A Very Sad Story

My last post to this blog told of a very special Christmas Dinner. The Downen Family celebrated with all of Mary Jane and Stephen Downen's Children and grandchildren present. Standing near the right edge of the picture is a young lad looking over his sister Ruth's head. He is Marvin Reager, only son of George and Evaline Reager. Four of his sisters are in that picture and two more will be born to George and Evaline, one the day after Christmas 1902. The newspaper account of the Downen Christmas festivity mentions that not one member of the family had passed away. That fact makes this event the next July seem even more tragic.

On July 10th George Reager and his harvest crew were away at another ranch. Only the family, the cook and a chore boy, Lloyd Lake, were at home. Eight-year-old Marvin went to hunt bird's eggs without his mother's knowledge. He climbed 28 feet into a locust tree. A limb broke and he fell to the ground. His sister Hazel, then 11, remembered helping to carry him to the house. Lloyd took the only horse left on the place, Old Lucy, and rode to find Marvin's Dad.

Hazel ran three miles to her Aunt Essie and Uncle Will's home. (Both of these family members are in the Downen picture. Will is the tall gentleman on the left, rear and Essie is in the center of the back row in a light colored dress.) Essie drove into Orland to get a doctor, nearly ruining a young horse in the process. She ran him the entire six miles and the weather was very hot.

There are two newspaper reports of this tragic accident:
"A little after the dinner hour Wednesday Marvin Reager fell some twenty feet from a tree on the Reager ranch east of Orland and sustained a very serious injury. He was badly bruised about the head. His right arm was broken and the bones of his left were cracked. There was a compound fracture of his right thigh, the bones of which were driven through the flesh, his clothing and into the ground by the force of the fall.
Surgical aid was summoned, the wounds dressed and the boy made as comfortable as possible. Thursday morning early Drs. Edmundson and L. P. Tooley went to the Reager ranch and completed the work of properly caring for his injuries, but at best it will be a long time before he climbs another tree. Marvin is the son of Geo. A. Reager, a well known and respected farmer who lives six miles east of Orland, and his youth will make the many injuries less serious than they would be to and older person.

Two days later another account appeared in the paper relating the outcome of the previous incident:

A Young Life Ended From his terrible injuries and very acute sufferings, Death claimed for his own, Marvin Reager, at three o'clock Friday afternoon.
The immediate cause of death was an injury to the brain at the time of his fall, and has been feared by the physicians in attendance ever since the accident.
Shortly after the dinner hour Friday a messenger arrived from the Reager home and sent the doctor hurrying to the boy's bedside. He was much worse and died at three o'clock.
His death will be a terrible blow to his parents, whose only son Marvin was. This entire community mourns with the sorrowing parents.
The funeral will take place at the Reager home east of town at 3:30 this afternoon and the remains will be interred in the Odd Fellows Cemetery. Rev. F.N. Baker will preach the funeral sermon.

My mother, not yet two at the time of the accident, had no memory of her only brother. Having no male heir helped George, decide to build a house in town and he eventually sold his farm land.

The Pack Rat

Some of you may have wondered about the items pictured at the top of this page. This collection proves, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that I am a pack rat! These items, and many more, made the journey from Sunny California to Friendly Manitoba with yours truly.

The red round-topped trunk belonged to my grandfather, George Reager. I confess to painting it before learning that was a no-no. The family group picture was taken at George and Evaline Reager's 50th anniversary. The little girl in the square frame is my mother, Georgiana Reager Noble. The oval picture of a young boy is Mother's only brother, Marvin, who was killed when he was ten years old. That is another story, possibly the next one to appear in this space. The blue satin robe is part of my mom's trousseau, saved since her marriage in 1935.

The small tan suitcase belonged to my grandmother Ada Almedia Noble St. John. She used it to hold diaries covering 35 years of her life and they are still inside. The tall book next to it is another of her journals kept in 1882 just previous to her marriage to Emery H. Noble.

By now you have realized that being a pack rat is something of a family trait.

The cane bottom rocker belonged to my great-grandmother Mary Jane Downen. Look carefully at this picture, taken over 100 years ago, and you will see she is seated in this same chair.

This picture was taken on Christmas Day, 1901. The following article, describing this occasion, appeared in the local paper:

An incident took place in this city Christmas day which is very seldom heard of in the life of the ordinary American.
S.T. Downen and his wife, M. J. Downen gave a family Christmas dinner last week Wednesday to which all their children with their families were invited and were present.
The family consists of Mrs. Frances A. Norris, William M. Downen, Mrs. Evaline Reager, John L. and Bertha E. Downen.
None of these children were born in California, yet all were present and all reside within a day's drive of the parental roof.
In parents, children and grandchildren there were twenty-three present, all healthful and hearty, and the strangest fact of all is that during the last forty years history of this family not one death has occurred, not one vacant chair was necessary. This is a remarkable fact to be sure.
This is not the first family Christmas dinner enjoyed by the Downen family by any means, but it was the first one at which every member was present and it is safe to say Christmas, 1901, will never be forgotten by any of the members, but all will look back at it as a bright spot in their memories of home scenes, and earnestly hope for many unchanged repetitions of that remarkable Christmas dinner scene.

WWI Arthur the Chef

Last Months at
Camp Funston
On October 20th the cooks were issued their white uniforms. In the picture you see Elmer Erikson and Arthur on the right. Arthur begins to express his hope to be sent overseas. This is a recurring topic through the next seven months. "I made 38 loganberry pies yesterday afternoon and they must have been pretty good too, the way this bunch of buzzards flew into them. I heard today that we are to stay here until the 4th of January. I hope not. I don't suppose we'll get started to France before the first of February, if we do then." I am personally quite impressed by those 38 loganberry pies! If I make 2 or 3 at a time it seems like quite a feat, and I never saw my dad make even one pie during my growing-up years.

For Thanksgiving there was entertainment on the base, as the soldiers watched a football game. This pictures gives us some idea of the number of young men stationed at Camp Funston. Arthur also mentions concerts, dances, baseball and boxing during his time there. In December
he tells of seventeen train carloads of
Christmas presents arriving on the
base.

By February Arthur is resigned to staying on at Camp Funston. He mentions cooking for the officers, a duty that continues until a month before he is shipped to France. "Naw, I ain't never going to leave this place. Got a life sentence! Am still cooking for these 'big guns'. I have 30 now. Holy smoke! Can you imagine me doing the same thing for six months? We cooks are taking a two month course at a cooks and bakers school. The instructor is a nice little fellow, a good cook too. A person can learn a good deal from him, and as you know I have plenty of room to expand."

At the end of the cooking course he says, "I am still 'burning slum' for the 'High Powers'. I took the cook's exam the other day and passed as First Cook, ha, ha." The strange thing is, I never knew he was a cook. My mom mentioned that when they were married she was nervous about cooking for him, but I thought that was because she had been teaching and living in a boarding house, so hadn't had much practice. He never cooked, while I was groing up, unless my mom was sick or away. He did teach me the correct and easy way to dress a chicken and cut it up to fry. Maybe that is something he learned at the cooks school??

At the end of May they close the officers mess and Arthur goes back to drilling with the infantry. Finally on June 26th he is on board ship, headed for France, with the 89th Division. After arriving at the front he cooks for the dressing station and drives ambulance. "We are in active service now, quite interesting at times, with occasional air raids and gas alarms, and the firing of the big guns. There is a gun sitting back about a quarter of a mile and shooting right over me."

This is the last of my World War One entries for now. Maybe next November 11th I will think of more to show and tell. I do hope to use some of my dad's experiences in a novel when I complete my current work in progress.

WWI - Arthur at Camp Funston

Arthur Enlists
Here are some further WWI pictures for you history buffs. In 1917 the war was raging in Europe. According to an entry in his mother's diary, Arthur received his draft notice on July 22nd. On July 25th he and his buddy Elmer Erickson left for San Francisco to enlist. They were destined to remain together throughout their time in the service.

My father told me that shortly after he and Elmer enlisted there was a call for cooks. After a quick consultation they decided cooking sounded more attractive that shooting and being shot at, so they volunteered for the job. Arthur's previous cooking experience consisted of helping his mother and batching, but this decision defined his time in the army. In a letter from Angel Island on August 3rd, he wrote, "I just got off of kitchen duty, and believe me, I am some hasher. Waited table for 24 men, 3 meals. A person doesn't have much company. The dining room I eat in only holds 1,500 men and half of it has to be set twice."

On August 28, their last night in San Francisco, Roderick McArthur took Arthur and Elmer on the town and they had the above picture taken. Arthur is on the right. The next day they left for Camp Funston, Fort Riley, Kansas, arriving on September 1st. Unlike most of the men, trained at that facility, he was to remain there for nearly a year. He wrote, "Ha, ha, here I am in Kansas. Who would have thought it? I'm getting to be quite a tourist aren't I? I've traveled around 1500 miles in the last 6 weeks. We had a fairly good trip coming here. One thing we saw, worth seeing, was the Salt Lake. Say, that is certainly a wonderful piece of work. It is about 45 or 50 miles across and 35 miles of it is bridge. I wouldn't have missed that for anything."

By October Arthur is settled in as a cook. "Elmer and I are signed up in the same Co., and also as permanent cooks, if we make good. Him and I were on, today, so I'll tell you what we had for dinner. We had braised beef, sweet potatoes, creamed peas, apple pie, bread and butter and tea. The boys all thought it was a good dinner; even the pies and I made em."

Below is a picture of some of the fellows who cooked. Arthur and Elmer are 2nd and 3rd from the right side.

I

have a couple more pictures to show you on my next post. See you soon!

Bob and Arthur Noble-- World War I

Brothers

Robert

&

Arthur

Noble

These two young men are my uncle, Sgt. Robert Ross Noble and my father Arthur Zumwalt Noble as they looked, in uniform, during the Great War--The War to End War--WWI. My dad is the one at the top of the page.

I have 80 letters that my dad wrote to his mother during his time in the service. During his tour of duty overseas he was careful not to worry her by writing about the horrible conditions he lived in and the terrible things he saw. However, it was possible to read between the lines and realize that life was far from pleasant.

My uncle Bob was wounded and taken to a hospital in France. His mother was notified and let her son Arthur know about it in a letter. Apparently she expressed her concern for her older boy and my dad replied that this was the best news he had heard in a long time. Arthur's company was behind Bob's division as they moved across the battlefront. There were many fresh graves along the route. Arthur told his mother that he was scared to death to look at the markers fearing that one might bear his brother's name, but he couldn't bring himself to walk past without checking.

Dad told me of one incident that he made into a joke on himself. When you think about it, the picture it paints of their his living conditions is far from a laughing matter. He woke up one morning with an arm lying across his face. Immediately assuming it was a severed limb belonging to some other soldier, he grabbed it and gave it a hard throw. Then he realized it was his own arm that had fallen asleep during the night. He laughed and said he nearly dislocated his shoulder.

I'm going to share a few paragraphs from a letter Dad wrote on November 13, 1918. The envelope that contained the letter is below, showing the censor stamp.

Dearest Mother, Will write you a few lines this evening to let you know I'm still well & happy.

Mother, day before yesterday was sure a wonderful day. I can't very well express my feelings, but it sure seemed good when those guns quit shooting. The big ones fired over our heads day and night and when they go off it shakes the ground just like an earthquake.

Course this is just an armistice so far, but you can bet your boots we know the end is near and then it's back home again. Whoops ma Dear!

At least the majority of the boys have changed their phrase now, from if I get back, to when I get back. Sure sounds good.

I guess I won't get to see Bobbie over here. I wrote to him twice, but haven't heard from him yet. That's nothing strange though, as it takes almost as long to get a letter from anybody over here as it does to get one from the States. I don't know why, but it's generally the case.

Well good-bye, hope to see you before many moons. With lots of love from Arthur.

Pictures

My great-grandfather, Jacob Willard Zumwalt, was born in 1828. He is obviously a young man in this picture, probably not over twenty years old. I have this picture, taken about one hundred-sixty years ago, in my possession and it is still quite clear. Many photographs, in my archives, are well over one hundred years old. Most of these have survived with less damage than more recent snapshots.
Nobody seems to truly know how lasting our current digital pictures will be. This is a recurrent discussion topic at scrap booking sessions. Digitals are easy to take, touchup, and format. They can even be printed at home, but how will they look one hundred years from today. Some people store their pictures on CDs, believing they will last for generations, but I have been told that there is no assurance that these will survive over time.
I treasure the pictures of ancestors, in my collection, that helped to settle the "new" state of California during the nineteenth century. The stories of their lives are fascinating, but seeing their pictures makes them more personal. Will historians in future years be able to look at the faces of their great-grandparents who are living today?
Like so many things in 2010, pictures appear to be transitory. Few objects are manufactured to last. Garbage dumps fill with items that were the newest and the best only short years, or even months, ago.
In a fast changing world, it is reassuring to know that God is the same yesterday, today and forever. Biblical truth remains constant, and the words of Jesus apply today the identical way they did in Jacob Willard Zumwalt's time, and before.

Grad Then and Now

Over the past month many of us have watched, or heard about, graduation ceremonies. Young people in large and small communities across Canada and the United States have walked proudly forward to receive their hard earned diplomas. It is a wonderful celebration to climax years of hard work for the students, and often for their parent also.

During the month before the big event much time and energy is devoted to passing exams, choosing flattering pictures and locating the perfect clothes to wear for the big night.

This picture is of a high school graduating class in the year 1911--very close to 100 years ago. Don't these students look solemn? This group lived in Orland California and the young woman on the left is my mother's eldest sister, Hazel, and yes this is the entire class. I have a note written by Hazel shortly before this momentous event. She writes, "Here we are in all our glory. We are busy as can be with our essays. Just about finished my Latin essay, but my California Poets essay is hard--can't find material."

It sounds as though the subjects taught were a bit different than those we hear about today. The important thing is that God had his hand on these seven young people as they went forth. Hazel became a teacher and worked for a few years before marrying her banker boyfriend. The other three ladies all happily married. The young man in the center of the back row eventually became the county superintendent of schools and served in that position for many years.

In all the excitement of graduations today, we must remember to pray for the students leaving school and entering life. They need God's guidance more now than they have through all their growing up years. Parents will not always be there to help them over the rough spots they will certainly face, but God will never leave them if they will put their trust in Him.

Penmanship

Many young people in the late 1800s took pride in their handwriting skill. I have several autograph books, from that time, filled with entries. Some are scrawled in a childish hand, but many pages look like works of art. The picture with this entry is one of those, and I find it quite beautiful. The individual who crafted this page used colored ink, however the ones done only in black are also fascinating.

In some instances, autograph books were traded at school, worked on during the evening and returned the following day. At gatherings of family, or friends several individuals sat around a table exchanging their books and writing messages to be treasured by the recipients.
Careful penmanship was taught in school during the late nineteenth, and early twentieth centuries. The writer's sitting position, angle of the paper on the desk, and grip on the pen were strictly supervised. Children carefully copied row upon row of loops, curves up-strokes, down-strokes and circles. This would now be considered a huge waste of classroom time.
Today, only those who practice the art of calligraphy take the necessary care to generate beauty with written words. It is sad to see something that was once practiced by many be reduced to a very few.
We now rely on computers, printers, e-mail and text messaging. Cursive writing is still taught in school, but often without an eye for perfection. The message is easily delivered, but too often it is hurled across space with little thought given to content and less to grammar, or beauty of presentation.
Many sneer at "snail mail" and never write personal letters to family and friends. This is a shame. There is a unique joy in receiving a handwritten letter from someone you hold dear, carefully penned with you in mind. It's an expression of love--a linking of hearts.

Bertha's Story

Aunt Bertha's Story

My Aunt Bertha has been previously mentioned in this blog. In fact, I've credited her with the development of my pack rat tendencies. I grew up as sort of a strange duck, and an after thought in my generation. My parents and I lived in a big old house, built by my grandfather, and Aunt Bertha resided in an apartment upstairs.
My parents were older and I was an only child. Since they were very protective, I was kept fairly close to home, and spent time with my great-aunt. In the picture above, she is the little girl with striped stockings on the left end of the front row. She showed me pictures and told stories to accompany them. This, in its original form, is one of the stories she told me when I was about the same age as that little girl in the picture.
In the spring of 1865 a wagon caravan formed near St. Joseph, Missouri. The caravan was bound for Oregon, the land of promise for all.
After the twenty, or more, wagons had joined up, they elected experienced, trustworthy and honest men for the captain and scouts. They all knew the country ahead was wild and populated with renegades. When the caravan started its journey across the plains. The scouts were deployed either north and south or east and west.
In one of the wagons, pulled by a team of oxen, traveled Stephen Downen, his wife Mary Jane Piper Downen, and two small children, Frances and Evaline. Other relatives also traveled in the caravan as well as many friends.
They had several experiences with renegades on the trail which caused them to have to corral the wagons. At one point they came upon the remains of the train that had preceded them. The entire party had been massacred. After about six months of hardship they reached Portland Oregon where the caravan broke up.
The Steven Downen family settled near Salem where a son, William Martin, was born. They remained there for about two years. In 1869 they came down the Oregon trail to Red Bluff California, which was barely a town at that time.
They next moved to Grand Island on the Sacramento River where the men worked for a large cattle rancher named Steel. The family lived in a house on stilts because of the over flow of the river.
They then moved to Freshwater where Grandfather Piper started a blacksmith shop. After he sold the blacksmith shop, in 1871, he and his wife, the Stephen Downen family and others returned to Missiouri and settled in Rochester County. There Grandfather started the Piper Mill on the Platte River. There was a grist mill on one side and a saw mill on the other. Bertha Downen was born in Rochester in 1874.
In the spring of 1880 they all returned to California. This time they traveled by train, bringing with them food enough for the entire trip, in a large basket. They landed in Williams and lived out in Freshwater. About a year later they moved to Artois, and then to Orland.
This is the story Aunt Bertha told it to me, which I transcribed in childish writing. I'm glad I was a strange duck and willing to listen. After all, the main things we leave behind are our stories. Please tell yours to someone who will listen. I would love to have you leave a comment to share a bit of it here.

Farming

Farming

Yesterday morning, after church, all the local farmers stood in groups talking about seeding and how early it's starting this year. Hearing their excitment made me consider the changes in farming practices over the last hundred years, or so.

This picture was taken in Northern California, near the site chosen for the first two book in my current series, and about the time of my work in progress. This "Combined Harvester is at work on the Tom Vestal place and powered by 32 horses and mules. I guess that would be 32 horse power? There are four men listed as operators--the driver, header tender, separator tender and roust about.

Today, one man drives a combine with maybe 360 horse power, and covers more land in a day that his predecessor did in a week. The same is true in many aspects of the farm industry. So much has changed, but there is a lot that remains the same.

No matter how hard a man works on the land, or how much modern equipment he has, the results of his labor are still in God's hands. He is always at the mercy of the weather. No rain, too much rain, a late frost, or an early one can cancel his best efforts. Equipment failures, high imput costs, or accidents can cut down the meager profit from farming.

Any of us, who is acquainted with a farmer, should keep him in our prayers. Even those who don't know farmers personally should pray. After all, farming feeds us all!

Education

These two "maiden ladies", both my grand-aunts, lived in the town where I grew up. The smaller of the two is Bertha Downen, featured in my first blog post, and I knew her very well. The taller lady, May Reager, passed away when I was three and I only know her from the many stories I've heard. This is one of my favorite pictures, taken while Bertha fastened May's gloves for her, and showing their difference in height.

Aunt May was a teacher, and so am I. It is interesting to reflect on the changes in educational methods that have occured since her time. She would find it difficult to recognize the modern classroom, and I'm not sure she would be pleased with all of the changes.

May began her teaching career in 1895 and taught in rural school until 1912 when she transferred to the town of Orland. She worked there until 1939, retiring at 69 years of age. I've known many of her students. All spoke of her with love, and some with humor. She expected, and received, good discipline and respect from all of the children in her care. Her height may have given her an advantage, as she was over six feet tall and quite impressive in appearance. She cared deeply for all her charges and often purchased clothing, or shoes for those in need.

One of her methods of correction would not be allowed today's classroom. She kept an empty hot water bottle in her bottom drawer. It was used sparingly, but well remembered. If a mischievous pupil created a disturbance, she would bring out the bottle, put the naughty child across her lap and apply a few whacks to his backside. This didn't cause injury, but made enough noise to leave a lasting impression.

When May retired, her school was re-named, The May L. Reager Building. I returned, as a young teacher, to my hometown and taught 2nd grade in that facility.

Downen Family 1901

While substitute teaching in a grade 2 class today, I read the children a book about pioneers. When I told them it took the pioneers, in their covered wagons, six months to cross the country, and it is now possible to drive across in six days, they could hardly believe me. Travel has become so easy--driving, flying, fast trains and ships, we have trouble putting ourselves in the shoes of those pioneers. Travel for them was a struggle that often ended in disaster. They trusted God with their lives and future, and looked to him for daily help, and comfort.
I told the students that my great-great-grandmother rode from Missioui to California in her rocking chair, placed in the back of her daughter and son-in-law's wagon. I also told them I may have that chair. That great-great-grandmother Cynthia Piper is not shown in this pictue. The older lady and gentleman in the front row are her daughter, Mary Jane and her son-in-law, Stephen Tiner Lacy Downen.

If you look closely at the chair Mary Jane is using, and compare it to the one in the header at the top of this blog, you will see it is the same one. I don't know, for sure, that this chair crossed the plains, but it could have.

Another thing we do, that people back then didn't do, is constantly discard furniture in-order to purchase the latest style. Of course, furniture back then was built to last, and I am grateful that it was. Much of what I use daily is at least 100 years old.

Why Me?

Have you ever had a day when you said, "Why me? Why can't anything go right?"

I think we've all felt that way from time to time, even though we know God is in control and His plans are perfect.

Whenever I start to plan a pity party I think of my Grandmother Ada Noble, pictured above with her sister Lizzie, and decide my life is really pretty good after all. She was born in 1862 and married in 1882. By 1900 she had given birth to 7 children, in perfect rotation--girl, boy, girl, boy etc. The two youngest girls died, one shortly after birth and the other in a fall from her high chair.

In September 1900, her husband Emery drove a herd of horses to a distant town for a sale. While he was there, he was kicked over the heart and killed instantly. Since she was responsible to care for and raise five children, she established a bording house.

All went well for a few months and then disaster struck again. Three of her children came down with typhoid fever. One of her sons recovered, but her two remaining daughters passed away, one on December 31, 1901 and the other on January 1, 1902.

I would like to say, from then on everything went well for that gallant lady, but there were other problems. However, I think you have heard enough to get the picture. I do know she continued to rely on the Lord. I have her Bible, which is well used and well marked. God was her refuge and her strength and He is mine as well.

Communication

On this first day after the Easter Weekend, 2010, many of us have watched friends and relatives leave for their distant homes. It is always sad to see our loved ones depart, but very easy to keep track of their progress as they travel. We have email, text messaging and telephones of all sorts. We can also be fairly certain that we will see them again, in the not too distant future.
Things were very different on April 16, 1849 when my great-grandfather, Martin Reager, left his home in Missouri to seek his fortune in the gold fields of California. He left behind his father and several siblings, his mother having passed away a few years before this departure.
Martin was only 19 years old, traveling with his grandfather Corder and cousin Jim, in a conestoga wagon pulled by a team of oxen. He would never return to his home in the east. They joined a train of 60 wagons planning to reach the Golden State by the Laramie Trail. The journey took five months, nearly exactly, and they arrived at the Lassen Ranch near the present site of Vina on September 17th.
Letters were the only method of communication at that time, 161 years ago, and they were slow to arrive. The latest news would be sent, but was sure to be far out of date by the time it reached family members any distance away. There was no way of knowing of your loved ones were in good health, or even still alive.
The only means to have peace of mind, in those pioneer days, was reliance on God. Individuals had to commit their loved one into His keeping and trust that they would meet again in heaven, if not in this life.
Times have changed and we are able keep in touch with our distant friends and relatives. Still there is very little we can do to help and protect them. Our only true course is still to pray and rely on the One who holds the future and holds them in His hand.

Easter Clothes

As this weekend approaches, I recall that my mother always made sure I had a new outfit to wear to church on Easter Sunday.
Mom was one of six sisters known in the local community as the Reager Girls. Their mother had been a seamstress before she married, and made most of the clothes her daughters wore--certainly all of their "good" dresses.
This picture was taken in 1910 in front of their newly constructed home in Orland, California. Left to right; Ruth, Mary, Evalyn, Reba, Grandfather George, Georgiana (my mom), Grandmother Evaline & Hazel.
Sewing clothes for a family this size is a far cry from taking a quick trip to the local mall. We have been blessed by so many conveniences, over the last 100 years, that make modern life comparatively easy. We should take a a few moments to consider the changes and be grateful.

Paper! We take it so for granted. A thick sheaf of paper stands on my printer. While I know it's important to conserve its use and 'save those trees' too much is wasted. Lying on my desk in front of the printer is a mere scrap, barely eight inches by five, yellowed with age. It holds two letters, both written Feb. 2, 1890. One side is for Sister Gertie and the other for Cousin Bertha. The letter to Gertie is written both directions on the paper.

Cousin Bertha, my great-aunt, lived upstairs and helped me develop my pack rat instincts. She is pictured to the right.

People in the years before 1900 certainly knew how to save their paper! This is one of the things we could learn from them.

God instructed Adam to care for the earth, including plants and animals. It seems that our ancestors were much better stewards of this beautiful planet than our wasteful generation.