tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25002438011998690212024-02-24T01:39:28.307-08:00Russell/Smith family genealogyRussellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02695106735082209909noreply@blogger.comBlogger70125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500243801199869021.post-52682441704750270412022-09-25T12:08:00.005-07:002022-09-27T15:40:38.157-07:00Doyle's Farm Equipment<p> <span style="font-size: 11pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7v1IzVJAshYu7qdgzvXS3Gc1YRSCX-KqWrdl2bEh2u0vCUKb2X0S9YvoknyK7W3d6w-SnKFbI8BGTKVwVmChIBfRnHwSpfA35OAV9CwIZfBR3sIF5eFEgYcSn4dMiMPwXpQC3BJkLqZD_K7X0BVxGj3C_RvpqiNCwF-sFwntr902lwtyPisqTnhRb/s960/DJR.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="942" data-original-width="960" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7v1IzVJAshYu7qdgzvXS3Gc1YRSCX-KqWrdl2bEh2u0vCUKb2X0S9YvoknyK7W3d6w-SnKFbI8BGTKVwVmChIBfRnHwSpfA35OAV9CwIZfBR3sIF5eFEgYcSn4dMiMPwXpQC3BJkLqZD_K7X0BVxGj3C_RvpqiNCwF-sFwntr902lwtyPisqTnhRb/s320/DJR.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>When Robert Doyle Russell joined the
Navy in April of 1962 he left his parents’ home in <span style="font-size: 11pt;">Larimer County</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">, </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Colorado</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">, a farm/ranch where he and his family had lived since
1953.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>RD’s father, Doyle J Russell, was
a dryland farmer who grew Hard Winter Wheat, “Turkey Red”, a grain that grew
well on dry land with no irrigation water as long as a few rains came at the
right time of year. Doyle also raised cattle, sheep, hogs, chickens, and kept a
milk cow. He was a successful farmer because he was a hardworking man, never
borrowed money, bought used farm equipment, and carried crop insurance. Also,
his wife raised the chickens and milked the cow, sold eggs and cream, and
canned fruit and vegetables for winter use. </span>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghFr8XYzyP6M2bW04QZkdP3wl2Oj5uA5P4Uyan9WkgdNBTNssUSpzKbmMzXYm90AV2T0jW2JZ6bbwftL6kabAyollcyfs3JSgFkwq_9kkXi8m3zMSgu-eNLXKqsPI_J8--6Mc7BCb-wlmAXulxJ8D2lSyUECdKrYlFX-1_8hNnqdNHLt5I_H06irqh/s960/springtooth.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="670" data-original-width="960" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghFr8XYzyP6M2bW04QZkdP3wl2Oj5uA5P4Uyan9WkgdNBTNssUSpzKbmMzXYm90AV2T0jW2JZ6bbwftL6kabAyollcyfs3JSgFkwq_9kkXi8m3zMSgu-eNLXKqsPI_J8--6Mc7BCb-wlmAXulxJ8D2lSyUECdKrYlFX-1_8hNnqdNHLt5I_H06irqh/s320/springtooth.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>And then the State of <span style="font-size: 11pt;">Colorado</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> created I-25 Interstate Highway that cut right through Doyle’s
land. No longer was he able to pasture his cattle on the east portion of his
property then bring them home at night. Nor could he drive his tractor directly
to those eastern fields for crossing the interstate that way was illegal. And I
am sure that losing his right hand man, RD, to the Navy, affected his ability
to keep up the farm. Consequently, when RD came home from the Navy he was
shocked at the change in his dad’s place. </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI75jNh0LVmvR6t42bzdLx0wzo_KYIhjUiQufRdGpyRJl9xxg_ZtXsZacxe3SHeRoq6s3SakOtFIpLg2g9YofVlYuQIJARBalcJM_6RYRIGEJNa0t4X2It2POc2PnBem4TVbX2qfjnTJZp870hM0ni4hfZH8d5lR_7EzfkIaBPW25z5Hyl3m9amBY_/s2816/Jeffroychiselplow.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="2816" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI75jNh0LVmvR6t42bzdLx0wzo_KYIhjUiQufRdGpyRJl9xxg_ZtXsZacxe3SHeRoq6s3SakOtFIpLg2g9YofVlYuQIJARBalcJM_6RYRIGEJNa0t4X2It2POc2PnBem4TVbX2qfjnTJZp870hM0ni4hfZH8d5lR_7EzfkIaBPW25z5Hyl3m9amBY_/s320/Jeffroychiselplow.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Doyle, being the resourceful man that
he was, had sold the cattle and created a junk yard on his land. He soon became
quite successful at acquiring automobiles, trucks, and other vehicles that
people didn’t want or could no longer park in front of their homes, and then he
sold off parts. Sometimes he sold entire vehicles but said he made more money
parting them out. As the junkyard grew he accumulated all sorts of “stuff” that
he could resell and he enjoyed it so much, loved talking to people who stopped
in, made lifelong friends that way. And he made more money selling junk than selling cows.<br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguQOcAeURwCXumX-CKR1hA2mOjBPI7d9sPCd1mHEb1ceo9m7Rv3pfZsDJ45MhFWzqDmVlq2MQ--pORdOXV4K4rxfTxWKsK7-pb8v1_5sfSpI11Z9IuIoG_uhitLi_v0Sj-blDjgwu8pgWkJUR4U6GiLtOxzu8zgy53jfcRUUtlsqP-LbVfreNDHhta/s960/Oneway.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="676" data-original-width="960" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguQOcAeURwCXumX-CKR1hA2mOjBPI7d9sPCd1mHEb1ceo9m7Rv3pfZsDJ45MhFWzqDmVlq2MQ--pORdOXV4K4rxfTxWKsK7-pb8v1_5sfSpI11Z9IuIoG_uhitLi_v0Sj-blDjgwu8pgWkJUR4U6GiLtOxzu8zgy53jfcRUUtlsqP-LbVfreNDHhta/s320/Oneway.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>But the junkyard was unsightly!
It was an embarrassment to his family. He filled the yard by the house with
things easily stolen, like bicycles, kiddie cars, and tools. And covered acres
and acres with vehicles, furniture, tires, piles of wood scraps, all sorts of
odds and ends. Doyle was not embarrassed, as far as I know. He knew right where
everything was and could walk directly to it if someone came searching for a car
part or TV or posthole digger. He kept track of his inventory in his mind,
never made lists or maps.
<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBHoezU8oFDfzJxZ2RRdIkVKH2U5LjNlfirWjzAPzCBPFCiFNQww4_ByvzvjVdHq2aMg4c5Eyq8OGaAaaX9t7WS6d80vGHsmQS942s0ELQ13duQKA6l054zFkxrG9mZf-7SEOBck-CKhzQpjw9it3e0z0VhFFy-niH4IxcdlORc2Fn_lloicps2V5S/s960/horsedrawnplow.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="960" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBHoezU8oFDfzJxZ2RRdIkVKH2U5LjNlfirWjzAPzCBPFCiFNQww4_ByvzvjVdHq2aMg4c5Eyq8OGaAaaX9t7WS6d80vGHsmQS942s0ELQ13duQKA6l054zFkxrG9mZf-7SEOBck-CKhzQpjw9it3e0z0VhFFy-niH4IxcdlORc2Fn_lloicps2V5S/s320/horsedrawnplow.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Once, in the 1970s, he granted
permission to a group of artists who wanted to paint what they saw out there on
the farm land littered with treasures. I understand that, for I have often seen
the beauty there myself. I loved the way the native grasses grew up around the
old farm machinery. When I saw that equipment parked out back of the house my
imagination caught fire. I could visualize Doyle preparing some fields for planting,
lightly plowing others for summer fallow. <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH-4llUENSl4dGNXHNHv-Ne4aTiexZUcLw8FFhdXUpzSe1eXlNZOwOaTacFSQoAAFxXrVWm1oTqSn7YUyDj5qkgVtrAzkQlrgtgyYVhcOurCn_Wq19Tj2Tq69uSvN1FapUHInOS5rkT15OqTw3YR8iiF5xatfGe9BUEmbTT4PT6JnqNmpK6qf3V2RT/s920/graindrill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="649" data-original-width="920" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH-4llUENSl4dGNXHNHv-Ne4aTiexZUcLw8FFhdXUpzSe1eXlNZOwOaTacFSQoAAFxXrVWm1oTqSn7YUyDj5qkgVtrAzkQlrgtgyYVhcOurCn_Wq19Tj2Tq69uSvN1FapUHInOS5rkT15OqTw3YR8iiF5xatfGe9BUEmbTT4PT6JnqNmpK6qf3V2RT/s320/graindrill.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>RD once told me how, at a
young age, he learned to balance while standing on the back of the wheat
planter, aka grain drill, as his dad pulled it with a tractor across the plowed fields. RD’s job was to make
sure flow of grain into the soil was not plugged. Had he tripped and fallen
into the machinery he would have been seriously injured so learning to balance
and ride that rickety, bouncing planter was essential. Later in life, when he
went through Underwater Demolition Training in <span style="font-size: 11pt;">Coronado</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">, </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">California</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">, he realized that his years on the farm had prepared
him well for the challenges he faced in the Navy.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbJKbZkkUQVw2KzGYXeBbeWyvTQsFgJbPTK6BQipRZcqtRC0UxT5hCPMAkO5OBQYARIdzXRw0ytSlYRC5up7TtRkSRrpnYhcQQJXbtdA2YmHC8KGvyfHdzgOPdFSJH98llHGaZagUqT94z4RFYk4-uZmSasgETle5njQNpLZK8v1t0j3QImM7lucSV/s960/sidedeliveryrake.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="960" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbJKbZkkUQVw2KzGYXeBbeWyvTQsFgJbPTK6BQipRZcqtRC0UxT5hCPMAkO5OBQYARIdzXRw0ytSlYRC5up7TtRkSRrpnYhcQQJXbtdA2YmHC8KGvyfHdzgOPdFSJH98llHGaZagUqT94z4RFYk4-uZmSasgETle5njQNpLZK8v1t0j3QImM7lucSV/s320/sidedeliveryrake.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I thought about the
photographs I wanted to use to illustrate this story and I remembered that an
artist I admire when asked the secret to his success as a landscape artist answered (and I paraphrase) “I paint what I see then remove everything that isn’t
necessary.” So, I am not showing all the junk in Doyle’s yard. Instead I am
seeing the beauty in the old farm equipment. And I see the images of Doyle
making a living with a few pieces of used farm equipment and a whole lot of hard
work.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p>
<p></p>Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02695106735082209909noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500243801199869021.post-69676330930889198452022-07-26T12:19:00.005-07:002022-09-25T14:42:25.238-07:00Moffat County Revisited<p><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]--> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1tEX3P1Alabpc-fd94e2Y-1oi53HDLmFsG8MI7BfM7tAOIlpVPaZ8HKglRVxgUiyQeGpLiFKUbdltq1_hCjbM3UMtudzdvu1gSko0AuIiW-V4zQNfrkC4IN0U9Ww_I0v64IlqsNZ9zNarump1YwihoDMaiOw20dyIGIa97vdVS7DvxssunLyPg_zh/s800/TomSmithscabinfamily.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="796" data-original-width="800" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1tEX3P1Alabpc-fd94e2Y-1oi53HDLmFsG8MI7BfM7tAOIlpVPaZ8HKglRVxgUiyQeGpLiFKUbdltq1_hCjbM3UMtudzdvu1gSko0AuIiW-V4zQNfrkC4IN0U9Ww_I0v64IlqsNZ9zNarump1YwihoDMaiOw20dyIGIa97vdVS7DvxssunLyPg_zh/s320/TomSmithscabinfamily.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>My mother-in-law, Frances Smith Russell, was born in Craig,
Colorado, during the Spanish Flu pandemic
of 1918. In her postpartum weakened condition, Frances’s
mother, Nora Olive Jones Smith, succumbed to the flu October
23, 1918, in Craig, leaving five-week-old Frances and her three
older siblings without a mother and Tom Smith without a wife. The family had been living temporarily in
Craig so that Nora could be close to a doctor when her baby was born. After her
death they returned to their distant cabin home ninety miles northwest of
Craig, a place called Blue Mountain, a small community of homesteaders
barely eking out a living while trying to prove up on their land.
<p class="MsoNormal">The story of her Smith family there in rural Moffat
County was told by Frances
in her autobiography “From There to Here”, a self-published book written in
1985. I am in the process of integrating two version of that book that Frances
wrote, adding illustrations, and plan to make it available online this year. But this story is not
about those years from 1918 until 1923 when Frances and her family moved “lock,
stock, and barrel” across the Continental Divide to Weld
County, Colorado. This is about
a trip Frances
made back to Moffat County
in 1980s in search of that cabin on Blue
Mountain.
</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUqmo85pJ0rrpyF11JaWo0xcVFzUtMSUNgrspUhJcoHk8owbsVy4D4CvAhwcKCFMP-iHql1VsM1qZbS7g4G-lxM4enlGF7QCOelJj7nwbeorhbgDZMVBxc1WOYHQCzd16CkENubKchGFkypov1eq6ns6BhBXDwJWDJywRw3mtEdWga921Uoi6KWM9h/s2612/HarrietandQuay.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2103" data-original-width="2612" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUqmo85pJ0rrpyF11JaWo0xcVFzUtMSUNgrspUhJcoHk8owbsVy4D4CvAhwcKCFMP-iHql1VsM1qZbS7g4G-lxM4enlGF7QCOelJj7nwbeorhbgDZMVBxc1WOYHQCzd16CkENubKchGFkypov1eq6ns6BhBXDwJWDJywRw3mtEdWga921Uoi6KWM9h/s320/HarrietandQuay.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Harriet Clemens was a friend of Frances who lived nearby in northern Larimer County, Colorado. Married to Quay
Clemens, possibly a distant relative of our beloved author Mark Twain, aka
Samuel Langhorne Clemens, Harriet and Quay had both lived in Moffat
County in the 1930s. Prior to that
while still a bachelor Quay lived by himself in a small cabin near Blue
Mountain and one night gave shelter to the
man who murdered Frances’
grandfather and uncle on Blue Mountain the 5<sup>th</sup> of October, 1921.
That story is told in Frances’
book.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The murderer, A. S. Wilson, ran
from his home, afraid for the repercussions of his actions, and late that night
or the next appeared at Quay’s remote homestead. He told Quay, “If you know
what I’ve done you won’t want to help me,” to which Quay replied, “I don’t care
if you nailed Jesus to the cross for it’s been 90 days since I’ve seen a living
soul. Come on in.” So, Harriet had an interest in that part of Colorado.
<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQqXii5F1962sKH2bkS0I-YCc1saGozimq2od-ur-GPHeh1-VaDAbK9Cr0KUJmu5erbRsRoQGkT5NUqgyDPJaNG2C-dLsn9_Oz9V33SCP_yiTyQQRjM9FtG64Nsx8vBz5ufbcPJOGURCiPEvLYu9UzzTyyiEXPXaldVDFYOUnJJtexuU2s0OyvTuDp/s1041/1980Doyleatruins2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="821" data-original-width="1041" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQqXii5F1962sKH2bkS0I-YCc1saGozimq2od-ur-GPHeh1-VaDAbK9Cr0KUJmu5erbRsRoQGkT5NUqgyDPJaNG2C-dLsn9_Oz9V33SCP_yiTyQQRjM9FtG64Nsx8vBz5ufbcPJOGURCiPEvLYu9UzzTyyiEXPXaldVDFYOUnJJtexuU2s0OyvTuDp/s320/1980Doyleatruins2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Fast forward to the the early 1980s, recently widowed Harriet
Clemens was interested in visiting Moffat County again, approximately
forty-five years after she moved away. And more importantly, Frances
Russell wanted to locate the cabin where her parents lived in 1918, where she lived too, until age five. She had visited the
area in 1980 with her son Kenneth and his boys, David and Doyle. They were not
successful in finding the actual cabin of Tom and Nora Smith, Frances’
parents, but they did find other abandoned log cabins a few miles away.
<p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Frances
saw an opportunity to look once more for the old Tom and Nora Smith homestead,
so driving a almost new, two-wheel-drive yellow Dodge Omni, Bob and I embarked
on a trip from Fort Collins, Colorado,
to a remote area ninety miles northwest of Craig,
Colorado, with Frances and Harriet in the
back seat, a weekend adventure we’ll never forget. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkL3NuwLskk4IjFqEUPpLcWlaGO4xysHxLGDniI3hQ4cE4S0GNlLdJ1yUIOwCwWxHzmNirCUcIEzOgoVRVhnlAuaZwgkjI8Hx2BEnMS0TWwIFfKsFTcHlP-M3A8IlLk_IDnUorS6Wf-yGQe3LnrSU3LtXq1p_REgkgK__2v-nkheq3Elh0MuPbQbA4/s800/1950ShirleyOllieMoffat2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="800" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkL3NuwLskk4IjFqEUPpLcWlaGO4xysHxLGDniI3hQ4cE4S0GNlLdJ1yUIOwCwWxHzmNirCUcIEzOgoVRVhnlAuaZwgkjI8Hx2BEnMS0TWwIFfKsFTcHlP-M3A8IlLk_IDnUorS6Wf-yGQe3LnrSU3LtXq1p_REgkgK__2v-nkheq3Elh0MuPbQbA4/s320/1950ShirleyOllieMoffat2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Frances
relied heavily on the memories of her older sister, Ola, to prepare for the
trip, as she had done when writing her autobiography. Ola lived in Blythe,
California, and would not be traveling back
to Moffat County
but by way of telephone and letters the sisters made a map. They also had
photos taken back in the 1950s when their father, Tom Smith, and several of his
family members went back to the old log cabin and relived the challenges and tragedies of
their years there, and visited the graves of their loved ones who never left Blue
Mountain.
<p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Harriet’s preparations were simple. She packed butter sandwiches
for all, home grown pickles, and brought her nightgown and walking stick.
</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoXrsmCdlJ9-o6lEirMlWREQJ7AEUbF3k9uko6hgvDwp_tvLMkUAXU0bzsjrpOWTdfSoJ5q8pwNBQMsqdqfvDDcL1M3GyzPnpbBhpfuWdPMz1RgEYrYnBjzB87h7BmpgmeZeXvjflTkbt3CpHp5--3Kx8MXKRVrwligeGJ4fnQ3jls5e-baFGR8o2f/s1109/FrancesbyFrankandJimsgrave3.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="633" data-original-width="1109" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoXrsmCdlJ9-o6lEirMlWREQJ7AEUbF3k9uko6hgvDwp_tvLMkUAXU0bzsjrpOWTdfSoJ5q8pwNBQMsqdqfvDDcL1M3GyzPnpbBhpfuWdPMz1RgEYrYnBjzB87h7BmpgmeZeXvjflTkbt3CpHp5--3Kx8MXKRVrwligeGJ4fnQ3jls5e-baFGR8o2f/s320/FrancesbyFrankandJimsgrave3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>When we arrived in Craig we visited the Craig cemetery and
took photos of the new headstone Frances and her siblings had recently
commissioned and had installed over their mother’s grave. We spent that night
in a modest motel in Craig, sharing a room with two beds, a frugal choice. Bob,
a stranger to pajamas, waited until the ladies were finished in the bathroom
and tucked into bed before slipping out of his clothes and into our bed.
<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzGkOtEUEuN4xJxqpk4fMkQ_linSnpQ06KQjJduGi88tNsFs6u-cbrO7hHe7EZSocqtHjK0p7azUWAs3dhVl7fXMOdo3VovKMnChnSG9dR6ekH1gyEjYcYCmcZls6qnfDqP8UGtrhJtM7WY7DpxHlmK_g4GAaoxPzU_LtM-FzgQBbJuzGCKuvqPygW/s2480/road.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1968" data-original-width="2480" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzGkOtEUEuN4xJxqpk4fMkQ_linSnpQ06KQjJduGi88tNsFs6u-cbrO7hHe7EZSocqtHjK0p7azUWAs3dhVl7fXMOdo3VovKMnChnSG9dR6ekH1gyEjYcYCmcZls6qnfDqP8UGtrhJtM7WY7DpxHlmK_g4GAaoxPzU_LtM-FzgQBbJuzGCKuvqPygW/s320/road.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>After a hearty breakfast the next morning we headed west out
of Craig and listened to the reminiscing in the backseat. Harriet remembered
friends who lived along Colorado Highway 40 and thought she might like to stop
and see if they still lived there but we decided to consider that on the return
trip. That day our excitement built as we turned off the Highway 40 at Elk Springs
and headed north and west in search of the place names Blue Mountain, Bare
Mountain, (also spelled Bear Mountain), Cross Mountain and more, places Ola had
recalled from her youth.
<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal">Toward noon, following the hand drawn map Frances held in her lap, we
found ourselves on a rough, dirt road out in the middle of nowhere, feeling
frustrated, when in the distance Bob spotted a pickup truck and beside it a man
mending a wire fence. We drove up beside him and got out to talk, describing
our mission and asking for his advice. He pointed off to our left and said that
there was no road, we’d have to drive across the open prairie, but if we headed
in the direction he pointed we’d come to place where the land dropped off, and
if we’d park on the top of that ledge and walk down the steep slope, then turn
around and look back we would see several dugouts in that hillside. Oh, how
fortunate we were to come across that young man who knew about those dugouts!
</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Ziqw9ghz9GzItgnBdLttg6uKzqfaYrUpw88ON9zts-LxxnDDhxSSoe7NSbXhlcDUPCXxAZAfQpBYa9wp4ey5whsrN2iNuRxNnWwf_QKsikagtht9jMRNxZvjdMZvxGUMGZeoQ4cl7EoUzH14Vx8be34CiCojQ73k_C9ddwo-DBok_BD43jnGab-A/s800/1981dugout3.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Ziqw9ghz9GzItgnBdLttg6uKzqfaYrUpw88ON9zts-LxxnDDhxSSoe7NSbXhlcDUPCXxAZAfQpBYa9wp4ey5whsrN2iNuRxNnWwf_QKsikagtht9jMRNxZvjdMZvxGUMGZeoQ4cl7EoUzH14Vx8be34CiCojQ73k_C9ddwo-DBok_BD43jnGab-A/s320/1981dugout3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />So off we went driving that little Dodge Omni across the
prairie. I remember how the scent of hot sage filled the car. It was great fun
bouncing and laughing and all of us full of hope and behaving like teenagers.
Only now, in retrospect, do I know how lucky we were that our catalytic
converter didn’t start a prairie fire.
<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaw-BCI4Tdurfvf14y3niJZhapoWk3Bi1yMlGlTgHJIopkaS-PGWcHIg8x_5djP69cda6wBIEzlSTVjin0KEc0CjOjykofVYvpOz_LduqZ-8AdtuVGsSpT8qiQcV29hadyQ_qIlTZecOUqxr3SsJNSEcCDqfBRVejBuueu-e76LIep4oB553KCCGnP/s3408/ruinspambob.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2288" data-original-width="3408" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaw-BCI4Tdurfvf14y3niJZhapoWk3Bi1yMlGlTgHJIopkaS-PGWcHIg8x_5djP69cda6wBIEzlSTVjin0KEc0CjOjykofVYvpOz_LduqZ-8AdtuVGsSpT8qiQcV29hadyQ_qIlTZecOUqxr3SsJNSEcCDqfBRVejBuueu-e76LIep4oB553KCCGnP/s320/ruinspambob.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Sure enough, we came to a ledge where further travel in the
car would not be possible. We parked and got out, ready to explore, only to
realize that Harriet could not safely climb down the slope. We decided to
spread out a picnic lunch and make it comfortable for her while we scrambled down the hillside
in search of the dugouts.
<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBO6Mqw3zejl2sniUocoeZkobQxo9c9NLg3cazVr3B7uhmNXcBOsS9zSbxwqk9105vWhzHolLlBlMpsQsr_emViTEd1FWGa0aD9sR8LVCDj2gKw77JB1FPZhsY4M0bstVCveBOFpcQ5Oq-aJC--YuFoiel54ADP_JflEPV1EgHA0zKfiAAwC-aKBZA/s3392/ruinspam.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1922" data-original-width="3392" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBO6Mqw3zejl2sniUocoeZkobQxo9c9NLg3cazVr3B7uhmNXcBOsS9zSbxwqk9105vWhzHolLlBlMpsQsr_emViTEd1FWGa0aD9sR8LVCDj2gKw77JB1FPZhsY4M0bstVCveBOFpcQ5Oq-aJC--YuFoiel54ADP_JflEPV1EgHA0zKfiAAwC-aKBZA/s320/ruinspam.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>There were several! We thought we’d hit the jackpot. But
after examining each one realized none of the log cabin remnants backed into that hill matched the layout of
the windows and door in the front of Tom Smith’s cabin! We had the photo right
there with us to compare. We knew we were in the right area but never did find
the exact cabin we were looking for. Our best guess is that the logs were hauled away and used for fence posts.<br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFKRR_xuzCXwjjbu2V_Qo0grHi3djD1ArHT6BHbO28kO6u1AcN4Yu3uEzCLScNJg6wvH-gGGMKOIttgELDHCXybHkC7yNI1hHZqIQke9scWCyOnUQeEwQSJCC9knxGlrDo2xtPO1DdF4i6T4Lp34ULYtC3NxouYS1rBIRSRZRwIPhTEaadT5uGb3Mt/s2992/yougalschool.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2992" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFKRR_xuzCXwjjbu2V_Qo0grHi3djD1ArHT6BHbO28kO6u1AcN4Yu3uEzCLScNJg6wvH-gGGMKOIttgELDHCXybHkC7yNI1hHZqIQke9scWCyOnUQeEwQSJCC9knxGlrDo2xtPO1DdF4i6T4Lp34ULYtC3NxouYS1rBIRSRZRwIPhTEaadT5uGb3Mt/s320/yougalschool.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>After we took as many photos as we wanted and cleaned up our
picnic area we headed back in search of the log school house that the Smith
kids attended when they lived in Bare
Valley. Named the Yougal
School, we did find it but it had
been moved from its original location. At least our trip was successful in that
regard. More photos, and then we headed back toward Craig.
<p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Frances and Harriet talked all the way back and we knew
Harriet held out hope of locating an old friend or two but Bob and I were tired
and wanted to get home that same night so we more or less convinced Harriet it
would be too difficult looking up friends from fifty years ago. I am sure she was disappointed. We continued
eastward. I don’t remember our route back to Fort Collins
but I believe we turned south and stayed in Colorado
coming back along the Poudre River
route.
</p><p class="MsoNormal">That’s the end of my tale of our great adventure with
Frances and Harriet but that’s not the end of the story about Blue
Mountain and Bare
Valley. Bob’s older sister, Mary
Simms, organized a return trip there with many Smith relatives in 2011. After much research, they located and marked with metal signs several homestead sites, hopeful that later generations of the Smith clan will visit and find evidence of this time, now about a century ago, when the Smith family homesteaded on Blue Mountain, Moffat County, Colorado.
</p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p></p>Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02695106735082209909noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500243801199869021.post-25546635700723561422022-06-20T17:40:00.005-07:002022-06-20T18:19:03.262-07:00Doyle Russell and the Hooey Stick<p class="MsoNormal"><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</xml><![endif]--></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVuTYeEl8-y5pe1OkyFbPg8fXcvU5n2cqVI5ffiIz5HaUonc49BWDPIHKru8sW_zOYiaaimdW1KjhLUQw9pdNDntVTC91dNRfP10REjYKCCdR3JMoxU4gejj4HD28dSSFS6A8gnMHSCuvJNXOiIy9-xTJr5cg6UH9YC_sn5EUERMNDuii0coPcnI2W/s960/doyle.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="837" data-original-width="960" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVuTYeEl8-y5pe1OkyFbPg8fXcvU5n2cqVI5ffiIz5HaUonc49BWDPIHKru8sW_zOYiaaimdW1KjhLUQw9pdNDntVTC91dNRfP10REjYKCCdR3JMoxU4gejj4HD28dSSFS6A8gnMHSCuvJNXOiIy9-xTJr5cg6UH9YC_sn5EUERMNDuii0coPcnI2W/s320/doyle.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Doyle Russell liked magic tricks. He had little boxes with
springs, strings, wires, and sliding drawers that he could pull out of his pocket and
engage a stranger’s attention with his magic tricks as they stood at an auction
or waited in line for a drivers license. I remember one trick in which he had
three curved, flat pieces of wood, similar to boomerangs, that when aligned a
certain way were the same length, but when Doyle said his magic incantation and
pulled one of those pieces under his armpit to “stretch” it, lo and behold, it
was longer than the other two. And, unbelievably, he could push it back under
that arm and shrink it back up! Another was an elaborate set up using sheets
hung over a doorway and shadows on the ceiling, a parlor trick. Over the years
Doyle’s family would give him store-bought magic tricks for his birthday or
Christmas and he would try them out, laugh a couple of times, then set them
aside. He preferred those he made himself.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKoZ92RmdlGo2m2joOUmR9RIooy05Y31nqGckFPuy3CFrIx7rIJ1GS65LuBrfVAeguhEDAyaj1kl1RBlRdT2IbdFpmn2wERhxqdsBM7m_0R1AFt94K3ldhu1Ck9JxS8_PfvH5IpXahQQE91cmrispi_D2SpITg-IjyDvodU55Ndd3XO2W-Js00mxsi/s960/hooey1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="722" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKoZ92RmdlGo2m2joOUmR9RIooy05Y31nqGckFPuy3CFrIx7rIJ1GS65LuBrfVAeguhEDAyaj1kl1RBlRdT2IbdFpmn2wERhxqdsBM7m_0R1AFt94K3ldhu1Ck9JxS8_PfvH5IpXahQQE91cmrispi_D2SpITg-IjyDvodU55Ndd3XO2W-Js00mxsi/s320/hooey1.jpg" width="241" /></a></div><br />Sometime in the 1950s Doyle’s wife’s cousin, Tilford Barton,
came to visit Frances and Doyle from his home in Oklahoma.
Apparently, Til and Doyle were kindred spirits for Til brought with him his own
favorite tricks and one of them was a “Hooey Stick”. (Other names for this
Appalachian folk toy are Whimmydiddle, Gee Haa (horse commands for left and
right), and Truth Stick.) This is a little wooden folk toy that is a simple
round stick about five inches long, 1/8” diameter, with notches carved along
the length of it with a small piece of wood nailed onto one end to create a
sort-of helicopter blade or propeller. Holding the hooey stick in one hand and in
the other a popsicle stick Til could make the propeller spin by rubbing that
popsicle stick along the notches. The magic came in when Til could make the
propeller spin clockwise then stop and spin counterclockwise at will. <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJxIQzK41xZcRk_YO9zez4bbHt0r9cBSfR0hOQkzii3Iun8jZFcGIShZ-Wa9bMEBnop2dWEsKDAm_BCz02gJtzlTVqAyLzkowk2pwU21Ertypjxf4JNIXDVCUMpTF2YRwi3ylxjYOQXNf7PEuJf9ukQOcHdCsJ0NiCi0_4g2UQB4C_pzP-kK4CcR6m/s960/hooey2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="934" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJxIQzK41xZcRk_YO9zez4bbHt0r9cBSfR0hOQkzii3Iun8jZFcGIShZ-Wa9bMEBnop2dWEsKDAm_BCz02gJtzlTVqAyLzkowk2pwU21Ertypjxf4JNIXDVCUMpTF2YRwi3ylxjYOQXNf7PEuJf9ukQOcHdCsJ0NiCi0_4g2UQB4C_pzP-kK4CcR6m/s320/hooey2.jpg" width="311" /></a></div>Doyle was smitten. He loved that Hooey Stick and soon he was
carving them by the dozens and collecting popsicle sticks to go with them. He kept several in his overall pockets, year 'round. And
he added his “gift of gab” to his presentation in this way. If he met a family
with a shy child he might show them the hooey stick and ask a few questions,
such as “Hooey, if this little girl has blonde hair, spin to the left” and
that’s what Hooey did. And the girl and her parents were impressed. The next question
might be “Hooey, if Susie is wearing white shoes, spin to the right” and
immediately without any seeming change in what Doyle was doing, the little
blade spun to the right. And then he would say, “Hooey, if this little girl
likes boys, spin to the left again”, and, of course, Hooey spun to the left.
And that brought on the laughter, giggles and denials. Usually, Doyle would end
up selling a Hooey stick to the parents for one dollar, but he didn’t explain
just how to get Hooey to change directions. They had to try to figure that out
themselves. With no internet, no Google, and no YouTube, those Hooey Sticks
were probably tossed away after some frustrating attempts. Rather than explain the
magic, I am inserting a YouTube link. <a href="https://youtu.be/nPcOXeBsSiQ">https://youtu.be/nPcOXeBsSiQ</a><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Doyle suffered a stroke when he was in his seventies. We
received a phone call that he had been taken to the hospital. Bob and I didn’t
know what to expect when we got there, didn’t know if his dad would be
paralyzed or not, didn’t have any idea of the severity. When we walked into his
room Doyle was perched on the corner of his hospital bed in that little gown
that tied in the back, a nurse standing in front of him while he said, “Now
Hooey…..”
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiBUadhVvz4AJeQ23xPModHBJg5YKIq-IL3L75OV7-jnjAFDJlSdc2XNkrFxzEiIp8KtRq0SWfxOuO-_PNDUvPi6KRIGZPvXzgy1TY5ys8aFnft88FR9TZosPAwZAWVWa5SpIDR3h67ilaoQ07W4mU3SnHnuNiXU5uovWcI7PfumVJBEomyUpBjesR/s960/hooeybranch2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiBUadhVvz4AJeQ23xPModHBJg5YKIq-IL3L75OV7-jnjAFDJlSdc2XNkrFxzEiIp8KtRq0SWfxOuO-_PNDUvPi6KRIGZPvXzgy1TY5ys8aFnft88FR9TZosPAwZAWVWa5SpIDR3h67ilaoQ07W4mU3SnHnuNiXU5uovWcI7PfumVJBEomyUpBjesR/s320/hooeybranch2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Doyle created his own Hooey Stick style using multi-branched
weeds, like tumbleweeds, which he carved with notches and nailed on the
spinning pieces so that he could tell Hooey to spin two or three propellers one
way while the other two or three spun the other direction. Over the forty-some
years Doyle made and sold his Hooey sticks he took in hundreds of dollars
selling them for one dollar each and somewhere along the way increased his
price to two dollars. <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJUtS-GPunlYRgbUpoqudvsQ6w6LbEqCGZDdlx0ZreFb3lihK4B2ATeRXk-X4XA4c_jHIz6OUov7eahD-cN_Sbddl9nLztrOE4fzJAGg3Gkw1xQdv76nq9Wm8J33j_x2nO6piUn1xuZ47hHAwxju1aB0cgxyVT-rqx7pIPybdQSkx-XZnH6bEB-iWp/s960/lizhooey.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="642" data-original-width="960" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJUtS-GPunlYRgbUpoqudvsQ6w6LbEqCGZDdlx0ZreFb3lihK4B2ATeRXk-X4XA4c_jHIz6OUov7eahD-cN_Sbddl9nLztrOE4fzJAGg3Gkw1xQdv76nq9Wm8J33j_x2nO6piUn1xuZ47hHAwxju1aB0cgxyVT-rqx7pIPybdQSkx-XZnH6bEB-iWp/s320/lizhooey.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>A couple of weeks ago Doyle’s first cousin once removed, Liz
Buness, visited us for the very first time. In telling her about her cousin Doyle
we got out a few Hooey Sticks and demonstrated their magic, sending her home
with her own. Doyle was an interesting man and we could have spent hours
telling Liz about his life, but it seemed fitting to introduce her to Hooey
Sticks and let her associate her cousin Doyle with his <br />Hooey magic.<p></p>
<br />Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02695106735082209909noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500243801199869021.post-76129642209824579962022-06-12T13:04:00.006-07:002022-06-12T13:12:35.002-07:00Doyle John Russell (1965 - 2022) Forever Fifty-Seven<p>Doyle John Russell has died unexpectedly at age fifty-seven in Massachusetts. He was recently diagnosed with cancer and it overwhelmed him, took his life, leaving us, his family, reeling in shock and disbelief. I didn't know him well, but I loved him, that quiet boy with soulful eyes. He was my husband Robert Doyle Russell's nephew, son of Kenneth C. Russell, grandson of Doyle James Russell and his wife Frances Smith Russell. And he was a cousin to our son, Patrick John Russell, with whom he shared a love of music. They both played in bands and undoubtedly shared an interest in some of the same genres. And now he's gone. <br /></p><p>Doyle and his older brother David often visited their grandparents in Colorado, and by often I mean about every other year. Kenneth lived in Massachusetts with his sons and we never did visit them there so my memories of Doyle are about those visits he made to Colorado when he was a child. Our photographs include a few his dad mailed to Colorado relatives as Doyle became a teenager, pursued his interest in music (he played base guitar), married and became a dad. An intellectual soul with a keen wit and shy smile, Doyle metaphorically "played rhythm guitar" behind his more boisterous, needy brother, but now he is the "lead singer in his band". If I can paraphrase The Righteous Brothers here, "If there's a rock 'n' roll Heaven, Doyle John Russell has just joined the Band".</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi9vjBTBdZagGEqfkNi_TJ_V67d8Qmz5L8u0YXiHpXri4EG3dxIz5ey8gOo9YssZAU-s9PInSGw8MIa6Uo36w1KpH8SbpaSLTY-hzq-ysQ1pV_4RQ7S6DP3mySMcGYy2FSF6clYcozHmiJG0hbmZXWD-7ysaZjylHP60M9HrJc2eg5zVqz_1gMtvj9/s2754/DJ1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1855" data-original-width="2754" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi9vjBTBdZagGEqfkNi_TJ_V67d8Qmz5L8u0YXiHpXri4EG3dxIz5ey8gOo9YssZAU-s9PInSGw8MIa6Uo36w1KpH8SbpaSLTY-hzq-ysQ1pV_4RQ7S6DP3mySMcGYy2FSF6clYcozHmiJG0hbmZXWD-7ysaZjylHP60M9HrJc2eg5zVqz_1gMtvj9/s320/DJ1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="765" data-original-width="1264" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhESCyY_4Xwu3Bj7e9MrOdkHjbwJHbOSBimO6R468NEUqew6aXWmmY5b_LLdIQw6eq74tFgT-I1PIOklIoXIvweVnZAXy59YaSnvPedvWdo4SN98jSWkFMgiWAeK51zkIBHG0LMp5HWhIvY42vHOGeA0Dznl2nyI0-6PWp28D3GzVSygbgWbFC2v6JM/s320/DJ6b.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEillGFxLMGvp_7QWzbtBjPmuqleEw_CvZjoj2aokWi1Qn9WbFm3dRqJISeiLt0j5JVGPZ04Xwq69Gj4GWH2z3aEMwCq3v-pwuK3oHGN9LpeRe145Qvt4i6gMcLBHY7zV5DZy016Y-JA3RgdwULBFrQG9KA79hN6Jr_kfle2z9gym2radHe1lERrNCuk/s960/DJ8.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="960" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEillGFxLMGvp_7QWzbtBjPmuqleEw_CvZjoj2aokWi1Qn9WbFm3dRqJISeiLt0j5JVGPZ04Xwq69Gj4GWH2z3aEMwCq3v-pwuK3oHGN9LpeRe145Qvt4i6gMcLBHY7zV5DZy016Y-JA3RgdwULBFrQG9KA79hN6Jr_kfle2z9gym2radHe1lERrNCuk/s320/DJ8.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02695106735082209909noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500243801199869021.post-57087192266152908982021-12-06T17:55:00.001-08:002021-12-08T12:15:34.222-08:00Merry Christmas and Happy New Year<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgPW30Qj3VylXX6242t0Fkgq5KdTJGekussC1DlTz_ZqOhkJMhLPFcDAHDIRCahva0EqJfs820uIg7HEpENEnlZoFibnlofGwbkwBNmsFPtK5PS0fRq5fq4rmhkOXvx2KgPR_GfWhqYMs/s450/mangersceneclipart2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="166" data-original-width="450" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgPW30Qj3VylXX6242t0Fkgq5KdTJGekussC1DlTz_ZqOhkJMhLPFcDAHDIRCahva0EqJfs820uIg7HEpENEnlZoFibnlofGwbkwBNmsFPtK5PS0fRq5fq4rmhkOXvx2KgPR_GfWhqYMs/w400-h148/mangersceneclipart2.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><br /> </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span>Instead of writing
our Christmas letter about all that happened in our lives in 2021 I thought I’d
tell you about what we are looking forward to in 2022. You see, 2022 will be
about milestones, celebrations of several anniversaries that are significant to
us. </span></span>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 8pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTAdVX5mbRjx102Qd1Ce0Q9lizwowJGZx1dsibe0u9aXoIYz_4nK_Y1v7qbn5_Q5gWjfF-hXUVR8RTZyFcl95qI5f2W74GuaaEAX2Jklmta4BHIO49_GeEdlUvKNU72rwZM9_Eb5vtXzA/s617/Project01b.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="617" data-original-width="429" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTAdVX5mbRjx102Qd1Ce0Q9lizwowJGZx1dsibe0u9aXoIYz_4nK_Y1v7qbn5_Q5gWjfF-hXUVR8RTZyFcl95qI5f2W74GuaaEAX2Jklmta4BHIO49_GeEdlUvKNU72rwZM9_Eb5vtXzA/s320/Project01b.jpg" width="222" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">In January we will
celebrate our 50<sup>th</sup> wedding anniversary! Fifty years of a happy life
together. We couldn’t ask for more. </span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 8pt;"> <br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirNPeT1HGTaFwspM6klG0GDPG5o4ALLgbEWR-hppREW4FDrGn2NgeiBRihqgvrr6iXTx1jhUNssa7AoNlzpUVXU_e12ZXYB3IEYZgtpTIR1hBnBANDNKAiC2plRWAg4Obe_w_gXDoilg4/s763/Project02.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="763" data-original-width="479" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirNPeT1HGTaFwspM6klG0GDPG5o4ALLgbEWR-hppREW4FDrGn2NgeiBRihqgvrr6iXTx1jhUNssa7AoNlzpUVXU_e12ZXYB3IEYZgtpTIR1hBnBANDNKAiC2plRWAg4Obe_w_gXDoilg4/s320/Project02.jpg" width="201" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">July 2022 will
mark the 20<sup>th</sup> year of Pam’s retirement from A-B brewery. I have been
so fortunate to have good health and enjoy my retirement doing the things that
mean the most to me, spending time with my family and friends.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><br /> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 8pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG4CwJFQSoOHkkELPvudzS_9vs4Q31NP_joy1wlut4ZEYbftGmeegCzz1xw53mzkQZBIk_uyHfNfnM6LaMrz7UAvxZrGaM2x7TYWXwNXUNriZj-lAZYsMCJgtt_tOCZxpgylV_r0D1goA/s619/Project03.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="619" data-original-width="494" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG4CwJFQSoOHkkELPvudzS_9vs4Q31NP_joy1wlut4ZEYbftGmeegCzz1xw53mzkQZBIk_uyHfNfnM6LaMrz7UAvxZrGaM2x7TYWXwNXUNriZj-lAZYsMCJgtt_tOCZxpgylV_r0D1goA/s320/Project03.jpg" width="255" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">On August 28 Bob will
celebrate his 80<sup>th</sup> birthday! He is in good health and has an
excellent memory so I imagine he will reflect back on his life with the wisdom
of an octogenarian and the imagination of a teen.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><br /> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 8pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYWVmy7HQDqlYn9Dx_4pRSX0im4NydYxUrnDy8EAKosX7Dj1F1d_4rNn-tuNyEpqYiGahPPjweov4bUQElLuJohncFb8w8T5tZcQLi4jR8Ao7Dk6FWUUXyKm8rYK8H8ung3N7HnwirNus/s785/Project04.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="785" data-original-width="611" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYWVmy7HQDqlYn9Dx_4pRSX0im4NydYxUrnDy8EAKosX7Dj1F1d_4rNn-tuNyEpqYiGahPPjweov4bUQElLuJohncFb8w8T5tZcQLi4jR8Ao7Dk6FWUUXyKm8rYK8H8ung3N7HnwirNus/s320/Project04.jpg" width="249" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />In October, on
Halloween Day actually, we will mark 50 years of living on this place, this
three acres of out-in-the-country land that means so much to us. It is our
refuge, our sanctuary, and where we enjoy spending all our time. </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><br /> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 8pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span>We do not want any
gifts, please, for as those who have visited us know, we already have two of
everything…we just don’t know where they are </span>:-)<span> Let’s hope that 2022 is a good year for all of us. Stay healthy
and enthused about life. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span>Love, Bob and Pam</span></span>
</p>Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02695106735082209909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500243801199869021.post-40924508381015988642021-07-31T12:58:00.049-07:002021-07-31T16:47:47.776-07:00Saying Goodbye to David<p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSG4urh_Nwt7292KCOL8SN3M1mWk0wJkUW4UHMf3AW5ATNJNTFvDMu5MPKzQffG0csU2Vb8Hg3PUUxfjttfmRS89yqXZqw6KkyTjjQommkdhFM4fzLNWiIBx3AhCL3EcW3GNJGEd_luFg/s960/aadave.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="644" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSG4urh_Nwt7292KCOL8SN3M1mWk0wJkUW4UHMf3AW5ATNJNTFvDMu5MPKzQffG0csU2Vb8Hg3PUUxfjttfmRS89yqXZqw6KkyTjjQommkdhFM4fzLNWiIBx3AhCL3EcW3GNJGEd_luFg/w214-h320/aadave.jpg" width="214" /> <br /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Charlotte w/ Doyle, Ken w/ David<br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial;">David Allen Russell, age 57, has passed away. He lived his life in Massachusetts but many summers he came to Colorado to visit his grandparents Doyle and Frances Russell. His father, Kenneth Russell, was their oldest child and about every other year Ken brought the boys out to his parents' farm in Larimer County, Colorado, for a couple of weeks or so, and on the off years David and Doyle (named for his grandfather) went to Pennsylvania to be with their mother's relatives.</span><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Robert Russell is David's uncle and neither he nor I ever visited the family in Lexington, Massachusetts, so all of our memories of David take place here in Colorado. That's what I will write about.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbuQrzWL4BjtTpGFjq61TE7SgIBv_KFenMgg3dHjr-tmvJ_I3k5LbGR12NZlBd6OjEZoBrlUVYWi8wI8vX54Lc3Nm4f-xdezUZF9sNGdTIefPhR4Qj9ztwArWH1OmwdAod3pj2AYy9dcc/s1725/Negative161.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1725" data-original-width="1641" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbuQrzWL4BjtTpGFjq61TE7SgIBv_KFenMgg3dHjr-tmvJ_I3k5LbGR12NZlBd6OjEZoBrlUVYWi8wI8vX54Lc3Nm4f-xdezUZF9sNGdTIefPhR4Qj9ztwArWH1OmwdAod3pj2AYy9dcc/s320/Negative161.jpg" width="304" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ken holding David, Charlotte with Doyle<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">David was born February 28, 1964 and first visited Colorado the summer of 1966. His brother was a little over a year old that summer and old enough to travel. These photos were taken during that visit. I don't know if there was a baby bed set up or if Ken and family shared a bed in his old room upstairs in his parents' modest home. I do know those stairs to the upstairs rooms were steep and narrow.</span><br /></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYH_NnYskPlsMrVK655gC6TMV6KLvwYY5I0ZOw2-_ddNkXnyFR4PdJTiv-_BptLoR4WX4bL6dN2aur5oNKHf2NUI7b3nGzDPFcnjViQN-TiHzYqBuxpe9ubdXAnGVLsdjN61b7l4Cri7c/s960/dddave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="922" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYH_NnYskPlsMrVK655gC6TMV6KLvwYY5I0ZOw2-_ddNkXnyFR4PdJTiv-_BptLoR4WX4bL6dN2aur5oNKHf2NUI7b3nGzDPFcnjViQN-TiHzYqBuxpe9ubdXAnGVLsdjN61b7l4Cri7c/s320/dddave.jpg" width="307" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">By the next visit the boys had girl cousins to play with and their grandpa provided them with kiddie cars, tricycles, and plenty of places to explore. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Angie, Cyndee, Doyle and David<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpym9uIk4Qs0KaXU775cL_Vx3TI7d-Hyk15HcLK8FqpvN6R1y3EQGBB5aoZAKyACTUy7h5wrsfYefV6_Si7w17Ydu2HWadaLCnl6dN70uw4vTNTD2fM3TsjqjsZa1FsYgb289-ixs2R9Q/s960/ccdave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="914" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpym9uIk4Qs0KaXU775cL_Vx3TI7d-Hyk15HcLK8FqpvN6R1y3EQGBB5aoZAKyACTUy7h5wrsfYefV6_Si7w17Ydu2HWadaLCnl6dN70uw4vTNTD2fM3TsjqjsZa1FsYgb289-ixs2R9Q/s320/ccdave.jpg" width="305" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Doyle, Ken, David <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFgxhSWWh2JExObVRxZGJcUr2A_FdyFiCQLURapk0gtyFjArPBJncRu5kbMYauPTgynNt2lUdCio3WvyPE_RloRiD3jwJVKWEy58S6X4Dy8QrafoGEB6zPrvWiU-K4vz2hk7Cltt6nESw/s2048/DoyleAngieDavidCyncar.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1353" data-original-width="2048" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFgxhSWWh2JExObVRxZGJcUr2A_FdyFiCQLURapk0gtyFjArPBJncRu5kbMYauPTgynNt2lUdCio3WvyPE_RloRiD3jwJVKWEy58S6X4Dy8QrafoGEB6zPrvWiU-K4vz2hk7Cltt6nESw/s320/DoyleAngieDavidCyncar.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> Doyle, Angie, David, Cyndee<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoO1TqOnSEyF6gLsgbYTYsOT8uN4RBhA-jkDfMPb-S0qvbGeTJcRAgO8de_Cxo87Q_BD54sgjehWL5VLxOkF89zHvAWfNQUIBE3rJxW4Y5xod1lnp8nJaCrUM7bXBlb61NPuHQ2gzuSqM/s960/eedave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="759" data-original-width="960" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoO1TqOnSEyF6gLsgbYTYsOT8uN4RBhA-jkDfMPb-S0qvbGeTJcRAgO8de_Cxo87Q_BD54sgjehWL5VLxOkF89zHvAWfNQUIBE3rJxW4Y5xod1lnp8nJaCrUM7bXBlb61NPuHQ2gzuSqM/s320/eedave.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> Doyle and David, June 1976<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_7RR9fA9xzNqEZNRQWqd5i-KAuIAFuTF2Rrkp-cuEhl-6Vli50nIb9c-lkCgTyuFQtQfLeDVDxdqWVLzDDeuJq_kwN0bqGE_CQ05lYSY0c7l8zcy6DeFdRliOgGpi8SSRPCy6xILtWL4/s960/kkdave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="732" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_7RR9fA9xzNqEZNRQWqd5i-KAuIAFuTF2Rrkp-cuEhl-6Vli50nIb9c-lkCgTyuFQtQfLeDVDxdqWVLzDDeuJq_kwN0bqGE_CQ05lYSY0c7l8zcy6DeFdRliOgGpi8SSRPCy6xILtWL4/s320/kkdave.jpg" width="244" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx6Jp1UGlgySWqt9JXiX-LyvbdLycr3c1f_BIlTsPkMSULww1Gj-1D4OxlRTAdYMakWTivUhDr6oHkuP7uv4uG0L5HI4iQA8f8CF0YbX2h0DkWPQMtL7gcoHTLdDcodAkqvqdExg-dnlQ/s960/jjdave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="762" data-original-width="960" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx6Jp1UGlgySWqt9JXiX-LyvbdLycr3c1f_BIlTsPkMSULww1Gj-1D4OxlRTAdYMakWTivUhDr6oHkuP7uv4uG0L5HI4iQA8f8CF0YbX2h0DkWPQMtL7gcoHTLdDcodAkqvqdExg-dnlQ/s320/jjdave.jpg" width="320" /></a><p></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Frances cooked delicious meals for her grandsons, taught them canasta, introduced them to chocolate popcorn, and loved them dearly. She traveled back to Lexington almost every year to stay with them and their dad.</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-p-L9GeQweAVbbLY6hlK8bjpvJK6SE2QoYQka7xMjLh_6toQfL8OPFb4UTV9a5tXGa0BjoQQC95zpEaIyMstKRDIo2NX47HvQCTV_wIPvWZCrtSwVBEBhB2GMwR5bNjbB1kmVT8Bat7I/s2048/ffdave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1625" data-original-width="2048" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-p-L9GeQweAVbbLY6hlK8bjpvJK6SE2QoYQka7xMjLh_6toQfL8OPFb4UTV9a5tXGa0BjoQQC95zpEaIyMstKRDIo2NX47HvQCTV_wIPvWZCrtSwVBEBhB2GMwR5bNjbB1kmVT8Bat7I/s320/ffdave.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Doyle, David, and Doyle<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDswK7AZ-Se7Gqnv9ojsSuhA27NCC2Y1Aa1GX7XSarKJwgrwUn9O8izA0k2E6wsRkp0Tgx67C_diUZ5zVT3UMk6I70CrWviHIYR3s5kC3-GWvMOwm3Y4x7_dx0pRb0G1bWyV1qtrJ2DwE/s960/iidave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="763" data-original-width="960" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDswK7AZ-Se7Gqnv9ojsSuhA27NCC2Y1Aa1GX7XSarKJwgrwUn9O8izA0k2E6wsRkp0Tgx67C_diUZ5zVT3UMk6I70CrWviHIYR3s5kC3-GWvMOwm3Y4x7_dx0pRb0G1bWyV1qtrJ2DwE/s320/iidave.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">David on Pal<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhavtG6LOuf4MfWaa5YV1XjPyXVlz_6d-eDsTGlZoGl54tnB7drzeBn8FbxfSpktkJgVMQyDeWW4vXW_S6ulT4iWUAxfDR7YNhjcADz7qCEK4lFdD_4j4dOF_iU4Mqh4kAA-OeQ1dGgROo/s960/ggdave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="763" data-original-width="960" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhavtG6LOuf4MfWaa5YV1XjPyXVlz_6d-eDsTGlZoGl54tnB7drzeBn8FbxfSpktkJgVMQyDeWW4vXW_S6ulT4iWUAxfDR7YNhjcADz7qCEK4lFdD_4j4dOF_iU4Mqh4kAA-OeQ1dGgROo/s320/ggdave.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Doyle and David <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPI9INYjr6MCyPeoyDL3dq9UAplYHyDkPHji8ZUusv2pxhmKzxo7VBwuoWK_mUOua_xaNQJqC-BPYur-nijnldvBYEAaEWxsFA5EdqbpejZMS7ty_By0TfLRSJzr64oc7KNt8Ipae2Xlk/s960/Russellgrandkids8.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPI9INYjr6MCyPeoyDL3dq9UAplYHyDkPHji8ZUusv2pxhmKzxo7VBwuoWK_mUOua_xaNQJqC-BPYur-nijnldvBYEAaEWxsFA5EdqbpejZMS7ty_By0TfLRSJzr64oc7KNt8Ipae2Xlk/s320/Russellgrandkids8.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Cyn, Doyle, Angie, David, Pat<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2HWi4qyzoMjeHELgljzPym8juuMFlSDbZdRRVoI4ruliLOEs7Wpy6kzLvmFM5V_fBburbx5738oexlUjyqLNtExh0kAb8plth4MAgtRmi8fC60RnCPLk5O1DYIG_Yp0_tDe93khPshk4/s960/Russellgrandkids3+-+Copy.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="894" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2HWi4qyzoMjeHELgljzPym8juuMFlSDbZdRRVoI4ruliLOEs7Wpy6kzLvmFM5V_fBburbx5738oexlUjyqLNtExh0kAb8plth4MAgtRmi8fC60RnCPLk5O1DYIG_Yp0_tDe93khPshk4/s320/Russellgrandkids3+-+Copy.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Angie, Cyndee, David<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXZeByXEFBcjSFrebnZiY538fplKx113iZmzljpyhZIYqDQcE5mK8QxcBLNcnQFwbqe_c7vQGrkdjqcF7DZuTtxfJKGU20BEg933kKWNCH6Awu0D4zaIA4BBfLl7A3tRQzlJZc9ECbp30/s960/lldave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXZeByXEFBcjSFrebnZiY538fplKx113iZmzljpyhZIYqDQcE5mK8QxcBLNcnQFwbqe_c7vQGrkdjqcF7DZuTtxfJKGU20BEg933kKWNCH6Awu0D4zaIA4BBfLl7A3tRQzlJZc9ECbp30/s320/lldave.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /> Exploring</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4flbkBxfIKHnTE5bM4Pi4CJvyZzkW0SSbbckXQhlAgdx21dkAgfrnXcPWFASlXtbpL45qmcRQnsLoiqXG_zwYOSDW5qtOXTpsy7GfVUUqByxBA_RApGn9URYs6mCZCZKqZLtVktqXh7w/s960/mmdave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="767" data-original-width="960" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4flbkBxfIKHnTE5bM4Pi4CJvyZzkW0SSbbckXQhlAgdx21dkAgfrnXcPWFASlXtbpL45qmcRQnsLoiqXG_zwYOSDW5qtOXTpsy7GfVUUqByxBA_RApGn9URYs6mCZCZKqZLtVktqXh7w/s320/mmdave.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">David with little chickens<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMdwyXu7pMvr80a1YRtigVpkm-EHKaj1TS7RmKiWOL2C32fFohK-cAbzXf0bJFvPw8ipN92isMvaaMLPiYYATqBLGeuOYMh8JOQG_v8MTysfS5vapduxV4oHwoBEhTk1qjXJNBI_VU2-E/s960/nndave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="774" data-original-width="960" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMdwyXu7pMvr80a1YRtigVpkm-EHKaj1TS7RmKiWOL2C32fFohK-cAbzXf0bJFvPw8ipN92isMvaaMLPiYYATqBLGeuOYMh8JOQG_v8MTysfS5vapduxV4oHwoBEhTk1qjXJNBI_VU2-E/s320/nndave.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">David with gopher?<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgFLUyNXBGM71cdDg3unzdrWAuEaDoGPJ94joc-54XqqQV5Aaac5XpRmjwLEfxH_kBdqXNbiNA6xIBdN9JsazXaLPBnVLOH8Y9TAVaeJt9OXkfWw-rb0nXBu2B9o4_QT2FQbZM6qVD2oE/s960/qqdave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="960" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgFLUyNXBGM71cdDg3unzdrWAuEaDoGPJ94joc-54XqqQV5Aaac5XpRmjwLEfxH_kBdqXNbiNA6xIBdN9JsazXaLPBnVLOH8Y9TAVaeJt9OXkfWw-rb0nXBu2B9o4_QT2FQbZM6qVD2oE/s320/qqdave.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">David with a pet dog on top of hay bales<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> <br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2T0ooXwo3SGGOomXmwz30irW6g0L-A7hQiIS4IHJoG_susfschPEYx8sc1Ylo9D3TI8ebBYgcaR-6HaJJnjWtnkCoxSARWEF9bMM8zV7NEnvBSp5W_wLt5LVIPIKLwZw7GOmV8TsbrX8/s960/ppdave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="960" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2T0ooXwo3SGGOomXmwz30irW6g0L-A7hQiIS4IHJoG_susfschPEYx8sc1Ylo9D3TI8ebBYgcaR-6HaJJnjWtnkCoxSARWEF9bMM8zV7NEnvBSp5W_wLt5LVIPIKLwZw7GOmV8TsbrX8/s320/ppdave.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">the boys boxing<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD9JI931UuVMuHkvFV1PZ7c3v24A-Lm9bGK-otncvHyLx5cvf7pBWTVZZYdpNMLomzpSCKFhUwwE8JProwmShz-z2RAmOylsXc3-ZzGzAWlJHEwnTWr1F-grBmJdx0lLdpbL80yqJ-nIk/s960/oodave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="767" data-original-width="960" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD9JI931UuVMuHkvFV1PZ7c3v24A-Lm9bGK-otncvHyLx5cvf7pBWTVZZYdpNMLomzpSCKFhUwwE8JProwmShz-z2RAmOylsXc3-ZzGzAWlJHEwnTWr1F-grBmJdx0lLdpbL80yqJ-nIk/s320/oodave.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjicQef-2qKwnq6bXP3gz5YgKtwIIvqiH0sfrOu9KMmh3jFQ6fwcMXwNvABmLFvNOKZ5liklQKZUhGpHxy_q_G902vOtXVnWmfCWHXeuYqDBXLqUWjmBc3MN8SxCYBysyOLrPXiBMOEOQ8/s960/rrdave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="773" data-original-width="960" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjicQef-2qKwnq6bXP3gz5YgKtwIIvqiH0sfrOu9KMmh3jFQ6fwcMXwNvABmLFvNOKZ5liklQKZUhGpHxy_q_G902vOtXVnWmfCWHXeuYqDBXLqUWjmBc3MN8SxCYBysyOLrPXiBMOEOQ8/s320/rrdave.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">Grandpa Doyle always had work for the boys, sometimes roof repair on the house, sometimes cleaning out the grain silos in preparation for storing the current year's wheat which was his main crop. And there was always rye to pull out of the wheat fields. <br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">On top of the grain silo<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0zy4OWndMTyHAbmHWC3UdoeLBZnj8r8IOhdvHLxRmZKE1CiM5dl24md6XKgSxlgCFd50ZcWJGf6Cw5RJy1pgANYX3MSQ83PSWM_L05ypa69UiY5rGJqRqPvoDFCg_M0G_WsMoZC47joE/s960/ssdave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="757" data-original-width="960" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0zy4OWndMTyHAbmHWC3UdoeLBZnj8r8IOhdvHLxRmZKE1CiM5dl24md6XKgSxlgCFd50ZcWJGf6Cw5RJy1pgANYX3MSQ83PSWM_L05ypa69UiY5rGJqRqPvoDFCg_M0G_WsMoZC47joE/s320/ssdave.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">Doyle, Grandpa Doyle, and David<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4B3xIYmHV4on4WtGjNLXLSTkM45HaQAe8chyphenhyphenAi_DsMuJ8kVeXnUKNnm5Mu2ycudhl3GzEKuGf2pc8uJowSshJT6mh0VkLooVqsFjUWVMux083aOcp_rkFtd3beevoG0uKnky2GkTOxh4/s960/ttdave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="960" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4B3xIYmHV4on4WtGjNLXLSTkM45HaQAe8chyphenhyphenAi_DsMuJ8kVeXnUKNnm5Mu2ycudhl3GzEKuGf2pc8uJowSshJT6mh0VkLooVqsFjUWVMux083aOcp_rkFtd3beevoG0uKnky2GkTOxh4/s320/ttdave.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">watching Grandpa work<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRLrQVBNLIQoXouqFmHivWQAB1YTb5MCNjZr1ahc0wtMO2Rhq3rVO_tzaz8WSRoe9cLFnGG7Tabn6U6rZrpIzDaxoGbbC_frk-STU2NnEuASRHVit0beLHAvE4LAB5mg18CQAZzSU0Jio/s960/vvdave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="741" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRLrQVBNLIQoXouqFmHivWQAB1YTb5MCNjZr1ahc0wtMO2Rhq3rVO_tzaz8WSRoe9cLFnGG7Tabn6U6rZrpIzDaxoGbbC_frk-STU2NnEuASRHVit0beLHAvE4LAB5mg18CQAZzSU0Jio/s320/vvdave.jpg" width="247" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">David shot a rabbit<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5oUFyVyM3W4KBKBd4cEhSpJHQxHh2dsm6EX7dAJ1f-q2psdD0f6ipANwwBkRxlgdTJyFoALiqOYIsEzBzi3kG3fW1IRfhepljZKNHn_ZnNs8egfF06-95f5CNf_juYfmqE118awB53Ow/s960/wwdave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="773" data-original-width="960" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5oUFyVyM3W4KBKBd4cEhSpJHQxHh2dsm6EX7dAJ1f-q2psdD0f6ipANwwBkRxlgdTJyFoALiqOYIsEzBzi3kG3fW1IRfhepljZKNHn_ZnNs8egfF06-95f5CNf_juYfmqE118awB53Ow/s320/wwdave.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">David sure loved dogs<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTOXkdzccPYjmHK7Mtk5Mw8YJJdV9COYdqk8eMlC37NTXj82KRbFrnsUBokxpCGGFw7UdUKUzG5cMKJAOogEHXCsVY1gM0UbJtssF_aQ-Kc2v_TEU_9E9sNsIzYu2HbiXgd5E38cUeyLk/s960/zzdave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="960" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTOXkdzccPYjmHK7Mtk5Mw8YJJdV9COYdqk8eMlC37NTXj82KRbFrnsUBokxpCGGFw7UdUKUzG5cMKJAOogEHXCsVY1gM0UbJtssF_aQ-Kc2v_TEU_9E9sNsIzYu2HbiXgd5E38cUeyLk/s320/zzdave.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">Grandpa Doyle and David<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN2KHhh-NYdlGNP-kZcT_u9mUst1H7srvkYuQaAAvA82Kr3NnxYcN-5J_4LyRH3-1O7_hlKjcQ54swUOpwwP9t9C-8IbxfFkEGlAdEpPx4ykga_0uogxh8p5KD79tPtP7DuY42uKxG0kQ/s960/yydave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="729" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN2KHhh-NYdlGNP-kZcT_u9mUst1H7srvkYuQaAAvA82Kr3NnxYcN-5J_4LyRH3-1O7_hlKjcQ54swUOpwwP9t9C-8IbxfFkEGlAdEpPx4ykga_0uogxh8p5KD79tPtP7DuY42uKxG0kQ/s320/yydave.jpg" width="243" /></a></div>new haircut<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXOi-kzFLhbz9fmAX4gpOmanxY3_2JXoRmHpsR0mvMlPkwWiegyNUYares7x-ohU7Je0K-4u9eGxYZnMDDXVHHP7Q-NXBE5r4Ipkf1CGUKydeaa2dlrNZjVdqnjjlf484yAQmmaL3ZsPs/s960/xxdave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="773" data-original-width="960" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXOi-kzFLhbz9fmAX4gpOmanxY3_2JXoRmHpsR0mvMlPkwWiegyNUYares7x-ohU7Je0K-4u9eGxYZnMDDXVHHP7Q-NXBE5r4Ipkf1CGUKydeaa2dlrNZjVdqnjjlf484yAQmmaL3ZsPs/s320/xxdave.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">What's in the tub?<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdcKboOK3Kx6fVrt2HGPndqKXakPU_3Wf4pS-SPYRxs-Dez05_Ilq0Bzy8Dy1L2sOfOQFOxYUtUCE18vPbgYVDa-ieA7TX0EgDyXuvipVKdSsRS_LADAgoJiG68OSrXP7nMyB1CnjoOf8/s960/22dave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="772" data-original-width="960" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdcKboOK3Kx6fVrt2HGPndqKXakPU_3Wf4pS-SPYRxs-Dez05_Ilq0Bzy8Dy1L2sOfOQFOxYUtUCE18vPbgYVDa-ieA7TX0EgDyXuvipVKdSsRS_LADAgoJiG68OSrXP7nMyB1CnjoOf8/s320/22dave.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">Goofing around in the old outhouse<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF_fJTUXi_qPE9Hr2-Oh2tfcJME4oiUIsWkYCpCNilIHmqS1lsF6ChNn5751fhcVJ8fSMikcCj91EADiWBl-oRVuGJR7KubiGzB2gU66-6auXZvqUa4qUFv9ts3tYvZqqADPd_0jkHuio/s960/33dave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="767" data-original-width="960" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF_fJTUXi_qPE9Hr2-Oh2tfcJME4oiUIsWkYCpCNilIHmqS1lsF6ChNn5751fhcVJ8fSMikcCj91EADiWBl-oRVuGJR7KubiGzB2gU66-6auXZvqUa4qUFv9ts3tYvZqqADPd_0jkHuio/s320/33dave.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Three generations of Russell men, August 1980<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaGMHdTZhEe9CUpoSx88wITqUgpBYUyIDfZHIF0x8h1GawFYCvDODTPj47LeHBjewixK4x8n1d1z24Nf3AOLBi82fVccn6-MUgb7nQbtKgpEQ97kNLAu_G-qhctd2R_WOlMBL4qW3yvtw/s960/44dave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="762" data-original-width="960" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaGMHdTZhEe9CUpoSx88wITqUgpBYUyIDfZHIF0x8h1GawFYCvDODTPj47LeHBjewixK4x8n1d1z24Nf3AOLBi82fVccn6-MUgb7nQbtKgpEQ97kNLAu_G-qhctd2R_WOlMBL4qW3yvtw/s320/44dave.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></span><span style="font-family: arial;">dressing chickens, August 1982</span><p><span style="font-family: arial;">a yucky job for a city kid, or any kid<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZvIqqtSLLOlYENq8HuKhD01xguU7qTlrgYgbUk9doxED8QRn6JAetQFsg18Z3jxex2lJuiuL4jk0hapG1O6nFG9XBUcUSgFywFFVmz9r849505Xv_lS165jK6WUzolRnSiqZb07K685g/s960/77dave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="741" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZvIqqtSLLOlYENq8HuKhD01xguU7qTlrgYgbUk9doxED8QRn6JAetQFsg18Z3jxex2lJuiuL4jk0hapG1O6nFG9XBUcUSgFywFFVmz9r849505Xv_lS165jK6WUzolRnSiqZb07K685g/s320/77dave.jpg" width="247" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">outhouse at the McConnell place<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnaXKKV1ojWoVyl_z8-ohaA3pmJ5fzZEPuhBA9QpqltJdyDcHwzIbZ_QbB8Y5srvh2mZQf0a-yOy02UXMZX67aAl-1oTM_Jzf-Yrzsbxcs6ZW8TPH5S06SuUlYwmezHnBaJ1MUyBWV4FQ/s960/55dave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="770" data-original-width="960" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnaXKKV1ojWoVyl_z8-ohaA3pmJ5fzZEPuhBA9QpqltJdyDcHwzIbZ_QbB8Y5srvh2mZQf0a-yOy02UXMZX67aAl-1oTM_Jzf-Yrzsbxcs6ZW8TPH5S06SuUlYwmezHnBaJ1MUyBWV4FQ/s320/55dave.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">riding on the grain drill just like his Uncle Bob did for many years, same grain drill<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb1Tt1G2ET6mlgxY2Es6-1LxKo40JqvuGdFaoHTGoExrzlpkLfv4dQAvH32Jg3jcD9kfQceI2b2HC1JOsY7VsWM96qvrRjwBEetpsytj2HPEN_Rro9SVuhFWT2j2q3qCM9XKmaLFRcRp0/s960/66dave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="764" data-original-width="960" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb1Tt1G2ET6mlgxY2Es6-1LxKo40JqvuGdFaoHTGoExrzlpkLfv4dQAvH32Jg3jcD9kfQceI2b2HC1JOsY7VsWM96qvrRjwBEetpsytj2HPEN_Rro9SVuhFWT2j2q3qCM9XKmaLFRcRp0/s320/66dave.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">August 1982 </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Driving tractors <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">We knew David as a talkative, animated boy who loved his grandparents and their lifestyle, and cared deeply for little animals. He had a Boston accent and talked very fast so listening to him as he sat in their kitchen and told stories about his life back in Massachusetts was highly entertaining. He was irreverent, funny, opinionated, profane and gentle. His Uncle Bob and I are thankful we knew David and shared some happy times together. Goodbye, David. My memories of you are all good and the last time we texted in August of 2020 you still had your sense of humor and talked of maybe moving out to Colorado. We all long to return to a place and time when we were happy.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">David died Monday July 26, 2021 in Massachusetts and will be buried next to his wife Teresa. <br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02695106735082209909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500243801199869021.post-48887364701915286612020-02-16T12:14:00.002-08:002020-03-22T17:54:16.839-07:00Bob's and Bill's Big Adventure<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Now that we are old retired folks who spend a lot of time
together, just the two of us, we often reminisce. Yesterday the subject of
Bob’s Grandma Russell came up in conversation and his mind went back to that
February in 1962 when he and his buddy Bill West stayed a few days with Addie
Jane Mahaffey Russell in her rustic home near Cass, Arkansas, one of only three
times Bob ever saw his grandma. His memory is so accurate that he can recall
her exact words, and his descriptions of the scenes and events paint colorful moving
murals in my mind. Although I was not there, not even a part of the Russell family
in 1962, I want to tell this story so that it doesn’t get away, so our kids
have a glimpse of “Bob's and Bill’s Big Adventure”.</div>
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The adventure was more than a stay with Grandma in Arkansas,
so much more. Imagine two nineteen-yr-old boys driving an oil burning 1949
Pontiac Coupe from northern Colorado to Winter Park, Florida, with less than two
hundred dollars between them, lured to the sunshine state by the promise of
good jobs and easy living, “fruit hanging from trees, ripe for the picking”, as
described by their friend Bill Hartwig, recently married and an Air Force
airman. “You can stay with me and Linda while you look for jobs.” Who could
resist an offer like that?</div>
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Bob Russell and Bill West graduated from Wellington
High School in May of 1961 having
supplemented their formal education by enrolling in a drafting course through
ICS, International Correspondence School. They started their first class the
night John F. Kennedy was elected. That summer they both found local jobs, Bob
as a carpenter and Bill an employee of the State driving a mowing machine along
the highways. Bill’s income was substantial, enough for him to buy the shiny
black Pontiac Coupe from Mr. Reed, so much down with monthly payments. </div>
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Bob planned to enter CSU
in the winter semester after Christmas so he quit his job as carpenter for a
local Mormon church and arranged for his friend Duane Johnson to take his
place. But something went awry with his college admissions and he found himself
at loose ends. Bill Hartwig’s invitation suddenly seemed the answer. Bill’s
mowing job had petered out with bad weather so he, too, thought a trip to Florida
was a good idea. Bob's parents were not in favor of his going to Florida and Bill's mother had her misgivings but standing behind her Bill's dad, Jack West, indicated with a jerk of his thumb that he thought otherwise, that it was time for Bill to go.</div>
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In January of 1962 Bill West pulled out of Wellington,
Colorado, in his twenty-year-old Pontiac
coupe, his best friend beside him, headed south. That first night they stayed
in a motel and the following morning ate a hearty breakfast before one of them
had the good sense to put pencil to paper and realize at the rate they were
spending money they would run out long before they reached Florida.
Somehow they had spent half their savings and were still in Colorado!
That was the last night in a motel. After that one drove while the other slept and they lived on
baloney sandwiches.</div>
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The cross country trip was not straight forward, no I-70 or
I-40. They meandered along two-lane highways in a southeasterly direction
adding oil to the car at about the same rate they added gasoline. They found gas for 19 cents a gallon somewhere in Texas but it seemed watery. In Dallas,
Texas, the distributor cap broke, and then
in Grand Saline, Texas, near the Louisiana
border, a valve lifter broke. Fortunately, both of these young men were good
mechanics. Had they not been they would never have made it to Florida in the Pontiac.The weather was wet and cold all across the south. </div>
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Six long days after pulling out of Wellington
they drove up to the Hartwig’s place, a very small rental house tucked behind a
larger house in Winter Park, Florida. It’s a
good thing they all knew one another well for there was no privacy, barely room
to eat and sleep comfortably. Then the job search began. In retrospect, Florida
in the wintertime was no place for an inexperienced young man to find a good
job. The place was overrun with retirees looking for part time work and
snowbirds fleeing the cold, northern states, willing to do anything to stay in Florida.
And those oranges and lemons hanging from trees, ripe for the picking, they
were on private property! However, there was some citrus fruit growing on the
property where Bill and Linda lived and one morning Linda served Bill West a
grapefruit for breakfast, even scoring the individual triangles of fruit for
easy eating. When he put the first juicy piece in his mouth he discovered she
had tricked him! He was eating a lemon, as large as the grapefruits back home,
but oh, so sour.</div>
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Bob tried selling encyclopedias, door to door, but didn’t
make a dime. Then he got a job as an electronics technician after agreeing to
pay a fee to the company that found the job for him. That fee cut into his
weekly wage considerably. Money was short for everyone. Linda cooked supper
with whatever the guys brought home, mostly living on spaghetti. Bob became
adept at sleight of hand in the grocery store, coming home with the all makings
for spaghetti while only paying for the pasta. There was no meat in this
spaghetti, just dried spaghetti noodles, dried mix, and tomato paste. They
jokingly called it 2 for 1 spaghetti. For every two ingredients picked up at
the store they paid for one. Cigarettes were a luxury they could barely afford and
when Bill still hadn’t landed a job the other two smokers told Bill he’d have
to improvise. He noticed the local high school kids parked their cars near the
Hartwig’s back yard and they left their cigarettes in the cars with the doors
unlocked. Bill took just a couple of cigarettes out of each pack he came
across, not too choosy about brands. </div>
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Bill recalls a memorable incident at a park. While looking
for a space to park the car they noticed one corner where no one had parked.
They checked it out, didn’t find any signs prohibiting parking, so they drove
in and got out of the car. But it wasn’t too long until they discovered there
was a flock of nearby gulls who were scooping up snails then dropping them onto
the car, hoping to break open the shells and make a meal of the snails inside.
If you didn’t want your car dented you didn’t park in that corner of the park.
I particularly like this memory of Bill’s because he is a birder, and now I
know he was a birder way back then.</div>
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After a few weeks of living on the edge, realizing good jobs
were nowhere to be found, and learning that the Hartwig’s landlord was
complaining that he had rented his property to two people and now there were
four living there, the fellas made the decision to leave Florida and drive
north to Anderson, South Carolina, where Bob’s older sister Mary was living
with her husband, Barron Simms, and their dog Hector. They left Florida
with a few dollars in their pockets owing the last month’s payment to the job
agency. </div>
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Within a day of arriving at the Simms’s Mary found jobs
for the both of them, soda jerk for Bill and gas station attendant for Bob. The
only thing she has ever told me about the two weeks the guys lived with her is
that when she went to wash their clothes she threw away their underwear – the
washing machine couldn’t save them. Hector was a purebred beagle show dog, prone to running away from home. His short legs would hold out for the first 50 yards or so before he slowed. On one of his escapades Bill chased him down, grabbed him by the nape of the neck and his tail and carried him that way back to the house with Hector trying his best to reach back and bite Bill.<br />
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One night after supper Barron was seated at the head of the table and Bob directly across from him, his back against the glass-fronted china hutch. Bill was on Bob's right. Bob had a deck of cards and they were trying to prove or disprove telepathy. Bob would hold up a card so only he could see it and sharp-eyed Barron would give a subtle nod or movement to his head indicating Bob should tilt the card slightly so that the reflection in the glass behind him allowed better viewing. Then Barron would hem and haw, saying "I see a diamond...yes, yes, I see a three of diamonds!" Then Bob would slap down the card showing it was indeed a three of diamonds. Bill was flabbergasted. They all had a good laugh at Bill's expense that evening.</div>
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While working at the gas station Bob discovered it was a
cover operation for a gambling ring.<br />
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Nobody cared much about what he was doing
with his time so he took the opportunity to rebuild the car and outfit it with
four new tires. After two weeks of seven twelve hour days Bob saved the entire $80 wages. Bill saved all his money too and sometime in February the two of them took off for Arkansas
where they planned to visit Bob’s widowed grandmother before continuing on
to Colorado. </div>
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Meanwhile, they discovered that the license plates on Bill’s
car were about to expire so Bill asked his mother to order the plates and send
them to Cass, Arkansas.
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The trip from Anderson, South
Carolina, to Cass, Arkansas,
was uneventful and smooth riding on those new tires. When they arrived in Ozark,
Arkansas, they asked directions to Cass. As
they pulled into Cass they saw a group of men butchering a hog and asked them
how to get to the Russell place. “Nobody smiled,” remembers Bob. He explained
he was the youngest son of Doyle Russell so they reluctantly gave him
directions to Addie Jane’s place. Bob admits he and Bill looked a little like
hippies with their long hair and goatees. Mary Simms cut their hair in South Carolina but apparently they "went to seed" rather quickly.</div>
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That night they slept in the unheated leanto room, under
feather beds, where they gazed at the stars through the cracks in the roof. It
was cold - so cold in that unheated room that Bill went back out to his car and brought in their sleeping bags. They stuffed them under the quilts and feather ticks with just their noses exposed. Early the next morning Grandma Russell called to them, “Get up, boys,
the good Lord has provided us meat for breakfast.” The neighbors who butchered
hogs the night before had come by to check on Addie and brought along some meat to
feed the visitors. </div>
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Grandma Russell cooked on a small rectangular stove which
she fed hickory sticks to maintain an even heat. She was 79-1/2 years old and had been living alone since January of 1960 when her husband Elias passed away. When Bob and Bill arrived unexpectedly Addie was living in her front room having walled off the other rooms with Army blankets hung across doorways. She cooked the boys a breakfast
of fresh pork steaks and fried potatoes, balancing the skillets on that narrow stove, at the same time warming that small room comfortably. They stayed with her for several days while they waited for the
license plates to arrive in the mail. Bill asked what they could do for her and
she told him he could chop firewood. He asked how much firewood she needed and
she answered, “Well, Bill, I will always need firewood.” So he started
chopping. That is the memory Bob told me about today.<br />
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He said someone had
brought his grandma a stack of hickory staves, slats from an old fence. They
were about half an inch thick, three inches wide, and four feet long. Hickory
is very hard, not at all like pine, more like metal. Bill’s experience in the
Colorado Boy Scouts had not prepared him for chopping hickory with a hand axe.
He would hit a piece of hickory only to have it bounce out unscathed and he
would have to chase it down before he could chop at it again. Slow going.</div>
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On one of the days they were in Cass they went over to Seldon’s
home, just over the hill from Addie Jane’s. Seldon was the eleventh of Elias and Addy's twelve children ,
Bob’s uncle. He had a bunch of kids and Bill has always liked kids. They had a
fun time that day and Bill was always referred to later as “that nice Mr.
West”. Another day of that visit Bill and Bob drove into Ozark to eat in a
diner. The waitress who came to their table took a long look at them and asked,
“What do you Yankee boys want?” Bill told Bob he thought those days were
behind us and Bob told him, “Not here, they’re not.” It may have been that day
in Ozark that the license plates arrived. Bill put them on his car, they said
their goodbyes to Grandma Russell, and once more headed west. That was the last
time Bob would see his Grandma Russell.</div>
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A couple of long days on the road brought them back home safely
to Wellington, tired and broke. By
April Bob had joined the Navy and would soon leave for boot camp. Bill could
not pass the military physical due to heart problems from rheumatic fever. He
enrolled in a school in Denver to
study Industrial Arts, rooming in a boarding house with strangers. So “Bob's and
Bill’s Big Adventure” came to an end….or did it? I think I need to amend that
title to “Bob's and Bill’s Big Adventure – the Florida Caper” for just as Tom
Swift had “…And His Flying Lab”, “…And His Atomic Earth Blaster”, “…And His
Ultrasonic Cycloplane”, Bob Russell and Bill West have their “Cozumel and the
Mayan Ruins Trek”, “Bonneville Salt Flats Adventure”, and “Ham Radio and Antennas
Experiment”, and more.The cartoon below, borrowed from the Internet, aptly depicts the relationship of these two guys, Bill and Bob, and why they've shared such interesting adventures throughout their lives. Carol West and I are happy to be a part of it all. Oh, one last thing, Bob says they didn't meet any girls on their trip, not one!<br />
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Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02695106735082209909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500243801199869021.post-89117577113051616852020-02-12T19:01:00.002-08:002020-02-12T19:26:35.229-08:00"From There to Here", Frances Russell wrote her autobiography.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana";">Frances Russell, my
mother-in-law, wrote her autobiography in the 1980s, writing it longhand on lined paper in the evenings after
supper was over and the dishes done. Relying on her seven-years-older sister
Ola May to provide details of the family’s early life, Frances created an entertaining journal which she titled “From There to Here”, beginning with
her parents’ wedding in Oklahoma in 1910 and ending with present-day life for
Frances in Colorado in the mid 1980s. After she completed the biography she Zeroxed a couple of copies for family to read. Upon finishing his reading her
older son, Kenneth, the apple of his mother’s eye, told her that she had left
out “the good stuff.” He suggested she rewrite her life’s story and put in some
of the more juicy details about her life and that of the family. So, she
rewrote her story and I have copies of both versions. What I found is that in
doing the rewrite she severely edited portions of the narrative. Yes, she did
add some details that were fun to read, some “juicy incidents” but she also
deleted details that I wish she hadn’t. Below is one example, her description
of that time in 1954 when her two older children graduated from high school in </span><span style="font-family: "verdana";">Wellington</span><span style="font-family: "verdana";">, </span><span style="font-family: "verdana";">Colorado</span><span style="font-family: "verdana";">, then moved to </span><span style="font-family: "verdana";">Denver</span><span style="font-family: "verdana";"> to live with their Aunt Bertie, their dad’s oldest
sister, so they could find jobs and attend college. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana";">Excerpt from original
writing……..</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana";">Kenneth and Mary moved in
with Bertie the day after they graduated. I was still working at Woolworth’s
lunch counter. They packed up at home and came by and told me goodbye. Their both
moving out at once left a terrible empty place in our lives.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana";">It was not a happy trio
from the beginning. Trying to blend the lives of two independent, headstrong
teenagers and an old maid aunt very set in her ways was nearly an impossibility.
The kids went along with her weird, unreasonable ways for two months when she
threw one of her mad fits at Kenneth. He had dared to disobey her and went to a
movie. He picked up Mary from the drug store on his way home. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana";">She (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bertie</i>) was furious because Kenneth had
disobeyed her. She walked down to the drugstore, a distance of seven or eight
blocks. It was raining and by the time she walked back both ways, she was
soaking wet. She had insisted that Kenneth and Mary were never to open the door
when someone knocked, that is, until they found out who was knocking. So, when
she started banging on the door they ignored her, until Kenneth peeked out and
saw who it was. When he opened the door she started swinging at him. She
smacked him a good one. Somehow Kenneth managed to keep his cool, and instead
of hitting her back he packed up and moved out. He slept in his car that night,
then went over to my folks in </span><span style="font-family: "verdana";">Arvada</span><span style="font-family: "verdana";"> and moved in with them. He liked this much better.
Him and Daddy would sit and play canasta of an evening.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana";">Bertie went all out to do
things for Mary after Kenneth left. She helped Mary get a scholarship to </span><span style="font-family: "verdana";">Denver</span><span style="font-family: "verdana";"> </span><span style="font-family: "verdana";">University</span><span style="font-family: "verdana";">. Mary continued her job at the drug store. She enrolled in DU and
rode the bus to school and back. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana";">It was while she lived
with Bertie that she had to have her appendix out. Mary still owned a calf here
on the farm. It was shortly after Mary was home from the hospital that we
butchered the calf and took the meat down for her and Bertie.</span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana";">Revised edition……</span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana";">The year went fast, and the next May both Mary and
Kenneth graduated, both with high honors. Kenneth got a scholarship for four
years of college.</span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana";">That summer was somewhat of a disaster. Since jobs
were impossible to find around here, they both went to </span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana";">Denver</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana";"> to live
with Doyle’s sister Bertie. She had promised that with her help they could get
good jobs. The so-called good jobs were working in a drug store for Mary, and
for Kenneth it was delivery boy for a hamburger place in </span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana";">Aurora</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "verdana";">. She did
help Mary get a part scholarship. Kenneth entered CU that fall, and Mary
entered DU. We’ll just say it did not work out for Kenneth to stay with Bertie
so he moved in with my folks. Before the school year was over Mary also couldn’t
take any more and she moved out. </span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana";">Have you ever written a
long email only to hit the wrong button and have it disappear? If so, you know
that your rewrite will be much shorter and succinct for who approaches that
second writing with the same enthusiasm and patience? That’s what I see here in
</span><span style="font-family: "verdana";">Frances</span><span style="font-family: "verdana";">’s “From There to Here”. Her original writing has
more emotion, more gusto. I'm so glad we have both versions.</span></div>
Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02695106735082209909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500243801199869021.post-32026362081037785672017-08-28T19:38:00.003-07:002017-08-28T19:38:17.158-07:00Smith Family Curse Mystery Solved<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Since the time he was a young man Robert Doyle Russell knew
that he had a hearing problem. It didn’t prevent him from joining the Navy in
1962 where he passed the most rigorous training the Navy had and still has,
Basic Underwater Demolition / SEAL training, or BUD/S.
His particular loss was mostly in the lower range… thunder, deep male voices,
car mufflers. He learned to compensate for his hearing loss by reading lips and
limiting his social interactions to one on one conversations but by 1966 when
his Naval service was complete he knew he needed hearing aids.
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Bob’s mother, Frances Smith Russell, had struggled with her
own hearing problems for most of her life and as she aged the problems grew
worse. Each of Bob’s three siblings had hearing impairment of various degrees,
and so did several of their cousins, uncles, and grandfather. The family
realized there was a genetic problem affecting a wide range of Smith relatives.
</div>
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With the success of the Human Genome Project in 2003 when DNA
sequencing was declared successfully complete, scientists began to study the origins
of genetic medical problems in families, starting with those that are most
devastating. And soon after that, Bob’s sister Mary voiced her hope that
someday, hopefully in her lifetime, someone would study the genetic hearing
impairment of the Smith family. She thought perhaps a graduate student would be
interested in making the study the subject of his or her thesis. </div>
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In the summer of 2016 researchers at the University
of Iowa agreed to include our
extended Smith family in an ongoing study they are conducting to identify the
specific genes that are responsible for genetic hearing loss, and map the exact
location on the genes where the mutations occur, since gene mutations are the cause
of genetic hearing loss. Mary had named this family malady “The Smith Family
Curse” and corresponded with many of her relatives to determine who were
affected and to encourage their participation in the study. She also compiled
complex family trees and gathered audiograms from afflicted relatives. </div>
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In November of 2016 the U of I sent saliva DNA
test kits to key members of the family, those whose audiograms showed similar
patterns of limited range, approximately seven of the twenty-five interested in
participating. After months of waiting we received an answer to our question in
August 2017. The mutant gene causing the Smith Family Curse is <i>WFS1</i>, Allele1:
chr4:6304014G>A; NM_001145853:c.2492G>A, p.Gly831Asp, Allele 2: normal
allele. This was offered as further clarification: </div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Variants in <i>WFS1</i> are
associated with low frequency autosomal dominant non-syndromic hearing loss at
the DFNA6/14/36 locus.”</div>
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I don’t pretend to understand this well. But I have googled
this subject and these finding and offer this amateur’s take on the findings. From
this website, <a href="https://ghr.nlm.nih.gov/gene/WFS1">https://ghr.nlm.nih.gov/gene/WFS1</a>,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I learned: "The <i>WFS1</i> gene provides
instructions for producing a protein called wolframin that <u>is thought</u> to
regulate the amount of calcium in cells. A proper calcium balance is important
for many different cellular functions, including cell-to-cell communication,
the tensing (contraction) of muscles, and protein processing. The wolframin
protein is found in many different tissues, such as the pancreas, brain, heart,
bones, muscles, lungs, liver, and kidneys.</div>
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"Within cells, wolframin is located in the membrane of a
structure called the endoplasmic reticulum. Among its many activities, the
endoplasmic reticulum folds and modifies newly formed proteins so they have the
correct 3-dimensional shape to function properly. The endoplasmic reticulum
also helps transport proteins and other molecules to specific sites within the
cell or to the cell surface. Wolframin <u>is thought</u> to play a role in
protein folding and aid in the maintenance of endoplasmic reticulum function by
regulating calcium levels. In the pancreas, wolframin <u>may</u> help fold a
protein precursor of insulin (called proinsulin) into the mature hormone that
controls blood glucose levels. In the inner ear, wolframin <u>may</u> help
maintain the proper levels of calcium ions or other charged particles that are
essential for hearing." (I underlined those words “is thought” and “may” to
emphasize that researchers are still studying this protein and aren’t certain
of it’s functions.)</div>
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I also learned from reading various research papers found
online that because wolframin protein is not well understood in just how it
regulates calcium, among other things, the new gene editing technology, CRISPR,
is not being used at this time to edit this gene, at least not at the University
of Iowa. Until scientists really
understand all that wolframin does and how it does it, editing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">WFS1</i> to remove the mutation is risky. At
least, that is my understanding.</div>
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Apparently there are families in Japan,
the United States,
The Netherlands, and Spain
who, without being related to one another, show the same mutation of gene <i>WFS1</i>,
leading researches to surmise that there are locations on this gene that are
particularly susceptible to mutating. Fortunately for our family we did not
inherit the mutation of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">WFS1 </i>that
causes Wolfram Syndrome. You can read about that on this website: <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wolfram_syndrome">https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wolfram_syndrome</a>.
Also, that site has a good explanation of our Smith Family Curse, and I quote:
“<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">More than 30 <i>WFS1</i> mutations have
been identified in individuals with a form of nonsyndromic deafness (hearing
loss without related signs and symptoms affecting other parts of the body)
called DFNA6. Individuals with DFNA6 deafness cannot hear low tones
(low-frequency sounds), such as a tuba or the "m" in moon. DFNA6
hearing loss is unlike most forms of nonsyndromic deafness that affect high
tones (high-frequency sounds), such as birds chirping, or all frequencies of
sound. Most <i>WFS1</i> mutations replace one of the protein building blocks (amino
acids) used to make wolframin with an incorrect amino acid. One mutation
deletes an amino acid from wolframin. <i>WFS1</i> mutations probably alter the
3-dimensional shape of wolframin, which could affect its function. Because the
function of wolframin is unknown, however, it is unclear how <i>WFS1</i> mutations
cause hearing loss. Some researchers suggest that altered wolframin disturbs
the balance of charged particles in the inner ear, which interferes with the
hearing process.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">In conclusion, we
now know the cause of our family’s hereditary hearing loss, a gene mutation of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">WFS1</i>. We know that this mutation is rare
but widely dispersed across the globe. Some researchers believe it is more
common than we know because loss of the lower ranges of hearing don’t keep
people from understanding human voices like loss in the higher ranges.
Consequently, many people with low frequency loss probably don’t look for
genetic testing. And we know, too, that until wolframin protein is better
understood we will not be candidates for gene editing. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">I would like to thank everybody in our big, wonderful Smith family who participated in this study, including those who did not receive a saliva test from the University of Iowa. I was told that any family member can still participate (there is no deadline) but that the researchers require a blood sample now instead of a saliva sample. As quickly as DNA technology is changing and expanding I really expect to learn that gene editing to repair our family's gene mutation will become available someday soon. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><br /></span></div>
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Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02695106735082209909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500243801199869021.post-74627759250694168242016-08-24T16:16:00.000-07:002016-08-24T16:26:13.435-07:00Buckhanans, Smiths, and DNA<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">In July of this
year, 2016, our Smith Family was accepted into a nationwide study of genetic
hearing loss by the </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">University</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> of </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Iowa</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">, Department of Molecular Otolaryngology
& Renal Research Laboratory. As you, no doubt, know many of the descendants
of William Franklin Smith <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(1865-1921</i>)
and his wife Sarah Frances Buckhanan <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(1864-1937)
</i>suffer from a serious hearing impairment. The researchers at the U of I,
led by Dr. Richard J. H. Smith, will take our </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">DNA</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> samples, process them with their
state-of-the-art equipment, and identify the mutated gene or genes that have
caused this malady in our family. Identification alone will be a godsend. If
the study leads to treatment or cure then it will be a life changing result and
one we can all take pride in.</span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLYX_Njpp2kdBVNDN9zlc7_sDi5MEjAY5y9lJLznPPBkXrETyIA1AXqJpr5LkL5EPo0BOPMqBd1M7dQLywu635amsM0DaVfjuKxXVCtf9CxDkfWpq8zmmvJXoSeRj-SruVMxhOssEiOks/s1600/marysimms.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLYX_Njpp2kdBVNDN9zlc7_sDi5MEjAY5y9lJLznPPBkXrETyIA1AXqJpr5LkL5EPo0BOPMqBd1M7dQLywu635amsM0DaVfjuKxXVCtf9CxDkfWpq8zmmvJXoSeRj-SruVMxhOssEiOks/s1600/marysimms.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Mary R. Simms, a
gr-grandaughter of WF Smith and Sarah Buckhanan Smith, has made it her life’s
work to gather data from her family, including audiograms, genealogy charts,
and personal stories, and compile this information in book form which she
submitted to Dr. Smith’s research team. It will be instrumental in chasing this
gene mutation to its source. It is that source that I am writing about in this
blog.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Mary named the
hearing condition she shares with so many of her family the “Smith Family
Curse,” and that is appropriate, but it now seems that it was our Buckhanan
family who brought the gene mutation to our genetic makeup. That is an
assumption on my part and may be disproved or amended after the </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">DNA</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> study. I thought you might be curious
about the Buckhanan family, as I am.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrM2D7Bypg0wyKHRakzlEpxiy3O1OPSz0FaCkSLaYPAA0kDI7hAOomqUb66VD5ysYR-DLYV8Y3y1ljrsCaNvPdUeukv7Fvms3rEKkmhBYHrP5uKvXrpRLq6eQKRUvrQAUgqOaGZH90kDE/s1600/rogers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrM2D7Bypg0wyKHRakzlEpxiy3O1OPSz0FaCkSLaYPAA0kDI7hAOomqUb66VD5ysYR-DLYV8Y3y1ljrsCaNvPdUeukv7Fvms3rEKkmhBYHrP5uKvXrpRLq6eQKRUvrQAUgqOaGZH90kDE/s200/rogers.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">First, let me say
that I am no expert on the Buckhanan family, but we have a relative, Debbie
Cooper, who is. She is related to us Smiths this way; Sarah Frances Buckhanan
had an older sister named Mary Jane, and Mary Jane is Debbie Cooper’s gr-gr-grandmother.
Debbie’s sister, Barbara Rogers, has also become quite an authority on the
Buckhanan line and together these two sisters and their mother, Jane, have
gathered an amazing Buckhanan genealogical record. They gladly share it and I
will draw on their research to flesh out this family line of ours. Any errors
are mine for I’ve not kept up with the ongoing study of this branch of our
family tree.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT01_iA6VlWzvfvdF52_4oar1G982P1uhBvxVVELoJq5cy_pXLiRffbuWV8zgrA-TlJz7u-Cpyc7qYRVH5sV4xkuXrM3_yCBrFaPneMB1l5XoLPOE2HrB3gryIZ79DOyxklxg9ldHX_Gc/s1600/Sarahfrancesbuchanansmith2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT01_iA6VlWzvfvdF52_4oar1G982P1uhBvxVVELoJq5cy_pXLiRffbuWV8zgrA-TlJz7u-Cpyc7qYRVH5sV4xkuXrM3_yCBrFaPneMB1l5XoLPOE2HrB3gryIZ79DOyxklxg9ldHX_Gc/s200/Sarahfrancesbuchanansmith2.jpg" width="196" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">We’ll start with
Sarah Frances Buckhanan who is the mother of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Tom Smith, Ernest Smith, Rosa Smith, and Julia Smith…just to be clear
how she is related to you. Sarah was born </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">January 1, 1864</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> in </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Bentonville</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">, </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Arkansas</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> to John Littleton Trout Buckhanan and his
wife Elender Jane Keeling Buckhanan, the fourth of five children born to this
couple. Since this is a genealogy study and not her life story we’ll fast
forward to </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">December 24, 1887</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">, </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Grayson County</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">, </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Texas</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> when Sarah married her longtime friend and
neighbor William Franklin Smith, whose maternal grandmother was also a
Buckhanan, Elizabeth Jane Buckhanan McConnell. It is possible, even probable,
that the marriage of these two cousins, technically not first cousins but first
cousins once removed, increased the likelihood of that mutated gene we are
trying to identify affecting most of their descendants. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">The Buckhanan
family was a large, extended family who lived in and around War Eagle in
Benton County and later Madison County, Arkansas. Their name is found spelled various ways in old
documents of the time, Buckhannon, Buckhannan, Buchanan, and more. They
pronounced it like “buck” the deer, not like “bu” and in beautiful. John
Littleton Trout Buckhanan was born </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">April 26, 1834</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> in Madison County, Arkansas, to John
Montgomery Buckhanan and his wife Catherinie Airheart, one of eleven children.
John and Catherine were both from </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Tennessee</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">. One of their children, Reaghta “Rollie”
H., born about 1840, was listed as deaf in a census record. We don’t have any
other accounts of hearing loss in that family but hope to connect with other
Buchannan descendants and compare family histories as this </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">DNA</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> study progresses. John was a tanner and
postmaster, a successful man in War Eagle. A relative, Andrew, was a
Presbyterian minister. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Now that this
study is underway my curiosity about the Buckhanans just went up about 10
notches. I will write again when I’ve learned more about them. I’d really like
to know how many generations of this family carried the mutated gene and where
it came in. Did a Buckhanan man marry a woman with that gene and if so what was
her last name?</span></div>
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Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02695106735082209909noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500243801199869021.post-17327211613573762572016-08-04T11:59:00.000-07:002016-08-04T11:59:03.025-07:00Palisade Peaches<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Summer of 1952, Doyle Russell loaded up his family of six,
into their 1929 Chevrolet truck, leaking fumes and outfitted with a homemade
canvas cover stretched over the back, a truck Doyle’s daughter Mary
affectionately dubbed “Tooky” for that was the sound the engine made as it
puttered along, tooky, tooky, tooky…, and ventured away from his once-again-hailed-out
wheat crop in Weld County, chugged up over the Continental Divide, and moseyed into
the high valley country of Western Colorado, peach country. His hope was to
find an affordable peach farm where he and his family could prosper and get
away from the hardluck dryland farming in Weld
County.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I don’t know how many inquiries he made over there but I do
know that his plan didn’t pan out and soon the family returned home, the truck
laden with peaches, many of them bruised and overripe but suitable for canning
and preserves. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Bob Russell remembers that trip well, especially the trip
home, for he and his brother, Ken, and sister Mary rode in the back with all
those peaches, actually perched atop those baskets of peaches. The two older
kids invented a game, picking up some of the riper peaches, grading them on
just how “ugh” they were, then tossing them into the road ditches, all the
while making sure Doyle and Frances
did not witness this. Bob joined in to their scandalous game. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">To this day, in August of the year when</span></div>
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Palisade peaches make their way to our
roadside stands from across the divide, and I bring home a box of them for our
enjoyment, Bob bends over the peaches, inhales their fragrance, and recalls
that summer excursion, an a 64-yr-old memory brought to life again for just a
moment. How different his life would have been, the son of a Palisade peach
farmer, growing up on the Western Slope, away from the crowds and traffic of
the Front Range. <br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Instead Doyle Russell bought yet another dryland farm, about
four and a half miles north of Wellington, right along the road that was soon
to become I-25, the busiest thoroughfare in Colorado. The family lived there for the next forty-seven years and
rarely thought of that trip across the mountains, that other lifestyle that
almost was.</span></div>
Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02695106735082209909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500243801199869021.post-24432337532279016412016-05-07T17:56:00.000-07:002016-05-10T15:56:35.805-07:00Elias Russell Eulogy - 1960<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFei8tD5vHFttXZNWUZxC8i2x4KBLutZx1nls_TrfjwOZsiDRF-648Z1m-6giktuM1UI81qQ_AOcASlMw9_0eUHGgKy4jEgakGYgQ8ASFyJjCaUpWHnmY85TVsB_XaMJzRkI29QjeQ71M/s1600/russellelias1958.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFei8tD5vHFttXZNWUZxC8i2x4KBLutZx1nls_TrfjwOZsiDRF-648Z1m-6giktuM1UI81qQ_AOcASlMw9_0eUHGgKy4jEgakGYgQ8ASFyJjCaUpWHnmY85TVsB_XaMJzRkI29QjeQ71M/s400/russellelias1958.jpg" /></a><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mary Russell Simms, granddaughter of Elias Russell, offers this eulogy from his funeral, penned by Elias's oldest child, Bertie Lee Russell.</span></span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />Elias Russell, born April 14, 1873, at Cass in Franklin County, died at his home in Cass at 4:30 p.m., Tuesday, January 19, 1960, of a heart attack. He was 86 years old. Mr. Russell was a member of one of Franklin County's pioneer families and spent his entire life there. His mother, Maria Tennessee Turner, was a descendant of the Turner's who arrived on the Mayflower in 1620. Mr. Russell was married on September 22, 1900, to Miss Addie Jane Mahaffey at the home of the bride's parents at St. Paul, Arkansas. There were 12 children born to this union and survivors consist of the widow and all 12 children, 29 grandchildren and eight great grandchildren. <br /><br /> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">His children are:<br /><br />Miss Bertie L. Russell, Denver, Colorado</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">George W. Russell, Lawton, Colorado</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mrs. Robert Butner, Ripley, Tennessee</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Doyle J. Russell, Wellington, Colorado</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mrs. Nannie E. Wilson, Detroit, Michigan</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">William A. Russell, Albuquerque, New Mexico</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Samuel Carter Russell, Richland, Washington</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sidney R. Russell, Ozark, Arkansas<br />Charles E. Russell, Richland, Washington<br /> Seldon Russell, Ozark, Arkansas. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Harold Russell, Ault, Colorado. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Brothers and sisters surviving are: </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Fred H. Russell, Ozark, Arkansas </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sam H Russell, Ozark, Arkansas </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mrs. May Younger, Duncan Oklahoma </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mrs. Pearl Turner, Ozark, Arkansas </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mr. Russell attended an old-fashioned revival meeting conducted by a traveling evangelist, Brother Valines, at the New Enon School house, accepted Christ and was baptized in 1908 in Big Mulberry River. There were 19 converts. Mr. Russell lived on the farm and considered himself a farmer, but he will be remembered by many as the peace officer during prohibition days. He was deputy sheriff for years. He was an excellent blacksmith and wagon builder. His shop was always open to help others. He kept seasoned lumber on hand to build caskets when called upon. It was not unusual for a stranger to ask for his services, and he never charged for the material, use of his shop, nor his work in connection with making a casket. He took pride in his work and a homemade casket was often desired. Elias was also a horse and mule trader and trainer and enjoyed this very much. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Written by Bertie Lee Russell</span></span>Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02695106735082209909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500243801199869021.post-83788072573531165252016-04-21T13:35:00.005-07:002016-04-22T19:01:25.897-07:00JAMES MARION RUSSELL<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">by Mary Russell Simms</span>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">James Marion Russell was my
great-great grandfather. I am the daughter of Doyle James
Russell, who is the son of Elias L. Russell, who is the son of John
W. Russell, who is the son of James Marion Russell. Therefore,
James Marion is my great-great grandfather. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">James Marion Russell was born
in 1835 and died 3 October 1863, at the age of 27. His wife also died in
1863 leaving their children as orphans. The orphaned children were farmed
out to various relatives and grew up as “poor relation”. None
of the children amounted to much as adults. They really did not have a
chance. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">James Marion Russell was
drafted into the Confederate Army—14<sup>th</sup> Regiment, Arkansas
Infantry---much against his wishes. He did not want to leave his wife and
children to shift for themselves while he went to fight a war he did not
believe in. Family history, as it has been handed down from generation to
generation, tells the story of how the officials came to James’s home, drafted
James Marion and forced him to come with them. James was told to shut up
and “don’t look back” at what he was leaving behind.
Thusly did James Marion became a soldier in the Confederate Army. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Shortly before James Marion
was drafted, he had “proved up” on his 160 acres of homesteaded
land. His land patent was signed by President James Buchanan on February
1, 1860. Three years, seven months, and two days later James lay dead on
a battlefield in Corinth Mississippi. The whereabouts of his grave is
unknown. An estimated 7,197 American soldiers were left dead when the
Battle or Corinth was finally over. It is most likely that James
Marion’s final resting place was in a huge mass grave along with hundreds
of his fellow soldiers. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">James Marion actually fought
in only one battle before he died. On September 19, 1862, he survived the
Civil War battle at Iuka, Mississippi. James contracted yellow fever at
some point between September 19, 1862 and October 3, 1862, and died of yellow
fever complications while the Battle of Corinth Mississippi raged around
him. James Marion Russell held the rank of corporal at the time of his
death. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Bless you and may you rest in
peace, Great-Great Grandpa James Marion Russell. </span></div>
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Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02695106735082209909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500243801199869021.post-62263719093185866762016-02-25T18:04:00.004-08:002016-02-29T09:18:14.674-08:00A Daughter Remembers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">MEMORIES OF DOYLE’S
EARLY </span></b><b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">LIFE</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> [DOYLE J.
RUSSELL]</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">By Mary Russell Simms</span></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Foreword: The information in Doyle's story came from several sources: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">1) As a little kid, I used to love to listen to Doyle tell his tales about his life in Arkansas. I was fascinated by all of his adventures. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">2) Also, I was very close to Doyle's mother. Even though I only visited at her home in Arkansas three times, Addie and I exchanged letters for over thirty years. She shared many stories with me about Doyle during his early years in Arkansas. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> 3) Perhaps my greatest source of information about Doyle's life came from being Doyle's daughter. I knew Doyle personally for over sixty years.
Unfortunately, Doyle did not leave any written memoirs for us. Hopefully the following account will leave a permanent record of a most remarkable man.</span>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Doyle was truly a self-made man. He wa<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">s</span> quite
unlike his parents and siblings. Doyle must have inherited his drive and
determination from his favorite Grandmother, Mariah Tennessee Turner
Russell. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Grandm<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">a "Tennie" was far ahead of her times back then. In fact, back in the late 1800s, after birthing eleven children and being pregnant with number t<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">welve</span>, Doyle's Grandma "Tennie" had the courage to divor<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">ce her abusive husband! Divorce was totally unheard of back then in the O<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">zark Mountains of Arkansas. I always believed that Grandma "Tennie" wa<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">s Doyle's role m<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">odel.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> <span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Doyle’s early years in </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Arkansas</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> were truly sad. Born in 1907, the fourth child
of twelve offspring, his mother was always overworked and had little time to
give her many children individual attention that they needed. When Doyle
started to school his mother gave him a McGuffey’s Reader and a cold sweet
potato for his lunch and sent him off to get his education. At other
times he carried a chunk of cold cornbread for his lunch. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">All of the siblings went barefoot to school back
then. They had to wade across a small creek on their way to and from the
school house which was about two miles away. In the winter months there
were chunks of ice in the creek. Wading barefoot across that creek and
having nothing to dry off with must have been very painful for those young
children.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">In the early part of the twentieth century, teaching
at the local school left much to be desired. After completing eighth
grade, a student could take a teaching test and become a licensed school
teacher in </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Arkansas</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">. The school house was also very austere.
It was a one-room wooden building with a dirt floor. Very little heat
came from a fireplace set into one wall. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">During his first year of school Doyle, was never
called on in class. The teacher never spoke to him or gave him any
instruction. Doyle was a shy little kid and sat quietly chewing on the
corners of his McGuffey’s reader and swinging his feet back and forth beneath
his desk. Since the one-room school house had dirt floor, Doyle’s
toenails dug two trenches beneath his desk. All Doyle had to show for his
entire first year at school was a round-cornered reading book and two deep ruts
beneath his desk.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">From early on, Doyle was different from the rest of
his family. Doyle was determined to make his mark in the world. He was
willing to work and plan and was determined to have property of his own and
provide well for a family. Doyle wanted independence and security. He was
determined to rise above his own raising. The good news was that
Doyle was willing to work for what he wanted. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">He was very much like his Grandma “Tennie” in many
ways. He did his own thing. In 1929 when the great depression hit </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">America</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">, many people seemed content to sit on the front porch
and watch an old hound dog scratch its fleas while they wished for better
times. Not Doyle. Doyle hitch-hiked to </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Kansas</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> and followed the wheat harvest going west. His
family needed the money. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Doyle was 22 years old in 1929 when he left home
to find work. He was willing to work long, hard days and give an honest
day’s work for his pay. Doyle was able to cover his living expense and
managed to send money home to his mother to help out with paying the tax bills
and other outstanding bills.</span></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Doyle continued to do this for several years.
His cousin Archie Turner accompanied him on one of these jaunts to </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Kansas</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">. At first Doyle hitch-hiked or “rode the rails”
of the freight trains to get to </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Kansas</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> to seek work in the wheat harvest. In
later years he was able to buy a bus ticket to travel safely back and forth
from home to the harvest area. He was still faithfully mailing money back
home to his mother. Otherwise the Russell family would most likely have
lost their home and farm due to delinquent taxes.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Doyle encouraged his siblings to find work. He
sent some of the boys off to the </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">CCC</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> Camps to work. He encouraged others to join the Army.
Every sibling he could put to work elsewhere made one less mouth for his mother
to feed.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Doyle’s father was a delightful, lovable person whose
greatest pleasure was doing volunteer work in the community. He was an
unpaid deputy sheriff and was always available to escort prisoners between </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Arkansas</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> and </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Texas</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">. The deputy and prisoner always rode horseback
and camped out several nights during these trips. While this was truly a
noble task, it did not put any food on the table at home or help pay the
bills. Also, when anyone in the community died, Doyle’s father would
volunteer to build them a nice casket—no charge. This was admirable but
did nothing to pay the bills for a family of twelve offspring plus two
parents. Doyle’s dad was the poster boy for volunteer work. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Doyle was determined to be nothing like his father
when it came to providing for a family. Hard work and responsibility
ranked very high with Doyle. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">For several years Doyle followed the wheat harvest
from </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Kansas</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> through into </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Colorado</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> each summer. After a few years he decided to
put down roots in northern </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Colorado</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">.
He liked the land there. </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Colorado</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> farmers did not have the same problems that the
farmers in </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Arkansas</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> faced. Grass did not grow wild in the fields of
</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Colorado</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">. Rocks did not constantly work up into the
plowed land in </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Colorado</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">. Unwanted vegetation did not consume the farm
land in </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Colorado</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">. Becoming a farmer in </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Colorado</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> sounded like a good idea to Doyle.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Doyle leased a small farm with an old barn, corral, a
well, and a two-room shack from Mrs. Entwhistle. He began farming with a
horse and plow and worked long, hard hours. His determination paid off
and he made a success of dry-land farming. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">In 1934 when a night course in college level
accounting was offered in the local town, he saw the opportunity to further his
education. Doyle would work a ten-hour day in the fields, come in, wash
up, eat some supper, saddle his horse and ride five miles to town to attend
accounting classes.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Doyle loved the learning experience but it was short-lived.
Doyle had an eighth-grade education and was doing well understanding
accounting. The problem occurred when the other students—all high school
graduates and several college-educated students simply could not comprehend the
basics of accounting. The teacher told Doyle that only two people in the
room understood what was going on—Doyle and the teacher. Unfortunately
for Doyle, the course was cancelled before they reached mid-term.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">In 1935 Doyle got married to a local sixteen-year old
school girl. Doyle was eleven years older than his new bride and
faced quite a challenge. The new bride knew absolutely nothing about
cooking, sewing, raising children, or keeping a house! Fortunately, Doyle
was patient and a good teacher. Eventually </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Frances</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> learned to do routine housework and cook edible
meals. She even eventually learned how to sew. With the birth of
four children and much coaching from the neighbor across the road, </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Frances</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> learned child care. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Meanwhile back in </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Arkansas</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">, Doyle had become a local legend in his own
time. Doyle was looked up to and admired by his friends and family
remaining in </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Arkansas</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">. It became the goal of every young man in Cass
to one day go visit Doyle in </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Colorado</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> and see their hero in person. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">During the early years of their marriage, Doyle and
Frances entertained many of the </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Arkansas</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> bunch. Some slept on the floor in the kitchen
while others bunked out in the barn. One couple even stayed at the local
hotel. Most of their visitors stayed for a few weeks. Some stayed
for a few months. Others stayed for a year or more. Most of the </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Arkansas</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> friends and relatives could not tolerate the cold </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Colorado</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> winters. Doyle’s youngest brother Harold was
the only friend or relative from </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Arkansas</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> to choose </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Colorado</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> as his permanent home.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Every one of Doyle’s seven brothers visited Doyle at
his various farms in </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Colorado</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">. Two of his four sisters came to see him.
Everyone who visited and returned to </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Arkansas</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> had nothing by praise when telling of Doyle’s life in
</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Colorado</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">. Doyle remained the village hero.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Doyle moved forward with his farming, increasing his
plowed acreage from time to time. He got a tractor and upgraded his
source of farm power. He bought 320 acres of farm land and in 1938 moved
his wife and two children to a different house. The new home had
four small rooms, a barn, pigpens, and workshop with attached chicken
house. From G P Brandner Doyle had leased 960 acres of
farm/pasture land plus access to another 320 acres of pasture land. He
then leased another 160 acres of farm land from Fred Walker. By 1946
Doyle was farming and/or grazing over 1400 acres of land in </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Weld</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">County</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">. He was running about 100 head of
whiteface </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Hereford</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> cattle and owned about twenty head of
horses. He also had numerous hogs and chickens.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Just before World War II began, Doyle’s mother begged
Doyle to send a bus ticket for Doyle’s youngest brother to come to </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Colorado</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> and live with Doyle. Harold was about fifteen
at the time. Seems Harold had been caught one time too many shooting game
out of season. The authorities gave Doyle’s mother three choices: 1) send
Harold to jail, or 2) send Harold to the </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">CCC</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> Camp, or 3) get Harold out of </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Arkansas</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> permanently. Addie did not want her baby to go to
jail! She also did not want her 15-year old son living in the </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">CCC</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> Camp with the rough workers. Addie could not afford a bus ticket
for Harold to </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Colorado</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">, so she begged Doyle to send a ticket so Harold could
leave </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Arkansas</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> and avoid jail or the </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">CCC</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> Camp. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Doyle ended up raising his younger brother. In
Colorado Harold continued to hunt game out of season without a license;
however, Doyle had so many acres of private land that Harold was never bothered
by the Game Warden. Harold joined the Navy shortly after the War broke out.
At the end of the war, Harold returned to live with Doyle. In 1949 Harold
married a local girl and finally moved out on his own. Harold remained in
</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Colorado</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> until his death many years later. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> Everything went sour in 1946 when G P
Brandner double-crossed Doyle and secretly sold the 960 acre farm.
The land owner then tried to cancel Doyle’s ten-year lease. The lease had
not yet expired. This caused many hard feelings. G P Brandner’s
foul act cost Doyle 1,280 acres of farm/pasture land plus his home. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Doyle still owned his 320 acres of farm land nearby
but this property was without a house to live in so Doyle purchased a 160-acre
farm with a large house on it. Doyle moved his family into the larger
house in March 1947. His two farms were now separated by thirteen miles
of dirt roads. The new farm was located seven and one half miles from the
nearest town, driving on dirt roads all the way. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">With the loss of over 1,000 acres of land, Doyle had
to downsize his livestock situation. He sold all of the horses but two
and sold about eighty head of cattle leaving twenty cows. He had limited
water and pasture at the new farm. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">In 1952 Doyle sold the 320 acres of land he owned in </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Nunn</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Township</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">. In 1953 he bought a 600 acre farm in </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Larimer</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">County</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">. He moved his family to the new property which
was not as isolated as the house in </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Weld</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">County</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">. The house was much smaller, and water was even
scarcer. For about twenty years Doyle tried to work both farms that were
fourteen miles apart. He eventually sold the 160 acre farm in </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Weld</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">County</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> and concentrated his farming and junk yard in </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Larimer</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">County</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> While trying to farm two places fourteen miles
apart, Doyle was plagued with thieves. The thieves would strike in the middle
of the night with a cutting torch and chop up his machinery left in the field,
and sell the pieces for junk. If Doyle left a tractor and plows in the
field overnight and returned the next morning, he was likely to find the
machinery stripped. This problem caused a lot of trouble. He
finally solved the problem by selling the 160 acre </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Weld</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">County</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> farm. </span></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Doyle also had a huge junk yard. He bought and
sold junk cars, tractors, trucks, heavy machinery, and other things. He
was a very astute business man with his junk yard. Many times
people would give Doyle their ailing cars and trucks and even pay the title
transfer fee! Doyle would then keep the free vehicle a few years and
someone would come along and pay him several hundred dollars for the vehicle
that Doyle acquired for free. Doyle was quite the wheeler dealer.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Doyle and Frances were married for fifty-five years
when </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Frances</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> died with a heart attack in 1990. Then in 1996
Doyle suffered a near fatal farm accident when he and his tractor caught
fire. Doyle was severely burned and not expected to live, but he pulled
through only to spend his final four years in a nursing home. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">In January 2000, at the age of 93, Doyle died quietly
in his sleep. A truly self made man who will forever remain a local
legend in </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Cass</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">, </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Arkansas</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Rest in peace, Daddy. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Note: My story about Doyle covers his earlier
years of life. It does not cover his later years because an excellent
account of this period was written by his daughter-in-law Pam Russell.
Hopefully she will include this story about Doyle in her blog. </span></span></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms"; font-size: 16.0pt;">Doyle Russell</span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms"; font-size: 16.0pt;"></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">by his daughter-in-law Pam Russell</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Doyle
was sixty-four years old the first time I saw him, that spring day in 1971 when
Bob took </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Pat</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">rick and me up to meet his folks. I was
nervous about the meeting and remember getting that sinking feeling in the pit
of my stomach as the Volkswagen bus made the final curve on the road leading
up to their house. Bob hadn’t told me what to expect, didn’t try to tell me
what his folks were like or whether they would approve of their younger son’s
new girlfriend and her 2-1/2 year old son. Minutes later we were all seated in
the living room looking at Doyle’s whittlings and homemade puzzles, relaxed and
smiling, starting to get to know one another. Doyle and Frances accepted both
me and </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Pat</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">rick, and from that day on treated us like
family.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Doyle
was born in 1907 in </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Cass</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">, </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Arkansas</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">, the fourth of twelve children born to
Addie </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Jan</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">e and Elias Russell. Doyle learned
blacksmithing and farming before he left home to travel west working with wheat
threshing crews, following the harvests. He was an ambitious young man with
big, strong hands and a good head on his shoulders. He realized that he his
future was not in </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Arkansas</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> where his less ambitious brothers took
advantage of the gains he made, holding him back. After a few trips west to
work the wheat harvest in eastern </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Colorado</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> he decided to stay.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">When
Doyle first laid eyes on Frances Smith she was only thirteen years old but he
liked her flashing eyes and shy smile, and he was smitten. For the next few
years Doyle worked on farms near </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Purcell</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">, </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Colorado</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">, where </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Frances</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> lived with her family, and in May of 1935
they were wed. Doyle gave </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Frances</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> money to buy her wedding clothes and many
years later she liked to recall exactly what she bought for her trousseau. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">I’ve
heard the stories of how Doyle worked and saved to buy his first tractor, and
then his first piece of land, and then the next, but the details are fuzzy now.
I know that he worked hard and was frugal, not one to splurge on a night on the
town or a new car or any of those things that tempt young men. Doyle placed a
high value on land ownership and step by step, year by year, he bought farm
equipment then land, never running up debts for these purchases but paying cash
whenever possible. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve often wondered what motivated Doyle, what
forces shaped the man. He talked about his family a lot and there were two
people in his past he seemed to truly admire, his paternal grandmother, Mariah
Tennessee Turner, and Mariah’s youngest son, Doyle’s Uncle Sam Turner. I
believe he not only admired them but learned from them and patterned his life
after theirs. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Doyle was a very intelligent
man but with only an eighth-grade education he would never become a lawyer or
legislator, careers in which he may have excelled. He was a shrewd businessman,
though, and rarely made mistakes which set him back. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Doyle
started out in eastern </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Colorado</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> farming rented land and using decrepit
farm equipment. Dryland farming is a risky business relying on the whims of
Mother Nature for rain needed to germinate the wheat seed then praying she
doesn’t drop the late summer hail that can turn a thirty-bushel an acre crop
into a worthless field of stems and mud in minutes. Rain is scarce in </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Colorado</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> and hail all too predictable. He was
hailed out so many times in </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Weld</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">County</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> that in 1953 Doyle moved his family a few
miles west to </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Larimer</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">County</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> to a 340 acre farm, not all of which was
tillable. Here he pulled more profit out of the land than any other man I know
could have accomplished. He not only raised seed wheat and cattle, he dug for
gravel and established his own gravel pit. And when Interstate 25 came through
separating his grazing land from his water holes and making raising livestock a
difficult proposition Doyle started a junk yard, buying and selling (mostly
selling) used automobiles, tractors, machinery, scrap wood, and much, much
more. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">When someone wanted to dispose of an old car, Doyle didn’t buy it from
them, he charged them to leave it at his place and then he sold parts off of
it. He frequented farm auctions and had a knack for buying low and selling
high. Doyle was a born salesman. He charmed his prospective buyers with stories
about “down there in </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Arkansas</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">”, and his no-pressure approach gained him
a pocketful of cash most every day of the week. Doyle’s customers became
life-long friends. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS_QZe-lNHgQVbFlNR-ubHumyA7h8h7D_gLXBoQyPiTIB38YenDFPl2b0kXo05L3VAFWtZrs36R3_sykTP_cQPAsAv-Df_TCPIVrg2KswRawEDUIhWOF0czoaHDL6pv0ZCUVi84i-oa2I/s1600/russellsequip.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS_QZe-lNHgQVbFlNR-ubHumyA7h8h7D_gLXBoQyPiTIB38YenDFPl2b0kXo05L3VAFWtZrs36R3_sykTP_cQPAsAv-Df_TCPIVrg2KswRawEDUIhWOF0czoaHDL6pv0ZCUVi84i-oa2I/s320/russellsequip.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">His proximity to I-25 brought a steady stream of customers
from all across the county, vacationers with their families, tractor buffs with
their empty trailers hoping to find a rare jewel to take home to the </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Midwest</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">, and a lot of “looky-loos”, those who were
intrigued by the mounds of junk but who didn’t spend a dime. Colorado’s dry air
means a tractor which has set out in the sun for thirty years has very little
rust. Had it been in </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Illinois</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> it would have crumbled into the earth
leaving a pile of worthless junk. Doyle’s place became a junk lover’s paradise.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Frances
and Doyle found a ready market in the sale of Siamese cats, a commodity rare in
their part of </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Larimer</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">County</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">. Each kitten was worth $20, so a litter of
six was very valuable and they often had several litters living in the house at
the same time. Doyle was patient in training the little kittens to perform
endearing tricks so that prospective buyers couldn’t resist taking one or two
of those little kittens home with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>See what I mean about Doyle pulling money out of his farm that others
wouldn’t consider? He had a good reputation in the community for castrating
hogs, dehorning cattle, witching for water, and butchering animals, all useful
and sometimes profitable skills.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Frances
and Doyle brought four children into this world, two boys and two girls. I know
those four children well enough to know that they each had a very different
childhood from the others. Perhaps that’s the case with every family. Education
was a priority. Although all were expected to participate in chores and farm
work the kids were never kept out of school to help Doyle with the farm. I have
my own opinions about Doyle’s parenting skills based on my husband’s
recollections of his youth, but I will not judge him too harshly. As a parent
myself I know that most of us “shoot from the hip” with our parenting,
combining what we learned from our parents with a few ideas of our own to form
the basis of our own parenting style. Doyle could be strict and heavy handed
but </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Frances</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> handled most of the day to day
disciplining of the children. Competition between the kids was greatly
encouraged and not tempered with kindness and concern for one another so that
the relationships which formed between the kids were never warm and supportive
of one another. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Although
Doyle never returned to </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Arkansas</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> to live and only visited there on rare
occasions his family ties remained strong. At different times all of his
brothers came through </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Colorado</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> to visit and some stayed for weeks and
months especially before WWII. In later years many of them returned with their
wives and children to visit Frances and Doyle and the kids on the farm. Doyle’s
sister Bertie came many times and </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Nan</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">
just once. The other two sisters, Nellie and Bonnie never made it out to </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Colorado</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">, to the best of my knowledge. Doyle cared
very much for his mother and father and all his siblings and tried to help them
out in many ways. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">I
didn’t know Doyle to be a religious man but his hard-shell (Primitive) Baptist
upbringing had its effect. Doyle didn’t drink or smoke and rarely cursed. He
hated gambling and felt that card playing could lead to trouble. There wasn’t
much of the poet in Doyle either. I doubt he lay awake nights contemplating the
meaning of life. Neither did he enjoy music or have any musical talents. He did
like to square dance and he and Frances were members of a square dance club in </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Wellington</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> for many years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, Doyle was not a mystic. He was a
practical man who looked at life from the perspective of a farmer, a man of the
soil. Man (and woman) were higher forms of animals but responded to the same
training and discipline and were just as predictable. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">But
that’s not to say that Doyle wasn’t talented because he was. Like many of his </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Arkansas</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> friends and neighbors he learned early how
to use a knife with the skill of a surgeon, whittling toys and puzzles with
patience and finesse. He was also quite a magician and used sleight of hand and
other techniques not understood by me to create illusions and more concrete
tricks like carved wooden arrows in bottles that no one could figure out how
they got in there. He liked to tell stories and jokes but </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Frances</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> outshined him in this category. He liked
her jokes, too, and laughed along with the rest of us. Doyle could fix all
sorts of farm machinery and equipment with a minimum of tools and techniques –
baling wire being one of his favorites. There was not a lazy bone in the man.
He worked in all kinds of weather from morning until night. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">There
were two areas of business that Doyle dealt in that fascinated me. He bought
and sold land for other people and wrote his own contracts keeping meticulous
ledgers of all the transactions. He also loaned money to people – lots of
people – and kept the same careful records. Most of those ventures were
profitable for Doyle and on those rare occasions when someone tried to abscond
with Doyle’s money or refuse to pay what was owed he consulted a lawyer. There
were several relatives who took advantage of Doyle’s personal loans and never
paid him back. He didn’t sue them or pursue them much but he also never forgave
or trusted them again. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">I
got to know Doyle best after </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Frances</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> died in 1990 and Bob and I took meals to
his dad each day at noontime. It was not easy on him, losing is wife of
fifty-five years. He continued to work outside each day and sell to those who
came for car parts or other items in the yard but it was many months before he
regained his vigor and laughter. I asked him to tell me about his family back
there in </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Arkansas</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> and I took a lot of notes but mostly I
listened to an old man reflect back on a life I could only imagine. I came to
respect him for his fine memory, his fair treatment of his relatives, and his
work ethic. I learned about the jobs he took in the lean times, climbing oil
derricks and taking any odd job he could find. We had some fine conversations,
not always agreeing, especially about politics, but he treated me with respect
and I believe I reciprocated. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">On
that fateful </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Jan</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">uary day in 1996, Martin Luther King Day,
when Doyle’s tractor caught on fire and he was burned over much of his body I
rushed to his house and was there in the kitchen when the firefighters took him
out to the helicopter that would whisk him away to the burn unit at the Greeley
hospital. He handed me his wallet and gave me a look I’d never seen in his eyes
before – Doyle was scared. I drove to the hospital and went into the room where
they were removing his shirt from his back and arms and when the doctor ask,
“Mr. Russell, if your heart should stop during this ordeal do you want us to
restart it,” he said, “Well shore (<i>sure</i>),” as if to ask, “What kind of a stupid
question is that?” Of course the doctor knew something that Doyle didn’t know
and that was the next few months would be full of pain and agony for Doyle. He
survived, slowing coming out of a medically-induced coma to find that his hands
were severely scarred and had lost much of their strength and agility. Those
hands that could wrap around an anvil and lift it high, could whittle a
delicate wooden scissor connected to another scissor and another, could handle
a meat cleaver with precision and cut perfectly sized pork chops one after
another, those hands that were a work of art, blackened with grease and dirt from
working with oily machinery. Those hands could barely hold a fork even months
into his recovery. It was because of the damage to those hands that Doyle
couldn’t live on his own again without assistance, a reality that broke his
heart. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">I
find my eyes filling with tears as I remember those last four years of Doyle’s
life. We tried, we all tried to treat him with respect and kindness but the
only thing Doyle wanted was to go back home, something we, his family, didn’t
think was wise. I really don’t want to rehash the decisions that were made; it
was painful enough going through it the first time. It took many long months
but I believe Doyle finally came to accept the nursing home in </span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Windsor</span><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";"> as his home, or maybe his home away from
home. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">Doyle
had a strong will to live; a lesser man would not have survived those awful
months right after the fire. I remember the day he could no longer remember his
brothers and sisters’ birthdates. He became very sad. Watching someone you love
die is a painful process. And yes, I loved Doyle. I didn’t realize it until those
last few years. He and I hadn’t always seen eye to eye. There were times when I
was very angry with him, and I know he thought I betrayed him when I agreed
that he couldn’t return to the farm to live after his accident, but in the end
….. we were family.</span></div>
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Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02695106735082209909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500243801199869021.post-38505040735815600552015-11-24T18:43:00.001-08:002015-11-30T11:15:06.259-08:00Elias Russell, Shot in the Leg!<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Elias Russell of Cass, Arkansas,
was shot in the leg in December of 1933 and recovered fully except for a
lifelong limp, that much I know to be truth. He was fifty-nine years old that
year. Because his son, Doyle J. Russell, our father and primary source of
information, had left his Arkansas home by 1933 and was working in Colorado
where he would soon put down roots, the story and its details was slow to
filter in. Only after Elias had recovered from his wound would Doyle receive a
letter about his father’s serious injury and recovery. </div>
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<br /></div>
Many years later, after Doyle married and became father to
four children he probably told his kids what he had learned from letters back
home about his father’s being shot, piquing their interest in this grandfather they only met once or twice, but Doyle was not one to tell all. He chose
his stories about his Arkansas
family carefully, not wanting to put them in a bad light to his Colorado
family. So it wasn’t until the early 1960’s when two of Doyle’s children,
young adults by now, Mary, and Bob, separately visited their recently
widowed Grannie Russell in Cass and heard her stories about their Grandpa
Elias, including the shooting incident.<br />
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This is what then 25-year-old Mary remembers her Grannie
telling her:</div>
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“The story from Granny Russell was that Elias went off with
some</div>
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deputies to help the sheriff arrest some law-breakers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had a fearful shootout.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only bullet that hit anyone hit
Elias.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was shot in the hip. Broke the
bone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Compound fracture.</div>
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The lawman in charge sent a deputy to tell Addie that Elias
had been shot and to come pick him up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The deputy got his wires crossed and the message that got to Addie that
night was that Elias had been shot dead and to come pick up his body.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbeE4G1diX3gAaSyB5nvMR1r6P4JNsFjeysNGb1ieTmphKX0twdBILBrwGAmNWsOoZIswsd-7DIoptllMOB5eLkd9-jq6e01ozroUPEhxHI7uy9A39P4-QINQxA4qwyzBaGXQcD6GwLDE/s1600/ElRussfam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbeE4G1diX3gAaSyB5nvMR1r6P4JNsFjeysNGb1ieTmphKX0twdBILBrwGAmNWsOoZIswsd-7DIoptllMOB5eLkd9-jq6e01ozroUPEhxHI7uy9A39P4-QINQxA4qwyzBaGXQcD6GwLDE/s320/ElRussfam.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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It was too late that night to harness up the team and wagon
and get her</div>
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dozen kids together and mule team, as it was quite a distance to
the site of the shooting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She got the
kids up early the next morning and harnessed up the mules and drove over to
pick up Elias's body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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When she got there she was quite surprised to learn that she
was not a widow after all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had left
him lying where he got shot and had done nothing for him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No doctor--no sleeping
accommodations--nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So she loaded
him up and brought him home.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7GfZt3cpGH2hu16AeT8mTzWCRYDrt8DglOgB72EmF1O_U3omfR1gWVvIWZ1kFeym52M_v4E1Q90OLTIk0OwkQBb74L1iMuPoG7o-lpy7xoC2dMgxCRTpaH1lfPxq8XQkI1PkVrZCyA1s/s1600/RussellEliasAddie1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7GfZt3cpGH2hu16AeT8mTzWCRYDrt8DglOgB72EmF1O_U3omfR1gWVvIWZ1kFeym52M_v4E1Q90OLTIk0OwkQBb74L1iMuPoG7o-lpy7xoC2dMgxCRTpaH1lfPxq8XQkI1PkVrZCyA1s/s320/RussellEliasAddie1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
When she got him home she decided that it would do no good
to get a doctor as it had been 24 hours since the shooting and was too late to
set or treat the leg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So Granny bandaged
Elias up and nursed him back to ambulatory condition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He always walked with a limp afterwards.</div>
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Why Addie got the notion that a broken leg could not be
treated after 24 hours is anyone's guess.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Of course with medicine the way it was in that area at that time--she
was probably right!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would guess that Tennessee came over and helped nurse her son. She was a midwife and
considered the local medicine woman in that township. Addie did not mention Tennessee---that
is just my guess.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Addie was quite furious that no one had done the first thing
to help Elias--just let him lie there in his own blood where he fell
until she came after him the following day.</div>
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Elias was working as a volunteer deputy--free--so that was
really quite a show of gratitude on the sheriff's part!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Strangely enough Elias continued to volunteer
his services when his leg healed enough to ride again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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My story is just a repeat of what Addie told me in 1962.”</div>
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We have three more bits of information to add to Mary’s
story. First, the Spectator Newspaper in nearby Ozark mentioned Elias’s
recovery in January of 1934 with two brief comments:</div>
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“Mrs. Tennessee Russell returned to her home at Cass Friday
after a visit with her son, Elias Russell, who is recovering from gun-shot
wounds at the home of his sister, Mrs. Alex Nichols of Ozark. Mrs. Elias
Russell who has been with her husband several days returned to her home at Cass.”</div>
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And “Mr. Elias Russell, one of the victims of the shooting
which occurred at this place some six weeks ago, was the guest of Mr. and Mrs.
W.B. Walden last Saturday."</div>
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When Bob Russell visited his Grannie Russell in early 1962
she made this comment about her husband being shot, “Elias poked his nose in
where he ought not have.”</div>
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As to what the shooting was all about, who did the shooting
with what sort of gun, who else was there, was anyone else shot, and did
anyone have to answer for shooting Elias, we do not know. Bob remembers
thinking all those years it was about moonshining, about Elias trying to crack
down on the local moonshiners and shut down their stills, but Bob doesn’t know
how he came to that belief. Doyle did tell Bob that he didn’t help his father
in his crusade to shut down the moonshiners, didn’t tell him of the stills and
moonshiners he knew about when he lived at home. One of Doyle’s reasons for
keeping that sort of information close to his chest may have been because his
mother’s father, his Grandpa Jess Mahaffey, was a well-known moonshiner in the area. I
have to wonder if Elias was successful in shutting down his own father-in-law’s
stills. </div>
Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02695106735082209909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500243801199869021.post-49125046294734069092015-11-13T17:41:00.003-08:002015-11-13T17:41:45.696-08:00Howard McCracken, a Russell Cousin<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">A Russell cousin, Howard
McCracken, gr-grandson of George W. Russell, third cousin to Robert Doyle
Russell, has found us on the internet and shared some wonderful family
photographs. We’ve not had time to exchange detailed genealogy dates and
places, but the photographs are begging to be shared with all the Russell clan.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Howard’s mother, Marie, is
now 95 years old and having some memory problems but exhibiting those Russell
longevity genetics. Her father was William H. Russell, born about 1895 in
Ozark, and William H’s father was George W. Russell, born February 1861 in Franklin
County, Arkansas, the youngest of five children born to Civil War veteran (for
the Confederacy) James Marion Russell (1829-1862) and his wife Nancy Simms
Russell (1832-1863). That's a mouthful! Orphaned at the age of two George lived with several
different relatives in and around </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Franklin</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">County</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> until he reached adulthood. He became a successful man in Ozark,
married and reared a family, owned his own mercantile, and built a fine home.
He passed away in 1917 at the age of 56, still a young man. I do not know the cause of death.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4RaOUKLEgohcDQkNnG5mLjL21jnBadld84RhZJDS9dszJte_XevTOk-Stuyy_bEYMoVUeCt41OYDc1moNPHr5ydKM4OQPOfKb65G4kzh223mfaNoGkfaKFdcZ-L-uAHyMKefnmY23KzA/s1600/Howardatstore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4RaOUKLEgohcDQkNnG5mLjL21jnBadld84RhZJDS9dszJte_XevTOk-Stuyy_bEYMoVUeCt41OYDc1moNPHr5ydKM4OQPOfKb65G4kzh223mfaNoGkfaKFdcZ-L-uAHyMKefnmY23KzA/s320/Howardatstore.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">George’s wife, Nannie Cary
Russell, was born in June 1869 and lived to the age of ninety-three. She gave
birth to five children, three of whom reached adulthood, William H., Harold
Wallace, and </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Frederick</span><span style="font-family: Arial;">. She and George adopted a girl named Jewell to round
out their family.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The first photograph was
taken in November 2015, showing Howard McCracken in front of the site of his
gr-grandfather’s store located at 2<sup>nd</sup> and Commercial in Ozark. Only
the wrought iron column remains from the original building. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The next photograph
shows the interior of the store with George on the left in the foreground.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">These photographs include a
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">In 1908 Nannie won first
place in the Ozark 4<sup>th</sup> of July parade for her decorated carriage. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAD-TnSqyZlO75dNJNUKaWMG9ENEq-supKW2nPtIGZLz5EKok5DDBoMKuK57SgxSl0-TZKDN4Mvqjvytn6n8c3zVjMgVUjIRHbY_TZrx9D8zdyi8EgXDRFrRoe8Q92p0HuULl4Bvu6zlQ/s1600/NannieandMariepic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAD-TnSqyZlO75dNJNUKaWMG9ENEq-supKW2nPtIGZLz5EKok5DDBoMKuK57SgxSl0-TZKDN4Mvqjvytn6n8c3zVjMgVUjIRHbY_TZrx9D8zdyi8EgXDRFrRoe8Q92p0HuULl4Bvu6zlQ/s320/NannieandMariepic.jpg" width="274" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The next photograph is a wonderful family treasure, Nannie with Marie, and then the George and Nannie
Russell home in Ozark. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf9EGZDK81-7WNbwIAcX5eRaJAD_SUhyphenhyphenDXyb2JLTj3K88M8FFC7Pb_r-yr0UlLYZ1U0IrYYET4uSpFVnJ-KsbNQoLWLBgTU_8c_cL2RXoSnHl8W4_RNrch7TlhPOVCVTP_RDSBdn2AiQU/s1600/Nanniestone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The last two photographs are
of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nannie and George’s tombstones, </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Highland</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Cemetery</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> in Ozark.</span></div>
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Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02695106735082209909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500243801199869021.post-33495701739071572682015-11-03T15:16:00.003-08:002015-11-03T15:28:01.858-08:00UNFORGIVNG GRANDMA JONES<div class="MsoNormal">
The year was 1918. A dreadful outbreak of influenza was
sweeping our nation, indeed the entire world. World War I was coming to an end
and by November when the peace treaty was signed with Germany
our troops overseas would be looking homeward, only to arrive to the deadly
threat of the “Spanish Flu”. </div>
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Eliza Jane Holcroft of Choctaw, Oklahoma, was fifty-one years old and worn out. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw4fzhf0Ln4Het43XJxtpz-cOHeaO9goUILp5HqD78hl0x-KyNLOs5zkA99RTXChWKCJbH2VGUq0fU0mRfd6iPP0A_CfQKcuhujuDNXYgnJhBQKGei67ANaIVJrh7UlTMAJz-9lj1ftcs/s1600/collage.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="81" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw4fzhf0Ln4Het43XJxtpz-cOHeaO9goUILp5HqD78hl0x-KyNLOs5zkA99RTXChWKCJbH2VGUq0fU0mRfd6iPP0A_CfQKcuhujuDNXYgnJhBQKGei67ANaIVJrh7UlTMAJz-9lj1ftcs/s320/collage.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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The mother of thirteen children, she buried her husband of thirty-one years,
James Archibald Jones, in 1917. She buried her oldest daughter, Nellie Grace, mother of two small boys,
when Nellie was only twenty-three years old.
Eliza knew hard times. Now her second-oldest daughter, Nora Olive, was pregnant
with her fourth child and living in far off Moffat County,
Colorado, with her husband Tom Smith and
their three other children. </div>
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Tom, Nora, and family were homesteading in Bear
Valley, north and west of Craig,
out in the boonies, but Tom brought Nora into Craig for the impending birth of
the child. I’m sure she would have benefited from her mother’s presence and
from the letter that Eliza wrote to Nora, I know that her mother wanted to be
there. I’ll let the letter speak for itself. </div>
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“Choctaw, Oklahoma
August 4, 1918</div>
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My Dear Daughter and family;</div>
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I will try to answer your always gladly received letter that
come to hand some time ago. We are all well at present. I have a very sore
finger so I can hardly write. We have had a houseful of company today so I
didn’t get to go to S.S. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(Sunday School?)</i>
They come after peaches, we let go three bushels today. Have sold 30 dollars
worth so far. We are getting 2 dollars a bushel here at the place. We could get
2.50 in the city but we have such a few I guess we will sell them all here at
the place.</div>
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Well, Nora, I have made my settlement with the court and I
am so short of money that I do not feel like it would be right for me to take
all the money we have to come out there and I would not have enough to make the
round trip so I guess I will have to wait awhile. I know it looks like if I
come at all I ought to come now but we are needing rain awful bad and don’t
know if we will make a crop to speak of and I have the children to think of
besides myself, but in spite of all of this I would sure like to come first on
your account, as I do not think I am interested in the land proposition out
there as much as I was. It would take at least three hundred dollars to take us
out there and it would take me a long time to earn that much money and I think
if we do not farm next year that the money I would spend out there would start
me in a little business of my own. Surely you will come home sometime this fall
or winter. Well Nora if I knew we would make a good crop I would run the risk
and come out there but I don’t know and we haven’t hardly any fruit like we had
last year. I sure do wish you could have come out here. I would have been able
to get by. Bertha <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(Nora’s younger sister)
</i>would stay while you were down. I have not been as stout this summer as
usual and it seemed like the work just piled up and I couldn’t get it done. No,
we don’t have any vegetables except spuds and corn and cowpeas. Our tomatoes
are late so they are not ripening very fast. We had a few for dinner sliced.
Well Nora I am glad you have company. Maybe you won’t be so lonesome. Try to
get all of the enjoyment out of your company that you can.</div>
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Monday morn the 5<sup>th</sup> . I will finish my letter. I
am heartily ashamed of not writing sooner but it seems like there never was
quite as much to do but the peaches will soon be out of the way. Labe
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(Nora’s younger brother) </i>came back
yesterday. He had been gone ever since before the 4<sup>th</sup> of July. Tell
Ola <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(Nora’s oldest child) </i>Goldie <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(Nora’s youngest sister</i>) has taken her
first music lesson. She will take half a lesson at a time and twice a week. My
finger is no better. I am a little afraid of a felon. I must close. Be sure to
write soon and I will do better next time. I am as ever your loving mother. E J
Jones”</div>
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Nora gave birth to her last child whom she named Jennie
Frances Smith on September 12, 1918.
In a weakened state from childbirth Nora succumed to the flu and died on October 23, 1918; she was buried in
Craig. I’ve been told that it was Bertha, Nora’s sister four years younger, who
came out to Colorado when Nora
died, not E. J. Bertha may have expected to take little Frances back to
“civilized” Oklahoma with her but Tom entrusted Frances’ care to his parents,
Frank and Fannie Smith. They lived within shouting distance of Tom and his
older children out in Bear Valley.
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Eliza Jane Jones never forgave Tom Smith for the death of
her daughter, Nora. Perhaps she believed that if Nora had traveled to Oklahoma
for the birth of her child she would not have died. Perhaps grief and loss
overwhelmed her. Her anger and unforgiving attitude resulted in a break with
all of Nora’s children that lasted until she died in 1950. After that, one of E. J.'s children, Nova, I believe, reached out to Frances
and a friendship developed between several of Nora’s children and their aunts and uncles.
It didn’t make up for all the years lost, thirty-two years of no contact, but
it brought comfort and closure to some. </div>
Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02695106735082209909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500243801199869021.post-83784268153703995582015-09-20T15:47:00.003-07:002015-09-20T16:44:19.432-07:00SARAH FRANCES BUCKHANAN SMITH (1864-1937)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Sarah Frances Buckhanan, my husband’s great-grandmother on
his mother’s side, was born on January
1, 1864 in Bentonville, Benton County,
Arkansas. What a frightening world
surrounded her. The Civil War was waning but in northwestern Arkansas
the Confederates, bushwackers, and Native Americans fought off Union troops who
regularly ventured into Benton and Washington counties, engaging in bloody skirmishes,
leaving behind bodies of locals and burnt remains of their homes. Arkansas,
much like Missouri, was divided
in its allegiance to either the Union or Confederate
armies and fought the war internally for four long years, sacrificing thousands
of men, more than a few women and children, and many buildings that housed
county records, stores of food, and homes.</div>
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Sarah’s parents were John Littleton Trout Buckhanan and
Elender Jane Keeling Buckhanan. Sarah was the fourth of five children born to
Elender before her death at a young age, approximately thirty. Those records
that were lost in the Civil War have made tracing Elender’s life a bit
difficult but we believe she was born in Roane County,
Tennessee between 1837 and 1838 and died
between 1866 and 1870. Her burial place is unknown. She left behind five children,
Mary Jane born in 1857, Margaret in 1859, John Montgomery (named after his
paternal grandfather) in 1860, Sarah Frances in 1864, and George Thomas in 1866. It may
well have been the birth of her last son, George, in Missouri
that took the life of Elender, and perhaps her body rests there, but that is
only a guess. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
John Littleton Trout Buckhanan’s beginnings are not easily
traced with at least one record showing him as having been born in Missouri,
another Sadler, Texas, and most
likely Madison County, Arkansas. His parents were John Montgomery Buckhanan and
Catherine Airhart Buckhanan, both of Tennessee.
Not long after his wife Elender died John L. T. married Margaret A. Copinger
McGowan in St. Paul, Madison
County, Arkansas. She became mother to his five children, brought to the family
five children of her own from a previous marriage, and birthed three more,
Harvey Henry in 1870, Hannah Tennessee in 1873, and Sherman in 1880. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In 1894, having lived in Texas
for years, John was back in Madison County, Arkansas where he married his third
wife, all Tennessee born. Her
name was Mary Elizabeth Ferrell. On August
22, 1907, John died in Whitesboro, Grayson
County, Texas at the age of
seventy-three. Mary lived until May 9,
1934, and died in Gibtown, Jack County, Texas.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back to little Sarah, known to her family as both Frances
and Fannie, only a toddler when her mother died, life continued to be full
of turmoil and upheaval. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the time of
the 1870 Federal Census her father’s occupation is farmer in Madison Co., Arkansas,
with ten children in the household. Ten years later he is listed as a farmer in
Grayson Co., Texas, with five
children in the household. The Federal Census for 1890 was destroyed in a fire
so we don’t know where the family was then. In 1900, John and his wife of six
years, Mary Elizabeth, are living in Grayson Co, Texas
with only their eighteen-year-old grandson Selmer, son of Margaret Buckhanan. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9lwD532eZokNcmxGII25VAUXGrDTXseO9xrcxhSD7qeUm1Souj7gBpERUvTEJTdCOcIsJ5B8FMfq2Pu7UKBUiU39lSqAEwAkz3PzyEtuzuhFR6H4METT7tFKhiuBefHkfbBocgbSuzb4/s1600/SarahandWFSmith.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9lwD532eZokNcmxGII25VAUXGrDTXseO9xrcxhSD7qeUm1Souj7gBpERUvTEJTdCOcIsJ5B8FMfq2Pu7UKBUiU39lSqAEwAkz3PzyEtuzuhFR6H4METT7tFKhiuBefHkfbBocgbSuzb4/s320/SarahandWFSmith.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Meanwhile, Fannie married William Franklin Smith on December 24, 1887 in Grayson
County, Texas when she was
twenty-three. The fact Fannie didn’t marry at fifteen, sixteen, or seventeen
like so many girls of the times was probably because she was needed at home to
help with the younger children. Fannie’s granddaughter Rosa Ellen Fairchild
Farrell wrote in her memoir this about her grandmother, “Frances Buchanan’s
mother was taken from her small family while Frances
was quite young. But, like the trooper she was, Frances
took her mother’s place the best she could. She was a tall, slender girl with
black hair, brown eyes, and high cheek bones like those of an Indian. Her mouth
was set in a firm line. Because she was a cousin of Frank Smith, her ancestors
were also Irish, English, and Indian. Her father was a soldier in the Civil
War, later he was a cattle owner and rancher in Texas.
As children, Frank and Frances were playmates; as older children, they were
pals; as adults they were sweethearts. When the Buchanan children were old
enough to get along without Frances,
she and Frank were married.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As Rosa Ellen mentioned, Fannie and Frank were cousins, but not
quite first cousins. Frank Smith’s maternal grandmother, Elizabeth Jane Buckhanan,
was a sister to Fannie’s father, John Littleton Trout Buckhanan. I think that
makes Fannie and Frank first cousins once removed. We’ve all heard the
admonition “don’t marry your cousin.” In this case that advice should have been
heeded for it seems the Buckhanans carry a gene for hearing loss, an unusual
nerve deafness known as DFNA/DFNA1 hereditary hearing loss, which has continued
to manifest itself in at least six subsequent generations of descendants. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Married in Grayson County Texas on Christmas Eve, 1887,
Fannie and Frank moved on to Oklahoma
where in 1893 they staked a homestead claim near Noble. By 1908 they sold out
and followed the urging of a relative, R. E. Morris, to try their luck in the
rugged mountains and valleys of Moffat County, Colorado.
They packed up their meager belongings and with their family of five children
moved to Bear Valley,
north and west of Craig, Colorado
where the railroad ended and some of their lives ended too.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wish I could say Fannie’s life got better after her
marriage and maybe for a little while it did. But when I look at the photos of
the family with beautiful children who died soon after the photo was taken I
see pain and hardship there. </div>
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</div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeuH9x77HnSIvsB5gXELLEMlchXBfDL9jCx8V_DwDLFRXON65CCLGYj8VXP37z39-QD7zBB6vZFumbpNgfHP4A069vxX42YemlC4ChpmiPxgolHlJC8ZD4l8zQnsOsMJmAw-j-6alYuLY/s1600/sarahfrank1896.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeuH9x77HnSIvsB5gXELLEMlchXBfDL9jCx8V_DwDLFRXON65CCLGYj8VXP37z39-QD7zBB6vZFumbpNgfHP4A069vxX42YemlC4ChpmiPxgolHlJC8ZD4l8zQnsOsMJmAw-j-6alYuLY/s320/sarahfrank1896.jpg" width="303" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Their first born child, Thomas Alvin Smith, born in 1889,
did live a good, long life, to age seventy-one, and he is my husband’s
grandfather, my husband being Robert Doyle Russell.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The second born, William Lee, born in 1890 died within a
year.(<i>He in not in the photo to the left as he had already passed away.</i>)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
James Wesley Smith, born in 1894, was murdered at the young
age of twenty-eight, the same day his father was also murdered, both over a
dispute with a neighbor about a potato crop. More about that tragedy later in
this story. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Their fourth son, Bennie H. was born in 1895 and died when
he was eight. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Their fifth child was a daughter, Lillian Vernatta, born in 1897,
lived to be seventy-four. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ernest Franklin was born in 1902 and lived to be
seventy-eight. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rosa Jeanetta was born in 1905 and lived to be seventy-seven.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ola Mae was born in 1906 and died three years later. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Julia Ellen was born in 1908 and lived to be seventy-five. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxIdCwXYJBZe8CwxYq-9tAi6A43DEUf_mwPa-ejK03j2uxyIjG8nUo-uD1e2FaapKIZ8VePikaJOSyEpBiDklQaQYmQnNGkaemq7o2O5Lc2quzjqWNUWpiP8v9xCg_3lQyZL0lPO1-CvA/s1600/SmithAlbum5b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxIdCwXYJBZe8CwxYq-9tAi6A43DEUf_mwPa-ejK03j2uxyIjG8nUo-uD1e2FaapKIZ8VePikaJOSyEpBiDklQaQYmQnNGkaemq7o2O5Lc2quzjqWNUWpiP8v9xCg_3lQyZL0lPO1-CvA/s320/SmithAlbum5b.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of the nine babies she birthed, Fannie lost four of them,
and she had a stroke at age forty-four, upon the birth of her last child, Julia.
No wonder that final horrific blow to her well-being that came on October 5,
1921 when both her husband, William Franklin “Frank” Smith, and her son James
Wesley “Jim” Smith were shot and killed not far from their home, sent Fannie
into a tailspin, brought on another stroke and took the zest for living right
out of her. She stayed in Bear Valley
two more years after their deaths before she had enough money saved to retreat
to the more civilized city of Oklahoma City
where she lived with her daughter Lillie until the end of her life in April of
1937. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was another tragedy in Bear
Valley that affected Fannie and
that was the death of her daughter-in-law, Nora Olive Jones Smith, the wife of
Fannie and Frank’s oldest son, Tom.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Nora died in Craig,
Colorado where she had gone to await the
birth of her fourth child. Their daughter Jennie Frances Smith was born September 12, 1918 and six weeks later Nora succumbed to the virulent Flu Epidemic of 1918 that was sweeping the
nation, indeed the world. Fannie and Frank took<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
newborn Jennie Frances, always
called Frances
by her family, into their home where she lived until at the age of three when
her Grandpa Smith and Uncle Jim were killed. By that time Tom had remarried and
Frances joined
their household, not far from the home of her grandparents. Her grandmother,
Fannie Smith, not only suffered the loss of her husband and son, but had to
give up parenting her granddaughter and namesake, Frances Smith.<br />
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<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
As for Fannie’s health at the time of her husband’s and
son’s deaths, her granddaughter Rosa Ellen had this to say, “(<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rosa Ellen has been describing the events of
the day when her grandfather Frank and his son, Jim, were shot to death, from
the perspective of her mother, Rosa Smith</i>)……From her bed, Frank’s wife
jumped! For days she had lain there recovering from a stroke. Her daughters
tried to hold her back, but it was useless. The instinct of a wife and mother
told her that Death had struck. Half way to the pasture she collapsed, from
fatigue and another stroke. The girls ran to their mother and carried her to
the house and put her to bed once more. Neighbor women came to help in every
possible way, as soon as they heard of the tragedy. Hearts that are broken
never completely heal. Mrs. Smith lay in bed for weeks, unable to move. Her
thoughts were of the days she had known as Frank’s wife and Jim’s mother.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fannie and Frank’s older daughter Lillian Vernetta “Lillie”
Smith Williams traveled from Oklahoma
to Colorado to attend the funeral
of her father and brother, and stayed awhile longer to care for her mother
before returning to Oklahoma and
her husband Floyd Williams. Nearly two years later Fannie told her family she
could not spend another winter in Colorado
so her newly married daughter Rosa and husband, Art Fairchild, drove Fannie and
daughter Julie out of Bear Valley
and down to Oklahoma City to live
with Lillie. (One account says she took a train to Oklahoma.)
The following year Tom Smith left the valley for good, ending the era of the
Smith family in Moffat County
(<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">see <a href="http://www.viewoftherockies.com/CraigtoPurcell1.html">http://www.viewoftherockies.com/CraigtoPurcell1.html</a>
for photos of that infamous trip across the Continental Divide</i>)</div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: -.5in;">
Apparently
Fannie’s health improved in Oklahoma
for she traveled north in the summertime on several occasions to visit her
family in Colorado. Frances Smith
Russell wrote in her autobiography “From There to Here” about her grandmother “<span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">Grandma Smith would visit us during the
summer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She said she just couldn't take
the summer heat in </span><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">Oklahoma</span><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She divided her time between
our house, and Daddy's sister Rosie, and brother Earnest.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: -.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: -.5in;">
<span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">Her visits were truly the happiest times of my
life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She still had a soft spot for me
and could find a lot of little things to delight me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She insisted on helping me with the
dishes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was a real treat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since the older kids were kept busy in the
fields, the washing and drying dishes was my job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One summer while she was visiting, she and Ma
pieced me a quilt top out of Mother's clothing.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: -.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: -.5in;">
<span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">And later in her book </span><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">Frances</span><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;"> wrote this about her Grandmother Smith, “We went
to </span><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">Oklahoma</span><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;"> to visit Grandma in August of 1936 (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">paraphrased</i>). Grandma lived with Aunt
Lillie and Uncle Floyd (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lillie’s second
husband</i>).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had made her home with
them ever since Grandpa and Uncle Jim were killed, and she moved back to </span><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">Oklahoma</span><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had
two strokes and was partially paralyzed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She was quite feeble and spent most of her time in her easy chair.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-hyphenate: none; tab-stops: -.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And this, “<span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">In April 1937
Grandma Smith died.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was so glad I had
gone to see her the summer before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
still lived with Aunt Lillie.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">Rosa Ellen wrote this of
her Grandma Smith’s passing, “Mother went to </span><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">Oklahoma</span><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;"> at Thanksgiving (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">1936</i>) to visit her sisters and brother, and her mother, who was
ill. A few days after arriving at my aunt’s home in </span><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">Oklahoma City</span><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">, Jackie (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rosa
Ellen’s half brother</i>) became ill with diphtheria. Only because of the fine
surgical care was he saved. When Mother returned to Pierce (</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">Colorado</span></i><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">) during the Christmas holidays, she was nearly sick
because of the continuous care she had giving Jackie. In the spring a telegram
came during dinnertime. Grandma had gone to join Grandpa and her three children
in Heaven. This news was extremely hard for Mother to bear.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">One more firsthand source of information about
Fannie’s later years comes from a letter written by Betty Jo Barton Gaston, the
daughter of Fannie’s youngest child, Julia. The letter was addressed to Rosa
Ellen Fairchild Farrell, Betty’s cousin…date of letter unknown. These are
excerpts from that letter: “</span>But let's back up a bit. Frank and Fannie
had got land in Oklahoma, (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the land run</i>), up by Noble, OK. (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">April 2,
1889</i>) While there they lost 3 children---they are buried there
and that's where both Granny and Aunty are buried. (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Granny is Fannie. Aunty is Frank and Sarah's daughter, Lillian</i>).
Those 3 children were Bennie, Lee, and an Ola. One of the boys was crippled
somehow and in Granny's trunk of keepsakes was little shoe with a brace on it
that he had worn.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
“We
loved for Granny to look through her trunk and tell us the stories of each
thing in the trunk. She usually cried---and I could never figure out if seeing
the things made her cry or if she had just got the blues real bad and then got
out the stuff.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
“One
thing was a rock---not too big---and she said one of those boys who had died
had been sitting in the yard crying, and when Pa came close he told Pa that he
was mad at Ma. Then Frank told him: "Well, if I was you, then, I'd just
kill her." So the little guy picked up this rock and went in and threw it
at Granny. When she would tell that she would laugh and blow snuff all over
us---if we didn't watch out!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
I
guess Mother (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Julia</i>) was born at
Noble, and at that time, Aunty (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lillian</i>)
would have been 10 or 11. That's when Mother told me that Granny had the stroke
(<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">at the time of Julia’s birth</i>). Aunty
said after Granny had the stroke she had to start doing all the cooking,
washing, and etc.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
“Then
they told me the family moved on to the Weatherford area, and that is where
Aunty (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lillian</i>) met and married Floyd
Williams. Then from there they went to a ranch on White River.
We visited the ranch site and the schoolhouse that was up then. From there they
moved on to Moffat County
where the guys were shot.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
“Mother
(<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Julia</i>) told me that Granny explained
to her that they couldn't stay another winter out there with no men---so they
each packed a trunk and they rode the train back to Butler,
Oklahoma, where Aunty and Uncle (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lillian & Floyd</i>) lived. She never mentioned
who paid for the rail tickets. She didn't mention Rosa
coming with them. She did say that Granny told her that maybe they could go
back when it was spring.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
“When
I was about 9 or 10 I had the mumps and Granny was at our house. She said
"I'll sleep with Betty and take care of her. I've nursed mumps all my life
and never had them, so guess I'm immune." But she sure WASN'T! In due time
she did have the mumps and from then on her health went down and down. The
strokes started coming back on her---</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
and
she died the same spring that Tilford was born in 1937.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
“Granny
always lived with Aunty (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lillian</i>)
from the time they came from Colorado.
She'd visit us once in a while, and I think she traveled to Colorado
to see her other children a few times---but not very many times.</div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">Sarah Frances Buckhanan
Smith died in </span><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">April 11, 1937</span><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;"> at the age of 73, and was buried in the </span><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">Maguire-Fairview</span><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">Cemetery</span><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;"> near Noble, </span><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">Oklahoma</span><span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">. She left many descendants, a proud family of Smiths who have thrived and multiplied - Fannie would be proud.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">NOTES: </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">1) The name Buckhanan has been spelled various ways and today is usually spelled Buchanan.</span></div>
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Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02695106735082209909noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500243801199869021.post-37067408683895714302015-03-14T18:29:00.002-07:002015-03-14T18:33:30.346-07:00Robert Sidney Russell - Uncle Sid<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I asked my sister-in-law, Mary Simms, to tell me what she remembers about her Uncle Sid, thinking I would incorporate her memories into a story of my own, but when I read what she wrote I realized I could not improve on it. Therefore, this is Mary's story. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">A NIECE
REMEMBERS SIDNEY RUSSELL</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">[This memoir will be divided up into segments showing
the origin of the information.]</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: 14pt;">MARY RUSSELL
SIMMS:</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I first met Uncle Sid when he
came to Colorado to spend time with Frances and Doyle at the end of World War
II. He had recently been discharged from the US Army after seeing combat duty
in the Pacific Theatre. Sid had been wounded quite seriously and was still in a
state of post traumatic shock from war injuries. Later I felt it was rather
unusual that upon being discharged that Sid came straight to Doyle in Colorado rather
than returning to Arkansas to be with his parents first.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Uncle Sid was a very quiet and
polite person and showed great respect to everyone he met. Sid had a
personality that people just automatically gravitated toward. A truly magnetic
personality. Especially attracted to Sid’s charisma were the ladies—both
married and single.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Sid had very little money and
most of the time did not have wheels of his own, so he mostly dated women who
had access to a car and could provide their transportation. He did eventually
purchase an old c1928 beet truck that ran at times and did not at other times.
One night while en route to see one of his harem of lady friends his truck
lights gave out all of a sudden. Since all roads around Nunn, CO were built on
the straight surveyed section lines, Sid assumed he could simply continue in a
straight course until he came to a stop. Not so. Seems now and then the
intersections of the county roads had a jog in them, and when passing through
the intersection one came out about 50 feet to the left or right when entering
the next mile of road. [The reason for this jog was said to be because the
earth is round.] Unfortunately, it was at this point when Sid’s lights gave
out—just before the jog. He and his old truck ended up in the ditch just to the
left of the continuing county road—with the front of the truck nosed down into
the road ditch and the radiator slammed up against the ditch bank on the far
side.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">One lady that he courted for
quite a while was a local school teacher named Miss Marita Plunkett. She was
especially nice but did not have access to a car of her own. Hence Uncle Sid
did not spend too much quality time with her. When he would return from a date
with Miss Plunkett he would drop his used condoms at the yard gate. Frances
would go out the next morning and dig a hole and bury the offending items so her
kids would not find them.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">One time Miss Plunkett and Sid
came by the house and came in to visit for a while before going off on their
date. Our family had spent the day shopping in Greeley. Unfortunately when
Kenneth was sent back to close the kitchen door that he had left wide open an
old hen had already wandered into the kitchen. Kenneth did not notice the
chicken and slammed the door shut. Several hours later when Doyle and family
returned from Greeley, the hen had spent her time roosting on the cot in the
living room and doing as all good hens do—pooping on the bed. Frances chased
the hen out but failed to check for damages. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Bobby and I were already in bed
on the cot when Sid and Miss Plunkett arrived so Miss Plunkett, being a very
mannerly person, came into the living room to say hello to Bobby and me. She
sat down on the foot of the bed and leaned over with her hand resting on the
covers. It was rather dark in the room and Miss Plunkett kept sniffing at the
air and trying to hold a straight face. The next morning was when Frances found
that the bed covers were covered with chicken poop! We never did find out if
Miss Plunkett got any on her skirt or hand—but judging from her continuous
sniffing the air she had to have smelled the chicken poop. Frances was
mortified!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">When a lady would tell Sid that
she was married and hands off, Sid would inform the lady that she was much too
pretty to be married, and the lady would usually have an affair with Sid.
Flattery will get you everywhere. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">One morning Sid was still
asleep in the “north” bedroom when Frances told Kenneth and me to come see
something. Sid was facing toward the wall and the covers had come down to his
waist and his entire bare back was exposed. I could not believe what Sid’s back
looked like. His entire back was one huge scar from burning. Seems he had been
scalded by a boiling teakettle when he was a kid and then again by a mortar
shell during the war. He must have suffered terribly from those
injuries.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Uncle Sid related this incident
about the war injury to our family himself. For a long time after he was
wounded in battle, Sid was totally helpless. They kept him strapped down to the
bed to keep him still while he healed. For some reason Sid was kept totally
naked during this time. Perhaps to expedite healing. Anyway, he said that one
day a new nurse came in and whisked back the covers in preparing to change the
sheets. When the covers came off there lay a totally naked man bound hand and
foot to the hospital bed. For some reason this amused the nurse and she burst
out laughing and ran out and brought in several other nurses who stood around
and laughed and giggled about Sid’s condition. This really upset Sid.
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Our house was very small and
there were six in the family. We had only two bedrooms so it rather crowded us
to have Sid taking up one entire bedroom. Doyle kept finding Sid a place to
live with neighbors to free up our living space a little. One place Doyle found
was with a rather dishonest bachelor fellow named Mr. Quaif. He and Sid seemed
to get along OK and Sid stayed there for quite a while. Mr. Quaif had a car and
I would imagine he let Sid use it to court the ladies.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Uncle Sid was always very nice
to Doyle’s kids. He would bring us candy and other treats from town. He once
gave me a small cedar box that he had won on the local punch board. It had
originally been filled with Hershey Bars which he very generously shared with
the entire family. I was so thrilled when he gave me that beautiful carved
cedar box. It was about the 6” by 10” and 3” deep. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Another local family that Sid
lived with was Hattie and Everett Wilson. Everett worked for Murray Giffin and
when Sid went to work for Murray, it just seemed logical for Sid to get board
and room from Hattie and Everett. They thought the world of Sid as did about
everyone he encountered. One time Sid’s shoe string broke and he bent over and
tied the two broken ends back together. This act shocked the Wilsons no end.
They always threw broken things away and replaced them with new
things.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Uncle Sid eventually returned
to Arkansas to live with his parents for several years before he finally go married
and moved in with his new wife. Sid was given a partial disability pension from
the war injuries. Not enough to live on as a normal person but enough to live
like a bum. I saw Sidney in 1950 and again in 1958 when I visited Addie and
Elias’s home. He was very quiet, and stood on the front porch most of the time
smoking a cigarette. He was a kind and gentle person. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: 14pt;">FRANCES
RUSSELL</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Bobby always looked more like
his Uncle Sid than he did his Papa Doyle. This eventually gave rise to a
questioning of Bobby’s paternity. One person came right out and told Frances
that it was quite obvious that Frances had had an affair with Sid and Bobby was
Sid’s son. Fortunately, for Frances’s reputation, Frances and Sid had never met
until after Gladys was born so that squashed the rumor quite quickly. The
accuser was Uncle Harold’s wife, Shirley. This really ticked Frances
off.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: 14pt;">SID’S
MOTHER</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Sid was in active combat in New
Guinea during World War II and got wounded very seriously. Seems the natives
would steal the dead soldier’s dog tags and sell them to the Army to account for
mortalities. Sid got a bit too close to a mortar shell and was assumed dead by
the Natives who removed his dog tag and turned it in. The Army forthwith
informed Addie and Elias that their son had been killed during a battle in New
Guinea. They also sent all of Sid’s personal effects back to his parents. When
the medics checked the battlefield for survivors they found Sid nearly dead. He
was transported back to the Army hospital and was unconscious for a long period
of time. It was touch and go during this time. When Sid finally came out of
his coma he had no idea who he was or where he was. His memory was blanked out
from the trauma. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">When the day came that Uncle
Sidney finally remembered who he was and told his doctor, they wrote to his
parents and told them that their reported dead son was actually alive but in
serious condition at an Army hospital in the South Pacific. This must have been
quite a shock to his parents.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">It took a long time after this
before Sid could leave the hospital and be discharged and return to the US.
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">When Sid was just a little kid,
he and his siblings were running through the house like a bunch of wild Indians
when Sid got too close to the fireplace and caught his toe in the teakettle
filled with boiling water. He flung it all over himself and scarred quite a
bit of his body. The burns were quite serious but Addie doctored him through
this.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">One day Hazel came running up
the path between Seldon’s house and Addie’s house all excited. She yelled to
Addie that Sid and Minnie had just got married! Hazel was quite thrilled.
Addie was furious. She did not like Hazel and disliked Minnie even more. It
was at this point that Sid finally moved out of his parent’s house and moved
into Ozark to live with his new wife.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Robert Sidney Russell (1916-1977).</span> </span></div>
Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02695106735082209909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500243801199869021.post-22142422614781305602015-01-18T16:29:00.003-08:002015-01-19T13:36:45.564-08:00UNCLE SELDON<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Theron Seldon Russell was born October 27, 1921, in Cass, Franklin County, Arkansas, the
eleventh child of Elias L. and Addie Jane Russell. I don’t imagine that Seldon,
as he was called, got a lot of individual attention from either of his parents
with that many children in the house but he had plenty of older brothers and
sisters to look after him. He was born at home, birthed with the help of his father’s
mother, Mariah Tennessee Turner Russell, who was midwife for all of Addie
Jane’s children, and named them too! His older brother Doyle J. Russell, my
husband’s father, told me that his baby brother was named after a local school
teacher named Theron. I don’t know where the Seldon came from. There would be
one more child born to Elias and Addie Jane, another boy they named Harold who
came along three years later in July of 1924.</div>
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I know very little about Seldon’s childhood but assume it
was much like that of that of his seven brothers with hard work, few toys, and lots of wooded areas to explore along the Mulberry River and the tree covered,
rocky hills surrounding Cass.
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From one of Seldon’s cousins, Herbert Reid, we learned that
Seldon loved theater and performed in several plays when he was a school boy in
Cass. All his life he liked to make things with his hands using simple tools
like the pocket knives his older brothers whittled with. Late in life he was
still making wooden chairs and re-caning the seats. On one of his visits out to
Colorado to visit
Doyle, Seldon brought his nephew Bobby a door knocker made from a horseshoe. It
still hangs on our front door and is used often, reminding us always of Uncle
Seldon....it is cherished.</div>
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But I’m getting ahead of myself….On October 20, 1942, Seldon enlisted in the Army
Air Corps at Little Rock, Arkansas.
He was a single, twenty-one year old with two years of high school education
and some experience driving a bus or truck. He was 5’7” and weighed 134 pounds, and enlisted for “the duration of the war plus six months at the discretion of
the President.” Seldon served his country honorably and came home to Ozark
after the war along with six of his brothers who also served in the military
in WWII, a proud family tradition of service to our country.</div>
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On April 6, 1948,
Seldon married Mary Hazel Wisdom in Paris, Arkansas.
Ten months later they welcomed their first child, and only boy, into the world,
Theron Jimmy Russell. Seldon and Hazel lived in a little white house within
shouting distance of his parents and proceeded to raise a family, Seldon
working for the Forest Service, a very good job for that time and place. Six
lovely daughters were born to them from 1951 to 1965,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mary Sue, Patricia Joyce, Nancy
June, Brenda Kay, Judy Ann, and Teresa Diane. Hazel’s health was not good and
she passed away in April of 1982, just a couple of weeks before their youngest
daughter was married. </div>
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Two years later Seldon remarried, a local woman named Mary
Emily Wright Primm, formerly of Claremore, Oklahoma.
They had twenty-three years of life together, happy years, from all outward appearances, before Mary passed in 2007 with
Seldon following a year later. Several times during those twenty-three years
Mary and Seldon drove out to Colorado
to visit Doyle and his family, including the celebration of Doyle and Frances' golden wedding anniversary in 1985. </div>
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Bob and I remember Seldon as a friendly, kind, thoughtful
Uncle and only wish we had known him better, had visited him on his own turf,
learned what made him most happy in life. He’s left a legacy in his children
and grandchildren and in the handcrafted items he made with his own hands. </div>
Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02695106735082209909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500243801199869021.post-28081131970402460262014-10-11T11:26:00.000-07:002014-10-11T11:28:11.349-07:00TURNER BEND; A Community Full of History<i>(reprinted from the Arkansas Gazette, 1969, by Shirley Curtis)</i>
Turner Bend, near Cass up in the Ozarks, got its name for a couple of obvious reasons:
It is named for a family named Turner and it is situated on a bend in the Mulberry River.
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Here Champ and Flora Turner daily ply their trade – the operation of a grocery store-service station combination. Seven days a week one or both of them help the numerous people who stop, lending credit to old customers, making friends with the new ones.
The Turner family has lived in this valley for 120 years. It was in 1849 that Elias Turner and his wife Sarah made their way from Tennessee to Arkansas and fell in love with this promising area. The fertile land, majestic mountains, the swift-moving clear creek that cut its way down the center of the valley could hardly be overlooked, and they probably arrived in the springtime when the woods were blossoming with greenery that deepened as the months progressed to summer and later turned to brilliant hues of red, gold, and brown in the autumn. Here they were to work the land, rear eight children, and live for the rest of their lives.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimJchcAcoOPxrJs3TfDwUF0NDMadmAt_3mpB71DlxqrM2eZUxEIri6x9lvvjh32TXsHkCRTuAY6DXL-cXYvQnsPK_Yv8rkz0qCDKAiq2siYs2NJC7HPsHWStgKJgO8FjQnmTVQChFXM8g/s1600/TurnerEliasSarahDurning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimJchcAcoOPxrJs3TfDwUF0NDMadmAt_3mpB71DlxqrM2eZUxEIri6x9lvvjh32TXsHkCRTuAY6DXL-cXYvQnsPK_Yv8rkz0qCDKAiq2siYs2NJC7HPsHWStgKJgO8FjQnmTVQChFXM8g/s400/TurnerEliasSarahDurning.jpg" /></a></div>Elias Turner was born in 1821 in Perry County, Tennessee; Sarah (Durning) in 1815. Little is known about them until they reached Arkansas in the mid-19th Century. At this time Elias contracted to buy 500 acres between Cass and Ozark for $2 per acre. He and his wife settled on the land, and it wasn’t long until they acquired many new friends, one of them a neighborhood school teacher. Elias confided in his new friend that he had $1,000 with which he was going to purchase the 500 acres. And before too much time had elapsed, the teacher stopped by the Turner house when he knew Elias was away for the day and Sarah was down at the creek washing clothes. Although he had not been told where the money was hidden, it didn’t take him long to find it tucked away in a walnut chest the Turners had brought with them from Tennessee. He took the money and skipped the country, never to be found. The $1,000 was lost forever, but the Turners were still obligated to buy the land because they had signed a contract. Somehow, over the years, Elias managed to pay his debt and the land became his, later to be handed down to his heirs.
When the Civil War broke out in 1861, the Turners were true to the Confederacy. As Union troops eventually edged through Arkansas, Elias preserved food for his family by storing corn in the logs of the cabin where pilfering soldiers and renegades could not find it. (These same logs are still intact today, covered with siding but nevertheless comprising one room of the house near Cass.) As the war progressed and soldiers were desperately needed, Elias joined the Southern army, fighting in both Arkansas and Texas and rising to the rank of captain.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDsjjr5029n0N2JbbHb08C56iYICmrQLBSWXR84blqF_ZttHDSyTqMQxe15LptiqGDyyiL2vpX3FkK2wWIa8_lpe7D_F2ply4Md-UfWcyirAaF6GxANsi81H99oNjITVTr-_Rj7baqDIo/s1600/TurnerSamuelGilbertPhoebeMarsh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDsjjr5029n0N2JbbHb08C56iYICmrQLBSWXR84blqF_ZttHDSyTqMQxe15LptiqGDyyiL2vpX3FkK2wWIa8_lpe7D_F2ply4Md-UfWcyirAaF6GxANsi81H99oNjITVTr-_Rj7baqDIo/s400/TurnerSamuelGilbertPhoebeMarsh.jpg" /></a></div>Samuel Turner, Elias’ son, also served with the Confederacy, in the 23rd Texas Calvary. In 1862, at the age of 20, he married Phoebe Marsh, a midwife who was to deliver most of the babies born in the area during her lifetime. (ed: Samuel Turner was brother to Mariah Tennessee Turner who was Doyle J. Russell’s beloved grandmother.)
Clearing land for a homesite proved to be almost more than Samuel could handle, but as the sky grew dark and the air became heavy one day, he continued to work. By the time he realized a tornado was descending upon him, it was too late to find safe cover.
Throwing himself to the ground, he locked his arms as tightly as possible around the tree, but the lashing wind was so strong that it literally bounced him and the tree up and down. Incredible as it may sound, he escaped unhurt – and built a home.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxQq8yN4kjFzlZBEBxQB8ag_Vy1nEzp0Oci7Y8P0xel9SwUns-_eg-T-pU5jMF0viRz4bK-C5BkaibkjPJqtYL8ZQ09UuD5fXD7lDG3MMhLquQOGSO1d2EWBM-HSbpAz1gaM1C5yBZydA/s1600/TurnerSamuelhome.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxQq8yN4kjFzlZBEBxQB8ag_Vy1nEzp0Oci7Y8P0xel9SwUns-_eg-T-pU5jMF0viRz4bK-C5BkaibkjPJqtYL8ZQ09UuD5fXD7lDG3MMhLquQOGSO1d2EWBM-HSbpAz1gaM1C5yBZydA/s400/TurnerSamuelhome.jpg" /></a></div>In 1892 Samuel built another house, a handsome two-story log structure that still stands today. (It is now owned by Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Berterotti.) The hand-hewn logs have since been painted red, as striking contrast to the white mortar which holds them together. The tall, natural stone fireplace he pieced together with rocks gathered from his hillside.
It was this same year that Samuel and Phoebe entertained the James Brothers – Jesse, Frank, Bob, and Cole Younger made up the party that spent the night with the Turners. As the adults settled down to talk, one of the gang poured out a sack of money on the floor so the children could play with it.
(Incidentally, whether the family actually wanted to entertain the notorious outlaws is what the lawyers would call a moot point. Quite possibly they had no choice in the matter.)
Phoebe Turner, as well as her family, was unique person. She smoked a clay pipe (which the Turners still have), using a small piece of cane for the stem. Whenever she was ready for a smoke, or a chew, up went the long skirt as her hand reached for the pouch of tobacco and the pipe carried in a handy pocket in her petticoat. Usually she chewed awhile before smoking.
Phoebe’s mother was a fearless woman. Like most people in the 1800s, she raised hogs, and inasmuch as this was a time when animal predators roamed widely through the Ozark hills, she trained the hogs to run to the house when wolves got after them. Upon hearing the hogs squealing one day, she quickly let them into the house and barred the door, but not before she had caught a glimpse of the large black bear in hot pursuit. Determined to make a meal on the swine – if not her - it lunged against the door again and again. Growling and clawing, it angrily even tried to dig under it. The bear was making progress when Phoebe’s mother grabbed an axe and with one blow severed a paw from its body. But it was not until after the animal had climbed onto the roof and torn off several boards that it gave up and lumbered off into the woods to nurse its wounds.
Phoebe’s brother, Jim Marsh, risked his life during the Civil War to protect his neighbors. As bushwhackers began to straggle through the community, stealing and plundering as they went, Jim built himself a fort of rock near the road. Darkness one night found him hidden behind his shield with plenty of ammunition but only one gun. The bushwhackers came, a few at a time, only to meet their deaths. Before the night was over, Jim had killed nine.
Phoebe and other neighbor women buried soldiers whenever it was necessary, once putting away a dozen or more Confederates who had been ambushed in their camp. No one knows who they were or where they came from, but the stone markers the women placed on their graves are still visible on a hillside overlooking the Ozark Frontier Trail.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjigRqmIw3ritjo-O_ARc4posnterkSWK8B_5Yz4I-1HnZvqBwmD8ES3njHKJ3RHMlYLSIqAi2v8XupTtymLZTG61vlYU-wAGrJbrCkCgn1CBWBv85v8GQ_pZ-y_8imx35SPl9ZF6PU2NI/s1600/TurnerWilliamEli1874.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjigRqmIw3ritjo-O_ARc4posnterkSWK8B_5Yz4I-1HnZvqBwmD8ES3njHKJ3RHMlYLSIqAi2v8XupTtymLZTG61vlYU-wAGrJbrCkCgn1CBWBv85v8GQ_pZ-y_8imx35SPl9ZF6PU2NI/s400/TurnerWilliamEli1874.jpg" /></a></div>The next descendant in the line of Turners was William Eli, Champ’s father, who not only farmed and ran the store for awhile, but also made coffins for people who could not buy one. Eli had a total of 24 children, an even dozen by each of his two wives. Eighteen of them are still living (1969), and it is no small wonder that they now keep in touch with each other through their own newspaper, The Turner Tattler, published by members of the family living in Texas.
Six of Eli’s sons were in World War II at the same time and all came back alive. Champ, stationed with the 84th Infantry, was engaged in the action of the Battle of the Bulge in addition to other major battles, but safely returned to his wife, Flora, whom he had married in 1939, and his business. Home at last, Champ was in the familiar surroundings he had known all his life.
Champ remembers his early days at Turner Bend when toys were scarce and the whole outdoors was his playground. With his friends he spent many memorable hours swimming, hunting, fishing, and exploring the intriguing caves scattered around the hills. When he wanted to visit someone, and the distance was too far to walk, he rode an ox. In fact, he road an ox to call on his first girl friend.
But the time for play and adventure was little, for there were chores to be done, land to be farmed, and livestock to feed. Leisure time was so precious that not one minute could be lost. Perhaps this is why children found so much to do during their free moments.
As a boy Champ learned that a turtle’s shell becomes a dandy soap dish after it is scrubbed, and a limb from a sweet gum tree makes an excellent toothbrush. You simply cut the limb at the notch, peel back the bark, and chew the fibers until they bush out.
Today Champ and Flora are two of the few Turners left around Cass. Only one of their sons, Paul, remains at home. Gary is assistant manager of a restaurant in Fort Smith, and Lonnie is a law student at the University of Arkansas.
Champ’s Uncle Gilbert, the oldest living member of the Turner family, lives in Fort Smith, but returns whenever possible for a visit. A spry man of 89, he just recently sold a three-wheeled motor scooter which he bought four years ago. When the purchaser couldn’t pick it up, he promptly hopped on the scooter and delivered it from Fort Smith to Van Buren.
Gilbert remembers the days when his mother, Phoebe, and his grandmother Sarah labored from dawn to dusk canning fruits and vegetables, spinning cloth and making clothes for the entire family, and curing meat for the long winter ahead. Gilbert recalls the night the James Brothers came to his father’s house, but the thing that impressed him most was, “They didn’t think any more about us kids playing with that sack of money than anything.”
Except for modern conveniences and a paved highway, Turner Bend looks much as it did in the old days. Champ and Flora have retained many of the family heirlooms, such as a powder horn that belonged to Elias, cotton cards to make bats for quilts, a shoe last for mending shoes, and a tooth extractor used in the days when the man of house was also the dentist. Their large mantle clock, dating back to 1825, came from Belgium and was made by a soldier serving under Napoleon when Belgium was reunited with France.
While wild animals are rather rare in the area, they are by no means nonexistent. Occasionally someone still tells about seeing a panther or a mountain lion, and armadillos and roadrunners, which have started migrating up from Texas, are seen frequently.
Tourists traveling the Ozarks on Highway 23 find Turner Bend a natural stopping place, and the Turners readily give them any information needed to make their journey more pleasant. However, they do lose a potential customer once in a while before he ever enters the store. Some people take offense at being greeted by a long, loud wolf whistle, and this is exactly what happens to every one who stops. The explanation is simple. The Turners have a Mynah bird who never misses an opportunity to pull this mischievous antic. But it is a little unnerving to the unsuspecting tourist who opens his car door and thinks someone inside is whistling at him or his wife, as the case may be. Some merely close the door and drive away.
The Turner family has found peace and tranquility in this beautiful valley since 1849. No one can venture a guess as to how long Turners will live in it, but undoubtedly the love first felt by Elias Turner for the land has endured in the hearts of each generation.
Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02695106735082209909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500243801199869021.post-58056670809506017272014-07-01T08:59:00.002-07:002014-07-01T08:59:47.423-07:00Nora Olive Jones Smith - Our Link to mtEveI've been doing some reading about Mitochondrial DNA, a unique part of the human genetic makeup that is only passed from mother to daughter. My interest was piqued when I had my own DNA tested through the National Geographic Genome project, and being female, my mitochondrial DNA is the line I now have most knowledge about. But all that is only important in this blog to explain why I am thinking about genealogy, genetics, and our Smith/Jones family line.
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Nora Olive Jones, the fourth of thirteen children born to James Archibald Jones and Eliza Jane Holcroft Jones, married her longtime neighbor become boyfriend, Thomas Alvin Smith, on August 24, 1910, at the Jones family home in Weatherford, Oklahoma. It was Tom Smith's 21st birthday; Nora was seventeen. Their first child, Ola Mae Smith, was born a year later on August 10, 1911. A son James Franklin Smith followed on May 11, 1913, and a second son, Oliver Thomas Smith, on June 30, 1915. Nora's short life ended on October 23, 1918 in Craig, Colorado, where she had just given birth to her second daughter, Jennie Frances Russell on September 12, 1918. The childbirth weakened her and the Spanish Flu Epidemic of 1918 took her life.
A rift occurred between the Smith and Jones families after Nora's death, specifically, Nora's mother blamed Tom Smith for taking her daughter to that God-forsaken land northwest of Craig, Colorado, and letting her die there, far from her Oklahoma family. Eliza Jane had lost her husband in 1917 so the death of her daughter a year later was particularly cruel. Because the families were estranged Jennie Frances Smith, or Frances as she was called, grew up with scant knowledge of her Jones relatives. It was only as an adult that she made contact with uncles and aunts, learned a little about the mother she never knew. Frances did pass along to us, her children and in-laws, a bit of the history of the Jones family and a few personal stories about her mother but not nearly enough for us to know what Nora was like. Instead we are left with a few sad photographs of an over-worked woman living in a small log house on the sagebrush covered plains of Bare Valley, Colorado.
But she left two daughters, Ola Mae and Jennie Frances, and those daughters had daughters and granddaughters and so Nora Smith's mitochondrial DNA lives in the cells of those granddaughters and gr-granddaughters today. Ruth and Emily can trace their mtDNA from their mothers, Nora and Cyndee, to their maternal grandmothers, Irene and Gladys, to their maternal gr-grandmothers Ola and Frances, to Nora. Nora's line continues back through time through her mother, Eliza Jane Holcroft, through Martha B. Robbins in the early 1800s and beyond. Current genetic theory traces us all back to one woman living in Africa about 140,000 years ago, nicknamed Eve, not the Eve of the Bible but the Mitochondrial Eve.
As I understand it, the mitochondria is not responsible for traits like hair and skin color or shape of our eyes. In fact, scientists are not sure what traits are passed through the mitochondria but it's a fantastic tool for tracing our ancestry through our mothers. It has been used by geneticists to establish migration routes and time frames. Nora Olive Jones Smith had a short and difficult life but her contribution to our family was significant and her genes live on.Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02695106735082209909noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500243801199869021.post-8593745301499902862014-06-23T07:52:00.001-07:002014-06-23T08:30:02.335-07:00Our Smith Family is Better Known to Us Now
In 2007 Mary Russell Simms, daughter of Doyle Russell and Frances Smith Russell, decided she wanted to host a gathering of her mother's family, the William Franklin Smith descendants. Aware that a few of the Colorado-based Smiths were meeting each summer in Windsor, Colorado, she wanted to expand on that to include all the far-flung relatives across the nation. That huge effort culminated in a family reunion held near Oklahoma City mid-September 2008. Sixty-two attendees made the gathering a wonderful success with cousins united after years of separation. Thanks to Mary's searching out distant kin there were cousins there who had never met one another. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_IoMeA9OBnlrMqhwash0twkcmmCrz9GDZFeywsbpAXGIkq66XVfn-INT_JOVXjeJO-lbAmlzGj-FNglxXLhVUx7NjeRzrUTQCvFxc5v_0hHa4T25dpZ-7LRfxcGEfwTm7KhK1W3EIr9k/s1600/Mary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_IoMeA9OBnlrMqhwash0twkcmmCrz9GDZFeywsbpAXGIkq66XVfn-INT_JOVXjeJO-lbAmlzGj-FNglxXLhVUx7NjeRzrUTQCvFxc5v_0hHa4T25dpZ-7LRfxcGEfwTm7KhK1W3EIr9k/s320/Mary.jpg" /></a></div>Each year after that Mary coordinated reunions of her Smith family, the most ambitious of which was a gathering in Moffat County, Colorado to visit the home sites in Bear Valley, northwest of Craig, where the Smith family lived in the early 1900s, where Grandpa and Uncle Jim, aka William Franklin Smith and his son James Wesley Smith, were murdered, and where Mary's own grandmother, Nora Jones Smith succumbed to the Spanish Flu of 1918. Only one reunion had to be cancelled and that was last year, 2013, when tornadoes lay waste to areas around Oklahoma City.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio4d5S46WzIbL28DssTwPwJU2f_85JfYjeJxe7bPWqwYERu1YixVraX7qAdDIBoRKjhdH-1Yv3xBrJeDugezhl5uuV2OPypXVAOuaXdWYQR6N4PzwoPPpD8NyoGjjRvRz9ZR-BWzupm6Y/s1600/sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio4d5S46WzIbL28DssTwPwJU2f_85JfYjeJxe7bPWqwYERu1YixVraX7qAdDIBoRKjhdH-1Yv3xBrJeDugezhl5uuV2OPypXVAOuaXdWYQR6N4PzwoPPpD8NyoGjjRvRz9ZR-BWzupm6Y/s320/sign.jpg" /></a></div>This year's reunion is now history. Mary accomplished her goal of erecting a sign on the land her gr-grandfather homesteaded near Noble, Oklahoma in 1894. The attendance this year was very small, an indication that interest has waned, old age has taken its toll, and the bad economy is affecting us all. But we can all be thankful to Mary for bringing us together again, the descendants of William Franklin Smith and his brother John Alvin Smith, for teaching us about their lives and our connection to them. We now know that we are a hardy bunch, healthy, good looking, and prosperous. But we do share a hereditary hearing loss and Mary researched that too, encouraging all family members to share their audiology profiles which culminated in Mary's book "The Smith Family Curse."<br />
I would personally like to thank Mary for all the hard work she put into this study of her mother's family, for bringing us together year after year, and for accomplishing her goals of posting permanent markers on the land and publishing the results of the hearing loss study. Thank you, Mary. You persisted where others would have given up years ago. Great job!Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02695106735082209909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500243801199869021.post-7436018308949438902014-04-25T10:25:00.000-07:002014-04-26T11:54:47.585-07:00Tom Smith, a Man Difficult to DefineI'll start by saying, I never met the man. Tom Smith died December 29, 1960, twelve years before I became a part of his family. He was my husband's grandpa on his mother's side. Sadly, Bob's grandpa on his father's side, Elias Russell, also died that year, on January 19. Growing up in a farm family closely tied to the land, livestock, and daily chores, Bob had limited contact with either of his grandpas but a little more with Tom Smith as Tom lived in Colorado the last 35 years of his life, within a day's drive of his daughter Frances Smith Russell and her family, which included son Bob. Every summer the Smith clan met at a park in Denver or Greeley for their annual picnic and family reunion and some years that was the only time Bob saw his Grandpa Smith, but it was enough to develop a strong liking for the man. Bob was 18 the year he lost both of his grandfathers so his memories of them are childhood memories.
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Thomas Alvin Smith was born August 24, 1889 in Paris, Texas, the first of ten children born to William Franklin Smith, known by most as Frank Smith, and his wife Sarah Frances Buchanan Smith. We know very little about those early, formative years Tom lived with his family in Texas. By 1893 they were in Noble, Oklahoma on a homestead near Frank's only brother John. Family lore has Frank racing in the Oklahoma Land Rush for that parcel of land near Noble. In 1909 the family moved on to Weatherford, Oklahoma where Tom met his wife-to-be, Nora Olive Jones, one of the Jones girls, nearby neighbors. They were married on Tom's twenty-first birthday; Nora was seventeen.
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A neighbor and shirt-tail relative of Toms, Robert E. Morris, was a land speculator in Moffat County, Colorado and probably lured Tom and his brother Jim to that far northwestern corner of the state where homesteading was not only encouraged but solicited. <br />
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Jim had been married for a short time but Bessie took a look at that forlorn vista in Bear Valley and quickly returned to Oklahoma. Jim filed on a claim about 20 miles northwest of Elk Springs, Colorado in Moffat County, and so did his father. In 1915 Tom's wife and children traveled by train from Oklahoma to Craig, then by buggy out to their new home, a hastily built cabin on the high, dry plains of Bear Valley (some call it Bare Valley). Tom's parents also made the move to the new land and brought their children, cattle and horses on the train. <br />
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If Tom had known in 1915 what his future held he probably would have sat down on a stump and cried. In 1918 Tom's wife, Nora, died in the Spanish Flu Epidemic just weeks after giving birth to a daughter, Jennie Frances Smith who would later become Bob Russell's mother. Tom's parents took Frances into their nearby home leaving Tom and Nora's older three children with their dad. Within a year Tom traveled across the Continental Divide to bring home a new mother for his children, the widowed wife of his first wife's brother, Chloe Callender Jones. Three hard years later Tom's father, Frank, and brother, Jim, were shot and killed by a neighbor after arguing about a shared field of potatoes. Tom still tried to hang on to the land in Bear Valley but when his stepson got in trouble with the law and was given the option of leaving town or facing charges the family pulled up stakes and headed east to Purcell, Colorado where they had family. There is more about that trip here <a href="http://www.viewoftherockies.com/CraigtoPurcell1.html">Craig to Purcell</a>.
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From that time of exodus from Bear Valley until the end of his life in 1960 Tom kept his family fed. The first years in Weld County he rented farms where he grew crops and raised livestock but that country is dry, windy, and prone to hail storms. He and Chloe brought three more children into this world, two who lived and one buried out on the plains. About 1929 Tom bought several pieces of brand new farm equipment but had them repossessed when the Depression hit. Drought and the death of Choe's son, Frankie, added to the family woes. Tom lost 29 head of cattle to starvation the same winter that Frankie died. <br />
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In Frances Russell's autobiography she tells that 1936 was Tom Smith's last year to farm. He got a job for the state as a liquor inspector, moved his family to Arvada, and bought himself a brand new Chevrolet car for six hundred dollars. Life got a little easier for Tom and Chloe in Arvada and the memories of their two youngest children, William and Marion, spoke of a kinder, gentler Tom Smith than the man remembered by his older children. <br />
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And that brings me back to the reason I wanted to write about Tom Smith, to try to define the man but not pass judgment. When he lived out in Bear Valley he was young and inexperienced, struggling to survive on land that was only good for growing potatoes after grubbing out acres of tenacious sagebrush using hand tools and reluctant children.
Tom had a short temper and little patience with his strong-willed children and ornery horses. Raised by parents who kept their bibles close at hand, Tom disciplined his children harshly "for their own good." <br />
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Later in life, long after Tom had passed away, his oldest daughter, Ola, could find very little good to say about her dad but she was like him in so many ways - his mannerisms, speaking voice, penchant for telling a good story, so that I was told, "You want to know what Tom Smith was like...take a look at Ola." <br />
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Bob Russell remembers his grandpa as a man who liked to play cards, drink coffee, smoke cigarettes and tease the womenfolk. He called his daughters "sister", his granddaughters "daughter" and used colorful language to embarrass them.."your little titty, sister". Tom liked his whiskey and even when times were really lean he usually had a bottle hidden out side the house where he could have a nip or two. No one would ever say Tom handled money wisely or planned well for the future but he and Chloe kept a home where friends and relatives were always welcome to sit at their table, share Chloe's delicious meals, listen to Tom's entertaining stories, and spend the night. <br />
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Tom's grandson Kenneth Russell summed up his assessment of his grandpa with these words, "He did the best he could with what he had," and what more can you ask of a man? I think Tom was a much more loving grandfather than he was a father but by the time the grandkids came along Tom didn't have to fight so hard to keep the wolf from the door.<br />
<br />Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02695106735082209909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2500243801199869021.post-67984131917112915442013-12-31T10:11:00.000-08:002013-12-31T10:11:41.631-08:00Elias Russell Home Remodeled by Cowan Family in 1991<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.viewoftherockies.com/cass1.html"><img alt="Elias Russell homestead" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-wGdjGHtiKijQ6IovQgqL5F_fDMOXntxUUrVLTDGXRSLm2libvxkEgsI4WLfdNIu6aLo6zNJ9C1DG-mHgE1GbIm3Qw3g8raGPxUIPwA-IlkkAFxpQcUBhESpx5zdVlKGMWYbEBM-swPs/s400/EliasRussellplace1994.jpg" /></a></div>
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<em>(photo above taken by Kenneth Russell during his visit there in 1994)</em></div>
Elias Russell and his wife Addie Jane Mahaffey Russell lived their entire married lives in the house he built near Cass, Arkansas about 1901. I could be off a few years on that date as he may have started the house before he married Addie Jane on September 22, 1900. They reared twelve children there and after Elias died January 19, 1960, Addie continued to live in the house for a few more years before their oldest daughter, Bertie Lee Russell, insisted her mother move to town, a move that Addie was very much against. Addie died December 7, 1970, and I hope she was able to visit her old home often, but I don't know that for sure.<br />
In 1991 the new owners of the property, Bernice and Curtis Cowan, restored all six of the buildings on the place. Elias and Addie's son, Seldon Russell, who lived nearby, visited the property with one of his daughters, Teresa, and took photographs of the buildings in their restored state. He also made a video of his visit, explaining as he walked around how each building was used by his parents. I have posted those photographs on a webpage here <a href="http://www.viewoftherockies.com/cass1.html">http://www.viewoftherockies.com/cass1.html</a><br />
Seldon passed away in April of 2008 and I believe the Cowans are gone now too. As I write this in 2013 I don't know who currently owns the old Elias Russell place or what condition it is in but I'm eternally grateful to Uncle Seldon for sharing his photographs of the restored homestead with us.Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02695106735082209909noreply@blogger.com4