Joy Cometh in the Morning: The Joy Postle Blackstone Story

Contents

List Of Artist’s Pen

And Ink Illustrations

Foreword

Preface

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Idyll Of The Woods

CHAPTER 1

Reflections

Vignettes

CHAPTER 2

My Early Years

Magic

CHAPTER 3

My Teenage Years

Directions

CHAPTER 4

The Frontier Years

To a Small Stream

CHAPTER 5

Challenges

Purpose

CHAPTER 6

Joy Postle, Interior Decorator

The Builder

CHAPTER 7

Josy and Bee

Migration—Spring

CHAPTER 8

The Interview

Questions

CHAPTER 9

Our Honeymoon Adventure

Coda

CHAPTER 10

Land of Sunshine

Wedded Bliss

CHAPTER 11

Bird Talk

Dream House

CHAPTER 12

Lake Rose, Home at Last!

Elegy

CHAPTER 13

Bittersweet Memories

My Lake

CHAPTER 14

Still A Romantic

Fantasy

CHAPTER 15

The Manor Years

Beachcomber

CHAPTER 16

Making the Best of It

Requiem For Swallows

CHAPTER 17

Won’t Quit

Epilogue

About The Author

Notes And Resources

TO

WORD WEAVERS ORLANDO, Critique Group Arm,

The Christian Writers Guild

Your helpful critiques and encouragement gave me hope that my manuscript would finally make it into print.

Thank you, each one, for your contributions.

My Joy

Joy can be Expressed

In many ways,

A touch,

A look,

A loving phrase.

But there’s only one Joy

That I can express:

It’s the Artist

The Poet

Joy Blackstone

The very best!

Tootsie

LIST OF ARTIST’S PEN

AND INK ILLUSTRATIONS

PHOTOGRAPHS

Joy—Frontispiece

Oliver and Mary Postle with son Vernon.

Mary Monica Postle with Joy, age 4.

Joy with Silver at her Berwyn home.

Shoshone Falls, ID.

The Cove, Painting, Snake River Canyon 1971.

Haystacks at the Postle Homestead.

Joy on a hay slip.

Cousins in ID.

Joy and Bob’s Wedding Picture.

Joy on a 20’ scaffold at the Beaumont Hotel, TX.

Bob and Joy hiking at Estes Park.

Joy sketching at Estes Park, CO.

Bob and Joy, Wakulla Springs.

Snowy Egret painting, 1971.

Vernon, Mary Monica, Bob and Joy, Anthony, FL.

At the beach with the brownie.

An early Glamour Bird Show.

Does painting, 1971.

Milo and Lucille pencil sketch by Joy

Canton, NC library mural.

Jesse Pedrick Baker and Doris Bustch.

Albin and Emily Polashek at their Winter Park home.

Bob and Joy in last portrait together, circa 40th wedding anniversary.

Ward’s Heron watercolor.

The Rookery watercolor, Lake Eola, Orlando.

Butterfly tapestry, 1971.

Ida, Johnny and Joy in the dining room, West Orange Manor.

Peacock tapestry, 1971.

Joy and Maggie in their room at West Orange Manor.

Judy putting Joy in the van after cousins’ visit.

Joy in red hat, age 93.

FOREWORD

Given the honor to describe Katherine Joy Postle Blackstone’s tenure on this earth in a few words would be an incredible injustice to her.

Throughout history, her ancestors were known as doers versus takers as each generation had peacefully downplayed their God-given roles in society. Certainly no one can deny her destiny was being carved out at the first glimmer of the Possells/Postles surname which alludes to the Bible’s designation of Apostle.

Best stated by Rev. Jeremiah Smith Postle at the second Postles’ Family Reunion on 27 August 1896, when he so eloquently said, Once in a while there springs up a child that makes parents think, ‘here is the light of all Postleville,’ but by the time they are grown, the latent commonality of the tribe buries the few glintings of genius… .

Surprisingly enough, it appears our Creator has a sense of humor by turning the tables, for Joy was even then a seven-month-old newborn.

Thus, incredible is probably the nearest analogy of Joy’s vast talents neatly wrapped inside any mortal of that era.

To say her life was all glitter and happiness would have detracted from her spiritual being—always aiming for a balance of perfection, her ninety-three-year journey is being told in her own words.

Joanne V. (Lewis) Thomas, Genealogist and Author

Postle(s) in America

PREFACE

I met Joy Postle Blackstone in 1971 and purchased my first painting, a tapestry, from the artist. Excited with her art, I steered some of my friends to her studio and introduced her to my family.

Many years passed without any contact until my search for Joy took me to the West Orange Manor nursing facility where I found her bedridden. Being around her, even under those circumstances, always gave me a lift. I decided to volunteer at the Manor.

Initially, I assisted Joy by setting up her paints in the activity room, but after a while she became more interested in writing her memoirs. I soon realized that was a task far too great for her alone. Others had suggested she record her stories on a tape player. I offered to transcribe from the cassette to the printed page.

Joy was ninety-one years old at that time and the recorder, dusty and unused on her nightstand, was beyond her technical grasp. I enjoyed sitting at her bedside, holding the microphone, while she regaled me with her stories.

Once I understood the seriousness of this project, I got a word processor and then a computer and printer. I soon discovered I needed some instruction on writing basics. The Decision Magazine School of Writing in St. Paul, MN and Mark Twain Writers’ Conference in Hannibal, MO launched me into my writing adventure.

Research came primarily from Joy’s personal archives, many which have subsequently been housed at the University of Central Florida. I interviewed her friends and neighbors, visited murals that remained, and since her death made trips to some of the places described in the book. In the spring of 2010, I made my first trip to Idaho, specifically to set foot on the soil of Snake River Canyon and to take the city tour of Boise, particularly Warm Springs Drive.

My qualifications for writing this work can be identified by the roles I played in Joy’s life: Collector, friend, volunteer, companion, driver, and lastly, her biographer.

I loved Joy’s fabulous paintings and came to own six oils, eight watercolors from her early days, and several pencil drawings, including one of Albin Polashek, which I’ve contributed to the Polashek Foundation in Winter Park, Florida.

I witnessed Joy’s charming, informative Glamour Bird Show. It didn’t take long to develop a love for this singularly talented lady whose path I was blessed to cross.

Joy died over twenty years ago, and one might ask, Why did you take so long to get this book published? The simple answer is I wrote for Joy before she died. Since then, I have reflected on the full and daring life this amazing woman lived, and I wanted her life’s story to be read by others for their own enrichment. I trust you will agree the effort has been worth it.

Judy Madsen Johnson

Some names have been changed to ensure privacy.

ACCOMPLISHMENTS OF JOY POSTLE BLACKSTONE

Received her Certificate in Art and Music from the Art Institute of Chicago in 1917, having studied there on scholarship for four years.

Won First Place in three different categories for her paintings at the Idaho State Fair in 1925, which first brought attention to her art.

Her canvas, "The Malad Canyon, circa 1925 was featured in the Boise Art Museum, One Hundred Years of Idaho Art, summer of 1990.

Held membership in the Kappi Pi National Honorary Art Fraternity.

Florida Audubon Society, Letter Writers Forum (Orlando Sentinel), America Artists’ League of Orange County, Pen Women United of America. Served on the Works Progress Administration Artists’ Project during the Great Depression. Helped found the Albin Polasek League of Artists, later named Orlando League of Artists.

Her published books: Fine Feathers, 1941, Glamour Birds of the Americas, 1944, Drawing Animals, 1953 and Drawing Birds, 1963, Pitman Publishing Corporation.

Murals painted in hotels and other commercial businesses, homes, colleges and public buildings across America, and a commissioned work by Disney World.

LOCATIONS OF JOY’S

KNOWN MURALS*

Beaumont Hotel, Beaumont, TX

Silver Slipper, Speakeasy, LA

San Carlos Hotel, Pensacola, FL

Princess Issena Cocktail Lounge, Daytona Beach, FL

Silver Springs Canteen, Ocala, FL

Canton Library, Canton, NC

Linsaroe, home of Mr. & Mrs. Harold Butts, Ormond Beach, FL

Bok Tower Belfry, Lake Wales, FL

St. Cloud Hotel, St. Cloud, FL

Ft. Gatlin Hotel, Orlando, FL

Casa Iberia, Rollins College, Winter Park, FL

First National Bank, Stuart, FL

Foyer, Kissimmee home, FL

Sun State Hospital, Silver Star, Orlando

Community Room, Fashion Square Mall, Orlando, FL

Italian Fisherman Restaurant, Orlando, FL

*It is not known if any of these have survived.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

West Orange Manor, Winter Garden, FL was wonderfully cooperative, assisted in making possible our outings, and compassionately cared for Joy.

Gwyn Marolis helped transcribe my recorded interviews with Joy, and taught me how to use my first computer. Patricia Assimakopoulos was my writing teacher at the Decision Magazine of Creative Writing, then my coach and friend.

Phil Robertson, my computer guru for over twenty years is the Mac guy who’s always a phone call away, overcoming my glitches.

Rick Madsen, my son, a technical writer studiously proofread the first draft and made sure his mom minded all his P’s and Q’s.

The late Dr. Cliff Schimmels, educator and author, was on staff at the Mark Twain Writers’ Conference in Hannibel, MO when we met. He followed up with my progress and became a great encourager.

Joyce Bright, former business associate, friend and confidante of over fifty years, read and critiqued my first draft. The cover painting is from Bill and Joyce Bright’s private collection.

Denise Hall has kept Joy’s art and memory alive, responsible for online entries and the University of Central Florida’s guardianship of Joy’s archives.

Joanne V. Thomas whose book, Postle(s) in America provided many details of Joy’s family tree on her father’s side is my reliable historian.

Eloise Sampley, retired high school and college teacher discovered all the dangling participles, misplaced modifiers, etc. and corrected them.

Marie Wright offered computer time with the finishing touches. Linda Vail assisted with proofreading. Cheri Cowell added spit and polish.

Dr. Glenn Cunningham, emeritus UCF, provided invaluable assistance by helping with the large number of photographs; editing, sizing, and enhancing.

My husband Mitch patiently allowed me the freedom to bring to completion this exciting book. Alongside me, he loved Joy well before our marriage.

INTRODUCTION

With sudden and frequent flashbacks, she relived the past nine months—dark days, restless nights, grief and loneliness. Mary had never felt lonelier, even though Oliver was there holding her hand, soothing her with words of comfort—just as he had with their other babies’ births. Beads of perspiration dotted Mary’s forehead and upper lip. Her throat was parched.

Through the night her pains had been heavy, constant. The directive, Push! Her body responded and now she lay limp. Exhausted. Her night of labor had come to an end.

When Mary Monica Brown Postle gave birth to a baby girl on January 20, 1896, her whole being was caught up in a raging whirlpool of conflicting emotions. She had borne five children before this one, and her previous deliveries had been routine. For Mary, childbirth held no fear. She happily anticipated a home filled with little ones. Early in their courting days, she and Oliver shared a mutual desire to have a large, close-knit family. Both took to parenting as naturally and as lovingly as though it were their only occupation.

The closing years of the nineteenth century were, for the most part, uncomplicated and focused around the family unit. Mothers, no matter what their economic or cultural station, devoted most of their waking hours to childcare and homemaking. A woman rarely had energy left over after fulfilling her duties and responsibilities, but Mary adored her children and lavished attention and creative ideas on them, reading to them, challenging them to learn, and most of all, enjoying them.

Then, diphtheria’s stealth robbed Oliver and Mary’s precious and secure nest with astounding finality. Both deaths had occurred in rapid succession during Mary’s sixth pregnancy. The seared imprint on a young mother’s heart—the fresh loss of two precious children—altered the anticipation of her sixth child.

Even before the tragedy, family members believed Mary’s hands were full with two children spaced so close together and another one on the way—her being so near the change of life.

There were murmurings by her doctor, Perhaps steps should be taken to try to terminate this pregnancy. It’s risky, of course, but not unheard of—there are things one could do.

Mary’s anger flashed at the mere mention. Meddlesome kinfolks were not welcome to cross her threshold.

It seemed a bittersweet fate that Mary would cradle a new life in her arms while mourning her other babies. Everyone, it seemed, was concerned for her state of mind. How many more tears could she shed and still hang on to her sanity?

Until the final push, Mary was still in turmoil, and then suddenly amidst her prayers, the emotional struggle dispelled. Mary bravely set her face to the future and accepted the present with hope. She remembered a special Scripture, memorized many years before. When the happy tears of childbirth subsided, she recited the Old Testament promise, Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning, (Psalm 30:5, KJV).

This beautiful baby girl, Joy! The resurrection of a wounded spirit. A new dawn of healing. A new birth. Blessed Joy. Oh, what JOY! This is Katherine Joy Postle’s story and—her destiny.

Idyll Of The Woods

(Stanzas four and five)

Am I less than the bird or the squirrel

That I cannot live among the branches?

Am I less than the heron because I cannot

Catch the breeze in my wings?

Am I less than the bass or the bream

That I cannot dart among the forests

That grow in the bottom of the lake?

Am I less than the pines or the reeds

That I may not be an instrument

For the wind to play upon?

Or am I one with them because I know

Fear and joy and love and death?

Or am I more than these because I dream

And spin idle thoughts into words?

Joy Postle Blackstone

CHAPTER 1

Reflections

One life among so many doesn’t seem much—just a puff of smoke—but every life has inestimable value. Mine has been full and exciting. I’ve lived life to the hilt with lots of spunk to spare.

Perhaps some skeletons hang in my closet, but who doesn’t have a few? You’re bound to see some history made or know someone who has if you live long enough. Reckon my own family owned some thrilling adventures and close calls.

Lying here in this hospital bed with a triple hip fracture, I’ve had plenty of time to think. Mostly, I’ve been organizing in my mind all the projects I still have ahead of me. With my ambition, I hope I live to be a hundred, and even then I’ll still have more work to do. For now, I’d like to start with that wall over yonder in the courtyard. It needs a mural—images of Florida’s exotic waterfowl—so these residents, of which I’m temporarily one, won’t feel so penned in. It certainly would liven things up hereabouts.

It keeps me busy day and night planning just how and where to begin. Some nights I’m so consumed with creative ideas I can’t sleep. When I was admitted to the hospital, they operated, putting a pin in my hip. I expect I’ll have to learn to walk again. But I will walk and dance again, never fear about that.

My sense of humor has gotten me through many experiences that pressed me into corners and pushed me down. I’ve even outsmarted death on a few of those occasions, but those are stories for later.

Meanwhile, I’ve wasted enough time. I’m itching to write my biography. That is, if my Olivetti Portable Typewriter can be found. People have always warmed to my stories.

I’m over ninety years of age, and all of my family has now passed. I have no one to survive me, except those who’ve adopted me by holding on to my cherished memories. You will, won’t you?

If you do, you’ll be rewarded with secrets never told before…

Grandfather Brown, my mother’s father, was born in 1800 in eastern Tennessee. A learned man without benefit of a college education, he devoured books digesting much about astronomy and medicine. It earned him the same respect shown a physician. Often, neighbors called for him before going after the town’s doctor. Several years his junior, Grandmother Brown spoke with a heavy Scottish burr. Her parents migrated from Scotland to America during religious persecution by the English. They sought freedom to worship as they pleased.

The Browns owned a large plantation and held title to many slaves. Teaching them to read the Bible, Grandmother actually broke the law, risking imprisonment. Those in her household were amazed at the sacrifices she was willing to make to improve the lives of their slaves.

The issue of slavery was roiling with tension. Before the first shot of the Civil War was fired, my grandparents packed several heavy wagons with household goods, farm materials, and their slaves. Passing through the rugged terrain of Kentucky, fording creeks, and hauling their load over mountains, they arrived in Illinois where their slaves were free men and women. Given the choice to strike out on their own or stay, they stuck by the Brown family. Their loyalty had been forged through trust and mutual respect.

My grandparents bought land and settled in the small town of Coulterville. The youngest of three daughters and three sons, Mother was born in Sparta, Illinois. She was named Mary Monica. Grandmother often told her that the date of her birth, April 18, 1854, was the most beautiful spring day she had ever seen. Her closest sister, Katie, was a toddler.

At age four, Mary Monica contracted encephalitis. It was unknown that this deadly disease was carried by a mosquito. Though her parents were gravely concerned for several days and nights, she recovered completely. So many children in that era died from a multitude of diseases.

The original Isaac Brown was a first cousin to Andrew Jackson who became the seventh President of the United States. Grandfather named one of his sons Isaac for this uncle. Grandfather used to complain that Andy Jackson was the only relative of whom he was ashamed because Andy swore so much.

There’s an old story about an outlaw who came to Memphis with two pistols and stood brazenly on the courthouse steps. Acting like an out-of-control drunk, he dared one and all to come and take him. As he yelled and stirred things up, people scampered for cover. When Governor Andy Jackson heard about the ruckus, he grabbed his gun, hurried out of the courthouse, and strode directly up to the astonished outlaw. They said Andy’s wild red hair stood on end, blazing in the sunshine.

He hollered, Hand ’em over! The crook wilted under Andy’s hard gaze. He lost no time doing as he was ordered.

Two topics old men argued over in the evenings were predestination and politics. Both sides were rabid. Preachers denounced those who didn’t believe, and unbelievers ranted about the narrow-minded religious bigots. Grandfather Brown was a pious man. He spoke grace before each meal and read the Bible with his family every night.

Women had less time for social gatherings, but eagerly exchanged jars and recipes after canning, and quilted together whenever the occasion was afforded them.

Mother’s oldest brother, my Uncle Isaac, inherited his gifts. A doctor by profession, Uncle Isaac also studied astronomy. When the war broke out, he enlisted to serve with the Union Army. Uncle Isaac was the only doctor on the battlefield during fierce fighting in northern Illinois. Heavy losses were inflicted on the Union Army, and as Isaac stayed behind to help the wounded, the Confederates captured and imprisoned him. Following several weeks in the stockade, the prisoners were forced to march to notorious Libby Prison* in Virginia.

The weather turned intolerably cold with high winds and freezing temperatures. Prisoners were dying from injuries and infection, but most expired from malnutrition and exposure. After finishing rounds one night, Isaac plotted his escape. He slipped away when the guard was distracted. For weeks, he hid during the day and walked by night, all the way from Virginia to Illinois. I expect his knowledge of the stars helped him navigate. Footsore, cold, and weary, he dragged himself home.

Mother was about eleven years old when it happened. His whereabouts had been unknown for months. Then, one bone-chilling night as they were gathered about the stove, they heard Isaac’s voice out in the yard.

He hollered, Ahoy there in the house. This is Isaac. I need help!

They couldn’t believe their ears. Everybody piled out of the house and ran to hug him.

Don’t come near me, he shouted. Bring me a big wooden tub and fill it with hot water. Put out that lye soap cause I’ve got to wash myself and get rid of these pests. Burn the rags I’m wearing. They did as they were told. Some gathered wood. Others carried water.

His prisoner’s garb crawled with lice and other dubious critters. He later told about the soldiers’ rations of wormy hard tack. After they picked the worms out, there was very little left to eat. Or maybe they just tired of the project, held their noses, and downed it anyway—worms and all. He was as thin as a rail. After a few days rest, a hero’s welcome party, and packing down some hearty meals, Isaac reported back to his post for duty.

Adventure ran in the family’s blood, and Grandfather, a rugged pioneer type, had a taste for it. Several years after the close of the Civil War, the Browns headed north into unsettled territory. Boarding a paddle wheeler, they steamed up the Mississippi River to Wisconsin. When they reached La Crosse, they left the boat with all their earthly goods.

Sudden changes were about to erupt. Earlier warnings were, The Indians in Wisconsin are friendly, but don’t go into Minnesota. Everyone knew Indian raids there were rampant.

So, the Brown family saddled their horses and rode to West Salem. Having covered a good distance, they looked behind and saw a black plume of smoke rising high above the trees. When they questioned the locals later, the matter-of-fact answer was, Oh yes, they had a massacre there the other day. My grandparents were astonished and wondered about their future. The history books in New Ulm, Minnesota’s museum has a record of the massacre the Brown family narrowly missed.*

It was common for the men folk to gather at the trading post and exchange hair-raising tales, often with great embellishment. Though mostly true, it seemed each pioneer wanted his version of the story to top the others.

Grandmother Brown became deathly afraid of Indians. Who could blame her? She wanted to keep her scalp.

Soon after they were settled in their new cabin, Grandmother stood on a table to reach something on the top shelf of her cupboard. She heard someone quietly enter the room. As she turned, nearly upsetting herself, she beheld an Indian in full tribal dress. Only the war paint was lacking, but she took no note of that. First stiffening, then shaking like a wet dog, she let out a bloodcurdling scream.

It had not been the Indian’s intention to cause such a fright. He stepped back, showed her his empty palms, and said, No, no—me good Injun. I want show you my fancy clothes.

It took a bit more convincing before Grandmother climbed off that table. He had come to get acquainted with his new neighbors.

The Browns became friends with this Indian of the Winnebago Tribe and often gave him assistance. Winnebagos did not share the bloodthirsty inclinations of the Iroquois further west. The lot of these Indians was hard. The same compassion shown earlier to their slaves was bestowed by the Browns on all good folk who passed their way.

In 1871, when mother was seventeen she traveled with her parents by train from Wisconsin to Chicago. On their return they passed through the fringes of Chicago where clouds of smoke blotted out the horizon. The porter yelled to the passengers as he passed through their car, Chicago’s burning! Chicago’s burning! Fanned by strong winds, the flames spread quickly. The Browns were well out of Chicago before they knew the details of this calamitous fire.

Famous for its destruction, the blaze was told to have been caused when Mrs. O’Leary’s cow kicked over a lantern in her barn. The fire destroyed everything in a three and one-third—square mile area, killing 300 and leaving 90,000 without homes.

I learned little about the Postles, other than my father had a large family. As I looked through old photographs, I noticed the people looked stern, irritated, or scared. Grandfather Franklin Postle wore a long beard, looking very much a prim gentleman. He owned 105 acres of farmland which included the cemetery where many Postles have been buried.* My father’s mother, Grandmother Catherine Postle, birthed eleven babies, so I was told, but two died very young. She was a petite little creature. What a wonderment. No modern hospital or antiseptic delivery room, just the marriage bed and a midwife.

In the family portrait, they stood in a line like stair steps, all taller than Grandmother Postle. It was said of Grandmother Postle, [she did] the work of her life without being seen or noticed by the world—always busy with her modest affairs, and went through the weary routine of her life without even a temptation. Family worship was an important part of each day. Before I was born, my grandparents went to their graves just twenty three days apart.*

Born in Rome, Ohio, Father grew up on the family farm near Columbus where my older brother, Vernon, spent summers before I was born. As a young man, Father and my Uncle Vernon, for whom my brother was named, traveled several hundred miles from their farm to Chicago. Their team of horses pulled a wagonload of premium produce after each harvest. They camped on the far bank of the Illinois River. Chicago was a primitive country town where their vegetables fetched the top price. In the early morning they handily sold their load at the farmers’ market, and traversed hills and streams back to Ohio to do