tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66738832259144469362024-03-05T01:40:34.656-08:00Darkness VisibleAfter a decade of research and writing, this imaginative recreation of the infamous Homestead Strike of 1892 is now available in paperback and e-book form.Trilby Buschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881736566285610644noreply@blogger.comBlogger70125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673883225914446936.post-39789266726548874372023-11-24T08:36:00.000-08:002023-11-24T08:36:56.325-08:00The Great Thanksgiving Snowstorm of 1950<p> ". . .in those years around the sea-town
corner now, out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I
sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it
snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve, or whether it snowed for
twelve days and twelve nights when I was six."</p><p>--from <i>A Child's Christmas in Wales</i> by Dylan Thomas <br /></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_VvRNUmsRGx2XinHnE2B4UXX2VCmaXX_5OHWm_mQXQzZbB6sbPsuN50smS7cIIOI-KQekQBbPysqIalct0PmxJAg02-TRAxkB5Ek0N-EA02b8Auu6RQYU1N7QLXD2q1YUxQ6Vuyt9hg2wbXwmBOGSW9f9RpLDePsUp48s7iy7cw6ZIqidM_S3OEFFB_4/s604/sled%20jean%20larry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="604" data-original-width="388" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_VvRNUmsRGx2XinHnE2B4UXX2VCmaXX_5OHWm_mQXQzZbB6sbPsuN50smS7cIIOI-KQekQBbPysqIalct0PmxJAg02-TRAxkB5Ek0N-EA02b8Auu6RQYU1N7QLXD2q1YUxQ6Vuyt9hg2wbXwmBOGSW9f9RpLDePsUp48s7iy7cw6ZIqidM_S3OEFFB_4/s320/sled%20jean%20larry.jpg" width="206" /></a></div><p></p><p> Pulling cousins Larry and Jean around on a sled, 1948.<br /></p><p>Wherever you live, there's probably a weather event that stands out in your memory: a hailstorm, a tropical storm, a flash flood. For many who live in the northern states, it's a snowstorm that people remember. My family remembers the Halloween blizzard of 1991 in Minnesota. Three feet of snow fell overnight, clogging up the roads, trapping people in their homes. I remember slogging three blocks to the local grocery store on snowshoes. It took many days to clear the streets and alleys of Minneapolis of snow, and what was on the ground stayed until March.</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisUGhiU5OwQGtUABQURpXSZ1HxiNQzrZrV6mcGk-7OQMEFV1gVyj2dVjVQdr2s2gCrEUaWpaVnDNKhcCtIpDRPufgfqyTqy__fVVimB9StvheeWsjzjdznKEvCQ4bEDRXW4aOPJ3gzBt0EopxbDkyhV-G6nYjYq3xRqwSEhAVKKtoGy__BI2cjUMY63oM/s634/91_snow%20NWS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="479" data-original-width="634" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisUGhiU5OwQGtUABQURpXSZ1HxiNQzrZrV6mcGk-7OQMEFV1gVyj2dVjVQdr2s2gCrEUaWpaVnDNKhcCtIpDRPufgfqyTqy__fVVimB9StvheeWsjzjdznKEvCQ4bEDRXW4aOPJ3gzBt0EopxbDkyhV-G6nYjYq3xRqwSEhAVKKtoGy__BI2cjUMY63oM/s320/91_snow%20NWS.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> Downtown Minneapolis during the blizzard--Photo by NWS<br /><p></p><p>The other snowstorm that is etched in my memory--but one that is a childhood memory--is the Thanksgiving w<span style="font-size: 16px;"></span>eekend snowstorm of 1950, dubbed "The Great Appalachian Storm" by the National Weather Service: </p><p><span style="font-size: small;">"<span>One of the most damaging and
meteorologically unique winter storms to strike the eastern United
States occurred on Thanksgiving weekend 1950. After it was over, as much
as 57 inches of snow blanketed the central Appalachians (with locally
up to 62 inches at Coburn Creek, WV) and one of the most widespread and
damaging wind events ever recorded over the Northeastern U.S. made the
Great Appalachian Storm of 1950 the costliest storm on record up until
that time. . . .</span>A unique feature with this storm was the wild temperature
gradient produced as the arctic airmass wrapped southeastward around
the low, while warm air from the Atlantic was pulled northwestward. Case
in point, Pittsburgh, PA received 30.5” of snow and recorded
temperatures in the single digits while only 200 miles to the north,
Buffalo, NY enjoyed temps in the 40s and recorded no snow at all."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH8NN_prD8SQ6dRGrsV1M2SSUVae6kBKr-v-5DxgnFmmhgB7zupSPwa4J8qnrDorsUFydsfvzPi6Z5kH1jOFTJnxubjznBhhu6pK-tIE3Zw1HQqW6ROY2u4mORgfTWiRoJbpF7G9FFyfSpObS4NEuUIphg1XOE8k-a6bQZIOWKYy_OX4NdF9XeDixtOI4/s750/snow%20total%20map%2050.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="691" data-original-width="750" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH8NN_prD8SQ6dRGrsV1M2SSUVae6kBKr-v-5DxgnFmmhgB7zupSPwa4J8qnrDorsUFydsfvzPi6Z5kH1jOFTJnxubjznBhhu6pK-tIE3Zw1HQqW6ROY2u4mORgfTWiRoJbpF7G9FFyfSpObS4NEuUIphg1XOE8k-a6bQZIOWKYy_OX4NdF9XeDixtOI4/s320/snow%20total%20map%2050.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>Map of snowfall totals for the November 22-28, 1950 storm. Colored shading represents 10-inch increments. Image credit: From <em>Northeast Snowstorms Vol. 2</em> , Paul Kocin and Louis Uccellini.<br /><span style="font-size: small;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdNWSuvWQHZf70a7sPIdxf37c_WZzDHid3imBQGEWrtmJFbl73NmrOsCUdW0ROnQTRD-GkYzfzwCvYlwd9dnjaQKXnI6Mib8Xc-43xPDd6e5cDLNCChDUJIn-0MU_gB749kawUnr5gLHcPEGiq8wKlEvK4hglzCRXE7eYSVa4F33YbfrjkMlB-lokQL4w/s624/Burt-1950-Walter%20Stein.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="435" data-original-width="624" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdNWSuvWQHZf70a7sPIdxf37c_WZzDHid3imBQGEWrtmJFbl73NmrOsCUdW0ROnQTRD-GkYzfzwCvYlwd9dnjaQKXnI6Mib8Xc-43xPDd6e5cDLNCChDUJIn-0MU_gB749kawUnr5gLHcPEGiq8wKlEvK4hglzCRXE7eYSVa4F33YbfrjkMlB-lokQL4w/s320/Burt-1950-Walter%20Stein.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> Streetcar stuck in snow, Pittsburgh, 1950. Photo by Walter Stein.<br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: small;">The storm began in the Carolinas and tracked northwesterly into the Ohio Valley, reaching Pittsburgh on the day after Thanksgiving. People knew it was a bad storm from news report from West Virginia and Kentucky. But we really had no idea how bad it was until it hit.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;">On Thanksgiving my parents and I walked the two blocks to my Aunt Estella's house for dinner. My cousin Grace, Estella's daughter, who was an adult at the time, remembers it as being a big feast, with an extra table set up to accommodate the guests. What I remember is what followed the next day. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;">On Friday evening the snow began to fall. The wind howled all night long as the snow fell. The next day we woke up to an astounding sight: everything covered with a thick blanket of snow. We had snowstorms, when, for a day or so, we kids could sled down the James Street hill. Then the trucks would come and spread cinders and ashes, and that was the end of that. Usually, the snow would be melted in a few days.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;">But this storm was different. I recall looking out the front door--which was blocked with deep snow--and seeing white everywhere. As my dad began shoveling from the front door to the sidewalk, other neighbors emerged. People were in shock, wondering how they were going to get out of the neighborhood. The snow was way too deep to sled. The official Pittsburgh snowfall total was 30.5", still the record.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglzh5AZWYckQQIxao6jcHzA4zIhQQtQiv7g9Nhz5KFBGBFczhOj4R2yn71SUf55kNr0JWmuEVOW2FYtjLvFJ4DLvHpQtH0CEt1h65aLhPgip5oqjJkbyKYkXE-HwmNRue6D_S5tvYEJqH1ow09RSzce5hLRAHVznY9OzYu4zU2KWSgExbcZZ4YeKOwLYU/s832/snow%20street.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="830" data-original-width="832" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglzh5AZWYckQQIxao6jcHzA4zIhQQtQiv7g9Nhz5KFBGBFczhOj4R2yn71SUf55kNr0JWmuEVOW2FYtjLvFJ4DLvHpQtH0CEt1h65aLhPgip5oqjJkbyKYkXE-HwmNRue6D_S5tvYEJqH1ow09RSzce5hLRAHVznY9OzYu4zU2KWSgExbcZZ4YeKOwLYU/s320/snow%20street.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"> People digging out cars on our block of James Street. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;">Pittsburgh and the river towns around it didn't have a lot of snow removal equipment. No snowblowers, no winter tires. If you had to get around when the roads were snow-covered, you put chains on the tires. I recall only two times that Dad had to do this. After this snowfall, however, no one was going anywhere. Stores were closed. The streetcars weren't running. The main arteries were clogged with snow. People couldn't get to work, or in some cases, get home from work. Estella's husband David couldn't get to his shift at the Homestead Works, only a mile down the hill from their home. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;">As neighbors on E. James Street were digging out Saturday afternoon, Dad got out his camera.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsJaPUH8BrjU35PVP-6kFFEnCZZ8VSE5liEGCkwJpUSb-I-pshaCx0Z6byAMBLPzHPBVvDUqxzFVJRwVGHzLX5CT-HJ92y0HBxTgMcqyC-9ruCWHTNsI0aCLMDu5deTMzU3eJsiG-WhcxZNKuG3QfZn-ZwsL-TtZNK-6fpR4G6JdvZTcdKkz2WfVMt1Cc/s1056/snow%20car.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1056" data-original-width="912" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsJaPUH8BrjU35PVP-6kFFEnCZZ8VSE5liEGCkwJpUSb-I-pshaCx0Z6byAMBLPzHPBVvDUqxzFVJRwVGHzLX5CT-HJ92y0HBxTgMcqyC-9ruCWHTNsI0aCLMDu5deTMzU3eJsiG-WhcxZNKuG3QfZn-ZwsL-TtZNK-6fpR4G6JdvZTcdKkz2WfVMt1Cc/s320/snow%20car.jpg" width="276" /></a></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"> Our house is the one just over my left shoulder<br /></span></p><p></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5e0DNImPie1yFTexgkCHukSPG2f4fuT-NVrr9IpJ-1l6Jw386ts4-6y_herW3CGc2fpaQlF_3tkDswu6bW6ed4rzutfOO9JzYRURJDw06Ww0noSpo-AVKyUedLIc43pVCIO4z67WYmwVFrrDcbXV_HDCVBybY0lBhg0updW-cHhrlvftocQmtZk0aWhw/s841/snow%20sitting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="841" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5e0DNImPie1yFTexgkCHukSPG2f4fuT-NVrr9IpJ-1l6Jw386ts4-6y_herW3CGc2fpaQlF_3tkDswu6bW6ed4rzutfOO9JzYRURJDw06Ww0noSpo-AVKyUedLIc43pVCIO4z67WYmwVFrrDcbXV_HDCVBybY0lBhg0updW-cHhrlvftocQmtZk0aWhw/s320/snow%20sitting.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> Sliding down the front walk<br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;">It would take days of shoveling and plowing for residents to be able to move around the city. Much to the delight of many children, schools were closed all the next week. We never got "snow days" in Munhall, so this was quite extraordinary. We lived only a block away from Woodlawn School, where my dad taught. He could get to school, but few other teachers could.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: small;">As in Dylan Thomas's <i>A Child's Christmas in Wales, </i>s</span><span style="font-size: small;">ome Munhallers who were students at the time have vivid recollections of this storm, but it's in vignettes: <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><i>--</i>Nancy: </span><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en">I
was three and I remember the snow was taller than I was. Maybe I
remember that because I’ve been told so, but I honestly feel like I
remember looking up at the snow from the shoveled pathway.</span><span style="font-size: small;"><i> </i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><i>--</i>Joe: </span>We had about three feet of snow at our home. A few days later, we heard
that a store was opened on Whitaker Way. My father and I made the
trek with me on a sled for a few essentials.</p><p><span style="font-size: small;">--Richard: </span><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en">Lived
on 14th at that time. No cars or trucks coming up the hills. My dad
loaded me and my sister on a sled. We then went down to 8th Avenue as
there were delivery trucks traveling there. We got the bread butter milk
and eggs . Me and my sister held on to bags as my dad toted us back up
the hill.</span></p><p><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en">Barbara: </span><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en">I
was living in Whitaker, and Dutch Ackerman, our mayor provided families
with milk and water. And we were sledding down Spur Road!</span></p><p><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en">Wayne: </span><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en">As I recall the street cars even stopped running. My cousin Donna and I were sled riding on West Street near 16th avenue!</span></p><p><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en">Nadine: </span><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en"></span></p><div class="xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">My cousin was born during that storm. Baby and Mom came home on a sled.</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIB4fj3hyphenhyphene_qLPYdt_Wa3-AaE3ITsxbvSsJbSkfBEATidFMHosK_-hfUER0-cOjuqktXjl8krI5lRG-d3CW-dgf5Udxk9HeM_dsU00HB0e4plsD3ohte7CbLhVFZ0vH1m3AA-5qWaqXg_y1r5PNx23zKVCWCjlZ7ZB8JxvYQ6V95rEibNBfnDQYHI-Bq0/s878/snowball%2050.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="870" data-original-width="878" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIB4fj3hyphenhyphene_qLPYdt_Wa3-AaE3ITsxbvSsJbSkfBEATidFMHosK_-hfUER0-cOjuqktXjl8krI5lRG-d3CW-dgf5Udxk9HeM_dsU00HB0e4plsD3ohte7CbLhVFZ0vH1m3AA-5qWaqXg_y1r5PNx23zKVCWCjlZ7ZB8JxvYQ6V95rEibNBfnDQYHI-Bq0/s320/snowball%2050.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt x1jfb8zj xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j">When I look at this photo, I'm reminded of what it felt like to wear woolen clothing in the winter. It was warm, but when it got wet, it got heavy and could chill you to the bone. When I came inside, I'd take off my coat, hat, and gloves and hang them by the radiator, hoping they'd dry off before I went out again. <br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt x1jfb8zj xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j"> </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt x1jfb8zj xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j">As children, we weren't aware of how the storm affected millions of people from the Carolinas to New York to Vermont to Canada. All we knew is that it was the most exciting, magical, awe-inspiring weather event we had ever experienced. We'll never forget it.</span> <br /></div></div><p></p><div class="x1rg5ohu xxymvpz x17z2i9w"><div aria-hidden="false" class="x1hy63sm xg01cxk xhva3ql"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt x1jfb8zj xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j"></span></div><div aria-hidden="false" class="x1hy63sm xg01cxk xhva3ql"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt x1jfb8zj xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j"> </span><br /></div></div>Trilby Buschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881736566285610644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673883225914446936.post-10864335703607410462023-09-02T19:34:00.001-07:002023-09-03T10:30:54.868-07:00Maxo Vanka and the Art of Social Justice<p><span class="authorOrTitle"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Justice will not be served until those who are unaffected are as outraged as those who are." --Benjamin Franklin</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><h1 class="quoteText"></h1><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5HsEnUXoAbv0OiZwRa_augjGR9LJ_BZVtrXJmI4bUxC5eYqDxyC_SQmhEDD86Eys9qNjI4ai58RN10Jlhbbni5P_naWPNC8UzNCvDpHdjxcy72buZswj7axdL8BevISi42ouwMNmkshaf8xegGSol6FElNZdqnkoKFfW_dxrYaqFObcDO_gWfBq6bUis/s777/maxo_vanka_autoportrait.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><span class="authorOrTitle"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5HsEnUXoAbv0OiZwRa_augjGR9LJ_BZVtrXJmI4bUxC5eYqDxyC_SQmhEDD86Eys9qNjI4ai58RN10Jlhbbni5P_naWPNC8UzNCvDpHdjxcy72buZswj7axdL8BevISi42ouwMNmkshaf8xegGSol6FElNZdqnkoKFfW_dxrYaqFObcDO_gWfBq6bUis/s777/maxo_vanka_autoportrait.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="777" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5HsEnUXoAbv0OiZwRa_augjGR9LJ_BZVtrXJmI4bUxC5eYqDxyC_SQmhEDD86Eys9qNjI4ai58RN10Jlhbbni5P_naWPNC8UzNCvDpHdjxcy72buZswj7axdL8BevISi42ouwMNmkshaf8xegGSol6FElNZdqnkoKFfW_dxrYaqFObcDO_gWfBq6bUis/s320/maxo_vanka_autoportrait.png" width="198" /></a></span></div><span class="authorOrTitle"> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>Maxo Vanka, Self Portrait<br /></span><p></p><p><span class="authorOrTitle">When I was in Pittsburgh recently, I attended "Saints and Steelworkers," a talk at the Bost Building in Homestead by Gavin Moultin on the Catholic workers' movement in the early 20th century. Moultin focused on the design and construction of St. Paulinus Catholic Church in Clairton, done solely by its parishioners. </span><span class="authorOrTitle">It's a fascinating story of a priest and
congregation who chose to build a church that represented the workers
who worshiped there.</span></p><p><span class="authorOrTitle"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9A1mZ7XYfnau4vf9AUat_S_d-FP3kFzMWyH3g_e_8WHji2vCr4P8bqNfpNsdVC8DfkI0tonleuAY07vzDdSVM4t0C2k_n9KCnDXhF0xz_HDv35yc-U2SEWRlvlqzIpOiiRG2Jf5BNRcjc942beC06a5YgMhGZeLrmf8Fn-JSTnbQKAv1Xu1oddOCSJXY/s2016/Moulton_StPaulinus_Clairton-Reduced.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9A1mZ7XYfnau4vf9AUat_S_d-FP3kFzMWyH3g_e_8WHji2vCr4P8bqNfpNsdVC8DfkI0tonleuAY07vzDdSVM4t0C2k_n9KCnDXhF0xz_HDv35yc-U2SEWRlvlqzIpOiiRG2Jf5BNRcjc942beC06a5YgMhGZeLrmf8Fn-JSTnbQKAv1Xu1oddOCSJXY/s320/Moulton_StPaulinus_Clairton-Reduced.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>St. Paulinus Catholic Church, Clairton, PA--Photo by Gavin Moultin <p></p><p><span class="authorOrTitle">But during the presentation, my eyes were repeatedly drawn to a print of a painting that hung on the wall behind Moultin, the image of a figure in a gas mask holding a sword in one hand and the scales of justice weighted down with gold coins in the other.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBr34qs9T9esuMhcVohphvgWY9uGBnXfg_4XLCqfT8XMpV88KHNMuvRZQ1dkjhKcjwi7LFD0o415wWOpNxxTicUuNuWOd4L1UR05ozVEPAsEP_5du-E2M2NGlBvSb6VFd8oFeb28gLGfhVuaN-gN1shk3KT2_lTHsjxr8FaM0UHl01PB0_FpVlQTz8cpw/s287/injustice.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="287" data-original-width="176" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBr34qs9T9esuMhcVohphvgWY9uGBnXfg_4XLCqfT8XMpV88KHNMuvRZQ1dkjhKcjwi7LFD0o415wWOpNxxTicUuNuWOd4L1UR05ozVEPAsEP_5du-E2M2NGlBvSb6VFd8oFeb28gLGfhVuaN-gN1shk3KT2_lTHsjxr8FaM0UHl01PB0_FpVlQTz8cpw/s1600/injustice.jpeg" width="176" /></a> <br /></div><p>After the talk I asked one of the docents about this painting. She told me it was the work of Maxo Vanko, some of whose drawings and paintings were on exhibit at the Rivers of Steel Gallery in the Bost Building, "<i>Gledaj!</i> The Gaze of Maxo Vanka" <a href="https://riversofsteel.com/experiences/exhibitions/exhibitions-at-the-bost-building/gledaj-the-gaze-of-maxo-vanka/" target="_blank">"<i>Gledaj!</i> The Gaze of Maxo Vanka"</a>. She told me that I could see the painting itself, which is one of the murals in St. Nicholas Croatian Catholic Church in Millvale, and that the church gave talks on the murals on Saturdays. So I hied myself to Millvale the next morning, a Saturday, to visit St. Nicholas and learn more about the Vanka murals.</p><p>Looking around the sanctuary, I was stunned by the anti-war, anti-capitalist imagery of the Vanka murals. I can think of no other church, Catholic or otherwise, that displays such anti-establishment imagery--for example: Mary attempting to stop carnage on the battlefield; a ghoulish "capitalist" sitting at a table laden with food, while a crippled worker lies on the floor in front; mothers weeping over a son fallen on the battlefield; Jesus's side being pierced by a soldier's bayonet on a battlefield.</p><p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_wnhwEZjTf05FqfvCOX_ejrVmvZV64Bo_RxuVmaeyUYlUcLu8wSI18jd_EDxjeXJ7L55b0EmyxFtBRX0XmuAXpiZ4LlZoigdOubE2TLxyap2cOgZoZWaBWL3Og_U0iJ7VhBDDOI15XIcckuELZdcmWEcd41kQsVWDvLAboLt5hZrIoFATnTisCkjfvP8/s1542/Mary-on-the-battlefeild-e-1542x1281-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1281" data-original-width="1542" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_wnhwEZjTf05FqfvCOX_ejrVmvZV64Bo_RxuVmaeyUYlUcLu8wSI18jd_EDxjeXJ7L55b0EmyxFtBRX0XmuAXpiZ4LlZoigdOubE2TLxyap2cOgZoZWaBWL3Og_U0iJ7VhBDDOI15XIcckuELZdcmWEcd41kQsVWDvLAboLt5hZrIoFATnTisCkjfvP8/s320/Mary-on-the-battlefeild-e-1542x1281-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>"Mary on the Battlefield" 1941</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-IlP9HlhX6mTqkUcBQlyWhSMDpDKXBR4NSr-uwANSmJIZsANdcxgBWjuzcKBQrogxe6Vasb0_71YkPw1tFi_GatHGC4Vd0EoC3GFFVFKHSb_R6SmotVGbxMExUmwkPUhagLDHW57jtrUbgxvoRYO2QCLHvRbIh-cvvuNbGxVHjyD-p83Cii7KbJmDi_Y/s4080/PXL_20230826_155927593.MP.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-IlP9HlhX6mTqkUcBQlyWhSMDpDKXBR4NSr-uwANSmJIZsANdcxgBWjuzcKBQrogxe6Vasb0_71YkPw1tFi_GatHGC4Vd0EoC3GFFVFKHSb_R6SmotVGbxMExUmwkPUhagLDHW57jtrUbgxvoRYO2QCLHvRbIh-cvvuNbGxVHjyD-p83Cii7KbJmDi_Y/s320/PXL_20230826_155927593.MP.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>"The Capitalist" 1941</p><p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Mc9PL-t4LtxhPymo-ewM9EmvKJgVZsVdSHeY6C5dM0jIW3ggqp2XKEIg-wg3XtMXSsfv_rsf98eto-zK59-U3mMMObPBTUTS9U0Hz0t2lg0e_j3w9L4qxE7bFQcsbLmElzYt0k0claLojJFAK0PJfkPRGbvngMn8EXR0BBx7DG_To1ZyhjdWnGc8W7Y/s880/download.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="542" data-original-width="880" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Mc9PL-t4LtxhPymo-ewM9EmvKJgVZsVdSHeY6C5dM0jIW3ggqp2XKEIg-wg3XtMXSsfv_rsf98eto-zK59-U3mMMObPBTUTS9U0Hz0t2lg0e_j3w9L4qxE7bFQcsbLmElzYt0k0claLojJFAK0PJfkPRGbvngMn8EXR0BBx7DG_To1ZyhjdWnGc8W7Y/s320/download.png" width="320" /></a></p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>"Croatian Mother Raises her Son for War" 1937</p><p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMB1RNxCP5oh73ArTpsxKck8HlmIqlMpbKvm3JHLK-UIdu6d0xGsa10Wq2eUSGQo1UOitrLzg2T1nP8Twr7iJSl3VBnSVUSTEw9O0Q5qB0rgJaOusqqCxSotTrCFPkSIUpl3vyzzC3egEG1W80Pa73I8y5jvKgZZXDbsKO6X5s5hCjsXJg1Lk9w0ysWnI/s1600/Christ-on-the-Battlefield.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1164" data-original-width="1600" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMB1RNxCP5oh73ArTpsxKck8HlmIqlMpbKvm3JHLK-UIdu6d0xGsa10Wq2eUSGQo1UOitrLzg2T1nP8Twr7iJSl3VBnSVUSTEw9O0Q5qB0rgJaOusqqCxSotTrCFPkSIUpl3vyzzC3egEG1W80Pa73I8y5jvKgZZXDbsKO6X5s5hCjsXJg1Lk9w0ysWnI/s320/Christ-on-the-Battlefield.webp" width="320" /></a><br /><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>"Christ on the Battlefield" 1941<br /></p><p>Maxo Vanka's biography is as interesting as his art. He was born in Croatia in 1889, an out-of-wedlock son of an Austrian nobleman. Like Hemingway, Vanka, a pacifist, served with a Red Cross unit in Belgium during WWI. By 1920, Vanka was working in Croatia as an art professor and artist who was involved in efforts to shape a new national identity based on folkloric and ethnic traditions. In 1931 he married Margaret Stettin, the daughter of a Jewish surgeon from New York City. By 1934 the threat from the Nazis was clear, and the Vankas emigrated to New York.</p><p>In 1937 Vanka was commissioned by Father Albert Zagar, another Croatian immigrant, to paint murals in St. Nicholas Croatian Catholic Church that would have meaning for the immigrant workers who were his parishioners. In 1941 Zagar brought back Vanka to do another set of murals. (Read the whole story here: "A Gift to America: Maxo Vanka and the Millvale Murals" (<span style="color: #fcff01;"><a href="https://paheritage.wpengine.com/article/a-gift-to-america-maxo-vanka-and-the-millvale-murals/" target="_blank">"A Gift to America: Maxo Vanka and the Millvale Murals"</a></span>). </p><p>When I visited the church, scaffolding obstructed the view of the figure in a gas mask, but I learned that it is titled "Injustice" (shown above), a companion piece to "Justice" on the opposite end of the wall. Vanka's murals are powerful, arresting images, so unlike the conventional representations of saints and Biblical figures shown in most church artwork. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimhU6VeYYTCRWBzplmhbLuGQOwCUXVsRhhusIBa2OOz6g0pslWkwlUzRbY61zux0OA5pNwQNiPAurg2gkvkawkGO-upGWCDXAjzxizZVZ1aQ53st_TGlbjmTPDKN6iPOdnsOPB5oK1CxPxNqJpCSFxHjNejzZKvRAqcr4f72M6PKTj9ruYUthiVEDzSiA/s512/justice.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimhU6VeYYTCRWBzplmhbLuGQOwCUXVsRhhusIBa2OOz6g0pslWkwlUzRbY61zux0OA5pNwQNiPAurg2gkvkawkGO-upGWCDXAjzxizZVZ1aQ53st_TGlbjmTPDKN6iPOdnsOPB5oK1CxPxNqJpCSFxHjNejzZKvRAqcr4f72M6PKTj9ruYUthiVEDzSiA/s320/justice.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> "Justice"--Photo by Pawsburgh Photography<br /> <p></p><p>Remarkably, one mural includes a Methodist man (at left of the Christ figure), a patron of the church who employed many of the congregation.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPJKJIwUZzdz6GzlGDQh5-Bh2WOOYDwhWOHsAeWueTtJiS5Yk_NMZhGhVM4dtMdJ_1eDJE5LkKeY_QqeEYfUJI4SHhncLaV6wS6h0fanvPEI2RmktxBBQct23Wsc_nBkF4U6IQ2s3T2kI0jGCAB3j7eamRdBsO8H4aUiCOUZpq5LmQSmN_9hVZiCyLSfA/s1598/Family-meal-1598x1281-murals.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1281" data-original-width="1598" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPJKJIwUZzdz6GzlGDQh5-Bh2WOOYDwhWOHsAeWueTtJiS5Yk_NMZhGhVM4dtMdJ_1eDJE5LkKeY_QqeEYfUJI4SHhncLaV6wS6h0fanvPEI2RmktxBBQct23Wsc_nBkF4U6IQ2s3T2kI0jGCAB3j7eamRdBsO8H4aUiCOUZpq5LmQSmN_9hVZiCyLSfA/s320/Family-meal-1598x1281-murals.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> "A Simple Family Meal" 1941<br /><p>Murals depicting workers and work in industrial Pittsburgh proliferated during the Depression, so in that sense, the St. Nicholas murals are not unique. Supported by Federal grants, these murals were inspired by the radical labor culture of the city, for example, those in the atrium of the Carnegie Museum of Art in Oakland. But Vanka's murals are unique in that they are in a church, not in a public space like a museum or courthouse. Father Zagar should receive credit for being, as Vanka put it, the “only priest in 100,000
who [was] courageous enough to break with tradition, to have his church
decorated with pictures of modern, social significance.”</p><p>Vanka's murals are not pretty, nor are they intended to be. They are striking, powerful images of the violence that the forces of greed wreak on common people. </p><p>On Labor Day, I salute Maxo Vanka for his skill and Father Zagar for his vision in creating these extraordinary murals that capture so powerfully the immigrant worker experience.</p><p> "There is no wealth but life." --John Ruskin, <i>Unto This Last </i>1860</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjL4AFvrtBSHOpwqwYJNSyeUn7D2Rfv-GWwR8gVb-jlyvnQ3L4B1tPv2pJ2yHt0NVczCAxEExU2NcpoL8kMwjh4amG7iIZnFXIpGl7WNh_JVqasSPhZWhSJR-fgwSaRkrlbgtZcg1YKBnlBLfgdm3AkwNr4xKZwEiJcq81lCPelId2aiSdH_Nb8JKZttI/s1000/sanctuary.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjL4AFvrtBSHOpwqwYJNSyeUn7D2Rfv-GWwR8gVb-jlyvnQ3L4B1tPv2pJ2yHt0NVczCAxEExU2NcpoL8kMwjh4amG7iIZnFXIpGl7WNh_JVqasSPhZWhSJR-fgwSaRkrlbgtZcg1YKBnlBLfgdm3AkwNr4xKZwEiJcq81lCPelId2aiSdH_Nb8JKZttI/s320/sanctuary.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>The Sanctuary of St. Nicholas Croatian Church--Photo by Pawsburgh Photography<br /><p></p><p></p><p>[You can see all of Vanka's murals on the website "Save Maxo Vanka" at <a href="http://vankamurals.org" target="_blank">vankamurals.org.</a>] <br /></p>Trilby Buschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881736566285610644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673883225914446936.post-66793550289188378322023-07-03T14:01:00.002-07:002023-07-04T14:23:08.975-07:00The Fourth of July: Carnegie Steelworkers' One Day Off <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8O08hgx1N2DwNKCRz5ZlOrhrFmsGTU7SPvh_Q0qetLFTStZAGsj6fg3UXSNiqLFeLQ-AnwvL0LjFF2CT4pdTaTugO5mxqjrPs4tZYyp66Lr7kyqd9StdqPEOaGQdU2fWpsU5f06d2B0tSVMuFZKYCvChkfx40KkNmuALa9L_k4_AKtHcJhkO8aGvKM8A/s640/homestead%20emil%20klees.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="379" data-original-width="640" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8O08hgx1N2DwNKCRz5ZlOrhrFmsGTU7SPvh_Q0qetLFTStZAGsj6fg3UXSNiqLFeLQ-AnwvL0LjFF2CT4pdTaTugO5mxqjrPs4tZYyp66Lr7kyqd9StdqPEOaGQdU2fWpsU5f06d2B0tSVMuFZKYCvChkfx40KkNmuALa9L_k4_AKtHcJhkO8aGvKM8A/s320/homestead%20emil%20klees.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The world was watching 131 years ago as the management at Carnegie Steel in Homestead locked out their workers in response to a strike threat from unionized workers. On the Fourth of July in 1892 the mill was shut down. Andrew Carnegie, the mill owner, was off at his castle in Scotland. He left the managing of the lockout to Henry Clay Frick. Frick was more than up to the challenge.<p></p><p>The press swarmed into town. Townspeople had picnics and celebrated, but a pall hung over the town as everyone was on tenterhooks waiting to see what would happen next. Tensions increased until three days later, the dispute exploded into a day-long gun battle between workers and company-hired Pinkerton Guards. The Pinkertons, trapped on barges on the Monongahela River, inevitably had to surrender. It was one of the very few union-company conflicts of that period that ended in a worker victory.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB7vvl_MI5VLUEJ7tju0zHiVTT2Utqac9LWuTtD348zGKEhSAqxNd4xDn8_OdJjOJ9AeMxcFhl8HPEHlzFnhAgPoQFfAvznhnBSTQxT3qZv_P0YLXpO5uwS3pxWsJbcTfQnqB6AECGlc75yXocpogAS2LPY1Bl6PjudO7fbENOFfBrAhVxvKZPR3ZxH9U/s1440/1893%20salute.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1440" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB7vvl_MI5VLUEJ7tju0zHiVTT2Utqac9LWuTtD348zGKEhSAqxNd4xDn8_OdJjOJ9AeMxcFhl8HPEHlzFnhAgPoQFfAvznhnBSTQxT3qZv_P0YLXpO5uwS3pxWsJbcTfQnqB6AECGlc75yXocpogAS2LPY1Bl6PjudO7fbENOFfBrAhVxvKZPR3ZxH9U/s320/1893%20salute.webp" width="320" /></a></div> A Naval Salute on the Fourth, 1893 (Library of Congress)<br /><p>The Fourth of July was an important holiday. For many years,
it was the only day during the entire year that Carnegie Steel gave the workers off.
Otherwise, they toiled seven days a week in round-the-clock shifts to
keep the finished steel rolling off the production line. <span class="ILfuVd" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc">In 1890 the average worker received about $10 a week, just above the poverty line of $500 a year. It took the wages of
nearly 4,000 steelworkers to match the earnings of Andrew Carnegie.</span></span></p><p><span class="ILfuVd" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"> </span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4fJ--wUO3AuYAshSPhCk3zpRiqdh7R2lIWSNgoimj8T3O8Fc_-OuPt1juTHdNbqKDStwV01M6xNll6gPshJYbZ2zuFkkKdm5kkbPxYeu9IZ2D04ZSt38fPNJsRAJ4b7LXi6Ewbp_Rpvx0-6DlNA48HMZmDEadusFwrH_3xndMz-PbPzOTHPSm43TYTSE/s2861/state%20troops%20entering.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2301" data-original-width="2861" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4fJ--wUO3AuYAshSPhCk3zpRiqdh7R2lIWSNgoimj8T3O8Fc_-OuPt1juTHdNbqKDStwV01M6xNll6gPshJYbZ2zuFkkKdm5kkbPxYeu9IZ2D04ZSt38fPNJsRAJ4b7LXi6Ewbp_Rpvx0-6DlNA48HMZmDEadusFwrH_3xndMz-PbPzOTHPSm43TYTSE/s320/state%20troops%20entering.jpg" width="320" /></a></p><p> The Pennsylvania Milita entering Homestead <br /></p><p>The workers' victory was short-lived. On July 12th, the Pennsylvania Militia of the National Guard
marched in and took over the mill. A few days later, the Homestead Works
slowly began restoring production using replacement workers. </p><p>It had been a
pyrrhic victory for the workers.<span class="ILfuVd" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"> In his book "Steelworkers in America:
The Nonunion Era," labor historian David Brody notes that the daily wages of the highly skilled workers at
Homestead shrank by one-fifth between 1892 and 1907, while their work
shifts increased from eight hours to 12 hours. <br /></span></span></p><p><span class="ILfuVd" lang="en"></span></p><p><span class="ILfuVd" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc">When journalist Hamlin Garland visited Homestead in 1893, he found a dirty, depressed town with a haggard, overburdened work force: </span></span></p><p><span class="ILfuVd" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc">"</span></span>A COLD, thin October rain was falling as I took the little
ferry-boat and crossed the Monongahela River to see Homestead and its iron-mills.
The town, infamously historic already, sprawled over the irregular hillside,
circled by the cold gray river. On the flats close to the water's edge
there severe masses of great sheds, out of which grim smoke-stacks rose
with a desolate effect, like the black stumps of a burned forest of great
trees. Above them dense clouds of sticky smoke rolled heavily away."<span class="ILfuVd" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"></span></span></p><p><span class="ILfuVd" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"></span></span></p><p><span class="ILfuVd" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"> </span></span>"They wipe a man out here every little while," a worker told Garland.
"Sometimes a chain breaks, and a ladle tips over, and the iron
explodes.... Sometimes the slag falls on the workmen.... Of course, if
everything is working all smooth and a man watches out, why, all right!
But you take it after they've been on duty twelve hours without sleep,
and running like hell, everybody tired and loggy, and it's a different
story."</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnURyOYfR0Zv3XIsNuqGZWyu96EMZnbFlKxuZFkPVA74Te5NkU1XmJvZ1h76mQAV7DixmWq8Ywo9hr_yuGrTN-V2NJpq2yY3BZVCOeFvL2V6EYictubwpR0VygxtEUpFaNStSyB4VyrfnC2xQGBHtwEWxBXr6qgTUPNCIVNu88-R9qfWCDUCkTqX0KQso/s520/foundry%20works%201890s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="520" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnURyOYfR0Zv3XIsNuqGZWyu96EMZnbFlKxuZFkPVA74Te5NkU1XmJvZ1h76mQAV7DixmWq8Ywo9hr_yuGrTN-V2NJpq2yY3BZVCOeFvL2V6EYictubwpR0VygxtEUpFaNStSyB4VyrfnC2xQGBHtwEWxBXr6qgTUPNCIVNu88-R9qfWCDUCkTqX0KQso/s320/foundry%20works%201890s.jpg" width="246" /></a></div>
Workers watch as a foundry ladle prepares to pour molten iron into ingot
molds at Carnegie Steel Company's Homestead Steel Works.
(<i>Homestead Steel Works, </i>by B. L. H. Dabbs, 1893-1895)<br /> * * * *<br /><p></p><p><span class="ILfuVd" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc">William McQuade, a plate-mill worker, commented, </span></span>"We stop only the time it takes to oil the engine," a stop of three to
five minutes. "While
they are oiling they eat, at least some of the boys, some of them; a
great many of them in the mill do not carry anything to eat at all,
because they haven't got time to eat." <br /></p><p>Garland's guide through the Works was a former mill worker. Witness this exchange as they stopped to watch a worker: <br /></p><p>" That looks like hard work," I said to
one of them to whom my companion introduced me. He was breathing hard from
his work.
</p><p> " Hard ! I guess it's hard. I lost forty pounds
the first three months I came into this business. It sweats the life out
of a man. I often drink two buckets of water during twelve hours; the sweat
drips through my sleeves, and runs down my legs and fills my shoes. "</p>
<p> " But that isn't the worst of it," said
my guide; " it's a dog's life. Now, those men work twelve hours, and
sleep and eat out ten more. You can see a man don't have much time for
anything else. You can't see your friends, or do anything but work. That's
why I got out of it. I used to come home so exhausted, staggering like
a man with a ' jag.' It ain't any place for a sick man--is it, Joe ? "</p><p> ---from "Homestead and its Perilous Trades--Impressions of a Visit" Hamlin Garland, McClure's Magazine, June 1894.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguowNP9W9YEUdUUmDGP-GS08F6LSM_Q-WyGhibUfXvl_x1-_ZlLpZ6yTKG_NlV8kRk6q-6VsJUNSTvhWZqYbFasPGmzvvZuU6a9lgz-MJmhg9NIGnEbHCcZHwIPL2pad5YOvR6CwcNMgyCrlgFSs1fzJJtJvHjObRMJS4XUtL7Qr6Li-v6sl5ZgZf60MA/s1455/garland%20mcclures.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1455" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguowNP9W9YEUdUUmDGP-GS08F6LSM_Q-WyGhibUfXvl_x1-_ZlLpZ6yTKG_NlV8kRk6q-6VsJUNSTvhWZqYbFasPGmzvvZuU6a9lgz-MJmhg9NIGnEbHCcZHwIPL2pad5YOvR6CwcNMgyCrlgFSs1fzJJtJvHjObRMJS4XUtL7Qr6Li-v6sl5ZgZf60MA/s320/garland%20mcclures.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />If one is to judge by the traffic on U.S.roads, the fully loaded
flights, and the number of "no vacancy" signs at resorts and
campgrounds, Americans still enjoy the Independence Day break from their
labors. Today, very few of the workers at The Waterfront shopping area built on the site of the Homestead Works even know that one of the largest steel mills in the world once stood there. Most of the restaurants and stores are open on the Fourth. If they know about the July 6th battle, it's likely because they learned it in school.<p></p><p>It's rather ironic that in the 1890s, the holiday that celebrates U.S. independence from Britain highlighted the workers' slaving away at the mill on the other 364 days. For most of the workers, it probably was a day to catch some needed rest before their next shift started.</p><p>Have fun on the Fourth and enjoy your day off, America. It wasn't always like this.</p><p><a href="https://youtu.be/i9o6412lwGA" target="_blank">"The Stars and Stripes Forever" John Philip Sousa, 1894</a></p><p>"The Stars and Stripes Forever" John Philip Sousa (1894) played by the U.S.. Navy Band<br /></p><p><br /></p><p> <br /></p><p>
<span class="ILfuVd" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"></span></span></p>Trilby Buschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881736566285610644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673883225914446936.post-26711506186956937362022-04-16T06:48:00.002-07:002022-04-17T05:55:14.526-07:00Freaky Victorian Easter Cards II<p>Victorian holiday cards, whether Christmas or Easter, can be counted on to be bizarre or sentimental--and for the most part, secular. While frogs (for some inexplicable reason) in Christmas cards are experiencing mishaps and doing foolish things, in Easter cards, not surprisingly, rabbits and chicks are featured, for better or worse.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1D1xxPUR2TE0uPdYKo4ihWGXDTl_3s-kb_RP39IvsGwdjlNlAQn1PndH8LXXuZqOVGQ0G4Vz6DlBaJWgrkfKT5JBmT9GHIJ37jeLh-8peBcSFdNgCCVKga_Of7fN5gxHo2fG4qvgVUv9WKXNSNrbzaZfDROUA2ghSMv7MKIz7A2uE8p-esheF4ITC/s826/girl-and-rabbit.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="826" data-original-width="525" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1D1xxPUR2TE0uPdYKo4ihWGXDTl_3s-kb_RP39IvsGwdjlNlAQn1PndH8LXXuZqOVGQ0G4Vz6DlBaJWgrkfKT5JBmT9GHIJ37jeLh-8peBcSFdNgCCVKga_Of7fN5gxHo2fG4qvgVUv9WKXNSNrbzaZfDROUA2ghSMv7MKIz7A2uE8p-esheF4ITC/s320/girl-and-rabbit.jpg" width="203" /></a></div><p> A very large, well-dressed rabbit proposes to an oddly proportioned girl. Did she accept? </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC5FqvB9TkqSRz098TT5bz1sRs1rQP_ZjNkqxJv8hiXVZJNFPUkSihdZrvG7BSOLBLgysYQ4OM_40znwJhRysEgz226A-wj8x6J4wYjppVrfQJ26Fljeynecu4dHGS9Uv9R-0sy0GyQD0QYDqTAQhN3kAp_mZqDlB3iXA7b4ZDSHi5tizwUiykg4oo/s283/hen%20in%20dress.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="283" data-original-width="178" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC5FqvB9TkqSRz098TT5bz1sRs1rQP_ZjNkqxJv8hiXVZJNFPUkSihdZrvG7BSOLBLgysYQ4OM_40znwJhRysEgz226A-wj8x6J4wYjppVrfQJ26Fljeynecu4dHGS9Uv9R-0sy0GyQD0QYDqTAQhN3kAp_mZqDlB3iXA7b4ZDSHi5tizwUiykg4oo/s1600/hen%20in%20dress.jpg" width="178" /></a></div><p> A hen with color-coordinated dress and umbrella chases away a bunny. Was he trying to take away her eggs?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMGrFvSLi03gHA0jU8rW0mToE-LmlaMAPEzEo4_53Ow4_lcRxyXhSwt_iZAy6dY7wTYmO76Ji7yADwjnGktQlRU4lT_zYiSvL8uD-EzRlz5ixzOJuDY3HmsEYku3498UYrYGnpFwU26YvSNMDjCl1NblwGg8hQ2Srf7cj7aQl95eZddwjKT_pkZHwG/s500/2-chick-with-rifle.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="316" data-original-width="500" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMGrFvSLi03gHA0jU8rW0mToE-LmlaMAPEzEo4_53Ow4_lcRxyXhSwt_iZAy6dY7wTYmO76Ji7yADwjnGktQlRU4lT_zYiSvL8uD-EzRlz5ixzOJuDY3HmsEYku3498UYrYGnpFwU26YvSNMDjCl1NblwGg8hQ2Srf7cj7aQl95eZddwjKT_pkZHwG/s320/2-chick-with-rifle.webp" width="320" /></a></div><p> Bang! In this German card, a chick blasts away at a rabbit.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv7muNiXg6yafM9_Nfr2WVMmJuarX7qzL2EHkFHAi6_5h5YHF8NLCmpLDxOWwqpRyPPQzQgqyUbMri_CV30MTNiEA1Qn1HvsBiicXlxrtGhroNKxbHpbves7hkHtzJ_tKyPNoKxcoIYujkI6P2r3tTKQUimpUGEZo7bPQP2qTM5FMryhtto62kf452/s500/officers%20and%20chicken.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="327" data-original-width="500" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv7muNiXg6yafM9_Nfr2WVMmJuarX7qzL2EHkFHAi6_5h5YHF8NLCmpLDxOWwqpRyPPQzQgqyUbMri_CV30MTNiEA1Qn1HvsBiicXlxrtGhroNKxbHpbves7hkHtzJ_tKyPNoKxcoIYujkI6P2r3tTKQUimpUGEZo7bPQP2qTM5FMryhtto62kf452/s320/officers%20and%20chicken.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>There's not much joy for this female chick in a guardhouse with broken eggs spilled on the ground. The chick soldier is wearing a Pickelhaube, a German style helmet from that period. Hmm.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_AjAvHyRsZ1plzf6eZZlhSk0xd1VA-t27O7jVa9KsFCyiXN0VgsDJ3GBphlThwNOhAuqxbplu9h1o3EI_3dDcZXmUTd6Rzo1ucSOD9_cCjTeaWUvqr-dzVasUuruqRYrRDvmssTe4UPb_XDo_p-zO0DBHwiAMlu7zpJ3PiAnsMmqgw6g87QRZpuZ4/s280/smoking%20rabbits.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_AjAvHyRsZ1plzf6eZZlhSk0xd1VA-t27O7jVa9KsFCyiXN0VgsDJ3GBphlThwNOhAuqxbplu9h1o3EI_3dDcZXmUTd6Rzo1ucSOD9_cCjTeaWUvqr-dzVasUuruqRYrRDvmssTe4UPb_XDo_p-zO0DBHwiAMlu7zpJ3PiAnsMmqgw6g87QRZpuZ4/s1600/smoking%20rabbits.jpg" width="280" /></a></div><p> Rabbits smoking flowers in egg bowls. *cough*</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsvGmYFfVHVj9R_ZejdBrwvOMSQnp0UkUZXhRfd4DrJ3pmyXzUIYzAQgAT0i8VrnQ4pkD9TDyJF0tvh5bnsapZKV7mCepWJhkvU62-NMtwrnyjCC-Bovz3UBkTxKi46BiLzDIFjWF1i4gSoUumBSVJXaMtk5IV1wcwxU1Gh7b4HA6_6i27NCf8BC1N/s500/2-bee-bunnies%20frogs.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="314" data-original-width="500" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsvGmYFfVHVj9R_ZejdBrwvOMSQnp0UkUZXhRfd4DrJ3pmyXzUIYzAQgAT0i8VrnQ4pkD9TDyJF0tvh5bnsapZKV7mCepWJhkvU62-NMtwrnyjCC-Bovz3UBkTxKi46BiLzDIFjWF1i4gSoUumBSVJXaMtk5IV1wcwxU1Gh7b4HA6_6i27NCf8BC1N/s320/2-bee-bunnies%20frogs.webp" width="320" /></a></div><p> Easter bunnies drop their egg basket when bees and mud-slinging frogs attack them.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbnoo9wsQhc8L79hkUWZRDldcNlLxOT-86kS0l2XrHoZB1v_65FdEhq4o_frEV1k9TQXPxA8w8kAlOGvyzf6MIDxjJKEciKJ9Jx5gSWrlPUa9j5hR2JTv6j5Y5Rn3RnKKC_AfPfmqqkJIDQFWP86ioIUcszjOE6revrBvWAZZJ5h3zMKX5b9YJhiGq/s976/_babies-hammers-easter-postcard.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="976" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbnoo9wsQhc8L79hkUWZRDldcNlLxOT-86kS0l2XrHoZB1v_65FdEhq4o_frEV1k9TQXPxA8w8kAlOGvyzf6MIDxjJKEciKJ9Jx5gSWrlPUa9j5hR2JTv6j5Y5Rn3RnKKC_AfPfmqqkJIDQFWP86ioIUcszjOE6revrBvWAZZJ5h3zMKX5b9YJhiGq/s320/_babies-hammers-easter-postcard.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p> Cherubic babies go at Easter eggs with hammers. Take that!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_3vs7IFSm-nlYObXK_htQqWktHKBLIxA1VvLqeC8xHR4tmxgKXpLcBu_5rRfaxYk4rAQN78odDBIgt0qoOFHmz0yFop84Wh6M1yPlfwBt05nJ6wEmoNGjbO161iHu5u4Alg6_Ujaq1hhkMK-tM1JRk9wwERFy-Oa09ZRvQ-Pb4hhr6kqhnnYNAq2U/s976/eggbabies.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="549" data-original-width="976" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_3vs7IFSm-nlYObXK_htQqWktHKBLIxA1VvLqeC8xHR4tmxgKXpLcBu_5rRfaxYk4rAQN78odDBIgt0qoOFHmz0yFop84Wh6M1yPlfwBt05nJ6wEmoNGjbO161iHu5u4Alg6_Ujaq1hhkMK-tM1JRk9wwERFy-Oa09ZRvQ-Pb4hhr6kqhnnYNAq2U/s320/eggbabies.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><span> </span><span>Storks don't bring babies, bunnies do, in eggshells. No message on the sign. We, too, are left speechless.</span><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilGyrKeIH3i5Hfia1dqqQ6Vq-nAsY-bkEfU4mgk8km5uv_gNWKa0sjFM18eDycA_dUMFv5FXg4IwP7gzbREMAWh4LTb1jRIemq-M7TbeYDbSDr3ZiFA27EF_xubacuSccZKA6B8e_y1RK6JbdhEsCGws9ASRct4O3ZQCuBt0S16oK5RWkYLsJxkuVP/s625/-injured-jewish-chick.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="392" data-original-width="625" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilGyrKeIH3i5Hfia1dqqQ6Vq-nAsY-bkEfU4mgk8km5uv_gNWKa0sjFM18eDycA_dUMFv5FXg4IwP7gzbREMAWh4LTb1jRIemq-M7TbeYDbSDr3ZiFA27EF_xubacuSccZKA6B8e_y1RK6JbdhEsCGws9ASRct4O3ZQCuBt0S16oK5RWkYLsJxkuVP/s320/-injured-jewish-chick.webp" width="320" /></a></div> </span>An injured Jewish chick hobbles to his egg-home. Attacked by Gentiles?</span></div><span></span><p></p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkWpBYnr7cVr1yfD2afYNu3B-lO9mDyW4GUcBtLIqIm4SPUeY3t3lmCaDQNA_ez9hBmnV2GXa4DaQzsoLgzB6ZzcggBJsGN5kK-Lx-SBdppcBL8Ew8TdENqJ6TLQ7xhbjtZDRmWXuMQZfYxCK2VVaVqwqMfxfH6xbgf2jjhNrYlBDDbH7Rna172bnv/s502/2-injured-bunnies-c-1910.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="321" data-original-width="502" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkWpBYnr7cVr1yfD2afYNu3B-lO9mDyW4GUcBtLIqIm4SPUeY3t3lmCaDQNA_ez9hBmnV2GXa4DaQzsoLgzB6ZzcggBJsGN5kK-Lx-SBdppcBL8Ew8TdENqJ6TLQ7xhbjtZDRmWXuMQZfYxCK2VVaVqwqMfxfH6xbgf2jjhNrYlBDDbH7Rna172bnv/s320/2-injured-bunnies-c-1910.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /> Very bizarre: Injured rabbits pushing a severely wounded one come across a small one slumped on a road marker. Were they shot by gun-toting chicks?<p></p><p><span>'Want to see more vintage cards? Check out this BBC article, "The Odd World of Victorian Easter Cards":<a href="https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-england-35361381" target="_blank">"The Odd World of Victorian Easter Cards"</a></span></p><p><span>Happy Easter! 'Hope it's not too weird. </span><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Trilby Buschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881736566285610644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673883225914446936.post-22692769764560269782021-12-31T12:35:00.003-08:002022-01-01T09:00:34.025-08:00Weird Victorian New Year's Cards<p> As we reach the end of 2021, most of us will have to admit that the past two years have been hard to navigate sometimes. Now, on the eve of 2022, it behooves us to put aside the onerous politics, weather disasters, and pandemic worries afflicting us today and consider some of the passing strange new year's greetings that the Victorians sent.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhLmChMnasHNX-XDgVzwCd5gS0MuCUnJ1_sEmlsbae_G05ilQBfqmRhz4kyg4RTrP1OIVDZ-CxUE1sgZv2Rr3NHOCgOhpn7iacVJ9dICD0TGHgqVqz2xQ7TlCcvn8moHDYGOh9ys6rJ2raVtXV8Nv939Wb_Ozk5eljAmo-46J45A3xpR8h9wu9js7PC=s1321" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="913" data-original-width="1321" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhLmChMnasHNX-XDgVzwCd5gS0MuCUnJ1_sEmlsbae_G05ilQBfqmRhz4kyg4RTrP1OIVDZ-CxUE1sgZv2Rr3NHOCgOhpn7iacVJ9dICD0TGHgqVqz2xQ7TlCcvn8moHDYGOh9ys6rJ2raVtXV8Nv939Wb_Ozk5eljAmo-46J45A3xpR8h9wu9js7PC=s320" width="320" /></a></div>Wishing you a bright and glad new year--unless you're a fox, in which case we'll rip you to shreds.<p></p><p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhX0w27jtBcNck41rWa19loNPPtA-Ga3xMtiB8KwhQwRCzdl1H-B2IqFQh5koWucL2P8DRh_cTN5YRR7y17JE9pCJSlcY0J3bauk7hTgRAT42M2oVFhn8xbIZhpSysVn8ojP4yvhmYQst4Jb6XROsiRfJmYY5EGhV6AaVN3VhP040XweRtuTqdPMO1b=s1200" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="793" data-original-width="1200" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhX0w27jtBcNck41rWa19loNPPtA-Ga3xMtiB8KwhQwRCzdl1H-B2IqFQh5koWucL2P8DRh_cTN5YRR7y17JE9pCJSlcY0J3bauk7hTgRAT42M2oVFhn8xbIZhpSysVn8ojP4yvhmYQst4Jb6XROsiRfJmYY5EGhV6AaVN3VhP040XweRtuTqdPMO1b=s320" width="320" /></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">What the heck dinosaurs examining a picture of a man has to do with "compliments of the season" beats me.<br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjSHR96Ld8iQUXihOMPwCeQfsyBjr5hnhJeLhKqshhfY82SQJTM78MaTpsXNQpXw_3oV8XXOVNFCk1zsjPXMW45GXMcf5Bmfv9kIG-XHWdQKE5cZYpHIbuRcNzIKR5rgNk_CYVFgGDjaRtDDH-m0MpMo69Ehcl2068_399XHLpBbg1lYx3kk6l85QOg=s1262" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1262" data-original-width="944" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjSHR96Ld8iQUXihOMPwCeQfsyBjr5hnhJeLhKqshhfY82SQJTM78MaTpsXNQpXw_3oV8XXOVNFCk1zsjPXMW45GXMcf5Bmfv9kIG-XHWdQKE5cZYpHIbuRcNzIKR5rgNk_CYVFgGDjaRtDDH-m0MpMo69Ehcl2068_399XHLpBbg1lYx3kk6l85QOg=s320" width="239" /></a></div> Here's one that some of us might relate to, a man afflicted with various maladies. Happy, happy!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhnlg2Fur6g0Wa_lMtvLeZxu89XD65HNP6Mruwq9wCDaP11x6a5Q10FudDFkSebW0BuYOq3KvsAV0PGCaBZDoh2vTZNdl-UCTzMsvIFyROZ9juB4FoZJ7HUMvQWgsMqOeNDXm3JbKwxphaJsCDcjrhR-e5H5eC2Gk308dSE43HOjXB13UpVveDmhh8u=s492" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="351" data-original-width="492" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhnlg2Fur6g0Wa_lMtvLeZxu89XD65HNP6Mruwq9wCDaP11x6a5Q10FudDFkSebW0BuYOq3KvsAV0PGCaBZDoh2vTZNdl-UCTzMsvIFyROZ9juB4FoZJ7HUMvQWgsMqOeNDXm3JbKwxphaJsCDcjrhR-e5H5eC2Gk308dSE43HOjXB13UpVveDmhh8u=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Take this, old man! Become vegetarian, or else!<br /></div><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgSHMB4fpr4bXlZ032q8qLcpbRa-QpPpOZccLnrnM2ZSdXjhF9dxDljg3-WvDyTx24RQNLDjVCpSFov5DK4zjOokmXFzzu0cMKiJKUOXCqumySU9Zm_Rgnr-r52zsTel0pZ7lw9UHj4kvP778-dFk3k45mlRwf_cH4gPvJXqtGjp93DLpx99K9s_lHB=s280" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgSHMB4fpr4bXlZ032q8qLcpbRa-QpPpOZccLnrnM2ZSdXjhF9dxDljg3-WvDyTx24RQNLDjVCpSFov5DK4zjOokmXFzzu0cMKiJKUOXCqumySU9Zm_Rgnr-r52zsTel0pZ7lw9UHj4kvP778-dFk3k45mlRwf_cH4gPvJXqtGjp93DLpx99K9s_lHB" width="280" /></a></p><p>What's with the frogs in Victorian cards? These three are bowling towards a clock striking midnight, using mushrooms as pins.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjNcfoRSrKb27yT81oAb6SobS6vaEhxFnGLaIaM50TpmDFHepCHZ31ayThEI446zBGxVJsNUMXkeNZvUJClSsR4qTjUjOXtJSWKG6OsyFKNiGRdXjDp1brNcKVodEL-ASNB57r_d8Jqut2j69SRbGIFCsSgdxl7-vvEkOSppwzfmfrqK30gb9RzBw-t=s892" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="892" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjNcfoRSrKb27yT81oAb6SobS6vaEhxFnGLaIaM50TpmDFHepCHZ31ayThEI446zBGxVJsNUMXkeNZvUJClSsR4qTjUjOXtJSWKG6OsyFKNiGRdXjDp1brNcKVodEL-ASNB57r_d8Jqut2j69SRbGIFCsSgdxl7-vvEkOSppwzfmfrqK30gb9RzBw-t=s320" width="230" /></a></div><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>Hi, I'm Satan!<br /> <p></p><p>Many of these cards have food and eating as a theme. Some are strange and horrifying.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi25Gp9cUUxeV0WNfExCWFEBV9Su7YuMDqie84H625wtEPUb_jefqGST-0NLdyNLmCAxKjNPKeBlreQSnD4Qqy2oVT-oiqX_lHCAlAQHOY9R3l5vtzibUNo98b5puy7vgargG2IUst1Iti0ehYBcGC8SvV7gZArWfLMiavohozXzWy7gNJmjq5Y2Uh1=s288" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="175" data-original-width="288" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi25Gp9cUUxeV0WNfExCWFEBV9Su7YuMDqie84H625wtEPUb_jefqGST-0NLdyNLmCAxKjNPKeBlreQSnD4Qqy2oVT-oiqX_lHCAlAQHOY9R3l5vtzibUNo98b5puy7vgargG2IUst1Iti0ehYBcGC8SvV7gZArWfLMiavohozXzWy7gNJmjq5Y2Uh1" width="288" /></a></div><p> Polar bear having an Inuit entree for supper. Yum, yum.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhrKzSbh-DIEFun25xrr8Q38V7DmkHSf1pQXw-yFWHpmu5GLQtNp-On_QzkmP6m_KcQ8yu0iNLFRXRwhIpjsOKhw7oPT71slcFOU8IJqVyKeM2nYLcLiyWUbH3PTFJUOv4C4jdYP_SQ8hszQEprlhY-gSlCVMWAC6O3gcN_DeUOdEcKJLGySOMz_0IQ=s750" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="410" data-original-width="750" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhrKzSbh-DIEFun25xrr8Q38V7DmkHSf1pQXw-yFWHpmu5GLQtNp-On_QzkmP6m_KcQ8yu0iNLFRXRwhIpjsOKhw7oPT71slcFOU8IJqVyKeM2nYLcLiyWUbH3PTFJUOv4C4jdYP_SQ8hszQEprlhY-gSlCVMWAC6O3gcN_DeUOdEcKJLGySOMz_0IQ=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p> Woman making boy soup for supper. Note the legs of another child sticking out of the kettle.<br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiBKQeERXqJOuCoA9QImJXz8VzcuZxpP0kX7SIZVSsS4ZkbfD1D_WaCBE1nD5w5AJyJ2acQ9o1lPLLDZ0OXUCRXF_Uk2hkkxBqRkGDT7QuUiAiQaiCwzPSk8PNCNK6vGX7IYIlHumpzAzLCB9UeJs4qv4T2jT_GIJNkRzXM1xReIu28gYFxr_rybxhV=s624" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="399" data-original-width="624" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiBKQeERXqJOuCoA9QImJXz8VzcuZxpP0kX7SIZVSsS4ZkbfD1D_WaCBE1nD5w5AJyJ2acQ9o1lPLLDZ0OXUCRXF_Uk2hkkxBqRkGDT7QuUiAiQaiCwzPSk8PNCNK6vGX7IYIlHumpzAzLCB9UeJs4qv4T2jT_GIJNkRzXM1xReIu28gYFxr_rybxhV=s320" width="320" /></a></div> Roast rat for the elves. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjaSAmgowv2amcDnO02CC4Yb0ZAOaZGaCAHmvR-DG0rP6pd8iqSQvuI8PyOHk6OI6Cpguy_THJQxzeIOgpbCqF52MQ8bgRb_gowYX-wtP2xKOAfffmVORrNgWQVY0At7AQyHVSK5h1fRW2zucjhS-bkwRVPSb2rLpOPM0ICOI-jepImVLY8IOJBYvnI=s1444" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="928" data-original-width="1444" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjaSAmgowv2amcDnO02CC4Yb0ZAOaZGaCAHmvR-DG0rP6pd8iqSQvuI8PyOHk6OI6Cpguy_THJQxzeIOgpbCqF52MQ8bgRb_gowYX-wtP2xKOAfffmVORrNgWQVY0At7AQyHVSK5h1fRW2zucjhS-bkwRVPSb2rLpOPM0ICOI-jepImVLY8IOJBYvnI=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p> Rats are apparently very useful to elves for food and transportation.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTnpRf_0mABBu9inKYvfvIzW3os-roTjEsw3YIi_ChBmoHovx_hLdhckWqZIOy0y6Snzwjgja6-QA7Wgyl6t8Y7NjncMQq7tNyZwkEyFjyaKcG03OJyUwgZwMd-Kdc8L10UDXQpG_wHRtiBrryzcsoKjbjaJq2lmNKGjXgbm4aeZSZRl5r1ptJ2x7J=s662" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="436" data-original-width="662" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTnpRf_0mABBu9inKYvfvIzW3os-roTjEsw3YIi_ChBmoHovx_hLdhckWqZIOy0y6Snzwjgja6-QA7Wgyl6t8Y7NjncMQq7tNyZwkEyFjyaKcG03OJyUwgZwMd-Kdc8L10UDXQpG_wHRtiBrryzcsoKjbjaJq2lmNKGjXgbm4aeZSZRl5r1ptJ2x7J=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p> The tables turned: rats eat cat, with new potatoes on the side.</p><p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgKKp74vEx_w7vh1B_KA1PerGx_O-zRH84BQI2u9zabHVHQaQbYTxnqDvmT5jeAKa4sSFz5w_MH04eAEfWy6CqRbmqFbDA38ERxdm1en21QN1c_4i0LNqBTk1x8yMJdgqPLodnVCR3_gOC9aKFmWW2kPp0faVdidY8b_dubmFUCrjB5bpoPxqX7OPFd=s315" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="222" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgKKp74vEx_w7vh1B_KA1PerGx_O-zRH84BQI2u9zabHVHQaQbYTxnqDvmT5jeAKa4sSFz5w_MH04eAEfWy6CqRbmqFbDA38ERxdm1en21QN1c_4i0LNqBTk1x8yMJdgqPLodnVCR3_gOC9aKFmWW2kPp0faVdidY8b_dubmFUCrjB5bpoPxqX7OPFd" width="222" /></a></p><p>A hairy root vegetable wishes you a happy new year.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg27J60kpUmroK8V63esSLVJOLKPZn-bLiAX7bOcCqKDk6zAY0tRMW24jwR17s6xlvvuaMXCnTmPG93B1JOPwPC1KC4c4cPHXFaaFdEKTb7dt7m6SWUaMWgUUBtizyjmz-82_cvcUw7_dYlcdKNamtfDInYMU01RIwNXcCxkbpoQOa77TT-YqX3dFbj=s750" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="412" data-original-width="750" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg27J60kpUmroK8V63esSLVJOLKPZn-bLiAX7bOcCqKDk6zAY0tRMW24jwR17s6xlvvuaMXCnTmPG93B1JOPwPC1KC4c4cPHXFaaFdEKTb7dt7m6SWUaMWgUUBtizyjmz-82_cvcUw7_dYlcdKNamtfDInYMU01RIwNXcCxkbpoQOa77TT-YqX3dFbj=s320" width="320" /></a></div> Fly away! The new year spider is out to devour you.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiML2FqDyOhHKN_akBHfoN3m4rQZ0BofgKda-P7yh0jX71ssOC-6ApY4mAel49nrzAhAWqs1jbu3cXsWqDvcr1FkECaWSGupAlv93bJ4WFFra4wApn3Rs1yZa3IUETySUNpiFD6hIvqRRjA6IAjO56a2c--ZkbNzm_-d2kb5TobPaSPCsW0huv1Gvmj=s750" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="415" data-original-width="750" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiML2FqDyOhHKN_akBHfoN3m4rQZ0BofgKda-P7yh0jX71ssOC-6ApY4mAel49nrzAhAWqs1jbu3cXsWqDvcr1FkECaWSGupAlv93bJ4WFFra4wApn3Rs1yZa3IUETySUNpiFD6hIvqRRjA6IAjO56a2c--ZkbNzm_-d2kb5TobPaSPCsW0huv1Gvmj=s320" width="320" /></a></div> Ready to take a train to oblivion? They were in 1889.<div class="zn-body__paragraph" data-act-id="paragraph_6" data-paragraph-id="paragraph_C553318E-D2E7-B9CB-BF7C-535890D7D14E"><i> </i></div><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><b> Compliments of the season to you! And a happy, healthy 2022.</b><br /></p><br />Trilby Buschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881736566285610644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673883225914446936.post-37687003169179648272021-10-09T07:25:00.011-07:002021-10-09T13:02:59.373-07:00 World Series Game 7: "The Greatest Game Ever Played" October 13, 1960<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLXTeaA2G-8kH7n7nk_CCBxVrMMpKF6VWQ-flBaNlBGLxrlaibAaantuPRAo8KQ2eA93c7vZ4I8zBdNgg1xkkDOUhYn6XJV8kcO7CxaPgU1V9CXiL6ElcZ-mWPbqMWjT5Oy2JRsxOvMWE/s640/maz+home.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="582" data-original-width="640" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLXTeaA2G-8kH7n7nk_CCBxVrMMpKF6VWQ-flBaNlBGLxrlaibAaantuPRAo8KQ2eA93c7vZ4I8zBdNgg1xkkDOUhYn6XJV8kcO7CxaPgU1V9CXiL6ElcZ-mWPbqMWjT5Oy2JRsxOvMWE/s320/maz+home.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>"<span>Just to hit the ball an' touch 'em all, a moment in the sun</span><br /><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>It's a-gone and you can tell that one goodbye." </span><p></p><p><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>-<span style="font-family: arial;">John Fogerty "Centerfield"<br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">For those who experienced them, some events are indelibly etched into our memories: the Kennedy assassination, the September 11th terrorist attacks. We remember exactly where we were and what we were doing when we heard they happened. For me, there's another event that's unforgettable, as it undoubtedly is to thousands of other Pittsburghers who witnessed it: Game 7 of the 1960 World Series.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">During the late 1950s, I followed in the footsteps of my grandfather, George W. Busch, one of the Pirates' biggest fans in their first half-century. As I described in <i>Darkness Visible, </i>as a teenager, he played Pittsburgh sandlot baseball--which is where he met Honus Wagner. Dad told me about the time when Wagner came to dinner at the house on 21st Avenue. It was one of Dad's unforgettable moments.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK7IvX3fHM278SEwEnna1vYj_r6vtwFOqoJld3Zsbt-AUIutSeW6exnzs_fMCepAN2x7iICW6Wnbs4wkbsR6-a6CykbtkqJ3BehT948lTiU52ixrLY0Rc0Oh63OcX49zvzyL1wlWCo8DM/s355/Honus_Wagner_%2528crop%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="342" data-original-width="355" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK7IvX3fHM278SEwEnna1vYj_r6vtwFOqoJld3Zsbt-AUIutSeW6exnzs_fMCepAN2x7iICW6Wnbs4wkbsR6-a6CykbtkqJ3BehT948lTiU52ixrLY0Rc0Oh63OcX49zvzyL1wlWCo8DM/s320/Honus_Wagner_%2528crop%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> Honus Wagner</span><span></span><span></span><span></span><br /><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> Grandpap became a master machinist in the USSteel Homestead Workers; Wagner became one of baseball's greatest players. Grandpap always kept connected to baseball through his organizing and support of mill teams. He went to every Pirate opener (save one). In his father's later years, Dad would drive him to Oakland, park over by Carnegie Tech, and they'd walk the mile or more over to Forbes Field, Grandpap matching strides with Dad. The remaining season's games he'd listen to sitting in his chair by the console radio. More than once, I remember him waking, startled, after he dropped off to sleep during a dull inning. "I was just resting my eyes," he'd say.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"></span><span style="font-family: arial;"></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: arial;">One day in the mid-1950s, Dad noticed
retired Pirate Hall of Famer, Pie Traynor, across the street from
the Katilius store on 8th Ave, Homestead, promoting car sales at Toohey
Ford. He took me over to meet Traynor. I was surprised that
Traynor recognized him and inquired about Grandpap. It was then I
realized that Grandpap had a lot of history with Pittsburgh baseball.</span> <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Dad was not as thrilled with baseball as his father. A photo of the US Steel 1919 Mechanics baseball team (a photo circulated locally during the '90s), shows Grandpap at left center and grumpy Dad as bat boy. Dad told me that he was miserable being bat boy, and he resented being dragged to these adult games. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAyCnySCA1nrb0opV-OLm58k3Zz_ontJEr_wY2-ByJK1y7Eoj7tEr2FVZ31nw2En6QNf4eGb00rV0WAIY5qe0SH40kLq3Zolf41l9o3JNsbzLCtj6rl2eAgZhLEW-qbVzOdH3VIkrnbQA/s1600/mechanics+1919.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAyCnySCA1nrb0opV-OLm58k3Zz_ontJEr_wY2-ByJK1y7Eoj7tEr2FVZ31nw2En6QNf4eGb00rV0WAIY5qe0SH40kLq3Zolf41l9o3JNsbzLCtj6rl2eAgZhLEW-qbVzOdH3VIkrnbQA/s320/mechanics+1919.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />I was not such a big Pirates fan as my grandfather, but during the years running up to the '60 World Series, I became devoted to the team. On May 29, 1959, I stayed up past 11
on a school night to listen to the play-by-play of what
many have called "the greatest game ever pitched." Pirate pitcher Harvey
Haddix pitched 12 2/3 no-hit innings against the Milwaukee Braves when a
teammate's error allowed the Braves to score. The loss was heartbreaking, and I was dragging the next day at school. But it was worth it to live through that cliffhanger of a game.<br /><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMQqUwzHouKFX5_JhdqX_lKY7CBkWSEaJYLK2plSX9L6GFyoE29DO52qztb9WVMly8WTLrPvI4AEkSnXT5mZIjLQNTBFs_bMUN0REljryEGHINX1PhVXVH_gh3BBI37FjE-DQneOnhUtg/s512/haddix+perfect.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="512" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMQqUwzHouKFX5_JhdqX_lKY7CBkWSEaJYLK2plSX9L6GFyoE29DO52qztb9WVMly8WTLrPvI4AEkSnXT5mZIjLQNTBFs_bMUN0REljryEGHINX1PhVXVH_gh3BBI37FjE-DQneOnhUtg/s320/haddix+perfect.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> Harvey Haddix on the pitcher's mound.</span><br /><p></p><p>My dad would sometimes
take me and couple of friends to Forbes Field, where we bought 99-cent
tickets to watch the game from the bleachers. I definitely watched more
games from there than from anywhere else in the stands. The view of the
field was pretty good, and you could watch the pitchers warm up right in
front of the section.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4qCAtgYWGxh2uINUpImURTfBdYKBi1mxaNnmWUCuCehhnoYU_oJ-ZeowwrWluO-rGn04gkiSJJVaFK8rJ-_DS0e9g7wckdhzLhouRtKv4iZpn5L6rSunzVXhFkVvPk61XYzthulJQCrQ/s1015/Forbes_-_1st_Base_Grandstand_V3T.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="773" data-original-width="1015" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4qCAtgYWGxh2uINUpImURTfBdYKBi1mxaNnmWUCuCehhnoYU_oJ-ZeowwrWluO-rGn04gkiSJJVaFK8rJ-_DS0e9g7wckdhzLhouRtKv4iZpn5L6rSunzVXhFkVvPk61XYzthulJQCrQ/s320/Forbes_-_1st_Base_Grandstand_V3T.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> Left field, Forbes Field, 1920s, bleachers visible at top center.<br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">The 1960 season was a dramatic and uncanny one for the Pirates. As the season progressed, the Pirates wracked up a number of unbelievable come-from-behind wins, for example, the second game of an Easter double-header<span> at Forbes Field with the Cincinnati Reds. The Pirates were behind 5-0 in the bottom of the ninth. but rallied to win 6-5 with a
pinch-hit</span><span><span> three-run </span> homer by Hal Smith and a two-run walk-off shot by
Bob Skinner, who was down to his last strike.</span></span></p><p><span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> </span></span>“We came from behind so many times that year that it was unbelievable,”
backup catcher Bob Oldis said. “Somebody always got a big hit in the
seventh or eighth inning, whether it was Groat, Skinner or (Roberto)
Clemente. They knew what they had to do to win.” [as quoted in "Sixty Years Later" <i>Trib Live, </i>Oct. 10, 2020]</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXYQaTflOdJQt-mJ2DInVyCVsoQs1rcckdQphuOpCkYJJrwyYeY2o7BTLUdtAP47u-4IboYkCbqv8JHUzTRIMhFfC7ABaIXikzjNKeQ95fXGx8kDk-PjcWpywzX7hQ7fOU6H2oc0bTvic/s2048/program.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1293" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXYQaTflOdJQt-mJ2DInVyCVsoQs1rcckdQphuOpCkYJJrwyYeY2o7BTLUdtAP47u-4IboYkCbqv8JHUzTRIMhFfC7ABaIXikzjNKeQ95fXGx8kDk-PjcWpywzX7hQ7fOU6H2oc0bTvic/s320/program.jpg" width="202" /></a></div> <i><b> I still have my program from the Series. A friend whose father had connections with the Pirates got me a ball signed by the 1960 team. Years later, my mother, not realizing its significance, threw it in the trash.<br /> </b></i><p></p><p>By the time the World Series started on October 5th, Pittsburghers, always passionate sports fans, were psyched up. Game One, Forbes Field: Pirates 6, Yankees 4. But the next day at Forbes Field, the Yankees totally creamed the Pirates,16-3. </p><p>At Yankee Stadium on the 8th, the Yankees once again humiliated the Pirates, 10-0 , although the next day the Pirates came back with a 3-2 squeaker. In Game Five in Yankee Stadium, with Harvey Haddix on the mound, the Pirates beat the Yankees 10-5. Back in Pittsburgh on Wednesday, the Yankees once again shut out the Pirates, 12-0. <br /></p><p>So by Game Seven, on Thursday, the 13th, Pirates fans were in a frenzy. It was do-or-die day. At Munhall High School, students, staff, and faculty were restlessly waiting for the game to start at 1 p.m. The high school principal, Homer Beggs (good baseball first name), realizing that little work would be done that afternoon, let out school after lunch. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaDv2B6snfnIr3Q2gDvWqESjSMIGx38iKVefBzAWSmj17lYM779Hks7deqIHlUyfVtvOy1ePi4ZFPDoFBJYqZY9XssToGToJb3FBglMCmwK07H7Qi6mZPKkLkYOq8OdRRJBrNYos2ChlI/s434/Dick_Groat_1960.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="434" data-original-width="378" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaDv2B6snfnIr3Q2gDvWqESjSMIGx38iKVefBzAWSmj17lYM779Hks7deqIHlUyfVtvOy1ePi4ZFPDoFBJYqZY9XssToGToJb3FBglMCmwK07H7Qi6mZPKkLkYOq8OdRRJBrNYos2ChlI/s320/Dick_Groat_1960.png" width="279" /></a></div> Pittsburgh native shortstop Dick Groat, whose sister Elsie taught in the Munhall schools <p></p><p>Some people listened to the game on radios; some started walking home. Someone got hold of a console TV and set it up on the stage in the school auditorium. It was ridiculous--this little screen in an auditorium designed for plays and choir concerts. But about fifty or so people crowded in the front center section to watch the game unfold. Because my dad was a teacher who had to stick around until the official end of school, my friends Joyce, Barbara, and I, who rode home with him, joined the group at the back of the section.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN_p9f8lfPq7j9NLxtNFfAoq1hXahFcGgQonrwmohyphenhyphenL2NMlVCaofupldwNnUAzyNB5o-pbGfqjCrVHhXGMa5N2OXE8vpNHiIJI-OnPi1wPHAQbA3OLSz0tZWPiyP71qiurwAXBlQgc0og/s750/Munhall_meeting.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" data-original-height="589" data-original-width="750" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN_p9f8lfPq7j9NLxtNFfAoq1hXahFcGgQonrwmohyphenhyphenL2NMlVCaofupldwNnUAzyNB5o-pbGfqjCrVHhXGMa5N2OXE8vpNHiIJI-OnPi1wPHAQbA3OLSz0tZWPiyP71qiurwAXBlQgc0og/s320/Munhall_meeting.webp" width="320" /></a></div> Meeting in Munhall High School Auditorium, 1950s--Photo courtesy Borough of Munhall <p></p><p>The game was already underway by the time we started to watch. I really can't remember many of the specifics of those last innings. (Read a full account of the game here: <a href="https://www.espn.com/mlb/playoffs/2010/columns/story?id=5676003" target="_blank">The Greatest Game Ever Played</a>.) What I do remember is losing hope when the damn Yankees in the top of the 8th inning scored two runs, pulling ahead by three, with only 6 outs to navigate. The Pirates, however, in true comeback form, managed to score five runs in the bottom of the 8th, moving ahead 9-7. The Yankees were not going to take that lying down. In the top of the 9th, they scored another two runs, tying the score.</p><p>The auditorium--and Forbes Field--was filled with electric anticipation when, in the bottom of the 9th, Pirates' second baseman Bill Mazeroski stepped up to the plate. One ball. No strikes. At 3:37 p.m. Mazeroski swung hard, and crack! the ball sailed out in a long, beautiful arc over the left field wall. As David Schoenfield comments, "It was a massive blast. Forbes Field was massive to left field -- 365 feet down the line and 435
feet to the flagpole in deep left-center field. As Berra turns around
to chase the ball, you can see it fly over the 406 marker carved out in
the ivy. Considering the 18-foot wall it flew over, Mazeroski's home run
must have traveled 430 feet or so."[ESPN, Oct.10, 2010]<br /></p><p>As leftfielder Yogi Berra and the other Yankees watched the ball go over the wall in stunned disbelief, Mazeroski ran the bases, crossing home plate. The Pirates had won 10-9. <br /></p><p>On the field, the Pirates went crazy. In the stands, people cheered and danced with joy. In the Munhall auditorium, we stood up, jumped around, cheered, and hollered. We came outside into the sunshine of that beautiful October day and saw the kids in the school buses leaning out the windows, shouting and cheering, as they pulled away. </p><p>People got into cars and drove into the city to celebrate. Others rode buses and streetcars. The party went on a long, long time. But although the celebration was large and boisterous, it never degenerated into the free-for-all destructive sprees that have marred more recent sports celebrations. </p><p>Blue-collar Pittsburgh had beaten the haughty New York Yankees.</p><p>Forbes Field is gone; Munhall High School is gone. Many of the players who played that October afternoon are gone. But the game will be remembered as long as baseball is played.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJqoc6118Gm7an49TiOtgvZmwbWVISoXIaA8F5mlrETiwdtdQJ8nyVgtafI7ij5i2kw2orLtj6q6cq8D9LH_fJxRQ_IezYiNsmA5_tdwXPDbtvOWTLIXbAKI2hG8_r7CdiOeLelfRM0nU/s594/x-maz-for-pres-13-october-2010.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="594" data-original-width="397" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJqoc6118Gm7an49TiOtgvZmwbWVISoXIaA8F5mlrETiwdtdQJ8nyVgtafI7ij5i2kw2orLtj6q6cq8D9LH_fJxRQ_IezYiNsmA5_tdwXPDbtvOWTLIXbAKI2hG8_r7CdiOeLelfRM0nU/s320/x-maz-for-pres-13-october-2010.jpg" width="214" /></a></div> Celebrating in downtown Pittsburgh<br /><p>"Whoever wants to know the heart and mind of America had better learn baseball." - French-American Historian, Jacques Barzun</p><p><a href="https://youtu.be/B3U8HREyKpk" target="_blank">Video: Game Seven Highlights</a> </p><p><a href="https://youtu.be/Xq3hEMUeBGQ" target="_blank">John Fogerty "Centerfield"</a>: A wonderful compilation of black-and-white footage of baseball in the years up to the 1970s, including a clip of Mazeroski, #9, sending the ball over the left field wall, and the fans and players going crazy after.<br /></p>Trilby Buschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881736566285610644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673883225914446936.post-84791582079592942222020-04-01T06:50:00.000-07:002020-04-02T14:16:22.105-07:00Tales from the 1918 Influenza Pandemic "There was a little girl, and she had a little bird, <br />
And she called it by the pretty name of Enza; <br />
But one day it flew away, but it didn't go to stay, <br />
For when she raised the window, in-flu-Enza."<br />
--Children's rhyme, late 1800s <br />
<br />
As the COVID-19 pandemic unfolds, daily we are hearing stories of suffering, selfishness, and mismanagement--yet others of courage, compassion, and self-sacrifice. With most of us at home during the day, we are glued to the computer and TV screens, watching these stories unfold. It's a roller coaster ride of emotions, from horror to inspiration, to see the images of people and places around the world affected by the pandemic.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPlnLH-nM82zdG6mc1VLtbpGhDmas3G8H960aj9CwcDFR0ya21IHh4fuReCVufsJ7H5ODa0GIvl3bmsq1FwxC3I0AkcXbWc8g8LZR-t3DDQFo7fDVP47utVQ4PNwZrwsdO2bYVM28_JlQ/s1600/kansas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="922" data-original-width="1240" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPlnLH-nM82zdG6mc1VLtbpGhDmas3G8H960aj9CwcDFR0ya21IHh4fuReCVufsJ7H5ODa0GIvl3bmsq1FwxC3I0AkcXbWc8g8LZR-t3DDQFo7fDVP47utVQ4PNwZrwsdO2bYVM28_JlQ/s320/kansas.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The famous photo taken at an army hospital at Camp Funston, Kansas, filled with the first victims of the 1918 influenza pandemic.--Photo: Museum of Health and Medicine</span></td></tr>
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<br />
During the ongoing stay-at-home directive, I've been entertaining and educating myself by reading <i>The Great Influenza:The Epic Story of the Deadliest Plague in History</i> by John M. Barry (Penguin 2004). I bought it and started reading it when it came out, but got distracted. I've read the first three sections so far, and it's fascinating, yet horrifying reading.<br />
<br />
Some chilling facts from these sections: <br />
--Somewhere between 50 million and 100 million fatalities are estimated worldwide.<br />
<br />
--In April 1917 when the U.S. entered the war that had been raging in
Europe for three years, the Wilson administration clamped down brutally
on critics. It demanded "100% Americanism," launching an extensive
propaganda campaign.<br />
<br />
--Despite being called the Spanish flu, the disease likely first emerged in Haskell County, Kansas, farm country. It is the first recorded outbreak.<br />
<br />
--Dr. Loring Miner (a graduate of my grad school alma mater, Ohio University) became alarmed in January 1918 in Kansas about a particularly virulent strain of flu that was circulating. He contacted the U.S. Public Health Service, which did nothing, and the regional newspaper, which suppressed the story, worried about hurting morale in wartime.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrhNr9w3X3-n4CEpqp_ytWBTZ7IKEm3ivbQW2grILFAAtClK8yA0fz3dMTx3t_kx5lAGKaykrWy7EFc0jh675DOCMXpt1KxbTbrPWzTgrw1lwFrcchK7V4Jv-L9RCHKfl0cxXCy_MWa2k/s1600/devon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="539" data-original-width="810" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrhNr9w3X3-n4CEpqp_ytWBTZ7IKEm3ivbQW2grILFAAtClK8yA0fz3dMTx3t_kx5lAGKaykrWy7EFc0jh675DOCMXpt1KxbTbrPWzTgrw1lwFrcchK7V4Jv-L9RCHKfl0cxXCy_MWa2k/s320/devon.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Graves of 100 wounded American soldiers who died of flu in Devon, England (March 1919)--Photo: (British) National Archives</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
"[T]hrough both intimidation and voluntary cooperation, despite a stated disregard for the truth, the government controlled the flow of information.<br />
The full engagement of the nation would thus provide the great sausage machine [i.e. the war] more than one way to grind a body up. It would grind away with the icy neutrality that technology and nature share, and it would not limit itself to the usual cannon fodder."--Barry, p.132<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsq3zEI7CbpcfsMTZZNtVeGbD6M46tuOetCOKgnERObVnTLH_hXzbcXPihrqMg9aVEkDlJZK8q28l4bcdzvqVQ-_pKdpou2VyXbPLeby4Yf4B34O8TOMPPJ_X4MTW_6DzBDvAvvOTBTss/s1600/FluPoster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="327" data-original-width="500" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsq3zEI7CbpcfsMTZZNtVeGbD6M46tuOetCOKgnERObVnTLH_hXzbcXPihrqMg9aVEkDlJZK8q28l4bcdzvqVQ-_pKdpou2VyXbPLeby4Yf4B34O8TOMPPJ_X4MTW_6DzBDvAvvOTBTss/s320/FluPoster.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Look familiar? 1918 headline, Kansas. Image: U of Kansas Medical Center</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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Between September 14, 1918 and November 10, 1918, 27,789 Americans died in the war, while 82,306 died of the flu. No one in my parents' immediate family died. My mother, who was only two at the time, had no recollection of the pandemic. My dad, however, remembered it vividly.<br />
<br />
Dad was 11, living with his parents and two sisters in the house on 21st Avenue, Munhall. His oldest sister, Frances, was living with her husband, expecting their first child (Gilbert "Gib" Breakwell). One by one, everyone on 21st Avenue came down with the flu--except Dad. His older sister Estella was especially sick. Frances wanted to come over to help, but Grandma, concerned about Frances and her unborn child, absolutely refused her help. So it fell to my father to care for the other four members of the family.<br />
<br />
He recalled being very worried about Estella, who lay at death's door for a couple of days. His mother was also worried, but was too ill herself to get out of bed. Dad acted as nurse, bringing fluids and food, helping as best he could with his mother's direction.<br />
<br />
Those were strange days. Dad, cooped up in the house, read a lot. At night, he'd sit at the rear of the house, watching crews carrying the dead in horse carts to the cemetery one short block away on 22nd Avenue. They carried lanterns, burying the bodies hastily, without ceremony--the proper burials to be postponed till the plague passed. Dad said it was an eerie sight as night after night, in the autumn darkness, the crews came to the cemetery on their grim errand.<br />
<br />
[Note: Mary Anne Lacey Talarek adds this 1918 story from Munhall: "<span dir="ltr"><span class="_3l3x"><span>My dad told the story of how a man with a horse drawn wagon came up their street telling people to put their dead on the wagon."]</span></span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRMyMnDnwuEy_IKb4tpRSbIF23uGCOCkEWvx2vN6NbiEetlxl4SNZB_2ZLZKZhrpJ7ImWe7gaGTVw77PbVkV6BjD-5qecTij3J0M3eBwI-803GjVR74XCW8w6WxLb3EO-F9acL4RWGsU0/s1600/Funeral+Homestead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="245" data-original-width="374" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRMyMnDnwuEy_IKb4tpRSbIF23uGCOCkEWvx2vN6NbiEetlxl4SNZB_2ZLZKZhrpJ7ImWe7gaGTVw77PbVkV6BjD-5qecTij3J0M3eBwI-803GjVR74XCW8w6WxLb3EO-F9acL4RWGsU0/s320/Funeral+Homestead.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A funeral in St. Mary's Cemetery, corner of 22nd and West, in 1976. The Busch family home was two houses from the corner on 21st Avenue in 1918, with a clear view of both St.Mary's and Homestead (Protestant side) Cemeteries. (Photo: Ed Busch)</span></td></tr>
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<br />
In Pittsburgh, people were dropping like flies during the worst months of October and November 1918. <br />
"Pittsburgh suffered terribly during the pandemic. According to the
Centers for Disease Control, the area had one of the highest, if not the
highest, death rates from the flu of any city in the nation with 4,500
people dying and an astonishing rate of someone catching the flu every
70 seconds and someone dying from it every 10 minutes." (Janice Palko, "Pittsburgh Flu Epidemic of 1918")<br />
<br />
During the 1918 pandemic, Pittsburgh was among
the last cities to intervene in controlling the spread of infection. Authorities waited until a week after the flu deaths spiked to impose a
gathering ban and close schools. To make matters worse, they lifted the
ban shortly thereafter. In a 2007 study published in the<i> Journal of American Medicine, </i>Pittsburgh ranked last (that is, having the most) in the number of excess deaths, with 807 per 100,000 people. <br />
<br />
In Winfield Township, Butler County, north of the city, is a cemetery of unmarked graves. Immigrant workers in the limestone and other industries are buried in this cemetery, with one to five bodies in each grave. No one knew who these men were, and their families probably never knew their fate.<br />
<br />
Neighbors on 21st Avenue died from the epidemic, as did many other residents of Homestead and Munhall, but all five members of the Busch family survived, as did Frances and Jack Breakwell.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK4stsMxhCyBbGrdnfviWeuoBOFVgxjrKgEnsh8sRGqNCUZKI6lWePURfI5SqIh3PccCcfgBjx6UYPxiO3hrQe6TIPHIimcdIDT0_jDY1FvHa_KOCHcHwV3WfvfDybqj3GVsKuVil2o-0/s1600/armistice+parade.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="177" data-original-width="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK4stsMxhCyBbGrdnfviWeuoBOFVgxjrKgEnsh8sRGqNCUZKI6lWePURfI5SqIh3PccCcfgBjx6UYPxiO3hrQe6TIPHIimcdIDT0_jDY1FvHa_KOCHcHwV3WfvfDybqj3GVsKuVil2o-0/s1600/armistice+parade.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A parade marking the end of the war in Pittsburgh, November 1918. An official celebration followed--as did a spike in flu cases. Photo: Western Pennsylvania Historical Society</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The other family story is set one thousand miles west of Pittsburgh, on a farm in Sergeant Bluff, Iowa. My daughter Ceridwen passed on this story told by her paternal grandfather, C.H.Christensen, known as "Chris" in his adult years. The son of Scandinavian immigrants, he was named after a close friend and neighbor, Clarence Holmen. Chris was 6 years old during the 1918 pandemic. He contracted the flu, and it hit him hard. As he lay gravely ill, hovering between life and death, he heard the low, disembodied voices of his parents talking in the next room. He realized that they were very sad. Clarence had died. In his feverish delirium, he thought they were talking about him. "I must be dead," he mused, then lapsed into semiconsciousness. Of course, when he recovered, he realized that they had been talking about his namesake, Clarence Holmen.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUV54jvPF1moI_MDBaoBHAbkG-xgIkibsmZDILt2I63Mt12UTqi7o3R2rzkg5ixDRn-u3b2xsk7jdEROD6uSArmkXnKvDe3SD0iuodV7OWYVptxQ3sqYV91xhIXJ_KKOrZnEo_GFJ_S8w/s1600/chc+9+years.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="381" data-original-width="209" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUV54jvPF1moI_MDBaoBHAbkG-xgIkibsmZDILt2I63Mt12UTqi7o3R2rzkg5ixDRn-u3b2xsk7jdEROD6uSArmkXnKvDe3SD0iuodV7OWYVptxQ3sqYV91xhIXJ_KKOrZnEo_GFJ_S8w/s320/chc+9+years.jpg" width="175" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">C.H. Christensen, around nine years old. He became a family doctor practicing in Duluth, Minnesota. At his memorial service, a former partner said that Dr. Christensen holds the record for most babies delivered in St. Louis County. (Photo courtesy Tore Christensen)</span></td></tr>
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<br />
History provides us with cautionary tales and describes to us what can happen during a pandemic to the unprepared or willfully blind. But history also provides solace and hope. The 1918 Great Influenza finally ran its course, ending 18 months after it began. COVID-19 will run its course, too--but the world will never be the same.<br />
<br />
Keep the faith. Be excellent to each other.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGNlTXIpRWXq94025UM1gSHdKxxw6g4Oum0SX9pikaXvFBt5-hGceXaPG0z0uvPxVQUkiUY8q6VmMuwwvIXZzynF8cJwNcrSdyDHN2ia9RvHt5aHkeIbnQ2lQvIiFouxI3gW4ix1VNmw8/s1600/stayhome_4x.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGNlTXIpRWXq94025UM1gSHdKxxw6g4Oum0SX9pikaXvFBt5-hGceXaPG0z0uvPxVQUkiUY8q6VmMuwwvIXZzynF8cJwNcrSdyDHN2ia9RvHt5aHkeIbnQ2lQvIiFouxI3gW4ix1VNmw8/s320/stayhome_4x.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">--<span style="font-size: x-small;">Digital poster by Muhammed Aiwad K</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Thanks to the doctors, nurses, EMTs, medical personnel and police officers out on the front lines.<br />
Thanks to the truck drivers, ship and railroad crews, and grocery store workers keeping us stocked with food and other supplies.<br />
Thanks to the cleaners making stores safer to shop in. <br />
Thanks to the agricultural and manufacturing workers providing necessary supplies and food. <br />
Thanks to media and communications personnel for keeping us informed. <br />
Thank you all for your service.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Trilby Buschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881736566285610644noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673883225914446936.post-69700131002058082112019-12-20T08:37:00.000-08:002019-12-21T07:07:58.765-08:00Christmas Trees I Have Known<br />
Der Christbaum ist der schönste Baum The Christmas tree is the most beautiful tree<br />
Den wir auf Erden kennen That we know on earth.<br />
--Johannes Carl, 1842 <br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgQW7mj2m4KqifQFQ2MAa_jJv3Fqks7GFfNo1y6iXeatkxr01O9C34nGd8VoBO0V6OX-USKOG0jvUM0p9VSUna8m795x0GkDbMTb0HrB1zoDTwFodaZIZQoo4RecLlgi6ynbY5rsTJ5mU/s1600/outdoor-christmas-tree2-e1324413266602.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgQW7mj2m4KqifQFQ2MAa_jJv3Fqks7GFfNo1y6iXeatkxr01O9C34nGd8VoBO0V6OX-USKOG0jvUM0p9VSUna8m795x0GkDbMTb0HrB1zoDTwFodaZIZQoo4RecLlgi6ynbY5rsTJ5mU/s320/outdoor-christmas-tree2-e1324413266602.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
Christmas trees have always been a central part of my family's holiday
celebrations. My earliest memories of Christmas morning are of tiptoeing
down the cold stairwell (my dad hadn't yet gotten up to stoke the coal-burning
furnace) and peeking around the corner into the living room. At the far
end in the faint light of dawn was the tree and under it were two or three unwrapped presents
brought by Santa. So magical!<br />
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Centuries ago, pagans in northern Europe brought evergreen trees inside their homes around the winter solstice. The arrival of winter brings with it a monochromatic landscape, and who doesn't need a bit of color during these dark, cold months?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUg2l0W19E81cAh1vI3samZ5KdoHqabP4KZHCQZinnpgi7oXo4arB7KuZYe5pb-z79jxui-tUSLtC76jxNP6kjp_GB3awC2ZOnnVvDYL279UPDG8NEkRF64yrM8WDrcA1VFebV3BI96u4/s1600/pagan-costumes-charles-freger-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="793" data-original-width="605" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUg2l0W19E81cAh1vI3samZ5KdoHqabP4KZHCQZinnpgi7oXo4arB7KuZYe5pb-z79jxui-tUSLtC76jxNP6kjp_GB3awC2ZOnnVvDYL279UPDG8NEkRF64yrM8WDrcA1VFebV3BI96u4/s320/pagan-costumes-charles-freger-6.jpg" width="244" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A "Wilder Mann" pagan tree costume (Photo by Charles Fréger) </span></td></tr>
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The celebration of Jesus's birth around the time of the winter solstice is, as are so many feast days in the church calendar, an assimilation of an already-existing tradition. Shepherds are out in the fields, keeping watch over their flocks by night during the spring lambing season, not in December. And we all know that taxes are due in April.<br />
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We have the Germans in the 16th century to thank for making the evergreen
tree into the modern Christmas tree. Hungarian-Austrian composer Franz Liszt called his suite of 12 short pieces, some based on Christmas carols, <i>Weihnachtsbaum </i>(Christmas Tree). The symbolism of the evergreen tree in the context of the Christian Nativity makes perfect sense: light in darkness, life in death. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPalGWZGI4HVPA5tFNDUkX3DUFpb5p9HdJGIy-4uAM1yTveGLaD9skL4jv4qotmltZfu7D5SJ1b1Hs0gLV9KNAUE0H4yDaX6XzdbxcqtyKDCuRm4u_u2DSVMOxjqfpUYRtUnzlY-oCMiQ/s1600/edmund%252C+OK.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="570" data-original-width="960" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPalGWZGI4HVPA5tFNDUkX3DUFpb5p9HdJGIy-4uAM1yTveGLaD9skL4jv4qotmltZfu7D5SJ1b1Hs0gLV9KNAUE0H4yDaX6XzdbxcqtyKDCuRm4u_u2DSVMOxjqfpUYRtUnzlY-oCMiQ/s320/edmund%252C+OK.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The choir of First Baptist Church, Edmond, OK, arranged as a Christmas tree</span></td></tr>
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The traditional German Christmas tree is the Tannenbaum, the fragrant fir. My mother insisted that the fir is the only "real" Christmas tree. Sometimes she and I tested my father's patience in our quest for the perfect tree--which definitely wasn't a pine. One particularly grueling search I remember was through the tree lot set up in the Second Ward Schoolyard in Homestead, one block over from the Katilius store. It seemed it took many hours to select a tree as we stamped around with frozen feet in the snowy brick yard, examining one after the other. Eventually we settled on one, but I can't remember a thing about it, except that it was a fir, and perfect. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Opening presents with Mum, 1949. The tree is, of course, an old-fashioned fir.</span></td></tr>
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When I was older, my dad bought an electric train set, a crazy one made of metal cars with a locomotive that had a red light. Around the base of the tree the train went as I manually switched it to take the one alternate track, then back to the main track. [When I cleaned out the Minneapolis house, I was delighted to find a little girl who had asked for a train for Christmas. Her parents got my old train and set it up under the tree to surprise her Christmas morning. And it still worked.]<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYqVgLjw1ovOo-E-Ojgh42oUUNds1-Te7m4TmHSdGVXkmefxNE4PafnzEXpuaktPnYvYSKuQ5Ifwra9ed3_Ib-7KKFN7jUpyHpRFcDWKl-gyZpzRpTDtJXh0A282Aep6GXCr8-YV8K1P4/s1600/watson+tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="644" data-original-width="960" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYqVgLjw1ovOo-E-Ojgh42oUUNds1-Te7m4TmHSdGVXkmefxNE4PafnzEXpuaktPnYvYSKuQ5Ifwra9ed3_Ib-7KKFN7jUpyHpRFcDWKl-gyZpzRpTDtJXh0A282Aep6GXCr8-YV8K1P4/s320/watson+tree.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Our cocker spaniel Watson is disappointed that there's no train to chase under the tree (1980s).</span></td></tr>
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One year disaster struck when my cocker spaniel Buffy arrived on the scene and pounced on the train as it circled the tree. Crash, down came the tree, breaking a number of ornaments. One of these was "Happy Hooligan", an Edwardian cartoon character that Dad was particularly fond of. My dad had saved several ornaments from his childhood pre-World War I, and after the second tree felling, all but one of these had been broken. The lone survivor was the Liberty Bell, which hangs on my tree today.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht0_jxFcjAjP9ADX1Y3JdaAzs5TxXxhdAAXqYt9MxlUvINNcY-pTyuBmKuGYGS69lGnBFaNixi3aEB-R8_kpTtwnwdg7w5rB8ladlT2HAU-6pluGxTqzICFP4JRZ7-jjGyPDUP_4CT8_o/s1600/ornament+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht0_jxFcjAjP9ADX1Y3JdaAzs5TxXxhdAAXqYt9MxlUvINNcY-pTyuBmKuGYGS69lGnBFaNixi3aEB-R8_kpTtwnwdg7w5rB8ladlT2HAU-6pluGxTqzICFP4JRZ7-jjGyPDUP_4CT8_o/s320/ornament+2015.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Liberty Bell ornament, center, c. 1910. To its left is a drum I made at school from milk bottle caps.</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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The Busch family church, St. John's (now merged with St. Mark's) Lutheran in Homestead carried on the German tradition of placing undecorated evergreen trees around a large creche to the left of the altar. For the midnight service on Christmas Eve, the sanctuary was lighted by candles placed on tall sticks at the end of the pews--a lovely vision of light shining in darkness.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmFqKexC7ld3q3s0uHrbNbrm0LcsNPw0Eo2IfEP2d9Mirh9sJycDESBx6EQAiiKKtnPrqGyxEjpC_HW9RiMvqwzYNzIHKG1wU_pF4kpyXaSm1rzLykxaBXEaS96pomGGzLZztk-NZ6b-Q/s1600/xmas+window+st+j.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmFqKexC7ld3q3s0uHrbNbrm0LcsNPw0Eo2IfEP2d9Mirh9sJycDESBx6EQAiiKKtnPrqGyxEjpC_HW9RiMvqwzYNzIHKG1wU_pF4kpyXaSm1rzLykxaBXEaS96pomGGzLZztk-NZ6b-Q/s1600/xmas+window+st+j.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Nativity window in St. Mark-John's, made in Germany, c. 1915</span></td></tr>
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My grandfather, George W. Busch, told this Christmas story of his youth in East Liberty, Pittsburgh. His parents, German immigrants, had a tight holiday budget for their nine children. My grandfather, the oldest, recalled his father making a Christmas tree by drilling holes in a broomstick, then placing sticks in them. (This is part of a scene in <i>Darkness Visible</i>.) The parents hung goodies on the tree, but these didn't last very long. As my dad told the story, by 5:30 a.m. the seven Busch boys had decimated everything edible on the "tree" and left the parlor in shambles.<br />
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Another of my Grandfather Busch's trees, was the one in the Machine Shop in the US Steel Homestead Works. This photo shows my grandfather admiring the big, tinsel-laden tree the year before he retired as shop superintendent, 1938.<br />
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Getting a tree has always been a Big Deal for me. I can't remember a Christmas without one. In her later years my mother, perhaps having burned out on the quests for the perfect tree, would get a huge poinsettia as a substitute. This is not good enough for me.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpPAEE5QCgHOBUNQky3pQ2QX5yDZ0LpqOlsfbmANFSK6ZDUMQR4w14fo6FDiYb-umMBhU0AB_O76FfUG0N00LAuA6GGs3cPweA4PduDrw6RAL4uHeGpijcZE5W6hNuBncx4AS-phqKqA0/s1600/tree+2009+r.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="500" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpPAEE5QCgHOBUNQky3pQ2QX5yDZ0LpqOlsfbmANFSK6ZDUMQR4w14fo6FDiYb-umMBhU0AB_O76FfUG0N00LAuA6GGs3cPweA4PduDrw6RAL4uHeGpijcZE5W6hNuBncx4AS-phqKqA0/s320/tree+2009+r.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Excitement selecting a tree at the Minneapolis Farmers Market with my son-on-law Richard, 2009.</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvNoE7gUiSaJ3cAWVs__G94S6YODmjIZ29ldYB30p-_rKp7Ivjo0yw3Vr9kinTAYmLXliVNsGDEI_f8dzEBABnQWyaq3xLD5cwPCE8GKxzsrLVkgfQl8xkstCA52S6xayUyGhRefr3Sj8/s1600/tree+1960.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="647" data-original-width="960" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvNoE7gUiSaJ3cAWVs__G94S6YODmjIZ29ldYB30p-_rKp7Ivjo0yw3Vr9kinTAYmLXliVNsGDEI_f8dzEBABnQWyaq3xLD5cwPCE8GKxzsrLVkgfQl8xkstCA52S6xayUyGhRefr3Sj8/s320/tree+1960.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A Mid-Mod Christmas Eve by the tree in Munhall, PA, 1960.</span></td></tr>
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When I lived in Duluth in 1969, before Christmas I went showshoeing with friends out in the woods north of the city. One guy's hippie girlfriend brought cranberries, bits of orange, and popcorn strung together "for the little people who live in the swamp." She painstakingly hung the treats on a swamp spruce while we watched, bemused. As we showshoed away, we looked back and saw Trinket, the golden retriever, jumping up and gobbling down the food, string and all. In about a minute, the entire tree was stripped. <br />
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As I did years before in Pittsburgh, in Minneapolis my kids also would come down the cold staircase in the foyer to see what Santa left under the tree on Christmas morning.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Daughters by the tree in the front parlor, Christmas 1981</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizP5bKzgJU4WdVt0J0zyNcjfnJOLC4478NWaVoFlN47_oPmIKeFuYWkJmmbIm5FrH6cXNKmuA3WIhiRzc3C312yERL9-vD0KV14B2FBIrHiI0K6RWegXfhY__Gu2BVzeHyh5TEMUt_weo/s1600/w+m+and+m+tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="390" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizP5bKzgJU4WdVt0J0zyNcjfnJOLC4478NWaVoFlN47_oPmIKeFuYWkJmmbIm5FrH6cXNKmuA3WIhiRzc3C312yERL9-vD0KV14B2FBIrHiI0K6RWegXfhY__Gu2BVzeHyh5TEMUt_weo/s320/w+m+and+m+tree.jpg" width="173" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Under a tall, skinny tree in the front parlor with dogs Watson and Minnie, late 1980s.</span></td></tr>
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Our Minneapolis house, built in 1885, had high ceilings, but scant floor space. I always tried to find a tall, skinny tree, but rarely succeeded. In 2013, overwhelmed with nostalgia (for something I never did), I decided take my border collies, Kip and Viggo, and pull my old sled over to the local hardware store and bring a tree back to the house. I selected a 9-foot Fraser fir and tied it to the sled. What I hadn't anticipated, however, was the reaction of my dogs to having this scary green thing following us on the way back. Kip, completely freaked out, kept trying to bolt into the street. The tree fell off the sled three times in the three blocks to the house. But eventually we made it to the house, and the tree was set up between the parlors.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfsqBei-HauACSnujadyu_W5yRqFtU_d9oPJGFvuxpVCpQaOos4zybLDve4REkCJrXnHIwvd8PC6GS1ZbkG44Sw-TbcE7XaZWVorSZSHZZWdN0oRfw7Nbga-ZLeB11oqISLvHxJa-0GIo/s1600/tree+sled+2013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="541" data-original-width="960" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfsqBei-HauACSnujadyu_W5yRqFtU_d9oPJGFvuxpVCpQaOos4zybLDve4REkCJrXnHIwvd8PC6GS1ZbkG44Sw-TbcE7XaZWVorSZSHZZWdN0oRfw7Nbga-ZLeB11oqISLvHxJa-0GIo/s320/tree+sled+2013.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Viggo eyeing the tree suspiciously in the back yard.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXtxUhaWyEOZnIzg0evctexpUyJt5irvVefDPL-WIu40olzQ6YN9n9Ei9uaA9gS9H8CGDGn-FSBLuj9xCQ3oMhTMPEwnyqguqQXvt5L8HDk6zw0U2HgUBf_d6IGiiSD_6aSVq0R2t7Ocw/s1600/tree+p+healy+2013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="541" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXtxUhaWyEOZnIzg0evctexpUyJt5irvVefDPL-WIu40olzQ6YN9n9Ei9uaA9gS9H8CGDGn-FSBLuj9xCQ3oMhTMPEwnyqguqQXvt5L8HDk6zw0U2HgUBf_d6IGiiSD_6aSVq0R2t7Ocw/s320/tree+p+healy+2013.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The tree, set up and decorated.</span></td></tr>
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This year my daughter Ceridwen and her family and I went to a local Duluth tree farm to get a freshly-cut tree. After circling the farmyard three times, I chose a spruce that looked small enough to fit into my house. The Duluth house, like the Minneapolis one, has lots of overhead clearance, but not much floor space in the living area. It came as a disappointment--but no surprise--to find that the tree was much larger than it appeared at the farm. So it's squeezed between the patio doors and the dining table, crowding out one space at the table. Perhaps we'll just have to set a place for the tree on Christmas Eve. Or not.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiD-_Xtwb0k40tv41uSyvp9i278_-lNOvIRoP1mKJlgJZiw6ix7P9b6EXS7O9Nl09wH1SNE7Ce1rqMvG3mUFBtigopRaf3lUIrfQE5OGEmDYKj4Wjynx7mYlYdXS_yyO9LuVTPoUA-Cjc/s1600/tree+2019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="907" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiD-_Xtwb0k40tv41uSyvp9i278_-lNOvIRoP1mKJlgJZiw6ix7P9b6EXS7O9Nl09wH1SNE7Ce1rqMvG3mUFBtigopRaf3lUIrfQE5OGEmDYKj4Wjynx7mYlYdXS_yyO9LuVTPoUA-Cjc/s320/tree+2019.jpg" width="302" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum, du kannst mir sehr gefallen!</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">O Christmas tree, you please me very much! </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">Wreaths, angels, stars, bells, holly, gifts, lights and candles, deer--all of these are beautiful Christmas symbols. But for me the evergreen Christmas tree, with its fragrance, lights, and colorful decorations, is best of all. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night! </span> <br />
<br />
The Vienna Boys' Choir sing <a href="https://youtu.be/j9U1gJy8AvE" target="_blank">"O Tannenbaum"</a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbTBF86-h_aWXv1zfpdeN5LpxSyWiL3y7HBqtanhtXt2s651AkvIEtNVJgE2e3Dd7ljBpGzdsKSTj6uilA72yHlvlf-Vgc9DkNqis6VI1ulKUmA3iNRsDqVI82rrqQ61she9NuR3uyIAk/s1600/387px-A_Merry_Christmas%252C_German_Santa_in_Green_Robe%252C_Holding_a_book_and_many_gifts_%2528NBY_2748%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="387" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbTBF86-h_aWXv1zfpdeN5LpxSyWiL3y7HBqtanhtXt2s651AkvIEtNVJgE2e3Dd7ljBpGzdsKSTj6uilA72yHlvlf-Vgc9DkNqis6VI1ulKUmA3iNRsDqVI82rrqQ61she9NuR3uyIAk/s320/387px-A_Merry_Christmas%252C_German_Santa_in_Green_Robe%252C_Holding_a_book_and_many_gifts_%2528NBY_2748%2529.jpg" width="206" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">German Santa with tree, early 20th century (Image, </span><span style="font-size: small;">Brian L. Bossier Collection) </span></td></tr>
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<pre class="tw-data-text tw-text-large tw-ta" data-placeholder="Translation" id="tw-target-text" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span lang="de" tabindex="0"> </span></span></span></pre>
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Trilby Buschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881736566285610644noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673883225914446936.post-18250978610723120592019-12-02T19:29:00.000-08:002019-12-03T05:33:49.833-08:00Snowblind: Remembrance of Blizzards Past"One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the
sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of
the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never
remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve
or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six."<br />
--Dylan Thomas, "A Child's Christmas in Wales"<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOVRpNAmVvrQ-AaIxp7a_qqO-1nyXu0gCuoB3Xq0Yihj091q19-GD-PmbwNqs9vGouESL4JahQl5LI76tYPTdiThMoUvRnNyqr8WLB7MhTwLFJndoEISmKqEe3tpRfHHLfzecyhOz-k6k/s1600/children+wales.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="760" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOVRpNAmVvrQ-AaIxp7a_qqO-1nyXu0gCuoB3Xq0Yihj091q19-GD-PmbwNqs9vGouESL4JahQl5LI76tYPTdiThMoUvRnNyqr8WLB7MhTwLFJndoEISmKqEe3tpRfHHLfzecyhOz-k6k/s320/children+wales.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Children in 1950's Wales.</span></td></tr>
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Here in Duluth, Minnesota, last weekend we got clobbered by a powerful blizzard that filled the streets with snow and pounded the lakefront with huge breakers.The storm began haltingly Friday night. The next morning most of us were thinking that the dire forecast of 12+ inches with gale-force winds was going to turn out to be the usual empty hype. But it didn't.<br />
<br />
Around 2 p.m. on Saturday, flurries started coming down. Then the wind picked up. I decided to venture out before the storm bore down for a walk with the dogs to the top of the hill in the park behind my house around 3:15. Three deer crossed the path into the park, heading into the woods. By the time we reached the top of the hill, the storm had significantly intensified. As we started down the steepest part of the trail, the wind-driven snow stung my eyes. The dogs' coats became snow-covered. To see where I was going, I had to shield my eyes with my choppers.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNBEsYKK8OvxqtB5z1icGalgZmcUf7rB9HyFYvKokH2QH0puEoS716_d5-Z5ei1W1MiLHBvuyKaGeLnOhFG8oFMj9VchIojT-Q9sRvOgJiCT5MR0qj_dh05Jxx6kfzWLq-9a22Rsb8GXA/s1600/deer+in+snow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNBEsYKK8OvxqtB5z1icGalgZmcUf7rB9HyFYvKokH2QH0puEoS716_d5-Z5ei1W1MiLHBvuyKaGeLnOhFG8oFMj9VchIojT-Q9sRvOgJiCT5MR0qj_dh05Jxx6kfzWLq-9a22Rsb8GXA/s320/deer+in+snow.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Three does entering the woods.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid9f3zq8y4PIU4YddfhUnLZCYIxTAC-bCZVUWsg4pSSOIlR2Ri4rzKX3kT2H8jxZHJ6HO9j7rAzxW2xsGz_q4k_370yCqYguuowWHlcKBwlUyxc1oAQpVkSNtm4nkmzB0NpDqJuu3zfco/s1600/v+and+v+trail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid9f3zq8y4PIU4YddfhUnLZCYIxTAC-bCZVUWsg4pSSOIlR2Ri4rzKX3kT2H8jxZHJ6HO9j7rAzxW2xsGz_q4k_370yCqYguuowWHlcKBwlUyxc1oAQpVkSNtm4nkmzB0NpDqJuu3zfco/s320/v+and+v+trail.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The dogs going up the hill.</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<a href="https://photos.app.goo.gl/os9Czqs1dLQx76TQ9" target="_blank">Video: The blizzard on the trail.</a><br />
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The last ten minutes of the walk were quite unpleasant, with snow
blasting into my face, filling the hood on my coat. The
deer were barely visible by then in the blizzard, standing in the woods with
their backs to the wind. At last, we made it to the shelter of the
house, the dogs leaving puddles of slush on the floor inside.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid7BrAfDmmyXgjJc41KvMdwQg_hp6yM1bsKAAZtnM9nJwqAn4oY8qfZ2VWSNZbH66qlJfAobeDdLda3ubmHVqhazcIB1__JBs-JWZQnqG6Of6_z3gKbAYo5-hr-bWbctQeeaGHXN8xJZ8/s1600/thawing+out.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid7BrAfDmmyXgjJc41KvMdwQg_hp6yM1bsKAAZtnM9nJwqAn4oY8qfZ2VWSNZbH66qlJfAobeDdLda3ubmHVqhazcIB1__JBs-JWZQnqG6Of6_z3gKbAYo5-hr-bWbctQeeaGHXN8xJZ8/s320/thawing+out.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Melting the snow indoors.</span></td></tr>
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The blizzard raged on all night long, finally petering out in late morning Sunday. People began posting photos on social media and news media: kids snowboarding down city streets, cars completely covered in drifts, plows making huge snow ridges as they cleared snow from the roads, etc.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR51g98ztEAU8HCjwS0UNzx-JRoDLQ9TY8NDFmShze-WWAntcDRWpLIMe7YEzAkVAmCBlGAuKAj8QP-xLKIzjxVz-iGIyxy5_I2Wfc8QGT6dBaV-F6Hp_EfKKrEbXzgfP34bxkv6RppW8/s1600/viggo+plow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR51g98ztEAU8HCjwS0UNzx-JRoDLQ9TY8NDFmShze-WWAntcDRWpLIMe7YEzAkVAmCBlGAuKAj8QP-xLKIzjxVz-iGIyxy5_I2Wfc8QGT6dBaV-F6Hp_EfKKrEbXzgfP34bxkv6RppW8/s320/viggo+plow.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">One of the photos I posted: my border collie Viggo wallowing in snow.</span></td></tr>
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As I looked through the snowstorm gallery, it struck me that a number of the comments were along the lines of: "I remember blizzards like this years ago, when I was a kid." Many people recalled Ye Tempests of Yesteryear as tremendous storms, far more impressive than those of today. Is this really true? I wondered.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikIye3GCN1TgLSZCU4MNn0mSc3BY5b_Se9_1xTDA7SdHhYdxgroWnp9q9uxegGh6Y17mCVnVA-zPz5DTUm8nPCCmHqo-8GSE9awH2RznwHOLS3shRnOsl-S82B1uQKTuiV10d-nbzflLY/s1600/454px-Joseph_Mallord_William_Turner_-_Snow_Storm_-_Steam-Boat_off_a_Harbour%2527s_Mouth_-_WGA23178.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="454" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikIye3GCN1TgLSZCU4MNn0mSc3BY5b_Se9_1xTDA7SdHhYdxgroWnp9q9uxegGh6Y17mCVnVA-zPz5DTUm8nPCCmHqo-8GSE9awH2RznwHOLS3shRnOsl-S82B1uQKTuiV10d-nbzflLY/s320/454px-Joseph_Mallord_William_Turner_-_Snow_Storm_-_Steam-Boat_off_a_Harbour%2527s_Mouth_-_WGA23178.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Snow Storm: Steam-Boat off a Harbour's Mouth" by J.M.W. Turner, 1842. Tate Gallery.</span></span></span></td></tr>
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In the recorded history of weather in Minnesota, there have undoubtedly been terrific storms. For example, on March 8-9, 1892, a tremendously powerful blizzard struck Duluth. With 70 mph
winds, blinding snow piled drifts over 20 feet high, blocking second-story
windows in some buildings. By comparison, this most recent storm packed 35 mph sustained winds, gusting to 50, even 60 mph. While the winds weren't quite as powerful, the snowfall was one for the record books, the ninth highest two-day snowfall in city history. Between 18 and 24 inches of snow fell on Duluth, varying by neighborhood. Washburn, Wisconsin, on the south shore of Lake Superior, got dumped on with 31 inches of the white stuff. Decades from now, today's kids will be talking about the storm that closed the city and held it snowbound for days.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeb2xr1QsPW8KPh7gjiNE8k_1gebhcrq-UzHzAId5WpnjSKf1w9jNEoCmvYbuRh2UjSveiThcHzRcETePBbwQr15ys3gwOgm13XitbeMWymW5LcY5wpnmj8ETjN5hZlCE_fsvlPLsjP8Q/s1600/plow-duluth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="526" data-original-width="942" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeb2xr1QsPW8KPh7gjiNE8k_1gebhcrq-UzHzAId5WpnjSKf1w9jNEoCmvYbuRh2UjSveiThcHzRcETePBbwQr15ys3gwOgm13XitbeMWymW5LcY5wpnmj8ETjN5hZlCE_fsvlPLsjP8Q/s320/plow-duluth.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Plows clearing a street in Duluth on Sunday, December 1, 2019 (Photo: KBJR6)</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDmwQKyWhzDDCzg4gTGlqZFDIbm9uV_2pa5E7HEPrz0xHB6JqwkurxRRVIkWUdLnmwFwqP9j59zvSWbpwhKVXxaFb9ZS3b6sSmidsZcRS8Nf_qnErGXbvnRQg1WnatT3JvVh_AYo0UNn4/s1600/dig+out+duluth+kim+shute+mozell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="540" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDmwQKyWhzDDCzg4gTGlqZFDIbm9uV_2pa5E7HEPrz0xHB6JqwkurxRRVIkWUdLnmwFwqP9j59zvSWbpwhKVXxaFb9ZS3b6sSmidsZcRS8Nf_qnErGXbvnRQg1WnatT3JvVh_AYo0UNn4/s320/dig+out+duluth+kim+shute+mozell.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A guy shoveling out his completely snow-covered car in Duluth (Photo by Kim Shute Mozell on Facebook)</span></td></tr>
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<br />
As Dylan Thomas suggests, childhood memories often provide a exaggerated vision of reality, and adult memories can also be blurred and distorted by retrospection. I thought back to the most memorable storms for me: the 1950 Thanksgiving storm in Pittsburgh and the 1991 Halloween storm in Minnesota.<br />
<br />
On Thanksgiving Day 1950, I can't even remember where we had dinner. Then, the next day, the snow began to fall. For three days, snow kept falling on the Pittsburgh area. By the end, the National Weather Service recorded 27.4 inches,
a record that still stands. Many areas reported 30 to 40 inches. I remember the neighbors coming out into the snow-filled street to shovel out. No snowblowers, no fancy plows, just backbreaking shoveling. No snowtires. People had to put chains on their tires to get around the Pittsburgh hills. Schools and businesses were closed, the city paralyzed. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ9yZhjYxIofch3-uM-wLFynubxFJDR5-k0uTjTBqQDskJk2BBFuDQgT5mqqpJVDVsz7Y2je2mW3aPhjMkYm47iyrRIVQxRARhaWTyWbre1l3QKKnCMtGyAAVTsJLfz5nJMpE8DDyON84/s1600/pgh+shovelers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="798" data-original-width="1140" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ9yZhjYxIofch3-uM-wLFynubxFJDR5-k0uTjTBqQDskJk2BBFuDQgT5mqqpJVDVsz7Y2je2mW3aPhjMkYm47iyrRIVQxRARhaWTyWbre1l3QKKnCMtGyAAVTsJLfz5nJMpE8DDyON84/s320/pgh+shovelers.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Pittsburghers shoveling out, 1950 (Photo: Pittsburgh Post-Gazette)</span></td></tr>
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From my view on James Street in Munhall, it seemed the whole world was in the thrall of the white stuff. Everything was white. The snow was so deep, our sled just got stuck. My heavy wool coat and hat became soaked with melting snow after I came inside. It seemed it took forever for them to dry out. The only specific memory of that storm I retain is slogging through the snow over to my Aunt Estella's house on John Street, two blocks away, to help them eat leftovers. To me, the Pittsburgh Thanksgiving storm is unforgettable, a collage of images of a world turned cold and white.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM8H93FS-4CFMiMHlXhp4ZSBtc1c-Vlh1C8s1CV75bmgyRyHNVjrT5u8ZjvobhgU9832xPsJ_m25jJxCNfcZ1wnoSLu0PWuiHGv4E94T4RCaFg1QBs1nVwTW3hS2FrU022E-f07ZzT-iY/s1600/Pgh+storm+Ethel+Lloyd+Papers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="619" data-original-width="898" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM8H93FS-4CFMiMHlXhp4ZSBtc1c-Vlh1C8s1CV75bmgyRyHNVjrT5u8ZjvobhgU9832xPsJ_m25jJxCNfcZ1wnoSLu0PWuiHGv4E94T4RCaFg1QBs1nVwTW3hS2FrU022E-f07ZzT-iY/s320/Pgh+storm+Ethel+Lloyd+Papers.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A Pittsburgh streetcar passing a snowbound car after the 1950 storm. (Photo by Ethel Lloyd Papers)</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></td></tr>
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Back in Minnesota, the most-remembered megastorm is the Halloween blizzard of 1991 (Why do these storms seem to hit on holidays?) I was living in Minneapolis then. My daughter Ceridwen and her friend Colin came to the house after school on Halloween--and Colin didn't make it home that evening. The snow fell heavy and hard for hours. All evening, we kept looking outside, amazed at the snow piling up in the street and yard. When day dawned on November 1st, 28 inches of snow were on the ground. Shoveling out the driveway and walk took hours. There was nowhere to put the snow. Good luck getting the snowblower out of the garage, and if you did, it couldn't throw the snow high enough over the surrounding piles of snow. It took Minneapolis many days to get the streets cleared. St. Paul gave up on plowing, and until the spring thaw, motorists bumped over grooves and ridges of packed snow and ice to get around the city. This storm affected not only the Twin Cities, but much of the state. Duluth got a whopping, paralyzing 37"--a statewide record that still stands.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_SXRANUz4gWB_IHC9B3flg0lonxI_e_yarCKjo2iPHSC6DYs747Cz4_CNin7sNIId35apRiugHskPlph2vEdwznAfaIXBEjsD4-8IRBxnjW2YJBMo9hdLITsIMIBjwUZHJLax-_Nor2Y/s1600/mpls+downtown+nws.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="636" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_SXRANUz4gWB_IHC9B3flg0lonxI_e_yarCKjo2iPHSC6DYs747Cz4_CNin7sNIId35apRiugHskPlph2vEdwznAfaIXBEjsD4-8IRBxnjW2YJBMo9hdLITsIMIBjwUZHJLax-_Nor2Y/s320/mpls+downtown+nws.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Downtown Minneapolis after the 1991 storm (Photo: NWS)</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh30R76yGdMRbzQSPqwb7UJJHIbQ_5ZENKpDlasTAV3SZ0oL-H_BmRGcLRY32BxNVH2MOymhAl91vqoeFQO68Y7o1V_aFGE0tEIFjBI_dxtVA2yMF3r_ddEMNpol_bnVJchNTTD5TrWJvU/s1600/snow+halloween+fox+21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="640" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh30R76yGdMRbzQSPqwb7UJJHIbQ_5ZENKpDlasTAV3SZ0oL-H_BmRGcLRY32BxNVH2MOymhAl91vqoeFQO68Y7o1V_aFGE0tEIFjBI_dxtVA2yMF3r_ddEMNpol_bnVJchNTTD5TrWJvU/s320/snow+halloween+fox+21.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Digging out in Duluth, 1991 (Photo: Fox 21)</span></td></tr>
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Those are the big snowstorms I remember especially, and others who lived through them have their own unique memories. We have Dylan Thomas to thank for his wonderful child's recollections of Christmas snows in Wales. Life would be duller without those fantastic, fanciful images recalling the storms of bygone years. Cherish the memories.<br />
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"Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales,
and birds the color of red-flannel petticoats whisked past the
harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves
that smelt like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and
we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the English and the bears,
before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse,
when we rode the daft and happy hills bareback, it snowed and it snowed."Trilby Buschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881736566285610644noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673883225914446936.post-91541461573136818152019-07-21T19:50:00.000-07:002019-07-23T14:44:39.518-07:00Morgan Park, Minnesota: A United States Steel Town<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">USS Plant, Morgan Park, c.1925, courtesy of the Northeast Minnesota Historical Center, Duluth</span></td></tr>
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Recently on a very warm Thursday evening, I went on a tour of Morgan Park, a part of Duluth, Minnesota, led by local historian Bob Berg. The similarities between historic Morgan Park and historic Homestead struck me, as both were one-company towns for the same company. Both towns were built around the United States Steel mill, although the Homestead Works was much larger (15,000 workers vs.3,000), and Homestead is older and had a larger population. The significant difference is that Morgan Park was completely planned and built by the company.<br />
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U. S. Steel Company. <i>Map of Duluth: Morgan Park, Duluth Minnesota</i>. 1918</div>
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Even today, visitors come to Morgan Park to see what a planned company town looks like. The streets are laid out along the river flats, like the lower part of Homestead. Railroad tracks run along the St. Louis River in Morgan Park, just as they follow the Monongahela in Homestead. Homestead is older than Morgan Park, having grown significantly during the 1890s when Carnegie modernized and expanded the mill. Morgan Park is post-Carnegie, a town built and named after the man who bought Carnegie Steel in 1901 and renamed it United States Steel, J.P.Morgan.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Neighborhoods of Duluth: Morgan Park</i>, Lake View Building, Duluth, Minnesota. c.1916</span></td></tr>
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To take advantage of Duluth's proximity to the Mesabi Iron Range, USS started planning and building the town in 1913, and by 1915, the Duluth Works of USS was fully operational. The company handled the trash pickup, lawn care and snow removal, health care, and police and fire protection. When it was built, Morgan Park had the most up-to-date school, hospital, and community center in the nation. The company also built two churches, one Roman Catholic and one generic Protestant--deciding that the members of the various denominations needed to share. In its early years Black people were not allowed to live in the Park, so they, the Serbs, and other Eastern Europeans immigrants lived in nearby Gary-Duluth. In a way, Morgan Park was like Munhall during early USS days, the place for management and skilled workers to live, and also other workers, but in the lower-rent units. In Morgan Park's case, many of the original residents were Scandinavians; in Munhall's, WASP, including Welsh, and German. <br />
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As with Homestead, the age of steel came to an end with the conversion of USS to USX. The works, then owned by the City of Duluth, closed in the 1970s and almost all of the public buildings built by the company, including the mill itself, were demolished. (The Homestead Works, still owned by USS, was closed in 1983.)<br />
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The most striking aspect of Morgan Park is that all of the residential buildings were built of concrete block, produced at the company's own cement plant in town. Bob Berg said that he remembered the fallout of white grit from the cement plant to be worse than the smoke from the steel mill. It stuck to everything. (I remember the black flecks and grit from Homestead mill smoke coating window curtains and laundry hung outside. The Morgan Park steel mill undoubtedly produced some of this as well. The air pollution must have been significant.)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Neighborhoods of Duluth: Morgan Park,</i> view of neighborhood, Duluth, Minnesota. c.1916</span></td></tr>
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Photos of the new Morgan Park show mostly treeless streetscapes with concrete-block houses of several different styles. There were single-family houses as well as duplexes and four-plexes. The latter were comprised of four units in a row, with the taller, larger units in the middle. Residents called these four-plexes "sheep sheds" because of their resemblance to barns for sheep. Window mullions on all residences were arranged in the then-fashionable "tick-tack-toe" Prairie School /Art and Crafts design. All the trim was painted USS green.<br />
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Today, trees have grown up, the homes are privately owned, and only the Protestant church and Lake View Building remain of the large public buildings.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Lake View Building today houses the Iron Mug Coffee and Ale Shop and other businesses.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbvALIONZ4-9A8by1_9Hz9j5jcI8Z1Qrol5P8nC2k_ucuuD1TPjpwbziqXGj4AscPlHMhOENuMyzGVKQJSWbhAmPlLh71H12PLTQARDzEKI7ocnBqWaatdByYz-QstjX22QhZro3nH7SI/s1600/MP+Portico+Mug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbvALIONZ4-9A8by1_9Hz9j5jcI8Z1Qrol5P8nC2k_ucuuD1TPjpwbziqXGj4AscPlHMhOENuMyzGVKQJSWbhAmPlLh71H12PLTQARDzEKI7ocnBqWaatdByYz-QstjX22QhZro3nH7SI/s320/MP+Portico+Mug.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The portico of the Lake View Building, showing the glacial escarpment in the distance. This steep hill runs along the shore of Lake Superior all the way to the Canadian border. The shape of the city of Duluth has been described by Duluth native Anders Christensen as "a long wienie stretched along the lake." The city is 27 miles long and only a few miles wide, with Morgan Park on its southwestern end.</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The interior of the Protestant church, currently belonging to a United Church of Christ congregation. The building is not concrete block, but stone.</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The site of the demolished Catholic church, with school at left, former priest's residence in the trees at right.</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The entrance to the now-demolished steel works, across the street from the church site.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The site (next to the mill entrance) of the company's General Office Building, now demolished.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Looking toward the former mill entrance on 88th Avenue West. The semicircle in the pavement is a holdover from the days when the street was a boulevard. In the next block was the school and across from it, the workers' club house, now a community center and park. Morgan Park had "clubs" for both workers and top management. Homestead's workers' club is of course the Carnegie Library, still very much in use.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNksd16eGTDmsq5uO0a7MufPzh8_a_1FOQUopySJDY24xJT3Zzwl7KDpefx-b9lVWov3QxEz7rO9DddCurWAMbPDOVmGTQP1m082n7UPJkjMNFb7suycvIGxeYkVEjbJEaCHSOYOcHmA0/s1600/MP+Sheep+Shed+no+paint.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1139" data-original-width="1600" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNksd16eGTDmsq5uO0a7MufPzh8_a_1FOQUopySJDY24xJT3Zzwl7KDpefx-b9lVWov3QxEz7rO9DddCurWAMbPDOVmGTQP1m082n7UPJkjMNFb7suycvIGxeYkVEjbJEaCHSOYOcHmA0/s320/MP+Sheep+Shed+no+paint.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Front of an unpainted "sheep shed" four-plex. The units have been altered to the tastes of the various owners.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZhlkyj3obxK4N9PhwPJLMbMbmim0cB2ogt-O-Z8AuCoEisYt9y_MpkuOosXUQgv9AWZjUsJbp7ioVQQEOxLlDJUAxzmOn8-VfFTkvz74T6LHeT3CLOMuXfB-U4Z016zNwY_WE48Rje2A/s1600/MP+Sheep+Shed+rear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="998" data-original-width="1600" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZhlkyj3obxK4N9PhwPJLMbMbmim0cB2ogt-O-Z8AuCoEisYt9y_MpkuOosXUQgv9AWZjUsJbp7ioVQQEOxLlDJUAxzmOn8-VfFTkvz74T6LHeT3CLOMuXfB-U4Z016zNwY_WE48Rje2A/s320/MP+Sheep+Shed+rear.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Rear of a "sheep shed" four-plex</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1mhjV5L39ktb0kJwo1QJlI9JLNeHI8_s6BCJISkiHHlKgP4A3e-ycofrRJLsRH5DM9pWKYS-23H4xsU3U-v_JRxQXqx72GFY08mTxEwy-uegQkXs6-_703vYWd9HFlR-jlUQYbWia2JY/s1600/MP+For+Sale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1371" data-original-width="1600" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1mhjV5L39ktb0kJwo1QJlI9JLNeHI8_s6BCJISkiHHlKgP4A3e-ycofrRJLsRH5DM9pWKYS-23H4xsU3U-v_JRxQXqx72GFY08mTxEwy-uegQkXs6-_703vYWd9HFlR-jlUQYbWia2JY/s320/MP+For+Sale.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The small end unit of a "sheep shed", for sale for $52,900. The listing says it's 840 square feet with two bedrooms. The difference in the condition of this unit's roof and that of the one next door shows a potential problem of individual ownership of parts of what is basically one building.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP2loTgH2XSvahuJquCOIpcziiEiWE8xwzX51URr9eLhBuhy42MsZqZQURNYWolHx6Wd2emZ1IZXAHamhZMWODz3uiqwZYk1lcO1yxCi1np7t_F3BqI0FL0_rWcm4VaXkpG-yPfFmRQAk/s1600/MP+Duplex+Orig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1153" data-original-width="1600" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP2loTgH2XSvahuJquCOIpcziiEiWE8xwzX51URr9eLhBuhy42MsZqZQURNYWolHx6Wd2emZ1IZXAHamhZMWODz3uiqwZYk1lcO1yxCi1np7t_F3BqI0FL0_rWcm4VaXkpG-yPfFmRQAk/s320/MP+Duplex+Orig.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A true duplex, up/down</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV4v9MBDqlTIpL4XVRQWX09xu509bdZqckUrstvyCqhX5LzOki5HaTMDl9Tf3TdWi1F7uZ4SDMDvjrEzcg_n2rEWkDOUlWD9Xg4wsBzgOaUWpY05ZE7vAnsdV0YGV3xzUTFnkecKrv3JU/s1600/MP+Four+styles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="898" data-original-width="1600" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV4v9MBDqlTIpL4XVRQWX09xu509bdZqckUrstvyCqhX5LzOki5HaTMDl9Tf3TdWi1F7uZ4SDMDvjrEzcg_n2rEWkDOUlWD9Xg4wsBzgOaUWpY05ZE7vAnsdV0YGV3xzUTFnkecKrv3JU/s320/MP+Four+styles.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Four styles of single-family houses. The layout was either foursquare or saltbox, and the exteriors were all concrete block, but the different roof styles provided variety: hip, gable, shed, etc. These houses are on the west side of the town, closer to the steel mill. Only one retains the original concrete block exterior. I think (because of the island) that this photo is shot toward the left of the old photo of a street above.</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSdY0ocl5MsRWvsdI6uVU4DO8GD8hnf_DCtIkcyG_y27Lpr-8Rhj9PJg-RjV3YsGwDJr3pXaEZ1ZP3DLzjzjuWFrIH6hcm-7H_62_ye741bl2Au89xeEJC0WvmVz2nrt-hp_tbrB8kr6g/s1600/MP+Alley.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1127" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSdY0ocl5MsRWvsdI6uVU4DO8GD8hnf_DCtIkcyG_y27Lpr-8Rhj9PJg-RjV3YsGwDJr3pXaEZ1ZP3DLzjzjuWFrIH6hcm-7H_62_ye741bl2Au89xeEJC0WvmVz2nrt-hp_tbrB8kr6g/s320/MP+Alley.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The alley behind the houses shown above.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9jx0q7R7lc3VHTclFwq9K6SxXZT30kbzn8zyfnm_C0ICF6APOgMSlj6cTFdTg2fj7SxzdwgRozV2PK8EifCU1LlnTCreBeE6RyptGe1jSDIzadIP5FmbCuFPqGEAqBxF2UWdwz4eJd8A/s1600/MP+Three+Styles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1600" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9jx0q7R7lc3VHTclFwq9K6SxXZT30kbzn8zyfnm_C0ICF6APOgMSlj6cTFdTg2fj7SxzdwgRozV2PK8EifCU1LlnTCreBeE6RyptGe1jSDIzadIP5FmbCuFPqGEAqBxF2UWdwz4eJd8A/s320/MP+Three+Styles.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Morgan Park saltboxes have layouts similar to Homestead workers' houses, but they're detached and somewhat larger.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Uxbao1ndZhsGEky3GhRIN6Dh7y9nWzqrH_fRRf-dohCK9Uaq9opo445KO2LviAqEdB4VW-WBuBeEECYTJbzS7Ci5JtASppsp3CHLLyOowyhxN7JJ__SbC30EVlGrPj4TjldoGQ8uY7Q/s1600/MP+Garages.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="915" data-original-width="1600" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Uxbao1ndZhsGEky3GhRIN6Dh7y9nWzqrH_fRRf-dohCK9Uaq9opo445KO2LviAqEdB4VW-WBuBeEECYTJbzS7Ci5JtASppsp3CHLLyOowyhxN7JJ__SbC30EVlGrPj4TjldoGQ8uY7Q/s320/MP+Garages.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A row of garages built when workers in the more modest houses began to acquire cars. Many of the houses built for management have their original garages.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn8CtSb5w-IUftpeyCceHwTwWpVwbf8_pYhNTeLcNRPT4V61MplbaxcF9QWzdirC_3VsiAQ8Kye7AvI9vs9pkH0jRHwmNq1t4FNcmM5u0NV2ri4_mCYsqiQWIpKxYXH2tu0RKNLkCILIs/s1600/MP+Gable+lace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1202" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn8CtSb5w-IUftpeyCceHwTwWpVwbf8_pYhNTeLcNRPT4V61MplbaxcF9QWzdirC_3VsiAQ8Kye7AvI9vs9pkH0jRHwmNq1t4FNcmM5u0NV2ri4_mCYsqiQWIpKxYXH2tu0RKNLkCILIs/s320/MP+Gable+lace.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A single-family house built for management on the east side of town, away from the steel mill. This house has its original Arts and Crafts-style mullioned windows.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiByQa_Od-aRX5uoV2NEyk-YvNP6rvNcvyHTBclzYrVD89W_plKJsp5sCnXhqvQBq98uEPDoB2nKlQkBoR25g_N4BO1JFRKH_T7FL4kQcA3EQeSS7GZ11oWC7c8RQk-ZIA5nkgWa9nO2o/s1600/MP+Restored.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1048" data-original-width="1600" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiByQa_Od-aRX5uoV2NEyk-YvNP6rvNcvyHTBclzYrVD89W_plKJsp5sCnXhqvQBq98uEPDoB2nKlQkBoR25g_N4BO1JFRKH_T7FL4kQcA3EQeSS7GZ11oWC7c8RQk-ZIA5nkgWa9nO2o/s320/MP+Restored.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A large house built for management, beautifully restored. Large management houses often had six bedrooms, four on the second floor and two on the top floor.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuoqi0js2w-bfpX0RhlPuJO0UGlhRuhdqvFSSM-409YWCAxUNMllv5t3BWXBeRr6PAjZbXwPvkkbPEC7qT1tJjgQwgkeCGuFpCFahcPt_gHaNL88T9Fa20Ya4fSHdFLBdSg1ZntoctLRQ/s1600/MP+Supt+House+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuoqi0js2w-bfpX0RhlPuJO0UGlhRuhdqvFSSM-409YWCAxUNMllv5t3BWXBeRr6PAjZbXwPvkkbPEC7qT1tJjgQwgkeCGuFpCFahcPt_gHaNL88T9Fa20Ya4fSHdFLBdSg1ZntoctLRQ/s320/MP+Supt+House+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">This handsome bungalow is a couple of doors down from the house shown above, at the end of a cul-de-sac. Some people think that these houses were built for the mill superintendents. It's quite possible, as these houses are on the edge of town, overlooking the St. Louis River, as far from the mill as one can get.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD4jljlV9pM1xacVw-6uyI9Uals3XRKkHQsckLLjiUUaOEz5WB_aGzXBrAVhybkgepd7bLU8VSD6N-yae6_0rZHBhovjq-WJeLiPhhBbeF9mGrwiI2uY8Lcgfl0H7w8a6Qk-MvZ2XEJdU/s1600/MP+green.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="738" data-original-width="960" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD4jljlV9pM1xacVw-6uyI9Uals3XRKkHQsckLLjiUUaOEz5WB_aGzXBrAVhybkgepd7bLU8VSD6N-yae6_0rZHBhovjq-WJeLiPhhBbeF9mGrwiI2uY8Lcgfl0H7w8a6Qk-MvZ2XEJdU/s320/MP+green.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A large single-family home in near-original appearance with its green trim, unpainted concrete block exterior, and Art and Crafts-style window mullions. Obviously, the satellite dish isn't original.</span></td></tr>
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Even though the steel mill and cement plant are long gone, Morgan Park, a close-knit community, is holding its own. The lawns are mowed, the alleys are tidy, and the streets are clear of trash. The people who live there care about their town. The population remains steady at around 5,800.<br />
<br />
Older, urban Homestead's population, including Munhall, is around 13,000, quite a drop from the population during the heyday of the Works. But although Homestead has fallen on hard times, a group of dedicated residents and business people are slowly turning it around.<br />
<br />
These two old steel towns--Morgan Park and Homestead--show how Rust Belt towns can survive and be remade into vital new communities.Trilby Buschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881736566285610644noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673883225914446936.post-26151487385245723122019-07-06T12:21:00.000-07:002019-07-06T12:36:56.054-07:00Excerpt: The Death of John Morris, July 6, 18929 A.M. Wednesday, July 6, 1892<br />
<br />
(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.)<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUHQiy8T5uuCtt_yyd6ssNSUCjocxfKSP-OXmhzynPUmkykAz8QMXf2t212FXEQYqcPUhz9vCvBK4zujncFnDRITw_aLx7C2eMPwtFtv5PlRbWGw3rriF_Ehj-B0DHopwrldxeT1AzUv0/s1600/battle+NPS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="207" data-original-width="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUHQiy8T5uuCtt_yyd6ssNSUCjocxfKSP-OXmhzynPUmkykAz8QMXf2t212FXEQYqcPUhz9vCvBK4zujncFnDRITw_aLx7C2eMPwtFtv5PlRbWGw3rriF_Ehj-B0DHopwrldxeT1AzUv0/s1600/battle+NPS.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Contemporary illustration of the battle.</span></td></tr>
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<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
[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.<br />
<br />
With Gwyn beside him, Emlyn trained the binoculars on the <i>Iron Mountain</i>. 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<i> Iron Mountain</i>, armed men emerged.<br />
<br />
"Gwyn," Emlyn said, his heart sinking. "I think they're coming off the barge."<br />
<br />
"They're disembarking!" Smith exclaimed.<br />
<br />
Through the glasses, Emlyn saw the Pinkertons start down the gangplank. A second later, someone fired a round at the <i>Iron Mountain. </i>Return rifle fire erupted from the barge.<br />
<br />
"Get them!" screamed Duncan. "Get those scoundrels!"<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"I think I got one!" yelled Morris. "I'm going to sneak a look." Emlyn watched him ease up to peek through an opening.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"My God!" shouted Gwyn, scrambling to where Morris had gone over.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2GkAaRIqNwKq4xI7dZXuAu0e6bh_qjZgueGOuNrNNhcs4LAweC-bEKg1yuFNsZP72cSi8Z_Z6OIzkAt9QPhFki2CcQ-Ta8xNyDRHfBr8nCYMrWHSkLTUXMLBAUGuZ5GLv8VZFXKsL8yA/s1600/workers+firing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="177" data-original-width="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2GkAaRIqNwKq4xI7dZXuAu0e6bh_qjZgueGOuNrNNhcs4LAweC-bEKg1yuFNsZP72cSi8Z_Z6OIzkAt9QPhFki2CcQ-Ta8xNyDRHfBr8nCYMrWHSkLTUXMLBAUGuZ5GLv8VZFXKsL8yA/s1600/workers+firing.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Workers firing at the barges. Contemporary illustration.</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9xmGDeLuWRCjVfVxmfkzqlawtGBCpxfzImZHZ-_FL3dvuX0GOyKQ-2Ym_reBMu7qwjjezdVc9UOcFqcFwtiueAUVvgHGrMtYtr3UQioFpF4TiYfTcdtGi5XwC3MItWSc4tVfbdCCna4I/s1600/pump+house+today.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="363" data-original-width="640" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9xmGDeLuWRCjVfVxmfkzqlawtGBCpxfzImZHZ-_FL3dvuX0GOyKQ-2Ym_reBMu7qwjjezdVc9UOcFqcFwtiueAUVvgHGrMtYtr3UQioFpF4TiYfTcdtGi5XwC3MItWSc4tVfbdCCna4I/s320/pump+house+today.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Pump House today, part of Rivers of Steel National Historic Site.</span></td></tr>
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<br />Trilby Buschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881736566285610644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673883225914446936.post-55074126929107544422018-12-23T17:42:00.000-08:002018-12-23T17:42:02.686-08:00More Creepy Christmas Cards: Bizarro Victorian Greetings<br />
In my first foray into Victorian holiday greeting cards, <a href="https://valleyofsteel.blogspot.com/2014/12/creepy-christmas-cards-bizarro.html" target="_blank">Creepy Christmas Cards: Bizarro Victorian Holiday Greetings</a>, 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.<br />
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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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZC3ebwht1to_Hn5fFKI2zyzosbaWempkuwe6EkiOnAp9GvPrOe_s3NBnpdEtJZ8FCv3KTHsY6KHQ_rzp-xERdyHY3D38i-Ei-ipfQO0P4nf586A2EOvEF5dDkRsBiVL_WUZVdgZcQw8s/s1600/viccard+jellyfish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1051" data-original-width="737" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZC3ebwht1to_Hn5fFKI2zyzosbaWempkuwe6EkiOnAp9GvPrOe_s3NBnpdEtJZ8FCv3KTHsY6KHQ_rzp-xERdyHY3D38i-Ei-ipfQO0P4nf586A2EOvEF5dDkRsBiVL_WUZVdgZcQw8s/s320/viccard+jellyfish.jpg" width="224" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">What could be more festive to bring Christmas Blessings than a large, venomous jellyfish?</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIbNN5w05yKMeOjiZ0Lek_zaNqiObqsUrmdFZ5pSuOjmt3QJ-CyyEHtOl66rqku2pN0GTndhn4ae8dQvw_5CXtloj_iBNuR4imdHo_nMBKxzM_GDbRwquuxx2R8xmLQiG9C9FL62i8nbk/s1600/viccard+sea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="762" data-original-width="768" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIbNN5w05yKMeOjiZ0Lek_zaNqiObqsUrmdFZ5pSuOjmt3QJ-CyyEHtOl66rqku2pN0GTndhn4ae8dQvw_5CXtloj_iBNuR4imdHo_nMBKxzM_GDbRwquuxx2R8xmLQiG9C9FL62i8nbk/s320/viccard+sea.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">In this card from the Nova Scotia Archives, colorful and weird sea creatures (starfish are also venomous) bring "Best Wishes for Christmas."</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWKIhQbKffH_zzWCG7xFJKhMNm2zZ4vhVuoJlXFlqRLkDpKZLCc2baHEERl4I3KN1fRYO8ZNuXGLVDV8C83GaPhnxkP0xp5efWh-EFni9Cc6PBMjhqHOUjDIywla_ZpVUPiPodVUsj1CU/s1600/viccard+ants.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="496" data-original-width="720" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWKIhQbKffH_zzWCG7xFJKhMNm2zZ4vhVuoJlXFlqRLkDpKZLCc2baHEERl4I3KN1fRYO8ZNuXGLVDV8C83GaPhnxkP0xp5efWh-EFni9Cc6PBMjhqHOUjDIywla_ZpVUPiPodVUsj1CU/s320/viccard+ants.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Red
ants (Christmas color, with hats and musical instruments) attack and overcome
black ants (bah humbug color) to bring you "Compliments of the Season."</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxfhVCEP5CtplEIp6-n8K13nbhX3x13xEbi4xonUxTPh9SUZA93dVBbdavnt2DO7ipE_78VovH9vrSktIX3wlN1Oz1FueOTFBKwXNJxWK8K1ky-_0OZAdeQ5lyD8mw-h57YDvVZEDcggU/s1600/viccard+beetle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="743" data-original-width="1280" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxfhVCEP5CtplEIp6-n8K13nbhX3x13xEbi4xonUxTPh9SUZA93dVBbdavnt2DO7ipE_78VovH9vrSktIX3wlN1Oz1FueOTFBKwXNJxWK8K1ky-_0OZAdeQ5lyD8mw-h57YDvVZEDcggU/s320/viccard+beetle.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">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.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsdatxxuikiCLolLzjHciP7yAKm6yBvAabZQ_qy9bCgZ7uaEln1x3YcWoFHd461OXmOURRCQJvQbF94LvlTH-wb2G12mx51rJdTE41ZT2wTIUz0I_QaZPLCCeql7cHgyITJ_ogvXiH7co/s1600/viccard+frog+stab.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsdatxxuikiCLolLzjHciP7yAKm6yBvAabZQ_qy9bCgZ7uaEln1x3YcWoFHd461OXmOURRCQJvQbF94LvlTH-wb2G12mx51rJdTE41ZT2wTIUz0I_QaZPLCCeql7cHgyITJ_ogvXiH7co/s320/viccard+frog+stab.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Hearty wishes" to you as one frog stabs another through the heart and a third leaps into the water.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD_Z3LKnH8Iz9gNSQqOQZbTsoYY2wB10JbbdntRNkmFRQf_UdN4WWWZO6GxUtNSw4v1OGEhUSxwduUVnaL9WtAR3NBaly3dIC8cTH02GjrQdlZjaXgsrUSdcA88W8x_i8nglPkxWmeEbI/s1600/viccard+donkey+head.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="570" data-original-width="377" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD_Z3LKnH8Iz9gNSQqOQZbTsoYY2wB10JbbdntRNkmFRQf_UdN4WWWZO6GxUtNSw4v1OGEhUSxwduUVnaL9WtAR3NBaly3dIC8cTH02GjrQdlZjaXgsrUSdcA88W8x_i8nglPkxWmeEbI/s320/viccard+donkey+head.jpg" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yep, don't be an ass and overdo the booze at the holiday office party.</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5-s8DWtaaG4_E4EiySzdCVBPE3rW2c3kZ4dYJeo_91ZkT28zHwGGbO9vWtyC_PIAsy6ZCbR_CFdi2h8KBPbI9OtK-ixRF8k5bY3P60doLeh9nDPk8AYm0sHsqYoXOf_LxcafTq5Ao2Tg/s1600/viccard+Rabbits+Owls+Blind+Buff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="953" data-original-width="1600" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5-s8DWtaaG4_E4EiySzdCVBPE3rW2c3kZ4dYJeo_91ZkT28zHwGGbO9vWtyC_PIAsy6ZCbR_CFdi2h8KBPbI9OtK-ixRF8k5bY3P60doLeh9nDPk8AYm0sHsqYoXOf_LxcafTq5Ao2Tg/s400/viccard+Rabbits+Owls+Blind+Buff.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: small;">"Loving friends" owls and rabbits dance by the light of the moon. Well, what could possibly go wrong here?</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQrh0I-vZGiXriwaGEMcdLu-2wSYwDIVsq6Yk4isKTYnDxAib-VQeucI1Wv0t-1lN3vIisV1D8KrH8bUCNv-CHgUCjj-K9GiDAfw3_m0aiU9yISd_xhlpq_NIttpBN-vYOhYPrqn2dKbw/s1600/viccard+rabbit+hunt.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="649" data-original-width="1000" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQrh0I-vZGiXriwaGEMcdLu-2wSYwDIVsq6Yk4isKTYnDxAib-VQeucI1Wv0t-1lN3vIisV1D8KrH8bUCNv-CHgUCjj-K9GiDAfw3_m0aiU9yISd_xhlpq_NIttpBN-vYOhYPrqn2dKbw/s320/viccard+rabbit+hunt.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">It's not going to be a joyful Christmas for one of these creatures if the androgynous kid with the big fork spears accurately. </span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNrWpiMRp_1sdu278jWocuvIhKbaRPCTx8NKVu5bEBrEwL3qCyhpt1BGT77U3ybb9U3xIv660mnocpkaGGC2wVq9QwIYmdPN5tdUcyhan0OBixJk681_bZLIrvqx0HgdfrYkePisKDAkw/s1600/viccard+bunny+trap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="776" data-original-width="1200" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNrWpiMRp_1sdu278jWocuvIhKbaRPCTx8NKVu5bEBrEwL3qCyhpt1BGT77U3ybb9U3xIv660mnocpkaGGC2wVq9QwIYmdPN5tdUcyhan0OBixJk681_bZLIrvqx0HgdfrYkePisKDAkw/s320/viccard+bunny+trap.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Rabbit contemplating suicide in a snare. So happy. So content.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7WPT-0oKCkuf7QRfiiwg1cwRfLYoey3Mmz-0uO6I8hqA_TcypAc3718dwizGnsU4R-N5KU3Nnspe05EKghlOu5UK1LyrRTPM9zSX0unBYya78_flYyszHKo3fqvo1ARX9BJoV4MP7IFc/s1600/viccard+rat+hunt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="404" data-original-width="624" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7WPT-0oKCkuf7QRfiiwg1cwRfLYoey3Mmz-0uO6I8hqA_TcypAc3718dwizGnsU4R-N5KU3Nnspe05EKghlOu5UK1LyrRTPM9zSX0unBYya78_flYyszHKo3fqvo1ARX9BJoV4MP7IFc/s320/viccard+rat+hunt.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Elves riding rats run down a rabbit for Christmas dinner.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihF6D5Q5isaScOyfLdmiJcBdOy6LFyVUO2xA-58OVZ7e6KpWQYjA_TlsrJeq0NoxH0zYCxfc0TF8u1FSb4AAJP3rLGkL8_z7suJ7dgsYH4lGHzvvpw6FNruBcd-gp9Oft7yyZPMRrpviI/s1600/viccard+roasted-rat-for-christmas.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="184" data-original-width="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihF6D5Q5isaScOyfLdmiJcBdOy6LFyVUO2xA-58OVZ7e6KpWQYjA_TlsrJeq0NoxH0zYCxfc0TF8u1FSb4AAJP3rLGkL8_z7suJ7dgsYH4lGHzvvpw6FNruBcd-gp9Oft7yyZPMRrpviI/s1600/viccard+roasted-rat-for-christmas.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Beside using rats as hunting steeds, elves ( trolls?) enjoy a good dinner of roasted rat, cooked whole. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRuDwd6mN7SaHAOV3bbcDeMLU3E8yZ4TvBTdOWcov53jQjkzLFyuINLHboI0BsD4zW5XNNYePrOJDFLgagnq6leZ75TbOC9N9M8CiFvETkTtzzKUzNntg2U48N0cxQN1ZJJe9yZl_c3rE/s1600/viccard+bear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="389" data-original-width="640" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRuDwd6mN7SaHAOV3bbcDeMLU3E8yZ4TvBTdOWcov53jQjkzLFyuINLHboI0BsD4zW5XNNYePrOJDFLgagnq6leZ75TbOC9N9M8CiFvETkTtzzKUzNntg2U48N0cxQN1ZJJe9yZl_c3rE/s320/viccard+bear.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"> A Happy Christmas! This time it looks like the human is the entree for the feast.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggt_v5uj1fi8K5GGegJ7Lsu0TNFy81Qi8k7W2vsjOS_p2R-LGw6KC7SUaybOSQsuDUcd1WkeQnetLgimTvXEDkMEPLf1p2Eja9q-Jsqqptma8sJQaFIVEx8KImm0RAen1hQBxhXLhrb-k/s1600/viccard+pothead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="367" data-original-width="236" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggt_v5uj1fi8K5GGegJ7Lsu0TNFy81Qi8k7W2vsjOS_p2R-LGw6KC7SUaybOSQsuDUcd1WkeQnetLgimTvXEDkMEPLf1p2Eja9q-Jsqqptma8sJQaFIVEx8KImm0RAen1hQBxhXLhrb-k/s320/viccard+pothead.jpg" width="205" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Androgynous pothead weirdo brings compliments of the season standing before a blazing oven full of strange foods.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9h79sgmmqpkBAemRGtfZAGL6Wu8OU3K-g8QxwR3COur7XRMd5rJEk4zor4aWNeFZIiSoGkb_aOAfSJGbIkgEC4uI4ZxfHkVtaI5DNx2agC2bzVzdm18WrA5X2QqhyfQoe1Fw3hxqIa9I/s1600/vic+card+akavit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="510" data-original-width="720" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9h79sgmmqpkBAemRGtfZAGL6Wu8OU3K-g8QxwR3COur7XRMd5rJEk4zor4aWNeFZIiSoGkb_aOAfSJGbIkgEC4uI4ZxfHkVtaI5DNx2agC2bzVzdm18WrA5X2QqhyfQoe1Fw3hxqIa9I/s320/vic+card+akavit.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Drunken rosy-cheeked Nordic folks primed with "akevit" are pulled in a sleigh boat by a presumably similarly inebriated hog.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKV4ZdBXQs39lBfQfSmBiWah_FoDHeTpZ6oPh6JUA-VYxths5aNKLt_hH1XEDAIxT8TWGHk_xgr8KlW8G1puCj-juhb-bx5O_WETXzGlmm1X-_b7gCferD_ETzi5rNQnTRlRsDNlR_cLc/s1600/viccard+santa+kidnap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="368" data-original-width="236" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKV4ZdBXQs39lBfQfSmBiWah_FoDHeTpZ6oPh6JUA-VYxths5aNKLt_hH1XEDAIxT8TWGHk_xgr8KlW8G1puCj-juhb-bx5O_WETXzGlmm1X-_b7gCferD_ETzi5rNQnTRlRsDNlR_cLc/s320/viccard+santa+kidnap.jpg" width="205" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">St. Nick rams junior into a sack, to take as a present to . . .? 'Better watch out! </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqT75bKoKiW6C0jBVYDzyVmM373r2siiZRvZ5gVJALfsi-E6rSraDhUxJILJ2QxUPwelU4hlK_yrHxZybmRkmSubDFRrUK98dY6VCyV01GsqcRorYskFpDOBrtnfDWNoRznwU-RJ19sDA/s1600/cooked+kid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="952" data-original-width="962" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqT75bKoKiW6C0jBVYDzyVmM373r2siiZRvZ5gVJALfsi-E6rSraDhUxJILJ2QxUPwelU4hlK_yrHxZybmRkmSubDFRrUK98dY6VCyV01GsqcRorYskFpDOBrtnfDWNoRznwU-RJ19sDA/s320/cooked+kid.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">He didn't watch out, and now he's stewing in a teapot, sending "A Christmas Greeting with Love."</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYopElJnGPsiqNrLT_ZcDr2GU7ygFGmGpnFWwIr6OYbpkt5ysoC4Fpo13_2lpyEsMF9h3xZtf-pe5phaXmZZejxBNA0B0SarUy2flj-8RbFXIcST1bp_pYYpUWHjFIM0FNN9HTS90Z_5w/s1600/viccard+wwi.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="426" data-original-width="497" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYopElJnGPsiqNrLT_ZcDr2GU7ygFGmGpnFWwIr6OYbpkt5ysoC4Fpo13_2lpyEsMF9h3xZtf-pe5phaXmZZejxBNA0B0SarUy2flj-8RbFXIcST1bp_pYYpUWHjFIM0FNN9HTS90Z_5w/s320/viccard+wwi.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">World War I Santa with crying child and deer wearing gas masks. They don't even bother to caption this dreary image.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb9kxnCq1LeUFjHUcrCvG1fk2RbtVhp532i_PezudFAYC64TyuEG9gyj7n8zmOPB4P5O5NSqRKvM7fW5Y0yAbqDaDdBz6NDsEttTiY7iIFjR9zd0t5gKLX6NYflvYO_PSVi77HKqAHjyY/s1600/viccard+cat+thugs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="531" data-original-width="736" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb9kxnCq1LeUFjHUcrCvG1fk2RbtVhp532i_PezudFAYC64TyuEG9gyj7n8zmOPB4P5O5NSqRKvM7fW5Y0yAbqDaDdBz6NDsEttTiY7iIFjR9zd0t5gKLX6NYflvYO_PSVi77HKqAHjyY/s320/viccard+cat+thugs.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Cat thugs lie in wait to bring greetings via beatings with fists and clubs.</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRrqq6lh7PVtiMqq27kkTrnEmIiRYEq93Rgm6-uWBoQSTdHszRcT-GaWadQ48oTU3VSRae43BJYt5tfBjpxEwqPCuDbCTJxkKfgGHS6mjEzgZexwM-TEHdfO1aYUE47-_CcDl3RcerQ_Y/s1600/vicard+eat+cat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="411" data-original-width="624" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRrqq6lh7PVtiMqq27kkTrnEmIiRYEq93Rgm6-uWBoQSTdHszRcT-GaWadQ48oTU3VSRae43BJYt5tfBjpxEwqPCuDbCTJxkKfgGHS6mjEzgZexwM-TEHdfO1aYUE47-_CcDl3RcerQ_Y/s320/vicard+eat+cat.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The tables turned: rats about to tuck into a cat roasted with potatoes. What a feast!</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></td></tr>
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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:<br />
<br />
<a href="https://twitter.com/HorribleSanity">Undine@Horrible Sanity</a><br />
<a href="https://www.boredpanda.com/creepy-victorian-vintage-christmas-cards/?utm_source=google&utm_medium=organic&utm_campaign=organic" target="_blank"> Bored Panda</a><br />
<a href="https://www.ranker.com/list/bizarre-and-creepy-victorian-christmas-cards/kellen-perry">Kellen Perry</a><br />
<a href="https://www.pinterest.com/susanckuhlman/creepy-victorian-christmas-cards/?lp=true">Susan Kulhman on Pinterest</a><br />
<a href="https://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-3369090/The-creepy-Christmas-cards-Victorians-loved.html">The Daily Mail</a>Trilby Buschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881736566285610644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673883225914446936.post-22964323283673537602018-11-21T09:19:00.001-08:002018-11-21T19:16:30.546-08:00Hurrah 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.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9YUUevW2Rcu0cQkQUucFUx5IaGVuuf6_mICDsRAYFfngaAy8mXri7GUOdL3fnaTmitX6M-YxMV84DXO4eaTGs8wcRNm8xSClzfH74GcVVpxAtS2C3_v2IV3nQVjdH7Fv-ot-_3ypOrXs/s1600/thanksgiving-stress-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1467" data-original-width="1600" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9YUUevW2Rcu0cQkQUucFUx5IaGVuuf6_mICDsRAYFfngaAy8mXri7GUOdL3fnaTmitX6M-YxMV84DXO4eaTGs8wcRNm8xSClzfH74GcVVpxAtS2C3_v2IV3nQVjdH7Fv-ot-_3ypOrXs/s320/thanksgiving-stress-3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR7twPcK6Y9fioLqfAvjgCMbIMPmfc8FbT8X0QoLXhWqBq6CmG6Lz45aFjw7Ky44OQ-fDfTxEuVLbOA2CMQs9kjPx6ii5Vwg4gBCKJoWcJUmA4dknX0y07cd9eeT-WyX8sD5ApytTC_c0/s1600/mum+helen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="925" data-original-width="960" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR7twPcK6Y9fioLqfAvjgCMbIMPmfc8FbT8X0QoLXhWqBq6CmG6Lz45aFjw7Ky44OQ-fDfTxEuVLbOA2CMQs9kjPx6ii5Vwg4gBCKJoWcJUmA4dknX0y07cd9eeT-WyX8sD5ApytTC_c0/s320/mum+helen.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mum and Helen, partying. They loved each other--and a good dinner dispute.</span></td></tr>
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2c4Q4_qrETbGSJcQoOGtQYPmYJnBQftJsB-XOcDrhi36pCaWSRr3bLVF23TK7MXsDe7bdr03fVQCydcaVcCVPsF77HbHhsuAb1RFqdbMrFRzepxakRwD1j444QfmLM1cJcyzTlUYBD90/s1600/tg+pie+13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="541" data-original-width="960" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2c4Q4_qrETbGSJcQoOGtQYPmYJnBQftJsB-XOcDrhi36pCaWSRr3bLVF23TK7MXsDe7bdr03fVQCydcaVcCVPsF77HbHhsuAb1RFqdbMrFRzepxakRwD1j444QfmLM1cJcyzTlUYBD90/s320/tg+pie+13.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Pumpkin pie from a family recipe.</span></td></tr>
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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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXXSqw9QnN5_mI3jLgSRkSdauLAxmu2wt9YhlFhaQGUImPAP1OqVRRHRxAWsFPMy16OiUuNqvxQArFVy7lgOSbdfBBQkjV7D1fEdtYSFmSqoq_xQuYGRGHId5Gje9rHNYYRWDxEXLojJQ/s1600/tg+jl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="960" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXXSqw9QnN5_mI3jLgSRkSdauLAxmu2wt9YhlFhaQGUImPAP1OqVRRHRxAWsFPMy16OiUuNqvxQArFVy7lgOSbdfBBQkjV7D1fEdtYSFmSqoq_xQuYGRGHId5Gje9rHNYYRWDxEXLojJQ/s320/tg+jl.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">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.</span></td></tr>
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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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJKIRU9-LUC02o8mqepyba8h5fktQNsV10l9L47weUVn-vYAhcCNaYioECYOrEO0uRFISyMbemfpSccKg5BUuqyQ6oU3gRep2bHbnqglLdOvlsoSi_SOz8Ua-lCQ9HJuZ4iJ8GDWZzExE/s1600/tg+toronto+17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="608" data-original-width="960" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJKIRU9-LUC02o8mqepyba8h5fktQNsV10l9L47weUVn-vYAhcCNaYioECYOrEO0uRFISyMbemfpSccKg5BUuqyQ6oU3gRep2bHbnqglLdOvlsoSi_SOz8Ua-lCQ9HJuZ4iJ8GDWZzExE/s320/tg+toronto+17.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ex-pat Thanksgiving, Toronto 2017</span></td></tr>
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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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_VizAFYFzPy40dM1DCBnzrV6_Fiv7qGMbrBbe-T4Rcrjr4xd2pv6IBPMAIZhoqNynF2_I0cSeZ24ZpFLMVjb1AVc5l8MwGCXvJt-LxrcwdUfF796k4L5hrL0Jh-7Jy0hbyJuUNgE4EF4/s1600/tg+2010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="500" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_VizAFYFzPy40dM1DCBnzrV6_Fiv7qGMbrBbe-T4Rcrjr4xd2pv6IBPMAIZhoqNynF2_I0cSeZ24ZpFLMVjb1AVc5l8MwGCXvJt-LxrcwdUfF796k4L5hrL0Jh-7Jy0hbyJuUNgE4EF4/s320/tg+2010.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Thanksgiving at Ceridwen's house 2010</span></td></tr>
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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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggn-Yu3t_kv6JITC2jgJEf_VF_tEkvKalmvEw4iHxKrwhjEZ5AitrSprPxJmwXTrXsQPDS38gXF61g_Vkf02iuWa3FuLi2YNRDmiPcDvgdcY-R6xA5Un4NWQzuGjQLkPZ7ohyphenhyphenCHvsQ34g/s1600/v+and+v+snooze.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggn-Yu3t_kv6JITC2jgJEf_VF_tEkvKalmvEw4iHxKrwhjEZ5AitrSprPxJmwXTrXsQPDS38gXF61g_Vkf02iuWa3FuLi2YNRDmiPcDvgdcY-R6xA5Un4NWQzuGjQLkPZ7ohyphenhyphenCHvsQ34g/s320/v+and+v+snooze.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Vera and Viggo snoozing at the cabin.</span></td></tr>
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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, <i>A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man</i> 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.<br />
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--Blasphemer! Devil!! screamed Dante, starting to her feet and almost spitting in his face.<br />
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:<br />
--Away with God, I say!<br />
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:<br />
--Devil out of hell! We won! We crushed him to death! Fiend!<br />
The door slammed behind her.<br />
Mr Casey, freeing his arms from his holders, suddenly bowed his head on his hands with a sob of pain.<br />
--Poor Parnell! he cried loudly. My dead king!<br />
He sobbed loudly and bitterly.<br />
Stephen, raising his terrorstricken face, saw that his father's eyes were full of tears.<br />
<br />
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<br />
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.<br />
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<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Happy Thanksgiving</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Trilby Buschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881736566285610644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673883225914446936.post-2190640581442957342017-09-01T07:36:00.000-07:002017-09-01T17:49:21.693-07:00For Labor Day 2017: Text of Presentation "Our Families in the Battle of Homestead"<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_25Mu72eX-XmfPgCRHx2Q1zUcIhZ8yH2b7XKaazPL8gO5vxcBlLkFaSgFdn31LNXknMLqVlfwxXG94nzMTl_8tdCKQGM12bhuruA8qWjEk-Y-Z6eTUsP8mUAIg016X4e5OG6VSzN8tmk/s1600/GWB+crates.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1268" data-original-width="1600" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_25Mu72eX-XmfPgCRHx2Q1zUcIhZ8yH2b7XKaazPL8gO5vxcBlLkFaSgFdn31LNXknMLqVlfwxXG94nzMTl_8tdCKQGM12bhuruA8qWjEk-Y-Z6eTUsP8mUAIg016X4e5OG6VSzN8tmk/s320/GWB+crates.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><i>The text of a presentation on August 26, 2017 at the Pump House, Rivers of Steel National Heritage Area, Homestead, Pennsylvania.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> Our Families in the Battle of Homestead: </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span>Weaving Folklore into the Warp of Historical Fiction </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> by Trilby Busch</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I used to tell my students that good historical fiction is a painless
way to learn history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Take, for example, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Killer Angels</i>, 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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>History books could not do that
for me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All we have are their stories, some written
down in interviews or in history books, others handed down via oral
history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The latter is how I came to
develop a fascination with the strike. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">We are here today to talk about the 1892 Homestead Strike and
Battle, which took place on this very site 125 summers ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Darkness
Visible.</i> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then, twelve hours
later, they had to trudge up that same hill, exhausted, to their homes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Moreover, he majored in
history at Pitt while working night shift at the machine shop. (This in his
memoir “Full of Sound and Fury”) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He returned to find a job in the Munhall
schools as librarian, science teacher, and drama coach at Woodlawn Avenue
School.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How many old photos are pretty much worthless
because we don’t know the context in which they were taken?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dad’s annotations ensured that future
generations would know the significance of our old family photos. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Example, City League Champs. <i>See <a href="http://valleyofsteel.blogspot.com/2012/01/city-league-champs-1895.html" target="_blank">"City League Champs, 1895"</a>)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">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 21<sup>st</sup>
Street who was not sick with the flu.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">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. (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Weissenstadt. Civic brewery, Army, Navy, Gunboat Hale Battle of Mobile
Bay. Read these stories at <a href="http://valleyofsteel.blogspot.com/2013/09/150-years-retracing-john-pauls-footsteps.html" target="_blank">"150 Years: Retracing John Paul's Footsteps"</a> and <a href="http://valleyofsteel.blogspot.com/2016/11/damn-torpedoes.html" target="_blank">"Damn the Torpedoes!")</a></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">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. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">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.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">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. </span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally we gave up and went to a nearby pub. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">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.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">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:<br />
<br />
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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
Discovery of this lawsuit gave me new respect for the ancestor that I hitherto
had thought of largely as a pathetic drunk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">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 14<sup>th</sup>, 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." <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">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. 14<sup>th</sup>.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">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.<br />
<br />
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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">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. </span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">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.</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUGzMYxrmu_hl9TZ1Atfi4PZeH0RTADzyBZt6pSWrdn4mMSukIbA2xtOUV8Gy_YZZmNng4w8XTS-xbr4wJCXmVed2HfrjWiOBAAfwJnfcyVTF9flNuQKXSrjNMnq5xW9XCKwkujCvsRoM/s1600/Dad+and+car.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1442" data-original-width="1085" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUGzMYxrmu_hl9TZ1Atfi4PZeH0RTADzyBZt6pSWrdn4mMSukIbA2xtOUV8Gy_YZZmNng4w8XTS-xbr4wJCXmVed2HfrjWiOBAAfwJnfcyVTF9flNuQKXSrjNMnq5xW9XCKwkujCvsRoM/s320/Dad+and+car.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Thanks to my daughters Ceridwen and Morwenna for help with editing. TB </span></i></div>
<i>
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Trilby Buschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881736566285610644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673883225914446936.post-57459659699917130532017-08-31T08:15:00.000-07:002017-09-01T16:04:35.810-07:00Report on Event: "Our Families in the Battle of Homestead"Over 100 people turned out on Saturday, August 26th, to hear about "Our Families in the Battle of Homestead", a presentation sponsored by the Battle of Homestead Foundation. The event took place at the Pump House in Rivers of Steel National Historical Area in Homestead, the site of the battle between striking workers and company-hired Pinkerton guards on July 6, 1892.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ9WFoNUIVVGk5xjgMxHHbxaMzIbMd7X1rWhU6QbpwoNzgZ_pefbbSkBCzmfTCwPemtUmNL26xxmTrJOM8AyO6TDaKTjPNKNpQJk1fyMZmtTJ3K5dpDCgt5yXRhVXRGHU7_RiXm65zv6U/s1600/DSC_1771.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ9WFoNUIVVGk5xjgMxHHbxaMzIbMd7X1rWhU6QbpwoNzgZ_pefbbSkBCzmfTCwPemtUmNL26xxmTrJOM8AyO6TDaKTjPNKNpQJk1fyMZmtTJ3K5dpDCgt5yXRhVXRGHU7_RiXm65zv6U/s320/DSC_1771.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Waiting for the program to begin at the Pump House.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ0hzjteBETltJlVBxOthGIs25x-KQqcCz81HEpctgqoE0ED8RK3HoMuDhDlcUs5mgNGZyiVKhM9qbJPNQithIxnmm_w50TPG6yDvBBGpJ6gCc0aS9-VA7rY1ON8LzQnBCwok1Bpno1n0/s1600/DSC_1763.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1019" data-original-width="1600" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ0hzjteBETltJlVBxOthGIs25x-KQqcCz81HEpctgqoE0ED8RK3HoMuDhDlcUs5mgNGZyiVKhM9qbJPNQithIxnmm_w50TPG6yDvBBGpJ6gCc0aS9-VA7rY1ON8LzQnBCwok1Bpno1n0/s320/DSC_1763.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Two of those presenting oral histories, Luke Dowker (second from left) and John Asmonga (front, second from right) before the program began.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
John Haer, President of the Battle of Homestead Foundation, introduced the program. To begin, student Julia Resciniti presented her display,"John McLuckie's Stand in the Homestead Strike of 1892," which won third place in the National History Day contest in Pittsburgh.<br />
<br />
The main speaker was Trilby Busch, who gave a talk with accompanying slides about how she used the stories told by her father, Edward Busch, about his father and grandfather, as an inspiration for her historical novel <i>Darkness Visible: A Novel of the 1892 Homestead Strike</i>.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzriA4FW9lUgU-Ig68TB8u3TiZHSgWOUzNt9lSW3Et1aLj4H6xlEj265_dFV4UUq9qySUdlpELJh631wfduzG8qQumOgMhSqN_N7IfAdjQWOEs_eU3dd8f77FQ0cUg4CS-jy7CM3NVjJk/s1600/DSC_1781.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1305" data-original-width="1402" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzriA4FW9lUgU-Ig68TB8u3TiZHSgWOUzNt9lSW3Et1aLj4H6xlEj265_dFV4UUq9qySUdlpELJh631wfduzG8qQumOgMhSqN_N7IfAdjQWOEs_eU3dd8f77FQ0cUg4CS-jy7CM3NVjJk/s320/DSC_1781.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Trilby wore her Grandfather Busch's nickle Elgin pocket watch, which he wore to work daily in the Homestead Works machine shop.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
As an interlude, Carson Sestili sang, "Father Was Killed by the Pinkerton Men," a pro-worker song popular nationally in the fall of 1892.<br />
<br />
Six descendants of strikers who were at the battle then told their
family stories: John Asmonga, Bill Begley, George Debolt, Luke Dowker,
Grace Jack Krepps, and Haydn Thomas. Without planning or consulting
beforehand, all seven speakers touched on similar themes:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">--The prioritizing of property rights over human rights at all levels of government during and after the strike. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">--The inaccuracy of documents of the time. Written accounts<span style="line-height: 107%;">
from
newspapers to coroner's reports were often twisted or
inaccurate--everything
from misspellings to the deliberate suppression of vital
information. Trilby discussed the coroner's report on her
great-grandfather (See <a href="http://valleyofsteel.blogspot.com/2017/06/who-killed-john-paul-busch.html" target="_blank">"Who Killed John Paul Busch?"</a>), and George DeBolt told about how his great-grandfather was accused of
murdering both a Pinkerton and striker. Bill Begley noted that t</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">he news reports of the time said that Thomas Weldon shot himself
while taking or breaking a Pinkerton Winchester rifle. The report to the
Allegheny Coroner by contrast states that Thomas Weldon was shot by an
"unknown" person with a Pinkerton Winchester rifle. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"> </span> </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuhnBSUTKeFpuEcukVN8K0IR1QtolazJm73Q3Fds3hAr8tj4mxoTap7zTuH9mvCDoz14inULfH0q3xRtYhHWpglYfXjhSSyBpOgqvfP5iI1UppBIJ2rawA2LW61smMowUd-ET3XO02Bvo/s1600/DSC_1789%25281%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1296" data-original-width="1600" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuhnBSUTKeFpuEcukVN8K0IR1QtolazJm73Q3Fds3hAr8tj4mxoTap7zTuH9mvCDoz14inULfH0q3xRtYhHWpglYfXjhSSyBpOgqvfP5iI1UppBIJ2rawA2LW61smMowUd-ET3XO02Bvo/s320/DSC_1789%25281%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Trilby introduces Bill Begley.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfvOnXqxBmtuemfKi0eZjtoDW60BtY-XuzmFy5068XWVNYGZVdQP_EDMjVFyODyDp8hSc5c0EAmdVt8Ri0X6xTROclNuSO2MobKocmd-Wqacmt5zf6HeOnEr2iS895D82gEFsahE0uJPI/s1600/DSC_1794.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1460" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfvOnXqxBmtuemfKi0eZjtoDW60BtY-XuzmFy5068XWVNYGZVdQP_EDMjVFyODyDp8hSc5c0EAmdVt8Ri0X6xTROclNuSO2MobKocmd-Wqacmt5zf6HeOnEr2iS895D82gEFsahE0uJPI/s400/DSC_1794.JPG" width="363" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">George DeBolt tells the story of his great-grandfather at the battle. George brought along the pitchfork his ancestor took to the riverbank to fight the Pinkertons.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">--The conspiracy of silence about the battle and strike that has been in place since 1892. Grace Krepps said that when her mother (descendant of a replacement worker) married the descendant of a striker decades after the event, her mother was puzzled when her future mother-in-law made a snarky comment about the strike. Her mother had no idea what she was talking about and had to ask her parents to explain the allusion. It's mindboggling that this event was the first time in 125 years that these stories about workers' experiences in 1892 Homestead were related publicly.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Grace Jack Krepps tells the stories of her grandfathers, one a striker, the other a replacement worker. </span><br />
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Haydn Thomas relates the ghost story surrounding the assassination attempt on Henry Clay Frick.</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Eight descendants of George W. Busch were at the event, including all four surviving cousins. Back row, L-R: Trilby Busch (Edward), Grace Krepps (Estella), Phil Krepps (Grace's husband), Mark Simmers (Frances), George Schein and Britta Schein McNemar (Irene). Front row: Astrid Mueller (Trilby's granddaughter), Ceridwen Christensen and Morwenna Claire (Trilby's daughters).</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">s</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>Trilby Buschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881736566285610644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673883225914446936.post-84937192880927508922017-08-17T08:07:00.000-07:002017-08-21T06:16:55.751-07:00Presentation on Workers in the 1892 Homestead Strike, August 26th, 2-5 pm<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz_FOx1QSwu1HWJmbvmfhLt8AYfYLV0bQM2cQldPDPac5328rjQG6MTpPORPz3HDNxG0mADJg8jgVVw1IyM9_FvIIlhC1KCR2t_Ebh_dPR8v4KS2xed8h0LU3qZyEwqUbUIkXynlHL5eU/s1600/advisory+board.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="277" data-original-width="399" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz_FOx1QSwu1HWJmbvmfhLt8AYfYLV0bQM2cQldPDPac5328rjQG6MTpPORPz3HDNxG0mADJg8jgVVw1IyM9_FvIIlhC1KCR2t_Ebh_dPR8v4KS2xed8h0LU3qZyEwqUbUIkXynlHL5eU/s320/advisory+board.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Advisory Board for the 1892 Homestead Strike</td></tr>
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As part of the commemoration of the 125th anniversary of the 1892 Battle and Strike, the Battle of Homestead foundation is hosting a presentation: "Our Families in the Battle of Homestead: Weaving Folklore into the Warp of Historical Fiction." <span class="_4n-j _fbReactionComponent__eventDetailsContentTags fsl" data-testid="event-permalink-details">Trilby Busch's historical novel, <i>Darkness Visible: A Novel of the 1892
Homestead Strike,</i> recreates the experiences of the workers and
townspeople who witnessed the strike and battle firsthand. The author’s
great-grandfather was killed in the Homestead Works in the immediate
aftermath of the strike. A Steel Valley native, Trilby Busch will show
how the novel weaves oral history and research into a insider’s view of
the dramatic events unfolding in 1892. Carson Sestile will sing "Father Was Killed by the Pinkerton Men" composed by William Delaney in late 1892. Seven descendants of members of the
strike committee and of strikers will also share their family stories. A reception afterwards will allow everyone to mingle and meet the presenters.</span><br />
<br />
<b><span class="_4n-j _fbReactionComponent__eventDetailsContentTags fsl" data-testid="event-permalink-details"> Saturday, August 26th. 2-5 p.m. </span></b><br />
<b><span class="_4n-j _fbReactionComponent__eventDetailsContentTags fsl" data-testid="event-permalink-details"> The Pump House, Rivers of Steel National Heritage Area</span></b><br />
<b><span class="_4n-j _fbReactionComponent__eventDetailsContentTags fsl" data-testid="event-permalink-details"> 880 E. Waterfront Drive, Munhall, PA</span></b><br />
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<span class="_4n-j _fbReactionComponent__eventDetailsContentTags fsl" data-testid="event-permalink-details"> Free and open to the public.</span><br />
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<b><span class="_4n-j _fbReactionComponent__eventDetailsContentTags fsl" data-testid="event-permalink-details"><br /></span></b>Trilby Buschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881736566285610644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673883225914446936.post-82843323838838817672017-07-06T07:15:00.000-07:002017-07-06T07:15:04.745-07:00July 6, 1892 Excerpt "The Battle Begins"125 years ago. In the middle of the night, the pickets downriver have alerted the workers in Homestead that two covered barges are coming up the river from Pittsburgh, and that could mean only one thing--the company was bringing in scabs or guards, or both. Townspeople rush down to the riverbank, carrying whatever they had that could be used as a weapon. A little after 4 a.m. the barges arrive in Homestead and make for the landing inside the works, now enclosed by a high fence. The workers break through the fence and run to the landing.<br />
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JULY 6, 1892 4:15 a.m. At the river landing below the Pump House for the mill.<br />
EXCERPT from <b>Darkness Visible. </b><i>Note: The actions and words of O'Donnell and the other historical figures are taken directly from eyewitness reports.</i><br />
<br />
<b> </b>The crack of rifle shots came at random intervals. People on the bank cursed and hurled threats at the men arriving on the barges. More shots were fired.<br />
<b> </b><br />
<b> </b>In the half-light Emlyn made out the shapes of two enormous covered barges being towed into position at the landing by a tugboat. Union leader Hugh O'Donnell was moving along the landing, speaking to the crowd, urging restraint. His words, however, seemed to have little effect on the incensed mob. More people, many carrying guns, were spreading out along the bank and taking up positions on the Pemikey railroad bridge overlooking the landing. It was apparent the situation was far beyond anyone's control.<br />
<br />
"Duw, there must be thousands of people on the bank," said Gwyn. "Whoever they are, how could they dare come ashore?"<br />
<br />
"We'll soon see," said Smith.<br />
<br />
The first light of dawn was glinting on the eastern horizon as the tug with <i>Little Bill </i>painted on its bow grounded the barge <i>Iron Mountain</i> on the bank. The men who had led the charge into the mill rushed up. As a man in a slouch hat came onto the deck, someone threw a stone at the barge. From the landing people were yelling, warning those on the barges not to land. As the minutes tickets away, the threats escalated.<br />
<br />
Tensions were reaching a fever pitch as Hugh O'Donnell made his way to the front of the crowd. He was shouting something...but Emlyn couldn't hear what he was saying. To Emlyn's surprise, the crowd quieted.<br />
<br />
O'Donnell came to the water and called out to the men on the barges. "On behalf of five thousand men, I beg you to leave here at once. I don't know who you are or where you came from, but I do know that you have no business here." He went on, entreating them not to risk violence by trying to come ashore. "Don't attempt to enter these works by force."<br />
<br />
At that, a man in a blue military coat with brass buttons stepped on the deck of the <i>Iron Mountain</i>. "We were sent to take possession of this property and guard it for this company," he said.<br />
<br />
"Damned if it ain't Pinkertons," said Duncan. "Look at them blue uniforms."<br />
<br />
"Ssh!" said Smith.<br />
<br />
"If you don't withdraw," continued the man on the barge, "we will mow every one of you down and enter in spite of you."<br />
<br />
"They will, will they? I don't think so," growled Duncan.<br />
<br />
"Hush, dammit," said Smith.<br />
<br />
O'Donnell was talking. "What you do here is at the risk of many lives. Before you enter those mills, you will trample over the dead bodies of three thousand honest workmen."<br />
<br />
For a moment, the crowd on the bank watched in silence.<br />
<br />
A group of men on the <i>Iron Mountain </i>brought out a gangplank and pushed it into the landing. The man who had spoken came to the top of the plank. Simultaneously, the leader of the militant strikers took a stand at the other end of the plank, the others behind him.<br />
<br />
"Who's the striker at the bottom of the plank?" whispered Gwyn.<br />
<br />
"It looks like Billy Foy, the feller from the Salvation Army," said Smith." And behind him, Martin Murray, the heater--he's Welsh," he added as an aside to Emlyn. "And next to him is Sotak, leader of them Slovaks."<br />
<br />
Emlyn watched in disbelief at the scene unfolding below. Men on the bank shouted warnings to the men in the barges. The Pinkertons hesitated. The officer at the front shouted out, "There are three hundred men behind me, and you can't stop us." Foy yelled something in reply.<br />
<br />
Emlyn strained forward to see what was going on, but fog blurred the details. It looked like the officer came forward and tried to hit Foy with something.<br />
<br />
In rapid succession, two gunshots rang out. The officer and Foy went down. Hugh O'Donnell threw up his hands and shouted something at the strikers.<br />
<br />
From the barge, someone shouted, "Fire!" and a volley of gunfire roared from the portholes. As if in slow motion, Emlyn saw several men on the riverbank crumple to the ground.<br />
<br />
Women started screaming. The people around Emlyn began jostling each other, shifting away from the exposed position on the bank. From the riverbank came more shots.<br />
<br />
"Take cover," Duncan yelled. Return fire from the strikers thudded into the sides of the barges as the Pinkertons continued firing.<br />
<br />
His heart in his throat, Emlyn sprinted toward the mill building behind them. He caught sight of a dinky engine and ran behind it. Gwyn, running behind him, tripped and went sprawling onto the tracks thirty feet away. His rifle flew out of his hands and clattered onto the tracks.<br />
<br />
Emlyn stood at the front of the engine, trying to decided if he should run out to help Gwyn. A bullet pinged sharply against metal, and a chip flew out of a pile of bricks beside the locomotive.<br />
<br />
"Ricochets!" yelled Gwyn, lowering his head. "Stay where you are."<br />
<br />
The firing continued unabated, punctuated by screams and shouts.<br />
<br />
"Are you hurt?" yelled Emlyn over the racket.<br />
<br />
"I don't think so. I'm going to make a run for it."<br />
<br />
"Stay there!" Emlyn shouted. "It's not safe."<br />
<br />
Another bullet slammed into the locomotive steam chamber with a reverberating<i> thonk. </i>Gwyn raised his head and glanced at Emlyn, measuring the distance. Swiftly, Gwyn pushed himself into a crouching position and dashed toward Emlyn. Ten feet short of his goal, Gwyn tucked his head down and rolled the rest of the way, coming to a rest against the wheels of the engine.<br />
<br />
"Bloody hell!" said Gwyn, taking in great gulps of air. "I thought I was going to get hit for sure."<br />
<i><br /></i>
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<br />Trilby Buschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881736566285610644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673883225914446936.post-38829059376069853992017-07-04T15:55:00.000-07:002017-07-05T06:08:51.690-07:00July 5, 1892 Excerpt "Waiting"125 years ago. The idled steelworkers continue to be on high alert, on the lookout for the arrival of police or scabs. The town is rife with tension as the national and international press gathers at the Bost Building, strike headquarters for the union. The steelworks, surrounded by a high white fence, is dark and quiet.<br />
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<br />
TUESDAY, JULY 5, 1892<br />
EXCERPT from <b>Darkness Visible</b><br />
<br />
Dr. Oesterling sat at the table, his toast and poached egg growing cold as he pored over the Pittsburgh paper for any news about the situation in Homestead. It seemed that he already knew everything the reporters knew. He had decided it wasn't worthwhile holding office hours today, and he had posted a notice to call in case of emergency.<br />
<br />
The strike was dramatically affecting the entire town. Those who weren't on alert were keeping out of the way of the pickets. Everyone from striker to company management was on tenterhooks, waiting for something to happen.<br />
<br />
The telephone rang twice, the signal for their number on the party line. Oesterling pushed away from the table and went into the hallway to answer it. Expecting it to be a call from a patient, he was surprised to hear Carrie's voice on the other end.<br />
<br />
"Papa?"<br />
<br />
His heart contracted. "Yes? Is anything wrong? What's going on?"<br />
<br />
"Papa, you need to leave Homestead right away. You can come over here to Point Breeze for a few days."<br />
<br />
"For heaven's sake, why?"<br />
<br />
"Oliver just left for the office. He says that Philander Knox, the head corporate attorney, gave Sheriff McCleary the go-ahead to come to Homestead and post orders for the strikers to cease their occupation of company property."<br />
<br />
"That's ridiculous," said Osterling. "The workers are not even on company property."<br />
<br />
"Yes, but they're stopping others from entering it."<br />
<br />
"I don't understand why this situation calls for us to leave town."<br />
<br />
"Don't you see?" Carrie said. "There's going to be a confrontation soon. Oliver says it may get nasty."<br />
<br />
"Posting handbillls can get nasty?" Oesterling asked. "I doubt it."<br />
<br />
There was a pause.<br />
<br />
"Please, Papa, you must leave." Carrie's voice broke. "The Sheriff isn't the only one who will be coming."<br />
<br />
"What? Even if he brings a few deputies, it doesn't. . ."<br />
<br />
"I don't mean deputies."<br />
<br />
Oesterling was trying to figure out what Carrie meant by this, when a loud click came through the receiver, signaling that another on his party line had picked up.<br />
<br />
"I must go," said Carrie. "Think about what I've said." She hung up.<br />
<br />
Oesterling placed the receiver back on the hook, and walked out to the front porch. What did she mean, not deputies? Who was coming? His gaze moved over the mill and town, downriver toward Pittsburgh.<br />
<br />
Abruptly, it came to him: Pinkertons. He shuddered. Now it was more necessary than ever that he stay in town.<br />
<br />
He looked down at Cerberus. The dog cocked his head at Oesterling and wagged his tail.<br />
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<b> </b>Trilby Buschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881736566285610644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673883225914446936.post-54773490018955423432017-07-03T20:48:00.000-07:002017-07-04T09:07:51.689-07:00July 4, 1892: Excerpt "When This World Comes to an End"125 years ago on the evening of the Fourth of July, idled workers from Carnegie Steel's Homestead Works were patrolling the Monongahela River and roads into Homestead, on the lookout for strikebreakers or company-hired militia.<br />
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FROM <b>Darkness Visible</b>. . . .<br />
<br />
TUESDAY, JULY 4TH <br />
<br />
At McClure Street, a block before the whitewashed fence of Fort Frick, Emlyn turned toward the river landing. He heard the voices of the pickets before he saw them. As he walked down the grade to the river, Emlyn made out forms of men clustered together on the muddy shore. As he reached the open bank, several men on the landing turned to face him. One of them held a rifle; another, a lantern. <br />
<br />
"Who goes there?" shouted one of them.<br />
<br />
"A citizen of the town," said Emlyn.<br />
<br />
"Come over here and let us see you," said the one holding the lantern.<br />
<br />
As Emlyn got closer, one of the men drawled, "Well, if it ain't Em-Lyn, formerly of O.H.2."<br />
<br />
"The same," said Emlyn. "How is patrol going, Virgil?"<br />
<br />
"So far, so good," Virgil replied. "Ain't seen hide nor hair of any black sheep or police trying to come ashore--not that they won't try sooner or later." He spat in the mud, then added, "How are things up there in Fort Frick?"<br />
<br />
"I wouldn't know," said Emlyn. "They sent the office workers away last week. We have no idea what's going on with management. Your guess is as good as mine."<br />
<br />
"I'd guess," said the man with the rifle, "that right now Frick is scheming to bring in sheriff's deputies or Pinkertons to man the Fort. We aim to stop them." He shot the bolt on the rifle to emphasize his point. "The company broke the contract, and we're going to make damn sure they comply with the law. We ain't going to be whipped into submission by any hirelings sent by Frick."<br />
<br />
Emlyn looked out at the swiftly flowing river, where the outline of the strikers' steam launch was visible through the fog.<br />
<br />
"It looks like you have the river well covered," said Emlyn.<br />
<br />
"We do, and damn any mercenary who tries to come ashore," said the man with the gun. He lowered the rifle, and the group turned their attention back to the river.<br />
<br />
"Good night," Emlyn said, starting back toward town.<br />
<br />
"Hey, Em-Lyn," said Virgil. "I'd advise against any further nocturnal ramblings around these parts. In this soup, someone might take a pot shot at you, thinking you're a scab or Pinkerton."<br />
<br />
"I'll be careful," Emlyn said. He walked slowly up the ramp and onto McClure Street. As he passed by a tenement building, he thought he heard someone singing. He stopped and listened. A man's low baritone voice came from the yard of the building.<br />
<br />
<i>I believe in being ready, <br />
I believe in being ready</i><br />
<i> I believe in being ready,</i><br />
<i> when this world comes to an end </i> <br />
<br />
<i>Oh sinners do get ready,</i><br />
<i> oh sinners do get ready</i><br />
<i> Oh sinners do get ready,</i><br />
<i> for the time is drawing near<br />
</i><br />
<i> Oh there'll be signs and wonders, </i><br />
<i> oh there'll be signs and wonders <br />
Oh there'll be signs and wonders, <br />
when this world comes to an end </i><br />
<br />
Emlyn crept closer to get a better view into the yard. In the shelter of a porch overhang, a black man was sitting on the stoop, singing, while another accompanied him on guitar.<br />
<br />
<i> Oh the sun she will be darkened,<br />
oh the sun she will be darkened</i><br />
<i> Oh the sun he will be darkened,<br />
when this world is at its end </i><br />
<i><br />
Oh the moon it will be bleeding, </i><br />
<i> oh the moon it will be bleeding <br />
Oh the moon it will be bleeding, <br />
when this world comes to its end. </i> <i><br />
</i><br />
<i> Oh the stars they will be falling,</i><br />
<i> oh the stars they will be falling <br />
Oh the stars they will be falling, <br />
when this world comes to its end </i><br />
<br />
Emlyn moved closer, stopping beside a tree on the edge of the yard.<br />
<br />
<i>Brothers, sisters, do get ready, <br />
brothers, sisters, do get ready</i><br />
<i> Mothers, fathers, do get ready,<br />
for the time is drawing near. </i><br />
<br />
<i> Oh there'll be signs and wonders, </i><br />
<i> oh there'll be signs and wonders <br />
Oh there'll be signs and wonders, <br />
when this world comes to an end </i><br />
<br />
"A-men, Brother," said the guitarist to the singer as they finished, raising his right hand. The other man slapped it, and they both stood up and went inside.<br />
<br />
As Emlyn walked the remaining blocks to the house, emotion roiled in him. He had never heard a song, or hymn, or whatever it was, like that before.<br />
<br />
Back in his room, he started to get into bed, but stopped. Instead, he lowered himself to his knees beside the bed, as he had done every night until the quarrel with his father.<br />
<br />
Head lowered, hands folded, he knelt there, but could not formulate his thoughts into prayer. Instead, the song kept running through his mind, over and over.<br />
<br />
<i>Oh there'll be signs and wonders, <br />
when this world comes to an end </i><br />
<br />
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<br />
Listen<br />
<a href="https://youtu.be/Ovpjtr9Qmoo" target="_blank">Tim O'Brien - When This World Comes To An End </a>Trilby Buschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881736566285610644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673883225914446936.post-8158113359991681482017-06-04T20:57:00.000-07:002017-06-05T06:56:37.516-07:00Who Killed John Paul Busch?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The family story that spurred me to research and write <i>Darkness Visible</i> is a story of industrial sabotage--of radical unionists intentionally causing an explosion around an industrial boiler, an explosion that killed my great-grandfather and two other men. One of the questions I've been asked most often about my research is
whether I found any reports of sabotage within the Homestead Works
during the strike, that is, during the period from July to November 1892. With the exception of the poisoning case (more about that later), I found nothing about sabotage within the walls of Fort Frick.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi7W0S2W7g5Vly1V6GiUqw5ITtjLqATW_F5Loyf6PtKT5PfZGYK0jlRbR4d__RnUnSNnpQ3qgk-TFoq0H2R4w9uJ26HyIC7MaFaqFrPFF1T7lvqY6I5VIwKcQ0x0wy0_k4atb49S91Hm8/s1600/idled+workers.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="444" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi7W0S2W7g5Vly1V6GiUqw5ITtjLqATW_F5Loyf6PtKT5PfZGYK0jlRbR4d__RnUnSNnpQ3qgk-TFoq0H2R4w9uJ26HyIC7MaFaqFrPFF1T7lvqY6I5VIwKcQ0x0wy0_k4atb49S91Hm8/s320/idled+workers.jpg" width="296" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Idled workers watching the Works before the Battle, July 1892. Photo: Library of Congress</span></td></tr>
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At the suggestion of researchers with the Battle of Homestead Foundation, I decided to look up the coroner's report on my great-grandfather's death. I have his death certificate, showing his death from burn injuries on September 14, 1892. Would the coroner's report make any mention of sabotage? I had to find out.<br />
<br />
The report turned out to be fascinating reading. It 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." <br />
<br />
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. For some unknown reason, the family moved John to their home in East Liberty. Stribler concludes, "This was not right, he should have staid [sic] in hospital as moving him in air was bad as skin surface might be exposed." We can only conjecture why the doctor reached this conclusion. Was air quality THAT bad? Or was this an attempt to suggest that John would not have died had the family not taken him home?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmOiNrs0-N-WByxdRCjFhpLmeRGwxhFqmXaIgW0BYmON7QlEz-raoT4Csviwviy8Jgoq7QxX44lJyJLZmdNfplKNvvKJWgPH4zJXhQOe8sO6Q5qIYKWV0mpSrv9LpTOYgxPkT448yhNuQ/s1600/smoke+ExplorePAHistory.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1254" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmOiNrs0-N-WByxdRCjFhpLmeRGwxhFqmXaIgW0BYmON7QlEz-raoT4Csviwviy8Jgoq7QxX44lJyJLZmdNfplKNvvKJWgPH4zJXhQOe8sO6Q5qIYKWV0mpSrv9LpTOYgxPkT448yhNuQ/s320/smoke+ExplorePAHistory.jpg" width="250" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Smoke belching from mill stacks.</span></td></tr>
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<br />
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). John died at 4 p.m. on September 14th, ten days after he sustained the burns.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAfr0WYYCiX2AKlKzh1rT6c_TKpKPCa8vlW651hl-JxM0zQ3rbxwvmaE4qcQHK-CWKZ53D57PzVjbVCZqgdjeWW0cfGxTSKD2MbC1QhIdwIKF7dlh6j7pGaXd4Eu5axyCdFRROGT-lk2o/s1600/JPB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAfr0WYYCiX2AKlKzh1rT6c_TKpKPCa8vlW651hl-JxM0zQ3rbxwvmaE4qcQHK-CWKZ53D57PzVjbVCZqgdjeWW0cfGxTSKD2MbC1QhIdwIKF7dlh6j7pGaXd4Eu5axyCdFRROGT-lk2o/s1600/JPB.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">John Paul Busch, late 1880s</span></td></tr>
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<b><i>Whoa.</i></b> Next liar stand up. Would a man who had fired boilers on Union gunboats in the heat of battle be so careless? Would a man who had worked in dangerous conditions all his adult life be so foolish? Why didn't the police get the name of the witness and interview him? Why didn't they investigate why the gas was turned on and escaping into the air around the boiler? This statement clearly consists of "alternative facts," designed to blame the victim. Company man McBroom, Chief of Police for Carnegie Steel, is throwing his own metaphorical piece of waste at the coroner.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJeM3J5DxUh3z0OZQ0_NYpt6eOGKAYbZlPBTVV6v7fAzzWf-KGcpYjZPTe3BGeIg9trsu8K2GeOK86e7CaZudSvDdVJ2NQTtm3drS3FzvkWp5WYwpipQ9pSnhrEOFFaj8Zgi6A3BXbuoo/s1600/AVPageView+5222017+53449+PM.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="647" data-original-width="1307" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJeM3J5DxUh3z0OZQ0_NYpt6eOGKAYbZlPBTVV6v7fAzzWf-KGcpYjZPTe3BGeIg9trsu8K2GeOK86e7CaZudSvDdVJ2NQTtm3drS3FzvkWp5WYwpipQ9pSnhrEOFFaj8Zgi6A3BXbuoo/s400/AVPageView+5222017+53449+PM.bmp" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">McBroom's statement</span></td></tr>
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<br />
Let's return now to the only documented incident of sabotage during the strike: the poisoning of non-union workers in the Works. As contemporary chronicler Arthur Gordon Burgoyne reports, the months of September and October 1892, saw an "alarming increase" in deaths of non-union workers from acute diarrhea and gastric distress inside the mill. "It was not until December that the first intimation of a criminal cause for the species of epidemic which struck down man after man and baffled expert physicians and chemists reached the public. The Carnegie Company concealed the truth as far as possible, endeavoring from the first to counteract the statements sent abroad by the Amalgamated Association to the effect that bad food, bad water, and bad sanitary arrangements were killing off the 'blacksheep.'" (Chapter 19, <i>The Homestead Strike of 1892</i>)<br />
<br />
As it turned out, the workers had been indeed been poisoned with croton oil. Robert Beatty, a cook who had been arrested, pointed the finger at "master workman" Hugh Dempsey of the Knights of Labor as the leader of the conspiracy. To make a long and complicated story short, Beatty and Dempsey were indicted, and their separate trials were held in January and February 1893. After days of testimony from poison victims, doctors, company employees, Pinkerton agents, friends of the accused, and the exchange of mutual recriminations by union and company, the trials ended with a swift guilty verdict for both defendants. Dempsey's attorneys fought the verdict all the way to the Supreme Court--and lost. The other two men who had confessed and become witnesses for the prosecution, were sentenced to shorter terms.<br />
<br />
<br />
The family story blames the explosion on radical Irish unionists. Tales of Irish unionists condoning violence--like the Molly Maguires--are legion. I introduced Irish characters into <i>Darkness Visible </i>to show their perspective on the injustices perpetrated by the company. It struck me that the surnames of the defendants in the poisoning case were all Irish. Who knows that whether this is because they actually belonged to radicalized groups, or if they were targeted as a "problem" faction. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnnC9ThcgBqKh8O8EVIu9Zp7hNB888iyORftAcsmwSUZwjBily3T7za8QJO9Z2lqPNyx_nDrvOY_9bfc82uVOlbwdMwcsOXBPl8k21lE5ff0Gf9LEn9AV1Pak0joug68XW_xC1FpQa1r0/s1600/structural+mill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnnC9ThcgBqKh8O8EVIu9Zp7hNB888iyORftAcsmwSUZwjBily3T7za8QJO9Z2lqPNyx_nDrvOY_9bfc82uVOlbwdMwcsOXBPl8k21lE5ff0Gf9LEn9AV1Pak0joug68XW_xC1FpQa1r0/s320/structural+mill.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The structural mill at Homestead Works. This photo by Benjamin Lomax Horsley Dabbs was taken shortly after the structural mill was completed in 1893.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So, was John Paul's death the work of union saboteurs, as the family
story claims? We'll never know for sure. However, I'd like to note these
facts:<br />
<br />
--The explosion that killed John-Paul Busch
took place in early September, about the time non-union workers began to
get sick and die from poisoning.<br />
--Carnegie Steel covered up the
poisoning deaths, later claiming that they had checked the water supply
and found it pure, and therefore had no need to report them. The deaths were not
reported until December, after the Pinkerton investigation and after the cook was arrested. One of the others arrested turned
witness for the prosecution and was allowed to walk free until February
1893--a fact that the defense attorneys brought up during the trial.<br />
--The union tried to spin the reports of sickness inside
the Works their way, claiming that the company was serving tainted food
and water.<br />
--After the strike, Carnegie Steel bought the local newspaper. So much for a free press. <br />
<br />
Now, 125 years later, as during the turbulent days during and after the
Strike, it's been difficult to sort through the testimony of the dissonant voices giving
conflicting versions of events. But from what evidence we do have, I must conclude that the official version by the company Chief of Police is ridiculous. The other pieces of the story of what was going on inside the mill in the fall of 1892 fit well into the version told by my grandfather and his brothers.<br />
<br />
Who killed John Paul Busch? Did he kill himself in an incredibly stupid move, or was he killed by saboteurs? I know not what course others may take, but as for me, I'm sticking to the family story.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBkOscSgbjzTPmgqSvKpJZpaIUxIDRIcuNWEzTgW7OzMfNpa35dDKgm_kZ7sbPrp26wV3-EQBZZMq9nbV4YSI5OtzSDkTJp0Q2M4vNSntLxpjpzMNXHK9o4h_SCXUd5wQFQ_2LAiwzHII/s1600/workers+1890.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="438" data-original-width="600" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBkOscSgbjzTPmgqSvKpJZpaIUxIDRIcuNWEzTgW7OzMfNpa35dDKgm_kZ7sbPrp26wV3-EQBZZMq9nbV4YSI5OtzSDkTJp0Q2M4vNSntLxpjpzMNXHK9o4h_SCXUd5wQFQ_2LAiwzHII/s400/workers+1890.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Homestead steel workers, 1890. Photo: Historical Society of Western Pennsylvania. According to Captain Jones of the Edgar Thomson Works, "Germans, Irish,
Swedes, and ‘buckwheats,' [young American country boys] judiciously
mixed, make the most effective, tractable force you can find. Scotsmen
do very well, are honest and faithful, Welsh can be used in limited
quantities. But Englishmen have been the worst class of men–sticklers
for high wages, small production and strikes." I love that the Welsh can be <b><i>used in limited quantities</i></b>. Too many Welsh spoil the workforce apparently.</span></td></tr>
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<i><br /></i>
Trilby Buschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881736566285610644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673883225914446936.post-62629944614171147112017-05-29T06:22:00.001-07:002017-05-29T06:22:25.956-07:00In MemoriamMemorial Day is a day to visit the graves not only of those who served in the military, but of loved ones, a day to place memorial flowers and remember departed ancestors and family members. During my recent visit to Homestead, my friend Joyce and I went to Homestead Cemetery (actually in Munhall), to look for the grave of my cousin Grace's father, whose father took part in the Battle as a striker. The cemetery--the Protestant side on the east, Catholic on the west--is the resting place of six strikers killed in the Battle of Homestead.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhktjTTuXDcb7JoAoie5_BZNPLr5nd1KLlznH8tJU2ZQQgvPaAnXmuSHq2siuDU2KNyCuM1rwZDeMGII7IboNHdeyKpO7dyoaNcpBifrPZEVeZvJgWhBSX-J7hDtqFPrKWVaAagP4ZJU7Y/s1600/view+from+dell%2527s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="884" data-original-width="1600" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhktjTTuXDcb7JoAoie5_BZNPLr5nd1KLlznH8tJU2ZQQgvPaAnXmuSHq2siuDU2KNyCuM1rwZDeMGII7IboNHdeyKpO7dyoaNcpBifrPZEVeZvJgWhBSX-J7hDtqFPrKWVaAagP4ZJU7Y/s320/view+from+dell%2527s.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Civil War soldiers' memorial and circle on the rise by the entrance to Homestead Cemetery.</span></td></tr>
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An historical marker on 22nd Street declares:<br />
'Homestead Strike Victims. In these two adjoining cemeteries are buried
six of the seven Carnegie Steel Company workers killed during the
"Battle of Homestead" on July 6, 1892. The graves of Peter Ferris, Henry
Striegel, and Thomas Weldon are here in St. Mary's Cemetery. The
remains of John Morris, Joseph Sotak, and Silas Wain lie in Homestead
Cemetery. The seventh victim, George Rutter, is buried in Verona.'<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1GrZUrjdbrt5l9cmsBT-0XKaPLUlK3tDwqaXolSS-xh12rcm1sd9iFl-9NTxvU4RyEitcPW-cYdO_g8EafB7nOY5Eo0GVb4jtCSi3KceZUcFchBgT-NZHFDzicE5WLyMjhHNkqt3jKhc/s1600/strike+victims.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="525" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1GrZUrjdbrt5l9cmsBT-0XKaPLUlK3tDwqaXolSS-xh12rcm1sd9iFl-9NTxvU4RyEitcPW-cYdO_g8EafB7nOY5Eo0GVb4jtCSi3KceZUcFchBgT-NZHFDzicE5WLyMjhHNkqt3jKhc/s320/strike+victims.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
We didn't find Grace's father's marker, but in walking around the hill by the entrance, I accidentally happened upon the grave marker for William Williams, the open hearth superintendent from Wales who is a character in <i>Darkness Visible. </i><br />
<i> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj62FrDTLKuwMqmKx9mw_j7PxmREFJLOwmQuzoy-n4Hql5VstSL5u29m4Ik8QxutKDidZ6NHcrQZcvZp0tZWjBvBImaW3PjhH8rNLPlIM1p2AedG56nXWSvGxdZTXWcjjpOYQPNT9El6QU/s1600/homestead+tydfil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj62FrDTLKuwMqmKx9mw_j7PxmREFJLOwmQuzoy-n4Hql5VstSL5u29m4Ik8QxutKDidZ6NHcrQZcvZp0tZWjBvBImaW3PjhH8rNLPlIM1p2AedG56nXWSvGxdZTXWcjjpOYQPNT9El6QU/s320/homestead+tydfil.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The south side of the Williams monument</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</i><br />
One side of the monument is dedicated to Williams (1840-1905) and his wife, Mary. The west side of the monument bears the names of other members of the Williams family, in particular Lester Fix (Williams' grandson, 1900-1983) and Lester's wife, Tydfil Jones.(1904-1938). I was glad to find this because Lester and Tydfil's son Jack was the source of the stories about his great-grandfather's life and experiences during the Strike. But what took me aback is the name of Jack's mother: Tydfil (pronounced "tud-vil" in Welsh). This struck me because a) it's not a common Welsh name and b) Williams was from Merthyr Tydfil, an old iron and coal city in South Wales. There must be a story here.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7NUqk1jMcjxtPYBSxd3JZyjRq_GvxUH2YC1akV-2w23n3dTy1WLN1ei5YbLaZilJdyXGmhZ2edfrPE60pHhLRSLL8jOqepjtx1zZIDNrzvwZuAth1xhhGCn-xoBttma1xVfW-VtOi1gM/s1600/tydfil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7NUqk1jMcjxtPYBSxd3JZyjRq_GvxUH2YC1akV-2w23n3dTy1WLN1ei5YbLaZilJdyXGmhZ2edfrPE60pHhLRSLL8jOqepjtx1zZIDNrzvwZuAth1xhhGCn-xoBttma1xVfW-VtOi1gM/s320/tydfil.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Fix-Jones side</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i> </i><br />
It's a bit weird to see this granite marker to the real flesh-and-blood man who became a character in the book. There's no way of knowing for sure, but I hope the Wm. Williams in the novel is in some important way a reflection of the real Wm. Williams, who, judging by Jack's stories, was both a first-rate engineer and a man of conscience.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTn18EVtqnC51FS7CP_dCpIN2AfcFJo2lugOrymyd2CaC-GQlZbbZk3aAgML6kL6O3Otz4PoamGfAC-HH2EQpDyLECXN6YjdPbJhsO98kWsJar3m0mDz2mLC0lBsIKDMZoyVy6ZnROv3E/s1600/ann+ashley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTn18EVtqnC51FS7CP_dCpIN2AfcFJo2lugOrymyd2CaC-GQlZbbZk3aAgML6kL6O3Otz4PoamGfAC-HH2EQpDyLECXN6YjdPbJhsO98kWsJar3m0mDz2mLC0lBsIKDMZoyVy6ZnROv3E/s320/ann+ashley.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Looking down the steep slope on the northeast side of the cemetery to Anne Ashley Church</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
If you ask the young people who work in the Waterfront complex today, you'll find that few of them even know that a mammoth steel mill sprawled along the banks of the Monongahela River where the current commercial development stands. But perhaps some have heard in the classroom about that terrible day in American history when a battle raged on the river bank between striking workers and company-hired Pinkerton guards. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCvGPombsYbj9oUF8qPnIKyhgO4EX1drPwQ4iuCTUIP-KWv2fljvwoQrpJrTfh8Uh862POLH3g1SCFu3iNkRHpnEact9m7PyQIZWO2EgyZeytD6k04PN_Q7NQBp9HB6erXDwdIfNDwHSs/s1600/awful+battle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="669" data-original-width="1000" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCvGPombsYbj9oUF8qPnIKyhgO4EX1drPwQ4iuCTUIP-KWv2fljvwoQrpJrTfh8Uh862POLH3g1SCFu3iNkRHpnEact9m7PyQIZWO2EgyZeytD6k04PN_Q7NQBp9HB6erXDwdIfNDwHSs/s320/awful+battle.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"An Awful Battle at Homestead, Pa" <span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif;"> <i>National Police Gazette</i>, 23 July 1892</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As we get further removed in time from the events of 1892, we need to keep reminding new generations of those events. The Homestead Works is gone, but it lives on in the memories of those
who worked there and lived in the community. And it lives on in the
archives and buildings of the Rivers of Steel National Heritage Area (Website: <a href="https://www.riversofsteel.com/" target="_blank">https://www.riversofsteel.com/</a>). <br />
<br />
On Memorial Day 2017, I remember--not from experience, but
imagination--all of those who lived through and died during the
Homestead Strike, now 125 years in the past. I have to go back two generations to my grandfather, George Washington Busch, to get to a person who actually was witness to the events of that summer and fall. By writing <i>Darkness Visible</i>, incorporating scholarship with stories of and by the workers and townspeople, I have tried to pay tribute to their lives and legacy. May they rest in peace and honor.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVed1JvalEv7OrcZHlLK6So2Va73hh-9Yr9hzzRlMjB-lefd8UlApTlCjox2O5SLcBsaEBa_i9cTUIcqB-SeKktnLC5NTxPVHX7spYnOOCffMUY_gNyfAAg4xjKxLjv3ikKqIvliEyuSQ/s1600/homestead760032.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="424" data-original-width="916" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVed1JvalEv7OrcZHlLK6So2Va73hh-9Yr9hzzRlMjB-lefd8UlApTlCjox2O5SLcBsaEBa_i9cTUIcqB-SeKktnLC5NTxPVHX7spYnOOCffMUY_gNyfAAg4xjKxLjv3ikKqIvliEyuSQ/s320/homestead760032.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Carrie Furnace from Whitaker Hill, 1976 (Photo by Ed Busch)</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
* * * * *<br />
"I asked a man in prison once how he happened to be there and he said he
had stolen a pair of shoes. I told him if he had stolen a railroad he
would be a United States Senator."--Mother Jones<br />
<br />
<br />Trilby Buschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881736566285610644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673883225914446936.post-74008416759397471852017-05-19T07:22:00.000-07:002017-05-19T07:22:31.985-07:00John B.Edwards vs.The Man<br />
My Grandma Busch's father has been an enigmatic figure for me. He moved away from Pittsburgh before my grandparents were even married, and my father had only fleeting childhood memories of him. But a recent discovery of his lawsuit against Union Mining Company has opened new insights into his life and personality.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHcsxakiuDdsFzWdSiqYXZmfT2Q0YfaS_vCsgK54lU315ufgqRAF8J6hhXS98XsI4dfJVTm0ncDIvmL5s4P3nsvTSEtHdlq_19jLzT55LjbW71kGSFWfbFv614oqlCsP6G0d8QtOqw7bY/s1600/JE+Richmond.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHcsxakiuDdsFzWdSiqYXZmfT2Q0YfaS_vCsgK54lU315ufgqRAF8J6hhXS98XsI4dfJVTm0ncDIvmL5s4P3nsvTSEtHdlq_19jLzT55LjbW71kGSFWfbFv614oqlCsP6G0d8QtOqw7bY/s1600/JE+Richmond.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The only known photo of John Edwards, taken in Richmond, Virginia, c. 1875, when he was in his mid-20s.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
My father recalled hearing that John was the Black Sheep of the family back in his native Wales. A hard-drinking blacksmith, he worked in the slate mines. When he married Ann Jones of Froncysyllte, her family opposed the union. In 1872, the couple emigrated to the U.S., taking their two-year-old son Edward with them. My grandmother was born in 1874, and her brother Jesse in 1877. When Ann died in 1884, John couldn't manage the children and abandoned the two younger ones to the cold care of a Baptist "orphan asylum" in Pittsburgh.<br />
<br />
Some time after that, John moved to Frostburg, Maryland, where he married Alice Harriet Mussiter in 1893. The only things that Dad could remember about his grandfather--and these apparently were from John's visits to Pittsburgh in the 1910s--were of John singing "Oh, How I Love Jesus!" on the streetcar and of Dad and Grandpa Busch hauling John drunk out of saloons in Homestead, where he was singing hymns in Welsh and English, sometimes from on top of the bar.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhsrOFGkxp3x9qiSw16Uu4RF0MRvk2QtZ1ksSvsHmgwd5rtg-iuSB8RmvpCzrpEvAs4GaiMVIw8kzU2iqvUh7BLAApacqkWgWA8Zi0SLB2mQ8V_JPvSUOGttfAaigvdnzTTp_fFHdyWQc/s1600/grandma+and+dad+1908.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhsrOFGkxp3x9qiSw16Uu4RF0MRvk2QtZ1ksSvsHmgwd5rtg-iuSB8RmvpCzrpEvAs4GaiMVIw8kzU2iqvUh7BLAApacqkWgWA8Zi0SLB2mQ8V_JPvSUOGttfAaigvdnzTTp_fFHdyWQc/s1600/grandma+and+dad+1908.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Grandma Annie Edwards Busch with Dad, 1908. John Edwards had a copy of this photo of his daughter and grandson, as I discovered through Ginnie Ganoe of Frostburg.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
These stories are the reason that I was taken aback to find that John and his second wife (who is listed as both "Alice" and "Harriet") had enough gumption to sue the Man, namely Union Mining Company, one of a number of coal mining companies in the Frostburg area. In April 1894, a notice was posted in the <i>Cumberland Times </i>of the initial hearing. (Thanks to Ginnie Ganoe for alerting me to this notice.)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWzFLIPg5Q6LY3g1psm1K_XG8FYSIuU_bW39ZrSngO3GFWdnoZdxwYA7mcyE2-GhFwi-ueIebzMHugMnKf_X7oYT2nAuUn6wFNxzcpoiZQFUYuYmMhCAPQU_ibC4Eydr1g7__RHE9UzCs/s1600/clipping.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWzFLIPg5Q6LY3g1psm1K_XG8FYSIuU_bW39ZrSngO3GFWdnoZdxwYA7mcyE2-GhFwi-ueIebzMHugMnKf_X7oYT2nAuUn6wFNxzcpoiZQFUYuYmMhCAPQU_ibC4Eydr1g7__RHE9UzCs/s320/clipping.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
According to affidavits in official records of the case in the Circuit Court of Allegany County, Maryland, this is what happened: <br />
<br />
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 Mt. Savage. While John was at work, 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 with only the clothes on their backs.<br />
<br />
The lockout continued for a couple of weeks, during which 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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNK1jX3CL9lKfBcgwb0egQOKLhmLt0zqHDbrZqR4il6B5GqZcm9a_c6nB5XACRwiHehu5TzyqqeXhWnQFDW0DyMqRDbT0XVV6EGkgh-X2WBb1KbKin4xk27TpMMJXM3CP27XLO8sfz-B8/s1600/Allegany+County+-+Dan+Whetzel+-+Google+Books.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNK1jX3CL9lKfBcgwb0egQOKLhmLt0zqHDbrZqR4il6B5GqZcm9a_c6nB5XACRwiHehu5TzyqqeXhWnQFDW0DyMqRDbT0XVV6EGkgh-X2WBb1KbKin4xk27TpMMJXM3CP27XLO8sfz-B8/s400/Allegany+County+-+Dan+Whetzel+-+Google+Books.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Union Mining office building with the Varnum House at right. (Photo courtesy Dan Whetzel)</span></td></tr>
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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--company-owned houses and stores, extensive political connections, etc.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMXjnBkHsz_Su0pDtlUUF3NwjRiEUfi6QfKmwh9bCOe2WYk_WsrrPGJZi7CS156YLbUSXmiYgjHa5dWgQ-S-Ea4bumyqvT28S5whpJHB_-4TGwOc5YFyiSEw3dWCWH-eF-8wxnIV0_yBE/s1600/Union+Mining+Co+1841.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMXjnBkHsz_Su0pDtlUUF3NwjRiEUfi6QfKmwh9bCOe2WYk_WsrrPGJZi7CS156YLbUSXmiYgjHa5dWgQ-S-Ea4bumyqvT28S5whpJHB_-4TGwOc5YFyiSEw3dWCWH-eF-8wxnIV0_yBE/s320/Union+Mining+Co+1841.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Union Mine, Mt. Savage, 1841</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
John Edwards worked as a blacksmith for one of these mining companies in Mt. Savage, possibly Union. Blacksmiths worked in the mines and on the surface, and there's no record of which he did, perhaps both. The 1910 census shows that he was still working as a blacksmith for a coal company, and that his "mother tongue" was Welsh. John and Harriet were subtenants, so we can only speculate why Houck threw them out of Varnum House. If they were behind on their rent, the tenant would be the aggrieved party, not the landlord, Union Mining.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgko6Hzu3saaweAIO2rC7WfiZjqzYjWgWcJQo9S2tV-lIRErZleFXwXFuBqSWdKdVjQ8F-pDfkMH2Q5oywzcQFFgZxU1uY4jD7J3CEI2DCR9WwMUtvVGFgI-yEv_IGpHrOvUpcp2KAlk_o/s1600/blacksmith+rebec+gaujot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgko6Hzu3saaweAIO2rC7WfiZjqzYjWgWcJQo9S2tV-lIRErZleFXwXFuBqSWdKdVjQ8F-pDfkMH2Q5oywzcQFFgZxU1uY4jD7J3CEI2DCR9WwMUtvVGFgI-yEv_IGpHrOvUpcp2KAlk_o/s320/blacksmith+rebec+gaujot.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Blacksmiths for a West Virginia coal mining company with their tools (Photo courtesy Rebecca Gaujot)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I recently visited the graves of John and Alice [Harriet] Edwards in Porter Cemetery outside of Frostburg. Simple stone markers note the names and dates of each. It's a lovely, remote site on a hilltop surrounded by the Allegheny Mountains. Someone cares about this old cemetery enough to tend to it and erect a new fence with two hand-painted panels.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBH-XQmQB-7DGmvMPwxW3xdsJwxrkTPux78HAWiCJls8GAnuFmDQfp0CTxz1zb5qUWE6yCwqzuRaXrjyUj8NPlxJ4ia2WtimcJBNfslfBD_TJi9Ye7POsHAlDnJ_Doau0DyLSFrCThVR4/s1600/Porter+gate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBH-XQmQB-7DGmvMPwxW3xdsJwxrkTPux78HAWiCJls8GAnuFmDQfp0CTxz1zb5qUWE6yCwqzuRaXrjyUj8NPlxJ4ia2WtimcJBNfslfBD_TJi9Ye7POsHAlDnJ_Doau0DyLSFrCThVR4/s320/Porter+gate.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The entry gate to Porter Cemetery, Eckhart, Maryland</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS3KYENlvKEiJmgdnr7I3kS9tqum_NHBWaO4TyLhXJzdvxdzSPoPUhVEHp8UrMOQge_tHRuYe5XHasPLOAN1EUQJbF6XR-aoPwcNx1fYKFv85Iky9fDKyafDis_dLe_nf-Kwg6e3b2TG8/s1600/Porter+panel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS3KYENlvKEiJmgdnr7I3kS9tqum_NHBWaO4TyLhXJzdvxdzSPoPUhVEHp8UrMOQge_tHRuYe5XHasPLOAN1EUQJbF6XR-aoPwcNx1fYKFv85Iky9fDKyafDis_dLe_nf-Kwg6e3b2TG8/s320/Porter+panel.jpg" width="245" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">One of the hand-painted panels on the fence.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The visit to Porter Cemetery occured before I had a chance to look at the court papers from the suit against Union. So I just introduced myself to John, then sang the refrain of his favorite gospel hymn for him--"Oh, How I Love Jesus!"</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrIG6sgnq-4VZlnpWQS3JxZ6kNmST3iNeSUQYDSSjnmzsu_q7g76mrnwyTStTc3FBF2w72ZjdJbSJfrjAcCd7SWofn4zo-hkKctRy8vA30rm7SFaJPVOzyjwOyGmPderEwgUIF_9Nqnlw/s1600/oh%252C+how+I.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrIG6sgnq-4VZlnpWQS3JxZ6kNmST3iNeSUQYDSSjnmzsu_q7g76mrnwyTStTc3FBF2w72ZjdJbSJfrjAcCd7SWofn4zo-hkKctRy8vA30rm7SFaJPVOzyjwOyGmPderEwgUIF_9Nqnlw/s320/oh%252C+how+I.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Warming up to sing for John (grave marker at left font). My dog Viggo was quite alarmed by this unexpected vocalizing.</span></td></tr>
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Video<br />
<a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BTSC_welRTe/?taken-by=vigaglum" target="_blank">Singing "Oh, How I Love Jesus" for John</a><br />
<br />
<br />
There is a Name I love to hear,<br />I love to sing its worth;<br />It sounds like music in my ear,<br />The sweetest Name on earth.<br />
<br />
<i><span class="refrain">Refrain:</span></i><br />Oh, how I love Jesus,<br />Oh, how I love Jesus,<br />Oh, how I love Jesus,<br />Because He first loved me!<br />
<br />
It tells of One whose loving heart<br />Can feel my deepest woe;<br />Who in each sorrow bears a part<br />That none can bear below.<br />
<br />
This Name shall shed its fragrance still<br />Along this thorny road,<br />Shall sweetly smooth the rugged hill<br />That leads me up to God.<br />
<br />
And there with all the blood-bought throng,<br />From sin and sorrow free,<br />I’ll sing the new eternal song<br />Of Jesus’ love for me.<br />
<br />
---Frederick Whitfield, 1855<br />
<br />
<b>Epilogue </b><br />
Special thanks go to my neighbor Ezra Gray, who went through the
court papers and did further research on details of the suit. A fitting postscript is that Ezra found side-by-side articles in <i>The Cumberland Times </i>a year or two previous to the suit:<br />
John B. Edwards arrested for disorderly conduct.<br />
Someone else settling a slander suit against Union Mining. Trilby Buschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881736566285610644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673883225914446936.post-88056155657312251102017-04-15T08:15:00.002-07:002018-03-29T06:28:28.270-07:00Freaky Easter Cards: Bizarro Victorian Holiday Greetings II<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A couple of years ago, I did a post on <span style="color: white;"><span style="color: cyan;">Creepy Christmas Cards: Bizarro Victorian Holiday Greetings <a href="http://valleyofsteel.blogspot.com/2014/12/creepy-christmas-cards-bizarro.html" target="_blank">http://valleyofsteel.blogspot.com/2014/12/creepy-christmas-cards-bizarro.html</a>.</span> </span>Well, guess what--the Victorians came up with quite a selection of weird Easter cards as well. While not as creepy as some of the Christmas ones, Victorian Easter greetings could be just as bizarre, and to modern eyes, quite inappropriate. Like the Christmas cards, the Easter cards are overwhelmingly secular and often feature anthropomorphized animals pulling carts, whipping each other, playing instruments, riding each other and other weird activities (for animals).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPKmmBMXbvXIpc19TWhyphenhyphen86fsQPJjBq1APfmIL9OGYQnhyphenhyphenGQQuW7YEqrGrZDUlsEWE0lER_NynZHbM0uBVfTvfDd7s1hxfSP7aIYYAJbpQ7kyj7Hyp-zVuVw476Od2Qnl1LgFDbvEoLZhg/s1600/vic+easter+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPKmmBMXbvXIpc19TWhyphenhyphen86fsQPJjBq1APfmIL9OGYQnhyphenhyphenGQQuW7YEqrGrZDUlsEWE0lER_NynZHbM0uBVfTvfDd7s1hxfSP7aIYYAJbpQ7kyj7Hyp-zVuVw476Od2Qnl1LgFDbvEoLZhg/s400/vic+easter+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A boy in a strange outfit plays a flute (chews licorice?) with a pussy willow whip in hand while sitting in a nest of very large eggs. The rabbit, quite wisely, is getting the hell out of there.</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEine_VjjShA4yeRxspvQ02gopy1Jbt9nqNPYLgjAqs6xnUR-S97qrT46TiBAN9UqrcAIDRSbU1tMDDq7xzX0nslYF1qmueMuB53AoJp2dPcHyo9jP0IAjfnKTGXdeiL7UGvtb_jffKYuaQ/s1600/vic+easter+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEine_VjjShA4yeRxspvQ02gopy1Jbt9nqNPYLgjAqs6xnUR-S97qrT46TiBAN9UqrcAIDRSbU1tMDDq7xzX0nslYF1qmueMuB53AoJp2dPcHyo9jP0IAjfnKTGXdeiL7UGvtb_jffKYuaQ/s400/vic+easter+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Rabbits are attempting to carry a supersized golden egg with pussy willow switches. They aren't having much success. Everything is out of scale in this card set in a huge field.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNdkCp78I9M1fpiprVgjaC3kKOnbnNMPJ3ElnAkpRmz1yNgVq13Mq9aaacNb4AUNTktFk77HwDqk1WhDghN4PdDJwLsCGvDFVj_TkeARtUsf9WjiWCjpHzfgq1mnP5PQ7Qw2o1PnVOhEg/s1600/vic+easter+cannon2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNdkCp78I9M1fpiprVgjaC3kKOnbnNMPJ3ElnAkpRmz1yNgVq13Mq9aaacNb4AUNTktFk77HwDqk1WhDghN4PdDJwLsCGvDFVj_TkeARtUsf9WjiWCjpHzfgq1mnP5PQ7Qw2o1PnVOhEg/s400/vic+easter+cannon2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Easter greetings, military style. Rabbit soldiers fire eggs out of a cannon while an officer riding a chicken brandishes a sword. Note that while the text is in English, the rabbits are wearing<span class="st"> Pickelhauben, German army helmets.</span></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="st"> </span></span> </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrbsF7yCi_j89mDn70mXv3WGakTt_z-vbD_HPubpQgDAIyaMrR0yeWafqU0nMOTpjF4n5zCCsKPBGvT_P4I317Rtx03Xtoxgmc0_DI-3S7rsILr-OXDBzgnc-XhFZW-F058GsW8-jmUa0/s1600/vic+east+kittens+chick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrbsF7yCi_j89mDn70mXv3WGakTt_z-vbD_HPubpQgDAIyaMrR0yeWafqU0nMOTpjF4n5zCCsKPBGvT_P4I317Rtx03Xtoxgmc0_DI-3S7rsILr-OXDBzgnc-XhFZW-F058GsW8-jmUa0/s400/vic+east+kittens+chick.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Kittens dressed as children are dyeing a purple egg whence a large "chickee" is hatching. That's why the sender couldn't send eggs. Or is it because the kittens ate the chick as soon as it emerged?</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTWtG2cKULJrwTaEfuQSPi_e8K0Su_qbNJqoC0-7H3MHZ4uZlCeFWzbVNAX7jfj1Vav7XmQ_yjKvZEyGcR30PNRM4eHgJdDSWIT1nrA1XLmh-U7YLm5nM3WDGd-qq8yabhsMfTmynYTes/s1600/vic+easter+boat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTWtG2cKULJrwTaEfuQSPi_e8K0Su_qbNJqoC0-7H3MHZ4uZlCeFWzbVNAX7jfj1Vav7XmQ_yjKvZEyGcR30PNRM4eHgJdDSWIT1nrA1XLmh-U7YLm5nM3WDGd-qq8yabhsMfTmynYTes/s400/vic+easter+boat.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">With an ominous sky overhead, chicks carrying baskets wait to board a steamship. From their hats, we can deduce that these are affluent fowl. One can't help but wonder why going on a ship has anything to do with Easter celebrations.</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitK3PXJtinduUfGqa7ElOFmmJf5bdMasBaQC9pRMWcltrqU2olJ4HCmRN0IR0OMG66D-LkF-AaOSXEDf2vSqTTMwWMw1O9gUSvaCeyPonmAp-oHcGjQoyown5S0DZIfAW8GrgrwnVVSYE/s1600/vic+easter+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitK3PXJtinduUfGqa7ElOFmmJf5bdMasBaQC9pRMWcltrqU2olJ4HCmRN0IR0OMG66D-LkF-AaOSXEDf2vSqTTMwWMw1O9gUSvaCeyPonmAp-oHcGjQoyown5S0DZIfAW8GrgrwnVVSYE/s400/vic+easter+3.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Chicks inexplicably wearing spring bonnets admire the eggshells from which they presumably emerged. Where are the other two chickens?</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVHIllrwvHrYQdhR4VGR_c04EiwfkQHmS3_QSKFEkxE5KErAW5t4T2RDV7_noLqyA-ATiooZpenbGpuH3Y4cT4xvJC7_gtj3yVPVIQzHfytliHP6YI-sww128tjRhAoqO6K8rDwxMwkJQ/s1600/easter+quartet.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVHIllrwvHrYQdhR4VGR_c04EiwfkQHmS3_QSKFEkxE5KErAW5t4T2RDV7_noLqyA-ATiooZpenbGpuH3Y4cT4xvJC7_gtj3yVPVIQzHfytliHP6YI-sww128tjRhAoqO6K8rDwxMwkJQ/s400/easter+quartet.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A sad rabbit quartet wishes us "A Joyful Easter." With a drum, two cornets, and a violin (played on the right-hand side), it's hard to imagine what any tunes coming from this quartet would sound like.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeqsXYbIWcrn2IeXM3Ei8KHrGFuG8dWa43ZkNGx_dOPJ2SPzpSdABnRPCvp8KG3lHuVv10rez5Y6zFmSuyo-DNFs1ZV_ftyVQmE959rKpxOSEukAzxk53tkwzUX39998oaE7Zsv5j6ipU/s1600/vic+easter+sled.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeqsXYbIWcrn2IeXM3Ei8KHrGFuG8dWa43ZkNGx_dOPJ2SPzpSdABnRPCvp8KG3lHuVv10rez5Y6zFmSuyo-DNFs1ZV_ftyVQmE959rKpxOSEukAzxk53tkwzUX39998oaE7Zsv5j6ipU/s400/vic+easter+sled.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Too cheap to buy different cards for Christmas and Easter? You could scratch out "A Happy Easter" and use this card showing an adult man-rabbit pushing kid-rabbits and eggs through the snow in a sled for Christmas.</span><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggpmluI8W7XZC8GAzHdJjJs636tKK6ccKtw5A3SKhVGgtvy-c7XrdVtWVJjbvTl6i5sWE1msTLXLilodQ6j_3XedWyvKzi3-3BR3wZPzQ1hu3EdIs4O2ew_AnC0ggQwJgL-mOJ9JAQ59E/s1600/broken+egg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggpmluI8W7XZC8GAzHdJjJs636tKK6ccKtw5A3SKhVGgtvy-c7XrdVtWVJjbvTl6i5sWE1msTLXLilodQ6j_3XedWyvKzi3-3BR3wZPzQ1hu3EdIs4O2ew_AnC0ggQwJgL-mOJ9JAQ59E/s400/broken+egg.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Whoa. What the heck is going on here? Maybe the egg was too large to hard boil. </span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkG-uIV-Cof9tW-Szm4KwEtGl2nMQQqT67cy3LuXNwrZeOn3FQW2eUJN9rY1Y2n5SwZBYVixkEBVmz0YNxqd7Bi_XIJOK1Axj5BFMby-dPv23qUSEt6qWaCYoBX7btj_zie-sLq0999Vc/s1600/nra+easter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="414" data-original-width="625" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkG-uIV-Cof9tW-Szm4KwEtGl2nMQQqT67cy3LuXNwrZeOn3FQW2eUJN9rY1Y2n5SwZBYVixkEBVmz0YNxqd7Bi_XIJOK1Axj5BFMby-dPv23qUSEt6qWaCYoBX7btj_zie-sLq0999Vc/s400/nra+easter.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ach du lieber! This gigantic chick just came out of the shell with a shotgun to dispatch the Easter Bunny. To hell with gun control. Blam!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQERKo6txmkC-HvnakUUjQgLffT_Ju6ZivG5vuXzHyNZfVSK7wFmIG6rFLClQMdoKsexE2p2iUfOxEcwWLMbvcbfrQT_itROVgpDBaZPwGAy7mxGh7wMdjYD735L7PQySbngq8F8esT5s/s1600/dutch+egg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="198" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQERKo6txmkC-HvnakUUjQgLffT_Ju6ZivG5vuXzHyNZfVSK7wFmIG6rFLClQMdoKsexE2p2iUfOxEcwWLMbvcbfrQT_itROVgpDBaZPwGAy7mxGh7wMdjYD735L7PQySbngq8F8esT5s/s400/dutch+egg.jpg" width="264" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Dutch aren't slackers when it comes to weirdness. An anthropomorphic soft-boiled egg with legs and arms is in the process of being eaten, while a very tiny chick looks on, horrified. </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1WfLXGXNjZg3-NtnuonpWvTU8FYO25217_8_7MFJolWsyFsKuzBbRcTbejiswLa1RRjfFLVbY_lcIo5qujrk3BN6UvtqM46ip36ecXDfOkXSzdQv1Sy9tMcj79AYpJOon-GcNeSML0Qc/s1600/easter+threat.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1WfLXGXNjZg3-NtnuonpWvTU8FYO25217_8_7MFJolWsyFsKuzBbRcTbejiswLa1RRjfFLVbY_lcIo5qujrk3BN6UvtqM46ip36ecXDfOkXSzdQv1Sy9tMcj79AYpJOon-GcNeSML0Qc/s400/easter+threat.jpg" width="318" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Better watch out, kiddies. </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3UsrYv9AU6czSgqGVW7aqceBVCfsg28sFCm_kjqMYf71rJT2Ny3BGvo9_M_fNRb03HnboMVXGg6jNV9K1DKDWeReTwUH_cbTQN4YgKQgSfQy0GEiQVkiqvsvEmwC8LW5JkeRddZmN4y0/s1600/easter+rabbit+drowning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3UsrYv9AU6czSgqGVW7aqceBVCfsg28sFCm_kjqMYf71rJT2Ny3BGvo9_M_fNRb03HnboMVXGg6jNV9K1DKDWeReTwUH_cbTQN4YgKQgSfQy0GEiQVkiqvsvEmwC8LW5JkeRddZmN4y0/s400/easter+rabbit+drowning.jpg" width="251" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">An evil-looking rabbit watches another rabbit with a basket of eggs on its back drown. Happy Easter!</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu-MsigDYO7r4PRg0lX1NTBH0b0LHTCPoTqAAmSlUgWTv3hynC3e4qL1AdTxK3aY55c1EMgvysjraKQNMs7SOTZNodO1vRY5MXqLyZ7vszanySoHmFcJjBEvllLra7Hqah0hIpI6TAHxQ/s1600/puck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="872" data-original-width="625" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu-MsigDYO7r4PRg0lX1NTBH0b0LHTCPoTqAAmSlUgWTv3hynC3e4qL1AdTxK3aY55c1EMgvysjraKQNMs7SOTZNodO1vRY5MXqLyZ7vszanySoHmFcJjBEvllLra7Hqah0hIpI6TAHxQ/s320/puck.jpg" width="229" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Happy Easter from the Prince of Darkness. This, the cover of a turn-of the-19th-century satirical magazine, "Puck." The devil, they say.</span></td></tr>
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<br />
<span style="color: cyan;"><b><span style="color: black;">ADDENDUM</span> </b><span style="color: black;"></span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpUipmo2ZtC4CcfIZJ5FXXkG8UVEWofP59eWiyxVC2A5lP7n0rwMh1t4oX_fM1OlZ29UYbUuc2C5UBn9D2HIAOu8GydC_IQbKZdWWlVmkPvp-U1hJUl1kQeh8A1vKeH-yHYOWQJrBXNx8/s1600/osterfest+ed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpUipmo2ZtC4CcfIZJ5FXXkG8UVEWofP59eWiyxVC2A5lP7n0rwMh1t4oX_fM1OlZ29UYbUuc2C5UBn9D2HIAOu8GydC_IQbKZdWWlVmkPvp-U1hJUl1kQeh8A1vKeH-yHYOWQJrBXNx8/s400/osterfest+ed.jpg" width="227" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">After my German cousin Hanne read this post, she sent me a vintage Easter card that she found in the family home in </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="ac ads-creative">Weißenstadt. It's a post card addressed to Hanne's grandmother Babette, postmarked April 5, 1917--almost exactly 100 years ago. This date is during World War I, and perhaps that explains why the card seems more subdued than festive. </span> </span></td></tr>
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'Want to see more weird Victorian cards? Check out these sites:<br />
<span style="color: cyan;">Twenty Bizarre Old Easter Cards <a href="http://www.popthomology.com/2013/03/twenty-bizarre-old-easter-cards.html" target="_blank">http://www.popthomology.com/2013/03/twenty-bizarre-old-easter-cards.html</a></span><br />
<span style="color: cyan;">Crazy Website: Happy Easter Earthlings <a href="http://www.crazywebsite.com/Pg-Holiday-Entertainment-Humor/Easter/Funny_Cards/pg-bizarre-old-greeting-cards/vintage-Easter-greetings-strange-kids-giant-raw-egg_jpg.htm" target="_blank">http://www.crazywebsite.com/Pg-Holiday-Entertainment-Humor/Easter/Funny_Cards/pg-bizarre-old-greeting-cards/vintage-Easter-greetings-strange-kids-giant-raw-egg_jpg.htm</a></span><br />
<br />Trilby Buschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881736566285610644noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673883225914446936.post-85311881900589992772016-12-18T16:54:00.001-08:002019-12-16T13:55:18.289-08:00Oh, Bring Us Some Figgy Pudding<dl><dd></dd><dd>The old song, 'We wish you a Merry Christmas" is familiar to most, and sung often at holiday gatherings. It dates back to the 16th century in the West Country of England, growing out of the tradition of the wealthier members of the community giving rich fruit-and-nut puddings to carolers who came to their door. ("Figgy" in this context means not literally figs, but any dried fruit, like raisins and plum prunes.) </dd><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkFuq4rQJa0yszZ2hJ3CpQrShnzbCP8CRc7_W3tAHIzGF-Zl0rzYsJ72VicE64KV1v6sJqaq-SpwnbYthuL15m7h43z4Xfk_OFNQxiaRULsAywwTFEvIz_HYpyaz69-w8HEksE-UqVBM8/s1600/Victorian-Carol-Singers-christmas-32861706-311-350.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkFuq4rQJa0yszZ2hJ3CpQrShnzbCP8CRc7_W3tAHIzGF-Zl0rzYsJ72VicE64KV1v6sJqaq-SpwnbYthuL15m7h43z4Xfk_OFNQxiaRULsAywwTFEvIz_HYpyaz69-w8HEksE-UqVBM8/s320/Victorian-Carol-Singers-christmas-32861706-311-350.jpg" width="284" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Children caroling on a Victorian Christmas card</span></td></tr>
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<dd></dd><dd>We wish you a merry Christmas,</dd><dd>We wish you a merry Christmas,</dd><dd>We wish you a merry Christmas</dd><dd>And a happy New Year.</dd><dd><i>Ref. </i>Good tidings we bring</dd><dd>To you and your kin;</dd><dd>We wish you a merry Christmas</dd><dd>And a happy New Year.</dd></dl>
<dl>
<dt></dt>
<dd>Oh, bring us some figgy pudding, </dd><dd>Oh, bring us some figgy pudding,</dd><dd>Oh, bring us some figgy pudding,</dd><dd>And bring it right here.<br />
<i>Refrain</i> </dd></dl>
<dl><dd>We won't go till we get some,</dd><dd>We won't go till we get some,</dd><dd>we won't go till we get some,</dd><dd>So bring it right here.<br />
<i>Refrain. </i></dd></dl>
<dl><dd>We all like our figgy pudding,</dd><dd>We all like our figgy pudding,</dd><dd>we all like our figgy pudding,</dd><dd>With all its good cheers<br />
<i>Refrain</i> </dd><dd></dd><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<dd> <br />
By the late 18th century both the carol and the pudding had become holiday staples throughout Britain. From Charles Dickens to Blackadder, Christmas wouldn't be Christmas in England without Christmas pudding.</dd><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXhGaUAqA-1pqodMx2uWrnZgh_WNiJto_d1kzSAx7_DfW-iop5LiG95YXfzn7uDUufazKc866JTpo2HEozE4E-0yWENovlXtmNP7EBSpQQ8hyphenhyphen9TzI9rvdIA8JzFdt3LrQ8oA74TI_R_js/s1600/xmas+pudding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXhGaUAqA-1pqodMx2uWrnZgh_WNiJto_d1kzSAx7_DfW-iop5LiG95YXfzn7uDUufazKc866JTpo2HEozE4E-0yWENovlXtmNP7EBSpQQ8hyphenhyphen9TzI9rvdIA8JzFdt3LrQ8oA74TI_R_js/s320/xmas+pudding.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A servant carries a flaming Christmas pudding to the table. The clothes and furniture suggest early 19th century.</span></td></tr>
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<dd></dd><dd>For the Busch family, Christmas was defined by several customs:
trimming the tree, the singing of carols, midnight church service on
Christmas Eve, opening presents on Christmas morning, and eating plum
pudding at Christmas dinner. </dd><dd><br /></dd><dd>But the Busch plum pudding wasn't just
any old plum pudding. It was made from a recipe dating back to Victorian
England and prepared in the kitchen of St. John's Lutheran Church (now
SS Mark-John Church) in Homestead. My Uncle Jack Breakwell, husband of
my father's sister Frances, contributed his family recipe for the church
pudding-making. Uncle Jack was from Barrow-in-Furness, England--a town from
which, according to Breakwell family lore, they could see the Isle of Man on a clear day.</dd><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="height: 245px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center; width: 331px;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhluZWXZCToNRlYJVVS4IX5JxLvq666aWNaTpReM24jtxN0uW1wMRaHKzT3hyphenhyphenRo6cfrNIElLSgOg7MliUN5h1EJklHzaahqYKd6ImYLBMDXJzdAVxpoUOz5cVUjDNgwZO9Nak-vivdQkPc/s1600/st.+John%2527s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhluZWXZCToNRlYJVVS4IX5JxLvq666aWNaTpReM24jtxN0uW1wMRaHKzT3hyphenhyphenRo6cfrNIElLSgOg7MliUN5h1EJklHzaahqYKd6ImYLBMDXJzdAVxpoUOz5cVUjDNgwZO9Nak-vivdQkPc/s320/st.+John%2527s.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">St. John's in 1976. Photo by Ed Busch</span></td></tr>
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<dd></dd><dd>I fondly remember going with
my father in early December to check on the pudding production at St.
John's. In the kitchen, my grandfather and Uncle Jack would be busy cracking walnuts
and passing them on to the cooks--Grandma Busch, Aunt Frances, and other
church women, who in turn would be mixing up the batter and pouring it
into coffee cans. The cans were placed into gigantic kettles of boiling
water to be steamed. The whole church was filled with the spicy
fragrance of the steaming puddings.</dd><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpizSB65jCYa-JrGvkgVlAJWl2jUirhJU88xGpgrXp6qo585LBhk32svLtTrmOjrGRqwxpXbq9PTQiCyd3o7-fXJSkRxBZNFNQbaVvfx_gcLekKQcW4tVyGiZ4-VGijIIZAa97Tqk6XyE/s1600/xmas+pudding+batter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpizSB65jCYa-JrGvkgVlAJWl2jUirhJU88xGpgrXp6qo585LBhk32svLtTrmOjrGRqwxpXbq9PTQiCyd3o7-fXJSkRxBZNFNQbaVvfx_gcLekKQcW4tVyGiZ4-VGijIIZAa97Tqk6XyE/s320/xmas+pudding+batter.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Plum pudding batter mixed and ready to be steamed.</span></td></tr>
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<dd></dd><dd>After the
steaming was complete, the cans were cooled and placed on tables for
people to pick up. People from all over the Homestead area reserved a
pudding from St. John's for their Christmas feast. It was a tasty holiday fundraiser for the congregation.</dd><dd></dd><dd><br />
For me, the best part was eating the pudding on Christmas Day--or on other days after Christmas when we had dinner with relatives. The pudding was usually served with lemon sauce, although the traditional British version is buttery hard sauce. I prefer lemon sauce, as it makes a nice, tart contrast with the rich, sweet pudding. Some people light brandy aflame on the pudding as they bring it to the table, but my grandparents and father, being teetotalers, did not.</dd><dd><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6vAexlA1qvzowqeuZuTxCXSFEVKMxs6dAJOGoOxmfvYW8_AJsUxRzPxeHvyzkgcEawCpiLGZCrrqelX2gYUAwB1jImzu39NY1AJLXV_-LTD6FiOxby7GFF5Za39dd1spIWS7vZrf4joU/s1600/plum++pudding.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6vAexlA1qvzowqeuZuTxCXSFEVKMxs6dAJOGoOxmfvYW8_AJsUxRzPxeHvyzkgcEawCpiLGZCrrqelX2gYUAwB1jImzu39NY1AJLXV_-LTD6FiOxby7GFF5Za39dd1spIWS7vZrf4joU/s320/plum++pudding.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A plum pudding I made.</span></td></tr>
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</dd><dd>My cousin Elsiemae, daughter of Frances and Jack Breakwell, passed on her family's plum pudding recipe to my daughter Ceridwen in a handwritten letter. In the 1880s they sold coffee in cans, but you may have trouble getting these cans today. However, you can use a metal mold or other suitable container. Most plum puddings are made with suet or, in more modern times, with butter. This one is different from the traditional version in that it has neither suet nor another animal fat, in effect, vegetarian plum pudding. </dd><dd></dd><dd></dd><dd><i> </i><br />
<i> <b>1880's English Plum Pudding </b></i></dd><dd><b><i>Original recipe from Grandmother Hannah Breakwell, Barrow-in-Furness</i></b></dd><dd></dd><dd><b><i>1 c. white sugar 1 t. cinnamon</i></b></dd><dd></dd><dd><b><i>1 c. flour 1 t. cloves</i></b></dd><dd><b><i>1 t. baking powder 1 c. chopped apples</i></b></dd><dd><b><i>1 t. baking soda 1 c. chopped walnuts</i></b></dd><dd><b><i>1/2 t. salt</i></b></dd><dd><b><i>1 cup bread crumbs (cubed)</i></b></dd><dd><b><i>can evaporated milk </i></b></dd><dd></dd><dd><br />
<b><i>Mix dry ingredients. Add milk and mix together. Add fruit and walnuts. Mix.</i></b></dd><dd><b><i>Place mixture in 1 pound coffee can, 3/4 full. Cover with aluminum foil. Place can with mixture into bottom of double boiler or pot with water halfway up. Boil for three hours, making sure that enough water is always in boiler. To serve, spoon out and serve with lemon or hard sauce.</i></b></dd><dd></dd><dd><b><i>--Elsiemae Breakwell Simmers </i></b></dd><dd></dd><dd></dd><dd></dd><dd><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg56dwLORAFXWSixrAaSAlyY8Y4umgELgzxoiVdnWUyHayKZkoLQ5J6dKPxNM6UJTLx0Xaz6R62kWPDp1QUzEN2txg36-n5Mhk2hUpqr855c0RJZY5HFnLUnwsc8hY2UbktgwAomXu8c90/s1600/Nativity.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg56dwLORAFXWSixrAaSAlyY8Y4umgELgzxoiVdnWUyHayKZkoLQ5J6dKPxNM6UJTLx0Xaz6R62kWPDp1QUzEN2txg36-n5Mhk2hUpqr855c0RJZY5HFnLUnwsc8hY2UbktgwAomXu8c90/s320/Nativity.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Nativity Window in St. John's, made in Germany, 1917.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></dd></dl>
Trilby Buschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881736566285610644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6673883225914446936.post-86496831948419554282016-11-11T08:37:00.002-08:002016-11-13T10:43:42.465-08:00Damn the Torpedoes! <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6o7qhLJ57SzhibuekyIT6hZpn1mZ0fC3supX3kZyohIlgvh8vUdT_K3sjRMEV0nOf_H4Sv3_RwGJu7nmzHD8VoQZkr-7V3j7yzTdmG6zB2x15ezXjFHgg9XXy78mVOvs_3asn2xq7iMQ/s1600/Susqy+Deck+Officers+1864.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6o7qhLJ57SzhibuekyIT6hZpn1mZ0fC3supX3kZyohIlgvh8vUdT_K3sjRMEV0nOf_H4Sv3_RwGJu7nmzHD8VoQZkr-7V3j7yzTdmG6zB2x15ezXjFHgg9XXy78mVOvs_3asn2xq7iMQ/s320/Susqy+Deck+Officers+1864.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Deck officers on the <i>USS Susquehanna</i>, 1864. Source: Civil War Talk web site</span></td></tr>
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When I was teaching, as an end-of-semester "fun" writing assignment, I'd have my students collect a story and retell it in their own words. By far the greatest number turned out to be family immigration stories--stories passed down from several generations as well as stories fresh in the memories of those who experienced it. Just about every single one, even if badly told, was fascinating. For example: the Swedish immigrant who walked from Willmar to Minneapolis (95 miles) carrying two heavy sacks of flour to sell because he couldn't afford to pay for transportation. Or the Vietnamese man who was on a boat that was sunk as they were fleeing the country, drowning half of the people on board.<br />
<br />
But today, Veteran's Day, I'd like to tell one of my own family immigration stories, the tale of how Johann Paulus Pösch, citizen of Bavaria, became John Paul Busch, citizen of the U.S.A. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8yh9EmYWcCvEB0rOXus0rZO-7n6rRGqJOsOgRVogCACwCK2ipYm0HQdiykPXXV75HbZEXGuRXdocgvpw8Nsh4mSwD_Vd4WrZw4PqZd_6kMx3OWBMmNiP7WOupuQykFWWOfCpykfuIfPs/s1600/JP+and+mugs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8yh9EmYWcCvEB0rOXus0rZO-7n6rRGqJOsOgRVogCACwCK2ipYm0HQdiykPXXV75HbZEXGuRXdocgvpw8Nsh4mSwD_Vd4WrZw4PqZd_6kMx3OWBMmNiP7WOupuQykFWWOfCpykfuIfPs/s320/JP+and+mugs.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The old portrait of John Paul that used to hang in my grandfather's house, surrounded by Busch family photos (left) and beer steins from his native </span><span class="st"><span style="font-size: small;">Weißenstadt (below).</span></span></td></tr>
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<br />
The year was 1863, and the U.S. was embroiled in the some of the darkest days of the Civil War. In Europe, Prussian Chancellor Bismarck was in a territorial dispute with Denmark over Schleswig-Holstein, accompanied by sabre-rattling. Twenty-three-year-old Johann Paulus Pösch of Weißenstadt, near the border with Bohemia (now the Czech Republic), trained as a tanner, decided to pack up and emigrate to the United States. When he arrived in the port of Philadelphia, immigration officials asked him if he'd like to become a U.S. citizen on the spot. His answer, of course, was "Ja."<br />
<br />
The kicker was that he then had to serve in the U.S. military. As John Paul Busch he joined a U.S.Army division consisting of German immigrants like himself, where officers asked him about skills that might be applied to his service. Apparently there was zero need for tanners in the Army, but when he told them that he had learned how to fire boilers making beer in the civic brewery back in Weißenstadt, he got their attention. He was whisked off straightaway to become a member of the U.S.Navy.<br />
<br />
John Paul served as a fireman--a skilled job involving firing the boiler of the engine driving the ship--on two gunboats. The gunboats were part of the blockade of Confederate ports, trying to choke off supplies and trade from Europe. In the summer of 1864 the second of these, the<i> USS E.G. Hale</i>, was assigned to serve under Rear Admiral David G. Farragut in the Gulf coast off Mobile, Alabana. At that time Mobile was the Confederacy's last large port open on the Gulf, and to protect it, they had placed hundreds of tethered naval mines (then called "torpedoes") in the bay.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfyWRNtBtCpjycPdBI0Uj9fw1_ahGZ-VSN4fnDMtKUS7uGR_zcuC_0seF6PbF9hPsjtMyhKCrSUcRXFSr6cTyx0Ds7gAmt3mCFIx-v9SOihseO7CiFbKf-iZNh0imjiSGZfmxTVbj9grU/s1600/USS+Water+Witch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfyWRNtBtCpjycPdBI0Uj9fw1_ahGZ-VSN4fnDMtKUS7uGR_zcuC_0seF6PbF9hPsjtMyhKCrSUcRXFSr6cTyx0Ds7gAmt3mCFIx-v9SOihseO7CiFbKf-iZNh0imjiSGZfmxTVbj9grU/s320/USS+Water+Witch.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: small;">USS
<i>Water Witch, </i>a gunboat that served with the <i>USS Hale</i><br />
Source: US Navy Historical and Heritage Command </span></span></td></tr>
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Farragut aimed to shut down the port of Mobile. In coordination with the Army, he assembled a force of 5,500 men on 12 wooden ships, four ironclad monitors, and two gunboats (one of them the Hale), and on August 5, 1864, Farragut ordered his fleet to charge the bay. But when the monitor USS <i>Tecumseh</i> struck a mine and sank, the others began to withdraw.<br />
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Suffering from an attack of vertigo during the assault, Farragut was lashed to the rigging of his flagship the<i> USS Hartford. </i>Seeing the ships of his fleet hesitating, Farragut shouted through a trumpet to a neighboring vessel, "What's the trouble?" "Torpedoes," its captain yelled back. "Damn the torpedoes!" shouted Farragut, "Four bells, Captain Drayton, go ahead. Jouett, full speed."<sup> </sup><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcH32-GJpCDhy2ygEcxnMTJk05B18Ywe-7VMBwpVLDdUxx9sNZ7dB8FurJO_bMpXzOda6lQiZMJ-hxmgXOi2NzhwlBtZuJpMLkyEbjAJAyuugqhNTVdeskkwTumHOOQZQV0hWa3Xbxv5Q/s1600/640px-Bataille_de_la_baie_de_Mobile_par_Louis_Prang_%25281824-1909%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcH32-GJpCDhy2ygEcxnMTJk05B18Ywe-7VMBwpVLDdUxx9sNZ7dB8FurJO_bMpXzOda6lQiZMJ-hxmgXOi2NzhwlBtZuJpMLkyEbjAJAyuugqhNTVdeskkwTumHOOQZQV0hWa3Xbxv5Q/s320/640px-Bataille_de_la_baie_de_Mobile_par_Louis_Prang_%25281824-1909%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"The Battle of Mobile Bay" by Louis Prang (1884) Library of Congress Archives At lower left the two US gunboats are shown doing battle with the Confederate ironclad.</span></td></tr>
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In this daring assault, the bulk of the U.S. fleet succeeded in passing through the mine field, thus avoiding the guns of the three forts guarding Mobile Bay. The last remaining Confederate ironclad vessel, the <i>CSS Tennessee</i>, fought valiantly, but was eventually reduced to a motionless hulk, and the crew surrendered. With no Navy to support them, the three Confederate forts also surrendered within
days. Complete control of lower Mobile Bay thus passed to the Union forces, and the blockade of the Confederacy was complete.<br />
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Busy firing the gunboat's boiler, John Paul probably saw nothing of the battle itself. But I'm sure he must have heard the explosions and chaos going on around the Hale in Mobile Bay. At the end of the war, the Navy presented John Paul with a Bible for his service. My dad's sister Irene, knowing how much I am into family history, gave this Bible--or rather, what's left of it--to me.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5WKMz1P8UQ5jgw1HkBG7Wo19aYICKZ7TfF2nhNkwkdRSuY9b5OSmvdrVvE-41seV5s2cjXnyR_821Xecl_UYtep-e2p6UxCzC9bAesIQ2xp7dJUQqTZfWiyul9RUR7rIArvUgSoykoh0/s1600/bible+back+crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5WKMz1P8UQ5jgw1HkBG7Wo19aYICKZ7TfF2nhNkwkdRSuY9b5OSmvdrVvE-41seV5s2cjXnyR_821Xecl_UYtep-e2p6UxCzC9bAesIQ2xp7dJUQqTZfWiyul9RUR7rIArvUgSoykoh0/s320/bible+back+crop.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The back pages of the now-tattered King James Bible presented to John Paul by the US Navy</span></td></tr>
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Every Veteran's Day I think of Great-Grandfather John Paul Busch, who became an instant citizen and instant service member back in the terrible days of the Civil War. John Paul, I salute you and all the other veterans who have served to keep our country united, strong, and safe.<br />
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Veterans, here's to you.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXXYsoXFJiHcXDENuASti7uEWQdc-3OUCMhsWbqy4Pl4No0br3-DM3jtl_zo168eQle8YPPQOB8D467hzJhLxzuTz7TDzL4i9dQT_hLYP1xY6xP-RGxDefp3bpjZVwKQk4-AHSoEqMn3E/s1600/USS_Hunchback_crewmen_in_the_American_Civil_War.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXXYsoXFJiHcXDENuASti7uEWQdc-3OUCMhsWbqy4Pl4No0br3-DM3jtl_zo168eQle8YPPQOB8D467hzJhLxzuTz7TDzL4i9dQT_hLYP1xY6xP-RGxDefp3bpjZVwKQk4-AHSoEqMn3E/s320/USS_Hunchback_crewmen_in_the_American_Civil_War.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The crew of the gunboat <i>USS Hunchback</i> that served on the James River in Virginia, 1864-1865. Note that about a fifth of the crew is African-American. Source: U.S. Naval History and Heritage Command</span> </td></tr>
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<br />Trilby Buschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881736566285610644noreply@blogger.com1