By MICHAEL F. DWYER
On May 17, ten students from OVUHS and their advisor, Chas Hall, spent the morning at the Pittsford Congregational Church fulfilling their community service day. They all did a diligent job cleaning, sweeping, polishing, and washing windows inside and out. One of the students, Owen Thomas, Class of 2024, queried me, “Did you teach my father?” “Who is your father?” “Brian Thomas.” Once I ascertained that he indeed was the student I taught in American Studies thirty-one years ago, I said to Owen, “Ask your father if he remembers when I wrote a letter to the Orwell Library so that he could borrow his great-uncle’s Purple Heart for a special school exhibit.”
Back story here: In the spring of 1993, Otter Valley’s budget was defeated four times. Then “Troika” Principal Nancy Crandall pioneered the idea of a school fair wherein each department would create a showcase for what we did with students. Awash with various 50th anniversaries of World War II events, the Social Studies Department organized “Remembering World War II.” Students received “extra credit” for any objects they could bring that were connected to the war and civilian efforts. Right after the school day concluded, my classroom became a mini museum that housed a variety of artifacts, including photos, newspapers, letters, 16mm movies, helmets, uniforms [including my grandfather’s US Navy uniform], as well as conversations with veterans, and of course, the Purple Heart. We bussed in people from the community, some of whom had never stepped in the school before. That experience remains a powerful memory. Our efforts also achieved their goal: the OV budget passed on its fifth vote.
Returning to the present: On July 13, some OV students from the 90s organized a mini reunion at the Hilltop Tavern in Pittsford. While in deep conversation with Val Zimmer, Class of 1993, a man at the bar said to me, “Mr. Dwyer, I hear that you have been talking about me.” It took me a minute to recognize Brian Thomas (he was wearing a cap). Of course, he remembered the experience. I could not recall the last name of the Purple Heart recipient. Brian supplied the answer. “Murray.” “From Orwell?” “Oh, I have researched this family, and the Murray surname was originally something different…”
That Brian Thomas’s maternal grandfather, Howard Murray, and his three brothers—Max, Henry, and William—all served in World War II is indeed a historic feat. William Murray was killed in Luzon, Philippines on April 27, 1945. Though I had seen the Purple Heart citation, I did not know the circumstances. A story, published on November 2, 1945 in The Rutland Herald described why this soldier received a posthumous Purple Heart:
“Facing a firmly entrenched enemy which from the opposite bank of the river was supported by rifles as well as machine guns and artillery, Lt. Murray constantly exposed himself in order to draw that fire which revealed the enemy position to his men. This gallant and deliberate act resulted in a neutralization of those Japanese elements defending the north bank and a successful crossing was made. However, in climbing the steep bank, Lt. Murray slipped and tore a knee ligament which left him in severe pain and barely able to walk. Refusing to be evacuated, Lt. Murray continued to lead his men across an open field which was swept by heavy machine gun and rifle fire. Disregarding the great pain from his injury, the tropical rain, and the approaching darkness, he maintained relentless pressure on the enemy and on the following morning what proved to be the final assault…Evacuated because of his severe injury, Lt. Murray returned to duty after six weeks in the hospital and was later killed in action. His extraordinary heroism and high devotion to duty fired his men with his own indomitable determination.”
Grandfather of these patriotic brothers, Jerry Murray (1874–1943), a first-generation Vermonter, lived the entirety of his life in Cornwall, Vermont. Jerry’s parents, Joseph Murray and Delia Adam immigrated to Vermont from Québec in the early 1850s. As I already knew, their names had changed, but how do we know that? On December 10, 1861, in Middlebury, they were married by a French priest who correctly recorded their names as Joseph Morin and Adeline Dame. Both of these surname transformations (Morin to Murray and Dame to Adam) were undoubtedly less French-sounding and more attuned to American ears.
Joseph Morin, fifth child of Louis Morin and Adeline Duchesneau, was born in L’Acadie, Québec, on July 13, 1840. The Morin family, some of whom I had in my personal database, goes back to another Acadian couple, Pierre Morin and Marie-Madeline Martin, married at Port-Royal (present-day Nova Scotia) in 1661. They also happen to be George Valley’s eight great-grandparents!
Adeline Dame/Delia Adam was born in Chambly, Québec, on September 11, 1845, twenty-two years after her parents, Pierre Dame/Peter Adam and Esther Raymond dit Toulouse were married in La Prairie, Québec on November 24, 1823. Peter’s ancestor, Pierre Dame, a “late” arrival to New France before 1740, hailed from Angres in present-day Belgium. Like the Morins, the Dames immigrated to Vermont in the 1850s. One finds Pierre Dame and his family listed as Peter Adams in the 1860 census of Weybridge, with their fifteen-year-old daughter, “Ada” [Delia]. As evident in the New Haven, Vermont 1870 census, the Morin/Murray family and the Dame/Adam family soon came under one roof. Joseph Murray, age 30, farm laborer, headed the family wife Delia, four children, and his in-laws, Peter Adam, age 77, Esther Adam, age 62, and Joseph’s father, Louis Murray, age 57, a railroad hand.
The two families share a cross-topped obelisk in St. Mary’s Cemetery in Middlebury, one side reading Peter Adam 1797–1875, Esther Adam 1800–1893, and the opposite face reading Joseph Murray and Delia Murray with their full dates of birth and death. Joseph Murray, born Morin, lived to the age of 87 and died on 24 June 1928. His obituary counted ten surviving children, 42 grandchildren, 60 great-grandchildren, and three great-great-grandchildren. From a century ago to now, we can only speculate how many people can claim him and Delia as their ancestor.
This “Lost Names” episode fills me with wonder at how the serendipitous power of conversations over a thirty-year gap have led to new pathways of heritage.
Thanks to Shelley (Fillioe) Martel and Sandy Korda of Orwell, and to Brian Thomas for earning “extra credit” as a steward of proud family history.
