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.
*
* * *
* * *
David
Dale of New Lanark by David J. McLaren, Caring Books,
Glasgow, 1999, my copy autographed!
*
* * *
* * *
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.
* *
* * *
* * *
Gratitude to Dr. David J.
McLaren and Dougie MacLean, Dunkeld Records, Perthshire
March 23,
1806
Dear
Jean,
I hope
this letter finds you, dear sister. Our mail must have gotten lost along the high
seas these last years. Every time I hear of a pirate’s raid on a ship, or a
ship going down in a storm, I imagine our letters in the trouble. In case this
gets to you, here’s old and new news.
I’ll
start with the bad. The last letter I got from you asked after the kids. I hope
you are sitting down. And I hope my tears don’t flood this paper. My darling
Janie died. I thought nothing could be worse than losing my John to the pox so
long ago, but losing Janie to yellow fever was the worst. She was just 17, it
was 1798. I still cry almost every day.
Janie
had just aged out of mill work and was starting her adult life. I’ll never
forget her 16th birthday. We had a party right here and even snuck
in her best boarder friends. They aren’t supposed to come to mill village activities,
but she really wanted her friends to be here. We did it anyway, and got away
with it, too.
I’m not
sure why the mill manager doesn’t want the boarder kids to have social time
with mill village friends, it’s some kind of law or something. These kids work,
eat, and study together 16 hours a day, six days a week, so of course
friendships will come of it. The only thing I wonder is what it must look like
for a boarder to come to a real home, most of them have never known such a
thing. They must think we’re Uppers.
Janie
and I went to great lengths to make sure they were comfortable, I made a cake,
and cooked fish stew for everyone. Liz, the woman I met by the River Clyde so
long ago, when that miracle happened (and you did burn that page, thank you
sister), and two of her boarder kids came, too. We even made time for anyone
who wanted to sing a song, tell a story, or do a dance. It was a happy party
for my youngest love. The next day, when Janie and I were cleaning up, I sat
her down and showed her the money I’ve been saving. Every shilling she’s
ever earned at the mill. She was shocked, and for a few minutes she was at a
loss for words, very unlike her! When she came to her senses, she said one
thing she’ll do with some of the money is get some special shoes made at the
cobblers. Here’s why.
Something was wrong with Janie’s legs, that
had been a problem since she was about 8 or 9. Her legs grew in odd shape. Some
of the other mill kids had it too {p. 238}. Maybe being in a cramped position
for her job for so many hours, so many days, so many years had been keeping her
legs from growing normal? All that was trouble for her feet, and shoes only
hurt her feet more. She was so happy when the custom-made shoes were ready, and
they did help her feet a lot. But other
than that, she was smart, funny, and a joy. She had a special gift of being
happy all the time, she could always see the bright side of any problem. I
needed that optimism, and without her on this planet, it’s not the same. She
started domestic service for some Upper ladies, sisters, who own a lot of land
right near the mill. Janie liked the work, and because she could read and
write, those ladies had her helping with their correspondence in addition to
her other responsibilities.
For me,
it was good, as we could see each other some Sundays. But when she got violent
sick, the Uppers wanted her out of their house. I hired a buggy and brought her
home and tried to take care of her, but she was so sick, it was awful. Mr. Dale
had finally gotten the Glasgow Royal Infirmary going, {p. 194}, and my name was
on the list for being approved for seeing a doctor. I probably bent the rule
when I took my Janie. The clerk was understanding and let us see the doctor,
but he said take her home, there’s nothing we can do.
She
died 3 days later, and part of me died, too. I can hardly believe the time –
she died 8 years ago and it feels like it was last week. She was even lovely as
she died, told me she’ll be waiting with daddy and have scones and tea for us
when we meet in heaven. I used some of her savings to bury her and gave the
rest in her name to the Slave Trade Abolitionists.
The
reason I’m writing to you now is that I have three days off from work, due to
another funeral. Four days ago, Mr. Dale died, and the mill is shut down in his
honor. So much to explain, Jean, as Mr. D didn’t even own the mill anymore. Mr.
D sold the mill to some men from Manchester, for 60,000 pounds in 1799 {p. 214}.
We’ve had a new bunch of bosses since then, Lots of changes, lots. One of the
new owners is also Mr. D’s new son-in-law, we know that’s the reason the mill
honors Mr. D.
First,
about Mr. D’s funeral. It was one of the biggest Glasgow has ever seen, {p.215-223
& 240-1}. The preacher said it this way: in Glasgow, even the people who
didn’t appreciate Mr. Dale’s community work still liked him and came to honor him.
The
whole Slave business has many Scots taking sides and causes trouble for them in
lots of business and church functions. Thankfully Mr. D was loyal to the day he
died for the work he and many others did to stop the wicked Slave Trade
business. The newspapers say there will be a law from London soon {p. 172} to
shut down the evil men who kidnap Africans and sell them. No matter what they
thought about the Slave Trade trouble, all the shopkeeps in Glasgow closed
their doors in honor of Mr. D’s funeral.
Cousin Annabel
was Mr. D’s most trusted staff and helped as he was mostly living at his
country house, Rosebank, {p. 216}, in Cambuslang, ever so slightly closer to
New Lanark and my place. Me and Annabel could see each other a bit more often
these last few years. We keep splitting the cost of buggy fare, too. Once I
even got to visit her at Rosebank when Mr. D was back in Glasgow. It was my
first time ever to be in an Uppers house, and Annabel could have lost her job
for letting me in. She wasn’t supposed to ever have company, but she timed it
right, the gardeners and house staff all had the day off. Rosebank was so
beautiful, so elegant, and Annabel enjoyed my wide-eyed wonder at how Uppers
live. I had no idea Mr. D was that rich, but all his wealth didn’t matter to
his health. Sadly, he got miserable sick when he was 60, in about 1795, and he
didn’t go out as much or take active part in his usual business concerns like
before.
Poor
Mr. D, he will be missed, by me for sure. Annabel thinks that his health
problems began in 1794, when he took another volunteer year as
Magistrate. She said it was too demanding and diminished Mr. D’s attention to his
other work - projects, business deals, activist work, and even attention to the
mill and his daughters for that year. He was so loyal to the betterment of
Glasgow and New Lanark, he forgot to be loyal to his own betterment. He took
the work on, for free mind you. Other Uppers should have taken their turn, but
refused and paid a fine instead {p.182}, leaving the important responsibility
to good souls like Mr. D. She thinks that’s what started to undo her boss. As
Magistrate, he not only had to wear all the elaborate robes and gold chains
every time he stepped out of the house to fulfill the role, which included the
long hours in court room work to judge how to punish the bad people, he also
had to attend every judicial meeting everywhere, plus all civic fancy events,{p.
183} and this was his second time to take that on. Annabel said all the fancy garb
added another 12 kg to his tired body. She said sometimes when he got home
after a Magistrate day, he was too tired to smile.
Mr. D was so determined to help Glasgow
be a world class city, even when he was not in good health he pushed himself
hard. One project was the “asylum.” He and other Uppers put their minds and
money to work, and had it built in 1804. They don’t call it a jail, but it’s
something like that. Glasgow now has a version of the English Society of
Magdalen, a place for “dissolute women who might have a desire to return to the
paths of virtue,” {p.182}. Folks said he was hoping to preach there, too, but
he wasn’t doing much preaching in his last few years. What
we want to do, and what we can do sometimes don’t match, eh?
In
1799, Mr. D started to make big decisions, wait until you hear this.
I told
you ever so long ago that Mr. Kelly, then mill manager, wanted me to come to
work in my Sunday dress sometimes? Well, he asked me to help with the
international tour guests who come to the mill almost every day for a look at
what we do. I’d seen fancy folks walking through the mill many times, so when
Mr. Kelly asked if I’d help with that once a week, I was interested. It was so
strange at first to wear my Sunday dress to work and have my co-workers snigger
as I walked by, but the perks made it worth it. I could come in at 10: a., and go home early,
when the tour work was done for the day. YIPPIE! Yes, I’ll take that extra job,
I love it, I get to walk around the whole mill, help interested guests
understand what we do, and sometimes just smile a lot, as some of the guests
are not speaking English. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not the tour leader, no no no,
more like the dog nipping at the heels the stragglers, keep moving, keep
together with the group, all that.
When
Mr. D and Mr. Kelly started welcoming interested Uppers {p. 70-8 and 247-9} to
see what we do, they had one person being the tour guide. Well, once, some guests were so fascinated at
watching the spinners and the kids working, they got separated from the other guests.
They got lost in the mill hallways for a couple hours and that wouldn’t do. So,
Mr. Kelly asked me and a few other women to help with the tour groups. Mr. D
gave me a bonus so I could buy material and make another Sunday dress - me with
two Sunday dresses! And the glorious part, I get a “lie-in” that morning when I
do the tour job. Getting up at 5:a gets a bit tough after all these years. On
the tour days I can sleep in until 9 in the morning, like Sundays, whew!
Well, I
happened to be doing tour work that day, 1798, before darling Janie got so
sick, when one of the guests seemed different and I got to check him out a bit.
He signed the Guest Book – Robert Owen from Manchester. We knew right away he
was connected with the textile work there, everybody from Manchester is and
they’re all English. As the tour got going, about 10 people in the group, I
surveilled them - yep, there’s the English, they have their distinctive way to
not quite make eye contact, can’t fool me. But one of the English – hmm, no,
he’s not English, no, he looks Welsh. They have a certain way about their cutting-edge
attire, their alert posture, their direct eye contact, they stand out in a
crowd in their own way. The Welsh one, Robert Owen, was Mr. Personality, bright
and cheerful and well, sort of strange, too. It was like he wanted me to like
him. Like he wanted my vote or something.
Usually
tour guests mostly ignore me, I’m always in the very back, making sure the
guests stay together as the leader shows everybody around. Lots of smiles, and
I’ve perfected a hand gesture – OK, keep moving, loves – and I don’t talk very
much. Not with the Owen guest, he assumed I was a mill authority, asked me – me!
– lots of questions, it was strange. I kept telling him to ask the tour leader,
and that day it was Mr. Kelly himself, Owen could have got best answers from
him. Robert Owen, RO, treated me like I was his long-lost sister, and he made a
mistake to tell me about himself.
I wish
I could forget that visitor, but oh, Jean, it became a BIG DEAL – that man had
already met Mr. D’s oldest daughter, Anne Caroline, she was 19 then, through
some friends a few months before {p.213} that tour. Annabel knows a few
things. If RO schmoozed Anne like he tried to be my sudden best friend, well, I
guess that’s what happened. Some folks are all about being liked, and are good
at hiding the “why.”
We mill
folks had been in various stages of anxiety for a few years because we knew Mr.
D was having health problems, he wasn’t getting any younger, and yet no son to
leave the mill to. What would happen to us, to the mill, to New Lanark? Annabel
says he started to realize he had to take care of this situation and considered
selling the mill.
YIKES! Even Annabel couldn’t have known how
anxiety producing that idea was for all of us. Over 1,000 people are very
dependent on this factory life. Word on the mill village street was that if we
got bad new owners, there would be a shit-show and get ready to pack your bags,
find a place to live, and a way to make a living. Just as concerning, what
would happen to the hundreds of boarder kids, back to lock-up at Town’s
Hospital for them? Nobody knew.
Even
worse, some of us are old and have no family to take us in. We might have to go
to Town’s Hospital if we don’t have a job, an income, and a place to live. Many
of us worked here for so long, we’ve lost contact with usual Scot life, I sure
have. The rhythm of living off the land, family down the lane, and having close
friendships with other area folks, sure doesn’t happen in factory world.
Factory workers are loyal to the town clock and a paycheck, maybe we’re some
research objects for this idea called manufactory. I’m here to say, factory
life has its dark side. What happens when I’m too old to work but too young to
die? Farm families help the old ones go gentle, not any such thing with this
factory deal. Where’s Walter Reuther when we need him? Well
well well.
The day
I met RO, he told me something I couldn’t make sense of at the time, but now
it’s like a jumbo sign lighting up my brain. Mr. K had just told the tour
guests about how Mr. D is dedicated to leading the boarders to Christian
values, when RO turned to me and gave me a weird look – a raised eyebrow and a
smirk. Yes, a smirk! Then he stepped back, got right in my face, and whispered,
“What’s all the fuss about Christian values?”
I was
stunned – where did this guy come from, another planet? I smiled and stepped away, I wasn’t going to
educate him on this topic, that was immediately clear. Two minutes later he
again stepped back to chat with me like I was his best friend. After the tour,
Mr, K asked if I knew RO from somewhere, it must have looked like we had some
previous knowledge of each other because RO was so in my face the whole tour, I
said, “NO!”
Well,
Mr. Personality RO was in with Anne, and even her younger sisters, two’s thats
living, they got schmoozed by RO, too. Just as Anne starts her adult life, very
self-assured RO shows up, knows a bit about textiles, has some money of his own
– not much – and works his way into Mr. D’s business concerns. Annabel said for
a long time, months and months, Mr. D wasn’t very warm to RO, even though Anne
and RO took long chaperoned walks around Glasgow, and Anne kept inviting him to
dinner. RO had all kinds of chances to schmooze Mr. D.
Mr. D
wasn’t schmoozable – that’s for sure! But underneath, he knew he wasn’t getting
any younger, or any healthier. The mill was going to have to be shut down or
sold, no son to inherit it and many other complicated business holdings. No
problem, RO would weedle his way into Mr. D anyway. And he did.
Anne
would never marry without daddy’s approval, oh no, that’s an unbroken code of
conduct with all Uppers. But she fell in love with RO, and they did a campaign
to get daddy to see what RO could bring to the Dale family. Anne must have
given RO a serious talk, maybe like – “hey, we are all Christians in this
house, have been for all our lives, even if you don’t like it much, SHUT UP
about it around Daddy. No raised eyebrow, no smirking, Daddy will never be
happy with you otherwise. Daddy isn’t happy that you aren’t Scotch, don’t make
things harder, ok?”
Well
two things happened in 1799. The mill was sold to Chorlton Twist Company of
Manchester, RO and eight business partners were the names on the deal. RO, part
owner, became our new manager and took 1000 pounds sterling per year for this
work {p. 215}.
Within
a couple months, a big wedding! Anne persevered, and daddy finally approved the
marriage, and so RO comes into the Dale family with all of 3000 pounds {p. 214}
as his worldly assets. Hmmm. Mr. Personality. OK.
Ah,
maybe you heard, sister, we had a rough year right after the mill was sold,
harsh weather caused a massive crop failure 1799-1800, very tough times for
most of us {p. 180}. RO, the new mill manager, had a test right at the
beginning, how to feed 1,000 people breakfast and dinner 6 days a week? Also, all
the scholars get a fast supper, that’s hundreds of hungry young people to feed
six nights a week. And feed hundreds of boarders on Sundays, too. One thing I
like about most Scots, we all try to help each other when times get tight. The
Uppers bent over backwards to help folks have enough to eat, but everybody was
on a slimming diet that year.
The
Chorlton Twist Company change in ownership of the mill had one legal part that
meant a great deal to Mr. D – the boarder kids would still have all he had
created for them: a place to live, clothes on their backs, food, work, free
education, and church values.
For us,
it meant lots of changes, RO became our boss, and he was always looking for
every way to find fault and save money, like he changed our pay schedule
{p.238} from once a week to once a month. Less work for the paymaster. More
hassles for us, for sure.
Something
good happened for Mr. D, before he died. Anne and RO gave him five grands, {p.
161}. Anne was like her mother in that way, a baby a year. Actually, they had
six, first one died right way. Two grands were born in the same year! Annabel says those little ones re-charged him
when he was down. But I guess they won’t be working in the mill, not any Upper
kids. Hell to the no.
Well,
here it is 1806, now Mr. D is gone, and RO is really in charge of the whole
thing. His business partners just let him have his way with all the changes we
hear are coming. Now that Anne and her sisters will have some of their
inheritance soon, RO has more pots of money to drool over because he schmoozes
them, {p. 226} too. One of the rumors is that RO will stop taking on boarder
kids. Oh, Mr. D will roll over in his grave if that happens. Mr. D was
passionate that these orphans {p.213} will have a chance for a good life with
the mill experience. Me, too.
Oh,
sister Jean, here’s a laugh out loud story for you. Some fancy English poets
came for a mill tour, I was doing tour duty that day, {p. 73}, what a hoot! A
married couple, the Woodsworth’s, and a friend, somebody Coleridge, looked
around and clearly, none of them had ever worked a day in their lives, they
might as well be touring the moon. The Coleridge fellow was – well, “in the
drink” or worse. He was either drunk, or hung over, or a horse’s ass for any
number of reasons, and the tour leader gave the fastest tour I’ve ever been a
part of. Coleridge kept bragging about being RO’s best buddy, then he’d stumble
and mumble and I think he even peed himself. They all talked about the glorious
French Revolution and I’m glad Mr. D didn’t have to listen to that.
I’m
still trying to sort out why I was so bothered by another tour guest that day. He
wasn’t friends with the poets, and kept to himself while we moved through the
mill. There was something about him that I just didn’t trust, something in the
way he constantly fiddled with his very expensive attire, his cold eyes like he
was calculating value on the machinery, his aloof manner, and not even a smile
when the tour guide chatted with a couple young workers as they explained their
work to the guests, something was not right with the fellow. After the tour, I
checked the sign-in sheet, John More, Glasgow. I usually can pick a Scot out of
the crowd, but this one, hmm, something cold about this one {p.228}.
Speaking
of the French Revolution, well, I know you know we did go to war - again – this
time to support the French Monarchy, {p. 112}, and this one did not help our
standard of living one tiny bit. It was simply an overwhelming commercial
crisis {p. 122} and a fool’s war methinks. I puzzle about Mr. D’s avowed
loyalty to our troubled King George 111. Annabel hears things from other
servants, they hear things from other servants, and some rumors about strange
trouble in the King’s family is whispered about. I guess I’m not a Loyalist,
somehow supporting the King for this French war dance seemed like a losing deal
from the get-go. How it changed from hundreds of years not liking the French
royals at all, to suddenly going to kill the French people who also didn’t like
their royals, well, stupid seems like the right word. And I’m glad Tommy
thought the same.
Here's some good news, Tommy and Maggie married,
and got hired in at a farm! It’s a long way from New Lanark, up near Aberdeen,
so I don’t see them much, not enough. They have six kids, all of them beautiful,
active and smart, oh yes. They even named one of the boys John, and one of the
girls after me. Maggie says I’m her mom and mother-in-law, and now I’m Granny,
too. They know how very fortunate they are. The owners of the farm are decent
types, have helped them understand the rhythm of farm life and they love it
there. Tommy even learned how to train dogs to herd sheep. The old man has
taken Tommy in like a son, Maggie got me laughing once when she said she is
happy cleaning chicken doo, better than carding cotton! She’s like me, being
outdoors is a joy. I couldn’t have wished for anything better for them.
Mary
aged out of mill work when she turned 16 in 1795 and refused any talk of ever
working there another day. A boarder boy was trying to get close to her, she
was polite but went her own way. Two Highlanders, a married couple, who stayed
and worked here after they were on the disaster ship The Fortune, took a liking
to Mary. About the time they had saved every shilling they made here to get to
North Carolina again, that was when Mary was free to leave. They talked her
into coming to USA with them, and I haven’t seen her since. I miss her, really
miss her, Jean, she was my best friend. We could always talk about things big
and small, and she has left a hole in my heart.
Sister,
I wish you could have seen the look on her face when she turned 16 and had her
last day at the mill. She was happy and scared and anxious all at once, but
when I showed her all the money I’d been saving for her, every last shilling
she ever earned at the mill, she was the happiest gal in Scotland. She not only
had money for ship fare, she had enough for a little cushion if things went bad
in North Carolina.
We write
to each other; things are going very well for her. She got married, now lives
in Kentucke, and her husband is a Scot! A Highlander! He’s a blacksmith for
some Uppers who have fancy fast horses there, makes good money, and they are
happy even if she hasn’t had a baby yet. She learned to cook for big parties,
and loves it, every minute of it. She wrote to me that when the kids did that
birthday supper for me, she loved the challenge so much, she wanted to learn
how to rattle those pots and pans. She says anything is better than the mill!
But then wrote, “oh Mommy, I’m grateful we had our family together and could
work at Mr. D’s mill. Now that I realize how hard it must have been for you
when Papa died, I will always praise Mr. D.
But still, I’m so glad there’s more to life than mill work. For us kids, it was not healthy sometimes.”
She said they are saving money and hope to bring me to see them someday. Maybe
you and I can see each other, sister. How far is Kentucke from Philadelfia?
I was
so interested in your news that your husband, Ian, is now in the employ of a
Scot, Mr. William Maclure, thanks to Ian’s former work at the American
Philosophical Society in Philadelfia. Funny how one thing leads to another, eh?
I have
some local gossip about Ian’s new boss. A woman here is from the same town,
Ayr, as Maclure, she says his family had some strange problems, but William was
the bright one of the bunch. {Gratitude to Leonard Warren for his fine
biography, Maclure of New
Harmony}, She
told me he was so disgusted with his family he changed his name from McClure to
Maclure. Wow! That’s quite a statement. His family paid for him to learn
reading and numbers, then paid extra for writing, but somehow, he must have
hated that teacher and you told me that Ian was mostly hired because Maclure can
barely scribble anything.
The Ayr
woman said that Maclure made huge money, mostly in textiles, and now spends his
time figuring out how to give it away. Well, that and walking the mountains
there in USA, he loves looking at rocks and old bones and nature, mapping out
the rivers and such, something about a new science, geology, whatever. I hope
Ian likes his new boss. I was quite impressed that Ian got to accompany Mr.
Maclure for a dinner at President Thomas Jefferson’s estate. Livin’ Large! Even
Mr. D never dined with the King! And yes, I did finally tell Tommy who he’s
named after, seems the Jefferson man is worthy. I hope your President doesn’t
have slaves, does he? My John smiles from his cloud.
Sister,
how I wish I could see you, but I probably wouldn’t know you if I was standing
next to you, it’s been too long. I barely recognize myself, old now, 46, the
kids gone, nobody to fuss over. I still try to enjoy life as I can and even
give myself permission to stay home from work some days even though they dock
my pay two days for one day out. I need time. Time to imagine, time to breathe,
time to watch the moon coming in the window, time to take long walks up the
River Clyde, time to try my hand at quilting those fabric stories like Penny
Sisto got me started with. She had some money tucked away, and sailed off to
your shores, along the Ohio River, I think. Is that near the ocean shore?
Even
though there’s a lot of stress at the mill with RO calling the shots, we still
have some fun. I went to the monthly ceilidh, “kay-lee,” and was so so so glad
Dougie MacLean was back. He sang a song that really got me thinking, “Rank and
Roses,” about Uppers pushing their power around,
“she goes to town meeting, she speaks with
rank and roses, so high above them all, what could they do?”
Like the lady in New Harmony, Indiana, largest
property owner, largest taxpayer, largest employer, also a Grande Dame of
Houston, TX., Jane Blaffer Owen was connected to all kinds of money and power.
Dougie’s smart song gives Uppers a bit of advice:
“It’s
over! You have no hold on us, like the fear you laid on them, it’s us that you must
answer to.”
Love
Dougie and his band mates, smart, with heart, and how they radiate gratitude
from the stage, they’re happy we’re there listening and dancing. We could put
the mill problems to the side for a few hours and have a pint and fun. I deeply
miss having that fun with my little loves, now the tears will start again. RO
even let some of the boarders come to the ceilidh, I liked that very much.
I’ll
tell you something I hope nobody around here figures out: RO doesn’t care if we
go to church or not, so a few years ago I came up with a little way to buy some
time for myself. I’ve gone to one church here for many years, every Sunday, and
that’s been good, but over the years sometimes I felt pressured to attend,
rather than wanting to attend. I admit, the long shadow of that preacher
giving me terrible advice to take my kids to Town’s Hospital so many years ago
took away my respect of their “approved” connection to God. Here’s what I do,
sister, what do you think? I occasionally go to another church up the lane
here, and the regulars at either church don’t know if I’ll walk in the door
that Sunday or not. With that in place, about every third Sunday, I’m keen to
stay home for the morning. The truth of one thousand people working together 72
hours a week, living so close together, church life with same people, it all
gets to be too much. Dougie MacLean and his music at a monthly ceilidh is a
welcome happy change, like a pressure valve helping us tolerate each other,
There are people here who won’t even tip their head in a moment of recognition,
and they’ve worked and lived next door to each other for years. By the Grace of
God, I’m not in any of those miserable messes, but I don’t want to be around
such nasty behavior. If RO is ok with me not being in a pew Sunday morning,
I’ve figured out this way to suit myself, God and I communicate just fine.
Sister,
please know you’ve been an anchor for me these years. Knowing you care about me
and the kids has made things easier for me when I get overwhelmed with events.
You’re my rock in the new world, and I hope you think of me as your thistle,
national flower of Scotland. Annabel sends her love, too.
Soon,
Cheers, Love, sis k
PS – Fiction! This letter is fiction! All page references point to the reality of
the time, please refer to title mentioned first, yet know these letters are
fiction! I’m not a Scot yet am so moved by Dr. McLaren’s thorough research on
David Dale.
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.
Gratitude to Dr. Leonard Warren for his fine biography, Maclure
of New Harmony, of William Maclure ‘s effort to join Robert Owen in the
dream of a new world order in New Harmony, Indiana in 1826.
I particularly loved one sentence in this book, “Maclure was
about to enter a buzz saw.” When Maclure met Owen, Maclure got talked into a
WEIRD idea of taking New Harmony children from parents and raising them by an
educator. Maclure financed this part of RO’s social engineering idea of a
better world. RO considered that if children aren’t raised by parents who have
lame ideas of civic responsibility, the enlightened educator can raise those
children to be much better citizens. Madame Marie Duclos Fretageot from France
took this on and was financed entirely by Maclure for many years as she worked
and lived in New Harmony. Maclure and Fretageot kept their end of the bargain
long after Owen’s experiment crashed. And yes, I partied in the Maclure Mansion
for over 6 years. Read all about it in my yet-to-be-published memoir, The
Other Woman, Private Secretary to a Daughter of Exxon Oil. I’m looking
for a literary agent.
Soon I’ll post a non-fiction “Dear Jean PS,” a brief account of
Owen’s social engineering in New Harmony, how that mattered to other incoming
Europeans, the terrible consequences, and more. Stay tuned!
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