Saturday, July 6, 2019

Excerpt: The Death of John Morris, July 6, 1892

9 A.M.  Wednesday, July 6, 1892

(Emlyn, Gywn and other striking workers behind ramparts on the roof of the Pump House overlooking the barges the Pinkertons were fighting from. The scene, including some of the dialogue, is based on eyewitness accounts.)

Contemporary illustration of the battle.

"Go ahead, be a pig-head,"  Duncan told Emlyn. "Just stay out of the way." He held out a pair of field glasses. "Here. If you're not going to stop the Pinkertons, you can at least keep an eye on them for us."

[Union leader] O'Donnell and some other men had finally persuaded the women in the open mill yard to leave. Now men only were positioned on the bank overlooking the river, waiting and watching. A supply of ammunition had been brought to the men on the ramparts from a hardware store on the Avenue. They were stocked up, ready to fight.

With Gwyn beside him, Emlyn trained the binoculars on the Iron Mountain. He had been watching for over an hour, but there had been no movement. He was beginning to hope that the violence had ended. Suddenly, at the bow of the Iron Mountain, armed men emerged.

"Gwyn," Emlyn said, his heart sinking. "I think they're coming off the barge."

"They're disembarking!" Smith exclaimed.

Through the glasses, Emlyn saw the Pinkertons start down the gangplank. A second later, someone fired a round at the Iron Mountain. Return rifle fire erupted from the barge.

"Get them!" screamed Duncan. "Get those scoundrels!"

The strikers pointed their rifles through openings in the breastworks. Gunfire from the barges was answered by volleys from the strikers. Taking fire all around them, the Pinkertons scrambled to get back inside the barge. The tattoo of gunshots rippled back and forth across the bank accompanied by the metallic thudding of bullets striking the ramparts.

Emlyn ducked down behind the rampart, where he watched the other men shooting through it. Bullets whizzed overhead. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid smell of gunpowder.

"I think I got one!" yelled Morris. "I'm going to sneak a look." Emlyn watched him ease up to peek through an opening.

No sooner had he gotten into place than Morris grunted and collapsed. Horror-struck, Emlyn watched as Morris rolled down the slope of the roof and out of view.

"My God!" shouted Gwyn, scrambling to where Morris had gone over.

Emlyn crawled to the edge and looked over. In a ditch at the bottom of the embankment about 60 feet below lay the inert form of John Morris.

Workers firing at the barges. Contemporary illustration.
The Pump House today, part of Rivers of Steel National Historic Site.


Sunday, December 23, 2018

More Creepy Christmas Cards: Bizarro Victorian Greetings


In my first foray into Victorian holiday greeting cards, Creepy Christmas Cards: Bizarro Victorian Holiday Greetings, I found a strange world of violence and creepiness.  Animals killed each other with glee, or were gleeful about being eaten for dinner, children were terrorized or abused. Yep, pretty dang merry.

But apparently in the sensibilities of the late 19th century, these cards were funny. They were cheap and popular. I'm not about to try to explain why these weird images evoked holiday laughs among some Victorians. Instead, let's look at some more images that just might be even weirder than some in the 2014 post.

What could be more festive to bring Christmas Blessings than a large, venomous jellyfish?

In this card from the Nova Scotia Archives, colorful and weird sea creatures (starfish are also venomous) bring "Best Wishes for Christmas."
Red ants (Christmas color, with hats and musical instruments) attack and overcome black ants (bah humbug color) to bring you "Compliments of the Season."


A gigantic two-horned beetle dances with a frog as a green insect plays the tambourine. Although beetles are herbivorous, it's not too much of a stretch imagining the frog having his head accidentally pinched off. In these cards frogs were subject to all kinds of violence from mishaps to murder.

"Hearty wishes" to you as one frog stabs another through the heart and a third leaps into the water.
Yep, don't be an ass and overdo the booze at the holiday office party.
 "Loving friends" owls and rabbits dance by the light of the moon. Well, what could possibly go wrong here?
It's not going to be a joyful Christmas for one of these creatures if the androgynous kid with the big fork spears accurately.  
Rabbit contemplating suicide in a snare. So happy. So content.
Elves riding rats run down a rabbit for Christmas dinner.
Beside using rats as hunting steeds, elves ( trolls?) enjoy a good dinner of roasted rat, cooked whole.

A Happy Christmas! This time it looks like the human is the entree for the feast.
                   
Androgynous pothead weirdo brings compliments of the season standing before a blazing oven full of strange foods.
Drunken rosy-cheeked Nordic folks primed with "akevit" are pulled in a sleigh boat by a presumably similarly inebriated hog.
St. Nick rams junior into a sack, to take as a present to . . .? 'Better watch out! 

He didn't watch out, and now he's stewing in a teapot, sending "A Christmas Greeting with Love."
World War I Santa with crying child and deer wearing gas masks. They don't even bother to caption this dreary image.
Cat thugs lie in wait to bring greetings via beatings with fists and clubs. 
The tables turned: rats about to tuck into a cat roasted with potatoes. What a feast!



This is only a sampling of the dozens of strange and creepy Victorian Christmas cards. Want to see more roasted rats and cats, dead birds, and accident-prone frogs wishing you compliments of the season? Check out these sites:

Undine@Horrible Sanity
 Bored Panda
Kellen Perry
Susan Kulhman on Pinterest
 The Daily Mail

Wednesday, November 21, 2018

Hurrah for the Fun! Is the Pudding Done? Here's a Punch in the Face!

Yesterday I read the newspaper for sight-impaired people over Lighthouse for the Blind Minnesota Radio. What struck me was the number of articles on how to survive Thanksgiving with your dysfunctional family, crazy ex, rude in-laws, bratty children, people angry about political issues, clueless cousins, etc. We may hope for a happy Thanksgiving devoted to being grateful for our blessings, but apparently some people wind up wanting to punch out the other people at the table instead.



Admittedly, my family never came close to fisticuffs, but I remember the two topics that predictably often spurred arguments at the holiday table, no matter what holiday it was: politics and religion. My mother was usually the instigator. She and her sister Helen sparred over the Catholic Church. One Christmas--when I was blissfully not in attendance-- Mum and Helen wound up in a bitter dispute about some of the Pope's pronouncements (Mum, anti; Helen, pro). It was reportedly so bad that Helen's husband Joe blew up and stalked away from the table. Mum and some of my dad's relatives sparred over the Clintons and sundry other liberal-conservative bones of contention. One time when we were visiting the anti-Clinton relatives, I said to Mum, "Whatever you do, don't bring up Hillary." We weren't in the house five minutes when Mum brought up Hillary. You couldn't stop her from enjoying a good fight.

Mum and Helen, partying. They loved each other--and a good dinner dispute.

When I look back on Thanksgivings past, I recall a number of different kinds of gatherings. Fortunately, I can't recall one brouhaha that took place at these.

In my youth I remember the big turkey feast at Uncle Eddie's house just around the bend on Watchill Road in Munhall. The adults sat at the formal dining table, while the kids ate at card tables in the living room. Because I was the eldest cousin, when I reached high school age, I was invited to sit at the big table. Used to growing up over the store and having to return to work in a hurry after dinner, the Katiliuses ate fast. My dad and I would be only halfway through the stuffing when Mum's relatives would be tucking into pumpkin pie. One dinner stands out, the one when Uncle Eddie cooked the turkey in their new microwave oven. Eddie, always the innovator, couldn't resist a new invention. I can't say that the turkey was a total culinary success, but you can't blame him for trying.

Pumpkin pie from a family recipe.

In college days the McConnell family invited the out-of-state students who sang in the choir at St. Stephen's Lutheran Church to their beautiful home for dinner. It was always a wonderful, southern-style meal with cornbread stuffing and pecan pie. One of these students was Robert Gates, of Secretary of Defense fame, who in those days was just Bob, baritone. There were always a lot of hi-jinx, especially puns. One time I remember being tipped backwards and carried around the house in a ladder-back chair as punishment (reward?) for a particularly bad (good?) pun. The good-natured McConnells not only put up with it, but invited us back the next year.

Thanksgiving at the Weldon-Wynnes in Montclair, NJ, 2015. That year was memorable because my daughter and I, stuck in traffic anarchy in the South Bronx, almost didn't make it. Dave and Danny got delayed in gridlock traffic on Canal Street coming from Brooklyn and had to reroute over the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. Just another NYC style Thanksgiving.

The most unique Thanksgiving was the one some English grad students organized in Athens, Ohio. I'm not sure how many people were there, but the fog of time makes it seem like there were scores crammed in the downstairs rental unit of a big old house. Half were couples, some were singles, and several couples had young children. It was a very robust, very literary feast. The variety and quantity of food brought by the celebrants was impressive. So many family and ethnic traditions came together to make this a remarkable meal. We took turns eating because there weren't enough tables for all to sit down together. It was warm enough outside that the little kids ran in and out of house laughing and squealing and some of the adults stood outside talking. It was undoubtedly the most energetic holiday gathering I've ever been a part of.
Ex-pat Thanksgiving, Toronto 2017

During the years when my kids were growing up, we would sometimes be at the house in Minneapolis, with U of Minnesota students often added as guests, or we would be at one of the grandma's houses, either in Duluth or Pittsburgh. When my daughter Ceridwen and her husband acquired a house, the Thanksgiving meal shifted to their place. Friends who stayed in town, students from the U, family members--these were the guests. I ironed my Grandma Busch's linen tablecloth for the occasion. No football. No politics--unless we were agreeing with each other.

Thanksgiving at Ceridwen's house 2010
Since we built our cabin in Grand Marais, Thanksgiving dinners have been moved up to the North Woods. With a wood stove heating the place, we gather around the old table from my parents' house in Pittsburgh and give thanks for the our many blessings--not the least of which is the cabin itself, our getaway from the routine of city living. Our dogs--Viggo and Vera--may be the ones that enjoy it most, the day they may get some really, really good table scraps.

Vera and Viggo snoozing at the cabin.

So, while I read the articles about coping with holiday tension and squabbles, I gave thanks that they did not apply to my family--not that there isn't stress involved in any holiday gathering. However, whenever I see these annual articles about coping and hear horror stories from friends about nightmare holiday experiences, my thoughts always go back to a book I read long ago, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce. For me, the scene at the Christmas dinner with guests battling over politics is the ultimate holiday clash. It's 1916 Ireland, and Mr Casey, a supporter of the late nationalist leader Charles Stewart Parnell, and the protagonist Stephen's governess, Dante Riordan, a devout Catholic, in the course of the meal slowly work up to the conclusion of a no-holds-barred battle of invective.

--Blasphemer! Devil!! screamed Dante, starting to her feet and almost spitting in his face.
  Uncle Charles and Mr Dedalus pulled Mr Casey back into his chair again, talking to him from both sides reasonably. He stared before him out of his dark, flaming eyes, repeating:
--Away with God, I say!
   Dante shoved her chair violently aside and left the table, upsetting her napkinring which rolled slowly along the carpet. . .At the door Dante turned round violently and shouted down the room, her cheeks flushed and quivering with rage:
--Devil out of hell! We won! We crushed him to death! Fiend!
   The door slammed behind her.
   Mr Casey, freeing his arms from his holders, suddenly bowed his head on his hands with a sob of pain.
--Poor Parnell! he cried loudly. My dead king!
   He sobbed loudly and bitterly.
  Stephen, raising his terrorstricken face, saw that his father's eyes were full of tears.


May your holiday be happy, may the feast be wonderful, and may all present enjoy each other's company in peace and love. And may you never, ever be part of a holiday dinner like the one Stephen experienced.

                                                            Happy Thanksgiving



Friday, September 1, 2017

For Labor Day 2017: Text of Presentation "Our Families in the Battle of Homestead"




The text of a presentation on August 26, 2017 at the Pump House, Rivers of Steel National Heritage Area, Homestead, Pennsylvania.
                                                
                                   Our Families in the Battle of Homestead: 
                         Weaving Folklore into the Warp of Historical Fiction


                                                        by Trilby Busch

This afternoon I am here to talk about the crafting of historical fiction, the imaginative recreation of a time and place that sets invented characters in the context of historical events. In the subtitle of this talk, I have used the metaphor of the loom—the weaving together of interwoven threads of various colors and textures to create a whole fabric.  People read historical fiction because it humanizes events that are distant not only in time, but in emotional immediacy. I am also here to talk about the importance of oral history in contextualizing recorded history. The blending of solid historical research with stories handed down by those who lived through that time and place in history can make the dry bones of facts into a living organism.

My book about the Homestead Strike of 1892 was many years in the making. The story of the strike can be told in many ways and from many perspectives—and indeed has been in many books, articles, and documentaries. I chose the format of the historical novel because I wanted to tell the story from the inside, from multiple perspectives—the workers, the townspeople, company management, even the Pinkertons. A fictional narrative concerns little people swept up by big events, not just the stories of the main players like Frick and Carnegie. 

I used to tell my students that good historical fiction is a painless way to learn history.  Take, for example, The Killer Angels, Michael Schara’s Pulitzer-Prize-winning novel about the Battle of Gettysburg. Even though I read accounts of the battle and toured the battlefield, reading the novel allowed me to experience the battle along with the characters. One of the most vivid and memorable narratives in the novel involves Lt. Colonel Joshua Chamberlain’s inspired leadership in holding off repeated Confederate attacks on Little Round Top. The emotion evoked by reading about the brilliant and courageous countercharge of his 20th Maine Regiment is what has burned this battle-changing event into my memory.  History books could not do that for me.

History is not the past, but the recorded past, and the recorded past is what historical novels are built around. When I decided to write the novel some 15 years ago, I began by reading every book or article on the strike that I could find. I read contemporary eyewitness accounts and tried to build their accounts into the narrative, especially the section on the battle itself. Those eyewitnesses are long gone.  All we have are their stories, some written down in interviews or in history books, others handed down via oral history.  The latter is how I came to develop a fascination with the strike.  

We are here today to talk about the 1892 Homestead Strike and Battle, which took place on this very site 125 summers ago.  Descendants of workers who were present at the battle are here to tell their family stories. But before they do, I’d like to tell you some of mine—specifically, how my father’s recounting of the story of his grandfather’s death in the Homestead Works in September 1892 eventually became the impetus for me to write Darkness Visible.

I could not have written the book and we would not be here today if it had not been for my dad’s love of storytelling.  My father, Edward Busch, was born in the house at 1415 Hays Street in Homestead on March 11, 1907, during one of the worst floods in Pittsburgh history. He was the third child and only son of George W. Busch, superintendent of the machine shop at the Homestead Works, and Annie Edwards Busch. One especially memorable story about his early childhood in this house was about hearing the sound of the workers’ boots going down the hill for the morning shift at the mill, in the dark, in silence (over a mile).  And then, twelve hours later, they had to trudge up that same hill, exhausted, to their homes.

Dad was eminently qualified to be keeper of the family tales. For one, he had an excellent memory. He loved the theater, loved acting and directing.  Moreover, he majored in history at Pitt while working night shift at the machine shop. (This in his memoir “Full of Sound and Fury”)  After graduating from Pitt in 1929 and fin.ding that no teaching jobs were available—but librarian positions were—Dad enrolled in the Columbia University College of Library Science, earning his MLS in 1931.  He returned to find a job in the Munhall schools as librarian, science teacher, and drama coach at Woodlawn Avenue School.  He married Frances Katilius in 1940, and started G. Edward Busch Productions, a touring children’s theater company, in order to pay for the house they were building on James Street in Munhall.  

Although Dad didn’t like library work much, preferring action in the classroom, fortunately for me, he put his training as an archivist to work in organizing the family photos. He wrote the” who, what, where, when” on the backs of family photos, something that very few people do.  How many old photos are pretty much worthless because we don’t know the context in which they were taken?  Dad’s annotations ensured that future generations would know the significance of our old family photos.  (Example, City League Champs. See "City League Champs, 1895")

As a child, I loved hearing all Dad’s stories—how he met my mother, his road trips Out West in the 1930s, the time Honus Wagner came to dinner, how he hated being bat boy for the mill baseball teams, how he watched crews hastily bury victims of the 1917 Spanish flu epidemic in the Homestead cemetery at night, the only one of his family in the house on 21st Street who was not sick with the flu.

But he had two favorite stories, two stories that seemed to define Busch family history for him: a story of immigration and the story of John Paul Busch’s death during the Homestead Strike. (Weissenstadt. Civic brewery, Army, Navy, Gunboat Hale Battle of Mobile Bay. Read these stories at "150 Years: Retracing John Paul's Footsteps" and "Damn the Torpedoes!")

And so my grandfather and great-grandfather became minor characters in the book. But I needed to find central characters, characters that would be critical to presenting a vivid and moving narrative of the strike and battle from the workers’ point of view. For this, once again I turned to my father’s stories, this time, the ones about his mother’s father-- John Edwards, a Welsh immigrant. In the 1970s, after my daughter Ceridwen was born on Easter Sunday—exactly 100 years after my grandmother’s birth on Easter Sunday, I embarked on a quest to find my Welsh relatives. There wasn’t much to go on. Dad told the stories about his drunken grandfather Edwards, a grandfather who abandoned his mother and her brother Jesse to the cold care of an “orphan asylum” after their mother’s death.

Dad remembered that his mother used to get letters from her maternal grandmother from Rose Cottage in a village in North Wales called, as he remembered it, “Farenkysilt.”  Thanks to Vivian Jones, a Welsh-speaking Congregational minister, I figured out that this was indeed Froncysyllte, and a trip to the village in 1988 confirmed it. 

I have never found my Welsh relatives, but I did meet many Welsh people during my search, and one family became key to researching the book in Wales—the Morrises of Maenclochog in southwest Wales. I met Emyr Morris through Channel Cymru, a chat room in 1996, during the early days of socializing via the internet. In 2003 Emyr, a native speaker of Welsh, was kind enough to take me around the valleys of South Wales, the places and landscapes I was planning to use as the background for my Welsh characters. When I found that a big mine disaster occurred at the Park Slip mine in August of 1892, I knew that I had to work that into the book. 

Emyr and I went Ton du, the mining village by Park Slip and wandered around park where the slip used to be. We walked all over the park, but couldn’t find the monument to the disaster where the entrance to the slip was.  Finally we gave up and went to a nearby pub.  We found it--the only marker to this disaster that killed over a hundred miners was a small mining car with “Parc Slip 1892” painted on it. As in Homestead, all record of that industrial site had been obliterated. As in Homestead, the industrial site had been converted into something very different—in that case, a public park with walking and biking paths.

I don’t want to give that impression that my father’s stories were the only ones I used in the book. As I mentioned, my cousin’s husband Phil Krepps told me my grandfather’s story of John Paul learning how to fire boilers in the Weissenstadt civic brewery.   

Another important story came through Jack Fix, referred to me through the St. David’s Society of Pittsburgh. Jack’s father taught in the Munhall schools, but more importantly, his grandfather, William Williams, was the superintendent of Open Hearth #2 during the strike. Jack retold Williams’ story of how he and his family were trapped inside their house in the First Ward during the battle, while bullets occasionally whizzed by outside. He also related how Williams, who was working in the steel industry in Wales, was recruited by the Carnegie Company to oversee the building and operation of their new state-of-the-art open hearth. Most importantly, Jack told me how Potter, the mill superintendent, called Williams into his office and tried to bribe him to manage the restarting of the mill boilers after the strike—a bribe that Williams refused, saying, “I have to live in this town.”

This story dovetails perfectly with my family’s story about John Paul being hired to start boilers in the Works when the company was resuming operations during the strike. These stories show how desperate the company was to find skilled workers to fire the many boilers required to run the equipment and machinery of the mill—and how desperate many unemployed workers were to find a job to support themselves and their dependents during these hard times for labor.  

Although my mother’s parents did not come to Homestead until the 19-teens, my mother contributed to my understanding of what the town was like in the smoky days when the area on the western end of the riverfront was still residential, before the First Ward was eradicated by the expansion of the mill in the 1930s. After my dad died, my mother, Frances Katilius Busch, told stories about his family that I had not heard before.

One incident that she was particularly irate about concerned the gold watch my father had inherited from his father. It was presented to Grandpa Busch upon his retirement by the workers of the machine shop.  The men acquired a preowned watch from a local jewelry store (Katilius?) and had it engraved to honor his work in the machine shop. What my mother found upsetting and mean is that while the workers dipped into their pockets to present this retirement gift, the stingy company gave him nothing for his long and faithful service to it.

I’d like to tell you about two documents that I found only recently—documents that contribute to my understanding of the stories my father told about his grandfathers. The first I got on a tip from an historian in Frostburg, Maryland, where John Edwards moved when he married his second wife, Harriet. According to affidavits in official records of the case in the Circuit Court of Allegany County, Maryland, this is what happened:

John B. and Harriet Edwards were living as subtenants in the Varnum House, a 55-room hotel and office building owned by Union Mining in Mount Savage, Maryland.  While John was at work as a blacksmith for the mining company, one Daniel Houck, a former sheriff and then-agent for Union, busted into the Edwards's quarters and demanded that Harriet vacate the premises. When she refused, he threatened to arrest her and throw her in jail. He badgered her until her resistance crumbled, and she fled, leaving supper on the table and all of their belongings behind. Houck then locked up their rooms and refused to let them in to retrieve any of their possessions. 

They were locked out for a couple of weeks with only the clothes on their backs. During that time they were forced to find somewhere else to live. When they finally were allowed to take back their belongings, they found that some had been stolen or damaged. Their suit asked for $500 in damages from Union for the expense of having to find new lodgings and replacing household goods and clothing.

The court documents end with a page declaring "case dismissed," meaning that the case never went to trial and Union settled out of court. This outcome is amazing to me. Mining companies in the Appalachian coalfields at this time had extraordinary power and resources, controlling the lives of their workers in so many appalling ways—like company-owned houses and stores, and undue influence over local law enforcement.

Discovery of this lawsuit gave me new respect for the ancestor that I hitherto had thought of largely as a pathetic drunk.  I visited his grave in Mount Savage Cemetery outside of Frostburg and sang to him the hymn my dad said was his favorite, “Oh, How I Love Jesus!”

The other document is even more relevant to the book and the story of John Paul’s death in the Works. It’s the coroner’s report on his death on September 14th, 1892, which consists of three parts: The testimony of mill doctor E.E. Stribler (obviously not a native speaker of English), my grandfather's brother, John Paul Busch, Jr., and "Wm. H. McBroom, Chief of Police for Steel Wrks."

Dr. Stribler says that he was called to attend to John Paul Bush [sic] after he suffered burns in a gas explosion on the afternoon of Sunday, September 4th. Stribler sent John to West Penn Hospital for treatment. Six days later, the family moved John to their home in East Liberty, where he died four days later. John's son simply states that John was burned in the Homestead Works and that on the Saturday following the incident,  he was brought home from the hospital to 625 Achilles Street (no longer in existence), where he died on Sept. 14th.

The sworn statements of Stribler and John, Jr. are pretty much in line with the family story. However, McBroom's testimony is where the story gets interesting: "deceased told me that he was injured by the gas exploding near the boilers. . . Another man was present but I did not know his name. Dr Wible [the 'Stribler' of the first part?] examined Deceased and sent him to the West Penn Hosp. Gas was turned on and he [John] threw a piece of lighted waste, causing the explosion." End of statement.

I had to read McBroom's statement several times before the full force of his allegations sunk in. McBroom is claiming that the gas was turned on (although we don't know where or by whom) and that John threw a piece of burning trash (although we don't know what it was, why it was on fire, nor why he threw it), and that therefore, John was responsible for his own death. Instead of the result of industrial sabotage, his death was an accident, and one mostly his own fault.

A look at the coroner’s report on the deaths of two workers killed during the battle shows a similar victim’s culpability for their own demise. Silas Wain and Thomas Weldon were in “unlawful assembly” on company property and therefore bore responsibility for being killed---Wain by others in “unlawful assembly” and Weldon by Pinkertons who were only doing the righteous business of protecting company property.

A 2010 U.S. Supreme Court decision declared the personhood of corporations in which political spending is equated with an individual’s First Amendment protected speech. This is nothing new. Money talks, and it always has.

Even though I was born and raised in the Steel Valley, I can’t recall ever studying the strike in school or discussing it with classmates or other local residents. People simply didn’t talk about it.  The descendants of those who replaced the strikers--myself included--understandably did not dwell on what happened to those who were blacklisted after the strike.  Everyone, unionist or scab, got the message of the strike's outcome:  Don't mess with H.C Frick and Carnegie Steel, for you will lose.  

In those days, as now, property rights were held sacred in the United States.  Those who own property can rely on the government at all levels-- local, state, and federal-- to send in troops to "restore order" in labor disputes, as they have countless times before and after the 1892 strike.

Over and over again in labor history we see the upholding of corporate rights over individual rights, and Homestead was no exception. It’s an indication of the deep trauma of the events that took place here in the summer of 1892 that this is the first time these stories will be told publicly in the intervening 125 years. 


Thanks to my daughters Ceridwen and Morwenna for help with editing. TB