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Ripley Roots |
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Ripley
Genealogy Moschel
Genealogy
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1954
What I remember most clearly about the summer of 1954 was the Chenoa Centennial. My little community of 1000 residents was celebrating being 100 years old. I was celebrating being almost 10. The excitement in the community was astounding. The community was small, but the spirit was large. The celebration went on for all of 1954 with one highlight being a Centennial parade. Our community is known for its parades and this was no exception. I can't remember the specific date of the parade and whether it coincided with the Fourth of July parade, but I was in it. I wore Nora Sullivan Ripley's wedding blouse in the parade. I remember it distinctly. It was a white long sleeved blouse with a high collar. I wore a long black skirt with the blouse and felt very grown up. I also remember the Illinois midsummer heat and stifling humidity in such an outfit. My grandmother, Nora Sullivan Ripley, died on June 26, 1954. I have no memory of the visitation and funeral. Visitations and funerals from my youth run together. It seemed to me we were always going to one of the two funeral homes in Pontiac, Illinois, or the one funeral home in Chenoa on a regular basis. At Catholic funerals, I remember the rosaries being said at the funeral homes. It seemed to take forever to get through them. I do not specifically remember my grandmother's death. What I do remember is my brother telling me many years later he was sent and stationed at the hospital for hour upon hour while grandmother was dying. It made such an impression on him he told me he never wanted to put his children through a similar experience. My brother was 19 at the time. Grandmother's death certificate states she stayed in St. James Hospital in Pontiac for five months before she died. That would mean Grandmother was in the hospital from February through June, a difficult time for farmers, because the crops must be planted in the spring. My parents and brother and my father's brother and his wife probably rotated duty at the hospital. Because our family was physically closer to the hospital, my father probably assumed more responsibility. Dad likely felt torn between the duties of farming and family. I saw that drama recreated many years later as my brother was torn between the crops and responsibility to our parents in 1977. As I compare the dates of Grandmother's death and the 1954 summer Centennial festivities, they almost coincide. I recall my father was less enthusiastic about the Centennial than the rest of the neighbors. Specifically, I remember he refused to be grow a beard for the event. In order to comply with the rules of the Centennial committee, he had to purchase a badge that read, "Little Shaver." He paid $2 for the badge. The beard growers had to pay only 25 cents. My dad's lack of community spirit that summer probably had nothing to do with the fun and games in the community and everything to do with losing his last parent. Dad was 45 when his mother died in 1954 and only 31 when his father died 14 years earlier. My grandmother's death certificate says she was taken to Raleigh J. Harris Funeral Home at 413 N. Main in Pontiac. This is a place I remember well. The death certificate lists her doctor (Lavin); where she is buried (St. Mary's in Pontiac); direct cause of death (cerebral hemorrhage); her occupation (housewife); her kind of business (own home); her place of birth (Fairbury, Illinois, August 26, 1877); her father (Patrick Sullivan); her mother (Honora Creedon); and the informant for this information (my father). That's about it. Ireland is not mentioned because this particular form, unlike others, did not ask parent's place of birth. I obtained this death certificate in March, 1977, when I began genealogy research. Little did I know in March that both of my parents would die that summer. But back to the 9-year-old in 1954 who was oblivious of everything: how sick her grandmother was, that her great grandparents were from Ireland, and her own father was having one heck of a year because his mother was so ill. No, I was just enjoying the summer between fourth grade with Mrs. Kennedy and the start of 5th grade with Mrs. Stone. If I knew I was going to have Mrs. Stone as a teacher, I was probably a bit nervous since she enjoyed equal fame as a good teacher, but also one who used unusual discipline methods. Summer, though, was not the time to think of fall. It was for reading and participating in the reading program at the public library. I prided myself on getting as many books as they would let you check out at one time and then reading them as fast as I could. The real reason for the speed of reading was not love of reading, although I did love books, as much as a contest sponsored by the library: Most Books Read During the Summer. The books were important and the Chenoa Centennial just made it an extra special summer as far as I was concerned! I was equally oblivious in 1954 about why we contacted any Sullivans. I knew they were relatives; I understood they were on Dad's side of the family; but I had not determined the connection. All I knew was The Sullivans were a part of our life. From Dad's point of view they had been important all his life. This becomes clear from the piece of paper I found while researching this project. In the same envelope in which I saved my grandmother's death certificate for now almost 20 years, there is a small, yellowed piece of paper about 2 inches by 5 inches. It records the following: William Raymond Ripley was born on December 9, 1908, Wednesday 9:30 P.M. And was babtized (sic) on January 3, 1909 Mr and Mrs James Sullivan is Godfather and Godmother. I have no idea how I got the paper or when. Perhaps my father (or more likely my mother) sent it or gave it to me when I obtained my grandmother's death certificate in 1977. James Sullivan, his godfather, was my grandmother's brother, which makes him my father's uncle. James was the seventh child of Patrick and Honora Sullivan. Nora, my dad's mother, was the eighth and last. It appears from this record that Nora and James were quite close as brother and sister in that Catholics choose godparents very carefully. James Sullivan
and his wife, Margaret, had three children. The second was a son named
Francis. He was born the same year as my father in 1908. This made Francis
Sullivan and my father, Raymond Ripley (he went by his middle name), first
cousins. These two first cousins, I can see as I try to reconstruct their
lives, were very close in family ties, geography, religion, and occupation. Jane, Ellen Jo, Kathleen and Pat Sullivan, my second cousins, also grew up in Chenoa. In the summer of 1954 they ranged in age from 6-18. They, too, in all probability, remember the Chenoa Centennial, except, perhaps Pat who was too young. It would not even surprise me if one of them remembers my grandmother's funeral, a memory lost to me. So the Ripleys and Sullivans of the summer of 1954 looked like this. The Ripleys, consisting of my parents, my brother, and myself, lived midway between Chenoa and Pontiac on old Route 66. We were tenant farmers of 200 acres. My brother was 19 and had dropped out of college after one semester in order to help my father farm after his heart attack. As I view this now, I see it might have been the stress of several events that caused his heart attack. My mother was a farm wife and helper. My mother's parents lived only a half mile away doing joint farming with my father. The Sullivans, consisting of Francis and Josephine and their four daughters, were farming nearer to Chenoa. Their four girls were all attending Chenoa schools. Jane, the oldest, had just graduated from high school in 1954 and was about to start employment with State Farm Insurance in Bloomington, a large area employer. The land both families farmed was flat and rich, black chernozemic soil. Our crops were corn and beans, primarily, and our fathers were proud of their equipment and the life they led. I normally saw one or more Sullivans seven days a week. This might seem like a lot considering we lived on a farm and away from the overwhelming hustle and bustle of a town of 1000 residents. But we were tied to the Sullivans in a number of ways. First was school. Kathleen, the third Sullivan, was just a year ahead of me in school; and the likelihood of seeing her any one day at either recess or lunch was high. Saturdays came and catechism brought us together. Grade level made no difference in catechism. Kathleen and I were on even par trying to impress either the sisters from Pontiac who came to give us tutelage on the ways of the church, or Fr. Mulady, who scared the bejesus out of us on the days the sisters could not make it. We always wished the sisters could make it. I would have gladly shoveled any snow in their way to avoid having Fr. Mulady as stand in teller of Catholic dogma. By definition, we saw the Sullivans every Sunday at church. We usually made the later mass and so did they. They sat in front of us one seat and to the left. Pews were not assigned, but the seating arrangement was precisely predictable. The best part of the experience was after church and talking with everyone gathered out in front. Dad rarely missed a chance to talk with Francis Sullivan, whom he affectionately called Sully. Also in 1954, I was confirmed in the Catholic Church. This is one of the seven sacraments and a very important time for a Catholic child. Because our parish was so small, the bishop only came only every 10 years to bestow confirmation. I was the only person that was age 10 in our parish. My mother decided to have me ready to be confirmed in 1954 because the alternative would be a very long wait. I felt sure, because I was the youngest, the bishop would ask me a question when he came to perform the sacrament. The dreaded fear of any person going through confirmation is you will not be able to answer a question the bishop asks. So you study. And study. And study. I did, and now I cannot recall if I was asked a question. If I was, I must have answered correctly because I am sure I would remember such a failure. Every person going through confirmation must have a sponsor. The person chosen by my family for this honor was Jane Sullivan, the eldest child of Francis and Josephine, and my second cousin. So, as you can see, the Sullivans and Ripleys were interwoven in 1954. We lived and worked much the same. Our small community, including the activities of the church and school, dominated our life. The bulk of life was devoted to farming. The life not dominated by the community and farming was highlighted with the importance of family. This is how life is in a small community where many people are related, and those not related, are neighbors. The Sullivans and Ripleys described above seem a long way from Ireland. I don't remember once talking about Ireland with the Sullivans. I remember visiting other Sullivan relatives in Fairbury where my grandmother was born. I did not know how grandmother was related to these people. But even then, as I listened to the conversations of these older Sullivans who were not paying attention to this young listener, I never heard them talk about Ireland or Patrick or Honora Sullivan, the emigrants. Were they too far away from it? Had Patrick and Honora been gone too long? Were they no longer interested in where their parents came from? Did they know any of their Irish relatives? Just what would it have been like in Ireland when Patrick Sullivan was 10? What follows are essays written in my imagination by Patrick Sullivan when he was 76 years of age in 1915. The first essay has Patrick reflecting back to when he was 10 in 1849.
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