GEORGE TINGLEY MANUSCRIPT AND NOTES © Mystic Seaport Museum, MV 781. Foreward: The lean and slippered pantaloon sits by the ingle-nook in his easy chair enjoying a good cigar, while dreamingly reviewing in reminiscence the bygone events that bridge the gap lying between his first and second childhood: I was thankfully content and appreciative of the many blessings bestowed during a long and placid journey on this earthly sphere. Finding no solution as to why he is on this planet or where he is to go from there, speculation ceases. Whatever the reason for life, satisfaction causes him to believe that God Reigns All is well. Born in Mystic (now called Old Mystic) in the house still standing high on the edge of the brook and west side of the stream in the town of Groton State of Connecticut. September 17, 1864. At the age of 4 moved to Mystic Bridge (now called Mystic) – residing for six months in what is now known s the Methodist Parsonage located on north side of Church St. Six months later we again moved to #7 Haley St. in the same village. After renting this house for some years it was purchased by my father. This property remained in the Tingley family name until sold in 1945. Here were spent my youthful years up to the age of 23 at which time Nov. 1887 I took unto myself a wife on the same date as the wedding anniversary of my father and mother had occurred many years before (Nov. 1887) MY NATIVE VILLAGE In the early 17th century the Dutch explorer Adrian Block discovered and named the stream( on the edge of which I was born) Rover van Siccanamos” This stream flows peacefully down to the sea, dividing the lands that at a much earlier period had been the happy hunting grounds of the noble Red Man. On the one hand lived the Mohican and Pequot tribes, on the other the Narragansett and Wampanoags That this region was once a thickly occupied country of the Indians, is attested by the spattered circle of names surrounding this village. Here are a few names that have survived since the departure of the Pequots in 1637: Chippechaug, Chippedago, Quanquataug, Quiambaug, Wequetequok, Wamphassek, Wicopesit, Weekapaug, Pawcutuck, Poquonnock, Pequotsepos, Poquetannock, Anguilla, Nauyeaug, and Taugwank.. No, you are wrong. Aunt Zervioh did not discover me in the bulrushes. The exact spot was high above the rushes in the south east chamber of the second floor of the house. The sheer east wall of the building reared high above the stream. Its foundation had been built up from the edge of the stream to the level of the bridge street. Beneath the keystone of this bridge the sweet waters of the Great Brook have for untold years flowed down to meet the incoming tide of the river, there to be united and borne to the welcoming arms of the briny deep. Had Aunt Zervioh dropped me from the window to the stream – but not she decided – after carefully inspecting me that it would be better to give me a chance to ‘extinguish’ myself. Should she have decided otherwise, the current would have carried me to my present abode four and a half years earlier/ As a consequence of her decision my life has been an extended journey over a period of eighty seven years. Today finds me struggling in this attempt to entertain three generations of descendants while ‘sifting my ashes’ of reminiscence. The date: Just two years to a day after the battle of Antietam. My name was not Moses, nor was Miriam in the neighborhood at the time. I discovered Miriam 36 years later, at which time she lay snuggled close in the arms of her mother. Both were sleeping peacefully as if fatigued and in need of rest after their long journey together. My Madonna and my child! Though nearly 82 years had passed since opportunity afforded me the privilege of visiting my birth-place, the chance to do so came recently while attending an outing of my associates in a nearby grove. This grove was but a stones throw from the house where my voice was first heard in the land. An irresistible desire to visit this spot drew me on until I was standing on the stone arched bridge that spans the “Siccanamo” . It was mid-day, instead of midnight and no bell tolled the hour. Not a soul was in sight. The spirit of peace prevailed which brought to mind may mothers story of – Midnight Alarm It was Sunday. It was also a warm sunny September day. Nostalgia possessed me. My hand could touch the house as my eye sought the window of the second floor chamber. In dreamy meditation I viewed the scene looking up the stream, banked on either hand by trees whose tops formed an arch high up and over the stream, it was as if looking in an ever-narrowing funnel that ended in a small central black disc. On the right bank stood a maiden maple sapling, perhaps twenty feet in height, gowned in autumns high golden colors, bending gracefully forward, as if in adoration, and thankful devotion for the continuous blessings bestowed by the gently flowing stream. There looking west along the north side of the road stood first, the house where I was born - the home from which we eventually moved. Again we saunter westward, noting the site of what once was a tanyard with its numerous vats abandoned and cleared long ago. The familiar triangular shaped Green with its public signpost at the fork of the road and across the road at the foot of the hill, still stands the Ancient Tavern of Colonial days. Directly behind and above this inn towers stands the Oldest Baptist church in the state, founded in 1705 this church stands high against the heavens, the crowning glory of a charming colonial village. Crossing the street, turn east and return toward the bridge. There is no change in the residences, no loss, no gain, just the same as of yore. All in splendid condition, these houses give promise of enduring for another century. Arrived at the last structure standing on the high bank of the stream an aged forlorn and vacant building occupied for many years as grocery store confronts us. In the olden days any evening would find gathered here the “Brains of the Town “- seated around the sand- box in the center of which stood the small pot-bellied stove. Here the issues of the day both national and local were discussed, covering both the tales and reports from the war front, to the gossip and guesses on the home front. Witty relaters of tall stories, wags and practical jokers, weather prophets and sundry, could be found congenially enjoying their tobacco and each other. Among the regular attendants were the village physician and the ice man. They provided much of the jollity of any session. The following stories were told me by my father: PHILANDER AND THE KICKING COW Philander on one occasion consulted the old doctor, telling him his trouble and asking his advice. He said: “Doctor, I’ve got trouble. I’ve got a kicking cow. Every time, right in the middle of the milking, by gravy, she ups with her hind leg and kicks the pail over – that’s just what she does, gosh damn her!! Now, can you tell me what to do to stop it?” Doctor: “Well Phil, you certainly do need advice! It is a little out of my line, but your necessity and my sympathy, urge me to prescribe or recommend a remedy that may do the trick. “If she does it again, why not try grabbing her leg, placing both arms tightly around it? Seems like that ought to break the habit”. Phil: “By gosh, doctor, I never thought of that. I’ll try it.” On a later occasion, meeting at the store, the doctor enquired if the cow had kicked since last they met. Phil: “By gosh doctor, she did ! I did just as you told me. Something must have happened for when I came to, I just wondered why I was sleeping out doors on the manure heap. Well, I got to thinking, and it just comes to me. Do you know doctor, somehow, I shall always think that darned critter kicked me”. Doctor: “Somehow, I feel that perhaps I was somewhat to blame in that I neglected to caution you, to be sure to hold on firmly.” MIDNIGHT ALARM As my mother was able to nurse me for but a short time recourse to the nursing bottle became necessary. She told me, that awakening about 3 am, I would announce my hunger, by howling continuously until the nipple of the bottle, was placed in my mouth. My father worked hard, for long hours each day. He needed sleep. Because of my screaming his slumber became disturbed and abbreviated. Patience became no virtue. He took me in hand. Mother dear told me many years later, the shaking he applied, was the severest she ever saw given an eight months old baby. They also tell me, I never again indulged in Midnight Alarms. Who can deny that a child too young to remember must have been subconsciously impressed and aware of the purpose of the punishment GREAT OIL DISCOVERY Soon after the discovery of coal oil in the State of Pennsylvania became known, it was a common topic of the day, even in so remote a place as this quiet village.