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written 1963-64

Honolulu, Hawaii


Una Appleby Stewart

1888 -

(Daughter of Andrew Benjamin Appleby and Mary (Molly) Johnson)

                Once upon a time a very long time ago, there were three little children living in a home with a daddy but no mother.  When their mother died, Sara Letitia, usually called Tish, was seven years old.  The only boy, Steele Fuller Stewart, Jr., then called "Junie", was a little past 2, and the shy little sandwich filling, Carolyn,  was a little past four.

   When a new mother came, in September, 1932, to make life in the Norton Avenue household more normal, the children were 4, 6, and 9 years old, and they all tried, with their lonesome daddy to make the new mother welcome.

   Now that they have children of their own they feel a measure of curiosity about the background of this new mother, once accepted so blithely because, as Sara once explained, "She plans good times for us; she has been to Europe and she wears pretty clothes."  Sometimes.

            Because of that curiosity and occasional prodding, I have agreed in this eighth decade to put down for them and for their children, should they become interested, some of the factors which made me first a disturbing, then a stimulating, and finally we hope, a contributing factor in their lives.  After all, I was more of a teacher than a cook, more of an independent then a Republican, more of a social being than Stewart tradition requires.

            In any writing one must set limits, and any self-examination must include to a degree, one's forebears; adversities--there have been many--will be balanced with anecdotes, not limiting them to the individual.

            The overall theme might be "Adjustments".  Someone has said that a mature person can tolerate

frustration.  Looking back at my forebears, I believe they showed maturity and I am grateful for my heritage.

            When one grows up as one of five children, in a minister's family, there are inevitably frustrations that have to do with money.  I rarely saw coins, never green backs, but we never felt poor.  In whatever community we lived, and we moved every four or five years, we suffered from no class consciousness. We played with the poorest children and were invited to the nicest homes; I think I first became aware of wealth when I was in high school, and I began to wish that some of my affluent playmates would invite me over to take a bath.

            Until my father accepted a call in 1906 from the Congregational Church in Newton, Iowa, we never had a real bathroom.  Prior to that, the Saturday night ritual included the polishing of shoes, and baths for each of the seven Applebys in turn.  We filled with hot water a laundry tub which had been carried in, to occupy a spot on the cold kitchen linoleum floor as close as possible to the wood-burning stove.  The toilet was far away in the back of the garden where I refused to go alone after dark.  We called it the "water-closet"; "privy" was considered crude.  Virginians of colonial days used a euphemism, "the necessary".

            Since anecdotes are part of the plan I digress here to tell of Judge Case's experience.  When he planned a new house on Maui about 1880, he included plumbing and a bathroom.  The contractor expostulated, "I ain't never put a privy inside a house and I certainly ain't going to!"

            Primitive days?  Yes.  Toilet paper in neat rolls had not appeared in the Appleby ménage, but catalogues from Sears and Montgomery Ward came to useful ends.  No pun intended.

            Kleenex was not even a gleam in the inventor's eye.  In the parsonage laundry each week there were hundreds of handkerchiefs, or so it seemed when I was learning to iron.  soon I graduated to stiffly starched petticoats with deep embroidered flounces.  It was my mother who usually did the white damask tablecloths, for about them she was most particular.

            It must have been an exceedingly difficult adjustment for a farmer's daughter to take on the role of 

minister's wife, Sunday School teacher, perpetual hostess, as well as superlative cook, hardworking housekeeper and conscientious mother of five.

            Once, she took time to get down on  the floor and play paper dolls with me, a precious, linking memory.  Paper dolls were my passion.  I cut them from all the fashion magazines I could beg from the village dressmakers.  We had school and school rooms, nurseries, and funerals, even weddings after my understanding dad brought 

home from his merchant friends advertising cards of tall dignified gentlemen in morning coats, and Prince Albert's (my father's pulpit attire was a Prince Albert).  Prior to that thrilling acquisition my paper doll families had no fathers at all or only a "traveling man."

            No doubt it was an innate feeling for drama which governed my activities at the age of eight, no less than at eighteen.  At ten I was drawing house plans; but in my own domicile there would always, yes, always, be a whole room devoted to my paper-doll families, their wardrobes and the furniture I had learned to make from cardboard.

            Other amusements?  O, yes, after a move, before the carpets were down or the beds made, my father would have found a tree in the yard, with a sturdy limb just right for a rope swing; there I remember learning to "take turns", and to look for cloud pictures in the blue sky.  Kittens we always had, and Paul's first dog was christened Music after he had cried all the first night.

            Since minister's children could not be allowed to run wild we were always the first to be called home from "run, sheep, run", or "hide and seek", with the neighborhood children after supper.  That was unfair discrimination, but once we were in the house Dad would say, "I'll bet you can't hold me down", and by the time his powerful six-foot figure was stretched on the ingrain carpet, all the children, plus mother, would attack him.  Frank or Velma, the current youngest, had the privilege of sitting on his head.  Erma, Paul, mother and I each took an extremity and in the tussle that followed we forgot to envy our freer playmates outside in the dark.

            Somehow there were always books, and Dad read much to us.  "The Youth's Companion" first made me mail-conscious, but Erma, the brainy one, read everything that came into the house.  I was eight when my ten-year-old sister infuriated me by saying, "Una, do you know what was Milton's great infirmity?"  I snapped, "I don't know what you mean!"  Then Paul, who was only five, humiliated me even more by saying, "Why, Una, she's talking about Dan Milton right here in town."

            There was one December, when I discovered, hidden away among quilts in a chest, a brand new copy of "Five Little Peppers."  The bedroom had no heat but I managed before Christmas to sneak enough secret chilly visits to get pretty well acquainted with the activities of the Pepper family.  My conscience didn't bother me, but a word did.  Mrs. Pepper always e-j-a-c-u-l-a-t-e-d.  I was only seven years old and I had to wait until Christmas Day to ask somebody what that word spelled and meant.  Then I had to go back to page one lest my sin be discovered.

            There was one rule about books:  I could choose one, then Dad would choose one, ad infinitem.  One of Dad's choices was Guerber's "myths of Greece and Rome", but he characteristically went thru it first and put diacritical marks and accents on every circe, Aph, ro di te, and Heph aes tus.  Fifty years later I blessed his memory when your Dad and I found ourselves at the Opera in Copenhagen.  The singing was in German, the program in Danish, so we were saved from an evening of frustration by the father who so long ago saw to it that I knew the story of Orpheus and Eu rid i ce.

            It is a temptation to use superlatives about my father.  "the handsomest man in the room", one parishioner said in identifying him to a newcomer.  His mustache was reddish, tho his thick curly hair was black, even at 63 when he died.  His deep brown eyes were almost black.  Tho mother's were a beautiful blue not one of her children go them.  She deplored her five foot height and chose to stand by me in church because all the other members of the family made her feel like a dwarf.  Dad like to tease her by resting his out-stretched arm on top of her head.

            Clerical garb was no, in those days, usual for ministers, but for a wedding, a funeral, or a Sunday service Dad was an impressive sight in his Prince Albert coat and high silk hat.  He was  collector of poems and anecdotes; he hobnobbed happily with bankers and barbers, with senators and seamstresses, with clerics and children.  Not then but now his wide-ranging mind amazed me, for little Morrisville College and later Drury College encompassed his training.  But he always used the Greek Testament in preparing his sermons.  We got the theory of evolution by osmosis at home, hence I was spared shock in geology class where some of my classmates suffered intellectual and emotional trauma.

            We could depend on help with our homework, but to an 8th grader, his old style Latin conjugation: amo, amas, amat, was a bit bewildering.  He would be less bewildered by the "new math" than I.

            That all five of us got to college, with no money in the family, is still something of a miracle.  The motto of The Three Musketeers, "All for one, and one for all" seems to have been taken for granted. 

            Paul's paper route income (he began at the age of eight, on a cold, early morning route), helped me to Cottey, one of the first Junior colleges, and after two years there I became a bread winner at 19, and was able to help the younger ones a bit.

            It was, you see, a wholesome family life, but nobody was pampered.  Nobody expected to be.  Industry and integrity were taken for granted both at home and at school.  Until I was in High School I knew only one person who cheated.  My classmates and I felt sorry for her because she didn't know better.  In the excellent school of Sweet Springs, Missouri, honesty was in the air we breathed.  We all had chores at home, duties for Sunday School and Young People's meetings.  Responsibilities were a part of life.

            Our chunky little bird-like mother had married her teacher, not a minister.  She was nineteen.  He was four and a-half years older.  When he tried journalism she backed him; when the ministry called she adjusted.  In her genealogy there is sturdy, peasant stock with hard work, honesty and frugality, the virtues to be taken for granted.  No Johnson ever loafed until his head was white.  Mother even considered reading in the forenoon a sin, and found her book-loving elder daughter harder to understand than practical Una.  It is interesting that Erma and Velma have become the superb cooks and meticulous house-keepers.  When Una found herself in a family where no one had ever hung up a towel, mutual adjustments were inevitable.

            Perhaps some one was pampered in the parsonage and that some one I.  Because of a fall down a winding stair at the age of 14, and consequent backaches through all the years, I was not allowed to scrub the kitchen floor.  and because I was the only member of the family willing to wield a pair of scissors, and look a needle in the eye I was urged to move out of the kitchen toward the sewing machine.

            But the really hard work like window-washing and scrubbing, mother never dodged until in her sixties, her spongy bones and a succession of collapsed vertebrae made inevitable a new way of life.  Her two familial weaknesses, osteoporosis and respiratory difficulties, were with her and probably will be with me to the end, for they are not killers.  Longevity alas, is part of my Johnson heritage.  In Paul's case, to be sure, the bronchial and sinus difficulties, aggravated by years of cigarette smoking, made his final years exceedingly difficult.  Daily, I give thanks that not one of our children smokes, nor do their spouses!

            You children cannot remember life without motor cars.  The Appleby family had a two-seated trap, and "old Buck", a placid horse, which our worrying mother would never let us ride or drive.  To school we walked.  It was a mile so that meant 4 miles a day if we came racing home for lunch.  One morning we had a magnificent blizzard.  At noon dad appeared carrying a big market basket with lunch for Erma, little Paul and me.  There was a whole cherry pie, hot from mother's wood-burning stove.  I hope we shared it, for there were many snow bound that day.

            Perhaps, mother spoke the truth when she said she liked to work but I didn't believe her then; nor when in the home town of Maytag, we acquired our first electric washing machine.  Mother didn't trust it.  After everything had been rubbed clean on the wash board, then and only then did they go into the machine!

            Thru all her years of doing what needed to be done and keeping cheerful about it, my little mother kept her love of beauty, her liking for people, and a delight in little animals, such as baby ducklings in London's Regent Park.  One of my earliest memories has to do with a woman who came to call on the new minister's wife.  Mother, proud of that rarity - a new dress, decided to show it to the visitor.  I heard the apology in her voice as she said, "It's blue.  I suppose it should have been black as I'm so awfully old."  She must have been under 29 at the time, but in a four year cold's plastic mind that concept of old age was indelible.

            It is a source of considerable satisfaction that in her later years our mother's burdens were lightened, and we were able to delight her with occasional frivolous gifts : a garnet ring, a vase of Bohemian glass, a bit of Wedgwood.

            The four months she and I had together in Europe in 1928 were not only fun; they were an excellent investments.  Her quick eyes, her gaiety, her enthusiasm made her a delightful traveling companion.  Her reiterated "This is the best yet" became a family joke.  even in her terminal illness, she would recall the apple blossoms in Normandy, the hearty breakfasts in Holland, the plays she saw in Stratford upon Avon.

            Valiant is the adjective that best describes her and her little twin sister in their active years.  You who were at Lee Hall in the Blue Ridge the summer of 1946 may remember that a strange man came up as she sat talking before the open fire, and kissed her on the cheek, saying, "You do have such a good time!"

            Are you bored, you young things?  Sorry, but how can you understand me, unless you understand those who made me?  Verily, I have a goodly heritage, and you three, not of my blood, but of my spirit, are sharers in it.

            A few paragraphs on my professional life may well be inserted here.  From the age of ten I longed to be an architect, but my father used to say, "Una will earn her living by the sweat of her jaw."  So, having won an essay contest in High School, I was sent to the local "elocutionist" for training.  Her little boy later became known as Jack Oakie.  My dad sent with me a story of Negroes in the old South, hoping that among other accomplishments I would learn to do Negro dialect.  Mrs. Offield silenced my fears with a brisk, "Nonsense!  Of course you can do Negro Dialect!  The only people who can't are those with little rose-bud mouths."  At the moment I felt only pricked pride.  Many years later I was grateful, being able to share with many an audience that timeless play, "The Green Pastures."

            My first money was earned by "The sweat of my jaw." A series of public recitals beginning in High School days netted me my first individual purchase - a suitcase.  Was it to become a symbol of my life?  A complete stranger in one Iowa town, I found that that suitcase, checked, with evening attire in it, had failed to arrive on my train!  And my recital was billed for that evening!!  However, a certain Mrs. Bixby, blessed be her name, offered for the occasion a dress of ecru lace, with a train.  On returning it the next day I said, "How can I ever thank you?"  That wise woman answered, "You don't.  You just pass it on."

            On another occasion, because of a belated railroad connection and the need to hire a horse and buggy to transport me to the town where I was due that evening for a recital, I found myself in a strange hotel, in a strange town, with a solitary nickel and a penny in my purse.  Never did a check look so welcome as the one which paid me for that evening's performance.

            In those days, at my father's insistence, his youthful daughter wore an Easter Star pin on her wanderings, but never did she have to appeal for financial or personal help, except to the family, and never have they failed her.

            We pause now, in the phrase of the day, for a word about those sponsors.  Perhaps, you are now aware of the vision of my father and the self-sacrifice of my mother.  There are also debts to the two brothers and two sisters which I can never repay.

            Even Frank, whom you never knew since his death occurred in 1936, made bookings for recitals for me while he was still a high school student.  Both brothers washed dishes to earn their board through college;  both in turn became editors of the college newspaper and the annual.  Frank was handsome as a movie star;  L.T. Appleby looks much like him.

            Velma was a most beautiful child, with her golden curls and big brown eyes, and became as you know, a chic, attractive woman.  She should have gone to some college other than Grinnell.  Her two older brothers had established patterns of Leadership difficult to follow.  I think it was unfair to her, too, that I went to Grinnell as instructor in Speech while she was a sophomore there.  But, she was a good sport.  We even went to a house party together, and thanks to an ever-ready welcome in her warm dormitory, my two c o-o-O-l-d winters in Grinnell were bearable.

            The ancient proverb is true "Out of evil good does come."  Had I not suffered so much cold and inconvenience in Professor Henrickson's home in Grinnell I never would have turned hopefully toward the Hawaiian Islands.  Nor would I now be writing memoirs to the three young Stewarts!

            To return to the Appleby - Erma you know, but you did not know her when she was the beauty of family, as proved by her pictures.  Her most remarkable characteristic, however, is that she has never stopped learning.  Latin teacher, English teacher, Y.W.C.A. executive, cook in several languages, she took up the study of the Honolulu, Hawaii stock market in her seventies, and did well with her investments.

            Paul, three years younger than I, you all know about; it is sad that you did not know him.  Frail even as a little boy, and always handicapped by financial problems, he had two tremendous assets;  his heritage in ideals and character; and the right wife.  A liking for people is inherent in the Appleby-Johnson tradition.  Paul had more than that; his was a Jeffersonian concern for the life, liberty, and happiness of individual beings;  hence his success in the war on the Lend-Lease Program in India where he established their first school of Public Administration, and in his own personal relations.  I've known many men who made friends easily;  Paul kept his friends thru life, and because he was at heart a teacher, as President Kennedy recognized, individuals and nations were blessed y his 72 years of vision and service.

            Most college campuses are beautiful to a nostalgic backward looker, but it was my good fortune to discover Robert Frost's "Birches" in the very year of a spectacular ice storm, and to go for a long walk in Grinnell countryside where "the wind cracks and crazes the enamel."  That brilliant, magnificent day almost atoned for my icy bedroom where the mercury stayed below 50 degrees.

            The other memorable experience in my Grinnell years was that of drowning.  It was in a little lake during my second spring that I floated beyond my depth, and Josephine Hutchinson, bless her, tried to save me when she saw me floundering.  When I felt myself going down the fourth time I had time to think, "Three myths exploded!  This is the fourth time, not the third; my whole life isn't flashing before me; and drowning isn't a painful death at all!!"  It was Josephine's brother and his friend who saw us struggling in the dimly lit water and jumped in completely dressed and carried us to shore.  It's a bit weird to return to consciousness as water drips from a boy's cap into your face.  Because of that particular experience I was prompt in enrolling that fall in the faculty swimming class taught by Dad Center in Punahou;  he who had trained Duke Kahanamoku and other champions never had much occasion to be proud of me, but I never drowned again.

            If you have been patient thru all the recollections of my youth, you may be more interested in a few personal pictures of Hawaii in the 1920's.  To begin with, the two Hutchinson girls (now Mrs. Charles Poole and Mrs. Alfred Church, friends made in Grinnell College where Josephine was also an instructor) and I lived in hot, crowded little Waikiki.  Our apartment on Kaiulani overlooked duck ponds and rice fields, now replaced by the Ala Wai canal.  More extensive rice fields were to be found on the Windward wide of Oahu, with an occasional water buffalo at work in their mud.

            When I see a truck these days with a red rag dangling from a protruding beam there is a nostalgic pang.  No red rags in Hawaii in 1921, but a cluster of red Hibiscus dangled as a friendly warning.

            Early every morning we could hear the soft call, "Frower, frower" as a kimono-clad figure pattered down the street, bearing on her back a huge basket filled with cornucopias mad of newspaper.  For ten or fifteen cents you could buy one filled with colorful African daisies or zinnias or asters.

            We soon learned that the Oriental who substituted an "r" for an "l" was a Japanese.  It was the Chinese who like "l's" and served us "flied lice."  In our early sight-seeing we found a sign in a path thru the capitol grounds, "More bettah you go round."

            As for that aloha spirit, pupils and their parents quickly showed by flowers, invitations and fruits - friendliness that was amazing to one who had never before come to a community with no friend or relative, as a link, not even a friend of a friend.  So it was astonishing to find at our door one morning a well-dressed, dignified gentleman saying, "My wife and I wondered if you would like some fruit?"  Not seeing any in his hands I murmured a hesitant, "Yes, thank you."  He smiled and said, "will you come to the car and help me carry it in?"  I went and my arms were soon filled with a pineapple, and huge papaias.  Then he picked up a tremendous stem of green bananas and carried it on his shoulder into our hot little apartment, drew from his pocket a ball of heavy twine and suspended it from a hook already located in the ceiling, no doubt for just such a purpose.  The following day we found we had 144 ripe bananas - so you know that kitchen was hot!  That is one of my earliest memories of the generous man you all came to know and love as "Uncle Frank Atherton."

            The family life of Hawaii in the twenties was a delight to share:  swims, beach parties, hikes on Tantalus, even ti-leaf sliding and all fun because of the companionship, and no snakes!

            When I had been expected to memorize Shakespeare in earlier years I frankly did not always believe the great William.  At this belated hour I would like to point out for you one significant word, which then I passed over, "Sweet are the uses of  adversity."  Adversities themselves are never sweet, not a least in my experience.  Most first years on a new job are pretty terrible, and my first year at Punahou was so frustrating that I would have returned to my family by the New Year if I could have paid the steamer fare.  Why?  Because only the President and the students wanted me here and the President was a dying man.  My colleagues, especially the principals of Junior and Senior Academies provided enough adversities and to spare.  My resignation went in in March.  In May it was withdrawn and I've never been sorry.  But I continue to think of first years with dread.  But tempus does fugit as Dad used to say, and I should like you to turn your minds even further backward for a brief look.

            Both Johnson and Appleby records show forebears involved in the American Revolution, but due to Erma's and our dad's diligence and interest in genealogy we know more about the Applebys.

            William Appleby arriving from the English-Scottish border by way of Ireland had barely gotten himself established with his Irish wife in the Cumberland Valley of Pennsylvania when he was called into service.  At the end of hostilities William and his second wife, also Irish, moved to Georgia, thence to Tennessee where he died in 1807.  Already certain patterns were established.  O sturdy Presbyterian stock (the first Presbyterian church west of the Mississippi was organized in our great-uncle William's house), they were conscientious home-loving folk, but withal adventurous.  It is significant perhaps, that in the direct line no Appleby seems to have died in the state where he was born.  The coat of arms shows martlets, symbol of the younger son, flying west, and for the crest, no crown, helmet, eagle, or rampant lion; only an apple on the twig.  Is it any wonder that trees are important  to Applebys?  That the country id more appealing than cities?  Even the motto seems still to apply now as in the 1600's "Et ingeni alis virtutis ascendimus" - "On the wings of courage and industry we will arise."  Each generation seems to have been marked by independence of thought, by industry rather than affluence.  There were Applebys in the British clergy as one can see in Carlisle and in St. Paul's, but on the whole the learned professions did not greatly attract.  In this county most Appleby tilled land, but they also polished their minds to a degree considered noteworthy by their neighbors.  One bit of history from Civil War Days will entertain you.  My father, Andrew Benjamin Appleby, was born in the tragic year of 1861 when families, like the nation were being torn apart.  His father, having left Tennessee because he didn't believe in slavery, still owned one slave, poor old Aunt Emmaline, who had no place to go.  He didn't believe in secession either so he just didn't fit in with either his Northern or his Southern neighbors.  He didn't fight; he raised mules and sold them to the Confederates.  But prudence led him to send his wife and small children, also his sister, to Texas for the duration, tho that was doubtless not the phrase then used.  So grandmother and Aunt Mary made themselves new dresses for the journey, sewing buttons right down the front from collar to hem.  You see travelers checks had not been invented, so each button was a ten dollar gold piece, covered with cloth of the dress material.  so, whenever money was needed one of the sisters cut off a button!

            For the same trip some other gold pieces were wrapped in paper and inserted at the center of a ball of yarn.  Years later back in his Missouri home my father and his kittens found the ball of yarn  - a delightful plaything and eventually the gold pieces, long forgotten, rolled over the kitchen floor.  That seems to have been the only time in history when our family could forget money.

            And now my thoughts leap-frog to the only war you three children have known.  Our family was fortunate; tho it brought us separation, we were spared participation.

            The separation meant a minimum of family life, especially you two college girls, but I  like to cherish certain significant memories, as revealing and heartening.  One revealed the quickly aware elder sister; the night before our wedding the balloon of the four year old one burst;  Sarah said quickly "Here, take mine: and a minor tragedy was averted.  Another has to do with Carol, her first love, and the fortitude with which she met her first tragedy.  Her first love was a puppy, brought to her by her daddy.  When we returned to Inglecheek after a brief absence we learned that she had taken the little wagging black-and-white down to the laundry and baptized him Dubby.

            Her first remembered tragedy was the disappearance of this adored pet; controlled grief and courage in a ten-year-old can be a humbling experience to an adult.  I knew then and I know now, that trouble will never find in our Sandwich Filling a cowardly heart.  I believe it was Dr. Samuel Johnson who said, "A man used to vicissitudes is not easily dejected."

            Was it a good omen for the profession he was to choose that those war years saw our Punahou boy solicitous and helpful wherever small fry were concerned?  When rehearsing Christus Parvuius I had no worries about the little St. John.  He kept an eye on her and saw that she was taken home promptly and early when her scene was over.  Then he came back to help his mother-director lock up and go home.

            It was a grim social period for a teenager, but perhaps even he can say now, after long look backward, "Sweet are the uses of adversity."

            Perhaps, this is the spot to note that for years I cherished a note from my little son signed, "Laddie Stewart, Jr., M.D"


Corrections  for Una's book by Aunt Erma Appleby

            Our first house with a bathroom was not in Newton, Iowa, but Sedalia, Missouri on Osage Street, where we moved from East Seventh Street.  However, we were not allowed to enjoy if for very long, because after a few months my father was forced by the Bishop to become pastor of the local church instead of presiding elder of the District which he had been hitherto.  Consequently we had to move into the small parsonage next door to the church.

            When my father died, Una had not seen him for more than two years.  He did have gray hairs, but was not noticeably gray.

            My father went first to Drury College, to the Academy, where he would probably have stayed had his father not died.  He then went to Morrisville, a small college which his Uncle Ben had helped to found.

            Nannie Megehin (*error name was the name of William Appleby's first wife.   She was Protestant and in all likelihood Scotch-Irish as was William.  The same thing is true of William's second wife, Nancy (or Agnes) McCurdy. (editor's clarification:  actual name is Nancy Agnes McCurdy, records indicate she was called Agnes.)

It was great-grandfather, James, who left Tennessee because he did not believe in slavery.  He never owned a slave.  But Grandfather Andrew fell from grace and acquired a cook, Aunt Emmeline and her young daughter.

 Added note from Erma:  Dorothy Thompson's Book, "Once on Christmas",  was sent with this inscription in the front, in Una's hand:  "Our common memories for the whole gang, if Paul will read it aloud."  Paul began it, but found the memories too close for comfort.  It was the first time I can remember seeing Dad with tears in his eyes.  Those of us who were interested finished the little book for ourselves.  It made a great impression on me, and when the folks indicated that they had too many books for the smaller quarters they were moving into, this was one I latched onto.  (I don't feel too bad about ignoring copyright laws, because this book has long been out of print.  The price in the front is fifty cents, so you can tell it's long ago!  And speaking of that, it must have been about the Christmas of 1938 that it came;  I'd have said it was earlier than that, but it can't have been, because it wasn't written earlier.)

Notes by Dee Appleby"

(*) The error may have started with Erma or someone before her, but decades of  research for the family of Nannie Megehin, finally arrived at the correct name.  It seems likely that it was a phonetic error.  From her father's will, enough evidence was provided to prove her name was NOT Nannie Megehin but ELIZABETH MCKEEHAN.   Please try to make corrections or notations whenever you find the earlier name in any records.  


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page created:  30 Nov 2001

revised:  24 May 2006