Richardson Family Chart

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Snapshots: The Northfield Richardsons

 

David Fay Richardson and Katherine Clementine Watson
on their wedding day in 1883

Clementine Watson Richardson and her three daughters:
Ruth (8), Ella (16), Florence (15)
"Merry Christmas to Grandma & Grandpa"
December 1900

David Fay Richardson
& his two sons, Russell and Fay

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The Mystery of Mother's Christmas Clock

by Florence Richardson Street

“One of these days I want to get a real nice clock for the mantel,” Mother said wistfully.

Ever since we had moved into the big house, which had a fireplace in the living room, mother had remarked frequently that the fireplace mantle needed a clock. The old walnut Seth Thomas had been moved to the kitchen, where it was needed most; Whenever we wanted to know the time, we had to run to the kitchen.

Little Ruth in the Northfield house parlor, prior to 1899;
the Seth Thomas clock is visible in the kitchen behind

Father's furniture business had been good that year, so he decided rather impulsively to surprise Mother with a clock for Christmas.

Father always did his Christmas shopping on Christmas Eve. He dropped into McGuire's jewelry shop just to look, but Mr. McGuire succeeded in selling him a beautiful black onyx clock with three light marble columns on either side of the face; It looked a little like the Parthenon.

Christmas came on Sunday that year [Ed: This dates the story to 1899. Ella was then 15, Florence 14, Ruth 7, Fay 6, and Russell 4]. Father connived with Mrs. Bierman, our next door neighbor, to keep the clock overnight period she promised to place it on the mantle while the family was at church.

After church, Father brought Mother home. She went into the house alone while he put up the horse period of course Mother spied the lovely clock at once, but she decided mischievously to have a little fun with Father. She carried the clock into an adjoining bedroom and draped her shawl carelessly over it.

When Father came in, he stared at the empty mantle, then dashed over to Biermans. Soon Mrs. Bierman ran over to borrow an egg. She made an excuse to come into the living room. She, two, stared in bewilderment at the mantel.

Ours was a large family. In addition to five children, our California cousin Fred Watson lived with us. There was also a Norwegian maid, Hannah, who had been with us for years.

About that time, we children arrived home from Sunday school. There was an air of mystery about the house; I observed Father quietly conferring with Fred. Father and Fred were darting here and there all over the house in a most peculiar fashion. I even heard Fred on the attic stairs.

Finally, justice Hannah announced dinner, Mother drew Father aside. “You've had your fun,” she said, “and I've had mine.” She took father's arm and led him into her bedroom. With her dramatic gesture, mother lifted her shawl and revealed - a sofa pillow!

Where was that clock? Father hadn’t the remotest idea. Neither had Mother. She enlisted the help of the children. We searched high and low, in the most unlikely places, but couldn't find the clock. The search continued intermittently until bedtime, but to no avail. We went to bed, still mystified.

Suddenly, in the dead of night, we were awakened by an exquisite chime! We scrambled out of bed, excited and laughing, and rushed downstairs in the direction of the sound. It struck 12 times. There on the fireplace mantel, just as though it had always been there, was Mother's clock!

Although the mystery occurred 60 years ago, it never was resolved. Though cousin Fred, then 15, helped look for the clock, I personally suspect that he was playing a delightful Christmas trick on the rest of the family. He was that much of a mischief.

The Christmas Clock

In 1983, the clock was still in the possession of cousin James Smith of Monmouth, Oregon. The story was printed in the Kansas City Star, December 18, 1960, section D, page one. [MRWalsh, ed.]

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Richardson Family Papers | Table of Contents

-- Note: this page is under construction and will be updated as posts are finished and published--

In 1983, Madge outlined five volumes, of which two were published. I have divided two volumes and added two, which gives us nine "volumes" as follows:

Introduction: The Richardson Family Papers, by Madge Richardson Walsh, editor

• Introduction 
• Richardson Family Chart 
• Acknowledgements

Volume I - Ella Richardson Street 

• Introduction
• All the Rights and Privileges Pertaining Thereto
• A Double Wedding
• A Hunting Accident
• Obituary: Ella Richardson Street

Volume II - Florence Richardson Street: Reminiscences of the Family (originally published in 1983)

• Introduction 
• Snapshots: The Northfield Richardsons
• The David Fay Richardson Family in Northfield, Minnesota 
• Father Enters Big Business 
• The Mystery of Mother's Christmas Clock 
• Aunt Phoebe's Journey
• Birthdays
• Letters: Florence to Claude Street (1906)
• Not counted
• Clippings: Four Generations Join in Baptismal Ceremony 
• Obituary: Florence Richardson Street

Volume III - Ruth Richardson Smith: A Memory Book and Letters of an Oregon Bride (originally published in 1991)

• Introduction 
• Private Diary of Ruth Catherine Richardson, Part I 
• Private Diary of Ruth Catherine Richardson, Part II 
• Letters of an Oregon Bride, Part I
• Letters of an Oregon Bride, Part II
• Ruth Richardson Smith Memorial 

• Obituary: James William Smith 

Volume IV - Fay Watson Richardson

• Introduction
• Letter on Mother's Day
• Fay and the Pulling Contest 

Volume V - Russell David Richardson: Reminiscences (1971) and In his own words (1977)

• Introduction
• Reminiscences, Chapter 1 
• Part 1: Beginnings in Northfield 
• Part 2: Logging Coming soon!
• In his own words: He lived, but... Coming soon!
• Reminiscences, Chapter 2
• Part 1: World War I 
• Part 2: Jessie 
• Reminiscences, Chapter 3 
• Part 1: A fine day outing
• Part 2: A wedding, a funeral, and a birth
• Reminiscences, Chapter 4 
• At Sea
• Letters 
• Letter from Salina Cruz, 1919
• Letter from Mother Jessie (1919)
• Panama Canal letter & history
• The Accidental Accountant
• The Merchant Marine and other odd jobs
• Russell and Jessie in Japan
• Obituary: Russell David Richardson
• Obituary: Jessie Cutting Richardson
• Postscript by Madge Richardson Walsh

Volume VI - George Owen Richardson: Autobiography (1937) 

• Introduction
• Note on Ancestry
• Autobiography 
• Chapter 1: Ancestry
• Chapter 2: Birth and Early Years
• Early Days of Samuel Huston College
• With her Grandmother
• Note on the Milne Family and Epilogue

Volume VII - David Fay Richardson: Looking Back over Eighty Years (1938)

• Introduction
• Looking Back over Eighty Years
• Later Years in Oregon
• Obituary: David Fay Richardson
• Biographical Sketches
• Frank Asbury Richardson
• Earl Mercein Richardson

Volume VIII - George Warren Richardson: Recollections of My Life Work (1905)

• Introduction
• A Photographic Footnote
• My Journey to the Crossroads of Race, Faith and Family in America, article by James D. Richardson (external link)
• Life Chronology
• Clippings: Four Generations Join in Baptismal Ceremony
• The Journal
• Transcribed Excerpts
• A preaching gig
• Obituary: George Warren Richardson

Volume IX - Mothers and Daughters

• Caroline Fay 
• Dedication: Three Carolines
• Love letter (1849)
• Poems
• Diary of an Abolitionist's Wife
• Tiny moccasins
• Obituary: Caroline (Fay) Richardson (1887)
• Ella Fay: Stars and flowers
• Katherine Clementine Watson
• Letters: The Watson Family
• Watson Genealogy & Chart 
• Watson Family Obituaries:
• Charles Herbert Watson (1914)
• Amy (Watson) Featherstone (1916)
• Charles Elliott Watson (1960)
• Mary Emma Richardson
• Favorite Bible verses
• Graduation Days 
• Letters: to Samuel Huston College 1943 Coming soon!
• Madge Richardson Walsh
• The Lone Arranger
• Some Thoughts on Tolerance (Or, Tolerance is a Two-Way Street)
• My Mother's #MeToo
• Obituary: Madge Richardson Walsh

Russell D. Richardson, Reminiscences, Chapter 1, Part 1

by Russell David Richardson, 1971

Our family lived at Northfield,Minnesota, only a few blocks from the high school, and also within walking distance of Carleton College. In fact, all our activities were within walking distance, as very few people had automobiles. 

My father’s business was located about four blocks from our home, and he always walked to and from his work. He and his brother Earl were partners in a furniture business, and this required the use of delivery equipment. Consequently, we had a good-sized barn in back of our home where we kept two coal-black horses, named “Nig” and “Ollie.” By the time my brother, Fay, and I were ten and twelve years old, we had full responsibility for taking care of these two horses. Nig was assigned to Fay, and Ollie to me. So each morning after feeding the horses and cleaning the stable, it was our responsibility to curry and brush the animals and put the harness on so that after breakfast they could be hitched up to the delivery wagon and one or the other of us would drive the wagon down to the store and leave it before school.

Ferguson & Richardson Furniture Store

 

My father had a tendency to gain weight, and as a result of his overweight he had a serious heart attack, and the doctor told him that he must change his mode of living or he wouldn’t live long. He took this advice seriously, and decided to sell his business and to move out West. He had heard about growing apples out in Oregon, so he made a prospective trip to that area and decided to buy a small apple orchard and to sell out the furniture business.

This decision occurred in 1913, just as I was finishing high school. So the family moved to Sutherlin, Oregon, after school was out; but I stayed on in Northfield so that I could attend Carleton College.

The college did not have dormitories for men, and it was the practice for residents of the city to rent rooms to male students. Together with three other boys in similar circumstances, we rented the lower floor of a two-story home and spent our first year in that residence. There were no cooking facilities, and we found a boarding house in the neighborhood where we could have our meals.

Inasmuch as my three older sisters had preceded me in attending Carleton, I found that the professors were continually comparing my scholastic performance with that of my sisters. My oldest sister, Ella, had been an excellent student, made Phi Beta Kappa, and was valedictorian of her 1906 class. I still remember my professor in economics taking me aside and saying, “Russell, you do not seem to have the grasp of this subject that your sister Ella did.”

My college days were not particularly happy ones. I had no definite goal in attending college. I was immature and had had little contact with people in professions such as law, engineering and medicine. My parents offered no advice. However, my sisters had all gone on to college and the whole family took it for granted that I would go to Carleton and eventually reach my own decision as to what profession I would prepare myself for.

I knew I did not want to be a farmer, although that occupation did appeal to my brother Fay, and he went to the Minnesota State Agricultural College in Minneapolis. Ella and Florence had both obtained positions as teachers in high school after graduation from Carleton; but I had no desire to enter the teaching profession as Claude and Bernard Street had done. Moreover, it was doubtful that I would be able to continue for a full four-year course because of limited finances. I received a small scholarship from Carleton in recognition of my high scholastic record at Northfield High School, and had some accumulated savings. In addition, my parents had rented out our former home and gave me some of the income from that source. However, I knew that they had lost their main source of income from the business, and the fruit ranch which he had purchased in Oregon was very young and just starting to bear, so there was little or no income from that source.

There were no fraternities in the college, but there were some Greek letter clubs; and the club that I particularly wanted to join did not invite me. I was informed that the main reason was that I had indicated that I might not attend college for more than one or two years.

At the end of the first years, I had enough money to pay for rail transportation to Sutherlin, and picked the longest route I could develop. I took a train to Fargo, North Dakota, and then almost directly north to Winnepeg, where I connected with a westbound Canadian Pacific train to Vancouver. En route we passed through the beautiful Banff and Lake Louise resorts, and part of the trip was taken in open air cars where they transfer you to cars without any roof. For a person who had been raised in the flat Middle West, the mountains were most impressive.

From Vancouver I had a short boat ride to Victoria, and then on to catch the train to Portland and farther south to Sutherlin.

The small ranch which my father had bought was located about four miles from the town of Sutherlin. The former owner had built a nice two-story house, three bedrooms, with a nice view overlooking the valley. The barn had space for Father’s team of horses and two cows. Later, Father acquired a Model T Ford, but at the time I first visited the place there was no such convenience. My brother Fay was living at home, as well as my sister Ruth. The entire valley had been planted to apples in imitation of the success acquired by the Hood River apple growing region. However, it was actually principally a real estate project and the crop of apples and the marketing of them was never a success.

Apples from the Richardson orchard

During the summer months, I helped out with the orchard work; and then in the fall returned to Carleton for a second year. After that summer in Oregon, I could see plainly that my folks would be unable to help me very much, and that I would not be able to finish college. I did get some income from odd jobs, and one of my regular sources of income was at the college gymnasium.

The modern gymnasium had a large basketball court with an oval-shaped balcony above the playing field, on the edges, and this mezzanine oval area was the indoor running track. Whenever there was to be a basketball game, temporary seats had to be erected, covering the running track. I was able to get the assignment to put up these temporary seats and to remove them after the game.

Incidentally, this gymnasium was the nearest thing to a clubhouse for the male students. It had a huge Olympic-sized swimming pool, which was available for our use at almost any time. The gymnasium was well equipped with all kind of gymnastic equipment, as well as several basketball courts.

During the Christmas vacation, I practically lived there because it afforded something to do. I remember one particular time another classmate and I challenged a group of Northfield High School athletes to have a tournament, staged like a track meet. We’d do the high jump, and broad jump, the hop, skip, and jump, run races, heave the shot, and do as many events as could be performed indoors. While this classmate and I were not top athletes, nevertheless we were able to completely outclass the high school athletes, merely because of our better development as a result of our age.

When the school year ended in June, 1915, the Panama Pacific Exposition was in progress in San Francisco, so I returned to Oregon by way of San Francisco so as to be able to visit the fair. Fred Watson and his wife Sydney were very hospitable and invited me to stay a few days in their home at 375 Elwood Avenue, Oakland.

Next: Chapter 1, Part 2 Coming soon! | Back to Table of Contents

In the linen closet

When I was a young girl, I loved to sit next to my grandmother and listen to her stories. It was on her lap that I learned to read, and first heard of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and Lawrence Welk. She was a thoroughly modern Millie, and had a remote control--with a mute button!--in the 1970s. She had a disability that made walking difficult, so spent much of her time in bed or in a custom-made chair that made it easier for her to be comfortable. 

One of those mornings, she told me the story of how she was invited to christen a ship in Japan. She recounted how the Japanese didn't just have a bottle of champagne broken across the bow; they had developed a mechanism that included a silk cord that had to be cut across a block with a silver hatchet in one stroke. They provided her with a hatchet to practice, since it was purportedly bad if she failed to cut it in a single blow--sort of like birthday candles. She told of the day of the christening dawning very cold, how she was very nervous, and how it rained when she cut the cord--successfully.

Then she called to my grandfather Russell, asking him to bring her the hatchet to show me. He stepped over to the linen closet, of all places, and reached in and pulled out a beautiful presentation box, painstakingly inscribed with the date by a hand not used to the roman alphabet. Inside were nestled the hatchet, along with a section of the red and white silk cord and a cedar chopping block that showed a clean cut. 

Years later, we would find a folder of the official photographs, along with a VHS tape my uncle had made of the 5mm film that had been gifted to Jessie and Russell. It was a remarkable experience to see the event she had described that day (and many times later on as she slipped into the fog of dementia), and especially moving to see her alive and hear her voice. 

My eldest cousin James also enjoyed listening to the grandparent's stories, except he followed my grandfather around. Russell was a wiry, vital man who always seemed to be in motion--except when he sat down to watch golf. James was a budding journalist at the time, and in 1977, he sat down with our 82 year old grandfather and interviewed him about his extraordinary life, using the latest technology--audio cassette tapes. 

Shortly after my mother's death, I asked him if knew what had become of the tapes. He was in the midst of moving and preparing a book for publication (The Abolitionist's Journal) and told me he would keep an eye out for them. After the California storms of last month dropped a rather large tree on his home, he made a concerted effort to find them. Of course, it was his wife who located them--in the linen closet, of all places.

They are currently in the hands of my favorite digitizer. I'm hoping the result will contribute to these family history musings. 

The fabled hatchet in its presentation box

Footsteps

In January of 1959, my grandparents were in Japan, on a work trip for my grandfather’s work. It was not their first trip there, though it was their last. My grandfather, Russell Richardson, was there as a representative of Tidewater Oil, to help rebuild their interest in several refineries that had been firebombed during the last sorties before the end of the war.

From an early age, I loved to sit next to my grandmother and listen to her stories (she also taught me to read during one of those sessions). One of her favorite stories was about the time she went to Japan to christen a ship. She would tell the story of how she had to chop a silk cord with a silver axe, and how she was so nervous. And then she would call my grandfather to get the axe out of the closet (she had hip dysplasia and walked only with great effort), and she would show it to me in its presentation box.

In 2019, my husband and I had the opportunity to travel to Japan, and the itinerary, dictated by his boss, would take us on a nearly identical route to that of my grandparents. I am fortunate to have both my grandfather's journal (a rather dry listing of destinations, timing, and the weather. We also have my grandmother's chatty letters home to her daughter (my mother). For a contemporary view, we also have my daily posts on social media. 

Their first destination in Asia, like ours, was Tokyo. We took a direct flight to Narita Airport: my grandparents spent a week on a steamer, crossing the date line on New Year's eve. Ironically, they were flown from Tokyo to points west, while we took advantage of the high-speed rail that has since been built. The other big difference was the weather--they were there in the cold of winter (January), and we arrived at the end of July, just in time for oppressive heat and humidity. They stayed several weeks ensconced  in a suite in the newly expanded Imperial Hotel (built by Frank Lloyd Wright); we found a reasonably priced hotel with air conditioning and relative peace in Shinagawa and headed east as soon as our jet lag allowed. 

We both stopped in Kyoto, where Grandfather's photos of the temples are black and white and deserted, in contrast to the vivid colors and hordes of tourists in our phone's pictures. His pictures show the odd car, and loads of people pulling handcarts or on foot. Today those thoroughfares are jammed with small boxy cars and busses. 

Our paths overlapped in Kurashiki. Russell writes:

“Okayama, Ar 5:31 pm Brass band to greet us. 9:30 go with Gov Miki in his car (car equipped with phone and short wave radio. Motorcycle escort) to Mimushima refinery site – about 40 min. Cold but clear. Take motor boat ride around site. Two barges dredging. Left site @ 11:30 stopped to inspect 7 or 8 dormitories purchased from prefecture. At Kurashiki visited the Ohara Art Museum and had a bit of lunch – Japanese style nearby.”

We followed his footsteps through the old town of Kurashiki, one of the few spared by the bombers. We visited the Ohara Art Museum and gardens, and saw the same paintings he did—and many more, as the collection has grown considerably since 1959. An aerial view of the refinery today shows it is still active, but we demurred adding it to our itinerary. Our lunch was Japanese, a tasty vegan curry, served in a beautifully restored house. And we started our day not with a brass band, but by climbing the hill to a shrine that overlooks the whole.

Our paths also crossed in Fukuoka and Nagasaki, the first on the far west coast, with spectacular views, the latter all too well known. Grandmother writes to her daughter: 

“We stayed all night in Fukuoka (it’s the size of Oakland) and left by train for Nagasaki the next morning. We were met there by a delegation & photographers & a little Japanese girl presented me with a big bouquet of chrysanthemums & tulips – red & yellow“

Its state makes us think that the train station does not appear to have changed a great deal since 1959, and there is an "Octoberfest" celebration in the station in full swing when we arrive, complete with bratwurst and beer--in July. 

There is a reason for our trips to Nagasaki. During his 37-year career working for Tidewater Oil (later Associated Oil), Russell worked his way up from a lowly bookkeeper to Vice President of the company. Tidewater partnered with Mitsubishi (the Japanese government would not allow foreign companies to own business outright) in building refineries in Japan in the 1930s, and in rebuilding in the aftermath of World War II. 

In recognition of his role, my grandmother Jessie was given the honor of sponsoring the tanker SS Virginia Getty in a January 1959 christening at the Mitsubishi shipyards in Nagasaki. Jessie continues: 

“We left the hotel at 10 next a.m. & drove to the ship yard – Boy, was I nervous. It was icy cold, windy & it rained except during the actual ceremony. Then the heavens opened up & it poured. When I chopped the cord, the balloon on the bow of the ship was opened up & confetti & pigeons flew out, & the Virginia Getty slid into the water.”

When I first heard we would travel to Japan, I was eager to go to Nagasaki, to the place of her story. I was not disappointed. In spite of the language barrier, we managed to reserve a tour and visit to the old Mitsubishi pattern shop, which houses the shipyard's museum. Once there, we had a private guide, since we were the only visitors who didn’t speak Japanese.

When we told our story to our guide, she disappeared for a few minutes and emerged with her arms full of albums of the building and christening of the Virginia Getty from their archives. She was also able to show us where in the shipyard she was launched, and we could share grandmother’s words and a photo of the hatchet used to launch her. I am deeply appreciative of her efforts, and found myself quite moved by seeing images of my grandparents again. 

The silver hatchet that launched a ship

Family is what family does

In an earlier post, I recounted how the Richardson family pulled together to help after the untimely death of a son-in-law; my grandfather, Russell Richardson, came to help her pack and move the family back to their parent's home in Sutherlin.

Interestingly, this was not the last time an untimely death put my grandfather in a position to help out. In late fall of 1939, his brother-in-law, Malcolm Gilmour, a sales manager for C&H Sugar Corporation suffered a massive heart attack and died. 

"…on the day of his death (Nov. 11, 1939, just after his 47th birthday), he woke up not feeling very well, and ate very little breakfast, but he had tickets for a football game, so he went. He continued to feel unwell, and left the game early to come home (he wasn't driving, he used public transportation). Their house on Bellevue Ave. in Piedmont was on the uphill side of the street, and there was a formidable couple of flights of stairs leading up to the front door. About two-thirds of the way up, he collapsed and died."

[email from Madge R. Walsh to James C. Richardson 5/28/2005]

Malcolm's wife, Ida Cutting Gilmour, was left suddenly without means and two children to support. She could no longer afford the large family home (houses in this tony enclave now go for $3-6 million and have ballrooms), and so moved in with her sister's home while a smaller house was built.

Which is why, in the 1940 census, the relatively modest Richardson household in Piedmont, California, was larger than usual, with not only Russell, his wife Jessie, and their two children, but also Ida and her two children, Malcolm Jr and Jean. The household included two 17 year-old cousins, both trying to decide what their education after high school would look like (and likely emptying the larder), my nine-year old mother, and a 20-year old cousin who was finishing up art school and who practiced bagpipes in the house. 

Because family helps family. 

Ida and Malcolm about 1920

A hunting accident

 A SAD TRAGEDY.

---

California paper tells of Bernard Street's fatal accident.

A copy of the Huntington Park (Calif.) Signal for October 11 containing the following account of the tragic death met by Bernard Street, son of Mr. and Mrs. John Street, has been received by The News:

One of the saddest tragedies to ever cast a shadow over Huntington Park occurred last Sunday morning when the lifeless body of Bernard Street, principal of the Huntington Park grammar schools, was found in the river bottom east of Bell.

Mr. Street had gone hunting late Saturday afternoon and had not returned home when dark came. Mrs. Street grew more uneasy as the hours dragged along, and finally reported his failure to return to some of the neighbors.

A searching party was organized Saturday night and the entire river bottom gone over, but the searchers failed to find him. His bicycle was located where he had left it on entering the field to hunt, but no further trace of him could be found. 

Early Sunday morning another search was started and about 6:00 o'clock his lifeless body was found near a wire fence with a hole in his breast. From all appearances he had climbed the fence and his clothing became entangled in the barbs. He had evidently endeavored to get his clothing disengaged, and in doing so, had dropped the shotgun, which was discharged and the entire load entered his breast.

The news of his sudden ending spread over the entire community. While Mr. Street had only been here a little over a year, he had become known to practically every home in the city. Being the head of the grammar schools, he was known through the students if in no other way and practically every home felt a personal loss in his tragic death. 

Bernard Street was born in Iowa 34 years ago. When he was yet a young lad he moved with his parents to Minn. Early in his young manhood he entered Carleton College, Northfield, Minn. From this institution he graduated in the same class with Miss Ella Richardson whom he married in 1907. They attended college together. They taught together in the same school. They seized life's responsibilities and launched their interests together as husband and wife with hope and promise and traveled together 11 years in the highway of human service.

To them were born four children—three boys and one girl. He came to Huntington Park at the call of our board of trustees of the public schools at the opening of the school year in the fall of 1917. He has brought our schools to that high standard of efficiency second to none in this great county of Los Angeles. Nearline his demise came suddenly and tragically Saturday afternoon, October 5, 1918. He leaves to mourn his growing his widow and four fatherless children, also his father and mother, four brothers and three sisters, none of whom are able to attend the funeral. 

The funeral was held Wednesday afternoon at the funeral parlors of the Huntington Park undertaking company, attended by many of the schoolchildren and a large number of our citizens. The floral offerings formed a regular Bower in the room and represented the love and esteem in which he was held by the children and other people.

Reverend Hugh C Gibson, pastor of the Methodist Church, conducted the service, the burial taking place at Rosedale Cemetery, Los Angeles. 

The entire community extends the deepest sympathy to the heartbroken wife and the little fatherless children.

Cause of death from from the death certificate

What the article does not recount is the aftermath--for not only did Ella and Bernard have four small children, she was pregnant with their fifth. Her brother, my grandfather Russell Richardson, wrote of the event in his journal--only three days after announcing his engagement to Jessie Cutting. Russell is in the Navy--this is WWI and there is a flu epidemic looming--in officer training on Mare Island near San Francisco; his parents are in Sutherlin, Oregon:

October 5. I received a telegram from my sister Ella in Huntington Beach, asking me to come to her as Bernard had been accidentally killed. I phoned the Officer of the Day at Mare Island and asked for permission to extend my absence. He said he had no authority to grant an extension, and advised me when I reached southern California to go to Navy headquarters and ascertain whether my leave had been approved.

I caught the night train to Los Angeles, where I was met by Gail Patterson, a cousin of my mother. Bernard had been out hunting and when he was going through a fence, apparently tripped the trigger.

Ella and Bernard had four children – Harold, Helen, Donald, and Bernard, and she was about six months pregnant (with Mary Kay). My father and mother telegraphed to her inviting her to bring her family to live with them, and she immediately made plans to do so.

The funeral was held on October 8, and on that same day I received a telegram from Mare Island ordering me to return at once. Accordingly, I took the train back home, had a chance to see Jessie for a short time, went to Mare Island, obtained a longer leave of absence, and took the train back to Los Angeles on October 10.

I helped Ella with the packing and the local merchants were very friendly and agreed to dispose of the household goods. Another of Mother’s cousins, Gertrude Mount, was most helpful during this period. She took care of the children like a mother, and acted as sister, doctor, minister, to Ella. Without her heaven-sent assistance, Ella could never have survived.

We boarded the train for Oakland at 7:30 p.m. October 12. Ella almost collapsed, and I insisted that she get into her berth and that I would attend to the children. I took them to the dining car and left them. They managed very well by themselves [Harold was 10, Helen 8, Donald 6, and Bernard 4]. 

We reached Oakland at 1:40 p.m. after a very hot, terrible trip. Sydney Watson [yet another cousin] and her mother took us all in and cared for us, I don’t know how; but it was done. And on the following day, October 14, we boarded the train at 11 o’clock, on our way to Sutherlin, where we arrived at 2 p.m. October 15. Some friends of Father and Mother with automobiles met us and took us out to our parents’ home. Dear old Mother – she had everything planned, arrangements made, and with no confusion.

On October 15, I took the train back to Mare Island, arriving October 18. During this period the flu had been very serious and I was required to go into quarantine at Mare Island. We were all wearing flu masks. I obtained permission to go to Oakland to get my clothing, and this gave me a chance to reach Jessie for a short time.

November 11, 1918. Armistice was signed and peace descended on the world.

In the 1920 Census, Ella and her now five young children are still living with her parents; by 1930, she is back on her feet and renting a home in Minnesota, a single mother with five children, teaching high school. 

Cymbidium

Every year, a large flat box would arrive via the chocolate-brown UPS truck. I should note that in my childhood days, mail order was still quite a rare thing, and delivery trucks were equally rare. If the brown truck showed up in the week before your birthday, you knew Grandmother had been shopping--something she was very good at.

The box was inscribed in my grandfather's careful handwriting in all caps, using a red felt pen: "FRESH FLOWERS - RUSH" with a red box or squiggles around it to make extra sure. My mother would stop what she was doing, and bring the box to the kitchen, carefully cut open the tape, and remove the tissue paper to reveal six perfect stems of Cymbidium, each with its own little tube of water (which we would save and return to him at our next visit). She would dunk them in the tub to refresh them from the long voyage. And then came her annual admonition to not touch the delicate petals, as the oils on our hands would brown them prematurely. 

Known to the rest of the world as boat orchids, you probably know them from prom and mother's day corsages as individual flowers, but you probably don't know there are at least a dozen flowers to each three-foot arced stem, and in a range of striking colors. My mother adored the pale pinks and deep magentas; my favorite was always the lime green. 

What made these special was that they were not from a florist: my grandfather grew them himself in a narrow lean-to greenhouse attached to the garage in their upscale neighborhood. He would spend hours in his garden, and any rainy day he spent with his orchids, potting and repotting, puttering to his heart's delight. When he read that plants like music, he switched his transistor radio from ball games to classical music.

For a boy who grew up in rural Minnesota, the clime of the San Francisco Bay Area must have seemed positively tropical. I can imagine the joy he got in selecting the perfect stems and packing them up for the recipients. The boxes came every year to relatives: my uncle's family, our great aunts, and, as the elders passed away, to us as young people starting out on our own. I was a senior in college when I received a brown box of my own--one of the last he would send before his health began to fail. 

So, imagine my delight, as I was finishing up a four-year stint of travel for serving on a board, when I arrived travel-weary to a nice little cheese plate--and a lovely single lime green cybidium in my posh suite. 

Cymbidia growing in my grandfather's side yard

Richardson Family Papers: An Introduction

In the early 1980s, Madge Richardson Walsh, as the self-nominated family historian, started pulling together family stories and letters with an eye to publishing them for family members. Two volumes of the Richardson-Smith-Street Family Papers were self-published by Madge. In the days before computers and internet, Volume I (1983) entailed photocopying photos and typesetting on an electric typewriter; Volume II (1991) was assembled using an early version of Microsoft Works. The first volume was embellished with poor quality photocopies; the second with photographic prints hand-pasted onto the correct pages, and hand bound, much to the chagrin of her family, who lived for months with a dining room transformed into an assembly line of signatures (groups of pages sewn together) and hardboard being covered with matching quaint cotton print (brown on white for Volume I, white on brown for Volume II), each completed book being pressed by bricks on a sheet of plywood as they dried. Each volume was hand-numbered; at least 31 copies of each were made and distributed to family members. 

With these small successes, and empowered with increasingly powerful computers and software, she outlined a total of five volumes: Volume III was to be her father Russell's memoirs and wartime letters, as well as a charming story written by Florence Grinsted Richardson; Volume IV was to be dedicated to George Owen Richardson's Autobiography and a Memoir by David Fay Richardson. The pièce de résistance was to be Volume V: Recollections of My Life Work, a transcription of the Journal George Warren Richardson's (GWR), the Richardson family patriarch, which spanned a key part of this country's history.

By the time of Madge's death in 2015, the various pieces of these and other writings were scattered throughout her disorganized home: the Alzheimer's that ravaged her brain also stole her organizational ability. Some of the pieces were found in their entirety on one floppy diskette (Volume II), others printed out at 50% in several copies (Owen's journal transcription abruptly ends mid-sentence), and even more were just snippets on disk in outdated software formats or individual hard copy pages. Many family artifacts were passed on to her nephew, who has published the story of GWR's Journal as The Abolitionist's Journal; Most of the cartons of letters that she refers to are now lost to time, but the photographs and other items are or will be professionally digitized, and the most historically significant will be housed in a world-class library.

In 2000, she writes about her progress on the project in a letter to her nephew James Richardson:

As you know, I’ve been working up the family tree, aiming toward printing GWR’s autobiography for the family. I practiced by starting with my father’s generation—but after the first two little volumes, I got bogged down, because when I started on Dad’s memoirs, I discovered he had saved every family letter he had ever received, for over 60 years—cartons of them. Mother kept the letters he wrote to her, and in return she had written to him every day when he was on the USS Gridley.

It was so overwhelming, I decided to skip to their parents’ generation, as both David Fay Richardson and George Owen Richardson had written memoirs, and the younger two boys and Emma are mentioned in them. David Fay unfortunately wrote only a few chapters, with tantalizing remarks about what he was going to write about, but never did. Still, with the letters and a bit of research in the county deed records in Roseburg, Ore., there is enough, and Ruth and Florence both already had told quite a bit about him.

Uncle Owen (as he was usually referred to) wrote a whole book. I’ve transcribed it all, and am annotating where it seems to need it. Since he was very close to his father, and was associated with him particularly during their ministry in Texas, there are passages you may find very illuminating. There is much to read between the lines. It is also intriguing to read about the same incidents as told by GWR and then by Owen.

What has held me up on this book has been some of the annotating, as well as the format—this volume will not be hand-bound! that’s for sure, and I’ve been trying to learn to use a scanner so I can incorporate photos with the text...

As a way to preserve these stories, I offer up the pieces of this project that I have or can reconstruct with the aid of fellow family historians, and will add pieces as they come. 

Next: Table of Contents

On Armistice Day

by Madge R. Walsh, Nov. 11, 2008

My father, my brother, and my husband all were veterans of the US Navy.

Ensign Russell D Richardson

My father volunteered in World War I, and was sent to Mare Island Naval Station on San Francisco Bay, where the USS Gridley (a four-stack destroyer) was being built. As a “landsman,” he was to be trained as an electrician, but the class was full so there was a long wait until the next class. Half a dozen of these “landsmen” got bored with nothing to do, so they hired tutors and studied to get their commissions as officers – and did. (It was a relief not to have to sleep in a hammock anymore!). My father was assigned to the Gridley as an ensign; during the builder’s trial runs, it got pretty rough – green water over the bow at 35 knots – but my father didn’t get seasick, and never did (I wish I could say the same for myself, but I can’t.). The day the Gridley sailed out of San Francisco Bay was the day the Armistice was signed.

One of the highlights of that first voyage was the passage through the Panama Canal, recently built; another was that the Gridley was one of the ships stationed at intervals across the Atlantic to report on the flight of the four Navy seaplanes across the Atlantic, and if necessary, rescue any that didn’t make it. The Gridley did have to rescue the pilot of one plane; another destroyer tried to tow it, but the seaplane was not built for that kind of treatment, and sank.

David C Richardson

After the war, my parents married and had my brother, who served in World War II. He was in college, Naval ROTC, and managed to graduate (University of California). He was immediately sent to New York for midshipman school at Columbia. The Navy then sent him off to the South Pacific. He had a small sailboat on San Francisco Bay, and the Navy put him on a small ship, a wooden APc originally designed for mine sweeping, etc. They had the not unpleasant duty of exploring the remote islands & atolls to check up on the presence of any Japanese (didn’t find any); but then were part of the Philippine invasion. At Luzon, his little ship was attacked by a kamikaze, but another US ship shot it down, so they were not damaged. From there, they faced the imminence of invading Japan; but were “saved” from that by the atomic bomb, and the subsequent Japanese surrender. People decry the use of atomic weapons, but at least in this case, my family is grateful that the invasion did not take place, and my brother was not killed.

After his tour of duty was done, my brother was assigned as captain of an oceangoing tug launched in Portland, Oregon; he was to take it to Honolulu. It had a small crew, only 2 officers – my brother and a navigator. The poor navigator was seasick all the way to San Francisco, so my brother did the navigation. As they approach the pilot boat at the entrance to San Francisco Bay, the fog lifted – my brother said if he kept on going, it would’ve run right into it. Since he’d sailed the San Francisco Bay and knew it well, he was darned if he take on a pilot, and took the tug into the bay himself. After delivering the tug at Pearl Harbor, he was released from the Navy. He continued to sail in small (and larger) boats, even in the Midwest, whenever he could find a lake to sail on.

Bert T. Walsh

My husband was also in the Navy, during the Korean “conflict.” He served on an LCd; once he showed me a photo of the hold – the “dock” – loaded with wounded men on stretchers, being evacuated. Before that, growing up in San Francisco, he had been a Sea Scout, and made lifelong friends – I still have a photo of their sailboat, the “Corsair,” and its “pirate” flag is brought out at every reunion. He attended the Maritime Academy at Vallejo, now part of the University of California system. He sailed on oil tankers and also for Matson, to Honolulu. I recall the time after we were married and had our son, we were walking along San Francisco’s Embarcadero, and he told our little boy how to get on a board a liner as a stowaway! But he had taken advantage of the G.I. bill, went to college and eventually became a licensed mechanical engineer. For a man who really didn’t enjoy traveling, his work took us to quite a few places, in the US and Canada. After we “retired” to Northern California, he even had a small sailboat on Whiskeytown Lake. Our son has missed our latest embroilment (now too old). I’m hoping my grandsons – and their contemporaries – never again have to face such situations.

Letter from Salina Cruz, 1919

A Letter from Russell Richardson to Jessie Cutting, Salina Cruz, Mexico

Salina Cruz, Mexico

3 p.m., Friday, March 28, 1919

Dearest,

            I had three letters ready to mail to you here, but the American consul says he wants to send some letters to the States by us – their mail service is so undependable, sometimes taking three weeks.

            There is quite a story to our arrival, so I shall go back and relate it in chronological order. At 7:30 this morning we anchored just outside the breakwaters to Salina Cruz Harbor.

            The motor dory was launched in the Captain sent Ted ashore in it to visit the consul and see if the dock was ready for us to oil. The sea was very rough and Ted got soaked from the spray before he had cut through the two breakers. They had just got off the bow of our ship when the engine died and they came drifting down on the ship. While the coxswain worked at the engine Ted fended her off. All of a sudden the engine started and with the wind and see in the same direction they were whisked from bow to stern in an instant. Then he circled about to get on his course and head for the gap between the two breakwaters. The little old dory rolled and pitched like an egg shell and when she climbed up a wave and suddenly reached the crest I swear she flew clear out of water. Not a few expected to see her capsize any instant. But once he got turned around it was all right, and he disappeared in ten minutes into the inner harbor.

            At ten he returned. We hoisted the boat and up anchor and headed in. The outer harbor is very small and the inner one smaller still. We aimed to pass through into the inner harbor and more alongside the dock – a sharp turn to our left.

            So far I have forgotten to mention that there is a terrific off shore wind blowing. I have never encountered anything like it. The mountains seem to form a funnel which collects the trade winds from a large area and concentrate them all to blow out of Salina Cruz Harbor. Many a hat was lost this morning – Lieut. Conover lost two (and they cost $12.50 each now.). When you went onto the forecastle you had to lean forward at a 45° angle and virtually claw your way into the wind. And on the bridge when we were underway heading into it, if you looked up with your eyes open the wind grabbed the lashes and pinned your lids down so that you couldn’t close them – making tears stream out. And if you put your head down and closed them, you could, only with great difficulty get them open in the face of the wind. ’S a fact.

            Well, in we went, slowing to 2/3 speed as we passed the breakwaters and to 1/3 halfway across the outer harbor. This entrance to the inner Harbor is 25 yards wide – the ship 31 feet. Allowing a little for the wind to carry us toward the left hand side, he headed straight for it. But the instant our nose entered the gap it was evident that she would not pass through without the ship hitting this concrete wall a glancing blow.

Russell's sketch superimposed over a satellite picture of the harbor today.

            Of course what I would have done under similar circumstances doesn’t make any difference – but I would have run up full speed and tried to skin through before we bumped at any rate: but he rang up 2/3 astern. Before the result of 2/3 astern was noticed we hit, just abaft of no. 4 smoke pipe. You could see the side bend in just like a football – but unlike a football it didn’t spring out again. The force of this impact through the stern out a bit and he grabbed this opportunity to try to forge ahead – going 2/3 ahead. To protect the propeller he stopped before she banged again and this time she bumped the propeller guard – bending this a little – though from the bridge, the skipper and all thought it had been carried away.

            As soon as she was clear he rang up two thirds again and cleared the entrance though it was perfectly evident that the beach was only a stones throw away – (I have drawn the chart true to scale). The instant the stern was clear he rang up two thirds astern but it was too late – we were going aground on the beach. So he let go an anchor to help stop his motion. We stopped all right when our nose ran into the sandy beach.

            Then we ran two lines ashore to the oil dock – from bow and stern. To do this we had to launch a boat – a dozen times this little dory nearly capsized but finally the lines were made fast. Then we heaved in on the lines and gave full speed astern on the engines and she came off slick as an ax. By noon we were tied up and oil coming aboard. It didn’t seem to worry Capt. Fletcher any. He was very cool all the time and never swore or showed any signs of weakening.

            After lunch he ordered me to go to the American consul – report our arrival and tell him that so far as he, Capt. Fletcher, was concerned, the official call of courtesy by the consul might be omitted, for he himself would call on the consul at 2:30. The consul was agreeable and so the Capt. is making his call.

            Dressed in my spiffy whites, down the main streets of Salina Cruz to call on the consul I felt like quite a personage.

            The place boasts 5000 inhabitants and four white people. It is typically Mexican – the numerous hounds – scantily clad, barefoot natives. Fruit vendors mostly women, met us on the dock. In town the narrow sandy streets are deserted except for a wild pig here and there and prehistoric wooden carts with cumbersome wooden wheels drawn by runty, bony, oxen. Nothing seems to thrive, the children are skinny, all are small of stature and the men can’t even grow a healthy appearing mustache. A flock of goats and kids obstructed the crossing at one street and even they were stunted, scrawny animals.

            We passed the city garrison. An ordinary Mexican structure was a long veranda along its front. The wall was completely covered with cartridge belts, hung there and numerous rifles leaned against it. A sentinel stood by the door in a strictly military posture, absolutely rigid, the gun by his side almost as long as he was tall. He looks neither to the right or left – yet I believe he saw everything. Next to the irregular mass of flat rocks bordering the street which I took to be a sidewalk was built a barricade of brick four feet high and two feet thick with rifle slits in it every few feet.

            Love in a hurry - Russell