GeneaBlogger Gnome at Snoqualmie Pass!

I heard a faint knock at the door late yesterday, and at first I thought I'd been imagining things. But, the dog barked insistently, alerting me to something unusual outside. I opened the door and peaked out. It was growing dark, and at first it appeared no one was on the porch, until a high voice squeaked, "Down here!" It was our own GeneaBlogger Gnome come to visit!

G.B. Gnome apologized for being a bit late, but he had been to Seattle earlier in the day to see his cousin, the Yule Nisse, who is busy making preparations at the Nordic Heritage Museum for the upcoming Scandinavian Yulefest. As Gnome squeezed past my 30-lb. Australian Shepherd and came inside, Chips began wagging his tail so furiously that I thought it would fall off.


Norwegian Yule Nisse


I asked G.B. Gnome if he wanted to curl by the woodstove for the evening, but he couldn't stay very long. "Places to go, people to see!" he said with a smile and a cock of the head. Gulping down the remainder of his hot cocoa, he wiped his mouth on an already smudged green sleeve. No sooner had he slapped his pointed cap back on his head than he was out the door and on his way. I shouted after him to watch for coyotes. He had a little trouble navigating the stairs, but once he was in the driveway, he hobbled away quickly into the growing darkness. Gee, I hope he made it... I'm sure he's alright, judging by the affect he had on my dog. G.B. Gnome is a real charmer with that crooked grin of his!

I think he said he was headed into eastern Washington, but I can't be sure. Maybe he'll stop at your door next? Watch for him, please. I'm concerned about the little guy!

While you're watching, you might want to make a visit to Hill Country of Monroe County, one of G. B. Gnome's favorite places, for the Getting to Know Me Challenge.

Family History and the Great American Migration

I must pause briefly from my Norwegian-American focus to introduce a source helpful to those wanting to read more about population migrations during the twentieth century. Social history, when added to genealogical data and stories handed down through the generations, makes a perfect blend for an interesting and readable family history. And, if you don't have any family stories and precious little genealogical data, then history might be as close as you get to understanding the times and motivations of elusive ancestors.

My birth father was part of the great migration from Oklahoma to the western states during the Depression era years, the 1930s. When I went looking for books to read, I came across Southern Diaspora: How the Great Migrations of Black and White Southerners Transformed America, a companion website to the book authored by James M. Gregory, a University of Washington faculty member.


Gregory wrote:

The Southern Diaspora may have been the most momentous American population movement of the twentieth century. Between 1900 and 1980 more than 20 million southerners left their home region looking for jobs in the cities, suburbs, and farms of the North and West. Most visible were the African American southerners whose migration transformed urban America and set the stage for important changes in racial understandings and the rights of people of color. White southern migrants outnumbered black migrants and in some settings were almost as controversial. Called "hillbillies" in the North and "Okies" out West, the whites faced challengesdifferent than most Americans who move across state lines.

The website contains oodles of starting points for further research: photos, tables, other links, and my favorite, the bibliography. With Gregory's help, you can easily go beyond Grapes of Wrath in understanding your Depression era relations, and find a plausible reason for your great granddad ending up in Detroit after leaving the old family home in Yazoo City (Gateway to the Delta).

Getting to Know Me, Getting to Know Nordic Blue

I am a Bay Area girl turned Seattlelite, with eclectic interests ranging from history and genealogy to science-fiction and Chinese film, to name a few. One of my main passions has been discovering all I can about my Norwegian-American ancestry. I began blogging primarily to share research tidbits with family, but I quickly became hooked because of the wonderful support and enthusiasm shared by a special group of family history bloggers. I love genealogy, and I also love to write about history. I currently have two publications under my belt: a Pacific Northwest history entitled "Snoqualmie Pass," by Arcadia Publishing, 2007, and a family history: "A Long Way Downstream: the Life and Family of Thibertine Johnson Winje, Norwegian-American Pioneer." My goal is to continue researching and writing about my Norwegian ancestors and other history topics that catch my fancy.




My mother, Doris Johnson, holding me
on the back porch of our second story apartment
in Richmond, California, early 1954.









Brightest Blog Entry

Not Without My Car: My Family History and the Automobile.
Family history is not just about the ancestors, but also about preserving personal memories. The automobile had such a large impact on my young life that I just had to recall all the Fords and more that I had the pleasure to know.


Breeziest Blog Entry

No Ode to Lutefisk
Written for the 2007 Advent Calendar of Christmas memories, hosted by Thomas MacEntee, this article sums up my attitude toward a questionable Norwegian-American holiday tradition.


Beautiful Blog Entry

Duty, Fate, and Beauty
A heart-rendering story about the purposeful life and ill-fated demise of a young Norwegian-American prairie flower: Regina Winje Strand, 1873-1899.


Nordic Blue is a celebration of my Norwegian-American family culture and history, but the range of topics is often swayed by current and related news, Carnival of Genealogy writing challenges, the discovery of new genealogy resources, the study of human nature and social history, my own personal memories, and by just plain 'ole blogging fun (topics and memes, as suggested by my fellow genealogy bloggers).

Historic Cabin Represents Lives of My Pioneer Ancestors

I would love to spend months exploring Chippewa County, Minnesota. It is the center of the genealogical universe when it comes to my mother's ancestry. All four sets of her Norway-born great grandparents homesteaded in the area, and their children intermarried to create the families I am obsessed with researching.

Years ago, the Chippewa County Historical Society (CCHS) set about to preserve many of the original buildings of the area's first settlement along the Minnesota River: Chippewa City. Among the preserved treasures is the original cabin of homesteader Bardinus Anderson, where the congregation of the old Saron Lutheran Church was first organized.




Layout of buildings in Historic Chippewa City, Chippewa County Historical Society.



The following photographs were taken by one of my cousins, Michael Siverhus, of Minnesota, during a visit to Chippewa City over Labor Day weekend, 2008. Michael is an "internet cousin." We have never actually met, but we are related through my mother's maternal grandmother line, the Slaaens (Sloans). Last year, I asked the Chippewa County Historical Society if it would print a little article on the family research I was conducting. I listed off surnames, many of which are represented in several pioneer cemeteries in that area, including Saron Lutheran. As a reader of the historical society's newsletter, Michael saw the article and contacted me. Now, that's networking!

"One of the most authentic log cabins in the state, the Anderson Log Cabin was built by Bardinus Anderson in 1870. Originally located 8-1/2 miles southeast of Montevideo this building was brought into Historic Chippewa City in 1965. Inside the walls of this log cabin, the Saron Lutheran Congregation was organized. Twisted prairie grasses were once used as fuel by settlers who lived in log cabins much like this one."

Bardinus Anderson hosted the first meeting to organize the Norwegian-Danish Evangelical Lutheran Church at this cabin on November 1, 1870. The initial church membership was made up of 99 Norwegians, 16 Swedes, and two Danes. But, it was only charter members came together for that first discussion; their families remained at home, obviously due to lack of space.

The discussion included where to locate a permanent church and cemetery for the new community. Charter members, including some of my ancestors, agreed upon 80 acres along the south edge of Leenthrop Township, in Section 31. The Chicago and Milwaukee Railroad owned the land, but donated 10 acres to the community. The congregation then purchased the remaining 70 acres for $650. In 1886, the existing Saron Lutheran Church was built at a cost of $4,750, and the cemetery, where many of my ancestors are buried, went in to use soon after the land was secured.

A typical pioneer farm table setting inside the cabin.

The woodstove:  the most important feature of any homesteader cabin.

A warm and cozy place to sleep after an exhausting day's work.

Each year, between Memorial Day and Labor Day weekends, visitors to Chippewa City can walk through many buildings depicting pioneer life as it was during the early years of settlement. It was a time when my ancestors were building their own cabins, pushing plows, and fighting to put food on the table throughout seasons of relentless drought and locust infestations, punctuated by severe winter weather and exceptional blizzards. It was not an easy life, to say the least!

Thank goodness for historical societies whose members work hard to preserve our heritage. Why don't you join one local to your genealogical heritage today? If you're not close enough to help with your hands, the societies can always use extra membership funds and donations to shingle structures, for example, which is a project CCHS is committed to in order to keep Chippewa City in good condition for future generations. I am so glad!


Sources:

"Historic Chippewa City," Montevideo Chamber of Commerce, http://www.montechamber.com/cchs/chipcity.htm (accessed 25 September 2008).

Christianson, Mrs. John. Our First 100 Years: 1870-1970. Chippewa County, Minnesota: Saron Lutheran Church, 1970.

Quite Possibly the Loneliest Place on Earth

Those of us who are serious about the pursuit of genealogy and family history can appreciate the treasure that is gleaned by a field trip to the cemetery: not just treasure in data, but of feelings, and especially a sense of being close to those we long to know more about.

Today, I went on such a field trip to Evergreen-Washelli, one of the main cemeteries in the greater Seattle metropolitan area. I was excited because I had, at last, located the grave of a man I am currently researching and writing about. Please pardon my generalities here, because I am not quite ready to reveal who that is.

With great anticipation, I stopped in at the cemetery office and asked for a map to help me locate the grave. The girl behind the counter printed two maps for me: one that showed the exact driving route through the meandering and shaded paths of the grounds, and a locator map with a diagram of the family plot and nearby graves. "Oh, this should be easy," I thought, as I clutched my "buried treasure" maps and got back into my car.

I drove across Aurora Avenue North and into Washelli, the older, eastern section of the memorial park, admired the Doughboy statue as I crawled past, and turned alongside the Veterans Memorial Cemetery with its regimented rows of small white headstones. Getting out of my car, I climbed the emerald slope punctuated by flat markers on the opposite side of the road and began looking around for the surname I sought.

Ah! There was the man's father, and nearby were the graves of a few relatives. After several more minutes, I also spotted his first wife and infant daughter.

But, where was he?

I twisted and turned the locator map several times, and traced my steps backwards and forwards, but I simply could not find him. I checked the diagram one last time: "Okay, the wife is in grave #14, and if I have the map turned the right way, he should be right HERE."

Nothing but grass!

And then, I realized... he had no marker.

This was a man who lived life to the fullest for over nine decades, who lived humbly and quietly, loved his wife and mother deeply, respected animals, explored the Pacific Northwest with a heart ever hungry for timeless beauty, worked tirelessly to preserve nature for the enjoyment of countless others, member of one of Seattle's founding families...

The place where I stood, at the foot of this grave, seemed like one of the loneliest places on earth just then. There was no doubt that he lay beneath my feet: a Seattle son who had been witness to much of the area's early history and was now just a memory manifested by neatly manicured grounds. His resting place was surrounded by many of those he knew and loved in life, but his place among them was not evident. This ever quiet, humble, artistic, observant, stoic, patient, witty, knowledgeable, sensitive, poetic, capable, adventurous, and dedicated man: no one could see that he was there, or had a clue about where he had walked in life.

I left the memorial grounds after a quiet vow to him that I would tell his story and not let him be forgotten... to help in any way I can.

As a historian, I have discovered his heart and mind and times through his own words, expressed in journals and letters by his own hand. As a genealogist, I have gathered the facts of his life and studied his timeline and circumstances. As a human being, I have learned that I simply cannot walk away from the discovery that this honorable person has no commemorative words above his worldly remains--no name to indicate his existence.

Perhaps it is part of my purpose to transform that anonymous patch of grass into a celebration of a unique and historically poignant life.

It's worth a try.

A Long Way Downstream - Preface

As promised, here is the preface to my recently published family history, A Long Way Downstream. I learned so very much during the research and writing process, and I can't thank enough those who helped in various ways.

Preface

A Long Way Downstream: the Life and Family of Thibertine Johnson Winje, Norwegian-American Pioneer combines facts and family lore with hundreds of original photographs and heavily researched historical details. After coming of age and marrying for the first time in rural Nord-Trøndelag, my great-great-grandmother, Thibertine (Bertina) Johnson Winje (1841-1930) became a part of the tide of emigrants who departed Norway for improved circumstances in the United States during the mid-19th century. All in life is a risk, but it was extremely heightened for these America-travelers who chanced everything by crossing the ocean to build an intimate relationship with the plow in a foreign land. Over 140 years after Bertina took that initial step from her homeland, I found myself on a quest to understand the drive and emotions behind the life-altering decisions she and my other ancestors made.

Initially, I planned to focus on my great-grandparents, Ole Martin and Malla Johnson, as the subjects of this book. But, as I started to study various branches of their family, I found there was so much to learn, not only about the Johnsons, but also about the Winjes, the Larsons, the Strands, and more. Though I was tempted in every direction, Ole Johnson’s mother, Bertina, quickly became the focus of my research. She was obviously the keystone, since everyone else of interest happened to be a husband, in-law, or descendant of hers. Bertina Johnson Winje experienced many ways of living in the varied landscapes of her of 89 years, and I became fascinated with her trials from my comparatively pampered 21th century experience. Every family detail I gleaned brought me closer to knowing her personally, even though she died over 20 years before I was born.

In September 2004, I made my first visit to the graves of Bertina Johnson Winje and some of her immediate family at Scandia Cemetery in Duluth , Minnesota. On a breezy and sunny day with the glimmer of Lake Superior at my shoulder, I found myself physically as close as I would ever be to them. I tried to take in the scene through Bertina’s eyes as it appeared in both 1888 and 1893, years when she and her second husband, Eric L. Winje, buried three of their children on that green and lush, storm-slashed bluff above the Big Water. This out-of-self experience left me deeply touched, humbled, and honored to be able to tell Bertina’s story, and that of her family—a story of courage, hope, acceptance, and most of all, perseverance.

My research began in earnest in two ways: first, a letter of questions written to an older cousin who, I was told, knew some details about our family history, and second, the serendipitous discovery of online genealogical sources. My desire to know more was also sparked by attendance at a local Scandinavian Yulefest one November. As a girl, I was always interested in the stories my mother told me about her childhood on a Minnesota farm, but it took the right timing, certain acquired skills, and a catalyst moment or two before I could accept full responsibility for gathering the information I sought.

I had to begin with the search for basic information, such as finding the original Norwegian name of my immigrant great grandfather, Ole M. Johnson, who was Bertina’s eldest child—a detail not even my mother knew. It did not take very long for my searching to gain momentum, and I was soon collecting data, interviewing, requesting biographical information from relatives, and looking for original sources. Additionally, I joined historical and genealogical societies, including the Clearwater County Historical Society, and the Chippewa County Historical Society, both of Minnesota.

It takes the efforts of many for a family history to be truly reflective of its subjects. This book is more than just lists of vital statistics because of the interest and cooperation of numerous family members and friends. I especially want to thank my mother, Doris Johnson Wheeler, for sharing her wealth of memories, her love of history and times past, and for caring enough to treasure and save every photo and memento handed down from her parents, aunts, and uncles. Her collection of photographs provided me with wonderfully unique and irreplaceable material. She must have always known that, someday, her daughter would find something to do with it all.

My great appreciation certainly goes to my husband, John Kinnick. He supported my writing every step of the way, and graciously tolerated my absence while doing research and taking classes. He was also a tremendous help in arranging the repair of the Winje family monument in Scandia at Duluth, Minnesota.

I could not possibly have taken on this project without the help of many cousins who willingly shared and trusted me with family information, photographs, and artifacts, offered monetary assistance, and gave me a warm welcome when I came knocking with questions and requests, whether by letter, e-mail, or in person. I owe much gratitude to: Ardys Bjerke, Gloria P. Conrad, James and Lynette Cook, Dennis and Marge Johnson, Duane and Betty Johnson, Elwood and Ardell Johnson, Dorothy J. Joseph, Deloris Kosbau, Ewen and Zelda McClellan, and Lyle L. Strand, all of Minnesota; Oluf and Celestine Omlid of Alaska; Marjorie Skrukrud of California; Larry Gilmore of New York; and Cheryl Nibler of Oregon. I also want to thank Winje family members who reside in British Columbia, Canada: Roy and Karna Franche, Albert and Bonnie Winje, Ken and Aloria Moore, Eric and Aline Winje, and their families.

Karna Winje Franche was extremely enthusiastic about this project, but she passed away before it came to fruition. Karna was a main contributor of information about the Winje ancestry, and I shall always feel saddened that I could not place a copy of this book into her hands. I know that in spirit, however, she already knew each and every story and description that made its way to the printed page.

Special thanks to Lorraine McConaghy, historian, and Sarah Thorson Little, genealogist, for their ideas and guidance on the rough draft of this project. Both were instrumental to my research as instructors with the Genealogy and Family History Certificate Program through University of Washington Extension in Seattle. I also participated in writing seminars led by Dr. McConaghy through the Museum of History and Industry (MOHAI) in Seattle. The seminars proved to be an unparalleled growth experience, which led to the publication of another book, co-authored by my husband: Snoqualmie Pass, through Arcadia Publishing, released in October 2007. All of these experiences have enabled me to make valuable connections with other writers.

I am grateful to Astri Wessel of Norway, whose ancestors hailed from Hemne, Sør Trøndelag, Norway, for granting me permission to publish an English translation of her father’s article, “En Utvandrerfamilie fra Vinjeøra I 1869.” She also provided copies of letters the Winjes sent to members of her family in Norway from 1869 through the 1890s. And, without the dedicated translation assistance of Ed Egerdahl, of the Scandinavian Language Institute in Ballard (Seattle), Washington, I would never have had access to much of the valuable information contained in the letters. The Winje letters, written in an old Sør Trøndelag dialect, were not easy to translate. Tusen takk to both Astri and Ed for providing assistance.

I want to acknowledge the many volunteers, genealogists, and historians based in Minnesota, whose dedication to research and simple kindness benefited me from a distance. I especially want to thank Joyce Sundrum of Golden Valley, Minnesota, who looked through original records of Saron Lutheran Church in Chippewa County for information pertaining to my family. There were still others, including "Twiggy" of Duluth, who did this stranger a good turn—greatly appreciated favors I would return in kind if I could.

Thanks also to my good friends, Linda Rae Palmer, for cleaning up the scratched tintype photograph of Hattie Winje, and Stephanie Wright for producing good quality pdf files using her skill and better software than I could manage on my own.

As a result of my visit to the Winje plot in Duluth, I became motivated to coordinate the repair and maintenance of some family monuments in need. In August 2006, family donations allowed the final engraving of Emma T. Winje’s year of death on her marker at Scandia Cemetery. Emma can rest in peace now that her family has completed this task.

The oldest Winje monument at Scandia Cemetery needed critical repair soon after my visit in 2004. While in Duluth, I took photographs of the five-foot 1888 granite monument that serves as a marker for the Winje family plot. Though crowded by invasive tree roots and leaning precariously, the monument itself was in surprisingly good condition. It marked the graves of Hattie and Annie Winje, who died from diphtheria while very young, and also of their brother, Louis Winje, who drowned in 1893. At some point during the winter or spring of 2006, the monument was either pushed over or tumbled in sections to the ground from the strain of gravity. Gloria Conrad, a descendant of Regina Winje Strand, sent a letter and photograph alerting me to the sad condition of this historic marker.

In September 2006, the Winje monument received a new platform, and the sections, which were all present and accounted for, were resealed. I am extremely grateful for the contributions enabling this repair to take place, and also thank those who eagerly supported the project in thoughts and good wishes. Special recognition goes to: Gloria P. Conrad, James and Lynette Cook, Karna Winje Franche, Duane T. and Betty Johnson, Dennis W. and Marge Johnson, Elwood and Ardell Johnson, James D. Johnson, Dorothy J. Joseph, John Kinnick, Deloris Kosbau, Aloria Winje Moore, Cheryl R. Nibler, and Doris J. Wheeler.

As many of us realize, with the passage of time comes the unexpected. The past year presented quite a few challenges to my immediate family, including major surgery for my husband, the renovation and planned sale of our home, and the death of my only aunt, Phyllis Johnson Rice, on November 7, 2007. Then, just days before the Thanksgiving holiday, my sister’s house burned, and she and our mother, Doris, were displaced. This is an example of how quickly things can turn, and how easily family history can be lost through devastation, like fire. Fortunately, most of the family photographs and memorabilia were shared previously during the research stage of this book, and I am extremely thankful for that, as well as for everyone’s safety.

It is my hope that this family history will be a source of inspiration for generations to come, and that the Norwegian-born traditions (and lefse!) of our ancestors will be celebrated and carried into the future. Personally, I have gained something precious, apart from the satisfying process of research and sleuthing out fact from fiction. Bertina Johnson Winje, and everyone in her immediate family, will forever be a part of me, pointing the way north.

Copyright © 2008 by Chery Kinnick

Crowning Glory, or Not

From the land of sky-blue wa-ah-ters...

(Remember that Hamms Beer commercial, or am I dating myself?)

Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox. Photograph by Chery Kinnick, September 2002. Bemidji, Minnesota.


In 2002, I had the opportunity to visit my mother's home state of Minnesota for the first time. The Johnson clan held a family reunion at the home of Elwood and Ardell Johnson in Bemidji. There was even a temporary "Johnsonville" on the grounds: a virtual campground of trailers and RVs. It was quite an exciting event, and I had the chance to meet many relatives for the first time.

At some point during the photograph session on the lawn, someone suggested that all "hapless victims" of the Johnson family curse stand together for a commemorative pic. This is when I captured the row of gentlemen below, seen in all their Crowning Glories, or lack thereof. Some are hanging on to the last strands, while others have given up the battle. All are Johnsons, tried and true, however, and have a common female Norwegian-American ancestor to thank for their shining glories.



















Johnsons displaying their glorious crowns (domes?) Left to right: Gailan Johnson, Orlan Johnson, Elwood Johnson, Duane Johnson, George Johnson, Dennis Johnson, Kenneth Johnson, and Craig Rice. Photograph by Chery Kinnick, September 2002. Bemidji, Minnesota.

"A Long Way Downstream" Has Arrived

In July, I picked up the fruit of my labors at Gorham Printing in Centralia, Washington--a short-run printer of the finest calliber. The photographs below are proof: the Johnson/Winje family history is done, at last! My somewhat reserved, 88-year-old, Norwegian-American mother just finished reading A Long Way Downstream and gave me the ultimate compliment: "It's just like a real book." If she noticed that I had written about some tidbits she previously asked me not to, she was diplomatic enough not to bring up the subject. Somehow, it all squeaked by, uncensored!

A Long Way Downstream: The Life and Family of Thibertine Johnson Winje, Norwegian-American Pioneer

by Chery Kinnick

Self-published, 2008. Hardbound in blue imitation leather with silver foil cover text; 350 pages; documents; photographs (black & white and color); translations; maps; genealogy charts; appendices; bibliography; extensive endnotes.


Whew; I can hardly believe it. All those hours at the computer are just a fond memory now...

Why did I choose a short-run printer? Due to the nature of the book, I did not plan on sales through booksellers. It made sense to keep production to a minimum and go with pre-orders from relatives and interested parties. A short-run printer is perfect for this sort of thing, and don't feel that you have to go specifically with genealogy printers. Another reason for short-run printing is that it is difficult to make money on this kind of endeavor. When you add together the cost of your time with resources and training, well, trust me... you should write a family history for the love of it, unless you can somehow find a way to make it commercially viable. There are ways to do that, but it's not what I had in mind for this project.

I did not arrange for an ISBN (International Standard Book Number)--used primarily for pricing--because the book was not planned for public sale. But, I did secure a Library of Congress Control Number (LCCN), so that libraries could readily obtain cataloging information. This was the most important thing, because I planned on sending copies to various libraries and historical societies in locations. Two copies have been sent to the Library of Congress: one for the LCCN program, and one for copyright. Then, how could I not also give a copy to the lady in Norway (Astri Wessel) who shared letters my ancestors wrote her ancestors during the 19th century? And, ja sure, you bet I also sent a copy to my main translator, Ed Egerdahl of the Scandinavian Language Institute here in Seattle. He spent plenty of hours struggling over that old handwriting and dialect, and deserved much more than I could pay him. Ed, I hope the credit and fame makes some amends...


Image of lead photograph and first contents page


My relatives and local writing buddies (footnoteMaven is high on the list) I cannot thank enough. I found that I am entirely rich in friends and cousins, and especially, helpful friends and cousins. I hope A Long Way Downstream meets their expectations and gets at least a few people interested in doing their own family research. The more, the merrier.


Chapter Six: "Ole Martin Johnson," and washout photograph of homestead barn on facing page


For those who are curious, in a future post I will share the Preface, which is an informal look at the community effort it took to create such a book.

Now, it's on to the next writing project, which is not related to my family history, but, it is someone's family history, after all. My project for the Nearby History seminar this autumn will involve continuing research and writing on the life of a Pacific Northwest explorer and nature photographer.

The Subtleties of September

Hello again... I said I would be back, and here I am! At this point, I am quite delinquent in reading all the wonderful genealogy/family history blogs out there, and I have a lot to catch up on, so thanks for your patience.

I was sitting outside in the sunshine on a break today, and when I began writing this entry in my head without even trying, I knew it was time to return to blogging business. It also made me realize just how much I needed that short break. I had become like a saturated sponge with no room for anything more. Some of the overflow has drained away now, leaving me a bit more absorbent. But, lest this begins to sound like a paper towel commercial, I'll move on...


September is my favorite month of the year

September is change: nature morphing in its gentlest manner. The fleeting sunlight, delicately shifted in angle from its full command of the mid-summer sky, shimmers through rustling leaves and creates kaleidoscope patterns on the sidewalks. Cool breezes and crisp, dewey mornings awaken my skin and leave me almost gleeful, like excitement in response to an unexpected promise. How did you used to feel when your parents exclaimed that they were taking you to the fair the coming weekend? Yeah, just like that! September urges visions of poetry and Impressionist watercolors, but it also brings to mind riotus rides on carnival merry-go-rounds. Like the rich musical tapestry of Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony come to life, September is peaceful and unpretentious, but also unpredictable and exhilarating--all at the same time.


September is full of expectations

This month will forever bring memories of new boxes of crayons, newly purchased and too-tight shoes, and inescapable butterflies in the stomach--a repeated reaction to any new school year. As a very shy child, I never started a school year without being both excited and terrified. Once I had swum the streams and gullies of the first few days, I settled into a productive daze. But, those first hours were always harder than they should have been.


September brings in the new year

...and not January, as the calendar dictates. For one thing, it is the month of my birthday, and I am in a sense, "renewed." For another, my life seems to have always been rooted in academia - as a student for many years, and then as staff at a university for many more. I must also attribute a cultural memory beyond my personal experience. During many Septembers far into the past, my farming ancestors must have enjoyed the lengthening shadows of late summer evenings all the more for having harvested the fruits of their labors, their cupboards lined with rows of gem-colored jars of preserves. By September, they knew whether they could face another winter season with confidence.


September is the calm before the storm

It is true with the weather, and it is especially true here at the university. The halls and pathways of learning are as quiet as they get right now. Sculpted gargoyles blankly stare down from lofty cornices, as if in boredom. Most of the students and faculty are away until Fall quarter, and there are relatively few starry-eyed visitors, recovering staff, and diehard grad students roaming about. The walk to the HUB (Husky Union Building) for coffee is downright pleasant. There are no masses of bodies to weave around, no elbows to avoid, no excessive noise, and no frisbie weapons flying across manicured lawns. There is only 70-degree sunshine (perfect, according to my Bay Area-born sensibilities).


While sitting alongside the entrance steps to the HUB with a coffee, forcing myself to stay still and enjoy the moment, I found myself feeling lonely, even in that splendid sunshine. I suppose it could have something to do with the relative quiet of campus, interrupted only now and again by a cacophony of crow or seagull "song." Perhaps it is also a bit too quiet in the library (if that is possible), with half the staff on leave and one person recently retired. But, for the most part, it was the company of family that I craved, or a good conversation with someone also engaged in family history pursuits. And so, what more perfect time to start blogging again - in September at the start of my year, on the precipice of change--with the promise of things to come beckoning like the words of a carnival hawker?


September: a time for reflection, renewal, reinvention...

A time to blog about family history!

A quiet morning on the University of Washington campus, 9/4/08

Falling Backwards Into Research

Every face has a story

I don't know this person, and she is definitely not a part of my family history. But, as a dedicated and curious researcher who loves biography, I'm always on the lookout for new writing subjects, whether related to me, or not.

I came across this photograph while browsing the U.S. School Yearbooks collection at Ancestry.com. Originally, I had looked at a 1938 yearbook from Brainerd, Minnesota (just because), and was surprised to see the kids looking at lot older than their age, especially the girls with their intensely dark red lipstick. They seemed tired and worn, somehow. They didn't smile, and they just didn't look happy. I thought I'd look to see how high school seniors closer to home compared.


Turning to the Seattle yearbooks, I selected one from a school that my own daughter had attended briefly, and began viewing. Among the senior pages from decades ago, I came across this face. I continued on, but found myself intrigued and went back to look at her face a few more times. Why? Perhaps her smile was so different from all the rest: relaxed, composed, sweetly mature, intelligent, and confidently happy, or perhaps it was the graceful turn of her neck, or that perky hairdo so typical of the 1930s-1940s era. Perhaps it was something I discovered behind her eyes and felt intuitively.



I read the caption next to the photograph: "[Name] - Cabinet; Honor Society; Assistant Copy Editor, Messenger; Art Editor, Arrow; President, Stamp Club; Usherette, Quill and Scroll." With all of those activities on her agenda, I surmised that she must have also been a popular senior with a dedication to study, social activities, and perpetual learning. A rather artsy girl, in fact.

I tried to hunt down more information about her through the census, but lacked enough information to be certain who she was, or who her parents were. On a lark, I "Googled" her name along with the word "art," and was surprised when I discovered an obituary that told me her married name, occupation, and the fact that she had graduated with degrees in art from the University of Washington, and was well known as a Pacific Northwest painter. The UW was the logical place for a Seattle student to get higher education, so that in itself was not surprising. But, it was interesting that we both had walked along some of the same halls of learning: the same campus, and most likely, the same building. Then, when I searched the University Libraries catalog for any mention of her name, I found that before her death, she had donated her personal papers and correspondence to the archives--just one floor below the section of the library where I work!

That's what I mean about falling backwards into research: progressing from an interesting, but anonymous photograph found during directionless searching, to the discovery that the person's lifetime achievements are represented in files just yards away and waiting for perusal... now, what are the chances of THAT? I could have picked any one of dozens of photographs in that yearbook or any other, but it was hers that captured my interest.

Providence? Weird coincidence? Whatever the reason, it is exactly this type of hook that writers and researchers crave, whether it leads to a viable project, or not.


What's that?
Are you wanting me to reveal the identity of "The Face"?
That would spoil all the fun, now wouldn't it?


Try it for yourself... find an interesting face and bring someone's story to life, if only during a few moments of discovery. You might be surprised by what you find.

When We are the Ancestors

I am committed to genealogy and family history, but I have been inspired by science fiction even longer. I don't mean the bug-eyed monster kind, but instead, science fiction as a vision of a future way of life--conjured up by the scientifically savy, exploring technical possibilities and solving old problems in a startling new way. Perhaps that's why I love Star Trek so much, and why it made such an impact on me as a thirteen-year-old when it first aired.

An example of science fiction wedding technical reality is the City of the Future competition held recently by the History Channel. "City of the Future" was a design and engineering challenge, in which participants had to develop an eco-friendly city 100 years from now. Visions were presented through a written statement and 3-dimensional construct assembled within a 3-hour period during the first phase of the competition, and included accompanying visuals.

Oh my... take a look at some green visions for Washington D.C., Atlanta, and especially, my childhood stomping ground: San Francisco. When viewing the visuals, imagine the daily challenges our descendants will face, whether environmental, or otherwise.

Here's another (unrelated) inspiring Cities of the Future site, with some thought-provoking quotes tucked inbetween fantastic images of a world our descendants might come to know.

I was reminded that although we study the past to preserve family data and customs for the future, we should not forget about also preserving the present. Will our great great grandchildren understand who we are, right now, as they walk along their more carefully balanced eco-paths? Will our digital photographs, documentation, and even our identities become just a few scattered pixels over time--unrecognizable? Will our children's children's children understand the economic dilemnas behind the environmental crises our generation has left behind? Will our descendants try to understand us in the same manner we try to understand our forefathers, as individuals who faced special challenges and dealt with them in the best way they could? Ah, age-old questions.


"Rising from the sea in the centre of Oslo, [Norway] the new, marble-clad Opera is a futuristic architectural gem." Norway: the Official Site in Mozambique

The significant problems we face cannot be solved at the same level of thinking we were at when we created them.

- Albert Einstein, scientist (1879-1955)

I have always felt that whatever mankind has the potential to imagine can become reality.

Standing on the shoulders of our own ancestors, we have built an empire, for better or for worse. How will our descendants improve upon it, and how will they cope? What kind of world will it be when we are the ancestors, and they are searching for bits of data and photographs from the past to build a deeper understanding of our time? Perhaps the question is: as family historians and genealogists, how can we preserve that information for them?

Fruit Salad in the Census

Perhaps I needed some palate cleansing after writing about French Onion Soup in a previous blog entry, or perhaps it was Lisa's Enumerate Me! census fun at her Genealogy Gems blog (particularly since she did a census search on Apple's name, of Apple's Tree), or, perhaps it's just an off-day, but whatever the reason, I got to thinking about possible fruit names in the census.  What I found was a virtual fruit salad of first names, but here are a few highlights.  My comments are itcalicized (BTW, the M or F after the name refers to male or female):

Orange

Orange Beans, M, age 14, Andalusia, Covington, Alabama, 1930
Orange Brown, F, age 10, in Union Springs, Bullock Alabama, 1930
Orange Marks, M, age 56, Stewarts Station, Hale, Alabama, 1930
Orange Peace, M, age 37, Mobile, Alabama, 1930
Orange Purse, M, age 47, Boligee, Greene, Alabama, 1930
Orange Woods, M, age 50, Valley Creek, Dallas, Alabama, 1930

[My goodness, what IS it about Alabama and the name "Orange"?]

Banana

Banana [just plain "Banana"], M, age 46, Navajo Indian Reservation, McKinley, New Mexico, 1920
Banana Doctor, M, age 12, Palmer, Hampton, Massachussetts, 1900
Banana Fair, F, age 19, Police Jury Ward 2, Natchitoches, Louisiana, 1930
Banana Finder, M, age 18, Portage County, Wisconsin, (Mortality Schedules Index, 1850)
Banana Only, F, age 28, Austin Ward 2, Travis, Texas, 1920

Raspberry

Raspberry Basil, M, age 13, Bucktown, Dorchester, Maryland, 1880
Raspberry Bird, M, age 22, Redstone, Fayette, Pennslyvania, 1860
Raspberry Gay Lay, M, age 6 mos., between Holmesville and Osyka R, Amite, Mississippi, 1870
Raspberry Peal, M, age 35, District 4, Gibson, Tennessee, 1850
Raspberry Rhump, M, age 18, Hickory Flat, Cherokee, Georgia, 1870

Strawberry

Strawberry Belcher, F, age 5 [I feel sorry for this little gal], Prairie, Audrain, Missouri, 1860
Strawberry Berry, M, age 14, Brewton, Escambia, Alabama, 1900
Strawberry Savage, F, age 10 [born in Austria], Detroit Ward 9, Wayne, Michigan, 1920
Strawberry Sings, F, age 7, Crow Indian Reservation, Custer, Montana, 1900

Melon

Melon Crater, M, Police Jury Ward 5, Vermillion, Louisiana, 1930
Melon Hunt, M, age 4, Tranquilla, Jones, Georgia, 1930
Melon Rice, M, age 9 mos., Bowling, Perry, Kentucky, 1930
Melon Riser, M, age 10, San Francisco, California, 1930

as well as...

Eat the Melon, M, age 55, of the Mojave Tribe in Colorado (U.S. Indian Census Schedules, 1885). He was married to Corn, age 54, and their family also consisted of:

Lying Light 35
Corn 34
Obsene 18
Tobacco 16
Small Boy 1
Screw Beans 14
Eagle 3
Pete 1  [the family must have run out of imagination by the time Pete came along]

Lemon

Lemon Dandy, M, age 6, Township 11, Range 28, Barbour, Alabama, 1870
Lemon Duff, M, age 45, Precinct 4, Bibb, Alabama, 1910
Lemon Freeze, M, age 20, Birmingham Ward 10, Jefferson, Alabama, 1910
Lemon Molar [personal data not given], Lee, Jefferson, Virginia, 1820

Grape

Grape Joice [I kid you not], M, Anguilla, Sharkey, Mississippi, 1920
[isn't one example enough?]


Alas, no Pineapple, Blueberry, Kumquat, Coconut, Passionfruit (among others), but plenty of "Apple" and "Cherry," as you may suspect.

See what fun, fruity or otherwise, you can have with the U.S. Federal Census. After all, genealogy is not just about facts and figures!

Yearbook Resource: E-Yearbook.com

I recently did some searching on E-Yearbook.com. For a fee, you can search this database and access many old high school and college yearbooks. Be prepared, though--the list of American institutions represented is not a complete one. You may not find a digital copy of the Podunk College yearbook for your great uncle's graduation class. Still, there are many treasures to be found, and if nothing else, the database contains a good slice of social history research for those interested in campus life throughout the decades.

E-Yearbook.com does a lock-down job of protecting copyright interests by ensuring that images cannot be copied or altered. I wish the database were set up to be a bit more share-friendly, but it is a useful research tool, just the same. For example, their digitized collection for Blue and Gold, the yearbook for the University of California at Berkeley (CAL) goes back to 1875!

I was searching for images of members of my father's family (Wheeler and Thaxter surnames), and came up with a few gems. The indexing of E-Yearbook.com is not perfect, and I sometimes found that an image resulting from my search was not the image of the person I was looking for, due to an incorrect link.  But, with a little sleuthing around, you can still find what you are looking for, particularly if you have an idea when a person graduated. Be aware that the image numbers do not correspond to page numbers in the actual yearbook.

I'll give an example of a typical search challenge. I found evidence that my father's uncle, McKinley Wheeler, was a graduate of UC Berkeley's class of 1920. Doing a search on his name in E-Yearbook.com brought up nothing initially. But, while scrolling through the pages of student photographs, I found him identified as "McK Wheeler" in the yearbook because of lack of print space. To make things worse, the text added by an indexer at the bottom of the image contained a mistype of his name as "Me K Wheeler." The moral is: use your imagination when searching old documents, and try as many crazy spelling combinations and/or abbreviations as you can think of.

While searching, I found wonderful caricatures of some students and faculty (pages 50-53 of UC Berkeley's class of 1929 "Blue and Gold" yearbook:  indexed as images 62-65). I wish I could share them, but you'll have to take a peek for yourself!

Doughboys, the Draft, and French Onion Soup

After writing about my grandfather's experience with the WWI draft board (Hell, No, I Won't Go!), I might as well continue with the story of the brother who did not escape the draft. Out of a family of ten children (eldest to youngest): Bennett, Ernest, Cora ,Thea, Odin, Mabel, Oral, Ruben, Carl, and Frank), it was only Odin Johnson who fit the draft board's specifications: male, single, healthy, and just the right age. When war was declared, Odin lived with his parents, Ole and Malla Johnson, on a farm just outside of Leonard, Minnesota.

Odin Johnson became a doughboy. The nickname "doughboy" was frequently used for American infantryman sent to France during World War I, referring to those who "licked Kaiser Bill and fought to make the world safe for democracy." The term had been in use for nearly a century beforehand, however (read an explanation of the origins of "Doughboy").



Draft card registration, WWI (Ancestry.com)

Name: Odin Johnson
City: Not Stated
County: Clearwater
State: Minnesota
Birthplace: Minnesota;United States of America
Birth Date: 11 Oct 1896
Race: Caucasian (White)
Roll: 1675389


A farewell party was held for him at the country schoolhouse by the Gorze family farm near Leonard. He was twenty-three years old when he left Bagley, Minnesota by train in February 1918. John Huff of Shevlin, Minnesota, Sidney Churness, and Selmer Nelson of Clearbrook, Minnesota were also on the train in route to Fort Dodge, Iowa. Odin stayed at this camp for a short time before leaving by boat from New York to England, Germany, and then France. He spent the longest period of time in France. After the war, Odin often talked about the times he spent in foxholes. The country had many big holes where bombs had been dropped.

Being away from home made Odin and his buddies very lonesome. Odin did receive mail from home, including many letters from his mother, Malla Johnson, that were written in Norwegian. What a treasure it would be to have these letters today, but unfortunately, they were burned along with the rest of Odin's and his wife and children's belongings in a house fire some years later.

Odin Johnson sent this postcard from France in 1919 to a younger brother, Carl. It is addressed to “Mr. Carl Johnson, Box 42, Leonard, Minn., U.S.A” and reads, "Well hello Carl. Well how was your day. I ’spose are going to school, playing with the little girls; it’s lots of them here. Bro. Odin."

As an orderly in the Army, Odin was in charge of equipment. He and two other men stayed with a French family in a civilian home. He indicated that the French people were kind and friendly. A French fellow from Brooks, Minnesota named Bruno stayed there also and was the interpreter. (The Brooks area is still known for its French settlement people.) A favorite meal of Odin’s that the French served was hot milk with onions, which was made like soup.

Odin Johnson was in the U. S. Army for fourteen months, and was wounded in the leg while serving his country. When the war ended, Odin remained in France for a time for peace keeping. Sidney Churness, his lifelong friend, happened to return home at the same time, even though they were not stationed together overseas. Odin’s father, Ole M. Johnson, drove a team of hoses to the Leonard Depot to meet his son and bring him home.

It was Odin’s wish that America would never be at war again. He kept in touch with the neighbors and friends who had followed him to war for many years following their safe return.


Information about Odin Johnson in WWI supplied by Duane and Betty Johnson (Duane is the son of Odin Johnson), march 2003.

Things Look Better With "Shades"

"The future's so bright I gotta [read] SHADES"


Have you visited Shades of the Departed yet? Currently showing: 2nd Edition of Smile For The Camera - A Carnival of Images.

The topic for the 2nd Edition is:

A bouquet of images: belles and beaus throughout history

Stop by and see why "Shades of the Departed" is one of the coolest family history/genealogy sites on the web!

Urban Memories of Post-War Richmond

In this blog, I focus a great deal on the midwestern history of my Norwegian immigrant ancestors. Their background has obviously had a major impact on not only on my genetics, but also on my morals and outlook on life. However, my early years in the San Francisco East Bay have had just as much impact, and probably more. The burgeoning Bay Area was where I learned about life and all of it's colorful nuances--where I cut my teeth, both literally and philosophically. It is also a place where, all at once, one could develop an appreciation for beautiful landscape due to the geographic variety of the northern California seacoast, but also a disdain for the raping of the land brought about by progress.

I think of myself as having grown up in an urban environment, not because I lived downtown in a large metropolitan city, but because the same culture (and concrete) extended throughout the bedroom communities of the San Francsico Bay Area. There were no farm animals or crops near my home: Richmond was definitely a city, but on a smaller scale than nearby Oakland or Berkeley.

The town of Richmond sits on the northeastern end of San Francisco Bay, and long before waterfront industries existing there today, there were refineries, wartime shipyards, and numerous other commercial ventures that led to a rapid de-beautification of this once small East Bay town. When I think of my early affiliation with Richmond, I think of cracked cement sidewalks with weeds growing through, yards full of neglect from the working culture necessitated by the post-war economic struggles, endless telephone wires across a hazy but sunny skyline, railroad tracks that led to more interesting places, and constant traffic along busy Macdonald Avenue.


The only reason I am including this photograph of Cutting Blvd. in 1954 is to show just how ugly and unkempt certain parts of Richmond could be during the post World War II years. Though it was a far cry from the rural life my mother and her family knew back in Minnesota, it was still home to me (Richmond Street Scenes; EastBayHistory.com)



When I was a baby, my mother and I lived with her aunt Mabel Johnson in her Richmond four-plex apartment. I don't remember quite that far back, but after Mom and I moved from the apartment, I recall weekend visits with Great Aunt Mabel, especially the walks downtown and longer excursions to Nicholl Park.

If we made the walk uptown from the apartment--a mere couple of blocks away, there was plenty of shopping to be done among the endless rows of Woolworth's trinket compartments. I still have many handerchiefs and baubles that came from regular stops at that store. While Mom was a single girl working at local canneries, she often bought herself treats at Woolworth's; among them were purses and shoes, which she claimed to be her particular weakness back then. She also stocked up on items for her own hope chest, like floral-patterned china dishes, purchased one piece at a time, as well as tablecloths and other linens.

Sometimes we would stop by See Candies during our downtown walks. The floor's pristine black and white squares looked so shiny that I expected them to shatter under the weight of our feet. Stepping into the store's cool sweetness from the gritty sidewalk, the large butchershop-style, glass-fronted compartments impressed shoppers with crisp white boxes and regimented rows of appealing chocolates. Gladys Nelson, a family relation by marriage with ties to my mother's home state of Minnesota, worked behind the counter. Each time we stopped in to say hello to Gladys, we were treated to free pieces of peanut brittle. Peanut brittle was never a favorite of mine, but I was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. First, the stuff tried to break your teeth, and if it couldn't break them, it would then stick with ruthless determination. What I really longed for were the small creamy blocks of nut-filled chocolate, or chocolate-covered caramels. Those went down quite easily, but never came free.

Looking west along Macdonald Avenue, near 10th Street. See Candies is on the right, near Macy's department store, 1957. The old buildings were already reaching a state of disrepair at this time. (Richmond Street Scenes; EastBayHistory.com.)


One of the best parts of any visit with Aunt Mabel was going to Nicholl Park. It was a longish walk from her apartment on Sixth Street to MacDonald Avenue and 33rd Street. The park was a weedy oasis for local children who had no yard at home, or, as in my case, for those who were visiting great aunts and could not play in musty and fascinating shadow-carved stairwells for fear of disturbing day-sleeping neighbors.

At Nicholl Park, a young soul could run wild on a huge expanse of beat-up lawn. Though I was never the type to run and play with abandon, I did enjoy observing and taking in the breadth of humanity, learning many subtle lessons, and others not-so-subtle, through the adventures playing out in that urban jungle.



That's me, with my long ponytail covered from the wind by a scarf, and my great aunt Mable Johnson.  Nicholl Park in Richmond, about 1959.



The park had playground equipment, and the swings were always in high demand. I never seemed to be able to catch one while it was free, since I was not up to shoving past a dozen others kids and the menace of flailing arms and legs. Also of interest on the grounds was an old Southern Pacific steam engine, which looked impressively huge to children. Stairs installed at its side allowed curious youngsters to climb up and pretend to be an engineer.

Even grownups need a little playtime.  Posing on the monkey bars at Nicholl Park are my great aunts, Cora Moen (upper left), and Mabel Johnson (upper right), along with my mother, Doris Johnson (standing).  Richmond, California, November 1946.

The park also had a petting zoo for a number of years, but it was eventually closed because of vandalism and injury to some of the animals. That was quite sad. Perhaps it was the farming genes in me, but my favorite part of any visit to Nicholl Park was when I could stand among the chickens, ducks, and goats and convince any of them to stand still long enough to actually be petted.

From the point of view of a child, Richmond was just another place to find pleasure and meaning (and occasionally, disappointment) doled out one piece at a time, like peanut brittle that was often too sharp to eat. Richmond's special place in history meant little to me at the time, because I was too busy coveting an empty swing.

Though Richmond was rapidly deteriorating during my early years, it is currently seeing some rejuvenation downtown. During World War II, it was the scene of a second Gold Rush, a place where a deluge of humanity descended in search of work in the shipyards and the canneries and factories. The streets were crowded with persons of all ages, from all racial and economic backgrounds-- restaurants, bathrooms, and even beds, were in short supply. These drastic demographic changes created massive overcrowding to being with, but eventually a progressive culture of diversity, open-mindedness and liberalness began to emerge.

One of the best historical documentations of World War II-era Richmond are the photographs by Dorothea Lange, famed for her images of Dust Bowl migrations during the Depression. The Oakland Museum of California has a fine collection of Lange's photographs, viewable in this online guide. Although I knew Richmond personally beginning 10-15 years after these photographs were taken, they are highly representative of what my mother first found when she moved there in 1946.

For better or worse, Richmond's cooling cauldron of upheaval in the post-war years was my childhood home.

For further reading:

A City in Transition: Richmond During World War II, by Clifford Metz and Judith K. Dunning.

Photographing the Second Gold Rush, by Dorothea Lange and Charles Wollenberg.

To Place Our Deeds: the African American Community in Richmond, California, 1910-1963, by Shirley Ann Wilson Moore.

An Avalanche Hits Richmond, by J. A. McVittie.

Richmond Community History Project (ROHO, Regional Oral History Office, Bancroft Library, UC Berkeley)

Richmond Museum of History

Rosie the Riveter Oral History Project

Hell, No, I Won't Go!

When Ancestry.com first made World War I draft registration cards available, I immediately began to search for evidence about relatives. Only one in my grandfather's family (total of ten siblings) actually served during the war. Most of his brothers were too young to be required to register... but, what of the eldest brother, and especially of my grandfather--the second eldest?

On May 18, 1917, the Selective Service Act authorized the President to temporarily increase the U.S. military. Under the office of the Provost Marshal General, the Selective Service System was established to draft men into military service. Local boards were created for each county or similar state subdivision, and for each 30,000 people in cities and counties with a population greater than 30,000. [1]


During World War I there were three draft registrations:

June 5, 1917 - all men between the ages of 21 and 31 residing in the U.S. - whether native born, naturalized, or alien

June 5, 1918 - men who reached age 21 after June 5, 1917. (A supplemental registration, included in the second registration, was held on August 24, 1918, for men who turned 21 years old after June 5, 1918.)

September 12, 1918 - all men between age 18 and 45.


Not surprisingly, I found Grampa's card; he registered promptly during the first go-around, on June 5th:

Name: Ernest JohnsonCity: Not Stated
County: Clearwater
State: Minnesota
Birthplace: Minnesota;United States of America
Birth Date: 23 Jan 1889
Race: Caucasian (White)
Roll: 1675389





His occupation is listed as "farmer."

In response to the question: "Have you a father, mother, wife, child under 12, or a sister or brother under 12 solely dependent upon you for support," he answered "wife."

I was unprepared, however, for his response to the question: "Do you claim exemption from draft (specify reason)." His answer was: "Yes, don't want to go to Europe," and below it, he signed his name.

I had to laugh at the blatant honesty of that answer, and I'm sure Grampa did not mean it quite the way it sounds, but...

Don't want to go to Europe?!

I can't imagine how many other young blokes would have liked that phrase to stick on their behalf.

Grampa turned out to be one of the lucky ones, but the government's decision to not draft him was based on several things: 1) his dependent wife, 2) the fact that he farmed alone, and 3) the need to keep enough farmers producing food on the home turf for U.S. citizens and troops abroad, and, 4) not just because he felt a responsibility to his wife and farm. As a newlywed, married just months before draft registration, he obviously felt a great deal of pressure to make his farm into a successful venture that could support a family. If Grampa had been drafted, the farm would probably have been sold and my grandmother would have returned to live with her parents. Happily, that did not have to happen.



(Love you, Grampa--always will; I miss your crinkly smile.)



Ernest Johnson, Salem, Oregon, about 1965.






[1] Kimberly Powell at About.com: genealogy

A Golden Anniversary for the Berges



Ole Benhardt Berge weds Anne Marie Slaaen (Sloan), 1886



In early February 1946, the Maynard News in Chippewa County, Minnesota ran the article below in honor of my maternal great grandparents' 60th wedding anniversary. Ole Benhardt Berge, born October 20, 1864 in Gudbrandsdalen, Norway, and Anna Marie Slaaen (Sloan), born June 20, 1868 near Swan Lake in Nicollett County, Minnesota, were married on February 6, 1886. They celebrated their golden anniversary in the very same county where they had begun married life sixty years before. Their daughter, Esther Agnes Berge, was my grandmother.

Mr. and Mrs. Ole Berge Honored By Friends
and Relatives at Lutheran Church



Ole and Anna Marie (Mary) Berge with a golden wedding anniversary cake in front of their Maynard, Minnesota home.  February 1946.

A large number of friends and relatives of Mr. and Mrs. O. B. Berge gathered at the Maynard Lutheran Church Sunday afternoon, Feb. 2, the occasion being the 60th or golden wedding anniversary of this esteemable couple. A fine program was given and enjoyed. The wedding party entered the church to the strains of a wedding march played by Mrs. Thurman Overson of Minneapolis and the party consisted of Mr. And Mrs. Berge [and] as many of their children and grandchildren as could be present The ushers were four grandchildren, Verona Berge, Howard and Odell Edwardson and Chester Berge, Jr. The following program was given:

Scripture Reading, Rev. M. B. Erickson

Solo, Mrs. J. M. Sweiven
Talk, Rev. M. B. Erickson
Solo, "Perfect Day," Verona Berge
Duet, Mr. and Mrs. T. Overson
Talk, Rev. O. J. Erickson
Solo, Mrs. Ted Dyshaw
Talk, Mrs. Victor Larson
Solo, Winifred Erickson
Song, Ladies Choir

On behalf of the Lutheran Ladies Aid Society, Mrs. S. M. Dahleen presented Mrs. Berge with a boquet [sic] of flowers. The wedding dinner was served in the church parlor which was decorated appropriately for the occasion. The table was set for the guests of honor and relatives. The large gathering of guests were served cafeteria [-style].

Rev. M. B. Erickson, acting in behalf of the friends, presented Mr. and Mrs. Berge with a purse of money which was accepted by Mr. Berge with a few fitting remarks.

Out of town guests present at the event were Mr. and Mrs. Chester Berge and family of Alvord, Iowa, Harry Berge of Taylor Falls, Mrs. Andrew Edwardson and children of Willmar, Mr. and Mrs. Harold Carlson of Garretson, S.D., Mr. and Mrs. Rudolph Schuster of St. Paul, Misses Hattie and Florence Carlson of Willmar, Mrs. Gunda Overson of Granite Falls, Mr. and Mrs. Thurman Overson of Minneapolis, Mr. and Mrs. Bastian Hanson, Mrs. Alma Hanson and Randolph, Mr. and Mrs. Mandrud Hanson of Canby, Mr. and Mrs. Henry Erickson and daughter Winifred of Litchfield, Ardys Erlandson of Minneapolis, Rev. and Mrs. O. J. Erickson of Granite Falls and Mr. and Mrs. Carl Skrukrud of near Granite Falls.

The observance of a golden wedding anniversary is a most notable occasion and when it comes to such an esteemable couple as Mr. and Mrs. Ole Berge it is worthy of special mention. The News has made this an opportunity to pry into the private history of these two and while we find that their story reads very similar to those of an early day in this community it is of interest and we pass it along to our readers.

[Mrs. Ole B. Berge (Anna Marie Slaaen/Sloan)] was born in a covered wagon in the vicinity of St. Peter June 20, 1868, her parents being then on their way from Wisconsin to a homestead in Leenthrop Township [Chippewa County]. We are inclined to suspect that theirs was a childhood romance as their acquaintance dated from an early day and their romance culminated in their wedding at Granite Falls on Feb. 6, 1886. Witnesses were Edward Erlandson and John Sloan. The young married couple lived on the groom's mother's farm in Leenthrop until in 1896 when they moved to Maynard. After moving to Maynard Mr. Berge engaged in the hotel business for a couple of years, was rural mail carrier on Route No. 2 and conducted the meat market. In 1910 the family moved to Leonard, Minn., where they engaged in farming. In 1917 they returned to Maynard and have resided here since. Mr. Berge has held numerous public offices of trust and has enjoyed the friendship of the community during all these years. To this union was born twelve children, nine of whom are living and are: George of Maynard, Harry of Taylor Falls, Chester of Alvord, Iowa, Mrs. Edwardson, Willmar, Bennie of Baraboo, Wis., Mrs. Finch of Brainerd, Mrs. Carlson of Garretson, S.D., Clarice of Maynard and Mrs. Schuster of St. Paul.

Mr. and Mrs. Berge have taken an active interest in the affairs of the village and its people and have been faithful members of the Lutheran Church. They have a multitude of friends who are happy with them on this most momentous occasion and who join the News in wishing them many happy anniversaries in the future.

Mrs. Victor Larson is the author of the following which she gave at the Berge's golden wedding anniversary:

Their Golden Wedding

Fifty years ago this week,
A sweet-faced young girl, young in years,
Giving no thought to life's joys and sorrows, its hopes and fears,
Promised the bright-eyed eager lad standing there by her side,
That some day soon, she would become his gentle, loving bride,
Promised, that together, they would walk down the pathway of life.

Fifty years ago in Granite Falls Town,He straight and tall, she in her wedding gown,Promised each other to be loyal and true,Said those two little, yet faithful words, "I do."Gave, he to her and she to him, each a heart,
Promised solemnly, "Till death do us part."

Two witnessed there were who stood up with them,
One was a relative, both of them were men.Edward Erlandson was one witness there that day,
Carl's father, who but recently passed away.John T. Sloan, it was, who stood on the other side,
Our own beloved Petra Later became his bride.
A horse-drawn chariot was theirs that day,Two horses and a blanket-filled bob sleigh,Six miles an hour was probably their rate of speed,
Those days, of traffic rules and laws, there was no need.
But they were tucked in snug and warm with robes and blankets and all,He probably wore ear muffs, she surely was wrapped in a shawl.
Thus they journeyed back to her home in Leenthrop Town,He, proud and happy, she, still in her wedding gown,
Their friends and neighbors gathered together and waited,
To see their wedding day properly celebrated.They wished for them a long life, filled with joy and gladness,
Wished for them those things far removed from sickness and sadness.

Twelve children came to bring them happiness and good cheer,
Five boys and seven girls, to them precious and so dear,Nine are still living, only one remains at home,
Some live near and others chose farther away to roam.George, in Maynard; Harry, Taylor Falls is home to him,Chester, in Alvor, Iowa, was born a twin.
Esther, his sister, has gone on to that other shore,
Where she waits to be with her loved ones forever more.Mabel, Mrs. Edwardson, east of here in Willmar lives,Baraboo, Wisconsin, is the address that Bennie gives.Cora, Mrs. Finch, in Brainerd doth abide,
Mildred, herself, was but recently a bride.
Garretson, South Dakota, she claims as her home,
Our own Clarice says, "Number, please," on our telephone.Stella, Mrs. Schuster, makes her home in St. Paul,
There are also eighteen grandchildren, both large and small,A pleasant family, loving and kind to each other,Obeying God's Word: "Honor thy Father and thy Mother."
To you, Father and Mother, we bring greetings today,
Greetings from those who are near, and those who are far away.
The best of all the best things in life we wish for you,
Peace, happiness, contentment, with your loved ones so true.
May you have many more years of happiness together to share,
May God, in His wisdom, guard and keep you and yours, in our prayer.