Waste not, want not

In the 1920's, my Great Aunt Ruth Richardson came to Sutherlin, Oregon as a bride. One of her letters written back home to family in Northfield, Minnesota talks about when she went out to the springhouse to get some butter for her mother-in-law:

"And this is what I saw - shelves all the way around filled with jars and jars of canned fruit! I am going to offer to get the butter and cream every meal and count them.

"...Tonight I went after butter again, and I asked Mother Morgan if she would think me dreadfully snoopy if I counted the fruit jars. Now, darling, you simply have to believe me - there were six hundred quarts, and jars and jars of jam, preserves and chow chows, and a big immense jar of wonderful pickles. There were the most wonderful assortments of fruit, meat, fish and vegetables, and she had done it all herself. She is just so nice and modest about it; I'd think anyone who had done that ought to broadcast over the radio. And then she said in that nice quiet voice of hers that I am learning to love and respect, "But I canned a few more this year than usual." And what do you think she said? That two hundred of them were for us. Jim had bought the jars and sugar and she canned them."

The first time I met my husband’s aunt, she was in the kitchen of her farm in Southern Germany, cutting brown bits off a head of cauliflower, her fingernails blackened by soil and paring. My father-in-law did much the same with shriveled apples, taking them one by one from a cardboard box next to his chair. I recall being repulsed by the condition of the produce; indeed, it was the kind of stuff you would see in dumpsters in this country, never in the stores. But these people had been through a war on their own soil, and knew what being hungry was like. For my generation, who has lived in a world at war for nearly their entire life, there is no shortage, no hardship.

As I child I remember my mother parking close to the fence at the bank so my brother and I could stand on the hood of the car and pick blackberries while she did her banking. We had purple tongues when she returned, but there were enough for some on ice cream later, and even more that she turned into jam. She enlisted our help in stirring jam and canning peaches. In fact, on the day Neil Armstrong walked on the moon, we put up peaches: as the person with the smallest hands, my job was to neatly layer the cut and peeled peach halves in the mason jar so my mother could pour the hot syrup over them. When we cleaned out my parent's home, there was still one lone jar of "Moon Peaches" on a shelf in the pantry. They're past their prime, discolored with time, but I still packed them up (along with boxes of jars), and they sit on my pantry shelf with the other canned goods. 

And there are more than a few, as my family and friends have learned that if they bring home fruit (or pick it from the trees on our suburban lot), jam will be made. As I take my first jam of the season down to the shelves in the garage where they reside, I check seals and rotate the jars (older jam near the door, newer jars on the left). I also took the opportunity to channel my ancestor and count the jars, and did you know, there were 126 jars of jam, and 36 of applesauce! I will share some with friends who have been trained to return jars, but my family will enjoy the lion's share of the bounty and I admit to a great deal of satisfaction from seeing them, rows of soldiers ready for toast.

Yes, there is jam available to us on the supermarket shelves and farmer's market, but we all prefer following in the footsteps of our predecessors and sweating through the hot days of summer so we can spread a little sunshine on our toast on a wintry morning. 

Summer in a jar

Not forgotten

I have previously written of my 3GGF William "George" Beck, who sailed the seas from England to Tasmania to California, all for family. As a young man, he accompanied his parents (Becks) and aunts and uncles (Knights and Webbs) to Van Dieman's Land; as a young father, he packed up his family to try their fortune in California in the Gold Rush.

But the family with three children that boarded the Barque Spartan in 1850 headed to California was not complete. Yes, they had already buried three children (including twin boys that did not survive), but George's 12 year old daughter Sarah from his first marriage--who had lost her mother while George was at sea--is not on the passenger manifest. 

And it does not appear to be an oversight by the purser: there is no record of Sarah in any records once they arrive. In the years after their arrival, the family expands by two more daughters. George makes a good living selling real estate and building houses for miners returning from the mother lode with pockets full of placer gold. He lives a prosperous life, dying at the age of 69, with a sizeable portfolio of real estate and a passel of grandchildren. He outlived his second wife by 25 years.

So whatever happened to Sarah? When I asked my mother, she said she had always heard that she died along with her mother, or perhaps she came to California at a later date. Great Aunt Marjorie assumed she had died, since it was inconceivable to her that a parent would abandon a child.

However, digging through the Tasmanian archives (a researcher's dream: clearly scanned, indexed, and online), Launceston reveals itself as a very small town: in the 1843 census, there is an unidentified young girl of Sarah's age living at Carr Villa, her great uncle John Knight's estate. In 1851, the census names her as living with her grandmother Beck. But we hit pay dirt in the 1856 Assessment Book for Launceston, where she is not only living with her grandmother, but her aunt and uncle Webb have also moved in. Also in the list of residents is Thomas Hughes, her new husband. She is 18 and pregnant with the first of 12 children. 

When George died in California in 1882, his will appointed his youngest daughter Lizzie as administratix. His will splits the estate evenly between his four surviving children, identified by name. But the 1885 probate settlement tells another story: Lizzie and her siblings make sure that their half-sister Sarah Hughes finally gets her due: she receives 1/5 of the estate, with the remainder going to her unmarried half-sister Grace. 

The father and his four children circa 1859:
Mary, Tom, Lizzie (Elizabeth), William George, and Grace

Australian royalty

If you haven't already, you'll want to read the story of the Launceston Library.  

Picking up where I left off: I had three siblings with land grants in Launceston, Tasmania (then called Van Dieman's Land). All of them were free persons--no convicts. My great aunt Marjorie had been adamant that there were no convicts to sully our name or reputation. But I couldn't help but wonder why an entire family that had been in the same village for generations would uproot to an unknown and distant land--reachable only by a two to five-month sea voyage that was in itself an ordeal.

I learned that the English government was offering a bounty to young men with a trade, which William "George" Beck was. He was  a carpenter, and I can remember seeing the chest he made in my great aunt's house. But that didn't explain why his parents and four of his aunts and uncles made the same trip. 

Having established that we had three siblings and their spouses thanks to my distant cousin just across the Canadian border, I learned from this same gentlemen that their father, Samuel Knight, had been the subject of a trial at the old Bailey on April 25, 1814. 

The transcript from the Old Bailey trial

Samuel, a cloth salesman, had moved his family to London in hopes to improve their economic situation, but that apparently had not worked out, and on an April evening, he and his brother and a couple of cronies took a crow bar to a warehouse door and stole  some furs. Both Samuel and his brother James were sentenced to death. Both of them had their sentences commuted to transportation.

On August 7, 1815, James and Samuel were transported to Port Jackson, Sydney in Australia aboard the Baring, along with 300 other convicts. In 1830, Samuel completed his sentence, and his son John, who had moved to Launceston, applied for a land grant for his father and brothers-in-law. In 1822, two things happened: James died, and Samuel earned a ticket of leave. Samuel then requested a transfer to Van Dieman's Land. By 1829, he had a conditional pardon, though his commuted sentence meant that he could never return to England. 

So it appears that Samuel, a convict, is most certainly the reason that the three siblings came to Launceston: the timing permitted petitions for Samuel's transfer and land grants for the siblings, all taken care of by his son John. 

In an interesting footnote, George Beck's first Daughter, Sarah, was left behind with his parents and aunties when he left for California. She ended up marrying an Irish man who had also received a death sentence--for stealing a gentleman's handkerchief--commuted to transportation: during his sea journey to Launceston, the transportation system was dismantled, and he found himself a free man upon arrival (except for the option of returning to Dublin). Thomas Hughes was a watchmaker, and provided well for his wife and 12 children. There are still many Hughes in Tasmania who can trace their roots to this couple.

Secret sign

Among the treasures handed down to me is a small wicker box containing several medals and ribbons: some are from my father's military service, a whole bunch are tarnished medals from my grandfather Albert Walsh's short career as a one-mile walker, but the most elaborate are those from my grandfather's involvement with masonic organizations. Deeper research indicates that his brother Vincent was also a member of the order. Unfortunately, the fancy fez headgear did not survive. 

In his obituary we learn he was a member of "Henry Clay Lodge No. 95 F & AM, California Bodies Scottish Rite Islam Temple, Royal Order of Jesters," all part of the Masonic landscape. Sure enough, there are a number of Shriner pins (fez and sword), as well as some from the Royal Order of Jesters, naming Albert a "Light Comedian," and other bits adorned with Billiken, their chubby mascot ("The God of Things as They Ought To Be"). 

In her photo album, his mother Julia pastes pictures of Albert with his Shriner group; it seems ironic that the current Masonic Temple in San Francisco, across the street from Grace Cathedral, was completed only a year before he died.

My father knew his dad was a Mason ("wide mouth?" we would joke with innocent hilarity), but he never seemed to be a joiner; it was only in his 50s that he decided to join a church and the historical society. 

So there was some joy in hearing that in his 70s, he was invited to join The Ancient and Honorable Order of E Clampus Vitus, a fraternal organization dedicated to preserving western heritage (at the time, he was president of the Shasta Historical Society), known for placing historical markers throughout the west. But my father was never one to take things too seriously (his father was a light comedian, after all): the name of the group  is improper Latin that translates loosely as, "I believe it because it is absurd." In addition to placing plaques ("doin's"), they did fundraising for "widders and orphans," and held beer-fueled camps called colloquia. But the best part was that they had rituals: wear a black hat and a red shirt, give the "secret sign" to fellow Clampers if you should see them about town. He delighted in teaching the gesture to our toddler son; I can't tell you what it is, because it's a secret. 

Albert - back row, first on left

Rock collection

We tend to think of stone as a material for the ages--buildings and statues from ancient civilizations that we see in museums and around the globe are still with us, sometimes in perfect condition, sometimes showing their age. But weather, wars, and the choice of stone itself have a direct bearing on longevity.

Coming from a family of genealogists means that cemeteries are nothing new to me. There's always at least one big shady tree that someone had the foresight to plant many decades ago, an area with newer graves--some with wooden markers pending the final stone--and the somewhat overgrown areas with the older, worn stones. But as an adult, I learned that this does not hold true everywhere.

When I first visited my father-in-law's home town in southern Germany back in the 1980s, I noticed a sign that pointed to the cemetery. Since it was a sunny day, we strolled over. I understand now why the place looked so well-tended, and am kicking myself for not taking a photograph of DH's grandfather's headstone. For this is a typical Catholic cemetery, where plots are rented for a period (usually 80 years); any remaining bones are exhumed and placed in a common ossuary. Which means that the stone I saw that fine day is no longer there. 

So what happens to the stones? It's not uncommon to see the vestiges of earlier houses in the stones of newer ones in Europe; I imagine that some headstones are repurposed as paving stones (face down), and others may be broken up for stone walls between fields and such. But every family has its historian, and some families keep the stones. And this was the case with cousin Pia.

During one of our visits to Betra last winter, we met up with another cousin, who walked the rows with us, and helped us photograph all the graves with the family name, telling us stories about the ones she knew personally. And then she took us to cousin Pia's house. Pia herself was under the weather, but pointed us to a shed in the back corner of her garden. There, leaned up against the shed were headstones from the 1960s that has been removed from the cemetery when their time expired.

Cousins in Pia's backyard

George's little diary

I wrote earlier about my 3GGF William "George" Beck, who emigrated to Tasmania as a ship's carpenter. His family had gravitated there when he was a young man of 18, his life spread out before him. Life was hardscrabble, as evidenced by advertisements in the local paper (owned by his uncle) that showed people serving many roles: the barkeep was also a baker, and his wife and sister sold fancy goods brought fresh from London--no doubt by young George. 

When he was 24, George married a woman named Elizabeth Ford, and within a year, they had a daughter, named Sarah. George, trying to provide for his little family, set off on yet another voyage back to England. Two things stand out: his wife died while he was at sea returning to Tasmania--just after he had crossed the equator on his easterly route, and we know this because there are excerpts copied from his "little diary" by his granddaughter sometime in the 1940s. 

The notes are terse (the diary was small?) "Feby 5th 1840 Arrived at Van Dieman's Land" (after 5 months at sea) and "May 10th gave L1 S10 for a plaid dress"--presumably for his toddler daughter Sarah, though she is not mentioned by name. There is also no entry copied for his second marriage, to another Elizabeth (Gardiner) in 1842. They had six children in quick succession--and lost three of them. After the death of his father and the discovery of gold in California, George smelled gold: he built a small house, took it apart and put it in the hold of the Barque Spartan, then bundled his wife and children up for the 112-day voyage to California: "Left Launceston for California, arrive Sept 2, stopping 10 days at Tahiti." His daughter Sarah is not with them, apparently having been taken in by her grandmother. Six weeks after their arrival, the Beck family buries their young baby boy, George, in California, their new home. 

The diary's copyist notes that the original was passed down to her cousin, but that cousin died in 1973. I have not been successful in finding the diary, which might have answered some questions, such as why he left his first child behind--she was not mentioned in his will, but when his children probated the will, they made sure to send Sarah her share of the estate. I can only wonder what other tales the diary might reveal.

I can only hope that the little diary is safe and sound in the hands of a distant cousin somewhere, and that it is not lost to time. 

The Barque Spartan

Edward and the mystery pitcher

My mother was the family historian, inheriting family charts, oodles of photographs, and of course, the odd family heirloom. The Civil War blanket that belonged to 3GGF George, the silver teaspoon from colonial cousin Polly, and the ornate Victorian Pitcher, won by Edward Walsh.

It is this latter item that was a mystery: the Walshes, family lore told us, came from Bandon in County Cork, Ireland; the immigrant ancestor was named Thomas, and his wife (according to a bank signature card) was Mary O'Brien. My father managed to track down Thomas and his large family in New York in 1850--a beautiful, clear hand had transcribed all the names legibly. A daughter born in Ireland, and other children are listed, but no Edward. The youngest son, David is the man my father remembered as his grandfather, a man who had left the Catholic Church and his family behind in New York. 

In the mid 1990s I had the opportunity to spend a month in Ireland. I took advantage of the Thursday evening hours to search microfilms of Irish Parish registers, and even ventured down to Bandon to walk the local cemeteries. I came home with some seemingly close matches, but nothing that popped out as "our people." For another twenty years, my father and I searched any index we could find to no avail; he built up a stack of microfilm request cards at the Family History Center. The path had grown cold.

My father and mother passed away, and I found a note that Edward's pitcher should go to our son, since he was studying fire science--somewhere along the line she had decided that Edward must have been a fireman, but it was a guess at best. And there was still no Edward in my tree, and I had no idea how to add him.

And then, in 2017, the family decided to do DNA testing; me, my brother, and son. At first, there were only strong matches on my mother's side, but after a couple of years, more, unidentified matches emerged--and by using Leeds sorting, I discovered three new surnames that could only be from my father's paternal side. I excitedly messaged each of them, and eagerly awaited their reply--could they help solve the Edward mystery?

To this day, none of the matches have responded, but I spent my waiting time building a tree for them. Based on the six relationships they posted, I traced their line up and down, and sideways. And then I found it: one set of matches connected to the Irish-born daughter, Mary! I turned my efforts to the next line, and there it was in a New York Times article: "Police Captain Edward Walsh died late last evening, after lying at the point of death for several weeks, at the home of his son-in-law." The son-in-law's name was in my DNA list, and the line seemed to fit, but I wanted to be sure.

I went through some of the more distant DNA  matches, and on a whim, contacted one in Ireland--in County Cork, but not in Bandon. Not only did she respond quickly, she was able to verify the two children born to Thomas and Mary--in Ballinhassig, County Cork. And one of them was named Edward. It all fit together, and the numbers in the DNA don't lie. Once I found a picture of him there was no doubt--he looks like his brother and nephews. 

And the pitcher? It was an award of valor for his role in defending his fellow officers during the Haughmont riots in New York, and it set him on a path to becoming a well-respected police chief.

The mystery pitcher

A chance meeting

It started as a routine business flight; after a long weekend of meetings, I grab an overpriced, TSA-approved snack in the airport and settle into my window seat, ready to enjoy a movie or book on the way home. I'm usually so spent after these weekends that I rarely do more than nod and smile at my seat mate(s), preferring the quietness of my noise-cancelling ear buds to chatting.

But this time was different: the middle seat was still empty, and just before the plane doors were to close, a long-haired man boarded the plane with a paper sack from the co-op where I shop at home. And he plopped down in the middle seat and flashed a friendly smile. As we took off, he reached in his paper bag, and pulled out hummus and chips, and offered some to me. I demurred, but had to ask him how he got the hummus past the TSA. He shrugged, but we struck up a conversation.

Turns out we were both in Chicago for work; I was fortunate to work inside during the bitterly cold January days, while he was supervising building houses. He was headed home to see his son, who was hoping to grow up to be a fireman. Funny thing, I said, so is my older boy, who is at college studying fire science. I tell him about the great fire explorer program close to where his son lives, we chat some more, and the conversation ebbs a bit. 

I pick up my tablet to open a book, and the splash screen is a picture my son sent me of the present I had given him for Christmas--a real fire helmet for his volunteer firefighting job. I had ordered in online to his specs, but had it delivered so had asked for a picture. So I turn to my seat mate, and say, see, here's the helmet I bought my son for Christmas. 

"No way!" he says. Confused, I ask what he means. He starts digging in his pockets and pulls out his passport. His surname is Hellstern, the same as my husband and son--whose name is emblazoned on the fire helmet. An extremely rare name, with its origins in the little town of Betra, where my father-in-law was born. And this is the first time I have met anyone outside of our immediate family who bears this name. 

I tell seatmate all this, and he is intrigued: he knows some of his family history back a generation or two, but we find no immediate connection. As the plane lands, we exchange emails, and I promise to share the Hellstern tree with him, and to find out how they are connected.

(As a funny aside, when I told this story to my husband on my return, his reaction was the same "no way!" that I had heard on the airplane.)

It takes a couple of years of research and exchanges, but the connection is made: he and my husband are eighth cousins; I send all of the family research on his branch to my former seatmate, and we add another name to the standing invitation list. A new cousin, who made a routine flight anything but routine.

A happy immigrant couple, three generations back from my seatmate

Highs and lows

We all have them in our lives, the highs and lows, all part of the texture and color of our lives. But some folks seem to attract drama that heightens the peaks and deepens the valleys.

Take my 9th great grandmother, Sarah Warren. She was born in Watertown, Massachusetts in 1643, a heavily Puritan colony. As was correct for a young woman, she married a man named Robert Prince in the age of nineteen, and they had two sons, most certainly a high point for them. It was common in those days to live close to family, and Robert purchased a 150-acre parcel in Salem, adjacent to his sister and her husband, Captain John Putnam. A great setup: family support right next door, and the prospect of two strapping young men to help maintain their farm.

Unfortunately, good things rarely last, and Robert died prematurely in 1674, leaving Sarah with a farm and two young boys (10 & 12) to care for. He left the land to his sons, with Sarah as the trustee, and his brother-in-law the executor. Sarah hired an indentured Irishman (much younger than herself), Alexander Osborne, to help with the farm. And then, to make matters worse in a small community, she fell in love with him and married him--after having lived under the same roof with him.

She might have survived this transgression with a smudge on her reputation. But for whatever reason, she tried to break her late husband's will and take control of the farm for herself and her new husband. This caused a huge rift in the family, as Capt. Putnam defended her childrens' rights. The whole issue took its toll on Sarah, whose health began failing, which meant she was not always present at Sunday meetings. This, combined with her independence and efforts to upset the "natural" order of things means that she was a threat to the stability of the village and its inhabitants--in particular, the powerful Putnam family.

In early 1692, Thomas Putnam, his brother Edward, and two others rode to Salem to file complaints against Sarah Osborne, Sarah Good, and Tituba for wreaking "mischief" against Ann Putnam Jr. and three local girls. Despite the fact that she had been bedridden for over a year, she was arrested and taken to Salem for questioning. Despite her insistence that she was not a witch, she was jailed based on the testimony of three pre-teen girls. She spent nine days in prison--shackled to prevent her from wreaking more "mischief"--before she died on May 10, 1692, the first victim of what became known as the Salem Witch Hunt.

University of Virginia student Meghan Carroll in her paper "Salem Witch Trials in History and Literature" asks:

"Is a woman who betrays her society's social and family conventions worthy of an accusation of witchcraft? Not in today's society, but in seventeenth century New England these offenses were socially and economically serious, and a threat to the divinely sanctioned social order. Specifically, the Putnam family's economic interests and inheritance grew less secure by Sarah's attempt at social and economic independence. Consequently, but not surprisingly, it was members of the Putnam family who accused Osborne."

The phrase "witch hunt" has been bantered about recently, and at a time when women are finding their social and economic gains eroding in a society still governed by men protecting their economic interests. It does beg the question about the assumption that we have come a long way.

Interior of the old dungeon, old witch jail, Salem, Mass., circa 1935

Footsteps

In January of 1959, my grandparents were in Japan, on a work trip for my grandfather’s work. It was not their first trip there, though it was their last. My grandfather, Russell Richardson, was there as a representative of Tidewater Oil, to help rebuild their interest in several refineries that had been firebombed during the last sorties before the end of the war.

From an early age, I loved to sit next to my grandmother and listen to her stories (she also taught me to read during one of those sessions). One of her favorite stories was about the time she went to Japan to christen a ship. She would tell the story of how she had to chop a silk cord with a silver axe, and how she was so nervous. And then she would call my grandfather to get the axe out of the closet (she had hip dysplasia and walked only with great effort), and she would show it to me in its presentation box.

In 2019, my husband and I had the opportunity to travel to Japan, and the itinerary, dictated by his boss, would take us on a nearly identical route to that of my grandparents. I am fortunate to have both my grandfather's journal (a rather dry listing of destinations, timing, and the weather. We also have my grandmother's chatty letters home to her daughter (my mother). For a contemporary view, we also have my daily posts on social media. 

Their first destination in Asia, like ours, was Tokyo. We took a direct flight to Narita Airport: my grandparents spent a week on a steamer, crossing the date line on New Year's eve. Ironically, they were flown from Tokyo to points west, while we took advantage of the high-speed rail that has since been built. The other big difference was the weather--they were there in the cold of winter (January), and we arrived at the end of July, just in time for oppressive heat and humidity. They stayed several weeks ensconced  in a suite in the newly expanded Imperial Hotel (built by Frank Lloyd Wright); we found a reasonably priced hotel with air conditioning and relative peace in Shinagawa and headed east as soon as our jet lag allowed. 

We both stopped in Kyoto, where Grandfather's photos of the temples are black and white and deserted, in contrast to the vivid colors and hordes of tourists in our phone's pictures. His pictures show the odd car, and loads of people pulling handcarts or on foot. Today those thoroughfares are jammed with small boxy cars and busses. 

Our paths overlapped in Kurashiki. Russell writes:

“Okayama, Ar 5:31 pm Brass band to greet us. 9:30 go with Gov Miki in his car (car equipped with phone and short wave radio. Motorcycle escort) to Mimushima refinery site – about 40 min. Cold but clear. Take motor boat ride around site. Two barges dredging. Left site @ 11:30 stopped to inspect 7 or 8 dormitories purchased from prefecture. At Kurashiki visited the Ohara Art Museum and had a bit of lunch – Japanese style nearby.”

We followed his footsteps through the old town of Kurashiki, one of the few spared by the bombers. We visited the Ohara Art Museum and gardens, and saw the same paintings he did—and many more, as the collection has grown considerably since 1959. An aerial view of the refinery today shows it is still active, but we demurred adding it to our itinerary. Our lunch was Japanese, a tasty vegan curry, served in a beautifully restored house. And we started our day not with a brass band, but by climbing the hill to a shrine that overlooks the whole.

Our paths also crossed in Fukuoka and Nagasaki, the first on the far west coast, with spectacular views, the latter all too well known. Grandmother writes to her daughter: 

“We stayed all night in Fukuoka (it’s the size of Oakland) and left by train for Nagasaki the next morning. We were met there by a delegation & photographers & a little Japanese girl presented me with a big bouquet of chrysanthemums & tulips – red & yellow“

Its state makes us think that the train station does not appear to have changed a great deal since 1959, and there is an "Octoberfest" celebration in the station in full swing when we arrive, complete with bratwurst and beer--in July. 

There is a reason for our trips to Nagasaki. During his 37-year career working for Tidewater Oil (later Associated Oil), Russell worked his way up from a lowly bookkeeper to Vice President of the company. Tidewater partnered with Mitsubishi (the Japanese government would not allow foreign companies to own business outright) in building refineries in Japan in the 1930s, and in rebuilding in the aftermath of World War II. 

In recognition of his role, my grandmother Jessie was given the honor of sponsoring the tanker SS Virginia Getty in a January 1959 christening at the Mitsubishi shipyards in Nagasaki. Jessie continues: 

“We left the hotel at 10 next a.m. & drove to the ship yard – Boy, was I nervous. It was icy cold, windy & it rained except during the actual ceremony. Then the heavens opened up & it poured. When I chopped the cord, the balloon on the bow of the ship was opened up & confetti & pigeons flew out, & the Virginia Getty slid into the water.”

When I first heard we would travel to Japan, I was eager to go to Nagasaki, to the place of her story. I was not disappointed. In spite of the language barrier, we managed to reserve a tour and visit to the old Mitsubishi pattern shop, which houses the shipyard's museum. Once there, we had a private guide, since we were the only visitors who didn’t speak Japanese.

When we told our story to our guide, she disappeared for a few minutes and emerged with her arms full of albums of the building and christening of the Virginia Getty from their archives. She was also able to show us where in the shipyard she was launched, and we could share grandmother’s words and a photo of the hatchet used to launch her. I am deeply appreciative of her efforts, and found myself quite moved by seeing images of my grandparents again. 

The silver hatchet that launched a ship

Money, love and freedom

The vast majority of genealogical research comprises seeking out documentation: certificates that give us birthdates, marriage (and divorce) dates, and death dates (and where the bodies are buried). We fill in with snapshots of the family unit with censuses (with notable lacunae in the 1890 US Census, and San Francisco and Irish records lost to fire). If we're really lucky, their names may pop up in the newspaper--something as mundane as a property transfer, or, maybe something substantive, like a golden anniversary celebration or obituary. All of these can be documented and have a place in the GEDCOM data structure.

To that framework, we can make a few assumptions: the span of time between a marriage and the birth of the first child is usually a bit more than nine months--though sometimes it is significantly less. Sometimes a family heirloom will mark a date and furnish additional clues: a diploma, a journal, letters to distant family members about how things are going, and memoirs (almost always unfinished). 

But the hardest question to answer is rarely "when?" or "where?" or even "with whom?"; it's "why?"

This is where we rely on history and family lore--oral hints passed down the generations, each with the projections and interpretations of the teller, combined with an understanding of what was happening in their world. Sometimes it's obvious: a holocaust survivor immigrating to Israel, an Irish family fleeing the potato famine, someone chasing gold in 1849. But most of the time, the motivation for these great leaps of courage--leaving the olde country, crossing seas and continents--remain conjecture, often colored by our own lives (what would I have done in that situation?).

In my case, my Irish relatives came to the US in the 1830s--long before the famine, and while there were some English and Scottish colonial period arrivals in the new world, some of my English relatives took a circuitous route to California, via Tasmania. (That they departed Tasmania for California in 1849 tells me that there was at least some economic motivation.). Some of hub's Prussian families were clearly fleeing the tough economics and threat of war in the run-up to 1848.

And so I go off with my own projections, and say I think it's usually a combination of seeking economic security, political or religious freedom, and love in a different place--moving to a place where we can be true to ourselves. In our own case, the decision to leave West Germany and come to the US was based on two things: there were no open positions for the career that my new husband had spent nine years preparing for, and being married to me meant that taking the risk of going to my home country was mitigated. For money and love.

1850 ship's manifest: can you find the Hellsterns?

 

Putting the pieces together

Julia Ann Jordan was born 24 Aug 1847 in Bangor Maine, to Eben Jordan and Abigail Hutchinson. Between the birth of her brother James Eben in 1851 and 1865, her mother must have died, as she received a bible from Bangor elementary teacher Miss Eliza A. Thayer in August of 1865 (the newspapers describe it as a Flag Presentation where the teacher gave bibles to all her students), inscribed "God Bless the motherless child." Julia kept the bible.

Julia's inscribed Bible

Among Julia's possessions was also a letter addressed to Julia A. Jordan from a soldier stationed at White Oak Church during the Civil War, with the lyrics to The Girl I left behind me, a sentimental and popular tune during the war. The Church served as a camp from Jan 25 - Apr 28 1863. The soldier does not sign his name, but gives us his regiment number: 6th Corps 2nd Division, Co. I, 7th Regiment "The Voluntiers." From historical records, we know that after the Battle of Antietam the 7th Maine was sent home to Maine to recruit, leaving White Oak in Oct 1862, and leaving Bangor Jan 21, 1863. Julia would have been 15 years old. 

Julia gave birth to a daughter, Estelle Abigail, on 23 September 1864 in Bangor; Julia was 16 years old at the time. While there is no birth or marriage registered to Julia Jordan in Maine, in the 1930 US Census, Julia states that she was first married at age 17, and a birth is recorded on 23 September 1864 in Bangor for an unnamed child of undetermined gender to Richard and Julia Davis.

Records from the National Archives show that a Richard Davis of Bangor served in the Maine 6th Corps 2nd Division, Co. I, 7th Regiment during this time period. He mustered out in December 1863, and took 30 day's leave in his home state before re-enlisting--nine months before Estelle's birth. According to a 1904 newspaper article, Estelle was kidnapped from her father in 1869. Richard takes a new wife in 1870. 

Shipping reports indicate that Miss Julia Jordan arrived in San Francisco on August 11, 1865 on the Pacific Mail Steamship Company’s steamer Sacramento, coming from Panama (via Acapulco and Manzanillo; one Canadian passenger died on the trip). No child is noted. But she may not have been alone: the 1865 San Francisco City Directory shows an Eben Jordan as mate on the steamer Sacramento. Given that we have been unable to find Eben in any Maine census after the birth of Estelle, this seems too convenient to have been a coincidence. 

In the 1880 US Census for San Francisco, Julia—a “dealer in fancy goods”—is married to David Walsh (a teamster), and they have three children, all with the surname Walsh: Stella, 15 (at school); Vincent, 8; and Albert, 2. If David had officially adopted Estelle, the papers would likely have been lost in the 1906 earthquake and fire. What is clear, both from the paper trail and family lore, is that she was part of the Walsh family.

Estelle married Frank Henderson Cranford (a carpenter) in 1886 in San Francisco. They made their home in San Francisco, and had two sons, Richard Jules in 1887, and Carson Francis in 1889. Richard died before his first birthday; Carson, a painter of houses and film sets, survived to a troubled adulthood, and is found in several western prisons during his life. He died without issue.

But the past always comes back: A San Francisco Call article of 1904 tells of a visit by Estelle and Frank Cranford to Richard S. Davis of Brewster, Maine (across the river from Bangor), describing it as the reunion of a child who had been kidnapped by her mother. The newspaper recounts a happy reunion with the family, which would have included Richard’s wife of 40 years, and his son Charles Franklin Davis, and his wife and children.

Family described Julia as independent and strong-minded. After David’s death in 1910, she lived with her unmarried son Albert, who was a mining engineer and who traveled often. In May 1911, she gifted 160 acres to her sons Vincent and Albert near what is today the Long Ridge Open Space Preserve in the hills over Saratoga, California. 

When Albert and his bride Ruth Neely Thompson purchased the Biltmore Hotel in San Francisco around 1928, Julia moved into the hotel as a guest. Julia died of pneumonia on December 22, 1934, in San Francisco, survived by her two sons and Estelle. She was 89 years old. Julia is interred with her beloved David at Woodlawn Cemetery in Colma. 

Lives of Service

The Baltimore Sun, published March 30, 2013 | By Frederick N. Rasmussen

Dr. Lorenz E. and Anastasia U. Zimmerman

Ophthalmic pathologist and nurse had met during service in Army 

Dr. Lorenz E. Zimmerman, the founder of modern ophthalmic pathology, who spent his nearly 60-year career studying diseases of the eye, died March 16 of complications from an infection at the Blakehurst retirement community in Towson. He was 92. 

His wife of 53 years, Anastasia U. Zimmerman, a registered nurse who had served as a major with the Army Nurse Corps, died Tuesday of congestive heart failure, also at Blakehurst. She was 89.

"Without a doubt, Dr. Zimmerman was the most influential eye pathologist in the last 150 years. He was known worldwide and he trained all of the world's leading eye pathologists of the 20th century," said Dr. Morton F. Goldberg, who was director of the Wilmer Eye Institute at Johns Hopkins Hospital from 1989 until 2003.

"He was a charismatic and brilliant lecturer, which is a mark of erudition and real brilliance," said Dr. Goldberg. "He was a fine person with impeccable ethics, and he also had inherent leadership traits. He had been a leader in our field for more than 50 years."

Lorenz Eugene Zimmerman, the son of a German immigrant father and an immigrant mother from Switzerland, was born and raised in Washington, graduating in 1938 from Central High School. "They owned the Regent Pastry Shop in Washington, and he said he went into medicine because he didn't want to have to work as hard as his parents," said a daughter, Dr. Mary Louise "Lou" Collins, a Homeland resident, who is director of pediatric ophthalmology and resident education at Greater Baltimore Medical Center .

Dr. Zimmerman earned his bachelor's degree in 1943 and his medical degree in 1945, both from George Washington University. 

He served in the Army from 1944 to 1954, attaining the rank of lieutenant colonel.

He served an internship at the old Gallinger Municipal Hospital in Washington from 1945 to 1946 and completed a general pathology residency at Walter Reed Army Medical Center from 1947 to 1950. 

"The start of the Korean War coincided with the end of his residency, and he became the pathologist in charge of a field hospital pathology laboratory where he served in Korea until 1952," said Dr. Collins.

While in Korea, Dr. Zimmerman was commanding officer of the 8217th Mobile Medical Laboratory. His decorations included the Bronze Star and Legion of Merit.

The Korean War was the backdrop for the beginning of a friendship that later blossomed into a marriage. The future Mrs. Zimmerman had enlisted in the Army Nurse Corps in 1945 and served in Japan during the occupation after the end of World War II.

"My parents first met in a mobile Army hospital in Korea," said Dr. Collins. "They did not see each other again for seven or eight years until they were both stationed at Walter Reed. They married in 1959."

In 1952, Dr. Zimmerman began his career at the Armed Forces Institute of Pathology at Walter Reed Army Medical Center. He remained there for the next 52 years, and chaired the department of ophthalmic pathology from 1954 to 1983. He was chairman emeritus at his death.

"This was the turning point in his career, although he had not had specific training in pathology of the eye and ocular adnexa," said Dr. Collins.

Dr. Zimmerman's role was not treating patients but rather studying eye tissue and cells that may lead to eye disease. He made important contributions to the understanding of the causes of leukocoria, or white pupil, and ocular melanoma.

"He studied a huge volume of tissue samples that came from eye surgeons all over the world. He brought exceptional order out of chaos," said Dr. Goldberg.

Dr. Zimmerman was not only a prolific researcher but also an indefatigable writer of scientific articles. During his career, he wrote more than 370 articles in peer-reviewed journals, "many of which are landmark contributions," said Dr. Collins.

He also lectured widely. "Every talk he gave he was just spectacular," said Dr. C. Pat Wilkinson, chairman of the department of ophthalmology at GBMC. "I knew him from my residency days and he was one of those figures you rarely come across in life."

He was a professor of pathology and ophthalmology at Georgetown University from 1983 to 1986 and was a consultant in pathology from 1976 to 1999 at Washington Hospital Center.

Dr. Zimmerman was also a professor of ophthalmology and pathology at the Johns Hopkins Medical School.

He retired in 2002.

"He was a man of no pretensions. He was known as 'Zim,'" said Dr. Goldberg. "He loved teaching and doing original research and was exceptional at both."

"Zim does leave a lasting legacy," said Dr. Wilkinson. "He had a wonderful personality. He was an elegant, charming and enthusiastic guy that everyone just adored. We will all miss him."

The couple had lived in Kensington for many years before moving to Blakehurst 11 years ago. Dr. Zimmerman liked spending time at a second home at Sherwood Forest.

Anastasia and Lorenz

+++

[Editor's note: The Zimmermann and Hellstern families both came from the town of Betra, and intermarried frequently: the most direct pairing is Magdalena Zimmermann, who married Alfred Hellstern senior. Her brother was Lorenz's father, the immigrant who came from serving in the kitchens of a castle to owning a bakery in Washington, DC.]

Launceston Library

I remember asking my mother if our family had come west during the gold rush (we had probably just learned about it in school). Not exactly, she said, part of our family did come to California for the gold rush, but they had come east--from Australia. 

The ancestor in question was a gruff man by the name of William George Beck (he went by George). My mother told me that he emigrated to Launceston, Tasmania from England with his parents, but that she and her aunt could find nothing more—only they were sure he was not a convict. 

When my mother passed away, I inherited boxes of genealogical research, several in my great aunt Marjorie’s loopy but legible handwriting. Confirming her research, I learned that George’s father, Thomas and his wife did indeed arrive in Tasmania in 1831–quite early in the history of European settlement in the area. George was not on the passenger manifest, as he was a ship’s carpenter, though he remain based in Launceston for many years.

What struck me, as I worked my way through the handwritten notes, and then plunged into Trove—the aptly named Tasmanian online site with newspaper archives and civil records, was that they a) all worked multiple jobs and b) the lives of the Beck family was intertwined with folks by the name of Webb and Knight. Thomas, the Beck patriarch, ran a pub and a bakery (where he also sold patent medicine pedaled by busybody Mr. Knight, who also ran the local newspaper, and later a finishing school for young ladies); Mrs. Beck (Hannah) sold bonnets and ribbons "just arrived from England" with a Mrs. Webb (Sarah)—who also happened to arrive in Tasmania on the same boat--with her husband and child. When children were baptized or marriages solemnized, Webbs and Becks were both in attendance, and at least one marriage was celebrated at Mr. Knight’s Carr Villa, which apparently had been built by George Beck himself. 

Having grown up in a small town, I could see how paths would cross often, but these lives were more tightly woven than normal for friendships. There had to be more.

Now, my darling husband just happened to have relatives in New Zealand, which provided the perfect opportunity to visit down under—and as long as we were in the neighborhood, Tasmania was a relatively short jaunt.

Which was how I found myself in the Launceston library one December, poring over an immense hand drawn map of the town, with each parcel neatly labeled with the name of the grantee. And there, right next to each other were three parcels: J. Knight, J. Webb, and T. Beck. 

Land grants - more than neighbors!

What's more, from them I learned of a small tome in the Hobart library just down the road, self-published by a fellow with the Knight surname. Copies were made, emails flew, and I learned two things: firstly, the author himself lived just over the border from me in Canada, and secondly, Mrs. Beck, Mrs. Webb, and Mr. Knight were siblings. 

Of course, the reason they all went to Australia in the first place is a post for a later date.

 

Family is what family does

In an earlier post, I recounted how the Richardson family pulled together to help after the untimely death of a son-in-law; my grandfather, Russell Richardson, came to help her pack and move the family back to their parent's home in Sutherlin.

Interestingly, this was not the last time an untimely death put my grandfather in a position to help out. In late fall of 1939, his brother-in-law, Malcolm Gilmour, a sales manager for C&H Sugar Corporation suffered a massive heart attack and died. 

"…on the day of his death (Nov. 11, 1939, just after his 47th birthday), he woke up not feeling very well, and ate very little breakfast, but he had tickets for a football game, so he went. He continued to feel unwell, and left the game early to come home (he wasn't driving, he used public transportation). Their house on Bellevue Ave. in Piedmont was on the uphill side of the street, and there was a formidable couple of flights of stairs leading up to the front door. About two-thirds of the way up, he collapsed and died."

[email from Madge R. Walsh to James C. Richardson 5/28/2005]

Malcolm's wife, Ida Cutting Gilmour, was left suddenly without means and two children to support. She could no longer afford the large family home (houses in this tony enclave now go for $3-6 million and have ballrooms), and so moved in with her sister's home while a smaller house was built.

Which is why, in the 1940 census, the relatively modest Richardson household in Piedmont, California, was larger than usual, with not only Russell, his wife Jessie, and their two children, but also Ida and her two children, Malcolm Jr and Jean. The household included two 17 year-old cousins, both trying to decide what their education after high school would look like (and likely emptying the larder), my nine-year old mother, and a 20-year old cousin who was finishing up art school and who practiced bagpipes in the house. 

Because family helps family. 

Ida and Malcolm about 1920

Almost an Angel

My great uncle, Edwin Julian Cutting, was the youngest of five siblings, and the only one born outside the US--in Hawaii. His father, Eugene Lester Cutting, had found employment as a bookkeeper with the Hupmobile dealer in Honolulu, and had moved his family there. 

My grandmother recalled that Edwin used to get away with all sorts of things since he was the youngest and had an enchanting smile--why, he even sliced the butter from the wrong end, much to his mother's chagrin. He always chalked it up to being a southpaw.

 

Eventually, the family returned to California, and the children completed their education there. In high school, Edwin played baseball, and a dearth of professional talent led to a scout putting him in a game as a first baseman for the Los Angeles Angels -- during summer break in 1922. However, his family insisted that he needed to complete high school, which meant he could not play for the Angels until he graduated in the spring. In spite of this, the LA Club (which was then part of the Pacific Coast League) signed him for the next year. 

 

Edwin didn't stay away from the diamond completely though: he was picked up by a "bush league" team called the Thomson-Diggs (sponsored by a hardware store of the same name) in the Sacramento Winter League. The newspapers are full of hopeful hyperbole, as Edwin is one of eight AA picks that played on that team in the winter of 1922-23. If you look at his stats for the season, he's a reliable (left-handed) hitter (over .500), but his real value is defensive, as he picked runners off at first base in high numbers, averaging nearly 10 outs per game.

Indeed, the Thomson-Diggs lead the league, winning all their games until the very last. In a game delayed by one week due to rain, Edwin had to request permission from the Angels to play, as the date of the game, February 19, 1923, was the same date he was supposed to report for spring training for the Angels. Alas, the "Thomson-Diggs Nine" lost spectacularly 9-3 to the Leo Lobner's (they had fancy uniforms, since their sponsor was a men's clothier). 

 

In the end, Edwin never saw any more action with the Angels; The Long Beach Telegram reports on March 21, 1923: "Several promising young ball players who are not yet ripe to play in the Coast League will probably be turned over to the Shell Oil team by Los Angeles for seasoning in the Oil Belt league, according to word from Feistner this morning. They are Ed Cutting, first baseman, who is badly needed to take the place of Frank Metz, who is leaving after Sundays game for other climes." 

 

“Eddie” Cutting turns up during spring training with the Saint Louis Browns, where he is signed for the 1924 season, with the note that “Cutting is a left-hander and won't take much development to make him ready for the fastest company.” He trains hard throughout spring training in Mobile, Alabama, and sprains his ankle once. During spring training, a personal interest story describes him: "One thing particularly noticeable about Cutting is that he is almost always lit up with smiles galore. He has a fine disposition, loves to boost his native section of the country, California, to the skies, and is anxious to make good."

 

In April 1925, he married a Los Angeles débutante. As late as May 1925, it is noted that he will be retained as Brown’s property, though he never saw a professional game again.  

Edwin Cutting, Sacramento Winter League 1923

Characters on the page

Given my heritage (Irish), my college majors (theatre & French) and my taste in literature (eclectic), it is safe to say that I have run into my share of characters in my life, both fictitious and real. In the genealogical sense, though, characters are often glyphs that we spend time trying to decipher. 

In the 1980s, calligraphy was all the rage, and I was sure I could parlay my nascent skills into cash, addressing wedding invitations and such. I was fascinated by the shape and form of letters, and the strokes that made them up, the feel of the nib on paper. In those days, when you wanted to use a specific font for a poster or program, the best you could do was to purchase rub-off letters in the font of your choice (your choice being predetermined by which fonts your office supply supplied), or to invest in overpriced pens and nibs and spend hours practicing. I did both, and even though I thought I could make a good living as a graphic artist, it turned out that before I could really get started, computers made it easy for anyone--regardless of their artistic sensibilities--to produce flyers and banners in cutting-edge dot-matrix fonts. The writing, as they say, was on the wall.

In graduate school, I indulged my love of farce and learned to read 15th century manuscripts--knowing myself how the pen strokes formed the letters and words meant that I could literally see and feel the actions of the scribe. The other part of the task, of course, was learning the old and middle French so I could make sense of the language made of these ciphers. Learning modern German was easy after that.

As a professional translator, I am sometimes called upon to decipher the odd handwriting in an official document, providing the holder with an official translation to pursue their chosen path in life. But what strikes me overall is the permanence of the written word. Poets before us have noted it, but the fact that I could spend hours hunched over a sheet of parchment that someone wrote on five centuries before I was even a twinkle in my father's eye is sobering. 

In general, if it was important enough for someone to write it, it was important enough to keep. In genealogy, we are fortunate that someone hung on to those traces of pen on paper; loopy handwriting, sloppy hen scratches, misspellings abound, but somehow they are nearly always recognizable (though there will always be the ink splotch or tear that will obfuscate just the number or letter we need for our research). 

I still write with a fountain pen--when I write by hand at all; the callous on my middle finger is all but gone. Decades ago, I spent many hours poring over microfilms of parish records in the national archives in Dublin, Ireland, armed with a steno pad, my trusty blue fountain pen, and paper; These records are now scanned--and indexed--and it is eerie to be able to revisit them. I am reminded that the lines not only trace the names of my ancestors in those characters, but these rural parish priests themselves were characters in the play called life--as they wrote notes, including IOUs in the margins to each other, they painted a more complete picture of these lives we strive to remember than any typewritten records digitized using the latest AI.

Edward Walsh's baptismal record

An official birthdate

For the vast majority of us, our birth certificate is our primary proof of identity and existence (on paper). As genealogists, we rejoice when we find one, especially when it lists things like the parents' names, bridging generations.

There is a certain irony that my Grandmother, Ruth Thompson, who spent years on her family's genealogy and who was a state regent of the California DAR for several years, had no birth certificate of her own. 

She was born July 25, 1884 in Steele City, Nebraska, which had a population of about 375 people at the time (and the population has been declining ever since). The town, hardly worth its moniker of "city," was founded in 1873 when the St. Joseph and Western Railroad was extended to that point. It is no accident that Ruth's father was a railway employee. Needless to say, the town did not have a city hall or other place to register her birth (or the births of her sisters). The family bible has single line notations for their births--and college graduations.

But since the government had determined that 65 was the official retirement age, and she qualified for social security payments in 1949, not having a birth certificate finally became an issue. So she started her journey to get a birth certificate. 

The first thing she learned was that she was not alone--in the 1940s, as many as 40 million Americans did not have an official birth certificate, likely mostly rural residents. And as it turns out, most vital statistics offices decided early on that family bibles were not acceptable proof of birth. So even though she had a photostat of the bible's family record, that didn't do the job. 

But something interesting happened in around this time: the Soundex system gained traction--and the US Census Bureau undertook transferring all the data from the 1920, 1900 and 1880 censuses to 100 million individual punch cards, all filed using Soundex. My mother clipped an article for Ruth out of the Sunday paper:

"The Soundex system, installed by the WPA in the less hurried depression years, makes use of phonetic filing. Thus, all names like Martin are filed, state by state, under the letter M and the code number 635. If your family name was wrongly recorded or even changed slightly, it still will be there under such variations as Mardan, Marden, Mardyn, Martan, Marten, Martyn, Merten, Merton, Morden, Morten, Mortin, Morton or Murten. And, for a nominal fee, the Census Bureau will send you an official transcript of its records concerning you, which may serve as a substitute 'birth certificate.'"

It was that last sentence that held the key. Correspondence shows that Roy V. Peel, Director of the Bureau of the Census, provided her with an official transcript of the census enumeration that included her 9-month-old self living with her parents (Geo. C. and Mary Fay Thompson) in Omaha Nebraska in 1900 (that census wasn't released until 1972). The 1900 census asked for the birth month for all residents, which established her birth month and year as July 1884. 

It cost $4 with the Douglas County clerk to file an affidavit from her cousin Robert Neely to prove her birthday was celebrated on the 25th of July, and that she had been born in Steele City. And so, on July 15, 1954, she received her Certificate of Delayed Birth Registration -- just 10 days shy of her 70th birthday. 

A cut branch

Anyone who has carried their genealogy back more than a century, or who has spent time walking the rows in a cemetery will note the number of children born to a family is much higher than we consider "normal." Likewise, the number of children--and mothers--who die, usually shortly after the birth seems very high from our modern perspective. A few entries from a name study underway illustrates how our understanding of conception, birth control, and general health has expanded over the years, and how that plays out in real terms for real people:

• Barbara, born in 1698, married Anton in Betra, then part of Prussia, when she was 19. She bore 13 children, 8 of whom died as infants. She died at the age of 45, shortly after giving birth to a boy named Anton; the baby also died within days of his birth.
• In the same village, Magdalena married Johann when she was 25 (8 months after their first child was born). She bore 10 children, only half of whom lived to adulthood. In 1777, she and five of her children died in a 6-month period, likely from illness, possibly smallpox.
• Felicitas married Johann in Betra, Prussia, when she was 21 years old in 1778. She bore 12 children, of whom 6 died before the age of one. She died one year after the birth of her last child, at age 44. 
• Afra was born in Betra in 1822, and married Johann Baptist when she was 22--the day after the birth of her first child. She bore four more children, of whom three made it to adulthood. She died 9 months after her last child was born. She was 29.
• Christina married yet another Johann when she was 28 years old. She had one child seven years later, followed by a son when she was 55. That baby lived three months; she died a month after he did in the winter of 1869. 
• Olga was born in Betra in 1888. She never married, and was a midwife. According to baptismal records, she had three children. It is unclear if she gave birth to them herself, or "found them in the swamp" as her family explained it--possibly unwanted children of her clientele. One child died at 6 months of age, and one was killed in WWII by friendly fire.
• Margaret, a first generation immigrant from Betra, married Harry in Pennsylvania in 1911, when she was 22 years old. She had one child three years later, who died within hours of his birth. She never had any other children. 

Mother and child

Smith, anything but common

My mother-in-law (you can read her sweet love story here) has always said she never cared for her surname, Smith, as it was so very common. But I find her grandfather, Joe Smith, anything but common. 

Joseph Edward Smith was born on 31 March 1873 in Whitechapel, and was baptized 24 August 1873. He married Emily Maud Foster in Hackney on 3 August 1896. His occupation at the time was cheesemonger’s assistant. Five years later, in the 1901 census, Joseph is a baker’s assistant and he and Emily are living at 7 London Road, Hackney. Like many, Joe appears to have fudged his age when he enlisted in WWI on 12 December 1915.  

Joseph was devoted to Emily and they celebrated their 50th Wedding Anniversary in 1946. They had four children, three of whom died without issue. His activities in the trade union movement brought him in contact with the family of William Adams: William's daughter ended up marrying Joseph's youngest son: Thelma and her sister Kathleen are the result, the only grandchildren to Joe and Emily.  

Kathleen passed on some reminiscences of their grandfather:

Joseph was a small man, even as a child he looked short to me. The most he would have been was 5 ft , 7 inches tall. I remember he was someone who liked to be outside in the company of other men. He used to go the park and play bowls and he liked to go to cafés for a cup of tea, and I think he met up with his friends there. He smoked a pipe but Emily would not let him smoke in the house. I remember him going into the garden to smoke. He was a nice man with a quiet temperate nature.

Children perceive their family members one way, while adults see things through a different lens. Joe died in 1953, and his legacy earned him several column inches:

[Feb 1953]

TRADES UNION PIONEER DIES

Within 24 hours of being admitted to Langthorne Hospital, Leytonstone, following a short illness, Mr. Joseph Edward Smith, of 18, Coronation-gardens, Leyton, died last Thursday. He was 79 years of age.

Born at Whitechapel, Mr. Smith had lived in Leyton over 40 years. A member of the Leyton and District Committee of the Tobacco Workers Union, he was employed as a tobacco stripper until his retirement in 1938.

A keen trade unionist, Mr. Smith served on Walthamstow Trades Council early in 1900, and during the 1914–18 war contested Leytonstone Ward – then a conservative stronghold – in  the Layton Borough Council elections. In 1893, he was a member of the Socialist Democratic Federation, a forerunner of the Labour Party, and was a founder member of the Shop Assistants’ Union which is now incorporated with N.U.D.A.W.

During 1920, Mr. Smith was actively associated with the Layton and Leytonstone Poor Children’s Outing Fund, a body which had the patronage of a local mayor. 

He served with the Royal Scots in the First World War. 

A widower since March, 1950, He is survived by two sons and a daughter. 

The funeral was at Queens-road Cemetery, Walthamstow, on Tuesday, the service being conducted by the Rev. R.W. Sorenson, M.P. for Layton.

Joseph Edward Smith

A hunting accident

 A SAD TRAGEDY.

---

California paper tells of Bernard Street's fatal accident.

A copy of the Huntington Park (Calif.) Signal for October 11 containing the following account of the tragic death met by Bernard Street, son of Mr. and Mrs. John Street, has been received by The News:

One of the saddest tragedies to ever cast a shadow over Huntington Park occurred last Sunday morning when the lifeless body of Bernard Street, principal of the Huntington Park grammar schools, was found in the river bottom east of Bell.

Mr. Street had gone hunting late Saturday afternoon and had not returned home when dark came. Mrs. Street grew more uneasy as the hours dragged along, and finally reported his failure to return to some of the neighbors.

A searching party was organized Saturday night and the entire river bottom gone over, but the searchers failed to find him. His bicycle was located where he had left it on entering the field to hunt, but no further trace of him could be found. 

Early Sunday morning another search was started and about 6:00 o'clock his lifeless body was found near a wire fence with a hole in his breast. From all appearances he had climbed the fence and his clothing became entangled in the barbs. He had evidently endeavored to get his clothing disengaged, and in doing so, had dropped the shotgun, which was discharged and the entire load entered his breast.

The news of his sudden ending spread over the entire community. While Mr. Street had only been here a little over a year, he had become known to practically every home in the city. Being the head of the grammar schools, he was known through the students if in no other way and practically every home felt a personal loss in his tragic death. 

Bernard Street was born in Iowa 34 years ago. When he was yet a young lad he moved with his parents to Minn. Early in his young manhood he entered Carleton College, Northfield, Minn. From this institution he graduated in the same class with Miss Ella Richardson whom he married in 1907. They attended college together. They taught together in the same school. They seized life's responsibilities and launched their interests together as husband and wife with hope and promise and traveled together 11 years in the highway of human service.

To them were born four children—three boys and one girl. He came to Huntington Park at the call of our board of trustees of the public schools at the opening of the school year in the fall of 1917. He has brought our schools to that high standard of efficiency second to none in this great county of Los Angeles. Nearline his demise came suddenly and tragically Saturday afternoon, October 5, 1918. He leaves to mourn his growing his widow and four fatherless children, also his father and mother, four brothers and three sisters, none of whom are able to attend the funeral. 

The funeral was held Wednesday afternoon at the funeral parlors of the Huntington Park undertaking company, attended by many of the schoolchildren and a large number of our citizens. The floral offerings formed a regular Bower in the room and represented the love and esteem in which he was held by the children and other people.

Reverend Hugh C Gibson, pastor of the Methodist Church, conducted the service, the burial taking place at Rosedale Cemetery, Los Angeles. 

The entire community extends the deepest sympathy to the heartbroken wife and the little fatherless children.

Cause of death from from the death certificate

What the article does not recount is the aftermath--for not only did Ella and Bernard have four small children, she was pregnant with their fifth. Her brother, my grandfather Russell Richardson, wrote of the event in his journal--only three days after announcing his engagement to Jessie Cutting. Russell is in the Navy--this is WWI and there is a flu epidemic looming--in officer training on Mare Island near San Francisco; his parents are in Sutherlin, Oregon:

October 5. I received a telegram from my sister Ella in Huntington Beach, asking me to come to her as Bernard had been accidentally killed. I phoned the Officer of the Day at Mare Island and asked for permission to extend my absence. He said he had no authority to grant an extension, and advised me when I reached southern California to go to Navy headquarters and ascertain whether my leave had been approved.

I caught the night train to Los Angeles, where I was met by Gail Patterson, a cousin of my mother. Bernard had been out hunting and when he was going through a fence, apparently tripped the trigger.

Ella and Bernard had four children – Harold, Helen, Donald, and Bernard, and she was about six months pregnant (with Mary Kay). My father and mother telegraphed to her inviting her to bring her family to live with them, and she immediately made plans to do so.

The funeral was held on October 8, and on that same day I received a telegram from Mare Island ordering me to return at once. Accordingly, I took the train back home, had a chance to see Jessie for a short time, went to Mare Island, obtained a longer leave of absence, and took the train back to Los Angeles on October 10.

I helped Ella with the packing and the local merchants were very friendly and agreed to dispose of the household goods. Another of Mother’s cousins, Gertrude Mount, was most helpful during this period. She took care of the children like a mother, and acted as sister, doctor, minister, to Ella. Without her heaven-sent assistance, Ella could never have survived.

We boarded the train for Oakland at 7:30 p.m. October 12. Ella almost collapsed, and I insisted that she get into her berth and that I would attend to the children. I took them to the dining car and left them. They managed very well by themselves [Harold was 10, Helen 8, Donald 6, and Bernard 4]. 

We reached Oakland at 1:40 p.m. after a very hot, terrible trip. Sydney Watson [yet another cousin] and her mother took us all in and cared for us, I don’t know how; but it was done. And on the following day, October 14, we boarded the train at 11 o’clock, on our way to Sutherlin, where we arrived at 2 p.m. October 15. Some friends of Father and Mother with automobiles met us and took us out to our parents’ home. Dear old Mother – she had everything planned, arrangements made, and with no confusion.

On October 15, I took the train back to Mare Island, arriving October 18. During this period the flu had been very serious and I was required to go into quarantine at Mare Island. We were all wearing flu masks. I obtained permission to go to Oakland to get my clothing, and this gave me a chance to reach Jessie for a short time.

November 11, 1918. Armistice was signed and peace descended on the world.

In the 1920 Census, Ella and her now five young children are still living with her parents; by 1930, she is back on her feet and renting a home in Minnesota, a single mother with five children, teaching high school. 

A woman and the union

An earlier post outlines how my Grandmother, Ruth Thompson Walsh, grew up in, managed, and eventually retired to a hotel. Her son, describes an event at the Biltmore Hotel in San Francisco that led to pickets in front of the hotel:

"At the Biltmore hotel mom managed the dining room and supervised the maids. […] Around 1941 mom had occasion to fire a janitor who felt he could intimidate a woman boss. This led to a union picket line around the hotel for many months and meant that we had to bring in all food and supplies by private auto. Fortunately all of the employees and guests were loyal and supportive." 

The strike made the newspaper: 

San Francisco Examiner, Oct. 11, 1941

"Picket lines were thrown around the hotel, which is operated by Mrs. A.M. Walsh, a widow, as a side issue to the major dispute over wage increases and a union shop, after a houseman had been discharged assertedly for 'incompetence and intemperance.' 

Culinary workers and bartenders, who have been participating in the strike against ten other members of the Hotel Employers Association, stressed that they had not called the strike and that it was 'no concern of ours.' 

The houseman, according to Mrs. Walsh, was discharged Tuesday after numerous complaints had been received from tenants. Thursday, Russell Dreyer, secretary-treasurer of Local 14, telephoned and demanded that the houseman be reinstated. When she refused, he told her curtly, Mrs. Walsh said, to 'tell it to the pickets.' 

Only one employee, a maid, refused to pass through the picket lines yesterday morning, Mrs. Walsh said. She employs sixteen persons, including maids, cooks, waitresses and telephone operators. 

Meanwhile the Biltmore and ten other hotels which were picketed continued to operate as usual. 

Spokesmen for the Local Joint Executive Board said they had no announcements to make regarding extension of the pickets to sixteen other hotels which are members of the Employers’ group." 

The strike dragged on--without really interrupting the hotels' businesses--ebbing and flowing with the holidays, until the spring of 1942, when the War Labor Board was called in to negotiate a truce. While the dispute over the question of back pay for striking workers remained a source of contention, the pickets petered out, and life took on a semblance of normalcy. 

The other story of Ruth standing up to staff was related by my father who said that once during dinner, she noted that the meat was tough, even though she had purchased an expensive cut of beef. She slipped downstairs to the kitchen to discover that staff was enjoying a tenderloin instead of the guests. The cook was summarily fired, and replaced by a black woman, who, as it turns out, was a better cook, and a stable influence in my teenaged father's life.