Blog Posts

Soldier, Settler, Storyteller – Part 1

In the vast, untamed expanse of the Dakota Territory, where rolling prairies met rugged hills and the sky seemed to stretch on forever, my cousin William Presley Zahn stood on a divide between two worlds, his life poised to thread through the heart of an emerging nation’s turmoil. This land, shadowed by the lingering conflicts that would scar its history, was thick with the tension of imminent battle, the soil beneath soaked in the blood of fallen men. Zahn, reassigned as a soldier to the burgeoning outposts scattered across the landscape, was soon to become a crucial liaison between the U.S. Army and the Lakota people. Born on October 25, 1849, William was the eldest child of John and Esther Zahn, nee Stambaugh. His early years unfolded on a secluded farm near what is now Pymont, Indiana, where life was defined by the rhythm of seasons and the bonds of a tight-knit community, centered around the sparse social and educational gatherings at the local church. The Civil War had just ended, leaving the nation to grapple with its scars. The South was mired in Reconstruction, while the West simmered with the tension of the Indian Wars. Railroads snaked across the country, stitching together a patchwork of states into a unified, yet still fragile, nation. It was 1869 when William, drawn by the call of duty and the promise of life beyond the fields of his youth, enlisted in the army. By 1870, he traveled up the Missouri River, the paddlewheel steamer churning through muddy waters, the scent of damp earth and the cries of waterfowl filling the air as he approached the northern reaches of Dakota Territory. As a member of Company G, 17th U.S. Infantry, William was ready to forge his path in a land on the brink of transformation. Spring of 1872 marked a new chapter for Company G as they were tasked to escort the Northern Pacific Railroad engineers along the winding course of the Heart River, a tributary stretching 180 miles across the stark landscape of Western North Dakota. Later in the Spring, William found himself embarking on a 66-day journey with the Yellowstone Expedition, a mission critical to the railroad’s efforts to chart a course along the Yellowstone River. It was a time of frequent and fierce skirmishes with the local tribes, their encounters peppering the land as far as Pompey’s Pillar. This was a site notable for its association with the Lewis and Clark Expedition, which stopped there in 1806. After these arduous weeks, William returned to the Standing Rock Cantonment, known as Fort Yates. It was here, amid the strict orders and sharp cultural divides of military life, that his life took an unexpected turn. His heart aligned with that of a Lakota woman named Winyan-Waste, the daughter of Chief John Grass. In a setting where military discipline met the deep-rooted traditions of the Lakota, their love blossomed. In the evenings at Fort Yates, under a canopy of stars, William and Winyan-Waste would walk along the riverbank, sharing stories of their respective worlds, their hearts beating in quiet unison despite the chasm of culture and duty that separated them, quietly defying the era’s prevailing norms and setting the stage for a profound union that straddled two worlds. Their time together was cut short. William was summoned back to duty with a heavy heart as he parted from Winyan-Waste, vowing to return. In June 1874, he and his comrades from Company G joined the Black Hills Expedition under George Armstrong Custer’s command. The Black Hills were sacred to the Lakota Sioux, off-limits to white settlers by the 1868 Treaty of Fort Laramie, yet the promise of gold would soon challenge such agreements. That summer, the mission, ostensibly to survey the region’s natural resources, was fundamentally a quest for gold. They mapped the area, scouted sites for a military fort, and assessed the potential for a railroad, foreshadowing the inevitable treaty violation. The expedition was vast, comprising over a thousand men including cavalry, engineers, and scientists. It became a spectacle, capturing the nation’s imagination with visions of a gold-rich West ripe for conquest and settlement. When Custer publicly confirmed the presence of gold, it ignited the Black Hills Gold Rush. Settlers and miners, like a torrent, surged into the region, founding towns such as Deadwood and directly challenging the treaty’s terms. This violation deepened hostilities with the Dakota Sioux, setting the stage for the devastating Great Sioux Wars, which would soon include the infamous Battle of Little Big Horn—a conflict which would reverberate strongly throughout Company G. In September of 1874, after a grueling 1,125 miles, Company G returned. William, his duty temporarily fulfilled, hastened back to Winyan-Waste. Their reunion, steeped in the shadows of national ambition and conflict, was a fleeting respite amidst the burgeoning storm of conquest and change. The joy of their reunion was tinged with an unspoken dread, the specter of future conflict casting long shadows over their fleeting moments of peace. The specter of future battles loomed large, hinting at the trials and tribulations still to come for William and his comrades.

Continue Reading...

Legacy, Landscapes, and the Lure of Sant’Angelo d’Alife

In the shadow of the Campanian Apennines, where nature weaves a landscape of lush valleys and majestic peaks, rests Sant’Angelo d’Alife, a town cloaked in the serene whispers of its multifaceted history. From the ancient Samnites to the Romans, the Lombards, and the Normans, each epoch contributes a layer, a testament to the unyielding spirit and resilience of its inhabitants. Central to this storied past stands the ruins of Castle Sant’Angelo di Ravecanina, erected in the 11th century by family members of Rainulf Drengot, a noted Norman adventurer and mercenary. These remnants, once standing as vigilant guardians, now instead stand as silent custodians of history, their stones interwoven with the footsteps of ancestors, resonating with the essence of survival and defiance that characterized their era. The town’s churches, scattered like jewels across the landscape, narrate a saga of faith and artistry. Their walls, imbued with the spirit of countless generations, echo with the devotion and community bonds that have shaped Sant’Angelo d’Alife. Each stone and fresco within tells a story, a pledge of beauty, transcendence, and the enduring search for solace under their hallowed domes. Sant’Angelo d’Alife is cradled by the earth itself, a testament to the timeless dance of nature and the cycles of life and renewal. The surrounding mountains, eternal and unwavering, stand sentinel, their slopes a sanctuary for the rich tapestry of flora and fauna. This land, traversed by hikers and nature enthusiasts, speaks of a deep, intrinsic connection to the world, offering solace and the profound joy of unity with nature. This town’s cultural fabric is vibrant, a kaleidoscope of tradition and celebration. Festivals illuminate the seasons, each an exuberant testament to the community’s heritage and the stories woven into the fabric of daily life. The air is perfumed with the essence of local cuisine, each dish a narrative of the land’s bounty and the labor of love that brings sustenance from soil to table, celebrating both taste and tradition. Yet, Sant’Angelo d’Alife transcends mere historical relic; it pulses with life, harmonizing the rhythm of the modern with the reverence of its past. It stands as a bastion of tranquility against the modern tide, a sanctuary where time unfurls slowly, allowing for introspection, connection, and an appreciation for the enduring beauties of existence. Significantly, this town holds a personal connection that deepens its historical tapestry: my wife Tina’s maternal ancestors are among the many founding families of present-day Sant’Angelo d’Alife. This lineage imbues the town with an even richer significance, highlighting the deep roots and interconnectedness of families that have shaped its essence over centuries. Sant’Angelo d’Alife, nestled in the embrace of nature and history, is a living mosaic of human experience, a place where past and present converge. Here, every element – from the ancient stones to the winding paths and the legacy of its people – narrates the enduring saga of human resilience, community, and the harmonious balance with the land. It serves as a poignant reminder of our collective history, the beauty of the human spirit, and the continuous whisper of the past, beckoning us to listen, learn, and remember. Below are some photos of the village and castle ruins taken by cousin Marcellino “Dr. Italy” D’Ambrosio.

Continue Reading...

JF Rowley’s Legs

Being a lifelong student of business, I am always interested in discovering everything I can about the history of companies for whom my ancestors worked. I want to know; how did they get started? What products or services did they provide, and what work did my ancestors do for them? Most importantly, what became of them? As I work through the research necessary to answer these questions, I feel I am one step closer to understanding the lives of relatives who came before me. Recently I found myself looking closely at the JF Rowley company. My wife’s grandfather, Henry William Tresch, was the assistant general manager of the company during the early 1900’s.  Founded by James Francis Rowley in 1877, the company is still in operation today, and works to create custom orthotics and prosthetics. They currently operate out of Cincinnati, Ohio. Here is a link to their homepage! More on this later. James Francis Rowley was born in 1859, in Dubuque, Iowa. A descendant of Henry Rowley of the Plymouth Colony, he was born on the family farm. With 50% of the population in the 1870’s directly tied to agriculture, he had no illusions about growing up in the industry and farming the land himself.  He was, however, a tinkerer at heart. He developed a passion for creating artificial limbs, and it soon surpassed the instincts of his upbringing.  He started JF Rowley in Iowa, but decided to move operations in 1904 to Chicago, the city where Henry William Tresch was born and raised. Figure 1 (Left): James Francis Rowley Sr. (left), and his son, James Francis Rowley Jr. (right).  Not long after the Rowley’s arrived in Chicago, James sadly lost his only son, James Francis Rowley Jr. During practice for a high school football game, Rowley Jr. was knocked down and kicked in the stomach. After the scrimmage he was deemed fit to go back to school. Later, symptoms of septic peritonitis developed, and he unfortunately died on November 7, 1904.  “The boy who kicked me was my friend. If he knew how he caused me to suffer he might go insane with grief.  It will do no good for anyone to know. I am dying; that settles it.  This is my last scrimmage and the goal is now in sight.  It would not be loyal for me to tell.”  – James Francis Rowley Jr., 1904. During 1904, 13 players across the nation died as a direct result of their injuries on the football field. This was not unheard of; in fact, it was the same number as the previous year. Serious injuries, however, totaled 296. This was the highest annual total since the original introduction of the sport to modern Colleges. For many months following his son’s death, James Sr. lobbied for the enactment of state legislation to ban football in Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, and Wisconsin. He was unsuccessful. A decade later, World War I began. James Rowley and Henry Tresch both applied for passports in early 1915, and travelled to Great Britain and France, where they won several contracts to produce artificial limbs for the Allies.  Shortly thereafter, Henry moved back to the United States to manage the Chicago plant, which was producing 500 legs per month to ship overseas. Later that year, James was also bound for the United States to rejoin his home country. On August 19 the ship he travelled on, the SS Arabic, was hit with a single torpedo by the German submarine SM U-24. Tragically, it sunk. While James himself survived, 44 passengers and 3 crew members lost their lives.  Figure 2: The SS Arabic, as seen in 1908. When asked about his employer’s whereabouts during the sinking of the SS Arabic, Henry Tresch divulged that he was largely unaware of James’s movements. “We had no definite idea as to when Mr. Rowley would sail, but from recent letters we gathered he intended to sail on the Arabic. We did not know exactly where he was at the time. His business with the governments of the allies was of a nature that he did not want his movements known.” – Henry Tresch, 1915. It would be almost two years later, on April 6, 1917, that the United States would join it allies in World War I.  James would spend much of the War establishing and running facilities in England and Scotland to support the soldiers there, and continued to do so well after its official end.  For his efforts he received the only gold medal ever issued by the British government to an individual for ‘superiority in the manufacture of artificial limbs’.  Figure 3 (Left):The JF Rowley company logo as it is today. From 1915 to 1925, the JF Rowley company fitted 46,000 war-crippled men with artificial limbs. James Francis Rowley finally retired from the company in 1933. He turned over stewardship of the company to his son-in-law, Blaine Korrady, who successfully ran the company until it was sold in 1959.  James passed away on December 31, 1938 in Chicago, Illinois. He was a vital contributor to the advancement of prosthetic science with over 50 patents to his name, and left behind a rich history that I feel proud to be somewhat connected to.  Although the headquarters are now in Cincinnati, Ohio, the JF Rowley company still exists and is still in the same business- after 141 years!  To put this feat into perspective, most recent data suggests there are 5.9 million companies with more than one employee in the United States, but estimates are that only about 1,000 are over 100 years old.  Thanks to the ever-changing nature of technology in our age, the average age of a company in the Standard & Poor’s 500 index is only 20 years. When James Rowley started his company, Sitting Bull was moving his people to Canada, Thomas Edison had just announced his invention of the phonograph, and the Molly Maguires had just been convicted of murder and more in the Pennsylvania coal region.  The company has survived several wars, economic depression, globalization, mass advances in technology, and immeasurable change to legal, social, and cultural norms.  An incredible accomplishment, indeed.

Continue Reading...

Harbored Hatred, Hollow Heart – Epilogue

The tragic story of Howard Unruh could easily be mistaken for the account of any recent mass killing—a seemingly ordinary individual, plagued by inner demons, suddenly unleashing unfathomable violence upon a community, leaving devastation in their wake. Yet, this tale predates the modern era of mass shootings, marking a chilling moment in American history. On September 6, 1949, Howard Unruh’s rampage became a grim chapter in American history. Seventy-five years have passed since that fateful day, but the pain and loss he inflicted remain deeply felt, especially by the families of those whose lives were tragically cut short. Among them were 37-year-old Helen (Matlack) Wilson, her mother-in-law Emma (Houser) Matlack, and her young son John Wilson. They had just stopped at a traffic light after returning from a shopping trip in Camden when Unruh, who had been crossing the street in front of them, turned and fired on them. Helen and Emma were killed instantly, while young John, though initially surviving the attack, succumbed to his injuries later that day at the hospital. Helen, the great-great-granddaughter of Mary (Sawn) Stow, was part of a family with deep roots in the area, making the tragedy even more poignant for those who knew her. Unruh, a decorated World War II veteran, was deeply scarred by his experiences overseas. However, it was his return to civilian life that seemed to unravel his sanity. He became increasingly paranoid and isolated, perceiving slights and insults in the mundane interactions of everyday life. His meticulously planned attack was a horrific response to these perceived wrongs, and it would go down in history as the first mass murder in modern-day America. The killings shocked the nation at the time, marking the beginning of what would for current generations become an all-too-familiar narrative in the United States—one of mass shootings carried out by disturbed individuals. The tragedy on River Road in Camden, though distinct from today’s mass murders, shares underlying themes of alienation, mental illness, and the devastating impact of unchecked violence. Howard Unruh’s methodical actions were driven by a distorted sense of justice, leading to the senseless loss of Helen, Emma, young John Wilson and other victims. Unruh’s rampage serves as a stark reminder of the darkness that can reside within even the most unassuming individuals. As we remember the victims of America’s first modern mass murder on September 6th, we honor their memory and reflect on the lasting impact of one man’s decision to unleash chaos. The shadows of that day still loom large, a sobering reminder of the devastating consequences when unchecked mental illness and alienation turn into violence.

Continue Reading...

Harbored Hatred, Hollow Heart

The morning sun peeked through the thick curtains of a small, cluttered apartment, casting long shadows across the room. The man sat at his kitchen table, meticulously polishing the barrel of a Luger handgun, a weapon he had brought back as a souvenir of his time in the war. His fingers traced the cold steel with a familiarity that bordered on reverence. This was no ordinary day; today was different. He had lived in this neighborhood for years, watching as the world around him changed—often not for the better. He saw the sneers, the whispers behind his back, the way people looked at him like he was some kind of alien. He wasn’t crazy, he was certain of that. But they didn’t understand him, didn’t see the world the way he did. And now, they would pay. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror, noting the deep lines that had formed on his face over the years. His eyes, once bright with youthful ambition, were now dark, almost hollow, like two empty wells. Today, they would see what lay within those depths. The plan had been brewing in his mind for weeks, each day adding another layer of resolve. He had marked his targets—people who had wronged him, people who had laughed at him, people who simply didn’t belong in his world. He made a list, carefully noting each name, each address. It was all so methodical, so logical in his mind. The clock on the wall ticked incessantly, counting down the minutes until he would leave the apartment. He dressed slowly, almost ceremoniously, pulling on his best suit, the one he reserved for special occasions. After all, this was a special occasion. He strapped on the Luger, feeling its weight against his side, comforting, familiar. Stepping outside, he inhaled deeply, the crisp September air filling his lungs. The street was quiet, just as he had expected. The world seemed to hold its breath, as if it knew what was about to happen. He started walking, his pace steady, purposeful. The first stop was the cobbler’s shop, a small, unassuming place where he had taken his shoes just last week. The shopkeeper barely had time to look up before the man raised the Luger and squeezed the trigger. The sharp crack of the gunshot echoed down the street, followed by a stunned silence. He didn’t linger. He moved on to the next address, and then the next, each time the gunshots breaking the quiet morning like a series of thunderclaps. People screamed, doors slammed shut, windows were hastily covered, but he was unstoppable. He was a force of nature, a storm that had been brewing for far too long. As he made his way down the familiar street where he had walked countless times, he felt an odd sense of detachment, as if he were watching himself from a distance. The fear, the chaos, the blood—all of it seemed surreal, like a scene from a movie. But this was real. This was his masterpiece, his final statement to a world that had ignored him for too long. By the time the police arrived, he had already retreated to his apartment, the echoes of his actions still reverberating in the air. He sat at his kitchen table, the Luger resting beside him, his hands surprisingly steady. The sirens grew louder, closer, but he didn’t flinch. He had done what he came to do. The door burst open, officers flooding in with guns drawn, their faces a mixture of fear and anger. He didn’t resist. He simply looked at them, his expression calm, almost serene. They would never understand why he did it, but that didn’t matter. He had made his point. As they led him away, the sun began to set, casting a warm, orange glow over the street where so much had happened in such a short time. He glanced back at the place he had called home for so many years, now just another scene of horror in a world that seemed to be full of them. In the end, it wasn’t the voices of his victims that haunted him, but the silence that followed. The longest day was over, but its shadows would linger for a lifetime. The war had followed him home, and in his mind, the battle never ended. The streets were silent again, yet the echoes of that day remained, a grim reminder of a quiet man with a loud gun.

Continue Reading...

Disaster on the Delaware

It was late on the evening of April 30th, 1896, and the spring night hung heavy over the Delaware River. A seemingly tranquil family visit had taken an unforeseen turn, plunging the hearts of those involved into a tempest of emotions. Louisa (Vautier) Adams, a visitor from Philadelphia, had accompanied her neighbor, Mrs. Welsh, for a serene gathering with her sister, Deborah (Vautier) Shimp, and her parents, Francis and Caroline (Sawn) Vautier, in their modest two-story row home in Camden, New Jersey. The house, a witness to the upbringing of their five children, now echoed with the laughter of a new generation. As twilight gave way to night, the house buzzed with familial conversations and the joyful clamor of children at play. However, as the sun disappeared below the horizon, an impromptu decision cast a shadow on the night. Instead of boarding the ferry back to Philadelphia, the family opted for a moonlit rowboat excursion on the Delaware River. Led by Peter Shimp and his wife, Deborah, accompanied by their children, 11 year old Anna, 8 year old George, and16 month old John they embarked on a journey that would soon be etched into their memories, wrought with tragedy. Deborah, upon seeing the dilapidated condition of the boat and knowing the unpredictable state of the river, adamantly cautioned the group to abandon the trip. In her unwavering conviction, she turned back home, gripping John tightly in her arms, leaving the rest of the group to their fate. As the clock approached 11 PM, the full moon adorned the sky, casting an otherworldly luminescence upon the water’s surface. In the distance, small boats moved like specters against the backdrop of the Philadelphia skyline, a hauntingly beautiful sight. Their aging rowboat, protesting with each new occupant, bore the weight of anticipation. Peter, seated on a weathered bench, gripped the splintered oars, and with each stroke, the boat seemed to groan in protest, teetering on the edge of submission. Louisa tirelessly bailed water with a wooden pail, and the passengers shared stories, their voices blending with the rhythmic sounds of the river. Beneath the facade of camaraderie, an undercurrent of anxiety coursed through them as they recounted near-miss incidents that could have easily capsized their fragile vessel. As the distant lights of Philadelphia beckoned, relief washed over them, accompanied by the distant sounds of the city. Then, a capricious gust of wind snatched Louisa’s hat, plunging the night into chaos. In her determined effort to retrieve it, she unintentionally upset the boat, sending it gradually sinking into the frigid waters. All five passengers were suddenly immersed in the cold, unforgiving river as their vessel surrendered. Panic-stricken cries shattered the night’s tranquility, drawing the attention of the nearby fireboat, the Edwin S. Stuart. Foreman Edward A. Waters and his crew swiftly deployed lifelines to the struggling passengers. While none of them possessed swimming skills, Peter, George, and Mrs. Welsh had managed to stay afloat by violently kicking their legs and clung to the lifelines with unwavering determination, their survival instincts ignited. Mrs. Welsh had held on to George so tightly that it was not without difficulty that they were parted once safe on the fireboat. In the midst of this turmoil, Louisa’s fate took a tragic turn. She struggled fruitlessly to save Anna, but both were engulfed by the inky depths, vanishing like ephemeral shadows beneath the river’s surface. Peter, still in a state of shock, implored the crew to salvage the boat, only to be told that the missing passengers took precedence. His response, a simple request for a pipe and some tobacco, revealed the depth of his despair. It wasn’t until the crew was certain that and Anna had met their watery end that they bothered to provide him that relief. Despite a day-long search for the bodies, the river held its secrets tightly. It was not until six days later, on May 6, that Louisa’s lifeless body finally resurfaced, followed by Anna’s on May 9. Two years later, in poignant remembrance of her cherished sister, Deborah welcomed a baby girl into the world, christening her Louisa Adams Shimp, forever binding the family’s past to their future.

Continue Reading...

A Visit to Gettysburg

Gettysburg, Pennsylvania is a town rich in history, with a name that stirs thoughts of the Civil War and attracts many to study the Battle of Gettysburg, which raged in the area from the 1st to the 3rd of July, 1863. With heritage listings and museums galore, Gettysburg is a vital notch in the historical traveler’s belt. My wife and I recently took a weekend trip out to the area; a journey that was long overdue, having been away from the area since my preteen years. Since then, I have discovered a more personal connection to this part of our nation’s history.  Through my research, I have been lucky enough to uncover the secrets of many relatives who fought in the Civil War. Among their stories are four of my great, great-grandfathers’ and one of my great, great, great-grandfather’s. Walking the battlefield on which so many of my relations fought for their country was a truly humbling experience. While I will attempt to give the deserved justice to each of their stories over time, I will today focus on my great-great-grandfather, Jacob Frederick Loeble, and his military service.  Jacob was born in Weinsberg, Württemberg, Germany on August 19, 1843. He arrived on American soil and travelled to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania on Jun’s e 20th, 1860, just shy of his 17th birthday.  While I do know that he already had family in the area, it is unclear who he might have stayed with. His two older sisters, Catharina and Friederika, both arrived in Philadelphia at around this time, and so I suspect he found lodging with one of them. Family lore suggests that Jacob “…got off the boat, was handed a gun, and pointed South”.  However, we now know that it was not until September 15, 1861, just over a year after his arrival and less than one month after his 18th birthday, that he answered President Lincoln’s call for volunteers and enlisted in the Union army.  He was a private in Company E of the 98th PA regiment, which was made up almost entirely of German speaking soldiers, with the exception of one Irish speaking company.  On September 30, the 98th marched for Washington, DC, to fulfill their duty in the defense of the Capital. During this time they trained hard, drilling in preparation for what they would soon face on the battlefield.  They remained until March 5, 1862, at which point they bravely headed South. Shortly thereafter, on May 5, 1862, they received their Baptism of Fire in the Battle of Williamsburg.  The various campaigns the regiment fought in during their service can be found HERE. Sometime during the spring of 1863, Jacob was promoted to Corporal. Not long after his promotion, on May 3, he received a gunshot wound to the left shoulder while fighting in the battle of Salem’s Church.  He was admitted to the Depot Field Hospital near Washington, DC, on May 4th, transferred to Emory Hospital in Washington, DC on June 13th, and finally transferred to Saterlee General Hospital in Philadelphia, PA on June 23rd of the same year. He returned to duty in June, just prior to the famed Battle of Gettysburg, in which his regiment played a large role in securing Little Round Top for the Union army. Jacob survived the assault and I like to think that his efforts were vital to his regiment’s success. On December 12, 1863, Jacob married Sophia Shneckenburger, a German immigrant also from Württemberg, with whom he would have 14 children. We do not know too much abut their family life, but their shared culture, hometown and large household suggests they cared deeply for one another. In January, 1864, Jacob once again joined the 98th. His fighting action ended on July 11 of that year, when he was again shot in the left shoulder during the Battle at Fort Stevens; another pivotal battle in the defense of Washington, DC.  This battle is particularly famous as the only battle of the Civil War that President Abraham Lincoln observed, and where he and his wife Mary briefly came under fire. Jacob was treated for his wounds at Mount Pleasant General Hospital in Washington, DC, until being transferred to a convalescent hospital in Beverly, NJ on August 16th. He was then discharged from the army on September 15, 1864, after completing his 3 years of duty. He applied for and received his US citizenship on October 26, 1864. In 1885, a monument to Gettysburg was erected by survivors and friends of the regiment on the north side of Little Round Top. We are fortunate indeed to be able to view the monument today (see Figure 1). The inscription reads short and sweet, injected with a sense of candor by those who wrote it and those who continue to appreciate it. It remains connected to its true purpose; recording priceless information that may have otherwise been lost to time. On September 11, 1889, Jacob was given the privilege of addressing a large crowd which included then President Benjamin Harrison, for the dedication of  the 98th Regiment Infantry’s monument.  A copy of his dedication speech, which is an interesting read, can be found HERE. Later, in 1898, state funds became available, and a larger monument was erected near the John Weickert farmhouse (see Figure 2). The inscription on this monument reads as another recording of events. It is interesting to me that, during this time, the importance of verifying events endured by our men seemed to have jurisdiction over erected dedications, rather than expressions of emotion related to the battles themselves. We also visited many of the monuments erected to Regiments for which other family members fought. Many of the stories we came across there were the same; filled with valor and told with great, and sometimes brutal, honesty. Our visit to Gettysburg and the new knowledge I have absorbed of my ancestor’s roles in the American Civil War have made me proud to be a result of the sacrifices they and their families made, and the role they had in shaping our nation’s great history.

Continue Reading...
error: Content is protected !!