Mary Lillibell McCreight

The family called my mother, Lill. In her eyes, there was no one quite like her brother Bruce. She went to a female seminary at Greensburg, Pennsylvania. Her cousins, the Detars and Uncaphers lived there, and they made her school years happy ones. She married Ambrose John Quinlan in 1892. She shocked her family to its Presbyterian roots by marrying a Catholic. They eloped. While on the train, they discovered a detective was on their trail, thanks to a friend, who was the conductor. So they left the train near the state line, cut thru a cornfield, and were married at Limestone, New York.

It's incredible to me, considering his hectic entrance into the family circle, how quickly Dad became an integral part of it. Eliza loved him as one of her own, and Uncle Bruce and Uncle Joe were closer than his own brothers. His vacation time was spent hunting or fishing with them, while Mother and I visited the family. We looked forward to their visits to Ohio, just as eagerly.

After piping gas to Akron from West Virginia, Dad was the foreman of the East Ohio Gas Company for many years. Later, he was the manager of the West Cleveland branch of the company. Not liking inside work, he settled for leasing for the company until his death. He was Akron's first Grand Knight of Columbus. At first, Mother hated Akron and spelled it with a small 'a'. So far as she was concerned, there was only one state in the union, Pennsylvania. It made her mad to see a car from there in Ohio when the leaves were turning. She should have been a clothes designer. My suits and school togs made me very thankful for having so talented a mother. The minute I took home economics, and graduated from Aunt Lill's kitchen, Mother was thru with cooking. However, while I was at the U., she did break over for sorority spreads every week. She said she escalloped enough potatoes to pave Market Street.

Dad gave me a fine English bull terrier puppy. Her name was Bill. Dad made a bed for her including springs, mattress and a blanket. She was lodged in the corner of our kitchen. A little later, he bought a few Rhode Island Red chicks. Their box was first placed in our brick garage. It turned chilly, so we bro't them into the kitchen temporarily. Bill became their mother. They had to have mashed hard-boiled eggs. Bill licked the plate. For the rest of her long life she had two mashed hard-boiled eggs daily. The chicks were soon given to friends in the country. Every night Dad covered Bill. If she got uncovered, up she went to nudge Dad's hand. He followed her downstairs and covered her, without really waking.

Life was never dull with Dad and Mother. She said they might have been mad at one another, but they were never bored. Dad raised beautiful dahlias and asters, and he did not appreciate your picking any with buds. So, on one of his birthdays, I filled a long celery dish with lavender and pink aster blossoms for the table. Mother took one look, crossed her hands over her breast, and said, "At rest". I told her if she died before did, I'd remember and laugh, and I did. Thank heaven for memories that can make us chuckle thru tears.

My husband died in 1924 of pneumonia, while on a business trip. My two children and I lived with Dad and Mother. I was thankful they had made it possible for me to have my Ph.B. They now cared for all of us, while I started on a degree in education so I could teach. Luckily a friend of Mother's was president of the Akron Board of Education. She made it possible for me to start teaching in September. I did get the degree, thanks to Mother's caring for the children. They adored Dad, too. He took them on long drives. They had their first boat ride at Turkey Foot Lake, where our friends, the Smiths, lived. Jack learned to paddle their canoe, and both youngsters loved skimming around Turkey Foot Lake in their launch.

My father died in August of 1928. Uncle Bruce, Aunt Lill, Uncle Joe and Aunt Sally were the first of the family to come, and the last to leave.

The children called Mother, "Nan", and Nan she became to most of us. She'd get in any car no matter where it was going, and she expected to be invited whenever a wheel turned. Dad and I spoiled her. We always took her with us. She had a great sense of humor, and related some of the ridiculous situations she got herself into. She decided she wanted a small apartment of her own in Reynoldsville, where some of our family lived, as well as many of her life-long friends. So, she got one right downtown. My son and a fraternity brother, took the furniture she chose, and got her settled. By that time, I was teaching in Shaker Heights, and if I couldn't leave to pick her up, she'd hop a bus right at her apartment, knowing I'd be at the terminal to meet her. During winter, she wore galoshes that had small cleat heels attached to them, that could be flipped down where the walking was treacherous. She couldn't get them in Reynoldsville, so she decided "to contrive". She drove many long tacks thru the heels of her new boots. Sharp cleats, she had! Like Eliza, when the shrill shriek of the fire whistle shattered the rest of the slumbering tow, Nan, in her boots, dashed down the long flight of wooden stairs. She came down more heavily on each step. When she got to the bottom, she reached for the door. She couldn't budge. She was nailed fast to the floor! She had just as much fun telling about her frustration, as we had hearing about it.

One morning she knew it was a good day to fix clocks. That night one alarm clock was missing. However, she spied my Hamilton watch that I intended to take to Webb C. Ball Co. for cleaning. She opened the back and knew she'd solved the problem. She said, "It just had a hair in it." She had pulled out its mainspring.

After a cataract removal, she thought she should use a cane, but she didn't know how. She went into the dime store, thru whose portals most of Reynoldsville passes daily. She was at the counter where shelves were filled with nail polish and various small bottles. A friend came by and spoke to her. Nan wheeled around to greet her. Her cane swept the shelves clean as bottles flew. Nan whirled back to correct the havoc she had wrought and as she turned, the cane knocked the cap off a small boy. It wasn't her day. She tossed the cane.

Mother died in 1960. She is buried in the Morningside Cemetery at DuBois, Pennsylvania, where Uncle Bruce reserved a place for her with the family.

B. 1 April 1873 † D. 6 December 1960