Horse Manure Park

I am reading a fantastic new book by Brad Meltzer and Josh Mensch called The Lincoln Conspiracy . It is an impeccably researched true account of the first plot to kill Abraham Lincoln prior to his inauguration in 1861.  Many of you have already stopped reading, but those who haven't, this might be interesting to you.  Much of this book centers around Lincoln's journey by railroad from Springfield, IL to Washington D.C. where he is to be sworn in as the country's 16th president.  Whenever I read history, I pay special attention to what many consider the trivial details. Personally, I think real history is in the forgotten notes. That's the good stuff.  This is a particular trivial footnote in Lincoln's history that fascinated me. In February 1861, Lincoln's train made a stop in the town of Westfield, New York, along the shores of Lake Erie. Prior to this stop, Lincoln recognized the town's name on the itinerary and requested to meet a special resident of Wes...

I spent a good part of my day off today doing research on my family tree. Today was mostly a day of dead ends and cold trails. Some times the documenation ends and you have nowhere left to go. Today was one of those days. But even on days when I hit a brick wall, I still learn plenty. That's why I find researching my family history so intriguing. It is never a waste of time. One interesting detail I looked into today was mentioned in the McGowan family history book which my parents bought some 35 years ago. The authors of the book stated that for years there had been family folklore suggesting John Cabell Breckinridge, Vice President of the United States under James Buchanan (and later, Secretary of War under Jefferson Davis of the Confederate States of America), was a distant relative. At the time the book was published (1982), the authors could find no connection. A bit of a backstory here: my great-great-great grandmother's maiden name was Ann "Nancy" Breck...

I have to mark time on this day! I have, at last , figured out an enduring mystery on my mom's side of the family. I can't tell you what a thrill it is to finally solve this crazy, convoluted story! In the last couple of days, I have uncovered new information on my maternal great-great-great and great-great-great-great grandparents. I am finding much of my mom's ancestry can be traced back to Ireland. I am more Irish than I previously believed. More on that in a later post. Today was a great victory for Sam the Sleuth. My Campbell and Walker cousins will enjoy this too, because (obviously) this pertains to them as well. You see, for as long as I can remember, my mom and dad told me that we were related to Abraham Lincoln. They weren't quite sure how, but they thought Nancy Hanks (Lincoln's mother) had a connection to our family. So today I decided, using the relatively limited resources at my disposal, if I could figure out that connection (if, in fact, ther...

John Campbell was born in Tyrone County, Northern Ireland on 1 August 1821. He immigrated to the United States when he was seven years old. On 13 August 1844, in Montreal, Canada, he married Mary White (also known as LaBlanc in some records). Mary was born on 19 April 1829 in Saint-Martin, Quebec, Canada. Presumably, she spoke fluent French. On 18 October 1868, John and Mary had their ninth (and last) child, a son they named William Barnabus Campbell. On 14 September 1874, Margaret McGowan was born to David and Sarah McGowan. Margaret's great-grandfather was John McGowan, who was born in Belfast, Northern Ireland in 1784 and immigrated to the U.S. on 10 July 1804. On the day after Christmas in 1891, William Campbell and Margaret McGowan were married in Mantorville, Minnesota. William and Margaret Campbell Seventeen years later, they had a daughter on this day, 31 March 1908. They named her Wilma Jerusha Campbell. Wilma is my grandmother and the matriarch of my Walker ...

Home today with the Boy, who has been home sick for the last two days.  Running a fever, throwing up.  Who knows where this came from?  The winter maladies continue.  The good news is he's on the mend, watching Looney Tunes right now and just announced that he was "bored," which is an excellent indicator that it is definitely back to school tomorrow. My brothers and sister-in-laws visited this weekend.  It was great to see them again.  We had a good talk, ate some great food and my oldest brother brought a box full of old photos.  I've been going through them, archiving many on the computer; I'm planning to make a hard cover photo book to preserve family history. In the meantime, I've been doing considerable research on the family tree, although I'm finding the more I look, the more questions I have.  Indeed, much more research is warranted. The puzzle continues. I've been posting quite a few old pictures on my Facebook feed, but I've real...

When I was a kid, I remember looking through an old photo album that my parents used to have.  The pictures inside were black and white, full of unfamiliar faces.  One picture in particular always stood out to me and I often wondered who in the world that distinguished looking man was. The picture was obviously taken in a professional studio.  The man didn't have the rugged looks of a laborer or a farmer.  He had a thick mustache and heavy eyebrows under a nearly entirely bald head. He appeared comfortable in a suit.  He looked, for lack of a better word, wealthy . All I knew was his name.  Written below the picture, in neat but unfamiliar handwriting, was "Samuel Gray." Samuel Gray I remember asking Mom if I was named after him, but she said no, I wasn't.  She knew this was a relative on Dad's side of the family and the picture was very old, and my dad really never said much about the picture. Well, thanks to some rather relentle...

The last couple times around the sun, this has been an unpleasant time of year. Last year at this time, we were preparing to go to the funeral of my mother's sister, Bev.   This year, we've just returned from the funeral of my wife's grandmother, celebrating 93 years of a life well-lived. Luckily, the weather was fine (you never know this time of year in North Dakota).  We spent good time with family, but it's always nice to come home.  As the Boy said last night, "I missed my house." At the funeral, my father-in-law delivered a very thoughtful, eloquent eulogy to his mother.  His words about the Greatest Generation were especially meaningful to me because my parents were of the same generation as his mom (my father was born in 1915, my mother in 1928).   Interestingly enough, I have been doing a great deal of research on my family tree over the past several weeks.  I've been receiving help from my cousins when I encounter sticking poin...

DISCLAIMER:  If you're not interested in ancestry or family trees, you will want to skip this post; this won't be interesting to anyone other than my immediate family (and even then it might be a stretch to call it "interesting"), but that's okay.  It fascinates me and that's all that matters!   Get your own blog. It's funny how the little things in life can turn into the most unexpected and pleasant surprises. Case in point:  I was corresponding with my cousin, Debra, on Facebook a couple of weeks ago when she sent me this incredible piece of family history: my grandfather's World War I registration card. This card was fascinating to me for a couple of reasons.  First, I had never seen my grandfather's handwriting before.  Second, it solved a long-standing personal mystery for me.  I'll get to that in a  minute. There is no doubt in my mind that my dad never saw this; he was two years old when my grandfather filled i...

There are ghosts everywhere you look, even if you can't see them. No, I'm not necessarily talking about "poltergeist" ghosts.  I'm talking about faded history.  The lessons, the legends, and the lives of the past are all around us.  And most are hiding in plain sight. All you have to do is dig (figuratively and literally) to find that incredible world.  History doesn't die, although it can camouflage itself very well at times.  Seeking out these places and stories is an addicting, captivating and endless journey.  It's one that has always fascinated me. When I was a kid, there was a dilapidated, abandoned house along my school bus route.  Everyday when I passed that old house, I wondered what happened there?  Who lived there?  What stories could those walls tell?  What events occurred inside that old house?  Did someone die there?  Was someone born there?  Did someone got married there? I'm sure this is where my lo...

I don't want to be 15 years older, but I've often said I was born 15 years too late. Anyone who reads my blog knows my tastes in music.  My iTunes and CD collection is pretty darn eclectic.  I enjoy anything from Frank Sinatra to Dave Matthews Band, Louis Armstrong to Def Leppard, Benny Goodman to Eagles (not "The" Eagles... Glenn Frey insists it is just Eagles ). But ever since listening to "Simon and Garfunkle's Greatest Hits" and "Beach Boys Concert" when I was about seven years old, I was captivated by the sounds of the sixties. There was something extraordinary about the songs and lyrics.  I knew instinctively, even at a young age, that this music was important.  Don't get me wrong... I loved KISS; I loved the loud guitars and drums and crazy make-up and stage show, but "In My Room" or "The Boxer" took me to a place no other music could. It's still true today. And this is not to mention the sou...

Today is the day after Groundhog's Day (I heard that he saw his shadow.  Not that it matters.  This winter isn't ending any time soon). Today is the day after the Super Bowl.  (The game did not go at all the way I thought it would). Today is also the most tragic day in music history. Today is the day the music died. Richie Valens, J.P. "The Big Bopper" Richardson and Buddy Holly all died in a plane crash near Clear Lake, Iowa on this day 55 years ago.  The plane was en route to Fargo, North Dakota, for a show on this night, 3 February 1959, at the Armory in Moorhead, Minnesota. A memorial at the site of the plane crash, in the middle of a corn field owned, at the time, by Albert Juhl. A dozen years later, Don McLean immortalized this day in his song, "American Pie."  A song which I grew up with and didn't really understand until much later. In fact, I grew up listening to Buddy Holly's music, even though I didn't know it at the t...

Yesterday on Facebook I noticed a few people were commenting about the world ending on Saturday.  I saw enough comments to get me interested in what the heck this was all about.  Because I pretty much live in a cave - or perhaps better described as a "bubble" surrounded by Mac-n-Cheese, Dora and sippy cups - I hadn't heard that some quack named Harold Camping is predicting the world will end on May 21st at 6 p.m.  (I'm not sure what time zone he's referring to, so I can't help ya there.) Anyway this delusional man has convinced himself using "fuzzy math" and numerology that the Bible has revealed (in secret code that only he can decipher, of course) that Armageddon will occur on May 21, 2011. What makes Harold so special?  Well, he's managed to dupe his followers into contributing $12 million to help him build radio stations, called Family Radio, all around the world to spread his cultish point of view.  He's sort of the Wolfman Jack of ...

Well, it has certainly been an interesting weekend.  Beth's birthday was Sunday.  We had a full weekend planned.  We had planned to go to Elk River on Saturday afternoon to see Elizabeth Budahn in a play, "Sleeping Beauty," something Ava was very excited to see.  On Saturday evening I had arranged for Korey and Shelli to come over after the kids went to bed and surprise Beth with a birthday drink.  Sunday was going to be our day together, celebrating "Mommy's" birthday. Ava changed all those plans at 2:30 AM on Saturday morning.  She threw up a nice pile of rice and chicken in her bed and started puking every 45 minutes for the next 18 hours - and that is without exaggeration, trust me. Grace kept her vigil next to Ava all day Saturday... She really had no spunk at all Sunday and vomited about every 2 to 3 hours.  I think the worst has passed now.  She took a little food this morning (Monday) - her first since Friday night - and she's keepi...

A friend of mine posted this on her Facebook page and it is well worth sharing here. The small town of Bertha, MN, (the town from which I graduated high school) holds its own piece of baseball history.  I remember my dad talking about this man and how good he was (I don't know if my dad ever saw him play, though).  Almost 100 years after he left Bertha, they still talk about him. The Greatest Pitcher You've Never Heard Of:  John Donaldson