Today I saw a robin, not just any songbird, but my first sighting of reddish breasted thrush this year. I also saw a few snowflakes drifting from the sky. I can understand why the robin wasn't interested in giving me a vocal display of his talents just yet. He was worming his way around our partially frozen grounds. He wasn't in the mood. Could be those crows I talk about were high above him, in the top of old maple, protecting their interests and; he was too frightened to sing. No matter, this nature lover has been blessed with another season ticket to springtime; I can wait.
In the meantime I ordered baby chicks from Graham Grain. When I cleared my chicken house of our flock of aged laying hens, late last summer, this old poultry fancier said no more.
Some things are in one's blood to stay and again I said why not? Paul didn't mind. I haven't heard a peep out of him about it. Then again, he may be speechless; like that robin was this Saturday afternoon.
I was guest speaker last Monday evening at The Clay County Historical Society's monthly meeting held downstairs in the basement of the old post office. Paul and I truly enjoyed being in the company of the folks dedicated to the preservation of the history of Clay County - a good group of people whom we admire.
The first time I visited that fine historical piece of architecture was well over 60 years ago. During my childhood, Mom and her fan club walked quite a distance to purchase money orders and post special letters, often.
Early on, I was too little to see through the bars or inside the service windows. I would stand back almost to the shiny doors and watch Mr. Tribble or Mr. McCullough move about. Time past and after the growth spurt kicked in, I could access what I called the writing table. I tried out the pen more than once and then returned it to its proper place near the black ink in the wells.
Of course! It could never be said that I had sticky fingers, but tongue; that's a different matter. Come to think of it, maybe my hands were a wee bit sticky too. I licked stamp after stamp in those days, one, two and three cents ones- most mailings headed toward the A.K.C., or Sears & Roebuck.
The glue on the business envelopes we used tasted almost as good as the globs of white paste pulled from the ruler at school. The paste that I make reference to; mom claimed was made from the hoofs of dead horses that Godfrey Green hauled to the glue factory and; we were not to eat the white stuff ever! We didn't know where that glue came from on those flaps, but she was good with it, nevertheless and; so was I!
Once I started to slide down one of the well - polished brass hand - rails in front of the building, facing the police station.
Mom said to forget that, because it was an improper thing to do, not lady- like and "against the law." I was a foolhardy little lady that just wanted to slide down and jump off and out onto a limb or two, regardless.
She shook her head and pointed her finger toward Stick Hunter, the uniformed officer of the law from our neck of the woods. He was a lot bigger than I was. He was a finger pointer too! Mr. Hunter carried firepower and a wooden billy club.
Mother perched the baby on her hip and hurriedly ascended the steps back into the post office to retrieve something.
My brother Johnny said, "Mary, go for it; I won't tell." I sat my fears aside, at least for that brief moment in time and sailed downward almost to the end. I did it and he told mom before we reached the golden eagle on the corner! Our little gentle nurturer complained, in more than an audible tone, all the way home and past the front door.
I don't know why that boy with the big mouth needed tire patch from Luther's Bicycle Shop the next time we walked to town. Could have been the fact that someone punctured his tire, just because.
Stick didn't notice the downward spiral that might have sent me toward girl's school, according to Brother, but just in case; I ran past his house at the corner of Hendrix and Vandalia Streets for a while after that. One day his wife, Mae, questioned "Where are you headed--to a fire?" imagine that!
So you see, I have had a love affair with the post office for a very long time.
I am almost sure that I told you about the day mom' s half-slip fell to her feet while descending those same steps. That poor lady moved in a much swifter manner than I did slipping down that handrail. Our favorite posting companion pulled it all together, nicely, and unlike me, she blushed!
I am searching for some information concerning the family history of the ancestors of Thomas Lynch. His great --grandfather Patrick Lynch was (probably born) in Ireland. Thomas Lynch, his grandfather was born in Ireland and died in 1885. Dr. G.C. Gifford, Brazil, Indiana signed Thomas's death certificate. The undertaker was William W. Moore.
Thomas's wife Ellen died 9-25-1898 and was reported in the Brazil Democrat by Sherfey & Kidd, undertakers.
Thomas Lynch's father was Harold Lynch, who was the son of Thomas and Ellen. Thomas is 83 years old and remembers living in Brazil years ago. The family is Catholic.
His daughter Kathy Bledsoe -Rucker would love to put the pieces back together for him and I would like to help both.
Maybe someone could add to the findings that I have gathered for the father and daughter coupled with this information provided to me by Kathy. It could be they are kin of mine.
It would be nice if I could gift the Thomas Lynch family with the information that Kathy seeks on or near St. Patrick's Day. Some may wonder why then? That would be sweeter than an Irish lullaby to them. Why not?
I can be reached at 446-4852 or drop me a line to 613 North Elm St., Brazil, IN., 47834 or by email at firstname.lastname@example.org.