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 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. 

The innkeeper's daughter

When I was a girl, every Sunday we would pile in the car with Dad and go get Grammie. When I was little, that meant a trip from the east Bay to San Francisco, where we would pick Grammie up from her suite at the Geary Hotel. In season, we would head to the wharf and pick up crab and fresh sourdough bread for lunch. 

It never occurred odd to me that my Grammie lived in a hotel, but then I didn't really understand the concept that my parents had a life before me. But they did, and as an adult considering retirement options, I now understand her choice to live in a hotel: she'd been doing it most of her life.

When my Grammie, Ruth Neely Thompson, was a girl, her parents owned and operated a hotel in Omaha, Nebraska. Her father had worked for Union Pacific Railroad in many roles, and purchasing a 60-room hotel around 1892--with eighty permanent guests--was a natural extension of this. In 1910 George was listed in the census as a grain dealer--even though he is the first person listed at the Merriam Hotel; his wife Mary is the one actually running the hotel. 

The Merriam Hotel, Omaha, Nebraska

A contemporary description of the Merriam calls it a "First Class Family Hotel" where people could "live comfortably and economically in clean bright rooms and apartments." The rate was $1.50 a night. One of the people who stopped at the hotel was an engineer named Albert Walsh, who had taken a job in Omaha to manage the Gabriel Snubbers Agency (they sold automotive shock absorbers). Ruth was 39, and Albert 46 when they married in 1924.

Shortly after their marriage, Ruth and Albert moved back to his hometown of San Francisco, where they built a few houses for resale. After the birth of their son in 1926, they "settled down" and bought the Biltmore Hotel at 735 Taylor Street in San Francisco. A charming residential hotel at the base of Nob Hill, they struggled to make it work: she managed the kitchen and housekeeping, he dealt with customers and repairs. 

The Biltmore Hotel, San Francisco

Their marital bliss was short-lived: in 1941, Albert died of a massive heart attack, leaving Ruth to run the hotel and raise their 14 year-old son. In a true twist of irony, the onset of WWII and the flurry of shipbuilding and military activity in the Bay Area meant that the hotel turned into a cash cow, and they could live comfortably--and sock away money for the future. 

When it came time for Ruth to retire, she did what came naturally: she sold the hotel (which today remains a residence, renting tiny efficiency studios for usurious prices), and moved into a hotel herself. It wasn't until she broke her hip--during a vacation when she was 72--that she deigned to move into something resembling assisted living. 

But she was always near us, and every Sunday, we would bring her into our home from wherever she was living at the time. And it explained why there were a few towels embroidered with "Biltmore" in our linen closet.

Sisterly love

The picture sometimes only tells part of the story. In this case, we see two sisters in an affectionate pose. The older sister, Ruth, is my grandmother; the younger, standing next to her is Mayone, five years younger. Missing is Irene, born just one year before Ruth. There are no photos of the three sisters together, as Irene died when Mayone was a toddler. At the ripe old age of six, Ruth became the older sister, and her sense of responsibility to her remaining sister was an integral part of her character. 

Family lore states that when the third daughter arrived, there were out of names, so they named her after her birthday: May one. From a researcher's perspective, the unique name makes her easy to find--until she married and became Mrs. Thomas Moonlight Murphy. Thomas (not the Civil War hero of the same name, but directly descended from him) was a lawyer for the National Surety Company, and he took his new bride to Buenos Aires with him when sent to establish an Argentine branch. They returned to the states two years later as a family of three. By all accounts, the family was fairly wealthy--there was always a live-in servant listed in censuses for the household. 

Both sisters attended the University of Nebraska, and joined the same sorority (Alpha Phi). While Mayone married right out of college, Ruth remained at home, working as a bookkeeper, and helping run the family's hotel--the Merriam Hotel in Omaha. It seemed clear to all that Ruth, in late 30s, was destined to be an old maid. 

But she didn't: a long story, for another day, left her in San Francisco, a widowed single mother running the Biltmore Hotel. Money was tight until the war came, and the residential hotel turned into a gold mine: Ruth socked the money away, buying a little bit of stock every month, building a healthy nest egg. 

But while many save money for "someday," Ruth started giving it away in her final decades. One letter, saved with a copy of the deposited check, hints that Mayone's final years were anything but luxurious. Ruth was staying with Mayone after eye surgery:

Dear Mayone,

    Since your next birthday is coming up on May 1st, I want to make a gift to you now while I am in your home of $2,700.00. I am making this as a birthday gift now in hopes that you will be able to enjoy it for some of the things you need and might not otherwise have. Perhaps you would like to use part of this fund to redeem your rings which you pledged some time ago for a loan.

Affectionately,

Your sister Ruth

Sisters Mayone and Ruth

The Lone Arranger

excerpted from a Sunday lay sermon by Madge Richardson Walsh

...I daresay many of us have known other women who played significant roles in our lives. It’s too bad that there isn’t a day for special aunts, or even mothers-in-law—Ruth Walsh, my husband Bert’s mother, was wonderful to me. But the stereotype prevails, and [...] I can see that a tribute to the woman who became my mother-in-law has to be a special one. She was to be a role model for me, though I don’t think I will ever be able to match her kindness, her patience, or her serenity—she was absolutely unflappable, even though with Bert as her son she was tested many times.

Though I didn’t know it at the time, Ruth happened to be a dear friend of my Aunt Marjorie, who was the aunt who played a particularly significant role in my life. Aunt Marjorie had no daughters, so her nieces had to do. The older niece, my cousin Jean, was working for Pan American Airlines and dating pilots; Aunt Marjorie considered “flyboys” poor husband material and tried to introduce Jean to more appropriate young men. Jean did not cooperate, however (she never did marry); and so Auntie turned her attention to me. I was showing no signs of settling down with any suitable boyfriend (one of the latest ones was a very talented artist, but you know how unreliable & irresponsible artists can be!) Since my parents had so far failed to marry me off, Aunt Marjorie decided she had better do something about it. 

Aunt Marjorie knew that Ruth Walsh had an “eligible” son, and of course Ruth knew of Marjorie’s niece. Ruth appeared to be an innocent bystander, perfectly willing to go along with Marjorie’s arrangement of what appeared to be a spontaneous meeting. My parents were conveniently out of town, and I was “batching” it, so when Auntie invited me for dinner I was happy to accept, even though she was not much of a cook. Ruth was attending a meeting at my aunt’s house that afternoon, and Bert was to pick her up there, so it was natural for Marjorie to have both of them stay for the meal. 

Believe it or not, this seemingly casual but carefully contrived meeting actually “took.” Bert and I joke that we have an “arranged” marriage—we affectionately refer to Aunt Marjorie as the “Lone Arranger.” We like to remember both Ruth and Marjorie--and their meddling—with fondness and love. They cared what happened to us. 

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What's fun about this little essay is that my father Bert's recollection is a tad different: he had just came from a hard day of work, and Madge had come straight from an archeological dig, all hot and dusty. For years, he would wait until Madge had told her story, and then he would wryly smile and say, “I like sweaty women!”

Grammie, or a DAC Parliamentarian

On this day in 1941, my Grammie, Ruth Neely Thompson Walsh became a widow. They had been married 17 years, and her son (my father) was only 13. With what would have been termed moxie at the time, she picked herself up, and soldiered on, running the Biltmore Hotel in San Francisco on her own. Her integrity got her written up in the newspaper more than once, but that's a story for another day. After she retired, she plunged headlong into a rich social life of playing bridge, having coffee with friends, and researching genealogy, which led her to hold many offices in groups like the DAR and DAC.

In March 1960, she pens the following letter to her son and daughter-in-law, who have just had their first child. She writes chatty letters, but this one, posted from room 640 of the Statler Hilton in Los Angeles provides a window into her unflagging energy and focus. At the time she wrote this, she was 75 years old.

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Saturday P.M.

Dear Madge & Bert,

I meant to send a card before this but haven't been able to find time. We started with a Board meeting before we got unpacked Wed and Thurs and Friday were full days with luncheons-dinner Thurs and a 7:30 breakfast on Friday. I am going to tumble in as soon as I mail this and try to catch up on sleep as I haven't had enough any night since I arrived.

Our flight was pleasant but then we had to circle over the airport for almost a half hour on account of fog and smog.

Next week won't be so strenuous as I have no responsibility and can skip meetings if I wish. The State Board put Marjorie up for a National Office for D.A.C. She did a good job of presiding on the whole. I had to sit up by her as parliamentarian and I wished she had left out a few things she said but on the whole it was all right.

Much love to you both and to my grandson.

Ruth - Mom

Ruth Thompson Walsh ca. 1955