Continuing with my Dad, Thomas J. Neill (I). At least since the time Dad was at the Worlds Fair in St. Louis in 1902, their family lived at 51 Franklin Street, Rockville, Ct. The place is still there and has been restored to its original condition. I used to have a lot of envelopes of Dad's letters home from St. Louis.
While growing up, we used to have an atlas with a map of the United States, and on it in pen, my Dad had inked his 5-year (approximately) odyssy around the country, primarily as a commercial artist.
Here is a photo of Dad as a young man sitting on a lawn with an Irish setter dog - maybe uncle Bills hunting dog, if he had one, I don't know.
Anyway, Dad was not able to make a living for two as a commercial artist. As my dad put it, "We couldn't afford to get married, so we got married anyway." They got an apartment in West Hartford, and my Dad went to work at the Royal Typewrter factory in Hartford. My sister Barbara was born when they lived there. He used to run to catch the trolly to get to work, and the trolly was jam full, and with stale air. When this happened he developed chest pains. Oh, I should have mentioned that Dad was a "health nut", and didn't believe much in doctors. Once in San Francisco he developed severe pains where he appendix was. He stopped eating for 3 days and cured it. On another time on a long train trip his head hurt. He believes this is what people call headache. It was his only experience of this. He was a follower of the well-known natural health man, Bernar McFadden, who made a parachute jump into the Hudson River in his 80's.
Pardon my digression. Chest pains of my Dad. He determined to do something about it. Did he rush to a doctor? Of course not. He searched and found a little house in Tolland, CT, out in the country, with almost no land with it, but just enough to raise laying hens. Mother stayed in the apartment, went back to work as a school teacher, and they hired a baby sitter for Barbara. Dad got a Model T Ford, and began an egg route, and at the same time worked as a janitor at the bank in Tolland. After about 6 months apart, mother was able to quit her job and join him in Tolland. When my dad had tahe egg route, one time a little dog ran out and bit him in the leg. The lady said "Don't be afraid, he doesn't bite much". My dad said, "She was right, he didn't bite much". But he did bite!
My Dad had a philosophy of his own. He had no use for big cities. Once I asked him, "Would you like to come along with us to NYC for the day? It's been many years since you were there." His response was in the negative. All big cities were alike, and he wouldn't give two cents for a look at any one of them. Another quote of his: "These big executives know how to make a lot of money, but they don't know how to live."
While Mother and Dad and Barbara were living in Tolland, I was born in 1924 at the Rockville Hospital. Some years prior, apparently there had been a mis-carriage, so they were taking no chances, and I was born in the hospital. That building, if it still stands, is no longer a hospital; it overlooked East Distirict School.
My Grandpa Blankenburg had done very well on their farm, and especially so during WWI, when prices went sky-high. So they were able to retire in 1927, and sold the farm, or the main part of it, to my mother and father. I remember our move there. Sometime around that time, my sister later confessed to me, she dropped me on my head, landing behind my right ear. I don't know if she ever confessed to our parents or not. Anyway, after some time it created a horrendus, and extremely painful infection for which pennecilin had not yet been discovered.
I was taken to Dr Dwire in Manchester, and they put me in the hospital there and operated, removing a section of bone to get at the mastoid. I still have a big scar there, and section of bone missing. I remember Dr. Dwire gave me a peppermint stick candy, and also on another visit put me under ether. (Remember, I was 3).
Now I must refer you to my sister Barbara's story (which I illustrated with photos) of her growing up on the farm in Connecticut.
Well, it's getting late now, so I guess I'll quit and get ready for bed.
While growing up, we used to have an atlas with a map of the United States, and on it in pen, my Dad had inked his 5-year (approximately) odyssy around the country, primarily as a commercial artist.
Here is a sample of his work at that period.
To back up a bit, just as an interesting asside, a classmate of his at the Lockwood Art Studio in Duluth, was Gifford Baker from Toronto. Now you know the rest of THAT particular story! I remember that the Bakers came down to Connecticut and visited us once. My Dad was in communication with them as late as when we all lived in East Hartland, CT. But they ultimately all died off with no descendants.
I believe Dad's travels began more or less in NYC. But times were not good. He told me that some places there, there were signs of help wanted, but along with that was the notation "No Irish need apply". Dad took a steamship from NYC down to Savannah, GA, and I think went from there to Atlanta. I believe he was a commercial artist in NYC, then in Atlanta. While in Georgia, he teamed up with another fellow from the North. (Remember, it was not that long after the Civil War, and Northerners were not always that welcome). But his buddy must have liked to live dangerously, and as they were walking through a certain section, he began to whistle the tune of the march called "Marching Through Georgia". But nothing happened. Maybe the local people were not familiar with the tune.
In another incident in Georgia, my dad was all alone in a semi-wilderness area going across a long railroad tressle (you could step off it if a train came). In the distance two black men were approaching from the other direction. When they came closer, in order to protect himself, Dad put his finger in his coat pocket to make like a gun, and kept walking forward. The two black men stepped to one side and he passed.
From Atlanta he may have gone to New Orleans, and from there (for sure), he was in Dallas for a while. He mentioned that in Dallas at night you would always hear a lot of gun shots.
Let me regress a bit. Back when Dad went out to the wheat fields in the Dakotas, his buddy Ed Siedel wanted to go with him, and they would hop a freight. Dad said "Nothing doing". He bought a train ticket, and never ever hopped a freight.
Times were usually pretty bad, like a continuous depression, and it was not easy to get work as a commercial artist. Also, he was not able to crank out the work as fast as they would like, so sometimes he had to take other jobs that might be available.
I guess from Dallas dad may have gone directly to Los Angeles. And from there to San Francisco, and from there to Seattle. He may have then gone back down to southern California, because in 1915 he had a night watchman job at a garage in Santa Monica, CA. I don't know his exact 5 or so year itinerary. Maybe he went from Seattle to Chicago, and from there to Kalamazoo, MI. At one time I had a calling card of his saying Thos. J. Neill, Commercial Artist, with a Kalamazoo address. I thought I gave it to my son Tom.
My mother I believe was the one who initiated things between them. Probably she was attracted to him when he worked on their farm years earlier. But I have no doubt Blankenburg family-wise there would have been two strikes against him. One: hired hands were to be looked down upon, and Two, he was Irish. He didn't come from a "successful" family for obvious reasons - his dad died 5 years after my dad was born, and his mom had to raise 4 boys all alone, but with help I'm sure from relatives.
I remember reading one letter she wrote to him, when he was out West, referring to a time when he was working on the Blankenburg farm. It was rather touching. I have a more subsequent letter from her to him when he must have still been "out west". I have a photo copy of it. It is about 4 pages long in which she finnaly says "
I love you".
I believe Dad's travels began more or less in NYC. But times were not good. He told me that some places there, there were signs of help wanted, but along with that was the notation "No Irish need apply". Dad took a steamship from NYC down to Savannah, GA, and I think went from there to Atlanta. I believe he was a commercial artist in NYC, then in Atlanta. While in Georgia, he teamed up with another fellow from the North. (Remember, it was not that long after the Civil War, and Northerners were not always that welcome). But his buddy must have liked to live dangerously, and as they were walking through a certain section, he began to whistle the tune of the march called "Marching Through Georgia". But nothing happened. Maybe the local people were not familiar with the tune.
In another incident in Georgia, my dad was all alone in a semi-wilderness area going across a long railroad tressle (you could step off it if a train came). In the distance two black men were approaching from the other direction. When they came closer, in order to protect himself, Dad put his finger in his coat pocket to make like a gun, and kept walking forward. The two black men stepped to one side and he passed.
From Atlanta he may have gone to New Orleans, and from there (for sure), he was in Dallas for a while. He mentioned that in Dallas at night you would always hear a lot of gun shots.
Let me regress a bit. Back when Dad went out to the wheat fields in the Dakotas, his buddy Ed Siedel wanted to go with him, and they would hop a freight. Dad said "Nothing doing". He bought a train ticket, and never ever hopped a freight.
Times were usually pretty bad, like a continuous depression, and it was not easy to get work as a commercial artist. Also, he was not able to crank out the work as fast as they would like, so sometimes he had to take other jobs that might be available.
I guess from Dallas dad may have gone directly to Los Angeles. And from there to San Francisco, and from there to Seattle. He may have then gone back down to southern California, because in 1915 he had a night watchman job at a garage in Santa Monica, CA. I don't know his exact 5 or so year itinerary. Maybe he went from Seattle to Chicago, and from there to Kalamazoo, MI. At one time I had a calling card of his saying Thos. J. Neill, Commercial Artist, with a Kalamazoo address. I thought I gave it to my son Tom.
My mother I believe was the one who initiated things between them. Probably she was attracted to him when he worked on their farm years earlier. But I have no doubt Blankenburg family-wise there would have been two strikes against him. One: hired hands were to be looked down upon, and Two, he was Irish. He didn't come from a "successful" family for obvious reasons - his dad died 5 years after my dad was born, and his mom had to raise 4 boys all alone, but with help I'm sure from relatives.
I remember reading one letter she wrote to him, when he was out West, referring to a time when he was working on the Blankenburg farm. It was rather touching. I have a more subsequent letter from her to him when he must have still been "out west". I have a photo copy of it. It is about 4 pages long in which she finnaly says "
I love you".Here is a photo of the two of them prior to their marriage, sitting together on a flat stone wall.
Here is a picture of of Dad's home family in 1907: Back row, Left to Right, Alec Johnson (probably a cousin), then Uncle Joe, who looks quite young, and kind of a "hot sketch", ready for anything. Next is Dad who looks distinguished with his hat, then Bob Johnson (probablyanother cousin), and at the far right, rear is Uncle Dave. In the front row, Agnes Johnson (cousin?), then Mrs. Rock and then, third from left, front row is my Grandma Neill. The last at the lower right is Mrs. Johnson, maybe holding John Johnson. Uncle Bill is missing from the photo. Maybe that is when he was in NYC studying electricity.
Here is a photo of Dad as a young man sitting on a lawn with an Irish setter dog - maybe uncle Bills hunting dog, if he had one, I don't know. Anyway, Dad was not able to make a living for two as a commercial artist. As my dad put it, "We couldn't afford to get married, so we got married anyway." They got an apartment in West Hartford, and my Dad went to work at the Royal Typewrter factory in Hartford. My sister Barbara was born when they lived there. He used to run to catch the trolly to get to work, and the trolly was jam full, and with stale air. When this happened he developed chest pains. Oh, I should have mentioned that Dad was a "health nut", and didn't believe much in doctors. Once in San Francisco he developed severe pains where he appendix was. He stopped eating for 3 days and cured it. On another time on a long train trip his head hurt. He believes this is what people call headache. It was his only experience of this. He was a follower of the well-known natural health man, Bernar McFadden, who made a parachute jump into the Hudson River in his 80's.
Pardon my digression. Chest pains of my Dad. He determined to do something about it. Did he rush to a doctor? Of course not. He searched and found a little house in Tolland, CT, out in the country, with almost no land with it, but just enough to raise laying hens. Mother stayed in the apartment, went back to work as a school teacher, and they hired a baby sitter for Barbara. Dad got a Model T Ford, and began an egg route, and at the same time worked as a janitor at the bank in Tolland. After about 6 months apart, mother was able to quit her job and join him in Tolland. When my dad had tahe egg route, one time a little dog ran out and bit him in the leg. The lady said "Don't be afraid, he doesn't bite much". My dad said, "She was right, he didn't bite much". But he did bite!
My Dad had a philosophy of his own. He had no use for big cities. Once I asked him, "Would you like to come along with us to NYC for the day? It's been many years since you were there." His response was in the negative. All big cities were alike, and he wouldn't give two cents for a look at any one of them. Another quote of his: "These big executives know how to make a lot of money, but they don't know how to live."
While Mother and Dad and Barbara were living in Tolland, I was born in 1924 at the Rockville Hospital. Some years prior, apparently there had been a mis-carriage, so they were taking no chances, and I was born in the hospital. That building, if it still stands, is no longer a hospital; it overlooked East Distirict School.
My Grandpa Blankenburg had done very well on their farm, and especially so during WWI, when prices went sky-high. So they were able to retire in 1927, and sold the farm, or the main part of it, to my mother and father. I remember our move there. Sometime around that time, my sister later confessed to me, she dropped me on my head, landing behind my right ear. I don't know if she ever confessed to our parents or not. Anyway, after some time it created a horrendus, and extremely painful infection for which pennecilin had not yet been discovered.
I was taken to Dr Dwire in Manchester, and they put me in the hospital there and operated, removing a section of bone to get at the mastoid. I still have a big scar there, and section of bone missing. I remember Dr. Dwire gave me a peppermint stick candy, and also on another visit put me under ether. (Remember, I was 3).
Now I must refer you to my sister Barbara's story (which I illustrated with photos) of her growing up on the farm in Connecticut.
Well, it's getting late now, so I guess I'll quit and get ready for bed.
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