The Contested Election

With voting for the presidential election to be finalized this Tuesday, my hope is for the candidate who loses to display foresight and character with a timely concession speech. This has not always been the case. An example of a refusal to concede is found in the actions of those who stormed the Capitol Building on January 6, 2021, an act of treason if there ever was one. Spare us a repeat of all this election denial ballyhoo and let’s get on with business.  

Before January 6th, there was November 7, 1876!  

In my upcoming sequel, “The Gilded Age” - www.beckleysbooks.com - I delve into the effect the 1876 Presidential Election had on all of our ancestors who lived locally during this time period. Roughly five years after the fateful 1876 election (1880), and with promoting of Northeast Ohio’s favorite son, James A. Garfield, into the White House, the local democrats were still fuming over the election that had been stolen from them in 1876. The Democratic mouthpiece, The Carroll Chronicle, was still dredging up “the theft” and reminding folks pretty much on a weekly basis.  

A look back at what transpired in the early morning hours of November 8, 1876, and the months that followed, gives us an understanding of why the Democrats were so passionate and why they felt aggrieved for so long. Here’s what went down, by all historical account. 

The Republican Party nominated Rutherford B. Hayes, the Governor of Ohio, who was a placid, but outgoing individual. Kenneth E. Davison’s biographical sketch of Hayes tells us of the Kenyon College student walking 40 miles to his family’s home in Delaware, Ohio one Christmas. Hayes later met and married the renown women’s activist, Lucy Webb, who became one of the more gifted First Ladies, and the first to be a college grad. “She was an excellent hostess; her outgoing personality complemented her husband’s more reserved manner.”, Davison writes. Rutherford Hayes was not his party’s first choice for president, but after seven ballots, he was considered the perfect compromise candidate from their primary convention held in Cincinnati that year.  

The Democrats coalesced around the Governor of New York, Samuel Tilden. Tilden’s appeal, according to author Roy Morris Jr., was his being a cerebral politician, an intellectual who did not devolve into the personal side of a campaign, but otherwise embodied a self-aloofment. “Centennial Sam” at 62, looked a good ten years older. He was short and slight of stature with sparse sandy hair, a pale complexion, and an odd drooping left eyelid. Is there any surprise that he was a bachelor? 

My read on this election is that neither party’s candidate got personally involved with the eventual outcome, but, Hayes’ “essential rectitude” allowed him to overlook the evidence of electoral misbehavior by some of his closest friends and supporters. 

Meanwhile, Tilden realized, despite securing 1.3 million more votes than his opponent, the election was being stolen from him. Tilden also understood how one ill-chosen word might reignite the country into civil war. Morris Jr. writes, “Tilden had the good grace and inherent patriotism to avert such a social catastrophe.”  

This is a tale that might sound eerily familiar. It starts with a political operative, Daniel Sickles – aka “Dirty Dan” - who had been a Democrat and was a rising star under the James Buchanan administration. That was until Sickles effectively ruined his career by killing the son of Francis Scott Key, whom had been having an affair with his wife. Sickles used his connections through Edwin Stanton, the future War Secretary, to secure an acquittal. Roy Morris Jr., in his best-selling book, “Fraud of the Century”, notes that Stanton, in this legal brief, was the first lawyer to use the argument of “temporary insanity”.  

Sickles salvaged his reputation by raising and leading a Union brigade during the Civil War, losing a leg at Gettysburg, but winning a Medal of Honor for his efforts. Then, after the war, Sickles was appointed as Military Command of the Reconstruction District encompassing North and South Carolina, before having been removed once President Grant appointed him as an “American Minister” to Spain. Sickles had to resign this foreign post after having become too familiar with the Queen of Spain and thereafter, he moved to Paris. It was from his residence in Paris where Sickles wrote to his American contacts of his concern for a Tilden presidency. Oddly enough, the National Republican Chairman, Zachariah Chandler, declined Sickles’ offer of help, but this did not deter him from returning and settling in New York City. 

On the night of November 7th, Sickles was returning from a Broadway play when he stopped at the hotel of the Republican Headquarters on 23rd Street. He was expecting a hive of activity, but found none; only a disheartened clerk, M.C. Clancy, as everyone else had retired for the night fully expecting a Democratic Party victory in the morning. Morris Jr. describes in his book how Sickles sat at the chairman’s desk and “riffled through a stack of telegrams from Republican State Headquarters across the country. What he saw gave him hope.” Sickles mentioned to the clerk that the presidential contest was “really close ...  doubtful, but by no means hopeless.” 

Sickles turned his astute eyes on the Electoral College tally and instantly knew that in three states, Florida, Louisiana, and South Carolina, where Republicans still held power through governorships and reconstructive governmental power, he could raise the “slightest air of uncertainty”. Sickles then drafted a message to each of those three states’ party’s chairmen restating, “With your State sure for Hayes, he is elected. Hold your State.” What Sickles needed next was the clerk, Clancy, to forge Chairman Chandler’s signature on the messages. Clerk Clancy was skeptical of the scheme until the powerful and current Collector of the Port of New York, and future President of the USA, Chester A. Arthur appeared. Sickles posed his scheme to Arthur, and under Arthur’s direction, the deceptive telegrams were sent. 

Rumors abound as early as 3:45am on the morning of November 8th and worried Democratic officials sought to allay their fears with a wired, urgent message to the Editor of the New York Times, “Answer at once!”. They were enquiring about the returns from Florida, Louisiana and South Carolina. Meanwhile by daylight, the Associated Press was reporting that both sides were declaring victory in Florida. Also, at the break of day, came back a reply to Sickles’ telegraph from the South Carolina Governor - “South Carolina is for Hayes”. Sickles sent more messages to his Florida and Louisiana operatives telling them, despite nearly every U.S. newspaper declaring Tilden the winner, “to hold your State.” And with that, Sickles duties were done. 

The New York Times continued to sow seeds of doubt upon the election’s results with their morning headline - “A Doubtful Election”.  The New York Herald followed with “The Result – What Is It? The Returns Too Meager.” 

The Democrats counted firmly on 17 States and 184 Electoral College votes while the Republicans held 18 States and 166 Electoral College votes, leaving 3 States and 19 Electoral College votes in dispute. For the record, Tilden won all three disputed States with the initial returns, and some by a large margin like the 7757-vote majority in Louisiana. Fear was rampant, though, of what these states’ Returning Boards would finally do.  

Tilden’s campaign manager, Abram Hewitt, drafted a memo encouraging Americans to assemble at various points around the country “to protest against the frauds, which have been committed, and to express their determination that the people should not be robbed of their choice for President.” Tilden was unmoved and refused to release the message stating, “it would be safe to trust to the sense of Justice, which sooner or later, would show itself in the public mind and make the consummation of the fraud impossible.” Privately, Tilden’s closest confident ranted, “Another civil war may be the consequence of this state of things and we may enter upon the next century under a different form of government from that of which for nearly a century we have been boasting.” And despite Tilden being bombarded with private wires to act, he remained unmoved. “Be satisfied with reflection that the people are too patriotic, too intelligent, too self-poised to allow anything perilous to be done that may disturb or destroy our peculiar form of government.”, Tilden replied confidently. Meanwhile, seven additional companies of soldiers were moved to protect Washington after rumors that the Democrats were arming themselves to march on the city and install Tilden by force. 

Bayonet-wielding soldiers were also beginning to camp around the capitols of Florida, Louisiana, and South Carolina as supporters from both sides arrived to review and oversee the vote certification. All three states’ Returning Boards set their deliberations for mid-November with an eye on a deadline of December 6th to certify their state’s votes. Each state followed a similar format. First, investigators would be dispatched to the counties where the Republican-led boards felt voters were coerced or threatened to vote the Democratic ticket. As an example, in Louisiana, 300 witnesses were rounded up by soldiers and brought before the board members to tell their tales of alleged Democratic abuse. After these hearings were conducted by each state’s commission, the board members would remove the overseers and go into a secret session. 

Not surprisingly, some members of each state’s Returning Boards approached Tilden operatives seeking sizable bribes in exchange for their vote to confirm the Tilden vote count. Once again as an example, in Louisiana, a group of board members approached the Tilden campaign representative seeking $250,000 – one hundred thousand for both of the white members and twenty-five thousand for each of the two negro members. Despite these overtures, no bribery money was paid to any Returning Board members of any state. 

The South Carolina Board’s final determination was to disregard two State Supreme Court orders and invalidate all votes from three Democrat-leaning counties, which gave Hayes a 7-vote margin in their Electoral College tally. Tilden previously held a 1-vote winning margin. The South Carolinian Board then adjourned placing them out of reach of further legal mandates. The Court issued warrants for the members’ arrest for contempt of court, but their stay behind bars was mitigated by a sympathetic magistrate, who simply released them from custody. 

In Louisiana, their Reporting Board invalidated 15,623 votes, of which 13,211 were cast for Tilden. This action made Hayes the winner of their State. From the Board’s secret and final session, these results were released three days later citing systematic intimidation, murder and violence toward one class of voter as the reason for their decision. 

The Florida Returning Board, meeting in secret session and protected by armed guards, tossed more than 1800 Tilden votes to give Hayes a majority of 924 votes in their State’s final tally. 

December 6th arrived and in 38 State Capitols across the country, the Electoral College vote took place. In 34 of the 38 States, the votes tallied as per on election night. In the three aforementioned States, plus Oregon, two separate election certificates were filed. Not counting the 4 aberrant States, Tilden still had 184 votes and Hayes 165. The remaining 22 votes were mired in contradiction by separate election certificates having been signed by various governors, governors-presumptive, secretaries of states or as in one instance, signed by nobody at all. Through all of this, nothing had been decided. 

At this point a frustrated Tilden lashed out, “Our Presidential Election has been subverted by a false count of votes cast by Presidential Electors, found on a substitution of pretended votes known at the time to be fraudulent or forced and to have been manufactured for that particular use.” Tilden feared that his country had become “a bad copy of the worst government of the worst ages.” 

The question then became, what would the Senate Majority Leader, Thomas Ferry, do as Acting President of The U.S. Senate? This is normally a role given to the Vice President, but Grant’s VP, Henry W. Wilson, had died the previous year, so Ferry had been filling in since then. Ferry and the other Senators were unsure if the 12th Amendment to the Constitution meant that he was supposed to open the Electoral College votes and count them, or was this just a ceremonial role he had signed up for? And in a situation like this, where there were two different sets of votes from four states, was he supposed to declare which set of votes were to be counted and which ones to set aside? The Democrats wanted Ferry to perform the ceremonial role of simply opening the votes and announcing Tilden 185 Hayes 164. In this case, neither candidate having a majority of the 371 total, the contest then would be automatically thrown into the House of Representatives, where the Democrats held a majority and Tilden would surely win.  

What actually transpired was this. Two competing resolutions, one from the Democratic House and the other from the Republican Senate passed each chamber one day after the arrival of the Electoral College votes. Each resolution created a “bipartisan” committee to study ways to resolve this mess. The House committee consisted of 4 Democrats and 3 Republicans and the Senate committee consisted of 4 Republicans and 3 Democrats. The deliberations began, but the two opposing candidates for president used this lull in the proceedings to take two opposite courses of action. The bookworm-ish Tilden dug into reams of legal research to prove legally his rightful claim as the President. Meanwhile, Hayes began to personally reach out to Congressmen who would ultimately be deciding his fate. Then, a twist in events occurred where it was agreed that both legislative committees would combine, now with an equal number of party members represented at the table. The design of this action was to select members for just one committee, a group who would then effectively choose the next President. After three days of vigorous debate, it was agreed that this new committee would consist of 5 Democratic Congressmen and Senators and, 5 Republican Congressmen and Senators, 2 Democrat Supreme Court Justices and 2 Republican Justices, and a fifth Justice who would be chosen by the other four Justices. All parties to this agreement had in mind an “Independent” Justice by the name of David Davis, to take up this fifth spot of the Electoral Committee. However, after the committee had been empaneled, Davis accepted the position to represent Illinois in the US Senate and therefore refused the nomination to be seated as the fifth Justice on the committee. In a scurry, the four seated Justices decided to choose the recently Grant-appointed Supreme Court Justice, Joseph P. Bradley, to take the final seat on the committee. Hayes’ campaign manager informed his boss that Bradley “was as safe as either of the other Republican Judges.” 

The Electoral committee commenced with hearings, which droned on through February 6th, when it finally went into executive session for private deliberations. Not long after, the vote took place and the Committee voted along party lines to not receive any more evidence and no further investigations. The Democrats realized at this moment that the selection of Justice Bradley had tipped the scales in Hayes favor. On February 8th, the Electoral Commission awarded the contested votes from all four States to Hayes and he thereafter took up residence in the White House as the President of the United States of America.  

Contested elections since 1876 have also occurred in 2000 and 2020. With all the angst and chatter surrounding this upcoming election, why has it recently become in vogue to assume this 2024 election will be contested too? 

On October 27th, CNN released results from a poll where just over 30% of the registered voters said that Donald Trump will accept the results of the election and concede if he loses. 73% felt that Vice President Kamala Harris would accept an election loss. This is ominous and staggering to me, but don’t accept my “biased” opinion on this issue. Here’s what a New York Times Opinion Columnist, David French, wrote on October 24th about Trump’s election reversal dreams. “The legal arguments Donald Trump used to try to reverse the election outcome in 2020 have been decisively rejected and the legal loopholes he tried to open have been closed.” French goes on to explain how the Trump Team used the “Conspiracy Theory” to ignite rage that led to the “Coup Theory”, the actual legal mechanism for overturning the election. The Trump Team also arranged for slates of fake electors to be ready to cast ballots for Trump the instant that State Legislatures invalidated the original election results, French pens. The Electoral Count Act of 1887 gives any single Senator or Congressman the right to object to the certification of a state’s vote count. The Act does not define the grounds, though, for overturning a state’s election, and this is what gave the MAGA Team some hope that their scheme might work. 

As we know, then Vice President Pence refused to play his part as Presiding Officer of the Senate and, Trump’s efforts failed because of this. French writes, “If Pence had declared Trump the victor, we would have potentially seen two different presidents sworn in on the same day.” French’s article goes into depth explaining how if Trump can once again persuade tens of millions of Americans that the election was stolen, his legal options have narrowed considerably.  

French concludes his article by saying, “I want to be very clear – I'm not writing this to say that we have nothing to worry about in 2024. Sadly, legal reform might even make political violence more likely. Trump’s team knows that it’s now virtually impossible to reverse an election outcome through the Courts or Congress. They’ll file their frivolous lawsuits, of course, but they may believe that their last hope is in the streets ... I’d be surprised if the post-election period is entirely peaceful ... but nothing and no one can foreclosure the possibility of political violence. If Trump loses again, chaos is his last – and most dangerous – card to play.” 

Wow! It’s hard to believe we’ve come to this, our place, in the annals of history. My opinion is, placing aside the patriotic platitudes (Duty – Honor – Country) that are espoused by all political parties and their loyalist supporters, let’s take a hard look at what our country has been, and where our nation can go from here, and reject the vain attempt of men who attempt to wield political power in this country at all cost.  

Here’s Something Different

Mores are usually described as social norms, which basically determine what is acceptable or unacceptable within any given society or culture. I briefly touch on the social mores of the mid-19th century in my historical fiction, “Oh! Susannah” - www.beckleysbooks.com , when I outline the dilemma my 3rd great grandmother found herself in. Back then, twenty-one was a very important age for young unmarried women. Many of their friends by that time in their lives were either betrothed or engaged. Turning twenty-two years of age, women found eligible bachelors choosing girls younger then them, some as young as 14 or 15 years old. The social norms of the time had Susannah Reigle having to choose between marrying someone who was her father’s age, and who also had character issues, or resigning herself to be celibate and single for the rest of her life. She had a decision to make, one that was clearly put before her by the time period’s accepted societal norms.

I was 13 years old in the early 1970’s and was being reared by a respectable family. My father had been a volunteer fireman, an elected councilman, and a church elder. With these “high profile” positions within our small village, there also came an expected behavior from his family members, social mores.

The time clock was ticking for me, but I never heard it! There were conversations at the dinner table about baptism, but I didn’t take the remarks as being directed at me seeing how we were in church twice on Sunday, and usually one night during the week and also had “devotions” nearly every week night during the summer. “Baptism” was just all part and parcel of my everyday life. I suppose in my subconscious, I considered baptism an “a la carte” option, kind of like squeezing the hand of the person on your left during a devotion's prayer circle. If I didn’t feel like saying a prayer, one quick squeeze, and I was passed over.

My parents tried the gentle persuasion approach, casually mentioning that come Sunday, when the preacher called for anyone to come forward to be baptized, “someone” from our family should “answer the call”. I felt the hint, but come that Sunday, I sat quite stoically in the pew, despite our minister’s superb message. This wasn’t the case, though, of my youngest sister who was up and on her way down the aisle to be baptized before the hem of her Sunday dress got tugged and she was smartly back in our pew. I guess the “gentle persuasion” approach backfired.

Next came the “Q & A” session. My parents first reminding me how all of my church friends were turning 13 and getting baptized.

Q: Did I believe in Jesus?

A: Yes

Q: Was I afraid of being dunked in the water?

A: No. I knew how to swim and hold my breath under water

Q: Was I afraid of all the church members watching me?

A: I suppose not

Q: Did I want to be the only person in my Sunday School class who wasn’t baptized?

A: I don’t know

Talk about bringing all of the social mores to bear!

Then, in a final desperate attempt, my parents sat me down in a “one-on-one" negotiation. It started out something like this, “You need to do this of your own free will ...”

I’m hoping that the God Almighty is heaping blessings on the first person I ever knew as a minister, Arthur Guy. He was a wonderful person who succeeded in his mission in life, to bring people to Jesus Christ through baptism. Mr. Guy gave up one of his summer mid-week evenings to cater to my eccentricities and put my family out of their misery by baptizing me in an empty sanctuary, save my father, mother and siblings sitting in the first pew.

Running concurrently with this “baptism debacle” was another struggle I was enduring at 13. A few months into having started middle school and I had my routine down; arrive – locker – then up the cavernous stairwell to my first class. Then one day, I was momentarily stopped while ascending the stairs by a pretty girl who turned out to be a year older than me. She was passing on her way down when our eyes met and the gaze was like taking a snapshot of our souls. She handed me a note, which had been neatly folded origami-style, and then dashed away. I read the note during my lunch break and was thunderstruck by her words, which said that she “liked” me and wanted to be my friend. Once home, I re-read her note so many times, finding it difficult to concentrate on my homework, before hiding it within my desk. The next day there was another encounter with Miss K and each of the school days thereafter until she finally asked, in desperation, if I had any intent on replying in kind? I was jolted into realizing just how rude I had been and began swapping notes with her, but not on a one-to-one basis. I treasured these letters and was anticipating how I would miss getting these over our Christmas break. And then, my secret affair was cruelly exposed over dinner, my parents with my “love letters’ clutched in their hands, announced that I had a girlfriend! My mother in cleaning my room had discovered my stash and now the unmerciful teasing and ridicule would begin. There was the inquisition to which I simply held to my 5th amendment rights to remain silent, but it was now obvious that the letters had to end. I didn’t want the letter exchange to end but my family’s sense of social mores meant that this had to end.

Back at school, I altered my routine, essentially avoiding Miss K, who had no clue what had changed. I hid in the band room, used deserted hallways, but she was persistent and usually found me. She enlisted friends who were also church acquaintances of mine, and despite all the external pressure from well-meaning people, I couldn’t find a solution to my internal turmoil. That is, until one day, when I was passed a seating chart to sign up with your buddy for the band bus on an upcoming trip. I was surprised to see my name had already been written in, next to Miss K, by someone other than me. I approached the band director after practice to explain what had happened and this is what caused the director to withdraw the seating chart and admonish the entire band over the seating issue. “Oh, what a mess!”, I thought. “How did it come to this?”

Needless to say, the letters ceased after our not being seat mates on that trip, and I sincerely regretted this decision I had made under duress. Looking back, I’m unsure what prompted me to attend the school dance on the last day of school. Hopeful? Afraid of missing another opportunity? It mattered not for I sat the entire night similarly glued to the wooden folding chair, just as securely as the chair was bolted into the concrete below me. I watched as others danced in the dimly lit cavernous gymnasium, the same venue my mother and father had danced in years before as high school sweethearts. The lights eventually came on and I walked home with only my thoughts, having not spoken to anyone the entire night. It was the start of a melancholy summer. By that Fall, with Miss K now in high school, I noticed her on her school bus leaving one day and I made sure to be there at that exact time in my walk home each day, but for no purpose. Years passed, Miss K had just graduated and I was working at the local grocery store in the butcher’s shop. One day I looked up to assist the next customer and our eyes locked and the gaze was just as it had been in the first instance, both of us surprised to see each other. I handed her the pound of baloney she had requested and then she turned and walked away without a further word exchanged, our paths never to cross again.

People say things come in lots of three, and during my unlucky 13th year, we received word of my great aunt, Miss Robart’s hospitalization. Our family all knew her affectionately as “Bubu” and she was particularly fond of me, as I was of her. Miss Robart was a Christian Scientist, and certainly, as a matter of faith, she would not be in a hospital! In the parlance of a small town, non-medically attuned family, the news was announced that “Bubu was riddled with cancer. They had opened her up and sewn her back up again.”

It was during this time that music became my salve and my soul took solace in the angst found in these lyrics. The song was not written about me, but for me.

“At Seventeen” - Janis Ian

I learned the truth at seventeen

That love was meant for beauty queens

And high school girls with clear-skinned smiles

Who married young and then retired

The valentines I never knew

The Friday night charades of youth

Were spent on one more beautiful

At seventeen I learned the truth

And those of us with ravaged faces

Lacking in the social graces

Desperately remained at home

Inventing lovers on the phone

Who called to say “come dance with me”

And murmured vague obscenities

It isn’t all it seems at seventeen

A brown-eyed girl in hand me downs

Whose name I never could pronounce

Said “Pity please the ones who serve

They only get what they deserve”

The rich-relationed hometown queen

Married into what she needs

With a guarantee of company

And haven for the elderly

So remember those who win the game

Lose the love they sought to gain

In debitures of quality and dubious integrity

Their small-town eyes will gape at you

In dull surprise when payment due

Exceeds accounts received at seventeen

To those of us who knew the pain

Of valentines that never came

And those whose names were never called

When choosing sides for basketball

It was long ago and far away

The world was younger than today

When dreams were all they gave for free

To ugly duckling girls like me.

We all play the game, and when we dare

We cheat ourselves at solitaire

Inventing lovers on the phone

Repenting other lives unknown

That call and say, “come dance with me”

And murmur vague obscenities

At ugly girls like me, at seventeen

Social mores were with us in the 19th century and in the 1970’s and even so today. Fear to comply with acceptable norms, many times enforced by bullies, could be left behind in the schoolyard back then. Now, with the ramped use of social media, the haunting and taunting of innocent victims can carry on 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

Sometimes it’s a matter of being unconscious to it. Social mores usually place people within a box where a decision needs to be made, choose “A” or “B”. But, wait! Why can’t there be another option? Take my heroine, Susannah. Why couldn’t she have chosen to hold out for that one gentleman, who it mattered not that she had been passed over by all the others? And yet, at twenty-two, she thought she had only two choices.

Pollsters today ask, “Are you voting for candidate A or candidate B? Some brave souls say, “I’m unsure.”, which places them in the “undecided” column and then the media really pounce seeking a decision.

There are more than two choices when marking your ballot paper. Candidate A and Candidate B and “Neither”, but nobody ever explains it this way! If one candidate is absolutely abhorrent to you and the other, you’re unsure about, you are exercising your right by simply skipping to the next race, with neither box ticked. It’s not like you can’t leave the dinner table until you are finished cleaning your plate of food. You can vote for only those you feel comfortable in doing so, and then leave. You’ve done your civic duty by not voting for someone or something you’re unsure of, and using a party affiliation as your guide is no longer a reliable measure. By the way, what do political party hacks know about running a County Dog Catcher’s office, other than it is another avenue for patronage? So, if you are familiar with what the candidate’s positions are, and want to see them in elected office, mark the box. Otherwise, move on to the next race down the ballot.

How would Susannah’s life had changed had she only known that by holding out, she may have had a third option? How might our elections turn out if people realized that they have a third option? I like the idea of having a choice, if for no other reason, I can look back and evaluate my decision at the time. I guess at 65, it’s as good a time as any to reflect on what might have been had I made a different choice, not in a manner of regret, but more of curiosity.

But alas, we are not going back, but boldly stepping into the future enlightened by all the choices we have before us.

The Debate

The Debate 

I don’t remember Mr. Henderson, my Speech teacher and our high school’s Debate Coach, teaching us to debate in the manner in which we witnessed earlier this month, in the 2024 Presidential Debate between Vice President Kamala Harris and Former President Donald Trump. My fear is that the latest presidential debate will be remembered for all of the wrong reasons. And, it’s not like our country is devoid of up and coming, as well as very skilled debaters. First to my mind comes my niece, whom I fondly call “Kaiser”. She is so sweet, at first impression, you’d agree that butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. During Kaiser’s high school years and now at university, there have been quite a few debate opponents who have misread that beautiful smile she wears. I’m told a number of Kaiser’s debate opponents have trembled at the mention of her name; she is that good at debating! I’m convinced that It is because she is always overly prepared and totally focused on scoring on the merits of her given subject. That’s the “speech and debate” I was taught. 

Once upon a time, orators were national celebrities and folks would walk or ride a horse for over an hour just to hear their speeches. These “meetings” were social events, where attendees also learned firsthand of national events. Take for instance, The Great Triumvirate – Webster, Clay & Calhoun – from the mid 19th century.  

Daniel Webster - “The Godlike Daniel” - had a quality of voice and a “huge chest that could power his miraculous instrument”. Webster was invited to the 50th commemoration of the Battle of Bunker Hill held in Boston on June 17, 1825 where he was sharing the podium with Lafayette. Undaunted by the ceremony, Webster stirred the twenty thousand strong crowd with the closing lines “Let our object be our country, our whole country and nothing but our country.” There was little doubt that this orator would become Senator Webster and he didn’t disappoint what was now a national audience with what historians refer to as his “2nd reply to Hayne”, a two-day speech that resonated in the halls of Congress. “Liberty and Union, now and forever, one and inseparable” is still remembered today as the call to action from this Webster speech.  

By 1850, Webster had been joined by Henry Clay from Kentucky. As this pair strove for unity in the country with a number of “Compromise” pieces of legislation, which were all preceded by extraordinary oratory. Daniel Webster is renown for his contribution, “The Constitution and The Union”, which was a three- and half-hour delivery on March 7th.  It is recorded that Webster’s eyes appeared like two balls of fire addressing the topic of secession with great drops of perspiration beaded on his face. 

As good an orator as Daniel Webster was, it is generally agreed that Henry Clay was the better speaker and debater. Clay will forever be remembered as “The Compromiser” for his diligent work in Washington to stitch together the Compromise of 1830 and 1850. It was this latter piece of legislation that drew the last bit of energy from him before his death. His senatorial address, “The Compromise of 1850” lasted over four- and three-quarter hours over two days, allowing the statesman to rest and recharge. I read Robert Remini’s book, “Henry Clay – Stateman for the Union” prior to my visiting his estate, “Ashlands”, in Lexington. It was so poignant to me in my visiting that the mansion had been reconstructed from the rubble found in the outhouse pits on site. The curators have done a superb job of restoration and I could sense Clay’s personality through touring each room. The estimable man who early in his congressional career was clearly frustrated with the “despotic actions” of President Andrew Jackson and spent three days in the senate gallery debating how the President required a censure for his placing “the very existence of liberty and the government in peril. To most observers, Clay’s extemporaneous remarks were falling on the deaf ears of the Vice President, Martin Van Buren, who was quietly reading a book whilst presiding over the chamber during this time. Clay with his voice in full throttle of sarcasm dared Van Buren to address his concerns with the President right that minute. It is recorded that the Vice President summoned another senator to take his speaker’s chair and then stepped onto the floor heading directly toward Clay. A fully packed gallery anxiously awaited a dust up between two of the most prominent politicians in the country. Vice President Van Buren bowed to Henry Clay, and instead of challenging the statesman, asked in a mocking voice if the Senator would “allow me to be indebted to you for another pinch of your aromatic Maccoboy”. Remini writes, “Dumfounded, Clay simply waved his hand toward the gold snuff box he kept on his desk. Van Buren sampled it and then leisurely returned to the chair of the presiding officer.”  

The one common thread with each of these debating forums of years past is the sheer length of their address, nearly all of them measured in hours and audiences who sat through their duration. My publicist keeps reminding me that my reels posted on today’s social media must be kept to 15 seconds. I guess this is progress, eh? 

As the icons of Webster and Clay were fading from the national scene, there was a senator from Illinois, who was there to carry on their legacy. His name was Stephen Douglas, The Little Giant, who was goaded into sharing the stage with an upstart rail splitter from the newly formed Republican party, and thus began the concept of a “debate” for public office. Abraham Lincoln in an effort to rebut the sitting senator, simply showed up in every town after Douglas had delivered his address. Lincoln stated, “it is in fact a concluding speech on him.” Annoyed by Lincoln’s campaigning, Douglas begrudgingly offered to share the stage with the theretofore unknown candidate for Illinois senate seat in 1858. Douglas chose seven venues, prominent points in each congressional district, where he and Lincoln would debate. They agreed that each candidate would begin alternatively with the person going first having one hour to make his case, then the opponent being given ninety minutes in rebuttal before the opening candidate would close the debate with an half hour wrap up. From this foray into political debates came the “Freeport Doctrine” named after the Lincoln/Douglas debate in Freeport, Illinois. The main issue during the campaign was “slavery extension”, which had divided the nation into two hostile camps and threatened the continued existence of the Union. Lincoln in his allotted time in Freeport asked Douglas to reconcile the candidate’s support of “popular sovereignty” with the recently released Dred Scott decision where free slaves would lose their “free” status if taken across state lines. Douglas’ feeble reply was basically, don’t establish these laws in your local communities that protect slave owner’s property. Douglas’ stance on this main issue split the Democrat Party. Douglas narrowly defeated Lincoln in 1858 but lost his stature as a national figure. Meanwhile, a post-debate “bounce” saw Lincoln acclaimed as an eloquent spokesman for his party, one who saw a dominant run by the Republicans from 1860-1884. 

One cannot have a discourse on presidential debates and not mention the first debating contest broadcast on television. Four dates were agreed to by the candidates, Vice President Richard Nixon and Senator John Kennedy. The first debate aired on CBS in Chicago on September 26, 1960 with Howard K. Smith as the moderator. Following were debates in Washington D.C. on October 7th with Frank McGee from NBC moderating, the October 13th debate where Nixon was in Los Angeles and Kennedy showed up in ABC studios in New York City, and the last debate held in New York City again on October 21st. History only focuses on that first televised debate. As a candidate, Kennedy was trailing by a wide margin in the public’s opinion. He was “untested” and very young at 43 years of age. Kennedy not only thoroughly researched the potential debate topics, over 100 memorized answers from index cards, but left no stone unturned by visiting the CBS studio in advance for the lighting conditions and temperature etc. Meanwhile, the seasoned politico, Nixon arrived on the debating scene after multiple stops on the campaign trail for that late September day. Nixon refused make up to hide his 5 o’clock shadow, wore a gray suit that simply blended into the backdrop, which only accentuated his tired and pale appearance and sweaty brows. Historians are reluctant to state that this one debate turned the campaign on its head for both candidates, but Kennedy won the race by only .2% of the vote, or with about 118,000 votes to spare. 

Nationally televised debates can impact a candidate’s chances of winning the oval office, and that’s why they have been a staple of each election year since 1976. What an incredible opportunity to address the voting public, especially if the candidates can effectively articulate their plan going forward. The bygone days of the orator who spell bounds an entire nation may never return. However, issues that deeply divide our country seem to be the one constant over time and throughout our history. Webster’s words, “Let our object be our country, our whole country and nothing but our country” if taken up as a battle cry today, could go a long way toward the healing of our nation, where once again, we could honestly pledge to one another that this is “one country, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all”. 

87 years young

 Today, September 16th, 2024, is my mother’s 87th birthday and it is also our granddaughter’s 5th birthday! It is really special to be 87 today. It is really special to be 5 too.  

This is not the topic I intended to blog about next, but seeing how I’m still working on my original topic and today is, well, simply special, this is today’s topic. 

One may ask, “What does it take to achieve these milestones?” One word that comes to my mind immediately is – tenacity. Assuredly over nine decades, there have been moments that have been challenging; challenging to the point of being life-changing. Then, there always are those “bumps in the road”, as mother calls them. There are a few challenges of being five and having just started pre-school too; your older sister trying to be bossy and over protective because she has been there and done that before you. 

Ask my mum, she will tell you it can be scary being her age. She has overcome so much through her life, issues that others might have considered as handicaps, but issues that my mother takes as just being part of life. Can’t help having your mind drift to the question, “What’s coming next?”. And for our granddaughter, with all of the pomp and ceremony, do you think the first day of school and all that is to come after, doesn’t scare the bejeebers out of most kids? 

Today is a day, though, to celebrate achievements and landmarks in each of their lives.  

In my historical fictional account of my 3rd great grandmother’s life, “Oh! Susannah”, I attempted to tell her story. It is a story of her achievements under trying conditions, and her achievements have been handed down through generations as gifts to me. In Susannah’s short 39-year stay here on earth, she achieved the milestone of instilling principles in her children, which lasted through their lifetime and beyond. As the reader discovers in the book, Susannah was tenacious, but also scared at times. Susannah was as special as these ladies who are celebrating their birthdays today. 

I’ll close this blog by sharing portions of a message I received just the other day from a young lady I met on my book tour last year. A lot has happened in this woman’s life since I last saw her but she wanted to pass on the inspiration she has pulled from in reading Susannah’s story - “I think of Suzannah occasionally and how hard her (and so many others) lives had been. I’m just in awe that out of women throughout time and history, I get to be one who had a safe, emotionally supported birth, own and do business, rely on modern convenience to run my home, etc. Your book provided a lot of perspective for me – very humbling and very grateful for the strong women who have gone before us.” And may I add, thanks and congratulatory recognition to those who lead us forward. 

Happy Birthday, you two! Can you pass me another piece of cake? 

IMPORTANT TO FEMALES

An advertisement titled, “Important To Females”, for Dr. Cheeseman’s Female Pills appeared in the Carroll Free Press on January 31, 1863. Quoting, “The health and life of women is continually in peril if she is mad enough to neglect or maltreat those sexual irregularities to which two thirds of her sex are more or less subject. ... To wives and matrons – Dr. Cheeseman’s Pills are offered as the only safe means of renewing interrupted menstruations, but Ladies must bear in mind that ... they will prevent the expected events. ... Explicit directions, detailing when and where they should be used is in each box.”

While researching my historical fiction, “Oh! Susannah”, I came across this advertisement numerous times. Then, I read, as a cross reference, another source that confirmed in the 19th century, pregnancies among unmarried women were historically considered to lead to the bulk of abortions and that abortion was one of the birth control options employed by married women too. Tim Crumrin writes, “Abortion in the early nineteenth century simply did not elicit the controversy or comment as today ... it was not necessarily condemned out of hand if carried out early in the pregnancy. ... Abortion, like birth control information, became more available between 1830 and 1850. That period saw a mail order and retail abortifacient drug trade flourish. A woman could send away for certain pills or discreetly purchase them at a store. Surgical methods were available but dangerous and seldom used.” The point I’m making is, even though women back then did not have the right to vote, nor make addresses to public gatherings, nor have standing in court to automatically divorce her husband or retain the rights to keep her children, they did have responsibility and full say over their bodies and their reproductive rights.

Since the Dobbs Vs. Jackson decision by the Supreme Court on June 24, 2022, this is no longer true in the United States. By a vote of 6 to 3, the Justices ruled that abortion is no longer a constitutionally protected right of women. The wording of the majority (all six being Republican – three of whom are recent Trump appointees) is that abortion is a matter to be left up to the States. In anticipation of this ruling, fourteen States adopted “trigger laws” that took affect almost immediately upon the release of the ruling. Therefore, now across a large number of States, there are total or near total bans on abortion. The effect of this ruling has provoked no uniform law across the country and has seen women in restrictive States traveling across state lines to receive medical care for instances of rape and incest.

The other question I raise is: Should this even be an issue that our Supreme Court meddles in? The drafters of our Constitution strove for a system of checks and balances and foresaw men selected to sit on a Supreme Court to eschew wisdom and deliver decisions that Americans would recognize as being fair and impartial; think of the imagery of our “Lady Justice” blindfolded and finely balancing scales.

While this may have been the best of our forefather’s intentions, let’s take a look at some of the actual results coming from this supreme law-of-the-land body.

The Dred Scott Vs Sandford case. I address this decision in my book as it is considered to be one of the reasons our country entered into a civil war. On March 6, 1857, Justice Taney read the majority decision (7-2) that enslaved people are not citizens of the United States and therefore have no protection from the Federal Government or the Courts. This dreadful decision meant that a free Black slave could not necessarily remain “free” should he travel into a slave state. Seven of the nine jurors were from the Democrat Party, President Andrew Jackson having appointed four of the justices.

Plessy Vs. Ferguson – May 18, 1896 – when Justice Henry Billings Brown wrote the majority opinion (7-1) confirming the legitimacy of “Jim Crow” laws. He stated that while the 14th Amendment was intended to ensure political equality between the black and white races, the amendment did not abolish the social inequality, and that segregation did not constitute unlawful discrimination. Five Republicans were Justices on this bench, one well known for his bias against the Black race. One of the Democrat Justices was recorded as always voting for “Jim Crow” laws and another Democrat Justice known to be a KKK member.

Seventy-Seven years later ... Roe Vs. Wade - January 22, 1973. Seven of nine Supreme Court Justices ruled that the right to privacy implied in the 14th Amendment protected abortion as a fundamental right. However, the government did reserve the right to regulate or restrict access depending on the stage of the pregnancy. Keep in mind, as late as the 1960’s, abortion was illegal in most of the states. Six of the jurors were either Democrats or known to be liberal Republicans or passionate advocates for abortion rights.

Is it just me or does anyone else find it weird that our system of justice is determined by nine individuals, with their own vested interests, who hand down court determinations for the extent of their lifetime; decisions that so often adversely affect many of us? Think of it as our Lady Justice peeking out from behind her blindfold, making sure that the correct thumb is being placed on the scales of justice. We’re supposed to be living in a democracy, right? Where the powers of government are invested in the people and for the people; where the people have the final say.

President Biden recently prepared a proposal for Supreme Court Reform where “guard rails” could be applied to the Supreme Court’s Justices. His proposal was sent to the House of Representative’s Speaker of the House, Republican Mike Johnson, who summarily declared the President’s proposal “dead on arrival”. So, in this current hostile political environment, what would be wrong with limiting Congressmen, Senators, and Supreme Court Justices to 18 years’ service? Would we receive better representative government? The political power these Parties wield over one another is nothing other than power conferred on to them by us when we vote.

Retiring U.S. Senator from West Virginia, Joe Manchin, said it most succinctly in a recent interview, “Simply codify Roe V. Wade”.

The joy we have as being Americans is that we can have the final say in matters that are important to us and evoke change. It’s a matter of us exercising our right to vote, and in my humble opinion, voting for those who are dedicated to restoring the rights of women and their right to choose what happens with their bodies.

In 1863, it was important for females to at least have control over their bodies. It should be equally important to women today, and for all of us, who only want justice to prevail over politics.

Stephen Foster

Earlier this month, my wife and I celebrated our anniversary over the the July 4th holiday in Bardstown, Kentucky. We had previously toured through the 19th century mansion, which Stephen Foster had called home as a child. The majestic mansion, which stood proudly over 1300 acres of plantation and was owned by Foster's uncle, John Rowan, looks very much today as it did yesteryear. However, during our recent visit, we took in an amphitheater production of Foster's life and music, one that has been performed every year since 1958!

I was surprised to learn that Stephen Foster was actually born in Lawrenceville, Pennsylvania and spent most of his life in Pittsburgh, but visited Bardstown and fell in love with the appeals of Southern life. He was also exposed to the cruelties exhibited during this time period to the slave population, which translated into and influenced his song writing. The biggest influence, though, was his besotted affection for the young lass, Jane McDowell, who hailed from Pittsburgh. So much of Foster's creativity was driven by his passion to win "Jeanie's" hand, as was the main point of the amphitheater production. Their story also reinforced to me the old adage, "Artisans" - those who create art - always can be found on the bottom of society's financial ladder. This message was the main theme of the show.

What I didn't know was that Stephen Foster had encounters with a young Andrew Carnegie, who became a driving force during the "Gilded Age"; a time period I feature in my upcoming sequel.

There was a full three hours of Stephen Foster's compositions within the production, which featured his claim to fame songs - "Camptown Races", Swanee River", "My Old Kentucky Home", and "Oh! Susannah", a song I used as my debut novel and historical fiction depicting my third great grandmother's life - Susannah Reigle. www.beckleysbooks.com

I couldn't help smiling as the actors belted out the lyrics to "Oh! Susannah" and everyone danced about on stage. Here I was in Kentucky and they were shamelessly playing this song, , the song which became the reason for the state of Kentucky banning my book last year. You see, I am driven by authenticity and when my publisher questioned me, not once, but three times as to the validity of the lyrics I used at the beginning of my book, I stated quite confidently that these were the exact words that Stephen Foster had penned. What I learned from the amphitheater event was that Foster used his experiences in black minstrels and parlours as inspiration for his compositions and at one point, exclusively wrote "Plantation Songs".

Stephen Foster was born in 1826 and died in 1864, and during this time period, especially in the South, it was common to use the "N" word throughout your daily life. So, that horrible word shows up in "Oh! Susannah" within Foster's lyrics, and thus, my literary work was banned! And, when I made my appeal, I was informed that the State of Kentucky is so serious about this issue, they took their official State song, "My Old Kentucky Home", and sanitized the lyrics of the offensive word to comply with today's etiquette. Ok, I pled guilty, and none of my books, which have several chapters embedded with life in Kentucky, will ever be distributed.

Moving on, Stephen Foster's life's story and his success as "The Father of American Music", would never have been known or retold today if not for his infatuation with Jane McDowell. Long story short, with his emotive appeals, he won Janie's hand, she forfeiting what might have been a comfortable life as the wife of the mayor of Pittsburgh. She reluctantly turned her back away from this lifestyle to take a punt on a struggling artist/composer. Perhaps Foster's direct emotional appeal via his popular song, "Jeanie With The Light Brown Hair", made an heartfelt difference to his amour? Without doubt, Foster's strong point was his undoubted musicality, having taught himself to play the clarinet, guitar, flute, and piano, but his business acumen was not so good. Regardless, Jane McDowell followed her heart and chose Foster to marry in 1850. Sadly, due to overwhelming debts, the couple divorced four years later, and as depicted in the play, Foster's alcoholic demons took reign over his life.

Stephen Foster and Janie McDowell only had one child and there is no other reference of Foster having any family involvement after 1854. Stephen Collins Foster died on January 13, 1864, at the age of 37 and under suspicious circumstances. He was found in a pool of blood by his publicist in a hotel (flop house). Did Foster die three day's later from a serious neck injury due to a fall or was his death from a failed suicide attempt? His obituary mentions Foster having died of dissipation and drink.

I was amazed to learn that one of Foster's most famous songs, "Beautiful Dreamer", which was supposedly written to woo his mistress, Jane McDowell, wasn't actually published until after his death - 10 years after the marriage had ended. Notwithstanding, the emotive lyrics of Beautiful Dreamer gives one an impression of his mindset at the time of writing; "its only words, and words are all I have, to take your heart away." Even more amazingly how a down and out composer could keep a song so personal and moving under wraps, it only surfacing posthumously.

Here are the lyrics, and if you are familiar with the the tune, don't be shy, sing it out loud, if no other place, then in the shower.

Beautiful Dreamer

Beautiful Dreamer, wake unto me.

Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee.

Sounds of the rude world heard in the day.

Lull'd by the moonlight have all passed away!

Beautiful Dreamer, queen of my song

List while I woo thee with soft melody;

Gone are the cares of life's busy throng.

Beautiful Dreamer, awake unto me!

Beautiful Dreamer, awake unto me!

July 14, 1876

On this day 148 years ago, local farmers were in a vortex of activity occurring all around them. Two months previously, "The Centennial" celebrations had commenced in the city of "Brotherly Love", Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. By July, a few influential Carroll County, Ohio residents had visited, no doubt using the advertisements in the local Carroll Chronicle as their guide in planning their ultimate adventure. The paper listed several "renowned" hotels situated close to the Pennsylvania Railroad tracks; such as "The Holland Association" at 419 N. Main St. SE in Philadelphia, promoted as "an institution having a high reputation for honorable conduct". I assume this assurred prospective guests that they wouldn't encounter any "ladies of the night" within their establishment.

The Centennial, celebrating 100 years of the nation's birth, was an incredible affair. The grounds were situated on the line of the PA RR and encompassed 450 acres of Fairmont Park. The largest buildings ever constructed were here, the top five covering 50 acres and costing $5 million to build, and then there were 195 more temporary structures. The phrase, "build it and they will come" was never more evident with 1,250,000 people counted in attendance during the month of May alone. The Centennial would carry on for 6 months, finally wrapping up in November. For reference, each State was given a piece of the fair grounds to create a story of their individual heritage, and, there were many other fledgling businesses on display too. Some of which would grow into mighty monopolies during the upcoming "Gilded Age".

The summer of '76 was also known for its hotly contested presidential political campaign - Hays vs Tilden. Some may say, "Who?", but many current political scholars have referenced this 1876 election as a direct comparison to the contested 2020 election. In 1876, the Democrat, Samuel Tilden, secured the vast majority of the country's votes, but this was insufficient to clearly secure the win in the electoral college. So, the result of the presidential election was tossed into the House of Representatives, where reportedly lots of skulduggery led to the Republican, Rutherford Hays, being declared the winner by one vote.

As if all this wasn't enough to stir up the nation during this memorable year, many were also keeping a close eye on "The Indian Wars" out west. People were still fighting the different tribes as late as 1876? Most definitely, yes!

General George A. Custer hailed from the humble crossroads known as "New Rumley" in Harrison County, Ohio, just a skip and a hop from the Carroll county border. You visit today "downtown" New Rumley and you'll see the impressive monument of Custer mounted on his horse. However, and despite many "Custer" relations in the area, General Custer is best known in his "home town" of Monroe, Michigan, where his family moved to from Ohio. At one point, I seriously thought that my lineage traced to Custer, but this was not to be.

From all accounts, Custer was an untamed persona who was on a mission to remove the Indian stalwarts from the land, land which the US Government had moved their tribes on to. Custer's goal was to clear the land for the settlers who were pioneering their way west.

Custer took a brash approach to removing an Indian conclave - Little Big Horn, Montana - which consisted of between 2,500 and 4,000 warriors. I say "brash" because his orders were to split his limited number of US troops into five different divisions, each separated from one another. Needless to say, all the troops were systematically destroyed by such great Indian leaders such as the famous "Sitting Bull".

Let's fast forward to the end. Reportedly, Gen. Custer shot three Indians as they attacked his troops who were huddled in a narrow ravine. Custer killed three others with his saber before he was felled by a shot through his head by the aggrieved Indian chief, Rain-In-The-Face, who had recently been incarcerated by the US troops.

Reports in the July 14th edition of the Carroll Chronicle relayed the breaking story to the local residents. "The whole number killed was three hundred and fifteen ... The battleground look like a slaughter-pen, as it really was, being in a narrow ravine. The dead bodies were much mutilated." Reporting in the following week's edition highlighted how "Mrs. Custer is left without blood relation (Custer and his two brothers, nephews, and brother-in-law were all murdered) ... Mrs. Custer bore up bravely at first, but now is almost in despair ... She believes her husband fell alive into the hands of the Indians, and was tortured to death."

Here are my main two takes from all of this.

First, the battle of Little Big Horn actually took place on June 25th, a full twenty days before the news of this catastrophic event reached Carroll County residents. Imagine today a national event or travesty taking twenty days for all of the country to hear of it? Most commonly today, we know within minutes of major breaking news stories.

Secondly, in a recent discussion with a colleague of mine, I mentioned how information today is many times more guarded in how it is released to the public. Back in 1876, the press left little to the reader's imagination. "Bismarck, Dak., July 9. The remains bear many evidences of torture. Some seem to have been shot with arrows in certain parts while still living, and from others, portions of their bodies were removed. The heads of nearly all had been crushed with stone clubs. In some cases the heads were severed from the body and the entrails taken from some, and from many the limbs were chopped off. Some bodies were partly burned. The clothing belonging to some was found and recognized, but the bodies could not be found." This unedited version today would be considered way too much information.

Personally, I wouldn't mind a little bit of the detail though, of what went on, but sans the blow by blow description. Perhaps, such as the reporter in this local article submitted?

"N.Y. Herald - Custer's Battlefield, Little Horn, June 28, via Bismarck, D.T., July 6, I write from the scene of Custer's magnificent but terribly fatal charge, from a plateau on which, but a few hours since, I saw at a glance 115 heroic soldiers of the Seventh United States Cavalry lying where they fell at the hands of a savage foe, cold and dead. Near the top of a little knoll in the center of this plateau lay Custer himself, and it touched my heart to see that the savages, in a kind of a human recognition of heroic clay, had respected the corpse of the man they knew so well. Other bodies were mutilated; Custer was untouched - a tribute of respect more real than a title of nobility. He lay as if asleep, his face calm and a smile upon his lips ..."

These were the events reported 148 years ago today on what was a hot summer's day back then and with a country embroiled in so much turmoil. Will our country, as a united people, be able to celebrate this country's 250th birthday in two years' time? I'm not sure, but civility might be our only chance.

THE ACCORDION PLAYER

I'm really looking forward to addressing the Carroll County Retired Teachers Association on Friday, June 28th. My presentation will focus on the lives of women in the 19th Century, specifically the life of my 3rd Great Grandmother, Susannah Reigle Beckley, who lived her entire life in Carroll County, Ohio during this time period. If you haven't already obtained a personally signed copy of my historical fiction, "Oh! Susannah", then now is a good time to get one.

A relative of mine suggested I make contact with Rose, who is the organizer of the local retired teachers, and I did last year. With our schedules being as they are, I heard back from Rose earlier this year and we didn't really get a chance to talk and exchange information until this past March. After taking care of the business side of things, Rose asked, "Are you related to Wilda Beckley who used to be the music teacher in town?"

"That's my grandmother!," I exclaimed. "She and I used to play for special town events, also at the nursing home, and in some churches; she on her accordion, which had "Wilda" in sparkly letters on the spine, and me on my snare drum. There wasn't a polka we couldn't play to entertain the crowd."

Rose then mentioned how she took lessons from my grandmother from the 5th grade, and right through to her early years in college. The penny dropped! "You're not Rose Mary Cerneva, are you?" I asked. "If so, you were my grandmother's star pupil!" My how this conversation brought back vivid memories for me, of summers in my teen years spent in my grandparent's sitting room most mornings playing cards with my friend Alan. We both would be anxiously waiting for my grandmother's last pupil to pack up their music box and depart. It would only be minutes later when the three of us would be in that 1968 Ford Falcon and heading for the "swimming hole", otherwise known as Atwood Lake.

That accordion and my grandmother's love of music was also a mainstay of each of our family get togethers and those "Beckley Sisters" - my grandmother's sisters - in -law - were always the dancers. What a show! One that I'll never forget.

Wilda Beckley taught 118 students between 1955 and 1982 so it only seemed right that her bedazzled accordion be donated, and for many years on display, at the Carroll County Historical Society.

I was living in New Zealand back in 1997 when my grandparents celebrated their final anniversary together - 60 years - my grandfather, Bill, passing in 2000 and my grandmother following in 2001. But, what a grand party that anniversary celebration was! I saw it on snippets of a video my family had taken and sent down to me. We all remember how the camcorder was all the rage back then, a precursor of our I Phone cameras today.

There was my grandmother in her wheelchair tapping her fingers to the music, for she had suffered a stroke years before, which ended her accordion playing days. There were also the Beckley Sisters I saw on tape dancing up a storm. But, who was playing the accordion? A quick pan by the videographer showed me Rose Mary Cerneva seated front and center with her accordion merrily playing many of the all-time favorites.

"So, your dad invited me and my husband to your grandparent's anniversary party," Rose recounted in our recent conversation. "We were about to pull out of the drive and I told my husband that I should throw my accordion in the trunk, just in case. Then, at the party, your dad came up to me and said, "What a shame that I didn't ask you to bring your accordion." to which I told him, I'll go get it, it's in the car!"

Rose went on to say how playing "The Anniversary Waltz" meant so much to my grandmother as there were tears in her eyes. I readily agreed saying how the glimpse I got was of my grandmother smiling ear to ear, filled with pride and pleasure of hearing these old tunes again; tapping her fingers and nodding while keeping time to Rose's playing of "Sentimental Journey".

It's going to be a sentimental time this Friday at the Carroll County Retired Teachers Association meeting and I can't wait to reunite with my grandmother's treasured student and friend - Rose.

COMING HOME

This past week my travels took me back home where I had an opportunity to visit with my mother and do further research on the sequel to my historical fiction, "Oh! Susannah".

It was good to spend some time in the hometown and just not pass through; brought back memories actually. Back in the day, the village was a bustling place with lots of businesses downtown, which drew locals to a place they could gather and mingle. There were parks, tidy homes and clean streets. This is just not me reminiscing. The residents actually took a great deal of pride in where they lived.

I shouldn't have been surprised, but as I left town early Friday morning, I was struck at how beautiful downtown is at present, brick-paved streets, nearly all the shops occupied and showing pride of ownership. It occurred to me that, while other communities had fallen on hard times, my hometown looked as good as ever! Matter of fact, there are still well-maintained parks, tidy homes - my mother won "Yard Of The Week" for her meticulous gardens, and yes, the city's streets are still clean.

Unbekownst to me when I planned this visit, the annual Homecoming was scheduled for last week, and this event typically draws everyone to the Community Center and Brock Park, if for nothing else then to support the local Lion's Club by purchasing a "Lion Burger".

Talk about bringing back memories, my mind flashed back to the 1970's when the anticipation of The Homecoming was the height of summer. These memories, though, are not all good. Back then, I mowed lawns for two dozen, mostly older ladies in town, who basically paid for my first two years of college. To them I'll always be grateful, but, there were days when the last thing I wanted to do was mow lawns. One instance in particular was when I was cutting the grass of an elderly lady whose granddaughter was visiting. Her name was "Annette". My arrival had the effect of moving Annette off of her beach towel where she had been soaking up the summer's rays. But, she announced, that was ok because she was going to go across the street and over the bridge and take in the "matinee" that the carnival guys were putting on that afternoon. Looking across that lazy trickle of a stream the locals know as The Little Sandy Creek, oh how I wanted to go to the homecoming that afternoon. I would give anything just to be there and take in the atmosphere, maybe buy something to eat or enjoy an amusement ride. So close, yet so far away.

I arrived at my mother's house on Thursday, having missed the week's main event - The Parade - which usually lasts for hours. I've always been amazed how there is anybody left to watch the parade when seemingly everyone from the community is in the parade!

Anyway, with no pre-arrangements in place, I was going to suggest that my mother and I go down to the homecoming and get a couple Lion Burgers for dinner, for it didn't seem too crowded when I had driven by. However, my mother had our dinner all laid out on the table, just awaiting my arrival, and I never brought up my idea of going to the park.

It struck me how I was ok not going to the homecoming, genuinely indifferent after all of these years. This just seemed so out of character for me. It is sobering when one acknowledges that when and where has remained the same, and it's only me who has changed.

The Boys Of Summer

"At the crack of a bat, the silence on this sultry summer afternoon was shattered. There were only a scattered few spectators watching this bat-and-ball sport, one that everyone previously knew as "Round Ball", and yet the gathered folks were now on their feet and cheering the young lad who was rounding the bases. His bare feet pounded the parched soil that had been laid bare by the scorching sun, his arms mechanically thrusting with each stride as every ounce of youthful energy was being summoned to get him as far around the infield as he could go.

John had never before struck the ball with such authority and seeing its flight arch high and wide past the opposing team's fielder was quite a thrill. It never crossed his mind that his team mate had already crossed home plate with a go-ahead run for their team. John, with his curly locks flowing in the wind, was firmly focused on rounding the base paths toward that last infield base. Instinctively, he knew the ball could arrive before he did, the look on the third baseman's face said as much. So, for fame or infamy, John leapt in the air throwing his body as close to the guarded base as possible. A sand-like grit covered his face and was sprinkled throughout his hair from his landing and sliding over the base and consequently into the fielder. A gasp from the crowd of observers nearby was the only audible sound until moments later, the umpire noticing the loose ball on the ground, pronounced John as "safe", whereupon the home crowd erupted once more with cheers, a delightful sound that filled the valley."

This is just a snippet from my upcoming book, which covers our nation's history through The Gilded Age.

As you and I know, the months of April and May can be fickle, and not always fair-weather friends for those of us in Northeast Ohio. However, by June, one can be pretty safe in the knowledge that summer has finally arrived and thus also, the enjoyment of our "favorite pastime". My grandfather used to call the Cleveland Indians "morning glories" because by the start of summer, they had usually faded to the bottom of the standings, but not this year!

Here's a few tidbits for the enthusiast compliments of wikipedia. It was as early as the 1850's when the baseball craze hit the New York Metropolitan area. The game was played by the troops serving in the Civil War and then spread across the country thereafter. In 1863, a rule change disallowed "put outs" made by catching a fair ball on the first bounce and by 1869, the first fully professional club, the Cincinnati Red Stockings, was formed and went undefeated against a schedule of semi-pro teams. Then, the National League was founded in 1876, which is around the time of my snippet of opening text. 1884 saw the legalization of overhand pitching and with other minor changes, by 1893, many of the rules for the game we recognize, were put in place.

Imagine this! During the years prior to 1857, the game had no standard distance between the bases and there were no restrictions to the number of players who were on the field at any one time, everyone just ran around until one team happened to score twenty one runs.

There are those of us who live for the sounds and smells of summer, as well as the feeling of its warmth on our skin. Oh, and let's not forget the umpire's barking, "Play Ball!"

Mei-Re, My Angel

I looked into the driver's side of an early model imported car that probably had received tender loving care, but obviously, that had been awhile ago. Seated behind the wheel was an older Polynesian woman who flashed me a smile, one that a visitor comes to expect from the friendly folks who live in Rarotonga, which is one of the tropical Cook Islands found in the South Pacific.

My greetings didn't startle Mei-Re for she saw me walking across the street towards her, so, she continued to casually roll her cigarette while enquiring what I wanted from her. You see, Mei-Re ("May Ray"), when said quickly and with an accent, sounded like "Mary" to me, so that's how I addressed my new-found acquaintance, and she hearing my accent, knew better than to correct me, as many American tourists pay little attention to other's cultural differences when abroad.

So, what was my issue? This had been the last day of our stay and over the course of the previous three days on the island, my wife and I had somewhat mastered their public transportation. There are two buses; one going clockwise, the other traveling anti-clockwise. What could possibly go wrong? Well first, there was the issue with the bus's timetable. It was published because there must be one, but as the attendant behind the desk at our Moana Sands Resort explained, the 12:05pm stop could be ten or fifteen minutes either side of that precise minute, and then she flashed us that Polynesian smile. Yes, it is one thing when the local lunch bar states on their website that they open at 9am every day, and after walking twenty minutes for a meat pie, I'm greeted by a home made sign informing me that the shop opens at 11am. For all I know, there's a different sign for each day or for that matter, a totally different start time for whenever they feel like opening. However, it is an entirely different matter when you are completely reliant upon a bus and it's regularity. Welcome, Mr. Beckley, to "Island Time".

Oh, how I envied all those young and old, zipping past us on their scooters. If only we'd organized a scooter, we could be whipping around the island at our leisure too. Instead, we found ourselves sipping a beer with a local under one of the island's large indigenous trees. My heart had hope, seeing another person standing at the bus stop within metres of the grog shop. Knowing that the bus was due in five minutes, I enquired of the Kiwi/Cook Islander standing there the timing of the next bus. His reply, "Fifty minutes, mate." Yes, it had zipped past earlier than scheduled and caught all three of us out. So, we followed his lead, bought a can of beer each and bided our time shooting the afternoon breeze under the tree while watching the surf in the distance.

The bus eventually arrived. It was important that we knew exactly where to exit because all the businesses and restaurants and houses were intermixed and difficult to distinguish one from another. The Sandy Bay Restaurant signage was nearly missed due to the advertisements for the motel units that were positioned in front of this popular eatery. Soon we were meandering our way through the cottages and found the beach front bar that also included a few picnic tales in the sand. This was the restaurant. It was definitely waterfront, but again the website was a bit deceptive when it said "Open Now". What was "open" was the bar. The restaurant's chef never arrives before 6pm. We were hoping for an early meal, so we enjoyed a beverage and the surf and the roaming wild dogs. These dogs are sacred so they wander the entire island unmolested and tourist are warned not to feed or approach them. With empty wine glasses we decided to catch the bus back to our resort and if we cashed out right then, we'd probably be just in time for the counter clockwise bus.

We stood on the roadside with our shopping bags for fifteen minutes before resigning ourselves to the fact we had missed our bus. We painfully watched scooter after scooter whizz past us while we waited for the next bus. Then, there was the clockwise bus that drove by on the other side of the road. My wife suggested that we should attempt to get on that bus, but I suggested otherwise knowing it would take us so much longer going that route. Then, the clockwise bus flew past us again! We had been waiting for ninety minutes and I'll admit a bit of trepidation began to sink in to my conscious. What if we have to walk back to the resort? It's dusk and two obviously tired and hungry tourists would be prime targets for any unfortunate event.

I had been sizing up the dilapidated house opposite us for ninety minutes. It was on the immediate south side of the driveway that led to the restaurant. Both the house and the grounds could use a lot of help, but I put my observations down to "Island Life". Then appearing from the house was Mei-Re, who was on her way out, for whatever reason.

"What are you looking for, eh?", she asked.

The words describing our predicament stumbled out of my mouth in much of a jumble. She was most likely watching us standing there the whole time and knew the answer to her question before she asked it.

"Didn't anyone tell you that the counter clockwise finishes up at 4:30? Hmm. What a shame. Would you like a ride?"

There were no sweeter words for my ears at that moment and I quickly added, "I will pay you."

Seated in the front with Mei-Re, I asked if she was a Cook Islander. She explained how she was born in the Cook Islands, but spent all of her life in NZ before recently returning to her home land.

"Where about in NZ did you live?", I enquired.

"Hawkes Bay", she replied.

I knew of the devastating cyclone Gabrielle that ripped through that region of NZ the year before, and I asked if the cyclone had affected any of her family.

Mei-Re paused and then simply nodded her head not wanting to say another word on the topic.

My wife and I were to later journey through that part of NZ and witness first hand the effects and brute force of that storm. The results were that many people didn't survive it and even more lost everything they had. It was time to change the subject.

"What keeps you busy?" I asked Mei-Re next.

She happily explained how she is retired and returned to the Cook Islands to work on her health, which was improving. She volunteered at the local school teaching children English and NZ's native tongue, Maori. I could sense Mei-Re derived a lot of satisfaction from her volunteering efforts, then she went on to explain how she preached at her church too.

Astonished, I asked, "Are you a minister?"

"No, not really. Just an Episcopalian Lay Preacher", she corrected me.

I told her, "Well, we have something in common as one of my best friends is an Episcopalian Priest and he also married Deb & me!"

Needless to say the thirty-five minute drive back to our resort simply flew by as we were deeply engaged in conversation. Yet, at last we had arrived and Mei-Re looked straight into my eyes and said, "I've been your angel today."

"Yes! Yes, you have Mary. May God continue to use you in your chosen ministries here on the island. I can't thank you enough for your kindness today and sharing your life stories with us." And with that said, I handed her the largest bill in my wallet.

Mei-Re doesn't begin her day knowing how she will be used to impact other's lives. She just goes about her day being receptive and perceptive of other's needs. May I encourage you to be someone's Mei-Re, someone's angel.

Don't forget to check out my other blogs by clicking on to www.beckleysbooks.com

WELCOME BACK, KOTTER

Welcome Back! It's been a marvelous 3 months away, away from work, my book tour, and blogging. I can definitely recommend being absent from Northeast Ohio from Christmas to Easter. Now, though, I'm back and have so much to share, not only of my travels, but of my research into America's Gilded Age and the colorful characters from this era who left their imprint on society forever.

Your Dreams Were Your Ticket Out. Yes, they were, and yet I never envisaged there would be so many people in my travels who would leave their impression on me. Here are just a few:

Yoshua DiCarpio is quite the musician and during his break at Java Jive in Honokowai, he made a bee line for my wife and me. Yes, we enjoyed his set, but Yoshua is so personable and talented and he's from Cleveland, Ohio!

The Lady From Lahaina whom I met at the laundromat who apologized for taking so many of the washing machines. As she explained, she lost her home to the fires and is now forced to do the family's laundry at the only available laundromat.

Our Hostess At Moana Sands In Rarotonga Cook Islands who despite having family in town for an unveiling (a remembrance ceremony a year after the funeral), she supplied us, from her own garden, a constant supply of passion fruit and dragon fruit.

Our Waiter, Levi, At The Crown Range Lounge In Parnell Auckland, New Zealand, who knows how to deliver top notch service. Levi made sure we were personally introduced to Jung Song, the owner of the restaurant and the Crown Range vineyards in the Bendigo wine region, where she is known for the quality drop "China Girl".

Our Air New Zealand Seat Mate during our flight to Queenstown, a young lady and school teacher from Boston. She is currently touring through NZ and Australia and had been to Queenstown before as evidenced by her sipping on a Speights. What blew our mind was during her previous visit, she had trekked the cliffs of the Southern Alps from Wanaka to Queenstown. It took us an hour to drive the Crown Range. This young lady completed her journey in 4 days! She is traveling on a one-way ticket, earning money along the way at odd jobs, and with no definite day of returning to the US.

Michael, just 3 months out of London, and loving following his passion for wine at the Mt. Difficulty vineyard in Bannockburn, Central Otago. We made an instant connection sharing stories in common, and Michael sharing his knowledge of the vineyard with me. I tried not to stare at his painted white fingernails, but decided this only complimented his colorful personality.

Felix Our Wine Tasting Server At The Mt. Rosa Vineyards who instantly made us his friends once he learned my best friend is from Malaysia. Felix is Malaysian also and is working in the Gibbston Valley saving up funds for his upcoming wedding. One week later and while we were at another tasting room, Felix's name came up again. He's that memorable!

Rommel who was serving us tastings of Valli wines. We purchased a flight of 3 wines, yet ended up with 6 as Rommel kept finding different samples that we just had to try. A doctor by trade from Dubai and an entrepreneur extraordinaire, our day was made so much richer by our time with Rommel.

The Young Lass With A Slight French Accent originally from Connecticut, but who is brilliantly representing the chef at the Rockferry Wine Restaurant. I was immediately sold by her description of the chef's special of the day - pate' - one that had been crafted using a boar's snout and jowl. Two kilometers down the road the chef's friend, a pig farmer, had only slaughtered the beast just 3 weeks' prior. The delicacy was to die for and to top it off the chef made an appearance at our table with shavings of prosciutto from the same beast.

Margot and her talented and personable husband who allowed us to stay at their batch, which had panoramic views over Cooks Beach, for two nights. They supplied us with freshly picked passion fruit and avocados, which had only fallen from the trees in the orchard. Our most memorable event with them is when a wild boar appeared in their/our back yard at dusk. There was only one option and that was to fell it. Our host came to warn us that a gunshot would take place and not to be alarmed.

We also stayed at a beautiful historic stone cottage in Clyde, NZ. While enjoying an amazing meal at the Stoaker Room in Oliver's Restaurant, a young girl who was excited to tell us of her starting university, cashed us out. She enquired where we were staying, and yes she knew of the cottage. It was her great, great grandmother who grew up in this one-room home and we learned of its history and how our cottage was originally the village's doctor's office.

Then, there's Dom Mondillo. Sounds Italian, right? Well, his family is from the East Coast of the US. We learned of Dom's notoriety only 2 days into our journey of the South Island. We made an appointment through Dom's wife to visit the Mondillo Estate. When we arrived at the tasting room, Dom came over the hillside on his farm bike. What an engaging man, and one whom is responsible for the start up of the Bendigo wine region back in the 1970's and 80's! He knows this country like the back of his hand and has seen everything imaginable during his tenure, especially telling us his stories during Covid. We had to buy a bottle of his wine that he's named "Nina" in honor of his mother back in the States.

Our B&B Hostess In Nelson/Richmond Whom We'll Call The "Lavender Lady", for she harvests lavender for a living. We loved the outdoor soaking tub that she had provided for our leisure and are so grateful for her recommendation to visit "The Grape Escape" in town for brunch. What a delightful venue this is and while my wife was memorized by "Colonel Mustard", the parakeet, two middle-aged ladies sitting opposite to us struck up a conversation with me. Long story short, one of the ladies owned a cafe in Paihia in the Bay Of Island - at the other end of the country - during the 1980's. She not only knew of my NZ family's "Aunty Daph", but provided her in-home care until the grand lady's death. There were so many stories to share, and yes, it is a small world.

Finally, it was time to fly out of Auckland. My wife and I were playing cards in a bistro, biding our time, when the guy across from us asks what game we were playing. Turns out he is from Canada and was heading back home too, where he was looking forward to playing the exact same card game with his family and children. Yet, this wasn't the most striking interaction that afternoon. An elderly man approaches me in the departure lounge and says, "So, wher deed ya kneek that shurt?" I was somewhat startled because I had not "knicked" my Appalachian Trail shirt, but purchased it in Harper's Ferry, and I told him so. I instantly recognized the typical humor of this ex-pat Kiwi/Aussie, and at the age of 75, he was headed to "Merica" to walk the entire Appalachian Trail. He said it should take him 5 months and a few more days.

Welcome Back To That Same Old Place. Back in Ohio now and adorned in my winter parka again, I have got to acquaint myself with that "same old place" that we call home. We're busy. There's a family member's home that needs clearing out for selling, and in doing so, the difference in life's choices is so stark. Over 66 years of talking about visiting places "one of these days", but the evidence in the house speaks for itself otherwise. Money was saved up in their bank account and so many other everyday "things" were saved and stored as well. But, there is no evidence of leisure travel. I choose to enrich myself with experiences while engaging and learning from others. I guess this is what makes everyone different from one another.

And What Could Ever Lead You Back Here - Where We Need You? A major part of receiving is giving. All of these aforementioned people, and so many more, enriched our lives during these past 3 months, but we also gave to them through our interaction. So, I'm back to share with you, not only presently, but going forward. Expect another blog shortly; one not so lengthy. Until then, check out my website - www.beckleysbooks.com for my upcoming events. I hope to have a major announcement for you in my next blog too! Til then ...

Welcome Back

Welcome Back

Welcome Back

Auld lang Syne

In it's literal sense, "Days Gone By", Auld Lang Syne is a perfect description of 2023. For me, it's been a year of promotion, promoting the rich history found surrounding my 3rd great grandmother, Susannah Reigle, and her family.

Thus, with all things that must pass, it's time to sweep out the past to make way for the new. 2024, for me, will be a year of research and writing as I embark on my sequel, "The Gilded Years - A Novelization of John Hiram Beckley". Stay tuned, but first, it's time for a sabbatical. I'll be re-blogging next after my 3-month hiatus. Til then, may I wish all and sundry, the happiest of new years.

Cheers!

Interrupting regularly scheduled programs

I remember as a kid the odd occasion when one of my favorite television programs would simply disappear from the screen, replaced usually by a stern, older man with a grave voice stating, "We interrupt this regularly scheduled program for an important announcement". It was the only means back then to deliver a breaking news event to the country.

Well, it's kind of happening again. Mankind's regularly scheduled programming this week is Christmas, the focus being on all that brings us joy at this time of year. Yet, for the past few days, the important announcement that's on nearly every newscaster's lips is the story of Colorado's Supreme Court declaring that Donald Trump is ineligible to appear on its State Primary Ballots. What I'm hearing over and over is the 14th Amendment's clause of inciting an insurrection.

This blog is as unplanned as the interruption/public service announcement to one's favorite television show, but, all of this chatter about the 14th Amendment has drawn me into the fray.

In my book, "Oh! Susannah" - an historical fiction found on www.beckleysbooks.com - I outline the history of the 14th Amendment in the prelude to Chapter 22, "Postbellum, Petroleum and Prohibition". The inciting of an insurrection clause of the 14th Amendment is nothing more than an afterthought, comparable to a "player to be named later" in a trade of highly touted sports stars today. The 14th Amendment IS about the guarantee of citizenship to all people born in the United States, regardless of race, and the extension of the Constitution's promise of equality to all American citizens. Some people may be aware that John A. Bingham, a congressman from Cadiz, Ohio at the time, is considered to be "The Father of the 14th Amendment. Supreme Court Justice Hugo Black went so far to refer to Bingham as "The James Madison of the 14th Amendment". And yet, Bingham had stiff opposition, namely President Andrew Johnson, who varied between ambivalence and provocation stating enfranchisement for "those persons of color who can read the Constitution of the United States in English and write their names and to all persons of color who own real estate valued at no less than two hundred and fifty dollars." The President boasted thereafter, "Not five hundred would be affected."

This is what the 14th Amendment was about back in 1868. The passage of the 14th Amendment became the legal basis for the Supreme Court's subsequent decisions on desegregation of public schools, equality for women and the creation of the right to sexual privacy.

Yes, the 14th Amendment is something worth interrupting your favorite television show for, even at Christmas. Thank you, John A. Bingham.

When visions of sugar plums danced in their heads

Ten days out from Christmas and I'm trying to answer the age-old question, "What is a sugar plum?" I'm 64 years old and for the past 60 years when reading or listening to Clement Clarke Moore's "The Night Before Christmas", I always had an idea what a sugar plum looked like, kind of like a candied fruit.

It's a sweet plum, right? Hmm, not really. Referencing sweets historian Laura Mason's account found in an article in The Atlantic, sugar plums were well known to Englishmen between the 17th-19th century as a sweet made of sugar, also referred to as "comfit". To put you in the picture, take some caraway or cardamom seeds, or you may prefer almonds. Then, wrap a coating of sugar around the seeds, hardening it as you add each layer. Think of a modern day "jawbreaker" with seeds in the middle.

So, there's no fruit involved at all? Interesting. I know there's a history of children receiving fruit, mostly navel oranges, as a Christmas present, so I just assumed fruit was involved in the Christmas Story. Come to think of it, a nice juicy orange would've been a pleasant surprise on a cold wintry day.

And, isn't that same element of surprise a part of the fun when receiving and opening a Christmas parcel? What's inside?

Back in the beginning of the tradition of gift giving (mid-late 19th century in America), shop keepers targeted the public at Christmas time suggesting, "What are gifts but the proof and signs of love?".

In my historical fiction, "Oh! Susannah", I chose the Christmas of 1861 (Chapter 17) to describe what times were like back then at this time of year. For one, it was the first December since 1851 that Susannah had not been pregnant or sick. Secondly, her children were coming of age to appreciate the efforts their mother would've taken to provide them the best Christmas ever. It helped that Susannah was a weaver and was able to make clothes, especially for her daughters. These homemade gifts held more sentimental value to folks then the advertised store-bought ones.

Along with knitted mittens, Susannah's children received rag dolls and underwear as their presents. Looking back when as a child myself, who didn't receive underwear as a present wrapped under the tree? In our family, my sisters and I would have our "stash" of presents in front of us. We soon learned that each parcel did not contain a sugar plum. There were socks and clothes, and woolen hats, house slippers, and yes, underwear - every year! Don't get me wrong. My parents made sure there were a couple gifts that would take our fancy and occupy our attention for days or weeks to come - toys, bikes, games etc.

However, Christmas isn't all about receiving, but more importantly, the act of giving. In my historical fiction, while preparing her children's Christmas gifts, Susannah spares a thought for her brother Sam and his wife who had recently lost two of their children from diptheria. She also laments in the story for those less well-off families living around her who could surely use "the gift of her knitting". Would not a knitted blanket be received as a sugar plum to one in need?

Yesterday, my father-in-law passed away. For a slightly-built man, I was surprised at the heavy bulkiness of his winter coats, and so many of them! This weekend, my wife and I will be paying a visit to our local Haven Of Rest homeless shelter. We've got some sugar plums to deliver. May I suggest to my readers that you do a quick check of your storage closets as well, just to see if there might be a couple sugar plums hiding in there too.

THE SUMMER KITCHEN

Somehow "the holidays" and food have always gone hand in hand with one another. I fondly remember that after the traditional Christmas Eve service with the annual cantata being sung by the church choir, the focus of our family shifted to what we were going to eat the next day - for breakfast, lunch and dinner - and who was bringing which dish. Food featured perhaps even more so than the exchanging of gifts.

The anticipation and planning for the Christmas Day meal was both a good thing and a bad one. As kids, our mouths watered at the thought of all the ham, shrimp cocktail and scalloped au gratin potatoes that we could eat. We also knew there would be the presence on the table of the dreaded salads, one that was always made with grapes and walnuts in a mystery white sauce, another featured orange jello with cottage cheese and shredded carrots on top for good measure. Do you remember the log roll of cream cheese that had walnuts and maraschino cherries stuck on it and in it? Don't even get me started with the mince meat and Christmas cake offerings. Those gems could've been used throughout the new year as doorstops if it weren't for those red and green jellies on top.

I hate to admit to this, but one year I traveled back to Ohio from New Zealand at Christmas, and I had been "persuaded" by my significant other that the easiest and cheapest way to arrive with gifts for all of the USA family, was to simply bring mince meat and Christmas cakes for everyone. Been out of the country too long, I guess, for I agreed and we arrived "bearing gifts"; gifts that everyone tossed in the bin once we left.

Christmas hasn't always been associated with special meals. For quite some time early in the 19th century, it wasn't celebrated at all in America. Then, immigrants began introducing their Christmas traditions here. Germans introduced their fondness for decorating pine trees. The English meanwhile showed us what a feat could be.

In the winter of 1863 when things were going poorly for the Union soldiers, Harper's Weekly commissioned Thomas Nast to draw his now famous image of St. Nick, from within his sleigh flying over rooftops, tossing out gifts of socks and clothing to the beleagured troops. This marks the start of what was to become an American-styled Christmas.

I devote an entire chapter in my historical fiction, "Oh! Susannah", to this topic and you can see pictures from this era from the photo gallery of my website - www.beckleysbooks.com

I also talk alot about food in my book, describing how the differences are from today to back then. For instance, many families found there simply wasn't enough space in their home's kitchen. It was quite common for there to be a separate building, which was called the summer kitchen. "Usually a brick structure found only a few feet away from the home and connected by a path from the back porch, the summer kitchen was comprised of a large room with wood or kerosene oil stove, work counters and lots of windows for a good breeze to blow through." There was not only cooking done here, but its where "the family soap was made and the clothes, once washed, could be dried." Fruits as well as herbs were hung from the rafters in the ceiling to be dried too.

But, let's get back to the food. In Chapter 7, Susannah decides to make for her family a special meal; calf's head. "Calf's head should be cleansed with very great care, particularly the lights. The head, the heart and the lights should boil full two hours; the liver should be boiled only one hour. It is better to leave the windpipe on, for it hangs out of the pot while the head is cooking, all the froth will escape through it."

You know, on second thought, come this Christmas, with all the focus on the food that will be on offer for this special meal, go ahead and pass me the mince meat. Times could be worse.

Chestnuts by the open fire

Who has recently spent time in a doctor's office, urgent care or emergency room? I've been lucky so far and haven't been to any of these places this season, but when out in public, I hear that chesty cough and cringe. Currently, I have way too many family and friends fighting an upper respiratory infection or covid itself. I've been there myself. Many years back I spent six months with a bronchial pneumonia that just wouldn't go away. I was living in New Zealand at the time and if anyone has ever experienced an Auckland winter, you'll know what I mean when I describe their winter months as cold and wet.

No, I'm not talking Northeast Ohio cold where temps don't rise above freezing for months and you just get used to your lawn being a blanket of snow. Winter temperatures in Auckland, New Zealand rarely dip below 40 degrees fahrenheit. Sounds like a reasonable way to make your way through the winter months, right? Well, that is what I banked on when I moved there in 1984. What I soon learned was, with no central heating, 40 degrees outside is like 40 degrees inside. Then, just add the heavy damp air into this weather equation; a cold, wet that soaks through to your bones .... and lungs. This constant dampness had me praying to be back in Ohio's freezing temperatures, but with the comfort of central heating.

There wasn't any central heating back in the 19th century either. Recently, I discovered a vacant old ancestral home in Carroll County, Ohio. While it is still standing after 140+ years, I was taken aback by the condition inside. Vandals had left their mark and all of their trash. What a huge project it would be to try to resurrect this home to it's former beauty. And yet the basic structure appears perfectly sound and the tongue and groove floor boards are still present in most of the rooms I wandered through. What really took my fancy was to find no fewer than three fireplaces still in situ! That's how my grandfather's grandfather's brother and his family kept themselves warm. No doubting that my ancestors worked through their winter colds and flu, just as we do today. However, doesn't a fire pit on every floor with a roaring fire in it sound so inviting? Maybe, it was this exact imagery Nat King Cole was recreating for us when he sang about the chestnuts roasting on an open fire in The Christmas Song? And just in case you were wondering, it was Mel Torme and Robert Wells who actually wrote the lyrics to this song.

And so I'm offering this simple phrase (blog) to kids from one to ninety-two ....

A DaY DEDICATED TO GRATiTuDE & GIVING

That's the title I chose for my one-page intro to Chapter 13 in my historical fiction, "Oh! Susannah". Chapter 13 covers the time period of November 1859 in the life of my 3rd great grandmother, Susannah Reigle Beckley. By 1859, the State of Ohio was only 56 years old and "The Harvest Festival", which is what we know as Thanksgiving, had only begun 14 years previously to Ohio being distinguished from the Northwest Territory. What I'm getting at is I remember 56 years ago, November 1967, and that Thanksgiving family feast being one of the first I recall, but then again, I have vague memories of JFK's assassination on my 4th birthday in 1963.

Ohio's Governor Samuel Chase on November 24, 1859 sent a message to the citizens of his State, encouraging all to set aside the day for "thanksgiving and prayer". It seems that over the years, since its inception, Thanksgiving had only been intermittently observed. It was President Abraham Lincoln who actually made our annual November festival a permanent and established national observance.

The Carroll Free Press Standard published the Governor's remarks. Here is an excerpt:

"The Governor urges all good citizens to lay aside their business on that day, and repair to their respective places of worship." (This probably ruled out any other activity, such as sport and things akin to our modern day binge watching of American Grid Iron.) The Governor's address continued, "That this special day be distinguished by works of benevolence and charity towards men, in confirming friendships, in the rescinding of anomies, in the sending of portions to the needy, and in the promoting, so far as practicable, of the welfare and happiness of all ..."

Sounds a bit quaint, doesn't it? Nostalgic even, as in, "what a nice idea". Perhaps Gov. Chase felt the need to prick the conscious of his fellow Ohioans during this time of the year? It is good to remember to be grateful, and even enjoy a festival, recognizing the harvest of all your hard work.

Should an American from 1859 be suddenly transported to Thanksgiving 2023, what would he/she think of the movement of purportedly 55 million people across this country this weekend? And for some, it is a 1- day trek, as they're back at work come Friday. My guess is they would be perplexed by this human migration and perhaps, even amused at the folly. You might find some scratching their head, "But, the Governor has just told us to lay aside our business on this day and repair to our respective places of worship."

I guess the theme here transcending generations and hundreds of years is, take a moment to give thanks and gratitude for all that Providence has provided us and commit to pay forward from the depths of abundance of which we've been so blessed.

FRIENDS - OnE OF LIFE’S BLESSINGS

Friendship - One Of Life's Blessings

Where would we be without our friends? My wife and I have been blessed recently with a week-long visit from our good friend from the West Coast. We did so much in that period of time, created so many memories. My good friend was the first person to welcome me back on to these shores of my homeland in 2012. For the most part, I'd been away for 26 years, and while visiting frequently "on holiday", that wasn't the same thing as having two packed bags and a carry on with you as your "possessions" on your permanent return to the country.

She took an entire week off work to show me all of the best places in her "adopted" Southern California home town. It was so nice to spend this past week with my good friend re-acquainting with her and showing her, all the neat things to do in Northeast Ohio, her old stomping grounds.

In my historical fiction, "Oh! Susannah", very early on in the story, I introduce "a friend" to my main character, Susannah Reigle - my 3rd great grandmother. I chose "Druscilla" to be Susannah's friend because the census records for that time period showed her family lived nearby, had recently moved into the community from a neighboring community that Susannah's family was originally from, and "Druscilla" was Susannah's same age. It simply made sense looking at these facts 180 years later. Druscilla never married until she was 50 years old, allowing me to fictionally make her an area activist and Susannah's best friend.

Druscilla attended the women's rights movement inaugural convention in Ravenna, Ohio, met with abolitionist followers of John Brown, who were based in Cleveland, Ohio at that time, and intermingled with those prohibitionist leaders of the day. Ohio was an hotbed for all of these societal changes during the mid and late 19th century. Trust me when I tell you, women were the organizers and agents of change during this time in our history.

Susannah's friend, Druscilla, is as critical to the story line as Susannah herself. That's how important friendships are to us, especially life-long ones. I've been blessed with the best friends; friendships that no barrier can prevent from nurturing - no expense spared as well.

I believe Susannah was blessed similarly and it has been a true joy to write about this aspect of her life.

It's with great pleasure and a smile on my face, that I say, "Thanks, mate!" for being my friend and allowing me to spoil you this past week. Where would we be without our friends?

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Another November - Another election

Yesterday, voters in Ohio, as well as Kentucky and Virginia were in the national spotlight. I personally witnessed the "pro-life", basically the religious right (Republican Party) carry out an old-fashioned "ground assault" in Ohio with a myriad of "Vote No!" yard signs appearing in nearly every neighbourhood in which I traveled. I knew this election was going to be an especially heated one; one fought over what rights women would have with regards to their inherent rights to their bodies and an abortion. I address quite thoroughly in my book, "Oh! Susannah", how women of the 19th century worked through this issue. Check out the chapter, "The Birth Control Battlefield".

Catching up with my long-time friend in Columbus back in September, we talked a bit of politics, as we usually do and have, since our first acquaintance as students at Akron University. We were both political science majors. John pursued his political career, even became a County Party Chairman, while I left the country for the pursuits of all that New Zealand offered. John was explaining how this being an "off year" or odd-numbered year, all of the local candidates and issues are on the ballot. He was expressing his concern for those voters, who feeling overwhelmed with so many ballot issues to decide upon, would simply tire and either quit voting or just vote "no" on the balance of the measures up for decision/renewal.

Back in the 19th century, it was far easier on election day. A voter ussually decided upon which party he was supporting, and the decision making was over. And, yes, I purposely used the pronoun "he" because women like my 3rd great grandmother, Susannah Reigle Beckley, would not have even considered voting. Women were second class citizens. However, by the end of the 19th century, suffragettes were making great strides in changing the attitudes of the American populace in regards to women being given the right to vote. And for those who may not know, New Zealand was one of the very first countries to grant their women the right to cast a ballot in 1893. The United States finally got on board with the rest of the world, 27 years later, when the 19th amendment to the constitution was passed in 1920.

As I mention in my historical fiction, "Oh! Susannah", politics back in the 19th century was a very heated and spiritedly debated topic of conversation. Local newspapers were supported or otherwise "propped up" by party money and the individual editors spared no type in sparring with their counterpart editors, which in turn, spurred their partisan readers on. My research reveals that in rural Ohio back in the 19th century, your party affiliation determined which newspaper you subscribed to. And as a matter of interest, I'm currently scouring through over 30 thousand images of these old newspapers as part of my research for my next book.

I remember back in the 70's and 80's how important a newspaper endorsement would be to a political candidate. I personally witnessed long lines of people during this time waiting to vote and many of them clutching a newspaper's list of endorsed candidates. Come to think of it, when was the last time you physically held a newspaper - of any kind - in your hands to read? Everything is online these days, right? And the simple days of clipping a list of endorsed candidates from a trusted source, may never return.

However, the act of voting, even if it means wading through pages and pages of local issues, is as relevant and important today as ever before. Has the thought, "What would life look like, if we did not live in a democratic republic?" ever cross your mind? Personally, I believe that there are elected officials at present who seem hell bent on destroying our democratic framework and even more scary, are the number of people who support them! Are these folks fully informed? duped? or otherwise desiring destruction for the sake of change? I'm ever hopeful that common sense will prevail, all our voices heard, and debated; weighed up for what's best for the general good of all of us.

Not that much thought went into a voter's decision in the 1800's. Today we seriously have more responsibility on our collective shoulders, but as will be addressed in my sequel novel, partisan politics were no less heated.

May I encourage you to continue to engage in the public discourse and actively support those representatives of ours who most closely reflect our vision and values and similarly, may you continue to support your local authors. I have been a most humble benefactor of this support, and if you would like to either purchase my books or keep up with my latest endeavors, visit www.beckleysbooks.com