I recently heard Bill Cosby commenting about how, while growing up, he thought his name must have been Damn-it. As that is what his dad often said… “Damn-it, will you get in here?” That got me to thinking about all the things my parents used to say. Which I, without thinking about it, have probably passed along to my daughter.

You know, these are those little bits of wisdom that our parents would blurt out often in a moment of pique or frustration. Here are a few I well remember:
“Because I said so that’s why!

As long as this is my house you will do what I say.

Don’t say “is because’, it is redundant.

If you think you can do that, well, you’ve got another think coming!

That’s the only reason you need.

If I have to tell you one more time…

When you start paying the rent you can make that decision.

If David jumped off of the bridge would you jump too?

I don’t care what your friends are doing you are NOT going!

Tell your mother or, Tell your father.

Just wait until your father gets home!

What kind of a knothead are you?

No, and that’s final!

You must be twins, one person couldn’t be that stupid!

There are as many of these kinds of saying as there are parents. While most of these are on the negative side there were always positive ones too but somehow these stuck with me a little more. Recently I have had an opportunity to reflect upon family, growing up and my family as it is today. I have been twicedblessed, even though I never had a twin… (Dad you knew that didn’t you?) lol!

No Comments

Summer and vacation… brings back lots of memories.

My dad was a typical 1950’s father… all job, for the family, but for him not a lot of family time. But, we did a few things together and when we did they were memorable! Summer vacations being the case in point.

We usually took a driving vacation; Yellowstone, California, Washington Coast, etc. Part of my dad’s passion was to log at least 700 miles per day. So we were on the road at 6AM and parked by 6 or 7PM. In between there were stops, meals and an occasional roadside attraction… remember them; “Zoo”, or “Giant Snakes”, “View Point Overlook” etc. Naturally the kids wanted to stop at all of them and mom and dad filtered them out (had to keep to our schedule).

One of our favorite past time was reading Burma Shave signs. Here is a couple:
BEN MET ANNA
MADE A HIT
NEGLECTED BEARD
BEN-ANNA SPLIT
BURMA-SHAVE

Or
SHE PUT A BULLET
THROUGH HIS HAT
BUT HE’S HAD CLOSER
SHAVES THAN THAT
WITH BURMA-SHAVE

For those who are unfamiliar, Burma-Shave was a tube type shaving crème. They must have literally had thousands of signs across the country. Surprisingly another sign you would often see read “Tiny’s, Cashmere Washington”. A fruit stand in Cashmere that took a page from Burma-Shave, I guess. (For more information on Burma-Shave check out http://www.montgomerycollege.edu/Departments/hpolscrv/mthomas.htm .)

Often, my grandmother would go with us. She would sit in the middle of the back seat with my sister on one side and me on the other (seemed to help keeping us separated). On at least three occasions we drove to LA with my grandmother. All three times my dad ended up at the LA City Dump ) “Mary, I’m telling you I know what I am doing and don’t need the map”). One of the more memorable trips we were in the desert and it had to be 200 degrees… no air-conditioning and windows open. Everyone was sweating and cranky. We stopped at one of those roadside places that offered California Orange Juice. They were shaped like a large orange. I can still remember the cold water and the OJ. But we didn’t stay too long we had a schedule after all.

Another great trip was to Yellowstone. To my dads credit, though he always had a tight schedule, he also did not believe in just going someplace and coming back the next day. So Yellowstone was a longer trip. But not our usual trip!
Dad called my mom late one Thursday morning and told her to get everyone packed as we were leaving for Yellowstone that afternoon. It was a cold overcast day in Wenatchee. We loaded the car (mom reiterating she had packed a suitcase for everyone) and hit the road stopping at Spokane for the first evening. At this time my sister was about 15 or 16. As I said, it was a cool day and mom had brought along an overcoat for her and jackets for us. The next morning (up at 4:30 so we can be on the road by 6) my mother realized that those suitcases for everyone, well it did not include her. So she and my sister shared clothes and everywhere we went my mom wore that overcoat… we did attract some attention, or at least she did. That was great trip. We really drove all over, spent three or four days in Yellowstone, saw all the usual (Old faithful, bears, the Gorge) and a few unusual. We also traveled around a little to Silver City and all the way to the Custer battle Ground.

In those days you could tell where a Washington car was from as each county had a particular license plate. So one of our frequent games was to watch and see and if it was Chelan County then try and see is we knew the people.

A lot of fun! I just wish there had been more of them!

Tempus fugit.

3 Comments

My dad, who will be 100 in November, moved to Wenatchee in 1918. Among other things he remembers attending a protest (only then it was called a Rally) in front of the courthouse where an effigy of the Keiser was burned.

Several years later as a teen he started to drive and since the family always made homebrew it was predictable that the homebrew and my dad would end up in a car and some type of trouble.

At the time, my grandfather was Mayor of Wenatchee. Dad was arrested one evening while driving. Seems he had been drinking homebrew, and in general behaving badly. The arresting officer was informed “You can’t do this to me, my dad is Mayor and I’ll have your job”. Which, as you might imagine ,was kindly received by the local constabulary in the days prior to the ACLU.

Hauled off to the jail at about two AM my father finally got to make a call home and he told my grandfather to come down and bail him out (actually dad is honest about this and pretty much admits to being demanding). So after waiting and letting dad cool his heels my grandfather finally shows up to confront his wayward offspring around four AM. Walking into the jail and looking at my dad my grandfather said “I’ve never seen him before in my life” turned around and walked out. This was, as the President says a”teachable moment” and one that lasted I might add!

Today we have people with advanced degrees, in whatever, to tell us about “tough love” seems my ancestors had a pretty good grasp!

No Comments

  Crabgrass? Well, not really, unless you are Snoopy.
  Growing up we always had a dog of some kind. Later when we moved to East Wenatchee we had a cat(s) too. So, to me, pets are a part of family life. Not sure about them teaching youngsters responsibility but they do provide an emotional connection, a lot of joy and we can watch the life cycle and, I suppose, learn from that.
  Our first cat was mange, scrawny, short haired mouser called Momma Kitty. She hated to be indoors, loved to ride on my dad’s shoulders and head as he changed the sprinklers in our pasture, was the bane of mice and other rodents and had, as her goal in life, to populate the cat world. Spring and fall she faithfully gave birth to three kittens… no more, no less. She finally passed on at around the age of 18 so you can do the math… she was successful. After about ten years, my mother decided she had enough; every friend we had, had a cat and we had about three. So, one summer morning, mom, took Momma Kitty to St Anthony’s Hospital. Around back there were living quarters for the nuns, figuring there might be adequate food and some hospitality for one of God’s creatures Momma Kitty was dumped on the sidewalk. That was about eight miles from our home and across the old Columbia River Bridge (now the walking bridge). Three weeks later guess who shows up on our doorstep. Paws pretty raw, but otherwise, none the worse for wear. For the rest of her life she never allowed my mother within four feet of her.
  But, getting back to dogs for a minute. We acquired a Tri-Color Collie. Mack for short (his registered name was Mack’s Prince Mc Duff). He was Mack to the family and a God send to Momma Kitty. She discovered early on that she could leave her kittens with Mack while she went mousing (really hunting is more descriptive as she once nailed a Pheasant in flight and Quail were no match). Mack would keep the kittens between his front paws and nestled in his ruff for warmth often cleaning them with his tongue. It looked crazy but he took his job seriously. One time Momma Kitty got cornered in a fight with a couple neighbor’s cats. She set up an awful caterwauling. Mack came running full speed to her rescue. Mack liked to go out at night. About three miles from where we lived there was a turkey farm that my dad provided accounting services for. One day the owner said there was a large black, brown and white dog that was raiding the farm two or three times a week and nipping off with a turkey. Putting two and two together, we followed Mack one night… busted. So we started locking Mack in the garage at night. After about two weeks we came out one morning and the garage door was open and feathers all over the place. It was almost as if to say “you can’t lock me up and I will get turkeys, so there”. The interesting thing about the turkey episode (eventually he gave up) was we raised chickens. Mack never touched one. In fact he would sit on our front lawn watching the chickens and when they got too spread out in the pasture he would run down and herd them together back by the barn.
  There were other cats and dogs. Cats: Twisty Tail, Stuffy (and he could eat), Hoot Pericles Gibbs, and one or two more. For Dogs we had a boxer, a couple cockers, and a Brittany (Prinney, Whirly Girly, etc) .
  Later, in my family, we have had cats and dogs too. Currently we have a cat (Arbol Gato…my daughter found her in a tree) and Maggie our long haired dachshund. I could write a complete story about each of these two. Arbol is closing on eighteen and Maggie has one of the most unique personalities I have ever run into. So I will save them for later.
  Pets can be fun and enriching. But you do have to take care of them and be careful to get a pet that matches your circumstances and family. I sincerely believe the best prayer ever written reads…”Lord make me the kind of person my dog thinks I am!”
  Tempus Fugit!

5 Comments

On May 10th of this year, I posted an entry about my mother’s family and how her grandmother met her grandfather during the Civil War (http://blogs.wenatcheeworld.com/pcornell/2009/05/10/one-american-family-part-1/).
Now, I would like to go back a little farther and introduce a relative of my wife who, appropriately enough, with the 4th of July just around the corner, participated in the American Revolution (1776-1783).
John DeWatt Weimer was born on the border of modern Germany and Switzerland, June 14, 1740. John was one of at least thirteen children of Johann Weimer and Eydt Anna Maria Low. Raised during the reformation, John eventually got himself thrown out of Switzerland for his religious beliefs. He was an Anabaptist. There is some question about just when this happened but at about the same time Germany was having a drought and several years of low to very poor crops. So the young John and his brothers, Martin and Frank, made their way to Rotterdam. Two sources have him and his brothers on the ship Hero, which sailed for Philadelphia arriving in October 1764. However, one source has him on the ship Union that arrived in September 1774. Either way, he got here with a young wife named Susannah Ackerman. They settled in the southern part of Pennsylvania and proceeded to farm and raise a family. At this point, the events of the day swept up the Weimer family in a way that can only be imagined and I have to wonder if people today would react in the same way.
In 1775, John was 35 years old and probably spoke very little English. At the time, he would have been considered verging on old. But it was in 1775 that John enlisted in the Pennsylvania Militia. Clouds of war were on the horizon and at that particular point you need to ask yourself why did he volunteer? But wait there is more.
I n 1776 his volunteer unit was transferred to Captain Reiley’s Company of the Third Pennsylvania Continental Line (light infantry). The term of service was three years. (I have a copy of a pay register that John signed and of his company roster… it makes you almost feel that he is alive to review these documents.) His unit participated in the battles of Brandywine, Germantown and Monmouth. They were also at Valley Forge during the long cold winter and parts of the Third were at Yorktown, though I do not know if John was there. He also did some service in Thomas Craig’s Company of the Second Pennsylvania Line. I can only guess that because of his age and the fact he probably spoke some English and German he was advanced to the rank of Corporal.
In the Fall John and some of his men were sent home to help with the harvest returning after a week or two. Mother nature being the way she is; in the Spring a little Weimer came along…. had the War lasted, like the Twenty Years war, lord knows how many Weimers would have been running around. But the six years was enough to give him an even dozen.
The 1st of January of 1781 John’s unit, as well as almost all of the units, mutinied. They hadn’t been paid in more than a year, uniforms were worn out, equipment was poor and rations even worse. The Pennsylvania first, second, third and fourth decided to march on Philadelphia as the Congress was in session and get their grievances addressed. The fifth and sixth battalions did not choose to participate until faced with the bayonets of the other units as well as some cannon shots over their heads. So, en-mass, they marched on the meeting of Congress. By the way there was one other major complaint. They had enlisted for three years and at this point had been in the Army five years with no end in sight.
Along the way, they were met by a British force. The British knew of the situation and sent two delegates to the mutineers. They offered them double pay if they would come over to the British side. Virtually to a man, and with almost no deliberation, the Pennsylvania infantrymen said no. They said in part they had no issue with the reason for the war, only for their treatment. They captured the British envoys and turned them over to General Wayne (of Mad Anthony fame) and he had the Brits’ shot as spies (same day). On January 11th Wayne, on behalf of the Congress, agreed to meet the terms and grant pardons all around provided everyone agreed to another three year enlistment. Some of the ring leaders were moved to other units and a couple of the units were moved to the Southern Division. But otherwise that was that and in October 1781, 7,000 Continentals and 10,000 French bottled up the British at Yorktown and the rest, as they say, is history.
John was given 366 acres of land in Milford Township which his family still has most of today. He took a portion of the land and built a church that also still exists today. But for me there is still one very important question, one that is appropriate as we celebrate the 4th of July.
Why?
Why did men with no real ties to the country jump to its defense at the earliest hour even before a formal war. They spoke another language and some had been in the area only one or two years. Then, after serving two years more than required why did they keep going and with no pay? When offered what surely would have been a significant sum to quit, why did they keep going?
When we talk about spirit and patriotism we can only stand in awe at what kept these people… men and women loyal, and made them Americans!

(Note the photo above is a re-creation of the Third Pennsylvania Continental Line as they might have appeared. Note the Liberty flag they are carrying)

2 Comments

I was a junior in High School and a member of the Key Club (a high school branch of KIWANAS) when I volunteered for an unusual job; mopping a floor. Not just any floor but the Powerhouse at Rocky Reach Dam! Actually there were about six or eight of us, I think; Rick, the Whit and Garbage Mouth plus several other members of the Key Club (one is now a judge in Grant County, another is an attorney in Spokane).
Rocky Reach Dam was just finished. The Powerhouse was coming on line in the next day or two (November 1, 1961). It needed to be cleaned for the ceremony and the public. Actually, the Dam first got its preliminary permit in 1954. The license to build was issued in July 1956 and construction started on October 2, 1956. It was about a year later, just prior to my sister going off to college, my dad drove us all to the Dam so we could see the construction and the Coffer Dam that was being built. At the time he told us this might be our only opportunity to see something like this. It was quite a hole in the ground and pretty interesting to see the river being diverted. I doubt if something similar could be done today with all the regulations and agencies and public interest groups, so, perhaps it was our only opportunity. At the peak of construction there were 2,184 employees involved in the project.
When the project was ready to open a call went out from the PUD for volunteers to come in and help clean up. Since Key Club is a service based organization we were called. At 11PM we showed up for what we thought would be a couple hours work. We were each issued a mop and a bucket. One of the supervisors who had been in the Navy gave us some brief instructions on how to mop and keep from being crippled. We were then ushered into the Powerhouse. Based upon my memory I am pretty sure it was about 5 miles long though others have tried to tell me it is really much less than a half mile in length. (Actually construction of the Powerhouse took five years and involved 33 million cubic yards of dirt and rock.) We worked, and worked and worked… from one end to the other and back again, around the generator units then back once again. What we had been assured as only a couple hour job lasted until about 6am…on a school day!
I think I said we volunteered but actually we were paid and a contribution was made to the Key Club too. I think we earned in the range of $1.50 per hour. So, for you youngsters that weren’t around then, let me put that in perspective. The average American new car cost $2,750 in 1961. In 1960 93% of all cars sold in the US were American built and 48% of the cars sold worldwide were built here too. The National average price of a gallon of gas was $.31. Though, I can remember gas wars and the price getting to $.15, plus with every ten gallons a free quart of oil. Oh yes, these were full service gas stations too… windows washed and tires checked. Zitting’s had a hamburger drive though and a hamburger there, cost $.15 (cheeseburger $.19). So a buck and a half went a lot farther!
Years later, I took my daughter out to the Dam and we toured the Powerhouse. I told her about my experience and she was impressed, though I don’t recall I told her about the other 7 guys! Just for the record…my wife did.

No Comments

I have been having of bloggers block lately and trying to find a topic. This week however, stars crossed and bingo…notice I didn’t say “good topic” we will settle for what we get.
One of the stars came from a blogger on this site talking about end tables (by the way…end of the sofa). Then a young woman next door, who is from the Ukraine, just graduated and is going on to college, so we gave her a copy of Strunk and White’s, The Elements Of Style (which I strongly recommend. I must admit I am a bit of a follower of White so perhaps there is a bias).
The result of these two events was to look at some of the things we say and accept but in actuality, do we really mean what we said, or better still understand?
In this category my all time favorite is; “Please remain in your seats until the plane has come to a complete stop”. Have you experienced an incomplete stop? Is it possible?
Or how about; “100% all beef”. Ok, I understand 100% beef… but all? What is an all… is that like an Angus?
Then there is the ever popular ; “ The reason is because”. Shouldn’t we just say “The reason is…?” I don’t understand a reason being because? Well actually I do, being a father there was a time with the 5th question on the same subject, from my young daughter, an answer of “BECAUSE” was sufficient! That however is an exception (“because I said so”).
Many of these phrases come from advertising, where products must be bigger and better. One favorite that you don’t see anymore was “Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco”. Naturally, they wouldn’t advertise poor tobacco or, would they? Several years later Lucky Strike was saying “Now with LSMFT” (Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco). This doesn’t make sense, and means that originally, they didn’t have fine tobacco, because they now have it. I guess my not understanding this is self explanatory as I never understood smoking anyway (ok if you do I just don’t).
How about “head of the line”? Does a line have a head? Can it? There is certainly a start and possibly a front but isn’t a line a line?
There are hundreds if not thousands of other examples. I am sure many of you have your pet ones too. But if we throw in, a non American English speaker, phrases can become even more confusing.
There was once a tourist from Great Britain, visiting the good ole US of A. After touring the central part of the country he asked the farmer what they did with all the food they grew. The farmer, thinking himself clever by half replied; “We eat what we can and what we can’t we can”. The tourist didn’t catch on for several days and, when the light came on, thought the phrase clever. Weeks later, while showing slides (does anyone take slides any more) to his friends back home, the same question came up. Only now the intricacies of language sabotaged the response, which was “they eat what they can and what they can’t they put up in tins”.
Tempus Fugit.

4 Comments

Recently, I listed a house in the neighborhood I first began my life journey in. It was (and largely still is) a Norman Rockwell type of neighborhood. Tree lined streets, well kept houses dating from the ‘30’s and friendly neighbors. In fact when my family lived there, when a new family moved in the neighbors gave them a box of lights to decorate their homes with at Christmas.
When I listed the house, I had the opportunity to sit down with a couple of the boys that grew up there and swap memories. They gave me the “original” King Arthur lance. Well, we thought so, but it was actually a sprinkler (which I am now using in my yard)about five foot in length with a 6″ spear point on one end. But in those long ago evenings it became a perfect lance for jousting and throwing. I honestly do not recall whether we were jousting, or throwing, but it hit me in the forehead right at the hair line. A scar (and dent) I still have. That particular evening, rather than wait for our mother s call to come in for bed at around 8:30 PM, we broke up a little early. No serious harm done (though my wife might disagree).
Down the street was another fellow that had a penchant for fire. On the advice of his doctor, his parents built a fireplace on the patio in back, so he could build all the fires he wanted. I have often wondered about that type of therapy, but it must have worked as to my knowledge his interest blew out in later life.
Across the street was a family where the father was a Catholic and his wife wasn’t. By agreement, they decided the boys should be raised as Catholics but the wife completely abdicated that part of the upbringing to her spouse. In fact, as they entered adolescence she refused to take the boys to church for instruction prior to Confirmation.
It was arranged that one of the local priests would come to the house and conduct the classes for them and several others kids in the block. The house had a back entrance to the basement and it was via this entry, not the front door, that the priest and the young scholars were to enter the house. On the appointed day Father arrived early to get ready, and shortly there after, the soon to be “saintly” young men arrived. When they entered the room, there sat Father in his cassock, sleeves rolled up, green eye shade on and a deck of cards in front of him. He then proceeded to instruct the young scholars not only in the fine points of religion but why not to draw to an inside straight and other useful knowledge that the wannabees on the myriad of TV Poker shows could probably use today.
For those doubters (dare I say Doubting Thomas’s) that fail to see the relationship of poker to the Christian Religion, I’d refer you to a record made by Phil Harris many years ago about the soldier that used a deck of cards to remind him of the bible.
Not sure if it was “The Best Of Times” but it was a special time…
Tempus Fugit.

2 Comments

Soft Cooked Eggs and Cups

I just picked up a copy of  W. Somerset Maugham’s “Of Human Bondage” (for some reason it had never made it to my readinglist until now). Very early in the book there is a passage where the Vicar is givingPhilip the top of his egg. WOW! Iwas immediately having breakfast with my Grandmother and eating a soft cooked (soft boiled) egg from an egg cup. Do people even use egg cups anymore or know what they are?

I was probably six or seven and I would often go on weekends and stay with my Grandmother on Saturday. At the time, she was the housekeeper at St. Josephs in Wenatchee  (now the Community Center on S. Mission).

The residence was a large old home with a living area with fireplace, dining room, parlor, a huge country kitchen and several bedrooms upstairs. It is the kitchen I remember the most. It had lots of light and was roomy with a high ceiling. We would sit and drink tea (hot and strong), eat a piece of fresh baked bread with marmalade and talk. In the morning, at breakfast, we would always have a soft cooked egg in an egg cup. I had my own cup, white with a red rim and I hadn’t thought of it in ages.

Cooking the egg is a trick. Ours were always a little more than three minutes. But you don’t just drop the egg into the boiling water. If you do, it will crack and three minutes is not enough (see link below). Then you set the egg in the cup, crack the top with a knife and slice it off. To the egg you add a little butter and salt and pepper and spoon the contents out. But the best part, the VERY BEST part, is the cap. The little piece of egg when you lift it out with a spoon is simply great! I don’t know why…it just is. Something to do with World Order I think.

Remembering the smells and sounds and tastes from that kitchen and the thought becomes so vivid! Isn’t it interesting, how a simple well written passage from a book, or better still a song and you are literally teleported to a different time and place and everything, I mean everything, is as it was for a brief moment in time.

I can still feel the sun through a window as I lay on a couch in Ocean Shores and Prim Rose Lane (Jerry Vale) was playing on the radio. Or a certain hint of perfume and it’s the last dance at the Senior Prom. Unfortunately, computers do not evoke such images… perhaps we may be loosing something.

But back to the rectory for a minute. At the time my Grandmother worked there the Priest was Father Duffy and later Fr. O’Sullivan (later Monsignor). One evening Fr. Duffy had gone to visit the bishop and Fr. Busse, SJ,  from Seattle University, and a very interesting person, (later at Seattle U., I took some of his Philosophy classes) was filling in. He was an avid fisherman and loved to come over and fish every chance he could. On this particular occasion Fr. Duffy had left to go fishing and had not mentioned it to my Grandmother. When he went fishing he always wore old clothes, beat up brimmer and a scruffy Pendleton style shirt.

To set the stage a little more, you need to know that my Grandmother was a soft touch for every itinerant travelling through Wenatchee. The house was actually marked and the “Bums” or as she said “Knights of the Road” would stop by for a hand out. Usually a sandwich and a glass or milk. Often exchanged for some odd jobs, gardening, splitting wood etc. As a result my Grandmother was very ccareful to keep the doors locked at night.

This particular evening, Fr. Busse returned with out a key and tried to enter. Rattling the door and looking in the windows. My Grandmother called my dad, who was at a party ,and told him someone was trying to break in. He immediately rushed over with a friend (Don Lenordie). They arranged a special knock and were let in the front door just as Fr. Bussie was again trying to gain access via the back door.

There was a small porch off of the kitchen where wood was stored. My dad picked up a hunk of wood , my Grandmother released the latch and as the door swung open my dad’s friend hit the Priest low taking out his legs just as dad cold cocked him with the wood.

It was only a moment before recognition set in. Priest in a heap, creel and fish all over and my Grandmother mumbling about “Oh my God Bud, you’ve killed a Priest’.  A few minutes, a cold towel, cup of hot tea and all was made well. Sunday, Fr. Duffy commented about the hospitality in Wenatchee!

So, back to the egg cup, if you want to know more about the cups and how to cook the egg here is a good link

  http://www.factsfacts.com/EggCups/EggCups.htm

5 Comments

I enjoy researching my family during the winter, when weather and cold evenings make inside a great place to be. It is a fun hobby and one that has lots of interesting rewards. My father moved here in 1918 and my mother in the mid 20’s. Since they , and their families, are part of the fabric of Wenatchee, I thought it might be interesting to re-tell a little about the experience of their families from time to time. It is from these experiences, that Wenatchee has grown, not just from my family but from hundreds or thousands of other families that are similar and make us what we are today.
My mother’s great grandmother was Bridget. Bridget was Irish Catholic and immigrated from Ireland. About the time of the Civil War, John Ireland, Archbishop of Minnesota began to bring Irish immigrants from Ireland and also from the slums of the east coast to the St. Paul / Duluth area. If you are unfamiliar with the Irish in America during this period, they were victims of some of the worst discrimination we have ever practiced. In the Washington D.C. area the slums occupied by many of the Irish were worse than those that Blacks were relegated to. In fact you had to go through the Black slums to get to the Irish slums. Anyway Ireland decided to do what he could to relocate literally thousands of families. As it happened during the Civil War he was also the regimental chaplain of the Minnesota Volunteer infantry that took part in the War.
There was a young private, that was part of the regiment, whose name was Mangan (I have a copy of his discharge). As it turns out Ireland was at the docks in St Louis meeting a group of transplants he had brought West. The Regiment was in St Louis resting and refitting which was why Ireland was there too. Bridget arrived in St Louis and was met by Archbishop Ireland.
At this point the rest of the story is pure family oral tradition but I think it fits and would be a parallel of what may have happened to others too. Ireland felt Bridget (who was sixteen) needed a husband and he also felt that Mangan needed something to come home too. A match made in Heaven…or at least in the temporal world of St Louis. So, following a brief introduction and a few hours to get acquainted the bans were published and a wedding was held. Mangan went off to the War with dreams of his bride (at least I hope so). Bridget stayed in St Louis and literally took in washing.
When the soldier returned, he found his young bride waiting for him. But when she married she had no dowry, in his absence, from her washing, she saved a lard bucket of silver dollars and gave it to him as her dower. In turn, Mangan, received a half section of land in Minnesota from the legislature as partial payment for his service. The result was my mother’s family grew up in St Paul fifty years later. Eventually moving to Havre Montana and then to Wenatchee.

No Comments