Wednesday, July 26, 2017
If you've been following along here at A Family Tapestry while I've been muddling through the puzzle of possible parentage of my orphaned second great grandmother, you may have been left with a question in the back of your mind. After all, we're seeking the mothers who people the matriline of Mary Rainey Broyles, and since my farthest removed opportunity to document her existence as I knew it was with her license to marry Thomas Taliaferro Broyles in 1871, everything beyond that roadblock really becomes conjecture. An educated guess, to be sure, but still nothing solidly documented.
So to arrive at Jane, wife of Thomas Lewis and daughter of William Strother of Stafford, Virginia, may seem exciting, but it's still a hypothesis.
Since we're comparing this genealogical paper trail with one other research tool, however, it is indeed good news to see I received an exact match to my mitochondrial DNA test which contained a surname matching a woman also figuring in my proposed matriline: Strother.
Despite the momentary glitch of finding my exact match's pedigree containing an error in the parentage of my Jane's sister Elizabeth, it appears we really are talking about sisters and not cousins or any more distant relationship. While this is good news, it is not the end of the line. It merely leads up to the nexus between my matriline and that of my exact match.
The person to whom the honor goes for being ancestral mother to both of us would be the mother of Jane and Elizabeth Strother. And as naming conventions in the western world would have it, that means the Strother mother actually was born with a name other than Strother.
It would be fitting, before moving on, to note just who that woman might have been. Thankfully, a number of references provide the information that William Strother, father of both Jane and Elizabeth, had as his wife a woman by the name of Margaret Watts, whom he married around 1720—according to one reference, before 26 March 1718. This Margaret was said to have been daughter of one Richard Watts.
So, in this pursuit of the woman who was my mother's mother's mother's (et cetera) mother, and the one filling that same role in my exact match's matriline, while we find the surname nexus at the appearance of the Strother sisters in our respective pedigrees, it was their mother who qualifies as our most recent matrilineal common ancestor.
If all the conjecturing which brought me back to Margaret Watts is correct, that means, without any mutations in our mitochondrial record from our current times back until Margaret Watts' birth in 1700 colonial Virginia, I have a three hundred year old genetic record within me that is exactly the same as one borne within the genes of a stranger with whom I apparently share no other relatives except this Strother bride and mother. That's a pretty far-reaching record.
Tuesday, July 25, 2017
Admittedly, at first I jumped the gun. Looking at the pedigree chart for my—finally!—first real "exact match" from my mitochondrial DNA test, the minute I saw the name Elizabeth Strother, I knew we had a match. Why? Because there was an Elizabeth Strother, sister of the Jane Strother who was part of my matriline.
At least, it was part of my presumed matriline. The difficulty, as we've been discussing, is that right in the middle of my matrilineal ancestry is the roadblock of the unknown parentage of my orphaned second great grandmother.
We've already examined the possible lineage from the point of that orphan back through the next several generations, and why I think these are reasonable guesses. But when we get to the soon-to-become wife of Thomas Lewis, Jane Strother, we start running into problems.
First off, though some old recountings of the family genealogy state, almost in one breath, "Jane, daughter of William Strother of Stafford," there are some records which assign to him thirteen "blooming daughters," while other arguments imply he had absolutely none—or, perhaps, six.
Thankfully, the listing that allowed for a more modest count of six included both a Jane and an Elizabeth.
Besides that, depending on whose account one is reading, Jane's father, William, is one of a line of at least three, if not six, generations of men named William Strothers. Conveniently, each generation is numbered. The trick is to insure how far back any particular researcher decided to start his count of the Williams. One genealogy has my William identified as "William III." Another counts him as "William VI."
Let's take leave of our woes on that side of the family for a moment and look at the other side of the story: the pedigree chart provided by my exact match.
What I hadn't, at first, noticed when I spotted that Elizabeth Strother in my match's tree was that she had Elizabeth's parents listed not as William and Margaret, as I was showing, but as Francis Strother and Susannah Dabney. Understandably, for large families given to repeating the same favorite names from generation to generation, there would be more than one Elizabeth in the Strother generations. But I'm really not in the mood to celebrate that abundance just yet.
As it turns out, depending upon which old published genealogy one wishes to use as guide, there are helpful suggestions...or not.
For one thing, in support of a Francis Strother's very existence, there is mention of Jane's father William having a brother Francis. More to the point, that brother Francis did marry someone named Susannah Dabney.
Even more perilous to the survival of my presumed pedigree, that Francis and Susannah did have a daughter. And—surprise, surprise—that daughter's name was, indeed, Elizabeth.
Take heart, though, for in continuing the saga of that Elizabeth, it turns out she married someone named James Gaines. My match's pedigree indicated her Elizabeth Strother married a man by the name of John Frogg, just as I had had it in my own records. The only problem I had from that point onward was that my match's pedigree continued with a daughter for John and Elizabeth Frogg, when I only had two male descendants listed for that couple—male descendants, incidentally, who would never pass along that matrilineal heritage from my Jane's mother.
If you recall from the other day, that very John Frogg (or Frogge, as some records had it) was the one over which there were some documentation disputes, according to the national Daughters of the Revolution website. Still, even on their database, one of the descendants of this John and Elizabeth was listed as the Jane Frogg named by my match. And, just as my match had it in her tree, this DAR-verified Jane went on to marry a Virginia man named Manoah Corley.
So perhaps that "down side" I was concerned about adds up to nothing more than mis-attributed parentage of the Elizabeth Strother in my match's line. Still, to be quite sure I'm comparing the correct lines—after all, mine is a presumed line, owing to my second great grandmother's orphan status—I need to check every step of the way on both mine and my match's pedigree. This will take some additional digging to pull up as many documents as possible.
Monday, July 24, 2017
It was rather deflating, after finally finding someone who qualified as an exact match to my mitochondrial DNA test, to realize that either her pedigree or mine—or worse, both—might have been wrong. I spent a good deal of time yesterday, sorting through the possibilities. Thankfully, once I came up for air, I felt like I could breathe a bit easier.
For one thing, I can see where some errors might have been perpetrated—something I'll cover tomorrow. For another, it seems we are in good company with our confusion over some members of the Strother family of eighteenth century Virginia. Thankfully, there are some points made by previous researchers to bolster my contentions and help set the record straight.
Before we get into that, though, I'm in desperate need of taking an inventory of reasons why this effort is worth the while. So let's take a look at the good side of the equation before we launch into the messy details.
First, let's consider what an mtDNA test can show us. Of course, it measures the "genetic distance" between two matches—for instance, this Strother descendant and myself—who both share a most recent common ancestor of a specific type. That type is limited to the matriline, the line moving back in time from my mother to her mother to her mother, in like manner back to the 1700s—and then, about-face, marching right back in time from that woman to her daughter to her daughter, all the way to the point of the person who is my match.
That we are an exact match means that this genealogical journey was made from me, all the way to that matrilineal ancestor and then back again to my match, without any genetic mutation in the specific material measured from our respective mitochondria.
Considering that, unlike my two thousand autosomal DNA matches, my mitochondrial DNA matches only number fifty eight, that's an awe-inspiringly limiting set of chances. In fact, of those fifty eight matches, I only have four who are exact matches. All the others have at least two or three mutations between me and any given match. To find one who is an exact match and actually has also posted a pedigree chart for our perusal is a rare—and long-awaited—occurrence.
In addition, this pedigree chart happens to include a surname shared in my tree. Unlike the hundreds of autosomal matches I've perused whose trees seem to recount ancestors from the opposite side of the world from my family, this one actually screams BINGO! Who could ask for more than that?
Of course, that one thing we could ask for would be a correct pedigree. And I can't exactly fault my match for that; perhaps the error is mine. Time to take out the magnifying glass and scrutinize my own work, as well as hers. And while I'm at it, time to pull out those dusty old records and see what additional documentation I can find to bolster the paper trail.
The best news of all, however, is that this is a quest to verify just who the parents were of a girl orphaned in Georgia at the age of eleven in the midst of a civil war. If I can demonstrate, on paper, the connection of my Mary Rainey Broyles to Jane Strother, wife of Thomas Lewis of eighteenth century Virginia—and then confirm that matriline via mtDNA results—I will have put to good use one of our most modern techniques to bolster our genealogical research.
But first, let's take a look at that other side of the story...
Above: "Reader with Magnifying Glass," 1895 oil on canvas by German Impressionist artist Leo Lesser Ury; courtesy Wikipedia; in the public domain.
Sunday, July 23, 2017
What's with all the speculation?, you may be wondering as I puzzle out just who my orphaned second great grandmother's family might have been.
What if you're wrong?, the genealogist in you is certainly asking. After all, I have very little proof that my guesses are correct.
That, however, is the goal I'm after: to build a case through documentation that seeks to allay those concerns while demonstrating the possibility that my proposal could be credible.
A few years ago, in my DNA results was another mitochondrial "exact match" result belonged to an adoptee who turned out to be successful in figuring out who his birth parents were. He shared his search technique with me, one which is so bombastic and assuming as to make a trained genealogist shudder at the possibilities of error. The trick, my mystery cousin explained, was to build a private tree on Ancestry.com and experiment with hunches—by entering possibilities to see what might trigger "hints" that led to viable material.
I am not attempting an approach as energetically radical as his, in this quest to determine which family my second great grandmother might have belonged to. But I do need to experiment with some possibilities using, at least, educated guesses. The reason: after bringing you up this matrilineal line of ascent all the way from Mary Rainey Broyles to Jane Strother, there is a second part to the story.
Yes, you guessed it: I have an exact mtDNA match with someone whose matriline includes a Strother mother. According to my records—yes, my records based on guesswork—this person's line includes Jane Strother's sister, Elizabeth Strother.
Sisters, that is, depending on whose accounting we choose to believe.
We've already found one old genealogy which stated that the Thomas Lewis who is presumed to be part of my orphaned second great grandmother's line married someone named "Jane, daughter of Wm. Strother, of Stafford county, Va."
That hint, as it turns out, is a trickier line than originally bargained for. The William Strother we are seeking would have been married to a woman named Margaret Watts. Depending on which genealogy publication you believe, though, William and Margaret had either "thirteen daughters" or what seems to read as none at all:
William VI, b. circa 1696; d. 1732; m. circa 1720, Margaret Watts, who m. (second) John Grant, leaving six daughters.
None, that is, if those six daughters were actually the descendants of Margaret and her second husband.
Meanwhile, best I can determine, our Jane Strother had a sister—well, at least according to some accounts—named Elizabeth, who married a Revolutionary War era man named John Frogg. That his entry in the roster of Patriots at the national Daughters of the American Revolution is in dispute makes me wonder whether the reports of his wife's name may also be suspect.
Of course, it would be this Elizabeth Strother to whom my exact match is linked. Therein lies the problem: just how do this Elizabeth and my Jane relate?
All this to say: while I've discovered an exact match through my mtDNA test possibly linking me to the Strother line, not only do I need to construct a proof argument for my orphaned second great grandmother's link to the Strother family, but I then have to sort out whether I have my Strothers lined up correctly, for my accounting does not reconcile with my match's pedigree.
Nothing is ever easy.
Saturday, July 22, 2017
If it wasn't for one small detail concerning the woman whose parentage we're seeking, I might have experienced considerably more difficulty in accessing the information. As it is, in trying to piece together the matriline of an orphan—who just happened to be my second great grandmother—we're struggling with guesswork tangled up with lack of documentation. Seeking verification of genealogical details in the era of the 1700s and early 1800s is so different than experiences in researching our more recent history.
By the time we moved from my second great grandmother, Mary Rainey Broyles, to her mother Mary Taliaferro Rainey, to her grandmother Mary Gilmer Taliaferro, and then her great-grandmother Elizabeth Lewis Gilmer, we've arrived in the mid 1700s. Trying to determine the parents of a woman in that time frame might have been tricky; sometimes these people were mentioned by name, and sometimes they were nearly invisible.
In the case of Elizabeth Lewis, though, she had something going for her. After marrying her husband, Thomas Meriwether Gilmer, she just so happened to give birth to a son who eventually went on to become governor of the state of Georgia. Some biographical sketches—though not all—of governor George Rockingham Gilmer include a line crediting Thomas and Elizabeth as his parents.
That portion of a lineage which fortuitously includes my (presumed) matriline helps bolster confidence that I'm on the right track. Besides, it elevates chances that the family's previous generations might have rubbed shoulders with all the right people, too. I could use a few more handy connections like that in this research project.
It certainly wasn't difficult, employing a Google search and some choice keywords, to locate public domain genealogies containing just the names I was seeking. For Elizabeth Lewis, the current stepping-off point on this matrilineal pursuit, it was easy to find her place in two volumes (apparently using the same sources, which does make me hesitate) mentioning her parents' names.
From William Terrell Lewis' 1892 Genealogy of the Lewis Family in America, we see Elizabeth mentioned, along with her twelve siblings and the note that she was born in 1765 and married to "Thos. M. Gilmer." Turning to the preceding page, it reveals her father: Thomas Lewis, a surveyor in colonial Augusta County, Virginia. His wife, Elizabeth's mother, was mentioned as "Jane, daughter of Wm. Strother, of Stafford County."
This is supported in another volume of similar name but slightly later date of publication (1906), Genealogies of the Lewis and Kindred Families, where we find one of those name-dropping entries, thanks to Elizabeth's relationship as mother of the governor of Georgia. For our purposes, that provides us with the feature of Elizabeth's mother as Jane Strother, daughter of William Strother of Stafford County, Virginia.
While this second volume also detailed Elizabeth's father Thomas Lewis' heritage—son of John Lewis and Margaret Lynn and grandson of Andrew Lewis and Mary Calahan—we have to remember that is not our goal in this pursuit.
Jane Strother, however, is. And, as it turns out as I surveyed the surnames in my mtDNA match's pedigree, that was exactly the point at which I needed to focus my attention: to the Strother family.
Above: My second great grandmother's matriline now reaches to her second great grandmother, Jane Strother, daughter of William Strother and wife of Thomas Lewis. Graphic layout of the pedigree courtesy of Ancestry.com.
Friday, July 21, 2017
Moving back into the eighteenth century brings us to a much different style of genealogical research. Long gone, by now, are those government-issued birth, marriage, and death records which researchers of twentieth century ancestry have come to rely on. In their place, hopefully, are church records of baptisms and marriages, and court records of wills, guardianships and probate.
Entering, stage left on this scene of earlier American history, also comes another resource. Whether insufferable temptation to commit the genealogical sin of copying someone else's research or boon to those whose desperation is owing to lack of any other options, those hundred-year-old genealogies of early American families sit silently on the shelves of our most-revered genealogical libraries and await our response. Use them? Or not?
I caved. Admittedly, while authors of the genealogical publications of the late 1800s and early 1900s may have been hampered by the vastly restricted access to resources—so unlike what we enjoy today, with digitized records and instantaneous access online—they were also likely to have been prepared with the scholarly discipline of the academically trained.
I promise myself to use these books—for the time, at least—as trailblazer material, and to follow up on my own by seeking out any documentation to confirm what those closer to the matter may have "known" through hearsay from their elder relatives.
On the matrilineal trail for the mothers' line of my orphaned second great grandmother—even that being an exercise in educated guesses—we've so far come from Mary Rainey, wife of Thomas Broyles, to her presumed mother, Mary Taliaferro Rainey, to her mother, Mary Meriwether Gilmer, wife of Warren (or possibly Warner) Taliaferro.
Let's pause to consider the treasure trove we've now stumbled upon, by virtue of associating with those two surnames, Meriwether and Gilmer. As has been observed by other researchers—including some who self-published their own pedigrees in the time-honored tradition of local and state genealogical societies of the past—those surnames have been intertwined over the generations since, undoubtedly, colonial times.
Thus, there are a number of books that can be consulted, as I found out by going to the book section of FamilySearch.org and just searching for one of those surnames, Gilmer. While we always need to be cautious of the possibility that authors back then were just as liable to make a mistake as any careful research might still do today, it was informative to see what could be found about the woman we left off with yesterday in the pursuit of my second great grandmother's matriline.
If Mary Meriwether Gilmer was indeed her grandmother, who was her great grandmother? Right away, in Sketches of Some of the First Settlers of Upper Georgia, a book containing much detail about the extended Gilmer family, we see that "Warren Taliaferro...married Mary M. Gilmer, daughter of Thomas M. Gilmer."
Another book, The Gilmers in America, provides a glimpse of the family constellation of that Thomas M. Gilmer:
The eldest son, who, on the death of his father [Peachy Ridgway Gilmer], became the head of the Gilmer family according to the old English method of reckoning, Thomas Meriwether Gilmer, took upon himself the responsibilities of matrimony before he had attained his majority, and a year after this serious venture he displayed his independence of character and his self-reliance by removing with his young wife, Elizabeth Lewis, to Georgia and settling on Broad River which was then (about 1783) a far frontier.
Thus we are supplied with another mother in this matrilineal pursuit: Mary Meriwether Gilmer Taliaferro's mother was the former Elizabeth Lewis. Another book of that era, The Meriwethers and Their Connections also mentions that relationship.
With that, we can now extend my orphaned second great grandmother's matriline another generation, for the purposes of the mitochondrial DNA test results I'm seeking to confirm with a corollary genealogical paper trail. So, we move from my second great grandmother, Mary Rainey, to Mary Taliaferro, to Mary Gilmer, and now to Elizabeth Lewis.
And with that connection to the Lewis family—another colonial American family intermarried with several others—we'll certainly encounter more published assistance in tracing this line.
Above: Beginning with my orphaned second great grandmother, Mary E. W. Rainey, we now can trace her matriline through to her own great grandmother, Elizabeth Lewis. Graphic layout of the pedigree courtesy of Ancestry.com.
Thursday, July 20, 2017
In trying to find the parents of a woman born at the turn of that other century—yes, we're going back nearly to the year 1800—there are no handy birth certificates to consult. Thankfully, for those with enough property to make the difference, there are wills.
In the trek backwards through the generations from my orphaned second great grandmother, Mary Rainey Broyles, we've learned that she was named after her own mother, Mary, wife of Thomas Firth Rainey. Fortunately, a marriage certificate for Thomas and the elder Mary showed that woman's maiden name to be Taliaferro.
Researching this particular Mary Taliaferro Rainey brings us back to the early 1800s in both Georgia and South Carolina, where sometime before her 1818 marriage to Thomas Rainey, she found herself an orphan—if, that is, I have the correct information for her. Thanks to a number of genealogies and other records published a hundred years ago, her parentage has been provided where source documents are otherwise lacking. The claim is that Mary's father was Warren Taliaferro and her mother was Mary Meriwether Gilmer. Yes, another Mary in the matriline.
In Warren Taliaferro's will, drawn up in October, 1815, at his residence in the Pendleton District of South Carolina, he named two of his sons—Charles and Zachariah—and two daughters. Fortunately, with the statement, "my daughters Mary Elizabeth Taliaferro and Lucy Gilmore Taliaferro," our Mary—the one who eventually married Thomas Rainey in 1818—was one of the children named.
Of course, nothing is ever easy. Though I was, thanks to this document, armed with the names of Mary's two brothers and one other sister, that did not match the record filed with the court in Oglethorpe County, Georgia, in 1818. That document named brother-in-law Peachy R. Gilmer as guardian of the by-then deceased Warren Taliaferro's minor children. And yes, you guessed it: Mary Taliaferro was not among the ones named.
Thankfully, though, the dates tell the story: the guardianship papers were filed in Oglethorpe County on September 24, 1818. Checking that marriage document filed in the same county in Georgia for Mary, it was dated June 9 of that same year, providing the reason for Mary's exclusion from the guardianship papers—and for a marriage taking place in Georgia for the daughter of a South Carolina resident.
Adding yet another presumption to this recounting of the generations, we now have Mary Taliaferro Rainey's parents listed as Warren Taliaferro and Mary Meriwether Gilmer. This, incidentally, provides an explanation for the relationship to the man at whose home my second great grandmother and her brother found themselves staying by the time of the 1870 census, for if her mother was daughter of Warren Taliaferro, that meant the Charles Taliaferro at whose home she was staying was her maternal uncle.
Since the purpose of this pursuit is to follow the matriline from my orphaned second great grandmother backwards in time, our next goal is to push back one more generation on Mary's mother's side. Thankfully, the Gilmer line has been well documented in a number of published genealogies (not that that doesn't preclude the necessity of proving the line for myself). Tomorrow, we'll explore the parentage of Mary Meriwether Gilmer, wife of Warren Taliaferro and maternal grandmother of my orphaned second great grandmother.
Above: Too many Marys make the narrative confusing. Here is a snippet from the pedigree chart, showing my orphaned second great grandmother, Mary E. W. Rainey Broyles, linked to her presumed mother, Mary E. Taliaferro Rainey, and then to her parents, Warren Taliaferro and Mary Meriwether Gilmer. Graphic layout of the data courtesy of Ancestry.com.
Wednesday, July 19, 2017
A person like me could get ecstatic over receiving news that I had an exact match on my mitochondrial DNA test. After all, the one big roadblock to my past, at least on my matriline, is that my second great grandmother was an orphan. For those of her descendants who might have known her, the woman's memory was a dim recollection. After all, she died when her surviving children were aged five and three.
Nevertheless, based on conjecture which I believe I have a thorough argument to support, I have constructed a hypothetical matrilineal ascent. Any daughter of a daughter of a daughter (well, you get the idea) of any woman on that line—at least, if my hypothesis was correct—could very well show up as an exact match to my mtDNA results. If, of course, that woman chose to undergo her own full sequence mtDNA test.
However, the one single match that I've received from someone who wasn't an adoptee himself came from a woman whose tree, while containing surnames I could claim for my own pedigree, didn't have much more than that in agreement with mine.
Before I can state my case on my orphaned second great grandmother using my mtDNA results, it would help to lay out the details. So, starting with the Charles Taliaferro household I mentioned yesterday in which we found my second great grandmother—listed as Mary "Reiney"—in the 1870 census, let's see what else can be found for her.
Because she was listed as only nineteen years of age in that census, our only other possibility for finding her in census records was in the 1860 census; the 1850 census would predate her. And though I knew her married name, by the time of the 1880 census, she was no longer alive.
Fortunately, though her maiden name had been presented in so many phonetic permutations in various documents, I did locate a possible candidate for the correct enumeration entry. This one was for a Mary "Raney," aged nine, living in the household of a woman whose name was also Mary Raney in the now-non-existent Campbell County, Georgia. She was apparently a widow. Along with the youngest child, who was presumably our Mary, there was the reassuring presence of someone named Thomas, who was almost exactly ten years younger than the Thomas who had also been listed alongside our Mary in the Taliaferro household in the 1870 census.
If I was going to trace my matriline, though, it would help to know the name of this elder Mary's husband. Checking the 1850 census yielded a possible candidate: Thomas F. Rainey. With this, I found marriage information dated June 9, 1818, in Oglethorpe County, Georgia, showing a Thomas F. Rainey whose bride was Mary E. "Talafero."
Recalling the original household in which I first found my second great grandmother, Mary Rainey—headed by a man named Charles Taliaferro—this "Talafero" caught my eye. Being a surname which is not at all pronounced like it reads, it is understandably misspelled.
The next question, of course, becomes: did the household in which the younger Mary and her (presumed) brother Thomas live in 1870 belong to a relative of their now-deceased mother? Whether or not that was so, for the pursuit of my matriline, I still needed to trace this next generation to see who the mother was of this older Mary Rainey.
Insert above from the 1860 U.S. Census for Campbell County in the state of Georgia courtesy FamilySearch.org.
Tuesday, July 18, 2017
One would think getting an exact match on my mitochondrial DNA test would be a good thing. And it is—only, now that I'm looking at it more closely, I realize proving my point may take more effort than originally planned.
The trick is this: my mother's maternal grandmother once mentioned that her mother had been adopted. Instant roadblock on the matriline, for those of us, years later, wishing to trace that heritage.
The way it happened was this: as a young child, my mother had to spend a year with her grandparents in Florida while her own parents took her sister to Johns Hopkins hospital for some medical issues. Of course, my mom grew fairly close to this grandmother during that time, and all through her life, cherished this woman's memory.
One of the stories my mom told me about this visit was that she once asked her grandmother about her mother. Her grandmother, Sarah Ann Broyles, had been born in Tennessee in 1873, and by the time my mother was living with her in the 1930s, she was living with her husband, Rupert Charles McClellan, in Tampa, Florida. My mother, like most curious kids, must have wanted to know something more about this family with whom she'd be spending a school year while her own family was so far away.
Unfortunately, there wasn't much of a reply to my mother's question. Sarah Broyles McClellan simply responded that her mother had been an orphan, and there wasn't much more that she knew about the woman.
There was more to the story. Sarah's mother had actually died when Sarah was only three years old. Of course she wouldn't remember much about her mother. However, I could find out more about her now, from my vantage point of having access to so many digitized records. Even with that paper trail, though, there were gaps in what could be discovered.
The one thing I knew was Sarah's mother was named Mary Rainey. Or Raney. Or some phonetic variation on that theme. She had married Thomas Taliaferro Broyles in 1871, and lived at his home in Tennessee from that point until her death in 1877.
Mary, herself, wasn't from Tennessee, as I discovered, but from Georgia. The only marriage record I could find with names matching the couple's was for a January 2, 1871, ceremony held in Muscogee. Fortunately—well, at least if I have the right person—that was barely after the conclusion of a census year.
I found a likely candidate in the 1870 census for the city of Muscogee. A nineteen year old listed as Mary Reiney was in the household of a dry goods merchant named Charles Taliaferro. Of course, that was the last census taken without any listing of relationships within the household, so I have no way to determine from that record how, if at all, Mary was related to Charles. All I know is that her occupation was listed as "domestic."
There was one other detail which helped—or, who knows, perhaps wouldn't help. There was one more "Reiney" listed in the same household: a twenty seven year old man named Thomas. It would be helpful, of course, if he was Mary's brother, but again, the census provided no such information. Since he was born in South Carolina while she was a Georgia native, the record almost gave the sense of the two Reineys being a couple rather than brother or sister, but it still was a lead to follow up on. He was listed as serving as a clerk for the store, but it seemed rather strange that a mere employee would actually be living with the man who employed him.
Whatever the situation, if this was my Mary, it seemed possible that she was an orphan at that point, since she—and perhaps her brother as well—were living with someone other than their parents.
All this would have been a mere academic exploration, if it were not for one detail: a while back, I received notice that I had an exact match on my mtDNA test. I had already received two since taking the test back in the spring of 2014, but each of them was an adoptee, himself. This new match, however, was not in that situation. If I could figure out how I connected with my new match, perhaps this would confirm my guesses as to my own adopted second great grandmother.
Things didn't go so swimmingly, however, when I looked at my match's pedigree chart. Right away, I spotted a matching surname—well, at least if my guess about my own line was correct—but when I took a closer look at my match's tree, the names of the matching couple were the same, but the parentage and the dates didn't align. With guesses on my part, and possible errors on my match's part as well, this could be a messy process to confirm.
Insert above from the 1870 U.S. Census for Muscogee County in the state of Georgia courtesy FamilySearch.org.
Monday, July 17, 2017
Talking about the genealogy files on my dinosaur computer yesterday reminded me of one thing: the battle of pen-and-paper versus technology.
Those who have fully embraced their new digital lives have shed their paper files with near-delirious abandon. Some nearly gloat over
I am not one of those on the cutting edge. Besides loving to get my hands on a beautifully crafted piece of stationary, I have other reasons for considering my paper trail to be my backup plan.
The main reason has to do with the very thing I went through last week, as I had to flip the switch on my dinosaur computer. No matter how thorough we think we are when shifting from an old operating system to a newer one, somehow things get overlooked, and we have to go back to retrieve something.
Granted, running on Windows XP was a rather extreme example, and it's about time I stepped into the new century. However, in my defense, with my newer computer, I made the jump nearly straight from the XP clunker to Windows 10, with only a brief stop at Windows 7. It just so happened that, right after the purchase, the newer Windows product was launched—so why join the snivelers mourning the loss of the program about which they once complained bitterly? I wasted no time and jumped right into the newer one.
On the other hand, I had set up a rather extensive filing system for my old computer, including a great system for handling those myriad email queries—both incoming and outgoing—for my then-current genealogy projects.
To think that, once on a computer system, that liberates me to toss all previous records seems absurd. Yes, I know we can back up our computers. Yes, I realize things can be stored on the cloud. But should those things electronically go "poof!" at some point, then where is the backup?
I love paper. Paper has stood us in good stead ever since it arrived in the western world from its Chinese developers in the eleventh century. It's not going away any time soon—at least, not around my office.
In contrast, how long have computers been around? Besides which, just think of how often those software programs are changed. It is becoming near impossible to even run my ancient Family Tree Maker software. Unless I invested a great deal of effort regularly over the years to update those database programs, eventually they were not accessible. Paper, on the other hand, may be cumbersome to store, but once I put it in its storage container, it will still be there—probably longer than I will.
I put a great deal of thought into developing my filing system on my old computer, back in those years when it was a new system. Of course, now, that means very little, if I can't access it any more.
This, of course, gives me pause as I consider the storage boxes and file cabinets still holding information gleaned from decades long gone. Somehow, I'm hoping there will be a third option—a hybrid between extreme technology lover and Luddite paper lugger. Consolidation will probably be step one, as there is certainly a percentage of material that repeats itself in the years I've aggregated records. Drawing up a synopsis of material—--being concise to cut the clutter—will likely be another approach.
But taking the hard line of tossing everything? I can't see myself going there. I need something more tangible. Something that won't, oops, disappear into the ether with the click of a wrong button. If I could aggregate everything I know about my family's history into a book—something I can touch as well as see—then I think I'd be the happiest about the finished product of a pursuit that never does, in reality, get done.
Sunday, July 16, 2017
Every now and then, I have to do it: fire up my old desktop computer, the one still running clunky old Windows XP, the one carrying the precious cargo of my original family tree efforts dating over twenty years back.
This time, the reason I had to do it had nothing to do with genealogy. I had to access some old files which I apparently had never transferred over to the new, sleek and shiny computer. I think we were looking for a receipt with a code number we needed for our business. Talk about awkward.
Once it was fired up, though, I couldn't just shut it back down again. Wouldn't want to waste the opportunity to harvest a few more names and dates from that monstrosity of a family tree. So I spent the day, working on my mother-in-law's Flowers line until it was all transferred. Then I took a look at another of her major lines—Snider in Ohio, Snyder for those of the clan who moved west to Iowa and then Minnesota—and started the process all over again.
The point to all this is to reconcile those old records gathered, for the most part, in that pre-Internet era for genealogical research—a time when dial up for Ancestry.com almost made the research process a farce, except considering the six to eight weeks threat of having to wait for snail mail verification.
So, now that all the old data has been entered into the new system—well, at least all the descendants on the Flowers line—my next step has been to return to Ancestry and look for documents and hints. That's when the data really gets worked over. And for good cause, too. Not only was there a lot of work yet to be done on that old database, but so many digitized documents have become available since then. Many of the lines I had followed, back when I was using that old computer, had to be left off at the time of the 1880 census, because back then, that was all that could be accessed on FamilySearch. Just think how many generations of descendants since then I'm now able to trace.
That, basically, has been my research marching orders for the last two weeks, and the numbers reflect that spurt of activity. In my mother-in-law's tree, I now have 12,147 names, an increase over the last two weeks of 318 people. I get an eerie feeling when I realize that that was the exact same amount—318 people—I had increased the data in the previous two week period. I promise I didn't plan this.
In comparison, on my own mother's tree—where I did try to put in a lot of work, honest!—the count is now 10,819, an increase of 260 names. I'm trying to focus there on entire branches of her tree which hadn't been updated in a while, and fortunately, I've been harvesting loads of material to add to those lines—particularly our McClellan line in Florida.
There's even been a bit of work on our family's two paternal lines, though admittedly, it is a much slower process, owing to the roadblocks I can't seem to overcome. For my father-in-law's Irish line, I'm now at 1,261 names. Admittedly, that's a meager thirteen name increase over the past two weeks, but at least it's something. Credit for this progress goes mostly to the newer digitized documents added at Ancestry.com regarding descendants of auxiliary lines from our Tully roots.
And even in my own father's line—the son of the mystery man who just showed up in New York City and claimed he was an orphan—I was able to add a few names. There, the count is currently at 422, thanks to the slow and tedious addition of twelve more family members. But, hey: progress is progress, especially when it is hard earned.
As far as all our DNA matches at the various testing companies we've utilized, I'm beginning to wish for another sale. Sales always seem to pump the numbers gratifyingly, although that comes with the patience of having to wait the six to eight weeks for those tests to be processed. I'm certainly looking forward to that Father's Day Sale bulge to make it through the work flow pipeline.
Right now, my husband's DNA matches stand at 1,442 at Family Tree DNA, 304 at AncestryDNA, and 1,244 at 23andMe. Strangely, that means he hasn't gotten any new matches at FTDNA in ten days and only nine before that point, that his Ancestry count is up by only six matches, and in the ever-strange retrograde world of 23andMe, his count decreased, once again, by twelve matches. I guess he's been disinherited.
My own DNA matches have fared slightly better. At FTDNA, I have 2,207. Ancestry has me at 654. And 23andMe shows 1,194. That means an increase of twenty one at FTDNA and nineteen at AncestryDNA. And not to go against the flow, I managed to lose a few matches at 23andMe, as well—four.
Though the number of matches may seem gratifying, the connections are still mostly lost upon me. I did manage to confirm one match with a fellow 23andMe customer and I'm still trying to figure out a match at FTDNA. In the meantime, thanks to manipulating the data at GedMatch, my eyes were opened to the possibility that a group of matches I have at AncestryDNA may actually be through my father's line, not my mother's line, where I had been trying unsuccessfully to force the data to fit. I still need to connect with that researcher, and it will take a lot of explaining to state my case, given my father's difficult tree.
One last task on the DNA side of things is to document a discovery made, thanks to the mitochondrial DNA test I had taken at FTDNA. Finally...finally, I received an exact match to this matrilineal test, which was encouraging, because that is the line with a case of unproven parentage. I've made several inferences based on circumstantial details, and of course, I think I'm right in how I reconstructed that matriline. But it certainly helps to have the science to back up my assumptions. Now, on to polish up that proof argument.
And so, another two weeks of work under the belt. Bit by bit, I keep telling myself. And it does make a difference, even if most weeks progress much slower than this one, begun by firing up my old dinosaur computer. Opening up that old treasure trove certainly did help to jump start my progress for this cycle.
Above: "Hip, Hip, Hurrah!" 1888 oil on canvas by Danish artist Peder Severin Krøyer; courtesy Wikipedia; in the public domain.
Saturday, July 15, 2017
It was not hard at all to decide which of our literally hundreds of books to pull down from the shelf for this month's read. The result came about from a convergence of timely thoughts and experiences, and made it so I couldn't just not read it.
Actually, the book didn't originally come from my bookshelves. It came—as I realized when I opened the cover and a bookmark from November 16, 2006, fell into my lap—from my mother's bookshelves; I had grabbed it then as I ran out her door. The reason for the precise date was that it was stamped on the paper, which in reality was a stand-by boarding pass for my family's return home after attending to my comatose mom in the hospital subsequent to the car wreck that broke her neck.
Such are the types of incidents which prompt people to search for meaning in life.
Apparently, the drive to find meaning in all that upheaval was not as powerful as I had hoped, for once on the plane bound for home, I read only a few pages, then realized my mind was racing far too much to absorb what someone else was saying to me.
So, I set it aside. For, like, ten years.
Fast forward to this spring. A local Italian heritage association had asked me to come speak to their members about starting a family history project. Their director explained: the group had just conducted a survey, seeking to discover what was uppermost in their members' minds for the upcoming year's program content. Highest on the list were two responses. One—of course! These are Italian-Americans we're talking about—was to revive the skills necessary for re-creating those delicious traditional Italian recipes. The other? Learning how to research members' own family history. And not just the names and dates; they wanted to preserve the stories.
Tasked with telling this group everything they need to know about genealogical research in one hour, I began thinking a lot about this notion of preserving our heritage. It's fairly obvious that there is a surging interest in exploring one's roots lately. Not only have online sites like Ancestry.com or FamilySearch.org seen demand for their services, but programming about genealogy seems to be everywhere, from television series to YouTube channels to podcasts to blogs.
Of course, that prompted a question in my mind: why? Why this increased interest in genealogy? Is it simply because these organizations have concocted the magic sauce for irresistibleness? I doubt it. Nor do I think it is all on account of people "always wanting to" research their family tree, just because they watched Roots back in the 1970s.
When I talk to people who want to learn how to start their own research, they usually have one of two reasons to embark on their project. One is inspired by the soon arrival of a grandchild, or other such motivation to pass along to descendants information about their extended family. The other reason—the flip side of this same coin—generally focuses on discovering our "roots."
In thinking about these two typical responses to the question of why people embark on genealogical projects, I realized something. Each of these—and they are really two different ways of looking at the same motivation—can be reduced down to one essence. The pursuit of our family's stories, the quest for our roots, are really a way for us to find meaning in life—in both our ancestors' lives and our own.
Of course, letting those thoughts inspire me to grab a book like Viktor Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning turned out to be roughly akin to choosing a conference breakout session based on only the title, not the course description. The book, originally published in 1959 by this Viennese psychotherapist, was birthed through the indescribably painful experience he endured as a prisoner at a Nazi concentration camp. It is a short but heavy read. Yet priceless, as a book to be experienced.
Continued existence—no matter how destitute, according to Frankl and supported by his wartime experience—can only be sustained by meaning.
Life ultimately means taking the responsibility to find the right answer to its problems and to fulfill the tasks which it constantly sets for each individual.
It was the eloquence of Frankl's brief narrative that demonstrated his point. Most of the hundred pages which comprise the first part of the book involves a recounting of the author's wartime experience. While no explanation can lead us to grasp the day in, day out agony of life in those concentration camps, Frankl was able to provide illustrations of how his realizations helped him cope with the last vestige of freedom still available to him: the ability to choose his response to the injustices he faced daily.
Those were the examples which supported Frankl's development of the "third Viennese school of psychoanalysis" which he called logotherapy. A discussion of the therapy's tenets is briefly provided in the second part of the book.
Since my original educational background is in rehab therapy, I found it informative to review the concepts, juxtaposed with the author's recounting of his dreadful personal experience, although I imagine the general reader might not share my interest there. Still, reading the first part of the book makes me realize how empty and insipid our concerns of modern-day life have turned, now that we are so far removed from the deprivation and desperation of those war-torn years. The profound insights yielded by the author's intense suffering demonstrate his contention that even the worst negative aspects of life can produce meaning, if that is what a person must endure.
Of course, while our ancestors' stories may have demonstrated survival in the face of such dire straits, it certainly doesn't infer that we must suffer for our "art" of genealogy. And yet, I believe it is that same drive—a quest to bestow meaning upon our life experiences—that motivates people to embark on the exploration of their family history today. Researching our own history gives us a way to connect with our past in the stories of the adversities our ancestors overcame, and provides a promise of a future as we bring those stories forward to pass them along to our children and grandchildren.
Friday, July 14, 2017
Having discussed local genealogical societies all this week, and the changing roles they play in advancing family history research, I couldn't finish off the series without mentioning a key player in building community. For genealogical societies in the U.S., that would be the Federation of Genealogical Societies, established in 1976 to "link the genealogical community."
Our local society is a member organization of FGS, and we have been grateful for their assistance in the various administrative tasks we've taken on as we streamline and bring our group into the twenty first century. As we modernize—and, along with that effort, grow our ranks—we've certainly benefited from sage advice received by FGS, but we've by no means exhausted all the avenues for assistance.
Of course, the one area I'm most jealous about is their upcoming annual conference. An event which roves from host city to host city, this year, the FGS gathering will convene in Pittsburgh. Granted, I'm in California and the host city is at the far western reaches of a state which, at its other end, shoulders east coast locations. But distance seldom stops me when reasons to attend outweigh the objections.
When a good friend from our society mentioned she planned on going, I became more than jealous. I really wanted to attend. After all, this national conference not only includes the usual genealogical fare for research—several tracks, in fact, covering everything from immigrants to military records to taxes—but features an introductory "Societies Day" reserved for topics on organizing and operating a genealogical society. Topics for that day alone made attendance seem worthwhile.
Unfortunately, as the early-bird deadline loomed, I heard that hotel blocks were booked solid—that it was difficult to find any available rooms in hotels anywhere near the conference venue. For someone toying with the idea of flying in, catching a hotel shuttle and never venturing beyond the walls of the conference center, this did not sound like a car-rental-free possibility. (Another block of rooms was subsequently opened up for conference attendees, but I didn't find out in time for the discounted rate.)
In the end, I chickened. Didn't pursue the idea. I'll keep an eye out for other bloggers who attend and write about the conference in their posts. (Are any of you still out there?)
I can always be an early-bird next year. After all, the roving annual conference will be moving on from Pittsburgh. At some point, the event will occur closer to my state. Or perhaps come up with an enticing location. Like research magnet Fort Wayne and the Allen County Public Library. Now, there's a conference possibility for 2018!
Thursday, July 13, 2017
When it comes to examining just what our genealogical societies should be doing, in serving both members and community, we have to remember that, depending on the type of member, we may have a very different take on what that answer should be. The answer may well hinge on the viewpoint of each specific member.
As I've visited other local genealogical societies and talked with their board members, I've realized that some societies are vastly different than others. This is not necessarily owing solely to regional differences—size of city, geographic location, or even demographic differences. There is one other point that has come up in these conversations.
When we assume, as I mentioned yesterday, that societies likely have some similar organizational goals—preserving records, for instance, or educating members on genealogical research techniques—we are also presuming an underlying situation that those members being served are one specific type of constituency: avocational genealogists.
Those who join genealogical societies because they've "always wanted to do that" are usually self-identifying as novices who desire training to learn the basics. Yet not all people who join our societies are pursuing genealogical research as a hobby. It is this mix of those who "do" genealogy for their own personal satisfaction and those who engage in research as a business venture that will alter the characteristics of a local society.
I once visited a county genealogical society which had an enviable position. Though housed in a city much smaller than my own, this society boasted their own library, an active and hard-working board, and sponsorship of an impressive annual seminar—not to mention, they sported a membership count much larger than my local group's.
While talking to one of the board members about what their society has achieved, with my inside voice, I was silently berating my own organization for not accomplishing as much. That brow-beating came to a sudden halt, though, when I heard this person mention that, among those many members in their society, they had thirteen professional genealogists.
Thirteen? We have one.
In one way, I was jealous, of course. But in another way, I suddenly became aware of a dynamic I hadn't thought of before: the fact that each person researching his or her genealogy is doing so for an entirely different reason. When a majority of the persons coming to the membership table of a society are seeking help as a beginner, it creates an organization vastly different from that in which several professionals are gathering together.
Not that I wish to disparage amateur genealogists. In fact, I prefer the designation, "avocational." In many fields considered to be the domain of the professional, we are seeing room being made for those with a keen interest in the subject, though not the credentials considered necessary for a professional. In some fields, such as astronomy or ornithology, contributions being made by the "non-professional" are being referred to as having come from "citizen scientists."
And so it may well be with genealogy, as we see the spread of resources and training empowering the avocational to hone their skills. We've gone beyond the customary seminars and conferences to include learning options such as week-long institutes, year-long certificate programs and the like. A vast array of webinars now allow avocational and professional genealogists alike to pick up skills in specialized subtopics (like genetic genealogy) or regions of research (like eastern Europe).
It goes without saying that each member brings to our local society's table skills and interests that will influence the course of that society's goals and offerings. Taken together, those members' arrays contribute toward the mosaic that represents what our society will become for our community. Much as we are influenced by our community's socio-economic demographics, we are also influenced by the goals of our members. And a key factor swaying the outcome for societies may well be the seriousness of those stepping up to join our efforts.
While beginners bring the enthusiasm that sometimes provides the shot in the arm so needed by organizations, their membership needs—and ability to participate in building the organization—are vastly different than those of a professional genealogist. And yet, once again, there is that third segment of membership: the avocational genealogist who may well be honing skills to the point of becoming genealogy's equivalent of the citizen scientist.
Wednesday, July 12, 2017
Just as each generation may have differing reasons for joining a genealogical society, our organizations, themselves, are surely changing. While I don't have the resources to go back and read the minutes from local meetings held fifty years ago—in some locales, there wasn't even any society in existence fifty years ago—I have a hunch the genealogical societies of our decade are somewhat different than back then. It would be helpful to inform ourselves of just how organizational dynamics have changed.
I know from our local society's experiences that, years ago, top goals were to preserve records of genealogical significance, provide adequate resources for research in our own community, educate newcomers in proper research techniques, and raise funds for our organization by producing books to sell. Other than in giving up the tactic of publishing books to sell, those overarching goals haven't changed all that much over the decades.
What has changed, however, is the methodology in which we've achieved those goals. With the advent of technology, we approach these tasks much differently. As national and international concerns dominate the field—some of them for-profit—it seems to render some societies' original goals obsolete. After all, who can compete with the professional operations which can roll into town, slam dunk a digitization process, and subsequently make their results available online to all willing to pay the entrance fee, unhindered by geographic or travel limitations?
There are, however, gaping holes left in which the local concerns may still find themselves offering a vital service. The genealogical giants cannot become all things to all people—at least not yet. Local organizations still are the boots on the ground whose voice provides the answers regarding locally-sourced information.
But does that local army of volunteer genealogists still exist to put in the hours to do the work? And do local society members even want to serve in that capacity? Answering queries for ancestor whereabouts may require utilizing a website to gather, and email know-how to answer now, whereas in that proverbial "fifty years ago," the question may have arrived with the afternoon mail delivery. But that is not the real story about change and societies. The question is: Do today's society volunteers even care to spend their time doing obituary look-ups for strangers?
Perhaps the more pertinent question, when puzzling over dwindling society membership rolls, is not whether we can coax the full-time-employed younger generation to join us in our fifty-year-old routine, but whether they care to spend their limited free time doing what genealogical societies are still defining as their core missions.
Perhaps the avocational—and professional—genealogists of today have a different vision of what a genealogical society should look like.
Above: "In the store, when there is no fishing," 1882 oil on canvas by Danish painter Peder Severin Krøyer; courtesy Wikipedia; in the public domain.
Tuesday, July 11, 2017
Years back, someone came to the realization that, when it comes to examining generations, we can't just look at the dichotomy of young versus old. There is a third element to consider in this meshing of the generations.
That concept—articulated aptly as the "Sandwich Generation"—evolved at the nexus of the "Greatest Generation" and the generation following in their shadow. There was, it seemed, no challenge seen as insurmountable by this leading giant of a generational cohort. Their winning, take-charge ways left those behind them still waiting in the wings for their own turn.
That wait, it turned out, took a longer time than expected. By the time the "Greatest Generation" was ready to turn over the reins, that subsequent generation realized they already had someone nipping at their heels: a younger, hungrier, less patient generation.
Meanwhile, that middle generation was faced with other challenges. On the cusp of launching their own children out into the wilds of the college or career world, they were being overtaken with the responsibility of caring for their aging parents—all while tap dancing for the work place at which they had, for far too long, hoped to gain that coveted promotion to a level of more responsibility.
That's a scenario many have found themselves re-enacting in their own life stories. And just as journalist Tom Brokaw had dubbed those noble can-do overcomers "The Greatest Generation," that middle generation also got its own—albeit slightly more ignoble—label as the "Sandwich Generation."
There is one arena where that scenario has not played itself out quite so obviously. Actually, it is one domain where we could exploit the strengths of that middle segment. But much like actress Clara Peller in her famous line for the Wendy's commercials of the 1980s, when we look for that middle generation in this case, we may be tempted to shout out, "Where's the beef?"
That domain is the one I alluded to yesterday, when discussing the area of local genealogical societies. While the core constituencies of local societies, in general, are aging off the playing field—though tenaciously continuing to serve their organizations in whatever way they still can—our one thought, as organizations, seems to be to encourage "the young" to join us.
We turn out creating long term growth plans looking vaguely reminiscent of the "Big Bun" hamburgers of the fictitious rivals in the Wendy's ad: one bun to represent the age-old members, one to represent the hoped-for hordes of young people. But there's no meat there in the middle to represent that sandwich generation.
"The Young," as my own daughter likes to put it, may be fleeing encounters with genealogical societies in the fear that, once stepping inside the meeting hall lobby, they would otherwise be accosted by a gray-haired mob scene shouting, "Fresh meat!"
That middle generation, on the other hand, represents the most likely candidates to take up the charge of local genealogical societies. Soon planning to retire from their full-time jobs, they are actively exploring ideas for what to do next with their lives. While they want to have a fun retirement, they also hope for meaningful engagements and the chance to pursue stuff they've always wanted to do—like exploring their roots.
While the soon-to-be-retired are crafting their exit plans from work, this is our golden opportunity to help them build bridges to realize those retirement hopes. These are the membership candidates who will approach society membership with the new vigor most organizations appreciate. They also are the people who can bring updated work know-how to the table, integrating such commonplace work tools as technological advances to our sometimes computer-phobic milieus.
While it is vital to also court the younger generations and welcome them into the society's fold, I see that as more of a long-term planning strategy. We need to remember that that is not the only field for finding potential new members. There are many soon-to-be-retired career people out there—those "Sandwich Generation" survivors currently crafting their "launch" trajectory—who would not only be receptive to the idea of joining our ranks, but have the ability to make that dream a reality in a matter of only a few years or less.
Above: "At Lunch," 1883 oil on canvas by Norwegian-born Danish painter, Peder Severin Krøyer; courtesy Wikipedia; in the public domain.
Monday, July 10, 2017
Because I'm involved with the board of a local genealogical society, I'm concerned with something I've noticed while attending conferences and other meetings. It seems the loyal core of followers always stays with the organization—year after year after year—but where are the new members? That throng of supposed enthusiastic new participants is underwhelming. Perhaps near invisible. As we march on, year after year, in our local associations, who is joining us to take the place of those who've gone before?
I find a paradox in the world of genealogy. On the one hand, we have people who delight in finding a sympathetic ear, understanding of the trials and tribulations of the dedicated family historian—those folks who know not everyone can abide the tedium of our genealogical recitations quite the way we do. Those are the people whom you'd expect to want to gather together with like-minded enthusiasts.
On the other hand, those who thrive on the thrill of the hunt seem to be lone operators, preferring to do their work in silent solitude. Bowl of ice cream in hand, they shuffle off to their computers in their bunny slippers and PJs and slog through the endless digital pages of census enumerations or, worse, illegible baptismal records in hopes of finding that one clue long before the sun rises.
Concerning, too, are those grumbling voices declaring the diminishing propensity of younger generations to join—to join anything, not just genealogical societies.
And so, that leaves us, aging off the playing field, taking the know-how, the research discipline, and the sheer volume of dots-already-connected finished product out into eternity with us. If we care to fight that trend, the battle begins to draw up on lines looking much like Dinosaurs versus Free Spirits. That doesn't seem much like a win-able fight.
Framing the debate along those lines misses one important observation, of course. But before getting to that, we need to examine the claim that younger generations—and perhaps our era of time in general—do not lend themselves to the habit of joining groups.
That claim was amplified with the publication of a book several years back, Bowling Alone. The premise of that book was that, since back in the 1950s, "social capital"—mostly in the form of organized civic involvement—has been on a steady decline. Since the book's publication seventeen years ago, rapid technological development has combined with personal tendencies to yield us a culture in which it is much easier to stay "connected" while not budging from the couches on which we've been parked in the privacy of our own homes.
Just thinking this out makes it seem logical that the younger generations would not be likely to go out and join organizations, without considering how—or, more importantly, why—such demographic sectors would even want to become part of our group. And so, we write off those younger segments as "not the joining type"—or toss some lip service to excuses like, "Of course they couldn't attend our meetings; they have to work during the daytime."
There are some genealogical societies which are willing to go beyond these blanket assumptions, thankfully. At the most recent Southern California Genealogical Society Jamboree, a number of young professionals conducted a panel discussion on how to make our societies more open and welcoming to newer generations of family history enthusiasts. We need to delve into this topic further. It is helpful to all of us when we share what's worked for our organizations and our regional efforts.
But that—putting out the welcome mat for the twenty- and thirty-somethings—is not where we should culminate our efforts. Tomorrow, I'd like to follow up on this discussion by taking a look at one other aspect we may be missing.
Above: "Children Playing on Skagen's Beach," 1910 painting by Danish artist Einar Hein; courtesy Wikipedia; in the public domain.
Sunday, July 9, 2017
One of life's tenets I tenaciously grab on to is: never stop learning. Continuing education, in my book, can involve everything from information to skills to experiences. Sometimes, it even involves a classroom.
For the past two years, I've used the opportunities hosted by the Utah Genealogical Association to spend a brisk winter's week in Salt Lake City at their genealogical institute. For each of those past years, I focused on genetic genealogy, which was, admittedly, a steep learning curve.
This year, though, I'll break away from my customary focus and try a different approach. This is mainly owing to some projects I need to tackle which require digging into some old books and records—stuff not likely to be found in digitized governmental documents. What perfect timing to realize SLIG2018 will afford me the chance to learn from one of America's most respected and popular genealogical speakers, John Philip Colletta.
This, of course, is not an opportunity to squander by missing out on the early bird registration. Since sign ups opened yesterday morning—at 9:00 Mountain Daylight Time—you can be sure I was poised at my computer at 8:00 a.m., California time, ready to push the button and register. (Truth be told, I tested the waters five minutes earlier, just in case.)
No waiting lists for me this year, thank you! By 9:02 a.m. their time, I was signed up for my first choice and headed to the hotel registration page. Every step of the process worked like a charm. Can you tell I was jazzed to know I got in at the head of the list?
There are quite a few other reasons why SLIG has become such a popular learning options for those who are serious about genealogical research. In addition to the variety of subjects covered and the generous time frame enabling in-depth pursuit of that knowledge, the SLIG coordinators and staff have mastered the art of attending to every detail—even anticipating several that others might not have thought about.
Registration, both online and in person at the opening event on January 21, proceeds seamlessly. Coordinators seem to handle every issue with grace and aplomb, making attendees—both returning and first-timers—feel welcome and comfortable. The facility seems perfectly matched to the needs of this five-hundred-person-plus assemblage, and the diligent effort of learning is adequately paired with welcome times of refreshment and mingling with other attendees.
In preparation for the event, there is an "unofficial" private Facebook group for attendees, set up thanks to the behind-the-scenes efforts of J. Paul Hawthorne. It serves to answer questions, break the ice, and help ramp up the excitement of attending, of course. It's well worth checking out, for those registered for this year's event, and only takes a simple request to join.
For those who don't wish to throw away the chance to do some research at the country's premier genealogical repository, the SLIG coordinators have arranged for shuttle service each evening from the institute hotel to the Family History Library. I have taken that opportunity a few times in past years, but have found that, at the end of a day spent mounting a serious learning curve, my brain needs a break. Dinner out with a congenial group of fellow genealogists certainly can fill the bill there.
During daytime hours, though, my main goal will be to soak up all the information I can from my chosen class, "Beyond the Library: Using Original Source Repositories." The timing couldn't be better. My goal for next spring is to visit state repositories in Florida to pursue the story of my third great grandfather's role in drawing up Florida's first state constitution. I certainly will appreciate some tips from an expert before then.
Saturday, July 8, 2017
There are some times when I just want to sit down and dispatch my volunteer duties without any drama, annoyances, or other deterrents. Today was just not to be one of those days.
I like to contribute to that worldwide effort to index genealogical records via FamilySearch.org on a regular basis, so early each month on the first weekend, I set aside time to select a file to work on. Since I had been having such success working on the Illinois naturalization records—bonus: some of the records were actually typed, meaning no more headaches deciphering impossible handwriting—I thought I'd keep on that roll, despite the first collection suggested being a "high priority" set of World War Two draft records. I convinced myself that the draft card project was rated a "2" rather than my customary "3"—making it much easier than the level I try to slog through each month. I certainly didn't want to shirk my duty by taking the easier path. I let that high priority slip by and stuck to my virtuous standards. Besides, this would be easy; I already knew what was in store with this other record set.
That's not what the cyber-lords had planned for me. Apparently, at that precise moment in the genea-universe's scheme of things, I was served up what can only be described as a ledger book of entries having something to do with someone's naturalization process. It certainly didn't look like any record I had dealt with before.
I decided to ditch it. After all, when I started, I got a warning notice that I was being served up a file that had been abandoned, midway, by another indexer. I could certainly see why. Still, I felt like tucking my tail in as I skulked away—no, changed my mind and tried my best...then gave up in the end.
So I ended up with the "high priority" draft records, after all. Almost every one was impeccably printed or even typewritten, and the "easy" rating turned out to be an honest assessment. Besides, the whole set was from California, and being alphabetized, contained only the records from one solitary surname: Hayhurst. With the auto-completion mechanism embedded within the program, it was a snap to finish the set.
I did penance for my recalcitrant start and pulled up a second batch. This time, it was the Watts collection—same surname, from all over California.
By this time, I really felt I had the hang of things, and tried a third batch. Wrong idea. I should have left well enough alone. This batch was all the "C" surnames, including several by people with either abysmal handwriting, or multiple address changes and messy cross-outs.
Somehow, I muddled through. Perhaps this is why, even though volunteering is considered a good work, it also involves a sacrifice. There is always some sort of hurdle to put enough challenge into the effort. It may be freely given, but it does cost something.
And yet, despite all that, it is still worth it.
Friday, July 7, 2017
There have been some times in my life when I've felt horribly lonely. Admittedly, they've been few—and extreme. Like the endless months after my first husband died. And, early in my second marriage, the late nights of fresh motherhood, while my husband worked swing shift at a dangerous job that came with no promises. It was nights like these when I sat in front of my computer screen and wished the search bar could come up with an answer to my sorry query to "find someone who thinks just like me."
How do you create keywords for a yearning like that? "Genealogy" I could come up with. Or "motherhood." Even "thinking" could yield some interesting search results. But a search engine—at least, not yet—just doesn't have the oomph to put all those concepts together and ferret out the substance underlying the words.
It's not really Google's fault. Nor Yahoo!'s concern. Not Bing's, nor even the-more-the-merrier Dog Pile's. Long before any of these modern conveniences were household words, I had the same experiences with analog searches. When I was working on research papers for my master's program, back when a student had to meet with a research librarian for a chaperoned tour through the limited world of computer-accessed academic works, I rarely found what I wanted, simply relying on keyword searches.
What really did it for me was exploring those realms parked alongside the main topics I had researched. The next-to stuff. The fields ripe for bunny trails. Because my mind works in spiraling questions, just like that. A mind map sprouting corkscrews serves me much better than an outline form.
So when it comes to "researching" for like-minded people, how do you do it? If relying on keyword access via Google won't lead me to your doorstep, what will? Strangely, the answer seems vaguely like one of the very premises upon which Google, itself, operates: check out where the like-minded resources you find lead you. Did you find a book you love? Who does the author talk about in the pages of her text? If you consider that a "reference" to follow, and read that other book, where will that next one lead you to?
If this research method sounds vaguely like constructing daisy chains, don't think the results will be as ephemeral. Just as we can construct networks of the people we meet—one friend of yours introduced to another friend forming a useful alliance which then spins off other friendships—we can build networks of thoughts. Like-minded people can resonate with those similar thoughts, creating further synergy through additional connections.
This seemingly inefficient way of finding things that has, for years now, served me well is yet another backdrop to my seemingly shrieky reaction to the thought of the demise of the blogging world. Online publications—blogs in particular—remove the gate-keeping barriers to direct communication and let like-minded individuals talk together. Like-minded individuals, mind you, who might otherwise have never met in real life.
Never met, that is, except for one thing: they found a way, in the cyber-jungle of the Internet, to stumble across each other's path. Rarely has that beautiful thing happened, thanks solely to a keyword search on Google. More often than not, the connection evolved, thanks to something we call a hyperlink: you know, those blue, underlined words or phrases which, once clicked, lead the reader to a supporting website. A different example. A fresh world to explore. A new friend.
This clickable feast has not taken the world by storm. In our ad-laced world, some readers shy away from what could turn out to be clickbait, and for good reason. But from trusted sources, hyperlinking opens up a wonder-world of usable references in a step by step progression leading from what we know we love, to what we're sure to fall in love with, to what is a promising next step.
When I want to find someone who "thinks just like me," it's this step by step, trial and error, season of exploration that is my candidate for the most-likely-to-succeed route. That's why I'm thankful for bloggers—and the blogs they recommend. Whether we realize it or not, we're building community with each recommendation we post.
Above: "In the Orchard," 1891 oil on canvas by American Impressionist artist Edmund Tarbell; courtesy Wikipedia; in the public domain.
Thursday, July 6, 2017
Who do you talk to about the stuff you love, when you want to avoid that MEGO expression? You know, that "My Eyes Glaze Over" look you get when you recite your latest genealogical conquest. Where do you go to find people who can get as enthused as you about the stuff that matters?
Yesterday, I mentioned the discussion about "collaborative circles" I found in a book I've been reading lately—Jeff Goins' newest release, Real Artists Don't Starve. There's a reason that concept resonates with me. It has partly to do with my own heritage, of course, but also is firmly rooted in my childhood memories, as well.
When I was a kid, my father—a musician who, by then, had retired from the stage lights of the big band era in New York City—had his own home-based business providing music lessons. He had a studio, of course, separate and apart from our home, but even if he taught those music lessons away from our house, each of us kids knew we couldn't touch the home phone until we were old enough to answer it professionally, including the phrase, "and may I take your name and number?"
It was a natural progression, from that childhood milieu, to slide into my own home-based business endeavors, post college and alongside day jobs through the years. That kind of lifestyle certainly has its ups and downs. What helped the most, during those shaky starts, was to get together with other people in the same stage of effort. Thankfully, in our city, there was a program geared to young women starting businesses, sponsored by our small business development agency, where we could gather, once a month, to talk about the challenges we were facing.
There was something encouraging about those brief morning gatherings. Even though each of us was launching a different type of business—some were crafters, some were writers, some were launching service-based businesses—it seemed that the concepts discussed spawned ideas in each other's minds, no matter what the type of business concern we had. I almost always left the meeting feeling energized with the new possibilities birthed from other members' comments.
Those thoughts were echoed in the discussion we had a few weeks back, when I posted about concerns over the possible demise of blogging as a medium for connecting with like-minded genealogical researchers. Perhaps in an ironic way, bringing up that topic here triggered its own set of comments—a lively discussion—demonstrating that we are still all out there, still reading, still musing over the ideas that enliven us.
We are still there, still connect-able. While something may have changed in the readouts that count our presence—perhaps we have gone "invisible," undetectable—we still have much to say.
But perhaps the arena in which we are talking has changed. If it is no longer in the blogging sphere, where has it gone? Where do you go to connect with others about genealogy? Has your family actually suddenly fallen in love with your passion? Have you found a new crowd? Or do you just not talk about it anymore?
Above: "Two Sisters," 1921 oil on canvas by American Impressionist artist, Edmund Tarbell; courtesy Wikipedia; in the public domain.