Letter: Florence to Claude, 1906

Letter, dated Morton, Minnesota, November 13, 1906 from Florence Richardson to Claude W. Street, Park City, Utah:

Did you get a wintry blast when you opened this epistle from the land of ice and snow, or has it warmed up on its way from the Arctic zone? My but it's cold and blowing and blizzardy and everything else, - all in this one short day too.

Your nice long letter came yesterday afternoon, and made me feel good. My you have a lively lot of Junior girls, from your account of society doings. Tell me what western girls are like. Are they all pretty like in those novels or are they just common everyday mortals? Are they lively and yet not loud, or are they a little bit bold?

It makes me so blue to think of that camping crowd reunion for I'll be just one too many when you aren't there to let me bore you, and I just know I'll be terribly lonesome for you. Of course it's lovely of Minnie Bell to plan it. Do you suppose that about George and Ella Hibbert is authentic? It seems to me they will make a funny couple. I never could jibe with Ella Hibbert, for some reason, although I know she has many good points.

I had such a pleasant visit over at Redwood Falls over Sunday. I went down Saturday noon and came back Monday morning on the early train. You perhaps remember that the nearest point to Redwood falls on the M&S St. S is two miles from town, so one has to take the bus over and have it call for one to go back. The old bus called for me first, so I sat down nearest the driver's box. The thing by little maneuvering holds eight people very nicely, but Monday morning there were eleven inside, and two on the seat with the driver. When we commenced to go down the half mile hill on the way to the station, those seven men and three ladies commenced sliding, settling down against me. I haven't recovered my natural figure yet, I was so completely compressed against the driver's box. The next time anybody catches me sitting in that part of the bus again, it will be because I had no choice.

Mrs. Hitchcock (to resume) had one of the teachers and the superintendent who was a jolly young fellow in to Sunday dinner. She has invited my aunt and me over for Thanksgiving, but I think we shall go over to Marshall as we were invited there first.

Where are you going to be Thanksgiving Day? Somebody surely will take pity on homeless little boys won't there?

Well I got a comical letter from Bernard today, and I expect to hear this, you've had one from Ella. What won't those crazy young ones do next! I'm sending you Bernard's, and if you would just as soon have me I should like to see Ella’s. Then we will have to do something to get even with them. What shall it be?

Well what an idea that your pupils are afraid of your big nose! I'm not one bit, and if you were here I'd pull it for you just to show I wasn't.

Hoping you are enjoying less freezing weather than we, I am

Lovingly yours,

===

A double wedding took place on August 3, 1907, when the two Richardson sisters Ella and Florence married the two Street brothers Bernard and Claude. There is unfortunately no known photograph of the event.

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Letters: The Watson Family

Letter, Russell D Richardson to his daughter Madge Walsh, dated June 14, 1966:

Helen Watson is my first cousin, and therefore your first cousin, once removed. Her father, Charles Watson was my mother's older brother and they lived across the street from us in Northfield. Helen was one of seven children, next to the youngest, I believe. She graduated from Carlton in 1908 so she was probably born about 1886 and must be about 80 years old. She has never married, writes poetry and has published a book of her poems.

As a child I visited them frequently. Her mother, Ella Watson, was always baking cookies and pies and she was very generous with her goodies. Helen tells me that she is the last living member of her family and is living in the old family home. If you care to write to her for information about our family I am sure she would be happy to respond.

I remember her sister Clara especially because she was father's bookkeeper, and as my brother Fay and I worked at the store every day after school we came to know Clara a bit better than the other members of the family.

Charles Watson operated a leather good shop. He manufactured and repaired all kinds of harness and since we kept two horses (Fay and I had to do the chores of feeding, watering, currying, harnessing and driving the team down to the store before school) we had frequent contact with Uncle Charlie to keep the harness in repair. He was a good-natured John bull type of Englishman and both families had a fine friendly relationship.

The oldest brother, Earl Watson went into one of the three local banks. Elliott the second son became assistant postmaster and held this job all his adult life. Helen's youngest sister Marian was musical, married and moved away. Elliot, Clara and Helen never married. I suppose they were too happy and contented in their home life.

Genealogy studies can be fun. Hope you enjoy it.

Love, Dad

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The Watson genealogy & family chart are presented here as Helen sent it to me [mrw], with a few additions, especially the date of death of John Watson, from Clemmie's scrapbook. 

The data on the Featherstone children come from a letter from L.R. (Ted) Featherstone to Jeanette Richardson Nelson, dated Red Wing, Minnesota, April 6, 1978:

…It brings up history from a long way back. I am 83 and these things happened when I was a boy.

My uncle Charles Featherstone married Amy Watson, a local girl whose father was a local preacher. Aunt Amy had several sisters and brothers - I can't tell much about that family. But one sister was married to a Richardson in Northfield. Occasionally they came to visit in Featherstone Township. There were two boys - Fay and Russell - with whom I played as a boy 70 - 75 years ago. There were also two girls that I remember-  their names are gone.

Aunt Amy died a long time ago… after her death we heard nothing from each other. When uncle Charles died many years later, I remember meeting Fay at his funeral but our contacts have been practically nil…

perhaps you have known all of these things but I am happy to have had some reason to recall days long gone that I enjoyed greatly.

===

Helen Field Watson died April 1, 1978 at the age of 92. She was a woman of many talents: a teacher, writer, and artist, and inspired affection in all those who knew her. The following is adapted from The News obituary.

Helen Field Watson in 1957

Helen Field Watson was born on the Nutting farm, later the Odd Fellows Home, at the West edge of Northfield on 5th Sreet. She graduated from Northfield high school in 1904, and from Carleton College with a BS degree in 1908. In 1929 she received a master's degree in biology from the University of Michigan and worked out of the universities biological station and Ann Arbor.

She was elected to Phi Beta Kappa, 1914; She belonged to, and was president of several, organizations which gave an indication of the range of our interests: PEO, AAUW, SDEA,NEA, State Biology Roundtable, South Dakota State Poetry Society, the National League of Pen Women, et cetera.

Many summers of her life were devoted to study in a variety of fields: commercial subjects, plant life and ornithology, art, and writing. During her earlier years, she wrote science and nature articles. Her poetry appeared in anthologies and in 1949, her book of poetry, Field Notes,[1] was published. She illustrated the book, as she had some of her articles.

In 1961 she won the grand prize in a design contest conducted by the Red Wing Potteries for her "Snail on a thorn." In 1962, she had a one-man exhibit of 16 paintings on the Saint Paul campus of the University of Minnesota. One of her oil paintings, which was among 30 from the Minnesota Rural Artists Association hung in Washington, DC, was entitled Monday and was of washing hanging out in the backyard of her Northfield home. 

She often travelled, to California, New York, and New England, and in 1952 spent six weeks in what she described as a "glorious, invigorating experience," traveling in France, Italy, Germany, Switzerland, the Netherlands and England.

She first taught mathematics and bookkeeping at Saint James, 1909 - 1913. She devoted 1913 - 1914 to the study and active practice of social service in Chicago, returning to the classroom in 1915 to teach algebra and biology in Redwood Falls High School.

From 1921 until her retirement in 1953, she taught biology in the senior high school at Mitchell, SD. She kept an apartment in Mitchell for a year after her retirement, but was called to Northfield in the fall of 1953 by the serious illness of her sister Clara, and never returned to live in Mitchell.

Clara died in 1956, and Helen and her brother Elliot lived on in the family home on Winona Street. After Elliot's death in 1960, and that of her sister Mary Ann Schlattman in 1964, Helen was the last remaining member of her immediate family. Though in failing health, her mind remained clear to the very end.

Memorial service was held at the United Methodist Church of Northfield conducted by Rev. W.T. Horst. Interment, by the Bierman Funeral Chapel, was in Oak Lawn cemetery.

Helen Field Watson's headstone
Oaklawn Cemetery, Northfield, MN

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1 Field Notes by Helen Field Watson: "This quatrain is typical of the work of Helen Field Watson, a new writer who has been represented in various magazines but now for the first time appears between covers. Both in form and content, she gives the impression of being an old hand; there is finesse, depth and lyrical grace to her work, which is equally at home whether dealing with fields and the animals in them or with the human world. The author, a resident of Mitchell, S. D., has embellished the book with several of her own drawings. Published January 1, 1949" (From Goodreads)

 

Aunt Phoebe's Journey

There are two different versions of the following story, one written by Florence for an AAUW assignment, and another apparently for publication, though there is no evidence that it was published.

The shorter version was the better one, in some respects, but the longer version contained some interesting additions. The version given here is a combination of the two.

Aunt Phoebe was Clemmie's next older sister, who married Frank Sherpy, probably about 1876. Of there seven children, Bertha, the oldest, was about seven years older than Ella (see the Watson Genealogy & Chart)  - MRW

===

by Florence Richardson Street

Enclosed you will find the story of about Aunt Phoebe. Our assignment was to make a short story out of some family happening, so of course I have had to fill in a few gaps. In the main it happened like this. At the time Roy's behavior seemed cowardly to us as he cowered there in bed until morning instead of telling his folks at once. - FRS

===

“Well, Phoebe is on her way to Nebraska!” Mother remarked with a happy sigh at the breakfast table one Friday morning in July. Next to visiting her oldest sister Clara herself, Aunt Phoebe's journey was the best substitute. “Poor Phoebe! She's had such a hard life. She was so full of fun as a girl. I do hope she has a good visit.”

It seemed queer to us children to think of Aunt Phoebe's going far away. She was one of the fixtures in our lives. If mother were ill, Aunt Phoebe would come in to spend the day and sort of take over. While she didn't exactly cheer us up, we were accustomed to her gloomy outlook on life, and even derived a little amusement from her doleful forebodings.

We always associated Aunt Phoebe’s visits with tales of woe. The cows had gotten into the corn because Uncle Frank hadn't mended the pasture fence, and one of their best milkers had died of colic. Bertha had that pain in her side again; Aunt Phoebe was sure it was appendicitis. She would probably have to have an operation. The black horse from their best work team had broken his leg and Frank had to shoot him. Somehow these calamities always occurred just as mother was Planning to buy herself a new coat or dress, and she seldom had the heart to buy them. Father sometimes chided her for going shabby.

It must have been a month earlier that Mother had announced at dinner that Phoebe was going to Nebraska to visit sister Clara. Her sensitive face was flushed with suppressed excitement. We children were thrilled! In those days mothers of large families, especially farm wives like Aunt Phoebe, did not stray far from their own firesides. Even a trip to town required careful planning and was undertaken with some hesitation. From southern Minnesota to Nebraska seemed a stupendous journey.

“How exciting! When is she going? Who's going to take care of the children?” we chorused.

“Who's going to pay for the trip?” Father inquired warily, glancing quizzically at mother from under his bushy brows as he deftly carved the big, juicy beef roast.

Perhaps Father had some grounds for suspicion, though goodness knows, Mother didn't have the price of a railroad ticket to Nebraska. Women were not supposed to need much cash when they had charge accounts which were settled between merchants every January by a system of swapping. Father generously gave Mother five dollars each week for her own use, no questions asked. Two dollars paid the weekly wage of our maid-of-all-work, usually a Norwegian “newcomer” girl, so there was not much left to throw around. However, Father's shirts and ties and, occasionally, a suit or overcoat he had expected to wear again had a way of disappearing and then, presto, reappearing on Aunt Phoebe's son Roy.

“Phoebe has been saving her butter and egg money and she has enough in the bank to pay for her ticket!” Mother retorted triumphantly.

“Humph!” Better save it to buy shoes for that raft of young ones instead of gallivanting across the country,” Father remarked dryly.

“Now, Dave, Phoebe's entitled to a vacation. She works her fingers to the bone, and, besides, she hasn't seen Clara for 10 years! Neither have I,” she added wistfully.

Mother always stood up for her sister Phoebe, but not for Uncle Frank. According to her, their habitual hard luck was due to Uncle Frank's poor management. He was not what was called a go-getter. When our family drove in the surrey on a Sunday afternoon out to their farm 3 miles south of town, Father was wont to remark:

“Must be Frank's north forty along here. Look at the mustard!”

Mother and Father did not agree on the reason for Uncle Frank's poor farming. Mother said he just wasn't cut out for a farmer; he should have been a mechanic. Look at the way he liked to tinker. Father was sure Uncle Frank was just too “doggoned lazy.”

“Dave, the children will hear you!”

Of course, lank, brown-eyed, easy-going Uncle Frank sometimes did not get his corn cultivated or his wheat harvested just when those jobs should have been done, on account of his attending so many auctions. He had a passion for auctions. They were sort of social gatherings, and Uncle Frank was nothing if not sociable. He would come home from an auction with a broken-down corn planter, a sewing-machine which would not run, or a rocker with one rocker missing.

“You said your sewing-machine wouldn't work anymore,” he defended himself against Aunt Phoebe's upbraiding.

“Well, neither does this one, as far as I can see!” she would retort sharply.

“I can fix it,” Uncle Frank would assure her.

“If you're so good at fixing things, why don't you fix the one I've got instead of spending good money for another piece of junk? Mine is a heap sight better than this.”

It was fun out at the Sherpy farm. There were such fascinating things to play with. The treadles of the old sewing-machine would go up and down, up and down, when we pumped them, so we pretended it was an organ. We played Sunday school and sang all our Sunday school hymns lustily to the accompaniment of the sewing-machine. The baby carriage, minus a wheel and a handle, was just the thing for a doll-buggy when a piece of rope was tied to the front end and some child held up the rear corner. We used to play house with the churn that had a broken dasher. Uncle Frank was going to fix that as soon as he got around to it. He always had time to banter with us children, and truth to tell, we liked him better than diligent Aunt Phoebe.

Aunt Phoebe’s impending trip was the chief topic of conversation at our home for the next few weeks. We boasted of it to our friends. We all took a keen interest in Aunt Phoebe's wardrobe. It was Mother who discovered among her things a piece of gray wool just right for a new dress for Aunt Phoebe. Mother, herself, cut out and fitted the dress one time when Aunt Phoebe could drive in to spend the day. Her blue eyes glowed in happy anticipation of her approaching journey. When the worry lines were smoothed out of her forehead, she looked almost pretty in spite of her short, dumpy figure.

Father slipped mother a five-dollar bill one day, and gruffly told her to see that Phoebe got a decent hat. “I'm tired of looking at that old black bonnet with the bedraggled ostrich feather when I sit behind her in church.”

Father sister Emma, who taught in a Minneapolis high school and was considered very stylish by the family, arrived for a visit just then. She impulsively decided that Aunt Phoebe might as well have her navy blue coat; she was planning to buy a new one next spring anyway, and here were some black kid gloves she didn't need. Even Uncle Frank staid away from an auction and donated three dollars for some new shoes.

We were very proud when Aunt Phoebe donned her new wardrobe for our benefit a couple of days before she was to start for Nebraska. We felt she would do the family credit. Mother had prevailed upon her to get a cheerful-looking hat trimmed with one lovely pink silk rose. Aunt Emma had showed her how to do her hair in the new teacup style. With the soft natural waves of her brown hair loosened around her face, Aunt Phoebe looked years younger.

“I haven't had a whole new outfit since my wedding-day twenty years ago,” she told us as she smoothed the folds of the dove gray wool dress lovingly, glancing at her reflection in Mother's long mirror with evident satisfaction. We pretended not to know that Mother had intended that material for herself when she bought it. “Won't Clara be surprised to see me so well dressed!”

That was on Wednesday. Aunt Phoebe was leaving early Friday morning. She planned to wash and iron and bake bread on Thursday, then pack the leather valise Father had loaned her; he had bought it when he went to the Chicago World's Fair (Colombian Exposition, 1893) and had brought it home full of gifts for the family. We wouldn't see Aunt Phoebe again before she left. Mother and she indulged in a tearful farewell with many messages from Mother to her sister Clara in Nebraska. And Phoebe was not to worry about her family, mother told her. Bertha and family were so capable, they'd get along fine. The responsibility would be good for them and they would appreciate their mother all the more when she returned.

We were still at the breakfast table that Friday morning when Uncle Frank's team and light wagon drove up to our hitching post. Of all things out clambered Aunt Phoebe!

“Her train must be late. I do hope she won't miss her connection in Saint Paul,” worried Mother.

But Aunt Phoebe was weeping. She was the most dejected, woe-begone looking mortal imaginable. At first she was incoherent because of her sobbing. We thought somebody must have died, but it wasn't Uncle Frank, for he was sitting in the wagon, holding the reins and staring straight ahead. He seemed to have lost his customary jauntiness.

“We thought you had started for Nebraska,” Mother observed in a puzzled tone.

“I'm not going to Nebraska, now or ever!" Aunt Phoebe announced between sobs. “The money, the money is gone, gone!” Her voice rose to a wail.

“You said it was in the bank,” Father reminded her.

“It was. Until yesterday afternoon. Frank drove in to get it because the bank wouldn't be open this morning before train time. I was finishing the ironing and the bread wasn't out of the oven yet, so I couldn't go with him.”

“The bank hasn't failed, has it?” Father asked Aunt Phoebe impatiently. It was past time for him to go to his furniture store, but he couldn't leave in the midst of this family crisis. Aunt Phoebe was so agitated that we despaired of ever making head or tail to her story.

“Oh, Frank got the money alright. He was just putting it into his wallet outside the bank and a stranger spoke to him. He seemed to be a pedlar. He was going out our way, he said, and would appreciate a lift. Of course Frank let him ride. Frank drove right past the Koester place where they were having an auction.”

Here Aunt Phoebe gave Father a withering look. She sensed what he was thinking, I guess. “He says he wishes now he had stopped. He might as well have bought that black horse of theirs to match up Cap.” She went on, “It was pretty late to do any peddling that night, so Frank told the man he might stay the night if he wouldn't mind sleeping with Roy.”

“Of course we were all talking about my trip, and I was busy packing. My new clothes looked so pretty!” Aunt Phoebe again burst into violent weeping. She dabbed at her reddened eyes with a moist handkerchief.

“Well, Roy heard a sound in the night. The pedlar wasn't in bed with him. Roy could barely see him. He was standing in front of the old walnut chest, rummaging in the top drawer where Frank had put the money. He told Roy to keep his mouth shut or he'd shoot and then he skipped out. Roy came and woke Frank and they chased the peddler but it was no use. He just disappeared.

“It took me years to save enough butter and egg money for that ticket,” Aunt Phoebe continued. “Something was always happening so that I had to use it for some other purpose. I'll never have the heart to try it again. I just wasn't meant to go.” Aunt Phoebe sank into a sitting room sofa and gave herself up to utter despair. Mother dropped down beside her and wept in silent sympathy.

This was too much for Father. It really had seemed too good to be true that he was not going to be involved in Aunt Phoebe’s project. He usually was. There were Fannie’s high school tuition and textbooks last year, and little Ralph's funeral the year before that. Uncle Frank's insurance would have lapsed long since if Father hadn't assumed responsibility for the premiums. Our building the big new house last year had made going a bit tough; But, if this meant so much to Clemmie, maybe he could manage.

“You kids! How about giving up Chautauqua camp this August and letting Aunt Phoebe have the money for her trip? Fishing's pretty punk down there at Waterville anyway,” Father posed the question to the five of us.

I gulped. I had just finished sewing six rows of brown braid around the skirt of my first bathing-suit. And then I thought of Father lugging home new fishing-tackle, green minnow-bucket and all, in January. He loved to fish and this week at Waterville was his only chance in their busy year. However, we all nodded assent.

Father fumbled with his checkbook. Somehow he couldn't see very well. He blew his nose loudly. Then he scribbled something on a small blue pad and strode into the sitting room.

“Here, Phoebe, take this and buy your ticket to Nebraska, and, for God's sake, start tomorrow before lightning strikes the barn or that ugly bull gores Frank!”

Do you know, it was the queerest thing! Mother was the one who was grateful - not Aunt Phoebe. Mother threw her arms around Father's neck and kissed him right there before us all. Aunt Phoebe just sat there staring at the little blue slip, and then she said:

“It will take some figuring to get to Nebraska and back on that, Dave.”

The Sherpy clan: Frank is clearly a social person

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Obituary: Charles Elliott Watson (1960)

Charles Elliot Watson was born September 10,1870, in Northfield the son of Charles H. and Ella (Ramsdell) Watson. As a boy and young man he learned a number of skills; farming and carpentry with Josiah M. Nutting, harnessmaking with his father, various types of house repair with John C. Nutting. He also worked in the Ferguson & Richardson furniture store for some time. He studied at the Minnesota School of Business in Minneapolis, and went into the Northfield post office as a clerk in 1902. He advanced from clerk to assistant postmaster in 1910, which position he held until he retired in 1933. After retirement, he and his sister, Clara, who made their home together at 513 Winona, spent several winters in Long Beach, Calif. Since his father's death 1914 he has been the male head of the household. As a youth he trained in the United States Militia. He had been a member of the Methodist church since February 1889, and was a member of Social Lodge No. A.F.&A.M. His hobbies over the years have been many and varied. He was interested in photography, stamp collecting, coin collecting, fishing (he owned a cottage at Lake Mazaska), woodworking resulting in some beautiful pieces of furniture, collecting local and county history data, fruit-tree-grafting, gardening, repairs for neighbors, and other interests. Elliot Watson as a boy was almost a pioneer in the Northfield area and was one of those who helped to make and to record Northfield area history. He has been of the true pioneer stuff--thoroughly honest, dependable, careful workman not afraid of work and even eager for work. His standards of living were such that they set a fine example for young generations--a good worker, a good neighbor, and a good man. Surviving Mr. Watson are his sisters, Helen Field Watson, with whom he resided at the family home at 513 Winona, and Mrs. Paul Schlattman (Marion) of Morris. They are the last of seven sisters and brothers. There are three nieces and their children.

Charles Elliot Watson in 1955

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C. E. Watson, son of pioneer residents of Northfield and himself a highly respected lifetime resident here, passed away Thursday afternoon Aug. 18, 1960, at Northfield Hospital where he had been a patient for the past month. He had been in failing health for the past three and a half years. His death came just three weeks before his 90th birthday. Born in Northfield, Mr. Watson made his home here during his long life and was identified with many interests and activities. He enjoyed the distinction of having lived in Northfield longer than any other person, nearly 90 years, and he was the oldest member of the Methodist church, with which he had been affiliated for 71 years. 

Funeral services for Mr. Watson were held Saturday afternoon at the Methodist church, followed by interment at Oaklawn cemetery where other members of the Watson family are buried. The services were conducted by the Rev. Russell A. Huffman, minister of the church, and organ and vocal music were by Sigurd G. Fredrickson director of the church choir. Active pallbearers were Ted Wickstrom of Morris, Robert Richardson, of New London, Russell Richardson of St. Paul, Dean Harris of Farmington, John Richardson of Farmington, and L. P. Lowe of Northfield. Named as honorary pallbearers were John D. Nutting, J. C. Christopherson, Milford Lyman, J. M. Wardell,C. M. Walley, O. E. Plowman, E. W Wyman, Jos. Barres, Frank J. Gallagher, G. G. Grunert, A. H. Wienke, and Alvin Houston. Arrangements were by the Bierman funeral chapel.

Headstone in Oaklawn Cemetery, Northfield MN

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Obituary: Amy Watson Featherstone (1916)

From the Red Wing Daily Republican, Red Wing, MN. 22 June 1916, page 1

Mrs. Amy Watson Featherstone Was One of County's Pioneer Women

The funeral of the late Mrs. C.H. Featherstone will be held tomorrow afternoon with services conducted at the residence on Fourth Street at 1 o'clock by Rev. J.E. Bowes of the Methodist Church. Interment will take place in the Featherstone Cemetery.

Amy (Watson) Featherstone 1851 - 1916

Amy Watson Featherstone was born May 27, 1851 in Lambton Co., Canada and to Minnesota in 1856. In 1874 she was united in marriage to C.H. Featherstone at River Falls Wisconsin. They lived in Featherstone Township up to 1909, when they gave up farm life and moved to Red Wing. Mrs. Featherstone was a devoted member of the Methodist Church for forty years. Surviving the deceased are her husband, Dr. B. Featherstone of this city and Charles W. Featherstone of Pullman, Washington.

Only immediate friends and relatives will attend the funeral service. The pallbearers will be E.C. Erb, C.S. Dana, Peter Kempe, George F. Cogel and Charles Steaffer.

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From the Red Wing Daily Eagle, Red Wing, Minnesota, 21 June 1916, page 10

Death of a Highly Respected Lady

Mrs. C.H. Featherstone passed away at noon today at her home on West Fourth street. Death came after an illness of some duration. Deceased was sixty-five years of age and is survived be her husband and two sons; Dr. B. Featherstone of this city and C.H. Featherstone Jr. of Pullman, Washington.

Mrs. Featherstone became critically ill about a week ago while on a trip to the coast. She was hurried back to Red Wing in the care of a trained nurse to her home where she was at the time of her demise. Further particulars will be given later.

Headstone in Hope Cemetery, Red Wing, MN

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Obituary: Charles Herbert Watson (1914)

Northfield News, August 28, 1914, p. 3:

On Thursday of last week, Aug. 20, occurred the death of one of Northfield's old settlers and most respected citizens. He had been in failing health for some time and the end was not unexpected, coming at about 8:30 Thursday morning. Funeral services were held at his late home on Saturday at 2:00 conducted by Rev. M. G. Shuman, pastor of the Methodist church, of which Mr. Watson had been a member for many years. The interment was at Oaklawn Cemetery.  Mssrs. DJ Whiting, Jas. A. Little, J.F. Wyman, A.M. Olin, JC Davison and Wm Green acting as pallbearers.

Charles Herbert Watson

Charles Herbert Watson was born at Granby, Quebec, Canada Oct 20, 1843, thus being exactly 70 years and 10 months old at the time of his death. He came to Minnesota in 1855, settling in Red Wing where he attended the public schools and Hamline University, then located in that city. While in that city he also learned the trade of harness maker.

In August 1862, he enlisted in Co. F., 6th Minnesota volunteer infantry, which was sent at once to Fort Ridgely to assist in repelling the attacks of the Sioux Indians. On the morning of September 2 Mr. Watson was on picket duty near the fort when he heard firing in the distance. A small band of troops had been ambushed by Indians at Birch Coulee, where they were being savagely attacked. It was this firing that Mr. Watson heard: he gave the alarm and relief was sent from the fort and the Indians were finally defeated with severe losses. Mr. Watson was engaged in that battle and also in the battles of Wood Lake and some other engagements with the Indians. Toward the last of their term of enlistment the regiment was stationed for some time at Helena, Arkansas and later was engaged in the siege of Mobile, Alabama and the battles before Fort Blakely, Alabama. After about 3 1/2 years of service Mr. Watson was mustered out at Fort Snelling.[1]

In 1867 he came to this city and engaged in the harness business, having been actively engaged in that business in this city most of the time since then, until about two years ago when he sold his business because of failing health. For a few years he was engaged in farming, one year as manager of the Leonard Johnson stock farm at East Castlerock, Dakota County [MN], and during 1890-92 as manager of the Turlington stock farm at Turlington Nebraska.

He was married on October 30th 1867 to Miss Ella M. Ramsdell, who survives him. Seven children were born of their marriage, six of whom survive their father.  Earl H., Charles E., Clara M., and Helen F., all of this city.  Fred J., of Regina Saskatchewan, and Mrs. Paul Schlattman of Alberta, Minnesota. One daughter, Amy F., died on January 22nd, 1900.

Mr. Watson united with the Methodist Church of this city in 1867, for about 45 years he had been continuously a member of the official board of the church either as steward or trustee. He was highly valued by his bretheran of the church for his sterling qualities, and those who knew him best held him in highest esteem.

He was a modest and retiring to a fault but faithful and efficient in any position that he could be induced to accept. Outside his church he enjoyed the confidence and respect of all who knew him as a businessman of the strictest integrity, an honorable citizen, a kind neighbor, and a faithful friend.

The Charles Herbert Watson Family headstone
in Oaklawn Cemetery in Northfield, MN

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NOTES:

1 Charles' 1864 letters home to his father during his Civil War service were published in 1986 in an article entitled "Minnesota Troops at Helena: Part II: Civil War Letters of Charles Herbert Watson, Company F, 6th Minnesota Volunteer Infantry Regiment" in the Philips County Historical Quarterly, Vol I, #1 & #2 (Dec 1986 & Mar 1987), from the Phillips County Historical Society, Helena, Arkansas, ISSN 8755-5913. 

Watson Genealogy & Chart

The Watson Family to the Richardson Family 

William¹ Watson
ca 1680 - ?
|
John² Watson
1747 – 1841
|
John³ Watson
ca 1772 – ca 1837
|
John Watson⁴ + Sarah "Sally" Poole
1799 – 1880      1802 – 1854
|
John Watson⁵ + Fanny Pettinger
1820 – 1896           1822 – 1865
|
Kate Clementine⁶ + David Fay Richardson
1860 – 1942                       1854 – 1943
|
Ella 
Florence
Ruth
Fay
Russell

WILLIAM¹ WATSON was born ca. 1680; buried at South Clifton, Nottinghamshire, churchyard. He was supposedly been stolen or kidnapped when a child. He married 1715. They had one son: John; b. 1747.

Map of Clifton, Lincolnshire and environs

JOHN² WATSON was born in 1747 in South Clifton, Nottinghamshire, England; he died 1841 (age 94) and was buried in the So. Clifton churchyard. His children:

• John, b. 1772
• George was born in So. Clifton; His son John was living in 1898 in South Clifton; no issue. “Has played the pipe organ in South Clifton Church 25 years.”
• Henry, birth unknown; His son William was born 1830 in So. Clifton. He had 9 children (all living in So. Clifton 1898): John, Henry, Annie, George, Florence, Sallie, Minnie, Fred, and Mary). His daughter, Mathilda was born in 1832.

JOHN³ WATSON II was born ca. 1772 in South Clifton, Nottinghamshire, England. He died ca. 1837, and was buried in Kettlethorpe, Lincolnshire, England. He had eight children:

• John, b. 23 April 1799; d. 12 Feb. 1880
• Thomas
• William, had 7 children in the US
• Edward, had 3 sons, remained in Lincolnshire
• Richard
• Sarah
• Ann
• Catherine

JOHN⁴ WATSON III was born 23 Apr 1799 in Marton, Lincolnshire, England. He died 12 Feb 1880 Red Wing, Minnesota. He married (1) SARAH "SALLY" POOLE on 9 Jun 1819, and they went to live in Market Rasen. Sally was born 10 Jul 1802 in Marton; She died 7 Jan 1854 in Sarnia, Ontario, Canada. He married (2) CHRISTINA MCDOUGALE CROSS on 01 Nov 1855 in Sarnia, Ontario, Canada. She died on 21 Apr 1859.

John Watson III (1799 - 1880)

"This picture was taken on his return to England [1876] to look after a very large estate that had been left by Lord Watson, supposed to be his uncle but was struck with paralasis [sic] before completing the business and had to return to America." -recollections of his granddaughter 

He came to Canada in 1849. He had a boat named after Christina Cross; one account says “boat launched Sunday at Sarnia went down and he lost his life,” which was not the case. He came to Red Wing, Minnesota on 13 Feb 1861, where he died 12 Feb 1880.

Children by Sally Poole: 

• John, b. 20 Apr 1820, Market Rasen
• Elijah, b. 24 Mar 1822, Rasen
• Charles Poole, b. 29 May 1824, Marton
• Sarah, b. 21 Sep 1826, Marton
• William Lewis, b. 1 Oct 1828, Marton
• Ebenezer Poole, b. 18 Jan 1831. Marton
• Eunice Elizabeth, b. 16 Feb 1833, Marton
• Phoebe, b. 30 Jul 1835, Marton
• Mary, b. 3 Sep 1837, Marton
• Jabez Poole, b. 26 Sep 1839, Marton
• Catherine, b. 18 Aug 1841, Dunham, Quebec
• Annie Rachel, b. 6 or 16 Feb 1844, Dunham

Chn by Christina Mcdougale Cross:

• Emma Christiana, b. 9 Aug 1857, Sarnia, Ontario; d. Sep 185x
• a daughter, born 26 Dec. 1858, lived 2 hours

JOHN⁵ WATSON IV was born 20 Apr 1820 in Market Rasen, Lincolnshire, England (1 a.m.); He died 30 Apr 1896 in River Falls, Pierce County, Wisconsin.
 
He married (1) FANNY PETTINGER, daughter of George Pettinger, a Lincolnshire lawyer, and Sarah Broadbent on 8 Apr 1841 in Gainsborough, Lincolnshire, England. She was born 27 Sep 1822 in England; She died on 07 Jul 1866 in Featherstone, Minnesota.

Rev. John Watson (1820 - 1896)

 

Fanny (Pettinger) Watson (1822 - 1865)

 
He emigrated to Dunham, Canada in 1841. In October 1855 he came to Red Wing, Minnesota, having seven children at that time; He took up a claim at Featherstone near Red Wing, 1858, and lived there until about 1871, when he moved to River Falls, Wisconsin, where he died 30 April 1896.
 
He married (2) SARAH ANN STOKES on 8 Oct 1867 in Warwick Township, Ontario, Canada. She was born in July 1841 in Sarnia, Lambton, Ontario, Canada. She died in Feb 1905 in River Falls, Wisconsin.
 
Children by Fanny Pettinger:

• Elijah Pettinger, b. 19 Nov 1841, Dunham, Quebec
  
• Charles Herbert, b. 20 Oct 1843 Granby, Quebec
• Merton Poole, b. 4 July 1845; d. 1862
• Clara Jane, b. 26 Nov 1847
• David Wellington, b. 17 Nov 1849
• Amy, b. 27 May 1852
• Phoebe, b. 23 May 1854
• Fred John, b. 12 Aug 1856
• Froom Talford, b. 11 Mar 1858/59
• Kate Clementine, b. 5 Oct 1860
• Fanny Ella, b. 8 Jan 1862

Children by Sarah Ann Stokes:

• Lily Magdalene, b. 1868; m. Charles Gunthorpe; d. 12 Aug 1926
• Elmira Powell, b. 1870; m. Walter Chapman
• Frank, b. 1879; m. Charlotte Smith
• Anna, b. 1881; m. Philip Glass
• Sara, b. 1883; m. (1) McIntyre, (2) J.H. Chatterson

KATHERINE CLEMENTINE⁶ WATSON was born on 5 Oct 1860 in Red Wing, Minnesota. She died on 8 Oct 1942 in Roseburg, Oregon. She married David Fay Richardson, son of George Warren Richardson and Caroline Amelia Fay, on 28 Aug 1883 in Goodhue County, Minnesota. He was born on 1 Jul 1854 in Galena, Illinois. He died on 9 Oct 1943 in Roseburg, Oregon, USA. They had five children:

• Ella Lucile, b. 18 Aug 1884; m. Bernard Street 3 Aug 1907; d. 3 Mar 1936
• Florence Clementine, b. 23 Aug 1885; m. Claude Winship Street 3 Aug 1907; d. 11 July 1963
• Ruth Catherine, b. 6 Jun 1892; m. Arthur Gerald Smith 29 Apr 1916; d. 6 Oct 1964
• Fay Watson, b. 10 Dec 1893; m. Florence Grinsted 9 Sep 1916; d. 19 Jun 1951
• Russell David, b. 20 Apr 1895; m. (1)Jessie Dewey Cutting 10 Apr 1920; m. (2) Elizabeth Barker 16 Nov 1984; d. 6 Dec 1986

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The full Watson Family chart

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Birthdays

We lived at this time in our old house which was later moved off and the new house built on the same lot.

Fay Watson Richardson was born Sunday eve Dec. 10, 1893. Weight at birth 9 lbs. Was a very robust looking child, with an exceptionally well developed head, but he was subject to many severe sickspells until he was about eight years old. When 14 mo. old he had a very severe illness that lasted for a month. Was 13 mo. old before he had a single tooth. Did not walk alone after this illness until 18 mo. old.

Fay had measles when 2 ½ years old, at the same time other children were all sick. It was at this time he made such a friend of Mrs. Dr. Lynde who used to bring in picture books and entertain him. She was the only one he would let take care of him beside the family. He had whooping cough at five years, and was vaccinated at the same time and was very ill… He has also had chicken pox.

He commenced going to school with nearly seven yrs old. He didn't enjoy going to school and used to beg, and beg to stay at home. He would ask every morning, "What do I have to go to school for?"

Fay, Ruth and Russell were baptized on the same day [June 26th, 1898] and united with the church about six or seven years later…

- From Clementine Watson Richardson's Scrapbook

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Letter from grandfather George Warren Richardson, dated Bruneau, Idaho, December 20, 1893:

My dear David & Clemmie,

I hasten to send you my congratulations. Another Grandson to perpetuate the Richardson name. I know you are pleased that the baby is a boy, and mother Lillie[1] and I both "rejoice with them that do rejoice."

I began to feel afraid that the family name would become extinct till George Alonzo[2] came to the rescue. Clara[3] used to try to comfort me and say, "Pa don't worry - there's time enough yet," but I was afraid her comfort would end in talk.

I presume the small boy will find a name before this reaches you but it will do no harm to suggest.

I think it would be a nice thing to have his name perpetuate the memory of his father and mother as well as the family name

Fay Watson Richardson

How would that do?

I have not rec'd Emma's weekly letter. Maybe she was too busy caring for her nephew. Well, your card brought the most important news.

I cannot understand why Emma does not get my letters oftener than once in two or three weeks. I have failed to write every week a few times, but I am sure some of my letters have been lost. We are getting along nicely. Mother has the contract for the school six months more (that is six months after the first quarter). She is as busy as she can be training her scholars for her Christmas performance. I am getting along well with the work on the circuit. There has been an addition to my missionary appropriation of $150 - and this extra amount came all in a bunch.

Yesterday I got my wire fence around my stockyard and stable and around the house, so I am nearly ready for winter before Christmas. Weather cool and pleasant, no snow in the Valley. We both send love and Christmas greetings to the Father - Mother and all the children - including Emma.

Affectionately,

This will have to do for Emma this week

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Letter from grandfather John Watson, dated River Falls, Wisconsin, December 14, 1893:

My dear David,

I received your card announcing the Birth of a son. I'm glad to hear that Clemmie and the boy are doing well. I hope he will prove to be a great blessing to you and grow up to be a good man and an useful citizen.

I have not been feeling well for more than a month past. I suffered from Heart failure, was over a week confined to the house. I got round a little but did not feel well. Day after Thanksgiving I was taken down again and have not been out of the House since, but I am feeling better and think I will be able to go out in a day or so.

Mother got Home this morning from a two weeks outing and joins with me and love to Clemmie and all the Richardsons.

Yours lovingly,

===

Letter from Helen Field Watson, to Russell David Richardson, dated Northfield, Minnesota, June 1, 1966, in reply to his request for help in getting a passport:

Dear Russell,

I surely can authenticate your birth date.

Clara's carefully kept diaries have come into use many times when we wish to find out when or where someone did something. She began keeping them in 1893.

In April of 1895 she was staying at your home helping to care for the children. She writes: Sat. 20. Uncle Dave went for Mrs. Meade & Dr. Greaves about five o'clock. A little baby boy came this morning about 8:15. Uncle Dave took Ella, Florence, and Ruth out to Maggie's.[4] I took Fay out for a ride. In the afternoon I took him over to Mrs. Weeks and she helped me amuse him… and more about that day…

California could hardly be lovelier than our Minnesota now. My back lawn and garden seemed beautiful to me - probably more so because I'm yard man and gardener.

I'm glad I could be of a little help to you!

With sincere interest,

===

Letter, Florence Richardson to her brother Russell, dated Morton, Minnesota, April 18, 1907:

This should reach you on your 12th birthday, if it does not tarry on the way. It is very, very hard to realize that you are celebrating your last birthday before entering your "teens," but at the rate you've been growing this year you'll be a young man shortly. Congratulations!

As spring advances, I suppose you and Fay are finding almost more work in the way of odd jobs, than you can do. Very soon school will be out and then you'll be free to work and play as you wish. Do you realize that six weeks from today is Decoration Day? I can scarcely wait till school is over.

I received Ruth's and mamma's letter to-night. I am so sorry that mamma has been so poorly. I do wish she could manage to do less work.

To-night after school Floyd Patten took Aunt Emma, Miss Brown and me riding way out into the country. We went out to Patten's farm, tied the team, and then rambled all through the woods, gathering what few flowers we could find.

I went to a home-talent play here last evening, which was rather good. It lasted rather late, and consequently, I have been sleepy all day. One just has to go to what few things like that do come along, or they don't like it at all.

Well Russell, I must say, "good-night." Wish we could have bought you something decent here. Give my love to all the rest of the family.

Most lovingly
Your sister

===

Letter, Emma Richardson to Russell, in the same envelope:

Florence and I have not forgotten that you have a birthday this week - but we haven't been able to find anything that we thought you would care for, so we each send you a quarter and you are to get but you most wish whether it is a new book, an ice-cream soda or as Florence suggests, a new bell for "Cherry."

You are certainly to be congratulated on 12 years well spent; At the same rate 10 more will finish your education and fit you for some useful place in life.

Meanwhile, grow tall & strong, earn & save as much as you honestly can without being stingy; But above all be the sweet, happy, helpful boy that you have always been.

We are proud of Our Boys and feel sure that they are making the right sort of men.

Your affectionate

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NOTES:

1 GWR married November 17, 1889 as his second wife Rachel Elizabeth Silver, who was born March 11, 1844 and predeceased him, dying March 18, 1907.

2 The first grandson, born February 26, 1892 to Frank and Alice (Dibble) Richardson. Up to this time all the grandchildren had been girls. George A. attended the School of Mines at Lead, S.D., served in WWII, came home in ill health and died March 8, 1922. David Fay Richardson's two sons, Fay and Russell, were the only other grandsons; They survived to have issue.

3 Owen Richardson's wife, Clara Milne.

4 Probably Maggie Milne Lyman.

Father Enters Big Business

by Florence Richardson Street

Father’s furniture store was a very important factor in our family life, quite apart from the income it produced. When I walked down Main Street in our southern Minnesota town, I felt a sense of ownership, of belonging, which I’ve never had since.

Richardson furniture store in Northfield, Minnesota

The store had three floors. On the first floor were rugs, carpets, mirrors, framed pictures and dining room furniture; on the second, bedroom suites, mattresses, and chairs. The top floor was used for storage and repair shop, resided over by a Norwegian cabinet-maker who had learned the trade in the old country. A huge glue kettle and a battered coffee pot always simmered on his small gasoline stove. A freight elevator transported furniture from one floor to another, and oh! what a thrill to ride up and down on it! Ole, the delivery boy, would warn us good-naturedly, “stay back from de edge, du barne!”

Father prided himself upon his attractive store windows. To advertise porch swings, he once hastily screwed some large hooks into the plaster ceiling of the display window and hung up the swing. For the benefit of an interested customer, he jauntily plumped his 200 pounds down on the swing – the ceiling hooks gave way – and father and the swing made a hasty descent, one corner of the swing going through the plate-glass window. Somehow this didn’t strike my practical English mother at all funny when he recounted the incident at the table. “Sort of an expensive joke,” she commented dryly, mentally calculating how many household necessities the price of the window would have bought.

Sometimes father was absent from the noon meal because he was taking to dinner a young couple about to be married. They would come in shyly, hand-in-hand, to choose their furniture, and he wasn’t taking any chances of their falling into the clutches of his competitor, whom he cordially hated.

Father would let them choose a lot of shiny oak stuff which he carried for purpose of comparison. Then he would convince them skillfully that, while this might do for the present, it wouldn’t always satisfy them. “You want to think of what you’ll be proud to own 20 years from now,” father would counsel. “Good furniture lasts a lifetime.” Step-by-step he would suggest substitutions – a simpler, better-made bureau with beveled mirror, a more comfortable mattress, sagless springs, a planar but more beautiful dining table, sideboard and chairs. After the sale was completed, father would add a large train etching as his wedding gift. Long before installment buying became general, he would arrange for regular payments of the difference between what the young folks and plan to spend in the cost of better furniture. Payments often consisted of butter and eggs. These couples became his firm friends, returning through the years for other needs. He could also speak a bit of Norwegian, which never failed to amuse his Scandinavian customers.

Father demonstrating a new mattress
The young woman is Clara Watson, his niece and bookkeeper

Buying in larger quantities than a store in a town of four thousand could sell easily was father’s weakness. When he could have sold readily six or seven newfangled “sweeper-vacs” he ordered a dozen. The last five or six proved almost impossible to move. This was a source of considerable friction between him and his partner, Mr.Ferg, (Ferguson) for father was the buyer; the store was only one of Mr. Ferg’s extensive business interests.

Once father got really into BIG BUSINESS. It happened that the college on the hill above town had built a large dormitory for men which, strange to relate, provided no clothes closets. To offset this defect, the college had ordered, direct from a little factory to the south, something over 100 large wardrobes. These were to be “of oak, seven feet high, four and one-half feet in width, 20 inches deep, smoothly finished outside and inside.” Although satisfactory in every other way, the cabinets have been poorly finished inside, so the college authorities refused to accept them. This blow caused the factory to go bankrupt. Four months these wardrobes cluttered up the Milwaukee freight depot until father bought the lot, to the consternation of mother, his partner, and everybody at the store.

“It will take 10 years to get rid of them!” Mr. Ferg snorted.

“Dave, you’ll send us to the poor house yet!” Mother declared.

“Betcher my bottom dollar we can sell every last one within a year!” Father countered.

Knute, the cabinet-maker recently arrived from Norway, was pressed into service to help Ole. Day after day the two men hauled wardrobes from depot to store in the high wagon. They grew tired and glum. Even the black team lost its customary spirit and didn’t run away once.

Two father this venture was a challenge. He developed strategy. Only one wardrobe was displayed at a time, thus giving customers the impression there was scant stock on hand. From the doctor’s wife down to the little girl who came for carpet tacks, nobody left the store without being shown a wardrobe. He sold many to farm wives, who invariably had an upstairs bedroom minus a close closet.

“Ya! Virst ve baere dem from freight house store,” grumbled Ole. “Then ve loefte every damn von back into de high wagon og loefte dem oopstair soomevere.”

Knute nodded agreement: “Ya, ya, alvay oopstair!”

Father became quite resourceful in thinking abuses for wardrobes never imagined by the manufacturer. About this time our church women purchased their first dishes and silverware. They needed storage space. Father prevailed upon them to buy two wardrobes to stand side-by-side. Knute built nice selves into them, and they were used satisfactorily in the kitchen church for years.

I always suspected that mother has helped that transaction along. It was now her turn to absorb some of the surplus.

She had been asking to have a linen cupboard built into a recess in the upper Hall. Father sent up a wardrobe, neatly fitted with shelves. One slight drawback was that it was deeper than the niche, so we were continually bumping into it in the dark.

It proved so useful, however, that mother said the boys might as well have one in their bedroom, which had no close closet. Father complied with alacrity. The wardrobe worked very well for the two boys, divided as it was into two parts, with a deep drawer underneath and the shelf above. Fay and Russell each had his own side for his clothing and treasures, thus eliminating much squabbling.

The boys invented a new game called “sleeping car.” Each high shelf became an upper berth into which they climbed like monkeys. Even father hadn’t visualized this use!

One evening the little boys were excused from the table before the rest of us had finished. They scampered up to their room which is above the dining room, to resume a game of “sleeping car.” Suddenly we heard a crash which jarred the whole house, the dining-room chandelier swayed drunkenly, and then – silence. In consternation the family rushed upstairs; too scared little boys were crawling out from under an avalanche of clothing. The heavy wardrobe had tipped over as they had shinned up to their “births” at the same time. Its fall had been broken by the foot rail of their iron bed, which is been bent into a deep V; probably only this had saved the youngsters from serious injury.

When the year was almost up, one wardrobe still remained. The men at the store had begun to razz father. He did his level best interest customers. “Why, Mr. Richardson, don’t you remember? You sold me one last April!” The town and countryside seem to have reached the saturation point.

With this matter uppermost in his mind, father went up to Mr. Oleson’s tailor shop over McGuire’s jewelry store to have his new suit fitted. He happened to notice that the garments upon which Mr. Oleson was currently working on exposed to the dust. Before the fitting was completed, father had sold the last wardrobe!

Delivering this one was something else, however. For one thing, it was another upstairs job. “Schust von more oopstair vardrobe og I qveet,” Knute had threatened. And this was no ordinary flight – the iron stairway leading from the sidewalk between two brick buildings must’ve been twice the height of the usual residential stairs. There was no landing anywhere, not even at the top where door opened abruptly into the tailor shop. No spot to pause for breath.

Knute and Ole studied the situation without enthusiasm. They decided they might as well carry the wardrobe from the store, as the stairway was but a few doors up Main Street. The piece was awkward to get a grip on, and very heavy to negotiate up the long flight. Knute, the stronger of the two, lifted from the bottom while Ole tugged at the top.

Father stood watching proceedings from the sidewalk in front of the furniture store. He was vaguely uneasy. Suddenly he beheld Knute leap like a skier into space from the stairway opening, fleeing for his life! At his heels, end over end, came the mammoth wardrobe, careening to the middle of Main Street, where it crumpled into kindling. Knute had not paused until he had reached safety on the far side of the street, where he stood quaking.

“Dat ting, it loike to kill me! He gasped.

The two men had gotten the thing safely up the stairway to the tailor’s door. Only had to take one hand from his and a moment in order to open the door; Knute felt the wardrobe slipping, but couldn’t hold it. He let go and leapt downstairs ahead of it. Usually passers-by were numerous, and teams were hitched all along the street, but by some strange miracle the path was clear and nobody was hurt. 

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