Jonathan's Reminiscences
Killingly, Connecticut -
April 1850
The following reminiscences were
shared by Jonathan White with his family during his final illness in
April 1850, as he lay in bed at their farm on Chestnut Hill in East
Killingly, Connecticut. His wife Miranda sat beside him, while their
sons Henry and Albert, and daughter Harriet gathered close to hear
their father's memories of a life well-lived.
Memories of Childhood and
Family
"Come closer, children,"
Jonathan said softly, his voice weakened by the lung fever that had
taken hold of him. "I want to tell you about where you come
from, about the people who came before you, so you'll remember when
I'm gone."
He shifted slightly in bed, Miranda
adjusting the quilts around him. "I was born right here in New
England, you know, but in Rhode Island, in Glocester, in a house not
so different from this one. My father, your grandfather Humphrey, he
was a good man, a hard worker. He cleared that land with his own
hands, built stone walls that are still standing today."
Jonathan's eyes grew distant as he
continued. "I had so many brothers and sisters—nine of them.
Can you imagine, Harriet, having eight brothers and sisters all in
one house? The noise we made! My mother, your grandmother Sibel, bless her soul, she
kept us all in line somehow. She was the strongest woman I ever knew,
except for your mother here."
He reached out to touch Miranda's hand.
"When I was just eleven years old, my father died. It was
winter, cold as anything, and suddenly Mother had ten children to
raise on her own. We all had to grow up fast. Benjamin and David, my
older brothers, they taught me everything—how to work the land, how
to care for animals, how to be a man."
Albert leaned forward. "What was it
like, Father, losing your own father so young?"
Jonathan was quiet for a moment,
remembering. "It was hard, son. Harder than anything I hope you
boys ever have to face. But it taught me something important—that a
man has to be ready to shoulder responsibility for his family. When
your time comes to be the head of a household, you'll understand what
I mean."
Courtship and Marriage
"Tell us about when you met Mother,"
Henry requested, settling more comfortably beside the bed.
Jonathan's face softened, and he looked
at Miranda with the same affection he'd felt as a young man. "Your
mother was the prettiest girl in Foster, Rhode Island. I was barely
nineteen, working our family farm, when I first saw her at a church
social. She was wearing a blue dress—do you remember that dress,
Miranda?"
Miranda smiled, her eyes moist. "I
remember. It was my best dress, the one my mother had made for
special occasions."
"I was so nervous when I asked her
father's permission to court her," Jonathan continued. "Simon
Wade was a stern man, and I was just a farmer's son with more
ambition than money. But Miranda, she saw something in me worth
taking a chance on."
He squeezed his wife's hand gently. "We
were married in 1823—seems like yesterday and a lifetime ago all at
once. Your mother came to live with me in Glocester, helped me build
the life we've had together. She was nineteen, had to learn to run a
household, but she took to it like she was born for it."
"What I want you children to
remember," he said, looking at each of them in turn, "is
that your mother and I, we built everything together. Every decision,
every move, every challenge—we faced it as partners. That's what
marriage should be."
Building a Life in Rhode
Island
"Those early years in Glocester,"
Jonathan continued, "they were good years. Hard work, but good.
I was determined to build something lasting, something I could pass
on to my children. I bought land from my own sister Elizabeth and her
husband Peleg Wood. Nancy, my sister Nancy, she stood witness to that
transaction. Family helping family—that's how things were done."
He paused, catching his breath before
continuing. "I remember the day Henry was born—1824, it was.
You were our first child, Henry, and I was so proud, so scared. I
walked the floors all night while your mother labored, and when I
finally heard your cry, I knew my life had changed forever. I was no
longer just Jonathan White—I was a father."
"Three years later, Albert came
along. By then I felt more confident, like I knew what I was doing.
And then, much later, our little Harriet arrived. You were such a
surprise, sweetheart, born when your mother and I thought our family
was complete."
Harriet, now fourteen, moved closer to
her father's bedside. "Tell me about when I was little, Papa."
"You were the apple of my eye from
the moment you drew breath," Jonathan said, reaching out to
touch her hair. "Your brothers were already growing up, becoming
young men, but you brought such joy back into the house. Your mother
and I would sit by your cradle in the evenings, just watching you
sleep, amazed that God had blessed us with such a perfect little
daughter."
The Decision to Move to
Connecticut
"Why did we leave Rhode Island,
Father?" Albert asked. "I've always wondered about that."
Jonathan considered his answer carefully.
"By the late 1830s, I could see that opportunities were better
here in Connecticut. The land was good, the price was right, and I
thought I could provide better for all of you. It wasn't an easy
decision—leaving behind the place where I grew up, where my family
was buried, where I had so many memories."
"I remember the day we loaded up the
wagon," Henry said. "I was about fifteen, and I thought it
was a grand adventure."
"You did," Jonathan smiled.
"But your mother, she cried leaving that house in Glocester.
Didn't you, Miranda? All her friends, the places where our children
had been born—it was hard to leave all that behind. Still, we've been able to visit our families and friends there."
Miranda nodded. "It was one of the
hardest things I ever did. But I trusted your father's judgment. He'd
never steered us wrong before."
"And I was right, wasn't I?"
Jonathan said with a touch of his old pride. "Look what we built
here. This farm, this house—it's provided well for us. You boys
have learned to work this land, and when I'm gone, you'll have
something solid to build your own lives on."
Lessons from the Land
"Farming," Jonathan said, his
voice growing more thoughtful, "it's taught me everything I know
about life. You plant in spring, you tend through summer, you harvest
in fall, you prepare for winter. Every season has its purpose, its
challenges, its rewards."
He looked at his sons. "Henry,
Albert, I want you to remember that the land doesn't owe you
anything. You have to earn what it gives you through honest work,
careful planning, and respect for what God has provided. Don't ever
take shortcuts, don't ever cheat your neighbors, and always pay your
debts."
"I've made mistakes," he
continued. "Times when I planted too early and lost crops to
late frost, times when I didn't prepare enough hay for winter, times
when I trusted the wrong person in business. But every mistake taught
me something, made me a better farmer, a better man."
Albert leaned forward. "What's the
most important thing you've learned, Father?"
Jonathan thought for a long moment. "That
everything worthwhile takes time to build. This farm, our family, the
respect of our neighbors—none of it happened overnight. It took
years of steady work, of doing the right thing even when it was hard,
of thinking about tomorrow while dealing with today."
Hopes and Worries
"I want to talk to you about what
happens after I'm gone," Jonathan said, his voice becoming more
serious. "Henry, you're the oldest, but Albert, you're the one
who's stayed closest to the farm. I'm counting on both of you to take
care of your mother and sister."
"We will, Father," Henry
assured him. "You don't need to worry about that."
"I know you will," Jonathan
replied. "But I want you to understand—taking care of family
isn't just about providing money or shelter. It's about staying
connected, about making sure no one faces their troubles alone.
Promise me you'll look after each other, no matter what life brings."
Both sons nodded solemnly.
Jonathan turned to Harriet. "And
you, my dear daughter, I want you to remember that you're just as
capable as any man. I've watched you help your mother run this
household, seen how you handle responsibility. Don't let anyone tell
you you're not capable of anything you set your mind to."
"I won't, Papa," Harriet
whispered.
"Miranda," he said, turning to
his wife, "you've been the best partner a man could ask for.
Twenty-seven years we've been married, and not a day goes by that I
don't thank God for bringing you into my life. When I'm gone, I want
you to lean on our children, but I also want you to know that you're
strong enough to manage whatever comes."
Final Reflections
As the April afternoon light filtered
through the bedroom window, Jonathan's breathing became more labored,
but he continued speaking, as if he knew time was running short.
"I want you all to know," he
said slowly, "that I'm proud of the life we've built together.
We've been honest people, worked hard, treated our neighbors fairly,
and raised children who will do the same. That's a legacy worth
leaving."
He paused, gathering strength. "When
you remember me, don't think about these last weeks when I've been
sick. Remember the good times—the harvest celebrations, the Sunday
afternoons when we'd walk down to check on the livestock, the
evenings when we'd sit around the fire and plan for the next season."
"I remember teaching you boys to
plow with the oxen, how proud I was when you finally got the furrows
straight. I remember Harriet's first attempts at milking the cows,
how determined she was even though her hands were so small. I
remember your mother singing while she worked in the garden, how
she'd stop to show me some flower that was blooming or some vegetable
that was ready for harvest."
Miranda wiped tears from her eyes. "Those
were good times, Jonathan. We had a good life together."
"We did," he agreed. "We
built something that will last. This farm will provide for our
children and their children. The values we've taught—hard work,
honesty, family loyalty—those will outlive all of us."
A Father's Final Wisdom
"There's one more thing I want to
tell you," Jonathan said, his voice barely above a whisper now.
"Tomorrow I'm going to call Deacon Covill to help me write out
my will. I want to make sure everything is proper, legal, so there
won't be any confusion about what I want to happen."
"Don't talk about that now, Father,"
Henry said uncomfortably.
"No, son, it's important,"
Jonathan insisted. "I've seen too many families torn apart after
a father dies because he didn't make his wishes clear. I won't let
that happen to us."
He took a shallow breath before
continuing. "I'm going to leave the Rhode Island land to you
boys to share. It's where our family started, and I want you to
always remember that. The Connecticut land, your mother will have the
use of it as long as she lives, and then it will come to you,
provided you take good care of your sister."
"Harriet," he said, looking at
his daughter, "I'm making sure you get something too. Your
brothers will give you money when the time comes, and until you're
married, your mother will provide for you completely. I don't want
you ever to feel like you're a burden or that you don't have a place
in this family."
As the day wore on and Jonathan grew more
tired, the family remained close, each lost in their own thoughts
about the man who had shaped their lives. He had been a good father,
a faithful husband, a hard worker, and an honest neighbor. His legacy
would live on in the farm he had built, the children he had raised,
and the values he had instilled in them.
The next day, true to his word, Jonathan
would make his will, ensuring that his family would be provided for
after his death. But on this April afternoon in 1850, surrounded by
the people he loved most, Jonathan White was at peace, knowing that
he had lived a life of purpose and left behind something of lasting
value.
