Last week I located the very street corner where my grandmother, Bertha Carolyn Ogle, was struck 65 years ago. Most of the dignified brick and stone buildings at the corner of Broadway and Main predate her death. Standing where she likely had stood, it was easy for me to imagine how the accident might have unfolded. It was 6 p.m., about the time of day she was hit by a driver headed due west with the sun in his eyes. In the inquest that followed, the driver (who happened to be a neighbor) testified that he didn’t see her step from the curb. He was booked on a charge of reckless driving, but was later acquitted. Witnesses reported that Carrie, as she was known to friends and family, might have been crossing against the red light.
For now, this blog post will have to suffice. I barely scratched the surface of my family’s history while in Butte, and with my dad and his sisters all dead, everything I learn from here on out will be at least second-hand. It’s good to know a little of where I come from as it helps to explain some of who I am. I regret that my dad was not a loquacious man—unlike his sisters—and by the time I was old enough to want to know his story, he was too deep into Alzheimer’s to remember. So I’m left with only fragments of my history, such as the events surrounding the sad demise of Carrie Ogle on a busy intersection on a bright September afternoon.