Dear Jean 3, BURN THIS - a moment of awe.

                      Karen Chadwick’s Fiction Tribute, Part ­­­­­­Three of five, 8/8/18 to:                      

David Dale, A Life by David J. McLaren, Stenlake Publisher, Ayrshire, 2015 – a truly beautiful new book rich with photos, docs, maps, all supporting Dr. McLaren’s extensive research on David Dale, 1739-1806. Dale was one of the first “Captains of Industry” at the dawn of the Industrial Revolution with his new cotton yarn mill in New Lanark, Scotland beginning in 1786. I found this book fascinating for a few reasons, here’s one.

In 1799, Dale’s oldest daughter, Anne Caroline, married Robert Owen. RO married into a pot of money. In 1825, RO purchased a town from a departing Lutheran cult in the new state of Indiana and renamed it New Harmony. RO took his passion for social engineering, six of his well-educated adult children, were joined by other dreamers, and attempted to create a ridiculous communal experiment that failed two years later. RO could talk the talk, he couldn’t walk the walk.

Flash forward to 1995 and my new job in New Harmony as private secretary to Jane Blaffer Owen. She married Kenneth Dale Owen, KDO, in 1940 and I worked for her when she was in her 80s. She brought great wealth to the marriage as her Blaffer/Texas roots were in Humble Oil which morphed to Exxon. KDO was a descendant of David Dale and Robert Owen, through Richard Dale Owen, who remained in Indiana after his father’s big dream crashed. Wealth from the Dale/Owen legacy had evaporated by KDO’s time, leaving KDO with a prestigious name and no wealth. Young Jane Blaffer appreciated that this suitor was not from the lazy wealthy class she grew up with and she was impressed that he had worked his way through college. That credential and his notable name sealed the deal.

This wing of the Owen family continued with the tradition of honoring David Dale. Kenneth and Jane gave the Dale name as middle name to two of their daughters. The Blaffer wealth saved an interesting portion of American history as Jane Blaffer Owen poured herself into the restoration and renovation of historic New Harmony for over 70 years. I helped.

All page references from David Dale, A Life. Buy it! It’s valuable.

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David Dale of New Lanark by David J. McLaren, Caring Books, Glasgow, 1999, my copy autographed!

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David Dale of New Lanark by David J. McLaren, Milngavie: Heatherbank Press, 1983. This research regarding Dale and New Lanark is the basis for my letter to my young nephews now on my blog and also an appendix of The Other Woman, Private Secretary to a Daughter of Exxon Oil. I seek an agent/publisher for this work. 

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Gratitude to Dr. David J. McLaren and Dougie MacLean, Dunkeld Records, Perthshire

November 3, 1792

Dear Jean,

I hope this finds you and family doing well, sister, we are mostly the same. I hope your new country, USA, is calm, I wish I could say the same for here.

First, this might amuse you. I had the weirdest dream a few nights ago, some crazy thing about talking into a box with a wire and then I was talking to you! Next, I went to the wall and touched a button and the room got real bright. Then to the strangest part, somehow, I was riding in a buggy, but no horse was pulling it. Too much! My big dream would be to have hot water the minute I want it. I’m happy writing letters to you, having candles for some light at night, and I like horses pulling a buggy, even if I don’t hire one very often. I usually walk where I need to go, just have to avoid the lovely deposits from the horses. No such thing as a buggy with no poop. I’m glad weird dreams aren’t real.

Right now, I wish I could hire “calm.” I’m worried about Tommy, he turns 16 in a few weeks and we don’t know if Mr. Dale will offer him another apprenticeship and Tommy doesn’t know if he wants to keep working here. There’s another problem that Tommy is trying to sort out, he met some military recruiters at church, and those guys really want to talk Tommy into joining up. Here’s why.

There’s trouble in France and the Uppers are all nervous about what might happen if we go to war to support the French monarchy over the rebels. Yes, they’re French rebels, so if they have a civil war, I don’t get why it’s any of our business. Somebody in the newspaper said “the white slaves of France had burst their bonds” {p.171}. I say good - I hope it goes well and we don’t have to give our blood and treasure for their fight. We Great Brits were barely ruffled when we lost the fight to keep the colonies, your place, but now the Uppers are all in a tizzy about France. Some Uppers are already losing big money and that’s always bad for us.

But King George III wants to get ready for a war, and they need young men like Tommy. Here at the mill, Tommy works shoulder to shoulder with the boarder kids, they’re the young workers with no family and they live here in a mill building. Mr. Dale calls those kids his “boarders.”  They don’t get a wage, but earn their keep by working for their food, clothing, and a place to sleep. My kids, and all the Mill Village child workers who live with a parent or parents, have it much better than the boarders, they get a wage. All young workers are free to go on with their lives when they turn adult at 16. All of them get free education 6 nights a week, too. There are hundreds of young workers at our mill, more of them than adult workers.

  Tommy and lots of boarders are best friends, and now this possible war matters to all the young men. The boarder boys who run away or age-out at 16 often do go to army or navy, so Tommy hears their choices, and he’s got a lot on his mind. He told me last night that he sees through the “manly” part of joining the army and sees the “dead” part real clear. He said he doesn’t want to kill anybody and doesn’t want to be killed, either.

He and a boarder girl, Margaret, he calls her Maggie and she’s 15, are thinking about each other a lot, too.  Of course, there’s no dating between the boarders and Mill Village workers, no no no. But they eat together, sit by each other in school when they can, and he’s going to the church for the boarders to be near her on Sundays. They had some fun putting new words to a church song, Amazing Grace. I’ll try to remember to write the different lyrics at the end. Cousin Annabel who works at the Dale house told me that Mr. D is so mad at the French people he refuses to have any French wine in his wine cellar {p. 190}.

This morning I walked over to the Church the boarders attend, the one Tommy and Maggie go to, after my Church was done, and watched something. The King’s recruiter men came to the church again wearing fancy military regalia. They acted like they were best buddies with the young guys, and they even went outside the church and one of them did a complicated dance with swords on the ground, jumping between the crossed swords while the other military man played the pipes. It looked so fancy, so exciting, Tommy noticed some of the guys signing up right then. Me, Tommy, and Maggie hung back a bit, we watched together. Tommy said he was sure those military men hadn’t been in hard war, they wouldn’t be doing that fancy dancing in the French trenches. An old man living here had been in war years ago and had a long talk with Tommy. Tommy understands things even if the truth hurts. Maggie puzzled, did those recruiter men ever see war? Tommy grimaced and said, “No, they’d be sick, wounded, cold, starving, watch their buddies dying in front of them and can’t even dig a hole for them, and their feet in wet socks for two months. No dancing, no glory, no real purpose unless you want the French monarchy in power.” The recruiters didn’t fool Tommy for one minute.

I’m going to have a serious talk with Tommy next Sunday. He needs to be clear about his future and I want him to tell me which way he’s thinking. I have a surprise for him. I’ve been saving every shilling he’s earned at the mill these past seven years. If he’s thinking about marriage and a life with Maggie, this can help them a bit. If he’s thinking of going to military, I’ll save the money until he comes back. It’s his decision, and I know he’s under a lot of pressure right now. He’s been talking to Mr. Kelly, the mill manager, about how to apprentice to the men who make and repair the machinery and keep things going here. Good jobs at good pay, like the Masons, Carpenters, Smiths, Turners, Clockmakers, Founders, Millwrights, Joiners, Hammermen and Hangmen, {p.55} all interesting and skilled trades. But of course, the final decision is Mr. D’s for any future mill anything for Tommy. He has no experience with animals, or farming, or fishing, and that really bothers him that his window of work is either military or mill. He was so young when we had the sheep, chickens, cows, and horses, he can barely remember them let alone how to work with them.

He told me Maggie tries to imagine a future, too, they talk about it a lot. First dream is country life on a farm, they are both bored with mill work. But how to make a living and have a worthy adult life, it’s scary. One thing that happens for some boarder girls, she would maybe be allowed to continue as a boarder after she turns 16 soon {p. 102}, she could even start to get a small wage. Mr. D doesn’t offer that to just any boarder girl ageing out, it’s considered an honor, but Maggie is not excited about that even if they offer it. Maybe she can find work as a domestic, live with a family, like cousin Annabel. She has no way of knowing how to deal with farm life, just fantasy dreams.

I think when Tommy knows about this money I saved for him, he’ll have a few more options that might help him through this transition. And oh, Jean, am I going to miss him. Either way he decides, he’ll most likely start his own life very soon, my boy will be gone from my home. That part I can barely think about without crying, he’s my everyday reminder of my John. Tommy even walks like his father did. This will be a very big change for the girls and me. Pray for us, please.

Jean, can you keep a secret? I’ve never told anybody this, not even the kids. But I need to share it with you, sister, you are my blood. Did you ever wonder why my John and I named our boy Tommy? When that new baby boy popped out in just 10 minutes, my John and I wanted to name him something special, so his real name is Thomas – after that man in your country, Jefferson. We heard a little about that man, he sounded respectable, and no other kids were named Tommy that we knew of, so we picked a special name for our new child. Then, along the way, we started to wonder, hmm, what if the Jefferson man turns out to be a loser? So, my John and I decided to keep this a tight secret and if the Jefferson man turns out good, we’ll tell our Tommy. I am relieved to share this with you, Jean, now I don’t feel alone with this. Is that man worthy? Please give me the gossip on him!

We had a sad time last year, 1791, Mrs. Dale died, she was 38. Mr. D shut the mill for two days and gave us a feast outdoors in her honor. I never saw so many sweets in my life. Me and the kids said special prayers for her and the Dale family before we slept that night.

Annabel said it was quite sad at the big Dale house. Mrs. D had complications with other births, but the last one was what done her in - the cause of death was “childbed” {p. 17}. Nine kids in eleven years, even money and servants and good food doesn’t change some body trouble. Now there’s five girls in the house with no mother and the staff are trying their best to help with all the changes. She allowed staff to call her Mrs. Carolina when Mr. D wasn’t home, and they really loved her.

Two years ago, another one of the Dale children died, William, their only boy. He really left a hole in Carolina’s heart. Mr. D paid a painter to do Mother and Son portrait {p.17}, and now both are dead. They lost three other babies, but William was 6 years old and they had high hopes for that young man. Not anymore. The shock of losing their only son has been a big problem. Who will Mr. D leave our mill to? No son to inherit, everybody at the mill worries about it. The oldest daughter, Anne Caroline, is 14, and tries to be Lady of the house. Annabel says Mr. D keeps his grief to himself and gets on with all his work.

I know you lost two babies and one of your little boys, so you know, and so do I, how hard it is to make sense of the world after such sadness. God pulls the rug from under our feet sometimes. I like the Japanese saying, “Fall down seven. Get up eight.” I read that on a teabag!

Mr. Dale does so much good, wait until you hear this. Even with Mrs. D just buried last year, Mr. D took time to help others as there was bad news for some Highlanders. A fairly new ship, the Fortune, set sail from the isle of Skye, in the Highlands, taking over 400 Highlanders set for North Carolina. They were done with being so poor up there, and another big crop failure last season only gave them more reason to leave. The clearances going on up there pushes folks off their land, too, like what happened to my John who came south for work.

Well, those Fortune ticket holders were in for a nasty time {p. 55}. Of course, most of them spent their last money on the ship fare. Off they go, or so they thought. Whoever was that Captain must have had too much good booze, because they set off in a storm. Well, as you and I know, these North Atlantic storms are WICKED – what was that captain thinking? The boat got beat up very badly, floundered around trying to escape the storm, and 12 days later the Fortune put in at Greenock, very near our mill. They had run out of food for that many people, many became sick in the rough seas, and some even died. It was a nightmare for everyone on that ship.

Mr. Dale sent one of his men to talk to those shocked Highlanders, as now they weren’t going to USA and most had no more money to even get back to the Highlands. Mr. D wanted them to know that he would employ any who wished to come to the mills here, help them with housing, and all the rest until they get situated. I’m so proud to be a tiny part of Mr. D’s loving umbrella. He loves his church life and really lives the principles he learns from church.

I did meet one of the Fortune passengers, a woman named Penny Sisto, she’s from the Orkneys, and knows my John’s people. Now I have an address for someone in their village and I’ll to write them and let them know how John’s beautiful children are doing. I hope there’s someone up there who can read English.

Penny and I had an interesting test when we started to talk to each other, I know so little Gaelic, and forget most what my John learned me. Good thing she’s been trying to learn some English because she thought she’d be in USA by now. We realized smiles and body language help a lot!

Penny has some powerful quilts that tell stories, she makes them out of scrap material. One of her dramatic pieces is a close look at an Orkney man, she knew him too well and he’s a monster of a human, she brings out this harsh element with fabric. I could barely stop staring at it, how can something be beautiful and ugly at the same time? I’m glad she and the quilts survived the misfortune of the Fortune, I like her and hope she stays local. I gave her all my scrap material and she was so happy to take my humble gift. She said sometimes, when she’s in the depth of her work, if she needs a certain piece of fabric and can’t find any that are right in her supplies, she’ll tear a completed work apart to get that piece of fabric. We’ve had a couple cups of tea and she’s eager to learn more English. What a joy that I can be helpful to a Highlander.

Mr. D and lots of Uppers do not like seeing so many Scots leave, the Uppers want more Scots willing and able to work in Scotland. Annabel says that’s a big topic when the Uppers meet at the Dale house. You left for the colonies in 1772, Jean, and went through the war there, that had to be a tough time. I wonder what you think about Scotland and USA as places to live?  Is church big in your place? How does anything work without a King?

As if Mr. D doesn’t have enough to do, he and some Uppers are starting a mill for the Highlanders at Spinningdale in Sutherland, {p.126-7}, WAY up north. At least the construction is going on, no mill operation yet. As much as I respect Mr. D, I just don’t think he gets the soul of the Highlanders. My John told me so much about his family, their love of the sea, their tenacious love of the land, {p. 56}, their pride. They have a strength to them, inside and out, and passion for independence. It’s who they are to their toes. Highlanders might dream of better circumstances, but no Highlander dreams of factory life.

A few of us workers here agree that what Mr. D doesn’t quite get is that not only are the Highlanders not too eager to start factory work, but really, lots of us Lowlanders {p. 58} aren’t happy with this new work idea called “factory.” It ain’t the work, sister, I can work like any strong woman. It’s the being inside for so long so many days. It’s the monotony, the sedentary grind of doing the same thing 72 hours a week, the dank cold building, or if a worker is close to one of the coal fireplaces, they work in way too warm place all those hours.  Where I sit, I shiver when I forget to bring my extra sweater about ten months a year. Two summer months, my station area is too hot and not enough fresh air for me. All the time, lots of cotton dust, ugh. I probably could weave a yard of fabric from what I breathe in. Cough, cough.

My favorite times at work are when the scrub crew, boarders and Mill Village kid workers, come through to scrub the ceilings and walls {p.91}. Then I cover my work area with a cloth, so no more cotton dust falls on my equipment. The scrub crew make the whole thing a fun time, get everybody laughing and do a good job to get that cotton dust gone. Once in a while they even wash walls, ceiling, and floors with lime. Then my equipment is also washed with scalding water, oh, gee, can’t work anymore today, bye!  

Mr. D is sure we should be grateful for this steady work, and I am, I really am. Me with a regular paycheck, a little money under the mattress, my kids with me. We even moved to a three room place here. Tommy has his own tiny room, me and the girls share other one, and the bigger room’s for cooking and washing and our easy Sunday afternoons when we take time to share our songs, ideas, jokes, and concerns. I count my blessings. I ain’t grumbling. But how I miss working with the land. My kids don’t know about growing potatoes, getting a chicken ready for dinner, or helping birth a calf.

But – I can see why some folks try to work here and just can’t keep it up. Mr. D even put up a whole new lane of rowhouses for the Highlanders, Caithness Row. Some stay and adjust, others disappear in the middle of the night.

Another hard part of our factory deal is this: women and kids are usually employable. Men, not so much. New Lanark Mills needs little fingers and patience for detail work, not a man thing, eh? Mr. D was so kind to offer helping those stranded Fortune passengers, but the men from that mess were sort of useless unless they had serious skills. For some families here, the ones with both parents, the woman and kids go off to work, but the husband/father has nothing to do. Well, guess what – some men spend the family $ on booze. Mr. D is very unhappy with the families who have this problem, as nothing is uglier to a Scot than a drunk Scot who doesn’t work. Don’t get me wrong, me and kids go to the local ceilidh, kay-lee, every month, and I love a pint and a jig, but a pint to start every morning? No!

Oh yes, speaking of fun at our ceilidh, Dougie MacLean showed up to the last one, and sang an amazing song, “Caledonia”.  There wasn’t a dry eye in the whole place, Jean, and I bet you’d cry too if you could hear it. That song might bring you back home! I miss you, sister, how I wish we could have a pint together.  

I have been listening to a lot of talk about slave cotton, slave trade, and slave abolition {p. 154-172}. People at the mill talk about it, people at church, too. The shop keep and his wife, Janet, told me some of the facts, they get to read the newspapers for free, lucky, eh?

Yes, there are slaves from Africa in Scotland, just a few, not like England, they have a lot. We hear that the English do something awful, when they are done with an old slave, they give him or her their freedom, manumission they call it {p. 160}. Big deal – that person is older, can’t work much anymore, has no family, no place to go, so free Africans who are homeless are starting to be a city problem in places like London. What puffery to claim you’re so good you give your slave freedom, then turn the poor person out of the only home they know, throw them in the street and expect that old one to make their way? 

Janet told me about some Scot and English Uppers who cooked up an idea to “help” 300 of the manumission folks now destitute in London get back to Africa. They called it St. George’s Bay Company and outfitted a ship to take them and 100 others to Sierra Leone to start lives and businesses. Well, good idea, poor planning, and only 64 members of the new colony remained {p.162}. Big dreams don’t assure big success, it’s too bad Mr. D didn’t plan it out, it would have been a much better result if you ask me. Mr. Granville Sharp and others who dreamed up the St. George’s Bay Company idea hoped this would be the start of universal manumission, give all the slaves their freedom and get them back to land and people they know. Sounded good, but the slavers in Sierra Leone had other plans.

One good thing happened to a black slave boy, {p. 161} it’s about how the colliers and saltpanners {Scots and slaves themselves, mind you} helped the negro boy. They raised enough money for his baptism and freedom! Sometimes other Scots have helped African slaves get away from their troubles, sometimes the court settles the troubles and usually in favor of freedom.

I finally got some grip on what “slave cotton” means. No, the plant isn’t a slave, dumb me. Sister, I thought the big deal with slaves in your new country, USA, was for domestic work, or regular farm work or such, I had no idea about what slaves do there until I got educated. Now I know the cotton fields are huge, maybe the size of New Lanark and surrounding land, nothing like that here at all. Those cotton plants are tended to by slaves, and they pick the cotton balls off the plants in wicked hot weather from dawn to dark and must drag huge 45 kg - 100 lb. - bags of cotton long distances to wagons 7 days a week when the cotton is ready. There’s also slave sugar, slave tobacco, slave rum, and slave molasses. Great Britain has profited nicely from all the perfect land in the West Indies and your place for growing such crops, {p. 156-7} and it’s the slaves from Africa who do the work. I’m curious to find out what’s happened to the tobacco crops there, something went wrong with the land or the soil or the weather, but the tobacco lords are sweating bullets on money lost with that crop failure. It sure ain’t because folks don’t like to smoke the stuff. What do you know about it, Jean? So many mysteries.

The slave situation is kinda like our boarders here - they don’t get paid, but Mr. D feeds them, provides a place to sleep, and puts clothes on their backs and shoes in the winter, like how it must be with slaves, too. But with the boarders, thanks to Mr. D providing free school, when they turn 16, they are free to get on with adult life and they can read, do figures, and write. Not so with slaves eh? Ugh, you gotta have that boss for life?  And your boss owns you? Is that true, sister?

Honestly, here I am, working with cotton, maybe I’m part of the problem. Mr. D has some ethics to consider, and word on the street is that he’s about to do something big to let Glasgow know how he feels about this slave business. Wouldn’t you know, many of the Uppers just ignore the problem, and keep laughing all the way to the bank. Not Mr. D, the slave business really bothers him and a few others, and they are working with a network of folks from around Great Britain to bring this shameful thing to everybody.

Last January, {p. 163} a new group started, The Glasgow Society for the Abolition of the Slave Trade, and Mr. D was chairman. That’s huge, cause now any Upper who doesn’t agree with Mr. D’s position still has to know how Mr. D hates the slave trade business. Which, to be clear, slave trade is one thing – taking African people from their country, selling that human being and forcing them to be slaves. Not quite the same as being opposed to slavery, thems that’s already a slave, millions we hear, well, that’s another crime. At least this slave trade business is part of the mess that has to be stopped. I hear that some Scot Uppers turn against slavery without developing the slightest concept of what should be done about it {p.171}. Mr. D and Uppers like him are trying to figure it out and they’re starting with the kidnapping of African people and selling them like horses.

That group, I’ll call them Glasgow Society for now, have been busy getting folks to think about the crime of slave trade. Two papers were nailed to the door here at the mill, Mr. D wants us to know about this. One paper {p.163} shows how Africans are crammed into a ship’s hold with not an inch to spare, all chained up and crushed together like bags of grain packed for shipment. The other one, somebody’s drawing, is of an African man in chains on one knee, and on the bottom, it says AM I NOT A MAN AND A BROTHER? When I saw those papers, I was so upset I started crying. I’m so proud to be with Mr. D’s mill, he is doing the right thing even if he loses some Uppers for his business dealings.

Just a few months ago my church had another paper out for all to read, it even was discussed at Bible study. Mr. D and The Glasgow Society took on the task of making a short version of a 128-pg. paper by the London Society’s Abstract of Evidence on the slave trade. They have been distributing this to all the churches, all the shops, all the public places folks can see it. First, {p. 165} it argues “ … if the trade be founded on iniquity it ought to be abandoned, whatever the consequences.”  Fyi, Jean, “trade” here means the business of stealing people and selling them. Then {p. 166} after making other good points, it ends this way: “… in this enlightened age, a narrow selfishness and a sordid attention to mere profit and loss has taken such a hold of mankind as to deaden their feelings of right and wrong and to render them indifferent to the sufferings of their fellow creatures.”  I can’t begin to tell you, Jean, how proud of my boss I am, he really does care about everybody. Lots of Scots are starting to listen, some give some $ to the work, I even gave 2 shillings, and things are getting interesting about those poor Africans who just want to go home.

I’ve got a fun secret for you, sister. Oh, wait ‘til you hear this – Annabel is smoking tobacco! She sure can’t afford it, but she’s so clever, when Mr. D has his Uppers over, some of them leave part of their cigarettes in the ashtray, guess who just happens to clean up after? She finds some little papers and re-rolls that stuff. She has to be really sneaky about it, if Mr. D found out, she might lose her job. She especially can’t smoke anywhere near the Dale girls, they’d love to tell daddy. She only smokes once or twice a week, late at night when she takes a walk out back, it’s her “bad girl” side. She brought one for me to try, oh, yuck, it was awful!  I gave it back to her after I had a coughing fit on the first puff. Not soon enough, now I have a tiny burn hole in my Sunday dress. Good thread, good repair, only Annabel, you, and me know!

I have to be way careful, no bad throat from cigarette coughs or other body trouble. I can’t get sick, nor can the kids, no doctoring for us, only Uppers get that. But there’s a rumor that Mr. D is trying to start a place for sick people to go. They have a name, Glasgow Royal Infirmary, but it’s not real yet {p. 194-8}. Mr. D and lots of Uppers are putting $$$ together to build a building, and somehow, someway, some day, some folks will get to go in and see a doctor or surgeon. I think it will be something like this, if I get sick, and if Mr. D puts my name on the GRI list, I can go there to find out how to get healthy again. For sure, it won’t take just anybody, hell to the no. I think they are even hoping for beds for folks too sick to be out, but if you’re not on the list, too bad. I wonder, Jean, what happens in your place when somebody gets sick? I keep thinking you’re all living in log cabins in the woods, silly me.  

Annabel told me something else that was a big deal for Mr. D last year, as if he didn’t already have so many pressures and grief to handle, he agreed to take on a very demanding volunteer job for one year. I think nobody else in Glasgow works harder for Scotland.   

Glasgow Uppers know how to save money, and they take turns being volunteer Magistrate for a year, well, thems thats “proper persons of the merchant rank” {p.182}. The Magistrates hear cases of bad people who broke the law and decide how to punish them.

 When Mr. D goes for his Magistrate duty, he must wear very fancy robes and gold chains. Guess who takes care of that stuff? Yep, Annabel. Mr. D sometimes tells her how it went that day, and how he had to put somebody in jail for the weekend, or sometimes just one day. The Town Council Uppers don’t want to pay for those people lounging in jail, they want the Magistrate to slap them upside the head and then get back to honest work as soon as possible. Once he had to put a bad man in jail for two weeks. He didn’t like what that man done, but Mr. D felt really bad about Town Council having to feed the bum for two weeks in jail. Mr. D visited the bum in jail and preached to him. Mr. D always hopes a Scot will choose the honest way and work hard. I like that and so does Annabel. The newspaper said he “won the golden opinion of his fellow citizens as he tempered justice with mercy.”

Then Annabel told me something not fit for most ears: the same people who praise Mr. D for his Magistrate work have sometimes attacked him on the street! I dropped my scone when she told me! What? Why? She says some Established Church folks are so mad at Mr. D for preaching without a license {p. 206}, that sometimes when he is walking from one appointment to the next, people get really rude with him. Those same people have thrown so many stones at Mr. D’s new church, meeting house they call it, that serious damage was done. Yikes! Annabel is so proud of her kind boss, she says Mr. D keeps smiling and sticking to his version of Christian beliefs. She even attends that church when her work schedule allows, says it’s just as nice as any other church she’s ever been to. She said that when Mr. D preaches, he is interested in some new ideas about salvation, we not only must repent our sins, but a new way to get to heaven is a Congregationalist idea that brotherhood and brotherly love {p.203} are the only true way to salvation. The church Mr. D and others started years ago, the Scotch Independents {p.204}, is bringing these new ideas to their preaching. Some of Mr. D‘s daughters go to that one, and some are going to their deceased mother’s Baptist church, he gives them full permission to choose. He’s a fine father, but the house without Mrs. D is – well, missing her hand and direction everywhere. The head of the servants is getting old and keeping up with five young girls has the whole staff working harder. Mr. D gave everybody a generous raise, he understands and appreciates staff. Annabel even got her wish - she now has a room of her own at the Dale house, she loves the times to just be alone for a while.

I am happy to tell you that both Mary and Janie moved up in their scholar’s work.  They said the test is hard, but they both did fine and love reading when they can have time and proper lighting. Usually Sunday afternoons they both have their noses in a book. The school master is more than generous to let the good kids have a book sometimes for a few weeks. One they are both quite interested in, and I am too, a new one, with beautiful art pictures, is Original Stories from Real Life; with Conversations Calculated to Regulate the Affections and Form the Mind to Truth and Goodness by Mary Wollstonecraft. I think this is a wonderful book for young girls to read, I wish I would have seen such modern thinking in a book when I was their age. I would love to find a book of Shakespeare’s plays that I can afford and get the kids to learn about Hamlet and that fun one I read when I was 14, the one about the hilarious mix up, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and my personal favorite, Merchant of Venice, take that pound of flesh, but not a drop of blood!

Speaking of blood, Mary, now 13, has started the you-know-what, and I had to sit with her and talk about life things. She was embarrassed about it, and said the older girls already told her about making babies. We still talked for a long time. The last thing I can ever handle is her having a baby with no husband. Mr. D fires people, sometimes whole families, when that happens. Of course, Janie, my Darling, is 11, and very curious about her big sister’s blood show. I gave her a bit of The Talk, it’ll be her turn soon. I tell both of them that some boys get lovey dovey but they aren’t the ones to get a big belly, so no kissing! Save it for a special fellow, you’ll be glad you did. You’ll bring honor and trust to your husband if you stay away from the boys now. I gave both girls full permission to be as rude as necessary if any boy gets rude with them, and we even talked about how to think things out if a boy is acting too too too nice. The wolf often comes in sheep’s clothing.

I don’t know what to do about a problem I see with Janie’s legs. Somehow, they aren’t growing normal, but I don’t know what to do about it. Anyone working at the mill sees some of the boarder girls who also have strange legs, {p. 238} even a couple of the boarder boys, too. Was I wrong to press Mr. D to let Janie start work when she was 6? But what else could I have done? I was completely new to the whole mill factory world and didn’t know anyone local to trust my little girl with while I went to work. I begged Mr. D to hire her and she’s been working for over 5 years. Now something is not right about her legs. She walks a little odd, but she’s the smiling happy girl, I love her completely and hope her legs will grow better.

Sister Jean, did I miss being best mother because I’m not thinking best? I admit it, I’m pretty worn down, tired all the time, it seems. The mill would be great if it wasn’t so much so long. It’s not that the work is hard, its that I’m bored with same old same old, that’s the hard part.  Another hard part is working with people who live next door - when there’s a good vibe going, fine, but when those people clash for a million reasons, well, it can be highly difficult to get on with what’s happening. There are people here who haven’t said a kind word to each other for years, so much for “love your neighbor.” 

 I think about my life as a young married woman, our farm days. How I’d love to have a plot of potatoes growing for me and the kids. Taking care of lambs and chickens and a garden, outside a lot, fresh air, and all kinds of activity, I wish. But no, I’m the mill woman. Who said, “oh sweet 16’s turned 32, oh she gets so weary when the day is through.” {Bob Seger!}  Did that writer know me or what?

Yes, that reminds me - another birthday. The kids made Sunday supper for me, best meal I’ve ever had! We were able to sneak Maggie away for the day, and she helped the kids with my special meal. They asked for 5 shillings, went to the market, brought purchases back, cooked for a couple hours while they insisted I stay in bed (no problem!). Here’s what we ate - scotch kail with milk, boiled potatoes mashed with a bit of butter (fyi, potatoes and butter - both luxuries – same for you, Jean?) {p. 10}, a little bit of salted beef with groats, oatmeal cakes and new beer, too. Maggie and the girls are like sisters, I start to love her. And guess who was first to start clean-up after that grand meal? Tommy and Maggie!

A few days ago I was talking to Janet about this likely war with France - or for France – or against France - it gets more serious by the day and more stupid methinks. She warned me to tone it down, people get in big trouble with our government for talking against war. It’s called sedition, she says, and some judges hang men for it, and other guilty men get sentenced to “transportation” {p.193}. Unless I want to live in Australia, I better not be too chatty about my opinion on that topic. Then she said I really need to talk this out with Tommy and Maggie. It’s serious. If the King wants war,” be loyal to the royal,” Janet has a point. Is your place going to help the French rebels or monarchy supporters?

Oh, I almost forgot. Mr. Kelly came to my work station a couple weeks ago and started to ask me if I might consider helping the mill in another way once in a while, something about how I’d have to wear my Sunday dress for work. I’m sure I got a dumb look on my face, I couldn’t wrap my head around that, when he got called to an emergency and he hasn’t said anything else since. I only got one Sunday dress, why would I wear it to work? Like I’m some kind of Upper. I ain’t.

Sister, I’m writing this on a separate piece of paper, and I beg you, BURN THIS. If you love me, if you love our parents, if you love God, burn this page. If this gets left in your belongings when you go to the Lord, I don’t want anyone else to have this shameful truth. BURN THIS, as soon as you read it.

Jean, years ago I told you about how awful things were after my John died, but I didn’t tell you this. I’ve never told anyone, and the burden is so heavy. I beg you to still love me after you read this, and please know that I’ll only love you more for being my true sister to honor my need.

The weeks after my John died were so horrible, I was sick w/miscarriage, little 4 yr. old darling Janie was still very sick, Tommy 7, and Mary 5, helped as they could, but suddenly I was the one in charge and I was so hurting in so many ways. Our landlord and his wife tried to help for a while, they were most kind to help with burying my John, the church folks were helpful in many ways, too. But it was on me to find what to do next. Me and my John always talked everything through, I had never been alone with big decisions, especially with three small children looking at me for their needs. As you well know, our parents were gone, and my John’s people, all Highlanders, we lost contact with them a few years before. I was truly alone with the nightmare and three beautiful little children were looking at me, depending on me, trusting me.

A few months after, I had most strength back. Darling Janie got healthy again, and then the landlord had to let us go. He really needed folks who can do the big work, and I just couldn’t. We packed up and walked away from our place.

Well, that was the first place we had to leave. Two more in the next 10 months, I just couldn’t figure out how to have our own place. Friends let us move in, and then asked us to move. Next, church friends let us stay with them for a while, then we decided to leave. I was not able to stay strong in the storm. Then it got worse.

One day the minister of my church had a long talk with me, sister. He told me about the Glasgow Town’s Hospital and how they help families. He said I could take my kids there, they would keep the kids, feed them, and when I could make a better plan in a few months, I could go get the kids. Jean, me and the kids were really in a bad situation, shelter and food had become optional.

Once that idea was in my head, I could hardly think of anything else. Someplace will take care of my children? Feed them every day? What kind of a mother am I to turn down this way for my kids to eat? I thought, if they are cared for, maybe I can find domestic work and bring my kids to my new job. If I can pull myself together, if I can find that strong happy woman I once was, I can still show my John that he had the best wife and mother of his children. I can do this, I can show my kids how much I love them by letting them stay at the Town’s Hospital for a few months, they can take care of each other there, still be together, have food and a place to sleep, and I can see them as often as I can. Yes. A solution.

Once I made up my mind, I told the kids I found a new place to stay, and we walked to Glasgow. My little loves were all excited that we were going to a new place, their joy was wonderful. Of course, I failed to mention that the new place would be for them and not me. I’ll tell them once we’re there, they don’t need that on their little hearts before it happens. Yes, this would work out, it would be sad to be separated for a short time, but this will be my best choice. Yes.

And then a miracle happened.

As we got close to the Town’s Hospital, we found a place to sit on the ground near the River Clyde for a place to rest. The kids took a short nap, then sat for about two minutes, then dashed around, playing and enjoying the warm sunny afternoon. As I sat there, someone walked by and sat down near me. At first, I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. Whoever it was, they weren’t having a great life just then. Then the person started crying. And crying and crying. I tried to mind my own business and watch the kids playing, but then I heard the sad person mumble, “…Town’s Hospital.” My heart jumped into my throat. I took a deep breath and said “Hello” to the sad one.

She looked up. Oh, a woman. She stared at me, wiped tears from her face, and we started talking. Jean, if there ever was a miracle, this was it for me.

This woman told me she had just come from Town’s Hospital to fetch her children and was told that her children were gone. Gone. Gone.

I stopped breathing. Gone? What?

She cried again, and through sobs continued, “The person at the door there at the place, that Town’s Hospital, where I put my three kids 6 months ago, told me the kids all were signed over to a mill factory until they turn 16, they’re gone {p. 85}. That’s the next time you can see your kids, and he shut the door in my face.” Then she started crying again, and I cried with her.

Jean, I think my heart stopped beating for a few minutes. Oh My God, hearing this woman’s nightmare of losing her children was now my nightmare. Oh My God, that place doesn’t just take care of children until the parent can come fetch them? They sign the kids over to a mill? But they’re my kids, how can that happen? The church minister didn’t tell me about this - he made it sound like I would be putting my kids in a great camp experience. “The best thing a mother can do for her children,” he said with a smile.

Oh My God, help me now. I am 4 blocks away from Town’s Hospital, about to turn my kids over to them, and and and - - then I started getting mad. Mad at that minister I trusted, mad at the evil people at the Town’s Hospital, mad at all the harsh mess we’ve faced. Mad. Mad about what just happened to this sweet woman who now suddenly isn’t a mom anymore. She told me, between sobs, she’d finally found work, found a one-room place, and was desperate to have her children with her. Her man died a year ago, she had the same nightmare I was in. Now hers got worse. And I got mad.

I kept my composure and dug in my satchel. I had one more oatmeal cookie I’d been saving for an emergency, and this was it. I offered it to her. She was surprised and deeply grateful for my gesture, and gently accepted it. Just then my kids dashed back to see what was going on. As I introduced my children, she broke the cookie in five pieces, and we all had a nip. The look on that woman’s face as she watched my beautiful children was like nothing I’ve ever seen. Her grief mixed with love of life was unmistakable. My little loves skipped around and made up songs to amuse themselves, she took in every word, and cried some more.

My anger kept rising in my soul. That Town’s Hospital place will never see me or my kids. Thank God I hadn’t mentioned that name to the kids, nor of course could I tell this poor woman why we were there, but my anger carried the situation.

The kids came running back after a few minutes, all bubbly, “Mom, when are we going to our new home?”

“Ah, sweeties, I made a mistake, it’s tomorrow that we’re supposed to arrive at the new place, we’ll have a camp party right here tonight,” I faked it. They jumped for joy and chased each other around, playing tag.

The stranger introduced herself, “I’m Elizabeth, please call me Liz, and I’m so sorry to have to bring my grief to you and your children. Are you on your way to a new place to live?”

“Nice to meet you Liz, and I am so sincerely sorry for this sudden bad news you just got. I wish I could do more than offer you a cookie. Yes, we are having trouble with a place to live, but I’m trying to find a cousin who might be able to take us in, my husband died, and we’ve had some trouble,” I lied. When I get mad, I can think much better. Now Liz knows enough of our truth, enough.

We sat silent for a while. The kids watched someone catch a big fish, and to their surprise, the guy who caught the fish gave it to them. They were overjoyed, and Tommy proudly brought it to me and Liz. My kids felt like King and Queens as they danced around that big fat flopping beautiful fish, catfish, I thought. I smiled, but of course had no way to deal with cooking it, smile anyway. Then Liz solved that problem.

“If you need a place to stay tonight, I offer my small room, and we can cook that fish, too.”

See what I mean by a miracle?

Jean, now that you know this dark mistake I almost made, please know that I beg you to burn this page, as I never want my kids, or their kids, or their kids to know that I almost gave them away. Liz told me that when she took the kids there, she had to sign papers, but didn’t understand what she was signing. When the worker slammed the door in her face, she suddenly realized she’d signed away her rights as parent.

A few days later, I heard that a new place, New Lanark Mills, was hiring whole families, and me and the kids went right way to see about it. Now, all our years here at the mill, working with kids who are from Town’s Hospital, hearing their grim stories of what a nasty place it is, how grateful they were the day they got transferred to mill life, I keep my composure but die a little inside. What if I hadn’t met Liz that fateful day?

One other good part of that – we met Liz’s kids working at the mill, and helped them have some contact, and Liz finally got hired here so she could see her kids. She lied about her last name, so there would be no problem, we all keep the secret of Liz and her kids, and it’s as good as it can be for now.

I thank God every hour of every day for this miracle, Jean. Thank you, now up in smoke for this page. Now! I love you!

I’m so glad to see in your last letter that you finished your domestic contract with the Washington family in Virginya, I know they had slaves and you were not happy with how those people were treated, and I’m glad it’s over for you. Now this good news - you and family have moved to Philadelfia, isn’t that the big city in your country? Your husband Ian got a clerk job with the American Philosophical Society, that sounds fancy, sister. Doesn’t sound like he’ll have to ride horses much for that job. And for the first time in your life, you get to be home with your kids, cook for your family, make their clothes, grow your own food in the back, and you even have a pet dog? WOW! I’m glad our mail bag for Philadelfia can get mail to you, I’ll look forward to reading what you’ll do there. I know you, you’ll come up with some interesting work from home, lady’s hats or something!

Good bye for now, sweet sister, and thank you from the bottom of my heart for the gift you sent. I’ll love this beautiful cobalt blue sweater forever, I wore it at my birthday supper.

                                  Soon, Cheers, Love, sis k

OK, here’s the song Tommy and Maggie changed the words to, they sang it at my birthday supper.

Amazing Peace, how sweet the word,

that saved a wretch like me,

I once was lost, but now am found,

Was blind, but now I see.

‘Twas Peace that taught my heart to fear,

And Peace my fears relieved,

How precious did that Peace appear,

The hour I first believed.

My God has promised Peace to me,

God’s word my hope assures,

Peace will my shield and portion be,

As long as life endures.

Through many dangers, toils, and snares

I have already come,

‘Twas Peace that brought me safe thus far,

And Peace will lead me home.

When we’ve been home 10,000 years,

Bright shining with the sun,

We’ve no less days to sing Peace praise

Than when we’d first begun.

New Lanark, how sweet the mill,

That saved a wretch like me,

I once was lost, but now am found,

Was blind, but now I see!

PS – Fiction! This letter is fiction!  All page references point to the reality of the time, please refer to title mentioned first, David Dale, A Life, yet know these letters are fiction! I’m not a Scot yet am so moved by Dr. McLaren’s thorough research on David Dale. Buy the book!

Please know that New Lanark Mills is a World Heritage Site, and destination for visitors seeking tours, accommodations within the Mill complex, and yes, a gift shop! Contact them: trust@newlanark.org

Certainly, this piece of history fits with a piece of my history. My life and work in New Harmony, Indiana are all of a weave. Two degrees of separation between Dale and me, check out the Owen family tree posted here – Dale=JBO=KC.  I seek a literary agent for my non-fiction work, The Other Woman, Private Secretary to a Daughter of Exxon Oil.

Immense gratitude to Scot Highlander from the Orkneys, Penny Sisto, some of her powerful fabric story work, “quilts,” are part of Jane Blaffer Owen’s collection in New Harmony, and I had the  distinct pleasure of meeting Penny a few times. There is a fine documentary of Penny’s work, Woman of the Cloth  by Caroline Nellis.