Three Days Along the Smith River

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slug on cup

Breakfast greeting from a banana slug

Jeff's tent, my tent

My tent in background

My tent was snuggled cozily between some shiny-leafed huckleberry bushes in a dry meadow, shaded with a scattering of Douglas Fir, tan oak, and a few lodgepole pines. Below the camp ran Hurdygurdy Creek, not visible but maybe a tenth of a mile away. My car was parked a short distance away. The location? Along the Smith River (SmithCook tents, H2O, site River National Recreation Area) in northern California. The event? A Broadwalk, sponsored by Great Old Broads for Wilderness

Hurdygurdy Creek, incidentally, is a prime salmon and steelhead producing stream. “A hurdy gurdy is generally thought of as an instrument, but in this case hurdy gurdy refers to a water wheel with radial buckets driven by a jet for use in mining.”—Smith River Alliance.

USFS rep 1st morning

USFS introduction first morning

Last year I went to a Broadwork in Idaho (my first project with the group) where we spent four days surveying sage grouse habitat. We worked four days and hiked on one day. The Broadwalks involve more hiking but also include one day of work.

About 30 women and several men arrived last Thursday, many from California and Oregon but also some from Colorado (Broad headquarters location), Utah, one from Maryland, and one from Main. I knew two from the Willamette Valley and discovered that two others had been in Idaho last year. Dinners and breakfasts were provided as part of our cost but we supplied our own lunches. This was a primitive campsite and had porta-potties, no running water—a large tank of potable water was available—no showers and, being down in a canyon, no phone service. It did have a plentiful supply of mosquitoes though.

We all brought folding chairs and I took a nice collapsible aluminum table that I shared with whoever else wanted to sit next to it. There were no picnic tables. But we were there for a purpose, not the amenities!

My eldest son, Jeff, arrived that night from Weaverville in time for Happy Hour and dinner. He would stay two nights before heading for home. It was great to be able to visit with him and seeFerns along Kelsey Tr. him in action, participating in one of his beloved wilderness projects.

After breakfast on Friday (Breakfasts began with coffee ready at 6:30 a.m. and food at 7:00. And I should mention that the meals were delicious and food plentiful.) we took several cars to the Kelsey Trailhead to begin a brushing project. Another group had gone to a different trailhead and still another remained at the campsite where they built a fire pit from local rocks and cleaned up a nearby campground, its initial cleaning for the year. Jeff and Joe G. were our trail leaders and we were soon attacking dense huckleberry foliage and some tan oaks, all beginning to overwhelm the trail. One treat along this trail was the view of a number of Port Orford Cedars. Such a beautiful tree.  Sword fern & OxalisWhat a difference we made in that short stretch of about a quarter mile! That doesn’t sound like much on paper but major clearance, and in the heat, was a chore. So many trails need attention and this one needed a lot more but we did what we had time to do.

Port Orford Cedar

Port Orford Cedar

arrive at trailhead, Jeff far rt.

Arrival at trailhead

The original Kelsey Trail followed a route used by Native Americans and went from the Smith River (named for Jedediah Smith, an early explorer) into the Siskiyou Mountains. In 1855 Ben Kelsey was hired to build a trail from Crescent City to Ft. Jones to allow supplies to be transported to the Fort. Other branches of the trail extended to Scott Valley, Yreka and other places in that area. Mule trains carried the supplies. Apparently Kelsey had a bad reputation :,+indian+killer

As it got closer to lunchtime we headed Large madrone along Kelsey Trail. Huckleberriesdown the trail, clipping only now and then,  and dodging the now common poison oak. In some places the trail was quite narrow and we could see the South Fork of the Smith River, emerald green below us. We stopped to cool off and eat lunch at Yellowjacket Creek, enjoying the sound of water runn-At Yellowjacket Creeking through moss-covered boulders beneath Big Leaf Maples. From there it was another half mile down to the river. Here there was a wooden shelter and the nearby roaring falls of Buck Creek, a great place to pause and appreciate. Just before reaching the shelter we were treated to a view of lavender Elegant Brodiaea in a patch about 10 feet square. YelLooking down at S. Fk from Kelsey Traillow swallowtail butterflieBuck Creek Falls 2s were flitting over them but wouldn’t sit still for a photo. The trail continues beyond Buck Creek heading into the Siskiyou Wilderness.

We backtracked a bit and went down to the river where most of the party jumped in and swam across, although several of us just submerged in the chilly water. I tried to catch some tiny minnows Swimming in S. Fkbut they dodged. After everyone had a chance to cool off we headed back up the hill. I soaked my T-shirt in the water before we left and that kept me comfortable most of the way to the cars.

During dinner each group reported briefly on what they had done that day. After dinner that night Ryan H. gave an informative talk about wilderness issues and Jeff assisted with additional information. Each evening included an educational component with guest speakers.

Have I mentioned mosquitoes? There were mosquitoes. I was so glad I’d taken a net covering for my head. Even so spray of any kind was welcome. Yikes!

And so ended day one.

Comfort Tree

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ponderosa pineI used to have a comfort tree,
a ponderosa pine.
It grew above a local trail,
and in my heart was mine.

I’d lean my back against its trunk
And feel the jig-saw puzzle bark,
let my thoughts flow quietly through
from spinal cord to wooden ark.

Sometimes I’d build a small bonfire
to warm my hands on a chilly day,
sometimes eat a sandwich there
or pour a thermos cup of tea.

Miles north, and years flown by,
I really need another tree
to lean against and contemplate
our country’s darkening history.

I used to have a comfort tree,
a ponderosa pine.
It grew above a local trail,
and in my heart was mine.

Like bushtits clustered on the suet
we feed in groups on hearing news.
We march and curse and march again
and call for legislators’ dues.

Petitions signed and letters written,
we Facebook and we use our phones,
but what we also need to do –
let authors know they aren’t alone.

I used to have a comfort tree,
a ponderosa pine.
It grew above a local trail
and in my heart was mine.

Placed in Literary Ballad category-Spring 2017
3rd Prize “Comfort Tree” – Susanne Twight-Alexander – Eugene, Oregon

Judge’s comment: “Comfort Tree” has a sweet traditional sound but also incorporates a modern element with contemporary political references. I liked that and I liked the poignant repeated line, “and in my heart was mine.” Sometimes a small adjustment would make the rhythm more musical though small adjustments can be a matter of personal judgment of course. Overall the author did a good job.


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pond at Garden GulchMiners built the earthen dam that blocks
this intermittent stream
just below where two small gullies come together.
Turtles bask on floating logs along the edge.
Footprints of deer etch deeply in the mud
as the level slowly recedes beneath summer’s heat.
By mid-June the pond and streams are dry.
Roses bloom at the dam’s base where the last
water pools.
Late one warm, spring afternoon
I swim its narrowing length,
crossing a film of pollen,
body parting golden grains
that stick to my skin
like the memory of sunlight slanting
through oaks and pines.
I turn to float on my back,
glowing flecks dappling breasts and belly
like dust from a gold miner’s dream.
Overhead, leaves spin against a gentian sky.
Water is still treasured in these dry,
Northern California mountains and
sometimes guns are drawn over its intended use.

Clean Water

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water board0001

Chris, me, Andrea

Sometimes I compare life to a book with a series of chapters. But sometimes it’s like a Christmas gift I got as a child. It was a small blackboard (chalk), on a kind of easel arrangement that folded out so that it stood on its own. Across the top was a canvas with pictures—heavy paper maybe–that moved as I turned a handle on one side. The handle was wooden and red. Sometimes life is like that. Things happen, people are involved, and life goes on. But years later that handle may bring back some of those events, some of those people, and you look and say thoughtfully, “hmmm, that was an interesting time.” And move on. It’s different than re-reading a chapter because you have some of the sequence

I was appointed to the Northcoast Regional Water Quality Control Board in 1976 and served seven years, my position being vacant the first year (1975). At the time I was a Republican (changed that when I moved to Oregon later on) and was appointed by Jerry Brown. I was not reappointed for a third term by Deukmejian, a Republican. This is a voluntary job with the only payment being the satisfaction of helping protect the waters of the state and a per deum for a room and food and/or gas mileage if taking one’s own car.

As the mother of three young children, ages about six to eleven, this appointment seemed like the best of all possible jobs for me at the time. It allowed me to do some traveling and to use my brain for a larger purpose, plus I was able to help take care of the all-important resource of water. What I didn’t realize when I started was that I would also make some lifelong friends. My mother-in-law, Florence Morris, and my children’s father, were both a big help in ensuring that I could make these two or three day trips once a month knowing my children were well taken care of and keeping me feeling relatively guilt free.

When I first got on the board, I was the only female but was soon joined by Chris and Andrea. We were all very different from each other but became good friends. The meetings alternated between Eureka and Santa Rosa, with usually one once a year in the Mendocino area. And I remember at least one being held in Weaverville and one in Smith River. Sometimes I would fly from Redding to San Francisco and take a commuter flight to Santa Rosa. More often I would meet Chris in Eureka and we’d rent a car and drive together. Chris lived in Gasquet, along the Smith River. She loved to fish and loved that river. I remember eating lunch that she had fixed, roast chicken and a small glass of white wine from her ice chest, as we sat along the edge of the Eel River. Andrea lived in the Arcata area although she was often attending classes in Berkeley. The board considers water-quality issues from the Russian River to the Oregon border and from the coast to the edge of the Central Valley. So I learned about things affecting the watershed basins of the Russian River, the Noyo, the Eel, Redwood Creek, the Trinity, the Klamath, the Smith, and even the Rogue and Winchuck at the edge of the Oregon border.

We’d receive a large packet of information in the mail that included the agenda and reams of information about topics that were going to be discussed, particularly detailed if a public hearing were scheduled. Lots of reading to do.

This was a great time to be involved because so many things, like erosion from timber operations, were just beginning to be considered. One time we walked into a logging operation and then were helicoptered out by the company, allowing a view from above. I think this was the company that had gone ahead and pushed a road in before submitting a plan and then told us after the fact. Redwood Creek, notorious for erosion problems, was another problem in which we were involved. But, over time, discord became less as agreements were hammered out.

Waste discharge was another big issue. Many small communities didn’t have the funds to build sewage treatment plants or had plants that were inadequate. Giving them cease-and-desist orders allowed them to apply for grants so that instead of being punitive it actually helped them. I remember one meeting where we were faced with a sewage treatment plant where the boss had told one of his employees to open up the valve in the middle of the night to discharge raw sewage before it overflowed.

Non-point sources like agriculture runoff were just beginning to be looked at.

During my second term was when the Arcata Marsh plan html was being considered and our staff executive officer was having a difficult time supporting it. He felt there wasn’t enough evidence to show the waters were being protected from discharge. Of course today this area is considered a show-piece for use of wastewater where the marsh is also part of the treatment. The area where paths wind through the wildlife area is part of the tertiary treatment. Some is dechlorinated and goes into Humboldt Bay and some goes back into the tertiary enhancement marshes.

During one of my years as chair herbicides were a big issue. I was fairly supportive of the opponents in my heart but I also had a meeting to run. One night, when we had taken testimony for hours during the day, and it was time for the board to make a decision, the anti-herbicide folks started interrupting us. It must have been close to 10 p.m. Takes a lot to make me mad but I’d had more than enough and gaveled them down. As one of my co-board members muttered, “It’s about time.”

water board

2 members absent. Back row: Steve Norwick, Spud McNamara, Front row: Chris Souza, me, Andrea Tuttle

Of the board members I worked with I still communicate with Andrea Tuttle; Chris Sousa died of cancer in 1984; Steve Norwick, a professor at Sonoma State, who used to get in touch with all of us about once a year, was killed while riding his bicycle (I discovered this online a couple of years ago when I wondered why we hadn’t heard from him for some time). I was closest to these three. One other person from that original board (Gene Senestraro) is still living in the Eureka area. He had a dairy farm and his input was always useful. David Joseph, the executive staff officer, is gone. I always had a lot of respect for his knowledge and abilities. A trail in the redwoods has been named after him.

I came across these pictures recently when I was doing some sorting. It all seems so long ago and yet also as if it were yesterday. Interesting times.

Broken Top

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S. Sister from Broke

I moved to Oregon from Weaverville, California in March of 1989. It was not an easy transition going from the little mountain town where I knew most of the roads, numerous trails, and where I had a good many friendships made over 25 years. But I joined my soon-to-be husband here in Eugene and tried to get used to what I considered city living… and the rain. One thing that made me feel at home was the bird life among the conifers in our back yard on the lower slopes of Spencer Butte. And I BrokenTop trip creek where we got waterdiscovered that there were hiking trails not far away.

In August of that year my eldest brother and a friend came to visit and he wanted to take a backpack trip. His friend taught elementary school and he wanted to help her find a volcanic bomb to show her students. Volcanic bombs are sometimes formed when lava spews out of a volcano and its spinning forms an almost egg shape. They come in all sizes. When I worked at Crater Lake I once found a very small one, about the size of a potato, but my boss made me leave it there since no one can collect such things in a national park.

Oregon has many volcanoes so a logical place to go looking was in the Three Sisters Wilderness. I suppose it’s illegal to collect a volcanic bomb there too but maybe a picture would suffice. I gathered my gear and we drove the three hours to Green Lakes Trailhead, which follows up Fall Creek for several miles. There were lovely waterfalls and the weather wasNear S. Sister 1989 perfect. Green Lakes was heavily used even then so we headed off at the pass, slanting across Broken Top Mountain. My brother led the way and after some searching we found a place with a great view of the Three Sisters near a stream that ran down from above, pitched our tents, and ate dinner.

The next morning I was treated to a dramatic view of the South Sister out the front of my tent as the sun slid down her slopes. I hiked further up the hill for some early-morning photos. When we were ready to leave we hiked back to the trail and continued down to Green Lakes for a closer look and could see back up Broken Top to where we’d camped, then headed up the trail to return to our car. My brother, as part of his hiking ritual, liked to leave beer in a small ice chest in the car so that when he’d had a warm hike, he could refresh himself before heading home. We each had a beer, changed our shoes, and then drove back to Eugene.

A few days ago, an article in our local paper, The Register-Guard, by Bill Sullivan (a local hiking guru with vast and accurate knowledge of Oregon trails) noted that now the best time to go into that area is via snowshoes or skis when there is still snow on the ground. He noted that Green Lakes basin is so popular in the summer that people have to camp only at numbered sites. In Oregon, no campfires are allowed within 100 feet of any lake and campers are supposed to pitch tents back away from lakes, preferably screened by trees or shrubs, so that others may enjoy the scenery. This seems a good rule to me. I suspect Bill Sullivan may wish he’d not been quite so explicit about the good places to go hiking and camping. But who could have forecast that the town of Bend, a relatively short drive fromS. Sister from Broke0003 these Cascade trailheads, would grow so quickly.

About 15 years ago we discovered the same “camp in designated spots” rule when day-hiking at Mt. Rainier when we came across a backpackers’ campground with numbered posts. A backcountry ranger patrols to make sure this rule is enforced. To me this totally negates the backpacking experience. Being close to others is not why I used to backpack.

Oh, and we didn’t find any volcanic bombs.

Tai Chi Friends

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Joining an organization or taking a class may be just joining and organization or taking a class, but, given enough time, other events may take place. It’s hard to get enough time to get to know people but, after taking tai chi for five years (?), perhaps more, I’ve come to know a little more about my classmates, mostly by chatting during breaks. We are mostly women. One man comes consistently and two others occasionally. I’m guess our ages run from 55 to early 80s.

According to the Mayo Clinic website, “Tai chi helps reduce stress and anxiety. And it also helps increase flexibility and balance. Tai chi is an ancient Chinese tradition that, today, is practiced as a graceful form of exercise. It involves a series of movements performed in a slow, focused manner and accompanied by deep breathing.

Tai chi, also called tai chi chuan, is a noncompetitive, self-paced system of gentle physical exercise and stretching. Each posture flows into the next without pause, ensuring that your body is in constant motion.

Tai chi has many different styles. Each style may subtly emphasize various tai chi principles and methods. There are variations within each style. Some styles may focus on health maintenance, while others focus on the martial arts aspect of tai chi.”

Our instructor, Suman, is from Mongolia where most of his family still lives. He has an assistant, Marcia, who takes his place when he can’t participate due to travels or training sessions. I started out in the beginning class, which teaches eight moves. After taking this class for at least a year I opted to take the more advanced class, 24 moves, which I’m still taking today. Over time, we learn to refine our moves, but always there are the same basic formats and it becomes almost a meditation.

During these years several people have continued to be my classmates and we always are glad to see each other every week, part of the ritual I suppose. I know very little about the others, doing well just to try to remember names, although our class is usually only 15-18 people or fewer.

One woman, I think the only one older than I am, caught my interest from the beginning. She walks or rides her bike or takes public transportation, and has no car. She used to teach high school English in the Bay Area in northern California. We both go to the League of Women Voters program meetings once a month. I recently learned that she plays a bass clarinet in a local community band. Once E. talked to me about having participated in a march along the coast for the development of the coast trail. It turns out that she and her husband used to run a youth camp on Scott Mountain in Trinity County, Camp Unalayee, a camp that is still being used today. And one of their camp counselors used to work in the Weaverville area when I lived there. How likely is it that we would ever meet here in Eugene?

Another woman, younger than I am, takes the same line-dancing classes that I do. L. sometimes has grandchildren visiting her. She has beehives and also raises chickens. Three of the four chickens lay eggs. The 4th one doesn’t seem to be destined for the stew pot.

Another woman, who recently moved into the advanced class, has horses, which must be tended to every day. I must ask where she rides.

Brian Fullerton, who likes to hike with his wife, also writes. He has had an e-book for a while and recently published another one that I hadn’t been aware of. I don’t have Kindle ability so can’t read them but I read some of the sample pages (including a wonderful description inside a barn from the standpoint of a young boy)online from his first book, Cottonwood Wind, available through Amazon. His most recent book is entitled Song Across Water. Both book covers are illustrated by his wife, Margaret Hanson. You can read sample pages by accessing the books through Amazon.


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On the island. May Malone 2nd from leftA few months ago I typed Hezekiah Malone into Google and what should pop up but his entire name: Hezekiah Pennington Malone. Someone, obviously a relative, had done a family history. Her name was Dorothy Malone Hamilton and her father was named Hezekiah Pennington Malone!

In 1944, Dorothy, a young girl at the time, went with her father to Ohio to meet his mother, who was 82. She had been married to William Malone, who died at age 48. Dorothy’s father had been only 10 years old when his father, William, had died. Dorothy’s grandmother was Josephine Malone whose last name had been Quinby.

After her marriage, Dorothy and her husband began doing some research and first went to Wilmington, Ohio where they stopped at the Historical Society. To their surprise the Historical Society had a file folder about the Malones. In this folder were newspaper articles, as well as letter written by a professor at Malone College. (This is the first I’ve ever heard about a Malone College). Her brother and his wife accompanied them. Her brother’s name is also Hezekiah Pennington Malone.

Her brother called the professor and soon they met him to continue the discussion.
My Hezekiah P. Malone was also the great-grandfather of Dorothy and her brother.

The Quaker farmers were John Carl and Mary Ann Pennington Malone. She said they had nine children, not eight, and named them: Hezekiah, Alice, Charles, Levi, Frances, Edwin, James, John and William. Her story pretty much matches my mother’s. Dorothy and her family were shocked to learn that the Malones were active in Dunedin, Florida because they live only a short distance from there.Camp Adamless Eden

When they got home they went to the Dunedin Historical Society and discovered a lot more information about the family. While my mother’s story was that Hezekiah was the first Commodore of the Yacht Club, Dorothy said it was Levi. Who knows? I don’t even know what a Yacht Club Commodore does!

Dorothy said the Historical Society has information about the family, the homes they owned, the activities they were involved in. She said two of the houses still remain. I think I have photos from my mother’s album of two houses there.

There is an island in Clearwater Bay called Malone Island. Apparently Levi Malone owned half of the island and they built shelters and had social gatherings there. I’m thinking this might be the island where my grandmother and her young women friends camped. I have photos taken there—cooking over a campfire, gathered in the shade of large tents. And they called their hideaway Camp Adamless Eden!

Dorothy said the family had a reunion in Dunedin in 2002 and she has met many cousins she didn’t know she had. Her grandfather and her great-grandmother (Emma Hart Malone)—mine as well– are buried in Dunedin.

A small picnic at Sharrer's. H.P. Malone, Mr. Sharrer & others

How to dress for a picnic on the island.

An addition to Dorothy’s article says that in 2013 and oak tree in the Dunedin Cemetery was dedicated to Hezekiah Pennington Malone I by Hezekiah Pennington Malone II.

Now I’m trying to contact the Dunedin Historical Society to see whether they have an address for Dorothy or are interested in copies of the photos. What an amazing trip this has been!

Courage (part of the Hezekiah story)

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I think that with all the current chaos and need for courage these times require, that it is an appropriate time to share a family story. My mother wrote this and I’m passing it on, just as she wrote it. The story shows how one person, long ago, made a difference. I can’t vouch for it’s truth.

Hezekiah’s parents (Hezekiah Malone being my great grandfather), as I have mentioned previously, were devout Quaker farmers in Ohio, raising eight children. My great-grandmother had been a Pennington. But on with the story.

“During the Civil War great-grandmother Malone is supposed to have had a tangle with the Southern guerrilla, Morgan and his Raiders. She and her daughter were along on the farm but when Morgan and his men swarmed thorough the place and beat on the door she faced them coolly enough. Morgan demanded food and stamped into the house, unshaven, travel-stained, his hat still on. Great-grandmother Malone said severely, “Wouldn’t thee take off thy hat in thy mother’s house?” and abashed, he did. –a look from him and so did the rest. “If thee’s hungry, I’ll give thee a meal,” she said, “but thee must wash first,” and she sent them outside to wash at the back door. Like good little boys they went, meekly, and she fed them. They might, as they did to so many others, have looted the farm of all the animals and produce, but they didn’t. They thanked her and rode away. “

Hezekiah continued

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H.P. Malone & granddaughter Mary Whitfield.-1911JPG

My mother on the lap of her grandfather, Hezekiah P. Malone 1910 or 1911

All the brothers apparently became quite successful. As my mother put it “stout, satisfied-looking business men. They looked like illustrations of the times—America booming, expanding, and they right along with it.” In 1925 she remembered visiting Walter Malone’s family in Dunedin, Florida (where many had summer homes) and said “all had the same apple-cheeked, fresh complexion he had.”

Louis, the youngest, was the problem child. “At various times Hezekiah sent one and then another brother to Mexico to manage the mines so each gained experience and knowledge and could make intelligent decisions from then on.” Hezekiah, being practical, had gone along with the custom at the time of paying off Mexican officials and handing out gifts when necessary. Louis refused and “imposed various restrictions and prohibitions and special taxes.” So the Mexicans confiscated one of the mines. This became known in the family as “Louis’s Million Dollar Mistake”.

My grandmother grew up in Cleveland but also lived in Montpelier, Indiana and in southern Ohio. In CMay Malone, my grandmother--Martha Washington outfit, Bradford Pa.leveland Hezekiah “built her a big playhouse with a real little stove, pots and pans and dishes and she had a Martha Washington costume, complete with cap, to wear in it to serve tea to her younger sister, her mother, or any visitors.” Her brother was quite a bit older than she was and her sister (Bess) three years younger.

She loved horses and always had her own. She rode bicycles and she and her sister were the scandal of Cleveland when they rode—in public!–in the first bloomers seen in the town. Grandmother had them made in New York of heavy velvet—yards and yards of material.”

Hezekiah “had trotting horses, which he raced all over the country. He had one of the first automobiles in Cleveland. The whole family traveled a great deal.”

Hezekiah and his brothers liked Dunedin, Florida and built several houses there. “They started the Dunedin Yacht Club and grandfather was the first commodore. They went to spend The Windward, Mom's boatwinters for many years and each person had his—or her—own sailboat, which he or she sailed around the bay and across to the island, and down the coastline.” My great-grandmother’s boat was the Albatross and my grandmother’s the Windward.

Apparently Hezekiah had respect for women’s intelligence and my grandmother and her sister were allowed to travel alone. He was a 32nd degree Mason and he had Masonic rings made for the girls so that if they ever needed help they could get help from a Mason.

I have no idea what happened to all that wealth in the intervening years but I’m glad my mother was able to write down her memories of the family history. to be continued


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Hezekiah Malone in the CatskillsWhen she was young, my mother took the family Bible to school to share and somehow lost it. I think she felt guilty about this for the rest of her life. I felt a little bit like this when I realized that the photo album I’d placed her old family photos in had damaged some of them. It was one of those albums with a sticky backing and some of the stickiness bled through into some of the pictures. This fall I purchased a new album, with no stickiness. I paid a friend to copy and improve any of the pictures that he could and have placed them in the album, along with those he was unable to change. During this process I looked up one name on the Internet, just to be sure I was spelling it correctly. This was Hezekiah Pennington Malone, my great-grandfather.

My grandmother, on my mother’s side, was a Malone. I guess that Irish side is where my mother got her beautiful hair, dark brown, curling, with lots of red highlights.

In writing about family history my mother said that the Malones (her great- grandparents) were Quakers but originally the family came from North Ireland to the United States, settling first in Pennsylvania. Her great-grandmother had been a Pennington.

They were farmers and believed in hard work and “solid worth”. The women wore grays and blacks and dove colors but their clothes were of the best materials available—“woolens and heavy, durable silks”.

Her great-grandfather established a farm in Ohio. He and his wife were actually cousins. They had seven sons and one daughter. My great-grandfather, Hezekiah, was the eldest son. As with many farm children in those days, none wanted to work as hard as they had to on the property. When Hezekiah was 17 he ran away from home. Eventually he was able to make some money by taking part in some business opportunities (salt-bed oil wells, in Pennsylvania) and, as soon as he could afford it, he began to send for his brothers and to set them up in business. Nothing is said about what happened to the one sister.

Mr. & Mrs. H. P. Malone in Dunedin, FloridaHezekiah Malone married Emma Hart, who was not a Quaker, but became one when she married. “She was the daughter of the treasurer of the City of Cleveland” and her family at that time was “well-to-do”. My mother described Emma Hart as having a 17- inch waist and said that “she wore a hoop skirt, bodice with real lace, carried a little purse decorated with real lace. She wore shoes that were size one, high ones that laced up the sides, also white. “ This was on her wedding day from what I understand. Emma Hart was only 17 when Hezekiah decided she was the one for him. The information was somehow passed down through the family.

Here my mother mentions that Emma Hart’s father, a miller, was a direct descendent of John Hart, who signed the Declaration of Independence and states that “there were silver smiths some place in the family”. During the Civil War he ran n underground railway in his home for escaping slaves.” (My grandmother never told my grandfather about that. This is interesting to me because I didn’t know which of her parents had thought that owning slaves had been acceptable although I knew one had.).

Hezekiah Malone “made money and built a mansion right next door to the Harts”, and my mother’s two uncles, her mother and an aunt were born there in Cleveland. to be continued