tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31089915350674871182024-02-19T00:02:40.980-08:00Uncle Jack's AtticPat Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08733031927473120264noreply@blogger.comBlogger7125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3108991535067487118.post-70576804433306727452023-09-16T09:28:00.002-07:002023-09-16T09:28:52.312-07:00<p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /> <span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm6M5gY2GcKXl0-Vi3CJFGPyDqqq9K0gzrWqp7oQ91yXctBOT-ovoE6StCWhBxOMr5-Sg07xDyoW3furyDb1caPPEG5kCIFxF9lCsgxk9rwq2-VXanxKYInD3_86c7YOWfueUNKk19gjlbuBkC5nGI2SyHd3K7sgzh2qWRTasdKtb802VwFwwErPbJ5m9N/s2058/MargaretCarney.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2058" data-original-width="1436" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm6M5gY2GcKXl0-Vi3CJFGPyDqqq9K0gzrWqp7oQ91yXctBOT-ovoE6StCWhBxOMr5-Sg07xDyoW3furyDb1caPPEG5kCIFxF9lCsgxk9rwq2-VXanxKYInD3_86c7YOWfueUNKk19gjlbuBkC5nGI2SyHd3K7sgzh2qWRTasdKtb802VwFwwErPbJ5m9N/w279-h400/MargaretCarney.jpg" width="279" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Margaret M. Carney</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">Our paternal great-grandmother, Margaret M. Carney, was born in Worcester, MA, and lived there all her life. She seems to have been a remarkable woman: wife to a Civil War Veteran, mother to eight children, and heavily involved with the Church of the Sacred Heart in Worcester.<br /></span><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">From her obituary:</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">March 2, 1931. Our paternal great-grandmother, Margaret M. Carney Butler of Worcester, MA, was laid to rest after passing away the night of February 26th in her home at 6 Lewis Street after a short illness. Born in Worcester on April 29, 1848, Margaret was the daughter of Thomas and Ellen (Maher) Carney. In 1870, Margaret married 31-year-old Civil War veteran John Butler, with whom she had eight children. She was eighty-two at the time of her passing, and was survived by four of her six sons, one of her two daughters, and her sister, Mrs. Nellie C. Nugent, also of Worcester.</span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX9T2dtKWwV633GoyvX_TQcROew3DL9zqhzQw0txHY3bsZ2U5iU0KFTMc__IIveWrBekcYk5yxSo_R3LyHiSHlgiwRiy7_z-V8LrJhjotbGeZVPzyYtmzdVhIcwEaS8M003gF57iuX3fgZYimsSWutQYPpAC05M-d4YZUxZkiWybMJhrKnr8BEtKhTDI1L/s1636/Sacred%20Heart%20Cathedral_Worcester.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1636" data-original-width="1636" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX9T2dtKWwV633GoyvX_TQcROew3DL9zqhzQw0txHY3bsZ2U5iU0KFTMc__IIveWrBekcYk5yxSo_R3LyHiSHlgiwRiy7_z-V8LrJhjotbGeZVPzyYtmzdVhIcwEaS8M003gF57iuX3fgZYimsSWutQYPpAC05M-d4YZUxZkiWybMJhrKnr8BEtKhTDI1L/s320/Sacred%20Heart%20Cathedral_Worcester.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Margaret’s funeral was attended by the monsignor and several priests—sixteen by my count! She is buried at St. John's cemetery.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Note: Thomas Carney and Ellen Maher were married on May 16, 1846. I know very little about either of them, although Thomas was most likely an Irish laborer and Worcester resident.</span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Margaret's photo hangs in Pawcatuck, CT, where her grandson Lewis J. Butler lived during retirement and until his death. Three of Lewis's sons now reside there, sorting the archives and enjoying the beauty and lobster rolls of southeastern CT! </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbGL_PZHvsZgK_2RP2H3Gt3E6idAQflUqC0R299DS1nt-UY9JNc6J3gqoBIrzj9Nc3tgsmpOZJOPj2b87bvJVcD4An9fGo8BOGpdRLbCfE8oTAaDh3p9pa6QI_UPm63hdcKNF6QubBALWLkOrKR3X3Cl7QOuaXLVvDQIIE4D8sVfCpTKgilYsHtZGqRNuF/s601/MargaretButler_Obit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="474" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbGL_PZHvsZgK_2RP2H3Gt3E6idAQflUqC0R299DS1nt-UY9JNc6J3gqoBIrzj9Nc3tgsmpOZJOPj2b87bvJVcD4An9fGo8BOGpdRLbCfE8oTAaDh3p9pa6QI_UPm63hdcKNF6QubBALWLkOrKR3X3Cl7QOuaXLVvDQIIE4D8sVfCpTKgilYsHtZGqRNuF/s320/MargaretButler_Obit.jpg" width="252" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Peter Butler</span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ed. by Patricia Butler</span></p>Pat Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08733031927473120264noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3108991535067487118.post-81477341450734076602021-04-17T09:16:00.003-07:002021-04-17T09:16:47.408-07:00The Foreign Observer<p><span style="font-size: large;">My parents were kids during the 1930s Great Depression. In the "Crash of 1929," thousands of banks across the US failed, wiping out the life savings of millions. Unemployment soared to unimaginable heights. Families struggled throughout the economic crisis, and did anything they could to put food on the table. My father's family was particularly hard hit when their father died suddenly at the age of 52, leaving my 35-year-old grandmother from Ireland with two teenage boys to raise alone. My dad was 12 at the time; his older brother Jack, just 15.</span><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNGcE3hObD4bbKwPh7HbDN43_EvT8e6b66ojRodHOVF1aguks8cQDQZT31W2MIaalG3BU3ebaVHMDbWARJSmiH28OjRSGBuga7IYsn8QGksYZ1eEzJ8LNs35LYMxuSw0fEL1A6lYoTX-pG/s721/174558612_3918479731563997_5158448113345163536_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="721" data-original-width="426" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNGcE3hObD4bbKwPh7HbDN43_EvT8e6b66ojRodHOVF1aguks8cQDQZT31W2MIaalG3BU3ebaVHMDbWARJSmiH28OjRSGBuga7IYsn8QGksYZ1eEzJ8LNs35LYMxuSw0fEL1A6lYoTX-pG/s320/174558612_3918479731563997_5158448113345163536_n.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br />A few months after their father's death, the boys decided the best way to raise money would be to publish a newspaper. <i>The Foreign Observer</i> was published "fortnightly," cost two cents, and was "an independent newspaper devoted exclusively to the review of foreign news." Our uncle, John (Jack) Butler, was the Editor, and Dad was Assistant Editor. Shown here are three issues from 1937.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnOXAUZb0WciwTznSOo8eF22fz-xSqodKHxcXpHFej3tD-QhrOTp6QC6HSF8qlDxFusi0i-o8YAMu73pTb-Zbj_5FYpQr2H1A0yf-2LThaH_4xE9F0lEqQpEoBddwZYiH6hyphenhyphen11qvoD2vlY/s2048/174789975_3918480828230554_532571148749550639_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1341" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnOXAUZb0WciwTznSOo8eF22fz-xSqodKHxcXpHFej3tD-QhrOTp6QC6HSF8qlDxFusi0i-o8YAMu73pTb-Zbj_5FYpQr2H1A0yf-2LThaH_4xE9F0lEqQpEoBddwZYiH6hyphenhyphen11qvoD2vlY/s320/174789975_3918480828230554_532571148749550639_n.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">On these early editions, check out the tiny handwriting and miniscule illustrations they created. The map of London shows the route of the Royal Coronation of King George VI (from the movie "The King's Speech"). Dad signed the plane illustration when he was 13 years old.<br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXmtNXujaNe_M1NlJIiSMrX2oPVDxb7cANV24jAF3-kgSZx2mgE-I2PMGisNBa2zwv7qVVju2899-LluOt7FKCGjgEj0yyNKw8vqwtGV_RdKRzaqD3kO_AXN0dtLIgaeJr6DBL-0UGZFLT/s1935/175109517_3918481138230523_2410162859481609708_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1935" data-original-width="1225" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXmtNXujaNe_M1NlJIiSMrX2oPVDxb7cANV24jAF3-kgSZx2mgE-I2PMGisNBa2zwv7qVVju2899-LluOt7FKCGjgEj0yyNKw8vqwtGV_RdKRzaqD3kO_AXN0dtLIgaeJr6DBL-0UGZFLT/s320/175109517_3918481138230523_2410162859481609708_n.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Copies of <i>The Foreign Observer</i> were printed on a hand-cranked mimeograph machine. The brothers reported on the rise of Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini, and the hostilities throughout Europe leading up to World War II. On the lighter side, they reported news of Harold Vanderbilt's racing yacht "Ranger" winning the America's Cup. Interesting tidbits also appeared—like "Swearing has been prohibited in the Italian Army”<br /><br />As events around the world escalated, <i>The Foreign Observer</i> became a weekly and was renamed <i>The Globe</i>. From Shakespeare's “Hamlet,” "Report Me and My Cause Aright" inspired a new tagline. Type replaced handwritten editions, and their friend Edward Meany became the new Associate Editor.<br /><br />An ambitious enterprise for two teenage boys and a job well done. With great admiration—here’s to you Dad and Uncle Jack! </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Peter Butler</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Ed. Pat Butler </span><br /></p>Pat Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08733031927473120264noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3108991535067487118.post-59528480034615559112021-03-06T07:07:00.053-08:002021-06-01T00:33:40.275-07:00Oyster Bay Cove, Spring 1951<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRDQiyJ5qizXRur-_VsGmwiEzBmVfT0VAIwtwo0hwk3RwhLpYl1U6yJwgV8AfU1dph8uFqug7N40hFbbex7TszzmQfXA3rXedfcg30zOhnq2uBU-2YEKpFB-ZQK-Av_fmun4WE1BXzGrcL/s1067/Obc4.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="861" data-original-width="1067" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRDQiyJ5qizXRur-_VsGmwiEzBmVfT0VAIwtwo0hwk3RwhLpYl1U6yJwgV8AfU1dph8uFqug7N40hFbbex7TszzmQfXA3rXedfcg30zOhnq2uBU-2YEKpFB-ZQK-Av_fmun4WE1BXzGrcL/s320/Obc4.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;">The color and quality of these old family slides is a bit faded but thought I'd post them anyway, simply because they illustrate the universal joy and happiness of a young couple in love with a new baby. Taken in the spring of 1951 at Uncle Jack and Aunt Ruth's place in Oyster Bay Cove. Mom and Dad are visiting with baby Paul. Accompanying them is Dad and Uncle Jack's mom, our Irish grandmother. The beaming grins on their faces tell the story. </span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixIAErSG2X8mhd0Fcu-Ui3yr4PgvNlUns8WcHAF7PMZEZIDFUvnSjmGFfsIdXTJxSABbMAU1QanpKScORJ5C39yNZYDMTYDdLwvEckXfahVS-ZjgMrNfdpssOmJBp-mFuGKpwLMYS8wiYy/s988/Obc3.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="741" data-original-width="988" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixIAErSG2X8mhd0Fcu-Ui3yr4PgvNlUns8WcHAF7PMZEZIDFUvnSjmGFfsIdXTJxSABbMAU1QanpKScORJ5C39yNZYDMTYDdLwvEckXfahVS-ZjgMrNfdpssOmJBp-mFuGKpwLMYS8wiYy/s320/Obc3.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiADl9rmQ2EtgPtx-0qzfg5XbSUyPb5xpQc9p78qSJF52V7IWRU-O4Fmgh4Vcuuo5ksd1TUkT3o3cLhhRGIukYkqM-pcFQ8efIsOqmOrkFqAsypc4v4Xv3fkE4jqviGb0uV-XVXabGaPsP/s1200/thumbnail+%25282%2529.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="901" data-original-width="1200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiADl9rmQ2EtgPtx-0qzfg5XbSUyPb5xpQc9p78qSJF52V7IWRU-O4Fmgh4Vcuuo5ksd1TUkT3o3cLhhRGIukYkqM-pcFQ8efIsOqmOrkFqAsypc4v4Xv3fkE4jqviGb0uV-XVXabGaPsP/s320/thumbnail+%25282%2529.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Mom and Dad left their apartment in Jamaica, Queens, picked up Mom/Nana/Nance in Sea Cliff, and drove out to Oyster Bay Cover on Long Island for a family day in "the country." Mom and Dad told us about beautiful, bucolic Long Island before the massive over-development began shortly after these photos were taken. </span></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4FPILlGeFLk4f2yjiZqEtf17-R7wCRspDWatmq-g_wzL-R_BJP6_UwNWmlHdL0oG9g4b1sd1E4F6sKPp2guJLdUy9FdtWSrWf7Coqq7N6LQbHiqodDmjus1wdOIDaPg4HnWVYoCvmBjW9/s1133/thumbnail+%25283%2529.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="850" data-original-width="1133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4FPILlGeFLk4f2yjiZqEtf17-R7wCRspDWatmq-g_wzL-R_BJP6_UwNWmlHdL0oG9g4b1sd1E4F6sKPp2guJLdUy9FdtWSrWf7Coqq7N6LQbHiqodDmjus1wdOIDaPg4HnWVYoCvmBjW9/s320/thumbnail+%25283%2529.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO19xFlagFbgdTYXuoV-nnTtd3a2BTuC4wfKEh6QNWk2rQ-etzsIeWx3jL6kf2nzrdEecTtcDmmMf2QCNRlg5Cw0LhQYhh9QqSXb9BlqlajfBV2jYBlHIeIq5Gdc42dmF8W13Rs3aacIaQ/s1089/thumbnail+%25281%2529.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="817" data-original-width="1089" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO19xFlagFbgdTYXuoV-nnTtd3a2BTuC4wfKEh6QNWk2rQ-etzsIeWx3jL6kf2nzrdEecTtcDmmMf2QCNRlg5Cw0LhQYhh9QqSXb9BlqlajfBV2jYBlHIeIq5Gdc42dmF8W13Rs3aacIaQ/s320/thumbnail+%25281%2529.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgGKw12qe3yK8DuqDRxPhLI4AKayHHijnnRO306wkmc5Pzf9qRtLhj4cJc9zjXD521EAnlVAfNnkC0h_NGnYLbtRDKTLgoZ244Z_kiCRwHqnO5iscoAyPc1CSxZxki3z6sOvq32ILg7dN4/s1048/thumbnail+%25285%2529.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="786" data-original-width="1048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgGKw12qe3yK8DuqDRxPhLI4AKayHHijnnRO306wkmc5Pzf9qRtLhj4cJc9zjXD521EAnlVAfNnkC0h_NGnYLbtRDKTLgoZ244Z_kiCRwHqnO5iscoAyPc1CSxZxki3z6sOvq32ILg7dN4/s320/thumbnail+%25285%2529.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Dad picks flowers in a nearby meadow to present to Mom, relaxing in a lounge chair next to blooming irises. Nana Butler, sporting a sprig of hyacinth on her jacket, is obviously in love with her first grandchild. Little did she know there were five more to come! Then there is gentle soul Uncle Jack, who no doubt staged all these photos, and glamorous Aunt Ruth, </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">always </span>well-dressed. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWVxMaBEvEqiy97zXt_IyvjayRH-wDZOfVoF2dU_5zQqW8Y65Mgy_r3HSgSdMkFn7qe2t1QnzXchcpG3e__2GZDA6tYDBqXATHxT9dMmmgaOjQ0_oqJEKd32ivBa8Uw1Hc5yZUgocsFeAg/s1170/thumbnail.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="878" data-original-width="1170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWVxMaBEvEqiy97zXt_IyvjayRH-wDZOfVoF2dU_5zQqW8Y65Mgy_r3HSgSdMkFn7qe2t1QnzXchcpG3e__2GZDA6tYDBqXATHxT9dMmmgaOjQ0_oqJEKd32ivBa8Uw1Hc5yZUgocsFeAg/s320/thumbnail.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p><span style="font-size: large;">Most likely this is Easter, although we can't be sure. They were well-dressed for any outing. The shot of Dad leaning against the fence strikes me as myself at the same age. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Still standing in its bucolic setting, the house is unfortunately deserted, unkempt, in disrepair. The wrap-around front porch collapsed a few years back. But if its forlorn walls could talk they might tell </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">of a delightful spring day when </span>a happy family gathered in the joy of their firstborn, seventy years ago. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And let's not forget the roadsters . . .</span><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXY71xXAZqgtZtozKQyEPJf4H2mII2AX_q9VfE3wJbtQ2blssz4jkVviCoBsskFXdyAuhjiqLPl2VReRANkKGrHCBzN6DyeJsLWtlfLiP8AElYCHSS6GPEcwkinPFp7i0Rcrp5O1FzcdE9/s1149/Obc2.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="862" data-original-width="1149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXY71xXAZqgtZtozKQyEPJf4H2mII2AX_q9VfE3wJbtQ2blssz4jkVviCoBsskFXdyAuhjiqLPl2VReRANkKGrHCBzN6DyeJsLWtlfLiP8AElYCHSS6GPEcwkinPFp7i0Rcrp5O1FzcdE9/s320/Obc2.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioVEPciGOF1vJjgJw58mYJ2HDto54sQWZ9lc8-V4lptqHPuLxXxsT81-UQjnl_vjAWI3vRJI4MVlReFSBl3VbCEuyYMWMlRPc1qQIZ__IaGvZsnF7p2dBMug0LWFTPkRD_awttfXjDEIvT/s1023/Obc1.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="767" data-original-width="1023" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioVEPciGOF1vJjgJw58mYJ2HDto54sQWZ9lc8-V4lptqHPuLxXxsT81-UQjnl_vjAWI3vRJI4MVlReFSBl3VbCEuyYMWMlRPc1qQIZ__IaGvZsnF7p2dBMug0LWFTPkRD_awttfXjDEIvT/s320/Obc1.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-size: large;">Or the beautiful bay, across the street.</span><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEQXt7pyDsWm5cLG05_Q9lG6QZAhO3sPSyaXGS5PIB5QSVOFAzSJuoH-3i0SdNbN3gCrtWhKKWsm2vvI8ySuPasxEZfVy34aPftrWsUlx18J_9odKA4VarMllLMgrJjsozDLmN9XGmMICw/s1133/thumbnail+%25286%2529.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="850" data-original-width="1133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEQXt7pyDsWm5cLG05_Q9lG6QZAhO3sPSyaXGS5PIB5QSVOFAzSJuoH-3i0SdNbN3gCrtWhKKWsm2vvI8ySuPasxEZfVy34aPftrWsUlx18J_9odKA4VarMllLMgrJjsozDLmN9XGmMICw/s320/thumbnail+%25286%2529.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And the proud father, beginning his legacy. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1w9nWQ5Tuv_97Fhu8c8bYgoSEbMhYkwXJ0pMcgJa4lzb5NabE8g5R3CIK_jOixTxjUshzQY6iDt03QBTQqZocEjyXyAHY3tUeeU7hivQB_wJ1In8Ut6lrJs3xCiaImX0FilFKRGeasyaN/s877/thumbnail+%25284%2529.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="658" data-original-width="877" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1w9nWQ5Tuv_97Fhu8c8bYgoSEbMhYkwXJ0pMcgJa4lzb5NabE8g5R3CIK_jOixTxjUshzQY6iDt03QBTQqZocEjyXyAHY3tUeeU7hivQB_wJ1In8Ut6lrJs3xCiaImX0FilFKRGeasyaN/s320/thumbnail+%25284%2529.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOUajbHE2zKiaZ0Ikut9FIu_XAtyKi6ZofUcgQcsC4RVIpv9e7bx8AMFe0i8dVkvL9IpfEkJgQXxM_iU2rnUbEMM7BN56m6SABkvnlr-cg-azBl-gzk1TCsV6cPZ852K32ITvlYa7PUhJq/s1145/thumbnail+%25287%2529.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1145" data-original-width="859" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOUajbHE2zKiaZ0Ikut9FIu_XAtyKi6ZofUcgQcsC4RVIpv9e7bx8AMFe0i8dVkvL9IpfEkJgQXxM_iU2rnUbEMM7BN56m6SABkvnlr-cg-azBl-gzk1TCsV6cPZ852K32ITvlYa7PUhJq/s320/thumbnail+%25287%2529.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><p>Peter Butler</p><p>Ed. by Pat Butler</p><p>With thanks to Tom Butler for unearthing these slides and building a home scanner to send us more family history and treasure. </p><p><br /></p>Pat Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08733031927473120264noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3108991535067487118.post-39759471842081734222021-02-21T17:21:00.000-08:002021-02-21T17:21:18.879-08:00Lewis Benedict Butler ~ An Adventurous Life<p><span style="font-size: large;">Many of our ancestors survived incredible ordeals. Our paternal grandfather, Lewis Benedict Butler, had nine lives, surviving several brushes with death, particularly during WWI. He recorded one experience in his log book:</span></p><div><div class="" dir="auto"><div class="" dir="auto"><div class="ecm0bbzt hv4rvrfc ihqw7lf3 dati1w0a" data-ad-comet-preview="message" data-ad-preview="message"><div class="j83agx80 cbu4d94t ew0dbk1b irj2b8pg"><div class="qzhwtbm6 knvmm38d"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa fgxwclzu a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa fgxwclzu a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"><span style="font-size: large;">On February 13, 1916</span></span>, at the age of 32, Lewis boarded the schooner “Frederic A. Duggan” as a Merchant Marine in Queenstown, Ireland. Queenstown was a bustling harbor at the time, especially during the war. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa fgxwclzu a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"><span style="font-size: large;">A Captain Hansen mastered t</span></span>he schooner, which carried a cargo of clay bound for Cardiff, Wales. During the harrowing winter voyage across the Irish Sea, the schooner was beset with terrible storms and was on the verge of sinking, with 8 feet of frigid water in her hold and the pumps clogged with clay.</span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD406-FLNvA9P5BRQ50VWbFSIYMByBWCA11suH4PHrgM5iI3mugaAtafVyrOFa9CATMUR9TDO8PXajC0k1EUrF4mDKz3OUz6EfeJQaEx6FvcuHTQ6js6YAyY64N7wsY_iAVwDveFH6bBCf/s598/52546698_2120404171371571_8458352625300013056_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="539" data-original-width="598" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD406-FLNvA9P5BRQ50VWbFSIYMByBWCA11suH4PHrgM5iI3mugaAtafVyrOFa9CATMUR9TDO8PXajC0k1EUrF4mDKz3OUz6EfeJQaEx6FvcuHTQ6js6YAyY64N7wsY_iAVwDveFH6bBCf/s320/52546698_2120404171371571_8458352625300013056_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: large;">The schooner hove to off the coast of Wales and awaited rescue, with the crew bailing the sinking ship by hand with bucket brigades. Fortunately, schooner and crew were rescued and towed into Barry, Wales the following week. The crew spent a few weeks there repairing storm damage to the schooner. Two months later, the “Frederic A. Duggan" was again ready for service, anchored just off of Barry. But gales and heavy seas continued throughout the following weeks. On April 25th, the ship dragged its anchor and slammed into a French steamer.</span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvaJM9Ia01uJZzfASKYUoTEq1a6Lve6RKP1qxo7-ImntpVa-rmHqXgQWnLmjU794l_q8AZAvz83CONlUVuuHdrLArg1uqzhygoah7NzR0qd2t7EQ-8O8uSywbkVQIjfvRQ-mXz087f0z8e/s737/53061955_2120422011369787_478428561858887680_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="431" data-original-width="737" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvaJM9Ia01uJZzfASKYUoTEq1a6Lve6RKP1qxo7-ImntpVa-rmHqXgQWnLmjU794l_q8AZAvz83CONlUVuuHdrLArg1uqzhygoah7NzR0qd2t7EQ-8O8uSywbkVQIjfvRQ-mXz087f0z8e/s320/53061955_2120422011369787_478428561858887680_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: large;">Shortly afterwards, Lewis Benedict Butler received new orders: he was discharged from his present duties and issued an emergency passport. The Merchant Marines fell under the Navy’s jurisdiction. The crew was recalled to the United States after </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa fgxwclzu a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"><span style="font-size: large;">German submarines</span></span> sank seven US merchant ships.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: large;">On May 6th, 1916, Lewis Benedict Butler left Liverpool, England aboard the “Carpathia,” the famous ship which had rescued the “Titanic” survivors and brought them safely back to New York Harbor. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span class="pq6dq46d tbxw36s4 knj5qynh kvgmc6g5 ditlmg2l oygrvhab nvdbi5me sf5mxxl7 gl3lb2sf hhz5lgdu"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeDeEVnkpBv88H3j3u7vA7c7LQV-v913lKSDMZ8DYAptyFuJBAi0qpytCiWtLYxh48y5Bln-DgGLdT_ryySrHWVYnoL2rzFLyPyYUx_3Hx3QzCnw953cGi0ml4LumVDu6yQMMU78vOCaRC/s2048/52678095_2120408528037802_2315907779740565504_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1696" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeDeEVnkpBv88H3j3u7vA7c7LQV-v913lKSDMZ8DYAptyFuJBAi0qpytCiWtLYxh48y5Bln-DgGLdT_ryySrHWVYnoL2rzFLyPyYUx_3Hx3QzCnw953cGi0ml4LumVDu6yQMMU78vOCaRC/s320/52678095_2120408528037802_2315907779740565504_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span class="pq6dq46d tbxw36s4 knj5qynh kvgmc6g5 ditlmg2l oygrvhab nvdbi5me sf5mxxl7 gl3lb2sf hhz5lgdu"> </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span class="pq6dq46d tbxw36s4 knj5qynh kvgmc6g5 ditlmg2l oygrvhab nvdbi5me sf5mxxl7 gl3lb2sf hhz5lgdu">By Peter Butler, grandson, February 17, 2019<br /></span></div></div></span></div></div></div></div></div></div>Pat Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08733031927473120264noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3108991535067487118.post-87875996384473396562021-02-20T13:16:00.003-08:002021-02-20T13:16:55.349-08:00Uncle Jack's Wedding Day<p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB2qvM-j5-MLnx24otQLF38Wdx594ZLrNBS8ZXQhyphenhyphenwihK-W-g0aWBFQy7DNUuvS8n-baswtwRrHyfyuTlKQGsMEN-tdtzYkqy60qOerifElRMgCwPnOl7oaF262eBQJ5VP3XW7BrzbCHWi/s1345/Dad%2526+Uncle+Jack+1950.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1345" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB2qvM-j5-MLnx24otQLF38Wdx594ZLrNBS8ZXQhyphenhyphenwihK-W-g0aWBFQy7DNUuvS8n-baswtwRrHyfyuTlKQGsMEN-tdtzYkqy60qOerifElRMgCwPnOl7oaF262eBQJ5VP3XW7BrzbCHWi/w321-h400/Dad%2526+Uncle+Jack+1950.jpg" width="321" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Uncle Jack's wedding, 1950</span></td></tr></tbody></table></p><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><br /><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dad, left, chats with his brother John, our</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"> famous family favorite "Uncle Jack." T</span>he brothers are looking dapper with their boutonnières, champagne, and cigarettes--an unfortunate trend back in the day. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">With a film noir look, they could be extras in <i>The </i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Great Gatsby</i> film. <br /></span></span></span></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></span></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dad, a newlywed himself, recently married our mom, Dorothy Hyett, on September 10, 1949. We're unsure of the venue here except that it would have in Sea Cliff, Long Island, NY. It looks like a private home, possibly of the bride's family. Since Uncle Jack looks tense and the brothers are smoking, maybe it's a pre-wedding pep talk from Dad?! </span></span><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: large;">Uncle Jack was an
intelligent, kind soul, and an incredibly talented artist. At his death, Dad discovered hundreds of his pen-and-ink drawings in the attic (hence the name of the blog). Uncle Jack's drawings, sketchbooks, and paintings, with some photography, have now passed to our generation. Of his many themes, we've cataloged </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">shore birds, ships, lighthouses, early aviation, and local scenes of Long Island's north shore. </span>No doubt many were inspired by Uncle Jack's Coast Guard days and the brothers' own adventures in Sea Cliff as sea scouts. <br /></span></div></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: large;">Best friends throughout their lives, these two young men overcame daunting obstacles together--from childhood into old age. Brotherly love at its finest. Cheers to you, Dad and Uncle Jack! We miss you dearly. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><i><span style="font-size: large;">Thanks to Peter Butler for photo and text, edited by Pat Butler. </span></i><span class="pq6dq46d tbxw36s4 knj5qynh kvgmc6g5 ditlmg2l oygrvhab nvdbi5me sf5mxxl7 gl3lb2sf hhz5lgdu"></span></div><p><br /></p>Pat Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08733031927473120264noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3108991535067487118.post-32971530036044987172019-07-06T12:46:00.002-07:002019-09-13T15:35:17.564-07:00Mid-Century Modern Maniacs<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>A tribute to Lewis Butler, and to all aficionados of "Mid-Century Modern" design--by his son Peter Butler</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Mad Men?</span></h2>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Not all "Mad Men" (aka NYC Madison Avenue tradespeople) were in advertising, as popularized by the AMC series "Mad Men." There were many talented artists and designers, including a young designer from Long Island, another who had fled war-torn Europe, and a Michigan woman who excelled in a field which, in the 1950's, was almost completely dominated by men. Here's a brief story about these three individuals. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-WYP9bdZrBZxVnK_7u2IqrfAf_IApjiDsgr4vYo9tfohyI3nCSu8Mln98LJjmU1kKFtewOMP1v73Bm6xBSD6H_qwBK7zrY4PTyWe9yM66jmvnIbBvpI56y8VWI-sJvTkjTvuPIpKvZq2b/s1600/62626618_2299191413492845_4361516946668126208_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="811" data-original-width="1283" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-WYP9bdZrBZxVnK_7u2IqrfAf_IApjiDsgr4vYo9tfohyI3nCSu8Mln98LJjmU1kKFtewOMP1v73Bm6xBSD6H_qwBK7zrY4PTyWe9yM66jmvnIbBvpI56y8VWI-sJvTkjTvuPIpKvZq2b/s320/62626618_2299191413492845_4361516946668126208_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i><span aria-live="polite" class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">Here's Dad (senior designer and assistant to Florence Knoll) and his good friend and colleague, Heino Orro, with Florence Knoll at the <a data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=24826818798&extragetparams=%7B%22__tn__%22%3A%22%2CdK%2AF-R%22%2C%22eid%22%3A%22ARDy4GBf2YS0jr9BwP3Dov2k2BpRwuJwsUxd4g6tWj-4M3-ix5BiTAc7gcWUu0tYpZ--e6jlFvM7Khhg%22%2C%22directed_target_id%22%3Anull%2C%22groups_location%22%3Anull%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/knollinc/?__tn__=%2CdK%2AF-R&eid=ARDy4GBf2YS0jr9BwP3Dov2k2BpRwuJwsUxd4g6tWj-4M3-ix5BiTAc7gcWUu0tYpZ--e6jlFvM7Khhg">Knoll Inc.</a> Showroom, Madison Avenue, NYC in 1957. Three wonderfully talented individuals.</span></span></i><span class="fbPhotoTagList" id="fbPhotoSnowliftTagList"><span class="fcg"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />When her husband Hans died in a car accident in 1955, architect and furniture designer Florence Knoll took over the company they had founded a decade before, Knoll Associates in NYC. Knoll transformed the field of Interior Design. It radically redefined office space with Modernist principles. <br /><br />Gone were the traditional heavy, carved wooden desks in favor of lighter, more modern models. Knoll redesigned traditional conference tables into a boat-shape so that people could see one another to accommodate group discussions, and installed "floating" open staircases without risers. Knoll opened their first showroom in 1948 in NYC, followed by those in Dallas, Chicago, San Francisco, Paris, Los Angeles, and others. They worked with famous designers like Eero Saarinen and Harry Bertoia, who produced some of Knoll's "star pieces." <br /><br />In 1950, our Dad, 26 years old and Pratt Institute (Brooklyn) graduate with a degree in Design, became a senior designer and assistant to Florence Knoll. With her architectural background and design flair, Florence developed the revolutionary "Planning Unit.” Dad was one of Knoll’s first designers who came specifically to work in the Planning Unit, which became one of the company’s main engines of success.<br /><br />"Florence would do the rough outline, and I would develop and refine it further," Dad would later recall. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilOdQAKWF02kH-moZEwmWJKjZyDU69Oy2QMVh7K2AlOOqXsupDl3wtl8Vr68_4bvDJn06m-BpqGnbIWLTr045y4-EvY8Q3Xi2WKQCCqIR-Xx4DA3TwNRZAjmOmPwLshmDBNLTMLZFqkfrL/s1600/64534119_2299206850157968_2232032828000829440_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="779" data-original-width="1430" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilOdQAKWF02kH-moZEwmWJKjZyDU69Oy2QMVh7K2AlOOqXsupDl3wtl8Vr68_4bvDJn06m-BpqGnbIWLTr045y4-EvY8Q3Xi2WKQCCqIR-Xx4DA3TwNRZAjmOmPwLshmDBNLTMLZFqkfrL/s320/64534119_2299206850157968_2232032828000829440_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i><span aria-live="polite" class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">Some of my Dad's furniture designs for <a data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=24826818798&extragetparams=%7B%22__tn__%22%3A%22%2CdK%2AF-R%22%2C%22eid%22%3A%22ARABcMwcLj23RTKOG8g1YprelRtmCZao4Vbhk__J4hYOPnScOCCdPPqeBiUiJYBanYUsFRbkYCLu2ec5%22%2C%22directed_target_id%22%3Anull%2C%22groups_location%22%3Anull%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/knollinc/?__xts__%5B0%5D=68.ARAR1ClXXrzNGa_50m3YBJisfzRLNkZkg3lMBXCtqmRKt1zMARBBlGn5VIAcnvaJlY6OEPadaEsnmuh45XHWijbwzASNqBsPd7V0UA57SYkU2rN_svCxgKpMyZZEXnCWGDdJ7DJBagn-sKa-A2JhLn1hdsB2g42ghzrZcqNouA4A0LwCgrobtRtLLnNQuikhDY-6qeBIrjpxftTS__5vfU7LuRruIR0ewErIpTYZgFImwMYMmTDue6GzlgXc96NeKSoa-nznq4TdsefaYDy9b5SLkcfNwkJFGoBd&__tn__=%2CdK%2AF-R&eid=ARABcMwcLj23RTKOG8g1YprelRtmCZao4Vbhk__J4hYOPnScOCCdPPqeBiUiJYBanYUsFRbkYCLu2ec5">Knoll Inc.</a></span></span><span class="fbPhotoTagList" id="fbPhotoSnowliftTagList"><span class="fcg"> — at <span class="fbPhotoTagListTag withTagItem tagItem"><a class="taggee" data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=168342127191599" href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Madison-Avenue-NYC/168342127191599">Madison Avenue, NYC</a></span>.</span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Florence relied heavily on Dad’s designs for various pieces of office furniture, which were appropriately subtle and thoroughly modern. Ever interested in visual and structural simplicity, an identifying mark of Dad's pieces are the wooden joints he often employed to avoid excess hardware. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0pmXh6XSYMVeW1y14bwqFhwZPhmPP2kXkdrYAoqlWsAZb0-1BtFpRDtjl2NbVVtisqbImOarpBIaYNfy0vraYpQ2R5CttNcxkr3mhphJYyVu6NzDrVw_d5n2Iu8TScQWaBiGOF4e38Ejq/s1600/64729001_2299235076821812_31202293160345600_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="436" data-original-width="603" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0pmXh6XSYMVeW1y14bwqFhwZPhmPP2kXkdrYAoqlWsAZb0-1BtFpRDtjl2NbVVtisqbImOarpBIaYNfy0vraYpQ2R5CttNcxkr3mhphJYyVu6NzDrVw_d5n2Iu8TScQWaBiGOF4e38Ejq/s320/64729001_2299235076821812_31202293160345600_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span aria-live="polite" class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"><a data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=24826818798&extragetparams=%7B%22__tn__%22%3A%22%2CdK%2AF-R%22%2C%22eid%22%3A%22ARCdlN261wSEnvp3fAw6BDkY0tbSeSpJaU_6VF-UOeSITUMTfN1K3AsipiNIxhlq1iF05917bGaWSqzw%22%2C%22directed_target_id%22%3Anull%2C%22groups_location%22%3Anull%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/knollinc/?__xts__%5B0%5D=68.ARAR1ClXXrzNGa_50m3YBJisfzRLNkZkg3lMBXCtqmRKt1zMARBBlGn5VIAcnvaJlY6OEPadaEsnmuh45XHWijbwzASNqBsPd7V0UA57SYkU2rN_svCxgKpMyZZEXnCWGDdJ7DJBagn-sKa-A2JhLn1hdsB2g42ghzrZcqNouA4A0LwCgrobtRtLLnNQuikhDY-6qeBIrjpxftTS__5vfU7LuRruIR0ewErIpTYZgFImwMYMmTDue6GzlgXc96NeKSoa-nznq4TdsefaYDy9b5SLkcfNwkJFGoBd&__tn__=%2CdK%2AF-R&eid=ARCdlN261wSEnvp3fAw6BDkY0tbSeSpJaU_6VF-UOeSITUMTfN1K3AsipiNIxhlq1iF05917bGaWSqzw">Knoll Inc.</a> meeting with Florence Knoll and my Dad, </span></span></i></div>
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<i><span aria-live="polite" class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">with glasses, upper right.</span></span><span class="fbPhotoTagList" id="fbPhotoSnowliftTagList"><span class="fcg"> — at <span class="fbPhotoTagListTag withTagItem tagItem"><a class="taggee" data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=168342127191599" href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Madison-Avenue-NYC/168342127191599">Madison Avenue, NYC</a></span>.</span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />Enter Heino Orro, Dad's longtime colleague. Heino narrowly escaped his native Estonia during the ravages of WW2. He fled to Sweden, where he met his future bride Tosia, a refuge from Poland. They married and were relocated to Canada, from where they made their way to the US, settling on Long Island. When we knew them, they had a charming house and barn in Syosset, NY, not far from our homestead in East Norwich. (For more on Heino's story, see below.) <br /><br />One day, Heino, a textile vendor, showed up at Knoll. Instead of the usual reams of swatches to sift through, Heino created beautiful geometric framed art pieces from the various fabrics to showcase them. Dad and Florence were so impressed with his creativity that they immediately recruited him for the Planning Unit.<br /><br />"We somehow managed to get the job done and on time," recalled Florence Knoll about her small team. "I don't think I could have worked with a larger group. Heino Orro, Joe Whited and Lew Butler were with the Planning Unit until I resigned in 1965." <br /><br />When Florence left the company, Dad became head of the Planning Unit.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">A Lifelong Friendship</span></span></h2>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">My parents became lifelong friends with Heino and Tosia. Our family still retains pieces of Heino's artwork, gifted to my parents over the years. More importantly, we hold fond memories of these dear family friends. Unable to have children, Tosia seemed fascinated by the six Dad and Mom had, and loved to interact with us. And I cannot express the kindness and gentleness of Heino, a talented but modest gentleman. <br /><br />In 2002, Florence Knoll received the National Medal of Arts, the highest award for any artist. Over 40 Knoll designs can be found in the permanent design collection of The Museum of Modern Art in NYC. Our family is delighted to find Dad's furniture designs growing in popularity—easily found and some for sale on several websites.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">Heino's Story</span></span></h2>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">When Heino was about 16 the German Army occupied Estonia. Since he was underage, he was forced to work in the motor pool, repairing vehicles. Because of his age, he was treated fairly well by the German soldiers. When the Russians advanced, the Germans fled and Heino made his way home. The house was empty and his family gone. (He later found out his family had survived but he never saw them again.)</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />He decided to escape to the coast, nearly twenty miles away, riding a bicycle with a flat tire. He then made his way to a fishing boat filled with people leaving for Sweden. Someone stole the distributor cap from the engine and was holding it for ransom. One of the passengers pulled a gun on the thief, threatening to shoot him if he didn’t hand it over. They got the distributor back and were on their way. <br /><br />I believe the boat broke down in the middle of the Baltic Sea but they were rescued by the Swedish Coast Guard and taken to Sweden. There he met Tosia, his future bride.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />After the war they were considered refugees and they had a choice of being sent to either Canada or Brazil. Heino later said that he didn’t want to be a lumberjack and he hated the cold weather so he chose Brazil. His goal was to get to the US and I believe they eventually got a visa and came here in 1955. <br /><br />(Further family lore is of Heino’s father escaping the Russian revolution around 1917. Shot by the Russians, his father stuck his thumb in the bullet hole to staunch the bleeding and fled!)</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Pat Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08733031927473120264noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3108991535067487118.post-31194893100434882022009-10-16T12:04:00.000-07:002009-10-16T12:11:27.526-07:00The Mooney Family<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVWX5adeo4hyJHhBAQriYLHOrZ3JrUsYe1fzVY97SYqRFwfuqW2j-W2NPtJqYgWjDek8l8gq7oNkBizHhx2fdq5yq3zLZ1i7YuMcCORTSWt4uxxEaWX1kQWXz8-s7wpWsRtvuDZcL4kbJE/s1600-h/Mooney+Family.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 227px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393277332966425106" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVWX5adeo4hyJHhBAQriYLHOrZ3JrUsYe1fzVY97SYqRFwfuqW2j-W2NPtJqYgWjDek8l8gq7oNkBizHhx2fdq5yq3zLZ1i7YuMcCORTSWt4uxxEaWX1kQWXz8-s7wpWsRtvuDZcL4kbJE/s320/Mooney+Family.JPG" /></a><br /><div>Time to meet the family...the Mooney Family, circa turn of the century, 1900. Annie Mooney, the little girl to the right in the front, will grow up to be Uncle Jack's mother. How she met Uncle Jack's father is quite romantic...</div>Pat Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08733031927473120264noreply@blogger.com0