A Rite of Passage

Yesterday, I picked up my granddaughter to take her to her voice lesson and, as she jumped in the front seat, she opened her folder to show me that she brought her "learner's permit" with her.  "I'm all legal, if you want to let me drive home." she said with an "I love you grandma" smile on her face.  "We'll see."  I replied evasively.  In the end I gave in because grandparents are always suckers when it comes to their grandchildren.  I even let her drive on the highway for a short way before we made a right turn (I love her, but I'm not crazy) and turned down the back road to her home.   The best compliment was when she told me how great it was because this was the longest she had ever driven, and that I don't yell at her.  Oh. . . . . .she must be referring to her father, my son, who totaled our car two weeks after he got his license when he slid sideways on the ice into a railroad crossing gate.  I can still remember my husband's scream  shock when he went to the garage and saw it.

  This made me start thinking about cars and family. As Americans we love our cars.  I grew up in a central Indiana town that had many of the local citizens employed in a nearby auto factory.   When the new models came out, they were a constant topic of conversation.  My all time favorite will always be the Mustang.  I love seeing the cars in my family photos.  They really add a sense of time and place unlike homes that are static over time. Everyone has photos with family standing next to the family car ready to start a journey, whether just to Sunday church services or a longer family vacation.  A teenager getting their driving permit is both frightening and exciting, but tinged with a sadness that they are growing up. Cars and family are intertwined.

    I would like to share a few of the photos of my family with their cars and also a few short stories, because all genealogists know it is the stories that bring family history to life.

 

In the center back seat is "Auntie" Anna McDonnell, sister of my great grandmother Mary McDonnell Kennelly,  with Mary Kennelly , the youngest of my grandfather's sibling, in the middle in the front.  There was no way that Auntie was going to let Mary go unchaperoned!

 

My great grandparents Anna Mae Allen Moldt and Edward Thomas Moldt.  I love the chains on the tires.  I have a vague memory of stories about a car with a rumble seat.  I wish I could see if this car had one.  Can anyone identify what model/make this car is.  Are those bloomers DaDa Mae is wearing?

 

My mother, Gloria Kennelly, as a child. The year was around 1929 since she was born in 1924 and looks about five or six in this photo. Funny, I never noticed before how much my brother, Dahl,  looks like her in this photo.

My youngest brother, Dahl, loves anything with a motor.  He can also fix anything with a motor.  He definitely got all of the handyman genes in the family.  In his wild  younger years he had a bright orange car and his red hair and freckles made his nickname, "Orange Peel" a natural.

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 During the mid-sixties, my brother, Flip, asked his favorite girl to the Senior Prom.  In those days, proms were held in school gymnasiums and decorated with tissue paper flowers and crepe paper streamers by members of the junior class.  For this big event, he asked to use the family car and was told that he could take the truck.  With great indignation, he said he wouldn't go if he had to drive the truck so he called his date and told her he wouldn't be able go because he couldn't get the car.  He never mentioned the truck possibility.  But this girl was not giving up and told him not to worry, that she could drive and so she did.

She picked him up in her family's truck!!

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I took my driving test in a 1949 Ford with a manual transmission.  I can't find a photo of that exact car so one taken from Google images will have to do.  I wasn't allowed to take my test until I could drive a stick and change a flat tire.  My dad didn't think you had any business driving if you couldn't do both of those things. When he took me out to "practice" driving, I knew we would always go by way of the Orestes hill.  I just prayed that there was no one behind me at that stop sign as I slipped back while trying to get the clutch just right. Yet, I don't remember him ever yelling at me.  I have used both of those skills, and I passed my driving test the first time I tried, unlike my brother, Flip, who took three attempts to pass.  I try not to mention this too often - loud giggle!  Luckily, he doesn't read this blog.

 

My youngest son with his first car, purchased after he graduated from college.  It is a Porsche that he bought used from an ad in the newspaper.  It had always been his dream to own a Porsche so he couldn't believe his good fortune to find one used at the very moment in time that he was looking.  I was flattered when he asked me to go with him to look at it. This invitation became clearer when the seller asked if he wanted to take it for a drive, he lowered his head and mumbled that I would have to drive it because he didn't know how to drive a stick!  I loved it.  He bought the car, and then I had to teach him to drive it.  But a Porsche is not meant for northern Indiana weather, and I am sure he was the only Porsche owner to buy snow tires for the car.

Recently, I have read several blog posts encouraging each of us to remember to record the family history we are creating now and not focus only on the past while letting the present slip by. Sometimes, it is difficult to know where to begin, but every family has automobile stories and these are a few of mine.  Stories don't have to be long.  Just snippets of life to pass on to those that follow.  

Won't you share a few automobile stories from your family

Tombstone Tuesday - Michael McDonnell Falls From Bridge

Davenport Leader - Oct. 27, 1896

 

Michael McDonnell - St. Irenaeus Cemetery - Clinton, IA

Born October 26, 1869

Died October 22, 1896

Michael was a brother of my great grandmother, Mary Winifred McDonnell Kennelly of 2338 W. Washington Blvd.

#@%& . .Why Can't I Comment on Blog Posts

  This has been a constant source of frustration to me.  I like to comment on the blog posts of other bloggers.  Actually, I have several times . . . and then watched as Whoosh, it disappeared when I press either preview or post comment.  I have tried to change the choice in the drop down menu.  I have tried on various blogs.  I have been logged  onto my blog and logged out. I have tried to comment on my own blog without success. I usually try a half dozen times until I start shouting at the computer.  Then time passes and I decide to try again with the same results.  The real frustration is that I have been able to comment in the past and have it show up.  Then this morning before I got to the shouting stage, I decided to search Google and see if anyone else has had this problem.  Silly question - of course there were others.  I pulled up several queries and the answers offered.  Mostly they suggested the "cookie" setting as the culprit.  I then wandered around  searched my computer settings until I stumbled upon located the "cookie" setting.  #@%& my settings were already set to accept third party cookies.  Now what?  Back to Google again.  This time I read several boards that had queries with this problem.  Some suggested that the bloggers needed to change their settings, but that didn't account for the fact that I had been able to post but now could not.  Many of the same answers were also offered, but I was starting to notice a pattern.  Hmmmmm . . .Everyone who was having difficulty was using Firefox.  Could it really be that simple?  This called for a test.  I changed my browser and went to a blog I follow.  I filled in the comment box and held my breath as I clicked preview.  Oh my gosh, it really was that simple.

 So now I know that when I read Dick Eastman's newsletter, I use Firefox, but when I want to comment on a blog, I use Internet Explorer.  I feel much better now.

The Wild, Wild West. . . near Deadwood, South Dakota



Owen Jerome McDonnell -standing center

This post is courtesy of my wonderful double cousin, Mary Margaret mentioned in this blog before here, here, and here.  I think her passion for family history exceeds my own, and she has many wonderful stories passed on to her by her father.

Crook City Tale

My Uncle Ambrose McDonnell was born in Iowa in 1900. As a baby he was taken to the Black Hills in South Dakota by his mother and father.

Owen Jerome McDonnell knew there was gold in the Hills and with four other partners, he had purchased land in the old Cook City site. After my uncle was born, he brought his wife, Elizabeth Burnette Allen and baby to a land where he was sure to make his fortune.

Owen Jerome McDonnell and wife
 Elizabeth Burnett Allen
with their childrem

One day, he had business in Deadwood and he left his young wife at home alone. Nettie heard a knock at the front door and when she opened the door she was dismayed to see a scraggly old women standing there. Nettie was frightened and did not invite her in. The old women looked sick, dirty and Nettie feared she had something Ambrose could catch. Then the old lady spoke, “ May I have a glass of water? I would never harm a hair on the head of Sunny Boy’s child.” Nettie knew that was a nickname used for her husband. She gave the old woman a glass to get water from the well. While she stood in the door way, the old woman said she was walking to catch the train to Lead. Nettie knew there was a hospital there. The old lady smiled her thanks, turned and left down the street.


Crook City home






When Owen returned home and heard the story he told his wife that he thought it was an old friend, Jane. Later that week, they learned that Calamity Jane had gone to Lead and died. This story was told to me by my father, Ambrose’s younger brother, Owen James, many times and is a family legend




The photo at the beginning of this post is presumed to be Owen Jerome and his four partners.  I would love to be able to identify the other men in this photo.  If you can help identify them,  please contact me.

Uh-oh! Now I've Done It!

I didn't mean to do it. It was all done with the best of intentions -- really it was.

What did I do?  I asked my relatives who avidly occasionally read this blog, to consider writing a "guest" blog post.  In my past correspondence with family members, they often mention memories or information that is new to me.  I thought this would be a  no low pressure way to share their memories in their own words with all* of us. My request was for a post that could be from two paragraphs to two pages.  It could be a memory, a story about an ancestor, a recipe, a tradition, or anything.  I wrote that I would take care of uploading everything if they could just send me a Word document along with any photos or scans they want to include.  I was extremely excited about this idea.

While I have had no one reject the idea, I have had no responses AT ALL.  The total silence in my email is deafening.  I didn't mean to upset anyone.  I can take it.  You can tell me you don't want to do this. I love writing about the family, but it might not be for you.  But please, write back to me.  I promise I won't mention it again.

However, if you get the urge in the future . . . . . . . . . . . . .


* Note: The use of the term "all" refers to the six acknowledged and five unacknowledged followers of this blog.

Government Efficiency at It's Best

 

 A couple of days ago a very thick manila envelope arrived addressed to me.  That's funny - I didn't remember sending for anything.  My genealogy passion has had to take a back seat to my work since school started.  When I looked at it, I was even more puzzled.  It was from the Department of Veterans Affairs - WICHITA OFFICE??  This meant it was about my father.  Why was I getting something from them?  I quickly opened it and found my father's medical file along with the letter I wrote requesting it  - dated over one year before!  The stamp on the back verifies that they received it in Aug.  This odyssey began when I learned that an immediate family member can request the service records at no charge - or so I thought.  My parent's divorced when I was seven or eight and I never saw my father after that time. So, since my father is a bit of a mystery, I thought I would give it a go.  Free is always a good price.  The letter below is four months after my initial request which involved applying online then they sent a letter for me to actually sign for permission then they sent a request for $20.  There goes the free part!  A couple of months later I received a single sheet separation paper.  Minimal, but a couple of new pieces of information.   Hey! Wait a minute. Where was the medical record I requested?  So I called to find out.  I am nothing if not tenacious.  The letter below is my next step after the phone call. I have cropped it to leave out the identifying information for my father and myself.  After all,  I am sure the paparazzi would be hiding in the shrubs for a photo.

I skimmed the medical file that spanned his military service until shortly before his death.  It will take some time to look at it in more detail.  But I will have to look at it when my mood is right.  Anything about my father is either completely devoid of emotion or absolutely drenched in it. 

My quick observations:  It confirmed his stay in a TB hospital after the divorce.  I have always tested positive for TB even though I have never had it.  Interestingly, the information that was the most upsetting wasn't his continual alcoholism, which I knew about, but the fact that he had some type of infection during his military service and had lost quite a few of his teeth!  Oh vanity, my vanity.  I am sure there are more surprises in store.

The best part of this surprise was that over a year after my request, it was sent Priority Mail for $4.90 because they obviously wanted to get it to me as quickly as possible  Remember this is the same government that paid $2000 for a toilet seat!  I wonder how long it took to deliver those?

A Tale of Two Margels

My name is Margel (prounced Marge-l). I have never gone by any other name.  Not Marge or Margie,  just Margel unless you count the times my mother got mad at me, and then it was "Lady Locket".  I have NO idea where that came from?When I was growing up my classmates had names like Linda, Sally and Barbara with a Carla or Beth sprinkled in.   As a young child I remember wanting a name "like everyone else."  I always held my breath and waited as attendance lists were called knowing that there was a 90% chance that they would say Mar- Gel with a hard G and the emphasis on the second syllable.  My only decision was to correct them, and the whole group would turn to look at me, or let it go. "Is that what you go by or do you have a nickname?"  Nametags would inevitably be a conversation starter with the question, "Where did that name come from? Is it a family name?"  But if they asked, I told them . . .

I'd always known where my name came from, but it wasn't until I was a teenager that I began to really think about it more.  Margel was my mother's sister, but my mother never knew her because she died before my mother was born around age two of spinal meningitis. At some point in my teenage years, I became very proud of carrying this family name and of being a living reminder of a very special little girl.  As a teen, I remember asking my mother where she was buried.  Why didn't anyone visit her grave?  "Oh, her grave washed away long ago." my mother replied, "There's nothing to visit"  I had visions of coffins floating down a river.

Margel Florence Kennelly

Then a couple of years ago, I became interested in family history.  Finding Margel was at the top of my list.  At that point in time, I assumed that I would enter her name in the search engine for Cook County, and the information would magically pop up on the screen.  But, oh no, Cook County vital records database had no record of her.  The wheels in my head started spinning.  Could she have died somewhere else?  There were lots of photos of her with the family in Clinton.  Maybe she died there.  But they had no record of her death either.  Then a chance encounter with another researcher at my local library introduced my to CyberDrive Illinois and the searchable online databases of the Illinois Archives.  This time when I typed in her name and, hit enter, I found the record!  Back I went to the Cook County website with the record number . . . . again it was not to be as they had someone else listed with that record number.  Frustrations, frustrations.  Then when I was unsure of what to do next, a post on the Ancestry.com  Cook county message boards suggested that I contact Cynthia at Chicago Genealogy so I did.  Yippeeee!  She found the death record and the price was very cheap reasonable.  Unexpectedly, I cried when I opened it.  I have used Cynthia's services through her genealogy lookup service Genlighten several times since then and always been immensely satisfied. 

Now that I had the death record, I found that Margel was buried at Calvary cemetery in Evanston and IT'S LOCATED ON LAKE MICHIGAN.  It turns out that there was a scrap of truth to my mother's story of the grave washing away - it is located near water.   Next, I called the cemetery to find out how I could locate a grave if I would travel there for a visit.  The wonderfully helpful man told me that there was a kiosk that I could type in the name, and it would print a map of the grave location if I came during the hours the office was open.  Fabulous!  Now . .  how could I talk my brother into traveling with me to the Chicago area to find her grave?  I better get more information about other family members so that I could sell this as a package deal.

I began to assemble a list of Chicago family members and the cemeteries where they were buried. In addition to Margel, I found three ancestors who were buried at Calvary - Margret Kennelly Logan (my g-g-grandmother), John J. Kennelly (her son and my great grandfather's brother who was unknown to most family members), and Edward Kennelly (possibly my g-g-grandfather and Margret's first husband).  Then last Fall, when I knew winter was fast approaching and I might have to wait another six months, I talked my brother into committing to a weekend in Chicago. Remember, he does the driving and at that time, had the only GPS. Besides, this would be way more fun if we could share it.  This seemed like a good opportunity to also visit with another cousin of my mother's if she was available. We originally met at a funeral and so didn't have much time for conversation, but we emailed a few times, and she sent me a large brown envelope full of family photos, obituaries, and newspaper clippings.  She told us that no one in her family wanted them, and she had already thrown some away.  I was thrilled.  Luck was on our side, and she was free on the Sunday afternoon we would be in Chicago. She would go with us to Calvary.

Calvary Catholic Cemetery - Evanston, IL

The Saturday of our trip was spent traveling to Chicago and then going to several of the other cemeteries on our list.  Again, my sister-in-law was a good sport tramping up an down rows of graves helping my brother and I find our family.  We managed to find most of the people on our list, but finding the graves would have been near impossible without the kiosks and maps.  It is a great system.  We needed to quickly stop by Calvary while the office was still open so we could get the map for the next day.  I typed in the name Margel Kennelly, but the information on the screen said that no one by that name was buried there.  WHAT!  But the death certificate said she was buried there.  I approached the counter and told the man of my dilemma.  He asked for the information that I had and disappeared into a back room. A few moments later, he reappeared with a record in hand.  It seems that she was listed as Margaret and the age was incorrect due to a very poor copy of the death certificate.  Here's the bonus:  The record he copied for us had a list of everyone who was buried in that block of graves, the dates of death and identified James Logan, Margret's second husband, as the owner of the block.  Margel, Margret Logan, and John Kennelly were all buried in the same block.  This was a goldmine that I have still not sorted out.  "Did you have any other graves you were looking for" he asked.  "Why, yes I do." was my speedy reply as I handed him the death certificate of Edward Kennelly.  Again, he went to the back and came out with a complete listing of everyone in that block of graves.  We explained that we wouldn't be able to look for the graves until the next day, and he told us to look for the cemetery custodian who went through every hour if we had any difficulty. I was so excited.

The next day, we stopped by one more cemetery before we went to our cousin's house.  When we arrived, we found that she had invited her sister to join us - how wonderful!  She told us so many family stories and pulled out more photos.  It was almost too much to absorb and we loved it.  Then we got in the car and headed for the cemetery.  It was a very cold windy day, and we were not prepared for it.  I only had on a thin jacket when I really needed mittens and a wool hat.  If you have ever been to Chicago, you know how the wind can blow off the lake, and the trees only slowed it down a little.  We walked to where we thought the map showed the grave, but there were no Kennelly graves in sight.  We spread out farther.  No luck.  There seemed to be lots of missing headstones.  Maybe we weren't in the right section, I suggested hopefully.  I did not want to get this close and not find her.  When our fingers were numb from cold and we were just about to give up, a truck came towards us on the cemetery road - the custodian, I thought as I flagged him down. 

With a smile on his face he asked if he could help us find a grave.  We handed him our map, and he walked us over to the correct area.  My heart sank, still no headstones, only grass.  He told us to wait, and he drove back to the office garage.  A few minutes later he was back with a shovel, a brush, and a long metal rod.  Quickly, he stepped off a measurement from the road then took the shovel and tapped the ground until there was a thunk.  Using the shovel he revealed a circular stone marker with numbers which indicated the block of graves and explained how we could read them to find our block.  Then he started to probe the ground, explaining that early graves would have had wood coffins that would have rotted away by now.  It had rained recently and the ground was very soft.  He took his shovel and again went along one side vigorously tapping the ground.  Nothing, nothing, clunk!  This would be a headstone, he told us.  So he pushed the shovel into the ground feeling for the edge of the headstone.  The level grass showed no evidence of a headstone below. When he had gone all the way around, he knelt down and peeled back the seven inches of grass and dirt to reveal . . . MARGEL KENNELLY.  She shared a headstone with her great grandmother, Margret Kennelly Logan, and her uncle, John J. Kennelly.  I couldn't believe it.  The headstone looked like new.  I quickly knelt down and started brushing the excess dirt from the top.  It may sound silly, but it felt like I had reached into the abyss and pulled her out.  Then I noticed the dirt and roots that had been peeled back.  The names were clearly visible in the roots that had filled in their names.  When I asked, how we could have the stone lifted, he told us to call the office and they would take care of it. "How much will it cost?" I asked.  "No charge."  What a nice surprise.  As I looked around the grassy cemetery, I envisioned the multitude of stones hidden beneath the surface. I hope others will heed this lesson and check for sunken headstones before they give up like I almost did.

It was getting late, and we had to go.  We had a long trip home and our cousin, Kitty, had dinner waiting for us at her house.   The grassy plot of Edward Kennelly would have to wait for another visit.  We never even checked for any other stones in our block.  We were so excited, we didn't think about any others, but I noticed the headstones in the block next to theirs was O'Connor.  Hmmm . . . Margret Kennelly Logan's maiden name was O'Connor.  Do you suppose they're relatives?  I took a few photos just in case, but that is another story.

The search for Margel was a roller coaster ride with a satisfying and exciting end.  It was very late that night when we arrived back at my house, but this still remains one of my most emotional experiences.  How can anyone think genealogy is boring?

Oh, who is that girl in the photo at the top you ask??   Why she is the third and original Margel.  She was my grandmother's school friend at Mount St. Clare college, and so she named her first daughter, Margel Kennelly, after her.  I don't know her last name, but this was taken at Lake Delavan according to my grandmother's photo album. This is a special photo for obvious reasons.