Showing posts with label Marjorie. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Marjorie. Show all posts
Monday, April 4, 2016
Thursday, February 26, 2015
Marjorie's New Blog
At this blog Marjorie is posting stories on ancestors of the Robie (her husband) and Harshaw families. The first one was published this morning.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Trip Day 10, B'ville [Revised]
Spent the day in Baldwinsville, NY, resting a bit and visiting with sister Jean, who last saw Marjorie in 1970 (or before). Lots of talk, reestablishing relationships over Monday evening and Tuesday. A sharing of trip results, prior researches, and heirlooms. Perhaps the most significant may be a big old photo album containing unknown people. We're guessing it might be from when Rev. John Rippey was pastor in Kortright, NY (mid 1850's), because some photos are from nearby towns. But the provenance is lost in the mists of the past, so we'll have to research it. But it might, repeat might, show Rippeys from about the time of the Civil War. Nothing much earlier, I'm afraid.
Much amusement over old photos of Marjorie and her sister, much analysis of photos of my baptism (the chauvinism of W.R. Harshaw is unmistakable), and a number of other artifacts and photographs. Will try to post separately on them as I'm trying to catch up on a number of fronts.
Much amusement over old photos of Marjorie and her sister, much analysis of photos of my baptism (the chauvinism of W.R. Harshaw is unmistakable), and a number of other artifacts and photographs. Will try to post separately on them as I'm trying to catch up on a number of fronts.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Back Home
Last Friday Lisa and I returned home from a trip on which we visited Marjorie Harshaw Robie and family in Ipswich. Enjoyable, but I returned to find a contribution from Bobbie Ernst of several pictures and notably the genealogical table compiled by Dr. John Newton Rippey. Then Ed Cole emailed material on the Boyd family, who appear to have intermarried with Harshaws. On top of that, I took lots of pictures on the trip and I'm still dealing with my new laptop and trying to integrate it into my routine. So I'm feeling pressed to catch up.
Marjorie's going to speak in Boston and then in Minneapolis. Haven't seen her speech, but it's on the divisions in Ireland in the context of James Harshaw and John Martin. See her book available at Amazon.com. (She's hard at work on the second volume.)
Marjorie's going to speak in Boston and then in Minneapolis. Haven't seen her speech, but it's on the divisions in Ireland in the context of James Harshaw and John Martin. See her book available at Amazon.com. (She's hard at work on the second volume.)
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Mac
My father, Harold McCloskey Harshaw, was the youngest son of William R. Harshaw and his wife Ada Rippey. No one ever called him Harold that I know of. He was always "Mac." He was born in New York City and spent his earliest years in what is now Harlem. Despite his city birth, he was a country boy at heart. The Harshaw farming heritage burned deep in him, and he wished to spend his life farming as well.
Like his father before him, he had a great interest in guns. When I was a child, we lived in a house surrounded by woods, not on a farm. Still, he seemed content to substitute flower gardens for fields of hay. Small creatures who lived in our woods seemed to find our garden quite tasty. This was all the justification that father needed for acquiring something most farmers owned. He bought a shot gun which he put out of reach on the wall above his work bench in our basement.
I was very curious about the gun, but my father would never let me touch it. And I certainly knew better than to defy my father.
One hot summer afternoon, I was trying to keep cool on the screened porch at the back of our house when father came rushing onto the porch and disappeared into the house. He was back quickly, this time with his gun at the ready.
He left the porch very quietly making sure the screened door didn't slam behind him as it usually did. Silently he walked down the stairs, using the tulip tree at the bottom for cover. He was clearly stalking something I couldn't see. He moved a bit closer to the garden and then raised the gun into shooting position. Though I could clearly see what he was doing, the sound of the gun actually firing startled me.
I looked to see what he was shooting at. To my great horror, there was a small rabbit flopping about on the grass, blood visible on his white belly. Father hurried up to him and fired again. The flapping stopped. For a few moments, I stared at the dead rabbit, unable to get my feet moving. Finally, I was able to turn around and flee to the sanctuary of my room.
Never again did I have the slightest interest in that gun or any other.
Marjorie
Like his father before him, he had a great interest in guns. When I was a child, we lived in a house surrounded by woods, not on a farm. Still, he seemed content to substitute flower gardens for fields of hay. Small creatures who lived in our woods seemed to find our garden quite tasty. This was all the justification that father needed for acquiring something most farmers owned. He bought a shot gun which he put out of reach on the wall above his work bench in our basement.
I was very curious about the gun, but my father would never let me touch it. And I certainly knew better than to defy my father.
One hot summer afternoon, I was trying to keep cool on the screened porch at the back of our house when father came rushing onto the porch and disappeared into the house. He was back quickly, this time with his gun at the ready.
He left the porch very quietly making sure the screened door didn't slam behind him as it usually did. Silently he walked down the stairs, using the tulip tree at the bottom for cover. He was clearly stalking something I couldn't see. He moved a bit closer to the garden and then raised the gun into shooting position. Though I could clearly see what he was doing, the sound of the gun actually firing startled me.
I looked to see what he was shooting at. To my great horror, there was a small rabbit flopping about on the grass, blood visible on his white belly. Father hurried up to him and fired again. The flapping stopped. For a few moments, I stared at the dead rabbit, unable to get my feet moving. Finally, I was able to turn around and flee to the sanctuary of my room.
Never again did I have the slightest interest in that gun or any other.
Marjorie
Introduction
I was always somewhat different as a child. Painful shyness, a vivid imagination, a strange ability to analyze situations, combined with odd deep-set eyes and a very square jawline are not attributes of anyone who would be either popular or successful. Still there was much to learn about life in the small town just outside Washington DC where I spent much of my childhood.
When I was 13 my family moved to Andover MA, and my life has been focused in Massachusetts most of the time ever since. It was there I met my husband, and began a very ordinary life as wife, parent and teacher.
It was only after this part of my life was complete that my life got strange. A very new adventure resulted from a growing interest in family history, generated by a TV program, the monumental series Roots. First I began a search for my family history. It turned out that my strange last name was Irish. I had never liked my name, as I was endlessly required to spell it for people. Now I'm very happy my mother told me to keep it as part of my name. I also discovered that I had many interesting and important relatives in Ireland, a search that resulted in a book on Irish history. I'm sure my parents would find this turn of events almost as unbelievable as I do myself.
The story of the Harshaw family is the story of America. For most Americans, our ancestors arrived with a sad heritage of loss, as most immigrants left home and family forever. But these incomers changed our country. I am very proud that members of the Harshaw family and the families with whom they married share this record of accomplishment .
Bill and I intend this blog to be a place for various branches of our family to come together, and document the contribution of Irish immigrants to our country. We hope you find your visits both informative and enjoyable.
Marjorie Harshaw Robie
When I was 13 my family moved to Andover MA, and my life has been focused in Massachusetts most of the time ever since. It was there I met my husband, and began a very ordinary life as wife, parent and teacher.
It was only after this part of my life was complete that my life got strange. A very new adventure resulted from a growing interest in family history, generated by a TV program, the monumental series Roots. First I began a search for my family history. It turned out that my strange last name was Irish. I had never liked my name, as I was endlessly required to spell it for people. Now I'm very happy my mother told me to keep it as part of my name. I also discovered that I had many interesting and important relatives in Ireland, a search that resulted in a book on Irish history. I'm sure my parents would find this turn of events almost as unbelievable as I do myself.
The story of the Harshaw family is the story of America. For most Americans, our ancestors arrived with a sad heritage of loss, as most immigrants left home and family forever. But these incomers changed our country. I am very proud that members of the Harshaw family and the families with whom they married share this record of accomplishment .
Bill and I intend this blog to be a place for various branches of our family to come together, and document the contribution of Irish immigrants to our country. We hope you find your visits both informative and enjoyable.
Marjorie Harshaw Robie
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