Climbing Family Trees

Step By Step Guide

2011-05-26T14:32:00.000-07:00

I recently discovered this terrific book!
It's called "The Step-By-Step Genealogy Guide" with family tree charts, research forms, and instructions. He covers all the basics and compares a lot of other products out there to help make your family history sleuthing easier.

He offers a 100% money-back guarantee, which you don't often find in books! You can even download it quickly and start reading it today.

Check it out!
http://65d4epihs3swcvc6n9q3ktdr94.hop.clickbank.net/?tid=1

Some of the material covered is:
Chapter 1: Getting Started

(Learn Exactly How to Get Things Started)

•Short Introduction

•Paperwork in Order

•Family Interviews

•Initial Databases

•Government Sources

•Leaning on Others

•References/ Action items

Chapter 2: How to Complete a Family Tree Chart

(Learn The Mechanics and What All The Sections Mean)

•Mastering the Six-Generation Family Tree Chart

•Step-by-Step: Generations One Through Three

•Step-by-Step: Generations Four Through Six

•Seven Generations and Beyond

Chapter 3: Searching Cemeteries

(Where to Find Free Cemetery Search Websites)

•How to Start

•Cemeteries Online

•Visiting a Cemetery

•Cleaning a Headstone

•References/ Action items

Chapter 4: Searching Public Records

(The Best Free Accurate Public Record Sources)
•Legal Names & Birth Dates

•Office of Vital Records

•Dept. of Veteran’s Affairs

•The U.S. Census

•Local Courthouses

•Other Public Record Sources

•References/ Action items

Chapter 5: Genealogy Reunion

(How To Best Approach Your Living Relatives)

•Reunion Committee

•Committee Agenda

•At the Reunion

•Reunion Warning

•References/ Action items

Chapter 6: The LDS Utah Center

(EVERYTHING You Need to Know The LDS)

•The Website

•Preparing for Your Visit

•LDS Orientation

•Doing Research

•References/ Action items

Check it out!

http://65d4epihs3swcvc6n9q3ktdr94.hop.clickbank.net/?tid=1

Donating as a Family Tradition

2011-05-18T11:38:00.000-07:00

After 45 years, Jerry Lewis is retiring as host of the Muscular Dystrophy Association’s Labor Day telethon. The 85-year-old comedian and Las Vegas resident issued a statement Monday through the Tucson, Ariz.-based Muscular Dystrophy Association calling it time for a “new telethon era.”

He says he’ll make his final appearance on the six-hour primetime telethon Sept. 4 by performing his song “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” Lewis says he’ll continue as the association’s national chairman, a role he’s held since the early 1950s.

I remember watching him host the famous telethon on TV when I was a little girl. For some reason, I was determined to stay up all night and show him my virtual support. Of course, I'd fall asleep long before he was through dazzling audiences and earning money for the cause. He was an amazing host and will always be a beloved icon in American entertainment. He could have retired many years ago, but he seems to truly love the cause.

The MDA telethon has become an American Labor Day tradition in many homes. The entertainment extravaganza features an impressive lineup, and this year will be no different. I love that the people invited to cross his stage are not only big celebrities, but any ole regular "Joe" who wants to help and present a check.

The telethon for "Jerry's Kids" warms hearts and opens wallets, raising millions of dollars each year. The generous viewers donated almost $60 million in 2010. That's especially touching considering unemployment levels hit double digits across the nation and the tough economy hit hard on most families. Will the 2011 TV event see similar fundraising success?

When it comes to giving, Americans donate more money than any other country in the world. While we may be blamed for cold capitalism, Americans open their wallets generously every time. We want to help. Our hearts ache to make a positive difference in the world.

Muscular dystrophy is a crippling disease, which currently has no known cure. You'll be able to contribute your support with Jerry one more time by watching the broadcast on 190 "Love Network" TV stations, as well as view online streaming at www.mda.org

Before you donate money to any cause, be sure it is a legitimate organization. Cybercriminals put out phony emails and web sites, looking for your cash after a natural disaster. Internet Security specialist, Symantec, encourages two safeguards:

1. Do not click on suspicious email links

2. Never fill out forms that ask for your financial information, personal data or passwords

Some web sites that can help you judge which charity you want to support, check out these resources:

www.charityfacts.org

www.charitynavigator.org

www.philanthropycapital.org

Creating a tradition of giving in your family can begin today!

Do celebrities have better roots than the rest of us?

2009-10-14T06:04:00.000-07:00

Former "Friends" star Lisa Kudrow is taking celebs back to their roots for the family tree reality series "Who Do You Think You Are?" "It's far from the E! True Hollywood Story.

We have a tendency to put celebrities on a pedestal. No show has treated stars this way before,' Dan Bucatinsky added. "Who Do You Think You Are?" is a 42-minute show with commercials, and producers are working closely with a team of historians and genealogists to trace back celebs' roots. NBC.com is working on a partnership with online genealogy powerhouse Ancestry.com to create a cross-platform interactive Web site to coincide with the launch of the series. The hope is that people will tune in because it's Sarah Jessica Parker or Susan Sarandon," Kudrow said.

New Administrative Guide for Family History available online!

2008-05-02T08:49:00.000-07:00

The new (8-page) ADMINISTRATIVE GUIDE FOR FAMILY HISTORY is now available online from the LDS home page:
www.lds.org/pa/familyhistory/pdf/FCH_2007_05_AdminGuide_04397_eng_.pdf

It includes a list of administrative responsibilities for family history.

Also online are three family history articles:

Howard W. Hunter, "A Temple-Motivated People," Ensign, Feb. 1995, 2–5

http://www.lds.org/pa/library/0,17905,7315-1,00.html

Dennis B. Neuenschwander, "Bridges and Eternal Keepsakes," Ensign, May 1999, 83–85

http://www.lds.org/pa/library/0,17905,7316-1,00.html

Dallin H. Oaks, "Family History: 'In Wisdom and Order,'" Ensign, June 1989, 6–8.

http://www.lds.org/pa/library/0,17905,7376-1,00.html

Book signings

2007-10-07T10:05:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone!

My twin sister and I have been out and about, doing book signings and speaking at fun genealogy conferences around the country for our book "Climbing Family Trees, Whispers In the Leaves." We'd love to meet you! To see a list of where we'll be and when we'll be there, check out www.boicebox.com/aboutus.html

Check out the new ROOTS TELEVISION!

2006-11-08T10:18:00.000-08:00

Trina and Tracey are now co-hosts on the newly launched Roots Television! Check out the web site and be sure to see their entertaining Vlogs (video Blogs) which change daily. Go to www.rootstelevision.com and then click on "Vlogs" and then click on "Climbing Family Trees". Of course you'll want to take a peek at everything on the web site and you'll be kept mighty busy because there is a TON to see! You're gonna love it!

Eastman's Online Genealogy newsletter

2006-06-04T19:45:00.000-07:00

Here's another great genealogy blog I thought you might enjoy:
Go to www.eogn.blog.com

Fun ways to get children involved in doing family history

2006-05-30T16:46:00.000-07:00

1. They know that at age 12, they will need some family names to taketo the Temple to do baptisms. They have to do the research themselves and submit the disc and everything. I have conveniently forgotten totell them that the Temple will provide names if they don't have anyfamily names ready to go. Of course, they figure that out on theirfirst trip to the Temple, but by then they already know how to do it. The Fam Hist Ctr isn't open Monday nights, but we've done researchover the internet together and had "how to use PAF" lessons for FHE.

2. I've made pedigree chart puzzles. Two kinds have worked -- a regular chart laminated and cut up and also a blank chart laminatedwith the names laminated seprately (put he names in the right spaceson the chart). It's important to make one for each child - they reallylike putting their own name on the chart! Somehow it totally loses itsappeal if your sibling is person number one.

3. Family Tree shirts. We all made matching T-shirts onto which we haddrawn trees with names. I copied the basic design from a baby book and we used fabric pens (from JoAnn Fabrics).

4. We have an occassional FHE dedicated to an ancestor or ancestralfamily group. Make a timeline of their life showing their personalactivities as well as historical factoids to put it in perspective (what was going on in US history? What inventions were new?). Show asample of their handwriting. Have kids try to copy it.

5. For a long time we had a huge paper chain family tree extendingback 5 generations. Each person was either dark or light pink or blue (showing gender and whether or not individual Temple ordinances werecomplete) and each family group was linked by either a black or whitepaper link (whether or not the family had been sealed). Whenever myhusband and I went to the Temple, the kids helped us swap out links to show the progress we had made. But eventualy, all we had left were thedark and black links for living family members who were not Churchmembers. We made the original link-tree as a FHE project. It waspretty messy (you couldn't just look at it and see the relationships), but if you found one particular link you could definitely follow thechain around to see how they were related to others.

WWI Draft cards - free to search during February 2006

2006-02-03T14:20:00.000-08:00

World War One Draft Cards database will be free to search (with registration) during February 2006. Registration requires your name and email address. To take advantage of this offer go to the webpage below and click on the WWI Draft Cards link near the top...Free Genealogy Stuff Online - Charts, Forms, Software & Online Recordshttp://www.researchguides.net/free.htm<http://www.researchguides.net/freehtm>

Family Fun Jar

2006-01-25T14:20:00.000-08:00

Here's a new twist on that “Journal Jar” idea. Put ideas for creative, fun activities onto colored slips of paper and then into a decorated mason jar or even one of those round, cardboard oatmeal boxes. The family can draw out ideas for fun activities every week on a designated day, at family reunions, or whenever the family wants to create fun memory. Here are just a few ideas of activities to get you started:

Buy several candy bars, enough for the family plus some extra. Put them in a pile in the middle of the circle of chairs so that everyone can see them. Put a pair of dice in a pie plate. Then you just start sending it around the circle. Everyone shakes the dice into the pie plate when it comes to them. You have to roll a double, 7, or 11 in order to choose a candy bar from the pile. When you roll a double, 7, or 11 you can choose a bar from the pile, or you can take your candy from whoever has the one you want. When you take a bar, you should put it under your chair. You can’t put it behind your back so that it is totally out of sight, but you can hide it a bit so that some people might forget about the one that you have. It gets fun when you start taking the candy from other people. When all the candy is gone from the pile, or at the end of a designated playing time, whatever candy you do or do not have, is what you get.

Pass around a roll of toilet paper. Everyone tears off as much as they 'need'. Then for every square they have to tell something about their day.

Draw It Out - Everyone picks a name of a family member and tells no one. Then they have to draw something about the person that will help others guess who it is.

The Blanket Game - divide group into 2 teams. Have each team gather on their own blanket. They must, as a team, turn the blanket over without touching the floor, if they touch the floor they must straighten out the blanket and start over. The first team to accomplish this wins. Size of blanket depends on size of group. If it's a smaller family use crib blankets.....

Play crab soccer using 36-inch balloons. You can get them at any party store. You'd have to play inside though. One balloon should last for the activity, however have a spare in case it pops. Everybody removes their shoes and get in a crab position (bellies up). They can't use their hands to hit the balloon - only their feet. If you want to make it real fun, throw 2 balloons in at the same time.

Make a family collage. Put things on it that are things to do with your family. When you are finished have judging (the kids don't know they are being judged) The categories will be fun such as using up the most space on the page, the most creative, etc.

Have a relay with three different teams. Each person has to run down to the end and put on an item representing a member of the family, then quickly take them off and run back. Each person will do this until one team wins.

Hold a no-charge carwash for neighbors and friends.

Play FROLF (Frisbee golf)

Set up flags in a park and have the family see how many throws it takes to hit the flag on each hole with the Frisbee. It's scored just like golf.

Go fishing!

Write letters to missionaries or military servicemen and women who are far from home.

Start a love bucket--decorate a bucket and fill it with treats with a note attached calling it a love bucket, asking the receivers to pass it along and then deliver it to someone in the ward.

Gather together all of the ironing and take turns helping mom or dad iron it.

Heart attack someone's house--tape paper hearts on shishkabob bamboo sticks and put them in his yard.

Have dad (or somebody else) teach the family how to change a tire.

Make "Cookie Mix in a Jar" and take to a family you know. Use wide mouth fruit jar. Add in layers: 2 1/4 cups flour, 3/4 cup brown sugar, 3/4 cup granulated sugar, 1 tsp salt, 1 tsp baking soda, 1 cup chocolate chips. Cut a nine inch round fabric circle. Cover lid with fabric. Tie with a ribbon and attach recipe/card folded in 4th with hole punched in upper center corner.
Recipe card: Cookie Mix in a Jar. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Remove bag of chocolate chips. Empty contents of jar into bowl. Add 2 eggs, 1 cup softened margarine and 1 tsp. vanilla. Mix well. Stir in chocolate chips. Drop by tablespoonfuls onto ungreased cookie sheet. Bake at 350 for 8-10 minutes. Yield: Approximately 3 dozen cookies.

Take your favorite family meal, with the recipe, to someone who needs a little TLC.

Have a progressive room cleaning party (each other's rooms)

Hold a 'Family History Night' and ask each person to come prepared to act out an ancestor's story or experience through charades, or through drawings.

Go to the library and check out records that have songs that were popular the year mom and dad or grandparents graduated from high school. Ask mom and dad or grandparents to show everyone the dances that went with the songs.

Split up into groups, each group with their own bag of props...i.e. poster board, bandanas, newspaper, pillows, a silk flower, clothes pins, straws, crayons, tape, scissors..felt, etc. Each group chooses a nursery rhyme or a fairy tale and makes up a skit based on that...but with a gospel twist, i.e. the three blind mice...who are spiritually blind and deaf in 1 ear...the farmers wife as the temptress..who lures the mice over to her...then chops their tails off, then have the spiritual part..where the mice and the farmers wife are all converted.

Play a board game

Start by playing, singing, saying a variety of different TV jingles/slogans and have the kids right down what the product is. Use everything from diapers to beer. Then start a scripture and have the kids try to finish it (write it down). Since, most of them will know all the jingles and very few scriptures you can go right into a discussion of the powerful influence of music and the media and that we need to be selective about what we choose to let into our minds.

Plan, plant and maintain a family garden

Interview family members, including grandparents, about their personal history on video tape and make several copies for family members.

Put together a family recipe book, including the favorite of each family member.

Make a family quilt and donate to a women's shelter, local hospital, etc.

Make seasonal pillowcases, i.e.. Halloween, Christmas, Valentines Day, and give them to the pediatric unit at a hospital.

Organize a round robin letter to include extended family's missionaries, college students, married siblings. Each family write part of the letter and mails it onto the next family member to add to the letter.

Get the book that started it all!

2005-12-16T10:52:00.000-08:00

If you're interested in buying "Climbing Family Trees, Whispers In The Leaves" you can purchase it at any Deseret Books, Seagull Books, Ensign Books, Beehive Books, and any other LDS bookstore. You can also request it from your local Barnes & Noble, Waldenbooks, etc if it's not currently on the shelf. Ask for ISBN #1-932898-49-2. The book was written by Trina Boice and Tracey Long (twins!)

If you'd like to purchase an autographed copy for yourself or as a gift, write to trinaboice@adelphia.net

Dear Ancestor - Author Unknown

2005-11-02T16:27:00.000-08:00

Dear Ancestor
Author Unknown

Your tombstone stands among the rest;
neglected and alone
The name and date are chiseled out
on polished, marbled stone
It reaches out to all who care
It is too late to mourn
You did not know that I exist
You died and I was born.
Yet each of us are cells of you
in flesh, in blood, in bone.
Our blood contracts and beats a pulse
entirely not our own.
Dear Ancestor, the place you filled
one hundred years ago
Spreads out among the ones you left
who would have loved you so.
I wonder if you lived and loved,
I wonder if you knew
That someday I would find this spot,
and come to visit you.

The Computer Swalled Grandma - Author Unknown

2005-11-02T16:22:00.000-08:00

“THE COMPUTER SWALLOWED GRANDMA”
Author Unknown
(Seen on GenHumor-L@rootsweb.com)

The computer swallowed grandma.
Yes, honestly its true.
She pressed 'control' and 'enter'
And disappeared from view.

It devoured her completely,
The thought just makes me squirm.
She must have caught a virus
Or been eaten by a worm.

I've searched through the recycle bin
And files of every kind;
I've even used the internet,
But nothing did I find.

In desperation, I asked Jeeves
My searches to refine.
The reply from him was negative,
Not a thing was found 'online'.

So, if inside your 'Inbox,'
My Grandma you should see,
Please 'Copy', 'Scan' and 'Paste' her
And send her back to me!

Charlemagne's Greatest Accomplishment by Michael Jensen

2005-11-02T16:21:00.000-08:00

“Charlemagne’s Greatest Accomplishment”
Michael Jensen
There are so many stories connected with genealogy that have happened to me over many years. Perhaps a love story would best relate how the past and the present intertwine. When the Ancestral File T was first introduced I was a new volunteer at our local LDS Family History Center and went to the annual Utah Genealogical Society conference in Salt Lake City. That year's featured speaker was introducing the new five CD-ROM version of Ancestral File T. Ancestral File T was introduced as the "Descendancy of Charlemagne". Of course, the expert went on to explain that over ninety percent of the people in Europe, the United States and Canada descend through Charlemagne or his family that he put in power.
On the way home I stopped in a bookstore to see if I could find a good history of Charlemagne. I couldn’t find what I wanted, so I ordered one of 300 pages in French. The clerk convinced me that it would be months before the book came in and suggested another in English. When it arrived a few weeks later I was never so disappointed in my life. It was a glorified comic book of 36 pages and three paragraphs of text spread out with less than a sentence per page.
In the disappointment over the Charlemagne book I researched an old "Book In Print" book and found that Bullfinch, of the Bullfinch's mythology fame, had written a three volume set. The third volume was the History of Charlemagne, but it was out of print. I called my daughter in Salt Lake City and asked her to go down to the largest used book store and see if she could find this three hundred dollar set of books at a less expensive “used” price. My daughter, Amy Jo, said she needed a Chemistry Handbook for work and had to go there anyway, so she was happy to look for my book. She called me from the store and said that a clerk had found a newer printing of Bullfinches and it was only fifty dollars. Thrilled, I told her to buy it for me.

Two hours later she called back and said she had just got off the phone with the clerk of the store and had received not one date, but two! It seems that Bob, the clerk, noticed that she had purchased a Chemistry Handbook, a History of Charlemagne and a Science Fiction book, leaving her name and number for the store to call her when the books came in. Seeing they had a lot in common, he said he couldn't wait and wanted to call her right away to ask her if she would like to go see the movie “The Last of the Mohicans” with him. When she agreed he then added that in order to see the film in its "true" context they had to see the movie "1492" first. Two dates.
Of course, at Thanksgiving he came home to meet us and by Christmas they were engaged. In June they were married. All because we’re related to Charlemagne. Out of all of the great accomplishments that Charlemagne had, I would say this was one of his greatest!

Are you really you? - Author unknown

2005-11-02T16:18:00.001-08:00

Are you really you?
Author unknown

My grandma says
I've Daddy's nose.
Before I came
He'd two I s'pose?
She always adds,
"And what is more,
You've Mother's eyes."
Did she have four?
I understand
About my hair,
For Daddy's head
Is kind of bare.
But what I'd like
To really know,
What puzzles me
And tries me so....
Is - Am I just some odds and ends,
Parts of my relatives
And friends?
Or do you think
That it can be
There's something left
That's really ME?

Personal Notice by Jean Childress

2005-11-02T16:18:00.000-08:00

“Personal Notice”
Jean Childress
Upshur County, West Virginia

My husband's grandfather's sister, Julia Childress, was married to Henry Eagle. Henry was the assumed turncoat who betrayed the Union Troops at Centerville, (now Rock Cave) (W)VA early in the Civil War.

The pattern was for the Union troops (home guards) to practice their drills each Saturday morning on the parade grounds at the Fort at Centerville, while the wives and children did their weekly shopping. The men would stack their rifles on the edge of the field while doing their drills. On this particular Saturday morning in 1862, Henry, his brother and father were missing from drill practice. The Confederate troops captured the Union troops without a shot being fired and marched them down the Beveraly Pike to prison. Many of they died in Andersonville.

Later, Henry joined the Confederate Army and was subsequently captured and taken to prison at Camp Chase, OH. I have copies of the letters he wrote to Julia in 1864 from prison, which give no sign but that he expected to be released from prison and hoped to return home to take his wife and children west to escape further danger or involvement in the War.

Just a few days after the letters were written, Julia is said to have heard a noise at her door. She went to the door to answer the knock and "saw" Henry laying dead on the door step. A few days later she received word that it was the exact time that Henry actually died in prison.

It Was Only A Flesh Wound by W. Wayne Mikell

2005-11-02T16:17:00.000-08:00

“It Was Only A Flesh Wound!”
W. Wayne Mikell
Charlotte, Harbor, FL

In my family, the fable was told that four of eight brothers (my great uncles), Allen, Seaborn, William and Mikell, fought for the Confederate Army at the Battle of Olustee, Florida. While advancing against the Union troops and climbing a fence, Allen fell back. One of his brothers grimly said, "Looks like they got Allen," whereupon Allen jumped up and said "Like Hell they did!” The fable continues that the brothers reported that Allen had been hit between the eyes with a rifle ball which only pierced his skin, following up and over his head under the scalp and exiting at the back of his head. They said he went on to gloriously finish the battle.

When I got into family genealogy, I found out that the four brothers had, indeed, been in the Battle of Olustee, and that Allen had, in fact, sustained a head wound. Allen was sent to the hospital, where he recovered from his wound. He didn’t continue to fight gloriously, but it was glorious that he wasn’t’ killed in battle! He returned home, fathered seven children, who in turn blessed him with 16 grandchildren. He died in 1892.

I have come to believe that a lot of the old stories which are passed down through the years have at least some factual basis.

Foiling Old Fables by Catherine Foote Lynn

2005-11-02T16:16:00.000-08:00

“Foiling Old Fables”
Catherine Foote Lynn
Copyright 2001-2005

I was on a genealogy mission. I had traveled to North Central Iowa in search of evidence that my grandmother, who was adopted, had been taken as their own by another member of her actual birth family. I suspected that she was the birth child of her adoptive father’s sister and I wanted to find out all that I could about the Bickford family. My destination was the small and lovely village of Rockford, Iowa.

I had called ahead to the library in Rockford to find out if they kept any genealogy records, and I mentioned to the lady who was just filling in that day to help that I was interested in Bickfords. When I arrived about two weeks later, I was surprised that the whole library was only slightly larger than my kitchen! The regular librarian literally met me at the door. Her name was Rita, and she enthusiastically asked, "Are you from the Chauncy Bickford line?" When I said yes she nearly jumped for joy. She explained, “Seems the town lost all track of any of the Bickfords after 1951.” That was when my great-great aunt Mary Sido (pronounced Seedo) Bickford had died.

Rita had several things ready for me, including the obituaries for my great-great grandparents, Chauncy and Electa Bickford. I was really excited about that, but she kept asking what I knew about Mary and Sim, especially Mary. She was being a bit strange and after I had finished hand- copying the obituaries (because there was no copy machine, and I didn't want to seem too "big city" by bringing in my portable scanner and laptop), I finally just flat out asked what was the big deal about Mary (Sido) Bickford. Here's the story:

Rita was about my age, mid 50's, and she said she actually met Mary Bickford when she was a child, shortly before Mary died at age 76, in 1951. She said her mother took her along to Mary's house since she was making sure Mary had food and medicine. Even as a small, girl Rita seemed to know that her mother was the only one in town who cared what happened to Mary. I told her that last year I had found a living Sido relative, an elderly woman who is a niece of Mary's and who also lived in Iowa. I had called her, asking if she had any information on the Bickfords. She refused to talk about them. Rita said, "Oh no, of course she wouldn't. The Sidos virtually disowned Mary!" Remember that Mary was the wife of a Bickford great-uncle and not really an object of intense interest to me - until then.

So, I pushed further, which was not difficult since Rita was anxious to talk about it. I knew that Mary and Sim had two sons who both died in infancy and were buried in a single grave next to their parents. Rita told me that when the first baby died everyone said, "Poor Mary." But when the second baby died, "the same way", the town was suspicious. Rumor was that both babies literally “starved to death." She said she often heard people refer to Mary as "strange" and "crazy." Her mother told her that Mary wasn't crazy, just very sad and very bitter. I remembered having something about the boys in my files and looked to see if I had it with me - I did. Floyd County Death Index (which I had copied, also by hand, last year when I was at the courthouse) stated: Bickford, Melvin C., son of Sim and Mary, died age 23 days, cause of death "Marasmus" and; Bickford, Roy Arthur, son of Sim and Mary, died age 20 days, cause of death "Marasmus."

Now, I hadn't given this much attention and had no idea what Marasmus was. So Rita grabbed a medical dictionary and looked for it. Not listed. Then she went to another stack, pulled out an old tome, dusted it off, and looked again for Marasmus. This was a medical dictionary from the turn of the century (the 20th.) Sure enough, there it was, describing an unexplained malnutrition and wasting away of infants, predominately males, resulting in death between the age of three to seven weeks. Bingo! I had bells and whistles going off in my head. I told Rita to get the "newer" medical dictionary again and look up Pyloric Stenosis. She found it easily: a birth defect involving a partial to complete blockage at the pyloric valve of the upper intestine, which affects mostly male infants causing malnutrition, and if not correctly diagnosed, and surgically treated, death usually ensues before 8 weeks postpartum.

Since Rita and I were alone I stood, lifted my shirt, and pointed to the scar that runs down my middle from breast bone to naval. "That" I said, "is one of the first successful surgeries performed on an infant with Pyloric Stenosis. And that operation occurred in February, 1946, in Kenosha, WI. I was five weeks old and within days of death from malnutrition and “starvation.” I then told Rita of at least one other documented case of Pyloric Stenosis in my family. I had witnessed my sister Mary’s son wasting away until the right diagnosis was made and the needed surgery saved his life. It’s an interesting irony that his mother’s name was Mary! Rita was stunned. "Oh my heavens!" she said, "She didn't kill them after all!"

That night I couldn't get Mary Sido Bickford off my mind. I remembered a vague reference to her and Uncle Sim in a letter that my father had written to his mother, Lutie. My father was apologizing for being remiss in writing to his great aunt and uncle. I recalled that in my father's postcard album there were literally dozens of cards from Aunt Mary to her sweet little nephew and "Lover Boy," all of them expressing the sentiments of a woman who apparently adored this child, my father. I remembered that my grandmother, Lutie, though adopted, was listed on the 1910 census as the one living child of Anna Bickford. She also listed four children born to her, but not living. I dug through my files and saw a pattern: Sim and Mary Bickford, two infant boys died in Rockford, IA; Charles Arthur and Lillie Bickford, infant boy died in Rockford, IA and then they left town. Luther and Anna Bickford had at least three infants who died near Rockford, IA, and then they left town. I began to remember how my mother would avoid talking about "the Bickfords."

Just a year ago I asked my oldest sister why she didn't remember Uncle Sim. She said “The adults would shoo us away when they talked about them.” And then my own grandmother Lutie, who deeply loved her adoptive parents, was also very secretive about the Bickfords. I had read a letter that my mother wrote to my grandmother Lutie while I was in the hospital, recovering from my Pyloric Stenosis surgery. She wrote how I was too small and frail for anesthesia so the doctor gave me whisky. This has always delighted my children who couldn't wait to tell their friends that their mother was drinking hard liquor when she was only a month old! (No wonder their parents looked strangely at me!) This night I tried to picture grandma Lutie reading that letter from my mother. Was she too, finally making the connection? She never said a word to me, or anyone else that I know of but I always felt that there was something- something about me that she found uncomfortable. Was it that I lived? Was it just my imagination? It was a long and melancholy night.

The next day I was planning to spend in Marble Rock, IA doing research on another family line for a break. When I was putting on my sweater to leave the hotel that morning I noticed that the beautiful American Flag pin that had been on it was missing. I couldn't find it anywhere. I knew that I had worn it the day before, so I decided to stop by the two places in Rockford where I had been, a darling little combination restaurant and gift shop, and the library. I went to the restaurant first. No luck, but I left my card anyway in case the pin turned up. The lady, who had treated me like just another tourist the day prior, looked at my card and said, "Oh, you're the Wisconsin Bickford!" I chuckled and said I was a Bickford descendant. You could have heard a pin (but not my flag pin) drop in the middle of the restaurant. I walked across the street to the library and Rita was there, nearly ready to hug me! She was so happy. She said the whole town was happy. The fabled Mary Sido Bickford, "Poor Mary", was not a murderess!

Imagine, over a hundred years had passed since those babies died and the community was still mourning. But I wasn't. Not only had their mystery probably been solved but a big clue had been added to mine. If, in fact, those infants died from Pyloric Stenosis, and they were Bickfords genetically, and this genetic trait is in my DNA, then I was closer than ever to showing that Lutie had to have been a genetic Bickford.

On my way out of town, I pulled off the road and gathered up a huge armful of bright yellow, wild, Black-eyed Susan and Queen Ann's Lace. At the cemetery I waved to the elderly couple who were mowing the lawn on twin riding mowers. I knew them from my visit last year. He tipped his hat to me and she blew me a kiss, and they kept on mowing. I respectfully walked passed the graves of my great-great grandparents, Chauncy and Electa Bickford. I smiled and gave a little wink toward the tombstone of the "Merry Margaretta," as I think of her. I briefly wondered again at the many, worn and unreadable stones. Some were so very small in the Bickford plot and now I thought I knew why. I didn't stop until I came to the end of the row. I knelt down and put flowers on the freshly cut grass just beneath her name etched in stone, and said, "God Bless and finally, Rest in Peace, Mary Sido Bickford."

Betting On Grandpa by Betty Lovell

2005-11-02T16:15:00.000-08:00

“Betting on Grandpa”
Betty Lovell
My great grandfather was a gambler. One morning he got up and threw all his cards in the fire. His mom said “What’s the matter with you, Cracker?” That was his nickname. They lived in south Georgia and he had to walk through the swamps at night to go play cards. He said “I quit gambling. Last night when I played cards I won all the money from a widow woman's son. As I was walking back home through the swamps I saw the devil. Something ran around him in a circle and looked like a ring of fire.” He gave the money back and never played cards again.

Gentle Folk - Author Unknown

2005-11-02T16:14:00.000-08:00

“Gentle Folk”
Author Unknown

It's nice to come from gentle folk
Who wouldn't stoop to brawl.
Who never took a lusty poke
At anyone at all!

Who never raised a raucous shout
At any country inn,
Or calmed an ugly fellow lout
With a belaying pin!

Who never shot a revenuer
Hunting for a still,
Who never rustled cattle
and agreed with Uncle's will!

Who lived life as they ought
without uncouth distraction,
And shunned like leprosy a thought
of taking legal action!

Its nice to come from gentle folk
Who've never known disgrace,
But oh, though scandal is no joke
It’s far easier to trace!

(A revenuer was a person working for the government who was responsible for halting the unlawful distilling or bootlegging of alcohol.)

Top 10 Indicators You're Spending Too Much Time Doing Genealogy

2005-11-02T16:08:00.000-08:00

TOP TEN INDICATORS THAT
YOU’RE SPENDING TOO MUCH TIME DOING GENEALOGY
10. Your favorite film of all time is the 1850 census index.
9. You hyperventilate at the sight of an old cemetery.
8. When all of your correspondence begins “You don’t know me, but I think we might be
related.”
7. You have more photographs of dead people than living ones.
6. You ask your relatives to bring DNA samples to your family reunion.
5. You’ve traced every one of your ancestral lines back to Adam and Even and still don’t
want to quit.
4. You marry the County Clerk so you’ll have access to more records around the clock.
3. You asked Santa to bring your very own microfilm reader for Christmas.
2. You get locked in a library overnight and you never even notice.
1. You’re pretty sure your ancestor has been spotted in several places with Elvis!

All Things To Nothingness Descend - Author Unknown

2005-11-02T16:07:00.000-08:00

TITLE UNKNOWN
Master Wace - from his Chronicles of the Norman DukesFound on the Chart of Harold F Umstott (1907-1922)

All things to nothingness descend,
Grow old and die and meet their end,
Man dies, iron rusts, wood goes decayed,
Flowers fall, walls crumble, roses fade …
Nor long shall any name resound
Beyond the grave, unless 't be found
In some clerk's book, it is the pen
Gives immortality to men.

My Grandmother My Twin by Diane Rooney

2005-11-02T16:06:00.000-08:00

“ My Grandmother My Twin”
Diane Rooney
San Francisco, CA
My great-grandmother, Anna Bernota, died in Gilberton, Pennsylvania in June 1949. My grandparents, uncle, and my mom (who was four months pregnant with me at the time) went from New Jersey up to Gilberton for the funeral, which lasted several days in those times. My mother felt ill much of the time, and remembers the funeral as the first time she felt me moving around.

I was born in Elizabeth, New Jersey on October 30, 1949. My maternal grandfather William, Anna's youngest son, was the first person to see me when I was brought out. His first words were, "Oh my! It's Mom," referring to his mother who had died in June. Throughout my life, family members and older people who remember my great-grandmother have remarked on the eerie resemblance.

Great Grandma Bernota has always helped me with my Lithuanian genealogy. My mother was her only granddaughter and, in a way, replaced her only daughter, who died at the age of 12 in the Great Flu Epidemic of 1918.

Letters Link This Family by Kelly J. Watkins

2005-11-02T16:05:00.000-08:00

“Letters Link this Family”

Kelly J. Watkins

In 1870, my great great grandfather, Conrad, came to America from Germany. He was 18 years old and alone. Letters provided the only contact he had with his family. He wrote to the them faithfully. As the years went by, Conrad encouraged his children to keep contact with their family in Germany. Eventually, letters were no longer from brother to brother, but rather, from cousin to cousin and then to ever-more-distant cousin.

Correspondence became more challenging during the wars. When World War II came to an end, my grandmother in the U.S. sent care packages to our relatives in Germany. One of our cousins was dying of a stomach ailment. The only thing that gave him relief from pain was cocoa. As you can imagine, in post-war Germany, everything was rationed. There was no cocoa to be found. My grandmother wanted to help, but she knew she couldn’t just mail off a tin of chocolate and expect it to arrive. It would be confiscated long before it ever reached our family.

My grandmother was a smart woman. She finally hatched a plan to remove the lining from a coat, hide the cocoa there, and re-sew the lining. She included the coat with other items and mailed the package. Later, we discovered that the precious cocoa she sent cocoa provided the only relief from pain my cousin had until he died.

Even as a young child, I knew the importance of a letter from Germany. I still remember the excitement that filled the air when we received a thin, fragile envelope with red and blue slash marks on the edges and the word “Luftpost” stamped on the front. My mother would stop whatever she was doing and read the letter.

In 1970, my mother and I went to Germany. It was the first time the two branches of the family had been together since Conrad came to America 100 years before. When Mom and I arrived in the tiny Bavarian village of Weickenbach, we were greeted by our cousin Adolf and his wife Hannelore. Herzliche Wilkommen! Welcome!

Our ancestral home was built in the late 1600’s and has been in our family ever since. Over time, it has been expanded and renovated. I was delighted to discover it had indoor plumbing!
The staircase in the foyer stood as a testament to time. Each wooden step had an indentation in the middle. You could almost see the tiny feet of children running up the stairs and the weary feet of their parents following behind. Three centuries of feet – fast, slow, happy, sad, healthy, ill – had all made an impact on the wooden steps and the lives of those who lived in the house.

At the top of those stairs, on the left, is a bedroom. But, it’s not just any bedroom. My great, great grandfather, Conrad, was born in this room, and, his father before him, and his father before him! Yes, I have slept in the room where my fourth great grandfather was born!

Charcoal renderings of these ancestors hung on the wall. You could almost feel their spirits, as they smiled down on us from heaven. Back in the house’s main room, Adolf showed us a small box. He opened it with care. Inside was every letter my mother and grandmother had ever written to him. He begged us to never stop writing.

When I returned for my fourth visit in 1987, I was older and wiser, and I understood more. You see, a road ran beside the village of Weickenbach, and on the other side of the road was . . . the East German fence. The communist border came right to the edge of the town.

After World War II, all the neighbors on the other side of the road ended up in the East. They were removed from their homes and sent far into the interior of the country. The Communists were afraid the neighbors in the West would be tempted to help them escape. My family never saw their friends again.

I stood on the side of the road. In front of me was a fence, then, a field. It was called “no man’s land.” Since there were land minds buried in the field, no man wanted to walk on it. Beyond that were small houses for the dogs. Beyond that were towers. Inside a tower, one guard was watching me through binoculars. Another guard was watching me through the scope of a gun.

As I stood there, I realized how close my family had come to being on the other side of that fence, field, land mines, dogs, guards, and guns. If so, they would’ve been moved away, and I would have never seen them again. Instead, I’m able to stay connected with my family and my heritage and sleep in my ancestral home that’s over 300 years old – all because of where somebody drew a little bitty line on a map.

Since that initial trip in 1970, our cousins have visited us in America four times. They attended my wedding and my sister’s. I’ve also managed to return to Germany for several visits. The last trip was for my cousin Peter’s wedding. During that trip, I noticed that my elder cousins were beginning to age. At some point, it will be up to me and the next generation of my German cousins to keep up the traditions. We must maintain the family ties and continue to write. Who knows? Maybe next time, they will be sending me clothing, or food, or money.

What a huge responsibility we have. Yet, what a phenomenal opportunity it is also. It is such a comfort to know they will always be there for me, and I will always be there for them. After all, we are family.

A Bridge Across Time by Darlene Stevens

2005-11-02T16:04:00.000-08:00

“A Bridge Across Time”
Darlene Stevens
Spokane, Washington
(Written about her great great grandmother, Ellen Ring)

She calls to me from long ago;through sunlit skies; through drifts of snow.In clouds that dance upon the sea, I call to her, and she to me.So real was she. She laughed; she cried.She loved; she lost. She lived; she died.She hoped and dreamed; so real was she. She lived a life that I may be.The blood through which my veins does flowis the same as hers from long ago.So it will be that when I'm gone in an unborn child it will flow on.I'll live my life and when it’s doneI'll live again in those to come.For I'm a bridge from she to me; from those that were, to those to be.

The Adventure of a Lifetime by Gregory D. Preston

2005-11-02T16:03:00.001-08:00

“The Adventure of a Lifetime”
Gregory D. Preston

Four months before I was born, my father died of Tuberculosis, a common plague in those times.
As soon as I grew out of my innocent childhood, I wanted and needed to know more about my family and where I came from. It was burning in me. My burning curiosity erupted into a volcanic session one weekend at my sister’s house. I started asking my mother questions and taking notes. Questions bubbled and boiled out of me as if I were a professional private investigator. Questions I’d asked all my life. Questions I had to have answered.

The questioning session with my mother went on for at least four hours and I wrote down every answer she gave me. She was so patient and I was so driven by my need to learn about my biological father and family. I wouldn’t allow anyone to leave until I got the answers I needed and so desperately wanted. Some of my questions were close to the heart, some very close to the bone, some impudent, some outrageously stupid, some right on target and some bordered on ending the whole discussion right then and there because of their emotional nature. I didn’t care.

For instance, I had a thousand questions about my dead and his relationship with my mother. I was asking these questions in front of my step-father. I didn’t know then what I know now, being a step-father myself. I’m certain some of the more personal questions had to emotionally smart a bit, for both my mother who was answering and my step-father listening to them.

At that time, my mother was the oldest known living member of the family. All of the grandparents were dead and gone and I knew nothing of my family or even the word genealogy. I just knew I had a desperate need to know and to record what was offered.

Once that emotionally draining session was complete, I sorted through the collected information and put each person on a different 3x5 index card. Each had an indication whether they were on my mother’s side of the family or my father’s. Each had birth / death information and any notes taken, based on what my mother had said.

At that time, there was no Internet. There were only archives, family recollections, index cards, libraries and court houses. I traveled to and spent time in most of them. For a young man full of spit and vinegar, this was appalling. I decried the census records being so protected in the state archives. I had to have an assistant with me to look at the originals. I decried how long everything took and I was totally frustrated with the whole process. There was always travel involved to the state capital or a court house. It seemed dark and mysterious. It seemed unmanageable and unfruitful. What I knew then as “the hunger” pushed me on. I could no more stop my quest, than stop breathing. One was the same as the other. Life itself rested on my quest.

Things got frustrating and busy, and my researched stopped at that time. I married, my own small children needed my attention, my job was challenging with many long hours, and I relocated from Illinois to California. For awhile, I put those index cards in a special shoebox labeled “FAMILY RECORDS - DO NOT TOUCH”. I warned my wife not to touch my special records.

As my family grew, so did the Internet. My chosen profession was Information Technology, so I was involved with the Internet before it was ever named the Internet. From time to time during the next 10 years, I would pull that dusty shoe box out of the closet and go through those index cards to complete a chart of the family relationships. Time and technology were both converging to enable my research to get underway without traveling or spending copious amounts of time inside state archives.

I have come to understand that which I called “the hunger”, was my ancestors driving me on. They inspire me and conspicuously guide my research. Again and again, just as I’m ready to give in and give up “for good this time” – a bright and right bit of information surfaces and leads me to more, which leads me to more. It always starts with some faint whisper, some very small bit, but once followed, leads me to genealogical nirvana!

In a research session lasting two solid weeks during vacation, I searched and read through 3000 books on-line for any sign at all of my family. Very late, on nearly the last night of my vacation, I was about to give in and give up when I was inexplicably drawn to a book I believed would never contain any information I sought. It was literally one of the last things I would do before going to bed.

Suddenly, I found a single paragraph, written long ago as part of another family’s biography, describing my great-great grandfather and his family! It was very brief but very intense. Right there, in that single moment, so many pondered questions were answered. So many dilemmas solved. I could sense my ancestors hand in making it happen. The very next day, I wrote to Colorado and a week or so later, was holding a copy of my great-great grandfather’s death certificate.

By listening closely to my ancestors and our Lord, whose land they now inhabit, I’ve made contact with several other family members I never knew existed. I’ve gathered together my living relatives, on a private, “by invitation only” web site called Gathering Us Together.

I’ve received pictures and documents on ancestors, long since gone from us. I’ve had the pleasure of their time and their company. I’m writing a book called Gathering Us Together, which is now 1,329 pages. When completed, it’ll be a behemoth volume, containing more wonderful information about MY family than I ever would have suspected I could have amassed when I first began my quest.

I wrote for and received my father’s WWII submariner records. I have his metals and his awards. I shared these records with my mother. There were things in those records that she didn’t know. It explained a lot for her because when he came home from the war, he was different, he was upset. Turns out, being a torpedo man in a submarine in WWII was no picnic. They were in many engagements. He saw many other subs lost at sea with the men on them. He narrowly missed being on a sub that was sunk, he was reassigned to another sub the day before it left for duty and action. On one of his last missions, his submarine was pursued by the enemy for several days and depth charge bombed again and again for days. It was intense and shook him up so badly that he had to leave the Navy. He never told my mother this. She only learned about it from me more than 50 years afterward! The Lord allowed my father to be a part of that discovery. He wanted and needed it to be revealed so we could better understand him.

My ancestors tell me there is more to be done, and I must continue doing whatever it takes to find more of the richness and fullness of our family. Over many years, I’ve researched our family history. I will continue researching the family history in order to pass on the vitality, strength and diversity of our family, and to learn who I am and where we’re from. Just being here today, writing this to you, means we have survived! Our ancestors’ blood flows and lives on in our veins. They must have been pretty tough, wise and smart in their own way to be able to survive and pass on children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren in order to carry on in this great nation of ours.

Their times and days are gone, but I love discovering the things they had to face, their lives, and the times they lived through, in order to preserve those things, so they are not forgotten completely. I believe my ancestors are very pleased that I am interested, that I care enough to want to document our history and pass it on, for my children and my children's children. They need to know where they came from and what they are made of.

Four generations from now, not one of those future people will suspect what joy there was in getting one of the first new washing machines, or moving into a new house that was earned by sweat and blood, nor the pain of a world war (I pray), nor the awe of seeing the first man land and walk about on the moon. They will not know what we learned from life, unless we record it and tell them. Show them from our history, that their world, with all its technology and wonder is really a parallel to our own times. Show them they are living on what we’ve been able to build and what our ancestors were able to build for us. Show them that the core family values and traits we share across the intervals of time, will be very similar. Life’s lessons are the same throughout time, only the names change.

I’ve combed every source I can find, up to this time, to try and discover as much as I can about the family. I’ve made every attempt to make certain information goes rightfully with each individual. Just for the record, I am no writer and no historian; I’ve just done the best I can and am proud at least to bear the title: “genealogist”. To future family researchers, I have seven words, “Take it now and build on it!” That’s exactly what I did to generate the information I’ve scraped together to document what our families did down through the ages. I continue to build on what we have. I tell my children, “If my book is wrong; make it right! Your children and the children of future generations will thank you for the work you do to make it a complete an accurate document”.

For people who want to share. Take a bit of time and describe your life and times. It would be so very special and valuable to any interested family member who, sometime in a future we cannot know, reads what we write to find out where they are from. Who will ever remember our lives and times 200 years from now or benefit from what we can impart to our family's future generations, if we never get around to recording it? Whatever you are able to do, do it for your ancestors and for the future, so that your words can carry on and so you will be remembered.

After I’m gone, and if it’s possible from beyond, I’ll be watching over them as much as I can, because they are Family. I will whisper to them in their sleep, be in their dreams and guide them to be whole family members we can be proud of when they joins us. I converse with my ancestors nearly every day. Sometimes they are proud of me, sometimes they have to slap me upside the head. I’ve seen coincidences that cannot be explained by mere chance as my research directions unfold and more is revealed.

My family watches through the veil of time and participates here as much as they want and the Lord allows. I have learned from them and the work of genealogy about friendship, gentle compassion, patience, diligence, tenacity, honor, respect and deep belief. Before I die, I’ll complete my work. It has truly been the adventure of a lifetime and I love it dearly.

Finding Irene - Author Unknown

2005-11-02T16:03:00.000-08:00

“Finding Irene”
After my husband, Edward filled out his family group sheets he began wondering about his step sister, Irene. He hadn’t heard from her for years. Armed with Irene’s last known address, and fervent prayer, Edward began his search. He sent a letter, explaining who he was and asked her to contact him. He did not mention that he had joined the LDS Church. It was through the Mormon Church’s emphasis on families that he became interested in his lost family. Time went by without a response.

For the next year, he continually thought about Irene. One morning he announced, “Today, I’m going to find Irene.” “Oh, she finally contacted you,” I said. “No. I thought we’d drive to the last known address I have and go from there.” It was a pleasant drive through the back roads of central Illinois, but at the address, we found a vacant house. The screen door hung on one hinge and windows with torn shades stared back at us. I waited in the car while Edward knocked on the door. No answer. Edward approached the neighbors, who were working in the yard next door. “We just moved in,” they said.

Back at the car, Edward sat in silent prayer. Suddenly he ran to a house across the street. In answer to his knock, a woman and her husband came out on the porch. They pointed and talked. Finally, Edward came back to the car and followed their directions across town.
At this house, we found Irene’s son and his family. Irene was visiting her daughter in another town. “We just came by to feed the dogs,” the son said. Five minutes later, we would have missed them.

From her son we learned why Irene had not responded to Edward’s letters. Their father was of a different religion, as was the rest of Edward’s family. She thought Edward wouldn’t want anything to do with her since she joined the LDS Church! Because of their shared religion, which places so much emphasis on family and genealogy, they found their family again!

A Heritage of Kindness by Jerry Blaylock

2005-11-02T16:02:00.000-08:00

”A Heritage of Kindness”
Jerry Blaylock
Houston, TX
In the 1880's a member of one of the Kansas Regiments that fought at Backbone Mountain returned to Fort Smith and inserted an item in the Fort Smith Elevator, a weekly paper published in Fort Smith at that time. In the article the [Union] soldier stated his desire to get in touch with a woman and two little girls who, so benevolently, brought him water and attempted to relieve his agony when he lay wounded on the battlefield at Backbone Mountain. There was no response to the old soldier's plea.

Several years later the story was retold by Phebe Park in the "Old Folks and Facts" column of the Fort Smith Times Record. To the surprise of all, Darthula C. Gilliam (who later married Francis Marion Blaylock-my great grandfather) and Mary Heathcock, both more than 80 years old at that time, answered the column and said that they were the two little girls who carried water to the soldier. It was learned that Mrs. Susan McClure was the woman at the well who drew the water. But this time no trace could be found of the Kansas soldier. Evidently the Yankee soldier had already gone to his reward without knowing the identities of the two little southern girls who befriended him when he needed help so desperately those many years ago. Genealogy reveals the family name, but family history reveals the character of those names.

Are You Anne? by Anne Acree

2005-11-02T14:27:00.000-08:00

"Are you Anne?"
Anne Acree
Alpharetta, GA

My paternal great-grandfather, Dr. William O. Burbank, was a physician in Orleans County in upstate New York. He had a lovely cottage on Lake Ontario, built in 1889, which passed on to my grandfather, Homer. Living for three-quarters of the year in Rochester, New York, "The Cottage" was the summer home of my grandparents and their children. It was the center of the Burbank family life, and all of my relatives have spent countless days there throughout the years. The house was filled with the most interesting combination of old pictures, antiques, memorabilia and junk, and I loved it.

In 1989 I felt very strongly that we should have a family reunion at "The Cottage" to celebrate its 100th birthday. Homer and Marie (my grandparents) were aging rapidly, and I felt that perhaps we would not have many other opportunities to gather as a complete family again. It was a wonderful reunion. All of the Burbank clan was there, and we created many memories.
This was fortunate, because within a few years, both grandparents passed away.

The question of what to do with "The Cottage" was a difficult one. Taxes and upkeep of a home over 100 years old on the shores of a Great Lake are "nothing to sneeze at," as they say. Most of my family had moved to Georgia and the relatives who remained in New York were unable to purchase the home for various reasons. Reluctantly, "The Cottage" would have to be sold.

What about all the memorabilia, I worried? Ever since I was a little girl I had always been interested in family history, journals, scrapbooks and antiques. I urged my father to make a quick trip to "The Cottage" to collect pictures and artifacts, since no one else in the family was interested in those items. We gathered the treasures and looked around one last time. Soon afterwards, our cottage, including the remaining contents, was placed on the market.

When news came of the sale I was truly saddened. Would the "new people" throw away or sell the cherished "stuff" that gave "The Cottage" its character? Would they remodel it? Would they even care that five generations of family had enjoyed so many special times there? I decided I would never go back and look at it; rather, I would just let the memory stay as it was in my mind.

In the summer of 1998 I had an opportunity to travel to Rochester, New York with my parents. We decided to also plan a visit with my aunt whose home was not far from "The Cottage." Although I had resolutely decided never to look at it again, I couldn't resist the nagging feeling that I should stop by and just take a peek. As we rounded the corner I hesitated to look. Much to my great relief and joy "The Cottage" had NOT been remodeled! Even better, it had been lovingly painted and the yard was well cared for. Feeling a bit more consoled about the sale, I knocked on the door. There was no answer. A neighbor had seen us drive up to the house and came over to inform us that the new owners were not expected to come up to the lake that weekend since they had plans in town.

Disappointed, my parents and I went over to my aunt's house to continue our short visit. A few hours later there was a knock at the door. The visitor introduced herself as Sandie Owen, the new owner of our family cottage. She had not been planning to be up at the lake, but events had changed and she had felt inspired to make the trip.

As my parents and Sandie introduced themselves and spoke about their families, Sandie asked me "Are you Anne?" When I nodded, she told us that she had an old suitcase full of pictures, newspaper clippings and a letter to Homer, requesting family history information. Sandie was going to give the suitcase to the "Anne" whose signature was on the letter.

She immediately invited us to go back over to "The Cottage" with her. When we stepped inside, any remaining ill feelings about selling the place vanished. The Owen family had kept much of the decor as it had been and the finishing touches were in perfect keeping with the original style. In fact, it was very much like I would have decorated it if I had owned it.

Sandie gave me the suitcase, once hidden far under a bed, which held family history about Homer's family. Much of the information it contained was previously unknown to me. We talked about my grandparents and grandparents as warm feelings flooded my mind.

Then, Sandie directed us to a wall in the living room. Near the picture of Homer and Marie, still displayed, she had placed several pictures of her 19 year-old daughter who had just recently died of cancer. She had loved music and singing, just like my grandmother who had been an opera singer and chorale director. The Owens had bought "The Cottage" so that their family could spend time together in a beautiful, peaceful place where their daughter would spend her last memories. And then I knew that "The Cottage" was meant to be a part of their family, as well as ours.

Genetics by Jim Bates

2005-11-02T14:26:00.000-08:00

“Genetics”
Jim Bates
Australia
I saw a duck the other day.
It had the feet of my Aunt Faye!
When it walked it was heading South.
It waddled like my Uncle Ralph!

And when it turned, I must propose,
Its bill was formed like Aunt Jane’s nose.
I thought “Oh, no it’s just my luck.
Someday I’ll look just like a duck.”

I sobbed to Mum about my fears,
And she said “Honey, dry your tears.
You look like me, so walk with pride.
Those folks are all from Daddy’s side!”

The Search For My Great Grandmother by Ed Murfin

2005-11-02T14:25:00.000-08:00

“The Search For My Great Grandmother”
Ed Murfin

I traveled to a little cemetery in 2004 and found some treasure. I was visiting the Lancaster, County, Pennsylvania area, as an Amish Country tourist and as a family genealogist – both delightful activities in that area. My grandfather, John Burkhart Garman (1855-1938) was born and raised in Lancaster County. I had attended a Garman/Steffy family picnic reunion in a park in Ephrata, PA where about 40 persons were present. It rained off and on all that week in that area.

The next day I used the best information I had from the family records, that this particular cemetery was in a clump of trees with about 7 tombstones, located behind a little school house on a side road off Hwy 23. I drove up and down that highway and along several side roads that afternoon. I saw several little schoolhouses, but none that fit the description. I went up one road and found a man working in his upholstery shop in his backyard. I engaged him in conversation. He wanted to give me the life history of the Patton family (he traces back through General Patton). I thought I’d never get away from him! He told me there was an old school house “up thataway and up thisaway.” When I told him I was looking for Garman people he finally told me that quite a few Garmans lived on a nearby road, about a mile away.

I eventually located the road and stopped at the beautiful frame house behind a mailbox that read “Noah Garman.” A sweet little old Mennonite lady welcomed me and told me that her husband Noah had passed away a year ago, but that if I went across the road to see Aaron Garman, he'd probably help me locate the school and cemetery behind his house. I was getting nervous by now. Aaron (black beard, black hat, black suspenders and black trousers) was at his barn near his house. They were using gasoline tractors in the field, but there was no sign of an automobile. He told me that there was a little school house at the back of his cornfield and that there was a clump of trees with tombstones in it. “One of them is Elizabeth Garman,” he said. “Another is a small child, David.” He didn’t know who the others were.

He told me I was welcome to go through the edge of his cornfield to see and photograph the tombstones, and to please come back and tell him of my find. I could nervously see the school and trees in the distance. He hurried out into the field to join a co-worker. I was able to drive on a paved road about a half mile and around the corner a little distance to the white, wooden one-room schoolhouse. I had to go past it to find a place to pull off the road and find enough room to park my car. There was a chain-link fence surrounding the school. My heart sank – I thought I was at a dead-end because the full corn field was right up against the side fence all around the schoolyard, with no room for me to walk, especially with shorts on.

To my surprise, the big double gate along the highway was not locked, so I proceeded to go into the schoolyard. Walking back through the yard, I saw that there was a single gate at the back. From that point I could see the aforementioned trees, just 20 yards away. I only had to walk by the edge of the cornfield ten yards to get to the gravesite. It was covered thickly with weeds and poison oak. I tramped down all that I could safely take care of. Remember, I was wearing shorts, and this clump of trees was full of waist-high weeds laden with poison oak vines!

I was able to read the name (Elizabeth Garman) and the date (1858) on the only accessible stone, but little else. I could not get close enough to any of the other stones to be able to read them. I did take digital pictures and video profusely, however, and they show the proof in excellent detail. Of course, I stayed there for awhile, visiting with my ancestors. I excitedly went back to the farmhouse and found Aaron, his wife (dressed in traditional black with blue trim dress), and two lovely, smiling, blue-eyed, auburn-haired teenaged daughters waiting on me. Their dresses bore the signs of hard work in the field, with reddish brown smudges from the knees down. The mother was seated on a stone bench, with her husband standing at her side and the two girls standing beside her. I really wished I could have taken a picture of their gorgeous family, but I knew better than to ask. Thankfully, he had not objected to my using the camera in his field.

They were very friendly and very inquisitive about my family background. They were very much interested in the fact that I was a retired Methodist minister and that my grandfather had been a lay Mennonite preacher in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s. They showed me a printed book of the history of his Garman family. There was nothing in it that rang a bell in relation to anything in my family line. I would love to have been able to copy some of that material. They did tell me that their family stories say that someone in Aaron's family raised the son of the woman who was buried in their field. They could not give me any specifics, however, and could not name me anyone who might know more.

I came just that close to finding a close touch to my grandfather's childhood. All I know is that he was born and raised in Bowmansville, just to the northeast of that location. My mother is recorded as having said that her father and his sister were raised by an aunt. I drove through the town of Bowmansville on the way to this site, but found no one who knew of this story. I also saw his sister, Anna Burkhart Garman Glass's, grave in Adamstown. He is buried with my grandmother, Grace Truman Scott Young, his second wife, in lower PA, near Hancock, MD, a grave site I have visited many times.

My grandfather, John Burkhart Garman, was only three years old when his mother, Elizabeth, died. He died when I was just three years old. After the death of his first wife he had gone to Austell, GA, near Atlanta for work, where he met and married my grandmother in 1902. His sister, Anna B. Garman was just 15 months old when their mother died. Other family stories say that their father, David C. Garman, gave the two of them to two different Mennonite families to raise, but no one knows who they were. David then went on to marry a much younger woman (14 years his junior), with whom he had 11 more children. There is no mention that they ever took John and Anna into their home. Apparently, the new young wife did not want to raise children that were born when she was just eleven years old. Could the “David grave” be a small child from that family not mentioned in family logs? And who would be in the other graves there?

On July 21, I visited with descendants of my grandfather by his first wife, at a family reunion in Ephrata, near Lancaster. My family has always kept a close tie with those half-relatives, and also the half-relatives by his father's second wife, Mary Ellen Davis. Since my grandmother was married and widowed before she met my grandfather, that makes for an awful lot of half-relatives in that part of my family! Keeping up with all of them is fun. We now have an enduring relationship as friends and second cousins once-removed. He says all of his Glass family records have been lost due to a family rift in the generation ahead of him. As far as he knows, everything was destroyed that had any detailed information in it. I have been able to obtain a good bit of Glass information in my research on his family, but it yields nothing in relation to Anna and the “mysterious mother-in-law.” I never thought that I was going to get this close until it happened one overcast day in mid-July, 2004.

Out Of The Void: Real Lives And Real People by Judith Liddell

2005-11-02T14:24:00.000-08:00

“OUT OF THE VOID: REAL LIVES AND REAL PEOPLE”
Judith Liddell

The search to piece together the puzzle of our ancestors began in 1985. Our mother, then 75, voiced her lifetime longing to learn about her unknown relatives. However, the seeds of interest had been nipping at my sister, Chris, much earlier. Chris had always been fascinated with history and old things. She wanted to know about our ancestors, and no one seemed to know much, if anything. Our mother didn’t know about her uncles, aunts, or cousins, because the past just wasn’t talked about in our family. As Chris describes it, “Grandma Stage only told us what she thought we wanted to hear.” We now know there were pieces of truth to many of her stories, but her web of deception – to avoid talking about the fact she was born in a coal mining town – led us down many false paths.

Chris once asked Grandpa if he was born in London – the only city in England she knew. “No,” he answered. “Way up north, near the border with Scotland.” “He seemed very proud of that,” Chris remembers. As far as our mother knew, her parents never kept in touch with relatives back in England.

Our mother, Christiana Margaret Graham Stage, was born in 1910 in Gateshead, England. When she was 11 months old, she and her mother and a three year old brother boarded a boat in Liverpool, England to sail for Quebec, Canada. They were going to join her father who had gone before them to start a new life. We don’t think Mom ever knew that her mother crossed the ocean with two small children all by herself. Imagine our surprise when we finally found the entry on a ship’s passenger list to see only three names and the entry, “Joining husband in Amherst, Nova Scotia.” When World War I came, her father joined the Canadian Expeditionary Forces and the family followed him to England where he was stationed at Shornecliffe. Because of the war, they were not able to visit relatives in the Northeast. By June 1916, there were regular air raids, and our grandfather was being sent to the front, so my grandmother took the children back to Canada. Our grandmother kept all of the letters he sent from the war. We have poured over them many times, trying to pick up snippets of information. Our grandfather’s comments, in response to news he received from our grandmother, have given us a picture of our mother’s life in Montreal during this period. The trail of clues was difficult to follow because by the time our mother had graduated from high school, she had lived in 18 places and attended 12 different schools!

Chris was the initial researcher. Mother told her what she knew, but that was very little information. We knew our grandmother was born in North Brancepeth, Durham County, England and that she had married in Northumberland. Chris started her search by going to the Mormon Family History Center in Albuquerque, New Mexico. While her daughter was taking music lessons, Chris would search the parish registries on microfilm. This involved looking in the registries in the Tynemouth area of Northumberland. Every two weeks she ordered microfilm from the Family History Center in Salt Lake City, waited two weeks for it to arrive, and then raced to the library to begin her search. For a long time, she couldn’t find anything.

She then went to the library at the University of New Mexico and started reading everything she could find on Durham and Newcastle Counties. This helped her locate the slipway where our grandfather worked. She was then able to zero in on the correct registration district. In 1992, while their children were at camp, she and her husband Bill went to Salt Lake City and spent two days looking for information on both the Stages and the Brodies. She exclaimed, “Imagine my excitement when two hours before the library closed, I was able to locate information on the marriage of our maternal great grandparents - Thomas Jones and Christiana Graham!”

That same year, Mom visited me in Seattle to celebrate the marriage of my son BJ. Following the wedding, Mom and I went to Vancouver, British Columbia to search for long lost cousins. Mom’s family had lived there from 1929 to 1930. Mom used to tell us the story of an unexpected meeting with relatives. Our family owned a small gas station and grocery store next to the Narrows Bridge. One day a man came into the store, and my mother shrieked ‘Robert!’ It was one of her brothers. She had not seen him since he had run away, taken his mother’s maiden name of Graham, and joined the merchant marine! It had been a memorable experience for Mom to meet and get to know his two children, Lena and Ronald, who were about her age, and the only cousins she ever knew.

As had been the pattern, once our grandparents moved back to California, they lost touch. My first foray into genealogy was helping Mom search city directories In Vancouver to try and locate the family. I felt like my childhood hero, Nancy Drew. When Mom and I stood in the park that now occupies the place where their store once stood, I began to understand the draw to the past that Chris felt.

By 1994, I had moved to Albuquerque and began to get interested in the results of Chris’s research. At Christmas that year, Chris gave Mom a certificate that introduced her to her grandmother, Jane Bell. By that time Mom was 84 and not as interested when pieces of the puzzle revealed themselves. Chris said, “At first I was devastated when she just stared at the certificate. I had worked so hard to verify that piece of information and assumed she would be as excited as I was. My interest in genealogy was confirmed, and I realized the quest was now mine.”

In 1999, I took my first real genealogical steps and began reading the surname bulletin boards for Brodie, Stage, Bell, and Jones on www.FamilyHistory.com . Occasionally, there would be an entry with a name or place that intrigued me, and I would respond. Mom passed away April 14, 1999. By the time she died, we had not located any living relatives. She, Chris, and I had always talked about traveling to her birthplace someday. During her final days, we told her we would go to England the following summer - and that she would be with us in spirit. We knew that deep down, the trip we planned to take was something she always wanted to do.

Prior to our trip, we hired a genealogist from Durham, hoping he would be able to find information that we had not been able to locate from our distance. By the time Chris, Bill and I left for Britain on July 1, 2000, my birthday, we were no closer to finding relatives, but had arranged for the genealogist to drive us to see the places where Mom and her family had lived.

The first day in Newcastle, we took a “milk run” bus through the countryside and a number of villages to visit Beamish, an open-air historical museum. We were interested in seeing what life was like in a colliery town, since our grandmother had been born in the village adjacent to Boyne Colliery. The following day, the first stop in our guided tour was Segedunum, a museum depicting life at the Roman fort that had once occupied that spot. Little did we know that Joe and Gladys Nicholson (Gladys was Mom’s cousin) lived only a few blocks from that spot! Later we saw the house where Mom was born in Gateshead. The unknown past began to seem real.

After returning from our trip, we felt even more determined to find out more about the lives of our ancestors, and hopefully locate living relatives. Chris and I promised each other we would return when we located someone, but little did we know it would happen so soon. On May 8, 2001, I received the following e-mail message: “Purely by chance, I have come across your entries in the Stage Surname Bulletin Board relating to Jane Bell Stage. I have a lot of information on the family of William and Jane Stage; they were my great grandparents. From, Alan Nicholson.”

We both immediately wrote back to Alan. In my e-mail, I confessed, “I literally started crying when I read your message; my sister and I have been trying to locate Mom’s relatives for such a long time. We would love to hear more about the family.” The first thing I did when I got up the next morning was to turn on my computer to see if there was a reply. There was! Alan had written, “I am delighted that we have been able to make contact and I am so pleased to have discovered family relatives in this way (our mothers were cousins although they didn’t know it!!) I will be phoning my Mum to let her know the good news – she will be delighted. This will be the first of many e-mails I will be posting over the next few weeks – so be prepared!” Over the next few days, Alan began to provide us with extensive, verified information about our grandfather’s 10 brothers and sisters!

By August, Chris and I decided we would travel in early November, and not only meet Alan and his family, but visit Elgin, Scotland where our father’s ancestors originated. Then the terrorist attacks of September 11 threatened to shatter our dream. However, by the end of September, we felt confident we could travel safely to Britain. When we arrived in Newcastle, Alan Nicholson met us and drove us to his parent’s home in Wallsend, where we spent the next 7 hours getting acquainted, listening to stories, sharing pictures, and learning about our Stage heritage, as well as life in Wallsend at the turn of the century. We were able to visit many sites from our ancestors’ lives and create wonderful memories.

Since our return, we have had Alan’s professional, on-going help in identifying Jones relatives. He has obtained birth, death and marriage certificates for various members of the family. Through information about Eliza Jones Walker, and Alan’s perseverance and guts, we were able to locate another second cousin, Carolyn Taylor, who lives in the Walkergate area of Newcastle. What a wonderful surprise to find out that her uncle Jimmy was a professional accordion player, as was our mother! He died during the past year, but we feel blessed to have heard his story through visits from Alan. We are blessed to now have five Stage and Jones second cousins and their families in the United Kingdom whom we have added to our family circle.

The puzzle is not yet complete. Like a 1,000 piece puzzle where all of the shapes look alike, we only identify a piece every once in a while to fill in part of the picture. However, we are not deterred. The puzzle will probably never be complete, but both the search and its results have certainly enriched our lives.

A Summer Day 139 Years Hence by Linda Soloski

2005-11-02T14:21:00.000-08:00

“A Summer Day-139 Years Hence”
Linda J. Soloski
Brandon Florida

Was it all just coincidental? Was it just happenstance? I like to think it was “divine intervention.” For you see, on a hot day in July of 2002 I was given the great honor of standing at the burial place of my Civil War ancestor and proudly reading his name on the memorial marker at that cemetery site. It was just a few days short of 139 years to the day of his death. He died August 23, 1863 in the Confederate hospital at Dalton, Georgia.

He was just a young boy of 16, but he wanted to do his part for the Confederacy, as did two of his brothers. No doubt he slipped quietly away from his family home in order to join the troops. I have often thought of how distressed his mother must have been, especially when he did not return home from the war. He was the baby of the family. Records show that he served as a scout. He had been brought up in the mountains of East Tennessee and Western North Carolina, and taught to hunt in the dense woods from an early age.

Military muster rolls show he was absent from duty at least twice due to “disease” prior to his being placed in the Confederate Hospital at Dalton, Georgia where he died from “disease.”
Far away from home and with no way to get his body back to his family home in Tennessee, due to advancing Union troops, they laid him to rest in the Confederate Cemetery.

Actually, this entire event was a miracle. My husband, Ken and I had traveled from our home on the central west coast of Florida to a cabin retreat in the mountains of northeast Georgia. Our only thought was to get away from the merry-go-round of every day life and spend a week just relaxing and resting. I took nothing of my genealogy tools or records with me. But, as any family researcher knows, genealogy is truly an addiction and never far from your mind.

Late one afternoon, while just resting, my mind drifted to my family tree and the research I still needed to accomplish “someday.” Suddenly, like a bolt of lightning, my mind flashed a message to me. “You are in Georgia. Didn’t your Confederate ancestor die in Dalton? Where exactly is that?” Like a shot, I was on my feet, seeking my trusty road map. Imagine my surprise to find that Dalton was just due west of where we were staying! The map showed a distance of about 75 miles down the mountain foothills and along the base. Hey, how bad a trip could it be? After all, the road was a fat red line on the map! Surely that indicated a nice, paved road. Thinking the hardest part would be to convince my husband to get under the wheel and drive there, I was elated when he readily agreed that it was something I should pursue.

Now I have to tell you one of the strangest pieces of this whole puzzle. When we arrived at the cabin a few days earlier, there was a bookrack with tourist pamphlets in the lobby. There was also a travel magazine called “Georgia” which was dated 1996, over 6 years old. I quickly grabbed the 6 year old publication to see what it had to say about Dalton. The very first “must-see” location was listed: “Confederate Cemetery. 421 Veterans who died in the hospital located at Dalton, GA are buried here.” The hair stood up on the back of my neck! That old magazine had survived 6 years just for the purpose of telling me where to go that day!

Upon arriving at the cemetery, we were dismayed to see that it covered a tremendous amount of land on the crest of a hillside and was at least two city blocks wide. It was then divided off into many, many sections. Each one had several entrance roads off the main road, which then wound around the gravesites. We drove far to the back and I spotted two elderly ladies at a grave. My husband pulled alongside their vehicle and I got out and walked toward them. Not wanting to alarm them, I called out from several feet away, “Hello! I wonder if either of you two ladies might help me with a grave location.” I explained what I was looking for and wouldn’t you know it, one of them was a family researcher also. She was only too glad to give me directions to the area I needed to find.

Arriving at the section, I found it cordoned off by a low, wrought-iron fence. Row after row of hundreds of small, white headstones, all exactly alike, and bearing the inscription “C.S.A. 1861-1865" covered the area. I had absolutely no way of knowing which grave was his. Then I spotted a huge granite marker placed at the opening of the area by local SCV and other organizations. In and of itself, it was a beautiful memorial. I walked into the fenced-off area and when I got to the backside of the marker I discovered to my sheer delight that all the names of those buried there were inscribed on it– and in alphabetical order! Almost fearfully, my eyes ran down the list and there it was-his name engraved among the others!

And thus it was, that shortly before noon I stood looking out on the hallowed ground where that young soldier was laid to rest. Not once in almost 139 years had any family member been this close and could call out his name, Newton Thomas Rogers, to say thanks for his effort and the giving of his young life. In my heart I said a prayer of thanks. Amen and amen!

More Than Just Names by Colleen Peters

2005-11-02T14:20:00.000-08:00

“More Than Just Names”
Colleen Peters

I had no idea that I would love the whole process of genealogy research so much. At Christmas in 1994, my parents gave to me and my siblings a three-ring binder filled with tidbits of information on our family’s tree. When my youngest son started school the fall of 2003, I decided that I needed a hobby. I found my three-ring binder, blew the dust off of it and began my genealogy journey.

My mother once told me that every family has at least one historian and once you find that person you can get the answers you are looking for. On my dad’s side of the family my uncle is the one who has collected family information. Thanks to the wonder of e-mail, I have had his assistance in all of my queries. In one such e-mail he informed me that my aunt had all of my grandparents’ old photos, so I was soon knocking on her door. We spent a whole afternoon going through and labeling photos. I wrote down all of the names to add to my family tree and enjoyed listening to the stories she remembered about these families.

One story that she heard as a young girl was about an accidental shooting. She remembered that the father of the family had heard animals, probably coyotes, outside of the family cabin and grabbed his rifle to go outside and investigate the livestock. Suddenly, the rifle accidentally fired inside of the cabin, shooting two of his children that were sleeping in bed. I remember thinking how awful that must have been for that family. I tucked that sad family story away and hoped that it wasn’t true.

My computer and I have spent many hours searching and enquiring to find documentation for my family tree. When I felt that I had exhausted my resources on one family line I would just work on another one. There were several discoveries along the way when I felt as if my ancestors were right there, leading me to the one tidbit of information that I needed to solve the unknown.

One evening, I was waiting for my husband in one of the college libraries, when a librarian asked me if I would like some help. I told her what I was working on and she asked me if I had tried a search engine called Altavista.net? I hadn’t and so she advised me to type in the surname, a location and a year to narrow down the possible answers. I typed “Myers Gallatin County MT 1880”. I got many possible matches to my query! I went through the first page, carefully going through each answer looking for anything familiar, and then the second page and so on. Then, to my surprise, on the third page I found a cemetery record that listed several Myers. The most interesting were two children of A. and M. Myers that had died eight days apart. Both of them were girls: Nellie, age 5, and Mary, age 7. At first, I thought something like Small Pox might have been the reason they had died so close to each other, but as you can imagine, the story my aunt had told me about the two innocent children who had been shot accidentally came to my mind.

The Internet is a wonderful tool, but I have learned through my journey that it is the kindness of others that is where the treasures really are. On April 14, 2004, I posted a query on the Internet via Gallatin County MT and got a response from Jeri. Jeri lives in the Bozeman area and voluntarily does research for others. She was so intrigued by my query about the two girls that she began searching right away. Jeri and I spoke with each other almost every day. She found several different items on my Myers family and even a few on my other family lines, but she wasn’t finding any evidence of the children. Jeri even took a road trip with her daughter, who was a photographer, to the cemetery where the girls are buried. They found Nellie’s stone placed flat on the ground because it had broken into two pieces and was not readable anymore. Someone had a new headstone placed next to the old one, identifying whose stone it was. Mary’s stone was also broken and placed flat on the ground, but hers is still readable.

I remember my own children’s reactions when I received the photos of tombstones via e-mail. They weren’t sure how to feel about my interest in the lives of people who died so long ago. The photos somehow made these two little girls more than just names on a family tree. I really wanted to know what had happened to them, and so did Jeri. I remember when she e-mailed me a possible lead: the University in Bozeman had copies of old local newspaper articles stored on microfilm. The name of the Bozeman newspaper in 1887 was “The Avant Courier.” Jeri had warned me that the collection wasn’t complete and that she might not find anything on the girls.

I can still remember the chills that crawled up my back when I read Jeri’s e-mail that she had finally found articles about the girls. Neither one of the articles mentioned the names of the girls, but clearly describes the sad events that came to the children of Allen and Martha Myers. As I read the articles I was filled with the emotion of the loss of the girls and the grief that their family must have felt. This event happened over a hundred years ago and yet I felt it as if it had just happened. These emotions were mixed with the excitement of the discovery that I had validated my aunt’s family story and had found the family it belonged to.

This was a sacred moment for me, one that I shared with a woman whom I have only talked with through my computer. It is hard to explain a bond that is felt between genealogy researchers, but we all seem to have an unspoken understanding of how the other might be feeling because of common experiences. I hope to someday have a copy of a photo of these two children. I know my chances aren’t very good, but I also know that anything is possible with a little kindness from others and a little help from those of the past.

My Fruitful Distraction by David DeFord

2005-11-02T14:17:00.000-08:00

“My Fruitful Distraction”
David DeFord
Omaha, Nebraska
(www.ordinarypeoplecanwin.com , www.thegreatlifestore.com )

On my last day of vacation I sped over the back hills of southern Indiana, hoping to unravel a mystery. I needed to find information about my great-great-grandfather and his family. With a common surname like “Jackson” it wasn’t going to be easy. I had tried everything else: the LDS Family History Center, queries to the town newspaper, and letters to the County Clerk. I decided I had to make a personal visit.

I arrived early in the morning before the old limestone courthouse opened, and I planned to stay until it closed that evening. This was the only day I could spare. As I sat in my parked car on the sleepy town square, I prayed that I would find all I needed about Columbus Jackson and his wife, Nettie. I prayed that I could work alone and not be distracted by other genealogists. After all, they often waste valuable time talking endlessly about their own research. A distraction would slow me down. My time was short. I needed to hurry!

I waited impatiently at the huge courthouse doors until a worker finally unlocked them at 8:00am sharp. An attendant directed me to a dark basement room that held the archives. Huge ledger books, filled with records of past generations, sat heavily on dusty shelves. I started my search immediately. Two hours passed in quiet bliss. Columbus still evaded me, camouflaged among tens of thousands of his neighbors, but I was becoming familiar with the records. Happily, no distractions kept me from my search.

After three hours, I heard the clomping of feet descending the wooden stairs. Here came my first distraction—a silver-haired lady, carrying an armload of files. She smiled broadly, obviously pleased to have companionship in the dark chamber. My opportunity for finding Columbus Jackson had ended, I thought. I smiled in her direction, but avoided eye contact. We worked in silence for a few minutes until she asked, “What’s a young man like you doing in an old person’s pastime like genealogy?” I winced inside, knowing that my work was done.

“Well, I’m looking for anything I can find about Columbus Jackson, my great-great-grandfather,” I reluctantly replied. “Lum?!” She got excited. “Why, he used to live right across the road from us! He used to throw big barbeques and invite all of the neighbors. He’d make ice cream and break open watermelons from his huge garden. He was the nicest man I ever knew.” She became more animated. “He’s buried up the hill. Here, let me show you on your map. He died in 1952—near Christmas. Let’s see if we can find him in the death records here.” She did. “His wife, Nettie, was such a sweet woman, and she was so beautiful! She had long, thick hair that she rolled into a tight bun. Now they were probably married in the 1880s. Let’s take a look.”

In an hour this wonderful lady, who had known my great-great-grandparents personally, showed me where they lay in the cemetery, found their death and marriage records, listed for me all of their children, and told me stories that made them come alive to me. All afternoon she filled my notebook and my heart with beautiful stories of my family—not just their names and vitals, but tales of rich lives lived well. I had prayed to find some information without distractions. I found the information I needed and more. I found family, people who lived and loved, ate and served ice cream, and who spread their love to their neighbors. I thank God for my silver-haired fruitful distraction!

My Spiritual Homing Device by Brenda Sanders

2005-11-02T14:16:00.000-08:00

“My Spiritual Homing Device”
Brenda Sanders
I have had many spiritual experiences. The most recent one is about doing some research on a Dockery family line. I had been to the library and looked up the death certificate on a woman, finding her tombstone in the cemetery on her actual birthday. I find that interesting. The next day I went to a different cemetery to look for a particular couple. The husband had died in 1904, so I knew I wouldn't find his information in Vital Records. The night before I went to the cemetery I had an impression of where they were buried in the cemetery. The next day I found them with very little effort in that exact spot. I had, somehow, seen the spot before in my mind’s eye.

Rewriting History by Wendy Ward

2005-11-02T14:15:00.001-08:00

“Rewriting History”
Wendy Ward
Evanston, IL
I was taking my last graduate class, and I still had no topic for my Master’s Thesis. Near panic, I started to pray about it. A few days later, as I watched my lunch cooking in the microwave, the words “Vinegar Hill” popped into my head. On my grandfather’s death record, Vinegar Hill, Illinois, is listed as his birthplace. The township no longer exists. It was a desperate long shot, but I thought maybe I could research the settlement and why it disappeared. When I mentioned it to my advisor, he got very excited and started talking about the rich history of the Galena Lead District. My father grew up on a farm, and his father died when he was a young boy. In turn, my father died when I was very young. I had never heard of the Galena Lead District.

I searched online for Vinegar Hill, Illinois, but I found only information on Vinegar Hill in Ireland. Somehow, I came across a passenger list with an introductory paragraph about miners from Allendale, Northumberland, England. This caught my eye, because my great grandfather, Christopher Ward, came from Allendale. It mentioned a mining strike in 1849 that resulted in the banishment of about 100 miners, and their families. The Guy Mannering’s Passenger List included a Christopher Ward, and several other familiar-sounding names, but his wife was not my great grandmother. I printed out the list, compared it with my family records, and they coincided! Chris had been married twice, his first son born on the voyage. That explained the surprisingly large number of children with which he was credited!

This “accidental” discovery led me to research the mining strike. I learned that Christopher, his
family, his wife’s family, and many of their friends constituted the 58 who were the first to
depart from Allendale. They were the more active of the strikers. More research revealed that
most of the 58 were either related to Christopher, or were shoulder fellows—members of the
same partnerships. Also on the ship was Christopher’s uncle, Samuel Vickers. According to
newspaper articles, Samuel was denied pay even though he didn’t strike, because the mining
agents thought he would share with the starving strikers. Samuel did very well in America, and
was mentioned in an early history book of Lafayette County, Wisconsin. Several of his
descendants fought in the Civil War. There were Reeds on the ship, and they later sent for
relatives, one who became my great grandmother after Christopher’s first wife died.

I contacted a library in England, inquiring about local histories, but antique books were not being circulated. However, the librarian extracted references to the strike, and forwarded them with some pamphlets, which helped locate other things. Somehow, I ended up e-mailing a number of people in England. A woman in Allendale let me use some of her photographs in my thesis. Another woman voluntarily went to the archives, looked up Chris’s work records, and forwarded a spreadsheet with the names of his partners, his brother’s partners, and what they earned. A British expert on historical smelting, told me how to locate a new excavation of a smelting mill in British Hollow, Wisconsin. One woman sent me a copy of a poem written about the first 58 to leave. It sold for 10 pence a copy at the time. One line says, “we’ll tell our tale in other lands.” As a direct descendant, I am fulfilling that prophecy!

Everywhere I looked, and sometimes where I didn’t look, things fell into my hands until I had accumulated quite a story. Through my search for the 58 miners and their families, I extracted hundreds of names. I had many miraculous experiences along the way. It was not just about me helping them—it was also about them helping me. Whenever I took the four-hour drive to Galena, I felt like I had a full car, although technically, I was alone.

When I went to the Galena cemetery to find Christopher’s burial plot and asked about the cemetery in Gratiot, I was told I had perfect timing. A woman from Gratiot just happened to be in the store ordering a monument for her recently deceased husband. We chatted for a few minutes, and discovered that we shared the same great grandfather—not Chris Ward, but Wash Noble. She told me exactly where the cemetery was. If I had found the store a few minutes earlier or later, I would have missed her.

On my way back to Chicago the next morning, I passed through Gratiot and traveled a few miles farther, but I didn’t find the road that led to the cemetery. I doubled back and stopped at a convenience store. The young woman at the register said she thought another woman named Biddy could tell me about the cemetery. She lifted the receiver to call her, then asked what name I was looking for. I said, “Noble.” She said, “I think Biddy is a Noble.” Five minutes later, I was sitting in the living room of my father’s cousin and childhood friend. My father died when I was eight, and I knew little of his life except what I could remember of his last few years. We lost touch with his family after his death. She told me my father loved to go dancing. He and a friend would come up from Rockford on Fridays, do all the girls’ chores, and then take her and her sister dancing somewhere. She said when he was younger he often stayed with their family for the summer, and did all the chores. When I left, the road to the cemetery was right where it was supposed to be. I know my father liked to play practical jokes, but I felt I was surrounded by a number of jokers who were having fun chasing me from pillar to post so I could have these wonderful experiences. Sometimes their mischief and amusement was so strong, I half expected them to leap out and surprise me!

I can sense that my ancestors know me, and they want me to know them. They didn’t just help me find their names. They helped me write an award-winning thesis, and gave me a sense of who they were and how they lived. I had the thrilling experience of writing new history. People in England were trying to find out what happened to the exiled miners, some of whom had gone to the Galena district, some to Canada and some to Australia. I had the advantage of being related to many of them, which gave me access to the people themselves, through the veil between heaven and earth. I got a stronger sense of myself, having lost touch with family at such a young age.

Being single, I have no one to pass this treasured information on to. As I sorted through my research, I filed some things and I threw some things away, but I knew that even the things I filed would eventually be thrown away when I die. That made me a little sad. One evening at a women’s Enrichment Night at church, they were demonstrating how to do decoupage. From there I got the idea to take an old run-down deacon’s bench I was debating whether to throw out, and decoupage it with pictures from my family history. I hammered and glued it back together, painted it, and then I pulled the more interesting items from my thesis: photos, maps, documents, etc. Using copies, I arranged them on the many facets of the bench and began layering on the Mod Podge. I finished it with a couple of coats of dull varnish. Now I have them where I can see them every day, without adding clutter to my little apartment, and my old deacon’s bench never looked so good.

This is not the end of the story either. I am off on another adventure to find my mother’s family in Germany. Who knows what surprises they have in store for me? I know if I am looking for them, they will find me.

Connecting the Here and Now by Cassie Bizzigotti

2005-11-02T14:15:00.000-08:00

“Connecting the Here and Now”
Cassie Bizzigotti
San Marcos, CA

Earlier this year in August, a volunteer from the Family History Center came to our church and gave an awesome presentation on genealogy and her own family research. It really got to me. As I was sitting there, I felt as though someone was tapping me on the shoulder and whispering, “Look up Evelyn." It was so real to me.

When I got home I went straight to the computer and looked up my great aunt Evelyn on the IGI. I was so surprised to actually find information about her. I got very excited and decided to look for her husband too. When I found his information I realized there were other distant relatives whom I didn’t know that were working on the same family line.

Through various sources I found someone who was part of my family. The name was George Houck. I called him, but just got an answering machine, disappointed that I had to leave a message. He called me back only ten minutes later and was very excited! We were thrilled to learn that we were both members of the same church too! He told me his life story and we talked for quite awhile. I asked if I could send him a letter or call him again soon. Before saying goodbye, he told me how relieved he was to know that someone else was helping with the genealogy in our family, especially since he didn’t feel he knew very much on the subject.
Unfortunately, I delayed getting back to him - sick kids and busy life got in the way. Two weeks later on September 15th, I finally found some time to write him a letter during my children’s naptime. It was an unusual day because both of my children fell asleep at the same time and stayed asleep for several hours! I spent a good portion of three hours working on the letter. I had so many questions for him. I couldn't wait to meet him. My mom didn’t know him because she had been told that he had the measles as a three year old and was mentally retarded. He actually was physically disabled, but not mentally disabled. My mom was eager to talk to him too. After all, he lived only an hour away! My maternal grandfather’s family had many children but they didn't keep in touch with each other, so my mother didn't know much about George.

That whole day, I couldn't stop thinking about George. I felt like something might be wrong and decided against sending the letter right away. I figured that I would send it the next week. That weekend, I found out that he had died that day. I know that he knows what I wrote in that letter, so it didn't matter that I didn't send it. He was only 47 and had a heart attack at home. I went to his memorial service and met his other friends from church. I found out that he had been in a wheelchair. I would never have known that by just talking to him on the phone! He had sounded very young and strong, with an enthusiasm for life that was infectious. If I had waited just two more weeks to contact him, I would have missed him completely! Ithink a lot of times people forget that family history isn't just about our ancestors – it’s about theliving people in our families today! I'm so glad that I listened to the promptings I felt. Now when I feel a prompting to look for a certain name, I just do it!

An Unexpected Reunion by Ron Bremer

2005-11-02T14:14:00.000-08:00

“An Unexpected Reunion”
Ron Bremer
Paradise, Utah

A lady in Indianapolis, Indiana shared the experience that when she was ten years old her grandfather died. She attended the funeral and burial services. Years later when she was older, she began to do genealogy and wanted to tie the links of her family together. She wanted to find the cemetery and her grandfather’s tombstone, but because she was only ten years old when she first saw it, she wasn’t sure she could remember where it was located. She drove east of the cemetery area and managed to locate the old cemetery. After walking around for awhile, she found her grandfather’s plot. To her amazement, standing beside the tombstone was the spirit of her grandfather. He had tears running down his cheeks as if to thank her for beginning the great work of their family’s genealogy.

A Genealogist's Pay by Brenda Sanders

2005-11-02T14:13:00.000-08:00

“A Genealogist’s Pay”
Brenda Sanders
One day I was doing some miscellaneous research at the local library, thinking I should go home or go visit someone. All at once I heard my name being called. I went to the front desk and was introduced as a genealogy expert to a couple. That usually embarrasses me a bit. I found out that this young woman and her husband had come down from another state to search for her father’s records. She had tried to find something about him for 20 years now, starting her search when she was only 11 years old. She was given some dates and places, but the information was only about half right.

I led her to some Vital Records books and we even went on-line at the computer. I was able to find his obituary that said he died in Tennessee. I found his birth record and remembered that she wanted to go by the funeral home, so I ran down there and gave them the new information. While I was there, the funeral home Director gave them some information about living relatives and called another location to fax over a death certificate. He also gave them directions to her father's grave. She got very emotional when she learned that he really was dead, but she needed to know.

It was really rewarding to be a part of this. I never know how my day is going to turn out! It made me feel good to make a difference in someone's life. In the morning she had told me that she didn't want to leave the area until she had found what she came for, even if she had to sleep in the truck. She now has lots of relatives to meet. I hope her new family will treat her like family. Family is really all that matters.

The Angel of Graziskiai by Diane Rooney

2005-11-02T14:12:00.000-08:00

“The Angel of Gražiškiai”
Diane (Kerelevicius, Bernota) Rooney,
Lithuanian Genealogical Society Membership Director
It was a cool day for June in Lithuania, and a steady rain had been falling all morning— not ideal weather for exploring rural cemeteries. My cousins, Zita Kerelevičiūtė and Agnė Rasimavičiūtė, and I, as well as Agnė’s grandfather, Jonas Rasimavičius, our driver, were wet, muddy, and discouraged. We had been searching the cemetery of St. Michael the Archangel church in Gražiškiai for over an hour, looking for the grave of my great-great-grandmother, Magdalena Daugirdžiutė Kerelevičienė, who died in December 1922. The cemetery’s layout was irregular, and recent burials had been made around older graves as the churchyard had filled. The wet and worn stones were hard to read, and we used our fingers and the points of our umbrellas to scrape mud and moss from them.

Just the day before, working with professional genealogist Sigita Gasparavičienė, I had seen Magdalena’s name in St. Michael’s death register in the Lithuanian State Archives in Vilnius, indicating she had been buried in the church cemetery. The chance to see my family’s parish church and pay respects at my great-great-grandmother’s grave was exciting. Perhaps the journey that had started nine years before in conversations with my grandfather, William Bernota, had reached a significant destination on that summer day in 2002, one with evidence that would take my family’s roots back before 1850.

Cemetery and construction workers told us when we arrived that most of the old graves were gone, destroyed years before by the Soviets. We had searched anyway, but without success. On our way back to the car, Zita saw an elderly woman and asked her if she knew the location of Magdalena’s grave. Miraculously, she said, “Yes, I believe she is buried very near my father,” and led us directly to the grave. We could not believe our luck. If we had not encountered our Angel of Gražiškiai, I would never have seen Magdalena’s last resting place. Our angel, whose name was Ona , posed for a picture in the cemetery and promised to keep an eye on Great-Great-Grandma for us.

Like many genealogists, I found Magdalena by slowly working backward in time, from my grandfather, to his mother and her siblings, to their mother. I relied on a mixture of family recollections, persistence, luck and random acts of kindness. My path never moved in a straight line, but wandered across five branches of the family, two continents, and records in three languages. I’m glad I never gave up!

Our Family's Contribution To This Country by Joan Norman

2005-11-02T14:11:00.000-08:00

“Our Family’s Contribution To This Country” by Joan Norman

Thanks to good records and the Internet, my husband and I have been able to trace a tremendous amount of our family’s history. It gets deep after awhile, as you start with yourself, then your Mother and Daddy's records, then two different grandparents (that's 4!), then their parents, (that's 8!), then 16 etc.

One set of grandparents came from Holland. They had ten children and lived in Bedford, Virginia for a while, later moving to Buffalo Mountain on the Skyline in Virginia. From those ten children we have been able to trace over 4,000 descendents living in the United States! Thomas Jefferson gave this country his great knowledge, but never had any children. This family gave our country over 4,000 citizens since 1768. Many records in Virginia were destroyed in the Civil War, but my family history research has given my present family the knowledge that we have helped the U.S.A. to grow. My ancestors came from England, Scotland, Holland, and Germany. I love doing my
genealogy!

Custom Tour by Ron Bremer

2005-11-02T14:10:00.000-08:00

“Custom Tour”
Ron Bremer
Paradise, Utah
A woman, who was a home economics teacher, was able to attend an annual convention in Illinois in the county of her ancestors. When everyone broke for the long lunch hour, she headed for the local cemetery to find her grandparents’ tombstones. When she arrived there she couldn’t believe how huge the cemetery was. Being religious by nature, she said a prayer, opened the car door to get out and searched for the stones in question. All of a sudden she heard her grandfather’s voice say, “I am over here, Honey.” She walked a long way, but walked right to his burial site. Her grandmother’s tombstone was there right next to him. After she had taken pictures of both tombstones, another voice said, “I am over here, Honey.” Another voice directed her to the burial site of two of her great grandparents! This same thing happened again the third time for her other great grandparents! She got a custom tour of the cemetery that day!

The Links In The Family Chain by Eddie Lynn (Glitz) Davis

2005-11-02T14:08:00.000-08:00

“The Links in the Family Chain”
Eddie Lynn (Glitz )
Dallas, Texas
I am tracing my family’s genealogy lines, as well as my husband’s and have discovered many, many times that their lives were intertwined. The most interesting thing I have found in this journey of mine occurred in the year 1711. On Sept 22, 1711, in the new colony of New Bern, North Carolina, tragedy struck when Indians all but wiped out the colony. Along with others that were taken captive by Indians were a couple of young boys. One of the young boys was George KORNEGAY and the other was George KOONCE. George Kornegay is my ancestor. To this day, everyone that has the spelling of KORNEGAY is descended from this little boy. Both young boys were rescued a year or two after their capture.

After being rescued, they were taken in by the Jacob Sheets family. When Jacob died, his wife married Jacob Muller/Miller. This story in itself is very interesting to me, but it gets even more interesting. I was following my husband’s DAVIS line and, through many twists and turns, it winds up in New Bern, North Carolina in the same time frame. I wondered if they knew each other and if they were killed in the raid also. Then I discovered the truth: my husband’s ancestor was Jacob Muller/Miller! His family were the ones who raised my ancestor George KORNEGAY and the other boy George KOONCE! From what I can glean from records, this family must have treated my ancestor very well and made him a part of their family, for he named some of his own children after them.This is not the only time that my husband’s family has helped mine through thecenturies. In 1836, another Indian raid took the life of my 4th great grandfather, Elder John Parker, along with other members of his family at Fort Parker in Limestone County, Texas. This is the raid that also took Cynthia Ann Parker from her family. Cynthia Ann Parker was to become the mother of Quanaha Parker, the last great Comanche chief.Some of the family survived because they were in the fields at the time of the raid. Some of the women escaped because they fled out the back of the fort to the river and laid low. One of the people who enabled them to make their way back to help was a fellow by the name of David Faulkenberry, kin to my husband way back. And it gets more interesting. In the 1960's I worked with a fellow named Jim Faulkenberry, a descendent of David! Our children later became good friends. I have always thought these incidents were the most interesting in my quest for my family, especially how my husband’s family line winds around mine. It makes me believe that we were truly meant to be a couple.

I'm My Own Grampa by Homer & Jethro

2005-11-02T14:06:00.000-08:00

“I'M MY OWN GRAMPA”
Homer & Jethro
1956 RCA Victor 6765

Many, many years ago when I was 23,
I was married to a Wider who was purty as can be.
This Wider had a grown-up daughter who had hair of red.
My father fell in love with her and soon they two were wed.

This made my dad my son-in-law and changed my very life,
For my daughter was my mother cause she was my father's wife.
To complicate the matter even though it brought me joy,
I soon became the father of a bouncing baby boy.

I'm my own grampa,
I'm my own grampa.
It sounds funny I know,
But it really is so.
I'm my own grampa.

My little baby then became a brother-in-law to dad,
And so became my uncle, though it made me very sad,
For if he was my uncle then that also made him brother
Of the Wider's grown up daughter who of course was my step-mother.

My father's wife then had a son who kept them on the run,
And he became my grandchild for he was my daughter’s son.
My wife is now my mother's mother and it makes me blue,
Because, although she is my wife, she's my grandmother too.

I'm my own grampa,
I'm my own grampa.
It sounds funny I know,
But it really is so.
I'm my own grampa.

Oh if my wife is my grandmother then I'm her grandchild,
And every time I think of it, it nearly drives me wild,
For now I have become the strangest case you ever saw
As husband of my own grandmother I'm my own grampa!

I'm my own grampa,
I'm my own grampa.
It sounds funny I know,
But it really is so.
I'm my own grampa.

The Census - 1890 Harper's Weekly

2005-11-02T14:05:00.000-08:00

“The Census”
1890 Harper’s Weekly

Census Taker: "Good morning, madam, I'm taking the census."
Old Lady: "The what?"
Census Taker: "The c-e-n-s-u-s!"
Old Lady: "For lans sakes! What with tramps takin' everythin' they kin lay their han's on, young folks takin' fotygrafs of ye without so much as askin', an' impudent fellows comin' roun' and wants ter take yer senses, well, pretty soon there won't be nothin' left ter take, I'm thinkin'."

Beatitudes of a Family Genealogist by Wilma Mauk

2005-11-02T14:04:00.000-08:00

“Beatitudes of a Family Genealogist”
Wilma Mauk
(Prairieland Pioneer Genealogical Society, Summer 1995 edition)

Blessed are the great-grandfathers, who saved embarkation and citizenship papers, for they tell WHEN they came.

Blessed are the great-grandmothers, who hoarded newspaper clippings and old letters, for they tell the STORY of their time.

Blessed are the grandfathers, who filed every legal document, for these provide the PROOF.

Blessed are the grandmothers, who preserved family Bibles and diaries, for these are our HERITAGE.

Blessed are fathers, who elect officials that answer letters of inquiry, for--to some--the ONLY LINK to the past.

Blessed are mothers, who relate family TRADITIONS and LEGENDS to the family, for one of her children will surely remember.

Blessed are relatives, who fill in family sheets with extra data, for to them we owe our FAMILY HISTORY.

Blessed is any family, whose members strive for the PRESERVATION of RECORDS, for this is a labor of love.

Blessed are the children who will never say, "Grandma, you told that old story twice today."

The Letter - Author Unknown

2005-11-02T14:03:00.000-08:00

“The Letter”

My story begins with Elizabeth Travers Chinn. She was born in 1775 in Lancaster, Pennsylvania and died in 1835 in Loudoun County, Virginia. Elizabeth is my 4th great grandmother, and a Mayflower descendant, having descended from very prominent Richmond County families such as the Allertons, Travers, Tarpley, Sydnor and Chinn. Then she married John Wilson. End of story! Well not actually. Ruth Wilson Dillon, author of “The Chinn Book”, which nowresides in the Library of Congress, wrote about this family. Through her years of research she could not find the parents of John Wilson. No one knows where he was born or anything else about him, other than a Bible record of his death. I was lucky enough to obtain a copy of a letter written by Elizabeth, although she signed it “Betsy.” I've read and reread this letter dozens of times. It haunts me. There is a message in there somewhere. I feel like she's right there with me. I can see her writing the letter and the worries on her face. In the letter she asks about her son’s intended trip to New Orleans, the Steamboat accidents, the illnesses at home, the deaths of neighbors and friends.
I've taken the names in this letter and, along with the family stories about John Wilson, believe I have come very close to proving the names of his brothers, their wives, children and his parents. Ruth Dillon Wilson knew these boys were related but could never figure out how. Later I received a copy of another letter from the husband of one of Betsy’s granddaughters that talks about the three Wilson brothers and their wives, proving my theory to be correct. Nothing has driven me like this letter!

It's All Finnish To Me by Betty Hildebranski

2005-11-02T14:02:00.000-08:00

“It’s All Finnish To Me”
Betty Hildebranski
Naperville, IL
Although most of my discoveries have been the result of time-consuming, methodical research, there are others that have come to me in some strange and inexplicable ways. I have no good explanation as to why I have been so fortunate in this regard, but I do believe that these discoveries have a spiritual quality. I can only surmise that some of these ancestors want to be found, remembered and honored.

I never knew my Finnish grandparents. We lived 500 miles apart and one died before I was born. The other one died when I was five years old. Nor do I remember hearing much about them. I had no intention whatsoever of looking for these grandparents in Finland. I had gathered all of the US documents that I could find and I felt that it would be like looking for "a needle in a haystack" to find their records in Finland. The first obstacle was that I was unsure of what her maiden name might actually be. It was stated on two documents that, as a result of her marriage to her first husband, her surname name was Pitkakangas. Another document stated that her father's name was Samuel Kangas. Her death certificate listed her father as Jako Pitkakangas. This Jako actually turned out to be her first husband and he had taken what had been her maiden name.The second obstacle was the Finnish and Swedish languages (the church records are in old Swedish script). They appeared to me to be languages that would be beyond my abilities to understand. Even the basic vocabulary necessary to review church records would be too difficult for me. I had been unable to find anyone doing Finnish research at the Mormon Family History Center in Naperville to give me any advice or direction. And even if I was willing to attempt it, the records did not include microfilm from either of their towns from the time of their births.The third obstacle was the naming practice in Finland called Patronymics. Their middle names were the names of their father’s given names. It was my basic understanding that their surnames were the names of the farms on which they were born and could later change if they married on a different farm or moved to a different farm. Consistent surnames were not a part of the peasant culture. Consequently, it was common for these surnames to change frequently.

Given all of these difficulties, I figured that any attempt on my part would be a complete waste of my time and I had no desire to frustrate myself.So, that's the background. One night I was just doing some random searching on the Internet. In www.Google.com I happened to type in the name “Pitkäkangas,” using the Scandinavian characters. This name could have been my grandmother's maiden name, the surname of her first husband, or a name that she made up. I also typed in “Evijärvi” (the town in which some documents stated that my grandmother was born. I got 13 hits -- most were in Finnish. I happened to go to one site that had the heading of “Genealogy Data” in the search results. This web page was titled "Amerikan Siiktolaisia" and listed a Juho and a Matti Pitkäkangas who were born in Evijärvi. This web page had no button to the home page, but it did have the creator's e-mail address on the bottom of the page.

At that point, not having much of an idea what I was looking at, I sent an e-mail stating that I knew it was a real "shot in the dark" and gave what little information I had on Anna Sofia Pitkakangas. The following day I received a 24-page report tracing Anna Sofia's paternal side of the family back nine generations! To say that I was overwhelmed would be a gross understatement! As it turned out, this man wasn't even related to my grandmother and he has over 100,000 names in his database from that area of Finland. This wonderful gentleman then put me in touch with another researcher in Finland who sent me a lengthy report tracing Anna Sofia's maternal side of the family back many generations. The story doesn't end there. Just a few days later, I happened to go to a Finnish mailing-list site. It had never been my practice to go to this particular site, but since I had that report, I thought that I would read some of the archived messages.

I happened upon someone who had copies of the Douglas County, Wisconsin 1920 and 1930 census and was willing to do lookups (at that point, I didn't have access to the census images). My grandparents lived in Maple, Douglas County, Wisconsin, and while I knew that there would not be anything on the census that I did not already know, I thought that it would be nice to have a copy. So I asked her to look them up, which she did, and we started exchanging e-mails.

At some point, she mentioned Veteli and some other terms that I did not understand. I sent her a message, asking for clarification of the terms. I had no sooner clicked the send button when I looked down on this 24-page report to notice that my great grandmother was born in Veteli! This woman lives in Elmwood Park, which is about 30 miles from me. Her ancestors came from Veteli, Finland and she has an abundance of information, which she graciously shared with me. She guided me through my own research to verify the accuracy of all the new data that I had received. Due to the records that she has, she determined that we are even related, about four generations back! Now I know that Finland has some wonderful genealogical records! One source stated that they even have some of the best in the world.Through another set of unrelated circumstances, I began communicating with a second cousin of my grandfather's family living in Finland. He is somewhat interested in genealogy and we worked together to try to trace some of my grandfather's family. He even sent me a studio picture of my grandfather as a young man.

Previously I only had a couple of other pictures of my grandfather that were taken at quite a distance when he was much older.With some of this information, I was able to find the dates for births and deaths of both of my grandparent's first spouses. It was like putting all of the pieces of their lives back together. What are the odds of all this happening in such a short period of time (2 months) without my putting in much effort at all? Some may choose to decide that this is just "dumb luck," but I don’t think so.I know that many genealogists strive to go back as many generations as possible; and with all of this help, I have gone back many, many generations. But my biggest thrill was finding out more about the life of this Finnish grandmother. She had such a tragedy-filled life. I figure she probably didn't like the fact that I was questioning her first marriage and morals. On my desk I have a small studio picture of her when she was young. She was so very attractive. I just love looking at that picture. I am totally convinced that somehow, some way, I received help from her. While I am not anxious to check out of this life any time soon, I do look forward to meeting some of these ancestors!

Spiritual Spell-Check by Denise Parsons

2005-11-02T14:01:00.000-08:00

“ Spiritual Spell-Check”
Denise Parsons
McHenry, IL
I find it so interesting that others have felt the spiritual and calm feelings that so often have kept me at my computer, researching families for hours on end. I have been researching genealogy and family stories for 35 years now and have volumes of information. One of the more important aspects of my project is when I feel the presence of individuals who seem to guide me to the right spelling of a surname or the right town, which enables me to match up families.
I am a Hospice Nurse and at the end of a tough day, I look forward to fussing at my genealogy in hopes that I can draw on the warmth that seems to surround me when I am looking for someone special.

Stronger Than Stone by Karen Baker

2005-11-02T14:00:00.000-08:00

“Stronger than Stone”
Karen Baker
While hunting for ancestral burial sites one day, a large grave marker fell on my cousin and crushed her leg. Mom simply lifted that granite headstone off my cousin's leg, tossed it aside and rushed her to the hospital. Two days later, it took three grown men to shove and nudge it back where it belonged. Later, Mom said that she knew that the deceased relatives whose information she was searching for helped her lift and throw it back. She was quite a spiritual woman and at her death she had traced our lineage back to 1470.

Strangers In The Box by Pamela A. Harazim

2005-11-02T13:58:00.000-08:00

“STRANGERS IN THE BOX” Pamela A. Harazim
Come, look with me inside this drawer,
In this box I've often seen
At the pictures, black and white,
Faces proud, still and serene.
I wish I knew the people,
These strangers in the box.
Their names and all their memories,
Are lost among my socks.
I wonder what their lives were like.
How did they spend their days?
What about their special times?
I'll never know their ways.
If only someone had taken time,
To tell, who, what, where, and when,
These faces of my heritage,
Would come to life again.
Could this become the fate
Of the pictures we take today?
The faces and the memories,
Someday to be passed away?
Take time to save your stories.
Seize the opportunity when it knocks,
Or someday you and yours,
Could be the strangers in the box.

My Restless Quest To Find Some Rest by Diane Sanfilippo

2005-11-02T13:55:00.000-08:00

“My Restless Quest to Find Some Rest”
Diane Sanfilippo
When I first began my search, I had nothing more than a few sheets of badly worn paper where my grandmother had written down her family tree. There was not much order to any of her scribbling, just names and dates that were left for me to piece together. Who went with whom, why and how? I never dreamt when I bought our first computer there were so many people like me who have an untiring interest in our country’s great heritage. I am fascinated by those whose blood, toil, tears, and longing to be free created our great country. Little did I know a vast expansion was looming for family researchers as ‘genealogy’ became more and more popular with the masses.

It did not take me long to organize names and dates on my primary families, but documentation took a much longer time. Were it not for the tireless volunteers on the free GenWeb project and those who monitor the name and place lists, I would never have completed my search for my elusive McDonald family. If you think about it, the records they have transcribed, the census, tax lists, veterans' lists, and so much more, make our own research so much easier, particularly if the ancestor is in another state. My own journey was paved with good deeds from kind friends, who included information about my great grandfather David's record of service! I think I now know him as much as my own family, having spent years searching for him. This journey first led me to the Banks County, Georgia, GenWeb site, where I made two, hopefully lifelong, friends.

David fought through the Shenandoah campaign, the Battle of Williamsburg, and several other conflicts. He died alone, his family far away in Georgia. Since his death came in the middle of the Peninsula Campaign, he was buried in a common trench, in a plain pine box, three soldiers to a grave. There he lay for almost 150 years without kith or kin knowing what had become of him.

It was on the Oakwood Cemetery's website that I found him. I was incredulous that he should be buried so near my own home. After all the years of searching, his grave was within driving distance! I would not be satisfied until my husband drove me there. On a warm late winter day since we were ‘in the neighborhood’, we drove to Oakwood. I have to admit I was pretty upset by my first glimpse of the flat, bare land, covered with new graves, not to mention the area of town. However, the manager of the cemetery soothed me a bit by telling me that what I was seeing was the ‘new’ cemetery, and the Confederate soldiers were in the ‘old’ section.

We followed him as he drove, down the main road past the office, then down a hill and over an old stone bridge with trees lining both sides of the road. Directly in front of us were narrow concrete steps, set into the steep hill, leading the way from the cool of the trees to old ornate tombstones, basking in the sun. As the road divided, we continued to follow our guide’s lead. My husband turned right and began a slow ascent of the hill. Once out of the trees and again on a straight road, the tidiness of the grounds without the red mud of recent graves and ornate funeral offerings gave the impression of dignity and age, and harkened back to a time long ago. Soon, Ricky’s truck stopped in front of what looked like a National Military Cemetery with square stones set in direct line with one another.

Our guide counted off the rows, then walked down three stones and said, “Here is your David McDonald from Georgia.” At once satisfied that, indeed, this was his resting place, a feeling of peace overwhelmed me as I stood by the unmarked grave. I knew I could not leave it this way. I had to let the world know that David McDonald, Pvt., Troup’s Artillery, Georgia Volunteers, Confederate States of America, an old man who died in a young man’s war lay under the green grass that covered hundreds of graves, most unmarked like his.
When I first found him, my thought was to move his bones back the McDonald Cemetery with his father in Georgia. However, after my visit, and realizing how quiet and serene it is there, I was satisfied he is among his own. Besides, it would be a DNA nightmare to sort out the bones with three soldiers buried to a grave, the pine boxes now rotten with age, and didn’t want to be the one to disturb their rest.

It was in early spring, not long before Memorial Day we journeyed, once again, to Oakwood, this time to see our newly installed marker. This time we were able to find David’s grave without guidance and soon the gleam of new bronze marked the exact spot. Because there are none nearby, it served as a beacon.

I cannot describe the feelings that overwhelmed me, standing there by my great-great-great grandfather’s grave. I feel as if I know him now. It had been a long journey from the first glimpse of his daughter’s scribbled name. I did not even know he existed five years ago, but now he is family and he can rest in peace, knowing that everyone who visits here will see his name and know his sacrifice. Thus ends my quest for peace for an old soldier. “Day is done, gone the sun. Soldier rest."

When In Doubt, Keep Driving by Norm Romney

2005-11-02T13:54:00.000-08:00

"When in doubt, keep driving!"
Norm Romney
While living in England for a short time, our family had the blessing of seeing much of the country of my ancestors. Names of locations that we had read on family group charts began to take true form as we drove on the streets and through the counties. In May of 1990 we created a little family history tour for our family, exploring Southern England in search of the Romney family name and my stepmother’s Freeman family. We started in a town called Romney in Kent County and drove through the beautiful areas of Marsh, Dover and Brighton.

My stepmother anxiously waited for the time to drive to Gun Wallow in search of a particular cemetery where she hoped to find family names. She had been researching manuscripts of her family name in a town called Church Cove of Cornwall County, and she yearned to see the actual location and tombstones. Manuscripts lacked vital records for a particular family she had searched for over 10 years. She had names only, but no birth, marriage or death dates.

We drove to Gun Wallow, but could not find the name of a town or church called Church cove on any map. It seemed the town had vanished centuries ago. At the end of the road out of Gun wallow it looked like the opportunity was over when the road ended. My stepmother Cora looked disappointed, so I continued to drive, not knowing how to tell her the search was over. My wife then looked incredulous as I drove past the formal road. As is typical in England, the roads are lined with beautiful green hedges making it impossible to see the sides beyond the vista of the road ahead of you. Surprising even myself, I kept driving. After driving a bit farther, finally the hedges opened up and suddenly, there was a panoramic view of a beautiful cove below the cliffs... with a church. Could this be "Church Cove?"

At the apex where the cove meets the cliff, stood a simple and very old stone-built church with a cemetery around it. One wall of the church was the actual wall of the cliff. Cora jumped out of the car, quickly energized by a romantic hope that this could be her missing Church Cove with the adjoining cemetery. Inside the gate, her eyes raced to see the name on the first headstone. It was her Freeman name! Then the second, and through to the fifth headstones, she saw that all were etched with the exact five names she had been looking for on her family group chart! She stood looking at her lost family and just cried. My wife looked at me in amazement. I looked up at heaven and smiled. We had been led, despite missing roads or maps, to find the needed details of a missing family. When in doubt, keep driving. The missing family knew where they were!

The County That Called Me by Becky Carden

2005-11-02T13:53:00.000-08:00

“The County that Called Me”
Becky Carden
I have visited Pike County, Georgia on four different occasions. The first time I went, my dad and I were told to go to a certain cemetery that had a lot of Cardens and McLeods buried there. My 2nd great Grandfather was Owen H.R. Carden and his wife was Nancy McLeod. When we went to this particular cemetery and found no Cardens, nor McLeods, we left very disappointed, to say the least.

When my dad, out of the blue, decided to drive down a different street, Liberty Hill Road, we found another cemetery. It was fenced all around and we couldn't get in. Frustrated, but not giving up, we went to a nearby house and asked about a Carden cemetery we had heard about in the area. We were told to go to another lady's home who could help us. When my father approached the stranger’s door he was welcomed right in by a friendly woman. She told him she was going to call another lady and she sent us down to another house. When we arrived at this third house my dad got out of the car and the third lady came out of the house to greet us. It turned out that her maiden name was Carden! She took one look at my dad, and said, “I know he's a Carden, by that white hair.” Her husband then took us to a Carden cemetery that I didn’t even know about from my research.

During that visit to Pike County I got a lot of “vibes” from that place and loved it from the first time I went there. I kept going back, and tried to find where my McLeods had lived and where my Alexander McLeod was buried. I received some new information and got in contact with a lady that lives there. She told me if I would come back, she would take me to where my Alexander was buried and show me where he had lived! She took me to his unmarked grave, and then said, “I'll show you the road he lived on.” Come to find out, they lived on Liberty Hill Road, the very same road that my dad felt compelled to turn onto!

She told me that my McLeod ancestors ran a livery stable and there had been a stagecoach that ran up and down the road. They had taken care of the horses. Some of the McLeods married into a Cauthen family and their home is still there. They boarded and fed the people on the stagecoach. It is also said that there is a secret room which was used to help the slaves escape to the underground railroad! I have six different family lines coming out of Pike County, Georgia, so I feel it is only natural that I would feel such strong vibes when I was there! I feel like my ancestors were leading me to where they had lived!

Ancestor Poem - Author Unknown

2005-11-02T13:51:00.000-08:00

“Ancestor Poem”
Author Unknown
Your tombstone stands among the rest
Neglected and alone.
The name and date are chiseled out
On polished marble stone.
It reaches out to all who care
It is too late to mourn.
You did not know that I exist
You died and I was born.
Yet each of us are cells of you
In flesh, in blood and bone.
Our blood contracts and beats a pulse
Entirely not our own.
Dear Ancestor, the place you filled
One hundred years ago,
Spreads out among the ones you left
Who would have loved you so.
I wonder if you lived and loved.
I wonder if you knew
That someday I would find this spot
And come to visit you.

15 Century Ancestors Come Back To The Rescue by Renee Warring

2005-11-02T13:50:00.000-08:00

“15 Century Ancestors Come Back to the Rescue”
Renee L. Warring
In November of 2004 my friend, Caroline, contacted me at the request of her mother. Her grandmother left her father and moved from Fiji to Zimbabwe, Africa when her mother was just a baby, refusing to talk about him or his family. I looked into my records and found the man they were looking for. We had members of our web site surname group that were related! I contacted the group and asked the related parties to contact her. I sent Caroline and her mother a family chart that I had made that showed information on her family back to the 1500's. They were thrilled.

A month went by and I had assumed that the proper connections had been made, but on December 24th Caroline contacted me. She was in tears. Her mother had died that day in her arms. No one from my group had contacted them and her mother had died without truly knowing who she was. I was heart-broken too, but it got me motivated. I contacted the relations directly and let them know about Caroline. They quickly started conversing with her. It turned out that out that she has living relatives, including a brother of her grandfather, and a sister to her mother.

At this date, Caroline has been conversing with her great uncle and her aunt. This web site surname group has opened up a whole new world for her and she is planning a trip to England and America to meet with her relatives! This story is a good lesson that nothing is impossible when you put your heart into it. It's still sad that her mother died without knowing her living relatives, but Caroline has been able to bounce back wonderfully from her loss. She lost a mother, but gained a family. It took my 15th century family history chart to open up a whole new world for this family half a world away. If it hadn't been for this research group she may never have found her answers.

Mary Wanted To Be Found by Madonna Davis Marks

2005-11-02T13:49:00.001-08:00

“Mary Wanted To Be Found”
Madonna Davis Marks
Recently, I went to a local cemetery where I have numerous relatives buried. I went to take pictures of their tombstones to add to my records in my Family Tree Maker software. It was a Sunday so I knew the office would be closed. My great Aunt Mary is buried there, but I had never visited the site and had no idea where it was. I was very close to my Great Aunt Mary when she was alive and thought she was one of the best women I had ever met. She had a wonderful Irish brogue. I'd visit her every St. Patrick's Day so that my children could do their Irish Dancing for her.

While in the cemetery that day I roamed through the section where I knew one of the tombstones was located. Something made me cross the road. I did a 180-degree turn to my left and I was staring at my Aunt Mary's stone! I almost fell over! I never imagined I could find her gravesite because the cemetery was so large. I started to cry because I knew Mary must have led me there.

The Value Of Census Records by Eileen Bolger

2005-11-02T13:49:00.000-08:00

“The Value of Census Records”
Eileen Bolger
Director, Archival Operations Denver Colorado

A great location for research is in any census record. State and National libraries offer archives of census record for viewing free of cost. They hold microfilm copies of all extant federal population census schedules for the period 1790-1930 for all states and operate a microfilm genealogy research room. Our research room is run by our volunteers, as it is in most of the National Archives' eleven regional offices. They are a wonderful asset and contribute countless hours to the genealogy community.

My Friend Ann by Linda Whiting

2005-11-02T13:47:00.001-08:00

“ MY FRIEND ANN”
Linda Whiting
“Cloth napkins,” I uttered in awe. “I’ve always wanted cloth napkins!” Susan Quan looked up from the microfilm she was reading. We were alone in the small Family History Center at the time. Learning what my outburst was about, Susan began kidding me. “What else did she have?” I read down the list from the 1721 Last Will and Testament, items Ann Hoccom Morris was leaving to her nine children: “Sheep shears, a looking glass, a stool, a wooden table, two benches …” “Anything in there about a microwave?” she asked. “What about a fridge? Any mention of a car?” she added with emphasis. We both laughed. My moment of jealousy was over.

I thought about that experience often during the next week. I am a direct descendant of Ann’s, but by now I also felt we were friends. I knew we were a lot a like too and it pleased me she had owned something really nice, like cloth napkins. It had been almost exactly a year since I’d made the decision to search for her by researching her maiden name.

At the time, there were so many questions I couldn’t answer. Parish records revealed her first husband, John Hoccom, died suddenly, leaving her with a farm and children. Then, less than a year later, a son followed his father to the grave. I wondered if some accident had occurred or if a dreaded disease had robbed her of both loved ones. I pondered, too, how she had survived it emotionally. The questions swirled in my mind. I needed answers, but the records were silent.

Then I discovered, less than a year after her first husband’s death, amazingly, she married again. Now even more questions haunted me. Had this couple known each other before? Was he a friend of her husband John? Was it a marriage of convenience? These questions became more plausible when I learned that the man was the farm foreman of a landed gentry’s estate near Ann’s farm. Clearly, There could have been something besides love in the marriage for both of them; he would get to work his own land, and she would get someone to manage her farm.

I unearthed the record of Ann’s second marriage to William Morris in 1688, but Ann’s maiden name wasn’t mentioned, only the fact she was a widow. To find her maiden name, I realized I was going to need to also find a record of her first marriage. That became my plan, and if that wasn’t possible, I decided I would order every record available during the years she and John Hoccom lived until I could find one where someone mentioned her maiden name. Every week I ordered a microfilm or two from the Salt Lake Library and had it sent to our local Family History Center in Phoenix. I served as a volunteer in the Family History Center and there was ample time for members of the staff to work on their own genealogy lines when there weren’t any patrons to help.

I figured finding Ann Hoccom was just a matter of hard detective work. I would eliminate all possibilities until the cherished maiden name appeared. First, I scoured parish records, then marriage indexes, then genealogies. Further digging led me into land records, court records, and probate records as the weeks and months flew by. More than six months later on a Saturday morning, as I was diligently reading the old English handwriting on a microfilm, an unexpected thought came to my mind, “You’ll never find the marriage record. It wasn’t recorded. But don’t stop looking.” I was startled by this inspiration as, frankly, it wasn’t what I wanted to hear! I decided, however, to be obedient and continue looking.

Often while searching for Ann I felt her presence. This wasn’t troubling to me, as it was a loving feeling. There seems to be a separate set of rules for spirits when it comes to contacting earth for anything having to do with family history. When I would drive in the car, thoughts of her would come to me. As I was lying in bed, drifting off to sleep, I would think of her and laugh. She wasn’t about to let me forget! And when I thought of her I saw her too: shoulder-length light brown hair, pulled back, very distinct features. I had no idea how I knew what she looked like, as I had never read a description of her in a record.

After searching about a year for her maiden name, I decided to take a gamble and check if Ann had a will. Women during this time-period seldom left wills, so I knew it was a long-shot at best.
Much to my surprise, when I ordered the Diocese Index of wills for the year of her death, I found she had recorded one! When the will arrived I scanned through it hastily, disappointed once again, not to find her maiden name. The last two pages were the itemized list of her possessions: cloth napkins, sheep shears, etc. The first page, however, appeared to be her own written words. First she bore her testimony of Jesus Christ. I could feel her spirit as I read the words, “I resign my soul unto the hands of God my Creator, humbly imploring the pardon of all my sins which I look for only through the merits and mediation of a dear Redeemer… My body I bequeath to the earth, firmly believing that I shall receive the same again at the general resurrection.”

Next, she named her children, starting with the oldest. To her eldest son, Thomas Hoccom, she left one shilling. To her eldest daughter, Elizabeth Nickles, she left five shillings. As I read those words, my mind jackknifed open. Wait a second, I thought! She didn’t have a daughter named Elizabeth! Then it all became clear. This was why I had been searching for a year. It wasn’t to find her maiden name at all; it was to find this daughter! This Will was the only record that connected the daughter’s name with Ann! The spirit told me my search was over. I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for Ann, as I was finally able to find her complete family, with her help. As a loving mother, she knew her family wasn’t complete until each child was listed together on the family group sheet and other family records. I silently asked one last question, “Will I ever get to meet Ann?” The answer came softly to my mind, “Yes.”

Charles' Challenge by Judith Parsons

2005-11-02T13:46:00.000-08:00

“Charles’ Challenge”
Judith Parsons

There is only one thing I like more than a challenge and that is a spiritual adventure. The search for Lucinda Henry turned out to be both.

Charles Nicholson, my newly discovered cousin (actually my father's first cousin) and I had just finished three intense days of talking, sharing details, traveling to cemeteries in South New Jersey and copying numerous documents pertaining to the families of our shared lineage. I was overwhelmed with the accumulated information held by this family historian -- the repository of all family information since the death of his father in 1947. Armed with thirty years of work and five hundred years of names and dates, I headed out the door of his home to later return to mine where I could sort out all my new findings.
"Where do you think you're going?" Charles asked, in his gruff manner. "Now that you have all this information, you have to go to work. I have an assignment for you." I thought he was kidding, but he continued, "Your great great grandfather, William Nicholson, was married to a woman named Lucinda. A few of us have been searching for her for years, but no one has had any luck. It's your turn." I felt like it was an initiation task for membership into the official clan.
He continued without a break. In the next few minutes he told me what was known about Lucinda. It wasn’t much! He didn’t even know her maiden name!

Lucinda was married around 1850 to William Nicholson. They lived near White Haven, Pennsylvania and both died there. They had fourteen children. She had a sister that married a Mr. Seeley and another sister that married a Mr. Green. Older people now gone had talked about Butter Valley. That was it. "No problem," I remarked with confidence as I looked at the scant clues. "Her father was Jacob Henry, so that should make it easy, I guess," I said naively. "And how am I supposed to believe that? I don't want guesses. I want proof,” Charles warned. Being an atheist, Charles elide purely on documentation. Being religious in nature, I relied on spiritual guidance.

On the drive home, all I could think of was this little lady, said to have worn a cap like an Amish woman. I could even see her tiny image, worn out from having all those children, constantly serving her family and her husband, living in a small house, hard working. What would be my first line of attack? Well, at least I already knew her father's name. I would just have to look for a Jacob Henry.

The first thing I did was plan a trip to Mauch Chunk, the county seat for Carbon County, PA, located about 300 miles from our home. All genealogy trips include my whole family. It was a lovely drive, and the courthouse was one of those old, small structures – inviting, but not too promising from the outside. I became a bit discouraged as soon as we entered the door. The kind lady at the information desk just smiled when I told her I was looking for the death record of Lucinda Nicholson in 1898. She explained that back in those days, death records were collected by a traveling scribe from the court who went out three or four times a year on horseback. She prepared me for failure when she said they rarely collected everyone's record. In addition, my great-great grandmother died in the wintertime. I remembered how cold it got in Northern Pennsylvania and shivered at the thought. Nobody was very interested in the death record when they had to travel in the ice and cold to the Township center to register the information.

Even more disconcerting was their filing procedure. "We keep all those old records over there in those boxes. You're welcome to look through them, but be careful. Most of them have never been unfolded." I began wondering why they collected the records if no one would ever read them, but ended by being very grateful that they did. There were at least fifty boxes piled on top of each other along the wall in front of me. "Help me Lord," I prayed earnestly, "Let's give it a try."

I pointed at a box and my husband lifted it down for me. The children watched in anticipation. They liked the drama and were used to miracles and fully expected to see another one as I picked up the folded paper on the top of the pile. It was amazingly well preserved. I carefully unfolded it to get a hint of what was in store for me and, realizing that I only had one day for the search, settled down for a day-long chore.

I marveled when I saw the name written on the first piece of paper I had selected from the box: Lucinda Nicholson! Everything was included: her death date, sex (Male, of all things!), her place of birth (Luzerne County). No one would have believed it, but I did and so did my children. I whispered a quick word of thanks.

Knowing her birthplace made the rest of the search easy. The next week I went to the National Archives in Washington, D. C. and searched for a Jacob Henry, my Jacob Henry. There he was, in the 1850 census in Nescopeck, Luzerne, PA! There was no Lucinda listed with his family, but then I remembered, she was already married. Of course she wouldn't be there.

Jacob was also in the 1860 census and again 1870, but missing in 1880. "Must have died by then," I noted. I also found some Seeleys and a Green. Hmmm… Amanda Seeley (I remembered the name Charles had given me.) There was an Amanda in the 1850 census living with Jacob. Hmmm…still too vague a connection. I needed to find a link Charles would accept. To find it I had to plan another trip to Wilkes-Barre. We always stayed with my mother when we went to Wilkes-Barre, and by now she was really tired of my coming, going off hunting and coming back at night just to sleep. She insisted we did not come to spend time with her, so once again we struggled when we got there and I promised I would only be gone a short time.

It was a hard promise to keep. Figuring that Jacob died after 1870, I looked for a will. I would later ascertain that Jacob died without one. There were a few land records for property purchases in his name. However, one recorded his death and referred to a "Power of Attorney, Book 2" for the recording of the legal papers necessary to sell the property after his death.
When I asked the clerk where they kept the Power of Attorney books, the lady behind the counter quickly pointed under the counter in front of her. “But they begin with "Book 16. Anything before that was destroyed in the flood," I was advised. I was shattered.

We went back to my mother's house, despondent and disappointed. As we ate lunch I kept hearing the words "Go back to the Court House" run through my head until I had to return. My mother wasn't very happy about that. I remember all too well her anger with my fixation with "dead people." We arrived back at the courthouse with less than thirty minutes until it closed. I returned to the lady who repeated the story about the flood loss. I would later discover that whenever Wilkes-Barre couldn’t find something they would say it was lost in one flood or another. After all, the Court House was directly on the banks of the Susquehanna River!

"Please," I begged. "There must be someone in this courthouse who can tell me where "Power of Attorney Book 2" is. I just know it's here." "If anyone would know it would be Francis. She's been here forever." She picked up the phone, dialed a three-digit number and asked for someone to come to the Documents Office. She seemed to realize we weren't going to leave until we found that book and she, for one, wanted to go home on time.

In a few minutes Francis arrived, complete with wrinkles, hair net for her gray hair, horn-rimmed glasses that were held on by a string fastened to her sweater by two flowered pins, and those old black shoes that all the school teachers wore in the 1950’s. I explained what I needed. She said she knew where some old books were, but was not sure whether we would find the one we needed or not. She motioned for us to follow her through the big, swinging doors that led to the corridor. We entered the elevator and soon were in the basement under the courthouse.

Since the Courthouse was a stone's throw from the Susquehanna, a beautiful view on a clear day, I could easily see how anything down there got "lost in the flood." Soon we were in a room at the end of the hallway with large file cabinets lining all sides of the room. "Up there," she motioned to the top of one of the cabinets. "Those are the only ones I know of that are left. Help yourself." She stood there guarding, as my husband climbed on a chair and looked on top. In just a moment he handed me "Power of Attorney, Book 2." We had just witnessed another genealogical miracle. There were only four books left, and one of them was the book we were looking for.

On that historical page was a petition for power of attorney by Jacob's oldest son, John, so he could sell Jacob's property, now that Jacob was dead, and distribute the inheritance to Jacob's heirs. To make it all absolutely perfect it was signed by each member of the family, including Lucinda! I never knew such documents existed! But there it was: a personal revelation.

Since that time, all of the Henry's have been identified and classified. Many researchers have come to know not only this family, but also Jacob's family, his brothers and sisters, and their children. And Lucinda -- I feel just as if I know her personally. Sometimes when I close my eyes, I can see her in that magnificent “Butter Valley” in front of the house William and his friends had built for her. In my dream he's always rocking in his chair and she's always hanging clothes, pumping water or chopping wood, surrounded by her children pulling on her dress, demanding her loving attention. Sometimes I see her look up from her tasks, stare right at me as if she sees me over by the trees, smile and wave, and then return to her time and place. I'm so glad I got to “meet” her.

Charles? He's happy. He has his documentation, although he still has a hard time believing how I got the facts after I made those assumptions. He says I did it backwards and that it doesn’t make “scientific sense”. However, he still raves about my find - tells me what a good job I did--what good luck I had. And there have been more finds, but none as meaningful as the day I met Lucinda Henry.

The long-reaching effects of this story are unlimited. This family appears on both sides of my genealogy. What’s more, all the relatives have been traced back to the Reformation in Germany.And on it goes. The family of Rauchs comes full circle and all because I watched for clues and listened for the words and had the willingness to seek out the facts to support them. I have concluded, after many years of research and study, that genealogy is more than analyzing data, it is like reading a romance novel full of adventure and excitement as the characters come alive. My children, now grown up with children of their own, talk about stopping at cemeteries and going to court houses when they were little and the miracles they witnessed. Soon our book on the Rauchs will be finished and published and left as a legacy for them and those children yet to be born.

A Sleuther's Lament by Merrell Kenworthy

2005-11-02T13:45:00.000-08:00

“A Sleuther’s Lament”
Merrell Kenworthy
I went searching for an ancestor, I cannot find him still.He moved around from place to place and did not leave a will.He married where a courthouse burned. He mended all his fences,And avoided any man who came to take the US census.He always kept his luggage packed, this man who had no fame,And every 20 years or so, the rascal changed his name.His parents came from Europe. They should be on some listof passengers to the U.S.A. but somehow they got missed.And no one else in this whole world is searching for this man.So I play “Geneasolitaire” to find him if I can.I'm told he's buried in a plot. With tombstone he was blessed;But weather took engraving, and some vandals took the rest.He died before the county clerk decided to keep records.No Family Bible has emerged, in spite of all my efforts.To top it off, this ancestor, who caused me many groans,Just to give me one more pain, betrothed a girl named Jones.

A Genealogist's Prayer - Author Unknown

2005-11-02T13:44:00.000-08:00

A Genealogist’s Prayer
Author Unknown
Lord, help me dig into the pastAnd sift the sands of timeThat I might find the roots that madeThis family tree of mine.Lord, help me trace the ancient roadsOn which my fathers trod,
And led them through so many landsTo find our present sod.Lord, help me find an ancient bookOr dusty manuscriptThat's safely hidden now awayin some forgotten crypt.Lord, let it bridge the gap that hauntsmy soul when I can't findThe missing link between some namethat ends the same as mine.

The Binder by Darlene Stevens

2005-11-02T13:43:00.000-08:00

“The Binder”
Darlene Stevens
Spokane, Washington

I did not grow up in a family that shared its history. Both of my parents have passed away and for years I knew very little about my ancestral line with the surname of "BEST." I did know that they were early settlers in the Coeur d'Alene, Idaho area. So, armed with what little knowledge I had, I approached the local library where genealogy records and local history were kept. All day I searched with little success. I became frustrated, picked up my belongings and began to leave. As I turned to make sure I had not left anything on the table, I saw a plain, white 3-ring binder in the corner of a bottom shelf. There was no label or title written on the exterior, so I had no idea what was inside. Being one who truly believes we are guided to find certain ancestors, I stood there, trying to decide if it was worth putting all of my things down again and walking back across the room.

The feeling became so strong. When I picked up the notebook without the label I found that it was the total genealogy of the BEST family! It was compiled by a family member from a small town near the Canadian border. I had no idea how long the notebook had been there or if the compiler was even still living. There was no telephone or e-mail address listed. Later, I would send a letter to this woman and we have, since then, become good friends.

Also listed in the notebook was some information about a small cemetery, located in a residential neighborhood. It was once the site of the family homestead. There are 13 family members buried there, one being my great great grandmother, Ellen Cherilla Ring. Nothing was known about her except that she was born November 13, 1838 in Maine. As I stood at her grave site that early March afternoon, a warm gentle wind blew around me and I felt that this woman wanted to be found. She has been a challenge to find, but I have traced her life. All of the work has been worthwhile. Now, when I visit the little cemetery I feel her presence all around me and I know she is pleased.

Boring Books And The Treasures In Them by Kathryn Cox

2005-11-02T13:42:00.000-08:00

“Boring Books and the Treasures in Them”
Kathryn Cox

As an avid genealogist, I love to visit cemeteries. I have also had picnics in a few and I just knew my kinfolk were sharing the time with us. Frequently I drag along my mother who humors me in my hobby. Knowing we had many ancestors from the area, my mother and I were in Connecticut visiting cemeteries and libraries, as well as enjoying the marvelous fall foliage. At the library in East Haddam I headed for the genealogy section. My mother began looking at what I call “coffee table books.”

Before long I was interrupted. "Is this one of our ancestors?" asked my mother. She had a book with a photograph of a historic house built in the early 1800's with the Chapman surname in the description, her mother's maiden name. "Yes, that is your great-great-great-grandfather!," I replied, thrilled with her surprising discovery. I immediately copied the information, including the map showing its location, compared it to the county map in the car, and headed out into the colorful, fall Connecticut countryside. Upon arrival at the house my mother asked, "Now what are you going to do?" I don’t know if she was more curious or worried!

I knocked on the door and gave a quick explanation of my interest. A welcoming voice invited us into a marvelous two-story historic house with original fireplaces in each room, original wooden floors, and a shining banister. I just knew my ancestor and his siblings had taken a fast shortcut down those stairs many times as children! We were given a tour, note cards featuring the house, and the opportunity to photograph the exterior. We learned that our ancestor had built the house and that Chapman descendants had lived in it about 150 years before it passed into other hands.

Shortly after I returned to Austin, Texas, I overheard a man at the LDS Family History Center talking about East Haddam. When I introduced myself he told me he had grown up down the road from that area and could tell me stories about playing with the Chapman children at that house. What a discovery! My mother’s lack of interest in genealogy led to one of our greatest family history discoveries!

Keeping A 30 Year Old Appointment by Warren G. Cantrell

2005-11-02T13:41:00.000-08:00

“Keeping a 30 year old Appointment”
Warren G. Cantrell
Killeen,Texas

As a young man, he became interested in his family genealogy. After awhile it became his life’s work. So much so, that he decided to go to DeKalb County, Tennessee where his ancestors were from. After he arrived there, he decided to drive to the area where his ancestors had lived. It was a beautiful valley. He spotted an old house and drove up to see if anyone there knew anything about the Cantrells. As he was closing his car door, a lady stepped out onto her front porch. She said to him, “Where have you been? Everyone in this valley is a Cantrell descendant and exactly thirty years ago we all had the same dream that you would drive up here like you just did. So in preparation for this event, we all gathered together our old family records, Bibles, documents, pictures, stories and other artifacts and put them in this old trunk here on the porch. They have been here now for thirty years. We knew that you would show up some day, but we never knew when!” By this time, both she and Mr. Cantrell were in tears. They hugged each other and she invited him in while she called the rest of the relatives and told them to come over right away because “the man in our dreams has finally arrived.”

On Research by Leona Bammes Gardner

2005-11-02T13:40:00.001-08:00

“On Research”
Leona Bammes Gardner

“The spirit of genealogy has come to our house to stay,
To keep us doing tedious research day by day.
It strikes me in the daytime, and gets me in a stew.
At night it drags me out of bed to hunt another clue.
It haunts me, and taunts me, as after names I scout;
And the research bug’ll get you if you don’t watch out!
I write to distant places for photographs so rare;
And haunt the archives weekly to gather data there.
I fill out family group sheets from books I get on call,
I hardly like to take the time for other work at all.
I haven’t stopped to wonder just what it’s all about,
But the research bug has got ME, so you’d best watch out!

I went to see a neighbor just to pass the time of day;
He soon brought out his record books for me to check and say,
I spent the whole blame morning, and half the afternoon,
Arranging charts and pedigrees, the time passed by so soon!
But when I’d finished copying, he gave a lusty shout;
And the research bug’ll get YOU if you don’t watch out!

One day when feeling lonely, my aunt I went to see;
Before I knew what happened, we were in the family tree!
The argument waxed hotly; I let the storm abate,
Then simply brought my records out, to show I had the date.
And though her grin was sheepish, there isn’t any doubt,
That the research bug’ll get HER, if she don’t watch out!

Now let me sound a warning: If to research you apply,
Yourself you’ll never be cured of it, no matter what you try.
For when you think you have them all–the names, the dates, the town,
Another name or date pops up! You’re off, till it’s tracked down!
So don’t you ever start unless you know what you’re about,
Cause the research bug’ll get YOU, if you don’t watch out!!

To My Ancestors by Carol Lynn Pearson

2005-11-02T13:40:00.000-08:00

I wonder-
Did I peek through the veil impatiently,
While you slowly forged the bonds that brought me to mortality?
And do you now stand where I stood
Yesterday,
Your cheeks against Heaven’s curtains
and pray-
Pray fervently for me to forge the bonds,
that bring us to eternity?

Flowers From Heaven by Tracey Long

2005-11-02T13:39:00.001-08:00

Another woman shares a sweet and personal story that testified to her that the heavens are not closed, but only unseen. Grandparents who have passed on are still just as concerned about their family, although they may now be across an unseen veil that separates heaven and earth. She had been feeling very alone in the world after a recent divorce. Her world had crumbled and turned out quite opposite from what she had hoped for in her life.

A close friend of hers was aware of her grief and went to a nursery to buy her some flowers as a thoughtful gesture. She looked down the aisles of colorful flowers and thriving plants and reached out for one she thought would cheer her friend. Her friend relayed the experience that internally she heard a soft voice say, “No, not that one.” Puzzled, she shook her head and reached out for it again agreeing to herself that it was perfect. Again the sweet voice spoke to her, “No, not that one. Choose this one.” Her eyes were turned to another plant with dainty little purple flowers. “Surely this plant isn’t as cheerful as the brightly colored plant I liked better, “she thought to herself. Then, as if arguing with some internal voice, she finally relented and quickly purchased the more humbly potted plant. As she gave it to her friend, she apologized for its lack of color but said she just felt it was supposed to be for her. The woman receiving the simple gift looked at her in amazement with tears in her eyes and asked, “How did you know?” “Know what?” she asked. “My grandmother used to always give me these flowers when I was a little girl and when I was feeling blue.” Heaven may not be as far as we think.

On Faith And Fumes by Tracey Long

2005-11-02T13:39:00.000-08:00

“On Faith And Fumes”
A college student relates the following story about one of her genealogy adventures. She was driving to a family reunion by herself in a friend’s borrowed car and was excited about the new information she might discover at the event. Being told the location was less than two hours away from her apartment, she filled the car with her genealogy notebooks, a camera, and the anticipation of meeting distant relatives she had been corresponding with. As she continued to drive through a lonely highway, passing all signs of civilization, her excitement drained, along with the gas tank. The reunion was taking place on a family farm, but she didn’t realize it was over 50 miles from the nearest town. Her gas tank was showing empty and she still hadn’t reached the farm. Her silent prayers were more of a plea to help her not miss the family reunion than of fear of being stranded.

As the red warning light on the gas gauge continued to blink she knew the tank only allowed further travel for 8 miles. She saw a sign announcing the farm site up ahead another 15 miles. Mathematically, she knew she wouldn’t make it. Miraculously, she made it to the event in her car and was overwhelmed by the large group that represented a lost branch of her own family. She was able to extend her family line and fill in dozens of family group sheets because of attending the family reunion. After they told her about a close and previously unknown gas station, she received both gas and renewed excitement. She smiled all the way home, knowing her car must have been carried by faith, fumes and a little help from the very ancestors she was researching.

The 23rd Psalm for Genealogists by Wildamae Brestal

2005-11-02T13:38:00.000-08:00

Genealogy is my passion. I shall not wander.
It maketh me to lie down and examine half-buried tombstones.
It leadeth me into still courthouses.
It restoreth my ancestral knowledge.
It leadeth me into the paths of Soundex and ship’s passenger lists for my surnames’ sake.
Yea, though I wade through the shadows of libraries and microfilms, I will fear no failure, for the quest is upon me.
The curiosity and stimulation they comfort me.
It demandeth preparation and purchase of disk space in the presence of financial needs.
It anointest my head with burning midnight oil, my data base runneth over.
Surely birth, marriage and death dates shall haunt me all the days of my life;
and I shall dwell in the house of a family history seeker forever.

Whispers From My Pioneers by Sheri Pherigo

2005-11-02T13:35:00.000-08:00

I ask myself everyday "Where do I belong?" and "Where did I come from?"
And so I seek and look and leave no stone unturned.I found where my pioneer ancestors have crossed the plains and prairie, walking until their feet had blisters and bled. With nothing but blankets to cover their cold souls, many times with no food in their stomachs they lay, dying along the way.
Makeshift graves left unmarked along the trail, and bodies left behind replaced dreams of new lives and hopeful spirits.
I feel their souls, pushing me to explore the unknown as they once did."Find me!" I hear, "Learn from me" I am told.
"Don't walk away, for I can teach you the values of life...values of the unknown life as it was and life as it is now..." Yet we don't listen. Have things changed that much? Is life easier?
Listen to the voices crying in the wind. They whisper secrets of life...the lives that once walked the earth and made our great country. All we have to do is listen to our hearts and the answers are there.

Dear Ancestor

2005-10-15T16:50:00.001-07:00

Dear Ancestor
Author Unknown
Your tombstone stands among the rest;
neglected and alone
The name and date are chiseled out
on polished, marbled stone
It reaches out to all who care
It is too late to mourn
You did not know that I exist
You died and I was born.
Yet each of us are cells of you
in flesh, in blood, in bone.
Our blood contracts and beats a pulse
entirely not our own.
Dear Ancestor, the place you filled
one hundred years ago
Spreads out among the ones you left
who would have loved you so.
I wonder if you lived and loved,
I wonder if you knew
That someday I would find this spot,
and come to visit you.

More interesting epitaphs!

2005-10-15T16:50:00.000-07:00

On a grave from the 1880's in Nantucket, Massachusetts:
Under the sod and under the trees
Lies the body of Jonathan Pease.
He is not here, there's only the pod:
Pease shelled out and went to God.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The grave of Ellen Shannon in Girard, Pennsylvania is almost a consumer tip:
Who was fatally burned March 21, 1870 by the explosion of a lamp filled with "R.E. Danforth's Non-Explosive Burning Fluid"
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Harry Edsel Smith of Albany, New York:
Born 1903--Died 1942
Looked up the elevator shaft to see if the car was on the way down.
It was.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
In a Thurmont, Maryland, cemetery:
Here lies an Atheist
All dressed up
And no place to go.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Dr. Fred Roberts
Brookland, Arkansas: Office upstairs

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Anna Hopewell’s grave in Enosburg Falls, Vermont
Here lies the body of our dead Annagone to death by a bananaIt wasn't the fruit that dealt the blowBut the skin of the thing that laid her low!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
On a grave from the 1880’s in Nantucket, Massachusetts

“Under the sod
Under these trees
Lies the body of Jonathan Pease.
He is not here,
But only his pod.
He has shelled out his peas,
And gone to his God.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Here lies one who for medicine would not give a little gold,
And so his life he lost:
I bet now he’d wish again to live,
Could he but guess how much his funeral cost.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Good friend for Jesus sake forbeare,To digg the dust encloased heare!Blest be the man that spares thes stones,And curst be he that moves my bones.William Shakespeare (Holy Trinity Church; Stratford-on-Avon, England)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Edward Elliot
Fairview Lawn Cemetery, Hailifax, Nova Scotia
SACREDTO THE MEMORY OFEVERETT EDWARDELLIOTTOF THE HEROIC CREWS.S. "TITANIC" DIED ON DUTYAPRIL 15, 1912AGE 24 YEARS EACH MAN STOOD AT HIS POSTWHILE ALL THE WEAKER ONESWENT BY, AND SHOWED ONCEMORE TO ALL THE WORLDHOW ENGLISHMEN SHOULD DIE.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Thomas O. Murphy
Mountain View Cemetery, Vancouver, British Columbia
Sh-h-h

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Christopher Wren
St. Paul's Cathedral, London, England
If you seek my monument,look around you
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Wife of Peter Leslie
Greyfriar's Churchyard, Edinburgh, Scotland
She was!But words are wanting to say what.Think what a wife should be,And she was that
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
On Margaret Daniels grave at Hollywood Cemetery Richmond, Virginia
She always said her feet were killing her
but nobody believed her.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Interesting Epitaphs

2005-10-15T16:46:00.000-07:00

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Benjamin Franklin wrote his own epitaph.(Christ Church Burial Grounds; Philadelphia, Pennsylvania)
The Body ofB. Franklin, PrinterLike the Cover of an old BookIts Contents turn outAnd Stript of its Lettering & GuildingLies here. Food for WormsFor, it will as he believedappear once moreIn a new and more elegant Editioncorrected and improved ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Lester Moore was a Wells Fargo Co. station agent, and is buried at Boot Hill Cemetery in Tombstone, Arizona
Here lies Lester MooreFour slugs from a .44No Les No More.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In a London, England cemetery:
Ann Mann
Here lies Ann Mann,
Who lived an old maid
But died an old Mann.
Dec. 8, 1767
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"That's All Folks!"The Man of a Thousand VoicesMel Blanc(Hollywood Memorial Park; Hollywood, California)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Called BackEmily Dickinson (West Cemetery; Amherst, Massachusetts)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In a Ribbesford, England, cemetery:
Anna Wallace
The children of Israel wanted bread
And the Lord sent them manna,
Old clerk Wallace wanted a wife,
And the Devil sent him Anna.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Playing with names in a Ruidoso, New Mexico, cemetery:
Here lies
Johnny Yeast
Pardon me
For not rising.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Memory of an accident in a Uniontown, Pennsylvania cemetery:
Here lies the body
of Jonathan Blake
Stepped on the gas
Instead of the brake.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
In a Silver City, Nevada, cemetery:
Here lays Butch,
We planted him raw.
He was quick on the trigger,
But slow on the draw.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Gone are the living, but the dead remain,And not neglected; for a hand unseen,Scattering its bounty like a summer rain,Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Mount Auburn Cemetery, Cambridge, Middlesex County, Massachusetts, USA)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A widow wrote this epitaph in a Vermont cemetery:
Sacred to the memory of my husband John Barnes who died January 3, 1803
His comely young widow, aged 23, has many qualifications of a good wife, and yearns to be comforted.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A lawyer's epitaph in England:
Sir John Strange
Here lies an honest lawyer,
And that is Strange.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Nature and Nature's laws lay hid in night: God said, 'Let Newton be!' and all was light.written by Alexander PopeSir Isaac Newton(Westminster Abbey, London, England)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Someone determined to be anonymous in Stowe, Vermont:
I was somebody.
Who, is no business
Of yours.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Lester Moore was a Wells, Fargo Co. station agent for Naco, Arizona in the cowboy days of the 1880's. He's buried in the Boot Hill Cemetery in Tombstone, Arizona:
Here lies Lester Moore
Four slugs from a .44
No Les No More.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
In a Georgia cemetery:
"I told you I was sick!"
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
John Penny's epitaph in the Wimborne, England, cemetery:
Reader if cash thou art
In want of any
Dig 4 feet deep
And thou wilt find a Penny.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
On Margaret Daniels grave at Hollywood Cemetery Richmond, Virginia:
She always said her feet were killing her but nobody believed her.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
In a cemetery in Hartscombe, England:
On the 22nd of June
- Jonathan Fiddle -
Went out of tune.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Anna Hopewell's grave in Enosburg Falls, Vermont has an epitaph that sounds like something from a Three Stooges movie:
Here lies the body of our Anna
Done to death by a banana
It wasn't the fruit that laid her low
But the skin of the thing that made her go.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
More fun with names with Owen Moore in Battersea, London, England:
Gone away
Owin' more
Than he could pay.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Someone in Winslow, Maine didn't like Mr. Wood:
In Memory of Beza Wood
Departed this life Nov. 2, 1837
Aged 45 yrs.
Here lies one Wood Enclosed in wood
One Wood Within another.
The outer wood Is very good:
We cannot praise The other.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Genealogy Pox

2005-10-15T16:45:00.000-07:00

GENEALOGY POXWarning: NO KNOW CURE(Very contagious to mature adults) SYMPTOMS: Continual complaint as to need for names, dates and places. Patient has a blank _expression, sometimes deaf to spouse and children. Has no taste for work of any kind, except feverishly looking through records at libraries and courthouses. Has compulsion to write letters. Swears at the mailman when he doesn't leave mail. Frequents strange places such as, cemeteries, ruins and remote, desolated country areas. Makes secret calls. Hides phone bills from spouse. Mumbles to self. Has strange faraway look in eyes. TREATMENT: Medication is useless. Disease is not fatal, but gets progressively worse. Patient should attend Genealogy workshops, subscribe to Genealogical magazines and be given a quiet corner in the house where they can be alone.REMARKS: The unusual nature of this disease is - the sicker the patient gets, the more he enjoys it. Author unknown

My Aloha Experience by Terrance Rossi

2005-10-02T16:25:00.000-07:00

“My Aloha Experience”
Terrance Rossi
I was raised a middle son in an Italian family of three boys. When I was about six years old my parents began to share with me the story of my adoption at birth. George and Gail Rossi took great care in informing me that I was a chosen child. Throughout my youth, their loving attitude made me feel secure and a natural part of the Rossi clan. My brothers, Michael and Jeff, helped me enjoy the special camaraderie that only brothers can know. I had always felt that my childhood was exceptional. We were always into everything, having too much fun!

My mother, Gail, passed away in the fall of 1982, and my brothers and I were still reeling from the loss. It was a dark and confusing time for all of us, with much soul-searching and self-defining episodes. It was then, just two years later, at the age of twenty, my father, George, opened the door to the rest of my life. I was inspired by the adoption documents he shared with me. My father, being the gracious man that he is, presented me with original documents which gave descriptive clarity to who my biological family was and how they might physically look. This was illuminating! What a wonderful gift my dad was sharing with me! I had always felt I “looked” different. As these windows of light began to explain and expand my self-discovery, soon I began to delve into further research of my hereditary roots. Having been raised by an Italian family from a small town in upstate New York, being born in California, and growing up in Florida, imagine my fascination to learn my birth parents were from Hawaii, and I was actually of Hawaiian ancestry! Wow! How intriguing! Black hair, green eyes, fair complexion - that’s me - but is that what a Hawaiian looks like?

The documents revealed, in the spring of 1964, a young woman from the islands (names were obscured by law) came to California, gave birth to a healthy baby boy, and left the child in the loving arms of a devout and practicing Catholic family - her only term of requirement for the adoptive parents. The child was the answer to the prayers of a young adoptive mother, Gail Rossi, who had been diagnosed by her doctor that she would be unable to have any more children, after only having one son, Jeff, then 5 years old. The story and prayer of the child’s birth mother, Margaret, would then become a secret of the heart for 38 years to follow.

George and Gail Rossi, after only a year in California - as though God’s plan destined them to stop there to receive this special child - moved to Florida after the adoption. That was Gail’s wish and the place her next dream would come true - the birth of her third son, Michael - the child doctor’s told her she could never have…!As years passed, after mom’s death, I went on to college, and went about living my life and learning from it. I began to think more and more about researching my roots. I began to study the documents that my father had given me earlier. My interest peaked as questions about my birth parents’ existence and other possible family members entered my mind. Who and where did I come from? I was intrigued by the fact that my biological mother was Hawaiian and my bio-father was of Portuguese decent.

I satisfied my interest by making a series of phone calls to the county of San Mateo Adoption Services to inquire on my personal birth records and file. Unbeknownst to me, the state of California has very strict adoption privacy laws and it was very difficult to acquire any information. With my dad’s help, we petitioned the court for the file to be opened. Our efforts, however, were only two-thirds of what was necessary to acquire the full information that the file possessed. Most importantly, I still could not uncover the name of my birth mother and father. A third waiver was needed, by a biological parent, in order for the complete file to be opened to me. Through other nongovernmental sources and some “luck,” I did learn my birth father’s name, which was connected to a family of musical renown in the Hawaiian Islands. My birth mother’s name was still a mystery. I was intent on finding her first, out of respect for her privacy and the “secret” she had keep for so long. After all, I was simply researching my genealogy not looking to make contact with anyone This was getting serious - and close - and I was getting nervous about finding answers about my beginnings that I might not like. So, I backed off and at this point, I was satisfied with my researching effort.

On my 38th birthday I found myself on a business trip to Oahu, Hawaii. Prior to the trip my fiancée, Jill-Ann, had suggested that I make a phone call, using the information I had researched years before. I was petrified about making that call and introducing myself as “the son you gave up for adoption!?” Before leaving, I finally got up the gumption to phone a woman who my research had lead me to believe to be my birth mother. Despite my nervousness, I knew I would be discreet. As it turned out, this wonderful Hawaiian woman was not my birth mother, but after hearing my story of research that had now spanned nearly twenty years, she was warm and open in extending her own family and aloha to me in the event I failed to find my real birth mother. It was my first introduction to the “Hawaiian way” and what I was about to discover I was a product of in a BIG way.

In further discussion with this new auntie of mine, she recognized my birth father’s name as an acquaintance of the past and family friend. She then offered to personally meet with my birth father, Jesse, to privately and carefully broach the subject with him. We agreed she should proceed, perhaps my last chance at finding a connection to my Hawaiian family and my birth mother. The meeting was an emotional one! After ten minutes of quiet listening, Jesse gently nodded in acknowledgment - yes this is HIS son…and the boy’s mother is now married to... HIM! They have been happily married for 39 years, and have been waiting, praying and believing that one day he would find his way back to them. They had felt they owed his adoptive parents and him the happiness and home together that they couldn’t provide many years ago.

Now my story blossoms…….. You see my mother and father were smitten with one another back in 1964. They fell in love! Was it love? Just met…too young to know for sure...My father was following in the large footsteps of his father, a well known entertainer and recording artist, playing back-up bass in my grandfather’s band. They were not prepared yet for the life-time commitment of marriage and raising children. So, life-time decisions were made and Margaret left the Islands briefly to deliver George and Gail’s little boy to them. For a time, she resided outside of San Francisco in the town of Redwood City. My birth and adoption would become a secret held in Jesse and Margaret’s hearts for thirty-eight years.

My original research had given me some key pieces, although dim, to the puzzle of my infancy. First of all, the cause of the mistaken identity of my new auntie as my birth mother was that she shared the same maiden name as my birth mother, was around the same age, and was a vocalist performing professionally - like my musically-involved birth father and family. It seemed a likely connection.

In the adoption report, it had stated that my father was not present at my birth. I couldn’t help but wonder why my father wasn’t by her side. It appeared that my eighteen year-old mother gave birth to me at a home for unwed mothers in the care of Catholic nuns. Jesse sent loving and supporting letters from home, but they had agreed to do this, unbeknownst to family and friends. I was the first born son of an amazing woman. Courageous and bestowed with a deep faith that God would look after her child through the love of a young Catholic couple, George and Gail Rossi.
Over the years, my research had highlights of key pieces of information that would add to the puzzle but, would also present more questions. Though my natural curiosity as an adopted child was being stirred, my research had never compelled me to make contact with anyone. Our lives were private from one another and I respected that. Plus, I had a family that loved me and raised me as their very own. Who could ask for more than that? But now, nearly thirty-eight years to the day that my birth mother lay her loving eyes on me, I would receive a phone call from the courageous woman I had searched for. We laughed with tears of joy and just marveled at the sounds of our voices. This was a family affair of large proportions, so there was business to tend to. Margaret asked me to call the house later that evening. To my amazement, Jesse and Margaret had married seven months after my adoption and I was about to speak with my sisters and younger brother for the first time.

That evening, Jesse and Margaret sat down with their children; Minei 36, Kaui, 34, and Jesse III 32, and told them their secret. The next day I phoned my father, George, in Florida and asked for my step-mother Ann, to join us as I explained the discovery I had made. On the Hawaiian side, elders had to be told. This would be shakey ground for them. I was advised to be patient and grateful with humility, all innate Hawaiian traits that I didn’t know I had. Meanwhile, I prepared to share the news with my brothers Jeff and Mike. This was big for me. Without my brothers on board and the risk of hurting their feelings, it would sour the celebration and may collapse the relationships between us.

As it turned out, everyone was in joyful disbelief. Margaret and I got busy making arrangements to meet on common ground - Las Vegas! I quickly learned that’s where those who live in paradise go on vacation. Thirty days after our first phone call, on Independence Day weekend, I embraced my birth parents and my sister, Minei, and her husband, Shannon, who also made the trip. The fulfillment that I began to experience from that day on is indescribable. Jill-Ann and I were invited to a Luau in my honor at the home of my parents the following September. There I was draped in Hawaiian lei’s and ate food that would make me sing and dance with cousin’s, auntie’s, and uncle’s! At this point, I was either being re-born in paradise or I had died and gone to heaven. But, there would be more to this buried treasure……… Jill-Ann and I were event coordinators at the time and, after being engaged for over two years, were trying to find the time to plan the ultimate event, our wedding. It boiled down to Boston (Jill-Ann’s hometown), Florida, or now even Hawaii. We decided on Vegas. And we both agreed it would be a “family affair”. (Don’t try this at home) Our wedding in Vegas would be the backdrop to an Italian, Hawaiian, and Irish family reunion, of sorts. I attempted to prepare the Rossi family for a room full of people who looked just like me!! The Kalima’s were a mighty bunch. Here, two-dozen Rossi’s would embrace two dozen Kalima’s for the first time with joyful tears. Emotions were high throughout the evening. And as I tried to take it all in, my father George put it best, “Leave it to Terrance, not to have just one family that loves him but, to go out and find another.”

Genealogy - Author Unknown

2005-10-02T16:23:00.000-07:00

“Genealogy”
Author Unknown

Genealogy begins as an interest,
Becomes a hobby;
Continues as an avocation,
Takes over as an obsession,
And in its last stages,
Is an incurable disease.

What If? by Mary McIntosh

2005-10-02T16:22:00.000-07:00

“What If?”
Mary McIntosh
St. Petersburg, FL When my story, "The Newfangled Device" was published in 2001 on the folksonline.com web site, little did I realize what a far-reaching effect it would have on my life! It told of how I learned to love the computer by one day latching onto a search engine and discovering Kirkby Lonsdale, the small town in northern England where I spent my summers as a very young child. Three years later that same story led me to find the house where my mother was born in 1884. This is my story of serendipity.
"Memories of Kirkby Lonsdale," was the subject on the e-mail displayed on my monitor that day in 2003. A man in England had written, asking if I wanted to share any more memories with him. He was re-opening the pub in a small hotel, and living in Kirkby Lonsdale, the village where I'd spent my summers as a child. James and I started sending e-mails to each other. Many of his descriptions were the same as those I'd written in my article, and it was fun to be in touch with someone who was walking down those same streets. He sent me a picture of himself, seated on the wall outside the building where my grandmother lived.

Then one day he asked the question, "Would it be possible for you to take one more nostalgic trip back to England?" With just those few words I embarked on an experience so simple, yet so profound, that it became a beautiful and inspiring journey into my past.I was now in my 80s and traveling had become difficult for me, but I felt I could manage the trip if someone was there to help me. James offered to meet me in London and we'd drive to the Lake District. It sounded so good, but what did I really know about this man? He was in his early 40s, he told me, lived in Blackpool, but I knew little else. Should I go, and hope for the best? Was I being a foolish old woman? What if I got to London and he wasn't there? Then what would I do? What if he turned out to be the kind of man that preyed on older women? Maybe he thought I was rich because I was from America. What if I went and we didn't like each other? What should I do? I really wanted to go, for besides re-visiting Kirkby, I'd always had a great desire to see if I could find the house my mother was born in. When in her 70s, she'd painted a watercolor of it from memory, which I inherited upon her death. I knew she was born in Middleton, near Kirkby Lonsdale. If I went, maybe James would drive me there.I swayed back and forth -- yes, I'll go; no, I shouldn't take the chance. Finally the decision was made easier for me when my daughter, Heather, told me she planned on running the marathon in London in April, and would stay on and join me on my trip back to my beginnings. At least if things didn't work out, we'd be traveling together. And so, in April 2004, at the age of 83, I returned once again to the land of my birth. My daughter ran the marathon. I arrived at Heathrow. She and James met me. James turned out to be a delightful young man, and was agreeable to anything I wanted to do.My mother's father died when she was nine, and my grandmother was left with five children. She needed an income, and in the late 1890’s, jobs for women were not that plentiful. Luckily, she was able to procure the position of caretaker of the Institute, a building used for meetings, receptions, and such in the town of Kirkby Lonsdale. This is where the family lived, where I spent my summers as a young child, and where James, Heather and I were headed.James had kindly arranged with the present caretaker of the Institute for us to actually go inside so I could look around. It was still used for meetings, but no longer had sleeping arrangements. I did notice the kitchen had been enlarged, and electricity installed, though we saw several gas jets still on the walls. The large fireplace remained, and I remembered how we children had taken our Saturday night baths in a large galvanized tub in front of it. Then, we walked out the kitchen door. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. The four outhouses, the only facilities for our use, were still standing. Told they were now used for storage, my daughter swore they still had a certain aroma about them.The town had changed little from those pictures that appeared along with my story. Now bustling with autos, it still retained the old-fashioned charm of the horse and buggy days, as I had remembered them. We were there on a Thursday and, just as I recalled it as a child, the market place was bustling with stalls of produce the local farmers had brought in to sell. Then we walked into St. Mary's Church for a few moments, the church were my parents were married.I enjoyed my re-visit to Kirkby, but now I needed to find my mother's place of birth. The next day James drove us to Middleton, the neighboring town. It is difficult to know what to call Middleton. It is hardly even a village, for there are only 300 people living there, mostly sheep farmers. There is no school, no shops, no petrol station, but there is a church. We stopped there first.My great-grandfather had been the Vicar of this little country church, which we found open, and discovered his name on a wall. Dark inside, the church probably held no more than fifty people. In my grandparents' days it would have been the focal point of the community, with the Vicar living nearby. Now, we were told, an itinerant minister visits each Sunday. Outside, on a lovely English spring day, with wild daffodils growing abundantly, we walked around the churchyard. Many of the gravestones were so old they had toppled over onto the ground. Those covered with moss were difficult to read. We did find my great-grandfather's grave, and close by, the grave of my grandmother, as well as of the grandfather I never knew.Now it was time to search for the house, though I had no idea whether or not it still existed, as the family left in 1893. My daughter kept snapping photos. "That one looks like the painting," she'd say, but I was never sure. Several of them were either too small, or much larger than the picture my mother had painted. We did find the old vicarage where a farmer and his family now live. They allowed me to stand in an open doorway to the house, and have a picture taken. This is where my great-grandfather lived, and I'm sure Mother must have visited many times. At first I thought this might be the one, but I didn't recall Mother ever telling me she'd lived at the vicarage. I was getting a bit discouraged.
"We'd better be heading back." James said. "I'd like to get home before it gets dark."I knew we had to leave, and I'd just about decided her house was no longer there, when Heather exclaimed, "Mom, look at that one across the road. That might be it." I wasn't too convinced, but when we got home, and the photo was developed, and we looked at the two of them together, we knew they were the same. My mother's painting, and an enlarged framed photo are identical--the doorways, the chimneys, the curve of the road. Even some of the shrubbery looked alike, though the sensible side of my brain knew this was highly unlikely. Then called Rose Cottage, it is now The Swan Inn.The trip turned out to be very joyous and emotional. I never thought I'd ever be able to visit England again. And seeing the place where I'd spent much of my childhood was wonderful. But the highlight, discovering my mother's home at almost the very last minute before we had to leave, was serendipityAnd so I ponder. What if I'd never written that piece? What if it hadn't appeared on the Internet? What if James hadn't read it? What if I hadn't been brave enough to travel again, and rely on a stranger to take care of me? What if…?