When Death Records Get it Wrong

 

While it may seem that the holy grail for genealogists is the documentation verifying our ancestors' life details, I've had my own complaints about the use of one particular type of documentation: death records. While they may get it right when we look for verification of date and even time of a relative's death, the other details on a modern death certificate can range from reliable to ridiculous.

Take my prime bugaboo with death certificates: mother's maiden name. To illustrate what I mean, we need only to take a step back and view the scenario at the moment of that unpleasant interview between official record keeper and designated spokesperson for the bereaved family. Think about it: the family has just received the worst possible news about a loved one, and is currently experiencing predictable waves of grief and, sometimes, incredulity. Then some stranger pops on the scene, abruptly demanding information on the identity of the deceased.

I can't tell you how many times I've realized that the respondent to such interviews, in the midst of personal grief, reverts from answering questions about the relative, and instead begins answering for one's self. Take the question, "Mother's maiden name?" That question follows in a logical progression from name, details about residence, maybe even about usual occupation, to date and place of birth. All well and good—until we hit that sticking point of the mother's maiden name. I'm not sure why I've seen so many informants blurt out as answer to that question their own mother's maiden name, but there it is, plain as can be, on the deceased's completed death certificate.

Chalk it up to nerves, I guess. Family members have gone through a lot by the time a loved one has passed—whether that death was an unexpected surprise, or the end of a very long and difficult illness. So when I find an old death record in Nansemond County, Virginia, for the suspected relatives of my second great-grandfather, Alexander Boothe, I can't be sure the report about the man's parents is actually correct.

The reporting party at Andrew Boothe's death in 1860 was his older brother Nathaniel. A savvy businessman known for his successes, Nathaniel was not likely to flub this mention of his brother's parents' names. After all, he shared those same parents; this was life-long knowledge. According to Nathaniel Boothe, their parents were named Abram and Cherry Booth—at least, that's what the official record keeper noted.

When we go exploring on genealogical websites, though, we can find records indicating otherwise. Take, for example, this find from a book originally published by Clearfield Company in 1963, volume seven of Historical Southern Families. There, on page 109, we discover:

Family tradition states that Henry Boothe m Elizabeth Rabey, dau of Kedar Rabey of Nansemond County, and they were the parents of Robert, Kinchen, Nathaniel, William, Andrew and Lottie Boothe, who were b between 1779 and 1805. This tradition also states that William Boothe, son of Henry, owned a tavern in Gatesville, N C,  and that Lottie (Charlotte) Boothe m James Rabey.

Well, doesn't that put together a splendid package?! A genealogical report even outlined the connections a bit further. But what happened to Nathaniel's own report that his brother's parents (and thus his own) were Abram and Cherry? Must we assume that, grief-stricken, he reported the wrong names on his brother's death record?

Almost as an afterthought, the article continues with this curious addendum about Nathaniel and another brother, Robert. The two had apparently purchased 

land in Nansemond which had belonged to an Abraham Boothe, near the original Boothe grants. Abraham Boothe was dead by 1812, when his estate was carried on the tax lists. He left a widow, Charity (Cherry) Boothe, who d in 1825, when Nathaniel, Kinchen, Robert and Charlotte bought items at the sale of her property.

Ironically, that passage in the book concluded, "Abraham Boothe's relationship to this family is not known."