Category: Family Stories

Butterflies and Flowers – A Mother’s Message of Love From Beyond

Originally published on genealogyatheart.blogspot.com on 1 Nov 2015.

I’ve been blogging about synchronicity – those meaningful coincidences that occur – and genealogy. I’m going to blog about events that I cannot explain but held a powerful message to my immediate family and I. Here’s what happened.

First, a little background information.  I am an only child and was extremely close to my mother. Today is All Saint’s Day, and although my mom won’t be canonized by the Roman Catholic Church, she’s the closest person I’ve ever known that espoused the characteristics of a saint.  An uneducated, single mom at a time when the world did not look favorably on divorce, my mom always put my needs and wants above her own.  A hard worker, she never complained about her lot in life and always spoke up for the underdog. Material things were of no interest to her. She preferred to be outside, enjoying nature, or reading a book.  She especially loved butterflies and could spend hours watching them dance among the flowers.

In January of my 2nd grade I contracted rubella.  I remember feeling hot, tired and itchy shortly after returning home from Sunday 9:30 AM Mass.  Mom asked me what what wrong and I didn’t know; I just didn’t feel well.  Mom and grandma decided I didn’t look well and needed to lay down.  The next thing I remember was a few days later.  I awoke and heard crying.  I felt wonderful, better than I had ever felt.  I was happy and light and filled with joy!  The crying didn’t sadden me in the least but I was curious as to who was upset and why.  It was my mother who was being hugged by my grandmother.  They were standing in the hallway outside of my bedroom.  My grandmother was speaking in Croatian, caressing my mother’s head and saying, “Doro, I’m so sorry.  I know.  Ssh Ssh.  It’s in God’s hands.”  What was in God’s hands?  It was then that I realized I was a part from my body.  I was somehow above my body, still in my bedroom but I was at the ceiling level and could see through the closed door.  Looking around, I could see myself lying in bed, covered with a quilt.  I wasn’t afraid. Instead, I was delighted that I was seeing from a different perspective.  I discovered I could move by just thinking so I decided to explore.  I moved so quickly, I call it zipping, that I soon found myself outside of my bedroom.  I could see my school a block away.  It was night and the stars were twinkling.  There was snow on the ground and the trees were bare of leaves but I wasn’t cold.  I tried to look at my hands and feet but could see nothing.  I was invisible.  Then, I saw a path of light.  I felt drawn to it.  As I came closer I noticed that there were many “stars”, little pinpricks of light that were also following along the lighted path.  I joined them but was halted by a voice.  The voice was kindly and although I call it a voice, there was no sound made.  Rather, the words were understood without noise.  The message I received asked if I was ready.  I knew what that meant.  Was I ready to move from this life to the next.  I wanted to badly because I felt so wonderful BUT I could still hear my mother crying.  My mental reply was that I couldn’t go forward as that choice would destroy her.  Instantly, I found myself back in bed with a thud.  I was heavy and hot and congested and itchy and miserable.  I regretted my decision.  I cried out and my mother and grandmother rushed in the room.  They helped me sit up and brought me a cold glass of water.

Unbeknownst to me, I had been in a coma for several hours.  A classmate who’s dad was a doctor lived down the street.  Dr. Lorenty had been summoned to check on me and had left moments before I “awoke.”  He had told my mother that there was nothing he could do and to prepare for my death. After my decision to live I made a quick recovery.  So quick, in fact, that my regular physician, Dr. Fadell,  called it miraculous.  I knew it was no miracle; I was being prepared for First Communion so I considered to be an example of free will.  I had survived because I chose to do so.

The problem was no one would listen to what I experienced.  When I first told my mom I chose to live because she was so upset she looked aghast.  She asked me to never talk about my experience again.  My grandmother was the one who told me about the physician visit.  Grandma also said to not mention what happened as people wouldn’t understand.  I did as they requested and only my husband and children knew the story, until today.

Because of that experience I have never feared death.

Unfortunately, my great grandmother, maternal grandmother, paternal grandfather, several aunts, mother and father experienced extremely slow deaths from Alzheimer’s.  For those of you that have had a loved one touched by that horrible disease you understand why I say it’s a slow death.  Each of the individuals I mentioned was ravaged in a different way.  My great grandmother became childlike. She would coo to my dolls believing they were her children.  My grandmother talked to pictures and the television, insisting they were communicating directly to her.  My father and a maternal aunt stopped communicating entirely.  My mother, however, fought the disease until the end. She volunteered to take part in a University of South Florida study as she wanted researchers to discover an effective treatment so other families wouldn’t have to go through the hardship.  The double blind study did not allow us to know if the experimental drug mom received was a placebo or not.  We learned at the study’s conclusion that she had been given an early version of Aricept.  Not a cure, it did allow her to probably live independently longer than she would have.  I say probably because one can never know for sure but that view is in comparison to all the other family members who had not been given the medication.

When Mom broke her hip and was confined to a wheel chair she showed my kids how she had learned to pop wheelies.  She always knew who the immediate family was but she had difficulty in knowing who was living and who wasn’t.  She insisted her deceased sister and mother had visited the night before and she would relay their messages to us.  We would kid her that what she needed to let us know were the lotto numbers so we could win.  She did not find that amusing.  Instead, she always said she would send a message via butterfly that she was fine after her death.

When she lost the ability to swallow I wished that she would make the choice to end the suffering. Shortly after the terrible events of September 11th, mom passed away.

The Sunday after my mother’s death I told my family that I wanted to take a long walk on the beach.  My mother loved Honeymoon Isle so that is where I headed.  This is what I wrote after I returned home from the beach:

“On Sunday, October 7, 2001 I decided to take my walk on Honeymoon Island Beach early in the day as [my family] and I had decided to have a family memorial service for my mother in the afternoon, followed by a lamb dinner at Hella’s Restaurant in Tarpon Springs, FL, as lamb was always a traditional food used in the family during times of celebration. Although we were greatly saddened at the loss of mom/grandma, we were rejoicing that her invalid condition was over as she was of independent spirit during most of her lifetime and she hated being confined to a wheelchair. 

I often walk the 2 miles to the island point and the 2 miles back as quickly as I can for aerobic exercise and I enjoy the walk solo as others in the family have difficulty in maintaining my pace. I also enjoy the solitude of the beach as the area is often deserted.  This Sunday morning I left the house shortly after 9 AM with my pedometer on, ready for a brisk walk in the cool morning air. 

The beach was more populated than usual but most people were elderly, using canes or each other for support and congregating near the bath house. In 4 minutes, I had walked a quarter of a mile, leaving most of the people behind me. It was near the quarter mile mark when I first noticed a yellow carnation. With each few steps I encountered more and more flowers – all varieties and colors – roses, mums, daisies – in yellows, pinks, reds and whites. My initial thought was that someone had had a wedding on the beach the day before but I soon dismissed that as I noticed that the flowers must have come ashore from the gulf as they were wrapped in sea grass. The thought that crossed my mind was that someone must have had a wonderful party on a ship the evening before but the flowers were so fresh that I dismissed this, too. They were not onshore in clumps, either, but strewn almost an equal distance apart and alternating in type and color. By the 3/4 marker the oppressive fragrance of roses overcame me. I looked around to try to find the source. Nothing close by was blooming, only the sea oats which had gone to seed bent their heads in the wind. I could find no source for the odor which permeated and seemed to follow me as I walked. It reminded me of the smell that we would occasionally come across in our last house. That, too, had never been explained but it always seemed to follow a crisis of some sort and soon after, better times returned. This led me to think about my mother and I thought that perhaps I was mistaken in calling the cemetery [up north] and that maybe I should have my mother’s ashes spread in the gulf as she had mentioned once. I thought that the flowers might be from a ceremony of that type. 

At the one mile marker I noticed the only yellow rose. Being my favorite flower, it made me smile. When I looked up I caught a glimpse of something flying over the water out of the corner of my left eye. At first I thought it was a sandpiper but as it flew I realized that it had a different movement. That’s when I realized it was a butterfly – a huge brown and reddish colored butterfly the likes of which I had never seen. I stopped immediately and thought that I was hallucinating. My mother loved butterflies, the beach, flowers, and me. All of a sudden the symbolism struck me. I took out my cell phone and called [my husband] because I couldn’t believe I was really seeing these things. The number was busy. I tried again, it was still busy. I decided he must be surfing the net. (This was the days of dial up connections)  It was then that I realized that the butterfly hadn’t moved forward but was merely fluttering up and down over the waves. I said, “Mom?” and with that the butterfly moved towards me on the beach a little but continued north. I followed. The sky became dark, thunderheads mushroomed in the north and west. The waves and wind increased in strength. I spoke to the butterfly of things that had remained unsaid. At one point it came onto the beach and I again stopped. I reached out my hand but it remained just out of reach. I followed the butterfly almost to the end of the island where it crossed the small strip of sand and headed towards the bay. The sky had become even more turbulent and I feared that I wouldn’t make it back to the car safely. Even so, I stood transfixed, I couldn’t let the sight of the butterfly go just yet. The butterfly flew off across the bay. The sky in the east was bright blue and the morning sun glinted off the crest of the waves, leaving dancing lights. I watched until I saw the butterfly dip down into one wave and become a spark of light. I let out a cry, knowing that I would never see the butterfly again. I looked at my watch. 15 minutes had passed from beginning to end. I began to walk back to the car. As soon as I crossed the small slip of land to walk back along the water’s edge I came across a whole shell. It was the type that my mother often collected and prized – a large clam shell, opened but still intact. I reached down and picked it up.

When I reached the 1 mile mark I picked up the yellow rose as proof of what had happened. It was too unbelievable and I wanted to have something tangible to show. Stranger still, was that every flower was gone upon my return – only 4 remained – all yellow, my mother’s favorite color – and strewn at each of the remaining mile markers (3/4, 1/2 and 1/4). Next was a mum, the type of flower my mother used to buy for [my husband] occasionally as she felt it was appropriate for a man. Someone [although there didn’t appear to be anyone else on the beach ahead of me] had stuck it standing straight up in my path. At first I passed it, leaving it as it had begun to drizzle but something insisted that I retrieve it so I went back about 20 steps and collected it. Then I came upon the first and second carnations, the flowers she sometimes bought for the kids. I stopped and picked them up, too. Stems, leaves and an occasional petal remained of the other flowers but nothing more. It began to pour by the time I reached the last flower. I walked back to the car and really don’t remember much of anything as I think I was in shock. I came home, [my husband] made me a cup of hot British tea and I related what had transpired. 

Later that afternoon, on our drive to Hella’s [Restaurant], we were a few blocks from the sponge docks and [my husband] mentioned the fact that in all the years we have lived in Florida and as frequently as we go to the beach (almost daily in the summer and at least 2-3 times during the rest of the year), we have never seen a butterfly on the gulf, nor come across flowers strewn as they had [been that morning]. Usually you come across the remains of a bouquet still intact but nothing of this magnitude and never with the strong odor that had come, too. Just then, out of right side in front of the car a monarch butterfly flew. We all saw it and I said, “Look at the monarch.” Instantly it disappeared. We have no explanation for any of these events. Lori Samuelson 10-8-01″

Although these occurrences are odd, another strange encounter was yet to happen.

My mother had prearranged to be cremated but she had never decided on what to do with her cremains. Whenever I’d ask the response was, “Whatever you like.”  Once she mentioned being scattered in the gulf but another time she mentioned being interred in the family plot in Indiana.  After the beach event I was torn about what to do.  I decided to go with the cemetery and arranged for the cremains to be interred during our winter break from school.  It was my daughter’s senior year and as she had taken days off to visit colleges, she had no more excused absences available.  We drove to northern Indiana on Christmas Day with mom in the trunk.  The Memorial Service was to be held the morning of the 26th.  When we arrived at Oak Hill Cemetery in Gary, Indiana we were told that a snowstorm was forecast and that the ground might be too hard for the internment.  I was devastated.  Maybe mom didn’t want to be buried.  Maybe I should just take her ashes back to Florida.  The clerk told us to wait inside the office and she’s speak with the workers. There were only 2 chairs in the office so I sunk into one.  I was sadly staring at the floor when I heard my daughter say, “Look, it’s grandma.”  Looking up, I saw a monarch butterfly soar across the counter and land on my daughter’s arm.  I burst into tears.  My husband said, “Amazing.”  A moment later the clerk returned and said that the workman were able to dig the hole and we were ready to begin the interment.  The clerk looked at my tears and smiled.  I couldn’t find words to explain that the tears weren’t of sadness but of knowing that my mom was okay and that the decision I made was fine.  My husband tried to explain.  The clerk said that once in awhile butterflies just show up in the office, probably came in with flowers.  That may be but a monarch in northern Indiana in late December will always be seen by me as a final message from my mom.

Ashes on the Doorstep

Originally published on genealogyatheart.blogspot.com on 29 Oct 2015

I absolutely love the internet – it’s my favorite improvement in life.  I could live without kitchen appliances, television, cell phone and backup camera on my car but I wouldn’t want to return to the days of no internet.

I first used the internet in 1993 at a reading festival at Eckerd College where a text only version was being demonstrated and I was eager to have it at home. My husband got us online in August 1995.   It’s been 20 years and my, has it changed our lives for the better!

When you think of spooky, spine tingling stories you think of creepy old houses, forlorn looking graveyards and the dark of night.  The internet is most likely last on your list of where ghostly happenings occur but it has happened to me on more than one occasion.

My most recent strange encounter began in January 2014.  I had been thinking about a deceased great aunt that I had loaned a musical instrument to in the late 1970’s.  I never got the instrument back and wondered what had happened to it.  I assumed one of her children had it.  Within a day of this thought I received an email from one of the aunt’s children who I had not seen since I was a child.  The email was curt and demanded that I correct misinformation regarding his parents that I supposedly had placed on Find-A-Grave.  I recognized his name and immediately wrote back calling him by my childhood nickname for him. Strange how I had just thought about his mom the day before!  I informed him that I was not the memorial owner and had tried to correct the wrong information in 2 prior emails but the owner had never responded. I did post a photo of his parents on the site and that is why he thought I was responsible for the wrong information.  I suggested he contact Find-A-Grave administration and forwarded my previous emails to the memorial owner to him to support his concern.

We corresponded via email for two months.  He had hired a genealogist from across the pond and had taken a trip himself to research.  He was adamant that some of my information was in error.  Thank goodness I cite my sources as I was able to explain where I obtained it, which was mostly word of mouth from my grandmother.  If you’re a faithful reader, you know my maternal grandmother was a strong family matriarch and did tend to dramatize the telling of stories so his concern of accuracy was understandable.  However, I would think she would know how many siblings she had and what their names were; he believed the family had 2 daughters and 1 son when my records show 3 daughters and 3 sons.  I suggested he contact his overseas genealogist who verified that my information was correct.  The genealogist had missed these children because she had begun searching Baptism records in 1900.  The 3 oldest children were born in the late 1890’s and died prior to emigrating to the United States. It was an understandable error as he had thought my grandmother was the oldest and she was born in 1900.  He hadn’t known she was the oldest SURVIVING child.

I sent via snail mail a dvd of all the family photos and scanned documents to him.  He had promised to send me copies of his photos but never followed through. I volunteered to take a photo of his birth dad’s gravestone which is not far from my home but he never replied.

Two months after we began exchanging emails he informed me that his sister had passed away and directed me to an online memorial site run by the funeral home.  I posted my memories of her on the site and sent my condolences to him which he didn’t acknowledge.  This was our last email exchange.

What was so odd was that his sister had died within 10 days of our initial contact. Why had he waited 2 months to tell me of her death?

In May, I received an email from a “friend” of my deceased second cousin.  She mentioned that she had seen my posting on the funeral home site.  The friend had tried to contact closer family but no one responded to her.  What should she do with my second cousin’s ashes?  Huh?!  I had to read the email twice to absorb the question.

We began corresponding and I learned, sadly, that my deceased cousin had died alienated from family. She had had a falling out with her sibling which explained why her brother had not told me about his sister’s death immediately.  He hadn’t known. Two months after the death the friend went online to try to find addresses for siblings and found the Find-a-Grave memorial now owned by the brother.  That was how he discovered his sister had passed.  Instead of responding to the friend, he forwarded the information to me.  No wonder he didn’t reply to my condolences.

I was sick to my stomach.  Knowing both my grandmother and her sister, my husband said it was a good thing this happened after they were long dead because they would have been livid.  I agreed.

How could I try to make the situation right?  Obviously, it was too late for sibling reconciliation.

The friend told me that my second cousin’s wish was to be interred with one of her parents.  The friend and a former co-worker had planned to scatter the ashes on the graves but they didn’t know where the parents were buried.  Going through my cousin’s belongings after her death didn’t provide them the answer so they waited til spring and turned to Find-a-Grave for help.  When they discovered the cemeteries were out of state they didn’t know what to do so they contacted the brother for help. With no reply from him they were at a loss until they saw my tribute.

I told them I would scatter the ashes and offered to pay for their time in finalizing my cousin’s estate. There was no reply to my offer.

In early June, I arrived home from the dentist to discover 3 boxes on my front porch.  Dragging them inside, hubby and I grabbed a knife to cut the tape.  There was a return address so I expected what I would find. The first box contained a cut glass vase, a coconut rice bowl, olive wood candlesticks, and a Hummel figurine. The second box contained pictures, certificates, a Bible and medical records belonging to my cousin.  The third box was her cremains.

An entire lifetime reduced to 3 boxes left on a doorstep.

My husband responded like he always does when odd things happen to me, he shook his head and said, “The weirdest things happen to you.”  My co-workers thought this was hilarious.  “Only you have your relatives UPS’d.”  I found it very sad.  This cousin was a role model for me as a child and I was deeply embarrassed by my family’s hard headedness.

I emailed the friend that I had received the packages and told her I would be sending her a check in the mail. She didn’t respond.  She never cashed the check or acknowledged receiving it.

Unfortunately, the death certificate was not included in the boxes.  I contacted the cemeteries where her birth parents were interred and was told that scattering of ashes was forbidden and interring cremains could only happen with a death certificate.  I couldn’t obtain a death certificate because my cousin died in a state that requires either a will, proof of life insurance bequeathment, or shared property.  Now I was dealing with 3 states and no one would make an exception.  I wrote again to the friend requesting a copy of the death certificate.  The email bounced back as undeliverable.  I sent a letter via snail mail.  No reply.  I went online trying to find a phone number but the person didn’t exist. Looked in the white pages, used Spokeo, called the funeral home – nope, nothing.  The friend had vanished.

In mid July I received a call from one of the cemeteries who told me that an exception was being made.  I followed the directions I was given and on my grandmother’s 114th birthday the cremains were finally at rest. I was asked to not divulge that an exception was made and I’ll honor that request. Even my kids don’t know how the story ended; they just knew that their 3rd cousins ashes were no longer in the entryway.

I can’t say if the change of heart was due to Divine Intervention but I’m fairly certain it was somehow my grandmother’s intervention.

And about that musical instrument.  Well, it wasn’t in the boxes so it’s still out there somewhere.  I’m fairly certain I’ll be getting a replacement soon.  How do I know?  As I wrote this, the mail was delivered and it contained my new passport.  I had forgotten hubby and I sent the renewal in early last month.  How odd that it arrived while I was writing this…

A Phenomenal Photo Find – A Picnic in a Chicago Cemetery

Originally published on genealogyatheart.blogspot.com on 25 Oct 2015.

Hope you enjoyed the genealogical synchronicity links in my last blog.  For some reason, many of my strange experiences tend to revolve around photos and I’m going to share 2 odd occurrences that happened in the same week which completed a prediction made 18 years earlier.

The Christmas before my first child was born, my in-laws gave me a book to record family history. My mother-in-law asked me 3 months after my child was born if I had the book completed as she knew I was extremely interested in genealogy.  Overwhelmed with motherhood, I told her no. She said she expected that I would have it completed back to the American Revolution by the time my child graduated from high school.  Little did I know how right she would be and the odd timing of an important discovery in that line that made her prediction accurate.

I was always intrigued with my husband’s 2nd great grandmother, Drusilla Williams DeWolf Thompson.  No one else in the family was named Drusilla so where the name came from we don’t know.  I liked to call her Grandma Dru because Drusilla makes me think of one of Cinderella’s mean stepsisters.

Hubby’s parents didn’t know much about Grandma Dru; their knowledge was that she was a seamstress in Chicago and that she had arrived there via Conestoga wagon from upstate New York with her husband.  She was supposedly the youngest of 21 and her father, John Hicks Williams, a sea captain, died from a bad shave in the Orient.   Turns out much of that story isn’t fact.  Some of the wrong information came from an undated letter written by a family member who though Drusilla’s sister was a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution (DAR) and the Mayflower Society. No one in the family questioned the accuracy of the information until the early 2000’s when a second cousin decided to join the DAR and found their was no link in the line.

I came into contact with the cousin’s daughter via an internet posting on Rootsweb Gen Forum seeking info on Dru and I agreed that I would help research the family.  Separately, the cousin, her daughter and I made several trips to Long Island and Troy, New York seeking records as back in those days, internet searching was difficult.  We were able to prove descent from Dru’s paternal grandfather, Wilson Williams, and that Wilson was a member of the Hempstead Harbor, Long Island Militia during the American Revolution.  Along the way we discovered another cousin via the internet who filled us in on her line.

We had documentation from the family, census, military, church and civil authorities but what we longed for was a picture of Drusilla.  Dru died in Chicago, Cook County, Illinois in 1898 so it was probable that she had been photographed in her lifetime.  I have all of the pictures of my husband’s family and none were of Dru.  The cousins had no picture, either.  We decided to search collateral lines.  Dru had one son, John Calvin, with her first husband, Calvin DeWolf, who had died in 1852.  John Calvin had 4 children, Sadie, who died in 1953 had no children. Caroline died as an infant in 1883. Nellie died in 1908 during childbirth and Henry, who died in 1924, was unmarried.  The cousins and I would joke that the best chance of finding a picture would be for me to search antique shops locally as Sadie had died not far from where I live.  Instead, we decided to search other collateral lines.

Dru had 3 birth children and 1 adopted child with her second husband, Thomas Coke Thompson.  The adopted child, Nellie, seems to have vanished after age 11 so we assumed she had died.  Dru’s oldest child, Lewis Warren, died in 1883.  He married twice and had one child, Louisa, with his second wife.  Louisa also married twice but her only child died at age 3 in 1910 so this was another dead end.

Dru and Thomas’ second child, James, had 2 children.  Daughter Rose died as an infant in 1883.  Jeannette, their other child, died in 1944.  She married but had no children.  No picture would be found here, either!

If a picture existed it would be in the possession of a descendant of Dru’s youngest child, Mary, who both my husband and his internet found cousins’ descend.  Mary and Andrew Cook had 7 children but we could quickly eliminate 6 of the children’s descendants from having a photo.   Lulu May, who is my husband’s grandmother, can be eliminated since I have all of the family pictures.  To be sure, I double checked with all of his living relatives and no one could recall ever seeing a picture of Dru.

Oldest son, John Thompson, who one of the cousins is descended from, and second oldest son, William DeWolf Cook, who the other 2 cousins descend from, can be eliminated as none of those families had a photo.  Three of Mary’s children died without marrying – Drucilla in 1897, James Andrew in 1906 and Whitney Calvin in 1924.

This left one of Mary and Thomas’ children to find – Grace Gertrude Cook, the author of the undated family letter.  This was our last hope!  We knew that Grace had married John Honaker and they had 2 children.  I had met one of their children, John Sheridan Honaker, who had retired not far from where my husband and I lived when we first married and my in-laws would visit John when they came to see us.  He had 2 children we had never met.  Grace’s second child, Anne Virginia, married and also had 2 children we had never met.  My sister-in-law thought the family lived somewhere in the midwest.

Finding an obituary for John Sheridan Honaker, the cousins were able to get a phone number for one of his children.  This newly found cousin hadn’t ever seen a photo of Dru, either.  She doubted anything was left as a tornado in 1974 had blown the roof off her family’s home and there were only a few pages of the Family Bible that had survived.  She promised to check with her uncle who had been the one to clean up after the tornado.

It took several months for the cousin to be able to convince her uncle’s son to look in the attic.  The son insisted that everything had been lost and he really didn’t want to climb around his dad’s attic as the uncle was too old to look himself.  She volunteered to look but was politely told no.

I had moved on to other lines and really wasn’t thinking about Dru when I dropped off at Walgreens a baggie filled with undeveloped film and disposable cameras I had found while spring cleaning in a spare closet.  It was a Sunday afternoon and I knew I had too much for the harried clerk to develop in an hour so I told her to call me whenever she got the film developed.  As I turned from the counter I ran smack into another customer who I hadn’t known was standing close behind me.  I apologized and asked if she was okay since she clearly looked rattled.  She said she was fine but she certainly didn’t look it; she was scowling and tense.  I told her that I hoped the rest of her day would be calm and beautiful.  As I walked past her she asked if she could have a word with me.  I turned and she sputtered that she was psychic and did I know that I had a lot of dead people surrounding me.  The store clerk was taken aback but I just laughed and told the customer that I was a genealogist and that they were most likely all my relatives.  The woman told me she had never seen anyone surrounded by so many dead people.  I laughed again and told her I had a big family and that I hoped they were all listening because I really needed their help in finding their records, especially their pictures.  I shared what happened when I got home with my husband who shook his head and remarked that the strangest things happen to me. Every time I see this cartoon I think of that experience:

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I got a call several days later from Walgreens to pick up my photos.  While I was gone my husband was checking email.  When I returned from the store hubby was excited and told me there was an email I just had to read right away – it was from the Midwest cousin.  Here’s a transcription of the email dated 5 April 2001 but  I have used initials only as I don’t have permission to use their names:

“Found it!!!!! Actually J. found it.  It is very faint and has some water damage.  I will send you all copies (I’ll take it in tomorrow).  I have never been to Graceland [Cemetery] but there is a tall white stone with what looks like an urn on top.  On the left side of the picture is a young girl with a fancy dress.  Seated next to her is a bearded man with a top hat.  To the right of him is a girl with her head resting on her hand.  Two boys are seated on either side of the monument.  On the back in a flowery script it says:  Graceland  Cemetery 1870 Thomas Thompson Drusilla Thompson Lewis Thompson James Thompson Mary Thompson.

I will have the back photocopied so that I can send that along with the prints.  Hope this does it for you.  I actually jumped up and down when Uncle B. handed it to me.  He did not want me to take it from the house, but I insisted… Congratulations! S.”

I shouted and jumped up and down, too and thanked all the dead people who supposedly were following me.  Later that evening I received the following email from the Midwest cousin:

“I had a long talk on the phone with Uncle B tonight about Aunt V. and we were rejoicing over the good news from the doctor.  Then he says, “S., did you pray about this picture?” (He is a religious man.  I don’t pray about pictures.)  I said, “No, but it means a lot to I. and her daughter, and to Lori.  Why?”  And he says, “J. didn’t go up to find the picture.  He was just going through some old things cleaning up.  Then he came upon a box that he had never seen that had been up there before the tornado because it had water damage.  He went through it and found old clothes and things, and there in the bottom of the box was this picture.  The only picture in the box.  Somebody’s prayers must have been answered.”

“Well, I’ll leave that last part for you to decide.  But this is very weird because J. has been through those attics time and time again and he said this box was just sort of sitting there.  This makes the tape thing* of mine even spookier.  Anyway, J. brought the picture down not eve (sic) knowing what it was because it was so faint, and wouldn’t you know.  It’s the picture.

Just thought I would share that part of the story with you.  You can make of it what you will. S.”

And you, dear readers, can make what you will of this odd story that happened to me.  Here’s the picture:

dru

From a later email, here’s further information about the photo:

“…I asked what they [the photography shop] could do to make it clearer and they said that I would be pleasantly surprised because it was made before there was film so there is no grain and should enlarge perfectly.  I had them make a 5 x 7 with some cropping of tree tops from the top; a  5 x 7 that focuses on the family and the monument and an 8 x 10 that includes as much of the picture as possible in the original, which is about 7×6…”

The miracle of this picture is that it survived not only the 1974 tornado but also 131 years of no heating or air conditioning, the Chicago fire (1871), and several moves across three states.

But the story doesn’t end there….

Six months after the photo was discovered my eldest child was inducted into the DAR; it was her senior year in high school as my mother-in-law, long dead, had predicted would happen.

As I was writing this blog I decided to take a break and look at some of the hints that had popped up on ancestry. I have disabled most of the hint feature so when I get some, I tend to take a look.  I can’t explain how there was a hint for Find-a-Grave for Uncle B, the man who had the picture in his attic.  I didn’t even know he had died 3 years ago.  Someone had posted his and his wife’s gravestone photos just 2 months ago.  I have no idea who made the memorial or the relationship of the person who posted the photos.  Why that hint showed up a few hours after I had written most of this blog I can’t explain, either.

So just maybe all those dead people behind me in Walgreens are still around helping me keep my tree updated.  I don’t understand how it all works but I certainly appreciate the help!

*I’ll save that strange story of the tape for another day!

Creepy Creepy October

Originally published on genealogyatheart.blogspot.com on 22 Oct 2015.

As we approach Halloween, I’m thinking about the weird and unexplained that happens in the world of genealogy.  I’ve had several strange situations occur which I’ll be sharing over the next few posts.

Since I know I’m not alone I wanted to share with you some coincidences I’ve discovered in the past few weeks written by other genealogists.

The first was from Crestleaf.com – if you don’t subscribe to their free email newsletter you really need to as it’s filled with useful posts.  In their September recap there’s a link to their interesting finds for the month and one written by Vicki Noels-Cornish, The Ginger Genie, who shares a serendipitous find.  Click on Crestleaf to read about it.

Don’t know if you saw the History Channel show last year about the violin that was discovered to belong to one of those who perished on the Titanic.  I’m not a big Titanic fan but I loved how the show followed the trail to discover that the violin was in fact one used on the ship.  I was astounded to read the rest of the story – recently posted by the Daily Mail in the UK.  This you’ve got to read if you’re not aware of the update.  Warning – there’s a spoiler in the headline so scroll down before you begin reading!  View it here.

My Mother was quite superstitious and one of her favorite saying was “It always comes in 3’s.”  So here’s the 3rd coincidental story – I’ve discovered recently that Genealogy Today has short stories submitted by users about Serendipity.  I really enjoyed “Marriage Arranged By Ancestors” as my husband and I met accidentally through friends.  Over the years we’ve discovered that we are “cousins” several times, the most recent in the 1500’s.  Before researching my ancestors I would have said I was Croatian and German and he would have said he was Swedish.  Little did we know we are also Irish, English, Welsh, Scottish, and French. Enjoy!

The Apple Doesn’t Fall Far From the Tree – The Real Life of Johnny Appleseed

Originally published on genealogyatheart.blogspot.com on 16 Oct 2015.

When I think of fall I don’t think about pumpkins and leaves like most.  Instead, I think of apples.  I loved apple picking as a child and I knew what would come soon after, my grandma’s apple strudel. We bobbed them, tried to bite chunks out that were dangling from the ceiling and dunked them in caramel.  My neighbor, Carol, and I would twist the core while reciting the alphabet to determine the initials of who we would marry someday. Sweet or tart, there’s an apple for every one’s taste.

When my in-laws moved to a rural part of northeastern Indiana in the 1980’s, hubby and I always knew where to turn on the unmarked road – just look for the old abandoned apple orchard on the corner.  The trees were gnarly and the fruit small and withered.  It always looked creepy to me, even on a bright sunny summertime day.  I remarked to my father-in-law that it was a shame the trees were neglected.  He said that he had heard that they were once owned by Johnny Appleseed.  Little did I know how right he was.

I knew Johnny Appleseed was a real person named John Chapman.  With a romantic notion of him traveling the west to plant apple seedlings so that pioneers could benefit from the delicious fruit on their journey, I knew little else about him.

I passed on the story of Johnny Appleseed to my children every fall when I made my mother’s apple salad. They wanted us to plant an apple tree but in our part of Florida, that wouldn’t work.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered this newspaper clipping with my father’s papers after his death in the late 1990’s:

Like most everything my family has left me, I have no idea of the source.  Grrr-no newspaper name or date. Did Dad save it because the name Leininger was mentioned or was he, too, related somehow to Johnny Appleseed?  Dad and I weren’t close but there was an apple tree on my grandparent’s farm in Hobart, Indiana that I used to climb.  Wouldn’t someone have told me if Johnny Appleseed was a relation?

John and George Leininger are common names in the family – I’ve got 19 John’s and 18 George’s. In addition, I’ve got combined John George and George John.  I knew John Chapman never married and I had no Chapman’s in my tree so I assumed the clipping was because of seeing the Leininger name. Yet, there was some other oddities that made me wonder.  My step-grandmother was from Michigan, close to Hastings, and the Leininger family first settled in Ohio, though it was not Ashtabula.  My aunt’s name was Bonita and she once lived near Columbia City, Indiana.  Hmmm.

It wasn’t until a distant cousin emailed me his Leininger records that I learned that John Chapman was involved with the Leininger family and that spooky old orchard did in fact once belong to him.

“According to a deed signed by President Martin Van Buren, John Chapman owned 74.04 acres in the South 1/2 of the N.W. 1/4 Sec. 3 Twp 24 Range 15.  The deed was dated March 11, 1836. This land is located in the far northeast corner of Jay County, on the Wabash River.  It was on this land that he planted a nursery of appletree seedlings…. John Leininger purchased through a deed, entered July 1, 1839, 128.60 acres of the S.E. fraction of Sec. 15 of the same township. This land was located about two miles south of Chapman’s land.  John Leininger also purchased eight acres of land in Mercer Co., Ohio, on the other side of the State Line from his larger purchase.  He built his house and buildings on the eight acres, so that he could send his children to Ohio schools, which were better at the time than Indiana’s.  Please realize that this area was practically wilderness at this time.”1  My dear readers know I’ve written earlier about my family’s interesting ways to get their children into the best school districts – see blog of 20 August 2015 Education Across State Lines.

Map of Johnny Appleseed's farm (John Chapman) and John George Leininger's farm
The John Chapman and John Leininger Farms – Map courtesy of Robert LeRoy Leininger in his book, Leininger Family History and Genealogy (1970) p. 7F

So here’s how John Chapman is connected to the Leininger Family.  John’s step-sister, Percis Chapman (15 Nov 1793-28 Jun 1859), married William Broom (1792-1 Mar 1848).  Percis was known as John’s favorite sibling so he remained close to her, even after her marriage to William. Percis and William had 4 daughters, Mary, Lucy, Elizabeth and Harriet.  Elizabeth (10 Sep 1829-2 Jun 1863) married John George Leininger (7 Feb 1826-31 Mar 1917).

Elizabeth Broom
Elizabeth Broom Leininger Photo courtesy of Jill on Find-a-Grave

John George and Elizabeth had 6 children before her death.  He remarried to Sarah Hough in 1864

Sarah Hough and John George Leininger Photo courtesy of  Robert LeRoy Leininger

and had 5 more children.  John George is my 2nd great uncle, sibling to my 2nd great grandfather Jacob Leininger.

Henry Leininger and Jacob Leininger
John George’s brothers Henry (left) and Jacob (my 2nd Great Grandfather-right)  Photo courtesy of Robert LeRoy Leininger

I’ve written about John George in a previous blog (see 26 June 2015 Planes, Trains, Automobiles & Barges, Oh My!) and how difficult it must have been for my 3rd great grandmother, Marie Gasse Leininger, to have to journey to America with young children.

Marie Margaretha Gasse Leininger Photo courtesy of Robert LeRoy Leininger

According to family recollections, Johnny Appleseed lived with Percis and William when he came back to Indiana.  William tended Johnny’s land in his absence and when Johnny died in 1845, Percis inherited Johnny’s 1200 acre nursery.2  Johnny was a wealthy man at the time of his death.

I don’t know what religion Percis and William followed but their daughter, Elizabeth, married into a Lutheran family.  Johnny, however, followed the tenets of theologian Emmanuel Swedenborg.  At the end of his days, Johnny was a barefoot vegetarian who preferred to treat everyone and everything with respect.  Since that included Native Americans, animals and insects, Johnny was viewed as eccentric.

Here’s some things I bet you didn’t know about Johnny:

  • Johnny’s dad was one of the Minute Men in Boston during the American Revolution.  When Johnny’s mom and brother Nathaniel died in 1776, his dad returned home from the war.  Johnny was raised by his step-mom.
  • If you were a Girl Scout and sang the Johnny Appleseed blessing you really were singing Johnny’s favorite traveling song. (Ohh, the Lord is good to me, and so I thank the Lord, for giving me, the things I need, the sun, the moon and the apple seed, the Lord is good to me.)
  • The trees he planted weren’t designed for eating – they were designed for drinking.  Yep, Johnny was helping the settlers produce hard apple cider.  No wonder they loved him! Johnny didn’t believe in grafting which is the only way you can get an edible apple.  Planting apple seeds produces a fruit that may be just plain awful (but not if you’re going to use it for an alcoholic drink).  Apple liquor was easier to make than corn liquor and cured quicker.
  • He didn’t just sell apple trees – he also had a business selling herbs.  Native Americans purchased their herbs from Johnny.
  • Johnny was the “Paul Revere of the Western Frontier.”  During the War of 1812 he warned settlers in Mount Vernon, Ohio that the Native Americans were planning an attack by racing 30 miles through dense forest.  His actions saved the entire town.
  • His pet was a wolf that he once freed from a trap.
  • The west that Johnny ventured to was what we consider the midwest.  He planted in Pennsylvania, Ohio and Indiana.  There is some who think he went as far south as northwestern West Virginia, then known as Virginia, but that hasn’t be authenticated.
  • Johnny was the first person to travel between nursery sites.  He’d plant, stay a bit, then travel back to nurture a site he previously planted, move to a new site to plant and then move on to visit one he already planted.  This enabled him to have supplies in various places and not lose a crop due to poor weather conditions.
  • He’d rip out pages of his Bible to give to settlers and the remains of the last one he wore stuck in his belt was last known in 1970 to be in the possession of Waldo Dock, a descendant, in Celina, Ohio.

So the real Johnny would have fit right in the 1960’s as a hippie type that would have approved of Boone’s Farm Apple Wine with his special herb mixture.

Oh, and that newspaper article – seems that it was from the Ft. Wayne, Indiana newspaper around 1931 when Robert Harris was interested in finding descendants.  So it wasn’t cut out by my dad after all.  Most likely either my grandmother or grandfather clipped the article as that is where they were living at the time. Robert Harris published a book in 1946 about Johnny.

One more mystery remains – that apple tree I used to climb on the family farm.  I wonder if it was one of Johnny’s.  We couldn’t eat the fruit as my mom said it was “bad” and my grandparents were from the Ft. Wayne area so it just might have been one of Johnny’s.  Too bad we’ll never know.  The farm is now a subdivision and the apple tree was cut down in the

1 Leininger, Robert LeRoy Leininger Family History and Genealogy Two Centuries of Leiningers Manchester, IN:  Self Published, 1971, Appendix F.

2 The Straight Dope:  “What’s the story with Johnny Appleseed?” Straightdope.com.  Retrieved. 11 Oct 2015.

A New Genealogy Society – What Fun!

Originally published on genealogyatheart.blogspot.com on 11 Oct 2015.

My sister-in-law called me last week and wanted to know if she was Scotch-Irish. I laughed and told her she was of Scottish and Irish heritage.  I then explained that the term Scotch-Irish is derogatory and only used in the U.S.

She was happy to find out that she was indeed Scottish as a new genealogy society is being established in the city where she lives and she wants to join with her friends.  The first organizational meeting is today so she doesn’t have a membership application to complete or much information on the requirements.

I looked at a similar organization and, knowing that I’m going to be extremely busy with my day job and trying to get my genealogy certification portfolio put together, I told her I’d pull the records for her as an early Christmas present.

Oh what fun it was to review my older research notes on one of my favorite couples on my husband’s side!  I really wish I could have met these folks as they are just endearing to me with their spunk, love and acceptance of each other’s differences.

John Cooke was born in  Whees, Stirlingshire Scotland about 1827.  I have him with his family in the 1841 and 1851 census in Scotland.  I’ve never been able to locate an emigration record but he must have come to New York City shortly after 1851 as he married Mary “Mollie” O’Brien in 1854 in Newark, New Jersey.  Mary was born in 1835 in Limerick, Ireland and thanks to the Irish records now available online, I have her Roman Catholic Baptism record.  Of course, it is on the right side towards the bottom of the page that is most difficult to read!  Mollie and her step-sister, Ellen, emigrated in February 1853 as domestic servants with another girl from her parish.  This was during the potato famine and there is no records of land ownership by Mollie’s parents so times must have been tough.  Coming to a new country at 18 years of age with nothing takes spunk!

Newark, New Jersey, being just across the river from New York City, was the perfect place to elope and take the train to Chicago.  I don’t know for fact that Mollie and John eloped but it’s awfully odd that there were no traditional wedding banns posted, which was a common Roman Catholic tradition. Also strange is that step-sis Ellen wasn’t the witness.  It appears that two unrelated parishioners did that job.  The birth information that was given at the church doesn’t quite match reality, either.  With no relatives around to question, John shaved off a few years, making him the same age as Mollie.

The couple remained together until John’s death in 1889.  Mollie lived until 1903 and never remarried. I believe they truly loved one another and their respect goes way beyond what a lot of folks can’t do even today.  The couple made an arrangement prior to their marriage – all female children would be raised Roman Catholic and all male children would be raised Protestant.  I’m not sure how Mollie got the Roman Catholic Church to agree to this since the rule was if you were married in the church you were agreeing to raise ALL of your children in the faith.  I also have to give John credit for marrying Mollie in her church and giving 50-50 in regards to the children.  I’m really impressed this agreement was made 160 years ago and both parties kept their word.  With integrity, they didn’t need a written pre-nuptial

The couple had 3 children – 2 Protestant boys and 1 Catholic girl.  I’ve been in contact with the girls descendants and they are all Catholic to this day.  All of the boys descendants I’ve been in contact with continue to be Protestant except for one and that was due to marrying a Catholic girl (me).

Interestingly, when John died he was buried in the Protestant cemetery, Calvary, in Cook County, Illinois.  Mary’s death certificate noted that she was going to be interred in Calvary, too, but she wasn’t.  She was buried in Queen of Peace Roman Catholic Cemetery instead.  After 15 years of being apart the children decided the couple needed to be together so John was re-interred next to Mollie. Unfortunately, there was no stone.  I assume because the cost of re-interment was considerable at the time.  I wish I could afford to put a stone there cause this is a true love story that needs to be long remembered.

Family Pets

Originally published on genealogyatheart.blogspot.com on 7 Aug 2015.

My daughter wants to get a dog in the next few months.  Growing up, our kids have had lots of pets as my husband and I believe that the benefits far outweigh the work.  Gaining responsibility and compassion, instilling nurture and playful fun are worth the cost and effort, IMHO.

Lab Mariah, Son holding cat Tinker and daughter holding rabbit Fluffy.  They also had a parakeet, fish and turtles.

Daughter will most likely find an older mutt at the local shelter.  Son thought she ought to get a cat, instead, since she likes to travel.  Hubby is just excited to finally be a “grandparent.”

We’ve been having a large amount of rain lately that limits outside activity so I decided last weekend to look through photo albums of our family’s pets.  I was amazed to discover how far back the interaction of animals in my ancestors’ lives are recorded.

The oldest seems to be this pic of my mom and aunt from around 1923:

I wish I knew the pony’s name!  Living on a farm, we had 12 ponies and a horse but my favorite was Dapple Brownie – I’m about the same age as my mom on her pony:

The oldest dog photo we have is of my husband’s grandmother, Elsie Johnson Harbaugh, from around 1942. The dog’s name has also been lost to history:

Funny how families tend to like similar breeds.  Hubby’s family really liked small dogs; his

parents also had a poodle named Schatze when he was growing up and after he left home, Nano:

Hubby liked larger dogs but his parents drew the line and only allowed him to have a mid size mutt, Henry:

I miss Henry.  He used to sit between my husband and I in the car on dates and hold my hand.  Hubby said he knew I was the one as Henry was very particular about who he liked.

My side of the family liked big dogs.  My dad always had collies:

Friend Debbie, Me and Lassie (not the famous one!)

as did my twin cousins, with Twinks:

Since my parents were divorced, and my mom and I lived with my grandparents, I had Australian sheepdogs there.  Here I am with Toto, as a puppy, who was hit by a car.

After his death, I cared for Toto’s sister, Snowball, until we moved to Florida and Snowball retired to a farm in Indiana.  I also took care of my uncle’s weimaraner, Lucky, for a bit.  Someone stole him from my uncle’s backyard and it broke my uncle’s heart:

Our next door neighbor, Mr. Bauer, had a small dog I played with, too:

Clearly, we aren’t just dog people as many cats have imprinted love on our hearts:

My cat, Blackie, at the farm
Boots and kittens at my grandparents
Thomasina and I at my grandparent’s house

My husband had a kitten for a short time but it was a wild child so his parents had to return it:

Kiitie looks so innocent here but it scratched anyone who came near.  When hubby and I were first on our own we got a cat, Midnight, at the pound:

Mid got into a cat fight when he was about 8 years old and died from an infection.  We were so upset that it took us a year before we could get another pet.  Eventually we got Tinker (the cat) and Misty (the dog).

who were the best of friends as we got them within 2 weeks of each other.  Tinker lived 19 plus years and Misty, 12.  These were the first pets our kids had.

Over the years we also adopted a stray, Cipher, who turned out wasn’t a stray.  When we couldn’t find the owner we took Cipher to the vet – no chip so we got him shots and adopted him.  Cipher slept at our house at night and we later learned was spending his days a few blocks away at a neighbor’s house. When the neighbor decided to get Cipher chipped (she was calling him Ben) she discovered we were his people.  Cipher decided to move in with her permanently after I brought home two kittens who had been abandoned at the school where I worked.

Last but not least are 2 birds that I will never forget.  The first is a wild bird that wasn’t very wild. Every time I went out to play the bird below would join me.

This went on for at least 3 years and as an adult, I realize how strange that is but as a child, I didn’t know that wild birds aren’t supposed to play with you.

When I was three, an elderly neighbor was moving and couldn’t take her parakeet with her so my mother said we’d look after the bird.  The neighbor had had Chipper for about 20 years so my mom figured it wouldn’t live much longer.  Surprise, surprise, Chipper happily chirped for the next 13 years.  He didn’t like to leave his cage; he’d fly from one end of the room to the other and than land on the open door and go back inside.  Chipper’s favorite show was same as that of my grandparents, Lawrence Welk, and later, The FBI.  I don’t know why he liked the latter but he would sing so loudly you couldn’t hear the show.

I can’t wait to see how our two cats, Charlie and Parker, are going to behave when daughter’s dog visits. I’m expecting it will make for some more memorable family stories!

Picnics

Originally published on genealogyatheart.blogspot.com on 26 Jul 2015.

I have fond memories of picnics – beginning in childhood all the way to last weekend! Picnics today are a relaxed affair, it’s a wear something comfortable, de-stress and enjoy family, friends and nature.  I don’t know about you but I definitely don’t try to make a fashion statement when going on a picnic.  That wasn’t the case, however, back in the day.  I love the picture below showing my grandmother, Non, with the family’s first car in 1923. Nice touch with the American flag on the front since it was Independence Day.  They were on their way to the Croatian Picnic Grounds located between Glen Park and Hobart, Indiana.  A dress, heals and Sunday’s best hat for spending the day in the sticks.

July 4, 1923-on the way to a picnic, L-R Boarder, Mary Koss, Joseph Koss Jr.

Non wasn’t alone in her wearing apparel.  You’d think the family was going to church instead of spending the day in the woods.

Croatian Picnic Grounds 1923 L-R George Kos, Anne Marie Koss, Anna Grdenic Kos, Ivan “John” Koss, Dorothy Koss, Mary Koss and Barbara Kos
Must have been a chore to get the kids’ clothes clean!  The area was heavily wooded with a small clearing that was mostly dirt.  No wonder Non loved her Fels Naptha laundry soap. We had an old Maytag ringer washer in the basement that had to be filled up by hand with hot water.  I can still picture my Gramps hooking up the laundry line around our backyard and adding poles with slits to insure that the line didn’t sag.  Monday was wash day and the picnic sure must have been a distant memory the following day spent cleaning all those dirty garments.

The Croatian picnic grounds were used for at least 50 years.  The picnic grounds were open on Sundays from Memorial Day through Labor Day.  Every Sunday, one of the men would rise early to attend 6 AM Mass and then set off for the grounds to prepare the spit that would roast the lamb.  Families took turns selling plates of food and drinks.  Our shift was usually 1-2 PM once a month.  I wish I had a picture of the building which was just a wooden shack.  The north end was enclosed to hold supplies.  That was attached to a covered bar area.  Since the bar rail was too high for kids, a child who was helping would stand on an overturned wooden “pop” or soda carton or two.  Customers would order plates of roasted lamb, Vienna style bread, Croatian style potato salad or a lettuce salad with oil and vinegar dressing.  Drinks were always Budweiser beer in a bottle or whatever pop was on sale that week – Coke, Pepsi, Fanta, Sprite.  Funny we never had water though there was a spigot that we all used to wash our hands after eating.  Someone would put a bar of soap in a mesh bag on a string around the spigot.  Nature dried our hands. I have no memory of the bathroom facilities, if they even existed.

Some of the ladies brought desserts to sell – pita which is like a fruit filled bar cookie and not the bread sold today, apple or cheese strudel, and cookies.

Both lunch and dinner was served.  Sometimes the menu changed and pork was included, along with hamburgers and hot dogs.  We always got lamb, though, which was heavenly. My father-in-law disliked lamb as he believed it was tough and tasteless.  My last visit to the Croatian picnic grounds was in 1985 when my husband and I returned to visit his family. We brought a takeout container to my in-laws and after one bite, my father-in-law groaned that he had spent his entire life in the area and never knew what he had been missing. The following Sunday he went back for more.

After lunch, as kids, we’d cut through the woods on a well worn trail or crossed the street to visit our school friends and neighbors of other nationalities.  My next door neighbor, Carol Leon, would be at the Spanish picnic grounds right across the street.  There was also Polish, Serbian, Greek, and Italian grounds.  Possibly there was more but I wasn’t allowed to walk that far!  Sometimes we’d play baseball or badminton with our friends but our favorite was cigarette tag – Someone was “it” and “it” chased everyone around.  If you were tagged you had to sing a cigarette jingle (like, Winston, tastes good like a cigarette should or I’d walk a mile for a Camel) or you became “it.”  Funny but none of us grew up to be smokers.  The adults spent the afternoon playing horseshoes or cards.  The women loved to gossip.  There was also singing and dancing (after a couple of beers) as the musically inclined always brought their native instruments.

By the mid 1960’s female children began wearing shorts.  The ladies continued to dress up through the early 1970’s.
pradevic
Prerodevic Picnic L-R Barbara Kos Milosevich, Family Friend Violet Harminsic, Anna Kos, Unknown Friend, Mary Koss Circa 1950

I wish I had the secret lamb recipe, I know it was infused with garlic, probably patted down with salt and pepper but what else I have no idea.  I do make the Croatian potato salad often which is similar to German potato salad. Besides lamb, it’s wonderful with ham, too. Try it and let me know what you think:

Croatian Style Potato Salad

Peel and cube potatoes to bite size (I use red but any kind will do) about 2 potatoes per person.

Add water and cook on stove til tender.

Meanwhile, cut a small sweet onion coarsely.

When potatoes are done, drain and place into a large serving bowl.  Liberally sprinkle with coarse salt and pepper.  With a serving spoon, mix then salt and pepper some more.  Add the onions.  Using a ratio of 1 tablespoon red wine vinegar (or regular vinegar) to 2 tablespoons oil (vegetable or light olive) drizzle over the potatoes/onions until the potatoes are well saturated.  Gently stir to make sure that all of the liquid is absorbed.  If you have fresh dill or parsley you can add either.  Put a dinner plate over the serving bowl to maintain the heat and allow the dish to marinate, about 5 minutes.  When ready to serve, stir and enjoy!

The Bank Heist

Originally published on genealogyatheart.blogspot.com on 22 Jul 2015.

It was the Great Depression and times were tough as my grandfather, Gramps, had his work hours reduced at the steel mill.  The family took in boarders but as their hours were also cut, money was extremely tight.  One of our family legends takes place in the midst of this difficult period.

Gramps always turned his paycheck over to my grandmother, Non, to cash.  The family had an account at Gary National Bank on Broadway in Gary, Indiana.  The typical routine was Non would cash the check, put a small amount in savings and then on her way home, shop for groceries at a small family run store.  One never knows when a typical day will turn into a major event but that was what was about to happen.

Non stood in line at the bank awaiting her turn with the teller.  Hearing noise, she turned and saw a group of men exiting a car parked at the curb.  What made the scene different was they were waving guns and had their hats pulled down low over their eyes.  Bursting into the bank, the ring leader ordered everyone to get down on the floor.  Non stood still, in shock, clutching Gramps’ check.  Shots were fired at the ceiling. Non continued to stand still.  As one gunman approached the tellers directing them to place money in the bag he carried, another stood guard at the door.  A third man approached Non and again ordered her to get down on the floor.  Non pleaded, “Please, sir, my husband is a cripple and I have 3 small children.  My widowed mother and my sister also live with me.  I need this money. Please don’t take it.”  The gunman replied, “Get down now or I’ll shoot.”  Non got down on the floor. “Put your hands out to the side.” he ordered.  Non complied.

Minutes later the gunman was back and he dropped a stack of bills in Non’s outstretched hand.  She turned her head and saw him wink at her.  The gunmen told the customers to remain on the ground until they counted to 100 aloud. Departing, the robbery was over.

When they got to 75 Non shoved the bills down the top of her dress. Amply endowed, no one would notice.  Non not only could use the money, she feared that the police would think she was an accomplice if she reported what had happened so she said nothing.

After Non got home she hid the money, which amounted to several hundred dollars, fearful that if she used it she would be in trouble.  Years later, after the robbers were convicted, the money was used to partly pay for the  family home being bricked. Non swore that the gunman who gave her the money was John Dillinger, the Indiana farm boy turned bank robber.

Problem is, Dillinger didn’t rob a Gary National Bank.  He robbed a 1st National Bank in East Chicago, Indiana1 but Non would not have gone that far as she would have had to rely on street cars to get there nor was that bank located on Broadway.

Historians dispute some of the bank robberies at the time that were thought to be committed by Dillinger.  A friend of Dillinger’s, John “Red” Hamilton and Baby Face Nelson’s gang has now been credited with some of the robberies initially attributed to Dillinger. Today, 14 robberies are thought to have been the work of Dillinger between 1933-1934.2

Non insisted that Dillinger was the man who gave her the money.  There are many reports of Dillinger’s compassion.    “Dillinger was generous with his ill-gotten gains, leaving $100 bills behind for each member of the family whenever he visited and one time offering to finance Gallagher’s (his niece’s) dream of opening a beauty shop by giving her $5,000. After discussion by the family, it was decided not to accept the money.”3  Another “story told of a farmer who had come to a bank to make a deposit while the gang was robbing the place. Standing at the teller window with his money in front of him, Dillinger asked the farmer if the money was his or the bank’s. The farmer answered it was his and Dillinger told him, “Keep it. We only want the banks’.”4

Was Dillinger involved in the robbery Non remembered or not?  Possibly his role was that of an accomplice and not the leader.  Perhaps Non was mistaken and the robber was not Dillinger.

There were several bank robberies so I can’t pinpoint which robbery Non experienced.  I can understand as an immigrant with a previous arrest (see The KKK Strikes post of  18 July 2015) she would fear further police involvement.  Although I can understand why Non didn’t tell authorities about the money she received it clearly was wrong.  In genealogy, separating our family’s past choices from our present lives can be difficult.  Keeping in mind that we’re all imperfect humans helps.

Mary & Daughter Mary Lou Before Bricking 1943

 

After Bricking. Photo taken Dec 2001

1 “John Dillinger – List of His Bank Robberies.” AwesomeStories.com. N.p., n.d. Web. 08 July 2015.

2 Ibid

3 “Dillinger Relatives to Attend New Museum Opening.” Nwitimes.com. N.p., 28 Feb. 2015. Web. 08 July 2015.

4 “John Dillinger.” History.com. A&E Television Networks, n.d. Web. 08 July 2015.

 

The KKK Strikes – Reasons Behind the Cross Burning in Gary, Indiana

Originally published on genealogyatheart.blogspot.com on 18 Jul 2015.

One of my mother’s most frightening memories occurred when she was 6 years old.  It was late autumn and the family had just finished dinner.  Hearing the sounds of cars and voices my grandfather, Gramps, went out to investigate as typically, there was not much traffic at that time of night. Peaking out the window, my mother saw men in white and many cars lining the street.  Gramps soon reappeared and ordered everyone to turn off the lights and to quickly go down into the basement.  My grandmother, Non, asked him what was happening but he just shook his head and grabbed his young son, my Uncle George. The outside noises grew louder – car doors slammed, men spoke loudly and then it became quiet.  The children were told to remain still.  My mother recalled how cold and damp it was in the fruit cellar as the family had not had time to grab a sweater and this part of the house was unheated. My mother didn’t understand what was going on but she knew her parents and grandmother were frightened. Then the sounds of cheering and what sounded like singing, though muffled, was heard. In the dark, mom’s siblings fell asleep but she felt, as the oldest, she needed to remain alert so she pinched herself to stay awake.  After several hours of quiet my grandfather decided to investigate.  He soon returned  and said the Klan had left, the charred cross was not glowing so the fire must be cold. The family could return to their beds for the night.  My mother had a fitful sleep for many nights after as she was sure those bad men were going to return and cause harm.

Why did the Ku Klux Klan choose to burn a cross in front of her home?  Why did they hate her when they didn’t even know her?  Why did they wear hoods and capes?  Where were the police?

My mother went to her grave never knowing for sure why her family was targeted.

I thought I knew the reasons but in researching this family story I discovered I was very, very wrong.

Some background information is necessary to see how my initial reasoning was flawed. I’ll highlight some of the key parts of the saga:

After my grandmother, Non, emigrated to the US in July 1913 with her mother, Granny, and brother, my Great Uncle Joe, the family resided in Glen Park, a suburb of Gary, Indiana, while her father lived in nearby Chicago, Illinois working for the Pullman Company as a laborer.  My great grandfather thought it best if the family lived in a more bucolic setting than the nitty gritty urban environment they weren’t used to.  Non’s first residence was an upstairs apartment on West Ridge Road between Adams and Jefferson Streets.  The building below the apartments held a church and a paint store.  Non and her brother briefly attended school in the neighborhood to perfect their English and she fell in love with the community.  Looking for ways to increase the family income, however, my great grandmother, Granny, decided to apartment hunt in Chicago, locate a larger apartment and then sublease to other immigrants, providing them with room and board.  So off to Chicago the family moved.

In January 1917, my grandparents wed at St. Salomea’s Roman Catholic Church in Chicago and they remained there until after my mom’s birth in April 1918.  The family seriously discussed moving to Bethlehem or Alquippa, Pennsylvania as there was rumors of steady income with the steel mills but they decided to remain in the Chicago area.

Family outside Granny’s Pullman area apartment Left-Right, A neighbor, Great Uncle Joseph Koss, Non, my Mother Dorothy and her Godmother, a friend of Non’s.

My great grandpa did not live long, dying as a result of the Great Flu Epidemic in January 1919. The family unit consisted of widowed Granny, her 3 children – Joseph (who is missing from the 1920 census), Barbara (born in the U.S.) and my Non, Non’s husband, Gramps, and their 2 children, Dorothy, my mom, and Anne Marie with a third, George, on the way.  The only breadwinner became Gramps.  By late 1918, Gramps and my great grandfather were hired as laborers in the steel mill in Gary.  The family rented a house at 2626 Harrison Street, not quite in Glen Park but close.  My mother recalled that the house often flooded from the nearby Calumet River, there was a grape arbor in the back but lots of snakes so the children played on a hill across the street.

Times were tough so Non learned a lot from her neighbors who had moved to Gary from Mexico and Louisiana.  Being a young mother with 3 small children, her Black neighbors, the Gilkeys, taught her the value of Vicks Vaporub and shared a secret family recipe to help the children recover from scarlet fever, sore throats and earaches.  Even though the city had placed the family under quarantine for the scarlet fever, the neighbor woman would sneak in the back door to bring food and the homemade medicine.  Non learned to cook in new ways and corn meal mush, fried chicken, hot sauce and greens became commonplace. The family had a garden with chickens and rabbits.  In the fall, the children would stomp the grapes to a pulp so the family could make vino, a family tradition, which they began to sell locally.

1920-census
1920 Census – Note that one of the “Black” families were of Mexican Hispanic descent

The only problem was that the home was considered so far out from the city limits of Gary that there was no streetcar so my one legged Gramps re-learned how to ride a bike to get to the last stop of the streetcar line on Broadway, about a mile away, to get to work in the mill.Around 1923 another tragedy struck the family.  Breadwinner Gramps had to have his right leg amputated due to a steel mill accident.  With the settlement money they received the family decided to buy a home in Glen Park, 1 block west of the apartment that the family first lived in when they emigrated.  Non wanted her children to attend Glen Park Elementary School that was known for providing a good education and St. Marks, the brand new Roman Catholic Church, was only 1 block away.

The farmhouse was large enough to once again take in boarders for extra cash.  The family continued to raise chickens and rabbits, a vegetable garden and of course, grapes so that they could produce more vino to sell.  My mother recalled that in the fall, her feet were often purple due to the stomping of the grapes.  The fruit cellar where the wine was stored was in the basement, directly under where my mom (Dorothy) was standing:

1926
L-R Anne Marie, Dorothy, Non, Boarder, Friend of Non’s with her son

Shortly before the cross burning, my mother experienced another frightening event.  On Saturday nights, Gramps would play cards with his friends while Non went to the movies with her girlfriends.  Granny remained at home watching the children.  One Saturday night the Gary police arrived at the door inquiring about sales of alcohol.  Granny, with her limited English, had my mother translate.  The officers searched the house, found the vats in the fruit cellar and with backup, removed the wine.  When my grandparents returned home they were questioned and then arrested.  The next morning they appeared before a judge who told them they would be contacted about an upcoming court date.

My grandparents were arrested because of the laws of Prohibition.  “While the manufacture, importation, sale, and transport of alcohol was illegal in the United States, Section 29 of the Volstead Act allowed wine and cider to be made from fruit at home, but not beer. Up to 200 gallons of wine and cider per year could be made, and some vineyards grew grapes for home use.”1  The problem was my grandparents had sold wine.

The court date never occurred as the evidence seemed to have disappeared.  Perhaps the officers lost it, sold it or drank it.  According to the Gary Police Department, there are no records of arrests from that far back.  Searching court records, none could be found since there never was a court date.

Who turned the family in to police?  My mother always thought it was a teacher who had repeatedly questioned her about the purple stains on her hands and feet.  Perhaps it was a card player associate of my Gramps who was disgruntled after a losing game.  Maybe it was a neighbor who witnessed cars coming and going.  Most likely I will never know how the police were tipped off.

In researching this story I also contacted the Gary Health Department for records on the quarantine.  I was informed that there were no records from that time period, however, I did find online that there was a smallpox epidemic in Gary in 1920 but no record of a scarlet fever outbreak.

I also investigated newspapers for records of quarantine, my grandparents’ arrest and cross burning in Glen Park.  Nothing appeared.

For years, I thought the cross burning was because my relatives were the perfect poster family for Klan hatred – as immigrants, these Roman Catholic foreigners who had friends of people of all colors had taken jobs away from the good ole boys and now were living the American Dream by owning a house in the country.  I now believe it is most likely that the cross burning occurred because of the wine arrests.

Recently I learned that “After Prohibition took effect in 1920 until its demise in 1933, it opened up a financial bonanza for criminal activity, especially underground bootlegging and the smuggling of liquor into Chicago, Gary, South Bend, Fort Wayne, Indianapolis, Evansville and other thirsty cities. Enforcement was haphazard; the Anti-Saloon League was more of a lobbying agency and never rallied community support for enforcement.”2  “The KKK called for punishment of bootleggers and set up the ‘Horse Thief Detective Association’ (HTDA) to make extra-legal raids on speakeasies and gambling joints. It seldom cooperated with law enforcement or the state or federal courts. Instead (it) gave enforcement a bad name. Arthur Gillom, a Republican elected state attorney general over Klan opposition in 1924, did not tolerate its extra-legal operations. Instead, ‘He stressed the dangers of citizens relinquishing their constitutional rights and personal freedoms, and emphasized the importance of representative government (at all levels), states’ rights, and the concept of separation of church and state.’ When Rev. Shumaker proposed that ‘personal liberty had to be sacrificed in order to save people,’ Gilliom replied that surrendering power and individual freedoms was a slippery slope to centralized government and tyranny.”3

The arrest may have been the straw that broke the camel’s back with the Klan – we put up with you and now you’re making wine.  Enough already!  Perhaps because the police didn’t press charges, the Klan used the event to make a point to law enforcement – we know you didn’t pursue the case because you “lost” the evidence.  Who knows what the real reason was.  Unless a diary of an officer or Klansman involved miraculously appears mentioning these occurrences I probably will never know for sure.

This is one reason that I love genealogy, the unexpected discoveries!  I attended 12 years of schooling in Gary and never once did I hear about the Klan going after bootleggers and gamblers in the area. Although as vigilantes they were wrong to take the law into their hands, ironically, they were right in making a point that a crime had been committed and the enforcers of the law ignored it.

I realize my grandparents were the guilty ones in this story – they broke the law by selling wine and should have paid the price for their actions.  They got lucky in getting off – no evidence, no proof of sales, no case.

Unfortunately, it was an innocent victim, my mother, that was most affected.  I do know that the cross burning left an indelible mark on her

  1.  Prohibition in the United States Wikipedia. Wikimedia Foundation, n.d. Web. 05 July 2015.
  2. Thomas R. Pegram, “Hoodwinked: The Anti-Saloon League and the Ku Klux Klan in 1920s Prohibition Enforcement,” Journal of the Gilded Age and Progressive Era(2008) 7#1 pp 89-119
  3. Ann Gilliom Verbeek, “The League and the Law: Arthur L. Gillom and the Problem of Due Process in Prohibition-Era Indiana,” Indiana Magazine of History(2011) 107#4 pp 289-326, quotes at p 297 online