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.

Back to the future

Something interesting happened to me earlier this week that has an outside shot of putting me in possession of a few Civil War artifacts from a distant relative.

But first, a little background info:

Occasionally, I participate in a couple of online Civil War forums because I enjoy the discussions. My username is "PvtClewell", the name of a descendant on my mother's side who was in Company A of the 153rd Pennsylvania Regiment for a nine-month enlistment in the 11th Corps of the Union Army. I chose his name because I thought it would be a nice way to honor him. After all, he volunteered for duty when he was 18 years old and he participated in two battles before he was mustered out: Chancellorsville and Gettybsurg.

Oh my God.

Here's how I can draw my lineage to Private William Clewell:

My mother's sister, Bea (Aunt Bea, if you must) married Ed Clewell back in the 1930s. Bea is still alive and kicking at age 98, but when she married Ed, he was nearly 20 years older than she. Ed, in fact, died in 1985 at the age of 89. Longevity seems to be everywhere in my family, except for my own parents. Dad died when he was only 58, and mom was 62 — I hope I didn't just jinx myself. (See here for a picture of William, Catherine and their children.  Uncle Ed, I think, is the young boy on the right on the front row).

Anyway, Ed was the second youngest child out of seven children from the marriage of William and Catherine Clewell. Yes, that William — he is my great uncle.

William's older brother, by 10 years, was Sylvester Clewell. He, too, enlisted in the Union Army and fought in Co. A of the 153rd PA with his brother. Sooo, I actually have two great uncles who fought in the Civil War. 

Think about that for a moment. The Civil War was 150 years ago, but through luck and circumstance, I can go back just two generations to find a connection to that remarkable history. It seems that 150 years can be a very long time ago, or it can be just the blink of an eye.

I don't know that much about Sly — he did get married to Ann Maria Bauer, but that's about all I have discovered about him at this point in my research.

On the other hand, William was a musician who ended up playing the tuba in the regimental band. I don't know yet if regimental musicians actually fought, but I can't imagine that William picked up his tuba instead of a rifle when Stonewall Jackson outflanked the 11th Corps at Chancellorsville. Or that he blew his horn while running through the streets of Gettysburg when Jubal Early chased the 11th Corps off Blocher's Knoll two months later.

Both Clewells survived the war. William went on to become a saddler in peacetime and raised a passel of kids with Catherine.

Fast forward to now.

Catherine Hoffmann, my next door neighbor and curator of the Davidson County Museum, passed on an email to me she received earlier this week, giving me the salutation that "This should knock your socks off." It seems somebody remembered "PvtClewell" from the Civil War forums he read and connected that with a story about a pawn broker in northeastern Pennsylvania who had come into possession of a Grand Army of the Republic (GAR) kepi, a GAR medallion and the discharge papers of an Albert A. Clewell. The pawn broker also learned about "PvtClewell" and felt moved to reunite the mementos he had with the family, if he could. (See the story, with photos, here).

Wow.

But here's where the story gets a little dicey. Suddenly, we have another Clewell in the picture — Albert.

I don't know who Albert is. Indeed, he is one of three Clewells in Co. A, but I know he is not the brother of William and Sylvester, and thus, not an immediate relative. Since the 153rd was recruited out of Northampton County, I feel reasonably certain that Albert is somehow related. But if indeed he is, I don't know how. I called my cousin, Joann (Bea's daughter, who is 77 and sharp as a tack), but she doesn't remember any family history that included an Albert.

It seems that in the Clewell genealogy, Albert gets short shrift. I do know he is buried in Easton, PA, which is the seat for Northampton County. He was born in Nazareth, PA (as were Sylvester and William) and he enlisted when he was 17 years old. Geez, what is it with Clewells anyway? He, too, survived the war and married Amelia. But that's all I know. It seems that's about all the Clewell's know about this Clewell. A great cousin, maybe?

I did get in touch with the pawn broker, who was as excited as he could be to finally find a Clewell relative, or at least, to find "PvtClewell." He's even thinking about having another newspaper story done about this connection. (In fact, this story seems to have been published all across the northeast, even reaching the Pittsburgh paper). I get the feeling, at this point, that he is willing to let me have the mementos even though I am a little shaky on the connection with Albert.

It's still exciting, though.

If I should come into possession of these items, this is what I'll do: First, I'll hold a show-and-tell with them at the Davidson County Civil War Round Table, of which I am a member. The boys would be impressed, even if they are Yankee artifacts. Then I think I'll let Catherine take them on loan for about a year to display them at the Davidson County Museum. And finally, I'd donate them to the Northampton County Historical Society for perpetual posterity, since I think they are actually a part of the public domain.

Plus, it would be another great way to honor the Clewells.