo,
a part of the Northwestern League, where he was signed as the team’s catcher.
But before the season even opened, the league’s executive committee attempted to
block Walker and any African American from playing baseball. Bitterly contested
by his team’s management and backed by the “Toledo Blade,” Walker took to the
field and led the way to a pennant-winning season. According to baseball
historian John Husman, the “Toledo Blade,” praised Walker as being of “greater
value behind the bat than any catcher in the league.”
The following year, theToledo Blue Stockings joined major league baseball’s American Association. With
Fleet and then Weldy on the roster, the brothers became the first and second
African Americans to play in the major leagues. It was a dismal season for the
Toledo Blue Stockings and the Walkers. </div><div><br /><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMf3sg0xm6Ecg2atm2qKZQIf8Ogkz9nwqwXhv5f_crHJW0sJK-IuUiF6IlRubgC1kl_wbzS3bNVsGAFVAuuWTQLiAZZzexunegDX3XDh6__coxdToKOTa_p_QGSsbNncN_sT2BqDfcuyUcky4Uidx98joJlrkyBgd2EnXJ99acnK_GRVm9yF_mxakD6Q/s640/1884_Toledo_Blue_Stockings%20(1).jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="417" data-original-width="640" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMf3sg0xm6Ecg2atm2qKZQIf8Ogkz9nwqwXhv5f_crHJW0sJK-IuUiF6IlRubgC1kl_wbzS3bNVsGAFVAuuWTQLiAZZzexunegDX3XDh6__coxdToKOTa_p_QGSsbNncN_sT2BqDfcuyUcky4Uidx98joJlrkyBgd2EnXJ99acnK_GRVm9yF_mxakD6Q/s320/1884_Toledo_Blue_Stockings%20(1).jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Toledo Blue Stockings</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>(Walker, top row center)</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>Courtesy of Wikimedia</i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></div> Fleet, who caught barehanded, was plagued
by injuries. (Catchers’ only protective gear was the mask.) He was released in
September and the Blue Stockings returned to the minor league.
Fleet with his
wife and two children remained in Toledo, where he worked as a postal clerk. He
caught on with several minor league teams and later, he and his brother bought a
theater in Cleveland. It was here that Fleet patented several improvements in
film’s early technology. In 1891, while playing with the Syracuse Stars, Fleet
killed a man in a fight with three other white men. Fleet claimed self-defense.
An all-white jury found him not guilty. A few years later, Walker was convicted
of mail fraud and sentenced to a year in prison. Subjected to racial harassment
throughout their lives, Fleet and Weldy Walker published the “Equator.” As
editors, they wrote about black nationalism and proposed that African-Americans
emigrate to Africa. Fleet detailed these ideas in a book titled “Our Home
Colony.” Walker owned several more theaters before his death in Cleveland in
1924. </div><div><br /></div><div>One final note: Baseball researcher Pete Morris discovered ballplayer
William Edward White, who played a single game for the Providence Grays some
five years before Fleet Walker. White was born into slavery, but passed as
white. Despite these facts, baseball historians still credit Moses Fleetwood Walker as the first
to play openly as an African American in the major leagues.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>For more about Moses
Fleetwood Walker and the Toledo Blue Stockings, check out "Toledo's Attic"
online.
</i></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526309204562058761.post-86823039980018293222023-02-16T13:10:00.001-08:002023-02-16T13:12:24.447-08:00Congregation of the Girton Church of God, Scott Twp. Sandusky County, Ohio<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYAzHRW8TZYJDi1vGoop1ZNgC_KlZDSnE8ysfw7fnBfz668uSGKDncCft8iTjoWR41EkRi1lps2Ris3GpASs4R05p74llxDim4-OvJohO7ZvU97F9pV8jn2tWlCY1SoKpH829aFA3UleLr8O6sXoCbNus_Vi7QCldcmuHPEGbkr2bSgMEjpKDyhu9KaA/s2857/Girton%20church%20of%20God049.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2294" data-original-width="2857" height="321" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYAzHRW8TZYJDi1vGoop1ZNgC_KlZDSnE8ysfw7fnBfz668uSGKDncCft8iTjoWR41EkRi1lps2Ris3GpASs4R05p74llxDim4-OvJohO7ZvU97F9pV8jn2tWlCY1SoKpH829aFA3UleLr8O6sXoCbNus_Vi7QCldcmuHPEGbkr2bSgMEjpKDyhu9KaA/w400-h321/Girton%20church%20of%20God049.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Congregation of the Girton Church of God, 1939</span></b><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Girton Church of God had its origins in tent
meetings held near County Road 32 in Scott Twp., Sandusky County, Ohio. Many of
these meetings were conducted by Daniel Sidney Warner and Brother Barney
Warren. Warner had broken away from the Winebrennerian Church of God. He formed
the Warner Traveling Group, conducting evangelistic tours throughout the
Midwest. The nearby home
of George Roush was a frequent site for gatherings by members.</span></p>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Realizing a need for
a building in which to worship, members pledged funds for the construction of a
church in the fall of 1915. By the following spring, the building (seen above), was completed near the
site of their former tent meetings, On July 16, 1916 the Girton
Church of God was dedicated and a week later, the Sunday School was organized. </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526309204562058761.post-59415503399763252642023-02-16T12:56:00.002-08:002023-02-16T12:56:53.756-08:00World War I Letter of Dr. Robert C. Gill of Norwalk, Ohio<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"> <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/AVvXsEg766WUuJjsbKXwNvnNv5a2LSx8lejk_HsRf2HUzi-ed2Au2IOEZWd6nRbtRYraoMwQcT9axIcmXaVcMYD2ZW0GNOfNty7RASdGnM_-GY6mr5uXEucLrnxobdZ-K4YPjhyTCofDbQVG62PvfkOaV0-4IxW5Gylv08rUhWn-PPJk-E5ZKJFzHYUB1hRdig/s800/gill2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="475" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg766WUuJjsbKXwNvnNv5a2LSx8lejk_HsRf2HUzi-ed2Au2IOEZWd6nRbtRYraoMwQcT9axIcmXaVcMYD2ZW0GNOfNty7RASdGnM_-GY6mr5uXEucLrnxobdZ-K4YPjhyTCofDbQVG62PvfkOaV0-4IxW5Gylv08rUhWn-PPJk-E5ZKJFzHYUB1hRdig/s320/gill2.jpeg" width="190" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Dr. Robert C. Gill<br />Courtesy of Michael Belis and Find A Grave</span></i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Robert C. Gill, M.D. of Norwalk, Ohio wrote the following letter at the close of World War I to Mildred Monnet Laning, wife of Sheldon Laning. The Lanings were close friends who also lived in Norwalk, Ohio. Gill was a descendant of Huron County, Ohio pioneers. He graduated from Norwalk, Ohio high school and Denison University. He received his medical degree from Western Reserve in 1914 and then served an internship at St. Luke's Hospital in Cleveland, Ohio.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Dr. Gill served in World War I as a medical officer of the 37th Division where he attained the rank of major. He trained in Montgomery, Alabama and saw action on several European fronts, including the Argonne Forest and in Belgium. He was awarded the silver star. Dr. Gill married Olga Schroeder of Youngstown, Ohio in 1922. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Following his service, he did graduate work at the New York Optalmic Hospital and then returned to Norwalk, Ohio where he practiced medicine until his death in 1955. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">This letter is part of the Sheldon Laning Local History Miscellaneous Manuscript Collection.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Capt. R. C. Gill<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Belgium<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">140<sup>th</sup> Amb. Co.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">112 [?] Train<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Amer E Force<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>November 11, 19<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-size: large;">Dear Mildred:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-size: large;">Your first letter was read while I was walking down a lane
in Belgium just a few hours before we went – no by God I read it the second day
of the drive while we were moving up beyond a ridge that the enemy had occupied
the night before. And they gave us hell that night. Your letter was in my hand
while we passed machine gun pits, artillery and infantry units lying in support
while we moved up under shell fire. I wish Tud [Sheldon Laning] could have seen
what your letter saw. Since then I have been in another drive that was just
getting underway when the armistice came.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-size: large;">We had our dressing station about ½ mile from the enemy’s
line when peace was declared. In the drive before we moved up to 250 yds of the
enemy’s first line at night and at dawn the boys went over under a terrific
barrage. We got it coming & going but are all here safe now. Believe me
folks, it was hot and I tell you I’ve seen all of War that I want. I’ve seen
refugee women running towards our lines bar[e]footed, with their hair down, and
bleeding from wounds, They really were surrounded by children and sometimes
carrying wounded babies. I saw an old man pushing a wheelbarrow with two
wounded babies in it. They came streaming in with our wounded and they all had
a smile on their faces. Wounded Boche and Boche prisoners. And all the time the
houses in the town to our left and the building to our left were crashing under
the Boche shells. Trees falling in the distance and the big shells plunging
into the canal behind us searching for our pontoons.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">Then between us and then. road large geysers of
earth would leap into the air. They were trying to get the high road then. Machine guns around us were rattling and one [?] banging in our ears. Once in a
while something would swizz thru the air. Besides we had a light attack of
sneezing gas. Believe me, one took interest in things. We laid behind
straw-stacks til we got word to go forward and then </span><u style="font-size: large;">moved</u><span style="font-size: large;"> cause the
Boche were getting our range.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-size: large;">Some of those things I believe I’ll never forget and some I
never want to remember again. I can’t tell you where we are yet because the
censor-ship is still on. The Division has made a name for itself. You going to
invite me and some nice girl to your house party? I’ll come if you keep your
old man from saying embarrassing things and behave yourselves. You try any
sfommy [?] in my presence as you two usually do or I'll go you one better or go home
or get drunk or something. When I get home I want to get drunk in Cleveland.
Can you spare Tud one night to take care of me? Lord know somebody ought to for
I sure am going to celebrate, oh Boy. You might keep that cider til I get home
– it will be tart alright.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-size: large;">Just now we are still doing fours right and fours left. It
seems strange to see lights in all the houses and to go out in the moonlight
and not hear a plane over head. Write soon ”tootsweet” and tell Tud I’m using
“commissary” tobacco.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">Yours Bob.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-size: large;">Almost forgot to tell you. I got my captaincy after the
first drive and on the third front was given command of the company. It’s a
hell of a job taking care of 122 men keeping em fed clothed and in good
spirits. They can send me home now and cut out the honors.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-size: large;">Yours,</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Bob<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526309204562058761.post-65771702481525030892023-01-07T07:23:00.001-08:002023-01-07T07:28:42.111-08:00Jay Cooke and the Yellowstone<p> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The recent popularity of
“Yellowstone” and Kevin Costner’s appearance on Fox Nation brings to mind the
first efforts to make Yellowstone a tourist attraction. It all began with Jay
Cooke, born in Sandusky, Ohio and known as the financier of the Civil War.
Following the war, the wealthy Cooke invested his fortune in building the
Northern Pacific Railway. With Duluth as its hub, Jay hoped to push the railroad
ever westward. Transporting products to and from the West was not the only
thing on Cooke’s mind. He believed he could develop tourist destinations along
the Northern Pacific route.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-size: medium;">He learned that in March 1871the
government had allocated $40,000 to geologist Ferdinand Hayden to survey
northwestern Wyoming. Joining Hayden would be photographer William Henry
Jackson and painter Henry Wood Elliott. It was their job to visually document
the area.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi027geI00TrLfZf-yL2o84CYDiOxlbP0iUGO543exeANKWvOFBhnSM6-6hQEA0fk8bzB93uwDWgfewHaP44C86kuXdvtk_zMbw8iwZa5HHv6EmSHeh-N7Cwyhx_qm6dudEwG78ck7mcD02D4R02457BSSKcuKPpRJRdKE_Qlb0qUtXzHTAJmUnFYXwZA/s640/MoranGrandCanyonoftheYellowstone.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi027geI00TrLfZf-yL2o84CYDiOxlbP0iUGO543exeANKWvOFBhnSM6-6hQEA0fk8bzB93uwDWgfewHaP44C86kuXdvtk_zMbw8iwZa5HHv6EmSHeh-N7Cwyhx_qm6dudEwG78ck7mcD02D4R02457BSSKcuKPpRJRdKE_Qlb0qUtXzHTAJmUnFYXwZA/s320/MoranGrandCanyonoftheYellowstone.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Tower Falls and Sulphur Mountain <br />Courtesy of the Library of Congress<br /></b></i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Thomas Moran, a painter of the
Hudson River School and illustrator for Scribner’s Monthly magazine, had heard about
the expedition, but was disappointed to learn that an artist had already been
chosen. Jay Cooke knew Moran’s artwork could prove invaluable for future
advertisements for the Northern Pacific. Using his political connections, Cooke
was able to get Moran assigned to the expedition. He and Scribner’s covered the
expedition costs for Moran.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNRxpSzGNRdLL__UeHnoZo_dkE9gJ4eY-18SAUkmMUx_6SCRXyxVBqtE-8LAA5UrEDmxsF2dcGkj9K5_VTJYtLHA2ySCWSC8Lx-f8wX1owVw-KPAMUgu5iZ0Cf31-BYLxhCV3W1iPPXAs_vJ3TfK4sy3oT4peVBM1LC4z1Q1z_LC85tZVv3Bv-m5GReQ/s200/moranphoto.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="143" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNRxpSzGNRdLL__UeHnoZo_dkE9gJ4eY-18SAUkmMUx_6SCRXyxVBqtE-8LAA5UrEDmxsF2dcGkj9K5_VTJYtLHA2ySCWSC8Lx-f8wX1owVw-KPAMUgu5iZ0Cf31-BYLxhCV3W1iPPXAs_vJ3TfK4sy3oT4peVBM1LC4z1Q1z_LC85tZVv3Bv-m5GReQ/s1600/moranphoto.jpg" width="143" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Thomas Moran<br />Courtesy of the National Gallery of Art</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-size: medium;">Although neither Jackson nor Moran
knew each other, they quickly struck up a friendship that became a professional
partnership. Together, through Jackson’s photographs (developed in the field)
and Moran’s sketches and his onsite watercolors, they documented some of
Yellowstone’s most iconic landscapes. When the expedition ended, Moran produced
30 paintings that created a sensation in the East.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDj3vsb9DJcJFVSItAKNLsVvr7QPSaiQ9tXdKAfpos_dUPjtkUoVgCQuK8qEAk-_oGmIhTku3enVl1YEUH8pWlhSzQ3m_7iHANqy7K9QZnyhb_vWuHwScuUZK1eFusONNb_F4Uwke4s_D41QbyUnydSdsyklBNOwpxiXGzdwXKWUrHvmHzhlHkXjgwVg/s640/morantowerfallsandsulphurmountain.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><b><i><img border="0" data-original-height="454" data-original-width="640" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDj3vsb9DJcJFVSItAKNLsVvr7QPSaiQ9tXdKAfpos_dUPjtkUoVgCQuK8qEAk-_oGmIhTku3enVl1YEUH8pWlhSzQ3m_7iHANqy7K9QZnyhb_vWuHwScuUZK1eFusONNb_F4Uwke4s_D41QbyUnydSdsyklBNOwpxiXGzdwXKWUrHvmHzhlHkXjgwVg/s320/morantowerfallsandsulphurmountain.jpg" width="320" /></i></b></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Grand Canyon of the Yesllowstone <br />Courtesy of the Library of Congress</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Many were skeptical of the stories
trappers told of the area’s beauty. Jackson’s images proved they were not
wrong! Their enduring images helped Americans realize Yellowstone was a
treasure to be preserved and shared with future generations. The following
year, when Congress debated establishing Yellowstone as the world’s first national
park, the work of Jackson and Moran played a critical role. Moran’s 9 ½ foot by
14 ½ foot “Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone” hung in the Capitol for many years.
Today it is on long term loan to the Smithsonian. All of Moran’s paintings can
be viewed on the Library of Congress website.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p><span> </span></o:p><span>The Jackson/Moran friendship did
not end there. They teamed up on two additional expeditions. Jay Cooke’s
investments in the Northern Pacific Railway drove him into bankruptcy, setting
off the Panic of 1873. By making it possible for Thomas Moran to join the
Hayden Expedition, Cooke accomplished something of lasting value. A record
attendance of more than 4,800,000 tourists visited Yellowstone in 2021</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><b><a href="http://lifestyles2000.net/" target="_blank">A version of this article appears in Lifestyles 2000</a></b></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526309204562058761.post-68760247023683577682022-12-19T05:56:00.000-08:002022-12-19T05:56:19.474-08:00The Cannons That Came To Spiegel Grove<p> <span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">For many years, I
wondered what had become of the cannons that flanked the Spiegel Grove entrances featured
in old postcards. Not long ago, Curator of Manuscripts Julie Mayle discovered
when and why they disappeared. Her research appears in an article in the</span><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"> <a href="https://www.rbhayes.org/" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: black;">Hayes Presidential “Statesman</span></b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">,</span></a>” The cannons were Rodman guns, named after their
inventor Thomas Jackson Rodman. At the
time of the Civil War, they were the largest guns in the U.S. arsenal.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Preceding the White House
gates, the cannon at the Harrison Gateway were the 15-inch style, while those at the
McPherson-Thompson Gateway were 10-inch. Atop each gun was a 20-inch
cannonball. Julie learned that it was Admiral Webb Hayes II, grandson of the
president, who believed they should be donated to Sandusky County’s scrap drive
in support of World War II.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><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/AVvXsEifXkY0kreJXqE8yYUGWSAnkP_UR1KsmmIlEVXxPIYDaoCnkwSKJwxXkaLe0mZ2wGA2YZPaS2VVUNOCZts1h_x7tPOqWoFbWpMMIyotJQL94rWXqHu_2RpVnfNEDDLvTC8Ln6e7iwfrZOd9BfpgacPSeYtpz8y4tJAvUwFhFJoRf3OrnsIjKxG3i25b8w/s1590/cannons3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="996" data-original-width="1590" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifXkY0kreJXqE8yYUGWSAnkP_UR1KsmmIlEVXxPIYDaoCnkwSKJwxXkaLe0mZ2wGA2YZPaS2VVUNOCZts1h_x7tPOqWoFbWpMMIyotJQL94rWXqHu_2RpVnfNEDDLvTC8Ln6e7iwfrZOd9BfpgacPSeYtpz8y4tJAvUwFhFJoRf3OrnsIjKxG3i25b8w/s320/cannons3.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Undated Spiegel Grove Post Card</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">It took great effort to
bring the 7-ton cannons down. The job was completed in November 1942 and the
guns were transported by rail to a rolling mill in Mansfield. Eventually, more
than $230 was raised and donated to the U.S.O.</span></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Now my question was how
did these giant Civil War cannons come to be at Spiegel Grove? There
was little doubt that this was the work of Colonel Webb C. Hayes, Rutherford
and Lucy’s second son and founder of the Hayes Presidential Library and
Museums. The colonel acquired two for the Harrison Gateway in time for the dedication
of the Harrison Trail. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But the two 10-inch
Rodmans came later through the colonel’s contact with Major General Frederick
Grant, the son of President Ulysses S. Grant. After a storied career in the
military, General Grant became the Commander of the East, headquartered at
Governor’s Island in New York. He wrote in 1911 that he considered the
colonel’s desire to place the Civil War cannons at the McPherson-Thompson
Gateway was a “worthy purpose.” No doubt he had known General James McPherson. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a 10-year-old boy, he was with his father, General Ulysses S. Grant, during the Siege of Vicksburg. General McPherson had served on his father's staff.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">General Frederick Grant ordered two Rodmans
located at Fort Caswell in North Carolina be sent to Spiegel Grove. The Union
forces had placed the guns there to defend Wilmington in early 1865 after the
Confederates surrendered the fort. They arrived in Fremont, Ohio in November of 1911.
According to a Fremnont “New-Messenger” article, it took a massive effort by the city
engineer, superintendent of streets, and a number of men under direction of the
colonel to erect the two cannons weighing 35,000 pounds. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">For more than 30
years, they marked the gateway honoring Civil War General James McPherson and
Samuel Thompson who fought in both the War of 1812 and the War with Mexico.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526309204562058761.post-342749617489782812022-12-18T11:52:00.000-08:002022-12-18T11:52:31.887-08:00Our Sacred Honor<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhkIApNveg2rFp6onacikTH_kloPrqf_VvpSi0kdx56DCj_VBalt0aWBKuyiD81kfs6ybK7IBolue4RUBm_KaYRab_ueVHL73MkYMvikmPskKNWQ1qwRrji284LKITWmCJWubzSKEqLqv9w2atqzWXe46FhSwcEYmV4jyJo1DVaNqhgQpecr4jFEwi2Q/s2100/signers.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1381" data-original-width="2100" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhkIApNveg2rFp6onacikTH_kloPrqf_VvpSi0kdx56DCj_VBalt0aWBKuyiD81kfs6ybK7IBolue4RUBm_KaYRab_ueVHL73MkYMvikmPskKNWQ1qwRrji284LKITWmCJWubzSKEqLqv9w2atqzWXe46FhSwcEYmV4jyJo1DVaNqhgQpecr4jFEwi2Q/s320/signers.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Painting by John Trumbull<br />Courtesy of Wikipedia</b></i></td></tr></tbody></table> <b><i> </i></b><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> The 4</span><sup style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">th</sup><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> of July of 2022 is long gone for another year. But a look back at this past Independence Day is somewhat different. One poll showed only 41% of
respondents were proud to be Americans. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Indeed, the 56 men who signed the Declaration
of Independence were flawed. More than half were slave holders. Unlike Lewis
Morris of New York, who said, “Damn the consequences, give me the pen,” Lyman
Hall of Georgia signed reluctantly. John Hancock, whose name and signature we
all know had a bounty on his head. Yet he signed boldly, giving others the
confidence in the right of their actions. One of those grievances was that England had forbidden colonists to settle in the Ohio Country or any other English territory west of the Appalachians. They signed “with firm reliance on
the protection of the divine providence, mutually pledged to each other, our
lives, our fortunes, and <i><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>our sacred honor</b>.</span></i>” They did so knowing full well they
were committing treason. If captured, torture and death awaited them.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtgxxjCeAHpRnwd4GcdvufAQRVtNyiuGjv-LcJRRur1GYz_6eifQntORiXeGDNtcS2gUbjA69LefHK8c2Pmo2HQZ9fypwav6e6X_G3GkH19Mff6IJFJ4keAiiidLtoW3PyOk2eUEzlZ4ZxtAENrklWPMG7cdLsZyFPRVK6ik5f0-fs8hhFFZ6qXXsj5w/s700/georgewashington.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="607" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtgxxjCeAHpRnwd4GcdvufAQRVtNyiuGjv-LcJRRur1GYz_6eifQntORiXeGDNtcS2gUbjA69LefHK8c2Pmo2HQZ9fypwav6e6X_G3GkH19Mff6IJFJ4keAiiidLtoW3PyOk2eUEzlZ4ZxtAENrklWPMG7cdLsZyFPRVK6ik5f0-fs8hhFFZ6qXXsj5w/s320/georgewashington.jpg" width="277" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Courtesy of Mount Vernon.org</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> <br /></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There were 14 farmers, 18 merchants, 22 lawyers, four
doctors, nine judges, and one minister. The oldest was the beloved Benjamin Franklin
at 70. The youngest was Thomas Lynch, Jr. of South Carolina. He was only 27. All
were well educated with much to lose. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And so it was that 17 fought in the American
Revolution. Two lost sons serving in the Revolutionary Army. Five of the
signers were captured including Thomas Rutledge, Thomas Heyward and Arthur
Middleton. George Walton was wounded and captured at the Battle of Savannah. The
British dragged Richard Stockton of New Jersey from his bed, stripped him of
his home and property, and threw him into prison where he nearly starved to
death. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Thomas McKean of Delaware wrote John Adams that he was
“hunted like a fox by the enemy.” He was forced to move his family
continuously. The property and home of Francis Lewis of New York was destroyed.
The British captured Elizabeth Lewis at the Battle of Brooklyn. She was jailed
as the wife of a traitor. The conditions were so inhumane that she died within
months after release. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The British looted the property and home of John Hart
of New Jersey. Hart hid out for more than a year. But still, he offered George
Washington his fields as an encampment for his 12,000 soldiers. Hart died of
exhaustion in 1779, one of the 14 signers who did not survive to see America’s
victory. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Cornwallis confiscated Thomas Nelson, Jr.’s Yorktown
home to use for his headquarters. When American forces laid siege to Yorktown,
Brigadier General Nelson ordered artillerists to fire on his own home. The
structure survived. If you visit you can still see some of the damage. <o:p></o:p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbf2nGOfFGkkvTyz65pBfMVuV-D58C2qmhS_YCYOym0Kbgd0b1RUj3DTxpKCefcrZZQjdTosreRGHrHymtmLKiripnU-kcVa447d9YHB1HzUgdz8lGbBY6S8FNl6ELrCjRxbAO_OAIvMQmodfvOjOIvxg5tBhvvq9q1spZRbo_AgKtlMJJO6ENQ99uZw/s608/thomas%20nelson%20home.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="418" data-original-width="608" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbf2nGOfFGkkvTyz65pBfMVuV-D58C2qmhS_YCYOym0Kbgd0b1RUj3DTxpKCefcrZZQjdTosreRGHrHymtmLKiripnU-kcVa447d9YHB1HzUgdz8lGbBY6S8FNl6ELrCjRxbAO_OAIvMQmodfvOjOIvxg5tBhvvq9q1spZRbo_AgKtlMJJO6ENQ99uZw/s320/thomas%20nelson%20home.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Thomas Nelson, Jr. Home, Yorktown<br />fully restored 1976 <br /> Courtesty of National Park Service</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Though imperfect, the 56 sacrificed much. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We know many did not live up to the ideals set
forth in the Declaration of Independence. But they fought, suffered, and some died
to give us a document that set us on the path of liberty and freedom previously
unknown in the history of the world.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></b></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526309204562058761.post-62535721405114904742022-12-18T11:47:00.000-08:002022-12-20T04:55:12.535-08:00For the Love of Maps<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Recently I lost a map of the state of Ohio that I purchased
several years ago. It was expensive, printed on fine paper, and beautiful. It
was one of my favorites because like others I own, it connected me to places
that brought back fond memories. I have a drawer full of maps that I picked up over
the years – mostly as a child at gas stations where they were always free. Some
show streets, counties, towns, rivers, the Great Lakes, and most of all -
places I could only imagine visiting.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Today, maps, like the one I bought in Ohio are scarce
and few are free. Why? Because nearly everyone uses GPS. We no longer need a
map to find our way. The lady tells us just how to get there, but she doesn’t
help us visualize where we are in relation to our surroundings.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">At no time in our history was this more important than
in the Civil War. It was the Union forces who were in desperate need of
accurate maps as they plunged blindly into the southern states to fight the
Confederacy (who had the advantage of knowing every stream, road, and
pass). <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">As armies have done for centuries, both Union and
Confederate, they lived largely off the land. Therefore, it was essential for
the Union to have detailed maps that identified crops, orchards, fording sites,
parallel roads, woods, and landmarks. Without this knowledge, Union armies,
made up of thousands of men and horses, could be stalled in an area without sufficient
water and resources. Within days they would be starving. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">I had the good fortune to see some of the Civil War
maps at the Hayes Presidential Library and Museums. One in particular (shown nearby), made in 1863
for General William S. Rosecrans details the area
around Cleveland, Tennessee, some 30 miles from Chattanooga. Using an existing
map, engineer William E. Merrill traveled the area, adding critical details, including
swampy areas, “good farming country” “broken country,” springs. creeks, woods, mills,
bridges and even residents’ names. These maps were printed on cloth and could
be washed, dried and stuffed into saddlebags. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvuGqOn-pN2nwvCg1drjbEW6LE4thzWj3eaW_HJgIV9-FYXJvDMoPsvDogr3NvMqX8FOb_CPdo1ykZqEeXKlK8wwpVSrTbi8KE_6SwSLa7LDwoxmIQ999NgzM8tnXgCyyq0uo292MTBUyRHs5ql2Gh2Teqy_b5f6VHef5HKBO2j8BzLibYjeS2fbkUiA/s1695/clevelantenmap.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1695" data-original-width="1527" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvuGqOn-pN2nwvCg1drjbEW6LE4thzWj3eaW_HJgIV9-FYXJvDMoPsvDogr3NvMqX8FOb_CPdo1ykZqEeXKlK8wwpVSrTbi8KE_6SwSLa7LDwoxmIQ999NgzM8tnXgCyyq0uo292MTBUyRHs5ql2Gh2Teqy_b5f6VHef5HKBO2j8BzLibYjeS2fbkUiA/s320/clevelantenmap.jpg" width="288" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Cleveland, Tennessee, 1863, by William E. Merrill<br />Hayes Presidential Library and Museums</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Another map, boring to the eye, was actually vital to
General William T. Sherman. It shows Cobb County Georgia divided into numbered
lots, 6/10<sup>th</sup> of a mile on each side originally surveyed in 1840. From
this map, Sherman was able to tell his army commander General James McPherson
that his headquarters was located in a house “not far from the northwest corner
of lot #273”.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"> <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/AVvXsEgBCjyy92r7on0yHXRhKNA4EY8gwYjR7imJu9f11FKcGLFQ5Jd1-uyu3qPPHp5AqiFSaBoq1kxksi8w3OYpvRin9mJQKNTIAOlWjqC57yTH5cz4wXtz7JZObPK7sEH9bEPaf_UejAwIuCIotepgF1rRXLVvmdGwWbMwUVMobOzeysOTav0PBR9YKKnApw/s4632/map%202770.tif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4632" data-original-width="2865" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBCjyy92r7on0yHXRhKNA4EY8gwYjR7imJu9f11FKcGLFQ5Jd1-uyu3qPPHp5AqiFSaBoq1kxksi8w3OYpvRin9mJQKNTIAOlWjqC57yTH5cz4wXtz7JZObPK7sEH9bEPaf_UejAwIuCIotepgF1rRXLVvmdGwWbMwUVMobOzeysOTav0PBR9YKKnApw/s320/map%202770.tif" width="198" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Cobb County Georgia<br />Developed from the Land Office Map, 1864<br />Hayes Presidential Library and Museums</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></p>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">In contrast, General
Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia marched into </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Gettysburg’s unfamiliar and unfriendly territory. As
General James Longstreet described it, Lee was like a man walking “over strange
ground with his eyes shut.” This was the situation Union armies faced
throughout the war.</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">While no longer as important as they once were, maps
still remain interesting documents that connect us to the wider world. They are
also like time capsules that bring back memories of trips taken and roads
traveled. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Much of what I learned of Civil War maps and those who made them came from discussions with Earl McElfresh during his visit to the Hayes Presidential Library and Museums when he was seeking unique Civil War maps in repositories around the country. It was he who explained to me the significance of these maps to Union commanders. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">McElfresh published many of these maps in a book titled<u><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;"> <i>Maps and Mapmakers of the Civil War</i></span></b></u>. Some were exquisitely drawn while others were quick pencil sketches. Many are not only beautiful, but colorful. His work appears on the Internet Archive where Mr. McElfresh provides an explanation of each maps importance. <a href="http://mcelfreshmap.com/" target="_blank"><i><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">McElfresh Map Company</span></b></i></a> reproduces significant maps of the Civil War. You can also view maps of WWII, the Underground Railroad, Little Big Horn Battlefield, and even Antarctica in his online gallery. To learn about the process of creating maps, se<u>e<a href="http://mcelfreshmap.com/tammynoriepress/blog/" target="_blank"><i><b> <span style="color: #2b00fe;">Mr. McElfresh's Blog.</span></b></i></a></u></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526309204562058761.post-77301366573524696412022-12-17T11:42:00.000-08:002022-12-17T11:42:15.904-08:00The Inspiration for Mickey!<p> <span style="font-size: large;">One of America’s most iconic images is that of </span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><b>Mickey Mouse</b></span><span style="font-size: large;">,
the beloved cartoon character that became the Disney mascot. For generations,
Mickey and his adventures have symbolized fun, childhood, laughter, happiness,
and joy. The inspiration for Mickey began with</span><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;"> <span style="font-size: large;">Clifton
Meek</span></span></b><span style="font-size: large;"> born in Fremont in 1888. Clifton was the son of George and Harriet (Mourer) Meek. At the age of 17,
Clifton was working for the Wheeling and Lake Erie Railroad as a telegrapher. Hoping
for a better career, Meek attended Cleveland School of Art. He soon found work
as a cartoonist for the Scripps-McRae Syndicate in San Francisco.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTahRSzrcgIJTAZXp6NS-G4NbjuWMzs8hWPoUFUjxMM0Z3tDakPt7dmC6_LIi64rZujMwXrwkWBBaiee6VQrYIxrfFrWuhXyrhLLxXEw06oM_qtgPHdyrR0Siol2jC1-kum_F53ubAGlwppT1MTBPjfTUREcWyHFouJPW9q52YA-swpnix7igYWVS3Hw/s320/Johnny%20Mouse%201914.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="233" data-original-width="320" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTahRSzrcgIJTAZXp6NS-G4NbjuWMzs8hWPoUFUjxMM0Z3tDakPt7dmC6_LIi64rZujMwXrwkWBBaiee6VQrYIxrfFrWuhXyrhLLxXEw06oM_qtgPHdyrR0Siol2jC1-kum_F53ubAGlwppT1MTBPjfTUREcWyHFouJPW9q52YA-swpnix7igYWVS3Hw/s1600/Johnny%20Mouse%201914.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Johnny Mouse by Clifton Meek</b></i></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raggedy_Ann" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Johnny Gruelle</span></b>,</a> Meek’s friend and creator of<span style="color: #2b00fe;"> <b><span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raggedy_Ann" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">“Raggedy Ann"</span> </a></span></b></span></span><span style="color: #2b00fe;"> </span><span>books, convinced Meek to join him in Norwalk, Connecticut. Meek and his family headed east, settling in nearby Silvermine. It was here that Meek created the 4-panel strip titled “The Adventures of Johnny Mouse” as a pantomime comic. Johnny Mouse eventually wore pants, shoes, sported large ears, and took part in all sorts of antics. Meek’s</span><span> </span><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">“Johnny Mouse”</span></b><span> </span><span>was syndicated from 1913 to 1915. He also created “George Grindstone” and “Nobody” for the “New York Evening Journal” and the “New York World.” By the 1920s, Meek had become a freelance artist producing “funny animal” comics that appeared in “Puck,” “Judge,” and “Life” magazines.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC_7Y0OtFnJiPLvXoNhA8K2-6P63YtQKcGE59nTJvzcT0lTPpRD0dmrfoqBlyXD5owLu_a0K_WDq7pT5eWO-4IjP91T66C0oHBtf7AdLU0yk0hu-22FZQxXPAgbZfqnxsyQwoF5FFxpAqcH0kqn-aXp-NX8h4BERV9zu53qn7ZQC5szs34DdOyaGrvwA/s350/Raggedy_Ann_&_Andy_-_Project_Gutenberg_eText_17371.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="313" data-original-width="350" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC_7Y0OtFnJiPLvXoNhA8K2-6P63YtQKcGE59nTJvzcT0lTPpRD0dmrfoqBlyXD5owLu_a0K_WDq7pT5eWO-4IjP91T66C0oHBtf7AdLU0yk0hu-22FZQxXPAgbZfqnxsyQwoF5FFxpAqcH0kqn-aXp-NX8h4BERV9zu53qn7ZQC5szs34DdOyaGrvwA/s320/Raggedy_Ann_&_Andy_-_Project_Gutenberg_eText_17371.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b><br />Raggedy Ann by Johnny Gruelle</b></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Meek grew tired of cartoons and knew it was time for a change. He wrote, “I felt like I was in a factory. I began to see George Grindstone in my dreams.” Clifton bought a forge and began a successful career creating ironwork that he sold throughout the region, becoming part of the <b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Silvermine Artists Guild.</span></b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1426" data-original-width="920" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7hNw6dk1dEqhGk4Cx3L0SLPzkQE7g_a6QtWhuU_9hhz8BiE37IGHEABsGrqKlG8cm4iR9QGwDcTf3Ps4zg5O6eDBdfb-lfJ6FiJctF_Hv6t59Bh8cKgGsuvmmmIzkBlg7G5qXtbrk-iQgRzliZgMuy7m97jdPLAbDqQNqwgwdqN9__P6zauKJ4jbAUA/s320/mouse-clipart-mickey-1.png" width="206" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Walt Disney's Mickey Mouse</b></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>In 1944, Meek got the surprise of his life when he read a <b><span><a href="https://www.britannica.com/biography/Walt-Disney" target="_blank">Walt Disney</a></span></b> interview. Walt told that between the ages of five and ten, he had lived on<span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b><u> </u></b></span></span><span>a Missouri farm where he learned what farm animals looked like…</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span>“It was those early childhood days that the
first faint glimmering of mouse fascination dawned on Disney.” Then Walt Disney
is quoted as saying “there was a man named Clifton Meek who used to draw cute
little mice and I grew up with those drawings…. They were different from ours,
but they had cute ears.”</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Clifton was delighted to learn that he had ignited the spark
of inspiration for Mickey. After writing Disney a note of thanks, Meek received
an autograph picture signed in appreciation. In a 1950s interview, <b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Ub Iwerks,</span></b> a
partner of Disney in the early days, also confirmed that Meek’s mouse cartoons
were their inspiration. The animated short film “Steamboat Willie,” drawn exclusively
by Iwerks, debuted in 1928. Mickey Mouse became an instant hit. And, as they
say, “the rest is history!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Ironically, Clifton Meek’s granddaughter came to Ohio to
attend Heidelberg University and made Tiffin her home where she lives today.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4526309204562058761.post-18344810230897832422022-04-08T09:27:00.010-07:002022-04-08T09:31:31.012-07:00Ulysses S. Grant: A Look Back<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">This year the<a href="http://www.rbhayes.org" target="_blank"><b> Hayes Presidential Library and Museumsat Spiegel Grove</b> </a>will <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>celebrate the 200<sup>th</sup>
birthday of the 19<sup>th</sup> president who was born in Delaware, Ohio on
October 4, 1822. Celebrations will soon be underway for another Ohio president,
also born 200 years ago. <b>Ulysses S. Grant</b> was born on the 27<sup>th</sup> of
this month near the Ohio River at <a href="https://www.ohiohistory.org/visit/browse-historical-sites/u-s-grant-birthplace/" target="_blank">Point Pleasant. </a>The son of a tanner and later
a West Point graduate and a veteran of the War with Mexico, Grant suffered
innumerable failures and setbacks in his personal life. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE6QdQ3GxpAqIMydoD72Hpz0Dbo-_WZ7uAqiGd5nOde3vjrIlQLvonpM48crMAN9JiT28vmvEDrhDBrMnuywXQwxeCZ3dIQJ-bQWN0oUMcCFlyOBbDPWDJafJnGhvxEeFyE1sYzIMPFIbNjmYtK5_jQeyTmjzsHkVXGgfekkLClcGjD1oIgruTJu32Rw/s589/grant%20photo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="589" data-original-width="474" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE6QdQ3GxpAqIMydoD72Hpz0Dbo-_WZ7uAqiGd5nOde3vjrIlQLvonpM48crMAN9JiT28vmvEDrhDBrMnuywXQwxeCZ3dIQJ-bQWN0oUMcCFlyOBbDPWDJafJnGhvxEeFyE1sYzIMPFIbNjmYtK5_jQeyTmjzsHkVXGgfekkLClcGjD1oIgruTJu32Rw/s320/grant%20photo.jpg" width="258" /></a></div> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"> <b><i> General Ulysses S. Grant</i></b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">But with quiet confidence and enduring love for his
wife Julia, Grant in 7 years rose from a lowly clerk in his father’s store to
commander of all the Union armies and President of the United States.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">As president, Grant advanced the Reconstruction
agenda, battled the KKK, and signed the<b><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Civil_Rights_Act_of_1875" target="_blank"> Civil Rights Act of 1875</a>. </b>There were
mistakes and scandals. Yet, he became the most well-known and popular American
of his time. When Grant left office after two terms, future <b><a href="https://www.nps.gov/jaga/index.htm" target="_blank">President James Garfield</a> </b>wrote, “No American has carried greater fame out of the White House
than this silent man who leaves today.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">While a great general, Ulysses S. Grant was a poor
businessman. Swindled by his son’s brokerage partner, Grant found himself
destitute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A short time later, his
doctors gave him the sad diagnosis of throat cancer. With a death sentence
before him, Grant could only think of providing a way out of poverty for his
beloved Julia.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://www.nps.gov/articles/000/how-mark-twain-helped-ulysses-s-grant-write-his-personal-memoirs.htm" target="_blank"><b>Mark Twain</b> </a>offered an advance of $25,000 for publication
of each of 2 volumes of his military memoirs, but Grant refused believing that
Twain would lose money. They settled on a profit sharing deal. Even though he
was in a race against time, Grant proved to be a gifted writer. Through
excruciating pain, fits of coughing and at times, unable to eat or speak, he continued
to write. Finally, on July 19th, 1885, Grant penned his final words. Four days
later, the man who had saved the Union breathed his last. More than one million
people, both Union and Confederate, attended his funeral in New York City.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg6WNnBUrPQRtfOPICF6lC90azxRhH0FiXSJUZt__uBR0LZvrc9yU3DFPUv3I4VLkECbTdSr9AQBqbe5Vlmsnz__pSDKh-UnMrTpKgbny7IKE6OcX_NrHEio46Bg9ac2QmJTTXDCLbzHS5S0O2ZHubu67XFi9iuief4rV950EQZ4MYMoQ3GmCxeOG_gA/s621/grant-writing-memoirs%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="621" data-original-width="525" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg6WNnBUrPQRtfOPICF6lC90azxRhH0FiXSJUZt__uBR0LZvrc9yU3DFPUv3I4VLkECbTdSr9AQBqbe5Vlmsnz__pSDKh-UnMrTpKgbny7IKE6OcX_NrHEio46Bg9ac2QmJTTXDCLbzHS5S0O2ZHubu67XFi9iuief4rV950EQZ4MYMoQ3GmCxeOG_gA/s320/grant-writing-memoirs%20(1).jpg" width="271" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: large;"><i>Grant Writing his "Personal Memoirs"</i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Grant’s “Personal Memoirs” became America’s first
blockbuster. As he had hoped, Julia lived on in comfort, receiving $450,000
from Twain’s firm. To this day, his work has never been out of print. Every
president since, has consulted Grant’s memoirs when writing their own. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTgghZPMA3pDKdRrCQt-o0RPDjujSEmPd3D_oH3HDAVUo0cEEaOVUPHkwyRFVyTMtr42C9ogO7fAAheeUs98Xsol6kLPtxaHOIDGpcV41Y3pm_GTvzS3I0AhDv2sTcO0HbgQCEFg4DkgbulvVJcuk2dPu7VEXyOx4DNYLGIh42lSYDrd24tLdu9C-s2g/s1200/grants-tomb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="279" data-original-width="1200" height="74" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTgghZPMA3pDKdRrCQt-o0RPDjujSEmPd3D_oH3HDAVUo0cEEaOVUPHkwyRFVyTMtr42C9ogO7fAAheeUs98Xsol6kLPtxaHOIDGpcV41Y3pm_GTvzS3I0AhDv2sTcO0HbgQCEFg4DkgbulvVJcuk2dPu7VEXyOx4DNYLGIh42lSYDrd24tLdu9C-s2g/s320/grants-tomb.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"> <b><i>Tomb of Ulysses S. Grant</i></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">As one historian wrote, “In the generations after his
death in 1885, Grant’s reputation as a general and president spiraled downward
until the current generation of biographers and historians has persuasively
resurrected it.” Another wrote, “…how fortunate the nation was that Grant went
into the world – to save the Union, to lead it and, on his deathbed, to write
one of the finest memoirs in all of American letters.” Pick up one of these
recent biographies or better yet, read his “Personal Memoirs.” They do not
disappoint.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAm9CcDVKcLV4Gxo1r8QNGTh40E6aeXtstQSRYPFrXT6kM0ikiDLGn035KuoZIVBOCWzzgrYDl3BGf2iHBl4Ne0f2QRKtFXoSSrmdogRpFGNn12pN79mhAQ1cXrR8iQ44MeylYi2o-lo_SyaWA0uREeULjHddn7EWVF4ac_LWj8F9I1EIFD-Ew801LAw/s1494/Grant%20Memoirs%20209.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="955" data-original-width="1494" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAm9CcDVKcLV4Gxo1r8QNGTh40E6aeXtstQSRYPFrXT6kM0ikiDLGn035KuoZIVBOCWzzgrYDl3BGf2iHBl4Ne0f2QRKtFXoSSrmdogRpFGNn12pN79mhAQ1cXrR8iQ44MeylYi2o-lo_SyaWA0uREeULjHddn7EWVF4ac_LWj8F9I1EIFD-Ew801LAw/s320/Grant%20Memoirs%20209.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> <b><i>Personal Memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant, First Edition</i></b></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0