5 Inch Dream Catcher

The Estate of John Rupert :: Executors Bond

The will of John Rupert, dated October 17, 1828 was admitted to probate in Columbiana County, Ohio in August of 1831. The Executors Bond was signed on August 22, 1831.





Executors Bond. Estate of John Rupart. Packet 1439. Family History Library microfilm 2032592.

The Executors Bond was a preprinted form. Information that was handwritten into the form is shown below in bold-face type.

Know all men by these presents, that Conrod Yerion, David Ehrhart, Samuel Meek & Benj Stackhouse of the County of Columbiana, Ohio, are held and firmly bound unto the State of Ohi in the sum of Two Hundred Dollars, to which payment well and truly to be made unto the said State of Ohio, we bind ourselves, our heirs, executors and administrators and every of them jointly and severally firmly by these presents,



Signed and sealed this 22d day of August eighteen hundred and thirty one



THE CONDITIONS OF THIS OBLIGATION IS SUCH, that if the above named Conrod Yarion & David Erhart, Executors of the will Administrator of all and singular the goods, chattels, rights, credits, monies and effects of John Ruppart late of said County, deceased, shall faithfully perform the duties required of them as such Administrator Executors by law, and shall administer agreeably to the statutes of Ohio in such cases made and provided, then this obligation to be void and of none effect, otherwise to remain in full force and virtue in law.



Conrod Yarion David Ehrhart Benjamin Stackhouse Saml Meek

Wiley Cat

Wiley Cat and Tuffee Dog keeping watch on the garden.

Icy Canopy

Ice-encrusted trees bend over and touch the ground, unable to bear the weight of ice that has accumulated from the freezing spray of Lake Superior. Taken at Tettegouche State Park near Silver Bay, MN.

The Gib Chute at speed?

"The best performances in the mountains arise from a combination of preparation, fitness, conditions and some luck. Watching the antics on Mt. Rainier the past few weeks made this perfectly clear. The players were certainly fit. The route was well known to Andy and Jason while Eric Carter and Nick Elson had the advantage of the cattle trail being in. The weather cooperated for both parties and everyone had the chops to ski the line. The result was two brilliant performances and standard-setting times. Daunting, to be sure."



More of Brian's write up here:

http://getstrongergolonger.squarespace.com/journal//6/13/rainier-speed-my-way.html

The ONE quiver ski?

Does it exist? Orisit justthat your available terrain and skiingis limited?



If it does exist what is the single ski ?



Or is it simply the Indian and not the arrow?







I generally owned several pairs of alpine skis when I worked at a ski area. But also generally only skied one pair the majority of the time.Rock skis maybe early season. Beaters they you didn't mind trashing and a decent pair of skis for the rest of the time. When I got a chance to do some heli skiing it didn't take long to figure out most of the guides were on shorterEuro mountaineering skis. Easier to ski in the always changing conditions. But theywere hard to obtain in the early '80s here in the US. That was my introduction into a 2nd pair of skis or the start of a quiver. I thought it more the "right tool" for the job.

I started using the short mountaineering skis for early morning bomb runs and avi control work. They made the work a lot easier. By mid morning I would usually change back to my long boards and enjoy the groomers.

Today on any given day in the winter or springI might ski groomed, face shot powder off piste, 10K vertical gain by foot for a 11K dropor a steep corn gully I have to hike into and maybe hike out of as well when I amdone.

To be honest I ski much more terrain and different snow conditions now than I did guiding and skiing12 months of the year in the distant past. Strange as that might sound.

Different skis for every occasion seems like a good thing :)I have one or two that are good for most things. But nothing I would like to be on every where I am willing to ski now.

But if you have that magical ski you take every where I would love to hear about it!!

Danny Boy

When we moved to the US in the early '90s, I promptly started junior high school in a small New England town. The first thing I remember about walking into the classroom, was the shock of green cardboard shamrocks strung up all over the walls and a large banner declaring "Erin Go Bragh." (That's not how you spell it, a friend from Cork would later wrinkle her nose. But never mind.) Our teacher was fiercely Irish, as were at least half of the students. Second or third generation mainly, and, truth be told, most of them ethnically mixed. But Irish identities had a way of dominating in those days - when the economic boom had not yet hit the Emerald Isle, when South Boston still had romantic notoriety, and when House of Pain's Jump Around played several times a day on MTV.Most chose to express this identity through visual iconology: shamrocks, leprechauns, bright kelly green, friendship rings, and abundant use of faux-celtic fonts. But soon fate brought the opportunity to also express it musically.



In those days, our school had a rather famousa cappellachoir, led by our passionate and popular music teacher, Mr. McKenna. It wasn't just anyone who could join this elite group. There were limited spots. The annual tryouts involved weeks of preparation from hopefuls and bitter tears from those who did not make it. But those of us who made it... my goodness, we felt special. In the mornings, we went to choir practice instead of home room.We wore beautiful uniforms.We stood side by side, in a tight formation on metal risers. Labeled a strong Soprano, I still remember my place: 3rd row, 5th from the right. Our choir recorded albums. Our choir preformed in competitions and won. Once a year we even travelled to compete in the national finals, inevitably returning with medals.



We were one of the best, Mr. McKenna would tell us, again and again, beaming at our fresh-scrubbed teenage faces, our teary eyes and our chapped lips from hours of singing. And we were one of the best because we worked at it. Because we rehearsed until each piece was perfect. And if it wasn't perfect (his face would turn serious now, almost stormy), we did not perform it. Not at a local Christmas concert, and certainly not at competition. Was that understood by each and every one of us? It was.



The national finals happened in May. Competing choirs would select their performance pieces in September, then spend the entire school year rehearsing them. The year I entered the 8th grade, Mr. McKenna gathered us to announce the competition selection with an air of festivity: For our main piece, we would be singing Danny Boy. As he distributed the sheet music, it was clear that the piece was very, very dear to him.



With tears in his eyes, Mr. McKenna talked about Ireland. How beautiful it was and how special his visit there with his wife and children had been - a place where his great grandfather had once lived and farmed.Later, as we struggled with the song, he talked about visualising the glens and imagining Danny Boy's plight. We tried our best, although most of us did not know what glens were exactly.



It was a beautiful, but complicated piece. Or maybe the arrangement Mr. McKenna had chosen was complicated, his judgment clouded by a reverence for the song's Irishness. Overly nuanced harmonies, notes held too long for our young lungs, sharp transitions from low notes to high. We were a good choir, but we were amateurs. We were a motivated bunch of kids, but we only had so much energy to give, after our classes and homework and turbulent teenage love-lives.



In fairness, we were doing fine with Danny Boy. We were getting there. But for Mr. McKenna's liking, we were not getting there fast enough. So he panicked, and he pushed us. With passionate pep talks and hours of extra rehearsals, he pushed and he pushed. He pushed until the melody of Danny Boy began to sound like nails against a chalkboard to our ears. He pushed until the lyrics lost all meaning and each repetition felt like a seizure-induced loop. He pushed until, instead of inspiring a breakthrough, Mr. McKenna broke our spirits.



Having come down with the flu, I did not join the choir in that year's finals. I did not witness the mass hysteria and weeping after, for the first time in its 12 year history, our choir failed to earn a medal at the competition. I only saw my peers' dejected faces when they returned home empty handed. I only saw the careless wrinkles in their uniforms at our next local performance and the way they slouched on the risers, with Mr. McKenna not bothering to chide us for either transgression.



We never talked about it. But deep down we all connected our choir's fall from grace with this attempt at a perfect rendition of Danny Boy. The piece was simply too personal, too precious for Mr. McKenna; he gave in to the rawness of his emotions and lost perspective. The following year, when I was already in high school, we heard that Mr. McKenna stepped down as music teacher and moved away. We were told he had health problems, and there were whispers of a nervous breakdown. It was not until years later that we learned he divorced his wife of 30 years and married one of his former students (by then a high school graduate, aged 19), which prompted parents to call for his resignation.



I have not thought about any of this in years. But I think about it now, in the mornings, as I lock up my bike in the town center of Limavady, Northern Ireland. There is a contemporary sculpture next to the cafe where I like to work. It is vaguely glen-shaped, in an abstract sort of way, and engraved with the lyrics to Danny Boy. Across the street is the colourful Corner Bar, its walls painted with murals containing more references to the song. And a helpful inscription explains the connection: "It was in Limavady that the famous melody 'Danny Boy' was noted down by Jane Ross from a tune played by a blind street fiddler named Jimmy McCurry." The original name of the melody was actually Londonderry Air, written byEnglishman Frederic Weatherly. But never mind. It's been 20 years since I sang Danny Boy and I still remember the lyrics.