My grandfather, George Howard Fish, was descended from one of several generations of a family named Fish, who were here before the Revolution. One was named Hamilton by his father who was a friend and admirer of Alexander Hamilton. There were several Hamilton Fishes to follow, one of them serving as Secretary of State to President Grant. Another later served in the occupation forces in Paris after WWI and helped create the American Legion. I became aware of this only after I was married and my Aunt Opal decided to educate me regarding my ancestry. I found it hard to believe, at first, because the Fishes I knew were farmers and laborers, hardly the stuff of government and diplomacy. Any doubts I had were refuted when I saw, in an encyclopedia, a photo of the one who was Secretary of State. My mother’s brother Virgil could have been an identical twin or clone of the man.
Aunt Opal had told me that that particular ancestor had seventeen sons (or was it grandsons?) who all settled in Michigan, and that anyone bearing the surname Fish was very likely a relative of ours. I could find no verification that the man had sired so many children, but if he had, I hoped he’d had more than one wife!
As the United States grew and spread westward, the Fish family eagerly followed the stream of curious and optimistic settlers. George and Addie, Addie’s sister Carrie and husband Art dreamed of a better life in the beaching West and made plans to homestead in the newly-opened Colorado territory. The two men set out alone, prepared to live rough and find work while they awaited the opportunity to file for homesteads. The regulations for claiming land involved living on the land and establishing permanent structures in order to qualify to purchase it.
When the time came, George and Art loaded wagons with farm implements and furniture for the arduous trip back to Colorado. Addie, Carrie and the children were to go later, on the train, with smaller household goods and what food they had preserved from their gardens. The men would pick them up at the train station and they would all go in the wagons to the homestead site.
Before their departure, Addie and Carrie had been given a farewell party at the church where her friends had given Addie a small notepad filled with their favorite recipes, household advice and sentimental good wishes. She thumbed through it, already missing her friends and the tidy cabin that had been her home for two years. The children were restless and demanding of attention in the confinement of the train, and even with Carrie’s help, the journey seemed endless.
Fortunately, the men were there with the wagons, waiting when the train pulled in, and they were soon on their way to where they would live in tents while a cabin now in the early stages of construction was completed. Weary and dismayed at the primitive living conditions, Addie surveyed the isolated encampment, with nothing but emptiness for miles in all directions and could not hold back tears of discouragement. An overwhelming amount of work awaited before she could ever be comfortable, before she could sit in her rocking-chair and sing her babies to sleep, before she could prepare a meal and serve it at a civilized table. She gazed at the canvases draped over her dining room table and chairs, horsehair sofa and the parlor organ her father had given them as a wedding gift. It was all just too much. She wished herself back in Kansas where she had left her friends, her flowers, the grave of her tiny daughter Marie.
Even the warmth and concern of her big, solid husband could not comfort her. Then, Carrie and Art removed the tarpaulin from the pump-organ with its elaborate mirrors and little spindle galleries. Carrie found the swivel stool and sat down, softly picking out the melody and chords of “Bringing in the Sheaves”. Art began to sing in his strong Irish tenor. A chorus of familiar hymns drifted across the Colorado prairie as the sun began to set on the first day in what would be their new home.