Ancestry

Recently had a DNA analysis by Ancestry.com. Virtual Mirage asked that I post it.

Interesting  on several levels. My maternal grandfather was adopted and knew nothing of his birth parents. There was speculation he was French/Indian. Not so per these results.

Another surprise was the 5% Scandinavian.   Guess there were some raping Vikings back there. We’ve always thought we were Celts and the results support that.

There is more to study. The bloodline in North America goes back to the 1700’s in New England. Supports another family tale we were “Blue Belly Yankees”.

Will write more on the subject in the future.

Roots

Spent the weekend going back to family roots. On our mother's side, my sister and I are fourth generation descendents of the North Park, CO Latham family. Stopped by the Walden cemetery to pay respects.

Most of the relatives are in the southeast corner.

Onward to Maybell, CO. Again, fourth, maybe fifth generation as some of the forebearers might have been legally challenged. Maybell was the scene this past Sunday of the Sombrero Horse Drive. Good excuse for us to get together.

http://www.sombrero.com/adventures/horse-drive/

My lodging (the small one)

My sister stayed at the Old Victory Hotel.

https://www.facebook.com/maybellhotel

When they are full, they don't allow pets. My sister's
schnauzer slept with me. OK guest, doesn't bark or snore  but wants his half in the middle.

Thirteen miles West of Maybell off Highway 40 is the old family homestead. Cousins have kept it in the family and a section is now a private cemetery. This year a cousin's cremains were interred. He had a disabling stroke some fifteen years ago. His family cared for him all that time.

His sister.

My father's grave. He hunted all his life and often said when he died, he wanted us to put him in a gully and cave enough bank over him the coyotes would have to dig hard. Close, there is a badger den in his grave.

He would be pleased to know there is deer scat all over the area. In the tree behind some branches have been rubbed by deer shedding the velvet from their horns. They were probably standing on the grave. That would really please him. My  sister had some venison sausage. She left a piece beside his headstone.

Some miscellaneous shots from the graves area.

There is one in every family. Man on the right is a 90+ year old heavily decorated WWII Pacific Fleet Sailor. For many, a favorite uncle.

He is also a rapist and a pedophile with many victims. He is alive only because his three sons are fine people. My sister had him arrested and convicted.

The problem with grubbing sagebrush is it grows back. On the road down to where the cabins once stood.

What was left of the cabins has been carefully dismantled and preserved. Loose plans to build some type of shelter using the old beams are discussed. We shall see. On the hill in the distance are two year around springs and corrals with a snubbing post for breaking wild horses, a one time family business.

One intact structure is the 100 year old privy. This was commandeered by the ladies. Men and photographs were prohibited. Takes a braver man than me to argue with that bunch.

Back on the Front Range and parking the trailer at a friend's farm took this picture of Longs Peak simply because it pleased me to do so. 

This is my adventure rig. Hoping to make a least one expedition a month this summer.

My desktop is in the shop having a year's worth of malware and viruses cleaned. I use utilities but the crud creeps in. Being a Latter Day Luddite I prefer to have the experts do it. Gives me a taste of how customers may have felt when buying a car from me.

K0CNV

Just a post aimed at family members. Other may get something out of it.

Seeing posts from people involved in amateur radio got me to reminiscing about my late uncle Joe. Copied an announcement from the ham newsletter in 2001.

Joe White, K0CNV, a long time RMRL member, died February 20 after
being in failing health for the past few years. Joe was a fixture
of the Denver amateur radio scene for more than 40 years, and was
in the commercial tower business prior to his retirement. He also
ran the RMRL swap net until his health concerns prevented it.

He was married to a large brassy blond named Elise. Medical problems prevented them from having children and their chaotic life precluded adoption. He focused his energies on ham radio and she on disabled veterans, abused children, and an obscure Indian village in Mexico.  The woman was formidable.

Joe’s principal employment was a heavy truck mechanic. He was so good his company would fly him out by helicopter to their broken down trucks.

Joe was willing, no eager, to teach me all about ham radio. I never caught the bug. I do remember him telling me his tower, all 40’ of it, was grounded in an underground stream. Said it gave him a powerful ground wave. I assume some readers will know what that means.

At family gatherings the younger children would be tasked with climbing trees to string antennas.

For all his mechanical skill, he neglected their vehicles. Elise nagged him to fix her brakes. He said he would do it; she didn’t have to remind him every six months. When they got to the point where the brakes had to be pumped three times, she took it to a local shop. The next time he drove it, at the stop sign he pumped the brakes. Took him a few years to live that one down.

Elsie was an indifferent housekeeper. Not long after my wife and I married we were visiting and Elsie feed us stew. Since it was prepared in a pressure cooker I felt it was safe to eat. As my bride was eating the family cat walked across the table and my wife’s plate. Calmly, she lifted the cat off the plate and continued to eat while avoiding the paw prints in the stew. Damn, I was proud of her.

Elsie would spend all year gathering clothing and useful items for the Indians. Once a year she and Joe would pack a large trailer and head to Mexico pulling it with their pickup with a slide in camper.

They devoted countless hours to supporting Search and Rescue with communications and whatever civil defense needs were in their community. They were two people who gave unstintingly to others even when they barely had a pot to piss in.

I could have done without Joe and a buddy showing up for our wedding drunk on their asses. Oh well, part of belonging to a large family.

Elsie had serious health problems. One time when she was in the hospital, my wife and I visited. There was a constant stream of visitors. An eclectic mob to be sure. Everything from black ladies dressed in their best church clothing,  WW II vets in wheelchairs, foster parents, and some I couldn’t classify.

Elsie preceded him in death by a decade. As his health faded, several of my cousins rallied to his aid insuring home repairs were done, yards were mowed, etc.

Doing the Google thing, found this little tidbit.

Call Sign: K0CNV, Grant Date: 12/12/1994, Expiration Date: 12/12/2004, Cancellation Date: 12/13/2006, Registrant: Joe W White, 6335 W 53 Ave, Arvada, CO 80002

I assume these are for certain periods as I remember him having the same call sign for as long as he was involved in amateur radio.

He had a side business climbing broadcast towers to repair burned out lights. More than once he offered to bring me along. Gosh, it always coincided with something I had previously committed. Heights in airplanes don’t bother me. Towers? Cliffs? Makes my scrotum make friends with my diaphragm. I can, and have, done it but I damned sure didn’t enjoy it.

Over the years as a young man, I was exposed to a lot of expertise by aunts, uncles, and older cousins that I am richer for knowing.  Uncle Joe was a part of that. 

Master Criminals

One of my blogs directed to family members. Hope others aren't bored.

Murphy’s Law has an interesting post up on Arizona’s Petrified Forest.

http://lagniappeslair.blogspot.com/2014/07/petrified-forest.html

That dredged up an old fart memory. Around 1955 my parents took a driving vacation and brought along her Wyoming rancher parents. My grandfather was an avid rock hound.

At the Petrified Forest, there were signs everywhere forbidding any removal of anything, with large fines promised. My grandfather collected several small specimens and stashed them in the bumper guards of my father’s 1951 Ford, assuming the rangers would be searching every car as it left. That didn’t happen.

After clearing the area, my grandfather tried to retrieve his loot, but couldn’t get the specimens free. Once back in Wyoming,  he and my father spent the better part of a morning removing the bumper guards. My father had a few, respectful, choice words to say on the subject.

During our next visit, my grandfather presented him with a well crafted petrified wood bolo (string) tie.

Grandfather Era Burtis, Grandmother Hattie Burtis nee Latham, daughters Virginia, Lois, Harriet, and son Ray. Both men had to turn slightly sideways when they went through a doorway. My grandfather always wore bibs. Here he is wearing his "business at the courthouse" hat. 

Stormy 1963

Your indulgence please while I post something of interest to family and friends who knew my parents. My uncle Lyall Bright took thousands of 35 mm photos mounted as slides. Recently a cousin has started converting some to digital format. This is a picture of my late father and a foal he named Stormy.

Stormy's dam was a purebred Arabian and the stud an Appaloosa. As he grew older, he turned chestnut, white, and black. Pretty horse. However, he was never healthy and had to be put down. My father skinned the carcass and had the hide tanned. Used it as a throw piece on a couch while muttering about getting something to show for thousands in vet bills.

Shame, as the horse had a nice personality and moved well. Of course, he was as spoiled as a rich broad's poodle.

Now, about that fence. This was taken after I left the ranch. That fence never looked like that when I lived there.

Family Lore

This is a post about some family history for family members. It may be of interest to others.

My father’s family was in dire financial condition during the Great Depression. There was a total of twelve children. One passed during infancy. My father was number five in the birth order. Each year they did attend the Moffat County (Colorado) Fair where each child received their annual allowance, 25 cents.

One year at the fair, when my father was five, he disappeared while a barnstormer was preparing for his show. The brothers and sisters were becoming concerned when they couldn’t find him.

After the barnstormer landed, my father climbed out of the plane. He had convinced the pilot to accept his quarter to give him a ride. During the barnstormer’s performance, my father sat between the pilot’s feet. The story goes that he had a grin from ear to ear.

My father never lost his interest in aviation. His eighth grade education kept him out of pilot training during WWII, but, in the CBI theater,  he did make some trips “over the Hump” as what he called a cargo kicker.

In later years, he and I shared a Piper J-4 while getting our Private License. He then bought a Cessna 182. The man could fly an airplane as well as anyone you might meet, but was damn careless. We had a few heated conversations about that. The Cessna pictured wasn't his but is the same model.

He died at age 64, probably from undiagnosed Obstructive Sleep Apnea complications. I miss him to this day.

Skull Creek

This is a snippet of family history a relative asked me to write. It may, or may not, be of interest to anyone else.

My late father was born in Sunbeam, CO., a spot on the map. When he entered the Army in WWII, his official home of record was a Post Office Box at Skull Creek, CO.  That Post Office has been merged with Dinosaur, CO. Dinosaur will always be Artesia, CO to old timers. He was teased about both towns, and had a First Sergeant nickname him “Sunshine”.

Skull Creek was the site of a sheep/cattle war fight, supposedly, when cowboys stampeded a flock of sheep over a steep bluff. Family lore is some of the family “might” have been involved. In any case, the area got the name from the sheep skulls.

http://www.canyoncountrywilderness.org/skullcreek.htm

The extreme Northwest Corner of Colorado is known as Browns Park. The winters are milder than the rest of the area and many livestock owners let their horse roam free there to “winter”. Probably the largest single owner of horses in Colorado is the Sombrero Ranch, that stocks multiple dude ranch sites in the summer.  Their spring roundup is a sought after adventure.

http://www.sombrero.com/custompages/horse_drive.asp

Damned if I would pay $2,000 to do that hard work (that as a youth I had to do for free).

 The town of Maybell is part of the tradition.

http://www.maybellwomensclub.com/index.php

It is  a foolish man that tangles with the Maybell Women’s Club. I’m related to a few. Nice ladies, mama bears under their genteel exteriors.

One of the better sources for the history of the region is by John Rolfe Burrows.

http://www.amazon.com/Where-Old-West-Stayed-Young/dp/B001R2E0XS

The area was home to various outlaws and other outcasts. One of the more notorious family’s were the Bassetts.

http://www.amazon.com/Bassett-Women-Grace-Mcclure/dp/0804008779/ref=pd_sim_b_1

My father’s maternal grandfather operated a toll suspension bridge over the Yampa River at Sunbeam. Some of his descendants (and affiliates by marriage) still live in the area.

http://www.canyoncountrywilderness.org/skullcreek.htm

At one side of the river were the family home, road house, stable, and a small store. Family lore has it Butch Cassidy was a frequent visitor.

My father was born in the middle of twelve children. His father died when he was fifteen and his mother moved her children from the Golden, CO area (Wheat Ridge) back to Moffat County, and Maybell. She sold the Wheat Ridge property, including a sod house,

http://wheatridgehistoricalsociety.org/Joomla/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=20&Itemid=32

that was originally  owned by my father’s grandfather.

This was in the middle of the Great Depressions. My father’s older brothers and sisters had scattered leaving him the oldest son still at home. He worked at many different jobs, as did his mother, to keep the family going. At one point he delivered mail to the Browns Park area. In the summer, by a Model T., in the winter by horseback. The various ranchers, including the Bassetts, would give him a place to sleep and meals. These were hard, desperate times. One of his sisters contracted polio and was in a coma for three months. Still going strong today, she is a prominent business owner.

My father was a subsistence hunter. Seasons? Licenses? Hah! He was the best shot I’ve ever met. My sister and I could beat him on paper targets, but never taking game.

He had a gift for languages and math. Which I didn’t inherit, blast it. In India,  in WWII, he learned several regional dialects. Many years later, he accompanied his sister and brother -in- law as guests aboard an Indian freighter. The crew as amazed he knew their language. His brother in law asked the captain about his level of fluency, to which the captain replied, “total fluency”.

During his life, he was a cowboy,  logger, ran a gold mine dredge, a rancher, operated a dude ranch, guided hunters, was a section foreman for ten years on the old Denver and Rio Grande, worked in two coal fired electrical plants, delivered milk, was a shop steward while the Republican County Committeeman, was a machinist, and owned and operated a restaurant. Hard man to pigeonhole.

He died, at age 64, from congestive heart failure, brought on by undiagnosed obstructive sleep apnea.

His brother and sisters, and their children, all were,  or are, workers. Not a slacker in the bunch. What needs to be said is we are not unique. In that corner of the world, our family is part of a hard working community of tough people.  Traveling around the country, I see a lot of the same thing, at least in the rural areas.

So, if you’ve come this far, hope you weren’t bored. As to the relatives who will want to argue over details, well, hell, I would expect nothing less. As a clan, we make a herd of hogs on ice look like a precision drill team.