Ella in Episodes

I thought about entitling this post “Polka Dot Ella.” Or maybe “Ella Through Swiss Cheese.” Something with spots through which only glimpses might be caught. You get the idea.

The aggravating thing about researching Ella Shields Bean is that I’ve been able to find early indications of her youngest years near her birthplace of Peoria, Illinois, then a smattering of her young adult life in and around San Francisco, her early married life in Redwood City in California’s San Mateo County, and then those long, endless dreary years of older life at the “Beanery” in Alameda.

Those are the “dots” in Ella’s life that I’ve been able to find—mostly pre-Internet, usually at California’s state library in Sacramento, and often while sitting on the floor next to some quite-inaccessible index file in a dusty corner of the old building.

The problem is that I have not yet been able to figure out how to connect those dots.

So consider this next series of posts on Ella Shields Bean to be my genealogically-inspired Rorschach ink-blot test. Or my roots-inspired Jackson Pollack creation. Or my Oscar Madison throw-the-spaghetti-on-the-wall-and-see-if-it-sticks technique. You take your choice.

To whichever style you prefer to liken my approach, here’s the bottom line: despite the hodgepodge of documentary evidence, I’ll try to post the story as consecutively as possible, moving through the timeline of Ella’s life in a relatively orderly fashion. But there are no guarantees that all my long-filed research results will magically glom on to my fingertips the moment I reach for them. Above all, there is little to no hope that I’ll be able to conjure up second copies of documentation to cover those missing segments of Ella’s life story.

As researchers, we do what we must do. All the rest…well, all the rest will hopefully appear with the next addition to the databases at all our favorite genealogy websites.

So here’s the overview on Ella. Based on her daughter Leona’s notes, Ella Shields was born to William and Margaret Marsh Shields in Peoria, Illinois on April 22, 1865—placing her right in the middle of what turned out to be a good-sized family.

Somehow—and here is an example of those spots I know nothing about—Ella and the rest of the Shields family surfaced in the San Francisco Bay Area around the time of the 1880 census. They resided in San Mateo County, most likely in Redwood City.

Whether the Shields family actually lived in San Francisco before or after that time, I don’t know. However, for whatever reason, Ella Shields chose a photographer in San Francisco for her portrait when she was twenty years of age. Her likeness was taken at

Elite Photographic Studio

838 Market Street, Opposite Fourth

San Francisco

Medal awarded over all competitors for the Best

Photographs at the State Fair 1879

Medal awarded over all competitors for the Best

Photographs at the Mechanics’ Institute Fair 1880

Jones & Lotz.

Ella’s photograph was most likely taken in 1885. In the copy I now possess, one end of the card was evidently cut off to make room to display it in a frame.

Someone—maybe her daughter Leona in later years, though it doesn’t appear to be her handwriting—wrote a brief label on the reverse: “Ella Shields  20yr.”

She was still listed only as Ella Shields, for she had not yet gotten married. That event didn’t occur for another four years—another “dot” which we will save for another day.

Taking a Step Back in Time

While there are so many more photographs that I have yet to identify in the mystery box from Bill Bean and his sister, Leona Bean Grant, I think it is time to move on and delve into the stories of the previous generation.

You’ve already met their mother, Ella Shields Bean, in past posts, but let’s re-acquaint ourselves with the woman we’ll focus on in the next few days as we push the timeline back from the mid 1900s to the previous century.

Ella Bean may have sensed that she was not photogenic—or perhaps cared little for such “new-fangled” contraptions as Bill’s Polaroid cameras. She did, however, have a persistent son who loved to tinker with machines and see what they could do to make life easier or more enjoyable.

I imagine Bill—who, as an adult, lived for much of his younger married life as his mother’s next door neighbor—would often stop by his mom’s place, pop his head in the door, and call out, “Hey, mom, come look at this!”

Why do I imagine that?

Because I have a number of photographs of the aging Ella Bean, sitting at that very same  front entryway to her home, putting up with Bill’s photographic experiments.

One—thankfully labeled on the reverse, “Mother + Chang, 1940”—even bears the imprint of someone’s misplaced fingerprints. I imagine those prints belong to Bill…in more ways than one.

Ella, who for several years also provided housing for her other son—Sam, Bill’s blind and deaf twin brother—was live-in grandmother to two active boys as well. Chang may well have provided some canine companionship not only for Ella, but for her young charges as well.

By 1940, the date of this photograph, Ella would have been seventy five years of age. She most likely had been living in that same home in Alameda, California, for over twenty years—a story we’ll take a closer look at in the next few days.

Another photo—making it seem much as if Ella did nothing all day but sit on her front stoop—was labeled, “Ella Shields Bean, 82 years.”

More likely, it was her son, once again saying, “Come on out in the sunlight and let me take your picture.”

By the time Ella reached that age, it would have been 1947—less than two years before her passing. And yet, she still retained that strong, no-nonsense appearance of several years prior. I often wonder how similar she might have been, at that age, to the way I remember her daughter Leona being in her older years. After all, in their younger years, Leona took after her mother so much.

Though there are very few treasures in Bill Bean’s mystery box of photographs that reveal the younger Ella Shields Bean, I have been able to retrace Ella’s steps and connect with her family stories through research I did years ago at the California State Library. Long before the advent of personal computers—and certainly before the age of the Internet—I was still able to ferret out gems regarding Ella May’s early years of marriage to Leon Samuel Bean, and even stories from her family after they settled in Fresno, California.

In the upcoming week, I’ll share some of those details as we turn our attention to what can be discovered about a much younger Ella Shields Bean.

Inside the Polaroid Land Camera Box

Since I mentioned Bill Bean’s wife Ellen yesterday, I may as well take the time now to share what little I know about her. At least I have pictures, even if I don’t have any more information.

Ellen seems to be a cornerstone upon which the identity of several mystery photographs hinges. I’ve mentioned before that I received all these family photos, jumbled up in one big heap, kept in a box labeled “Polaroid Land Camera, Model 95.”

Admittedly, the box—sturdy enough, I’ll grant you—may have made a handy make-shift storage container at the beginning. But after a lifetime, one would think a family could come up with a better storage solution.

And, of course, since that storage box ended up not only retaining the photo memories of Bill and his wife’s families, it also eventually got augmented by the photos that Bill’s sister Leona left behind at her passing in 1977.

It’s those photos from Ellen’s family that leave me clueless. How can I connect to a family for whom I have no surname?

Try as I can, I have not been able to find any record online of Bill’s marriage to Ellen. Since I don’t know which county Ellen came from, attempting to search each county’s records would be impractical—even if I did have the date of their marriage. And that I don’t have. I’m not likely to discover it, either, as Ellen passed away long before Bill did, and there’s no one left in the family to help me on this one.

Unless, of course, one of the many online genealogical resources just happens to add more data on California marriages that would include their information. I’d even take a newspaper announcement—if I could find one online!

At this point, I’m left with only those photographic hints left behind—surviving a second marriage, in fact—in Bill’s Polaroid box.

I mentioned before that Bill certainly liked having his picture taken besides some of his favorite cars. Well, that goes for his wife, too. I told you before that some of the Bean family women also sported some stylin’ wheels.

Take this example: Ellen in a photo dated December, 1957. When it comes to identifying makes and models, I’m no expert, but I’m sure someone in the Bean family favored this one.

One of the earliest photographs I have of Ellen is undated, but if you look closely at the background in this snapshot, you can see a car which might give an idea of the date of the picture. I wouldn’t be surprised if the scene of the picture was the Beanery in Alameda, which evidently was a duplex that Bill and Ellen split with Bill’s mother, Ella Shields Bean.

Judging from the many outdoor photographs in Bill’s collection, the couple enjoyed traveling, and seemed to favor the rugged grandeur of locations like Yosemite. While I can’t be certain of the location of this final photograph that I’ll share of Ellen, it certainly appeared to be a mountain getaway.

Along with Ellen and Bill Bean, I believe the woman to the left of Bill was his sister, Leona. A fourth person—the woman standing next to Ellen—is someone I can’t identify.

Yet.

Which reminds me again of how much easier this whole task of sorting out the Polaroid box contents might have been if someone had taken the time, back then, to label those photos. But when we take photos for our own benefit, why would we think of who else might be interested, later, in knowing?

Taking Another Look

I found another picture. And I changed my mind. I don’t think it’s a picture of a mother; I think she’s a grandmother.

Remember the mystery family whose photograph I found the other day? The one with the label on the back—helpfully listing each child’s name and age…but never mentioning their surname?

I need to revisit that photo. And compare it with another one.

On the photo I posted on Sunday, I mentioned that the names listed were for siblings Peggy, Ricky and Brad. Naturally, I had presumed that the two adults in the picture with these children were their own parents.

Now that I look back on that scene, it has me wondering. Would the dad of a seven year old have such a pronounced receding hairline? Granted, I went to college with a guy who started going bald when he was nineteen, but I think that’s unusual.

And the woman? Maybe I’m letting the hairstyles of the fifties fool me into thinking this was just a young mom with an old-fashioned hairdo. Maybe the case really was one of a grandmother with a then-currently-fashionable fifties style.

Context is everything. If I’m looking at a 1950s photo, I need to approach viewing it with 1950s eyes.

Here’s the photo I just found. Unless I’m mistaken, it is a snapshot of the same woman as was in the photograph I posted on Sunday. I dunno…could it be the same outfit, even? Maybe taken that very same day?

Taking a look at her appearance in this individual portrait, I suddenly don’t think “young mom.” I start sliding towards “proud Grandma.” Of course, I don’t know the history of hair coloring (even though I’m old enough to remember the tag line “Only her hairdresser knows for sure"). Then again, this is a black and white photograph, so maybe even the photography can fill in the blanks when it comes to hair color.

I once again wonder who this woman is. Although the photographs I’ve received—all jumbled into one box—were actually from two families, I tend to feel that this one might have come from Bill Bean’s collection, rather than his sister Leona’s. My tendency is to think this might be a relation of Bill’s first wife, Ellen—whom I’ve not yet introduced to you.

The difficulty in forging any link to Ellen’s family is that I know virtually nothing about her except her name, and what she looked like in family photos. I never met her. I don’t even know what her maiden name was. And I’m sure not having any luck finding such rudimentary facts in all the usual research places.

So Ellen will have to remain a mystery person, even though I’ll be posting some pictures that include her in the next few days.

And as long as Bill’s Ellen remains a mystery to me, this other woman—whether mom or grandma—will have to remain anonymous, too.

And you know how I just can’t abide mysteries…

Another Clue Adds Another Dot

On a torn photograph destined for the trash bin, I found an inked-in mark that hardly even resembled the arrow it was intended to be. Most likely, in her later years, Leona Bean Grant was trying to leave explanations of the highlights of her life, using old photographs as prompts to scrawl notes on the reverse in her open, shaky hand.

Perhaps it was her failing eyesight that shaped the handwriting. The arrow added to the picture barely even looked like an arrow. Some of the ink had smeared on the face of the photo. And the photo itself seemed so non-descript.

This time, though, I was looking at it with fresh eyes. I had just yesterday posted a group snapshot of an event, in which I had paid close attention to the faces. The event seemed like a party, with everyone having a grand time. So grand, in fact, that I was having trouble determining the identity of the faces. One woman, though, had stood out, having been featured in another photo I posted alongside this one—according to the legend on the reverse, named either Hazel or Nibs. Let’s say she’s Hazel.

Though the picture I’m looking at today, with its smeared ink and shaky arrow, seems so poorly framed as to nearly leave out the subjects of the photo—almost cut out of the bottom of the picture entirely—this time, I spot something that is now familiar: Hazel’s face.

Yes, this crazy picture, looking more like the misfiring of the camera than a thoughtfully-composed photograph, belongs with the one from yesterday’s post.

Which is a good thing to know, for on the reverse, it contains an explanation:

Rented for $15.00 per mo. Our group of friends had a party here once a mo. Was used by other members.

Since I have been able to tell, thanks to city directories posted online at Ancestry.com, that Leona lived in San Francisco during the 1920s, it is very possible that this party rental was situated in the hills in San Francisco, itself. While it might not be evident in this scanned copy of the photo, in the original, I can see some of the contour of the land and the types of greenery one would expect to see toward the west side of the city.

While the photography was abysmal, and the legend scant and barely legible, once paired with the other, better-composed, snapshot, provides a fuller explanation. Whether Leona was a party girl in her San Francisco years, or just a socially-inclined young urban professional, she certainly ran with a large group of friends.

What a different sense this leaves of a personality that I recall only as an eccentric old lady.

A Rollicking Good Time

Frankly, I have to say Leona keeps me guessing. I can’t ever be sure whether to search for “Leona Bean” or “Leona Grant” in the various databases designed to help us piece together our family history. She’s led me on a merry chase, home in Alameda, California, with mom—that’s Ella Shields Bean—as a single student in 1916, then home again with mom by 1934 as a “Mrs.” Somewhere in between (mostly in the 1920s), she shows up in city directories in San Francisco, listed by the surname Grant, but with no husband in sight, and with her own occupation listed as “trained nurse.”

Whatever Leona was, whether married or not, she was an independent woman.

Perhaps the marked absence of any photos of Mr. Grant—whoever he might have been—is telling in its own right.

In his place, though, are a few photographs of Leona with friends. In one sedate pose with two other women, the vignette is captured in what appears to be a forest-like setting, and yet, each of the women seems dressed for an occasion that doesn’t quite fit the surroundings.

Thankfully, Leona saw fit to mark the photograph with some names—although which name belongs to which woman, I can’t tell. I do know for sure that Leona was in the center of this threesome. But I can’t guarantee that she didn’t get struck with a stubborn streak at that very moment of inscribing the names. Is it left to right—Hazel, Leona, Nibs—or could it have been right to left?

Whichever of the three was pictured on the right, she has a memorable face that shows up in a delightful group photograph, possibly taken at that same woodland retreat. Does that mean that she is Hazel? That name shows up in both photos, but would mean the first snapshot was not labeled in the traditional left-to-right format. And who is Nibs? What would Nibs be the nickname for?

When I see that picture, I wonder if it had been taken during a break in a work convention of some sort. The names on the back of this photo are not of Bean family surnames, making me wonder if they are coworkers. Unfortunately, again, there seems to be no order in the labeling of the photo. Actually, several faces go nameless—but which ones? Perhaps the ones with only first names listed are either really good friends, sure to never be forgotten like Hazel, or people who have just been met at the event, for whom full names were not obtained at such short notice.

Whoever they were, Leona wanted to remember: Hazel, Nel Gates, Edna Swaney (or Sweeney?), Judy, Viola, and Ann Hughes.

Listing her own name last does not guarantee that Leona is the last in the lineup, however.

Come to think of it, I can’t even find Leona’s face anywhere. Is she the photographer this time? Or just laughing so hard, she doesn’t even look like her familiar self?

Whoever they all are, they each are having just the most wonderful time.

Connecting the Dots

Sometimes, a box full of unidentified photographs, handed over to the keeper of the family history archives after a relative’s passing, can seem a hopeless task to address. Whose faces are those? Who is left to tell us the names?

I know that feeling all too well, having taken one long look at the jumbled stacks of old pictures from family members one-generation-removed. That was the case for me in receiving the boxes of photos from Leona Bean Grant after her passing in 1977—and then again when her brother William Bean died in 1982.

It’s taken a couple of go-rounds—or maybe more—before I could find any clues to help guide me through the maze of unidentified faces. And, truth be told, I’ve taken quite a few years’ hiatus from the task, as you can see.

Bit by bit, though, I notice patterns, like similar faces from one picture surfacing in another photograph. And, thankfully, there were notes written—some by Leona’s mother, Ella Shields Bean, and some by Leona, herself.

Remember this photograph of a young Leona, sitting next to an unidentified young woman, with her brother Sam and another young friend, in front of their home in Alameda, California?

I found another picture with what looks like the same mystery man.

Thankfully, that second photo included an inscription, written most likely by Leona’s mother, providing additional information.

Say Leona do you remember this picture of you + Ray Burke I think it was taken about 1909 or 1910—Don’t loose this picture + that the only one I have of you in your youth—I think it’s lovely.

So could that mean that the mystery person in the first photo was also Ray Burke? He seemed to have that same playful personality. And since the foursome included Leona and her brother, could that mean that the missing identity belongs to the sister of this Ray Burke?

While that only provides a bit of a hint, it gives me a name to keep an eye out for, should any more pictures show up with that face. Though I don’t yet know who Ray Burke is, I can take a glance at the Alameda census records for 1910 and see if there is anyone with that name and age listed near the “Beanery” on Santa Clara Avenue. Or, who knows…maybe Ray Burke will even turn out to be family, himself.