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.