John Sterling Lawton - Medal of Honor Awardee

John Sterling Lawton, born May 13, 1858 was a descendant of Thomas Lawton who, along with his brother George, emigrated from Cranfield, Bedfordshire, England in 1639 to the newly forming colony on Rhode Island.  John was born and raised in Bristol, Rhode Island.  By the age of 21 he was a Sergeant in Company D of the 5^th Cavalry of the United States Army stationed at Fort D. A. Russell in Cheyenne, Wyoming.

Before the coming of the whites the Ute Indians had traditionally lived in Colorado, Utah, and northern New Mexico.  In accordance with their Manifest Destiny the whites believed they were destined to own all land from the Atlantic to the Pacific, and therefore the Indians must be placed on reserved areas rather than have the right to wander wherever they chose.  After the close of the Civil War in 1865 the whites began in earnest to assimilate the entire west.  In a treaty with Colorado Territory’s Governor Evans in 1863 the Utes had been promised all Colorado land west of the Continental Divide.  Five years later in 1868, ten tribal chiefs were invited to Washington to renegotiate the treaty.  Under the new treaty the Utes were established on two reservations, one at Los Pinos and another 150 miles north on the White River.  Another five years passed until the United States government once again wanted more Ute land in 1873.  This time the Utes lost four million acres to the U S Government.  Colorado became a state in 1876.

In 1878 a new U S government agent named Nathan Meeker was assigned to the White River Reservation.  Inept at best, unscrupulous could also be considered, Meeker never got along with his charges.  By early September 1879 matters had worsened to the point Meeker asked Colorado Governor Pitkin for military protection.  Major Thomas T. Thornburgh, commander of Fort Steele, near Rawlins, Wyoming was notified by the U S War Department to move with sufficient troops to the White River Ute Agency.  Thornburgh outfitted about 200 cavalry and mounted infantry for the journey.

On September 29, 1879 Thornburgh’s men crossed the Milk River, eastern boundary of the Ute Reservation.  The Utes considered this an act of war.  Suddenly a shot rang out.  Unknown who, or which group fired it, a battle was on.  Thornburgh circled his wagons in a defensive posture.  Within the first hour Thornburgh had died and command was assumed by Captain Scott Payne who was also wounded.  Trenches were dug within the circle of wagons.  During the first night when the Indians didn’t completely surround the besieged troops, two men, Sergeants John S. Lawton and Jacob Widmer volunteered to go for reinforcement.  They were successful in their foray and three days later 35 men from Fort Dodge arrived with ammunition.  On October 5^th 255 men arrived from Fort Russell in Cheyenne.  At that point the Utes decided any further action on their part was useless, and surrendered.

The two Sergeants were each awarded a Medal of Honor for their perilous ride through the night.

The Stream

The precipitation, whether rain, snow, or other, that falls on several hundred acres of landscape ever so slowly makes its way downhill to a low-lying swampy area.  Here it gathers in pools that with the aid of a beaver dam flow together forming a pond.

Various wetland bushes and shrubs grow in and near the small valley.  These are sustenance for the resident beaver family, as well as perching and nesting sites for kingbirds, kingfishers, red-wings, and other feathered pond denizens who remain through the summers raising a brood on a yearly basis.

Living in the water in harmony with the beavers are several families of muskrats.  As they eat small reeds and grasses, there is little competition for food supplies so they get along with apparent ease.  There are also some sort of small minnows in bunches that somehow worked their way upstream.  Common frogs and bullfrogs each claim some small part of the pond as their personal territory.  That is until some larger critter decides it belongs to them.

Each summer season at least one pair of geese, and a pair of ducks will nest within the quiet waters safe from nearly all predators except man.  Occasionally a garter or water snake will prowl on shore, or take to the water if it seems to have a chance at a resting frog.

Such is life in the pond before the water spills over the beaver dam, or through an intentional spillway used to maintain a certain water level.  After a half mile travel along the small stream bed the water comes to this small pond beside the Cemetery Road.  Here resides another beaver family.  The town crew has a log placed in the water to preclude the beavers raising the water level higher than the road bed, but the beavers are yet able to maintain enough water for their use.

The water travels down through a wooded area for another half mile before arriving at County Road 10.  Here there is another attempt by man to keep the beaver from blocking the pipe under the road.

On the other side of the road is where Dean Cox and I decided to go swimming on the first day of April when we were about 14 years of age.  That was a mistake, but we didn’t know it until we were in the water.  I don’t recall there was any ice floating, but there might as well have been.  As it was a spur of the moment decision we had no towels so were forced to stand in a slight breeze to dry off before putting our clothes back on.  That was colder than the water.

The little stream moseys along for another mile before crossing State Highway 68.  All the while it is getting slowly wider and deeper as other rivulets enter its course.  It continues on for another mile or so until it joins with Lisbon Creek.  Then that flows into the Oswegatchie River near Heuvelton, NY.  So goes a flow of water that drains thousands of acres of prime farm land in this area.

Old-fashioned Maple Syruping

It would be natural to wonder why my brother-in-law, Ron, is adding wood to a woodstove set up in his lawn, when everybody knows they are designed to heat indoors, not out.  I could say that Ron sometimes marches to the beat of a different drum, but that would only partially explain this strange behavior.  Taking a second look at this photo you may note there is a pan atop the stove merrily boiling away.

The second photo shows what the inside of that little wood stove looks like when it is being properly fired.  That’s a fairly hot fire, but has to be fed regularly to stay that way.  A pile of wood can disappear into the maw of that thing more rapidly than one might think.

In this photo you can note the results of that fire under the pan.  A slow rolling boil sends clouds of steam into the atmosphere slowly condensing the maple sap in the pan into maple syrup as the water dissipates.  The piece of metal leaning against the side is ward off the slight wind from that side as an aid to boiling.

I can tell you may be wondering where that sap comes from.  It is from a sugar maple tree.  Usually a person uses a battery drill to make a small hole in the tree trunk.  A small tap with a tube is snugly set into the hole, which then has a container attached to catch the resultant flow.  The temperature must be above freezing, and it helps to have bright sunny days to insure the sap will flow freely.  This jug is nearly full and ready for collecting.  Careful observation will show the railroad tracks some 100’ away.

This is Ron collecting a full jug and pouring it into a pail which will be placed in the back of the waiting Polaris Ranger for transport to the boiling area.  Once back at that point, with fire stoked, and pan filled, it’s time for a break.

We happily retire to the break room, a past garage converted to a man cave, where a friendly game of eight ball can fill in a few minutes before the next tending of the fire must be performed.  The entire syrup making experience is considered no more than a good time with the happy result of two or three gallons of fine syrup at the end of the season which may last a month or so.

Amish Youth

I spent a part of the afternoon with my brother-in-law, Ron.  He is in the midst of making maple syrup.  It is only for his family’s personal consumption, and done in a very primitive way.  He has about twenty taps installed in maybe a dozen trees.  They will produce possibly 2 or 3 gallons of syrup in a month long season.  We used his Polaris Ranger to go into the woods to gather the available sap from buckets attached to the spouts.  After returning to his home we poured the sap into a stainless steel flat pan about 16’ X 24” placed on top of a small wood stove set up in his back yard.  It wasn’t long after we had a good fire burning in the stove that the sap began a slow boil.  The rising steam gave evidence the sap was beginning to thicken into the future remaining syrup.  Between 30 and 40 gallons of sap will boil down into a gallon of syrup.  We needed to tend the fire under the syrup pan every 15 to 20 minutes to insure a proper boil, but in between we played several games of pool on the table he has set up in an old converted garage.  All in all it was a fine afternoon.

Later, on my way home I came to a fork in the road.  The road I live on split off the road I was driving on, in a wye.   Very near the intersection I spotted an Amish wagon with an attached team of horses.  They didn’t appear to be moving.  I started onto my road and traveled several hundred feet, all the time watching the Amish wagon in my rear view mirror.  The wagon never moved although I could see an Amish man near the horses’ heads trying to encourage them on.  I stopped and backed up to where they were.  Then it dawned on me that these were more children than men.  The oldest was about 14, while with him were two boys of maybe 10 and 8 years old.  I asked if they had troubles.  The older boy told me the team just couldn’t pull the wagon loaded with logs onto the road.  He had come out of a wooded area and attempted to enter the roadway at an angle.  Two wheels on one side were on the asphalt, but the other two wheels had sunk in the roadside wet sand.

I asked if the somewhat small team of horses would allow me to attach my pickup ahead of them without panicking.  The elder Amish boy was unsure, but offered to unhook them if I thought my truck would pull the load.  He asked if my truck was a four-wheel-drive, which surprised me as I didn’t realize he would know anything at all about trucks.  I assured him it was, so he pulled a pin, allowing the horses to be driven away from the load.  I then backed my truck up to near the end of the wagon tongue.  The Amish lad produced a chain, hooked it to the tongue, and I attached it to a trailer ball on the back of my truck.  With the transfer case in four-wheel-low, and the transmission in 1^st gear I slowly tightened the chain, and kept right on moving until all four wagon wheels were on the asphalt.  We unhooked the chain and he hooked the light team of horses to the wagon again.  He offered to pay me, but I assured him I wanted nothing for my help.  He was a fellow human needing a little assistance, and I was lucky enough to be able to help when it was needed.  We waved to each other as I drove away.

The Possessed Heating Pad

As I was having some muscular problems in my left shoulder area my granddaughter delivered a small heating pad to my home.  It was her idea that possibly if I placed it on my bed under my shoulder it might relieve some of the discomfort, and actually aid the recuperation.

She showed me the pad, about 16” X 24”, and gave me the following instructions.  Plug the cord into a receptacle.  There are four green buttons on it.  Each is for a different heat setting.  Four may be too hot, so try it on three first.  That was simple enough.  How could I go wrong?

As I prepared to go to bed yesterday evening I dutifully placed the heat pad about where I thought it would be the most beneficial.  I pushed the green # 3 button as instructed and retired on the pad.  Soon my lower back seemed almost too warm, and my shoulder not particularly warm at all so I decided the pad was hotter on one end than the other.  I roused up, moved the pad higher up in the bed with the cooler end under the pillow, bringing the lower part up under my shoulder.  That seemed about right.

A little later, not knowing if I had slept or not, I noted the pad was only as warm as my body.  It seemed not to be heating.  I found the control next to my pillow, turned it toward where I could see it, and it had this big red eye blinking at me.  Now that didn’t seem right, and the granddaughter hadn’t mentioned anything at all about a red light, only four green ones.  After considering the situation for a few seconds, I decided maybe placing the end of the pad under the pillow caused it to be too hot, and it went into a reset mode.  I placed that end of the pad on top of the pillow, punched the red eye, and instead of blinking it came on steady.  Progress, or regress, I didn’t know.  I punched the # 3 green button and once more the pad began heating as when I first lay down.  It should run for the night now.

A while later I noted, once again, the pad seemed to only be body temperature.  This time I grabbed the control expecting to see a blinking red light, and I was not disappointed.  Once more I punched the malevolent red eye and the cursed blinking stopped.  I punched the # 3 button for the third time, and all seemed well with the world once again.

Yet later I once more noted the pad had quit heating.  Upon checking the control, again the red light was blinking.  I’d had enough of this nonsense.  I followed the cord with my hand in the darkness to the wall receptacle, pulled the plug, and tossed the bewitched pad on the floor.  Sleep came and I made it through the night.

This afternoon I was explaining to my granddaughter what a restless night I had experienced with the goofy blinking red light instead of the nice glowing green I was expecting.  She then informed me that there was a 45 minute timer on it.  At the end of that time the pad control shut off, and a red blinking light announced the fact.  Now she tells me. 

Old Age 2

I wrote the below December 1, 2011, I shall add it here.

On Growing Old

My days are dwindling like the kindling that began the eternal flame at the tomb of the unknown-soldier.  Each day I marvel that I stand at the portals among the mortals of this planet.  My extended family is not one of longevity, but still I linger day to day among those who are young and virile as if I knew not how to leave with dignity.  Soon my life will be done, my time will come, and I beg of you to remember I did not choose to remain, it was merely my time of passing had not yet been determined.  Do not hesitate, do not meditate, but continue on.  This world will little note my passing, and that is as it should be.  We are all fleeting beings on a planet hurtling through space at breakneck speed with little idea of where we shall spend eternity.

Back in August of last year, some six months ago, I wrote of some of the foibles of old age.  That can be found here: http://lion-tales.blogspot.com/2012/08/old-age.html

Yesterday, February 24, 2013, I became painfully aware of another side effect of aging.  Although I have not had it checked by a medical expert, nor do I intend to, I believe I had a small cardiac infarction, or as it is more commonly known, a slight heart attack.  It’s another way of knowing I am vulnerable to the vagaries of growing older.  If it weren’t for these periodic awakenings I would never know how lucky I am to yet be alive.

The result at this point is that the left side of my upper torso has a steady dull pain.  Also it is painful to move my left arm in relationship to the remainder of my body.  The arm and attached hand are fully functional, but it is less painful to move my entire body than to raise or lower the limb.  Such it is to live on into older decades.

Smoking

I started smoking cigarettes while still in high school at around age thirteen.  It was considered the really cool thing to do at the time.  I would beg, borrow, buy, or steal to support my “cool” habit.  After a while my poor mother gave up on me and began to buy my cigarettes for me, “but only one pack a week.”  For any more than that I was on my own.  The smoking habit stayed with me through 15 years of U S Navy service, and continued after that was over.

At age 41 I had a heart attack.  I spent 10 days in an Intensive Care Unit, and having survived that, I was placed in a bed on a regular hospital care unit.  After ten days of no smoking due to oxygen service in the ICU I was about ready to bite myself just out of pure meanness.

The first evening I was in the bed on the regular floor of the hospital my doctor dropped by for a checkup on his patient.  While he was there I asked, “Doctor is it okay for me to smoke now?”

He answered, “Yes, but your children will miss you.”

I decided I had just gone ten days without a cigarette maybe I could go eleven if I tried hard enough.  It has now been more than 33 years since I had that last cigarette.  I’m obviously still alive, as are all four of my children, none of which smoke.

I’ve often said Doctor Federico “Fred” Loinaz is the smartest man I ever knew.