One of my hobbies is Genealogy. I love learning about family history and documenting the stories when I can.

The best story-teller in the whole family was Grandpa Bill Hein. Grandpa Hein was born in 1901, in Cañon City, a town full of good, hard-working people.

I can still see my father-in-law, pipe in his hand and sometimes a drink on the table as he told stories after dinner. He loved hearing his own words as they came out of his mouth. He’d laugh before he even got to the punch line. In the tradition of good story-tellers, he’d re-tell the same story many times, using the same words over and over. That way, his stories were carried over time. until, eventually, I started writing them down.

Here is one of Bill’s stories, just as he told it to me.

The year was 1873. Colorado was not yet a state.. That was the year my grandfather, John Hein, arrived in Denver with a team of big mules, a large wagon, and his bride, Euphrosina.

John was a bridge builder in the German army. When the army got too close to Holland, John decided it was time to split. He left the army, came to America and went directly to a German colony in Illinois. He was not there long before he sent for his parents, Nicholas and Catherine Hein, his brother Conrad and his sister Christina.

John, a Lutheran, met  Euphrosina Schneider, a Catholic, soon after coming to Illinois. They were young and brave and very much in love. They wanted to take advantage of the Homestead Act, leave Illinois and start a new life in a beautiful place. 

John convinced his family to come along. They signed on with the Colfax German Settlement and headed for Colorado. Soon they were joined by Euphrosina’s brother and his wife in what is now the town of Westcliffe.

To be part of the settlement, men had to be of good moral character, between the ages of twenty-one and forty-five. They had to be in sound physical and mental health, and pay a huge sum of $250.

John, Euphrosina and John’s family traveled together by covered wagon, pulled by two big mules. In Denver they loaded their belongings onto a train going to Pueblo, the wagon and mules in one boxcar and the family in another. They unloaded in Pueblo, and once again traveled by covered wagon to their new home in the Wet Mountain Valley.

John and his neighbors were among the first settlers in this early German farming community of one hundred families. The first thing they did was to throw up a big, long barn. In the beginning, everyone lived together in that great big barn.

Farming was tough for folks coming from Illinois. The elevation was 7000 feet, and the growing season was a lot shorter than in Illinois. Frosts came early and their crops died.

John was a woodsman and a fine carpenter. One of the first things he did was to build a sturdy cabin about eight miles out of Westcliffe. Next he decided to keep cattle, in addition to farming. He started with longhorn, but with their long horns and skinny behinds, there wasn’t that much meat on them.  

One day, John went to the state fair in Pueblo and bought a big Hereford bull for $600.00. He hooked the bull on the back of his wagon and pulled him back to Westcliffe. At first his neighbors thought John was crazy. But when he started to breed this bull with the longhorn cows, everyone saw why he had done it. He soon had the finest beef cattle in all Westcliffe.

John and Euphrosina had three children, each two years apart: Pauline (Lena), John Edward (my Dad, known as Ed) and George. On the morning of December 16, 1891, John went outside to ride his horse. The horse reared. John lost his balance. The horse fell on top of him and crushed him. The saddle horn went right through his spleen. 

The family hurried outside to see what had happened. My Grandmother, Euphrosina, yelled to my Dad, “Ed, Run for Father Servans. Then get the Lutheran minister, and then the doctor. Your father is hurt.”

My Dad found the priest who volunteered to go after the minister while my Dad ran for the doctor. By the time they returned, John was nearly gone. He died with Father Servans holding one hand and the minister holding the other. He was fifty-two years old.    ~ told by W.E. (Bill) Hein

I believe that our lives are shaped, in part, by our  DNA but also, in large part by the people who either help or hinder us along the way. This month I remember my mother-in-law, Dorothy Hein, who always believed in me. She helped me become the person I am now. 

Grandpa Jim’s mother, Dorothy Hein, was born in 1910 and died in 2008. Through determination and sheer grit, she lived 98 years. She wanted to live longer. She wanted to outlive her classmate and dear friend, Marian Kelly. That would have made Dorothy the oldest living member of her eighth grade class. Alas, Marian lived to be 103 and Dorothy is still not pleased.

From the time I met her, Dorothy was always Nana. She was hard-working, steady, kind, brave, joyful and, above all, funny. She was proud of being 100% Irish. Dorothy and her sister, Margaret, had a booth at Duffy’s Shamrock Tavern reserved just for them every St. Patrick’s Day. They got there early in the morning and stayed all day, wearing green from head to toe.

Dorothy and Margaret were a twosome. They loved to tell stories and laugh, to put on parties for every possible occasion. Dorothy’s happy place was her home ~ filled with the people she loved.  

Thanksgiving was Dorothy’s favorite holiday. Her table, set with her best china and wine glasses, stretched across two rooms. It included her family of six children, Margaret’s family of three, their spouses and children, and often one or two drop-ins from the neighborhood. 

Tough times only made Dorothy stronger. Her father died in the influenza epidemic of 1918. Overnight her mother became a widow with two small girls to raise and no income. Dorothy, herself, was quarantined in Denver General Hospital with diphtheria when she was ten years old.  The terror of not being able to swallow and having to stay alone in the hospital for weeks never left her. And yet, somehow, she coped and she survived.

When she died, Nana had already lost her husband and dance partner, Bill, her sister and best friend, Margaret, and two sons, Mike and Tom. And yet, again she survived. She coped by remembering them with an empty seat at the Thanksgiving table, set with her best china and a glass of wine.

By the time she was in her late-nineties, most of  her friends had already died but Dorothy was determined to stay in her own home and live out her life on her own terms. She filled her house with imaginary friends ~ a tiny sheik who sat on top of her counter and talked to her and a houseful of children who ran up and down the stairs, making a lot of noise. Now her happy place was filled with memories of the people she loved. I am very grateful to have been a part of that.