Genealogy: Going to the Dogs

I'll never forget, after my return home from a genealogical research trip to Ireland a couple years ago, my amazed reaction to a post by a fellow blogger on the research difficulties she faced in locating any records in Ireland on her dad's paternal grandfather.

I already understood, of course, the particular challenges faced by those trying to document their family history in nineteenth-century Ireland; there simply aren't any records available for many of the items we've come to see, in America, as go-to sources for genealogical evidence. But I couldn't fathom the desperation—and, admittedly, the ingenuity—of seeking any sign of one's ancestors in dog license registers!

Now, in trying to trace any path toward resources to provide the identities of the people in this mystery photo album I found, discovering that the family owned a prize-winning—and surely registered—purebred dog made me wish that, like my Irish blogging friend Dara, I could pull up the register for the dog known as Bride Park Periwinkle.

Despite no longer being anywhere near the Emerald Isle, I did try my hand at some online searching. Rather than heading to my usual go-to search resource, I zeroed in on Google.ie. After all, if this kennel was located in Ireland, I needed to use the Irish version of that ubiquitous search engine.

I now saw why searching for any clues from the American Kennel Club wouldn't work. I needed to turn my attention to any leads at the Irish Kennel Club. That, I presumed—based on other place names found in the photo album I was researching—would be the likely organization at whose shows Bride Park Periwinkle had managed to obtain so many accolades.

Pending any search through the IKC archives, I spotted another couple interesting details that might help resolve my research dilemma. One, it turned out, was contained in the very photograph we had taken a look at yesterday. Admittedly, the digitized copy makes it difficult to see this, but the woman standing with the little white dog in those photographs is wearing an outfit that looks just like one we've already observed.

Is it possible that the striped blouse she is wearing in this photo

is the same as the one worn by the woman here?    

If so, the owner of Bride Park Periwinkle was likely the mother of either Harry or "self"—the woman whose name I believe to be Alice.

The second detail I found came courtesy of that Ireland-specific Google.ie search engine. The results led me to a newspaper archiving website called Irish Newspapers. Since it is a subscription site—and, alas, I am not a subscriber to this site I'd never heard of—all I could glean was a small icon of the newspaper edition of interest and a near-impossible-to-read version of their OCR readout. (Though I am not a subscriber, if you are, you may view the article via this link; apparently, the site is no longer providing subscriptions and content is, or will soon be, managed by another site, Irish Newspaper Archives.)

The article that interested me contained a small insertion in the May 18, 1937, edition of the Dublin Irish Independent. Under the headline, "Winners at the Cork Show," there were long lists of categories and names. For the breed West Highland White Terriers, there were two mentions that might pay off some handsome research dividends as we try to convert dog genealogy into the human kind.

"Mrs. Hawkes' Periwinkle of the Bride" followed another mention of a "Mrs. P. Hawkes" from Ovens. Ovens—for those of us unfamiliar with the geography of County Cork—is on the main road leading from the city of Cork through Macroom to Killarney. It is not far from some of the other place names we've seen mentioned in this photo album—places like Ballinora and Grange Cottages.

Thus, my first guess that might lead us to some real people and their actual identities is that Mrs. P. Hawkes is the older woman in the photo album whom we first met, labeled as "Grannie."

Now, we'll have to test out that hypothesis...

Periwinkle: A Favorite

You can learn quite a bit about a person by watching him interact with animals. Perhaps that also goes for discerning the fine details regarding those peopling one's family history.

We certainly gleaned some clues as to the personality of the woman who likely added the white-inked notes to the photograph album I found, relinquished to its fate in a nearby antique store. If nothing else, she was fond of a horse she may well have ridden in her own childhood, long before the pictures snapped for that 1936 album.

She—or someone else in her family—also cherished other pets. At least one other four-footed creature found a central location in the collection sent by Harry and Alice to an unknown recipient that Christmas so long ago.

"Bride Park Periwinkle"—winner of 6 first prizes, before he was 12 months old.

When I saw this picture and explanation in the album, I thought maybe it could serve as a way to glean some clues about the album's family. After all, my own family has had a penchant for purebreds. Before my husband and I were married, he owned two Lhasa Apsos from a local breeder here in California. I, for my part, was already smitten with a plucky Sealyham Terrier I had purchased from a kennel in Cleveland, Ohio.

Both of us knew that, for every handsome canine called "Spot" or "Fido," there was actually an incredibly long and unwieldy real name registered in an AKC pedigree. "Spot" was just a handy working name. Most names had a set structure to them, the first part actually representing the name of the kennel where the dog had been bred.

In the case of this 1936 photograph, then, "Periwinkle" would likely be the dog's name, and "Bride Park" would be the name of the kennel.

Easy, I thought. All I need to do is contact the AKC to look up the name of the kennel or search for a pedigree containing that dog's name.

Even though the photograph was not very clear—the subject wasn't really framed to the best advantage—it gave enough clues for me to determine the dog was a "Westie." A canine cousin to my favorite breed, the sealyham terrier, the West Highland White Terrier has long been a popular breed in the United States.

Try as I might, though, searching online for any history of Westie breeders to get an idea of who was behind the Bride Park kennel turned out to be useless. The hint was leading me...nowhere.

Of course, that was before I started sharing this album with readers here at A Family Tapestry. And it certainly was before I slowed down enough to write about the details I was noticing. It helps to put the brakes on, sometimes, and linger over all these enigmatic clues.

A few of the details that emerged, once we all started taking a close look at what we were finding here, included the idea that this might not be a household located in the United States. Thus, searching for any leads through the American Kennel Club might not yield the type of information we'd be seeking. Place names we've already noticed in this album include Crosshaven and Ballinora, both places definitely traced to one location: Ireland.

Could this be a kennel in Ireland? If so, could locating the details on "Bride Park" kennel help us figure out the name of the family who originated this album?

There was one more hint that didn't even occur to me until just the other day. You may not be able to see it in the copy here, due to the quality of the photographs in today's post, but look closely at the figure standing with the dog in both of these pictures. The person attending the dog and putting Periwinkle through those show dog paces is wearing an outfit we've seen in another one of the photographs in this album.

An Old Friend

Usually, we'd assume a genealogical pursuit would mean following the winding trail of records back to an ancestor—a human ancestor. It isn't often that we'd find ourselves poring over records regarding our four-footed friends, just to determine the identity of a missing ancestor.

In the case of this mystery photo album from a neighboring town's antique shop, I've begun wondering whether this alternate approach might be the path yielding us the more viable clues to our puzzle's answer. If nothing else, we can at least discern the family featured in this album were animal lovers.

Of course, any family with children will find themselves, at some point, drawn to activities involving pets, so it makes sense that we found the picture, last week, with Harry and "self" and their two girls, Ruby and Iris, posed around a horse "in the yard."

It was not a sole cameo appearance made by that horse, however. On the next page in the album, another insertion featured a different composition with the same subject serving as focal point.

Harry + self with an old friend—taken in the yard.

With such a sentimental note, I wonder if it is "self" speaking here of, perhaps, her own childhood memories growing up with that very animal. While Harry is posed for the photographer, "self"—I'm presuming this is the Alice of the album cover's greeting—seems transported to another world, not at all concerned with the moment's task at hand of having her picture taken. Perhaps it was once she, rather than her daughter, who was perched on the saddle on the back of this "old friend" she is now visiting.

As it turns out, not only did a horse have a place in this family's hearts, but there was another four-footed friend who was part of their everyday life back in 1936, too. Though a much smaller specimen, this one came with a promising hint that I thought might yield the answer to who this family was.

How's 2017 Treating You So Far?

Well, we've made it through the first week of the New Year. How are your resolutions going?

You may have noticed, among the posts at A Family Tapestry, that I'm not a particularly enthusiastic fan of New Year's resolutions. If I make them, they will fail. And I find failure somewhat distasteful, thus I steer clear of such danger zones.

I do, however, make plans—and January's plans are rocketing toward me at lightning speed. The highlight of the month will be my return to Utah to attend the week-long Salt Lake Institute of Genealogy—"SLIG."

Genealogy institutes are an entirely different experience than the usual conference venue. Rather than selecting from the overload of a smorgasbord of enticing class subjects, institute attendees register in advance for one—and one only—class on a specific genealogical topic. The week long sessions are designed for nearly eight hours daily of focus on that one topic.

Needless to say, this is not an endeavor for the faint of heart. And not a good place to start off, if a beginner. Still, it gives a wealth of knowledge to those craving a deeper understanding about a particular facet of genealogical research.

While SLIG is the institute I've chosen to return to this January, it is by no means the only such program available. In the United States, there are several options. One of the earliest, formerly known as the Samford Institute of Genealogy and Historical Research, has now re-invented itself as the Institute of Genealogy and Historical Research at its new home in Athens, Georgia, where it will be accepting registrations starting next month for their July 23 session start. Another option, the Genealogical Research Institute of Pittsburgh, holds two week-long sessions over the summer. There's even "Gen-Fed," formerly known as the National Institute on Genealogical Research, conducted onsite at the National Archives in Washington, D.C. And for those not wishing to mix the joys of learning with the rigors of cross-country travel, you can even learn from the comfort of your own home: there's the Virtual Institute of Genealogical Research, too!  (Not to mention, you know there's an entry at Cyndi's List cataloging the possibilities.)

There are several reasons I opted to return to SLIG. First, of course, was the ease of travel: a simple two-hour non-stop flight and I'm there. A significant second was the range of topics offered and the impressive selection of faculty. But most important to me was the chance to work further on my research skills specific to use of genetic genealogy. My goal is to work on specific techniques manipulating the data retrieved from DNA testing. For that, I'm so excited to be able to attend that week's sessions taught by CeCe Moore.

No event such as this can occur without much advanced preparation, and you can be sure I'm working on my end to get everything set up beforehand, so I can glean everything possible from this week of learning. I've familiarized myself with the websites of three of the major DNA testing companies, and have had gracious relatives willing to allow me to work with their test results for the various techniques we are going to use during the class sessions. I've been uploading our results to GEDmatch, as well, since we'll be using some of the tools offered on that site, as well.

While this may sound like a breezy review of my to-do list, don't think this is a casual listing. Some of the tasks I'm looking forward to, I find particularly mind-bending at times. I'm hoping practice will make...well, if not perfect, at least a little more proficient. In the meantime, in the weeks leading up to the anticipated event, you can be sure I'll be spending a good deal of time, reviewing and readying everything possible.

With a start to the month like that—not to mention, beginning an entirely new year—who has time to dither with resolutions? I know I'll be too busy to wrestle with the inevitable fail that resolutions seem to invite. Schedules and plans do seem to trump even the best of intentions.    

Now Indexing: The Lovely Handwriting Enigma

Have you ever seen handwriting so beautiful, it was impossible to read it?

It's a new year—you know, that time when people turn their thoughts to resolutions about how they can better themselves. Time for a fresh start to projects I've made a habit of continuing from previous years.

I'm not one for making resolutions, but a long time ago, I decided that "giving back" was always a good policy. Indexing genealogical records is just one of those ways I've learned to give back to our research community. Old year or new year, I'll keep at it. Labeling that intention a "resolution" would only become the kiss of death for what I hope is actually a good habit to form.

This weekend, I took a look at the available records at FamilySearch.org, and discovered the project I had a hand in last month—death certificates for Cook County, Illinois—was still on the list needing more indexers. Why not give it another whirl? I already am familiar with the fields that needed completion.

Although the header this month was for Cook County deaths 1949-1958, the file I opened happened to be for deaths in the year 1928. The reason I remember that is I found one of them—an unfortunate young man dying on February 3, 1928—which reported a burial date listed as 1927.

Hmmm. I won't make any comments. But it was tempting.

Yes, the date was clearly written out. In an exquisite hand. In fact, for some of the certificates—they advanced in number only one at a time, giving me a great overview of everyone who died in Chicago on precisely February 3 of that year—the handwriting was so elaborate as to actually make it difficult to determine what was being conveyed.

Handwriting, when done well, can have a mesmerizing effect on me. The rhythm of undulating ups and downs of Ms and Ns, combined with the hypnotic swoops and swirls of rounded letters, can hold me in awe when well executed. I only run into trouble when it gets so swoopy and swirly that it stops me, dizzied, cold in my path. Those flourishes and curlicues start to get in the way in a string of initials, and my progress slows to zero.

There is something about indexing—even those royal specimens so excellently executed—that allows me to see the other side of the situation. When I'm researching my own family history and pulling up documents on FamilySearch, I confess to snappish thoughts like, "How could she ever have thought that entry said that?" It clearly said nothing of the sort! When I'm on the other side of the story, though, I cringe while tormented by worries over whether it's a Z I'm looking at, or a Y. Or M? Or N? Or is this even the English language I'm reading?!

Volunteering to index records not only imbues character qualities such as patience or endurance, but it imparts a certain grace nurtured by that growing empathy for the poor souls who, going before us, meant well—just as much as I meant well before arriving at the end of my rope while reading what once appeared to be reasonably executed handwriting.

Sometimes, things can get too beautiful, especially in the eyes of the (indexing) beholder.

A Family Photo Rosetta Stone

Without an outright tell-all list to determine which subject is which in a family's album, the next best thing to have would be some sort of key to help identify each of the players—a "Rosetta Stone" for family photographs, if you will.

Given the lack of full names in this album I rescued from a local antique shop, at least there is one redeeming feature: the compiler provided one picture which included a specific family grouping.

Family group taken in the yard, Aug. 1936.

I suspect this to be the immediate family of the album's senders, Harry and Alice. We've already seen all of the people featured in this pose—well, at least almost everyone.

The two girls, undoubtedly, are Ruby and Iris, to whom we've been introduced in the notes from this photograph shown last week. The woman standing in between the two other adults may well be the same person as the one identified as "Grannie" in another photo we already reviewed. The gentleman standing at the far right and the woman positioned directly to the right of the girl standing are, I suspect, the "Harry and Alice" who sent the photo album as a gift to an undisclosed recipient eighty Christmases ago. If not Harry and that Alice, at least the "Harry and Self" we witnessed, heading off on the "spree" to Crosshaven.

So much for all the introductions to the two-legged subjects. We haven't yet, of course, made the acquaintance of their four-legged friend, but seeing such a subject in "the yard" gives us yet another clue about the place where these people were shooting their photographs.

Introducing Penrose

Taking on the task of deciphering the hints in a family photo album can go one of two ways. Either there are enough details in the picture labels to clearly point to the identity of the subjects, or there is such an abysmal lack that the photos remain a mystery despite any attempts otherwise.

But really: when do we ever come across that former option? Even in the best of labels, who sends a family member a photo having both first and last name provided? That would be awkward. Of course your family would know who Alice is. Or Harry. They are family. You've known these people for their entire lives.

Thus, we are left with Harry and Alice. And Ruby and Iris. And we aren't one bit wiser for having learned their names. After all, we're strangers—unsuspecting interlopers on the pages of a Christmas gift sent from one family member to another, back in 1936.

When I found this photo album, discarded in a basement bin of a local antique shop, I was delighted to see the white-inked notes alongside each of the photos. And then disappointed when I realized none of the names provided included surnames. I was so hoping to be able to do just what my mentor—blogger "Far Side of Fifty" of Forgotten Old Photos—does: rescue "orphan" photos, identify the subjects, and then return the photos to appreciative family members.

Despite having no indication of surnames in this album, there was still something drawing me to buy it. There was this one subject, wandering through the pages, making sulky cameo appearances hither and yon. His name was Penrose.

How many Penroses can there be out there, I reasoned. And promptly made my purchase.

In my mind, Penrose was the grumpy husband of "self"—whoever that was—and father of the two darling girls, Ruby and Iris. All that was needed was to traipse through all the entries that can be found online for two sisters with those names, along with a father named Penrose. This will be simple, I thought.

As it turned out—though the verdict is far from decided—that was not the case. I now lean towards seeing Harry and Alice—though not necessarily the Alice of yesterday's photograph—as the parents of Ruby and Iris. And Penrose as someone's near-petulant (though very middle-aged) brother, not so graciously enduring the affairs of a family reunion or other obligatory social gathering.

So today, meet Penrose. Unfortunately, his first appearance is in a poorly focused portrait, but I want to include it because, despite the fuzzy likeness, he will probably be the one leading us to determine just who this family really was.

Another snap of Penrose with Ruby + Iris, at the hall door, Aug. 1936.

Despite the label stating "another snap," this is actually Penrose's first appearance in the order of the album. However, it is not the first we have seen that doorway. Remember the photograph of "Grannie"? That was the same doorway, though framed for the picture more carefully. Note that it is labeled here as the "hall door." Whatever the significance of such a label, it leads to the conclusion that the main door would be even more imposing—and likely be attached to a significant structure for the place called home by this family. Wherever that might be.

Even without the surname, a given name like Penrose should fuel some promising genealogical searches. After all, there can't be too many men out there with a name like that. Let's just hope it wasn't someone's pet name; we need something official to lead us to more clues.