But let's dispose of the other explanations first. A widely believed--but possibly erroneous--story has it that February is so short because the Romans borrowed a day from it to add to August. August was originally a 30-day month called Sextilis, but it was renamed to honor the emperor Augustus Caesar, just as July had earlier been renamed to honor Julius Caesar. Naturally, it wouldn't do to have Gus's month be shorter than Julius's, hence the switch.
But some historians say this is bunk. They say February has always had 28 days, going back to the 8th century BC, when a Roman king by the name of Numa Pompilius established the basic Roman calendar. Before Numa was on the job the calendar covered only ten months, March through December. December, as you may know, roughly translates from Latin as "tenth." July was originally called Quintilis, "fifth," Sextilis was sixth, September was seventh, and so on.
To meticulous persons such as ourselves, Randy, having the calendar run out in December and not pick up again until March probably seems like a pretty casual approach to timekeeping. However, we must realize that 3,000 years ago, not a helluva lot happened between December and March. The Romans at the time were an agricultural people, and the main purpose of the calendar was to govern the cycle of planting and harvesting.
Numa, however, was a real go-getter-type guy, and when he got to be in charge of things, he decided it was going to look pretty stupid if the Romans gave the world a calendar that somehow overlooked one-sixth of the year. So he decided that a year would have 355 days--still a bit off the mark, admittedly, but definitely a step in the right direction. Three hundred fifty five days was the approximate length of 12 lunar cycles, with lots of leap days thrown in to keep the calendar lined up with the seasons. Numa also added two new months, January and February, to the end of the year. Since the Romans thought even numbers were unlucky, he made seven of the months 29 days long, and four months 31 days long.
But Numa needed one short, even-numbered month to make the number of days work out to 355. February got elected. It was the last month of the year (January didn't become the first month until centuries later), it was in the middle of winter, and presumably, if there had to be an unlucky month, better to make it a short one.
Many years later, Julius Caesar reorganized the calendar yet again, giving it 365 days. Some say he made February 29 days long, 30 in leap year, and that Augustus Caesar later pilfered a day; others say Julius just kept it at 28. None of this changes the underlying truth: February is so short mainly because it was the month nobody liked much--a judgment with which I heartily concur. Frankly, if the Romans had cut it down to 15 minutes, it wouldn't have bothered me a bit.
mmm.i'm wondering how I missed your ?'s b4...I'll try to answer them as soon as I can....
in 1916 Walter Anderson developed the buns...The dough he selected was heavier than ordinary bread dough.
but...this is an amazing piece of american history and I'm now hooked into getting to the bottom of this one...
The likely birthplace of one of America's most important cultural icons still looks much as it did almost a century ago. Louis' Lunch, on an unremarkable street in New Haven, isn't much bigger than your living room, offers patrons a few cramped wooden tables, and serves hamburgers between two slices of white toast as it always has. Ask for a bun, and you'll get an earful.
But while Louis Lassen's old tavern seems stuck in time, the hamburger he first constructed in 1900 by throwing together strips of discarded steak has swept across the globe. A trio of new books traces the rise of this sandwich and its profound effect on society. In Selling 'em by the Sack, David Gerard Hogan, who teaches history at Heidelberg College in Tiffin, Ohio, focuses on White Castle System Inc., the first of the big burger chains. Started by a grill cook in Wichita in 1912, it was soon taken over by a former real estate agent named Billy Ingram. He realized that his chief battle lay in convincing customers that ground beef, often made from meat scraps, was safe.
The name White Castle -- signifying purity and strength -- was the first marketing move. Ingram then designed all the restaurants to match the name. Targeting the middle class, he emphasized cleanliness and boasted that all his stores served the same miniature burgers cooked in the same way.
The hamburger caught on. By 1929, a character named Wimpy in a new cartoon series starring a spinach-craving strongman ate burgers constantly. What Henry Ford did for the car, Hogan writes, Billy Ingram did for the burger.
Then came the war. Rationing of sugar and beef pounded White Castle, as did Ingram's refusal to hire female and black workers amid a wartime labor shortage. He relented on the former during the late '40s but did not hire blacks in large numbers until the mid-'60s. By the 1950s, after eschewing TV advertising, suburban expansion, franchising, and even french fries, White Castle had lost its lead forever.
It is in the later stages that Hogan's book stumbles, too. His brief history of the American restaurant and White Castle's rise is excellent, despite occasional sloppy or turgid writing. But Selling 'em by the Sack's chief weakness is its account of White Castle's fall. Hogan loses his objective eye, relying too heavily on internal White Castle documents. He says customers were happy to pay higher prices and calls the new competition ''unfortunate.'' By the end, he is defending fast food as an industry that has improved Americans' diet.
But when Ingram bought into White Castle in 1921, he changed all that by demanding freshly ground meat every day, spotlessly clean diners that soon were constructed out of enameled steel panels that were easy to clean, assemble and disassemble to move to a more lucrative location.
Hogan portrays Ingram, who soon bought out his partner, as a visionary, and indeed he was, making White Castle one of the first profit-sharing corporations in the country and instituting a medical insurance plan long before big corporations even thought about it. His relationship with rank-and-file employees was peerless as he encouraged counter clerks to contribute to the company's national newsletter and paid them excellent wages, from $ 18 to $ 30 per week during the Depression, making White Castle jobs plummier than industrial employment, a far cry from the situation among big fast-food chains today.
Pringles Potato Chips were introduce in 1969 by Procter & Gamble. Pringles are made from potatoes that have been cooked, mashed, dehydrated and then reconstituted into a dough. Pringles are cut into a uniform size and shape, then packaged in air-tight canisters designed to extend their shelf life.
1992 Cherokee Park Medallion found by Reuel D. Harmon, Inver Grove Heights.
I know this is wrong...but who the heck is reuel harmon...and how did the paper screw this up on January 25, 1998 Sunday.
That is the sound of a hoe or shovel hitting something. A sound, starting Jan. 30, that every man, woman and child who tills the snowbanks of St. Paul in search of the King Boreas medallion will be listening for. Hoping for. Aching for. Dreaming of. Above all else.
Oh, they may not know that that's what they're after. They may tell themselves and their loved ones that they hunt for other reasons. That they bundle up in below-zero weather to stand out in the middle of a field in the middle of the night with a miner's helmet or camping lantern or flashlight with hundreds of other lost souls to commune with nature.
They may say it is part of the Minnesotan experience. Some might say they do it for the party - that a Thermos full of cocoa or something stronger is a way to strike up lifelong friendships with fellow crazies. But those are novices. Anyone who has ever hunted for the medallion knows that the search is serious business, and therefore an extremely quiet undertaking - save for the constant, eerie sound of mass chipping that fills the night.
Some might even say they do it for the money, that what drives them is the $4,000 that goes to the medallion finder.
Stuff like that. But if they say any of that, they will be lying, because what they really want, deep down, is the Clank. After that, it's all downhill. Sure, they will go to the newspaper and collect their money. Their picture might appear on TV and in the paper the next day, and their name added to the list of 111 other hunters who have found the medallion since 1952. But all the glory, all the money, is nothing compared to the Clank.
Of course, though I have done my time searching for the medallion, I have never experienced the thrill of the Clank. So the other day, I went out in the backyard and simulated it. I taped an old compact disc to a pop can and buried it. I used my boots to mat the snow around the immediate area, replicating a well-trampled search site in its final hour. Then I got a hoe from the garage. This is what it felt like:
I dragged the tool in a slow, sweeping motion, sifting the powder. When the Clank came, the can popped up and the CD saluted. My fingers tingled, and a shiver went through my arms straight up to the stem of my brain. Then I tried it on my knees, with a garden spade. Sift, sift, money. The Clank was even more electric this time, and one can only imagine what it feels like to have dug for hours, days, and to finally feel the genuine Clank.
Yours truly will not have a shot at that feeling, because the paper sponsors the hunt and Pioneer Press employees are forbidden to participate. But said employee status gives me license to do the next best thing. I can call up some of the previous winners and ask them what it feels like when the Clank comes.
"Oh, boy," said Art Jensen, 87, of Roseville, who found the first medallion in Cherokee Park in 1952. "I was more excited than you can imagine. When I hit it with my shovel, it just rolled over - a painted face on a metal chest. I brushed it off and it said 'Dispatch and Pioneer Press.' A squad car was passing by, and he gave me a ride downtown to the paper with the siren going."
"It was the greatest thing that ever happened in our lives," said Cookie Howard, who found the medallion in Battle Creek Park with her friends Rachel Olson and Kay Anderson in 1995. "We'd hunted for it for 30 years. Rachel found it; she was using a shovel. It was in a little knit bag, and she said that when she hit it, it just made a click."
"It never made a noise," said Tom Opatz, who found the medallion with his brother Dan and their fellow White Bear Lake buddies Phil Sinn and Mark Nicklawski at Hidden Falls Park in 1993. "The handle of my shovel came off, so I was digging with the end of my shovel. And there was one little piece of snow that hadn't been touched. So I said, 'Alright, I'll just check here and then go shoot the breeze with my brother.' When I hit it, it was in a little white diaper."
"I didn't believe we actually had it, because we've been looking for it since we were kids," said Nicklawski. "When we found it, we just started running back to the car, and everyone else was running the other way. We told one guy not to bother, that we found it, and he said, 'No you didn't.' I was wearing a green hat, and I said, 'Oh, yeah? Just watch for this hat on TV."'
Last year, the medallion was buried in Como Park. Rick Brown of Woodbury found it wrapped in a bandanna in a Curad bandage box. Everybody knows what kind of noise a shovel on a Curad bandage box makes.
"The snow was so deep, it just sort of popped out," said Brown. "It was real exciting. I grew up in St. Paul, and I heard about it every year but I never thought I'd actually find it. It was amazing. I still can't believe it, even now."
Graphic: Noah Musser: Pioneer Press
Searching in the snow
Over the years, the Winter Carnival Treasure Hunt has enticed people to face the frigid weather and search through some of the most scenic spots in St. Paul to find the medallion. Here are the last 10 locations where the medallion was hidden and subsequently found.
1997 Como Park Medallion found by Rick Brown, Woodbury.
1995 Battle Creek Park Medallion found by Cookie Howard, St. Paul Park
and by Rachel Olson, White Bear Lake.
1994 Highland Park Medallion found by David Jotblad, Hackensack,
Minnesota and by Tom Roach, St. Paul.
1993 Hidden Falls Park Medallion found by Tom and Dan Opatz, Phil
Sinn and by Mark Nicklawski, White Bear Lake.
1992 Cherokee Park Medallion found by Reuel D. Harmon, Inver
Grove Heights.
1991 Langford Park Medallion found by Scott Horrigan, St. Paul.
1990 Como Park Medallion found by Christine Nelson, St.
Paul, Gayle Kermode, Maplewood and by
Paulette Arneson.
1989 State Capitol Medallion found by Mike and Dan Reinhartz
and James Murphy.
1988 Tony Schmidt Park Medallion found by Michael Madland, South St.
Paul.
1987 Indian Mounds Park Medallion found by George L'Heureux
Reuel Durkee Harmon (1904-1994) was born in St. Paul, Minnesota on February 6, 1904. He was the son of Albert H. and Carolyn Durkee Harmon. The elder Harmon was one of the founders of Webb Publishing Company, a St. Paul-based publisher of farm and agricultural magazines.
Reuel Harmon attended Saint Paul Academy (1916-1922), and earned a bachelor's degree from Harvard University in 1926. He joined Webb in 1926, and in 1937 was made publisher of its Farmer's Wife magazine. During World War II Harmon served with the United States Army (1942-1945), where he attained the rank of Major. In 1945 he returned to Webb, and in 1946 was made vice president and treasurer of the company. He later served as president (1952-1968) and as chairman of the board (1968-1978). In the 1940s he served on a number of "fact-finding commissions" for the Division of Conciliation of the Minnesota Department of Labor and Industry, helping to investigate Minnesota labor disputes.
Harmon served as a trustee of the St. Paul, Amherst Wilder, and Archibald Bush foundations, Carleton and St. Thomas colleges, and the Charles T. Miller Hospital. He was on the boards of the First National Bank of St. Paul and the First Trust Company of St. Paul, president of the St. Paul Area Chamber of Commerce, chairman of the St. Paul Civic Center Authority, and a member of the Governor's Advisory Commission of the Minnesota Department of Economic Development. He was involved with the Minnesota Parks and Trails Council, the Fort Snelling State Park Association, the Science Museum of Minnesota, the Minnesota Zoo, the Carpenter Nature Center (Hastings), and the Dodge Nature Center (West Saint Paul).
Harmon died on April 26, 1994 at his home in Inver Grove Heights, Minnesota. He was survived by his wife Margaret (b.ca.1910), and a daughter, Ann Clapp.
heh
hmmm....
I lived in austin for a while...and I went to the "farm campus" I know I heard it in a class...
woohooo...no google needed on that!!!
I rock!
and why are white castle hamburgers square?
hmmmm....I wonder........nah..Mustn't be an issue its not reconized by google = its not real.....
-- by Albert Einstein
lets put it this way....
going out for beers with the guys....I'm going to have a "few" is really 5 or 6....but.....
if I'm going out with "some" of the guys..."some" normally just means 1 or 2.....
or If my wife says....how "many" beers did you drink last nite?....my answer is a "few"......so
many=few
some=couple
but...If the wife says I'm going to "some" stores to look at a "couple" of sale items...I should be back in "few" minutes.....
PANIC 'cuz somehow the word MANY is going to get used.
:cool:
mrmnmikey, "Ask Kitch Anything thread" #107, 23 Feb 2006 2:01 pm
???
But some historians say this is bunk. They say February has always had 28 days, going back to the 8th century BC, when a Roman king by the name of Numa Pompilius established the basic Roman calendar. Before Numa was on the job the calendar covered only ten months, March through December. December, as you may know, roughly translates from Latin as "tenth." July was originally called Quintilis, "fifth," Sextilis was sixth, September was seventh, and so on.
To meticulous persons such as ourselves, Randy, having the calendar run out in December and not pick up again until March probably seems like a pretty casual approach to timekeeping. However, we must realize that 3,000 years ago, not a helluva lot happened between December and March. The Romans at the time were an agricultural people, and the main purpose of the calendar was to govern the cycle of planting and harvesting.
Numa, however, was a real go-getter-type guy, and when he got to be in charge of things, he decided it was going to look pretty stupid if the Romans gave the world a calendar that somehow overlooked one-sixth of the year. So he decided that a year would have 355 days--still a bit off the mark, admittedly, but definitely a step in the right direction. Three hundred fifty five days was the approximate length of 12 lunar cycles, with lots of leap days thrown in to keep the calendar lined up with the seasons. Numa also added two new months, January and February, to the end of the year. Since the Romans thought even numbers were unlucky, he made seven of the months 29 days long, and four months 31 days long.
But Numa needed one short, even-numbered month to make the number of days work out to 355. February got elected. It was the last month of the year (January didn't become the first month until centuries later), it was in the middle of winter, and presumably, if there had to be an unlucky month, better to make it a short one.
Many years later, Julius Caesar reorganized the calendar yet again, giving it 365 days. Some say he made February 29 days long, 30 in leap year, and that Augustus Caesar later pilfered a day; others say Julius just kept it at 28. None of this changes the underlying truth: February is so short mainly because it was the month nobody liked much--a judgment with which I heartily concur. Frankly, if the Romans had cut it down to 15 minutes, it wouldn't have bothered me a bit.
mmm.i'm wondering how I missed your ?'s b4...I'll try to answer them as soon as I can....
because they don't cut corners...
I'm not 100% sure...but I'll work on this on monday...
white castle was the 1st ever hamburger chain
....
is the fast-food industry's second-highest sales revenues per store
in 1916 Walter Anderson developed the buns...The dough he selected was heavier than ordinary bread dough.
but...this is an amazing piece of american history and I'm now hooked into getting to the bottom of this one...
The likely birthplace of one of America's most important cultural icons still looks much as it did almost a century ago. Louis' Lunch, on an unremarkable street in New Haven, isn't much bigger than your living room, offers patrons a few cramped wooden tables, and serves hamburgers between two slices of white toast as it always has. Ask for a bun, and you'll get an earful.
But while Louis Lassen's old tavern seems stuck in time, the hamburger he first constructed in 1900 by throwing together strips of discarded steak has swept across the globe. A trio of new books traces the rise of this sandwich and its profound effect on society. In Selling 'em by the Sack, David Gerard Hogan, who teaches history at Heidelberg College in Tiffin, Ohio, focuses on White Castle System Inc., the first of the big burger chains. Started by a grill cook in Wichita in 1912, it was soon taken over by a former real estate agent named Billy Ingram. He realized that his chief battle lay in convincing customers that ground beef, often made from meat scraps, was safe.
The name White Castle -- signifying purity and strength -- was the first marketing move. Ingram then designed all the restaurants to match the name. Targeting the middle class, he emphasized cleanliness and boasted that all his stores served the same miniature burgers cooked in the same way.
The hamburger caught on. By 1929, a character named Wimpy in a new cartoon series starring a spinach-craving strongman ate burgers constantly. What Henry Ford did for the car, Hogan writes, Billy Ingram did for the burger.
Then came the war. Rationing of sugar and beef pounded White Castle, as did Ingram's refusal to hire female and black workers amid a wartime labor shortage. He relented on the former during the late '40s but did not hire blacks in large numbers until the mid-'60s. By the 1950s, after eschewing TV advertising, suburban expansion, franchising, and even french fries, White Castle had lost its lead forever.
It is in the later stages that Hogan's book stumbles, too. His brief history of the American restaurant and White Castle's rise is excellent, despite occasional sloppy or turgid writing. But Selling 'em by the Sack's chief weakness is its account of White Castle's fall. Hogan loses his objective eye, relying too heavily on internal White Castle documents. He says customers were happy to pay higher prices and calls the new competition ''unfortunate.'' By the end, he is defending fast food as an industry that has improved Americans' diet.
to show the public its food was safe...
kinda like "supersize me"
I didn't know this.....hmmm
the ridging was created to make it a stronger chip....
I know this is wrong...but who the heck is reuel harmon...and how did the paper screw this up on January 25, 1998 Sunday.
That is the sound of a hoe or shovel hitting something. A sound, starting Jan. 30, that every man, woman and child who tills the snowbanks of St. Paul in search of the King Boreas medallion will be listening for. Hoping for. Aching for. Dreaming of. Above all else.
Oh, they may not know that that's what they're after. They may tell themselves and their loved ones that they hunt for other reasons. That they bundle up in below-zero weather to stand out in the middle of a field in the middle of the night with a miner's helmet or camping lantern or flashlight with hundreds of other lost souls to commune with nature.
They may say it is part of the Minnesotan experience. Some might say they do it for the party - that a Thermos full of cocoa or something stronger is a way to strike up lifelong friendships with fellow crazies. But those are novices. Anyone who has ever hunted for the medallion knows that the search is serious business, and therefore an extremely quiet undertaking - save for the constant, eerie sound of mass chipping that fills the night.
Some might even say they do it for the money, that what drives them is the $4,000 that goes to the medallion finder.
Stuff like that. But if they say any of that, they will be lying, because what they really want, deep down, is the Clank. After that, it's all downhill. Sure, they will go to the newspaper and collect their money. Their picture might appear on TV and in the paper the next day, and their name added to the list of 111 other hunters who have found the medallion since 1952. But all the glory, all the money, is nothing compared to the Clank.
Of course, though I have done my time searching for the medallion, I have never experienced the thrill of the Clank. So the other day, I went out in the backyard and simulated it. I taped an old compact disc to a pop can and buried it. I used my boots to mat the snow around the immediate area, replicating a well-trampled search site in its final hour. Then I got a hoe from the garage. This is what it felt like:
I dragged the tool in a slow, sweeping motion, sifting the powder. When the Clank came, the can popped up and the CD saluted. My fingers tingled, and a shiver went through my arms straight up to the stem of my brain. Then I tried it on my knees, with a garden spade. Sift, sift, money. The Clank was even more electric this time, and one can only imagine what it feels like to have dug for hours, days, and to finally feel the genuine Clank.
Yours truly will not have a shot at that feeling, because the paper sponsors the hunt and Pioneer Press employees are forbidden to participate. But said employee status gives me license to do the next best thing. I can call up some of the previous winners and ask them what it feels like when the Clank comes.
"Oh, boy," said Art Jensen, 87, of Roseville, who found the first medallion in Cherokee Park in 1952. "I was more excited than you can imagine. When I hit it with my shovel, it just rolled over - a painted face on a metal chest. I brushed it off and it said 'Dispatch and Pioneer Press.' A squad car was passing by, and he gave me a ride downtown to the paper with the siren going."
"It was the greatest thing that ever happened in our lives," said Cookie Howard, who found the medallion in Battle Creek Park with her friends Rachel Olson and Kay Anderson in 1995. "We'd hunted for it for 30 years. Rachel found it; she was using a shovel. It was in a little knit bag, and she said that when she hit it, it just made a click."
"It never made a noise," said Tom Opatz, who found the medallion with his brother Dan and their fellow White Bear Lake buddies Phil Sinn and Mark Nicklawski at Hidden Falls Park in 1993. "The handle of my shovel came off, so I was digging with the end of my shovel. And there was one little piece of snow that hadn't been touched. So I said, 'Alright, I'll just check here and then go shoot the breeze with my brother.' When I hit it, it was in a little white diaper."
"I didn't believe we actually had it, because we've been looking for it since we were kids," said Nicklawski. "When we found it, we just started running back to the car, and everyone else was running the other way. We told one guy not to bother, that we found it, and he said, 'No you didn't.' I was wearing a green hat, and I said, 'Oh, yeah? Just watch for this hat on TV."'
Last year, the medallion was buried in Como Park. Rick Brown of Woodbury found it wrapped in a bandanna in a Curad bandage box. Everybody knows what kind of noise a shovel on a Curad bandage box makes.
"The snow was so deep, it just sort of popped out," said Brown. "It was real exciting. I grew up in St. Paul, and I heard about it every year but I never thought I'd actually find it. It was amazing. I still can't believe it, even now."
Graphic: Noah Musser: Pioneer Press
Searching in the snow
Over the years, the Winter Carnival Treasure Hunt has enticed people to face the frigid weather and search through some of the most scenic spots in St. Paul to find the medallion. Here are the last 10 locations where the medallion was hidden and subsequently found.
1997 Como Park Medallion found by Rick Brown, Woodbury.
1995 Battle Creek Park Medallion found by Cookie Howard, St. Paul Park
and by Rachel Olson, White Bear Lake.
1994 Highland Park Medallion found by David Jotblad, Hackensack,
Minnesota and by Tom Roach, St. Paul.
1993 Hidden Falls Park Medallion found by Tom and Dan Opatz, Phil
Sinn and by Mark Nicklawski, White Bear Lake.
1992 Cherokee Park Medallion found by Reuel D. Harmon, Inver
Grove Heights.
1991 Langford Park Medallion found by Scott Horrigan, St. Paul.
1990 Como Park Medallion found by Christine Nelson, St.
Paul, Gayle Kermode, Maplewood and by
Paulette Arneson.
1989 State Capitol Medallion found by Mike and Dan Reinhartz
and James Murphy.
1988 Tony Schmidt Park Medallion found by Michael Madland, South St.
Paul.
1987 Indian Mounds Park Medallion found by George L'Heureux
Reuel Durkee Harmon (1904-1994) was born in St. Paul, Minnesota on February 6, 1904. He was the son of Albert H. and Carolyn Durkee Harmon. The elder Harmon was one of the founders of Webb Publishing Company, a St. Paul-based publisher of farm and agricultural magazines.
Reuel Harmon attended Saint Paul Academy (1916-1922), and earned a bachelor's degree from Harvard University in 1926. He joined Webb in 1926, and in 1937 was made publisher of its Farmer's Wife magazine. During World War II Harmon served with the United States Army (1942-1945), where he attained the rank of Major. In 1945 he returned to Webb, and in 1946 was made vice president and treasurer of the company. He later served as president (1952-1968) and as chairman of the board (1968-1978). In the 1940s he served on a number of "fact-finding commissions" for the Division of Conciliation of the Minnesota Department of Labor and Industry, helping to investigate Minnesota labor disputes.
Harmon served as a trustee of the St. Paul, Amherst Wilder, and Archibald Bush foundations, Carleton and St. Thomas colleges, and the Charles T. Miller Hospital. He was on the boards of the First National Bank of St. Paul and the First Trust Company of St. Paul, president of the St. Paul Area Chamber of Commerce, chairman of the St. Paul Civic Center Authority, and a member of the Governor's Advisory Commission of the Minnesota Department of Economic Development. He was involved with the Minnesota Parks and Trails Council, the Fort Snelling State Park Association, the Science Museum of Minnesota, the Minnesota Zoo, the Carpenter Nature Center (Hastings), and the Dodge Nature Center (West Saint Paul).
Harmon died on April 26, 1994 at his home in Inver Grove Heights, Minnesota. He was survived by his wife Margaret (b.ca.1910), and a daughter, Ann Clapp.