-Esther Pinch
1881 - 1955
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Biography:
Esther Marie Pinch was born March 1881 in Springfield, Massachusetts. She had an elder sister Ruth, and later she had younger sisters Anna, Alice and Margaret and younger brothers Thomas and William. Her father, Pearse Pinch, was born in Cornwall, England and emigrated to the United States with his parents at the age of two. The family settled in Wisconsin, which is where he later met and married his bride, Mary McCasey. Mary was born in New York, the daughter of Irish immigrants herself.
Esther's father Pearse was a pastor, and apparently the family moved frequently around the country to different parishes. According to census records they lived in Kansas, Missouri, South Dakota, Maryland and New York. Esther must have had to adjust to many new schools during her childhood.
Census records indicate that she attained two years of college. She married in Michigan, July 1903 when she was 22 to Harry Sheldon, though she is still referred to in her father's obituary in 1929 as Esther Pinch, so evidently that union did not last. (Sadly, her father died after being struck by a taxi cab in Brooklyn, NY at age 79.) In fact, her own death record states that she was “single, never married”, so her marriage to Sheldon, which is clearly documented, is a mystery.
One possibility exists in the records. There is a Harry A. Sheldon who was born in Wisconsin in 1880. Whether this is the same who married Esther in 1903 is not known, but this Harry Sheldon appears in the 1905 census as living with his sister and her husband in Milwaukee, yet he is listed as “married”. By the 1920 census, he is a patient at the Chronic Milwaukee County Asylum for Insane, this time listed as single. He died later that year, age 39. Mental illness was quite a stigma at the time and not talked about. Could Esther have divorced Harry due to early signs of mental illness? That would explain her return to her maiden name, to avoid anyone questioning her marital history. We will never know, unless someone who knows sees this page and sets us straight! (poetess@gmx.com)
Springfield, MA 1908
Harry A. Sheldon 1880-1920did Esther marry this young man?
Esther became enamored of the theater, and was quite a successful and nationally famous actress, touring with vaudeville and various groups around the country as well as acting in one Broadway show, from her mid-twenties to her mid-forties. (I even discovered that Esther was in a play at a theater near where I live in 1918!) There are numerous reviews of her performances to be found in the newspaper archives, as well as the fascinating article, included below, about the careers of Esther and her sisters, all of whom were successful in their fields; an unusual set of sisters for the time, for sure!
In 1927, at the age of 46, Esther retired from the theater. It was at this time that her interest in poetry bloomed, and she became a regular on national radio programs, reading her poems. Her book, “One-A-Penny: One Hundred Poems” was self-published in 1932 when she was 51 years of age.
Esther's nephew, Karl Tyndall Dworak, son of her sister Anna, apparently was responsible for printing Esther's book of poetry. The copyright page states that it was “Hand Printed and Bound by The Tyndall Press, Madison, CT, U.S.A.” As printing does not appear to have been Mr. Dworak's profession (he was a civil engineer), I'm assuming it was a hobby and was done as a labor of love for his aunt. I wonder if he would be surprised or pleased that a few of his creations survive to this day!
At any rate, Esther leaves us with some charming pieces to ponder. She died 22 May 1955 in Connecticut. Her home was in Madison, CT at that time. She was 74 years old.
[article from The Daily Plainsman, Huron, South Dakota, Saturday October 25, 1930]
One-A-Penny: One Hundred Poems
(1932)
by Esther Pinch
Memory
Memory
I can remember my first day of spring.
I was so small, so very very small.
The grass was tall.
The air was like a spreading crystal pool,
So warm, so cool:
And marvelously smooth and clear and high
Was all the sky.
Across the grass the shadow, where a bird
Flew past unheard.
It was the first time I had seen a day
In that clear way!
Now I can just recall, remembering.
Old Mirror
Old Mirror
The mirror in my room is misty
as if covered
With a film of the reflections
that have passed before its face,
And I see myself but dimly
as I see the trees and house tops,
Through curtains made of lace.
I see myself but dimly
as if I were entangled
With neckties, rouge and powder,
with vanity and tears,
With passion, grace and laughter,
caught in a strange deposit
And faded with the years.
Old Maid
Old Maid
Why should I care greatly
If love pass me by?
There is always weather,
And a sweep of sky,
Wild and thrilling motion
Of clouds swift in flight,
And the endless majesty
Of stars at night.
Love may sometimes bring delight—
Just as often pain,
But is it at any time
Sweet as summer rain?
In November I've seen clouds
Purple as a stretch of heather,
And I've walked through winter streets
Where the air was all a-feather,
And the snow flakes and myself
Walked like friends together.
Sea Rain
Sea Rain
The rain upon the ocean shore
Is different from the inland rain;
It has a tang of restless pain,
Of tides, and waves which beat and roar.
There is the spice of tropic breeze
Where on gold shores warm water laps,
And mermaids juggle pearls, perhaps,
In coral groves beneath the seas.
There's typhoon, and the cry that lingers
From sea-gulls, and from men who die
Alone, - these things all blend and try
To touch me with their salty fingers.
Reserve
Reserve
Sorrow made me
Grow a hedge
Round my heart,
A bright green edge
Where leaves sway
And wild birds sing.
If some day
You have something
Special, you
Would say to me,
Part the branches
Carefully;
Part them with
Great skill, because
There are thorns
As sharp as claws.
Dead Birch Tree
Dead Birch Tree
There are no leaves to hold the wind;
It quietly slips through
A web of branches, and the sky
Above is sharply blue.
Only a memory from which
Both joy and pain have fled
Could be so delicately white,
So exquisitely dead.
Bird Patterns
I would not care for wealth or fame or love
Or twisted misery - if only I
Might never lose the sense that the wide sky,
Held circling patterns made by flying birds.
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