The Company They Kept: Discovering Ancestors Through Societies & Memberships

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The members of one particular family group I’ve studied, the Laughlins of Bradford PA, all share one interesting non-genetic trait. They were, all six of them, joiners.

How do I mean?

• Pa belonged to The Protected Home Circle and the Brotherhood of Locomotive Firemen and Engineers.
• Ma belonged to the Confraternity of the Rosary.
• Older sis was part of the Catholic Girls Club and both sisters belonged to the Ladies Club of Bradford.
• Older bro  joined the Lion’s Club of Bradford and American Legion of Bradford, and both brothers were members of the Knights of Columbus. (The younger brother was Edward Laughlin, a likely suspect for my Grampa’s natural father.)

I do believe we can call that a pattern.

These tidbits came to me through newspaper mentions, primarily obituaries. I could dismiss these memberships as filler or note them as facts and leave it at that, but why not dig deeper?

Explore Every Avenue

The new family historian quickly learns the value of cluster genealogy, studying family groups instead of individuals and using extended family lines to break through brick walls, but why stop there? You can’t pick your family, as the saying goes, but you can pick your friends and associates. I’ve gleaned some fascinating insights about my ancestors by examining the societies and memberships they chose for themselves.

Lodges

The first mention of a lodge I encountered was in one of those great old county histories, Landmarks of Steuben County, New York by Lewis Cass Aldrich. Levi S. Cornell (photo here) was a member of “McClellan Lodge, No. 649, F. & A. M.” (1). Sounds interesting—except I had no idea what it meant.

Some of you may be way ahead of me. F. & A. M. stands for Free and Accepted Masons, and as Wikipedia suggests, that could mean a lot of things. Time to dig in and learn more about freemasonry.

Churches

Church affiliations often show up in obituaries (though for accuracy, note the difference whether your relative “was a member” or simply “attended” the church). If you find your ancestor numbered in a congregation, find out what that church taught. What did they believe? Also, consider looking into the specific church’s history and clues into your ancestor’s world.

My 3rd g-grandparents Martha Ellen Forsythe and Stephen Wertz were married July 12, 1863 at Christ Evangelical Lutheran Church in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania (2). Their marriage record along with the attendance/communion (3) and confirmation (4) records show that this was Martha’s church between 1856-1863. Tucked inside the record book is a handwritten historical sketch of the church, showing that the church was not unaffected by “the excitement and political rancor of the War of the Rebellion,” but also that they were able to hire a full-time pastor for the first time and built a parsonage during those years (5), suggesting local prosperity. This matters to me because Martha Forsythe was working as a servant in Lewisburg in 1860, in the household of Phineas Man, who was an Old School Presbyterian clergyman (6)!  Was it a source of tension that she did not attend her employer’s church? What did Old School Presbyterian mean? More research for me, I suppose, because this example is running long!

Political Parties

If you learn of a political affiliation, run with it. Discover what that meant in the context of the day. What were the national debates going on during your ancestors’ lifetime? What does their political affiliation tell you about their opinions on the matter?

For example: several years ago, I found History of Tioga County Pennsylvania, with Illustrations, Portraits and Sketches of Prominent Families and Individuals, transcribed online at the incomparable Tri-Counties Genealogy & History by Joyce M. Tice. The book included a short blurb on my 4th great-grandfather, Dr. Albert Mortimer Loop. What made it special? Only that Dr. Loop actually wrote the section!

Therefore, when he wrote of himself, “He is a staunch Democrat in politics, having voted that ticket for 42 years,” he summarized his political leanings from 1841-1883. He would have voted for Lewis Cass (1848) and Stephen A. Douglas (1860), both of whom supported popular sovereignty on the question of slavery. Perhaps he wrote impassioned op-ed pieces for the Wellsboro Agitator when Democrat Samuel J. Tilden won the popular vote in 1876, but lost the election to Rutherford B. Hayes.

Clubs and Service Organizations

As we already saw with the Laughlins of Bradford, interest groups and and service organizations are a superb way to know what mattered to our ancestors. Clara Wertz Heineman, daughter of Stephen and Martha, was a member of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union [Source: Mrs. Clara Heineman obituary clipping, presumably from the Olean Times Herald, Oct 16, 1953]. What did she think when her son married a girl whose grandfather had been arrested for bootlegging!? When Malita Clemons Witter co-chaired a send-off for draftees in September 1942 (7), was her heart in her throat for her oldest son Leroy, who would be stationed at Camp Lee, Virginia within three months (8)?

To Be Continued!

This is such a rich topic, it turned into a two-part episode. Join me on Thursday and we’ll talk about more social communities that reveal aspects of our ancestors’ lives.

Question for You

Have you made any discoveries involving your ancestor’s memberships or communities? Have a tip to share? Leave a comment!

Do You Try To Solve the Mystery?

Image courtesy of Tanatat / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I first considered the question of attempting to solve mysteries as I read after loaning a book to a friend. I raved about it—in fact, I’ve loaned that book at least three times now—but she found it just okay, partly because she figured out the whodunit halfway through. “There was only one suspect!” she said.

And she was right, but I got so wrapped up in the story that I hadn’t been trying to solve the mystery, and moreover, I realized that I never do. I let a story wash over me wave by wave, and I don’t try to jump too far ahead. Where did this tendency originate? Time to explore my mystery-loving roots.

Mysteries Embedded in My Literary-DNA

I was getting ready to brag about reading a handful of Sherlock Holmes stories when I was a kid, but the longer I think on it, I realize that I have to admit that my first mysteries were … Scooby-Doo. Yeah. Three cheers for Saturday morning cartoons. Years later, I heard that every unmasked baddie turned out to be the second non-regular character introduced per epidsode. Formulaic, predictable, easy.

Then came Sherlock, in the form of a Reader’s Digest Condensed book. These mysteries depended wholly on arcane bits of information, 98% of which I didn’t know. I didn’t have a hope of solving a mystery that involved knowing the native home of pet snakes or when and to whom certain military decoration swords were issued.

So there encoded in my early mystery consumption, we find formulas and inability to locate all the pieces. The entertainment value came from watching the sleuths work and not from exercising my own noodle. Or maybe I’m just lazy.

The Difference Between a Constructed Mystery and a Found Mystery

There’s a difference, I think, between the literary mysteries I read and the genealogical mysteries I find. When I pick up a book, I know the author built that story out of a known set of parts. No matter how twisty or shocking the plot points, like a Frankenstein monster all the required components will be joined together: the set-up (including both the question and the stakes involved), clues (both overt and covert), probably at least one red-herring (the lack of which caused my friend disappointment in the book I loaned her), and at last the conclusion (possible startling but inarguably logical). By setting down the story, the author has made a promise to provide both the question and the answer.

A genealogical mystery needs only one of these pieces and comes with no guarantees. Family stories may prompt the questions we would ask, if only we could. Perhaps history provides us with stakes, a Gold Rush or a Black Tuesday. Clues could be that strange old photo or the way Grandpa would never talk about the war. Red herrings appear in our ancestors lies, or our wrong assumptions about why they did things a certain way. And conclusions? Well, we certainly know a lot about how it ended up—after all, here we are—but life doesn’t promise us logic all the time. Sometimes, or even most times, things just are, and that’s it. There may not be a tight-fitting ending to every true-life story.

If It’s Going To Be, It’s Up To Me

That essential difference between fiction and fact fully accounts for my different approaches to fictional mysteries vs. historical ones. In a book, the author has already done the heavy lifting. I can sit back and enjoy. With my family tree, there is no formula, and the work hasn’t been done for me. I know how to find the pieces (usually) if they exist to be found, and the reward is in the search itself. Sometimes, I’ll find the answer.

That’s good enough for me.

Question for You

If you read mysteries, do you try to solve them? Are you usually right? Leave a comment!

(PS-Sorry so late! It’s still Tuesday in a few more time zones, if not my own …)

Should Every Story Be Told?

SHADOW OF TREE
Image courtesy of gubgib / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

By now you know that I’m a fan of mysteries. Locked doors, secret messages, forgotten stories. Old photos–maybe with a name on the back, maybe not. Brushing dust from bones, in hopes of finding something beautiful. Yesterday I read of Daniel, interpreting the dreams of the king by the power of God. I love that story and the aspect of God’s character it highlights. He is the revealer of mysteries.

And then occasionally, there are puzzles I hesitate to try to solve, secrets that—perhaps—should stay hidden. If they hold any beauty or hope, any word of instruction or truth, then it can’t be said to outweigh their pain or loss or common vulgarity. Some family stories are whispered if they are ever told at all, or are told once and then mercifully forgotten. Or we try to forget, anyway.

There is a bogey in my family tree, and no one utters a good word about him. Not to suggest that I find injustice in that. If he had a single redeeming quality, it never made the news, was inadmissible as evidence, and failed to impress the record of memory.

He is a “brick wall” as my fellow genies would say. I’m no closer to his parentage than I was five years ago, although I have built quite a dossier on him. You’ve heard the phrase, “You can always tell he’s lying if his lips are moving,” but this ancestor lied in print. His lies continue after his lips have stilled.

Am I being unfair?  I won’t name him here; I don’t want to make trouble for his living namesake, nor toss about accusations, provable or not. Because you know, I do have some proof. A brief newspaper account and a maddeningly unhelpful court record. He was found innocent of wrongdoing, for what it’s worth.

If there is a point of interest, it is sordid and voyeuristic. If there is a cautionary tale, it is to marry wisely. If there is a picture of redemption, I haven’t found it.

And if he cast a shadow over this family, then does “shedding light” on facts combat or perpetuate that?

Spiritual matters so often become evident to me in concrete things. The compelling mystery here is not the fact or legend of any particular bogey, but the moral questions I confront as a result. If I have taken up the unofficial mantle of family historian, then does it fall to me to decide which stories are worth repeating? I’m inclined to think that amounts to assuming too much. Then again, what is my responsibility to the privacy of those injured in the past (once they are gone) or the knowledge of future generations (who may not ever be)? Who is hurt and who is helped by the knowledge?

Should every story be told?

The newest crop of adults in my family are too young to remember this bogey—we have only the stories. In two generations, his memory could fade out completely. Should I throw away my evidence and let it?

Question for You

Have you faced a moral dilemma in sharing genealogical discoveries? What did you decide?

Old Books: A Poetry Anthology, 77 Years Young

This old book got older in my care.

Its copyright is from 1936, but when I started carrying it around everywhere in 1989, it was in far better shape than it is today. The tape on the spine, the wear at the edges? Yeah, that was all me.

I don’t read as much poetry now as I did, but once upon a time I memorized “The Walrus and the Carpenter” by Lewis Carroll. I can still recite the entire poem, all 18 stanzas, on command.

The sun was shining on the sea, shining with all his might….

So far, since its time with me began, this beat up old anthology has endured five moves. Five times stuffed into too-heavy boxes, five times plucked back out and shelved.

One more thing about it—its pages smell surprisingly sweet. Only bare traces of that acidic mustiness. Maybe because it’s been opened often enough to let most of the decaying chemical odors escape.

Maybe this old book stayed young in my care, too.

---

Good Words on Old Books

I’m keeping it short and simple today, but here are some can’t-miss links for old book lovers.

Sciency: What Causes “Old Book Smell”? by Matt Soniak (via Mental Floss)

Poetical: How to Read an Old Book by Susan Brown (via The Copperfield Review)

Offbeat: Forgotten Bookmarks (via Popeks Used and Rare Books)

Question for You

Got a beloved old book? What makes it so special? Why do you hang onto it? I love to hear from you!

Genealogy & Storytelling Collide at the Antique Shop

Did you know that in the USA, today is National Tell A Story Day?

I found a postcard at the antique shop, addressed to Mrs. Mary Porter of 1346 Mineral Spring Road, Reading, Berks county, Pennsylvania, but neither stamped nor postmarked, so possibly never received. There’s no date anywhere on it, but it would have to be after the introduction of Real Photo postcards in 1903, and the clothing styles seem to fit along the lines of early 1900s as well. I welcome expert opinions on this.

Postcard Transcription (as written)

One day a young boy came to take the dog picture so we went to the yard just as we were and sat on the back steps and Mr Gordon took the dog bween his knees and this picture is the effect of it hope you can see the dog he is not very plain to be seen put on your glasses then perhaps you can see him a nice little spaniel we all send our love M A J

Biographical Details

Mary E. Pomroy was born about 1846 in Connecticut (1) to Joseph Pomroy and Mary Elisabeth Strickland Pomroy (2). In 1870, she was an unmarried teacher living at home in Hartford, Connecticut (3). Though the exact date of her marriage to is not known, it was sadly brief: a son, Albert Lester Porter, was born December 1, 1876 (4), and his father Albert E. Porter died thirty days later on December 31 (5). In 1880, Mary and her 3-year-old son lived in Reading, Pennsylvania with her parents (1). The 1900 and 1910 censuses show that Albert Lester was her only child. Tragically, he did not survive her (6, 7). He received an estate from his father (4) and passed it to his mother before reaching the age of majority; he died at age twenty on January 14, 1897 (8). Mary appears in Reading city directories from 1878 (9) and by 1900 had located to 1346 Mineral Spring Road (6, 10), where she lived for the remainder of her life. She was buried June 9, 1925 in Hartford, Connecticut (11).

And Now, The Imaginary Part

“For Want of a Stamp”

Another letter from Mary. She’s gotten to writing so often that I can’t keep up by half, and never mind that she ran me fresh out of stamps. Poor thing. I was sure the card with Mr. Gordon’s spaniel would brighten her spirits, but it turned out so dark I don’t really care to send it at all. If the boy who took the picture had not been quite so pitiable and charming, I might have asked for my money back. Oh well. The card is written and addressed, and if Ellen doesn’t have a stamp I can borrow then I’ll send her out to the post office in the morning.

The laundry’s pinned to the line and today’s bread is in the oven. Though the goats are hollering about their heavy udders, it won’t take long to see what news Mary has today, and I don’t mind the moment’s respite from all my toils. I slice the envelope with one clean swipe of my silver letter opener—a wedding present from her, bought long before her misfortunes.

She’s had the same idea and sent us a photo, a cabinet card with dark green backing and fancy gold lettering. I pluck it out of the envelope, though I soon wish I’d read her letter first. It features a very young man—not more than a boy really—reclining on a fainting couch. He’s dressed in a sack suit with a bowtie and striped waistcoat, and though his hair is the slightest bit disheveled, his expression is one of perfect peace. There’s a book laying face down beside him. His eyes are closed.

“Oh Mary.” I sigh. If I could afford the time and travel to go see her, I would. I shake the folds out of her letter.

M—

Tho’t you & Ellen should see my dear Albert at last from this I had made after. It is very like him and has but 1 flaw that he was no great admirer of Kipling, oh that I did not notice it before but what’s done is done. Please send this back when you have seen it for prints are costly. At times I think he is not far but far enough I suppose. We are having a very pretty spring and Katie is well and sends regards but George left for Hartford Tuesday and will be gone 1 month.

Sincerely,

Mary

How lost she sounds! And that my jabber might have crossed in the mail with this memento mori. Should I think a postcard of the lot of us gawking at a silly dog might improve her hand? Foolish me. Even so, Sunday school lessons from days past admonish me fiercely to honor the widows who are widows indeed, and not many are so widowed as Mary.

I’ve forgotten how many years it’s been. Stilled at the cusp of manhood. I study the picture of Albert for signs of his parents, his father long dead or his mother in her youth. I see instead an odd similarity, and though I can’t place it, it is not easily shaken away.

I lay the envelope and its contents aside on the letter desk and head down to the goat pen troubled. What is right and good to do? Shall I send the card after all or not?

Mr. Gordon’s spaniel greets me as I pass the barn. She has no answer for me, but she sticks close to my heels until I have two quarts collected and the does are peaceable again. I take my fresh milk back to the house, but the dog doesn’t follow as far as the back step. She avoids that spot since the day we sat for the impromptu picture, and it’s only just dawned on me to wonder why.

Just that Mr. Gordon wrestled her so for the picture, I tell myself. What a time, and yet the boy was so patient. I walk through the chores of the day, wrestling too, collecting all the benefits of my labor, building up my little kingdom.  I think I’ve made the match, though my certainty waxes and wanes through the afternoon.

Shepherd pie tonight. A favorite of mine, but I find I’m not at all hungry.

“Mother? Are you well?”

She does me proud, my Ellen. I lay my fork down. “Tell me, that boy who came and took our picture with the dog—how old do you think he was?”

Her baffled expression is almost comical. “The boy?—hmm. Thirteen, perhaps fourteen. Why?”

“He could have been older and had a youngish face.”

“Or younger with a wizened one. What’s this about?”

I pester once more. “Do you think he could have been as old as twenty?”

Ellen wipes her lips on a napkin and appears to give it some hard thought. “No. Remember he said he was selling the Real Photo postcards to help his ma? A man of twenty wouldn’t have trouble finding regular paying work, and would likely spend his wages on his lady friends before his mother, besides.”

I nod along. Of course. I’ve added foolishness to foolishness today, but it occurs to me that more could be lost with a stamp than for want of one. “Well, he seemed able-bodied, anyway. I want to hire him to look after things here. You and I must make a trip to Reading soon. It’s been far too long since I’ve seen Mary Porter.”

~Ω~

How to be a Library Cat

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