52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks - Week 6 - Social Media
- kathleenachapman
- Feb 6, 2023
- 4 min read
A hundred years ago, newspapers, especially small local papers, could be considered their times social media platforms. On-goings of clubs and organizations were reported. A family reunion, a relative visiting from out of town, or how your elderly neighbor's illness was improving, were all frequently in the news. National and international news was reported, but also auctions, farm prices, and that the general store received a new supply of calicos and canned peaches were on sale.
As a teen, my grandmother, Miriam Meyers, had poems and stories published in the local paper's "Junior Democrat and Chronicle" Saturday feature.
The Rochester Democrat and Chronicle got it's start in the 1830's as "The Balance". In 1840 it's named was changed to the "Daily Democrat". Finally it merged with another paper, the "Chronicle" in 1879 and it's named changed to the Democrat and Chronicle.
Miriam Rena Meyers was born in 1908 in Los Angeles but was raised by her grandparents in Rochester, New York.
The Democrat and Chronicle started the "Junior Democrat and Chronicle" in September 1922. It's purpose was stated in the introduction.
What the world needs most is people who think. Those who are seeing, and hearing, today, and thinking about it, are going to be the big men and women of to-morrow. Now writing is fun; and whether you are planning to be a lawyer, doctor, a home-maker, or the President of the United States there is no better way to prepare for it than to write a little each day. Send to the Junior Democrat and Chronicle whatever you like best of your writings, stating, please, your age.
We have five clippings of teenage Miriam's submissions (today these might be Tik Tok videos!). She must have enjoyed writing and took great pride in her published works. I've included a transcription of one of the stories, it reminds me of something by Charles Dickens!
Home Sweet Home
By Miriam Meyers, 15 Years Old.
My memory goes back to the days when I was young. No, I don't mean a child -- but what happy, joyful, carefree days childhood days are. Oh, if I could be twenty again, with the same understanding and realization that I have attained in sixty years, what a different life I would have.
I am old and gray now, and many a sad and bitter tear has rolled down this cheek of mine. But I shall begin at the beginning and let you judge me; only I pray don't judge me too harshly, I have had my lesson, oh, a thousand times over.
We were all seated in the sitting room of my humble but tidy home. My father was reading the Bible, my mother was darning my socks, putting into those stiches all her love for me. But I saw none of that. I had attained the age of twenty-one that day, I had made up my mind I would not stay there any longer. What had Lakeview for me? Yes, I was born in Lakeview, England, but I had heard of the land of gold and opportunity. My heart, my soul, my very being wanted to go to America. The moment had come for me to tell them. I plucked up the courage I had within me, and said, "Mother and father I have decided to-to-". My voice suddenly left me. I must finish, I must, I kept saying to myself. At last, with one great effort, I said, "I have decided to leave home for America."
I gave my father a quick glance; the Bible lay in his lap; it seemed to me that he had aged since I uttered those words. My glance turned to my mother. Dear, darling old mother of mine, her face was so pale, her hair seemed so gray; tears of love, joy and regret were falling fast down her thin and careworn cheeks, careworn for me. I rushed over to her and buried my face in the bosom of her dress. Her hands passed lightly over my head and she said, "My dear, darling, my little boy." I looked up, a fear in my heart, that fear was realized all to soon, my mother was dying. She opened her eyes and said: "Stay with your father, and --" but her voice broke off. She was dead.
I had killed my mother, that one thought kept going through my mind. I turned suddenly to my father, "Look, look, I have killed my mother, my mother. Oh, my mother, forgive me, I say, forgive me."
My father looked at me; the light of an insane man gleamed in his eyes. He came over and put his hands on my shoulders. "Son, you did not do it. It was --" his voice broke, but regaining himself, "It was God's will."
I tried to do my best for my father, but he died soon after my mother, he pined so for her. Before he died, he pointed to a picture over the door which was named "Home, sweet home." Oh, those words, those sweet, sweet life given words to me.
I understand them? I do. Now as an old man, when I think of the home, sweet home I could have had. But it is too late now to think. I wanted, when I was young, to go away from home, sweet home, but God did not give the chance to me. He just took my home, sweet home, away from me.
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