Tracking Timothy Kelly

 

Sometimes, being stymied with a brick wall ancestor means wrestling with a person for whom we can find no further documentation, especially concerning the earlier years of his life. When that happens, discovering a cluster of possible family relationships—or at least friends, associates, or old neighbors—can help us bypass the impasse. In John Kelly's case, my father-in-law's great-grandfather, that key connector would be his co-worker, Timothy Kelly.

Before we can even decide whether Timothy Kelly might have been the linchpin bringing John Kelly and his family from County Kerry, Ireland, to a job in Fort Wayne in the United States, we need to piece together what we already know about Timothy's life into a timeline.

We've already discussed some of the key dates from Timothy's later years, such as his marriage in Fort Wayne, late in 1860, or his death in 1901. What I'm keen to do now is push back the man's personal history to the earlier years of his life. For that, all we have so far is a note in his obituary mentioning his work on the "Fort Wayne Road" in 1857.

Pinning a date on the opposite end of Timothy's life proves difficult. Depending on which document we use, Timothy could have been born as early as 1827 or as late as 1839. His death record on September 21, 1901, gave his age simply as sixty two years. That would yield a year of birth in the fall of 1839.

However, depending on which census record we rely on, Timothy's year of birth could have been in 1830 (from the 1870 census), or 1828 (according to the 1900 census, taken right before his death), or even in 1827 (if we rely on the 1880 census). To complicate matters, Timothy's headstone added the inference of another date: 1829.

When he came to this country, on the other hand, is only provided by one date—so far. The 1900 census noted that Timothy arrived in the United States in 1854. That record also indicated that Timothy was a naturalized citizen—though that is an event for which I have yet to find documentation.

If Timothy Kelly did work on the Fort Wayne Road as a "very young man" in 1857, we'd have to take that phrase with a genealogical grain of salt. If the death certificate had his birth fixed accurately, that would mean the "very young man" would have been about fifteen years of age at the time. But if the earliest date held true, he simply would have been a worker aged about thirty, no age to be surprised or concerned with at all.

Regardless of how old Timothy Kelly was when working on the railroad, the real question—at least for me—is how I can find signs of the rest of his family, if they had also immigrated along with him. For a young worker of fifteen years of age, we might expect to see parents, or at least a sign of older siblings. If, on the other hand, Timothy did turn out to be closer to thirty at that point, it would be no surprise to find he had immigrated on his own as a single man, seeking a better life in a new country—not unusual for many young Irish immigrants at any time after the devastating Irish famine years.

Despite this date quandary, it still would benefit us to look for any further connections between our Timothy and that sister Margaret mentioned in his obituary. An exploration of newspaper mentions next week might help point the way for a next step in this search for a possible collateral Kelly line.    

About Catharine

 

Some family stories progress predictably. From the earliest stage of boy-meets-girl to marriage, then children, then grandchildren and beyond, the history plays out in a logical manner. The family, perhaps, has lived in the same town for generations. No one died prematurely. Or changed their name without confirming it legally. The play-by-play details have been laid out publicly for all to see in retrospect, the kind of predictability appreciated by genealogists.

George and Catharine Miller were not, apparently, such a couple. At first, I was elated to discover a biographical sketch about their son Solomon which seemed to provide key details about the family's roots. Once I began reconstructing the story via documentation, though, the path to their past became a bit bumpier.

As I had mentioned yesterday, I saw that the narrative in the 1907 publication, History of Whitley County, Indiana provided three particular guiding details about Solomon and his parents:

• Solomon's parents, George and Catharine, had moved from Pennsylvania to Perry County, Ohio.
• George and Catharine were parents of ten children.
• When Solomon moved west to Indiana about 1843, he was accompanied by his wife, his daughter, and his widowed mother. 

My first clue about reliability, in tracing those details, was when I tried to follow Solomon's mother, Catharine, in records. While the published narratives mentioned that Solomon's move west was in a group of travelers including his mother, that could only be true if she had accompanied them for only a short while. In today's world, that sort of arrangement might be feasible, but when I checked the 1850 census for Catharine's name, it led me to a different indicator.

There, as predicted, in 1850 in Whitley County, Indiana, was Solomon and his family: his wife Melinda and six children, five of them born in Indiana. The one glaring omission from that growing family was the widowed mother who supposedly had made the journey westward with Solomon.

Where was Catharine? Back home in Perry County, Ohio.

Catharine's 1850 census entry showed her in a small household including two other people: seventy seven year old Catharine Humberger, and a six year old girl named Ann Boyer. Though I have yet to figure out how young Ann Boyer might have been related to the two women, we already know that Catharine Miller's maiden name was Humberger, thus leading to the conclusion that after Solomon's departure, Catharine was still living in Perry County with her own mother. Plus, in this census, Catharine was living in Thorn Township, where we had seen her before, after the 1822 death of her husband George Miller.

In fact, in Catharine Miller's appearance in the 1830 census, my hopes had been lifted by the fact that her household included two boys and a girl between the ages of ten and fifteen. The Miller child we've been pursuing this month, my mother-in-law's brick wall ancestor Lydia Miller, born in 1820, would have fit perfectly in that category. After all, the Whitley County narrative mentioned that Solomon was one of ten children. But now I'm not so sure that biographical detail was correct, either.

The reason for my doubt? Another discovery about this Catharine and who those other children in her household might have been.

Nothing is Ever Easy

 

I've said it before. I'll say it again: nothing is ever easy. In research, this limiting factor gives rise to warnings such as "don't believe everything you read" and other sayings. In the case of Solomon Miller and his parents, George Miller and Catharine Humbarger, we are about to see that sentiment played out for us. This, I discovered while congratulating myself on perhaps solving the puzzle of just where my mother-in-law's second great-grandmother Lydia Miller might have originated. It's time to think again.

Thanks to a distant DNA match to my husband who directed my attention to Solomon Miller, I had found two biographical sketches regarding this man. Looking more closely at the more detailed sketch from Whitley County, Indiana, I thought I'd use the details to point the way to Solomon's roots. 

According to the narrative in the 1907 publication, History of Whitley County, Indiana, I gleaned three particular guiding details:

• Solomon's parents, George and Catharine, had moved from Pennsylvania to Perry County, Ohio.
• George and Catharine were parents of ten children.
• When Solomon moved west to Indiana about 1843, he was accompanied by his wife, his daughter, and his widowed mother. 

As I began tracing those details, it became obvious that those three hallmark details from the Whitley County biography were not entirely correct. There were, apparently, missing parts of the story involving not only what happened after Solomon married Malinda Anspaugh, but also what happened before Solomon's own birth.

Those missing parts may turn out to embed key details of an untold story, if what I'm finding in documentation turns out to tell a fuller version of the same couple's history. George and Catharine may both, for instance, have come from Pennsylvania, but they may not have migrated at the same time. Also, between the two of them, George and Catharine may have claimed ten children, but not all from the same marriage—a detail which will take some research to not only confirm but clarify. And the widowed Catharine may not have been her son's constant companion in his journeys westward to Indiana.

Knowing that Miller was such a common surname in Ohio back then as it is today, we'll need to tread carefully through the archived details pertaining to our couple's life story. There may have been much more than what was told in that handy published biographical sketch. Then again, those details could have been a story reserved for another couple by the name of George and Catharine Miller. It's up to us to uncover the full report.

Solomon's Timeline

 

In pursuing Solomon Miller's life story as genealogists do—starting from the end, then moving toward the beginning—it might not have become immediately obvious that this man would fit into our Perry County, Ohio, Miller network. Perhaps if we had the luxury of perusing any saved letters from Solomon, sent home to family left behind as he moved to Whitley County, Indiana, we might have realized we were on the right track. At first glance, however, the Ohio connection for this Indiana settler was not evident.

In such a case, it might be helpful to lay out a timeline, from start to finish, concerning Solomon's life story. As it turns out, he did, after all, make a significant appearance in the very spot in Ohio—Perry County—which supports the connection we've been keen to discover.

The information came first from two small biographies published about the history of Whitley County, Indiana, where Solomon, son of Pennsylvanians, had settled and raised his family. Equipped with those brief narratives, it was easier to follow the trail and locate supporting documentation.

Here's a brief outline, gleaned from that material, concerning what we can find so far.

Before 1822: Solomon's parents, George Miller and Catherine Humbarger, arrive in Perry County, Ohio, from an unidentified location in Pennsylvania.

In 1822:

• George Miller dies in Perry County about April
• Solomon's future wife Malinda (Anspach?) is born June 19
• Solomon Miller is born on July 22

Skipping to the 1840s:

• June 9, 1841, Solomon marries Malinda in Perry County
• In 1842, the couple moves to Thorn Creek in Whitley County, Indiana
• Solomon's widowed mother Catherine moves with them
• A daughter named Lucinda, born in Ohio, moves with them
• Malinda's parents David and Sarah "Auspaugh" move with them

Indeed, a quick look at all the Millers in the 1840 census in Perry County revealed one household headed by a woman listed as "Katharine" Miller. Included in that household were two young men between the ages of fifteen and nineteen, one woman in her twenties, plus another woman in her forties, likely the widowed Catharine, herself. An encouraging sign, in examining the other surnames listed on that page of the 1840 census, was to see the name John Humbarger listed—possibly a close relative to the widow.

Though the biographical sketches list Solomon's wife's maiden name as Auspaugh, looking back to the handwritten marriage record in Perry County, it appears her name was rendered in one place as Anspaugh. We'll look further into Malinda's origin, as well, before the month is out. 

By the time of the 1850 census, Solomon and Malinda claimed six young ones living in their new household in Indiana. All told, the couple eventually boasted seventeen children, of which at least nine married and raised families of their own, giving us plenty of opportunities to find possible DNA matches to connect us to our goal, finding brick wall ancestor Lydia Miller's roots.

We haven't yet, however, sealed the deal on whether each Perry County Miller was connected to each other—or how. A look further back in time, however, may help provide some supporting documentation. We need to do a bit more exploration through local records.

Add Another Name to the Miller Network

 

Sometimes, we need to broaden the circle when searching for a mystery ancestor. In the case of Lydia Miller, my mother-in-law's brick wall second great-grandmother, finding the identity of her parents has been a process of building an ever-expanding network of possible Miller relatives. This week, we'll add yet another name to this Miller network, and hope it leads us closer to an answer.

One DNA match linked to my husband's line stretches back to someone possessing a given name which seemed to be favored by the other Ohio Miller families I've already been researching: Solomon. How could I not check out such a family line with a clue like that?!

There was a lot to learn about this particular Miller man. Fortunately, there were two resources which had published details on his biography. One was shared by a subscriber to Ancestry.com. The other was embedded within the biography of a man who turned out to become one of Solomon's many sons-in-law.

Both biographies, however, were published concerning the early history of Whitley County—a location in the state of Indiana, not Ohio. Fortunately, the narrative in each entry provided a trail back to the very place in Ohio where I had been left, stumped, with Lydia.

About this Solomon, he had one other detail going for him: it turns out that he apparently was born in Perry County, Ohio, the same location of Lydia's birth and first marriage.

Finding details on Solomon's parents became my next step. Each of the two biographies identified his parents as George Miller and Catharine Humbarger. Each story also included another detail: that Solomon's father had died in Ohio—in fact, three months before he was born.

Solomon, according to these resources, was born July 22, 1822, not long after Lydia was born. That his father George left Solomon an orphan at birth also meant that any other children born to George and Catharine would have been orphaned, as well.

Such a scenario also would have provided an explanation for someone like Lydia, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, disconnected from any parents or other siblings before her marriage in Perry County at a young age in 1838.

Whether Lydia was connected to Solomon and, by extension, his parents, will be challenging to confirm. We'll first need to explore what further details can be discovered on both George Miller and his widow, the former Catherine Humbarger. Then we'll need to see whether there are any additional records which can help us piece together the story of Lydia's early years in Perry County—and the rest of the story about the widowed Catherine and the possible other Miller children she may have left behind when she moved with her son to Indiana. 

When Favorite Names Keep Appearing

 

While seeking the right Miller ancestor for our Lydia has led us into a maze of possibilities, one DNA match who pointed us to an ancestor named Joseph Miller came with a bonus: a son whose name has appeared often in Miller households. That favorite name was Solomon. 

From the Miller families we've already examined, the given name Solomon has been part of the household of Jonathan Miller, as well as that of someone named Michael Miller. This Michael Miller happened to marry a woman whose surname—Binkley—had surfaced when I considered this Miller puzzle a year ago. I'm beginning to see the formation of a family cluster. 

Yet another Miller had the fingerprints of being part of a set of extended relatives in Perry County, Ohio. And here was this other family, also preferring to name their son by that same name, Solomon.

Seeing the selection of a specific name repeated over generations in households of the same surname, living in the same location may be telling us something. Or maybe that's just the kind of "something" that I've been hoping to listen to more closely.

This new DNA match, though, was connected to someone named Joseph Miller. There was one more problem with that: from all indications, his residence was not situated in the usual spot in Perry County. In fact, he was said to have been a long-time resident of Whitley County, Indiana.

Yet, following the trail of other researchers—especially those generous ones who share their path so that others can check out their conclusions—I discovered some helpful supporting narratives. While I have yet to find an online resource for the particular biographical sketch this researcher provided, reading the century-old narrative told me Joseph wasn't as far removed from the Perry County Millers as I might have expected.

It was worth checking out those details. First, of course, I tried replicating the search this researcher had shared on Ancestry.com, but without success. There was apparently more than one book called History of Whitley County, Indiana. I did, however find information on Joseph Miller in a similarly-named publication, embedded within a biography of someone named Benjamin Hively.

Gleaning the basics of Joseph Miller's family history may prove helpful. Using these publications as guide, we may learn more about a collateral line to the Jonathan Miller we've already been examining. If families of that era migrated in family clusters, that might indeed be helpful in sorting out the puzzle of this month's focus, my mother-in-law's second great-grandmother, Lydia Miller. Whoever her parents were, they surely migrated westward to Ohio in the company of many others—likely, members of an extended Miller family. We'll take a closer look at these details next week.

Yet Another Miller

 

Among the DNA matches isolated to point solely to a Miller ancestor connected to our Lydia in Perry County, Ohio, some linked to an ancestor named Joseph Miller. A cursory glance at this Joseph Miller showed a man born in 1801. Hmmm, I thought: a year of birth close enough to perhaps link him as a brother to the Jonathan Miller we've been watching.

So much for numbers. Even if this Joseph were born in Somerset County, Pennsylvania, as we had suspected for Jonathan, he certainly didn't die in Ohio. A link in the DNA match's tree led to a Find A Grave Memorial for a man who died in Fulton County, Indiana. Not the same story as what we've seen for Lydia or Jonathan.

One tiny detail in a life story doesn't provide the full picture, of course. As it turns out, this Joseph may well have made a stop in Ohio on his way to Indiana, after all. Joseph Miller apparently married his wife, Barbara Overmyer, in none other than Perry County. Surprisingly, the entry for their wedding is displayed on the same page as that for Jonathan Miller and Catharine Dupler, occurring just one month before the other Miller ceremony, on March 18, 1824.

That was enough to beguile me into following more of Joseph Miller's story. After all, there was a promising Joseph Miller listed among those thirty five Miller heads of household listed in Perry County in the 1830 census. Perhaps this was the one.

Ancestor #8: Hoping for D N A Clues

 

There are some ancestors for whom we can handily point to several records in confirmation of our connection. Not so with this one of my Twelve Most Wanted for 2025. My father-in-law's great-grandmother Johanna Falvey, my choice for a research focus this coming August, had proven hard to find the last time I tried to pursue her story. That was five years ago. It's about time to see whether any further clues will turn up.

That said, I'm sorry to say it, but I don't think there will be much more in the way of paper confirmations. Johanna Falvey was an Irish immigrant who came to Fort Wayne, Indiana, with her husband, John Kelly. Now that's a name to try your research hand at. I would have just about given up the chase for John Kelly's wife, except for two things. One was that her obituary tantalizingly mentioned that she had left several sisters behind in Ireland—plus another sibling who had immigrated to New Zealand. The other detail? Well, I've found some DNA matches who lead to Falvey ancestors in New Zealand.

And yet, it can't really be just that easy. I've tried finding the connections before. Frustratingly, the chase always seems to lead back to the same records void in Ireland. Here's hoping that now, five years later, there will be more DNA matches leading to more possibilities of finding records pointing to the right location and family circle back home in Ireland. I may be clutching tightly to my positive attitude mantra for this ancestor, but I'll never know if I can find any more details on Johanna Falvey unless I give this brick wall pursuit another try.

Got Kellys?

 

Doing family history research? From Ireland? Got Kellys?

Funny, so do I. In fact, my father-in-law actually has two different Kelly families attributed to his direct line ancestors, not to mention several in-laws married to collateral lines in his tree. Let's just say there are a lot of Kellys to go around. And enough research angst to unnerve all of us.

I knew I might regret it when I selected James and Mary Kelly to pursue for my Twelve Most Wanted for this year. Perhaps that's the secret reason why I messed up and skipped right over that goal last month. August was supposed to be the month I would tackle James and Mary, but somehow I "overlooked" that detail. We'll see whether we can make up for that oversight this September.

Here's what I know about James and Mary Kelly so far. After all, I've worked on their family back in 2020, and again the next year, so at least I have some basis for launching us from their final resting place in Lafayette, Indiana, to their original homeland somewhere in Ireland.

James and Mary Kelly must have arrived in Indiana some time around 1850—but that is my best guess. I can't yet find them in the 1850 census, and by the time of the 1860 census, Mary was a widow living in her son's household in Tippecanoe County, Indiana. By 1870, she too was gone.

Searching for Kellys can be a daunting experience. Besides the fact that Kelly is such a common surname for Irish descendants, it is a name with spelling variations. Thus, in seeking James and Mary Kelly, we must also be open to seeking James and Mary Kelley.

Though my father-in-law's brother Ed, keeper of the family "stuff," was so careful to pass down the history of his family to me, when it came to this line of Kellys, he could not say where in Ireland they might have originated. Thus, in working on this task for September's version of my Twelve Most Wanted, our search will be wide open. Ever wonder just how many Kellys there might have been in Ireland?

With work like this cut out for us this month, we may be facing a daunting task. I'll be the first to admit I may find myself looking for detours—like learning far more than planned about Irish immigration, or conditions pre-famine in Ireland—to enrich my understanding in the face of a hopeless goal of seeking a Mary Kelly anywhere in Ireland.

But first, remembering the family history mantra, tomorrow we'll start with what we know. Once we get our footing firmly established, perhaps we can launch our search in a promising direction.

Some Goals are Stickier Than Others

 

If a family historian's research goals start with finding the names, dates, and locations of each direct line ancestor, you'd think it would be an across-the-board equal effort for any given relative. But no, as it turns out: some research goals are stickier than others. They contain prickles and barbs and ooey-gooey sticky messes that get us snarled up in the paperwork. They include the lions, tigers, and bears along the research path which make us take wrong turns, run from evidence we can't access, or simply chicken out at the immense effort. And it all comes with no guarantee of success, no matter how hard we work.

Don't say you haven't been forewarned.

Take this past month, for instance. Searching for Theresa Blaising's roots, despite her relatively recent acquaintance with my father-in-law's family during his childhood, required me to slow down and immerse myself in the general history of French immigration to the midwest. I won't say the detour wasn't valuable;  I'm just disappointed I couldn't make more progress in the thirty one days I tackled the topic.

All that to say I wasn't surprised to see my progress in growing my in-laws' family tree was much slower than any usual biweekly period for my customary tally. In the last two weeks, the rate slowed to only 151 new individuals added to that family tree—and most of those additions were due to a secondary, behind-the-scenes goal of continuing to work on some DNA matches for my mother-in-law's Snider and Snyder line. Still, I can't complain: in the aggregate, this step-by-step work over the years has yielded a tree which now stands at 36,660 individuals.

For my own tree, progress has drawn to a standstill, but that is part of the plan. When I outlined my Twelve Most Wanted for this year, I set aside the third quarter of 2024 to devote to my father-in-law's family. We have one more month to focus on that before we return to working on my own family's tree. While my tree has 38,421 documented individuals right now, that number only budges upward during the summer on the rare chances that I stumble across news of an addition to the family, or a loss of an elder. Unless prompted by birth announcements or obituaries, I won't return to that side of the family until October.

Yet September may turn out to be another month with a sticky goal. I have been stuck on the roots of the lines of James and Mary Kelly—from Ireland, of course, during those tragic famine years. If I can't find any further documentation on them, we'll take that detour to examine the more generic overview of the local history and occurrences of that time period, both in Ireland where they once lived, and in Tippecanoe County, Indiana, where they spent their last days after their immigration.

Frames of Reference

 

We may bemoan the fact that, despite our best efforts at research, we still don't really know that much about our ancestors—even our closer ancestors. In the case of the only grandmother my father-in-law ever knew, despite the personal connection, there still wasn't much to pass to the next generation about her family's story.

I gave that realization some thought today. Not that I'm the only one to face that difficulty—in the resources we've found this month, it appears I am in good company in my complaints about lack of detailed information. In a 2019 presentation to the Besancon Historical Society, the speaker discussed the "problem"—a sparse supply of "sketchy" stories. Over the generations, that bare-bones story of immigration was "either forgotten or more often simplified."

I am wondering whether that case of the vanishing immigration story might rather be due to the effect of frames of reference. In the speaker's case at the Historical Society, the example was given of simply saying one's ancestors were "from Paris," or even more generally, "from France." I am wondering whether that might be more of a factor of a speaker declining to explain details which would have been beyond the listener's frame of reference. Why go into detail when the detail would be meaningless to the listener?

An example from my own experience resonates. When I first moved to California from the New York City suburbs where I spent my high school years, I never answered the question, "Where are you from?" with a specific answer. I'd generally say New York and leave it at that. Only if I knew the person I was talking to was also from that area would I go into further detail. Otherwise, it would be extraneous information, easily discarded.

How were those ancestors to know that one day, we would have powerful computers with search engines able to ferret out the slightest details, not only of current events and locations, but also of now-nonexistent villages halfway around the world? How could they have even known that generations after them, people would have the time and inclination to dig up those details of the life they had left behind—and good riddance, as far as they were concerned in many cases.

People share information with their audience based on their perception of the listener's frame of reference. Imagine what you'd say to an inquisitive grandchild, after a long day of work in the field, in answer to the question, "Where did you come from?" The answer to Besancon's grandchildren in Indiana might likely be, "Oh, from far, far away, but in a little village much like this one here."

This puts a different spin on the usual complaint about not listening to our elders' stories until it was too late to ask them; if we did ask when we were younger, the answer might be framed for what was seen as appropriate for younger ears.

True, in many cases, we didn't stop and stay to hear any stories when we were younger, but we also might not have had the framework to build upon the references made in the telling of that tale. If all we know about France is that it is across the Atlantic Ocean and has a city named Paris, the clarity of details like "Besancon" might be lost on us. But then, how many of us have taken care to tell our own stories in the detail we wish we had received from our ancestors? Perhaps it is human nature to gloss over the details we think our listener would see as "TMI"—too much information.

In all the letters my father-in-law's family preserved from Theresa Blaising, their grandmother, it is evident that she was writing about happenings very much in the present. Perhaps, by that point as an elderly woman, she was the last one surviving of all her siblings. That immigration story was likely far from her mind—certainly much farther removed than a widow's concerns about living life alone, far from family, during a World War.

Perhaps we need to go more lightly on our ancestors when we complain about their lack of information about where they once lived or any of the other details we crave about our family's history. That doesn't mean we shouldn't try to piece together the story—and sometimes we can be quite successful in such endeavors. It's just that, in Theresa Blaising's case, there wasn't much story to gather.

With the coming week, we'll be into a new month, pursuing a new ancestor. We'll set Theresa's story aside, noting what was gained from this month's search and drawing up a list of what is still needed to reach back to another generation in a future attempt. On Monday, we'll move to another ancestral puzzle from my father-in-law's Irish family.

To Trace the Family's Route

 

Where to find pre-1906 American naturalization records? I go online, naturally. In the case of the Blaising family's arrival some time between 1866 and 1868—the two dates reported by some of Theresa Blaising's brothers in census records—their records could have been filed anywhere, as there was no central federal office overseeing the process then. If the Blaising family had traveled directly to Allen County, Indiana, where we have already found them by 1870, their naturalization records could have been filed at the county courthouse there, or at any of five different possible court systems within the state's jurisdiction. If they stopped somewhere else on the way to their ultimate destination in New Haven, Indiana, the paperwork could have been begun at that other location.

In order to trace the family's route from France—my goal in finding naturalization records—I might first have to trace their route after arriving from France. With that uncertainty, rather than hunt through records at FamilySearch.org or any of the genealogical companies with such digitized records, I took my search straight to a search engine, seeking naturalization records at the state level. I entered Indiana as my first choice, held my breath, and pressed enter.

Fortunately, a promising entry popped up at the top of the list at Google. It was a page from the Indiana GenWeb site for Allen County, which provided links for accessing the very items I was seeking. Taking my cue from that information, I followed the link to the Allen County Genealogical Society website, where an alphabetized index of naturalization records from the Indiana Archives and Records Administration provided clickable sub-headings. I clicked on "Bl" for Blaising, and presto, I was there, scrolling past eight entries for "Black" to reach the next surname, Blaising.

There, the record provided the person's name, age at time of filing, and the date of the document. A fourth column was labeled, "link."

I wasted no time getting to that next step.

On that new page, actually hosted on the Indiana Archives site, once again I was asked to enter the immigrant's first name and last name. There were also fields to fill in for keyword and organization name, which I left blank. I discovered that it was best to not enter the requested field for "search by county," as when I did enter Allen County, I'd get zero results, but if left blank, the person I was seeking would be served up, no questions asked.

At that point, if more than one person had filed with that same name, all possible entries would be shown, requiring me to make a selection. This might be helpful for reviewing all possibilities to avoid the risk of following the wrong name twin. In the case of one of the Blaising brothers, John, I ran into that case, though our John did include his middle initial.

Clicking on the name selected then produced a drop-down window with a transcription of the basic information. While I was happy to have found that with relatively little effort, I was disappointed that there wasn't further information. Besides the immigrant's name, age, and county of filing, the record gleaned the date of arrival and document date. In addition, the synopsis listed the country of origin: France.

Of course, I wanted more. Perhaps because of that disappointment, I felt placated to see under that perfunctory listing, a blue link with those welcome words, "More detail."

I clicked.

The result yielded a full page listing of that immigrant's record. In the case of the Blaising brothers, I was able to learn that each of them left from the port at Le Havre in northern France, and sailed to New York City. My next step, then, will be to search for passenger records there, though one interesting discovery was that some of the brothers reported different dates of arrival, suggesting the possibility of serial immigration.

In finding these excerpts from the naturalization records, the good news was that the full page entry included the URL to link with that immigrant's actual document, housed at FamilySearch.org. The bad news was that the accuracy of those links left something to be desired. Not to worry, a little hunt and peck effort quickly located each Blaising brother's own filed record among the Allen County naturalization documents. At least the link brought me to the correct record set.

While I was ecstatic to have so quickly found these particular naturalization records, only four of the brothers were identified in the process: John B. Blaising, who vouched for his sister Theresa's marriage to John Kelly Stevens; oldest brother Henry; and then the two brothers immediately older than Theresa, Louis and August. A fifth Blaising man, also named John, appeared in records, making me wonder whether, with a double given name beginning with "Jean" he might actually have been known in later life only as, say, Phillip or Lawrence. However, at this point, I'm presuming Phillip might have filed after moving to Ohio, and likewise Lawrence at his new home in Albany, New York. That will be a puzzle for another day.

With this information, I'll draw up a chart for easy reference, including each brother's stated date of arrival in New York. Whether that helps guide me to any of those passenger records, I can't say. Whether, upon finding them, they include any mention of the place in France each brother once called home is yet to be determined. But it's worth the look.

 

Wanted: French Immigrants

 

It may come as no surprise to those of us studying our ancestors' immigration to the United States that there were ads beckoning certain ethnic groups to cross the ocean to specific locations. Those businesses behind the organization of huge projects, such as the canals or, later, the railroads, placed ads in foreign newspapers to recruit needed workers. Apparently, we can add French immigrants to that list of wanted settlers.

In the case of the French who settled in Indiana, they may have been influenced by a specific publication circulated in the French regions of Franche-Comté—home of the original Besancon—and Lorraine. Commissioned in 1835 by a group of businessmen in Louisville, Kentucky, the circular was entitled, "Guide for French Emigrants to the States of Kentucky and Indiana," according to an article by historian Ralph Violette in the December 1996 edition of the Besancon Indiana Chronicles.  

Louisville, while in Kentucky rather than Indiana, was a city with a distinctive French ambience in the 1800s, making affinity with France a logical outreach target. Still, the issue of how those French immigrants would actually find their way to that central part of the United States of the mid-1800s was another question.

According to the Violette article, French immigrants could have arrived in Indiana by several possible routes. One suggestion was by way of Stark County, Ohio, which already boasted a known French settlement. Another possibility was directly crossing over the state line from Louisville, Kentucky. This, of course, meant arriving in Louisville most likely by the river route up from New Orleans on the Mississippi, then up the Ohio River.

While the New Orleans route points us to research passenger records specifically from that city, that may not have been the route our Blaising family members chose. Most immigrants to Indiana through New Orleans settled in the southern portions of the state, not in the more northern Allen County, where the Blaising family lived. And yet, the possible ports of entry for those immigrants headed first to Stark County, Ohio, would mean searching passenger records for multiple cities.

The Violette article did emphasize the role of Catholic priests in encouraging French immigration to the Fort Wayne area, but did not leave any details about just how those priests and their traveling companions—or those who followed in their footsteps afterwards—might have gotten there. While I can now envision so many more possibilities for how the Blaising family arrived in Allen County, I am still in as much of a loss as to explain the route as I was at the first—all the more reason to head next to naturalization records.

Where's John?

 

Digging into naturalization records, then looking further back to corresponding passenger records, can be a chore. That's the process I need to tackle next for the siblings of Theresa Blaising, third wife of John Kelly Stevens, and the only grandmother my father-in-law ever knew.

There is, however, one problem I faced before jumping into that task. When I listed the reported dates of immigration for Theresa and her siblings last week, I noted what I found on her brothers Henry, Lawrence, Phillip, Louis, and August, but where was John? He was clearly part of widow Mary Blaising's family in the 1870 census, but disappeared from enumerations after that point.

I could have assumed that, like many children during that time period, he died young, but there was one detail standing in the way of such an easy answer: his mother's obituary. There, in that June 13, 1907, entry in the Fort Wayne Evening Sentinel, included among Mary's seven surviving children was "John, of this city."

So he didn't die young—not, at least, before his fifty first birthday. Where was he during all those years since the 1870 census?

In a connect-the-dots moment, I found the answer. Using a different approach, I thought I'd go back to records I had found on John Kelly Stevens, Theresa Blaising's husband, to see if there were any mention of her relatives. It is unfortunate that John Kelly Stevens and Theresa Blaising never had any children in common, for I'd be curious to see who they might have named as godparents, which could have yielded a clue. But it turned out there was another document which provided some help: their marriage license.

Thankfully, preceding John and Theresa's June 14, 1887, wedding in Allen County, Indiana, their marriage license indicated that, upon "being duly sworn," another man stated that he was acquainted with both John K. Stevens and "Tresia" Blaising, the couple about to be married. That man was named John B. Blaising.

Even better, looking through the other marriage licenses in that register, the very next one listed the information for another couple married on that same day: none other than John B. Blaising and his bride, Mary Fisher. Reciprocally, John K. Stevens vouched for them.

So why, if John Blaising was there in Allen County all along, did I miss him in other records? I suspect confusion about the Blaising brothers may have been owing to a French naming tradition. While some research guides indicate that at that time, the French might give a child multiple given names, only one of those names would be used in daily life. Also, during that era in the mid-1800s when the Blaising children were born, names were typically drawn from the Roman Catholic Church, making each child the namesake of a Catholic saint. In some cases, those names took the form of compound names, such as Jean-Baptiste (John the Baptist).

I have often spotted examples of compound names as well as multiple given names, especially those beginning with Jean, or in English, John. This may have been the case for the Blaising family, for I've found indications that some of John's brothers actually were listed with an initial "J" in some American records. While that initial "J" would never have been found in the French tradition, I noted, for instance, John's brother Louis' death certificate and headstone listing him as "Louis J. Blaising," and brother Phillip Blaising showing in the 1930 census in Crestline, Ohio, as "John P. Blaising." Could each of these be revealing an original French version as Jean Louis or Jean Phillipe?

If this were the case, perhaps it is no wonder that, awash in a multitude of sons named Jean—or John in English—the American governmental record keepers became confused. And John B.—whatever that initial "B" might have stood for—became lost in the multitude of French given names.

But now, however, he's found, thanks to his inclusion in his brother-in-law's marriage license.

A Serendipitous Find

 

It might still be August—and well over ninety degrees each day around here last week while I was away, wandering through upstate New York—but rainy weather upon my return (not to mention pumpkin spice lattes on the autumn menu already at the coffee shop) put everyone in the mood to fast-forward to the next season. Perhaps that's why I found myself doing some fall cleaning yesterday.

From a folio still containing old notes, I pulled three slips of paper which could be called a serendipitous find. Each of those three slips was dated from June of 2005, and as receipts, each showed that I had paid $3.75 for the privilege of borrowing a microfilm of records from the Family History Library. The receipts clearly identified the records I was viewing: from Saint Patrick's Catholic Church in Fort Wayne, Indiana.

That particular parish happened to be the home church for my father-in-law's grandfather, John Kelly Stevens, whose third wife became the only grandmother my father-in-law ever knew. Now that I have the identifier for those three microfilms I used so many years ago, I can go back and review them in digitized format, this time in search of Theresa Blaising, rather than her husband.

Having the actual microfilm number so clearly printed on the receipt became a shortcut to finding the records on the current FamilySearch.org website. Of course, I could have looked them up in the catalog by location, then drilled down to the category—church records—and hope to find the right entry. Having found these old receipts, you can be sure I'll be saving the link to the online resources for ongoing research. This time, the perspective will be the other side of the family: finding another way to trace Theresa Blaising's own heritage. Perhaps the church records will tell us something more than what's been found on civil records.

That research, however, will have to be at a local Family History Center, for the digitized microfilms are not currently available online for viewing at home. That, however, is a small price to pay for the ongoing ability to glean information on that ever-expanding family history quest. 

Recapping Reports

 

To zero in on arrival dates for the immigrant Blaising family—all the brothers and the mother of my father-in-law's step-grandmother Theresa Blaising Stevens—I went back to the reports contained in the U.S. Census records. There, line items in the 1900 census, as well as the 1910 and 1920 enumerations, revealed at least what was reported by each resident in the United States.

Reports, of course, can be misleading. First, we need to rely on the enumerator hearing answers correctly, then writing them legibly enough for us to read. We also must hope that the enumerator gleaned his or her information from the source, not the neighbor down the street who was filling in while the hoped-for interviewees were away on an extended trip. Above all, we need to hope that the individuals themselves remembered and reported the correct answer. Otherwise, we are depending on answers as true which might be otherwise.

With those constraints in mind, here is what I discovered in all three enumerations, for Theresa's mother (before her 1907 death), her siblings, and her own report. 

According to Mary, the widowed mother, in the 1900 census she—or someone in her stead—claimed that she had arrived in the United States in 1868. This, of course, is not what was claimed in her obituary only a few years afterwards, but we will see how that report played out among her children's own census entries. Since she died in 1907, she was not found in any subsequent enumerations.

Henry, apparently the oldest son, also reported a 1868 arrival in the 1900 census, and noted that he was naturalized. However, ten years later, the 1910 census saw him change that immigration date to the 1866 date maintained by the family in his mother's obituary back in 1907. Once again, he claimed that he had been naturalized. Hoping to drill down to more detail in the 1920 census, I was disappointed to see some scribbled entries, overwritten by a clear "unknown" for both the date of arrival and the date of naturalization. Thus, Henry's entry doesn't provide us much help.

Next son Lawrence, who moved from Indiana to Albany, New York, appeared in the 1900 census with no arrival date and no information on naturalization status. By 1910, though, he reported arrival in 1866, and that he had been naturalized. Unfortunately, he died in 1918, so there was no way to follow him further in census records.

For next son Phillip, we run into conflicting data, which I suspect was partially owing to his own reports. Phillip, it appears, was married once in Allen County, Indiana, where his family had settled, but divorced and moved to Ohio, where he subsequently married and raised a second family. However, in later census reports, his age given and statement that he was married only once would have made me doubt I had found the right person, except that his residence in Ohio was reported in his mother's obituary. Nevertheless, in 1910, he reported arriving in the U.S. in 1876, and in the 1920 census, he claimed arrival in 1870 and naturalization in 1880, despite also stating that he was born in 1869 (while the 1870 census showed his age then as eight).

Son Louis was another Blaising child whom I couldn't find in the 1900 census. However, in 1910, he claimed arrival in 1866, though no word about whether he had been naturalized. In the 1920 census, he again mentioned arrival in 1866, and naturalization in 1876. Considering that the 1870 census had shown him to have been born about 1861, I tend to doubt that date of naturalization.

Son August was found in all three census reports, though in the 1900 census, all immigration information was left entirely blank. In the 1910 census, he referred to that same arrival date as many of his brothers: 1866. He also reported having been naturalized. But in the 1920 census, he switched the arrival date to 1868, and claimed naturalization in 1886.

Theresa herself included some variations from those dates given by her brothers, but that could possibly be due to reports actually being provided to the enumerator by her husband. In the 1900 census, she gave her arrival date as 1867, though in the 1910 census, she revised that date to 1866; there was no report of naturalization, but depending on the timeline of naturalization requirements for women, her marriage to an American citizen may have obviated such a need. Yet in the 1920 census, while keeping the 1866 arrival date, there was an entry on naturalization given as 1876 which was overwritten, making it unclear.

With the exception of the one brother, Phillip, dates given for arrival vacillated from 1866 to 1868. We can see from the siblings' mother's original entry that perhaps everyone followed suit—or perhaps by the time of Mary's death, the family gathered together to rebuild the family history in agreement. Variance in naturalization dates would be due to each person's own date for going through the legal process. Some may have started as soon as possible; others might have waited to begin the multi-year process.

At any rate, those dates will form a "ballpark" range for the next steps in the process. While I will want to seek out naturalization records for each of the Blaising brothers to glean details to guide me to their home town in Europe, I will need to also find passenger records or some sign of how they arrived in the New World. For that, we'll need to revisit our work from earlier this week just one more time.  

People who Preserved the Past

 

It's a snap that I wouldn't have known how to answer my own question about the Blaising family's emigration from France to, of all places, Indiana if it hadn't been for people who made it their mission to preserve their ancestral story—in essence, to preserve their own family's past. In this case, it is mostly thanks to a small band of volunteers who formed the Besancon Historical Society and, in particular, one writer by the name of Ralph Violette, who edited the organization's collective findings in their quarterly newsletter and spearheaded the assembling of a database of genealogical information from Society members' collective stories.

It is one article written by this Ralph Violette which simultaneously provided me with so many answers yet made me wish I could barrage him with so many other questions. His article appeared in the December, 1996, edition of the Besancon Indiana Chronicles, beginning on page four, exploring "From France to Indiana." Exactly what I was questioning.

In pursuing that question, I found so many other online search results which referred to a writer with the same surname—Aurele Violette—and I wondered about the connection. Perhaps Ralph was son of Aurele? Though the older Violette might not still be alive, perhaps the son could explain more of this other researcher's discoveries.

I set out to find an answer to my question about the Violettes, not withstanding the possibility that this might simply be a case of surname coincidence. But searching for a name like Aurele Violette—or "Aurelle" as I had first found it online—yielded very little online. Digging deeper into the Internet—that marvel of modern research possibilities—I discovered scattered signs of his existence. A notice on college letterhead of an upcoming faculty election and subsequent confirmation of selected representatives clearly linked Aurele Violette to the history department of the branch of Purdue University at Indiana University in Fort Wayne. Online articles had mentioned his forthcoming publication, and a search led me to a 1996 book, Peopling Indiana—thankfully reprinted in 2010 by the Indiana Historical Society Press—which contained an article on French immigration there by the same history professor.

Moving forward with my search, my disappointing discovery was to find that one document which all genealogists seek for our ancestors: the Violette obituary. Sadly, Aurele Joseph Violette passed away only a couple years ago. In that discovery, I received my answer to my second search: that Aurele and Ralph Violette are one and the same person. Aurele often went by the nickname Ralph.

Small wonder. I can see why a given name like Aurele might cause a man some difficulties in current American culture, despite the fact that, as an Acadian descendant born in Maine, he was named after his own father, who likely carried that name from generations before him. I have a brother-in-law with a similar name—another ethnic variant of a name which surely was inspired by the Roman Emperor and philosopher, Marcus Aurelius—who, when golfing with visiting Asian businessmen, says, "Just call me Jack."

This Historical Society, in existence for over twenty years, was peopled by descendants of the original settlers to the Besancon farming community outside New Haven, Indiana, who worked hard to preserve their settlement's history. In the end, though, they too needed to make those final plans upon the realization that there was no one left to whom they could pass the baton. In their Winter 2019 issue of The Chronicles, one speaker at their meeting made the plea for a practical way to preserve all the hard work the organization had done to preserve those family stories.

In that plea (on page five), the author made one point clear which may be one faced by a multitude of other local historical or genealogical societies:

Here is a problem we have. Stories of Besancon might be told, but they were sketchy. The old immigrants were not story tellers, they were survivors. Their children were survivors doubly: they had to survive not only the fast-changing pace of American society, but also the hard-bitten life patterns of their immigrant parents, which often offered at best half-solutions for their own lives. Assimilation affected not only those branches of Besancon families who left the land. Those who stayed, within a generation or two, also became similar in almost all respects to any other small town farm settlement in America. French names were Anglicized in pronunciation, if not spelling. French language disappeared from households, as did devotion to French saints. The basic immigration story was either forgotten or more often simplified: one's grandparents simply came from "France" or even "Paris." Too little of the story has been preserved. Nevertheless, a clear shadow of the old immigrant community yet remains in this little area around Saint Louis Besancon Church today.

Generic responses: "They came from Paris." Reticence to share stories of their past in detail: "They were sketchy." They "were not story tellers" because of "the hard-bitten life patterns" of their forebears, who likely had been through much. These are likely the type of situational disappointments some of us face whether trying to coax out stories from the distant past, or merely of the World Wars from our own parents or grandparents; the trauma of the experience left them wanting to say little.

The work the Society did to try to piece together the story from what fragments of memory they could glean from members' family histories was further put at risk when the Society itself had to close its doors. Fortunately, the Society formed a constructive partnership with a nearby friend of such pursuits: the Allen County Public Library in nearby Fort Wayne, Indiana.

That institution—thankfully—has a reputation as the largest public repository of genealogical information in North America, and has made the assembled publications of the Besancon Historical Society freely available online. If it were not for that generosity, I likely would never have gotten close to any answer about my own connection to the Blaising family, the roots of my father-in-law's step-grandmother Theresa Blaising, who arrived in Allen County as a small child, moving there with her family.

Still, the Besancon story is not necessarily the story of the Blaising family. What that discovery does do, however, is show me that it was possible for a French immigrant family to find their way directly to a small town in Indiana. The next task, however, is to see if I can find any records showing me just how they got here.

Reminiscing and Reconstructing

 

"Come with me, it will only take a few minutes of your time," beguiled a brief family history on the front page of the Spring 2001 issue of the Besancon Indiana Chronicles, the newsletter of the Besancon Historical Society. That promise led to reminiscing about "a woman like many women you know" from the descendants of the original French settlers of the Besancon community in Allen County, Indiana. 

The writer guides you down a country road, with the church steeple of Saint Louis Catholic Church pointing the way through farmland outside New Haven to a community called Besancon. There, reminiscences about family life center around Gladys Nail Lomont, born in 1903. These tales provide a snapshot of what life was like for children and grandchildren of the immigrant settlers in Indiana from faraway France, the story culminating in Mrs. Lomont's efforts with a committee to register the Besancon community on the National Register of Historic places and reconstruct the identity of a settlement her ancestors once called home through establishment of the Besancon Historical Society.

Reading the historic district application, completed in 1994 and certified in 1995, provides some background on the likely origin of the immigrants peopling the Besancon settlement. Though by 1880, the population of Jefferson Township, where Besancon was located, was seventy percent French (National Register of Historic Places, section 8 page 9), its parish—and now historic district—was later identified as the only remaining one among several French settlements in Indiana still retaining the ambience of a place  "predominantly an agricultural parish whose ancestors came from France." (See section 8, page 9.)

According to researcher Aurele Violette, history professor at Indiana University-Purdue University in Fort Wayne, the settlers at Besancon parish originated in eastern France. The professor fingered the specific area of the Franche-Comté, or "free county" of eastern France. An embattled location, this place was occupied throughout history successively by the Gauls, then Germanic tribes, and eventually became the unwilling subject of a tussle between France and Spain. In addition, some of the immigrants to Besancon traveled from French-speaking cantons of Switzerland. But primarily, Dr. Violette noted, "most settlers" had originally belonged to the diocese of Besancon.

That diocese, if you've lost track, would be located at Besançon in France, for which the wandering immigrants made their Indiana settlement the homeland's namesake.

Whether our Theresa Blaising, the only grandmother my father-in-law ever knew, came to Indiana with her mother and nine other siblings from that specific region—another author in that same Besancon Indiana Chronicles mentioned immigrants from the neighboring provinces of Alsace and Lorraine—this information helps us understand why anyone migrating from France would decide to choose Indiana. Whether following Catholic priests ousted after the French Revolution due to political pressures, or coming to America during times of our relative economic upturns, the French did heed the news in letters from friends and family who went before them to America, to seek their own betterment in the same path as their fellow countrymen now resident in places like Allen County, Indiana.

When the Winter Wolves Howled Around Their Doors

 

Long before my father-in-law's immigrant grandmother Theresa Blaising settled in her childhood home in Indiana, a group of several immigrants from her homeland discovered a wilderness swamp in Indiana and decided to claim it as their new home. That beginning was hardly promising; an early history of the Fort Wayne area mentioned that Jefferson Township—location of that swamp land where these French immigrants built their first homes—was in the 1840s a place where "the winter wolves howled around their doors at night."

Though those French immigrants first arrived in Allen County, Indiana, around 1840, it wasn't until 1851 that their settlement established its first Catholic church there. That church, called Saint Louis Besancon Catholic Parish, is still in existence today, including its several buildings alongside the historic Lincoln Highway—which road, incidentally, post-dated the immigrants' arrival by several decades. Those buildings now form a historic district, and are listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

That settlement, originally called New France, was renamed Besancon upon the arrival of the church's new pastor, Father Adam, who was said to have been a French refugee—a "political refugee," as one other local history article represented him (see page 3). That such turmoil in France caused his ejection from his homeland in 1870 resonates with the puzzling stories we've found on Theresa Blaising's own (possible) father from that same time period.

Besancon, the French immigrant settlement in Allen County, Indiana, was not necessarily a place easily found in online information. For one thing, it was never incorporated as a separate entity, geo-politically. Even looking at the usual Wikipedia entries for American counties, which generally include mention of both incorporated cities and towns and unincorporated "census designated places" and communities, there is no mention of Besancon. Even though the Allen County entry at Wikipedia includes a listing of six "extinct" communities, Besancon is not included at all.

Despite little mention of the location, Besancon eventually boasted its own Historical Society which, at least through the 1990s, was busy working to preserve the settlement's history. Though the organization, despite desperate pleas for help, apparently did eventually close its doors, thankfully its members opted to pass on their research and findings to the Allen County Public Library, which provides access to that material, much of it accessible online. 

It is the roots of that village and parish which most piqued my interest, though, for the reason the parishioners opted to change the name of their settlement was a hat tip to the place in France where the first members of that community originated: a place in France also known as Besancon. We'll see what we can find about that community connection tomorrow. 

The French? In Indiana?

 

When thinking about migrating ancestors, one question I concern myself with is how they got from their old home to their new one. With this month's research focus on my father-in-law's step-grandmother Theresa Blaising, that was my big question. It might have made sense for a traveling family from Europe to cross the Atlantic, headed for a major port on the east coast—New York, Boston, maybe even to Philadelphia. But Indiana? 

One guideline with following ancestors from their homeland is the concept that residents from the same region often followed the path of those friends or family who crossed over before them. Thus, so many Irish ended up in Boston, for instance, or Dutch to New York, or Germans to Pennsylvania. But French? In Indiana?

If I had really thought through the history of the state, I might have recalled that I already know differently. Long before Indiana even became a state in 1816, the French were roaming over its territory—as early as 1679, in fact. French trappers and traders became familiar with the land, not only where Indiana now stands, but up and down the midwestern waterways from what is now Canada to the Gulf of Mexico. So why couldn't I imagine a French widow and her ten children deciding to leave their homeland in France—wherever it actually was—to travel straight to New Haven, Indiana?

It was a reasonable doubt on my part. After all, when Theresa Blaising appeared in her mother's household for the first time in the 1870 United States census, New Haven was a town of barely nine hundred people—hardly the size which could command international headlines. But apparently, the county in which New Haven is situated—Allen County—boasted from the start at least four different settlements which included French immigrants: the village of Maples, the town of Monroeville, Mary Blaising's home in New Haven, and a fascinating place called Besancon.

While at this point I don't know whether Mary Blaising ever settled in Besancon—I only have her residence listed for the 1870 census, though she and her family were said to have arrived in 1866—it may be helpful to learn more about the history of that nucleus of French life so far from home. We'll explore Besancon, Indiana, more tomorrow.