Monday, November 4, 2019

Invitation - Join us at Rundel Library, Saturday, November 9, 1-3pm

Let us take a moment and notice these photos.   Photos of beautiful people.   Proud people.  Our fellow citizens.  


These are members of, and relatives of, the Dinkle family, an African-American family who has lived in Rochester for 150 years.  And they are the subject of a current exhibit — Everyday People:  The Dinkle Family and Rochester’s African-American Past — at Rundel Library’s Local History Department.  

In my most recent post (too long ago -- I apologize -- I'll try to do better), I told you about this family, and this exhibit, and my connections to them and it.  Read the blog again, won’t you?  Just scroll down a bit and you’ll find it. 

And, then, after you’ve read it, make plans to join us for a Reception celebrating this Exhibit — it is this Saturday afternoon, November 9th, 1-3pm, on the 2nd floor of the Rundel Library.  Everyone is welcome!

I’ll be there, and my friends Karen Dinkle Bunton and Jerry Bunton will be there, and members of their family and the wider community.  

Consider this:  the stories of the lives of African-Americans in Rochester over the past 150 years are, sadly, stories that are not told often enough, not recorded often enough, in local histories.  It's time for this to be remedied.  

Come and join us — for fun! — and to experience the Dinkle Family and their part in the history of the City of Rochester, NY.   Everyone is welcome!  Make sure you say hello to me!  

Wednesday, August 28, 2019

Everyday People -- Exhibit at Rundel Library


It is the 1910s, and these boys have recently won cross-country races sponsored by the YMCA.  The Rochester photographer, Albert Stone, working for the Rochester Herald at this time, has lined the boys up and taken their photo, and it will be printed in that week’s paper.  

   Notice the proud boy in the middle, standing so straight and tall, looking directly into the camera, looking directly at us.  He is Jonathan Theorius Dinkle, and he has won the 1-1/4 mile race for the No. 3 School.  

What will happen to young Jonathan Theorius as the years unfold?  Well, I can tell you.  In 1918, he will be awarded the Silver Marksman Medal from the Winchester Junior Rifle Corps.  In 1919, he will enlist in the United States Navy, probably lying about his age, saying he was born in 1901, making him 18 years old — his birth certificate shows that he was, in fact, born in 1903.  Jonathan wanted to serve his country, and to travel, and he didn’t want to wait.  

Jonathan T. Dinkle, 1930s
In 1923, he was living on Turpin Street and married Aldean Clemons.   Here is Jonathan T. Dinkle in the 1930s — a handsome fellow, to be sure.  

        By the 1940s, he had set up a taxicab business on Clarissa Street, the first such business by an African-American in Rochester.  And then, in 1968, Jonathan Theorius Dinkle passed from this world.   But he left behind his children, who have also passed from this world, but who also left behind their children.  One of them, a granddaughter of Jonathan Theorius Dinkle, is my friend, Karen Dinkle Bunton.  

Jonathan Dinkle, 1960s
In 2013, shortly after I moved to Rochester (that story and the strange coincidence involving my apartment is told in this earlier blog posting Living in the Past) with the intention of researching and writing about my ancestors, the musical Dossenbachs, I met Karen’s husband, Jerry Bunton, at a Memoir Writing Course at Rundel Library.  Jerry read stories to our class about his African-American family, who had arrived in Rochester during the Great Migration of the 1950s.  Jerry told me about his wife’s family, who had lived in Rochester from the 1870s, the same time my own family had settled here.  

Soon, Jerry and Karen talked to me about their family stuff — papers, photos, artifacts — which they had packed away in tubs in their cellar.  For the next year or so, I badgered them, yes, I did, I badgered them about getting their stuff out of the cellar and letting me look at it with them, so Karen and Jerry could share the stories which their stuff told about the Rochester that I wanted to learn more about.  

In 2015, we began our two-year journey of meeting weekly (mostly), and taking the stuff — we now called it “archives” — out of the tubs.  We organized it; I photographed it and catalogued it.  Bit by bit, piece by piece, I learned the story of the Dinkle family in Rochester.  And a grand, marvelous story it was.   

It is a tale well told at a current exhibit on the 2nd floor of Rundel Library, called “Everyday People:  The Dinkle Family and Rochester’s African-American Past.”  And this is what this blog post is all about.  I urge all of you to visit Rundel Library, which is always a pleasure in and of itself, and to see this exhibit — the posters, the printed information, the photos and artifacts in their glass cases. 
Exhibit at Central Library, 2nd floor Local History in Rundel

The Dinkle family was connected to many of Rochester’s important historical events  — Rochester servicemen in WWII, the Boy Scouts in the Third Ward, the first bookstore dedicated to selling African-American books, the FIGHT organization, Malcolm X’s visit to Rochester shortly before he was killed, and the silent march after Martin Luther King’s assassination.  
Add Exhibit at Central Library,
2nd floor Local History in Rundel

While you ponder the Dinkle family, consider your own family, and the stuff that you or other relatives have stored away somewhere, in boxes or tubs or file cabinets, perhaps in the attic or basement or junk room, perhaps in a rented storage facility.   And remind yourself:  it isn’t merely “stuff”; it is, in fact, archives.  And these archives tell stories not just about your family (although I can guarantee you that your family members did marvelous things, accomplished much, survived tumultuous times), but they also tell stories about places, cities, time periods.  Your family archives are the evidence of what happened, what it was like — they remind us of worlds long gone.  (Consider this:  even our own childhoods happened in worlds long gone now, right?)  


        In 2018, I showed the photos of the Dinkle/Bunton archives to Christine Ridarsky (City Historian) and Michelle Finn (Deputy City Historian) at the Central Library, and, shortly thereafter, introduced them to Karen and Jerry Bunton.  Christine and Michelle were thrilled and fascinated.  Since then, Michelle has worked with Karen and Jerry to understand the artifacts, and to clarify the details and the people’s relations to each other, all leading to the current Exhibit, and soon Christine will consider how to store and preserve much of the Dinkle family archives for future historians.    
Jerry and Karen Bunton at Lake Ontario in 2014


Many thanks to all of the good people — the Dinkles and the Buntons and your relatives and my relatives — who lived and who left behind evidence of their lives! 

Thank you to Karen Dinkle Bunton and Jerry Bunton for lovingly shepherding their family collection and for all their ongoing efforts to remember their relatives.

And a great, big thank you to the historians, librarians, and archivists at the Central Library at Rundel for presenting to us the Dinkle Family, everyday people who were part of history.   The exhibit was curated by the Local History Exhibits Team:  Michelle Finn, Emily Morry (who has written a lovely blog post on the exhibit which you can read at Local History ROCS!), Veronica Shaw, and (formerly) Amy Pepe. Corinne Clar (Library Graphics) created the design, and additional support was provided by Arianna Ackerman (Library Graphics), Christine Ridarsky and the library's Local History & Genealogy staff, and Wheatland Town Historian, Barb Chapman.   

        Bravo!  Bravo!  


        Go see it — today!  (You don’t want me to badger you about it, now do you?  Because I will.)  

Tuesday, July 23, 2019

Selfie Autobiography -- Abstract Portraiture at the MAG

Well, let's begin with a simply humorous caricature -- May 5th of 2019, Bob Jordan (my husband) and I, on the Massachusetts Turnpike, on our way home from a visit with my daughter and her family.  
Left:  Bob Jordan and Lisa.
Right:  Lisa in the NYS Thruway restroom, surprised and pleased with the fresh flowers on the sink.
We weren't even trying to look funny, well, maybe Bob was (because he is really funny), but I doctored the photo, overwhelming it with some color and contrast.  
And there we are -- two happy, goofy old people.  

Why shouldn't we all have a hearty laugh at ourselves? 
Laugh at us; laugh with us; it's all good.

    But now for a little science fiction, in the form of modernism.  At the end of April, I went to the Memorial Art Gallery with my good friend, Paula Marchese.  And a trip to the MAG always means a selfie in the blue glass (Josiah McElheny's "Blue Prism Painting I," 2014).      
                               

     Gazing at this selfie, for the purposes of this blog, has been a treat because I noticed what I hadn't noticed before, that the mirrors within this art cause pieces of me to appear here and there.  
     On the left, there are my hands around the camera, inverted from the way they are at center.  And in the center, there I am, like an angel (or Iago perhaps), hovering over Paula's shoulder, still clinging to my camera, the instrument of vision.  And there I am at far right, with my glasses, another instrument of vision, peeking out from the top of my head.  And look above in the center lines, and also at the corners -- my hands, always cradling the camera, dot the blue landscape.  
            
      Cubism, anyone?  What began as a simple selfie, turns into abstract portraiture, and I, lucky girl, become the subject of a cubist interpretation, in an art piece reminding us of a blue period, and reflecting art's past with the stained glass (on the right above) reflected from the opposite wall (I think).  

      How thrilling.   I imagine that I've been a subject for a Picasso painting, without ever having known Picasso.  (And not having known Picasso is not such a bad thing, for those who knew him did not always fare well in the aftermath.)  

     The places I have been, the things I have seen.  You too -- go to the Memorial Art Gallery.  Slow down and gaze.  To gaze is to see.  

      I'll leave you with some earlier visits to the MAG, with the ubiquitous selfies in the blue glass mirror art:  
Left:  in August of 2018, with my cousin Barbara
Right: in January of 2016, the Carl Peters Exhibition on display behind me



Monday, July 22, 2019

Selfie Autobiography: What the Selfies tell us



    In my last post (yesterday), I admitted to having become a rabid selfie-taker, and I also committed to posting some selfies every day, going backwards in time, and seeing what kinds of stories they tell -- perhaps creating a kind of Selfie Autobiography.

Lisa's female lineage:  great-great grandmother, great-grandmother, grandmother,
mother, me, daughter
    Selfies are, in fact, self-portraits, aren't they?  (Okay, it's true, sometimes they are merely, "look at me, look at me, look at me." It is not this aspect of selfies that fascinate me.)

   Consider this:  My selfies (and I presume yours too) fall into genres -- shadow selfies, merging-with-the-art selfies, seen-in-reflections-of-buildings selfies, abstract portraiture.

   And this:  the setting of selfies -- the background, the place -- is often more important than the visual they offer of the person.

Lisa in 2009 in Worcester, MA
    Consider the photo I posted in my previous blog, the first photo I dared to take of myself, a leap of faith at that time.  I placed myself in the corner of the photo and made sure that the living room was prominent.  I knew exactly why I was doing this -- all of the objects in my living room were expressions of new interests which were taking me in a different place than I had been.  In this photo, I'm not only telling the viewer, "here's what I look like at 51 years of age," but also, "I am a flea marketer; I like vintage objects which tell stories of the past; I love art, and I am just starting to love to paint."

    The following selfies, all taken in June of this year (2019), tell a story about that month's Rochester experiences.  And this is what is most essential about my selfies -- they are autobiographical; they are a map, a diary of what I have done here in this city which is most important to me.  Rochester is my fresh start, my second life.  Rochester is where my relatives, the Dossenbachs, lived, where they walked, where they played, where they laughed and cried.  Everything I do in Rochester has some relation to them.

6/19 Lisa and Kahlua at Ontario Beach Park

    Here is a shadow selfie, my dog Kahlua and I at Ontario Beach Park.  The Dossenbachs and their bands played at Ontario Beach Park from 1902 and throughout the next four decades.  In my book, I will tell many marvelous stories of their times in this park, back when it was known as the "Coney Island of the West."

    Above is another shadow selfie, a video.   I am in Fairport, a village on the Erie Canal, with a fascinating history.  Of course, the Dossenbachs played here (they played everywhere!).  In the video, I am walking towards the Perinton Historical Society, where I gave a talk last March, and where I intend to look more closely at their fascinating exhibits and a gorgeous Carl Peters mural.

06/2016 Lisa at the
Perinton Historical Society
    I also used the restroom in the Perinton Historical Society, and this is another selfie genre -- restroom photos.  These are great, because all restrooms have mirrors, but they are also tricky, because you can only get the photos if there is no one else in the restroom (otherwise, it is decidedly weird).  The Perinton Historical Society restroom is a treasure in and of itself, with a gorgeous hanging lamp and a vintage toilet paper holder; I've attached these to the selfie, for your viewing pleasure.

06/2016 Lisa reflected at bottom
of photo in the Powers Building
   Earlier in June, you could find me getting a tour of the Powers Building, where my Dossenbachs gave concerts and played for important meetings and dinners -- here I am reflected in the glass of a framed photo.  Now this is an unplanned selfie in that I only discovered afterwards (and, in that sense, it perhaps doesn't really qualify as a selfie at all, but then, there I am in the photo, anyways).

   Jazz Fest in June, and Bob Jordan and I were downtown.  I can prove it because of the photos (below) I took of us reflected in the glass of buildings .  (And for the life of me, I can't remember the name of this important building -- please tell me in your comments.)

06/2016 Lisa reflected in a downtown Rochester building
-- the insert at the bottom enlarges the Lisa part,
which is seen in the photo just above the right side of the insert 





06/2016 Lisa reflected on the right
and Bob on the left
during Jazz Fest downtown Rochester







 





      So this was part of my life last June, as viewed through the selfies I took, a month given towards dogwalking, history-searching, and music.   It is a wonderful life, to be sure, for this lucky and grateful local history researcher and writer, living day by day, in this place we call Rochester.

    More tomorrow.
 

Sunday, July 21, 2019

A Facebook Beginning

    The story, as I've always thought it to be true, is that I never liked having my picture taken.  As an adult, I mean.  Avoided the photo opportunity, and hated myself in the picture when it couldn't be avoided.  Avoided the camera.

   That is, until digital photography, with its ease of picture-taking, so inexpensive.   At that point, I avoided being in the photo by becoming the picture-taker, being behind the camera.  A way to see the world.  A way to be in the room without being noticed or called upon for that dreaded small talk.

   When facebook came around, which, for me, was in 2009, selfies came with it.  What a horrid idea, I thought, how ego-driven, how vain.   But, then, I "friended" (how strange it was then to use this word in this way, but how natural it is today) a former college photography teacher, who couldn't quite remember me, and wanted to see what I looked like.  Why don't I post a photo of myself, he casually suggested.

   Alone, in my living room, I froze.  A photo of myself.  Well, even if I was inclined to do so, which I was not, I simply had no recent photos of myself.

   But, daily on Facebook, people were posting their selfies -- eating food, waiting in line at the movie theater, partying with friends, sitting on the couch with their dog or cat.  Daily, I gazed at these photos people had taken of themselves and shared with others.

   And, so, I found myself doing this extraordinary thing -- taking a photo of myself.  Planning the photo, thinking about the lighting, and my hair, and should I wear my reading glasses?  Turning the camera around and aiming it at me.

   And, then, this extraordinary thing happened.  I liked the photo.   It was me, this is who I was, me in my 50s in my living room.  I posted it to my facebook.  My first selfie ever (or so I thought, but that's another story).

   Well, that turned out to be a Pandora's Box.  I began taking selfies here and there, eventually everywhere.  Mirrors, glass, reflections in puddles -- there were selfie opportunities wherever I went.  Selfies are our "Kilroy was here" expressions.  We are here!  We are living day to day!  We are not ashamed.

   Today, I had this idea.  An autobiography by selfie.  What do the accumulated selfies say about me?  Am I really there?

   So, every day, for as many days as it takes, until there are no more left, I will post a selfie.  And, just for the fun of it, I'm going to go chronologically backwards in time, starting with today, and then finding myself here, there, in the yesterdays of yesterday.

   It's going to take a while, I warn you, so I will also occasionally post the Local History stories too.

   And so we begin at this beginning.  Below is the selfie that I posted that day in 2009 . . .

Lisa in 2009 in Worcester, MA




. . . along with some selfies which I took this morning (before I thought up this blog posting).

   Here's who I am.   Here's my barbaric yawp.

Above Center:  2019-07-21 Lisa reflected in a puddle in the parking lot of Mel's Diner
Above left and right:  2019-07-21 Lisa reflected in the car door

Monday, June 3, 2019

The Beginning Of It All

Lisa, age 19
Perhaps this was the beginning.  In 1976, I, a 19-year-old girl from Waterloo, NY, influenced by the TV Miniseries Roots and the national desire for genealogy that it stimulated, walked into the Genealogy Room on the 2nd floor of Rundel Library in downtown Rochester.  I was shy, and I didn’t know how to begin.  There, by the window, was a busy librarian, with books and papers cradled in one arm, while the other straightened out materials on a table. 
Rundel Library

I approached her and said in a tiny, high-pitched voice, “Umm, I’m just starting a genealogy, can you help me?”  She did not look at me or interrupt her work, but quickly said, “Last name?”  

I answered, my voice even higher-pitched, because I was unsure how to say it, “Dossenbach?”  She stopped immediately, looked directly at me, “The conductor?”  

        I replied, “I think.”  

Yes, perhaps that was the beginning.

Over the next year, I collected genealogical info, and got a clear idea of what the librarian meant by her question, “The conductor?”  Theodore and Hermann and Otto  Dossenbach, my great-grandfather and great-granduncles, were famous musicians and conductors in late 19th and early 20th century Rochester.  There were two Rochester History papers about them; there were photos and orchestra programs at Rundel. 

But after a short time, all this got pushed aside as I plunged into living life, with all its surges and ups and downs.  Throughout the ensuing  years, while I was married and raised two children, I studied biographies and storytelling, got some college degrees, wrote my Master’s Thesis on writing autobiographically, taught English and Literature at area colleges.   And all along, while my mother told stories about what she remembered of the early days in Rochester, I wrote and wrote and wrote, about this and about that, in notebooks and stray pages.  I often thought to myself that I should get back to the genealogy.  But between my initial foray into the Rochester Library when I was 19 and the summer of 2013 when I finally decided to return to my Dossenbachs, 36 years flew by.  

So maybe that moment in 1976 was not the beginning.  

Maybe the beginning was that summer in 2013, when I sold my house, left my job, took the small inheritance I’d gotten from my mother who had passed away the previous year, and moved to Rochester, to my great-grandmother Nellie Dossenbach’s house, and began my book about the Dossenbachs.  

After first arriving, I allowed myself, and my dogs, to wander all through Rochester, walking and walking and walking, staring in awe at the houses where they lived and the streets where they walked, and photographing and documenting my own experience of this glorious city.  I fell in love with the City of Rochester.  

George Eastman Museum
I visited the George Eastman House and discovered thousands of photos and letters to sift through, and I sat in Mr. Eastman’s living room during the Sunday Musicales and imagined that I was listening to Hermann’s and Theodore’s Quintette, which played there, in Mr. Eastman’s home, for his grand parties and twice-weekly musicales from 1905 - 1919.   I visited Rundel Library’s Local History Room again, and this time they had three scrapbooks of Hermann Dossenbach’s, donated by his daughter in 1980.  I also visited U of R’s Rush Rhees Library, Eastman Theater, Eastman School of Music, Sibley Library, Damascus Temple, and Mount Hope Cemetery where the Dossenbachs are buried.  I bought hundreds of local history books and memoirs at library book sales and flea markets, many of which mentioned my relatives.  I joined writing groups and began to consider how to package information/stories for listeners.  It was exhilarating and daunting all at the same time.  My plan to spend a year on this project jumped to two years, then three, four, five, and now here in my sixth year, I am hoping to finish the book soon.   

Eventually, I realized that the story is not just about my family, the Dossenbachs, but it is a much larger story, about the City of Rochester itself, its growth, its promise, its burgeoning musical scene.  The Dossenbachs conducted and played in orchestras and bands in the decades before and after the turn of the 20th century, before most people experienced recorded sound, when music was “live,” and when all events had music.  

They performed in Corinthian Hall, Convention Hall, Lyceum Theater, the Powers Building, Cook’s Opera house, to name just a few.  They played their music in the living rooms of the wealthy; they taught Susan B. Anthony’s niece and Emily Sibley-Watson’s son; they were friends with David Hochstein.  
Dossenbach/Rochester Orchestra
Conducted by Hermann Dossenbach
Gosh, they also played in the grand department stores of the times — Sibley, Lindsay & Curr, McCurdy & Norwell’s, Duffy-Powers; and in the grand hotels dotting the shores of Lake Ontario and Irondequoit Bay at Manitou Beach, Grand View, Island Cottage, Ontario Beach Park, Summerville, Windsor Beach, Sea Breeze, and Glen Haven.   Rochesterians heard the Dossenbachs in Highland and Maplewood and Genesee Valley Parks, and in street dances where they played on a portable bandstand.

The Rochester Park Band
Directed by Theodore Dossenbach
The musical Dossenbachs entertained at the Auto Shows, the Lilac and Song & Light and River Festivals, for the orphans on Orphans Day, at the glorious Rochester Shakespeare Pageant with over 3,000 performers.  Throughout the summer and fall, they were in all the parades, celebrating workers, and holidays, mourning those soldiers who would not return from WWI, and then celebrating those who did return.   

The Dossenbachs — my Dossenbachs — provided the soundtrack to people’s lives.  Their story is the story of the City of Rochester in those exciting, and turbulent, decades before and after the turn of the twentieth century.

And it occurs to me:  Perhaps the beginning is here, right now, in my mind, with the idea as it gels and forms and becomes more and more clear.  

Will this “beginning” keep shifting as I learn more and more?  

Well, to begin a story, the storyteller simple chooses a beginning, determines where to start.  Of course, there is, in fact, a beginning long before that beginning, and one before that.  It goes on and on.  

Suspension Bridge and Village, Niagara Falls, NY
But, right now, I’m going to choose this particular beginning.  It is the year 1872, and there is a family of German immigrants living in a little cottage at Suspension Bridge, Niagara Falls, NY.  They are poor; they are musicians; and, at this very moment where we begin, a little boy named Otto, who is very talented with his violin, is about to be discovered by a music conductor and teacher from the City of Rochester, and the family will then be persuaded to move to Rochester.


And the rest is history, and it will be told.

Wednesday, March 13, 2019

March 12’s of Yesteryear: Family Legacies and Rough Patches


Yesterday was March 12th.  But with the relentless movement of time, yesterday is already gone, as are the many March 12’s of yesteryear.  
33 Rundel Park,
Duane Haskell's home 

On one of those March 12th’s, eighty years ago, that is to say, March 12 of 1939, a man named Duane Haskell sat down and wrote a letter.  It was a thoughtful letter, kind but firm, from a teacher to a student’s mother.

The letter was written to my mother’s mother, Adeline Dossenbach Wheeler, about my mother, Melley Wheeler, who was 11 years old at that time.  In 1939, Mr. Haskell was a full-time music teacher at East High School, and was also Melley’s private violin teacher.* 
Above: East High School
Below: Charles Carroll School #46

The letter suggests that Melley was having a difficult year at the Charles Carroll School #46 (this is verified by a report card from that year), and that her teachers feel she is suffering from nervousness, and that they consider the problem to be enormous.  It sounds as if the teachers have advised Adeline that Melley should discontinue her musical studies.  

Adeline was worried, and so she consulted Mr. Haskell to seek his advice.  He, in turn, wrote her this letter.  
Duane Haskell in 1926

Mr. Haskell soothingly suggested that the problem was not “nearly as complex or enormous as the people at school have led you to believe.”  He advised that Melley should continue with her music, but cut back on her piano, and also stop playing the violin at events outside the home.  Mr. Haskell offered the common sense that Melley “will do well to do the things that she enjoys most” and that “with spring at hand, more out-of-doors sports will help.”  Furthermore, Mr. Haskell recommended that everyone around Melley should stop the constant discussion of her nervousness, as “she probably worries about it and that is bad for her.”  
Melley Wheeler, early 1940s

What a relief this must have been for Adeline!  

Often, our current worries are a result of things that happened long ago.  To better understand why the possibility of Melley being nervous was especially troublesome to Adeline, especially if the nervousness was connected with her violin and piano studies, we can look to the past.   

In this case, there was definitely a family legacy.  Adeline had an uncle, Otto Dossenbach, who was a successful child musical prodigy in Rochester in the 1870s and 1880s.  He was known as “Rochester’s Wonderful Boy Violinist,” and he played all over Rochester, throughout New York State, as well as in other states and Canada.  
Otto Dossenbach's Press Notices, 1870s-1880s

Otto was successful, which was certainly a result of his being pushed hard at both his violin studies and also his performances which began when he was 11 years old.  By 1889, at just 27 years old, Otto was exhausted; he was suddenly pronounced “insane,” and spent the rest of his life as an inmate in the Rochester State Hospital until his death in 1936.  

Would Adeline have been thinking of Uncle Otto when she worried about her daughter Melley?  Called “Crazy Otto” by some family members, he was certainly the stuff of family stories.  

My mother remembered that her mother, Adeline, used to visit a relative in the State Hospital, while the kids waited in the car.  Perhaps as Melley displayed signs of extreme nervousness, Otto’s story loomed large on Adeline’s mind.  
1939 Melley, Theodore,
and Barbara Wheeler

Indeed, the past is always close behind, but there was most certainly a very different reason why 11-year-old Melley was having a difficult year.  The Wheelers were having problems in 1939 which must have affected all of the children — Melley, her older sister Barbara, and her younger brother Theodore.   

The Wheeler family lived with Adeline’s mother, Nellie Eldridge Dossenbach, ever since Nellie’s husband (Adeline’s father) Theodore had passed away in 1924.  In 1939, the year of our letter, Nellie filed suit against her daughter Adeline, attempting to take back the deeds to two properties which she had signed over to her daughter some years earlier.  The properties were 28 Upton Park, the family homestead where Nellie had happily lived with her husband and daughter for two decades, and also the cottage at Conesus Lake (899 West Lake Road), which Nellie and Theodore had acquired in about 1904 (and which stayed in the family until 1970).  
Nellie Eldridge Dossenbach

Nellie wanted them back.  In 1939, the Wheeler family was now living at 415 Yarmouth Road, in the Browncroft neighborhood, and I suspect that Adeline and her husband Marvin were preparing to sell the homestead of 28 Upton Park.  Perhaps this is what spurred Nellie to fight for the properties.  It was a nasty fight, which ultimately caused Nellie to move out of the house; the legal drama didn’t end until Nellie’s death, four years later, in 1943.  
415 Yarmouth Road

The Dossenbachs were well-known in Rochester, and this story hit the papers.  Surely, it was humiliating, and, surely, there had been much arguing in the family which led up to it.  And, surely, much of this was kept secret from the children (as was the custom then), who sensed trouble and anger and sadness, and didn’t know why.  

All families have rough patches, this is true.  Theirs, yours, mine — it’s part of our journey through life.  Melley remembered how her grandmother Nellie used to sew the children’s clothing, creating matching dresses for the two girls.  How confusing it must have been for the children to see their grandma leave and never come back.  

It is no surprise, then, that Melley’s nervousness spilled into her life at school.   But Melley was fortunate to have a teacher on her side, a man who  believed in her, and a man who exhibited a great deal of common sense.  

I’ll bet that Mr. Haskell saved Melley that year.  

What did he write?  Well, see for yourself.  Here is the letter that Duane Haskell wrote to a little girl’s mother on a March 12th of 1939.   Thank you, Mr. Haskell!  



*_______________
Note: the letter, as well as a Report Card from 1939, spells her name “Melly,” but it is, in fact, “Melley,” which is the spelling I use here.