Mr. Schadenfreude revisited

My great grandfather was originally from the German speaking part of Switzerland, and was fluent in the German language. I am sure he would snicker at my attempt to pronounce my favorite German word. Which as anybody who has read my previous blogs knows is schadenfreude. This means, “Pleasure derived from the misfortunes of others.”
In one of my previous blogs, Mr. Schadenfreude, a.k.a Mr. Rattus. I mentioned the old adage “what goes around comes around” I wondered how that could be true as this bully was just running rough shod over his neighbors..
He was the major factor in my decision to try to buy a house and get the hell out of there. Before I did something to him that not only would get me into trouble with the law. But it would also embarrass my family.
As it turns out, that asshole (I was going to refer to him as a son of a bitch, but he would probably take that as a compliment) did me a favor by forcing my hand.
For financial reasons I searched for a house in a rural location. I was thinking about raising a few chickens in an isolated area far away from the likes of Mr. Rattus. But the longer the search ran on, the more reservations I had about leaving this area.
So I did something that I thought I would never do. I bought a mobile home. It is about two miles away from the Salisbury Housing Authority unit. It is also about the same distance to Toll road in Salisbury where I lived for many years.
Financially living in senor housing makes a whole lot of sense. Mentally it was like being a state ward again. I could never get comfortable there. There were a few nice people who I consider to be friends. But the majority of the population was not really people I would want to be involved with. Their favorite pastime was to sit around and bitch and moan and listen to their arteries harden. But it was plain to me that SHA was a huge up grade in their life style. It was practically a free ride for the majority of them.
Owning of course is a lot more expensive with utilities, taxes and maintenance. But it is worth every penny to be away from the likes of Mr. Rattuss. I still get to have gardens, but raising poultry or any small farm animals is out of the question. My neighbors are a huge upgrade over my previous ones. But then are all snobs to a certain degree. It’s all right to have their dogs come over and shit on your lawn or their cats hunt the birds at your feeder. But God forbid, they have to see a couple of hens as they grill their chicken wings.
So again I thank Mr. Schadenfreude for forcing me to make a move. I have ended up in an area that does not look like a trailer park, with large well landscaped lots and more trees than a forest. And the truth of the matter, most of my reservations where, I could not get comfortable with moving a long distance away from my kids or the area where I have lived all my life
Mr.Rattuss finally found out that what goes around comes around. As the legal system finally incarcerated him for ninety days in the county correctional facility, and evicted him from the SHA. During his stay in jail, he found what it was like to be bullied. He took a severe beating and had to be isolated from the other inmates for his own protection.
I’m glad all this transpired after I had moved out. Or I might have remained there.
I moved here in November of 2010 and started to enjoy a much more normal life style. I have only had one little bump in the road. On New Year’s Eve 2011 the weather report called for a bright, sunny and unseasonably warm new year’s day. I decided that I would be at Salisbury beach and start the New Year with photo’s of the sun appearing to rise right out of the ocean. I was standing on a dune snapping pictures when I heard a voice say throw the camera down and give me your wallet. I turned to see a young Hispanic man who was dressed like he did not care if his pants fell off and was not sure if he was coming or going as his hats brim was pointed west as he was facing east. My reply to that was there is no way I am throwing my camera in the sand. Then another voice said, don’t make me take my gun out. Throw the camera down and give us your wallet and anything else you have in your pockets. I turned and saw another taller Hispanic who evidently had the same humorous haberdasher. As he started to repeat this I turned and started walking away at a brisk pace. Peeking over my shoulder I saw that they were keeping pace. I sensed they did not have a gun or it would have come out as soon as I showed reluctance to obey them. Then to my relief there appeared a woman and two huge dogs coming over the dune right at us. The two would be thieves turned and ran off toward the seasonal homes and disappeared. I expressed my relief to the woman and asked her if she had a cell phone that I could use to call the police. Unfortunately she had left hers at home. So right away we had something in common. I told her she should be careful if she planned on walking the beach. Her reply was No! I think my dogs would like nothing better than to meet those two punks. And looking at those two mean looking giants straining at their leashes, I could not help but think she was right.
As I was walking home that morning I was sure that I had just met a couple more assholes who were about to spend a lifetime emulating, Mr. Rattuss.

After reading this blog,my daughter Diana chided me for stretching the truth.
She said she recalls me relating that on my walk home reality set in, and I was on the verge of soiling my trousers. She also recalls that after hearing what had transpired all four of my kids hoped that my stupidity was not heritary.

The Great Pigeon Caper

I have always been a lover of birds and fowl. The sound and movement of them has always fascinated me. The sight and sound of them in a pasture, a woodlot or in my backyard cannot help but cheer me up.

Before I get to the pigeon fiasco, I will relate a couple of recent events that I found amusing. On the first day of spring last year (2011) my Holly shrubs were loaded with a bumper crop of red berries. At about three o’clock in the afternoon these shrubs were ravaged by a large flock of cedar waxwings. Shortly they had devoured every berry in sight. I felt lucky to witness this sight as I hardly ever saw a cedar waxwing in my yard or gardens. I made a mental note to myself to be on the alert for this event to occur again this spring. However on Super Bowl Sunday, while watching the Patriots lose to those dastardly bullies from New York, I was distracted by a flurry of activity in my window boxes. A flock of robins was busy eating the red berries that I had put there with evergreen cuttings. From there they preceded to strip all the red berries off the Holly bushes. This was interesting to me for several reasons. One being they were flocked up, I don’t recall ever seeing robins do that. The second being there is always a few hearty robins that winter over, even in the harshest winters. But this was a large amount of robins to be here in early February. They were probably auguring a mild winter. I don’t think one mild winter is a sign of things to come. We have experienced them before. Only to be followed by a string of winters that only made the snow plower’s and OPEC happy. My son Joe chided me saying, are you going to stand there looking out the window or are you going to watch the game. So I went back to the agony of defeat. But in the back of my mind was the feeling that as the cedar waxwings migrated north this spring they were going to be disappointed when they stopped here for lunch.

On a rainy March 25th afternoon I noticed a lonely cedar waxwing hopping along on the ground near my holly bushes. After he discerned that there were no berries there, he checked out the feeders, shook his head and flew away. I’m sure he was the advance scout and returned to the flock with the bad news.

But I feel lucky to have seen the scouting wax wing and look forward to see who gets the berries next year.

Before, I relate the pigeon caper. I would like to say the commonly held belief that birds evolved from dinosaurs is a myth. It’s a little like believing in jackalopes.

Ever year in early spring, dating back to when I was a little kid I have always had the urge to raise poultry and grow things. Over the years I have done both, many times.

So when I was about fourteen I found out that the Beck’s who lived on what is now known as Shore Terrace near Ober Park in Ryal side were raising racing pigeons I was intrigued.

This particular winter/early spring,Victor Bernson, Richard Locke and I were hanging around together. This was odd because the three of us had nothing in

common. We usually hung around with different crowds. But somehow I convinced them that we should try our hand at raising racing pigeons ourselves. So we went to visit the Beck’s and view their loft (fancy name for a pigeon coop) At that time this area was mostly seasonal summer homes. And the ones that were converted to year round homes could only be classified as seedy. The male Beck’s could only be best described as gaunt and scruffy. But the loft was impressive and immaculate. The family patriarch was very proud of his birds and ran on at great length about the care of the birds and the strategy he used to win races. But what impressed me the most was how he could hold a cigarette in his mouth and talk non stop with out the ash falling off, and how expensive racing pigeons were.

 After checking with the local pigeon racing club, what the Beck’s had told us

was true.If we really scrimped we might have been able to buy one pair of racing pigeons. And hope that they mated and gave us a future brood of potential champions. Of course that was not the instant satisfaction that we were looking for. So we decided we were just going to have to find a better way to get into the game. The Thibedeau’s had a couple of empty chicken coops in the back yard and we decided we would use one as our loft.

So our plan was to wait until it got dark. Then we would go under the Kernwood Bridge and capture the common pigeons that roosted there. The first night, we only brought one gunny sack and captured four birds. The next night we decided we needed it least twelve more birds, so we each brought a gunny sack. The night was unseasonably cold and there was a little sleet falling. On our way to the bridge we all smoked a cigar. Smoking was something we were just starting to experiment with at that age. Richard some how always had cigars and his favorite cigarettes Old Gold filter kings. I never questioned where he got them. But he like the rest of us kids certainly did not have any money. I do recall that it was easy for kids to buy tobacco products, and there were cigarette vending machines everywhere. You would put two dimes in the machine and get a pack with two cents change taped to it. I know I digress but old man Beck’s smoking oddity reminded me of this.

When we got to the bridge it was a real dark night, the wind was howling and it was drizzling. I went under the bridge first and Victor and Richard followed. We were successfully grabbing pigeons when from above someone yelled “Hey what are you guys doing down there”. Now of course there were no-trespassing signs on the bridge, but we never expected the bridge tender to be there at night. We started running towards the ladder on the Beverly side of the bridge. Victor and Richard made it up, but I slipped on the icy creosoted deck and went head first into the river. Fortunately for me the tide was coming in and it was a short distance to the shore. I got out of the river and raced for home. The heavy wool mackinaw and leather brogans I had on felt like they weighed a hundred pounds. I took the short cut through the woods but it still took me about fifteen minutes to get home. We always went through the bulkhead into the basement to take off our muddy boots or shoes before going upstairs. At this time of the night there was no one else down there. There was a big washing machine down there and hampers for the dirty clothes., so I was able to find some of my dirty clothes to change into and hang the sopping wet cloths to dry. I then stood near the furnace to warm up and thanked my lucky stars that I was able to get in and change with out Mrs. Thibedeau seeing me, or there would have been hell to pay. About an hour later just as I was getting warm the bulkhead door open up and Victor and Richard came down into the basement. I was just getting ready to tell them about my adventure when Victor came over and punched me in the face and it knocked me on my ass. As it turns out they did not see me get out of the river and they were afraid I had drowned. I think they were more afraid of explaining why they were there and what happened. Then they were about me.

Any way we ended up with a flock of common pigeons. We kept them cooped up, watered and feed for about two weeks. The experienced birders would let their birds out for exercise every evening, and before it got dark they would return to the coop. So we figured two weeks was long enough for our birds to adapt to their new home and would return if we let them out for some exercise. Well we let them out and they flew straight back to the Kernwood Bridge area and we never saw them again. Needless to say that was the end of our pigeon raising and from there we all went our separate ways.

Last of the Lemp Little Bits

I only have three Lemp’s left to talk about. My mother and father and myself.  I had very little contact with my parents that I can recall. The only time I went to visit my mother she rejected me. Saying “you’re not my Herman, my Herman is dead”. I never tried to visit her again. To this day I am bothered by that. I am not bothered that she did not recognize me. I am bothered by the fact that I used it as an excuse to stick my head in the sand and act in a selfish and cowardly way. For years I felt sorry for myself. I felt as though I was abandoned. Then it dawned on me that I was doing the same thing. She was a victim of circumstance. Just like my brothers, sisters, and I.

I only remember seeing my father once when I was a ward at the Thibedeau’s. He showed up with David and Harry, in a dump truck with signage that proclaimed that he was “Thee Olde Yankee Gardener” of Schenectady N.Y. It was very awkward. We all stood around and tried to make small talk. My father appeared to be very uncomfortable and seemed to be on the verge of tears throughout the short visit. Little did any of us know that we would never see him again.

Mrs. Thibedeau was a real good influence on me while I was in her charge, but the day she blurted out “your father is dead, he has hung himself.” that could probably have been done without six kids and as many adults standing around.

I handled this news the same way I handled my mother’s situation. I felt sorry for myself instead of having feelings for the true victims in this tragedy. In retrospect there is no doubt in my mind that my mother Leah and father Herman were the real victims in this saga.

I will be the first to admit that the do-gooders can at times be nauseating with some of their vacuous demands. But their constant demands have raised our society’s social and moral awareness. And I do believe that my parent’s dilemma would be handled completely different in this day and age. At age 71, I’m not as remorseful as I was for so many years but to me “it’s just in time to be too late”!

As you can surmise, my skimpy narrative does not come remotely close to relating what really transpired.

I have stated many times in past blogs that I was coerced into this format by my children. They chided me for not sharing my side of the family’s history with them. So two years ago on Thanksgiving morning they ganged up on me and made me promise to write a blog. This blog would shed some light on my background, the family history, and to them  my whacky way of seeing things in general.  So, I vowed to myself that there would be no fabrications. Whatever I would relate would be true according to my recall. I have stuck steadfast to this principal.

So I have omitted things that I have heard about my parents and siblings. Many of the things I heard would seem to make sense and others not so much. So I have just filed those thoughts as hearsay.

That concludes what little bit I have to say about my immediate side of the Lemp family. For my kids sake I will now bore you with a little bit about me.

His Nibs

On the previously mentioned Thanksgiving, I referred to my son as his nibs. My kids rolled their eyes and grinned at each other. Thinking my different little sayings were figments of my imagination. That and very little knowledge of my past lead my kids into prodding me into this undertaking.

I was born in Lynn Mass. on May 4, 1941. The family lived at the time somewhere near the Saugus River in Saugus Mass. Just a few minutes due northeast of Boston.

I have no recollection of living there. And have no idea where any of my siblings were born. And to reflect on one of my biggest weaknesses I cannot recall their birthdates.

My next memories were of Georgetown, of which I have referred to in the past blogs. The next place I recall was the statehouse in Boston. For some reason the person who took us there thought two little petrified boys would be impressed that the building had a golden dome. To this day I cringe when ever I see that edifice or hear it mentioned.

Why we were taken there is beyond me. We ended up in the New England Home for Little wanderers. It claims to function differently today. But back in the 1940’s it was a very depressing orphanage. We were there for less than a year. But it seemed much longer as it was a very scary place. The inhabitants where all bullies, older, bigger and pissed off at their plight. Everyday there was unpleasant and I’ll leave it at that.

Just before I turned six, Noel and I were placed in the foster home of Helen Thibedeau. In the Ryal side section of Beverly Mass. It is thirty miles northeast of Boston and borders on Salem and Danvers Mass. This turned out to be a step in the right direction for me.

That fall I was enrolled into the Ryal side grammar school. This was another cultural shock for me because my experiences at the orphanage made me tentative about accepting the schoolhouse experience.

Thus I experienced the long lost practice of holding a student back. I was ashamed to take my report card home to Mrs.Thibedeau. For years I would poke fun at my self by saying I flunked because I could not color between the lines. When the fact of the matter is the school system took my reluctance to join in or communicate as stupidity. When in reality it was inferiority and fear. The next six years at that school I made a great many lifetime friends. But I was never a good student. The people who ran the school and the people who ran the Emmanuel Congregational church across the street offended me as much as they were offended by having to deal with a lowly state ward. It was not until my last year there that I finally got a teacher who made me eager to learn. What first attracted me to her was the amazing fact that she could stand up with out tipping over. But as it turned out, as sexy as she was, she actually was a great teacher.

The following year I went to Memorial Junior High school in North Beverly Mass. The only thing of note from that period was that we were the first graduating class from that new school. Like the Ryal side school it is no longer open. Ryal side has been converted to elderly housing and the Memorial school is now some sort of professional building. I cannot imagine a person in his dotage going back to live in the same room where he had attended the first grade.

In 1957, I started my first year at Beverly High School and was a part time clerk at the First National store in Danvers square. The job was at the insistence of a man named Dooley. Mr. Dooley was the state ward councilor in charge of me. In my mind if he was not the biggest asshole I ever met, he was certainly a contender. I understand what he was trying to do. Get me to pay room and board. Of which I had no qualms about. I was well aware that the state had spent a lot of money on me over the last twelve years. What I did not like was his slovenly, smarmy, holier than thou attitude.

I spent three years going to high school working thirty hours a week and idling away what few hours were left in the week at Murray’s Pool room. So it’s safe to say I did not have a distinguished record at Beverly High.

Mr. Dooley made it very clear to me that the day I graduated I would be persona non grata as far as the state was concerned.  I joined the National Guard and was on a bus to basic training the day after graduation. I served in the guard for eight years some active and some inactive. The country at the time was between Korea and before Vietnam. So no matter what you got involved in, you did not qualify for veteran’s status. Some things I got involved with I can expound on, other things I can not, even if I wanted to.

When I got out I worked at Parker Bros. who manufactured board games, most notably Monopoly. I hated that job and returned to First National stores. The rest of my history can be obtained by talking to either one of my two ex-brides. I still love them both and think they deserve some kind of award for putting up with the likes of me.

The little tales of my past and future blogs should fill in the blanks I may have left in this blog about the Thornton’s and Lemp’s

In my next blog I plan to tell a little tale that took place during my junior high school days. I plan to call it “The great Pigeon caper”!

A Little Bit About the Lemp's

(L-R Ralph, Diana, Delice, Victoria, and Clifford)

Delice - Sister

I never really got to know her like I should have. She got married real young and moved to Florida shortly thereafter. I don’t recall ever seeing her as a kid, until the day she was married. Later on she made a lot of attempts to become closer with long hand written letters. Here I dropped the ball by not answering in-kind. But after all these years I must admit, I could barely decipher her handwriting. If that sounds like I am using that as an excuse, I probably am. Dereliction has always been my forte when it comes to communication.

As I said before I am doing this blog to kind of rectify that a little bit.

However, orally, I still talk a lot but don’t really say anything. So after running my communication skills around the barn a few times, simply put, it’s my fault that we did not spend more time together or stay in touch.

I remember going to visit them when they owned a home in the St. Petersburg area of Florida and really enjoyed her children, two lovely girls and especially her son Clifford.

My most vivid memory of that trip was having her husband Ralph telling me that he had something he wanted to show me. This was rather surprising. Because up to that point I thought he was a mute. So, we went walking to one of his neighbor’s house. We walked the short distance without either one of us uttering a word. In the neighbor’s back yard was a big cage with monkeys in it. As we stood there, Ralph quite contently threw peanuts into the cage. On the way back to his house Ralph was quite verbose. And he seemed to delight in the monkeys antics

A few years later she came to visit me when I was living in Rowley Mass.  This trip for her was a period of contemplation. She was in the throes of a break up with a person she had a social and business relationship with. From what I could gather a fishing boat was one of the losses. And it was the lose of the boat, not the man, that bothered her most.

The next time I saw Delice she was married to Frank Capone. And again it was a mix of business and relationship. The business was the dealing of church vestments and other sundry church related items. (It seems that many southern clerics have more different colored robes than Imelda Marcos has shoes)

Delice lost her son Clifford when he was still a young man and has not had an easy life. If a splintered family start and the loss of a son was not enough to contend with. She has been battling problems with her vision for many years. Several times she has come close to losing her eyesight. But after a recent operation, she assures me that she is doing well. And with her deep religious convictions, she manages to get by.

She is fortunate to have a couple of James Lemp’s paintings, which some day I hope to see.

As for her two husbands. Both, I found to be eccentric, one liked to hint that his family had ties to the mafia. And the other, an odd fondness for primates. Both good men I am sure. But you know that all brothers think; no matter who the guy is, he’s not good enough for his sister. 

I can not compare Delice to any other family member. She is unique.

Hermann Lemp- Great Grandfather

Most of what I know about my great grandfather is well documented and easy to find.

The following excerpt is from the Mid-continent Railroad museum web site. This article is about the dedication of a plaque honoring my great grandfather for his work on control systems for diesel locomotives. In August of 2003. They flew myself, Lisa, and Diana out to Wisconsin and put us up in the Best Western hotel in Baraboo. They covered all expenses and were very nice to us. I have not tried to correct the mistakes they made in this article. When we were out there we kept trying to get the great and great-great part across to them. But they still got it wrong. 

I fell in love with Wisconsin. Just like I do with any other farming area I visit.

Following this article will be another longer article about my great grandfather that I am going to put in that you will have to click on to open yourself.

Mid-Continent News (Source)

Montana Western #31 Designated ASME Landmark (8/23/03)

On Saturday August 16, sixty-five people attended the Great Northern 2313/Montana Western 31 gas-electric rail motorcar ceremony at the Mid-Continent Railway Museum. GN 2313/MW31 was designated an American Society of Mechanical Engineers (ASME) Historic Mechanical Engineering Landmark. The ceremony occurred at Mid-Continent Railway Museum from 11:30 to 4:30.

This self-propelled railcar is the oldest surviving equipment from the Electro-Motive Company and predates the incorporation into the Electro-Motive Division of General Motors (EMD—a major locomotive builder today. A comparison with both builder's photographs and drawings show that most of the car has remained unchanged. The car was built for the Great Northern and used from 1925 to 1939 on a run between Marcus, WA and South Nelson, BC, Canada. It was then sold to the Montana Western Railway that ran about 20 miles between Valier and Conrad, MT. In 1966, Mid-Continent Railway Museum acquired the car.

GN 2313/MW31 and sister cars represented the first major use of the Dr. Hermann Lemp control system. Dr. Lemp's control system replaced a complicated throttle and electric control system with a "one lever" system--simple enough for a steam locomotive engineer to operate. This control system was the basis of all diesel-electric locomotive systems for over fifty years. Its concepts are still embodied in the control software of today's locomotives using direct current traction motors.

Mr. Hermann Lemp III, grandson of Dr. Hermann Lemp, and two great granddaughters: Elisabeth Lemp Cheney and Diana Lemp were honored guests at the ceremony. Ms. Cheney shared reminiscences of Dr Herman Lemp. Joseph O. Slezinger III, former EMD employee, gave a talk about the development of the gasoline engine, electric traction motors, electric generator and the Lemp control system. He explained how the system on GN 2313/MW31 developed from earlier technology and led to later diesel-electric locomotive development.

GN 2313/MW31 represents the 229th in a series of historic mechanical engineering landmarks, heritage collections, and heritage sites honored by ASME International's History and Heritage (H&H) program since the program's inception in 1972. Each selection represents contributions made by the technological advances of mechanical engineering and their impact on the quality of life. ASME sections: Chicago, Fox Valley, and Rock River Valley, ASME Region VI, ASME Rail Transportation Division, and Mid-Continent Railway Museum prepared the nomination for the national H&H committee.

The 120,000-member ASME International is a worldwide engineering society focused on technical, educational and research issues. It conducts one of the world's largest technical publishing operations, holds some 30 technical conferences and 200 professional development courses each year, and sets many industrial and manufacturing standards.

A little bit about the Thornton's and Lemp's

A couple of respondents to this attempt at chronicling the little knowledge I have of the Lemp history have asked; has anyone given you any new information, anecdotes or corrected you? The answer is no. That’s not the kind of feedback I am receiving.
I doubt the people who could do that,will ever read this blog. But I would be quite content to be corrected and tutored.
Whenever I think about Noel and Adele, the next two family members I’m going to write about, I cannot help but feel contrite. The tune by The Mills Brothers “You Always Hurt the One You Love” would best describe my remorse. I certainly could have been a more helpful brother to them both.

Noel Lemp—brother
Noel and I went through the system together and reacted to it totally different. There were three years between us and at that age it makes a big difference. I was his big brother and certainly got into many scrapes trying to protect him. So we were kind of together and kind of apart the way kids can be.
Noel was definitely Peck’s bad boy right from the get go. He was constantly in hot water. When he was about eight years old he was hiding in an apple tree so he could avoid helping the rest of us kids with our chores. Unfortunately for him, a branch broke and he fell about twenty feet and landed on a wooden sand box. Landing on the two-by six frame resulted in a nasty compound fracture of one of his legs. The screams of anguish could be heard all over the neighborhood. The response time to emergencies in the early fifties was somewhat longer than now. So the feeling of despair seemed endless. He ended up with a plate in his leg. He walked with a slight limp for the rest of his life. In grammar school the system  made his life miserable as they forced him to write right handed, when he was a natural lefty. And the foster home at the schools prompting, forced him to do everything else with his right hand. To his credit he stubbornly refused. And the system finally gave up on him, in more ways then one. And for the rest of his life, in my mind, he was the real life Joe Btfsplk.
When he was a young adult he was constantly in trouble with the police. No real crimes, mostly delinquency due to imbibing.
For an example, one night after having one too many he decided that he was hungry. So he broke into a diner, turned on all of the lights, and fixed himself a snack. When the police showed up, they found him sitting at the counter, reading a newspaper and eating a sandwich. These kinds of shenanigans were a real embarrassment to me. I should have tried to consul him but I was more concerned about my image and shunned him. When my mother passed away we had to bail him out of jail for some minor scrap. He was in the Salem jail waiting for the judge’s disposition in this particular incident. I had to put my house up as surety so that he could attend the funeral proceedings. There was a lot of Lemp’s sleeping at my house that night. Except for me, I was on a constant vigil to make sure Noel did not decide to take it on the lam. If he did it would not have been done with malice. That’s just the way he was. He married a girl named Corinne or Carina (I think) who had one child. They lived in Salem Mass in a real seedy neighborhood. He had a difficult time holding a job. But they seemed to love each other and were getting by. Then one day out of the blue he came to my work place in Medford. Mass. He told me things were going pretty good but that he was out of work again. So to pass the time he would like to borrow my John boat and electric trolling motor so he could go fishing. With a little trepidation, I said yes. I gave him a few dollars and wished him luck. That was the last I ever saw of Noel, or my boat and motor for that matter.
From what I can gather, he went to try his luck with David and then Harry. And then became a drifter. At the age of forty, he was hit and killed by a train somewhere in Louisiana.
Noel had a flair for sketching and probably could have followed in his Uncle James’s footsteps. He was tall for a Lemp, about five-eleven. He had an impish nature and an infectious grin. He preferred to be called Paul and was well liked and had many friends from Ryal Side. But his rebellious nature lead to a star-crossed life.

Adele Lemp-sister
I have always called her Adele but have heard others refer to her as Elise. Which it appears is her actual given name.
Of all the missteps in my life, and believe me there were many, how I handled my interaction with her still haunts me to this day. My youngest daughter, Diana, has been trying to make contact with her. She has been in contact with Adele’s social worker. And it appears as though Adele is not the least bit interested in any interaction.
I do not blame her one bit. If the roles were reversed I’m sure I would react the same way.
When Diana told me that she was going to try make contact again (she had tried a few years prior). It filled me with apprehension. How could Adele not think after all these years, “Is this about me or him? What an arrogant asshole!”
Adele is tiny and beautiful. When she has things under control health wise she is vibrant and very witty. She is, I believe, the only one of us kids to get a college degree. You only have to talk to her for a few minutes to realize that you are talking to a very intelligent person. When she was having problems and she needed me the most, I failed her. I would like to have a few anecdotes to relate. But our relationship was stormy at best. And any tales I have should stay between her and I.
David and Delice have been much closer to her. And I applaud them for being much more helpful and caring than I.
According to the contact Diana has had with Adele’s social worker. Adele is doing well physically and is quite content. I sincerely hope so.
I can see a little bit of Adele in all three of my daughters.
And all things being equal, I think Adele and Leah would easily out shine us all.

A little bit about the Thornton's part three

If, I had any sense at all I would have paid attention to the old adage “let sleeping dogs lie” and not got involved in this. But I said I would. So I guess there is no turning back now!

I must reiterate these memories are from a very isolated youngster. On the rare occasions, that I broached, this sensitive subject. I got what I like to refer to as “the hesitation waltz” The look that went along with the delay (body language) clearly said, the person did not want to pursue this subject. So when I asked, did this or that happen? I always got an emphatic “no!” And then usually a quick subject change or vague double- talk. This was the reaction from all family members, whether it was ignorance or embarrassment is open to conjecture

As I proceed, conjecture, is the key word. Let’s hope there is more fidelity than fallacy to this undertaking.

For years I was bitter. I could not for the life of me understand how the Lemp family would just cut us kids adrift. But now I realize it was a complex situation and probably was handled the right way.

So I will proceed with what little bit I know about the Lemps.

Grandfather Harry Lemp

I first became aware of him, when things started to deteriorate in our household. All the kids were packed off to friends or relatives. This hiatus was meant to be a time of healing. David and Harry went to stay with neighbors. Adele stayed with Aunt Ethel Parker. Delice, with another Pa. relative. I have no idea where Noel went as he was still an infant. I, with the luck of the draw, got the Col. At the time he was married to his first wife and they lived in New York State. Or it could have been Pa. I’m not sure it just seemed awfully far away to me. It was a rigid atmosphere and in retrospect I’m sure it was not a lot of fun for them. The few times I saw him in the future he came across as being quite pompous. Although the last time I saw him before he passed away, he seemed to be reflective and a little rueful. Later I learned that he was not as affluent as I thought he was. I vividly remember two incidents that were outshoots of my brief stay with him. One I prefer to keep to myself. The second one occurred on my first night of basic training. The DI’s spend the first day striving to scare the living shit out of the recruits. So that first night when we were all in our bunks after lights out. All I could hear was troopers crying. As I lay there, the thought popped into my head. “Look at me, Col. I ain’t crying!

Uncle James-Herman’s brother
Up until about fifteen years ago I had only heard his name mentioned a few times. When I finally did get to meet him I was impressed. He came across as a humble gentleman. He was an art Professor at a college on Long Island in New York. He had a studio at his home and was a renowned artist. Although I only met him a few times he has had a big impact on my life style. Allowing me to have a little financial freedom in my retirement.
When I think of him, I feel as though he and my great-grandfather must have had the same demeanor.
Aunt Clara Hutchings-Herman’s sister
Clara was slight of stature and rather timid. But very intelligent, refined and pleasant. She lost her only son Richard to an automobile accident. He was a young man in his twenties (him and David were close) She also lost her husband Maurice (I think that was his name) when he was only fiftyish. Adele lived with Clara for a few years, and Clara was a good influence on her. Clara lived in a affluent section of Newton, Mass. and was a librarian there for many years. I remember her and her husband coming to Beverly to pick up Noel and I and taking us to Merrimac Mass. for Delice’s wedding to Ralph Wilson. When she passed away there was a good representation of Lemp’s in attendance.
Clara was the type of person who made you proud to be a Lemp. And I do believe that it was her type of demeanor that attracted her brother to Leah Thornton.
David Lemp-Herman’s son
David is the oldest child. And the one I know the best. Although we did not see eye-to-eye on most things and had not seen much of each other during our childhood. We did communicate when we became adults. Dave liked to make periodic visits back to the area, to visit family and friends. He is much more qualified to relate the saga of the Georgetown Lemp’s than I am. He like the rest of the family was tight lipped when approached. But on occasion there were hints of knowledge, or maybe they were slips.
He would talk about visiting relatives and I would have no idea who they were.
Although I often thought that David was blind in one eye and could not see out of the other. I felt we were similar to a certain degree. Anytime someone would stand up and say “If I had my life to live over again, I would not change a thing” I would say to my self what a crock of shit. I’m sure Dave agrees and like me, rues many things.
I am beholden to him for certain things, but feel as though we are square.
One summer his step daughter Linda came to live with me and my family at Danvers port Mass. She turned out to be a delightful person. And we are very fond of her and her mother Jan. I for one think David should thank his lucky stars for having Jan. In reciprocation my daughters Becky and Diana went out there one summer. And became friends with Dave’s daughter Sandy, who my daughters often speak of when we talk about the family. I went out there for a combination hunting trip and Linda’s wedding. It turned out to be quite an experience. My wife at the time, Priscilla and my daughters Lisa and Becky followed a few days later and arrived at O’Hare airport right after a horrific airplane crash. My memory is sketchy on the details but they lost all of their luggage. Someone had to go pick them up and they barely made it to the church on time. I also recall Linda being a nervous wreck the night before the wedding and was outside with me cleaning rabbits in a snow shower.
I also recall a pleasant trip out to Omaha. From there I, Dave, and two of his friends drove up to International Falls Minn. Where we flew to a fishing camp in the middle of Canada for a week of walleye fishing.
Dave's looks and demeanor remind of grand father Harry.

I’m going to have to make the Thornton and Lemp blog a few more installments longer as I am turning into a real gas bag. I have yet to mention Harry, Noel, my sisters, mother and father, great grandfather or a line or two about his nibs. So I will end this segment with the last newspaper article I have of the Thornton’s. I will end what ever segments that are left with some literature about my great grandfather Dr. Hermann Lemp

             North East Breeze Wednesday August 22 1990
                 Old Days in North East by Ralph Hartley
                          The Village Blacksmith
Soon after the Civil War the Village of Little Hope appeared about as it does today, with eight of ten little houses n the south side and a few houses and several mills on the north side.
So far is known, Myron Stetson had the first fulltime blacksmith shop in Little Hope. It was on the north side, about where the store used to be. The pioneers had lots of horses, and oxen too. Whether they were “shoed” is not certain. Roads were soft in early days.
Heavy hauling on graveled roads with loads of logs, feed, etc., meant horses’ hooves needed protection. Myron may have had a shop prior to the Civil War. He died in 1917. He took Hiram Thornton as apprentice about 1889.
When horses and oxen provided transportation and farm power, the blacksmith was perhaps the most important man around. In addition to shoeing animals, he put steel rims on wagon wheels, steel runners on sleighs and cutters. He repaired machinery, put spokes in wheels, made sleds for kids, make milking stools, and did a lot of useful things.
Hiram ran the shop until 1919. By this time automobiles were becoming common. Hiram could see it happening. No longer was the horse dominant and no longer was the blacksmith as important. In 1919, Hiram bought his first car, a Maxwell, sold to him by Ora Pierce.
Lee Thornton says his dad bought it to experiment with mechanically, evidently hoping to learn enough to look after cars as well as horses. He had greatly enlarged the shop in 1916, and had a gasoline-powered lathe. He made baseball bats and other things with the lathe. Area baseball teams had Hi’s bats. You couldn’t break them over your knee as they do today. The handles were much too thick.
Adding to Hi’s troubles was the January, 1917, fire which burned his small barn. Three horses died and a cow and the winter’s hay and oats. A visitor dropped a cigarette in some straw on the floor, it was believed. The wind was blowing toward the house when the fire began, but luckily it changed directions and the house was spared.
Hiram sold his shop in 1919 and tried farming for a year or two. After a brief stay near Hornby, Hiram moved to North East where he lived until he died Dec. 24, 1925. He was only 59. Lee suspects that a horse’s kick to the stomach area some years before, may have affected his health.
Horses were nervous creatures, suspicious of persona approaching from the rear. Hiram made just one careless move, and it was a painful experience. Blacksmithing was a dangerous occupation in many ways. Horses could bite as well as kick, or they might use their weight to crush you against a wall.
Then, too, Hiram was heating iron to a white-hot, soft condition. He judged its readiness to shape by its color. A careless contact with the heated metal could cause a severe burn. A leather apron gave protection protections against sparks, but his face was uncovered. He wore a mustache and a cap. A long-sleeved undershirt helped guard his arms against burns.

Hi’s powerful hands were bare. He needed the touch of the hammer to guide his strokes. If a live spark hit a hand, he could always dip his hand in a nearby bucket of water.

On a typical day he arrived at the shop at seven, went home at noon, and then worked until work was finished in the afternoon. Sometimes in a rush of urgent business he might return to the shop and work until eleven.Mary, his wife, kept a big kettle of stew on hand in case Hi brought a customer or two home for lunch. Mary bore him 13 children, over a period of 25 years, from 1892 to 1917. Omer died at age 9 n 1902. Two girls died soon after birth. Ten children grew into hard-working, responsible adults and lived to old age.

When Hi got married about 1891, his father, Buel, told him, “If you have more children than I had, I’ll give you a hat”. Buel had 11 children. So Buel, after Spencer was born in 1917, presented Hi was a hat.

Buel had served in the Civil War. After the war ended, he had some peacetime service in New Orleans and met a Southern lady who be(came) his wife. Somehow she survived northern winters after Buel brought her home to the Saginaw, Michigan farm where he had a land grant from…… duty. He later moved to Harborcreek and then to the Wilson Road farm which was later owned by Archie Buel’s wife was Amelia Scherman Thornton.