The Mess We're Left With

 

It's been a month filled with large court files regarding the intestate estates of Rainey men and their related families—not to mention name twins who couldn't possibly be father and son. In other words: following the line of Thomas Firth Rainey and his extended family has left me with more of a mess than when we started.

My goal for the third of my Twelve Most Wanted for this year was to find the identity of Thomas Firth Rainey's parents. That I did, and then some. The only problem was that this search has led me to more questions than answers.

I again reviewed those lengthy court cases, seeing if now, in retrospect, those many names mentioned in the files would make more sense. I've saved the links to specific letters in the estate files, entering them in the profile pages of each named ancestor or collateral relative. Yet only a few more details popped up.

For instance, I noticed that Isham Rainey's grandchildren from his daughter Sarah and her husband George Mealer were listed in two separate letters to the court where he died in Monroe County, Mississippi. Isham R. Mealer and his sister Martha together sent their letter regarding their grandfather's estate, identifying their residence as Murray County, Georgia. In that letter, tantalizingly, was a third grandchild mentioned: John Hammock. Do I have any idea which Rainey parent that third grandchild claims? Of course not. I can find absolutely no sign to connect him to his supposed grandfather, Isham Rainey.

Another letter to Monroe County, Mississippi, with the same purpose was signed by the remaining Mealer grandchildren of Isham Rainey. Why in a separate letter? Other than the fact that that letter was sent from the court in Oglethorpe County, I have no idea why the family was represented from two different Georgia counties.

As for the children of Isham Rainey's daughter Sarah, I can trace some of her descendants, but not all. This will need to wait for another year's examination. Full Text Search at FamilySearch.org has helped immensely to locate these big, messy court cases, but it hasn't found everything that I might need to answer the remaining questions. Nor have I been able to trace Sarah's sister Elizabeth, who in the same intestate case had represented herself as Elizabeth Arnold.

Repeating this same process next time for the children descended from Isham Rainey may reveal more court records—hopefully not of the intestate estate variety—but that effort will need far more time to complete than the brief day we have left to us in this month. It's time to pack away this month full of discoveries on both the Rainey and Firth families, be grateful for what can now be found much easier than in past years, and move on to April's focus from my Twelve Most Wanted for 2026.

Good Bedtime Reading for the Insomniac

 

One last time this month—at least for this puzzle regarding my fourth great-grandfather Isham Rainey—I've headed back to those DNA matches that Ancestry.com's ThruLines tool has hypothesized are my cousins from that same line. This means, too, that I'll need to revisit the probate records concerning the estate Isham left behind for his family to resolve.

Did I mention messy? As in perfect bedtime reading for the insomniac? 

As if sorting through the intestate Isham Rainey's belongings weren't sleep-inducing enough, there is the question of George Mealer. George, it appears from some records, was Isham's son-in-law, through marriage to his daughter Sarah Rainey. And yet, when I read through the 1845 court records in Monroe County, Mississippi, about the administration of Isham's estate there, the mention of someone named George Mealer pops up.

But wait! The George Mealer married to Isham's daughter was back in Georgia, where Isham himself once lived. In fact, it appeared that George Mealer died there, perhaps late in 1831—intestate, what else?—in Oglethorpe County, himself. So who was this other George Mealer? And were court listings of Mealer relatives reliable indicators of our Rainey kin? Or not?

Through the wearying catalog of legal documents contained in the two various cases, it was possible to glean a listing of the children of George Mealer, son-in-law of Isham Rainey—enough to launch me into a more recent time period where it might be possible to trace those Mealer children and their descendants through to a time period known for more well-documented records. That, in turn, may help determine how some mystery DNA cousins are related to me. All that stands between me and at least the discovery of one set of Isham Rainey's grandchildren is a huge stack of reading material in the form of mind-numbing legalese.

I'll let you know how it goes, tomorrow morning.

Overextending

 

Having hopes of discovering whatever became of the siblings of a fourth great-grandfather, even if his name was as unusual as Isham, may have been a bit overextending. There is, after all, only so much that can be found about an average resident of late 1700s Virginia.

There is, however, a number of loose ends to tie up regarding this Rainey family before the month comes to a close. Grateful to have achieved my goal of discovering not only my third great-grandfather Thomas Firth Rainey's parents, but grandparents as well, I'd like to see which of his siblings may have left a genealogical paper trail. After all, though Thomas' sisters had likely married in the early 1800s, they had at least made their appearance in court documentation owing to the fact that their father had died intestate. This is a record source that could be useful to revisit.

At the time of Isham Rainey's 1843 death in Mississippi, both his daughters had spoken up to make sure they were included in the distributions of their father's estate, should there have been a residue. One daughter, Sarah, had married someone in Oglethorpe County, Georgia, by the name of George Mealer. The other daughter, Elizabeth, had identified herself in letters to the probate court in Mississippi as Elizabeth Arnold.

Returning to FamilySearch.org's Full Text Search, it may be possible to discover more about the family of George and Sarah Mealer. From that point, if any other indicators surface, we may also be able to wrap up this month's research project with information on the identity of Sarah's sister Elizabeth Arnold and her unnamed husband.

The end game here will be to identify whether either sister had children for one purpose: to locate any DNA matches for these lines that might have been descendants of this Rainey line.

Given Under our Hands This Day

 

FamilySearch.org's Full Text Search is becoming my new best friend. When it comes to researching those hard-to-find ancestors from centuries past, the best place—sometimes the only place—to find mention of those near-invisible relatives is in court records. Yes, those tedious-to-read, overly wordy, illegible handwritten documents buried in back rooms of courthouses can bring us exactly the details we're seeking on our kin—if we can find the right records. And Full Text Search can zero in on the most reasonable possibilities.

As we wade through flowery phrases like "In the name of God, Amen," that open pages-long documents, or search for concluding statements such as "given under our hands this day," just to uncover the date confirming we've found the right person's record, our exhausted eyes are rewarded by the goldmine we are chasing. Sure, the handwriting may frustrate us, and the length of documents may weary us, but the good news is that we have it so much better than those family historians who went before us. The computerized digitizing process and transcribing AI systems have now made this process possible in a snap.

For this month, that is excellent news for me. Ever since discovering that I could break through my brick wall and find my third great-grandfather Thomas Rainey's parents' names, it's been far easier to continue down this path beyond that brick wall. I've started working on Thomas Rainey's maternal grandparents back in Brunswick County, Virginia, then branched out to their children, Thomas' aunts and uncles on the Firth side of the family.

We've already started work following the descendants of one Firth sister, Rebecca, who married Henry Abernethy. Then, the next attempt was to decipher the name of another sister's husband, supposedly listing Elizabeth Firth's spouse in one document as "Randle" Rawlings.

I took that question about "Randle" to Full Text Search at FamilySearch.org and played with the possibilities. Searching first for "Randle," some spelling alternatives popped up, beginning with "Randal." Pretty soon, another alternative was offered up at Full Text Search: the more reasonable Randolph.

I didn't want to presume that that was the actual name at first, as I didn't want to mislead the search process by jumping to that conclusion. Doing so might have caused me to miss some other possibilities. But with patience, I noticed that Randle and even Randal seemed to lead nowhere, no matter which keywords I combined with those options.

It was easy to eliminate those other options, even though they popped up in actual documents. The more reasonable option, Randolph Rawlings, soon took the lead with a preponderance of search results. And despite missing some key documents I'd like to see—a will, for instance—the documents Full Text Search offered up turned out to paint a useful picture, indeed.

In particular, one document started me on a new research path with its concluding statement, "Given under our hands this 9th day of January 1828." Following Elizabeth Firth Rawlings from that document's date uncovered an entire cluster of possible family members and business associates of her by-then deceased husband Randolph Rawlings—a project to piece together over the next few remaining days of this month's research project.

Where There's a Will . . .

 

Succeeding with this month's research project to find the names of my third great-grandfather Thomas Rainey's parents—Isham Rainey and Sally Firth—I've since gone beyond that and found mention of Sally's name in her father's will. With wills being what they are—and since I also am using DNA to connect the dots between distant cousins—I couldn't pass up the chance to take a closer look at that earlier generation. After all, where there's a will, there's a chance I can find a mention of the entire family.

Sally Firth, wife of Isham Rainey, was apparently daughter of Thomas Firth and his wife, also named Sally. It was not hard, once the original document pointed me back to Brunswick County, Virginia, to locate Thomas Firth's 1794 will. From there, a reading of the simple will provided the names of Sally Firth Rainey's surviving siblings, something I'd like to review today.

The elder Thomas Firth first named his sons in his will, beginning with son William, then mentioning his namesake son, Thomas Firth junior. Then the document moved to the daughters, beginning with Polly B. Firth, then Betsey B. Rawlings, Sally Firth, and last, the youngest daughter, Rebekah Firth.

Since the senior Thomas Firth would have been my fifth great-grandfather, his relationship was still within range to yield some possible DNA matches—slim connections, but there, nonetheless.

Now that I have those names of the elder Thomas Firth's children, I'll be working on the lines of each of these descendants to see whether I have any DNA matches among those collateral lines. You never know when a detail discovered while exploring a sibling's line might reveal the answer to a fact about our own direct line that may have had us stumped up to this point.

Sally Firth

 

Ever since the 1980s, there has been a comic strip featuring a title I love: "Sally Forth." The title itself is a play on words, calling to mind the phrase which essentially means to launch out on an adventure. How apropos it has been to discover, in this month's research adventure, that the ancestor whose parents I've been chasing through centuries-old documents turns out to have a mother who claimed a slightly-morphed version of that same "Sally Forth" name. Only, in this case, her name was Sally Firth.

It was earlier this month, in slogging through mind-numbingly tedious court documents, that we discovered Thomas Firth Rainey's mother was named Sarah Firth. Yet, since one nickname often used for the given name Sarah has been Sally, that is exactly how I found her name documented in yet another court document. 

This time, her name appeared in an even older record, that of the will of her father, drawn up in Brunswick County, Virginia, in June of 1794. His name? Thomas Firth, providing a fuller explanation of just how my third great-grandfather received his own name. Not only did his middle name reflect his mother's maiden name, but his full name clearly linked him to his maternal grandfather, who likely died the very month that my third great-grandparent's parents were married.

So far for this month's research goal, we've discovered the names of Thomas Firth Rainey's parents—and now, the identity of his maternal grandfather, Thomas Firth. In addition, the will revealed that the elder Thomas was married to a woman also identified as Sally.

Whether the senior Sally was mother of the younger Sally, I can't tell, but the pull of the identical names lends credibility to that possibility. Since we've got quite a bit more time to pursue this research project for this month, perhaps that will become clearer before we need to move on to April's challenge. 

Doubts and Doubling Up

 

The more a family's lines of descent engender doubts, the more we need to double up on documenting the actual history. I'm finding that to be the case as I search for the descendants of John Carter's daughters.

Right now, I've been reviewing records of the daughters of John's first wife, Sarah Kenyon. At this point, my focus is on his fourth child, Ann, who had married William Heslop before supposedly dying in Spotsylvania County, Virginia, in about 1829. 

Genealogist George Harrison Sanford King had used Ann's daughter Sarah as his poster child for consideration that Ann's mother—and John Carter's first wife—was actually Sarah Kenyon and not Elizabeth Armistead, as had been claimed by another genealogist, Joseph Lyon Miller, in his book, The Descendants of Capt. Thomas Carter of "Barford." The King argument was clear: that it was significant that daughter Sarah's full name was Sarah Kenyon Haslop—hardly a family name that would have been expected if Sarah's maternal grandmother and namesake had been an Armistead instead of a Kenyon.

Since the King manuscript mentioned that Sarah Kenyon Haslop—or Heslop—had died testate in Spotsylvania County, I decided to take a look. There, in the county's court records for September 7 of 1857, was Sarah's will. Two details to notice with that will: that Sarah apparently died unmarried without children of her own; and that immediately following the recording of that will in Spotsylvania County records appeared the will of one James Heslop.

So who was James Heslop? Could he have been her husband, and I had misunderstood the contents of Sarah's own will? Or could he have been her father's relative? To resolve these questions, I took a look at the county's death register for that year of 1857.

Disappointingly, for Sarah's entry, her parents were listed as "Wm + N Heslop"—not quite the name I was hoping to see for Sarah's mother Ann. Could it have been the result of sloppy writing or misheard information? Perhaps I was looking at a record for the wrong person.

But then, once again, I noticed the entry right next to it: for James Heslop. Digesting all the information entered, it appeared that James died at age 79, while a month later, Sarah Heslop died at age 80. Parents were listed as the same couple for both Heslop death entries. James' death record included the listing of a wife's name, though in those frustrating initials: "L. A. Heslop." And the reporting party for both entries was the same person: "W. Heslop," said to be son of James and nephew of Sarah.

Obviously, that was a helpful clue—although whether it applies to our Sarah Heslop, I can't say for sure yet. However, returning to Sarah's will, there was more to muddy the waters, requiring further doubling up on documents to verify whether we are on the right track. For with Sarah's will, she named specific nieces and nephews to receive her property—and wouldn't you know it, but some of those details also don't seem to line up with what had been reported previously.

When in doubt about records, double up. 

Looking for the REAL Robert Smith

 

When it comes to researching the family history of people possessing really common surnames, I'll admit it: I have a bias. I really don't like chasing after documents for folks named Smith or Jones. Even finding documents for the "right" Smith with the right given name in the right place can mean absolutely nothing. There may be another person by that same name, just around the corner.

That's the way it's been, looking for Robert Smith in 1850s Hocking County, Ohio. I got a promising start by discovering a statement in a court record asserting the fact that Mary Rinehart, daughter of Simon, was wife of Robert Smith of Hocking County. How explicit can this get? But finding the real Robert Smith? Now, that's another story.

Just when I had discarded one Robert Smith in that county, by virtue of his birth and family life in England, I discovered another Robert Smith in the same county. Added bonus: this Robert's wife was named Mary. I thought I had found what I was searching for, and began adding information on their children from census records, right into the Rinehart branch in my mother-in-law's family tree. 

I added Robert's wife Mary, and their seven children from the 1850 census, and was ready to follow the family lines down through the generations, when I spotted one detail that stopped me in my tracks: Robert Smith was named in an ancestral line in an application to the Sons of the American Revolution. When I followed the line of descent to the next generation, Robert's son, I saw something that didn't add up: Robert's wife's name was given as Maria Pitcher, not Mary Rinehart.

Out went all the details I had just entered in my mother-in-law's family tree. I pulled up that old delete button and slashed away, removing each of the children I had just added to Robert's family.

But after all the genealogical carnage, I had second thoughts. I went back to the 1850 census record. Sure enough, there was a gap in ages between the oldest child listed in the household—George, aged twenty five—and the next child, fourteen year old daughter Maria. Since the court records back in Perry County—the ones regarding two sets of children from different wives in Simon Rinehart's will—stated that Robert's wife was Simon Rinehart's daughter Mary, was it possible that Robert Smith was married twice, too?

I looked. Sure enough, there was an 1822 marriage record for Robert Smith and Maria Pitcher in Hocking County. And for the date of Maria's death, an old headstone in the Old Logan Cemetery reported that Maria Smith, consort of Robert D. Smith, died in 1832.

Back into the family tree went those children of Robert and Mary. As I worked my way through the children of Robert's second marriage, I ran across a will left by his daughter Mariah, an unmarried woman who died in 1873. Mariah appointed her brother Culver to be executor of her will, which contained a stipulation that, for the property he was to receive, he was to take two hundred dollars for "the erection of suitable tombstones at the graves of my father, Robert D. Smith, and his first wife."

Right next to the memorial for Robert's first wife, Maria, stood that "suitable tombstone," as Culver Smith was instructed to provide. Seeing that picture, however, made me want to start that family tree all over again, yanking the names I had just plugged back in, and looking once again for the real Robert Smith in Hocking County.

Why? Because on that same memorial stone to her father was listed not only the name of Robert's first wife, but his second wife, as well. And her name was listed as Mary Ankrum, not Rinehart.

"Start With What You Know"

 

As we work our way through this month's research problem—confirming the family members directly related to Simon Rinehart of Perry County, Ohio—it would be good to stick with the genealogical principle, "Start with what you know." Now that I've discovered the complaints filed in court by Simon's older children from his first wife, I've learned that there is a lot about this Rinehart family that I don't yet know. No problem; those first steps still need to start with familiar territory.

What I know the best about this family is the name of Simon's daughter Sarah, my mother-in-law's second great-grandmother, who had married James Gordon. Even so, I had struggled to find much detail on her life's story. I know from her entry in the 1850 census in Ohio that despite having a father born in Pennsylvania, Sarah herself was born in Kentucky. There is obviously a lot more to her story than I've been able to uncover so far.

That 1850 census also revealed a few other details. One was that, by then, Sarah had reported her age to be fifty two, putting her date of birth just before the start of the 1800s. The other important detail was that Sarah was, by then, a widow living with four of her children, as well as a possible granddaughter.

Rewinding history for a bit to find Sarah's husband James in a census record, we find him in the same location in Perry County—Jackson Township—for the 1840 census. He wasn't in that location for long; his will, which he drew up in July of that same year, was presented in court and noted in a court entry which was, unfortunately, not dated. His headstone, however, bore the date July 15, 1840, two days after he signed his last testament.

Sarah, herself, lived another thirty six years, buried in 1876 in a different cemetery in another part of the county from her husband's final resting place. Thirteen years after that, her eldest son Basil Gordon—the only one mentioned by name in his father's will, having been appointed his executor—was buried in the same cemetery as his mother, Sarah. 

That is what I do know about this one child of Simon Rinehart, the man whose enigmatic will had unwittingly provided me with a complete readout of the names of his children from both his marriages. And that is very little. However, it is more than I had known about any of Simon's other children. One by one, we'll need to visit records for each of these descendants and see whether we can find any further information on their own lives—as well as delve deeper into Sarah's own story.

A Genealogical Scorecard

 

There's nothing like a rousing argument to clearly mark the dividing line between two sides. A court case pitting those two disputing factions can become our genealogical scorecard, when it comes to strife over inheritances. That is exactly what has been granted us when, back in the 1850s, Simon Rinehart's children contested his will.

By the time Simon drew up his will—at least, according to his older children—he was suffering the effects of failing health. Or, to put it in the words of the complaint filed on April 24, 1854 in Perry County, Ohio, Simon had been "greatly afflicted with mental weakness, the result of sickness, extreme age, and physical debility."

That complaint, thankfully for us, began with a listing of the names of Simon Rinehart's children. Even better, the document explained that some of the parties were "children by a former marriage"—and specified their names.

Thus, the meager list of descendants I had assembled prior to discovering this packet of court records suddenly more than doubled. All I had been able to find, prior to this discovery, was Simon's daughter Sarah—my mother-in-law's direct ancestor—his son Jesse, and the three daughters who lived in Simon's household in the 1850 census. 

Now, I also have verification that Simon had been married twice. Though I still don't know the name of Simon's first wife, I can align his sons Samuel and Thomas with that first marriage. In addition, I learned the name of the husbands of that first wife's daughters. Martha Rinehart married Jacob Fordyce, and as of the court case, the Fordyces still lived in Greene County, the Pennsylvania home Simon had left sometime after marrying his second wife. However, Mary Rinehart, wife of Robert Smith, now lived in Hocking County, Ohio, near her father's final home in Perry County. And Sarah Rinehart Gordon, by then a widow, was living in Perry County.

These, as the court record noted, were "children by a former marriage."

The document continued sorting Simon's progeny. The record next noted the descendants of Simon's widow, Anna. Besides his son Jesse and the three unmarried daughters still living in Simon's household—Lucinda, Charlotte, and Hannah—the document mentioned Cassa and her husband Isaac Brown, and another daughter who was also apparently widowed, Nancy Ankrom.

Lest there be any further confusion about Simon's children, the court continued: these were children of his "second and last marriage." Each child from this second marriage was noted to currently be residing in Perry County.

Now that we have this genealogical scorecard so clearly laid out for us, our next step is to see what we can find on each of these Rinehart descendants.

Signs of Familial Discontent

 

Simon Rinehart's will was presented in court in Perry County, Ohio, on March 8, 1853. The document was so sparse of details—it didn't even provide his wife's name, though he bequeathed her the entirety of his possessions—that I thought perhaps the man had taken care of such business beforehand by recording deeds concerning land transactions for his many children.

How wrong I was.

It took a bit over a year for the signs of familial discontent to surface, but in a faded entry in an appearance docket in the spring of 1854, I found my first sign of just who thought they should have been named in their father's will.

The faded entry named Samuel Rinehart, Martha Fordyce, Jacob Fordyce, Mary Smith, Robert Smith, Thomas Rinehart, and Sarah Gordon. Below that listing of names appeared the words, "heirs of Simon Rinehart, deceased."

That wasn't the end of it. That list was followed by another similarly long list of names: Anna Rinehart, Nancy Ankrom, Jesse Rinehart, Lucinda Rinehart, Charlotte Rinehart, Cassa Brown, Isaac Brown, and Hannah Rinehart. The note continued, "also heirs of said Simon Rinehart, deceased."

In between those two groupings of names was a line with the entry, "vs."

The second group of names contained the explanation, which we've already gleaned from an entry in the 1850 census, that Anna—also listed later in the document as Ann—was the widow who had not been mentioned specifically by name in Simon's will. 

Fast forward to January of 1855. In a court document signed by the publisher of a local newspaper, we can see an example of the required insertion in the paper of record, notifying that same list of people that Thomas Rinehart had filed a petition against all of them, for the purpose of demanding partition of the land of the now long deceased Simon Rinehart. And fortunately for us, the newspaper clipping provided the land's precise location: the northwest quarter of section 15, of township 15, and range 15.

That demand was to be presented at the next term of the court of common pleas in Perry County. No matter how the case was eventually resolved, this was sure to provide me far more information on the composition of Simon Rinehart's large family than I had ever expected to learn. 

Image above: Not long after Simon Rinehart's heirs contended for his property, this plat map showed the location of the land—in this 1859 map, labeled as "S. Rhinehart's Hrs"—situated somewhat to the southeast of the town of New Lexington, Ohio, on the northwest quarter of section 15 in Pike Township; map courtesy of U.S. Library of Congress, in the public domain.

To His Beloved Wife, Mrs. No-Name Rinehart

 

Why is it that some men bequeath large percentages of their possessions to their "beloved" wife without so much as mentioning her first name in the legal document granting her the man's parting tokens of love? I know it may be the 1850s we are discussing in following the last wishes of Simon Rinehart, but couldn't he have been just a tiny bit more expressive?

Simon Rinehart, my mother-in-law's third great-grandfather, had lived a good portion of his adult life in Perry County, Ohio, though he had been born in Pennsylvania. Fortunately, I had found him in the 1850 census in Pike Township, though that discovery was hard-won; the enumerator's handwriting made his surname look more like "Phinebot" than the misspelled Rhinehart it was intended to be.

Seventy-six year old Simon appeared in that household along with his sixty eight year old wife. Here, we learn that his beloved's name was Anne—or at least that's how the enumerator spelled Mrs. No-Name's given name. With a flip of the census page, we can see that three younger adult women with the same misshapen surname also lived in the household: Hannah, Lucinda, and Charlotte, all three born in Pennsylvania.

Three years later, Simon was dead.

While I'm grateful to have found the Rineharts in the 1850 census, the first enumeration to include names of each member of a household, there was apparently much I had yet to learn about this household.

Thinking that perhaps Simon had done his due diligence and, before his demise, had deeded property to any other possible family members, I decided to go looking for a more thorough legal listing.

It's a good thing the will's sparse wording prompted me to look further. As it turned out, I found no such deeds bearing Simon's name when I took my query to the FamilySearch labs' Full Text search. But what I did find more than made up for that.

Apparently, Mrs. No-Name was Simon's second wife—I won't speculate on whether the first wife was also his "beloved"—so perhaps I discovered one reason why Simon chose to move from Pennsylvania to Ohio. Evidently, a son who still lived in Greene County, Pennsylvania, as well as a married daughter there, joined forces with several others among their siblings to contest that will.

While that act may have made life difficult for Simon's three (presumed) daughters still living in his household—to say nothing of his wife—the documentation which resulted from that family rift has been most informative for me, a nosy researcher trying to piece together the family picture from a vantage point of nearly one hundred seventy five years removed.

From those documents, I gleaned the names of each of the children from the first marriage, as distinguished from those of the second marriage—in addition to Hannah, Lucinda, and Charlotte. Added bonus: those daughters who were, by 1853, already married had not only their married surnames given, but the name of each husband to whom they had been "intermarried"—if the husband were still living.

One of those daughters, in fact, had already lost her husband, a fact I knew by virtue of that line being my mother-in-law's direct line ancestor, Sarah Rinehart. Sarah's husband, James Gordon, had died in 1840, thus explaining the reason why the mention of her name in the family's court case did not include her husband's name.

That convenient listing of each surviving member of Simon Rinehart's family may have helped me compose a more accurate and complete listing of the family constellation—but it also provided me with an unexpected narrative of the family's contentious dynamics at the point at which their father's last testament was publicly revealed. 

Last Wishes — With Precise Details

 

When Jonathan Miller drew up his will in Perry County, Ohio, on December 7 of 1866, he provided a small gift to future generations of curious genealogists by the insertion of one particular stipulation. He wanted not only to leave a specific piece of property to two of his sons, but to personally ensure that the boundaries of each split portion be designated precisely as he wished.

To that end, Jonathan not only provided the verbal description of each surveyed lot, but sketched in the lines of the perimeter for each parcel: the north section to his son Andrew, and most of the southern portion to his son John, with the exception of a small section alongside John's portion also designated for Andrew.

The gift to us—particularly for our purposes in finding the roots of this Jonathan Miller, and hopefully his connection to my mother-in-law's ancestor, Lidia Miller Gordon—is the description of the property. Not so much the landmarks—the surveyor's notes running from a maple tree to a hickory tree, then to a beech tree, then ash, and finally elm—but the legal description is what I'm seeking. 

Just from the fine print in this document, I can see mention of possible family connections. Before I had even found the marriage record for Jonathan and Catherine—she was formerly a Dupler—I had spotted one mention in Jonathan's will. Noting Jonathan Miller's mention of a particular acre of land "on the north side of the Columbus road" which once had been "the same lot on which Shelly Dupler had resided," I had wondered even then if this was a sign pointing to a relative.

With the land described as being part of the northwest quarter of section twelve, and also part of the southwest quarter of section one in township seventeen and range seventeen, I now have some details that might help trace the ownership of this parcel back through the years. If I'm fortunate, this could reveal the name of the owner from whom Jonathan originally obtained the land. Better yet, it might reveal another relative from a previous generation—maybe even help us discover the identity of Jonathan's father.

Diagram above from 1868 will of Jonathan Miller of Perry County, Ohio, illustrating property subdivision; image courtesy FamilySearch.org; in the public domain. 

Time for a Timeline

 

When the detail on a family's situation becomes too messy, perhaps it is time to outline it all in a timeline.  Based on the suggestion—and even that only from a letter written long afterwards by Aunt Fannie—that Light Townsend had traveled down to Florida to help his orphaned nieces, I wanted to see whether I could find any possibility of pinpointing that connection.

In the process—warning: a messy one!—I came to the conclusion that just looking at each individual's circumstances wasn't enough. I needed to blend eight people's timelines into one, so that I could spot any gaps which might be a reasonable time for Light Townsend to travel from his home in Marlboro County, South Carolina, to Madison County in northern Florida.

The brief answer: I don't see how. But let's first look at the particulars. To begin with, here are the players:

Light Townsend, born in South Carolina about 1798, who was the supposed brother of my third great-grandmother, Delaney Townsend. Delaney, in turn, while born in South Carolina much later than Light—about 1816—traveled to territorial Florida to marry Andrew Charles in 1841. After the couple's unexpected demise, Andrew's sister, Drucilla Charles, took up the responsibility of serving as guardian for the three orphaned children of Delaney and Andrew, before her marriage to, first, Thomas Hughs Hines, and then Melburn Odum—with each of whom she bore children. It was the two daughters, Frances Charles and Emily (or Emma) Charles, who supposedly traveled back to South Carolina with Light Townsend.

Now, how does all this fit in a timeline? Answer: it's a squeeze.

Let's start off with the 1850 census. Andrew and Delaney were shown in their household with their son and their two daughters, four year old Fanny and one year old Emma. What's interesting about this enumeration is that it was taken on October 16, after Andrew's death, but he was still listed as if alive, on account of the instructions to list the households as they would have appeared on June first of that same year.

In 1850, Light Townsend was at home in Marlboro County, South Carolina, with his wife, four children, and his mother. Drucilla Charles was still living with her mother and siblings in Florida, this being two years before her mother's tragic death, and before her own marriage.

The cascade of events begins with Andrew Charles' apparently unexpected illness and death in July of 1850. Sometime between that point and February of 1852, Delaney herself dies (although I have yet to find any record of that date).

In 1852, Frances, older of the two Charles daughters, would have been about six years of age. Her younger sister Emma, my second great-grandmother, would have been three, having lost her father while still an infant. On February 28 of that year, Andrew's sister Drucilla Charles was appointed guardian of the three orphans, Fanny, Emma, and their brother Rupert Charles. On May 22 of that same year, Drucilla became the wife of Thomas H. Hines, and eventually had two daughters, while presumably continuing to serve as guardian for the Charles orphans.

Sometime between 1857 and 1859, Drucilla's husband Thomas Hines died. This might have been a reasonable time to call in help from the other side of the orphans' family, but in 1858, Light Townsend was having his own woes: his wife died, leaving him with two young daughters of his own. While before this point, it might have made sense for Light to blend the two families—Emma Charles was the same age as Light's daughter Mary Ann, and Light's daughter Amelia was two years older than Fanny Charles—after his wife's death was no time to go traveling long distances through remote regions to help another family. 

Thus, by the 1860 census, it was no surprise to find Light still in South Carolina with his dwindling family, and the Charles orphans with Drucilla, who, widowed, had by then married Melburn Odum and welcomed in their baby daughter Maybelle. 

The years following the 1860 census might seem like the ideal opportunity for Light to travel to Florida, particularly considering the more appropriate ages of his nieces for such an adventure back to South Carolina with him. In 1860, Fanny would have turned fourteen and Emma eleven. But even then, the timeline shoved roadblocks in the way of such a plan—not to mention, a ravaging war.

After the death of her mother, Light's daughter Amelia married in 1863. Light's younger daughter Mary Ann married William Kinney in 1867, becoming the progenitor of the DAR applicant whose mention of Aunt Fannie's letter got me wondering about all this in the first place. And Mary Ann's cousin Emma Charles was herself married by 1867.

Sandwiched in between these joyful moments in the family's timeline were other disruptions. While I have yet to find Drucilla's second husband's date of death, by March of 1866, it was clear that both Melburn Odum and his wife Drucilla had passed. Drucilla, following the path of her intestant brother before her, died leaving no will. Another Charles sister, widow Mary Ann McLeran, was appointed as administratrix of Drucilla's property in March of 1866 and eventually—by 1872—that sad task finally drew to an official close.

Following Drucilla's passing by 1866, the final player in this drama was Light Townsend himself, who died in South Carolina in March of 1870.

While there were a few celebratory moments in this whirlwind of less happy events, the time it would have taken to make such a round trip—in that time period and with the constraints of their current forms of transportation—make it doubtful that an aging Light Townsend would have made such a trip. Possibly in the earliest years after the loss of Delaney and her husband, Light might have come to lend a financial or organizational hand—but it would have been unlikely that he'd return home with two very young nieces at that point.

That, however, still leaves me with a predicament: I've yet to find any verifiable written documentation to tie my third great-grandmother to her parents, or even to her siblings. But that is written documentation. As we leave this month's focus to move toward the next of my Twelve Most Wanted research goals for 2025, let's use the weekend to determine what we gained, what we still need, and what other verification has now become available to researchers in situations like this.

Taking a Different Approach

 

The beauty of an ancestral search comes when we realize there are more ways than one to find answers to our questions. When one research plan doesn't yield results, it's time to take a different approach.

In the case of my third great-grandmother, Delaney Townsend Charles, I knew she had died young, as a widow, leaving three orphans. While my overarching goal is to determine who her parents were, a clue from a DAR application implied that after Delaney's death, a brother by the name of Light Townsend had come down to Florida to bring his nieces back home to South Carolina with him. Right now, I'm chasing after any record that could confirm that relationship. After all, the father of Light Townsend would also be the father of Delaney. Thus, the search is now on to verify exactly who was appointed guardian of the three Charles children in Madison County, Florida, just in case I can find any mention of Light Townsend's involvement with the Charles family.

Prior searches for these details had not been successful—but when I realized that guardianship proceedings should mention the names of the children, I switched tactics to search by the name of the children rather than the name of the deceased parents. However, looking for my second great-grandmother Emma, or even her sister Frances, left me searching for very common names, but when I switched to look for their older brother's name—Rupert Charles, for whom my great-grandfather was named—the search engines were more rewarding.

Because we had found a death notice for Delaney's husband, Andrew Charles, in the July 27, 1850, Floridian and Journal, I knew my earliest search parameter would be that same year: 1850. Unsure of his wife Delaney's year of death, I expanded my search parameters to 1860, just in case—though some probate information, which we'll view tomorrow, narrowed that date range considerably.

Taking my new research query to the FamilySearch Labs website, I had my answer in no time, thanks to the Full Text search option. And it surprised me. While I didn't expect to see Light Townsend named—after all, the three Charles children were living with their paternal aunt in the 1860 census—I was surprised about the details given in the letter appointing the guardian.

Dated February 28 of 1852, the communication from the probate court of Madison County to "Drusilla" was actually addressed to her maiden name, Charles, rather than her married name. Naming the three orphans and explaining that they were "possessed in their own right of a Considerable Estate," the court designated Drucilla as guardian to secure the estate and oversee the maintenance and education of the three Charles children.

That prompted one question: where was Drucilla's husband, Thomas Hughes Hines? A quick check revealed that while the couple married in that same year—1852—the event was not official until May 22, 1852. So when the guardianship papers were drawn up, Drucilla was indeed still known by her maiden name.

While I was surprised, considering that time period, to see a woman named as guardian, it was quite obvious that she was not in the legal process alone. Posting bond for six thousand dollars, two additional men were named. Thanks to the abysmal handwriting of the clerk noting the transaction, these guesses at their names may not be accurately deciphered, but best I can tell, they were Michael McLeary and Charles Rupell—neither of whom were familiar names from family connections.

One point, though, was clear: none of those names listed was Townsend. Despite that discovery, though, there are other court records to peruse for any sign of Townsends. We'll linger a bit longer tomorrow to see whether anything else might be found.

Looking at Light's Will

 

Sometimes, unfinished business may be mentioned—and wrapped up—in a person's last testament. In that hope, my first stop in pursuing the records of Light Townsend was to look at his will. While I didn't expect to see any mention of his possible role in assisting his deceased sister Delaney Townsend Charles' orphaned children, I couldn't exactly not take a thorough look. After all, if he did, as Aunt Fannie's story indicated, travel from South Carolina to Florida to offer help to his nieces and nephew, surely there would be a mention of that connection at some point.

Not in Light Townsend's 1869 will, however. Though the man's will revealed the extent of his property—and gives us an idea of the amount of success he enjoyed during his life—there was no mention of any connections to Townsend kin who might have left South Carolina for greener pastures in northern Florida.

Named in Light Townsend's will were three daughters and a son, the youngest of his children. Perhaps owing to Light's thorough nature, each of his daughters' husbands were also listed by name. His will listed, first, his daughter Amelia, wife of Thomas E. Dudley, followed by Harriet, wife of John B. Irby, and finally, Mary Ann, wife of William F. Kinney. His son, John R. Townsend, was to be appointed executor of his will—"when he attains the age of twenty one years"—along with his three sons-in-law. With no mention of his wife, we can assume that the former Mary Ann Carloss had already passed—apparently, by 1858.

As for Light Townsend, himself, his will was presented in court in Marlboro County on March 26, 1870, a little over a year after he had signed it. That there was no mention of any connection with Townsends in Florida is not a surprise, but seeking that information was a step that needed to be taken. Thanks to the mention of the Townsend daughters' husbands, the name William F. Kinney reminds me that it was a Kinney descendant who had included mention of Aunt Fannie's letter in her DAR application—the closest sign of corroboration yet.

Though the Townsend will itself didn't reveal any extended family connections, there is still plenty of room to look further. Let's take some time to do so tomorrow with a different approach.

Whatever Became of Charles?

 

When it comes to delving into the dark corners of family history, some questions may never get answered. As I wander through the history of Lafayette County, Florida—home of my third great-grandmother's possible brother Benjamin Townsend—I realize there were some details gleaned from the administration of his estate following his 1872 death that still are begging for answers. The first of those questions is, whatever became of Charles Townsend?

As we saw yesterday, there was an enigmatic notation that Benjamin Townsend's son Charles had died, and that Charles' unnamed son was to share in the distribution of Benjamin's estate. I had to go back and look at the details about this son Charles.

Charles had appeared in his father's household for three enumerations before Benjamin's 1872 death. In the 1850 census, he showed up as a three year old. For the 1860 census, Charles was noted to be twelve years of age, an aberration possibly due to the differing month when each census was drawn up. I was thankful that Charles, by then twenty two years of age, was still in his parents' home for the 1870 census, but that was the last I could find of him.

After that last appearance, there was no sign of Charles. I checked in Lafayette County records for any sign of his death, or at least a token mention of a marriage, since he was survived by a young child by 1875. Nothing—at least so far, in either Lafayette County or surrounding counties.

Of course, "nothing" as a search result only means to keep on looking. And I will. If a child survived him during that time period, for any distribution of funds there surely would be an appointment of a guardian, if nothing else.

The mention of another Townsend as distribution of funds for Benjamin's estate drew to a close points me in another direction—and yet, that additional Townsend name added to the mix may provide some answers. The money to provide supplies for Benjamin's unnamed grandson, child of his deceased son Charles, was paid to someone named James Townsend.

Looking at those same census records for Benjamin's household while he was still living revealed that he also had a son named James. Possibly Benjamin's oldest son, born shortly after his marriage to Jane Suggs in 1841, James might have been the most logical choice as guardian for the child—despite no sign yet of such a court document having been drawn up. Perhaps pursuing James' story may reveal more about what became of Charles—and his unnamed son.

Piecing Together the Estate

 

When an ancestor dies intestate, the only option for those of us seeking to research his family line is to follow the details as his estate is liquidated. Granted, hundred year old inventories of belongings can make for boring reading, but if we learn to read between the lines, we can sometimes infer points about who is related to the deceased, based on their interest in what becomes of his estate.

In the case of Benjamin Townsend—whom I'm following because I suspect he was a brother of my third great-grandmother Delaney Townsend Charles—I already had an idea of the names of his immediate family members from the 1870 census. That document had revealed the likelihood that Benjamin's wife Jane, whom he had married in 1841, had long since died, since the wife named in 1870 was Martha, apparent mother of the two youngest children in the census: three year old David and baby George.

As of that 1870 census, likely children from the previous marriage (or possibly more than one) included sons Charles, Benjamin, Patrick, Light, and Joseph, as well as daughter Jane. Yet, by 1872, when William Sears was appointed as administrator of Benjamin's estate and drew up the inventory of the Townsend holdings, the paltry amount remaining was itemized and proceeds distributed to the then-remaining children.

That process was completed three years after Benjamin's passing. Named in that second step (in order listed in the probate records) were his children Benjamin, Light, Jane, and Joseph, as well as minor child David. 

At this point, a confusing entry mentions minor "Charles Townsend, child." That line was followed by writing which was subsequently crossed out. The document continues with an explanation that someone named James Townsend was paid out of the proceeds of the estate "for the child of Charles Townsend, deceased, to buy cloes [sic] for the little minor which were its share of its father's state."

This, of course, brings up several questions. First, what happened to Benjamin's son Charles? When did he die? Who was his wife and mother of this child? But most of all, who was James Townsend, and why was he paid the money for Charles' orphaned child?

While questions such as these pull us farther and farther away from my stated research goal for this month—to find documentation of the parents of my third great-grandmother Delaney Townsend—searching for these subsequent answers may eventually lead us to a collateral line whose documentation may provide the linch pin linking all these Florida Townsends together, and point us back to their true South Carolina origin.  

Tracing a Presumed Brother

 

Sometimes, we end up chasing records regarding people whom we can only presume are our ancestral kin. In the case of my third great-grandmother Delaney Townsend, that is exactly my lot for this month.

Despite finding a will for Allen Townsend in the records of the same county where we found Delaney—Madison County, Florida—the details of that last testament revealed no clues about Allen's siblings or parents. Nothing concerning the witnesses even helped. Nor have I yet been able to find an obituary for his 1880 passing. However, at least the naming of his several children—including married names for his daughters—helped me sketch out the lines of descent which proved helpful in finding connections with several of my DNA matches.

Moving on to the other Townsend men who arrived in northern Florida about the same time as Delaney did, my next goal is to look up the will for Benjamin Townsend.

While Allen Townsend was born in 1801, Benjamin proved to be a bit younger. While we've already seen that he married in Madison County, the same place—and in the same year—where Delaney married in 1841, he apparently chose not to remain there for long. While Benjamin and his bride, the former Jane Suggs, were apparently there in Madison County for the 1850 census, along with their four children and a twenty three year old young man named Noah Suggs from Georgia—same birthplace as Jane—by 1860, the family had moved to Alachua County. Again, in 1870, the family had moved—this time, to Lafayette County, possibly following Jane's death.

Looking quickly for General Land Office records through the Bureau of Land Management, Benjamin's name turns up in both Madison County and Lafayette County, although not in Alachua County. After the 1870 census, though, the trail goes cold on records for Benjamin Townsend—including any sign of a will. There were, however, other documents to consider in trying to piece together the story of these Townsends in Florida and their possible sibling relationships. It's just that the path forward becomes a bit more messy—and a lot harder to read. 

Rachel's Poison Pill

 

It is my will if any...of my said children shall attempt by resorting to the courts of law to set aside or change any of the provisions of this will, they...shall be...cut off from receiving any part or parcel of my estate and the share or shares of the one or ones who shall attempt to destroy this will or any of its provisions shall go to the one or ones who do not in equal proportions share and share alike.

When Rachel Metzger drew up her will in 1893, she had a delicate balance to maintain. While she was mother of seven of Joseph Metzger's children—six of whom were still living—she was also the mother of an older child by her first marriage. That older half-sister of the Metzger siblings was Mary Houck, by then married to William Bell and a mother in her own right. Perhaps hoping to protect the interests of this only half-sibling of the Metzger household, Rachel felt the need to add what in legal parlance is sometimes dubbed a "poison pill."

In her will, Rachel had originally bequeathed one thousand dollars cash to her eldest child, Mary—an amount equivalent to nearly $35,000 in today's money. Perhaps after the Panic of 1893 and the Depression it ushered in to the American economy, Rachel changed her mind about what she wished to leave as a legacy to her firstborn child. Two years afterwards, as the Depression still wore on, she added a codicil to her original testament, modifying what she was granting to Mary. The new provision granted Mary one half of one share in her mother's estate—which included a three hundred acre farm in Knox County, Ohio—rather than a simple cash payout.

There are likely many ways to read between the lines of this one vignette in the ongoing saga of the Metzger family. Of course, every one of those legatees are now long gone, so there is no way to ask them what the dynamics might have been between Mary and the rest of Rachel's children. But it is quite evident that Rachel sensed some uneasiness in the relationship between some members of her blended family, and sought to diffuse such tensions in case they played out in a battle for the inheritance after her passing.

This uneasiness set the stage for me when I turned to consider what became of Rachel's husband's property after his passing in 1885. Unlike Rachel, Joseph apparently had not prepared a will which included provisions to quell any sibling squabbles. In fact, he didn't prepare any will at all. That, however, doesn't leave us without any guidance in determining what became of Joseph's property. And it is in those other court records that we may spot a prequel to the scene Rachel anticipated at the reading of her own will. Tomorrow, we'll take a look at what shreds of information can be found about Joseph's property after his death.