#52 Ancestors

Week 1 – An Ancestor I Admire the Most

 

It’s hard to admire a person who you didn’t know personally. Of course, there may be a lot written about someone, or stories handed down, but admiration, to me, comes from face-to- face interaction.  Based on this, it’s easy to write about an ancestor I admire the most…my dad.

 

Robert Earl Powers, Jr., was born in 1917, in Muskogee, OK. His dad was an oily, and his mother took care of him and his older sister.  Their family moved often, chasing the oil field work across Texas and Oklahoma, mostly living in camps. At times these camps consisted of nothing more than canvases thrown over a wooden frame, but if they were lucky, they might get to live in a wooden shack.  They were transient people.

 

Although polio had been around since ancient Egyptian time, it wasn’t until the 1900s when widespread epidemics developed around the globe.  I’m not sure at what age, but when my dad was very young, he contracted poliomyelitis.  A significant spike in outbreaks occurred in 1921, so one might assume this is when he was afflicted.  The debilitating illness would paralyze or kill its victims, which most often occurred in children six months to four years of age.  My grandparents were told my father would never walk.  I always knew my dad to be stubborn, and it appeared that this stubborn streak started early on, because he did learn to walk.  He wore braces on his legs for several years, but eventually, he managed to get around just fine, albeit with a substantial limp.

 

My dad was a genius, but this did not manifest itself in his educational opportunities. He hated school, didn’t like his teachers, and refused to do his homework. He was the class clown and although he never revealed anything about this to me, I have wondered if he was bullied because of his physical impairment. No matter as he would rather be earning a wage so when he was around eleven or twelve, he got a job at the local bowling alley.  He wasn’t able to bowl because of the unsteadiness on his feet, but that didn’t prevent him from excelling as a “pin-setter” long before advent of the bowling machines that automatically reset the pins today.  All that aside, he did manage to graduate from Shawnee High School.

 

While his legs were unsteady (one leg was not much bigger around that my arm and shorter), his upper body strength more than compensated for that.  After graduation, he was hired by the oil company his dad worked for. It wasn’t long before he had mastered the job of roughneck and moved on as a pipefitter. If you know anything about the oil field industry, you know how dangerous working on a rig is. Imagine a small guy (5’ 8”) with a gimpy leg able to perform the job of much more able-bodied men.

 When I said he was a genius, I didn’t say that lightly. He could fix anything, I mean anything.  If you wanted something made, he could build it. If you had a question, he knew the answer.  Always. He worked all day then came home and found projects that needed doing. I am not aware of one single time that he called in to work or took a day off. He was the hardest working man I’ve ever seen.

 

My dad overcame almost insurmountable odds. He came through it all with a wonderful sense of humor, undeniable honesty and integrity, and fierce loyalty to his family. While I admired my dad for all these attributes, the thing I admired most was his work ethic. 

Week 17 - DNA

The town I live in has a population of less than 10,000 people.  On Ancestry.com, I have more than 95,000 matches.  I share DNA with nine times as many people that live in my town, just on one testing site. When DNA was eventually made affordable to the public, I couldn’t wait to have mine tested. I was anxious to connect with distant cousins in order that we could share our love of genealogy and hopefully fill in some blank spaces in our family trees.  DNA is fascinating and can answer questions in so many different ways. Here is a sampling…

Y-DNA goes from man to father to father to father, etc.  As the written documentation ends on my Powers with my great-great grandfather, I asked my brother to have his Y-DNA tested because I desperately want to know more about my paternal line. Having his DNA tested did provide a connection to other Powers’ descendants, so we know there is a common ancestor back there somewhere.

Using Y-DNA in order to help prove descent from a specific person (in this case, a Revolutionary Patriot) I enlisted the help of a Pennington cousin.  A living descendant of patriot Robert Pennington, through the male line, with documentation to prove the lineage, matched perfectly to one of my male Pennington cousins. Although the paper trail appears to be non-existent, we were able to use scientific proof, to connect our family trees. I will be forever grateful to “NCP” for happily agreeing to have his cheek swabbed. He never hesitated when he was asked and our entire family was able to benefit by extending our family tree several more generations into the past.

Having my Autosomal DNA tested has also allowed my family tree to expand. Among those additions is a lovely lady, a former Los Angeles Police officer who recently retired to Florida, who wanted to connect with her mother’s side of the family. We were distantly related, but I was definitely intrigued to help her. While we only share enough DNA to be roughly third to fourth cousins, we were both eager to put our heads (and our trees) together to find a connection. This woman is of African descent so we both assumed that our connection occurred in the deep south, likely before emancipation. We were happily surprised to find that our connection actually occurred with a German immigrant in my family tree, and a free woman of color from hers, in St. Louis, Missouri, around 1850. As it turns out, we are third cousins once removed.

Whenever I help someone research their family history and they ask about DNA, the first thing I always say is that 1) DNA doesn't lie and 2) they need to be prepared for any results. Many adoptees who are interested in learning more about their own heritage have turned to DNA testing companies in order to locate their biological family. You never know when one might match with your DNA and you find out about a secret that has been kept hidden. I have learned this through personal experience.

A recent instance involves a young woman, an only child, who was raised by her mother.  She learned as a teenager that her biological father was not the man who raised her. She contacted me as we matched with a significantly high number of centimorgans (the unit of measure to determine the relationship between two people). I was most curious to find her place in my tree.  Her circumstance is not unusual, as she wanted to find her people. Those who share her DNA. She’s found us now, and has also has several new half-siblings that she never knew existed.

A woman, about my age, reached out a few years ago. She was given up for adoption at birth and our DNA matched at 236 centimorgans, which roughly equals second cousins. Secrets or not, I was eager to help her find which of our ancestors we shared. The couple who adopted her were great folks and she had never been interested in trying to find her biological family. Her sister, who was also adopted, had her DNA tested ‘on a whim’ and almost immediately found hers. This sparked an interest.  It didn’t take long to figure out how we were related, and I was acquainted with, who we believed to be, her biological mother.  Her assumptive mother was a cousin of my own mother. She lived out of state and I felt comfortable enough in giving her a call. It was probably the strangest call I’ve ever made. I told her about this woman who had contacted me because we shared DNA and that I was helping her try and figure out how she fit into our family. I asked if she remembered a baby girl being given up for adoption around this woman’s birthdate. She “really thought hard,” but then said nothing at all came to memory. We began to chat and catch up, but she kept breaking in to ask questions about this new-found cousin. Had I met her? Seen a picture? What did she look like? Was she married? Did she have any children? Where did she live? Just an almost constant barrage requesting details. Then she told me that if this DNA match wanted to talk to her, please give out her phone number. The two did make contact and over the course of the next few years, they developed a relationship, but my mother’s cousin never admitted to being the biological mother. She even offered to submit a DNA sample to “prove” it wasn’t her, which she did. The results were exactly as we expected…she was the mother. Even with this, she was adamant the DNA was wrong, and my new cousin graciously didn’t push the issue. My mom’s cousin died in 2020 and although she took her secret to the grave, her daughter was happy just to get to know her biological mother, in whatever capacity she was willing.

One more cousin and I met more than twenty years ago. She was also given up for adoption at birth but through a lot of hard work and determination (pre-DNA) was able to find our family, being the daughter of a double cousin of my mother. She has been my best friend since the day we met and I knew that she was my cousin the minute I laid eyes on her. I wanted her to have her DNA tested a few years ago, not to prove that we were related, but to help find more family on her branch of our tree. She was reluctant at first, and asked, “But what if we find out I’m not who we think I am?” Well, as I mentioned, DNA doesn’t lie and although she was hesitant to test at first, I think she really felt more a part of our family after seeing the proof.

DNA can open a whole new world for many, or it can cause chaos and upheaval for others. Anyone having their DNA tested can have their entire life turned upside down in an instant by looking at their results. Secrets that have been kept for just a few years, or for several generations, might be revealed. It’s up to each person to accept what is found and hopefully to make the best of any situation. I come from a very large family and have cousins everywhere. If you are considering having your DNA tested and are fortunate enough to pop up in our family, you may as well prepare yourself to be welcomed with opened arms, whether you want it or not.

Week 16 – Oldest Story

The fact I can trace my lineage back to Charlemagne is probably the oldest story in terms of time, but how that pertains to me personally – well, it really doesn’t. Charlemagne, the Father of Europe, Holy Roman Emperor, feels so far removed that it’s hard to comprehend that somehow, I descend from him.  I remember many stories told to me as a young child, so I thought long and hard to find the oldest story about my family history that I can recall. I came up blank.  As this is Easter week, I decided, instead, on a story about an Easter egg…

My paternal grandparents were not well off by any stretch of the imagination.  In fact, I’m not sure they ever owned a home. My grandfather was an oily his entire adult life working and living in oil camps all over Texas and Oklahoma.  That being said, they never had a lot of “stuff”.  When my grandfather died in 1963, my grandmother moved to a small garage apartment just a few blocks from my parents.  It was a “studio” apartment with a full-size bed, couch, chair and coffee table in one room; the kitchen and dining area in another. Needless to say, she had very little storage space.  Except for her sewing machine and table, everything she owned fit into a closet which held a chest of drawers, a few shelves and a hanging rod.

Grandma Powers was born in 1890 in Hannibal, Missouri but raised in Moberly, where her father worked for the railroad.  She was twenty-three when she married my grandfather and left Missouri.  By the time their third child was born, in 1923, they had lived in Strawn, Ranger, Palo Pinto, and Eastland in Texas; Bartlesville, Muskogee, Newkirk, Shawnee, and Seminole in Oklahoma. These are the places I’ve managed to identify, but as they were in some places for a very short time, there could have been others.  It’s clear they wouldn’t have wanted to move a lot of mementos from place to place and kept their belongings to a minimum.

I spent every day with my grandma in the summers – whether it be at her apartment or travelling with her back to Moberly for a visit. She was my babysitter but also my mentor. She taught me to sew, crochet, garden and cook (yes, I can cook – I just choose not to). As the youngest of four children, my mother babied me, but grandma always talked to me like I was a grown up. I attribute this to the reason I matured faster than others my age. 

In Kindergarten, we had “Show and Tell” every so often and in discussing this with grandma just a few weeks before Easter, she miraculously produced an old glass egg.  Where this egg had been kept throughout all the years of moving around, and the fact it remained intact, has to be one of the wonders of the world. No matter how hard I try, I can’t think of where this family heirloom could have possibly been kept in her small apartment, but on this day, here it was.  She told me that she had received the egg on her twelfth birthday from her grandmother and that it was one of the very few things she still had from her early years (the others being crochet hooks, a thimble, and pair of small scissors).  This milk glass egg with the words “Easter Greetings” and flowers hand-painted on one side was the most fascinating thing I had seen in my lifetime, up until that point. It was made so by the fact that my grandmother was trusting me, a five-year-old, to hold this fragile item from her childhood.

She packed it in a shoe box with wadded up newspapers for support and off to Madison Elementary it went with me for “Show and Tell” the week before Easter.  My grandmother had entrusted it to me, but I recall letting classmates hold it. How it survived a bunch of Kindergarteners is nothing short of a miracle. After returning it to my grandmother, it stayed out of sight for several more years, until my twelfth birthday when she gave it to me for keeps.  As I was her last granddaughter, she told me I was responsible for passing it on to my youngest granddaughter when the time came. I found a cute little basket to display it in and it’s been with me throughout my adult life.

Just a few years ago, while looking through old newspapers, I stumbled upon an article from the Moberly Monitor Index in 1902.  It described the “Twelfth Birthday Anniversary” of Little Miss Henrietta Patton, my grandmother.  This would have been the occasion when the egg was presented to her.  Who could have imagined that the egg would have survived all these years and that one day, her granddaughter would read about the day in a 120-year-old society section article. Why an Easter egg was given to a twelve-year-old in July will remain a mystery until the end of time, but it’s legacy lives on. 

My youngest granddaughter turned twelve in 2023.  For her birthday, I passed “The Egg” (as my family calls it) on to her with the instruction to pass it on to her youngest granddaughter when the time comes.

Easter, to Christians, is observed in remembrance of the resurrection of Christ.  The egg symbolizes new life, rebirth and resurrection.  As we celebrate this week, let us also remember our ancestors. As family historians, we have the opportunity to breathe new life into and resurrect those that came before us by continuing to tell their stories. 

 

Happy Easter to each of you!

Week 15 – Big Mistake

I’m sure we’ve all made mistakes in genealogy research.  I’ve made plenty - from going down rabbit holes only to find out I tracked the wrong person for five generations; spending months and even years trying to locate that 4X’s great-grandmother, only to discover she was right in front of me all along; and probably the worst was sending money to a “professional genealogist” to search for a documents in a far-away county, who I never heard from again. I own all of these mistakes, and I’ve learned from them, but the biggest mistake I’ve made was not paying better attention to my ancestors while they were still alive.

I don’t recall ever having to study History in elementary school, but by the time junior high rolled around, it became my favorite subject.  I can’t really explain why, other than I loved reading and how it took me to places that I would never see, other than in my mind. I heard stories of our long-ago ancestors from my paternal grandmother beginning at a very early age, but their history just simply wasn’t interesting to me. 

On trips to Missouri when I was a small, we would visit the cemetery where my paternal grandfather, one set of great-grandparents, and an aunt who died when she was sixteen, were laid to rest. I knew their names, but I would rather run through the headstones, sit in the shade of the gazebo, or pick dandelions rather than hear stories that my grandmother and her sister would tell me.  There were plenty of times that it probably looked like I was paying attention, but I can assure you, it went in one ear and out the other.

Western Oklahoma was the place for family reunions on my mother’s side.  There were so many people at pretty much every event we attended. The “old folks” would sit around and talk of days gone by, and some of them were quite up there in age.  I can only imagine the things they’d seen and done, but with all the cousins there closer to my age, we had other ideas of what a good time was.

Don’t get me wrong, I did, somehow, manage to absorb some of the stories I’d heard. Stories that helped guide me through my research.  Along the way, names that were mentioned often when I was a child would pop up in my memories; I’d recall historical events that one or more of ancestors participated in; I’d see a photo that I would recognize from a picture frame sitting in some family members home; or I might recall the name of a town or a county where an ancestor lived. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to step back in time.  Just a couple of day is all I’d need.  I would reach out and grab all the stories of my ancestors that were told me that I let slip through my fingers; of tragedies and joys; of prosperity and hard times; of accomplishment and failure.  All these stories are part of what makes me who I am today.

If you still have older relatives, it’s not too late.  Sit down with them, strike up a conversation about their past, and above all, write down what you’ve learned. If you’re one of the oldest in your family, tell the stories you know. Make sure your children and grandchildren know where they came from. I’m in the oldest living generation of my family. I can share what I’ve learned, but not paying better attention will always be the biggest mistake I’ve ever made. Don’t be like me…

Week 14 – Language

English is a hard language. Many words sound the same but have so many different meanings – their, there, they’re. Then other words are spelled the same but mean something entirely different – read (reed), read (red). I am thankful that I speak English, but it is the only language I know.  My story this week tells of a branch of the family from my grandchildren’s family tree.  It’s amazing how things that have happened have a profound effect on someone’s life years down the road.  This story starts more than eighty years ago, but it continues on today. 

In 1941, two things of importance happened - Germany invaded the USSR controlled Estonia and Robert Anton was born there in the city of Tallinn.  The small Baltic state of Estonia has a long history of being ruled by someone other than themselves. Denmark, the Holy Roman Empire, Sweden, and the Russia Tsardom, all had a hand in governing this 17,000 square mile area.  It wasn’t until after World War I that Estonia managed to gain their independence. From 1918 through 1939, it was known as the Republic of Estonia.  Then, in September 1939, the tiny country accepted the demands of the Soviets which allowed military bases and the deployment of 25,000 troops on Estonian soil.  Then in June, Russia invaded Estonia and rather than attempt to fight off the additional 90,000 troops sent, the Republic of Estonia was officially annexed into the Soviet Union and renamed the Estonian Soviet Socialist Republic.  Many Estonian men were forcibly removed to Siberia, and others were conscripted into the Estonian Soviet army.  

Almost immediately, in June 1941, Nazi Germany invaded the Soviet Union.  Many Estonians welcomed the invasion in hope that their independence would be restored, but it quickly became evident that was not the case. When the German Luftwaffe began bombings on the city of Tallinn, Albert Anton took his wife, Amilda, and young son, Robert and fled to Vienna, Austria.  As Albert served in the Estonian Army, and with his family now safe, he had no choice but to return to his duty.  Unfortunately, Albert’s life was cut short, when on 29 August 1944 at Rakvere Haigla (Rakvere Hospital) in Rakvere, Laane-Virumaa; he became a casualty of World War II.

Amilda, or Amy as she came to be known, was born in 1913 in Saint Petersburg, Russia.  Her parents Karl Wengerfeldt and Aline (Aili) Pank were Estonian, and when Amilda was seven, they returned to their homeland.  Amilda grew up and received a law degree at the University of Tartu.  She also studied piano while in school at the Conservatory of Music.  She was also proficient in English, German, Russian, and Estonia.  In December 1945, Amilda was hired to work at the 11^th Station U.S. Army Hospital in Augsburg, Germany.  Her excellent language skills made her invaluable as not only a secretary to the U.S. Army, but also as an interpreter.   An American G.I., M.Sgt. Roy Bennett, from Kaw City, Oklahoma, took a liking to this young widow.  On 20 August 1949, Mrs. Amilda Anton and Mr. Roy Bennett were married.  

The military transport ship USNS Gen. Alexander M. Patch, docked at the port of New York on 25 March 1950, carrying Mrs. Amilda Bennett and her son, Robert Anton, who had recently celebrated his ninth birthday. Four months later, Amilda’s mother, Aili (whom my youngest daughter is named for), would follow them to America. 

Being an avid reader, I’m sure Amilda’s love of books was passed down to her son. He had just finished reading “The Last of the Mohicans”.  He expected the story to unfold exactly as he’d read it as the train they boarded carried them halfway across the continent from New York to Oklahoma.  Each hill held a tad of both fear and excitement to see if a band of Indians would come charging over it.  Robert was tall for his age, and the fact that he couldn’t speak English upon arrival in Oklahoma City, didn’t help when he started school.  He was quite behind his other classmates, but it didn’t take him long to catch up. 

Born at the height of World War II, halfway across the globe, who would have thought that this little Estonian fellow would end up in the middle of Oklahoma, a U.S. Navy veteran, college graduate, father and grandfather.  He truly has become the epitome of what it means to be an American, especially when it comes to language.  While his mother was a proficient linguist, as it turned out, Robert lost virtually all of his native Estonian vocabulary. Quite unfortunate, as this could really help when trying to decipher records on this branch of my grandchildren’s family tree. 

Week 13 – Home Sweet Home

It seems that some of the weekly prompts fit so well with an ancestor who I have recently written about, so I was very hesitant to write about John Patton again this week.  I just couldn’t help myself, however, because finding the home of my 5Xs great-grandfather on accident is one of the greatest genealogical discoveries in my life.  I beg your forgiveness for taking you back to the middle of Pennsylvania for the second week in a row.  

In the summer of 2001, I forced my youngest daughter to travel with me halfway across the continent in search of genealogical records that I needed for my DAR application.  Tracing each generation back in time, our trip was laid out – Moberly, Missouri; Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania; Huntingdon, Pennsylvania; and finally, to Philadelphia.  We printed off a ream of paper (aka our MapQuest maps) and off we went.

Huntingdon, Pennsylvania is located about 120 miles due east of Pittsburgh, and 198 west of Philadelphia, nestled in the Allegheny Mountains. I “knew” that my 4Xs great-grandparents had married in Huntingdon in 1816 because someone had included that information on an online family tree.  As luck would have it, the church where they were reportedly married was still standing, and the very pleasant pastor of the Huntingdon Presbyterian Church, after hearing about our quest, helped find the record that proved it. Still needing to connect them to their son, our next stop was the Huntingdon County Historical Society.  To this day, I do not understand why they were unable to help with any information on the Patton family, as for several generations my ancestors had been here.  My 5Xs great-grandfather, John Patton was buried here to great fanfare (in case you didn’t read last week’s story), as was his wife, but they had no Patton’s in their card catalog; no Patton’s in their local history books; no Patton’s anywhere!  Overhearing a conversation I was having with one of the docents, a lady asked me if I’d been to State College.  She said she knew there was some house or something of interest having to do with the Patton family over there and that I should check out the Centre County Historical Society. State College was only about a 35-mile drive, so off we went. 

Silly me!  Thirty-five miles through the Allegheny mountains with all its twists and turns ended up being more like five hours. OK, it wasn’t that long, but it sure felt like it.  As we didn’t have our trusty MapQuest map to guide us, we had to rely on the service station road map where the highways were about the width of a hair.  Add to that my daughter didn’t fare well in geography in high school, so I was constantly pulling over to take a look for myself.

We finally arrived!  Until this moment, I had no idea that State College, Pennsylvania is the home of the Nittany Lions and Penn State University.  We located the Centre County Historical Society which (at the time) sat at the northwest outskirts of town on College Avenue. A large brick structure, the likes of which I’d never seen, stood at attention at the entrance. 

Looking at photos of the area today barely resemble what greeted us almost twenty-five years ago.  Much like the Huntingdon County Historical Society, the Centre County Historical Society resides within an old house on an eight-acre tract.  This house, four stories if you count the attic, was in good repair and patriotic bunting adorned the front and side porches as we were there the week of July 4^th.   Our plans were to spend the 4^th of July in Philadelphia (I mean, what better place!), so this day, Monday, was our last day to explore Huntingdon, and now State College.  Of course, they were closed on Monday but that didn’t stop us from peeking in the windows. This is what likely alerted the inhabitants to our presence. 

As we were getting ready to get back in the car, we were met by a few young adults who rounded the back of the building.  We struck up a conversation and they told us they were students at nearby Penn State doing some research work at the Historical Society over the holiday.  I told them we were tracking down documentation so I could join the DAR and had been directed to State College in my quest. When I mentioned that I descended from Colonel John Patton the demeanor went from polite conversation to exuberant excitement. They couldn’t wait to give us a private tour of the Centre Furnace Mansion – which I learned at that moment was built by Colonel John Patton in 1792.

At the end of the Revolutionary War, Colonels John Patton and Samuel Miles purchased 16,000 acres in Centre County and founded Centre Furnace, the first pig iron manufacturer in the area. Colonel Miles was elected Mayor of Philadelphia shortly thereafter, so it was left to Colonel Patton take his family consisting of his wife and five sons and became the first ironmaster. Four more children were born here – three daughters and one son. 

In 1792, the house was certainly nothing you could consider a mansion.  Over time, however, upper floors were replaced/added, but the lowest floor of the mansion, as it remains today, is original to Colonel Patton.  The fireplace in the photo was the one used by his family.  One photo I took on that day, another as it looks today.  We learned all about iron manufacturing and that the brick structure we first noticed was the “stack” erected in those earliest years of Centre Furnace.  John Patton would have had a hand in building both.

John Patton died in 1804 and for several years, Centre Furnace was managed by Samuel Miles’ son, but later generations of Patton descendants took the reins.  Moses Thompson, husband of Mary Irvin, became the last ironmaster in 1842.   He had purchased shares from his brother-in-law, James Irvin, who had become its sole owner through his mother, Jane Patton, granddaughter of Colonel Patton.   In continuing with the tradition of Colonel Patton’s foresight to provide an education for his family and those of his workers’ children, in 1855, James Irvin and Moses Thompson donated 200 acres of Centre Furnace land for the founding of Farmers High School, which was renamed in 1862 to the Agricultural College of Pennsylvania. As the college grew, the nearby village became a town which took on the name of the now, Pennsylvania State College.  In 1953, the school was renamed once again, to the name you will most likely recognize – Pennsylvania State University, or Penn State. In January 2024, an historical marker was place at the Centre Furnace Mansion denoting it as the “Birthplace of Penn State”. 

The Centre Furnace ceased operation in 1858, but Thompson family members continued to live in the mansion until 1912. A 1920 letter written by Madison Garver describes the home as falling into despair.  He purchased the mansion and made many improvements which included running water and electricity, gifting it as a wedding present to his son, David.  When David Garver died in 1975, he bequeathed the home to the Centre County Historical Society.

The mansion today reflects the decor as it would have been during the last years of the Centre Furnace ironmaster (1850s).  Photos of collateral relatives adorn the walls, some of the furnishings belonged to long lost family members.   To be able to walk the grounds and explore in rooms where my ancestors lived two hundred years before was an awe-inspiring experience.  

With the discoveries I made that day, the trajectory of my membership application to the DAR changed.  I had been attempting to prove my lineage to Michael Hillegas, through his granddaughter, Henrietta Hillegas Anthony, who married William Patton (son of Col. John Patton). As it turned out, I was able to prove my descent on the Patton line much more easily. I wish I had gotten the name of the lady who overheard my conversation and directed me to take that drive through the mountains to stumble on that “Home Sweet Home.” 

#52Ancestors

#America250

 

Week 12 – Historical Event

The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month in 1918 marked the armistice of the hostilities between the Allies and Germany during World War I.  November 11^th thus became Armistice Day.  The day has evolved from a day to remember the military dead of the First World War (referred to as Remembrance Day in the United Kingdom) to honoring all military personnel who have served (now called Veterans Day in the United States).  Armistice Day 1938 was a fitting day to honor and remember a Revolutionary War Patriot in Huntingdon, Pennsylvania.

In 1761, a sixteen-year-old boy named John Patton, immigrated to Philadelphia from Sligo, Ireland.  There is no question he was driven to success in America as he quickly made his way up the ladder of wealth and society.  He became a prominent merchant and civil servant.  On St. Patrick’s Day in 1771, John Patton became one of the original members of the Friendly Sons of Saint Patrick, a charitable organization to aid immigrants from Ireland. In 1775, he was appointed to the Philadelphia Committee on Inspection and Observation at the outset of the Revolutionary War.  He joined the Continental Army where he became a Major in Samuel Mile’s Regiment of Pennsylvania riflemen. Barely escaping capture at the Battle of Long Island (August 1776) he fought alongside General George Washington at the Battle of Trenton (December 1776).  In May 1777, the Continental Congress authorized him to raise “Patton’s Additional Continental Regiment” and he was promoted to Colonel. His regiment fought at the battles of Brandywine (September 1777), Germantown (October 1777) and Monmouth (Jun 1778). As part of Scott’s Brigade, they were encamped at Valley Forge during the winter of 1777 and a monument stands erected at that place in commemoration.  No one can question his allegiance to the new nation.

At the end of the war, John Patton and his friend Colonel Samuel Miles purchased 16,000 acres in Centre County, Pennsylvania and built the area’s first charcoal-fired iron furnace.  Shortly thereafter Colonel Miles was elected Mayor of Philadelphia, so John Patton took his wife and children to Centre County where he became the ironmaster of Centre Furnace. He retired in 1798 to one of his farms near Boalsburg, Pennsylvania.  On 9 September 1804, Colonel John Patton died and was buried on his land.

After the farm where John Patton was buried sold to Samuel Wasson, his grave had “been permitted to lapse into a profane condition in a cornfield where it was covered with stones and debris” as was reported in the court documents when, in 1938, a controversial legal battle ensued between two factions of his descendants and the Huntingdon VFW.  Jane Patton, John’s widow, outlived him by almost thirty years and had moved to Huntingdon, Pennsylvania shortly after his death.  In 1832, she died and was buried in Riverview Cemetery there.  Alexander Anderson, a descendant in Huntingdon, in conjunction with the Standing Stone VFW, obtained permission from the Wasson family to re-inter Colonel Patton from their farm to Riverview Cemetery, next to his wife.  Centre County descendants filed a suit to block the re-interment, and as late as November 3^rd it appeared that their efforts were successful, but on November 8^th, the court approved the re-interment of Colonel Patton.

Although the following newspaper article is lengthy (and I have omitted much), it is well-written in great detail to the point that you can almost feel yourself standing along Penn Street in Huntingdon at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month in 1938 at an historical event that took place exactly twenty years after the historical event of the first Armistice Day.

 

The Daily News (Huntingdon, Pennsylvania), November 12, 1938

Over 3,000 Persons Present at Armistice Day Ceremonies Here      

Impressive Services at Court house, Cemetery For Patriot are Well-attended

Thousands View Cortege – Military Service at Grave

     More than three thousand persons were present at the ceremonies in Huntingdon yesterday afternoon to participate in a patriotic service and a military burial for Col. John Patton, Revolutionary War patriot, in Riverview cemetery, in a grave beside his wife, Jane (Davis) Patton.

     The ceremonies were most impressively carried out and were a part of Huntingdon’s observance of Armistice day this year.

     The streets and sidewalks, yards and porches in the vicinity of the court house were packed with patriotic citizens. The Colonel’s remains rested in a beautiful two-tone bronze metallic casket, donated through courtesy, by Carl F. Brown, local funeral director, to the Veterans of Foreign Wars. The flag draped casket was brought from the National Guard armory to the sidewalk in front of the court house steps shortly after 11 o’clock in the forenoon, under military escort, and there it remained under military guard, until the services were completed and the cortege proceeded to the cemetery. The floral pieces were beautiful.

     Hon. Warren B. Simpson, of Huntingdon, presided at the ceremonies, which were opened at 2 o’clock with a prayer by the Rev. Frank Sharp, pastor of the First Baptist Church. Mr. Simpson then gave a brief summary of the life of Col. John Patton.

     He opened his remarks by saying, “We have met here today to pay the last military honors to Col. John Patton, veteran of the Revolutionary war – a patriotic citizen who was ready and willing to sacrifice his life for the protection of humanity.” He then told the huge assemblage of citizens that Col. Patton was of Scotch-Irish heritage, born in Sligo, Ireland, and at the age 20 came to America. At the age of 31 he entered the military service of his country, thus 160 years have passed since he became a popular figure as a defender of America.

     John Patton became a Major in the famous Miles’ rifle regiment, which was composed of men especially trained in using rifles – men who did not shoot often and hit their mark occasionally, but men who came from the frontier and were the real fighters. Later he was given the rank of Colonel and served until the close of the war. After the war ended he became a major general in a Pennsylvania militia regiment and at the age of 58 passed away in 1804. Mr. Simpson then called attention to the two descendants of Col. Patton living in Huntingdon, Mr. Alexander A. Anderson and Miss Anna Fisher.

     “It is quite fitting that the remains of Col. Patton be laid to rest in beautiful Riverview cemetery beside his wife, “Mr. Simpson stated, “and we are here today to pay the patriotic and military honor to him which was not given him at the time of death.”  

    Mr. Simpson then presented the speaker of the occasion, Major Harry Nelson Bassler, of Harrisburg, a chaplain of the Mexican border and World war and a prominent minister of the Reformed church.

     “It is a great privilege to mingle with so large a crowd to do honor to one to whom honor is justly due,” Major Bassler remarked. “Patton’s life was a life well lived, his service was freely given, he carried his work to completion – and we honor him today,” the speaker commented in his opening remarks.

     The coming together on this occasion, he added, is one of deepest significance and should mean much to our national life for we meet in memory of one who in the early days of American history gave his life in service and sacrifice in order that democracy, freedom  of thought and mind should be established in the new land this side of the Atlantic. The shadow of Col. Patton’s life falling upon the years that followed has tended to fill every generation with the spirit and desire that democracy should not fail…

     In closing his remarks Major Bassler referred to Col. Patton as a friend of Washington, a servant of God and humanity – a man who gave his life that we might live. “Peace to his ashes, rest to his soul – his life was a blessing to the cause of democracy.”

     The Huntingdon firemen’s band then played, “The Star Spangled Banner,” after which the ceremonies were turned over to the local National Guard, who planned the military honors to be accorded the veteran.

     All long the route from the court house to the cemetery – Penn to Fifth, Fifth to Moore, Moore to the cemetery – the streets were lined with persons anxious to view the procession as it moved slowly to the music furnished by the high school and firemen’s bands and the American Legion drum and bugle corps.

     The cortege was led by uniformed state motor police in an auto. Next in line was the massed colors, then the firemen’s band.  Following the band was the caisson bearing the remains of Col. Patton, which was drawn by four large horses, each horse led by a uniformed National Guardsman. On either side of the caisson and in the rear uniformed National Guardsmen marched double file.

     Some distance in the ear of the caisson was a large bay horse, led by a member of the National Guard. The horse was covered with black satin and was saddled. The boots were reversed in the stirrup, an indication that an officer had died…

     From the time the cortege left the court house until it arrived at the cemetery, bells on the court house, Episcopal Church, engine house, and the Presbyterian and First Methodist churches were tolled.

     Upon arrival at the cemetery, the bearers of the massed colors took position near the grave. The veterans formed in columns, and the casket of Col. Patton was taken off the caisson and the guard of soldiers escorted it through the open columns formed by the veterans to the grave, where the military ritualistic ceremony of the Veterans of Foreign Wars as outlined for non-members was carried out in detail.

     A firing squad from the Huntingdon National Guard Unit, Company A, 103^rd Quartermaster Regiment, fired the salute and Taps was sounded by a lone bugler.