What I Really Threw Away Today

Well, I had to throw away my measuring cups today.   

Besides being measuring cups I actually liked, these were the first ones I owned when I initially set up housekeeping at the age of 18.  It's quite amazing that they lasted this long - they were still structurally fine but the silver stuff on the inside was getting flaky and corroded.  But these cups were more than just measuring cups.

They are following other vintage kitchen gadgets into the landfill.  The old double boiler, and the electric frying pan with the leg that kept breaking off...  That frying pan... the leg would break off and Grandpa would glue it, and it would break off again, over and over, until Grandpa put a couple of screws in it.  I remember him saying that last fix would outlast the frying pan, and he was right about that.  All of these items, and more, were from my first little house.  Bit by bit, my grandparents helped me get that little place furnished and functional.  They went through their house and gave me furniture they weren't using, went to estate sales where they got me a bed, a vintage stove and a washing machine, and drove to endless rummage sales where kitchen gadgets like the double boiler and the measuring cups (along with things I could not identify) came from.  As I was moving in to that little house I'd walk in the door and find something that hadn't been there the last time.  I would have been up the proverbial creek without them and using these little kitchen items over the last half century always made me feel just a little bit closer to them.  

I think I'm down to one special kitchen item left, and that is her biscuit cutter which I treasure because that was actually hers and cut biscuits for years and years.  Silly, yes.  But every time I saw one of these old items I was reminded that I was deeply loved by those two incredible people, and so much that they did all that for me at their own expense (on a fixed income).  So they were more than measuring cups to me.  But time marches on. 

When Music Becomes Memory

             Listening to Lawrence Welk always brings back memories of sitting in Grandma and Grandpa’s living room, sitting comfortably in the green rocker, with Grandpa in his recliner and Grandma barefoot on the couch with the big cushions propping her up.  We’d sit there and watch, and they’d know all the performers – Bobby and Cissy dancing, Guy and Ralna singing, and Myron Floren!  They loved his accordion music.  I didn’t so much.  While they loved the show, I was only about half interested, and would frequently think, “There’s nothing going on here tonight.”  But oh, was I wrong.  Big things were going on.  Lasting memories and feelings were being made, a sense of peace, predictability and security that I still feel today when I think about sitting there in their living room watch TV with them. 

But that’s only one part of it.  So many of those songs were ones my grandparents played in their dance band in the 1930s through the 1950s.  My grandmother taught me to read music at a young age and how to play piano chords.  We’d sit at her old player piano, me on the left side playing the chords and her on the right side, playing the melody.  And, of course, Grandpa next to the piano playing his saxophone.  I grew up on those songs, and surprisingly still know the lyrics to most of them to this day.

The memories bring just a little bit of melancholy though; seems just a few short years ago everyone in the entire family knew those songs and those times and those feelings.  Then overnight it seems it was just my Uncle Don and I – the others got old and died, and he and I were the only ones left.  Now, it’s just me.  And at some point, it will be no one.   We come, we live our lives, we have people and things that are important to us, and then it’s time for the next people and the next memories.  But until then, I'll watch Lawrence Welk, and soak it all in.

December, 2004 Letter from Sister Eleanor Joyce

 

 Thanks to Mike Seeman for providing this letter. In it, S. Eleanor does a bit of interesting reminiscing.  My notes are in [].

This is Gary's side of the family - Sister Eleanor was the daughter of Raymond and Mildred (Knox) Joyce.  Raymond was the grandson of our immigrant ancestors, Michael and Catherine (Finnerty) Joyce.

**********

Dec. 23, 2004

Dear Brothers, Sisters, Cousins and Friends:

... [omitted]

Then on Sunday all the Joyce cousins were together for the day - Thomas, Shirley, Mary and Dorothy to remember old times at Redfield, Rockham and Burdette [South Dakota].  Since July we have become acquainted with many relatives whom we had never met before.  The reunion at Willmar hosted by Jack and Mary Seeman, (Mary Joyce's and Earl Seeman's son), brought families together from Minnesota and Iowa who had not been with us at former reunions in the Black Hills.  2007 is the next tentative date for a get-together, but the place has yet to be decided.

Recently I found a list of the members of Dad's uncles.  Besides John, Pat, Joe and Frank there were Tom, Jim and Peter who never came to Dakota, either stayed in Wisconsin or went back East.  [note: These are sons of Michael and Catherine Joyce; Tom and Jim stayed in WI and Peter died young, buried at St. Mary's cemetery near Ripon, Wisconsin.]

In 2003 there were two Sisters here from New York who belonged to the newly amalgamated Community from Fitchburg, MA and Newburgh, NY that now make up the New Windsor Presentation group.  They have a S. Eleanor Joyce in their community, and gave me her address in Kingston, NY, so last week I finally went on a search!  Might she have some knowledge about the three lost uncles?  If so, there could be other cousins on the East coast whom none of us have ever met!

I was glad to have seen S. Ramona Fallon at the Willmar reunion of the Michael Joyce-Catherine Finnerty clan.  That reminds me of the renowned threshing crew employed by Jim Fallon in the early 1920's - Joe (Pat's) and Gene (Mike's) Joyce were part of the force, who must have had a hilarious time on the job!  Stories that came out of those early years when their generation was growing up would fill books - Murphy, E. Fry and J. Brown were characters oftentimes, and we kids wondered?

... [omitted]

Sister M. Eleanor Joyce

Martin Adams, Patriot

 (This is an ancestor of Earl Seeman as follows: Earl Seeman--> Eva Adams Seeman -->John Q. Adams --> Abial Adams --> Martin Adams)

Martin Adams was born in 1764 in Canaan, Connecticut, to James Callender Adams and his wife Submit Purchase.  At the age of 17 he voluntarily enlisted in the Vermont Militia (also known as the "Green Mountain Boys") during the Revolutionary War.  In Vermont, any able-bodied man aged 18-45, with some exceptions, was required to join the Militia.  This group was particularly known for their strength and courage in battle.

Martin was a drummer with both of his units in the year he served.  The purpose of the drummers, which often were younger, were to use their instruments to signal commands and keep morale up.  Their rhythms would help the soldiers keep pace while marching, plus they could usually be heard over the noise of battle, thereby keeping open an important line of communication.  On a day-to-day basis the fife and drum corp communicated the orders of the day, when meals were served and when the day closed.

After his service, he, along with his parents and brothers, left their home in Springfield, Massachusetts sometime between 1783-1785.  They traveled over the Connecticut and Passumpsic Rivers.  They stopped in what they thought was Littleton, New Hampshire, but it was not - they ended up founding the town of St. Johnsbury, Vermont. They decided to stay there and were the original grantees of the settlement.

St. Johnsbury, Vermont

It was in St. Johnsbury that he married Mercy Ryder in 1785, the daughter of Elder and Betsey Ryder.

In 1793, Martin and his brother, James and their families left for a new settlement, "Duncansborough" (Newport) Vermont, with their young wives and children.  They made their way  through the forests by way of marked trees to Barton Landing.  It was here that they constructed rafts or canoes, loaded them with their family and possessions, and sailed the Barton river to Lake Memphremagog.  They were impressed with the area and decided to make it their homes.  They initially built a log cabin, but in 1800 they built the first frame house in the area on the west side of Lake Memphremagog.  By this time, there were 11 families in the area. The Clyde River furnished power for their grain and saw mills.  

Lake Memphremagog

Martin and his family moved to Canada for a short time, but were back in Newport by 1802.  Martin and Mercy had 12 children. Martin died in 1839 and Mercy in 1847.  They are buried in Holbrook Cemetery on Lake Road in Newport, Vermont.

Signature of Martin Adams, from his Pension Application

Only In Case of Emergency

 

The opened envelope left by my great uncle Flight Officer Raymond Christensen saying, "Notify in case of emergency.  I guess you know these names and addresses inside as secret material only to be used in an emergency.  A card is sufficient."

 

It must have hurt my grandmother indescribably to have to tear open that envelope.

Wyoming, Illinois 1914 Commencement

 

"He is all fault who hath no fault at all"

(Photograph left to right)

Cyrus S. Ranck

Leman H. Scott

Earle Miller

Frank P. Strattan

Armorel M. Upperman

Harriett I. Sheets

Pearl E. Snow

Ernest E. Arganbright

Rose J. Holmes

Leonora Ethel Neu

John S. Wead

Cecilia M. Kinsella

Florence M. Rakestraw

James Leroy Shullaw

Adelaide R. Colgan

Florence M. Cox

President: Florence M. Rakestraw

Vice President: Leroy Shullaw

Sec. & Treas. - Cecilia M. Kinsella

Colors - Old Gold and Azure Blue

Flower - American Beauty Rose

The Cistern From Hell

Few things terrified me as a kid like the thought of the cistern out at the farm.  We used to love to go out there with Grandpa and search around the concrete foundation where the house once stood, before it was burnt to a cinder by a fateful bolt of lightning.  We'd look for remnants of Uncle Don's melted marble collection or whatever other treasures might have been thrown from the burning house in an effort to save what they could.  But every step around that concrete foundation was made cautiously, after an over-abundance of careful looking, lest we fall in the dreaded cistern.

Grandma, besides being small in stature, was outnumbered by us so she'd frequently tell us "little white lies" to help enforce the rules - except with the cistern - besides being true to a certain degree, she went out of her way to tell us what would happen if we didn't heed her stern warnings.  "Don't get too close, or you'll fall in!"  "The ground around the cistern is soft and it'll suck you right in!"  "You'll be stuck in a small little dark space with nothing but water!" and the worst - "We might not be able to get you out!"  It's still hard to even think of all the things she told us about the cistern without a little panic setting in.  I didn't even know what a cistern was, but I didn't care.  I wanted no part of it.  It was a hole right down to hell itself, as far as I was concerned.

A few years ago, I was looking at an old photo album with my mother and we ran across this photo - and she said, "There's my grandma holding my sister, there's Dorothy, there's me, there's Teddy the dog, and the cistern..."  My blood ran cold and my heart rate skyrocketed.  I had not thought about the cistern since I was about 10 years old.  I was horrified at how close they were all standing to it!  And how near it was to the house!  And the dirt - the soft dirt around it!  And no one seems to be terrified! 

Once I settled down, I fully understood why Grandma said what she said.  My first thought was, "I wonder what it looks like under that board!?"  Which is probably why someone put a heavy rock on it and started telling tall tales.  Love ya, Grandma, and I miss you every single day.