Charles Francois Bacon

Date: March 2, 2010 6:31:59 PM EST
To: mail@paulbacon.com
Subject: Re: Charles Frank Bacon

Hi Paul,

So what do you know about your family tree? Is your real last name Bacon? I found out that my great grandfather, Charles Frank Bacon, was really Charles Francois Bachand and he was born in Canada at St. Hyacinthe in August of 1856. I have that family all the way back in France in 1620. We have some Iroquois blood. I am told that in Canada the name Bachand sounds a lot like Bacon. Did he change it on purpose?

C.F.B. deserted his family when his baby daughter, my great Aunt Leda, was less than a year old. He also had five sons: Wilfred, Charles, Frank, John and George.


From: ROBT BACON

L-R: Frank Chelsea Bacon, Anna Agnes Boudo Bacon, Marie Boudo (Anna's MOther), Charles Bacon Jr., Charles Francois Bacon, John Henry Bacon. The earliest photo -- it could have a date on it of 1892 because the baby is John and he was born in June of that year. Interesting to note Anna Agnes Boudo came to the United States in 1875 at age 8. My daughter Marnie has a ring that was my great grandmother's, with a small red ruby in it. But that is the only thing we have of hers. Charles Francois Bachand came from Canada in 1876 at age 20. All I have of him is this one family photo. I remember the day Uncle George mailed it to me from Florida. To have a photo of the great grandfather I was researching was amazing. Especially because I had no idea that one even existed.

His son Frank was my grandfather. At the time, 1900, they lived on Brown Street in Adams, Massachusetts. The building still stands.

No one knows where he disappeared to. There was a big To Do about him hitting his 15 year old son Charlie. His wife, Anna Agnes Boudo, born in Bohemia, walked two miles up street, as we used to say, and turned him into the Adams Police. I could never find that record. He was 44 years old at the time.

I spent the first 18 years of my life in Adams. No one had a clue that the Bacons were really Bachands. Every child turned out to be successful and just “good people” in general. Except for Aunt Leda, they all married well. Aunt Leda never married, but took care of her mother until the end. She lived in Buffalo, New York.



My guess is that this was taken around 1916 because of the age of Aunt Leda, but I could be off by a year or two or three. Both my grandmother and grandfather are in this one. Were they married or engaged at the time? Charlie with both hands on his lap pressed the button that took the photo. I remember Uncle George telling me that. Uncle George gave me this photo. It was taken on Howland Avenue or Brown street in Adams Massachusetts. I think Uncle George said Howland Avenue.
Top: Frank Bacon, Hattie Marie Fontaine, George Bacon, Wilfred Bacon
Bottom: Leda Bacon, Charles Bacon, Anna Boudo Bacon, John Bacon

I was close to George Washington Bacon, my great uncle. He passed in Florida at age 84, before I knew for sure that we had a name change. Aunt Georgina said he was out mowing the lawn, stopped to rest, and died resting sitting against a tree. We should all be so lucky. He really needed to know where his father disappeared to. He remembered him pouring over his books and records. He said CFB was a canvasser or salesman, as they called it at the time. He also said his father was of fine carriage. Cool? I have a family photo of all of them together.



The five sons in their sixties, maybe. Wilfred (1989-1975), George (1895-1979), John (1892-1980), Frank (1890-1956), Charley (1888-1961). Not pictured: Leda Hattie Bacon (1900-1994).

Does that ring any bells? Any possible connection?
Bob Bacon Bachand
781-837-4836

p.s. Hey! I really enjoyed your NYC cop book. The one thing that really stood out was the people throwing things at you from tenements. I don't think I want to be a cop.

Epilogue:

All five brothers and Aunt Leda led successful and respectable lives in spite of growing up without a father. When he deserted his family, the oldest child was only twelve. George Washington Bacon always said that his brother was 15 at the time. Could it be that my great grandfather left in 1903 instead of 1900? In any case, how did they manage? Aunt Leda took care of her mother until the end and never married. The five brothers had successful lifelong marriages and all were very close until the end.

There is a terrible loose end to this tale and it is what became of the father, Charles Francois Bachand. Through their whole lives, these six children and their mother wanted to know the answer. Perhaps YOU will take over and find out?

For all future generation readers. All this information is in three black bound scrapbook style volumes that need serious rearranging -- but at least I took the time to research and collect it all. It also contains my wife’s, Sandy Zabek Bacon -- family tree and history back to Poland. My mother’s, Nora Lemanski Bacon -- Russian/Polish family is also covered. There also is a chart rolled up with a family tree that I have kept and added to through the years. That by now needs work also.

I have the Bacon/Bachan/Bachand family back to 1620, and I feel good about that. Beyond that the Bachans go back to Belgium, but I did no more research. It was interesting to me to find out that my real last name was Bachand not Bacon, and that I had French blood and even a little Canadian/Iroquois .

No one in all these photos knew any of that before they passed. Although in 1976, Uncle George and I had a suspicion. The children their father was originally from Saint Hyacinthe, Canada but never met any of that Bachand family. Also I never heard of any correspondence between Canada and the United States. Charles Francois did speak French of course. I know that from a census that was taken in Adams, Massachusetts. There is a copy of it in one of the black books and it is full of good information.

Another Epilogue:

From: Paul Bacon
Date: March 8, 2010 5:58:26 PM EST
To: ROBT BACON
Subject: Re: Charles Frank Bacon
Reply-To: mail@paulbacon.com

Hello Bob,

Thanks for sharing your genealogy information. I'm afraid I can't
answer your questions. I will pass your message along to my
grandfather. He's done a bit of research into our family tree and may
be able to correspond with you.

Hope you're well. Thanks for reading "Bad Cop."

-- Paul

Going To Heaven

This September I purchased the book Anasazi while visiting Chaco Canyon in New Mexico. It is a true story about the first white man to discover Mesa Verde in southern Colorado. Richard Wetherill was a rancher from Mancos, Colorado; it was and still is a small Mormon town between Cortez and Durango. Our daughter Marnie lived for a year just north of there in Dolores. Did you know that Mormons are not allowed to dance?

The story goes that he and one of his brothers were out searching for lost cows when they came upon the ancient ruins. The second story was that a Ute Indian showed the ruins to Mr. Wetherill. If you have ever been to Mesa Verde, you would tend to believe the second one. You don't just wander up the mesa.



From the farthest ruin, looking west, you can see down into the desert area of the Four Corners, Mexican Hat, Shiprock and Monument Valley. What do you mean "You have never been?" What are you waiting for?

The book I purchased south of Mesa Verde, at Chaco Canyon, is called Anasazi. It is about the life of Mr. Wetherill. The Navajo called him Anasazi, which means Ancient Ones -- referring to the cliff dwellers of Mesa Verde and the canyon dwellers of Chaco Canyon in New Mexico.

New Mexico is actually a state in our United States. I have actually had to explain that to my neighbor. She asked if Mexico and New Mexico were the same. Richard and his wife actually built a ranch and trading post right in front of the most famous ruin, Pueblo Bonita (which means pretty village in Spanish), at the Chaco. There is no sign of it now. Only the grave of Mr. Wetherill is left inside the horse corral. There are, as well, many Navajo graves there – those who wanted to be buried next to him.

Marietta, his wife, always referred to him as Mr. Wetherill. It was a sign of the times -- although she was twenty years younger than her husband.

While we were there, Sandy purchased the book, Marietta Wetherill, Life with the Navajo in Chaco Canyon. I feel you have to read both books to understand the whole story. The following is an excerpt from Marietta's book.



Both Grandmother Palmer and Grandmother Hoag were religious, the two I was named for, Mary and Etta. Grandmother Hoag was a wonderful woman and housekeeper and was good to everybody. She wanted the words, "I have no enemies." chiseled on her tombstone. All the people she knew were her friends and she hoped to meet them in the hereafter and she was sure she would.

I remember sitting by Grandmother Palmer’s bed when she was dying. I was only twelve then. I told her God had been good to her and he was going to take her right to heaven. "That’s what makes me feel so bad," she said. "I have been a good Congregationalist all my life and I will go to Heaven, I know that, but I'll be so lonesome there."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

She said, "Your father's a wicked man, he don't believe in God at all, and your Grandfather (William Palmer), he's wicked too. They would never have him in heaven the way he is. And look at Jess and Corey, they belong to the Episcopal Church, they would never go to heaven; and I won't have anybody there."

I've thought of that a lot. I wouldn't want to be there in heaven, either. Of course, I got my idea of religion from the Indians. The Navajo didn't believe in a heaven after death.

Mr. Wetherill was shot and killed at the Chaco by a Navajo named Chis-chilling-begay. Whether he deserved it or not will be for you to decide once you have read both books.

Marietta as a youngster was nearly abducted into an Apache tribe because with her dark hair pulled back into pig tails and parted down the middle she looked Navajo or Apache. She spoke both languages. Years later she again met the Apache who wanted to take her into his tribe -- at the World’s Fair in St. Louis, Missouri in 1902. His name was Geronimo. I did not make that up. Curiously enough, one of my relatives worked at that World’s Fair as a carpenter -- when he ran out of money coming back from the Klondike in Alaska. His name was Ernest Bachand and he was from Canada. He was 72 at the time.

Marietta Palmer Wetherill said she lived like a gypsy the rest of her life, but she did not refer to much of it in her taped recollections. At first she lived to the east of the Chaco, at Cuba, New Mexico. (If you go through Cuba, stop and eat at the Mexican restaurant called El Bruno's Restaurante Y Cantina. Eating there is worth the whole trip to Chaco.)




Me, with Kathy and Charles Gregory of Albuquerque, in front of El Bruno's.





She moved from New Mexico to operate a small ranch and trading post at Chambers, Arizona, and worked in stores in Utah. She moved to a little house on Peach Avenue in Albuquerque, New Mexico during her later years. She died in her sleep there at age 77, on July 11, 1954. Her ashes were buried near Mr. Wetherill’s grave along the cliff near Pueblo Bonito at the Chaco.

Leadville, Colorado

South of Denver was quite literally "a field of dreams." From the time Placer miners found gold in California Gulch in 1860, hope flooded the area as high as the ten- thousand-foot peaks. The real boom began in 1877 when silver carbonate beds were discovered, and by 1880 Leadville boasted 120 saloons, 118 gambling halls, 110 beer gardens, and 35 brothels, besides churches, schools, department stores, a plethora of other businesses, 3 newspapers and a gunfighter / dentist from Georgia who arrived by way of Tombstone Arizona. You can't make up stuff like this.

From the book "The Life and Legend of Doc Holliday" by Gary L. Roberts

Mi amigo Tom Egan loves the southwest as much as I do. He showed me around Leadville several years ago. I wanted to have a drink in a real western saloon. We headed for one that had an Irish name that from the outside looked as though it could have been in South Boston or on the Irish Riviera in Marshfield. I said to Tom, "If this isn't the real thing I don't want to stay." WE STAYED. I had told Tomaso of my trip to Tombstone and of going to the Bird Cage for a drink. Because of that yarn, while traveling fairly close by, Tom had driven to Tombstone, walked into the saloon, and ordered a shot of rye whiskey, even though it was only 10 am. Tom is not a drinker, but he just didn't think the Earps, Clantons , McLaurys, Johnny Ringo, or even Doc's woman, Big Nose Kate, would think it proper to order a Diet Coke.

After the burly female bartender in Leadville warmed up to us, she asked us where we were from and what the hell brought us here. I told her that I was a runner and was scouting the Leadville 100 Mile Mountain Race. I don't remember what the Vermont 100 had for elevation, but straight south in Massachusetts Mt. Greylock is only 3,500 feet. Western States 100 in Squaw Valley California starts at an elevation of 8,800 feet above sea level and then goes down. They give you 30 hours to complete that one. Leadville starts at 10,000 feet and never goes lower. Leadville could be the toughest 100 miler in the United States. They give you 36 hours to finish.

Upon hearing that I was an Ultra Marathoner, the bartender simply responded, " Oh, you're one of those," turned and walked away. I am pretty sure she said her name was Miss Kitty.

My Christmas Story (2009)

Last night Sandy and I drove home in a real New England blizzard, all the way from Providence. 20 miles an hour on RTE 3 ?!?



We have 14 inches of snow this morning but it is still snowing. Abel is happy because Santa will be using his sleigh on Christmas Eve.



It took me an hour just to shovel off the wood decks. The birds came out of everywhere for the seed I put out. Red Cardinals against the white snow.



My cousin from Wisconsin was most enchanted by our Blue Jays when she visited here. Titmice, House Sparrows, Nuthatches, Chickadees, Catbirds, Mourning Doves, Juncos, Woodpeckers of all kinds – Hairy, Red Headed, Red Bellied and the beautiful Flicker.







It made me feel like Saint Francis of Assisi. We even had a red wing blackbird. That usually is a sure sign of spring but not in this case.

I came in for dry clothes and to stoke the fire and to take a break and check my e-mails.

Heard a snow blower and looked out my window and what did I see? Joe Pelkowski, who I had words with yesterday over his excessive power tool noise, is snow blowing our 75 foot driveway. An old fashion neighbor. Imagine doing something like that for someone.



Joe was at my big party four years ago. When the hired bartender left at 2 AM, Joe stepped behind the bar and took over. What is this world coming to?

I am reading my New Mexican amigo’s weekly" Bus Story" blog. Today, Domingo, it is featuring the town Sandy and I grew up in, and especially the church that we were married in 42 years ago. It is a fine story. You can read it here.

Make sure you see all the photos of St. Stan’s. I was wondering how he was going to tie a Bus Story to Adams, Massachusetts. Read it and see. You just could become a regular Sunday reader. So many of our friends have. What a fine start to the holidays. Christmas is looking really good this year!

Hold Your Horses

We decided to spend the day at La Villita (little village), a  very old section of San Antonio. It is in Tegsas. No!  That’s how Texans pronounce it, and they should know.



Our friend Charles, of Kathy and Charles, had worked at a hospital here for years and he was showing us around. Not that I enjoy history, but La Villita was where Santa Anna’s soldiers were put up the day before the Alamo siege. Of course you remember THE ALAMO?

 

When we were there, a Texas Ranger walked over to a tourista and said, “Sir, remove your hat. Brave men died here.” I remember he didn’t say “please.”

Texans are different than Pilgrims of Massachusetts. Sandy and I subscribe to Cowboys and Indians magazine. Doesn’t everyone? Once there was a cowboy boot advertisement in it. There was a beautiful, color, full page photo of a pair of worn boots, with a handwritten letter explaining that the Texan was sending them back to the boot manufacturer for repair. He gushed about how much he loved the boots and that, in fact, his first child was conceived while he was wearing the boots. Well that was too much information for me. So I wrote a letter to the president of the company, J.B. Hill. All I could picture was a cowboy and his wife leaning against his pick up out in the desert, him with his jeans down to his ankles. Way too much information. He wrote me back and said the ad really was working well, and he was real sorry if it offended me. I wrote a car dealer here in Massachusetts once. I was really offended by his ad for Vespa Motor Scooters that in large print said, “Don’t be a gas hole.” In a letter, I asked Herb Chambers if his Grandmother liked the ad. He apologized in a short hand-written note and said I would never see that ad again . . . and I didn’t.

It is November in Massachusetts, and cold, but here we are in shorts and Tevas. We walked down a cobblestone street and came upon a fiesta. There was musica coming from behind an eight-foot stucco walled area. We could see all the different colored lanterns swinging in the breeze. There was a uniformed Federale standing guard in front. As we walked by, the music took ahold of Kathy and Charles and Sandy and I and we preceded to dance in the cobblestone street. A Mexican American mujer from the fiesta came out, looked both ways as if to see if anyone else was coming, and saw us dancing. She said, “Come, join us, por favor.” We all said, “No, no, that’s okay,” but she insisted. So we entered.

The courtyard was full of people. The young girls were all dressed up in those colorful ankle-length dresses. In colors of azul and amarillo and rojo and even verde. They wear their make-up really heavy, with black eyebrows and rosy cheeks and shiny, pulled-back, long hair. It makes them seem much older but still they are very striking to look at. We were escorted to our own table and a minute later one of the fathers brought over a whole case of cerveza just for us. Soon the women who invited us in came to our table to introduce her daughter. She explained that her daughter was turning fifteen and it was her party -- I mean fiesta.  Fifteen years of age is very big in Mexico. The Quinceaneras.

Sandy and I got up to dance. Kathy said we fit right in with the other dancers. Well, Mexican, or border, dancing is exactly the same as waltzing or two-stepping in the States, but you hold your partner really tight here. I find it to be much harder than the open position. In the open position, you can steer your partner or even dance in place if there is a traffic jam ahead.

Remember in the movie The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada where the girl walks up to John Travolta -- whoops, wrong movie. Anyway she walks up to John Travolta who is leaning on the bar wearing his big black Stetson, and looking out over the dance floor and she says, “Do yah know how tah two step?”  And he replies, “Yup!”  She hesitates, and then asks, “Wanna prove it?”

The band is a live one and really good. Everyone is dancing except many of the fathers, who are all over in the corner probably discussing cows or cotton or football, when an announcement is made. “We will now dance the Mexican hat dance. Fathers grab your daughters.” And they did.



You know the Mexican Hat Dance. Everyone does. Dah dah dahdah dah dada dahda. The fathers hold their hands behind their backs and crouch toward their daughters. You dance in a small circle the size of a sombrero. The daughters arch their backs and tilt their heads to one side. With one hand the young girls hold their dresses out as in a fan. It is hard to believe that we are in the United States. Obviously, as a youth, I must have watched way too many Cisco Kid movies, but I am not alone in the warm feelings that I have always had for the Mexican people.

We stay almost to the end, then take our leave, thanking everyone for the invitation, and expressing to our hosts just how much fun we’ve had this evening.  

This was a non-fiction story. You can’t make up ...........  
    
Roberto Tocino