The relics are here

I thought I would share with you the artifacts I brought back with me on my trip to Gettysburg for the Civil War Institute. The following pictures are the memorabilia of Pvt. Albert A. Clewell, a probable descendant of mine and an 18-year-old enlistee who fought for the 153rd Pennsylvania Volunteers of the 11th Corps during the Civil War. They were given to me by pawn broker Paul Mastronardi, who had come into possession of them two years ago. It was his goal to find a relative of Clewell rather than try to sell them for profit. We met in the parking lot of a Gettysburg restaurant (A Friendly's, appropriately enough), where he gave me these items.

Enjoy.

This is Albert's discharge paper. It is probably the only "true" Civil War item in the collection.

The document reads: "To all whom it may Concern: Know Ye, that Albert N. Clewell, a Private of Captain Owen Rice's Company (A) 153d Regiment of Penna Vol who was enrolled on the Fifteenth day of September, one thousand eight hundred and sixty two to serve nine month (sic), is hereby Discharged from the service of the United States, this 23d day of July, 1863, at Harrisburg, Pa, by reason of Expiration of term of Service (No objection to his being re-enlisted is known to exist.)

"Said Albert N. Clewell was born in Upper Nazareth in the State of Pennsylvania, is 18 years of age, 5 feet 6 inches high, ruddy complexion, Brown eyes, Auburn hair, and by occupation, when enrolled, a laborer.

"Given at Harrisburg this 23d day of July 1863."

It is signed on the right by an A.S. Dallas, Capt., USA, and on the left by by Owen Rice, the captain of Co. A of the 153rd Pennsylvania.

The curious thing here is that the document uses an "N" for Albert's middle initial. All my research tells me that Albert's middle name was Alexander, so I guess we just leave the clerical error as a by-product of government work. Close enough, I guess.

This is Albert's Grand Army of the Republic (GAR) kepi. It is postwar and I'm guessing that if he wore it at all, it was probably in parades or other GAR functions. The GAR is likely the forerunner to today's American Legion and I suspect the boys sat around the table enjoying liquid refreshments and telling war stories.

The "217" badge on the kepi indicates the GAR post of which Albert was a member. It is the Lafayette Post 217 in Easton, PA. I did a little research into this particular post and found out that it caught fire and burned sometime around 1912, taking with it a ton of documents and records. This is probably why it has been so difficult to find any detailed information on Albert.

The kepi, by the way, is a size 6-7/8, which is way too small for me.

 These are Clewell Family reunion pins. The smaller one with the ribbon was held in 1904, while the larger one was held in 1907. Clearly, the Clewells did not meet every year.

But this also makes me wonder if Albert met up with my great uncles, William and Sylvester, at these reunions. I'm guessing they did. All three were born in Nazareth and all three served in the 153rd Pennsylvania.




This is Albert's GAR ribbon from Lafayette Post 217. On the bottom of the ribbon it reads "Gettysburg Excursion 1888" which means the post — and Albert — no doubt took a trip to Gettysburg for the 25th anniversary of the battle. Albert would have been 43 years old at the time.


I wonder what he remembered. The 11th Corps was routed on the first day of the battle, but pretty much held its ground the next evening at the base of East Cemetery Hill, fighting off Tar Heels.

We originally thought this was a GAR pin celebrating Albert's 50 years of service in the organization. But it turns out to be an International Order of Odd Fellows pin.

The back of the pin has this inscription: "Presented to Albert A. Clewell (this time the middle initial is correct) by Elon Lodge No. 604 I.O.O.F. May 22, 1918. Initiated April 30, 1868. Pennsylvania."

In truth, this pin commemorates Albert's 50 years of service to the Odd Fellows, a charitable organization. It's nice to know that a man who saw the face of war spent the better part of his 87 years on the planet striving to make life better for others.

Thank you, Albert, for your service.

Spanning generations

Every year that I go to Gettysburg to attend the Civil War Institute, I almost always seem to come away with something of worth.

It could be something educational, or something totally unforeseen, or something emotional. Sometimes, it's even something physical.

This year, it seemed to be a little of all of the above.

If you recall, I recently blogged that there was a possibility that I could come into possession of some Civil War artifacts belonging to a possible distant relative of mine, Albert Clewell (see here and here).

I say "possible" because I cannot draw a direct link to Albert's lineage. However, I do have two great uncles on my mother's side — William Clewell and his brother, Sylvester — who did fight for the 153rd Pennsylvania Volunteers of the 11th Corps. They, like Albert, enlisted out of Northampton County. They, like Albert, were born in Nazareth, PA, which gives me reasonable assurance that Albert is somehow related to William and Sylvester, and thus, to me.

In my blogs I wrote about a pawn broker in northeastern Pennsylvania, Paul Mastronardi, who had come into possession of some of Albert's things, including a Grand Army of the Republic (GAR) kepi, a GAR ribbon, his discharge papers, and a couple of Clewell family reunion buttons from 1904 and 1907.

Mastronardi felt compelled to to find a living relative of Albert. Apparently, that's me.

So on a sunny Sunday afternoon, while I was attending this year's Civil War Institute, we met in the parking lot of a Gettysburg restaurant. Paul, his wife, Joann, and their 15-year-old son, Paul Jr., without fanfare but with plenty of anticipation, presented me with Albert's memorabilia.

Paul Mastronardi (left) and his son, Paul Jr., with Albert Clewell's artifacts.

To be truthful, not many of Albert's artifacts are of the Civil War, nor would they hold much value to anyone outside of the Clewell family. The GAR kepi is postwar and probably worn by Albert in parades or other GAR functions; an inscribed medal we originally thought celebrated Albert's 50 years in the GAR turned out to be an International Order of Odd Fellows presentation — Albert had joined the Odd Fellows, a charitable organization, in 1868 and he was recognized for his 50 years of service in 1918; his GAR ribbon announced that Albert had been on an excursion to Gettysburg in 1888 to revisit the battlefield for the 25th anniversary of the fight.

I am eternally grateful to the Mastronardi's for presenting me with these items. I learned a little bit more about the Clewell's, and it was clearly an emotional moment — something I didn't expect — for me to hold these artifacts in my hands.

And my plan for these items still stands. After showing them to my buddies in the Davidson County Civil War Round Table, I'll offer them to the Davidson County Historical Museum on loan for display for about a year or so. Then I'll donate them to the Northampton County (PA) Historical Society for perpetual care.

It's the least I can do for Albert.

Oh, what a week

Sometimes it's probably best just to stay in bed.

Less than two weeks after we bought ourselves a brand new MacBook Pro laptop, we fried it. A beverage containing fruity acids and sugars was accidentally knocked onto the machine, and the computer that once reached nearly lightning speed in almost all of its functions began traveling at the speed of terminal impatience.

Then, as the screen flickered and pouted in anguish, it stopped traveling altogether.

We opted not to get the extended warranty at the time of purchase because we don't have children and, well, we're adults here and we know how to take care of our things.

I tried other options to replace the computer. I called AppleCare and they said if there's spillage involved, forget it. I called my credit card to see if they have a program in place to repair major purchases, but they don't. And my homeowner's policy has a $1,000 deductible, which is about the price of a new MacBook Pro anyway.

I took the damaged instrument to a local repair shop in town where the owner, Conrad Mcknight, did his absolute best to clean things up. But it was to no avail. When he turned it on —"The moment of truth," he said when I arrived just in time for the big event — it powered up and then promptly froze.

Conrad told us he could get a refurbished motherboard for $500, or one straight from the Apple factory for $800. We elected to bite the bullet and just get a new computer — along with a two-year warranty that was good for spillage, droppage and most other mistakage.

Sigh.

From here on out we might drink our wine out of sippy cups.

Anyway, while all of this was going on, our proposed historic district commode backed up. This has been an occasional recurring problem for us and during one of our plumber's visits, it was indicated to us that we might eventually need a new sewer line to the city system.

Now, it appeared, was the time. Pipes all over the house were gurgling every time we flushed the john. It was nerve wracking, wondering if the commode was going to overflow. So, for a couple of days, we simply went to The Dispatch (where I once worked for 30 years and still have a key) and went, if you know what I mean.

There is a 72-hour period when there is no digging allowed in order for the city to tag the other lines that run to the property. It's probably a good idea to know where the gas, water and communication lines go before bringing in backhoes and such. So the city came out and started spray painting colorful dashes all around our house.  There's blue for the water line, yellow for the gas line and, out in the street in front of us, orange for the communication line. It looks like we're getting ready to be cut up by a pair of giant scissors.

The sewer line (which, curiously, was not marked but was snaked) runs uncomfortably close to the gas line. When they do start digging, I might try to make sure I'm away that day. Maybe I'll be at my insurance company to review my homeowner's policy.

I'm taking my laptop with me.

Lexington Historic District, Part II

The second public hearing in regards to a proposed Local Historic District (LHD) for Lexington was held Thursday and there seemed to be something of a positive paradigm shift in the momentum favoring an LHD. At least, for now.

For one thing, members of the Historic Preservation Commission — Steve Hodges, Emma Apple, Catherine Hoffmann, Mickey Sharpe and Melinda Smith — all gave brief summaries of why they'd like to see an LHD approved. It was good to hear their voices and feel their passion for the project.

Secondly, the commission forthrightly addressed several questions raised by a number of concerned residents in May's initial public meeting. The net result of those concerns appears to be that the proposed guidelines are under constant review and revision. For example, energy efficient replacement windows may be acceptable if they conform to the historic nature of the building; vinyl paint may be acceptable, etc, etc.

This by itself seemed to allay some fears exhibited by several members of the community that their options were limited by "another layer of government." Options now appear to be broader than one might think. The guidelines are under constant revision thanks to community feedback. Maybe it turns out the government is really of, by, and for the people after all.

Thirdly, two residents of Thomasville were on hand to discuss how that city has moved forward with its historic district (actually, Thomasville has three historic districts). It was interesting to learn that Thomasville's first historic district received its initial impetus from a petition of 22 residents who wanted a district in place. By contrast, there is a petition in Lexington to reject an LHD. Thomasville's second district, of more than 150 properties, received 75 percent approval from its district residents.

LHDs must be doing just fine. There are 91 of them in North Carolina.

If there was a disappointing aspect to Thursday's meeting, it was that only 14 residents were on hand. Maybe the smaller turnout was one reason why the meeting seemed less confrontational than in May, but I don't think so. The commission disseminated a lot of material the other night, hopefully correcting some of the misinformation that seems to be floating around out there. More residents should attend these meetings for their educational value, if nothing else. We learned, for example, that more than 60 percent of the proposed district is rental property, some of which is maintained by absentee landlords who don't even live in Davidson County, much less Lexington. I didn't know that. And that knowledge could have an impact on how an LHD is implemented, if approved.

That's the whole point of these public hearings. As Hodges, the commission chairman, noted, if the LHD fails, he can live with it as long as the decision to reject it is based on correct information, and not misinformation. Amen to that.

But the correct information, as I see it, is compelling for an LHD: stable property values, protection from commercial development, an appealing and enhanced quality of life for its residents.

An LHD would be one of the rare times when I would want local government to step in. Instead of an added layer of bureaucracy, it seems more like an added layer of protection.

And amen to that, too.

The life of a dinosaur

I often describe myself as a technological dinosaur mostly because I have not entered into the furious and pricey rush to upgrade and refresh, every six months or so, the few technological items that I do own.

This is actually a source of pride for me. Call me Wehrlesaurus T-wrecks. Muwaaahhhhh. (The "T" stands for technology; the "wrecks" speaks for itself; the "muwaaahhhh" is the T-wrecks mating call).

I do not have an iPad; I do not iPhone. Basically, I do not eCare. I have no Blackberries, Blueberries or Cranberries. More basically, perhaps, is simply that iDecline. Thank you.

But this e-Attitude finally caught up with me this past week.

My printer, after five years of apparently prolonged and faithful service beyond the call of duty, stopped printing. Small pools of ink started jetting themselves on the bottom of the printer instead of where they belonged in nice little microdots vectored and lasered onto the paper.

It was time to upgrade. Friends advised me not to repair the printer, it's cheaper to just go buy a new one.

So my wife and I ran to Walmart and promptly bought a nice HP something or other that has wireless connection, and can scan, copy and print. It was also lightweight and compact; at least, compared to what I had, which was a bigger HP something or other. I was excited.

I called a friend who is Mac-proficient and he said he would help install the printer for me. He came over, and within minutes discovered that the new printer is compatible only with my MacBook's 10.7 operating system. Unfortunately for me, my MacBook is still thriving on its nearly six-year-old 10.4 OS X. But it's outdated. It has not been upgraded over the years and apparently can't communicate with the newer generation of anything.

I'm in complete denial. 10.7? When did that happen? T-wrecks strikes again.

My friend, Chad, said he would try to find an old 10.6 disc somewhere in the hopes of upgrading my trusty laptop, which I use primarily for writing stuff anyway. Even a 10.6 upgrade should get the computer talking to the printer, but we'll see.

If that fails, it looks like we might have to get a brand new laptop. "You should think about getting a new computer anyhow," Chad said. "Five years is a long time." This bugs me because if I spend $1000 on something, and it still works fine, then I'm going to use it until the day it dies. And if upgrades come every six months or so, which is what my colleagues in IT tell me, then my factory-new $1000 computer is nearly obsolete before I can get it home. Sheesh.

For now, we'll play it by ear. After all, I've already purchased the printer.

Muwaaahhhh.

Story goes out of control

For the first time in my 30-plus-year professional career as a journalist, I became the interviewed instead of the interviewer.

It certainly was something different.

When I came home the other day, there was a message on my answering machine to call Chad Smith of The Pocono Record. He wanted to do a follow-up story to the one he wrote several weeks ago (see here) about a pawn broker in northeastern Pennsylvania, Paul Mastronardi, who'd come into possession of some Civil War artifacts — including the discharge papers — of a certain Private Albert Clewell. Mr. Mastronardi, instead of selling the items for profit, felt compelled to find a descendant of Clewell and graciously give them to the family.

Wow.

Turns out I am a direct descendant of William and Sylvester Clewell, brothers who fought for the 153rd Pennsylvania in the 11th Corps and survived the war. They are my great uncles on my mother's side, soldiers who fought in the Civil War just two generations removed from the very air I breath.

Double wow. Wow, wow.

I'm not so sure about Albert, though. We might be related, we might not be. I think there's a good chance we are, because all three of those Clewells were born in Nazareth, PA, in Northampton County, which is the county where the 153rd Pennsylvania was recruited. The trouble is, I haven't found a direct family link to Albert — yet.

Anyway, Smith's story about the pawn broker looking for the Clewell descendant was picked up by the Associated Press and apparently appeared in several newspapers and Civil War blogs across the northeast. I know it appeared in the Pittsburgh paper.

Somehow, the story found its way to Lexington. It found me. I use the avatar name "PvtClewell" on a couple of Civil War forums in which I participate, so that's how I came to be found.

But uh-oh. I smell smoke.

After I contacted Mr. Mastronardi, who was delighted to hear from me, Smith left his message for me to call him back for the follow-up. So I called him, got interviewed for about 15 minutes (definitely a weird feeling for me), and this is the story that appeared: see here.

That story, too, was picked up by the Associated Press and taken to who knows where. Why not? It's a feel-good, happy ending story. In the piece, I found out Mr. Mastronardi still wants to give me the stuff, even though my connections to Albert are thin, at best. That wasn't really discussed in my phone call with him. Not only does he want to give the artifacts to me, we're going to meet in Gettysburg when I go up next month for the Civil War Institute. (Gettysburg, by the way, is where the Clewells fought). According to the story, I'm supposed to give Mr. Mastronardi a tour of the battlefield, specifically in the footsteps of the Clewells.

Mr. Mastronardi and I didn't talk about that, either. This is all very nice, but suddenly the story feels like it's getting bigger than I can handle.

A day later, I get an email from Dispatch editor Chad Killebrew, telling me that I'm famous. The Dispatch had gotten a Google alert about the story (via the key word "Lexington", I presume), and now The Dispatch was running the story. You may have seen it.

So now I feel like I'm trying to stomp out little fires before they can grow into bigger ones.

But it might be too late. A day later, there's a message on my phone to contact WFMY Channel 2. Yikes. Television. Now I'm furiously hopping around putting out fires seemingly growing larger and larger around my ankles, looking for buckets of water, or something. Anything.

I don't have the artifacts yet. They are still 600 miles away in a safe in a pawn shop in Pennsylvania. I may not get them at all. I told this to the television reporter, who seemed to understand. She told me to contact her if, indeed, I do come into possession of the mementos.

The only thing I am really disappointed about is that in my interview with Smith, I was quoted only twice. One of the things I told him was that I planned to show the stuff to my Civil War Round Table if I ever came in possession of them. The boys would be interested in them, I said, even if they were Yankee items. Ha ha.

But that never got printed. So ended my brief career as a nationally known comedian.

Oh, well. At least he spelled Wehrle right.

Your memories at auction

The one thing in this world that my wife didn't want to do — the one thing that was anathema to her very soul, to her very being as a resident of the planet and a member in good standing of the human race — was to put her parents' life up for auction.

Well, not their literal lives. Mom died more than two years ago, and dad passed away in November. But their stuff remained. A 2,800-square foot house full of stuff, plus a once-popular news stand full of even more stuff.

And yet, an auction was the only reasonable choice she had to liquidate the contents and the real estate, in a single day, if possible. Especially in this, one of the worst economies in my memory. We elected to go with Al Futrell of Al's Auction and Realty in Welcome to help us through this.

For several months after dad died, Kim would go to the house, tearfully sort through clothes and other items, trying to determine what she and her brother, Greg, would keep. That was difficult enough, but we also knew what was coming — an auction.

I once heard Kim say that auctions are so sad. "The entire life of that person is strewn across their front yard going up for bid," she said to me. "Strangers are walking through your house. It's horrible. I don't ever want to go through that." And yet, here we were. Knowing how Kim felt about auctions, I feared the worst.

Because her folks had so much stuff, we held the auction over two days: on Friday, we liquidated the contents of the house, followed by the news stand on Saturday.

Friday's auction drew a nice crowd.

Friday broke fresh and clear with mild temperatures after nearly a week of rain, and that was lucky because it drew a large crowd. But here was her family's stuff, in the front yard. Strangers were walking through the house. And, indeed, there were moments when Kim had to go off by herself, to a place in her head where even I couldn't comfort her, and assimilate the process.

Even some of her childhood memories went on the table: a Charmin' Chatty Around the World doll, several Barbie dolls, a Schwinn bicycle from the 1960s. Then there were even more personal items: her mother's cookbooks and kitchenware, bringing back a flood of memories of Christmas and Thanksgivings, of family gathered around the table.

But now even the table was gone.

The auction took six hours to complete. The highest numbered bidder card I saw was 117, so that was good. Even though the house was sold for under tax value, we were fairly pleased. After all, it took Kim and me three years to sell our house before our latest move. You take what you can get. Kim hugged the buyers — ironically, old neighbors of hers — and through her tears asked them to take care of the house. It was as heartwrenching a moment as ever I've seen.

Saturday's auction at the news stand drew a smaller crowd.

 On Saturday, there were fewer bidders at the news stand, even though it's a Main Street property. We couldn't figure out why this happened because the weather was great. This auction took three hours to complete, and the highest numbered bidder card I saw was 33. Go figure.

Anyway, the prized item was a Coca-Cola box that dad had restored and it went for a reasonable sum, but most of the other stuff were virtual giveaways. The news stand itself, like the house, went for less than tax value — considerably less, and didn't meet the reserve — but after negotiations it did sell for slightly higher than the last pre-auction offer we'd gotten.

Kim often said how much she hated the news stand because it took so much of her father's time away from the family (along with his regular fulltime job at R.J. Reynolds in Winston-Salem), and yet, she seemed more upset on Saturday than she was on Friday. "It was still a big part of my life," she tried to explain to me. "It gave us the life we had growing up."

Could we have gone a different way? We might have generated more money by taking the consignment route, or putting items on Craig's list (even though money never did seem to be the overriding issue here). But there are no guarantees there, either, and they can take time to resolve. Here, at auction and in the blink of an eye we unloaded ourselves of two significant burdens: of two property taxes, of two utility bills, of two maintenance demands on our time and energy.

Interesting thing, though. Kim and her brother dutifully unloaded all the physical stuff. The one priceless thing they kept, the one thing that can never be auctioned off, are the memories. They still have those.