Bib Overalls- Just a Small Bit of Nostalgia

Indulge me as I cast about for long ago memories.  Every time I look at this picture I seem to go back in time to a definite and very nostalgic period of my life.

It seems that maybe 60 to 70 years ago you weren’t really a farmer of any kind unless you wore Bib-Overalls !  At least within the small farming communities of Western Washington State that were within my view of the world back then and that wasn’t a very large world with me I must admit.  I can’t be certain what subtle dress code the farm owners of large crop growing acreages ascribed to but within the memory of my young years what I recall as what was almost a required uniform among the small dairy farmers, i.e., Bib-Overalls, that seemed to define and identify one’s occupation quite well.

Uncle John McGinnis on the right, and Cousin Tommie McGinnes, along the road in Florence

Tommie was not one to conform to the common spelling of the surname

 

The McGinnis cousins and many of the neighbors certainly lived up to that standard.  Looking back, the stiff dark blue denim overalls seem to almost have been part of a uniform worn by the farmers of Florence.  If you were a dairy farmer, another uniform accoutrement was also a part of your daily work attire, and that was knee-high rubber boots with your overalls tucked in or out, it really didn’t matter.  That was more dependent on the task at hand.

Just what possible superior functionality the overalls possessed I really can only speculate.  Quick and easy on and off ? Perhaps, but coupled with the ability to go beltless must have been an enticement for the more portly farmers.  I suspect there were more advantages that certainly escape me at the moment. 

Since this but an exercise in nostalgia to go further might dilute the wonderful memories of spending a few summers on a small long established dairy farm some sixty or more years ago.  Those were good and innocent times compared to the world we live in today.  Much has been written about the events and culture of the 1950’s, a place that my memories so often wander off to in the daydreams of my senior years, and what seems to be common in the writings I have come across is how much simpler life was during that decade.  If only today I could live in a world that cherished only the positive values of the period.  If only we could have seen back then what cultural and political changes were about to descend on us beginning in the 1960’s.  Perhaps a slower approach to major changes might have prevailed but that was not to be.

Nostalgia never solves anything but it can be soothing to the mind at times.  It can actually have a calming effect on me.  Those that ignore this phenomena are really missing out on the benefits of one’s advancing years.  Maybe it’s time to invest in a new pair of overalls.  I have gone without far too long and so have many of our leaders I fear. 

Sounds of the Night-

It was either Trains, Trucks, Cars, Dogs, Bulls, Cows, or the Familiar Noise from the Bridge, and then off to Sleep-

These are the sounds I heard when very young while falling asleep in the northeast corner, upstairs bedroom of the McGinnis farm house that I loved to visit each summer.  The small farm in Florence was maybe a half mile away from the rail tracks across the river to the north of us that ran between Vancouver, Canada and Seattle, and to points far south and east.  The nostalgia produced today here in Georgia whenever I hear the distant sound of a modern train in the evenings takes me directly back to those years of the late 1940's and early 50's.  Lying in my own bed these days I hear sounds of the modern day diesel trains moving north and south thru my small town, going to and fro from the northeast to Florida. When hearing the distant fading call of the modern air horn of the diesel engines I am reminded of the wonderful sounds of the whistles of the old steam engines, again moving north and south, but between Canada and all points south along the Pacific coast.

I loved my time on the Island of Florence back then.  What follows is but one narrow facet of my recall of those days and a meager effort to tap some very nostalgic feelings, the memories of sounds of the night ,and oh, how they have remained so vivid in my mind.
 
During the hot summer months this small farm house, built in the 1890's before insulation of houses became feasible and economical, the upstairs rooms of the house could become extremely uncomfortable when night descended.  The upstairs windows would be thrown wide open during the summer heat in hopes of capturing a bit of breeze to bring some sort of relief to a long uncomfortable day.

But when in the dark one settled finally into their bed for a night of sleep, the silence could become almost extreme, nearly sullen deadness of the air, until the sounds of the night would begin, sounds nearly ignored during the daylight hours.  But when a young mind is drifting off to sleep, the sounds would gradually grow in strength until you might hear a fish jump in the river or even a muskrat scoot itself down the river bank and enter the water with a near silent splash.  A young curiosity then would take over and all sounds became louder by the minute as one attempted to relate to just what was occurring outside in the darkness.  Safety demanded facts.  Not knowing what a sound really was might send one off on a journey of unnecessary anxiety and mental anguish.  Knowing exactly what was heard did bring comfort and a feeling of safety.  Realizing we were not under attack by strange animals or mean looking criminals carrying daggers was always a good thing to know.  Sleep would then come on very peacefully once all the sounds were sorted out, explained and any new strange sounds cataloged for future reference and identification. 

One thing that always had me frightened was the winged bats of the evening.  One early but dark evening in particular, while outside with the adults, one small tiny bat swooped by me with a near silent flutter of it wings and quickly whisked off into the darkness.  “What might that be” and I was told it was a bat.  Knowing at the time that the most dreaded fear of a bat was to have it alight in one’s hair for it would become entangled and cause a great ruckus was something to be carefully avoided at all times.  Knowing this, it was added to my possible sounds of the night, and due to an over active imagination, what could be a worse possible scenario than a bat entering the house through an open window and causing havoc.  That possibility was always near the top of the list to be something to always watch for.  Alas no bats entered, lucky for them, more lucky for me though.

The trains of the time were still steam driven and at night their sounds, while on their journey north or south could disrupt the evening darkness but there was safety in knowing the tracks were somewhat distant.  Regardless of how the breezes might be carrying the sound of the wheels on the tracks, and the blasting of the steam whistle to announce the approach to those of interest in East Stanwood, one could easily catalog this sound as a common occurrence and certainly not a threat to worry about.  Always on schedule and at a certain place the steam whistles would begin their lonesome wail.   It really was  such a unique and combined sound, the lonely, groaning sound of a giant mechanical struggle that only a steam engine distant in the night could create along with the whistling it emitted as if to warn one to stay away, there is danger.  Alas, there was no danger, but today it seems to have been a real mechanical struggle I was hearing, steel against steel, as if struggling to resist any human influence every mile of the way.  In recalling it now, it is so distant but yet distinct.  I suppose a pleasant, haunting memory would be a valid description of what it is to me personally today .

Another sound of the railroad that I am not sure is in use today and that is the loud explosive sound coming from what was called a railroad torpedo. This is something that might occur both day and night but it was sure to bring one from approaching deep sleep.

A description of the device as found recently on the internet……………….

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The following explanation and illustrations for the device are copied from an Internet Wiki page, http://www.thefullwiki.org/Detonator_(railway)

This illustration from an 1882 Leslie's Monthly portrays an engineer (fireman) finding a torpedo on the track.

                                   

A railway detonator (called a torpedo in North America) is a device used to make a loud sound as a warning signal to train drivers. The detonator is the size of a large coin with two lead straps, one on each side. The detonator is placed on the top of the rail and the straps are used to secure it. When the wheel of the train passes over, it explodes emitting a loud bang. It was invented in 1841 by English inventor Edward Alfred Cowper.

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The sound was not an everyday or night occurrence but when it did occur it was very noticeable.  Obviously as with it’s common usage,  as a passing train was approaching East Stanwood from the south and there was reason to warn the approaching engine of a possible danger or at least to let an engineer know of something out of the ordinary was present just ahead an activated Torpedo would emit it’s explosive warning.  Day or night, due to our nearness to the tracks approaching East Stanwood, we would also be warned of something different present along the tracks.  Without ever knowing exactly what was happening the adults would explain it away as a way for track construction crews to caution the train engineers that there was probably some sort of work occurring along the tracks.  Since track work did not occur at night it was probably just a warning to slow down for repair equipment may be temporarily placed near the tracks and thus served as a notice for the train to proceed with caution.  But when the devices exploded there was no doubt what it was.  Again, another sound of the night I shall not forget.

I have to add that during the daylight hours sounds seemed far different than was noticeable of the same causes during the night.  As an example, the sound of the trains shuttling back and forth seemed different in daylight in that they did not interrupt ones activities or thought processes.  Difficult for me to explain exactly what the difference was back then but the trains could not be seen easily from our side of the river.  Occasionally and only if at the right place one might be able to get a glimpse of one passing by to the north but the tall trees and the brush on both banks of the river obscured the view but you knew they were there of course.  But to me, the sound of the trains coming and going were different at night.  The darkness seemed to always amplify the powerful sounds of a passing train. 


On occasion, one might hear the loud bray of a  bull confined to his small pen adjacent to the barn on the farm directly across the river from Uncle John's home, the home where Uncle John, his brothers Tom, Jim and Mother grew up.  Perhaps even a lowing call from a milk cow might come drifting across the still air, or a barking dog in the distance.  A barking dog with their warnings of the night was not all that usual, but the sound of the bull as I recall was far more usual.  The cows were usually quiet at night unless something was disturbing them, but for the most part all was peaceful at night for the several small herds in the vicinity.  Contented cows, and most of those I was familiar with were “Carnation Contented Cows”,  were good producers so their evenings were necessarily peaceful. 

The sound of milk cans being transferred from the milk stand at the road into the metal bed of the Carnation Dairy transport truck is another memory, but that is a sound of the daylight hours, and not to be dwelled on here.  Thousands and thousands of gallons of milk were placed at the road but a few feet from the front door of the house over the years.  I live far too much in the past, but that is my special weakness and I would not have it any other way.

Of course the house being situated next to the river road leading into Stanwood over the bridge just downstream would produce the noise of the traveling vehicles, trucks and cars going back and forth.  It is surprising how  the noise of tires traveling across the cement paved road from a distant approaching car would carry on the night air.  One could seemingly hear a car coming for miles depending on the direction of the night breeze.  But as evening slowly turned into night the road traffic became less and one could fall asleep quite easily.  But occasionally the tranquility would be gently disturbed but it was always just temporary.

As Mother explained though, it was somewhat different when she was growing up.  She would tell of the Indians in canoes, in a hurried pace, rowing downstream to Stanwood in the daylight hours, only to hear them come rowing back upstream much later in the night, in a very happy boisterous mood, singing quite loudly. Most likely a rather effective method to sober up I would suggest.   The sounds of Steamboats, of various sizes, in the river were common I am sure.  Inconceivable today at least to me.  These were the times and events that Mother experienced but I am sure so very difficult for anyone new to the area today to even conceive of and rightfully so.  But the river of the time was so different than it is today, even the main stream that was captured by Hatts Slough will never bear the importance the original river had to the early settlers.  It was a lifeline of commerce, up and downstream.  Goods coming up from Puget Sound, logs and crops coming back down.  That’s what it was and the sounds I heard in my youth were certainly far different than what the McGinnis families heard and even far more different during current times.

The bouncing of the loose planks at the center of the bridge when passed over by a moving vehicle was a most telling sound, both day and night, but most remakably so on a quiet night.  A period of absolute stillness followed by the warning from the bridge might awake one from a light sleep.  The tell-tale sound coming from the bridge was always a signal of an approaching vehicle.  Any vehicle crossing the bridge would reliably produce the distinct sound, a rather lonely sound in the middle of the night.  Every vehicle of any size crossing the river always produced a warning of it's approach created from the purposely placed loose timbers at the center of the bridge being jostled about.

Florence Bridge Under Construction

1908

It was a most distinctive tell-tale "Ker- Boom” followed immediately by a “Ka-Thunk” each time a vehicle passed over it. The deck timbers may have had to be loose in order to allow the bridge to rotate on it's center pier when required to be opened, removing the obstacle to river traffic and allow a boat to pass thru.  This procedure is something that ceased before my time as the river slowly lost it’s importance for navigation. It was not a drawbridge as the topographical maps state, it was on a swivel with a large steel encased concrete pier in the center of the river, allowing it to rotate and allow boat traffic to pass on either side of the center pier. it was such a narrow channel and to this day it’s difficult to imagine it ever provided enough room for any boat of any size to traverse. Of course the river began to silt up after the main current of the river was diverted to Hatt’s Slough and by the time I was aware of my surroundings the river had seen many seasons with each year depositing a little more silt with very little flow to carry it out to Puget Sound.

You could tell a vehicle was approaching from Stanwood by the sound. If the vehicle did not roll by the front of the house within a very few minutes it was assumed to be headed to farms down river. And the opposite was of course true if after a car or truck passed the house going down river on the route to Stanwood the sound of the loose bridge planks rumbling did not come thru the night soon.
I would go to sleep sometimes counting the minutes and seconds between the rumbling of the bridge planks and the passing of a vehicle in one direction or another. My young way of counting sheep perhaps, but more out of curiosity I believe, for I was the sort that tended to delve into minutia. One could almost determine someone traveling at a high speed just by noticing the period of time produced at the bridge and the corresponding sound of the vehicle passing the house.

The area of Florence remains an agricultural community today and since it all lies within the Stillaguamish River delta, it will probably always remain primarily dedicated to farming.  It really is not an area conducive to subdivisions and large housing developments.  For that reason in many respects what one might witness during a following of the seasons in Florence today, more than likely it probably remains much like it has always  been.  A farming community dedicated to the growing of crops that thrive in the rich soil deposited by the flooding river over many centuries.

Outside of the bridge noise, the sounds of the night may be very similar today only with the near musical tone of the trains steam whistles being replaced with the throaty blast of a modern air-horn.

The Crane Incident- The Flying Types, Not Mechanical……….. !

In Florence, about summer of 1950-

Probably the strangest event I have ever witnessed- 


Life along the river on a quiet summer night could be very peaceful.  The occasional sound of a passing steam powered train a half mile north across the river was one of the sounds that might arise to really disturb an evening after all the truck and automobile truck traffic along the road in front of the house had lessened.  After dark, traffic really was light and it could be several minutes between vehicles.  It could be very pleasant and near sublime at times, at least to me in my memories some sixty years or so later.

During the pea harvest season, the constant sound of the trucks carrying the freshly vined peas, stacked in neat wood box crates on the back of the trucks, going up and down the river road in front of the house, going back and forth between the vining machines on the many farms of the area and the cannery in Stanwood. So much of the areas harvest passed in front of our home every day and into the night during the corn and pea harvests.   Not every night, but quite often, in order to keep the local harvests on schedule the pea vining crews would work under lights at the vining machine well into the night.  How late I never realized for I always drifted off to sleep even with all the quiet noise one encountered in that wonderful period of my life.

Of course, on occasion, one might hear the loud bray of a  bull confined to his small pen adjacent to the barn milking parlor on the farm directly across the river from Uncle John's home, the home where Mother grew up.  What might disturb the animal, I never understood, for his brood, his private harem, had completed their evening milking before sunset and  were all lying down and at rest in the fields for the night, chewing their cud in the rapidly declining light, and once again awaiting the morning milking routine.  All was at peace until the "Bull" gave his call of unrest.  Or was it his sign of approaching danger?   But he could certainly assert himself and give notice to all around him, that this was his right, his duty to express his instincts of the moment.  Poor guy, what a life to live.  I need not say more, for his duties certainly had it's ups and downs.  Sometimes he was needed, sometimes he was not.  Perhaps his call was nothing other than an expression of extreme frustration.  Most likely he was still hungry, I shall never know.

But I was a distant witness to his demise one evening just after dusk.  Something I shall never forget, and once again it was the loud call of this confined bull across the river.  A very strange thing to have witnessed and it happened so quickly.

It was a common sight to see large winged cranes fly along the river, usually in the morning and the evenings as I recall.  One evening while on the side porch with Uncle John feeding his faithful old dog "chummy" I did notice a crane flying in the weak light along the river at a customary height, about the height of power poles.  Not really very high, but that was not unusual for it seemed to be a convenient height for them when they were in flight.  But this one time was the last time for one surprised crane.

For some reason, the crane decided to alight and rest this one evening, and his choice of locations proved fatal for him and the old penned up bull.  I do have a slight memory of just watching the crane land on what was probably a common place to find  temporary roost for many cranes in the area.  That place was on a power line that ran along the road on the opposite bank.  A natural place to land for sure, it was at his level of flight but what happened then is difficult to describe in detail for it all happened at a seemingly lightning speed.  I turned away from watching the large bird and immediately I heard a squawk, saw a bright flash of light, and an extremely loud cry from the bull, a very drastic call for help I am sure, but alas it was his last call in the evening light.

What had happened was that the crane after settling on one wire of the dual-strand power service atop the poles, had for some reason reached across and in some fashion had made contact with the second strand of wire which immediately short-circuited the power as it went through it's body.  Of course it immediately killed the animal and it of course fell to the ground near the bull, which was penned outside at the corner of the barn directly below the bird.  But that was not the end of the event.

The power lines being damaged due to the direct short between the two wires caused by the bird, apparently weakened, broke and fell to the ground right within the bulls pen.  As commonly happens when a live power line comes into contact with the earth it begins to bounce around erratically powered by it's continuing contact with the ground.  The result was inevitable I suppose for the out of control live power wire instantly made contact with the bull, causing it to cry out in pain, and it too fell to the ground dead.  Again, a most horrible cry of helplessness I have never heard since in my life.

But that again was not the end of the story.  No more life of any sort was lost after the initial onslaught but the next thing to happen was that the live power wire then made contact with the barn somehow and immediately set the barn on fire.  It was rapidly building in strength as Uncle John and I stood there watching in disbelief what had just transpired in what seemed like just a split second.

We did eventually gather our wits and I was told to run next door to Mary and Charly's house and alert Mary to call the East Stanwood Fire Department.  Mary and Charley had the closest phone in the area. To this day I can't really remember what excited words may have come out of my mouth but Mary somehow understood and went immediately to her phone with Charley putting on his boots to race next door to view the scene with Uncle John.  It wasn't very long before we heard sirens coming from town and eventually wind their way down the river road on the far side to the barn.  The barn was actually saved, but with some serious damage.

What a sight it must have been for the farmer coming out of his house as well as for the arriving  firemen to come across the scene and to see such destruction.  Even today it seems an almost impossible scene to  me but I did witness it.   It doesn’t seem to have traumatized me for life however.  At least I hope not.  I do look for large flying birds whenever near a river though.  Never know what might happen.  Lightning can strike twice they say.

Cousin Mary Mills, A Milkmaid, A Terrific Baker, A Wonderful Memory-

To expand on some memories of Mary and Charlie Mills, what comes to mind more than anything is the lasting memory of Mary’s baking skills. She must have loved to bake and I can only say thank the Lord she did.

Anyone visiting Mary and Charlie was always offered a cup of tea and a sample of the latest from her oven. Be it cake, cookies or my very favorite her fresh baked biscuits as she called them. A biscuit was a large dinner sized bread roll, split open and covered with a generous smattering of butter. For those too young for a cup of tea, fresh milk from the days milking was the offer.

The one year we lived on the farm in Florence, from the summer of 1949 through the fall of 1950, was a special time for me. It was a totally different environment going from living in a city to living on a farm and along with the summer vacations, living on the farm where Mother was born and raised brings back the happiest memories of my young life.

Mary apparently enjoyed having children next door and when ever we could make an excuse to visit Mary and Charlie we would make a bee-line across the small field between the two houses to approach the back door knowing full well a baked treat of some sort was in store. Early on the excuse became “can we go over to Mary’s and read today’s funnies” in the morning edition of the Seattle Post Intelligencer, a subscription that Mary and Charlie always had delivered to the front gate daily. We were always met with a smile and the anticipated offer of would you like a piece of cake or a biscuit as the well read daily paper was retrieved from the top of a small table, just large enough to spread out the paper and corral the treat that Mary retrieved from her small pantry off the kitchen. Such a small narrow space with but a small sink and lined with shelves where she stored all her baking supplies and utensils. Not large enough for cooking for certain so her mixing and preparation was always performed at the large oil-cloth covered kitchen table.

The funnies retrieved and the treat served a quiet time came upon the room as the funnies were absorbed. Occasional conversation would arise as Mary, or Charlie from his usual chair beside the stove, might ask a question about school or how Mother and/or Johnnie might be that day. Always a pleasant way, to spend the time after jumping down from the school bus that delivered us home each day and the time that milking began about four to five PM. But the underlying motivation was always to taste the wonderful product of Mary’s daily baking. The funnies, well they were important, but not as enjoyable the daily treat.

Mary and Charlie might have had a sweet tooth, for fresh baked goods were always at hand and if not baked by Mary, they might have been purchased at the front gate from the bakery delivery truck that would sound it’s horn at the road twice a week. Mary did not bake loaves of bread, only her wonderful bread biscuits, so their sliced bread was always purchased off the truck as he ran his route every day to all the outlying farms in the area.

What follows is taken from something I wrote several years ago about the wonderful memory of the bakery truck. It really was a special event to witness for nothing like this service was ever experienced while living in the city. It was a unique experience and the memory has always remained in a special and pleasant segment of my memory.


Golden Rule Bakery Truck

This was really something special. This was a bakery on wheels from Seattle with routes through the more remote areas of the Puget Sound area. The particular route we were on would bring the service to our door maybe two or three times a week but I could have dealt with it every day. When this panel truck sounded its familiar horn at the front gate of Mary Mills next door it was always an exciting time. I would rush to the road and run the fifty yards or so in order to be there, as Mary would come from the front door of the house and head towards gate at the roadside. As she approached the truck with the script written sign on the side panels proudly stating the name of the company,



then the driver would swing open the back doors of the truck and out would rush the most wonderful smells of fresh baked goods of all kinds. I can still recall those wonderful mouth watering smells to this day and no bakery in my lifetime has ever matched the wonderful memory of this special truck. The bakery goods of all kinds were all in neat packages from bread, to rolls to cookies, pastries and cakes all efficiently packed in tight from floor to roof , from front to back all placed in specially built shelves that the driver would pull out for one to see his luscious products. But the lingering smell was most wonderful on a warm summer morning after the sun had been beating on the steel sides and roof of the truck allowing the aroma of fresh baked goods to build up and concentrate to suddenly be released as the doors were first opened. It was magnificent ambrosia to a young one from the city.

It was probably a purchase by Mother or Uncle John that first introduced me to the pastry delight called a “Bear Claw”. What a wonderful treat this was for someone from the city where such items were a real luxury while growing up in Bremerton. I could never get enough of them and almost every summer day I would hope that today the truck would be stopping at our gate and Bear Claws would once again be purchased. If not a Bear Claw then perhaps something else as sweet and delectable would do just as well but this wish certainly was not fulfilled as much as I would have liked. The driver would only stop at our gate if Mom or Uncle John flagged him down as he reentered the road after pulling away from Mary’s house. Mary Mills was a good customer for the truck stopped faithfully every time for her and if I was within earshot of the unique musical sound of the trucks horn that the driver would proudly blast to announce his arrival at the gate. I would avail myself of every opportunity to be present as the doors were opened on that truck and it was even better than Mary’s kitchen on a baking day.

I missed the farm, Uncle John, the family dogs, Mary and Charlie when we moved back to Bremerton in 1950. Those times on the farm were so very special. Looking back on these times so many years later it is easy to see how Mary especially filled a place in my heart. She became almost a Grandmother figure which is something that never occurred to me early on in life. Only now can I make that connection. Our grandparents were long deceased by the time we were born. I wish the times could be given back.

The Cousins Next Door- Ferguson & Mills

Robert Ferguson, Mary Mills holding young Thomas Fountain McGinnis and Charlie Mills at the right,

circa early 1925

(The above photo, and the one of Charlie Mills that follows were provided by Molly McGinnis Wright, saved from her grandparents collection. This group photo serves to verify the identification of the elder gentleman on page 36 of the Album Mary Ellen McGinnis left behind that was never validated as being Robert Ferguson)

Mary Mills and her younger brother Charlie lived on the farm to the east of where Mother grew up in Florence. Neither of them ever married and I never, ever heard a word of anger come from either one of them. Politically or when discussing the ethics of other local citizens, Charlie could become very animated in his discussions, but Mary was always just the opposite. Soft spoken and with very gentle mannerisms. Some of my fondest memories are of these two. The one year we lived on the farm beginning in the summer of 1950 I believe through early fall of 1951 really is the time that my most warm and lasting memories of the two really are traced to.

They were friends, neighbors and relatives all in one. Mary was known to us as “Mamie”. Looking back I look on her almost as if she were my own Grandmother. Since she was 18 years older than Mother, looking back I can see how that came about. By the time I was born, all my grandparents had been long departed. Mamie seemed to fit the bill to me but I never ever expressed that openly. It was just an internal thing with me.

Actually Mother and Mamie were cousins and when tracing the family line, Mother, Mary and Charlie, can be traced back to a common great-grandfather. This patriarch of the McGinnis family has never been formally identified by name or place but it is assumed he was born and died in Ireland, probably in County Monaghan.

We grew up always knowing that Mother and Mary were cousins but just how they were related as second cousins was never explained and only in recent years due to interest in family history have I been able to define the relationship. Granted, perhaps there are other ways through marriage that created the relationship but all available evidence really traces the connection back to one unknown McGinnis great-grandfather of the two, a man whose given name we do not know, a man that most certainly lived his entire life in Ireland.

The following abbreviated family tree and table identifies the relationship of various family members to that one unknown man in Ireland. This connection is what establishes Mary Agnes McGinnis and Mary Mills as Second Cousins to one another. To my generation, the children of Mary Agnes and Charles Jones Sr., we are “Second Cousins Once Removed” to Mary and Charlie and to the unknown McGinnis ancestor from long ago Ireland, we are labeled as “Second Great-Grandchildren” to him.

The McInnis surname in the table is a branch of the McGinnis clan in New Brunswick. This branch comes from another child of the unknown ancestor, a daughter Catherine that married an Andrew McInnis, of Scotch descent, in Nelson, New Brunswick, in the vicinity of Chatham. A McGinnis marrying a McInnis makes looking through old church records a virtual nightmare when first coming across the marriage. No data tracing the McInnis descendants to current times has been found as yet. Another daughter, Mary, married into the Ferguson clan in Chatham which provides the relationship link to Mary and Charlie. In summary, the unknown ancestor had three children that we know of, son John, our great-great grandfather, as well as the two daughters described above. All the known descendants of these three siblings are included in the table.

Mary and Charlie lived on the ten acres of land inherited from their Uncle Robert Ferguson after he died in 1927. They continued tending their small herd of milking cows also left to them and through hard work on both their parts they managed to support themselves up until their deaths in the 1960’s. An album left behind by our grandmother Mary Ellen contains two photos on a page, side by side, of an older gentleman and another photo of Mary. This is what might be considered strong evidence that the gentleman is Robert. Our grandfather James McGinnis and his next door neighbor Robert Ferguson were first cousins. The two purchased the land for their farms, side by side, the very same day and began their life of farming in Florence together in 1891-1892.

Robert Ferguson (1845-1927) and Niece Mary C. Mills (1878- 1968)
Page 36 of the Photo Album Assembled by Mary Ellen McGinnis

Mary and Charlie were born in Chatham, New Brunswick, Canada where all the McGinnis family originated. Mary was born in 1878, Charlie in 1890. Their father Luke Mills married Catherine Ferguson, sister of Robert Ferguson. Catherine and Robert’s mother was Mary McGinnis and all evidence points to the fact that Mary McGinnis was a sister of our great-grandfather, John McGinnis. Difficult to put into words and thus a family tree is inserted here. Begin with the unknown McGinnis and the connection can easily be seen.

Mary and Charlie were but two of seven children with the birth years ranging from 1877 when William Mills was born to Charlie’s birth in 1890. Using census data it can be established that Mary left home in the early 1900’s and traveled to Boston to work as a domestic in homes in and around Boston. Her Boston destination was established through later anecdotal facts passed on to friends in Florence, namely from Ivy Hansen as related to her by her mother-in-law, Stella (sometimes spelled Estella) Hansen. Mary is not in the 1901 Canadian census nor has she been found in the 1900 U.S. census and the 1910 census states she immigrated in 1902. This establishes that she left New Brunswick at about age 24 or 25 when Brother Charlie was around 12 years old. As a rough estimate Mary was probably working in the Boston area as a servant of some sort beginning around 1900 or 1902 through about 1907 or 1908 when she came west to Florence to the farm of Robert Ferguson, her uncle.

Uncle Robert Ferguson had been farming about ten years when Mary left home and was probably well established. A single man, he rather than his sister Catherine Ferguson, now Catherine Mills, far away in Chatham, took on the responsibility for caring for their aging father, John Ferguson. John Ferguson is found in the 1900 Florence census living with his son Robert and his data states he immigrated in 1891 but had been in the States for 8 years meaning he immigrated in 1892. The latter is the most likely year he arrived in Florence for his son was still establishing his farm in 1891 and he probably would not have traveled all that far until some sort of a living accommodation was available.

John Ferguson died in March of 1908 in Florence, at the age of 88. His death certificate indicates a sudden but non-suffering end. From the document: “Cause of Death-Senility” followed with a statement: “He was not sick. Walked outside and came back and sat in a chair and died in a moment. Duration: 0 days.” No pictures of the senior Ferguson exist. His son Robert is buried beside him in the Florence Cemetery.

The facts tend to establish that Mary may have been asked to come west to Florence, assumedly from Boston, to help care for her grandfather whose health may have been failing. If not that reason, certainly the aging Uncle Robert was also soon to be in need of help around the farm and Mary in her late twenties in 1908, still single, may have been encouraged to come west and eventually fall heir to the farm since Robert had no other direct heirs. The exact year Mary arrived in Florence is not known but since she is in the 1910 Florence census the timing of her arrival to care for her grandfather is highly probable making the year she may have arrived in Florence as 1908, perhaps 1907.

Based on the 1930 Florence census data, brother Charlie Mills arrived from Chatham in 1925 to also help out on the farm. Their Uncle Robert died but two years after Charlie came on the scene and presumably the uncle’s health had begun to fail in the early 1920’s meaning more and more work was falling on Mary and she definitely needed help.

Charlie Mills, about 35 years old

Holding Young Thomas Fountain McGinnis (1923-1995)
Tommie probably about a year old (born November 20, 1923) making this photo date to be at least November 1924. Charlie’s 1930 census states he immigrated in 1925. If so then this might be very early 1925 making Tommie just about 14-16 months old. Regardless, this photo of Charlie had to have been taken just about the time he arrived from New Brunswick.

As stated both Charlie and Mary remained on the small farm of ten acres the rest of their lives managing a small dairy herd that I recall was always around ten cows. This was about three or four more than cousin John McGinnis next door always maintained alone.

Mary remained a devout Catholic all of her life and was active in maintenance of various church needs of St. Cecelia’s parish in East Stanwood that fell on the members of the Altar Society, a traditionally woman’s role in any Catholic parish. During our stays on the farm Mother did not always attend Mass on Sundays and many times Mary would take Don and me in tow and be off to Mass with us on foot to ensure that we completed our weekly obligation.

Mary and Charlie both would often relate stories to Don and me as we sat in the dining room of the Mills home as they told of the cold winters of their upbringing in New Brunswick. Of course these sessions were usually accompanied with milk from the mornings milking and fresh baked bread rolls or cake. Their stories always fascinated me as they acquainted us with a land so near yet so far away with a climate that seemed unimaginable. Obviously they were both pleased to have found sustenance for themselves in a much milder climate in North America. These early stories remained with me always and served to help arouse my curiosity in later years to pursue early family history in the Chatham area of New Brunswick where all these first generation Irish were raised.

Charlie preceded Mary in death by two years when he died on February 24, 1966 at the age of 76. Mary lived to the age of 90 when she passed away January 2, 1968. Just who the heirs were is unknown but perhaps their property passed to some distant Seattle cousins of the Gagner or Bagnall families. It is felt that these families maintained contact with Mary and Charlie over the years. The graves of Mary and Charlie are yet to be found and photographed but all indications are that they were both laid to rest in Anderson Cemetery in Stanwood, the same resting place for cousins John and Jim McGinnis.

The memory of Mary and Charlie Mills by Ivy Hansen, a long time friend and neighbor, as recently related to Molly McGinnis in a letter reveals Ivy’s memory and opinion.

"They did not inherit the McGinnis good looks, but were so jolly and smiling. Mary was a long time friend of my mother-in-law. She told me that before she came west she worked in wealthy homes in Boston, which was a train ride south of her home town. I can't remember whether she lived in the U.S. or Canada. She made strong tea. They had no car and on Memorial Day I would take her to the Florence cemetery where she tended the graves of her uncle Bob Ferguson and his father (her grandpa)."

Grave, Luke (1848-1919) and Catherine Ferguson Mills (1850-1915)
Parents of Mary and Charlie Mills

St. Michaels Cemetery, Chatham, New Brunswick




Mary Agnes McGinnis and Mary Mills
On the McGinnis Back PorchCirca 1911-1912, Mom about 15 years old, making Mary about 33 or 34. The earliest picture found of Mary.



Mary Mills and a Seattle Fitzpatrick Cousin
Feeding Chickens on the Mills Farm




Mary Mills and Marie McAteer
At The McGinnis Front Gate
Marie Was a Long Time Family Friend of all the Florence Families, From Seattle




Mary Ellen McGinnis, Mary Mills and one of the Seattle Fitzpartick Cousins
Oat Harvest in Progress





Mary Ellen McGinnis Standing on the Right, Next to Mary Mills, Sitting Second From Right
Even Mary liked her hats





Mary Agnes and Mary Mills
Circa late 1920’s to early 1930’s, Mary about 50 years old perhaps. No pictures of Mary later in life than this photo have been found.




At the Roadside in Front of the House

Mary Mills on the left next to James McGinnis Jr. Molly McGinnis has identified the two people on the left as Cecil and Clarence James brother of Aunt Marie and his wife. Joe Lyons is in the car and the little boy to the left is Clarence and Cecil's eldest son, Alva

Spring Has Arrived- Mother Would Be Pleased-

A Beautiful Spring in Florence
A Practical Use for a Rare, Unique and Lasting Family Antique

I suppose that only Don and I might really appreciate this, but Dale Slyngstad, the current Matriarch of the James McGinnis abode of early Florence, Washington, so happily continuing the use of the land that Mother and her Uncles grew up on, has found a practical use for one lasting relic left on the land. A very unusual relic indeed.

It has been so heartening to view the current home and acreage through pictures Dale has generously shared with me via the internet. She is a very warm person with a loving respect of the property and she seems to have formed a definite attachment to it. Dale and her husband are good stewards of the land and house where we spent so many wonderful summers as we grew up. If Mother were alive, she would be overjoyed to see her old home today after the several years of abuse it went through from renters after Uncle John died in 1952. My viewing it today really reverses the sadness I always had that came from Dad having to eventually sell the farm. To see it go out of the family was so sad but now the feelings are mended. That means so much to me personally.

Knowing that not all the trees and out buildings survived, only the house in a restored and remodeled condition, it occurred to me that one item would have been difficult to discard or even destroy. That one item would be the old watering trough, built so sturdily of cast concrete. It served the family dairy cows so well, for so many years, especially through the warm and sometimes even hot summers. The small herd of maybe five to seven would gather around the trough and the nearby salt block during those hot days and stay for hours in the shade of the barn but a few feet away.

A casual inquiry to Dale this past February brought back a totally unexpected selection of photos of the trough and its current resting place. It was a pleasant surprise to find that it still exists. Most surprising though is the enterprising and clever way that the Slyngstads are utilizing it. So practical and very ornamental to say the least. What might be considered an ugly piece of concrete has been turned into an asset, something that most people might have considered a liability, something to destroy. It’s difficult to determine for certain but it does appear as if it was dragged a very short distance from its original position bringing it nearer to the house and apparently now a part of the back yard although it appears to be in its original east west orientation,

Tulips In Full Bloom

May 5, 2009

This really warms my heart to see this and I know that all those souls that lived on this land in the past are smiling as well.


The following photo shows the trough earlier this year. Dale really was so helpful in providing the pictures. The tree in the background made the most delicious pies and applesauce. It is a Transparent variety and I am really astonished that it still survives. It had to have been planted in our Grandmother’s time of her heavy cooking and baking days. I would bet it was planted in the early 1920’s if not before for in my memory of the mid to late 1940’s it was well established and always a heavy producer of fruit. I can smell the wonderful pies it made even today.

And yes, before City Water arrived, a hand pump and a wooden trough as demonstrated here by Uncle John.

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WW-I And The Boys From Florence

Battalion Drill, Camp Fremont, California

1918

Established on July 18, 1917, to serve as a training camp for the 41st Division, National Guard, consisting of troops from Washington, Oregon, Idaho, and Wyo ming, it was located at Menlo Park, near Palo Alto, and named in honor of Major General John C. Fremont. Later, orders directed the organization of the division at Camp Greene, and the 8th Division was concentrated here. Construction began on July 24, 1917, and included 1,124 structures. The 7,203 acre reservation was ordered salvaged on December 19, 1918, and the buildings were sold at auction. The camp was abandoned in September 1919.

The above photo according to web sources was taken at Camp Fremont in California. The camp was located adjacent to the Stanford University Campus in Menlo Park, near Palo Alto, California. Uncle John spent some if not most of his training time in the camp before the Division was transferred to Camp Mills in New Jersey to await transport to France. The war ended while he was in camp on the East Coast in 1919.

The source for most of what follows was taken from "Snohomish County In The War" published in the 1920's and available on the internet. It is interesting to read through for it gives a brief statement for each Snohomish County man that served in the war as well as small excerpts from local newspapers as to what the people at home were doing to help the war effort.

Thomas Arthur McGinnis

Draft Registration, Thomas Arthur McGinnis

June 1917

History of the 91st Division in WW-I

The following history chronicles the involvement of the division. The source book also gives more detailed information of the major battles that are too lengthy to include here.

John Joseph McGinnis

Draft Registration, John McGinnis
June 5, 1917

History of the Eighth Division

Cousin Tommie and Uncle Jim

The record of service for Cousin Thomas Joseph McGinnes, Tommie, has not been found within the source volume that has been used here for much of the information for Thomas and brother John. The different spelling of the surname may have contributed to the omission from the source.

However, all the service records held within the Washington State Archives for all WW-I personnel have recently been made available for internet access. That record is copied below and it does show that he also was still on U.S. soil, probably on the East Coast, when the war ended.

Draft Registration, Thomas Joseph McGinnes

June 5, 1917

Draft Registration, James McGinnis Jr.
June 4, 1917

Uncle Jim to the best of my recollection never was drafted. No mention of him is made in the WW-I Snohomish County history used here as a source.

Florence Community Cemetery

All the following photos as well as the cemetery survey pages are all courtesy of Mike Jones.


I do believe that Mike and his Father had a difficult time finding the cemetery a few years ago. Looking at the access photos it is surprising that the actual site appears to be well kept.

The following aerial view found on Microsoft Earth shows the cemetery now squeezed in between modern homes. Development has eventually surrounded a location that was once very remote in a heavily timbered area.

Mike photographed what McGinnis graves he could find. I was pleasantly surprised to find that a monument had been placed over the graves of our grandparents, James and Mary Ellen. My early memories of visiting the cemetery are that the monument was not in place in the early 1950's. Perhaps Mom and Dad had it placed around the time the farm was sold.

You will certainly notice a difference in the spelling of the McGinnis surname. Hugh at some point in his life adapted the McGinnes spelling and his oldest son Tommie always adamantly argued that his was the correct spelling. Alas Tommie, even with your brilliant intellect, and I mean that sincerely, you were finally wrong about something for all early New Brunswick church records prove otherwise.

One grave that was not photographed and is supposed to be on the property is that of Cousin Margurite McGinnis, daughter of Hugh and Catherine. Margurite is found in many old family photos. Her and her sister Alice grew up with Mother and from all appearances they were nearly inseparable and more like sisters than cousins.

James McGinnis Sr. and Mary Ellen Donahue McGinnis

Catherine Donahue McGinnes and Hugh Patrick McGinnis Sr.

Cousin Tommie

He was a Gem of a man

Mary C. McGinnis

1895-1902

(But seven years of age)

Her death occurred the same year that Mother's older sister,Maggie also died. Maggie was about 18-19 years old. It is likely that an epidemic of some kind was the reason of these sudden deaths.

Arthur McGinnis

The youngest of Hugh and Catherine

Another delightful man in my memory. One of his daughters,was named Mary Catherine, assumed to be in honor of his older sister as shown above.

The following pages are part of a survey made during a Boy Scout cemetery restoration project. Mike obtained copies of the survey with the aid of his sister-in-law as found in Snohomish County records.

One page lists the names and grave locations which are coded on the following map page of the cemetery. This obviously was a very formal and well researched project. In reading through some of the notes it is implied that even early church records were consulted. One such location apparently was Marysville records. Contrary to my old assumptions the early church in Stanwood was administered as a Mission church of the Marysville parish and not a branch of the Arlington church.

Unfortunately Maggie's grave is not accounted for. There is some discrepancy between the descriptions for locations 36 and 45, almost a duplication of our grandparents James and Mary Ellen. The 45 location is the only hint of Maggie's possible burial. Interestingly this is adjacent to the Hugh McGinnis family burials, locations 40-44.

I have a distinct recall that Maggie was not buried next to her parents, James and Mary Ellen, which is a memory of one Memorial Day as Dad was cleaning the grave sites of debris and undergrowth. The memory is that when he was finished with our grandparent's grave he moved off to another location and cleared another grave that he said was Maggie's resting place. Perhaps the 45 location is but one grave, Maggie's location, and not really as confusing as the survey description conveys.

I have long wondered about whether to make this conclusion but remain reluctant to do so without some further evidence. It very well may be so for my memory was that Dad moved to his right to find the grave and when examining the map that is where location 45 can be found. Can one trust a memory from so long ago? You be the judge.