LIFE ON THE KANSAS PLAINS

By now we have all heard of Ken Burns. I really would like to have made this in a Ken Burns style of video with moving images, and read this poem aloud to give it heart and cadence , but it just takes so much time, and I really just want to share this poem.  So much work went into this by an aging somewhat blind 81 year old Henry and his daughter-in-law age 38 at the time, Mildred Alice Stewart nee Strickland who transcribed this amazing story. I hope you enjoy it as much as I.

Poem by Henry Alonzo Stewart 

Brothers Henry Alonzo & Samuel Harvey Stewart

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY POEM

(Composed by Henry Alonso Stewart on his 81^st birthday, January 25, 1934)

I was born in north Ohio in 1852,

And grew up like other children- who have nothing else to do.

I had four sisters and one brother, a cunning little elf,

And a jolly, dear half-brother, much older than myself.

My father ran a shingle mill in connection with his farm,

And sawed wood ‘round winter time, his neighbor’s hearths to warm.

We kids, as soon as old enough, were sent to public school

Where we played with other children, and obeyed the teacher’s rule.

When not in school, we played around the shingle mill

Piling up cells of shingles just to suit our own sweet will,

But father wearied of stumps and rocks and fields of sodden clay,

And traded his possessions for land in Iowa (Ioway).

We shipped for our new home in the spring of ’61,

The year of the great trouble, when the cruel war begun.

We saw long trains of soldiers going out the cause to win,

Many of them boys with down on lip and chin.

Our train pulled into Washington (Iowa) and there we all got down,

For it was for many years our nearest railroad town.

Our land was all grown up to grass, that we all knew before,

There was a pine board shanty, twelve by twelve, and nothing more.

Then we went to work in earnest to make ourselves a farm,

Though to break the prairie sod, I assure you, was no charm.

My play days now were over, though my age was but nine years,

And I paced across the prairie beside five yoke of steers.

Ruphus left us for the army in the fall of ’61 (the half-brother),

To help defend the Union, you know the job was done.

He came back somewhat battered, but yet he was alive,

A loyal, crippled veteran, in 1865.

We had short terms of school in winter, taught in a neighbor’s shack,

And when the weather would permit, we drove to school and back.

But mother had been a teacher in her far off eastern dome,

So when snowbound in winter, she taught us there at home.

Sister Mary Ellen was bedridden at the early age of nine,

And for many years was helpless, from a trouble with her spine.

We carried her to school and back when the weather cleared up fair,

And she took first place among them, sitting tied up in her chair.

Mary Ellen Stewart
born January 02, 1848
 Royalton, Cuyahoga County, Ohio.

She gained but very slowly, ‘mid our prayers and hopes and fears,

But she threw away her crutches and taught school for many years.

In the course of time, she married, to meet her future joys,

And raised a lively family, four girls and nine boys.

But her work on earth is finished, many years she’s been at rest,

And her family now is scattered to North, South, East, and West.

Sister Huldah, strong and healthy, was the family’s pride and joy.

She could swing and crack an ox whip as well as any boy.

She, too was a teacher, and success was on its way.

She was struggling hard to win it in her school, her work and play.

‘Twas a fearful blow to lose her, when, with many bitter tears,

We laid her in the graveyard, at the age of eighteen years.

Sister Laura, weak and feeble, could not take her sister’s place,

But she studied for a teacher, and bore up with Christian grace,

But consumption claimed its victim, though we strove to ward it off,

And used every well-known remedy to relieve a hacking cough.

Year by year her lungs grew weaker and her strength and vigor failed.

She was resigned to what was coming, though her friends, in secret, wailed.

We cared for her the best we could, but she at length confirmed our fears,

For we laid her by her sister, at the age of eighteen years.

My youngest sister, Elsie, was an invalid from birth.

We realized, though dimly, she was not long for this earth.

Her little ears were silent, and she could not learn to talk,

She was older than most children e’er she gained the strength to walk.

1880 Federal Census of Deaf Mutes
Columbia, Ellsworth, Kansas
From scarlet fever

We petted and caressed her and helped her day by day,

But at the age of eighteen, she too, was called away.

My brother Sam was healthy and grew up a stalwart man,

Though when it came to hardships, I could beat all he could stand.

But then the fever got me, with all our work in sight,

It laid me down upon my pillow, came near snuffing out my light.

I took to bed in January; in March I staggered out,

And tried to work as usual, but I was no longer stout.

My strength came back but slowly, I hoped ‘twould come once more,

But I couldn’t stand the pressure that I used to years before.

‘Twas but a few years later that I had another call,

This time it was the measles, came near winding up my ball.

I got up weak and feeble, and with a fearful cough,

Which the neighbors all predicted would surely take me off.

And they said within a year, like my sisters, I would go,

But I staggered on a year or two, which proved they didn’t know.

Well, I told my friends and neighbors that I had my health to gain,

And if I lived ‘til springtime, I would try the western plain.

I put a cover on my wagon, prepared to leave the state,

And in March I headed westward, ‘twas the spring of ’78.

My nephew went with me, my half-brother’s eldest son.

He was born in that country in the year of ’61.

I didn’t crowd my horses, for the mud was up in piles,

It was one continuous mud-hole for the first 300 miles.

We camped where e’er we chose to, and shot wild geese to eat,

And my appetite came to me, I enjoyed the savory meat.

I didn’t know where I would land. I really didn’t care,

For I was growing stronger in the cool and bracing air.

There was naught to make me hurry, no work ahead or strife.

‘Twas the only real vacation I had in all my life.

Antelope circled ‘round us as we drove across the plain,

But they kept at a safe distance, and out of rifle range.

We fetched up in central Kansas, I decided to remain,

And took up a claim of school land in Uncle Sam’s domain.

I worked ‘round for my neighbors to get my grub and feed,

And put in what time I could breaking sod and planting seed.

‘Twas a busy time that summer, there was work for one and all,

And I didn’t build my shanty till cold weather in the fall.

I had raised a little millet, and had it stacked for hay,

But a prairie fire got it when I was gone one day.

But wheat straw ‘round was plenty, and though I had lost my feed,

It took nothing but the hauling to procure all I would need.

It was growing cool and frosty so I went to work right then,

Laying sod upon a structure that would be a bachelor’s den.

The sod I cut was frozen, hard to cut them with an axe.

Couldn’t lay them clear together, I left many open cracks.

But I chopped and hammered at them, piled them up the best I could,

And finished up the structure, though ‘twas far from being good.

Fourteen by twelve the inside measured, one window and one door,

Duds stacked up in the corner, dirt roof, and dirt floor.

It needed lots of chinking, but I thought ‘twould have to wait,

I must look out for my horses, before it got too late.

I purchased brush and timber, “I must hurry then,” I said,

And went to work in earnest to build for them a shed.

I worked both late and early, though I had no boards to saw,

I erected a pole structure, banked and cornered it with straw.

I had a little feed, though it was scattered ‘round,

And a little jag of corn, piled upon the ground.

I put my team in shelter, looked for a storm all right.

Got a belated supper and curled up for the night.

When I woke up in the morning, my shanty was a fright,

The snow was sifting o’er me and everything was white.

My boots were frozen stiff and chuck full of snow,

No use to me that morning, couldn’t get them on, you know.

I waded out barefooted and brought in a sack of corn,

And built a rousing fire to get my shanty war.

Thawed out my boots and dried them, put them on and then,

Enjoyed a good hot breakfast in my snowed-in bachelor’s den.

Next day I went to Wilson, for I feared another storm,

Procured a little fuel to keep my shanty warm.

I then hauled lime and sand through the deep and trackless snow,

And plastered up my shanty, it went better than you know.

I waded through my sod corn, got the ears that showed up then,

And when the snow thawed some, went over it again.

Bought a splendid cow that winter. Folks said I’d go in the hole,

But the butter that she gave me bought my grub stuff and my coal.

Fed the skim milk to my horses, they seemed to like it fine,

And licked it up quite greedily. It caused their coats to shine.

On Saturdays I shut them off. Their hair looked much like silk.

The bachelor boys would come in Sundays for a treat of mush and milk.

I raised good wheat that summer, my little patch was hard to beat.

In the fall built a stone shanty, fourteen by twenty feet.

My parents and my brother were lonesome though and sore,

They came out and bought land near me and settled down once more.

I gained a little every year along the farming line,

And blacksmithed for my neighbors, for they thought my work just fine.

I didn’t want to do their work; it kept me from my own.

I had plenty of it waiting and I was there alone.

But I couldn’t well refuse them, though they came in by the score.

They said when I fixed up a plow, it needed nothing more. 

I put in six years batching, though it was a lonely life,

Then a dear girl took pity on me and I got her for a wife.

There was nothing to make us wait, loneliness would soon be o’er.

She agreed and we were married, September 15, 1884.

Life went smooth and lovely for us, she never was a shirk,

Always had a good meal waiting when I came in from my work.

We didn’t have a wedding trip, didn’t really have the time.

I must finish up my seeding while the weather still was fine.

There was lots of work that winter and it piled up in the spring,

A good deal of the time I make the anvil ring.

Had to overhaul my header to make a heavy drive.

Our oldest daughter there was born in June of ’85.

It was just then time for our harvest to begin,

And I cut 500 acres, though some of it was thin.

Lottie never liked the country, though she never made a kick.

She was used to seeing timber; she was raised upon a creek.

We talked it over and decided if a buyer was in sight,

We would sell and move on westward and I’d use my homestead right.

We found one and sold out, and prepared to pull up stakes.

It’s the tide of emigration that the western country makes.

We wintered with my brother, my parents were there too,

There was lots of snow that winter, and we had much to do.

I left Lottie and the baby and in March set out again,

To seek out a location in Uncle Sam’s domain.

I said before I started, of drought I was afraid,

I’d find water on the surface, no matter how it laid.

I found it and located. The water was the charm,

Though the claim was rough and rocky, I would purchase land to farm.

And we migrated thither with our little bunch of stock,

And settled down upon it among the hills and rocks.

We built a fair-sized dug out, though with a dirt floor.

It was comfortable and cozy, though we wished for something more.

I worked ’round for my neighbors, we sold butter, too and milk.

And I worked some on the railroad that was just then being built.

Then I purchased a relinquishment to a splendid timber claim.

Got my papers on it and prepared to move again.

We disposed of the homestead; we really thought we should,

And moved to our new quarters where we settled down for good.

Our parents came to us once more. They thought the land a feast.

I got them a location joining our claim on the east.

‘Twas in ’89 our little Sam was born, but he didn’t come to stay.

He was with us only four months and then he passed away.

‘Twas in 1892 our second boy came.

He grew up strong and healthy and helped me on the claim.

In 1896 our Phoebe came, to be caressed and kissed,

In 1898 our Lottie was added to the list.

We had quite a bunch of children, helped the Beeler School to swell.

They all were bright and studious and learned their lessons well.

Our parents passed in peace, their last year’s life did accord,

But at length they were called away and went to their reward.

Front row center Henry Alonzo Stewart and Charlotte Olivia
Front row Left - Charlotte Burdella Front row right - Phoebe Leona
Back row L-R Mary Irene, Henry Lafayette, Laura Viola.

We divided up their holding as we thought just and fair.

The others got the stock; the land fell to my share.

In 1918 our Henry left for the field of blood and strife,

To help civilize the Germans and he left a dear young wife.

We feared much for his safety, but could only hope and pray,

And our prayers were truly answered, for he came home to stay.

He threw off his soldier’s outfit and once more worked away,

To catch up with our business and is now our hope and stay.

We gave him Father’s land which I had bought some years before,

We had a good half-section left and needed nothing more.

Father’s family now is gone, to meet their future fate.

I’m the only one left living of a family of eight.

Our children all are married and have families of their own.

My wife and I are living in our big house all alone.

My eyes have failed me greatly, had to quit work in the shop.

And my ears are out of order; work soon with me will stop.

But I still putter ‘round, though I do not find it fun.

My dim eyes oft remind me that I am 81.

But though I now am useless and run down at the hip,

I expect to gain my vigor when I take my final trip.

Together forever
Henry Alonzo Stewart and Charlotte Olivia "Lotta" nee White
Beeler Cemetery Kansas

Note: Henry Stewart’s daughter-in-law wrote this poem down as he composed and recited it to her. He died shortly before his 83rd birthday on December 07th, 1934.

Wasn't that an amazing story? Yes, I know you enjoyed it immensely. So now you are probably asking, who is this family and how are we related to them and the hard life on the Kansas plains told so eloquently in this poem? They are distant cousins that I only just recently discovered on account of a few DNA matches on Ancestry.  Henry Alonzo Stewart is my 3rd cousin 2X removed. His parents were  Henry Clancy Stewart and Caroline Laura Harvey.  Caroline descends from our common ancestors Nathaniel Harvey (1725 -1794) and his wife Sarah Smith (1738 - 1827). They were 4th great paternal grand-parents.  Here is the connection:

THE FLYING WALLENDAS HIGH ABOVE AS THE CIRCUS TENT COMES DOWN AND THE BAND PLAYS ON

On the 6th of June 2019 history was told in remembrance of the 75th anniversary of D-Day and the successful landings of Operation Overlord at the Battle of Normandy.  But we are not done marking 75th anniversaries this year just yet. On the 6th of July 2019 we will again remember The Day the Clowns Cried! I’m going to let the late Charles Nelson Reilly tell his story the way that only Charles could; on stage, and in just 5 minutes! 

To introduce my story today click on this link for his short video.

Charles goes to the Circus 1944

Didn't he do a great job?

I hope you liked it, and now have an image of what actually happened.

Charles Nelson Reilly was born January 13, 1931 in the South Bronx of New York City, New York.  He was 13, and he was there that day. The day that will forever be remembered as The Day the Clowns Cried. As a child of the 70’s I use to watch Reilly in his acting role as the Mad Hatter in Lidsville as Horatio J. HooDoo. At the time I didn’t know the connection, just that I liked the tv show. What child of the 70’s didn’t?

Charles Nelson Reilly remembers.

The 70’s have many memories for me. The tragedy under the big top haunted my dreams at night as a young child. I often awoke from a nightmare and would tell my mom that we burned up in a circus fire and had to get out.   She would tell me it was just a dream, night after night and to just go back to bed.  Thinking back now, I probably had just over heard my aunt Dorothy talking about the circus fire in the summer of 1969.  I would have been old enough to have “Big Ears” and be listening to the adults talk as I often did.  As that summer would have been the 25th anniversary of that tragic day.  Or was that all it was? As I grew older I always was curious as to who in our family had died in a circus fire. As we never talked about it. It wasn’t until I was 18 years old, working at Disneyland, when a friend and fellow Disneyland coworker and I went to have a reading my a physic.  I had never done that before, but my friend really wanted to go.  I sat there as the mysterious Madam turned over the tarot cards one by one on her table in front of me.  As she made sounds of hmm and ah with the inflections of her sounds going up and down in her voice. I became more worried with the turn of each card. She then told me that I was going to die in a tragic fire!  Then she stopped, and said NO!  “You died in a tragic circus fire!” She said.  This was my first introduction to what we all know today as past lives.  Not sure I understood it all back then, nor do I today.  I just always knew that someone close to me did not get out of a circus tent that was on fire. Though no longer a child.  At 18 I still had the images and what I thought were memories running around in my mind.

Ivan Smith Bashaw was born May 26th, 1928 in Newport, Orleans Vermont.  He would have been just two years older than Charles Nelson Reilly the day the two boys went to see the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus in Hartford Connecticut that hot and humid summer day, on July 6th 1944.

Thinking back, I have lost track of time now when I first discovered who Ivan and his mother Grace were in our family tree. It was probably late 2016 or early 2017.  Working one day on Ancestry, the online website for genealogy as I always do.  I was in my normal process, adding census records and other documents to my Smith family line. I was adding another cousin, Grace Dorothy Smith, but I could not find any death nor burial records for her.  So, I turned to Google, and online newspapers and any other searches I could think of to research the death of Ivan’s mother; Grace Dorothy Smith.  

Grace Dorothy (Smith) Fifield
Photo courtesy of  The Connecticut State Library.
State Police investigation file # RG161

Grace was one of my 1st cousins 2x removed. Her grandfather was my 2x Great Grandfather.  Luther Rominor Smith (1813-1902).  Her father was Luther Rominor Smith Jr (1861-1927).  Like most of our family, Grace was born in Saint-Armand, in Quebec Canada.  She was born June 17, 1897, one hundred and twenty-two years ago!  Like many Canadians of the day, and prior to my own grandparents immigrating to the United States. Grace also moved to the United States to become a U.S. citizen. On May 18, 1920 at the young age of twenty-two she crossed the Canadian border into the United States to become a permanent resident.  Her occupation was listed as stenographer, and she was described as being 5’6” tall with a medium complexion, brown hair and brown eyes.  On the documents it showed that she had $200 in cash, and that Harvey W. Smith of Philipsburg, Quebec, Canada was her nearest living relative.  Harvey William Smith (1867-1948) was one of my 2nd great uncles.  Brother to both Grace’s father Luther and to Nettie, my Great Grandmother. 

Grace met and then married soon after Roy John Bashaw, on August 25, 1923 in Richford, Franklin, Vermont.  Together they had three children:

Beverly Grace (Bashaw) Darby

Beverly Grace Bashaw, and twins: Barbara Joyce Bashaw, and her brother Ivan Smith Bashaw.  Her husband Roy was a U.S. Customs agent and border patrol inspector on the Canadian / U.S. border.  They lived at 77 Caswell Avenue in Derby Line.  You may remember from a prior post I did.  The Haskell Free Library is at 93 Caswell Ave. in Derby Line.  Grace divorced Roy in 1931. But if you just happen to look at the 1940 U.S. Census he was still listing her as his wife.  However, she had remarried and was living with her three children and her new husband; William Elisha Fifield in Newport.  William and Grace married on Thursday, March 23, 1933 in Newport, Orleans, Vermont.  It must have been difficult for the two men.  As they worked together as U.S. border patrol agents. 

William Elisha Fifield

In the early 1940’s the nation was at war.  Food and gasoline were being rationed. And while the men were away, the women were working more than ever before.  Grace was now 47 years old, and her second husband William Fifield was 63. Thankfully Ivan was too young for the war.  He was a young teenager at just 15 years of age.  It is unknown to me where his older sister and also his twin sister were that day. Or even if all of them made the four hour 250 mile drive sometime earlier to Wethersfield CT.   But on that day Ivan and his mother Grace set off from Wethersfield Connecticut where they were visiting family; to spend a day at the largest circus on earth when it came to town in Hartford. A much needed escape for many families on that day.  When the circus came to the town of Hartford Connecticut so did approximately 9,000 spectators.  Mainly women and children.  The train was late, and the circus did not perform the first two planned shows on Wednesday.  So the tent was at full capacity by 2:00pm Thursday afternoon.

The story of the 1944 Circus Fire has been told time and again.  Over and over for the past 75 years, by the survivors, their families and by the people and residence of Hartford.  While I knew my version of the story.  From the nightly dreams and nightmares as a young boy.  It was not until reading the newspaper headline stories during my research when it all really became clear to me of the tragedy of that summer day.  I met and corresponded online and through email with Michael Skidgell.  In 2014 he authored the book:

THE HARTFORD CIRCUS FIRE.

He had been doing research for years to write his book, and even he had no answers as to what happened to my cousin Grace Dorothy Fifield. Of course I purchased his book, and read it cover to cover. The personal stories, images and accounts were often just too much. But what happened to Grace? I was lucky to find a photograph of Grace in his book, on page 82. The image gave me chills; and Michael wrote a brief paragraph as a biography for Grace.  “Grace was five feet, four inches tall, 145 pounds, she had dark blond hair and was believed to be wearing a brown-and-white flower print summer dress, white shoes, no hat or jewelry and according to the missing person accounts had a black handbag with about $40 in cash.”   Michael Skidgell had used many sources in his research for his book.  Often times pulling from the actual accounts found documented in the newspaper, “The Hartford Courant.”

After the fire family, friends and reporters came from far and wide to join the victims who survived.  Grace’s husband William came down from Vermont to visit the makeshift morgue at the Hartford Armory to help identify his wife’s body.  But she was not found.  Michael writes in his book, “William thought that his wife may have possibly got struck on the head by one of the falling tent poles and had amnesia.” Possibly taking a train to Canada lost and confused, as their son Ivan reported that his mother left the tent exit ahead of him in the rush and confusion they got separated. 

As a rational mature man, and U.S. customs and border patrol agent.  Will must have ultimately came to his sense knowing that she was one of those whose body was not identifiable.   Standing only 5’4 or 5’6” and weighing just 145 pounds.  If she turned back looking for Ivan, she could have easily been one of those who were pushed and trampled by the mob of some 9,000 circus spectators that day all trying to get out to save their own lives.  As scorching hot melted paraffin wax was pouring down and burning everyone under the big top prior to its collapse. 

William went on to marry a third time in his life.  In 1948 he married Ethel Badger.  William died in 1953 at the age of 73.  Never to have seen again his wife who he lovingly called Dorothy.  Beverly & Barbara, Ivan’s two sisters also went on with their lives.  Both getting married, and raising their own families.  The mystery continued year after year, never actually knowing what happened to their wife and mother.  But some of the victims of the fire had no next of kin at all.  Which brings us current with today.

Today I read in the Hartford Courant online edition that Sandra Sumrow has been working with local officials to put this case to final rest once and for all.  I won’t give out more information than has not already appeared in the news for respect of privacy for our cousin.  But Sandra is the grand-daughter of Grace Fifield.  Sandra’s mother was Beverly Grace Bashaw.  

Beverly Grace Darby (Bashaw)

Sandra is married to Joe Sumrow and has a family of her own in North Carolina.  Obviously, like myself, our cousin Sandra had never met her grandmother. She just grew up knowing the story which is very close to her family.  She tells the Hartford Courant that it has been an unsettling family mystery for 75 years.  Last Monday when Sandra gave an interview with reporters, she said, “she doesn’t understand the delay” and that “she had hoped to learn if her grandmother was one of the unidentified bodies before this years anniversary marks 75 years!” 

Michael Skidgell, and his book THE HARTFORD CIRCUS FIRE might possibly be credited with bringing this entire story fresh again so that no one forgets.  If it weren’t for all his research and visits to the Hartford Courant the newspaper might never have inquired if the bodies could be exhumed.  There are two female bodies left unidentified for the past 75 years.  Known only by their case file numbers 2109 and 4512. The final figure is that 168 people lost their lives under the big top that day. However five victims are still buried at the Northwood Cemetery with just a brick with four numbers pressed into it to mark the end of their lives.

Back in April of this year, Connecticut State Chief Medical Examiner James Gill had submitted the request to the Hartford State’s attorney Gail Hardy seeking a court order to exhume the body parts of the unidentified two female victims.  One of them probably being our cousin Grace Dorothy Fifield. James Gill intends to use DNA and compare it with the DNA of Sandra Sumrow to hopefully identify her remains.  I am no expert on DNA.  What I have read and learned over the years is that DNA is actually very fragile.  The likelihood of finding anything from burned and decomposing 75 year old remains is probably less than one percent.  Not to mention the cost. What was classified as the last victim, 168 was actually a mismatched collection of burned body parts which were collected from various locations of the fire scene. Dr. Weissenborn described each part as he included it in the board of healths report back on July 10, 1944. It is too gruesome to describe here.  But if it sells newspapers, let's do it!  What are your thoughts?  There was no such thing as DNA testing in 1944, and probably many families miss identified remains as their loved one.  What remained of Grace may just be buried under a headstone with some other victims name.

Things may have been moving too fast.  Judge Susan Cobb on Monday, June 17th, 2019 ordered that a public service announcement be placed in the Hartford Courant and one also in other media outlets to notify the family and the public to ensure that everyone who may have an interest in the exhumation of our cousin and the other women has an opportunity to be heard. Until such time all efforts to exhume anyone will be delayed.  Grace’s grand-daughter Sandra Sumrow just wants the mystery to be solved. Myself, I would also like closure.  Actually I would like to see a proper headstone placed with her family burials and a proper final resting place with her name on a headstone, and not just a four digit number. 

Just some of the 168 victims.

Judge Susan Cobb just wants to make sure that no one comes forward and objects to the bodies being exhumed. She told the Courant, “we’ve never really done this before.”  It is unclear to me if Judge Cobb has never been out to the memorial or just to the cemetery.  But, State attorney Gail P. Hardy brought with her to Monday’s court hearing several photographs of the graves each marked with a single brick.  

Currently there are so many recent videos being uploaded to Youtube which document pretty much the same story of the Ringling Brothers and Barnum Bailey Circus fire of 1944. That I can't actually recommend one. They all tell the same story of that summer day in Hartford. A tragic disaster that became known as “The Day the Clowns Cried.”  I guess with this post I am now officially introducing DNA to my blog for the very first time.

Dorothy was never found!  Her estate was awarded $9,000 by the arbitration board.   Will the judge order an exhumation, and what if anything will they actually find among the parts?  Read more at the following links, and follow the story online as it unfolds in the Hartford Courant News.

Here are the two links that Judge Susan Cobb ordered.

NEWSTIMES

Hartford Courant News

If you have not heard the story and this is all news to you.  I first recommend buying the book.  You can also learn more at CIRCUS FIRE 1944

Along with just using Google search, or going on Youtube and watching videos. 

If someone does come forward, and the court must block the exhumation.  Then we will be right back where we were and have always been.  Except now the story has been told, and new light has been placed on the story and the city of Hartford.  I guess this year on July 6th 2019 more people will show up for the memorial than the city of Hartford has ever seen at prior years memorials.