January Reads Three Books

Three books I read in January:

I grew up hearing about the great Johnstown Flood of May 31, 1889  from family and school history classes; it was the most tragic event  anyone had ever encountered  or heard of in times reflective of industrial growth, a flood that destroyed a town and the area, a disaster that  was never to be forgotten. Somehow, despite my lifetime of reading many of the twice Pulitzer Prize winning author, David McCullough's books, I'd  missed this one, from 1968 so when I found it on the discount shelf at Barnes and Noble, into my purchase stack it went.  McCullough wrote this over 268 pages in a documentary style with the precision and  detail we expect from this wonderful social historian.  All those lost or killed in the flood are memorialized in the book.  It is a  portrait of life in  19th century America, the westward expansion of the country and in the Pittsburgh Pennsylvania area, which  was a booming coal and steel town populated by hard working families, many of whom were immigrants. There is a fascinating description of the building of the railroads over the mountains and the use of levers.   It was the time of certain class division, the haves and the have nots; in contrast to the coal miners and steel workers were the tycoons, great contemporaries Andrew Carnegie, Henry Clay Frick and Andrew Mellon.  Johnstown  is in the Allegheny mountains about 60 miles south east of Pittsburgh; construction of Pennsylvania's historic canals, arrival of the Pennsylvania railroad in  the 1850's and the establishment of the Cambria Iron Company led to the boom of Johnstown which before had been a short stop on the way west.   By 1889 there were  nearly 30,000 people living in the boroughs of the  Johnstown valley.  (Today many of  PA areas are referred to as boroughs, I love that word. ) In the mountains above Johnstown, an old earthen  dam was rebuilt to create a lake for an exclusive summer resort, the South Fork Fishing and  Hunting Club privately owned and  patronized by the tycoons from Pittsburgh.  Despite warnings and skepticism about the safety of the dam, nothing was done. People came to accept that the dam could burst and the town could go, they thought nothing of it.   Then came the storm  moving in from the west from Kansas, Nebraska,  Indiana, unceasing rain, run over rives and on May 31, 1889 when the dam burst and the wall of water thundered down the mountains smashing through Johnstown and killing more than 2000 people.  It was a tragedy that became a national scandal but which also provided the first domestic mobilization of the Red Cross under Clara Barton.  People living  through this really thought it was the end of the world and if the devastation of the  flood waters did not do them in, the  following devastation from fire and epidemics did. 

This is a book for historians and sociologically  or geographically interested readers with bits of humor spicing up the data, photos, sketches and  presentations.   It is amazing to  see the poor quality of the photos from then and more amazing that there were any.  One photo in the book jogged my memory immediately as I recognized the familiar famous photo shown through the early 1960's in PA over the years of my youth, the tree spearing the house.  Here it is in the bottom photo of a page I scanned from the book.   Click on the photo to enlarge it and read about the scene.

I enjoyed this description of Dr. Robert Jackson's founding of a town before the Civil War on pg. 45...."The main attractions at Cresson, aside from the mountain air and scenery, were the iron springs, the best-known of which was the Ignatius Spring, named after the venerable huntsman, Ignatius Adams who first discovered its life- preserving powers and whose ghost was said still to haunt the place.....by  drinking this water, dwelling in the woods, and eating venison, Ignatius lived nearly to the good old age of 100 years...Jackson was against whiskey, slavery, and what he called the present tendency to agglomerate in swarms or accumulate in masses and mobs.  Those gregarious instincts which now impel this race to fix its hopes of earthly happiness on city life alone, would, he was convinced, be the undoing of the race.  Life in the country was the answer to practically every one of man's ills...."  I suspect  Dr Jackson would consider our modern mega cities proof of the decline of the human race! 

As I read I wondered about the liability of the tycoons and the resort owners for the failure of that dam; they were not the original builders but they did perform some adjustments.  I learned on pg. 259 that  the few lawsuits that were filed against the club were all futile.  Certainly not what would happen in today's litigious society and sympathetic courts.  McCullough raises this question too speculating that by today's standards, courts and awards to plaintiffs would have been immeasurable and would have changed the industrial growth of the United States.  

In  the concluding pages McCullough summarizes the Johnstown disaster (pg. 262) "while there is no question that an act of God  (the storm) brought on the disaster, there is also no question that it was in the last analysis, mortal man who was truly to blame. And if the men of the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club, as well as the men of responsibility in Johnstown, had in retrospect looked dispassionately to themselves, and not to their stars to find the fault, they would have seen that they had been party to two crucial mistakes.  In the first place they had tampered drastically with the natural order of things and had done so badly.  They had ravaged much of the mountain country's protective timber, which caused dangerous flash runoff following mountain storms; they obstructed and diminished the capacity of the rivers; and they had bungled the repair and maintenance of the dam.  Perhaps worst of all, they had failed--out of indifference mostly --to comprehend the possible  consequences of what they were doing....one New England newspaper wrote: the lesson of the flood is that the catastrophies of Nature have to be regarded in the structures of man as well as its ordinary laws....The point is that if man for any reason drastically alters the natural order, setting in motion whole series of chain reactions, then he had better know what he is doing.. What is more, the members of the club and most of Johnstown went along on the assumption that the people who were responsible for their safety were behaving responsibly.  And this was the second great mistake."    I added this bold face because it is a statement to caution us today, how do we know when people in positions of responsibility are  really behaving responsibly despite our  24/7 media?   The Johnstown Flood is another of those books that generates pondering as well as informing. 

A friend recommended the high paced, fiction, political intrigue/action books by Vince Flynn as something I might enjoy and I finally did pick up one which will not be the last, when I want to read action.  The paperback , "Transfer of Power" introduces Mitch Rapp, a new CIA operative in counter terrorism, someone who has been around the bend more than once. It reminded me of the TV series hero, Jack Bauer on "24".  In this thriller terrorists have taken possession of the White House, the president has been evacuated to the safe bunker and the vice president is in charge. Rapp is dispatched with an old timer to access entry unbeknown to the terrorists who are holding hostages and killing them.  I avidly turned all 549 pages and have added Vince Flynn to my Facebook likes. Having a career in  state government though not in espionage I laughed at and recognized this author's descriptions reflecting accurate perceptions.  Pg. 130, "After several minutes, Rapp conclude that no one in Baxter's  group knew their head from their ass, and in the process of coming to this conclusion, he also discovered a correlation between their opinions and the conviction with which they stated them.  It seemed that the less someone knew, the more forcefully he tried to state his case."   

My friend told me that the author has consulted with the government's  counter terrorism teams on request.   This is double the action of the old James Bond which I read so long ago.  I wonder why there have been no movies made of these Flynn novels, however they would not be near the delight held in the reading.   I found a lot of information about the author on the web/Wikipedia showed that he  lives  here in MN!  How have I missed this..."  best-selling American author of political thriller novels. He lives with his wife and three children in the Twin Cities. He is a frequent guest on the Glenn Beck news program on the Fox News Channel.  He also served as a story consultant for the fifth season of the 24 television series.  Flynn is a graduate of Saint Thomas Academy (1984) and the University of St. Thomas (Minnesota) (1988). Post graduation, Flynn went to work for Kraft Foods as an account and sales marketing specialist. In 1990, he left Kraft to pursue a career as an aviator with the United States Marine Corps. One week before leaving for Officer Candidate School, he was medically disqualified from the Marine Aviation Program.  In an effort to overcome the difficulties of dyslexia, Flynn forced himself into a daily writing and reading regimen. Quotes Flynn: "I started reading everything I could get my hands on, Hemingway, Ludlum, Clancy, Tolkien, Vidal. I read fiction, nonfiction, anything, but I especially loved espionage."  His newfound interest in such novels motivated him to begin work on a novel of his own. While employed as a bartender in the St. Paul area, he completed his first book, Term Limits, which he then self-published.  "   Well no wonder it reminded me of Jack Bauer!  I will be supporting this local author whom I learned of from a CA friend!

My third and last book completed in January is "The Sea" by John Banville; a book I picked up at a sale because the cover called to me, the synopsis of the story sounded good and  the writing appeared exceptional.  I knew nothing about the book nor the author. This book was one I read in segments, often leaving it sit for weeks, although it was only 195 pages, short enough, yet it is so lyrical in  choice of writing and almost difficult to read.  Maybe it's because the author is Irish and used many words with which I was not familiar, but  which so intrigued me that I held a dictionary nearby.  Often the words were not in the American dictionary sending me to the Oxford Annotated. Words like revenant, leporine, strangury, proscenium, recreant, marmoreal, integuement and more.... Now that is not usually the way I like to read, but this book kept calling me back.  The story overall is melancholy, about  Max Morden, a widower, middle aged Irishman who returns to a seaside town where he spent summers as a child to quell his grief.  He reminisces about the Graces a wealthy family he met as a boy and a family through which he experiences his first love and encounters death for the first time.  At times reading this, I wondered why he persistently switched back and forth between then and now, but I kept on and was more than rewarded with the outcome and the surprise ending. 

Just a few select quotes, to give a taste for the writing:  Pg. 164  "Memory dislikes motion preferring to hold things still."    Pg. 47, "Claire snuffled and delving in a pocket brought out a handkerchief and stentorously blew her nose...It depends I said mildly on what you mean by suffering. "  Pg. 48, "  What is it about such people that makes me remember them?  His look was unctuous yet in some way minatory.  Perhaps I had been expected to tip him also, as I say: this world."    It is a book that I would not recommend to anyone for light reading, but it is the most beautifully written mystical book I have read in years.  It was a trip into reading wonderful literature, for which this author is  known.  I'd never had read nor known of this book if I did not browse book sales wherever I find them.   

Pen Pals Sepia Saturday 60 (Click here to get to the Sepia Saturday host site)

Last week's Sunday St. Paul Pioneer Press had a fascinating article that caught my eye, "Best friends for five decades--all through letters."   The article about 67 year old Maureen Keppy from Forest Lake, MN who has seen her best friend face-to-face just twice in 50 years.  She and Chihoko Nakamura of Japan have been pen pals over more than 50 years, starting when Maureen was in fourth grade in Iowa and Chihoko a couple years older.  They met once for 10 minutes at an airport and then in 2008 when Maureen and her hubby visited Japan for 10 days to spend time with Chihoko. This photo shows the two who have been corresponding monthly, in English, longhand,  really yes, old school,  pen to paper, using snail mail all those years,  a heart warming story. Maureen has all their letters, wouldn't that be a great thing to have.  I wonder if school children  get pen pals these days or would they even know what that is? It occurs to me that we could consider our blogger friends like pen pals but with a faster way to communicate.  Did you ever have a pen pal?   

August 1960 vacation, Ramino with his two
sisters somewhere in Columbia;
 the writing, "yo" is his, Spanish for me, I, myself.

I remembered that I had a pen pal in high school, a boy from Columbia South America.  I have not thought of him  forever and have never been to Columbia.  It was an exchange arranged by our high school Spanish teacher; I recall we wrote in Spanish to each other as he knew no English.  Digging through one small scrapbook that has survived my journeys, I found a small photo of Ramino, that was his first name and  the writing on the back o fthis photo has faded but it looks like his last name was Rosaria.  I recall little about him other than he lived in Columbia and we corresponded  for part of the 1959-60 school year and  part of a summer,  then I heard no more, I don't know if he  ceased writing or I did.   

I do recall my mother being very  suspicious of this activity; Mom was suspicious of any boy, but that is another long story, which caused lots of heart ache. She could not understand what we were writing because it was Spanish and this really annoyed her as she snooped, without the  slightest regard for my privacy. I asked my teacher to intervene, to call my mother to assure her I would not be abducted and sold into "white slavery" in some foreign land, as Mom feared. I didn't even know what white slavery was but Mom mentioned it and I knew it was upsetting.  How neat it would have  been to keep that friendship over the years as the women did.  I wonder whatever became of him now.

Sanctuary of the Lady of the Lajas

Although I have none of the letters, I have two postcards from Ramino,  one of the Sanctuary of the Lady of las Lajas in Narino, Columbia.  I found  a website with more  photos of this Columbian church which evidently it is quite famous, you can see for yourself   http://www.ipitimes.com/llscac.htm  According to the website, the Sanctuary of Our Lady of Las Lajas in Ipiales, Nariño, Colombia is " seven kilometers from Ipiales,  on a bridge which spans a spectacular gorge of the Guáitara River..Legend has it that an image of the Virgin Mary appeared in the mid-18th century on an enormous rock above the river. Interestingly, the church has been constructed in such a way that the rock (and image) is its high altar. Pilgrims from all over Colombia and Ecuador journey here and, unsurprisingly, reports of miracles at the site are not uncommon. Accommodation is suitably ascetic, being provided in a small but cheery convent up the road from the church."  Interesting to see that it attracts folks today.  Raimuno"s card says only "to my friend" in Spanish. I think I  know more about this church now than I did at the time, pre computers and all...

The  other post card is Holtel, Nutibara in Medellin, Columbia which is  still standing and today looks much the same.  I shuddered a bit when I saw Medellin, because I believe  that is a well known drug cartel center.  Never the less, here is the 1959  postcard and from the website I found it may need updating but is still functional.

Hotel Nutibara, Medellin

This is my Sepia Saturday contribution, to see others' in  the international blogosphere, click on the title to this post.  It really will be worth your while to click to the host site to see the magnificent auto dug up from Archives for us this week.... 

Tea pots, cozies, and orange rinds...

My first tea pots

Recently QMM, a fellowess (I continue to make my own words) blogger showed a hand crocheted teapot cosy on her blog.  This made me think about my own tea cozies and then led to the thought to share some of my teapots.  There is just nothing like a nice cup of tea in mug and well, in cup and saucer for finer moments.  Nowadays so many only  make a cup of tea using a bag, but there is more enjoyment brewing tea in a pot.

I learned to drink tea "properly" holding my cup of fine china with little finger posed up from the Grand Mrs.Jessie Irwin, my uncle John's mother. I've written about her before on this blog.  Jessie hosted Sunday high teas which I did not particularly enjoy because I had to sit still, upright, not fidget and remain charmed by the conversation. As a yongster I was not charmed, I assure you.   Still, Mrs. Irwin educated me in the proper way to brew tea, including warming the pot first, and discarding the water, a practice  I never understood but find myself doing from time to time today. When I graduated from high school, Mrs. Irwin "presented" me with my first two teapots, the two blues above, which I still own today, a small Blue Lustreware individual pot by Hall China and a fine china pot, made in Japan. 

My Queen tea cozy from England,
Isn't she stunning?

Wikipedia says, "A tea cosy (American English tea cozy) is a cover for a teapot, traditionally made of cloth or wool, which is used to insulate the tea, keeping it warm while it brews. Cloth tea cosies often have padded inserts, which can be removed and washed separately.   Although the history of the tea cosy may begin when tea was introduced to Britain in the 1660s, the first documented use of a tea cosy in Britain was in 1867. It is probably the Duchess of Bedford who, by establishing the activity of afternoon tea in 1840, would have brought the popularity of the tea cosy. Afternoon tea was the time for networking and keeping up to date with aristocracy gossip and topical news. With all the chatter at teatime the teapot would get cold, which would have at times cut short some tea parties. And so, the tea cosy came about. Tea cosies then flourished during the late 19th century, where they appeared in many households across Britain, motivated by the obsession of decorating and covering objects characteristic of the Victorian era.  

Tea cosies started to be used in North America in the same period. Newspapers of the time reveal that tea cosies enjoyed "a sudden and unexpected rise in public favor" among women who hosted tea parties. Newspapers of the time included advice columns on how to make one: "Some very handsome ones are made of remnants of heavy brocade, but linen is generally used, embroidered or not, according to taste, as these covers are washable. Make the covering large enough for your teapot and provide a ring at the top to lift it off with."

Many years ago in CA  I converted to tea drinking, a necessity, because of my long commute time to work, coffee seemed to stir up the bladder and made it difficult to last an hour or longer..until I could arrive at the office.  That could have been a problem indeed.  Tea did not have the same effect on me.  While I still like a good  strong French roast cup of coffee now and again, I prefer my tea.  Two aunts were tea drinkers as long as I can remember and made almost a ritual of brewing their teas but then handy Lipton tea bags became their preference.  Another reason I switched to tea in career days was it was easy for me to drink cold tea if I had to leave it interrupted, not so with cold coffee.  And I could always take along a tea bag to a meeting and find hot water to brew my drink.  Green tea became my preference for morning brew many years ago but at night I prefer a cup of herbal.  Another of my preferences but only in the cold weather is Japanese  Genmaicha, a  blend of traditional green tea and roasted brown rice which amuses me with it's sometimes popped rice kernels resembling tiny popped corn.  I can't explain why I like that tea only in winter but I do. 

Blue green plaid tea cozy

While tea cozies are intriguing, I only have  two, both gifts.  I seldom use these because I consume my tea quickly and do not need to protect it to keep it warm but if I have a friend over to drink tea it is a good idea, to keep the warmth in while we talk, as mentioned in the history.  This blue green plaid  cozy was  a gift in CA from the proprietress of a tea room in our area.  I took many friends there just for the experience and one friend and I had standing monthly meetings at the establishment. She carried wonderful teas, my favorite being Earl Grey White tip. Tea rooms became popular for a time in CA and I believe that there is still one in Newcastle where we lived.  Being a tea drinker, I welcomed these shops, I thought our time had come at last.  While a teabag cannot be beat for convenience there is something  much nicer in brewing a pot of loose leaf tea.    

My Rose teapot

So the other day I took some photos of some  of my teapots, we will start with this my rose pot, the one I use every day.  I bought this at an estate sale, in CA, at least 20 years ago; I loved it for the roses including the bud on top and the handle like a gnarled stem.  On the other side of the pot is a rosebud, but this side has a gorgeous rose which is raised up along with leaves and buds, resembling a carving. This pot is made in the Philippines, so indicated on the bottom. It has served many pots of tea to me over the years.  I had this teapot in my office my last two years of work which many of my staff found curious. 

A gift from one of my staff was this ceramic tea bag holder, I had never seen anything like it and actually think it is quite the unnecessary, though attractive piece; I am content to keep my tea bags in their original boxes or a tin.  It is a heavy piece of ceramic made at a ceramic shop  in Folsom, CA, "Clouds" where some folks made and sold different sorts of ceramic things.  I have  never seen anything else like this and so have kept it.  There is a slot on the other side at the bottom  from which you can pull a tea bag.  The top lid lifts off to load the tea bags.  Cute, but well.....a CA idea perhaps. 

Japanese Lustreware Pot
Unmatched lid

I used this lustre ware teapot for a long time and could not give up even when I broke the lid.  I found an unmatched lid at a rummage sale long ago and it does fit so the pot is just fine with it.  But it is smaller than my rose pot, so this pot does not get daily use any longer.  I bought this from an elderly lady in Auburn, CA in about 1985; she was selling off things while downsizing.  I paid only 25 cents for it and could not quit bragging about my wonderful find!  Years ago my sister-in-law was visiting and asked where I got this pot, she said it reminded her of an old neighbor, as they lived in southern CA and we lived in northern, we knew it was  not the same woman but I suppose there were many like this around in their day. 



Longaberger tea pot



 I realized as I began to write that I really only have one teapot that is rather new,  my large Longaberger, which still is at least 15 years old now.  I especially like it if there are a couple tea drinkers around because it holds a generous amount.  My Queen cozy fits nicely over it.   This Longaberger is pottery,  made in the USA, in Ohio,  a little over 6 inches tall, but 11 inches from snout to handle and a little over 7 inches wide.  That's right, I said "snout."  When I sang that childhood I'm a little  tea pot song, I would sing, "here is my handle here is my snout"  Despite numerous corrective attempts by my Mom, Grandma and aunts, I insisted it was a tea snout and so I have continued to call it today.  It was not a Malaprop, but my deliberate choice of word, I knew what I was doing, I just preferred having my own names for things commonly called something else.   



Staffordshire England Pot



I use this pot often in the evenings when I want only a cup or two of tea.  It's my  pot of choice for  nighttime herbals  mint or chamomile which I enjoy while in my bedroom chair reading.   It is  quite grazed, showing its age.  It was given to me in CA by the daughters of  Mrs. Marion Wilson, a dear older lady who befriended my mother in law and lived in the mobile home park and attended our church.  I never understood why her daughters would not keep it as Marion drank tea from this daily; she was proud of it and had bought it on one of her trips to England years back.  They knew I was a tea drinker and when they asked if I would like to have it as a remembrance, I accepted it gratefully.   It too has lasted many years.



Found at my Aunt's home in PA. 
This belonged to Mrs. Jessie Irwin of Freeport, PA
 and was used frequently.  
Another English piece with lovely design all around;
 a  teapot that has made transatlantic voyages.

Whimsical musical teapot that plays
"Tea for Two"  Purchased at an auction
Fun to use to surprise people

These are my most unusual teapots made from orange rinds, carefully sculpted
and decorated by an Israeli man who lived in Los Angeles. 
 I have never seen any others like these.  
 He sold them in Newcastle once a year at the Mandarin Festival. 
 I have never put tea in them although he assured me they are useable. 
They have retained a wonderful orange odor even though I have had them for  over 10 years.



Last, a small box made by the same gentleman from Los Angeles
from the rind of an orange.  He began to use grapefruit rinds too for larger boxes,
 but then he did not return to Newcastle, CA so I never
saw these again.  Gorgeous work and  a most unusual craft don't you think?

So there you have it, some of my teapots and their stories.  There are a few others on other shelves and boxes.   I look for unusual tea pots now and then but have not found anything

tempting for some time.  Now it is time for a cup of chamomile, I think.

 

Sepia Saturday Week 59 Mystery men awaiting (Click Here to Sepia site)



Men waiting for the train
Leechburg, PA   1900

 I found these two photos among  the collections of my aunt Virgina (Jinx) and although I know nothing about any of the people and the photos are  ragged, I thought they were interesting historical slices from the past.  This first  shows six men at the train station, so it was marked on the back, writing nearly faded away along with the year 1900.  No names, no other information.  Four of the men appear to  be smoking cigars.  All are wearing hats which would have been expected at that time, but I find the variance in dress interesting.  Check out the  middle man with long coat and derby and the short swing style jacket sported on the 2nd man from the right.  The 2nd man from the left looks like he is ready to bolt.  I wonder if they were meeting passengers on that train or waiting to board. Are any of the men relatives?  The man standing on the far right  resembles  my Grandmother Roses'  brother,  Bill.  Far more questions than answers here now. I expect they  must have known one another, else why would they have posed for the photo.  I could make up a wonderful tale using this photo and just may do that someday.   Leechburg, PA is a borough  about 15 miles from my home town in PA and was founded in 1850 by David Leech who purchased land from a local Native American, White Maddock.  In  better times it was a major port on the PA canal and home to steel mills, foundries, coal mines.  It is the first place where natural gas was used for industrial purposes in the country.  

The second photo is another historical snap and interests me, the decor of the place and the flashback to a time when hats were cleaned and shoes/boots were shined as a way to make a living.  I suspect one would starve today making a living at either or both services combined.  Again I know neither who the man is nor why my aunt had this photo.  Looks like he had a great business.  Is he the owner or a customer?


Apollo, PA Hat Cleaner  1926

I wonder if this photo may have been taken in the summer, around Memorial Day or the  4th of July with the flags and all the straw hats on the shelf along the right.  The back of the photo stated only "Apollo, PA 1926"  and I have added Hat Cleaner.  Apollo, PA is another  of the small boroughs near my home town.  As I was writing I recalled  learning in elementary school that Apollo, PA named after the Greek God is a palindrome,(before you grab your Funk and Wagnalls that is a word that is spelled the same forward or backward).  It was another steel town along the rivers out of Pittsburgh founded in 1895. 

These are my two mystery photos.  Both in poor condition and both intriguing.  Wish I had known about these when I could have asked my aunt for information.  As always click on the title to go to the Sepia Saturday host site where you can see other's photos. 

Magpie 49 Ladies in the Snow Click Here to find the Magpie Site

Photographer:  Smile ladies, years along from now,
some may wonder what you're about on this icy wintry midday.
 Truth be told, I'm wonderin' myself. Smile now, there you are!

A trio of ladies from town decided one day to go down,
To get a fresh meal of ice fished for the creel.
They walked to the river with arrows in quiver
To spear  fish, come what may on the cold wintry day.  

While two had pulled arrows so sharp from the quiver
The third stood aside and remarked with a shiver
"I warn you, don't go past the crustiest snow
Lest you slip through the ice to the river."

The two left her stand apart on  the snow, and both walked most carefully so.
Then the ice gave a crack with a start they jumped back
And ran fast up the bank onto land past the flow.


Off the water so icy, they sped  one, two, thricey
As they climbed up the land, they all laughed "oh how grand
For tonight we'll eat  just 'taters a dicey!"


The moral is clear, when cold winter is here
Leave the ice fishing to ones who know better.
Keep  some  taters on hand for a hot meal so grand
That you'll not wish for fish in ice water.   

Ah well, my kind of limerick is  in response this week's Magpie prompt, something fitting for Sepia as well...Click on the title to this post to go to the Magpie site where you can link and read what others have done with the photo...

Frank Ball Sepia Saturday 58 (Click here to get to the Sepia Sat site)

Frank and his dog, Pouch

Frank Ball was my paternal Grandfather, but I knew little about him, due to limited contact with the Ball family as I have mentioned before on this blog. He was born in 1893 in Jaszojka, Poland according to documents, but I believe this may be Jaszkowo a small village in west central Poland. All I remember about him is a vague recollection of his death in 1951 and the huge funeral for the small town, but I was only 6 years old then. Aunt Pearl who married Uncle Henry, the youngest son, told me that it was indeed a huge funeral, because Frank was well liked and mourned by many.

He was quite young by today’s standards, only 58 when he suffered a fatal heart attack. Strange to know that I am older now than my grandfather was when he died.  Grandma Anna later told me, “He was too fat!” Heart disease seems genetic in the Ball family;  of the three sons, only Uncle Henry, the youngest survived to be 80; but Uncle Henry had heart ailments as well and cautioned his son Larry to “watch out for your heart, it’s in the family.” Uncle Edward, the eldest son died suddenly at 57, heart condition.  Of course my father, Lewis was the Army Air Corp pilot killed at 22 in World War II, missed that part of his heritage.  

Another genetic trait in the Ball family is the dimple in the chin, evident here in father youngest and middle son.  This distressed me for years, but now has become far less distinctive though the cheek dimples remain.  My son, Steve bore this mark as well. 

Frank appx. 1943 with youngest son
Henry and my Father, Lewis

Polish American Club in 2009 in Harwick, PA
 where Frank and Anna tended bar and ran tabs

In his spare time Frank tended bar and allowed folks to run a tab which was to be paid promptly on pay day, or else. The “or else” meant that Anna, his wife, my grandmother “cut them off.” She worked at the same tavern and would absolutely not allow further drinks and so the accounts were kept timely and the bar business prospered. Or else, the unpaid went elsewhere to imbibe and there were not many options in the small town of Harwick. When we were in PA in fall, 2009 we visited the town, found the tavern which was not opened and may likely be only for private meetings.    

Ball home in Frazer Township, PA
Year unknown, Anna Ball to the far left

Although Frank was a coal miner he managed to save money and buy land where he and Anna raised their sons and improved their standard of living.   She lived in the home after he passed and expected her sons to remain there.  Uncle Henry did not but departed for better employment in CA with his wife, incurring the wrath of Anna.  Only Edward, the eldest son, stayed behind, content to live on the land. 

The few times I visited the Ball homestead the home was overpowering and dreary to me with a mysterious cellar and rooms that led who knows where. I always felt haunted by what my young mind  felt to be the ghost of my father in his younger days, and since no one talked about that I stuffed it.   No one knew the trauma I felt with the few visits; I never felt at ease there, always longing to go back home to my maternal grandmother. They had a chicken pen behind the home and I dreaded those birds.  I remember eating a plate of cookies with my cousin at one visit, being well amused by stuffing ourselves. 

The house was the equivalent of the house that Jack built and seemed always to be in process. 

Ball home in Frazer Township, PA

A cousin provided these two photos of the Ball home; I believe these may have been taken back in the  40's  Eventually it was all sold off  by Esther, Edward's wife who inherited everything, manipulating the elderly Anna into disinheriting everyone but herself.  She provided  for her daughters and herself and lives in a nearby town;  the land  is part of where a big Pittsburgh Valley Mills Mall stands.  Now Edward and  Esther's 3  daughters, Henry's son and daughter and myself are all that remain of Frank  Ball's legacy.  Uncle Henry and Aunt Pearl maintained contact with Mom and me all my life, not so with Esther and Edward, but that is another story.  The petty jealousies of the family are water under the bridge and the survivors  have to live with themselves.  Esther's daughters, my cousins, have been in touch with me but we share limited memories.  



Frank Ball with Bessie
Year unknown

 Another story is that Frank was unsure what to do with the paycheck and when so paid by the mine, set them aside in a box until industrious Anna investigated. By that time they had accumulated some funds and were able to purchase land, a dream come true for Polish immigrants. I cannot verify the veracity but  speculate it could  be as he was not that literate, however I question how they lived in the coal community without funds.  Another mystique of my roots I'll never know.  

I have written before how the names of my Polish ancestors changed depending on which census taker, official, immigration agent recorded their names.  I  almost understand that dilemma with the  difficult Polish spellings, however I am told that Frank's last name was actually Bal and that officials changed it to Ball.  Now how much easier could it have been! Being  a compliant immigrant he adopted that spelling.  I never could understand growing up how we had the name Ball from Polish and suspected it must have been shortened from something.  But years ago, Uncle Henry revealed that it was Bal and changed to suit the officials; I have not found any research into the spelling Bal.  I did not like Ball as my last name because it rhymed with many things and I was teased; my mother had remarried leaving me the only one with that last name.  Often teachers thought my heritage to be English as Ball is a well known name back to Colonial times.  Somewhere about the age of 10 or so, I overcame peevishness to my last name and whenever someone made fun of my name I was quick to retort rhyming theirs to the absurd and or resorting to some sort of physical activity in  retaliation.  

I have hit brick walls trying to learn anything about this paternal side but recently on my Ancestry.com research I struck gold, finding Frank’s petition for Naturalization in 1926. So little by little my investigative skills took over and I have traced his arrival in the United States into New York in 1913, when he was 20 aboard the Kaiser Wilhelm III. So far I have not found him on the ship’s manifests. I find no information about his having any other relatives anywhere in the country.  Nor do I know how he met Anna or the date of their marriage. Such questions might not have been had my father lived. 

By 1920 Frank and Anna met, married, had their first son, Edward,  and are living in Jenner, Somerset, PA according to the 1920 census. By 1926 he and Anna  had moved to Harwick or Springdale, PA when Frank applied for Naturalization in PIttsburgh; I find it interesting that the miners were encouraged to do so by the Unions who of course wanted votes for their candidates. Nothing has changed today, different immigrant groups but the same strategies continue. The 1930 census shows them living in Harwick, PA where he worked the mines and bought his land.

This is the only picture I have of both grandparents and I know little about it, not the place, not the date, not all the people in the photo.  Frank looks the same in all his photos, but Anna appears almost Oriental looking here. 

Left to right, Anna Kudzia Ball, her sister Mary Wojnar (aka Wagner) , Frank Ball,
 below, unknown  man and woman to the right   Unknown place or date

As always,click on the title to this post to get to the Sepia Site where others show  their fascinating photos and stories. 

Old drinkables Century old Scotch

 It caught my eye, the news item yesterday about the discovery of 100 year old scotch, buried in the  Antarctic by noted explorer Ernest Shackleton, of the British Antarctic Nimrod Expedition in 1907.  Three of 11 found bottles of the Mackinlays scotch were flown to Scotland by private jet, for lab analysis and tasting.  The stash was found under the floorboards of Shackleton's hut at Cape Royds on Rose Island. I do not like Scotch nor whiskeys  but this might  be of great intrigue and appeal.  That the  extreme frigid  temperatures at 22 below and deeper did not damage but preserved the bottles.

 Here are two of many links to this tale
 http://www.newser.com/story/109938/100-year-old-scotch-back-from-antarctic-depths.html

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/35259897/ns/technology_and_science-tech_and_gadgets/

The article I read mentioned that $80 a glass cognac is common in some of London's "look at me " bars; likely the same here in the states at the high priced venues in New York, Chicago, DC, etc .  I do not drink cheap liquor, but $80 a glass is something I've not nor am likely to experience. 

Further readings indicate that there was Brandy as well but it is not being mentioned as the owners of Whyte and Mackays. which bought out Mackinlays  are considering whether or not to bring it back to market. 

This news is timely as we experience  the  siege of another cold winter, not yet  being able to head south as winter roams the country and one thing and another keeps us put.  Although our temperatures have been somewhat  moderate at  the teens and balmy at the twenties until this week where we have predictions of single digits, this news affirms the benefit of a nip in the winter at night. If it is taken along on scientific explorations to the ends of the earth, what more can be said? Around these parts old timers say we remain healthy because the wintry freezes wipe out germs and in comparison to moderate temperatures or equatorial, we do have fewer diseases and a healthier stock of folks.

I store my favorite Polish Belevedere vodka in the freezer where  it  does not freeze but thrives; who drinks warm vodka?  We have an accumulation of  old  boozes, moved from CA with us;  left overs from Ca days of  entertaining where so many drank so many different things that we maintained a rather fully stocked bar for parties and hospitality. Some of those whiskeys, gin and scotch are ten to twenty years old and still  good.  I did finish a bottle of 20 year old Drambuie last winter one evening visiting with a friend and sipping.  Wonder why I can enjoy Drambuie, from scotch,  but not scotch or whiskeys.  I have noticed lately in my magazines even the likes of Martha Stewart are promoting recipes enticing women to drink Bourbons, whiskeys, and yes scotch.  This might be an attempt to recapture customers,  like me who prefer wines and vodkas or to entice the uninitiated to the realm of whiskeys.  I even saw a recipe for a whiskey cosmopolitan, but I turned up my nose as I am fond of those and quite satisfied with vodka.     

I can see the ads for whiskeys now, "drink Scotch--it is well preserved at 100 years of age and you can be too!"  Watch for that ad during half time commercials this Super Bowl! That cold  preserves, think cyrogenics while the heat destroys might be reflective of faith based heat of demons and hell. That Shackleton or someone in his crew brought such  essentials to Antarctica is reflective of what is important in cold weather, a nip of the favorite does good things.  Long ago, alcohol was considered medicinal, or perhaps that was the excuse, "a sip for purely medicinal purposes ya' know."  I am not thinking about the ravages of alcohol on those who cannot handle it and  have no business drinking but how after trudging around the bleary landscape the Nimrod'ers surely enjoyed their sips.

Endurance or survival despite the trials of the cold must be an indicator of  something good. 
 

Unplayed Notes, Unsung Songs Magpie Tales 48

The tattered, burned sheet music
Reflects notes never played,
Songs never sung,
Music unheard...
A symbol of  trips never taken,
People never met,
Experiences not encountered
Promises unkept
A silence of wasted notes.

Alongside the other sheet creased and torn
Where notes of  harmony and melody collided
Music over played, off key
Sharps played as flats,
Minor chords  played in major
Discordance in place of an etude, no silence in the clamor
Reflecting life out of  balance, overwhelmed, out of tune
Unmindful of the Great Conductor.

The Grand Maestro nodding gently tips the baton directing the musicians
Players who recognize the lead blending into a chorus
Of music made to dance, skip and hum.
Live life to the tunes and notes of each day
Strum the heartbeats in perfect meter
Keep the rhythm and balance among harmonies
Leave no unplayed symphony behind.


This is my contribution to Magpie this week. While posts are not too late until Tuesday, I had to cease tinkering with this one.  So many songs to sing! To read more from a multitude of different writers, poets, click on the title to this post to browse  from the Magpie site.