The Dry Bones of Richard III

Richard III

Yesterday it was announced that scientists and researchers have now confirmed that the remains found under a parking lot in Leicester, England are those of King Richard III. He was king of England for just a few years in the mid- to late-fifteenth century. Nevertheless, news of the recovery of his dry bones splattered across the internet, cable TV and newspapers.

By all accounts Richard III was a bad man. He almost certainly killed his nephews–first making them disappear into the Tower of London, then causing them never to be seen again. And it’s no secret he arranged for the removal of his sister-in-law’s family because they stood in his way to success.

Shakespeare’s Richard III says such charming things as

“And thus I clothe my naked villany
With odd old ends stolen out of holy writ;
And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.”

and

“And therefore, — since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days, —
I am determined to prove a villain,
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.”

and, perhaps most sinister of all,

“Why, I can smile and murder whiles I smile,
And cry ‘content’ to that which grieves my heart,
And wet my cheeks with artificial tears,
And frame my face for all occasions”

Even if you strip away the distortions of Richard by his successors, the Tudors, there’s still a whole lot of bad in the record to lay a dark shadow across his reign.

According to the chroniclers and now the scientific evidence, Richard died dramatically. His skeletal remains show evidence of at least ten wounds, two of which were devastating blows to the head. Some of the wounds were clearly meant to be humiliating–like the one indicating a sword thrust to the right buttock. Richard was the last British king to die in battle and his bones demonstrate the horror of it.

Henry Tudor

On the battlefield that day, Henry Tudor essentially became king. Although there was no way for him or anyone else to know it, his dynasty would reign for more than a hundred years and would change England forever. Under the Tudors, the religious change that swept the continent was welcomed into Britain. The medieval monarchy faded into the past as England accepted the Renaissance, the Reformation and the rise of the modern nation-state into its island home.

These transformations brought about by the Tudors undoubtedly affected my family. Even calculating conservatively, I had thousands of direct ancestors in Britain at the time. I have thousands–if not tens of thousands–of great-grandmothers and great-grandfathers of various degrees who were subjects of Richard III and then citizens of England under the Tudors.

For now, my ancestors’ experiences in the fifteenth century lie beyond my view. I’m not sure if any fought with Richard or Henry at the Battle of Bosworth. I don’t know if any were of such status that they might have even met one of the kings.

But I can say with relative certainty that the changes under the Tudors affected my family in at least one significant way. Almost all my ancestors were Dissenters–men and women who chose to worship in a way that differed from the royal imperative. Some were Quakers; others were Presbyterians; a few were probably Puritans. None of these options would have even been possible without the changes in the religious sphere that occurred under the Tudors.

Another possible impact the Tudors had on my family is geographical. It was under the Tudors that the process of plantation–specifically the Ulster Plantation–sped up. Although the idea of settling loyal English subjects in Scotland and Ireland dates back to as early as Henry II’s reign in the twelfth century, the real momentum for such forced (or heavily encouraged) emigration came under the Tudors. I have no doubt that many of my ancestors moved from England to Scotland or Ireland under the Tudors. And that migration planted the seed for future movements that would find them ultimately living in America.

Historians argue over how and why things change. For some, it is the people of history and their decisions that make all the difference. For others, it’s the ideas that gain strength and currency until they wash over societies like a tidal wave, regardless of any individual or his decisions.

Whatever you believe about historical causation, it’s intriguing to think how different our world may have looked–especially from the vantage point of my family–if Richard III had not died that day at Bosworth. If Henry Tudor had not made it to the throne, would England have experienced the religious transformations as it did?  Would Dissenters exist?  Would the Puritans and Quakers and Presbyterians have had any reason to flee overseas and found a new land of religious freedom?

Richard’s bones are dry.  His decisions lie buried in the distant past.  But I can’t help but think my life would be different without him.

— — —

See this BBC story for more about the wounds to Richard and for links to other articles about the discovery of his bones:  Richard III dig: Grim clues to the death of a king.

Kindness Beyond Expression

“I believed that liberty was the natural right of all men equally.”

John Woolman (1720-1772) wrote these words in his Journal in 1756, recalling a conversation he had recently had with some slave-holding friends.  Woolman was a Quaker and one of the earliest significant anti-slavery advocates in America.

While the concept of liberty for all men would be bandied about over the coming decades by the likes of Thomas Jefferson and his fellow revolutionaries, a true grasp of genuine liberty for all men (of all classes and races) lay far in the future.  Nevertheless, for Woolman, a simple farmer and merchant from a small town in rural New Jersey, real liberty for all was a cause worth fighting for.

“Whoever rightly advocates the cause of some thereby promotes the good of all.”

Woolman spent his whole adult life traveling around the colonies speaking out against slavery and other injustices.  In addition to his Journal, in which he shared his convictions in the form of an autobiographical example, he wrote several treatises including:

• “Some Considerations on the Keeping of Negroes”, 1753
• “Some Considerations on Keeping Negroes, Part Second”, 1762
• “Considerations on Pure Wisdom and Human Policy, on Labor, on Schools, and on the Right Use of the Lord’s Outward Gifts”, 1768
• “Considerations on the True Harmony of Mankind, and How it is to be Maintained”, 1770

Most significantly, Woolman didn’t just write about his convictions, he lived them.

“Conduct is more convincing than language.”

As a young man, Woolman decided he would distance himself from slavery and economic injustice in all its forms.  He refused to take part in any activity that had any connection, be it ever so slight, to slave labor.  He wouldn’t eat from plates or drink from cups he thought might have been made by slave labor.  When he was visiting slave owners, he insisted on paying their slaves for anything they did for him.

Woolman lived a decidedly simple life, striving to express his convictions as much by his actions as by his words.

“A kindness beyond expression”

John Woolman’s actions and words flowed out of a sense of who he was.  He believed that for any Christian, the proper mode of interaction with the world was “a kindness beyond expression.”  His kindness reached beyond his circle of friends, beyond his peers to people of all races, creeds and colors.

Woolman’s challenge of how to live and how to treat others is just as powerful today as it was over 200 years ago.  Even though our society has changed, the need for people to live simply and selflessly is still very real.

His Journal has remained in print since its original (posthumous) printing in 1774. Today it can be found in several printed and electronic versions, including in the Harvard Classics Library, where it shares a volume with Benjamin Franklin’s Autobiography and William Penn’s Fruits of Solitude.

Woolman’s challenge to live well and with purpose is particularly poignant for me because John Woolman is my seventh great grand uncle.

———-

I am currently reading “The Beautiful Soul of John Woolman, Apostle of Abolition” by Thomas P. Slaughter (2009) and I hope to read “John Woolman’s Path to the Peacable Kingdom” by Geoffrey Plank (2012) soon.  

An empty chair

Grandma with me and my two sons in late July, 2012.

This holiday season is the first time in my life I find myself celebrating Christmas without a grandparent.  My grandma died just a few days short of her 91st birthday this past October, and she was the last of my living grandparents.

I have thought of her often since her passing, and I think of her especially now in this holiday season.  I miss her very much.

These are the words I shared at her funeral on October 14, 2012:

Today is my grandma’s birthday.  She would have turned 91 years old today.  I wish she could be here with us so we could celebrate together, but at the same time I’m thrilled and thankful that she gets to spend her birthday in the presence of her Lord and Savior.  She can celebrate with her husband, her parents and so many family and friends who have gone on before her.

I’ve always struggled with what to get my grandma for her birthday.  But I knew what she wanted most of all—the gift of presence.  She didn’t want stuff, she just wanted us her family and friends with her.

I can recall her talking often of how much she enjoyed being with her friends, traveling to see old friends, making new friends at church, playing cards and spending time together.

And I know firsthand how much my grandma loved her family and loved having us around.  Holidays were special and she worked hard to make sure we all had a great time together as a family.

She always appreciated pictures of family as gifts and she surrounded herself with them—her walls were literally covered with pictures so she could feel like we were there with her all the time.

I remember how pleased she was when we would come by to visit and how sad she was when we had to leave.  There was never enough time to visit.  But even if my family and I could only stop by for a few minutes as we were passing through town, she was always so happy to see us.  And she was anxious for us to come back soon.

I know she lit up every time my mom came over to help her keep her space at Arbor Trace tidy and well-stocked.  Or when mom would take her out to eat or to run errands.  She loved her family and she always loved having us around.

When I was young I used to go over to my grandparents a lot.  Sometimes I’d go over on a Friday night and go to the Y where she worked as a lifeguard before spending the night at her house.  My memories of grandma are of her in constant motion.  Cooking, cleaning, moving the furniture, hanging out the wash on the clothesline in the backyard.  Moving, moving, moving until the work was done.  Then she’d settle down to watch some Dukes of Hazzard or BJ & the Bear on TV.

My impression was she always worked hard—to serve the family and especially my grandfather.

I remember him coming home from work for lunch when I was small.  Grandma would have the kitchen table full of food—potroast, rhubarb from the backyard, white grape jelly she’d made herself.  We’d sit around the table and eat, then he’d head back to work and she’d go back to her cleaning and keeping the house.

In the later years as her body didn’t allow her to do as much, I think it was hard on her.  I can’t tell you how many times I called her and said “what have you been up to Grandma” and she’d say with disgust “Oh, a whole lot of nothing.”  Then when I’d dig a little more I’d hear about all the cross-stitching and bingo-playing and gallivanting around town she’d done.  For her if you weren’t always in constant motion, something was wrong.

When her parents’ generation got older, grandma cared for them selflessly.  She was such a role model in how to care for others.  And she never wanted to be a burden to her own children, but she graciously let them help care for her when she could no longer do it on her own.

As my generation began having kids, we’d bring our babies home to Grandma and she always had to hold them.  And she would sit and hold these babies and talk her head off to them as if they could respond.  She’d clean up their spit-up and occasionally blurt out “God love it”, whether “it” was a girl or a boy.  She’d let the babies fall asleep in her arms and then she’d protest earnestly, but quietly, when you tried to relieve her.  She loved us all—especially the little ones.

My grandma enjoyed life and had fun whenever she could.  It seems like she was always smiling or laughing.  She was fun to be around.

I remember her shrieking “woo-woo” when my grandfather tickled her or dropped some ice down her shirt.  And I recall her often yelling “Bob!” good-naturedly after he’d snuck up and scared her while she was working.

And what other 89-year-old do you know who’d go hang out till 2 or 3 in the morning on a Friday night wherever her son was playing his guitar and singing his music?

She’d often say exactly what was on her mind and a lot of the time it came across like a wisecrack—I loved that.  My wife remembers the time a few years ago when grandma was sitting in the kitchen as the women were preparing food for a family gathering.  Grandma didn’t have the strength or energy to help, but she wanted to be there.  As she laughed and talked, she ate the whole plate of vegetable dip that was meant for the rest of the family.  When they noticed, they said “Grandma!  You ate all the dip.”  And she replied, “well, it was just sitting there and I guess I was hungry!”

Grandma loved life and she enjoyed it to the fullest.  And she loved her family and was never happier than when we were all together.

I, for one, want to honor her by enjoying every day God gives me on this planet and taking every opportunity to be together as a family while there’s still time.

I think that’s probably the best birthday gift I can give my grandma today.

The Almighty Beaver

When I think of animals that have had an impact on American history, the horse, the dog or even the bison come to mind. But when you actually study the early history of our country, there’s no question which is most important: the beaver.

America’s first multi-millionaire built his fortune on beaver. John Jacob Astor came to America in the late 1700s and established himself as the most successful businessman the new country had seen. He founded the American Fur Company and came to dominate the fur trade. When he died in 1848, he was worth an estimated twenty million dollars, the equivalent of $110 billion in today’s dollars, making him the fourth richest American ever.

The fur trade drove the early settlement of North America like nothing else. In the 16th and 17th centuries, European culture craved beaver fur. Every fashionable European man had a beaver hat (often called simply his “beaver” in the parlance of the day). The fur was so highly prized that Siberian sources of fur were beginning to run dry at about the same time that discoverers were finding the rivers and streams of North America teeming with beaver.

The French, the English and the Dutch all raced to lay claim to pieces of the new land and then fought to hold them, in many cases primarily to secure profits through trade. One of the most desirable, marketable and profitable trade items from the very beginning was beaver fur.

Early traders worked with the native people to trap beaver and turn their valuable pelts into real profit. The drive for economic profit from the beaver trade touched early adventurers and settlers in countless ways. I’ve discovered three individuals in my own family tree that characterize the impact of the beaver on early Americans.

The Migrant

Paulus Vanderbeek, my 10th-great grandfather, came to New Amsterdam around 1643. The Dutch Republic in the New World had begun with Henry Hudson’s journey up what would become the Hudson River in 1609. Although Hudson was English, he was sailing for the Dutch East India Company.

17th century map of Brooklyn

The Dutch East India Company was looking for profits for its shareholders, and Hudson brought back reports of plentiful beaver pelts for the taking.  The Dutch sent more and more ships to the New World, ultimately establishing New Amsterdam (which would eventually be called New York) as a colonial outpost for those who facilitated the fur trade.

Paulus came to New Amsterdam as a surgeon with the Dutch West India Company, which had been established to focus on trade in North America. Paulus became the first physician in the settlement of Gowanus, now known as Brooklyn.

The Merchant

Samuel Cole, my 8th-great grandfather, came to the Jersey shore around 1682. He was a haberdasher and a hatter from Hertfordshire in England. He had become one of the proprietors of West Jersey by purchasing part of a share from Edward Byllynge in 1677.  When he arrived in Jersey, he probably continued making hats from beaver pelts.  He may have even crossed the ocean to be closer to the source of the pelts or to find a new market for his goods.

Samuel served in the Territorial Legislature of West Jersey from 1683 to 1685, helping to make some important decisions in the early development of New Jersey. In 1692, Samuel was returning from a business trip to England when he became sick and ultimately died on the island of Barbados. He left behind a substantial estate, built at least partially with profits from beavers.

The Middleman

Original license to Morrisson and Hill from Governor Jonathan Jennings. William H. English Collection, Special Collections Research Center, University of Chicago Library. (Click to enlarge.)

Robert Hill, my 4th-great grandfather, was a pioneer.  As the West opened up in what would become Indiana and Ohio, Robert brought his family from North Carolina to this new frontier.  After settling in Richmond, Indiana around 1806, Robert served several terms in the Indiana General Assembly as he helped settle and establish American civilization in the western wilderness.

Robert’s land was located on a major trail that would eventually become the National Road. He maintained an inn in his home and welcomed weary travelers. He also operated a variety of businesses, including a trade business with another Quaker who had settled in Richmond named Robert Morrisson.

In 1817, Morrisson and Hill received a license from Indiana governor Jonathan Jennings to trade with the Delaware, Kickapoo, Shawanee and Potowatomi Indians, according to the laws enacted “by the General Government or the state Government of Indiana.”  Although it’s nowhere stated, there is little doubt that one of the items they would be trading was beaver pelt.

The Decline of the Beaver

By the 1840s, the fur trade was in decline.  John Jacob Astor had since moved on to flipping real estate in the rising city of New York.  European fashion had, after several hundred years, moved past the beaver.

None of my relatives became fabulously wealthy buying and selling beaver fur or turning it into hats, but there’s no question the humble beaver had a huge impact on my family and on the development of America into the country it is today.

— — —

Two excellent books have been published recently about the impact of the beaver on early America:  Fur, Fortune and Empire: The Epic History of the Fur Trade in America by Eric Dolin (2011) and A Savage Empire: Trappers, Traders, Tribes and the Wars that Made America by Alan Axelrod (2011).

Recalculating…

Every writer of history has to deal with spoilers. Historians try to tell the story of something that’s already happened. If we’re lucky, our readers don’t know how the story ends. But as the creator of the narrative, we never get to pretend we don’t know how it ends.

Knowing the ending changes how we understand the story, if not how we tell it. When we talk about the pioneers in our family who successfully led their loved ones into new territory, we romanticize them. If we tell the story of our ancestors who lost their way (or never found the path they were meant to follow), we draw them as pitiful.

It’s easy to assume our ancestors had a path assigned for them. We can see where they’re going, so sometimes we forget that they couldn’t at the time.

When my four-times-great grandfather Jonas Harris left Virginia to head west in 1801, I’m not sure if he knew where he was going. He stopped for a few years in western Pennsylvania and married Hannah Beeson. In 1804, they moved with her family into eastern Ohio. Then three years later Jonas and Hannah left her family and headed up the Ohio River to Columbiana County in eastern Ohio. Here they bought some land and presumably set up a farm.

They stayed in Columbiana County for twelve years and added nine children to their family. In 1819, they sold their land for a 300% profit and headed west again. Was this always their plan or did something happen to cause them to move on?  Did they want to lock in their profits and try again or did something compel them to leave?

1820 began with Jonas and Hannah bringing their children to Wayne County, Indiana. Over the next decade and a half Jonas helped lay out the town of Hagerstown, and two of his sons built the first house in it. In addition to his farm, Jonas owned several plots of land in town, but in 1835 he sold them all.

Jonas and Hannah’s daughter Mary and Mary’s husband Reuben had both died of the milk sickness in 1834. This deadly disease was scary and not well understood. It ravaged its victims and terrified anyone who was watching.

I think Mary’s death is what caused Jonas to make his last move (although I wonder if he knew it would be his last). He took his family and headed north, settling just north of South Bend, Indiana.

The mill Jonas Harris built along the Saint Joseph River

Jonas built the first grist mill in South Bend. The mill would run for 60 years (and stand for another 30-plus), but Jonas lasted only five.  He was buried behind the mill that soon became someone else’s.

Could Jonas have known his ultimate destination? Did he plan each leg of his journey in advance? Did he want to take the path he did, or did he feel manipulated by fate?

These are the kind of questions that are the hardest to know–especially when there’s no diary or stash of letters to tell us what he was thinking. But we know enough for it to look like he did a lot of recalculating.

Another four-times-great grandfather of mine, Robert Hill, followed a more orderly path. He left North Carolina in 1802 to join some friends who had gone before him into the Ohio Country. He stopped briefly in Carthage, Ohio (near Cincinnati), before settling in 1806 on the main wagon path going west in a new town called Richmond in the land that would become Indiana.

Robert set up an inn along the path that would soon become the National Road. He served four terms in the Indiana state legislature. He traded with Indians. He raised a family. He was buried in the cemetery on the farm he passed down to his children.

Robert and Jonas were both pioneers. They both followed family and friends (at least initially) as they travelled west. Robert led a settled existence and left a significant estate. Jonas died intestate and his mill was sold to settle his debts. Robert’s children stayed in Richmond; Jonas’s kids scattered.

The family and me at South Beach a few weeks ago.

Each of them made choices and took risks. Each did some recalculating in life.

My wife and kids and I recently made some choices and took some risks. We closed one chapter of our life story and started a new one. Like all of our ancestors before us, we don’t know where this one will end. But I hope someday it will make a wonderful, romantic story.

—

To read more about Jonas Harris, see my former post Grounded

To read more about Robert Hill, see my former post Life on the Frontier

Decisions, Decisions, Decisions

As we prepare to move to Florida in just a few short weeks, we face the monumental task of deciding what to take with us and what to leave behind.

My wife and I each have forty years of clothes, books, photos, memorabilia and miscellaneous stuff.  The last time it was meaningfully sorted and purged was sixteen years ago when we got married and moved to the house where we currently live.  Even then, we didn’t do a great job of getting rid of the old to set ourselves up for the new–as I’m reminded of when I pull out boxes that haven’t been opened in sixteen years and can easily discard half of their contents.

Now we have another opportunity.  We can do it right this time so sixteen years from now (or sixty) when we (or our children) go through our things again, only the most significant stuff will remain.

Some things are easy to decide:  the 1996 Jeep Grand Cherokee that’s been ours for twelve years and has over 208,000 miles on it stays behind–especially since the A/C stopped working several years ago.  The couches that have barely survived two small boys, an old dog who was incontinent in her final years and now a puppy–they won’t make the trip. Clothes made for sub-zero weather?  No way.

But then come the harder choices:  artwork the boys made when they were small, school papers that trace their development from their youngest years to now, favorite souvenirs from family trips, ten-dollar trophies from countless sports teams–should these make the cut?

As a family historian, I can find meaning in almost any document or artifact related to one of my ancestors.  Even the most meaningless items (e.g., old receipts from store purchases, pictures of their friends, piles of old Christmas cards, etc.) can shed a little light on the personality or experiences of an ancestor.  But how do I choose proactively now what to save–what to preserve in the hope that it will survive for some future time to tell a story I may not be around to tell?

Being a family historian and a bit of a packrat, I have erred on the side of caution and probably saved too many spelling quizzes, Mickey Mouse keychains and Christmas cards from friends.  But I can’t help but think of my sons and future generations–I can’t help but do my best to assist them in their potential, theoretical quest to know me and my family and what it was like to live in these times.

Family Migrations

Uncle Mark Ferree (click to enlarge)

Families often move in groups.  Sometimes all at once; sometimes one after the other after the other. Several generations ago almost every branch of my family made their way from one of the original colonies–Virginia, Pennsylvania, North Carolina or New Jersey–to Indiana or Ohio.

Then they stopped.  From the early 1800s to the late 1900s, much of my family stayed in Indiana and Ohio.  But there were always outliers–those who moved on.

My great-great Uncle Mark was one who left Indiana.  Pursuing his career in journalism he moved from one newspaper to another until he ended up as the general business manager of Scripps-Howard Newspapers in 1949.  From his office in New York he traveled all over the country, visiting the various newspapers owned by Scripps-Howard.

Uncle Mark Ferree (click to enlarge)

In 1965, Uncle Mark facilitated the purchase of a small, local paper called the Stuart News in Stuart, Florida.  It was the first time Scripps-Howard had purchased a weekly paper, but they believed in the prospect of economic growth in this quiet little town on the Atlantic coast of Florida.

Little Ocean Club on Hutchinson Island

Uncle Mark and Aunt Ruth loved the area, so they bought two freshly built condos on Hutchinson Island.  At the time all of Martin County only had around 20,000 residents (today, Stuart has just shy of 20,000 and Martin County has around 140,000).

Over the years to come, two of Uncle Mark’s nieces (my Aunt Janet and my grandmother) bought property in the area.

I remember vacationing on Hutchinson Island as a kid, staying in my grandmother’s condo, visiting my aunts and uncles who lived in Stuart.  For my whole life, I have loved being there, walking the beach, enjoying the ocean.

My brother, sister, parents, cousins, aunts, uncles–my whole family–love to visit Stuart.

The boys at Little Ocean Club years ago (click to enlarge)

When I got married almost sixteen years ago, I introduced my wife to Stuart and she fell in love with it too.  We’ve taken our boys there almost every year of their lives.

Over the years Uncle Mark, Aunt Ruth, Aunt Janet and her husband Uncle Dick all passed away.  No one from the family lives in Stuart now.  But that will soon change.

For years, my wife and I have longed to live in Stuart.  We’ve driven past houses and dreamed of buying them.  We’ve gone down for vacation and wished we never had to leave.

Recently, the opportunity opened up for us to move.  My wife spent a few months looking for a job and found one at the Martin County Business Development Board.  We decided to move and we’ve put in motion the plans that will bring me, my wife and my two boys to Stuart before the end of the summer.

Rarely a day passes that my kids don’t ask the question “Can we go NOW?”

Me, Julia and the boys in Stuart, along the St. Lucie River in December 2010 (click to enlarge)

Rarely a day passes when I don’t think about what it will be like to live in Stuart.

When I told my cousins we’re moving, one of them responded:  ”I wondered if one of us would make a move to the place that has been so special to our family over the years.  You guys win the prize!”

We feel like we have won a prize indeed.