Tuesday, November 11, 2014

A Symbol of our Freedom for Veterans' Day

*  A Note from Nancy  *
 

On this Veterans Day we thank all our veterans who have served to protect and defend our country.  My family has had a long line of veterans, from my dad in World War II, to a grandfather in World War I, to two great-grandfathers in the Civil War, and another "great" fighting in the Revolutionary War.  God bless America!

Thinking of Veterans ignites a swell of patriotism in my breast.  And the symbol of what our country stands for is the Statue of Liberty.

A month ago she celebrated her 128th birthday...

October 1886.  As we all learned in grammar school, the Statue was a gift from the people of France to the people of the United States, to celebrate the friendship between the two countries that was started during the American Revolution. Basically, if it weren’t for France sending ships and men to help our cause, we all might be talking with a British accent.


The Statue was supposed to come about in 1876, to commemorate the centennial of the Declaration of Independence, but funding issues—on both sides of the Atlantic—made for an ten year delay. The deal was, France would give us the statue and assemble it, and we would build the base to put it on. 

Note the hand on its side
Assembled in France
  


Reassembled in America












To spur Americans to donate, Joseph Pulitzer (of the Pulitzer Prize) used his newspaper, “The World” to shame people into giving. He got after the rich for not giving more, and got after the middle class for relying on the rich to do the giving. It worked.

A foot bigger than mine!

 The sculptor was Frederic Auguste Bartholdi, who asked Gustave Eiffel (the designer of the Eiffel Tower) to figure out the iron framework underneath the copper plating—which was only 3/32” thick.
 
The torch on display in Paris
The Statue was put together in Paris, dismantled into 350 pieces, and packed into 214 crates. Parts of the statue were displayed in Paris during the construction. It took four months to put it all back together.

The presence of the Statue in the harbor--Lady Liberty greeting the influx of millions of immigrants--made her evolve into a symbol of freedom and hope. In 1883, Emily Lazarus wrote the poem “The New Colossus” for an auction to raise money for the pedestal. Only after her death was the poem married with the Statue. Since 1903 the poem has been on a plaque at the foot of the statue.





C.W. Jefferys painting

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"


Enjoy the photos, and remember all she stood for—and has come to stand for.//Nancy

Saturday, November 1, 2014

A Pioneer's Ghost Story

The Ghost Story

                    Reprinted from a 1912 edition of Pioneer Tales of the Oregon Trail and of Jefferson County by Charles Dawson.
This reprinting is an exact reproduction of the original with the exception of a few nods to more modern punctuation and paragraph formatting, 
solely for  the purpose of making the text more accessible to readers in 2014. Submitted by Stephanie Grace Whitson

            Without attempt to uphold the beliefs of the superstitious, a ghost story is chronicled. Nearly every community has in its story-lore, some weird tale of people or things that assumes the aspect of the supernatural. Seemingly, all people, regardless of their beliefs, relish the relation of such tales; so the story is submitted on its own merits, just as it was told, leaving the reader to draw his own conclusions. An old settler gives the story, as follows:
            In the late [18]60’s, wife and I with our bunch of tow-headed youngsters were headed westward, traveling by ox-team, in a canvas-topped wagon, bound for Nebraska, in response to the solicitations of my father, who had settled there a few years previously. Crossing the Missouri river in the early days of spring, at St. Joseph, we joined one of the first caravans of emigrants going westward over the Old Oregon Trail. Traveling over the wonderful prairies and through the rich valleys of eastern Kansas, we had our ideas of the Great American Desert rudely but pleasantly shattered.
            In due time we reached our destination, and encamped on the tract of land that had been selected for us, which was a well-timbered and watered body of land, lying along a spring-fed stream, that ran back into a valley which was flanked on the sides by frowning bluffs capped by ledges of sandstone. As the first tints of green began to appear to bedeck the landscape it was a wonderful sight to witness the unfolding of such picturesque scenery, the like of which we had never seen before.
            Our new home lay about half-way between the Old Trail and the Little Blue river, but this is all I will tell you, for ghosts and their haunts should not be too definitely located, as it might spoil their charms or the veracity, if there be any.
            We immediately commenced the building of a home, and, with the aid of my relatives and neighbors, contrived to erect a habitable log cabin, a one-room affair with a loft above, with a clapboard roof, provided with a mud-and-stick chimney, with a stone fireplace at one end. Compared with our previous places of habitation and modes of living this seemed at first to be very primitive and almost unendurable, but before long we grew to regard this homely little log cabin as the coziest place it had been our pleasure to reside in.
            With the coming of the warm days of spring, we broke out the little flats of land along the creek bottom, and planted them with corn, potatoes, melons, etc. Gardens were made, and we entered into the cultivation of our promising crops, hoping to reap an abundance for our needs. Nature had by now fully bedecked the whole panorama with a wonderful profusion of foliage, blossom, and color.
            Our little world seemed to be filled to overflowing with promise and happiness. Strawberry-time had come. The hillsides were apparently covered with the patches of red luscious fruit. One Sabbath morning, wife and I, light of heart, arms in arm, set out to roam the hillsides to gather a pailful of strawberries. We were soon in the midst of a profusion of strawberries, so plentiful, full and ripe on all sides of us, that we ran here and there, trampling under foot many berries, in our greed to secure the nicest ones.
            Our pail was soon full to the brim, and our fingers and lips stained from picking and eating, till we were forced to desist, for want of further capacity. Then, feeling the tire of contented satisfaction, we sat down upon a convenient rock, lazily viewing the surrounding scenery, resting before we would attempt our home-bound journey.
            With half-closed eyes lying back on the big shaded ledge of stone, my thoughts were dwelling on the incidents of the short past, in which we had left the comforts of civilization and had taken up our abode in this the land of promise, thinking how content we were; and just as I began to conjecture the future, I was aroused by the exclamation of the wife, who was now pointing across the rock-walled ravine to a springy spot, shaded by scattered clumps of underbrush. Brushing aside the sleepy tangles of my eyes, I noted the cause of her excitement, which I first thought might be Indians. Underneath and in the tangles of green were berries—strawberries of great size and blood-red color, rivaling even the choices of the tame ones we had seen in the gardens of our Eastern homes.
            Leaving our already filled pail, we hastened over to view the wonderful sight. Picking and eating the first few that we came to, we decided to take some home in my old hat and in the wife’s apron; so, with many ejaculations of wonder and surprise, we filled these articles, and as I strode through a thick tangle of brush in leaving the patch, my foot caught on an object which threw me to the ground, and on turning over, seeking to arise, I found at my feet the skull of a human being. Leaping to my feet, I rushed out of the thicket almost completely unnerved at my ghastly find. Wife witnessing my stumble and following movements, ran back towards me, inquiring with alarm the cause of this unusual action. Together we walked back, and I pointed to the eyeless bare skull that was apparently grinning at us from his mouldy moss-covered retreat from which my foot had ruthlessly torn him but a moment before.
            Proceeding into the thicket to investigate more fully, we found that underneath the leafy and moulding foliages of the past seasons which had covered their bodies like that of the “Babes in the Wood” were the bones of many other persons. In fact, our strawberry patch had been the burial-ground of the unknown dead. Wife and I, stilled by the presence of the dead, stood with bowed heads, silently offered up prayers to Him on high, who alone could give the solution of this mystery.
            Glancing up, I met the gaze of my wife, and with one accord my old hat was overturned and the corners of her apron were dropped and the berries spilled on the ground. For we both knew without further questioning, what had caused the berries to be so big and red.
            Then we made a thorough search thereabout for the bones of the unknown dead, faithfully gathering the bones as they lay, endeavoring to give each skull its own and full complement of bones. Finally we felt that this duty had been performed, and the result was twelve skeletons, which we judged were a party of emigrants, men, women and children. After considerable labor, a grave was dug and the bones placed within, and filled up with earth and stones covering the top to mark and protect the grave. Thoroughly tired by our toil, we wended our way homeward, conscious that we had fulfilled our duty to those poor unfortunate beings by giving them at least a burial.
            After the supper meal was partaken and we had gathered on the doorstep in the twilight of the evening, we began to feel content and at peace with all fellow-beings; then there came an uncanny, weird moan or cry, like that of a woman or child in the depth of anguish or despair. Listening in awe, I awaited the repetition of that mournful sound. Soon it came, now in the fringe of trees about the cabin, then in the waist-high corn. Swift recalling the incidents of that day, I tried to assure myself that it was not real, that this was but the result of a befuddled mind, just imagination; but the children now were questioning us as to the cry, and upon receiving non-committal answers, and perhaps reading our faces, they grew frightened and began to cry.
            To assert myself and to allay their fears I arose and said to the wife, “Hand me my rifle and I will go down there and shoot that old, tree-toad, or whatever it may be.” Leaving the wife and children on the porch, I proceeded to search about in the growing corn, around the barn and all through the near-by underbrush, but without result, although I seemed to be following the voice from point to point. Finally it seemed to be at the cabin. Hastening there, I found that my family had fled within and had barred the door. Undaunted, I continued the search, following the clues from when I heard the voice. After vain attempts which led me to the roof, around and underneath the cabin, I contracted the same feelings of the rest of the family, and called for admittance.
            There was not much sleep for us that night, for we could hear the cries of our unearthly visitor at frequent intervals, till the early dawn of the morning. Night after night we had much the same experience until we grew accustomed to it and were but little disturbed. Our neighbors joined with us on several occasions to find the mysterious visitor, but despite the most exacting vigils and search, we gave it up, for not one single object or reason could be found that might be suspected of making the nightly occurring sounds, which the neighbors dubbed “The Lost Woman Ghost.”
            The summer wore on, succeeded by the bountiful autumn harvests. We should have been happy and content, but the “nightly visitor” had worn our nerves, so after the harvest had been gathered, I was only too glad to sanction the wife’s suggestion that we go and live with my father down on the Little Blue river, for the winter, as it was too lonesome away up here by ourselves.
            We spent the long winter down there, hunting and trapping, returning occasionally to see if everything was all right at our homestead, but never staying overnight, so we did not know if our unwelcome guest had departed or not. With the opening days of spring, we moved back, for our crops must be planted and tended, and the first night of our return was celebrated by the usual performance of the unseen voice. Of course this was annoying, but what could we do? Then there was no harm resulting, so we settled down, accepting the situation as best we could. Strawberry-picking time came again, and we started out once more to search the hillsides and ravines for the big red berries. Our wanderings brought us to the burial-place of the unknown party of people that we had found just one year ago. Here we stood for a moment with bared heads in reverence, swiftly recalling the incidents of their past as we knew of them, praying that we might in some way learn who they were, so that their relatives might know of their fate, and as we realized the improbability of this, we turned away with dimmed eyes, and continued to ascend the hill.
            Upon reaching the top, we sat down upon a large flat boulder to rest. The whole panorama lay spread out at our feet, and across the ravine to our right was a hillside almost mountainous in appearance, cut and intersticed by irregular, rock-filled canyons and gorges, down which trickling spring-fed streams flowed, the rock-strewn hillside being covered with straggling growths of dwarfed oaks and hackberry trees, with the hill itself rising high to the blue sky-line, capped with heavy ledge of brown sandstone, irregularly set, cracked and fissured deeply with dark recesses underneath the many overhanging shelves, which suggested ideal retreats for wild animal life.
            As we searched with our eyes every part of its face for some new wonder of formation, a ghastly sight came to our vision—the skeleton of a human being. On closer investigation we found it to be that of a woman, huddled in a crouched, squatting position, back against the wall of a cavern-like place, seemingly as though she had taken refuge here, only to be found, and had raised her arms to ward off the blow that had stilled her life.
            Tenderly we gathered up the bones and carried them down to the burial-place, and interred them with the rest, whom we judged to have been her companions. That afternoon was spent in the search for others that might be lying unburied on the hillsides, but the search proved fruitless; our only find bein
g a few piles of fire-warped wagon-irons and charred wood-work, near which lay bones of oxen, many having the wooden yokes still around their necks. A few arrows were found scattered about in these piles of bones, so we knew that this was the work of Indians.

            In the twilight of that evening I sat upon the broad doorstep of our cabin, thinking of all these things, the part that we had played and who these people might be; then came the though, could there be any connection between them and the ghostly visitor? If so, perhaps it would give me an answer tonight. Though I waited and meditated long into the night I was in one way disappointed, for the voice came not—not alone that night, but never afterwards. So to me the mystery has deepened as they years have gone by. Was this the spirit of the murdered woman beseeching me to bury her bones beside those we had previously buried, who no doubt had met a similar fate? I hope so, and if this gave rest to the Soul, let it be the end.

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Epitaphs and a free Ghost Story from 1912

Steph's turn to blog (scroll down for the free offer)

Halloween seems to be a time when folks develop a somewhat macabre interest in cemeteries and tombstones, but my interest in these things isn't seasonal, and it isn't really macabre. I've sought out pioneer cemeteries and the stories hidden behind the epitaphs since I was a girl tromping about with my family. 

When I was working on A Captain for Laura Rose (http://tinyurl.com/n2ykr2f) I spent some time exploring a St. Louis cemetery, led there by mention of steamboat pilot, Isaiah Sellers (Mark Twain knew him!)


This past year I even developed a program to give on these "Stories in Stone." Who wouldn't admire the artistry present in the stonework, zinc, and bronze forms used in memorials across the centuries. I'm also moved by the epitaphs (I tend to collect them).

In 1904, this epitaph was cast into a bronze plaque mounted on a granite boulder:
Warm summer sun, shine kindly here,
Warm southern wind, blow softly here,
Green sod above, lie light, lie light,
Good night, dear heart, 
Good night, Good night.


In 1876, this epitaph tossed a bit of realism at anyone who happened to pass the grave:
Dear companion remember me,
As I am now, so you must be
Prepare for death and follow me.

This one from 1895 made me wonder about the life it sums up in a rather acerbic manner:
She hath done what she could.

We don't often associate a sense of humor with epitaphs, but in Kentucky a woman's epitaph gives an order: "Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not here. I did not die." Her husband's epitaph asks a question: "If we didn't die, what are we doing here?" I imagine these two were the life of every party they attended!

One of my favorites is short and simple, but there is a world of story in the message:
Born to die, August 4, 1840
Died to live May 30 1878

This reminds me of the epitaph I'll have put on my tombstone one day. It's part of a lovely poem written by Calvin Miller:
Graves are only doorways cut in sod,
And dying is but getting dressed for God.

Are you like me? Do you enjoy wandering old cemeteries and wondering about the stories represented by the grave markers? What's your favorite or most memorable discovery?

____________________________

PS: If you'd like a copy of a 1912 story originally told by a homesteader from Oregon Trail days, go to www.stephaniewhitson.com and subscribe to my newsletter. Everyone on my mailing list will received the story in a special mailing sent out the first week of November.