After my grandfather Gaston died in December of 1938, his wife and my father, then just 21 years old, were left penniless and sharing a rented room in Washington, DC. That was when she decided to tell the story of her life with America’s favorite scalawag.
The result was a five-part saga published in newspapers throughout America on consecutive Sundays from September 10 to October 8, 1939. From these episodes come some of the tall tales still in circulation about the adventures of this consummate teller of tales.
I’ve transcribed the original articles, keeping the spelling and punctuation of the day, I’ve added footnotes where needed to provide historical context, and I’ve inserted my own commentary based of family knowledge and recent research.
You can order a copy here at Amazon. I hope you enjoy the roller coaster ride!
Black History Month spurred us to investigate the institution of slavery in the Hudson Valley and, more specifically, Hillsdale. Like most Americans, we’ve been inclined to think of slavery as largely a Southern institution. But it was hugely important in the colonial North. From the earliest days of Dutch occupancy right up to the Civil War, much of New York State’s bustling economy benefited directly from traffic in enslaved humans.
In the 17th and 18th centuries New York was second only to the southern states in its number of enslaved people. In 1703, 42 percent of New York City’s households had slaves, much more than Philadelphia and Boston combined. Among the cities of the original 13 colonies, only Charleston, South Carolina, had more.
In the Hudson Valley, the first enslaved men were brought to Fort Orange (Albany) in 1626, only two years after it was settled, by the Dutch West Indies…
Just found this little video about my grandfather Gaston. It tells the standard version of his story, including a few errors that crept in along the way. Enjoy! America’s Greatest … Continue reading No Redeeming Quality?
It’s a strange time we find ourselves in – but you knew that. All the talk of respirators has me thinking about an earlier time when my heart took on the rhythm of my grandson’s breath and my life seemed to hang from the lines that followed one another across a screen.
I’m definitely not a poet, but here’s my response to a writing assignment that seems apropos today.
Write a poem, you say. Start with an emotion and the person, place or thing that evokes the emotion, you say. It will be fun, you say.
There ought to be a word for grief and joy combined.
I had a grandson, and that says all and nothing at all.
The first time I met him, he was all surprised eyes and fingers fit for chasing chords across the keys.
Hello, I said, and then I saw his long limp little self. A flurry of activity marked him a problem to be solved, and I held my breath while he struggled to find his.
And later when he lay, swaddled like a little lima bean, respirator rudely interrupting, he fixed his milky gaze on me and there it was, the hinge my life would swing around. Would I love this wise-eyed child, destined to leave before his time? Yes, oh yes, and in a moment – I was lost, and being lost, was found.
I loved my children, of course I did, with a warm and homely sort of love. They were my darlings and my dears, beautiful brilliant girls. But I was unprepared for this soaring swooping stomach in the mouth sensation that opened me every time he smiled. I would do anything to see him smile.
For nine years, I was advocate, nurse, field marshal, singer of off-key songs, fetcher of forgotten toys. I was incandescent. Gabriel, my grandson, my beloved boy, was handsome and smart, funny and wise. He charmed everyone he met. But he couldn’t stay. When he told me, “I’m afraid I’m dying,” we talked about a place where bodies work and time is different. I’ll see you soon, I told him.
Today he runs on bright green grass, while I wait here for soon.
There should be a word for grief and joy combined.
Is it a bad thing to take encouragement from the struggles of others?
This morning, I seem – just for a moment – to be bathing in the sun of future success rather than slogging through an endless swamp of detail. I’ve just stumbled across an excerpt describing Adam Sisman’s attempt to sort fact from fiction in his new book The Professor and the Parson, just out from Counterpoint Press.
Wondering about Psyche’s first task? Read about it here.
Today’s Cautionary Tale concerns a problem that all loving parents will face sooner than later. Hoffman writes of it in the mid-nineteenth century, and young mothers of my acquaintance tell me nothing much has changed.
I offer my best wishes to Celia the Cry-Baby and anyone who can relate.