A Sunday Drive in Rural South Dakota

This photo depicts the Will Knutz family of rural Huron, South Dakota, enjoying their new car.  The photo was taken prior to 1918, and includes Will Knutz behind the driver's wheel; his wife Elvirta beside him, and in the back is little Howard, their son, Delbert Graves (Elvirta's brother) and Lulu Graves (Elvirta's sister).  Will and Elvirta's sons William and Richard are not in the photo.

It was said that it took Will awhile to refrain from pulling the steering wheel and saying "Whoa" to get the car stopped!

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.