Researching My Eight Women: Nettie McCormick and Her Fortunate Life

This week, I traveled to Madison, Wisconsin, to visit the Wisconsin Historical Archives collection on the McCormick family. Nettie McCormick, wife of the inventor of the reaper - Cyrus McCormick, is one of the eight women in my book.

The building is being restored, but the interior is gorgeous. Filigreed windows, marble floors and a winding staircase. Fueled by Starbucks, I started up the grand steps.

The Wisconsin Historical Society Archives were granted the McCormick collection in the 1950s. There is a massive amount of information, 12 million pages, kept in files about the family and their businesses.

Cyrus McCormick changed the landscape of farming worldwide with his invention of the reaper.

The couple changed Chicago and the world by giving millions of dollars
to religion and educational institutions.

What struck me as I requested box after box, was how odd it would be to have your life documented in this way. There are files of interviews about Nettie - collected by a woman who was specifically hired by the family to document her life. This woman, and her staff of helpers, interviewed dozens of people about Nettie. They typed the interviews, outlined information, contacted every institution to which the McCormicks donated. Their records are meticulous.

Some files contained lists of items Nettie would pack for her trips to New York, Paris, or Egypt. She would mention that they needed to bring a white lawn blouse or a grey silk evening skirt. There were scribbled notes that seemed to be household reminders. There were lists of her jewelry and calling cards with doodles on them. There were letters to "My dear husband" from "Your devoted wife." She worried about him as he traveled and about her children when they fell ill. Telegrams and checks were piled into folders - each one kept - although most were probably nothing of significance.

Some of the items were so old and fragile they were falling apart.

I felt as if I was peeking into the private life of someone I did not know . . . a very wealthy and very powerful woman. People mentioned her gracious manner, her amazing memory, and her meticulous care for her details. She had enormous wealth, but also a kind and gentle heart. She was well loved.

One story was told by a woman whose husband was the president of a small Southern college. Nettie had given a great deal of money to the college and had come down for the dedication of a new building.

Before the event, she met with the wife for tea. Nettie told her that she had just been shopping for a dress for the event and thought that, perhaps, the wife had not had time to purchase a new garment for the special occasion.

"I hope you don't mind," said Nettie. "But I purchased one for you as well. It will be sent by this afternoon."

The woman smiled. She had no money to buy a new dress and was going to iron an her best calico to wear to the special occasion. Nettie knew that, of course, and wanted to give the gift in the kindest way possible.

Nettie wrote: "Yes, money is power.

But I have always tried not to trust in it,

but rather use it for the glory of my Master."

Mary McLeod Bethune: She Has Given Her Best

I first heard about Mary McLeod Bethune when I was a student at Moody Bible Institute. She was an early graduate of my college - and an African American woman. I knew she had gone on to become one of the greatest women in our country. She was so well known that she earned the status of being featured on our postage stamps. But I didn't really know much about her. As I researched Mary McLeod Bethune for my book, When Others Shuddered: Eight Women Who Refused to Give Up . I learned a bit more about her remarkable life: She was the 15th of 17 children, born to former slaves. From an early age, she hungered for education. She graduated from Moody Bible Institute with a desire for missionary service to Africa - an opportunity she was denied because of her race. Undeterred, she started a school for African American girls in Daytona Beach, Florida, that went on to become Bethune Cookman University. She was asked to work with Franklin D. Roosevelt and led many African Am

Pacific Garden Mission: A Bed, A Meal and the Bright Light of Hope

In 1877, a woman named Sarah Dunn Clarke and her newly-wedded husband George started a rescue mission on Chicago’s south side. They were wealthy, but their hearts were broken by the men and women who struggled to survive on the city’s streets. The Pacific Garden Mission is the 2 nd oldest operating rescue mission in the United States. Now located on 14 th St and Canal – just south of Chicago’s loop – they offer shelter to as many as a thousand men and women on any given night. As part of my book research to understand how the work of Sarah Clarke continues today, I visited the mission with my friend Dawn Pulgine. Entering through the side, we felt a bit out of our element. Men, black and white, old and young, clustered near the doorway. Some carried bags of personal belongings. Others were working the desk and security. It was mid-day at the Mission. We were given a tour by one of the “program men” – residents who choose to stay and live at the

Your Roots Are Showing

I'm older. I know that. But, honestly, I still feel pretty young. Well, most days at least Today I received a not-requested senior discount at Einstein Bagels. It appeared as a $1.03 credit on my receipt, along with the cheery explanation. And if other people don't tell me I'm older, my body definitely does. I traveled to and from Chicago last week with my daughter and her friend. Being the self sufficient woman I am, I helped the girls boost their luggage into the airline's overhead bin. Later that day, I felt my mistake. My back has not been happy ever since. I've been putting those sticky heat patches on it, Ben Gay rub, ice, heat wraps, you name it. And still when I turn incorrectly . . . ouch. There are other signs too. I wear glasses now . . . all the time. It started with readers, and then progressed to progressives. And I HAVE to color my hair now. Those pesky roots keep reappearing in an ever-shinier shade of silver. I (briefly) considered embr

Jamie Janosz

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