If you die, while in the Witness Protection Program,
What name goes on the headstone?
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Saturday, May 16, 2009
R. D. Dooley, M.D. - Chapter X
CHAPTER X
My father's regiment moved from Vicksburg to New Orleans, where they were stationed for several months. From New Orleans they crossed the Gulf of Mexico in a cattle boat and were stationed in Brownsville. Their presence in Brownsville was occasioned by rumors that an ally of the Confederacy was planning an attack on the Union forces by approaching through Mexico and Texas. The war ended while Dad's regiment was in Brownsville, from which place he was discharged.
He remained in Texas for awhile working as a cowhand. He helped drive cattle to market over the Chrisom Trail. The government made land in Kansas available to veterans. Dad staked out
a claim, but let it go back to the government by his failure to meet all the conditions required by the government to validate a claim.
My memory is vague on Dad's whereabouts after his Texas experience, but I presume he returned home to Indiana. He worked in the forest clearing land for farms and I know he was employed for a while hewing railroad cross ties.
Later he was employed as a farm hand by my Grandfather Bradford, where he met, courted and married my mother who was sixteen years his junior. They purchased the fifty-two acre Joel Jackson farm and started housekeeping.
In due time the little Dooley's began to arrive, first my brother Dennison, then Paul, Ruth, Mary and lastly me, on my mothers birthday. By the time I arrived the house was pretty well filled.
My family was a congenial family. I never heard my mother and father engage in an argument, although I am sure they must have had some because of the difference in their temperaments. My father was excitable and quick to anger and my mother was complacent, calm, and self disciplined. My brothers and sisters could easily be classified into one of two categories. One brother and one sister were temperamentally similar to my father, and the other
brother and sister favored our mother.
I have been told many times that my temperament matches my fathers. My mother was quite religious as I have stated before. Nothing was allowed to interfere with family morning worship
which consisted of Bible reading and prayer. We never ate a meal without Grace being said by either my father or mother. We attended Church most of the day every Sunday.
We were strictly trained to abide by the golden rule, respect and revere our God, and have boundless faith in our constitution and country. My father was a solid Republican and was wary of most Democrats. His advice to his sons was that there are two creatures on this earth you can't trust, one is a rattlesnake, and the other is a Democrat. I believe in the early history of political parties the rattlesnake was the emblem of the Democratic Party.
We were the first farmers in our community to own a binder or reaping machine used in harvesting wheat and oats. The binder was a very sophisticated implement for that day and of course its sophistication made it temperamental and subject to frequent episodes of malfunction. It broke down about noontime, and Dad hurried through his meal to return to the field to repair the binder.
Dil Cox, a wartime crony of Dad's and a neighbor, was hired to help with the wheat harvest, told the following story.
Dil returned to the field where Dad was working and Dad did not notice his approach because he was working under the binder, and was talking to himself repeatedly saying ''Keep cool Caleb, Keep cool Caleb". Dad heeded his good advice which resulted in the successful repair of the disabled machine.
I could fill many pages relating memories of my boyhood days, but the following stands out the freshest in my memory because it has always mystified me.
I was going fishing in the gravel pit five hundred yards north of our barn. To reach the pond I had to walk through a field of deep clover. A so had escaped from her pen and had elected to farrow her litter of pigs in the clover field. I was unaware of the sows presence, and unfortunately stepped on one of her little pigs which responded with a loud and distressed squeal. The sow reacted as any good mother would to protect her pig by charging me with her
mouth open and her eyes flashing anger. I froze with fear, and did not move, and the angry sow came within three feet of me, stopped and turned away.
I still recall the resignation I felt, and the thought my time had come to depart this life. I have never understood why. I met the situation as I did because I did not have time to reason out a course of action or choose alternatives. I could not have run in the deep clover, and I had nothing with which to defend myself against the angry beast, and by running I would have invited the animal to attack. I have been told that a sow with young pigs is vicious, and dangerous if her pigs are molested.
Since reading Billy Graham's book on Angels, I wonder if a Guardian Angel might not have come to my rescue. I proceeded to the fishing pond without further close calls, but you can bet your life I avoided the clover field on my return home.
I was always fascinated by the blacksmith and his shop in the little village of Hanfield. I longed to take my place in front of the forge and anvil to hammer the glowing hot steel into some chosen shape. The chance to fulfill my desires came when the oil boom came to our area. A tool yard along with a blacksmith shop was established a short distance from our home. The tool yard was not used on Sunday which gave me the chance to realize my dreams, and get my fill of pumping the bellows, watching the glowing fire, and hammering the red hot steel. I selected a
Sunday morning, and slipped away after breakfast before it was time to get ready for Church, started a fire in the forge, and at last was realizing my ambition of being a blacksmith.
I was having great fun making tongs, chains, and chisels, until I unfortunately grasped a piece of hot metal and seared the skin in the palm of my right hand, which abruptly terminated my blacksmithing activities for that day.
I started across the field on my way home when I observed a bull eyeing my presence. I can never be sure of the bull's intentions, but when he started to move in my direction I ran to a nearby apple tree and scampered up the tree to remove myself from the possible threat the bull posed. He lingered under the tree for a while and then moved on giving me the opportunity to drop to the ground and hurry to a nearby fence and safety I have never beer sure whether or not the bull meant to harm me or only wanted me to rub his nose, but being in doubt, the course I pursued seemed the prudent one.
So far, my day had fallen short of my expectations, a burnt hand, a bad scare by a bull, and the worst of all a confrontation with my Dad, who would be judge, prosecutor and executioner in my trial of disobedience.
I did not have long to wait, my Dad met me as I entered the yard, and there was no mistaking that he was definitely displeased. I explained my actions and exhibited my burnt hand, now covered with a large blister, hoping the sight of my injury might stir a wave of compassion to soften the severity of the penalty. I didn't have to wait long for his decision. He reached in to his pocket and brought out his old Barlow knife, the one he used for whittling, cutting off chunks of plug tobacco and castrating pigs, and dramatically pointed to the nearby orchard.
Previous experience had educated me in its meaning. I was to proceed to the orchard and cut a branch from an apple tree no less than one half inch in diameter. If I returned with a branch less than the minimum requirements, it would only prolong the agony of waiting, and mean another trip to the orchard.
With the whip in hand, Dad applied it to my backside like he was in a '"hurry. I reacted by giving out with loud, agonizing outbursts, because experience had taught me that the earlier and louder I yelled, the sooner Dad would quit.
A whipping was not only painful, but disgraceful in our family, and the punished one felt ostracized for the balance of the day. I was a thoroughly chastened boy, and had indeed learned a hard lesson that day.
To be continued
My father's regiment moved from Vicksburg to New Orleans, where they were stationed for several months. From New Orleans they crossed the Gulf of Mexico in a cattle boat and were stationed in Brownsville. Their presence in Brownsville was occasioned by rumors that an ally of the Confederacy was planning an attack on the Union forces by approaching through Mexico and Texas. The war ended while Dad's regiment was in Brownsville, from which place he was discharged.
He remained in Texas for awhile working as a cowhand. He helped drive cattle to market over the Chrisom Trail. The government made land in Kansas available to veterans. Dad staked out
a claim, but let it go back to the government by his failure to meet all the conditions required by the government to validate a claim.
My memory is vague on Dad's whereabouts after his Texas experience, but I presume he returned home to Indiana. He worked in the forest clearing land for farms and I know he was employed for a while hewing railroad cross ties.
Later he was employed as a farm hand by my Grandfather Bradford, where he met, courted and married my mother who was sixteen years his junior. They purchased the fifty-two acre Joel Jackson farm and started housekeeping.
In due time the little Dooley's began to arrive, first my brother Dennison, then Paul, Ruth, Mary and lastly me, on my mothers birthday. By the time I arrived the house was pretty well filled.
My family was a congenial family. I never heard my mother and father engage in an argument, although I am sure they must have had some because of the difference in their temperaments. My father was excitable and quick to anger and my mother was complacent, calm, and self disciplined. My brothers and sisters could easily be classified into one of two categories. One brother and one sister were temperamentally similar to my father, and the other
brother and sister favored our mother.
I have been told many times that my temperament matches my fathers. My mother was quite religious as I have stated before. Nothing was allowed to interfere with family morning worship
which consisted of Bible reading and prayer. We never ate a meal without Grace being said by either my father or mother. We attended Church most of the day every Sunday.
We were strictly trained to abide by the golden rule, respect and revere our God, and have boundless faith in our constitution and country. My father was a solid Republican and was wary of most Democrats. His advice to his sons was that there are two creatures on this earth you can't trust, one is a rattlesnake, and the other is a Democrat. I believe in the early history of political parties the rattlesnake was the emblem of the Democratic Party.
We were the first farmers in our community to own a binder or reaping machine used in harvesting wheat and oats. The binder was a very sophisticated implement for that day and of course its sophistication made it temperamental and subject to frequent episodes of malfunction. It broke down about noontime, and Dad hurried through his meal to return to the field to repair the binder.
Dil Cox, a wartime crony of Dad's and a neighbor, was hired to help with the wheat harvest, told the following story.
Dil returned to the field where Dad was working and Dad did not notice his approach because he was working under the binder, and was talking to himself repeatedly saying ''Keep cool Caleb, Keep cool Caleb". Dad heeded his good advice which resulted in the successful repair of the disabled machine.
I could fill many pages relating memories of my boyhood days, but the following stands out the freshest in my memory because it has always mystified me.
I was going fishing in the gravel pit five hundred yards north of our barn. To reach the pond I had to walk through a field of deep clover. A so had escaped from her pen and had elected to farrow her litter of pigs in the clover field. I was unaware of the sows presence, and unfortunately stepped on one of her little pigs which responded with a loud and distressed squeal. The sow reacted as any good mother would to protect her pig by charging me with her
mouth open and her eyes flashing anger. I froze with fear, and did not move, and the angry sow came within three feet of me, stopped and turned away.
I still recall the resignation I felt, and the thought my time had come to depart this life. I have never understood why. I met the situation as I did because I did not have time to reason out a course of action or choose alternatives. I could not have run in the deep clover, and I had nothing with which to defend myself against the angry beast, and by running I would have invited the animal to attack. I have been told that a sow with young pigs is vicious, and dangerous if her pigs are molested.
Since reading Billy Graham's book on Angels, I wonder if a Guardian Angel might not have come to my rescue. I proceeded to the fishing pond without further close calls, but you can bet your life I avoided the clover field on my return home.
I was always fascinated by the blacksmith and his shop in the little village of Hanfield. I longed to take my place in front of the forge and anvil to hammer the glowing hot steel into some chosen shape. The chance to fulfill my desires came when the oil boom came to our area. A tool yard along with a blacksmith shop was established a short distance from our home. The tool yard was not used on Sunday which gave me the chance to realize my dreams, and get my fill of pumping the bellows, watching the glowing fire, and hammering the red hot steel. I selected a
Sunday morning, and slipped away after breakfast before it was time to get ready for Church, started a fire in the forge, and at last was realizing my ambition of being a blacksmith.
I was having great fun making tongs, chains, and chisels, until I unfortunately grasped a piece of hot metal and seared the skin in the palm of my right hand, which abruptly terminated my blacksmithing activities for that day.
I started across the field on my way home when I observed a bull eyeing my presence. I can never be sure of the bull's intentions, but when he started to move in my direction I ran to a nearby apple tree and scampered up the tree to remove myself from the possible threat the bull posed. He lingered under the tree for a while and then moved on giving me the opportunity to drop to the ground and hurry to a nearby fence and safety I have never beer sure whether or not the bull meant to harm me or only wanted me to rub his nose, but being in doubt, the course I pursued seemed the prudent one.
So far, my day had fallen short of my expectations, a burnt hand, a bad scare by a bull, and the worst of all a confrontation with my Dad, who would be judge, prosecutor and executioner in my trial of disobedience.
I did not have long to wait, my Dad met me as I entered the yard, and there was no mistaking that he was definitely displeased. I explained my actions and exhibited my burnt hand, now covered with a large blister, hoping the sight of my injury might stir a wave of compassion to soften the severity of the penalty. I didn't have to wait long for his decision. He reached in to his pocket and brought out his old Barlow knife, the one he used for whittling, cutting off chunks of plug tobacco and castrating pigs, and dramatically pointed to the nearby orchard.
Previous experience had educated me in its meaning. I was to proceed to the orchard and cut a branch from an apple tree no less than one half inch in diameter. If I returned with a branch less than the minimum requirements, it would only prolong the agony of waiting, and mean another trip to the orchard.
With the whip in hand, Dad applied it to my backside like he was in a '"hurry. I reacted by giving out with loud, agonizing outbursts, because experience had taught me that the earlier and louder I yelled, the sooner Dad would quit.
A whipping was not only painful, but disgraceful in our family, and the punished one felt ostracized for the balance of the day. I was a thoroughly chastened boy, and had indeed learned a hard lesson that day.
To be continued
R. D. Dooley, M.D. - Chapter IX
CHAPTER IX
I was teethed on Civil War stories. My Dad had three Civil War cronies who lived nearby and they enjoyed getting together to swap stories and of course I listened most attentively to everything that was said.
Their names were Oil Cox, Henry Waggoner and Sam Blinn. Sam Blinn was the neighborhood drunk, and it was a common sight to see him stoned. It seemed that during most of their bull sessions the conversation would return to the battle of Champion Hills. I began to suspect that their estimate of the battle of Champion Hills was greatly exaggerated. I had never read in my history books any mention of the battle, let alone ascribing any importance to it.
My father's regiment, the 34th Indiana, was marching en route to Vicksburg and camped on the Champion farm about eight miles from Vicksburg. There was not the slightest expectation that the rebels under the command of the famous Confederate General Joe Johnson, were nearby, en route to relieve the beleaguered Confederate troops under Pemberton at Vicksburg.
General Johnson was surprised by the presence of the Union forces because his intelligence had not accounted for my Dad's regiment which was stationed between Johnson's forces and Vicksburg.
A brief but fierce and bloody battle ensued with the 34th Indiana being victorious and the rebels retreated. History reveals that Pemberton surrendered Vicksburg very soon after the Battle of Champion Hills. The loss of Vicksburg split the Confederate supply lines leading to a Union victory in the Midwest and the beginning of Confederate decline in strength. Indeed the Battle of Champion Hills might truthfully be regarded as the starting point of the Confederate
decline in the fortunes of war.
I recall my father telling of entering Vicksburg that Fourth of July and seeing the starving people devouring ill tasting and spoiled salt pork rations which had been supplied by the Union Commissary. He related that the inhabitants had been eating cats, dogs, rats and anything they could produce to avoid starvation.
To be continued
I was teethed on Civil War stories. My Dad had three Civil War cronies who lived nearby and they enjoyed getting together to swap stories and of course I listened most attentively to everything that was said.
Their names were Oil Cox, Henry Waggoner and Sam Blinn. Sam Blinn was the neighborhood drunk, and it was a common sight to see him stoned. It seemed that during most of their bull sessions the conversation would return to the battle of Champion Hills. I began to suspect that their estimate of the battle of Champion Hills was greatly exaggerated. I had never read in my history books any mention of the battle, let alone ascribing any importance to it.
My father's regiment, the 34th Indiana, was marching en route to Vicksburg and camped on the Champion farm about eight miles from Vicksburg. There was not the slightest expectation that the rebels under the command of the famous Confederate General Joe Johnson, were nearby, en route to relieve the beleaguered Confederate troops under Pemberton at Vicksburg.
General Johnson was surprised by the presence of the Union forces because his intelligence had not accounted for my Dad's regiment which was stationed between Johnson's forces and Vicksburg.
A brief but fierce and bloody battle ensued with the 34th Indiana being victorious and the rebels retreated. History reveals that Pemberton surrendered Vicksburg very soon after the Battle of Champion Hills. The loss of Vicksburg split the Confederate supply lines leading to a Union victory in the Midwest and the beginning of Confederate decline in strength. Indeed the Battle of Champion Hills might truthfully be regarded as the starting point of the Confederate
decline in the fortunes of war.
I recall my father telling of entering Vicksburg that Fourth of July and seeing the starving people devouring ill tasting and spoiled salt pork rations which had been supplied by the Union Commissary. He related that the inhabitants had been eating cats, dogs, rats and anything they could produce to avoid starvation.
To be continued
R. D. Dooley, M.D. - Chapter VIII
CHAPTER VIII
I have memories of only one grandparent. My fathers parents died many years before I was born. Grandfather Bradford owned a section of land, had large barns, and one of the most pretentious homes in the community. He lived alone when I knew him, and frequently visited us driving a white horse, Old Bill, hitched to a cart.
I plainly remember my mother had stopped her work to remove a splinter from my hand. I remember he reproached her for wasting her time in removing a splinter from my hand when it would fester out.
He was a square jawed man with an inordinately positive personality. We attended the farm auction held after my Grandfather's death and I still feel the pangs of disappointment I experienced because my Dad did not buy my grandfather's horse pistol which he carried when he was transporting slaves over one leg of the underground railway.
A little music box had been a favorite of mine and my father did not bid on it, and someone else bought it. I remember my mothers relating experiences he had told her about hauling slaves from his farm to near Huntington, Indiana.
They were transported from Anderson, Indiana to his farm north of Marion, where they were fed and hidden in the haymow over night. In the morning they were fed, hidden in a load of hay and driven eighteen miles to Huntington.
It was very risky because bounty hunters were numerous since they received a handsome bounty for the return of an escaped slave. The penalty for engaging in the illegal underground railway was quite severe.
Grandfather traveled with his big old horse pistol beside him on the wagon seat and I am sure he would have used it before he surrendered his cargo of slaves.
To be continued
I have memories of only one grandparent. My fathers parents died many years before I was born. Grandfather Bradford owned a section of land, had large barns, and one of the most pretentious homes in the community. He lived alone when I knew him, and frequently visited us driving a white horse, Old Bill, hitched to a cart.
I plainly remember my mother had stopped her work to remove a splinter from my hand. I remember he reproached her for wasting her time in removing a splinter from my hand when it would fester out.
He was a square jawed man with an inordinately positive personality. We attended the farm auction held after my Grandfather's death and I still feel the pangs of disappointment I experienced because my Dad did not buy my grandfather's horse pistol which he carried when he was transporting slaves over one leg of the underground railway.
A little music box had been a favorite of mine and my father did not bid on it, and someone else bought it. I remember my mothers relating experiences he had told her about hauling slaves from his farm to near Huntington, Indiana.
They were transported from Anderson, Indiana to his farm north of Marion, where they were fed and hidden in the haymow over night. In the morning they were fed, hidden in a load of hay and driven eighteen miles to Huntington.
It was very risky because bounty hunters were numerous since they received a handsome bounty for the return of an escaped slave. The penalty for engaging in the illegal underground railway was quite severe.
Grandfather traveled with his big old horse pistol beside him on the wagon seat and I am sure he would have used it before he surrendered his cargo of slaves.
To be continued
The Tomato Garden
The Tomato Garden
An old Italian man lived alone in New Jersey . He wanted to plant his annual tomato garden, but it was very difficult work, as the ground was hard. His only son, Vincent, who used to help him, was in prison.
The old man wrote a letter to his son and described his predicament:
Dear Vincent, I am feeling pretty sad, because it looks like I won't be able to plant my tomato garden this year. I'm just getting too old to be digging up a garden plot. I know if you were here, my troubles would be over. I know you would be happy to dig the plot for me, like in the old days. Love, Papa
A few days later he received a letter from his son.
Dear Pop, Don't dig up that garden. That's where the bodies are buried. Love, Vinnie
At 4 a.m. the next morning, FBI agents and local police arrived and dug up the entire area without finding any bodies. They apologized to the old man and left.
That same day the old man received another letter from his son..
Dear Pop, Go ahead and plant the tomatoes now. That's the best I could do under the circumstances.
Love you, Vinnie
An old Italian man lived alone in New Jersey . He wanted to plant his annual tomato garden, but it was very difficult work, as the ground was hard. His only son, Vincent, who used to help him, was in prison.
The old man wrote a letter to his son and described his predicament:
Dear Vincent, I am feeling pretty sad, because it looks like I won't be able to plant my tomato garden this year. I'm just getting too old to be digging up a garden plot. I know if you were here, my troubles would be over. I know you would be happy to dig the plot for me, like in the old days. Love, Papa
A few days later he received a letter from his son.
Dear Pop, Don't dig up that garden. That's where the bodies are buried. Love, Vinnie
At 4 a.m. the next morning, FBI agents and local police arrived and dug up the entire area without finding any bodies. They apologized to the old man and left.
That same day the old man received another letter from his son..
Dear Pop, Go ahead and plant the tomatoes now. That's the best I could do under the circumstances.
Love you, Vinnie
Friday, May 15, 2009
My meeting with GlennTurner
I forget the year, but we had a friend who was involved with Turner and Koscot. He got my attention when he mentioned he was almost embarrassed when he went to the mailbox, there was so much money there, for doing so little.
He was a high ranking government official at our local air force installation.
Glenn was coming to Columbus, Ohio, and he wanted us to go over with he and his wife, to listen to what he had to say. I was impressed with the money he was making, so we decided to go.
Southern Hotel, room was filling up, many men walking around in shimmering suits, that were popular then, everyone well dressed, nice crowd.
I noticed the podium was at the opposite end from the entrance, but didn't think anything about it.
The lights dimmed a little, the door slammed open, and some guy in a blue shimmering suit came running, full speed, from the door to the podium, jumped up on the podium, and enthusiastically welcomed all, high energy, electric atmosphere.
The scene was repeated a number of times during the night by various members of his staff, and some successful "dealers" who were making tons of money ........ all the talk was ..... MAKING MONEY, helping people under you to MAKE MONEY, MONEY, MONEY, INCOME, MONEY, MONEY, and OPPORTUNITY ...... the opportunity to show US how to make money.
One ran up so fast, could not stop in time and almost knocked the podium over, plus a few chairs and people, but he was still enthusiastic, limping, but enthusiastic.
They apologized about Glenn, he was late. He had a strict rule, be on time for the company airplane, or fly commercial. He had been late, his plane took off, and he had to fly commercial, so he was running late. This was before cell phones, text messaging, etc.
He finally arrived, ran from the back, same style of suit (later learned they had a tailor in Georgia, or somewhere, who made suits for everyone). As he was running to the front, the crowd got to their feet, yelled, applauded, jumped, it was like the Saviour was entering the room.
He went through his 3rd grade education, cleft palet (hair lip), war record, selling Japanese sewing machines, right after the war, to veterans of the war, or their parents. In one case he was knocked off the porch by a man whose son had been killed, by the Japanese.
I forget how many he was able to by, maybe 20 or so, and he sold all of them, 3rd grade education, cleft palet, and all, he sold his table top Japanese sewing machines.
After he sold all of them, he went back, and sold most of them a better machine, a floor type, took the others on trade, and then sold them. He was a true salesman.
I think he indicated that he had gone bankrupt, at that time, three times, "And each time I went to court in a Cadillac."
He was a charmer, hypnotic, you were drawn to every word he said. There was something magnetic about his personality, you believed what he said, you were somewhat mesmerized by his tone of voice. I almost think that at the end of his speech, if he had walked over to me and said, "Leave your wife and family and come with me to Florida,"I might have done it, he was that good.
During the evening, little to no talk of a product to sell, just the opportunity. I understand it was quite some time after he started his company that he even had a product to sell. He was just selling the opportunity ..... for pretty good bucks, and people were buying it.
Eventually he was selling tapes, "Dare to be great," I think it was.
I class Glenn with L. Ron Hubbard, Karish, probably Adolph Hitler, Manson, and some others who had that charisma, that blinded people, and they followed. I have to add Obama to that list also. I predicted four years ago that he would be our next president, based on his charisma, sometning few politicians have.
I was very impressed with Glenn Turner, salesman extraordinaire, empire builder and pyramid expert, not the ones in Egypt.
When it was over, the people we were with, wanted us to walk up front with them, meet Glenn, "just touch him." Scary.
A LINK TO MORE
He was a high ranking government official at our local air force installation.
Glenn was coming to Columbus, Ohio, and he wanted us to go over with he and his wife, to listen to what he had to say. I was impressed with the money he was making, so we decided to go.
Southern Hotel, room was filling up, many men walking around in shimmering suits, that were popular then, everyone well dressed, nice crowd.
I noticed the podium was at the opposite end from the entrance, but didn't think anything about it.
The lights dimmed a little, the door slammed open, and some guy in a blue shimmering suit came running, full speed, from the door to the podium, jumped up on the podium, and enthusiastically welcomed all, high energy, electric atmosphere.
The scene was repeated a number of times during the night by various members of his staff, and some successful "dealers" who were making tons of money ........ all the talk was ..... MAKING MONEY, helping people under you to MAKE MONEY, MONEY, MONEY, INCOME, MONEY, MONEY, and OPPORTUNITY ...... the opportunity to show US how to make money.
One ran up so fast, could not stop in time and almost knocked the podium over, plus a few chairs and people, but he was still enthusiastic, limping, but enthusiastic.
They apologized about Glenn, he was late. He had a strict rule, be on time for the company airplane, or fly commercial. He had been late, his plane took off, and he had to fly commercial, so he was running late. This was before cell phones, text messaging, etc.
He finally arrived, ran from the back, same style of suit (later learned they had a tailor in Georgia, or somewhere, who made suits for everyone). As he was running to the front, the crowd got to their feet, yelled, applauded, jumped, it was like the Saviour was entering the room.
He went through his 3rd grade education, cleft palet (hair lip), war record, selling Japanese sewing machines, right after the war, to veterans of the war, or their parents. In one case he was knocked off the porch by a man whose son had been killed, by the Japanese.
I forget how many he was able to by, maybe 20 or so, and he sold all of them, 3rd grade education, cleft palet, and all, he sold his table top Japanese sewing machines.
After he sold all of them, he went back, and sold most of them a better machine, a floor type, took the others on trade, and then sold them. He was a true salesman.
I think he indicated that he had gone bankrupt, at that time, three times, "And each time I went to court in a Cadillac."
He was a charmer, hypnotic, you were drawn to every word he said. There was something magnetic about his personality, you believed what he said, you were somewhat mesmerized by his tone of voice. I almost think that at the end of his speech, if he had walked over to me and said, "Leave your wife and family and come with me to Florida,"I might have done it, he was that good.
During the evening, little to no talk of a product to sell, just the opportunity. I understand it was quite some time after he started his company that he even had a product to sell. He was just selling the opportunity ..... for pretty good bucks, and people were buying it.
Eventually he was selling tapes, "Dare to be great," I think it was.
I class Glenn with L. Ron Hubbard, Karish, probably Adolph Hitler, Manson, and some others who had that charisma, that blinded people, and they followed. I have to add Obama to that list also. I predicted four years ago that he would be our next president, based on his charisma, sometning few politicians have.
I was very impressed with Glenn Turner, salesman extraordinaire, empire builder and pyramid expert, not the ones in Egypt.
When it was over, the people we were with, wanted us to walk up front with them, meet Glenn, "just touch him." Scary.
A LINK TO MORE
Thursday, May 14, 2009
R. D. Dooley, M.D. - Chapter VII Cont
Chapter VII Continued
Butchering day was a special day for me, it meant our neighbors would come early in the morning and stay all day.
We would have dinner together and have great fun joshing and joking with each other. It was the only day I asked and was permitted to stay home from school.
The extensive preparations for butchering had been done the day before. The large iron kettles were brought out and set up near the woodhouse for heating water to be used in the butchering routine. The old mud boat sled was backed to the woodhouse to make a platform needed in the preparation of the carcasses. A derrick was improvised to suspend the hog for gutting and cooling in the crisp early winter air. It usually took the fore noon for the actual butchering and the afternoon was spent in dismembering the carcasses, trimming the hams, shoulders, etc., with the lean trimmings cut in small pieces for sausage and the fat being rendered for lard.
My Dad always rendered the lard because he possessed a special expertise required and also because he had an unusual tolerance for smoke. He could stand all afternoon stirring the lard with a big wooden paddle and suffer no ill effects from his constant exposure to smoke.
Contrary to my family's practice of not discarding anything usable, the majority of the so called offal's were not used. Kidneys, sweetbreads and spleens were fed to the dogs. Much of the liver was made into liver pudding and the pigs feet pickled and preserved. The meat from the head was made into head cheese and mince meat. After the butchering was completed, the hams, shoulders, bacon and seasoning parts were packed in a barrel and covered with salt. After they were given time to cure, they were hung on racks in the little smoke house where they were
smoked with smoke from a fire of corncobs, sassafras and hickory wood.
After the smoke had thoroughly penetrated the meat, each joint was placed in separate muslin bags and hung on the ceiling joists of the smoke house.
We were usually very hungry for fresh meat because all summer our meat diet had been cured meats or chicken and our appetites were keenly whetted for a taste of fresh meat. We could not wait for supper to get a taste of fresh meat, but prepared some in advance by suspending a tenderloin strip on the end of a string and dropping it in a kettle of rendering lard to be cooked to a delicious bit, and which in turn made us more anxious for a full meal of fresh pork.
After the lard was rendered, the solids were transferred to a press which pressed out all the remaining lard, and the solids were convened to a mass of residue we called cracklings, which had a good flavor and always presented a temptation to over eat, usually resulting in gastrointestinal upsets.
No history of the Caleb Dooley family would be complete without a tribute to our faithful old horse Dock He was a beautiful light bay horse of about 1200 pounds and from a breed known as Copper Bottom, which is now extinct.
My father bought him after my parents were married and started farming. Our family really grew up with old Dock, and we all loved him giving him a human quality. He trotted gracefully when hitched to a buggy, and when hitched to a corn cultivator he would turn at the end of a row without trampling the delicate young corn plants. I am sure if there is a horse heaven, old Dock is serenely grazing in the lush celestial pastures under the watchful eye of the arch angel.
To be continued
Butchering day was a special day for me, it meant our neighbors would come early in the morning and stay all day.
We would have dinner together and have great fun joshing and joking with each other. It was the only day I asked and was permitted to stay home from school.
The extensive preparations for butchering had been done the day before. The large iron kettles were brought out and set up near the woodhouse for heating water to be used in the butchering routine. The old mud boat sled was backed to the woodhouse to make a platform needed in the preparation of the carcasses. A derrick was improvised to suspend the hog for gutting and cooling in the crisp early winter air. It usually took the fore noon for the actual butchering and the afternoon was spent in dismembering the carcasses, trimming the hams, shoulders, etc., with the lean trimmings cut in small pieces for sausage and the fat being rendered for lard.
My Dad always rendered the lard because he possessed a special expertise required and also because he had an unusual tolerance for smoke. He could stand all afternoon stirring the lard with a big wooden paddle and suffer no ill effects from his constant exposure to smoke.
Contrary to my family's practice of not discarding anything usable, the majority of the so called offal's were not used. Kidneys, sweetbreads and spleens were fed to the dogs. Much of the liver was made into liver pudding and the pigs feet pickled and preserved. The meat from the head was made into head cheese and mince meat. After the butchering was completed, the hams, shoulders, bacon and seasoning parts were packed in a barrel and covered with salt. After they were given time to cure, they were hung on racks in the little smoke house where they were
smoked with smoke from a fire of corncobs, sassafras and hickory wood.
After the smoke had thoroughly penetrated the meat, each joint was placed in separate muslin bags and hung on the ceiling joists of the smoke house.
We were usually very hungry for fresh meat because all summer our meat diet had been cured meats or chicken and our appetites were keenly whetted for a taste of fresh meat. We could not wait for supper to get a taste of fresh meat, but prepared some in advance by suspending a tenderloin strip on the end of a string and dropping it in a kettle of rendering lard to be cooked to a delicious bit, and which in turn made us more anxious for a full meal of fresh pork.
After the lard was rendered, the solids were transferred to a press which pressed out all the remaining lard, and the solids were convened to a mass of residue we called cracklings, which had a good flavor and always presented a temptation to over eat, usually resulting in gastrointestinal upsets.
No history of the Caleb Dooley family would be complete without a tribute to our faithful old horse Dock He was a beautiful light bay horse of about 1200 pounds and from a breed known as Copper Bottom, which is now extinct.
My father bought him after my parents were married and started farming. Our family really grew up with old Dock, and we all loved him giving him a human quality. He trotted gracefully when hitched to a buggy, and when hitched to a corn cultivator he would turn at the end of a row without trampling the delicate young corn plants. I am sure if there is a horse heaven, old Dock is serenely grazing in the lush celestial pastures under the watchful eye of the arch angel.
To be continued
R. D. Dooley, M.D. - Chapter VII
CHAPTER VII
It was not easy to wrangle a living for seven, out of fifty-two acres of only fairly productive land. There were possibly twenty acres of better than average productive land, twelve acres above and twenty acres below average. My father received a pension of thirty dollars monthly for his civil war service which augmented the meager farm income.
After my grandfather Bradford's death, my mother inherited sixty acres, one and one half miles west of our home. This acreage made only a slight contribution to our income.
Nothing was wasted. I well remember the old ash hopper which stood east of our house in the chicken yard where we dumped the ashes from our stove and fireplace. When it rained the lye content went into solution and dripped down into an earthen crock and was used to make soap. The waste from the kitchen was boiled in the lye to accomplish saponefication, resulting in an ugly brown, foul smelling concoction which we used on Monday in the family washing.
The soiled clothes were boiled in a large copper washtub on the kitchen stove and came out clean from the hand operated washing machine. I am sure today if we had to use such slow and laborious methods we would take better care of our clothes. I am sure the name "Blue Monday" came from the laborious and unpleasant task of doing the laundry which was traditionally reserved for Monday.
One of the most precious memories I harbor is that of maple syrup time which came in February or March. We had several Maple trees in our six acre wood lot which were tapped, using home made elder spigots, under which a bucket was hung to collect the sap. The sap was gathered in a barrel on a sled, pulled by faithful old Dock and emptied in large iron kettles where it was concentrated by boiling. It was a long and tedious process and seemingly such tiny rewards in the small amount of syrup for the large amount of sap processed, but it tasted mighty good on
buckwheat cakes at breakfast time.
I remember so vividly when our entire family went to the sugar camp and cooked our supper. That evening of family pleasure provides me with one of my most precious memories in my full bank of memories.
My father was an expert gardener, and our garden unfailingly supplied an abundance of delicious vegetables for our dining table and for canning and preserving for winter needs. I remember that we were the only family in the neighborhood who attempted to grow celery, which required special attention and care during its growing, and after it was harvested. The plants required an extra amount of moisture and had to be bleached after they were harvested.
We seemed to be more successful than our neighbors in growing watermelons and cantaloupes, and always seemed to have plenty to give away. One summer I remember was an exceptionally good melon season and we had far more than we and our neighbors could eat, so we took a wagon load of beautiful melons into town hoping we might sell them to grocery stores, but there was no sale for them. We threw out the melons along the roadside during our journey home.
We stopped at a grocery store and purchased a slice of cheese, a can of sardines, five cents worth of crackers and cookies, each item costing five cents, and had a lunch fit for a king, as we bumped along the rough gravel road.
I can still see our cellar as it appeared in the fall of the year after the vegetables and fruits had been gathered, canned or preserved for the winter season. On the rear wall of the twenty foot square cellar room were bins heaped full of potatoes, sweet potatoes, cabbage, celery, turnips, parsnips and carrots. Along the sides of the room were sturdy shelves supporting row after row of cans containing tomatoes, sweet corn, green beans, black raspberries, cherries, peaches, strawberries, apple butter, mince meat and sundry other fruits, vegetables and meats after the
butchering season.
The building over the cellar we called the smoke house and our cured meats hung from the ceiling beams and were easily accessible to the kitchen. Certainly no better example of planned providence could be found than our cellar and smoke house provided.
The family did not enjoy many luxuries. We were plainly and inexpensively dressed and lived a generally spartan life, but we were never undernourished. With a productive garden with a wealth of vegetables, fields of wheat to produce our flour, pigs and cattle for our meat, hens to give us eggs and chicken dinners, contented cows in the barn to supply milk, orchards to give boundless supplies of apples, peaches, cherries, plums, gooseberries, raspberries and strawberries, we enjoyed luxuries as great as a king could afford.
To be continued
It was not easy to wrangle a living for seven, out of fifty-two acres of only fairly productive land. There were possibly twenty acres of better than average productive land, twelve acres above and twenty acres below average. My father received a pension of thirty dollars monthly for his civil war service which augmented the meager farm income.
After my grandfather Bradford's death, my mother inherited sixty acres, one and one half miles west of our home. This acreage made only a slight contribution to our income.
Nothing was wasted. I well remember the old ash hopper which stood east of our house in the chicken yard where we dumped the ashes from our stove and fireplace. When it rained the lye content went into solution and dripped down into an earthen crock and was used to make soap. The waste from the kitchen was boiled in the lye to accomplish saponefication, resulting in an ugly brown, foul smelling concoction which we used on Monday in the family washing.
The soiled clothes were boiled in a large copper washtub on the kitchen stove and came out clean from the hand operated washing machine. I am sure today if we had to use such slow and laborious methods we would take better care of our clothes. I am sure the name "Blue Monday" came from the laborious and unpleasant task of doing the laundry which was traditionally reserved for Monday.
One of the most precious memories I harbor is that of maple syrup time which came in February or March. We had several Maple trees in our six acre wood lot which were tapped, using home made elder spigots, under which a bucket was hung to collect the sap. The sap was gathered in a barrel on a sled, pulled by faithful old Dock and emptied in large iron kettles where it was concentrated by boiling. It was a long and tedious process and seemingly such tiny rewards in the small amount of syrup for the large amount of sap processed, but it tasted mighty good on
buckwheat cakes at breakfast time.
I remember so vividly when our entire family went to the sugar camp and cooked our supper. That evening of family pleasure provides me with one of my most precious memories in my full bank of memories.
My father was an expert gardener, and our garden unfailingly supplied an abundance of delicious vegetables for our dining table and for canning and preserving for winter needs. I remember that we were the only family in the neighborhood who attempted to grow celery, which required special attention and care during its growing, and after it was harvested. The plants required an extra amount of moisture and had to be bleached after they were harvested.
We seemed to be more successful than our neighbors in growing watermelons and cantaloupes, and always seemed to have plenty to give away. One summer I remember was an exceptionally good melon season and we had far more than we and our neighbors could eat, so we took a wagon load of beautiful melons into town hoping we might sell them to grocery stores, but there was no sale for them. We threw out the melons along the roadside during our journey home.
We stopped at a grocery store and purchased a slice of cheese, a can of sardines, five cents worth of crackers and cookies, each item costing five cents, and had a lunch fit for a king, as we bumped along the rough gravel road.
I can still see our cellar as it appeared in the fall of the year after the vegetables and fruits had been gathered, canned or preserved for the winter season. On the rear wall of the twenty foot square cellar room were bins heaped full of potatoes, sweet potatoes, cabbage, celery, turnips, parsnips and carrots. Along the sides of the room were sturdy shelves supporting row after row of cans containing tomatoes, sweet corn, green beans, black raspberries, cherries, peaches, strawberries, apple butter, mince meat and sundry other fruits, vegetables and meats after the
butchering season.
The building over the cellar we called the smoke house and our cured meats hung from the ceiling beams and were easily accessible to the kitchen. Certainly no better example of planned providence could be found than our cellar and smoke house provided.
The family did not enjoy many luxuries. We were plainly and inexpensively dressed and lived a generally spartan life, but we were never undernourished. With a productive garden with a wealth of vegetables, fields of wheat to produce our flour, pigs and cattle for our meat, hens to give us eggs and chicken dinners, contented cows in the barn to supply milk, orchards to give boundless supplies of apples, peaches, cherries, plums, gooseberries, raspberries and strawberries, we enjoyed luxuries as great as a king could afford.
To be continued
R. D. Dooley, M.D. - Chapter VI
CHAPTER VI
My Mother was stricken with lobar pneumonia, and on February 25th, 1909, at two a.m. she was called away. She left behind a crushed, sad, and bewildered family. The afternoon prior to mother's death, she must have realized the end was near, because she called Denny (my Dads older brother) to her bedside to give him some instructions, and asked him to promise her that he would look after me.
I was eleven years old, and my father was sixty-five, and she judged that he might
not survive to take care of me as long as I would need direction and care.
After my mother's death, my sister Ruth dropped out of school to assume the management of our household, which she did with remarkable skill and devotion.
My mother and father had looked forward to remodeling and modernizing our house which was woefully inadequate for our family. My mother had discussed her wishes as to the remodeling program. Dad decided to go on with the building because he was sure mother would have favored it, since it was one of her fondest dreams.
The building was started as soon as the weather cleared in the spring, so we had an attractive and commodious new house of five bedrooms, parlor, " family room, bath and kitchen. The plumbing was not completed in the bathroom, so we continued to patronize the little chick sales facility at the end of the garden.
Our home was easily the nicest in the neighborhood, but we were all so sad that Mother could not help us enjoy it.
My earliest recollection was of primitive facilities. We pumped water by hand from a dug well in buckets and carried it to the watering troughs for our stock, also to the kitchen for cooking, and to the wash house where the family laundry was done. This was all back breaking work. We always wore clean clothes, even though it entailed strenuous efforts. We were told it is no disgrace to wear torn and patched clothes, but there is no excuse to wear soiled clothes.
To be continued
My Mother was stricken with lobar pneumonia, and on February 25th, 1909, at two a.m. she was called away. She left behind a crushed, sad, and bewildered family. The afternoon prior to mother's death, she must have realized the end was near, because she called Denny (my Dads older brother) to her bedside to give him some instructions, and asked him to promise her that he would look after me.
I was eleven years old, and my father was sixty-five, and she judged that he might
not survive to take care of me as long as I would need direction and care.
After my mother's death, my sister Ruth dropped out of school to assume the management of our household, which she did with remarkable skill and devotion.
My mother and father had looked forward to remodeling and modernizing our house which was woefully inadequate for our family. My mother had discussed her wishes as to the remodeling program. Dad decided to go on with the building because he was sure mother would have favored it, since it was one of her fondest dreams.
The building was started as soon as the weather cleared in the spring, so we had an attractive and commodious new house of five bedrooms, parlor, " family room, bath and kitchen. The plumbing was not completed in the bathroom, so we continued to patronize the little chick sales facility at the end of the garden.
Our home was easily the nicest in the neighborhood, but we were all so sad that Mother could not help us enjoy it.
My earliest recollection was of primitive facilities. We pumped water by hand from a dug well in buckets and carried it to the watering troughs for our stock, also to the kitchen for cooking, and to the wash house where the family laundry was done. This was all back breaking work. We always wore clean clothes, even though it entailed strenuous efforts. We were told it is no disgrace to wear torn and patched clothes, but there is no excuse to wear soiled clothes.
To be continued
R. D. Dooley, M.D. - Chapter V
CHAPTER V
My mother was a large woman and was distinguished by a large goiter. She was healthy and ruled her family with firmness and compassionate understanding. She was reared in a home in which sternness was the prevailing policy, and it was natural for her to carry her teaching over to her own family.
She was a very religious person and belonged to the Wesleyan Church which was then and still is a fundamental denomination. She frowned on card playing, and after our neighbors bought a flinch deck, where we would go to play cards, we begged her to permit us to buy a deck, but she refused at first. After much persuasions on our part, she relented and permitted us to buy a deck, but under her conditions. We were told the very first time she heard an argument during a game she would toss the cards in the fireplace. We did quite well for a while, then some difference arose, an argument ensued.
She did not speak a word, but carefully gathered up every card and tossed them in the fireplace. We sadly watched our cherished deck of cards go up the chimney in smoke. We never asked to replace them, because we knew we had violated the condition of their purchase, and knew from experience that in this instance there would be no compromise.
I can well remember our pantry on Saturday afternoon. The shelves were lined with pies, cakes, cookies and other goodies in preparation for company on Sunday. Nearly every Sunday, some relation, friends, or the preacher came to visit, and incidentally remained for dinner.
To be continued
My mother was a large woman and was distinguished by a large goiter. She was healthy and ruled her family with firmness and compassionate understanding. She was reared in a home in which sternness was the prevailing policy, and it was natural for her to carry her teaching over to her own family.
She was a very religious person and belonged to the Wesleyan Church which was then and still is a fundamental denomination. She frowned on card playing, and after our neighbors bought a flinch deck, where we would go to play cards, we begged her to permit us to buy a deck, but she refused at first. After much persuasions on our part, she relented and permitted us to buy a deck, but under her conditions. We were told the very first time she heard an argument during a game she would toss the cards in the fireplace. We did quite well for a while, then some difference arose, an argument ensued.
She did not speak a word, but carefully gathered up every card and tossed them in the fireplace. We sadly watched our cherished deck of cards go up the chimney in smoke. We never asked to replace them, because we knew we had violated the condition of their purchase, and knew from experience that in this instance there would be no compromise.
I can well remember our pantry on Saturday afternoon. The shelves were lined with pies, cakes, cookies and other goodies in preparation for company on Sunday. Nearly every Sunday, some relation, friends, or the preacher came to visit, and incidentally remained for dinner.
To be continued
R. D. Dooley, M.D. - Chapter IV
CHAPTER IV
Prior to his marriage, he studied, organized and conducted singing schools over much of the county. He hauled a reed organ on a wagon to school houses where the singing schools were conducted. By the way, that organ is in the possession of my niece Mary Ruth Watson, and is still in good condition.
My Dad was a skilled organist as well as a vocalist. The singing school at that time was both a social and educational event. When I was growing up it seemed like every adult in the county had gone to singing school to my Dad. He was a natural entertainer, and had extensive repertoire of songs and readings appropriate for most occasions. I can still hear him singing "Ha Ha, you and me, little brown jug don't I love thee", or "sauerkraut am goozley, sauerkraut am fine; I surely ought to know, cause I eats him all the time."
In addition to singing school, Dad gave organ lessons and he was indeed a strict teacher. He sat beside his pupil with a pointer in his hand poised to rap the knuckles of an errant hand in the event of a mistake.
I started to take lessons, and ran afoul of the pointer early, which terminated my music lesson very suddenly. My Dad bribed me by offering to buy me a badly needed bicycle tire if I would sing with my two sisters at a Church function. I sang alto, but cannot remember that my vocal debut was acclaimed a success. Judgment may be reached when you consider the fact that I was never invited to sing again.
To be continued
Prior to his marriage, he studied, organized and conducted singing schools over much of the county. He hauled a reed organ on a wagon to school houses where the singing schools were conducted. By the way, that organ is in the possession of my niece Mary Ruth Watson, and is still in good condition.
My Dad was a skilled organist as well as a vocalist. The singing school at that time was both a social and educational event. When I was growing up it seemed like every adult in the county had gone to singing school to my Dad. He was a natural entertainer, and had extensive repertoire of songs and readings appropriate for most occasions. I can still hear him singing "Ha Ha, you and me, little brown jug don't I love thee", or "sauerkraut am goozley, sauerkraut am fine; I surely ought to know, cause I eats him all the time."
In addition to singing school, Dad gave organ lessons and he was indeed a strict teacher. He sat beside his pupil with a pointer in his hand poised to rap the knuckles of an errant hand in the event of a mistake.
I started to take lessons, and ran afoul of the pointer early, which terminated my music lesson very suddenly. My Dad bribed me by offering to buy me a badly needed bicycle tire if I would sing with my two sisters at a Church function. I sang alto, but cannot remember that my vocal debut was acclaimed a success. Judgment may be reached when you consider the fact that I was never invited to sing again.
To be continued
R. D. Dooley, M.D. - Chapter III
CHAPTER III
I have no information relating to my father's early life. I know he enlisted at the age of sixteen in Anderson, Indiana, in the thirty-fourth Indiana Infantry, which was popularly named the Morton Rifles, because Governor Morton of Indiana had contributed much time and money toward the recruiting, equipping and training of the regiment.
Dad's early experiences after his enlistment were not good. His regiment wintered their first winter in northern Kentucky and lived in tents. It was an extremely cold winter and there were no provisions for heating the tent's during the frigid weather. They improvised by building fires on the ground and kept them burning all day.
To be continued
I have no information relating to my father's early life. I know he enlisted at the age of sixteen in Anderson, Indiana, in the thirty-fourth Indiana Infantry, which was popularly named the Morton Rifles, because Governor Morton of Indiana had contributed much time and money toward the recruiting, equipping and training of the regiment.
Dad's early experiences after his enlistment were not good. His regiment wintered their first winter in northern Kentucky and lived in tents. It was an extremely cold winter and there were no provisions for heating the tent's during the frigid weather. They improvised by building fires on the ground and kept them burning all day.
To be continued
R. D. Dooley, M.D. - Chapter II
CHAPTER II
I have always felt, and have often expressed, that I am from a lost generation. My grandfather Dooley was born in 1778, and fathered twenty-one children by two wives. His second marriage took place when he was forty-five years old, and his bride, my grandmother, was sixteen. My father was born when his father was sixty-six years old, and I was born when my father was fifty-four years old. In the atmosphere of today's economy, one speculates how a family of twenty-three could possibly exist.
I remember my father telling that many meals consisted of mush and milk, with the entire family circling a large kettle of mush, dipping their spoons in the common container.
I have no recollection of any detailed accounts of my Dad's family, except a recollection of my father re-telling some accounts which had been told to him by his mother. The family moved from the south via Virginia to Kentucky, where they lived in a fort. The men worked in the fields, while being guarded against marauding Indians, and the women and children
remained within the safety of the fort.
I have a little information I gained from one Robert Dooley, who at the time of our conversation was an internal auditor for the Weyerhaeuser Company. I had a telephone call early one morning when we were living in Dayton, and the caller opened the conversation by asking if the "R" in my name stood for Rueben. I replied in the negative, but told him I had an uncle Rueben who had been a Carmelite preacher. He explained that Rueben was a popular name in
his family, and he had a grandfather several generations removed who bore that name.
This established proof that we had common ancestors.
He had stopped in Dayton on his way east on business to search some records in Preble County for historical facts concerning the Dooley family. He related that he had been researching the family history for a number of years and had discovered that several Dooley's had played important roles in the Revolution.
His research revealed that the family originally settled in Alabama, and he found one county in that state in which every resident was a Dooley or closely related to a Dooley.
The family moved from Alabama to Virginia and thence to Kentucky. After the Indian situation had been settled, they moved to Preble County, Ohio, where my father was born in 1844. My grandfather died in Preble County and is buried there.
My widowed grandmother moved her flock of children to Grant County, Indiana, four miles west of Marion, where they settled on a farm. I remember visiting my uncle Dick, who lived in the home place, with my father after my mothers death, and I recall we had roast opossum and sweet potatoes for dinner.
To be continued
I have always felt, and have often expressed, that I am from a lost generation. My grandfather Dooley was born in 1778, and fathered twenty-one children by two wives. His second marriage took place when he was forty-five years old, and his bride, my grandmother, was sixteen. My father was born when his father was sixty-six years old, and I was born when my father was fifty-four years old. In the atmosphere of today's economy, one speculates how a family of twenty-three could possibly exist.
I remember my father telling that many meals consisted of mush and milk, with the entire family circling a large kettle of mush, dipping their spoons in the common container.
I have no recollection of any detailed accounts of my Dad's family, except a recollection of my father re-telling some accounts which had been told to him by his mother. The family moved from the south via Virginia to Kentucky, where they lived in a fort. The men worked in the fields, while being guarded against marauding Indians, and the women and children
remained within the safety of the fort.
I have a little information I gained from one Robert Dooley, who at the time of our conversation was an internal auditor for the Weyerhaeuser Company. I had a telephone call early one morning when we were living in Dayton, and the caller opened the conversation by asking if the "R" in my name stood for Rueben. I replied in the negative, but told him I had an uncle Rueben who had been a Carmelite preacher. He explained that Rueben was a popular name in
his family, and he had a grandfather several generations removed who bore that name.
This established proof that we had common ancestors.
He had stopped in Dayton on his way east on business to search some records in Preble County for historical facts concerning the Dooley family. He related that he had been researching the family history for a number of years and had discovered that several Dooley's had played important roles in the Revolution.
His research revealed that the family originally settled in Alabama, and he found one county in that state in which every resident was a Dooley or closely related to a Dooley.
The family moved from Alabama to Virginia and thence to Kentucky. After the Indian situation had been settled, they moved to Preble County, Ohio, where my father was born in 1844. My grandfather died in Preble County and is buried there.
My widowed grandmother moved her flock of children to Grant County, Indiana, four miles west of Marion, where they settled on a farm. I remember visiting my uncle Dick, who lived in the home place, with my father after my mothers death, and I recall we had roast opossum and sweet potatoes for dinner.
To be continued
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
R. D. Dooley, M.D. - Chapter 1
CHAPTER I
Dear Bud, Joe, and families ……….
I retired to bed January 8, 1975, feeling as well as usual. The day before I fell as a result of muscle weakness on my left side, but attached no special significance to the experience. I doubt if therapy had been instituted at that time much benefit would have resulted. I awoke quite early the next morning and being unable to go back to sleep, I arose to go to my chair in the family room to read. I had no thought that I was paralyzed, and only discovered my
infirmity when I attempted to walk and fell against the door jam to the door leading out of our bedroom.
I called Bessie, and dear Bessie with some new found strength was able to get me back in bed where we waited for morning so I could summon my son Joe. He came and called Dr. Mannino who recommended that I be taken to the hospital admitting room where I was admitted to a medical ward.
I was in the Licking Memorial Hospital for thirty days, receiving medical and physiotherapy treatments. My convalescence seemed very slow although I was able to ambulate a bit better, but still depended entirely on a wheel chair.
New regulations regarding early discharge of patients facilitated my efforts to gain an early discharge from the hospital in advance of my clinical indications, and I might add, before I was ready to return home.
I soon found my home environment was incapable of rendering necessary care. We called Dr. Mannino, and instructed him to make arrangements for me to enter the Dayton Veterans Hospital. We chose the Dayton Hospital for its reputation of having a splendid Physical Medical Department.
I was admitted to a medical ward and was in the care of an able internist who supervised my treatment. Physical therapy was started immediately, and I soon discovered the treatments I received in the Dayton Hospital were much more physical that the ones I had been accustomed
to at the Licking Memorial Hospital. I also concluded that physiotherapy is a misnomer, in fact it is not therapy because there is no expectation of affecting a cure, only a hope of sufficient improvement to enable the patient to live with and tolerate his infirmities, encouraged by the hope of cure.
I was treated well at the Dayton Hospital, and I thought I had arrived at the point of maximal improvement. My attending Doctor agreed that there seemed little need for me to remain in the hospital, so I returned home.
I must have suffered an extension of the thrombotic process in my brain, because there was a sudden increase in my disability. Dr. Mannino was told of the change in my condition, and he advised that I return to the Licking Memorial Hospital. Joe loaded me in his car, with the help of his guest, Jim Madison, took me to the admitting department.
I was admitted to the recovery room for lack of other accommodations. Dr. Mannino decided to start me on a Heparin regimen, which consisted of a series of heparin injections through an indwelling venous catheter, carefully monitored by frequent determinations of the heparin level in my venous blood.
I was not warned that psychic manifestations were a common side effect of heparin therapy. Unpleasant hallucinations and delusion which required restraint gave me a few unpleasant days, but they cleared after a few days.
I have been on an anticoagulant and must confess that my treatment has been at variances with good practice because I have had no laboratory evaluation of my blood status. This is my own, and not Dr. Mannino's neglect.
I returned home after seven days, I am sure improved, but still feeling some of the affects of my heparin treatment, and decided my care would be a greater burden than Bessie could support. I decided that a month in a good rest home would be helpful, so Joe admitted me to the Arlington Nursing Home for thirty days with the hope I might improve in that time. I had very good care, the nurses and other personnel were attentive, and most considerate.
I practiced my walking a great deal although I still made considerable use of the wheel chair. My roommate, Alvin Cooperrider, was a personable and fine gentleman, who made my stay in the rest home enjoyable. The rest home had just been built, and only recently occupied, so everything was spic and span.
To be continued ..................
Dear Bud, Joe, and families ……….
I retired to bed January 8, 1975, feeling as well as usual. The day before I fell as a result of muscle weakness on my left side, but attached no special significance to the experience. I doubt if therapy had been instituted at that time much benefit would have resulted. I awoke quite early the next morning and being unable to go back to sleep, I arose to go to my chair in the family room to read. I had no thought that I was paralyzed, and only discovered my
infirmity when I attempted to walk and fell against the door jam to the door leading out of our bedroom.
I called Bessie, and dear Bessie with some new found strength was able to get me back in bed where we waited for morning so I could summon my son Joe. He came and called Dr. Mannino who recommended that I be taken to the hospital admitting room where I was admitted to a medical ward.
I was in the Licking Memorial Hospital for thirty days, receiving medical and physiotherapy treatments. My convalescence seemed very slow although I was able to ambulate a bit better, but still depended entirely on a wheel chair.
New regulations regarding early discharge of patients facilitated my efforts to gain an early discharge from the hospital in advance of my clinical indications, and I might add, before I was ready to return home.
I soon found my home environment was incapable of rendering necessary care. We called Dr. Mannino, and instructed him to make arrangements for me to enter the Dayton Veterans Hospital. We chose the Dayton Hospital for its reputation of having a splendid Physical Medical Department.
I was admitted to a medical ward and was in the care of an able internist who supervised my treatment. Physical therapy was started immediately, and I soon discovered the treatments I received in the Dayton Hospital were much more physical that the ones I had been accustomed
to at the Licking Memorial Hospital. I also concluded that physiotherapy is a misnomer, in fact it is not therapy because there is no expectation of affecting a cure, only a hope of sufficient improvement to enable the patient to live with and tolerate his infirmities, encouraged by the hope of cure.
I was treated well at the Dayton Hospital, and I thought I had arrived at the point of maximal improvement. My attending Doctor agreed that there seemed little need for me to remain in the hospital, so I returned home.
I must have suffered an extension of the thrombotic process in my brain, because there was a sudden increase in my disability. Dr. Mannino was told of the change in my condition, and he advised that I return to the Licking Memorial Hospital. Joe loaded me in his car, with the help of his guest, Jim Madison, took me to the admitting department.
I was admitted to the recovery room for lack of other accommodations. Dr. Mannino decided to start me on a Heparin regimen, which consisted of a series of heparin injections through an indwelling venous catheter, carefully monitored by frequent determinations of the heparin level in my venous blood.
I was not warned that psychic manifestations were a common side effect of heparin therapy. Unpleasant hallucinations and delusion which required restraint gave me a few unpleasant days, but they cleared after a few days.
I have been on an anticoagulant and must confess that my treatment has been at variances with good practice because I have had no laboratory evaluation of my blood status. This is my own, and not Dr. Mannino's neglect.
I returned home after seven days, I am sure improved, but still feeling some of the affects of my heparin treatment, and decided my care would be a greater burden than Bessie could support. I decided that a month in a good rest home would be helpful, so Joe admitted me to the Arlington Nursing Home for thirty days with the hope I might improve in that time. I had very good care, the nurses and other personnel were attentive, and most considerate.
I practiced my walking a great deal although I still made considerable use of the wheel chair. My roommate, Alvin Cooperrider, was a personable and fine gentleman, who made my stay in the rest home enjoyable. The rest home had just been built, and only recently occupied, so everything was spic and span.
To be continued ..................
R. D. Dooley, M.D. - Part 1
Years ago, before my Father passed, he and I sat down and recorded some memories of his life. It is worth reading. I will periodically print some of it here. So check back often.
INTRODUCTION
As you will find out, my Father was a Doctor, and even though we had a close, nice, normal family life, being a Doctor, during my early years he was in General Practice, with home and office together, and then he went into Obstetrics, which takes even more time. I have many pleasant memories of my childhood.
Later on, after he had some health issues, he spent some time in a nursing home. Some of my most pleasant memories of him, oddly enough, were during this time.
A Doctor has people waiting on him, hand and foot. Nurses, secretaries, assistants and more, all at his call. But when he was in the nursing home, he was dependent upon me. I took him a nice breakfast every Sunday morning, visited him often during the week, and during much of this time, he was bedridden. So, we talked and talked, something that had not often happened because someone was always busy doing something.
Many of the incidents mention in this book, we talked about. Some I had heard before, but not in detail, and maybe being in a hurry, did not pay as much attention to the details.
That is when I suggested to him that he jot these things down, get them on paper, and inasmuch as I was in the printing business, I had the resources to do the typesetting, and ultimately print the book.
The first issues, was set on a pair of Freidan Justowriters, an early typesetting system, punched out on a 1” yellow tape, and then run through a reproducer, actually, old IBM typewriter type equipment. It was what we called “direct output” which meant no room for error. So, the first book had a number of errors, but still, the fifty or so first ones, went fast to family and friends.
This book, was set from a corrected copy, which had many scribbles and notes
I wanted to get recorded some of these incidents of his childhood, that would be unknown, after his passing. Thus this book. In many instances, he will refer to me, Joe, and Bud, my brother and perhaps other family members. He basically was writing this for my brother and I.
Dean Shannon Dooley and Joseph Bradford Dooley
THE TEN MINUTE FUDGE RECIPE
EASY TO FIX - TEN MINUTE FUDGE
THE FUDGE RECIPE
ONE CAN OF CAKE ICING
ONE JAR OF PEANUT BUTTER
EQUAL AMOUNTS - ANY KIND OF EITHER
STIR THEM TOGETHER IN A GLASS OR MICROWAVEABLE BOWL
MICROWAVE FOR THREE MINUTES
STIR WELL - THE MORE YOU STIR IT - THE BETTER IT IS
POUR IN TO A BUTTERED DISH
PUT IN THE FREEZER FOR ABOUT TEN MINUTES
GREAT FUDGE - EASY TO FIX
EXPERIMENT WITH DIFFERENT ICINGS AND PEANUT BUTTERS
DIFFERENT LAYERS
CONSISTENCY IS GREAT
WE TAKE A MELON BALL SCOOP, ROUND THE BALLS BY HAND
THEN ROLL SOME IN COCONUT, NUTS, COCOA, ETC
THEY ARE GREAT THAT WAY
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
The WORLD is right again ......
I hope you all have heard ......
Trump .................. in his infinite wisdom has unloaded a burden that we all have been carrying ..... the pirate situation will go away, the war in Iraq, the economy, the world situation, all, are breathing a sigh of relief ..... the world stopped and listened ..
I remember December 7, 1941, I remember when Kennedy was shot, when Woody slugged the kid on the sideline, I remember when Dr. King was shot, Bobby Kennedy was shot, Ruby was shot, and now ... May 12, 2009, ....... Miss California can stay ...... what a great day for the world.
Miss California can stay ............................
How low can we go?
Not even going to comment on this.I am going to use the word "she" rather than the word, or words I would rather use ...... she wishes death to someone, and the president smiles .... and the audience chuckles .......
How low have we sunk, in this country.
I, for one, was insulted
I think I can see why the Republicans are in trouble. I was insulted by the piece I got in the mail yesterday. Very official looking envelope.
2009 OBAMA AGENDA SURVEY
REPUBLICAN NATIONAL COMMITTEE
Ohio 12th Congressional District ..... Dooley Household
QUESTIONNAIRE ENCLOSED FOR and then my full name, Joseph Bradford Dooley, and address ..... DO NOT DESTROY
I was impressed:
Your immediate action is required.
"As Chairman of the RNC I am sending out this questionnaire to gauge where you and other grassroots stand," etc., "I need to hear back from you right away".
DO NOT DESTROY
A BIG LONG ID Number ... and ..... it is "REGISTERED in my name and affixed with a tracking code to ensure that it is accounted for in the tabulated results."
And then, 15 stupid questions.
But then, the bottom 1/2 of the back page ..... Contribution Reply ....
Credit card number ...... amount to donate ..... Occupation ..... Employer ...... Email address .... Telephone number ................. very official.
Question 1
Do you agree with Barrack Obama's budget plan that will lead to a $23 trillion deficit over the next ten years? YES NO NO OPINION
Should English be the official language of the United States?
If the RNC thought I was going to fall for their tactics to get me to donate, they were wrong.
AND if I mailed it back, I had to pay the postage. I got one similar to it, recently, only they wanted me to buy "Maintenance Insurance" for my car.
If that is the mentality of the RNC in Washington, the party REALLY does have a problem, and the RNC has an even greater problem if they get many of them back.
AO9PQ003A 584779875 is my ID number.
I used my old Captain Midnight Decoder Badge to translate the ID number.
It translated to: DON'T READ SEND MONEY
And they wonder why they lost the election and the party isn't stronger.
2009 OBAMA AGENDA SURVEY
REPUBLICAN NATIONAL COMMITTEE
Ohio 12th Congressional District ..... Dooley Household
QUESTIONNAIRE ENCLOSED FOR and then my full name, Joseph Bradford Dooley, and address ..... DO NOT DESTROY
I was impressed:
Your immediate action is required.
"As Chairman of the RNC I am sending out this questionnaire to gauge where you and other grassroots stand," etc., "I need to hear back from you right away".
DO NOT DESTROY
A BIG LONG ID Number ... and ..... it is "REGISTERED in my name and affixed with a tracking code to ensure that it is accounted for in the tabulated results."
And then, 15 stupid questions.
But then, the bottom 1/2 of the back page ..... Contribution Reply ....
Credit card number ...... amount to donate ..... Occupation ..... Employer ...... Email address .... Telephone number ................. very official.
Question 1
Do you agree with Barrack Obama's budget plan that will lead to a $23 trillion deficit over the next ten years? YES NO NO OPINION
Should English be the official language of the United States?
If the RNC thought I was going to fall for their tactics to get me to donate, they were wrong.
AND if I mailed it back, I had to pay the postage. I got one similar to it, recently, only they wanted me to buy "Maintenance Insurance" for my car.
If that is the mentality of the RNC in Washington, the party REALLY does have a problem, and the RNC has an even greater problem if they get many of them back.
AO9PQ003A 584779875 is my ID number.
I used my old Captain Midnight Decoder Badge to translate the ID number.
It translated to: DON'T READ SEND MONEY
And they wonder why they lost the election and the party isn't stronger.
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