Return to a Childhood Home

It’s often been said, “You can never go home again.” While people have attributed that saying to various sources, or attached different meanings to the phrase, I think it’s safe to say most people find themselves, at some point, wanting to revisit their childhood home.

Such was the case with my maternal grandmother. As we saw from the news clipping I mentioned yesterday, my grandmother did indeed make that trip late in her life. While it entailed driving from her home in Ohio to Florida after she and my grandfather were well into their retirement years, their journey was, in essence, no different than anyone’s visit to an old hometown might have been. After half a century, things are bound to change.

The difference with this visit was that it inspired some small town newspaper columnist to write a bit about it in the local paper. All it took was a childhood friend’s willingness to clip the mention out of the paper and mail it back to the one who initiated the whole event. And voilà! I have a story preserved by another ancestor who liked to keep records.

That record then touched off a chain reaction. True, for the most part, it lay dormant in the Little Brown Book for decades. But once uncovered, it got me started writing. I wrote a post about my grandmother the very first month I started this blog.

What’s significant about that bit of information is that someone happened to do an online search on my great-grandfather’s name just about the time I finished that post. That post led someone to connect with me who had news I would definitely want to hear: the old McClellan home was being refurbished. The building that narrowly missed being demolished was now to become a bed and breakfast!

Restored to the appearance it once sported in the early 1900s, the McClellan house now has its own entry on Wikipedia as well as a berth on the list of properties included in the Fort Meade Historic District.

While my grandmother never got to really go back home and see the place as it used to be, if I ever get a chance to travel to Florida, I will be able to go back and see her childhood home. In the meantime, evidently, so will everyone else.

Photograph above: The R. C. McClellan house, Fort Meade, Florida; courtesy Wikipedia; in the public domain through a Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication.

Disclaimer: While the old family house has been converted from residential to commercial use, I have no connection to the business nor to the current owner, and received no compensation for this mention. However, don't let that stop you from ignoring that old Florida call to "Come on Down" if you can.

Keeping in Touch With a Childhood Friend

When I opened up the little brown notebook to write about it yesterday, what should fall out but a newspaper clipping?! And that is perhaps the best place to begin exploring this little encyclopedia of family discoveries.

The news article—clipped so closely as to eliminate any clue as to publication or time frame—was brief. Judging from the content, it was from a Fort Meade, Florida, newspaper. The narrative explained that my maternal grandmother had decided to pay a visit to her childhood home.

Based on the clue of her return from Disney World, we can pin some parameters around the publication date. Disney World didn’t open until October, 1971. Since my grandmother most likely wouldn’t attempt such a trip from her home in Ohio without her husband, and since he died in 1988, we at least have a window of time for this report—wide, but a window.

My grandparents had traveled from Ohio to Florida for a vacation, but while there, that call to return home must have seemed all the easier for proximity. Though she hadn’t lived there since the 1920s, an entry in her little book confirmed that she had kept in touch with some childhood friends in Fort Meade.

Reading the newspaper clipping, I pulled out that little book and looked under the heading “C”—and sure enough, there were two Childers entries. One was for a Mrs. Pinson M. Childers—sadly, crossed out, leaving a silent token of another untold story—and the other was for Mrs. R. R. Childers.

It didn’t take long to learn what the “R. R.” stood for: Reuben R. Childers was listed in the 1920 census in his widowed mother’s household, along with his brother Pinson and other siblings. A 1935 Florida state census for Polk County showed newlyweds Reuben and what looks like “Aina P.” Childers still living in that same household. The 1945 state census shows the wife’s name morphing to “Ina P.” A transcription of state marriage records yields a wedding year of 1934 but maddeningly does not reveal that wife’s maiden name.

Whoever “Mrs. R. R. Childers” was, she maintained a friendship with my grandmother from childhood years, through geographic separation after the McClellan family moved out of town, and through adult years and across hundreds of miles. The little address book closed the gap.

            Mrs. Jack Davis of Columbus, Ohio, visited Mrs. R. R. Childers here Monday, after visits to Disney World and to her brother, William McClellan, in Tampa.

            Mrs. Davis is the former Ruby McClellan, daughter of Dr. and Mrs. R. C. McClellan. Dr. McClellan practiced dentistry here, and his daughter attended Fort Meade schools.

            Mrs. Davis tried to find familiar landmarks, but found Fort Meade much changed since the family left here for Tampa in the 1920s. She did find the former home, now the Ed Heath home, and was happy to identify some part of her past.

A Little Brown Book

For years, my grandmother kept track of all sorts of trivial yet important tidbits in a little notebook. I used to call it her “little black book.” That label would work, except for two problems:

          

        One, that term has since taken a decided turn for the worse, and

        Two, it isn’t black; it’s brown.

Though the book was never kept by a man, and though the thing in no way implied untoward behavior of those whose records it contained, it was the repository of names, addresses and details that I’ve since mined countless times for genealogical connections.

My grandmother, a southern lady reigning over a northern household in Columbus, Ohio, kept in touch with far-flung family and social connections through the information stored in this book. She operated in the midst of an era which, though introduced to long distance phone calling, still preferred the old fashioned approach of letter writing. Tucked away beside the addresses were reminders of shirt sizes next to notes of birth dates, or the date of a relative’s surgery for a get-well follow-up. A delightful hodgepodge of newspaper clippings and hand-copied poems rounded out the collection.

I was delighted, years ago, when her daughter—my aunt—decided to pass the tiny family relic on to me. The more I perused the entries enclosed in this magical record, the more I uncovered about the family connections it outlined. Over the years of genealogical research, what once passed (to my uninitiated eyes) as names and addresses of strangers took on the tantalizing form of sought-after relatives.

Now that I’ve finished my last, year-long research project on my husband’s Tully family line and turned my attention to my mother’s maternal line, this little brown book is coming back into position as a key player in my research. This is a handy resource to launch me in the right direction, for it is this specific line—if any in my family—that will yield me an entrance to the lineage society known as Daughters of the American Revolution. My maternal grandmother, known to me as Ruth McClellan Davis, in turn had a maternal grandfather whose ancestry had deep roots in the southern soil of this country.

Of course, it’s the paperwork that will prove the tale. Along with the other goals I’ve outlined yesterday, this project will take my full attention for quite a while to come. I’ll start by describing, step by step, some of the struggles I face as I pursue this goal—the first of which will be to rectify one small detail: that of my grandmother’s real name.

So…What’s Next?

Closing the door on a season was hard, but the next step may be harder: figuring out which project to tackle next.

Right now, I’m looking forward to three possibilities. One of them has a potential deadline as a price tag. One of them is a project I’ve always wanted to jump into, but time and circumstances just haven’t afforded me that luxury. And one of them simply fell in my lap when I wasn’t looking—and is now hollering at me from the shelf where I stuck it after my last vacation.

The first project—or rather, first set of projects—has to do with “First Families” designations. Years ago, I was told by a distant relative (met only through genealogical research) that I should qualify as a Florida Pioneer Descendant, courtesy of my mother’s McClellan line there. Granted, I’ve already known for years that my third great grandfather was a signer of the original Florida constitution. Following the procedure to achieve this designation is a formality that wouldn’t confirm anything I didn’t already know. But it would be a nice formality—as long as I can complete the application before the April 30 deadline.

A “First Families” project I’m more inclined to pursue is First Families of Ohio. This is part of the reason we visited Fort Wayne’s Allen County Public Library last summer. I am struggling with—no, suffering from—one vital but missing link standing in between me and claiming that prize on behalf of my husband’s family. I have been told, unofficially, by someone associated with the program that the piece of squishy documentation that makes me squirm in self-doubt may actually be quite acceptable. But only if I can get my act together before the December 31 deadline.

The second project—a dream for some, anathema to others—is to submit my application to become part of the Daughters of the American Revolution. Thanks once again to my mother’s maternal line, qualifying for this coveted designation is all over but the shouting. It’s just that small issue of completing the paperwork…

From that second project springs a third one. Courtesy of that midsummer stop at Fort Wayne, while desperately searching for that First Families of Ohio pre-1820 smoking gun, we stumbled upon some information that makes it appear that not only can I apply to the D. A. R. on my own behalf, but an ancestor in one of my husband’s lines may qualify, well, not my husband, exactly, but our daughter (once again)—and his sisters.

Ah, paperwork, paperwork!

And, as much as I know how everyone loves paperwork, I’ll be glad to share: I’ll keep all of you updated on my progress completing these three projects. Partly as accountability (please be my cheering section!). And partly in a quest to free the historic data that may be of help to other researchers. But mostly as guinea pig: see, you can do this, too!

Above right: Autumn in North America, 1856 oil on board, Frederic Edwin Church; courtesy Wikipedia; in the public domain.

Bidding Another Season Goodbye

If October caught up with you as unexpectedly as it did me, you can see why we so often use the phrase, “Time flies.” We’re now out of summer and into fall. While I am not inundated with autumn-colored leaves on my front lawn yet, thanks to the mild weather in my part of the country (and certainly not running the risk of frosts or first snows like one blogging friend of mine mentions), I am nonetheless sensing the passing of another season.

This season I’m mentioning is a time in which I’ve been privileged to linger over the papers of one relative long gone from our family. It’s been over a year now since I began sorting through those items. Letters, cards, news clippings and mementos: all cherished by Agnes Tully Stevens during her lifetime—and, as we all must do someday, all left behind for others to dispose of.

There are a few more items still left to post. Most of these are cards of one type or another. Many are holiday mementos, which I’ll save to share at the appropriate time. Why she kept these for so many years is something I cannot discern. I know some of the material actually belonged to Agnes’ own mother, and we’ve seen some of these items dating back to the 1870s. Perhaps Agnes kept these for a remembrance of family members of generations preceding her. Perhaps some inspired a nostalgia for special seasons in her own life—like the mysterious mention in a letter that seemed to refer to a disappointment in a relationship during her young adult years.

While it is easy to guess at the motivation behind saving some of the keepsakes we’ve seen over this past year, there are some items for which I have no clue. Take this picture at the top of today’s post. The card is captioned, “Lover’s Leap—Rock City Gardens, Lookout Mt.”

Why Lover’s Leap?

Could it be that Lookout Mountain was a stop on the way home to Chicago from the Wrightsville Beach area of North Carolina where the Tully family evidently enjoyed some vacations?

Or could this be a reminder of a disappointment in her own life?

The card itself, while similar to some postcards that can be found online, is of a smaller format. Slightly larger than a modern-day business card, the picture measures 2½ by 3¾ inches. There is nothing printed on the reverse other than a small marking in the corner, which—once I retrieved my magnifying glass to decipher the print—merely indicates a code: “2491.”

What I thought was a reproduction of a painting turns out to actually be a photograph overlaid on a linen finish. Embedded in the shrubbery detail of the lower left corner of the card is the barely legible stamp, “Photo by Ohne.” (At least it looks like it says Ohne. Maybe someone else would know better. I can’t read it.)

Regardless of the detail, the question remains: Why would Agnes keep this little card for so long? There is no endearing note enclosed. It is not wrapped within a letter that would reveal more details. It’s just there: a solitary keepsake, as singular as the striking subject of the card itself.

Whatever it is, it has become like the changing colors of fall to me: a melancholy reminder that a season in which I’ve enjoyed lingering is about to pass. I’ll miss sharing these daily treasures from the cherished possessions of a woman I’ve never met. Discovering her cultured late-Victorian-era childhood in the rough-and-tumble immigrant milieu of a rugged Midwest city was a piquant mix that upset my preconceived notions of nineteenth century Chicago and growing up American in an Irish household.

Unidentified Faces—Still Looking At Us

To think it was just last night: the webinar that would have so handily suited my purposes for today’s post. The Online Photo Editing Workshop, one of DearMyrtle’s webinars, would surely have provided me just the tools needed to spruce up yet another murky, aging photograph.

But, alas, I missed it. I was too occupied, sorting through the remnant’s of Agnes Tully Stevens’ papers to see what was left of the collection to write about today.

Some of the photos left behind are so degenerated that they are not even discernable anymore. Regardless, I’ve yielded to temptation to post some of them. But after today, no more!

Unfortunately, these faded likenesses in today’s picture come with no identification. Of course.

However, I have guesses.

On a postcard format, this picture features a man, a woman, and a young child. They appear to be inside a shop of some sort. Using the autofix feature on my Adobe Photoshop, the blurry cabinet that the subjects are standing behind seems to either contain sets of polished rocks, or—more likely—various candies and other sweet treats.

I am not so sure about the man, but the woman looks vaguely familiar. She seems to resemble one of the women in the Wrightsville Beach pictures I posted mid-summer.

Just to see if my eyes weren’t deceiving me, I decided to crop the beach photos and zero in on my suspected subject. It helps to check similarities that way, rather than flipping back and forth between pages.

Could it be that these two women are actually one and the same?

The man in the shop may have been in the beach pictures, too. At first, I had thought he was the gentleman belonging to the smiling woman with the baby, but that mother doesn’t as closely resemble this mother as does the woman I first mentioned. Perhaps another man in the beach set is the same as this shop picture’s gentleman.

And then I wonder…let my mind cause all sorts of unsubstantiated trouble. Could it be that the man in the shop is Agnes’ older brother William? After all, before 1912, he did work as a clerk in a cigar shop. Comparing this picture with a later one of William—at Agnes’ wedding in 1912, only three years before his death—there seems to be a similarity.

If this shop picture is of William Tully, then the woman at his side would be his wife, Mary Balfe Tully—a woman born and raised in Leeds County, Ontario, who married William in Chicago in 1901.

The child, then, would be their daughter, Agnes Margaret Tully, born in Chicago in 1904. We’ve already met her in another hopelessly blurry photograph as a young girl, but I have nothing else to help confirm that this is the right identity for the child in the shop photo.

At any rate, half a guess is probably better than none, and I can cling to the possibility that I now have a photograph of another branch of our Chicago-based extended Tully family. Or have originated a grave error that will be replicated for generations to come.

Beautiful Genealogies

When it comes right down to it, some people see genealogies as bare bones lists of names, dates, and connections demonstrating relationships in a family tree. Who those people were—other than the basic facts cited—becomes no clearer for having been listed within the charts or reports provided. Using the lingo of journalism, genealogy gives us the Who, Where, and When. It is truly, “Just the facts, ma’am.”

On the other hand, when people speak of family history, I see a different matter: an explanation of the What and the Why. While the newspaper reporter might focus on the facts alone, the family historian wants to move beyond cold data. The family historian wants to uncover the full chest of hidden treasure in ancestry’s story, not just settle for the pennies of a string of “factoids.”

In the genealogy blogging world, arising from the nearly three thousand of us, we see some writers intent on moving beyond merely reciting data. I’ve seen this type of movement in other disciplines throughout history, and I’m hoping this is a glimpse at a trend that will take hold and call others to join the effort.

In our modern times, when we think of the discipline of art—or, to put it more broadly, “The Arts”—we may, if we are honest with ourselves and not afraid to admit our “ignorance,” see creative efforts that may seem downright ugly, untoward, or distasteful. A trend toward beauty seems counter-intuitive to those currently immersed in these fields. And yet, music history, for one, has shown developments that have reached out toward beauty, toward an uplifted ideal.

Take the designation, in the world of opera, once known as Bel Canto: “Beautiful singing.” Whether you are an aficionado of the niche of Italian opera or not, you can appreciate the sentiment: a style of singing that upholds beauty as an ideal.

I grew up in a metropolitan area that once considered itself the center of the universe: New York City. I didn’t exactly live in any of the five boroughs, but I lived near enough to benefit from the magnificent arts and culture the region afforded. In addition, I lived in proximity to many other, lesser-known historic cultural resources, thanks to my residence on Long Island.

Many people may not be aware of just where—or what—Long Island is. For those map-challenged among us, Long Island is the fish-shaped appendage docked to the east of that better known, more celebrated port called Manhattan. People hearing the island’s name may think of a few things—mostly the Long Island Parking Lot (otherwise known as the Long Island Expressway), the Mets, Jones Beach, or even Teddy Roosevelt’s home—but not many will recall the rich historical heritage whose tokens are scattered throughout the island’s landscape.

Several years ago, I was pursuing a personal study of significant residences on Long Island dating from the 1800s. Mostly, I was focusing on the opposite end of the island—the Hamptons, in particular. Somewhere in my studies, I stumbled upon the fact that there was a name given to the style of residential architecture in vogue during the latter part of that century. Rather than taken from the Italian, as the “beautiful” designation for opera, the term for this architectural school of thought came from the French: Beaux Arts.

Beaux: beautiful. Once again, someone slipped away from the drudgery of the world into the ideal—a realm where there is no place for ugly.

I don’t know what your feelings might be about the historical context surrounding the times in which these beautiful residences were designed and built. Admittedly, there were some very ugly things happening during those times. But for those who could—through finances, ability, will power, or whatever—a cadre of leaders chose to focus not on the base or the distorted, but on the uplifting, both for the individual residences of the privileged, and for public displays of urban architecture, too.

There have been other times in history when things weren’t going so swell—and yet, someone chose to shift attention from the painful and the discouraging to the uplifting and beautiful. If you have ever studied the state of life in medieval Ireland, for instance, you know the times were fraught with risks, political collapse and chaos. Narratives like Thomas Cahill’s How the Irish Saved Civilization—whether you agree with its premise or not—give a pretty good idea of the times. And yet, despite the many opportunities to focus on the bad, that time period, too, yielded a token of choosing instead to look toward the beautiful in its exquisitely illuminated Book of Kells.

Not that all tragedies of life should be designated as ugly and shunted out of sight. It is in the handling of the story that we either benefit from the good or get dragged down with the ugly.

Why mention all that in relation to genealogy? I say this because I see a movement taking shape: people who cherish their families’ stories so much that they are not content to simply build a genealogy—no matter how well documented. These people sense the need to tell something more about their families, to pass down a history of the relatives before them who made them who they are. To know these family members they’ve never met. And to pass that knowing along to others.

In the writing of it, they discover not only their ancestors, but they discover something more about themselves. As the story becomes more compelling to them, they become part of it, too. Intertwined.

Crafted with compassion, what they write becomes beautiful. The subjects might not be beautiful in and of themselves—an alcoholic in my family’s story, for instance, or an escaped prisoner in another’s story. But in the telling of the story—and here is where we become intertwined—in our perceptions of the gifts we’ve received from that heritage, our eyes are opened to the beauty of the chain reactions of life. How the choices one person may have meant for harm bestowed unexpected benefit upon another generation. How one generation’s weakness or mistakes strengthened the next generation. How one generation’s poverty or suffering resulted in another generation’s determination and resilience. How another’s journeys became our arrivals.

To tell the beautiful story means to speak with these ancestors’ words, to mouth the sentiments they might have felt. It means ferreting out the compelling in the life lessons of a previous generation so another generation won’t have to go without.

I love what I’m seeing as these people start unfolding their families’ stories, blog post by blog post and book by book. So many new publications show me that these researchers have found their voice—actually, their ancestors’ voices—and are stepping up to tell their stories.

I’m grateful for these stories. I don’t know what genre they would be classified under, but in the tradition of Bel Canto and Beaux Arts, I consider them Beautiful Genealogies.


Above left: Incipit "Liber Generationis" of the Gospel of Matthew, from the 700 A.D. illuminated manuscript, the Lindisfarne Gospels. Below right: the "Four Evangelists" from the Book of Kells, circa 800 A.D. Both courtesy Wikipedia; both in the public domain.