Ancestry Magazine

In the Name of Taxes
It all began very innocently one Saturday afternoon sitting at the dining room table with my husband, Dave. We were discussing our bills. As Dave wrote the check to the county for our taxes he said, “Did you know that if you can prove you have Native American heritage you don’t have to pay property taxes?”
I responded, “That’s nice dear.”
“I was talking to someone at work the other day. She’s Miwok Indian. She said she doesn’t pay property taxes.”
“Good for her,” I said.
“Don’t you have Cherokee blood in you from somewhere?”
That discussion happened about ten years ago. When I first started my search for my roots, I couldn’t have known just how totally overwhelming that search would become, but I have to admit it’s been quite a journey. And my greatest discovery in all of this was the realization that family history is as addicting as that first peanut—betcha’ can’t eat just one.
The next few months were enveloped in numerous late night sessions combing the Internet for leads on my Indian heritage—no easy feat when you get up for your regular job at 5:00 a.m.
My search began when I called my mother: family legend indicated that my mother’s family line contained Cherokee ancestry. I told my mother I was looking for information on our Arkansas side of the family. She referred me to her brother who referred me to a cousin I’d never heard of named Edith.
Edith turned out to be an absolute treasure.
Before picking up the phone to place my long distance call to Arkansas, I got a large pad of paper and a couple of pens ready. I made a brief list of questions to ask Edith, just to make sure the conversation stayed directed. Then I dialed.
Nearly three hours later I had several pages of priceless family stories. Edith told me about my great-grandpa. He was a Baptist preacher who spent his entire life in the hills of Arkansas. Apparently he was known for his ability to speak in tongues.
Edith said, “When Grandpa was possessed of the spirit he would often shout Hickamo Shundii!”
Now that had a Cherokee ring to it.
“So Edith, any chance he was calling on an ancestor?” I asked. “I’m trying to pin down a connection to the Cherokee tribe.”
“Gosh, cookie, I don’t believe so. I never heard of anyone on Grandpa’s side of the family with any Indian blood. But, did you know you have a first cousin who got an offer to play piano for Elvis Presley?”
Elvis, although fascinating, would have to wait.
I had a sudden revelation that perhaps I was barking up the wrong family tree. I went back to square one and called my mother again.
“Oh, why didn’t you say so? If you’re looking for our Cherokee blood that was on my daddy’s side of the family. It was his momma, my grandmother.” That was a lesson and an example of the importance of being prepared with questions when contacting someone for family information.
Well, after 10 years of searching, I finally discovered my Cherokee great-grandma. I had heard that tracking down and confirming American Indian heritage is a difficult project to accomplish. It is. So far I’ve had to rely on oral histories—NARA, Cherokee censuses, even genealogy societies connected to my Cherokee grandmother’s lineage haven’t been able to give me paper proof.
Through the process, I also got a history lesson. I discovered that if you were Native American back in the early days of this country, and if you wished to survive the infiltration of the masses of settlers rapidly engulfing the country, you made every attempt to blend in. As my brother rather observantly pointed out, “If you were Cherokee at the time Andrew Jackson was force-marching your friends and family cross country in the cold of winter, would you be anxious to sign on the dotted line?”
My Cherokee great-grandma’s family settled in the hills of Kentucky. They did not choose to sign their names to any census list. Understanding their motivation for keeping a low profile made my desire to prove that heritage of secondary concern.
You know there was this story my dad told me when I was a little girl. He said his great-aunt Betty had a family tree done that linked his family to some English king or queen. Wonder if that’s true? Might be worth doing a little research.
Gosh. I could be in line for the throne.
– D.D. Norman

Getting the Name Right
I was surfing the Internet for my great-grandfather’s Civil War record—never could find it. But I grew up in Chicago and I remembered my mother’s cousin’s maiden name. I knew the cousin’s father had to have passed away—he would have been very old—but I found a name that matched. I hoped it was a son named after the cousin’s father.
I wrote a letter to the man using an address I found at Ancestry.com. I described our family and grandparents and great-grandparents. Apparently, the man received the letter and gave it to his sister saying, “I think you should handle this since you’re the historian in the family.”
Within three days, I received a phone call from her. That was followed by all of the papers from my great-grandfather’s Civil War record along with the names of generations of relatives I had never known, although the names were all very familiar to me. But the best part? Now I have a cousin whom I never knew and I am in contact with her on a regular basis.
– Ruth Rooney

Still Looking
My mother-in-law’s maiden name was Garrison and the family legend stated that she was a descendant of William Lloyd Garrison, the famous abolitionist from Massachusetts. But I could only trace her ancestry back to her grandfather, John Garrison.
The story went that John, who was born 5 November 1813 at Jemseg, New Brunswick, Canada, was an orphan whose mother died in childbirth and whose father, a sea captain, was lost at sea. As I searched for a connection between John Garrison and William Lloyd Garrison, I found that all of William’s descendants had been documented. John was not one of them. However, I found that William Lloyd Garrison’s father, Abijah, came from Jemseg, just like John.
Abijah married a woman named Frances Lloyd and they moved to Newburyport, Massachusetts, where they had five children, William Lloyd being the fourth. Abijah, who was sailing between Newburyport and St. John, NB, Canada, eventually abandoned his family in Massachusetts and returned to Canada. He was prone to drink and his wife did not accept his lifestyle. It appears that he possibly married another woman, and together they had a child, but this wife died in childbirth.
About the same time, Abijah dropped out of sight, possibly lost at sea.
There is an archival record of John Garrison, son of … but no name is given. He was raised by Oliver and Lucy Ackerley of Jemseg. Now I’m theorizing—was John Garrison a half brother of William Lloyd Garrison? I am still searching for a way to prove it.
– Sandra B. Leighton