I was working on my family’s photographs when I came across a picture of my father taken in 1953. In the photograph, my father was wearing a (for him) very bold coat. This coat was not the usual plain conservative look that I was use to seeing on my father. I can’t help but wonder if he picked it out for himself or if it was bought for him. I had never seen this picture before, as it was part of an extensive collection of old photographs that my sister entrusted to my care. I searched through the collection and found many more pictures of my father in this coat. I found a color photo of him in the coat. It was a very colorful coat. Unfortunately, he was mostly obscured in the picture, so I could not use it in this blog.
My Parents, Veronica (Deloria) and Charles Moore. That’s me in front. Moore Family Picture.
One of the main reasons that the task of organizing my family photographs is going so slowly is that just one picture can send me off in many different directions. This picture is no different. This picture reminded me of the Nehru shirts that were very popular in the 1960s. I really liked the style of these shirts. During the summer, I worked full-time at a department store. It so happened that the men’s wear department had racks and racks of Nehru shirts in every color and design. I purchased about six of these shirts to wear when I went back to school in the fall. I wish to be clear here: they were bought with my money, earned from my job. In fact, I bought all of my clothes with the money I earned. Soon it was the first day of school, and I had my Nehru shirt all picked out to wear. However, at the last moment, I decided to wear just a plain button shirt. While at school, I remember searching for anyone wearing a Nehru shirt and finding none. In fact, I searched for weeks, and not one Nehru shirt was found. As time passed, the Nehru shirts slowly made their way to the back of my closet, never to be worn. I guess I didn’t dare to start the trend in my school.
AI-generated art. Nehru Shirts. I really liked these shirts.
However, my daughter may take after her grandfather in her tendency to wear things not in the mainstream. My wife made a quilted jacket from many bold colors for my daughter. In truth, I thought it was a big mistake and that she would never wear it. It was unlike anything people in her age group were wearing. In fact, it was not being worn by any age group. But once more, I was wrong about clothing. My daughter loved the jacket and wore it until it was threadbare and outgrown. It was always easy to pick her out in a crowd when she was wearing that jacket. My daughter saw something she liked and was not concerned about what others thought when she was wearing it. That was something I was not able to do. She still does not know the story of those Nehru shirts. But I thought about them often when I saw her in that jacket. I am still disappointed in myself for not wearing those shirts.
My daughter Pam is rocking her coat of many colors. Picture taken at school. Moore Family Picture.
So, this was another adventure in working on the family photographs. They hold so many stories just waiting to be told. So yes, it does take me a long time to go through them and organize them. But they hold so many memories and stories, it is well worth the time and effort.
AI-generated art. This style wasn’t for my small New York town of under 20,000 people.
Every Christmas brings back certain memories. Some pleasant, some not. I suspect that all of us have them every Christmas or on certain holidays; they come forward and revisit us. One of my more pleasant Christmas memories is a gift my Grandmother Pauline Deloria gave me. The gift was given to me in the early 1960s, when I was at most 12 years old, or perhaps as young as 10. Memory fails me here.
Plattsburgh Press Republican Dec. 19, 1960
At this time, all the banks seemed to be advertising their Christmas clubs. For those not familiar, they were savings accounts you put a fixed amount in weekly for 52 weeks, and the bank would send you a check for the amount you saved in time to use for Christmas. I have not seen these savings plans offered in a long time. But once they were very popular.
AI-generated art
When it came time to unwrap my grandmother’s gift, the package was very small and thin. I had no idea what it was and, believe me, I made many guesses. However, upon unwrapping the gift, I discovered I had not even been close: it was a bank book with my name inside. This was for a Christmas savings club for twenty-five cents a week—yes, believe me, they had them that small. Best of all, a twenty-five-cent deposit was already entered. How I wished I still had that bank book.
The deposits were to be made to the Champlain Valley Federal Savings and Loan Association, whose main branch was in downtown Plattsburgh, an easy walk for me to do my banking business, as I was allowed to walk downtown. In those days, we walked all over town; Plattsburgh is a small city of about 19,000 people. Each time I visited the bank, I remember feeling very important. Getting your bank book stamped with your latest deposit and new balance was a nice, grown-up feeling. As far as I knew, none of my friends had their own bank book.
The Champlain Valley Federal Savings and Loan Association. Downtown Plattsburgh.
I wish I could say I made a deposit every week, but I didn’t. To get the money, I had to earn it. My parents did not give me an allowance for chores around the house. That was part of your normal responsibilities, and you were not paid for it. You had to work and earn it some other way. For example, in the winter, I would shovel sidewalks. But the pay was low, and the work was hard. First, you had to do your own sidewalk before you could go door to door to find work. By then, you had a lot of competition going around trying to get the same jobs as you. I can recall that at times I would shovel the sidewalk, driveway, and a path to the burning barrel and earn a quarter for my efforts. After a day of that kind of labor, you owed yourself a trip to the corner store for a soda and a few comic books. Also, I was and still am a big movie buff, so I had to put money aside for a trip to the Strand theater. If I recall right, tickets for a child were about twenty-five cents.
AI-generated art
However, I did make it to the bank at least 20 times, as I had a balance of over $5 when it was time for the bank to issue my check. According to the inflation calculator, $5 in 1963 is like $52 today. While I would have liked to have deposited the full amount, I was still very happy with my fortune. Although I can’t recall exactly what I bought for everyone that Christmas, I do know the presents were bought with my own money, and I remember how good that made me feel.
I was to open a Christmas club every year all the way through high school. Some years I did better than others, but I was always thankful for the extra money at Christmas. Today, my bank does not even offer Christmas clubs.
I came into the possession of a seven-page letter written eighty years ago by a U.S. Army mess sergeant stationed in Japan. Sergeant Richard Andrews was very homesick, counting his blessings in a letter home. Richard wrote about the gifts he received from home for Christmas. He was pleased with a letter from his dad, Christmas cards, film for his camera, snacks, and even comic books. The list of these simple presents and the joy they brought him was very touching. It made me realize, once more, that it is not the gift itself, but the joy of giving and the gratitude of receiving that really count. I believe this letter offers a personal glimpse into the daily life and emotional experiences of a WWII soldier, which could resonate with history enthusiasts and family researchers alike.
This was Richard’s high school yearbook picture in 1938. In just four short years, he would find himself in the U.S. Army during World War II.
But the best gift he was about to receive was his discharge from the army. Richard first brings up the subject on page three of his letter. Richard enlisted in the U.S. Army on January 8, 1942, just over four weeks from the Japanese surprise attack on Pearl Harbor. He would end up serving a few days over three years.
Page three of a seven-page letter. At the top of this letter, Richard is still writing about the Christmas gifts he has received. About halfway through this page, he begins talking about coming home. It is very clear that he is looking forward to this very much.
In the letter, Richard also informs us about the Christmas holiday meal that he has prepared. He was very pleased that all the dishes that made up the meal were ready at the same time and were served hot. He told how he personally made 72 dozen rolls and the effort that was needed to get the dough to rise in a kitchen tent that was very cold. They also baked 32 pumpkin pies and 32 mince pies. Not to mention the turkeys and other dinner fixings.
This menu was included along with the letter. Richard’s letter made it very clear that he worked very hard on these meals and was proud of their success.
Once Richard returned home, he worked at Wesleyan University for five years. Then he worked at Colt Industries as a contract administrator. But more importantly, Richard married Thelma Sheehan in February 1945. They were to have two children, one boy and one girl. They lived in the Hartford, Connecticut area for 22 years before his tragic death in 1970.
News article, Hartford Courant, Thursday, November 5, 1970. This was all the information I could find about the accident.
So far, I have not found a home for this letter. I have reached out to people who have this family in their family trees, but have been met with silence or indifference. One person I corresponded with told me that another letter from Richard had been posted on Reddit. I was given the web link and was able to read it. I bought this letter on an online auction for just a few dollars. I believe that a collection of Richard’s World War II letters has been scattered. I will keep this letter for a while longer and hope to find it a proper home with a family or organization dedicated to preserving WWII personal histories, ensuring its story endures for future generations.
A few Thanksgivings ago, I walked into the empty dining room, and the sight of empty chairs instantly made me think of the many people with whom I have shared this holiday who are no longer here. “Old empty chairs are not empty in reality; memories always sit there!” ― Mehmet Murat ildan. Moore family picture, 2015.
I am aware that you could do this about any holiday, but for me, I began thinking about this at Thanksgiving. My thoughts were of the many people with whom I shared this holiday, whom I can now only celebrate in my memory. The truth is, as so many of you know, and if fortune shines on the rest, they will also learn that you will, in time, have more family and friends who have passed away than you will have among the living. They are the ones who gave us our traditions —the blueprints for how to celebrate a holiday —and all those sad, funny, and heartfelt stories that are part of our holidays. Those of us who are the family historians must explore and learn from these holidays, both past and present. If we do not, it would be like failing to explore a gold mine, except this would be one of family history, traditions, folklore, and so much more that could be buried and lost forever.
Our daughter-in-law has hosted Thanksgiving for well over 20 years. In fact, when they had their house built, she made sure the entrance way between the dining room and the formal living room was expanded so the table could be extended well into the so-called formal living room. I say ‘so-called’ because it has had many uses as their family’s needs changed over the years. It is fair to say the house was built for Thanksgiving. I also think it is fair to say that the Thanksgivings celebrated here will echo for generations.
Willis and Pauline Bonnett Deloria. “I loved their home. Everything smelled older, worn but safe; the food aroma had baked itself into the furniture.” — Susan Strasberg. Moore family picture, 1948.
The earliest photograph I have of Thanksgiving was taken in 1948. It is of my grandparents, Willis and Pauline Deloria. It shows some of the humor that has passed down over the years to my present-day Thanksgivings. I remember so many great dinners in this house. I often thought (only to myself) that I would buy this house one day. But life had other plans for me.
Perhaps the most memorable Thanksgiving I can recall was at my grandmother’s house in 1974. It was the only time my wife’s side of the family shared the feast with my side. Also, my wife was pregnant with our first child, and sadly, this was to be my grandmother’s last Thanksgiving. A loss that I still feel to this day. However, it has always made me smile that she was able to meet our firstborn and the newest generation of our family before she passed away.
Starting from the front with their back to the camera and going left. Pauline Deloria, Veronica Moore, Paul Lyon, Doris Lyon, Robert Lyon, Ruby Monty, Darlene Lyon, Charles Moore, and Ronnie Moore. Everyone in this photograph has passed away except for my sister, Ronnie, who is seated to my left. You can just see a little of her face with glasses. “Everyone we love builds a home in our heart. And when they are gone, we spend eternity staring at their empty seat.” — Bindi Irwin. Moore family picture, 1974.
I consider myself lucky to have these ghosts. They are a part of me. In so many ways, they have made me who I am. They have given me so much. They have woven themselves into my very fabric and given me so many lessons and values that at times I see them in my actions and words. The holidays are upon us. I feel sad when people complain about having to attend family gatherings. Sadder yet, when they find ways not to go. I understand that there may be one or more people there whom they strongly dislike. My grandmother once told me that every person has a story of how they got to be as they are now. You should get to know the story. Something we should all do. You may still dislike them, but at least you will have some understanding, and with that understanding, you may enjoy your holiday.
A very recent Thanksgiving picture with a very full table. “We should just be thankful for being together. I think that’s what they mean by Thanksgiving, Charlie Brown.” Moore Family picture, 2024
I will end this blog with a story that has echoed down the generations in our family. At a Thanksgiving feast at my grandmother’s house, while I was still in high school, a family friend was there. The table was piled high with all the food Thanksgiving brings. The friend was asked to say grace. Without hesitation, he offered up this prayer: “Lord, we thank you for this bit. May the next bit be a little bit better.” Without missing a beat, my aunt huffed, “I wonder what he expects for the next bit.” Each year, I remember that laughter and gratitude and the simple moments that bind us across generations. As we gather this Thanksgiving, may your bit be all you wish for—and may the next bit be even better.
A couple of years ago, I was at an event called the “Great Outdoor Garage Sale.” The sale was held on the grounds of the Herkimer County fairgrounds. While I am not sure how many vendors were there, it had to be well over a hundred. They were people who ran antique shops, as well as those who cleaned out their attics and brought their finds to this event. I had been there for several hours and had not found anything I liked or could make a deal on. I was on the verge of leaving when I saw some photographs in a small ziplock bag. The sticker said “Old military photos WW1, $20.00.” The first thing I noticed was that they were from World War Two and that some of the photos had some good notations on the back. I offered ten dollars, and they accepted, and the photographs were mine.
From left to right. Marion Benson, Roy Clinton Rittenhouse, George Marquis, Roland Evert Foreman.
Now, two years later, I have gotten around to researching these photographs. I learned just a little about each of these men. In many ways, they were just like the millions of men who were mobilized for war. Men who would sacrifice perhaps up to five years of their lives to end a terrible threat to peace. Some sadly gave up so much more than a few years. I do not know their war story. But I would like to outline a little about their life.
Roy Clinton Rittenhouse
Roy was born in Keith County, Nebraska, in 1916. Keith County had a population of just over five thousand people in 1916. Roy entered the U.S. Army on August 8, 1941, and served until November 2, 1945. He was a reconnaissance driver. A reconnaissance driver in World War Two had special training and operated specialized vehicles. Their job was to scout ahead of advancing troops and report back. They also attempted to avoid combat as much as possible. After the army, he worked various jobs. He married relatively late in life, at the age of 46. The marriage only lasted ten years. I found no records of direct descendants. Roy died January 6, 1994, in Oshkosh, Nebraska.
The notation on the back reads; “Our theater. This was a U.S.O. show. Can’t remember the cowboy’s name.”
Roland Everett Foreman
Roland was born in 1920 in Easton, Maryland. His parents were Clifford and Mabel Joseph Foreman. Roland had two years of high school and then went to work farming and working at a diner before enlisting in the U.S. Army on January 15, 1942. He was to serve until May 31, 1945. He was married in April 1942, but the marriage did not last. He was married again in 1950, and this union was to last a lifetime, producing seven children. Roland worked various jobs until his death on June 30, 2008.
Marion Edward Benson
Marion was born on July 23, 1917, in Spring Valley, Ohio. Like many of his time, he found work after just one year of high school. Marion was married when he enlisted in the U.S. Army on January 20, 1941. This marriage did not last, as he was later married to Mary Ellen Dunn. This marriage was to produce at least three children. While in the army, Marion came down with Tonsillitis and had to have his Tonsils removed. Marion was in a field artillery, tank destroyer unit. A tank destroyer unit was an artillery unit designed to counter tank formations, characterized by its fast movement. After the war, he worked as a carpenter and tile setter. Marion died January 4, 1998.
George Marquis. The notation on the back reads in part; “Our tent front. Made from bamboo. The sides also of bamboo. We have a baboo floor _ _ like our front. We try to make it as much like home as possible. But a lot of hard work.”
George Grandville Marquis
George was born on September 25, 1917, in Athens, Ohio. George completed three years of high school and went to work in the coal mines. He enlisted in the U.S. Army in January 1941 and was discharged on September 27, 1945. After the army, George held jobs as a truck driver and machinist. Records show that George married June Manoly in 1947 and once again in 1952. Records indicate that in the 1952 marriage, both parties listed a divorce, whereas none was listed in 1947. It appears they divorced and remarried in 1952. I was unable to find more information on George.
It’s hard to uncover even a small part of these men’s stories, but I feel like I’ve gotten to know them a little, and their photos mean more to me now. I know at least two saw combat, and I wouldn’t be surprised if all of them did. I wonder how much of the war stayed with them afterward. Did they keep in touch, or go their separate ways? With Veterans Day coming up, we should remember and thank people like them who have given so much for us, and still do.
I am not sure who is in this picture. I liked this picture because it shows the men at play, and I like baseball.
I have reached out to people on Ancestry who have these men in their family trees. So far, I have heard back from only one person. I hope to find a home for these pictures.
Several weeks ago, I was at an estate sale and noticed a box of photographs. A rapid count showed almost one hundred photos, with less than twenty with any identifying writing on them. After working out a buying price, I found myself in possession of this box of left-behind photographs. Now, I was on the road to rediscover who these people were.
Estate worker Andrea Brindisi holding the box of photograps that inspired this blog post. Andrea was a great help in my obtaining these photographs.
The estate was that of Dr. Robert Ottman, who died in 2022. He had survived his wife, Margaret Roseboom Ottman, who died in October 2018. As far as I am able to research, they had no children I could find. No mention of children was made in either of their short obituaries. Dr. and Mrs. Ottman lived and worked in the Utica, N.Y. area since about 1957 when Dr. Ottman set up his Podiatrist practice there. Dr. Robert Ottman was born in Schenectady, N.Y., in 1931. His parents were Acker Ottman and Ruth E. Brown. Robert was to grow up an only child.
Acker Ottman at 13 months.
Acker Ottman was born in Schenectady, N.Y. in 1904. He graduated from Union College in 1925. He was a member of the tennis team, and the local newspapers covered many of his matches. Acker worked for the New York Telephone Co., which included working out of Utica, N.Y. In 1927, Acker married Ruth Brown. Acker was to die at the young age of 52 in 1956.
Ruth Emerson Brown
Ruth Brown was born in 1907 in Schenectady, N.Y., to her parents, Herbert Brown and Edith Kimball. Herbert Brown was born in Canada and moved to the U.S. with his parents and seven siblings sometime after 1891.
Acker Ottman and Ruth Brown Ottman. Christmas 1931.
Ruth and Acker only had one child, Robert, in 1931. With Robert being an only child and with him not having any children, I was beginning to see why these photographs may have been left behind.
Herbert Brown father of Ruth Brown and brother to Garnett Brown.
As I said, Ruth’s father, Herbert Brown, was born in Canada and moved to the U.S. He married Edith Kimball in 1904. In my research, I have found that they also only had one child, Ruth.
Garnett Brown. Photograph taken sometime before May 1918.
I found a photograph of Garnett Brown, one of Herbert’s many siblings. Garnett was born in Canada like his brother but moved to the United States with the rest of his family. Garnett enlisted in the U.S. Army during the First World War. I found a newspaper that listed 69 names and what happened to them under the headline Casualty List. For Garnett Brown, it stated that he died in an accident. I researched this a little more and found the records that show he was killed in an explosion in France.
A cold typewritten record of a man’s death on a government form. An unfinished life.
According to the above record, Garnett’s mother was the one to receive the awful news. This sad tale’s record is stamped on the back May 15, 1918, just a few days past Mother’s Day. I have found no records of Garnett being married or having children. It is uncertain if his father was alive at the time of his death, so at the very least, his mother had to suffer this great loss.
As I said earlier, it was not long into my research of this family when I realized that one strong reason for the pictures gathering dust was that it appeared that no direct descendants were ever alive to carry on the family lines and history. I sought out family trees posted on ancestry.com but did not find any with direct lines to the people identified in the photographs. I did send out a few inquiries and did get one reply from a distant relative. They made a kind offer to post on their family tree some of the pictures. I am hopeful that perhaps through this blog post, a more direct descendant will make themselves known. I have traced seven family lines back to the early 1800s so that I may get lucky.
In my pre-teens and early teens, I would spend a few days to a week at my Aunt Verna and Uncle Lawrence Cole’s home in Massena, N.Y. Many times, it was just me away from my family for all or part of the visit. My uncle brought me to the local Moose Hall, where he was active. While there, I would play bingo with many people packed into a large room. While I had visions of winning big money, I never came close. Sometimes they would bring me to the St. Lawrence Seaway and watch the ships go through the Eisenhower Lock. Mostly though, I was left on my own. I spent hours walking around the neighborhood, going to the ballfield, and looking into the small stores on Main St. I recall a corner drug store with an excellent selection of paperbacks, and I would spend much time here picking out one to buy and read while I was there. In short, the days were mine to do as I pleased.
On one of these visits, my Aunt Verna fixed lunch and made sandwiches. However, these were not my usual boloney sandwiches but were something called Tuna Fish. This was all new to me, and I was a little taken aback by it. But my aunt convinced me to try one, and oh my, what a great-tasting sandwich. The taste was new to me, and it had a sweetness to it as my aunt mixed in a tiny amount of sweet relish. I soon learned how to make these sandwiches, and Tuna Fish became my all-time favorite sandwich.
My Aunt Verna in the back and my Mother Veronica in front. What a pair!
However, to say my mother was displeased with my newly found taste for Tuna Fish would be an understatement. It was the smell she could not stand. I could be in the kitchen making a Tuna Fish sandwich, and she could be in the far corner of the house, and she could smell the Tuna and would start shouting that I had better clean everything up. The Tuna can had to be washed out, not just rinsed, and every plate and utensil used was thoroughly cleaned. Then hours later, she would complain that she could still smell the Tuna. She would never buy Tuna in her grocery shopping, so I had to buy my own at the corner store. My mother swore her sister introduced me to Tuna Fish to irritate her. Knowing those two, there could be some truth to that. Also, if truth be told, it made me smile at times to hear my mother complain about the smell. Well, no one is perfect.
Grand Union Supermarket Ad. Press – Republican, Plattsburgh N.Y. 12-8-1969. Tuna Ad from my hometown newspaper during the years of the great tuna war with my mother.
I met my wife at a school dance when I was sixteen. It soon became a habit that I would go to her home most Sundays and spend the day. On many of these Sundays, she would fix me lunch. That’s right, she would fix me Tuna Fish sandwiches, but she would add a bowl of Tomato soup. This combo quickly became my new favorite lunch. She would do this all through high school. It wasn’t until years into our marriage that I learned that Tuna was not her favorite sandwich. I never knew. I guess I really had no chance at all.
Six years and many Tuna sandwiches into our marriage, our second child was about to be born. The labor was long and arduous. After 24 hours of, at times, very hard labor pains, everything seemed to settle down and come to a stop. My wife was sent home with strict instructions to try and rest and not to eat anything. However, after 24 hours of labor, my wife was famished and wanted something to eat. She had an intense craving for a Tuna Sub with onions. We were near a Jreck Sub shop that we had visited many times before. She convinced me to stop and let her give in to her cravings. So strong was her argument that I believe if I had not gone, she would have bolted from the car for the sub shop. As hungry as my wife was and despite the speed at which she was eating her sub, the labor pains hit once more before she could finish her sub. They were very hard and close together. We rushed back to the hospital, and it was not long before evidence of her not following the advice of nothing to eat presented itself. I will say this I cannot recommend Tuna with onions. Ever. After about 12 more hours of labor and our second son was born. Like his older brother, he became a fan of Tuna fish sandwiches. My wife has often joked that it took the taste of her forbidden Tuna sub to coax him out.
Jreck Ad from the Post – Standard, Syracuse, N.Y. March 5, 1976. This Ad is from the same year our second son was born.
We were to have three children, two boys, and a girl. The boys do like their Tuna fish sandwiches. For some strange reason, my daughter never developed a taste for Tuna. In fact, she is a little like my mother in not liking the smell or being around when they are made. However, she never approached the extreme level of dislike my mother had. One Sunday a couple of years ago, my oldest son sent me the picture below via Facebook. A Tuna fish lunch on a Sunday afternoon all because a pretty freckled face girl said hello to me at a dance. Or perhaps it was my Aunt Verna’s doing all along.
One Sunday a few years ago my oldest son sent me this picture via face book. He said the following. “Hey dad, every time I have this for lunch on Sunday, I think of you. One of my favorites.” Moore Family Picture.
Family stories can be told in so many ways. Part of mine can be told because of a sandwich.
Today I received notice from WordPress that It has been ten years since I started blogging. Where did the time go? I had thought that by now, I would have written a few hundred blog postings instead of still being south of one hundred. I enjoy researching my family’s history much more than writing about it. Yes, I realize that if I don’t tell the family story, all my research is worth very little. So on that front, I have started a family history book. Well, to be honest, I have started at least five different versions of a family history book.
I have made progress on organizing our family photographs. I am labeling, printing, creating photo books, and place many into albums. In addition, I have started to organize old family letters and papers. Finally, I have gone through my desktop family tree program and have sourced all my records. So at least I have made some progress.
I am re-blogging my first post here on WordPress. I still go to estate sales, as I mentioned in the post below, and yes, I still find unwanted family photographs and history. I hope you enjoy reading it and give it some thought. I am already working on my next new blog post. It is how Tuna fish sandwiches may have played a part in my family’s history.
Hope Cemetery. Waterbury, Vermont. Thorndike Family Grave Markers.
My wife, Sandy, and I like to go to estate sales. We have found many good buys for ourselves by doing this. I am an avid reader and have found many books and old magazines to read that I would never have obtained otherwise. Sandy collects old kitchen gadgets and tools that she displays on a shelf in our kitchen. Nightstands, desks, chests, dishes, jewelry, art, and more have found a place in our homes or our children’s from these estate sales. We have a pleasant time, and watching people haggle over a price can be very entertaining. Yes, I also like to negotiate a little myself. As much fun as an estate sale can be, one thing disturbs me. It seems at every sale, I find family pictures (at times boxes full), letters, scrapbooks of family memories, yearbooks, family bibles, military…
Katie Bonnett Frye. 1874 – 1909 Photograph courtesy of Mary Patterson.
Katie Bonnett was a young woman of 18 years when she fell in love with Fred Frye, who was 11 years her senior when they married in 1893. It was the first marriage for both. Six years later, they welcome their daughter Luella into the world. Then in 1907, another daughter, Esther, made her appearance. The 1900 U.S. Federal Census shows Fred’s occupation as a farmer. It also indicates Fred’s widowed mother living with them in a house that Katie and Fred owned. According to family lore, Katie was an intelligent and very pretty woman. The newspapers of the day were sprinkled with society news about the Frye’s many family events. However, events were to take a very dark turn.
One of the many sensationalized headlines that appeared concerning the murder of Katie Frye. This was from the St. Johnsbury Caledonian, dated September 29, 1909.
Reading the various newspaper accounts to learn the relationship between Katie and Abel Hartshorn precisely has been hard to determine. Whether Katie was having an affair with Able or he was making overtures that at first were tolerated or entirely unwelcome is most likely never to be known. But what is certain is Abel Hartshorn, who was 25 years older than Katie, had a very unhealthy interest in her. It ended in a deadly real-life shoot-out in the Frye family kitchen.
Not more than a week or two before the shooting, events were put in place that started a deadly chain of events. Apparently, Abel had showered Katie with gifts for perhaps as long as a year which reportedly included a horse and carriage. Abel, who also had a wife and family, began to pressure Katie to run away with him. At this point, Katie became alarmed and informed her husband. At this time, Fred had Katie return all the gifts that Abel had given her. Fred also consulted an attorney and brought a suit against Hartshorn for alienating his wife’s affection. When Hartshorn was served with the papers, he reportedly became enraged and threatened to kill Katie.
The facts of the shooting are challenging to put together. Still, from newspaper reporting and the inquest held by county officials, the following is the closest we can get to them. Soon after Katie’s husband left with their oldest child, Luella, age ten, Abel entered the house through the kitchen. It is believed that he was waiting for Mr. Frye to leave before he took action. Upon seeing Abel enter, Katie ran to the living room, where a pistol was on the mantel. It was placed there if Abel tried to make good on his threats. At the same time, Abel had his weapon out and pointed at Ray Taylor, a 15-year-old boy who did chores on the farm. Able told the boy to leave at once. Ray refused. At this point, Katie reentered the kitchen and was immediately shot. The shot shattered Katie’s jaw. Ray retrieved Katie’s pistol and engaged Abel. Ray fired three shots; one grazed Abel’s cheek. One Skimmed the top of his head, and the third shot went through his left arm into his body. Abel was to get off at least two more shots, one of which was the shot that killed Katie. Ray, at this point, grabbed Esther, the Frye’s two-year-old daughter, and ran, carrying her to a neighbor’s home and summoning help. While Ray was getting the baby to safety, Abel left the Frye’s home, went a short distance to a stone wall, climbed over to the other side, and sat down. At this point, he drank some poison and then shot himself.
Mrs. Mary (Abel) Hartshorn was to remain at the family home for most of her life. From the St. Johnsbury Caledonian, September 29, 1909.
Now it was left for the people left behind to somehow deal with the trauma of this event and how to best carry on in their own lives. Mrs. Mary Hartshorn, the 58-year-old wife of Abel, was one of those people. Mary was to stay on and operate the family farm for many years. The 1910 U.S. census shows her running the farm while caring for her 91-year-old father-in-law. She was to live there until she moved in with one of her sons three years before she died in 1931 at age 80.
Ray Taylor, who did his very best to try and defend Katie Frye and managed to get little Esther to safety, was to live to the ripe old age of 88. He was a farmer for most of his life, retiring in 1976 at 82. Unfortunately, I was not able to confirm any more facts about Ray.
Fred Frye’s tragic death as reported in; The Portsmouth, New Hampshire. November 7, 1925.
Fred Frye, Katie’s husband, was never to remarry. He was left to raise his daughters and provide for them the best he could. I am sure very few days passed without reliving the heartbreaking events that shattered his family. He would be a laborer or farmer for the rest of his life. In 1921 he saw the marriage of his eldest child Luella. At the time of his death, Esther was still living at home and in high school. Fred was to die in 1925 in a fire at 62.
Ester Frye’s obituary. Caledonian – Record. St. Johnsbury, Vermont. October 26, 1970
Esther Frye, The youngest child who was carried to safety by Ray Taylor the day her mother died, was never to marry. She was to hold office jobs throughout her life. Her positions were listed as a clerk, bookkeeper, and, perhaps at the time of her death, an insurance agent. Esther was 63 at the time of her death in 1970. All I could find was a short death notice to sum up, her life. She lived in the same locality all of her life. With the murder of her mother and the death of her father trying to save her horse in a barn fire, I can’t help but wonder how these tragedies affected her during her lifetime. She had lost her parents in separate horrid events, all before she finished high school.
Luella’s Wedding announcement. St. Johnsbury Republican. June 16, 1921
Luella Frye, who was ten years old at the time of her mother’s death, was to live to what appears to be a full life. Luella married Arthur Clary, a veteran of World War 1. They were married in 1921 and had a son and a daughter. At different times in her life, she was a housemother at Castleton State College and Champlain College. She also served as a guide at the Shelburne Museum. Luella was 78 years old at the time of her death in 1978. Among the survivors listed in her obituary were six grandchildren and a great-grandson.
I want to thank Mary Patterson, who gave me so much information on this branch of the Bonnett family. She contacted me after reading my blog post on the daring Professor Bonnett, a brother to Katie Bonnett. As a result, I plan to do a few more posts about the Bonnett family. This proves that you never know what you will find when doing family research. But the best part is when you meet great people like Mary who share the joy of family history.
I have been reviewing the numerous photographs which were given to me on a thumb drive. The photographs are of people on my wife’s maternal side of the family. They were given to me by Carl Gonya, who has for years studied that side of the family. I am having many printed and also working to organize them into a photobook that I hope to get printed. The book will cover ancestors from my side and my wife’s side of the family. By doing this, the pictures will be on a printed page and identified as to who they are. I thought I would share a few of these pictures with you. I selected these particular pictures because, for the most part, they were all in uniform.
This is believed to be a photograph of Patrick Hart in his Civil War Zouave uniform. Patrick married Hannah Ladd and is the father of Lottie. The picture was taken about 1863. Moore family photograph. From the collection of Carl Gonya.
I will start with our mystery man. Carl told me that it is believed that the above picture is of Patrick Hart (Hunt?). Patrick would be my wife’s 2nd great-grandfather. On September 11, 1863, Patrick married Hannah Sanford Ladd. She was the daughter of Ulysses and Electa Hazen Ladd, who had, according to family lore, very strong objections to the marriage. Patrick and Hannah had one daughter then it seems he disappeared from the family. It is believed he joined the Union Army perhaps in a Zouave regiment if that is him in the picture. Hannah went back to using her maiden name Ladd for the rest of her life. One story about Patrick was that he died on the USS Maine when it exploded in Havana Harbor, which sparked the Spanish-American War. However, this story was easy to disprove. I have spent many hours hunting for Patrick to learn his story. So far, I have no real hard facts about him, but the search will continue. With more and more records being placed on the internet and opened for public view, my big break may be just around the corner
This is a photograph of Edward Monty Kirkpatrick taken about 1900. Moore family photograph. From the collection of Carl Gonya.
The above photograph is that of Edward Monty Kirkpatrick, my wife’s first cousin twice removed. The picture was taken sometime after January 1899, when Edward first made the rank of corporal. One of his duties during World War 1 was guarding New York City’s water supply. Edward spent 38 years in the service of his country and rose to the rank of Lieutenant. His service was a combination of active and reserve duty. He retired from the military in 1936. He also worked for the National Biscuit Company of New York for many years as director of security. Edward died in 1979 at 102 years old. The beautiful woman pictured below is Edward’s daughter Muriel Kirkpatrick MacPherson
Muriel Kirkpatrick MacPherson This photograph is a publicity shot from the Today show on NBC in the 1950s. Moore family photograph. From the collection of Carl Gonya.
Muriel was the NBC weatherperson for the Today Show in the 1950s. This may explain why my wife is always studying a weather map, but I doubt that is the case. Muriel was to show she had talents well beyond reading the weather. She was to receive a Masters Degree in English from Fairleigh Dickerson University. Muriel put that degree to good use as an adjunct professor of English at Fairleigh Dickerson and William Patterson University before retiring in 1986. Muriel’s marriage lasted 52 years, ending with her death at 83 years of age in 2008. It is not every day you find a television personality from a major show in the family.
Luman Holcomb in his World War 1 S.A.T.C. uniform, most likely taken in 1918. Moore family photograph. From the collection of Carl Gonya.
The picture above is Luman C Holcomb Jr. in the uniform he wore during World War 1. Luman is my wife’s second cousin, and I have already written about his father, Dr. Holcomb, in a previous blog. Luman Jr. was a letter carrier for 40 years before his retirement. During World War 1 Luman was in the Student Army Training Corps (S.A.T.C.) at Norwich University, in Vermont. The S.A.T.C. was formed to educate student draftees in various trades and skills needed for the war effort. The military and the individual colleges jointly ran the program. Luman was inducted on October 23, 1918, and was discharged on December 12, 1918.
This is a photograph of Glenn Kirk Otis in his World War 1 army uniform. Moore family photograph. From the collection of Carl Gonya.
The photograph above is of Glenn (Glenwald) Kirk Otis, in his World War 1 uniform. Glenn was to see action in the Signal Corps unit of the Seventh Division. My wife’s first cousin, twice removed, was to die at an early age of 52 after suffering a heart attack. He still put in 30 years working for the D&H Railroad as a telegrapher then later as a train dispatcher. His son Glenn Kay Otis was picked from the ranks to attend the United States Military Academy, WestPoint, from which he graduated in 1953. He had a 42-year career in the army and rose to the rank of General.
These are just a very few of the photographs I have yet to go through and study. Most of us have family photographs just waiting to be appreciated. Take some time to rediscover their story and record it so it will become part of your family’s history.
Moore Genealogy 