"Whiskerinos" and the Golden Jubilee of Richmond, California



Ernest Johnson, age 58, dressed for the Golden
Jubilee in Richmond, California, August 1947.

I was quite surprised when I first saw this photograph of my maternal grandfather, Ernest Johnson, with a beard and moustache adorning his face. To my knowledge, he had never worn any facial hair, aside from an occasional unshaven stubble that he liked to rub against his grandchildrens' faces for their squeamish reactions.  My mother told me that when they both lived in Richmond, California, the city held a Golden Jubilee from August 22-24, 1947, to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the city's founding. Among the planned activities was a "Whiskerino" contest, for which "Richmond's male populace [had] been grooming their whiskers for weeks."  Grampa always seemed to be a team player, having been raised with nine siblings, so I'm sure he thoroughly enjoyed the anticipation of the events, and perhaps talked over plans time and time again in the break room with his fellow custodians at the Ford Plant.

In 1945, my grandfather moved to the west coast from Leonard, Minnesota, when he could no longer make an adequate living as a farmer.  By 1947, he had been a widower for over 25 years.  Richmond, California was a boom town during World War II, mostly because of the local shipyards and the tank production going on at the Ford Motor Company plant.  Housing shortages continued right after the war, so Grampa lived for a time in a boarding house and then rented a room above a water tower.  He was a modest man with simple needs, and he knew how to get those basic needs met by taking steaks or salmon from the Richmond Pier to his sister's nearby apartment on Sundays, in exchange for a good home-cooked meal.

Richmond's Golden Jubilee celebration was meant to serve as a reminder of the "good old days" in the history of the west. It seems that not just my grandfather, but many other Richmond residents had a lot of fun getting into the spirit. Here is a link to a privately owned collection of photographs taken during the Golden Jubilee parade in downtown Richmond, in August 1947.



The huge parade was not the only special event planned for the 3-day celebration.  Opening the festival was a mock raid on a downtown pharmacy by "Joaquin Marietta," an early California badman, along with his henchmen.  "Guns from both sides will blaze, but, as in olden times, the bandits will lose and will be carted off the 'jail' and kangaroo court," a local newspaper reported on the day before the commencement of the Jubilee.  Following an exciting start, there were plenty of activities to follow, including a hillbilly music contest, a Mexican festival, and a Saturday night costume ball at nearby Alvarado Park, for which all attendees were expected to wear pioneer dress.  I would like to have been a fly on the wall to see Grampa thoroughly enjoying himself, wearing his crinkly smile, and his sporty new whiskers, of course!

Sources:
"Raid to Open Richmond Fete."  The Oakland Tribune, August 21, 1947. p. 16, col. 1.

The Magic of Mentors: Kenneth W. Landon

Once in awhile, I get around to blogging about my own life.  My experiences are part of a chain begun long ago by my Norwegian and Celtic ancestors, but they are much more culturally diluted as a 4th generation American.  The passage of time has a way of rarifying everything, and my own adventures do not yet have the same elusive sparkle as those of my ancestors.  But, when considering the highlights of my own life, I have to say that being fortunate enough to be guided and inspired by some mentors along the way is near the top of the list.  One of those short-term, but influential mentorships was by an astronomy instructor during the early 1970s at Contra Costa College in San Pablo, California, which is part of the San Francisco Bay Area.



DiscoverySchool.com

For a long time I have wondered whatever happened to Kenneth W. Landon.  Though he taught astronomy when I met him, he had also taught various science courses in junior and senior high schools, in addition to many years of instructing at Contra Costa Community College (CCC).  His alma mater was the University of California at Berkeley.  In the 1948 UCB Blue and Gold Yearbook, there is a photo of Kenneth Landon sitting with the Speech Arts Club as their spring President.  He is a rather formal looking young fellow with a blond pompadour atop a high forehead, slightly prominent ears, wearing a suit and tie and wire-rimmed spectacles.

Various internet searches on Landon's name usually brought up nothing, until just the other day, when I realized I had been remembering his first name incorrectly.  After applying new search terms, I was rewarded (sadly) with an obituary from last year.  I also found out that though he had lived in the Bay Area for many decades, he moved to the Puget Sound area in Washington State just three years before his death.  When I moved to Washington in 1979, how could I know that Mr. Landon would end up in Poulsbo--just across the Sound from me?  Well, small world.

When I took my first classes at CCC, I was truly "starry-eyed" over astronomy and science, in general.  Ever since my first visit to an observatory and planetarium as part of a Camp Fire outing during the 8th grade (Chabot Space and Science Center), and falling in love with the initial Star Trek TV series and classic science-fiction that same year, I was ravenous for more practical knowledge about the universe and how it worked.  I thought I had died and gone to heaven when an aunt gave me a book on astronomy for my 13th Christmas, and a quirky uncle gave me--still unbelievable--a small, but useful telescope.

Taking my interest in astronomy to a college level was quite exciting.  Mr. Landon had a great sense of humor and his lectures were entertaining, which was a big plus.  I remember one lecture in particular when he mentioned a book as a way to spark some student interest in how others were involved with astronomy:  Starlight Nights:  The Adventures of a Stargazer, by Leslie C. Peltier.  This 20th-Century memoir by a comet hunter was spot-on for neophytes who were curious about personal impressions from within the field of observational astronomy.  When I heard the title spoken, I nearly jumped out of my chair with excitement, wanting so much to call out and say that I'd already read it!  Instead, shy as I was, I made a point of visiting Mr. Landon in his office after classes that day, because I just had to tell him that his recommendation had already found its mark.  He was amazed that I had read Peltier's book and asked how I found out about it (this was years prior to the internet, of course).  I replied that I had actually been looking for something like that at the library, but did not mention how it radiated and scintillated like a globular cluster from among the astronomy books on the Dewey shelves, drawing me in helplessly.

We talked further that afternoon about my interest in astronomy and his teaching career.  Though he obtained an undergraduate degree in zoology, he soon decided that he enjoyed all science, especially the physical sciences, but had no desire to go back and do the whole college thing all over again.  So, he determined that he could teach a variety of science classes, and in doing so, keep his interest in each discipline alive and growing.  From that brief discussion, I learned that one should never dismiss viable options.  If you have a love of something, there is always a way to work it into your life, and if you can work it into your career, even better!

I did not go into astronomy as a career, after all, because I had to face that my greatest aptitude was not with numbers, but with words.  Instead, I took a path toward the library environment, as well as writing, which were equally major interests of mine.  But, after CCC, I continued on to San Francisco State University to take classes in astronomy, planetarium science, physics and higher math, and I think that without Mr. Landon's catchy enthusiasm and encouragement, I might not have had the self-confidence to even try.

Although I do not "practice" astronomy now, I am always interested in the latest discoveries and have a great appreciation of the physical sciences.  Mostly, I am very thankful for the Mr. Landons in this world, and the lasting legacy they offer to those who are willing to listen.  Through their teaching and support, nothing less than the magic of the universe is attainable.

Valentines of 100 Years Ago

One of my favorite things is looking through antique stores.  Lately, I've been foregoing spending time examining Depression Glass and linens in favor of smaller items that tell clearer stories about the owner:  photographs, and especially, postcards.  This last weekend I found a romantic treasure:  a Valentine sent by a lonely and lovesick wife in Penticton, British Columbia, Canada, to a husband away on business in Calgary, Alberta.  Judging by the fact that Willie kept the postcard, since it ended up in an antique store over a hundred years later, I suspect that he loved and honored his wife very much, and that there was no cause for her to worry.  Still, what lovers have not felt the insecurity associated with being out of one another's sight for too long? Ah, young love!

Dear Sweetheart,

I love you... Why are you not writing?  Have you another girl?  Remember your promise.  I am well but I can't live without you, Willie.  Please write soon.

Your wife,

"Dolly"

Valentines for Eternity: Eric and Bertina Winje

Ancestry.com recently published a Valentines Day feature, Discovering True Love. 

There’s a story behind that marriage date. But unless the tale has been passed down through family lore or you’re the proud owner of a collection of torrid love letters, you’re never going to get it, right?

Don’t give up so easily. Turns out that story of true love could be hiding in a yearbook or a census record. Or it may be waiting in a document or photo that you’ve already found, viewed, and saved … just waiting for you to take a second look.

This Ancestry.com article inspired me to write about a love story from among my own ancestors.  Although Eric and Bertina Winje are not the only examples of loving and lasting relationships from among my mother's ancestors, the challenges this particular couple faced never cease to amaze me.  Theirs was a relationship that weathered much of the spectrum of life and was still as strong as ever in its final moments.  But, in many ways, it is just another "everyday" love story from among our courageous immigrant ancestors.



Eric L. and Bertina Winje, 1915.

As anyone who has ever loved knows, love is not all sweetness and light.  Real love includes many bumps along the way:  give and take, up and down, light and shadow, and so on, plus plenty of personal sacrifice.  My great great grandmother, Thibertine (Johnson), or "Bertina" as she was called, with her second husband, Eric L. Winje, encountered great joy, inescapable tragedy, and everything inbetween during their time as a couple.  The point is that they encountered everything together for 56 years, and the bond made them even closer.

Bertina was the petite, good-natured, auburn-haired wife of an immigrant farmer, Baard Johnson.  The Johnsons arrived in the U. S. in 1866 from Nord-Troendelag, Norway, along with their two children, Ole M. and Ellen Julie, and began homesteading on prairie land in Chippewa County, Minnesota.  When Baard died from typhoid fever in 1872, Bertina found herself quite alone with two underage children, an 80-acre farm to manage, and a homestead contract that had not yet met the government requirements of five years working and living on the land.  She could have lost everything if the right man had not come along in time.

Lars and Ragnild Winje, Norwegian immigrants who homesteaded near to the Johnsons, had a grown son named Eric.  In 1872, Eric was 21 years old, which was ten years Bertina Johnson's junior, and at 5 feet 11 inches, he was more than a foot taller.  Eric was a good looking young man with brown hair, gray eyes, a smallish mouth, and an "ordinary" nose, according to his passport application of 1895.  The two began a relationship in the months following Baard Johnson's death.  Being of the same community, the pair had initially met at the local Lutheran Church or other gathering.  Perhaps Bertina had even hired Eric Winje to help out on the farm during the weeks of her husband's illness or after his death.

Eric Winje and Bertina Johnson quickly decided that togetherness was a good thing.  They began living together as common-law spouses and had a baby girl in 1873 (Berthe Regine, or "Regina"), but were not married until March 15, 1874.  The delay in the marriage date was planned in order to protect the legal interests of Bertina's eldest son, Ole M. Johnson, who stood to inherit his father's property.  If Bertina had married Eric Winje before the homestead requirement was completed under her first husband's name, they would have had to begin anew under Eric Winje's application.  The delay of the marriage, as well as protecting his stepson's interest in the land ownership, was definitely a sacrifice for love and honor on Winje's part.

Winje was an intelligent man who was driven to better himself and his family's situation.  While working as the county clerk for Chippewa County in Montevideo, Minnesota, he read for the law in his spare time and passed the bar exam.  He also worked as a Justice of the Peace and even officiated at his stepson's wedding.  The Winjes then gave up the family homestead in Granite Falls Township to Bertina's grown son, Ole M. Johnson, and moved into a house in Montevideo to accomodate their growing young family.  Their children would eventually number eight in all:  Regina, Louis, Lena, Emma M., Emma Thalette, Edward, Hattie, and Annie.

After the first son, Louis, was born to Eric and Bertina in September 1874, the couple gave their one-year-old daughter, Regina, to be raised by Eric's parents.  In Norwegian families, children were often placed where it made the most sense.  Perhaps the grandparents had admired the little girl so much that the couple offered her up as company and a helpmate for Lars and Ragnild Winje's elder years.  It is most certain that Bertina helped come to this decision, but it had to be a loving sacrifice on her part to give up her beautiful little daughter to Eric's parents, even if they were close enough to see her on a regular basis.  In 1878, Eric and Bertina lost their fourth-born (Emma M.), to diphtheria, while she was still a baby.

In 1887, Winje accepted a position as attorney in Duluth, and the family moved across the state.  Duluth was an up and coming port town during those years, and Eric's professional urban career afforded the family a new social stature, as Bertina and the children began to adjust to city life and its amenities.  Eric increased his community involvement and was elected Municipal Court Judge.  Several of the Winje children attended and graduated from Duluth Central High School.  By then, Bertina could probably not believe the difference between her prior life as a poor immigrant homesteader and her new life as the wife of a Duluth judge.  The couple, though still not rich by any means, purchased a steam launch and entertained family and friends on the waterways surrounding the city.  They also attended many local cultural and campaigning events.

Tragedy struck the Winjes a few short years later when a diphtheria epidemic in 1888 took their two little red-haired daughters, Hattie (5), and Annie (2), the youngest members of the family.  Meanwhile, back in Chippewa County, Eric's younger brother had also succumbed to the same disease a few days earlier.  But, even these occurences were not the last of bitter sadness for Eric and Bertina.  In 1893, their eldest son, Louis, drowned during a boating accident on their steam launch, the Ellida.  Louis had been studying law at Minnesota University in Minneapolis, and the promise of the future generation rested upon his shoulders.  Louis, who was said to be the epitome of his father in intelligence and character, was expected to bring to fruition all of Eric and Bertina's immigrant dreams.  But, it would never be.  During an August evening, Eric Winje was piloting the steam launch without running lights during the hours of dusk on Lake Superior, headed home with his son after a long day's excursion.  The weather conditions at the time are unknown, but the steam launch went unseen by a passing ferry and a collision resulted.  Eric somehow remained on the sinking launch and was rescued by ferry personnel, but Louis either jumped or fell off the launch during the collision and drowned.  His body was not recovered for several days.  How Louis's death must have weighed on Eric's conscience throughout the years, whether he could have helped the situation or not.  And, how many times must Bertina have called upon the grace of God to give her understanding and forgiveness, trying all the while not to hold her husband responsible for their son's untimely death.

A few years later, the Winjes' eldest daughter, Regina, died at the age of 25, a week after giving birth to her fifth son.  Following Regina's death, Eric and Bertina had three living children remaining out of the initial eight.  In an example of "what goes around, comes around," they took Regina's newborn child, Thomas Raymond Strand, to raise as their own, just as Eric's own parents had taken Regina to raise as a young girl.  Regina's four older sons continued to be raised by their father with the help of a housekeeper, whom he later married.

By this time, Eric's law career in Duluth seemed stalled by his inability to get re-elected as Municipal Court Judge.  Change called out to the couple and they left Duluth for Renville County, Minnesota, which was closer to their original home in Chippewa County.  Eric Winje summoned up the ideals and aspirations of his youth and ran for the State Senate through the Democratic party, but withdrew before the election in favor of another candidate.  The Winjes' next move was to Detroit Lakes in Becker County, where their lives settled into cautious comfort once more.  Winje again served as a judge for Detroit Lakes.  Their daughters, Lena Marie and Emma Thalette, continued to live with them during their elder years, while their son Edward sought new adventures as a homesteader in Canada.  Lena taught school and eventually became a school superintendant, while Emma Thalette, also a teacher, eventually chose to teach piano from their home while caring for their parents.

The couple's last loving sacrifice came during a period when Eric Winje's health began to fail.  Their daughter, Lena, wrote in a letter to her half-brother, Ole M. Johnson, that "Father has tried everything he could to make [himself] well, but it was of no use."  Bertina, who was by then suffering from dementia, developed pneumonia while bedridden.  In early 1930, when Eric passed away at the closest hospital in Fargo, North Dakota, Lena and Emma were not sure if their mother had even been aware of their father's illness.

Science has determined that even an unconscious mind is somewhat aware of what is going on nearby.  I believe that with everything the Winjes endured together, how could Bertina not miss the sound of her husband's voice or his presence about the house, even if she did not appear to be aware of any change?   When Eric's absence became apparent to Bertina, perhaps communicated through the sadness of a daughter's touch, she may have taken comfort in the promise of their wedding vows of so many years before:  "...in sickness and in health, 'til death do us part."  On February 15, 1930, the day after Valentines Day, Bertina followed her loyal companion to the grave.  After having given one another a lifetime of growth, fulfillment, and loving support, the Winjes were buried next to each other at Scandia Cemetery overlooking Lake Superior, near several of their children.

Distractions Down on the Farm



Visiting with Native American Girls at Itasca
 State Park, Minnesota, 1935.  Back row (l to r):
  Mabel Johnson, Ella Moen, and Doris Johnson.

Treasuring the Message of Family Artifacts, or, How Not to Break A Grandparent's Heart

This post has little to do with anything exclusively Norwegian-American, but everything to do with the importance of treasuring one's heritage through family artifacts.

Family historians thrive on the detective work of eeking out details of their ancestors' lives and placing their experiences within the context of social history.  It is a challenging, but very rewarding effort.  With all the time and work involved in ferreting out past data and fading stories, the results are incomplete, at best.  Primary resources that are actually created by ancestors, such as letters or memoirs, are more valuable than gold.  Not only are they rare, but they offer intimate insight into the ancestor's own thoughts, attitudes, and activities, and give us a much greater connection than we would otherwise have.

Most people, let alone genealogists and family historians, understand the value of keeping safe any kind of personal family memento handed down to them.  These are usually irreplaceable, one-of-a-kind items.  This general rule of thumb stands even more for materials that were written or created by an ancestor and autographed/inscribed for a particular family member.

In my spare time, I research and write about family history, but I also research topics for historical non-fiction projects, especially biography.  It is inevitable that once I start to get familiar with a person as a research subject, I experience many of the same feelings of closeness and empathy for unrelated individuals, as I do for family members and ancestors.  This leads to my story about a recent book purchase, where the author is one of these non-relations.

A few days ago, I ordered a used copy of a book online, because I saw the author had made several references to one of my current research subjects.  When I received the book in the mail from Amazon.com, I happily found the inside cover to be signed by the author himself.  But, what the author had written along with his signature tore at my heart:  "Christmas 2004.  To ('Name') with love, Grandpa B-----."

Here then, were memoirs written and published by a local Seattle man, regarding his passionate, lifelong involvement with a fascinating and unique hobby.  He had inscribed a copy of the book, newly published in 2004, to a grandchild or great grandchild, only to have the copy wind up at Goodwill a few short years after his own death.  This saddens me.  Any of us who engage in personal or family record-keeping live in the hope that our family members, both now and in the future, will handle our dedicated efforts with care and respect, if not full appreciation.

Perhaps I am taking this too personally, because as a little girl, I longed to be close to my grandparents and other elders, but the opportunity did not arise. My one living grandfather resided far enough away that I saw him only occasionally until his death when I was 16, and my maternal grandmother, whom I miss knowing every day, died when my mother was not even two years of age. Perhaps it is easier for people to take things for granted now, when the increasing busy-ness of modern life offers so many distractions. Or, perhaps for those who have extended family in their daily lives, it is common to focus on negatives instead of the good fortune of having the intimacy of family nearby in the first place.  But, I assure you that if I had a book of memoirs written and published by a grandparent that was personally inscribed to me, you'd better believe it would be harbored in the safest place imaginable. 

I realize there may be extenuating circumstances involved, but the family historian in me, and especially the sentimental woman/daughter/granddaughter, etc., just wants to cry out:   "What the hell happened?!"  How is it that this book, signed by the recipient's grandfather, was not held safe, or at least passed along to another family member?  A little "Googling" quickly showed me that extended family does exist, and so, I am being intentionally vague in this post out of privacy concerns.

I suppose it is possible that the recipient of the book experienced a change of circumstances.  Perhaps he/she was moving and wanted to discard any extraneous items, for example.  Although books are often the first to go in such situations, and another copy might eventually have been acquired in the future, it would not be the one that was personally inscribed by the grandparent.  If I knew who originally owned the book, and if a return were requested out of regret, I would gladly give it back.  But, sorry... in my mind, not even moving is a legitimate excuse for discarding the memoirs of a relative, whether published, or not (I hope my children will take note here).

I will probably always be in the dark about why a book of autobiographical essays given to a grandchild as a Christmas present, ended up at a second-hand store so soon after the grandparent's death.  But, I will read and learn from "Grandpa B's" memoirs, and will quote them as appropriate in my own work. The copy will then sit safely on my shelf, beside other collectible books on topics that are of great interest to me.  I hope that "Grandpa B" will rest in peace with the assurance that his voice has been heard, even if his heart's desire could not be protected from the uncertainty of time's passing, and the unpredictability of human nature.

Hold fast to your family treasures, because once they are gone, they are gone... and forever is a very long time.

A Flaming Christmas Tradition

(A repost from four years ago.)

This blog is primarily about Norwegian-American family history, so naturally, you might assume that I would write about a Christmas tradition that crossed the Atlantic Ocean with my ancestors a century and a half ago.  Or, perhaps a story from 80 years ago, when my farming family members were content with modest pleasures for the holidays: a box of apples, a bag of nuts, and a package of ribbon candy brought home by a horse-drawn sleigh through the snow. Then, there is always the puzzling tradition that Norwegian-Americans are still known for: the inevitable holiday consumption of lutefisk.

But, this time, I would instead like to tell you about a more recent holiday tradition: the "Flaming Ice Cream Snowballs" that were always served on the Christmas Eves of my childhood.

Flaming ice cream? Was this something like Baked Alaska--doused with alcohol and artistic flare, and brought to the table consumed in a glorious blue flame? Or, perhaps Snowballs were more related to international-flavored crunchy fried ice cream enjoyed in Mexican Restaurants? But no, the humble Flaming Ice Cream Snowball had a more commercial, blue collar beginning.


Soon after Foremost Dairy Foods created Flaming Ice Cream Snowballs, my mother discovered them in the frozen food compartment at the local Safeway store in Richmond, California. Each year during most of the Fifties and Sixties, they seemed to appear in the store right after Thanksgiving and disappear after the supply had run dry on about New Year's. Mom never failed to remind Dad, who did the majority of the family grocery shopping back then, to "be sure and bring home the snowballs!"

It was no matter that Snowballs were a simple, relatively tasteless, fast food treat. The fact that they were a once-a-year opportunity made them very special to my sister and me, but I think Mom enjoyed the fun of them even more.

Each one was a ball of vanilla ice cream covered with icing, and then dipped into fine coconut. The top was iced with green and red frosting in the shape of a sprig of holly. The snowballs came a half dozen to a box, with a paper doily and red candle for each. When Mom served the snowballs for Christmas Eve dessert, she placed each one on a doily, and pushed a slender candle into the holly-shaped icing. As soon as she lit the candles, she would turn the dining room lights out so that we could all admire the Snowballs in their brief moment of glory. A minute or two later, on came the lights again; everyone blew out their candles and slowly began scrapping off small spoonfuls of the coconut icing before finishing the ice cream.

I do not recall when Snowballs disappeared from the grocery store frozen food cases, but Mom still misses them to this day. I sometimes find myself waxing nostalgic over the memory of them, too, but, it certainly isn't because of their taste. Over the course of a few years, their limited epicurean value suffered even more when the holly-shaped icing atop each Snowball was replaced by a plastic insert. Instead, the nostalgia felt is more due to the realization that even the smallest, most unassuming traditions can bond people, especially during the holidays. Old or new, traditions mean family and security--something we all continue to long for from year to year.

Written for the 61st edition of the Carnival of Genealogy


Image: Flaming Ice Cream Snowballs

Just Because It's Set in Stone...

There is a very important lesson that any family historian, and indeed, any researcher, needs to learn, and that is to not trust any single source of information as solid fact, not even a headstone or memorial.

Just because it's set in stone, it doesn't mean it's a stone fact.


Perhaps just to ensure that I do not become overly confident as a researcher, two examples of why any one source of information cannot be trusted completely (including those engraved in stone) has hit home with me in recent weeks.  The first example is detailed out in my prior blog post:  Solving the Case of the Missing Civil War Soldier, Thor Paulsen Sloan.  For quite some time, I could not determine where my Norwegian-American Civil War soldier from Wisconsin was buried.  I deduced that his remains were unlikely to be lost, because although he was wounded on the battlefield at Kennesaw Mountain in June 1863, he died as a patient in a Union hospital a few days later.  It turns out that the reason I could not initially find the location of his burial plot was because his name and/or his regiment were recorded incorrectly on important sources: the interment record for the relocation of his remains from the Kennesaw Mountain area to the National Cemetery at Marietta, Georgia, and the headstone at his gravesite.

The second recent example was related to me by a presenter at a genealogy workshop I attended earlier this month.  Family History Expo is a large genealogy conference held each November in the Seattle area.  Eric Stroschein, professional genealogist, was speaking on the subject of genealogical proof standard and the importance of using proper sources and documentation during research.  He detailed a story that illustrated why any single fact should not be taken as the gold standard without a reasonable exhaustive search to back it up, using other sources.

A client had hired Stroschein to research a potential family connection with a Confederate soldier who drowned during an early submarine test dive.  The name of the lost soul was one of several etched on a memorial erected in dedication to the submarine crew members, who died in the line of duty.  The surname of the prospective ancestor was rather unique, and this aided Stroschein while searching among censuses, military records, and other sources.  But, although he was able to trace many records for an individual with the same unusual last name, that surname was always connected with a first name different from the one on the memorial.  In the end, Stroschein succeeded in proving, through Civil War pension records and other sources, that the first name of the client's ancestor is incorrect on the memorial.  Now, that was unexpected.

This possibility makes a genealogy hobbyist feel a little insecure, does it not?  To think that information recorded on official documents, or even on solid tributes, such as headstones and memorials, may contain errors perpetuated by careless or hapless record keepers or decision makers upon the deceased individual... for an eternity.  But, this is where genealogists can really make a difference.  Perhaps it is the excitement of the chase that keeps many of us interested in pursuing family history, but it also has to do with an obsession to set things straight--to weave the various manuscripts, artifacts, and stories into an assemblance that makes sense, and that hopefully, corrects as many errors as possible.

So, as you continue to research, remember to always look for the unexpected, and to conduct as exhaustive a search as possible to answer your genealogical questions.  Your ancestors just may be depending on you to set the record straight!

Solving the Case of the Missing Civil War Soldier: Thor Paulsen Sloan

Only one branch of my mother's Norwegian-American family arrived in the United States early enough to be involved in the Civil War.  Thor Paulsen Sloan (Slaaen) gave his life fighting in the Union Army.  He died on June 27, 1864, as a result of wounds acquired during the Battle of Kennesaw Mountain, Georgia.  Sloan left the Gudbrandsdalen Valley, Oppland, Norway in 1856, along with his parents, Poul Torgeresen and Kari (Svensdatter) Slaaen, and his older brother, Torger Paulsen Slaaen.  The Slaaen Family settled in Coon Valley, Wisconsin, and owned 160 acres on Section 36, Town of Washington.  Thor, who farmed alongside his parents, was born in Nord-Fron, Oppland, Norway on May 20, 1834.  Described as 5 feet 8 inches tall, with blue eyes, dark hair, and a light complexion, he was known to be an intelligent and "quiet, honest, and conscientious man" who had beautiful handwriting. [Buslett, Fifteenth Wisconsin, p.361]



Sergeant Thor P. Sloan, ca. January 1862.

The beginning of the Civil War prompted Sloan to volunteer for military service.  Like many other Norwegian immigrants, he was prepared to give not just allegiance to his newly chosen country, but his life.  When Thor P. Slaaen enlisted for a three-year term in the Union Army on December 11, 1861, he began using an Americanized version of his name:  "Sloan."  At age 28, he was appointed to the rank of Sergeant in Company E of the 15th Wisconsin Regiment, known as the "Scandinavian Regiment."  The men of Company E referred to themselves as "Odin's Rifles."  Sloan spent three months in basic training at Camp Randall, leaving there in March 1862, to join the war with his regiment.  Until July 1863, military records list him as "present" with the 15th Wisconsin, participating in the siege of Island No. 10 on the Mississippi River in Tennessee,  the raid on Union City, Tennessee during the spring of 1862, the 400 mile retreat with General Buell to Louisville, Kentucky, and the Battle of Chaplin Hills at Perryville, Kentucky, and other events.

Thor P. Sloan in civilian clothing, ca. 1860.

The Battle of Murfreesboro in Tennessee, from December 1862 to January 1863--also called the battle of Stone River--brought the first serious casualties for the 15th Regiment. Sloan was taken prisoner during the battle, but he managed to escape soon after.  In a letter dated January 12, 1863, he wrote to his friend, Osten Rulland.  (Note: I have seen several translation versions of this letter from Norwegian to English; this version is printed in Waldemar Ager's Colonel Heg and His Boys.)

Dear Friend,

It is a long time now since I heard from you or sent you a letter.  First I must tell you that I am, thank God, hale and hearty as of this date.  Quite some time ago I heard that you had returned home and that you are in poor shape as to health.  This is very deplorable; but you can thank your lucky stars for having escaped the situation we are in.  What a life--what an existence!  And what miserable times and fierce struggles we have had to endure in storms and rough weather, both night and day.  And on top of this, the rations and supplies have generally been poor.  I can honestly say that I would care for neither gain nor anything else if I could only be out of the service, free and unfettered.  But there is no use talking.  a man must do his duty.

Briefly I also want to tell you that we have had a rather miserable Christmas, even though I, thank goodness, am in good health and ought to be satisfied.  But we have again endured much and seen many a human being mangled and in misery--all merely because of the politicians.

During the period from December 26 until January 4, I can say that we were lying with rifle in hand without any fire and at times with poor rations.  We took part in the battle at Knob Gap near Nolensville and later at Murfreesboro.  At Knob Gap we were very lucky as we did not lose a single man dead or wounded. But what a fix we were in at Murfreesboro where the enemy rushed at us by the thousands and showered us with bullets like a hailstorm.  It is a God's wonder that not everyone of us was shot down or taken prisoner, because we generally--when either the rebels or our force attacked--were bullheaded enough to stay to the very end.  On the last day of the fighting General Rosecrans said to our Brigadier General Carlin:  "If the troops in front of your brigade should fall back, then you must post your men and hold the enemy in check."  Carlin answered:  "I have only 800 men left of 2,000 and I fear that my men have lost courage and will do little now since they have always been in the front ranks."  To which Rosencrans replied:  "For the sake of the country, and for our own sake, you must do your best because your toops are now the only ones we can depend on."

At the time it did not matter because the rebels made no more attempts to pierce our line.  Our captain was killed and our lieutenant wounded.  Eleven men of my company were wounded.  Captain [Mons] Grinager was wounded, as was Captain Gustafson.  Lieutenant Fandberg and Captain Wilson were also wounded and Lieutenant Colonel McKee was killed.  All told we lost fifteen men killed, seventy wounded, and thirty-four missing--a total of 119 men.  Some of the wounded have later died.  There is fear of a renewed attack.

A sincere greeting to you and your parents as well as all my other acquaintances.  Best wishes to you.  If you are able to write, I hope you will send me a few words in return.

Thor P. Sloan

Sloan was appointed to the rank of 1st Sergeant of Company E on May 1, 1863, and in July, he was assigned as a clerk in the headquarters of Colonel Hans C. Heg's brigade.  On August 17, 1863, the brigade left Winchester, Tennessee to fight in the Chickamauga campaign, in which over half of the brigade's soldiers were killed, wounded, or taken prisoner.  Sloan survived and was detached from his regiment on November 18, 1863, to go on recruiting duty back in his home state of Wisconsin.  The break from battlefield action must have brought him a sense of relief beyond measure, but it was only temporary.

In March or April 1864, Sloan returned to his regiment and was commissioned as the First Lieutenant of Company E.  He then served with the 15th on Major General Sherman's effort to capture Atlanta, Georgia.  On June 21, during the battle of Kennesaw Mountain in Georgia, he was making coffee in camp along with Captain Gustafson and Lieutenant Simonsen.  An enemy grenade fell directly into the campfire and a fragment struck Sloan in the head.  He died in a nearby Army hospital in the town of Big Shanty a week later, on June 27, 1864.

Lt. Thor P. Sloan, like other casualties during the Civil War, was initially buried on his last battlefield--in this case, Kennesaw Mountain.  Following legislation enacted by Abraham Lincoln, the U. S. Government began to purchase land to create a system of National Cemeteries, in which to bury those who served in the military.  You can read more about it in this document:  History and Development of the National Cemetery Administration

It took some time to determine where Thor P. Sloan lies buried now.  In fact, it had been one of the biggest genealogy brick walls I had yet encountered.  Logic told me that Sloan was probably interred in a National Cemetery during the decades following the Civil War.  The likely location was Marietta National Cemetery in Georgia, which is closest to Kennesaw Mountain (Big Shanty, Georgia), and contains many burials of fatalities that occurred during the June 1864 battle.  But, no burial records anywhere revealed the ultimate resting place of Thor P. Sloan.  I was puzzled; it was unlikely that he was one of the many unidentified Civil War dead, since he died of his wounds while being treated in a hospital.

It was only recently that I tried yet another search on Ancestry.com.  This time, a search for variations of Sloan's name, including "T. P. Sloan" brought up a U. S. National interment document for "E. P. Sloan," who died on June 27, 1864, during the Battle of Kennesaw Mountain.  Aside from the first initial of the name, all of the facts were correct except for one glaring difference:  the document indicated that E. P. Sloan was from Company E of the 15th Ohio Regiment, whereas Thor P. Sloan served in the 15th Wisconsin Regiment.  When I checked the roster for the 15th Ohio Regiment, there was no "E. P. Sloan" listed.  I determined that the reason "Not Found" is written in red ink near the top of the document is because the name of the deceased could not be connected with the listed regiment.  But, allowing for the inevitable and frequent human errors that occur in record keeping, I suddenly knew who "E. P. Sloan" was.  He was most likely my ancestor, Thor Paulsen (T. P.) Sloan.  My brick wall had crumbled!

By consulting Findagrave.com, I was able to locate a photograph of "E. P. Sloan's" headstone at the Marietta National Cemetery in Cobb County, Georgia.  The headstone for Grave C2311 appears to be an exercise in cautious simplicity.  The interment record keepers could not verify "E. P. Sloan's" regiment, so they must have decided to leave everything off the marker but the name.  The marker looks decidedly stark and incomplete... lonely, in fact.

Thor P. Sloan's contributions to the Union Army's efforts are well documented in various Civil War records, as well as in books about the history of the 15th Wisconsin Regiment.  However, I find it ironic that, in death, Sloan's final resting place became somewhat of an enigma.  It leaves me wondering if any relative before me discovered the record-keeping error made during interment to Marietta National Cemetery.  I doubt that Sloan's immediate family would have been any wiser, because his father, mother, and brother only lived long enough to know Thor to be resting alongside the battlefield where he met his demise.  The interment of Sloan's remains in a National Cemetery seems to have occurred well after the deaths of the immediate family members.  In any case, it is unlikely that these early Coon Valley, Wisconsin farmers would have been able to make a trip to far-away Georgia to assess things for themselves.

Even more ironic than the confusion surrounding Sloan's final resting place, is that a man in determined service of his new host country could have endured so much and met such an unexpected demise.  After several years of constant horrors in primitive battle, suffering imprisonment and daily cold, hunger, and other discomforts, he died of wounds received while sitting over a coffee pot, just a few months shy of the completion of his tour of duty.

Such are the lessons of history, and of the unfairness of life.



The Family of Thor Paulsen Sloan:

Thor P. Sloan was a younger half-brother to my great great grandfather, Hans Thorsen Sloan (Slaaen).  Thor had one full sibling--also a brother:  Torger Paulsen Slaaen was born in Nord-Fron, Oppland, Norway on October 13, 1831.  Like his brother, Torger also served in the Civil War, which he survived.  He married Kari Engebretsen and had two children, Mari and Peter.  His wife, Kari, died in 1859, and Torger was married for a second time in 1863 to Sophia Pedersen Stroemstad.  They had four children:  Caroline, Karen, Theodor, and Julius.  When Torger died in 1890, he was buried in the Upper Coon Valley Cemetery in Wisconsin.

Thor P. Sloan's father, Poul (Paul) Torgersen Slaaen--the son of Torger Hougen--was born in Nord-Fron, Oppland, Norway on January 14, 1806. He died on January 22, 1882.   His wife, Kari (Svensdatter), was born on November 6, 1800 in Oppland, Norway and died on October 29, 1890.  Both husband and wife are buried in the Upper Coon Valley Cemetery (Wisconsin), some 800 miles apart from their fallen son, Thor.  Kari's headstone is pictured here (photos courtesy of Kevin Sloane of the Coon Valley area).

*************************
Sources:

--Ancestry.com (U. S. National Cemetery Interment Control Forms, 1928-1962)
--15th Wisconsin.net (http:www/15thwisconsin.net/15etps01.htm), accessed on March 31, 2008.
--Buslett, Ole Amundson.  Fifteenth Wisconsin (translation by Barbara G. Scott).  Ripon, Wis.:  B.G.Scott, 1999.
--Familysearch.com (Norway, Baptisms, 1634-1927)
--Findagrave.com (Grave of E. P. Sloan, Marietta National Cemetery, Cobb County, Georgia)
--Holand, Hjalmar R.  Coon Valley: An Historical Account of the Norwegian Congregations in Coon Valley.  Minneapolis, Minn.:  Augsburg Publishing House, 1928.
--Slaeen, Kari Svensdatter, photograph of headstone at Coon Valley Cemetery, Wisconsin, courtesy of Kevin Sloane of Viroqua, Wisconsin, October 2012.
--Sloan, Thor Paulsen, photograph:  courtesy of Dale and Lois Finch of Brainerd, Minnesota, July 2005.
--U. S. National Archives & Records Administration, Military Service Records, Union Civil War (1861-1865), Thor Paulsen Sloan.
--Waldemar Ager.  Colonel Heg and His Boys: A Norwegian Regiment in the American Civil War.  Northfield, Minnesota:  The Norwegian-American Historical Association, 2000.

The 95% Baard Johnson

In an earlier post, "In Defense of Character:  Writing With Caution," I wrote about the difficulties of trying to find more information on one of my great great grandfathers, Baard Johnson.  Baard emigrated from Nord-Trondelag, Norway in 1866, with his wife, Thibertine (Bertina), and their two children, Ole Martin and Ellen Julie (Julia).  On July 28, 1872, Baard died from typhoid fever at age 37, a couple of years before fulfilling his homesteading requirements in Granite Falls Township, Chippewa County, Minnesota.  For as long as I've been researching this family, and throughout the process of writing the Johnson family history, I have lamented the empty spot on the family tree where Baard's image should have been.  Perhaps I need lament no more, because I believe I have found, at last, an image of my g g grandfather, or, the "95% Baard Johnson," as I like to call him. Any reasonable doubt can be relegated to about 5%.


 

Likely photograph of Baard Johnson (carte-de-visite size), ca. 1870.
Verso below.

To my early Norwegian-American family, having a likeness of each family member was important due to the uncertainty of life, in general.  During the mid-19th century, photography--the new art--was taken quite seriously.  As surely as family members had their birth and death dates religiously recorded in the family Bible, new photographs were commissioned whenever changes in family size or other milestones dictated the need.  Newly married couples, small groupings of the latest-born children, or entire families would dress in their Sunday finest and sit for the local photographer.  In addition, many Norwegian emigrants had their likenesses taken at their point of departure in Norway, in order to send mementos to anxious family members and neighbors.  Others waited until they had chosen the spot where they wished to establish residency in the U.S., and then proudly commemorated the occasion with a photograph.  So, where was Baard?  Why did no one in my extended family have any photographic evidence of his existence, when even his young wife had a photograph taken of herself in the early 1870s?

The verso of my suspected g g grandfather's likeness shows that "A. Brandmo" was the photographer.  Andreas Brandmo worked out of Montevideo, Minnesota beginning in the 1870s, and he was part owner of the Brandmo and Lodgaard Studio from 1886-1896.  Montevideo was next door to many of my ancestors' homesteads in early Chippewa County, and the photographer's distinctive name shows on the verso of many family images passed down through the decades.  Though A. Brandmo's decorative stamp changed slightly over the years of doing business, this particular verso appears to contain one of the oldest stamps, by virtue of its simplicity, when compared to Brandmo's other stamps.  The paper copy of the verso has a faded pink tint, which barely shows on this online copy.

One dismal, wet afternoon several months ago, while sitting at my desk engrossed in genealogy, I was perusing a stack of small carte-de-visite (2-1/2 x 4-inch) photographs and suddenly felt a figurative light bulb switch on over my head.  I had obtained the photos through a cousin, after having seen them for the first time several years before.  When I began sorting through the stack, I was intrigued that many of the card-like photos were taken by the same early photography studio (Brandmo) in Montevideo, Minnesota, very near to where Baard and Bertina Johnson had set up their homestead.  None of the photographs had identifying markings other than the photographer's stamp.  Yes, my ancestors were guilty of the same lack of foresight as yours:  they knew the people in the photos, so why did they need to label them?  The first time I sorted through the stack, several years earlier, I had quickly picked out the earliest known photograph of my great great grandmother, Bertina Johnson.  It was easy to recognize her distinctive face from other photos of her as an older woman.  Due to her apparent age in the photograph and her residence at that time (near Montevideo, MN), I estimated the photo to be dated between 1870-1875.  None other among the mostly male sea of faces made any impression on me at all, and I assumed most to be neighbors and friends of my Johnson relatives at that time.

However, this particular winter day brought a revelation.  Perhaps it was because I had been studying other Johnson family photographs at the time, and certain facial features were burned into my short-term memory.  Perhaps I was "in the zone," while indulging in one of my favorite hobbies.  Perhaps it was something about the soft light of a gray day filtering the images on the cards in a way that opened my mind to new possibilities.  Whatever the cause, as I held up a photo of one young, blond gentleman, I sensed something very familiar.  (I've learned to not ignore intuition until facts prove otherwise.)  It was also interesting, and unusual, that there were two copies of the same photo:  one in very poor condition, and the other in quite good condition.  I knew for certain that the stack of small photographs had once been in the possession of Ole M. Johnson (my great grandfather, and the son of Baard).  It made sense that if the photo in question was truly Ole's father, then one photo likely would have been displayed or kept in a frame, and thus, became faded over time, while one copy had been put away for safe keeping.  This was probably the missing Baard Johnson!

The first thing I did was to line up the candidate photograph of Baard Johnson with his two children, Ole Johnson, and Julia (Johnson) Larson, along with his wife, Bertina Johnson, in order to compare facial features.  I found that as a young man, Ole had the same fine, lank hair as did the suspected photo of his father, Baard.  The clinker, however, was comparing it to the photo of Julia Johnson (the daughter):  both Julia and the "95% Baard Johnson" had the same bold, squared jawline, combined with a strong chin.  Even their ears were shaped the same!  Convinced, I shared the photographs with some Minnesota cousins who had actually known Ole M. Johnson (Baard's son) personally, and asked them to give me feedback on family likenesses between photos of Ole, his sister, Julia, and the newly discovered photograph of "95% Baard Johnson."  I'm pleased to say that I received several thumbs up.

Although there is no way that I know of to completely prove the identity of the man in the photograph in question, my usually-reliable intuition tells me that the search for my missing great great grandfather has ended.  I'm posting photographs of the entire family here, so that others may judge for themselves.

No matter what the brick wall, there is always hope that it will crumble!


[Photographer information source: Minnesota Historical Society, Directory of Minnesota Photographers, http://www.mnhs.org/people/photographers/B.htm]

Baard Johnson? (father, ca. 1870)





Julia Johnson (daughter, ca. 1888)




Ole M. Johnson (son, 1886)





Bertina Johnson (mother, ca. 1870)

Fourth of July, Norwegian-American Style

This photograph of a large neighborhood gathering was taken on Independence Day, 1916, at the Nels and Ellen Langseth farm in Sinclair Township, Clearwater County, Minnesota, about four years before my mother was born in nearby Dudley Township.  The Langseth family left Norway for the United States in 1902 [1].  To rural Norwegian-Americans, July 4th was the most important day of the year, next to Christmas.  Everyone strived to complete farm chores early in the day so they could attend huge community gatherings and have plenty of time to visit with one another.  I hope they all brought enough food!  On second thought, there is no chance they would have run out of vittles.  Pass the lefse, please... and save me a dish of that hand-cranked ice cream!

[1] 1920 U.S. Federal Census for Sinclair Township, Minnesota.

In Search of Great Grandma's Girlhood, Part II

For months I've been meaning to get back to scanning a box of loose photographs given to me by a cousin who lives in New York, who had previously borrowed them from relatives in Minnesota and Idaho.  These photographs--already quite well-traveled--were part of an extensive collection that once belonged to my great grandparents, Ole Martin and Malla (Larson) Johnson, of Leonard, Minnesota.  Due to a severe Pacific Northwest snow storm, I had a few precious days off work.  I decided to roll up my sleeves and warm up the scanner (hopefully, my husband is not now feeling as neglected as the scanner was until this past week). 

Recently, in one of the old Johnson cabinet card albums, I discovered a previously undetected tin type photograph of Malla (Larson), looking several years younger than she was at the time of her wedding in 1886 (see my previous blog post:  "In Search of Great Grandma's Girlhood.")  I was overjoyed to find this photo, because it is now the youngest image the family has of Malla.  I say that it was "previously undetected," because my ancestors, like yours, did not often take the time to write down the identities of people in their photographs.  Everyone knew who they were at the time, so what was the urgency?

Perhaps unmarked ancestral photographs were left untouched in order to present a challenge for relations to come... for people like me, who take pride in being the family historian, and who also possess capable facial recognition skills along with a love of the chase.  And, a chase it is!  Many of you know that familiar adrenalin surge when recognizing someone in a newly acquired vintage photograph, or feeling the slow spread of certainty after an initial reaction of "I know this person!"  You have just "bagged" another ancestor and not returned home from the hunt empty-handed.



Anne Marie ("Mary") Sloan (right), 1884/85

 

Though I was not actively looking for it, I acquired a piece of another great grandma's girlhood among the tin type photographs I scanned yesterday.  In this especially lovely pose from the mid-1880s, I knew I had seen the girl standing on the right before, though the hat made it more difficult to see all of her features. The girl sitting next to her was unfamiliar--a cousin, or friend, perhaps?  Suddenly, it hit me that the girl on the right looked like my mother's maternal grandmother, Anne Marie ("Mary") Slaaen (or Sloan--the Americanized version of the family name).  Her face in the photo above has a bit more "baby fat" than what I remembered in her wedding photograph, so I zoomed in on the two in order to compare.  One in the same!



Mary (Sloan) Berge, Feb. 1886

In 1886, at the time of her wedding to Ole Benhart Berge in Leenthrop Township, Chippewa County, Minnesota, Mary Sloan was 17 years old.  In the earlier photograph, she appears to be 15 or 16.  Now, Mary was not related to either Ole or Malla (Larson) Johnson, the original owners of the photographs.  What then, was my other maternal great grandmother doing in Ole and Malla Johnson's photo collection?

I then remembered the situation as my mother had previously described to me.  In early Chippewa County, as in any sparsely populated pioneer community, it is true that everybody knew everybody.  When friends gave likenesses to friends, it was a kind gesture that was usually reciprocated.  But, Mary Sloan had an even more important reason to give her photograph to young Ole Johnson, because the two of them courted for awhile.  Mary Sloan, at about age 16, dated Ole Martin Johnson, a local homesteader and landowner, who was eight years her senior.  At the same time, Malla Larson, also age 16, dated Ole Benhart Berge, who was four years her senior.  Somewhere along the line, Ole Johnson must have decided that Malla Larson would make a better partner for his chosen way of life, whereas Mary Sloan fell in love with Ole Benhart Berge, a future mail carrier and railroad worker.  Both couples, linked to better suit their mutual strengths, were married in February 1886:  the Berges on February 6, and the Johnsons on the 28th.  So, Ole Johnson got his helpmate in lovely Malla, and Ole Berge got his sweet Mary; the stars were aligned correctly, at last, and the Johnson/Larson and Berge/Sloan legacies were begun.



Ole and Malla Johnson, Feb. 1886

  
 Ole and Malla Johnson facts:

--Ole Martin Johnson, August 6, 1860-April 20, 1948; born at Lassemoen farm, near Grong, Nord-Trondelag, Norway; immigrated with parents and sister in 1866; died from heart disease.
--Malla (Vigesaa) Larson, April 20, 1868-April 19, 1948; born near LaCrosse, Wisconsin, USA; died one day short of her 80th birthday from pneumonia and stroke.
--Ten children, all of whom lived to old age.
--Lived in Granite Falls Township, Chippewa County, Minnesota; Fosston, Polk County, Minnesota; Leonard, Clearwater County, Minnesota.
--Married 62 years.
--Died within hours of each other; both buried under a double headstone at East Zion Cemetery near Leonard, Minnesota, across the road from their last residence.
 

Ole and Mary Berge, Feb. 1886

   
Ole and Mary Berge facts:

--Ole Benhart Berge, October 30, 1864-January 24, 1949; born at Storberget farm near Lillehammer, Gudbrandsdalen, Norway; immigrated with mother and sister in 1869 (father immigrated the year before); died  from stroke.
--Anne Marie (Mary) Sloan/Slaaen, June 20, 1868-June 7, 1947; born in a covered wagon near Swan Lake, Nicollett County, Minnesota; died from leukemia.
--Twelve children; two died in infancy.
--Lived near Leonard, Clearwater County, Minnesota; Maynard, Chippewa County, Minnesota.
--Married 61 years.
--Both buried at Maynard Lutheran Cemetery, Maynard, Chippewa County, Minnesota.

Special note:  Ernest Johnson, son of Ole and Malla Johnson, married Esther Berge, daughter of Ole and Mary Berge, on March 22, 1917 in Chippewa County, Minnesota.  Ernest and Esther Johnson were my maternal grandparents.

In Defense of Character: Writing With Caution

When researching and writing my Johnson family history a few years back, I came across a conundrum:  how does one diverge all of the important details about a person without being unfair to the person's overall character?

My great great grandfather, Baard Johnson, was as close to a "black sheep" in the family as I could find.  He was also a bit of an enigma.  He died a few short years after arriving in America from Norway, there are no known exisiting photographs of him, and virtually no information about him was passed down through the family over the years.  Most of what I learned about him was gleaned from a Norwegian bygeboker--a local history that included genealogical information about the Grong area of Nord-Trondelag.  Though I centered my family history on Thibertine (Bertina) Olsdatter Johnson, as for her first husband, Baard Johnson, I was not quite sure how to present what little I had discovered about him.

In the late 1850s, Baard Johnson and his father, John Baardsen, worked as cotters on an old and established farm along the Namsen River near Grong, Nord-Trondelag, called Lassemoen.  It was owned in major part by Bertina's father.  When Ole Danielsen Lassemo decided to retired from active farming, he passed  his part ownership of Lassemoen to two of his four daughters--the unmarried ones.  On July 6, 1860, at the age of 25, Baard Johnson married Ole's third daughter, Bertina, at Trones Chapel.  Before courting the diminutive and auburn-haired Bertina, Baard surely must have considered the advantages of having a wife with part ownership in a well-established Norwegian farm, at a time when land ownership was a rare and expensive opportunity.


Bertina Johnson, ca. 1875

Baard and Bertina Johnson had two children while living at Lassemoen:  Ole Martinus Baardsen (my great grandfather), born on August 6, 1860, and Ellen Julie Baardsdatter, born November 22, 1862.  Note that the birth of Ole is a mere one month after the couple's wedding.  It was not uncommon for 19th century Norwegian farm women to be expecting a child at the time of their wedding.  This was because, in part, courtship with parental approval was taken as very serious business and it was expected that a couple would wed once they became intimate.  In addition, traveling pastors were frequently not available due to harsh weather making travel impossible, and couples often had to wait up to several months before a ceremony could be arranged.  However, since little Ole was born at the height of summer, it seems there would have been enough of an opportunity for Baard and Bertina to have been married earlier in the year.  This situation raised a red flag in my mind, as if there had been some indecision about having a wedding at all.

By 1866, Baard and his wife, Bertina, had cashed in their part ownership of Lassemoen to acquire the funds to emigrate to America.  They arrived in Minnesota in June 1866 and spent the first couple of years in Goodhue County, probably staying with friends who had already arrived from Norway, while Baard acquired first-hand knowledge of American farming practices.  In 1868, part of the Dakota (Sioux) lands to the west in existing Renville County was opened up to homesteading by the U. S. Government.  Baard Johnson packed up his family in a wagon and headed out to claim 60-acres near the town of Granite Falls and the Minnesota River, in newly-formed Chippewa County.

After several years of homesteading, Baard Johnson fell ill and died at age 37 on July 28, 1872.  His death certificate indicates that he died of "fever"--most likely typhoid fever, which was a constant concern during hot Minnesota summers, when tainted water sources could infect unsuspecting homesteaders.  Baard was buried immediately beneath a wooden cross on his homestead, but in about 1900, his grave was relocated to nearby and newly created Saron Lutheran Cemetery, in preparation for the sale of the homestead.  Marking his grave at Saron is a sturdy white marble headstone, standing with visual emphasis among a sea of plainer granite ones.

One concern I had regarding Baard and Bertina Johnson's relationship was that during the ten year span between the birth of their second and last child in 1862, and Baard's death in 1872, they had no more children.  Pioneer families usually set out to have as many children as possible, not only because their survival depended upon having enough family members to do necessary work, but also because there was no reliable form of birth control other than abstinence.  Why then, did Baard and Bertina have no more children?

Someone suggested to me that perhaps Baard Johnson had been ill for a long time before his death, but I doubt that Baard would have emigrated from Norway and taken on the hardship of homesteading if he had been ill all the while.  It was only six years between emigration from Norway and death.  Another family member suggested that perhaps Bertina was incapable of having more children, but this theory does not mesh with the fact that she promptly had eight more children after marrying a second husband soon after Baard's death.  The only plausible theory is that Bertina did not allow Baard to be intimate with her for some years.  As a traditional Norwegian wife, she accepted that her place was with her husband, wherever he may go.  But, somewhere along the line, her respect for her husband may have been shaken, and this could have resulted in no more children being born.

I asked as many of my Johnson relatives as I could about Baard Johnson--whether they had heard anything at all about him.  The only one who was able to respond in the affirmative was my mother, who was raised by Baard's son, Ole Martin (Baardsen) Johnson and his wife, Malla, on their farm near Leonard, Minnesota.  My mother does not recall Ole mentioning his father at all, which was a little unusual.  What she does recall is that her grandmother, Malla Johnson, once referred to the father-in-law she had never met as a "crook."  Whoaa!  What exactly did that mean?  I could not ask Malla to explain, since she died before I was born, and my mother knew nothing more about the matter than the brief words that had spilled from her grandmother's mouth one day.

Ole M. Johnson, 1886

In the end, I chose not to document Baard Johnson's memory in quite this manner.  After all, a person is innocent until proven guilty, and Baard could hardly stand up and represent himself at this point.  Family members who personally knew my mother's grandparents, Ole (Baard's son) and Malla Johnson, insist they were exceptionally honest, kind, and hardworking people. But, I also know from my mother that they could be a little critical and judgmental at times, and it is entirely possible that whatever alledgedly caused them to regard Baard Johnson as dishonest could have been based upon a single incident, or even on a misinterpreted action.

Author Sharon DeBartolo Carmack encourages writers to portray their ancestors as whole and sympathetic characters in her book, "You Can Write Your Family History" (Betterway Books, 2003).  Any person who has ever lived has imperfections in addition to good points.  If Baard Johnson did make a mistake (or several), which caused his family to question his honesty, it is not for me to judge him, especially without all of the related facts.

Among the pages of the "official" Johnson family history, this is how I chose to describe a perceived flaw in character or supposed lack of judgment, all at once acknowledging a dicey, but somewhat nebulous concern, while preserving the dignity of Baard Johnson's memory:

...The gap in childbirths is perhaps more adequately explained in terms of emotional strain or an underlying difference of opinion.  Bertina Johnson was known to be of a kind and gentle character, and it is difficult to imagine her turning away from her husband without some kind of provocation.  Still, the reason for the large gap in childbirths remains uncertain.

Therefore, I leave it up to future generations of the Johnson family to draw their own conclusions on the matter of Baard Johnson's character... unless, of course, they happen to read this blog entry!