Are you having a Ruhamah Day???

It is with great relief that I report that I'm not a blood descendant of Ruhamah Jones Nickerson.  I am, however, a direct-line descendant of her father-in-law, William Nickerson.  But he's a topic for another Black Sheep Sunday.

Ruhamah was born about 1650, and married Joseph Nickerson, and they lived in Massachusetts.  The Nickerson family is well known there; Joseph's father William (mentioned above) having founded the town of Chatham.  But Ruhamah was well-known in her own right.

While described as being a beautiful woman, she was also known as being, according to the Nickerson Family Association, "of a disagreeable nature," to put it mildly.  She *lived* for harassing people.  She was not burdened with the constraints of manners or polite social behavior.  Both the Indians and her white neighbors alike were afraid of her, and went out of their way to avoid making her angry.  If anyone provoked her, she would "play havoc with their washing, their choice plants, and the fruits of their harvest."  Any time, day or night, Ruhamah was Ready To Rumble, and never backed down from a confrontation. Oddly enough, Edward Bangs, an early colonist and a direct-line ancestor of mine, once argued with her, and his barn burned down a short time later.

Ruhamah outlived her husband, and another family took her in, while the townspeople were ordered to pay them for her support.  No matter what the compensation, I'm sure it wasn't enough!  She lived to a ripe old age, and had spent so many years sitting that when she died, it was "thought best to bury her in the same crooked position".  And they did.  Perhaps their way of getting the last laugh?

Sometimes we all have a Ruhamah Day, and would love uproot the tomato plants of the $#*()!! who just cut us off in traffic.  It's okay to savor the thought.  You aren't grumpy, you're just Getting In Touch With Your Inner Ruhamah.  Think about it all you like, just don't do it, or people might be remembering you, too, some 400+ years later!

An Unlikely Sentimental Treasure

    It's hard to imagine how a green electric frying pan could be among *anyone's* sentimental things.  Especially this one.  It's not much to look at, with it's late 1960s olive green finish, blotched with permanent stains, like battle scars, from years of use.  The bolt holding the leg on doesn't do much for its looks either.
    But I still remember the day I got it, in the very late 1970s.  My parents were freshly divorced, and oddly enough, no one fought for custody of the olive green electric frying pan.  It was not one of the things my mother took when she left, and my father never used it. I stopped over one day and he was going through things in the cabinets.  He pulled out a step stool, climbed onto the stove and opened the cabinet just under the ceiling.  From the back, he pulled out this frying pan, and asked if I wanted it, or if he should throw it out.  Of course I wanted it!!  It was like new, and it was larger than the typical square electric frying pans.  The finish was the old Silverstone, which wore like battle armor.  I didn't have much money at the time, and could never have afforded such a nice frying pan, so I was elated.  I used it regularly.
    As I married and my family grew, the frying pan was a staple in the kitchen.  I was heartbroken when I accidentally broke one of its legs, but my Grandpa Bill Knutz, an old "do it yourself" farmer, fixed it.  And fixed it, and fixed it.  Eventually it got to be a heated competition between Grandpa and that frying pan leg.  Over and over, he glued that leg on, each time vowing it wouldn't come off again.  The last time I took it to him to fix, he carted it down to his basement workshop, and brought it up with a bolt holding the leg on.  He said that leg would outlast the frying pan.  He was right.
    A couple of months ago, I was preparing to fix chicken and dumplings in my frying pan, when it was accidentally knocked off the kitchen counter.  All of the legs were shattered.  Well, not all of them.  One held tight.  My husband looked at the numerous broken pieces and declared it dead.  I'll be shopping for its replacement today, not that anything could truly replace it.  It and I have been friends for 30 years.  Every time I saw that bolt in the leg I think of my dear, dear Grandpa Bill.  Call me silly, but I put the pan in the back of the cupboard, where it would be out of the way, with the shattered leg pieces, and the one solid leg.  I can't throw that pan away.  Some day, when my sons sort through what's left of my earthly belongings, they'll find that pan, and sentimentally say, "Mom was crazy."  :)

The Three-Legged Horse of William Lair

I would imagine he didn't get the family to town very quickly, but the three-legged colt belonging to William Lair, of Princeville, Illinois must certainly have caused quite a stir in the small town. I wasn't terribly surprised to find this postcard in a large and dusty collection of old postcards kept over the years by my great-grandmother's family, but what did surprise me was finding two other copies of it on eBay!

William Lair was the younger brother of my gr-gr-gr grandfather, Lawson Lair. William spent the bulk of his life in the Princeville area, working as a farmhand until his enlistment in the Civil War. Described as nearly 6'2", with dark hair and gray eyes, he and twelve of his comrades were known as the "Lucky Thirteen" - all local boys who fought in the war and returned to their homes and families; William had served three years, and then re-enlisted as a veteran. After his return to Princeville, he married Susan Hammer Givens, a widow with a young daughter. In addition to this girl, he and Susan took in a boy in need of a home.

Despite being one of the "Lucky Thirteen," William was not quite as "lucky" as the name implies. His health suffered greatly from his years of service in harsh conditions, often spending days at a time in dark, cold marshes, breathing less than the purest of air. William's lungs were never the same after his service, and this "lung disease" eventually took his life twelve years after his military discharge, at the young age of 35.

I have often wondered what became of this "famous" three-legged horse, and why so many pictures of it have survived the ~140 years since this photo was taken.

A Non-Related Ancestor

George MacConnachie will never have a descendant to memorialize him, but no history of our Joyce clan would be complete without his inclusion. Stories at the last Joyce family reunion often included his name - sometimes a jovial story of drinking whiskey on the front porch with the Joyce men, other more somber times when he was present in a more official capacity.

Father George MacConnachie came to the plains of eastern South Dakota on Oct. 1, 1900, assigned to St. Bernard's Catholic Church at Redfield. He was just 25 years old. He had been ordained in Spain the year prior, and with his parents in Scotland both being deceased, he put his life and soul into the pioneers on the prairie.

The Michael Joyce family came to South Dakota in 1884, having slowly made their way inland after immigrating from Ireland some 40 years prior. Mike Joyce died in 1914; while his obituary does not mention who officiated at the service, I have no doubt it was Father MacConnachie. When Mrs. Joyce died in 1924, it was Father MacConnachie who presided over her last service, and comforted her family. As the grandchildren married, it was Father MacConnachie who joined them in holy matrimony. As they died, it was Father who preached the last sad sermon for them. He baptized their children, and comforted them in times of illnesses and death.

He also enjoyed a relationship of friendship with the Joyces. Father MacConnachie loved to fish and hunt; and like the Joyces, he had a sense of humor and a gift as a storyteller that made him a most enjoyable conversationalist. He made many visits to the various Joyce homesteads in Spink and northern Hand counties.

But Father George MacConnachie's firm dedication to his life's work and the God he served was always his foremost priority. In his years at St. Bernard's, he erected the parish house, and every rock in the church was blasted by him. In his first 15 years at the church, he never missed a service.

He celebrated his Diamond Jubilee at St. Bernard's in 1959, and died four years later in Pierre, South Dakota, at the age of 87. He was buried in the cemetery at Redfield, among the families he served for so many years. He will forever be a part of our family memories and stories, and judging by the stories I've heard, I suspect he is an important part of many other families' legacies as well.

Family Reunions - Never a Dull Moment

Family reunions… No two are alike, and large or small, they're always interesting. One branch of our family has small, annual gatherings, while another has a huge, weekend-long event every three years.

The pastor of our church once said, "There's no finer food on earth than at a church potluck." I disagree! A family reunion potluck is every bit as good, perhaps even better! I can still see the three picnic tables put end to end, and covered with casserole dishes, cake pans, salad bowls, drink coolers, etc. The descendants of three brothers, Oluf, Emil, and Adolph Hammer, would gather each year, most living within a couple of hours away, so the potluck was a perfect format. A mouth-watering meal was served, seconds and thirds were had, recipes exchanged, and a happy, satisfied digestion commenced.

There was never a shortage of things to do, regardless of one's age. Young cousins tried to drown each other in the swimming pool, while their dads got a softball game together, and their grandpas played horseshoes. Moms and grandmas tended to the food, and got "caught up" on everything happening with each others' families. There were new cousins to meet, laughing till your belly hurt, and getting tormented by goofy Uncle Jim. There were White Elephant gift exchanges, and howls of laughter as your staunchly democratic cousin gets a sack full of republican paraphernalia, and Aunt Joyce goes home with a giant rubber ducky for her next bath.

But there are deeper, more meaningful aspects of a family reunion. It's here that many of the younger generations will learn about family traditions, and come away with a feeling of deep, strong roots. Family history is discussed and enjoyed and discovered, even by people who didn't think they were interested in it. Adult cousins, circling the campfire late at night, will discover that their most treasured memories are also each other's most treasured memories. It can be a bittersweet time, when, reunion after reunion, you see the older faces being slowly replaced by younger faces. As we grow older ourselves, we know we won't always be here to keep things going, but building a tradition among the younger generation most certainly will.

Who Are You???

What a frustrating enigma! I hold my "mystery photograph" in my hands, and look hard at the face, as if by staring at it a little longer, the lips will move, and the Mystery Woman will give me a hint... It's hard to know the woman in this photograph is a beloved ancestor, and have no idea who, specifically, she is.

I know one thing. It's not Julia, as was labeled on the back by a fellow descendant, who likes to guess at such things, not always accurately. I might have been tempted to make the same assumption, as this woman's photograph was among others from that family, had I not already known what Julia looked like. I have two photographs of Julia, both known to be her, although older in years in both of them. Her straight, white hair, parted down the middle, frames her oval face with its fine features. She's a small woman, with a little bit of a scowl on her face. The woman in the Mystery Photograph is a plump, hardy-looking middle aged woman with short dark hair, curling like scallops around her soft, square face. Her ears lay flat below her round-brimmed hat, while Julia's are quite the opposite. The Mystery Woman, wearing a long, double-breasted coat that appears to be wool, clutches a pair of gloves in her hands, and is standing beside an ornate, very unusual table that no doubt is among the photographer's props. No photographer, nor location, is mentioned.

I recall stories of genealogy researchers, standing in a cemetery, looking for their ancestor's grave, when suddenly they realized they are standing on it... or by some other miraculous occurrence, happen to find what they are looking for against the odds. While waiting for a similar miracle to fall from Heaven regarding my Mystery Woman, I keep trying to make contact with as many other descendants of this family as possible, hoping one of them will have send me a photograph with those familiar-looking eyes. And while they lips won't move, they will surely speak to me about this dear lady's identity, and her place among my ancestors.

Beadle County and the Deadly Blizzard of 1888

     The most brutal blizzard Beadle county, South Dakota, and most of the rest of the Dakotas, Nebraska, and Minnesota has ever seen, raged into the area on Thursday, January 12, 1888. Blizzards are nothing new to the area, but several factors combined to make this one of the most deadly winter storms in history.

     First, there was a temperature increase of nearly 20 degrees between the day before, and the day of, the storm. At 19 degrees above zero, Beadle county residents must have considered the day a balmy one, with the weeks of sub-zero temperatures they had previously endured. However, a brutal drop in temperature was yet to come before the day was over. Adding to the danger, wind speed just before noon was 24 mph; in less than two hours, the wind would increase to a roaring 60 mph, with higher gusts.

     With the warmer weather, more people were out tending to their business, and more children were sent to school. The timing of the storm’s arrival could not have been worse; workers were in the middle of their work day; farmers in the middle of their chores, and school children in the middle of their studies. Had this storm hit in the middle of the night, countless lives would have been spared. In addition, the significantly warmer temperatures of the morning meant that many of these people were not adequately dressed for what was to come.

      The storm roared in with such suddenness that people did not have time to protect themselves, nor to make any preparations in advance. The storm came with such ferocity that one three year old, identified only as Timmy, thought “God’s thrashin’ machine is coming to pieces!” The tiny shards of ice and snow came pelting down with such force that visibility was next to nothing in a very short time. Farmers in their barns were unable to find their way back to their houses. It hit overwhelmingly hard and fast.

     Stories of affected Beadle county residents were not hard to come by -

Emil Gilbertson had come to Dakota Territory from Chicago some five years previous, answering the call of free land. His claim was 11 miles southwest of Altoona, and it was there that he was headed as he left town on Wednesday. He was found Friday, about 2 ½ miles west of town, frozen to death.

      Another Altoona resident, 60 year old Lewis Merriman and his 18 year old son Hallie, came to Dakota Territory from Whiteside county, Illinois. They were just a mile away from home when the rage of the storm hit Beadle county. They knew they were lost, and conditions so bitter that survival was not likely; Mr. Merriman was exhausted and could not continue; his son took off his overcoat and put it on his father, and attempted to find help. Mr. Merriman’s body was found a half mile away, and his son’s body just a short distance from their home.

     Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Gilkeson, who came to Dakota Territory from New York, lived on the Caldwell Dairy Farm, three miles south of Huron. On Thursday, he and Otto Gose headed east of the farm in order to get hay. The storm hit just before they started for home. Once they realized that they were lost, they tied the team of horses to the wagon and started out separately. Gose wandered the rest of the day, but eventually made it to the farm, although badly frozen. Searchers went out early Friday morning, but there was no sign of Gilkeson. It was not until the following Monday, when Frank Miller, who lives 12 miles from Huron, was walking to town, and happened to notice a piece of cloth sticking up from the snow. He found the body of a man, arms folded across the breast to keep his coat tight, and his hat pulled down over his ears. He had nothing on his hands. A piece of the man’s coat was taken to Mrs. Gilkeson, who confirmed it was her husband’s. The body was later taken to the Gilkeson residence. Their daughter came from Wessington, riding on the snow plow.

     Meanwhile, Michael Hand, a farmer, took his cattle to a nearby well for water. The coming of the storm was so sudden that he could not see the barn, and wandered for some time before stumbling over a gang plow. Knowing the plow was only about 10 feet from the house, he started in what he thought to be the right direction, but it was not until he came to a harrow which was a half mile from the house that he knew he was lost. He stumbled about all night; by morning, his eyes were frozen shut. Later that morning, William Morse was out doing chores when he found Hand, and took him to shelter. Hand’s clothes were frozen to the extent that they had to be cut from him. Hand had wandered more than 10 miles before being found.

     Two neighbors, J. A. Scoville and S. W. Campbell, had close calls as well. Scoville had been at Campbell’s before the storm. By the time he started for home, it was too late; he became lost, and was wandering on the prairie for more than three hours, finally finding his farm. He warmed up, and then went to his cattle sheds to tend to his livestock, but as soon as he opened the door, the roof collapsed under nine feet of snow, burying Scoville under the mess. One of the farm hands, who luckily was nearby, began shoveling and finally freed Scoville. Scoville recovered fully from the events of the day. Meanwhile, his neighbor Campbell, was forced to shave off his mustache with a pocket knife, when it became so encrusted with ice and snow that it froze to his face, and made it very difficult for him to breathe.

     The Nierson brothers, Frank, 22, and Willie, 16, left their family in Chicago to come to Dakota Territory to farm. On Thursday morning, Mr. J. F. Wilson came to their place to “doctor” a sick horse. The storm rolled in while Wilson was there, and the boys, fearful of the storm, decided to accompany Wilson back to his farm, just two miles east. Heading in the right direction, the visibility was so poor that they walked past the Wilson farm, coming within 10 rods of the house. Realizing they were lost, the began to look for some sort of shelter from the fierce wind and biting ice raining from the sky. After several hours, Frank fell to the ground, exhausted, and died within minutes. Wilson and Willie Nierson continued their search for shelter, and eventually Willie collapsed and died as well. Wilson rested for a short while in a deep drift in a cornfield, until his knees gave way, and he had to resort to crawling. About 10 o’clock Friday morning he crawled to a house belonging to John Bremerman, having wandered at least 10 miles. The bodies of the Nierson brothers were retrieved and taken to the mortuary to be prepared for shipping to the family in Chicago. While badly frozen, Wilson recovered.

     South of Cavour, Ezra Fuller and his housekeeper, Miss Pearson, were going to Fuller’s house to work, when they were caught in the storm. They wandered all Thursday night; when found, they were nearly buried with snow, several rods apart. Mr. Fuller’s left arm, face and feet were badly frozen, and Miss Pearson’s legs were frozen, as well as her hands and face.

     In a touch of irony, Sergeant Glenn, whose duty it was to predict weather for the Huron office, started for home Thursday, but before reaching his street his eyes were nearly frozen shut with snow and ice. He was confused, and became lost. He wandered for some time before being put on the right road to his house. He arrived exhausted, but unhurt, for the most part.

     One of the saddest stories is that of Robert Chambers and his two young sons, aged 9 and 11, who left their home on Thursday morning, headed to the Rush place a mile away, to water some cattle. When Mr. Chambers saw the storm approaching, he immediately sent the older boy home, as the child was afflicted with rheumatism and could not be out in the cold weather. The boy reached home safely. Mr. Chambers and the younger boy, Johnny, began driving the cattle home, but soon became confused and lost. Johnny, who survived the ordeal told what happened to the local newspaper, as follows:

… when his father saw that they were lost he made a place in the snow for him, and wrapped him up the best he could. They had no over coats, or extra clothing. Johnny says that he was so covered up that he was warm. His father went out and called, and called, and the St. Bernard dog barked, but no answer came. Then father and the dog got into the snow beside him. While he was warm he knew that his father was getting very cold. He urged father to go on and try to find the trees, and then he could make the house. But the father said, "No, I cannot go and leave you here." The boy urged, but the father would do no more than to call for aid within certain reach of the boy's bed of snow. The dog also kept with the boy. Through the long night they had conversations about perishing, but the father kept assuring the boy that they would get through all right if he would only be sure and lie still! The boy knew that father was freezing, but was quite comfortable himself, and finally fell asleep. When he awoke it was evidently near morning. Father was still alive. Discovering that Johnny was awake the father said to him, "Now, Johnny, you pray, and I will pray, and then I know God will take you through all right." They prayed as proposed, and soon after the father was dead. The boy, entirely covered up, except a little breathing place through the snow, laid still. The dog stood sentry, and afforded the cue by which the bodies were found soon after daylight, by a searching party. Johnny thinks his father had not been dead more than an hour when they were found.

     A huge cause for concern once the weather turned bad were the hundreds of school children throughout the county. At the Utah school in Huron, some children insisted on leaving the building, some of whom were retrieved and the building locked for their safety until help arrived. In order to get students to the nearby home of J. W. Campbell, a rope was attached to Mr. Campbell’s fence, and carried to the school building. Students were able to make their way to the house, where Joe Bloodgood, with his horse and sleigh, took children home. Ben King and his hired man did the same, until everyone was safely delivered to their families. At the Illinois school, teachers and students stayed together until each child could be taken home.

     However, it was the rural school teachers, all alone on the frozen prairie, often without enough fuel to last, who had difficult decisions to make. Miss Hattie Grant, teacher of 12 pupils in the Goodell neighborhood six miles west of Huron, saw the storm approaching as the children were getting ready to eat their lunches. She advised them to save a portion for an evening meal, if needed. She continued on with her teaching, and with the help of three older students, got enough coal to last the night. They sat around the fire, told stories, and talked until the small children fell asleep, and again with the help of the older students, kept watch over the fire. They were all rescued safely about 8 o’clock the next morning.

Miss Hacket taught in the Bloodgood addition; aided by others, she was able to get all the children to the residence of A. Bloodgood and Eli Brockman, and notify parents that their children were safe and being cared for overnight.

     There was no shortage of heroes in Beadle county. When it was realized that there were missing school children, a call was made for volunteers to brave the elements and bring the children to safety. A number of railroad boys were the first to answer the call. As written in the Daily Huronite, “They threw on their overcoats, pulled down their sealskin caps and were quickly out in the storm. It was not too severe for them to aid in the search for the little ones. They didn't wait to be asked to go - but went voluntarily. Their eager desire to take part in the search showed the goodness of their hearts, and their promptness in duty as railroad employes. ‘By their works ye shall know them.’”

     Jud Spaulding, Mr. Ritchlag, W. B. Joy, J. B. Coffin and many others also aided in the search for missing people. Mr. Spaulding came up with the idea of sounding the railroad whistle, and many lost and confused people were able to follow the sound back to town, and numerous lives were saved as a result of his clear thinking.

     Reactions of the county residents to the storm were mostly awe and grief, but M. J. Dineen summed up the spirit of the Dakota pioneer: “We survived the big winter. This storm may be a little severe, but we were here first, and are going to stay.”