Discoveries

Yesterday, as a project to keep my mind off of my restless leg while heading home from Seattle, I decided to begin working on my friend Robin's family tree.  She has done some of it already, so I made up some rules for the game - she could only tell me her full name, DOB, POB, and ditto for her parents.  From there I had to find her family.

Weird, but fun.

We made it to her greats and then were almost home, so the game worked, and I got to find out things about my friend.

One of the things I discovered is that she had a relative who falls into the category of "liar, liar, pants on fire"  He had a metal that he supposedly earned in WWI.  We discovered that yes, indeed, he did serve in WWI for the US.  In the supply depot.  And no records of any metals earned for bravery or valiant service.  I still have some researching to do, because I wonder if the wrong man was given the medal - there were several gentlemen with his same first and last name, but with different or non-noted middle initials.  Who knows?

When you research your family's past, as I have said before, you risk uncovering things about your family that aren't true.  Or things that you don't like.  I always tell people that they should only engage a genealogist if they are willing to face the truth, are willing to extend some compassion to those long dead, and have a sense of humor about themselves. 

Having a sneaking suspicion that grandpa was less than honest is not the same as discovering he really was an out-an-out liar.  That nagging feeling that somehow grannie's story about how the family bought the farmstead for such a bargain may prove right and there was some legal chicanery involved in that "bargain".

But sometimes simply knowing what life was like in the past helps you to realize that something you found distressing or even shameful wasn't at all like it looks on paper.

That leads me to another friend who loves genealogy but was mourning the fact that there appeared to be a number of births in her family that occurred much too close to the wedding date for the baby to be such a strapping young thing.  But once I explained to her the tradition of publicly announcing the intention to marry, then setting up housekeeping, and THEN going ahead with the ceremony once the circuit riding minister or justice of the peace made his possibly twice-yearly trip through the area, she felt much better about her family's morals.

Is knowing history necessary? No.  But is sure does help us to understand our families and ourselves at times.

Father's Day Genealogy

     Sunday was Father's Day, a good day to consider more family genealogy.  "Dad" is a good place to start when you begin working on your family tree.  I am fortunate - I know who my biological father is:  John R. James.  Not everyone does, you know.  Makes putting your family tree together a little bit on the difficult side.  And, as an extra added bonus, I had my dad for 44 years.  Again, not everyone else is so lucky.
     My dad was the next to youngest.  He was the youngest for 10 years, then my Uncle Mike came along and usurped that position.  His older siblings were a LOT older than him.  His oldest brother, my Uncle Bill, was 12 years older than him, and was almost like a second father. 

     I have several letters that Bill wrote to Dad during WWII and later, and it is clear that there was a close relationship between them.  So close that Mom and Dad honeymooned in Washington DC, Bill's home.
 

     My dad's dad was Melvin Chester James.  For obvious reasons, he didn't go by "Melvin", but "Mike".  And my dad's mom was Mary May McConahy.  Growing up (I have mentioned this before), we heard stories of the James side of the family, and I honestly think that if I hadn't sat down and grilled Grandma on her siblings and parents' names, that information would be almost completely forgotten.
     But back to Melvin Chester for now.  Apparently he was quite the story teller, and, like my son, he never let the truth get in the way of a good, or potentially better, story.  So my task as the family historian has been full of big and little disappointments:  we are NOT descended from an Indian chief; our James relatives seemed to have an uncanny ability to make and lose fortunes left and right; and Grandpa was a rather self-absorbed jerk.

     One thing I have discovered is that my family, the James branch, was full of scoundrels.  The lovable kind, but scoundrels nevertheless.  The first one to come to America appears to have been on the wanted list of the British authorities when he boarded the ship with a large group of Jameses.  We know his first name was James, and that he was single when he boarded, but when he landed his LAST name was also James, and he was married to one of Mr. James' daughters.  Our ancestor was able to disembark with the clan - all the sons, daughters, and in-laws - right under the unsuspecting British noses.
     We don't know how the marriage worked, but James and his wife, Sarah, stayed together for their entire lives.  And produced a number of children.

     I have also enjoyed discovering that my James family has ALWAYS been boring when it came to naming the children.  There are two James Jameses, and two Thomas Jameses.  Children all seemed to be named either James, Thomas, Robert, or William.  Only middle initials distinguish one from another.
     I mention this because my father's sisters all seemed to marry men named "John"  One aunt even married two different men with the first name of "John".  And on an unrelated note, another aunt married Earl who goes by "Bud".  His son, a behemoth of a man, large and wide, goes by "Little Bud"  I guess the James family has a certain sense of humor, too.

     So happy belated Father's Day to you dads.  And to my dad, I still miss you.  But thanks for giving me such an odd, unique, and lovable family!

A Picture is Worth....

The man on the right is my grandfather.  Maybe.  Or it could be the son of the people who took my grandfather in after his mother died.  Or maybe that's the guy in the middle.  What we do know for sure is that we have no idea who the man on the left is.  And as for the car.....not a clue.

So if I am so unsure as to the subject of the photo, why am I posting it?

To make a point:  take advantage of the family members who are alive and ask questions.

Go through photographs with your family and talk about them.  Who is that in the photo?  When was it taken?  Where?  What is happening in the photo?

The more specific information that you have, the better.

For instance:

This is my grandfather, Austin Cecil Tasker, and my grandmother, Edith Mae Wise Tasker.  The photo is of their 25th anniversary and was taken in the dining room of their home on Court Ave. in Somerset, PA.  Grandpa was NEVER this casual, but he and grandma had been out working on their garden and came home to a surprise party.  (and one other detail, the cabinet on the left side of the room is now in the home of my mom, their youngest daughter).

Sadly, my mother and her slightly older brother, Bill, are the only ones left in their family to identify people and places.  Mom and Uncle Bill help me out a lot with names and dates and places, but sometimes - like in that first photo - we draw a blank.  And while it is obvious that the photo was important, we have no idea why.

So every time I spend time with my Mom I haul out old photos and/or pepper her with questions.  What was their dinner routine like?  Who took out the trash?  How did grandma and grandpa deal with poor school grades?  How did each child end up with their name?

Remember, your family history is the collection of stories and information that you and your family have collected.  Make sure you have your copy of it!

Branch and root, the tree is growing in more ways than one!

This is my son and new daughter.  You might say this is my step-son and his new wife, my step-daughter-in-law, but I don't particularly care for those titles.  They imply that Jeremy isn't really my son.  That I was married to his father, but not really anything to him.  Nonsense.  I was one of his mothers from the time he was 9 years old.  Yes, he has a biological mother, the woman who carried him and gave birth to him.  The woman who nurtured him and loved him.

But I chose him as my son.  Just as those of you who adopted children chose those specific boys and girls to be your very own, I chose to include Jeremy as one of my sons.  I helped him with homework.  I made his favorite foods.  I played soccer with him  I listened to endless monologues about Pokemon cards, and later about World of Warcraft.  I made him do chores, and cried with him and laughed with him and saw him grow up.  Like his father, I worried about him, and fretted over his decisions, and scolded and praised and complimented and loved.  Always loved.

My husband and I have decided that we will not have daughters-in-law.  Instead, we will have daughters.  My husband always wanted a daughter: girly and giggly and sweet and oh-so-pretty.  Jenn is that daughter and so much more.  She is loving and giving and kind.  She makes our son happy.  She makes us proud to include her in our family.  And, as an added bonus, we don't have to worry about who she dates!

So what, you might ask, does this have to do with a family genealogy blog?

A lot!

With the addition of Jenn to our family, I have two entirely new family lines to incorporate into my research.  I am going to challenge myself, just for the fun of it, and do my best not to ask Jenn or her great mom and dad for any more information than what I already ought to know.  So I know her name, DOB, her parents' names and approximate ages, her sisters' names and approximate ages, places the family lived, and if I can make my brain cooperate, I can add in some grand-parental names, too.

But even more importantly, adding Jenn to our family is a reaffirmation of how I view history and families.

  History, in my book, is the story of the people.  The story of men and women and their lives and actions and reactions and the impact they had on the world around them as well as the future world.  I am not, nor have I ever been, good at dates or memorizing "important" facts.  But I do excel at putting the pieces of the story together and making a whole tapestry of a life out of a few threads and half an old photograph.  And to me, that is the beauty of history.  It is the story of people who lived before me, people with passions and lives and loves and losses similar to my own.

Families are the people we love who surround our lives and hearts.  The may be related by blood or marriage.  Or they may be related by a common bond or the tug of heartstrings.  Whether our families are so "traditional" and "nuclear" and "normal" that they put Norman Rockwell to shame, or they are blended and reblended and then frapped, sizzled, stirred, flipped, and blended again, they are the people who love us and make us not only who we are, but better people than we ever imagined we could possibly become.

When I do research for "non-traditional" families I am struck not by the differences in their family from the rest, but the similarities.  Whether you grew up with a single mom, single dad, a mom and a dad, two moms, two dads, three or four or more parents, or no parents; biologically related parents, court-appointed parents, or many random parents - these parents helped shape you, for good or for ill, into the man or woman that you are today.

I fear that I am talking without saying anything, or at least what I wanted to say, so I am going to stop here.

To Jeremy and Jenn and all the newlyweds, regardless of how many years you have celebrated an anniversary of any sort, I wish you all the best, and happy hunting as you uncover your past!

Roadblock

Meet my great x four grandfather, William Pringle, Jr.  In this photograph he seems to be kind of cranky, which probably explains why William has provided me with my first genealogical "roadblock".

In genealogical research you usually start with yourself and your parents, then slowly build a hug reverse pyramid with the parents of your parents, then those parents, etc.  Along the way I search for spouses so that I can add their family tree, other children of the marriage, and lots of documentation to prove that my information is correct.  Sometimes you get stopped when the records are lost (a courthouse fire in Washington state has slowed me down in researching my husband's family).  Sometimes the research gets far enough in the past that records are scarce, especially online (my Dui/Duy/Douay/de Douay family is slowing considerably now that I am researching in 1500s France).  And sometimes the records just stop.  You get to an old enough time and a rural enough place, and there is nowhere to research.

But sometimes you get an inexplicable roadblock.  Like William.  I know who is father and mother are (William Pringle, Sr. and Mary Wertz) and their love story, their lives, and their parents are known.  William, Jr.'s daughter, Sophia (AKA Susannah), is also no mystery to me.  I even know for whom she was named.

It's Mrs. William that is proving difficult.  The records clearly tell that William taught school in the fall, winter, and spring, then went back to his parents' home to help on the farm in the summer.  One fall he returned to school with a wife, who later bore him Sophia.  But no name.

Sadly, no name for a wife is not all that unusual, but William was a teacher, and therefore assumed to be lettered, so he ought to have left some record of the Mrs.  And they lived in a time and place (1800s PA and later Ohio) where you could reasonably expect to find court documents, newspaper articles, and other references to the Mrs.  But alas, no.

So I am letting William's roadblock sit and simmer for a while.  Sometimes you just have to let it go and then later your refreshed mind can find new avenues of research for discovery.  And sometimes you simply have to admit defeat and move on.  But since I am related to that cranky-looking man in the photograph, I think that final option isn't too likely! 

July 7, 1863 1997. 

We met because he was interested in speaking to my US History class about the daily experiences of the Civil War soldier.  We fell in love and did much of our courting in the Victorian world.

I will never forget the shock of the real tears I shed as we portrayed some living history involving his sudden demise after a battle.  The kindly matron of the hospital cut a lock of his hair for me to keep and I followed, weeping, as two unconcerned soldiers carried him out of the way to unceremoniously dump him under a tree.

He proposed to me in front of our reenacting family, telling me that a simple, one word answer would make him the happiest soldier in the world.

Our wedding was straight out of an 1863 book for ministers.  We plighted our troth (our loyalty or faithfulness, in case you were wondering) and I even agreed to "obey".  Or at least he insists that I said it.  He has yet to provide the proof.

These days he is no longer a lowly private.  He has risen through the ranks and was recently elected to the position of the Commander of the Union Battalion of the Army of the Willamette.

No, we are not freaks.  We hold normal jobs, he is a math professor, I work for the US Government.  The Civil War is a hobby for us.  A way to spend several exciting, cold, wet, hot, dirty, exhausting, glorious, fun weekends each year honoring the men and women who lived and sacrificed nearly 150 years ago.

I grew up knowing that my great-great grandfather fought in the Civil War as a cavalryman.  But when I began to research good old "William A." I discovered that he was not the only relative of mine who fought in the Civil War. 

Great-great grandfather "Big Tom" saw action at Fredericksburg, the Wilderness, and Cold Harbor.  Considering the bloodbaths that all three were for the Union Army - more than 13,000 casualties (10%+) at Fredericksburg, nearly 18,000 casualties at the Wilderness (18+), and over 12,000 casualties (10%+) for Cold Harbor in 20 minutes - is it any wonder that I suspect that post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) is to blame for his bizarre assertion to the US Pension Department that his wife of nearly 40 years was openly living with other men and therefore should be denied any portion of his pension.  Poor Big Tom eventually fled his home in Pennsylvania and resettled in Los Angeles where he lived in the Diabled Soldier's Home until his death in 1913.

As I continue my ancestral research I will continue to update you, offering stories as I uncover them.