A Little Collection of Americana

It took yet another trip over the weekend before I could achieve my Fourth of July goal. The bonus was that there were three additional pieces to add to my new Southern Potteries collection when I returned to the antique shop on the day it finally was open.

If strike one was forgetting to check the shop on the evening when we were first in town and strike two came when I drove back on the Fourth of July—a twenty minute drive to the north of my home—then I’m certainly glad that my third trip was a charm and not my chance to strike out.

The prize was the platter and serving bowl I had spied while in town on another errand last week—two pieces of Blue Ridge china made at the company where my grand aunt Chevis Davis Chitwood Kyte once worked as a decorator in Erwin, Tennessee.

The unexpected bonus was the discovery of a serving piece and salt and pepper shakers in an entirely different pattern, also a design of Southern Potteries, Inc.

While collecting pieces of Blue Ridge China may be all the rage in some circles, that is not why I succumbed to the notion of becoming a collector. My purpose is not to learn everything there is to know about the many unique patterns which sprang from this creative enclave—and believe me, there are some who are well versed in every permutation—but simply to have and to hold a piece of my own family’s heritage. When I look at these faded pieces with their crackled glaze, I see not the product lines of a commercial entity, but the handiwork of someone just like my aunt, working where she used to work, doing what she used to do, day in and day out in her own hometown.

If genealogy as a concept could ever become converted to something tangible, this is it. Getting my hands on those pieces of china is like reaching out to touch someone in my family whom I never had the chance to know.

An Unobtrusive Life

While Charles Andrew Creahan, well-known businessman in the Chicago area, saw his life’s trajectory arc from obscure origin as the son of Irish-Americans in rural Indiana to successful board member and president of his own company, his sister Edna never left her quiet life in Lafayette. Second-born child of John and May Frawley Creahan, she was welcomed into the world on an undisclosed day in January, 1895, and remained in town until her burial there in 1961.

What little can be discovered about Edna is now there online for all the world to see: census records for 1900 through 1940 (though the record for 1900 won’t come up in FamilySearch, nor will the record for 1940 come up on Ancestry), city directories as late as 1960, and the entry provided at the end of the tale, courtesy of the volunteers at Find A Grave.

There was, of course, a smattering of newspaper mentions, thanks to online newspaper archiving services. For instance, the Bloomington Evening World mentioned, on the front page of its August 14, 1917, edition:

Miss Edna Creaham, of Lafayette, is the guest of Lyman Fulk and family and Mrs. Ella Fulk, south Grant street.

Other than a visit to her aunt and cousin, however, not many details emerged that could help a family history buff reconstruct a sense of Edna Creahan’s life. She never married, it is clear, and remained in the family home, likely until the time of her own passing. There was never a mention of career or even temporary occupation in the census records, nor in the Lafayette city directories.

Into such a dearth of information, a mind steeped in family history research would rush in to fill the vacuum with questions. What did she do all day long? Who peopled her social circles? What did she think of her lot in life? Did she act the wallflower as foil for her brother’s obvious flair for success? Did she resent her role in life?

If we were discussing a recluse as notable as Emily Dickinson, we could flip through the pages of her poetry as confirmation that yes, this was a life worth knowing. In stark contrast, with a life as obscure as Edna’s, she could have been a darling of her social circle, but without a significant product or service to define her, hers was a life unconfirmed, a slate left blank. To be remembered, a life needs someone to report it.

In Passing

If it weren’t for a passing mention in a business report regarding the board of directors of an East Chicago bank, I wouldn’t have known anything about Charles Creahan’s death—well, other than to assume that a man born in 1892 would certainly no longer be with us. Just as had occurred with other Kelly family descendants such as his cousin, Lyman Fulk, any news of Charles’ last days was wrapped in silence. There was nothing to find online—no obituary, no burial record through Find A Grave or other such websites.

I tried seeing if I could flush those details out of hiding by searching for any information on the last days of his wife, Mabel. I have a tentative location for her own death—the area around Dayton, Ohio—but even she fell through the cracks when it comes to obituaries available online or through the Montgomery County library’s obituary index. And really, if it wasn't our Mabel who moved to Ohio to reside with an as-yet unnamed daughter, this may well turn out to be a search for a woman who ends up being someone else with the same name.

It was one of those newspapers that did get included in an online archive that provided me my only hint as to what became of Charles Creahan. Thankful that NewspaperArchive.com had included The Hammond Times in their collection, I was able to locate this one entry. Note how Charles’ name and date of his death were sandwiched in between what is otherwise an extraneous list of names of former business associates in this Sunday newspaper mention on January 12, 1958—so you won't miss the point, as I almost had done, I've highlighted the pertinent phrase. This was not an easy find—nor does it help me discover just where it was Charles Creahan passed away, or even where he was buried.

Riley Banks Elect Four New Directors

            Four new directors have been elected to the boards of the First National Bank and the Union National Bank in East Chicago.

            They are Edwin J. Carlson, president of the Indiana Forge and Machine Co.; Edgar J. Higgins, president of the Pepsi-Cola Bottling Co. of East Chicago; Thomas J. Leyden, executive vice president of Riley Company, and Ivy J. Shuman, executive vice president of the two banks.

            The new directors replace Charles A. Creahan, retired former president of the Calumet Foundry and Machine Co. of East Chicago, who died Aug. 26; Oliver E. Mount, presently an industrial consultant and former secretary-treasurer of American Steel Foundries, who now lives in Franklin, Tenn.; John J. Block, who retired Dec. 31 as a vice president of Riley Company after 41 years’ service, and Joseph S. Walkowiak, who retired Dec. 31 as vice president of the Union National Bank after 43 years of service.

As American as Apple Pie

While you may be busy today, occupying yourself with picnics in the park—or barbecues in the backyard—I am fervently hoping to add one unusual item to my holiday to-do list: visit an antique shop.

Yes, I know there are traditions more American than that, made to fill up this national day of celebration. Come to think of it, unlike some people I know, I find antiquing is not even my cup of tea. Or, ahem, grande caramel frappucino. But for this holiday weekend, I am going to add that one item to the list.

I have a specific reason for this task: I’m hoping, in some small way, to commemorate an ancestor I’ve never met, personally, whose life has lived on in the childhood stories I remember from my mother: my grand aunt, Chevis Davis Chitwood Kyte.

My daughter has long been trying to talk me into driving to a town to the north of us, to browse through the antique stores downtown. It was just the other day that I finally agreed to join her. I had something specific I needed to find. We were on a mission, and she knew just the place to accommodate my hope to quickly accomplish that goal.

But you can’t just rush into an antique shop, grab your selected item, slap some money on the counter and run out the door. There is an ambience to the place that must be respected, a protocol to heed. Life inside the doors of an antique shop must move at the proper pace.

While I was following my daughter—the one more experienced in such antique-shop decorum—I tried to feign interest in the, well, junk (don’t kill me yet—I promise this will be a worthwhile divertissement) cluttering the aisles and closing in on me from the walls. I couldn’t help but notice two out-of-place pieces of pottery on a humble wooden stand.

I picked one up to have a closer look.

And then, turned it over, just in case.

If you have been journeying with me through the research on my family tree that I have been journaling all along here, perhaps you recall the story of my grand aunt Chevis. It was she whose rather painful life experiences ended in an early death from cancer. These life experiences, I’m hoping, were somehow assuaged by the beauty Chevis created at her job at the pottery company in her hometown Erwin, Tennessee. You may recall the post I wrote about that same Southern Potteries company.

I never had inherited any pottery from that cheerful collection of now-renowned folksy artwork—believe me, after my own aunt passed away last November, I looked carefully through all her collectibles, hoping there was a piece to commemorate our common relative. The style of the artwork, however, was imprinted in my mind’s eye. One never knows, ya know?

Fast forward to that moment when I—stranger in an antique shop, trying not to look to my left or my right, fixed solely on the task I had come to accomplish, spending not one penny more—walked past those two items. They were marked with the right name, but something was wrong. There was a smear on the wording. The familiar logo wasn’t included. But the style…the style seemed right.

I can be a tightwad when it comes to spending money unintentionally. Besides, I’m a researcher. So, what did I do? Resist the urge to buy—and promise myself I’d research the identifying stamp further when I got home.

Last night, it just so happened that we were joining friends for an early Fourth of July concert in the park in that very same town to the north. Afterwards, we planned to wander the downtown area, which on Thursday evenings is converted to a farmer’s market and street faire. I promised myself I’d take a detour into that antique shop, in the hopes that those two Southern Potteries pieces were still there. After all, these two are my piece of America. My roots are intertwined in the history of that company.

Of course, I got caught up in the moment, and forgot my mission for the evening. But I’m already determined to make another trip. Part of me is hoping the two items are still there, and that I can still buy them at the reasonable asking price. The other part of me is nagging, “But why are they so cheap?”

That’s the part of me that I will be telling, “Shut up.”

All in a Day’s Work

When you can’t find what you’re looking for, go look for something else.

I hadn’t been making any further headway on researching the descendants of our family’s Kelly line from 1850s Lafayette, Indiana. At this point, I was having trouble finding anything more on one particular descendant: Charles A. Creahan.

Since Charles served, ultimately, as president of the Calumet Foundry and Machine Company of East Chicago, I took a different approach: I searched for the name of his company as well. Though by the 1950s, he was apparently retired and enjoying life in his sixties—as we saw in the few details I had discovered yesterday—as Charles aged, he seemed to leave behind less and less of his whereabouts or life story for people like me to find. Even the typical accoutrements of genealogical pursuit—the obituary and burial records—have eluded me.

However, there was this one newspaper entry in The Hammond Times near his Indiana residence that gave me a glimpse of yet another business responsibility that Charles Creahan had taken on. In addition to his role as president of his own business, Charles Creahan had also served—albeit for an undisclosed period of time—on the board of the First National Bank. The newspaper reported on January 12, 1958:

            Four new directors have been elected to the boards of the First National Bank and the Union National Bank in East Chicago…

            The new directors replace Charles A. Creahan, retired former president of the Calumet Foundry and Machine Co. of East Chicago…

Curious to see what could be found about the man via this new detail about his professional pursuits, I Googled “First National Bank.” Unfortunately, that name turns out to be a rather generic term for many banks across the land—even internationally. But not for any bank in East Chicago—at least, not any that I could find.

However, there was one small detail I uncovered that provided confirmation that there was a bank known as the First National Bank of East Chicago. That bank, it just so happened, was the site of the January 15, 1934, robbery staged by none other than John Herbert Dillinger.

Of course, I can’t help but wonder whether our Charles Creahan was on the bank’s board at the time of the robbery—and what the conversations might have been like in his office and around town after that episode. When our genealogical research leads us (digitally, at least) through the dusty archives and decaying documents droning on with statistics concerning our ancestors, that dry sort of ambience has a way of rubbing off on our spirits. We begin to think our ancestors’ lives—just like the time-blanched papers we lift them from—must have been routine, uneventful, boring. They were born. They went to school. They worked hard to get their start in life. And maybe they were successful and got to enjoy life a bit before it was—too soon—all over.

But then, out of the fringes of the narrative, a wild story—like the Dillinger gang blazing into town—wakes us up to the possibility that life could have been startling and unpredictable for our ancestors, just as it sometimes is for us.

Above: "Wanted" poster issued by the United States' Bureau of Investigation in 1934 for John Dillinger; courtesy Wikipedia; in the public domain.

Off to See the World

After years of successful hard work—finding himself on the board of a Chicago area foundry at a young age, then working his way up to become president of the company—Charles A. Creahan must have thought it was finally time to retire and enjoy the fruit of his labor. It was at this point that newspaper clippings and documents began to reveal a glimpse of his personal life.

A passenger list of the S. S. Lurline, sailing from San Francisco on June 30, 1950, revealed that the fifty seven year old Charles and his wife Mabel were about to enjoy a vacation in Honolulu.

Two years later, Charles and Mabel surfaced as snowbirds in Florida. Mary Lou Wade’s “Broward Society” column of the March 12, 1952, edition of the Miami Daily News divulged the fact that

Mr. and Mrs. Charles A. Creahan of Chicago celebrated their thirty-eighth wedding anniversary with a dinner party for their friends Friday evening at the Radio Club. The couple is vacationing until March 22 at the Warren Apartments. Among their guests were Mr. and Mrs. Edward Carpenter from Miami Springs, who were celebrating their thirty-ninth anniversary.

A couple years after that, the Creahans were sailing in another direction, departing from the Big Apple on the Holland-America Line’s S.S. Nieuw Amsterdam, headed for the port of Southampton. The passenger list, indicating their First Class passage, noted the Creahans had plans to stay at the Parklane Hotel in London. It was May 28, 1954, and the two travelers were now each sixty two years of age.

Perhaps there were many delightful trips ahead of them after this point. I have no way of knowing, though, for that digital window opened up to reveal that sliver of retirement life, then closed just as unexpectedly. I couldn’t find any further mention of Charles and Mabel Creahan or their exciting travel plans—or anything else, for that matter—until one final business report a few years later.


Photograph, above: The Matson Lines' passenger ship, S.S. Lurline as it approached Pier 10 in Honolulu, circa 1930; courtesy the U.S. National Park Service gallery via Wikipedia; in the public domain.

Hints and Snares

While it must have been a darling occasion—Chicago friends’ social calendar event of the year—the 1938 marriage of Helen Creahan and Robert Lee Woods ushered in a phase of family history research that I find most challenging: researching surnames as commonplace as Woods.

The first step, admittedly, wasn’t so difficult. The young couple made their home with Helen’s parents for a few years—conveniently coinciding with the tabulation of the 1940 census. Thus, I got a head start with the record of the Woods’ first child, Joan.

It wasn’t until long afterwards—and after sidestepping a tempting snare to accept, wholesale, some shaky-leaf “hints” extended to me on Ancestry.com—that I discovered any information on the Woods’ second child, and, indeed, regarding the final chapter in their own life story.

It was a dubious snare, that Ancestry “hint” that sought to convince me that Helen May Creahan Woods had ultimately reverted to her maiden name—possibility of divorce hinted at, here?—and spent her last days near Buffalo, New York. It seemed to be a reasonable hint. After all, the only date of birth I had found, up to that point, was the census estimate of her birth year as 1916. The Social Security Death Index helpfully suggested that the date should rather be July 31, 1917. Some Public Record Index entries shouted their agreement by supplying that middle initial “M”—see? that surely fits nicely with Helen’s middle name, May—to convince all unwary family history passers-by that this Helen M. Creahan died on September 27, 2008, in Erie County, New York.

Perhaps she did.

I, however—and this may come as no surprise to you—was hesitant about swallowing that presumption. After all, what happened to Robert? Not everyone who lived through the tempestuous sixties and beyond must yield to the midlife crisis scourge of divorce. I needed some additional information before I could assume this was a valid hint.

Sometimes, when Ancestry.com and FamilySearch.org seem to come up empty-handed, I take my questions to Google to see what might happen. Admittedly, there is a gap of time between those archived moments considered old enough to be called “historic” and those dates new enough to be claimed by the “digital age,”—and that is one of the hardest time periods to research. But sometimes Google can cut through that dilemma.

Sure enough, I struck just the right combination of search terms—juxtaposing names Helen, Creahan and Woods—to find an index created by the Michigan City, Indiana, Public Library. While Michigan City isn’t as cutting edge as Monroe County in its services to deliver obituary copies to the ever-demanding American genealogy-researching public, it provides at least an electronic starting point. There in the sixty one listings for all Woods obituaries ever published in the Michigan City News Dispatch was an entry for Robert L. Woods. Granted, there were two different entries for a Helen Woods, siphoning off some of my confidence in this resource—after all, to even find out which of the two was the correct entry for our Helen, I’d have to snail mail my five bucks to them, along with a stamped, self-addressed envelope—but there was one more line in the index that buoyed my hope: an entry for someone named Charles Creahan Woods.

Who else would name her kid Charles Creahan Woods? This, in my opinion, was a promising sign.

The trail didn’t end there. As many letters to penpals as I put out in my younger years, I now am awful at playing the snail mail game, so I knew I had to look for an alternative. That, I found in one subscription service that happened to carry the Michigan City newspaper: GenealogyBank. Thankfully, the younger Woods’ obituary fit within the time period carried by GenealogyBank and though the man no longer lived in town, because of his parents’ roots there, the paper had carried a report of his passing.

That, in the end, was the very thing standing between me and getting sucked in by "helpful" hints that would have led me in the wrong direction in my research. Call it a sixth sense developed after years of steeping in genealogical material, but it can also be beginner’s luck just as easily. Whichever way it is, I’m thankful for the ability to keep looking until that second bit of corroborating evidence finds its way into my hands.