tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37585243829627239312024-03-05T04:22:31.439-05:00Family History FunTales, Hints, and Serendipitous Connections in family history searchJudy Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18349367614167518682noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758524382962723931.post-65914315879842494862018-08-03T21:57:00.001-04:002018-08-03T21:57:56.349-04:00The Travels of Wedding ChinaDuring their married life, our parents Alice and Bill did not do much travelling together outside of the USA. They went to Europe once, late in their life. That's it.<br />
But, their wedding china has made up for it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCSRzeBI3fETONeuJJ0kVGGLBny2rHfp7C1IcA8MPIwCeqRWvNnGdi9HsNFc5tMvGefECr75XNlCv_DXjwpa0lSSdmY9MD7CsqW6-BoFnnpRZIvS1ABYe0Z3MB2QH31LcLi1HPxMg_n6Y/s1600/Renwick+china+copy.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1500" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCSRzeBI3fETONeuJJ0kVGGLBny2rHfp7C1IcA8MPIwCeqRWvNnGdi9HsNFc5tMvGefECr75XNlCv_DXjwpa0lSSdmY9MD7CsqW6-BoFnnpRZIvS1ABYe0Z3MB2QH31LcLi1HPxMg_n6Y/s200/Renwick+china+copy.png" width="200" /></a><br />
They were married in the Spring of 1940. They eloped to Virginia, so there was not a big wedding with registries for china and the like. Yet, somehow they ended up with a complete set of a pattern by the Japanese "made-for-export" company "Renwick". It looked sort of Bavarian, but with that Japanese Satsuma-like red color that made it lively and friendly.<br />
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We lived with it throughout our childhoods and beyond. In fact, it is the only "good china" that Alice and Bill ever had. Over the years, pieces died and went to heaven, so it was harder and harder to set a good table with them. But the bulk of the set stayed nice and stationary in New Jersey.<br />
When the parents passed away, we had to decide what to do with the remains of the set. Nobody wanted the whole thing. We kept it in various garages for a few years, and finally, as one of us was about to downsize and leave NJ, she convinced me to store it in my basement. So, about 70 years after its arrival in NJ from Japan, the China set found its way to the state of Maryland.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOBwsP2Cdar8zRQv8KAprhPemSvqRydvN6WRes0mAY5Eb6QSKTQ_bi-tOGCKV7eHoRaJKOMC1nlZXSwxEIqdNU7ecacPs3kbozxjktPbiPZK4EQR0WU3mdqBGALN4AEhuGVc3I2JTm9P0/s1600/Renwick+china+-+serving+piece.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOBwsP2Cdar8zRQv8KAprhPemSvqRydvN6WRes0mAY5Eb6QSKTQ_bi-tOGCKV7eHoRaJKOMC1nlZXSwxEIqdNU7ecacPs3kbozxjktPbiPZK4EQR0WU3mdqBGALN4AEhuGVc3I2JTm9P0/s200/Renwick+china+-+serving+piece.JPG" width="200" /></a>But it was abused in Maryland: kept in the dark inside a cardboard box, except for one serving piece (shown here) that I still have as a memento.<br />
About 3 years ago it was my turn to clean out my basement. As I was preparing to load the box into the car for its final trip to Goodwill, our friend Felicite took a look and admired it. Felicite IS a world traveler, having begun life in Burundi, received her higher education in Montreal, and landed in Washington in 2008 with husband and kids. Because she liked it, I offered it. She took it, and I felt good. She told me she uses it for entertaining and that it looks great on her table.<br />
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The lucky transfer to the home of world travelers has given a new life to this now almost antique set. For, early this year Felicite's husband was transferred to the Democratic Republic of Congo where he is responsible for a World Bank program on electrification. They took it along with them.<br />
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So, our Japanese Renwick china is now experiencing life in Africa, with African cuisine piled on to keep Graciella and Noah well fed and happy. The family's house is close to the Congo River.so Our little Japanese china set is having an adventure!<br />
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Here it is on their table, all ready for an African feast. And there is Noah, contemplating the Congo River from a spot near their home in Kinshasa, the capital city. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilLJ7DRktnAesZv9l7tu_tzGhRCdvLfaxGrbdB9HIgzOjr6PySOGfTY8gNpd-zJB8y4UJWyjnWwdzr2V_XN-t8ub7HnUY6GNNzRd6zuWGhHDYdGEKOen2s-sQd2Vn_c8DhIc3B3enXdWk/s1600/LNTA8254.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilLJ7DRktnAesZv9l7tu_tzGhRCdvLfaxGrbdB9HIgzOjr6PySOGfTY8gNpd-zJB8y4UJWyjnWwdzr2V_XN-t8ub7HnUY6GNNzRd6zuWGhHDYdGEKOen2s-sQd2Vn_c8DhIc3B3enXdWk/s200/LNTA8254.JPG" width="200" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtjx4lEX4utYFWMb994eIDJbXJxx0U9Dbwxy00qW1yVzQLfU0VGp9o3v2IbBOZmr9LTBwXKs2Kx-1gz3I2ztyfAzmJO2P8ZMrU-rmPGeP1vZxkcNIDEFJf38C9dZB0YW6e9FZJF6QsE6Q/s1600/LTTQ7930.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtjx4lEX4utYFWMb994eIDJbXJxx0U9Dbwxy00qW1yVzQLfU0VGp9o3v2IbBOZmr9LTBwXKs2Kx-1gz3I2ztyfAzmJO2P8ZMrU-rmPGeP1vZxkcNIDEFJf38C9dZB0YW6e9FZJF6QsE6Q/s200/LTTQ7930.JPG" width="200" /></a>I hope Felicite and the family comes home soon -- there are still years to go --because that serving dish is feeling deprived of adventure.<br />
<br />Judy Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18349367614167518682noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758524382962723931.post-53406684940228626942017-05-30T11:40:00.000-04:002017-07-09T19:51:41.019-04:00About MotherFor years I have kept this Jules Feiffer cartoon. At the time it was sent to me, my daughter was about 3 years old. Already then, I had an inkling of what the future would hold. Sure enough, it happened. Now she's all grown up, and...<br />
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Judy Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18349367614167518682noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758524382962723931.post-13466571501737476562017-05-27T14:26:00.000-04:002017-05-27T14:26:50.819-04:00The Molitor Children of Melrose, MinnesotaAnton and Katherine (Wagner) Molitor lived in Melrose, Minnesota in the late 1800's and early 1900's. They had 10 children. This photo was taken before the last three children were born. In the top row are Adell, Rose, and Ambrose. In the front row are Chick, Alvina, and Alex. The siblings still to be born were Roman, Anna, Joseph and Pete. I am told that Chick was well known in Melrose into the 1990's because he had run a boating concession,, an early version of a resort. <br />
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If you are a family member who would like to see pictures of Anton and Katherine, contact me through this blog and I will track them down. <br />
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In adulthood, Ambrose changed his name to Moliter, to avoid confusion over the multitudes of Molitors doing business at his local bank. So, some Minnesota Molitors are now Moliters, but the DNA is still shared.<br />
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<br />Judy Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18349367614167518682noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758524382962723931.post-60840593636858426822016-07-24T14:34:00.000-04:002016-07-24T14:34:21.687-04:00St Louis Park High School, Minnesota Yearbooks - 1950 & 51Here I am sitting with two well preserved copies of the Senior Yearbooks of Saint Louis Park High School, in (of course) St. Louis Park, Minnesota. Our family has enjoyed browsing the books, looking for early pictures of self and friends. But now we're done with that, have scanned relevant photos, and are ready to chuck them.<br />
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But, wait! If you have an ancestor who graduated from St. Louis Park High in the early 1950's, you might want to have those early photos of your guy or gal. So, I am going to hold on to these for a year and if someone contacts me asking me to search for a specific person, I can scan the relevant pages and email them out. No cost to me, except for a little time, and teeny more damage to my cervical spine muscles from sitting in front of this damn desktop. Worth it to link up descendents with grandmas, grandpas, etc. <br />
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You can contact me at familyvideogirl@gmail.comJudy Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18349367614167518682noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758524382962723931.post-90426287256110802042015-10-22T23:48:00.000-04:002017-12-16T14:21:51.229-05:00The Rowboat at Pine Beach<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">We grew up
at the <st1:state w:st="on">New Jersey</st1:state> shore in the summers, where
my family had a little house on <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Toms</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">River</st1:placename></st1:place>, a wide tidal
estuary that dumped into Barnegat bay.
We could walk out of our house, cross
a very unbusy street and walk down a sandy path to the water’s edge to swim and play. Catching baby eels and crabs in our hands was a common
pastime. We always threw them back alive after playing with them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Into this
little paradise entered a used 12-foot long wooden rowboat, which my father bought when I was around
7 and sister Janet was 10 years of age. It cost him $80 at Hotaling's Boat Yard in Toms River. It was solidly made and had a dory-like bow. It had big wooden oars, which we lugged down to the
little pier in front of our house where the boat was docked. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;">We had only to pull up the oarlocks, insert
the oars, and cast off from the pier to gain the freedom to go wherever we
wanted to.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;"> We </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;">more or less stayed in sight of our house, but we coulda rowed to Spain!.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;">We didn’t have to wear life preservers in
those days.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;"> There were flotation </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;">cushions in case we got in trouble, but in those early days, we never did.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Here is a picture of us crabbing on the little pier. The back of our rowboat is on the lower right edge. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">We learned
that it’s no mean trick to keep a wooden boat from leaking and rotting. Every spring my father would start the
process of preparing the boat to go in for the season. We would help. We scraped old paint (always peeling), we
sanded, and most fun of all, we caulked the seams that ran along the bottom and
side boards. I loved caulking, and my
father praised my great caulking skills. Finally, we would prime and paint the
boat, including the trim and floorboards and seats. Despite all that
effort each year, the boat leaked like a sieve, so part of our boating activity
was constant bailing. I loved bailing,
and my father praised my great bailing skills.
After a couple of years, Daddy attached fiberglass to the bottom
of the boat, which he did himself, not well, but which stopped the worst part
of the leaking. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;">The boat made me into a Huck Finn, competent on the
water, close to nature.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;"> J</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;">anet
remembers it as our passport to a free life.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;">We experienced seashore life more acutely because of it.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;">Preparing it for a hurricaine was
always thrilling—mainly it meant taking out all the moving parts and
floorboards and tying</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;"> extra lines </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;">to the
boat from the pier. It often sank to the bottom during these storms.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;">After one big hurricaine, we discovered it gone altogether.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;">Not sunk, just gone.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;">We’d lost
it. The water had risen so high that the ropes had slipped off the poles.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;">We rode on our bikes and in the car up and
down the river on both sides, but it was gone.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;">We assumed it had sunk somewhere in the middle of the river. We cried.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;">To console us, our parents took us into downtown Toms River. As we were passing a marina at the entrance to the town, sister Joan, then no
more than 4, cried out,</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;">“There’s our
boat..”</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;">Sure enough,.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;"> t</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;">here it was, in the water, tied to the back of a yacht.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;">The yacht’s owner told us he’d
discovered it early that morning, just bobbing up and down in the middle of the
river, so he brought it with him in hopes its owners would find it.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;">We were ecstatic, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;">In honor of Joanie's great discovery, my father named the boat
“Toopie”, his nickname for her.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;">Despite the fact that I was always jealous of my little sister, I had no reservations about giving the boat that name.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;">From that day on, it was called The Toopie.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">The Toopie
continued to entertain us as we grew older, but it also was the scene of the
most traumatic event of my life, one that has stayed with me to this very day
and affects my attitude toward danger.
At some point, my father had bought a 7 ½ horsepower Evinrrude outboard
motor. On weekends, he’d lug it to the
boat and attach it to the stern. It's handle acted like a rudder. It was so heavy that the boat would
not plane when it was underway. So, there we would be with the bow
half-way out of the water, while my father sat in the stern unable to see except
by looking around the sides.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">In 1955,
when I was 10, my father decided we would cap off the season with a boating
excursion to the other side of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Barnegat</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Bay</st1:placetype></st1:place>. That entailed motoring to the mouth of the
river (only a half mile or so), and then across the bay for about 2 miles. We’d never been out on the bay with the boat. My father, Janet and I started off on a very
hot Labor Day Sunday. Janet was
steering, and my father was in the bow, navigating for her. I was sprawled across the
middle seat with a towel over my head, dozing.
Suddenly, I felt a thud – that’s all I remember – I looked up to see my
father smiling at me with blood gushing out of the top of his head. I remember screaming, “Daddy, you’re
bleeding!” He smiled again, put his hand
up on his head and pushed back the U-shaped flap of skin that had been sheared
back on the impact with a speed boat. Neither boat was damaged, probably because my
father had lunged out to push the speed boat away as it hit us in the bow.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Another speedboat named “Sea Witch” came up
and took my Dad with them and disappeared to a big dock on the other side of the
river where they could get him to the hospital.
The teenagers in the boat we’d hit guided us to that same dock. Janet managed to keep her head
together to get us safely to shore. I
remember running the length of the dock to the shore and feeling as if my whole
body was light and bouncing. By the time
we got to the shore, the ambulance had already left for the hospital. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I have no idea how we got
back home to our house on the other side of the river. Were we driven by car? Did our next door neighbors the Furhmeisters
come out in their big motor boat to pick us up?
It’s all a blur. My mother had
already left for the hospital, so we joined Joanie at the Fuhrmeisters’
house. . I remember sitting at
the Furhmeisters' dinner table enjoying the most
delicious roast beef, asking for seconds. The. Fuhrmeisters were the kindest people, with four grown children of
their own, and I am sure that they would have told us that our father would be fine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Later that
night my mother arrived home with my father, who insisted on being discharged
after receiving 82 stiches in his scalp.
I remember him lying in bed that evening with his head covered in
bandages seeping blood and my mother fretting.
Finally, she called home to our <st1:place w:st="on">North Jersey</st1:place>
town, and an hour or so later the Amvets ambulance arrived and transported him to our local North Jersey hospital. A bit later that night after hurriedly packing up all our summer things, Mommy and the three of us piled into the car and drove the 65 miles home. I cried all the way, while both Janet and Mommy derided me for my hypocracy. I had no right to cry now when I had had such a healthy apetite at the Fuhrmeisters. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Later we
learned that my father had fractured his skull but suffered no internal bleed .and there were no long-run consequences of the head injury. For me, though, the long-run consequences
have been major. In the blink of an eye
I had gone from a 10-year old’s sense of control to the realization that
catastrophe could come at any moment. I
have never been able to sleep in a car.
I’ve never been comfortable with other people driving. For many years I had trouble making decisions
about which route to take on a trip, for fear that I would make the wrong
decision and end up in an accident.
Finally, at age 45 or so, I learned how to trick myself by imagining
equally awful things about each alternative, thus freeing myself from the
responsibility for a poor choice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">The Toopie
lingered over the years. We became more
desultory about launching her each spring, and she finally rotted away behind
our garage. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Throughout my adult life I have fantasized about having the money to buy a
house on a lake, with a pier and a wooden rowboat securely tied to
it. I’ve rented rowboats, but it’s not
the same, because the rental agencies always require you to wear a life vest. I even rented a rowboat on <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Como</st1:placename></st1:place> in Italy 15 years ago so that I
could know what it feels like to row a boat on an Italian lake. (Frederick's escape to Switzerland in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Farewell_to_Arms" target="_blank">A Farewell to Arms</a> was my model.) My rented boat was very tiny compared with Lake Como's<st1:place w:st="on"> <st1:placename w:st="on">Excursion</st1:placename></st1:place> Yachts. Here is a picture of me rowing in the rain on Lake Como in 2001.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">So, even though the Toopie is associated with a chilling memory, it is also a symbol of the perfect life. A little house on a clear lake with a little pier and a wooden rowboat with big oars waiting for me every
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Judy Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18349367614167518682noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758524382962723931.post-46067332858652411602015-07-08T13:21:00.001-04:002015-08-02T16:03:00.998-04:00Fireworks on the Fourth - Another "J" Weighs inHere is more memoir on the Fourth of July at Pine Beach from another "J", (J' #1) written in response to my previous blog. <br />
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<span id="yiv9834697411yui_3_16_0_1_1436119788505_6981">"The crowning jewel of the Fourth of July weekend has always been the fireworks, but there was so much more. Grandma, Grandpa & aunts all crowded in. Sleeping on top of each other. Sandy sheets. It was a treat sharing a bed with J'#3 who slept on the diagonal. The weekend usually included one movie night with the aunts at the Community Theatre in downtown Toms River. It also included Grandpa's shish-ka-bob and Grandma's iced tea and trying to teach Aunt Rose and Vi to swim. Of course, there always was the parade of decorated bikes, floats and 1,000 fire trucks. Some things never change. I didn't participate in any of the parades. I don't know if I was too old or too shy, but remember that Joan did and I think J'#2 did as well. I have enjoyed watching my own grandchildren in more recent years."</span><br />
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(Editor's note: J#2 distinctly remembers that J#1 decorated her bike for the parade, but has no proof and no confidence in her own memory. So that shall remain a family history mystery. However, there is photographic evidence, given here to show that J'#2 and J'#3 were in the parade. And, we are proud to report that we have evidence that the grandchild generation has kept the tradition alive. Here are the pic's:)<br />
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Now back to J'#1's Reminiscenses:</div>
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<span id="yiv9834697411yui_3_16_0_1_1436119788505_18206">"Then there was the early morning flag raising ceremony next door when the Klauders moved to Pine Beach in the late 1950's. Mommy pressured us to attend and we complied. About 3 years ago, Joan mentioned this to Bill &Terry, our current next door neighbors, who embraced the tradition 50 years later. It is now a pleasure to get up and start the 4th with the pledge of allegiance and donuts - and maybe mimosas (but I'm not absolutely sure abut the mimosas). </span></div>
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<span id="yiv9834697411yui_3_16_0_1_1436119788505_43188">Back to fireworks - the anticipation always started with the procession of boats coming into the river right before dusk. I don't remember the flare with the flag at the finale and the ensuing melee. That seems like it should be a chapter in the three 'J's Book of Hazards. My early memories of the fireworks are from the beach in Beachwood or Jersey Beach where we had a great view of Beachwood's fireworks. And, yes, there was time in between. We enjoyed each rocket in its entirety from the flare to the embers hitting the water. The fish fireworks were always the best, as Mommy said. Beachwood's pyrotechnics have come a long way with a continuous dazzling display leaving little time for oohs & ahs. The best Pine Beach view is now from the Bluff that previously housed Admiral Farragut Academy. </span></div>
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<span id="yiv9834697411yui_3_16_0_1_1436119788505_63717">Best memory, sitting quietly on the porch watching the boats peacefully leave the river.</span></div>
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Judy Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18349367614167518682noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758524382962723931.post-31332188700068819002015-07-03T16:23:00.001-04:002015-07-03T16:23:31.062-04:00Fireworks on the FourthWe were very lucky, the three J's. We lived on the bank of Toms River in the early 1950's, before CIBA Geigy decided to pour its effluent directly into the River. Hence, before the Atlantic blue crab, the flounder, the fluke, the bluefish, the blowfish, the shrimp (yes, shrimp) , the eel, and the perch disappeared, along with almost all other living creatures.<br />
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The river was magical, but never more so than on the night of July 4th (any year) when we dragged our lawn chairs across Riverside Drive to watch the fireworks put on by the volunteer fire departments of Beachwood and Island Heights, at opposing ends of the River. We could barely see the Beachwood show, but one of us would watch upriver at the western sky for the tell tale rocket while another would look north across the river for the same sign of imminent illumination from Island Heights. "Here it comes," the watcher would say, and we would all crane our necks in the same direction to catch it. <br />
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All along the river, we audience members expressed our appreciation with our noise makers, little metal contraptions that sounded like kazoos when you cranked them. (Bad description I know, but it is hard to describe the party noisemakers of the early 50's. ) Boats and yachts anchored in the river-- in increasing numbers over the years -- would toot their horns in appreciation. And the river carried the noise, so that I honestly believed that the sponsors of the shows could hear the roar from boats and shore and know we loved them. Of course we were also invited to show our appreciation to the firemen who drove slowly all along the river soliciting donations. That was part of the excitement, when the Beachwood fire engine would come by and we could put our quarters in the cups held by the firemen themselves.<br />
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With 60 years' perspective, I have come to understand that the Toms River shows were limited in variety and opulence. We waited a minute or longer between flares. There weren't that many bursts, let's face it. We even had time to chat between bursts. But we didn't know better, and it was something else again to listen to mother Alice share her unbounded enthusiasm for the ones with the blossom of twirling gold fishes that made a hissing sound as they twirled. I swear to you, even today when I see a firework with the gold fishes I think of Alice and her definitive statement, never to be challenged, that the fireworks with fishes are the very best in the world.<br />
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You knew when the firework show was about to end, as the popping noises like gunfire started, but on Toms River the very last flare contained a little American flag that wafted gently down from the sky. That's when we would hear all the motor boat engines starting up, green lights on their sterns moving along the dark river in the direction of the falling flag. Only in New Jersey could emergency responders deliberately arrange an accident waiting to happen: a motorboat race in the dark in pursuit of a little American flag.<br />
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I thought of all this last night, when the golf course up the street put on its annual pre-July 4 firework display. Just by chance, they go off directly in front of my bedroom window, between two huge Beech trees, affording me a mezzanine seat on my bed for my own personal show. Early in my life, Toms River conveniently brought fireworks to our front door. Late in my life, Kenwood Country Club has seen fit to continue the tradition. Don't worry about the hassle of getting to the Fireworks at the Capitol, Judy. The fireworks will come to you.<br />
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<br />Judy Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18349367614167518682noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758524382962723931.post-70343973261862673022015-06-05T11:27:00.001-04:002018-11-12T20:00:35.873-05:00Chi Phi Class Pic: F&M 1935Looking for an ancestor (grandpa? great-grandpa?) who was a member of Chi Phi Fraternity at Franklin and Marshall College in 1935? <br />
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Here is a photo taken in 1935 of the entire membership. Even better, a handwritten index of the names in the photo is available <a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/ghqtaueuw0gnsah/CHI%20PHI%201935%20F%26M-names.jpg?dl=0" target="_blank">Chi Phi 1935 pic - index of names</a><br />
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Find someone whose picture you really want? Our own Dad (in the picture) loved his fraternity so much that when we were little girls, he made us swear "Chi Phi Honor" to the truth of any statement. We grew up knowing that we must never-ever tell a lie and then swear "Chi Phi Honor," or we would be forever without that tool of verification. A very big liar in my time, I never-ever did violate the Chi Phi Honor code.<br />
My own college had a Chi Phi chapter, but I never got inside.<br />
Find someone whose picture you really want? <a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/nyhvd0cdbqp0c5z/CHI%20PHI%201935%20F%26M.tif?dl=0" target="_blank">Chi Phi High Resolution Picture</a><br />
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<br />Judy Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18349367614167518682noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758524382962723931.post-18758200560317236102015-04-19T11:49:00.000-04:002015-06-05T11:37:01.680-04:00Our Armenian Genocide StoryHere is my best attempt to outline our family's connection to the Armenian Genocide of 1915.<br />
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We are part of the remains of the Bakalian family of Diyarbakir Turkey. Our direct ancestor, Kevork Bakalian, was a sucessful merchant married to Takui Eguinian, daughter of an influential family. (Takui's brother, <a href="http://familyhistoryfun.blogspot.com/2013/01/carolyn-giomi-in-san-francisco-1957.html" target="_blank"><b>Haigag Eguinian</b>,</a> had immigrated to the USA in the late 1800's and founded the first Armenian language newspaper in the U.S.) The Bakalians had four children, Almast (b. 1892), Simpat (b.?), Victoria(b. 1902), and Artin (b.1908?). <br />
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Almast (our direct ancestor) married Yakob Kedersha in Diyarbakir in 1911 and emigrated from Turkey to the USA in late 1912, arriving in early 1913. That happened before the beginning of the Genocide on April 24, 1915. Yakob (Jacob) was Assyrian, the son of a rich merchant family. Although Almast's family had been quite comfortable during her childhood, the sudden death from natural causes (Typhus or Typhoid Fever) of her father in 1910-11 led her mother to accept a proposal of marriage from a young Assyrian man and his family. Once married, Almast lived with her Assyrian in-laws, and was unhappy to be ruled by a tyrannical mother-in-law.* Yakob decided to "visit" America to scope out business opportunities for his family. They expected to return after a year or so, but after World War I began, his family wrote to tell him not to do so, as conditions were very bad. Almast and Yakob were cast off from the family's supply of funds and had to make their way in America. They were immediately made poor. Yakob (called Jacob in the USA) got himself into the dry-cleaning, tailoring business. They lived in New Jersey for the rest of their lives, where he had a small dry-cleaning and tailoring store, Centre Cleaners, on Clinton Avenue in Irvington NJ. He died in the late 1950's; Almast lived until 1986. They never returned to Diyarbakir.<br />
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In the years after 1912, Takui Eguinian Bakalian was left in a large house in Diyarbakir with her three remaining children, with little source of income due to the loss of her husband's business to a distant cousin (who, in family lore, cheated her out of her husband's share of the business). She lived by selling the gold, jewels and rugs in her spacious home, and when they ran out she attempted to sell foodstuffs to eke out a living. She may also have taken in laundry (hazy memory). <br />
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Both Almast and her sister Victoria (Bakalian) Bezazian told me that the house was large, had an inner courtyard through which ran a canal carrying water from the Tigris River. The "brook" was the source of their fresh water. Both Almast and Victoria remembered that courtyard as a small paradise, with many flowers and vegetables. Victoria also told me that the house was on the same street as the main Armenian Church:<span style="color: #38761d;"><b> <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2015/01/05/century-silence" target="_blank">Sourp Giragos</a></b>.</span> It was just a block or so away. (In a future post I will write a bit more about Victoria's memories of the Church during World War I, and how she and I came to discuss it.)<br />
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When the mass murder/deportation of Armenians began in Diyarbaker, Victoria (13 years of age at the time) remembered that soldiers came to their door to take Takui and her children on the march out of Diyarbaker. Takui sent for the Assyrian priest, who brought papers showing that the family (on the Bakalian side) was descended from an ancient sect called the "Shamsi." According to Victoria, the Shamsi were a sun-worshiping sect that had been folded into the Assyrian Church centuries earlier. Takui and her children were spared by the soldiers, but Takui's sisters and brothers (Eguinians) and their families perished, except for one girl in her teens (Sirhanush Keshishian, daughter of one of Takui's married sisters). As she and her family and many other Armenians were marched out into the desert, Sirhanush feinted and was left for dead by the soldiers on horseback. When she revived, she found herself alone and made her way back to her Aunt Takui's house. Takui hid her and sheltered her for some period of time. <br />
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Takui and her children remained in Diyarbakir throughout the war. Victoria remembered eating nothing but rice and apricots through one entire winter late in the war. It was the only food available to Takui. She had bought them in bulk earlier in hopes of re-selling them, but her potential livelihood became the food that kept her three children alive during a late-war famine. <br />
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At some point during or after the war, Takui rented the largest part of the house to a family from Baghdad. The father was the governor of the Diyarbakir region for the Ottoman Empire, according to Victoria. That family was very good to Takui and her family. Victoria remembers playing with their small son in the courtyard. Eventually, they left to go back to Baghdad. Of course, these events occurred during Victoria's adolescence, so whether the "governor" was actually the governor or some lesser Ottoman official, and whether the house was rented to the governor or was commandeered on his behalf, leaving Takui and her family to act as servants, will remain a family mystery. Whatever the truth, in Victoria's memory, they treated Takui well. There were fond farewells when the official and his family departed for Baghdad.<br />
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In 1923, Takui and her three children left Diyarbakir and moved to Aleppo, Syria. The circumstances of that move, and of their life afterward, were never explained by Victoria, so we have little to go on. Takui lived the rest of her life in Aleppo, with her youngest son, Artin.<br />
<strong>Victoria and Simpat in France:</strong><br />
In 1925, Victoria and Simpat emigrated to France, living for a year in Marseille, where Victoria worked as a seamstress and hat maker. She taught herself French by learning songs on the radio. After a year or so, Victoria and Simpat (who changed his name to Andre' at some point) made their way up to Paris, where they lived through the 1930's and the second world war. Simpat worked for an Armenian printing press in Paris; Victoria worked as a hat maker and dress maker. Victoria married one of Simpat's co-workers, Kegham Bezazian. In 1950, Victoria and Kegham immigrated to the USA, where they found work in Philadelphia. <br />
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<strong>More about Simpat:</strong><br />
During World War II, Simpat was sent to a German labor camp to work in a factory. When the war ended, he walked back from Germany to Paris, where he lived to a ripe old age as a bachelor. He ate every dinner at a little restaurant called Chez Janet, in the 16th Arrondismont, close to his room. He had no phone, so relatives from America were told to go to Chez Janet, where they would find him. He visited the USA once, in the early 1960's, reuniting with his older sister Almast for the first time since 1911. We all met him and I still have the pretty plastic necklace (amber diamonds) that he gave me. He didn't speak any English, but his warmth made us love him. My father took him to Washington DC, because he wanted to see the White House. Driving past it on Pennsylvania Avenue (a thing one can no longer do), he was appalled to find out that the legendary White House was so small and puny. It is fun to imagine him telling his cronies back at Chez Janet how underwhelming the White House is compared with the great buildings of State in France. <br />
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<strong>More about Artin:</strong><br />
Artin Bakalian stayed in Syria, married a Turkish woman, and lived out his life as a pharmacist/businessman. Takui lived with him until her death in the 1930's. A story from Victoria has it that Takui had a box of gold that she had hidden within the walls of the house in Aleppo, but she never told Artin where it was hidden, and when she was on her deathbed she couldn't talk well enough to be understood. So the box of gold was lost. We know of only one child, Rita Bakalian. Rita lives somewhere in the USA.<br />
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<strong>More about Sirhanush:</strong><br />
Sirhanush Keshishian came as a refugee to the USA in 1925. Family lore has it that she was the first refugee to the USA. We have no documentation of this legend and we know nothing about the years between her hiding at Takui's house in Diyarbakir and her appearance in New York City ten years later. We did meet her several times, however. She lived with first cousin Almast's family for about 6 months. She was divisive and unstable and so she was asked to leave the house. At some point, Sirhanush took on the name Madalyn Kashian. She fancied herself an artist and lived out her life, never marrying, in Jersey City, NJ. None of Almast's children or grandchildren was comfortable around Sirhanush. Of course, none of Almast's children or grandchildren had ever experienced the trauma that Sirhanush did, losing her entire family on a death march and fearing for her life for many years thereafter.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMlXmfrfLWUHiSCnHjGIF2yhNa56Aosqk1EyMoE5WOBfcI5vnGA8FEBgZ1KxMn8amia_L50YYX5-GiKNeMdI_iOWpBpOEnRSLeU-bmRkBawDKXu5mt9k0libwSKOKtOsc207r_D-UW9w0/s1600/AKedershaSourpGiragos+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMlXmfrfLWUHiSCnHjGIF2yhNa56Aosqk1EyMoE5WOBfcI5vnGA8FEBgZ1KxMn8amia_L50YYX5-GiKNeMdI_iOWpBpOEnRSLeU-bmRkBawDKXu5mt9k0libwSKOKtOsc207r_D-UW9w0/s1600/AKedershaSourpGiragos+copy.jpg" width="133" /></a>When Almast was getting old, Sirhanush Keshishian (Madalyn Kashian) made an oil painting from memory of the Tower of Sourp Giragos Church, which she gave to Almast as a present. That picture hung in Almast's house until she died and the house was sold, after which it languished in Victoria's hall closet in Upper Darby, Pa. When Victoria died, the painting was thrown out with the trash. Luckily, we have a snapshot of that picture that hung on Almast's living room wall. Though the resolution is poor, the family's connection to the church is documented by a picture we didn't value enough to save at the time. <br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Sourp Giragos Church Tower, oil painting by Madalyn Kashian.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(now destroyed).</span><br />
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* There is an alternative version of the reason for Jacob and Almast's departure from Diyarbakir. My mother told me that Jacob was a handsome young man, and he had talked back to some Turkish men, who were out to get him. There was also a hint of a story about sexual interest in Jacob by a Turkish man. My mother's understanding is that they left for his safety. The story above, about her oppression by her mother-in-law, is also true. I am just not sure which motivation is more accurate in describing the reasons for their leaving Diyarbakir in 1912. I do know that Almast could not swim and was deathly afraid of water, so her willingness to travel over the ocean meant that her life could not have been very sweet. On the other hand, she may have had no choice in the matter. These are the kinds of family history mysteries that can never be solved. Life is so complicated.<br />
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<br />Judy Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18349367614167518682noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758524382962723931.post-39679733571604752712015-03-16T14:36:00.000-04:002015-03-16T14:43:34.339-04:00Cornell University's Armenian Archaeological DigHere is a beautiful tour of <a href="http://bit.ly/1LjLCg6" target="_blank">remains of early Armenian civilization</a>, uncovered by Cornell's archaeologists. Perhaps this is where our Armenian Grandmother got the genes for reading the future in the remains of an empty coffee cup.Judy Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18349367614167518682noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758524382962723931.post-84473452848774324392015-03-05T20:36:00.000-05:002018-11-12T20:23:21.470-05:00Vehslage Masonic Lodge of Irvington NJHere is a pamphlet listing all members of the Vehslage Masonic Lodge of Irvington, New Jersey in 1922. The Lodge was new in 1921. It was named after the Reverend Henry Vehslage, pastor of the Reformed Church of Irvington. That's all I know. We found this in family papers. I scanned and put it up for anyone searching an ancestor who might have been a Mason in vicinity of Newark or Irvington, NJ. <br />
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<a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/5yv22cgs8vk784b/Vehslage%20Lodge-1922%20JF%20Lovell.pdf?dl=0" target="_blank">Vehslage Lodge - Irvington NJ 1922</a><br />
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I am no expert on the Masons or their Lodges in America. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Freemasonry#Masonic_Lodge" target="_blank">Wikipedia</a> can tell you all you need to know if you aren't either.Judy Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18349367614167518682noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758524382962723931.post-274819979673187652013-08-31T17:35:00.003-04:002013-09-24T17:59:46.101-04:00From Irvington, NJ to the March on Washington, 1963: One man's storySteve Raymen and I were classmates at Irvington High School. When we graduated in 1962, he went on to Duke University. Even in high school his political awareness was way above that of most of us, including me. Lucky for me, Steve and I renewed our contact in the past 10 years or so, and he shared the history of his civil rights work in the 1960's. While I only watched and listened back then, Steve actually did!<br />
When President Obama was inaugurated in 2009, Steve came to Washington with his granddaughter so that he could witness the great event that owed so much to the 1963 March on Washington, which he had attended as part of his civil rights work at Duke.<br />
Steve did not return for the 50th anniversary of the March on Wednesday of this past week (August 28), but I emailed to let him know I was thinking of him. He replied with a summary he had prepared for a Bill Moyers special years ago outlining his memories of that day and the role that the March played in his life.<br />
Here it is-- Steve's personal history of his experiences on the day of the March on Washington, 1963:<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>The 1963 March on Washington: Notes:</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
by Steve Raymen</div>
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I became active in civil rights work in early 1963, during my freshman year at Duke University. I had grown up in a nearly all-white community in New Jersey. I believe in our high school graduation class of 1962 there was one student of color among 525 students.<br />
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My first activist effort in 1963 was to picket the local Sears store in Durham to protest its failure to hire local blacks. I think it was during the first hour of picketing that a car with white persons stopped along the curb and the occupants threatened to kill us. Likely not more than a minute later, we were approached by some black bystanders who assured us not to worry, that they would be watching and help protect us if need be.<br />
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Most of the classmates in my Duke dorm were from the South, mostly from North Carolina, and it was an awakening for me into the complexities of the civil rights issues in the South and the Jim Crow laws that were<br />
part of everyday life there that quickly brought me to a greater awareness of the racial divide and the pervasive and glaring social inequities. Duke was still a segregated private university my freshman year, only deciding to integrate in my sophomore year.<br />
<br />
I first became aware of the plans to have the March on Washington perhaps four to six months before the event. I spent that summer of 1963 between my freshman and sophomore years working at the local can company [in northern New Jersey] to earn money for my first car. I also did some civil rights work around my home area of Irvington and Newark, New Jersey. Civil rights actions were bubbling up throughout the country by then and the thought of gathering in Washington, D.C. was appealing.<br />
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Some of my friends were planning to drive down to D.C. for the March, so I joined them. We left very early in the morning, sometime around 3 AM, driving down the New Jersey Parkway and Turnpike, through Delaware and Maryland into D.C.<br />
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We arrived in D.C. around 7 AM or so. Prior to August 28th, especially during the last week, there had been many articles about the forthcoming March, a number of them expressing fears of riots and the like. But all was very quiet on a hot and humid early morning in Washington, D.C.<br />
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We arrived sufficiently early at the Washington Monument that hardly anyone was there. Among the few groups milling around at that time was George Lincoln Rockwell and his cohorts from the American Nazi Party. One of my friends who journeyed down from Irvington with me --Herb Asher -- proceeded to get into an intense discussion with one of the Nazi members, although it was a verbal exchange only. Rockwell inhaled on his pipe as his minions tried to stir things up verbally. I do not remember if it was the Capitol Police or some other security force, but there were law officers nearby. But there was no need for any direct intervention.<br />
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As time moved on, more and more people began to gather. A platform had been set up at the base of one side of the Washington Monument and singers began to use it. I remember that Ronnie Gilbert and Lee Hays from the singing group "The Weavers" were on the platform.. I think Ronnie Gilbert spoke a bit about her experiences over the years in activist causes.<br />
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To put the March in context, there was at that time the beginning of writings talking about the Old and New Left: the Old Left were those who often were involved in activities from the 1930’s labor strikes through the McCarthy period era; the New Left were the students and new young activists who brought new blood to the activist movements. In general, they were less dogmatic than the Old Left and found the Cold War taunts and efforts to label them as either Communist sympathizer or Communist as irrelevant if not outright humorous.<br />
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On the platform singing at one time were Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Peter,Paul and Mary, Odetta and Ronnie Gilbert and Lee Hays. I do not ever remember that grouping all at one time on a stage before or since that occasion.. Dylan had just come out of the 1963 Newport Folk Festival touring with Joan Baez. I had seen them together at a Baez concert in Asbury Park about a month earlier. It was still a very young Dylan at his protest best in those days. His FREEWHEELING album had been released that year and ‘Blowing in the Wind” was getting lots of radio time in the Peter, Paul and Mary version. Baez was the larger presence then, and she helped introduce Dylan to her audiences.<br />
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In the general milling around the Washington Monument during introductions and changes in performers, I encountered a young man wearing a Duke University T-shirt. I introduced myself to Harry Boyte, who was planning to enroll at Duke that coming fall. Little did we know then that we would become active participants in the Chapel Hill Freedom Movement of 1963-64, would spend time on the protest lines and spend time in jail together, once with 38 of us crammed into a 6-person cell overnight after a non-violent, civil disobedience protest. Likewise, we did not know that one year later, also in August, we would be together again in St. Augustine, Florida, where SCLC and Dr. King committed themselves to integrating one of the most violent and Klan-dominated cities in the deep South. <br />
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Harry would become the head of the Duke University CORE (Congress of Racial Equality) chapter his freshman year. His father, Harry Boyte, Sr., was an aide to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. at the time of the March, and Harry told me he had just come from dropping off to the press area a copy of the speech Dr. King was to deliver later that day. There was no sense at that point in the March that Dr.<br />
King's address would become immortalized as the “I Have a Dream” speech, although I believe the “I Have a Dream segment” of Dr. King’s address was extemporaneous and not part of the prepared text that Harry delivered to the press. (I still have a copy of the The New York Times coverage of the March the next day with excerpts from each of the 13 speakers. In retrospect, it is interesting that no portion of the “I Have a Dream” segment was included in the Dr. King excerpts quoted by the Times the next day.)<br />
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Harry and I talked for awhile and eventually parted ways. The crowd was steadily growing near the platform area. Buses were coming from all points into the Mall area. Many church and community groups had rented them for the occasion and it was soon apparent that there was a very, very large gathering in the making. Meanwhile, there were introductions of various groups that had walked or driven up from the South to be on hand. There was special recognition for the groups from the deep South that were able to make it to the March, many traveling many days to be there for the occasion. I have some box camera snap shots that were taken around the stage that day, although they are very basic and not the best of resolutions. My memory is vague about what time the March actually began. By then, the protest signs that are in evidence in photos of the March had been passed out and slowly the crowd began to move from the Washington Monument to the Lincoln Memorial on their own.<br />
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It was an exceedingly hot and humid day and it took its toll on some of the marchers. A number passed out from the heat. As I remember it, many of the whites were dressed more casually. The African-Americans were for the most part more formally attired in dresses and suits. There was an air of the ceremonial and high purpose about the occasion.<br />
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For me, having worked with others in relative isolation doing some civil rights activities in the Durham area, it was inspiring to see so many people, black and white, marching together for a common cause. I had never been in such a large group before that was addressing a social issue. The presence of so many groups from cities and towns that already had gained prominence because of civil rights struggles was impressive. It brought a sense of gathered and common purpose and provided a visual and physical presence to the scope and depth of the civil rights movement. I think it gave all of us who participated in the March an awareness of how much our small efforts were part of a much broader movement. Victor Hugo had once said nothing is so powerful as an idea whose time has come. It was very much in that spirit that the March gave renewed energy and commitment to the struggles.<br />
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I have heard others say how the March and Dr. King’s speech were responsible for their “criminal” records in the ensuing few years. That was true for me as well. In the spirit of the times, when the light of national and international media assisted immensely in bringing to the larger public consciousness the inequities of existing laws and the racism of existing attitudes, the March united and helped define a Movement that would change America.Judy Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18349367614167518682noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758524382962723931.post-55374349980422056742013-01-01T12:57:00.002-05:002013-02-05T09:48:09.514-05:00Carolyn Giomi in San Francisco, 1957Here is a black and white photo of the three J's in 1957, with Carolyn Giomi (our second cousin once removed) on the roof of their apartment building in San Francisco. That was a wonderful trip for our family, and we remembered Carolyn with great fondness in the subsequent years. Her mother, Nevart (Neva) Eguinian Giomi, and Aunt Zabelle Eguinian Hansen were Grandma Kedersha's* first cousins. Carolyn's Grandfather (Haigag Eguinian) had been an important Armenian newspaper publisher, first in Jersey City, NJ in the late 1800's and then in Fresno, California.**<br />
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My Grandma told me that her uncle Eguinian had offered (back in the early 1900's) to arrange a marriage for her to a "nice Armenian man" in California if she would travel to California from Diyarbakir, Turkey. Grandma declined and married Grandpa Kedersha (also an arranged marriage) because she did not want to leave her widowed mother. In the end, she left her mother for America in 1912 with her husband, ended up living in New Jersey, and never saw her mother again. She told me countless times while we washed dishes together how much she regretted the decision not to go to California. <br />
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* Almast Bakalian Kedersha, 1892-1986, was the daughter of Kevork Bakalian and Takui Eguinian, sister of Haigag. She was born in Diyarbakir, Turkey. She married Jacob Kedersha of the same city in 1911, and they arrived in the USA in 1913. <br />
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** Carolyn recently filled me in on the details of Haigag Eguinian's life and career. Haigag Eguinian became a US Citizen in April 1888 at Jersey City. He married Azniv Altounian on September 7, 1902 at Trinity Armenian Church in Fresno, CA. When he died of heart failure at the age 9f 42, he left two daughters, Nevart (7) and Zabelle (14). They and their mother moved to San Francisco after their father's death. Haigag published Nor Giank (New Life) in New Jersey and upon relocateding to Fresno, published Nor Or (New Day) which is still being published in Armenian. Publication moved to Los Angeles 10/27/64-2/17/87, and then to Altadena CA 2/20/87 to the present. Haigag's daughter donated her father's papers to UCLA in April, 1976. <br />
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<br />Judy Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18349367614167518682noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758524382962723931.post-84972106663353316152012-12-31T19:05:00.000-05:002013-01-09T10:18:18.208-05:00Samuel Skelton and The MayflowerA story from our childhood, as related by our mother over the years, is that an ancestor of Great Grandmother Elvira Andrews Shute (1865-1951) came to America on the Mayflower. Mother (Alice M. Kedersha Lovell), a first generation American of Armenian/Assyrian heritage, was quite proud of her children's "eligibility" on father's side for the "<a href="http://www.themayflowersociety.com/membership-info16" target="_blank">Daughters of the Mayflowe</a>r," (as she called it) trusting always that we would never deign to join such an uppity organization. <br />
This tantalizing tidbit of our ancestry led me to become a personal history detective. Could I verify our blue blood ancestry, thereby truly rejecting uppityness by refusing to join, or would I find out that the story was apocryphal, leaving us just motley Americans like the rest?<br />
I spent at least 15 years searching through our Massachusetts roots to flesh out the family tree on our father's (William E. Lovell) side. We are lucky that Massachusetts was his parents' birthplace, because no other state has a vital records system dating back to its beginning. The<a href="http://www.americanancestors.org/home.html" target="_blank"> New England Historical Genealogical Society </a>in Boston is a central repository of records or indexes to them. Nowadays they are online. And, a major work, <i>The Great Migration,</i> covering the period 1620-1635 has been indexed and can be searched on the NEHGS website.<br />
So I did.<br />
Bottom line: it does NOT look good for our direct ancestors arriving on the Mayflower. <br />
Do not despair, though. We are <i>not </i>Johnny Come Latelys! Oh, no. We descend directly from the Reverend Samuel Skelton, pastor of the First Church of Salem, Massachusetts, the first church established by the Massachusetts Bay Colony. The Massachusetts Bay Company got a charter to establish a colony and arranged for 6 ships (with about 200 passengers in all) to sail from England and Leiden, Holland in 1629: the <i> George Bonaventure, </i><i>Talbot, Lyon's Whelp, Mayflower, Four Sisters, </i>and<i> Pilgrim. (Pilgrim </i>was captured by the French and never made it to America.) The Reverend Sam was on the <i>Bonaventure, </i>but I bet he waved to the passengers on the deck of the <i>Mayflower</i> as they bobbed the Atlantic together. Is that a close enough connection to the Mayflower?<br />
Our guy Skelton, a Puritan cleric from<b><a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?num=10&hl=en&tbo=d&biw=1920&bih=955&tbm=isch&tbnid=p0606dHDyT0KWM:&imgrefurl=http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lincolnshire&docid=dlZFuGlTnfDGTM&imgurl=http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/8/83/Lincolnshire_UK_locator_map_2010.svg/200px-Lincolnshire_UK_locator_map_2010.svg.png&w=200&h=243&ei=M4ntUOKKEqW90QG51oCQDg&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=4&vpy=184&dur=4481&hovh=194&hovw=160&tx=63&ty=84&sig=110269555245648521453&page=1&tbnh=144&tbnw=119&start=0&ndsp=53&ved=1t:429,r:0,s:0,i:93" target="_blank"> Linconshire,</a> </b><br />
educated at Cambridge University, was a man of letters who served as the first Pastor of the First Church of Salem, the very first Puritan church in America.<br />
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This is it, people! The First Church (courtesy of Library of Congress archives). Roger Williams worked as a teacher in Skelton's church briefly in 1630, (<i>American Geneologist, 1951, vol 28) </i> and became Pastor after Rev Sam's death in 1634. Then he moved on to establish Rhode Island. <br />
More important to us, however, is that the historical records of the Massachusetts Bay Colony state that the Reverend Skelton put in a lot of effort to maintain close ties to the Pilgrims at Plymouth. Yes, those Pilgrims. Well, he didn't arrive in 1620, and he didn't arrive ON the Mayflower, but he arrived WITH the Mayflower and he knew some of the Pilgrims. <br />
Most important for us, Skelton had four children, so we probably have many many distant cousins with whom we share his Puritan blood. (His youngest, the only one born in America, is our route to Skelton.)<br />
I learned about our Skelton lineage early in 2012, when the NEHGS Great Migration database came on line. <br />
And the Fall 2012 issue of <i>American Ancestors </i>(pp20-24) has a summary of the "Winthrop Fleet" sailings in 1629 and 1630. You can learn more about <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samuel_Skelton" target="_blank">Samuel Skelton in Wikipedia</a>.<br />
What does it mean to be a Puritan? I never cared about it in my American History classes. I still don't. But it is fun to consider what motivations induced these people to leave England and set up in a cold, hostile and isolated world (sorry, Massachusetts). The King of England was running out of patience with the Puritans, so fear is a great motivator. But Skelton also received a few hundred acres of prime farm land near Salem. Was the Rev. Sam in it at least partly for the wealth? Or was it all Puritanism? (I hope the former...the latter is scary.)<br />
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<br />Judy Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18349367614167518682noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758524382962723931.post-90517308686774552272012-10-15T00:15:00.000-04:002013-08-14T17:03:44.722-04:00Graduation from Florence Avenue School 1958Here are a few photos I found of me and some of my 8th grade friends at my party celebrating our 1958 graduation from Florence Avenue School, Irvington, NJ. <br />
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Who were these young men and ladies?<br />
Some I can recognize: (left to right)<br />
Rose Paragano<br />
??? (hidden behind Rose)<br />
Linda Goode (partially hidden)<br />
Judy Lovell<br />
Billy Famula (a delicious guy to a 13 year old girl!)<br />
Herbie Eichorn (in back row)<br />
Terry Green<br />
Roberta Spagnola<br />
Ann Forte<br />
Carolyn Heerwagen (???)<br />
???<br />
???<br />
Front Row of boys -<br />
???<br />
Paul Geyer (proving that men get better looking every year they live!)<br />
???<br />
John (Buddy) Mahler - my heart throb in 5th grade.<br />
William Fiore - where are you, today, William? Your were my Nemesis. You bloodied my nose in 2nd grade, you stuck me with a pencil in 5th grade (I still have the blue mark in my arm), you blackmailed me in 3rd grade... To paraphrase Michael Caine in "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels", "Wasn't he wonderful?"<br />
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Apologies to the ????'s You were all adorable. Isn't Rose's dress spectacular? I wish I could tell her how much I loved her sweetness. But she is gone.Judy Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18349367614167518682noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758524382962723931.post-28832838868657877022012-09-23T16:54:00.001-04:002018-11-03T13:21:09.101-04:00Florence Avenue School Yearbook - 1958I was just playing around trying to figure out how to show a bunch of scanned historical photos using YouTube. So, here, for what it's worth, is the UN-COPYRIGHTED 1958 yearbook of the 8th grade graduation class of Florence Avenue School, Irvington, NJ. Looking back at these faces from a vantage point of more than 50 years had me teary eyed. How cute all those little boys were. How sweet the girls. They remind me of my own grandchildren and their friends. We wuz innocent.<br />
The video, consisting of page after page of photos, is quite long because I moved over all the pictures slowly. I could have used Photoshop to create separate jpg files of each scanned photo and then created a slide show on YouTube with 2-second shots. That would have made a much shorter video. (Reminds me of the old adage about writing: "I didn't have the time to make it short.") <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rmj_Xq0aEcw" target="_blank"> <span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: blue;">Click here to enjoy</span> </b></span></a>when you have the time.Judy Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18349367614167518682noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758524382962723931.post-83706261995191174422012-09-17T16:58:00.000-04:002012-09-21T10:46:20.718-04:00Saved from Antietam by a Musket ball at Bull RunToday (Sept 17) is the 150th anniversary of the Battle of Antietam in 1862. The<b><span style="color: #cc0000;"> <a href="http://www.slate.com/articles/life/history/2012/09/antietam_the_civil_war_s_deadliest_day_on_the_battle_s_150th_anniversary_remembrances_from_oliver_wendell_holmes_william_mckinley_rutherford_b_hayes_clara_barton_and_other_survivors_.html" target="_blank">newscasts </a></span></b>are full of statistics outlining the unprecedented casualties. My great-great grandfather William A. Shute (1832-1903) was not among them. In fact, he was one of the lucky enlisted men of the Massachusetts 13th Infantry Regiment <b><span style="color: #990000;">(</span></b><a href="http://freepages.history.rootsweb.ancestry.com/~historyofmarlborough/companyi.htm" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: #990000;">Company I</span></b>)</a> who did not even see action in that battle, thanks to a musket ball that hit his leg just two weeks earlier (August 30) at the Second Battle of Bull Run. That little mishap, which cost him his lower left leg, may have saved his life by sparing him action on the infamous "Cornfield" of Antietam. According to a<a href="http://www.13thmass.org/1862/1862.html" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: #990000;"> website covering the history of the 13th, </span></b></a><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"<span style="background-color: #ffffe2; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They are up early the morning of the 17th and are the second brigade to advance to the Miller Cornfield. General Hartsuff is wounded early on during the advance while doing reconnaissance, so Colonel Coulter leads them into the fight, Major J. Parker Gould commands the 13th troops. They stand their ground under a heavy fire for 30 minutes before retiring to the rear to replenish their ammunition. 301 men go into the fight, 165 come out, for a loss of 45%. 26 men are killed. </span></blockquote>
Sometimes, what seems like bad luck -- a wound that leaves you an amputee at age 30 -- turns out to be a life saver. You just never know.<br />
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Here's what happened to William A. Shute at 2nd Bull Run and in the days, months and years afterward. (For a complete history of his regiment's doings up to that point, see <b><span style="color: #990000;"><a href="http://13thmass.org/">13thMass.org</a> </span>). </b>He was hit by the musket in the left leg right above the foot. He fell and lay on the battlefield for three days until he was rescued and brought to St. Elizabeth's Hospital in Washington D.C. During that period, his wound became infected, and he spent his waking hours picking maggots out of the puss that formed in the wound. Later, he was told by the doctors that removing the vile maggots was a mistake. They might have controlled the infection by devouring the bacteria. He also ministered to another soldier nearby who was more gravely wounded. (Years later, that other soldier became a U.S. Senator, and in a speech in Marlboro, he told the story of being saved by a Marlboro soldier named Shute. William A was in the audience and rose to greet the Senator.)<br />
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Somewhere either en route to or at St. Elizabeth's Hospital, Shute's leg was amputated 8 inches below the knee. He left St. Elizabeth's for home, and mustered out with a full disability, in June 1863. (Pension was $3 per month at that time.) He returned to <a href="http://www.marlborough-ma.gov/gen/index" target="_blank">Marlborough, Massachusetts</a>, and continued to build his large family of seven children, living at 3 Elm Place. One of his daughters, Jennie Shute, married a man named McDormand and moved to Washington D.C. William A. and his wife Fanny (Tarbell) Shute spent a year in Washington D.C., in 1898, where he worked for the War Pension Bureau. He returned to Marlboro and died there in 1903 of "cancer of the stomach."<br />
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This story comes to us from two sources. Our father, Bill Lovell, spent many happy days in Marlboro visiting his maternal Grandfather, Walter Dwight Shute, (1859-1927), William A's oldest son. Walter D told Daddy the stories about his own father's days immediately after being wounded, of helping the other soldier, and of being called out years later in the speech given by the U.S. Senator. Other details -- of the wound itself, of the pension, and of his work in Washington D.C.-- come from the Civil War Pension Records, housed at the National Archives in Washington, D.C. Alas, those records are not available on-line (at least not yet), but I have photocopied them for some enterprising descendant of William A Shute and William E. Lovell, who might one day lay claim to the role of family historian.<br />
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<br />Judy Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18349367614167518682noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758524382962723931.post-30808637464069768872012-09-15T17:05:00.000-04:002018-12-27T09:20:17.441-05:00My Dad's Role in the Liberation of Dachau: His questions answered, too late.Did this ever happen to you? A beloved older relative asks you to do something that's relatively easy to do. You say, "Sure!" and then promptly forget about it. A few years later, that relative is gone forever. The opportunity to fulfill your promise is lost.<br />
If such a thing never happened to you, let me assure you that the unfulfilled promise haunts you. That's where I have been since my father's death in 1994. I let him down.<br />
My father's request stemmed from his experience as an army infantry grunt in World War II, which I<b> <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=3758524382962723931#editor/target=post;postID=8420664409534451418" target="_blank">briefly relayed in a previous post.</a></b> He found himself in France in January 1945 with the 42nd Rainbow Division (7th Army) as part of the final push of Allied forces across Germany. His regiment attacked into southern Germany, taking Wurzburg en route to liberating the Nazi concentration camp at Dachau in April. Along the way, he suffered battle fatigue and spent a few weeks at St Johann, Austria in a rear-echelon hospital. When he returned to active duty in late March he was temporarily assigned to guard duty at the regimental headquarters, and (as he would say) by the grace of God he was discovered to be a good reader of maps by the regiment's company commander, Captain Starr West Jones. He was rescued from more front line duty by the good Captain Jones and spent the rest of the war in the headquarters company, still on the move, but not running, crawling, or walking under constant fire with an M1 and a full pack on his back. For this our dad was forever grateful.<br />
We know all this about Daddy because he was a prolific letter writer, except for the month and a half he spent in front-line combat. Once at company headquarters, he had access to a typewriter, and we have three loose-leaf binders full of his World War II letters. He also told us many bedtime stories about his life in the war. We little girls loved his bedtime stories and we each remember them with slight differences in detail. As I look back, they often included a life lesson, and I am sure that he edited them for children's minds. Nevertheless, between the letters and the stories we each have felt we knew what it was like for him to be an unprepared, underweight, undertrained buck private on the front line of the war.<br />
So... what about that favor Daddy asked of me? Well, I live in the Washington D C area, and soon after the <a href="http://www.ushmm.org/" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: blue;">National Holocaust Museum</span></b> </a>opened in 1993, he re-told the story of his drive through Dachau in the back of a troop truck during its liberation. As in his previous tellings, he emphasized that he had hidden his eyes the whole way for fear of crying at the sight of the dead and dying prisoners, particularly if any of them were children. He did not want to be branded a weakling, especially given his shameful (to him) breakdown in full combat a month or so earlier. All he knew was that he had been ordered into a truck at company headquarters to ride through the camp along with the rest of the company. Nobody told him why or what they were supposed to do there. He thought that the new Holocaust Museum might have information about the specifics of the liberation of Dachau. He asked me to go the the Museum and try to find out exactly what his company was doing there. THAT is what I never did.<br />
He died a year later not knowing.<br />
Here's where the benefits of sharing family histories come in. A couple of years back I spent a day or so organizing Daddy's letters into protected loose-leaf binders, reading as I went along. In two letters Daddy described the "incomparable Captain Jones" (his life saver) with such verve and fondness that I thought it would be fun to try to find the Captain's descendants and share the letters describing him. <br />
Google led me to the Captain's obituary (yr 2000), which mentioned the names of his sons. I contacted one of them through Facebook about 2 years ago, and he answered that he would be interested in seeing the letters. So, I<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=3758524382962723931#editor/target=post;postID=8420664409534451418" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: blue;"> uploaded them to this blog</span></b> </a>and then sent the link to the son. I never heard back.<br />
Wonder of wonders (i.e., Google wonders!) about 8 months ago I received an email from a Starr Jones -- a grandson -- who had Googled his Grandfather's name and found my blog post. He asked whether any other letters had mentioned his grandfather. Unfortunately no, but through emails with grandson Starr I learned that our Captain Starr West Jones had written an autobiography in 1988, <b><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #eeeeee;"> </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hello-God-Can-Talk-Discoveries/dp/0811907120" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Hello, God. Can we Talk?</span></a></span></b><span style="color: blue;"><span id="goog_162633796"></span><span id="goog_162633797"></span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/"></a> </span>He offered to send me a copy, but I found a used one on<a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_162633802"> </a><span style="color: blue;"><b>Amazon.com</b> </span>for a few bucks and bought it right away.<br />
I was not disappointed. The book contained a detailed account of the movement of his regimental headquarters Company, 42nd Rainbow Division, from late in 1944 until the end of the war. And, it solved the mystery of the truck ride that my father made through the camp.<br />
Here is Captain Jones tells us in his book:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
(p. 128) "In April of 1945 our Allied troops were rolling back the Nazi war machine toward what we expected might very well be a desperate "last stand" in the Bavarian Alps. Advance units of our 42d Division had blitzed into Munich with the mission of liberating the prisoners of the Nazi concentration camp at Dachua (sic). I was with the main elements of our division, moving rapidly to linkup with them at Munich....(p.135)... The next day we received orders from the division commander informing us that all troops should visit Dachau to see at first hand the unbelievable horrors that man had unleashed upon his fellow man. So I sent most of our headquarters company that day, with my executive officer in charge. The remaining men would carry on the necessary functions of the company and I would go with them to the concentration camp the next day.... (p.136)...Some of the men were so emotionally thunderstruck by what they had seen that they could only shake their heads in disbelief and their voices choked when they tried to describe it.... (p137)...But I did not get a chance to see first hand, because the next day our unit was on the move again..."</blockquote>
So, THAT is what my father's ride was all about! A ride intended solely to witness the horrors of the camp and be a witness to history. My father had hid his eyes for fear of being branded too soft, and saw nothing. Yet, his fellow soldiers were not immune from the very emotions that Daddy so feared.<br />
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My son-in-law, a life-long student of history, recently told me that General Eisenhower himself ordered that every possible person, and the press, see the camps at first hand, as soon as the Allies liberated them, in order to avoid denial stories in the future. I just checked through google, and (as per usual when it comes to history) my son-in-law is correct. Here is a link to Eisenhower's own recollections. <a href="http://remember.org/facts-aft-lib-eis.html" target="_blank">General Eisenhower's rememberance</a>.<br />
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Eighteen years after his death, I solved my father's mystery for him. Thanks to Starr Jones III, the Captain's grandson, for this little gift no matter how late. (And thanks to Google, and Facebook, and Blogger, and of course the internet, without which none of these findings would have been possible. And even now, my own son-in-law has added to my understanding.)<br />
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<br />Judy Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18349367614167518682noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758524382962723931.post-4994086737313558802012-09-08T18:17:00.000-04:002012-09-08T18:19:02.575-04:00Veterans' History ProjectAn <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/save-the-war-stories--before-its-too-late/2012/03/13/gIQAE6JCHS_story.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #45818e;"><span style="font-size: large;">op-ed piece in the Washington Post in March 2012</span> </span></a>urged citizens to help the shrinking number of World War II veterans still living to record their stories before it's too late. John McNeill, a professor of history at George Washington University wrote movingly of the diminishing opportunities to get veterans' stories down in audio or video. <br />
The article thrilled me, because I had recently finished interviewing and digitizing the story of my Bethesda friend, David Eden, M.D., who served as a young medical officer in England and Europe from June 1944 to May 1946. Researching his stories gave me a better understanding of what it meant to be a young doctor at the time, and how his experience influenced the rest of his life. They are available for public viewing (with his permission) on YouTube. <span style="font-size: large;"> <a href="http://www.blogger.com/"><span id="goog_1623318770"></span>Here's the PlayList for Dave Eden<span id="goog_1623318771"></span></a>.</span><br />
The Washington Post article mentioned the<a href="http://www.loc.gov/vets/" target="_blank"> <span style="font-size: large;">Veterans History Project at the Library of Congress.</span></a><span style="font-size: large;"> </span> That project gives veterans and their families the opportunity to donate materials and interviews. The requirements are stringent -- for example, no photocopies, only originals. Our father's letters home from Europe (7th Army, 42nd Rainbow Division, France, Germany and Austria) document the concerns of soldiers on the line before, during and after VE day. One of his daughters has the originals. The others of us have carefully made photocopies. The letters fill three large loose-leaf folders. But...are we ready to give up the originals to the Library of Congress, where they may molder for future generations? That will make for good talk at family get-togethers.<br />
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<br />Judy Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18349367614167518682noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758524382962723931.post-8560711999500570642012-08-26T21:19:00.000-04:002018-11-03T13:16:59.370-04:00Irvington High School newspaper, June 1962I've been cleaning out old memorabilia boxes in anticipation of I-don't-know-what, and scanning any pictures or documents that would be of interest to my descendants about their family history. <br />
Among all the detritus were two issues of The Orator, the student newspaper of Irvington High School, Irvington, NJ, in June, 1962, the year I graduated. I kept them because I was one of the two editors of the paper. I'm glad I did, because.....<br />
Our class is about to have its 50th reunion. It appears that at least half of the members of the class of 1962 are mentioned somewhere in the two issues. There were also several articles on teachers who were about to do this or that, or had done something or other. <br />
One problem is that after scanning (doing the best I could with my desktop scanner and a large paper size) I realized that the PDF files were too big to upload to my website. <br />
Luckily, I had recently been introduced to <a href="http://dropbox.com/">dropbox.com</a>, which allows me to put big files into a public file for access by....well...by the public. I hope this works. I put the two PDF files into my public dropbox folder.<br />
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<a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/2heb8axn0m0jof0/IHS%20Orator%20June%2062%20number%207.pdf?dl=0">The Orator - June 1962-</a><br />
<a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/d1oyqo048mm5l9r/IHS%20Orator%20June%2062%20number%208.pdf?dl=0" target="_blank">The Orator - June 1962 - issue 8</a><br />
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(Also, a year or so ago I scanned in a copy of The Torch, our "literary" magazine. I<a href="http://familyhistoryfun.blogspot.com/2010/03/irvington-high-school-torch-magazine.html" target="_blank"> wrote a post about it </a>then, but I didn't know from Dropbox, and it was a 50mg file. But, now it's available for FREE thanks to Al Gore and the internet he invented. <br />
<a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/bzpalqzb3umutr6/IHS%20Torch%20Dec%2059.pdf?dl=0" target="_blank">Irvington High School Torch Magazine - 1959</a><br />
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The funny thing about all this is that both issues of the Orator were clearly late. They came out on June 20, and they contained a schedule of final exams that started on June 15. I wonder if they even were printed before we all left school. And even funnier (or more tragic), throughout my career as a policy analyst, I was habitually late with reports. My employers, bless their souls, seemed to accept this weakness. So, here I am on the other side of 50 years, along with all my similarly disbelieving classmates, and sighing with relief that I got through the work world in one piece, with a roof over my head and food on the table.<br />
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Well, enjoy! And let me know at <a href="mailto:familyvideogirl@gmail.com">familyvideogirl@gmail.com</a> if you have trouble accessing these issues.<br />
<br />Judy Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18349367614167518682noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758524382962723931.post-48989151968230298602012-08-11T14:17:00.000-04:002012-08-11T14:19:27.716-04:00Hints for Preserving Old PhotographsMy memoir writing teacher, <a href="http://www.patmcnees.com/" target="_blank">Pat McNees</a>, forwarded a website that reviews the do's and don'ts of archiving and preserving old family photographs. The website is put out by <b><span style="color: purple;"><a href="http://dlis.dos.state.fl.us/archives/preservation/Photographs/index.cfm" target="_blank">Florida State University</a>. </span></b> In her email, Pat quoted from certain parts of the web page. I found them useful:<br />
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<div style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15.933333396911621px; outline: none; padding: 0px;">
Labeling photographs is very important, to ensure an accurate record. Identifying people by their names and relationships, and noting the date, place, event, and photographer for each image, will help future generations to understand them. <span style="background-color: yellow; line-height: 1.2em; outline: none;">When labeling, use a soft pencil on the edge of the back of the photograph. Many inks are not as permanent as pencil, and ball point pens can push through the back, creating bumps in the emulsion.</span> Another method is to label the enclosure, rather than the photograph. Label the folder or envelope, or buy album sleeves which have areas for labeling of photographs.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15.933333396911621px; outline: none; padding: 0px;">
Pressure sensitive tapes such as “magic tape” or “masking tape” have acidic adhesives. They will turn yellow, and will turn the paper yellow as well, before falling off and leaving behind a sticky residue. Although <span style="background-color: #ffcc00; line-height: 1.2em; outline: none;">it is best not to use any sort of tape on photographs,</span> there is no very good home alternative for fixing a torn photo. If the negative is still available making a new print is the best bet. If it is not available, and the photograph is very valuable and old it might be worthwhile to consult a conservator. If this is not feasible, there are some types of “archival quality” tapes available at art supply or scrapbook stores. Look for tapes that are acid free, made with acrylic adhesive, and have passed the PAT. When applying tape to any tear, keep in mind the following tips:</div>
<ul style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15.933333396911621px; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; margin: 1em 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px 0px 0px 40px;">
<li style="line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px;">Always tape the back of a photograph - <span style="background-color: #ffff33; line-height: 1.2em; outline: none;">never apply any glue or tape to the emulsion</span>. </li>
<li style="line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px;">Use the least amount of tape you can possibly use to mend the tear (i.e. don’t use a 6 inch strip to cover a three inch tear). </li>
<li style="line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px;">If possible, snip a small bits of tape from the roll and tack the tear together. Once the photograph is tacked together, it can then have a new negative made from it. This will ensure that it will last longer than the tape that is holding it together.</li>
</ul>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15.933333396911621px; outline: none; padding: 0px;">
An alternative to using tape is to make your own mending strip with a piece of acid free paper, and some acid free white glue. Apply a thin coating of glue to a thin strip of paper, gently press the strip into place on the back of the photograph, and wipe away the excess glue with a cotton swab. Place the photograph face down on a soft, flat surface and dry it under weight. A good weight for mending photographs is a small candy tin filled with BBs. Thoroughly wash and dry the box before filling it, then tape it shut so the BBs won't fall out if you drop the box.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15.933333396911621px; outline: none; padding: 0px;">
<span style="background-color: yellow; line-height: 1.2em; outline: none;">Do not use paper clips, rubber bands, or even plastic clips on photographs</span>.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15.933333396911621px; outline: none; padding: 0px;">
Scanning photographs has become very popular and is a good idea for dissemination. However, it is not necessarily a permanent solution for preservation of photographs. Scanning photographs creates into digital images, which cannot be seen without aid of a computer or other device unless printed out. There have been some advances in the printers, inks, and papers used to print digital photographs. For more discussion on these, please read the <a href="http://dlis.dos.state.fl.us/archives/preservation/Photographs/photo2.cfm#digital" rel="nofollow" style="color: #003399; line-height: 1.2em; outline: none;" target="_blank">Digital Photographs</a> section of "<a href="http://dlis.dos.state.fl.us/archives/preservation/Photographs/photo2.cfm" rel="nofollow" style="color: #003399; line-height: 1.2em; outline: none;" target="_blank">Starting out right - choosing the media for your purpose</a>."</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15.933333396911621px; outline: none; padding: 0px;">
When framing photographs, use acid free mat board and acid free backing. Humidity can cause emulsions to stick to glass, so keep a bit of space between the photograph and the glass by using a mat, or even a double mat. Humidity can cause emulsions to stick to glass. For more information on framing, please see “<a href="http://dlis.dos.state.fl.us/archives/preservation/matting/index.cfm" rel="nofollow" style="color: #003399; line-height: 1.2em; outline: none;" target="_blank">Preservation Matting and Framing Overview</a> ." For information on Display of photographs, see: "<a href="http://dlis.dos.state.fl.us/archives/preservation/matting/mat3.cfm" rel="nofollow" style="color: #003399; line-height: 1.2em; outline: none;" target="_blank">Hanging and Display of Works of Art and Photographs</a>."</div>
<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Judy Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18349367614167518682noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758524382962723931.post-17676750020531081092012-03-24T11:11:00.000-04:002012-03-24T11:11:55.117-04:00Do you have an ancestor who was a member of the Cornell University Glee Club?One of my clients was a member of the Cornell University Glee Club from 1936 to 1938. His recollections of the Glee Club from those years are very interesting, and he has two official photos of the Club. The video is posted on Youtube, and we purposely panned across each photo to show every member up close. He tells me that<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Austin_H._Kiplinger" target="_blank"> <span style="color: #3d85c6;">Austin Kiplinger</span> </a>is in one of those photos-- he pointed him out, but I don't remember. Anyway, perhaps your father or grandfather (uncle? ..not aunt of course) is in one of the photos and you can find him.<br />
Here is the<b><span style="color: #cc0000;"> <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oMoE3xB1pps" target="_blank">link to the YouTube video</a>. </span></b> If you want a .jpg copy of the photo, I can send it via email, so contact me (Judy Wagner).Judy Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18349367614167518682noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758524382962723931.post-10824959406485720212011-09-04T15:13:00.000-04:002011-09-04T15:13:26.334-04:00Social Web site for ancestor searchJust heard about a great website where you can ask people about your ancestor. It seems to be very efficient, based on my own efforts. <a href="http://mocavo.com/">MOCAVO</a>Judy Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18349367614167518682noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758524382962723931.post-84206644095344514182010-07-05T19:52:00.000-04:002014-11-17T12:58:34.368-05:00Starr West Jones and my father in WWIIThe letters of William E. Lovell home from Europe during WWII recount his 15 months as an Army infantry private on the front lines. As a 30-year old lawyer from NJ with a child and a "critical" legal job at the Brooklyn Navy Yard, he didn't have to go. But he forged his papers of release from the Navy Yard and enlisted in the Army in October 1944. (He told us he had arranged to be drafted, but his army records say he enlisted.) <br />
From the beginning he thought he'd be a legal clerk, or a clerk-typist, and he was sent to a camp (Camp Croft) in North Carolina with that assignment (MOS in Army parlance) . Before he knew it, however, he was on the front line as an infantry private moving with the 42nd Rainbow Division through France and Germany, and finally into Austria. He spent about a month and a half on the front line, participated in the battle for Wurzburg, and was the 7th man over a bridge into that city. <br />
With a scholar's physical conditioning, and not even finishing basic training before he was shipped out in early January 1945, he broke down eventually and, after spending a few weeks at a recovery hospital in St. Johann Austria, was moved back to his regiment in a rear-echelon position as a transition to return to his unit. First, he was made a guard at the 42nd regimental command headquarters; soon, though, he was brought inside to serve as a clerk in the regiment's headquarters company. <br />
Capt Star West. Jones was the commander of Headquarters Company. Captain Jones appears to have played a pivotal role in rescuing Private Lovell from returning to his front line unit. As Bill Lovell recounted years later, Capt. Jones heard that our dad could speak a little German and could read maps. So, he made Private Lovell a regimental cartographer. That allowed our father to remain with the regimental headquarters company instead of returning to the front line as a rifleman.<br />
<br />
Here are two letters home from my father, separated by 7 months, that describe Captain Jones. I believe that more was written about him ... there is one brief mention in a letter (not included here) of riding in the back seat of a jeep with the"incomparable Captain Jones," but my sense from the two published here is that my father owed the Captain for rescuing him from the front line.<br />
<a href="http://bethesda20817.net/letter21may45.pdf"><span style="color: #993399;"><strong>Letter 1- May 1945</strong></span></a>; <a href="http://bethesda20817.net/letter15jan46.pdf"><span style="color: #cc33cc;"><strong>Letter 2-January 1946</strong></span></a>. Enjoy.Judy Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18349367614167518682noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3758524382962723931.post-3973858198346494072010-03-15T11:36:00.000-04:002018-11-03T13:19:12.274-04:00Irvington High School "Torch" magazine, 1959For 50 years, I held on to a copy of the "Torch" issue from December 1959. This was a general interest magazine, produced by students at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Irvington</span> High School, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Irvington</span> New Jersey. It contains pictures of football players, half-time show members, class officers, soccer team stars (our soccer team was legendary!) and poems and essays. Also, lots of advertisements of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Irvington</span> businesses at the time. <br />
Some names from articles and masthead: <br />
Karen Frank<br />
Ruth <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Holzer</span><br />
Pat <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Jamieson</span><br />
Sharon <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Schlein</span><br />
Barry <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Margolis</span><br />
Inge Bass<br />
Louise Wilkinson<br />
Lois <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Charnick</span><br />
Anthony <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Pilone</span><br />
Edward <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Demarest</span><br />
Morton <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Kaplan</span><br />
Barbara <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Buhlinger</span><br />
Amelia <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Petiti</span><br />
Diane <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Mullin</span><br />
Gail <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Ortland</span><br />
Fran <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Cagno</span><br />
Mary <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Beckman</span><br />
Ann Strand<br />
Rose <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Busci</span><br />
Marilyn Della Valle<br />
Carol <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Jacobus</span><br />
Joyce <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Marchin</span><br />
George <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Agalias</span><br />
Janice <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Krampetz</span><br />
Nancy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Hetz</span><br />
Karen <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Frenz</span><br />
Anna Marie <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Iorio</span><br />
Dorothy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Rapp</span><br />
Jo Ann <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Fabricatore</span><br />
Barbara <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Cataldo</span><br />
Diana <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">Cucuzella</span><br />
Gail <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Geyer</span><br />
Carol <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">Oncavage</span><br />
Diane Sullivan<br />
Betty Lou Schroeder<br />
Joseph <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">Cardillo</span><br />
Marie <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">Bagnato</span><br />
Ann <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">Greenberg</span><br />
Judy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">ManzMarie</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">Cieplak</span><br />
Paul <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">GeyerJohn</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">Savicky</span><br />
George <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">Torbyck</span><br />
Luciano <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">Benassi</span><br />
Myron <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">Hura</span><br />
Harold <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">Altschuler</span><br />
Roland <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">Solchanyk</span><br />
Al Fleischer<br />
Rich <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43">Stammler</span><br />
Bruce <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">Reitz</span><br />
Ronald <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45">Heitz</span><br />
Wayne Jones<br />
Augie Ernesto<br />
Ronnie Adams<br />
Frank <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_46">Cocuzza</span><br />
Bob Ruggiero<br />
John <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_47">Firuta</span><br />
John <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_48">deGrazio</span><br />
Richard <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_49">Giessuebel</span><br />
Bob <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_50">Gundaker</span><br />
Walter Peters<br />
Don <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_51">Harmatuck</span><br />
Steve <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_52">Braccioforte</span><br />
Norman <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_53">Kiken</span><br />
John <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_54">Solewski</span><br />
Alex <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_55">Trento</span><br />
Heinz Newman<br />
Ken <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_56">Sekella</span><br />
Larry <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_57">Perkel</span><br />
George <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_58">Rohowski</span><br />
Bill <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_59">Chisik</span><br />
Brian Doyle<br />
Robert <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_60">Kuldanek</span><br />
Allan <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_61">Meltzer</span><br />
Ron Angelo<br />
Ron <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_62">Bubnowski</span><br />
Jon Frank<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/bzpalqzb3umutr6/IHS%20Torch%20Dec%2059.pdf?dl=0" target="_blank">Here it is: Irvington HS Torch Magazine- 1959</a> <br />
<br />
If you want a pdf version, contact me at jwagner@bethesda20817.net<br />
for more details. I'm pretty sure there's no copyright on this document.Judy Wagnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18349367614167518682noreply@blogger.com