Thursday, September 3, 2015

Snatched Yet Again From
the Dinosaur Clutches of the Status Quo


Oh, woe is me. I've been rescued—kicking and screaming—from the fate of the dinosaurs yet once again.

Perhaps you remember my stalwart refusal to keep up with the modern computer age, when it came face to face with the Microsoft decision to no longer support Windows XP. That earth-shattering event had personal repercussions because I was still running my family tree database on the Family Tree Maker version—true confessions, here—4.40. Yes. I am a Luddite. A true techno-dinosaur.

You may now laugh.

As if that weren't enough, once I managed to transfer my files over to Ancestry.com's system, I endured that company's permutations with reluctant patience.

All until this last change.

What change, you ask? If you are an Ancestry.com user, you likely have made that shift long ago and have since put it out of mind. I, wary soul that I am, did not. I watched the disparaging comments fly, once Ancestry reinvented itself and rolled out its LifeStory. Time and again, as I logged into my account, the company would float their banner front and center, attempting to lure me from my dogged insistence on the same, the predictable and the quickly manipulable. I always resisted the temptation.

You have to understand: in my quest to quickly add as many ancestors—and all their siblings and their descendants—to my tree, I don't have time to get lost in someone's artful rearrangement of graphics. I click through a lot of documents in rapid-fire succession. And I do it regularly. I have several tabs on my iPad loaded with works in progress, and that iPad goes everywhere with me. When I confront even a moment of down time, I've got that tablet open to my Ancestry.com account, and am tapping and tagging names with verification. I run through the generations in rapid succession that way, always chasing my goals of building out those trees.

This morning, however, I awoke to my daily blog reading to run across Gail Dever's post at Genealogy à la carte. She briefly mentioned a newsworthy item: through next Monday, Ancestry.com is offering free access to its new U.S. Wills and Probates collection.

Since I've been wandering around my family's various ancestral lines here in the United States before the great 1850 census divide, I've had a need to access more records on family members' wills. So naturally, I wanted to take a closer look at Ancestry.com's offerings.

Gail's article on Ancestry's free offering of this new collection referenced a more detailed post by Lorine Schulze at her blog, The Olive Tree Genealogy. I clicked through to take a look.

This is how the unsuspecting Luddite gets lured into the trap.

Lorine's article provided not one but several—seemingly countless—links to the Ancestry.com collection. Hey, why not? I clicked through to the Tennessee collection. After all, I could use some more information on my Thomas Taliaferro Broyles' tree. I entered my requested terms and clicked "Search."

Instantly, I was facing a page from his will. However, it was overlaid with a page stating that, in order to view the document, I would have to see it in the new Ancestry.com version.

Forget that, I thought, and X'd out of it. I didn't want to see those wills that badly!

Too late. The deed was done. No matter where I turned, back in my own tree, I was now in the new version. Locked out of the dinosaur era. Trapped.

Taking a deep breath, I steadied myself long enough to read the FAQs. "Everything will be okay," I kept telling myself. "Pay no attention to all those dire reports of problems with the change." It couldn't be any worse than those Facebook changes, over the years, could it? Everyone complains about those.

It wasn't long until I discovered there was a recourse. I could ask to go back home. But I had to tell the good fairy godmother people why there was "no place like home." And the three choices they offered on their handy questionnaire didn't include "I don't have time for change."

But...there's no time like the present, isn't there? When else would I be making this switch? After all, at some point, the old system will be entirely wiped clean and the "new" will become the status quo. If I don't hurry, I'll miss the chance to complain about the new system—it will have been replaced by the next generation of upgrades. I better hurry if I don't want to miss my chance.   

Wednesday, September 2, 2015

Postscript: The Road to the Ijams' Place


Perhaps you have heard of house histories. Just as we do genealogical research on the people in our lives, some people turn their research energy to digging up the history of the house they love.

There is apparently enough interest in the subject to generate a number of books on the topic. One, Sally Light's House Histories promises to be "a guide to tracing the genealogy of your home." You can imagine how the thought resonates with me in the subtitle of another book I noticed—this one by Pamela Brooks—"Every home tells a story."

Not only has the thought captivated enough of an audience to prompt authors to produce how-to material, but it has become the basis for a sub-field specialization among genealogists. Professional genealogist Marian Pierre-Louis, in fact, calls herself a house historian, and includes aspects of that focus in her media presentations.

While house histories may be fascinating, they serve solely as the springboard for today's post, for it is not house histories, per se, which inspired this one follow up project for my Ijams family research, but something quite akin to that. What I want to do is not a house history, but a road history.

Can there be such a thing as a "road history"? Why not? I've already mentioned—in a totally different research pursuit—that I became aware of the history of the name of one well-known street in Fresno, California. Shields Avenue was named for one of ancestors of my first husband—a landowner on the location of that very road—who also happened to have a son in law who served as director of the city's department of highways. It sometimes pays to have connections.

That was the kind of background knowledge that informed me, as I researched my husband's connection to the Revolutionary War era Ijams family of Maryland and Ohio. Besides having run into that unusual surname in family history research, the only other way I had encountered that name was in driving through a once-rural section that now is on the outskirts of the city where I live.

What would happen if I conducted a study on how Ijams Road received its name?

Based on what I had learned about Shields Avenue in Fresno, I pulled up old census records for my county to see if there were any landowners by the name Ijams. I started as far back in time as I could—considering our city was in existence when California became a state, that meant checking the 1850 census.

Well, it was a long slog until I reached my answer: the 1930 and 1940 census enumerations showed a William Ijams family residing in San Joaquin County.

William? What were the chances?

To answer that question, I took the quick but superficial route of seeing what other family trees on Ancestry.com might have included that William Ijams family—and then traced that line back in time to see if there might be any connections to the William Ijams in Fairfield County, Ohio, that I've been studying.

As it turned out, there were two trees developed to that extent. And yes, after going through the three generations preceding that William Ijams—in which each man was named Isaac—I arrived at a John Ijams whose wife was Rebecca Jones. That, if you remember, was the very same couple who were parents of my husband's fifth great grandfather William.

How often do you run across a scenario like that? The ancestor of a family based twenty five hundred miles from where you live just happens to have another descendant who settles in the same distant town.

So, every time our family has driven down Ijams Road—well, before real estate development took those farm parcels and subdivided them, re-routing the roads and obliterating much of what used to be Ijams Road—we've been driving down the street named for my husband's third cousin, four times removed.

If this were happening, back in central Ohio where those Revolutionary War patriots had settled in the early 1800s, it would not have been such an unexpected coincidence. But hey, this isn't Ohio but California—and a sizeable state, to boot—and a mighty far distance from the family's old neighborhoods in Fairfield and Perry counties in Ohio.

Granted, following up on a hunch for a road bearing a more-common surname might not yield much. Don't, for instance, trouble yourself with the history of Smith Street. But if you run across the less well known surnames in your family tree printed across a street sign, it might be worth your while to check into the history of that road's name.

Tuesday, September 1, 2015

The Dog, the Rabbit, the Carrot —
and Genealogy


The other day, I mentioned tackling Christine Kenneally's most recent book, The Invisible History of the Human Race. It will likely take much longer than one more transcontinental flight before I can claim I've finished the thing. Still, each chapter leads me down another unexpected path of considerations, making the reading journey profitable.

A chapter I've just finished edged into some aspects for viewing our past from a different direction, which the author dubbed "the cultural inheritance of psychology." Reporting on a study requiring subjects to pair two out of three pictures in a set, Kenneally explained how scientists explored cultural differences, East versus West.

Say you were one of the subjects in that study. If you were given three pictures—one of a dog, one of a rabbit, and one of a carrot—which two would you say belong together?

In my mind, I immediately paired my set before reading Kenneally's explanation:
In previous studies the way a dog, a rabbit, and a carrot were paired differed according to whether the subject was from the West or the East.

If you had paired the dog and the rabbit, thinking the common bond was the fact that they both were types of animals, you might find yourself in the majority of traditional Americans (or British, or likely Australians or, for that matter, most of western European heritage descent). According to Kenneally,
The Western subjects paired the dog and the rabbit, which is more analytic because the animals belong in the same category.

Perhaps that is the same thinking behind those dreary tests administered by elementary school faculty upon their unsuspecting subjects for never-explained reasons, other than to place their charges in yet more categories.

Perhaps that is why people who think like I do tended to confound those who thought like public school administrators. You see, while I am far from being Asian—though I can think of people I know, personally, from China, Japan, Korea, Vietnam, Cambodia, Indonesia, the Philipines and India—my response to the Kenneally question was far from the Western "right answer." My instant inclination was to pair the rabbit with the carrot.

Of course. What else is the rabbit going to eat?! 

And though I don't feel particularly "Eastern," I feel vindicated to learn that I have plenty of company sharing in that rationale. Again, from Kenneally:
The Eastern subjects tended to pair the rabbit with a carrot, which was thought to be the more holistic, relational solution.

Relational. I like that. Perhaps that's why I opt for family history over genealogy. A moot point, I admit, but I like my genealogy to explain just how these faceless names relate to each other. I want my genealogy to reveal who these ancestors were, what they were like, and what they meant to the people who shared their home and their community. I want to know what trials they endured, what incredible odds they faced, what problems they surmounted on their journey through life.

If it is now fashionable to label that tendency "Eastern," so be it. I hardly can find that in my heritage, but I must have inherited it from somewhere.

Wherever it came from, it is still firmly ensconced in the core of my being—that very spark that propels me to seek out those opportunities to explore the places where my ancestors once lived. Though Fort Meade might have been just a blip on the radar of one week in my life, I'm grateful for the tangible opportunity to take in its surroundings. Though one hundred years after the fact, I've just gotten the chance to walk the very paths my great grandparents once walked—the relational in me experiencing the relationships that make up my family's past.

Monday, August 31, 2015

Rupert Charles' John Hancock


When I passed through Fort Meade last week, I hoped to at least locate one city document that contained Rupert Charles McClellan's signature. After all, my great grandfather served as mayor of that tiny Florida city for one brief term during the early 1900s.

When we looked at the binders stored at the Fort Meade Historical Society's museum, though, the earliest volume contained data from 1914—too late for my great grandfather's term in office.

While we couldn't find any such records, it was interesting to see what was included in the volumes of documents stored at the city's museum. Most of those early records—at least the pages which survived the ravages of time—seemed to be forms naming citizens and specifying the charges for which they were being fined.

Though the documents didn't carry Mayor McClellan's signature for any of those items dated 1914 forward, what was lacking at the point of service fortunately was made up for at the point at which the money came due. While these were not glamorous mementos of my great grandfather's term in office, at least I found what I wanted: a signature by the mayor (well, at least in pre-printed format) displayed on one of Fort Meade's tiniest official documents.


On the first day of July, 1919, the Town of Fort Meade, Polk County, Florida, will pay to bearer the sum of twenty five dollars ($25.00) in gold coin of the United States of America of current weight and fineness at the Office of the Treasurer of said town, being six months interest then due on its sewer bond dated July 1st 1912.

One after another, small stickers were affixed on—no, over—those old records of fines noted in the 1914 binder from the city's archives. It brought to mind our research trip, last year, to check the microfilmed baptismal records in 1830s Ireland, when I wondered, "What happened to the outside margins of the pages?" In that case, the Irish priest, desperate for a wick with which to light the votive candles, would tear tiny slivers from the margins of the baptismal records, themselves. In this Florida version, the city clerks had apparently decided to co-opt the older records as a storage device when investors cashed in their notes on the Fort Meade sewer bond.

Yeah. Told you: not glamorous. But worth gold to someone.

Sunday, August 30, 2015

Mr. Mayor, the Dentist


Recently visiting Fort Meade, the small town home of my great grandparents, Rupert Charles and Sarah Broyles McClellan, was informative. Of course, it was nice to see the place and learn more about what life was like for my ancestors during those years in the early 1900s when they lived in Polk County's oldest city. And it was a treat to visit their historical society's museum.

But what I really wanted to find was more detail on my ancestors. After all, since my great grandfather was the town's dentist—not to mention, Fort Meade's mayor for one brief term—there ought to have been some trail of evidence marking his existence in the area.



Fortunately, a cousin tipped me off that there were old city record books stored at the city's museum, and urged me to look for them. Maybe something within those pages held a copy of R.C.'s signature. Then, she also told me to keep an eye out for a display with an old dentist's chair; she thought it might have been from his office.

Armed with that intel, when we walked in the front door of the museum and were greeted by the historical society volunteers, there were two questions uppermost on my list. Once we explained our mission, our helpful volunteers directed us to the room with the very display my cousin had described. The chair, however, was thought to have belonged to a different dentist.



That, however, didn't jive with the calculations. It was a very old style chair, and Dr. McClellan had left it behind when he moved his practice to Tampa in 1919. The new office was to have all new equipment, and taking that old style of chair simply wouldn't do. Perhaps the dentist who took over his practice in Fort Meade received the chair, as well.

There is one way we can untangle this minor mystery: the Fort Meade dental chair itself bears the tag indicating the manufacturer—McConnell, out of Demorest, Georgia. The date on the manufacturer's tag seems to say May 8, 1900. Possible date of the patent? Perhaps a visit to our helpful friend Google will resolve the question—a question to tackle after my return home. In the meantime, though, here's an interesting capture of a similar chair by same manufacturer in its current native habitat (an antique store), courtesy of this blogger.



One look at the chair reminds me of all those old horror stories about the dread of having to go to the dentist. The chair was simple enough—but somehow, its austere air was enough to remind me that fear can be a tradition passed down through the generations, as well. Going to the dentist is nothing, today, in comparison to the ordeal of years gone by, so why do we still act like a trip to the dentist is consignment to a torture chamber? We don't know how spoiled we are.

Dr. McClellan's office was situated on the second floor, above the bank alongside the main road through town. Now, of course, the bank is gone—supplanted by a pawn shop, of all things—and there is no public access to the upstairs suite. But the volunteers at the museum told us that we could spot the right place by the mosaic sign embedded in the doorway to the bank's front entrance. (Of course, the signs to the pawn shop would be a dead giveaway, as well.)

We simply had to go back down the street—despite the rainy weather—so my intrepid husband could snap a picture of what, in bygone years, would have been the storefront entrance to my great grandfather's business.



In addition to his professional livelihood, however, Dr. McClellan was known for one other role: that of his one term as mayor of Fort Meade. For that, we hoped to find some records bearing his signature. Though the records at the museum only went back to 1914—and R. C. McClellan's term began in 1912—the volunteers brought us the volumes which came closest to that date range.

Though not many, there were some records which satisfied our search. Even this little bit is a start, telling me that with a little more time, we may locate more of what we're hoping to find.




Photos courtesy of Chris Stevens.


Saturday, August 29, 2015

The History-Keepers of Fort Meade


It is not unusual to encounter a dedicated group of people, committed to preserving the history of an area. However, it is more likely that group would be dedicated as a county's historical society, rather than that of a city. During my trip to trace my roots here in Fort Meade, Florida, however, I've had the fortune to meet some of the people who have made it possible for this small city to capture its own history in a local museum setting.

While "city" is Fort Meade's official designation, the place in which my maternal grandmother grew up now has a population of under six thousand people. Still, its historic district is composed of 151 buildings which have qualified as historic landmarks, according to the Polk County Historical Society—of which Fort Meade is its oldest city. According to one count, Fort Meade has over three hundred homes on the National Register of Historic Places.

Founded in 1849, this central Florida locale was the place where my great grandfather chose to establish his dental practice—and where, back in 1912, he served as the city's mayor. Now that I've had the opportunity to visit this place for myself, it was a treat to stop by and walk down these very same sidewalks, myself.

Just after my husband and I flew to Florida, my cousin mentioned that Fort Meade has a city museum we might want to visit. I hadn't even thought to look for this resource, and was glad to take up her suggestion to stop by. Being a small, volunteer-run organization, the city's historical society is only able to keep the museum open for a limited number of hours during the week. The morning we were driving through town thankfully happened to fall on one of those days.



We ended up having a delightful visit with the volunteers and board members present that day at the museum. They were only too glad to help direct our attention to historical artifacts of specific interest to me in my quest to trace my family history. We gleaned stories from the volunteers about life in the city back in the early 1900s—an old mining town whose long-abandoned phosphate pits have become the "lakes" alongside the state highway.

During our visit, we also learned the history of the 1880s-era building that houses the museum. Now located near the railroad tracks and the city's old depot, the two story building once had served as the city's first indoor schoolhouse. Later, it became a boarding house.



Moved to its present location in 1989, it wasn't until 2000, after extensive refurbishing, that the building was opened to the public as the Fort Meade Museum. A handcrafted gazebo, serving as a stage for open-air entertainment, and a refurbished set of cars from the phosphate train, reconverted to meeting rooms, round out the museum's community-oriented properties. Already outgrowing its spacious layout in that two story building, the museum could use even more space, and some board members have dreams to expand to include a library and archives.

There is something so helpful about learning more about the context in which our ancestors lived. I'm still trying to piece together the story of why my great-grandparents Rupert Charles and Sarah Broyles McClellan chose to leave the old McClellan family property up in the northern part of the state to relocate to Fort Meade. Whether I ever discover the story behind that move, it is easy to see the McClellans' lovely home—now one of those historic landmark properties in Fort Meade—and the small-town ambience made the move a good choice for my great-grandparents and their family.



Photographs courtesy of Chris Stevens.

Friday, August 28, 2015

Going Back Home


Well, for one thing, it wasn't my home. But we did go there.

It is a splendid little home on a corner lot. Back in the early 1900s, when my great-grandparents Rupert Charles and Sarah Broyles McClellan bought the place, it was framed by a spacious lot and—I assume—young palm trees and an oak tree outside the kitchen porch in the back yard. Two cannon-ball-topped pillars stood guard at the walkway leading from Oak Street to the well-appointed porch and front door.

Today, the corner lot stands across the street—in both directions—from the town's elementary school. Even Google maps didn't quite pick up on the hint that the street was gated off for the protection of the children on the sprawling campus, so we got the grand tour of the neighborhood, just trying to drive to the right address.

There have been other changes. The property is now enclosed with a wrought iron fence and an ominous neon sign proclaiming, "Beware of dog." This is a sign to heed—even though no dog was to be seen.

Through the rain—hey, this is Florida at the start of hurricane season—my intrepid companion didn't miss the opportunity to snap some photos of what was once the place where my maternal grandmother spent her teen years, graduating from the Fort Meade high school in 1919.

It might have made for a nostalgic trip. Sarah McClellan did actually make that journey, returning in 1949 to her old home in Fort Meade in the later years of her life.

Unlike my great-grandmother, however, I wasn't the one who once lived here. Hey, I've never even set foot in this state until this week, despite my claim to historic roots in this territory. But perhaps I can say I partook of the nostalgia on behalf of those relatives now long-gone.

Not only are these ancestors no longer with us, but the people who purchased the house from R. C. McClellan are no longer here, either. To those living in Fort Meade today—the ones who still remember those earlier days of the previous century—that home is known as the Heath house.

But even the Heath family no longer owns the property. Nor does the next family. The procession of homeowners continues, as even the ones who purchased the house a few years ago and wonderfully restored it to its previous condition have now sold the home and moved on.



Photos of the former R. C. McClellan property in Fort Meade, Florida, courtesy of Chris Stevens.
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