The Bible of Catharine Nickeson

When I bought this Bible from an historical society years and years ago, I assumed it was probably not the Bible of my ancestor Catharine Nickeson Smith, but I thought I’d take a chance.  It was from 1860, about the right time frame, but sure enough, it wasn’t hers.  But there was something about it that immediately drew me to an obsession to know who this Catharine Nickeson was.
This book was not a display piece, or a table-top book.  The old, worn brown Bible had obviously seen a lot of use in the 150 years since Catharine obtained it.  While the spine was strong, the pages were delicate, and the handwriting faded.  A poem or verse of some sort was written in pencil, only partially readable, but in dark pen was written “Catharine Nickeson’s Book, April 14, 1860”. 





Thumbing through it, I discovered several pages with old, dried leaves between them, some very intricate and unusual looking, like no plant I had seen before, all nestled in their hiding places.  But there, on the unprinted pages between the Old Testament and the New Testament was, in many different pens, over many different years, names and dates, births and deaths of those whom Catharine had held dear.  Her children, their spouses, her grandchildren – all the events of their lives had taken on immortality between the pages of Catharine’s Book.  Seeing her handwriting, shakier as the years went on, I could almost feel the pain as she recorded the births, and then deaths, of several of her children, some young, some older.  It was as if all of the emotion at these events had been locked within the fragile pages of her dear book.
I set about the work of getting to know Catharine Nickeson.  As her Bible told me, she was born April 2, 1833, and her husband, Lambert, or “Lam” as she referred to him, was born November 20, 1821.  They lived in Washington county, Maryland, and in 1850, their household was as follows:
Lambert “Nichoson”, 26, laborer
    Catharine, 28
    Mary E., 7
    Margaret A., 5
    Susan H., 2
    James A., 6/12
    Nancy Daynatt, 18 (Catharine later named one of her daughters Nancy – is this perhaps her sister?)
In 1880, I found them again, in Clear Spring, of Washington county:
Lambert NICKERSON, 58, Farm Laborer
     Catharine, Wife, 58
     Nancy, Daughter, 21
     Mattie, Daughter,  12
And I found them again, for the final time, in 1900, also in Clear Spring:
Clear Spring, Washington, Maryland, Image 28/42
Nickison, Lambert, 78
     Catherine, wife, 78
Interestingly, this last census notes that neither Lambert nor Catherine can read or write.  Error?  Or is there more to the story?
The birth and death entries in the Bible are -
Isaih Denton Hull was born October 4, 1869 
George Lewis Hughs 1847 was born January the 7
Elizabeth Nickeson was born June 28, 1854
Nancy Nickeson June 11, 1858
Rebecca Nickeson born April 13, 1861
Infant daughter of Lam and Catherine Nickeson born May 4, 1865
Rebecca Mills departed this life February 24, 1876
Lizzie Kelley baby was born September the 25 1890
Catherine Nickeson born April 2, 1822
Lambert Nickeson born November 20, 1821
Roseanna Hughs was born January the 27 1851
Elizabeth Host departed this life April the 14 1847
Roseanna Hughs departed this life January 20 1873
Marget Annie Kelley departed this life September the 18 1892
William Kelley was born July 16 17 A.D. 1878
Annie Rebecca Kelley was born March 15th A.D. 1880
Annie Rebecca Kelley departed this life March 20th 1880
Effie Kelley was born September the 5 188(6?)
Bessie May Kelley was born October the 10 188(5?)
I’m still trying to sort everyone out, but what I’d like to know most is what happened to Lam and Catharine?  I have been trying to find obituaries for them, and hopefully will be able to learn more about them and their lives.

The Strawberry Blanket

Sharing a Slice of Life
There are no finer memories than spending the night at Grandma’s house.  She had things we didn’t at home… like trundle beds!  And when she pulled out the bottom bed, she always pulled the Strawberry Blanket out of the back of the closet as well.
I loved that Strawberry Blanket for as long as I remember.  There was nothing particularly special about it, at that time, except that it had strawberries on it and I loved strawberries.  Now, of course, it also has all the memories associated with it, particularly being tucked in so warm and safe by the most wonderful Grandma that God ever created.

When my mom cleaned out Grandma and Grandpa’s house after their passing, she gifted me with the Strawberry Blanket – which by then had become the Strawberry Blankets.  For some unknown reason, Grandma had cut it into two, and whatever backing the blanket used to have was gone.  So I bought some fabric and put backs on each of them.  They spend most of their time in the back of MY closet now, but it’s surprising how comforting these blankets still are, like a hug from far, far away.  I think it’s time to move them to the front of the closet, and get them ready for the next generation of kids who need a warm, snuggly hug.

Adventures in Iowa

Finally, the long-awaited Road Trip.  Even though it was just a day trip, it felt so good to get out of town and go tromping through the cemeteries. 
The first stop was Spring Valley, in southern Minnesota, looking for a needle in a haystack, essentially.  We walked the entire cemetery looking for the resting place of one particular ancestor, which we did not find.  We’re back to Square One with him, but we did come upon this -


which was a tree trunk.  The top had the look of polished stone, but it wasn’t.  There appeared to be a very thick clear coating on the top of the trunk, with the lettering within the layers -
 
This unusual marker belonged to Cora N. May, 1870 – 1895, and was probably the neatest headstone I’ve ever seen.
We resumed the trip to Plainfield, Iowa, hot and tired, stomachs growling, ready for lunch.  We passed by numerous restaurants, even a Dairy Queen (oh my, did a Blizzard sound good then!), but we decided to eat at New Hampton, Iowa, instead.  While not a huge town, it seemed, on the map, big enough to have a restaurant or two.  After what seemed like an eternity, we arrived at New Hampton, and started looking for the business district, and the restaurants.   We drove forever looking for some place to eat, and finally concluded that there were no restaurants in New Hampton.  We decided on a gas station/convenience store, just to hold off The Hungries until we could find a restaurant.  Halfway through the store, one of my well-worn black tennies fell apart – the sole just fell off, almost all the way, as I walked.  It would have been better, at least in the short-run, if it had just come off all the way, but no - I was forced to lift my foot high off the ground with each step, to keep from doing a face-plant, as I made my way toward the checkout, other patrons looking at me with a mixture of confusion and pity.  I paid for the pathetic piece of ham pizza, which had no doubt been under the heat lamp since the day before, and high-stepped out to the car.  I was never so glad to leave anyplace as I was then!
We got back on the road, and very shortly thereafter, passed another exit to New Hampton.  As I choked down the last bite of my Rubber Pizza, I looked at the assortment of eating establishments we were passing, and wondered if we should turn around and go back home…
Rather than high-step my way through the next cemetery, we found a convenience store along the way that carried heavy-duty tape, so I was able to put my shoe, and my dignity, back together.
I was glad we had not turned around and gone back home.  The cemetery at Plainfield, Iowa, was worth the trip.  I not only found the stones I was looking for, but a number of others that I did not know existed.  Once we got home, I went about the work of “connecting the dots” with all of the burials we’d found.  The Rotten Luck Fairy, who had plagued the first part of the trip, had one more surprise for me to end the day – the discovery that there was another whole branch of the family buried a less than 5 miles down the road from Plainfield!  Oh well… another trip… 

Ralph and Avis and Harold – A War Story

It started out seeming like a bit of a sad story - but I had no idea just how sad it would turn out to be.
I was transcribing a pile of newspaper clippings, and happened upon the story of a Korean War soldier, Ralph, who was missing in action.  I will only refer to the people involved by their first names, as it is entirely possible, no, probable, that at least some of them are still living.  Ralph had married Avis, a 15 year old girl, before enlisting and being sent to Korea. Just a few months later, Avis received a telegram from the Defense Department saying that her husband was missing after a skirmish.  In that days’ mail she would also receive a letter that her husband had written the day before his disappearance. 
How sad – but it wasn’t the end of the story, by any means.
Several weeks later, Avis received another bit of a surprise.  Her husband, who was captured by the Chinese, had scribbled a note on a piece of war propaganda, and was able to send it to his friend in the same squad.  It read, in part -
"Dear Jack,
I'll write you a few lines to let you know I am safe and okay.  I was captured by the Chinese the 30th of Dec.  They treat me very good.  They also give me plenty to eat.  They try to feed me according to what I am used to eating.  I would appreciate it if you would write to my wife and let her know I am okay as I know she is worried."
I needed to know the rest of the story – was the note really from Ralph?  Was he ever released, or was he killed by his captors?  I checked an online database, and his name appeared in a list of Korean War casualties.  A sucker for happy endings, it was a bit disheartening for me to see his name there, but there was also a note that he was returned to the military in 1953.  What - his body?  Him?   What???  I had to know more.
The next article I found detailed Ralph’s return to the United States, being met by a drove of reporters as his boat docked.  An excerpt follows, edited by me to remove identifying information:
“The young army corporal back from 20 months in red captivity stared glumly into space Sunday when he was told his wife had remarried in the belief he was dead. ’I had never heard that until you told me,’ Ralph said after a newsman informed him of the marital mixup. Veins stood out on the young soldier’s forehead and his blue eyes glistened as a news story was read to him saying his wife, Avis, had married Harold last March. Then, the brown-haired corporal, wearing an almost dazed look, joined several of his buddies who were taking pictures of each other.  It appeared a desperate but futile attempt to be nonchalant about a world turned upside down.”
Oh my.  I don’t know which of my emotions was stronger – the heartache on behalf of the young soldier, or the disdain for the reporter who apparently valued the shock of the story over any sort of decency and empathy for Ralph.  I had to find out what happened – regardless of the late hour, there would be no sleep until I knew.  Did Harold step aside?  What did Avis want?  Would Ralph be able to pick up with Avis where he left off? 
The next article I could find was a month later, stating that Ralph had been granted a divorce.  It was also disclosed during the hearing that Avis was “expectant”, and of course, it was not Ralph’s child.  The grounds for the divorce, the newspaper said, was Mental Cruelty.   It sounds to me like a case of Mental Cruelty for everyone concerned, doled out by life itself.  This is where the newspaper articles appear to end, but, of course, not where the story ends.   There’s more, lots more, no doubt, but it’s out of the public eye, as it should be.  I can only hope that Ralph, Avis, and Harold all found some semblance of peace with the situation, and were able to get on with their lives.

From Pedestrian to Motor Vehicle Operator: My First Car

Subtitled: “If you don’t like my driving, stay off the sidewalk.”

I guess no matter what generation you belong to, as teenagers, we all felt the same as we gawked with pride at our first cars.  No matter what the old pile of nuts and bolts really looked like, what the eyes saw was filtered by the heart, with a touch of hormones, and the end product was a sleek, mean, speed demon that would be the envy of all those pimply-faced pedestrians as it zipped past.

I was a mere fourteen years old when my father found a car in the classified ads of the local newspaper.  I wasn’t sure why he decided I needed a car at that tender age, but wasn’t about to argue.  We went over to see it, and my heart stopped.  There it was.  A 1967 Ford Galaxy 500 hard-top convertible, in Robin’s Egg Blue, with black interior.  It instantly became the car of my dreams, and after discovering it currently belonged to one of the most popular older girls in school, I was certain it was not my destiny.

I spent the next four months behind the driver’s wheel of that incredible piece of machinery, savoring every blissful moment, even if it was locked in the garage the whole time.  I had a countdown going until my 15th birthday, when I would get the keys and permission to drive back and forth to my friend’s house, six blocks away.

I spent the next two years practically living in that car – I bought an 8-track tape player, my friends sewed Robin’s Egg Blue and Black pillows for the back seat, and the car even had a name, which I won’t share.  Ok, it was “Growler”.  We spent our Saturday afternoons driving around our little town seeing who else was driving around our little town.  Everyone pitched in a buck or two for gas as they got in the car, and oftentimes I made enough money for gas for the whole week, plus a Diet Coke or two, but I never told them.

I’ve had many cars in the 35 years since Growler was retired, and I’ve not been quite that excited about any of them, nor do I anticipate it ever happening.  For it’s not just a First Car, it’s a rite of passage, and it’s One Per Customer.

The Virtue of Perseverance

Scan the front page.  Flip it.  Scan the back page.  Put it back in the binder and take the next page out.  Repeat.  I am up to Scan #245, about 2/3 of the way through the first of two binders of papers.  When I have them all scanned, I’ll start reading and transcribing.  I can hardly wait.

You see, these are the writings of my great grandmother, Virta, who had the beautiful lace curtains in the old farmhouse.  These journal entries span from 1956 to 1967, and as I scan each page, I catch snippets of her life – all of our lives – surfacing for just a moment, to tease me about what comes after the scanning.

From a trip to town to Montgomery Ward’s, to a vacation in Oregon to see one of her sons, it’s all here.  Illnesses… the destruction of my grandparents’ house by lightning… company stopping over… their retirement from the farm… it’s all come past my scanner this evening.  And I know what’s coming – the birth of their first great grandchild (me) – grandsons going off to war – and the death of her husband - and so much more interspersed between the major events of her life.

I’m tempted to stop the scanning and just dive right into devouring it, but I saw what happened to my mother when she did just that – we didn’t see her for a week!  And as much as I want a scanned copy of this journal as a backup, I know if I read it before I scan it, the scanning won’t happen.  So I will not read it until I’m done, which will roughly be another 500 scans.  Quite frankly, I’m not very enthusiastic about this part at all.

In the meantime, I’ll keep scanning, checking to see who’s signed on to chat, scan more, read some blogs, scan another page, check email, etc., and try to remember that each scan puts me one scan closer to reading.

Lefse – Breakfast of Champions

I don’t usually blog about my food.  But anytime lefse is made, eaten, or even passes through my mind, I think of my ancestors – I can’t help it.  As I’m rolling out the paper-thin sheets of potato-based dough, I wonder if my grandmothers through the generations have felt that ache in their upper arms, before remembering that they probably did this much more frequently than I!


As I put each round sheet onto the griddle to cook, I wonder if my grandmothers were fascinated by the characteristic brown splotches created in such a haphazard pattern.  My guess is, if I were able to ask them, they’d look at me like I was crazy.  Making lefse, to them, was probably in the same category as doing laundry or sweeping the floor. 

I wonder how they served their lefse – if it was a part of their evening meals, as we use bread; or if they enjoyed it for breakfast, as I often do, or how they prepared it.  Plain?  Brown sugar?  Butter and cinnamon-sugar?



Whether I’m making lefse or eating it, it’s the one time that I feel very close to the Norwegian women who have come before me.  No amount of genealogical research compares to doing what they did, and having made it a part of my family’s lives.  It’s as if my grandmothers, Agnes, Lise, Anne Johanne, Marie, and Alfhilde, are somehow there with me as I do the work and savor the product.  A little part of them lives on.



Lori, of Genealogy and Me, wrote a great post this week about interviewing the old folks – I’d like to take it a step further, and suggest you learn the customs and family traditions as well.  If not for my grandmother, Lisa, who took the initiative to talk about these things, even when I was too young to really appreciate it, and my Aunt Mary, who taught me to make some of the treats she enjoyed as a child, these traditions would be nothing more than a vague memory for me, and non-existent to my children.  This Mother’s Day, let’s be the women who pass down our traditions.