This has been the year from hell for our family.
It all began nine days into the year when my sister's ailing health took a turn for the worse and she was hospitalized, resulting in hospice care two weeks later – and her passing four weeks after that at home.
Hospice was a nightmare, with mistakes being made every which way by the two nurses - fric and frac - who not only couldn't log their visits properly, but didn't communicate well and mostly ended their visits by patting my sister on the back and saying, "You're just tired."
She was tired alright – she'd been fighting this battle for exactly 20 years. A number of strokes, followed by heart attacks and a diagnosis of congestive heart failure in 2002, which slowly zapped her strength and ability to be independent. She had severe diabetes, macular degeneration and glaucoma as well. She was a pistol though – kept her mind almost to the end and never lost her sense of humor and her sense of humanity, belief in Christ and love for her family persisted until the end.
My anger at the hospice group is just now beginning to abate. I can't change what I can't change. Nothing will bring my sister back – it was her intense suffering that they caused and that I can't change. I can only take comfort in the fact she's at peace now and at least one of those ditzy, lousy nurses is no longer working there; while the one social worker – not worth her weight in fly poop, is no longer the social worker.
I had to quit my job this year – a job I loved at a nearby city's newspaper. I had a popular history column, opinion column and ran a number of popular feature articles. I had won numerous awards as a writer and designer for years. But the publisher was a nutcase, only out for himself and couldn't make the slackers do their job, nor could he make a single decision. This year alone, he lost four of the top employees within five months.
I had to let that go. So now I have this blog and hope to find other work writing somewhere, somehow.
We moved – it's a life change – a good one, but still a life change.
We had some huge family drama in June that has left us devastated. But again, you can't change what you can't change. If people want to be mean, hurtful and rude – guess they have to answer to the Lord anyway one of these days. We continue to pray for them – they have no beliefs whatsoever – no spiritual base and unfortunately, as a result of that – they are empty.
I had a car accident a few months later – unfortunately – the one time I had managed to get into my late sister's car, which she left to me – and drive it. It had held too many memories of the many appointments I'd driven her to, the last time she came home from the hospital was in that car, and the many genealogical trips we'd taken to Sedalia and Eldon, shopping trips to Jamesport and Blue Springs and chiropractor visits to our friend's, Paul Schaal in Olathe. The car still had some of her blond hair stuck to the seats, her oversized sunglasses and little ball cap on the passenger side, her many maps in the door slot, loose coin in the coin box, her Yanni CDs in the visor, her blanket on the back seat and her "car" cane that she kept in the car.
Boom! Some 20-something floored it while backing out of a local business right into my path, leaving about five feet between our cars. I hit him at about 30-35 mph. My late sister's car was totaled and I was injured. Still recuperating from those. And her car was declared as dead as she was just seven months earlier.
Then we have had more family drama – worse than the first in June. This more of a betrayal than I could ever have imagined. Confessions of sins far worse than we could have anticipated and thousands of dollars scammed from a relative's account who needed them desperately for her late in life care.
As all this unfolds, one might ask God just how much more He expects us to take in one year? As always, I am reminded that He never gives us more than we can handle.
God bless Joel Osteen's ministry because a simply subscription to his Facebook page brings me, as only the Lord can do, appropriate as if "composed just for me" quotes every day.
Today, after an exceptionally emotional morning, I arrived at my chiropractor's office at the same time as two new patients – nuns – who spent the time in the waiting room trying to lift my spirits. Their kind smiles, their kind words that had nothing to do with my emotional state, was a stiff reminder that God exists in this world. He forgives us for our sins (if we ask for it) and He has redeemed us by offering up His son as a sacrifice over 2,000 years ago.
It was a reminder that I'm never alone. God is always with me as He is with the people who have hurt us. He is with us all, and he expects those of us who believe in Him to pray for those who have hurt us.
It's a strong lesson in humanity to learn to forgive and move on. It's a strong lesson to pray for those who have hurt you. But that prayer lifts the burden, even if you have to keep at it constantly as the burden returns the next day or you experience another attack by the evil one.
The title to this blog may seem not to correspond with the subject matter, but it actually does. It came today in the form of the inside of a bottle cap to an organic iced tea. Many of this year's hurts and pains have come from those we've helped and loved over the years, only to be betrayed sinfully.
Its words are meant to remind those of us who are children and still have our parents living, that we should never bite the hand that fed us. Our parents brought us into this life, changed our diapers, fed us, clothed us, guided us – sometimes it wasn't always rosy – but most of us can probably say our parents did the best darn job they could have done under the circumstances.
We must always remember that we, too, will some day be old and need to be cared for. Our children cannot ever forget that they will also be old and need to be cared for.
Caring for a parent, or even a sibling – such as I did this year – is done from the heart. We should never expect payment for it or NOT do it because we don't care if we get payment. It's not about the money, the will, the glory. It's because we love and care about another human being.
We all deserve to live our lives and reach the twilight years, the ending years, with grace and care. We deserve the very best and an easy transition into God's hands.
Don't bite God's hand either.
Monday, September 30, 2013
Monday, September 23, 2013
Loving Maine ... a lifelong love affair
Over 40 years ago I began a love affair. It's not illicit nor the kind that leaves you heartbroken, well okay, sometimes I AM heartbroken ... when I have to leave Maine.
Yes, my love affair is with God's country – the state of Maine.
My parents first took me there in the early 1970s, where we rented a small cottage on Rangeley Lake in the northwestern part of the state. One look at the pristine lake, the mountains surrounding it, and I was hooked.
My brother lived in Rangeley at the time and so we had a personal connection to Maine. We returned several times over the years until I graduated high school and was out on my own. Nevertheless, the summers we went to Rangeley fill my memory bank with warm, fuzzy family times that are simply unforgettable.
My sister and I went canoeing all over the lake and up many of the streams, panicking once when a moose stomped into a clearing near the small stream we were on. Imagine two city girls trying to turn a canoe around in a shallow, narrow stream instead of just the one in the back reversing her seat and canoeing out the way we came in?
Then there was the time my brother took us out in his small sailboat, entertaining us with his tall tales of the giant frog who inhabited the lake – occasionally shouting at one of us to "DUCK!" when the sail came about. He howled with laughter all the way into town that day.
At night my mother, myself and my sister would climb into the car and drive to the dump on the other side of the lake because we had heard you could see bears up close and personal after midnight when they came with their cubs to feed.
I know I get my penchant for picture taking from my mother since my best memory is of her hanging out the car window, her old Kodak camera dangling from her wrist as she angled for a shot of Mama Bear as she climbed around the dump looking for food. (I would have done the same)
Suddenly, however, Mama Bear noticed my mother and headed for our car. I sat in the backseat doubled over with laughter as my sister frantically tried to activate the power windows to shut them before Mama Bear got to the car, while capturing my mother right in the window as it closed.
Needless to say, Mom was fine and Mama Bear got scared off when another car pulled into the dump. It was a regular night out at the movies, sans movie screen.
There were visits to the Height of the Land, where the views of Mooselookmeguntic Lake are stunning. And day trips to Eustis Ridge near the Canadian border for lunch and plenty of drooling over virgin forests with towering pines, pristine lakes and plenty of wildlife.
I loved Rangeley so much that I returned there in 1978 to open a bookstore with my former husband. We only stayed just under a year, however. Rangeley in the late 1970s was not the place to establish a year-round business. Wish we had thought of opening a coffee shop in addition to the books – we would have cornered that market for sure.
Years later, newly divorced and living in Portland, I met my future husband – a certified Maine-iac native and my love affair with Maine would continue and flourish through his eyes and memories.
We eventually followed our jobs and moved to Massachusetts and then New Hampshire, where we enjoyed 18 years of living elsewhere in New England. We learned to appreciate life where it is cold more than it's warm throughout the year. We spent many a summer at Hampton or Rye Beach along the NH coast, walking the beach, enjoying the views. Or, we'd head inland for a day spent lazing around on a sandy beach by one of New Hampshire's beautiful glacier lakes.
Often we would enjoy a gorgeous summer day by rising early and driving up to the most beautiful drive in the world – the Kancamagus Highway. The Kancamagus is a 34 mile scenic drive through the White Mountains, where streams, mountains and wildlife abound. You can stop and hangout for the day pretty much anywhere you want, surrounded by the rushing water of a mountain stream, the lulling sound of wind through the towering pine trees and know you've enjoyed nature at its fullest.
As always, the autumn season is one of the best times in New England, where leaf peeping is the past-time for everyone who has breath in their body. The plethora of oranges, reds, and yellow leaves are stunningly beautiful.
After moving to Missouri to take care of my family, we certainly missed New England, most especially – Maine. My husband, humble man that he is – left behind his children, his mother, his brothers and cousins to help me care for my father and sister.
We've had occasional visits back home that left us longing for more of Maine.
One week is just not enough. One week of staying on the ocean, hearing the soothing sounds of the waves crashing on the beach is not enough. One week of watching sailboats, lobstermen and tour boats circle the harbor is not enough. One week of seeing family is not enough. One week of eating your fill of lobster, cod, haddock, clams and scallops is not enough. One week of savoring the pungent smell of the marshes, the coves at low tide, is not enough. One week of hearing the natives (or your own family) say "watah, buttah, and come over heah," is not enough.
One week of hugs from the family is not enough.
This year we made two trips back to Maine and that has made us long for home just a little bit more this time, but left us satisfied and filled with sun-charged, sea-charged and family-charged memories.
Every night we fell asleep to the sound of the waves crashing on the beach, since finding a new spot to stay that was reasonable on their rates, clean and "YES!" faced the ocean.
Every morning we awoke to a gorgeous sunrise, rising to catch the sun as it lit up the sky with dark reds and yellows prior to rising over the horizon – then setting the horizon on fire as it poked it's first sliver of light over the water.
Every day dawned to a perfect temperature – not too cold and not too warm – so that we could sit out on the patio and simply enjoy watching the waves crash upon the beach. That is how one can really be still and listen to God without distractions.
Trees were just beginning to turn, so we sadly missed the full effect of fall foliage – but we have memory banks full of those images from past years.
An afternoon spent on a cruise around Casco Bay (Portland's harbor) fulfilled a bucket list item for me as I shot over 600 photos of the coastline, light houses, birds, forts and islands – finally seeing the city of Portland from the ocean – a stunning view for anyone.
And the food ... Oh the food! When you grew up near the waterfront as my husband did, you feast on fresh seafood all year long, so when you move away from that offering, you really miss it.
We ate our fill from sampling lobster rolls at a number of establishments (Ken's Seafood at Pine Point won hands down), to scallops – fried and broiled with seafood stuffing (Becky's on Commercial Street in Portland – to-die-for broiled scallops, and you MUST have their melt-in-your-mouth Lemon Lush for dessert), to clam chowder (Jay's Oyster Bar on the waterfront), to breakfast at Old Orchard Beach.
Yes, I said breakfast. A few years ago we discovered this little restaurant off the main street in Old Orchard Beach called Beach Bagels. It's tiny, with very limited, tight seating inside, but plenty of canopied tables and chairs outside. The staff is friendly and treats everyone – tourist or native – like they eat there every day.
They offer a huge quantity of flavorful Green Mountain coffees, bagels, pastries and other breakfast items – the egg white breakfast sandwich with cheddar and tomato on whole grain bread is healthy and will stick to your ribs. Everything is served up by one of the twin brothers who do the cooking (and may own the joint for all I know).
Meanwhile, you can hang outside sipping on your coffee, enjoying the fresh ocean breeze, while listening to some of the best tunes around pumped out to the parking lot speakers.
It's a great way to start your day and beats the heck out of Dunkin' Donuts who rolls up their OOB sidewalks in the middle of September, never has enough staff on hand to handle the rush and is not friendly. Though I have to admit, one of our favorite draws to Maine IS being able to enjoy a few cups of iced Dunkin's coffee – elsewhere in Maine.
This year we made friends with the folks who owned our hotel and discovered they also imported olives from Greece, make their own olive oil and sell it at their store (Lakonia's - on Route 1 in Saco). Made fresh with impeccable standards, anyone who loves olives, olive oil and Greek food, will want to visit Lakonia. We know that next year we'll be stocking our room with goodies from the store.
Someday if we win the lottery we will retire to the beach in Maine. One can always pray for that abundance. Meanwhile, we are content to come east a few times a year and enjoy the relaxing life that beach living affords you.
I can't think of a better way to de-stress and start your day than to rise with the sun, throw on some sweats, a pair of old sneakers and hit the beach for a long walk. It's healthy, invigorating and I swear it will add years to your life.
My love affair with Maine is a life-long romance. Maine keeps giving and I keep enjoying. What's heartbreaking is when we leave to come home.
Sadness pervades when we cross the Piscataqua River Bridge back into New Hampshire and head for the airport. We stare at the receding pine trees as the plane rises off the runway, look at each other and say, "next year, a longer visit!"
Yes, my love affair is with God's country – the state of Maine.
My parents first took me there in the early 1970s, where we rented a small cottage on Rangeley Lake in the northwestern part of the state. One look at the pristine lake, the mountains surrounding it, and I was hooked.
My brother lived in Rangeley at the time and so we had a personal connection to Maine. We returned several times over the years until I graduated high school and was out on my own. Nevertheless, the summers we went to Rangeley fill my memory bank with warm, fuzzy family times that are simply unforgettable.
My sister and I went canoeing all over the lake and up many of the streams, panicking once when a moose stomped into a clearing near the small stream we were on. Imagine two city girls trying to turn a canoe around in a shallow, narrow stream instead of just the one in the back reversing her seat and canoeing out the way we came in?
Then there was the time my brother took us out in his small sailboat, entertaining us with his tall tales of the giant frog who inhabited the lake – occasionally shouting at one of us to "DUCK!" when the sail came about. He howled with laughter all the way into town that day.
At night my mother, myself and my sister would climb into the car and drive to the dump on the other side of the lake because we had heard you could see bears up close and personal after midnight when they came with their cubs to feed.
I know I get my penchant for picture taking from my mother since my best memory is of her hanging out the car window, her old Kodak camera dangling from her wrist as she angled for a shot of Mama Bear as she climbed around the dump looking for food. (I would have done the same)
Suddenly, however, Mama Bear noticed my mother and headed for our car. I sat in the backseat doubled over with laughter as my sister frantically tried to activate the power windows to shut them before Mama Bear got to the car, while capturing my mother right in the window as it closed.
Needless to say, Mom was fine and Mama Bear got scared off when another car pulled into the dump. It was a regular night out at the movies, sans movie screen.
There were visits to the Height of the Land, where the views of Mooselookmeguntic Lake are stunning. And day trips to Eustis Ridge near the Canadian border for lunch and plenty of drooling over virgin forests with towering pines, pristine lakes and plenty of wildlife.
I loved Rangeley so much that I returned there in 1978 to open a bookstore with my former husband. We only stayed just under a year, however. Rangeley in the late 1970s was not the place to establish a year-round business. Wish we had thought of opening a coffee shop in addition to the books – we would have cornered that market for sure.
Years later, newly divorced and living in Portland, I met my future husband – a certified Maine-iac native and my love affair with Maine would continue and flourish through his eyes and memories.
 |
| A view of Portland's Munjoy Hill (to the right is the Eastern Promenade) from Casco Bay. My husband was lucky enough to be raised right there on the "Hill." (Photo by Liz Johnson, Jolly Hill) |
Often we would enjoy a gorgeous summer day by rising early and driving up to the most beautiful drive in the world – the Kancamagus Highway. The Kancamagus is a 34 mile scenic drive through the White Mountains, where streams, mountains and wildlife abound. You can stop and hangout for the day pretty much anywhere you want, surrounded by the rushing water of a mountain stream, the lulling sound of wind through the towering pine trees and know you've enjoyed nature at its fullest.
As always, the autumn season is one of the best times in New England, where leaf peeping is the past-time for everyone who has breath in their body. The plethora of oranges, reds, and yellow leaves are stunningly beautiful.
After moving to Missouri to take care of my family, we certainly missed New England, most especially – Maine. My husband, humble man that he is – left behind his children, his mother, his brothers and cousins to help me care for my father and sister.
We've had occasional visits back home that left us longing for more of Maine.
One week is just not enough. One week of staying on the ocean, hearing the soothing sounds of the waves crashing on the beach is not enough. One week of watching sailboats, lobstermen and tour boats circle the harbor is not enough. One week of seeing family is not enough. One week of eating your fill of lobster, cod, haddock, clams and scallops is not enough. One week of savoring the pungent smell of the marshes, the coves at low tide, is not enough. One week of hearing the natives (or your own family) say "watah, buttah, and come over heah," is not enough.
One week of hugs from the family is not enough.
This year we made two trips back to Maine and that has made us long for home just a little bit more this time, but left us satisfied and filled with sun-charged, sea-charged and family-charged memories.
Every night we fell asleep to the sound of the waves crashing on the beach, since finding a new spot to stay that was reasonable on their rates, clean and "YES!" faced the ocean.
Every morning we awoke to a gorgeous sunrise, rising to catch the sun as it lit up the sky with dark reds and yellows prior to rising over the horizon – then setting the horizon on fire as it poked it's first sliver of light over the water.
 |
| The sun peeks over the horizon while the low clouds look to be on fire during a sunrise while we were in Maine this year. (Photo by Liz Johnson, Jolly Hill) |
Trees were just beginning to turn, so we sadly missed the full effect of fall foliage – but we have memory banks full of those images from past years.
An afternoon spent on a cruise around Casco Bay (Portland's harbor) fulfilled a bucket list item for me as I shot over 600 photos of the coastline, light houses, birds, forts and islands – finally seeing the city of Portland from the ocean – a stunning view for anyone.
And the food ... Oh the food! When you grew up near the waterfront as my husband did, you feast on fresh seafood all year long, so when you move away from that offering, you really miss it.
We ate our fill from sampling lobster rolls at a number of establishments (Ken's Seafood at Pine Point won hands down), to scallops – fried and broiled with seafood stuffing (Becky's on Commercial Street in Portland – to-die-for broiled scallops, and you MUST have their melt-in-your-mouth Lemon Lush for dessert), to clam chowder (Jay's Oyster Bar on the waterfront), to breakfast at Old Orchard Beach.
Yes, I said breakfast. A few years ago we discovered this little restaurant off the main street in Old Orchard Beach called Beach Bagels. It's tiny, with very limited, tight seating inside, but plenty of canopied tables and chairs outside. The staff is friendly and treats everyone – tourist or native – like they eat there every day.
They offer a huge quantity of flavorful Green Mountain coffees, bagels, pastries and other breakfast items – the egg white breakfast sandwich with cheddar and tomato on whole grain bread is healthy and will stick to your ribs. Everything is served up by one of the twin brothers who do the cooking (and may own the joint for all I know).
Meanwhile, you can hang outside sipping on your coffee, enjoying the fresh ocean breeze, while listening to some of the best tunes around pumped out to the parking lot speakers.
It's a great way to start your day and beats the heck out of Dunkin' Donuts who rolls up their OOB sidewalks in the middle of September, never has enough staff on hand to handle the rush and is not friendly. Though I have to admit, one of our favorite draws to Maine IS being able to enjoy a few cups of iced Dunkin's coffee – elsewhere in Maine.
This year we made friends with the folks who owned our hotel and discovered they also imported olives from Greece, make their own olive oil and sell it at their store (Lakonia's - on Route 1 in Saco). Made fresh with impeccable standards, anyone who loves olives, olive oil and Greek food, will want to visit Lakonia. We know that next year we'll be stocking our room with goodies from the store.
Someday if we win the lottery we will retire to the beach in Maine. One can always pray for that abundance. Meanwhile, we are content to come east a few times a year and enjoy the relaxing life that beach living affords you.
I can't think of a better way to de-stress and start your day than to rise with the sun, throw on some sweats, a pair of old sneakers and hit the beach for a long walk. It's healthy, invigorating and I swear it will add years to your life.
My love affair with Maine is a life-long romance. Maine keeps giving and I keep enjoying. What's heartbreaking is when we leave to come home.
Sadness pervades when we cross the Piscataqua River Bridge back into New Hampshire and head for the airport. We stare at the receding pine trees as the plane rises off the runway, look at each other and say, "next year, a longer visit!"
Thursday, September 12, 2013
If I had cherished iniquity in my heart, the Lord would not have listened. (Psalm 66:18)
Today is a mad jump from the historical Jesse James articles to quoting scripture. The week calls for it.
Because of what happened on Sept. 11, 2001, this week always affects Americans, as well as others around the world. We feel it in our hearts and souls. The sorrow that day brought to our country and to the loved ones of those who perished in the Twin Towers, the Pentagon and Shanksville, Penn., arises each week of 9/11 and captures every one of us.
TV stations are filled with running footage over and over again, stories about the rescues, the clean-up, the rebuilding abound. This year, we caught a story we hadn't seen before, one on Rick Rescoria, the head of security for Morgan Stanley, the investment company. He was the man who saw 9/11 coming many years before it actually occurred.
How? Because he had served in the military and seen the destruction from the 1993 bombing of the World Trade Center. He spent years training the employees of Morgan Stanley on how to evacuate the building and like the captain of a sinking ship, he went down with the towers when they fell to the ground – trying to help others get out of the building.
That biography touched us as do all the programs we watch every year reminding us never forget the heinous acts of 9/11. The story of Rescoria's heroic efforts (as there were also many more that terrible day) is one that inspires hope in everyone who hears it. For despite the attempts of terrorists to bring down America, they failed. Sure, they killed thousands, devastating many more in the families and loved ones who lost someone in the attacks, but so much good has come out of those heinous acts.
Here, 12 years later people were remembering the hero Rick Rescoria instead of focusing on the terrorists.
This week also brings my birthday several days before 9/11 and my wedding anniversary several days after, certainly joyous occasions, along with some events in my life that were traumatic during this particular week. So, the week is always a reminder to me of the fragility of life – birth and death – and the fragility of our souls.
It is so very easy to be hurt by someone else.
As this very week progressed, it seemed as if the memories in the hearts of the world attracted not the joy for that which we still have and joy in the memories we hold deep, but the injustice and unfairness of day-to-day life – not just 9/11.
People drove a little worse than normal this week. They seemed to be sleeping less, so tiredness and crankiness fills the eyes of so many. Others got sick this week, their immune systems taking on the memories of what this week means to them.
Along with the history of this week comes the current problems with Syria, the healthcare crisis, unemployment, the economy and other pressing national problems. They've affected everyone and each one of us has an opinion and most obviously think their opinion is the right one.
Meanwhile, social media such as Facebook has become fodder for those who want to spew hatred, discontent and malevolence at others – most of whom they do not even know, except through a Facebook page they've somehow both ended up on.
Having been born in one state and enjoyed a number of years visiting that hometown and then spending the bulk of my school and early college years at another town, I joined both Facebook pages for those hometowns.
At first I completely enjoyed the memories ... the stores and malls of 30-40 years ago, fellow high school students my age and older – now grandparents – reflecting on their memories. Indeed it was cathartic in many ways.
One site allowed me to post my blog on it's page when I spent several weeks reflecting on the historical aspects of that area and my memories tied to the town and I made some delightful new friends and had very old questions answered that had always bugged my imagination station.
But then the nightcrawlers came out. Those are the people who live inside the pages of Facebook and only come out to wreak havoc on those innocent people who find joy in life. They are like the dark, laughing figures of bodachs or the mystical boogeyman of our childhoods – come into our adulthood to bully and chastise.
Nightcrawlers are like false prophets – like the enemy God-fearing people know about – and they enjoy attacking. They come onto the pages, infiltrating the threads of posts that began innocently – "Oh, does anyone remember such and such a place," or "I have trouble digesting certain foods, does anyone recommend something to help?" or they just plain take a thread and turn it completely around to a totally different subject in which they can ridicule, harass, and belittle a person for no apparent reason.
There is a reason however, it's because they enjoy it. They feel powerful and get a surge of pridefulness when they succeed in upsetting someone. In one word ... a bully.
This happened to me several weeks ago in which I was attacked by two of the men who had taken a serious post about Syria, who didn't originate the post, and turned it into a place where they could tout their high religious scholarly pursuits.
I don't begrudge anyone being a scholar, especially of the Bible. I've read it several times, but being a biblical scholar is not my gift in this life. It is someone else's gift. Nevertheless, we all have gifts from God. We're not all Mother Teresa. We all have different purposes and all are equally important to one another.
Was I impressed by the alleged scholars? No. Did they intimidate? No. My Lord has placed the armor on me and protects me from such attacks and gives me the simple words in which to do battle. I can spot a false prophet from a mile away.
Did they irritate me? You bet they did. But I was taught to pray for my enemies and thus I did. Therein lies the title to this blog. You cannot hold the unfair acts, the unpleasantness directed at you and turn around and pray for God to answer your prayers. You must pray for your enemy and seek the Lord's word.
With so many attacks on us throughout each day of the year – many more prominent as the years progress and the world becomes a much colder, unhappy place to be – so much anger expressed – we must focus on those who are lost. The sheep are lost and wandering and we must pray for them. Seek them out and pray for them.
This year has been particularly difficult for me with the death of my beloved sister, having to quit a job I loved because of an abusive boss, the death of an old friend whom I had been praying for a long time would heal, some health issues, and a car accident that injured me physically. With all of this has been personal attacks by two family members whom I have loved for a long time.
But my shield is strong and I have had to learn not to "cherish the iniquity in my heart," or the Lord will not listen to my prayers. "Create in me a clean heart O Lord." (Psalm 51:10)
It's not just me. Look around you. There are hundreds, if not thousands suffering the same. I'm not the only one who lost a loved one this year, who quit or lost a great job, who is being attacked in social media or personally by someone enjoying the act of being a bully. Nor, as I laughingly tease myself, am I the only one ever in a car accident – even though I felt quite sorry for myself for the first couple of weeks.
The old saying, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me," is not true. It's an old wives tale. Words do hurt. They pulverize and beat you down.
The anonymity of social media, text messages and e-mail makes it seem safe for people to bully you, but no matter how safe one feels delivering the seemingly invisible blows to someone else, they will someday face a stronger judgment than they could ever imagine.
God knows our hearts. No matter what we say with our lips, He knows our hearts and therein lies the truth.
"But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you." (Matthew 5:44)
They are the sheep who have run astray.
Because of what happened on Sept. 11, 2001, this week always affects Americans, as well as others around the world. We feel it in our hearts and souls. The sorrow that day brought to our country and to the loved ones of those who perished in the Twin Towers, the Pentagon and Shanksville, Penn., arises each week of 9/11 and captures every one of us.
TV stations are filled with running footage over and over again, stories about the rescues, the clean-up, the rebuilding abound. This year, we caught a story we hadn't seen before, one on Rick Rescoria, the head of security for Morgan Stanley, the investment company. He was the man who saw 9/11 coming many years before it actually occurred.
How? Because he had served in the military and seen the destruction from the 1993 bombing of the World Trade Center. He spent years training the employees of Morgan Stanley on how to evacuate the building and like the captain of a sinking ship, he went down with the towers when they fell to the ground – trying to help others get out of the building.
That biography touched us as do all the programs we watch every year reminding us never forget the heinous acts of 9/11. The story of Rescoria's heroic efforts (as there were also many more that terrible day) is one that inspires hope in everyone who hears it. For despite the attempts of terrorists to bring down America, they failed. Sure, they killed thousands, devastating many more in the families and loved ones who lost someone in the attacks, but so much good has come out of those heinous acts.
Here, 12 years later people were remembering the hero Rick Rescoria instead of focusing on the terrorists.
This week also brings my birthday several days before 9/11 and my wedding anniversary several days after, certainly joyous occasions, along with some events in my life that were traumatic during this particular week. So, the week is always a reminder to me of the fragility of life – birth and death – and the fragility of our souls.
It is so very easy to be hurt by someone else.
As this very week progressed, it seemed as if the memories in the hearts of the world attracted not the joy for that which we still have and joy in the memories we hold deep, but the injustice and unfairness of day-to-day life – not just 9/11.
People drove a little worse than normal this week. They seemed to be sleeping less, so tiredness and crankiness fills the eyes of so many. Others got sick this week, their immune systems taking on the memories of what this week means to them.
Along with the history of this week comes the current problems with Syria, the healthcare crisis, unemployment, the economy and other pressing national problems. They've affected everyone and each one of us has an opinion and most obviously think their opinion is the right one.
Meanwhile, social media such as Facebook has become fodder for those who want to spew hatred, discontent and malevolence at others – most of whom they do not even know, except through a Facebook page they've somehow both ended up on.
Having been born in one state and enjoyed a number of years visiting that hometown and then spending the bulk of my school and early college years at another town, I joined both Facebook pages for those hometowns.
At first I completely enjoyed the memories ... the stores and malls of 30-40 years ago, fellow high school students my age and older – now grandparents – reflecting on their memories. Indeed it was cathartic in many ways.
One site allowed me to post my blog on it's page when I spent several weeks reflecting on the historical aspects of that area and my memories tied to the town and I made some delightful new friends and had very old questions answered that had always bugged my imagination station.
But then the nightcrawlers came out. Those are the people who live inside the pages of Facebook and only come out to wreak havoc on those innocent people who find joy in life. They are like the dark, laughing figures of bodachs or the mystical boogeyman of our childhoods – come into our adulthood to bully and chastise.
Nightcrawlers are like false prophets – like the enemy God-fearing people know about – and they enjoy attacking. They come onto the pages, infiltrating the threads of posts that began innocently – "Oh, does anyone remember such and such a place," or "I have trouble digesting certain foods, does anyone recommend something to help?" or they just plain take a thread and turn it completely around to a totally different subject in which they can ridicule, harass, and belittle a person for no apparent reason.
There is a reason however, it's because they enjoy it. They feel powerful and get a surge of pridefulness when they succeed in upsetting someone. In one word ... a bully.
This happened to me several weeks ago in which I was attacked by two of the men who had taken a serious post about Syria, who didn't originate the post, and turned it into a place where they could tout their high religious scholarly pursuits.
I don't begrudge anyone being a scholar, especially of the Bible. I've read it several times, but being a biblical scholar is not my gift in this life. It is someone else's gift. Nevertheless, we all have gifts from God. We're not all Mother Teresa. We all have different purposes and all are equally important to one another.
Was I impressed by the alleged scholars? No. Did they intimidate? No. My Lord has placed the armor on me and protects me from such attacks and gives me the simple words in which to do battle. I can spot a false prophet from a mile away.
Did they irritate me? You bet they did. But I was taught to pray for my enemies and thus I did. Therein lies the title to this blog. You cannot hold the unfair acts, the unpleasantness directed at you and turn around and pray for God to answer your prayers. You must pray for your enemy and seek the Lord's word.
With so many attacks on us throughout each day of the year – many more prominent as the years progress and the world becomes a much colder, unhappy place to be – so much anger expressed – we must focus on those who are lost. The sheep are lost and wandering and we must pray for them. Seek them out and pray for them.
This year has been particularly difficult for me with the death of my beloved sister, having to quit a job I loved because of an abusive boss, the death of an old friend whom I had been praying for a long time would heal, some health issues, and a car accident that injured me physically. With all of this has been personal attacks by two family members whom I have loved for a long time.
But my shield is strong and I have had to learn not to "cherish the iniquity in my heart," or the Lord will not listen to my prayers. "Create in me a clean heart O Lord." (Psalm 51:10)
It's not just me. Look around you. There are hundreds, if not thousands suffering the same. I'm not the only one who lost a loved one this year, who quit or lost a great job, who is being attacked in social media or personally by someone enjoying the act of being a bully. Nor, as I laughingly tease myself, am I the only one ever in a car accident – even though I felt quite sorry for myself for the first couple of weeks.
The old saying, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me," is not true. It's an old wives tale. Words do hurt. They pulverize and beat you down.
The anonymity of social media, text messages and e-mail makes it seem safe for people to bully you, but no matter how safe one feels delivering the seemingly invisible blows to someone else, they will someday face a stronger judgment than they could ever imagine.
God knows our hearts. No matter what we say with our lips, He knows our hearts and therein lies the truth.
"But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you." (Matthew 5:44)
They are the sheep who have run astray.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Never content to stay buried, Jesse's first exhumation is 20 years after his death
Note: My last post was on the anniversary of the Northfield, Minnesota raid and left off as everything began to go awry after the gang got to their pre-arranged stations to begin the robbery. Instead of completing the Northfield raid here, readers can go back to the Aug. 28 blog and read what happens, how the boys escape, those who were captured and those who died.
After Bob Ford shot Jesse, all "hell" seemed to break loose. Jesse's wife was hysterical. There was Zerelda – the mother – to be notified, the authorities came and got Jesse's body, crowds gathered, pictures of his body were taken, an autopsy was performed, there was an inquest and Bob and Charlie Ford were arrested and charged with Jesse's murder. Finally, Jesse's body was released and his coffin was placed on a train that took him back to Kearney, amidst crowds of hundreds, where he was buried in the yard of the old farmhouse where he was born.
For 20 years, Zerelda slept with her bed positioned catty-corner so she could see Jesse's grave out the window – a pistol under her pillow. Her goal was to protect her beloved son's grave from the varmints that might have it in mind to rob the outlaw's final resting place.
But by 1902, Zerelda's health wasn't so good and she was no longer living at the farm where she could watch over his grave.
Another change had occurred as well. On November 13, 1900, Zee – Jesse's wife – had died at the age of 55 in Kansas City, where she had lived ever since Jesse had died. Zee had been sick with the grip, essentially the common term at the time for influenza. The St. Louis Republic Nov. 14, 1900 edition had as it's front page headline: "Jesse James's Widow is Dead: Her Passing Recalls the Many Hardships Which She Endured As A Bandit's Wife."
Some say Zee died of a broken heart. She never recovered from Jesse's death and lived in poverty the rest of her life, eking out a living as a seamstress. She was described as a good Christian woman who wore her widow's clothing and veil for the rest of her life. She was quiet and set a good example for her children, according to the article.
With Zee's passing and Zerelda moving away from the farm, it was time to exhume Jesse's body and move it to be buried next to his wife in Mt. Olivet Cemetery in Kearney.
On June 23, 1902, Jesse James, Jr., wrote to Warren Welch, one of the James brother's guerrilla comrades from Quantrill's Raiders, requesting his presence at the exhumation and reburial of Jesse, set for Sunday, June 29.
According to a Sept. 8, 1978 Kansas City Star article, "Frank and his mother were living at a hotel in Kearney and Zerelda gave orders that the body of Jesse was to be removed and taken to Mt. Olivet. The farm was being rented out."
(Note: It has been argued that Zerelda did not know Jesse was to be exhumed until it had been done, or that she was not told of the day and time – an effort made most likely to keep her from attending the gruesome exhumation)
Robertus Love, a reporter for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, was present for the reburial and reported on the events of that day.
"The date was Sunday, June 29, 1902. It was a rainy morning and many believed the reburial would be postponed. Jesse James Jr., had come to Kearney from Kansas City the previous night and found his uncle, Frank James, sick in bed, suffering from an attack of the grip.
"On Sunday morning, Jesse Jr. went to the home of John T. Samuel, half-brother to Jesse and Frank, who also lived in town. These two, along with Zach Laffoon, the grave digger, and his nephew and assistant, Zip Pollock, drove through the rain out to the Samuel farm. They also carried a new black coffin with a silver nameplate in the wagon. They reached the farmhouse shortly after 5 a.m., and set to work in the heavy rain to open the grave while James and Samuel stood nearby. The earth turned to mud fairly quickly."
I can only imagine the thought running through the mind of Jesse Junior as he watched Laffoon and Pollock dig his father up. He had been a mere lad the day his father was killed and seen his father lying in a pool of blood on the parlor floor, Bob Ford standing there with a smoking pistol in his hand.
It took almost four hours to reach Jesse's coffin and as the two men tried to pull the coffin out of the mud-laden ground, it gave way – the top and the sides of the casket breaking away with the bottom falling back into the grave. Jesse's skeleton, still in its clothing, was lying exposed to the pouring rain.
"The men stepped down into the grave and lifted the bottom up with the body on it to the top. The foot came up first and unfortunately, the skull rolled back into the grave." (St. Louis Post-Dispatch, 1902)
"Laffoon picked it up (the skull) and replaced it. As the coffin bottom was being turned around above ground, once again the skull rolled off and dropped down to the bottom of the grave. This time Pollock jumped down and retrieved it." (St. Louis Post-Dispatch, 1902)
The idea of the gregarious, aggressive, charming, once so full-of-life Jesse James' skull rolling around in the mud is appalling and had to be difficult for his son and half-brother to watch.
Once Pollock got his hands firmly on Jesse's skull, he handed it over to J.T. Samuel who examined it. The St. Louis reporter asked him what he was looking for, to which he replied, "Bob Ford's bullet hole."
J.T. found it – a little more than an inch behind the left ear, as large as a quarter. A small piece of the skull above it had broken in, leaving the hole not quite completely spherical-shaped.
Jesse Junior also examined the skull looking for his father's tell-tale gold-filled teeth. They were there, reaffirming to him that this was, indeed, his father.
Laffoon and Pollock lifted up the coffin bottom and scraped the skeleton into the new casket. Jesse's hands were folded over his chest and the coffin closed. The men carried the coffin into the parlor of the farmhouse where once Jesse lived and played. It would sit there until later that day when the group of pallbearers, Frank and Zerelda came to escort Jesse to his final resting place – next to his beloved wife, Zee.
(Note: the above description of Jesse's hands being folded back over his chest was per the reporter on the scene. It was reported during the 1995 exhumation that Jesse's body was face down, thus no hands were folded neatly over his chest. There was much speculation during that exhumation about why he was face down, but I have long since determined to my own satisfaction that Laffoon and Pollock were exhuming Jesse in the pouring rain, had the coffin break apart on them, had difficulty getting the skeleton out of the grave and into the new coffin – and as described by the reporter – they scraped the skeleton into the new coffin ... which may very well have landed face down ... coffin shut – end of story)
Zerelda had not been told that Jesse was being disinterred until Jesse Junior and J.T. returned to the Burlington Hotel where she and Frank were staying. There is no telling how Zee felt about her boy being exhumed. It had to be difficult for her, yet she must have resigned herself that he was being moved to a safer place, where hopefully, his body would never be disturbed again.
Little did she know.
Frank was still in bed at the hotel, but sitting up and receiving seven of Quantrill's former guerrillas, six of whom were to be the pallbearers: Hi George, Bill Gregg, Frank Gregg, Warren Welch, Sam Whitsett and B.F. Morrow.
Frank was advised not to get out of bed, especially with the rain pouring down, but he had missed his brother's first funeral and wasn't about to miss this one.
The group had a meal in the dining room of the hotel around 11:30 a.m., and then headed out to the farm. By then the rain had slowed to a drizzle.
Slowly, the wagons took the rutted, dirt road to the old James Farm, crossing Muddy Creek, where Jesse had been baptized in 1868.
By the time they arrived at the farm, the rain had stopped, the sun popping out just as the men carried the coffin out of the old farmhouse.
They loaded the coffin into the wagon and stood back, waiting while Jesse's mother, proud, old and bent – but a mother first and foremost – walked to the edge of the old grave and stared into the hole where her son had lain for 20 years under her watchful eye.
She did not view her son's skeleton.
Hundreds came to Mt. Olivet to watch the caravan of family and old friends bury their son, brother, father, comrade. I can imagine some in the crowd might have whispered about the outlaw, but most were respectful. Jesse was, after all, one of their own.
The cemetery was the original location of the old Baptist Church that Jesse had joined in 1868 in an attempt to redeem his troubled conscience.
"No sound could be heard except that of Mrs. Samuel ... crying during the 20 minutes it took to carry the coffin from the hearse and lower it to the ground. A preacher stood by, but there was no religious ceremony." (St. Louis Post-Dispatch, 1902)
It couldn't have been easy for Zerelda, who had suffered through the loss of her first husband, an abusive second husband, the hanging and torture of her third husband, the death of her little Archie and loss of her right hand from the ill-fated Pinkerton's raid in 1875, the death of her daughter, Mary in 1889, and of course, death of her beloved Jesse in 1882. Now, here she was watching him be buried all over again.
"Frank James stood bareheaded at the head of the grave beside his mother, and Jesse Junior, turning away as the last the last shovelful of dirt was thrown on the grave." (St. Louis Post-Dispatch, 1902)
I'm sure Frank had a million thoughts running through his head. At the time Jesse was killed, he was living in Baltimore, Md., and was trying to figure out how to return to Missouri and surrender without being lynched himself. He had not been able to say a proper goodbye to Jesse that first time.
What were his thoughts? A moment of the brothers sitting on the porch after a family dinner with their wives, boots propped up on the porch rail – the two brothers laughing at some private joke as siblings often do? Or the desperate flight from Northfield, Minnesota those crazy weeks in September 1876 – just the two of them, each looking out for the other.
We'll never know what went through the quiet, introspective head of Frank James that day.
Yet, as his stood at the head of his brother's grave, his mother rigid by his side, watching the men shovel the last of the dirt onto the new coffin, he turned away and said, "Well boys, that's all we can do."
This would not be the last of Jesse's exhumations. And, despite the positive identification by his wife, son, mother and law enforcement at the time of his death; as well as the positive identification by Jesse Junior and J.T. Samuel in 1902, stories would abound for decades – rife with innuendo and claims that Jesse James did not die in St. Joseph on April 3, 1882 – but that he faked his death, moved away and started a new family – living out his life.
Nevertheless, DNA testing over 90 years after the first exhumation, would prove beyond a doubt that Jesse James was indeed the man who died in 1882.
After Bob Ford shot Jesse, all "hell" seemed to break loose. Jesse's wife was hysterical. There was Zerelda – the mother – to be notified, the authorities came and got Jesse's body, crowds gathered, pictures of his body were taken, an autopsy was performed, there was an inquest and Bob and Charlie Ford were arrested and charged with Jesse's murder. Finally, Jesse's body was released and his coffin was placed on a train that took him back to Kearney, amidst crowds of hundreds, where he was buried in the yard of the old farmhouse where he was born.
For 20 years, Zerelda slept with her bed positioned catty-corner so she could see Jesse's grave out the window – a pistol under her pillow. Her goal was to protect her beloved son's grave from the varmints that might have it in mind to rob the outlaw's final resting place.
But by 1902, Zerelda's health wasn't so good and she was no longer living at the farm where she could watch over his grave.
Another change had occurred as well. On November 13, 1900, Zee – Jesse's wife – had died at the age of 55 in Kansas City, where she had lived ever since Jesse had died. Zee had been sick with the grip, essentially the common term at the time for influenza. The St. Louis Republic Nov. 14, 1900 edition had as it's front page headline: "Jesse James's Widow is Dead: Her Passing Recalls the Many Hardships Which She Endured As A Bandit's Wife."
Some say Zee died of a broken heart. She never recovered from Jesse's death and lived in poverty the rest of her life, eking out a living as a seamstress. She was described as a good Christian woman who wore her widow's clothing and veil for the rest of her life. She was quiet and set a good example for her children, according to the article.
With Zee's passing and Zerelda moving away from the farm, it was time to exhume Jesse's body and move it to be buried next to his wife in Mt. Olivet Cemetery in Kearney.
On June 23, 1902, Jesse James, Jr., wrote to Warren Welch, one of the James brother's guerrilla comrades from Quantrill's Raiders, requesting his presence at the exhumation and reburial of Jesse, set for Sunday, June 29.
 |
| A copy of the letter to former bushwhacker Warren Welch from Jesse Junior, requesting Welch attend the exhumation and reburial of Jesse James. (Photo courtesy of the Jesse James Farm & Museum) |
(Note: It has been argued that Zerelda did not know Jesse was to be exhumed until it had been done, or that she was not told of the day and time – an effort made most likely to keep her from attending the gruesome exhumation)
Robertus Love, a reporter for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, was present for the reburial and reported on the events of that day.
"The date was Sunday, June 29, 1902. It was a rainy morning and many believed the reburial would be postponed. Jesse James Jr., had come to Kearney from Kansas City the previous night and found his uncle, Frank James, sick in bed, suffering from an attack of the grip.
"On Sunday morning, Jesse Jr. went to the home of John T. Samuel, half-brother to Jesse and Frank, who also lived in town. These two, along with Zach Laffoon, the grave digger, and his nephew and assistant, Zip Pollock, drove through the rain out to the Samuel farm. They also carried a new black coffin with a silver nameplate in the wagon. They reached the farmhouse shortly after 5 a.m., and set to work in the heavy rain to open the grave while James and Samuel stood nearby. The earth turned to mud fairly quickly."
I can only imagine the thought running through the mind of Jesse Junior as he watched Laffoon and Pollock dig his father up. He had been a mere lad the day his father was killed and seen his father lying in a pool of blood on the parlor floor, Bob Ford standing there with a smoking pistol in his hand.
It took almost four hours to reach Jesse's coffin and as the two men tried to pull the coffin out of the mud-laden ground, it gave way – the top and the sides of the casket breaking away with the bottom falling back into the grave. Jesse's skeleton, still in its clothing, was lying exposed to the pouring rain.
"The men stepped down into the grave and lifted the bottom up with the body on it to the top. The foot came up first and unfortunately, the skull rolled back into the grave." (St. Louis Post-Dispatch, 1902)
"Laffoon picked it up (the skull) and replaced it. As the coffin bottom was being turned around above ground, once again the skull rolled off and dropped down to the bottom of the grave. This time Pollock jumped down and retrieved it." (St. Louis Post-Dispatch, 1902)
The idea of the gregarious, aggressive, charming, once so full-of-life Jesse James' skull rolling around in the mud is appalling and had to be difficult for his son and half-brother to watch.
Once Pollock got his hands firmly on Jesse's skull, he handed it over to J.T. Samuel who examined it. The St. Louis reporter asked him what he was looking for, to which he replied, "Bob Ford's bullet hole."
J.T. found it – a little more than an inch behind the left ear, as large as a quarter. A small piece of the skull above it had broken in, leaving the hole not quite completely spherical-shaped.
Jesse Junior also examined the skull looking for his father's tell-tale gold-filled teeth. They were there, reaffirming to him that this was, indeed, his father.
Laffoon and Pollock lifted up the coffin bottom and scraped the skeleton into the new casket. Jesse's hands were folded over his chest and the coffin closed. The men carried the coffin into the parlor of the farmhouse where once Jesse lived and played. It would sit there until later that day when the group of pallbearers, Frank and Zerelda came to escort Jesse to his final resting place – next to his beloved wife, Zee.
(Note: the above description of Jesse's hands being folded back over his chest was per the reporter on the scene. It was reported during the 1995 exhumation that Jesse's body was face down, thus no hands were folded neatly over his chest. There was much speculation during that exhumation about why he was face down, but I have long since determined to my own satisfaction that Laffoon and Pollock were exhuming Jesse in the pouring rain, had the coffin break apart on them, had difficulty getting the skeleton out of the grave and into the new coffin – and as described by the reporter – they scraped the skeleton into the new coffin ... which may very well have landed face down ... coffin shut – end of story)
Zerelda had not been told that Jesse was being disinterred until Jesse Junior and J.T. returned to the Burlington Hotel where she and Frank were staying. There is no telling how Zee felt about her boy being exhumed. It had to be difficult for her, yet she must have resigned herself that he was being moved to a safer place, where hopefully, his body would never be disturbed again.
Little did she know.
Frank was still in bed at the hotel, but sitting up and receiving seven of Quantrill's former guerrillas, six of whom were to be the pallbearers: Hi George, Bill Gregg, Frank Gregg, Warren Welch, Sam Whitsett and B.F. Morrow.
Frank was advised not to get out of bed, especially with the rain pouring down, but he had missed his brother's first funeral and wasn't about to miss this one.
The group had a meal in the dining room of the hotel around 11:30 a.m., and then headed out to the farm. By then the rain had slowed to a drizzle.
Slowly, the wagons took the rutted, dirt road to the old James Farm, crossing Muddy Creek, where Jesse had been baptized in 1868.
By the time they arrived at the farm, the rain had stopped, the sun popping out just as the men carried the coffin out of the old farmhouse.
They loaded the coffin into the wagon and stood back, waiting while Jesse's mother, proud, old and bent – but a mother first and foremost – walked to the edge of the old grave and stared into the hole where her son had lain for 20 years under her watchful eye.
She did not view her son's skeleton.
Hundreds came to Mt. Olivet to watch the caravan of family and old friends bury their son, brother, father, comrade. I can imagine some in the crowd might have whispered about the outlaw, but most were respectful. Jesse was, after all, one of their own.
The cemetery was the original location of the old Baptist Church that Jesse had joined in 1868 in an attempt to redeem his troubled conscience.
"No sound could be heard except that of Mrs. Samuel ... crying during the 20 minutes it took to carry the coffin from the hearse and lower it to the ground. A preacher stood by, but there was no religious ceremony." (St. Louis Post-Dispatch, 1902)
It couldn't have been easy for Zerelda, who had suffered through the loss of her first husband, an abusive second husband, the hanging and torture of her third husband, the death of her little Archie and loss of her right hand from the ill-fated Pinkerton's raid in 1875, the death of her daughter, Mary in 1889, and of course, death of her beloved Jesse in 1882. Now, here she was watching him be buried all over again.
"Frank James stood bareheaded at the head of the grave beside his mother, and Jesse Junior, turning away as the last the last shovelful of dirt was thrown on the grave." (St. Louis Post-Dispatch, 1902)
I'm sure Frank had a million thoughts running through his head. At the time Jesse was killed, he was living in Baltimore, Md., and was trying to figure out how to return to Missouri and surrender without being lynched himself. He had not been able to say a proper goodbye to Jesse that first time.
What were his thoughts? A moment of the brothers sitting on the porch after a family dinner with their wives, boots propped up on the porch rail – the two brothers laughing at some private joke as siblings often do? Or the desperate flight from Northfield, Minnesota those crazy weeks in September 1876 – just the two of them, each looking out for the other.
 |
| A group of us historians visited Jesse's grave on the 130th anniversary of his death in 2012. From left: Me - Liz Johnson; James historian and author Michelle Pollard (from England); Verla Dickey; James family historian Liz Murphy; Linda Emley – Ray County Museum; and Pat Gradwohl – Clay County Historical Society. (Photo by James historian Linda Brookshier) |
Yet, as his stood at the head of his brother's grave, his mother rigid by his side, watching the men shovel the last of the dirt onto the new coffin, he turned away and said, "Well boys, that's all we can do."
This would not be the last of Jesse's exhumations. And, despite the positive identification by his wife, son, mother and law enforcement at the time of his death; as well as the positive identification by Jesse Junior and J.T. Samuel in 1902, stories would abound for decades – rife with innuendo and claims that Jesse James did not die in St. Joseph on April 3, 1882 – but that he faked his death, moved away and started a new family – living out his life.
Nevertheless, DNA testing over 90 years after the first exhumation, would prove beyond a doubt that Jesse James was indeed the man who died in 1882.
Saturday, September 7, 2013
137 years ago, The Great Northfield Raid went down – only those slippery James boys would escape
Hunkered down in a hotel room at the Nicollet Hotel in Minneapolis, Minn., on Aug. 24, 1876, Jesse James was going over the final plans for a raid on the Northfield, Minn. bank with Frank and the Younger brothers, Cole, Jim and Bob.
No doubt the room was dimly lit, their voices lowered so as not to be overheard. Other members of the gang were spending time at a brothel, while their fate was being sealed with what would turn out to be a death blow.
This was some serious business, just as all of their robberies were – the targets never chosen at random, but with specific reason in mind. Perhaps it was who owned the railroad, who was riding on it, what was being carried, who was working at a specific bank, who owned it, who had money in it.
Every robbery conducted by the James gang had a purpose – usually politically and revenge motivated. And Northfield, Minnesota was no different.
It seemed that the former governor of Mississippi, Adelbert Ames (also a former general, and senator) had a significant amount of money deposited in the Northfield bank and the James boys had a vendetta against the man. This was learned from Bob Younger a month after the botched robbery, and was echoed three additional times by his brother, Cole, in separate statements.
In addition, they had learned that General Benjamin Butler of Massachusetts, had also placed around $75,000 in the bank – a most significant haul for the outlaws. In fact, in comparison to today's dollars, that's about equal to nearly $1.6 million dollars. Interestingly, Butler happened to be Ames' father-in-law.
Butler had been a Union general and was most remembered as the commander of the captured Confederate city of New Orleans. Known as the beast for a number of "orders" he drew up while commanding New Orleans, Butler was most famous for his treatment toward the women of the city, the pilfering of silver from residents and demanding that all foreigners sign an oath to the allegiance of the United States. Disgusted with the man, Lincoln had him quickly replaced.
The finger was always pointed at Jesse as the political figure in the James gang. He seemed to crave the spotlight and was furious at the radicals, was obsessed with the political situations of the day and had an insatiable thirst to be looked at as a hero throughout the south.
Ames was no slouch in sleazy politics. After being elected governor of Mississippi, he managed to put every person he wanted into office all over the state, certifying his agendas would be carried out. The St. Louis Republican cited episodes of white-supremacist violence and Ames was called a tyrant ... "the Ames dynasty has been literally a stench in the national nostrils."
Ames believed he was out of the spotlight in Northfield, after moving there a few months earlier – in May 1876, but his past would catch up with him through articles in papers such as the New York Times and other newspapers throughout the south.
Coupled with maps and information provided by one of the gang, Bill Chadwell, a native of Minnesota, the James and Younger brothers finalized their plans, deciding to split into two groups – to approach Northfield with one group coming into town from the west and the other from the east. They hoped to reconnoiter an escape route as well.
Eight men traveling together would certainly raise suspicion. Already, the group had raised eyebrows within the hotel. Their hands were too soft for men who were passing themselves off as grangers. They spoke like country bumpkins and were rude inside the dining room of the hotel – clearly not the gentlemen they were trying to pass themselves off as.
Indeed, the men had already split up to some degree, with Charlie Pitts and Clell Miller at another hotel in an attempt to draw attention away from themselves.
For the next two weeks, the two groups scouted the area in and around Northfield – managing to attract attention nevertheless. They were noticed as muscular men, with "pants tucked into their boots, long spurs and a peculiar swagger," noted the Northfield News after the botched raid.
The men failed to disguise their notable southern accents and tried to pass themselves off as cattle buyers, dressed in long dusters, their pistols tucked into their coats. They appeared "jovial and pleasant" to those with whom they came in contact.
Finally, the morning of Sept. 7, 1876 arrived (137 years ago today), and the men reconnected just south of Northfield.
At 10 a.m., four of the eight men rode through town and drew attention to themselves. Their penchant for fine clothing and horseflesh was out of place in the small Minnesota town full of Scandinavians. Plus, there was that undeniable swagger, insouciance, and self-assurance the men wore on their countenance like a medal – it shone like a star and caused a few people to sit up and pay attention.
That attention would be the beginning of the end for the outlaws.
A couple of men went into the bank and made a brief inquiry – scouting the interior for the robbery. A few went into a hardware store to look into purchasing rifles, only to find there were shotguns. Now they knew what kind of firepower the town had and how the bank was set up.
The men split again, five of them eating lunch at J.G. Jeft's restaurant on the west side of the Cannon River while the other three ate elsewhere.
After lunch, all eight man gathered several miles outside of Northfield to compare notes and finalize their plans. It was agreed with a majority vote that they would rob the bank.
Three men (including Frank James. Bob Younger and Charlie Pitts) would ride ahead into town and enter the bank once Clell Miller and Cole Younger had crossed the bridge leading into the square. About one-quarter mile behind Miller and Younger, would be the other three men, which included brother Jim Younger, Jesse James and Bill Chadwell – they were to stand guard near the bridge.
With Miller having dismounted and standing outside the bank's doors, Frank, Bob Younger and Charlie Pitts entered the bank. Cole Younger also dismounted and pretended to adjust the girth on his saddle, but the next incident would send the entire plan to unraveling bringing death, destruction and mayhem.
A man, J.S. Allen attempted to enter the bank to conduct some business and was ordered to stay out at gunpoint by Miller. Allen broke free of Miller and ran around the corner yelling, "Get your guns boys. They're robbing the bank!"
What happened next must have unwound in what may have seemed to be slow motion. Men would die, some would be wounded and others would run for their lives. Innocent lives would be changed forever, but those slippery James boys would manipulate the greatest escape of their lives.
No doubt the room was dimly lit, their voices lowered so as not to be overheard. Other members of the gang were spending time at a brothel, while their fate was being sealed with what would turn out to be a death blow.
This was some serious business, just as all of their robberies were – the targets never chosen at random, but with specific reason in mind. Perhaps it was who owned the railroad, who was riding on it, what was being carried, who was working at a specific bank, who owned it, who had money in it.
Every robbery conducted by the James gang had a purpose – usually politically and revenge motivated. And Northfield, Minnesota was no different.
It seemed that the former governor of Mississippi, Adelbert Ames (also a former general, and senator) had a significant amount of money deposited in the Northfield bank and the James boys had a vendetta against the man. This was learned from Bob Younger a month after the botched robbery, and was echoed three additional times by his brother, Cole, in separate statements.
In addition, they had learned that General Benjamin Butler of Massachusetts, had also placed around $75,000 in the bank – a most significant haul for the outlaws. In fact, in comparison to today's dollars, that's about equal to nearly $1.6 million dollars. Interestingly, Butler happened to be Ames' father-in-law.
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| Gernal Benjamin Butler's ties to Northfield, Minnesota was to his son-in-law, Adelbert Ames, also a target of the James Gang. Both men had significant amount of cash in the Northfield bank. |
The finger was always pointed at Jesse as the political figure in the James gang. He seemed to crave the spotlight and was furious at the radicals, was obsessed with the political situations of the day and had an insatiable thirst to be looked at as a hero throughout the south.
Ames was no slouch in sleazy politics. After being elected governor of Mississippi, he managed to put every person he wanted into office all over the state, certifying his agendas would be carried out. The St. Louis Republican cited episodes of white-supremacist violence and Ames was called a tyrant ... "the Ames dynasty has been literally a stench in the national nostrils."
Ames believed he was out of the spotlight in Northfield, after moving there a few months earlier – in May 1876, but his past would catch up with him through articles in papers such as the New York Times and other newspapers throughout the south.
Coupled with maps and information provided by one of the gang, Bill Chadwell, a native of Minnesota, the James and Younger brothers finalized their plans, deciding to split into two groups – to approach Northfield with one group coming into town from the west and the other from the east. They hoped to reconnoiter an escape route as well.
Eight men traveling together would certainly raise suspicion. Already, the group had raised eyebrows within the hotel. Their hands were too soft for men who were passing themselves off as grangers. They spoke like country bumpkins and were rude inside the dining room of the hotel – clearly not the gentlemen they were trying to pass themselves off as.
Indeed, the men had already split up to some degree, with Charlie Pitts and Clell Miller at another hotel in an attempt to draw attention away from themselves.
For the next two weeks, the two groups scouted the area in and around Northfield – managing to attract attention nevertheless. They were noticed as muscular men, with "pants tucked into their boots, long spurs and a peculiar swagger," noted the Northfield News after the botched raid.
The men failed to disguise their notable southern accents and tried to pass themselves off as cattle buyers, dressed in long dusters, their pistols tucked into their coats. They appeared "jovial and pleasant" to those with whom they came in contact.
Finally, the morning of Sept. 7, 1876 arrived (137 years ago today), and the men reconnected just south of Northfield.
At 10 a.m., four of the eight men rode through town and drew attention to themselves. Their penchant for fine clothing and horseflesh was out of place in the small Minnesota town full of Scandinavians. Plus, there was that undeniable swagger, insouciance, and self-assurance the men wore on their countenance like a medal – it shone like a star and caused a few people to sit up and pay attention.
That attention would be the beginning of the end for the outlaws.
A couple of men went into the bank and made a brief inquiry – scouting the interior for the robbery. A few went into a hardware store to look into purchasing rifles, only to find there were shotguns. Now they knew what kind of firepower the town had and how the bank was set up.
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| The front of the Northfield Bank today. Photo by Michelle Pollard, James family historian. |
After lunch, all eight man gathered several miles outside of Northfield to compare notes and finalize their plans. It was agreed with a majority vote that they would rob the bank.
Three men (including Frank James. Bob Younger and Charlie Pitts) would ride ahead into town and enter the bank once Clell Miller and Cole Younger had crossed the bridge leading into the square. About one-quarter mile behind Miller and Younger, would be the other three men, which included brother Jim Younger, Jesse James and Bill Chadwell – they were to stand guard near the bridge.
With Miller having dismounted and standing outside the bank's doors, Frank, Bob Younger and Charlie Pitts entered the bank. Cole Younger also dismounted and pretended to adjust the girth on his saddle, but the next incident would send the entire plan to unraveling bringing death, destruction and mayhem.
A man, J.S. Allen attempted to enter the bank to conduct some business and was ordered to stay out at gunpoint by Miller. Allen broke free of Miller and ran around the corner yelling, "Get your guns boys. They're robbing the bank!"
What happened next must have unwound in what may have seemed to be slow motion. Men would die, some would be wounded and others would run for their lives. Innocent lives would be changed forever, but those slippery James boys would manipulate the greatest escape of their lives.
Friday, September 6, 2013
In an instant, the fearless, feared Jesse James was gone ... but not forgotten
Robert Newton Ford was obsessed with Jesse James. Ford grew up during the time of the James Gang's activities. Born during the early years of the Civil War, Ford began his early years living – in of all places – George Washington's Mt. Vernon, where his father rented rooms and acreage.
By 1869, the family had relocated to Missouri and settled just outside of Richmond in Ray County, which is close to about 25 miles from Kearney where the James home is located. Richmond was not unknown to the James boys either.
Charlie and Bob Ford met the James brothers around 1879, at the peak of their notoriety, providing plenty of fodder for the starstruck Bob Ford.
By this time, the loyal members of the gang were gone – all in one fell swoop with the failed Northfield, Minn. robbery in 1876. Now the gang members didn't have the same loyalty toward Frank and Jesse – they were out for themselves and it would be the downfall of all of them.
Jesse had come to the house of Martha Bolton, the older sister of Charlie and Bob, with Ed Miller. The Ford brothers were also acquainted with Jim Cummins, who knew Jesse and Frank from their days of riding with Quantrill, and whose sister married an uncle of Bob and Charlie's.
Soon Ed Miller was missing and Cummins suspected Jesse had killed him and he would be right. Jesse had become hostile toward Dick Liddil as well, and frankly, he became increasingly paranoid toward all of the men who had participated in the Blue Cut robbery on Sept. 7, 1881.
Meanwhile, Bob Ford had guilt on his conscience for having killed Wood Hite – Jesse and Frank's cousin. Well, maybe not on his conscience, but he sure had blood on his hands.
Jesse, becoming more and more paranoid, decided the old adage of keep your friends close and your enemies closer, was following it by having Charlie Ford live with him in St. Joseph. The house was very small and located at 1318 Lafayette Street. The house on Lafayette Street was on a hill and provided an excellent view for the outlaw, constantly looking over his shoulder – wanting to see the law coming when it finally did.
Jesse went out at night and stayed inside during the day in an effort to keep a low profile. He was obsessed with reading the newspaper and loved seeing his name in print.
The man who had ruthlessly rode with Bloody Bill Anderson, shot and killed an assortment of men during a variety of robberies, often showed a different side to his personality. He was known for the mischievous side of his personality and loved to play tricks on his mother.
His children, Jesse Junior and Mary, mostly saw the fun side of their father. On Jesse's last Christmas Eve, he dressed up as Santa Claus and gathered some small toys and candy to entertain his kids.
A few weeks before he died in April 1882, Jesse brought a dog home for his kids.
And his wife Zee saw the loving side of Jesse James.
But the outlaw who was Jesse was still suffering from paranoia and delusions. On December 29, 1881, Charlie and Jesse headed for the Harbison place (Mattie Bolton's home) in Richmond to convince Dick Liddil to join them. Jesse tried to convince Liddil that he was planning another robbery and needed him.
Liddil couldn't be persuaded to join the two – his intuition kicked into overdrive and he accurately predicted that no one would ever see him alive again if he left with Charlie Ford and Jesse James.
The next night, Charlie and Jesse returned to St. Joseph. Shortly after that, Bob Ford met with Missouri Governor Crittenden and Clay County Sheriff Henry Timberlake. It was a secret meeting, where Ford told the men he knew where Jesse was and that he could assist in capturing their most wanted fugitive, but he wanted a pardon for Dick Liddil, who by now, had been captured and was in custody.
Ford also wanted the reward money – $10,000 apiece for Jesse and Frank – dead or alive, as Ford would later testify. However, Bob Ford would never see a dime of that money as the governor would later state that the reward was only if the brothers were captured alive.
By the beginning of spring 1882, Jesse had become very nervous and edgy. He no doubt needed money, members of the gang were dead, disappearing or in jail, and he had a family to support. To top it off, Frank was out of the picture and living in Maryland with his wife and son, blissfully far away from his conniving brother.
At some point, Jesse may have lightly considered retirement from the outlaw businesses as he inquired about some land in Lincoln, Nebraska – under his alias Tom Howard.
The inquiry into the land may have been just a fly-by-night whim on a day when Jesse felt he ought to get out of robbing people for a living and turn to a respectable life. Again, I revert back to the Peter Pan syndrome – he just didn't want to grow up. Everyone around him left over from the war had moved on and here he was surrounding himself by younger, less trustworthy men. Surely the writing was on the wall that the time had come to quit.
I truly believe Jesse knew the end was coming. I think he may have felt as if he was in a free-fall and couldn't pull out of it. The once slippery escape artist was like a carrot dangling for a horse coming up fast and furiously eager to bite it down.
It really only became a matter of how his life would end.
Bob Ford provided just the outlet for Jesse James to end his life.
After inquiring about the land in Nebraska, Jesse began talking about planning to rob a bank or banks in northeastern Kansas and asked Charlie if he knew anyone that could join the gang. Charlie suggested his younger brother, Bob.
After casing out a number of banks in Kansas, Charlie and Jesse headed to Richmond and picked up Bob Ford. Ford had had Sheriff Timberlake watching the Harbison house, but the weather happened to be so bad the day Jesse arrived, the sheriff was already gone. Bob told his sister that if she didn't hear from him within 10 days, he'd most likely be dead.
He had already committed himself to the governor and had failed to provide Jesse alive – so the next step would be a game of Russian roulette – which one, Bob or Jesse, would get the bullet?
On their way back to St. Joseph, the three men swung by the James farm in Kearney as Jesse wanted to see his half-brother, J.T. Samuel, who had recently been shot at a party in January and wasn't expected to live (he would survive).
While at the homestead, Jesse's mother told her son that "I don't like the look of the Fords, so be careful." Her words would prove to be prophetic.
After arriving back in St. Joseph, things had to be uncomfortable in the little house on Lafayette Street. There were two children and a wife, who probably was chaffing over having the Ford brothers in her house. The brothers were nervous and jumpy because they both fully expected to turn around one minute and find Jesse pointing a gun at them.
And then there was Jesse, whose behavior became more and more bizarre as the days racked up. On one day, he gifted a gun to Bob Ford, which was akin to knowingly handing a weapon to someone you think is going to kill you, thus providing them the opportunity to kill you.
It has long been speculated that the gun was one Jesse had taken from Ed Miller after killing him.
On Sunday, April 2, 1882, Jesse, Zee, Jesse Junior and Mary headed off to church and returned home. The men began discussing plans to rob a bank in Platte City where a huge trial was taking place, effectually distracting law enforcement from focusing on the bank.
On Monday, April 3, all sat down to breakfast where the three men seemed extra cautious around each other. Jesse was his usual self, but all the while most likely watching the boys and calculating what their next move would be. Perhaps he had no plans to rob the Platte City Bank. Perhaps he felt he could get the boys out into the darkness of night and wipe them both out.
That may be precisely what Jesse thought that morning until he saw the headlines on the newspaper showing that Dick Liddil was in custody and had surrendered. He knew Liddil would sing like a canary to the authorities and it would only be a matter of time before they came looking for him.
I can almost imagine the lump settling into the pit of his stomach. His palms beginning to sweat, the skin prickling on the back of his neck, his eyes blinking more rapidly than usual, his breath coming in short little bursts.
The men went out to the stable and tended to the horses. Charlie would later testify that Jesse complained that it was warm – April in Missouri can go three ways: cold, perfect or warm. There's no telling how hot the day truly was, but shortly after, the men went into the parlor, and Jesse took his coat off and threw it on the sofa. He opened the front door of the house and looked out and then oddly announced that he would remove his gun belt so as not to be seen wearing his gun "inside" his house – raising suspicion in anyone gazing at the house.
In an even more bizarre twist to the already strange day, Jesse looked up at the wall and fixated on a picture. He said it needed straightening and dusting. He climbed up on a chair and turned his back on the two brothers, whom he knew were armed.
Charlie and Bob could hardly believe their good fortune. They both drew on Jesse and took aim. Charlie winked at his brother, but Bob cocked his gun first and Jesse, hearing the click of the gun, began to turn his head as the gun went off.
The ball struck the infamous Jesse James in the back of the head and most likely, and logically, his head pitched forward and hit the wall due to the concussion and then he fell to the floor – bleeding profusely.
Zee, hearing the shot, ran into the parlor and found Jesse lying on the floor. She looked up at Charlie first, who stood there shuffling his feet and said, "a pistol had accidentally gone off."
Zee replied, "Yes, I guess it went off on purpose."
The Ford brothers ran to the telegraph office to send wires to Governor Crittenden and Sheriff Timberlake. Then they used a brand new device called a "telephone" to alert City Marshal Enos Craig that the infamous outlaw Jesse James was dead.
Neither Ford brother had any inkling that they would later be arrested and charged with murder. They believed they were preventing their own murders and had ridded the world of a wanted man. And there sure thought they were going to be $10,000 richer.
For the years I've been studying Jesse James, I still find it hard to believe the man allowed himself to be taken down so easily. True he was 7 years older than when he was on the run after the failed Northfield, Minn. raid. But he was still Jesse James with a whole lot of knowledge under his belt about how to escape those who want to kill him.
On the one hand, I don't think he would have knowingly exposed his wife and children to his death the way it played out, but then again – I do believe he orchestrated his own death ... sort of a suicide by cop option a hundred-plus years before the phrase was ever coined.
I think that he was suffering from lead poisoning from the shot he took to the right lung in 1865 at the end of the war, making him paranoid and delusional. I believe he was weakening by the day from the years on the run, the lifestyle he led and again, from the effects of the lead still in his body.
I think he wanted to put an end to the crazy, on-the-run lifestyle he had forced his wife and children to live for so many years. In fact, at this point, neither Jesse Junior nor Mary knew their real names and they would not learn that their father was the infamous outlaw Jesse James until after his death.
I truly believe that Jesse thought Zee, Jesse Junior and Mary would be better of without him, and so he took his gun belt off that hot April morning, fully expecting one of the Ford brothers to kill him.
Were Jesse taken down by a gang member, then he would go down in a blaze of glory – shot in the head while his back was turned, with his family in the next room. He didn't die at the hands of law enforcement or during the committing of a robbery.
If anything, it was as if Jesse James knew he would go down in history, be remembered 130-plus years years after his death, that dozens of movies would be made about him (and movies hadn't even been invented yet), that books would be written about him and that dozens of men would claim to be him, calling his death a fake. Perhaps he predicted that in the year 2013, there would still be people passionately arguing the point that he faked his death, despite the 1995 exhumation that proved otherwise.
Just why did Bob Ford, a self-professed admirer of Jesse James want to kill the object of his obsession we will never know. Perhaps it was self-preservation or perhaps he felt he would obtain even more fame than Jesse ever had by killing him.
The connection between Bob Ford and Jesse James has always reminded me of the death of John Lennon at the hands of Mark David Chapman, who allegedly killed Lennon to become famous himself.
One thing is sure, Jesse Woodson James remains an enigma 131 years after his death at the hands of Bob Ford.
By 1869, the family had relocated to Missouri and settled just outside of Richmond in Ray County, which is close to about 25 miles from Kearney where the James home is located. Richmond was not unknown to the James boys either.
Charlie and Bob Ford met the James brothers around 1879, at the peak of their notoriety, providing plenty of fodder for the starstruck Bob Ford.
By this time, the loyal members of the gang were gone – all in one fell swoop with the failed Northfield, Minn. robbery in 1876. Now the gang members didn't have the same loyalty toward Frank and Jesse – they were out for themselves and it would be the downfall of all of them.
Jesse had come to the house of Martha Bolton, the older sister of Charlie and Bob, with Ed Miller. The Ford brothers were also acquainted with Jim Cummins, who knew Jesse and Frank from their days of riding with Quantrill, and whose sister married an uncle of Bob and Charlie's.
Soon Ed Miller was missing and Cummins suspected Jesse had killed him and he would be right. Jesse had become hostile toward Dick Liddil as well, and frankly, he became increasingly paranoid toward all of the men who had participated in the Blue Cut robbery on Sept. 7, 1881.
Meanwhile, Bob Ford had guilt on his conscience for having killed Wood Hite – Jesse and Frank's cousin. Well, maybe not on his conscience, but he sure had blood on his hands.
Jesse, becoming more and more paranoid, decided the old adage of keep your friends close and your enemies closer, was following it by having Charlie Ford live with him in St. Joseph. The house was very small and located at 1318 Lafayette Street. The house on Lafayette Street was on a hill and provided an excellent view for the outlaw, constantly looking over his shoulder – wanting to see the law coming when it finally did.
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| The monument located at 1318 Lafayette Street in St. Joseph, Missouri – the location of the house in which Jesse James was shot by Bob Ford, April 3, 1882. |
The man who had ruthlessly rode with Bloody Bill Anderson, shot and killed an assortment of men during a variety of robberies, often showed a different side to his personality. He was known for the mischievous side of his personality and loved to play tricks on his mother.
His children, Jesse Junior and Mary, mostly saw the fun side of their father. On Jesse's last Christmas Eve, he dressed up as Santa Claus and gathered some small toys and candy to entertain his kids.
A few weeks before he died in April 1882, Jesse brought a dog home for his kids.
And his wife Zee saw the loving side of Jesse James.
But the outlaw who was Jesse was still suffering from paranoia and delusions. On December 29, 1881, Charlie and Jesse headed for the Harbison place (Mattie Bolton's home) in Richmond to convince Dick Liddil to join them. Jesse tried to convince Liddil that he was planning another robbery and needed him.
Liddil couldn't be persuaded to join the two – his intuition kicked into overdrive and he accurately predicted that no one would ever see him alive again if he left with Charlie Ford and Jesse James.
The next night, Charlie and Jesse returned to St. Joseph. Shortly after that, Bob Ford met with Missouri Governor Crittenden and Clay County Sheriff Henry Timberlake. It was a secret meeting, where Ford told the men he knew where Jesse was and that he could assist in capturing their most wanted fugitive, but he wanted a pardon for Dick Liddil, who by now, had been captured and was in custody.
Ford also wanted the reward money – $10,000 apiece for Jesse and Frank – dead or alive, as Ford would later testify. However, Bob Ford would never see a dime of that money as the governor would later state that the reward was only if the brothers were captured alive.
By the beginning of spring 1882, Jesse had become very nervous and edgy. He no doubt needed money, members of the gang were dead, disappearing or in jail, and he had a family to support. To top it off, Frank was out of the picture and living in Maryland with his wife and son, blissfully far away from his conniving brother.
At some point, Jesse may have lightly considered retirement from the outlaw businesses as he inquired about some land in Lincoln, Nebraska – under his alias Tom Howard.
The inquiry into the land may have been just a fly-by-night whim on a day when Jesse felt he ought to get out of robbing people for a living and turn to a respectable life. Again, I revert back to the Peter Pan syndrome – he just didn't want to grow up. Everyone around him left over from the war had moved on and here he was surrounding himself by younger, less trustworthy men. Surely the writing was on the wall that the time had come to quit.
I truly believe Jesse knew the end was coming. I think he may have felt as if he was in a free-fall and couldn't pull out of it. The once slippery escape artist was like a carrot dangling for a horse coming up fast and furiously eager to bite it down.
It really only became a matter of how his life would end.
Bob Ford provided just the outlet for Jesse James to end his life.
After inquiring about the land in Nebraska, Jesse began talking about planning to rob a bank or banks in northeastern Kansas and asked Charlie if he knew anyone that could join the gang. Charlie suggested his younger brother, Bob.
After casing out a number of banks in Kansas, Charlie and Jesse headed to Richmond and picked up Bob Ford. Ford had had Sheriff Timberlake watching the Harbison house, but the weather happened to be so bad the day Jesse arrived, the sheriff was already gone. Bob told his sister that if she didn't hear from him within 10 days, he'd most likely be dead.
He had already committed himself to the governor and had failed to provide Jesse alive – so the next step would be a game of Russian roulette – which one, Bob or Jesse, would get the bullet?
On their way back to St. Joseph, the three men swung by the James farm in Kearney as Jesse wanted to see his half-brother, J.T. Samuel, who had recently been shot at a party in January and wasn't expected to live (he would survive).
While at the homestead, Jesse's mother told her son that "I don't like the look of the Fords, so be careful." Her words would prove to be prophetic.
After arriving back in St. Joseph, things had to be uncomfortable in the little house on Lafayette Street. There were two children and a wife, who probably was chaffing over having the Ford brothers in her house. The brothers were nervous and jumpy because they both fully expected to turn around one minute and find Jesse pointing a gun at them.
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| The house that Jesse was living in at the time of his death. It has been moved from its original location and is now located behind the Patee House in St. Joseph, Missouri and houses many James artifacts, the parlor set up the way it was on that hot April day in 1882. |
It has long been speculated that the gun was one Jesse had taken from Ed Miller after killing him.
On Sunday, April 2, 1882, Jesse, Zee, Jesse Junior and Mary headed off to church and returned home. The men began discussing plans to rob a bank in Platte City where a huge trial was taking place, effectually distracting law enforcement from focusing on the bank.
On Monday, April 3, all sat down to breakfast where the three men seemed extra cautious around each other. Jesse was his usual self, but all the while most likely watching the boys and calculating what their next move would be. Perhaps he had no plans to rob the Platte City Bank. Perhaps he felt he could get the boys out into the darkness of night and wipe them both out.
That may be precisely what Jesse thought that morning until he saw the headlines on the newspaper showing that Dick Liddil was in custody and had surrendered. He knew Liddil would sing like a canary to the authorities and it would only be a matter of time before they came looking for him.
I can almost imagine the lump settling into the pit of his stomach. His palms beginning to sweat, the skin prickling on the back of his neck, his eyes blinking more rapidly than usual, his breath coming in short little bursts.
The men went out to the stable and tended to the horses. Charlie would later testify that Jesse complained that it was warm – April in Missouri can go three ways: cold, perfect or warm. There's no telling how hot the day truly was, but shortly after, the men went into the parlor, and Jesse took his coat off and threw it on the sofa. He opened the front door of the house and looked out and then oddly announced that he would remove his gun belt so as not to be seen wearing his gun "inside" his house – raising suspicion in anyone gazing at the house.
In an even more bizarre twist to the already strange day, Jesse looked up at the wall and fixated on a picture. He said it needed straightening and dusting. He climbed up on a chair and turned his back on the two brothers, whom he knew were armed.
Charlie and Bob could hardly believe their good fortune. They both drew on Jesse and took aim. Charlie winked at his brother, but Bob cocked his gun first and Jesse, hearing the click of the gun, began to turn his head as the gun went off.
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| The parlor of Jesse's house in which he died. Top left is a picture "In God We Trust" that is similar to the one he may have tried to dust that day. Below it is a hole in the wall, from what I do not know, but it is NOT attributed to the shot Jesse took. That bullet remained in his head. The picture in the center depicts the shooting. (First three photos by Liz Johnson) |
The ball struck the infamous Jesse James in the back of the head and most likely, and logically, his head pitched forward and hit the wall due to the concussion and then he fell to the floor – bleeding profusely.
Zee, hearing the shot, ran into the parlor and found Jesse lying on the floor. She looked up at Charlie first, who stood there shuffling his feet and said, "a pistol had accidentally gone off."
Zee replied, "Yes, I guess it went off on purpose."
The Ford brothers ran to the telegraph office to send wires to Governor Crittenden and Sheriff Timberlake. Then they used a brand new device called a "telephone" to alert City Marshal Enos Craig that the infamous outlaw Jesse James was dead.
Neither Ford brother had any inkling that they would later be arrested and charged with murder. They believed they were preventing their own murders and had ridded the world of a wanted man. And there sure thought they were going to be $10,000 richer.
For the years I've been studying Jesse James, I still find it hard to believe the man allowed himself to be taken down so easily. True he was 7 years older than when he was on the run after the failed Northfield, Minn. raid. But he was still Jesse James with a whole lot of knowledge under his belt about how to escape those who want to kill him.
On the one hand, I don't think he would have knowingly exposed his wife and children to his death the way it played out, but then again – I do believe he orchestrated his own death ... sort of a suicide by cop option a hundred-plus years before the phrase was ever coined.
I think that he was suffering from lead poisoning from the shot he took to the right lung in 1865 at the end of the war, making him paranoid and delusional. I believe he was weakening by the day from the years on the run, the lifestyle he led and again, from the effects of the lead still in his body.
I think he wanted to put an end to the crazy, on-the-run lifestyle he had forced his wife and children to live for so many years. In fact, at this point, neither Jesse Junior nor Mary knew their real names and they would not learn that their father was the infamous outlaw Jesse James until after his death.
I truly believe that Jesse thought Zee, Jesse Junior and Mary would be better of without him, and so he took his gun belt off that hot April morning, fully expecting one of the Ford brothers to kill him.
Were Jesse taken down by a gang member, then he would go down in a blaze of glory – shot in the head while his back was turned, with his family in the next room. He didn't die at the hands of law enforcement or during the committing of a robbery.
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| Bob Ford posed with the pistol he shot Jesse with shortly after the murder. |
Just why did Bob Ford, a self-professed admirer of Jesse James want to kill the object of his obsession we will never know. Perhaps it was self-preservation or perhaps he felt he would obtain even more fame than Jesse ever had by killing him.
The connection between Bob Ford and Jesse James has always reminded me of the death of John Lennon at the hands of Mark David Chapman, who allegedly killed Lennon to become famous himself.
One thing is sure, Jesse Woodson James remains an enigma 131 years after his death at the hands of Bob Ford.
Jesse Woodson James: September 5, 1847 – April 3, 1882
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
When did driving cars become so bad? Why are people so careless?
Taking a one-day break from my historical blog to vent about today's drivers and the large amount of angry people today!
Last Friday, I bit the bullet and finally took my late sister's car out to head to an appointment about 45 miles away. The day before I had gassed it up and driven it a few miles and decided the time had come. She had a 2004 Hyundai Sonata that was a humdinger of a nice car in its day. It had low miles and a V6 in it, so it had just enough pep to make it enjoyable to drive.
The major thing about that car was my sister's ties to it. She passed away in February after a very long battle with congestive heart failure, kidney failure and a number of major strokes. We spent a lot of time in her car going to various appointments, restaurants, a few genealogical trips back to our mother's hometown and quite a few jaunts to Jamesport, Missouri – a wonderful little Amish town about an hour north that has great shops.
That car still had some of her hair in it, her coins, her dryer sheets that she used instead of buying air fresheners, her little cutter she kept in the ashtray just in case she got into a jam and had to cut herself out of her own seatbelt, her CDs, her blanket and pillow - just in case, an emergency kit, maps – you name it – Pris had it in the car. Of course, the piece de resistance was her giant, sunglasses designed for old people who wore them over their own prescription glasses.
The car was still just like it was the last time she drove it – two days before she went into the hospital for the last time.
It was her car and the last time I drove it, I took her home from the hospital in it just weeks before she died.
It was a big deal to get back into that car and drive it. So, that morning I took a deep breath and got inside, buckled myself up and said to no one in particular, "Let's go Pris."
I pulled away from our house, went up to the end of the street and turned left. I only went about 200 feet before a white car shot out of a business to my right and stopped, right dead in front of me. He had backed out instead of pulling out and he never looked. He said later that his passenger yelled, "Look Out!" and so he stopped instead of moving out of the way.
I couldn't even see the pavement in front of the car, we were that close – maybe just 10 feet or so. I hit the brakes and said to myself, "Oh crap, I'm going to hit anyway ... Oh no, Prissy's car!"
Sure enough, with both hands on the steering wheel, right foot on the brake – bracing for impact, I slammed into the guy's car at about 25 mph. BANG! Then POP! The airbag deployed and I smelled smoke. 25 mph doesn't sound like much, but after seeing the damage to my arms, I couldn't even imagine hitting a vehicle or object any faster than what I did.
And just like everyone else says, it all happened in just a few seconds. One second I was driving along, my body in as perfect shape as a 56-year-old can be, and the next second I was not the same.
I realized I was stopped, my hands still on the steering wheel and they hurt. I looked at them and started screaming. Always one to remain calm under pressure, just the fact I was having hysterics was enough to make me have hysterics. Miss control freak that I am – couldn't even control myself that morning.
Not understanding how airbags deploy, the smell of smoke frightened me to no end so, thinking the car was catching on fire, I unbuckled my seatbelt and got out of the car, not even caring that I was leaving my purse and phone behind. So there goes the theory that I will always remember to grab them.
I was still in the middle of the road with no traffic either way. The car I'd hit, I had pushed back toward the business driveway he'd come out of and the driver was standing outside of his car staring at me, as was some 20-something woman who probably had never seen a gray-haired senior citizen having hysterics before, while simultaneously barking orders, "Call the police! Call the ambulance! Call my husband! Call somebody! Waaaaaaa!"
Immediately a wonderful worker from the Napa store came out and calmly escorted me inside so I could sit down. The manager, a woman – ran and got me icy wet towels to put on my wrists which were bright blue with busted blood vessels and so swollen that it looked like a blue deck of cards sitting atop my wrists. I was bleeding and burnt from where the accelerant from the airbag had gotten me. One of my rings was flattened on my right hand where I had gripped the wheel so hard that it bent the metal.
I had bruises on the back of my knuckles, my fingertips, surrounding my hands, insides of my elbows, and burns and bruises on my belly where my belt buckle, the seat belt and the airbag hit it. See what happens when your belly is bigger than your boobs?
Even though my glasses had been knocked off, my face was uninjured. For that I am so grateful as I am to the wonderful calming people in Napa.
I suddenly looked up and there were two gorgeous EMTs catering to my every need, though high on adrenaline, I was almost incoherent and talking unceasingly.
My husband was called - thankfully just around the corner - he hadn't left for work yet.
My insurance agent, her office just next door gave absolute perfect service with a smile by showing up and offering to handle that part of it. When State Farm commercials say they are THERE, they ARE.
The guy who hit me came up and looked terrified. I would be too - I was pretty scary with all the yelling I was doing - and I wasn't mad at him. It was an accident. But I told him my sister's car is gone now and he can never replace the sentimental value it had for me.
Somehow she had protected me and at least my injuries weren't worse.
It was a bad morning in our little town of 4,500. At 6 a.m. that morning, I'd been up having coffee and heard the Lifeflight helicopter flying overhead and said a quick prayer for whomever they were bringing in or taking out.
It turned out there had been a house fire in which an elderly couple had died. Even more bizarre, while I was in the ER awaiting a room, my dentist's assistant from a town 40 miles away, saw me sitting there and came in to see what was wrong – it was her grandparents who died. She took time out of her grief to see how I was doing and give me a hug.
The people that day were astoundingly wonderful to me. God graced me with his presence and watched over me.
Several hours later my wonderful chiropractor called to see how I was and offered to open his office over the weekend should I need a treatment before Tuesday (Monday being a holiday), and offered advice what to do for myself over the weekend ... ice, ice and more ice.
My closest local friend came over to sit with me all afternoon after clearing her schedule - without being asked. She'd been in a similar accident a few years ago and had had a heart attack after the accident due to the force of hitting the airbag knocking some cholesterol loose in her heart. She kept me going all afternoon while my husband dealt with the car, police report and insurance people.
My blood pressure after the accident was 218/118 - stroke levels as it was pointed out to me by the EMT who looked at me like he was going to have to revive me any second. He was pretty cute so I'm sure I wouldn't have minded, even at my age.
But I still wanted my husband and no one else.
I had to promise to go to the ER, but there was no chance I was NOT going to go – my arms were scary looking.
It took the entire weekend to get my BP back to a normal level.
And two days before I could sleep.
The day after the accident I had to give in and go to a jeweler to have my wedding and engagement rings of 27 years cut off my swollen fingers.
I still tend to babble a little incoherently.
Words don't come to me, guess my brain got all shook up – not a good thing for a 50-something writer.
What really shook me up? When my husband put me in his car and drove out of the parking lot to head to the hospital, we hadn't gone 300 feet when someone pulled out of the supermarket up the road and nearly T-boned us, just an eighth of a mile from where I'd just been hit.
While at the hospital, they had several more accidents incoming.
It wasn't even Friday the 13th.
Since then, I've been nearly creamed every day while driving through our little town. What gives? What's wrong with people? No turn signals. They don't wait until you pass before pulling out. Today the Schwan's food guy turned left in front of me - I was turning right and halfway into my turn when he shot out of a liquor store parking lot. He smiled and waved.
Glad I made HIS day. I nearly soiled my pants at the close call.
As I drove home today from my chiropractor's visit - feeling all good – I started taking account of how many people used their turn signals. In 43 miles, I only saw about 5 people use their signals. At one point, I was behind a lovely, bright blue Ford Fusion that made three turns in front of me and then a merge onto the highway - never once did she use a signal.
Yesterday a guy in a big red pick-up truck - bigger than my own SUV – cut me off at a 4-way stop sign when it was my turn to go and I was halfway through the intersection.
It's like I have a great big sign that says "HIT ME! I WAS JUST IN A CAR ACCIDENT! DO IT AGAIN!"
And of course I've realized that I'm the only human on the planet to be in a car accident, I laughingly told a pal today.
One of the things that I found sobering is that like most people, I've always felt that when someone says they've had someone go over the center line at them, a deer dart out in front or a car pull out in front of them and they had no time to react, that it was impossible. I always thought "you WILL have time to react." And I've always planned what I would do.
Then I found myself last Friday in the same place. Someone backed out in front of me at a high speed and I truly had no time to react and prevent the accident. I braced for the impact like I swore I would never do, knowing it causes more injury. I left my purse and phone in the car. I jumped out of my car, oblivious to the fact there could have been another car about to pass me. (there wasn't)
It's been 18 years since my last accident when a gal in a small car hit me head on in a snow storm. I was in an SUV and went into a snowbank - unhurt. The time before that I was hit head on in an accident similar to what I just went through, except I was going 55 and had the right of way that time too. Airbags didn't exist and I hit the seatbelt at 55 mph, pulling all the cartilage in my ribs – it took me over a year to recover.
I'm lucky it's been so long and lucky none of those accidents were my fault.
Well, it's really not luck. I pray for safe travel and God pretty much always answers those prayers and when he can't or won't – he sends an angel to make sure I'm OK and angels to look after me after the accident like he did that day.
I don't know why people are so careless, in a hurry or just plain don't care when they're driving. Sometimes they make stupid, careless mistakes and it costs someone their life.
Life is valuable and short. Take care when you drive, obey the laws, look both ways – a lot – before pulling out, drive the speed limit, be nice to your fellow drivers ... remember ... that other person is someone's loved one.
Last Friday, I bit the bullet and finally took my late sister's car out to head to an appointment about 45 miles away. The day before I had gassed it up and driven it a few miles and decided the time had come. She had a 2004 Hyundai Sonata that was a humdinger of a nice car in its day. It had low miles and a V6 in it, so it had just enough pep to make it enjoyable to drive.
The major thing about that car was my sister's ties to it. She passed away in February after a very long battle with congestive heart failure, kidney failure and a number of major strokes. We spent a lot of time in her car going to various appointments, restaurants, a few genealogical trips back to our mother's hometown and quite a few jaunts to Jamesport, Missouri – a wonderful little Amish town about an hour north that has great shops.
That car still had some of her hair in it, her coins, her dryer sheets that she used instead of buying air fresheners, her little cutter she kept in the ashtray just in case she got into a jam and had to cut herself out of her own seatbelt, her CDs, her blanket and pillow - just in case, an emergency kit, maps – you name it – Pris had it in the car. Of course, the piece de resistance was her giant, sunglasses designed for old people who wore them over their own prescription glasses.
The car was still just like it was the last time she drove it – two days before she went into the hospital for the last time.
It was her car and the last time I drove it, I took her home from the hospital in it just weeks before she died.
It was a big deal to get back into that car and drive it. So, that morning I took a deep breath and got inside, buckled myself up and said to no one in particular, "Let's go Pris."
I pulled away from our house, went up to the end of the street and turned left. I only went about 200 feet before a white car shot out of a business to my right and stopped, right dead in front of me. He had backed out instead of pulling out and he never looked. He said later that his passenger yelled, "Look Out!" and so he stopped instead of moving out of the way.
I couldn't even see the pavement in front of the car, we were that close – maybe just 10 feet or so. I hit the brakes and said to myself, "Oh crap, I'm going to hit anyway ... Oh no, Prissy's car!"
Sure enough, with both hands on the steering wheel, right foot on the brake – bracing for impact, I slammed into the guy's car at about 25 mph. BANG! Then POP! The airbag deployed and I smelled smoke. 25 mph doesn't sound like much, but after seeing the damage to my arms, I couldn't even imagine hitting a vehicle or object any faster than what I did.
And just like everyone else says, it all happened in just a few seconds. One second I was driving along, my body in as perfect shape as a 56-year-old can be, and the next second I was not the same.
I realized I was stopped, my hands still on the steering wheel and they hurt. I looked at them and started screaming. Always one to remain calm under pressure, just the fact I was having hysterics was enough to make me have hysterics. Miss control freak that I am – couldn't even control myself that morning.
Not understanding how airbags deploy, the smell of smoke frightened me to no end so, thinking the car was catching on fire, I unbuckled my seatbelt and got out of the car, not even caring that I was leaving my purse and phone behind. So there goes the theory that I will always remember to grab them.
I was still in the middle of the road with no traffic either way. The car I'd hit, I had pushed back toward the business driveway he'd come out of and the driver was standing outside of his car staring at me, as was some 20-something woman who probably had never seen a gray-haired senior citizen having hysterics before, while simultaneously barking orders, "Call the police! Call the ambulance! Call my husband! Call somebody! Waaaaaaa!"
Immediately a wonderful worker from the Napa store came out and calmly escorted me inside so I could sit down. The manager, a woman – ran and got me icy wet towels to put on my wrists which were bright blue with busted blood vessels and so swollen that it looked like a blue deck of cards sitting atop my wrists. I was bleeding and burnt from where the accelerant from the airbag had gotten me. One of my rings was flattened on my right hand where I had gripped the wheel so hard that it bent the metal.
I had bruises on the back of my knuckles, my fingertips, surrounding my hands, insides of my elbows, and burns and bruises on my belly where my belt buckle, the seat belt and the airbag hit it. See what happens when your belly is bigger than your boobs?
Even though my glasses had been knocked off, my face was uninjured. For that I am so grateful as I am to the wonderful calming people in Napa.
I suddenly looked up and there were two gorgeous EMTs catering to my every need, though high on adrenaline, I was almost incoherent and talking unceasingly.
My husband was called - thankfully just around the corner - he hadn't left for work yet.
My insurance agent, her office just next door gave absolute perfect service with a smile by showing up and offering to handle that part of it. When State Farm commercials say they are THERE, they ARE.
The guy who hit me came up and looked terrified. I would be too - I was pretty scary with all the yelling I was doing - and I wasn't mad at him. It was an accident. But I told him my sister's car is gone now and he can never replace the sentimental value it had for me.
Somehow she had protected me and at least my injuries weren't worse.
It was a bad morning in our little town of 4,500. At 6 a.m. that morning, I'd been up having coffee and heard the Lifeflight helicopter flying overhead and said a quick prayer for whomever they were bringing in or taking out.
It turned out there had been a house fire in which an elderly couple had died. Even more bizarre, while I was in the ER awaiting a room, my dentist's assistant from a town 40 miles away, saw me sitting there and came in to see what was wrong – it was her grandparents who died. She took time out of her grief to see how I was doing and give me a hug.
The people that day were astoundingly wonderful to me. God graced me with his presence and watched over me.
Several hours later my wonderful chiropractor called to see how I was and offered to open his office over the weekend should I need a treatment before Tuesday (Monday being a holiday), and offered advice what to do for myself over the weekend ... ice, ice and more ice.
My closest local friend came over to sit with me all afternoon after clearing her schedule - without being asked. She'd been in a similar accident a few years ago and had had a heart attack after the accident due to the force of hitting the airbag knocking some cholesterol loose in her heart. She kept me going all afternoon while my husband dealt with the car, police report and insurance people.
My blood pressure after the accident was 218/118 - stroke levels as it was pointed out to me by the EMT who looked at me like he was going to have to revive me any second. He was pretty cute so I'm sure I wouldn't have minded, even at my age.
But I still wanted my husband and no one else.
I had to promise to go to the ER, but there was no chance I was NOT going to go – my arms were scary looking.
It took the entire weekend to get my BP back to a normal level.
And two days before I could sleep.
The day after the accident I had to give in and go to a jeweler to have my wedding and engagement rings of 27 years cut off my swollen fingers.
I still tend to babble a little incoherently.
Words don't come to me, guess my brain got all shook up – not a good thing for a 50-something writer.
What really shook me up? When my husband put me in his car and drove out of the parking lot to head to the hospital, we hadn't gone 300 feet when someone pulled out of the supermarket up the road and nearly T-boned us, just an eighth of a mile from where I'd just been hit.
While at the hospital, they had several more accidents incoming.
It wasn't even Friday the 13th.
Since then, I've been nearly creamed every day while driving through our little town. What gives? What's wrong with people? No turn signals. They don't wait until you pass before pulling out. Today the Schwan's food guy turned left in front of me - I was turning right and halfway into my turn when he shot out of a liquor store parking lot. He smiled and waved.
Glad I made HIS day. I nearly soiled my pants at the close call.
As I drove home today from my chiropractor's visit - feeling all good – I started taking account of how many people used their turn signals. In 43 miles, I only saw about 5 people use their signals. At one point, I was behind a lovely, bright blue Ford Fusion that made three turns in front of me and then a merge onto the highway - never once did she use a signal.
Yesterday a guy in a big red pick-up truck - bigger than my own SUV – cut me off at a 4-way stop sign when it was my turn to go and I was halfway through the intersection.
It's like I have a great big sign that says "HIT ME! I WAS JUST IN A CAR ACCIDENT! DO IT AGAIN!"
And of course I've realized that I'm the only human on the planet to be in a car accident, I laughingly told a pal today.
One of the things that I found sobering is that like most people, I've always felt that when someone says they've had someone go over the center line at them, a deer dart out in front or a car pull out in front of them and they had no time to react, that it was impossible. I always thought "you WILL have time to react." And I've always planned what I would do.
Then I found myself last Friday in the same place. Someone backed out in front of me at a high speed and I truly had no time to react and prevent the accident. I braced for the impact like I swore I would never do, knowing it causes more injury. I left my purse and phone in the car. I jumped out of my car, oblivious to the fact there could have been another car about to pass me. (there wasn't)
It's been 18 years since my last accident when a gal in a small car hit me head on in a snow storm. I was in an SUV and went into a snowbank - unhurt. The time before that I was hit head on in an accident similar to what I just went through, except I was going 55 and had the right of way that time too. Airbags didn't exist and I hit the seatbelt at 55 mph, pulling all the cartilage in my ribs – it took me over a year to recover.
I'm lucky it's been so long and lucky none of those accidents were my fault.
Well, it's really not luck. I pray for safe travel and God pretty much always answers those prayers and when he can't or won't – he sends an angel to make sure I'm OK and angels to look after me after the accident like he did that day.
I don't know why people are so careless, in a hurry or just plain don't care when they're driving. Sometimes they make stupid, careless mistakes and it costs someone their life.
Life is valuable and short. Take care when you drive, obey the laws, look both ways – a lot – before pulling out, drive the speed limit, be nice to your fellow drivers ... remember ... that other person is someone's loved one.
Sunday, September 1, 2013
The end is near for the illustrious Jesse James
To the 21st century person, age 34 is still incredibly young, but in the 1880s, it was already middle-aged. For Jesse James, after living over half his life on the run, suffering numerous shots, one that was near-fatal, and years of living with a lead ball in his right lung – he felt older than his years.
I can imagine Jesse sitting on the porch of the little house in St. Joseph, Missouri, in early spring 1882, atop a small hill – the sounds of his children, Jesse Jr., and Mary playing and listening to his wife, Zee, humming in the kitchen as she began cooking dinner. He may have sat back in his rocking chair quite satisfied ... or contemplated that the peaceful scene should be an every day occurrence. But that would be impossible, for he wasn't really Mr. Howard, he was Jesse James – feared outlaw and killer and wanted by half a dozen states, sheriff's, deputies, politicians, railroad barons and Pinkerton's men.
He could never run away from the truth.
The law was closing in and he could feel it to his very core.
Jesse didn't want to go down in a gunfight, he didn't want to be captured and lynched. He wanted to go down in a blaze of glory – somehow in a manner that would leave him remembered as a martyr.
Jesse's last few months on this earth would be to move toward that end. And succeed he did.
As Jesse aged, his beliefs and obsessions became even more bizarre. By the time he was living in St. Joseph, he believed in out of the body experiences, sorcery, precognition, eating grass when sick and, in contrast, he would flip through the worn pages of his late father's Bible and read whatever verses he would land upon – pondering their meaning and how they applied to him.
If anyone failed to grow up and mature, it was Jesse James. Today we would call it Peter Pan syndrome. He lived the concept to the fullest.
He was vain about his looks and exercised fanatically. Even at 34 and suffering from that errant shot to his lungs in 1865, he was strong and muscular.
He played with his children and wooed his wife. He was polite while out and about, presenting himself as a genteel man of the highest breeding. No one ever suspected who he truly was.
His voice was rather high-pitched and could be annoying when he got excited – bringing the Missouri twang with it. He was left-handed and was missing a part of his left middle finger having shot it off just prior to joining Quantrill's Raiders in 1864. He always kept that hand out of sight – it was an identification marker for law enforcement.
Jesse's emotions and personality ran the gamut from quiet and serene to gregarious and irrational. A vibrant aura clung to him and made heads turn when he entered a room. Indeed, Jesse James commanded a room – he was larger than life.
He was handsome and most likely resembled his father, though no known photographs of Robert James exist to this day. Jesse looked nothing like his older brother, Frank, who had a large nose and even larger ears that protruded from his head.
Jesse's bright blue eyes darted nervously all the time – his eyes blinking constantly. One could almost picture his entire body a little herky jerky with movement, the blood coursing through his veins a little bit faster than everyone else's, his heart pounding harder, his brain firing like sparks.
As Jesse reached his 34th birthday on September 5, 1881, he was, for all intents and purposes – dying and he knew it.
In my opinion, after 17 years of living with a lead minie ball in his right lung, Jesse was suffering from lead poisoning. Symptoms include: abdominal pain, headaches, difficulty in thinking, concentrating or making decisions, pale skin, fatigue, muscle weakness, personality changes, mood swings and trouble sleeping and Jesse had nearly all of those symptoms.
He suffered greatly from insomnia and his mood went from upbeat and positive to moody and paranoid, he worked out frantically – possibly because he felt his muscles weakening daily and his muscular stature had kept him in the saddle all those years. He personality changed constantly, which included the oddball obsessions he worked over and over in his mind.
Since the last robbery, known as the Blue Cut, on Sept. 7, 1881, the gang had scattered. Frank had taken Annie and Bob and gone to Maryland. And Jesse grew more and more nervous about one of the gang going to the authorities. None of the gang members were former war comrades. They were all younger and had no sense of loyalty to the James brothers.
By the first of the year, Wood Hite, Jesse's cousin, had been shot dead by Bob Ford – unbeknownst to Jesse at the time. And Jesse had paid a visit to Ed Miller, former gang member Clell Miller's brother, and Ed had conveniently disappeared – his body discovered sometime after Jesse's visit.
Jesse was unaware that Bob Ford had shot his cousin. In fact, Hite had been quarreling with Dick Liddil over Liddil's wooing of Hite's young stepmother. Ford got in the middle of it when Hite turned his gun on Liddil and he shot Hite dead. The shooting had taken place at the home of Ford's sister, Mattie Bolton in Richmond, Mo.
They first wrapped Wood's body in blankets and dumped him into an stream. Later his body would be allegedly dumped in one of the farm's wells.
Several years ago I interviewed Pat Faulkner of Kearney, Mo., who had grown up in the old Bolton/Ford house in the 1940s and professed it to be haunted. Pat told me that when her father moved them into the house, the owners at the time informed her father they weren't to drink out of one of the wells as it was the "body" well.
She also said that from time-to-time, she had witnessed ghostly activity, things moving in one of the upstairs rooms, a shadow in the upstairs window and an awful smell coming from a tunnel they discovered that led to the other side of the pasture – likely an escape tunnel from the James days.
Besides Wood Hite being murdered in that house, it was the same house in which Charlie Ford shot himself a few years after Jesse's death. Unfortunately, the house was torn down in the 1950s and a new one built in its place.
Bob Ford had begun hanging around the gang around the time of the Blue Cut robbery. He was young, only 18 years of age and given to hero worship of Jesse. For years he had collected the comic book renderings of the James gang and fancied himself knowledgable on all things Jesse and Frank.
Frank wouldn't give Bob the time of day, but Jesse seemed to like the attention and adoration, even though at times it got quite uncomfortable, such as when Bob told Jesse that they had many things in common that were oddities: Jesse had had twin sons – Bob had twin sisters; Jesse's father was minister – Bob's father was a part time minister; Jesse's father was named Robert – Bob was actually Robert; they had the same number of letters and syllables in their names; they both had blue eyes, were of the same height and weight. It was scary and Jesse froze solid when Bob told him all of this.
With Jesse as slippery as he'd been for all those years, as astute as he was in discerning who was friend or foe, as much as those who couldn't be trusted could get his hackles up – he didn't seem to see Bob Ford as dangerous.
Or did he?
Did Jesse knowingly set himself up to be taken down by Bob Ford, placing him forever in the history books and western lore as a Robin Hood character – a person to be heralded as a sympathetic character? Or was he duped?
We shall soon see.
I can imagine Jesse sitting on the porch of the little house in St. Joseph, Missouri, in early spring 1882, atop a small hill – the sounds of his children, Jesse Jr., and Mary playing and listening to his wife, Zee, humming in the kitchen as she began cooking dinner. He may have sat back in his rocking chair quite satisfied ... or contemplated that the peaceful scene should be an every day occurrence. But that would be impossible, for he wasn't really Mr. Howard, he was Jesse James – feared outlaw and killer and wanted by half a dozen states, sheriff's, deputies, politicians, railroad barons and Pinkerton's men.
He could never run away from the truth.
The law was closing in and he could feel it to his very core.
Jesse didn't want to go down in a gunfight, he didn't want to be captured and lynched. He wanted to go down in a blaze of glory – somehow in a manner that would leave him remembered as a martyr.
Jesse's last few months on this earth would be to move toward that end. And succeed he did.
As Jesse aged, his beliefs and obsessions became even more bizarre. By the time he was living in St. Joseph, he believed in out of the body experiences, sorcery, precognition, eating grass when sick and, in contrast, he would flip through the worn pages of his late father's Bible and read whatever verses he would land upon – pondering their meaning and how they applied to him.
If anyone failed to grow up and mature, it was Jesse James. Today we would call it Peter Pan syndrome. He lived the concept to the fullest.
He was vain about his looks and exercised fanatically. Even at 34 and suffering from that errant shot to his lungs in 1865, he was strong and muscular.
He played with his children and wooed his wife. He was polite while out and about, presenting himself as a genteel man of the highest breeding. No one ever suspected who he truly was.
His voice was rather high-pitched and could be annoying when he got excited – bringing the Missouri twang with it. He was left-handed and was missing a part of his left middle finger having shot it off just prior to joining Quantrill's Raiders in 1864. He always kept that hand out of sight – it was an identification marker for law enforcement.
Jesse's emotions and personality ran the gamut from quiet and serene to gregarious and irrational. A vibrant aura clung to him and made heads turn when he entered a room. Indeed, Jesse James commanded a room – he was larger than life.
He was handsome and most likely resembled his father, though no known photographs of Robert James exist to this day. Jesse looked nothing like his older brother, Frank, who had a large nose and even larger ears that protruded from his head.
Jesse's bright blue eyes darted nervously all the time – his eyes blinking constantly. One could almost picture his entire body a little herky jerky with movement, the blood coursing through his veins a little bit faster than everyone else's, his heart pounding harder, his brain firing like sparks.
As Jesse reached his 34th birthday on September 5, 1881, he was, for all intents and purposes – dying and he knew it.
In my opinion, after 17 years of living with a lead minie ball in his right lung, Jesse was suffering from lead poisoning. Symptoms include: abdominal pain, headaches, difficulty in thinking, concentrating or making decisions, pale skin, fatigue, muscle weakness, personality changes, mood swings and trouble sleeping and Jesse had nearly all of those symptoms.
He suffered greatly from insomnia and his mood went from upbeat and positive to moody and paranoid, he worked out frantically – possibly because he felt his muscles weakening daily and his muscular stature had kept him in the saddle all those years. He personality changed constantly, which included the oddball obsessions he worked over and over in his mind.
Since the last robbery, known as the Blue Cut, on Sept. 7, 1881, the gang had scattered. Frank had taken Annie and Bob and gone to Maryland. And Jesse grew more and more nervous about one of the gang going to the authorities. None of the gang members were former war comrades. They were all younger and had no sense of loyalty to the James brothers.
By the first of the year, Wood Hite, Jesse's cousin, had been shot dead by Bob Ford – unbeknownst to Jesse at the time. And Jesse had paid a visit to Ed Miller, former gang member Clell Miller's brother, and Ed had conveniently disappeared – his body discovered sometime after Jesse's visit.
Jesse was unaware that Bob Ford had shot his cousin. In fact, Hite had been quarreling with Dick Liddil over Liddil's wooing of Hite's young stepmother. Ford got in the middle of it when Hite turned his gun on Liddil and he shot Hite dead. The shooting had taken place at the home of Ford's sister, Mattie Bolton in Richmond, Mo.
They first wrapped Wood's body in blankets and dumped him into an stream. Later his body would be allegedly dumped in one of the farm's wells.
Several years ago I interviewed Pat Faulkner of Kearney, Mo., who had grown up in the old Bolton/Ford house in the 1940s and professed it to be haunted. Pat told me that when her father moved them into the house, the owners at the time informed her father they weren't to drink out of one of the wells as it was the "body" well.
She also said that from time-to-time, she had witnessed ghostly activity, things moving in one of the upstairs rooms, a shadow in the upstairs window and an awful smell coming from a tunnel they discovered that led to the other side of the pasture – likely an escape tunnel from the James days.
 |
| This is the Bob Ford home (owned by his sister, Mattie Bolton), before its 1955 destruction. It was about two miles east of Richmond on Highway 10. The site is now occupied by the Waller family. Charley Ford shot himself in the east bedroom (right side of photo) on the second floor in 1884. (Photo courtesy of Pat Faulkner) |
Besides Wood Hite being murdered in that house, it was the same house in which Charlie Ford shot himself a few years after Jesse's death. Unfortunately, the house was torn down in the 1950s and a new one built in its place.
Bob Ford had begun hanging around the gang around the time of the Blue Cut robbery. He was young, only 18 years of age and given to hero worship of Jesse. For years he had collected the comic book renderings of the James gang and fancied himself knowledgable on all things Jesse and Frank.
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| A young Bob Ford. (Photo courtesy of the Jesse James Farm & Museum) |
Frank wouldn't give Bob the time of day, but Jesse seemed to like the attention and adoration, even though at times it got quite uncomfortable, such as when Bob told Jesse that they had many things in common that were oddities: Jesse had had twin sons – Bob had twin sisters; Jesse's father was minister – Bob's father was a part time minister; Jesse's father was named Robert – Bob was actually Robert; they had the same number of letters and syllables in their names; they both had blue eyes, were of the same height and weight. It was scary and Jesse froze solid when Bob told him all of this.
With Jesse as slippery as he'd been for all those years, as astute as he was in discerning who was friend or foe, as much as those who couldn't be trusted could get his hackles up – he didn't seem to see Bob Ford as dangerous.
Or did he?
Did Jesse knowingly set himself up to be taken down by Bob Ford, placing him forever in the history books and western lore as a Robin Hood character – a person to be heralded as a sympathetic character? Or was he duped?
We shall soon see.
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