Hidden Parts of the Family Tree

Family trees are messy. That is a fact.

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Isabelle “Belle” Regan Owens

In 1890, my great great grandmother, Susann Thomas Owens, suddenly passed away of complications of pneumonia at only 29 years old, leaving behind her husband and three living children. She had lost her 6-year-old daughter, Mary Pearl, just a few months prior.

My great great grandfather, R.T. Owens, now a widower, must have been devastated. Although he was known for being a kind and loving father, he couldn’t raise his children alone. By October, he had married Isabelle Regan, a Presbyterian schoolteacher from Hamilton, Ohio. Belle was a lovely woman. She demonstrated the qualities needed to bring up good children, and she was supportive of R.T. in every way. She came into the family, leaving her mark for generations. It was through her encouragement that R.T. eventually became involved in business, civics and politics. Her namesake carried on through the generations, and there are many Isabelles in my family tree. It was clear that she was well-loved. She never bore any of her own biological children, and the reason is unknown. However, she was, in all honesty, likely the love of my great great grandfather’s life.

On my mother’s side of the family tree, there are multiple marriages and divorces, along with early deceased spouses and remarriages. I think that sometimes we assume that all of the generations before us had these perfect marriages and nice, neat nuclear families, and to get divorced, widowed, or remarried was practically unheard of. Even more seemingly uncommon are children born out of wedlock.

The thing is, those things are just not true.

If you have taken any genealogical DNA test, you will find that things are very, very messy when it comes to linking your tree with trees of your distant cousins. You will also find that it is not uncommon for some people to not match up with their parents or grandparents. The covered up sins of your ancestors are unveiled with DNA testing. Things might not be as you originally thought, giving proof to the fact that we come from a long line of flawed human beings. Who would have thought? ūüôā

Families are not perfect. I have heard many people say that they feel that their true “families” are the people they have chosen to surround themselves with in this life. Sometimes, that is true. Those who are family to us might not always be blood relatives.

A few days ago, I got news that the man who was almost my stepfather suddenly passed away of a massive stroke at only 57 years old. I am devastated and heartbroken. He was a big part of my mother’s life. He was very kind to me. His encouragement and inspiration really changed the course of my life. He and my mom split up, and so I hadn’t talked to him in over a year. Yet, his death has caused me as much grief as the loss of a close relative.

As a family historian, it is easy to get stuck in the mindset of seeing things in terms of family trees, with nice, neat generations and descendants. What those trees are hiding in the shadows of the branches are other parts of the tree; the people on the fringes who might not be main parts, but who are nevertheless connected. It is important to remember those people, too, and not overlook their connection to our loves ones. They are part of our family history, too.

Really, as cliché as it sounds, we are all one big family. In my LDS Ward, we have a group on Relativefinder that shows our relationship to one another. Most of us with family trees are related somehow, even it is 14 generations back. That is because most everyone comes from common ancestors. We truly are all family. I guarantee that if you picked a random person walking down the street, chances are, you share a common ancestor. Think about that! When you see strangers in terms of potential distant cousins, you start to want to treat others with more kindness and respect.

“Family” means so much more than just the people who share your exact genes. The human family extends beyond what we can comprehend. Perhaps we should all start thinking of one another as family instead of looking for reasons to oppose one another. We all have relatives we don’t agree with, or whose personalities don’t quite mesh with ours. We still love them, though. I think that is a good approach to take with our greater human family, too.

 

I Went On an Epic Month-Long Family History Vacation. Here’s What I Did.

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It was a typical humid Pennsylvania Summer mid-morning, and I had dragged my pregnant, exhausted body from my bed to the living room couch to feed my kids breakfast and turn on cartoons. As I sipped my caffeinated Crystal Light and scrolled aimlessly though Instagram, I showed my daughter a picture of one of her friends doing something cool that she had mentioned wanting to do. Right as I turned the image toward her, I realized the cruelty in what I was doing, but it was too late. She studied the photo, then looked at me, sadly. “I wish I could go on vacation,” she said. “I miss California.”

Suddenly, it hit me. What was I doing, sitting around here?? Sure, my husband can’t really take vacations during the busy Summer season, and I am pregnant, and taking a vacation without him would be a lot of work. But, what about my girls? My older one would be starting Kindergarten in the Fall, and this Summer is the last one of pure freedom before years of abiding by school calendars. This was my last Summer of true freedom. I needed to do something about it.

I informed my husband of my plans, and he was highly skeptical. He is a planner, and I, in case you haven’t noticed, am rather spontaneous. I began packing immediately, and despite a few last minute setbacks, we hit the road.

Our first stop was Columbus, Ohio. We used to live there a few years back, so it was great to stop and visit an old friend and see familiar places. There was a little problem: our air conditioning in the car had decided to go out, and the entire country was in the middle of an unbearable heat wave. Of all times it stopped working… really? We had to stop and get it looked at. The repair shop said it was the compressor. I was a little ambivalent about getting it fixed right then and there and decided to wait it out until I could get to a place where we could stay with family in case the repair took longer than expected. We then headed to Chicago to stay with one of my sister-in-laws, and we endured a very sweaty and miserable day of driving, ending with an apocalyptic thunder-and-lightning rainstorm that made driving very scary!

That morning, after much tossing and turning, I decided to just fork out the money to get the air fixed and then continue our journey as planned. I was able to get the car in first thing in the morning, and we were on the road by noon. Our next stop was Nauvoo, Illinois. We stopped and joined a tour, and got to see some of the awesome things there, including the sun stone from the original Temple. I wanted to cross the Mississippi River and drive through Keokuk, Iowa where my Welsh ancestors first arrived on a steamboat from a ship that had landed in New Orleans, departing from Liverpool, England in 1853, taking them as Welsh Mormon Converts to America.

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Brigham Young home

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Lucy Mack Smith home. My ancestor, William Howell Thomas, a Welsh convert from Wales, stopped here along his journey where Lucy Smith encouraged him to go West with the Saints.

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Restored Nauvoo Temple

I wanted to make a stop at Mt. Pisgah, one of the encampments of the early Saints during the trek West along the Mormon Trail. I had been there once before by accident when my husband and I were first married, and it was an amazing experience. It was a bit hard to get to, and we made it just in time for the sun to go down. When I got out of the car, a red pickup drove up and a man in overalls and a cowboy hat got out of the car. At first, I was a little nervous. “Howdy,” he said. “Are you here to see Mt. Pisgah?” He asked. I said I was. He asked if I would like to know about it. I said sure. He told me a brief bit about the years it was in use, and about Brigham Young and the Saints who stopped there. He said he lived on the property just up the street. As the mosquitos started to get to us, he said he would let us get back to our trip and he went on his way.

The next stop was Council Bluffs, Iowa, where we stayed in the hotel and visited the Mormon Trail Center at Historic Winter Quarters. I have always wanted to stop here because I have an ancestor, Henry Taylor McGee, who was listed among those who were early converts of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and who stayed here.

A sister missionary gave us a tour of the museum and showed us tons of awesome artifacts, including the actual stuffed (dead) oxen who appeared in the film 17 Miracles. I really enjoyed walking through the Winter Quarters pioneer cemetery, where many early Saints were buried after much hardship.

There was a Family History Center there, and one of the researchers found some great information on the Saints from Mississippi, which included Henry Taylor McGee. We were both practically in tears as she read an excerpt of the history to me. She gave me a hug, and I thanked her. Oh, those warm fuzzies from Family History! That’s why we do this. ūüôā

After that, I drove to the exact block where he would have stayed, near the Missouri River. He was in the Seventh Ward, and his Bishop was James Flake, a well-known Mississippi Saint, owner of a slave named Green Flake whom he helped escape the South, and likely someone known well to him, as the Winter Quarters Wards were much smaller than the ones we have now.

We headed out and drove through Nebraska, and I would liked to have stopped along the Mormon Trail sites, but none of them were along the main route. Perhaps another vacation, when I had my husband with me and wasn’t pregnant. But we did make an unplanned stop at this funky-looking arch building that hung over the highway, and it turned out to be an unbelievably cool interactive pioneer museum. My girls loved it! It was called The Great Platte River Archway in Kearney, Nebraska. Very cool road trip stop. I highly recommend stopping here if you pass through!

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That night, we had planned on staying in Cheyenne, Wyoming, but me and my spontaneity had failed to really look into anything beforehand, and so I didn’t realize that the Rodeo Days were going on and every hotel in Cheyenne and Laramie were totally booked. We had no choice but to keep forging ahead to Rawlins, Wyoming, where we stayed the night. The next day was a pretty short driving day, and we arrived in the Salt Lake Valley on July 24… Pioneer Day, and exactly 169 years to the day that Brigham Young had stopped in the Valley and said, “This is the place”. We even drove up Emigration Canyon and drove back down to This Is the Place Heritage Park, just for the authenticity of the experience. My heart was full, and I was exhausted. Probably similar to how they felt!

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This Is The Place Heritage Park, Salt Lake City, Utah

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Unmarked graves of my ancestors, Henry Taylor McGee and Mary Ann Tame. Salt Lake City, Utah.
Z.C.M.I., Salt Lake City, now vs. 1900, around the time Henry McGee Jr., my great grandfather, worked here.

I visited with family and friends in Utah the next day, which added to the wonderfulness of the trip. I got to enjoy food that I haven’t had since moving away from the West. I also took a drive up to Malad, Idaho, which is my ancestral town where all of my Welsh ancestors settled upon arrival to America. I was able to tour the little museum they had that was filled with lots of awesome old things from Malad. On the way out, my daughter grabbed a free little publication about the recent Malad Valley Welsh Festival, which is their annual ode to their Welsh heritage along the lines of an eistenfodd, and it had all kinds of little articles and blurbs about some of the early settlers, most of which are in my family tree.

R.T. Owens Building, Malad, Idaho. Then and Now.

Around the corner was the old R.T. Owens building, home to Thomas Electric. R.T. Owens was my great great grandfather, a prominent son of a Welsh pioneer and well-known businessman, teacher, and Idaho State Senator. I went in, and sitting at the front desk was a distant cousin of mine! Within minutes, we both had our Familysearch phone apps out and were comparing family trees, he also being descended from both Owens and Thomases. It was really great to connect, and I have a ton of family history stuff to send him once I get it all uploaded and organized.

Later that day, on the way home, I stopped for dinner with a 2nd Cousin once removed from my mother’s side, whom I was matched to through Ancestry DNA. He was adopted into a LDS family, and coincidentally, we had gotten into contact and become friends over the past year! It was great to finally meet them in person, and there was such a warm familiarity there that I knew we were family. I am so glad to be reunited with family I never knew I had!

Our final arrival in California to stay at my dad’s house was, of course, wonderful and filled with fun memories. My husband surprised us at the last minute and booked a flight out to join us on vacation for the weekend, and we had so much fun visiting with family. My girls got to visit with their cousins, jump on the trampoline, play with dolls, have a living room dance party, and inherit a giant bag of clothes passed down from girl cousins just in time for back to school. (That will cut down on back to school shopping for sure!)They all surprised me with a birthday cake, since my birthday was in just a few days, and they sang to me before I blew out candles. Although, I am pretty sure all of my wishes have already come true! They also pulled out a giant box of their old family photos for me to take and organize. Jackpot!

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We hiked the Mormon Rocks Trail at the Cajon Pass, not far from the town where I grew up. It was named after Amasa Mason Lyman and Charles C. Rich, who passed through from Salt Lake City to the Los Angeles Basin. Interestingly, when I was in community college I had a history professor named Dr. Lyman, who was descended from Amasa Lyman and who had taught us about the history of the area. That was before I was a member of the Church, and well before I discovered my own pioneer heritage. It was such a beautiful desert hike and the views were breathtaking! It was even fairly easy for a pregnant lady and two little kids to do (with the help of a husband, of course).

Before I headed back, my dad pulled out some old boxes. Oh, he has been holding out! He basically had the Holy of Holies of our family history sitting around in old drawers at his house, and hasn’t had the time to go through everything. So, naturally, I did! I literally spend days scanning, uploading, reading and looking at old photos and letters that tell the extensive histories of my family members and ancestors. These are details that I have been pining for as long as I can remember. I can even say how emotional it was for me to learn all the things I learned. It was incredible. I have years’ worth of material to go through, organize, and make into a beautiful, very full family history. It made me love my family so much! I have never been so grateful to the wonderful men and women who brought me into existence. I can’t wait to meet them all someday. We have a lot to talk about.

The icing on the cake of the trip was driving back and spending my birthday in Salt Lake City with dear friends who spoiled me and even helped watch my girls for a little while so I could go do some research at the Family History Library. Since I brought my Temple recommend, I was able to access the Special Collections, which is kind of like the secret vault for members of the Church to look at because it has Church ordinance information that is only accessible if you have a recommend. It had a microfilm with a record of my ancestor Henry Taylor McGee’s birthplace and parents’ names, which had not been documented and which I have been searching for since forever. I immediately indexed the location and will add it to my family tree as soon as possible. Now I know where to look for his parents! Since he himself was the person who recorded his birthplace and parents’ names, I know it is accurate.

A long few more days on the road finally brought us home to Pennsylvania, and my head is still spinning over the fact that not two weeks ago, my car was at California beaches and mountains, and now it is here, back on the East Coast. I can’t believe I did this, by myself, with little kids, pregnant! Right now, I feel like I can do anything. Do you know how many times I had to buckle and unbuckle whiny kids in car seats, and hold little hands in gas station parking lots? Or how many soggy snacks I have vacuumed out of my SUV? Or how many times I have almost swerved off the road while trying to quell tantrums? Or how many heavy bags I have had to lug in and out of the car while carrying sleeping children in and out of hotels in the middle of nowhere? Let me tell you, this trip was not for the faint of heart. I might not have done it in a covered wagon, but I think I have at least gotten a glimpse of the endurance that my ancestors had. And I think at least a little bit of it has been passed down to me.

 

 

 

 

 

Your Pioneer Roots: Do They Ground You, or Hold You Back?

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Detroit Photographic Co. (1900) The Wasatch Range from the Valley of the Jordan. C. [Image] Retrieved from the Library of Congress, https://www.loc.gov/item/2008679699/.

I will never forget how I felt the very first time I went to Utah. I was a brand new convert from Southern California. I had dreams of transferring to Brigham Young University, and I remember driving around Provo, seeing the Y on the mountain, and feeling awestruck at the majestic feeling of wholesome delight. Just being there did something for my soul! So these were Mormons. This is what it meant to be a Mormon, I thought.

A few years later, after a few subsequent BYU rejection letters, a less-than-traditional route to a Temple marriage, and a desperate move to Salt Lake County for a much-needed full-time job to support our new family, I still naively idealized Utah. It was the beginning of Summer when we arrived, and that is right when Utah is on its best behavior. The green pastures, dotted by white steeples, against the still snowcapped backdrop of the Wasatch front looked like something out of a dream! I thought of Brigham Young and the early Saints, arriving at the top of Emigration Canyon and seeing the valley for the first time. I thought of how it must have felt, and the vision he must have had of transformation from barren desert to fertile valley. Looking at Utah through those lenses made it appear truly divine.

Then Winter came. There were days when I looked around at the thick smoggy haze and the dirty snow that had worn out its welcome, and Utah looked more like a toilet bowl in need of cleaning than some majestic Zion. It seemed that some days, a depressed and worn out feeling permeated, and the tension could be felt by everyone. The constant blizzard dump made it impossible for my husband to work, and we were doing poorly. I once made a trip to the bishop’s storehouse, and that was when I felt the lowest of the low. There is an underbelly of Utah, where poverty and crime exists, although driving around a brand new housing development in Lehi or some other suburb would never tell of such a thing. There is also a large non-Mormon population, many¬†of them disaffected former members, and among them are a diverse population of people who are anything but a stereotypical cookie-cutter Utahn.

I think I might have come close to losing what budding testimony I had at the time we lived in Utah. It seems counterintuitive to see that as a possibility, but there is an invisible battle going on in Zion. There is a constant pull between tradition and progress. Admittedly, Utah does need to modernize many aspects of their state. Sadly, though, there is a price that comes with moving into the future and assimilating with the so-called “mission field”. Some people cheer on the demolition of the relics of old Utah, symbolically destroying the weight they have felt of their Mormon pioneer roots. It is true that roots do keep things from going very far.

Of course, some might call it being grounded.

I, as a grafted-in branch to a family tree filled with stalwart Pioneer ancestors whose blood and sweat helped build Zion, I implore you: please don’t let your roots disappear. You will be like everyone else. And you will regret it. I have lived in many different places, and I promise you, you aren’t missing anything. Do everything you can to keep Utah the pristine utopia that it was meant to be. There is a reason you, the Peculiar People, stand apart from the rest of the world. You have something they all want, whether they admit it or not. I can’t help but die a little inside each time I hear about rent prices and crime rates going up, old buildings being torn down to make way for overpriced lofts, or record-breaking crowds flocking to Zion National Park, only to knock over ancient rock formations and smear graffiti.

The truth about Utah lies somewhere in between the idealistic and the realistic, I think. While this Zion will never be a true Zion in this life, it has still come pretty close. It really has transformed from a barren salty desert to a fertile valley by hard work and divine blessing. Indeed, the Beehive is¬†the most appropriate metaphor for Utah. We all have work, let no one shirk, put your shoulder to the wheel.¬†That fortitude is still alive and well in Utah. That pioneer spirit still exists, and even though things have changed, and Utah isn’t perfect, regardless of the perpetual pull in the opposite direction, the industrious and wholesome attitude continues to prevail.

Remember your ancestors. Remember who they were, and what they stood for. Please don’t forget them. Don’t let Utah be just like every other place. Once it’s gone… it’s gone.

When We Know Our Ancestors, We Are Never Alone

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I love to grill in the Summer. I know that is traditionally a “guy thing”, but my husband and I don’t necessary follow traditional rules when it comes to a lot of things in our marriage. I made the mistake of getting a charcoal grill at the beginning of the season, and soon found out that, not only does my family hate the taste of charcoal-grilled food, but that getting regular charcoal to light without an absurd amount of lighter fluid is not an easy task. The pre-treated briquettes help, but still, it is real work getting that fire going.¬†Finally, I just gave up and bought a gas grill. Problem solved!

Getting other people excited about their family history sometimes feels a bit like getting a stubborn fire to start. I can sometimes try a variety of different methods to get that flame to burn, but not without many attempts. I have to first experience the rejection of the dull and uninterested look in their eyes as they tune me out when I gush about learning something they might like to know. I can see their thoughts wander. It hasn’t caught them yet. Hmmm, Time for a new approach.

I am sympathetic. There was a time when I was not as interested in family history, too. Maybe it was because I had a lot going on, or my attention was elsewhere. I was more focused on the current. That is OK. There will come a time when one’s history will become relevant.

Moving across the country to Pennsylvania as a lonely stay-at-home mom while my husband hit the ground running in an industry that does business primarily in the Summer has left me lonely in the dog days of July, when it is too hot and humid to take the kids anywhere outdoors for any length of time. After years of moving around and finishing college in between birthing and nursing children, I have found that family history holds my interest, since working is not an efficient use of my time, due to the costs of childcare. Some mothers take up CrossFit or selling essential oils. I have taken up learning about the dead.

It is hard to explain, but when I learn about my ancestors, I feel less alone. Having come from a small and broken family, I don’t have much support around me. I don’t have big family reunions or vacations that I look forward to every year. I don’t have a tribe. Even getting someone to babysit my children is like pulling teeth. Many days, I feel left out to dry.

But when I immerse myself in the stories of my ancestors, it is like I can picture myself right there with them. The Summers they spent picking fruit or swimming in creeks, or the traditions they had during holidays… I would like to think they wouldn’t mind having me around with them.

Once, I had a dream that I was taking a group picture with all of my family- including ancestors I have never met who have passed on. I was so happy to be posing and smiling with them. And a petite, dark-haired woman in a 1930s-style green floral dress was lovingly doting on me, putting her arm around me as if she was proud of me. She seemed familiar but was still unknown to me. I now realize it was my great-grandmother, Ruth.

Family history is a cure for loneliness. At least for me. Whenever I feel a lack of support, or I feel as though I have no tribe, all I need to do is look at my family tree and see the generations that have loved me into existence. That is when I know that I am never alone.

Learning about your ancestors does something for your soul. Once you understand who you are and where you belong in a long line of people, you can never feel insignificant again. I think this is really at the heart of why we seek out our ancestors.

 

 

The Indian Myth: Why You Probably Don’t Have Cherokee Blood (Even Though You Think You Do)

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It’s a common tale: you were always told you had a Cherokee ancestor. You can’t quite figure out exactly who it is, but you think it is your third great-grandparents. After all, you tan really easily. And your grandma had high cheekbones and dark hair, she totally looked Native American!

But hold on, there. I am about to blow to lid off your illusion about your supposed Cherokee blood. Try not to be too disappointed.

You are probably not Cherokee. It’s hard to imagine that a false story could be passed down so many generations, but unfortunately, it’s all too common.

Let me tell you my story.

I am embarrassed to admit it, but for the first 30 years of my life, I was convinced that I was part-Cherokee. Totally, completely convinced. I knew that a lot of people claimed to be Native and actually weren’t… but that wasn’t me! My mom told me she sat on her grandfather’s lap as a child and stroked his leathery cheeks, and he spoke Indian to her. My grandmother worked in the cotton fields of Texas from a young age, and had to carry her baby brother on her back. She had kinky black hair, and tiny brown eyes. She had a hard life. Her ancestors came over on the Trail of Tears, and she felt so connected to her Native American blood that she moved to the Blue Ridge Mountains in her retirement, where they were originally from, and when she was on her death bed, she listens to tribal drum beats. When she passed away, she had her ashes scattered with the wind on top of a mountainside.

Then last year, I had my mom take the Ancestry DNA test. The results were surprising:

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According to a sample of my maternal mitochondrial DNA, my ancestors are from the above regions, and not one of them is in North America. Here is a more thorough breakdown of the estimate:

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Ok, so the majority of her DNA is Scandinavian. That was a HUGE surprise. We thought maybe German and French, and that’s all we knew. We were right about that part, but there were so many more surprises:

For example, the fact that my mom has Caucasus, Middle Eastern, South Asian, and African DNA! Um, what?! How? When? Where?

It is funny to see how family members react to and attempt to justify, explain, or discredit the DNA results. I heard, “Oh, well if you go far back enough, everyone has ancestors from Africa and the Middle East.”

Yeah, that’s true. Except that I have seen lots of other test results, including my dad’s, and his was 100% European. The only explanation for those trace regions is that I have actual ancestors in my family tree from those places.

In all likelihood, my grandmother’s tan complexion, kinky black hair, and small brown eyes didn’t come from a Cherokee ancestor at all. It probably came from an ancestor from the Iberian Peninsula region, or maybe even India, or Africa! Isn’t that fascinating?

I asked my mother if she was disappointed. She said not at all. I think we were both puzzled and mesmerized. So where the heck did that Cherokee rumor get started?

My guess is somewhere in the 19th century. It was a common story for those who lived in the South at that time. Many Cherokee lived among both whites and blacks¬†in the Carolinas. Many people were struggling to assert their rights. Although the Native tribes were oppressed by the federal government, there was a romanticism with Native American culture that was evident well into the 20th century. Have you ever heard of Iron Eyes Cody, also known as “The Crying Indian”? Yep, not Indian.¬†Sad to say, but everything we thought we knew about Indians- the headdresses, the “Squanto speak”, the dreamcatchers and turquoise jewelry, the cheesy pictures of wolves howling at the moon- a lot of that stuff is just romanticized, white man versions of Native culture. Like our alleged Cherokee blood, it is not what we thought at all. It is a myth.

I don’t know about you, but I have taken this opportunity to educate myself more about Native Americans, their history and their culture. Instead of appropriating it as my own, I have a new respect for Native American culture and a renewed sense of curiosity about my own ancestry, which is intriguing enough to keep me busy for quite a while.

And sure, some of you out there really are Cherokee. That is awesome, and you should celebrate your heritage. You come from a long line of courageous men and women who have no doubt passed on their strength to you.

Taking the DNA test will definitely give you some clarity, though. Just be prepared to potentially tick off your relatives.

¬†I don’t know about you though, but I am interested in the truth, no matter how romantic a lie might sound. And I don’t blame my grandmother at all. She probably didn’t know the truth, either. Her Cherokee heritage might have been a myth, but her love and dedication to her ancestors was most certainly real.

 

Converted With Prudence

As Sisters in Zion, we’ll all work together,

the blessings of God on our labors we’ll seek.

We’ll build up His kingdom with earnest endeavor,

we’ll comfort the weary and strengthen the weak.

RSMalad

Every few weeks, when I have some (rare) down time, I will get going on a family history kick. When I start digging, with a little patience, I can dig up a wellspring of marvelous experiences.

Just this week, I have had a few. I have been contacted by two distant cousins whom I have never met. We have exchanged some photos and documents that have breathed new life into my relationships with my ancestors… and it seems this experience has been mutual for them. To say that it has been a spiritually-uplifting experience would be an understatement.

A few days ago, I was cleaning the spare bedroom and a picture of my great great great grandmother fell out of a box. On the back, it was labeled, in my Granny’s handwriting, “Great Grandmother Thomas”. I knew instantly that this was Ruth Morgan Thomas, who came over from Wales in 1853. I had seen an older photo of her, but this was a younger one. It was an exciting discovery.

Uploading it to FamilySearch is what led to contact from another one of her descendants, who was able to solve a mystery, and in turn, sent me some photos I had never before seen of some of my ancestors.

Having been thinking about Ruth Thomas, I began to search the Internet for more clues of her life in Malad, Idaho. I came across a photo of Malad’s first Relief Society, which happened to have each individual member labeled, and which happen to have my great great great grandmother in the front row:
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Coincidentally, all of this happened the day after International Women’s Day¬†, and I feel so proud to have such stalwart and righteous women in my lineage.

A while ago, I requested a copy of Ruth Morgan Thomas’ patriarchal blessing. There is a line in it that says that her descendants will be “converted with prudence”.

I feel honored to be a living manifestation of this blessing.

I feel a duty to live up to my heritage.

I hope that I can be the kind of woman that serves the Lord and creates a warm and inviting home for my children and many generations to come, just like the women who came before me.

I come from good women. I am so lucky.

 

How To Find Your Ancestors (For Newbies)

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Photo Source: Hine, L. W., photographer. (1909) Immigrant children, Washington School.Location: Boston, Massachusetts. October. [Image] Retrieved from the Library of Congress, https://www.loc.gov/item/ncl2004000676/PP.

I have been out of the loop for a few days here. I had to take a few days to collect my thoughts and feelings. You know those kind of movies where you are following this character and then at the very end, the plot twist is that the person was delusional and all the things that happened in the movie were in their head? Well that is kind of how I feel about genealogy. It suddenly dawned on me that I was beginning to cross into the category of senility, like an elderly person who won’t stop going on about the olden days. The sad part is that I am only 32. So, you know. I had to accept that reality and then become comfortable with it before I approached it again. I must say, I have gotten a lot done, and I may quit Facebook altogether. It is a huge time waster, have you noticed? ūüôā

I thought maybe it would be a good idea to create a mini how-to guide for people who have zero experience with genealogy or who think that there is nothing to learn. I promise you, there are things to learn! I have had so many people approach me and say that they haven’t been able to find anything past their grandparents, especially those with non-European ancestry. Hang in there. Genealogy isn’t just for white people (although you wouldn’t know it, I know). Don’t let a brick wall discourage you. Doing family history is a lifelong project and takes a ton of patience. You might wake up one day and suddenly discover that a record you needed is now indexed and you suddenly know the name of an ancestor who was a mystery. I cannot tell you how many times this has happened to me! Us indexers are hustling as fast as we can to get records like The Freedmen’s Bureau available to search, and I have recently seen some batches of records from Mexico available as well. I am passionate about ALL family history, not just my own, and I want you to find your ancestors, too. Give it time. There is new stuff everyday.

Here is a little beginner’s guide for how to get started on finding your ancestors. (Keep in mind, while I am LDS and we are encouraged to find our ancestors for spiritual reasons, I have found that perhaps another approach is just to look for ancestors for the pure sake of getting to know them. If you gain something spiritual, that is great, but even a non-religious person can have almost a spiritual experience learning about their ancestors because their is so much to gain from just learning about them, who they were, and what their life was like. It adds meaning to your life!)

  1. Get a genealogy account through Ancestry, FamilySearch, MyHeritage, or something similar. Or, get all of them! You can usually get limited free access to them, or if you want to get really serious, I am telling you, just sign up for a paid membership. It will change your life and it is worth every penny! If you are a member of the LDS church, you automatically have free unlimited access to all of them as long as you have your record number. To set those up, go here.
  2. Build your family tree using all the info you have: Names, dates, places lived, etc. Put in what you know, even if you don’t have all the information.
  3. Look for “hints” (on Ancestry, it will appear as a little leaf in the corner). These are records that match your relative. If it is mostly the same, then attach it! I am quite liberal when it comes to adding records, at least at first. You can always go in and clean things up later, but when you are first trying to build up a family tree, it is really helpful to just get stuff on it. You won’t “ruin” anyone else’s tree by doing this. Everyone manages their own tree and this is purely for your own reference, so don’t be afraid to add records. Pro Tip: Stick to direct ancestors at first, otherwise you will be overwhelmed with information. Once you get sucked down a rabbit hole, its hard to get back. (You will find that humans and rabbits are similar in a lot of ways, especially when it comes to breeding. ūüėČ )

I hope this is helpful, and if I can help you in any way, I will do my best. Good luck on your new obsession! Because it will become obsessive. Trust me.

 

 

What My Grandparents Taught Me About Love

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The year was 1935. Susan, a petite brunette with a tiny waist and Hollywood good looks, went dancing at San Francisco’s Majestic Ball Room. After all, that was what young people did back then. She had a penchant for dancing after all, having grown up in the Welsh Mormon enclave of Malad, Idaho. The Welsh were fantastic singers and dancers, she always said.

A handsome stranger approached her. “Would you like to dance?” He asked. Susan didn’t need to be asked twice. He went by the name Jim, and she thought he was as handsome and charming as Cary Grant. He was a few years older, and he worked as a journalist and printer making $30 a week… far more than her brothers and father, as it was the height of the Depression. It wasn’t long after that he was picking her up for dates in his Ford with a rumble seat. Of course, her parents insisted that her brother Pat go along as a chaperone.

Susan went away for the Summer to visit her Grandpa and Grandma Owens. She heard that Jim had taken out her friend Norma on a date, and she was heartbroken. When she was in Malad, she got reacquainted with her old high school boyfriend, Sherman Richardson, and they had made plans to get married. However, when she got back to California, Jim showed up to take her to a show. On the way home, he looked over at her and knew he couldn’t let her get away.

“Let’s get married,” he said.

Susan’s heart stopped. She had been in love with him for so long! She said yes. Not long after that, they were married in the San Francisco Courthouse, on April 25, 1936. It was the best day that ever happened in her entire life.

***

I remember playing at Granny’s house, as she often let me stay over, and she was really my favorite friend to have sleepovers with. I always felt so well loved and cared for. One evening, she sat at her kitchen table, and I noticed she was crying.

“Granny, what’s wrong?” I asked. She grabbed me and hugged me, crying into my shoulder.

“I’m just so sad. I miss Papa. I miss my family and my sister. All of my family is dead, and I don’t have anyone. I wish I would just hurry up and go so I could be with them.” She sobbed.

My little eight-year-old heart broke for her. “Granny, don’t say that! You have us. We love you,” I said, and hugged her back.

She was always so loving, but there was a streak of sadness in her. When all else failed, I knew I could just do Ren and Stimpy’s “Happy Happy Joy Joy” dance, and she would be crying tears of laughter instead of sorrow.

Every night, she kissed a framed photo of Papa and said goodnight, and set it back on top of the gold urn that sat on her dresser. It was a large box with two compartments: one with prayer hands that held his ashes, and the other one with a rose for hers, when her time came. All of the women in her family have roses on their epitaphs. It is Welsh and English tradition.

Granny told me she woke up one morning around the time Papa died, and her mother was standing in her room. “What are you doing here?” She asked. Her mother’s apparition vanished. She didn’t seem the least bit frightened at this admission.

***

In the Summer of 1998, Granny was dying. I thought perhaps she got lonely lying in our spare bedroom, as she could barely open her eyes or talk. I went in to lie next to her and keep her company for a while.

“Granny, I am going to miss you when you go, but I know that you are going to Heaven. When you get there, I know that Papa will be waiting for you. Maybe he will ask you to dance. And I know your family will be there- your parents, your sister, your brothers. They will be so happy to see you.” I said, as I held her hand. Her nurse exclaimed, telling me to look at her face.

Tears were streaming out of her eyes. Granny gently put her hand on my face. “Pretty,” she faintly said.

Not long after that, she left us on a beautiful and bright July afternoon. It felt peaceful. There is something beautifully serene about the mood surrounding birth and death. Anytime someone is coming or going, the Heavens are open for a brief moment in time.

I imagine that Papa was waiting for her, flowers in hand, ready for a dance. Even when he was bedridden with Alzheimers and could barely remember his own name, he had an urgency to take Susan out on a date. It was all he could talk about.

This is love to me.

 

 

 

A New York Minute

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I watched the Manhattan skyline slowly appear in view from my train window last Saturday morning, after an hour of staring out the window at houses and neighborhoods. I pretended that I was a lady traveler from a bygone area, when the locomotive and railroad were America’s crowning achievements¬†of infrastructure. Oh, I wish I could have been alive in the early 20th century! As I sat alone in the quiet car, I couldn’t believe that just 24 hours prior, I was in the midst of a mommy nightmare, home alone with two small children and every kind of bodily fluid and mess to clean up before my dear friend Shawna would be arriving for a visit. Now, here I was, traveling by train to New York City in a shady hat and big sunglasses. You’d never know I was actually a mom of two from the suburbs of Philadelphia.¬†

IMG_1963 (1) Her cab dropped her off on the corner of 8th Avenue and 36th Street, not far from Penn Station. She had some flight issues and ended up getting rerouted. She ended up flying into La Guardia and meeting up with me.

We were on a time crunch. We suddenly became like real New Yorkers that moment. We ordered and ate a $20 burger on the go (the best I have ever had in my life) and basically ran to the Imperial Theatre on Broadway in order to make it to the 2:00 show for Les Miserables.

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New York is fast-paced, and people are kind of pushy and impatient, but I’ll tell you: New York City is nothing if not efficient. If you see a line out the door, just get in queue and wait a bit. You’ll be at the front before you know it. Pay attention, though. Otherwise you will get yelled at.

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And let me tell you, Les Miserables was lovely. I can’t remember the last time I cried so much. How actors can sing a certain note or hit a decibel level that forces tears out of your eyes, I’ll never understand it. The level of talent is unbelievable. Of course, Shawna, who studied French Lit, pointed out that there were some differences in the musical that were not in the book. As a former high school slacker, I failed to read it. The themes were conveyed to me, though. Jean Valjean and Javert. Mercy and Justice. It was really, really wonderful. I can’t say that enough.¬†

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We ended the day by walking around Central Park and Midtown, seeing all the sites, and having real heart-to-heart conversations that only confirmed that Shawna is a true bosom friend; a kindred spirit. The Diana to my Anne. Or, the Anne to my Diana, if you go off of hair color. Although, I am definitely the crazy one, and might possibly smash a slate over Gilbert Blythe’s head, given the chance.

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It is just funny how life turns out. A few years ago, I lived in Utah, and we were pretty poor. I used to dream of what it would be like to just go and visit New York City. I wondered if it would ever be possible.

“Someday, we will go,” my friend Shawna would tell me. On New Year’s Eve that year, she and her husband and daughter came over for a cheese plate and fake champagne. We watched the ball drop at Times Square on a live video and ended the night at midnight Eastern time, which, for us, was 10 o’clock Mountain time. We knew our toddlers wouldn’t make it to midnight. Besides, New York City was where we really wanted to be.

It is funny how life works out. It really makes me believe that there is a God, and that his timing is perfect. He can even answer prayers for you and give you something far better than you ever could have imagined. The only catch is that you will have to accept that there will be ups and downs. You can’t always be up. And you won’t always be down, either.

By sheer happenstance, we moved to the suburbs of Philadelphia. Now, I go to Philadelphia and New York City on a semi-regular basis. These fancy East Coast places, once myths, are now within reach. I don’t even need to live in the actual city. I am fine with being a tourist. Living where I live allows me to have my cake and eat it, too.

I came here with ambivalence, knowing full well my desire for adventure and my tendency to become homesick. Yet, I have never been homesick once since I have lived here.

I think that means I’m home.

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Rachael

In November of 1990, something amazing happened: I became a big sister.
I remember the moment Rachael was placed in my arms as a tiny infant in a swaddling blanket. She was so tiny. Her little face was so squishy. I was filled with joy and excitement as I thought of a life with a sister; all the good times we would share, and the life that we would have. I still remember her looking up at me, her big brown eyes looking into mine, and I thought to myself, wow, I love her so much!
I was just barely seven years old, which put our age difference wider than most siblings, but it didn’t matter. Since we were growing up with only each other, she was still the most important short person in my life… even if sometimes, she drove me nuts.
Rachael and I became much closer just before my parents divorced. After having a rough breakup and some big life changes, I moved back in to my parents’ house at age 23. I only lived there for the Summer, but it was the best Summer I can remember. My sister was old enough to drive, and we were inseparable. We both got a job at a local drive-thru burger place, and we often worked together. She was on drive-thru, and I was on the register. She had such a better work ethic than me. I didn’t take the job seriously, but she did, and she would get frustrated with me when I didn’t do my side work the right way, or when I cut corners out of apathy. She could have run the place. She was so independent and responsible.
That year was filled with happy memories. We went to Coachella music festival together, and on the drive home, we blasted Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen, rolled down the windows, and sang it at the top of our lungs while the warm night air blew on our faces, our dark hair flying everywhere.
She was more than a sister to me. She was my best friend. Sometimes, I think she should have been the older sister. While I was the one plagued with insecurity since childhood, she was the one who cared for me, and who loved me. No matter the mistakes I made, she was always right there to believe in me.
I remember one car ride, the song The Middle by Jimmy Eat World came on the radio. “This song reminds me of you,” she said. I asked why. I think she felt embarrassed to elaborate, because when I listen to the words, I knew what she meant to say: Live right now, just be yourself. It doesn’t matter if it’s good enough for someone else. It just takes some time, little girl, you’re in the middle of the ride, everything, everything will be just fine, everything, everything will be alright, alright.
In late 2010, I became pregnant, and Josh and I were so poor that we were living in a garage and sleeping on an air mattress. We both had jobs, but we didn’t make enough for a place of our own. One Sunday evening, I got a text from my sister, for whom I was coincidentally knitting a scarf as a birthday present. I put down my knitting needles to read what it said:
“I just bought you a crib,” she said. Then, she sent me a picture of a beautiful wood crib.
“That is so cool!! Thank you so much!! Hey, we find out the sex of the baby on your birthday :)” I replied, after showing Josh my phone, my eyes misty from being so touched by the sweet sentiment.
“I can’t wait to start buying you baby stuff. There are so many cute things at Target.”
She had a dream just a few weeks before that about my unborn baby. She said that it was a girl, and that she was holding her.
The text conversation dwindled, and we didn’t really say goodbye. We just left it.
Not 24 hours later, I was face to face with my sister. That afternoon, she had an asthma attack. She was in a coma.
A few days later, a prognosis was made.
She was brain dead.
In the time that it took to get that answer, I finally finished Rachael’s scarf. Her boyfriend said she would have loved it.
November 1st rolled around, which was her birthday, and the day that my dad was called by the funeral home to go pick up her cremated remains.
I went to the doctor for a 20 week ultrasound. I was told I was having a girl. Just like Rachael’s dream.
I couldn’t call her and tell her, though. I sent her a text anyway, even though I knew I would never get a response. Do you know what it is like to wake up in the morning, and wonder if everything that happened was just a dream? There were many moments like that, where I would wake up in the middle of the night, convinced it was just a nightmare. Except, it wasn’t.
 She was really gone.
There was one other person in the universe who was literally organized from the same exact genetic material that I was, and that person was Rachael. When I looked into her face, I saw my own reflection. I saw the same dark hair; the same brown eyes with a hazel gleam. The pain of losing her was unbearable.
Never before this moment did I ponder life and death as much as I did once Rachael was taken from me. But you know what?
I can still remember the literal feeling of Jesus Christ, wrapping his arms around me, as I stood there in the emergency room and hugged my mom and dad. It was as if I could actually feel arms around us, protecting us, and holding us.
I didn’t get through the grief because I was strong. I got through the grief because Someone carried me.

Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart, and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light. (Matt. 11:28-30)

 
Six months later, I found myself in a hospital bed, hooked up to various machines and wires, and in labor. Unable to move because of my unborn baby’s distress, I sat there, drifting in and out of twilight sleep, thinking of my sister.
 She told me that she wanted to be with me from the moment I went into labor, and the entire time until the baby was born. She wanted to be the supportive sister who threw me a baby shower, and who got to be there to hold her brand new niece. As I thought about her, I looked around the dim labor and delivery room, and realized I was alone. Josh was in the corner, asleep. I stared at the clock. I closed my eyes.
I suddenly got the feeling that I wasn’t really alone after all. The feeling I got was as if my sister was right there beside me, cheering me on in jubilation at the thought of a new life entering the world, and reminding me that when our bodies die, our spirits still live on.
Rachael didn’t get to hold my baby daughter. At least, not in her physical body. She held her in her dreams, and then she told me about it before she slipped to the other side. Their souls passed one another, like ships in the night.
Suddenly, it all made sense why I was prompted to start a family at the most inconvenient time of my life. For the first time in months, I felt joy. It was then that I knew… everything was going to be fine.