Some one had contacted me requesting info sorry computer has been down please contact me again Marilyn

In a message dated 2/12/02 11:05:14 AM Pacific Standard Time, ananah@attbi.com writes: > http://www.snopes.com/inboxer/scams/irsaudit.htm > > So we are both right, its a warning about a hoax! Your told never to give out your address or personally information to anyone unless you verify, verify what it is. That should be on the net or in the mail. Its common sense.

Enough about the hoax OK!

I have answers about 200, the rest of you I will finish up over the weekend. I didnt realize so many would ask, I only lost one email address that is for a lookup for a John Baptiste H Rreybaud. Your email address started with a D Please contact me again. Dee

I can understand there reason by saying they thought it was important to send out. I don't believe either of us were wrong. Those messages always come with "I wouldnt send this but its from a friend or friends friend." To many hoaxes are being passed on. I see it on lists each week. I simply said that was another hoax which I still believe. Did a friend of a friend tell you it was issued by the goverment too?

Wonderful!!!! Thank you for sharing this beautifully crafted passage. Barbara in Florida ----- Original Message ----- From: <Maurs97@aol.com> To: <OHLORAIN-L@rootsweb.com> Sent: Tuesday, February 12, 2002 5:39 AM Subject: [OHLORAIN] Fwd: Sweet Lorain > thought the list might enjoy reading this; it was forwarded by a cousin from > out of town... > > > > Sweet Lorain > > And was Jerusalem builded here/Among these dark Satanic mills? Michael Dirda. > Senior editor at the Washington Post > > By MICHAEL DIRDA <<A HREF="http://www.lorain.lib.oh.us/localauthors/dirda.html">http://www.lorain .lib.oh.us/localauthors/dirda.html</A>> > > Even now, when I haven't lived in Lorain, Ohio, for more than 30 years, I > still think of it not only as home but also as a strangely magical place. > Isn't there, after all, a kind of Iron Age romance to deteriorating > industrial towns? Eyes closed, I see the puffing smokestacks of National > Tube, the slag heaps guarding Black River, those ponderous lake freighters > cautiously docking near the jackknife bridge, and of course, Lake View Park, > with its antiaircraft guns, rose garden, and giant Easter basket, all on the > eroding shores of the blue and polluted Erie. Even now, I can feel the bumpy > B&O railroad tracks crossing Oberlin Avenue, touch the soft accumulation of > grit on cars parked along Pearl Avenue, taste the cherry vanilla at the > long-gone Home Dairy ice cream company. So many places there linger in the > memory - St. Stanislaus Church, where Polish fishermen attended 5 a.m. Mass, > the Czech Grill, the Abruzzi Club, the Slovak Hall, Pulaski Park. Who can > doubt that I grew up in what sociologists would quickly label "a classic > midwestern Rust Belt city"? > > Sweet Lorain, as poet Bruce Weigl <<A HREF="http://www.lorain.lib.oh.us/localauthors/bruce_weigl.html"> > http://www.lorain.lib.oh.us/localauthors/bruce_weigl.html</A>> called it in his > recent book of poems. Nobel Prize winner Toni Morrison <<A HREF="http://www.lorain.lib.oh.us/localauthors/tonimorrison.html"> > http://www.lorain.lib.oh.us/localauthors/tonimorrison.html</A>> was born and > educated there, and so was Gen. Johnnie Wilson, the highest-ranking > African-American in the U.S. military until his retirement. Comedian Don > Novello, a.k.a. Father Guido Sarducci, grew up there. My high school was > named after favorite son Adm. Ernest J. King, commander of the fleet during > World War II. It was rumored that Admiral King High School boasted - le mot > juste - the highest rate of juvenile delinquency in the state. Might well > have been true, since many of my classmates belonged to "clubs" such as > Bachelors, Dukes, Barons, Cavaliers, Southerners (denoting South Lorain), > Islets, Stylers (for guys with a particular interest in souped-up cars), and > Bishops (black kids only). There were girl gangs, too - Emeralds, Rainbows, > Junior Gems. And at least a third of AKHS was African-American or Hispanic: > Following the Second World War, U.S. Steel had recruited 500 Puerto Ricans to > come work at National Tube. Need I say that we fielded powerhouse football > and basketball teams? Go Admirals! "Industrial Empire in Ohio's Vacationland" > - so proclaimed a sign as one entered the Lorain city limits. It's not there > any more. I suppose the local solons realized how ludicrous it must have > seemed after Thew Shovel moved away and American Shipbuilding shut down and > Japan's Kobe Steel bought National Tube, reducing a work force of 13,000 to > 2,000, and Lake Erie was declared unsafe for bathing, and its perch and white > bass dangerous to eat. But, amazingly, Lorain seems to have survived. As > Ohio's "International City," there's still a festival each year, with an > international princess and a fair where one can eat kielbasa and piroghi and > souvlaki and tacos and cannoli. One year booths sold T-shirts emblazoned with > your choice of ethnic heritage: "I'm Polish and Proud," "I'm Italian and > Proud," I'm Mexican and Proud." Little wonder that I was at least 12 before > it dawned on me that not everyone in the world was Catholic. > > Almost everybody's father was a laborer, putting in long, sweaty hours on the > line at the Ford Assembly Plant or down at the mill, as National Tube was > called. Many men worked turns, seven to three one week, three to 11 the next, > 11 to seven following that - and most leaped at the chance to earn time and a > half for an extra four or eight hours. During a couple of summers I suffered > through a grinding routine like this, one year as a bricklayer's helper > relining vessels and furnaces, another as a laborer in the rolling mill. > Everyone knows that steel mills are volcanically hot and perilous, but you > have no idea how deafening they are when behemoth machinery is hammering > gigantic ingots into long, round pipes. And the air! Sometimes I could see > graphite particles gently floating around me, and would wade through half an > inch of fine gray dust on a floor that had been swept clean eight hours > before. At other times, I used to work in tunnels underground, in a > crepuscular half-light, shoveling up loose slabs of ore - the outside scale > that had fallen from cooling ingots - and then upend my loaded wheelbarrow > into buckets the size of conversion vans, which would be hauled away by > distant, overhead cranes. Laved with sweat trapped inside green asbestos > clothing, often wearing a respirator to protect my lungs, I would > occasionally stumble across a retarded coworker sitting in the dark behind a > mound of slag, talking excitedly to imaginary companions. For one memorable > week, in this realm of Moloch, I even debated election and damnation with a > young born-again fundamentalist who had dreams of going to Bible college. > > To me, it was all overpowering, awesome, even sublime - but I knew I wouldn't > be spending my life there, as my father had and his father before him. Yet > sometimes, at two or three in the morning, I'd find myself high up in > 4-seamless or one of the other sections of the plant, and I'd look out at the > stacks with their flaming gases, smell the rotten-egg odor of the pickling > vats, and survey the Piranesi-like ramparts and ladders and rusting > buildings. One felt like Satan surveying the immeasurable expanse of hell. > What better place, I thought, to argue about free will and the afterlife? For > religion was important in Lorain, which had once been called Ohio's "city of > churches." In the summer there were church picnics, with Tilt-a-whirls, > raffles, and seared pigs or sheep slowly roasting on revolving spits. One day > a year the priest would come to bless your house, accept a cup of coffee, and > taste your nut roll. Sad-eyed ladies of the Altar Society would clean and > decorate for holy days. Serious children, in ill-fitting suits and pretty, > ruffled white dresses, would march in processions to receive their first holy > communion, or the Knights of Columbus would parade in uniform and salute with > uplifted swords. Someone would always faint during midnight Mass, finally > overcome by the incense. Naturally, there were fish fries on Friday at the K > of C hall. On Ash Wednesday half the townspeople sported gray smudges on > their foreheads. At Christmas families would gather at the union headquarters > - the AFL-CIO - and hear rousing speeches, especially if a strike threatened, > then sing carols and line up to receive a special gift from Santa. In the > evenings one might go shopping downtown, already starting to decay the mid > 1960s, and buy some Faroh's chocolates or stop at the Ohio, Tivoli, or Palace > for a movie. Back in the '20s a tornado had touched down one Saturday > afternoon killing 15 moviegoers at the State, as the Palace was then called. > Those who survived would talk about it all their lives. Out at the first big > shopping center, called O'Neill's after its department store, year after year > one could chat with a gigantic talking Christmas tree. Afterward, a father > might drive his wife and sleepy children around the town so that they could > ooh and ah at all the lights and decorations. At holidays mothers would cook > all morning and take stuffed cabbage or lechvar cookies on afternoon social > calls that would sometimes last into the evening. Uncles would drink shots > and beers, grow jovial, then start dealing poker around a kitchen table. > Little kids would play tag or hide-and-seek, teenagers might flirt, and I, a > bookish little boy, would plop down in a corner and read about Tarzan while > munching on a ham sandwich with sweet pickles, as happy as I will ever be. > Sometimes my Uncle Henry would take out his battered concertina and we would > all dance or pretend to dance in his kitchen. At other enchanted times, an > older cousin might show off his new bow or .22 rifle, and even allow a > four-eyed pipsqueak to sight down its smooth, black barrel. To wander around > Lorain was always an adventure. A kid could climb on his bike and cover the > entire town in a single summer afternoon. You might start by pedaling up to > the shanty in Central Park where you could sign out basketballs, > checkerboards, and frames for weaving potholders or lanyards. Then you might > race up to Hawthorne Junior High, where I once received not one but two black > eyes in a street fight with a kid named Andy. Then over to Broadway, past the > Music Center, where we all took accordion lessons, and up toward Rusine's > cigar store, where you could buy racy paperbacks wrapped in cellophane, and > on to Cane's Surplus, where a boy might admire the folding slingshots and > stilettos. By crossing the jackknife bridge to the East Side you could swing > by the shipyards and then take the long vertiginous span of the > 21st Street bridge and peer down at the inky water of the river or across to > the mountains of slag and coke. Afterward you might turn up > 28th Street, lined with ethnic bars, tailor and shoe-repair shops, and > mom-and-pop eateries. If you went far enough, traveling under the rail > overpass, you'd ride into South Lorain, up to the aging YMCA, a monumental > red-brick building. From near there you could sometimes glimpse elephantine > Euclid trucks lumbering around inside the mill, but before long you'd > probably set out for Pearl Avenue to stop at Clarice's Values, the apotheosis > of all possible junk shops, from which Clarice herself would sell you, for a > mere 50 cents, all the books you could carry away. Then past St. Vitus > Church, where we played on the steps before Saturday catechism class, on to > dilapidated Oakwood shopping center, and then, probably, a turn down one of > the graveled side roads. > > On one lived my Uncle Steve and Aunt Anna, on another Uncle Henry and Aunt > Alice. This latter house gloried in a paradise of rusting steel - old cars, > broken engines, metal barrels, bundles of wire - and a chicken shed and a > park-sized swing set. In the summers I would visit my slightly older cousin > Henry, and we would trudge up to the railroad tracks a quarter mile away and > bring back, in wooden wheelbarrows, hunks of coal, scraps of lumber, or even > lengths of railroad tie for my uncle's wood-burning furnace. In exchange, he > would disburse a nickel pack of BBs for each load - at least until this > foolish soul plinked out the street light in front of the house. It was a > particularly important light because it helped illuminate the grassy corner > lot where half the neighborhood would assemble for softball games on soft > summer nights. > > Does all this sound idyllic? Well, it should. Bliss was it in Lorain to be > alive, but to be young was very heaven. Even adolescence was intermittently > endurable. Playing cards on Friday evenings in Lethargy Hall, as we called my > friend Ray's basement; cruising up and down Broadway in our friend Tom's 1964 > GTO, L'il Blue Tiger; necking ecstatically in Lake View Park with a Saturday > night date - how could anyone better spend the confused and angst-ridden > years of high school? All around my friends and me the great world hummed, > but Lorain remained its own place, homey and human-scaled, living for > football games at George Daniel Field and carnivals at shopping centers and > parades on the Fourth of July and long, slow beers, sipped by tired > steelworkers, slouching in Adirondack chairs in oak-tree shaded back yards. > > Certainly, I mythologize. Perhaps more than a bit. Childhood can be a golden > age no matter where it is spent. And yet, Toni Morrison regularly goes back > to Lorain and in interviews expresses a similar affection for the place. > Fifteen or more years ago, Gloria Emerson contributed an article about the > city to Vanity Fair and later told me how much she envied anyone who could > grow up in such a sturdy, honest world. And, of course, I return there still, > to see my widowed mother and my sisters. My own children spend part of their > summers in Lorain with their cousins, wonderful days of baseball and > hide-and-seek and swimming, and at the end of every visit they always say to > me, "Dad, why can't we live in Lorain? Why do we have to go back to stupid, > dull Washington?" I never quite know what to tell them. Doubtless their > parents would go crazy after a couple of weeks, and obviously I have a job > and their mother has a job and clearly there are a dozen really good reasons > not to be in Lorain. But even now I sometimes wonder. Could I go back home, > back to this ardently beloved, industrial Eden? Probably not. But like other > exiles from paradise, I can murmur "Et in Arcadia ego " - I too have lived in > Arcadia. > > Reprinted courtesy of Preservation - the magazine of the national trust for > historic preservation, copyright 2000. > > The author Michael Dirda is a 1966 graduate of Admiral King High School. He > graduated with highest honors in English in 1970 from Oberlin College; was a > Fullbright Scholar in France from 1970 to 1971; went to graduate school from > 1971 to 1975 at Cornell University, specializing in comparative literature, > and received a master's degree in 1975, and a doctorate in 1977. Dirda is a > writer and senior editor at the Washington Post Book World, where he joined > the staff in 1978. He and his wife, Marion Peck Dirda, originally of > Youngstown, have three sons, Christopher, Michael,and Nathaniel. His mother, > Christine Dirda, lives in Lorain. Dirda received the 1993 Pulitzer Prize for > criticism. > > > > > > ==== OHLORAIN Mailing List ==== > Visit the Lorain County Genealogy page > http://www.centurytel.net/lorgen > >

oops that was for goodenuf sorry.

Hello I couldnt find anything on my disks. but will do some more checking. I have the prisons jotted down for acouple states. I went through census and after searching I marked down I searched through them and noted hospitals or prisons in sections. Dee

Here is a site regarding the warning: http://www.snopes.com/inboxer/scams/irsaudit.htm As for this being the place or not for these sorts of warnings, that's up to the list administrator to decide (Sue, right?). But I've always found the folks on this list to be helpful and friendly, and that sometimes extends to areas not strictly genealogy related. I think a little lee-way has been allowed at times, within reason. I agree it is a good idea to check out such warnings ourselves, so maybe a good approach would be to send the URL of a site about a warning, rather than the warning itself. Then those concerned would have the option to look for themselves. Anna Hanson VictorJBlomberg@aol.com wrote: > I can understand there reason by saying they thought it was important to send > out. > > I don't believe either of us were wrong. > > Those messages always come with "I wouldnt send this but its from a friend or > friends friend." To many hoaxes are being passed on. I see it on lists each > week. > > I simply said that was another hoax which I still believe. > Did a friend of a friend tell you it was issued by the goverment too?

In a message dated 2/12/2002 7:31:52 AM Eastern Standard Time, nmmeyers@centurytel.net writes: > As for me, I do not trust the IRS. I do love that line. I don't guess many of us do! Good for you. Ruth Ann

Dear Fellow Subscribers, IMHO, the decision to forewarn electronic list subscribers about being duped by an IRS message was not done without a lot of thought and deliberation. Judy is a well respected electronic list web master of the highest order and served as the web master for this LC list when it first began. In fact, she is active and holds a responsible decision at the state level. Judy has a genuine concern for some of us who are not up to date on all the latest electronic techniques. Especially us retirees. I am sure that there are some who might think that the IRS is taking an easier and quicker route using the latest technology. Please take this warning in the manner in which it was intended. As for me, I do not trust the IRS. Have lived thru three audits in the past 25 years. Know how time consuming it can be. The IRS is looking for ways to cut their man hours too & so some scam "artists" would see this possibly as being a way to make a quick ID or money theft. BTW, one personal audit took over 20 hours. It was so complicated due to a new marriage and new business. Thank goodness our records were very detailed. Our parents or grandparents never dreamed of having to be concerned about this. As a great-grandparent myself, I now have learned that these matters are not uncommon. -- Nancy M. Meyers, Lorain OH Genealogy Lookup Volunteer http://www.centurytel.net/lorgen A proud RootsWeb Supporter Random Acts of Genealogical Kindness Volunteer http://www.raogk.org Life Member of Ohio Genealogical Society http://www.ogs.org/

thought the list might enjoy reading this; it was forwarded by a cousin from out of town... Sweet Lorain And was Jerusalem builded here/Among these dark Satanic mills? Michael Dirda. Senior editor at the Washington Post By MICHAEL DIRDA <<A HREF="http://www.lorain.lib.oh.us/localauthors/dirda.html">http://www.lorain.lib.oh.us/localauthors/dirda.html</A>> Even now, when I haven't lived in Lorain, Ohio, for more than 30 years, I still think of it not only as home but also as a strangely magical place. Isn't there, after all, a kind of Iron Age romance to deteriorating industrial towns? Eyes closed, I see the puffing smokestacks of National Tube, the slag heaps guarding Black River, those ponderous lake freighters cautiously docking near the jackknife bridge, and of course, Lake View Park, with its antiaircraft guns, rose garden, and giant Easter basket, all on the eroding shores of the blue and polluted Erie. Even now, I can feel the bumpy B&O railroad tracks crossing Oberlin Avenue, touch the soft accumulation of grit on cars parked along Pearl Avenue, taste the cherry vanilla at the long-gone Home Dairy ice cream company. So many places there linger in the memory - St. Stanislaus Church, where Polish fishermen attended 5 a.m. Mass, the Czech Grill, the Abruzzi Club, the Slovak Hall, Pulaski Park. Who can doubt that I grew up in what sociologists would quickly label "a classic midwestern Rust Belt city"? Sweet Lorain, as poet Bruce Weigl <<A HREF="http://www.lorain.lib.oh.us/localauthors/bruce_weigl.html"> http://www.lorain.lib.oh.us/localauthors/bruce_weigl.html</A>> called it in his recent book of poems. Nobel Prize winner Toni Morrison <<A HREF="http://www.lorain.lib.oh.us/localauthors/tonimorrison.html"> http://www.lorain.lib.oh.us/localauthors/tonimorrison.html</A>> was born and educated there, and so was Gen. Johnnie Wilson, the highest-ranking African-American in the U.S. military until his retirement. Comedian Don Novello, a.k.a. Father Guido Sarducci, grew up there. My high school was named after favorite son Adm. Ernest J. King, commander of the fleet during World War II. It was rumored that Admiral King High School boasted - le mot juste - the highest rate of juvenile delinquency in the state. Might well have been true, since many of my classmates belonged to "clubs" such as Bachelors, Dukes, Barons, Cavaliers, Southerners (denoting South Lorain), Islets, Stylers (for guys with a particular interest in souped-up cars), and Bishops (black kids only). There were girl gangs, too - Emeralds, Rainbows, Junior Gems. And at least a third of AKHS was African-American or Hispanic: Following the Second World War, U.S. Steel had recruited 500 Puerto Ricans to come work at National Tube. Need I say that we fielded powerhouse football and basketball teams? Go Admirals! "Industrial Empire in Ohio's Vacationland" - so proclaimed a sign as one entered the Lorain city limits. It's not there any more. I suppose the local solons realized how ludicrous it must have seemed after Thew Shovel moved away and American Shipbuilding shut down and Japan's Kobe Steel bought National Tube, reducing a work force of 13,000 to 2,000, and Lake Erie was declared unsafe for bathing, and its perch and white bass dangerous to eat. But, amazingly, Lorain seems to have survived. As Ohio's "International City," there's still a festival each year, with an international princess and a fair where one can eat kielbasa and piroghi and souvlaki and tacos and cannoli. One year booths sold T-shirts emblazoned with your choice of ethnic heritage: "I'm Polish and Proud," "I'm Italian and Proud," I'm Mexican and Proud." Little wonder that I was at least 12 before it dawned on me that not everyone in the world was Catholic. Almost everybody's father was a laborer, putting in long, sweaty hours on the line at the Ford Assembly Plant or down at the mill, as National Tube was called. Many men worked turns, seven to three one week, three to 11 the next, 11 to seven following that - and most leaped at the chance to earn time and a half for an extra four or eight hours. During a couple of summers I suffered through a grinding routine like this, one year as a bricklayer's helper relining vessels and furnaces, another as a laborer in the rolling mill. Everyone knows that steel mills are volcanically hot and perilous, but you have no idea how deafening they are when behemoth machinery is hammering gigantic ingots into long, round pipes. And the air! Sometimes I could see graphite particles gently floating around me, and would wade through half an inch of fine gray dust on a floor that had been swept clean eight hours before. At other times, I used to work in tunnels underground, in a crepuscular half-light, shoveling up loose slabs of ore - the outside scale that had fallen from cooling ingots - and then upend my loaded wheelbarrow into buckets the size of conversion vans, which would be hauled away by distant, overhead cranes. Laved with sweat trapped inside green asbestos clothing, often wearing a respirator to protect my lungs, I would occasionally stumble across a retarded coworker sitting in the dark behind a mound of slag, talking excitedly to imaginary companions. For one memorable week, in this realm of Moloch, I even debated election and damnation with a young born-again fundamentalist who had dreams of going to Bible college. To me, it was all overpowering, awesome, even sublime - but I knew I wouldn't be spending my life there, as my father had and his father before him. Yet sometimes, at two or three in the morning, I'd find myself high up in 4-seamless or one of the other sections of the plant, and I'd look out at the stacks with their flaming gases, smell the rotten-egg odor of the pickling vats, and survey the Piranesi-like ramparts and ladders and rusting buildings. One felt like Satan surveying the immeasurable expanse of hell. What better place, I thought, to argue about free will and the afterlife? For religion was important in Lorain, which had once been called Ohio's "city of churches." In the summer there were church picnics, with Tilt-a-whirls, raffles, and seared pigs or sheep slowly roasting on revolving spits. One day a year the priest would come to bless your house, accept a cup of coffee, and taste your nut roll. Sad-eyed ladies of the Altar Society would clean and decorate for holy days. Serious children, in ill-fitting suits and pretty, ruffled white dresses, would march in processions to receive their first holy communion, or the Knights of Columbus would parade in uniform and salute with uplifted swords. Someone would always faint during midnight Mass, finally overcome by the incense. Naturally, there were fish fries on Friday at the K of C hall. On Ash Wednesday half the townspeople sported gray smudges on their foreheads. At Christmas families would gather at the union headquarters - the AFL-CIO - and hear rousing speeches, especially if a strike threatened, then sing carols and line up to receive a special gift from Santa. In the evenings one might go shopping downtown, already starting to decay the mid 1960s, and buy some Faroh's chocolates or stop at the Ohio, Tivoli, or Palace for a movie. Back in the '20s a tornado had touched down one Saturday afternoon killing 15 moviegoers at the State, as the Palace was then called. Those who survived would talk about it all their lives. Out at the first big shopping center, called O'Neill's after its department store, year after year one could chat with a gigantic talking Christmas tree. Afterward, a father might drive his wife and sleepy children around the town so that they could ooh and ah at all the lights and decorations. At holidays mothers would cook all morning and take stuffed cabbage or lechvar cookies on afternoon social calls that would sometimes last into the evening. Uncles would drink shots and beers, grow jovial, then start dealing poker around a kitchen table. Little kids would play tag or hide-and-seek, teenagers might flirt, and I, a bookish little boy, would plop down in a corner and read about Tarzan while munching on a ham sandwich with sweet pickles, as happy as I will ever be. Sometimes my Uncle Henry would take out his battered concertina and we would all dance or pretend to dance in his kitchen. At other enchanted times, an older cousin might show off his new bow or .22 rifle, and even allow a four-eyed pipsqueak to sight down its smooth, black barrel. To wander around Lorain was always an adventure. A kid could climb on his bike and cover the entire town in a single summer afternoon. You might start by pedaling up to the shanty in Central Park where you could sign out basketballs, checkerboards, and frames for weaving potholders or lanyards. Then you might race up to Hawthorne Junior High, where I once received not one but two black eyes in a street fight with a kid named Andy. Then over to Broadway, past the Music Center, where we all took accordion lessons, and up toward Rusine's cigar store, where you could buy racy paperbacks wrapped in cellophane, and on to Cane's Surplus, where a boy might admire the folding slingshots and stilettos. By crossing the jackknife bridge to the East Side you could swing by the shipyards and then take the long vertiginous span of the 21st Street bridge and peer down at the inky water of the river or across to the mountains of slag and coke. Afterward you might turn up 28th Street, lined with ethnic bars, tailor and shoe-repair shops, and mom-and-pop eateries. If you went far enough, traveling under the rail overpass, you'd ride into South Lorain, up to the aging YMCA, a monumental red-brick building. From near there you could sometimes glimpse elephantine Euclid trucks lumbering around inside the mill, but before long you'd probably set out for Pearl Avenue to stop at Clarice's Values, the apotheosis of all possible junk shops, from which Clarice herself would sell you, for a mere 50 cents, all the books you could carry away. Then past St. Vitus Church, where we played on the steps before Saturday catechism class, on to dilapidated Oakwood shopping center, and then, probably, a turn down one of the graveled side roads. On one lived my Uncle Steve and Aunt Anna, on another Uncle Henry and Aunt Alice. This latter house gloried in a paradise of rusting steel - old cars, broken engines, metal barrels, bundles of wire - and a chicken shed and a park-sized swing set. In the summers I would visit my slightly older cousin Henry, and we would trudge up to the railroad tracks a quarter mile away and bring back, in wooden wheelbarrows, hunks of coal, scraps of lumber, or even lengths of railroad tie for my uncle's wood-burning furnace. In exchange, he would disburse a nickel pack of BBs for each load - at least until this foolish soul plinked out the street light in front of the house. It was a particularly important light because it helped illuminate the grassy corner lot where half the neighborhood would assemble for softball games on soft summer nights. Does all this sound idyllic? Well, it should. Bliss was it in Lorain to be alive, but to be young was very heaven. Even adolescence was intermittently endurable. Playing cards on Friday evenings in Lethargy Hall, as we called my friend Ray's basement; cruising up and down Broadway in our friend Tom's 1964 GTO, L'il Blue Tiger; necking ecstatically in Lake View Park with a Saturday night date - how could anyone better spend the confused and angst-ridden years of high school? All around my friends and me the great world hummed, but Lorain remained its own place, homey and human-scaled, living for football games at George Daniel Field and carnivals at shopping centers and parades on the Fourth of July and long, slow beers, sipped by tired steelworkers, slouching in Adirondack chairs in oak-tree shaded back yards. Certainly, I mythologize. Perhaps more than a bit. Childhood can be a golden age no matter where it is spent. And yet, Toni Morrison regularly goes back to Lorain and in interviews expresses a similar affection for the place. Fifteen or more years ago, Gloria Emerson contributed an article about the city to Vanity Fair and later told me how much she envied anyone who could grow up in such a sturdy, honest world. And, of course, I return there still, to see my widowed mother and my sisters. My own children spend part of their summers in Lorain with their cousins, wonderful days of baseball and hide-and-seek and swimming, and at the end of every visit they always say to me, "Dad, why can't we live in Lorain? Why do we have to go back to stupid, dull Washington?" I never quite know what to tell them. Doubtless their parents would go crazy after a couple of weeks, and obviously I have a job and their mother has a job and clearly there are a dozen really good reasons not to be in Lorain. But even now I sometimes wonder. Could I go back home, back to this ardently beloved, industrial Eden? Probably not. But like other exiles from paradise, I can murmur "Et in Arcadia ego " - I too have lived in Arcadia. Reprinted courtesy of Preservation - the magazine of the national trust for historic preservation, copyright 2000. The author Michael Dirda is a 1966 graduate of Admiral King High School. He graduated with highest honors in English in 1970 from Oberlin College; was a Fullbright Scholar in France from 1970 to 1971; went to graduate school from 1971 to 1975 at Cornell University, specializing in comparative literature, and received a master's degree in 1975, and a doctorate in 1977. Dirda is a writer and senior editor at the Washington Post Book World, where he joined the staff in 1978. He and his wife, Marion Peck Dirda, originally of Youngstown, have three sons, Christopher, Michael,and Nathaniel. His mother, Christine Dirda, lives in Lorain. Dirda received the 1993 Pulitzer Prize for criticism.

I disagree.That was ok to pass on.This email was issue by the United States Government to all services today.They thought it was important to get the word out.I think you should say you were wrong,because you were. Hart At 08:27 PM 2/11/02 EST, you wrote: >These are hoaxes and shouldnt be sent through this. Everyone should know you >only get notified by Irs through regular mail. You just passed on hoax. > > >==== OHLORAIN Mailing List ==== >Visit the Lorain County Genealogy page >http://www.centurytel.net/lorgen > > > >

These are hoaxes and shouldnt be sent through this. Everyone should know you only get notified by Irs through regular mail. You just passed on hoax.

Hi All, I apologize for this not being genealogy related, but if it saves one person, so be it. This is from a person I trust to know good warnings from spam. Read, be aware, but don't panic. The delete key is still, sometimes, your best friend. >From: "Irene Kraus" <ikraus@accsandusky.com> > ><>-<>-<>-<>-<>-<>-<>-<>-<>-<>-<>-<>-<>-<>-<>-<> >Irene M. Kraus a.k.a. The Computer Lady! >Graphic & Web Page Design - www.design-comp.com >President/Newsletter Editor/Webmaster CEBUG - www.cebug.org >Join CEBUG's Announcements list - www.cebug.org/subscribe.htm > >-----Original Message----- > >This is the newest scam on the block. Got this from the W2K News... >Warning: IRS Audit Scam >I generally don't send out these notices, but this is so serious that it's >important that the general public be immediately informed. The IRS Criminal >Investigations Division recently sent out an alert to law enforcement >agencies regarding this scam. PLEASE READ and FORWARD to others, so they >might not be a victim of what could seriously damage you financially. >Some taxpayers have received e-mails from a non-IRS source indicating that >the taxpayer is under audit and needs to complete a questionnaire within 48 >hours to avoid the assessment of penalties and interest. The e-mail refers >to an "e-audit" and references IRS form 1040. The taxpayer is asked for >social security numbers, bank account numbers and other confidential >information. The IRS does not conduct e-audits, nor does it notify taxpayers >of a pending audit via e-mail. >That e-mail is not from the IRS. Any e-mail received of this nature should >be saved so that a computer forensics investigation can be conducted to >determine the originator. Law enforcement personnel should remain cognizant >of this latest identity theft ploy. And this social engineering exploit is >not limited to the U.S.A. A criminal in your country can also pull a scam >like this. Be Warned! More info at: webmaster@fleoa.org - Federal Law >Enforcement Officers Association > >To unsubscribe from this list go to... >http://mail.accnorwalk.com:881/guest/RemoteListSummary/Supportlist >and type your email address, choose unsubscribe, and click submit. Peace, Judy Animal Congregations - Did you know? many bats make a Colony! many giraffes make a Tower! many cats make a Clutter! many monkeys make a Troop! many tigers make a streak! Stay tuned, this list will change some day.

Hi, Couldn't find his parents. Did find martha Jane Wilkins July 14, 1840 Ky on family tree disk 4849 Also Martha jane Wilkins April 23, 1852 Ky on same disk 4849 I dont have access to that disk. Dee

Victor: Could you please look up a marriage for George W. Lonis and Martha Jane Wilkins? They were married 25 May 1856 in Jefferson County, IN. I am looking for the parents of George W. Lonis. Thanks, Lola

I received this on an Italian mailing list and the message references Italy, but it can search in 26 countries. "A one window megasearch engine for surnames - can simultaneously search various databases, using only one input screen. There are also surname navigators for 26 countries. http://www.rat.de/kuijsten/navigator/ Databases searched include Mormons (LDS) databases, Geneanet, Google Genealogy, Google News and Genealogy , Rootsweb message boards, Ancestry.com, People Finder Italy Researchers can save many hours using megasearch engines such as these. Some researchers have reported excellent results. Happy Hunting Robrecht Kuijsten" I hope this is useful for you. Sharon

Hi, Will you lookup my immigrants on the passenger list. I believe they came in in the late part of 1831 or early 1832. They bought land in Elyria Twp. in June 1832. Phillip Beal, wife Eva, 3 children Eva, Maria and Lewis. he was 3 months old when they sailed and was born 17 August 1831. Their name in Germany is generally Spelled Biehl. I believe they came from Bavaria but I am not certain. Thank You advance ken GO. ----- Original Message ----- From: <VictorJBlomberg@aol.com> To: <OHLORAIN-L@rootsweb.com> Sent: Saturday, February 09, 2002 12:48 PM Subject: [OHLORAIN] I will do lookups for what is listed > I have all these disks, and will do look ups for anyone. Will tell you > though none of my family was in any of these: > > Passenger and Immigration Lists: Boston 1821-1850 > Selected U.S./ International Marriage Records 1560-1900 > Genelogical Records:Virginia Land, Marriage and Probate Records 1639-1850 > Military Records: Massachusetts Civil War Soldiers and Sailors 1861-1865 > Military Records: U.S. Soldiers 1784-1811 > Family History:Southern Biographies and Genealogies, 1500s to 1940s > World family Tree Volumes1 pre-1600 to present > Volume 2 > Volume 3 > Volume 4 > Volume 5 > Volume 6 > Marriages Index: Indiana 1851-1900 > > > ==== OHLORAIN Mailing List ==== > Visit the Lorain County Genealogy page > http://www.centurytel.net/lorgen > >

Let me know if you get this. If not I will check next time I'm at the AB Nick GGMDAM@aol.com wrote: >Wondering if someone could check a marriage certificate for Christian Nelson >SORENSON & Doris LEUZLER. They were married April 2, 1914 in Elyria, Lorain >County. Nels father was Lars SORENSON and his mother was Anna KLIM or >JENSEN. Hoping his mothers maiden name is listed on the record. Thanks in >advance. > > >==== OHLORAIN Mailing List ==== >Search the Archive of Messages for OHLORAIN Mailing List >http://searches.rootsweb.com/cgi-bin/listsearch.pl > -- C. Nick Melhinch Chairman FF/LC P.O. Box 371 Ashland OH 44805-0371 Lorain Co. webpage http://www.centurytel.net/lorgen