Dale Chihuly Glass Sculpture at the Denver Botanic Garden, by Susan Kinsella with Julie Lochner Riber, October 2014

Monday, October 27, 2014

Clara Taylor Burt and the Traveling Suitcase Exhibit, by Susan Kinsella

Clara Taylor, Emma Jane Carson Taylor
I was 7 years old when my mother asked me if I wanted to go to a funeral. It was for Grandpa Taylor’s older sister, Clara, she told me.

I was sure she had made a mistake. I had never heard of Grandpa having an older sister and, at 7, I was the oldest I had ever been and knew quite a lot. But I was curious so I said yes.

That funeral had a big impact on me, not least because it was mysterious. On the way there, Mom explained that Aunt Clara had spent many of her adult years in a mental hospital. I couldn’t imagine what that might have been like.

I remember that the woman in the casket looked old yet also sweet and even peaceful. I remember the skin on her face as smooth, not lined like many old people’s faces. I wished that I had known about her when she was alive and that I could have met her then.

Some people’s lives haunt you even if you never met them. There are several in our family like this. Aunt Ruth Baker is one whose brief life echoes down the years since her death in 1904, well over 100 years ago. She lives in the hearts of many of us who loved the people whose own hearts were broken when Ruth died at 14 from cardiac defects. My grandmother, Nancy Ethel, was only 17 as she held her dying sister in her arms.

Mildred Jane Taylor
Another whose memory still haunts our family is 6-year-old Mildred Taylor, whose death in 1907 from typhoid and scarlet fever devastated my Grandpa Taylor’s family. Twenty-year-old Clara, who had been like a mother to her little sister, was so traumatized that she suffered a schizophrenic break and stayed isolated in her room for a month. [See Aunt CB and Pat Herdeg's earlier blog story.] 

And now Aunt Clara's story haunts me – the same Clara who was devastated when her little sister Mildred died, the same Clara who lay so finally in that casket. I turn around in my mind what I know about her life and try to imagine what it might have felt like to her to live it. 

From reading her mother’s journals, I gather that Clara’s childhood and teen years, as the oldest girl in the family, consisted mostly of helping raise her younger siblings and teaming up with her mother to do heavy housework. Their method of house cleaning seemed to involve completely renovating one room after the other – moving all the furniture out, washing down the walls, refinishing floors, deep-cleaning heavy drapes, beating carpets, pasting up new wallpaper, repainting, on and on, until the whole house was eventually scoured and renewed – and then starting over and doing it all again.

The household demands on her were so heavy that Clara didn’t even get to finish high school. She did play piano for The Taylor Quartet (a quite popular local group formed by her father and brothers) and participated in church youth groups. Still, the littlest children in the family were probably one of her few bright spots of happiness. No wonder then, when her little sister died, she just couldn’t bear the anguish.

But Clara eventually took a six-month “household management” training course at what is now the Rochester Institute of Technology (and I am guessing that she probably had quite a bit from her younger life that she, herself, could have taught the instructors!). Then she established a dressmaking and millinery business, making clothes and hats in Batavia, New York.
Clara and Maurice, 1924

Clara married in 1923, when she was 36, quite late for those times. I hope she had some years of happiness then, but we know that they were far too brief. Her husband, Maurice Burt, left her after only a few years. [See more of Maurice's story here.] Traumatic as this must have been, my Grandma Taylor, who lived in Batavia and saw her often during that time, said she seemed to weather it as well as could be expected.

For the next two decades, she lived with her brother Leon, kept house for him and continued her sewing business. Always one of my mother’s favorite aunts, Clara charmed her nieces and nephews as the Taylor families visited back and forth for frequent gatherings and dinners. 

But by 1944, her family became increasingly concerned about Clara's mental health. She had begun to move into a fantasy world, declaring that she and her long-gone Maurice were FBI agents solving mysteries together.

Her father and brothers decided to have Leon take her by train to New York City to visit her younger sister, Florence, hoping that travel would help Clara back to a steadier balance. But, instead, she began lifting things from stores.

So on September 11, 1944, Florence’s husband Uncle George Doran and a neighbor brought Clara to Kings Park State Hospital on Long Island. Clara was under the impression that she was coming to this hospital as an act of charity, to be a “sunshine girl” for an hour and a half in order to cheer up lonely injured soldiers by reading to them or writing letters for them.

What must it have been like for Clara then when Uncle George and the neighbor left and it began to dawn on her that she was not going home with them, that she was suddenly stuck there, that she was the patient, not some lonely soldier? My stomach wrenches, imagining the shock and confusion she must have felt.

Five years later, she was transferred to Willard State Hospital in the town of Ovid, near Seneca Lake in central New York's Finger Lakes, as part of a state initiative to move psychiatric patients closer to their families. She died there in 1958.

Willard Attic Suitcases, by Lisa Rinzler
From the website The Lives They Left Behind
As Pat has written [see the ending of this earlier story here], Willard closed in 1995. But before it was demolished, someone doing a final walk-through pried open a locked door and revealed a forgotten attic preserving hundreds of suitcases. These represented the last connections that patients had to the “outside” world as they brought with them the belongings they loved most or thought they would need in whatever was to become their new life. Apparently once they were admitted to the hospital, they never saw these belongings again.

Two authors spent 10 years researching the lives of the people who had brought these suitcases, although Clara’s was not identified in this collection. (We can only imagine how Clara would have loved to help them with this real-life detective work!) Then they created a deeply moving and compassionate book, website and traveling Suitcase Exhibit, telling these patients’ stories. 

FAST FORWARD TO 2013. San Francisco’s Exploratorium, the quirky science museum that pioneered the kinds of hands-on interactive exhibits that the best modern science museums all design today, moved into new quarters on a pier jutting into San Francisco Bay. I was shocked, yet also fascinated, to learn that it featured a new temporary display of some of the Suitcase Exhibit from New York's Willard State Hospital. Early this summer, I visited the new museum for the first time.

I headed straight for the Suitcase Exhibit, where I found not only some of the Willard suitcases and their belongings, but also some of the hospital’s furniture as part of a larger exhibit challenging visitors to contemplate questions about mental health and its treatment. Given our family connection to Willard through Clara, it was a deeply poignant experience for me.

I entered the exhibit through an entrance that recreated an unfinished attic space. Cubbyholes along the walls housed opened trunks and suitcases, with thought-provoking displays of their contents. Outside each cubbyhole was a sign that gave us some background on the suitcase’s owner and asked us to ponder their diagnosis and treatment. Some patients, like Clara, seemed truly in need of ongoing mental health care. Others, however, seem to have been confined only because they were poor, alone, immigrants, depressed as a result of traumatic life blows, didn’t speak English, or somehow seemed “odd” enough that those around them were uncomfortable.

The belongings that they brought were fascinating. Some had whole wardrobes of fancy clothes. Others used their suitcase space instead for books. Some brought musical instruments. Many brought treasured photographs. Some had packed the tools of their trade. Some appeared to be expecting to go on vacation. Others seemed to know that where they were going would be for the rest of their lives.


How unsettling, then, to see these belongings now, the last connections to these people’s pre-hospital lives. It felt as though these were objects saved from a tragic shipwreck. Perhaps in some ways they were. Whatever state of mind these men and women arrived in when they came to the door at Willard, their suitcases carried the sum of their lives as they understood them up to that day. Yet once through that door, it appears that they were stripped of their previous lives and transformed into “patients.” Their suitcases were shipped off to a locked attic. Their previous identities, the memories and dreams they had so carefully packed, disappeared from their lives as well.

How did poor Clara adjust to this new, abrupt break with her former life? Did she panic? Did she fight it? Did she eventually make friends in this new place? Did she ever come to feel that it was home? Many of the owners of these forsaken suitcases were at Willard during the same years as Clara. She must have known them, and many of them almost certainly would have known her.

The Exploratorium’s corridor of attic cubbyholes opens into a room with institutional furniture from Willard. These red leather upholstered chairs . . . Would Clara recognize them if she were here with me today? Did she sit in this exact chair, drumming her fingers on the worn armrest and tapping one foot impatiently while waiting to see a doctor?

And this utilitarian table . . . Did she sit at it, maybe even in one of these exact chairs, perhaps sewing a piece of clothing? My mother says Clara was wonderful at all kinds of sewing and craft projects. We have the remnants of a gorgeous velvet patchwork quilt that Clara made from soft and elegant fabrics. Someday we will make it whole again. 

Could Clara have worked on small sewing projects at these tables? Or could she have sat here with people she considered friends? Maybe done a puzzle together? Maybe played a game? Maybe complained about the food in the cafeteria?

In this room in the museum, you can lift an old telephone receiver and listen to audio descriptions of life at Willard by people who had worked there, often the third generation in their family to do so.

Towards the end of the exhibit, there is a poster that attempts to give some context to these memories from a mental hospital. It notes that doctors at the time (up through the 1950s) had no knowledge of neurophysiology. It continues:

They also had limited understanding of the psychological harms caused by trauma or poverty. At the time, psychotherapy was new and finding its way. There were no effective medications, and mental illness was commonly understood to be a defect of will or character. People often came to Willard from poorhouses, where they were sometimes kept in chains. And doctors were each responsible for hundreds of patients.

It goes on to note that many patients were diagnosed with “dementia praecox,” as was our Clara. This was an early term for what we now call schizophrenia. And then the poster adds this, titled as a “Note on what is never noted”:

Although it was a hard place to work and a difficult place to live, Willard had many aspects of an intentional community. The institutional records and memories of those who lived and worked there show an often dedicated and mutually supportive staff, patients who looked out for each other, and compassionate relationships that made possible the survival of the human spirit, even in extreme circumstances. These are all part of what happened, too.

I pray that Clara experienced some of that sense of compassionate community. Coming from a harsh and isolated rural farming childhood in upstate New York and then experiencing severe losses in her adult life, she deserved an older age freed from demands and troubles. I hope that that look of peace on her face that I remember from the first and last time I ever saw her was something that she had come to experience in this place she had unwillingly been forced to call home.

Friday, October 17, 2014

More Taylor Reunion Pictures--Thank you Chuck Lochner!

Gordy and Jim
Aaron, Joe and Cam
Dave and Anna

 Packing Up

Dan and Karen
Fireworks to End the Reunion

Thursday, October 2, 2014

A-Cousining, by Susan Kinsella

Milky Way and Air Glow Over Lake Elmore
Elmore, VT Website
I first met my cousin Andrew Jackson Olmstead when he was just 20 years old. I cannot tell you what he looked like, although I can imagine him. 

I see a lad of medium height with a strong but lithe body, clearly coming into his own as a young man but still with some of the boy in his face. He is good-looking, of course – after all, he is my cousin. His dark hair curves rather straight and long down to his chin that is stubbled and haphazardly shaven, as though he cannot stop long enough to do the sporadic whiskers justice. His dark eyes sparkle merrily beneath long, luxurious lashes and, no matter the topic, he cannot keep his mouth from sneaking into a grin. Yes, he has the uncertainty and awkwardness of a boy on the threshold of manhood but, at the same time, there is a joyousness that cannot be contained. 

Still, I have never seen a photo of him, and it is unlikely that I ever will. For if I were to meet him now again, he would be nearly 200 years old. My memory of him when he was 20, though, is just as fresh as the letter he wrote to his cousin, Daniel Rockwell Taylor, my great-great grandfather, in early March of 1848.

“Dear Cousin Daniel R. Taylor,” Andrew Jackson begins. “I now have an opportunity to write you a few lines to remind you that there is just such a creature on this earth as I am and I am alive and well and a’kicking.” 

Oh, yes, I have read enough of these old family letters now to know that most of them devote an uncommon amount of space to apologizing for taking so long to write and then reporting on everyone’s health. Of course, for families such as these ancestors who worked farms homesteaded out of virgin forests in the wilderness, health was everything. After all, while they did have some draft animals to help them, most of their work – indeed, their survival – relied on the strength of their own bodies. 

Elmore Church Against Elmore Mountain
Andrew is writing from his family’s farm near Elmore, in the far north of Vermont near the Canadian border with Quebec. His mother, Betsey Walbridge Olmstead, is the younger sister to Daniel’s mother, Phebe Walbridge Taylor. Phebe and Betsey had grown up near Wolcott, VT, a town founded by Phebe’s husband’s family only a few miles from Elmore as the crow flies. However, traveling from one town to the next in such rugged, mountainous parts of Vermont was likely to be rather roundabout. 

Yet the cousins of the nine Walbridge siblings’ families seem to have made great efforts to know each other and stay in touch. When Phebe married Gideon Morehouse Taylor and a few years later they moved with their children to Oakfield in western New York State, the family connections stretched all the way there right along with her. 

In fact, Andrew Jackson’s older brother, Seth (22), is visiting Daniel Taylor’s family at the time of this letter writing, and the letter is nearly as much to him as to Daniel. And, as you might expect with a 20-year-old boy, Andrew is rambunctious, randy and wants to see the world. The kind of letter he writes to his cousin, only six months younger, is definitely “a boy’s letter.” 

“I should like to go to York state and see the folks and the Country too,” he writes to Daniel in far off “York State.” Then he writes a message for his brother, who apparently has been visiting their Taylor relatives for an extended time: “Tell Seth that I have heard all about that gal and suppose that it is her that has made so much of a Yorker of him.” In fact, he wonders whether the gal that may have caused Seth to delay his return is “one of those Dutch gals” that apparently Seth mentioned in a previous letter. He adds, "Tell him if it is he must strap down his pants when he goes to see her." Whether this truly refers to a girl who is Dutch or possibly to a girl who is “Pennsylvania Dutch” (who were actually “Deutsch,” i.e. German) is unknown and, in any event, apparently immaterial. When Seth marries a few years later it is to a Vermont girl. 

Despite the “wink, wink” messages in the letter, Andrew Jackson seems to still be forging his friendship with his cousin, Daniel. Apparently that was helped immensely when Daniel visited Vermont a year or so before. Andrew assures him, “We are all the same ugly ignorant sort of folks that we were when you was here and as for being Polite we have improved just none a’tall.” 

Summer Hayfield, Elmore, VT
by Bob Burley
Daniel may have come with his mother and some of his siblings to Wolcott, where he had been born and his parents had grown up, although the others are not mentioned in the letter. Perhaps Phebe wanted to see her father and her siblings again. Her mother had died in 1843 and her husband had died the following year. In any event, Daniel’s family seems to have made a lasting impression on Andrew, who says, “It seems as if I should know all of your folks now if I should see them or meet them in the road.”

Clearly, Andrew was reveling in “a-cousining,” a term another of his and Daniel’s cousins, Dustan Walbridge, used later in a yearning letter home from the Civil War. It was apparently a common term in the 1800s. Even Ralph Waldo Emerson was said to put aside his writing and delight in jaunts with his cousins, cutting “all mental work off short” and laying “down his pen when the cousins came a-cousining and literally took to the woods.”*

Perhaps Seth went home with Daniel’s family to New York after their visit to Vermont. That appears to be one way that the cousins got back and forth for visits, so it is reasonable that Andrew expected one of the Taylors to accompany Seth’s return trip. Andrew says to his cousin Daniel in his letter, “I shall expect to see some new cousin when Seth comes home in the spring. If I don’t, I shall be disappointed. Tell Seth not to come home till some of your folks will come with him.” 

Although, truly, Andrew is torn. He’s itching for an adventure himself and he would rather do the traveling than wait for someone to come to him. So, after telling Daniel he “should like to go to York state and see the folks and the Country too,” he jokes: “I should like to see Daniel ranging the fields and woods with an old gun (under the pretense) of hunting or gaming.” 

Barn on East Elmore Road
Elmore, VT Website
Throughout the three pages of the letter, Andrew manages to both write the news and then add critiques of his writing. These are included almost as crib-notes in the margins along the sides and at right-angles to the text. Most are highlighted with a hand-drawn picture of a finger pointing to the comment. 

In the first one, he tells Daniel, “Warm it when you begin to read it.” Remnants of red wax show over the words, suggesting how the letter had been sealed. I am guessing that he’s suggesting that warming the letter would both better melt the wax and possibly also improve the readability of the ink. But why would he need to explain that to someone for whom this was the normal way of sealing letters? Could Andrew have maybe written something in a fluid that produces invisible writing (possibly milk, vinegar or onion juice?) that only shows up when the paper is warmed? If so, it is not visible now. 

Andrew inserts one of his hand-drawings directly into the text when he remarks, “Oh Daniel, I have a little bit of news to tell you but I suppose you have heard of it before now. I have got another Brother and he is well and smart and Mother is about the house as comfortable as we could expect.” Hmm, I thought, had his mother just had another baby? But, looking at the birth dates in the family tree, that didn’t fit. 

Then I noticed that his 17-year-old sister Phebe has just gotten married. (Phebe Taylor Olmstead seems to be named for her aunt, Daniel’s mother, whose name is Phebe Walbridge Taylor.) Is Andrew referring to his new brother-in-law? But why would that affect his mother’s comfort? Is she missing her daughter Phebe’s help at home? Are the newlyweds living with her family? The letter doesn’t tell us, but the likelihood that he’s referring to his sister’s marriage is increased by his reference to Phebe, herself, in the same paragraph: “Tell Seth, Phebe says if you don’t write soon she will come out there and take you for breech of promise.” Apparently Seth is not keeping up with his family’s letter-writing expectations!

One of the other notes that is emphasized with a pointing finger, written up the side of the letter, made me laugh out loud. It seems to sum up this young cousin’s playful nature. Andrew wrote, “Please be so kind as to burn this up as soon as you read it.” Thank goodness Daniel Taylor did not comply!

Andrew goes on with what seem to be some silly riddles, as well as comments about school. In the fall, he’d had many papers and compositions to write, but now, in mid-winter, he hasn’t gone to school for three weeks. And then he suddenly signs off with the phrase that so totally charmed me and made me fall in love with him: “The pen and ink are so poor, I will break off as short as a goat’s tail.” 

Ahh, Andrew Jackson Olmstead, thank you for writing this delightful letter in 1848 so that I, too, could someday go a-cousining with you, as well!


* Little Journeys to the Homes of the Great, by Elbert Hubbard, 1916

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Taylor Family Reunion 2014 By Pat Kinsella Herdeg

Saturday in upstate New York dawned a bit cloudy and misty, and very windy. But, Glenn and I hoped the weather would be better than last year’s monsoon rains, and by noon—the start of the Reunion—it was! Sunny and not too cold –never needing a jacket—we’ll take it!

 Rose, Jill, Jen, Aunt CB and Pat

Kathy and Gordy and Ann and Dennis had done their magic, with the help of Jess and little Olivia—the place looked great when we drove up—appetizers already on the tables and smiles and hugs all around.

By the time the group had all arrived, I think we had about 45 cousins—All the Lochners (Julie and Wes won the prize for coming the furthest distance) and a good amount of Maneys and Kinsellas.

Karen, Richard and Dan Maney

The food was wonderful, as always. Julie’s Concord grape pie hit the spot for me, but I am sure everyone had different favorites. Elderberry pie and Tom Kinsella’s loon cookies, Mom’s baked beans, breads and soup and salads….one or two plates of food did not hold the many choices!

Olivia and Leah

Mom wandered from group to group talking all the while, and Dad held court wherever he sat. The younger cousins played and ran together, digging through Kathy and Gordy’s pumpkins and gourds to see which should be taken home. And, at one point, I think they cornered Rick Lochner in the porta potty, as a huge racket of clanging and hitting on the john could be heard. We all perked up our ears and ran to help whoever was held hostage until Annie said ‘Oh, it’s just Rick. Well, that’s okay then.’ We returned to our conversations. I saw Rick later, so he did manage to crawl out somehow.

Patrick and Joe ---Look at those grins--Is Rick STILL in that porta potty?
The day ended too soon, and we were packing up our gourds and Cub Scout popcorn (thank you Cam and Joe!) for the journey home. It would not be a short drive, but we had so many memories and stories and laughs to go over again as we headed east to Massachusetts. Wonderful time, and so good to see everyone. 

  Ted, Karen and Dan

As a Walbridge cousin once said “We may yet spend many happy days where we can see each other and where our little ones can visit back and forth, as we used to go cousining.” 

Yes, it WAS a good ‘cousining’ reunion. Thanks again to Uncle Harold’s girls!

Kathy, Julie
Glenn, Mike

P.S. These are only some of the pictures. I will put up more!

Thursday, September 11, 2014

Walking with Aunt Dot By Beth Kinsella Sakanishi


Years ago, when I was back in Rochester one time, I went to visit Aunt Dot with Jim. We hopped from subject to subject, happily talking our way from the present, to the past, and back. At one point Aunt Dot and I were talking about her fabled ‘green thumb’ and how she would love Japan with all its flowers, flowering bushes, flowering plants, flowering trees, some of which she would recognize (dogwood, azalea wisteria) and some native to Asia or Japan, or just needing a warmer climate than western NY, which she would not (bush clover, the ‘handkerchief tree’). 

I went back to Japan and had the good idea to put together a photo album of the things I saw blooming in my walks around the neighborhood. As I walked for about an hour or so, many days, at that time, I saw a good variety. I started it with the intention of doing a ‘calendar’ of flowers: photos of what I saw each month, with just a phrase or two to identify what I had photographed. 

But then I got sick and could not do those walks at all for a long time. So I never did finish the ‘flower calendar album’ for Aunt Dot. 

She must be up there whispering in my ear, though, because I have never forgotten the impulse and often think of it, and her, on my walks, which I have taken up again. 

I decided to start a sort of blog recently (just for me, really, and perhaps Mom and Dad), where I can explain to them what I see in my walks that range in all directions, through a varied landscape, month by month. I worked on an entry for August/September a few days ago, after thinking for days in a row, as I passed a certain temple, “I must take photos of those crape myrtle trees in bloom,” and then walking the ten minutes there, finally, and taking some photos. 

 Crape Myrtle Tree--Japan

The photos alone would not mean as much as if I explained different things about this temple area, so the few paragraphs I had in mind, became pages, and thus my ‘Masuo flower calendar’ was born, from the original idea for Aunt Dot. 

I thought of her the entire time I was taking the crape myrtle photos. They are a tree that originated in Asia, but my friend Rebecca, from California, knew them, so though I had never seen them before coming here, she had. The Japanese call them ‘saru suberi’ (‘saru’ = monkey, and ‘suberi’ = slippery) because, with its smooth bark, “even a monkey would slip down its trunk.”

They usually start to bloom sometime in August and are the perfect lacy, delicate texture and pale colors against the searing, bright blue sky, made even more delicious in September, when we start to get what I call ‘shredded clouds,’ wisps of white against a paler blue sky. The tiny blossoms of the crape myrtle can be pink, white, or a light lavender. One website I looked at called the last variety ‘Twilight lavender,’ which I rather liked. 

They are delicate blossoms, though, and since August and September are typhoon season, we sometimes wake up and after the strong wind and rain, find the poor crape myrtle blossoms spread across the entire road, a beautiful carpet of pastels against the black pavement or bits of color strewn across puddles. 

It is these small details I have kept track of in my head for years, in the album I continued to ‘make’ for Aunt Dot. There is a pilgrimage that Tim and I have been wanting to do ‘someday’ for years: it is 88 temples on Shikoku Island. The founding priest, Kukai, went to China in the 8th century, came back and helped popularize Shingon Buddhism in Japan, creating this 1200 kilometer pilgrimage route, among other things. When you walk it, you are advised to ‘walk with Kukai’ in your heart. I think that, when I am on my long walks, delighting in this or that flower or someone’s garden, I am really ‘walking with Aunt Dot’.

Doris and her Love of Plants!

--In an email, Beth added a few days ago: “Here’s to Aunt Dot! 
IF the weather cooperates — a big if at this time of year -- I will actually be in Kamakura on her birthday and part of my itinerary is to check out two temples that have bush clover blooming. Bush clover is another flower I have never seen and I discovered recently that this is because it is native to Japan. Even so, I had never seen it near me, and so look forward to seeing it at these two temples that are famous for having two different kinds (one white, one red). Aunt Dot will definitely be with me on that trip!”