September 6, 1946
Sorry Dear(?)
Wish you and Luce(?) were here at this hotel – room 1205 – mail us(?) that letter soon. And my hand is some better. Write me here whenever you can.
Love,
Junie(?)
Category: Current Events
To: Mrs. Elsie Murphy. From: Jan, 1950
June 25, 1950
Dearest Honey,
I spose you know by now that I’m in Lancaster for a few days. I left Fri. on the 4 o’clock Zephyr. I leave just as you get home! How do you like that (ha). I’ve got a surprise for you when I get home. Did Dee call you? Or did you call the store? Bet you had fun at Cletek!(?) I got some sandals in Prairie du Chien. I’ll see you Wed. You probably won’t get this till after I’m home! did you go to the prom?
Love,
Jan
P.S. I got my phone call.
In 1950, World War II still loomed large in the proverbial rear view mirror of the United States. Harry Truman was President, the Korean War was just beginning, Joseph McCarthy — a Senator from Wisconsin — believed that Communists were everywhere, and Albert Einstein warned that nuclear war would lead to mutual destruction. It was somehow both a time of great change and stagnation. Technology was advancing at a frenzied pace, but Americans were frightened of the monsters they so eagerly created and sought ultimate control.
When I read this postcard I was positive it was a letter from a husband to a wife. From the salutation (Dearest Honey) to the squished signature — which I thought was “Jon”. At first glance, it was innocuous. A man sharing somewhat mundane stories and promising a surprise.
But under close examination the signature I thought read “Jon” was in fact “Jan.” Things clicked for me after that. The tone of the card is what I would call “gushing“. There’s a tumbling array of thoughts spilled out over the white space of the card as though Jan had so many things to tell Elsie that she needed to make sure to spill a little tidbit of everything while frustratingly sparing all the details.
Once I ascertained that the card was from Jan, I started looking for Elsie. I found quite a few Elsie Murphy’s floating around. There was even a promising obituary of an Elsie Murphy with a daughter named Dee, but she lived her whole life in Maine — so couldn’t be our Elsie. Finally, I decided to try Elsie’s name and address, and immediately got a hit on a newspaper article from the Library of Congress. It states:
Shown receiving the Bronze Star Medal awarded to her husband, Cpl Robert V. Murphy, is Mrs. Elsie E.Murphy, 1209 South Cedar Lake Road.
This is, unquestionably, our Elsie. This record is amazing for a variety of reasons, not least of which is that it includes an image of Elsie as she probably looked around the time she received the postcard. A little bit more digging uncovered the 1950 census reports from Minneapolis. It seems after her husband passed away, or perhaps even while he had been in war, Elsie lived with her parents in the Cedar Lake Road house. In 1950, she was listed as 31, widowed, and working full time as a typist at a publishing company.
Now that I had Elsie and her husband’s name, I started searching for him. It seems Robert V. Murphy was killed in action in Germany during WWII. He was born in North Dakota and only went to Minneapolis in May of 1942. Did he meet Elsie there? How long did they have together before he deployed? Like so many other young couples, did they have a heated romance and marry quickly because of the threat of war?
And who was Jan? A friend Elsie met at her job as a typist? A school friend? A cousin? What was the surprise Jan had for Elsie? What was Jan’s phone call? Had she gotten a job, a date, a scholarship? We won’t ever know, because without a last name I couldn’t find Jan.
The story is fascinating, and even though I found Elsie, I simply couldn’t find much more about her, including her grave or obituary. This tells me she likely remarried and was not buried under the Murphy name. I have to wonder how she managed to press on in her grief. Especially because Robert’s body was never recovered. She’d become a blushing bride only to become a grief stricken widow. I know I’ll be thinking about Elsie, her life after the war, and Jan’s sandals for a long time to come.
“Grant County Court House” Lancaster, Wisconsin
To: Miss Carolyn Doran. From: Mary 1908
This is where I go bathing. The water is very cold. With love.
From,
Mary
In 1908, Teddy Roosevelt was president, Harvard business school was established, and a deadly tornado struck parts of Louisiana and Mississippi and left 140 people dead and over 700 injured. We were well into the Progressive Era, and the temperance movement was building. They’d hit their crescendo with Prohibition, but that would be a few years to go yet.
There’s something so sweet and innocent about this postcard. From it’s shaky, childish script, to the fact that Mary talks about how cold the water is when she bathes. It recalls us all to childhood, when our worries were small and our families were close.
Carolyn, and thus Mary, were difficult for me to find. I’m not even positive I did find Carolyn. However, I have something of a lead so that’s what I’ll discuss. The Carolyn Doran I found was born in 1898 in Kansas City, Missouri to Samuel Neal Doran and Mary Nagel Doran. Interestingly, Mary had a sister who also named her daughter Caroline, but with the I not the Y.
I couldn’t find much about Carolyn, other than that it doesn’t seem that she got married or really even moved out of her family house. In the census of 1940, she was 42 and still living with her parents. She had one brother, who I think served in World War I and had a son named Neal Samuel Doran. The names really aren’t that interesting, but I got a kick out of the naming practices in this family. I also had to wonder if Mary and her sister fought over the name Carolyn.
As for Mary…I had hoped to find a family relation. However, if Carolyn is indeed our gal, she would have been ten when this card was written. It was sent in July, which means Mary easily could have been a friend enjoying a summer in Maine.
What’s true is that the card is sweet, loving, and beautiful. It’s a balm for a weary soul, and I think we all need a little bit of that in our lives. I hope Mary and Carolyn remained friends, wherever they ended up in their lives.
“Shore Scene, Casco Bay”
To: Mr. Victor A Binford. From: Wren(?). 1910-1918
Dear Doc-
Card just rec’d. My school is going on fine. Hope you are enjoying life. Should be glad to hear from you again.
Best Wishes,
Wren(?)
Although this card was mailed in October, the year is unreadable. Either the ink has faded away or the card was never stamped well enough to begin with. Since it’s a divided back card, it’s 1907 or later, and based on the handwriting I’d say closer to the 1907 mark than the 1918 mark, but I can’t be sure. Suffice it to say, this card was mailed at the turn of the twentieth century. A time where World War I would see soldiers ride in on horses, and fly out on airplanes.
Bliss Business College was founded in 1897 by a set of brothers. It catered to a co-educational group of students and classes included shorthand, spelling, and penmanship. It closed in 1972, but not without a fight from those who had graced it’s halls. At heart, the college was a two year institution, but Wren (or perhaps Oren) must have met “Doc” Victor Binford there and retained a friendship. At least until Victor married.
Victor Abbot Binford was born in Mexico, Maine (yes, this is a place in Maine) on July 3, 1887 to Horace Jose Binford and Bertha Hortense Abbot. What immediately struck me about Victor is that his mother’s maiden name was his given middle name. A nice nod to his maternal side. In 1912, he married Marcia Reed, and together they had one daughter named Sarah.
Interestingly, the Maine Historical Society carries an archive of the Binford, Reed and Hatch family. The collection was gifted to the society after the death of Ann Hatch, Victor’s grand-daughter. Because of the archive, I know a number of things about Victor that I wouldn’t have known. For instance, his father was a medical doctor. Additionally, his mother died young, and Victor was adopted by his father’s new wife, Lula, who happened to be Bertha’s sister. Also, Sarah Hatch (nee Binford) raised arabian horses. Which…feels luxurious to me.
Victor died on January 16, 1960 at the age of 72. Although the postcard calls him “Doc” what’s likely is that Victor attended Bliss Business College, not that he taught there. In 1910 he was 22, single, and living at home. In 1920, he was a dowel turner at Birch Mill. By 1930, Victor was a private chauffeur…possibly for the Reed family. You see, Victor, Marcia, and Sarah all lived with Marcia’s family. According to the Maine Historical society, Marcia graduated from Smith College, and helped run The Roxbury Telephone company.
In 1940, Victor was the book keeper for “Wood Turning”, which I think is the Birch Mill because by 1950, he was the head of the household (no longer the son-in-law) and was the book-keeper for the Birch Mill. Marcia, on the other hand, was the tax collector for Roxbury County. It’s interesting, because I’m unsure if these are all family businesses, or if Victor truly bounced around. However, I’m somewhat certain that the sender of this postcard addressed him as “Doc” because his father was a doctor and Victor somehow got that moniker.
I’m sad I couldn’t find Wren. However, what’s certain is that I had a lot of fun following the threads of Victor and Marcia’s lives. I’ve said it before, but the cold black and white of papered archives gives very little actual detail of a life. However, it’s what we read between the lines that brings color into a life (hopefully) well lived.
From: Unknown To: Lloyd Hubbler, 1911
Oh you kid: I’d enjoy another dance with you like the one I had at the Dickeyville dance. Would like to make a date with you, “You Honey Bunch”. Will try and be out for the 15th. Hope you will be there, dear. Will show you another good time. Oh honey I am so lonesome. From – you know who.
(flipped) Look under the stamp honey bunch. xxxxxxx
This is my picture honey.
(On front) I am ready xxx. From your sweet little wife. S.W.A.K
God am so home sick for a x x
Lloyds sweet wife ha ha
I can’t express to you how much I am obsessed with this card. Every inch of it is filled with writing. X’s dot the landscape of both the front and the back and someone added additional rouging and eyeliner to the image on the front. This postcard SCREAMS of some sort of joke, and I am absolutely here for it. So, let’s drop the card into history.
1911 sees the disaster of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory in New York, the invention of Crisco, and the founding of the first movie studio. However, I have to wonder if the news of these events hit the small village of Potosi. Situated in the southwest corner of Wisconsin, modern day Potosi boasts a population of just over 600 people. Like many small towns, it was originally founded as a mining and farming village. Now, it hosts an annual catfish festival and fish fry the second weekend of August.
In 1911, Lloyd Hubler was a few months shy of his 20th birthday, and at least according to Family Search, still unmarried. He had one brother, who was 8 years his senior. Although the card puts Lloyd’s last name as “Hubbler”, I’m pretty sure it was “Hubler”. The Lloyd I found has a father named “William Scott”, but he’s listed as Scott W. in the census records. Seeing as the card was sent “c/o Scott Hubbler”, and the Hubler’s lived in Harrison County (where Potosi is located), I’m fairly certain I have the right man.
But birth days, death days, draft registrations, and the marriage index provide only the barest amount of context for a life. Who sent this card to Lloyd? Why? There are a few clues that we can use to point us in the right direction. Or at least to make some fun and semi-guesses.
First, the card was sent on February 16, two days after Valentines Day. My mind immediately goes to two scenarios. First, maybe there was a Valentines Dance for the surrounding area. Here, Lloyd met a girl and made the gravest mistake: he told his friends about her. Looking to pull a prank, they put together this card and sent it to him, care of his FATHER for added embarrassment.
Second, Lloyd’s older brother was 28 at the time. It’s possible he sent the card as a practical joke, but why would he misspell the name? It’s feasible the name is actually misspelled in the census records. But, while I think it’s possible Lloyd’s brother had something to do with the card, I doubt it was entirely done by the brother.
So, poor Lloyd had to deal with the embarrassment of being sent this provocative card. Because it was a postcard, everyone could see everything. Not only could his father see the card and read it…but so could the postman, the postal workers…you get the idea. What did poor Lloyd do to deserve this humiliation? We will never know.
Lloyd did end up finding his “sweet” wife. In 1918, he married Leora Hinman. They went on to have three children. She outlived her husband by a decade, but I hope that their life together was S.W.A.K.
From: Mary E. Wood, To: Mrs. Ethyl Beranek 1942
4/27/42
Hello.
Roanoke is preparing for blackouts and everyone is cooperating well. Thanks for the card. Do you have L.L. Iowa or other cities? I’d like a card of each scene as shown in little’s CEDAR RAPIDS. Thanks and write soon.
Sincerely,
Mary E. Wood
422 Albemarle Ave S.W.
Roanoke, Virginia
Have you any foreign correspondents?
By the time Mary wrote this letter, the United States had newly entered World War II. A few months earlier, in February, a Japanese submarine had attacked an oil refinery in Santa Barbara, California. Though the attack didn’t cause much damage, fears and tensions in the United States were high. Shortly after the attack on California, FDR signed Executive Order 9066 which led to the internment of 125,000 people, two thirds of which were American Citizens.
In April, the country was already well on its way to mobilizing for war. In preparation, many cities — including Roanoke — were practicing blackouts. The city had practiced at least two blackouts by the time Mary sent her letter to Ethyl. Families bought blackout curtains for their windows and hoods for their headlights. At some point during the blackout, air raid sirens blared and people extinguished lights, pulled over and listened for the test to be over.
The fear of invasion is a type of fear I hope I never have to experience, and to see it documented in this letter is so interesting. Mary expresses prepping for an invasion first, which tells me it was probably at the top of her mind.
However, the wartime blackout conditions are juxtaposed by Mary’s request for different types of postcards. It almost seems like she’s part of some sort of post crossing program before post crossing existed! Or, as we elder millennials remember it as: pen pals. I do wonder if Mary personally knew Ethyl and the two of them were simply card collectors, or if it was a type of pen pal program. Very interesting.
As for Mary Wood, I think I found her. She was born as Mary Ellen Thurston, but her first husband had the last name Wood. She later divorced and remarried, becoming Mary Ellen Truslow. What’s strange is that I found her second marriage certificate, which listed her birthday year as 1927, but her grave and all other documentation lists 1921.
As for Ethyl, funnily enough the first thing that popped up when I searched was another postcard to her. Same address, though a different sender. Wouldn’t that have been the bee’s knees? After a little more digging on Family Search, I managed to ascertain that she probably passed away shortly after World War II — 1953 to be exact.
The obituary states that she had suffered from an “illness for the past year.” Two of her sons died shortly after, one in 1955 and another in 1958. An overall sad end to an interesting postcard.
I hope that the two women remained in correspondence until Ethyl’s untimely death. Perhaps this small blog post can help keep the memory of their connection alive.
Front of Postcard. One of a few Natural Bridge postcards that I own
To Mrs. W. Beals, From: Etta J P (unclear). 1907-1915
I suppose you are home and “hard at it” as I have been. I am on the verge of getting some new bedroom furniture so I am all excitement. I will write you a letter some time soon. Hope you and Dorothy. We were greatly recovered(?) all wish to be (unclear)
Etta J. P(unclear)
On flipped side: write me a letter and tell me bout your stay at the beach
Although I can’t be certain when this particular postcard was written, there are some clues. It’s a divided back, which means it has to be 1907 or after. The handwriting exhibits the cursive style script that was typical of the early 1900’s, and many of the Acegraph company postcards were printed and sent between 1910-1912. So, I think it’s safe to say that this postcard is somewhere in-between 1907-1915. Which, if you’ve followed along with me for a while, you’ll know is my personal favorite time-period for a postcard. I do love those wily progressives.
I’ve been re-visiting some of the postcards I posted back when I started this blog, and this is one of them. It’s actually one of my favorite messages I’ve seen on a postcard because Etta is simply dripping with excitement about her bedroom furniture. It makes me wonder if she was a new wife, or perhaps she and her husband recently moved, or maybe they had been saving for some time. Especially since she says she’s on the “verge” of getting new furniture and she is “all excitement.” I love the imagery of it.
As for Mrs. W. Beals, I’m 87% sure I found her. And, when I say she fell in my lap by chance, I mean it. I’ve talked before about how difficult it is to find women when they are obscured by their husbands name. It’s even more difficult when the sender of a postcard abbreviates the name (like “w” for example). As a historian, it presents a fun, challenging mystery. But it’s also super frustrating sometimes! Nonetheless, I figured that Bluefield was small enough that I might get a hit. I found some “Beals” and started following the family trees.
Wouldn’t you know it, a few clicks later and I had found William Jacob Beals, and his wife Ethel Julia Cross. They were married in 1908 (which fits the timeline) and had a daughter…wait for it…named Dorothy born in 1909! In the census of 1910 and 1920, they also lived in Bluefield West Virginia.
Ethel Julia Cross was born on April 2, 1888 in Minnesota. At the age of 20, she married William Jacob Beals in Pennsylvania. From there, they moved to Bluefield, West Virginia. The couple had two children, Dorothy and William. I’m not sure why they lived in Bluefield, but the city boomed because of it’s coal mines. At one point in the late 19th century, it was also considered the “city of millionaires” because there was so much wealth fixated in such a small spot.
At some point, she and her husband made it out to sunny California, because her grave is located in Los Angeles. Ethel died on September 7 of 1973, about 20 years after her husband.
I had hoped that I’d be able to find Etta, because I feel confident she’s related to Ethel in some way. However, no luck. Ethel’s grandparents aren’t listed in her tree, so any search for cousins or family connections runs dry. Nonetheless, the archival Gods aren’t usually this kind, and I must remember to present them with an offering later tonight.
I do hope Ethel lived a wonderful life, and I hope she enjoyed her time in the sun in California. I also hope that Etta’s furniture was exactly as she hoped it would be!
Front of Postcard: Randolph Macon Women’s College, Lynchburg, VA
Categories
Whispered conversations
Graveyards are so much more than a final resting place
They are a collection of memories, shattered dreams, and half forgotten hopes.
A collection of consciousness laying underneath a curated lawn.
Perhaps that’s why, on the clearest day, a breeze always blows
It’s the whispered conversation of souls
Categories
Self-Care
In the spiraling modernity of a wired and connected world the influencers peer out of their square boxes. Against a pink or beige or golden background, they all share the same message.
Self-care. A modern woman practices a self-care routine.
The influencer will preach with the utmost sincerity. She is a trend setting prophet, and her bible is whatever pastel colored bottle has paid enough to grace her screen today.
The modern woman, her hair in a bun that’s perched atop her head, or in a day old sweatshirt that smells faintly of infant piss or vomit (or both) nods.
Self-care. She must find herself a self care routine.
But time is fleeting. How can one practice self care in the midst of a thousand daily chores that triple the minute one gets missed? Especially if the modern woman is expected to work, cook, clean, and perfectly parent at every god-damn minute of every single day.
Modernity is a dream
A beautiful one, sold in 10 second chunks of neutral colored smiles.
In reality, it’s profits for clicks. The capitalization of consumption.
And yet, still we scroll.
For self-care purposes, of course.
Categories
Changeling
My dear,
You were never meant to pick up the pieces of a life cut too short.
It is the cruelty of existence that requires you to soldier on. It is not God’s will, it is not fate. It is…happenstance. And you have met it with wide eyed courage.
You must feel forgotten. Overlooked and overwhelmed. Angry at the world or God or the Universe for leaving you behind.
Guilty for your anger. Guilty for your rage. Guilty for all the roiling emotions that ebb and flow with the circadian rhythm of the day.
Because you’re the one who stayed.
My dear, I see you. I see your youth. I see your bright soul alight with childish wonder.
I see how it’s dimmed now that you can no longer explore the vast expanse of this incandescent world with the man you love.
You’re a changeling. Alone in the bizarre shadow called Earth now stripped of light.
But please remember…
Grief is not attached to morality.
Grief simply is.
You will feel knives of anger, shards of hatred, and moments of spite. You will feel sparks of joy, bubbles of love, and waves of compassion. And all this will barrage you in staccato rhymes of confusion.
Because you were left behind.
But my dear, you are not forgotten. Though it may seem that way.
You were left behind. But we are by your side.
Hipstory 