A Case Rides Again!

His work for WSSC in the area of water conservation was groundbreaking and served as a model for municipalities across the United States. But did you know that Arthur Putnam "Brig" Brigham (or "Uncle Cee" as I think of him) was a regular contributor of articles and photographs to the Gas Engine Magazine family of publications? So much so that his passing was mentioned with deep sorrow in the April 1, 1992 letter from the publisher and again noted In Memorium in the following issue:

ARTHUR P.' BRIG' BRIGHAM, 63, died January 22, 1992 at home in Bella Vista, Arkansas. Husband of Helen Case Brigham, great-granddaughter of J. I. Case, Brig had been the editor of the Eagle, newsletter of the J. I. Case Heritage Foundation.

Born in Washington, D.C., Brig grew up in Montgomery County, Maryland and graduated from the University of Maryland as a journalism major. From 1959 until his 1981 retirement, he served as Public Affairs Officer of the Washington Suburban Sanitary Commission.

While reading a Gaithersburg, Maryland weekly newspaper, Brig spotted the item (a picture of a Case steam engine) which led him and his wife into their intense involvement with antique machinery and the engine collecting hobby. He was a frequent contributor to IMA and GEM [Gas Engine Magazine].

Here is an article that I particularly enjoy, both for his lively description of the event and for the photograph of his wife, Helen Case Brigham, driving a tractor that accompanied it. The article (found here) is titled "A Case Rides (and drives) Again!", and it was originally published in the March/April 1984 of Steam Traction.

A Case Rides (and drives) Again!
Steam Traction Magazine
March/April 1984
Arthur P. Brigham
















Helen Case Brigham, great-granddaughter of J. I. Case, recently enjoyed the opportunity to follow in his footsteps when she took the helm of Thomas R. Gingell's 50 HP Case at the Mason-Dixon Historical Society's Steam Gas Round-Up.

In 1850, Jerome Increase Case the founder of the J. I. Case Company and pioneering inventor/manufacturer of agricultural equipment was traveling the Midwest selling his machines, trading horses and standing behind every deal he ever made.

A letter 'J. I.' wrote to his wife, Lydia, on September 5 of that year from Madison County, Indiana, described how some purchasers of one of his machines abused the equipment so badly that 'they condemn it as worthless ... say they could not thrash 30 bushels of good winter wheat in a day with it and that they will have nothing more to do with it.

'If I can get horses, I will show people that the machine is just as I recommended it to be,' Case wrote. 'It is going to detain me longer than I expected, but I shall make every possible effort to return (home) as soon as possible.'

Five days later, he wrote Lydia again to report: 'The men who had the machine got it so much out of repair that I was not able to put it in order, try it and get away again until this morning. They had completely murdered the reputation of the machine. Could only average whilst thrashing some 30 bushels of wheat per day.

'They utterly refused to pay me for the machine,' Case continued, 'and the neighbors (Hoosiers in full), supposing the machine to be Yankee humbug, advised them to sue me for damages.'

Case settled with the complainers, refunding money and taking back the machine.

'Then, in order to show the 'cattle' that the machine would thrash 200 bushels a day, as recommended by me,' he continued, 'I thought it best to put it in operation; and, after much trouble, I succeeded in getting good hands and horses to make the trial. All (witnesses) united in saying that, if the machine could thrash 200 bushels in a day, it could not be equalled by any in the country.

'We got the horses broke to the machine and ready to start at 12 o'clock,' Case noted. 'That afternoon, we thrashed and cleaned nicely 177 bushels of wheat and stopped to take our dinner and tea in the time. This seemed to please and surprise my friends, the Quakers.'

It was this tradition of pride in any equipment that carries the Case name that brought J. I. Case's great-granddaughter, Helen Case Brigham, to the Mason-Dixon Historical Society's 21st annual Steam and Gas Round-Up Days at the Farm Museum in Westminster, Maryland, this fall.

Helen heard about the event, after reading about a similar rally of old farm machines in 'The Gaithersburg Gazette,' a Maryland weekly which ran a story with photos showing a Case steam engine owned, beautifully restored and operated by Thomas R. Gingell of Emmitsburg, Md. In a telephone conversation, Gingell invited Helen to the Mason-Dixon gathering to see and ride on his Case engine.

From the minute she arrived at the Farm Museum grounds until she headed for home five hours later, Helen Case was in a state of ecstasy. Throughout her 50-plus years, she had read about her great-grandfather and had heard family stories about him. In her youth, on the Case Ranch in Eldorado, Texas, she had driven a gas-fueled Case farm tractor; and she had seen the old J. I. Case steam engine on display at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C.

But, at Westminster, Tom Gingell took her aboard his operating, 50-horsepower Case Traction Engine. He took Helen for a ride in the machine, circling the Round-Up site wide open at two to three miles an hour. Then, Tom stoked the fire box to get up a good head of steam and after a few basic instructions put old J. I.'s great-granddaughter in the driver's 'seat' (not a seat at all, you have to stand to operate this machine!).

Helen had a blast, as farm machinery buffs gathered around at the Mason-Dixon Historical Society's Round- Up to meet J. I. Case's great-granddaughter.

If the 'Old Man' happened to be looking down on the scene from Heaven (or wherever) on that day, he probably smiled broadly to see 'a chip off the old block' at the throttle of Gingell's shiny black, circa 1920 Case steam engine.

Helen certainly smiled broadly, flushed with Case pride and responding to the enthusiastic greetings of Round-Up visitors who came to meet her and shake the hand of 'old J. I.'s great-granddaughter' after the public address announcer introduced her to the crowd.

'Listen to that engine ... That's beautiful,' Helen shouted over the sounds of the energizing steam while she remained at the helm of Gingell's machine. Later, when Tom took over to hook up to a belt and demonstrate the engine's power, Helen's description of the belt's 'whomp ... whomp ... whomp' in combination with the engine's powerful, steamy throbs was: 'That's magnificent!'

Toward the end of 'her day' at Westminster, Tom invited Helen to drive his Case engine in the Round-Up parade; and, by this time, she was handling the machine like a veteran throttle wide open, whistle blowing, waving and smiling to the crowd.

'If anybody in the crowd had said a bad thing about that engine when I was driving it in the parade, I would have crawled down from the cab and punched him in the nose,' she reported at the end of the day, her Irish jaw jutting out and her blue eyes flashing much as J. I. Case's jaw must have jutted and his eyes must have flashed when he fixed the machine in Indiana and showed the complainers and their witnesses that the Case thresher could 'thrash' 177 bushels in half a day (almost twice the production he had promised) and that J. I. Case was a man of his word.

In addition to getting her first opportunity to operate a Case steam engine at Westminster, while there Helen also heard about the 'Big Event' the Annual Reunion of the Midwest Old Settlers and Threshers Association in Mount Pleasant, Iowa, where Tom Gingell and others say she might get to ride possibly even drive a Case engine with the power of more than 100 horses.

Since Helen is a Case, as in J. I. Case, she probably will never rest easily again until she journeys to Iowa or wherever she has to go to drive one of those big machines. The Case pride and the Case love of useful, reliable, powerful machinery are in her blood. If there is a Case machine bigger than Tom Gingell's 50-horsepower beauty, then, DRIVE IT SHE MUST! How do I know this? Why, I've been married to J. I.'s granddaughter for 33 years.

Author's Note: Helen Case is the daughter of the late Percival Fuller Case, formerly of Racine, Wisconsin, home of the J. I. Case Company. P. F. Case moved his family from Evanston, Illinois to Case-held ranchland in southwest Texas in 1938. Helen was raised on the family ranch, an active participant in the care of herds of sheep and cattle. Since 1950, when she married a Marylander, she has lived in Silver Spring, Maryland.

Jerome Increase Case, founder of the J. I. Case Threshing Machine Company, one of America's pioneering inventors/manufacturers of farm machinery in the late 1800's.

January/February 1971

There is always a gate. Sometimes it is swinging in, and at other times, swinging out. For every gate there is an experience. There are people to relate to the gate whether it be of wood, metal, or stone.

Some gates are ornate, and others brightly painted. Some are rusty, creaking, and only half on an abandoned post. Always the gate is engaged in a struggle against the elements created by both nature and man.

At the gate there are always hopes, memories, ambitions, and experiences. Of all the creations, these vital ingredients have been reserved for man alone. Both the generosity and the responsibility of these gifts are overwhelming. Thankfully, there is a balance which causes the gate to swing in one direction with pressure, and in another with pull.

As we reach into the tomorrow of yet another year, we must close our gate on some great events which are now history. All of us have our own reflection as we see an old year out and anticipate the new. I trust that you will have your own parade of thoughts as I relate my own gate experiences.

In the past year a gate was opened for a member of our family. This was a farewell gate for one who had seen nearly 82 years as a treasured component of our inner circle. She was the one who had laughed with such understanding when a small boy on a very black night was encouraged to set a new record for the 100 yard dash. The route was from the barn to the back porch and was initiated by the groan of a rusty hinge supporting a sagging gate.

She it was who often summed up the ambition of this youth with the impossible goal, "He's all too often reaching for the moon." She lived long enough to hear her little granddaughter say, "I used to think Daddy was so tall he could walk up on a stepladder and touch the sky." In the time of that grandmother, other young Americans opened the impossible gate--reached the moon and walked upon it. It couldn't be done and yet is was...in 1970.

Hardly had that departing latch dropped before another was being lifted to accommodate someone coming in our gate. For those who are interested, there is a grandson. We have our miracle and he picked my birthday to enter the gate.

Undoubtedly, gates are important, and for some 17 years I sat on a great campus where I could watch the arrival of young men and women as they walked between the great brick posts and under the identifying ironwork. For many this was a giant step which would be appreciated and assimilated.

The bricks and mortar were there, the knowledge of generations waited in the library, and many fertile minds were ready to share the largest word in research and discovery. Like the structure of bricks and the mortar, knowledge is built on fact and finding, a step at a time.

Each generation adds a segment to the great mosaic of life. All too often there are those who exit through the gate after a short struggle, for the campus hills offer a challenge. Others see the green grass which borders the pathway lading to the great outside and depart. For some, it will remain green, but for most, it will lose its vigor as the distance from the gate increases.

Fortunately, there are many who have the means, the stamina, and the desire to complete the experience and enjoy not only the climax parade before family and friends, but also the fruits of effort.

It is difficult for us to look at the interesting experience we call life without realizing that each generation and each year goes beyond that which preceded it. Somehow the combination of the certainty of yesterday gives the hope that is required for tomorrow.

Indeed the story is an old one, but deeply significant...So many have not heard it yet...The young man left home and walked through the gate to seek his fortune in his own way. For a time those who had contributed most to his preparation were forgotten and ignored.

The years passed and an aging mother and father received a letter. Briefly it stated, "I will be on the train next Wednesday. If I am welcome at home, after the years of heartache and neglect I have caused, please hang a white cloth on the cherry tree at the edge of town. If there is no cloth, I will know I am not welcome."

When the train reached the town limits, a passenger viewed an old tree completely covered with bed sheets.

It has been good to re-live old days, but it means even more to be a part of the preparation for an unexplored tomorrow. I think I'll spend a few moments with the thoughts of the English school teacher in India.

She faced an uncertain road, and her answer may well have a message for the League, for the leadership, for 150,000 members representing 58 federal agencies and for you and for me...

"And I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year: 'Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.' And he replied, 'Go out into the darkness and put thy hand in the hand of God. That shall be to you better than a light and safer than a known way.'"

David L. Brigham
Executive Director

November 1970

There is a nail at the top of the basement steps. It's just like the old one in the house across the field. This is where my newer "handy cap" hangs.

Early morning in an interesting time. In the mad scramble of jumbled thoughts as one attempts to find that pin point of focus for the activities of the day, there come memories, ambitions, frustrations and concerns. There is family, work, Thanksgiving, welfare, recreation, income vs. out-go, health, memory and hats.

How can you separate one from the other and make your day and your reason for being make sense. Like the Alice of Wonderland you are in a maze of mirrors, trying to find the looking glass to walk through, and knowing that unlike the Mad Hatter you will not be able to balance all of the shapes and styles upon your whirling mind at once.

So, to the nail and the cap. The dogs knew the signal of a bolt sliding in the lock and woke up the neighbors in anticipation of a run in the woods.

The collies led the way in a joyful dash. They had been to the sassafras stump before and were content to lie quietly for the moments the fellow wearing the handy cap seemed to relish as he sat. This morning there was a dew covered spider web and the owner worked back and forth to leave a perfect lacework pattern. The handiwork was perfection and much like others I had seen before. How do they know to follow a path similar to those who have deposited their thread in like fashion over so many years? Nature has such a way of balancing things out...maybe we'd better try to straighten out our own disorganized thinking.

There are bonnets and caps and hats. Some fit and are attractive while others are better relegated to the foot of the basement steps or the corner of the attic.

For years the urge to try on hats has overwhelmed me. There is always a laugh in a hat when it is deposited upon the wrong head.

For a period the LFRA hat was my vocation. It is still one of my strong interests and hopes. The first birthday of the Recreation Register is a happy occasion for me and I join the 75,000 readers of our 140,000 membership in a salute. The long struggle is not over but the vital communication link is alive and rendering great service. For this we can all be thankful.

And on to another hat... This one is the Committee for the Handicapped, People-to-People... This is a mighty comfortable fit. Those who have such a variety of problems make life so worthwhile for all of us. This was the fleeting thought on that sassafras stump and I almost left it there to complete my walk.

Then the colorful leaves and pine needles sifting down told me it was fall...November...the month of Thanksgiving... We gather the family together then...all of us...past and present...the well and strong, the sick and lame, the blind and deaf, the young and the old, the paralyzed and the voiceless... All of us... And we each have a pad and pencil to go with a ten minute time limit. We write down those things for which we are thankful.

This Thanksgiving we are thankful for those who care about the Recreation and Welfare of others. That there is a League and a union of the employee associations. Then we are thankful for those around us who give so much inspiration and make out problems seem so small. I am thankful for the hat of service to the disabled that so many wear, even for just the moment of helping someone up the stairs or across the street.

Before me is the note from the paraplegic who says, "Each person is an individual and we do not sit in our wheelchairs like so many blobs, smiling incessantly...I am not always patient and cheerful...I criticize, I knock, I get mad and swear, I seldom have time to smile..."

I'm wondering how many of us would trade our lives for the life of any other individual we know. Remember, you would be trading all of the life, not part of yours for part of his. Not every lid that fits another man's kettle will go on yours.

All of a sudden the sun is getting brighter; there is no insect in the web and the spider is resting. This is a good time to be saying thanks to --

The God that gave me eyes that I might see,
And ears that I might hear,
A voice that I might tell to all
His story far and near.
To me He gave a heart too full
To pass my brother by,
Two legs, two feet, two arms and hands
To use to serve my fellow man.
A mind, a looking back, a soul set free
Thank God! He gave these gifts to me.
So I my duties must not shirk
For God made man to do His holy work.
The young, the lame, the old and gray,
The boys and girls who cannot play
Extend to us their searching hands.
To know the touch of one who truly understands.
Empathy, compassion we ask of Thee,
To help us do and see
The tasks which Thou hast given
That we might know the taste of Heaven.

I guess I better put my cap back on and go now. It's funny...after a few minutes on the Thanksgiving stump the "handy cap" really feels good when you are relating life to handicapped. I am thankful for my love of hats!

David L. Brigham
Executive Director

Profiles of Reuben Brigham

From the website of the Association for Communication Excellence in Agriculture, Natural Resources, and Life and Human Sciences:

The Reuben Brigham Award is offered in memory of Reuben Brigham (1887-1946), a native of Marlboro, Mass., and graduate of the University of Maryland. He served as an extension editor and 4-H Club agent in Maryland and was called to the Federal Extension Service office in 1917 to develop an editorial and visual aids service for extension editors. Brigham traveled the nation, conferring with editors and directors, and helped states develop their own editorial offices as separate units.

He organized the American Association of Agricultural College Editors and served as its president, secretary and treasurer. He established the Extension Service Review in 1939 and participated in the Farm and Home Hour of the National Broadcasting Company. During the Depression, he helped develop action agencies of the Agricultural Adjustment Administration. As head of a regional section of the AAA information office, he ensured that extension staffs were involved in that organization’s information plans. He later was appointed assistant director of the Federal Extension Service and was associated with extension directors, the land-grant college association and policy-making committees of the U.S. Department of Agriculture. Brigham died in Chicago while attending a meeting at the National 4-H Club Congress.

The Reuben Brigham Award, established in 1947, is reserved for a communicator, including a public relations or advertising professional, who has made a a major contribution in the field of agriculture, natural resources, or life and human sciences at the regional, national or international level. Active and retired members of ACE, a land-grant college or university staff, or USDA staffs are not eligible for the award. (Click for a list of past winners.)

* * * * *

A profile from the ACE retirees website:

Reuben Brigham. President 1924-25. U. S. Department of Agriculture

Reuben Brigham was born Dec. 13, 1887 in Marlboro, Mass. He was the son of a farmer and professor of agriculture. He graduated from the Maryland Agricultural College (later the University of Maryland) in 1908. For the next five years he operated a farm in Maryland, then returned to the university in 1913 to serve as secretary of Alumni Affairs to the university president. When the Smith-Lever Act established the extension service later that year, he joined the Maryland College of Agriculture staff where he was their first extension editor and 4-H club agent.

In 1917 he joined the U.S. Department of Agriculture’s extension service in Washington, D.C. to develop an editorial and visual-aids service for extension editors. He also started the Extension Service Review magazine in 1930.

During the depression years of the 1930s, he joined the Agricultural Adjustment Administration (AAA) where he was in charge of a regional section of the “Triple A” information office. In this position, he “saw to it that the college editors of the nation were used in all information plans and that the local state extension staff, including the editor, was not by-passed. . ..” He later returned to the extension service and was named assistant director.

He died unexpectedly Dec. 6, 1946 while attending the National 4-H Club Congress in Chicago—one week short of his 59th birthday. Following Reuben Brigham’s death, Past President Frank Jeter (North Carolina) said, “Brigham has as much to do with the successful formation and organization of the American Association of Agricultural College Editors as any other one single person.” Since 1947 AAACE/ACE has given the annual Reuben Brigham Award to honor the contributions in agricultural, home economics, and rural communication of a person outside its membership—the organization’s highest award.

* * * * *

And finally the culmination of a recent research project by Scout Jim Bikel titled "Reuben Brigham: Legend Unveiled," dated March 21, 2009, about the founder and first scoutmaster of Boy Scout Troop #264. He presented his project to the 10th annual Montgomery County gathering for National History Day. I had the pleasure of meeting Jim Bikel--a very nice young man--and I think he did a great job here. I have inserted two minor corrections into the text, which appear within brackets and are italicized:

Introduction

As part of a competition for an extracurricular activity known as National History Day, I did a research project on Mr. Reuben Brigham, commonly known to you as the troop’s founder. National History Day is a competition that is similar to a science fair for history. This year, the NHD had a theme of legacy. They recommended that we each pick a person from any period of history to research, and to focus on their lasting impact on the community, nation or world. While others focused on more well-known characters such as John Wilkes Booth, Walter Reed or Dr. Bird, I chose a lesser known character that I knew impacted me. Reuben Brigham, I knew, founded our scout troop in 1927. I knew nothing else about him, and didn’t expect much. Instead, I found he left much more than a scout troop behind. Be aware that I write about only what I was able to find out, and it is likely that some information is missing.

Childhood Years and Early Background

Reuben Brigham was born in Marlboro, Massachusetts, on December 13, 1887. His early years were spent growing up on a farm. His father taught him the farming methods himself, and Reuben also went to many different schools. He grew up not only in America, but in several other nations, including Germany and Japan. Sometime, he moved to the United States again and settled in Ashton, MD. He went to the University of Maryland (known back then as the Maryland Agricultural College), and he then graduated in 1908. After his graduation, he farmed for five years until his life became interesting.

Parcel Post

Ever wonder how that package came to your door? Ever wonder who started the Parcel Post? Farmers in the United States long wanted a government parcel service, due to the high prices that private companies would require. You often had two choices with items. You could pay more than half the worth to ship your products east or you could let them rot while you haul them yourself over the Appalachian Mountains. The reverse was true with getting something. If you needed, say, a Model-T car-to-tractor conversion kit so you could use a gasoline engine instead of a stubborn mule to plow your fields, you would have to pay the evil railroad companies more than twice the value of the kit to ship it to where you could pick it up, or you could take the dangerous route east yourself to get the part, leaving your farm unattended and spending hard-earned cash on gasoline and such. The National Grange, a large nationwide organization that farmers used to unionize and advocate for farmer rights, had turned a blind eye to it. Mr. Brigham, of the Olney Grange, wasn’t about to let a good plan go to waste. (The Olney Grange was a branch of the Maryland Grange, a branch of the National Grange, which was formed as unions won battles in industry while envious farmers still struggled.) By encouraging congressman David J. Lewis to test its soundness in Congress, he managed to get it through. There were many points at which the Honorable David J. Lewis admitted he felt like giving up. He said that through Mr. Brigham’s bottomless enthusiasm, he managed to gain enough support to get the legislation passed. Farmers and city folks nationwide loved it. A farmer now did not have to spend near as much to get a stupid part, so he was able to expand his farm more rapidly, and the customers ended up paying much less due to the significantly lowered shipping costs. The only downfall to this legislation was that the railroad companies were going bankrupt (eventually leading some of them to unite as CSX.) So next time you receive a package at the door, think about how it all started-from that same man who founded our scout troop.

The Agricultural Department

Ever hear about the United States Department of Agriculture? (You know, that government agency that inspects meat, leaving a sticker on it if it looks good enough?) It was originally started to help farmers and ranchers become educated about their actions, work, and sanitation, and to clean up the meat-packing industry scandals. According to the Agricultural Extension Service, he was called to the Department of Agriculture in 1917 to take charge of producing visual and editorial materials. After serving a year in the army, he returned to the agricultural department. He worked in the Agricultural Extension Service, which was created for the purpose of gathering the above stated materials. In the Extension service, he created a magazine which is still published today, known as the Agriculture Extension Service Review. In 1933, he was placed in the Agricultural Adjustment Administration (remember learning about FDR’s New Deal in History Class?). There he developed a regional contact division, which was used as a public relations committee for the AAA and other depression and wartime agencies. (The AAA was later deemed unconstitutional by the Supreme Court.) Another of his extension jobs was being the 4-H Club leader to Maryland, and he eventually became the top figure in the national 4-H Club. The 4-H Club was an organization founded to teach farm youth the basics of farming and how to do it the right way (preventing another Dust Bowl), and to give farm youth a proper education and upbringing. In his work, Mr. Brigham was very dedicated. He would not give the people he needed to contact a telephone call or a proper letter, but instead he would go out there in person and talk and become friendly with the farmers. He was so attached to his work that he died of an ailment when he went out west to contact a few farmers in 1946.

Mr. Brigham and War

In 1918, a year after Reuben joined the Agricultural Department, he joined the army. He fought as one of millions of “doughboys” fighting in WWI for the Allies against the Central Powers. He only fought for a single year, and not too much is known about his actions, most likely because he was no one of high rank. Reuben’s children were all involved in WWII. His son, David Brigham, served in the Pacific, and his other son served in Europe. His daughter became an army nurse. Mr. Brigham understood how the Axis Powers saw the war from their point of view, instead of just the Allied view, having grown up in Japan and Germany himself.

Mr. Brigham and Family

As stated before, Mr. Brigham’s father had dragged Reuben’s childhood all over the world. Mr. Brigham married Marjorie Snowden on June 7, 1915 at Ingleside (Queen Anne's County, MD) [*correction by Barb - Ingleside was the name of Francis Snowden's home located south of Ashton, MD, on what is now Route 650 New Hampshire Avenue]. Mr. and Mrs. Brigham were devout Quakers, and played a role in the Sandy Spring Friends group. As stated before, Reuben had three children. His first son, David Lewis Brigham, was named after Congressman David J. Lewis, a friend to Mr. Brigham. He had a second son, whose name I cannot find [*correction by Barb - Reuben had two more sons named Francis Snowden Brigham and Arthur P. Brigham, both of whom are deceased]. His daughter, born on February 22, 1922, was named after her mother, to become Marjorie Amber Brigham [now Marjorie Brigham Miller]. Marjorie, (the daughter) is still alive. She lives in Vermont, and helped me with my MDHD project. David Brigham married Gladys Beall in Rockville on December 28, 1938. David and Gladys Brigham had a son, who was also named David. This David Brigham, grandson of Reuben Brigham, is the person who has his name on a plaque on the bell structure in front of Sherwood High School. David Brigham Sr. died in 1999, and he had written a memoir about his father for the troop (also posted on the website). Reuben, having died in 1946, is buried on his property in Ashton next to his wife, Marjorie.

Property and House

Mr. Brigham bought his property from Francis Snowden in 1921. He built his house, named Glyndon, and that house still stands. It is visible at 1022 Olney-Sandy Spring Road, Ashton, MD. Our troop used to do our annual primitive there, but due to a problem with the neighbors, we have used the Haviland property as a substitute. (I will not discuss this too much, because I am bound to get it wrong, not knowing all the details.) On his property, he and his wife are buried as previously stated side-by-side. Besides the grave markers, there are different memorials honoring him, one from the American Legion Post #68, (which he helped found after WWI and which is still the sponsor of the troop), another from the University of Maryland Class of ’08 (1908, not 2008), and another from “Friends in Agriculture”.

Brigham and Youth

Mr. Brigham believed in the proper upbringing of rural youth. This is visible through the 4-H clubs he was involved with. David Brigham Senior has already written his brief memoir about the Troop’s history, so I shall not restate that. To access it, follow this link.

* * * * *

Correspondence from the late 1940's between Reuben "Shorty" Brigham and John William Firor are housed in Duke University Library's collection of Firor's papers, indexed here but not available online. Measuring in at 6'6" tall, this "Shorty" must be our Reuben.

October 1970

It was a massive desk with a thick glass over the entire surface. This was fitting since Dad was a big man in my life, in his work with the government and in physical appearance. Under the glass were three items of interest to a young lad who loved to visit "the office" on a Saturday morning when school was out and federal employees only worked a half day.

After some paperclips, a wide rubber band, and a pencil you could screw the point in and out of had been secured in the deep recesses of corduroy knickers and the ladies of the office had their "making over the boss's kid," I could study that desk top. Prominent was the quotation, "The wheel that does the squeaking is the one that gets the grease." A baby held a bottle over the caption "Milk Makes Men."

There was the young mother in blue and white gingham at the clothes line hanging the beautifully fluffed and I am sure already dry clothes. Those words still drift back: "The clothes line is a rosary of household love and care. Each little saint the mother loves is represented there." That must have included me!

Then, there was the picture of Mr. Lewis. I remember that one the best. In typical executive style, I stretched out in the swivel chair, placed my spindle legs on the glass desk top and leaned back. I was a wheel for a few moments but hadn't counted on some other wheels having to do with the stability of the chair.

As my foot left the desk in somewhat of a hurry, the heel dragged across the glass and much of the black rubber remained to distort the picture of Mr. Lewis. I don't recall that Dad was upset at his son, but I do recollect he was six-six and weighed two-sixty. Somehow the little fellow on the floor always remembered the words of that moment, "Mr. Lewis made his mark, and I reckon the boy wanted to make his."

So much is said, partly in jest and to make conversation, but in the routine and unexciting maze of government service. Perhaps this makes a little story very much in order. My Mother made the long journey just a few weeks ago. She left so much with us, as every mother should. She understood the strength of love and how you gave direction to life with it. So, quite obviously, she would say tell the story about the big man and the little Welsh coal miner from Cumberland.

Dad was bright and finished college in three years. I didn't know until many years after I finished that when you had a high school diploma in his day it meant you started in the sophomore year at college. Anyway, he started farming and became active in the Farm Grange. This farm organization gave support to Dad's contention that shipping costs for farm folks were out of all reason. There was no competition for private rail shipment by one very large company.

With a directing resolution from the Grange the young farmer approached the members of the Congress from Maryland. The only response came from David J. Lewis, a mite of a man stunted by labors in the coal mines of Allegany County. This self-made lawyer with less than a fourth grade education, began nearly a year of research, writing, and developing the case for parcel post legislation. At his side and request there worked a young farmer who was later to become the nation's Assistant Director of the Agricultural Extension Service.

In the midst of the legislative preparation the farmer had his first child. He took time out to give him a name. It was David Lewis, in honor of the little man with whom he walked down Pennsylvania Avenue each Wednesday for some thirty years. After a weekly luncheon the tall man and the almost dwarf relaxed by letting the public gawk as they walked.

The first parcel post bill was enacted into law by the Congress. Mr. Lewis, who later was honored as the Father of Social Security, was first recognized as the Daddy of Parcel Post. There is now among my prized inheritance a copy of that bill with the inscription, "To Reuben Brigham - to whom this legislation owes its life - David J. Lewis."

I went to see Mr. Lewis in Cumberland some years ago. He was in his mid-eighties working in the basement of a law building, and his clothes were wrinkled and spotty. The lawyers upstairs did not want me to go down into the basement retreat. He had failed so. I told them I was his namesake and knew him well. This was my pass key.

He was involved with blocks of wood and a jigsaw. After the warm greeting that was to be our last, he said, "David, they think I'm a little off." Then he explained, "I always wanted to know something about higher math and the books all assume you have had the basics. The only way I can work out the mathematical equations and physics is to cut blocks the way I think and then fit them together to prove the formula."

This was not too important until he added, "David, when you stop appreciating other people and when you stop desiring to improve you own knowledge, the world no longer needs you."

I am glad there is work ahead for all of us, that there is yet knowledge for us to acquire, and that there are people to relate to. Oddly enough the quot next to the Mr. Lewis picture read, "Life is a series of little packages from which the strings are always coming untied." If you can't handle it you might send it Parcel Post.

David Lewis Brigham
Executive Director

September 1970

Vacations are mighty important. A good case can be built for the short ones and the long ones. The in-between are also much to be desired. It is a matter for debate when one says the anticipation is often worth more than the actual leave time. Another will stress the real pleasure is in reliving the away moments through pictures and the telling to the poor stay-at-homes.

Well let me say a word for right in the middle of a vacation. Someone must want to know how much I enjoyed catching that big fish. The game warden landed on the lake by our boat and taxied over in his plane to be sure we had a license and that the boat was properly registered. Then, he asked the question I was waiting for... "Mind showing me your catch?" That stringer came out of the water mighty easy and the warden seemed impressed. I was sure he would have more to say about my big fish because it was the largest caught off Owl Island this summer.

Next, he paddled over to the boat where the younger generation was having a go at the bass and perch. The kids were within the length limit on their string, but just barely. It was good to bask in the light of success when the professional eye was on the scene. The old man had put it on 'em once again. Surely the warden wanted to see my fish again but he took off without further notice of that big guy who took my bait.

Many others have taken vacations and are now safely back. Not many came back with a badly sprained ankle from slipping on a rock and falling into the lake. Not many limped around in an off-white tennis shoe and had a boss full of sympathy and understanding who drew a parallel to the hippie in the same one shoe situation. The businessman who saw the one bare foot and the sneaker on the other admonished, "Hey fellar, you lost one of your shoes!" Came the snappy reply from the long haired youth, "Naw, I just found one!"

So we had a great time and we did relax, got a new grip on our problems and began to plan for another year. It's funny how easy it is to be your real congenial, wholesome self when you are a little distance from the problems of the office and the trials of keeping the home fires burning.

As we looked ahead to another day before this one was over, we did the logical thing. As League members the obvious move is to inquire about the LFRA Travel Program.

You can write for suggestions or ask for prices on trips you think you would like to try. If the League does not have what you want there is no problem about looking to other travel avenues. Our thinking is that we want to start where the discount is available. That means LFRA and the travel numbers.

So why do we spend time on vacation plans when we are just back from this ten day spree? That's easy! We had so much fun planning for this year that we want to get the kick to be realized from anticipating once again. Then we want the joy of another relaxing time and the best of all lift of telling friends like you about it.

We are thinking about a cruise or a flight to Europe. Maybe we'll settle for a See America tour by bus. Several short jaunts to Williamsburg, Hershey, and New England wouldn't be bad. I'd sure like to see Yellowstone again. then there's Hawaii and the far east. How about Tokyo?

There was lunch last week with a friend who had just returned from Tokyo. One of those combined business and fun trips. The highlight was a visit to a department store where he was greeted by a lovely English speaking, kimono clad Japanese hostess. In perfect English she welcomed, advised and hoped the visit would be flawless.

The elevator door by which the American stood quietly opened and the operator who appeared to be a duplicate of the greeter gave her welcome. The visitor was not to be outdone and after thanking the two girls he posed a question: "Do you take turns?" From the elevator operator, "No. So sorry. Just up and down."

Travel can be fun even when you are misunderstood. You can always tell someone about something, and they will laugh with you. Maybe that is the reason I had such a great time this year. You must go to Maine and hear the spice of a real "down easterner" before your travels are over.

Yes, I did almost forget about that fish. He was a big one and the game warden had noted my luck. So we went down the lake to Meddybemps with the six houses, church and general store. Had my picture taken with my fish and then went into store to see the old cracker barrel sitters who had told me the fishing was best "on the rain line." You watch for spots where the rain stops on the lake and the big ones are there.

The word was ahead of me. They knew about the big fish and told me so. I felt good and showed it. Then one of them, the deaf guy in the corner by the chewin' tobacco said, "Son, that was a mighty fine male fish you got." I agreed.

Then I began turning wheels...how does he know it is a male? I made the wrong move and asked... He couldn't hear the question but another old native did. Came the answer...

"Of course it's a male, son. It's a small mouth bass ain't it?"

David L. Brigham
Executive Director