"Like Interwoven Thickets"

 

Following yet another episode from the British television series "Who Do You Think You Are?" linking one of today's celebrities with a monarch from the past, the BBC News "royal correspondent" Sean Coughlan remarked that if you look far enough, "a surprisingly high number of people will find a royal ancestor."

In the same BBC article, researcher Turi King—known for her role in the genetic confirmation of King Richard III's re-discovered remains—agreed that there is a high number of people now living who are related to this historic monarch. As professor King put it, when reaching back into history that many generations, there is a high degree of overlap between ancestral lines—"like interwoven thickets" rather than discreet branches on a family tree.

For some families, that "thicket" effect may appear sooner than for others. I think of my mother-in-law's tree with its many interwoven lines. Raised in a small, tight-knit community in central Ohio, she grew up in a place populated by settlers who arrived in the early 1800s—and never left. Generation after generation, those settlers' large Catholic families intermarried and raised yet another generation of many descendants. The joke in that county's high schools was that students practically pulled out their pedigree chart before asking anyone on a first date. No sense falling in love with a second cousin.

Thanks to the useful tools of genetic genealogy, that, too, became the impetus for my different research goal in pursuing my mother-in-law's family tree. While I pursue stories to discuss on A Family Tapestry, in the background, I'm always churning through each branch of my mother-in-law's tree, seeking collateral lines among the descendants of each generation. That tree is indeed turning into an "Interwoven Thicket."

There are other research goals I address on an annual basis. The other day, one reader commented, "Can you expand on how you choose your projects? Do you rotate amongst a list every month?"

The short answer to this is yes, I do. But the process I use has evolved over the years. Two years ago, I codified my approach as searching for my "Twelve Most Wanted" ancestors each year—one selected ancestor researched per month, rotating through the four family trees I maintained at the time (one for each grandparents of my daughter). The season for choosing the next year's Twelve Most Wanted began the day after Christmas and continued until Epiphany—one ancestor selected on each of the Twelve Days of Christmas, and slated for an entire specified month's dedicated research in the coming year.

I began in 2020, and since the process went so well that first year, I repeated the effort with a second set of ancestors for this year, too. I will likely do the same for next year, using that lull at the end of the holiday season to review work that's already been completed to focus on the weak spots needing further attention. Perhaps you could call that pruning the trees.

Not that there aren't other genealogical tasks to attend to each year. The constant research thrumming in the background is the culling of hints and the never-ending search for signs of the next generation of descendants for each ancestral collateral line. A more biweekly occurrence, along with my tabulation of the "vital stats" of a research progress report, is the checking of new DNA matches for all my family members who have tested—adding confirmed matches where they belong in the family tree, along with an update to the supporting documentation.

All told, amassing over fifty thousand individuals—ancestors plus all their descendants—in the trees I'm nurturing might seem to be an interwoven thicket in the waiting, but so far, I've yet to see any branches of my husband's line marry into any from my own family's ancestry. Still, I do have to tiptoe carefully among the tangled roots of my mother-in-law's tree. Some families' history seems to take on the shape of topiary gardens while others a tangle of banyan trees. 

Simple Gestures and Wistful Memories

 

It turns out a long drive half the distance of the state this weekend became a chance to trigger some memories—and learn some new lessons from old places.

Our training company had an engagement this weekend in San Diego. Sometimes, it is just easier to drive to such events, rather than pack up for air travel all the unusual items featured in my husband's unique presentations, so we carved the five hundred mile journey into two segments and set out by car.

At the end of the first day's drive, we decided to stop at a hotel where we had stayed many times in the past. This was the host hotel where the Southern California Genealogical Society held their annual conference when it was still live in Burbank—before the pandemic, that is. Even though it's been a while since we last could attend Jamboree in person, I couldn't help but wish there was another one coming up soon. I miss seeing everyone, their smiling faces, and the buzz of excited attendees gathering together over a subject which means so much to us all.

Yes, we'll soon emerge from this genealogical social isolation and maybe someday we'll wonder if we could have handled things a bit differently. Still, I wonder whether the pent up demand will factor into registrations for another live conference which will occur on our side of the continent—the annual conference of the National Genealogical Society, held in Sacramento, California, next May 24 through May 28.

Unlike the regional conference Jamboree, the NGS event is a national conference with a bigger reach. Drawing more big-name speakers and a wider variety of subjects, it will likely also attract a larger crowd from far more locations across the country—and perhaps a few intrepid researchers from other nations, as well.

Even though attending the upcoming live conference in Sacramento will be just the antidote to genea-isolation I've been craving, the difference between the regional Jamboree and the national NGS conference may embody another message which can speak volumes to us—at least to those of us involved with local societies.

I don't know about your local genealogy gatherings, but in the past twenty months—yes, I've been counting—of nothing but informational Zoom meetings, our genealogical society has seen some changes. Some are changes we wish we didn't have to undergo, of course, though some did turn out to have a positive side. Sure, we miss seeing each other in person—and so many members have directly expressed as much. Yet, being forced to have an online presence for our meetings has had an unexpected benefit: we gained new members from across the continent.

The down side is: those were the only new members we've gained in these dreary on-going months of social isolation. Gone have been the many outreach programs our society conducted in the past—programs which, besides the community service offered, also served to recruit new members locally. No face-to-face classes, no one-on-one ask-a-volunteer sessions at the library, no booths set up at local fairs meant no new members.

That, over the years, can evolve into a big problem. And I have a feeling it will take a different mindset to navigate the reversal of that process.

On our drive south this weekend, though, not only did our first hotel stop make me homesick for those wonderful years of face-to-face convening at Jamboree; I was gifted with a moment to learn a lesson about the importance of re-introductions.

It happened at our customary first stop along the highway after leaving home. Driving through the center of the state on our trip to southern California means spending hours with very little to break up the agricultural scenery. We've settled into a routine for those requisite rest stops along the way. The first stop occurs near the crossroads of the Interstate and a state highway. There, very little besides a restaurant, a gas station, a couple hotels, and a Starbucks coffee shop compete for our business. I always opt for the coffee shop.

While every time I travel this route, I always stop at this coffee place, with the limitations of the pandemic, it also meant that I hadn't been a customer there for nearly two years. Yet, this happened to be the day the company was rolling out the festive decorations and menu offerings for the holidays. Though I ordered the same choices as always—a plain latte and breakfast sandwich, plus a brownie for the road—this time, the service was different.

When the routine changes at places where we expect things to remain the same, we take notice. Unlike before, this time the barista, after warming my sandwich, placed the order in a small shopping bag, and walked out in front of the counter with outstretched arms, calling my name. It wasn't until I unloaded the car at the hotel that night that I saw the one added value to her gesture: she had written a greeting on the shopping bag along with my name, wishing me a happy holiday season. Made me wish I lived close enough to make that my regular stop every morning.

How small a gesture, when unexpected yet sincere, can elevate its importance to the recipient. You can be sure I'll be thinking about that small token far more than the time it took that employee to grab a pen and draw a smile and a greeting.

More than anything else, though, it carried the same unspoken message we all yearn to receive: "I'm glad you're back. I hope we can see you again." I'm pretty sure the local members of our own societies are yearning to hear those words, as well. 

Missed by Moments

 

Do you ever discover—only too late to do anything about it right now—that the place you're passing by once held significance for your family history?

Too late to reroute plans now, I've just discovered that not only does a location barely half an hour's drive from my overnight stop represent the land farmed by particular members of the town's "pioneer" settlers—Maude Woodworth's parents and paternal grandparents—but that its history is apparently well preserved by the region's own historical society.

Yes, unfortunately, I and my hard-working husband are headed in an entirely different direction and are on a timetable. Rest assured, I've already written yet another "note to self" to contact the Covina Valley Historical Society to see what they might have contained in their collection regarding the Woodworth family. I may have missed by moments the decision point for visiting the Society's archived collection today, but there will be another trip in the future.

It was from one of those obituaries we all wish we could find more of that I gleaned a fairly complete history of Maude Woodworth Bean's parents. After her father's passing in 1928, the Covina Argus published an informative obituary for the "Well Known Valley Pioneer." From that came a straightforward timeline of William C. Woodworth's life.

Maude lost her father on May 22, 1928, when she was thirty years of age. Granted, by then, she was married to Samuel Bean, but she doubtless was still close to her father, with whom she had claimed a fairly close relationship before she left to attend the California School for the Blind in northern California.

At the time of his passing, W. C. Woodworth was sixty years old—a respectable age, given the time period in which he lived. Though his obituary gave no hint of the illness which caused his death, it is doubtful it would have been related to the Marfan Syndrome which later felled two of his grandsons at a much younger age. Still, the obituary mentioned that three of his children predeceased him, a clue to follow next week.

The obituary also revealed that William Woodworth came to California with his parents in 1886, settling on "the ranch on Vincent Street" in Covina which eventually became his responsibility for years, until it became the property of the Reynolds family. Finding a plat map of the region will help bring that picture to life, as "Vincent Street" has undoubtedly undergone massive changes since that bucolic era.

Soon after the Woodworth family moved to California, William returned to his former home in Sioux City, Iowa, to seek the hand of Effie Aurilla Williams in marriage in the fall of 1890. Yet even Sioux City had only been his residence for three years, as the family came there from the former town of Bristol in Kenosha County, Wisconsin, where William was born, twenty five years before his wedding.

As obituaries often do, William's last mention in the Covina newspaper was well endowed with names of surviving family members, as well as giving honor to his by-then deceased parents, Lafayette and Eliza Woodworth. This will give us working orders to help delve further into the question of whether Marfan Syndrome made its appearance in the lines of any of Maude's siblings or ancestors as it had in her own children. We'll take a closer look at the details next week. 

 

Clues From Maude's Own Story

 

Though Maude Woodworth died long before Marilyn Bean could ever have met her, the reason why so many people in Marilyn's family subsequently died at a young age may be encapsulated in Maude's own brief story. That likely was also the reason why Maude's likeness did not show up in the photo collection I rescued from Marilyn's sold belongings.

Marilyn Bean's mother-in-law, Maude, had married the most unlikely of eligible bachelors. Samuel William Bean had been born perfectly healthy, and would probably have gone on to become a successful businessman like his twin brother, except for one chance mishap in his teens. Though the family passed down two conflicting stories on the event, for whatever reason, we know that Sam had been injured by a flying object striking him in the eye.

In that era pre-dating the advent of antibiotics—Sam was born in 1896—the infection which began in his eye spread to the other eye, and eventually also to his ears. All told, the injury rendered the teenaged Sam both blind and deaf, a devastating blow to anyone.

It was at the California school for the blind and deaf that Sam Bean eventually met Maude Woodworth. When they were both in their early twenties, the story of their 1921 marriage was carried by newspapers across the country—as far away, for instance, as Alabama and Connecticut.

To think that their two surviving sons—Sam junior arriving later that same year, and twins Earle and the short-lived infant Merle in 1926—might have been afflicted with any malady, a reasonable guess for anyone not knowing the family's story might have been to think of vision problems. After all, the reason that brought both Sam and Maude to the same school in their teen years was their loss of eyesight.

That was not the case, though knowing more about Maude's family might have made answering such a question more complicated. A newspaper article I found through the index to the Redwood City, California, Schellens Collection, a clipping from the January 13, 1921, edition of the city's newspaper, the Standard, mentioned that Maude became interested in teaching the blind when she was a girl growing up on her father's orange grove in southern California. Her father, William C. Woodworth, was also blind, and in her younger years, Maude had served as his "steady companion for many years."

If Maude's father had vision problems, and then Maude herself manifested a similar difficulty, it might stand to reason that Maude's sons would carry the same proclivity, but that was not what afflicted them. It was, as we've already noted, Marfan Syndrome which claimed Maude's sons' lives. But somehow, the Woodworth side of the equation is still the one to follow in pursuing this question, for the Woodworth cousins we discussed yesterday also manifested the same obvious outward signs of the malady.

Tomorrow, we'll follow Maude's story back another generation to William C. Woodworth and Effie Aurilla Williams, to see whether we can find any further signs of Marfan Syndrome in the family lines.

Photograph above: Samuel W. Bean and his wife, the former Maude M. Woodworth. Undated portrait encased in glass, most likely from the 1920s, now in the possession of the author.

Meeting the Woodworths

 

Some distant relatives we meet may be those we soon forget. In the case of Marilyn Sowle Bean, last keeper of the family photos recently spotted at a local antique shop, some of her in-laws were absolutely unforgettable. I know; I've had the opportunity to meet them, too.

It was the Woodworth family who visibly demonstrated the impact of Marfan Syndrome upon the extended family. My first chance to meet them was on an outing to the Sacramento area, where Marilyn's mother-in-law's brother's sons were honoring their mother on the occasion of her birthday.

If that description of the family's relationships seems convoluted, there is a reason for the elongated connections: so many of the men in the family—and one woman—had long since died. The extended family, however, still kept in touch, which is probably why I, through my connection with Marilyn's son, ended up on the invitation list.

Long gone was Marilyn's mother-in-law, the former Maude Woodworth, who died in 1933. Gone also was Maude's brother Lucius Woodworth, who followed his older sister less than seven years afterward.

Lucius' wife, the petite and perky Canadian, Margaret Isabelle Frizzell, however, outlasted them all by decades. It may well have been her eightieth birthday upon which the six sons of "Aunt Belle" had gathered to honor their mother. As family gatherings often do, the event was not complete without a photo taken of dear mom and her sons. As I remember it, the picture basically amounted to Aunt Belle standing with three sons on either side, her head reaching about as high as their belt buckles. Not all of them may have been afflicted with Marfan Syndrome, but each one certainly claimed the telltale height.

It didn't really take a genealogist to figure there was something inherited from that Woodworth side of the family which made each of the male descendants stand out in a crowd. However, was it from Maude's paternal line where the Marfan Syndrome came? Or from her mother's Williams line? I hadn't really traced Maude's family history back beyond the next two generations.

Now that I'm revisiting Marilyn's reclaimed photo collection, I may as well take this as a prompt to see what else can be found on her mother-in-law's Woodworth and Williams families.  

What got me Started

 

Anybody who has arrived early in a doctor's office to complete requisite paperwork before that first consultation will be able to relate to what I'm going to discuss today. Remember all those questions about which diseases you've suffered through—or hardly remember having? The questions which push farther back to the ailments of ancestors might be enough to make one wish there was a way to merge medical history with a pedigree chart. And that's what got me started in genealogy—with the Bean family tree, that is.

While some people might worry about high cholesterol leading to a massive heart attack or stroke—just like dear old dad—someone in the Bean family had passed along a medical inheritance just as deadly, but not as well known. I didn't even need to draw up a pedigree chart to see how far that genetic tendency had spread in this family. Though Marilyn Sowle Bean—last keeper of the family photos rescued from a local antique store—didn't suffer from the ailment herself, her husband, his brother, and several others on the maternal side of that Bean family were struck dead in their early adulthood. Or, surviving beyond that age, they suffered so much, they wish they had been.

That tragic legacy became part of the family's story. To learn the Bean family history was to learn about Marfan Syndrome and its hallmark sign—in this family, at least—of elongated limbs and exceptional height. On the human side of the story, that meant a great deal of loss for all those who married into that family line, Marilyn included. On a more technical side—at least for a genealogy researcher like me—I wondered whether I could pinpoint the family line to which the syndrome could be attributed, or even if, going back through history, it would be possible to trace such a tendency.

There are, of course, special symbols which can be included in a medically-oriented pedigree chart, such as this example from a 2008 publication by Genetic Alliance shared on the website of the National Center for Biotechnology Information. While I could use such an approach in tracing the family members afflicted with Marfan Syndrome, my question slanted more toward the genealogy than the genetic. I want to see if I could follow the correct family line through several more generations.

To do that means first to focus on the relatives in this family whom I once knew personally: Marilyn's nephews on her mother-in-law's side of the family, the Woodworths.

Like a First Love

 

Do you remember the first time you decided to delve into your family's history? No matter what the details were—or the result of your attempt—if you are still here reading about genealogy, the outcome of your attempt must have been enough to keep you coming back for more.

That's how I felt about the first family history project I tackled: not only did it get me "hooked" on genealogy, but ever since, I've had a particular fondness for the people whose stories helped build that family tree—kind of like what people say about a first love.

When I first decided to try my hand at researching a family tree, I already knew my father wasn't going to give up any clues to get me started on my mystery paternal line, so I didn't even try to wheedle anything out of him. My mother's line, while full of fascinating stories, was a heritage already so widely researched that I didn't think I could add anything new to what had already been documented. So I started with someone else's tree.

That tree didn't belong to a stranger, though. In addition to the line of a fourth-generation Californian, the other branch of the tree was represented by Marilyn Sowle Bean, the same woman whose photograph collection I was fortunate enough to recover from a local antique store, thanks to a helpful tip.

The Bean family tree is one full of stories of settlers sailing around the horn, and others traveling across the plains. Stories of war and deadly disease, balanced by success and life's enjoyments. It comes complete with brides from Australia and Canada, and rumors of French heritage and untraceable name changes blocking research progress to the past.

As a first research project, Marilyn's tree represented a far different research challenge than we experience today. This was not only my first attempt at genealogical research, but it was research done before the advent of personal computers. Every document found came with a personal contact at repositories and government offices. There was no Find A Grave to consult for photos of headstones; if I wanted a picture, I brought my single lens reflex film camera to the cemetery—no matter how far away—then sent the film away to be processed before I could see whether the picture was a keeper.

Researching California families was probably the easiest task I could have attempted, given those conditions. Living only an hour's drive from the state capital, I had plenty of resources close at hand. Still, it was a far different world than what we enjoy now with the convenience of today's digitized documents and online resources. Perhaps that contributes to that soft spot I have for the research project for Marilyn's family.

I've written quite a bit about Marilyn's extended family in past years—both her Sowle side and her husband's Bean side—but there is much more to discover. Even though it isn't my own family's story, it certainly is one for which I hold a certain fondness. Perhaps it is because, like a first love, it claims an unforgettable hold on me. Besides, I need to go back and do some clean up work; updated resources make that project so much easier to accomplish now.

Since my plans for November's ancestor from my Twelve Most Wanted list have fallen through, Marilyn's extended family will provide enough of a research challenge to fill the month, instead. Besides, I've got some long-forgotten items still to accomplish on the to-do list for this family. Tomorrow, we'll talk about the impetus that got me started on Marilyn's project so many years ago. Perhaps it is a question you've had to grapple with, too.