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Old 05-11-2005, 06:31 PM   #1
mcdude
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Default 5/20 - Another New Chapter Added! - "Winnipesaukee - A Potpourri" - E. Palmer Clarke






LONG ISLAND FOLKS
Chapter 23.
(For My Mother)

Long Island, now, is essentially an island of woods. The island road, from the bridge at Moultonboro Neck to the Greene House at its southern end, winds beneath beautiful beeches and birches and oaks and pines - and skirts, during its three or four miles, but few cleared acres. These are the farms that once were among the most productive in New Hampshire. But times change, and the farms today, where planting is done at all, are only subsistence farms. Even these are for the benefit, largely, of those who, like myself, are summer visitors, and the old farmhouses , or the sites of those that have gone with the years, echo each summer with the laughter of extra-state visitors, some of whom are enjoying Winnipesaukee for the first time; others, who have been lured there year after year by her charms. It is not to the road and the cleared acres that my mind turns when I think of Long Island. Rather it is too the magnificent woods, first growth timber largely, with a wildness that I enjoy, the sort of wildness that from being a city dweller fifty weeks in the year I find a bit eerie when, just at the dusk, an owl, stirring in a tree for his night’s rounds, demands “Who-oo-oo?” Or when the inimitable shriek of the loon sounds in the cove close at hand. Here, too, the drumming of the woodcock, or the sudden snapping of twigs under the feet of a young deer impress the uninitiated with a new sense of the values of things, and the primitive things, if one is of that sort, become the first things - things that through a winter’s waiting for this holiday, will bring him back again, holding out, so to speak, like Oliver Twist, his bowl for more.

Such should be the reaction from any holiday worth having. I know two men, brothers, whose annual holiday, usually of two weeks’ duration, consists of getting into an automobile and driving 4,000 miles in the two weeks, coming home more in need of the vacation than when they set out. On the other hand, I know two men, brothers also, who spent a like length of time on Lake Sunapee, fishing every day and only fishing. From their tent to their boat, day after day, for two weeks, without asking a question as to who lived here or there and already proposing that next year they try Squam because the fishing is better.

I fished, too, at Winnipesaukee. At least I rowed about four miles into the lake and sat there with a line overboard while the fish enjoyed the frogs’ legs and the hellgrammites and the crawfish I had placed on my hook, But I am going back to Long Island because there is a piece of rock in the driveway that I suspect was brought down by the glacier from the Laurentian Mountains. I couldn’t break it with my sledgehammer last year, and I want to try it again this year. I am going back because we found three queer lizards in the punky wood of an old oak stump, and I want to plant with checkerberry and rattlesnake plantain and partridge berry and princes’ pine and moss - my New Hampshire in New Haven.

And more than all of these, I want to meet the folks. Long Island folks of the ‘30s and the ‘50s and the ‘80s and the early 1900s - those people who built the first houses on the island. They will not be on the road, unless at dusk I shall find them there, but I know that even at high noon I’ll see them in the woods. I have met them this winter - in a general way - and now I want to know them better. Uriah, for example, I know will not be in the road - he must have taken to the woods during the summer boarder era, and I feel very certain that that Virginia car speeding down the road to Harry Brown’s hotel did not encourage his emergence. Uriah was not the sort to take a chance.

There is a story of Uriah that I like. And I think, in spite of the story, that I would enjoy him, for there is a touch of something very fundamental in it. Uriah, it seems, owned a farm halfway down the island road - a good farm, with high ground commanding a splendid view of the lake, and the Ossipees to the northeast. Doctor Smith, looking for a small farm for himself, persuaded Uriah to sell a few acres from his farm, and, agreed on price and terms, the doctor gave Uriah his cheque. A winter passed, and when, in the Spring, the good doctor arrived to superintend the building of his own farmhouse, Uriah approached him and inquired whether he would be able during the next month to pay the note he had given for the land. “Note!” exclaimed the doctor, “why you - “ and I am informed that a cavalry sergeant would have blushed. “That was no note, that was a cheque! And you had better get it into a bank soon or there will be no money left to pay it with.” The cheque went into Laconia that morning, and it may have been to make up the lost interest that Uriah took to selling worms for fishing to the summer boarders at Island Home, at the rate of two for one cent, the fisherman to do his own digging - and Uriah to count.


Advertisement courtesy of the RG Archives.

The tall, lean man, bronzed with summer sun and winter wind, with one brown eye and one blue, and a kindly light in both, though one is glass, I shall meet in my woods, carrying a gun, will be Robert Lamprey - less a farmer than a hunter, in spite of his prize corn. For with nine* children to feed he most often take to the wood, or to the lake. (*I may have underestimated Robert. One of his nieces this summer mentioned his twenty-one children. E.P.C.) Robert seems to have had a rare sense of fun, shrewd Yankee fun, wholesome and hearty. Bald as a ball, he wears his wig - his new black one. And even the glass eye laughs as he tells of the sale of his old brown one to Sam Jones. It would not fit Sam as it should, and with a native thrift, rather than admit he had been bested, Same wore that wig for years, tied to his head with a starched brown shoestring which passed beneath his chin, ludicrous in the sharp contrast it made with his white beard.

And if I meet a lady in the woods it will probably be Arvilla Lamprey, Robert’s sister-in-law, the lady who on August 1, 1872 wrote from Long Island the letter to her daughter I have on my desk before me. “Our folks,” she writes, “commenced haying here yesterday. Horace and Willie and John Hayes are helping them. Horace has done his haying, all but his meadow. Ben helped him.”

She goes on “I will now have a history of my journey home. After leaving you at the Depot at North Reading I got to South Lawrence all right. Stopped there till twenty minutes past one and then took the train to Dover. I asked the conductor if I should have to change cars between there and Alton Bay and he said no, if I would take the back car of all, which I did when I got to Exeter and that carried me to Alton Bay. I then took the Mount Washington and expected to get home soon, but when we got to Wolfeboro we found that the Lake (The Lady of the Lake - another steamer) had left a large party in the forenoon and had promised to come and get them at three o’clock but did not come, and so the Mount Washington took them to the Weirs and by that means didn’t go up in this broad (to the west of Long Island) but said I could come down in the morning with them and they would whistle for someone to came after me. I got into Center Harbor to Lettice’s (her sister-in-law) about dark. I thought it would be wet getting out into the little boat the next morning because it looked like rain, and so about seven o’clock I started out and went down to Horace’s afoot.” (Five miles from Center Harbor to her son’s home on Moultonboro Neck.)

These, then, are the folks I shall meet in the woods on Long Island. How interesting it would be to go out in the Duck Trap with Uncle Robert in that queer boat of his, piled high with brush to resemble a small wooded rock, from which he shoots duck for dinner, and loons for sport and to show his prowess. Or better yet, since some of it would taste so fine this minute, what sport it would be to watch John Brown’s wife making her famous cheese. There is a Lorelei on Long Island - she is continuously combing her golden hair and singing her golden song, and I am drifting - too slowly - down the weeks to her shores.”

Poem by E. Palmer Clarke

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Old 05-17-2005, 05:34 PM   #2
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Default Chapter Two

A NOTE ON LONG ISLAND
Chapter Two
(For Henry E. Allen)

"When I returned from a vacation in New Hampshire, filled with enthusiasm at the things I saw there and the people I met, and told how I intended buying a place on Winnipesaukee, I met with varied response. By far the most frequently asked question was, “Why go so far from home, especially since, for a while at least, you can go there for only two or three weeks in the year? It’s too far for week-ends unless a holiday falls so that you have three days instead of only Saturday and Sunday.” there were other questions, and not a few slighting remarks when I explained that my place-to-be is on an island in the lake, a half mile from the main road which serves the other folks on the island, remote from electricity, and likely enough, unapproachable in winter. How explain?

There is the solitude of our island lodge, where our nearest neighbor is more than a mile away, and yet, where on separate afternoons we entertained, at one time seven, at another three, and at still another two, guests who thought enough of us to make the trip. All around us, for the property we had consists of seventy-five acres of woods, was the wildness that made some atavistic strain in my blood rejoice. In spite of warnings that we would be visited by porcupines and skunks not one appeared. And on a trip of walking the bounds we found a colony of chipmunks, those delightful red ground squirrels that would have been, perhaps, as bad news to Robert Lamprey in the days when, a mile or two down the island road, he was raising prize corn on his acres, as skunks would have been to us. We found great amusement in their antics.

There are the trees; the pines, the oaks, the beeches, and especially the birch. No woodsman ever swung his axe on these acres, nor, from the boulders, left in disarray on top of the ground and just beneath its surface ty the retreat of the great ice blanket that scooped the bowl of Winnipesaukee, had any farmer ever toiled within our bounds.

There is the view from Harry Rivers’ farm at Tip-Top, where the eye feasts the brain with a gorgeous panorama of water, woods and hills from sunrise to sunrise again. , Than here, the stars were never brighter, nor was there need of thinking of them as a great electric sign in the Heavens proclaiming the glory that is God’s. We accepted them for what they are, and for the joy they brought us.

There are the breezes that blow through the pines and the birch at night, urging sleep, and the heavier winds, almost of gale velocity, that sweep down suddenly from Belknap and across the lake, transforming its surface from the calm of a mill pond to the intense fury of the Atlantic in an instant. Then, just before going to bed, we go out to the shore, and with our flashlights pick out the whitecaps that presage the storm of tomorrow. And in the morning we are awakened by the sun instead of the rain we had expected, and up from the surface of the lake the mist lifts slowly, under the sun’s persuasion, disclosing suddenly a great blue heron on the far side of our cove, the leg of an unfortunate frog dangling from his bill like a ludicrous cigar from the mouth of a toothless old man.

There are the frogs in Little Pond. Amiable creatures, these, and as amusing. They seem thoroughly to enjoy our visits to their haunts, even if only for the excuse they give for them to dive with a chirp or a croak from the lily pads on which we, many times, have not even noticed them. And a second or two later they climb out of the water to another pad, a little more distant, and blink at us with a sly, amused expression that is almost an invitation to sit with them on their favorite pads. Would that we could!

A neat old Library of Congress photo circa 1906 dug up by RG showing the Mt. Washington and the Lamprey at the Long Island Wharf.

There is the discovery on a walk through the woods, of a patch of rattlesnake plantain, that daintily scented orchid, greenish white, whose infrequent appearance under pines and oaks is a reward to him who finds it. I have a dozen or so in my pool garden at home, but here, unexpected, we find masses of them almost, it seems, too large to be real. Here, too, we find the lady’s slipper. Driven to hide in remote and deep woods by the progression of cities in their native places, or eradicated by thoughtless people who see only the flowers and not the result of picking them wantonly, it was necessary to drive more than a hundred miles to find those plants that blossom in May and June in my pool garden. Arbutus, rarest of all spring flowers in our Connecticut woods, here forms a carpet for us as it must have done for the Indians who came here many years ago to bury their dead. And here, too, in great array, are many colored mushrooms and toad stools, curious things, and that ghost of flowers, the Indian Pipe, How many of our city dwellers know its queer waxen flower that hands its head, ashamed of its life as a parasite?

But the more practical than I, the more gregarious - is there a lure for him here, too? The petty politician, who spends his every evening over a cigar discussing with other petty politicians our eventual emergence from our alphabetical daze, would not like it. The psuedo-economist, whose concern, whose concern with the administration’s vacillations to the right and left must be discussed before an appreciative audience to applaud his wisdom would be bored. The would-be sophisticate, the want-to-be bohemian, the wish-I-were cosmopolitan, none of these would stay over night, ears strained for the loon and the last good night of the frogs. Perhaps, in days to come, they will be there, for there is a plan on foot for a golf course and a large hotel on the island. But even then I shall be quite safe, for my woods are away from the road, and I suspect that those who come into them will be only those I shall want to see."

Any requests for the next chapter to be posted?

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Old 05-18-2005, 07:01 AM   #3
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Default Consider This A Formal Request

Post away McD!
Judging by the number of hits, I'm not the only one reading.
What were they thinking? Shooting loons for sport!
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Old 05-18-2005, 07:49 AM   #4
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McDude, where can I find this book? Do you know if it would be in a library? I think I would like to read the book.
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Old 05-18-2005, 08:12 AM   #5
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Default Potpourrri

You should be able to find this in an area library.
This is one of those expensive books to find. At current, the price range is $58 - $75. Still interested?
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Old 05-18-2005, 08:25 AM   #6
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Yes, but I will look for it in a library first.
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Old 05-18-2005, 08:34 AM   #7
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Default Hi Propeller

I was able to scoop it up on e-bay for a fairly reasonable price. This was the only listing I was able to find on-line and it is not currently available.

Winnipesaukee;: A Potpourri
Title: Winnipesaukee;: A Potpourri
Author: Edmund Palmer Clarke
Book Type: Unknown Binding
Published By: The Record press, inc.]
Published on: 1935
Availability: This item is currently not available.
Price: --price not specified--


You may want to inquire directly though. Here's their WEBSITE.

I know RG has another source which I will not divulge. If you ask her real nice she just might help you out! I have scoured the public libraries in Laconia, Alton and Wolfeboro for historical lake stuff and I can tell you that it is not in any of their catalogues.

Good Luck! McD
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Old 05-18-2005, 08:57 AM   #8
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Red face Not At The Local Libaries

I checked for it online at the Gilford, Laconia and Wolfeboro Libraries. No luck. So McDude, it's up to you to post the whole book! It's only 152 pages or so.
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Old 05-18-2005, 10:35 AM   #9
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McDude, Rattlesnake Gal, thanks for your help. Maybe a larger library will have it, I'll have to check.
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Old 05-19-2005, 10:29 AM   #10
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Default Found it!!

Ha, Ha, I found it in another library. I will begin requesting a loan to my town library tomorrow. McDude, Rattlesnake Gal, thanks for your help.
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Old 05-20-2005, 06:19 AM   #11
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Default An Old House - Chapter Four

AN OLD HOUSE
Chapter 4
(For Alice B. Glover)

“One of the most fascinating things about the Winnipesaukee region, about all New Hampshire, too, for that matter, but particularly about the lake, is the number of old houses one passes while driving or walking. Silent evidence of the integrity with which their builders built, of the soundness of the wood they chose, of the painstaking care and respect not only they themselves, but their children, and, largely, their children’s children had for property, these houses today present sound roof-trees and solid sills, And those transients who, having heard the siren call of New Hampshire, are buying these old houses for summer homes appreciate those early builders and their careful sons.

This is not to say that all old house in New Hampshire are sound. But one drives for many miles in the lakes region and in the hill country before finding a deserted cellar hold or a house left alone to tumble in, a pitiful dead thing, or dying, like a leper. Nor it is a great distance from New Hampshire, in a sister New England state, that the roadside is dotted with just such forlorn spectacles. We were discussing that the other day, and I suggested as the answer that perhaps these deserted houses were too near to industrial center, that having found the soil too unyielding, too filled with rocks, that the early owners had heeded the call of industry and gone away from agriculture to machines. Up here, where industry is largely confined fo four or five cities, the vicissitudes and rigors of the climate hardened the moral fibre of the people, and while the life of a farmer was not easy, and the ownership of acreage entailed in addition to raising his crop, the eternal wrestling with granite rocks and boulders cast up by the frost, and the everlasting fight to keep the forest down in his tillable acres, he stuck to his plow longer, and his sons and grandsons followed him in his house, building on when new members of his family demanded the room, repairing the inroads that our northern winters made, until today, most of the old houses are a monument to their families, and a joy to those who, while appreciative of modern conveniences yet cherish these sign-posts along America’s journey forward.

I am minded as I think of old houses, of one on a hill on Long Island. It is situated off the road, sufficiently far so that the dust in the summer is not a problem, in the center of a meadow sweet with buttercups and white-weed and Queen Anne’s lace and milk-weed; a meadow where we found gay butterflies and humming bees that August afternoon its delightful chatelaine took us there. On us, as we stood on its porch, the Ossipee smiled, and from all about it Winnipesaukee sparkled in a blue surpassed not even by the sky from which she took it. Beside it, towering majestically, so that it seemed the highest living thing on the island, and the most noble, was as magnificent an elm as I have ever seen. Peace, contentment, quiet, all tat the soul most wished for, seemed to put out their arms from every window, begging one to come in, or to loaf in pleasure about the grounds outside. Only my car was an anachronism, everything else belonged, most especially our hostess.

And after we had feasted to surfeit outside, we went in. One having been there will never forget the sense fo home about the place, a sense that no city house, no matter how long it may have been lived in, will ever give. For here, within as without, everything belongs. There is the great central chimney, serving three fireplaces; the long rows of books beside the fire in the living-room; the huge beds, in which at night one must sink to rest and a sleep more filled with Peace than ever elsewhere. And if, in making her home here, my gracious hostess replace the drab old bricks in the fireplaces with quartz crystals gathered in the fields about the house, who shall say the spirt of this house is harmed? For surely, at night when the flames in these fireplaces leap upward in a thousand facets to simulate the jewels Ali Baba found in his cave, surely no one then could wish back the red bricks.

Beyond the living room is the carriage shed, a part of the house, whose rafters are hung with bats, They too, belong. And in its loft, a confine too small to permit its display, is a loon, remnant of the early days of home industry whose products, rough to be sure, were more than serviceable, And on the doorsill, whence one in the morning greets the rising sun, is nailed a compass, brass studs pointing true north. How long have they been there I do not know, but like the house itself, they have weathered winters and summers, lo, these many years.

I am told that when winter comes, and Winnipesaukee is frozen, that the smile of the great spirit yet remains, that from this hill and from this house it sparkles with a different radiance. I am told too, that when the snow comes, great flakes dance down from the Ossipees, from the Green Mountains even, swept by the wind across the hill on an almost never ending journey towards the sea. This, I have not seen.

But this I know: that houses, like coins and authors, grow dear as they grow old, and New Hampshire has many that are of great price. From the look of peace on her face as she spoke of this old house, I know that old as it is, and as dear, it will continue to be new, for its mistress is the sort who gathers in new friends. Their pleasure in her house will make each charming corner new to her again.”
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Old 06-09-2009, 03:25 PM   #12
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Default Check the FFVI Raffle Prize page

A first edition copy of this book can be all yours.

Just buy some Raffle Tickets for this years "good cause"
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Old 06-19-2009, 04:06 PM   #13
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Default A Mystery

I have received the book.. and will get it to RG in plenty of time for the Forum Fest raffle.

It is in excellent condition.. but it has an inscription that I can't read completely..

I've scanned it and posted it as large as I think Don would allow..

I think I have the body of the note figured out.. "6th of 10th..etc."

What I'm missing is the "who" it was sent to and "who" signed it. It dosen't look like any form of E. Palmer Clarke. ( the last name may be Clarke..) The book isn't "numbered" anywhere I can find. The date of the inscription is clearly 11-1-35. The wording of the note seems to me to be from an "author"

Any ideas?

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Old 06-19-2009, 04:31 PM   #14
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Default A little tease from the book.. Chapter 3

"The Devil and General Mouton"

"It was, so the story goes, a natural distaste for his mercantile ventures, and the necessity for earning his money slowly, through trade, that led him in an evil hour to give vent to a declaration of willingness to sell his soul for sudden and unbounded wealth. Late that night, alone by his fireside, with his counting-box on his knee and the few gold coins resulting from a late venture clinking within, Johnathan (Moulton), probably mindful only of the color of the gold and the sound of its music, reached down to his feet for his rum, and looked up to find standing beside him, clothed in velvet, a man only whose cloven hoof identified him. Not even his ruffles nor collar were sooted, though surely he had come down the chimney and through the fire.

He spoke first, "Is it a bargin, General?" he asked. "Speak quickly, for in fifteen minuets I am due in Porstmouth."

from:
"Winnipesaukee, A Potpourri" by E Palmer Clarke 1935

I'll leave the rest of the story for the winner to report...

I will warn that the rest of the story will have FLL, repeating his story on Judd Gregg and the lottery ticket!!! (This may actually be proof that Less is right!")

SteveA
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Old 06-19-2009, 11:26 PM   #15
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Default Book Inscription Deciphered (I hope)

Hi Steve A,
I think I have your book's inscription deciphered - so here goes.

My dear Percy Kimball:
Of ten numbered presentation issues, this is the sixth. I take pleasure in inscribing it to you as your own, and it will serve in a small measure to express my affection for your friendship.
Palmer Clarke

I think that's it Steve A. I think he was used to signing his name, Palmer Clarke.
For example early radio industrialist, Atwater Kent was really A. Atwater Kent. But he signed his name (and his radios) with just Atwater Kent.
Anyway, you've got one old coot's best guess!
oc
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Old 06-20-2009, 07:34 AM   #16
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Default Thanks!

OC,

I was hoping it was the authors signature. Thanks for the translation.

I did a search of the name Percy Kimball and found a Percy L. Kimball from South Wolfboro. Seems he would have been alive in the 1930's.

Thanks Again!
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Old 06-20-2009, 09:10 AM   #17
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Default Percy Kimball

According to the Mormon genealogy site, Percy Kimball was born in Wolfeborough in 1878, the son of Woodbury and Lucy Ellen (Chase) Kimball.

He is listed in the 1880 U.S. Census which was taken in Wolfeborough.
Members of the Household were:
Father: Woodbury Kimball, age 29; occupation, laborer
Mother: Lucy E., age 28
Walter E. (brother), age 9
Bertha E. (sister), age 7
Grace E. (sister), age 4
Percy, age 2
Richard R. Chase (Lucy’s widowed father), age 68
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Old 06-20-2009, 05:37 PM   #18
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Default

I am glad you found out. I recognized the name. I know I have heard it mentioned , probably years ago by my parents, but I couldn't connect it with anything except the fact it sounded familiar. I wish we could find out more about him.
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