Remote? Or Coincidental?

I suppose there is always the chance—no matter how remote—that two genea-bloggers might share the same ancestor. We certainly have equipped ourselves to be able to determine that, should we stumble upon familiar surnames in each other's posts. After all, I've already discovered that my Genealogy Angel and D.A.R. guide, Sheri Fenley, and I are umpteenth cousins, courtesy of that long-standing (and prolific) Taliaferro line.

What are the chances that I'd meet another blogger-turned-relative?

Well, it turns out, while working on this latest goal—documenting my in-laws' connection to a D.A.R. Patriot—I was reminded to check a particular surname in my husband's DNA test results.

The way it happened was this: each time I work my way down through the lines of descent from a sibling of an ancestor, if that sibling was a woman who married, I check to see if the newly-added spouse's surname matches any of the people on our DNA test results. This weekend, I stumbled upon a surname which evidently has more than one intermarriage with my husband's mother's line—but one which I hadn't checked before on his DNA match list.

I headed over to my husband's list of DNA matches to plug in that surname, but while I meant to enter the name in its proper place—"Ancestral Surnames"—I had entered it in the slot used to search for other test participants by their own name.

Five results popped up. One of them included a picture of the participant.

Right away, I recognized the photo. It was for a fellow genea-blogger.

My immediate thought was, "Cool. We match!"

Then, I got to thinking about it. If anyone from my family was going to match this person, it should have been me. I've often read this blogger's posts, amazed at how our ancestors walked the same streets in the same town and surely must have known each other.

I took a look at the blogger's list of ancestral surnames. There even was one that matched a surname that was married into my line. But, wait! This was supposed to be a DNA match to my husband's line. How did that happen?

Of course, the relationship is noted as distant—"5th Cousin to Remote Cousin"—but nonetheless, it was there. In his list of results. Not mine.

I shot off an email right away. If we can't find the nexus for our match—and it's quite likely we won't—at least it's good for a chuckle.

But it also gives pause to consider how significant a percentage of test returns those Identical by State results might be.

Meanwhile, though I'm hot in pursuit of a new genealogical goal, I haven't forgotten about my duty to keep bi-monthly tabs on my progress. Yes, it's that time again. So I'll break in here to check on the count in each tree.

This new goal has certainly energized the work on this particular line. In the past two weeks, I was able to add 159 individuals to my husband's maternal tree, bringing the total number of people there to 1265. And, as I had predicted last time, with the influx of a new batch of DNA tests from conferences and the Global Family Reunion extravaganza, this tree gained seven more DNA matches—albeit all distant ones.

Sadly, in all the enthusiasm over my husband's maternal line, his paternal side suffered from lack of attention. The total count there still stands at 877.

Likewise, in my own trees, the paternal side stood nearly stock still. The only improvement—thanks to that discovery of an old marriage record for Aunt Rose—was the addition of the two names listed in that document. Of course, those names, as we've already seen, led us nowhere. But at least now I have 150 in my paternal tree.

Because my maternal tree enjoyed the boost from my project to find the nexus with my "mystery cousin," the first of only two "exact match" results for my mtDNA test, that meant adding 173 names to my own maternal tree. The count there now stands at 4509. And yet, I'm still no closer to an answer than before. However, I'll let that puzzle percolate in the back of my mind while I attend to this task of finding documentation to connect my husband's family with their own D.A.R. Patriot.

And who knows? Maybe that remote cousin in my husband's DNA matches will turn out to be more than just a coincidence, too.

Starting From What We Know

One rule of thumb, in genealogical research, is to move incrementally from what we know toward what we hope to discover. No sudden moves. No surmising. That step-by-step discipline will lead you straight to the information you are seeking.

Right?

In working on my mother-in-law's family lines over the years, I had pushed back gradually, following that precept. For whatever reason, when I got to the point of Nancy Ann Jackson Snider on my mother-in-law's matrilineal line, I had stopped.

Then came a trip back east. We just happened to need to drive from Chicago to Columbus, Ohio. If we took just a little detour from the usual Interstate route through Indy, we could pass through Fort Wayne.

If you've been doing genealogical research for any amount of time, you know what that means. Do not pass go. Do not do anything else until you've stopped at the Allen County Public Library.

Why? They've got a genealogical center with holdings setting them in the number two position, behind Salt Lake City, for family history research. Actually, amend that: since the Family History Library in Salt Lake City is considered to be a private library, when it comes to the Allen County library, it is considered to have the largest public genealogy collection in the United States.

So I stop when I drive through Fort Wayne.

It was the last stop I had made to that wonderful reference collection that provided the clue that led me to realize that it might not be wise for me to discontinue my research with Nancy. Rather than be the end of the research line, Nancy might just open the door to the beginning of an interesting pursuit.

Since we need to approach this new foray incrementally, let's take a look at what material I have gathered for Nancy Ann Jackson Snider over the years.

One of the first items easily discovered for Nancy Ann was that there was apparently another married woman by the same name in Perry County, Ohio—so I was forewarned to tread carefully among the pages of that county's history. After living her entire life within the confines of Perry County, the woman I later learned was the other widow Nancy Ann Snider had died in 1891 at the age of seventy four. Our Nancy Ann lived her eighty three years, nine months and eight days until 1905. Besides, unlike her name twin, our Nancy Ann was born in nearby Fairfield County—a little research detail which will come in handy, later.

In addition, a trip to the cemetery at the Sniders' hometown church in Somerset quickly confirmed our choice of which Nancy Ann to favor. Our Nancy Ann was married to Simon Snider—on October 25, 1841, to be specific—although even here, the record was riddled with errors. Warning number two: beware of bureaucrats making mistakes in official documents. Although the note in the margin of page 38 of the Perry County Marriage Records, volume three, had listed "Simon Snider to Nancy Jackson," the handwritten statement read,

I do certify that I did on the 25 day of October A.D. 1841 solemnize the marriage of Simon Snider and Nancy Johnson.

Johnson? Really? Make my day.

Those slips of the pen didn't end there. Remember, research needs to progress incrementally—and here I am, jumping all over the place in my data-dumping rush to tell you everything. So let's look at what we can find in the census records.

Since our Nancy Ann died in 1905, the most recent census record for her was the 1900 census. There, as a widow living with one of her married daughters, Nancy Ann reported that she was the mother of fourteen children, eight of whom were still living—eight more opportunities to verify the details reported in Nancy Ann's life records. That was pretty much the same story, moving back through all the census records until arriving at the 1860 census.

Since Simon, Nancy Ann's husband, had died in 1867, this was the first census which included his name. That is probably a good thing. You see, once again, someone got Mrs. Snider's name wrong. In this case, though, the enumerator wasn't the one getting it wrong; it was whoever transcribed her record. There, she's "Mary Ann." However, when you look at the original document, it looks pretty clearly like a Nancy Ann to me. Warning number three: if at all possible, always go back to the original document (or a clear facsimile of it) to glean your information.

I'm probably mixing my sayings when I hope that "three's a charm" means no more problems with vital records. Even though our push to uncover more about Nancy Ann Jackson Snider's past is not guaranteed to go any more smoothly than this, we can hope we've already paid our dues with these few research tangles, and can now move on to the previous generation.


Above excerpt from the 1860 census record for Reading Township in Perry County, Ohio, courtesy Ancestry.com.

That Scorecard Detour...

Now that I've found my new marching orders—to document my sisters-in-law's connection to a Revolutionary War Patriot—let's take a look at the scorecard for my husband's maternal line.

This is a diagram showing where I currently am, in transferring my research on my husband's line to my Ancestry.com account. The line I'm targeting to possibly lead my sisters-in-law to D.A.R. eligibility comes from Nancy Ann Jackson, wife of Simon Snider.

There are a few things to notice about this snapshot.

First is that, in following the line from Nancy Ann Jackson to the present, we realize that we are tracing my husband's matrilineal line. In other words, should either of his sisters (or he, himself) wish to have an mtDNA test done, it would reveal their deep ancestry following this very line of ascent.

The second feature of this family tree diagram is that it represents an incredibly convenient research feature for me: each member on this chart lived and died in one particular place in mid-Ohio, known as Perry County.  Over the years, while visiting family in the Columbus area, my husband and I have often walked the cemeteries of Perry County, notebooks in hand. We've sometimes visited the courthouse and gone through the old, old records there.

Of course, while in-person visits are wonderful, they are few and far between. That leaves the rest of the research year to depend on what can be found through other means—mostly through online research.

While there may not be many digitized documents specifically available from this county in such online repositories as Ancestry.com or FamilySearch.org, I have spent years researching this location and happen to have found a gem of a resource. It is a site done on a volunteer basis by a distant cousin of the family—everyone in Perry County is a distant cousin—who has painstakingly scanned and posted historic record after record on his own website. While we have, over the years, made several trips back to Ohio to visit family—and, of course, slipped away for some genealogical research while we were in the neighborhood—Tim Fisher's invaluable site has stood in the gap for those in-between-trip times when I needed to look something up, now.

Another plus for researching Perry County is the fact that, over the years, they have had an active genealogical society, diligent in preserving records and publishing books on their work. It was one of their publications—which I found during a trip to the Allen County Public Library in Fort Wayne, Indiana—that alerted me to the possibility that Nancy Jackson was indeed a descendant of a Revolutionary War Patriot.

So, that's where my research progress stands, up to this point. As you'll notice by the green arrows to the right of Nancy Ann Jackson's name, I've begun to add the next generation. But because Nancy Ann, herself, was likely born in 1823, there are many aspects to this type of search that don't conform to the usual approaches taken to research later arrivals on the family tree.

To get an idea of what's ahead of us, we'll take a closer look at what we know, currently, about Nancy in tomorrow's post.

A Daughter's Work is Never Done

I can't blame you if you had assumed, after reading yesterday's post at A Family Tapestry, that I would now delve into finding the next generation of ancestors in those maternal lines still puzzling me. If you had drawn that conclusion, I would normally have heartily congratulated you on your astute observation.

But sometimes, Life happens.

Now, don't go assuming that this means an unfortunate downturn of events. On the contrary. Remember: not only is there bad stress, there is also good stress. This is one of those good times.

Yesterday, I finally—yes, unbelievably, finally!—completed the last step in sending in my application to become a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution. All, incidentally, in time to be included in this 125th anniversary year of celebration! It's, um, only been about three years since I officially started the process. And, just as it was begun three years ago, yesterday it ended over another cup of coffee.

In what should have simply been a meeting to provide a festive closure to such a long process, after affixing my signature to the drawn-up application, I guess I couldn't bear the thought of having it all "over." The thrill of the hunt is too alluring for me. I had to have a new chase to look forward to.

With a smile still on her face—incredibly, after all those months of coaching me through the research process—my genealogy angel was quite gracious as I grasped for ideas on a next challenge. Currently serving as Registrar of our local D.A.R. chapter, professional genealogist and fellow genea-blogger Sheri Fenley has exhibited the patience of a saint in coaxing me toward closure on this one project. And now, I want to do this to her again?

From somewhere in the back of my mind came the realization that, not only could my daughter also be a D.A.R. member by virtue of my maternal line's Patriot—Zachariah Taliaferro—but she could doubly qualify for membership, thanks to her paternal grandmother's history, as well.

In fact, at the close of that same year in which I initiated my pursuit of D.A.R. membership, it was in writing about two people in my mother-in-law's line that I realized I was researching a possible Patriot. His name was Lyman Jackson, father of the New York born John J. Jackson that I suspected had come from such a heritage.

Indeed, the further I pursued that line, the more indicators I stumbled upon. For one thing, I did locate enough material to show me that John J. Jackson, himself, had served during the War of 1812—stationed, at one point, at a fort on the Mississippi River near Saint Louis.

Once I zeroed in on John J. Jackson's wife, however, I also realized that she, too, was descended from a Patriot—Sarah Howard Ijams was daughter of William Ijams.

While you may think I am going overboard in seeking to link three different Patriots to my daughter's D.A.R. membership, I have an additional reason for this next project: I have two sisters in law and two nieces who may, by virtue of a properly-assembled paper trail, also avail themselves (should they wish to do so) of membership in the Daughters of the American Revolution. And pass down to yet another generation the awareness of our part in our nation's history.

That's one way to keep it all in the family.

Time to Check the Scorecard

Sometimes, we get so mired in all the detail of the multiple ancestors we're researching that it's good to take a process break and check our genealogical scorecard. Where are we, anyhow? And where should we be headed now?

In my case, while I'd love to solve the mystery of my paternal grandfather's origin, perhaps only his Y-DNA will reveal that secret. Until a yet-unrevealed match to his genetic genealogy shows up to also volunteer for such a test, all that's left to me is a waiting game on that account. That, and future forays into digitized collections of New York City minutiae—if, that is, the right document just happens to be scanned, at all.

In the meantime, there is much yet to be done on my maternal lines. Besides my now-completed D.A.R. application, I do have an adoption mystery to solve on my mother's side: that of her great grandmother, the young woman from Georgia who was said to have been adopted some time before she married Thomas Taliaferro Broyles of Tennessee.

So let's go back and review where we've been and see what next steps are possible.

This is a clip from my family tree diagram at Ancestry.com—essentially my maternal line, beginning with my grandmother, Rubie Broyles McClellan from Fort Meade and Tampa, Florida. Right off the bat, you can see the tree is completed through my third great grandparents.

Extending a line from Rubie to the women in each succeeding generation—Sarah Ann Broyles, Mary W. E. Rainey, and Mary E. Taliaferro—represents my matrilineal line. That's the key to examining the results from my mtDNA test—the one that follows the mother's mother's mother's line back through more generations than we could ever hope to document. I need to identify another descendant from that line—a sibling of Mary W. E. Rainey, or, even better, a sibling of her supposed mother, Mary E. Taliaferro—who would be willing to participate in DNA testing to compare our results.

Of course, it goes without saying that, if you are reading this and realize these names sound suspiciously like the surnames in your own family tree, please contact me. I'd love to compare notes. You may have the answer to my question.

Beside that project, though, you may have noticed that, with the exception of just one of my third great grandparents (the one with the green arrow to the right of her name), I have not yet worked any of these lines back further than that point. There are a few reasons for that.

First, of course, is the realization that, with every succeeding generation we push back in time to reach, our number of researchable ancestors doubles. That may be a trivial detail when we are talking about moving from our four grandparents to our eight great grandparents. Or even when we make the jump to our sixteen second great grandparents. But when we arrive at our thirty two third greats, doubling that—and then following all their descendants back down line to the present—can be a daunting task.

Second, if you take a look at the range of birth years for my second great grandparents, you realize that they arrived on the scene anywhere from 1852 all the way back to, in one outlier's case, 1812. The significance of that detail is that, with the exception of our supposed orphan, Mary W. E. Rainey, all these second greats were born before census records provided itemization of all members of the household. To connect some of the members of this generation with their own parents calls for an entirely different set of resources for documentation. Some of those documents have yet to become available online. And I have yet to travel to the southern states where such legal documents may be found in their native habitat.

Third is a corollary of the first two: as the universe of ancestors broadens, we by necessity need to hone our focus more carefully. While it is quite an easy proposition to "do" all our grandparents, doing just one fourth great grandparent means focusing on only one-sixty-fourth of the possible company. Completing that entire generation is quite the grand slam, indeed!

The necessity of managing to complete that task, though, becomes apparent when we realize what is required of us, once we commit to using the tool of DNA testing. How can we determine the veracity of DNA test results placing us and a matching individual at the level of fifth cousin if we don't know our fourth great grandparents?

Granted, not all results ranging that far out in relationship are entirely accurate. The farther we go, the greater the chance of running up against the scenario of "identical by state" matches. But given the number of descendants of the longstanding American surnames in my family history—and that of my husband, whose family history and genetic testing I'm also tracking—I've run across a number of others for whom our matches indicate relationship at a level more distant than even sixth cousin.

In instances like that, it's a good thing our scorecards reach back that far.

Adopting That Sulky Attitude

I'm about to nurse that "I'm Adopted" grudge. You know, the kind you afforded yourself long ago, every time your childhood sense of equity was violated.

C'mon, now, 'fess up: you've indulged in it, too. Remember that time, when dinner was done and all the other kids got to run off and play, but you had to sit there...because you hadn't finished your broccoli? Yeah, that time. You decided nobody really loved you. You just knew you were adopted.

Or the time when the extended family decided it was such a lovely summer evening that they'd have dinner out back on the picnic table—only afterwards, you had to stay behind and help with the dishes.

See? It just wasn't fair. It must have meant something. Yeah, you were adopted.

And so it goes. We're all well past that sulky stage of childhood, and yet that mood sometimes catches up with us, even now.

At least, I know that's true for me right now. Remember my gleeful discovery, last week, of a document that was sure to lead me past my paternal brick wall? Well, yesterday, I took the time to sit down and look up all those names on Aunt Rose's marriage certificate. I checked out her father, Julius Krauss. I looked for her mother, using Anna Zegar, the maiden name provided on the marriage record.

Do you think I actually found anything?

Of course not.

Stuck, I kept that sulky mood at bay by a brilliant realization: I had my brother's Y-DNA test done. After all, if Rose was really my paternal grandfather's sister, her father would be part of our patrilineal line. Maybe those surnames would pop up somewhere on my brother's Y-DNA results. Or maybe even on his autosomal DNA test.

I pulled up my brother's DNA test results. After all, though he doesn't yet have any "exact match" results for his Y-DNA, he is closing in on 400 matches on his autosomal test. Surely someone on that list of hundreds would have one of those surnames in their records.

Nope.

I switched over to my own DNA test results. If you've kept up on my bi-monthly statistic reports, you already know how many matches I have in my own file—but if you don't, I'd be more than happy to tell you that my own tally is closing in on 880.

Did you think I'd find any Zegars or Krauses there?

Of course not.

Actually, with precious few of those "matches" turning out to be real, documented familial connections, I'm beginning to get to feeling as if I really was adopted. Who are all those people in my DNA test results? Why do none of those DNA results seem to line up with my painstakingly extensive documentation?

Not that I want to minimize the agony experienced by those who really are adopted and have that deep yearning to know their roots. Witness the two "mystery cousins" I'm currently working with, who have had that inexplicable drive to find out what their birth heritage really is. In comparison, I really am nursing a childish sulk. But I'm frustrated, nonetheless.

Then, too, I have to keep in mind that my oldest cousin had warned me that our paternal grandfather had once told him that he—Theodore J. Puhalski or John T. McCann or whoever he really was—was adopted, himself.

I had always thought that surely, my grandfather had only meant that his parents had died when he was young, and another family member had taken him in. After all, we are talking about a childhood during the late 1800s, when that sort of arrangement was customary.

But I thought I could figure a way around that roadblock. Perhaps I can't. As frustrating as it is, I may have to concede defeat. There are just some genealogical secrets that may remain just that: secrets. No matter how much of a tantrum I throw in my retreat into that sulky haven, I can't coax some details from the lips of those long departed. Nor can those secrets get extracted from the documents of foreign lands—or even the reticent bureaucrats of New York City.

Even in the face of the most petulant childish pout, the answer for a genealogical researcher may simply be just "No."

Found Another Julius

It's been a little over a week since I decided to celebrate Independence Day by gathering my own set of documents linking me back to that Revolution. As I mentioned, my long-postponed D.A.R. application needed some attention, and the July 4 holiday seemed just the time to complete it.

As sometimes happens, after I submitted my documentation to the local chapter's registrar, it turned out I needed just one more death certificate.

Now...where did I put that thing?

So began a week-long merry chase for one scant slip of paper that I just knew had to be "in here, somewhere."

At the close of the week, I still hadn't located the item.

In the meantime, however, I had found a whole bunch of other papers which turned out to come in handy.

You know how it is: you start down the trail, intending to head to one destination. And then, along comes The Bright Shiny—that innocuous Thing with the irresistible pull—and snatches you right off your feet and away from The Trail of Good Intentions.

What's a disciplined genealogical researcher to do? Well, in my case, take a look; one never knows whether the Thing found might be what I was looking for the last time I went through this ordeal.

In my defense, there are boxes and boxes of files, accumulated over years of research, now needing my attention. You have to remember, I've been at this stuff for decades. I'm not kidding when I say I was born wanting to know about my family history. That's quite a few years of filing away documents, research notes, photographs, memos and letters.

As it turns out, there was one document which I was quite pleased to find. I had sent for it years ago—likely before the advent of online research, for I clearly remember getting this one via the stamped-self-addressed, snail mail route. Besides, it was a record from New York City—that Black Hole of document requests which tries the patience of genealogical souls. On top of that, since I didn't know what surname to file the long-awaited resultant document under, I had simply stuck it in my father's file. His old file. Like, tucked away in one of those storage boxes.

If you recall my attempt once again, a few months ago, to figure out the origin of my paternal grandfather's family, you may have guessed—correctly—that this misplaced document has to do with my grandfather's sister Rose. When we last discussed her, I had just discovered that her unfortunate mother's name, rather than Anna Kraus, might have been Kusharvska.

Rose, herself, had not been much of a help to me in discerning her maiden name. The best I could do was locate her in the New York State census under the name Rose Miller. That was the earliest record I could find for Rose. Later, I found ample evidence of her marriage to New York City resident George Washington Kober. But then, hoping to send for Rose's death certificate to identify both her parents' true names, I once again ran into a stumbling block: Rose had married again.

Rose's new husband was a man with a name the local newspaper editors just couldn't seem to spell consistently. Sometimes, he was identified as Julius Hasinger. Other times, it was Julius Hessinger. All that, however, was superfluous in the face of one other little detail: no matter how it was spelled, it didn't lead me to Rose's date of death, and thus, neither did it lead to a way to locate her own death certificate.

Finding this one slip of paper last week, though, may have put that whole question to rest. For conveniently, I had sent away for the "Certificate and Record of Marriage" of one George Washington Kober and Rose Miller, married in New York City on the seventeenth of November, 1915.

The record included several details which handily fill in the blanks for my father's Aunt Rose. First, at the time of her marriage to Mr. Kober, she had been divorced. Thus the source of her surname in the 1915 census as Miller.

Notwithstanding that answer, on the next line, requesting "Maiden name, if a widow," she answered, "Krauss."

If that leads you to believe that, having been told that Rose's mother Anna's married name was Krauss, it must have been Anna's maiden name that was Kusharvska, think again. The marriage record then asked for the mother's maiden name—in this case, Rose's mother's maiden name was given as Anna Zegar.

Zegar! That added a new name to my list of surnames to pursue. And it effectively removed the sting—at least partially—of getting that death certificate for Anna and seeing the entry "unknown" for both Anna's parents. At least now I had a lead for Anna's father's surname.

There was one more useful detail on Rose's marriage license application: that of her own father's given name.  In now being able to read his name on her marriage record, I wonder if, years later in meeting the man who was to become her third husband, Rose felt some affinity to him through something as introductory as his name. Have you ever noticed how often ancestors seem to marry someone having a name just like their sibling or their parent? I've seen it so many times, yet never hear anyone remark on that. And once again, Rose provides another example of that trivial detail, for the given name of her father—the elusive Mr. Krauss I have yet to find in any documents—was Julius.