Memorial Day 2017

My Dad served as a Captain in the US Army. He was never under enemy fire, something for which his family is very grateful.

I heard these words today. They resonate today, like they did on Veteran's Day, 1985.

"{W}hen a serviceman dies, it's a tear in the fabric, a break in the whole, and all we can do is remember.

It is, in a way, an odd thing to honor those who died in defense of our country, in defense of us, in wars far away. The imagination plays a trick. We see these soldiers in our mind as old and wise. We see them as something like the Founding Fathers, grave and gray haired. But most of them were boys when they died, and they gave up two lives -- the one they were living and the one they would have lived. When they died, they gave up their chance to be husbands and fathers and grandfathers. They gave up their chance to be revered old men. They gave up everything for our country, for us. And all we can do is remember.

And the living have a responsibility to remember the conditions that led to the wars in which our heroes died. Perhaps we can start by remembering this: that all of those who died for us and our country were, in one way or another, victims of a peace process that failed...

We're surrounded today by the dead of our wars. We owe them a debt we can never repay. All we can do is remember them and what they did and why they had to be brave for us...

In memory of those who gave the last full measure of devotion, may our efforts to achieve lasting peace gain strength...

God bless America." - Remembering those who paid for our freedom.

It's Been A Busy While

After moving the office and doing a lot of de-cluttering, my parents asked me to do more of the same at their place. I have now spent hours with sorting through years of accumulated (to be nice, let's call it) "stuff." One of the consequences of the office move was relocating a lot of my father's business stuff that was stored in the office where we had plenty of room.

All of it was moved to my parent's house and into their basement. Their basement wasn't fit for even mice, being dark and clammy. So the first order of business was to install a lot of overhead lighting and then, once they could see the sorry state of things, I was asked to paint all the walls white along painting the cellar steps. 10 gallons of white paint and 2 gallons of grey paint later, the cellar is much brighter. Then de-cluttering took place with me being able to see what I was looking at!

This lead to me being asked to paint their dining room, then their living room, and then their bedroom, a couple hallways, and bathroom. I even hung some wallpaper (borders.) All this done, they asked me to do some painting down the shore. I have painted and de-cluttered until I have dropped. And there is still more to do. The last bit of painting was their garden shed as you can see in flickr (on the right.)

This is a murky shot of the house down the shore's attic. I removed an entire dumpster worth of "stuff". The attic had never been emptied even by the guy my folks bought the place from. The previous owner was a depression-era child - so he hoarded old rusty nails, scraps of wood, old ripped out electrical wire, half-used paneling, odds and ends of dry wall, you name it. I even found two old bathroom mirror cabinets - apparently obtained at a garage sale for $2 each and left upstairs for that "some day project." That some day never came.

Wondering about what had become of the previous owner, I located one of his sons on the Internet and we exchanged a number of "catching up" emails. They were family friends of my parents - time just caused us to drift apart. Sadly, the old-timer has passed away, after a slow decline from Alzheimer's Disease. He taught me a bunch of things about boats, being an ex-Navy man that served in WWII.

Elsewhere's down the shore, people are still recovering from the aftermath of "Super-Storm Sandy" and work continues with many seashore cottages being "jacked up" so that the next flooding shouldn't be so harmful. Just watch the first step as you leave the house!

One of the low-lying houses that I spent some hours of my boyhood in is no longer there. The lot was cleared this past month. The memories of happy times enjoyed at the shore haven't been cleared from my head - but the place died a little - it just isn't the same without both the people and the places that used to be there.

As some of you know, me and my two brothers were called the "Three K's" when growing up since we all have names starting with "K". So I found the name of this boat to be of humorous interest. I sent the phone-photo to my brothers when I saw it. :) The "Two K's." My brothers are still arguing over which of us would be the missing "K" continuing with this morning's go-round about someone being a "Special K."

Heartache - Friends that Hurt (Part 2)

I can not write words that express what a dear friend, one that I have admired and respected since the day I first found her blog. She suffers from pain that cripples her and makes her largely a "shut-in" but you would hardly ever know it - she is cheerful, optimistic, honest, courageous, talented beyond words both with her hands and with story-telling. In short she is just a plain and simple "good" human being that looks and lives outside of herself and sincerely wishes the best for everyone she encounters.

She is very reluctant to ask others for anything - let alone something as simple as a kind thought and a gentle word. I deeply admire her.

I read her recent blog entry with dismay. I am sure it pained her to ask her friends for some kind thoughts and prayer. She valiantly strives to be independent and a burden to no one. And she is so. Despite it all.

I hope the power of prayer - can bring some sunshine into her world.

Heartache - Friends that Hurt (Part 1)

Rest in Peace Kero - I have long adopted other people's pets - a couple of them have become "nearly my own."

Kero was one of them.

I watched him grow up - and read about his "exploits" and experiences. I sorted out his photos for his special human - enjoying each and every pose he had. He had presence - an attitude - and his human loved him beyond all the words she ever wrote about him.

I took pleasure in creating the covers for each and every one of the "Kero" books, even if my talent was meager and crude.

Kero Celebrates Christmas - I wondered how he didn't get lost in the snow with his gleaming white coat. I was always pulling for him to "catch" Santa Paws when he came by to leave him his Christmas presents.

Kero Celebrates Halloween - he was admittedly, perhaps a tad spoiled - he certainly got his share of the treats.

Kero Celebrates His Birthday - I only regret there weren't enough of them.

Kero Goes Walkies - For a little dog - he had a big heart and loved to explore the world outside his door.

Kero Goes To Town - He took some adventurous trips, here and there, and even rode the train!

Kero Gets Sick - Everyday I rooted for him to get well and to stay well. He has gone to the place that well loved doggies go - the Canine Valhalla. His presence in our world, too brief as it was, was a gift to us all.

He will not be forgotten. My thoughts and prayers are with his grieving special person.

The long delayed arrival of Spring

Early "wire rope" bridge - Reigelsville, PA - Friends of the Delaware Canal Luncheon

When the American Shad come up the river from the Ocean to spawn, you know it's Spring. These fish are credited with "saving" Washington's starving soldiers at Valley Forge. Alosa Sapidissima are the guests of honor (so to speak) at the local Shad Festival.

The farmhouse for the farm that was made into a housing development that my parents live in.

A tree downed by the ice storm blocks the Delaware Canal towpath near Washington Crossing, PA.

My neighbor finally put his Christmas tree out at the curb for pickup the last day of March. Another sure sign of Spring.

The eatery at the side of the Perkiomen Trail is once more open for business. A nice sign of Spring - I'm kind of attached to this one.

Hard to see in the photo - but the surest sign of Spring to me, are the "return of the turtles" that climb onto logs to sun themselves!

In the past week, the Daffodils have exploded into bloom. I was overjoyed to see these guys!

A Forsythia bush at the Morris Arboretum.

Pots filled with Tulips greet the sun at the Arboretum.

And, yes, the migrating Orange Cones are back...

A bright moment during a dreary winter

It has been a long, cold, snowy, and hard winter. Today, it is raining. My mom says, "Be thankful, you don't need to shovel rain." And I am thankful. The grass is beginning to turn green again, and the spring flowers are on their way, sprouting upwards to greet the newly arrived red-breasted Robins.

The winter started before Thanksgiving - the hard times started a few weeks before that when my dad got sick once more. He spent last Thanksgiving in the hospital. At Christmas time, he was back in the hospital for a few weeks. He ended up getting a pacemaker implanted. But his health didn't improve much. By mid-February, he was back in the hospital with pulmonary edema (fluid in the lungs) threatening to drown him. He was miserable and cranky.

Each week during that period, it seemed we got more snow - and I shoveled and shoveled - mine, the office, and my parents. Especially my parents so that emergency workers could get in to my dad if need be. We got 10 times our average amount of snow this winter (so far). It wore us out.

It was extremely cold too - single digits for days and days - and those days, the wind seemed to always be howling. A winter ice storm knocked out my power for several days - no power meant no heat. My folks have a heat pump, but single digit temperatures meant back up heat from an oil burner. They ran out of oil a couple times - and it was cold waiting for the oil delivery truck to come the next day.

Throughout this hard winter, the folks at my parent's Church have been a rock of support for them and for me. They called every week just to check up on how my dad, my mom and myself were doing. And they prayed. They prayed for my dad to regain his health.

This past Sunday, my parents went to their Church. They were stunned when they were given a beautiful, hand made prayer quilt.

The lady that made it, started it back in February, when far from home, I took my dad to a strange hospital and needed someone (anyone) to just talk to my mom and help her remain calm. I found a phone number on my mom's cellphone "Prayer Chain" and dialed it. One of the members of their church answered, and I told them what was happening.

The next day, my dad was much improved. They drained the fluid in his lungs (nearly 2 gallons were to be removed by the end of his crisis) - and he slept comfortably for the first time in many weeks. His regular doctors had misdiagnosed him, saying his breathing trouble was due to a "common cold". Fortunately, the strange doctor so far from home, figured it out. My dad has been much improved, and as my mom puts it, "like his old self once more!"

My mom brought the prayer quilt to me at work. We admired it, and more so, we admired the thoughtfulness of the person that made it.

Do to others as you would have them do to you. There is so much power in it.

Attitudes

Recently, my mother found a couple rolled up pieces of paper in a box of things that my grandfather had in his attic. She gave them to me - and we discovered that they were my grandmother's high school and college diplomas. In all my years, I had never seen either. I knew my grandmother graduated from the University of Pennsylvania in the bitter year of 1930. One of her uncles paid most of her way.

So why were these diplomas never framed and displayed?

My mom told me that she never hung them up because they "bothered" my grandfather. I scratched my head and looked at my mom questioningly. Grandfather never finished high school and took great pride in his being a "self-made man." He didn't think a woman needed an education to do her duties in the proper place, that is at home. So the college diploma was an embarrassment to him and my grandmother never made an issue out of it.

How attitudes change in time always fascinates me - today, my brothers and I are proud of my grandmother's accomplishment - she not only graduated during the depression, but attended a "good school" and graduated in a time when many didn't go to college. My grandmother set out to be an English teacher - she never taught in a public school, but she did teach Sunday School for many years - and...

When I was a young boy, my grandparents took me to Japan. I remember my grandmother being mobbed on a the Bullet Train ride from Tokyo to Osaka (about a 3 and 1/2 hour ride) by 20 or more Japanese boys and girls when they learned she was an English teacher - they all wanted lessons right there and then. And so she held a class. When the train arrived at our destination, all the eager students "peeled away" from the confines of the two bench seats (they really could pack themselves in!) beaming with smiles and laughing in joy.

My grandmother had the biggest smile of them all.

Weekend at the Beach

This past weekend, I "finally" got down to the New Jersey shore - A trip had been planned for the Thanksgiving Day weekend, but due to my Dad's illness, it was postponed - and delayed - and postponed again.

It was cold and windy down there - but the sunshine and the sight of the "winter beach" was a restorative for me. I didn't have to do anything on my folk's house - so I was free to roam, think, and read.

I started reading a huge (700 page plus) book on the ins and outs of the "forgotten war," that is, Korea.

To clear my head of all the things filling it of late - I strolled down to the beach and watched some little kids fly a kite and throw balls to dogs that were delighted to run free in the clean white sand.

In the town park, the "clam" has been painted with "Old Barnegat Lighthouse". "Super Storm Sandy" (I hate the ridiculous names "they" give to storms) was rough on the park - and the homes and businesses nearby. The park was home to a tree that memorialized a local boy - the tree was killed by the salty storm waters. I hope "they" plant another tree and soon.

Returning to the beach, I thought about that tree - and the boy it memorialized. Ensign Arthur Joseph Platt Jr. was my age. Born a few months before me, to the people that lived next door - down the shore. As such, I grew up with him during the summer months. He was a short, sturdy guy with laser like focus on his dream to fly.

He was the only son of A. J. and Marylou Platt. His two older sisters were beauty pageant winners - his younger sister was a charming little girl. His parents came from Philadelphia, and ran both a motel and a bike rental/Ice cream parlor. Mrs. Platt was one of the nicest, hardest working person I knew. She always a kind word, a happy greeting, and a smile for me each morning when she walked past our house from the ice cream store to the motel carrying clean sheets for the day's change-overs.

A.J., as the older Mr. Platt was known, worked long hours during the summer season, renting and repairing bikes along side with selling ice cream cones and sundaes. I owned several bikes that came from his store. A.J. was very proud of his son, the Naval Aviator. He beamed with delight if someone mentioned him or asked how he was doing.

Young "Artie," as he was called, joined the navy in 1978, the year he graduated from high school. He was soon flying jets in Pensacola, Florida (the home of the Blue Angels).

One day, in 1984, young Arthur Joseph Platt was involved in an accident while flying and killed. His death was so unexpected and sudden, it was as if a candle had been puffed out.

I think young Artie's death killed his father - it took several years - but the old man was never the same afterwards. He slid into a quiet kind of grieving despondency. He no longer cared about dishing up ice cream, or his appearance, and the bike place slowly dwindled - from a place with hundreds of bikes to a mere handful.

And so it was - I decided to pay my respects to the A.J.'s buried in the nearby "Holy Innocents' Garden of Memories". Artie was buried about 100 feet from the motel his mother spent so much time at - with his father buried next to him.

As a further heartbreak to a hard working, close-knit family, the youngest girl, who went to Washington College in Chestertown, died not long after her father from a freaky accident. She fell from a ladder while working on her home and hit her head. She never woke up.

As I thought about the hard times a family endures - and the unfairness of it all - I thought about the damage the storm had brought to the shore - if it were uncaring and randomly capricious; but... life goes on. Mrs. Platt - goes on - she works in Pensacola at the National Naval Air Museum there - a living testimony to her son.

One the beauty pageant winners - still runs the bike rental shop - and the business suffered from the storm as the sea water destroyed much of the "stored for the winter" bikes and other rental goods. But they too - simply cleaned up the mess and go on.

Someday, I should tell them all how much I admired them as a young boy - and how much I admire them today.

Christmas 2013

The dates were finally put on the my grandfather's gravestone this year. I can't describe how I feel - it makes things... feel so "final" somehow.

When I placed the grave blankets on my grandparent's graves this year, I spent some time recalling the many Christmases past that my grandparents and aunts and uncles came to visit - and so many of the wonderful memories.

My grandfather on the last Christmas he enjoyed opening presents.

My grandmother with her younger sister, the Mayor of Chula Vista, California and her husband, visiting Lawrence Welk. Mr. Welk was one of my grandmother's most favorite musicians. She loved singing "Toyland, Toyland" and I learned to play it on the piano for her.

My grandfather with his three sisters - My aunts Harry, Johanna Parker, Mary Dunn, and Marian Hawn (my Dad, Robert, is in the chair behind them). Ross Hawn Jr. is the smiling face between the legs. Palmyra, New Jersey circa 1945. Ross Sr., Marian's husband, probably took the photograph.

My mom's mom. I love this photograph, murky as it is, because it shows her shoveling snow out to the clothesline in Milton Mills, New Hampshire. She suffered several strokes while I was young and most of my memories of her are her in a nursing home - unable to remember anyone's name, including her own.

My mom's dad hold my mom on the edge of the ocean - He was a loving but "set in his ways" man - He was the only one of the four grandparents I was with when he died. His heart failed while he was in a snoozing nap - and his end was a peaceful one. It was so hard to envision this man being born in "Indian Territory" (now Oklahoma), serving as a telegraph operator in the Navy during WWI, and retiring to a farmhouse in New Hampshire - miles from the "City". I have since learned some of his story in my quest to get my mom's Daughters of the American Revolution membership.

One of the stories tickles me pink - He was one of 5 strapping young men in his family, they all ran to 6 foot and several inches tall - but it was his mother that they all called for when they spotted a rattlesnake. They would cry, "Momma! Momma! Come quick, there is a snake here!" and the little pioneer woman, she was only 4 foot 8, would rush to their side with a hoe and dispatch the snake for them.

For many years, no matter how much snow was on the roads - these people would somehow find their way to my boyhood home early Christmas Day - and made Christmas... Christmas for three little, much loved, boys.

A walk in the canyon

This past weekend, I walked the Pine Creek trail located in the Pennsylvania Grand Canyon just outside of Wellsboro, PA. It was quite cold in the morning but as the sun slowly warmed things up, it became more comfortable.

I totaled 62,550 steps and 26.8 miles. This is the second (and likely last) marathon length walk this year. I felt rewarded in that I had challenged myself and had "made it."

I was probably a week or two too late for the peak foliage - but it was still spectacular - I was enjoying the view so much, I forgot to take many photos (after my fingers thawed out that is!)

Next year, I am planning to walk the Lehigh Valley Gorge Rail Trail - the only questions are logistics and where to start and end!

Trail map showing 34 and 25 mile options.

:)

'Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far...and Grace will lead me home.

Last Wednesday, I attended the graveside funeral of my sister-in-law's grandmother.  I did not know her very well - but she was always very nice to me - and my brother and his daughter seemed to want me there.

It was a bright and sunny day - so I went a little early to walk the grounds and to reflect - I wandered through the fields and found a stone with the following on it - and thought, no matter what you "believe," you can't argue with the point being made:

One Solitary Life

He was born in an obscure village
The child of a peasant woman
He grew up in another obscure village
Where he worked in a carpenter shop
Until he was thirty

He never wrote a book
He never held an office
He never went to college
He never visited a big city
He never traveled more than two hundred miles
From the place where he was born
He did none of the things
Usually associated with greatness
He had no credentials but himself

He was only thirty three

His friends ran away
One of them denied him
He was turned over to his enemies
And went through the mockery of a trial
He was nailed to a cross between two thieves
While dying, his executioners gambled for his clothing
The only property he had on earth

When he was dead
He was laid in a borrowed grave
Through the pity of a friend

Nineteen centuries have come and gone
And today Jesus is the central figure of the human race
And the leader of mankind's progress
All the armies that have ever marched
All the navies that have ever sailed
All the parliaments that have ever sat
All the kings that ever reigned put together
Have not affected the life of mankind on earth
As powerfully as that one solitary life.

 - Dr. James Alan - 1928

During the service, someone stood up and recited a poem - one that struck a cord deep within me - with the "family tree" efforts I have been doing - I've often typed someone's name, their birth date and the date they passed away separated by a dash, "-"

The poem by Linda Ellis, is simply titled, "The Dash Poem" and goes like this:

I read of a man who stood to speak
At the funeral of a friend
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
From the beginning to the end

He noted that first came the date of her birth
And spoke the following date with tears,
But he said what mattered most of all
Was the dash between those years

For that dash represents all the time
That she spent alive on earth.
And now only those who loved her
Know what that little line is worth.

For it matters not how much we own;
The cars, the house, the cash,
What matters is how we live and love
And how we spend our dash.

So think about this long and hard.
Are there things you’d like to change?
For you never know how much time is left,
That can still be rearranged.

If we could just slow down enough
To consider what’s true and real
And always try to understand
The way other people feel.

And be less quick to anger,
And show appreciation more
And love the people in our lives
Like we’ve never loved before.

If we treat each other with respect,
And more often wear a smile
Remembering that this special dash
Might only last a little while.

So, when your eulogy is being read
With your life’s actions to rehash
Would you be proud of the things they say
About how you spent your dash?

Also during the service - a young woman with a beautiful voice sang "Amazing Grace," the favorite song of Naomi, the woman that passed away.

I found the stanza:

Through many dangers, toils and snares
I have already come;
'Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far
and Grace will lead me home.

...repeating in my head as I walked alone, back to my car and on the drive home, all the while thinking about my "dash."

Rest in Peace Naomi - your dash was well-spent - so many spoke highly of you when we all went to say "Good Bye."

Mandy's Glade

With the family out of town this past weekend, I needed to keep busy in order not to feel alone.  My younger brother is at a trade show in Boston this week - so I continue to be alone.  In order to keep busy and my mind off the "not good" thoughts of just why I was alone, I went to the houseboat resolved to do a laundry list of activities.

I got a late start on Friday (messing with my Dad's computer was slow going!) but Saturday morning dawned bright and sunny and not too unpleasantly warm, so I headed over to Chestertown's "City Dock" and looked at the Schooner Sultana, the first I have seen her this year.  She's been busy, out of port, on "road trips" ("river trips?) to places like Saint Micheal's and Baltimore.  From there, I went to the local Farmers Market and looked but didn't buy.

I went to the supermarket. My shopping list was simple:

Kitty Litter - Check! Wet Cat Food - Check!  Laundry Detergent - Check! The sign on the reverse had a different list: Paper Towels - Check! Dog Food - Check! Dog Biscuits - Check!  Leaving the supermarket, I went to the Humane Society of Kent County with a trunk full of goodies where they were received with happy smiles.  Perhaps too, Ruby was smiling also.

From there, I took a quick swim and then headed to the Atkins Arboretum where I spent several hours walking through the meadows, lost in thought:

..and into the woods.

...amd before I knew it, I had walked nearly 7 miles and my lingering thought was that of the goat herd I had seen - and how cute the goat was that stood on top of the picnic table, overlooking her domain.

I returned to the houseboat and took a most refreshing swim, before settling down to read for the evening, a history book I got from the Chestertown Library about the "resettlement" of the Native Americans from Georgia to Oklahoma back in the 1830s.  A most terrible and sad moment in American History.

Sunday morning found me restless and anxious - so I hit the road and headed home.  Once there, I decided I needed to do some tree-hugging.  So I headed to Valley Forge National Historic Park and feeling like I was nearly my old-self as far as walking form, selected a combination old-new trek.  I combined the "Pawling's Farm" shown below with the "Deer hunt Walk," followed by the Schuylkill River Trail, and returning to my car on the "River Trail."

Pawling's Farm

I've not been "up" to walking on the Schuylkill River Trail of late, I think it was a combination of couple factors, my being sub-par with the health issues, and well... the walk takes me past a place with special memories.  Memories, I have been avoiding.

The Schuylkill River Trail is a walk/bike path created from the Pennsylvania Railroad's Schuylkill Branch.  It ran from Philadelphia to the coal counties beyond Pottstown, Reading, Hamburg, and Pottsville.  For a short distance, the abandoned right of way carries the walker (or biker) over the small streams and through the meadows of Valley Forge.

There is a place, where the trail goes over a small stream on an old stone arch culvert/bridge that has some powerful and lingering memories for me.

View from the trail

A while ago, I lost a dear and special friend.  Her name was Mandy, and she lived in far away Australia.  We "met" on-line and talked about everything under the sun.  Her beliefs were odd to me (she was Wiccan) and her speech and mannerisms were intriguing and different (should I say, "unique"?)  I found myself learning from her and enjoying her "company."  One of the things we talked about was, where we would go if we were to ever meet - and at this quiet little spot, I envisioned us having a picnic, while seeing the many deer wandering about.

...and so I have, perhaps unconsciously, avoided the place since she passed away at a far too young age - apparently mostly from giving up the battle against the many injuries life inflicted on her.

As a strong-minded, determined, independent, woman, she had her opinions and wasn't afraid to voice them.  Among those opinions, were her religious beliefs.

Wiccan teachings say nothing of "the afterlife."  Many of them believe that when someone dies, if they mourn at all, it is for their loss, for the loss of the person to the world, for themselves, their family, and for what the person could've done had they lived. Few Wiccans mourn the fact that a person has died.

So to honor that - I mourned what she might have done - had she lived on.  Mandy's ashes were scattered by her children at a very pretty seaside village called Port Fairy, located on Giffiths Island, Victoria, Australia.  There is a lighthouse there - near the waves and sea creatures that Mandy adored - and this is where her children celebrated her life.

I held my own celebration of her life ... here, in this quiet little glade.  As I pondered what she might have done had she lived, I came to appreciate the Wiccan ideas of "do no harm to others" and Mandy's thoughts on "pantheism" (the belief that everything composes an all-encompassing, immanent God, or that the universe (or nature) is identical with divinity. Pantheists do not believe in a personal or anthropomorphic god.)  Here I was - "held in the cusp of nature" - and alone with my thoughts - but not alone... I was connected to everyone and everything - through some deeper, unseen but powerful links.

So, having spent some quiet moments of reflection - with bitter and regretful thoughts turning to far more positive ones - I left the glade - and although I think Mandy was "not there,"  she was in some way, "connected to there."  As are each of us - interconnected - and a part of each other.

I headed back to my car along the river, past the turtles,

..and over the stream that created the glade,

 ... and past the tree that reminds me of two other dear friends (that I've neglected of late)

The walk went steadily.  I soon put seven miles on the trusty pedometer - and was happy enough to see my car waiting for me in the parking lot where I had left it.

As for the deer... I saw none of them - but I'm sure they were there... somewhere.

Der brth I tak up time to drop you few lins..

Recently, Jacqi over at "A Family Tapestry" sent me a link to a new (to me) genealogy resource. It allows one to search books of biographical material.

Thanks to Jacqi, I uncovered a few gems. If you don't know Jacqi, this is what her profile says:

"It is my contention that, after a lifetime, one of the greatest needs people have is to be remembered. They want to know: have I made a difference? I write because I can't keep for myself the gifts others have entrusted to me. Through what I've already been given--though not forgetting those to whom I must pass this along--from family I receive my heritage; through family I leave a legacy. With family I weave a tapestry. These are my strands."

I get goose bumps just reading that.

---- ...And these are my strands. ----

One of the gems I found has the rather lengthy title of "MOUNT HOPE - A history of Cole, Shipman, and allied families: Abercrombie, Allen, Anderson, Bailey, Bennett, Bryson, Carson, Channell, Curtis, Hemphill, Hutchins, Keith, Munday, Nixon, Owens, Stephens, and other families, of old Buncombe Co., N.C, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Arkansas, Texas, Oklahoma and elsewhere." It was written by Pauline Callaway Sheriff and is copyrighted 1982.

On page 189, I found this regarding my Mother's great-grandfather:

John Madison Shipman, son of George Shipman and Margaret Hefner, was born on December 22, 1844 in Georgia. He married Paratine Avary on January 15, 1867. She was born in 1847-8 in Alabama, the daughter of Wilson W. Avary, b. 1824-5 in South Carolina and Tabitha Jane b. circa 1826-7 in Alabama.

In the 1880 US Census, Wayne County, Tennessee, John Madison Shipman and family was listed living next door to the W. W. Avery family. Included in the census were the following children: G.W., a son 11 years old, M. J. a daughter 10 years old, and D.P. a son, 5 years old.

Through the courtesy of Louise Shipman Fields, we have a copy of part of an old letter that was written by John Madison to his brother, Rufus Monroe, called "Babe", and to his parents, George and Margaret [Hefner] Shipman. Over the years portions of this letter had worn out on the folds, and some sections were missing:

"Wayne Co. No (missing)
Pap & mother

... leaves us in common ... they may find you all ... not heard any speshal in some time I want to see you all very bad and did expect to before this time but on the account of gethering my crop and sickness I can't get off yet awhile my crop is now gethered I have got a part of my wheat sowed I think when I get done sowing wheat and my cotton hawled off and sold surely will get to come We have had some sickness this fall but nothing verry serious Gerge Wilson first had the sore throat he was sick about two weeks then little Perry about two weeks with fevor and worms supposed to be then Pairentine had the sore throat about one week we only had the doctor one trip we have all been puny this fall my crop turned out tolerable well except my cotton it was verry sorry I think I have gethered about 200 bu (bushels) of corn 11 or 12 hundred lbs of cotton in the seed I think I have shoats (young pigs) enough to make meat if they don't die there is a great many hogs dying in this country

(the bottom part of the letter is missing, then this on the back side:)

...so Babe I supose you are come out to Wayne if you can do any good would be glad you would do so if it suits you to come now you can come out with John Avary well Babe I don't know of anything now that would pay you much. You can come and look round for your self and if it don't suit you can do like other has done you can go back to Winston so if you want to come don't wait on me.

J.M.S

"When this you see remember us I want you all to write soon"

On the bottom of the letter, in a very different handwriting, very hard to read, was:

"Winston County, Ala January 18 1877
Der brth I tak up time to drop you few lins to in forme you that we are wel at pres hop th finds every one of you well"

The above letter was written in Nov 1876 and the reply at the bottom started Jan 28, 1877 by Rufus or a sibling.

---- I then found this: ----


On the back it is labeled, [Daniel Perry Shipman] on the right. I think this is John Madison Shipman with his two youngest children Hurbert and Daniel Perry, taken somewhere in Fannin County, Texas, circa 1880.

Digging around further, I find what appear to be the memories of Carlos Raymond (C. R.) Shipman. I hope you will clicken to enbiggen. :)


It says in part: "I am Carlos Raymond Shipman born June 28, 1899 attended at birth by Dr. J. A. Lannius in a two-room log house built by my father and his neighbors a little over 17 miles northeast of Bonham on a 40-acre government lease at 10 cents an acre per year for ten years. The doctor came out in a one-horse buggy about 17 miles at five miles per hour.

I married June 15, 1921 Annie Mae Matthews in Bonham. We have one daughter and seven sons all living at present. She passed away January 24. 1974. My father Daniel Perry Shipman was born in Wayne County, Tennessee September 1874. He came to Texas in a wagon with his parents, John and Paratine (Avery) Shipman, at the age of eight years. His father died when my father was 12 and he lost his mother two years later. He had to run the farm and support his mother and sister Maggie [Note: my great-grandmother] and brother Hurbert. His older brother George was married and had two children at the time. My father was helped some by his Uncle Billy Morrison of the Stoolgrub community a few miles away. My father also helped at times on other farms at 35 cents and 50 cents a day. He made cross ties at six cents each for the Texas and Pacific Railroad. He became a good farmer and owned and operated close to 900 acres several years. Later he farmed less and operated a meat market and general merchandise store, also a wood yard. In his last working years he cultivated 11 acres in vegetables to sell on his place on South Center Street in Bonham.

His uncles, Luke, Downs and Charlie Avery, lived in the Telephone and Lamaso communities north of Bonham. Luke and Downs moved to Lubbock to farm. My father came to Texas, I was told, in a wagon from Tennessee. Five wagons started but only three made it. They traveled 15 to 25 miles a day depending on the hills and road conditions. Most newcomers to Fannin County stopped along the Red River for water and land that would grow fruit and vegetables. At 19 my father married Fannie Mary Terrell who was age 20. There were five children born of this marriage: Ruby, Raymond, Homer, Carrol and Mattie Gorgie. Carrol died in 1960 on a farm north of Bonham. Carroi's oldest daughter Caroline Shipman Brady now owns and operates the farm. My father lived in Fannin County 66 of his 76 years."

-- "Fannin County Folks & Facts" Page 238.

It is 550 miles from Mount Pleasant, Wayne County, Tennesee to Honey Grove, Fannin County Texas. The wagon trip must have taken them about a month.