This was copied and pasted from the following webpage: http://www.oregonpioneers.com/1843.htm
Andrew Jackson MILLICAN (1834-1907): s/o Elijah and Lucinda
(Crisp) Millican; shown in 1850 Yamhill Co census living with parents
Edmund MILLICAN (c1812-c1895): brother
of Elijah Millican; father of 12 children
Elijah MILLICAN (1804-c1887): m'd
1827 Lucinda Wilson CRISP. Elijah settled Linnton in 1843 but moved to
Lafayette, Yamhill Co in 1844. He emigrated with 2 wagons he built himself
and 5 yoke of oxen. Elijah went to CA temporarily in 1849. The father of 12 children,
died at age 83yrs.
Elizabeth Hannah MILLICAN (1840-1917): m1.
1861 Robert HORTON; m2. 1867 (Unknown) MCCULLOUGH; m3. Dorsey Sydney BAKER;
d/o Elijah and
Lucinda (Crisp) Millican
James K. MILLICAN (1843- ): m'd Sarah
(Unknown); s/o Elijah and Lucinda
Lettice Jane MILLICAN (1830-1911 ): m1. 1845
CLARK; m2. Amos Reynolds; d/o Elijah and
Lucinda (Crisp) Millican; Lettice met Ranson Clark during the 1843 emigration
and was married to him in 1845. They settled in Yamhill Co where they
took up a successful farming operation. In 1856 Ransom Clark traveled
to Walla Walla in present day Washington to secure a land claim. Mr Clark
returned to Portland. but was taken sick on the way home and lived only
a couple of weeks. Sixteen years before, Lettice Millican, as a girl of thirteen
years, had passed through the Walla Walla valley; now she returned, the widow
of Ransom Clark. At Celilo, she boarded the steamer Col. Wright, which was loaded
with supplies for Lieutenant Mullah, who was in charge of the construction of
the Mullen road between Fort Benton, Montana., and Walla Walla. Upon arrival
at the claim she found the log house finished and farm work progressing, Mrs.
Clark returned to Portland, settled her affairs and later, with her two youngest
children, one a baby girl six weeks old, left for her donation claim on the
Yellowhawk to make final proof. The town of Walla Walla was just starting. The
camping place for teamsters packers and immigrants was along Mill Creek, on
one side of which the cantonment was built in 1856, so the town was started
there by merchants, butchers and saloon-keepers. Split logs were driven into
the ground, poles were laid across the top, and canvas or clapboards laid for
There were only five donation claims in Walla
Walla county. Three of these were taken by Hudson's Bay Company men, one by
the American Foreign Missionary Society which included the Whitman site. The
Ransom Clark claim was the fifth and was destined to become the scene of splendid
endeavor and triumph by a brave young pioneer mother. Her deeds have since been
commemorated in a bronze marker embedded m the fireplace of the local Y. M.
C. A., also in a marker affixed to a large block of native granite brought from
the hills and placed near the northwestern corner of the claim The marker bears
this inscription : "To mark the site of the Ransom Clark Donation
Claim and to honor the memory of LETTICE J. REYNOLDS 1830-1911 A
pioneer of 1843 with Whitman's Train As
widow of Ransom Clark this brave woman completed in 1859 under conditions calling.for
the greatest courage the claim to this land, initiated by him in1800. She
married Almos H. Reynolds in 1861 and survived him 22 years. She was the ideal
pioneer wife, mother, and generous Christian citizen. [This marker was placed
by the Narcissa Prentiss Chapter, Daughters Of the American Revolution, June,
Louisa Allen MILLICAN (1837-c1902): m'd c1858
DIXON, Jesse Downs; d/o Elijah and Lucinda
(Crisp) Millican; settled in Yamhill Co where she is enumerated in the 1850
census with her parents and the1860, 1870 and 1880 census with her husband and
children. In 1900 she is living in Tillamook with her daughter, Jane,
and her son-in-law S.M. Hayes. She is shown as a widow at that time.
Mary Adlin MILLICAN (1832 - ): twin of
Melvina MILLICAN (1832-1916): m'd 1845
James L. HEMBREE; twin of Mary; "Before the emigration of 1843, there
were so few white women in the Oregon country that most of the white
men took Indian wives. White girls were so much in demand that many of
the girls married at the age of 12 or 13 years.... One of my chums was
married when she was 12 years old. Mother made me promise not to get
married so young, so I waited till two days after my thirteenth
birthday before I was married.";
"Melvina celebrated her eleventh
birthday on the Oregon Trail. She was born September 22, 1832, in Arkansas,
the daughter of Elijah Milligan and Lucinda [Crisp] Milligan. Just two
years after celebrating her birthday on the trail, Melvina was married to James
N. T. Hembree, on September 29, 1845, in Yamhill County, the week after her
In 1914 Melvina
recalled, "Two days after I turned thirteen I married. My husband
was nineteen years old. When we exchanged vows, I was wearing a new calico
dress that Mama made me, regular store-bought shoes, and even stockings. We
took a donation land claim of 640 acres and built a cabin which we moved into
at once. Within the next few days my husband made a bedstead out of fir
poles, which he peeled and fastened to the wall. He pegged them together
for we had no nails. On this bed we laid dried ferns for our mattress.
Our table was a tree split down the middle, and we had two stools. Pegs
were driven into the walls for hats, coats, and clothes. My only dishes were
a big iron kettle, a small iron pot, and an iron skillet. I had to stoop
over the mud fireplace in order to cook. I baked bread in the iron skillet,
pot-roasted our meat in the iron pot, baked potatoes in the ashes, and browned
wheat or oats for our coffee. My husband was a great hand to hunt. He
usually turned out about daybreak and would be gone only an hour or two, returning
with deer, grouse, rabbit, or the like. We always had game hanging in
the tree near the kitchen door. The first baby came along. Others
followed. I took care of the babies, cooked, washed clothes, made soap
and candles, knitted and darned and seved and did all the other things that
had to be done. For entertainment we used to go to preachings at the neighboring
houses or to barn-raisings or house-warmings. The kids are grown and we
have grandchildren, great grandchildren, and even a few great great. Next
year Pa and me will celebrate seven decades of being together, and that's mighty
The Hembrees lived for many
years in Lafayette, Oregon. They were married seventy years when Melvina
died at the age of eighty-three on March 17, 1916, in Lafayette, a longer marriage
than any other pioneer of 1843. In 1910 Melvina and James, his brother
Waymon and Waymon's wife Nancy Beagle Hembee, and Charlotte Matheny Kirkwood
posed for a photograph and news article as the last five survivors of the 1843
migration. There were several others alive then, but it made a good story
anyway." [Information provided by Don Rivara; his sources include:
 Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, on-line Family Search; 
"Newlyweds," p.8, Pioneers Vol. 11, by Rick Steber, Bonanza
Publishing, Prineville, OR, 1993.]
William Mansil MILLICAN (1836- ): s/o Elijah and Lucinda
Monday, December 9, 2013
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Below are some marriage certificates and wedding photos of members of the Lippert Family.
Myrtle Lippert (1890-1978) daughter of John Lippert and Elizabeth Lippert (Whose maiden name I know not) at their wedding around 1910 in (I believe) Banks, Washington County, Oregon
Another photo of their wedding day
I have not yet ascertained Alfred and Lydia's relationship to John and Elizabeth Lippert yet if there is one, there is a George and Emma Lippert who lived in Roy, Washington County, Oregon around the same time as John and Elizabeth and I'm suspecting that John and George may have been brothers and emmigrated to the USA simultaneously but here is the marriage certificate for these two at any rate.
Julia S. Pierce was Charles' (Charley's) (1883-1962) Second wife, his first wife, Bessie Taylor - whose maiden name was Robinson (as far as I can ascertain) and her first husband G.B. Taylor apparently died, leaving her a widow when she married Charles. Bessie died in 1940 and is buried at Union Point Cemetery, Banks, Washington County, Oregon, and Charles married Julia in 1947, both wives are buried with him at Union Point Cemetery.
Lastly, Randolph Bland (1900-1974) and Ella M Long Lippert's marriage certificate. They both moved down to California after the 1930's and managed to not show up on the censuses for a while though they were in Scott's Mills, Marion County, Oregon in the 1930 US Federal Census, and they both passed away according to the Social Security Death Index in Marina, Monterey County, California two years apart from each other. I haven't as of this posting yet ascertained their burial locations.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Silver Star Citation for Albert Gregory Millican for action on the USS Helena (CL-50) off Guadalcanal in 1942. His name was misspelled "Milligan" instead of "Millican" in the citation, but this is a scan of a photocopy of the original.
Friday, September 6, 2013
I killed my first man at the age of 18, and the last man at the age of 49. I don't understand how I survived. We had been involved with insertion and extraction of Seal Teams I regarded them as the ultimate, as the Navy's elite. On one of our missions, we were to make and extraction from a designated village. It wasn't the first time, by this time that I had faced my own mortality. In fact I had reached a point where combat had completely taken over me. Nobody met us in the bush on the beach. Myself and Crane were assigned to go ashore. We waited at the perimetor (sic) of the village. It was still. I remember it vividly. I remember small whisks (sic) of smoke in the little fires that they used to cook their meals. After we had decided what we thought was clear ground, we went in. Something gave me caution that things weren't right. There was nobody moving around in the village. I saw a dog as he trotted across the dirt, and thought, “Nobody's eaten him yet”?
(At this point in recounting the story, my father had told me in person that the VC had captured the Americans and beheaded, disemboweled them, stuffed their heads into their abdominal cavities and castrated them and placed those in their mouths while crucifying their bodies to the trees. They had raped the girls of the village with bamboo spears and cut their bodies and crucified them as well leaving them to die)
Then I saw a figure, it was just a little one. As I moved to my next point of cover, the village exploded. Crane and I were taking fire from every direction. We returned bursts of fire, but all it seemed to do was draw their fire closer to us. Then there was that little figure. I didn't have much cover; Crane was trying to back me up. My God, that little figure was a little girl, standing in total shock, wide-eyed and scared. I don't know to this day what happened to me, I must have gone stupid. I rolled out from my cover and spread out a full clip to let across a base fire. Somehow the whole mission seemed to me, that I was there for this little girl.
Why in God's name, that I felt that an innocent became so important to me, I'll never know. I jammed another clip into my M-16. I went out across the empty floor of the village and ran for her. I'm not a hero, but somehow in my heart and soul, it seemed to be the right thing to do. I was peppered with shots all around me. I snatched her up in mid stride while I was taking hits, I threw her into cover of a hootch. It's kinda funny; there was a little old lady that I thought I had scared to death when I rolled in there. A hootch doesn't protect you much from bullets, but I kept the little girl and the older lady down.
You know what's funny in the Navy? You can grab a few clips and stuff them in your belts or pockets, but you run out of ammunition fast. Crane kept calling out, “Are you alright?” then he went silent. The boat had drifted back out into the river. I didn't have much, but I had a little hard candy. I gave one to the little girl, and I gave one to the elderly lady. Suddenly, I felt like the elderly lady was an angel. Oh God, how I tell you now, I truly believe she was.
I was out of water, my throat was extremely dry. I was pinned down and I thought I was going to die. I had one clip left; 30 rounds. You can spend it in a hurry on full automatic. I'm not sure I know what to feel or think, and I didn't then. All I know, there's a little girl in Vietnam that is alive today. I crawled as best as I could outside the hootch, I took shelter from the fire and moved and fired a short burst. It's funny, in combat how close you think about God. I guess in a way, I swore a lot, but somehow I guess I feel like, God didn't mind.
Crane had been quiet too long. I couldn't get any response and I couldn't yell too loud. I finally found Crane's cover, and he had taken three shells. I couldn't leave him behind, so I drug him by his flack jacket. What in God's name posessed m, I will never know. I tried pulling him back towards the beach, but a rocket went off. I remember the flashes of red, purple, and orange. My helmet went flying; I lost my gun. I came back down hard and had lost my grip on Crane. I will never know why today I landed on my right side, trying to fall without causing too much damage, but my back and my left leg somehow got twisted in the explosion. I took shrapnel and I tried to make it back to the boat. The boat had opened fire with the fifties and brought the bow in. They laid down a base fire, and out of nowhere, the NVA captured me.
You've all probably seen movies and heard stories of men who were captured. They say that it takes an average of twenty minuets for the enemy to break you. I was badly thrown around, beaten with riffle butts, gun barrels jammed into my stomach. All I know is that there was blood everywhere, and it was my blood. I had an American flag that I had sewn onto my flack jacket . It was cut off and stomped into the dirt. I guess I didn't mind that so much. It's kind of funny, now that I think about it, the only bad name I could think to call them was a prick, then I got slammed in the face. I had a ring on, and they wanted it. There was no way I was going to give it to them. They were willing to cut my finger off to get it. I am not sure if my first thought was “Okay you can have it!”, I still have the scar from that. I was bloodied, and I was willing to tell them anything they wanted to know anything they wanted to know about President Nixon.
Some men only last ten minuets (sic) being tortured, some can last longer. I was trained in the code of conduct, so I started spilling my guts. They got a complete lesson in the difference between Fahrenheit and Celsius. I took another riffle butt in the face. All I could say was “Yabadabadoo.”
There was another explosion, it was from our own boat mortar. At the same time, I felt the impact of a gun shot. The bullet hit my flack jacket and ricocheted, it didn't penetrate, thank God. It felt like I had been hit by a freight train. It hurt, but I was too stunned. I thought that I was done for. There's no heroics here I truly thought I bought it. The funny thing was, I was only 18 years old. I was too stupid. I was smart enough to grab a bayonet, my bayonet.
A Cong was coming at me, so I did what I was trained to do. I stabbed him in the side of the neck and pulled it out, slicing his throat open. I killed my first man when I was 18 years old, and I was covered with blood from the both of us. I tried to make it back to my boat the best I could, rounds were going off everywhere. I tried to look for Crane, but I couldn't find him; I have no idea what happened. I was alone, and I was under intense fire. To this day, it haunts me and I have survivors guilt.
(Father recounted to me in person that when the boat pulled out into the river that the VC fired rockets with cables on them and used them to move bamboo log booms across the river to block the boat in. They were taking fire from both sides and there was nowhere to go but to run back and forth between the log booms while they screamed on the radio for air-support. Dad recounted the hot brass falling down on him while he passed up more ammo to the forward .50's and dragging another wounded sailor topside belowdecks under fire before some F-5's (?) came and blew up the log booms with some rockets so they could escape out to sea. By the time they were finished with the engagement only three of them survived with dad having saved one of them topside)
A little girl, in that village, to the best of my knowledge, is still alive to this day. I guess her age by this time to be about 50, maybe 52 years old. I had seen her twice. Once when we went up river to provide supplies and aide for the various villages. I guess secretly at that time, I hoped and prayed. She had the most beautiful long, black hair and wide eyes.
When we came back, I had stopped at post exchange and bought a goofy little rag doll. She got word that the Americans were coming, and of all goofy things, she went down to the river and I learned that she prayed for her Sailor to come back. As we off loaded supplies, and tended to those that needed a little care; we gave them band-aids and medicine, topical antibiotics, gauze, little rolls of tape. The funny thing of it is, we even brought food up, and eventhough it was Military, they loved it. She was there, so I went into my cabin and pulled the doll out from under my bunk and got if for her. That's when I fell in love. Nobody will ever understand the mark that a child can make on a Soldier's life. I made sure that I had a box of milk duds just for her.
There was a little boy there, all the way from the Philippines I brought a baby duck that I fed every day. The funny thing of it is, when he would peep, the engineers thought it was a squeaky bearing and were oiling everything, even though it was just the duck. By that time he had grown into full white feathers and paddled around the deck. He was protected by the crew, and he was fed well, but not ever given chocolate. I went below decks and gathered my little duck, brought him out and gave it to the little boy. The look on his face was total disbelief. As far as I know to this day, the family probably made him into duck soup.
There's many more experiences, but I don't quite know how to talk about them. You see, in combat, I
got busted in the mouth by a riffle butt, a British Infield, given to the North Vietnamese by the
Russians, that busted out all my teeth.
(For his heroism in saving one of the sailor's topside during this engagement, dad was cited and awarded the Bronze Star, however I am still tracking down the paperwork for that).
Monday, September 2, 2013
The first few hours on the boat were uneventful. Our track was 40 clicks, and we patrolled it until we reached Sniper's Ally. Every day, when we reached that point, we took shots from a sniper. It was routine for us to expect it, and we took cover appropriately. Sometimes he just poked a hole in the hull, it was always one or two shots. As soon as we finished our track, we pulled out.
He was eventually caught by another team and dropped from his position, we never had a problem after that. In the afternoons, we often threw paper plates into the water or into the air for target practice. At first, I thought “Wow, I'm firing a gun in the combat zone”, later I thought, “What a stupid ass I was”. Then our first fire fight hit us.
The Navy owned the rivers by day, at night the Vietcong owned them. So, at night, we were hyper-alert. We used every conceivable jungle warfare and riverene (sic) warfare tactic ever written. We trolled up river and faded our engines to sound like we were continuing on, and we began to drift back. The enemy thought we had long proceeded up river. As they crossed carrying ammo and supplies, we opened up. I don't know if I killed anyone, but I did lay down a base fire that spread them out from shore to shore.
It seemed so funny. As we drifted back into them, we could hear them laughing and talking. I took it as if they were taunting us. The minuet we had them in sight, we opened up with everything we had. All I remember, is that there were bodies, pouches, and boxes floating downstream and that we had messed them up. We didn't dare clean off the spent brass for fear of giving us away.
In the morning, we had found that one of our own was wounded. I didn't waste any time. I was the most skilled medic that we had on board. He remained quiet as I tended his wounds. My hands were painted with blood. I told him that he had the “Million dollar wound,” which meant he was going home now. He talked to me about his family, and he told me a little bit about his home town. I kept him alive and saw to his needs. I made sure that he had shade and water, and changed his dressings. I don't know why, I was the newest member of the crew, I seemed to do everything right for him. I was able to console and pra`y for him. The crazy thing was that we were two different religions, but that didn't matter. When we pulled into port, the medics were waiting, as they always were, stuck an IV in him, put him on a stretcher, and I saw him off. I never heard from him again, but somehow, I felt like we went over there strangers but we came home brothers.
I continued to volunteer for Swift Boat Duty as often as my command would allow. Each time, the fire fights were different. Often times, when we pulled into port, I would spend the whole night welding bullet holes in all the boats that came in. I would get no sleep, and the next day we would go out. Most of our duty was considered Coastal Surveillance. I was attached to Coastal Surveillance Team 115. It was hell on me, because when I did report on ship I was expected to stand on watches, continue my duties and go out again on the next available opportunity.
|CTF 115 Swift Boats at Sea - taken by dad off Vietnam|
Monday, August 26, 2013
Below is the Carara Family Tree I received via my Italian relatives in Italy via my Aunt Irene, my mother's sister. I know Giorgio Alberto Carrara's birth date was actually May 13th, 1889 according to the documents here in the US such as his draft registration and the likes. You can click on the image to embiggen it so you can see it more clearly. If you have more information on anyone in here, please leave me a comment with it. Thank you!
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
The next two days I spent a lot of time thinking about what I had done. When my orders came through they were short and quick. I was going into combat. But somehow I wasn't afraid. Something inside told me that I was going to be alright. When I got to my ship I was high-lined at sea from the USS Ashtabula to my ship the USS Haverfield.
|High-lining to the USS Haverfield|
Anybody that could endure that would endure that would have to be out of their ever loving tree or crazy or alright with it. I guess I was alright with it. I got on board my ship, made all the appropriate salutes and asked where my station was. I was taken below deck and shown where my rack was. My sea bag soon followed. I picked it up and brought it to my rack. I was given a locker.
That's when it happened, I was busy unpacking then I heard it, the alarm. “General quarters, general quarters, this is not a drill all hands man your battle stations! General quarters, general quarters, this is not a drill, all hands man your battle station!” I'd only been on board a short time, I had no clue where my battle station was so I reported to the sea men board and tried to look up my name and it was there under full time diver and I was to go nowhere else but there. I knew that wasn't right. I knew that they just used that to fill the board, so I found a local damage control station DC3 and showed up there. They were wondering where I was at. I got lucky thanks to my training as a reserve. I did something right and I got lucky. So the peace time diver didn't come into play until sometime later. While is was there I was assigned #1 BA man, that meant I was first on the fire hose. I went deepest and the furthest to beat back any flames that I had to fight. I already had training in the reserve program so I knew what it had detailed and I was not afraid of it anymore.
As I was getting familiar with my gear, I heard the first round go off from the three-inch fifty above us. I wasn't prepared for that sound and I ducked. It had to have been the loudest sound. It sounded like it was going to rip off the deck. Then there were two more rounds that went off in succession. I couldn't believe how fast they were. Then there were three more. It was like a machine
gun going off. The three-inch fifties on my ship were the fastest guns in the Navy. I couldn't believe it. I was totally astonished and taken back. This was an experience that I would have to get used to.
This was my first experience to be in a combat zone. Thanks to my training and having Marine DI's, I was taught the foundation of what to expect in battle. We were at yankee station one right at the DMZ. It seemed to me that God and everybody was pissed at us.
Every day, we engaged the enemy with coastal bombardment with the aide of Army spotter planes. Then one morning, Swift Boats came along side. We gave them fuel, beans, bullets, and band-aids. I was intrigued, because they could get closer to battle then what we could on the decks of a Destroyer. The men on those boats looked hardened. They were efficient in their duties and I was all too happy to go aboard and assist with their stores.
The Skipper had asked, (of the boat along the side,) if anyone could patch a few bullet holes. I was quick to volunteer to initiate repairs for them. While I was on board that bouncing and bobbing boat, the crew seemed to accept me. I did my repairs and was able to patch the holes to keep the boat in repair as they needed. As they pulled away, and the next Swift Boat came in, I was ready with all of my skills and training to do as needed.
Next crew, a few of the men were wearing black berets with the South Vietnamese Junk Fleet Badge. I guess there was a secret desire to go in deeper then what I was serving on a Destroyer Escort Radar Ship. My division officer came up to me and said, “You know, they always need fresh crew. If you want to serve, I will help you fill out the paperwork and you can volunteer.” I turned to my division officer and said, “ Yes sir, that's where I want to go.” My orders were cut for TDY. When I had my orders, the PCF that I was assigned to came along side. I was issued my own personal .38 once I was aboard. One of the crew, after we had pulled away came up to me and said, “You're gonna need this.” He gave me a bayonet and my very own black beret with emblem. Inside it said SAT CONG, which is Vietnamese for “Kill Cong”.