One Small Miracle, Part 2

Part 1 of this post is below, so you can scroll past this one and skim that if you like, or just let me recap for you:

My great-grandmother, Bertha Gifford, is infamous in Missouri (and online, now) because she was charged with multiple murders in 1928. Depending on your point of view, she was either a cold-hearted killer of just fewer than twenty people, or she was a misunderstood, compassionate person who wanted to help others (and who aided in raising my mother in a loving, doting way). To my knowledge, up to this point in time, only two photos of Bertha existed. (There are a couple of photos that were published in newspapers during her trial that were wrongly identified as her.) One photo of Bertha was taken on the day she went to trial and was published in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, the newspaper that, to this day, still owns the copyright to that photograph (see previous blog post). The other photo is one taken at intake on the day she was remanded to the Missouri State Institution for the Criminally Insane (although it is no longer called that). I have that photo because I have a copy of her file, but it has not been made public.

Last week, a descendant in the Gifford family contacted me because she had been given photos that had been passed down through Bertha's second husband's family. This woman--whom I've never met--had read my book, The Tainted Legacy of Bertha Gifford, and she wanted to give those photos to me. I assumed she would send me copies. She sent the original photos. Oh my dragons....

The package arrived (as previously noted) last Thursday night, but I didn't open it. I felt strongly that my sister should be present, so we arranged for her to come to my house on Saturday morning. We sat together at my kitchen table, and I opened the package, sifting through the many, many photos that were sent. One was a picture of our maternal grandmother, Lila (Bertha's daughter with her first husband, Henry Graham). In this photo, she is standing with Gene Gifford's sister, Margaret Morse Gifford. My grandmother, Lila, is the one on the left. The photo is dated 1914, so Lila would have been 18 years old.

This picture was just absolutely lovely to receive. But the photo that made me cry was the single photo of Bertha Gifford included with all the others. In it, she is seated on the steps of the front porch of the farmhouse in Catawissa--the same porch where I have been photographed a number of times in recent years. She's wearing the same coat she wore to trial, so I assume the photo was taken circa 1928, possibly a bit earlier.

Her husband Gene is in the picture as well, sitting beside her. Bertha is not looking toward the camera. She is looking directly into Gene's face, and she is smiling. Her hands are folded in her lap. Gene is wearing a suit and tie and hat. Neither are dressed for farm work. Was it a Sunday? Were they going to or coming from church? Or was the photo taken by a traveling photographer, so they got themselves gussied up for it, as was the custom back then? Who knows.

I do know this: Bertha looks like any other loving wife, charmed by her husband's good looks. No, she does not look like a crazed serial killer or psychopath.

And no, I'm not going to post the photo online. If I did, it would immediately be copied and exploited for the benefit of others.

So yeah, I know, these two posts are probably disappointing. Everyone wants to know what she looked like. Well... she looked a bit like her daughter in the photo above... who looked like her daughter... who looked like me.

One Small Miracle

 My great-grandmother, Bertha Gifford

As I write this, a package is making its way to my address via the United States Postal Service. I can hardly stand the anticipation. I've been waiting for its contents for over a quarter century.

Last Saturday, I received an email from a woman who introduced herself by explaining her genealogy. Her great-uncle, Gene Gifford, was the second husband of my great-grandmother, Bertha Gifford.  We're not related by blood. (I am Bertha's great-granddaughter through her first marriage, to Henry Graham.) So why does this woman's genealogy matter? I'll tell you why. Because this very kind person, in going through very old family photos, found some of her great-uncle Gene--and his wife, Bertha. And she wanted to know if I would like copies of them. Would I? Oh holy saints preserve us, why yes, yes ma'am, please and thank you a thousand times.

Other than the picture posted above (and one I have never shared publicly that was taken on the day she was incarcerated), there have been no other photographs of Bertha Gifford in existence. Or so we believed. The one shown here is a copy of the photo taken by the St. Louis Post-Dispatch photographer at Bertha's trial (for murder). Due to the family's shame at her arrest, and their subsequent distancing of themselves from her, no photographs of her have ever been passed down. Until now.

Suddenly, out of the blue, on a normal Saturday when I had finished walking dogs, and I thought I would just quickly check my inbox before working on my current writing project, here was this email. From a stranger. She'd read my memoir, The Tainted Legacy of Bertha Gifford, and she'd heard "family stories" about Bertha since she was a young girl. When she came across the photographs, she thought I might like to have copies.

Her phone number was included at the bottom of the email. I called her. She picked up. We chatted like cousins (because we very nearly were) for twenty minutes. She promised to make copies of the photos the following Monday, then send them on to me.

Please, USPS, hurry up. Because all I can do in the meantime is pace around the house and wait. I know, I know, I've waited this long. It's only a few days, right? I'm so excited....

My mother, Arta Ernestine West Murphy

UPDATE: Oh hey, are you still reading? Because, after I wrote the first draft of this post, I strolled down to my mailbox, and, what do you know? That package has arrived. Haven't opened it yet. Stay tuned....

 

Maya, One Year In

In all the sadness around Purrl’s passing, I haven’t really felt much like writing. Slowly, I’m coming back to my words, tamping down the emotions, moving forward despite the ache every time I hear or write her name…or see her picture.

So, despite a muted celebration at home, I didn’t mark Maya’s one-year adoption milestone.

There isn’t much to say, so I’m going to let a couple of pictures tell the story.

She’s come a long way from the wild-eyed, terrified dog she was at the rescue.

As I’ve stated before, she absolutely loves to hike, and now, when I lead her through the garage and out to the driveway, if she sees the car sitting with the passenger side open, she knows we’re going for a ride, and she charges forward, diving into the back seat, curling into a ball behind the driver’s seat. As soon as we reach our destination and I open her door, she’s ready to hop out, sniffing the air as she goes.

This is her happy place…out on the trail, away from homes and cars and people. When we go for walks around home, she still requires the Gentle Leader collar to keep her from dragging me down the street. Out in the wild, though, she walks without fear, stopping often to look and listen.

Her favorite things are meals, treats, and her big brother Thomas, whom she adores. Maya’s idea of a perfect day would be breakfast early, a walk around the block with Thomas before the sun comes up (she literally struts beside him, she feels so safe and happy), treats upon returning home, and then remaining curled in her bed the rest of the day, emerging only for potty breaks and more treats.

By late spring, it should be light enough to get a video of her when she, Thomas, and I head out to the back yard at 5:00a.m. Her behavior then is nothing short of astounding. Every single day. And every day, it makes me laugh—quietly, so as not to wake the neighbors. This girl can jump! She bounds out of the house after Thom, chases him into the yard, leaping and hopping, stops just long enough to pee, then races back, bonding and leaping, to the patio, then back into the yard. It’s a sight to see, truly. When I can document it, I’ll drop a YouTube link here.

In the meantime, we walk every day, and every day I tell her what I used to tell Thomas years ago: “Don’t worry, baby. Someday you’ll be a real dog.” She’s getting there.