Feb 2024 – The Patrick Family

The Patrick Family by Stephen B. Patrick
https://drive.google.com/file/d/1rDNLJtfPlsx6NzII7HnTYLFSkfhCrYG8/view?usp=sharing

You are invited to explore the Patrick family research of Stephen B. Patrick. I received an information package and genealogy chart from him in January 1999. I am grateful for his insight, countless hours of research and taking the time to write the narrative.. All of the work was done by him and any use of his work should be credited.

My Great-Grandmother is Girtha Patrick, daughter of Ira Patrick and Mary Frances Kiper. Ira is the son of David Palmer Patrick and Mary Hull. David is the son of Ira Patrick and Laura Tarpenning. Ira is the son of Moses Patrick and Clarissa Geer. Moses is the son of John Patrick and Rebeccah Wiley. John Patrick is the son of Matthew Patrick and Mary.

It is documented that Matthew, Mary and their children immigrated from Northern Ireland in 1724. Family tradition claims the family is Scots-Irish and originally from Dumfries, Scotland. They were only in Ireland on their way to America. Stephen Patrick covers the speculative aspects of this claim in detail.

My Patrick family settled in Western, later Warren, Massachusetts. The home of Matthew Patrick still stands, although no Patrick’s reside in it. Matthew Patrick voted in favor of Massachusetts signing the US Constitution when he represented Warren as a delegate to to the Massachusetts General Court.

Moses Patrick, son of Matthew is an immigrant in his own right. He left the family home in Massachusetts and was an early settler in the Northern Vermont/Lower Canada region. He later migrated with his young family from there to Union, Ohio in 1812 during a time of political unrest in the border region .

Ira Patrick, the son of Moses and Clarissa, was noted as a high intelligent man. He died by suicide in Ohio. His wife Laura and their five children grew up in the home of Moses and Clarissa.

David Patrick, Ira’s son, moved to Kansas, married Mary Hull and had two children. He joined the Union army, was injured at the Battle of Jenkins Ferry and died in an Enemy Hospital in Camden, Arkansas. He never saw his son Ira David Patrick.

Ira David Patrick lived in Kansas, Nebraska, Washington, Idaho, California and Oregon. He wrote often to the newspaper back in Kansas of his travels.

My great grandma Girtha, was the fourth of six girls and an older brother. She was born in Kooskia, Idaho. She traveled from Idaho to Oregon in a covered wagon as a young child and flew in a jet plane to Israel as a woman. I have written a short story based on what I know about her life. I have hopes of editing it and making it available as an ebook.

Girtha Rising – https://docs.google.com/document/d/18X-Ym3Fusc3kupjGjg2uH-dQmFaqzETErd1nriXLs9c/edit?usp=sharing

Researching my Patrick family has taken me on journeys across our country. I traveled the road from Swanton, Vermont to Union, Ohio. I have a rosebush that comes from a clipping I picked at the gravesite of Moses and Clarissa. I listened to the constant wind blowing across Darby Plain. I thought of my Patrick family always moving, pushing westward, going just a little further in each generation until they made it from the Atlantic to the Pacific. 

Sarah Frances “Fran” BLANCHARD Montgomery Bailey

Personal History of Sarah Frances Bailey as told to her daughter Dianne Wood

I was born Sept. 10, 1917 at Davis Creek California. My parents were Girtha Patrick and Edgar Arthur Blanchard. This event took place in my grandparents home.
 
When I was three months old we traveled to Portland Oregon to live. The trip was partially by stage coach from California to Reno Nev, then by train to Portland. I lived in Portland until I was approximately 62 years old.

One of my earliest memories was of sitting by the big wood stove and putting on my tan cotton ribbed stockings over my long underwear. I hated those stockings because I couldn’t get them on straight over my underwear. I got my first pair of lace shoes when I was about three years old. They were black patten leather with tan up the front.
 

A sad memory I had was when my younger sister Ruth died. She had been taken to Good Samaritan hospital and had surgery. Complications set in and she died on April 1, 1921. At her funeral she had been placed in a light gray coffin with a light blue silk lining that reminded me of a bassinet. I was dressed in stockings, a pleated skirt, a sailor blouse, and a sailor hat all in navy blue.

 

When I was about six or seven years old my Aunt Aura Uncle Manfred and their children came to visit. They had three boys and one girl, Lucy. Lucy was the same age as my sister Marcia and the boys were older so I was the youngest. All the children slept on the front porch. It was the fourth of July, the boys had some firecrackers and found some tin cans. They placed the lit firecrackers under the cans and did they ever blow!

Another fourth of July incident I remember was a few years later. My sister and I were lying in bed, our parents wanted us to and we were just lying there. So my dad had this fantastic idea. He took a tin can and placed some lady finger firecrackers inside it, and lit them and pushed it under our bed. When they started going off they popped out of the can and made a mess on the floor. Mother got upset and made Dad clean up the mess on the floor.
 

I have very few outstanding memories of the Great Depression. In our neighborhood there was a general feeling of frustration and unhappiness. Men drank more, deserted their families because of an inability to support them. We were lucky, my dad was a police officer for the city of Portland.
 

I was introduced to the church (Mormons) by some neighbors the Lemons. My folks always liked to sleep in on Sunday morning. I would get up early and go to church with the neighbors. I felt comfortable and at home with the Latter-Day Saint people. I was baptized Nov 6, 1932 when I was 15 years old.

I was married to Jack A Montgomery in San Francisco in 1939. We had four children, three girls and one boy. Sandra Jeanne was the oldest. She was born May 23, 1940. Two years later she was joined by a sister Dianne May born May 24, 1942. Fifteen months later they were joined by our third daughter Tamara Anne born October 6, 1943 then on September 3, 1945 we finally had a son, Edgar Jack.

Jack and Fran Montgomery with Sandra, Dianne and Tamara

 On Dec. 7, 1941 we were over at Fort Vancouver. When word was received that Pearl Harbor had been bombed by the Japanese all the civilians were told to leave the base and the base personnel; were told to go out into the woods. They apparently anticipated an attack and felt they were a likely target. I went to work at the Oregon Shipyard along with many others, including my husband and parents. I was a welder. My Dad was the lead man of the world championship riveter team. Many items were rationed, this war greatly effected our lives.

On Jan 6, 1945 I received a phone call that there had been a terrible accident over at my parents new home. They were remodeling and I should come right away because my Dad was hurt badly. I had the neighbors watch over the girls. When I got there they were putting my Dad in the ambulance. He had been killed instantly when a house beam had fallen on him and crushed him to death.

I was divorced on Nov. 20, 1947. Then I was alone with my children for several years. Then I met Herluin H. Bailey, commonly called Jack. He worked for the city of Portland. He courted me and we were married Sept. 10, 1954. The ceremony was performed by Bishop Leo B. Nelson in my parent’s home. Jenny Albright was one of my attendants and the three girls wore white dresses with polka dots.  After the wedding, life continued on a normal course with the usual events of everyday life.

On August. 1, 1962 Jack was baptized into the church which although it didn’t have any immediate impact, it did have some long term effects.
 

In Oct 1968 my sister Marcia was discovered to have cancer. The doctor only gave her six weeks to live. The majority of her care was given to me. She died Nov. 18, 1968 it was a terrible ordeal to watch her suffer.

Approximately eighteen months to two years after Marcia’s death my little daughter-in-law rekindled my interest in the church. She would call me for a ride to Relief Society. The first few times I waited for her in the car then I started going in. A few months later Jack and I started attending genealogy class and the the Bishop has us attend Project Temple. All during this time Jack’s heart condition was deteriorating and he wanted to go to the temple very badly. We received our recommend and were sealed in the Oakland Temple on June 27, 1973. Jack died Aug. 1, 1973. He was a fighter to the end. The doctors were amazed at how long he was able to stay alive until he was ready to go.

The first few years after Jack’s death were very hard. I had no way of earning a living and yet I couldn’t get Social Security. It was a hand to mouth existence of odd jobs. I helped my parents with their businesses and earned enough to get by.
 

My mother contracted leukemia, and since she was alone I moved in with her in order to take care of her. This was the most difficult time of my life. We became very close. She died Oct. 25, 1979.

With all my family away except Ed, we decided that we wanted to move from the city. In March we took a trip through Idaho and Northern Utah and we found a place to live in Idaho. We settled in Parker Idaho.

Handwritten drafts of Personal History of Sarah Frances BLANCHARD Montgomery Bailey

Girtha Rising: A Ride on SE 82nd St

Chapter TWO

Girtha loved to go riding around Portland with Edgar and the girls.  The city had grown up around them.  Dirt roads and byways were now numbered paved highways, streets and avenues.  82nd Avenue took them all the way to the Columbia River.  It amazed her how quickly things had changed. Girtha loved living in the city and treasured the shops and tidy neighborhoods. The trolley line came all the way out now.  She could ride downtown with the girls to go window shopping.  Girtha studied the fashions and looked for patterns to keep the girls stylish. 

“Your hand knows the difference between a dotted swiss and the printed cotton. It’s all in the feel and drape of the cloth.”

They went to a fabric store on 82nd Avenue. Edgar smiled with his hands in his pockets, taking pleasure in the enjoyment of his girls examining the style pattern books and looking for fabric to stitch into new clothes.  Edgar was proud of his beautiful daughters and commented on the accessory details they fussed over.  They valued and sought his approval of their outfits.

The family pull into the service station to fill up the Packard with gasoline before setting out down 82nd Avenue. Edgar joked around with the attendant, Andy, who goes to school with Frankie. Andy admires the car, is respectful of Mr. Blanchard the local policeman and flirts with Frankie, who he thinks is peachy keen.  Marcie teases her “first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Frankie with a baby carriage!”

There were shops and cute little places to pick up a bite to eat.  

The fruit stand always had the freshest and earliest, peaches, pears and plums.  Edgar knew how much Girtha loved to make jams and jellies and the joy she had watching her family enjoy canned fruit in the cold winter months from her work.  He picks up a bushel of ripe plums for her on the outing and puts it in the trunk.

Edgar pulled the Packard alongside the curb, shifted into neutral and pulled the brake to keep the beast at a slow purr idle.  “No girls allowed in here! Keep sitting pretty and don’t let a little bird get your nose by peeking out the window.” He tweeked Marcie’s nose.

“Daddy, will you ever grow up!” she called out as he shut the car door. 

“Mama, why can’t we go in the store with daddy?  Other girls go in.  Why do we have to always wait in the car.”

“No decent woman goes into the smoke shop dear.  Your daddy has some habits he picked up at the logging camp that I prefer not to discuss.”

“Oh mama you are so old fashioned. Good girls smoke cigarettes too, you know.  It helps keep a slim figure.”

“Frankie!” 

Edgar stepped out of the smoke shop with a Portland Journal tucked under his arm, a white bag with two chocolate candies and two new cigars peeking out of his coat pocket. 

“Sweets to the sweets waiting patiently and guarding the car. No gangsters while I was gone?”

“Oh Edgar, you spoil those girls, you really do. We can get treats at a nicer place. And you know I prefer that you keep that nasty cigar smoke out of the house and away from the girls.”

He leans over and kisses her on the forehead and pulls out a tin of lemon drops for Girtha.

She smiles, pops one in her mouth, “You spoil me too, Edgar! 

Frankie spies a smartly dressed woman walking a Pomeranian dog. The woman stops to pick up her puppy and gives it a scratch behind the ears. “Oooh look, look at the cute little doggie!  I want a snuggles dog too, daddy!”

A Grand Opening banner wafting in the afternoon breeze caught Girtha’s eye. Cars were parked willy nilly into every possible nook and cranny. Edgar was grinning and nodding his head, knowing how much he had pleased them. 

“Well girls, what you think now!  Who wants to check out the brand spanking new Fred Meyers store with me?”

He opened the car door for Girtha, held out his hand, and helped her out to the sidewalk. She took his arm and squeezed it in anticipation of exploring the new store with him.

“Wait til you see it girls! Everything is here, things you never thought you would ever need. The cutest frocks, the latest fashions, the best prices. Sky’s the limit! Here’s a dollar for each of my fair princesses.”

Frankie and Marci skipped off together, eager to examine the new store.

Girtha examined the inventive kitchen gadgets . Edgar enjoyed being with his girls and buying them all expensive treats.

Twilight settled softly over the city. The family rode in comfortable silence listening to the Packard hum back down 82nd Ave. Edgar breathed in the joy of the day and crooned softly

“Sing your way home at the close of the day.

And they did. They sang together in the humming key of the Packard engine.

“Sing your way home drive the shadows away

Smile every mile for wherever you roam

It will lighten your load, it will brighten your road

If you sing your way home.”

Frankie waved at Andy when they passed by the service station on the way back home. Girtha looked closely at the boy her youngest daughter was smitten with and remarked,

“Well there’s no accounting for taste. Said the old lady who kissed the cow.”

The Search for Jack D. Montgomery

My great-grandfather Jack D. Montgomery is a mystery. We know very little about him.

We first knew his name from a delayed birth certificate issued to my grandfather Jack A. Montgomery. The information on the form was provided by Fern Craghead. The information about Jack D. was suspect. I thought for a long time that Jack D was made up to explain Jack A and perhaps Fern didn’t ever reveal Jack A’s father.

I was proven wrong on a trip to Pawhuska County Courthouse in Oklahoma. There I found a marriage license for Jack D. Montgomery and Viola Fern Barlow. He did exist!

Later on Ancestry.com, I found them in a the 1919 Tulsa City Directory. But in 1920, Fern is by hersel in a Tulsa boardinghouse working as a telephone operator. Her husband and son are nowhere to be found in census documents.

There are no confirmed census listings for Jack D. Montgomery that I have confidence in saying, “ Yes! There he is!”

I randomly search newspaper.com for various ancestors. It’s been fruitful and interesting. But I never expected to find this divorce notice for Jack and Fern!

We have a new last know location for Jack. It’s another known oil field. Carter County, Oklahoma. What happened to the oil industry in the 1920”s and 1930‘s?

There is a discrepancy with the middle initial. Is he Jack D or Jack E.? What is it with all these initials instead of names anyway? Our family lore says that my grandfather Jack A.’s middle name was just the initial A.

But now we have a location for the divorce record. I’ve sent an email to to County Clerk. Will we find out anything new about the elusive Jack D?

Girtha Rising – In The Garden

Portland, Oregon July 1929

“Marcie! Frankie! I need your help picking out the green beans.”

“Oh, mama I wish there weren’t so many of them to pick. It’s gonna take the rest of the day. I wanna go down to the creek!”

“Say, if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride, Marcie dear. The beans won’t pick themselves. This family will be riding high through the winter when we get them canned up.”

Frankie skipped up to mama, her arms full with teetering harvest baskets.

“I’m ready mama, I’m ready. Daddy says he wants to eat up a big serving of your fresh beans for supper and I’m your helper. Daddy said I was!”

The baskets slip out of Frankie’s grasp and tumble down in front of her. Girtha smiled as her exuberant youngest daughter gathered them up and handed each of them their own basket.

“We can race each other and see who finishes the row first. Mama, I think whoever picks the fastest should get a special prize.  I can beat Marcie this time, I know I can. I’m much faster now that I’m almost a grown up.”

“I suppose my ribbon box might have a reward or two. Are there any girls that might want a new grosgrain hair bow?

“Me! Me!” they both squealed at once and raced to the garden.

Girtha tied on her sun hat striding out to join them, humming and happy in her S. E. Portland, Oregon home. Mount Hood is framed by sky as blue as her Edgar’s twinkling eyes.

“There is beauty all around, girls! Look up and see.”

“Oh mama, don’t start singing now, if we start singing Marcie will win!”

“Frankie darling, I will hum the tune and hold the words in my heart until you are ready to sing with me. Say, you are filling your basket up fast as can be!” 

Plump crisp beans snap off the vines and the harvest feels endless to Marcie and Frankie. Girtha looks at the abundance surrounding her. Cucumbers shine and call out to be tossed in the pickle crock. Fat green tomatoes are blushing red–promising sweetness soon. Edgar loves to come home for fresh tomato soup at his mid day dinner break. She grows zinnia, marigolds and snapdragons for her husband’s pleasure. Carrots, radish and beets swell up in the fertile garden soil. Weeds have no home in Girtha’s garden. She cultivates loveliness.

Just as the love surges through her heart and Girtha experiences contentment, she feels an old dreadful companion squeeze her belly reminding her the people she loves can be taken, the places she calls home may have to be left behind. Her arms ache to cradle her sweet baby Ruth again and she longs to see her running through the garden too. Girtha’s sisters and aunties were wrong, she did not get over her baby girl dying. Feet planted solidly on the ground and holding her head up high in the sky, Girtha breathes in deeply until she feels the grip loosen in her stomach and the fear subsides.

She plucks beans by the handful tossing them into her harvest basket. It is a prime first picking and the baskets fill quickly.

“Girls you did a great job today.”

“Mama, mama, I did it! I win! I’m faster than Marcie!”

“I’m okie-dokie if Frankie gets the hair ribbon mama.”

“A rosy red ribbon for me!”

“Marcie, you know I don’t like to hear you using slang. It is not lady like. But I am pleased that you are sweet to your sister, so you may have a ribbon from my hair box too. Frankie, you may pick first.”

Frankie rushes from the garden, her basket full of beans. She passes by mama’s roses, stops and trills back to mama, “Roses bloom beneath our feet.”  

“All the Earth’s a garden sweet” Girtha and Marcie trill back.

The sound of gravel scattering and the smell of motor oil announce the arrival of Edgar home for dinner. His shield and the buttons on his policeman’s uniform catch the sunlight and he sparkles as he roars into the driveway on his Portland Police Department motorcycle. 

Edgar strolls into the garden, picking a bouquet of snapdragons growing along the edge of the garden. Frankie spies him, forgetting about the basket of beans and the rosy red hair ribbon, she bounds down the steps skipping towards him.

“Daddy!” 

Edgar grins and raises his bouquet up in the air to tease her.

“Sarah Frances, is that my cutie pie? Hurry over, I have treasures.”

“Oh daddy, call me Frankie or call me Frannie, but I don’t ever want to be old fashioned Sarah.”

“Okie-dokie,it’s a 23 skidoo for Sarah. I now hereby present these most magnificent scarlet snaps to express my sincere apology to Miss Frankie Blanchard.”

Marcie and Girtha lug full baskets of beans out of the garden and set them in the shade of the young cherry tree outside the house.

“Edgar, how will I ever learn these girls right about slang if you keep bringing it in from the rough!”

He falls to one knee and bows his head in mock contrition. He holds out the rest of the flowers to her.

“How can I ever make it up to you, my love? Will you accept these humble flowers as a token of everlasting affection.”

Edgar lifts up his head and meets Girtha’s eyes. They both collapse into giggles as she accepts her bouquet of garden blossoms. He rises and draws her into his arms.

“Mademoiselle Marcia, where’s my songbird? What’s the tune for today?” 

Marcie joins then as Edgar plucks three stems from Girtha’s bunch of snapdragons.

“Would you trade peachy colors for a peachy keen song for your daddy?”

Marcie artfully places one of the flowers behind her ear, rises on her tiptoes and kisses Edgar’s cheek. Her sweet voice dances in the air as she begins to sing:

“There is beauty all around, When there’s love at home”

Edgar joins, lifting the tune in tenor harmony.

“There is joy in every sound, When there’s love at home”

Girtha and Frankie complete the circle of song.

Roses bloom beneath our feet, 

All the earth’s a garden sweet, 

Making life a bliss complete, 

When there’s love at home.”

I CAN HEAR YOUR VOICE

What a joy to share this letter from David Patrick to his mother Laura.  I was on the Rally Bus heading home from the Women’s March in Washington DC and could not sleep. To pass the miles, I started searching for Civil War soldier letters and the 40th Iowa.  I never expected to find this genealogy gem. It was waiting for me in a manuscript archive in Arkansas.

Just got to poke around…

Page 2

Page 3

Page 4

Citation: David Patrick Civil War Letter to his mother, 29 October 1863, MSS.13-.14, Butler Center for Arkansas Studies, Arkansas Studies Institute, Little Rock, AR.

MINE EYES HAVE SEEN THE GLORY

I’ve been working for years on the story of David Patrick.  There are three known Civil War soldiers in my family.  David was our casualty.  His life is tragic to me.

What follows is a story draft I worked on during the February Family History Writing Challenge.

MINE EYES HAVE SEEN THE GLORY

David’s belly had been empty for the last two days. It was cold coffee breakfast and a cold coffee supper as the soldiers marched out of Camden, Arkansas.

The 40th Iowa and General Steele’s Brigade had been scurrying back to Little Rock for the past 10 days. The big plan had been to capture Texas, but hadn’t made it out of Arkansas. They had run out of supplies. The troops had been instructed to forage the countryside, but the countryside had already been thoroughly foraged. The supply trains had been captured. The Army skedaddled out of Camden at midnight and had been running for Little Rock ever since.

With the Confederates in hot pursuit, the Union troops slogged their way through the mud, their wagons sinking up to their axels.  The weary soldiers dropped knapsacks, blankets, clothing, “property and plunder” along the military road.  When they finally made it to the Saline River the banks were overflowing and water rushing so fast the men could not ford across.  The troops deployed a pontoon bridge and commenced moving the supplies, artillary and soldiers across the water.

To protect the retreating army, David’s company was holding the line in  a swale right smack in the middle of new corn just germinating. David knew all about corn fields, he never thought he would be running across a mucky field of baby corn during spring rains. It made no sense to him as a farmer, he was a soldier now. Yet, in his farmers heart he knew that any sensible person stayed out of a wet field so the soil didn’t get all mucked up.

David had wanted to be a farmer and here he was laying in another farmers field. He knew all the toil, hopes and effort the farmer had put into plowing the cornfield. He knew the farmer would have to replant if he would have any crops that year. A farm boy can’t help but turn toward farm matters. Farmer knows.

There’s no reason for anyone to be in a muddy field. But now, in this field, there are 10,000 soldiers converging on the farmers fields right before Jenkins Ferry.

This was where they would make their stand. The soldiers were ordered into defensive formation.  David crouched down in the standing water rising in the plowed furrow.  They were holding their line when they heard the call to fire. They had drilled in Iowa City and all winter in Columbus, Kentucky and in Little Rock for this day.  David started firing. They all started firing at each other. There was nothing to see but fog and gunsmoke mixed that hung in the air. The rain kept the air from rising.  The only sight lines were from stooping below to aim and fire.

The “firing, now incessant, was terrific and the struggle desperate beyond description…the severest fighting I ever witnessed.”

With the rain beating down, soaking wet and hungry. David felt a sharp pain and fell.

The battle continued on around him as he lay in the mud. The bullets cracked around him but he didn’t move or run anymore.

The rain beat down as he heard the bugler call retreat. As he lost consciousness, the rest of the troops made a successful crossing over the river and were on the way to Little Rock, food and safety.

The Union dead and wounded were left behind on the battlefield. They left a bloody mess of men in the cornfield.  The cries and moans of hurt and dying soldiers mixed with the hard rain soaking what was left of their clothes. Some were dead and blown apart. Many more wounded and laying in pain and terror. The rain didn’t stop and they were cold, wounded and hungry.

Pain was everywhere the soldiers had fallen.

Finding the wounded men and getting them out of the rain fell to the surgeons who stayed behind. The men who were wounded and left behind enemy lines were prisoners of war. The were no hospitals to care for the wounded men. Hospitals had to be set up in the homes of the people where the battles had taken place. The supplies to care for the wounded were limited and had to be rationed.

It kept raining. Collecting and protecting the wounded men took all day and night after the battle was over. The locals took care of their own boys first. David was just another wounded farm boy far away from home.  Finally, he was brought in from the rain and transported with the other wounded men to a local farmhouse. David was wounded but still alive.

The horrors of the Rebel prison and lack of sanitary hospitals were well known to the soldiers. David was just a private, he didn’t rank for a prisoner exchange. David was transported to Tulip, Arkansas from Jenkins Ferry. It was a journey of about 20 miles, to a make shift hospital. But it was a temporary measure. The primary Enemy Hospital was set up in Camden.
The 40th Iowa had just left Camden as occupiers and now David was returning as a wounded enemy soldier.

There were few supplies and food in Camden  The area had been scavenged and foraged by the raiding Union armies. Everyone was hungry. The wounded might be fed, but their wasn’t enough nutrition to go around to keep healthy people healthy, much less to keep the wound ill soldiers enough nourishment for healing.

David was far from home and hurt badly. He was wounded in April and nursed in the Enemy Hospital in Camden all through the summer and the harvest season.

How long does it take to die from gangrene of wounds? At some point his wounds didn’t heal but became infected.

Medicine was in short supply behind confederate lines. Pain relief was not readily available.

At what point do you know your wounds are not going to heal, but are just getting worse?

As the harvest season came to a close, David knew he was not going to heal. In that Enemy Hospital 500 mile from his home and family, David faced that he was not going to hold his wife again.

David would not own a farm, build a barn or teach his son to plow a furrowed field.

He died alone, in pain and left behind.

He never saw his son.

Photos from Civil War Daily Gazette

Poet Katherine Allen, the grandmother of my great grandmother

My name is Cindy, my mom’s name is Sandy, her mother is Fran, her mama is Girtha, her ma is Fannie, who is the daughter of Katherine Allen. I don’t know the name of Katherine’s mother. 

Katherine left us a poem. She tells the story of her life and shares important milestones. Her worry about her soldier son is palpable. She is still irritated at his captain not allowing him leave to come home. I feel her deep affection and longing for her childhood home in Kentucky and her thirst for water from the old spring. 

“How well I remember our old cool spring to which no bottom was ever found;
To me than the gurgling of its crystal waters there is no sweeter sound…
I’ve flung myself to taste it; and never has anything slacked my thirst
Like the water that burst fresh from this old spring.”

The poem was framed and on the guest bedroom wall at my great-grandmothers home. I would read it and imagine myself to be that girl flinging myself to taste the cool spring water.  Reading her words filled me with awe and respect. Katherine gave me pride in being descended from a poetic and passionate woman. 

I felt sad that Katherine was so lonely and missing her children. Her empty table cries for reunion with her far flung family. Her daughter Fannie left home when she married and made her way all the way to Portland, Oregon. There is no evidence that Fannie ever returned to Missouri or saw her mother again. 

“MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME”
My name is Katherine Kiper; In Ky. I was born and bred,
And in 1841 by James Kiper I was won and wed. 
To us nine sweet children were given breath, 
But of those, one was taken, by the Angel of Death.

In 1863 they beat the drum, they played the fife
And then my oldest son volunteered his life.
With knapsack and gun to the war he went 
And there one and a half dreary years he spent;

On Mulders-hill which is in Kentucky state,
This brave soldier boy awaited his fate. 
His father and I went to see our hero son, 
Who was, of all others, to us, the dearest one.

When we met, the joy and happiness I can’t express, 
For it was great, as all mothers would confess 
The next morning we walked out into the fresh air 
The sky was clear and all was calm and fair;

The soldiers took us in, the cannon for to see,
But in this horrid place was no happiness for me
For I knew my boy would face the cannon-ball
And perhaps before the cruel enemy would fall.

He wanted to go home but his captain would not comply; 
And this pleasure he was compelled to deny. 
We talked to him and told him his officers to obey 
For none were interested in him more than they

We told him all snares and temptations to shun;
To be honest, upright, and by no evil be won.
We bade him good-bye the deep pangs of sorrow, No one but mother can know;
To separate from loved ones, God knows, is to her a cruel blow.

Our hopes and our prayers were that he be protected from harm.
And when the cruel war was ended, return safe to our arms. 
God was good to us and my boy’s life was spared.
How thankful we were that our joys might be shared.

When I was young my mind was free from care and pain; 
Not one sad thought had I, my life to stain. 
In 1869 we left our “Our Old Kentucky.” home and to Missouri came 

All my children have married and gone
And left me alone with my afflicted son;
He went to the Dr. and left us sad and lone, 
And then it was, I thought of “Old Kentucky Home.” 

How well I remember our old cool spring to which no bottom was ever found; 
To me than the gurgling of its crystal waters there is no sweeter sound.
Under the tall trees that let no sunlight through,
With a trickling drip o’er the rocks cool lip, the waters came down like the dew;

And not even the fabled nectar, the classic poets sing,
Did I dream could be as sweet to me as the waters of this old spring.
Down ‘mongst the grasses glad of the shady place,
From the hay at morn to the noon hot corn, full on my eager face

I’ve flung myself to taste it; and never has anything
Slacked my thirst like the water that burst fresh from this old spring.
I have often thought of my father, mother, brothers’ sisters’ face
How we have enjoyed those winter evenings about the old fire place 

They are all laid in their silent graves hope have gone to a better land;
By the grace of God I hope to meet them Over on the Pearly strand.
I am 72 years old my husband is seventy-eight;
Together hand in hand, we are nearing the Golden Gate. 

When I sit down to my lonely meals I often recall
The old family table, around which I have gathered my children all,
Then when I think of the long distance between us
It is almost more than a mother can bear.
But if I never meet them on earth I hope to in Heaven.
There’ll be no parting there.

When death comes to claim me as its own
Don’t bury me here on this lonely hill by rude winds blown,
But in the silent graveyard, there lay me down
To await my Savior’s coming to bear me safely home.
**************

The poem also works as a song. According to the 1880 census,  neither Katherine, nor her husband James, could write. James could not read.  But she created a poem anyway. I sing it sometimes and image Katherine sharing her heart song to a scattered family.  Singing makes beauty from sorrow.  

I haven’t been able to verify the name of Katherine’s mother. I’ve been looking to gather her mama in for over 20 years. I hear her calling me through umbilical magic. I have an idea she was a Mattingly.  My DNA verifies a connection to the Mattingly family.  I’ve looked at countless census and tax records for the Mattingly family, but she still eludes me.
When I follow Katherine through the census, I see a woman who lived on rented farms. Their possessions are only worth a few hundred dollars. Katherine and James are poor folks. Their children have moved on looking for a better life. Yet from her poverty she creates art. 

I carry her spark within me, choosing poetic beauty, even in the face of ugly reality.  My voice is also her voice as I “sing my way home at the close of the day.”

Grandma Barlow and the Dalton Gang

MARY JANE (LEE) BARLOW

(From news paper in Portland, OR)

“She has always know what to put on her head — Mary Jane Barlow formerly of Kansas and Oklahoma. 

When the slender, aristocratic little lady stepped off the train in Portland to be met by her daughter, Mrs. Fern Craghead, 1944 NW Johnson street, with whom she will make her home, a black hat with a curling scarlet feather topped the soft waves of her white hair. Nevertheless, a more famous bonnet belongs to Mrs. Barlow, one which became notorious on a crisp day in October, 1892, at the then tiny border town of Canney, Kansas. 

Irish Mrs. Barlow, a dark-haired colleen who’s husband was mayor of the town, was out hanging clothes up on the line. She heard shots and the wild clatter of hoofs coming from the direction of the Caney Valley Bank only a block away.  Before she could turn around, however, a bullet clipped through the top of her peaked sunbonnet. 

It wasn’t till later that she learned from frenzied townsfolk that the bank had been robbed by the Dalton gang and that it was one of their bullets which had missed her head by inches. Two of the lawless Dalton’s, Grant and Bob later were shot down at Coffeyville, fifteen miles away, when they attempted robbing two banks at once. Emmett Dalton, imprisoned and later pardoned, would too suffer from his wounds for a lifetime. 

Hardier survivors than they are Mrs. Barlow and her bonnet; the first an alert and vigorous 87 and a great-great grandmother; the second still reposing in a trunk at home.”

——–

Gathering in my grandmother Mary, I sometimes think she is the one actually gathering in me! I want to find this newspaper article to give it a proper citation. The story is questionable and I don’t know if it a story or an actual experience.  More research is surely needed!

Yet even if the facts are incorrect, I feel that I can hear Mary’s voice coming through the newsreport. Mary is a teller of tales. She doesn’t just wear a sun bonnet, she wears a peeked sun bonnet. It’s the details a storyteller remembers to add. 

Mary’s people on her mothers side came from Ireland in the early 1800s.  After arriving, likely in Philadelphia, the family made their way west to Pittsburg and on to the Ohio river.  Her people were among the early settlers of Fleminsburg, Kentucky.

My mom, Sandi Taylor, remembered her Grandmother Barlow having the bluest eyes she ever saw.  I remember my mom’s beautiful blue eyes.  Looking out in the brilliant blue winter sky, I honor them both.

PEDIGREE CHART FOR MARY JANE LEE

Walter Hanson Pedigree Chart

Walter Thomas Hanson is my grandfather, my father’s father.  I remember at Christmas time my dad drove us kids to Burnside Street in Portland, Oregon to visit him and Grandma Margaret.  I could tell he was a “real Norwegian” by his blonde hair and blue eyes.  The idea of being part Viking fascinated me and I was absolutely convinced real Vikings would look like my grandfather or Uncle Ronnie. 

My pedigree charts are maps, places to travel around searching for my people. I’m seeking verification of the information in the charts.  Sometimes what I have are fragments of whispered stories appearing to match a 100 year old handwritten record. Other times I’ve found primary source evidence, an actual fact.   I treasure them all.

As I share stories and gather in my people, the pedigree chart shows the lines between me and my beloved ones. The chart shows the end of my known information and the beginning of speculation.  Is Margaret Johnsdatter’s father named John?

I’ve sifted through a number of possible Hans attempting to locate my Hans Hanson.  He was one of thousands of Norwegians migrating to America. Hans Hanson is a common name around Madison, Wisconsin between 1880-1910.  His wife Carrie is listed as a widow in the 1900 census. Did she become a widow in Norway, Wisconsin or somewhere along the way? 

There are ideas that can’t stand with actual facts.  I’ve had to cross out, erase, delete information that I later confirmed just wasn’t true after all. There is speculation in the pedigree chart. The connections are there to prove or disprove. 

I do think it is so.  I may hope it is so.  I might wish it were so. 

My grandma, Fran Bailey, used to say, ” If wishes were horses, us beggars could ride.”