Mayflower Links

It's that time of year, when some genealogists (and the media) turn to thoughts of ancestors who actually celebrated the event, popularly called the first Thanksgiving. While my ancestors are not among the Mayflower passengers (mine all arrived with the 17th-century Dutch, Norwegians, Huguenots, Swedes and a few English and Welsh stowaways (I suspect), plus a number of early 18th-century Swiss and Germans), my husband's line goes back to a famous couple who arrived in 1620.

Descent from Mayflower passengers John Alden and Priscilla Mullins

John Alden (Sr.) [ca 1599-1687] = Priscilla Mullins (Molens) [ca 1602-1680/87]

Joseph Alden [ca 1628-196/7] = Mary Simmons [ca 1641-after 10 March 1696/7]

Isaac Alden [ca 1666-1727] = Mehitable Allen [1664-after 20 October 1727]

Captain Ebenezer Alden [1693-1776] = Anna Keith [1695-1775]

Abigail Alden [1721-1762] = Ebenezer Byram Jr. [1716-1762]

Mary Byram [1755-1819] = Silas Ayres [1749-1826]

Hannah Ayres [1781-ca 1832] = Isaac Pierson [1779-1859]

Byram Ayres Pierson [1801-1886] = (3) Catherine Holflick(Hossick) [1810-1890]

Isaac Pierson [ca 1847-1911] = Katherine Maybee [1850-1887]

Claude (née Pierson) Gormley [1886-1942] = Cleo (née Cummings) Endicott [1902-1975]

Leo C. Gormley 

It is interesting, genealogically speaking, to learn about some well-known descendants of this couple, such as:
 

President John Q. Adams →Ruth Alden = John Bass →John and Priscilla

William Cullen Bryan →Jonathan Alden =Abigail Hallett →John and Priscilla

Marilyn Monroe →Elizabeth Alden = William Pabodie →John and Priscilla

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow → Elizabeth Alden = William Pabodie →John and Priscilla

Vice President Dan Quayle → Sarah Alden = Alexander Standish →John and Priscilla

Dick Van Dyke →Sarah Alden = Alexander Standish →John and Priscilla

Orson Welles →Elizabeth Alden = William Pabodie →John and Priscilla

Happy Thanksgiving from our house to yours. Gobble up!

Graphics thanks to the kind permission of: http://www.mycutegraphics.com/

Cat on a Hot Skateboard

Cat on a Hot Skateboard By Myra Vanderpool Gormley (c) 2016 Sometimes I become so involved in researching and writing about the past that I forget to record what’s going on in the present. That may just be a personality quirk of mine. It also might be an indicator of a brain disorder from which I have suffered for decades. Living in a small gated condominium community consisting of 38 owners — mostly much over 55 year olds — it is not exactly party city. In fact, except for a few strange ones who stay up until 10 p.m. or gasp, later; it is pretty quiet around here most of the time. However, once in a while exciting things happen. The other day, we had a sprinkler head burst and spurt forth enough water to flood a driveway. It needed washing anyway. Just as the landscapers were trying to fix that problem, down at the other end of the community a flooded water meter erupted and the city was called to fix it (their meter, not ours). The landscape crew also discovered some standing water outside one of the homes and when they dug down they found a broken water pipe, which had to be replaced quickly. It was water, water, everywhere. Of course, in the Pacific Northwest in April, one doesn’t get too excited over wet things. Our landscape committee has been busy lately getting rid of some sickly plants and replacing them with 170 new ones. Actually the count is 169, because one of the azaleas has disappeared. It was last seen the other day in front of Unit 13-A, awaiting to be planted in a lovely location. I was drafted to be on azalea watch all week, but so far, no sighting of the fleeing flowery shrub. We may have to get Marcie’s toy poodle to do some sniffing around to find it. Like many communities, we have a few rules pertaining to pets and owners. One of the rules is that all pets must be on a leash or carried in your arms (and owners must, of course,  clean up the poop and are responsible for their pet’s behavior). Imagine the surprise to see an unleashed cat on a skateboard sailing down toward the RV parking lot last Saturday. Close behind was a girl chasing it. Neither the girl nor the cat was wearing a helmet (another transgression of our laws). The Neighborhood Watch patrolman got a workout writing tickets for those violations — and tracking down the grandparents who had allowed such outrageous behavior. Just when things began to settle down, a drone flew over the community, making lazy circles in the sky and frightening some of us who were enjoying the sun on our patios. Immediately, or so it seemed, a distraught woman appeared at our entrance gate, crying for help and begging to be let in. One of the community’s board members happened to be doing some work near the gate and heard her cries. He learned that she and her husband had been in Cirque Park (which abuts our community on the west) flying his new drone when he lost control of it and it flew down into our community. Eventually the errant drone was found on the roof of Unit 17-B and returned to the tearful lady, along with some words of advice about what will happen next time their drone wanders into our air space. Something about “finders keepers; losers weepers” I think. Obviously our governing board is going to be writing some new laws about unleased cats on skateboards and wayward drones that invade our privacy and disrupt our dull, drab lives. Meanwhile, just got a tip about an azalea that’s hiding out in back of Unit 19-A, pretending to be a rhododendron.  Gotta run.

In Search of Taillights, Elephants and the Ugly Patrols

By Myra Vanderpool Gormley (C) 2016

Just when we were talking about taking an early Spring driving trip out here in the Far West, news arrived that a state representative from Missoula, Montana has introduced House Bill 365, which as I understand it, means yoga pants will be illegal to wear there, along with other garments that reveal too much of one’s anatomy.

At this stage of my life, I’m into covering up as much as possible, but I do resent being told that I can’t pack my yoga pants if I am going to or through the Treasure state.

I also discovered that in Montana it is illegal for married women to go fishing alone on Sundays, and it is illegal for unmarried women to fish alone at all. That does it. Scratch “the Big Sky Country” off my list.

Having spent some of my early life in Oklahoma, Kansas and Texas, I am aware that there are some silly laws on the books in those states. State lawmakers have way too much idle time in my humble opinion. How else can you explain that Kansas actually has laws on the books that:

•  Ban shooting rabbits from motorboats. I never saw a rabbit anywhere near the water when I lived there; and actually never saw any water on which motorboats could cruise in those wheat fields either.
• Require pedestrians crossing the highways at night to wear taillights. Really? Have you seen any taillights for humans lately? Do they come in various sizes and styles? How do you wear them? Will they go with my vacation wardrobe and look good with my yoga pants?

In Oklahoma, it is against the law to:
• Wear your boots to bed. I bet my granny was behind that one.
• Be tattooed. Probably lots of lawbreakers roaming the Sooner state now.
• Read comic books while operating a motor vehicle (guess texting and using smart phones are OK though — along with fracking.)
• In Tulsa, you can’t take elephants into the downtown area. No problem. My elephants never had any hankering to go there anyway.

Texas ranks up near the top with crazy laws and I was lucky to escape from the Lone Star state before getting arrested. I had no idea I was breaking the law by consulting the Encyclopedia Britannia. The entire set is banned in Texas because it contains a formula for making beer at home. Imagine that. Now you can just Google “beer making” until the Texas Rangers catch you.

• It is also illegal to shoot a buffalo from the second story of a hotel. Always stay on the ground floor, on three, or above— if you’re into buffalo shooting. Problem solved.

• It is against the law to milk another person’s cow, too. Somehow, this activity has never come up — probably because I buy my milk at the supermarket and quit milking any cows when I left Oklahoma. 

Down in Houston it is illegal to sell Limburger cheese on Sunday. Dad would not have liked that one bit. He was against any restrictions on cheeses. Over in Texarkana, you can’t ride horses at night without taillights. What is it with all the taillight laws?

When I moved to the West Coast, I thought I had escaped from the crazy laws, but I was wrong.
California has almost as many as Texas, including:
• Women cannot drive in their housecoats. Really? I didn’t know there was a dress code for drivers — or is it just for women?
• Toads may not be licked in Los Angeles. Anyone seen the Toad Police? Now that’s an ugly job.
• Women can’t wear high heels in the city limits of Carmel, but guys can.
• In San Diego, it is illegal to shoot jackrabbits from the back of a streetcar. What is it with all the laws about shooting rabbits?
• In San Francisco, if you are classified as “ugly” you can’t walk down any street. Only place I know of that has “ugly” police patrols. Do you have to carry an “ugly” ID card?
• You better keep your elephants on a leash if they are going to stroll down Market Street in San Francisco. I had no idea we have so many elephant problems in this country.

Utah also has its share of goofy laws too, including:
• It is illegal not to drink milk. Watch out for the milk police in the Beehive state.
• It also is illegal to fish from horseback. Well, there goes my vacation fun.
• When a person reaches the age of 50, he/she can then marry their cousin. But, the law doesn’t specify which cousin or the degree of closeness — first, second, or thrice-removed? The genealogists let that law slip through.
• In Salt Lake City, you can’t walk down the street carrying a paper bag containing a violin. Evidently, tote bags and backpacks are OK though — and violas.

In Nevada, where one would expect some crazy laws, it is illegal to drive a camel on the highway. Says nothing about elephants though.

• Out in Elko if you are walking the streets, you are required to wear a mask. (Note to self: Better pack masks to use while in the Silver state.)

Arizona has more than its share of weird laws, including one that forbids donkeys to sleep in bathtubs. Now, just where can one let one’s ass sleep?
• In Tucson, women may not wear pants. The brilliant lawmakers neglected to specify whether these are under or outer pants, so ladies, wear any at your own risk.


In Oregon, whose state universities’ mascots are Ducks and Beavers — a place where you’d think some reasonable lawmakers exist — I discovered that
• You can’t eat ice cream on Sundays. Well, I’ve broken that law more times that I care to count.
• Dishes must drip dry (what moronic lawmaker came up with that idea?)
• You can’t bathe without wearing “suitable clothing,” i.e., that which covers one’s body from neck to knee. Are they going to be checking in my bathroom? I think not.
• In Klamath Falls, it is illegal to walk down a sidewalk and knock a snake’s head off with your cane. Pity.

Washington, my adopted home state, has a few strange laws on the books too. In the Evergreen state, it is against the law to:
• Buy a mattress anywhere on Sunday or to buy a TV in Spokane -- on that day.
• Pretend that one’s parents are rich. That’s never been a problem for me.
• In Bremerton, you can’t shuck peanuts on the street. Maybe that’s to protect the seagulls who are allergic. Why don't those birds just wear ID bracelets like the rest of us?
• In Seattle, you may not carry a concealed weapon that is over six feet in length. (You have to realize how much Viking blood runs through Seattle pioneers to appreciate this law).
• In Wilbur, it is against the law to ride an ugly horse. The ugly police are everywhere out West. So watch out which horse you pick to ride — if you are ever in Lincoln County.

So, if you’re going to vacation out West this year, watch for all the ugly patrols, rabbits, and elephants — and don’t forget to turn your personal taillights on. I hope Costco has some of the latter and that they match my vacation attire, especially my yoga pants.

One Cold Christmas in Germany

The Kindness of a Stranger

By Myra Vanderpool Gormley (c) 2015


It was Christmastime, but nothing was going according our plans — except my ship arrived on time. The weather was cold and snowing and we were a long way from home. Between us, we didn’t have $20 in cash and only a few Deutsche marks, which would have been handy, since we were in the middle of Germany.

We were stuck between staying at a hotel near the Hauptbanhof (main railroad station) that we couldn’t afford much longer and our paid-for apartment that the landlady refused to give us the key to until January 1, which was more than a week away. We had no car and no way to transport my suitcases and trunk from the hotel to the apartment except by taxi. I had hauled these from Oklahoma, across the Atlantic Ocean to Rotterdam and then via train to Germany. They contained all my clothes and our household goods — all of our worldly treasures needed to set up housekeeping.

So far we had been unable to reach our military sponsor, who should be able to get us temporary housing or help out somehow. So here we were, but what were we going to do? Additionally, there was the language problem. My husband had signed an apartment lease, but, of course, it was in German and our new landlady-to-be was rigid in her refusal to let us have the apartment. While we had paid a full month’s rent plus deposit and an extra week, we couldn’t move in, evidently because the current occupants now refused to move out until the first of the year. She quoted German law, which was Greek to us, and we suspected she might have been gaming the system by collecting from both renters. However, when you’re young, poor, and a long way from home, what are your options?

This was long ago, before there were credit cards or debit cards that work with a swipe, no matter where you are in this world. In those days, one had to have cash — either in American dollars to use at the military base or in the local currency. Of course, the stores and markets had to be open also for you to purchase anything.

Christmastime in Germany is a magical world and it was easy to fall under its spell and forget our housing situation — at least temporarily. Wandering the winding streets of the old city, we discovered the Christmas market. We stopped and listened to brass band music and drank some Glühwein (hot mulled wine). It warmed us up and brighten our spirits.

Vendors peddled sugar-roasted almonds, stöllen and gingerbread hearts. Beautiful Christmas tree decorations, handcrafted wooden toys, clocks, and hand-blown glass ornaments were available. If I had had any money, I would have gone into a buying frenzy. Instead, we purchased bratwursts dripping with hot mustard on small Brötchens — in a desperate attempt to silence our growling stomachs because we had skipped breakfast to save money.

As we started back to the hotel, we discussed our apartment situation and then glibly decided to go see the landlady one more time and plead our case. We decided to call the sponsor again, too. Tomorrow would be Christmas Eve and most businesses would close early. Both December 25 and 26 are legal holidays in Germany. We were running out of time. The military base would be on a holiday schedule, which meant the Post Exchange, American Express and Commissary would be closed. We desperately needed to get a check cashed and convert some dollars to Deutsche marks.
The sponsor still did not answer the phone.

We caught a Strassenbahn to the apartment and rang Frau Brücker’s apartment. When the buzzer sounded, we went into the foyer, shaking the snow from our hats and coats, then headed up two flights of stairs to her place. She greeted us with a torrent of
German spewed so fast that neither of us could catch but a word or two. We shook our heads. “Ish verstehe nicht!” So she yelled louder. We shook our heads.

Finally, she went to the phone. Was she calling the police? I couldn’t help but giggle at the thought of writing home to the folks — “Dear Mom and Dad — we are in jail —for renting an apartment.”

Shortly after Frau Brücker returned from the long hallway where her phone was located, still yelling in German, there was a knock on the door. A young woman entered and introduced herself as Hannelore. Her English was good with a British accent. She explained that Frau Brücker had asked her to come translate. She lived in an apartment on the top floor of the five-story building. The frau told her side of the story and we explained our situation.

After more discussion, there appeared to be no happy solution to this saga. Frau Brücker would not let us have the key until January 1, but she did agree to let us bring our suitcases and trunk and store them in the basement. Finally, we realized it was an impasse, so we stood up and started to say our good-byes, knowing we had a long hike to the military base and another Strassebahn ride back to the hotel.

Then Hannelore said, “Why don’t you come back tomorrow, say between 10 and 11? I am leaving in the early afternoon to go skiing in Bavaria for a week. You can have my apartment for that time — if you wish?”

Tears blinded my sight, and I know I heard the rustle of angel wings.

Flocking Together: Birds of a Feather

  

It started out as a lark, so to speak. Cousin Jack (the one who claims he had his ancestors stolen right off the Internet) and I found a new young cousin, Heather, via Facebook. She is related to both of us through our BYRD line. Heather thought it amusing that we had both BYRDs and ROBINS in our family trees.

To tell the truth I had never thought much about it before -- I've been tracking down these ancestral turkeys so long that I guess I don't pay any attention to what their names might mean otherwise. However, her comment got Cousin Jack and me to comparing our charts and databases in depth and we've discovered we have several nests of different kinds of birds perched upon our branches.

In addition to a covey of New England PARTRIDGES (not in a pear tree, thank you very much), we've found a bevy of QUAILS/QUAYLEs, flushed out a murder of CROWs, and a company of PARROTTs. We had a good laugh about these feathered finds.

Then Cousin Jack chirped, "Don't forget about the SWIFT side of the family," And I said, that's not a bird —- that family name comes from an ancestor who was fleet of foot (probably running from the law from what I know about that side of the family).

"Swift is also a bird," Jack cooed, "they build edible nests, and besides haven't you ever heard of chimney swifts?" I hadn't, but by golly, he was right. This old lady learns something new every day in genealogy, so I added the SWIFTS to our nesters.

Then it was my turn to get Cousin Jack.

"Put the GOOSE line into our family aviary," I warbled. He started to twitter in protest, but I pointed out that the name was an old occupational one for a breeder of geese. And, that they had feathers (the geese, not our ancestors). So into the gaggle they went.

We have now added to our avian: A charm of FINCHes, a watch of a NIGHTINGALEs, a muster of PEACOCKs that appear out of nowhere in early Georgia, a bank of SWANs, a loft of PIDGEONs, a cast of FALCONs, a herd of CRANEs, plus a CARDINAL and a WREN.

I figure any day now we're going to turn up some really funny fowls in our family trees  —- perhaps a CUCKOO, WOODPECKER, FLYCATCHER or even a TITMOUSE.

However, I'm beginning to think I have gone into ornithology rather than genealogy. Cousin Jack is still worried about ancestral theft on the Internet. He should be so lucky to have these birds stolen.

My Bermuda Triangle

While the real Bermuda Triangle is a place in the western part of the North Atlantic Ocean where aircraft and ships supposedly have disappeared under mysterious circumstances, my own triangle was not one where such disasters took place, but rather one where I could disappear for hours — or most of a day, especially on Saturdays.



Muskogee Public Library 1914-1972

This triangle started from the back of my dad’s garage at the alley. Exiting via the big heavy doors there, I headed east to a Classic Revival-style building across the street.

It stood there on the corner of D Street and East Broadway in Muskogee, Oklahoma — a Carnegie library that looked like hundreds of others. However, past its entrance and the glass floors of the mezzanine, it was a treasure chest overflowing with books, old newspapers, and stereoscopes. Up on the second floor was the incredible mural artwork by Acee Blue Eagle, a Creek/Pawnee artist who had taught at Bacone College, not far from my grandparents’ farm, north of Muskogee. It was here I became a full-blown bookworm, re-ceived my introduction to art, gazed at old images on a stereoscope, and explored events of the past in newspapers.

Completing the triangle was a long, low red and white building — miles long in my child’s mind and innate ability to judge distances. It contained hundreds, perhaps thousands, of giant cartons of ice cream — with more varieties than I could count or ever eat, though I tried.

A day in my Bermuda Triangle was about as close to heaven as one could get in my opinion.

Some Saturdays there were book readings or story telling at the library, and then afterward I browsed the bookshelves, even though I had learned to use the card catalog. Browsing was more fun I thought because that is how I found many books I would never have chosen by their titles or description in the catalog.

Finally, after deciding on the books to “check out,” which was usually a difficult decision since there was a limit to the number one could have per visit, I headed for the third leg of the triangle.

Out the front door of the library and down the well-worn areas, which we kids had created from years of sliding down the sides of the stone staircase instead of using the steps, I would go. In the heat of an Oklahoma summer, a girl could get a bit of a butt burn doing the slide because we had to wear dresses in those days. However, I don’t remember any serious injury.

Juggling my newly borrowed books, I’d race across the street to the Carnation Dairy — that long low building which set across the alley from dad’s auto repair shop. First, I would do an inventory of all the flavors to see if anything new was available and then began the difficult part — deciding on which flavor I wanted. Cherry vanilla was always a favorite, but I loved sherbet too. If I had enough money for a triple cone, I often wound up with three different sherbets — usually pineapple, orange and lime. With a big cone and books in hand, it was back to my dad’s garage to find a spot to eat the ice cream and read a book until time for us to go home.

Recently I found a picture online of a boarded-up Carnation Dairy, which also shows the back of what was once my dad’s garage. It all looks so small and dilapidated. I prefer to keep the images from my childhood memory. The ones of when the dairy was huge, brightly painted and packed with ice cream cartons and customers — back when dad’s garage was bustling with activity, filled with the sounds of revving motors and the smells of gasoline and oil. The Renoir impressionist image of me curled up in a chair in dad’s office in the midst of my Bermuda Triangle, licking a triple-deck sherbet cone, reading a Laura Ingalls “Little House” book is how it really was — to me.

Tracking Difficult Women and Restless Men

Tracking Difficult Women and Restless Men
Imogene Emma (Swarts) Vanderpool Davis (1852-1928)
John S. Davis (ca 1805-1852)

By Myra Vanderpool Gormley

Long suspected, but now the proof stares me in the face — I am addicted to genealogy.

The proof came by the dawn’s early light (when some my best discoveries have happened) as I looking for information about when and where the father of Harvey Smith Davis died. Not that it really matters. After all, this Davis family is not in my family tree and appears only as an in-law line in my husband’s and then indirectly (via marriage) to one of my Vanderpool cousins. Nevertheless, I am a sucker for trying to resolve glaring discrepancies, especially when they light up a pedigree like a blinking neon light.

I had no intentions of tracing the lineage of Harvey Smith Davis — I just wanted to know whether his father had died in Vermont (as one researcher claimed) or in California (as another has recorded). There are too many miles between Vermont and California to brush this off as a minor discrepancy. Plus, there was inconsistency in the year of his death. Neither researcher had provided a source for the claims, so obviously it was up to me to ascertain the date and place of death.

A search in the Vermont Vital Records, 1720-1908 database at Ancestry.com produced a record for a John S. Davis of the right age and with the correct wife’s name (at least based on what I had from the 1850 Wolcott, Lamoille County, Vermont census). The extracted (printed) information I found gives his death age as 48, the death date as 26 September 1852, the cemetery as Fairmont, and place of death as “Vermont, USA.” However, upon examining the actual image of that record at the website — a card — under remarks it says John S. Davis “died in Calif.” The record says it is a “true copy” and it is signed by the town clerk of Wolcott and dated 16 November 1920 (perhaps when the cards were created and/or compiled?).

Why is it in genealogy when you obtain one answer it just creates more questions?

It appears that John S. Davis died in California in 1852 — and one assumes he was one of the many forty-niners from Vermont who went in hopes of striking it rich — but was his body shipped back to Wolcott for burial? That would have been expensive. Of course, if he had found some gold, the cost might not have been a factor. If he died in 1852, obviously he was not buried in 1851 as another online source indicates.

His death left his widow, Caroline, and three children — ages 14, 12, and a four-year-old son (Harvey Smith Davis), the original object of this search. I discovered that Caroline died in 1861, which left Harvey an orphan at age 14 in Vermont.

What happened to his two older siblings? I found him with his mother and older brother, Loren, in the 1860 census, but by 1869, Harvey has left Vermont and arrived in Missouri, where he married Irena Eve, a daughter in my husband’s Pierson family. Harvey's sister, Mary Smith Davis,  married first John Ferris Morrill who died during the Civil War and married secondly Henry Fisher. She died in 1875 at the age of 35 years, 7 months, 9 days. I have not found anything more on Harvey's older brother.

About two or three years after the death of Irena Eve Pierson in 1889, Harvey married secondly Imogene Emma (nee Swartz) Vanderpool and then with her, their two little daughters, and several of his children by his first wife, they removed to the Indian Territory. My guess is this took place about 1894, but at least some time  before the 1900 census when they are enumerated in the Cherokee Nation of Indian Territory.

Now I have even more questions, plus I have discovered that one of Harvey’s younger sons married a Cherokee girl who has an extensive and well-documented family tree.

Ah, the entangled roots and branches we encounter in our searches. No wonder some of us become addicts.

You can read another article I wrote about Imogene Emma (Swartz) Vanderpool Davis in Ancestry Magazine called "Dealing with a Difficult Woman" at
https://books.google.com/books?id=FjgEAAAAMBAJ&pg=PA62&lpg=PA62&dq=imogene+emma+davis&source=bl&ots=CH5quLzxWo&sig=ZmXaMNwjmJQBNI5w3rrDjmbjChU&hl=en&sa=X&ei=R3z_VMXfM4LhoATej4H4DA&ved=0CDMQ6AEwAw#v=onepage&q=imogene%20emma%20davis&f=false

#35--52ancestors

Sorting out the Jeremiah Vanderpools



Shiloh National Cemetery

Two young Vanderpool men — both named Jeremiah — participated in the American Civil War. Neither survived it. One was from Missouri; the other was from Indiana. They were second cousins, but probably did not know each other since their families had not lived near each other since the early 1800s.

The older Jeremiah was born about 1837 in Ray County, Missouri. He was the surviving son of four and was the only provider for his mother as his father had died in 1858. In the 1860 census of Harrison County, Missouri, Jeremiah is shown with his widowed mother, Susanna, and three sisters.1

This Jeremiah enlisted 22 August 1861 in Daviess County, Missouri in the U.S. Army as a private, Co. H, 23rd Reg. Inf. Vols., commanded by Captain West. He mustered in on 22 Sep 1861 at Benton Barracks, in Saint Louis, Missouri. St. Louis, Missouri. His residence at the time was Edinburg, Grundy County, Missouri.

On the morning of April 6, 1862, 40,000 Confederate soldiers under the command of General Albert Sidney Johnston poured out of the nearby woods and struck a line of Union soldiers occupying ground near Pittsburg Landing on the Tennessee River. On that first day at the Battle of Shiloh, Jeremiah was killed. He is buried at Shiloh National Military Park, Hardin County, Tennessee. His remains could not be identified and a stone with only a number marks his grave. As a result of his service, his mother was able to draw a small pension.2



Jeremiah Vanderpool, 1837-1862

The other Jeremiah Vanderpool was born in 1844 in Monroe County, Indiana. He was the son of Samuel Vanderpool and his first wife, “Becky” Terry. 3

He enlisted in Co. G, 31st Infantry Regiment, Indiana, as a private on 22 February 1864. On 1 March 1864, he married Cecelia Todd in Polk Township, Monroe County, Indiana. It was a short marriage. He died of typhoid on 21 August 1864 at Nashville, Davidson County, Tennessee and is buried there at the Nashville Nation Cemetery, Section: E, grave No. 2757. No known issue.


1. 1860 United States census, Harrison County, Missouri, population schedule, Sugar Creek Township, p. 219 (penned), line 35, Susanna Vanderpool; digital image, Ancestry.com (http://www.ancestry.com : accessed 26 Nov. 2014), citing NARA microfilm publication M653, roll 622; page: 711; image: 225; Family History Library Film: No.  803622.
2. Vanderpool Newsletter III:7, pp. 90-91, citing Civil War Pension Application #141,683; ctf #115,571.
3. Vanderpool Newsletter V:8, p. 114, extracting and citing 1850, 1860, 1870 and 1880 Salt Creek Township, Monroe County, Indiana censuses. In 1850, Jeremiah is shown with his father, Samuel, and stepmother, Sarah. Samuel and Sarah had married 16 May 1850 in Monroe County, Indiana.

#34—52 ancestors
Ponder(ing) in Kentucky

Edgar Allan Poe’s famous 1845 poem, “The Raven,” keeps running through my mind as I seek to untangle the intertwined branches in Clay County, Kentucky of my Kellys — via their many Ponder spouses.

“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary . . .
“Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December . . .

It seemed so logical (at the time).

Unsuccessful in finding the maiden name of my John F. Kelly’s mother via him or his siblings' records, I decided to trace the Ponder children to see if one of their spouses (who were Kellys) gave their mother’s maiden name in death (or other) records.

Four of the eight children of John Kelly and his wife, Elizabeth [—?—] had married Ponder siblings, making their children double first cousins. Some of these children also are parallel (or ortho) first cousins. Parallel (ortho) cousins are the children of two/three/etc. brothers or two/three, etc. sisters. The kinship between these two families also includes cross (cross — not cranky — cousins) because that happens when a brother and a sister from say the Smith family marries a sister and brother of say the Jones family and as genealogists say, “has issue.”

Example of the intermarriages of my Kelly and Ponder families in Clay County, Kentucky:
Susan Ann Kelly married John Jackson Ponder in 1852;
Jane Kelly, married Robert Ponder in 1844;
Mary “Winnie” Kelly married Jacob Ponder in 1849;
Kinchen Kelly married Dorcas Ponder in 1847.

Susan Ann, Jane, and Mary “Winnie” are sisters; Kinchen Kelly is their brother.

John Jackson, Robert, and Jacob Ponder are brothers; Dorcas Ponder is their sister.

Now you know why I am Ponder-ing weak and weary.

#33 —52 Ancestors —Perfect Obit
Lucy Emma Noble, wife of Abraham Vanderpool (1837-1878) and Solon Brower (d. 1932)

Sometimes golden nuggets of genealogical data just fall into our laps. Perhaps these treasures are rewards for the hours of negative research, blind alleys, dead-ends, and the piles of conflicting information that most of us encounter. I like to think so.

I wasn’t even looking for Lucy — in fact, I didn’t even know who she was. Had no idea she belonged in the ever-growing Vanderpool tree that my cousins and I have been working on for several years. However, finding her has answered a number of questions and helped to fill out a spotty, almost barren, branch. I found her via a random search in newspapers for Vanderpools. I was looking for someone else.

The lady died in 1933 and her funeral notice appeared on the front page of the Saint Cloud, Florida Tribune. Her obit ran a few days later. It noted that she was born in Delaware County, Iowa. She was not a Vanderpool, but her first husband was and she had two sons by him.

The obit noted that she was a descendant of “Thomas Noble, the first immigrant ancestor of the largest family in the United States bearing the name of Noble, who was born in England in 1632 and came to America in 1653.”

It provided the names of her father and paternal grandparents and on back to the first Noble ancestor born in America — in Massachusetts. It also gave the name of the genealogist who had compiled this Noble family history, how long it had taken (25 years), and the fact that it had been expensive.

The detailed obituary mentioned that Lucy Noble was born 11 March 1855 and lived in Yankee Settlement of Delaware County, Iowa with her parents, Dwight Noble and Lucy Lucretia Huff, until the war [Civil War] broke out in 1861. Her father passed away when she was about four years old. Then she, her mother, and younger sister went to Dearborn, Michigan. They lived there until she was eight years old and she went to Detroit, Michigan to attend school.

She married Abram A. Vanderpool, who was born 25 April 1837 in Medina, New York. Vanderpool was a conductor on the Michigan Central Railroad for 13 years. They had two children — Edward All [sic] Vanderpool and Harry Ellsworth Vanderpool, the latter dying in infancy. Her husband died October 10, 1878 in Detroit, Michigan, at the age of 41 years and five months.



State Insane Asylum in Hastings, Nebraska

 After her husband's death, she took a course in nursing and for many years had charge of Dr. Griggs’ lying-in hospital. On January 17, 1893, her mother passed away. Next Lucy went into the dressmaking field where she worked her way up until she had her own establishment and was known to the trade as ‘Madame Vanderpool’ and had in her employ six to eight girls at all times."

In the winter of 1888, Lucy (Noble) Vanderpool went to Lincoln, Nebraska, and was appointed by Governor Thayer as head seamstress at the State Insane Asylum at Hastings, Nebraska. Later she moved to Lincoln, Nebraska, and was appointed by Governor Holcomb as head matron of the Home of the Friendless, and was in charge of the institution, where she inaugurated many reforms.

Her son, Edward A. Vanderpool, became a conductor on the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul Railroad and first made his home at Green Bay, Wisconsin. He married Nina May Briggs, who died 20 August 1904 in Hudson, Lenawee County, Michigan. Later he was transferred to Big Spring, Texas and Lucy went to live with him there for 11 years, helping him raise his two daughters.

In 1916, Lucy removed to Florida where on November 1, 1917, she married secondly Solon Brower, who was born and reared in New York City. He was a veteran of the Civil War and an expert watchmaker. In 1924, Mr. Brower's health failed and “for eight years he was confined to his home where he lingered until 1932, being cared for by his kind loving wife.” On May 2, 1932, he passed away. Her son also died that year.

From this detail-rich obituary, I have been able to fill in some blanks on the family group sheet of Abram Vanderpool for whom we had only fragments of information. Now I can search for documentation, verify information in the obituary, and track his descendants.

It is like Christmas. Life’s good.

#32--52ancestors -- Mayflower Links

Dear Grandsons,
Yes, you have ancestors who came over on the famous Mayflower in 1620 and celebrated Thanksgiving in 1621. No, their names were not Gormley. However, they are your 10th-great-grandparents — John Alden and Priscilla Mullins (also spelled Mullens).

George H. Boughton (1833-1905) painted the famous Pilgrims Going to Church (1867, originally "The Early Puritans of New England Going to Church"), a scene he interpreted from a quote in W. H. Bartlett's The Pilgrim Fathers (London:1853, p. 237).

They have become a famous pair — thanks in part to an 1858 narrative poem by the American poet, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, who also was a descendant of John and Priscilla. You have many cousins thanks to your connection to John Alden and Priscilla Mullins. The poem focused on a love triangle between three Pilgrims: Miles Standish, Priscilla Mullens, and John Alden. Longfellow claimed the story was true, but the historical evidence is inconclusive. Nevertheless, the ballad was exceedingly popular in 19th-century America and immortalized the Mayflower Pilgrims.

Miles Standish and John Alden purportedly vied for the affections of Priscilla Mullins, who utters, according to Longfellow, one of the most famous retorts ever: "Why don't you speak for yourself, John?"

John Alden married Priscilla Mullins on May 12, 1622. She was the only survivor of the Mayflower Mullins family. They had 10 children and built a home in what is now Duxbury, Massachusetts on the north side of the village, on a farm, which is still in possession of their descendants of the seventh generation. John Alden's House, now a National Historic Landmark, was built ca 1653 and is open to the public as a museum. It is run by the Alden Kindred of America (http://www.alden.org/) an organization that provides historical information about him and his home, including genealogical records of his descendants.

 

 

Alden House in Duxbury

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_and_Priscilla_Alden_Family_Sites

 

Priscilla died in Duxbury between 1651 and her husband's death in 1687. Both were buried in the Myles Standish Burial Ground in Duxbury, Massachusetts.

 

John and Priscilla had the following children who survived to adulthood:

1. Elizabeth was born about 1624 and died in Little Compton, Rhode Island on May 31, 1717. She married William Peabody on December 26, 1644, and had 13 children.
2. John was born about 1626 and died in Boston on March 14, 1701/2. He married Elizabeth (Phillips) Everill on April 1, 1660, and had 14 children.
3. Joseph was born about 1628 and died in Bridgewater, Massachusetts on February 8, 1696/7. He married Mary Simmons about 1660 and had seven children.
4. Priscilla was born about 1630. She was alive and unmarried in 1688.
5. Jonathan was born about 1632 and died in Duxbury on February 14, 1697. He married Abigail Hallett on December 10, 1672, and had six children.
6. Sarah was born about 1634 and died before the settlement of her father's estate in 1688. She married Alexander Standish about 1660 and had eight children.
7. Ruth was born about 1636 and died in Braintree on October 12, 1674. She married John Bass in Braintree on February 3, 1657/8, and had seven children.
8. Mary was born about 1638. She was still alive and unmarried in 1688.
9. Rebecca was born about 1640 and died between June 12, 1696, and October 5, 1722. She married Thomas Delano in 1667 and had nine children.
10. David was born about 1642 and died in Duxbury between July 2, 1718, and April 1, 1719. He married Mary Southworth by 1674 and had six children.

You descend from their third child, Joseph Alden (1628-1696/7) who married Mary Simmons; they had a son, Isaac Alden (1666-1727) who married Mehitable Allen. They had a son, Captain Ebenezer Alden (1693-1776) who married Anna Keith. They had a daughter, Abigail Alden  (1721-1762) who married Ebenzer Byram Jr. They had a daughter, Mary Byram (1755-1819) who married Silas Ayres. They had a daughter, Hannah Ayres (1781-1832) who married Isaac Pierson. They had a son, Byram Ayres Pierson (1801-1886) who married thirdly, Catherine Hosslich. They had a son, Isaac Pierson (1847-1911) who married Katherine Maybee. They had a son, Claude Vernon Pierson (1886-1942) who took the Gormley surname of his adoptive parents who took him to rear when his mother died when he was a baby.  He was your great-grandfather. See my blog about him.
http://www.shakingfamilytrees.blogspot.com/2014/03/9-52-ancestors-blended-families.html#links

Your family tree names start with Alden and Mullins and then zigzag to Byram, Ayres, Pierson and finally to Gormley. Happy Thanksgiving and remember your heritage.

The sentimental postcard (above) was drawn by prolific card illustrator, Ellen H. Clapsaddle (1863-1934), who also did many other Thanksgiving cards.

#31-52ancestors--Treasures in Old Letters

“Taken me a woman . . .”

Letter dated: 25 January 1885
Jasper, Newton County, Arkansas
Addressed to: E. C. and Nancy Anderson and family
(in Laurel County, Kentucky)
From: J. F. Kelley and Wm. C. and M. E. (Kelley) Vanderpool,
Newton County, Arkansas
[note: J. F. Kelley is the father of M. E. (Kelley) Vanderpool

J. F. Kelley writes:
“Dear Brother and Sister. I seat myself to write to you in answer to your letter that I received and was glad to hear from you and that you was all well and doing well. This leaves us all doing well. As for news I hant [sic] any more than times is hard and money is scarce. Corn is from 40 to 70 cents a bushel. Pork is 4 cts. per pound, wheat is $1.00 per bushel. Flour is $2.25 cts. per hundred. Horses is high and cattle is low. Store goods is reduced in prices in this country. So that will do on that.

“We have had some winter here for some time but I think we will have some milder weather in a few days. Well, I would like to see you the very best in the world, but as old age and time and distance will not admit [sic] just now. I can't tell when the opportunity will roll round but I would like for you all to come over and see me and look at the country. I will try to furnish you some to eat."

[The following evidently penned by either M.E. (Kelley) Vanderpool or her husband, W. C. Vanderpool]:
“Uncle Clayton, you spoke in your letter that your children was good scholars. I am glad to hear it, but not boasting at all but I think that we have got two children that learns invariably fast. John, our oldest can spell anywhere in the Blue Back Speller by heart. He and Elbert is [sic] going to school four miles from home. His studies is the speller, fifth reader and third part arithmetic, and our Nancy is a spelling near the back of (the) speller and can read in the second reader.

“Aunt Nan, I will tell you about Henry's folks. They are as well as common. They have three children. They have a pair of twins. They are both girls. They are one week old. The oldest one is just eleven months old. So enough on that. My baby is ten months old and is as smart as a cricket.

“Aunt Nan, I would love to see you all the best in the world. I wish that you and Uncle Clayton was out here to go to meeting with us next Sunday. We live in one mile of the church house. Aunt Nan, I want you to tell Aunt Jane that I hant forgot her that I would love to see her and I want her to write to me.

“As we haven’t said anything about corn crops, I will state to you that has been good corn crops in this country this year. Pap says that he has raised more corn and better this year than he ever did. Aunt Nan, I will send you one of Pap's pictures in this letter. So I will come to a close for this time hoping to hear from you all soon."

[Thanks to my cousin, Shirley Martin Chandler, who found the letters in her granny’s attic, transcribed and provided me with a copy.].

The family links:
“Aunt Nan” was Nancy (née Jones, 1847-1918), the wife of E. C. (Ephraim Clayton) Anderson. They married 1868 in Clay County, Kentucky and at the time this letter was written, they were living in Laurel County, Kentucky.

The family connection between J. F. (John Farmer) Kelley and E. C. Anderson was actually between Sarah (née Anderson), the wife of J. F. Kelley, and E. C. Anderson. They were sister and brother (children of Joseph Anderson and Mary McElroy). Sarah died sometime between 1870 and 1880 in Arkansas. J. F. Kelley calls them brother and sister although technically, E. C. Anderson is his brother-in-law, and Nancy is E.C.’s wife.

The second part of the letter, evidently by (or for) Mary Elizabeth (née Kelley) Vanderpool contains some genealogical jewels. She mentions her children, John Vanderpool (my paternal grandfather) and Nancy Vanderpool (apparently the namesake of “Aunt Nan” as there are no other Nancys in these families. The Elbert mentioned is probably Mary Elizabeth’s youngest brother — Elbert Kelley. John Vanderpool was about nine years old and his sister, Nancy was seven. Elbert Kelley would have been a teenager, about 16 or 17 years old.

At first I thought it odd that Elbert would still be in school, but have discovered that children who lived in rural areas often went to school only when the crops and farm chores permitted—usually in the winter — and may have attended school only a few months each year. The four-mile jaunt to school postulates that they were indeed tough in the “good old days.” Walking eight miles a day provided plenty of exercise for those kids. They probably had chores after school, too.

In another part of the letter, Mary Elizabeth (my great-grandmother) records the only evidence we have about her “smart as a cricket” child who was born in March 1884 (and thus was 10 months old in January 1885). This child (sex unknown) died before 1900 and no other record has been found about him or her.

While the information about the price of crops, horses, store goods and the weather is of some interest, Mary Elizabeth, also gives us the exact birthdate of her brother Henry Kelley’s twin daughters — Dora and Cora —  and confirms that they are only 11 months younger than their big brother, Will Kelley.

Henry Kelley was born in 1857 in Clay County, Kentucky. He married 4 Feb. 1883 in Newton County, Arkansas to Mary Jane Henderson (1866-1920). Thanks to a letter that Henry wrote to this same uncle (E. C. Anderson) on 21 July 1883, we know more than just marriage facts. In it, Henry wrote:

“Uncle Clayton, I have taken me a woman. I was married the 4th of last February. My wife is 16 years old and she is black eyed, black hair and the same size of Sister Mary [who was my great-granny, Mary Elizabeth (née Kelley) Vanderpool, who my dad said was a "tiny thing"] and the prettiest girl you ever saw.”

Ephraim Clayton Anderson (1847-1918) married Nancy Trosper Jones (1839-1917) in Clay County, Kentucky. She was the daughter of Even Jones and Mary B. Weaver. They lived most of their lives in Laurel County, Kentucky. He was a surveyor, farmer and justice of the peace. They had six children, including a set of twins, but only three children survived childhood.

The “Aunt Jane” referred to apparently is a sister of E. C. Anderson and Sarah (nee Anderson) Kelley. If so, she is believed to have married a Sampson Wilder as his second wife.

Thanks to the family letter writers and those who preserve and share these treasures.