The "Black Warrior"

The steamship Black Warrior.

(Copyright-free image)

Page 2 of Ben Howe's letter to Nathaniel.

(See yesterday's post.)

One of the joys and challenges of working on this book of history is the unexpected information that comes up when I search topics related to the letters. In this case, the ship Ben took from New Orleans to New York turned out to be famous. He mentioned its name, Black Warrior, at the end of line 13. Ben took his trip in June of 1856. The Black Warrior was built in 1852. Had Ben taken the same trip in 1854, he might have been aboard on the day the Black Warrior nearly became the catalyst for war with Spain as it lay moored off of Havana, Cuba. Had he taken the trip in 1859, he might have been among the passengers on the fateful ship when it grounded on Rockaway Bar near modern day JFK Airport. There are a number of web pages about the Black Warrior, and this one combines most of the historical information along with notes on the wreckage. If you scroll down the page you can even see eating utensils from the ship, giving us some idea of what Ben's place setting must have looked like.

It's fascinating to find this kind of stuff, and the challenge comes in sorting out how much to include in an already-very-long draft. But it's exactly this type of material that gives clues about how the people in the letters lived and what they thought about. Certainly both Nathaniel and Ben knew the history of the near-war sparked when the Black Warrior's captain had failed in February 1854 to declare to Spanish Customs that he was carrying a load of cotton from Alabama. He failed to declare because the law didn't require it, as the cotton was not intended for offloading in Havana. However, the new Governor of Cuba seized the ship and provoked an international incident. War was only averted because England, France, and Russia were about to become embroiled in Crimean War and did not want the added burden of backing Spain. The war was forestalled, and would eventually take place in 1898 as the Spanish-American War, the famous war in which Teddy Roosevelt commanded Rough Riders at San Juan Hill - a war with history-changing repercussions as far away as the Philippines.

There are any number of interesting points in Ben's letter. He had his own style that expressed itself in simple things such as the "double comma" look of his periods and the already-mostly-outdated use of "f" instead of some of the "s's" in his text. He writes "pafs" instead of "pass," for instance, and it took me a minute to figure out that "lef" was "less," because he didn't include the second "s" (or else it's barely there, see line 10).

Ben's exuberance comes through in passages such as, "Now Friend H. Tis not fair no t’isn’t by any means when I talk so freely to you & just to think you should keep such a matter of . . . grand importance for me who give you all my confidence entire. Oh, Ho Ho. Don’t get vexed don’t." This was Ben's response when he learned in Vermont that Nathaniel was contemplating marriage and had not mentioned it to his old friend.

I find myself curious when I read, " . . . we stopped at Havana for a while & I just got my pass ["pafs" in each case] and went ashore for awhile to see the sights at Havana. Well after getting my pass (just like any other nigger) I approached the officer, Pass in hand & was permitted to enter the old city of Havana. . . ." First, let me say, I actually shudder to use the "N word," even here, as I was brought up to find racial slurs abhorrent. (I don't mind swearing, that is a whole "nother" thing, but I cringe to hear racial slurs, much less perpetuate them - and that is the crux here.) But "first" again, I do not change the words used by the writers of the letters. These are their thoughts and the language of their times. In the publication of All Eight Went, a 1910 travelogue, I did change "Chinaman" to "Chinese man" for the sake of what I thought was propriety, and I've always regretted it. The flavor of the time and the character of the people left the sentence, and I had written a lie. Second, I don't believe that the word "nigger" was here intended as a racial slur by Ben against black people. Again, it was the language of the times, and it conveys a particular attitude and complex relationship to his environment that I can only begin to understand by keeping the word in its context. Until his early 20s Ben had lived in the North among abolitionists and those who, while not in favor of human bondage, had only tolerated slavery because it was constitutionally the law of the land. At twenty-something he had traveled south to teach school and had lived in slave-holding communities and perhaps in slave-holding households in Georgia and Louisiana by the the time he wrote this letter at the age of almost 27. His Northern roots had become tempered by sympathy for how the Southerners lived. He was also conscious that he was writing to a Northern friend, but one who had also spent time teaching in the South. While Nathaniel had not adopted the South as fully as Ben had, he had come to love his Southern family and understand their ways and reasons.

Returning to the line used by Ben, I conclude that while not showing contempt for blacks, he is taking into account their status as less than that of respected citizens and expressing his own sense of humiliation at needing to be approved and monitored in order to go ashore in Havana. I find this interesting, as Havana was not part of the United States, and we are so used to the formalities and even the invasive procedures at border crossings and domestic airports. In any case, Ben appears to have been miffed, or perhaps he was only making an observation. His inclusion of himself along with the black race ("any other nigger") erases boundary lines and plants both Ben and the "niggers" within the same human family, not a universal thought in his day, but also not entirely unique.

These are only a few of the intricacies found in such a letter, and just a hint of why I am enjoying this project so much. I look forward to the day it becomes a book to be shared with others. For some reason I was unequipped to bring it to a conclusion 30 years ago - no doubt because I had not found the right vision for it, and no doubt also because I lacked some necessary aspect of life experience or judgement. In any case, I feel grateful today that I can enjoy the journey, and for these insights into what life was like in Ben's world. I am grateful that he wrote to Nathaniel, that Nathaniel saved the letter, and that I was led to find it among a treasure trove of writings well over a century later.

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With Love from Havana

Letter from Benjamin Howe to N.C. Hudson

August 16, 1856

My draft is now over 1,000 pages, and it's still lacking a title. I've read through it once from beginning to end. It was an eye-opener how well the parts flowed together. Even though I know so much of the content almost by heart, I found myself anxiously waiting to see what would come next. I thought the draft would be a lot spottier than it was, as I have so many more letters from some periods than from others. Fortunately the intervening events were so interesting (to me, anyway) that it seems to be working.

The more I read, the more there is to learn. I am loving this aspect and learning so much. I was surprised to see how many of the letters had been fully transcribed over the past 30 years, so there is less still to do on that score than I had anticipated when I picked up the project again. One letter that was only minimally transcribed until this week is this one from Ben (shown in the photo).

Ben's letter has been my "edit point" for several days, or more likely a whole week. It's taken more time than most letters for a number of reasons: it's six full-size pages long for one thing, and for another, I took a break due to pain from a badly tweaked back and a medical test. The test came out fine, but had me down for awhile also. Pain on pain, and no fun.

I'm now halfway through the final proofing stage of Ben's letter. His are always a joy to read, and this one includes interesting travel notes. He had been living in Ringgold, near Lake Bisteneau, Louisiana, a bit southeast of Shreveport and about halfway between New Orleans and Dallas. In 1856 he decided to take a trip home to Vermont for the first time in six years, and he wrote his old friend Nathaniel about it when he got back. (The envelope under the letter is addressed to Nathaniel in Sioux City.) The journey one way took 17 days. He took a steamship from New Orleans to New York, which was a regular route with a stop in Havana. 

Later or tomorrow some highlights from the letter.

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Creepy Gulch: Sayulita Cemetery Adventure

Sayulita, Mexico ~ February 6, 2006

Posted today for Taphophile Tragics

We spent a week in Sayulita, Mexico, a charming beach town with even more charming cottages rented by the week. Who could not want to wander along the rocks south of town and find a lucky snorkeling spot? We did, and we had uninvited company. The young man's presence would have been OK had he been friendly or felt safe, but neither was the case. He followed ominously, quietly, always watching. Not entirely threatening, and then again not entirely not threatening. It was one of those times. We did not want to expose our fear and we did not want to ignore him. He carried something in his hand. . . .

Lee made toward him to strike up a conversation and feel out the attitude.

I tried to remain casual and took lots of photos. The close-ups of the gorgeous pink and purple crustaceans did not come out, but here's a glance down the suddenly-hostile rockscape. In the end Lee was't comfortable. I believe he said, "I THINK he's OK, but he's kinda weird. I'm not getting the right vibe." That was good enough for me and we picked our way back to the car.

A few yards from where we had parked the car we again came across this intriguing small cemetery with its interesting colors and uniquely-shaped graves. When we first caught sight of it I had almost thought it was one of those places that – in the US – you would have found dumped cars, engine parts, mattresses, and anything else people didn't want to pay to get rid of in the proper facilities. Because of that, this gulch had already taken on ominous feel for me before we even hit the beach. Coming back now I wanted to stop and take some photos. I could see finally how intriguing it was once I knew what I was looking at. But the sense of vulnerability remaining in my veins from our beach excursion left me even more interested in getting out of there. 

I took these few shots from the car and we said we would come back, but we never did. I kind of wish we had gone back, but on the other hand it felt much more pleasant to watch the bright orange flowers, blue sky, and strange frigatebirds gliding in the open air.

This blog is sponsored by Tapir and Friends Animal Store.

A Tale of Two Markers

Photos by Betty Todd, Lee Spangler, 

Sheryl Todd, and Kathy Rodriguez

This is my dad and me in 1949 when he was 25.

He lived to the age of 80, which would have surprised him very much if he'd known that in his younger years. He expected to die around 55 or 60; his father died at the age of 55. Lois was my dad's second wife, and they moved to Prescott, Arizona, a number of years after their respective divorces and their marriage to each other. She died in 2010 in California, and her ashes will be brought to Arizona to be with his. This is what they wanted, although it's far away from either family. This is an older photo and I don't know what the marker looks like today.

The blossoms, the blue fountain and the tree are nice, although this stark setting at the Prescott United Methodist Church makes me sad.

I like the view of the hills. However, once again the spot seems so barren. I saw a photo of the old Methodist Church which was of a nice style, substantial and attractive with architectural merit. I'm not even showing you a picture of the church here. It might have seemed modern in some context, but I don't like it.

My sister and brother and I decided to buy a stone for our dad and put it in the family plot in Corona, California, at Sunnyslope Cemetery where my dad's ancestors and relatives have been buried since the 1890s.

Here is what we got. It's really hard deciding what to put on a stone, and it's the first time I had had to take part in this decision. As a historian I wanted something more than simple dates. Although he lived in Larchmont, New York, for awhile as a child and for a short time in Bisbee, Arizona, we settled on these three locations. He was born in San Francisco, lived most of his life in Corona, and then moved to Prescott. We wanted to give some hint of where he spent his last years, because he loved his life in Prescott and his ashes are there. I'm sure that someone will be confused by the fact that he has a stone here in Corona, but it was more important to us to have a place for him among his family and, at least as importantly, where future generations could find him in their family history. We wanted to honor his service in the war, and then … what do you say to express your feelings about losing your dad? "In Loving Memory" had previously seemed trite to me because you see it often, but it was only when trying to figure out what to put on the stone that I realized why people use it. It meant everything to me at that moment, and no one else had to understand. 

And here I make a confession: Why three locations - not two, not four? You could say they fit on the stone, and they do. But equally, I have always loved the sound of the way James Joyce ended his mammoth novel Ulysses: "TRIESTE, ZURICH, PARIS. 1914-1922." Three little words and a span of years give a sense of breadth and movement. So, too, I hoped, our marker. My father was not the last in a line that loved to travel, to experience new sights and cultures, and was fortunate enough to be able to go beyond San Francisco, Corona, and Prescott, and see a good-sized part of the world. 

My sister and Mom went to the cemetery to take the photo I've been talking about, and the bird of paradise flowers are from my mother's garden. I thought it was sweet, as my parents had been divorced for about 23 years.

In February of 2011, I came back to take some pictures. The management at the cemetery explained that due to severe flooding some months or so in the past, many of the stones were encrusted with mud. This is my dad's father. You'll be able to read the stone later in the post.

And this is my dad's mother. You can read it here, but you'll be able to read it better in a minute.

This is my father's great aunt, Dr. Carol Jameson, who never married but spent 40 years in India as a doctor of gynecology who also operated on the poor to restore their sight. The contrast on her stone shows just how much "mud" we're talking about. It looks more like the lime used in cement, and that may not be too far off. Granite has been quarried in Corona, and limestone in other parts of Riverside County, and the nearby Riverside Portland Cement plant can attest to that. 

Here is Thorndike C. Jameson, Carol's father. I hardly know what to say about the disrespectful condition of this stone and the thoughtless tire tracks.

Here's how my dad's stone looked at the end of 2011 when Lee stopped by the cemetery after cleaning the stones of his parents in Los Angeles. The mud layer has thinned a little.

Lee asked the cemetery manager if they had some pumice he could borrow to clean up a bit. For those who don't know, he is not even a family member; he was doing this for me. The manager wouldn't loan a traveler theirs, but said it could be gotten at some big box store and waved vaguely in that direction. Lee noticed two members of the grounds crew working on some equally-lime-coated stones nearby and began chatting. They were very friendly, loaned him a pumice stone, and said to leave it on the fender of a backhoe when he was done.

Here's what my dad's stone looked like by the time Lee left, much tired from wrestling with the lime.

He had also scrubbed a number of other ones. My grandmother's stone cleaned up partially as well. You can certainly read it now.

And my grandfather's stone looks very good in the bright light even though remnants of the flood remain.

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I made this post today to take part in the not-so-tragic meme, Taphophile Tragics.

Thanks, Julie, for giving me the excuse to collage together a story and some memories.

This blog is sponsored by Tapir and Friends Animal Store.

Outside of Belize City

Outside of Belize City, Belize ~ January 31, 2005

I hope this is one of the worst series of photos you will find on Taphophile Tragics, a new photo meme from "Down Under," (no pun intended, and I'm sure I'm not the first to think of this). I'm sorry about the poor quality of these photos; they are all I have of this interesting above-ground cemetery.

On January 31, 2005, Lee and I left Belize City on our way inland to tour the country, and this unusual cemetery caught me by surprise. If you click on the photo to enlarge it, I think you can read the lettering in the wrought-iron arch. It says, "Sisters of Mercy." Even though Belize is a Central American country, its official language is English, as it was once the colony of British Honduras. All of the photos below were taken on our way back to the city on February 6th.

Many people commute long distances by bicycle along the Great Western Highway, as cars are out of the budget for a large number of Belizean citizens.

In the background you can see some of the houses belonging to the poor of Belize. It emphasizes something I have wondered about in a number of the cemeteries I've visited. You always see the contrast between the beautifully-carved stones of the wealthy and the modest, if any, stones of the poorer people. In some old new England cemeteries in particular I have often wondered how anyone was able to afford the stones, especially as I began to learn about the circumstances of the people who I knew were buried beneath them.

This blog is sponsored by Tapir and Friends Animal Store.