6 Comments

I found them! Well, sort of…

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Elisabeth and Peter Drinkwine

Dear Rosa-

My husband and I went searching in Burlington for your mother’s  marker. I’d seen a picture of the gravestone, so I knew Elizabeth was buried with Peter Drinkwine, her second husband, and their child, Hattie. I knew we were in the right place, but dang it – we just couldn’t seem to find it. While we were there, I thought to search for Elizabeth’s brother, Newell and their father, Louis.

Nope, came up with nothing.

So, I zipped down to the French Canadian Genealogy Society to search their records.  The gentleman in charge was so very  helpful.

“There he is!” I think the man lost some hearing in his right ear. “Louis Blain, my great-great grandfather!”

He smiled and turned the page. “This is his wife’s marker in Burlington.”

“But he’s not there.” My hopes were dashed in an instant.

He looked at me with such knowing eyes. “Was he married twice?”

“Yup, his first wife died. Louis remarried when he was 74.”

“Then he would be buried with his first wife.”

Mystery solved. Louis rests in peace next to Mary Bourdeau, I believe in Massachusetts or New York.

And Newell? His wife, Mathilda, died when she was young and he never remarried. I’ll find him when I find her.

So, Rosa, I come back to your mother. She was too stinking young when she married John Drinkwine (she was barely 16), he was too stinking old  (40 years her senior) and he had too many stinking kids (he had 9 before, then 9 more with her). I wonder- what does it say that Elizabeth is buried with her second husband, Peter?

I say, “Good for you, Elizabeth!”

14 Comments

Oh, that little devil…

civilwarmon.

Dear Rosa,

I love a mystery. I don’t write them, I solve them. Yup, you can call me “Detective Sue” – or some other cool moniker like “Cookie”. I had wondered why your grandfather, Louis Blair, would show up in Civil War records as Enos Blais and now I have a pretty good hunch.

He was a jumper.

Shhh – don’t tell anyone.  Jumpers were shot when they got caught.

Let me explain…

The Union sought out and paid bounties to Canadians to fight on their side. Many of these fellows weren’t naturalized and even lived in Canada (the Union recruiters went their to seek them out). They were paid $300 for their service to the Good Old US of A.  I don’t know the numbers, but quite a few of these fellows quickly learned a neat little trick. Sign up in New York, get paid, then scram, only to sign up in Massachusetts under a different name.

Thus, Enos Blais.

If you’re wondering how I made the jump from Louis Blair to Enos Blais – I’ll tell you, all the details of this Enos, from age to children to place of birth line up exactly with Louis Blair (Maybe I should start calling him Louis Blain – because that is his real name!).

So Rosa, there you have it. Your Grandfather was a crafty fellow. I wonder if any of his sons did the same thing?

We are a smart lot, us Blains-

We know how to make money.

4 Comments

two worlds divided by a simple road…

Dear Rosa,

Well, I’ve joined an on-line historical fiction writers critique group- wow, is that a mouthful – and what a watershed moment for this old gal. Chapter One of “The Guardian” has been critiqued by 7 people! And what wonderful, insightful things they’ve had to say. It’s a slow process to re-write, but one I’ve been digging into with gusto.

Which brings me back to the odd name for this post.

I was in Burlington on Saturday, searching for my great-great grandmother’s marker and what a revelation I had.

I knew from recent research that the Irish and French did not mix in Burlington (a driving factor for the plot of my book). Even the Irish and French Catholics did not share the same church. This fact was driven home when I stood on a small road separating a very large cemetery.

On my left were the Irish… the Mulligans and Fitzpatricks, Nolans and O’Sullivans. We saw maybe two French names…

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photo credit: Susan Bahr, 2013

…and some very spectacular Celtic crosses.

On the right side, was the French. Pepins and Desotells, Beaupres and Boivin. I saw one Irish name, but didn’t find her, my Elizabeth. I know she’s there, buried alongside her husband, Peter and daughter, Hattie, so  I’ll keep searching.

It’s poignant, I think, and very telling that even in death, these two cultures  retained their separate identities.

A simple road separates them…

It might as well be an ocean.

4 Comments

two sweet little awards for Rosa…

I want to say a heartfelt thank you to http://genealogylady.net for nominating little Rosa for the versatile blogger award – and Kristi at  http://dressedtoquill.wordpress.com for the … versatile blogger award! Please swing by and check out their sites – you’ll be glad you did.

Well, as wordpress has decided that I can’t visit some of you – including genealogy lady (I can’t even leave a comment. Would you all please tell this wonderful lady I said THANK YOU!) – I am forced to accept this award as I see fit. And so, because I feel like it (insert evil villain’s laughter here), I am going to nominate but one blogger.

Laura over at http://lauraryanfedelia.wordpress.com

Today is a special day for that sweet and amazing lady. Today she launches her book “The Box”. I can’t be with her as life has intervened and screwed everything up – but I thought it might be nice to highlight her brand new blog and ask you all to shoot over there and send her a quick “hello” and “best wishes” and such.

As to listing a bunch of things about myself? In keeping with breaking all the rest of the rules, I shall break this one, too and tell you only one thing:

I love chocolate (shhh, it’s a secret). So there you have it- my life summed up in three pathetic words!

I wish for all of you a wonderful day, full of hope and love and all good things.

Cheers-

Sue

16 Comments

Grammy’s house

When I began this blog, so many months ago, I never expected the fresh grief or the healing it would bring. Each memory brought both joy and melancholy as I revisited my childhood days. Of hooligans and shenanigans and Uncles that would sit in their rocking chairs and the sweet sound of my grandmother’s whistle as she did her choirs…

Of all these posts, only one hit me so hard I had to recall, and make it private. I thought to share it with you, as I’m ready to move on. It’s called “Grammy’s house.”

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gramhouse

Dear Rosa,

So I’m writing this while the feelings are fresh and please forgive me if its raw and unfinished. Please forgive me if I don’t edit – it’s a bit difficult to see through the tears.

I  sought Gram’s old house on Summer Street today.

What do you think, Pop, there’s a car in the driveway – can I could drop by for a quick visit? Somehow I hoped he say no. It’d been over 30 years since I last stepped into that house…

It would be best if I came with you, Suss, my dad said with such sad and gentle eyes, the new gal knows who I am – I helped her after Hurricane Irene flooded the place.

We walked down the road, moving at a slow pace, although my breathing came hard. Everything in the neighborhood had changed and yet in a strange way, it remained the same. There at the bottom of the hill was Mrs. Cannon’s house – my other great-grandmother. And there, across the street and right next to Gram’s was the Clough’s place.

Scott’s dead now, Dad said.  Hit a tree trying to avoid a deer.

I thought of Scotty, his soft blonde hair and shy smile – frozen forever in my memory as a young boy. No one would’ve guessed from his adventuresome nature and passion for kickball that he had no future…

We turned the corner onto Summer Street. I watched my father climb the front steps and knock on the door.

This is my daughter, he said as way of introduction, she grew up here, this was her Grammy’s place.

The woman seemed to understand right away. Of course, she smiled and welcomed us in.

Damn. Gram would’ve been pissed.

What was I thinking? That it would all be as she left it? That nothing would’ve changed? That 30 years of floods and countless owners would have kept it intact? And just why was I driven to see it today when I’d hadn’t stepped foot in it since she died?

Her beloved cookstove was gone, the pantry too. They’d even moved the stinkin shed that Marty Dyer, her boarder, used to keep all of his stuff. The floods had taken everything too many times to count. 1927, 1978 and 2011 were bad years for Gram’s house. Even the walls were different.

I felt her though, an echo of her presence.

I merely had to close my eyes to picture the countless scenes… of Gram in her rocker near the woodstove and all of us huddled around watching the tiny black and white tv as Richard Nixon resigned from the White House… Gram whistling the weirdest, saddest song while she cleaned her goldfish tank… Gram hauling her old ringer washer out and ramming her sheets through and me giggling when they came out flat as a pancake.

And I watched my dad as he looked around and wondered:  just how in hell did he do it? How did he not sink into despair when he saw how much had changed? This was his home, not mine – his memories of a childhood gone.

I see my father in a different light now. Courage and strength and by the grace of God he continues on and marks the passage of time. Imagine, to be the last of eight kids, carrying the memories of a lifetime that is no more, walking with courage and dignity into a house cherished by his beloved mother…

I rail against time and it’s cold, cruel nature. I hate that I’ve opened these memories and allowed fresh grief to thrive. I miss these people, Clarence, Lilah, Gram and Hiram. I miss the Sunday afternoons, the conversations, smell of fresh coffee from the bubbling percolator and the taste of her chocolate cake. I miss the life I once had and can never have again.

My daughter brought comfort in the form of a hug. It’s good, she said, that the house is cared for, that the person who lives there has made it their own. Your gram would’ve wanted that.

And damned if she isn’t right.

4 Comments

this is for you, Elizabeth McGuinness…

And so, seeing as St. Patty’s Day has rolled around and once again my home will be transformed into all things Irish, I thought it appropriate to share a wee bit of the comings and goings…

No, I’m not Irish. Not a lick, not even my little toe. But my husband, you see, the man I married over 20 years ago, well – he is.

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And yes, he has startling blue eyes…

Now, onto his mom, or mammy as they seem to say in Ireland. Elizabeth McGuinness.

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Seems she would send her son a card each year, filled with really bad jokes and $5 to have a Guinness on her. I met her only once before she died. She was a woman who loved to laugh. And to that end, I thought I’d share one of my all time favorite Irish jokes. Be warned, it wouldn’t be proper Irish fun without a bit o’ cursing.

This is for you, Elizabeth McGuinness…

A French, Italian and Irishman walked into a pub and ordered a pint of ale. The barkeep serves them up and three little flies promptly land, plop, plop, plop, one in each of their frothy brew.

The Frenchman looks at the fly with disgust, shoves his pint back to the barkeep and demands a new glass.

The Italian simply picks out the fly, flicks it away and begins drinking.

The Irish watches the fly, swimming around in his beloved pint. Finally, he can take no more. He grabs the fly by its tiny wings, gives it a shake and cries, “Spit it out, you thieving bastard!”

To end this short missive, I would bid all of you who are Irish and even those who aren’t, a Happy St. Patrick’s Day. May you share laughter and a  good meal. May you always be surrounded by love.

Sue

12 Comments

Hey Old Scout…

Dear Rosa,

If you met Martin Dyer, he would’ve been a boy. I only knew him as an old man with long white hair.

We called him “Marty” and he’d greet us each day with a wave and his signature call… “Hey old scout!”

Marty rented a room from my gram and a barn from Mrs. Duprey that lived just next door. He drove an El Camino two miles an hour from one house to another. So slow, you could walk and get there faster. Later, long after Marty had passed from this world, I pointed at an El Camino and noted how it was an “old man’s car.” My husband laughed and told me they were one of the fastest cars on the road.

Fast. Really? Who knew…

Marty ate lunch at Grams. Each day she would lay out 8 pieces of white bread, slathered with butter and a bowl of soup or such. The man was huge. I asked him one day, how he could eat so much. He just winked and smiled. “Gotta stay strong for hunting.”

Ah, yes, hunting. My dad says Marty lived for that.

Marty towered over my gram, but she never took lip from him. She was “Mrs. Ferry” even though he was older. She’d wag a little finger at him and say “don’t get fresh” if he tried to call her Mary.  He knew where the line was and he never dared to cross it.

He was no relation – I never felt compelled to call him uncle – but it seems important somehow, that others know that he lived and laughed and had a purpose. So maybe just for today, when you greet someone, a stranger even, give them a large wave and Marty’s hello…

“Hey old scout!”

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