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History Repeats – Veterinarian Adventures

April 25, 2023April 25, 2023

I met Jim Humphreys at a local writer’s group. He recently published his memoir My Friends Walk Barefoot and I’ve found it hard to put down. Yes, it’s that good. Amazon’s description reads: “Based on actual events, tells the story of Jim Humphreys, a veterinarian in Southeast New Mexico who for more than three decades treated everything from dogs to donkeys, cats (including a Bengal tiger) to cows, and canaries to ostriches.”

Jim shared the following story, an outtake from the book, during a critique session. I hope you get a kick out of it, we sure did! He was gracious enough to allow me to share it with you. Keep reading to the end, trust me, it’s worth it!

History Repeats
Jim Humphreys

Something about that college history class I took back in 1972 just went bad. The irony of it was that I had always loved history. Especially military history. Everything from the Revolutionary War to the Civil War to the First and Second World Wars, Korea, and Viet Nam, fascinated me. I loved to analyze the backgrounds of famous generals, the strategies that won and lost battles. What I had never considered was that, on occasion, history has a strange way of catching up with you—as it did with me.

“Good morning, Mrs. Mitchell. Hey Amigo. How’s my buddy,” I yelled and crouched to give my favorite patient a bear hug as he enthusiastically licked my face. Amigo was Mrs. Mitchell’s twelve-year-old Labrador. Cataracts and stiff joints had not stopped him from dancing around like a puppy. Amigo was one of those special dogs who had no enemies—human, canine, feline, or otherwise. He loved everybody.

“We’re just here for shots today, Dr. Humphreys,” Mrs. Mitchell said. Maureen Mitchell was a widow in her mid-seventies. Her husband had not left her with much money, although one would never have guessed as much to look at her. Her hair always looked like she had just stepped out of the beauty salon and she took great pride in the clothes and jewelry she wore. Amigo was the second generation of Mrs. Mitchell’s pets that I had cared for. I knew her well. She was always happy and relaxed, but not today.

“Dr. Humphreys,” she said. “I’ve been diagnosed with macular degeneration. They tell me it is progressing rapidly. I have an appointment to see a retinal specialist in El Paso in two weeks. I’ll have to leave Amigo with you for a few days.” The words sounded painful to speak. “You will take good care of him for me, won’t you?”

“Of course, I will,” I said. “I’m so sorry ma’am. My mother had macular degeneration. I know it can be a challenge, Mrs. Mitchell, but you know what? The past few years have seen remarkable medical advances. I’m glad you’re going to see a specialist. Don’t you worry about Amigo. I’ll take good care of him.”

A comfortable smile spread across her face. “Thank you, Dr. Humphreys. I’ll be traveling two weeks from today. Some dear friends of mine from El Paso are going to pick me up. I’ll stay with them and they’ll bring me back.” She paused and then, “By the way, I would so much like for you to meet them. Kenneth was my husband’s roommate in college. I’ve known them for many years. They are very special friends.”

“I’ll consider it a privilege,” I said. “You let Roseann know what time you expect to be here. I’ll be waiting.”

I was finishing treatments that morning, two weeks later. “Dr. Humphreys,” Roseann said. “Mrs. Mitchell and her friends from El Paso are here to drop off Amigo.”

I walked into the waiting room and saw Mrs. Mitchell standing next to the couple. I approached and looked at him. He was tall and thin with grey hair. Perhaps in his early eighties, he had prominent cheekbones and held his chin high. He wore a sport coat and bowtie. I was ten feet from him when I stopped, stunned. Were my eyes playing tricks on me, I wondered. I knew this man. Or, did I? It had to be him. Then again, it had been twenty-five years since I had last seen the man whom I assumed I was looking at. Maybe I was mistaken.

It was difficult, but I was finally able to tear my eyes away from him to address my client. “Good morning, Mrs. Mitchell.” It took several hard bumps of his nose off my knee before I realized that Amigo was demanding a hug. I knelt down.

“Hi Amigo. How’s it going, buddy?”

“Dr. Humphreys,” Mrs. Mitchell said. “I’d like you to meet my dear friends. This is Mary.” I rose to my feet, smiled, and shook her hand. Before I could say a word, Mrs. Mitchell continued, “And this is Dr. Kenneth Bailey.”

Holy cow! It was him. It took me a second to reflect on that time. Twenty-five years earlier, the first semester of my freshman year at the University of Texas at El Paso, Dr. Kenneth Bailey had been my teacher for American History 101. It was a class I should have loved. Instead, I absolutely hated it. More importantly, it was the one and only class in all of my years of school—elementary, high school, college, and veterinary school—that I ever flunked. It was devastating. My parents were terribly upset. They were used to their youngest son getting mostly As, a few Bs, and a very occasional C in school. And then, I flunked history.

I remembered his voice. He spoke with a heavy southern drawl. Many of us in his class were convinced that he must surely be a direct descendant of Robert E. Lee himself. Yes, I thought. The voice would be final confirmation. I reached out my hand. “It’s a pleasure, Dr. Bailey.”

Dr. Bailey stood at attention, his back straight as an arrow, chin high as he reached for my hand. “The pleasure is entirely mine, Dr. Humphreys. Maureen has told Mary and me so much about you. We have awaited this occasion with great anticipation.”

Yup, it was him. In the years that followed that first semester of college, I had often asked myself, how I could possibly have flunked that course. Was the material that difficult? No. Granted, it was a Monday, Wednesday, Friday class at eight in the morning. It was a huge auditorium with cushioned seats. The podium on the stage from which Dr. Bailey lectured seemed so far away. The lights were dim and the ventilation system provided a gentle humming lullaby, an environment far too conducive to falling asleep. Was I lazy? Yes. What about Dr. Bailey? He spoke in a slow, unflappable monotone. Were his lectures the most boring I had ever had to endure? Absolutely!

I struggled with what to say next. Should I tell him? Yes, I should. Or—maybe not. In the end, I decided, yes. A voice in the back of my head screamed out, Are you nuts! You can’t tell him the truth! At least—not all of it. I took a deep breath. “Dr. Bailey, you may not believe this, and I’m quite certain you don’t remember me, but I was a student of yours many years ago, sir.”

Mrs. Mitchell turned her head sharply toward me. “Oh, my goodness,” she exclaimed. “Are you sure, Dr. Humphreys? This is incredible.”

Dr. Bailey was shocked as well. “My word. I must confess that I would not have known this fact had you not seen fit to bring it to my attention, sir.” He paused for a bit, looked at his wife, and smiled. “Mary, please remind me as soon as we get home—to check the files.” He turned toward me, his eyes full of confidence and determination.

“Dr. Humphreys, I have kept extensive records on all of my students’ achievements over the years. I simply must go back through my files and find the details of your experience in my classroom.”

Suddenly, I felt cold. Will you ever learn to keep your big mouth shut, I asked myself. “Oh,” I chuckled. “I wouldn’t bother, Dr. Bailey. There really isn’t much to tell.”

“Hogwash, sir. What year was it that I had the good fortune of having you as my student?”

I felt myself sinking—deeper and deeper.

“Uh, let me think. Hm, what would it have been? I guess, uh, maybe it was…gosh, what would it have been? Maybe 1972? Really, Dr. Bailey, I don’t think…”

“By God,” he interrupted. “This will be fun. I have always prided myself on being a better-than-average professor, but I am a much better researcher.”

With a subtle but quick motion of my hand across my face, I wiped the sweat from my upper lip that I had been desperately trying to conceal. I was temporarily speechless. It took me a moment to regain my composure. Then, I reassured Mrs. Mitchell that Amigo was going to be fine and bid her and the Baileys farewell.

I watched them walk to their car and reflected on how little time it had taken for me to dig myself into this hole. It wasn’t like I had robbed a bank. I had held other secrets from the world that might be considered reasons for reprimand, but this particular secret was embarrassing. I could live with Dr. Bailey knowing I flunked his course, but what would Mrs. Mitchell think of me? Now, that was important.

It was bad enough that I had flunked, but worse than that, a week before final exams, I had gone to his office to beg for mercy. I remembered the conversation as if it were yesterday. It had not gone well.

“What can I do for you, young man?” he had asked.

“Dr. Bailey, I’m flunking your class. I show up every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, I’ve read the books—well, sort of–and I’m still flunking. I was wondering, sir, is there anything I can do for extra credit to raise my grade?”

He looked at me without smiling. “Extra credit? Are you serious? This is not a game show, young man. Why is it that I suspect you are one of those individuals who shows up on Monday morning bearing sunglasses in order to disguise the fact that you are napping during my lecture? Extra credit? No, sir! You will have to rely on the effort which you have put into my class, and perhaps someday, you will grow up.”

Oh well, I thought. There was no way in hell that Dr. Bailey was going to find any record of me or my failure in his massive files. And if by some miracle he did, then I would have to convince him and Mrs. Mitchell of the truth, that I was an immature young man who thought college was supposed to be all fun and that, eventually, I did grow up.

It was six weeks later that Mrs. Mitchell was due back in El Paso for her first follow-up eye exam. Roseann stepped into my office. “Mrs. Mitchell just called. She and the Baileys are on their way here to drop off Amigo. She wanted me to let you know that Dr. Bailey is most anxious to see you again.”

A few minutes later, I heard Mrs. Mitchell’s voice and the unmistakable clickity-clack of Amigo’s toenails trotting across the reception room floor. I had no way out. It was time to face the music. I stood, took a couple of deep breaths, released them slowly, and started a lingering walk from my office to the reception area. As I rounded the corner, I saw Dr. Bailey leaning over the counter that separated him from Roseann’s desk. I stopped and quietly backed up just far enough that he couldn’t see me. In a deliberate, bellowing voice, he announced to Roseann, “Young lady. You may not realize this, but Dr. Humphreys was one of my finest students.”

#

Jim Humphreys graduated from the University of Texas at El Paso with a degree in microbiology. He received his Doctor of Veterinary Medicine degree from Texas A&M University in 1981. Jim was co-owner of College Garden Animal Hospital in Roswell, NM for thirty-three years treating both large and small animals. In 2014 he retired and moved to Las Cruces, NM.

If you’d like to connect with Jim, feel free to email him at: eldocjim@gmail.com.
Now that you’ve read a bit of Jim’s story and seen how he was able to share it in such an interesting, humorous way, are you ready to share yours? Don’t wait, you can do this! Pick up your pen or laptop and just begin, right where you’re at.
Best,
Karen

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Grandma’s Table

October 3, 2022October 3, 2022

by Karen Ray

Memoirs and family histories can be shared in many ways. Here’s a poetic version that not only caught my attention during a visit with a fellow writing friend, it made me catch my breath. The way she weaves experiences through and around the story of an object is fascinating. Thank you, Gretchen, for sharing your work with us.

Gretchen Blais is an author and surrealist and mixed media artist. She grew up in Santa Cruz, California – in her own words here’s the start of her artistic path:

My journey as an artist began one rainy Thanksgiving Day 40 plus years ago when my family and I were visiting out of town. My host suggested we all paint since it was too wet to be outside. It was a memorable event for four adults and six young children. I came away with an experience hard to describe. I felt that something was released, never to become invisible again. My pencil began to travel with me wherever I went and the edgy surreal forms began to emerge seemingly on their own. Although I could sit and draw in the middle of chaos, the struggle to claim the title of Artist was a long journey with flashbacks to memories of elementary school when I wanted to be an artist when I grew up. Finally, in my 70’s, I am grown up and an artist.

Gretchen is retired from her career as a licensed psychotherapist and makes her home in southern New Mexico where she writes and continues to create new art. To view more of her work visit:
www.gretchenblaisart.weebly.com.

Grandma’s Table
by Gretchen Blais

I gaze at you and I hear
“I understand nothing of what I see.”

I breathe.

I sit and a new experience
Begins to unfold.
It’s a shift in my awareness,
In my understanding of you,
A picture and memories begins to emerge.

I see the seedling from whence you came.
I feel the earth receptive to your needs.
The rich soil moistened from the dew.
Water to nourish and help push your roots down
As the sun gently pulls you upward.

Up towards the sky, to reach higher and higher.
Your trunk, your branches, the energy flowing.
Day following day and year following year.
Until one day you reach a pinnacle.
A time comes and a transformation is upon you.

The ax, the saw driven into you fibers.
I sensed the lumberjack’s movement.
The swing of the ax, the saw back and forth,
Until you succumbed and fell. On your way down,
Rubbing against other trees, you settled with a crash.

I see the ropes, the chains, the wagon dragging you,
Moving you to where you could be made into boards.
Where legs were carved and pieces merged together
To become something new – a table,
Grandma’s table.

My eyes see them, the ones who sat and feasted at the table.
The ones who laughed and cried for generations.
The history of them is there.
My grandmother, my grandfather, my father and mother,
All my sisters and brothers, myself, my children and grandchildren.

The kitchen I remember, the activities I knew, the gatherings.
Games, homework, laughter, discussions, arguments, meals and so many soups
Each summer the canning of peaches, and pears, the tomatoes and corn.
The strings beans and the jellies and jams
To feed us through the winter as we sat at Grandma’s table.

The sap no longer runs through the tree veins.
But the generations of those who touched the table,
They bring energy and it keeps moving.
Grandma’s table keeps adding a rich tapestry
To each person’s life, generation after generation.

***

(Photo courtesy of Kevin Schmid @Unsplash)

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My Family Hangs Onto Things!

August 29, 2022August 29, 2022

by Karen Ray

It’s great to be back after a busy hiatus. I had the privilege of coaching talented students over the last several months as they worked on writing their memoirs. It’s a thrill to help them bring their stories to life! Don’t worry, I’ll be starting a new class this fall, stay tuned. Plus, I’ll share two new memoirs in the works, so excited to help bring these book babies to life.

Hope you’ll come along on the journey for a new run of interesting stories here on the blog, as well as family history and memoir writing tips. May they inspire you to share your story. Family historian Dianna Hunter Snyder shares as our Guest Blogger:

“I am so thankful to come from a family that hung onto things. I have hundreds of old photos dating back as far as 1860. Different family members have so many items, including two sewing machines and a jigger that was used to make my great grandfather’s hot toddy every night.

The keepsake I love most is the old family Bible, printed in 1841. It contains many family records of marriages, births, and deaths. My family has been so blessed with so much information to start with in our family history research. In recent years two of my 2nd cousins, who have both passed away now, and I worked to fill in some of the holes.

One of those missing bits of information was the burial place of our 3rd Great Grandfather & Grandmother. Jacob Shuff was born in about 1782 and died in 1824. We found the list of his estate in the county records of Scott County, KY, but nothing else. Finally my cousin Janice found a cemetery record for Hanna Houston Shuff in Scott County. She drove to the area and spent hours trying to find the cemetery to no avail.

Finally, a county worker stopped and asked if he could help her.

She was a bit uneasy about that as there was NO ONE ELSE around but at last explained about her search. The man said if she would follow him, he thought he could help her. Fearful, she went anyway. He unlocked a gated area where they kept work supplies and asked her to come see something. Near the back of the enclosure on a small mound of dirt sat the three pieces of Hannah Houston Shuff’s headstone. She took a great picture of it to share with the family.

The county had, some years past, put in new roads along section lines, etc. Hannah’s headstone showed up in the rubble, but no one knew where it came from. But it is the only real record we have of her death date.

Keep looking for your missing piece of information.

You never know where it may show up, even in cemetery storage. We have had a lot of surprises in our searches, but this was one of our most exciting ones. Happy Hunting.

I can’t help but wonder, did Dianna’s great grandfather’s headstone ever turn up as well, or is it lost to history and road construction? Dianna has shared many wonderful stories from her family history in the Family History and Memoir Writers FaceBook Group. Here’s another:

“One of the stories handed down is when my Grandfather Hunter made the Oklahoma Land Run on April 22, 1889. He staked a claim in what is now Okarche, OK. That night a couple with a family drove their wagon in and asked permission to spend the night. Grandpa said yes. By the next morning, Grandpa had sold his claim for a $20 gold piece, a rifle & one of the first ever made stem wound pocket watches. Grandpa Hunter went south to just above what is now Piedmont, OK, and found a claim there. It was there that he found a pretty lady, Lizzie Luella Shuff, and married her. The $20 gold piece is long gone, but the other items are carefully cared for by my brother’s sons.”

Thanks for sharing your stories, Dianna. For the rest of you with memories and family history to share, get in touch with me, and let’s talk about bringing them to life. I’m looking forward to sharing more guest posts. Follow Remembering the Time on FaceBook, Instagram, and Pinterest for more personal history tips, inspiration, and help.
Karen

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Haircuts & Oral Histories – Guest Post

March 28, 2022March 28, 2022

by Karen Ray

Daniel Powell of Liminal Legacy Media shares a fun story from his own history in this guest blog post. Inspired by his grandfather’s audio recordings, in 2019 Daniel founded Liminal Legacy Media using his extensive audio production skills. He is a master storyteller!

Haircuts & Oral Histories

“Hey, Grandpop! Shut your eyes!”
I say to my 80-year-old grandfather as I crouch behind the easy chair clutching a pair of kitchen shears.
{*SNIP*}

I emerge wearing a big grin.
“Ok, eyes open! Notice anything different?” holding back a giggle as I ask.
“Uh… well… no, Daniel, I don’t see anything different.”
“Ok, ok. Eyes closed!”
I duck behind the chair once again.
{*SNIP* – *SNIP* – *SNIP*}

Me: “Ok, how about now? Now do you notice anything different?”
Grandpop: “Well, nooo… No difference as far as I can see.”
I return to my hideaway, taking another lock of hair between my fingers.
{*SNIP* – *SNIP* – *SNIP* – *SNIP*}
And the fun of a 5-year-old giving himself a haircut continues. But, of course, my grandfather didn’t notice any of the changes I was making to my hair; he was legally blind! A fact I didn’t fully comprehend at the time. Eventually he did catch on though when Grandmother entered the room and filled him in on what had been taking place right before his eyes. He had a good laugh about it. Though my parents were considerably less entertained when they arrived later that day.

Grandpop was a good man, and obviously, a great sport playing creative games made up by his grandson.

I consider myself very lucky. You see, Grandpop took it upon himself to record a detailed account of his life story for his kids and grandkids. In fact, he was the only one of my 4 grandparents to do so before passing. Being a blind man, writing wasn’t accessible to him. So, sitting in that same easy chair I used to hide behind, he took to his cassette tape recorder and immortalized the tales of his past in the sound of his own voice.

Listening back at the age of 34, I’m forever grateful to him for it.

He told all about his humble beginning on the family farm in rural Arkansas, leaving home during the Great Depression to work with the CCC, and of his 2 decades of service in the USAF spanning both WWII and Korean wars. He had quite the storied past.

Such a wealth of stories and information is communicated through these recordings. But there are moments I find myself shouting at him through my headphones:
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Grandpop! SLOW DOWN! Stop the tape! REWIND! I want to hear more about THAT.”
But paying no heed to my pleas, he’s already told his brief recount and moved on to the next part of his tale.

Oh, how I wish I could’ve been there to ask him in-depth questions about his life as he told his tale.

We know our own stories very well. But the difficult part comes in discerning what others may want to know about our stories. Well… unless they’re in the room with you asking questions and expressing curiosity.

Whatever it takes for you to record your stories, do it!
Whether you write, record audio, or even make a video, just do it!

And I can’t encourage you enough to invite others into the story telling process with you. A curious individual, a good interviewer, or coach can help you tell your story so much more completely and draw out the depth, vibrance, and important details of your lived experiences.

There’s something quite miraculous that takes place in this collaborative and interactive way of telling your stories. Questions raised by your counterpart can bring to light connections between pieces of your story that you may have never even realized beforehand. And when we’re really lucky these questions can even result in new self-realizations. There’s no moment more precious for your memoir than reflecting back on lived experiences and learning something new about yourself in the process!

Through my work helping individuals record their Liminal Legacy^TM Immersive Audio Memoirs, I’ve found that when left to ourselves, just like my grandfather, we all tend to cut our own stories short {*SNIP*} and {*SNIP SNIP*} cut off many important details that others would find great value in. And oftentimes {*SNIP SNIP SNIP*} we cut out details because we’ve simply forgotten them. Though through some strange alchemy in the process of sitting with a curious person or a good interviewer, many of these details can begin to come back to light again.

Just like a grandchild who’s very poorly barbered their own hair, your stories will be beautiful, regardless of how completely they’re told or how much detail they contain. Just sit down and do it whatever way you can! But one thing that remains true of both storytelling and haircuts, when you do it all on your own it can be hard to ensure your not cutting off the best bits.
***
Thanks for reading, I bet you have a smile on your face and a few ideas for your own story! I know you’ll want to stay in touch with Daniel and his oral history work. Here are a few ways you can find him:
Web Site: www.liminallegacymedia.com
Instagram: @liminallegacymedia
YouTube: Liminal Legacy Media
Facebook: @liminallegacymedia
Daniel prizes the oral tradition and through his company, Liminal Legacy Media, helps you tell your story through Immersive Audio Memoirs. What exactly is an Immersive Audio Memoir? These legacy audio documentaries lie somewhere between ‘radio theater’ and ‘intimate interview’. Your voice tells the story while powerfully designed audio imagery evokes the scene in the mind’s eye of the listener. Daniel currently lives in Grand Rapids, MI with his wife and 2 young daughters.

Contact Daniel today for more information or to start recording your Liminal Legacy!

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Me & the Model T

March 1, 2022March 1, 2022

by Karen Ray

This year is one of showcasing others’ writing as well as my own. My goal is to encourage you to mine the resources of your memory, of your family history, of those boxes of keepsakes and albums of photos to tell your own story, and that of those you care about. I first became acquainted with Stuart Balcomb’s book sharing about his grandfather’s experiences in early New Mexico, Me & the Model T, via a FaceBook group called Forgotten New Mexico. (If you like New Mexico history, this is a fun spot to check out.) He graciously agreed to share an excerpt from the book here. Thank you Stuart!

Stuart Balcomb: When my grandfather retired, he wrote quite a lot about his life. Two books that were published are “The Red River Hill,” about him supervising the building of the road down into Red River, NM. “A Boy’s Albuquerque: 1898-1912” chronicles his early years from ages 7-21. After he died I received three boxes of photos and unpublished manuscripts that I felt were too good not to be made public. I had recently formed Amphora Editions to publish my father’s book on photography, and I then published my grandfather’s “Me & the Model T.” His next book will be “The Dogs In My Life,” about the 14 dogs he owned during his long life.

The following is an excerpt from the book:

From 1919-1923 my grandfather, Kenneth Balcomb, was assigned a WWI Army surplus Model T while he worked as an engineer for the United States Bureau of Public Roads, traveling over 63,000 miles to survey, inspect, and construct highways in New Mexico. During that time, he wrote to his wife (my grandmother) and his brother, John, describing his adventures. I published the 50+ letters as “Me & the Model T: 63,000 Miles in Mr. Ford’s Wonder Car.” It is an important snapshot of a unique time in America, right when the country was converting from the horse-and-buggy to that new-fangled contraption, the automobile. Kenneth wrote this letter from the Government Camp, east of Albuquerque in Tijeras Canyon on August 4, 1919:

Dear Katharine, I have been busy overseeing a construction job and keeping ahead of a survey crew many miles apart, at the same time coaxing a Model T over roads a team of mules would have difficulty negotiating. We are in our third camp of the survey, at Skinner’s Sawmill site in upper Tejano Canyon. Mr. Skinner operated a sawmill there many years ago. The decaying timber platform for the machinery and great piles of rotting sawdust are all that is left. The reason for the mill being there and the reason we use it for a campsite is the spring of pure, clear water. We had to rebuild the road the mill people had used before we could get our wagon of supplies and equipment to the site. I think I could also have coaxed the Ford over the road, but it rains nearly every day and I find that when the little car gets into either mud or sand it gets the shivers and digs in. So, I leave it at Epifanio’s house in San Antonito and walk the four miles from there to camp.

Our first camp was in San Antonito, across the road from Charlie Camp’s saloon. In addition to being the saloon keeper, Charlie is the town Jefe. He is Italian and his real name is Carlos Campo, but he has conveniently anglicized it. In addition to dispensing questionable liquor to the Penitenties, Charlie has an excellent well of cold water, complete with an old oaken bucket, and that is the reason we made camp there.
Our second camp was alongside of the earthen reservoir where excellent spring water is stored for household and irrigation use by the people of San Antonito. Here again, it was the water we needed. Epifanio lives nearby in San Antonito.

I think my Model T should be considered a community benefactor, as its tires have picked up most of the metal pieces from the roadway for about twenty miles. I am sure if I had saved them they would have filled a shoebox. I more and more realize the Model T is a remarkable piece of machinery. Even though its performance is at times exasperating, it is nevertheless reassuring. One acquires a faith that if properly coaxed and cursed, it will get him back alive. In its low gear, even though it may twist and turn and grumble, it will pull over a road that would challenge a team of mules and wagon, but one thing is certain: My back muscles are getting strong from operating the tire pump–like the men on the railroad section-gang who propel a hand car by pumping up and down on a handle. For some reason I can’t understand, it is the right-rear tire that picks up the most pieces of metal, and the tube has so many patches that it looks like a crazy quilt.

We must pack into our next camp, which will be at the head of Madera Canyon, about midway from the sawmill site to the Ellis ranch. I will drive the Ford to La Madera and ride a horse from there to camp. The road from San Antonito to La Madera, about seven miles, is virgin territory for an automobile and should be a fertile field for the rear-right tire to find many more spikes and screws.
Love, Kenneth

Writer, artist, and musician Stuart Balcomb wears many hats. Before moving to LA he taught at Berklee College of Music in Boston; he has written arrangements for Woody Herman, Cher, Donald O’Connor, Andy Williams, Gary Burton and the Buffalo Philharmonic, and composed for Batman: The Animated Series. His “American Trilogy” was performed and recorded by the NY Philharmonic Woodwind Quintet. As head of the Music Library at Universal Studios, he supervised the music preparation for over 600 films and TV shows. Since 2001 he has run the TheScreamOnline, featuring art, music, photography, literature, and film from around the world, and his publishing site is Amphora Editions. You can connect with Stuart through any of these sites to enjoy his work:

https://thescreamonline.com

https://amphoraeditions.com

http://www.transcendentsound.net

Have a story you’d like to see in print but don’t know how to begin? I’d be delighted to visit with you and help you get “unstuck” so you can share those memories. Give me a call and let’s chat! In the meantime, follow Remembering the Time on FaceBook or pop over to the Family History & Memoir Writers Fellowship FaceBook Group to be inspired and encouraged in your storytelling journey.

Karen

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The Remarkable Rescue of Moby Truck

February 11, 2022February 11, 2022

by Karen Ray

Stories of unusual circumstances, help received, and miracles witnessed are important parts of your memoir or family history. We love to share our memories of these events and marvel at the outcomes. These tales often begin the discussion, “Do you believe in coincidence?” Entire books have been written devoted to describing events somewhere on the out-of-the-ordinary scale. Here’s one of mine to inspire you to write your own or record those that have been passed down in your own family history.

God has come through with amazing goodness in my life

so many times in my five-plus decades on the planet.

And these are just the events I’m aware of! Since my writing and editing sandbox is memoir and family history, I’ll share a personal memory my family still likes to talk about. Come along on the journey with me.

One beautiful New Mexico fall day my husband and I took our three children, all under six, up to our favorite mountain canyon a few hours away for a day trip picnic. We drove an enormous white aging crew cab truck the kids had nicknamed “The Big White Bumpy Truck”. I called it Moby, in a nod to a literary favorite. Yes, I do laugh at my own jokes!

Our much-loved routine was to let the kids unbuckle their seatbelts once we turned off onto the slow-going dirt road that led through the scattered junipers dotting the mesa. We drove with the windows down, enjoying the sharp clean smell of the juniper trees. The kids loved standing in the back seat, riding the bumps and swerves with the old truck’s suspension as their dad carefully navigated the last miles. There’s nothing quite like the screeches and giggles of delighted children.

Down in the depths of the canyon, at the bottom of

yet another rutted, steep dirt road…

we played in the creek, ran around, chased each other, and had loads of fun for several hours. This is how you wear out young kids, right? When it came time to hop back in Moby and head home late that afternoon, the engine wouldn’t turn over. Hubby tried all the tricks in his book to get it to start. We looked at each other as only privately panicking parents can, while the kids played with the dog and ate the picnic leftovers.

Moby’s starter had gone out in a big way and we weren’t going anywhere. Did I mention it gets really cold at night at this elevation in these NM mountains? The nearest town was two hours away. Picnic food reduced to crumbs, only marshmallows and hot chocolate packets left, kids tired and happily grubby, we thought about what to do and prayed.

Hubby started the long hike down the valley to the rocky road back out of the canyon in hopes of hitching a ride and getting help. Not too far down the single track road, he was met by a father and son out bear hunting. Yes, you heard it right. There are bears in these mountains. And mountain lions. And rattlesnakes. They voluntarily cut short their hunt that day and offered to drive him out to Silver City two hours away. He gratefully accepted.

The kids and I bundled up in our coats as the sun moved lower behind the towering pines, and I determined to make this something of an adventure. My parents had instilled this important concept and life skill in my brother and me during many a long summer road trip full of detours and unexpected challenges when we were kids. It has stood me well and helped to create good memories even in the middle of inevitable travel “adventures”.

So, I made more hot chocolate over the fire and we roasted more marshmallows. The rest of the s’more fixings had been gobbled up hours ago.

And I prayed. Boy, did I pray! I learned later that Hubby was praying the whole time too on his parts sourcing mission. Intensely uncomfortable at the necessity of leaving his wife and kids down in the canyon bottom with night closing in, he had no choice but to get a new starter as soon as possible and return to put it in. No tow trucks in that part of the country. No AAA, no phones, nearest house miles away. We’d spent most of our lives camping and backpacking so he held onto that thought.

While cleaning marshmallow residue and dirt off my youngest’s face as the sun dropped behind the ridge I thought, Hmmm, I’m going to try one more time to get this thing started.

“Kids, everybody get back in the car.”

“Dear Lord please just let it start…” I turned the key, nothing. Turned it again, afraid of draining the battery. Nothing. Thought about bears. Prayed again and turned the key one more time, splutter, cough, grind…Glory be, it turned over! I was ecstatic! And was amped up with way too much adrenaline to focus on how terrified I am to drive the narrow dirt roads hanging over these mountain valleys.

I put out the campfire, buckled the kids in and ordered them to sit tight, and began a white-knuckled creep in the one-ton behemoth up the road, straddling ruts, avoiding axle killing large rocks, trying to hug the inside edge of the road. And lovingly commanded,

“Don’t talk to Mommy right now.”

All the while praying no one would come driving toward us from the other direction. There’s no room to turn around, barely enough room to pass, and let’s just say that my backing up skills leave much to be desired. When I gunned the gas and topped that last rise to the mesa I was shaking. I reassured the kids, told them I loved them and could talk again, and just eased the truck across the flats toward the setting sun. We sang a few silly songs and reached the county road on the other side, old Moby still chugging along without any hitch in its get-along.

Heading down the backroad highway toward home I parked in front of a tiny pie and coffee café catering to area ranchers. I left the truck running and prayed the kids would sit still while I ran in, letting the old screen door slam, and begged use of the vintage phone hanging on the wall. My parting words to the kids, “Nobody move from your seat! Don’t touch anything. Mommy will be right back.” I couldn’t shut the truck off or it probably wouldn’t start again. Somehow, I reached my husband who had made it home for parts and help (no cell phones in those days). I told him we were fine, were just going to drive home, and I wasn’t going to stop for anything. Thank you, Jesus!

End of the story, Hubby replaced the worn-out starter that week and we were reminded of the many strings God pulls to take care of us. We ate beans and tortillas for a month to pay for the unexpected expense. I also learned that in spite of fear, I can do more than I think I can by the grace of God. I remain a big chicken when it comes to driving twisty mountain roads but I can do it. Our grown kids still love hearing this story retold and it reminds us of the many adventures we’ve shared.

Want another marshmallow anybody?

What’s your story? I’d love to hear about one of your family adventures!
Karen

#familyhistory #memoirwriting #lifestory #journalprompts #familylife

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The Mystery of Moses Jordan

January 26, 2022January 26, 2022

by Karen Ray

My fellow family historian Patricia D’Ascoli is stepping in to share her own family history mystery. She is a skilled writer and researcher and I’m delighted to share her work with you. She’s also an active member of the Family History and Memoir Writer’s Fellowship FaceBook group. Her story is a fascinating read and we hope it will prompt you to write about the stories in your own family. Patricia can be reached at Patriciafdascoli@gmail.com and welcomes talking with you about bringing your family history to life.

The Mystery of Moses Jordan – Patricia F. D’Ascoli

Every family historian comes across the unknown—a gap to be filled, a missing puzzle piece to be found. This is the story of my journey to uncover the truth about the disappearance of my paternal great grandfather, Moses Jordan. I had very little to go on when I began my search:

Facts: Moses Jordan b. 1844 married Sarah Kuykendall b. 1853 in 1870. They had a daughter, Margaret, in 1873 and a son, Alvin in 1881. Moses worked for the railroad and the family lived in Port Jervis, New York.

Lore: My grandmother Margaret told my father this brief tale: One day when she and her mother Sarah were walking in the park, they saw Moses with another woman.

At some point following this sighting, Moses vanished and never returned.

There was no date, no place or any other names attached to this story. Despite this limited information, I felt confident I could solve the mystery.

Before I began my search, I examined a tiny photograph of Moses and Sarah. Neither of my great grandparents is smiling. Moses is sitting, and Sarah is standing behind him with her left hand placed on his shoulder. Moses, who has dark wavy hair and a mustache, wears a suit with a bow tie. Sarah wears a high neck gown; her hair is up.

Researchers must have a desire to dig deep and think critically. Although I had little to go on, the search was not as difficult as I imagined it might be. Through Ancestry.com and Newspapers.com I was able to solve the mystery of my great grandfather’s disappearance. And in doing so, I uncovered a dirty secret: Moses Jordan was a thief, an adulterer and a liar. He was also very, very fat.

I started with the 1875 New York census where I discovered the family in Port Jervis, New York. Moses worked as assistant yardmaster for the Erie Railroad. Research revealed that in 1880 Moses was appointed assistant dispatcher at Bergen, New Jersey. The 1880 US census confirmed that the family lived in Jersey City. City directories showed they continued to live in Jersey City until 1890.

I wondered whether there might be a newspaper account of this event. Once upon a time, newspapers were replete with the intimate details of ordinary individuals’ lives so there was a good chance such a story would appear in the papers.

Two newspapers reported on the disappearance in November 1890. These articles gave me all I needed to know about my great grandfather. He was a scoundrel of the worst kind.

“Moses Jordan, the yardmaster of the Erie Railroad, has eloped. On November 11, payday, he borrowed all the money he could get from storekeepers along Pavonia Avenue, and after ordering his trunk to be shipped from his residence, 283 Pavonia Avenue, to 106 River Street, Hoboken, he skipped. About the same time, it is rumored a well-known woman disappeared from the city. While the elopement was being planned and carried out, Mrs. Jordan was at Wurtsboro, New York, attending the funeral of her father. The runaway leaves her and a nineteen-year-old daughter and ten-year-old crippled son behind him.” Jersey Journal 11/20/90.

“Jordan has been practically separated from his wife for some time past, owing to the latter’s suspicions of his intrigue with another woman. Who she was could not be learned except that she was a married woman who was not living with her husband. The deserted wife declined to give her rival’s name or impart any particulars concerning her.” Tri-States Union 11/27/90.

Sarah’s departure for her father’s funeral was a fortuitous occurrence for Moses, as he and the mystery woman were able to leave Jersey City without her knowledge. I imagined my great grandmother grieving her father’s death in New York, returning home with her two children only to discover that Moses had left. She was then questioned by the police. And saw her shame laid bare in the newspapers.

I was determined to find out the identity of the woman who had destroyed three lives. A little more searching gave me the answer. On June 6, 1891, the New York Tribune published this short piece:

“Master of Chancery Romaine made a report in favor of granting a divorce to Sarah D. Jordan from Moses S. Jordan. Jordan was yardmaster for the Erie Railroad in Jersey City. He eloped November last with Mrs. Elizabeth Rowe, a married woman.”

Bingo. The identity of the mystery woman was revealed: Elizabeth Rowe—the woman who stole my great grandfather away from his wife and children. I wanted to know more about her. A search revealed that Moses Jordan married Elizabeth Roe on January 13, 1904 in Manhattan. They were married 14 years after their disappearance. Hmmm. Where had Moses and Elizabeth lived between 1890 and 1904?

I decided to look for Mr. Roe. In the 1885 New Jersey census I found Lewis C. Roue living in Jersey City. Also living at that address were Jeremiah, Ella and Lizzie Hulick. Lizzie is a nickname for Elizabeth—was this Lizzie the future Mrs. Roe? A marriage record for Lewis Roe and Annie E. Hulick dated July 29, 1886, confirmed that she was. I assumed Elizabeth must have been her middle name. Further sleuthing showed that Mr. and Mrs. Lewis Roe had a daughter Sarah born August 25, 1887.

My search continued. In the 1900 U.S. census I found Moses Jordan, who stilled worked for the railroad, living in Susquehanna, PA. The scandal had not impacted his career apparently. His wife—of 10 years per the census—was Anne E. Jordan. I felt certain this was Annie E. Hulick Roe, as subsequent censuses showed her as Elizabeth Jordan. In 1900 the Jordans had three children: Harry (b. 1891 NY), Mae (b. 1893 PA) and Harold (b.1896 PA). Sarah Roe lived with the Jordans as well.

The story might have ended here. Like every family history sleuth, however, I knew there was more information to be found. From a brief newspaper account, I learned Moses had suffered a serious injury. The headline read:

“Mishap Due to Too Much Fat. Stout Yardmaster was Rolled Along Fence by Train and Perhaps Mortally Hurt.”

“Moses Jordan, who for many years was yardmaster on the Erie at Bergen, New Jersey, then at Hornellsville, and of late in charge of the yards at Dundee, where the branch lines to the Passaic Mills are located, was probably mortally injured yesterday. His extreme corpulency was responsible for his misfortune. Seeing a freight train approaching Jordan stepped off the tracks and backed up against a board fence. But the three cars brushed against the stout yardmaster and rolled him along the fence nearly thirty feet. His shoulder was broken, and it is feared he is hurt internally.” The Morning Call 8/29/02.

My first thought was that Moses got his just desserts. But I hated to think my great grandfather died as the result of such a brutal accident. I learned in subsequent accounts that Moses survived. The Jordans moved back to Jersey City where he continued to work for the Erie Railroad.

A death notice appeared in the Jersey Journal:

“JORDAN – On February 3, 1927 Moses S. Jordan, widower of the late Elizabeth Jordan. Relatives and friends are invited to attend funeral service at establishment of Mark M. Fagan at 527 Jersey Avenue on Sunday, February 6 at 1:00 PM.”

I do not know where my great grandfather is buried. But I do know that his secret is not buried with him. Thanks to my research, I was able to solve the mystery of Moses Jordan.

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Have a story of your own to share? I’d love to hear from you, you can reach me at karen@rememberingthetime.net.

Karen

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