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.