Ah yes- German fruitcake with nuts...A more fitting description of August Allenspacker is hard to find. James August Allenspacker was born in New York to (Johann) Nepomuk and Sophia Allenspacker on August 28, 1864. He found a (presumably) nice girl named Mary Mulvey, and married her in September 1887. Little is known of their life together, except that they lived in Dedham, MA and had a daughter named Eleanor Vincent.
At some point before July 1907, they separated, possibly divorced, and he went to Maine. While he was there, he met, wooed, and won Catherine Hurley, a Canadian born Irish girl who spoke mainly French. They were married July 13, 1907, and had Clayton John on October 1st of that year. They had 4 children between 1907 and 1918, all born in Maine- Clayton (1907), Theodore (1912), Pauline (1914), and Catherine (1918). By the time the 1920 US census rolled around, they were living in Dedham.
Here is where we depart certified fact and enter the land of family legend...
It has been passed down that shortly after arriving in Dedham, Catherine was at the local market doing her grocery shopping, when she overheard some local gossip. The only words she could understand were "August" and "other wife" (or possibly "second wife"). Understandably upset, she went home and confronted him about what she had heard. No one seems to know the content of that conversation, but the result may well have been scandalous- he had her committed to Medfield State Hospital, where she would spend the rest of her life.
Of the children, we know that Clayton and Teddy stayed with their father, as they were 'old enough' to be put to work. Catherine and Pauline were taken in by members of the local Lutheran church, who took pity on the girls. Teddy spent most, if not all, of his adult life in and out of the state facility in Wrentham, in treatment for alcoholism. As far as I have been able to discern, he never married. Clayton, Pauline, and Catherine all married and had families.
I like to think they all lived 'happily ever after', but if they did, I wouldn't have so many stories to share : )
*Stollen is a rich, sweet, yeast bread filled with dried fruit and nuts and often marzipan and dusted with confectioner’s sugar. Germany’s answer to “fruitcake”, Stollen has been made in Germany since 1329.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Nuts, Anyone?
I have been tweaking the appearance of this blog, adding links, and neat little 'gadgets' (I love that word- it makes me giggle) to make it a little easier to understand what it is I'm trying to do. I don't know why, but the links I tried to post to my online family trees don't work, so I'll be working on how to get them on the main page. In the meantime, this brings you to the tree on tribal pages, and this brings you to the tree on ancestry.com. I hope you will take a few minutes and look them over (they don't have all the same info- the tribal pages is more complete, but some people like ancestry better). If you find anything or anyone I missed, please let me know. That goes for stories, too. We all have our favorite memories, and no two stories match, I'm sure. I'd love to hear your stories, and compare notes!
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Cream, No Sugar
This one is pretty much all about me . . .
There are so many stories, from so many people that I want to write before I forget them. The hard part is getting them exactly right- Was that guy a lieutenant or captain? What was that guy's name? Does it really matter?
I heard so many great little tales from Dad, that they have all sort of blended together. It's almost like I knew these people, but can't get the right name to go with the story. There was the guy who 'patched an airplane propeller', the other guy who was all set to gamble away his car and house on the turn of a card, the one with the locker full of money and a heart of gold... I want to bring them all back to life, if only momentarily, because they make the story worth hearing.
There were days at Gram's house when we would 'give the maid the day off, and make our own lunch'. The dish of horehound candy Grampy kept (yuck!). The muffins Aunt Lea made. The man named Friday.
There are days I can't remember anything, and days I can't forget (even if I want to). One of the joys of fibromyalgia, and one of the main reasons I started this blog. Some of these stories will die with me if I can't pass them on, and I can't pass them on if I can't remember them. If memory serves, though, they are all worth passing on, if only to remind us of how life used to be.
I don't plan on making too much of this blog about me, but I felt a little background wouldn't be a bad thing, in case anyone ever actually reads this and wonders why I'm doing it.
There are so many stories, from so many people that I want to write before I forget them. The hard part is getting them exactly right- Was that guy a lieutenant or captain? What was that guy's name? Does it really matter?
I heard so many great little tales from Dad, that they have all sort of blended together. It's almost like I knew these people, but can't get the right name to go with the story. There was the guy who 'patched an airplane propeller', the other guy who was all set to gamble away his car and house on the turn of a card, the one with the locker full of money and a heart of gold... I want to bring them all back to life, if only momentarily, because they make the story worth hearing.
There were days at Gram's house when we would 'give the maid the day off, and make our own lunch'. The dish of horehound candy Grampy kept (yuck!). The muffins Aunt Lea made. The man named Friday.
There are days I can't remember anything, and days I can't forget (even if I want to). One of the joys of fibromyalgia, and one of the main reasons I started this blog. Some of these stories will die with me if I can't pass them on, and I can't pass them on if I can't remember them. If memory serves, though, they are all worth passing on, if only to remind us of how life used to be.
I don't plan on making too much of this blog about me, but I felt a little background wouldn't be a bad thing, in case anyone ever actually reads this and wonders why I'm doing it.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Black with Sugar, and a Blueberry Muffin
Life with Dad (William H. 'Bill' Morrissey)
It occurs to me that the most recent conversations with an ancestor happened over the course of a year and a half, and many cups of coffee (black with sugar, and a blueberry muffin) over 2 years ago. I was laid off in July 2006, and very shortly thereafter, started going to visit Dad once or twice a week. We didn't know it then, but he was in the last 2 years of his life. He was sick and tired, and sick and tired of being sick and tired. He was going for blood transfusions every week or so, and this made for a perfect reason to visit. Treatments often took the better part of the day, leaving us with nothing to do but talk. We had some laughs, my dad and me.
That November, my husband and I (finally) managed to convince him to spend Thanksgiving with us. We had discussed him coming to live with us before, but agreed not to push the subject as long as Dad was comfortable living alone. That November, he agreed to come for a week to celebrate with us. The day after Thanksgiving, he had a transfusion appointment. After that, he was going to go home. We had finished for the day, and I was driving him home when he said "I don't want to go there. Do I have to?" The one thing my heart had been hoping to hear.
And so, for the next year and a half, I was once again living with Dad. The last time we lived under the same roof, I was a teenager- headstrong, stubborn, 'persecuted', typical. He was an 'old man'. Nearly 40 years older than me, to be precise (sort of), and he knew everything I was going through, and he knew he had to let me go through it.
This time around, we promised ourselves and each other, would be different. Adult/adult relationships with parents are very different from child/adult relationships. He always told me that he was 'not your pal, not your friend.' That changed when he came home in 2006. He was still my Dad, but now he could be something else, too. We could finally be friends. It was something I had looked forward to for so long, I wasn't sure I was prepared for all that meant. I think he was looking forward to it, too.
For about the first month, our newly redefined family was all about best behavior, and indoor voices. Then something strange and wonderful happened- a cup of coffee and a muffin for breakfast, and a pair of silly 'toe-socks'. It was an appointment day, so we were off on an hour+ car ride to sit in the hospital for a couple of hours (at least), and I had worn the toe socks my daughter had given me for Mother's Day.
Usually, our hospital visits were pleasant enough- calm, quiet voices, coffee and cookies while waiting for the transfusion, but I had decided to try to lighten the mood a little. Just as Dad got to the 'what's on TV portion of the program, I took off my shoes, propped my feet up on the edge of his bed, and waited for him to notice. I can still hear his laughter.
Over the course of that wonderful, scary, happy, year and a half, I got to know a man I am so happy to call my friend.
It occurs to me that the most recent conversations with an ancestor happened over the course of a year and a half, and many cups of coffee (black with sugar, and a blueberry muffin) over 2 years ago. I was laid off in July 2006, and very shortly thereafter, started going to visit Dad once or twice a week. We didn't know it then, but he was in the last 2 years of his life. He was sick and tired, and sick and tired of being sick and tired. He was going for blood transfusions every week or so, and this made for a perfect reason to visit. Treatments often took the better part of the day, leaving us with nothing to do but talk. We had some laughs, my dad and me.
That November, my husband and I (finally) managed to convince him to spend Thanksgiving with us. We had discussed him coming to live with us before, but agreed not to push the subject as long as Dad was comfortable living alone. That November, he agreed to come for a week to celebrate with us. The day after Thanksgiving, he had a transfusion appointment. After that, he was going to go home. We had finished for the day, and I was driving him home when he said "I don't want to go there. Do I have to?" The one thing my heart had been hoping to hear.
And so, for the next year and a half, I was once again living with Dad. The last time we lived under the same roof, I was a teenager- headstrong, stubborn, 'persecuted', typical. He was an 'old man'. Nearly 40 years older than me, to be precise (sort of), and he knew everything I was going through, and he knew he had to let me go through it.
This time around, we promised ourselves and each other, would be different. Adult/adult relationships with parents are very different from child/adult relationships. He always told me that he was 'not your pal, not your friend.' That changed when he came home in 2006. He was still my Dad, but now he could be something else, too. We could finally be friends. It was something I had looked forward to for so long, I wasn't sure I was prepared for all that meant. I think he was looking forward to it, too.
For about the first month, our newly redefined family was all about best behavior, and indoor voices. Then something strange and wonderful happened- a cup of coffee and a muffin for breakfast, and a pair of silly 'toe-socks'. It was an appointment day, so we were off on an hour+ car ride to sit in the hospital for a couple of hours (at least), and I had worn the toe socks my daughter had given me for Mother's Day.
Usually, our hospital visits were pleasant enough- calm, quiet voices, coffee and cookies while waiting for the transfusion, but I had decided to try to lighten the mood a little. Just as Dad got to the 'what's on TV portion of the program, I took off my shoes, propped my feet up on the edge of his bed, and waited for him to notice. I can still hear his laughter.
Over the course of that wonderful, scary, happy, year and a half, I got to know a man I am so happy to call my friend.
Hi!
This is my very first post on my very first blog. I'm very excited and a little nervous about this project. I have such big dreams of family and friends popping over to sit a spell, and learning what makes them who they are.
What I really want to be able to do is take all those 'little' stories that everyone has, and put them together so that we can get to know our ancestors in a way we didn't get to while they were alive. Case in point- at my father's funeral, I learned he had owned an Indian motorcycle in his younger days. I had no idea.
These are the things I want to share with my children, and their children. So much has been lost already to the sands of time, I hope we can save the rest.
So- pull up a chair, have a cuppa and a cookie, and let's chat : )
What I really want to be able to do is take all those 'little' stories that everyone has, and put them together so that we can get to know our ancestors in a way we didn't get to while they were alive. Case in point- at my father's funeral, I learned he had owned an Indian motorcycle in his younger days. I had no idea.
These are the things I want to share with my children, and their children. So much has been lost already to the sands of time, I hope we can save the rest.
So- pull up a chair, have a cuppa and a cookie, and let's chat : )
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