Ghosts and Graveyards in the News now available.

Ghosts and Graveyards is now available at Amazon in both Kindle and paperback formats.

The Kindle version is 99 cents through October 13. Click here to buy the Kindle book.

The paperback version is $4.99. Click here to buy the paperback.

Chickens, Ghosts, and Marriage

CHICKENS IN THE NEWS did well as a free book earlier this month—made it to number 1 in the free humor and entertainment category and to number 4 in the free history category. If you got a free copy and enjoyed it, please leave a review at Amazon. Thanks!

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I've been hard at work (after a week of having fun playing tourist and geocaching with a friend who came to visit) on GHOSTS AND GRAVEYARDS IN THE NEWS and hope to have it published by October 1. The cover has a new font called EVIL OF FRANKENSTEIN that is free for commercial use. Isn't that a great name for a font? And it is a perfect font for this cover. I've provided a link in case you are in need of a spooky font.

 

I'm pretty sure the Kindle version will be available by October 1 and the paperback version will follow soon.

Here is one of my favorite stories from GHOSTS AND GRAVEYARDS:

SPITE AND VENOM. Spite and venom are not always buried with the dead and for this reason a censor of gravestones is employed in a big London cemetery. He has had to stop many gross libels on the living that people proposed to put on the stones. Not long since the wife and friends of a tolerably well known jockey wanted to have the dead man’s saddle, whip and cap laid in a cover over his grave. On the grave of a man killed in an accident the relations gravely contested his right to stop an inscription which said, “Murdered by His Masters.” Sometimes, at their own wish, those who pay for gravestones and monuments induce the stone cutter they employ to endeavor to smuggle inscriptions through, but he exercises the most rigid scrutiny. Cases have been known where sunk letters have been filled with putty or cement, with a view of this being quietly picked out afterward, when the letters would, of course, show. One of the coolest proposals was that made by the heir of a manufacturer of sweets. The deceased man made a special kind of butterscotch and the heir proposed that small packets of this should be placed on the grave daily for the refection of visitors to the cemetery. —The Valentine Democrat (Valentine, Nebraska), April 30, 1896. 

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MARRIAGE IN THE NEWS is also almost ready to go and will also be published in Kindle and paperback versions.

Old photos of couples married 50 years.

 

This page will be part of the MARRIAGES book due out soon. All of the pictures are from old newspapers and all these couples are mentioned in the book.

Three stories about men.

This man, from an 1870 newspaper ad, doesn't look like he would be at all afraid of a milliner's shop.

The husband of the future: The model husband walks out with his wife on a week day and is not afraid of a milliner’s shop. He even has change when asked for it and never alludes to it afterward. He is not above carrying a large bundle or umbrella or even holding the baby in his lap in an omnibus. He runs on first to knock at the door when it is raining. He gets outside if the cab is full. He goes to bed first in cold weather. He gets up at night to rock the cradle or answer the door bell. He believes in hysterics and is melted instantly by a tear. He patches up a quarrel with a velvet glove and drives away the sulks with a trip to Central Park. He never flies out about his buttons nor brings home friends to supper. He respects the curtains and never smokes in the house. He never invades the kitchen and would no more think of “blowing up” at any of the servants than of ordering dinner. He is innocent of a latch key. He lets the family go out of town once every year while he remains at home with one knife and fork, sits on a brown Holland chair, sleeps on a curtain-less bed, and has a char woman to wait on him. He is very easy and affectionate, remembering the wedding anniversary regularly. The Holmes County Republican, (Millersburg, Ohio] September 8, 1870.
 

The well-dressed man in 1910.

Mr. and Mrs. F.F. Bartels of Eldorado, Kansas, celebrated their sixtieth wedding anniversary on July 15, 1920. Both Mr. and Mrs. Bartels do the cooking and housework and Mr. Bartels has a fine garden as well as many beautiful flowers. They have eight children who were all present to celebrate this occasion. There were also eight grandchildren and two great grandchildren present at this occasion. 

They have one son, deceased, who died in a hospital in St. Louis after an operation in 1910.

A bountiful dinner was served to the family at two o’clock and in the evening about one hundred friends of the family gather on the lawn which was lighted with electric lights. The Liberal Democrat, (Liberal, Kansas) July 29, 1920.

 

The well dressed man in 1921.

And one last story for today - this one about a dead man:

In the English court of appeal has just been concluded a remarkable trial in which the question at issue was: Can a dead man be divorced by law? Under the English law a decree nisi for divorce is granted and the divorce is not completed until six months afterwards. In the case in point the nisi decree was made and the husband died before the six months had been expired. The question was whether his relict was a widow or a divorced wife and on the decision hung the distribution of a considerable amount of property. The court decided that a decree nisi was not a dissolution of the marriage and that consequently the man was not divorced at the time of his death. It would therefore necessarily follow that he could not be divorced after death any more than he could be married or condemned.

None will question the propriety of the law here laid down but how much better it would be if men and women did not rush rashly into matrimony! The society-breaking divorce courts would be unnecessary and marriage would be elevated in dignity from its present fallen state. If divorces were not so easily procured, husbands and wives would bear with one another’s failings and not blazon to the world the shameful story of their misdeeds that are rendered necessary to secure legal separation. The Lancaster Daily Intelligencer, (Lancaster, Pennsylvania) April 10, 1886.

New Book Coming Soon.

This is the cover for my next book. What's neat about it is that the couple on the cover are celebrating their 60th anniversary—the year was 1910—and they are Galen's great grandparents. They almost made it to 75 years.

This was another fun book for me to compile. As always, I love the strange and funny stories but I also enjoyed the historical stories of newlywed couples who came here from other countries or loaded up a wagon and headed west. Like this one:

Papers full of domestic scandals. Statisticians pouring forth awful figures about the increase of divorce. Theorists gloomily announcing the downfall of the American home. Children with from two to four sets of parents. Plenty of such things. But let’s tell a story that’s different.

Fifty years ago a young fellow named Eph Hastings married a comely girl in the little town of Keokuk, Iowa. Of a $500,000 pearl necklace, tapestries, silverware, automobiles, banknotes and things like that they hadn’t much but they had courage and each other’s hearts, and you may be sure that there’s not much “water” in that sort of stock when love’s merger is successfully promoted.

Well, Eph and his young wife turned their backs on Keokuk society and, with their little all of worldly goods, joined a mule train to cross the great plains to the land where the setting sun paints glory on land and sea and in its rising from behind majestic mountains makes praise of God spring from the heart of man.

Then, for weeks and weeks the train crept across prairie and desert, through the cold shadows of valleys that cleft the mountains, across streams too deep to wade. Water was scarce very often, too. Food sometimes ran low. And at night the wolves howled while campfires on distant hills made the women and children crowd close to the men who sat with men with loaded guns on their knees. Indians butchered men, women and children of a train that was following them. Two days later came news that Indians had knifed, scalped, and horribly tortured to the last human being a big train that was ahead of them.

One evening Buffalo Jim, notorious as the most bloodthirsty chief of all Indians, visited their camp. All the people of the train prayed that night and Eph sat with one arm around his bride and the other around his rifle for Buffalo Jim meant horrible death. But something pleased Jim and there was no massacre and so through more hardships and terrors the train went creeping into the west and it was altogether such a honeymoon trip for Eph and his wife as few couples ever pass through.

What a freak this thing named love is! Often it seems to refuse to live with people who have everything. Then again, it forever abides with and grows strong and everlasting with couples who have little, who go through hardships, misery, terrors and even shame together and is, in joy and sorrow, in pleasure and pain, in success and defeat, up to—nay, beyond—the very doors of death the glory of glories of human life.

But we mustn’t leave Eph honeymooning out back there in that mule train. We’re going to life him out of that mule train fifty years forward, fifty years of loyalty, struggle and triumph over the trials of life. At San Diego last Christmas day, Mr. Eph Hastings and the wife who crossed the plains with him celebrated their golden wedding anniversary. He was very gray and bewhiskered but still sturdy. She couldn’t hide all her wrinkles but her face was still round and sweet, and in her eyes was the light of Christmas 1861. Yes sir, they stood up before Rev. C.J. Harris and were married all over again before a crowd of children and grandchildren. Eph took the dear old lady in his arms, kissed her and swore to cherish and protect her until death. It was just beautiful. And the light on their faces proved that there are such things as loyalty and love that do not die. The Chicago Day Book, January 2, 1912.

An interesting but far less ornate wedding.

During medieval times a woman who had nothing when she was married escaped responsibility for her debts. Women were then often married in a single garment to relieve themselves of indebtedness. A young and noble German lady of the sixteenth century, to make assurance doubly sure, had the marriage ceremony performed while she was standing in a closet entirely divested of clothing. She put out her hand through the crack of the door and was thus married. As soon as the ceremony was performed the groom, clergyman and witnesses left the room. The bride then came out arrayed in clothes provided by her husband and took her place at the marriage feast. The Western Kansas World, (WaKeeney, Kansas) October 14, 1893.

An unusual marriage!

Galen and I celebrated our 50th wedding anniversary with both a trip to Colorado Springs and a party here. We may continue to celebrate all year. :-)

I've been back at "work" (really way more like play) on an anniversary book but there are some marriages and divorces too impressive not to be included. This one, from an 1891 newspaper is one of them.

This is an example of the henna hand painting referred to in this article from ArtIsFun.com. It is an art form that is still pursued today. Now, on to the article:

It was evening when we started off to a Moorish wedding, one of the most interesting sights of Morocco. We found our way to a low, whitewashed house, which the ladies of the party entered. The gentlemen had to remain outside as no man is permitted to look on a Moorish lady. We found ourselves in a short passage leading into the “patio,” a square hall around which the rooms are built. The patio was crowded with women squatting on the floor, some sipping tea and eating sweet cakes; others (the paid musicians) sing in a low, nasal chant to the accompaniment of tom-toms.
 

Passing through these we came into the room where the bride sat in state. The atmosphere was stifling. She was surrounded by lady friends and relatives, many of whom held long lighted candles. The room was long and narrow. Its ceiling was painted in brilliant colors and the whitewashed walls for about six feet were hung with a handsome dado of crimson velvet in panels, each panel being a Moorish arch appliqué in green broche with gold embroidery. Behind white lace curtains at each end of the room stood a bed with pillows encased in Moorish embroidery on silk, a valence of the same reaching to the ground.
 

On one of these beds sat the bride, tailor fashion, with a veil of checked musline entirely enveloping her. This was presently raised and disclosed the lady to our view. She was a girl of fourteen and, being very fat, was considered a beauty. To be fat is considered a woman’s greatest attraction. Indeed, when nearing a marriageable age it is common for girls to lie for weeks covered with warm blankets, passing their time in dozing and feeding on a fattening diet of milk, “boos koosoo” (the native dish), oil, peas, or a certain bean supposed to be infallible as a fat producer.

Her face presented the most extraordinary appearance, being painted white with a delicate pattern in pale blue, yellow, and black on a three cornered patch of crimson on each cheek and chin. The eyebrows were indicated by a thin line of dense black and from the corners of the eyes, which were blackened, extended a fan shaped design in black to the top of the ears. The tips of her fingers and toes were dyed terra cotta with henna. Aysha (so she was called) was clad in a gorgeous kaftan of red silk and gold brocade, embroidered in gold and reaching to her ankles. Her undergarments were pure colored brocade and her waistcoat green velvet and gold. Over the kaftan hung a light gauze garment, open down the front and confined by a band of gold and silk in many colors.
 

Her headdress was composed of silk handkerchiefs pinned around so as to show a narrow edge of each on the forehead. Above these came a band of black velvet with a close design of seed pearls and emeralds. Her neck was encircled by many necklaces, principally strings of pearls, with occasional uncut emeralds and amethysts. She further wore a number of rings and bracelets and anklets of a costly but clumsy description. The most remarkable piece of jewelry was the earrings, which were as large as an ordinary bracelet, the part going through the ear being a tube of gold quite half an inch in diameter. The girls accustom their ears to this by pressing date stones through the hole. At the front of the earrings was an ornament of gold filigree and precious stones, to which was attached a gold chain fastened by a brooch to the headdress. Her outfit was completed by a pair of velvet and gold slippers.
While we were gazing at her we heard a cry in the patio, which was quickly taken up by the women in the bridal chamber. The bridal veil was immediately dropped and the women assumed their helks, a long, white woolen shawl. The reason for this commotions was the entrance of Aysha’s brother, a tall Moor in a dark blue cloth djellabea and white turban. He seated himself on the bed in front of his sister and she, putting her arms around his neck, was carried pickaback into the patio. Here the women were congregated around a curious wooden box swathed in bridal clothes. At one side was an opening where the Moor knelt. The bride climbed over his head and into the box. Draperies were dropped over the opening and Aysha, in her cage, was hoisted on a mule at the door of the house.
 

The procession then formed up, the musicians playing drums and leading the way followed by Moors carrying brass candelabras with colored candles. Then came the bride’s box, surrounded by twenty or thirty Riffians doing a wild, fantastic “powder play” with their long brass or silver mounted guns. Then more candles and a long array of friends. In this way is the bride borne to her husband’s home, no matter how far it may be.
 

Then the box is lifted down to the threshold and the bridegroom’s mother comes with a bowl of milk a loaf of bread and salt for the bride to taste. The keys are the delivered to her and with the old lady, keeping in front the box, the bride crawls out, crawls on to her mother-in-law’s back and is carried to the bridal chamber, there, still veiled, to be locked in alone. The mother then delivers the key to the room to her son, who goes to unveil and look for the first time on his bride.—From the London Graphic and printed in The Rock Island Daily Argus, November 11, 1891.

Isn't "pickyback" a great word?

I am grateful I was married in the USA in 1966.  :-)

50th wedding anniversary

Galen and I will be celebrating our fiftieth wedding anniversary next week and that inspired me to learn how couples in the past celebrated their anniversaries. I went to chroniclingamerica.com and did a "wedding anniversary" search.  The result yielded over 2,000 pages with 20 newspapers per page. 

This shows part of one of the 2,000 plus pages.

So far I have gone through 27 of the search pages and typed up 32 pages of interesting anniversary stories. I don't know yet if I'll have enough for a whole book but can add a section on marriages if needed. I also plan to include our story and a few photos.

Things noted so far:

There are an amazing number of golden wedding anniversaries listed in the old newspapers, far more than I expected. And some couples were married over sixty years.

Most of the golden wedding anniversary couples have been active and involved and continue to be "well preserved" for such old people.

Nearly all of the couples have lost at least one child. It was not uncommon to print the number of children the couple had and how many were still living.

They look crabby in the newspaper photos. I will include some of them in the book.

Some took incredible risks and moved west. Some lived their whole married lives in one place—something I just can't imagine.

A surprising number of couples were married on the husband's birthday. We were married on Galen's birthday.

Their idea of informal is quite different than mine. Here is an article I typed up today:

A delightful informal reception was given last night by Mr. and Mrs. Arthur in honor of their fifteenth wedding anniversary.
   Rev. B.F. Coulter, who performed the marriage ceremony was among the guests.
   In the dining room, where refreshments were served, a huge basket filled with white bride roses and maidenhair ferns stood on a large mirror in the center of the table. At each plate was a pretty floral design with the wedding date and 1906 inscribed. A canopy of ferns was suspended over the table and diamond dust was sprinkled on everything. In the drawing room the receiving party stood under a large white floral bell with the wedding dates inscribed on it, and this was hung from a thick canopy of ferns and smilax. Touches of scarlet were skillfully arranged among the banks of papyrus and bamboo in the reception hall and den, and yellow chrysanthemums decorated the library. De Nublia’s orchestra gave a program of music during the afternoon. Los Angeles Herald, December 2, 1906.

We are planning to wear jeans and tennies and serve pizza and birthday cake at our anniversary gathering. Our jam group will provide music.  :-) 

Stay tuned for more anniversary stories.

CHICKENS is now available in the Kindle Store.

TEXAS+CHICAGO+OREGON+VERMONT+CHICKENS+TEXAS+CHICAGO+OREGON+VERMONT+CHICKENS

Galen and I gave a program for the United Methodist Women in the San Luis Valley last Saturday. We read a couple of the stories from my books, played some music, and talked about publishing. We'd never done a program like this before and really enjoyed it. I printed out the above poster to pass around during the talk. KENTUCKY CLIPPINGS isn't actually published yet but is well on the way.


The Kindle version of Chickens in the News is live! The paperback is also available here.

There is one impressive story the didn't make it into the CHICKENS book — Mike the headless chicken. True Story. Mike lived in Fruita, Colorado, without a head, for 18 months in the 1940s. I Googled ""headless chicken" and looked at pictures. Ewww! Kind of gross. Want to know more? Check out this PBS video. I am okay with not having this story in my book. :-)

Shameful neglect

I have shamefully neglected this blog for quite a while now and it is time to rectify that because I am about to publish my first paperback! I received a proof of CHICKENS IN THE NEWS today, five days before I expected it. This is what the front cover looks like:

Obviously, this is not a scholarly work but it sure was a fun project that is historical, at times hysterical, and sometimes both at the same time. Who knew chickens could be newsworthy? Did you know the rooster was once the emblem of the Democratic party? Or that there was a supreme court case about chickens? Or that a man and his rooster and hens were all arrested and taken to jail for making too much noise? Or that a shark broke into a hen house? Or that a very well-known minister of his day preached a very long [and drastically edited by me] sermon about chickens?

A Kindle version for $1.99 and the paperback for $4.99 should be available at Amazon by the end of the month—June 2016. I will post here when the books go live.

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A Kindle countdown for TEXAS CLIPPINGS begins on June 30—99 cents for five days. 

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Research and typing for another new book, KENTUCKY CLIPPINGS, is in the first proofreading stage and will be published in both Kindle and paperback versions this summer.

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I have been learning and learning and learning new software, SCRIVENER, so I could publish paperbacks. Scrivener is wonderful but is a bear to learn, in part because different people have different ways of doing things and all the ways are right. I have read it is perfectly normal to want to tear your hair out when you first begin using this powerful writer's software, but more and more of it makes sense to me now and I am glad I put in the effort to learn as much as I have so far. I first tried finding my way around SCRIVENER with TEXAS CLIPPINGS and quickly decided that it was not a good idea to begin that particular process with a 300+ page book so CHICKENS gets to be my first paperback.

Proofreading

Proofreading is hard and this article from an 1885 Kentucky newspaper makes me feel a little better about the typos I miss.

Painstaking people, who know next to nothing of printing, finding a special delight in searching out typographic errors in newspapers, periodicals and books, the detection of a blunder, in their own estimation, putting a premium on individual intelligence—conferring a privilege of disparaging printers. Men of intelligence who write well but not legibly never tire of pointing out mistakes of printers and the oversights of proofreaders. These self-constituted censors of typography may find food for wholesome reflection in the fact that just about one hundred years ago a number of professors in the Edinburg University undertook the publication of a book which should be a perfect specimen of typographical accuracy. Every conceivable precaution was taken to prevent errors of the types. Six experienced proof readers were employed who devoted hours to the reading of each page. After their careful task was completed, each page was posted in the hall of the University with a notification that £50 would be paid to any person who should succeed in discovering an error. Every page remained thus publicly exposed for for two weeks before being returned to the printing office. The projectors of the work felt confident that the object so diligently striven for had been attained. Great was the discomfiture of the learned men when, on the work being issued, several errors were found, one occurring in the first line of the first page.

Kentucky 1885

Now that VERMONT CLIPPINGS has been completed, I have been "visiting" Maysville, Kentucky via the 1885 Evening Bulletin. Here are a few excerpts:

Erie, Pa.—Mayor Adams has a novel application to open his term with. David Gutenkunst, a saloon keeper, is an applicant for the post of police chief, candidly stating that he has no personal detective ability but that his recently married wife is a medium able to detect burglars and recover stolen property by looking in a glass of water. Fearing the mayor would not appoint his wife to the post, Gutenkunst asked it for himself but will let his wife run the business.

Wichita, Kansas.—The new liquor law has closed, to all appearances, every saloon in this city but as anyone can get all the liquor he wants at drug stores by stating he desires liquor for medical purposes, many of the saloon men have started drug stores and a doing a very thriving business.

The postal letter carriers at Salt Lake City are having a unique experience. On account of the late polygamy arrests all the Mormons have been severely warned against talking to strangers and giving their names or residences. The carriers in their rounds knock at doors and a scurry ensues inside. A child answers the door. It is asked who lives there and it often refuses to tell. It does not know the names of the neighbors, or where its father and mother are to be found. The uniform is a sign of the enemy and no information is to be had.

Pittsburg.—Thomas Carney relates a strange tale in the divorce proceedings now pending against his wife, Mary. She was passionately fond of baseball and went to see all the games. She became so absorbed in the sport last summer that she neglected her children. At length she got to betting. The Alleghenys seemed to possess some attraction for her and her money was always put on that club. As they were nearly always beaten the husband testified that this business became rather expensive. When he suggested to her that she should stay at home with the babies she told him to hire a domestic. Carney finally left his wife and the last he heard of her she was desirous of joining a woman’s baseball club.

Roller skating was in the news all the time. New rinks were being built. There were strange contests at the rinks—the longest necktie and the longest apron were two of them. Sounds a bit dangerous to me. Doctors proclaimed skating was bad for the ankles. Some ministers declared skating evil while others found it preferable to dancing. Laws were passed to keep kids out of rinks during school hours.

When lawyers fail to take a fee,
And juries never disagree;
When politicians are content,
And landlords don’t collect their rent’
When naughty children all die young,
And girls are born without a tongue’
When preachers cut their sermons short,
And all folks to the church resort;
When back subscribers all have paid,
And editors have fortunes made;
Such happiness will sure portend
This world must soon come to an end.

It is beginning to feel like spring in Colorado but just to remind myself that winter may not be over, here is another weather related story:

Portland, Ore., Jan. 7, 1885.—It has been snowing out this way lately. If anyone doubts it let him ask the officers of the Oregon railway and navigation company. He may get an answer that will make him think that he has been struck by an avalanche.

On December 16, a passenger train left here over that road. It got as far east as Booneville, about forty miles. It has been there packed in the snow for twenty days. Doubts are expressed whether the train will get out from the thirty foot drifts before spring, for at present the company seems to be largely dependent upon Providence for the clearing of its buried track. It has not the machinery necessary to fight drifting snow.

The Northern Pacific forces uncovered the track for about 100 miles on the west end of the road and from the east to within about twenty-five miles of the imprisoned cars. The O.R.&N., however, has failed to keep the track clear behind the excavators and in consequence the Northern Pacific snow plows and shovelers are likely to get snowed in.

A hundred and fifty men from the Puget Sound division of the Northern Pacific are now at work behind the blockaded train. A hundred of them shovel and operate the machinery and the rest cut wood for the engines and for the open fires that are necessary to protect the men while they work.

The impression is growing that the O.R.&N. road will not be open for regular travel again this winter unless there is a radical change in the weather or the experienced eastern men of the Northern Pacific, who are accustomed to dealing with snow in its worst shade in Minnesota, Dakota and Montana get charge of the work. So far this winter the Northern Pacific has not been obstructed a day.

Fortunately, the number of people on the unfortunate train is not large, only about twenty-five. Food has been regularly and abundantly sent to them. They have also been supplied with fuel cut from the surrounding forests.

The blockade is considered unprecedented in the history of American railroading. For twenty days a great trunk line has been blocked and all direct communication between Portland and the east shut off. Travelers and the mails now have to go by sea to San Francisco, a by no means pleasant journey at this season, and thence east over the Central Pacific.

Brrrrr!

It was -17 when we got up this morning.  We couldn't see the mountains for three days because of the clouds and snow but the sun is back and the snow-capped mountains are beautiful. The snow on the ground means the earth won't have a chance to warm up and our temperatures will remain chilly.  Could have been worse.  This could have started last November or December.

Here is a story about the cold from a Minnesota newspaper that I ran across while looking for something else. You may want to grab a cup of hot chocolate before you read it.

TRAGEDY OF A GLACIER
How One of the Victims Came to Have Two Funerals

In the cemetery at Goschenen in Switzerland a strange burial took place at the end of the nineteenth century.  The coffin, a small one, decently and decorously consigned to earth, contained part of a human leg, a boot, some shreds of clothing and 1 franc, 50 centimes of Swiss money. The unusual ceremony was the concluding chapter of a sad history that began on the Rhone glacier eighteen years before.

In the summer of 1882 the burgomaster of Goschenen and two friends undertook the ascent of the glacier.  All three lost their lives and the bodies were found a week later frozen stiff. That of the burgomaster was stuck fast in a crevasse and in dragging it forth the frozen right leg broke off like a snapped icicle and fell into the blue depths of the fissure.  The poor mutilated body was laid away in the cemetery with every hope, for the mayor had been greatly loved and respected in his little community.

The peasants say “Seven years the glacier grows, seven years she melts,” and in melting she honestly brings to the mouth of her river all that has fallen down her icy blue throat—a belief that, although partly fanciful, contains much that is true. By this strange operation of nature the leg of the mayor of Goschenen came to light after eighteen years. The boot was still on the foot; some rags of clothing clung to the leg; even the trifling sum of money in the unfortunate man’s trousers pocket was honestly returned by the glacier, which keeps nothing not its own.

After eighteen years the leg was buried beside its master. The tragic pathos of its recovery robbed the occurrence of all absurdity.

From the Princeton Union, Princeton, Minnesota

Old Newspaper Christmas Ads

A BAH! HUMBUG! from the Chicago Daybook Nov 1914

December 22, 1888

December 16, 1910

December 21, 1890

December 21, 1905

November 4, 1918

November 26, 1916

November 28, 1919

Winter 1884

I've neglected the blog for several weeks while catching up on non-book related activities.  We put up a tree for the first time in more than a decade, got our Christmas newsletter ready, cooked a Thanksgiving dinner for ten all by myself (something else I have not done in many years) and enjoyed the lovely fall weather.  But the high here yesterday was 32 so I am inspired to stay inside by the wood stove and get back to work on VERMONT CLIPPINGS.  Here are a few clippings from December 1884.

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The relatives of Carrie J. Welton, a Waterbury, Conn., girl, who was frozen to death on Pike’s Peak, have determined to contest her will on the ground of mental unsoundness.  [Author’s Note:  The relatives lost.  Carrie lived for a while in Colorado Springs. It was there she discovered a love for climbing mountains and she was one of the first women to climb several of the higher peaks in the area.  She was stranded by a snowstorm on Long’s Peak, not Pike’s Peak, and was the first fatality on that peak. In her will she left $7000 for a statue of her horse, Knight, to be placed on Waterbury Green and $100,000 to the ASPCA.]

Lake Champlain is frozen over from Whitehall to Port Henry.  There is good skating at Rouses Point.

The choirs are busily practicing Christmas music.

A regular old-fashioned snow storm, Wednesday afternoon and evening, giving excellent sleighing.  The thermometer descended to 22 degrees below zero downtown and 26 on the hill, Saturday morning.  Through the day the mercury steadily rose and Sunday morning it was 20 above zero.

Some rules for winter:  Never lean with the back upon anything that is cold.

Never take warm drinks and then immediately go out in the cold.

Keep the back, especially between the shoulder blades, well covered; also, the chest well protected.

In sleeping in a cold room establish the habit of breathing through the nose and never with the mouth open.

Never go to bed with cold feet.

Never omit regular bathing.  The cold will close the pores and favor congestion or other diseases.

Merely warm the back by the fire only until it has become comfortably warm.  To do otherwise is debilitating.

Never stand still in cold weather and always avoid standing on ice or snow or where exposed to a cold wind.

Ghost stories

It's been a good week.  We had a wonderful time, and perfect weather, at a party for the refurbishing of a 103 year old barn that was about to fall down that belongs to a friend of ours.  Lots of people came and our group, The Company of Friends, played music.  It was so much fun, it may become an annual event.

I have changed the title of COFFIN WAR to TEXAS CLIPPINGS.  While I was making changes anyway, I fixed a few typos and cleaned up some of the formatting, and updated the information about the book.  When I checked this morning everything had been updated but the cover, which takes a bit longer for Amazon to update.

OREGON CLIPPINGS is just about ready to go.  My plan is to bundle all three books at a reduced price in time for Christmas presents for the people who are hard to buy for that won't even require postage or a trip to the post office.

Enough babbling.  Because it is so close to Halloween, I have found ghost stories in a 1906 New York newspaper that had nothing to do with Halloween.  The story was in a May issue of the paper. It was a long article so I didn't type up the whole thing but here are four stories for your spooky pleasure.

GHOST CLIPPINGS

New York Tribune, May 6, 1906 - Image 31

True Ghost Stories
By Robert Leffingwell

Old fashioned ghost stories nearly always used to have a queer setting.  They were generally laid in the dark, in strange scenes, in out-of-the way places where witnesses were impossible.  The very conditions made the role of the skeptic easy.  But here are stories of ghosts seen under commonplace, every day surroundings and told in a plain, matter of fact way that carries conviction.  Two of these ghosts were seen in full light, and all the tales are corroborated by others than the narrators, which makes it impracticable to laugh them out of court.
    There is always something hard to shake off about the ghost story, it is so old and so universal.  Our ancestors, as far back as one cares to go, had ghosts.  They were, so to speak, part of the household furniture, like the woman in the organ builder’s story which follows, and were handed down with the rest of the heirlooms.
    There are many good old houses in England where there have been family ghosts for generations–regular visitants, to be taken for granted just as the secret staircase, the ruined moat, and the family portraits.  The same thing is true in less degree in New England.  There are old Salem and Boston houses that have their ghosts, which time cannot lay; but in their appointed seasons they walk, and may still be seen upon their way.
    A little while ago science was going to explain or expel the ghosts.  But they are still here.  They have even grown more apparent.  Instead of vanishing, they have come into clearer light, and soon we may be writing their biographies.  It is, in fact, from the data collected by scientists and skeptics, that these stories are taken.  The narrators tell the tales in their own words.
 
A British Army Officer’s Story:
“About Christmas time some years ago, being officer on duty, I was seated at the mess table at Aldershot.  There were ten or twelve other officers present and among them John, Atkinson, the surgeon major of the regiment, who sat on my right but at the end of the table farthest from me and next to Russell.  I was sitting at the end of the table and directly facing the window.
     At about eight forty-five P.M. Atkinson suddenly glared at the window at his right, thereby attracting the notice of Russell, who, seizing his arm, said: ‘Good gracious, doctor!  What’s the matter with you?’
     This caused me to look in the direction in which I saw Atkinson looking, at the window opposite, and I there saw (for the curtains were looped up, although the room was lighted by a powerful central gaslight in the roof and by candles on the tables) a young woman in what appeared to be a soiled or somewhat worn bridal dress, walk or glide slowly past the window from east to west.  She was about at the center of the window when I observed her and outside the window.  No person could have actually been in the position where she appeared, as the window in question is about thirty feet above the ground.”
 
The second story has an almost epic simplicity and an unstudied pathos:  A little boy in a Yorkshire town lay sick unto death.  His mother had died some years before.  Beside him watched his elder sister and a friend of his mother.  The friend distinctly saw the mother come and stoop over the boy caressingly.  Next day the boy died.  When the sister and the friend were laying him out, the latter said to the former: 
  “I had a singular experience in this room last night.”
  “Yes, I know,” replied the sister.  “You saw mother.  I saw her, too.  She came over and kissed Hughey.”

The Malignant Head:
One wonders what explanation could be offered for the apparent malignity behind this appearance.
  “It was in the morning of a day in the spring of 1875 that I saw the head, which was afterward seen by another member of our family.  I had been sent out of the room for someone, and as I looked up to call them, I saw the most horrible head looking over the balusters at me.  It was the face of a man but the hair was long, like a woman’s.  The parchment-like skin was drawn closely over the face and gave a skull-like look to it.  The mouth, full of great teeth, was twisted in a horrid leer but what frightened me most was the expression of the eyes, they were so light and full of the most wicked cruelty, as if they had existed for the sole purpose of trying to terrify a little child, such as I was then.  I had a great feeling of indignation in my heart, as I stood for what seemed ages to me, looking at it for I could not draw my eyes away.  Then I went quietly back to the room I had come from and, being proud and sensitive, never told anyone a word about it for many years.”
  The mystery is only made the deeper by the corroboration of the girl’s sister who saw the strange portent five years later.
  “One evening, about nine o’clock, in the late autumn of 1880, as I was running upstairs, I paused at the foot of the top flight and looked up prior to calling to my sister, who I thought was in her bedroom.  To my horror, I saw in the darkness, leaning over the balusters skirting the landing above me, a head silhouetted against a window.  It was a most sinister head with a covering of shaggy hair.  I particularly noticed the eyes, which were light and evil, also the mouth, which was distorted with a leer which seemed to me the essence of malignity.  It was looking wickedly at me but I did not wait for it to speak for I was so frightened that I turned on my heels and ran away.”

This experience, related by a man of much experience of life, is interesting as one of many in which dogs have a part:
  “I went to bed about ten-thirty and shortly afterward was sound asleep.  In the night I heard loud talking in the room but at first did not open my eyes.  As the talking continued, I looked up and distinctly saw an old lady standing at the foot of the bed gazing intently at me.  After watching her for sometime, I reached out my hand to the matchbox to strike a light but as soon as I moved my hand toward the matches I saw the face getting more indistinct.  I therefore drew back my hand and watched the figure getting more and more dim, till it suddenly vanished.  Then a curious happened.  Outside the house and within ten yards of the bedroom window I had two kennels in which a bulldog and a fox terrier were chained.  The moment the figure vanished these two dogs began to bark furiously and seemed terribly excited, as if they were trying to get at someone.”

Some Unanswered Questions
What is to be thought of these records?  The explanation eludes our minds as the ghost eludes the grasp.
  “Why,” the reader will ask, “do apparitions so often appear at or near the time and place where death is coming?  Do spirits revisit the scenes of their own most memorable experiences in the flesh?  Are there malignant as well as benevolent visitants from the other world?  Does an unhappy or unhallowed end make a ghost walk?”
  He who asks such questions must as yet go unanswered.  They have baffled all inquirers.  The stories here collected may throw some little light upon the matter but like all other ghost stories they throw us back upon Hamlet’s reflection when he looked upon his father’s spirit:  “There are more things in Heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

Meow

I came across this heartwarming story about a mother cat and her kitten this morning in a November 1884 Vermont newspaper.  There were no black cat stories in the October 31, issue of the paper.  In fact, there wasn't a single word written about Halloween, so we'll have to make do without a spooky black cat story.

There were three cats in a Williams street family and the lady of the house concluded that one was sufficient to do all the business and an edict of death was passed on the old cat and her kitten.  The question of the manner of death was settled and the chloroform purchased.  Days passed after the chloroform was in the house before the executioner could muster courage to execute the sentence.  To facilitate matters the lady thought that some laudanum, added to the cat’s milk, would make chloroforming more easy.  The drug was put in the milk and tendered the old cat.  She tasted the food, cast her eyes suspiciously about her and refused to eat.  The kitten rushed to the dish to partake of the milk and was violently knocked away by the old cat, who took a corner of a mat and covered over the dish to hide it from the kitten and prevent her from taking the “medicine.”  The lady could not believe it possible that the act was intentional on the part of the cat, and uncovered the dish and again tendered the milk to her.  She again knocked the kitten from the dish and covered it over more carefully than before.  This repetition of the protective act gained the good will of the lady and she gave up killing the cats.  She cannot satisfy her mind, however, whether the action of the cat was prompted by instinct or reason.–Norwich Bulletin.

proantitransubstantiationableness

OREGON CLIPPINGS is getting closer and closer to being published so here are clippings from OREGON CLIPPINGS about words.  The last clipping is more about names than words but I needed to include at least one funny clipping.

This graphic is from Pixabay.com

 The longest word in the English language is “proantitransubstantiationableness,” a jointed word of 33 letters.  “Transubstantiationableness” is the next longest.

Herr Polack, a well-known engineer and electrician, has discovered, says the Vienna correspondent of the London Chronicle, a means of telegraphing 60,000 words per hour over a single wire.

E.D. Halloway has been telegraph operator at Pasco for 10 years without a vacation, and has sent an average of 100 telegrams a day during that time.

Among all the European languages the English is the richest so far as the number of words is concerned, and it is also the one which has added to its vocabulary the largest number of words within the last half century.  The latest English dictionaries contain not less than 260,000 different words.  Next in rank comes the German language, with 80,000 words, and then come in succession the Italian, with 35,000, the French with 30,000, and the Spanish with 20,000 words.  Among the oriental languages the Arabic is the most copious, its vocabulary being even richer than that of the English language.  In the Chinese languages there are 10,000 syllables or roots, out of which it is possible to frame 49,000 words.  Another notable language is the old Indian Tamil, which is now spoken in the south of India, and which contains, according to the latest calculation, 67,642 words.  In the Turkish language there are 22,530 words.  A singular fact is that aborigines, as a rule, have very limited vocabularies.  The Kaffirs of South Africa have at their disposal not more than 8,000 words, and the natives of Australia use only 2,000 words.

There is a fashion in language, as there is in dress and in customs.  One year “only cads ride bicycles,” and the next year society sanctions the use of the wheel by members of the Four Hundred.  Croquet goes out and tennis comes in, to be succeeded in popular favor in its turn by golf.  So it is with our written and printed speech.  A chance use of a word or the coining of a happy phrase is followed by the adoption and constant iteration of the favorite expression until the monotony of it grows wearisome.  Unlike a fashion in dress, the new phrases are not discarded.  We get accustomed to them and use them still, and we use also the new forms of speech to express other ideas.  No one nowadays speaks of a tendency; it is always a “trend.”  Ten years ago “trend” was a fad-word.  Now it has quite superseded the use of the older and more accurate word.  There were “combines” and “deals” before those words were invented, and there was no difficulty about expressing the ideas without them.  We may call this era the Reign of the Intensive Adverb.  A plain, simple, unattended verb is becoming unusual.  Does any man complain?  He is sure to “complain bitterly.”  He is also “bitterly disappointed,” although his feeling of disappointment may be momentary.  No one in this age fails without failing “utterly.”  These adverbs are additions to the old stock of awfullies, fearfullies, totallies, completelies and the like, which came in with the last generation.  When all the superlatives are used up, where will the word-makers go to find forms of expression when strong and comprehensive words are required?  [Author’s note:  The Four Hundred were the social elite of New York City in the late 19th century.  Four hundred is supposedly the number of people Mrs. William Backhouse Astor, Jr.'s ballroom could accommodate.]

A couple named Newton Lord and Jennie Helper were married in an eastern Kentucky town some days ago and the editor of the local paper was almost clubbed to death by the indignant groom because he made use of the heading, “Lord–Helper.”

An Eccentric Penny Pincher

We visited family in Loveland, CO, over the weekend.  Drove through Rocky Mountain National Park on the way there and got caught for an hour in a traffic jam on I-25.  The golden aspens in the mountains are beautiful and we had a wonderful visit with Jason, Val and Shep.

Yesterday we went to Salida and had a picnic in the park by the river.  We bought a Shipwreck sandwich at Sweeties in downtown Salida and will be stopping there again.

So, I've been off having a wonderful time instead of tending to my blog but winter will be here soon and we need to take advantage of these perfect days.  There is already snow on some of the 14,000+' peaks to remind us these days are numbered.

Today's story is from the 1884 Burlington FREE PRESS newspaper and is about some serious penny pinching.  Enjoy.

“Brunswick” writes from the Boston Sunday Gazette: I think that there can be but the one opinion of Mr. Ben Richardson, late of One Hundred and Twenty-fifth street, Harlem.  If he is not an eccentric, then no one is.  For a number of years Mr. Richardson has occupied a frame house set back from the sidewalk, and labelled in bold letters “Lincoln Cottage.”  The front yard is filled with chickens, which roost at night upon the most convenient, as well as most conspicuous thing in the yard, the State Coach, late property of His Excellency President George Washington. Though little more than a wreck today, one can still see the remains of grandeur in its gilded ornaments and crimson panels. 
    Those who saw the last Evacuation day procession in this city will remember this coach, which formed an interesting feature of the parade.  From the two small windows under the roof of the cottage the mouths of cannon are projected.  One window is named Fort Sumter and the other Fort Lincoln.  Peeping down the front chimney is the effigy of a chimney sweep, life size, which stands there in all winds and weathers.  The outside of Lincoln Cottage is a fair index of what may be found within.  There is nothing new in the house.  Its owner has a passion for relics, and especially for anything connected with Washington or Lincoln.  He has a number of suits of clothes that were once worn by these historic Presidents, and no end of walking sticks upon which they have leaned.  Some of his relics are of considerable value; others are simply rubbish.  But of all the curious things in Lincoln Cottage, perhaps the most novel is this manifesto, printed in bold letters, which hangs in a frame over the parlor door.  It reads, as near as I can remember, as follows, with the exception of the woman’s name:

THIS IS TO CERTIFY THAT AMELIA BROWN IS MY HOUSEKEEPER
AND NOTHING MORE; AND THAT SHE NEVER HAS HELD ANY
OTHER RELATION TO ME, AND HAS NO CLAIM UPON MY PROPERTY,
AND NEED MAKE NONE AFTER MY DEATH.––BENJ. RICHARDSON

   This must be pleasant reading for Amelia Brown, who passes under it a dozen times a day.
   Benjamin Richardson is a man somewhere between 60 and 70 years of age, who dresses like a tramp, and wears a beard – or did until within the past few weeks – that reached from his chin to his feet.  He did not display this unpleasant appendage on all occasions but buttoned it under his coat, leaving an ordinary amount on the outside.  If you should happen to meet Mr. Richardson standing on the corner of a street, cooling his grizzled locks by holding his hat in his hand, you would, if charitably inclined, be sure to drop a penny into it.  If you did, you would be carrying coals to Newcastle.  Mr. Benjamin Richardson is worth, in round numbers, $8,500,000!  All well invested, too, some in solid railroad bonds, some in California vineyards, and the rest, where he made it, in Harlem real estate.
  Richardson began his career, as did his townsman, John Kelly, as a grate setter.  He had a frugal turn of mind and spent all the time not engaged in grate setting picking up bricks in vacant lots or from among such ruins as might be found about the vicinity of New York.  These he used in his business; and by such practices of economy he got a little money ahead, with which he bought lots in Harlem, then the remote suburbs of the city.  Every dollar he made he shrewdly invested in this manner, until he was the largest real estate owner in the now flourishing annexation.  Of course, the value of his property quadrupled and more.  Then he turned his attention to California, where he has several prosperous vineyards and makes quantities of wine.
    Notwithstanding his wealth, Old Ben, as his neighbors call him, practices the same economies resorted to in those days when he gathered bricks to set grates.  He has been married and has a granddaughter living with him.  His son left home long ago because he didn’t care to follow the occupation insisted upon by his father, that of a nail gatherer.  His father made him knock the nails out of all the old boards he could find along the streets, bring them home, and spend his leisure in hammering them straight.  This did not seem to the son a very useful of remunerative profession, so he said, “good morning” to his father, and one day went forth to seek his fortune in some more promising channel.  The old man took up the nail gathering business himself, to which he adds his old trade of brick collecting.
    It would be impossible to imagine anyone practicing more rigid economies than this millionaire. One evening a friend of mine was at his house, and the granddaughter came into the parlor to light the gas. One burner was lighted, but for some reason it was necessary to have more light, and she scratched a match for lighting purposes. The head broke off, and she took another. Old Ben heaved a sigh.  “Is this all you have learned with my careful upbringing – to take two matches too light two burners? Why didn't you light the broken stem in the gas and use that? Such waste!  Such waste!” he said, with a melancholy shake of the head.
    A short time ago it occurred to Mr. Richardson that the place he was occupying is too valuable for living purposes, so he concluded to rent it. He did not intend, however, that any real estate dealer should make anything out of the transaction, so he fastened little signs all over the outside of the house, and even tied them to the shrubbery. “This place for rent; inquire within.” Finally an inquirer applied within, and the lease was made out.  Lincoln College will henceforth be a summer garden for the sale of beer and the performance of a wheezy orchestra. So Old Ben spiked his guns, packed his relics, and wheeled Washington’s State Coach down to an equally dilapidated old house, with more grounds around it, at the foot of 128th street, on the East river.  But I have not told you the most singular thing about Mr. Richardson.  He has founded and pays for the entire running expenses of a School of Mines in a Western State, where any one desiring to be educated for an engineer may get his education free.