One of my most difficult experiences in conducting genealogical research involved finding the family of a man who was known by nine different first names and two different surnames during his fifty-seven years.
Like many Mexican Americans in the United States, I was instilled with the importance of appreciating my genealogical past at an early age. My parents made sure to communicate to me the stories of our family and made me proud to be part of a continuous family chain that has existed in the Americas since the late 1500s.
This is the story of a 140-year-old letter and its writer. The letter is puzzling not because of its contents, but because of its intriguing history and the many questions it raises. Why was it never mailed? Why was it torn up and by whom? Why was it pasted back together again and saved? And how did it find its way from Brooklyn, New York, to Spokane, Washington, 125 years after it was written?
For as long as I can remember, I have known that I was named for my great-grandmother, Breina, in the Ashkenazic Jewish tradition of naming a baby after someone deceased. I knew Breina had been my paternal grandfather’s mother. That’s all I knew.
Uncovering the story of the Peterson family was possible only after an archeology research team uncovered the remnants of the family’s household items.
The Peterson family legacy revealed itself to me when the State of Texas commissioned me to be part of an excavation and investigative team to study Ned and Elizabeth Peterson’s farm site.
Author Louise Barry examines both sides of the family story in this award-winning case study.
Editor’s Note: This article took first place in the 2001 International Society of Family History Writers and Editors (ISFHWE) writing contest for the case study category.
Prior to the Civil Rights movement, many of my family members joined the thousands of African Americans who migrated from the rural south to northern cities in search of a better life.
The hallway is dimly lit and Eugene finds his way to the back stairwell—the stairwell that leads down to the kitchen area; down to the back alley; down to where Viola is working on the laundry porch of the hotel. Taking four steps, Eugene spies Viola. She is beautiful, even in that drab gray dress uniform. He takes another step and the stair squeaks under his weight.
It was a hot June day in Iowa. I was driving toward eastern Nebraska, anticipating that I would arrive at my parents’ home shortly after lunch. I circled around the north part of Omaha on I-680 and became stalled in gridlock. Seeing a break in the traffic near an exit sign, I eased off the interstate and was eventually on my way west out of the Omaha city limits.