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.