A Poem by Florence Leonette [Flagg] Cooke for the Ninth Annual Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge of Bill West (October 4, 2017)

Florence Leonette "Nettie" [Flagg] Cooke (1870 - 1904)

Next month is the "Ninth Annual Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge" conceived and hosted by Bill West of West in New England blog. Under the Challenge rules, a poem submitted for inclusion in the Challenge can "be a poem you or one of your ancestors have written." This post is my submission for the Ninth Annual Challenge and it publishes a poem written by my great grandmother, Florence Leonette Flagg (pictured above as a young adult). "Nettie," as she was always called, is the mother of my maternal grandmother, Ruth Eaton [Cooke] Carpenter.

Nettie had a short life that in many ways was tragic and I believe she turned to poetry to try to express her pain, her hope, and her discovery of respite and beauty when and where she could find it. She wrote numerous poems that are mostly sad, but they must have been cathartic for her given her experiences. I am very lucky and privileged to have several originals of her poetic writings and a few others that were transcribed by her eldest child (my grand aunt, Helen R. [Cooke] Roberts) from now lost originals. The poem in this post is one of the original poems in her handwriting that I now have in my collection.

To possibly understand where Nettie's poem originates, it is necessary to provide some brief context and background about Nettie.

Nettie was born in 1870 to George W. Flagg and his wife, Mary J. ("Jennie") Eaton.  When Nettie was just two and half years old, her mother died at age 26. And then Nettie's father died at age 35 of "phthisis" (an archaic name for tuberculosis) when Nettie was barely nine years old.

By the time of the 1880 federal census, ten-year-old Nettie Flagg was living as a "boarder" in the home of Susannah Stanley (age 69) and her daughter Frances Stanley (age 30) in Attleborough, Massachusetts. She apparently lived with the Stanleys until she married Walter W. Cooke in August 1891 in North Attleborough. She and Walter had known one another since they were children. They were both 21 years old when they married.

Nettie's original handwritten poem is shown below. Precisely when Nettie wrote the poem is unknown, but since she died in July 1904 at age 34, the poem is at least 113 years old. So far as is known, it was never published anywhere before appearing here and being submitted as part of Bill West's Ninth Annual Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge.  

When I Have Time

    By Florence Leonette "Nettie" Cooke 

 When I have time

So many things I'll do

To make life happier and more fair

For those whose lives are clouded with care

I'll help to lift them from their low despair

                                     When I have time

When I have time

Kind words and loving smiles

I'll give to those whose pathway runs thro' tears

Who see no joy in the coming years

In many ways their weary lives I'll cheer

                                        When I have time

When I have time

The one I love so well

Shall know no more these weary toilsome days

I'll lead her feet in pleasant paths always

And cheer her heart with words of sweetest praise

                                       When I have time

When you have time

The one you hold so dear

May be beyond the reach of thy sweet intent

May never know that you so kindly meant

To fill her weary life with such content

                                When you had time

Now is the time

Ah, friend No longer wait

To scatter loving smiles and words of cheer

To those around whose lives are now drear

They may not need you in the coming years

                                 Now is the time

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The photograph and handwritten original of the poem are from the personal collection of the author.

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Copyright 2017, John D. Tew

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"A Poem on Little Russell's Passing" (October 17, 2016)

Florence Leonette ("Nettie") Flagg 

Nettie Cooke [nee Flagg] -- b. May 13, 1870 - d. July 20, 1904

Next month is the "Eighth Annual Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge" conceived and hosted by Bill West of West in New England blog. Under the Challenge rules, a poem submitted for inclusion in the Challenge can "be a poem you or one of your ancestors have written." This post is my submission for the Eighth Annual Challenge and it publishes a poem written by my great grandmother, Florence Leonette Flagg (pictured above as a young teen and as an adult). "Nettie," as she was always called, is the mother of my maternal grandmother, Ruth Eaton [Cooke] Carpenter. I posted previously about Nettie where I included another one of her poems, which can be viewed here.

Nettie had a short life that in many ways was tragic and I believe she turned to poetry to try to express her pain, her hope, and her discovery of respite and beauty when and where she could find it. She wrote numerous poems that are mostly sad, but they must have been cathartic for her given her experiences. I am very lucky and privileged to have several originals of her poetic writings and a few others that were transcribed by her eldest child (my grand aunt, Helen R. [Cooke] Roberts) from now lost originals. The poem in this post was written about 1894 when Nettie was twenty-four years old and as the images of the poem below show, this is one of the original poems in her handwriting that I now have in my collection.

To understand where Nettie's poem originates, it is necessary to provide some brief context and background about Nettie.

Nettie was born in 1870 to George W. Flagg and his wife, Mary J. ("Jennie") Eaton.  When Nettie was just two and half years old, her mother died at age 26. And then Nettie's father died at age 35 of "phthisis" (an archaic name for tuberculosis) when Nettie was barely nine years old.

By the time of the 1880 federal census, Nettie Flagg was living as a "boarder" in the home of Susannah Stanley (age 69) and her daughter Frances Stanley (age 30) in Attleborough, Massachusetts. She apparently lived with the Stanleys until she married Walter W. Cooke in August 1891 in North Attleborough. She and Walter had known one another since they were children and they were both 21 years old when they married.

Leonette ("Nettie") Flagg and Walter W. Wilson

Soon after Nettie and Walter married they had their first child, my grandmother's oldest sister, Helen Raeder Cooke born February 21, 1892. Helen was followed by five additional children -- two boys and three girls. Russell was born in 1893. Lois Vinal Cooke was born in 1894. My grandmother, Ruth Eaton Cooke, was born in 1897. Dorothy was born in 1899 and Russell Church Cooke was born in 1902. 

By the time my grandmother was ten years old, her mother and father had lost three children. Russell died about a month shy of his first birthday. Dorothy, who was a special favorite of my grandmother's, died just a month after her sixth birthday of typhoid complicated by a severe ear infection. Russell Church Cooke died just over two months after his second birthday of meningitis. I never heard my grandmother ever mention the fact that she had two brothers and she never told me she had a younger sister named Dorothy. My mother did tell me well into my middle age that her mother always said she would never name a son of hers Russell because both her brothers were named Russell and they died very young. [When my grandmother did have a son, she named him David and I got my middle name after him.]   

My grandmother, Ruth Eaton Cooke (left) and her younger sister Dorothy Cooke (right)

The original handwritten poem below was written in 1894 just after the death of Nettie's first son, Russell Cooke. The poem is now 122 years old. It was preserved by my grand aunt, Helen [Cooke] Roberts, in the envelope shown here. It is inscribed by Helen to explain when the poem was written and why.

Here is Nettie's untitled poem that I have begun calling "A Poem on Little Russell's Passing." It is transcribed immediately after the images of the original handwritten poem. To my knowledge the poem has never been published before or shared outside the family . . . and few in the family have ever seen it before.

A Poem on Little Russell's Passing*

                           By Florence Leonette "Nettie" Cooke (1894)

                                               I sometimes grow weary of waiting

                                               And long for the time to come,

                                              When I shall see my baby,

                                              In that beautiful far off home.

                                              Sometimes when I feel discouraged

                                              And my life seems full of care,

                                              I wonder how long I shall have 

                                             to wait

                                             Before we meet over there.

                                             I wonder if he is happy, 

                                             My dear little baby boy.

                                             If he thinks of Father & Mother

                                             And wants us to share his joy.

                                             At the gate of the beautiful city

                                             In that bright and Heavenly home

                                             Will he be watching and waiting

                                             And longing for us to come?

                                             He was beautiful when he left us,

                                             But will he grow more fair?

                                             Will he grow in Heavenly beauty

                                             And will we know him there?

                                             I wonder sometimes why my baby

                                             Was taken away so soon

                                             Was it because I was straying away

                                             Into the darkness and gloom?

                                             Was the Shepherd trying to call

                                              me back

                                             And I heeded not his cry

                                             Until he took my little lamb

                                             To the home beyond the sky.

                                             Was it in love that He took him

                                              To draw me back to the fold

                                              Because I had grown so careless

                                              And my heart seemed bitter and 

                                              cold.

                                              Ah yes, the lesson was hard to learn

                                              And my heart seemed crushed

                                              with pain

                                              And the time seemed longer than

                                              I could wait

                                              Ere I should see him again.

                                              But one time, ere I closed my eyes

                                              in sleep

                                              I looked out into the night.

                                              And gazing up into the darkened sky

                                              I saw a misty light.

                                              And in the midst of that one bright

                                              cloud

                                              A little star twinkled and shone.

                                              And it seemed to me like a guiding

                                              light,

                                              To lead to that Heavenly home.

                                               And in fancy I saw that little

                                               star,

                                               Was held by my baby's hand

                                               To safely guide me through the darksome

                                               night

                                               To that home in the spirit land.

                                               And in it I read God's lesson to me

                                               That my work is not yet done

                                               So I'll gladly wait

                                               Till someday, sometime

                                               My God and my child will welcome me home.

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All photos are scanned from the originals, which are in the collection of the author.

*Nettie did not provide a title for her poem, so I have taken the liberty of providing one 122 years after she wrote these poignant words. I hope she would approve. 

There are actually two handwritten copies of Nettie's poem following little Russell's untimely death, but one is inexplicably missing the last lines of the next to last stanza as well as all of the final stanza. I have chosen to follow the verse structure and punctuation of the version with the missing lines, but I provide images of the complete poem. For this reason, the transcription does not follow exactly the structure of the complete poem depicted above. 

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Copyright 2016, John D. Tew

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Amanuensis Monday (January 6, 2014) -- Eber Miller's 1819 Poem

Eber Miller is my 3rd great grandfather.  He was born on April 24, 1805 most likely in Cumberland, Rhode Island. He died on March 21, 1877 in Cumberland.  He was the son of Asquire Miller and his wife Amey Bishop.

I have written about Eber Miller previously. See, for example, the posts of October 21, 2103 and October 14, 2013.

Today's post is the transcription [complete with errors] of a poem written by Eber Miller when he was just three months shy of 14 years old.  So far as I know, it is an original poem, but it is possible it is one he just copied since it seems a bit despondent and mature for a 13-year-old.  The spelling errors could argue against a copied poem unless the poem that was copied also had spelling errors.  

The poem was written in 1819 and is either the oldest or among the very oldest documents I have that was written by one of my ancestors.  Unfortunately, the original was folded at some point and the paper is now quite fragile. One of my other ancestors wrote in pencil -- barely visible in the lower right corner of the paper -- that Eber was "born 1805," which is correct.

                                                 HOPE 

          Ah wo is me from day to day

          I drag a life of pain and sorrow

          Yet still sweet hope I hear thee say

          Be carm thine ills will end to morrow

          The morrow comes but brings to me

          No charm disease or grief releaving

          And am I ever doomed to see

          Sweet hope thy promises decieving

          Yet false and cruel as thou art

          Thy dear delusions will I cherish

          I cannot dare not with with the part

          Since I alas with thee must perish

   _______________________________________

      Eber Miller of Cumberland

            January the 29 [??} 1819

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Original poem in the collection of the author.

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Copyright 2014, John D. Tew

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Matrilineal Monday (November 18, 2013) -- Poem by Nettie Flagg Cooke

Florence Leonette Cooke (nee Flagg) is my great grandmother (my mother's mother's mother). She was born in Southborough, Massachusetts on May 13, 1870 and she died at age 34 on July 20, 1904 in N. Attleboro, Massachusetts -- almost exactly three months after the death of her last child.  She was always known as "Nettie."

As I have written elsewhere her at The Prism, my grandmother was one of six children of Nettie Flagg Cooke and her husband, Walter Wilson Cooke (1869 - 1944).  Tragically, Nettie and Walter lost three of their six children: Russell Cooke (1893 - 1894); Dorothy B. Cooke (1899 - 1907); and Russell Church Cooke (1902 - 1904).  As might be expected, this deeply saddened Nettie and quite likely contributed to her untimely death at age 34.

Shown above is an undated poem Nettie wrote that exhibits her depression, pain, and yet hope for something better.  I suspect this was written not long after the death of her son Russell Church Cooke on April 23, 1904.  A transcription of the poem follows . . . 

                    Shut in by sickness

                    Saddened by disappointment

                    I lay and watched one day

                           The setting sun.

                     I'm one day nearer home I murmured

                           And I'm glad, so glad

                               The day is done.

                      I closed my eyes and let

                      The mystic spell of twilight

                           Soothe me to rest

                      Ere the last crimson ray had gone

                           When suddenly the room

                      Was filled with brightness

                           For the lights were on

                       And so in this way, perhaps

                            Death may come to me

                        When life's little day is done

                    

                         We close our eyes, but for a moment

                         To open them in Heaven's brightness

                                 Where God's lights are always on.

                   Nettie Flagg Cooke

Nettie Flagg Cooke

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Scan of original poem in the collection of the author.

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Copyright 2013, John D. Tew

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Genealogy Poetry Challenge -- "Quite Frankly" by Mark Halliday

As Bill West announced in his August 20th post on West in New England, his 5th annual Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge is now underway with plenty of lead time before the November 20th submission deadline.  Since I was not blogging during the previous four Challenges, this will be my first opportunity to participate.  I am doing so early so I do not overlook the deadline.

I hope the submission to follow meets the Challenge guidelines.  

My ancestors are almost all from New England (Rhode Island and Massachusetts) by way of England, Ireland and a bit of Germany.  The poet I am submitting (Mark Halliday) is a contemporary poet who, while born in Michigan, was educated in New England -- at Brown in Rhode Island and Brandeis in Massachusetts.  His poem, titled Quite Frankly, was the poetry selection in the August 27, 2013 edition of Garrison's Keillor's The Writer's Almanac.  The poem itself follows my explanation below about how the poem relates to me. 

The poem is not specifically about an historical event, legend, person or place as the Challenge guidelines propose, but it relates to me and this blog because it goes to something that has always fascinated me -- old photographs and the moments in everyday lives they depict.  I find it impossible to look at old family photographs (many of which have been posted here) without pondering the reality that while the ancestors shown have passed on, during the moments in time when the photos were taken they lived and experienced all the elation, sadness, challenges, victories and defeats that come with life.  For me this poem evokes the same poignance that is captured, enveloped and preserved beyond death in photographs of long ago moments in a life.  I agree with Mr. Halliday.  There is an undeniable, exquisite beauty in looking at frozen moments in an ancestor's life. 

Quite Frankly

by Mark Halliday

They got old, they got old and died. But first—
okay but first they composed plangent depictions
of how much they lost and how much they cared about losing.
Meantime their hair got thin and more thin
as their shoulders went slumpy. Okay but

not before the photo albums got arranged by them,
arranged with a niftiness, not just two or three
but eighteen photo albums, yes eighteen eventually,
eighteen albums proving the beauty of them (and not someone else),
them and their relations and friends, incontrovertible

playing croquet in that Bloomington yard,
floating on those comic inflatables at Dow Lake,
giggling at the Dairy Queen, waltzing at the wedding,
building a Lego palace on the porch,
holding the baby beside the rental truck,
leaning on the Hemingway statue at Pamplona,
discussing the eternity of art in that Sardinian restaurant.

Yes! And so, quite frankly—at the end of the day—
they got old and died okay sure but quite frankly
how much does that matter in view of
the eighteen photo albums, big ones
thirteen inches by twelve inches each
full of such undeniable beauty?

"Quite Frankly" by Mark Halliday, from Thresherphobe. © The University of Chicago Press, 2013.

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Poetry "Wordle" created by the author using http://www.wordle.net

For more information about the Poet, Mark Halliday, see the Wikipedia entry for him here.

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Copyright 2013, John D. Tew

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A Poem For My Broheim at 52

April is National Poetry Month.  With only today and three more days left to make another amateur contribution to the literary event, I take this opportunity to recognize in poem the younger of my two brothers, Robert, upon his reaching a momentous birthday this very day!  I call this one. . .

A Riff On 52 For You At 50 + 2

52 is not just your number of trips around the sun

Or the number that simply follows Fifty-one

52 is the number of weeks in the year

And on Route 52 your car you can steer

52 is too young to suffer from chronic delirium

But it is, chronologically, the atomic number of tellurium

52 is the number of piano white keys

And it's a number indivisible by 7s or 3s 

52 as a number is decagonal, an untouchable and a Bell

It is noncototient, and a Saros -- that's what Wikipedia will tell 

But most of all, most important for YOU

as today you reach the age of fifty + two . . . 

Unlike losing players at a casino in Quebec     

52 means, "You are finally playing with a full deck!"

Happy Birthday Broheim!

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"National Poetry Month" and the logo above are registered trademarks of the Academy of American Poets who encourage downloading of the official 2013 National Poetry Month logo for use in promoting poetry in April.  The Prism uses the logo here to encourage other bloggers to participate in National Poetry Month events and by offering up your own poems on your blogs.  Four days left including today!  ;-)

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Copyright 2013, John D. Tew

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"The Power of Two" -- a contribution to National Poetry Month 2013

The Power of Two
by John D. Tew


YOU are alive. 

so You are a singular living link

in unbroken chains stretching in sync

across scores of millennia

to all bind again
in You

You are an organic, living mosaic
a motley ethnic fabric 

created by the power of two

You . . . who are from

two parents

four grandparents

eight great grandparents

sixteen great great grandparents

one thousand twenty four 8X great grandparents

            

four thousand ninety-six 10X great grandparents
         

            ~~~~~~~~~~

And your ring bound with another

produces a unique helical chain
braided through father and mother
by the power of two again

woman and man, parents anew
create rings in their pendants
through the power of two

and become two of four grandparents

two of eight great grandparents

two of sixteen great great grandparents . . . 

organic living mosaics every one

created by and creating through

the eternal power of two.

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Animation of rotating DNA structure by brian0918.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:ADN_animation.gif  This work has been released into the public domain by its author, brian0918, for any purpose, without conditions, unless such conditions are required by law.  This applies worldwide.

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Copyright 2013, John D. Tew

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The Golden Wedding Anniversary Poem to Joseph and Nancy Carpenter

As a follow-up to yesterday's post, here is the transcription of the 50th wedding anniversary poem written to celebrate the Golden Anniversary of Nancy and Joseph Carpenter 150 years ago yesterday.  The author is not known because the signature cannot be made out beyond the first letters as shown below.

February 21, 1863

Golden Wedding Lyric

By L___ D ___

Awake my muse! And bear a cheerful part

In this thy first and joyous “Golden Wedding”,

The range is ample, harness up and Start,

From 1813’s hitching-post depart,

And let thy steed o‘er fifty years be speeding.

Today ‘tis fifty years since loving hearts & plighted troth

From out two households came and wandered forth;

One name, one path, one sorrow and one joy

One life created by a Cupid Boy.

Life’s morning was rosy, the sunshine of hope

Rose bright on their path, the shadows dispelling

While pluck, nerve and vigor were ample to cope

With trials without, or with fears indwelling.

The honeymoon passed; how quickly it mizzled!

A milestone was set, and upon it was chisselled [1]

“James, - son of Joseph and Nancy”, Old Time travel fast,

There’s lots more to come, before Edward the last.

How these milestones came forth, all set in their places

To show how a nag can be kept to his paces.

There’s James, there’s George, there’s Nancy and Sarah –

Nigh! Why should I stop at the waters of Marah [2]

There is William and Samuel, Newton and Lucy,

The latter so sweet[3] poetical and sprucy.

And Edward the true plucky old soldier boy

The last of the lot, age’s milestone of joy –

James is a farmer, away down in Maine,

George is a minister, a duck somewhat lame,

Nancy is true to her motherly life,

Sarah, alas!, is not yet a wife.

William breaks colts and distributes his wits,

Samuel to rebels gives “particular fits.”

Newton’s a Badger [4] seeking his grist,

Lucy the Sweet is here and not missed

Edward, the youngest, is in the army you see,

Upholding, with Samuel, Liberty’s Tree ---

Silence should cover all such sad mishaps

Saving our feelings from some gentle raps

A replaced killock from some store in town

Would “save our bacon” and suspicion drown

But some keen lad who doth the tiller keep

Drinks in the scene but will not let it sleep

Losses thus audited stand upon the page

And serve, a moment, thus our thoughts to engage –

Under the rooftree and around the board

Growing beneath its rich and generous hoard

Let us all gather; Sire and son and mother

The stranger friend, as well as bachelor brother

The lovely maiden and the cheerful wife

And let us celebrate the golden year of life.

Buried all killocks, raise your glasses high!

Profits are here, let’s let the losses fly!

Haste to the wedding, the wedding of gold;

Tin and silver have passed; it is fifty years old;

Come, crown with your song, your blessing, your wit

The honored occasion so fitted for it –

Come brother, come sister, come daughter, come son,

Do honor to age so uprightly won.

Come James, my New Yorker Insurance friend,

Come Newton, from Daybook and Ledger unbend,

Come Sarah, twice Carpenter, of Attleborough,

Come Lucy, the Mason and widow also,

Come John, my brave Bullock, my bachelor friend,

With Abby the witty your countenance lend,

Come Amos, with John, for even with your years

Together you make but one pair of shears,

For you both should be paired with Sarah to Maine

As of wedlock, for certainly all are appraise.

Come Samuel, a nag with a dog under the chaise

Come Lois and add your garland of praise.

A wedding of gold is an uncommon event

May time add to its value one hundred percent.

Profits and losses are but life’s event.

Profits are children kindly to us lent.

Losses are posted on each daily page

Of human life, from youth to hoary age.

We are but fishermen on uncertain sea,

We find our landmarks under favoring lea,

Our boat is staunch, our lines and tackle nigh

Our bait at hand, our hopes zenith high,

We huff and throw the splendid killock [5] o’er

And with it goes six feet of cable more,

Planted forever in the deep blue sea

A fitting type of what our losses be.

Up comes the tiller – straight for shore we speed

The jig is up – of fish we feel no need.

That planted killock on our plate doth sit

Before our minds the fairy killocks flit

Bended so nicely on the cable’s length

And thrown so surely by the muscle’s strength,

We dream of killocks, aye, awake, or sleep

The killock dance doth still its vigil keep.

We lose our killocks and we lose our fish

One is as much as mortal man could wish!

Here is our toast

To Joseph and Nancy, the husband and wife

For fifty long years in true wedlock life.

Blessings upon them, father and mother,

True to their children, true to each other –

May the sun of their life find a cloudless sky

And its moments pass on, unburdened with sigh,

Until lost in the depths of a glorious sea,

Boundless, joyous, happy and free -

           

---

[1] Misspelled, this should be “chiseled” or “chiselled.”  As much as possible, this transcription retains the spelling, spacing and punctuation of the originals (there are two handwritten copies).

[2] Marah” is a reference to one of the locations which the Torah identifies as having been travelled through by the Israelites during the Exodus.  According to Easton's 1897 Bible Dictionary – Marah, meaning “bitterness,” was a fountain at the sixth station of the Israelites (Ex. 15:23, 24; Num. 33:8) whose waters were so bitter that they could not drink them. This caused rancor toward Moses, who, under divine direction, cast into the fountain "a certain tree" which took away its bitterness, so that the people drank of it.

[3] This is a play on words since Lucy married Lepreliet Sweet and so was Lucy (Carpenter) Sweet.

[4] “Badger,” capitalized as here, refers to a native or resident of Wisconsin and is often a nickname for such people.  Newton Carpenter moved to Wisconsin at one point in time.

[5] A “killick” is a small anchor often formed by a stone that is usually enclosed by pieces of wood.

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Transcription by John D. Tew from documents discovered among the Anna Garlin Spencer Papers (DG 034), Swarthmore College Peace Collection. 

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Copyright 2013, John D. Tew

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“Immortality Lies in Being Remembered by Family and Friends” re: Nancy and Joseph Carpenter

[As mentioned in my post of January 27, 2013, it is my belief that “Immortality lies in being remembered by your family and friends!”   In a sense, the largest part of this blog is devoted sharing memories, images, stories and facts about ancestors and relatives that contribute to their immortality; but a special series I am developing is devoted to occasionally focusing on an individual or individuals on the anniversary of some meaningful event (birth, death, marriage, graduation, etc.).  I call the series simply, “Immortality.”  This is the second in that series.]

Allow me to introduce to you today the groom, Joseph Carpenter, and his bride, Nancy Mason Bullock.  Like Jack and Rose in the movie Titanic, Nancy and Joseph are dancing together again today . . .

Two Hundred years ago this very day (February 21, 1813), Joseph Carpenter and Nancy Mason Bullock were married in Rehoboth, Massachusetts.  Joseph was born in Rehoboth to James Carpenter and Lucy (Bliss) Carpenter on September 8, 1789.  Nancy was the daughter of Abel Bullock and Lois (Mason) Bullock.  Nancy was born in Rehoboth on December 10, 1793.  Joseph was 23 years at the time of their nuptials and Nancy was 20.

For the next sixteen years after their marriage, Joseph and Nancy lived in Rehoboth where they started their family.  The family eventually grew to include 14 children – of whom all but four lived to adulthood.

1.              James Mason Carpenter (1813-1892)

2.              George Moulton Carpenter (1815-1883)

3.              Nancy Mason Carpenter (1818-1901)

4.              Sarah Martin Carpenter (1820-1846)

5.             Jonathan Bliss Carpenter (1822-1857)

6.              Lucy Bliss Carpenter (1824-1910)

7.              William Wallace Carpenter (1826-1877)

8.              Jane Buffum Carpenter (1828-1830) – Samuel’s twin sister

9.              Samuel Carpenter (1828-1904) – my 2X great grandfather

10.          Newton Francis Carpenter (1831-1907)

11.          Jane Buffum Carpenter (1834-1836)

12.          Joseph Carpenter (1835-1836)

13.          Albert Norton Carpenter (1837-1838)

14.          Edward Everett Carpenter (1840-1900)

In or around 1829, the family moved to Attleborough, Massachusetts* and in 1842 they were living in Providence, Rhode Island for a time.  [See the post on the Aplin/Carpenter correspondence of 1842.]  In the 1850, 1860 and 1870 Census, Joseph was reported to be employed as a “farmer” -- at age 60, 70 and 80 respectively.

In 1863, Joseph and Nancy celebrated their 50^th wedding anniversary with most of their family in attendance.  A poem and a toast were written for the occasion . . .

[The images above are of the original handwritten poem pages from 1863.  The original pages were shuffled in the repository where they were discovered a couple of years ago.   There were also what appeared to be two working versions of the poem resulting in overlapping verses.  I have restored the order of the pages and verses as best as can be determined.  I have also transcribed the writings.  The transcription of the poem and toast will be the subject of the next post and it will include some background explanatory annotations.]

Nancy and Joseph were married for 67 years before they both passed away in 1880 within six months of one another.  Nancy died on May 4, 1880 at age 86 and Joseph died on November 12, 1880 at age 91.  They were living in Attleborough at the time.

Joseph and Nancy’s long marriage and large family produced many descendants.  Among their children, grandchildren and other descendants are men and women of considerable achievement and education -- to include a federal district court judge, a noted early feminist/ suffragette and a famous anthropologist (some of whom will be subjects of future blog posts).   

So . . .  please join me this evening in raising a glass in toast to Joseph and Nancy Carpenter, newlyweds 200 years ago today!

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* In 1914 the town of Attleborough was reincorporated as the City of Attleboro.

The toast and poem were discovered among the Ann Garlin Spencer Papers (DG 034), Swarthmore College Peace Collection.

Photo of Nancy Mason Carpenter's gravestone posted on Find-A-Grave by Ginny DeLong on June 29, 2011.

Photo of Joseph Carpenter's gravestone posted on Find-A-Grave by Susan on March 26, 2009.

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Copyright 2013, John D. Tew

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