tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17846944800857445682024-03-12T18:29:15.366-07:00GONE TO TEXASThe ArkLaTex Network of the Cushmans and Their KinRussell Cushmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12125943782255815588noreply@blogger.comBlogger14125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1784694480085744568.post-32129411296431449922021-09-22T16:23:00.033-07:002021-09-25T06:57:43.945-07:00A Joy Cushman Photo-Retrospective<b>Dear Reader: The blog about Joy Cushman's life has been pushed down, and you have to access it by looking over to the list on the right... where it says Joy Cushman- The "Promotion"...<i></i></b>
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Aunt Joy never clamored for attention... She was much more proud of her deeds and her swimmers... her friends and her family... and was satisfied with them doing the talking for her. Having no children, she only had sporadic scrapbooking done by her brother and a few others. The Internet was not around in those days.. so we can make our own Joy Cushman scrapbook here. If you have a picture which belongs with these- send it to me! Thank You cousin Trudy Miller for these first ones, which started the scrapbook!
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Trudy (her cousin's daughter) and Joy
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Lisa & Robert Cushman, Susan Hight, (some of "the boys") and Joy
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Nephews Russell, Reynolds & Joy
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Only<i> some </i>of the family @ Robert Cushman's annual New Years Day feast. Robert is her youngest nephew, a talented fisherman, and a strong swimmer.
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Even MORE of the folks @ Robert's New Years Day feast...
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(top) Nephews Reynolds & Robert, & his youngest Triston, nephew Richard (on Botm) Joy, her brother Richard Sr & nephew Russell.
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Joy Cushman about age 10
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Cousin Annie Woods (Rollins), brother Ralph Cushman Jr, cousin Parker Woods & Joy
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Joy dressed to kill... perhaps for the prom?
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Joy primping for a photographer... for a Shell magazine bio on her. Basically shy, she avoided glamorization.
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Joy with her father Ralph B. Cushman Sr, and her brothers Richard (at top) and Ralph Jr.
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A whole bunch of Cushmans... (Durant descendants) at a Confederate marker dedication for Major. George Durant CSA.
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Joy (far right) with her girls... nobody doubted that she was the "mama bear" when it came to these kids.
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A famous moment with ABC Sports announcer Jim McKay
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Joy in Synchro training with girls from all over the country @ Washington D. C.
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Joy played the classic "Middle Child" role to the very end...
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Joy had another "family," a HUGE one, the Pardos in Mexico... with whom she spent much of her spare time... and many of us got to know them over the years. We were willing to share... But they were going to steal her if they could.
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Joy with her fellow Corkettes @ the Shamrock pool.
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Ralph Jr., Joy, Richard Sr., and Ralph B. Cushman Sr. Joy was truly a godsend to these three men, who often needed a peacemaker. This role well prepared her for coaching and public relations etc...
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One of the best pictures of Joy ever.
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Joy worked at a desk at Shell, but not often wearing all of her brass! Posing for a photo, this was an event jacket, with pins and passes... Security was tight at Olympic events. This jacket could get her in anyplace.
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<i>Another</i> best picture of Joy ever...
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A recent visit by Joy's fam to Clarewood House on her 97th birthday.
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Joy happily surrounded by her beloved "boys," and some new recruits. Of note on the upper left is her first nephew, Ralph Cushman III from Alaska. She was always especially happy when we were all there at once!
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Some mementos...
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Joy (2 yrs younger) and brother Ralph graduated from High School THE SAME YEAR. You do the math. Any explanation you can muster is probably true. She was the "A" student, the band leader, the over-achiever... Brother Ralph, not so much.
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Joy as a happy tadpole, just beginning a lifetime of water ballet, which was changed to synchronized swimming- now called "Artistic Swimming."
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Joy entertains her namesake, grand-niece Raegan Joy Cushman
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The Shamrock Hilton was very savvy to use the Corkettes for publicity purposes... on the far right is her niece Susan.
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Joy often served as coach, judge or chaperon for the "SynchrOlympians" for the Olympic Games.
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Pure love.
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Many Happy birthdays... Nphews Richard Jr., Robert and niece Susan, (Her brother Richard's children) with Joy. Long-lived and always interested and concerned, Joy was our "second mother," in many ways.
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Seeing Joy often meant big hugs... and for some of us near-sighted folk that meant bent-up glasses, because we hung them by lanyards about chest high. Reynolds found the solution... glasses which separate at the nose and cling to the neck... pretty nifty, making hugs safe!
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Two brownies gone. Two guilty faces. Joy and Richard Jr. are showing solidarity in their innocence here... Aunt Joy always knew what was good. The best cars, the best restaurants, the best cities in the world... and she also knew what was bad. Never-the-less, she never tolerated any negative speech about any of "her boys." Believe me, I tried. ;)
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Four generations of Cushmans... Austin Cushman and father Robert show off Austin's new son Lincoln...
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Alex Cushman (Ralph III's oldest) with his two daughters meeting Joy for their first time... Now this visit seems even more special!
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And on and on it goes!
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Glenn McCarthy cuts the ribbon on his new Hilton Hotel in Houston. This opened a huge chapter in Joy's life.
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A night-time view of the Shamrock Hilton Hotel in its hey-day.
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Joy is on the yop row in the white swimsuit in the middle... Smiling was mandatory.. but automatic with her.
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They actually arranged a water-skiing demonstration INSIDE the Shamrock's olympic-sized pool!
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The famous Shamrock Corkettes! At one point Joy built up the Synchro program to 100 swimmers.
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Sometimes the Corkettes went on the road... Inspiring Synchro programs throughout Texas... and the world! They went to Mexico, Japan, and wherever they could.
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<b>Please click on OLDER POSTS (below to right) to read about Joy's life...</b>
Russell Cushmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12125943782255815588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1784694480085744568.post-9202521482443912542021-09-22T05:57:00.006-07:002021-09-23T05:21:07.778-07:00Joy Cushman- The "Promotion" of an American Sports Icon- A TRIBUTE <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD915bWUxtsVQH7oUjcsbslYmeZUQ2SogR6346DQSm7BgSD_s2quPa_XKxsLsnx_IfB3gofbFZXhRkunYOdVHZTw2VHnztp2MT232wegg6gVibmajvhYwFIaXE7GynqI1jmKT6xjIfH1M/s1063/joy%252BCushman%252Bsuit.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="400" data-original-height="1063" data-original-width="939" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD915bWUxtsVQH7oUjcsbslYmeZUQ2SogR6346DQSm7BgSD_s2quPa_XKxsLsnx_IfB3gofbFZXhRkunYOdVHZTw2VHnztp2MT232wegg6gVibmajvhYwFIaXE7GynqI1jmKT6xjIfH1M/s400/joy%252BCushman%252Bsuit.jpg"/></a></div>
The Master Coach has blown His whistle, and called His daughter Joy Cushman out of the pool. But what an epic swim it has been.
At 97, Joy was well prepared, and spiritually ready to begin the next great swim of her tireless soul. She passed away at St Luke's Hospital after surgery to repair a broken leg, in the early hours of Sept. 22. She left this world displaying the same courage she once had as a Park Place girl during the Great Depression, playing football with admiring, scrabble-hardened boys. It was a final victorious exit after an impressive display of gameness and grace.
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Joy Nell Cushman, just Aunt Joy to a special half-dozen Cushman nephews, (she called the “boys,” but this group included one niece) was better known as “Coach” to hundreds of Houston synchronized swimmers. She was born in Houston on July 22, 1924, the middle child between two scrappy brothers. Her swimmers would never have guessed her origins, or imagined the obstacles she had overcome to become one of the most respected persons involved in competitive swimming, worldwide.
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Joy grew up in suburban Houston when families had chickens and donkeys in their yards, and kids played all day in the woods and caught armadillos and snakes and toads... and everybody gathered at the “sandlot” and played baseball or football. It was a boy's heaven. And Joy loved this hearty, sport-filled world and she excelled at the sandlot. So much so that her older brother confessed later that she was quite agile and strong, and could out-pass and out-kick and out-run and even out-fight any boy in the neighborhood. Strong and feisty himself, her older brother Ralph had been saved from a pounding more than once when she stepped in to even the odds, and finish what he had started. ***********************************************************************
Joy may have been a girl, but she had the heart of a lion. But that heart finally succumbed after leg surgery, the second such ordeal in the past few years. It was ironic that it would be her legs which gave her the most trouble in her old age. It had been her legs which propelled her to legendary status in the sports world.
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Determined to reroute her inclinations, her mother had challenged her with swimming, one of her own areas of achievement, and a more “fitting” sport for a Southern lady. Joy could already out-swim her brothers and her parents, and swimming competition would be far more rewarding than bruising the boys on the sandlot. The Cushman family made regular weekend retreats to the sands of Galveston Island where they owned a beach house, and that was where Joy matched her will against her equal- the currents of the Gulf of Mexico.
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Joy learned and loved coastal sports like fishing, surfing and water-skiing. Soon she was trying a wonderful sport then called “water ballet,” at the Golfcrest Country Club. In 1939, water ballet, later known as synchronized swimming, was an obscure combination of dance, performing art, swimming, and extreme human endurance.
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A handful of girls performed in a pool wearing rubber skull-caps and nose-clips, as they gracefully, rhythmically swam into aquatic formations without the ability to breathe half of the time, interpreting music which blared from a screaming P.A. system, but which they could not hear most of the time. It was next to impossible, and it was just the kind of sport that fit Joy's inherent tenacity and courage.
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Meanwhile she developed her leadership skills as the drum major for the Milby High School Band. Grades came easy, and during her studies at the University of Texas, in 1946 Joy won the state championship at the Texas AAU finals, sweeping the Synchro Solo, Duet and Team competitions. Joy Cushman had found the love of her life.
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When Texas oilman Glenn McCarthy unveiled the Shamrock Hilton in1949, Joy found her way to serious competition as a member of the Shamrock “Corkettes.” After realizing her dream, making the most prestigious “Synchro” team in Houston, she became disgusted and forsook it all. It was exhausting, and frustrating, even maddening, and just too hard. She could never please her coach, and she would never make it as a “Corkette.” Her parents let her vent, knowing that Joy was no quitter. They knew the pattern... all anyone or anything had to do was to make her mad, and it was toast. As her brother later observed, she had the tenacity of a pit bull, “...Joy went back the next day, and the next... and she has been regularly going back for the past half-Century.”
Her timing could not have been more fortuitous. Actor/athletes Esther Williams and Johnny Weissmuller were creating a sensation at movie theaters all across the country, making all forms of water sports fashionable, and drawing particular attention to synchronized swimming.
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Not long after, Joy was performing in front of thousands of spectators at the new, Olympic-sized pool at the gala opening of the “Shamrock,” where many Texas elites and Hollywood celebrities watched her transformation into a world-class athlete. Soon she was coaching the Corkettes, a position she cherished for 30 years. By following her first love, Joy found herself pioneering a popular women's competitive sport. As president of the National Synchronized Swimming Federation, she doggedly and deftly helped to negotiate the acceptance of Synchronized Swimming at the Pan-Am Games, and eventually as an official Olympic Sport.
Joy amassed a staggering record as an athlete, coach, Olympic judge and chaperon, serving the sport for seventy years, and she has been recognized in numerous sport halls of fame.
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To name them all would require doubling the size of this article. The plaques and awards she was given would fill up a trunk. And all while she worked full-time for Shell Oil, crunching numbers and helping to keep the petroleum industry flowing smoothly. Joy planned her vacations around her swimming events, and Shell gladly assisted when necessary, thus supporting the Olympic program, and sending one of their most respected ambassadors all over the world. That unique partnership lasted for 40 years.
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Joy ultimately served as an official at six Olympic Games and eleven Pan-Am Games. She had traveled to over 58 different countries when she quit counting. And all for the love of the sport. And she had taught workshops and consulted with other countries in their formation of Synchro programs in Mexico, Japan, Spain, Australia, New Zealand, Canada, Austria, and all over South America... The sport, the athletes, were her family, the loves of her life.
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When asked why she never married, she simply replied, “I'm married to what I'm doing, and besides, no man would be willing to share me with my first love.” That was Joy's special brand of wisdom, and several men's loss, but the sports world's great gain.
The young woman who wanted to quit almost before her life's legacy had begun, left a footprint on worldwide swimming and women's sports that few can match. That's because in her day it was about passion, not personal gain; patriotic sacrifice for a better world. Joy always said, the way to judge one's life, “ It's not how much you made, it's how much you gave.”
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If true love is measured in time invested, Joy gave plenty. Not just to her family, to whom she was devoted, but to her swimmers. She had a way of being wherever and whenever it mattered the most. Joy always provided our whole family with a beach house retreat, to spend time together and catch and eat seafood, but mostly for us to stay connected as a family.
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She loved to gather us kids in the mornings and serve us “breakfast on the beach,” allowing the adults to sleep, and making gnats in your Fruit Loops a childhood memory. Well, we assumed that she loved it, but either way she did it.
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Joy made the best stuffed flounder. And cheese grits. And homemade mayonnaise. She was always there each Christmas, at the Christmas tree, indulging her “boys,” (actually five nephews and one niece) with super-duper presents that made Santa shrug.
And she was always there to coach her swim teams to perfection and many championships, and there when the American Olympic Committee called upon her many times to serve the Games and our magnificent American Olympians. And so she was there to comfort her swimmers when the Games were violated with terrorism and carnage in Munich... and there to reassure the parents who were far away, and there to bring them home safely. When she finally got too old to attend the Olympics, you could be sure she was there in front of her television watching and rooting for them.
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Love is about being there... and being there when it counts. Life was about relationships; And for Joy it was about showing young people their human potential, through hard work and perseverance. Now Joy Cushman joins a pantheon of great American women, who have blazed a weathered trail of women's achievement, paved with sacrifice, and marked with excellence, in the face of great odds.
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Joy lived, served, competed, and died with a spirit that was indefatigable. Nobody uses that word anymore, but that was what she had. A tireless spirit. When she wore out her body, she just put another one on. And we are told that it is far superior... She was our general, and we are going to miss her at the command of the Cushman family, but we know she will greet her latest promotion with pluck, and adapt... swimmingly.
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This obit is submitted by her “boys,” (yes, the female one was an outstanding synchronized swimmer) all of whom she simultaneously spoiled and yet personally supervised their introduction to the water, and the mastery of it. This eulogy is obviously insufficient, but one way we had to notify Joy Cushman's gigantic adopted family, gathered over 75 years, especially her swimmers, all over the world, of her passing.
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We wish to extend our condolences to them, who like us, have lost an inspiring, irreplaceable icon in our lives. Russell Cushmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12125943782255815588noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1784694480085744568.post-86426451022122215862021-06-04T19:39:00.004-07:002021-06-04T19:52:09.687-07:00Notes on the Sparks/Thomas sideMy grandmother, Bertha Thomas Spraggins, talked often about her grandmother. It was in the home of her Grandmother Sparks where she formed her fondest childhood memories. She was only around eight or nine years old when her grandmother died in 1914, but Amanda Irene/Arena Sparks had earned a cherished chamber in her young heart. Bertha's parents were separated at that time, and soon to be divorced, and she and her brothers spent a great deal of time with their Sparks grandparents, as their mother Mellie Sparks Thomas tried to put her life back together. Mellie was in the middle of a hostile divorce, and so Bertha and her brothers were never to know their Thomas relatives. We have no photographs of our Thomas kin, and precious few names to insert in the family tree.
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<i>Found in the family archives and recently "restored," the old tintype above may be William and Amanda Sparks, about 1900. Few people owned cars then, but many found it a thrill to just pose for a photograph while sitting in one. They were my Grandmother Spraggin's grandparents, and according to her, she did not see her first "horseless carriage" (automobile) until she was in grade school... probably around 1910.</i>.................................
Bertha distinctly remembered her little grandmother, whom she described as short and petite, with long black hair usually braided into a long pigtail which trailed down her back. Born in Alabama, she was energetic and affectionate, and made a comfortable, loving atmosphere for Bertha and her brothers, something that Bertha was not to experience again for a long time to come. It was grandma Sparks who taught her to sew and to crochet. She fondly described “Rena's” tiny form laboring over a big, beautiful wood-burning stove, where she baked all kinds of good things for her children and grandchildren to eat.
The Sparks lived in the country at that time, farming in southern Arkansas in Cleveland County. Cleveland County is just north of Bradley County, where so many of our Spraggins kinfolks live until this day. Bertha remembered her feisty grandmother chopping firewood, chasing down chickens, and boiling clothes in an iron cauldron; Ironing their clothes with a “flat iron,” on a wooden ironing board; Cleaning sooty glass chimneys which were the equivalent of light bulbs, but powered by kerosene which burned on a cloth wick, and always needed a cleaning.
She remembered that Amanda was always busy, either cooking or sewing or cleaning house. Bertha teased that she was always envious of her grandmother's lustrous black hair, which gave her the appearance of an Indian squaw. She loved to comb and braid it if Amanda would let her. Bertha was too young to appreciate what her grandmother would come to mean to her, when she was suddenly taken by death while in her sixties.
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Mel or “Mellie” Thomas Parritt (above, with youngest daughter Travis Jean) was Bertha's mother and one of the Sparks's younger children who possessed a fiery personality which complicated the family considerably. After a few years of marriage to Jeff Thomas, she found herself abandoned with no home, no income and three small children. She had kept her children with the Sparks until she could find a home for them... and this meant finding a new husband who could provide for them. But Mellie was not having much luck finding anyone who wanted to take on the responsibilty of supporting three small children, while satisfying her stormy temperament. Jeff Thomas was never heard from again... but thanks to my cousin Richard Cushman, we know that he lived in Gregg County, Texas and died in Longview in 1952. This may be his likeness below. As for his growing family, things went from bad to worse.
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Bertha's mother was overwhelmed with the loss of her indulgent, long suffering mother and her footloose husband in such close succession, and soon after Amanda's death she took Bertha to live with the Carraway family, to basically “earn her keep.” In those times, when rural families often struggled to feed themselves, sometimes children were “farmed out,” or loaned to farm families who needed help. That began around six years of daily chores on a farm with no immediate family around. From then on, Bertha only saw her mother or brothers on major holidays, like Thanksgiving or Christmas.
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She attended very little school, but always assured that she had been treated well, and mostly helped Mrs. Carraway (seen above with her many sons) with household chores in the kitchen, helping to feed Mrs. Carraway's large tribe of hungry farmers. Twice a day she milked the cow, fed the chickens, gathered stove wood, and every morning she made the beds, and helped with the washing of filthy farm worker's clothes. She did have some school work, but more valued that Mrs. Carraway taught her how to cook, how to keep house, and how to survive off of the land. She became a second mother to Bertha, who always spoke kindly of her.
The Carraways were Bible-believing, hard working people with a daily challenge to make a living off of the farm, in all kinds of weather. They grew almost everything that they ate. The whole family worked at raising crops and livestock and then harvesting in the fall, and butchering hogs and making hams and bacon and soap. Bertha learned to pick cotton, to “pull” and grind corn, to shell peas and how to chop the head off of a copperhead with a hoe. And how to defend herself. But most importantly she grew up safe and well fed.
Mrs. Carraway was overwhelmed with her duties and was not always able to keep her mischievous boys in check. Sometimes they would pick on Bertha, and stick her in the smokehouse and lock her inside, and leave her there among the hanging meat and barrels of grain and feed sacks and all kinds of bugs and vermin...for hours. But it was probably just their way of flirting. One of them, Cecil Carraway was becoming quite fond of Bertha and there was talk of making a match... but Bertha's mother heard about it and came to get her before the relationship could gel. All she said was “I came to get my daughter!” and took her away. The Carraways, who had begun to think of Bertha as family, stood in shock as they disappeared down the road.
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Bertha was about 16, virtually a grown woman in those days, when she went to Warren to live with her mother again. Her brothers Harvey and Sam had already left the farm for good, but she got to see her younger sister Jean, born from her mother's union with Mr. Parrott. He was also a farmer with even more big, hungry sons and Mellie needed help to meet the needs of the Parrott farm. After years of servitude, Mellie's idea of Bertha's new freedom was providing free labor on the Parrott farm.
The next morning she told Bertha to go make up some biscuits for breakfast. Soon sparks were flying. Bertha was still reeling from her sudden relocation, and no doubt showed her indignation. She began to make the biscuit dough the way Mrs. Carraway had trained her, (probably making “drop” biscuits, rather than using a rolling pin and cookie cutter) which was a fast and effective way to make a lot of biscuits for a large group. Mellie watched her a bit and did not see the advantage, and slapped Bertha and told her to do it right. Bertha retorted that she was doing it the way she always had for six years, the way Mrs. Carraway had taught her. This was perceived as “back-talk” and met with immediate punishment. Bertha suspected that if her mother would just watch, she might learn something, but unfortunately that was not what happened.
Mellie slapped her insolent daughter again and instructed her to go out in the yard and cut a switch... which would then be applied with anger on her own back, if everything went as planned. Bertha gladly left the kitchen and searched out a suitable switch... thinking that she would call her mother's bluff, but sure she would not actually whip her! She was after all, a full-grown woman now, and fully able to run a household.
When she returned to the Parrott kitchen, she “learned different.” A tall and powerful and naturally stern woman, Mellie took the switch as if it were a misplaced and favorite possession, and reared back to strike Bertha full force. That was Bertha's welcome home party...
Now realizing that her age and long absence meant nothing to her mother, she caught Mellie's arm just as she came down on her. Bertha was small of stature, but had been milking a cow for years and had extremely strong hands and arms. She surprised her mother with her strength, as she grabbed the whipping switch and furiously broke it into little bits. Shaking what was left of it, she cried and told her mother, she was making biscuits the only way she knew how and … not to EVER touch her again!
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If Amanda Sparks had looked like an Indian, her daughter Mellie displayed the savage constitution stereotyped in Native Americans. And as seen in the photo comparison, could have easily passed for a Cherokee woman. DNA tests have not revealed that particular genetic heritage, so Mellie must have come by her caustic ways through hard living. Whenever the family got together in later years, it always indulged in sensational stories of her wrath and unforgiving nature- which seemed humerous after forty years.
It was obvious the two could not live under the same roof. The Carraways were afraid to take her back, and risk crossing Mellie, so Bertha went to live with the Moseleys, a bunch of “cousins” who also had a big family and a large farm. There she found the kind of love and acceptance from a warm, good-natured family that she had always dreamed of. She and her mother would stay in contact, but they were never to be close. Her younger sister Jean would always be the referee between the two.
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After Bertha married Shelby Spraggins (above, holding my mother), a local farm boy from the Ebeneezer community, they moved to Houston, Texas and away from farm life. This suited both of them for awhile. Shelby ended up in the gasoline business in East Houston... managing a Humble service station and ultimately owning his own station on the “East Side.” They had two beautiful daughters, Lillian Margaret and Shirley Ozelle. The girls prospered in pre-war Houston, attending Milby High School. They were the first High School graduates in their family.
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At the end of WWII the Spraggins purchased their own, brand new home on Rainbow Drive, where they shared boundaries with Forest Park Cemetery. Their home was in close proximity to their service station on Lawndale Drive. About that time was when they took in Bertha's nephew, Gary Thomas. Jean, known to the family as Travis, moved in across the street and raised Gary's older sister Regina. Eventually Jean and her husband took on their own service station.
Gary and Regina were the older of three children belonging to Sam and Montrey Thomas. Montrey kept custody of her youngest, Bobby, and stayed in Arkansas. Sam wandered as a migrant worker... and Jean Parrott Reese, who had no children, took on the job of parenting Regina. Gary and Regina grew up as neighbors, as well as siblings. At least they had been farmed out to family members, and both were raised in wholesome, caring environments.
The story of the two Thomas boys was vague and tragic, and Harvey disappeared and little was heard from him after the 1960's. He did managae to father one son, Danny Thomas, who grew up in Chicago. Brother Sam worked as a produce trucker, but eventually was found murdered in Houston. The dysfunction and unpleasantness instigated by Mellie and Jeff led to several generations of similar tragedy.
The abandonment of the family by Jeff Thomas began a pattern, leading to his two sons doing the same with their children, and then those circumstances defining their hopes and ultimate results which were checkered with bad choices and tragic ends- for a third generation. Amazingly, Bertha Thomas Spraggins did not follow the same path, and I think even she would have credited the Carraways and Moseleys with her breaking the mold which shaped the rest of her family. She in turn was able to help her nephew get a good start on life, with stability and positive role-models, and he worked very hard and became a very successful entrepreneur in the industrial painting and coatings business. Gary Thomas reached millionaire status, owning his own airplane and various boats... happily married, and providing his wife and two daughters with a very nice, two-story home in a classy neighborhood. Gary's life, perhaps more than any person in our family, really illustrated the “American Dream.”
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<i>Raised by his Aunt Bertha, Gary Thomas, just "Butch" to us kids, overcame a rough beginning to become a very successful Texas entrepreneur.</i>Russell Cushmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12125943782255815588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1784694480085744568.post-52667409630587945002019-08-23T12:45:00.000-07:002019-08-23T13:01:42.081-07:00"Bitter Sweets"- Palmer and May Woods<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"> May Sherrod Bering Fox Woods hopping into her car,</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"> somewhere in the Humble Oil Fields...</span></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">There
were two icons</span><span style="font-size: medium;"> lurking in my grandmother's
bedroom when I was a little boy-</span> <span style="font-size: medium;">icons which
could inspire many paragraphs- For someone who knew the whole stories
of these venerated symbols in my childhood. But I will tell you what
I remember... with some help from Aunt Joy, and that is probably as much as you want to know.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">One icon was the old
tattered Confederate flag in a dress box under her bed. It was the
last remnant of the Magnolia Rangers, a Confederate Home Guard unit
from League City, of which my grandmother's grandfather had been
elected the captain, even before hostilities began. We would
sometimes sneak in her room and try to peek at it. It seems like all
I ever remember finding were shirt boxes full of “finger cookies,”
actually just finger-length brownies made in advance for the holidays
by Anna Belle, our wonderful maid. </span>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">The second was a beautiful
enlarged photograph of May Bering Fox Woods, which hung right over my
grandmother's bed. In my memory, she was wearing a turban, looking
like some kind of gypsy fortune-teller or Eastern guru. It was about
the only thing hanging in her room, besides a little Cushman Coat of
Arms near the door. Now I know these two images were in constant
battle, as they faced each other, one representing May's interest,
support and spiritual protection of her little sister, whom she had
practically raised, and my grandfather's heritage and pride, which
was slightly less important than his thinly veiled disdain for May.
It seems the two icons almost represented a struggle for Nell's
loyalty and love, a contest never to be resolved. </span>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">May was a legendary
character in our family, and yet had died long before us grandkids
came along. She almost held a spell on my grandmother though, who
venerated her about as highly as any person in her life. May had
almost been a mother to her, as their mother had been a kind of “free
spirit.” When she lived up in New York with Henry Fox, her very
wealthy first husband, they sent my grandmother Nell to a girl's
school up there, where she learned all about literature, art, social
graces and life in general. But this life of privilege came to an
abrupt end when May fell in love with a handsome sporting man, and
left her first husband, to marry Palmer Parker Woods. Family legend
says that even after May left Mr. Fox, he continued to care for her,
and to some degree, generously took care of her. He always hoped she
might return to him. Family legend says that she never ruled that
out.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2JVY1N6eh_Tkzx75k5_W0kAMwn7y5OhX9hWcxd_7q1DOz0EeLI3NNZMtOZHd8TzpuHFEvu70S6mbIqyZuqgW4U6Lzio3MKe1Pu-tgtWXOoLFYdXrlDAAmusFkUMktzch_osFLHpjmB10/s1600/PALMER+AND+MAY+BERING+FOX+WOODS_REDCD_CROPT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="506" data-original-width="555" height="363" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2JVY1N6eh_Tkzx75k5_W0kAMwn7y5OhX9hWcxd_7q1DOz0EeLI3NNZMtOZHd8TzpuHFEvu70S6mbIqyZuqgW4U6Lzio3MKe1Pu-tgtWXOoLFYdXrlDAAmusFkUMktzch_osFLHpjmB10/s400/PALMER+AND+MAY+BERING+FOX+WOODS_REDCD_CROPT.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> Palmer and May</i></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: large;">Palmer Woods was many
things</span>, and almost unbelievable, a true alpha male, a kind of legend
in his own time. Born in Hawaii, and a descendant James Frank Woods
and thus of the Parkers of Native Hawaiian royalty, he became a
fighter pilot during WWI. He was a dashing, handsome war hero when he
arrived in New York and stole May's heart. Palmer was a perfect
candidate to give May hearty, beautiful children. The two had a lot
in common; fun-loving, talented musicians, planted in a foreign
culture, far from home, and a deadly attraction to alcohol. She
apparently wanted very badly to have children, and Mr. Fox had failed
to help her in that endeavor. We (my brothers and I) had been spared
the details, which I still do not completely have a grasp of, even
today. But the upshot of it was that May moved back to Texas with
Palmer in tow, and he became a regular at the better golf courses in
Houston. Among other things, Palmer was a shark.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">May gave her fine oriental
furniture and accessories to my grandmother, as a wedding gift, and
started anew. My grandfather's chauvinistic pride was chronically
frustrated by the generous and even luxurious gifts May provided to
him and his wife, but he could not refuse them. At one time, when the
Depression was at its worst, he and grandmother and their three
children had to move onto their property and live in the Woods's
guest house. No matter how much the Cushmans might have disapproved
of the Woods's lifestyle, they would never bite the hands that fed
them.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Palmer had nerves of steel
which aided him in many high stakes golf matches, where considerable
money was wagered- and which he usually walked away with the prize.
According to family legend, he was a lady's man, a hard drinker, and
a successful investor in the oil fields around Humble, Texas. He and
May lived large, partied hard, and probably WWII saved them both from
burning out sooner, when Palmer was made a colonel in the Army Air
Corp and put in charge of Sacramento Air Depot, later renamed
McClellan Air Force Base in California. Here was where the infant
American air force tooled up its fleet to face the Japanese threat in
Hawaii and the Philippines. Over 17,000 civilian air command workers
built or repaired P-39 Airacobra fighter planes there, to be sent to
the South Pacific. Over 4,000 military personnel there were under
Col. Palmer Woods's command.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">They lived in Carmel,
California, and members of the family made their way out there to
visit the Woods, and partake of the good life. My grandmother had
already driven herself and her children across the desert several
times, to see her sisters Daisy and Mildred in California, and again
when the Woods moved there. Her independence, and fearlessness was
another frustration for my grandfather, who rarely took a pleasure
trip, and thought life was about work. These adventures no doubt
helped to instill the world traveler in her daughter Joy, who would
visit many countries around the world as an Olympic official.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Ever game, Palmer pitted
his skills against the greatest golfers of Carmel at Pebble Beach,
and met and befriended Bing Crosby there. The two became very good
friends, drinking buddies, and Palmer was often entertained by him.
These were golden times on the California coast with Bing crooning
and Palmer playing his Uke, and everyone singing along. May's and
Nell's mother Ginny moved out to California, where she lived until
she died in 1945.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgduQdul2TjdB_GQNrBxMX2hDHzDVF32E369sKMYxiBOs6J1wexLeXe-CJWs6DK_d2vLnH2K1hex2KkjEknrJKuh2na8DVgwWR11PEjG4PXJQ7VsDSuYUVekfWl2GRtUUvEQU6ZewoNjjE/s1600/CLOCKWISE+Joe+Wells-+Madie+Woods-+Parker+Woods-+Pinky+Russ-+Bill+Waldmire-+Phil+Kuhl-+Kay+Owens+JUNE+1944%252C+CARMEL+CAL+REDCD.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="584" data-original-width="826" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgduQdul2TjdB_GQNrBxMX2hDHzDVF32E369sKMYxiBOs6J1wexLeXe-CJWs6DK_d2vLnH2K1hex2KkjEknrJKuh2na8DVgwWR11PEjG4PXJQ7VsDSuYUVekfWl2GRtUUvEQU6ZewoNjjE/s400/CLOCKWISE+Joe+Wells-+Madie+Woods-+Parker+Woods-+Pinky+Russ-+Bill+Waldmire-+Phil+Kuhl-+Kay+Owens+JUNE+1944%252C+CARMEL+CAL+REDCD.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i> May entertains young people in her home during</i></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i> the war...that is her son Parker just to her right.</i></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The Woods children</span>,
(Henry) Parker and Annie, lived there with them but returned to Texas
after the war. In a rare opportunity to return decades of
benevolence, my grandparents gave them a home until they were grown
and married. Uncle Parker became famous for his brilliance and
shocking informality. There was never a gathering where he was
discussed where someone did not remind everyone that he had to be
made to put clothes on, preferring to run around the Cushman
household in his underwear. Parker was always the height of Hawaiian
type elegance and practicality. It will be no surprise that he got
married so many times, and had so many lady friends that we lost
track. Really! Parker had one son, John, born during his last
marriage in Montana, while working as a chemist for Champion Paper
Company. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Parker's sister Annie, my
father's first cousin on his mother's side, married Al Rollins, soon
to be ordained as an Episcopal priest. Al was his first cousin on his
father's side (His father was Al's mother's brother). So their
children, (seven!) were related to us from both sides of his family,
and related to us more like first cousins. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9-h8ABjr3oL8dlxPlrcH4aU4oLvdz21ZHmdkY3hv4j-t426FN-3Dwjq9c95K1rJ8LWB4Qwr4Ef3mIYxc7oe6K-hq_IFsvtsOvxUM1K1-OW1lUHw4a9U_AAS1JzSBST3XakjIkuRItZnQ/s1600/ANNIE+WOODS-+PARKER+WOODS-+PEGGY+GRAY+PETERSON+1944+CARMEL%252C+CAL_REDCD.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="589" data-original-width="832" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9-h8ABjr3oL8dlxPlrcH4aU4oLvdz21ZHmdkY3hv4j-t426FN-3Dwjq9c95K1rJ8LWB4Qwr4Ef3mIYxc7oe6K-hq_IFsvtsOvxUM1K1-OW1lUHw4a9U_AAS1JzSBST3XakjIkuRItZnQ/s400/ANNIE+WOODS-+PARKER+WOODS-+PEGGY+GRAY+PETERSON+1944+CARMEL%252C+CAL_REDCD.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i> Annie, Parker and a first cousin from the Bering/Durant,</i></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>side, Peggy Gray Peterson.</i></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">May passed away while in
California, and eventually Palmer moved back to Texas and remarried a
couple of times, rather unsuccessfully. Their swinging lifestyle
eventually caught up with both of them. Meanwhile the mystic picture
of May loomed in my grandmother's room for the rest of her life,
where May's commanding countenance set the tone, and no doubt
reminded my grandfather every day, who was really boss. All my
grandmother would ever say about her oldest sister was... “I loved
my sister May, she was so good to me...” Much later I came to
perceive a silent message coming from that portrait... May was saying
to my grandfather, “you treat Nellie right, or I am coming after
you!”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Thanks to my Aunt Joy Cushman, a witness to these people and events, for much of the info told here...as well as the photographs... and apologies for any glaring mistakes or omissions. </span></i></span></div>
</div>
Russell Cushmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12125943782255815588noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1784694480085744568.post-36061771377355290162018-07-26T18:45:00.002-07:002018-07-26T18:58:12.332-07:00Beauty and the Beast: The Anatomy of Genius<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCx_W-i_-JNknVBGniuTapT3KbszkrWrBvbzHFt9-yr8WZmkjGvXRpwlV5sCcZ6e37yyQWXI2lL9X1TyfLJCGp5m8WIk8RgRbDkqc5L9L0SpnyRhzNPfcJB6-JKgyTSPGn2D3SMQtEbbA/s1600/TRUMP+PROFL+REDC.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="829" height="460" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCx_W-i_-JNknVBGniuTapT3KbszkrWrBvbzHFt9-yr8WZmkjGvXRpwlV5sCcZ6e37yyQWXI2lL9X1TyfLJCGp5m8WIk8RgRbDkqc5L9L0SpnyRhzNPfcJB6-JKgyTSPGn2D3SMQtEbbA/s640/TRUMP+PROFL+REDC.bmp" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">When I was a child, I
often hated what my mother said. She was tough and resolute, and once
when I blurted out that I did not love her any more, she explained to
me that I did not have to love her. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">But I had to mind her.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Her words were
authoritative, uncompromising, and sometimes hurtful. But her actions
and talents smoothly managed our home, tamed her husband and three
sons like young tigers, all while she decorated a lovely house and
provided the best food in Texas on our table. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">She was not only a
wonderful mother and wife, she was an artist, seamstress, furniture
refinisher, retailer, community organizer, prayer warrior and many
people's personal counselor. Doers are magnetic, and she got things
done. My father used to say “Rome was not built in a day... but
Margaret was not the boss on that job.” Things seemed to fall into
place around her. She made class and beauty look easy. People were
attracted to her because she was amazingly gifted, and over time they
began to value her opinions, which sometimes cut to the quick.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">She had many “disciples,”
but like her sons they found her words were often hard to accept or
live by. Eventually most who knew her learned to trust her words, or
at least tolerate them, because she was the most extraordinary person
they had ever known. The evidence of her wisdom was everywhere. When
she died her pall bearers were from every strata and lifestyle
imaginable.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: large;">In
the end she was not judged by her words or mistakes, but by the
exceptional impact she had on the world around her. </span>We had all
seen and experienced what true leadership and social and cultural
activism looks like. She is still remembered by her legacy of
passionate creativity, spirituality and love.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">So here is why I am
writing about this. It's about the omniscience of genius.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Most of President Trump's
detractors show open contempt based on either unfounded suspicions,
his boorish choice of words or his dubious morality. But the marital
infidelity, if not downright sexual adventurism of a fourth of the
Presidents in my lifetime proves that our democracy will survive
these things. It seems to be <i>the words</i> that have sent half the
country into apoplexy. What America will not survive is the now
popular trend towards violent intolerance of political diversity,
based on urban legend; Hate running the streets, a war against...
words. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Meanwhile the Media
ignores the incredible strides the President has made improving our
economy, leveling the playing field in the world trade market,
and vanquishing our military enemies while challenging our allies. He has
accomplished much of this with... tough words, often words that
provoke and disturb, but then quickly<i> initiate change</i>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">So it will be no surprise
that my brothers and I are giving President Trump a chance. We have
seen genius at work, and we know when to give it some space and let
it breathe, even when the messenger is flawed and their words are
somewhat uncomfortable.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Some people who knew my
mother will be offended that I would speak of her and Trump in the
same breath, and will chastise me for making the comparison. It
bothers me too. But I haven't seen that much genius in my life to
have many others to compare him to, which leads me me to this; True
problem solvers come around rarely in our lives.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: large;">Most
of what passes for leadership in our culture is only a popularity
contest. It's often the people who do not care about popularity who
fix things</span>. And our country is sick and needs a lot of fixing.
</span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">If you do not understand
Trump, do not see the value in what he is doing, you might be one of
those who are unable to perceive his effectiveness and the big things
happening because you are trusting the wrong information sources and
inevitably obsessing over THE WORDS, and the tangled misinformation
and deliberate disinformation being broadcast continuously on most
news outlets. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>True change is always a threat to the Establishment
and Power. </b>But true genius is accustomed to opposition and works
around it. Or it just steamrolls over it. Some day History will tell
what the Media will not, of the crusty businessman who set
Washington- and the World, on its ear by mere transparency, common
sense and promise keeping. Certainly the Koreans, the EU, the
Russians and even the Chinese are already responding in force,
amazingly, IN PEACE, to this refreshing global reality check.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Like my mother's, MY WORDS
will be hard for some to swallow, but I have to submit; the blessings
from the President's gifts will never match those of Margaret
Cushman, but the world will be the better for them.</span></div>
</div>
Russell Cushmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12125943782255815588noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1784694480085744568.post-56585851971008404452015-04-19T17:40:00.000-07:002015-04-19T17:44:09.225-07:00George W. Durant: Father of Alvin; A video!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZJU3vUpZY4gvxF57bjV_QDYGDaai-ogEnzRnbEjIdO27aCOOVr9d19RtDmRLXOQidiolUl1uKC8R3q-PnJ2_1p2uTVgURUZ2tUbcdLXYJ6PmhyphenhyphenJvMFdxTnpDutNRmHizQCLUWKRRVc4g/s1600/5+MAGNOLIA+RANGERS+W+GEO.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZJU3vUpZY4gvxF57bjV_QDYGDaai-ogEnzRnbEjIdO27aCOOVr9d19RtDmRLXOQidiolUl1uKC8R3q-PnJ2_1p2uTVgURUZ2tUbcdLXYJ6PmhyphenhyphenJvMFdxTnpDutNRmHizQCLUWKRRVc4g/s1600/5+MAGNOLIA+RANGERS+W+GEO.bmp" height="297" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">My video called <b>The Pathfinders</b> can be accessed by clicking on the link below... a musical tribute to George W. Durant by two of his descendants. </span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pWhgGX4QNyU"><span style="font-size: large;"> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pWhgGX4QNyU</span></a></div>
Russell Cushmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12125943782255815588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1784694480085744568.post-58337482381937942072014-08-01T20:49:00.000-07:002014-08-01T21:01:32.687-07:00The Party Goes On Forever! Happy 90th Birthday Aunt Joy!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 107%;">Over the
decades, the Cushman family</span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"> has had many golden days on the West End of Galveston Island, and the
most recent reunion was a long needed blast from the past- for me at least.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhur42IvhVSc0I64-8uBZO-XRULQEcBDRMJ5OumN2qFTM-qBiXhMPRSomxsVdrJnU0UdHen3ba9BdyJ22jFyoD9FGzWMIoWQUmOa47UzaKW3FbTQfALPFjVGr8QDOg-egYveYdS3kzrpbs/s1600/cushmans.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhur42IvhVSc0I64-8uBZO-XRULQEcBDRMJ5OumN2qFTM-qBiXhMPRSomxsVdrJnU0UdHen3ba9BdyJ22jFyoD9FGzWMIoWQUmOa47UzaKW3FbTQfALPFjVGr8QDOg-egYveYdS3kzrpbs/s1600/cushmans.JPG" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><i>Joy and a few of her many "children." Photos courtesy Donalee Cushman!</i></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A warm
gathering to celebrate the 90<sup>th</sup> birthday of our beloved Aunt Joy
began to appear a day or so before the party, with relatives coming from all
over Texas. This time we were camping at the Harper’s newly renovated beach
house in Bay Harbor. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>Aunt Joy Cushman,</b> a
legendary synchronized swimming coach, was always the one to take charge of us
kids when we came to the beach house, and she always showed us a great time. She
had put up a cozy beach house in the 70’s when we lost our first cabins to
Hurricane Carla, and after it was rolled into a ball by Alicia, she has sponsored
several beach house rentals over the years, always making sure we had a place
to get sand in our toes. There was no better place to celebrate her and her
life and her 90<sup>th</sup> birthday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCPsnCKCdh797SxRYOGRNKj4OIAKJ9FarYQroR6v2SeA1G87FBO0W9embyEqMb3vwob5rZpx0jwlVj-5uQ-HF_1NnWOn3JiQdDKHusQH6StTv6QjjlGQuLw9bTxLxXAv6Kt-U-E279DNo/s1600/beech+fun.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCPsnCKCdh797SxRYOGRNKj4OIAKJ9FarYQroR6v2SeA1G87FBO0W9embyEqMb3vwob5rZpx0jwlVj-5uQ-HF_1NnWOn3JiQdDKHusQH6StTv6QjjlGQuLw9bTxLxXAv6Kt-U-E279DNo/s1600/beech+fun.JPG" height="223" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><i>Timeless scene of another generation of Cushmans (and their kin) discovering the ocean.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In typical
form, Joy was on a plane headed to Mexico in less than a week. She has several
families in Mexico convinced that she is a member of their families as well.
She has spent many a holiday with them over the years, long since overcoming
the cultural and language barriers and becoming quite the darling of the Pardos
and others who love her dearly. Thanks to my younger brother Reynolds who has
gone with her to make sure all goes well. The party goes on forever!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3HrbUbTYKuvQ73fylUcUYz52TJAWRkXyJ7kOA_M13cwc5F89MXybiAb-bPoK_vJIJjRgU5JoSyhCr32Z08Nu6WAIuCM3rIa8pfNtxeS0CIQvApQumY0XfPGXitZGYqn8Juecdip-VRAY/s1600/flounderers.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3HrbUbTYKuvQ73fylUcUYz52TJAWRkXyJ7kOA_M13cwc5F89MXybiAb-bPoK_vJIJjRgU5JoSyhCr32Z08Nu6WAIuCM3rIa8pfNtxeS0CIQvApQumY0XfPGXitZGYqn8Juecdip-VRAY/s1600/flounderers.JPG" height="151" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;"><i>Cousin Robert and my brother Reynolds showing off Robert's swift handiwork with a gig.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">ANYWAY, we
had a great time, grilled some burgers, caught some fish, and Sunday morning ate
at a great place near the Galveston Strand called The <b>Sunflower Bakery & Café</b>. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl26mj-cg91CRVku1O0jvbhyAXPQ2Z371-oHYCmRoCqNdVuq22uIv-xUEgyCsQKOLJeLAQLM8jWHTvlP70z1tovoTvQEl__lPX5RerReukHqbD2y4c-u0BwpgZn3wuHOsgFUgMht__mrA/s1600/sunfl+sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl26mj-cg91CRVku1O0jvbhyAXPQ2Z371-oHYCmRoCqNdVuq22uIv-xUEgyCsQKOLJeLAQLM8jWHTvlP70z1tovoTvQEl__lPX5RerReukHqbD2y4c-u0BwpgZn3wuHOsgFUgMht__mrA/s1600/sunfl+sign.jpg" height="160" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>OH MY GOSH!</b> The food was over-the-top
excellent and <u>delicious</u>, and I tried something off of almost everyone’s plate;
crabcakes, shrimp omelets, blueberry pancakes, French toast, Belgian waffles, sweet
rolls, (awesome variety of pastries), </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">ALL
GREAT! And what a <i>magnetic</i> gift shop adjacent to the café! </span><b style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Sunflower is a MUST STOP WHENEVER YOU ARE IN GALVESTON.</b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5MckJZ9lRFE6uSbSUzK-KczvdKDfIcn0REv6Fp4254yZXJ6FCHV6fK99ZU9UYPw4ZyCq_POu6velAt-DJ8cexXEmpa7ZIOGQ0y4NKPyHAuT0npCV-SPdj_eBQ87yFP1bzel7udZNB2AY/s1600/sunflower+redcd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5MckJZ9lRFE6uSbSUzK-KczvdKDfIcn0REv6Fp4254yZXJ6FCHV6fK99ZU9UYPw4ZyCq_POu6velAt-DJ8cexXEmpa7ZIOGQ0y4NKPyHAuT0npCV-SPdj_eBQ87yFP1bzel7udZNB2AY/s1600/sunflower+redcd.jpg" height="210" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">We ended our
pilgrimage</span></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> to Galveston touring the old residential district, checking out a
collection of a dozen or so interesting sculptures carved from trees killed in
the various residential yards<b> </b>by
hurricane floods. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkXMPWvMnQeuiQmetfUj3-aKPCQvPMXNWGAsYhbjFebbZ_Rn2EdT7iWWMqUnnd8QvCGugEWywPhi77kpQXYvZ7rQ4-pZo_TEYZ0XrEHy5IrhwoBugnF0K-IYRPl6ilA46mJzJxQveedk4/s1600/herons+hs+rddcd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkXMPWvMnQeuiQmetfUj3-aKPCQvPMXNWGAsYhbjFebbZ_Rn2EdT7iWWMqUnnd8QvCGugEWywPhi77kpQXYvZ7rQ4-pZo_TEYZ0XrEHy5IrhwoBugnF0K-IYRPl6ilA46mJzJxQveedk4/s1600/herons+hs+rddcd.jpg" height="314" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Leave it to artists to make beauty out of disaster. Some of
them are quite beautiful… and some charming… and some “special”…there is
something for everybody… especially dog lovers.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKhI8uo8BrrEknq0RhF2Z5tMTl4p51YGEOhpyaWnx3av1gydLkUGHZgkFVjuEv3qM5HQVt5dRYzyz6AHCLmvjbTJ7SQ2ABeZDN99ulqwbs8S8hDLlRhK06v46BKoXgcQZMF_8SeIzEACk/s1600/tin+redcdd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKhI8uo8BrrEknq0RhF2Z5tMTl4p51YGEOhpyaWnx3av1gydLkUGHZgkFVjuEv3qM5HQVt5dRYzyz6AHCLmvjbTJ7SQ2ABeZDN99ulqwbs8S8hDLlRhK06v46BKoXgcQZMF_8SeIzEACk/s1600/tin+redcdd.jpg" height="320" width="242" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">There is no place like home Toto, but Galveston
looked great, in fact, it has never looked better. And after refreshing so many memories and catching so many
flounder and eating such excellent food, I know my family is going back sooner
than later!</span></div>
</div>
Russell Cushmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12125943782255815588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1784694480085744568.post-27732948855198669312014-06-21T20:40:00.002-07:002014-06-22T13:09:18.642-07:00Great Dogs That Made Family Legends<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">No family website</span> would be complete without some discussion
of our pets. Over the decades we have been blessed to share residence with some
outstanding animals. I won’t bore you with the equally cherished but average
dogs and cats we have all had, but tell you about a
handful of truly extraordinary personalities which happened to have been dogs.
And that line-up would have to begin with the legendary Hound Dog…</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA-tF6L_oCVqPhGMqypK5iX-psOW7VHvwBXTz_m2Ex3Brq-58C84goTk2Vh8I0omHlz6yh89VX82vupFmqhyphenhyphenAOsCWCDqimqP8H51VTo6wVN1yKNrsu9F52LKTaNVb4GULqSMBThHX9iSg/s1600/hound+dog+yvonne_redcd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA-tF6L_oCVqPhGMqypK5iX-psOW7VHvwBXTz_m2Ex3Brq-58C84goTk2Vh8I0omHlz6yh89VX82vupFmqhyphenhyphenAOsCWCDqimqP8H51VTo6wVN1yKNrsu9F52LKTaNVb4GULqSMBThHX9iSg/s1600/hound+dog+yvonne_redcd.jpg" height="260" width="400" /></a></div>
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<em>Cousin Yvonne Rollins (Finley) sitting with Hound Dog. Hound Dog was born to babysit.</em></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">My father and his family</span> lived in the suburbs of Houston
during the Great Depression, and it was during this time that my grandfather
acquired <u><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;">Hound Dog</span></strong></u> and brought him home. Half Airedale and half Bloodhound, he
was large and a bit peculiar looking, a kind of scruffy hound without the huge ears.
He grew to be powerful and wise, and quickly Hound Dog established himself as
the wonder dog of our family, well known and admired throughout the
neighborhood. For thirty years after, no get-together of our family was ever
complete without a long recounting of his achievements.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The family spent many weekends down on the west end of
Galveston Island, swimming and fishing and floundering and crabbing and eating
a feast of the daily catch. Every day the kids would play on the beach,
swimming and diving for sand dollars, and body surfing. Hound dog was left in
charge of babysitting. He would watch the children as if he was a sheep dog and
they were a herd of sheep. No sheep was allowed out in the Gulf too far. No
sheep was allowed to wander down the beach. He would bark and tell on them if
anything looked suspicious. The kids learned that he meant business too, and
began to bait him, crying for help. That was all of the reason Hound Dog needed
to take more authority over them. He would swim out to them, clamp down on the
crier’s arm and began to tug them ashore. But the kids would take turns, and as
soon as he would grab one child, another would begin to cry. <strong>“Hound Dog! Save
me!”</strong> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Frustrated, he would drag one child in to a safe depth,
which probably meant his feet could touch the bottom, and then swim out
immediately to find the other in distress. This sick game of play emergency would go on for hours, till
finally he would not let the children out in the water anymore...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On one such trip to Galveston, Hound Dog was not taken
along.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the family arrived back in
Park Place late that night, they met a seemingly half-crazed dog when they opened
the garage. Hound Dog would not let the Cushmans into the Garage. He barked and
growled so convincingly my grandfather was convinced he had gone mad. Afraid
and a bit perturbed, there was only one thing to do, and that was to get his
gun and kill the dog. I believe that one of the children ignored his
instructions to stay back and rushed towards the house entrance door inside the
darkness of the garage. Hound Dog lunged in front of them. A Diamondback Rattlesnake, coiled at the door threshold bit him on
the nose as he rushed forward to protect his sheep. Suddenly everyone
understood. From that time on, they all knew- this wonderful dog was smarter
than them, and would usually deserve the benefit of the doubt.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So impressive and notorious was this dog that a local
moonshiner stole him once to use him to guard his whiskey still. The dog was
loyal and ferocious, and feared no man. Stealing him must have been quite a
trick, but his conscription did not last long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After a few weeks Hound Dog showed up dragging a heavy chain behind him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hound Dog recovered from the kidnapping and the snakebite,
although that nearly killed him. He would go on to do so many things like this
that it would take a book to tell all the stories. But perhaps my favorite
story is about when he was given away. The Cushmans had to move across town and
there was no way to keep the dog. He was traded to a fellow who needed a
Bloodhound. The family cried and said good bye, and tried to console
themselves.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Weeks passed by and they heard that the dog had disappeared.
He had not stayed at his new owner’s place long. But Hound Dog could not have
known where he was, what direction he had come from, or where his former
masters were. Texas was and is a big place. That was the end of that. Or it would have been for most dogs.
Hound Dog must have returned to Park Place on foot, a distance of around
fifty miles from where he had been taken. Then he began to search for his
family, after he gave up on their return there. And yes, after months on the
streets of Houston, Hound Dog found their scent somehow and found them at their
new home in the Houston Heights…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a
distance of around twenty miles. Can you imagine the surprise and the joy for
all parties concerned when he arrived one day, after months of separation, and
everyone had given up on ever seeing him again. Needless to say, they never tried to give him away again.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6qNzrUxsu0GQxn5hcvp9Q6kYPFcbke83_FH71-VysmpSXiwYr0TJeDRLxvABQl1Q5Al6Q55ZG3zOu7Mq3X6m3El5mhH73uFRxtOS2T2Kf3s8yk7Emv9CO5DHxVjdc_2qd_-Q2FVHoxFU/s1600/tipper+AND+MANER_REDUCD.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6qNzrUxsu0GQxn5hcvp9Q6kYPFcbke83_FH71-VysmpSXiwYr0TJeDRLxvABQl1Q5Al6Q55ZG3zOu7Mq3X6m3El5mhH73uFRxtOS2T2Kf3s8yk7Emv9CO5DHxVjdc_2qd_-Q2FVHoxFU/s1600/tipper+AND+MANER_REDUCD.bmp" height="400" width="347" /></a></div>
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<em>Grandmother Cushman had two Cocker Spaniels. Here Tipper is perched on his favorite spot... under the watchful eyes of his master. The other dog was a black Cocker Spaniel named Fella Boy, who negotiated the neighborhood for years totally blind.</em></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Hound Dog made this family</span> very hard to impress,
when it comes to pets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, I should
have saved his story for last, because no other animal could touch him. Since
Hound Dog, there have been Cocker Spaniels, Lhasa Apsos,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dachshunds, and many hybrids. But the next
really great dog in my estimation was a Weimaraner named Pinkerton.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><u><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;">Pinkerton</span></strong></u> was my dog and he was born to a Weimaraner female
we had been given. She was absolutely certifiable, but still we took a chance
and bred her to a monster male who belonged to some friends. I’ll never forget
when Pinkerton’s<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>daddy was brought to
our house to do his business and he was kept in a horse trailer overnight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He bellowed so loud, and his trumpeting was
amplified by the steel chamber he was in, and he sounded like the king of all
dogs as he cried out in the night. That was a long night. The business he came
for took about ten minutes the next morning. Soon we had a cute batch of
puppies and we had the sire’s owner come over and cut their tails off, which is
standard procedure for Weimaraners. All of the pups fared well except one
little guy that bled and bled.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyIhG9wbzMrYyGtuWMGpZyFArDbnrw5wTrswjyyzmXoSdO5IRjwcv5vM33XqPGH7ZASdR9ovAbT3gzQmAfIanNrj9s-ukmL3bdHHSvfQveoxKmcJPmKy06-X26jxUdTMixDlYl6bPQ5r4/s1600/j_baby-baby-weimaraner+PINKY.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyIhG9wbzMrYyGtuWMGpZyFArDbnrw5wTrswjyyzmXoSdO5IRjwcv5vM33XqPGH7ZASdR9ovAbT3gzQmAfIanNrj9s-ukmL3bdHHSvfQveoxKmcJPmKy06-X26jxUdTMixDlYl6bPQ5r4/s1600/j_baby-baby-weimaraner+PINKY.bmp" height="166" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>We didn't take many pictures in those days so this little guy was borrowed from the Internet for illustration purposes.</em></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My mother sat up with him for a long time just holding
his cold, trembling body. We were afraid he would die. All the others had dark, rosy
little noses and toes, and yet this little guy had lost so much blood, that his toes were
pale pink. So it was “Pinky” from then on. I tried dignify him with "Pinkerton."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Pink was a huge, handsome Weimaraner, and a fetching fool. We
moved to the real country in Grimes County right after that and he grew up
chasing rabbits and knowing no boundaries. He was never restrained, and the
five acres we lived on was his domain. He was fiercely protective, and my
mother always felt safer with him nearby, or even in the house if my father was
gone. But what made Pinkerton great was his devotion to fetching. Like our
fathers before us, we were never satisfied with an animal that just did what he
was supposed to do. Pinkerton was hilarious. He never shirked a task. After we learned that he was
determined to fetch anything, then we began to test his strength and endurance.
</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaqsvfRCod9EZuDnGTIvMwsGPOCaK0B2ul5E9rYIwH9uFyWLfy7olI68h9QXsjUWPKDL8V3yHT1825bHlzHGgPrbWjp5wn0_qWVZnU9NEPVsAwMPq4sm4XseuWAHF2hQi-q_tLWUjAEwo/s1600/Weimaraner_tennis_ball_PINK.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaqsvfRCod9EZuDnGTIvMwsGPOCaK0B2ul5E9rYIwH9uFyWLfy7olI68h9QXsjUWPKDL8V3yHT1825bHlzHGgPrbWjp5wn0_qWVZnU9NEPVsAwMPq4sm4XseuWAHF2hQi-q_tLWUjAEwo/s1600/Weimaraner_tennis_ball_PINK.bmp" height="400" width="332" /></a></div>
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<em>This is not Pinkerton... but a <u>very close facsimile</u>. The breed is fairly consistent... or used to be, but those with pink nose and toes are less common.</em></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Tennis balls got boring so we would toss bricks, boards, sticks,
and the things got bigger and heavier. Pink always brought them back. One day I
threw a stick a little too far and it went over the cliff looming over our
creek, which meandered right in front of our house. It was a fifteen foot drop.
Pink went right over. We blew up in laughter. It took awhile, but he climbed
out of there with the stick. OK. That was cool. But what about a two foot piece
of 2 x 4 ? OK-<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What about a heavy oak
slab from the firewood pile? Yea, but I bet he won’t bring back a brick! Over
the cliff he went, every time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was
the Mountie of dogs, he always got his “ball,” whatever it was made of.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So we looked down at the water, fifteen feet below… we
wondered if he would fetch a brick from the water… <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>then we wondered if he would fetch a ten pound
piece of limestone from the bottom of a three foot deep pool… Bless his heart,
that dog would go after it, find it, dive and dive until he dragged it ashore,
and then dragged that damned rock up that nearly vertical cliff to us. He could
not pick it up, but would get a bite on a corner and move it a few feet, then
get another hold on it. Sometimes he would get it halfway up and it would roll
down by itself and plop back in the water. He would chase after it as if it was
a t-bone steak. Pink was the epitome of perseverance. Never satisfied, we learned
to frustrate him by throwing big heavy black clay clods into the pool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over the cliff he would go. They would
dissolve and would fall apart as they hit the water, and sometimes he would
find enough to bring a portion back… <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
sometimes we would have to call him back to keep him from drowning himself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Pink was a good old dog. It broke my dad’s heart when he was
shot in the leg, probably by an angry chicken raiser, and he did something he
said he would never do. This was the owner of Hound Dog you understand. “The
greatest dog that ever lived.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well Pink
must have been Number 2, because he took that dog all the way to the Texas
A&M Vet school (40 miles) where they could reconstruct and put a splint on
his leg and save it. It cost him a fortune, but “dogs like that do not come
around every day.” Pink never saved anybody’s life, or even fetched a single
pheasant. It’s too bad he was wasted on… bricks and rocks. But he was certainly
the pick of the litter, and if heart has anything to do with greatness, he was
one of the great dogs in our family.</span></div>
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<em>Ivan</em></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A few years later after I got married and we were living in
Denton I decided I wanted a regular dog... a regular, normal breed… a Labrador
Retriever. One was advertised “FREE TO GOOD HOME” and we went to look at him. I
followed the directions into a dark wooded part of town one night to come upon
a giant black dog on the front porch. He must have been 150 pounds. Thank
goodness the owner told me I had the wrong house… that it was next door. After
that Ivan looked small to my wife, who gladly took him once she had seen the
monster next door.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;"><strong><u>Ivan </u></strong></span>was almost full grown, almost eighty pounds, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and already trained and very
domesticated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a shame for
somebody to give this dog up, as he was truly as champion. A full blooded black
lab, he was very smart, wanted to please, very protective, and yet very
playful. Once again, he was in many instances smarter than the people who
“owned” him. I was so in love with that dog from the beginning it is a wonder
we did not spoil him rotten. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then we
soon learned that he could and would escape from our yard no matter what we
did. He could chew or break almost any restraint, and climb any fence. If he
decided to leave, he was gone, until he decided to return, and we spent considerable
time worrying about his whereabouts or how to prevent his escapes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But then there was fetching. In many ways he reminded me of
Pink. He was show dog material. And when I was gone, the dog made Linda feel
very safe alone. We lived in Altair on the Gulf Coast prairie for a year and his presence
provided great comfort, but he got his fill of mosquitoes there. One night he whimpered and barked until I finally went out to beat him... only to choke by inhaling a cloud of mosquitoes surrounding him. The poor dog was being eaten alive. We had a wonderful country place with a
fenced yard, but the weather, especially the mosquitoes drove him inside with
us a great deal of the time. I worked as a duck and goose hunting guide but was
never allowed to bring him along, as there were always “better” dogs available
in the “Goose Hunting Capital of the World.” So it was not until we moved
inland to Plantersville that the legend of Ivan began to form.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Linda and I moved into the old Greenwood Store in
Plantersville, Texas in 1979. My parents had purchased the store and we went
there to help them, and live the fantasy of retro Texas. Built in 1861, the old
store was like a step back into the Depression era.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We lived upstairs in a makeshift apartment,
and ran the day to day operations. Stocking, butchering, hauling feed. Ivan had no yard anymore, but transformed
quickly into a classic store dog. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ivan would lay around the store on the cool wooden floor and
snooze and occasionally open one eye and thump his tail as folks sauntered by.
If someone noticed him and spoke to him, he would sit up and take affection.
Most of the time we hardly knew he was there. People would want to share their
rat cheese and summer sausage with him, or take him outside to play, and he
became quite popular. Then one day a few folks came in from a notorious
unrestricted sub-division, famous for colorful characters- and immediately Ivan
sat up. Within seconds he blew into a full alarm barking tirade. He cornered
one man in particular and we could not console him, and could only apologize
profusely for his behavior. Later we found out this person was a pervert and
suspected sex offender. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ivan knew. He seemed to be able to tell by instinct the good
guys from the bad guys. And nobody was a good guy in that store when we were
not around. One night while we were gone, the store’s former owner tried to use
his key to get in to get a few bags of range cubes for his hungry cows. He told
us the next day that he had to let his cows go hungry. The dog just looked sheepish
as he related his scare as he tried to enter, and faced the jaws of death. While
the man explained the stand-off, Ivan wagged his tail with no hard feelings,
because he knew the man, but NOBODY was coming in that store when we were gone.</span></div>
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<em>The first requirement of a great dog is to be a good babysitter. Here our niece Tina shows the typical affection that children had for Ivan.</em></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I think what makes a dog special is his complexity- when a
dog shows depth of thought, discernment or cunning, or traits of character we
associate with great humans. Ivan had all of these things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As formidable as he was, to stop an old
cowboy dead in his tracks, he was as gentle as a wet nurse. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-large;">Stealing the Easter Bunny...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After we had moved into a home on the edge of town, a few days
before Easter Linda came home from work to discover Ivan carrying a small furry
creature in his mouth. “Russell ! He’s KILLED somethiiing!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I carefully removed a sopping wet but otherwise unharmed
baby cottontail. Ivan was thrilled with his find. I scolded him and took the
rabbit to the porch, to inspect the bunny for broken limbs or skin tears. There
were none. As we discussed what we might do with the little guy, Ivan returned,
with another one! He had a proud look on his face, like he was glad to share
his finds… “You guys can have that one, and I can have this one!” We tied him
up, before he could rob momma bunny of any more of her brood.</span></div>
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<em>One of the bunnies Ivan stole on Good Friday.</em><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Ferocious. Perceptive. Tender. A True <u>party animal</u>... And a dirty, sneaky thief.</span> We
were kind of poor in the beginning and one evening a friend showed us how to
dig a barbecue hole in the back yard. Dig a hole, place a grill made of hog
wire over it, let the coals cook down.. Voila! We made grilled steaks and
barbecue chicken and forgot ourselves while munching on the great food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seeing opportunity right at eye level, Ivan
calmly sauntered over, quietly drug a chicken leg off of the flaming grill, and
we never knew until we heard piping hot bones popping. “Oh well, if he can eat
that thing right off of the grill, he can have it!”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ivan was a mess, and I loved him like a brother. I dreamed
once that he could talk to me. It seemed perfectly natural at the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We took him everywhere and he was always more
enthusiastically received than we were.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He was the hit of every party. There’s nothing like watching drunks
playing with a sober, competent dog. They can entertain each other for hours.
Ivan was great around babies and children, and never once even growled at one,
even when he should have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People would
call and invite us to a gathering and always say, “and make sure and bring
Ivan!” He was the one they wanted, we got to go along for the ride.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Eventually Ivan got to live in the same place where
Pinkerton had amazed us with his impossible tasks. Ivan passed the Pinkerton
test. Being a lab, he was less daunted by the water, more comfortable going
under. The
difference was I would not let him hurt his teeth on rocks and such. I had
grown up <u>a little</u>. But he was hell on 2 x 4’s. And he always had a favorite
toy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Linda would actually make him those
sock monkey dolls, which he would carry around the yard proudly as if a lion
were carrying his kill. He would wear them out over months just carrying them
from place to place. </span></div>
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<em>I always loved to demonstrate Ivan's love of retrieving... here he wowed everyone with his swimming ability in the Gulf. He had never before seen a wave, but he was game to fetch as far as we could throw... "Sit..." (throw, but dog waits and watches the target and drools...)"Waaaaait" ... <strong>"Fetch!"</strong> and off he would go like a racehorse.</em></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We had cats, turkeys, and other critters around, and he
never showed aggression. But if he was to get in a fight, he would take all
comers. When he was young he had gotten into a scrape with a huge Great Dane,
and learned to get his licks in first. He would hit a dog with his powerful
chest and knock them down and tear them up while they were still thinking about
whether to fight or run. He never even paid attention to little dogs, as if
they were funny to him. But he was not invincible. A Doberman from next door
got loose and attacked him while he was tethered and asleep, and had him pinned
down. I ran out of the house, picked up the attacker by his back skin, and
rammed is head into the side of my house. He hit the ground yelping and never
knew who or what had rung his bell. Later when I had time to calm down, I
thought about what I had done. That dog could have killed me. But Ivan deserved
whatever I had to give.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Linda grew up with a part lab</span> who has the best story of all. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;"><strong><u>"Precious"</u> </strong></span>was a constant companion of her brother, Allan Jr's. We all knew Allan Jr. as "Buddy." One day when Buddy was still pretty small, he and his friends were messing around down on Cypress Creek and dug a huge cave inside a sand embankment. The fairly deep cavern was a great play fortress until it collapsed. Suddenly Buddy was underneath tons of sand, and his little friends did not know where to start digging. They ran back home in a panic and alerted the grown ups, while Precious stayed there and dug where his senses told him his young master would be. With his nose as a guide the rescuers were able to dig right to Buddy and were able to revive him in time. Buddy had almost suffocated, and the direction and time saved by his faithful pet probably saved his life. Precious was another rare dog, who earned his place as a legendary family dog. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And everybody has had an animal like that, who they loved
like a member of the family, who they would take ridiculous risks for... spend
whatever it took to save them… felt like they were their best friend. We have
had several. I wonder if having had Hound Dog, whether we came to <u>expect </u>greatness
from our animals. Or did we just get lucky…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>as two of these dogs were hand offs. Whatever,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I get choked up when I think of these
marvelous animals. My brother Ralph right now has a legendary German Shorthair
up in Alaska that he should write about. Maybe in the future he will… write the
legend of Vick. It will be the most incredible of all.</span></div>
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Russell Cushmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12125943782255815588noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1784694480085744568.post-12327947439640023962014-03-16T09:37:00.000-07:002014-03-16T09:45:30.690-07:00The way we were... Gulliver's Travels<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;">I just found this great shot of the Cushman grandparents, Ralph and Nell, and their grandchildren. I've always said that I was the "runt" of the litter... here is the evidence... What struck me first upon finding this was the robustness and obvious strength of my brother Ralph, (around fourteen years old!) sporting his "Hollywood Crewcut"... and the distinct physical difference between him and the rest of us, either old and frail or small and weak. Ralph looks like Gulliver among the little people. He was and still is the golden boy, if there ever was one!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><em>The children of brothers Ralph and Richard Cushman with their grandparents.</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><em>Front row: Russell, Nell holding baby Susan, Ralph Sr. holding Robert, and Reynolds. Back row: Ralph III and Richard Jr.</em></span></div>
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Russell Cushmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12125943782255815588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1784694480085744568.post-91728937852460048542014-01-01T08:39:00.000-08:002014-01-01T08:39:00.659-08:00A FREE European Tour with some risks... with the AEF<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;">My grandfather Ralph Cushman</span> went to war with many other Texas boys in 1917 and was able to take a few photographs along the way. He never showed these to me, but spoke of them often, as even years later the whole experience still dredged up deep emotion. He saw such terrible things, experiencing the thrill of International travel, and military victory, but at the loss of many friends and fellow Americans. He left a very young man from a privileged family and came back a tough Army sergeant, with a very formidable personality. <br />
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Still, he was the man who made my brother and me grits and eggs every morning before school, waited on my invalid grandmother like a doting servant, and told us tall tales of yesteryear when we would listen... then years later I got my hands on his photo collection... his cameras, and war mementos. They speak for themselves.<br />
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<em>SEE EUROPE by mass transit! (on "Corn Willie")</em></div>
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<em>Luxurious accommodations!</em></div>
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<em>NIGHT LIFE! Sgt. Cushman looks as if he was the designated driver...</em></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC_3WmaLlV4r_0TZKycVj5POXxV-uF26_6UN5e8Z-zEXNizsvDCVGDBirrxH9n8RtxXz3FeYTwbwFfT3V3tfQC_3A38IdtxKNqPkK5YqC1jX_WPlCn8LhiYkovDRHq9u3RkHqauobWilM/s1600/shaffer+n+croop+with+budz_redcd.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC_3WmaLlV4r_0TZKycVj5POXxV-uF26_6UN5e8Z-zEXNizsvDCVGDBirrxH9n8RtxXz3FeYTwbwFfT3V3tfQC_3A38IdtxKNqPkK5YqC1jX_WPlCn8LhiYkovDRHq9u3RkHqauobWilM/s640/shaffer+n+croop+with+budz_redcd.bmp" width="452" /></a></div>
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<em>Gut German Bier! In a sense it was like a European vacation with incredible risks for many. That's Sgt Shaffer on the left, Private Croop in the middle.</em></div>
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<em>Friendly locals!</em></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGW7as6_hzUtlrcTxgz2lEvEXQElQcQsYoD65uFlVQv-a0yVrC6o9ntA7IetWdmZxKhzOmKH-jVsg-4xJ23oRnm3TSR4wwY21NnAB0kKGSztpkY9L8hK_Wv_yZmWFqn0E7WlgXtTlWvTc/s1600/spike+helmet+fafer+amber_redcd.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGW7as6_hzUtlrcTxgz2lEvEXQElQcQsYoD65uFlVQv-a0yVrC6o9ntA7IetWdmZxKhzOmKH-jVsg-4xJ23oRnm3TSR4wwY21NnAB0kKGSztpkY9L8hK_Wv_yZmWFqn0E7WlgXtTlWvTc/s640/spike+helmet+fafer+amber_redcd.bmp" width="579" /></a></div>
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<em>SOUVENIRS! : They obtained these spiked helmets from German POW's, and posed with them along with the German crosses around their necks... To my grandfather this was a wild stunt. I saw the helmet once, in neglected condition, when my family burned a little junk shack in the back yard.</em></div>
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A little friendly staff rough housing... Sgts. Cushman, Young and Gee gang up and take down Sgt. Garlock...</div>
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<em>"KP" duty: Behavior modification for those indiscreet individuals who get caught stepping out of line.</em></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And now for the real story!</span></div>
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Russell Cushmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12125943782255815588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1784694480085744568.post-79245724776381319892013-12-29T14:44:00.000-08:002014-01-12T19:47:27.438-08:00The Story of the 90th Division- American Expeditionary Forces<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<em>A few of the 345th Artillery at Camp Travis right after enlistment, 1917</em></div>
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<em>They grew up fast. Sergeants Cushman and Shaffer pose with 1st Lt Albert B. Cowan at Division HQ.</em></div>
<em></em><br />
<em>My grandfather <strong>Ralph B. Cushman</strong> served as a Regimental Sergent Major in France and occupied Germany during WWI in the famed <strong>90th Division</strong> made up of Texas and Oklahoma recruits. He was officially in the 345th Field Artillery, but was assigned to the Headquarters under <strong>Colonel George L. Wertenbaker</strong>. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>At some point he was given the task of keeping a scrapbook for the regiment. He used his own camera and made a few extra copies of the photographs which ended up in his desk in Houston. His camera and photographic skill were not the greatest... but still they made a valuable record for us today, almost one hundred years later. Among the photos and a stack of negatives was the following article which he saved from the Houston Post... which tells their story well. I have inserted his photos where they seemed most appropriate.</em><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY38JXr-PZLNvCyLMQGL_Jvxm2IFUAENraca4DKPRnzrvbC4XIrCacnYf_0in0_WSPLRuIMukWym3cZTOY3K6V7jiOeEMU_iwDG4UfDaXuugkx4PAsDREgUvFjzbVPaLklEAnLcYf2Ceg/s1600/Sgts+Young+-Gee-Garlock-Cushman.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY38JXr-PZLNvCyLMQGL_Jvxm2IFUAENraca4DKPRnzrvbC4XIrCacnYf_0in0_WSPLRuIMukWym3cZTOY3K6V7jiOeEMU_iwDG4UfDaXuugkx4PAsDREgUvFjzbVPaLklEAnLcYf2Ceg/s640/Sgts+Young+-Gee-Garlock-Cushman.bmp" width="640" /></a></div>
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<em>Sgts. Young, Gee, Garlock and <strong>Cushman </strong>in Occupied Germany, 1919</em></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>1919 Houston
Post<o:p></o:p></strong></span></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 20pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Never Gave Ground Was 90<sup>th</sup>
Division’s Record<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Operations of Texas’ Great Fighting
Organization Show Orders Always Fulfilled- Campaign Is Recounted by Former
Publicity Man.<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">90<sup>th</sup>
Division</b>, composed almost entirely of Texas and Oklahoma men, went through
the great European conflict with a record that was never surpassed, and seldom
equaled by any of its comrade organizations. Not once during the great final
drive into the heart of the Hindenburg line did the Texas lads hesitate and in
no instance do records show where one foot of ground was given to the foe in
the desperate, last stand to stem the tide of defeat.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR94UyhgawhubXaN32ZNTyVBi4eiLFvhyb00wu7IK8umzbAAlQUe32nRq1X3-InSUp__ZFUUkyca7oDiyk4RTBfkZXWGg3oMbazIQNf3PH89kFaT7jmNrIoY4xVEXi8sjfTxejo80yrXw/s1600/pistoleros+Lts+Garlington-Andrews_FXD.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR94UyhgawhubXaN32ZNTyVBi4eiLFvhyb00wu7IK8umzbAAlQUe32nRq1X3-InSUp__ZFUUkyca7oDiyk4RTBfkZXWGg3oMbazIQNf3PH89kFaT7jmNrIoY4xVEXi8sjfTxejo80yrXw/s400/pistoleros+Lts+Garlington-Andrews_FXD.bmp" width="397" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><em>Target practice: Lts. Garlington and Andrews.</em></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">These facts comprise the gist of a communication
written by <strong>Major Ike Ashburn</strong> from Berncastle, Gernany. Major Ashburn was a
former publicity director for A. and M. College and is well known in Texas as a
newspaper man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He recounts incidents
during the great campaign in which the 90<sup>th</sup> Division played so
prominent a role. He skeletonizes the operations of the organization from the
time the division first went into action until the day when hostilities were
suspended. One of the outstanding features of his letter is the fact that never
was the 90<sup>th</sup> Division assigned to a task but that it didn’t
accomplish the desires of the higher staff as desired.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The 90<sup>th</sup> Division left Camp Travis for
overseas service on June 6<sup>th</sup>, 1918. Major Ashburn’s communication is
as follows:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“It’s a far cry from Texas and Oklahoma to the army
of occupation, which spreads itself along the Rhine and Moselle Rivers,
“outposting civilization” as the doughboy says, but nevertheless newspapers
from the two states have been filtering through to the 90<sup>th</sup> Division
as of late.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2hBSQYugDX3t-oh22tN-_wk0FMxWvSl36BpUZIiD4o15OBzDRV3TJe3khGlp0oIsdWLJtauZc6RyWbdpAyjzkfaoiXV7WinlGE31rhMmt_U9zCCgeJ_9oIfRd7RshyWgxmjD1BSAEll0/s1600/shipping+out-AEF+PULLMAN+FR+REDCD+CROPT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="332" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2hBSQYugDX3t-oh22tN-_wk0FMxWvSl36BpUZIiD4o15OBzDRV3TJe3khGlp0oIsdWLJtauZc6RyWbdpAyjzkfaoiXV7WinlGE31rhMmt_U9zCCgeJ_9oIfRd7RshyWgxmjD1BSAEll0/s640/shipping+out-AEF+PULLMAN+FR+REDCD+CROPT.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><em>The AEF version of a Pullman Car...</em></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">From this angle it would seem that but little has
been said and less is known concerning the activities of the 90<sup>th</sup>
Division since it left Camp Travis early in last June for overseas service. For
that reason below is given, in general, a brief outline of the services of this
division, which now with the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">1<sup>st</sup>,
2<sup>nd</sup>, 3<sup>rd</sup>, 4<sup>th</sup>, 32<sup>nd</sup>, 42<sup>nd</sup>,</b>
and its sister and splendid division, the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">89<sup>th</sup></b>,
comprise the army of occupation in Germany.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The headquarters of the 90<sup>th</sup> Division are
at Berncastle, on the Moselle, about 80 kilometers southwest of Coblenz. The
division is scattered over a large area, occupying 70 towns, most of which are
between Berncastle and the Rhine and Daun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Headquarters of the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">359<sup>th</sup>
Infantry</b> is about 50 kilometers from the Rhine, and is perhaps is the most
advanced post of the 90th.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Men of the Texas-Oklahoma division are being given
leave to visit Coblenz, and a feature of their entertainment there is a boat
ride along the historic Rhine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Left Camp
June 6<sup>th</sup>,<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">But back to the brief review of the division. As is
generally known, units began leaving <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Camp
Travis</b> on June 6<sup>th</sup>, 1918 for <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Camp Mills</b>, where full equipment was supplied, sailing lists
completed, and other necessary details for overseas duty completed. Practically
all of the units sailed for Liverpool, and passed through England, though some
sailed direct to French ports. In <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Liverpool</b>
the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">358<sup>th</sup> infantry</b> paraded
on July 4<sup>th</sup> before Lieutenant Campbell of the English forces, and
the lord mayor of that city. The <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">375<sup>th</sup>
infantry</b> paraded in <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Southhampton</b>
on that date. Tremendous ovations were given these troops, as well as troops by
the English.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9J2djZe3FO3uPm_2vI779OtzxWt_ip9tNOWgPX1Axg-l7-gtJ_BXseGPBh8EASxkNJObG2TLW2mo-X7O4BLMaLC3qc6ZwLoW462_JQzQX3EyM1ZTNbiPqPexf0nxEadd0qy5HEvmS6YE/s1600/army+transport+REDCD.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="355" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9J2djZe3FO3uPm_2vI779OtzxWt_ip9tNOWgPX1Axg-l7-gtJ_BXseGPBh8EASxkNJObG2TLW2mo-X7O4BLMaLC3qc6ZwLoW462_JQzQX3EyM1ZTNbiPqPexf0nxEadd0qy5HEvmS6YE/s640/army+transport+REDCD.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><em>A view for doughboys leaving the Jersey shores...</em></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Through Southhampton to <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">La Havre</b>, and then to <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Training
Area No. 14</b>, a new area, in the department of Cote d’Ore, the division next
passed division headquarters were established at <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Aignay-le-Duc</b>, a picturesque French town near <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Dijon</b>. The <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">165<sup>th</sup>
field artillery brigade</b> was sent to the artillery training area near
Bordeaux.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM_pbm7PtNI8xl2t6i1ImZi5_JaNTEoEnKgeD9fKJIQ032EFZI3OuiUj1lN-MosQDXpc18xgyBxJtg7eHpTIbddpE-zKOiswipNy5S9innPfii1yLGtPGy3d5fNW1RsQyoWAFBJMuTtbI/s1600/Americans+arrive-St+Nazaire-Kentuckian+oversees+REDCD.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM_pbm7PtNI8xl2t6i1ImZi5_JaNTEoEnKgeD9fKJIQ032EFZI3OuiUj1lN-MosQDXpc18xgyBxJtg7eHpTIbddpE-zKOiswipNy5S9innPfii1yLGtPGy3d5fNW1RsQyoWAFBJMuTtbI/s640/Americans+arrive-St+Nazaire-Kentuckian+oversees+REDCD.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><em>A small detatchment went ahead and landed at St Nazaire, France.</em></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">In these areas the troops underwent a period of
intensive training for six weeks. On the completion of this training, the
division moved to the front near <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Toul</b>,
relieving the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">1st Division</b>. The
first unit to go in took over a sector on the night of August 19-20. The
division sector extended from <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Pont –a
–Mousson</b> westward to <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Limey</b>.
Aggressive patrolling by night gave the division possession of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">No-Man’s Land</b>, and that land soon
became “Yankee Land.” Artillery was moving up and concentrating back of the
lines, moves always being made at night, and positions camouflaged by day, and
even the uninitiated doughboy knew that the feverish preparation meant
something.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLiuQx2inywZ2-1mK1mtjycp6C8hsgoxlX94tErtbhvijgJHDwsRq_etZoR4P6l4TewLv5H_BB6R9LPUxNa96IIXVtvfL9wN3YEJadw2xj5FPcI6trVojad2bnpUZJ2krFnY8jyd5VLow/s1600/Capt+Willard+Berman-++Col+Geo.+L_CROPT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLiuQx2inywZ2-1mK1mtjycp6C8hsgoxlX94tErtbhvijgJHDwsRq_etZoR4P6l4TewLv5H_BB6R9LPUxNa96IIXVtvfL9wN3YEJadw2xj5FPcI6trVojad2bnpUZJ2krFnY8jyd5VLow/s400/Capt+Willard+Berman-++Col+Geo.+L_CROPT.jpg" width="288" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><em>Capt. Willard Berman and Col. George L.Wertenbaker</em></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Held
Pivotal Position<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">And then came the first American push- the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">St. Miheil drive</b>. The 90<sup>th</sup>
had seen less than a month’s actual experience, but due to its splendid showing
in that time and in the training area, it was chosen to participate in the all
American engagement. More than that, it was given a pivotal position in the
line. For some divisions the St. Milheil fight was nothing more than a parade
or practice march. But not so for the 90th. The men of that organization fought
over a stubbornly contested ground. German official reports on the St. Milheil
battle state that heavy reinforcements were thrown into the sector attacked by
the 90<sup>th</sup>, and the defensive program carried out called for heavy
resistance on the pivot to permit the safe withdrawal of troops in the pocket
of the salient. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaqJSOhe6J1-QQH4IvoSu3qAKt1wpeNJBa_YcwMAHy59XCkbI0WU8Wc5GYORNa4W2ko0UiJHKKou6HVu1ilvhyphenhyphenJtnoMlMcGn1Q3SNoH_7p6VEP9REQTnnR653aGyBqcf9gA20zUFynwFE/s1600/AIR+ATTACK+REDCD_CROPT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="369" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaqJSOhe6J1-QQH4IvoSu3qAKt1wpeNJBa_YcwMAHy59XCkbI0WU8Wc5GYORNa4W2ko0UiJHKKou6HVu1ilvhyphenhyphenJtnoMlMcGn1Q3SNoH_7p6VEP9REQTnnR653aGyBqcf9gA20zUFynwFE/s640/AIR+ATTACK+REDCD_CROPT.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><em>Air attack</em> <em>over Paris- unknown photographer</em></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">At 5: a.m. on Sept 12, after an artillery
preparation of four hours, the division assaulted . By 2: p. m. all objectives
had been reached, in spite of deep ravines, dense woods, barbed wire, steel
nets, concrete trenches and machine guns. At one point the infantry was held,
but fire from the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">153<sup>rd</sup> field
artillery brigade</b> broke the resistance. During the night of Sept. 12-13,
the infantry exploited the success. One battalion in Bois Venchere encountered
two regiments of hostile infantry. A hand to hand struggle insued, in which the
enemy was routed. On the 14<sup>th</sup> the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Norroy</b> quarries and the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Bois
de Pretre</b> were carried and on the following day the advance continued until
the Hindenburg line was reached.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the
23<sup>rd</sup> a raiding party penetrated that line, a feat accomplished , it
is believed, by only one other division during the St. Milheil operations.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgqAMCZ2u7w7U4SUp2punBZeDG1tqbQp_FLAYP0RgV05z1uBnsEpRQdFkDKDVDq-cq9ur4gbw2pioFw6HvV0U4P3yDfOghnSmkBjq8x87Ndscw1BHfID-i0KkX17EfUdEbodJR69aOCMo/s1600/salute+on+way+to+Salmrohr,+Germany+REDCD+CROPT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgqAMCZ2u7w7U4SUp2punBZeDG1tqbQp_FLAYP0RgV05z1uBnsEpRQdFkDKDVDq-cq9ur4gbw2pioFw6HvV0U4P3yDfOghnSmkBjq8x87Ndscw1BHfID-i0KkX17EfUdEbodJR69aOCMo/s640/salute+on+way+to+Salmrohr,+Germany+REDCD+CROPT.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Continually
Under Fire<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Throughout the advance and the ensuing period of
reorganization, the enemy from positions east of the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Moselle</b> maintained a heavy and continuous fire, which not only
enfiladed our positions but came diagonally from the rear.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZyjM-HVAMJzrEazQaEIwzC1xlgfs42hnwcXC7hv0YXzwrN9zDuqCJ6QHLsf5lplXMtOkbXYVkAPTn1KTKPKAovzwHRlak8n_Ai7Ee-aCod9PdTguCglYgwm9KI7aYw8BmPY5IYbiVzgQ/s1600/dugouts-tphone+sta+1+km+fr+St+Michiel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="412" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZyjM-HVAMJzrEazQaEIwzC1xlgfs42hnwcXC7hv0YXzwrN9zDuqCJ6QHLsf5lplXMtOkbXYVkAPTn1KTKPKAovzwHRlak8n_Ai7Ee-aCod9PdTguCglYgwm9KI7aYw8BmPY5IYbiVzgQ/s640/dugouts-tphone+sta+1+km+fr+St+Michiel.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><em>A ruin just a kilometer outside of St Milheil. Once the home of three enemy dugouts and a a telephone station, now reduced to rubble by the 90th Division artillery.</em></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">On Oct 10<sup>th</sup> the 90<sup>th</sup> Division
was relieved by the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">7<sup>th</sup>
Division</b>, and immediately embussed for the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Verdun</b> sector. Before the last elements arrived there it moved
forward as reserve for the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">3<sup>rd</sup>
Corps</b>. In the night if Oct 21-22, the division relieved the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">5<sup>th</sup> Division</b> in <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Bois des Rappes</b>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At 3:p. m. Oct 23<sup>rd</sup>, advancing in
the midst of a tremendous artillery duel it took and held the towns of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Bantheville</b> and <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Bourrut</b>, and the high ground northwest of them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">During the next week the division improved its
position, reaching the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Bantheville</b>-<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Aincreville</b> road and holding it despite
the hostile artillery fire which veterans of Cantigny and Soissons state was,
during this period, the most terrific they had ever experienced. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPIiJHnped-2qaLtlIAju8h8oQ23Nh5WmmMhdFHGNLvUAbH_5szoqfMdjWQKKd1KzWhYvwwi36vtiSupjoLB55_Zi4UcoqEcJeoFl2IiiTyk27eecdlWsAgrDDaeYEKhyphenhyphen5PcXevYZswMU/s1600/dug+out+REDCD_CROPT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="323" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPIiJHnped-2qaLtlIAju8h8oQ23Nh5WmmMhdFHGNLvUAbH_5szoqfMdjWQKKd1KzWhYvwwi36vtiSupjoLB55_Zi4UcoqEcJeoFl2IiiTyk27eecdlWsAgrDDaeYEKhyphenhyphen5PcXevYZswMU/s640/dug+out+REDCD_CROPT.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><em>Enemy bunker captured by the 90th Division</em></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">On Nov 1<sup>st</sup> at 5:30 a. m. after two hours’
of artillery preparation, the division again assaulted, encountering the best
divisions of the German army. The fighting was desperate, the hostile
artillerymen firing over open sights till surrounded. Our infantry was
splendidly supported by the 75’s of the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">155<sup>th</sup>
field artillery</b> <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">brigade</b>. When
the infantry was held, batteries galloped forward under machine gun fire and in
spite of losses literally blew the hostile positions off the map. By 9:p. m.
the entire Freya line including <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">hill 243</b>
and the town of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Villers-devant-Dun</b>
had been taken.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxY062GxKmJ8Uie-D_fftLkCro8OGQcPJONjAkooCjuAU5waKMweqa5PAwDvuy7Y3lJ9UHtvSOfP_XRHK4S3BLxvY9Xg-kCX-zZ0EmrA5suzPvYWMK7uS8UCiN87JQFjAJhYvZ5qj9rbo/s1600/drivers+redcd.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxY062GxKmJ8Uie-D_fftLkCro8OGQcPJONjAkooCjuAU5waKMweqa5PAwDvuy7Y3lJ9UHtvSOfP_XRHK4S3BLxvY9Xg-kCX-zZ0EmrA5suzPvYWMK7uS8UCiN87JQFjAJhYvZ5qj9rbo/s640/drivers+redcd.bmp" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><em>Drivers for the top brass await their passengers.</em></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The division pressed the pursuit, reaching the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Meuse</b> November 3<sup>rd</sup>, and
taking <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Wiseppe</b> November 5. On
November 9<sup>th</sup> it crossed the river, and after a night march of 20
kilometers again attacked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By 4 p. m.
November 10th, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Baaion </b>was taken and
our troops were fighting in <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Stenay</b>,
from which the enemy was driven during the night.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOBiDzKdOT2i2vRvaHC4fpeirwEFTyFUxNi9ivRt8JNB8nyYX8EHhg3_jyLeZEXw3_8LViWdTv50vm16l9hhqKq2dhKDduB618BG4LelOHawobQc4v50IodDTcd5Kr4KYhyphenhyphenpIXKM53ctQ/s1600/sopwith+camel+REDCD_CROPT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="368" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOBiDzKdOT2i2vRvaHC4fpeirwEFTyFUxNi9ivRt8JNB8nyYX8EHhg3_jyLeZEXw3_8LViWdTv50vm16l9hhqKq2dhKDduB618BG4LelOHawobQc4v50IodDTcd5Kr4KYhyphenhyphenpIXKM53ctQ/s640/sopwith+camel+REDCD_CROPT.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><em>German biplane crashed into a barn.</em></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The average advance made by the division at Milheil
was six kilometers, at Verdun 22. The division was under fire from August 20<sup>th</sup>
to November 11<sup>th</sup>, with the exception of 7 days occupied in changing
sector; 75 days without a relief. During that time it went “over the top” in
two major offensive and seven minor operations, not counting exploitations and
pursuits, and was still advancing when halted by the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">armistice.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Victory
Spoils Big<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The division captured 25 pieces of heavy artillery,
122 light machine guns, 72 heavy machine guns, 903 rifles, and immense
quantities of ammunition and stores. It also took prisoners, 32 officers and
1844 men.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Casualties amounted to 37 officers 1042 men killed;
62 officers and1257 men se[verely?] wounded; 123 officers and 4671 s[lightly?]
wounded; 81 officers and 2094 men [?] seven officers and 236 men missing. O[f
those?] gassed there were 17 deaths. Twelve hundred and four were evacuated.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtdbwRto_X2wp-slH1yNLb5VKV0zvV6MN-QCRkMCEhoaX9H8gD090T3DKvzlEhs60MJAg8qbrh5rmuri7aNl6gg1vwFouZmijdk-tkP7Qc8VWDUv5dtHcS4SiT4RkAwQhlHMjNew01zRo/s1600/skull+ditch+REDCD+CROPT_RICH.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtdbwRto_X2wp-slH1yNLb5VKV0zvV6MN-QCRkMCEhoaX9H8gD090T3DKvzlEhs60MJAg8qbrh5rmuri7aNl6gg1vwFouZmijdk-tkP7Qc8VWDUv5dtHcS4SiT4RkAwQhlHMjNew01zRo/s400/skull+ditch+REDCD+CROPT_RICH.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span> </div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Never
Withdrew Foot<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The 90<sup>th</sup> Division never withdrew from a
foot of ground it had been ordered to hold. It always fulfilled every mission
assigned in less than the time allotted. It has had less than half a dozen
“battle stragglers” charged against its report. Not only did it gain the
objectives in every operation in which it took part, but it never failed to
reach and pass the exploitation line. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsbs3lpHNcJo34JnYImdvJH6En9lHaW01mWuA_5x2fYPtk1PLYiR9tPAwhMnp4LMQhtaOSefrc_ZMbq6HSKPueJsukfMiMsXf4btGaXYj_M9tyyj0cD5UFoTdJ_3ypIi6oZSAzTliXe2w/s1600/oxen+army+redcd.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="368" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsbs3lpHNcJo34JnYImdvJH6En9lHaW01mWuA_5x2fYPtk1PLYiR9tPAwhMnp4LMQhtaOSefrc_ZMbq6HSKPueJsukfMiMsXf4btGaXYj_M9tyyj0cD5UFoTdJ_3ypIi6oZSAzTliXe2w/s640/oxen+army+redcd.bmp" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span> <em>Trucks were scarce in France, and Texas country boys knew just what to do.</em></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">At the conclusion of the armistice, the 90<sup>th</sup>
Division was assigned with the 89<sup>th</sup> (its comrade throughout the
campaign) to the 7<sup>th</sup> corps of the 3<sup>rd</sup> army. As part of</span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">the
7<sup>th</sup> corps, the division marched to Stenay, across <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Luxembourg to Rhenish Prussia.</b> The 7<sup>th</sup>
corps having been designated as reserve to the 3<sup>rd</sup> army, the 90<sup>th</sup>
division shortly before Christmas settled into winter quarters along the
Moselle River in the vicinity of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Berncastle
</b>where it was rejoined by the 165<sup>th</sup> artillery brigade.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqkH7jj0kqkvFuf07_6v8XZS2XxWWK73klrgPuMw5gD5Ryea79hqwZH9Y17UGKManbAov2OUt36y93V6KJlew2Hh3PJ-9o37LL21dw3mBeJCUpLPxkZtefGMmKtQH37LHrt4d-XHfWIvE/s1600/trenches+REDCD+SHARP.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqkH7jj0kqkvFuf07_6v8XZS2XxWWK73klrgPuMw5gD5Ryea79hqwZH9Y17UGKManbAov2OUt36y93V6KJlew2Hh3PJ-9o37LL21dw3mBeJCUpLPxkZtefGMmKtQH37LHrt4d-XHfWIvE/s640/trenches+REDCD+SHARP.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span><em> Trenches where soldiers spent weeks and months at a time. This changed when the 90th arrived.</em></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Command
Is Shifted<o:p></o:p></span></span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">From mobilization to the close of the campaign the
division was commanded by <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Major General
Henry T. Allen</b>. Shortly after the conclusion of the armistice, General
Allen was assigned to command the 8<sup>th</sup> army corps. Command to the
division then passed to <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Brigadier
General J. P. O’Neil</b>, who continued to command during the march into
Germany as part of the army occupation. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Major
General Charles H. Martin </b>now commands the division.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-f7UMG1yu2BBnrMCJkdM9uopjjP4etZpzfhrv3ymAv2SUBt2iY99UK2Wc8NO_oLqLN0KssXoLnVk6gNubaRVX0ykhtiLD4s1SuvhDzZxKV35QJgQ57XnUW1CVbJPTH6VCnrB3KBa1wb8/s1600/HQ+sepia+fxd_redcd.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-f7UMG1yu2BBnrMCJkdM9uopjjP4etZpzfhrv3ymAv2SUBt2iY99UK2Wc8NO_oLqLN0KssXoLnVk6gNubaRVX0ykhtiLD4s1SuvhDzZxKV35QJgQ57XnUW1CVbJPTH6VCnrB3KBa1wb8/s400/HQ+sepia+fxd_redcd.bmp" width="323" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><em> HQ. for 345th Field Artillery, 90th Division, Third Army in Neumagen, Germany</em></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">As a final tribute to the work of the division, the
commanding general of the 1<sup>st</sup> American army authorized Major General
Allen to publish to his troops the following statement:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">In a recent conversation with the Commander in
Chief, I told him that the 90<sup>th</sup> was as good a division as the
___(three divisions named as given) and that he had no better division in his
army than the 90<sup>th</sup>.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6tZtuFygJ9sEKey5dvMkKFTwKebOLcBbu28g6nIUrht56GNjErIwOKEunD6hiQYkM9RhO6JzLCJOFfQC5-7loTqx4wx0oELMw_ELtBHRcXjHhz5otsW7j2SDPOo7HYaYFQoHdn_3lWDw/s1600/color+sgt+bill+stalcup+345th+FA_repaired+REDCD.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6tZtuFygJ9sEKey5dvMkKFTwKebOLcBbu28g6nIUrht56GNjErIwOKEunD6hiQYkM9RhO6JzLCJOFfQC5-7loTqx4wx0oELMw_ELtBHRcXjHhz5otsW7j2SDPOo7HYaYFQoHdn_3lWDw/s640/color+sgt+bill+stalcup+345th+FA_repaired+REDCD.jpg" width="402" /></a></div>
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<em>A souvenir from Sgt. Bill Stalcup.</em></div>
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<em></em> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV2JuFZFhxefVyn-NpmGojGVHmW7W9INlvngviJBTeyQOaL5c6GcsCWQbvjuI4Xqw1MO6FgT4jqJ_LwWGoTjlLn1VzSFRFrhWWbk0e-ea2hY3BqJwNjZDCpP2HzRYFrMULbjbDXOD8uNU/s1600/parade.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV2JuFZFhxefVyn-NpmGojGVHmW7W9INlvngviJBTeyQOaL5c6GcsCWQbvjuI4Xqw1MO6FgT4jqJ_LwWGoTjlLn1VzSFRFrhWWbk0e-ea2hY3BqJwNjZDCpP2HzRYFrMULbjbDXOD8uNU/s320/parade.bmp" width="320" /></a></div>
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<em>The 90th parades in San Antonio after its return to Texas</em><br />
<em></em> </div>
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Russell Cushmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12125943782255815588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1784694480085744568.post-70861138850584880702013-12-23T08:00:00.000-08:002013-12-23T08:00:12.749-08:00Warmest feelings to the family... both blood kin and those adopted in!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">We need Christmas</span> to make us stop and remember those precious days of innocence, and <u>Him</u> who was the most innocent of all, who came to purchase our iniquities. We must hold on to them both!</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaUxL0sBn6eRgNthWumjeQQNXQCNzkGFYdKDE3iDwiGnmOZtsgkPup8rYUajnkno_UwZjrPf4zKrRctmyrfEos9PyxgQwCD2gxnQxomTHeG1pTslDFSaUO5rdenNHaJyesakoUUG2Bmjo/s1600/xmas+wonder.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="397" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaUxL0sBn6eRgNthWumjeQQNXQCNzkGFYdKDE3iDwiGnmOZtsgkPup8rYUajnkno_UwZjrPf4zKrRctmyrfEos9PyxgQwCD2gxnQxomTHeG1pTslDFSaUO5rdenNHaJyesakoUUG2Bmjo/s400/xmas+wonder.bmp" width="400" /></a><br />Ralph and Russell Cushman, about 1956</div>
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Russell Cushmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12125943782255815588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1784694480085744568.post-22177235523259719672013-12-14T12:06:00.003-08:002014-01-12T19:20:48.109-08:00The Coveted BEIN SPOON<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Not BEAN spoon… Bein spoon. A once highly esteemed silver spoon, out of circulation and unknown for almost half a century, may be coveted once again.</span></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Recently I
visited my stepmother Mildred Cushman who is always finding “one more thing” of
my father’s, found stashed away. She sheepishly handed me this tattered old envelope
barely enveloping an old silver spoon… and a crude note scrawled with pen and
ink on a very old envelope…</span></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZM6qk0qguEOkRyw88QRGwiIOEMEtRorT86YnTXhPs4sGJoM_yrvJ7CIcRt6PSk18bmqVRVNXzl4JjbIcLhZx3xLGQNze3Xx2xrnbLZIwDL-ezhGe2MGAh9Kl_86rFyEypR0BL63gw3ug/s1600/bein+harland+spoon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZM6qk0qguEOkRyw88QRGwiIOEMEtRorT86YnTXhPs4sGJoM_yrvJ7CIcRt6PSk18bmqVRVNXzl4JjbIcLhZx3xLGQNze3Xx2xrnbLZIwDL-ezhGe2MGAh9Kl_86rFyEypR0BL63gw3ug/s400/bein+harland+spoon.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 20pt; line-height: 115%;">From the note <span style="font-size: large;">we learn several previously unknown
family facts. </span></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">There was an important <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">spoon</b>, passed down for CENTURIES. </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">Erwin’s
and Edith’s and Jane’s and Mattie’s mother, <strong>Jane Bein Cushman</strong>, might have been called
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">“Nanan.”</b> </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">She might have had a sister
known to the family as “Aunt Kitty.” This might have been her older sister Catherine.</span></i></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></em><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmS39AeB6chN6dQHlvQOZ41sTDMIOfWuIvH1b-P7kS86SL2KwDJu7YDQgnicsnK1NrFQfq30L9Ru5a5oAd1BLCmh7hTbKFGnMGC-pdFjQyfrRXp3pVJz8xF4eaHwyXZQm1aqyJUbH2_5s/s1600/bein+girls+imvd_cropt+redcd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmS39AeB6chN6dQHlvQOZ41sTDMIOfWuIvH1b-P7kS86SL2KwDJu7YDQgnicsnK1NrFQfq30L9Ru5a5oAd1BLCmh7hTbKFGnMGC-pdFjQyfrRXp3pVJz8xF4eaHwyXZQm1aqyJUbH2_5s/s640/bein+girls+imvd_cropt+redcd.jpg" width="504" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>Catherine (I think) and Jane Bein, from an ambrotype (photo on glass) circa 1860. I found and restored this very old and rare photograph, after finally identifying these two. I was even more pleased when I realized they were the owners of the spoon!</em></div>
<em><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Their mother was Mary Milligan (Liddle) Bein. They believed the old spoon had belonged to their mother's mother, who would have been Sara Betz of New York.</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">And they chose to give this treasure to
the one person who had no children to pass it on to... </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">But I know from personal
experience that Aunt Edith,"Tante," took her custody of things-Cushman very conscientiously. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She gave me items belonging to her own husband,
Dr. Russell Caffery, because I was named after him. It must have been tough, as
there was not something for everyone. </span></i></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></em><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj46HaDfL3SlFa4x2EKgw6HKh-OKGKvC8fVb-JGVvNNAyv5B3a8XM8JsNFuW4kVj5zDgCxl0DtgxY3YtWcRmBh2n62MhyphenhyphenH5TPHiB1getL3h0jRKB-Ws5NESs9MOmr05DUAIi0DjpKh23hY/s1600/tante.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj46HaDfL3SlFa4x2EKgw6HKh-OKGKvC8fVb-JGVvNNAyv5B3a8XM8JsNFuW4kVj5zDgCxl0DtgxY3YtWcRmBh2n62MhyphenhyphenH5TPHiB1getL3h0jRKB-Ws5NESs9MOmr05DUAIi0DjpKh23hY/s400/tante.bmp" width="221" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">"Tante." Edith Cushman Caffery.</span></i></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">I’ll never forget</span> when she called me over
and presented Dr. Russell Caffery's pocket watch to me. </span></i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjHwsDERFOWVdR-a-hf6w0w0uOSZtkoBQq65vkUtqIdr0tJjtebdVeW0fX1kyWAsvZHDQZJXq47d-YuiVRIy2sxM-aJim2Wt1MyXw5SLN8sbi1TqxlFmUZPMo892vgd7FT__2qTTCbnGs/s1600/CAFFERY+WATCH_REDCD.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjHwsDERFOWVdR-a-hf6w0w0uOSZtkoBQq65vkUtqIdr0tJjtebdVeW0fX1kyWAsvZHDQZJXq47d-YuiVRIy2sxM-aJim2Wt1MyXw5SLN8sbi1TqxlFmUZPMo892vgd7FT__2qTTCbnGs/s320/CAFFERY+WATCH_REDCD.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">It was, to me and to her, as if somebody
handed me the “Holy of Holies.” I was around eight years old and barely knew
who she was. I had just been told a great yarn about my ancestor Major George W. Durant, and was glad to meet someone who might have known him. She had known him, but he was from the other side of the family, and she was quick to point out that she had a father who had served in the Confederacy. This amazed me. She died not long after that. But it was as if she had given me something
valuable in heaven. Now I have the spoon…Yes, tears gush as I remember this with
you. <o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s not the spoon.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">"Blessed be the tie that
binds."<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></i></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Whomever gets this spoon, will have to
at least understand THAT.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, my read</span> on this previously
unknown artifact is that it once belonged to Aunt Edith, whom we knew as “Tante,” the
youngest daughter of Basil Crow Cushman and wife of Dr. Russell Caffery. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had been passed on to her not without some
fanfare, as it was a revered vestige of her ancestry, from the Bein branch of
the family… estimated by her to have been <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">200
years old in 1928.</b> </span></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So the spoon, believed to have been from the Eighteenth
Century, would have been the oldest known heirloom in the family.
For it to be that old, it could have been the soup spoon of any number of Bein ancestors, which dated back to Colonial times. It would have been
passed down through Jane Bein, born in 1839, daughter of Dr. Richard and Mary
(Liddle) Milligan Bein. Since they were probably not born until the early 1800’s,
it is possible this spoon was in either the Liddle or Milligan families generations before anyone kept track. The notes read as transcribed:<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">(From an OLD envelope inside an aged envelope,
on which was written;)<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">1977 <o:p></o:p></b></span></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Antique spoon from Aunt
Edie in 1928<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">Jane C.IP </span></i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">(in person?)</span></i><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Presented
to<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>James A. & <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jane Rollins<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Christmas-
<u>1928</u></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span style="text-decoration: none;"> </span></o:p></span></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span style="text-decoration: none;"></span></o:p></span></u></b> </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">My
Dear Jane and Jim:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">As I
told Ralph & Nell<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">This
may seem to you<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">a queer
Christmas present<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">but if
you could know<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">how Nanan
& Aunt Kitty<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Bein
& all valued &<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">adored
<u>this particular</u><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">old
spoon, which is<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">the
oldest piece in<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">the
family- as it first<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">belonged
to Nanan’s<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">mother’s</span></u></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> <u>mother</u>. They had<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">A hard
time deciding<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Who to
give it to & when<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I
finally got it-I felt flattered<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">so now
I feel you are the <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">next in
line for it- so<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">please
use it & care<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">(over)<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">for it
&<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">enjoy
it &<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">then
hand it down<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">if it
lasts<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">that
long.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Devotedly,<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Aunt Edith<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">It now<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Approaches
<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">200
years<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">of age<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I
think <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I can only
surmise, that like many things, the item was given to my father because he was
the namesake and had three sons, and Aunt Janie wanted him to have it, guessing
he might find a suitable person to hand it to, to keep the spoon in context…
And Mildred ended up with the de facto honors, and she chose me because I was standing
there. Now, if Tante’s calculations were correct, the spoon is around 286 years
old!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Needless to
say, I am unworthy, and lucky and yet honored to hold it for a moment… and
looking for the next possible steward in this ancient chain…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And needless to
say, if you leave a comment on this particular blog… that will put your name in
the hat!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Note: Internet research reveals that
there was a Harland silversmithing family in Norwich, Connecticut. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Watchmaker, jeweler and silversmith, Thomas
Harland is credited with the manufacture of the first watch made completely in
America. His production of wares required a dozen helpers by around 1790. So it is possible Tante's calculations were not too far off. Thomas Harland is
known to have apprenticed many American silversmiths, including two of his sons,
Thomas and Henry. It is their maker’s mark on the back of the spoon. Henry moved
to New Orleans where he produced silverware from 1815 to the 1830’s, and this is
most likely the origin and time of manufacture of the Bein Spoon, making it at
least 180 years old... and possibly 220 years old.<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
</div>
Russell Cushmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12125943782255815588noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1784694480085744568.post-57805202204972311962013-12-08T18:46:00.001-08:002013-12-08T18:48:31.485-08:00A Well of Information.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC4tb72k06XYdIsm3l3GSjTgTng55d8Cm_tfFWVYi9vLZoDLngXrz8T1mVlKMoROckdBi1xhTTcL1wVsYpWCcRaWBq5dGSFvJIA7yV5M1ODW7w-L3Cfy1dYiVDK-8WNLuvdlPz8xTGiLM/s1600/A+CATH+atTheWell.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC4tb72k06XYdIsm3l3GSjTgTng55d8Cm_tfFWVYi9vLZoDLngXrz8T1mVlKMoROckdBi1xhTTcL1wVsYpWCcRaWBq5dGSFvJIA7yV5M1ODW7w-L3Cfy1dYiVDK-8WNLuvdlPz8xTGiLM/s320/A+CATH+atTheWell.bmp" width="288" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>First generation Texan, Catherine Cushman, my Great Aunt, at "Prosperity Farm" in Waller County, about 1917.</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>If you are kin to me</strong>, this is for you.</span> If you are not, it is still for you. This is one great American family that you will enjoy. Maybe you came here by random surfing, or you have been searching for your genealogy, or maybe you know you might be in here somewhere. My father spent a large part of his life gathering this info, long before the Internet was ever a possibility. And too bad, as it might have saved me a lot of trouble! But this HAD to be done!<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">If you find something is missing, PLEASE forward it to me!</span><br />
<br />
Anyway, this site is brand new so give me a few weeks to get it all fluffed up. <strong>I have NOTHING on the Reynolds, and very little on the Hamilton and Thomas Clans.</strong> Feel free to contribute!<br />
<br />
I'm gonna be loading this thing until the story is told.... About all the folks that my cousins once sighed dispiritedly... "They've gone to Texas!"<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhypFdojczcOHtSE9uiPjdGcyg1gWmwud2JUTFDib-Uq8DW4odwdimOLbcn1e1rd8zbpeUlfoHMRlp0Tg9LUOJCEgGd97evxVGByK5n7kdoHEQkguUUv6QB3Wbqq5Fx3Jjb_gK9duxfd_s/s1600/CathrineFlag+ERWIN.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhypFdojczcOHtSE9uiPjdGcyg1gWmwud2JUTFDib-Uq8DW4odwdimOLbcn1e1rd8zbpeUlfoHMRlp0Tg9LUOJCEgGd97evxVGByK5n7kdoHEQkguUUv6QB3Wbqq5Fx3Jjb_gK9duxfd_s/s320/CathrineFlag+ERWIN.bmp" width="243" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>The last born of Erwin and Carrie Cushman, Catherine poses with her papa on July 4th. She later became a nurse in Houston and married Louis Newman and they had one son, David.</em></div>
</div>
Russell Cushmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12125943782255815588noreply@blogger.com0