BIG SISTER (by Jo Ellen, Robyn and Martha)

Edith and my mother, summer 1948

(Martha) When I was a little girl, my big sister, Edith, was just the mother of my best friends. A necessary thing for them, but only indirectly important to me. Despite that, I was aware of her importance to my father and mother. Daddy’s love for her was very evident in his voice when he spoke of her, and in his concern for her happiness and well-being. As for Mama, I recently came across an entry in her diary after a visit from Edith: “Edith has left, and now I suppose life will go back to being dull again.”

Family at Alm's Place, Polson, Montana

(Jo) When I was growing up I thought of Edith as one of the "grown ups", more on the level of Mama and Nonie and Daddy, than as my sister. I remember thinking she was very beautiful and I was proud of her. However I do remember feeling worried and sorry for her when she got all her teeth pulled out and I was very relieved when she got her false teeth and looked like herself again. We thought of her kids more as our brothers and sisters and looked forward to the adventures we'd have when they'd come to visit. However, I remember Daddy having to take us aside to instruct us on how to treat children younger than we were. I'm sure we deserved the talking to, but I also remember how cute we thought Becky and Lance were. I paired up with Terry, Robyn with Linda, and Martha with Robbie. We missed them when they'd leave and life became boring again.

Family at Alm's

(Robyn) In age, I am one month younger than Terry and a year older than Linda, so growing up, Edith was always very much my tall, beautiful, soft-spoken adult sister. I was always very happy when she visited and brought my best friends to be with me again.

(Jo) One of the funnest days in my memory was visiting Edith’s family when they were living near Corvallis. We hadn't seen them for some time and it was so good to be together again. There were huge rocks in the meadows near their home and we had such a lovely time that day running and hiding and playing guns. They had guns with caps! (Martha: Sixty years later, I still look for those big rocks on the hillside when I drive up Willow Creek where they lived!)

(Robyn) From my vantage point, I knew that she could be very queenly in her bearing but there were eyes in the back of her head and retribution to mischief-makers was swift. In fact she had a certain tone to her voice in getting after her kids that reminded me very much of Daddy, and I used to practice it in private hoping for the same results.

(Martha) During our teenage years, we didn’t get to see a lot of Edith and her family. They lived in Utah, we lived in Montana, and none of us did much traveling. When Daddy got sick and ended up in the hospital in Salt Lake, Edith was there to visit him and was a wonderful support to him and to Mama.

(Jo) It wasn't until I was married that I appreciated Edith for the wonderful sister that she was. I had gone to Salt Lake to visit for a week or two. I spent some of the time in the homes of various friends, but had reserved the last three or so days to spend at Edith's. When I finally got to Edith’s home, it was like stepping into another world. The children were respectful! That was what impressed me the most; they were respectful and they had manners! The kids were all quiet in the house, didn't jump on the furniture, weren't fighting with each other. They were obedient! They didn't talk back to their mother. They weren't rude to each other. It was like they had had the same upbringing I had! There was such a stark contrast from the other homes I had been visiting! I was now looking at things from the point of view of an adult, not a teenager out to have fun.

Jo, Robyn, Martha, Edith, Rosemary

Edith and I had a lovely time those days that I spent with her. We talked about all kinds of things. We agreed on everything. She took me to her pottery class and I got to make something—I don't remember what. I had never tasted yogurt and she bought me some. She was a good cook and we had yummy things to eat. When it was time to go she gave me some really pretty material that I later made into a dress for Katie.

So, that was the beginning of my relationship with Edith truly as my sister, and I am so thankful for her. She has stood in the gap for me: she was there when I couldn't be for Katie when Katie had her first baby. She (and Kay) were in the temple with Clarence when he got married and I couldn't be. We've enjoyed many visits and long talks on the phone. She's given me good advice. There have been times when I've so missed my parents and wished they were here to turn to for advice, and then I've thought of my sister Edith. We've gone on never-to-be-forgotten trips together. Now it's not just her kids that make life seem more adventurous, but I treasure the adventures I've shared with her too!!! I'm so grateful. Thank you Edith!

(Martha) I lived in Utah for three years after I was married, and those three years were mostly spent getting to know my new family, but just knowing that Edith was there helped me to feel not so alone. I, too, spent time in other homes and when I went to see Edith, it felt like going home. I’ve turned to Edith when a situation arose that I didn’t know what to do with. She always has the ability to restore peace to my heart. It has been delightful, in recent years, to share our love of genealogy and stories of our ancestors. Trips to Scotland and Canada with Edith were so much fun! And then, of course, we can’t forget the games of Shanghai Rummy . . . .

Sisters in Scotland -- we look like we're up to something!

(Robyn) When we went to Scotland, Edith and I were walking arm in arm one day through the gardens of a beautiful mansion there. I love gardens and I was thinking as we walked that maybe I wouldn’t have minded being a serf in those long-ago ages if I could have worked in the gardens. And then Edith said, “Can’t you just imagine yourself as the mistress of this estate?”

(Martha) Several years ago, my daughter, Rachel, had the opportunity to ride to Salt Lake with Edith. Rachel joined my family when she was a teenager so she didn’t know my sister, but by the end of the trip, she had fallen in love with “Aunt Edith”.

(Robyn) One winter I brought my quiet little granddaughter with me through a snow storm to visit. Edith immediately made her feel at home by her pleasant courtesy and genuine interest, gave her tea and talked to her about books; then sent her home with a tea cup of her choice and one of her beautiful hand-painted boxes — fixing that visit in a shy little girl’s mind as never-to-be-forgotten.

We love our sister Edith!

A GIFT FROM OUR ANCESTORS

I love this picture of Daddy and his siblings! The old Model T Ford with chains on the tires, the work clothes, the mud, and the bunkhouse behind them say life is  hard work; yet, judging by the grins on their faces, they know how to take the good with the bad and enjoy life as it comes. Is that what the French call joie de vivre? Is it a trait in our family? If it is, where did it come from? What ancestors blessed some of us with that ‘enjoyment of life’?

I’ve been working my way through my DNA matches in Ancestry — 37,969 matches at the moment, and more being added all the time! All people that are related to me! I haven’t made much progress compared to the number of matches, but here are just a few interesting things  I’ve observed:

· First of all, thanks to the fact that Edith and Gary have a different mother than I do, it’s fairly easy to differentiate between my maternal and paternal DNA matches. I have jillions of close matches on my mother’s side; but on Daddy’s side, there’s Jo and Robyn, Edith, then some of Edith and Gary’s children and grandchildren. It's only when I get to distant cousins that I start seeing more relatives on Daddy’s line.

· As of this date, I have marked 559 DNA matches on my paternal side.

· Not counting Daddy’s descendants, twenty-one of these matches can be traced to a common ancestor — I know how they’re related. The rest of the 559 either have no tree or I can’t make the connection. It’s not easy to find a common ancestor beyond four generations back!

· So far, 71 of my matches share with me the ethnic community of “Scottish Lowlands, Northern England and Northern Ireland”. Hello, Scotts, Riddells, Elliotts, and Armstrongs . . . .

· A whopping 275 matches share with me the ethnic community of “Southwestern Quebec, New York and Vermont French Settlers”! And these matches and their ancestors are all over the map of North America — from the St. Lawrence River area down into New England and on south — clear down to the Gulf States! Anyone familiar with Longfellow’s poem “Evangeline” and the story of the Acadians? Those French people really got around!

Several years ago, I bought, for my library, a set of books about different cultures in America. One of them was titled French Americans. I think one of the reasons I got it was because of the picture on the front of the book. It reminded me, somehow, of Daddy and his brothers. I see the same look in some of Grandma Scott’s brothers, the Elliotts. There is something about their bearing and the twinkle in their eyes that I don’t see in the Scott-Riddell relatives. And I started wondering — that twinkle in the eye, the cheery smile, the rakish tilt of the hat — the look of joie de vivre  — is that a gift from Great-grandma Jane Laprade and her French forebears?

The Elliott Brothers

LONELY

Jannet looked out the window of her little home and reflected, not for the first time, on how lonely it was out here in Manitoba. The prairie, which had been so beautiful and full of color in July, had turned dull brown, and the blue skies of summer became gray and threatening as November drew to a close.

     Today was Jannet’s birthday, and she wanted her Grandmother.  – Grandmother, who had been there for her at every hard spot in her life:

     When she was nine years old and her mother died, Grandmother was there to take care of Jannet and the other children and Father.

      Nine years later, when kind, gentle brother Willie died, Grandmother was there.

      Then, just a few short months ago, Grandfather died, and there was Grandmother, taking care of them all, calm and strong and loving.

     If not Grandmother, maybe her Aunt Ann could come – her dear, almost-sister Ann, with whom Jannet had shared everything all her life – if only Ann could be here to share this next big event – the birth of her baby.

Jannet, seated on right, with her grandmother,
Janet Riddell Scott, brothers, William and
Walter, and sister, Edith.

     But Grandmother and Ann were a thousand miles away, back in Ontario; and she and Herbert had been here in Manitoba for almost five months now. It had been exciting when they got off the train in Binscarth and started out to make their own life together on this prairie. She, a girl raised in a bustling eastern Ontario town, surrounded by a large, loving family, hadn’t realized just what she was getting into when she married Herbert and became a pioneer. Not that Herbert was a farmer! No, Herbert was a publisher and he was going to publish the best newspaper in Manitoba!

     Thank heaven for Herbert! He was so kind and so worried about her and the baby. Jannet was very careful to show Herbert a brave face and to tell him there was nothing to worry about, but deep inside she couldn’t help remembering that her mother had died when little brother Walter was born.

     Just a few more days now and the baby would be here, and all would be well. If it was a girl, they would name her Mary, after Jannet’s mother. A boy would be named David for Herbert’s father and her own grandfather. Just a few more days . . . .

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David William Bowley was born in the Rural Municipality of Silver Creek, Manitoba, November 25, 1902, to Herbert John Jesse Bowley and Jannet Robson. Jannet Robson Bowley died nine days later, December 3, 1902. She is buried in Binscarth, Manitoba, but her name, date of death and place of burial are inscribed on a stone in the Mount Osborne Cemetery, Beamsville, Ontario, where her brother William, her mother and father and grandparents are all buried.

(Jannet Robson was my father's cousin, the daughter of David Scott and Janet Riddell's oldest child. Jannet was 29 years older than Daddy, so her story had ended before his began. The emotions depicted in this story are what I imagine one would feel in the circumstances; the facts are real and can be verified.)

HOME, SWEET HOMES: A Picture History of Some of the Homes of My Ancestors

     Sometime between 1861 and 1871, my great-grandfather, George Elliott, moved his family to Huntingdon Twp. In Hastings  Co., Ontario. I don’t have any pictures of their home the way it looked when they lived there, but this first picture was taken in 1961 — 100 years or so after they moved there. George Elliott, a grandson, is standing where the drive shed was. Note on the back of the picture says, "George Elliott June 1961 -- taken at grampas old farm Crookston. This is where the drive shed was. The barn was in the background and the house to the west. They are gone."

     The second picture shows me, Martha Scott Jessop, standing in approximately the same spot in 1993. Note how tall the lilacs are! It was a cold, rainy day in May when my mother and I drove all over northern Hastings County looking for this spot. It was the highlight of our trip to actually find it!

      After my grandparents, Tom Scott and Martha Elliott, were married, they lived in the village of Crookston, not far from the Elliott homestead. This picture of their home was also sent to us by Daddy's cousin, George Elliott. Can you imagine how hard it would have been to leave this lovely home and go west to the lonely prairies of Alberta — and try to make a home out of a homestead shack? 

     When Martha joined Tom in Edmonton, the city was growing by leaps and bounds. Housing was scarce, so many people lived in tents. There were over 1,000 tents in Edmonton with more than 3,000 people living in them. So Tom and Martha and their three children joined them for the summer. The Edmonton City website has a really interesting article about "Early Tent Communities" at https://www.edmonton.ca/city_government/edmonton_archives/early-tent-communities.aspx which tells about the times. We don't have a picture of the tent they lived in then, but about 50 years later, Daddy profited from experience and built these tent homes, complete with wood floor and partial walls, for us to live in at Alms Place on Finley Point. 

     We haven't any good pictures of the home they moved into when they finally could live on the homestead, but Daddy described it this way: "The cabin in which we lived was a two room affair. It was probably 20 feet long and 14 feet wide with one door on the south side, and three windows, one on the east, one on the south and one on the west. It was built of spruce logs, the cracks chinked with sticks and mud, and a peaked roof which consisted of boards running up and down with more boards laid over the cracks. It was a good roof to keep the sun out but wasn't very effective against the rain. In those days in Alberta it would rain sometimes for a couple weeks at a time. I can remember Mother setting pans in the middle of the beds to catch the drip coming through the roof and going to bed with an umbrella over her head to run the water off." 

     These pictures show enough of the house that you can see the chinked spruce logs and the roof as Daddy described it.

Next is the “new” home Grandpa Scott built on the homestead. The picture was taken in 1965, Martha and Jo Ellen standing by the door. Edith and I have been trying to figure out just exactly when this home was built and what buildings were on the property when the family was growing up. Mostly, we find we just have questions with no answers. But even though it looks tiny and a bit primitive, I can just imagine Grandma Scott loving the comfort and convenience of her new home!

     The next few years will have to be filled in by Edith; but many years, and many wanderings later, Daddy wound up in the Flathead in Montana. Our first home there was a small, one-room shack perched on the mountainside overlooking the lake. Someone had built wooden steps down the side of the mountain to the lake for quick access when needing fish for breakfast. At least that's what Paul used them for.

 After a couple of weeks, we moved to Alms Place on Finley Point. Going up in the world -- it had two rooms and running water! That's where Daddy pitched the tents in the orchard for summer living. Edith and family joined us here for awhile.

     The Great Scott Motel will always be "home" for many of us who lived there -- no matter how long or short the stay. It was kind of all the things you want in a home rolled into one. When this picture was taken, Gary and Nancy had been visiting with their three oldest children, and were packing up their station wagon to leave again.

     The last home Daddy built was in the Bitterroot Valley of Montana, on "The Ranch", which later became Pinesdale. Daddy would tell my mother and my aunt Ramona how many square feet they could have and then they would design their homes. It always worked out well -- they came up with good ideas that made beautiful homes.

This picture was taken the first winter we lived in the Bitterroot, before the home was finished. Daddy only lived in it about five and a half years. He died here in 1972. 

WHERE THERE'S A WILL . . . THE KING'S SHILLING

     Border reivers, daring raids across the border to England, triumphant homecomings with the spoils of war, tales of derring-do --  “Your great grandfather was treacherously hanged by the king . . . .” – all the dreams that might be going through the head of a young boy as he sat for weeks . . . and months . . . and years in front of a framework knitter . . . making endless stockings. Is there no way out of this tedious, unimaginative daily round? In young John Turnbull’s mind, the future must have seemed like a long, dark tunnel stretching on and on, ending only at death.

     John was born in December 1800; he went to school long enough to learn to read and write before going to work while still a child to help support his family. Napoleon was rampaging around Europe during those years. Can you imagine John reading every bit of news he could lay his hands on about the Peninsular Campaign, the battles, the bravery of those dashing soldiers . . . .?

     Would you be satisfied with staying where you were and making stockings for the rest of your life? Or would you have a secret desire to see the world, perhaps do a little fighting, have some adventures – and wear a dashing uniform that all the girls would swoon over?

      John Turnbull, brother of my great great grandmother, made the obvious choice: In June 1821, he went to Edinburgh and “took the King’s shilling”-- enlisted in the 26^th Regiment of Foot, for which he received a bonus of one shilling from the King. The Napoleonic Wars were over, but the British empire always had some use for its army.

     The 26^th had just been posted home from Gibraltar, but they didn’t stay in Scotland long. There were riots in Ireland, and in 1822 the 26^th was transferred to Fermoy, Ireland to be a British presence there in controlling the Irish. The Regiment was moved around Ireland from one trouble spot to another in the years until 1828 when they returned to England to be prepared for service in India. John’s seven-year enlistment was up in 1828, but he re-enlisted, this time for “unlimited service”, and was attached to the 59^th Regiment of Foot.  The 59^th spent the next 20 years on garrison duty in various places – Ireland, England, Malta, the West Indies and Gibraltar – not terribly exciting, perhaps, but better than making stockings!

     At some point during this time, John married an Irish woman named Bedelia (Bridget) Ballan. In 1833, their son John was born in Ireland. Sometimes wives were allowed to follow their husbands from place to place, and so a daughter, Janet, was born in England in 1836, and then a second son, Andrew, in Ireland again in 1839.

     Possibly around the time of Andrew’s birth, his father was sent to Gibraltar. John’s service record doesn’t say when they were posted there. I doubt that Bridget was allowed to go with him to Gibraltar. Perhaps she returned to Ireland to wait for John.

     In the early years of the century, the garrison at Gibraltar had been swept with epidemics more than once. Conditions were better now, but some of the soldiers had a hard time in the climate. In 1843, Private John Turnbull received a discharge from the army as a consequence of poor health. His medical report states: “Suffers from ‘chronic rheumatism’ and distress with impaired muscular energy as well as defective digestion not likely to recover by treatment in Hospital – and being the gradual effects of long service in the Mediterranean and at home not aggravated by vice or misconduct but predisposed by constitutional infirmity.”

     So – he came home to Hawick . . . and spent the rest of his life as a stocking maker in the woolen mills. He died of pneumonia on March 11, 1873. He was 72 years old.

(Picture of Stocking Maker found at https://katedaviesdesigns.com/2014/05/05/a-brief-history-of-british-socks/

British soldiers: http://www.britishempire.co.uk/forces/armyuniforms/britishinfantry/26thfoot1815.htm)

I REMEMBER MAMA

I remember Mama . . .

My mother, Ruth Pearson Scott

• ·        Chasing Jo and Robyn around the kitchen table with a switch, while I watched the legs go round and round from my vantage point under the table.
• ·        Reading the ‘funnies’ to five-year-old me, as we lay together on the wide couch after dinner; and enjoying them not only because they were funny, but because she loved to share.
• ·        Gathering up her tools after nap time and going down to the pasture to work on the playhouse – again sharing the fun with a five-year-old daughter.
• ·        Making a picnic lunch of egg sandwiches and lemonade, putting it in a brown paper sack and walking through Hollensteiner’s woods to Skidoo Creek for a picnic with her three daughters.
• ·        Gathering her three girls together each Sunday for Sunday School, complete with singing, prayers, reading and discussion.
• ·        Starting a compost pile, planting potatoes under straw mulch, getting excited about Ruth Stout and organic gardening, and sending us into the horse pasture with a bushel basket and a shovel to gather up fertilizer for her garden.
• ·        Collecting some pretty lengths of fabric and taking me with her for a walk after dark to put the package of material in a struggling neighbor’s mailbox.
• ·        As a Relief Society president, having me haul her around in the car almost daily with armfuls of vegetables for families in need.
• ·        Seeing everything as one more adventure or a cause to celebrate: from painting her room to eating the good winter squash she grew; from planting the garden in the spring to teaching school; from going to a movie to fixing up the garage for a bedroom. Life was never dull for Mama.

Mama loved the gospel. She loved to talk about it and read about it, discuss it and write about it; and she would share her enthusiasm with anyone who would listen.

Mama oozed artistic talent:  she drew and painted, built rocking horses and a playhouse, bookends and hope chests; she didn’t like to knit or crochet, but she made beautiful quilts and afghans out of old woolen clothing.

Winter was never Mama’s favorite time of year. She would complain of “cabin fever” during those long dark months, and at the first sign of spring head out to see what she wanted to do with the garden this year. Mama had a garden every year up till she died at age 87.

When Mama was young, she and her sisters sang together. Their voices were beautiful and they were often asked to sing in different wards and for various occasions. Music was always a big part of her life. Daddy loved to hear her sing, and when we went on trips, Mama always brought a hymn book so that we could sing as we traveled.

Ruth, Ramona and Imogene Pearson

Books were another major part of Mama’s life – good books. And they were always better shared. So, we grew up listening to her read her favorites: David Copperfield, The Little Minister, Laddie, The Virginian, and countless others.

I was blessed to have two mothers: Mama and her sister, my aunt Ramona. They were very much alike and they were very different, but they enjoyed each other. They would laugh together, they would argue about whose memory was correct, they loved good food and were wonderful cooks. Mama left us first; two years later, as Nonie’s time to go got close, she said to me, “It’s like your Ma said: This will just be another adventure.”

Mama (Ruth) and Aunt Nonie (Ramona)

Mama

Molded – of brown valley clay, baked warm in the sun.

Molded – of irrigation ditches, seagulls, spring calves and dying crops;

Of a silent, humorous farmer father,

A laughing, ingenious Swedish mother.

She came out of depression days:

Newspaper-wrapped lunches, bare feet, and one dress a year.

She was brought up on Sunday School, green apples, Dickens, and willow switches.

Her dream was to write, draw, teach, do great things.

She became, after long, lonely years,

A Mother – all ambitions blended into one.

Now she is: strong as the mountains, rich as the earth, unchangeable forever.

                                                                          

(Poem by Robyn S. Warner; life sketch by Martha S. Jessop)

ANDREW TURNBULL, SON OF . . . ? ?

How the Turnbulls got their name! (Heritage Hub in Hawick.)

In the post dated May 8, I invited anyone and everyone to help me decide who Andrew Turnbull’s parents were. Edith was the only one to venture a guess. Her idea was different than mine, which made me go back and re-think my theory. It will be good for me to go over my reasoning and see if it makes sense. I also want to know if it makes sense to others. Feedback is welcome!

• In the last post, we saw that Andrew, in naming his children, followed the Scottish naming pattern, but with a slight twist: we know the maternal grandparents are John (Little) and Mary (Armstrong). Andrew Turnbull named his second daughter and second son after their maternal grandparents. So chances are good that his first son and daughter were named after their paternal grandparents – Andrew and Agnes.

• Building on this reasoning, I purchased the birth record of Andrew Turnbull, born/christened 22 Nov 1767 in Hawick to parents Andrew Turnbull, mason, and Agnes Deans. Is it too far-fetched to theorize that Andrew the younger, whom we know to be a mason, would have followed in his father’s footsteps and learned his father’s trade?

• As I looked for a little more background on Andrew Turnbull and Agnes Deans, I discovered that Agnes’s mother’s name was Isobel / Isabel. That could account for Andrew’s and Janet’s youngest daughter being named Isabella.

• The timing of the proclamation of Andrew’s and Janet’s clandestine marriage may also be significant, as it comes about the time of Andrew’s twenty-first birthday (if he is the son of Andrew and Agnes).

The Turnbull Coat of Arms

• A major problem with this theory is that ‘everybody else’ on Ancestry seems to be on the same track. I’m a suspicious person and I hate going along with the crowd unless there is good reason. Thirteen other family trees show Andrew Turnbull and Agnes Deans as the parents of Andrew Turnbull who married Janet Little. But none of those thirteen show any documentation except other family trees!

It’s pretty much circumstantial evidence, so, even though I feel like it’s right, I’m not going to stop looking for some record that will tie the two families together. In the meantime, I guess I’ll jump on the band wagon and add Andrew Turnbull and Agnes Deans to my Ancestry tree; but I will definitely show my reasoning for choosing them as the parents of our Andrew Turnbull. And I will keep my mind open to any other clues either proving or disproving my theory.