Little Miss on a Stone Wall

This little miss, sitting on a stone wall with her dad next to her, is not posing for a photograph.  She couldn't care less about the photograph, the view, the scenery, or the fact that her dad is squatting next to her making sure she doesn't fall.

No, not her.  Her focus is on Teddy as she adjusts his blanket. 

There were no deletes with film photography, only more photos.  These days, we would probably never save digital photos like these.  

It looks like they drove on, arrived at a different stone wall, or the same stone wall further along the road, where little miss sat and, finally, with Teddy's blanket adjusted properly, she posed for the camera with a smile.

These photos are dated 1952 when little miss would have been about two and a half.  The locations were not recorded.

I'm contributing this post to Sepia Saturday 476 : 29th June 2019.  Click through to see more old photographs (with or without stories).

--Nancy.

Copyright ©2019, Nancy Messier.  All Rights Reserved. 
Do not copy or use any content from this blog without written permission from the owner. 
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On a Dare or to Prove a Point?

Perhaps it was a dare.  Or maybe one of us suggested that Dad was too old and couldn't possibly do a somersault on the bar of the swing set.  It wouldn't have been like him to accept a dare but it would have been like him to prove a point:  at 44 he could still do what his youngest daughter could do. 

I was the one who, at 6 or 7 years old, could hang by my knees and swing, hang by my ankles and pull myself up to sitting, and do somersaults on the bars of the swing set.  My sister and brother were both too old to be interested in the swings when I was that age.  But there we all were outside one summer evening watching Dad do a somersault.  Was it I who ran inside to grab the camera?

I suspect that if my father were still alive and saw this post he might not be too pleased.  But honestly, how many 44-year-old men can still do a somersault from the top bar of a swing set?  It's an accomplishment worthy of remembrance, right?

I'm hoping my brother or sister might chime in on this photo and share their memory of the event.  Maybe one of them will remember the whole story.

Note:  My brother responded to this photo with the following note.  "This happened around the time was about 18 or so.  I thought I'd 'show Dad a thing or two.'  I did a back flip on the swing set and was pretty proud of my ability and agility as well.  Turned out Dad was more agile than me at his age than I."  Thanks for the clarification, Bob!
 
I'm linking this post to Sepia Saturday 334.  Click over to see what photos others are sharing this week.

--Nancy.

Copyright © 2016 Nancy Messier. All Rights Reserved.
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Little Lambs

Little lambs are so sweet, they can just steal your heart.  I suppose we are drawn to an orphaned lamb even more than to one whose mother is alive and accepts it.

My father once told the story of an orphaned lamb who came to live at his family's farm.  My aunt added further details to the story, both of which are combined in this retelling.

The Whites had a sheep farm not far from my grandfather's farm in Stoneboro, Pennsylvania.  One of the White's ewes died after giving birth and Mr. White needed to find a home for the lamb.  He asked if the Doyles would like to have it.  Of course the children were delighted and their father, Gust, agreed.  It was a sweet, gentle, male lamb they named Sambo.

There were four or five children who helped care for the lamb.  The youngest was Billy, perhaps just three or four years old at the time.  Billy was little, the lamb was little.  It all worked out great. 

As lambs will do, Sambo began to grow.  Little Billy would hold his hand up and Sambo would run into it, sometimes knocking him down.  It was a fun game and everyone saw the humor.  Sambo continued to grow.  The children would gather to go to school and Sambo would come up behind them, lower his head, and butt one or the other of them.  The children thought it was both fun and funny.  But by the time Sambo was half grown, his butting was not so playful.  He began to butt little Billy in earnest, sometimes surprising him from behind and knocking him over.  It was no longer funny.  The adults realized that Sambo could hurt Billy. 

Sambo went back to the White farm from whence he came to live a life of grazing and, probably, butting the other rams.  Perhaps he became a wether.

Our family has another story of an orphaned lamb.  My daughter and her husband have a small flock of sheep on their farm.  Last year one of the ewes gave birth to twins but refused to accept one of them.   I don't understand why that happens but I know it does occasionally.

Of course they took care of the lamb, feeding it from a bottle until it was old enough to be weaned.  My little grandchildren loved the little lamb which followed them everywhere.  Little Olivia wasn't talking much at the time but would call  "baaaa" and the lamb would come running.

After it was weaned they gradually transitioned it to live in the pasture during the day, but kept it enclosed at night to keep it safe from coyotes or other predatory animals.  After a few weeks it spent most of its time in the pasture.  When they walked near the fence the lamb came running, remembering the ones who had taken care of it.

Then one day when they walked near the fence the lamb didn't come.  My daughter was unable to go into the pasture with the two little ones, but when her husband came home in the evening he found the little lamb dead in the field.  There were no marks on it.  His guess was that without the guidance of a mother, the lamb had eaten a plant that was poisonous.  How they grieved for the little lamb they loved.

My only personal experience with living sheep is seeing them at the state fair where I love to bury my hands in their wool and then have a whiff of lanolin.  I also have experience cleaning, dying, carding, spinning, and weaving their wool.  Wool is not as easily accessible these days as it was when there was a wool co-op in the area so I haven't done any spinning for a number of years. 

If you visit Sepia Saturday 322 this week you can read others' experiences with sheep, or rabbits, or chickens, or who knows what other animals.

--Nancy.

Copyright © 2016 Nancy Messier. All Rights Reserved.
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Father with Daughters - Sepia Saturday

By the time I knew my grandfather, William Carl Robert "Bob" Meinzen, I thought he was an old man who was disinterested in us grandchildren.  To my child's eyes he went to work, ate meals, smoked his pipe, sat in his chair to watch TV, and then went to bed.  Because I had trouble imagining him interacting with his own little girls I was excited to find this photograph in which he looks pleased to be with two of his little ones.

My grandparents had four daughters.  My mother, Audrey, the oldest, is standing beside Grampa.  Mom was born in 1915 and looks to be about four so I estimate the date of this photo to be about 1919.

At first I thought Grampa was holding his third daughter, born in 1921.  But when I considered ages and birth dates of both girls I realized the baby in his arms is his second daughter, Geraldine, born in 1918.

It's easy to imagine that Grampa, a barber, cut Mom's hair and that Gramma attempted to soften the cut with that huge bow.

Notice that Geraldine's dress has beautiful lace adorning the hem.  Gramma was an excellent crocheter and it's likely she made the lace.  My grandmother also sewed and it's possible she made both of the girls' dresses.

Grampa wears a bow tie and sports a (slightly grown-out) "butch."  I must research whether both popular in 1919.  He also seems to be wearing what I think of as old-style jodhpurs, as in another photograph.  Horsemen generally wore them but I have no oral history suggesting the Grampa rode horses.  Perhaps they were popular in 1919, too.

The photograph is old, faded, and in poor condition.  It needed a little darkening to be able to see the image.  Despite all, I'm grateful to see the pleasure evident in my grandfather's face as he was photographed with his daughters.  (You can click on the image to enlarge it and see details since I'm not using Lightbox.)

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

This post is a contribution to Sepia Saturday 300.  I invite you to click through to see what posts others are contributing for this milestone event.

I first discovered Sepia Saturday in May, 2010, only a few months after it began.  I wrote a post to highlight the blog on May 1 and submitted my first Sepia Saturday post on May 8, 2010.  In those early days we participants posted a variety of sepia photographs and each week Alan Burnett, Sepia Saturday host, highlighted one of them as the introduction for the next week's call to participants.  There was such a wonderful variety of posts in those early days:  it was a delight to visit each participant's blog because one never knew what the subject of the photograph would be.  When, toward the end of the first year, the calls evolved to themes my interest diminished and so did my contributions.  I now participate occasionally but not as regularly as in the early days.  Still, I'd like to congratulate Alan, a dedicated host, and the rest of the participants for keeping Sepia Saturday alive for more than five years.  Thank you.

--Nancy.

Copyright © 2009-2015 Nancy Messier. All Rights Reserved.
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A Dear Old Tunnel - Sepia Saturday

Until a few years ago there was a beautiful stone tunnel arching over a nearby road.













Part of the joy of this tunnel was that it was just wide enough for two cars:  drivers on opposite sides of the road were within arm's reach of each other inside the arch.  The speed limit on the road is 45 miles/hour.  What a rush we felt when driving through its arch with another car coming toward us.  Was I on my side of the road?  Was I so close to the side that the car would scrape?  Would the other driver stay on his side?  Whew!

There were other beauties to the tunnel, too.  In the top photo you can see the carefully crafted stones creating the arch.  At right you can see the inside of the arch lined with bricks.  Some drivers (probably of trucks) neglected to notice the sign telling the height limit:  12' 2".  I never saw a truck scrape the arch but the photo shows that it happened.

These photos below are of the giant stones used to create the sides and entrance of the tunnel.   The photographs may be deceiving regarding their size.  Most were about 24" tall and much too large and heavy for even a few men to carry.












From the photographs it's hard to tell that railroad tracks ran across the top of the tunnel.  It was originally built in 1902 by the B&O (Baltimore & Ohio) Railroad.  At that time the area would have been farmland with a few homes and barns dotting the land.  Automobiles were not yet common and I suppose the builders had horse and buggy traffic in mind, hence its narrow dimension. 

This dear tunnel was perfectly sturdy.  It had character.  It had a history.  It's only problems were its height and lack of width.  I like old and I would have preferred to keep the tunnel in place despite its challenges, but the county had other ideas.  They tore it down and built a new, expansive, modern bridge.

It's been gone a few years but I still miss the old tunnel.

Head over to Sepia Saturday 283 to see what other participants are sharing.

--Nancy.
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Coal Mine, Steel Mill - Sepia Saturday 279

There is a history of hard-working miners and steel workers in my family, aside from my hard-working men and women of other occupations.  These men worked in coal mines and steel mills in England and the U.S.  The Sepia Saturday 279 photo is an image of a factory scene with suggested themes of safety, danger, and industry.  Sadly, I have few photographs of my ancestors at work.

Coal Miners

Inside #7 Mine, Stoneboro, Pa.  Gust Doyle is center back.

When I imagine the depth and darkness of coal mines I am grateful to live above-ground with daily light.  When I think of the narrowness and confines of a coal mine I feel claustrophobic.  Were my miner ancestors drawn into that work out of necessity -- they needed work and it was available -- or were there other reasons for their choices?  I know the dangers were great and I can imagine the concern and anxiety their wives might have felt all the while they were at work.  As far as I know none of my mining ancestors worked for "company mines" to which they were indebted. 

My coal miners included my father, his father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, Lee, Gust, William, and Andrew Doyle.  The three younger of them dug a mine on their farming property.  They may have used the coal to heat their own home or sold it for additional income.  After Gust died in 1933, there was a bill to the hospital.  Lee and William traded hand-dug coal to pay that bill.

Andrew and William emigrated from England in the mid 1870s.  They had both been coal miners in the Northumberland area of England.

Abel Armitage, an ancestor on my mother's side of the family, was also a coal miner.  He grew up in West Yorkshire and emigrated from Durham, England in the mid 1860s.  He worked in the mines in both areas of England and in his new home in the Steubenville area of Ohio.  His sons followed his footsteps and worked in the mines, too.

I don't believe any of the Doyle men were hurt in mining accidents but it's possible that Abel may have been hurt:  he appears as disabled in the 1880 U.S. Census.

For other posts about my coal mining ancestors click here, here, and here.

Steel Mill Workers

My father emigrated from Pennsylvania to Ohio in 1933 after his father died.  He moved from farming and mining into the steel mills where he spent the rest of his life.  He worked first for the Niles Rolling Mill, then moved on to Copperweld Steel in Warren, Ohio, sometime after the 1940 U.S. Census.  He spent the rest of his working years there. 

My brother, Bob, and my brother-in-law, Chuck, also worked at Copperweld Steel.  It was summer work for my brother, but Chuck retired from Copperweld.

There were steel workers on my mother's side of the family, too.  They worked at La Belle Iron Works.  With a name like La Belle you might imagine a beautiful place but its only beauty may have been because it was a source of income for a family.

Two of my mother's paternal uncles were killed at La Belle.  Walter Meinzen, an engineer, was just 24 in 1907 when he was "instantly killed while at work in the blooming mill at the LaBelle . . . when he had the right side of his head and face crushed in by being struck with a large piece of iron."  So reported the June 7, 1907 issue of The Steubenville Weekly Gazette.  The article describes what happened but since I'm not familiar with the workings of a steel mill, I don't quite understand other than that a 600-pound piece of metal snapped off and flew 20 feet to hit Walter in the head.  He left a wife, parents, and 10 siblings.

The second death in the family happened 10 years later when one of Walter's younger brothers, Jacob Meinzen, was killed.  Jacob was a pipe fitter at the mill.  His death was caused by a 100-foot fall in the blast furnace department.  Jacob left a wife, a 2-month-old daughter, his parents, and 7 siblings.

Accidents can happen at any time, of course, but some places of employment are more dangerous than others.  I'm grateful so many of my ancestors and relatives came safely through the work environment and sorry for those who didn't and their families.

Please visit Sepia Saturday 279 for more more photographs and some stories and experiences.

--Nancy.

Copyright © 2015 Nancy Messier. All Rights Reserved.

Flawed - Sepia Saturday

Above stand my great-grandparents, Fred and Elvira Bartley Gerner.  At their feet are three babies who may, or may not, be grandchildren.  On the right stand several young woman looking toward the photographer.  In the background on the left there appears to be a road and either a telephone or electric pole.  In the right background are trees in what could be an orchard.  The photo is unclear and grainy to begin with but to add to the distress there are some blotches on the left and several creases.  (Thankfully, none of the imperfections hinder the grainy view of the people.)  Had I taken this photo with a digital camera today I would probably delete it.  If not deleted, I know it would never been printed.  But I'm so grateful to have it this century or so after it was taken.  The few things I learn are that Elvira had excellent posture and wore her white hair on top of her head; that Fred was bald and slim; and that they were about the same height.  Now, if I only knew who the babies and ladies were....



At left is my cousin in a photo taken nearly 6 decades ago, probably snapped one Easter when my aunt took photos of all of us cousins.   My cousin was a handsome boy.  Again, the problems in the photo didn't affect us being able to see him.  But what happened to the photo?  Do we see the ravages of the decades or are those results of the developing and printing process?






Next, we have a photo of Muggs, so identified across the (cropped) top border of the snapshot in my mother's album.  Is Muggs is a cat or a dog?  Those blotches of light obliterate the face of the poor fellow.  I doubt there's anyone alive who knows who Muggs is.  I can't help but believe that he was a cherished pet, if not my mother's (because she didn't really seem to like cats and dogs much) but of someone in the family.

Photos like this make me wonder why we save them.  Pets no one knows anything about, scenic views of unidentified places, acquaintances of the photographer that have gone unidentified.  Maybe some of us are just savers.  Maybe we intend to tell the stories.  Maybe we think we'll look at the album again and fond memories will be called up by the photos.  I don't know.

The last photo has a purposefully inflicted flaw.  My mother is the little girl in the front row, fifth from the left.  I can only guess that she didn't like the photo of herself and scratched her face off.  Aside from a few lines horizontally across the photo and its light contrast, it's in fairly good shape.  And all the students are identifiable (if only I knew their names).


The only reason I can give an approximate date to this 4th Grade class photo at Mineral Ridge School is because I know my mother's birth year was 1915.  I think it was taken around 1925.

I treasure all family photographs that come my way, whether in good shape or bad, whether digital or paper.  But sometimes I do wonder about them and what prompted the owner to save them, especially the ones that are blurry beyond recognition or have imperfections that prevent seeing the subject of the photo.  I recognize that paper and film were precious a century ago, even decades ago, and that the amateur photographer had no way of knowing how the photograph would turn out.  The purchase was for developing and printing no matter the quality of the photo.  Maybe those who saved them were frugal, or their mental image of the subject completed the imperfect photograph.  For whatever reason, I'm grateful to have the photos with ancestors in them.  Despite the flaws in the above photographs, I cherish those with my ancestors in them.  (You can click any photograph to enlarge it for a better view.)

This is a post for Sepia Saturday 278.  Click through to see other participants and you may learn to identify problems in old photographs and possibly how to improve them.

--Nancy.

Copyright © 2015 Nancy Messier. All Rights Reserved.

Early Wheels

The only surviving photo of the tricycle of my childhood, possibly the only photo ever taken of it, was the one at right.  Truly, it's a photograph of our Boxer, Lady, getting into my mom's clothespin basket on our back porch.  The tricycle is just part of the background.  Still, I was thrilled to find the photo. 

I loved that trike.  It was big, probably about 20 inches wide, and it was sturdy with a platform on the back where a friend could stand and hold on while I pedaled us along.  Because it was so big I rode it till I graduated to a regular-sized bicycle.

There were only two drawbacks to my tricycle.  The first was that our driveway was gravel.  It was too hard to pedal and I eventually gave up trying.

The second problem was that the other easily accessible, flat, smooth place to ride was our back sidewalk.  It extended from the driveway, across our back yard to the neighbor's porch, so it was a nice long stretch.  It was great for one person to walk along but it was a problem for my trike.  What was the problem?  It was exactly -- exactly! -- the width of the back wheels on my trike.  If I steered very carefully I could stay on the sidewalk.  If not, one or the other of the back wheels went into the little groove beside the sidewalk.  I either had to push hard on the pedals to get it our of the rut or get off the trike, haul it back onto the sidewalk, and get on again.  I think that narrow sidewalk helped develop my steering abilities.

Fast forward to my first bicycle.  It was a hand-me-down:  it had been my sister's before it had been mine, and my aunt's before it had been hers.  Probably built in the late 1930s or early 1940s, it was a black, heavy, wide-wheeled, clunky bike with a wide seat and wide handlebars.  No photos of that bike exist, either, but the one below (except for its rust) looks very similar to it in style.

What I remember most about the bike is that I desperately wanted to ride it when I was too short to sit on the seat and pedal.  I suppose it was at least a 24" bike and, therefore, not one a 6-year-old could easily ride.  But I was determined.  I would walk it over to the porch steps, step onto the first or second step, get my feet on the pedals, and somehow practice balancing.  It didn't take me long to get the hang of balancing and pedaling, standing on the pedals because I was too short to sit.  I was off.  I can only guess the panic my mom might have felt.  Still, what a sense of accomplishment I felt.

One summer my brother, good brother that he was, took it apart, sanded it, and painted it fire engine red for me.  It wasn't quite like having a new bike but then, I didn't need a new bike as long as I had a usable bike to ride.

That bike had a twin boy's bike which my brother rode.  I wonder whatever happened to those bikes....  I wonder what memories my brother and sister have of riding them.

This is a post for Sepia Saturday 273.  Pedal over to find links to other bloggers' old photos and memories.

--Nancy.

Copyright © 2015 Nancy Messier. All Rights Reserved.

From Horses to Tractor

Barn on the Doyle Farm.  Photo taken about 1992.

I knew little about the workings of the dairy farm of my father's childhood in Stoneboro -- Dad rarely spoke of his youth -- so several years after he died I contacted his half-sister to learn more.  I wrote lists of questions and she patiently and thoroughly responded.  (Those letters are treasures to me now for all the family history information they contain.)  We corresponded by mail for a few months and then arranged a visit to Stoneboro.  She took us to see and explore the farm of their childhood.  The barn, unused for many years, was in a sad state of disrepair.

About farm work during the fall and winter months my aunt wrote,

The farm machinery had to be checked over and repaired, if needed, before storing it for winter.  The farming was all done by horses . . .

The 1927 Pennsylvania Census tells me that of Gust Doyle's 140 acres he devoted 35 to corn, wheat, oats, and Irish potatoes.  An additional 21 acres were given over to hay for the horses and the farm's 24 cows. 

Farming with horses was labor-intensive.  In addition to the work of plowing and harvesting, part of the work included the care and feeding of the animals and care of the harnesses, not to mention the work of harnessing and unharnessing the horses each day. 

I wish I'd asked my aunt about the horses.  Perhaps they were Belgians, like the ones shown here.

My aunt's letter continued,

. . . until we bought our first Fordson Tractor.  I don’t remember when that was – about 1930 – I think. 

Fordson tractors were manufactured in the U.S. from 1917 to 1920 by Henry Ford & Sons, Inc.  At right is an advertisement (with enlargement below) for a new Fordson tractor from the May 27, 1918, issue of the Youngstown Vindicator.  

Gust was 28 when this advertisement was published.  I wonder if he learned of the tractors from a newspaper ad similar to this one or by word of mouth.  Was his first view of a Fordson in Pittsburgh or another nearby city at a showing like the one advertised, at a county or state fair, or at the farm of a neighbor who had already purchased one?  Did a group of farmers gather around the new machine to debate the pros and cons of a tractor over horses, or had they already made up their minds that a tractor was a definite improvement over horses, the only other considerations being repairs, buying gasoline, the cost, and having the money in one lump sum?  

From my aunt's letters I know that Gust and his family already owned a Model T Ford.  Perhaps he already had the skills and knowledge to keep a tractor in good running order.  Unless he purchased the tractor from England, whose production of them extended from 1920, it's likely the Fordson he purchased was a used model.  Even so....

How exciting it must have been for Gust and his family to have a tractor!

How I wish I had contemporary photographs of Gust on the tractor.  Lacking one, the story is less personal.  Still, I'm pleased to have found bits and pieces from other resources to create the history of Gust Doyle, his farm, and a Fordson tractor. 

How I wish I knew what happened to the horses.

Drive on over to Sepia Saturday 272 to see what others are sharing in this week's posts.;

Sources
Unaltered image of Belgian horses courtesy of Dave in Lincolnshire.
Color photo of Fordson tractor courtesy of Wikipedia.

--Nancy.

Copyright © 2015 Nancy Messier. All Rights Reserved.

Nary a Hug, Hugs Aplenty - Sepia Saturday

The best Mom could do was touch Lady's side.  There was nary a hug for her -- at least not from my mom.

Lady was the boxer puppy who came to live with us when I was 3 years old.  She was an excellent pet -- gentle, patient, protective, and playful (or not, as the situation required).

I suspect my father wanted a dog and my mother was ambivalent, at best.  But I like to think that if Mom had vetoed a dog, my father would have acquiesced.

Dad was the one who trained Lady in the fundamentals of being a well-behaved dog and a well-mannered family pet.  Mom was the one who set the boundaries inside the house:  she insisted that Lady sit on the rug when she came into the house until her feet were dry, lie on a rug and not on the carpet, stay out of the bedrooms, off the furniture, etc. 

Mom tolerated Lady, perhaps even loved her, but she rarely touched Lady and, as far as I remember, never ever hugged or cuddled her.

On the other hand, I love giving and receiving hugs from my Airedale, Hannah.  She's a rescue girl, saved from an abusive situation when she was two.  Her world was ruled by fear of everything and her method of coping was to duck, run, and hide.  After seven years with us she's still wary of strangers and timid in new environments but she's thriving in so many other ways. 

Hannah has adored me from the first night in our home when I slept on the floor beside her.  We share hugs aplenty.

Visit Sepia Saturday to find what others are sharing about pets and animals this week.

--Nancy.

Copyright © 2015 Nancy Messier. All Rights Reserved.

Dad's Ads - Sepia Saturday

When I was a child my father's side business was repairing watches and clocks.   A few months ago I was searching the newspapers most local to Mineral Ridge, Ohio, and was pleased and surprised to see that he had advertized during the time his children were young.  There are probably more ads I haven't found yet.

I know my dad hoped the business would grow to become full-time employment but it never generated enough income to enable him to give us his regular employment.  As a part-time, second job he spent many hours working on clocks and watches that people brought to our home for repair.

In this ad from 1948 is interesting because of the phone number.  Within a decade Ohio Bell changed the numbering system and our number became OLympic 2-7979.

The Mineral Ridge Volunteer Fire Department held an annual festival that was the highlight of every summer.  The school's lawn was given over to rides, booths, games, and food.  The Ridge was canvassed for supporters who paid a sum to have their names included as sponsors of the Festival.  The ad below could almost be a directory of businesses in the Ridge in 1954. 

Until I was 10 or 12 my father had a sign on the side of our front porch and one at the top of our street, indicating the way toward our house.

The last ad is one he placed during the Christmas season one year after he'd made several grandmother and granddaughter clocks.  Looking at it now I find it strange that he included directions to our home but did not include a phone number -- which means that people could show up at any time on our front doorstep, asking to see the clocks.  (Of course, people appeared on our doorstep unannounced when they brought watches for repair.)

Dad was probably in his mid- to late-50s when he took up woodworking and began building clocks.  They were not only time-consuming but required much care and attention to detail.  He preferred making the grandmother clocks, probably because they were more substantial.  His favorite wood was cherry but he also used walnut.  He was an excellent craftsmen and they were beautiful.

The grandmother clocks stood about 6 feet tall.  The granddaughters were a foot or more shorter.  I once asked him if he would make a small clock for my husband and me.  We envisioned a clock that was small enough to lift and carry in two hands.  He envisioned a granddaughter clock and promptly told us they weren't worth his time to build.  When we explained further he agreed to make us a clock.  Of course we still have it -- and I need to take some photos of it.

I don't know how many grandmother/granddaughter clocks he made but he sold all but two of them.  He kept one for my mother and him to enjoy and gave one to my brother (I think).

This post is a contribution to Sepia Saturday #263.  After you've decided on your purchase here head over there to see what others are offering for sale.

--Nancy.


Copyright © 2015 Nancy Messier. All Rights Reserved.

Lee Doyle, Jeweler

about 1948

My father took a correspondence course to learn watch and clock repair.  Then he hung out his shingle and took in business.

He set up shop at a desk in a small room adjoining both our living room and kitchen.  People came with their watches and clocks in hand, knocked on our front door, and were invited in.  When Dad was home and working at the desk, they were ushered into that room.  Otherwise, we wrote a tag with their name and phone number, attached it to the watch or clock, and Dad took care of it later.

Sometimes people called to make appointments or to be sure we were home; other times they took a chance, possibly on their way to other errands, and just appeared at our door.

The sign I most remember (above) hung on the side of our porch.  It was easy to see during the day and electric bulbs inside made it easy to see at night, too.  The switch to turn it on was inside our house. 

Dad added this second sign, left and below, later.  It was fixed to the top of a pole at the corner of our street and Main Street directing people eastward down Furnace Street.  Because our first house was the first on the street  it was easy to see the second sign on the side of our porch.










My father must have taken this sign down shortly before this photo was taken in the summer of 1964.  Dad continued to work on watches and clocks for another 15 years or so but eventually stopped taking in repair work.

These signs were certainly painted by hand because they were one of a kind.  I don't know what happened to them but I wish one or both had been saved.  You know how it is with large items, time, and space, though.  There are things we think would be wonderful to have in 50 years but who has space to store them, and who wants to transport them through several moves, especially when 50 years seems such a very long time and we don't have an immediate use for them or place to store them.  I wonder how many wonderful, old family items went by the wayside for those very reasons.

Observations about the photos
As I was typing this post I was thinking how awful it would be to have misspellings on a sign.  Then the spelling of "jewelery" in the top photo caught my eye.  I suppose I've looked at that photo dozens of times but now is the first time I realized that "jewelery" is misspelled.  The American spelling is "jewelry;" the British is "jewellery."  I'll never know if Dad wrote out the words and gave them to the sign painter or if he dictated the words and the sign painter wrote them.  (Was it possible to have an illiterate sign painter?)  I wonder how many people noticed the misspelling through the years.

In the top photo I see the handlebars of the trike that's next to my sister.  It would have been a hard pedal to get it there since there was only grass and no sidewalk.  On the far right I noticed the car parked on the street.  It almost looks like a convertible.

The porch on our house faced south with two maples standing in front.  It was a wonderful refuge during a thunderstorm.  We could sit on the porch, dry and safe, and watch the clouds, rain, and lightening.  It was one of my favorite places in our house in the summer.

Looking at the second photo reminds me of the double doors that opened out.  We propped them to stay open and padlocked them to stay closed.  The garage had had an addition, before my time, I think, because I don't remember it being built.  The garage may have been built when cars were shorter and needed more length for modern cars.  Or it's possible that my dad wanted to add some workspace and extended the garage so he could put a workbench at the closed end.  This garage was torn down not too long after this photo was taken and a two-and-a-half-car garage was built in its place.

To see more signs head over to Sepia Saturday 238.

--Nancy.

© 2014, Copyright Nancy Messier. All rights reserved.

The Gusts

Between the early 1860s and the early 1870s, seven siblings were born and grew up together.  They were the children of John and Catherine (Saylor) Froman.  For most or all of some of their lives, they were fatherless.  This post focuses on three of those siblings -- and two boys.

• Elizabeth Froman was born in January, 1866.  She grew up, married a man named George Proud, and they had four children.
• Tressa Froman was born in August, 1867.  She grew up, married a man named William Doyle, and they had three children.
• Gust Froman, the sixth of the seven siblings, was born in October, 1870.  He grew up to be a coal miner.  Gust was his most commonly used name but his name was also recorded as Agust, Gus, and Gustave.  No matter which given name was used, everyone who knew him recognized him by any of the names. 

In 1887 or 1888, when Gust Froman was about 17 or 18, his sister, Elizabeth (Froman) Proud, had her third child.  The baby was a boy and she named him Gust.  Maybe Gust Froman was her favorite brother.

Gust Proud was known by other variations of Gust, too.  Sometimes he was Gustus, or Gustaphus, or even Augustus.  It didn't matter because everyone knew who he was.  He grew up to be a coal miner like his uncle.

This is Gust Proud in the summer of 1902.  He's standing near his cousin, Hazel Doyle, who's holding Gust's newest sibling, Lina.  Gust/Gustus/Gustaphus/Augustus would have been about 14 in this photo.

Hazel was born on Dec 9, 1891 and Lina (that little bundle of glow on the left) was born in July, 1902.  In this mediocre photocopy of a perfect original photograph, Hazel's dressed to the nines for a portrait by an itinerant photographer.  (Hazel always dressed to the nines!)

Look at Gust Proud.  He's a cute boy who looks like he could have a lot of fun making a little trouble for others -- just teasing, of course.  It pains my heart to think of him working in a coal mine, returning home day after day with skin blackened by the soot of the earth's deep gift of coal when he was so very young.  I can't change his past but I appreciate that he at least had some pleasant times in his life.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

In November, 1888, when Gust Froman was 18, his sister, Tressa (Froman) Doyle, gave birth to her second child, a boy.  She named him Gust.  Maybe Gust Froman was her favorite brother.

Gust Doyle was recorded as Gust, August, Gus, and Gustave.

The two Gust cousins -- Gust Proud, above, and Gust Doyle, at left -- were born just a year apart (possibly the same year).  I think the boys look about the same age in the photos so they may have been taken around the same time.  The photos of Gust Doyle, left, may have been taken at a fair or carnival or they may be early photobooth photos.

Gust Doyle lived on a farm and helped his father with farm work but he eventually worked in the mines, too, but not at such a young age as Gust Proud and not full-time.

Finding these Gusts in the same family and making the connection between them is a recent discovery to me.  I was surprised when I learned of my grandfather, Gust Doyle's, name variations.  When I found his uncle, Gust Froman, and saw his name variations, I chuckled.  But when I found Gust Proud and saw his name variations, I laughed outright.  Imagine a family reunion with two cousins nearly the same age and an uncle just 18 years older -- all with the same name and with similar variations.  I don't know about the Froman side of the family but I understand that Gust Doyle and his siblings had a good sense of humor.  Imagine the "trouble" they could get into -- er, the fun they had!

Research continues on these individuals and their families.  I wonder how many more variations of Gust I'll find!

This post is a contribution to Sepia Saturday 232.  Trains and transportation are the topics of those following a theme this week; others may post a variety of topics.

--Nancy.

© 2014 Copyright by Nancy Messier.  All rights reserved..
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Elvira and Her Sisters - Sepia Saturday

Even though it's not perfect there are several reasons I love this photograph of my great-grandmother, Elvira (Bartley) Gerner, the lady on the right.

I love seeing Elvira and her sisters  standing in front of the porch of the home where they grew up, the home of their father, Dixon Bartley, and that it was still standing and in good repair decades later.  In the top photo you can see the balusters on the upper porch and the brackets on the lower porch just as they were in the 1909 photograph at right.  The awning and little railing on the side porch are still there though the decorative touches seem to have been removed.

I love the dresses Elvira and Lavina are wearing.  They are classic shirt-waist dresses.  It's possible that the dresses were not at all comfortable to wear (though certainly more comfortable than the corsets of their youth!), but they remind me of the grandmother I grew up with who wore similar dresses 25 years later.  Those dresses speak to me of comfort and love  When I think about a person's clothing I sometimes imagine the things the person did while wearing it -- baking pies or paring potatoes, walking to the mail box, reading the newspaper.  I imagine catching a whiff of fragrance from the cologne she wore or the powder she dusted on her face and neck.  After someone wear's a dress or other piece of clothing for a while, it seems to me that it just becomes a part of that person:  holding the clothing is almost like being beside the person, sensing them near.

I love just having a photograph of Elvira with her sisters.  Arabella is on the left, Lavina in the center.  I believe this is the first photograph of Elvira that I ever saw.  I was surprised.  It was like the first time you finally meet someone you've heard about or read about but never seen.  I didn't have all that much information about her but I knew she was a strong, independent woman.  And here she was a small, elderly woman.  I don't have an exact date for this photo but it was probably taken in the late 1930s.  Elvira would have been 80 in 1934.  It was not long after this photograph that Elvira began the slow decline into senility.  She lived until 1943.

I'm linking this post to Sepia Saturday 231.  This week participants are sharing old photographs and new reflections.

--Nancy.

© 2014 Copyright by Nancy Messier

Sisters in White Dresses - Sibling Saturday, Sepia Saturday

A moment in time, preserved until the photograph disintegrates or until those with the memory of the moment are gone.  These are three sisters and, probably, two cousins.  The girl back left is my mom, Audrey Meinzen.  The two girls front right are her sisters, Geraldine/Jeree, and "Blondie."  ("Blondie" is still alive so no real name.)

When I look at this photo I wonder . . .

• Were the sisters' dresses all white?  Did their mom make them? 
• How old were the girls?  
• Where was the photo taken?  Who are the other two girls in the photo?  Were the sisters visiting relatives in Steubenville or vice versa in Mineral Ridge?
• Did their father, a barber, cut their hair?  Aren't those adorable bobs?
• What was the occasion, if it was an occasion?  Would "Blondie" remember this particular photo and the events surrounding it?  (I'll send it to her and ask her.) 
• What were they doing before the photo was taken and what did they do after?
• And, who took the photo and with what kind of camera? 

Photographs preserve only a moment in time and the image seen through the lens of the camera.  But they may preserve a memory for those who experienced the taking of the photograph and they may jolt a memory of those whose images were captured by the photograph.


This is a Sibling Saturday post and a Sepia Saturday post.  I invite you to go to Sepia Saturday 226 where you can see other old photographs and musings about them.

--Nancy.
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Arches, Hallways, and Windows at Colonial Williamsburg

Colonial Williamsburg is one of my favorite places to visit.  I became acquainted with it as a youth when I passed through with my parents on a very brief vacation.  I really discovered it with my own family about 15 years ago when we bought a season's pass and visited throughout the year for a week or two each visit.  

One aspect of the site that I really enjoy are the buildings with their delightful architectural details.  Below are three photos of the Wren Building and one of Wetherburn's Tavern.  Don't look too closely at the photographs or you will notice that I'm not much of a photographer.  Even so, looking at these photos reminds me of pleasant times with my dear family at Colonial Williamsburg.

Sunlit Arches at the Wren Building

We spent a rainy afternoon touring the inside and looking toward the outside.

Looking through an Arch in the Wren Building

Window in the Wren Building

It is hard to imagine living in a building with a hallway along this slanted roof with windows, but then I guess no one really lived there full-time since it was a tavern where visitors lodged for a night or two, then moved on.

Upper Floor of Wetherburn's Tavern

Do you love architectural details, too?  If so, click through to Sepia Saturday 219 and find links to others' posts with images of arches, domes, and ceilings.

--Nancy.
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Refreshing an Indelible Image - A Sepia Saturday Celebration Repost

Fanfare, please!  Sepia Saturday is celebrating its 200th round today and those of us who have participated during that time are celebrating, too, by reposting one of our favorite, earlier Sepia Saturday posts.  I first participated in May, 2010, and have published over 60 posts, which makes it terribly hard to choose a favorite.  In the early years there were no themes (such fun that way!):  we just chose a photo from our collection and wrote about it, then linked up.  Thank you to Alan and Kat for creating Sepia Saturday and to Alan and Marilyn for keeping it going.  It's been fun.

But back to the subject at hand:  which post to repost for this celebration?  The post about the clocks in our home?  The one about my great-grandfather's confectionery?  About the student nurses?  About my grandmother and her lovely waist?  My father as a young man?  None of those, after all.  It's this one:  a moment in time, an action repeated time and again.

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

In my life there have been events that were continually repeated, events I saw so often that I learned them by heart and they became indelible images in my brain.  I begin to notice, as time passes and I grow older, that a light fog sometimes comes between me and the memories.  And then I see a photograph and the scene is as fresh as the last time I saw it in real life.

Our house was a house of order and part of that order was this closet in our kitchen next to the back door.  As soon as we came in the house, we hung our coats and put our hats and mittens on the shelf, ready to wear them when we left again.  My mother also stored large, lidded metal cans of sugar and flour in this closet, ready to refill her canisters on the kitchen counter.  In the fall, there were always bags of Northern Spy apples sitting on the floor of the closet.  They stayed cool and fresh there because the unheated closet was against two outside walls.  Apples were our after-school snack -- our only after-school snack.  So "you won't spoil your dinner," my mother used to say.

This is my father, Lee Doyle, standing in front of the closet getting ready to leave.  Dad always wore a hat when he went outside:  summer, winter, rain, snow, heat, humidity, he always wore a hat, though not always the same hat.  In summer he wore straw or cotton.  In winter he wore felt or wool.  His work hats were caps with a brim on the front.  He wore those to work at Copperweld Steel or when he was working at home cleaning gutters, mowing the lawn, or painting the house.  Otherwise, his hats were always grey or black fedoras.  When he was younger the brims were wider; as he grew older, he chose hats with slightly narrower brims (as in this photo).  His hats had no feathers.

He took the jacket or coat out of the closet, put it on, adjusted it, then zipped it.  Or if it was a sweater, he buttoned it.  When he put on his hat I remember him adjusting it just so:  it didn't perch, neither did it sit too low, but it was low enough and tight enough that the wind didn't blow it off.  He took the car keys from on top of the refrigerator (to the left in this photograph) and then out the door to the car or the garage or to walk to the post office he went.  I suspect that because it was April when this photo was taken, it was warm enough outside that he didn't need a jacket.

Things we see thousands of times we learn by heart.  By heart I remember my father putting on his jacket and hat.  What a commonplace thing to remember.  What a commonplace thing to photograph!  And yet it brings pleasure -- and sometimes just a touch of melancholy -- to clear the fog and refresh my memory of that small action.

Join the celebration and visit other Sepia Saturday posts.

--Nancy.
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Fishing with My Father

When I was about 10 or so my father bought a fishing boat.  It was a little wooden boat, certainly not longer than 15 feet, painted red, white, yellow, and blue.  It was ugly.  I don't know how he came to the decision to buy this boat or where he found it.  And I don't remember its homecoming or its beginning in our family.  For years it was just a part of our lives.

Dad never did anything halfway:  he dived into whatever project he set his mind to with all his might, mind, energy, and free time.  The boat was one of those projects.  The results of the purchase of that boat go broad and deep through several years of my childhood.

I'm sure dad realized that the boat was in need of repair before he bought it.  He also had some changes in mind.  Some of the ribs were rotted and the outer finish was in need of repair (or at least Dad didn't like the finish that was on it).  He removed a section of the top (I don't know boat terms here, so look at the photos) so more of the boat was open toward the front.  And the back of the boat where the motor attached was completely rotten.

After he removed the rotten ribs he cut new oak to size.  They needed to be pliable enough to bend.  To prepare them my father set up a steam trough at the back of our yard using metal rain gutter filled with water.  He placed bricks under either end and built small fires along its length to heat the water and soften the oak strips.  When they were pliable, he positioned them into the slots in the boat, then used a mallet to hammer them into place.  What a lot of work!

After the inside was in good order, he removed the paint from the outside of the boat then he stained it and put on a new finish.  But that first summer the boat never saw water. 

The next spring my father got the boat ready to use.  To make it lake-worthy, he poured water inside.  It might as well have been a sieve.  He explained that the water would make the wood swell, thereby making a tight seal.  He repeated the drenching several times until no water dripped to the outside.  He was right.

For my dad, the sole purpose of the boat was to go fishing.  He bought oars, a motor, life jackets, and, most importantly, fishing gear.  He bought me a tackle box and filled it with all the fishing gear a "fishergirl" would need:  hooks, line, sinkers, and plenty of other accessories.  There was a discount store on McKinley Avenue in Niles that we haunted for tackle.  Of course he had his own tackle box and we both had our own poles and reels.

My father nearly always took me fishing with him but sometimes my mother went, too.  As a non-swimmer she was very uncomfortable around water.  It didn't help that Dad occasionally rocked the boat to tease her.  Dad sometimes took my grandfather, often took my brother, but never took my sister fishing.  Her only interest in the boat was whether it would pull water skiers.  It never did.  Skiing didn't fit into my Dad's plans or purpose for the boat.

To save money on our fishing activities Dad started a worm bed.  Now I think "Ugh!" but at the time it was an interesting challenge to catch worms.  He sank two washtubs into the ground and filled them with dirt.  At night after a heavy rain, flashlights in hand, we headed to the back yard where we let the light glance over the top of the ground.  If the light shone directly onto a worm, zip, it was gone.  We had to be really quick!  (We didn't know about covering the flashlights with red cellophane.)  We learned to look for the worms that were furthest out of their holes and tried to be quicker than they were.  We dropped the worms into 3# coffee cans, filling them over half full after an hour or so.  Dad took the cans to the washtubs, removed each worm individually, and placed it into one of the worm beds.  Worms are very messy creatures!  The worms were inexpensive but our favorite bait eventually became minnows, or "minnies," as we sometimes called them, which Dad bought at a store near the lake.

With boat, bait, motor, and gear, we were ready to take the boat on water and begin fishing.  To my mind there were several challenges.  As I mentioned earlier, every body of water was at least 30 or 45 minutes away.  My father's working turns didn't make finding a block of time easier.  Dad worked at Copperweld Steel 5 days on, 2 days off, rotating from days to afternoons to night turns.  At the end of that cycle he had an extra day or two off before beginning the cycle again.  When he worked days we ate an early supper, then took the boat out.  When he worked afternoons, we could go in the morning if we went early enough to be back for him to eat lunch and clean fish before leaving for work at 2:30 or so.  When he worked nights (midnight to 7 a.m.), he sometimes came home and slept a few hours, then we drove to the lake. 

abt. 9 miles long, 1 1/2 miles wide

Mosquito Lake was Dad's lake of choice.  It was (and still is) a long, narrow, man made lake.  It seemed huge to me and I could never tell where we were but my father was a good navigator and we always arrived where he wanted to fish and back to the parking lot without a problem.  The best spot for fishing was often over a submerged bridge, left there from before the lake had been built.  Dad said the fish congregated there.

Occasionally, when we were in the middle of the lake, Dad let me man the engine and steer the boat.  It was great fun.  We started out with a small motor but at least once or twice, Dad bought more powerful motors which allowed the boat to move faster.  I remember that sometimes the front end of the boat tipped higher than the back end where the engine was in the water.  We always carried oars and used them to help guide the boat to shore.  My father also gave me the experience of rowing:  I was a sad failure.  It was just too big a job for a 10-year-old.

I had no problem baiting a hook, reeling in the fish, and removing the hook from the mouth of a fish -- except for catfish.  My father took care of the catfish.  We caught crappie, blue gill, walleye, perch, and an occasional catfish.

Sometimes we returned home empty-handed after hours of fishing and many changes of fishing spots.  Other times the fishing was excellent.  It will sound like the proverbial, exaggerated  f---i---s---h     s---t---o---r---y  when I say that we sometimes caught so many fish in such a short amount of time that it took longer to clean them than it took to catch them, but I'm grateful that my brother can attest to the truth of the story.  We loved fishing on those days.  It was a continuous cycle:  bait the hook, drop the line, wait a minute, pull up a fish and repeat.  It was very exciting.  Only once in a while did we catch large fish.  We never photographed anything about our fishing experiences except the photos of Dad and the boat and this one particular catch at right.  It doesn't look very big to me now but it probably seemed big at the time.

When we first started fishing my father cleaned the fish in the old way, by scaling, cutting off head and tail, then gutting.  He eventually bought a filleting knife which alleviated the need to gut and allowed us to eat without worry about swallowing bones. At first my job was removing scales but I gradually advanced to gutting then to filleting.

We never ate fresh fish.  After the blood and gore of gutting and filleting, my father wasn't interested in eating them right away.  So all the wonderful fish we caught in summer my mother froze until winter.  She packaged it so that we could eat to our hearts' content.  She breaded the fillets in egg and cornmeal and pan fried them in just a bit of oil.  And then we ate fish!  Delicious!

I never tired of fishing but after four or five summers we quit going.  I don't know what happened.  Perhaps my father lost his fishing companion when I grew into a teenager who was busy with friends.  More likely it was that my father's interests moved from boats and fishing to wood and clock-building.  We all have seasons and times in our lives.  The boat stayed in the garage.  I probably secretly hoped he'd take it out again but we never did.  He finally sold it, years later.

My father did a lot of things when I was a child that I just took for granted.  He seemed to know how to do nearly everything (and without the benefit of internet research).  It never occurred to me that the things he did were hard, unusual, or uncommon.  Looking back from my adult view, when I think about the work on the boat it seems like a huge job.  And yet I doubt anything was impossible for my father.

As I consider the lessons my father taught me and as I think about him and the boat, I realize that perhaps, without intention, he taught me that work should come before play, and that the measure of effort one puts into something determines the amount of pleasure one gets out of it.

I'm thankful for the years we went fishing and for the memories the experiences created.

This is a Sepia Saturday post.   Head over to see others' contributions for the week.

--Nancy.

Copyright ©2013-2018, Nancy Messier.  All Rights Reserved. 
Do not copy or use any content from this blog without written permission from the owner. 
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