Inspiration

Do you remember George Bailey?  He was that everyday man in the classic Christmas movie;  It’s A Wonderful Life.  Poor George was so busy living and giving, working and helping, that he never stopped to take credit for or even realize all the good he had done.  We have all know a few George Baileys, who touched our lives and the lives of countless others.  I would say that they go about their work quietly, but of course to them it isn’t work.  It is simply how they live their lives and they can’t really imagine doing less than what they do to help others.  They are productive and positive.  The type of person I’m talking about also refrains from making us feel guilty for our own lack of giving.  You see, for these types, giving is not a competition.  They aren’t boastful, doing most of their good backstage.

I believe that God does his work through us and especially relies on the George Baileys of the world for the bulk of this labor. Often we just aren’t up to the task or feel we don’t have much to offer.  Many of us just frankly aren’t as energetic or excited about things, especially as we get older.  I suspect that we have all experienced a bitter, negative, elderly relative or neighbor.  And, we might have wondered if that was what it was like to be old.  So, today my story is about a couple that, despite advanced age and all the difficulties that brings, continue to contribute to the world.  They model for me a positive vision of old age, showing me that there is no retirement from service to others.

My great uncle, Kenneth Riley, is 96 years old.  He doesn’t drive anymore and suffers from the pain of arthritis.  But, despite these obstacles, each Friday Uncle Kenny delivers Meals on Wheels to the housebound and elderly in his community.  He’s been doing this for years and because he can’t drive, now accomplishes this task with the help of his daughter, Sandi, who drives him on these weekly rounds.  There seems to be no feeling of “I’m too old for this and I’ve done my part.” in Uncle Kenny’s picture of himself.  Even at age 48, I must confess, that I’ve occasionally had the feeling that I’d already done my part volunteering.  But, now I can’t get that vision of Uncle Kenny, at age 96, delivering those meals, out of my head.  Uncle Kenny’s actions help me to realize that for giving, there is no work order, which, once filled, satisfies our lifetime requirement.

Kenny’s wife, my great aunt Grace is 94 and she also does volunteer work and sings with the Louisville Silver Notes.  This choir is 50 members strong and has about 40 performances a year in the Louisville area.  Aunt Grace has kept me in her circle of care and concern since my parents died when I was a young adult, despite the fact that our families didn’t see a lot of each other when I was growing up.  It took love and effort for her to keep that thread of connection with me, a great niece that she hadn’t seen in years, but she persevered, and for that I am most grateful. 

This year Uncle Kenny and Aunt Grace celebrated their 70th wedding anniversary.  Their lives and service illustrate to me that there are no limitations on our potential for giving and contributing.   They inspire me to be better and do more.  When I visited their home a couple of years ago I was awed by the love and affection that emanated from them both.  I imagine that many have felt the power of their love and concern.  I would also venture to guess that, Kenny and Grace are completely unaware of the many lives, like mine, that they have touched and altered.  I suspect that their angel wings have already been earned and are waiting for them in heaven, but right now God needs them here on earth to do his work.

Merry Christmas 

-Mary

2011 Update-- Uncle Kenny turned 99 last September.  He's had some health set backs and surgery to replace a broken hip, but after several months of recovery in a convalescent home he's now back home with Grace who turned 97 in August.

2015 Update- Uncle Kenny died at age 102 last year.  Aunt Grace died this week at age 102.  May these sweet souls rest in peace.

Uncle Ham and Christmas

Here in California suburbia, people spend the weekend after Thanksgiving putting up their Christmas holiday decorations.  The lights on the houses and yard decorations seem to follow trends and vary from year to year.  The tendrils of white “icicle” lights were popular for a while, but seem to have lost favor this year.  Those trying to be “green” are buying the new LED lights, but the white ones end up looking a depressing light blue.  And, the blow up globes and Santas that were around on lawns last year are not seen so much this year because, like beach balls, they simply didn’t last. There are also fewer of the lighted deer figures bobbing their heads on yards this year.  Once, I proposed that we fill our yard with a whole herd of them but I was just kidding of course.  The most unique display in our neighborhood this year is a Golden Gate bridge, constructed of ladders, that is lighted up in red, with ocean waves in blue lights underneath.

I like to wait on the decorating until at least the start of Advent.  I’m a traditionalist I suppose.  We just put up our Christmas tree yesterday, and the lights went up on the house last weekend.  I like the season of Advent and its message of preparation, even if I don’t always take the time to prepare in the spiritual manner that is really intended.  Yearly, my father in law is confused by my advent candles and wonders why I’m only lighting some of them for Sunday dinner.  I guess Advent is an Episcopalian thing.

In our family, we know that the holiday has truly arrived when the mailman delivers a heavy box to our door a few days before Christmas.  The box, containing a whole country ham, is sent to me from my brother, who lives in Kentucky.  Although he has been sending us this treat for years, there is no guarantee that it will continue to be his gift to us.  There is always the nagging notion that perhaps it won’t arrive in time or that he will decide to send something else instead.  This uncertainty is akin to the Santa experience, hoping that Santa will visit but not quite knowing for sure.   It makes it all the more exciting when the package does arrive!  

Now, inside the package is something that might not look too pretty to the eye of the unknowing.  A true country ham, packaged in a net bag, looks dried out and is often covered in mold.  There are stories that many expensive hams have been thrown in the trash when sent from Kentucky to those in other regions.  The mold was taken as an indication that the ham was spoiled.  But that mold is a beautiful sight to me, as I know that inside is a true delicacy.

For the unaware, I must tell you that the process of creating a good country ham is not unlike the process of crafting a fine wine.  Dry curing with a mixture of salt and other spices preserves the ham.  The ham is then smoked and aged.  Each step of this process involves creative combinations chosen by the craftsman.  The diet of the hog, spices used in the curing, type of wood used in the smoking process, and the amount of time the ham is aged, all influence the taste of the final product.

When the ham arrives we hang it up on a nail in the garage until the night before Christmas when it is brought inside to soak overnight in our kitchen sink.  If you are wondering about the mold, well, I scrub it off with a stiff brush and a bit of dish soap before the ham is soaked.  Soaking the ham overnight re-hydrates it and draws out some of the excess salt.  There are various methods of cooking a country ham but I always bake mine, per my brother’s instructions, in a roaster with some water in the bottom until the bones sticking out can be wiggled.  The cooked ham is very salty and somewhat similar in taste to Italian prosciutto.  

We don’t see my brother often, so to my children he is known as the uncle who sends the ham, or more fondly he is “Uncle Ham”, a title he is proud to have.  Uncle Ham is the oldest of my three brothers and nine years older than myself.  He played a fatherly protective role for me when I was small.  He made sure I got on the right school bus, gave me his lunch money when I lost mine, and fixed my toys and hurts.  And now, thanks to my brother, on Christmas afternoon, each year, we sit down to a delicious “Kentucky” meal and savor those fabulous salty slices of country ham.  It’s part of our family tradition and Christmas just wouldn’t be the same without it.  I suppose that even if the Grinch came and stole the “roast beast” (country ham) that there would still be a Christmas for the Davys here in California.  But, I doubt we’d be as jolly as those Whos down in Whoville.

-Mary

Amazing Grace

The stories of many of our ancestors,  and perhaps even our own, are constructed of a mixture of life experiences, good and bad.  Life is more often than not, a journey of pain and loss mixed with joy and fulfillment.  My parents used to say that life was just one problem after another and that the trick was in learning how to deal with these problems that always arrive unexpected at our door.  Challenges confront us and we must find a way of moving through and eventually past them.  For many of us, it’s faith in a compassionate God, which allows us to keep moving forward despite what life throw at us.  Of course there are also many who can no longer believe in a God that has allowed too much tragedy to come our way.  Tragedy is certainly always been a test of one’s faith.

James Gray Whitford was born in Crown Point, New York in 1810.  When he was almost 6 years old his father was in the process of moving the family “west.”  We don’t know their intended destination, but we do know that James’ father, Greene Whitford, died during some part of this journey.  This was the first tragedy.   Greene was 57 years old and we might presume that the family had not gone too far west as his widow returned east with her young children, of which James appears to have been the eldest.  Now a widow, Hannah Whitford, chose to live near her brother in Bridport, Vermont.  She was destitute at this point, so young James, now age 6, was taken into the family of Thomas Jewett of Weybridge, Vermont, where he lived until he turned 20.  James’ educational opportunities were slim and he attended school only in the winters.  But, at the age of 18, he was inspired by the ministry of Rev. John C. Green of the Methodist Episcopal church and became a convert.  By the age of 20, James was licensed to exhort, which allowed him to read the scripture lessons in church.  

In 1832, when James was 21, he married 17-year-old Betsy Amanda Hindes in Addison Vermont.  The following year he was licensed to preach by the Methodist Episcopal Church and began to work as a circuit preacher in Vermont.  These circuit preachers traveled over a wide territory.  They visited communities that, either from lack of money or available preachers, had no local minister.   They preached the Word and performed marriage ceremonies and generally got paid minimally for their tasks.

In October, a year after their marriage, Betsy and James were blessed with the birth of their first child, Amanda.  Three years later, another child was born, Mary Elizabeth.  Soon after the birth of Mary Elizabeth, about 1836,  James and Betsy moved west to join the Illinois Conference of the Methodist Church and at some point he was eventually assigned to the church’s mission to the Chippewa Indians in Wisconsin.  At that time, these areas were for the most part wilderness and the dangers were many.  It is not clear if Betsy and the girls joined him at the mission or remained at some type of home base in Illinois or a more settled part of Wisconsin than where the mission was located.  My guess is that Betsy did not accompany him to the remote mission, as there seems to be no mention of her in the descriptions of this small Methodist mission near Ft. Snelling.  There are descriptions of this group of missionaries that included James and several other Methodist ministers.  They tried to teach Methodist hymns, translated into the Chippewa language, and to preach the gospel, but basically their efforts proved to be unsuccessful.    

Another daughter, Sara Jane,  was born in 1837.  It was after this joyful event that tragedy struck the Whitford household.  On June 7, 1837, Betsy died.  We don’t know the details of her death, but only know that her husband James had shot her accidentally.  Was he cleaning his gun or hunting too near the house?  We simply do not know.  The little girls were all under the age of 3 and certainly this must have shaken James’s strongly built faith to the core.  There were so many threats and dangers in this wilderness but to have her die because of his own carelessness must have been unbearable.  Others seemed to have stepped in to care for the girls.  James was unable to continue with the ministry.  How does one recover from something so tragic?  How could he live with himself or ever face his children again, much less preach the Word of God?   He had killed his own wife!  

We don’t know what he did over the next few years but we do know that in 1841 he was ordained as a local deacon in the Rock River conference of Illinois and Wisconsin.  Somehow his faith had brought him through the darkness.  His travels in the region often brought him to the Sauk Prairie community in Wisconsin.  It was there that he met Betsy Teel, a childless 22-year-old widow whose husband had died after less than a year of marriage.  Betsy Teel’s father was quite active in the Methodist Church community of Sauk Prairie.  In August of 1840, Betsy Teel and James G. Whitford were married.  It appears as if at least two of James’ daughters came to live with the newlyweds while the youngest continued to be raised by a Mrs. Jones in Evansville, Wisconsin.  Then in 1841 a son, James, was born to the couple and a new family had begun.  Perhaps the past could be overcome.  Perhaps now, after the darkest of darkness, life would be filled with joy and happiness!  The following year James was appointed to be the minister in Burlington, Iowa, where he would serve two years.

Things seemed to have gone smoothly for the family after this latest tragedy but I suspect that again James’ faith had been put to the test.  He spent the next several years doing one year stints at the following locations: Plattville, Dodgeville, Hamilton Grove, Mineral Point and South Grove Circuit.  By 1850 three more sons had been born, Charles, Wilber, and Samuel.

In 1851, at the age of 40, James Gray Whitford officially retired from the church and settled down in Clayton County, Iowa, pursuing farming.  Another son, Allen, was born the following year, but died soon after birth.  Then, the next year, a daughter Martha was born.  Son Warner was born in 1855 and a daughter Emma in 1858.   James continued to farm and, even though he was officially retired from the church, he still preached, visited the sick and dying and performed marriages.  In an obituary he was described as the “spiritual father” of the Volga City, Iowa community.  

Tragedy raised its ugly head for the family again in 1862 when the eldest son, James, was killed in a Civil War skirmish in Montevallo, Missouri.  He was only 20 years old.  But in life’s bittersweet mix of tragedy and joy, another son, Henry, was born to James and Betsy Whitford a month after their eldest son’s death.

James G. Whitford and his wife Betsy were blessed with long lives.  In their later years they lived with their daughter, Martha.  James died in September of 1900, just short of his 90th birthday.  Betsy died the following year at the age of 82.

I am reminded of the third verse of John Newton’s “Amazing Grace”

Through many dangers, toils and snares

I have already come;

'Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far

and Grace will lead me home

Reverend James Gray Whitford is my husband Doug's GG Grandfather

-Mary

In Context

Last week I was in San Diego to see the Dead Sea Scroll exhibit. It was a wonderful treat for this former archaeologist. I’ve seen, touched and excavated older things, but these scrolls are iconic. They are the earliest surviving written scriptures from the Bible. There were about 15 scroll fragments on display. The age of the fragments ranged from about 2nd century B.C. to the 1st century A.D. Most were written on parchment, which is really just stretched and scrapped animal skin. But, the exhibit was much more than just a display of these ancient fragments. There were beautifully done galleries, with large vivid photographs showing the flora, fauna and geography of the desert region near the Dead Sea. A separate section detailed the discovery, preservation, and interpretation of the scrolls. For instance, in the 1950’s, fragments of the scroll were often put together with scotch tape, which ended up causing a great amount of damage. Nowadays- DNA testing of the parchment (skin) is being used to match up the most difficult pieces. The entire exhibit was well designed, enabling the visitor to see these ancient documents, but also illustrating the setting in which they were found, the community to which they belonged, the challenges of their preservation and a sense of their importance.

After seeing the scroll exhibit we decided to explore Old Town San Diego, a state historic park. Old Town is the original location of the San Diego settlement and is just down the hill from the site of California’s first mission and presidio. In the pouring down rain we ran from building to building in old town. Most of the structures were well done reconstructions and designed to recreate the look of this little settlement back in those early days of California. The problem was that the interpretative materials told only small parts of the story of old San Diego. I kept hoping that there would be something that would tie all these bits of information together and explain the history of this important early site. Why was the settlement located inland from San Diego Bay? Why was the town later moved to the site of the current downtown on the bay? Where was the location of the original presidio and mission and when were they built? One nicely labeled map could have explained the basics, but instead we were presented with a hodgepodge of facts and stories. 

There was a barn there with a fabulous collection of old wagons and stagecoaches and some interpretive displays that detailed the role of this type of transportation in the far Western states. But, on the upper floor of the barn, display cases housed a random collection of items, the variety of which was reminiscent of an episode of the “Antiques Road Show.” It reminded me of those small town history museums run by local historical societies, with members contributing miscellaneous objects from their basements. But, this wasn’t a local museum; it was a California State Historic Park! Most of the items on display in this barn museum had no relationship to the settlement of San Diego. I stopped when I got to the cases of Hopi Kachina dolls from Arizona. What about the local Native Americans? Perhaps the Barona Band of Mission Indians should buy up Old Town and turn it into a more polished and complete history exhibit. Interesting that the Barona Band, along with Hilton and B of A, was a major corporate sponsor of the Dead Sea Scroll exhibit. Indian casinos do well out here in California, allowing tribes to bring their members out of poverty and also to give back to the community at large. 

Luckily for us it was a low visitor day, because of the rain, so the guide at the museum was able to answer all our questions about the history of the settlement of San Diego. His overview provided a framework, or context, for the bits of information scattered throughout the park’s displays.

My point in relating these recent travels and observations to you is to remind you and myself that objects, and people, need context to be understood. Many wonder why archaeologists discourage the pocketing of found artifacts. Why not just pick up that beautiful arrowhead? It’s because we value context. Artifacts, removed from their setting, simply reveal less. This concept applies to people also. As a teenager, when I was quick to criticize a stranger, like a gruff shopkeeper, my dad would say, “You never know what that person’s been through today.” It was his way of reminding me that in the context of that person’s day, their actions were perhaps understandable. He was reminding me that, although I didn’t always know the context of a person’s life, it was an important concept to remember and respect.

My current focus in genealogy is not just the collection and discovery of the names of my ancestors. I want to know the details of their lives. How big was their family? Did they have cousins that lived nearby? Were they saddened by tragic life experiences? What was going on locally where they happened to live and work? Context makes the story more complete, and instead of just a beautiful poster of a family tree with names and dates, it allows us to see and perhaps understand the kinds of lives our ancestors lived. I call it the “Ken Burns Effect” as it is similar to that director’s approach of documenting historical events by relating those events in the context of the lives of ordinary people. What I often do is somewhat the reverse of that, as I try to document the lives of our ordinary ancestors by explaining the historic, social, and familial context of their lives.


=Mary

Lives Of The Rich And Famous

I came across an interesting story last week. It is likely you Kentuckians have known about it but I had never heard it before. Filled with controversy and all the makings of a racy southern novel, it is the story of Mary Lily Kenan Flagler Bingham. Volumes have been written on the topic but I will briefly outline the saga here.

Mary Lily Kenan, born in North Carolina in 1867, was the daughter of a successful businessman. I sense that she was an ambitious and adventurous type and her 50 years of life seems to have indeed taken her on quite a wild ride.

When Mary Lily was about 23, she met Henry Flager who was then 61. Henry was a partner with J.D. Rockefeller in Standard Oil. He was also a major land developer in Florida and owner of several large hotels. A romance developed between the two despite the fact that Henry was still married to his second wife, Alice. That of course presented a problem in an age when divorces were often difficult to obtain. But, of course, money and power can buy almost anything can’t it? Henry Flagler’s wife Alice was insane and unfortunately insanity was not considered grounds for divorce in the state of Florida, where they resided. No problem. Henry just used his money and power to get the Florida legislature to change that little rule and so in 1901 he was able to obtain his divorce. Ten days later he married Mary Lily Kenan. 

Henry built a spectacular mansion for Mary Lily in Palm Beach. The mansion, named “Whitehall”, was a 55 room, 60,000 square foot palatial estate. Today this property is called the Flagler Museum. In the spring of 1913 Henry fell on the steps of Whitehall and after suffering from his injuries died several weeks later at the age of 83. 

When Henry died, some of his estate went to maintain his second wife Alice, still a patient at an insane asylum, and some when to the children from his first marriage. But, the bulk of Henry’s estate went to Mary Lily, making her the richest woman in America. Mary inherited somewhere between 60 and 100 million dollars. That’s about 1 to 2 billion dollars in today’s money!

I’m sure that this wealth made Mary Lily one of the most desirable women in America, but she chose to marry an old beau from her youth. His name was Robert Worth Bingham and he was actually a few years younger than Mary Lily. 

Robert Bingham, a native North Carolinian, was married first to Eleanor Miller whose family lived in Louisville, Kentucky. The couple had three children, but Eleanor died in 1913 in an accident with an interurban rail car. A few years later, Robert crossed paths with Mary Lily and the two were married in 1916. They came to Louisville, living first in the Seelback Hotel and later in an estate near the river, Lincliff. 

As a wedding present to Robert, Mary Lily supposedly paid off his debts and gave him several thousands of dollars in cash. He was also apparently granted a yearly allowance of $50,000. But, he hadn’t quite hit the jackpot with this marriage. Mary Lily still listed her niece, Louise Lewis, as her primary heir. 

Soon after the marriage, Mary Lily became ill, and the cause of this illness is unknown to this day. On June 27, 1917, before they had even celebrated their first anniversary, Mary was dead. There are many theories as to the cause of and circumstances surrounding her death. Did Robert poison her? Had she contracted syphilis from Henry Flagler? Was she a morphine and alcohol addict? Did she simply just die of a heart attack?

After her death, Robert submitted a hand written “secret” codicil in which Mary Lily bequeathed to him 5 million dollars. Mary Lily’s North Carolina relatives were suspicious, and quietly had her remains exhumed, soon after her burial. Samples of her internal organs were sent to a lab in New York. Apparently they liked the poisoning theory, but in the end no charges were filed and the codicil was not contested. The State of Kentucky received enough money in inheritance taxes to liquidate the state debt. Robert Bingham used his 5 million to buy the Courier Journal and Louisville Times newspapers. It was his start on what would become a media empire.

Now, here is why I happened upon this saga and how it relates to my family history. No, I’m not related to the Kenans, Flaglers or Binghams. No claim to the millions or billions for me. But, last week Ancestry.com posted a new database of passport applications. I was trolling for family hits and discovered a passport application for my GG grandfather, Gus Hardin. In 1918 he applied for a passport to travel to Havana Cuba. Listed on the application was this: “in matter of inheritance tax of estate of Mary Lily Flagler Bingham.” Interesting. 

I’m not sure why Gus Hardin was involved in the estate of Mary Lily. Gus’s occupation on the passport form is listed as a record keeper for the Louisville Railway Company, which ran the Louisville streetcars. I suppose it is possible that Flagler had some ownership of this Louisville company, especially considering his importance in the development of rail transportation in Florida. Flagler was also involved in promoting trade with Cuba, so perhaps his estate owned some property in Cuba. In the 1920 census Gus lists his job as the court recorder for the Railway Company and in the 1910 census he is listed as a real estate agent. Maybe Gus went to Cuba on a special job for the courts to value property held in Mary Lily’s estate. More research will need to be done to find out Gus Hardin’s connection with this famous estate. In the meantime, if you are interested in this story, all you need to do is “google” the characters involved. Numerous books and articles have been written about Flagler and especially about the Bingham family.

-Mary
(SEE UPDATES TO THIS IN THE COMMENTS THAT FOLLOW)

The Mighty Beaten Biscuit

Some foods evoke strong and fond memories. We all have favorites from our childhood and often they are foods that were served during big holiday meals. I can’t say that I’ve incorporated many of them into my current holiday cooking plans. Many traditional Kentucky foods are foreign and unknown to those here in California. At a recent midday family gathering and brunch I served, along with other items, little Benedictine sandwiches. They were left virtually untouched by my California in-laws. In Kentucky they seemed to have always been a staple at weddings and brunches. Therefore, for holiday meals, I tend to stick with what the media has deemed classic holiday dishes. But those Kentucky foods live in my nostalgia and when the holidays do come around, part of me yearns to see them on my table.

One of these foods is a localized specialty of the south. I believe that it is most commonly found in Virginia, Maryland and Kentucky. In other parts of the country this food is literally unknown and its place, as a delicacy would probably be highly questioned. My husband, a North Dakota native, says that it closely resembles the “hard tack” that was used in the old days on ships as a form of bread that would keep well for weeks or months on end. In Kentucky we call them “beaten biscuits” and my grandmother prepared them for most of our holiday meals. She was my maternal grandmother, who was never referred to as Nanny, Granny, Grandmother, or even Grandma. Her 10 grandchildren, along with all her friends and acquaintances, always called her “Emmy.” 

For the unaware, a beaten biscuit is not very biscuit like except in size and shape. The hard surface is smooth as marble but the texture is more like a cracker. Just before the meal was served the beaten biscuits were warmed in the oven and then split in two and a small tad of butter was inserted between the halves. At the table they were usually eaten along with a very thin slice of Kentucky country ham.

The beaten biscuit dough was a simple mixture of flour, lard, salt, sugar, baking powder and milk. Sounds easy, right? No, not really. You see the dough needed to be processed; a task that by hand could take 30 minutes or more. But, my grandmother, as many others in the “modern’ era, had the benefit and help of a beaten biscuit machine to help her with the process of “beating” the dough. She kept the machine, an odd looking contraption, in a corner of her basement. Nowadays, believe it or not, the machine actually lives in my cousin’s home in Southern California. I’m sure that if it were discovered by some future archaeologist there, it’s identification would provide quite a puzzle as certainly it must be the only beaten biscuit machine in the entire state.

My old Cissy Gregg cookbook, given to me by Emmy, describes the processing of the beaten biscuit dough most vividly. “Get the dough in a ball, flatten it out and start running it through the machine which looks for all the world like a clothes wringer. Fold the dough over and run back between the rollers. Repeat this process until the dough is slick, glossy and talks back to you. The talking back comes from popping the blisters that the air forms in the dough. Roll quarter inch think and cut with a biscuit cutter.” These biscuits are then pierced with a fork and baked for up to an hour.

Since I don’t have the benefit of a beaten biscuit machine, I’ve never attempted to prepare this delicacy. The one time my grandmother came to visit us in California, she tucked a package of her treasured biscuits into her suitcase and I suppose that is the last time I was ever able to eat one of her beaten biscuits. Here is how Cissy Gregg, the food writer for the Louisville Courier Journal from about 1942 to 1962, describes the process if one does not have a machine with which to process the dough. “If the dough is beaten by hand you can use a flat iron, or even the edge of a heavy plate. Beat the dough out until it is about a quarter of and inch thick. Fold and beat again.” This process is repeated for 30 minutes or more!! Can you picture me standing there for over a half and hour beating dough with an iron or some other heavy object?

Now if you didn’t grow up eating beaten biscuits, or if perhaps you are not as nostalgic as myself, you would probably dismiss them as something more appropriate to use as air hockey pucks than to take a treasured place on the holiday table. Granted, they aren’t particularly flavorful or remarkable, but if by some miracle they appeared on my table this Thursday, I would be thrilled beyond compare.

Now, other Kentucky foods I miss and will never see the likes of out here in California are: Emmy’s Charlotte Russe, Transparent Pie, Chess Pie, Derby Pie, Salt Rising Bread and of course the beloved Kentucky Country Ham. I’ll write more about the country ham in a future blog because I am blessed to enjoy this food each Christmas. 

Please share what you know about beaten biscuits, beaten biscuit machines, Kentucky foods, or Emmy’s cooking by adding a comment. 

Happy Thanksgiving

Mary

P.S. I seem to have gotten the California relatives used to corn pudding so that will be served at my Thanksgiving table.

At War With Red Tape

A while back I ordered copies of the pension file of John C. Fink, from the National Archives. He’s my GG Grandfather and was a Civil War veteran. I didn’t know if they’d be able to find the file or, if found, whether it would contain much of anything. Months went by and I’d almost forgotten about the request. Then, one day the UPS truck arrived with a thick packet for me from the National Archives. It contained copies of the entire contents, 266 pages, of John Fink’s pension file. I had expected a few pages at most and maybe a few tidbits of personal information that might warrant the flat rate charge of $37. Instead, I now had the task of interpreting the pages of forms, letter, medical reports and affidavits that were contained in the file. Interestingly, I see that the National Archives has now raised the price of copying a pension file from $37 to $75. I suspect that this decision was made after my 266-page order.

Well, a quick look at the documents told me that the reason John Fink’s file was so large was that he was in almost constant contention with the Pensions Office in regards to his pension and the validity of his claimed disability. You see, he suffered from chronic diarrhea for his entire post Army life. From the time he left the service in 1865 until his death in 1926 this skilled carpenter suffered from an ailment that prevented him from holding down a full time steady job. Of course, there were doctors that questioned the validity of his medical claim and some that apparently questioned that he even served in the Army at all during the Civil War. So, was he an unfortunate, suffering, under appreciated veteran or a lazy drifter who had difficulty holding down a job and was trying to get something out of the government??At first I wasn’t sure. Now, after closer reading of the 266 pages and additional research, I’m convinced his claim was valid and the impact of this illness, on his life, was indeed severe and devastating.

John Fink started out with the 9th Regiment of the Pennsylvania Volunteers in April of 1861. He was about 18 and served with that regiment for three months. In August of 1862, he reenlisted, this time with the 130th Pennsylvania Infantry to serve 9 months. The 130th was first sent to Washington D.C. and were eventually camped at Fort Marcy, overlooking the Potomac. The taste of battle would not be far away, because in September of 1862 the 130th was involved in the bloody battle of Antietam, near Sharpsburg, Maryland. This was the first major battle in the Civil War to take place on Northern soil. Two of Fink’s fellow F company men were killed at this battle and four were wounded, some of the wounds later proving to be fatal. The 130th as a whole suffered 296 killed and wounded. 

After Antietam, the 130th spent a short time in camp at Harper’s Ferry and then were posted at Belle Plain Landing, on the James River, until December 5th 1862. Now you must know this piece of the story, that this entire regiment slept exposed to the elements, during the time from early September until late December of 1862. Their tents had been left at Fort Marcy. Not surprising, that it was also during this time that John Fink contracted yellow jaundice and later chronic diarrhea. His superior officer, 1st Lieutenant Michael W. French, testifies to this later, in documents filed with the pension office. Then the 130th were marched through deep mud, in the midst of a severe storm, in order to reconnect with their division and prepare for the Battle of Fredericksburg (Dec. 11-15, 1862). It wasn’t until late December that they finally received their tents.

I won’t go on and on with the complete details of John Fink’s military experience except to say that he was mustered out of the 130th in May of 1863. About a year later he again signed up for military service, this time with the U.S. Signal Corp. During this stint he spent some time in Jarvis Hospital, a military hospital near Baltimore. There he was treated for chronic diarrhea. So, it does seem clear that his condition did originate while serving in the military. 

It turns out that about half of the deaths from disease in the Civil War were caused by intestinal disorders. The Union Army reported that more than 995 of every 1,000 men eventually contracted diarrhea or dysentery. Chronic diarrhea appears to have claimed at least 27,000 lives during the Civil War. The causes were usually infectious agents such as viruses, parasites and bacteria. John Fink was lucky to have survived, but because of the lack of effective treatment options, he continued to suffer long after the end of his service. 

John Fink submitted his original pension application in 1879. It was approved at the rate of $2 a month and back pension was granted for the time between 1863 and 1879. Then he was suddenly “dropped” from the pension rolls in 1881, apparently because his disability had ceased. No… it hadn’t ceased as the government claimed. He continued to suffer from chronic and debilitating diarrhea, which prevented him from holding down a steady job. He worked but rarely was he able to hold down a job as a carpenter for the long term. By 1886 he was able to apply for restoration of his benefits. Remember that each step in this process costs a certain amount of money in attorney and other fees. It’s not surprising that it took a few years for him to put his case together. He included numerous signed and certified affidavits from friends, family, former employers and acquaintances that testified not only to his military service, but to the debilitating nature of his condition.

In 1887 the Pension office rejected Fink’s claim for reinstatement of his pension. A board of doctors had determined, after examining him that his condition was not debilitating and did not prevent him from working full time. Doubt was cast on his claim that the condition had begun while serving in the military. An appeal was filed in 1890 but the claim rejection was affirmed in 1892. Round and round and round we go!

Finally in 1894 he was able to get his benefits restored and began to receive $8 a month. The struggles with red tape were not over though, because even though he continued to receive benefits until the end of his life, he constantly had to “prove” the continuance and validity of his condition and so the file is filled with numerous physician reports outlining his current condition. The pension money seems to have barely helped him get by in life. His wife died in 1896 and he was forced to put his youngest daughter, age 10, in the Soldier and Sailor’s home. By 1910, at the age of 67, he himself was living at the Soldier’s Home in northern Ohio. A few years later he moved to Albany, Indiana to live with his daughter, Laura, a young widow with three children. She struggled to support him and care for his needs until his death in 1926 at the age of 83. By the end of his life he was a complete invalid who required nursing care. Laura sent a pleading letter to the Pension office asking for an increase in his pension. She wrote to her brother, living in Washington D. C. for help, thinking maybe he could go over and convince the pension office of their extreme need. Near the very end of his life his monthly pension benefit had risen to $72 a month. That might seem like a lot but it probably didn’t stretch far when paying for 24 hour nursing care, medical bills, etc.

So, on this Veteran Day I think of all the current veterans who, like John Fink, struggle to get benefits for physical ailments that they have contracted during the course of serving in the military. I don’t think John Fink was a slacker. All I had to do was read the detailed descriptions of his condition written by the people who knew him. No one “fakes’ having chronic diarrhea for 64 years!


“I am actually in need of medicine, owing a bill at the drug store and nothing to pay with. I tell you dear Secretary, I feel like the man that wanted to die to get out of my sufferings and troubles. The government surely received the best part of my life in its service. I enlisted into its service but a boy. Served two enlistments and was serving a third when the war closed. Might it not be reasonable to suppose that by long continued service, especially at the front, that a man might be disabled if not by bullet by disease?”- John Fink’s letter to the Secretary of the Interior- 12/9/1890


-Mary

John Fink

My Best Genealogical Connections Story

My father in law, Dorsey Davy, had a great aunt and uncle, Jacob and Gertrude Mitchell Davy who lived their lives in Troy, Ohio.  Jacob was a successful attorney and leader in the community.  Gertrude was an accomplished soprano, who had received years of voice instruction from Professor William L. Blumenschem in Dayton.  She was known throughout the community for her beautiful voice.  They were married in 1886.

Gertrude seems to have been especially keen on keeping up with the social life of Troy.  We have a book that is filled with newspaper clippings, which she saved and pasted onto the pages of a book entitled Memorial Addresses On The Life and Character of William S. Holman.  I suppose she didn’t much care for this tome and so used it essentially as a scrapbook for her clippings.  The news clippings remind me of my old hometown paper, the Oldham Era, which often recorded not only the usual births, deaths, and marriages, but also the society parties, and comings and goings of its important citizens.  One of the longer articles describes Gertrude and Jacob’s own wedding.  It names the guests that attended and also includes a detailed list of every present received by the newly married couple.  “Pink glass water set, book of poems, satin pin cushion, exquisitely hand painted bottles, silver cake basket, silver butter dish, silver card receiver”, etc. etc.    Gertrude and Jacob had no children and I wonder if this fueled her interest in keeping track of the lives of those in the town of Troy.  

When Gertrude died in 1920, at the age of 56, her scrapbook of clippings were passed on to her niece, Martha Davy, who had married Charles Sherwood.  Martha Davy Sherwood apparently added to the collection, by saving additional clippings and sticking them into her massive volume of the History of Miami County, published in 1909.  It is likely, this volume was also originally owned by Gertrude Davy.

By now you are wondering where I am going with all of this so hang in there, as this is my best genealogical connections tale!

Martha Davy Sherwood died in Troy Ohio in 1968.  She, like her aunt Gertrude, had no children of her own, so she designated several of her “family history items” to be passed on to her cousin's son, Dorsey F. Davy, my father in law, who grew up in North Dakota.  Martha had seen Dorsey when he was a child attending a Davy family reunion in Ohio.  She apparently took a liking to him and believed that he should be the caretaker of her treasured family items.  So the scrapbook and the Miami County History book, along with several other items were packed up and sent to North Dakota and held by Dorsey’s father, Don Davy, until Dorsey’s return from overseas work in Pakistan.  That was in the late 1960’s.

Fast forward to the mid 1980s.  By 1983 Doug and I were married and living out here in California.  One day, Doug’s dad, Dorsey, was thumbing through his inherited 1909 History of Miami County Ohio, and discovered the old newspaper articles, that had been clipped and tucked between various pages.  As he read through one long article, with a photograph of six elderly couples, he noticed the names, Mr. and Mrs. John Riley.  The title of the article was, “Death Takes Last of Notable Group Who Attended Golden Wedding.”  The article was from about 1933 and was an obituary of the last surviving person from this group picture.  The six couples had been photographed in 1914, at the golden wedding anniversary of one of the six couples.  A photo of these couples was taken because all had been married at least 50 years.  

Dorsey, knowing that my Riley family had lived in Troy Ohio, was anxious to show me his discovery.  It turned out that the Mr. and Mrs. John Riley pictured in the group photograph were indeed my GG grandparents.  I had never seen a picture of them before this.  None of my husband’s family (the Davys or their extended families) are pictured or mentioned in the saved article. 

Although my grandfather was born in Troy, Ohio, I did not know of my family roots there when I met my husband Doug, in Carbondale, Illinois.  It was only at our wedding in 1981 when my father met my new father in law that they, and I, learned of this common Miami County Ohio connection.

In the 1930’s when the article, which pictured my GG grandparents, was cut out and saved, the population of Miami County was about 51,000 and the population of the city of Troy was about 8,500.  It wasn’t exactly a tiny town.  But, did some of the Davy family know some of the Riley family?  Was it fate that Doug and I should meet?   

Regardless of whether our families knew each other, you cannot deny the bizarre coincidence that the article was saved and then returned to me over fifty years later.  We will never know if our families knew each other.  Doug and I would like to think that this is proof of some cosmic plan for our lives but we are too schooled in science to let ourselves completely believe this explanation.   What I am certain of is that we are all connected to one another in more ways than we can ever imagine or understand.

-Mary  

UPDATE 8/26/2015

My cousin just sent me a copy of the photo of the 6 Trojan couples that she found among her parents photo collection.  It is the same as the photo that appeared originally in the 1914 newspaper account of the Golden wedding anniversary of the Smiths and then was reprinted in 1933 and included as part of the obituary for Mrs. Smith in 1933 (the article that was clipped and saved by my husband's family).

Photo taken Oct. 19, 1914 at the home of Mr. & Mrs. Daniel W. Smith (West Franklin St., Troy, OH) on the occasion of the Smith's 50th wedding anniversary.  Standing left to right: Mr. and Mrs. Walter S. Thomas, Prof and Mrs. A.H. Vance, Mr and Mrs. John Riley, C. W. Douglas; seated left to right: Mr. and Mrs. C.H. McCullough, Mr and Mrs.  Daniel W. Smith and Mrs. C. W.  Douglas.  Photo by local photographer Harold M. Barton.

Hubcap From Hell

Remember when I asked for your scary stories?  This one comes from my husband, Doug, and although it's not scary it might make you hum the tune to "The Twilight Zone."  I think it was a the result of a little bit of ESP.  What do you think?    -Mary

I take the scientific approach.  The world is explainable.  Sure, like everyone else, at one time I entertained far out ideas about ghosts and extra-terrestrials.  But then I had a conversion to science.  Only what is observed and corroborated by independent parties who can replicate the same conditions can be considered to be true.  A proposition can never be proven true, only false.  If enough people bear the same witness that is backed by fact; real and documented observation, then the proposition might be true.

All “supernatural” occurrences have an explanation in the real world.  Most of what passes for ‘supernatural’ or ‘psychic’ phenomena can be explained in terms of subconscious or subliminal perception.  The subconscious mind is a fabulous computer and an idiot savant at calculating odds and constructing images.  Our lives run in grooves, in highly distinctive patterns, and our conscious minds are completely unaware of these patterns.  You are thinking about your long-lost friend, and suddenly the phone rings, and it’s your friend.  Freak out!  Supernatural! But your subconscious knew that this was the anniversary of some key moment you and your friend shared.  Your mind calculated the odds and knew that there was some chance you’d hear from the friend and it alerted you in advance.  All subconscious.  No supernatural.  No freak out.  No twilight zone.  

I was driving down the freeway one day in my rainforest green Pathfinder, which I’d named Chingachgook.  I’d just come off of the curving ramp between Interstate 5 south and US 50 and was heading east towards the mountains and home.  Traffic was heavy and slowing only slightly.  Suddenly into my mind appeared the image of a hubcap rolling down the road on its edge.  I didn’t think much about it, but I’d never seen a hubcap rolling down a highway on its edge.  I drove on.  A few minutes later (not right away), I saw a hubcap rolling down along the freeway on its edge.  Scientific me was for a moment baffled.  Then I had it—subliminal perception.  Out of the corner of my eye, my subconscious saw the hubcap on the car, wobbling a bit and about to come off.  Subconscious constructed a projection of what could happen, of what was about to happen to this hubcap.  It did so at this time because it knew that in this situation a wayward hubcap could present a danger and it wanted to alert the conscious automobile pilot, but not scare him to distraction.  It wanted to calculate the odds.  Right?  

-Doug 

Guilt And Limitations

It’s been a busy week here in Carmichael.  We are in the process of helping Doug’s 85-year-old dad move from his apartment nearby, to an assisted living facility.  After a few months of talking to him about this possibility he was able to migrate from an attitude of strong resistance to an acceptance that it was the right time to make such a move.  At first I think he didn’t understand the concept of “assisted living” and pictured a dreary dark nursing home where he would be “sent” to live out his days.   His memory continues to decline steadily and the daily tasks of his simple life are increasingly more difficult, so living alone was less and less feasible or reasonable.

There is a part of me that feels guilty that I couldn’t or wouldn’t offer to take him into our home.  Of course no one expected this of me or even asked, but I know that if I had offered, everyone involved would have been pleased with that option.  He especially, would have loved to have been “taken in “ and cared for in our home.  I think he’s feared this time of life since childhood.  “Who will take care of me when I am old and feeble?”  I suppose we all contemplate that question, in our quiet dark hours, when we aren’t pretending that some day we won’t die.  We fear that the final road we take toward death might be a long and bumpy one, despite our hopes that some day we just.... will not wake up….. and that will be that.  

All this brings to mind a story my mother often told about the time she agreed to take in an elderly relative who could no longer live alone.  My mother always referred to her as “Cousin Nettie”, and it was only about ten years ago that I figured out that “Cousin Nettie” was the wife of my Dad’s first cousin twice removed.  Obviously, Nettie was not a very “close relation” and I suspect that my mother had not had much prior contact with her.  As Mom told the story, she agreed to take Nettie into our home and care for this elderly widow who had no children or other close relations.  This must have been in the mid 1950’s and before I was born, but by then my mom would have had four young children.  I suppose my mother was quite the optimist, a generous spirit, or perhaps just a bit naive.  Apparently Nettie arrived and was soon discovered to be quite senile.  It didn’t take my mother long, perhaps even days, to figure out that taking care of Nettie would be far beyond her capabilities.  Of course the part of this story that we children remembered, is the most gruesome.  When my parents decided to take Nettie to live in a nursing home in nearby Lyndon, KY,  it was discovered by the staff that her hair was actually a wig that had grown to her head.  Nettie died in that nursing home in 1958, a year before I was born.  She was 87 years old.  I suppose my mother related this story for years to come, as a cautionary tale and warning about getting in over your head or biting off more than you could chew.  I’m sure that Mom didn’t regret her decision, to find another situation for Nettie, but I bet that she felt some guilt for not being able to be everything to everyone, all the time. 

So, that brings me back to my father in law.  I’m fairly certain that I would have been in over my head if I had tried to care for him here at home.  Maybe I’m just too much a part of the “me” generation to put aside my own comfort enough to think about caring for an elderly person 24/7.  Or, perhaps I just know my own personal and emotional limitations and am strong enough to adhere to them.  His new place is about 4 minutes from our house.  He’ll still be with us, as he has for years, for Sunday dinner each week.  And, I will continue to take him to his medical appointments and weekly errands. He’s grateful and each time asks me what he would do without my help.  Maybe it’s good to feel a bit guilty.  Perhaps it’s a sign of a healthy conscience.

-Mary
2007

Note: “Cousin Nettie” was Nettie L. Grout (1871-1958).  She married Guy Noyes in Trempealeau, Wisconsin in 1896.  Guy Noyes was the first cousin of my G Grandfather (Clarence Merriman).  By 1910 Guy and Nettie had moved to Louisville, Kentucky and Guy appears to have worked for Clarence Merriman’s various businesses including his cafeteria and furniture company.  A number of years ago I connected online with a distant cousin in this family.  She was able to help me place “Cousin Nettie” into our family tree and sent me some photos she had of Nettie and Guy when they were a young, attractive, newly married couple.  Guy Noyes died in 1934, leaving Nettie as a widow for 24 years until her death.  They had no children. 

More Than We Bargained For

This scary story comes from blog reader, friend and cousin, Bill Lattin.  Bill grew up in Owensboro Kentucky and in this story we find him as a high school kid out for a bit of teenage adventure.  I’m sure we have all been in situations like this, in which part of the fun was the anticipation of danger, but regret hits us like a baseball bat when we realize that we just might be in a position of being truly threatened.  -Mary

A neighbor kid down the street was a couple of years older than I. We got to be friends because we both built and flew model airplanes. This story is about us and another friend of his. I didn't like the friend who I thought was a jerk and usually avoided my neighbor when he was around. I was 16.

Panther Creek meanders through Daviess County south of Owensboro. Owensboro is like a bump on the Ohio River flood plane. In the '37 flood, the only way in or out of here was in a boat. It seems like Panther Creek is either overflowing its banks and flooding half of Daviess County or is practically empty. When Home Depot and Sam's Cub was built recently, they had to fill the cornfields with 6' of dirt to get the stores above the 100 year flood plane. The land near the creek is still mostly covered by thick woods. In places there were dirt firebreak roads and in one place there was a trail along the creek.

I don't remember now how or who heard about this, but somehow one of these guys heard a rumor that there would be a KKK gathering along the trail. We decided to go see if the KKK was really going to meet or if something else was going on. It would be an adventure.

We drove the gravel road out to the bridge over Panther Creek around 11. Something was going on. There were about 20 cars parked out there in the middle of nowhere. We still thought the KKK story was BS and headed down the trail. How about a HS beer bust and hot dog roast? Heck, everybody at OHS "knew" half the kids a OCHS were a bunch of drunks who seemed to have an unlimited supply of beer and liquor. The trail was only about a foot wide with tall weeds on both sides. We didn't need a light to stay on the trail. It was nearly pitch black under the trees.  A quarter mile down the trail we started to see light flickering through the woods from a fire. We kept going until we could see 25 or 30 guys in white sheets and hoods around a huge bond fire through the trees. There was a cross made out of saplings. As soon as we got there we heard the start of someone being whipped. JESUS CHRIST! Lets get the hell out of here right now! . SHIT! A dim kerosene lantern is coming toward us on the trail from the road. We slid down the steep 15' high creek bank on our stomachs and hoped the 3 guys in the sheets wouldn't see us or the weeds we flattened. They didn't and we got the hell out of there a lot faster than we went in. 

All three of us had the shakes and hardly said a word.  I just wanted to go home. My parents were half asleep when I got home. They weren't enthusiastic about calling the sheriff or KSP at all and told me to go to bed. I don't remember ever being that scared again.

This was one adventure we didn't share or brag about. I swore one friend to secrecy a couple of weeks later and told him. He didn't believe it. And he still didn't believe it after I took him out to the site and he saw the remains of the bonfire and cross.

25 years later I told this story to my wife's uncle when we were living on his farm in Ohio County.  I was shocked when he wasn't surprised. He said his father had been a member of the KKK. His story was that the KKK in Ohio County was like a vigilante police force and didn't have anything to do with suppression of blacks...probably because you'd be hard pressed to find a black man in Ohio County.  If you were a lazy drunk, beat your wife or didn't feed your family, some armed KKK members would arrive on horseback and warn you. If the warning didn't work, you'd get a beating you wouldn't soon forget.

- Bill

There are an estimated 6,000 – 8,000 Klan members today divided between over 100 local chapters.  Of course in the 1920s that number was estimated to be more like 5 million.  It’s frightening to me to think of all these people filled with so much hate for others! - Mary

Update- September 2012-- The author of this story, William J. Lattin Jr. passed away on September 15 2012, at the age of 74.  His friendship will be greatly missed.  -Mary 

Scary Stories- The Clock

It's October, so I'll start off with my "scary" story.  I've received another from one of my readers, which I will publish.  I'm expecting one from you, so I hope you have starting thinking about it.  Everyone has been a bit frightened at least once in their life.  Thanks!  

Emmy’s Clock

About 15 years ago my elderly grandmother decided to move from her home into an Episcopal church home for the elderly because she was getting too frail to live alone anymore.  She asked me what I might like to have from her home and I said that if I had to choose, I would like her old Seth Thomas pendulum clock that sat on a table in her living room and whose ticking sound had dominated my visits to her quiet house when I was a child.  I’d venture to bet that if you asked any of her 10 grandchildren what they remembered most about my grandmother’s home, that all would first mention that ticking clock.  So my grandmother packed up the clock and had it shipped to me.  

At first I had it in our living room and actually tried to keep up with winding it each day.  It was wound by a key---- the turning key raising the weights located on the sides of the pendulum.  On one side you inserted the key to raise a weight that powered the clock, on the other side you inserted the key to raise a separate weight that powered the chime.  My grandmother would wind the clock each day, often letting me help if I was over spending the night at her house.  She never wound the side with the chime because she  didn’t like the dull gonging sound that it would make each hour if wound.  When I received the clock, at first I wound both sides.   I was curious about the chime that I had never heard and also wanted to make sure it worked properly.   Soon, I grew tired of winding the clock at all. 

Eventually we put the clock on a dresser in our bedroom and for several years it sat there and was never wound.  How would we sleep with that ticking sound all night?  Next to the clock, I placed an old photograph of my grandmother and her sister as children.

A number of years later, in the summer of 1999 my grandmother passed away at the age of 92.   I went back to Kentucky for her funeral.  A couple of days after I returned home from that trip something strange happened.  I was walking out of my bedroom (where the clock resided on my dresser), when I heard the clock chime once.  “Gong”     I looked at my son who was nearby and said, “Did you hear that? , the clock chimed”.  He had heard it also.  I went to investigate.  Perhaps the chime weight had been in the raised position and something had made it drop a bit and chime.  No….. Both the clock and chime weights were completely in their spent/down position.  And …we hadn’t touched the clock in years.  Interesting!  I was convinced that it was some sort of message from my dead grandmother.  My husband took the scientific approach when I called him at work to tell him about the clock.  Perhaps the vibrations of opening the dresser drawers each day finally caused the clock to oddly chime, he suggested.  Yes, I had opened the dresser earlier that morning but hours before the clock had chimed.  And, it had sat there for several years without chiming unexpectedly despite the dresser drawers being opened each day.  I told this story to various people, and many had some type of reasonable, logical, scientific explanation for the occurrence, ranging from the idea of a small earthquake to the thought that perhaps I had just imagined that the clock had chimed.  

I must tell you that the clock has only chimed once more since the incident I have just described.  That occurred in mid-November several years after the first incident, and when I called my brother a few days afterward to report the clock’s latest antics he related to me that he had recently taken the old table the clock had sat on in our grandmother’s home out of storage.  He’d refinished the table and had placed it in his living room on the same day I was now saying that I had heard the clock give it’s second unexpected chime.  By now my husband was starting to agree that maybe there was no scientific explanation and he insisted I scan my family history files to see if there was anything of significance on that November date.  Well, the only thing I found was that it was the date of my grandmother’s parents anniversary.  Maybe just a coincidence.  

The clock still sits on my dresser and hasn’t made a peep since.  And, I am still…. somewhat…….almost…….vaguely……pretty certain that the chimes were a message from my grandmother.

-Mary