Thursday, July 16, 2009

Slings and arrows, or the revenge of the coneflowers ...


... but very minor slings and arrows on a gorgeous summer morning in Lucas County, Ioway. Wow! I'd burst into a few lines of "O What a Beautiful Morning!" but that would just embarrass us all.

The first burr under my saddle is the fact my coneflowers (above) have had a run-in with the law --- the law as interpreted by Alliant Energy Co. that is. I love coneflowers; don't care that they reproduce so enthusiastically by self-seeding that given an inch they would bloom for miles if left to their own devices.

I like that. Sometimes when I'm a little down about the excesses of the human race, the white tribe in particular, I like to think about what would happen if we inadvertently eliminated ourselves --- and in darker moments I do think that is entirely possible. Wouldn't take that long here in the land between two rivers for the prairie --- my coneflowers, goldenrod, Indian grass and such --- to reassert itself, chew up abandoned highways and streets, overwhelm our fancy ticky-tacky houses and aided by a few strategically placed lightning strikes reduce them to piles of compost. Oh there still would be plastic left, but that would soon be buried under mulch. But I digress.

What you see behind the coneflowers here is my Alliant Energy gas meter. It's an ugly sucker and I don't enjoy looking at it. And thanks to the coneflowers I haven't had to lately --- just sit in my lawn chair and admire the flowers along the east wall of the house.

So the other day I got this letter from Alliant, which read in part as follows: "Dear Alliant Energy customer: We are having difficulty reading your meter. The meter reader has told us that the meter is blocked or obstructed by shrubs or other foliage around it. In these cases we may be forced to estimate your bill for monthly power use, which may cause an over- or under-billing of our account. It may also create a hazard for an Alliant Energy employee. Sincerely, Customer Service Billing."

Yup, them coneflowers is dangerous stuff. And lord knows I don't want to endanger an Alliant Energy employee.

Alliant already is on my list. First, it swallowed up more local, efficient and less-expensive utility companies --- Iowa Southern Utilities and Interstate Power Co. among them --- then after raising rates rushed off to invest its ill-gotten gains in South America. A couple of months ago, trying to close out my Mason City utility account, I spent an excessive amount of time on hold while awaiting the single customer service representative Alliant employs to serve its Iowa customers --- a most efficient and pleasant woman who managed to be helpful despite the fact she's allowed only two five-minute bathroom breaks a day and is chained to her desk the rest of the time. And now this.

It's tempting to let the coneflowers bloom and Alliant to estimate my bill until fall, but I don't trust those folks any farther than I could toss a power pole. So I guess I'll go out and move the coneflowers even though it will mean looking at that butt-ugly meter for the rest of the summer.

+++

And then there's my crisis of faith --- in Google Map. Just when you think you've found something you can trust, it comes to this.

This issue developed as RAGBRAI's overnight stop in Chariton next Wednesday nears. Every Iowan and Iowan-in-exile knows about The Register's Annual Great Bike Ride Across Iowa, the biggest bicycle event in the country. On Sunday, 8,500 registered cyclists and untold thousands who aren't registered but have decided to bike along anyway, will dip their front wheels in the Missouri at Council Bluffs then pedal across southern Iowa to dip their front wheels in the Mississippi at Burlington a week later.

That'll cause a good deal of cussing among some of the locals along the route since travel by any mode other than bicycle when RAGBRAI is in the neighborhood is next to impossible. But as a rule, they're a decent plague of spandex-clad locusts on wheels and it does give us something to talk about. Some make money, too. One bunch of Lutherans here in town is renting pews as sites for slumber (there is room in the inn, for a price). And you'll notice I did not say, "typically Lutheran."


At St. Andrew's, we'll be housing a bunch of wandering Episcopalians (free of charge) in the parish hall overnight and allowing others to camp on the lawn. But that brings up the question of how to tell people the route to St. Andrew's and you'd think that would be a breeze in this era of instant mapping services and Web-enabled cell phones.

But not so fast --- Google Map and other mapping services for reasons known only to themselves have located St. Andrew's at a specific address in the Hillcrest cubdivision in southwest Chariton. St. Andrew's is actually located in far northeast Chariton on the east side of Highway 14 North just beside the entrance drive to Lucas County Health Center --- and has been there since 1956 after the grand old church building downtown succumbed to dry rot and was replaced by our modest A-frame in the "suburbs."

I suppose at some point one church officer or another, long dead, decided to have the St. Andrew's mail delivered to his or her home address rather than to the church and this confusion about addresses got transferred to the latest in map technology. It seems to be one of those things no mere mortal can correct or at least I've not figured out any way to communicate with either a computer or real live person.

Since Chariton is a small town, I'm sure this all will work out. But it could be an interesting day for whoever now lives at that address in Hillcrest if hordes of Episcopalians start wheeling up asking to sleep in his parish hall.

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Don't be surprised if this blog starts looking different. Because of laziness, I've stuck with a basic Blogger template called "Harbor," or something like that, for as long as I've been blogging. It's a pleasant template, but there just aren't that many harbors, or lighthouses, in Iowa.

So while helping someone else fancy up his blog this week I've decided it's time for a change at the Lucas Countyan. Haven't quite decided what, but that will become evident to us all as time passes.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Praise the Lord and pass the three-bean salad


Some folks have faith in their physicians, others trust their lawyers and according to the latest CBS News Poll, 57 percent of us have confidence in the president of the U.S. of A. (that’s down some). Personally, I believe in three-bean salad.

Three-bean salad won’t kill you, is inexpensive and when its approval rating starts to drop won’t send a can of yellow wax beans to Cleveland to engage in damage control.

Mind you, not all three-bean salads are created equal. There are inedible canned varieties and stay away from the kind sold pre-prepared in grocery store delis.

But my Aunt Mary Krutsinger’s three-bean salad is perfection with just the right combination of sweet and sour. It’ll keep in the refrigerator practically forever. In fact, the longer it sits the better it gits. Here’s the recipe:

One No. 2 can cut green beans drained.
One No. 2 can yellow wax beans drained
One No. 2 can kidney beans rinsed and drained
Half cup minced onion
Half cup minced green pepper

Combine all of the above in a large bowl and pour over a dressing made by combining and mixing well the following:

Half cup salad oil
Half cup cider vinegar
Three-fourths cup sugar
Half teaspoon salt
Half teaspoon pepper

Keep the salad tightly covered in the refrigerator for at least a day, stirring now and then if you’re in the mood, then drain off the dressing before serving or carting off to a potluck.

Sunday, July 12, 2009

Long time passing ...


Some things you think are going to be hard to do turn out to be easy and it works the other way, too.

Moving stuff around this afternoon still trying to bring order to generations of mild chaos I found my late mother's stash of stuff related to my wonderful and remarkably surreal U.S. Army career, including all those letters home. Every one of them.

So I sit down cross-legged in the upstairs hall and says to myself, "Wow. I think I'll read these." I could not do it. I honest-to-God could not bring myself to do it. Back into the closet they went for a while longer.

But I did pick out two snapshots that will at least amuse those who know me.

Frank looking owlish (above), was taken in the dorm at the U.S. Army Intelligence School, then located at Fort Holabird in a Baltimore suburb called Dundalk.

Quite a place, Fort Holabird --- in that era perhaps the most laid-back of the U.S. Army's training establishments. We worked hard and wore green in class, drove out to Fort Mead to qualify with our weapons, did K.P. now and then, but generally were turned loose --- literally. Civilian clothes on base and off, come and go as you please. Weekends in D.C.

From Fort Holabird onward to a brief stay at beautiful Fort Lesley J. McNair in D.C., then Saigon. Scared shitless. But intelligence types soon found out that for the most part others did the shooting, and got shot, for us.

The photo below was taken during January of 1970 --- that's 39 years ago friends --- at the International, a big restaurant in downtown Saigon. The occasion was a party given if I remember correctly by the Vietnamese staff of the Combined Document Exploitation Center (CDEC) for the American and Korean staff. I see by the invitation (yes, my mother saved that, too) the attire was to be "formal" (who did I borrow that tie from?) and that it began at 9:30 p.m. --- late by U.S. standards.


I'm on the right and my good friend Rich Schleifer (God love you Richard wherever you are), on the left.

The food was great, unless memory has failed me, but then the food almost always was great in Saigon since me and my buddies didn't have any place to eat military food and thus were spared it. We ate, as they put it, "on the economy." Somebody said something the other day about how well I handled chopsticks. I've gotta tell you if you were eating on the economy in Vietnam and didn't how to use chopsticks you were in big trouble.

Chopsticks inflicted the only wounds I know of at the big party at the International, though. The International had great chopsticks. Damnfool lieutenant, drunk, decided to steal a set. Stuck 'em down the front of his pants. Not too smart a thing to do, but then no one ever accused that lieutenant of being smart.

Many months later I came home, jerked out of Saigon one day and unceremoniously dropped in Des Moines a few days later. Talk about whiplash.

The end of my tour of duty coincided with the end of my enlistment which was just as well, my buddies told me later, because while we were away the Army Intelligence School and associated agencies had been packed up and shipped to Fort Huachuca, Arizona, no longer quite as laid back and a heck of a lot hotter and drier.

So I went back to Iowa City and got a pointless master's degree because I didn't know what else to do. You didn't tell anyone there you were a Vietnam vet. Vietnam veterans were freaks.

Interesting times, those. By rights I should be dead and I'll be damned if I know why I'm not. Grateful, of course, but ....

Wednesday, July 08, 2009

Ideas of order along the Cinder Path


I’ve been thinking lately about order and harmony and some of that thinking has been going on along the Cinder Path, a 13.5-mile trail that follows an abandoned rail bed from southwest Chariton down along the river and then up across the prairie to Humeston.

The trail dates from 1974 and is the first of Iowa’s rails-to-trails project, a creation of the Lucas County Conservation Board. We’re more attuned to such projects now, but its development was a challenge then. Many land owners along the right-of-way were appalled at the thought of long-haired and dangerous hikers and bikers and heaven only knows who else passing unsupervised near their property. They wanted the narrow strip sliced into tiny parcels and divvied up among them to keep the Other out.

That reflects one idea of order, the demand that land be surveyed, divided into grids of sections and quarter-sections, then sold and owned and that what the owner does with his or her slice of it is no one’s business but his or her own.

This was not an idea shared by the first people here, who were territorial but had no sense that they could or should own the woods and hills, prairies and river valleys. Mother Earth owned herself, they thought.

That difference of opinion resulted in much conflict and many sorrows --- and still does sometimes.

+++

The three miles of trail from town edge to the first east-west road south, now minimum-maintenance and often disabled by high water, is the part I know best. Down to that road on foot and back is a 6-mile trek, about the maximum I have time and energy for. My usual walk is 3 miles, down to a stand on the river bank just beyond the 1.5-mile marker, up into the stand to observe the river, then down and back.


But I have traveled the trail as far as Derby on days when the Conservation Board opened it every fall to one-way vehicular traffic so that those who couldn’t or wouldn’t walk or bike it could enjoy it briefly, too.

Those were interesting trips, especially when some poor soul started driving from the wrong end down a path barely wide enough for one vehicle and met our procession head-on. Impasse created by defying the order of the day.

+++


In summer, I like the trail best on sunny mornings. The elderberries have been in bloom this week, scenting the air when warmed by the sun.


Summer wildflowers including the Michigan lily (Lilium michigananse), above, a native, and Queen Anne’s lace (Daucus carota), a pretty import from Europe that has become a serious weed, are coming into bloom.


And the continuous concert of birdsong. It strikes me as discordant, out of order, to meet a jogger or walker with earphones, eyes fixed, focused only on his own movement and on sounds imported from somewhere else.

On the late afternoons and evenings of summer days and on cloudy days I do not like the trail so much. In many places it becomes a dense and dim green tunnel through overarching trees, vegetation pushing in from either side, almost ominous. I suppose my uneasiness is an old and primitive one.

My sense of order involves the sky and I am most comfortable when I can see it --- on the prairie, in the savannahs or on the trail in late fall after leaves have fallen, in winter when the snakes are sleeping and in early spring.


That occasional mild discomfort is not shared by the deer, always present, nor by the owl I startled from his perch last week with a burst of camera flash I hadn’t expected either. We both jumped.


The owl circled me twice then in powerful and total silence --- a sudden splash of shadow on the trail ahead, a glimpse of spread wings and gray feathers as he soared above me beyond the trees. I knew for a minute how it was to be hunted although I am far too large to serve as an owl’s supper, or at least I think so.

Coming back up the trail 45 minutes later, a coyote concert from a bluff on the other side of the river.

+++

The trail itself is a wound slashed through the landscape even through naturalized. Nature would not have tolerated a path here before the railroad grade was built. The land is low and marshy, the vegetation too dense, kept beyond the reach of prairie fires by water. There are a few remaining trees down here from those days, venerable and vast.

The trails of earlier humans skirted the river bottom to the west, keeping to the ridges where travel was easier and the view could be measured in miles rather than feet.

Nature’s idea of order demands that wounds be healed and if the trail’s surface were not regularly groomed, fallen trees cleared and the bridges repaired the grade and its hard-packed surface would be breeched and the Cinder Path would vanish.

+++

The only discordant notes along the trail are human.

When the trail was developed, redwood benches with concrete bases, outhouses and small shelters were scattered along it. It was thought trail users would move slowly along it, stopping often.

That has not been the case and these constructions have been allowed to deteriorate, vegetation obscuring them, nothing here now that anyone would care to sit on.

A long stretch of rubberized matting, once laid across bridge planks so bicycles could negotiate them more easily, has been pulled off to the side of the trail and left. A stand near a marsh is missing a step, hazardous on the way down, and the walkway above water to it has partially collapsed. And near the Chariton trailhead, rusty machinery has been allowed to accumulate in a row alongside a deteriorating shed with gaping door.

My sense of order demands repair or removal to a landfill. Nature’s sense of order will deal with them in its own way in good time.

Both human and nature’s ideas of order often disconcert me. Human ideas of order are often wrong, I think, but nature’s, never --- even when it sweeps us away in a tornado because we built in its path, drowns us in a flood or perhaps feeds us to a hungry owl.

+++

The title of this odd little meditation is a paraphrase of “The Idea of Order at Key West,” the title of a work by one of our best but most difficult poets, Wallace Stevens.

That poem offends my sense of order because I cannot penetrate it. It seems to have been one of Stevens’ favorites.

On the other hand, Stevens’ “Sunday Morning,” lyrical and evocative and about lost faith, fairly sings in my head and I know its opening lines by heart:

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug, mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.”

Stevens, a lawyer and insurance executive, too, could be contentious. He reportedly fought repeatedly with Frost and slugged Hemingway. Much of his poetic effort was devoted to exploring ideas of order in a world where he was convinced God was dead or absent or never had been.

Dying of cancer, he was baptized a Roman Catholic and took Communion, entering, as he put it, “the fold.”

One idea of order toppled by another, as often happens.

Monday, July 06, 2009

Coming up roses on the 4th of July


By late June the screen of trees, brush and vines that separates trail from water around the lake at Red Haw has turned into a variegated lattice of green.

But just in time for the 4th of July an explosion of pale pink erupts like fireworks around a bend along the north shore of the southwest inlet. This is Iowa's state flower, the wild rose, so named in 1897 by the state Legislature.

The lawmakers, who squabbled a little as might be expected before making the designation on the second try, failed to specify which variety and I'm not sure which this is. There are several, some more common than others depending upon which part of the state you're in.

But it was a good choice I think and matched the elaborate motif applied to a set of of ornate silver presented by the Legislature to the first USS Iowa, launched on 28 March 1896 and commissioned on 16 June 1897. There's something to be said for consistency.

The wild rose even has it's official poem, composed by that literary star of the Fifth Iowa Volunteer Infantry, Brevit Maj. Samuel Hawkins Marshall Byers, also composer of Iowa's official state song (and that's not the tall corn song) but most widely known for his ode, "Sherman's March to the Sea," written while cooling his heels in a Confederate prison after capture at the Battle of Chattanooga.

Hast seen the wild rose of the West,
The sweetest child of morn ?
Its feet the dewy fields have pressed,
Its breath is on the corn.

The gladsome prairie rolls and sweeps
Like billows to the sea,
While on its breast the red rose keeps
The white rose company.

The wild, wild rose whose fragrance dear
To every breeze is flung,
The same wild rose that blossomed here
When Iowa was young.

O, sons of heroes ever wear
The wild rose on your shield,
No other flower is half so fair
In loves immortal field.

Let others sing of mountain snows,
Or palms beside the sea,
The state whose emblem is the rose
Is fairest far to me.

Golly, they just don't write them like that any more --- but I like it anyway. The official Iowa song isn't bad either.

Chariton's grand and glorious 4th --- one of its bigger celebrations of the year --- went off without a hitch so far as I know despite overnight rain preceding it. Sunday dawned bright, clear and beautiful for an ecumenical service that drew several hundred to square. Then a good old fasioned Chinese buffet for several of us at the Panda. What could be more appropriate on Independence Day weekend in the U.S. of A. than Chinese?

And one other thing --- something I never thought I'd live long enough to see --- a nice bunch of kids from a Baptist church deep in Missouri performing dramatic dance prior to altar call as Sunday's service closed. Baptists? Dance? Lordy, lordy.

Friday, July 03, 2009

Issues du jour


I'm having issues with the shaggy grass at Red Haw State Park, just east of town. This is not a complaint, nor even a lament --- I'm just having issues.

I understand why acres of lawn sweeping down to the lake have been allowed to grow up this year. The number of seasonal state park workers, the gals and guys who mow the grass, maintain the trails and clearn the restrooms --- has been cut as an economy measure from the usual 250-300 to 143 and their allocated hours, from 180,000 to 74,000, according to a June 2 Iowa DNR news release. So maintenance at all of Iowa's state parks has taken a hit because of budget woes.

And philosophically at least I agree with the idea we mow too much grass in general publicly and privately and that to naturalize is a good thing.

Still, my mind's eye is accustomed to seeing acres of mown grass stretching out under the trees and down to the water far beyond the smaller mown areas that now surround shelter houses, restrooms and a few of the picnic tables.


It's a little like driving by what until last year had been a showplace farmstead and noticing that the lawn hasn't been mown, a window has been boarded up and the paint is beginning to peel. I hope that doesn't happen at Red Haw and our other state parks.

On the other hand, the Red Haw trails are dryer now and have been well maintained. That's a plus.

A minus is the musk thistle (Carduus nutans L.) up top, looking so pretty right by the circle drive near the main shelter surrounded by newly shaggy grass. And I noticed quite a few of these growing in the prairie area south of the woods, too.

As pretty as they are, musk thistles are not native, are highly invasive and extremely hard to get rid of once established. So they need to go. I thought briefly about knocking this one down myself, but then decided I'd better not. Maybe thistles are part of the new DNR park management plan and I'd hate to interfere.

+++



I don't like to dwell on bathroom topics, but I'm having shampoo issues, too. I ran out the other day, so visited the hair-care wall at the HyVee Pharmacy while grocery shopping Thursday.

I don't think about my hair very much. It's still there, it continues to grow and I like to wash it once a day (at least) while showering. Beyond that, it just flies around up there on top of my head and I try to run a comb through it before going out in public.

So I have trouble understanding why hair-care walls are needed --- and HyVee's wall is modest when compared to the hair-care aisles in the big-box stores.

I have no idea if my hair is fine or course, dry or extra-greasy, or why I should care. All I really want to do is find something that doesn't stink (if it does, It'll make me sniffle, cough and sputter until it's gone, not to mention attracting flies) and that costs $5 or less.

Standing prayerfully before the hair-care wall I usually panic. You could spend hours here reading label and instructions and trying to figure it all out. So I tend to grab Johnson's Baby Shampoo because it's all I recognize, my Aunt Mary Krutsinger swore by it and it seems to work just fine --- for under $5.

I got into the shower this morning, but forgot to grab the new shampoo off the bathroom counter. Sloshed out to get it and got back under the shower. Discovered that the bottle was sealed with some sort of foil under the cap. Got the cap off with soapy hands, but couldn't manage the seal. Used my teeth. Got a mouthful of Johnson's Baby Shampoo. It didn't taste that bad.

Thursday, July 02, 2009

Don't say you weren't warned


Looks like a pretty good road, don't you think? Dirt, but freshly graded. We're on our way here to one of Lucas County's "Missouri crossings," installed on lesser-used roads the county doesn't want to close but where the expense of a new bridge can't be justified once something goes wrong with the original.

In this case, some damnfool drunk several years ago decided to lead the law on a high-speed chase, slammed into the old iron bridge that crossed the Chariton River here three miles southwest of town and ruined it. If you keep going over the hill in the distance, providing you can keep going, you'll come to Waynick Cemetery, then meander back to town.

A Missouri crossing involves tearing out the bridge, regrading the road so you drive down into the stream bed, installing a culvert of some sort if the stream is big enough, then putting an inexpensive gravel or in some cases concrete surface over it. When it's dry, it's a breeze; when the stream is running a little high you drive through water; when the water's high you find another route. Or that's the idea.


There are plenty of signs to warn drivers about the sort of crossing they're approaching, three of them here on either side.


The difficulty with the Chariton River, however, is that it's probably just a little too large to be managed effectively by a Missouri crossing. It's not that big, up her close to its source, but powerful during high water --- and we've had lots of that this spring. So the crossing washed out and I don't think we'll try it across today.


But all this grading suggests that there are plans afoot to repair it --- once it stops raining long enough to allow it.

I have a feeling this road is blockaded at either end to keep the unwary off it, but don't know that for sure. I took the pedestrian shortcut Wednesday, a three-mile hike down the Cinder Path from town, then about a quarter mile east on the old road.

That was fun. The three-mile hike back to town wasn't since I hadn't actually planned to come this far when I started out, but one thing led to another. I was not wearing appropriate footwear and now my feet hurt. Ouch!

Wednesday, July 01, 2009

Prince among Gypsies or a chief of the Cherokees? (Part 2)


The following continues a line of thought begun here on June 6 regarding John Rinehart, who died near Chariton in 1881, and the legends surrounding him. Part 2 will make more sense if Part 1, which is here, is read first. Eventually, I’ll combine the two parts into one and repost the result. FDM.

+++

A good many difficulties impede efforts to explain John Rinehart and his family and friends. While there is no reason to doubt the old chief’s Cherokee blood, he and his family were entwined with Gypsies of English birth or descent, sometimes called Romanichals, most notably the Joles. That is a fascinating mix, but a research nightmare.

Relatively few early Native American and even fewer Roma resources are available. Roma research is further complicated because these families, often known as travelers, were on the road much of the time. Births, deaths and marriages could occur anywhere and census takers often missed them.

The traditions of both Native Americans and the Roma were oral --- they were story-tellers rather than story-writers, at the mercy of people who wrote about them, often with skewed vision and often with malice.

And there were those Roma families who identified themselves with intent to mislead as “Indians,” when they weren’t, because they felt with justification that “Indian” was more acceptable to the standard Euro-American than “Gypsy.” This sentence from a 1902 Chariton Herald article dealing with visitors to John Rinehart’s grave is a good example of why: “The Indians who were here look fully as much like Gypsies as Indians, but they attend to their own respectable business which Gypsies do not.” See what I mean?

While the threads of relationship that united the Rinehart family were evident to its members not that long ago, they mystify outsiders today. There are members of this interesting family out there and John Rinehart’s story may remain theirs to tell. Peculiar and destructive ideas created and repeated by majorities about minorities, ideas that have discouraged story-telling outside closed circles, are dissipating. Hopefully, we’ll all benefit from that --- before the last story-teller is gone.

I can tell you neither the full story of Lucas County’s fabled Cherokee chief nor that of his extended family, only report on a few of the signs they left behind as they traveled and make a few guesses.

+++

Consider “Sahria” Mason, 98, identified by The Chariton Leader of July 24, 1923, as a daughter of John Rinehart, whose body was brought to the Chariton Cemetery on Sunday, July 22, 1923, for burial. This probably was the “Salria” Mason who died in Douglas County in central Minnesota on July 19, 1923, according to the Minnesota Death Index, a Minnesota Historical Society online database.

If Sahria/Salria were indeed 98 she would have been born during 1825 and could not have been John Rinehart’s daughter unless he had been unusually precocious. A calculation based upon his tombstone inscription (died Jan. 2, 1881, age 66 years, 2 months and 17 days) produces a birth date of Oct. 16, 1814. John would have been 11 when she was born.

It is a human tendency to knock off a few years at first and then when extreme old age becomes a badge of honor to add a few. Still, it is likelier that Sahria/Salria was a daughter of Rinehart’s wife, Rachel, by an earlier marriage. Rachel seems to have been at least 14 years older than John and so would have been of an age to have children in 1825.

Efforts to clarify the situation by finding a Sahria/Salria Mason in 1920 and earlier census records produce enigmatic results in 1920 and nothing at all before. When the 1920 census was taken, an Ellen Mason, age 95, was living with her widowed son, Jess, 41, and grandchildren Earl, Lilly, “Plu” and Dow in Beltrami County, Minnesota. All were identified as “Indians.”

But Beltrami County (in far northern Minnesota) is the homeland of the Ojibwe people and of the Red Lake Reservation and according to the census Ellen and her parents all were born in Minnesota, as was Jess. Based on this, it would be logical to conclude that Ellen is not our Sahria/Salria, but a venerable Ojibwe. However, according to the census, her grandchildren were born in Missouri (Earl), Kansas (Lilly and Plu) and Minnesota (Dow) to a father born in Minnesota and a mother born in Missouri. This suggests that the Masons were travelers.

It is possible some of these questions might be answered by obtaining a copy of Sahria/Salria’s death certificate, then again perhaps not.

+++

A little insight into the band camped with John Rinehart near Chariton during the winter of 1880/81 can be achieved by backtracking to Minneapolis, where census-takers found them during June of 1880. The encounter seems to have distressed the principal census-taker, T.R. Newton, who scribbled several explanatory notes on the record.

“These families have been camping in the city for some weeks,” he wrote. Then, “Some of them claim to be Cherokee Indians. Others claim to be Gypsies. I think perhaps one man may be an Indian. The women are all darker than the men. They may be Gypsies and Indians mixed.” And finally, “Further information I was unable to obtain from these families with regard to birth places” Clearly, T. R. was having a confusing day June 15. The “may be an Indian” probably was John Rinehart.

The group included 41 men, women and children --- more than the “some 30 persons in all” attributed to the Rinehart party by The Patriot in January of 1881 when John died near Chariton, but not everyone camped together in the summer necessarily planned to travel south together in the fall.

It’s a popular misconception that travelers were homeless. In one sense, the road was their home. But in another, most had home bases where they spent at least part of the year, often owned property, joined lodges like the Masons and Odd Fellows and attended church. Trades practiced on the road were their livelihoods, however, and life on the road a part of their culture.

The Rinehart family as camped in Minneapolis consisted of four people, but they were enumerated as “Hunt” or “Hart” --- penmanship was not Newton’s strong point --- rather than as Rinehart. It’s impossible to say if they actually were using another name or if the census-taker, dealing with people he found disconcerting, just got it wrong.

The John Hunt/Hart family included John himself, age 66, identified as an Indian born in Indian Territory; his wife, Rachel, also an Indian born in Indian Territory, age 80; and two “daughters,” Isabel, age 24, and Roney, age 14, identified too as Indians born in Indian Territory. The census stated that John was ill with consumption and that tells us what claimed his life in Lucas County the following January. Neither Isabel nor Roney could have been Rachel’s daughters, providing her age is accurate here, but could have been John’s by a previous marriage --- or they could have been grandchildren.

Other than the John Hunt/Hart/Rinehart family, the most significant member of the party for Lucas County purposes was Ephraim Joles, age 40, born in England, whose household included his three children, Hannah, 17, Richard, 16, and Minnie, 12, all born in Ohio according to the census taker, and a black “servant,” George W. Flynn, age 14.

As sometimes happened with mobile people, Ephraim and his family were enumerated twice in the 1880 census. Another census taker, Bradley Phillips Jr., had found the family camped separately a few days earlier, on June 5, in St. Anthony Township, Hennepin County. This census entry, which spells Ephraim’s name “Ephrian Joels,” gives slightly differing information. “Hannah” is listed as “Anna,” age 18 rather than 17; Richard again as 16 and Minnie as 12. Ephraim’s age is given as 37 rather than 40. In both instances he is listed as a widower. Where the Minneapolis entry had listed the birthplaces of all the children as Ohio, here Anna’s birthplace was given as Ohio; Richard’s, as Canada; and Minnie’s, as Indiana. According to this record, both of their parents were born in England.

“Are what are generally called traveling gypsies living in tents,” Phillips wrote on the St. Anthony Township census page.

This Joles family is significant because, referring back to the May 1934 Chariton Herald report of what may have been the final visit by members of the extended Rinehart family to John’s grave, Dolly Frier, who identified herself as John Rinehart’s granddaughter, also said that her father was Ephraim Joles and that he had married one of Rinehart’s daughters.

Other members of the Minneapolis party, some of whom also almost certainly accompanied the family south in the fall, included Ephraim and Nellie Warton, ages 22 and 24 respectively. These were almost certainly the Ephram Worton and Merilla Joles, married 28 September 1878 in Sangamon County, Illinois, according to Illinois marriage records. Merilla actually was known as “Mellie” not “Nellie.” The Joles family seems have been headquartered in Springfield, Sangamon County, and Mellie in all likelihood was closely related to Ephraim Joles.

Other members of the party were Fred and Sarah Meyers and their six children; Andrew and Dorah Ward and their three children; George W. and Elizabeth Ward and their seven children; Fred and Susan Rinehart and their three children; and Walter and Hester Cooper and their son, Elias. Fred Rinehart’s age was given as 32 and his birthplace as Kansas. It is possible that he was a son of John Rinehart. Fred and his family were the only members of the Minneapolis party bearing the Rinehart surname --- at least according to the census taker.

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To understand a little more about the puzzles surrounding our Ephraim Joles, father of Dolly Frier and identified by her as a son-in-law of John Rinehart, it’s necessary to take a look at the Stanleys --- the “royal family” of the American Roma.

King and queen of the Gypsies are not terms I’m exactly comfortable with because I’m not sure those titles had any particular significance for the Roma themselves. One of the “kings,” Levi Stanley, reportedly said the title was purely honorary, based on respect and trust, and reflected no particular power. Although the Stanley kings and queens were without doubt revered in the Roma community, Coyote may be at work here and it’s useful to remember that in many instances the Roma were willing to allow outsiders to believe what they would. So kings and queens of the Gypsies may be as much Euro-American romantic fancy as Roma fact.

The first of these kings and queens, Owen and Harriet (Worden) Stanley, came to the United States from England with many other English Roma families in the 1850s. Like all other emigrants, they came in search of opportunity.

The Stanleys came first to Miami County, Ohio, then moved on to Dayton, which became their home and headquarters for the extended family. A farm was purchased for use when family members were not traveling. Upon Owen Stanley’s death in 1860, he was succeeded by his son, Levi. Levi’s wife was “Queen” Matilda Stanley, identified as a daughter of an Ephraim Joles, undoubtedly related in some manner to our Ephraim Joles.

Matilda, born 1821, conceivably could have been an elder sister of our Ephraim, born ca. 1837. Aunt and nephew and several other degrees of relationships are possible.

To get some idea of the prominence the Stanleys enjoyed, it’s useful to read newspaper accounts of the funeral of Matilda (Joles) Stanley, who died 15 January 1878 at Vicksburg, Miss., and was interred in the large family lot at Dayton’s Woodland Cemetery during September of that year. The funeral of this “queen of the Gypsies” drew a crowd estimated at 25,000, including hundreds of Roma mourners and thousands of curious non-Roma spectators.

Although the American Roma practiced many portable trades, the Stanleys and their kin were renowned horse traders, the principal source of their income.

I may not know exactly how our Ephraim Joles was related to the Stanley family, but I do think the relationship probably was present in more than one degree. It seems likely to me that Ephraim was married at least three times and that his first wife had died prior to May 19, 1872, when an Ephraim Joles married Jente Stanley, then apparently in her mid-30s, in Sangamon County, Illinois.

The three children enumerated with him in 1880, Hannah/Anna, Richard and Minnie, probably were products of his first marriage.

I do not understand Jente’s place in the larger Stanley family, but her relationship (or Ephraim’s) was close enough to ensure a burial place near Owen and Harriet Stanley on the Stanley Woodland Cemetery lot in Dayton, now something of a tourist attraction, after her death only three years after the marriage to Ephraim.

Because several months separated her death from burial, it seems likely that she died far from Dayton and that a good deal of effort was involved in arranging for her burial there. The same was true for all members of the Rinehart family buried in Chariton except John. Non-Roma families most likely would not have gone to the trouble.

According to Woodland Cemetery records, Jente, or Jeantie, born in England, died April 6, 1875, age 38, at an unspecified location, and was buried at Woodland on Nov. 13 of that year. The inscription on her tombstone reads, “Jeantie, wife of Ephram Joles, died April 6, 1875, aged 38 years.”




Also buried on Nov. 13 at Woodland, perhaps with Jeantie, was Henry Joles, age 1, who died April 9, 1875, according to Woodland records.

Three other Joles children are buried in a close grouping near Jeantie: Temperance, age 15, died Feb. 3, 1876; Jessie, age 2, died Feb. 11, 1876; and Walter, age 4, died Feb. 16, 1876. All were buried, according to Woodland records, on Feb. 18, 1876. A fifth Joles child, Louisa, died June 27, 1872, age 2, and was buried on July 3 of that year.

Henry, Temperance, Jessie and Walter probably all were children of Ephraim, although the only visible inscription, “son of E. & J. Joles,” is on Jessie’s tombstone.

It is my theory, for now at least, that the Ephraim Joles enumerated twice during 1880 in and near Minneapolis as a widower was the husband and father of Jeantie Joles and her children buried at Dayton a few years earlier. There is a reference I cannot track to its source of Jeantie’s husband mourning the loss of both his wife and “all” his children, although “all” in this instance probably meant all of his children by Jeantie.

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The fact that virtually all of the 1890 census records were destroyed in a fire produces a 20-year gap between 1880 and 1900 that makes it extremely difficult to track people. Many things could happen in 20 years. And finding a mobile people like the Roma in census records even when the records are intact is problematic.

However, when the 1900 census of St. Paul, Minn., was taken James D. Harris found on June 7 “Ephriam Joels,” age 63, and “Dollie Joels,” age 8, living with Leonard and Philla Wells and their two children, Robert and Ida M., in tents along a street called University.

The occupations of both Ephraim and Leonard were given as horse traders. Ephraim and Dolly are listed as boarders and their relationship to each other is not specified, but this surely must be our Ephraim Joles and his daughter, the Dolly (Joles) Frier, who paid what may have been a final visit to the Rinehart graves at Chariton in 1934.

Ephraim told the census taker that he had been born in England in January of 1837, that he was a widower and that he had emigrated to the United States in 1855 but had never been naturalized.

Dollie, according to the census, was attending school and had been born during January of 1892 in Minnesota to a father born in England and a mother born in Canada.

So it seems likely that our Ephraim had married again after 1880 and that the product of that marriage had been our Dolly (Joles) Frier, the striking woman who spoke with a local reporter near Chariton during 1934. Was his third marriage to one of John Rinehart’s daughters? Ephraim knew. Dolly knew. I don’t.

I have not found our Ephraim in subsequent records, although Dolly said during 1934 that he had died three years earlier in Minneapolis, age 94. If that is the case, his death was not recorded.

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Life changed dramatically during the next 30 years for the Roma people, as it did for everyone else. Horse-trading declined as an occupation as the road and fields were claimed by vehicles with internal combustion engines. The Joles and other families became more settled.

Several members of the extended Joles family settled down in Wisconsin and their descendants remain there today. But the tradition of Cherokee heritage remained.

In 1930, according to census records, Dick Joles, age 64 and born in Canada of parents born in England, was engaged in general farming on land that he owned near the village of Hallie in Chippewa County, Wisconsin. This probably was Ephraim Joles’ son, Richard, enumerated twice during June of 1880 in the Minneapolis area.

Dick’s wife, Libby, age 65, was born in Illinois. Living next door was Richard Joles, probably the son of Dick and Libby, age 44, born Wisconsin, and his wife, Elizabeth, age 33, born Minnesota, and their four children.

The 1930 census asked each person enumerated where his or her parents were born, and in the case of the Joles family the census-taker did an odd thing. After carefully writing in a state of birth for the parents of everyone, he crossed out the names of those states of birth in every instance except that of Dick Joles and wrote “mixed blood” for father’s place of birth and “Cherokee” for mother’s place of birth.

Also in that year, on April 8, 1930, census-taker Mrs. Myrtle Giese, found living in an “Indian Camp” in Honey Creek Township, Sauk County, Wisconsin, a family of 13 including it seems highly likely our Dolly Frier, daughter of Ephraim Joles and reportedly a granddaughter of John Rinehart. This almost without a doubt is the same family, no doubt with additions and deletions, who camped in 1934 near Chariton.

Dolly, who gave her age most likely inaccurately as 27, told the census taker that she had been born in Minneapolis to parents born in Oklahoma and was “full Cherokee.” Her husband, Joe Frier, age 30, had been born in Wisconsin to a father born in Germany and mother born in Oklahoma. He was a “mixed Cherokee.”

The Frier family was headed by Charles Frier, age 61, born in Germany of parents born in France, and his wife, Anna, age 70, born in Oklahoma of parents born in Oklahoma. She was described as “full Cherokee.” Children listed as members of their household included sons Rudolph, 25, Tom, 20, and George, 16, and daughters Daisy, 21, and Ada Hart, 26.

A separate household in the family was made up of Sam Frier, 31, born in Wisconsin to parents born in Germany and Oklahoma; his wife, Lilly, age 21, born in Wisconsin to parents born in Oklahoma, and described as “full Cherokee,” and their two children, Bennie and Delores.

The occupations of eight of the adults was listed as “herb collector” for a “private concern” owned by Sam and Charles Frier.

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Four years later, it seems likely, the Friers were camped near Chariton. Mary Ruth Pierschbacher is not old enough to remember the visit, but clearly recalls stories about it told by family members because the “Indian Camp” was on her Grandmother Holmes’ farm, in timber near a spring just over the hill west of Holmes/Waynick Cemetery on the downslope toward the Chariton River.

It would be interesting to know if this were a traditional camping place, perhaps even where John Rinehart died.

Mary Ruth recalls that the people who visited the camp thought highly of its occupants and of the cures they sold.

And this is where my part of the story ends. It would be possible to find out more, I think, and perhaps I’ll work on that, but not right now.

I’ve not answered the original question, prince among Gypsies or a chief of the Cherokees?, because I can’t, although I hope there are those who still can. It seems likely that John Rinehart was neither prince nor chief but undeniable that he was highly respected among people, be they Roma or Native American or both, who placed great value on family.

Flowers still appear sometimes 130 years after John died at the Rinehart graves there just inside the gate beside the open road on Chariton's south edge, perhaps placed by romantically-inclined Lucas Countyans caught up in the legend. Or perhaps not ….

Photographs of Jeantie Joles' tombstone at Woodland Cemetery, Dayton, Ohio, are taken from the "Find a Grave" online collection.

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

I know they're a pest ...


... invasive, non-native, a threat to ponds, but I still think the water primroses (Ludwigia something-or-another, but which one?) just coming into bloom in places along the east shore of the big pond at Pin Oak are pretty.

Had I been paying attentiion this morning, I could have immortalized with a fair portrait a fat and happy northern water snake sunbathing on the small dock anchored to the north shore of the spit of land I was navigating while trying to get within camera distance of the flowers (or weeds, depending upon perspective).

Concentrating on keeping my feet dry, however, I didn't look up in time to see it from a distance and sneak. It saw me first, gave a disgusted look and over the side it went before it occurred to me that I was holding a camera.

Monday, June 29, 2009

Green magic


Confronted by a potluck, the sort of event I’ve been known to play single helpless male prior to and mooch, I dusted off the family three-bean and green magic salad recipes and rose above outdated yeast to bake a loaf of bread, inclined to mooch no more. Truth is, I can cook and can even do it well, providing nothing fancy is expected.

Green magic is my favorite, and a potluck staple for so long as I can remember. It’s cool, travels well, tastes wonderful, has a sensual texture, contains jello (it’s not a potluck if there’s not jello) and best of all it has absolutely no redeeming nutritional value. The perfect salad. It’s hopelessly old-fashioned now that the heath-conscious are determined that we all should endure diced or sliced fresh fruit and naked vegetables.

By sharing the recipe here I’m channeling Lucile (Driftmier) Verness, bless her heart --- and if y’all don’t already know all about Leanna, Lucile, Margery, Dorothy (Lucas County’s own) and Evelyn and neighboring on the air from Shenandoah, Iowa --- shame!

This recipe does not call for Kitchen Klatter flavoring, however, so I’m uncertain of its source (and I do have the complete set of Kitchen Klatter cookbooks).

GREEN MAGIC SALAD

One package lime Jello
One cup boiling water
Three-fourths cup cold water
A half pound (32) large marshmallows
A three-ounce package of cream cheese at room temperature
A half cup Miracle Whip
A medium (two-cup) container of Cool Whip or equivalent
A small can crushed pineapple drained

Dissolve jello in one cup of boiling water and melt marshmallows in the result, returning pan to stove on medium heat then removing quickly once marshmallows are dissolved. Add three-fourths cup cold water immediately. Set aside.

Cream together the cream cheese and the Miracle Whip and add the crushed pineapple.

Combine the jello mixture and the cream cheese/pineapple mixture, stirring until well blended.

Refrigerate until jello begins to set, then fold in the Cool Whip. Return to refrigerator and cool until firm.

You can substitute a couple of ingredients here if you like --- one cup of heavy cream whipped for the Cool Whip if you’re a believer in all dairy products, but the result won’t be as light; mayonnaise for the Miracle Whip, but the Miracle Whip adds a hint of tartness that complements everything else.

Because I hate to wash dishes, I usually do everything (other than mixing the cream cheese, Miracle Whip and pineapple) in one largish cooking pot. The caution, if you do that, is that jello sets quickly in refrigerated in metal and the Cool Whip does need to be added before it gets too firm.

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It was a beautiful day for the St. Andrew/Grace outdoor Eucharist and potluck in a shelter reserved by Bill Gode (God with an “e” he says) on a remarkably pretty and peaceful wooded prow of hillside along the east shore of Corydon Lake. After the rain, heat and humidity of the last couple of weeks, surprising to wish you’d worn something with long sleeves.

And what a treat to have both of those hard-core clerical troopers, the Rev. Sue Palmer and the Rev. Canon Richard Lintner, in one place at the same time. Should have taken the camera along, but didn’t.