First Word #4 - Losing at Euchre to Win at Genealogy

The First Word: Losing at Euchre to Win at Genealogy
by Cari A. Taplin

I had the privilege of having my grandma, her sister-in-law Helen “Pinky” Dimick, and her long time friend Wilma Jimison visit my family here in Colorado in February 2006. This was a big deal for several reasons, mainly because they are getting older and because they came all the way from Ohio. The three of them are widowed now and decided to go on an adventure together. I was so excited that they were coming to my house! It is usually the other way around, unless it’s a monumental occasion like a wedding.

First they flew to California where they spent a week visiting my grandma’s sisters, Barb and Elaine, who have lived in California since about the 1940s. Then they flew from California to Colorado. We took a few drives to see the mountains, ate a lot of food, played a lot of Euchre, and did a lot of talking. Since I had the three of them together at my table a lot during those few days, I took the opportunity to ask them about life during the Great Depression in rural northwest Ohio.

All three of them agreed that they didn’t notice the depression much. It didn’t really affect their way of life. The land in Wood County, Ohio is largely made of clay, and was not susceptible the dust bowl effects that occurred in other parts of the county. They all lived on farms that were mainly self-sustaining. They do not recall having many struggles. They just figured out how to live with what they had.

All three of them were school-aged during the Depression. All three of them remembered that they had a “school dress,” usually just one that they would have to change out of when they got home to save it for the next day. They received a lot of hand-me-downs for their clothes and they remember hand-making the blankets they used.

There were big gardens on their farms; all of their food was grown at home. They canned everything to stock up for the winter. They also raised cows and pigs for meat. My grandma remembers her grandmother, Martha (Meeker) Dimick raising chickens for eggs and meat. She also had an uncle, Gerald Dimick, who owned an apple orchard in Wood County.

On Saturdays my grandmother’s mother, Martha (Urban) Dimick, would get groceries in town. These consisted of things such as sugar, salt, and other things they could not make or grow on their farm. The kids would get candy and ice cream as a treat. Saturdays they had spaghetti for dinner, and Martha would usually invite someone over for dinner, typically someone from church.

They heated the house using gas but during the coldest nights, they would heat glass jars filled with water, wrap them in paper, then use them to keep their feet warm in bed. There were times when they were uncomfortable, but they didn’t seem to have too many troubles on the farms in northwest Ohio.

One thing they all agreed on was that they played a lot of cards growing up. And that is something that is still true in my family. Every time we visit we play a lot of cards. I can remember the adults playing Euchre ever since I was very small. It was one of my grandpa’s favorite pastimes. Besides being fun, it is free. I felt like one of the grown-ups when I finally understood Euchre enough to play it! I’ll never be as good at it as Wilma or my grandpa, but it is still fun nonetheless and it always opens the door to some great conversations which will enrich my genealogy for future generations’ enjoyment. If you don’t play Euchre, it’s not too late to learn. It’s for genealogy’s sake after all!

First Word #3 - Ask Grandma First

The First Word:
Ask Grandma First
by Cari A. Taplin

We all know that the first rule of genealogy is to TALK TO YOUR RELATIVES. The second rule of genealogy is to TALK TO YOUR RELATIVES. Every beginning genealogy book, article or class will tell you to first to TALK TO YOUR RELATIVES.

How do you know what to ask? How do you know what information Grandma has in her head? I can never guess what my grandma is going to reveal to me next! I can ask her a question directly about her family and she won’t know the answer. Then she’ll tell me some obscure item about great aunt Betty she’s only met one time 60 years ago–someone I would never have thought to ask her about. If some one has an easier way to figure this out, please let me know. But I digress. . .

I want to share an experience that happened to me this summer. My family and I took a rather long vacation–two weeks in Ohio and another week in Kansas. My main area of research is in northwestern Ohio. Every time we go back, I spend at least a day or two at area libraries seeking and finding more information. And of course, I spend time asking Grandma questions.

This summer I discovered that the public library in Perrysburg, Ohio had just acquired copies of the records of Zoar Lutheran Church covering 1859 through 1930. What luck! My Miller family were all members of Zoar Lutheran Church and had been for as far back as Grandma can remember. This gives me a new source to work with, which is great because I have the wonderful opportunity to research the surname “Miller.” And not just any “Miller” but “unique” names such as William Miller, John Miller, Fred and Mary Miller. (I need to see the cup half full and take this as a way to really hone my genealogical skills, right?)

In researching these newly available church records, I came across a marriage for a possible brother to my ancestor William John Miller, a Fred Miller married to Mary Kopp. I knew from other research that William did indeed have a brother named Fred but I didn’t know much about him. I was excited to find this bit of information but didn’t know exactly how to go about proving that this Fred was my relative. The only bit of information I had on Fred Miller was from William’s obituary which stated that at the time of William’s death his brother Fred lived in Trilby, Ohio.1 It did not mention a wife or any children. I could not tell from the obituary if he had married. I began going over the possible ways to prove the theory in my head. It would involve a lot of work: trips to libraries, time on the internet and so on to connect this Fred and Mary (Kopp) Miller to William Miller.

So the next mental step I took was to locate Trilby. So I asked Grandma “Do you have an atlas I could borrow?” (Not “Do you know where Trilby is?” Duh.) After not finding it on the map my grandma asks me what I’m looking for. So I tell her about William’s obituary and the clue that his brother Fred was in Trilby, Ohio and I was trying to locate it.

Well, her next statement sort of hit me as a “boy, I’m not thinking straight” moment. She said “Oh, you mean Uncle Fred and Aunt Mary.” That clinched it for me. Granted, Fred and Mary Miller are common names, but the fact that they attended this particular small church and Grandma put those names together without my prompting, has led me to believe it is “probably true” that Fred Miller, brother of William, married Mary Kopp. You have some “probably trues” in your own research too, don’t you?

I will be doing other research to verify this, but the “ah-ha” moment of grandma’s simple statement made me realize a few things. First of all, after doing what I consider “serious genealogy” for about 5 years now, I think I’ve gotten tunnel vision. I’ve been doing research in books, newspapers, online and such for so long that I didn’t even think to ask a living, breathing relative. I didn’t even consider it. Genealogy is all about studying dead relatives anyway, right? I should have asked her first if she’d known William’s brother and his wife. Or at the very least I should have asked her if she knew where Trilby was before I broke out the map.

The second and maybe most eye-opening thing I’ve come to realize is that there is no rhyme or reason to the information that people can or cannot remember. You just have to talk to them and find out what knowledge is hidden their heads. Maybe you’ve had similar experiences. Surely it isn’t just me.

1. William J. Miller obituary, The Perrysburg Journal, Perrysburg, Ohio, 29 August 1952, p 1, c 5.

First Word #2 - How Potty Training Can Help Your Genealogy

The First Word:
How Potty Training Can Help Your Genealogy
by Cari A. Taplin

Last summer, my family and I took a trip to visit my extended family in Ohio, driving across the Midwest for two days. On the return trip I had planned to make a couple of genealogical stops in Missouri where I have traced my maternal grandmother’s line. Our first stop was Wellsville, Missouri, which is practically in the middle of the state, not far off of I-70.

After stopping at a local library to look at some old newspapers, I wanted to locate the tombstones of my great-great-great-grandparents, Thomas Carroll and Angeline Mitchell. Thomas Carroll Mitchell died 29 April 1914 and Angeline died 5 March 1913. I had come across a list of tombstone transcriptions several years ago recording their graves, but had never had the time to go and find them. Now I finally had my chance.

I knew the cemetery was located in Wellsville, and prior to our trip I had searched the Internet, located the cemetery on a map, and plotted the course we would take to get there. The surrounding countryside was somewhat hilly and there were small farms everywhere. During the peak of summer, it was a beautiful drive.

Arriving in the small town of Wellsville, population 1400, we passed a gas station and several streets with small houses; there was not much to this town. Finding the cemetery was easy since I had a good map and it was a pretty good-sized cemetery for such a small town.

There were two modern entrances to the cemetery and the remains of what appeared to be the original entrance, a two-wheel rutted path that went under an old metal archway. We took the first drive we came upon which wound through the cemetery in a “U” shape and ended up at the second entrance. There was a shallow gully that bisected the cemetery which was dry when we were there. It appeared that the oldest stones were east of this gully and the newer ones were to the west.

We parked under a nice old shade tree and let the kids out. They had been riding for a long time and needed to stretch their legs. We had a discussion with the children about what to do and not to do in a cemetery, such as where to walk and how to avoid touching the stones lest we knock a loose one over (we’d already had an experience with this when my son was younger, but that’s a whole other topic altogether!)

We started walking up and down the rows, canvassing the stones. This was a great time to practice letters with Ethan, our preschool-age son. I told him to find any tombstones that started with an “M.” We looked and looked and looked. And then we looked some more. There were many stones whose dates and names were so eroded by the elements that they were illegible and I was beginning to think we'd never find my ancestors’ graves.

Seth, my husband and research slave, then realized that the cemetery transcriptions I had brought with me were arranged in order of location, meaning that whoever compiled it probably recorded the list in order as they walked the rows, instead of alphabetizing it. So, next to my Mitchells on this list, there were some common names like Brown but there were also some Branstetters. Being an uncommon name I’d be likely to recognize, I also began looking for “Branstetter.”

I was about half way through the older part of the cemetery when Ethan proudly announced he had to go potty. He had been potty trained for a while now, but when they say they need to go they usually mean five minutes ago. So we thought we'd just have him go on the road next to the car. However he informed us he had to “go poop” and we decided that THAT probably was something to be added to the list of things we don't “do” in a cemetery. Seth quickly loaded him up in the car to drive back to the gas station in town to use the bathroom.

Meanwhile, Ellie, my daughter, and I kept walking the cemetery. We were getting hot and tired. I was about to give up assuming that my ancestors’ stones must have been among those that were completely unreadable. By the time Seth and Ethan returned from the gas station (a false alarm I might add) I was done with the older part of the cemetery. I suggested we give up because we were hot and tired and we just couldn’t find the stone.

By happenstance, Seth had driven back through the second cemetery entrance, which was closer to where we were searching. We loaded up, packed the genealogy away and headed out. Because we were turned around, we had to drive back through the “newer” section of the cemetery to leave. As we rolled through the “newer” section, I noticed a tombstone that looked like it said “Branstetter” in the distance. It was just beyond the little gully next to a few other stones. And then I saw one that said “Mitchell” standing right beside it. As we drew closer, I could clearly see it was my ancestors!

They were even within inches of the road where we drove in. The tombstones were facing the “wrong way,” meaning they were not facing the road as we drove in, so I couldn’t see them even though I was scanning for them. If Ethan hadn’t had to go to the bathroom, I would have never found my ancestors. We would have driven right out of that second entrance and never looked back.

I learned many lessons on that trip. First, look for other names that should be buried near your ancestors. Second, don’t forget to check those tombstones that are facing the “wrong direction.” Third, and definitely the most important, taking along a potty-trained tike can be the key to finding your ancestors.

First Word #1 - Keeping the Stories Alive

This was the first “First Word” published in the Boulder Genealogical Society Quarterly in February 2006.

The First Word:
Karl H. Miller, 1922-2005, Keeping the Stories Alive
by Cari A. Taplin

As your new Quarterly editor, it is my duty (or privilege) to tell you a little bit about myself. I want to use this first column to tell you about the beginnings of my interest in genealogy.

When I was growing up I had the best grandpa in the world, Karl Harold Miller. He was kind, hardworking and caring. He was a joker and a story teller. He liked a good laugh; and he liked remembering the things that made him laugh; and he liked sharing them. I heard stories of when he was young, the friends he had, the things he did. It was a magical world so different from the world we live in today. He told of the time he quit high school to start working. He worked on his grandpa’s farm, drove a school bus (without being certified), drove a gasoline truck, was a substitute mail man and later drove a cement truck until he retired in 1983. When he was young he drove a motorcycle, a 1940s Harley-Davidson.

He told of meeting my grandma and how he wouldn’t take her for a ride on his motorcycle because it needed a new tire. This was during “the War” (World War II) and rubber was scarce. So he had to order a tire and wait for a few months. I’m guessing that grandma really wanted a ride for that to be an important memory for him! This story shows his dedication to safety.

My grandpa always taught us safety. Being safe around bonfires, tractors, power tools, boats, on ice, while using knives, how to walk with scissors (carry them by the points with the points aimed away from you). He told of his grandmother Carrie, who tripped while carrying scissors and put out one of her eyes. In every photo of her he showed me, she is wearing dark glasses which he attributed to her eye injury. So we got a lot of lectures about being safe and it has stuck with me.

Probably the most interesting and recognizable feature of my grandpa was his limp. When he was nine years old he broke his hip. That’s all he would tell us about it for the longest time. I was an adult before I got the whole story and even then he was hesitant to tell me about it. But one day I asked him how it happened and he finally relented.

He told me how he and his brother Jim would climb up the corn crib and then race down. He said you could go really fast if you let go of the step you were holding on to and grab the next as you fell, rather than use your feet to go down. Well, one time he missed the next handhold, fell to the bottom, and broke his hip. In that time (early 1930s) the best medical care they could offer was to just straighten it out as best they could and put a half body cast on him until it healed. He had to stay in bed for a long time, many weeks if I remember the story correctly. An x-ray taken later in his life showed that the ball and socket of the hip joint had fused together and had become just one piece of bone. I find that story so interesting because of his talks on safety. Did he get such strong convictions about safety because of this incident? I’m betting so.

I heard all of these stories before I began what I call “serious genealogy.” It was shortly before I began my journey as a genealogist my grandpa suffered the first of several strokes that would eventually end his life. I didn’t realize how important these stories would be to me and to my research until it was too late to ask him even more questions.