Woolgathering and Widdershins

You too can talk like a cop

John G. Whitacre — Fri, 17 May 2013 23:15:08 +0000

I heartily disagree with people who complain about police officers and speed traps and such. I am thankful for law enforcement, and I despise speeders, tailgaters and obnoxious drivers. But I would like to teach policemen and dispatchers the fine points of clear, concise speaking and writing.
I read a plethora of police reports in the line of duty, and I hear scads of scanner chatter. In the course of all that law enforcement reading and listening, I regularly notice the unnecessary verbosity of police officers and dispatchers.
This fictitious sentence is representative of what I read: “The subject did exit his vehicle and did proceed to flee on foot from this officer, and this officer did pursue the subject on foot. This officer did tackle the subject, who did resist arrest by placing his hands in his pants pockets during this officer’s attempt to place handcuffs on the subject’s wrists.
First, why can’t police officers speak in the first person? Why not “I” instead of “this officer”? Second, the word “did” serves no purpose. Third — well, I’ll just rewrite the sentence using the tenets recommended by the Plain English Campaign: “He exited his car and ran from me, and I chased him and tackled him. He put his hands in his pockets when I tried to handcuff him.” Now, isn’t that nice and clear and simple?
On the scanner, they always say “public-service,” used as a verb, to mean call someone on a phone. Maybe this has a legitimate need, to distinguish phone calling from calling on a radio, but it seems the officer would understand in context whether it’s a phone call or a radio call. For example, an officer is not going to use his radio to contact a citizen about a complaint. He’ll either call on the phone or visit. I figure “public-service” is used out of habit, or to sound official.
Next, I would like dispatchers to properly pronouce “complainant.” They say “complaintant,” confusing it with “complaint.” A complainant, with only one “t,” is a person who makes a complaint.” I also find it interesting that all dispatchers pronounce “copy” when replying with a Bronx swing, and it comes out something like “cawpy.” Dispatcher training must include instructions on the pronunciation of “copy” — “Round the back of your mouth, and heavily emphasize the ‘k’ sound in the word.”
You too can talk like a cop — or should I say a law enforcement officer? It just takes some work. Use the third person, precede every verb with “did” and find ways to use three or four words where one will do. For example, Joe, a plumber, went to Lowe’s to buy some parts. Here’s his report to his boss in cop style:
“This plumber did find that the main water supply line to the house in question did have a leak. This plumber did assess the water supply line problem and did determine that a new supply line was needed. This plumber did public-service Lowe’s to verify that the store did stock the parts and pipe, and this plumber did drive to Lowe’s, did exit his vehicle and did buy the needed parts and pipe. This plumber did replace the pipe and did test the pipe. This plumber did resolve the complaint and did public-service the complaintant, who did arrive and did approve of the work.”
It’s not hard to do; it just takes some practice. So practice rounding your mouth to say “cawpy,” and find verbose ways to complicate simple sentences. Next week I’ll explain how you can learn to talk like a politician. And please come visit me in the Alliance city jail — just don’t speed or tailgate on your way.

Eutzly, May 17, 2013

John G. Whitacre — Fri, 17 May 2013 22:24:36 +0000

Say farewell to historical present

John G. Whitacre — Thu, 09 May 2013 20:58:20 +0000

(Read Column) *** (Paragraph Selection) *** (Special Features) *** (Previews)
An Alliance Review column … A Scriptorium production … A presentation from John G. Whitacre, aided by Amanda Weber and Christopher Schillig
(The following commentaries do not reflect the views of The Alliance Review, its readers, its advertisers, its subscribers, or the gerbils and birds whose cages it lines. The author is not responsible for editorial changes made after submission of his work. The Alliance Review and the author are not responsible for financial loss, dismemberment or death inflicted upon readers who try any ideas suggested by the author’s piece. This essay may or may not be a work of fiction and makes no claim to historical authenticity.)
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So I say to fellow columnist Chris Schillig last week how much I hate historical present. I can tell he feels less strongly about it than I do, but he is interested in hearing my thoughts. Historical present (HP hereafter) is the use of present tense to describe past happenings, and it drives me bonkers.
Museum guides love HP. Perhaps they think it makes the action sound more immediate, but it just irritates me. The tour guide:
“Jedediah marries Jememiah, and they live in a small log cabin while Jed builds a frame house, which Jem demands during their prenuptial discussion. ‘I ain’t livin’ in no gol-durn log cabin,’ she tells him. ‘If you make me live there, I’ll up and R-U-N-N-O-F-T.’ Jed works all summer on the frame house, but a tornado rips through the countryside and destroys his work,” and so on.
HP annoys me mainly because it is annoying, but at times it creates confusion, when the guide truly needs the present tense, and you, the visitor, can’t tell when the action happened. I get so annoyed at the tour guide using HP that I begin to focus more on his use of HP than on the information offered, and I eventually drift back in to the conversation after Jem threatens to divorce Jed unless he remodels the kitchen in the new house, which is almost flattened by an earthquake, and now they have 15 kids, and one of them won’t quit twangin’ the banjer. So when did the quake happen, I wonder, and where did all those kids come from?
Does some international museum guide training program give lessons in the use of HP? Its use is nearly universal and ubiquitous. I’ll congratulate and generously tip the tour guide who has the daring to use good old past tense, but I figure I can spend that money on beer because I’ll never need it otherwise.
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Paragraph Selection: 1. John Whitacre complains to Chris. 2. Jed marries Jem. 3. Annoyance. 4. Training programs.
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Editor’s commentary: This column describes Whitacre’s passionate hatred of historical present. He first presented the idea for the column to me over margaritas at Don Pancho’s. We envisioned Salma Hayek in the lead role as the museum guide who uses historical present, so we called her, and she loved the idea. She offered to do the part for free because it is her dream role. We wanted Don Knotts in the supporting role, but someone reminded us that he has gone on to Mayberry-in-the-Sky.
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Previews:
1. The guitar loaded with music: John finds a bundle of blues packed in his new mahogany Martin guitar. 2. Talk like a cop: John campaigns for plain English in the law enforcement profession. 3. A visit to Lincoln: John visits his friend Dale in Nebraska. 4. The mandocello: John discusses the big, deep cousin of the mandolin.

John Herrington

John G. Whitacre — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 01:17:58 +0000

I went to Herrington Cemetery in Carroll County, Ohio, south of a small town named Augusta, for a funeral on Saturday and discovered the grave of Revolutionary War veteran John Herrington next to the old stone church, which was built in 1843. Note the years on Herrington’s gravestone; he lived to be 103. I found the following biography on the Carroll County Historical Society website, and if you don’t want to read it all, skip to the end and read about Herrington walking to vote at age 100. (I apologize for the camera strap in the photos; I was in a hurry, and my presbyopia and myopia always force me to remove my glasses to look at my camera screen, which I did not do.)

John Herrington:
Founder of Herrington Bethel Methodist Church
January 1, 1759 was a significant day in the history of Herrington Bethel Church. That is the date of its founder John Herrington’s birth. Herrington family traditional stories vary, but a common thread runs through them that John’s parents died as a result of an Indian attack when he was quite young. Some accounts say he was eighteen months old, others two years old; still others say he was five years of age.
War Department records show that John Herrington served in the Revolutionary War as a private in Capt. John Redman’s Company also designated Capt. Abraham George Claypool’s Company-Col. John Patton’s Continental Troops. His name first appears on a payroll for May 1777, which shows that he was in service 28 days and it last appears on a payroll record for April 1779. The regiment named above was organized in compliance with a Resolution of Congress on Dec. 27, 1776 and it was incorporated with Col. Hartley’s additional regiment by Resolution of Congress Jan. 13, 1779 to form the 11th Pennsylvania Regiment. The name of John Herrington appears as of the 11th Pennsylvania Regiment (1779-1780) on payrolls of the agents of the United States for the settlement of the pay of the Pennsylvania Line in the Revolutionary War, which shows that Herrington received $33.00 and 30/100 being for a balance of a settlement between the United States and Herrington to pay to Jan. 1, 1781. He received this pay in Oct. 1786 and signed with an “x”.
Family stories say that he was proud to repeat that he at one time had the care of Washington’s great white charger horse and had the privilege and honor of leading the beautiful horse to water. John was married at the age of 32 to Hannah Marshall who was 19 years old at the time. A traveling minister, Rev. George Moore from Delaware, wed them on February 7, 1791. One descendant described John as 5’ 8”, weight 175 lbs, fair complexion, dark hair and brown eyes. He was a Whig until the Republican Party was formed.
John and his family left York County, Pennsylvania in 1806 or 1807. In 1810, he purchased property in Knox Township, Jefferson County, Ohio (just East of the present town of Knoxville). For $1000, he received about 160 acres.
In 1811, John Herrington made a float trip down the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers to New Orleans, but the reason is unknown.
On June 29, 1813, John Herrington sold 88 acres of the Knox Township land to Jacob Marshall for $300, and retained the rest of the land bordering on two sides of the land he sold. It is unclear what happened to the remainder of his land in Jefferson County. Records show Jacob Marshall, with his wife, Anna Westfall, came to Jefferson County from York County before 1812. This fact along with the relatively low purchase price for this property indicates that Jacob is the brother of Hannah Marshall Herrington. This Jacob was the father of Levi Marshall, who moved to Carroll County, near the Herringtons, and is buried in Herrington Cemetery next to John and Hannah.
In the immediate area where the Herringtons lived in Jefferson County were several other families that eventually married into the Herrington family. All moved to the Jefferson County area after 1798. Several were from York County, Pennsylvania, and all helped form Sugar Grove Methodist Episcopal Church in Knox Township (originally known as Hales Meeting House). The Hale family hosted meetings of the church as early as 1802. Early church members (before 1815) included Hales, Shaws and Herringtons, all of whom intermarried. Hales came from Baltimore, Maryland and it is thought the Herringtons also may have come from Baltimore.
John Herrington purchased a homestead in Carroll County (then Columbiana County) on October 20, 1815, from the Steubenville Land Office. This parcel was known as Range 5, Township 14, Section 6 obtained directly from the government on Certificate #5896. This became Washington Township after Carroll County was formed. At the time Herrington obtained the land, it was in Western Columbiana County.
With his wife and children, John Herrington moved north from Jefferson County to their new Carroll County home some time after 1815 but by 1817. It is supposed that the family located on the parcel of land John bought in 1815. They didn’t stay there long. In 1819, John completed three other transactions that would make up the family farm. On January 19, 1819, John purchased two tracts for a total price of $2000. Both were from a Fredrick and Mary Woods of Jefferson County. John is already listed as a resident of Columbiana County. The parcels were SE and SW quarters of Range 5, Township 15, Section 35. On July 16, 1819, John received a Patent for 101.38 acres of land known as the NW quarter of the same section, which was nearly covered with wooded lots. This was obtained from the Steubenville Land Office. He now owned ¾ of the section.
John not only homesteaded the farm on which he lived and died, but also homesteaded a farm for each of his seven sons and planted an orchard on each of these farms and ate fruit from all of them. There was a stone quarry on the Herrington farm, and he had a solid, hand-dressed, sandstone house built there by Frank Dunmore, a black stonemason from East Township.
The house was built near the east road to the church, replacing the original log house they had lived in.
There were a total of eleven children born into this family in a twenty-year period (from 1792-1812). Their names were Sarah, Elizabeth, John, Thomas, Hannah, William, Jacob, twins Nathan and Samuel, Rebecca and James. Hannah was killed when she was about two years old by some falling rails, which crushed her head. Hannah, John’s wife died July 8, 1836, aged 64 years and seven months.
By 1839, John Sr. had sold the last remaining property that he owned to Nathan for $3000. John then lived with his son Nathan and his family in the farmhouse he had built, which was originally his own home.
References found in an 1843 Augusta Township book show that John Herrington was judge of elections in 1837 for which he was paid $1.00, and he was township trustee in 1847.
John walked to Augusta, a distance of three miles, to vote when he was 100 years old. It has been told that his son went to bring him home with horse and buggy. He told his son
he walked to Augusta and he would walk home, which he did. He had only one picture taken during his lifetime, and that on his 100th birthday at Augusta, Ohio.
John Herrington died May 18, 1862, aged 103 years, four months and 18 days. John is buried beside Hannah in the Herrington Church cemetery, near the church. You can read a history of the church at http://www.augustacemetery-ohio.com/Augusta/History-Typed.htm#Herrington. A further point to remember is that Carroll County was named for Declaration of Independence signer Charles Carroll.

Sorry, I’m not a localvore

John G. Whitacre — Thu, 18 Apr 2013 20:08:37 +0000

Standing in line at Marc’s one Friday, I was craving fruit and spices, and I made this list: coffee, chocolate, lime juice, chiles, garlic, onion, cinnamon and banana, intending to make everything on that list part of that day’s diet. I had already had coffee, but the remainder needed attention. Later I added nuts, tea, vanilla, pepper and oils to the list.
You may notice that many of these foods come from the tropics or subtropical regions. I discovered that fact when, a few years ago, I studied and wrote columns about cocoa (published in The Review March 13, 2007), chiles (Dec. 9, 2008) and pineapples (March 6, 2007). It seems that many of our most flavorful foods and spices come from the warm regions.
Remember in elementary school how we learned about Marco Polo traveling to the East and the Portuguese navigators gingerly exploring the west African coast, trying to find a route to the East Indies? How Cristoforo Colombo sailed west and stumbled on the West Indies in search of the East? Many of those early explorations were made in pursuit of trade, and much of that trade centered on spices. The Dutch, for example, exploited the East Indies for their spices, coffee, tea and chocolate.
Spices were something I read about in history and took for granted for many years, but now I make a dedicated effort to include them in my diet. I have made chiles (Capsicum annuum annuum, also called chili peppers) and spices daily staples of my diet over the years as I have reduced sodium in my food. I add a salt-free garlic pepper mix to much of my food, and I occasionally use homemade salt-free chile powder using a recipe I found online. I begin each day with hot tea combining green tea and an herbal fruit tea. I never liked the flavor of black tea, but I began drinking green tea after reading about its antioxidant properties, and its mildness and the combination with a fruit tea make it enjoyable but a bit bland if you’re used to black tea.
I don’t eat a banana every day, but I eat fruit every day, not always tropical. I didn’t drink coffee for most of my life, having started only recently, and I had quit a few weeks back but resumed drinking it after reading a recent report of its benefits that is part of the changing viewpoint toward coffee and caffeine. I drink coffee black — no cream or sugar — and my only additives are a touch of dark baking cocoa and a few drops of vanilla. A day is incomplete without chiles and garlic, I could eat onions every day, and I squeeze fresh lime juice, one of my expensive luxuries, into a glass of water each day. I eat nuts, low-sodium or no-sodium, almost every day, but I have yet to find a good base for cinnamon.
I lived in ignorance of diet for the first three decades of my life, until a violin teacher told me about the book “Sugar Blues” by William Dufty. Dufty was a sugar-addicted journalist who ghost-wrote “Lady Sings the Blues” but broke his addiction after meeting Gloria Swanson, whom he later married. He tells in the book how, at a press conference, she whispered to him, “That stuff is poison” as he was about to put sugar in his coffee. “I won’t have it in my house, let alone my body,” she told him. Dufty may be a bit extreme — he attributes every malady known to man, and woman, it seems, including the bubonic plague, to the use of sugar, linking the rise of diabetes and mental illness with the increasing availability of sweets — and he published “Sugar Blues” in 1975, so the studies of course are often outdated, and he is often bitter and sarcastic about the establishment (it was the 1970s), but it’s worth reading with a grain of salt for its inspiration. I don’t know if the extremes to which Dufty goes are true, but I believe his point that refined sugar is not only useless but harmful.
Over the years I’ve turned from salt-laden and sugar-coated white flour products to whole grains and fresh fruits and vegetables as I’ve studied other books on healthful eating and the harm our diet causes not just to humans but to the environment — “Don’t Eat This Book” and “The Ominvore’s Dilemma” are two that come to mind. I often fall back into old habits, but I eventually return to my better habits, and at times I visit my old friends for inspiration.
As I studied my list one day, it occurred to me that it goes against the campaign to eat local food. I agree in part with that campaign, but I also can’t forsake my foods from the tropics. Sorry localvores; I just can’t limit myself to food of the temperate regions. I need chiles, and chocolate, and coffee. And pineapples. And bananas …

Daffodils, death and departure

John G. Whitacre — Thu, 11 Apr 2013 19:40:31 +0000

Yellow daffodils were in full bloom when I stopped at my parents’ house on Wednesday. Those cheery flowers of spring gave a false impression that all was well inside, that my mother was in there sitting on her couch knitting, but she died in November, and it was ironic that those flowers were flourishing after my mother was gone. It’s only the latest in this type of nearly automatic reaction to seeing from the outside the house where I spent my childhood, looking convincingly but deceivingly normal while inside the walls and floors echo the structure’s emptiness.
The house has been unoccupied for four months, and I’ve visited at least weekly to check on it and to remove things. We began clearing out immediately after the funeral, while all the immediate family members were in town. Next, my older brother and a few others moved furniture to three different households, and after that my younger brother rented a truck, and we filled it to the door with things he took home. I’ve been plugging away at the small stuff all along, and I’ve given up a great deal of goat and music time for trips to the house for sundry reasons.
The work is nearly done. We sold the house recently, and the legal dealings for the sale are expected to close at the end of the month. But it will be difficult to say farewell to the house built to order and owned by our family since 1964, when my parents were young, with decades of life ahead of them, three young sons under their wings.
It seems I have more trouble than my brothers with the sale of the house. They both moved out in the late 1970s, older when he got married and younger when he left for Ohio State, but I stayed until 1990, when I got married, so I have more memories invested in the structure. I also connect more than the average person, it seems, to physical objects as manifestations of memories.
Every room triggers vivid remembrances. The cubbyhole in the garage takes me back to the time we came home to find a raccoon in the attic. The cubbyhole had a steep ramp that led to an opening into the attic, and my dad had a heck of a time chasing out that animal. After that, he (my dad, not the raccoon) blocked off the opening with a large board. The backyard behind the kitchen reminds me of playing with Tonka trucks with my little brother, and the side of the garage reminds me of my father mixing concrete when he built the deck behind the dining room. The house even reminds me of experiences outside of North Canton, such as a cool, dark evening when we drove to a sub shop in southeast Akron owned by my father’s co-worker or a trip to downtown Akron to buy a metal fireplace door unit for the fascinating two-sided fireplace that warmed both the dining room and living room.
I could write a book, had I the time, about my memories, but they are inconsequential, meaningful to me but of little interest to anyone else, so I’ll content myself with a few final walks through the house, thankful for decent parents and a good family life.
It’s a good house, and soon, after five months of quiet solitude, it will embrace new life. New owners will fill rooms with their possessions, unaware of the wealth of memories each room holds but sensing the positive energy of the house, and although it will be difficult to pass by that house and know my hopes for a family gathering for its 50th birthday party have been dashed, I’ll remain friends with neighbors Ed and Judy, who were such a great help to my mother in her months of failing health. And those daffodils, rather than reminding me of my mother’s failing health and death, represent her return to a world of spirit where I imagine her in full bloom, young, smiling, healthy and happy.

Historical style corn crib

John G. Whitacre — Fri, 05 Apr 2013 23:46:22 +0000

Traditional mortise and tenon joints support the roof.

A new corn crib at Huston-Brumbaugh Nature Center, combining old barn timbers and new siding, will soon educate visitors on the historical side of the former Huston farm. Campbell Brothers farms of Washington Township donated an old barn that stood along Salem Church Street, and some of that wood has found a new home in the small corn crib, which will help to interpret Ohio farming methods.
J.A. Mehl Restoration Inc. of Washington Township is building the crib. Owner Jim Mehl said the barn timbers date to the 1860s or 1870s.
Mehl and his crew — Ed Znosko and Bud Murphy — sawed the main timbers at Mehl’s shop to make them the proper size for the crib and assembled them there using the traditional mortise and tenon joining technique, in which wooden pegs are pounded into holes in the beams, attaching angled supports to connect the vertical and horizontal members. They will leave hand-hewn timbers exposed — Mehl said the hand hewing is one factor he uses to date a barn.
Fresh, bright poplar siding makes the barn look new, contrasting sharply with the mellow aged look of the dark brown timbers. The men cut the siding from storm-downed poplar trees on nature center property.
The crib resembles a small covered bridge, its central walkway with openings at each end bordered by two elevated storage bins. Vertical support timbers and horizontal beams separate the bins, which are floored with barn flooring, from the walkway. The smaller vertical slats on the long side walls are spaced apart to allow air to enter the crib.
The crib will hold corn on one side to demonstrate storage, and the other side will be open so people can walk through it. Interpretative displays will compare mechanized farming, where kernels are removed from cobs, to 19th-century storage of entire ears of corn.
Mehl said they have worked at the site for about two weeks and worked another week before that at the shop, where they built the bents, the vertical supports from which angled supports extend to horizontal pieces above.
Old barn siding serves as roof sheeting, and cedar shakes supplied by Carter Jones of Akron will cover the roof. Those shakes and the nails are the only parts in the crib that are new and from outside Washington Township.
Property manager Mike Greiner said the crib furthers the historical interpretation of the property, which in the recent past was all farmland. The barn area is in the historical area, he said.
“We’ll use the corn crib as a bridge between the woods/nature area and the farming/historical side.” It will be the gateway to the farm from the woods.
The historical farm display, which may expand as further ideas are developed, will follow a time line from Ohio statehood through the 1950s or so, portraying the farm through a partially fictionalized representation of Mary Huston’s life. Huston was born and died on the farm and thus saw farming change from plowing with horses to electricity. The tour will follow her from childhood, having her offer reminiscences about the farm.
The staff will develop further displays over the next couple years, said Greiner. Much more timber remains stacked under cover, and they hope to use it in other projects. Ideas include construction of other structures found on Ohio farms, not necessarily at the Huston farm.
“It is a work in progress,” he said.

The flood of 1913 and the Ohio and Erie Canal

John G. Whitacre — Fri, 08 Mar 2013 22:24:47 +0000

Photos of Ohio riverside cities in late March 1913 show buildings surrounded by water, where water should not have been. The tremendous Easter weekend flood, part of a storm that brought tornadoes and high water to the U.S. from Nebraska to the East Coast and down the Mississippi valley, caused 752 deaths in Ohio, and it ended once and for all — and in one city with a blast — the state’s canal system.
Ohio’s canals opened the state to economic development in the mid-1800s. The Ohio and Erie Canal broke ground south of Newark in 1825, and the first stretch opened from Cleveland to Akron in 1827, reaching Stark County soon after. The canals brought prosperity to a state that had been isolated and struggling. But by 1900 canals were in decline, giving way to the railroads, and a series of improvements to locks in the early 1900s in the northern portion of the O&E were a last-ditch effort to save the canals in their last gasp of usefulness. That work was proven pointless a few years later when the flood hit the state.
Spring rains were abnormally heavy after a winter of record snowfall on Easter weekend of 1913, says Jack Gieck in “A Photo Album of Ohio’s Canal Era, 1825-1913.” The reservoirs near Akron were gorged, and excess water was spilling into the canal, destroying aqueducts and banks and flooding adjacent towns and farms. Trudy Bell in “Timeline” called it “a near-biblical deluge.”
Heavy rains began early on the morning of Sunday, March 23, and continued all day and into Monday. The Little Cuyahoga River in east Akron submerged the lower floors of the Goodyear complex and extinguished the fires in the company’s powerhouse, and the fire department evacuated families from homes along the banks. The stream, despite its name, is the size of a middling creek in that area, and a storm that produced enough water to flood buildings along its shores should give an idea of the incredible amount of rain and melted snow inundating the area.
On Tuesday morning the Little Cuyahoga’s banks began collapsing and houses began floating away. Portage Lakes levels rose, and summer cottages were flooded. A dike on East Reservoir gave way, and the water divided at Young’s Tavern, beside Manchester Road (state Route 93 just south of U.S. 224), going southwest toward Barberton and north to Akron. The torrent roared over the lock gates, making it impossible to open them to relieve the pressure, warehouses and stores along South Main Street were flooded, and boilers of the electric power plant in the Cascade valley, where the canal dropped through a series of locks from the summit in Akron to the Little Cuyahoga, were drowned. Several locks were dynamited to save the city.
The lockmaster at Lock One in downtown Akron called B.F. Goodrich engineer John Vance just before noon Tuesday saying the water was rising behind the lock’s lower gates, which held back the nine-mile stretch of summit-level canal water. Workers from Goodrich, which was threatened by the water, worked for hours to build a levy of dirt-filled sacks, but by 9 p.m. it had begun to crumble. State offices in Columbus gave Vance executive authority, and he and a contractor found dynamite nearby and blew the lock gates. A geyser of water shot into the air, and millions of tons of water rushed down the canal to the Little Cuyahoga, destroying the cascade of locks. In Akron 9.55 inches of rain had fallen, across Ohio, and property damage totaled hundreds of millions of dollars. Portions of the canal were restored for industrial uses, but commercial traffic ended on March 26.
Terry K. Woods, of Canton, writes in “Ohio’s Grand Canal” that the Tuscarawas River in Massillon floated a house along Tremont and drove it against a railroad trestle, where it disintegrated. The river flooded the Ohio Drilling Company, the Massillon Foundry and the Schuster Brewery in downtown Massillon to three or four feet, and Sippo Creek flooded the main business section. The police chief ordered saloons to close, and several drunken men were rescued from floodwaters. Much of Navarre was on high ground and was thus safe, but the canal in that village was ruined. The flooding Tuscarawas destroyed every bridge but one that crossed it in Stark County.
Although commercial canal traffic ended in March 1913, some stretches were preserved as sources of water for industry and can be seen today. The summit level of the canal in southern Summit County (the county took its name from the canal’s summit) provided water for hydraulic power and cooling for industries in Akron and Barberton, so a 10-mile stretch was preserved, and the canal north through Akron was repaired enough to channel water through ruined locks to the Little Cuyahoga Valley, where it still enters that stream today by Mustill Store, a restored canal business that houses a museum. The rugged remains of the canal can be seen at Lock 3 Park and Cascade Locks Park in Akron. A stretch in Stark County provided industrial water to Massillon but was eliminated by the Route 21 expressway.
The Ohio Historical Society houses a collection of flood materials that can be seen in the Research Room in Columbus, and Stark Parks in partnership with the Massillon Museum is displaying photos of the flood from March 23 through the end of the year at Canalway Center at Sippo Lake Park. I recommend visiting the remains of the canal, especially its shattered remnants in Akron. Nothing brings home the effect of the flood like viewing crumbled lock walls and picturing a torrent raging down the valley, taking with it buildings and boulders and the Ohio and Erie Canal.

“Scrug your bonnet”

John G. Whitacre — Thu, 24 Jan 2013 20:17:45 +0000

If you wear a Highland bonnet, you should scrug it, and you may decorate it with a cockade or a clan badge if you wish.
“Scrug your bonnet” is an old saying meaning to cock up one side to look smart or bold, as defined in “The Scottish Dialect Dictionary” (I love those specialty lexicons), the verb “cock” meaning to turn up one side. The cockade is a small piece of fabric sewn to represent a flower and indicating the wearer’s loyalty. The clan badge, a metal ornament made to resemble a leather belt encircling an emblem and bearing the clan motto, declares the wearer’s family. For example, the Clan Wallace badge shows an arm clutching a weapon and the motto “Pro Libertate.”
The Scottish Highland bonnet, commonly known as a tam, is a thick beret made of heavy wool. It was common in the 18th century in Scotland, and Rogers Rangers wore dark green bonnets, adorning the cocked side with metal Scottish thistle ornaments, while ranging the eastern frontier during the French and Indian War, protecting settlers from attacks.
During the 45, when Bonnie Prince Charlie tried in vain to restore the House of Stuart to the English throne, his supporters wore a blue bonnet decorated with red tuft, feathers, a spray of laurel and a white cockade, a fabric floral ornament with a button in the center. Dance tunes referring to the rebellion and Prince Charlie abound in traditional Scottish music, including “The White Cockade” and “Blue Bonnets Over the Border.” Another Scottish tune is “I Have a Bonnet Trimmed in Blue.”
After the rebellion failed with Charlie’s defeat at the Battle of Culloden in April 1746, The Disarming Act of 1746 banned, among other things, the wearing of Highland clothes: “That from and after the First Day of August 1747, no man or boy within that part of Great Britain called Scotland, other than such as shall be employed as Officers and Soldiers of His Majesty’s Forces, shall on any pretext whatsoever, wear or put on the clothes, commonly called Highland clothes (that is to say) the Plaid, Philabeg, or little kilt, Trowes, Shoulder-Belts, or any part whatever of what peculiarly belongs to the Highland Garb; and that no tartan or party-coloured plaid or stuff shall be used for Great coats or upper coats, and if any such person shall presume after the first said day of August, to wear or put on the aforesaid garments or any part of them, every person so offending … shall be liable to be transported to any of His Majesty’s plantations beyond the seas, there to remain for the space of seven years.”
The act doesn’t mention bonnets, which were made of solid colors, not tartans, but I bet those white cockades were banned, and a bit of explanation concerning some terms is in order here. The plaid is a large blanket wrapped about the body to form a kilt around the waist and a cloak that can be draped behind in warm weather or wrapped over the head at night or in cold weather. It is woven from tartan fabric, tartan being what Americans call plaid. The philabeg is the kilt, a pleated skirt with no upper section. Trowes are trousers made of tartan fabric, and I imagine shoulder belts refers to the tartan sash worn across the chest. Modern pipe bands wear the kilt, but if you visit a Highland festival you may seen re-enactors wearing the plaid.
A relaxation of the ban on Highland dress or difficulty enforcing it occurred quite rapidly after it was enacted. Samuel Johnson wrote in 1773 that Highlanders wore the “fillibeg” and the plaid. The act was repealed in 1782, but by then the skills of dyeing and weaving of tartans were lost or were not a way of life, and the clan system had lost its grip on the people of the Highlands.
But Highland culture had its revenge a half century later with the Highland romantic revival, instigated by King George IV’s visit to Scotland in 1822, which was stage-managed by Sir Walter Scott. Highlanders attended the gala in what was thought to be full Highland regalia, and this is when the idea of a specific tartan for each clan was formalized. Before then, patterns weren’t firmly associated with clans, but tartan makers rose to the occasion and designed patterns when needed, and now those tartans are part of clan history, thought to go back hundreds of years. “The Clans of the Scottish Highlands,” by R.R. McIan, published in 1845 and 1847 and reprinted in 1980, contains a wealth of gorgeous idealized paintings of Highlanders in clan dress.
The bonnet gained the appellation “tam” after Robert Burns published “Tam-o’-Shanter” in 1834, and that’s how most folks know it today. It’s one of my favorite caps and my head-warming connection to my Scottish ancestry, and I’m glad no proscription against its wearing stands today.

Thesaurus Day

John G. Whitacre — Fri, 18 Jan 2013 18:47:28 +0000

It’s Thesaurus Day, brought to you by the man who can’t have just one of anything.