52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks (Week 9): In the Courthouse

Where There's a Will Book, There's a Way:

Ole M. Johnson and an Unexpected Guardianship

Most of my American family history research centers around Minnesota, but I have lived on the west coast all of my life.  During the summer of 2004, I managed to spend a glorious five hours at the Minnesota Historical Society Library in St. Paul.  For those who also find traveling out-of-state for research a challenge, you can appreciate just how special this visit was for me.  How much research can you accomplish with the clock ticking down?  Ready... Set... Go!  Talk about pressure...  Nonetheless, a pleasant surprise awaited me.  In addition to carrying out some planned research at the MHS Library, I happened to find an early will book for Chippewa County--the very county where all four sets of my maternal 2nd great grandparents lived during the 1870s, and where their children formed marital relationships that helped to result in me!

Ole M. Johnson, ca. 1872, Montevideo, MN.

The will book revealed a bit of family history that I did not previously know about, and I doubt any other living relative did either.  It showed that my great-grandfather, who lost his father while still a minor, had his interests protected legally by a courthouse document.  When Ole's widowed mother, Bertina Johnson, decided to remarry, it was to Eric L. Winje.  Eric, who was born to a Norwegian immigrant father, studied law on his own and became one of Chippewa County's first Norwegian-American attorneys.  Bertina agreed that Eric should serve as the administrator for her late husband's (Baard Johnson's) estate.  Eric Winje was intent on doing everything correctly when it came to his ready-made family, so he secured a legal guardian for his stepson, Ole, who stood to inherit his birth father's homestead when he became of legal age.

The guardian chosen for young Ole Johnson was nearby landowner Ole P. Anderson, one of the earliest settlers in the Granite Falls area of Chippewa County.  He was born in Norway and served in the Civil War before settling near Granite Falls in about 1869.  He also served the assessor for Granite Falls Township for five years, and also held offices as supervisor, town clerk, and county commissioner.  Anderson was obviously a well-respected local man whom Eric Winje and his wife Bertina (Johnson) could trust.

In 1882, after Ole M. Johnson became legal age, he acquired ownership of his father's homestead in Granite Falls Township and began farming.  His mother and stepfather moved with their children to the nearby town of Montevideo, where Eric was serving as Clerk of Court, a Chippewa County official.  The discovery of this legal action was unexpected.  How fortunate Ole was to have a stepfather who was looking out for his best interests!



Sources:

Neill, Rev. Edward D.  History of the Minnesota Valley, Including the Explorers and Pioneers of Minnesota.  Minneapolis:  North Star Publishing Company 1882.

Will Book I, Chippewa County, Minnesota, 117.D.15.7.B, Minnesota State Historical Society.  Court document regardin Ole M. Johnson as a minor (Eric Winje as legal administrator for the estate of Baard Johnson, and Ole M. Johnson's guardianship).

52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks (Week 8): Family Photo

The Girl Inside My Mother

My mother, Doris (right), with her Aunt Stella in March 1969.  El Cerrito, CA.

I recently ran across a photo I had not seen in many years.  My mom, Doris, kept it tucked away in a small album that contained mostly photos of garden roses and cacti or succulent plants she had nurtured to astounding size and health (she had a green thumb).  The photo dates back to March 1969, and it is of Mom sitting at our dining room table with one of her maternal aunts.  A special birthday cake made around the torso of a doll is displayed on the table in front of them.  It is a simple image, made with the early color film that ended up fading too easily, shot with a prized possession of the 1960s, a Kokak Instamatic camera.

What is special about this photo is the completely relaxed and happy look on my mother's face.  The cake was in honor of her 49th birthday which occurred that St. Patrick's Day.  Mom was shy and reserved.  She was always a worrier, and never felt totally comfortable being on the receiving end of a camera.  But, this special moment meant so much to her that we can just see her appreciation spilling over in that smile.  It is the same living-in-the-moment happiness she certainly experienced as a child growing up on a farm.  This carefree contentment did not show on her face very often, but it did manage to get captured in a few photos over the course of her lifetime.  At the time this photo was taken, her happiness was about more than just birthday cake.  It had to do with being next to the woman on her right, my grandmother's youngest sister, Stella (Berge) Schuster.

In early 1969, Mom's Aunt Stella traveled from Minnesota to the Bay Area for a rare visit, along with another aunt, Clarice (Berge) Gunzberger, and her husband, Sol Gunzberger.  It was the first time and only time I ever remember meeting any of my grandmother's siblings.  It was a mild March in the Bay Area--the sun was shining and the lovely Saucer Magnolia tree in our front yard was in full bloom, with large whitish-pink petals scattered about the lawn.

My maternal grandmother, Esther (Berge) Johnson, passed away in Minnesota from tuberculosis before my mother turned two years of age.  It was a devastating loss for Mom and her sister, Phyllis.  Although the little sisters were well cared for by family members, they grew up without a mother to nurture and defend them.  The girls were sent to live with their paternal grandparents, and since Esther's family lived in another town, Mom did not get to see the maternal (Berge) side of her family very often.

Esther Johnson with her baby, Doris, in 1920.

When Mom became an adult and left her paternal grandparents' farm, she moved in with her Aunt Stella in St. Paul, Minnesota and found a job.  Shortly after, she followed other relatives to California, although truth be told, she would rather have stayed in Minnesota.  She enjoyed living with her maternal aunt in St. Paul and getting to know her better.  One time, I asked Mom who of her relatives she thought I was most like, and she said it was Stella.  I was flattered, since Stella, who had worked as a nurse, was quiet, kind, and sensitive.  She was the type of aunt that I, too, wished I could have spent more time with.

Is it any wonder that this particular photograph captures Mom's face in a rare moment of unfettered happiness?  Stella and Clarice brought along so many pleasant memories and feelings to the reunion.  They were close blood kin to Mom's own mother, and it was almost as if Esther had come along, too.  Through the eyes, voices, and arms of her younger sisters, Esther returned to Earth once more to reassure her baby girl--my mother, Doris.

52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks (Week 7): Love

Old-Fashioned Love and Apple Pie

Ole Johnson weds Malla Larson, Feb. 28, 1886.

When I realized I would be writing about love for "52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks," the first thing that entered my mind was the type of relationship experienced by more than one long-married couple in my mother's immigrant farming family.  We're talking about love that runs like an invisible thread connecting everything and every moment together.  According to the stories told me by my relatives, my great grandparents, Ole and Malla Johnson, had more than just a marriage.  They had a foundation of bedrock... of trust and understanding.

I recently had the good (and timely) fortune to hear a sermon on the subject of real love:  In "Love Like This," our pastor asked his congregation to consider what real love looks like.  What are some of the characteristics of real love?  Spoiler Alert:  it is not candy, hearts, or turtle-doves... and it is certainly not lust.  Any type of real love, romantic or otherwise, is messy, irregular, and requires determined commitment to keep it running like clockwork.  Here are six qualities of real love as they were experienced by my maternal great grandparents, Ole and Malla Johnson.

"Real love is hard work"

 

Malla Larson was 19 years old when she married Ole Johnson, a young and capable Norwegian immigrant farmer who had inherited his father's homestead near Granite Falls, Minnesota.  Aside from the continual physical labor she engaged in to keep her household running, Malla also acquired the work of learning about her new husband.  Raised on a farm herself, she understood most of what was expected of her in the sense of putting food on the table, tending to chores, and being a helpmate.  But, she also knew that learning to love involves anticipating someone's elses unspoken needs and accommodating them without always being asked or thanked.

Ole, too, had to learn to understand the particular challenges faced by his new wife.  An amusing example concerns apple pie.  Ole particularly loved warm apple pie.  Apples were a rarity on the Johnson farm.  The fruit could not be grown properly in northern Minnesota due to extreme temperature changes.  Over the winter holidays, Ole would buy a few of boxes of apples, and Malla or one of their girls willingly made pies from them.  They were not able to keep the pies warm until Ole came in from the fields for dinner, however, because the big cast iron cookstove was needed for a host of other things.  Ole never complained about the pies being cold.  He knew that Malla could only do what she could do.  Instead, he put warm apple pie at the top of his agenda whenever he had the opportunity to eat at a hotel restaurant in a neighboring town.  Part of the real work of building a loving relationship means exercising patience and understanding, in spite of one's own wants... even when it comes to pie.

"Real love will sometimes make you unhappy"

 

When the actions of someone you love do not live up to your expectations, then it is up to you to change your expectations for the sake of your commitment.  There were probably times when Malla privately questioned actions Ole took to increase the famly's prospects.  She may have been taken aback when he wanted to move away from a community she had grown comfortable with... not once, but twice.  The first time was when Ole sold his father's homestead property and moved the family to Fosston in Polk County so that he could have a chance at dairy farming.  The second time was when he chose to leave Fosston for a different farm near Leonard in Clearwater County.  It is not known if Malla was fully on board with these decisions.  In the end, she was supportive of Ole's dream.  In return, he provided for her specific needs to the best of his ability.

"Real love will cost you"

 

Love also involves fear, anger, and even pain and loss.  Loving someone is risky; it will cost you time, energy, and worry.  It will claim pieces of yourself as you learn to share openly and be responsible for another person's well being.  Love will cost you effort, and above all, patience.  Ole and Malla Johnson were a team.  The actions of one affected the other, and vice versa.  If one celebrated, so did the other.  If one suffered, the other could certainly not go on unaffected.  Real love tucks coins into the bank on sunny days in anticipation of stormy days that will surely come.  For Ole and Malla, the satisfaction they felt after a day's honest work was often reward enough for their journey together, with Ole reading his paper in front of the fire, Malla knitting a new pair of socks, and both surrounded by their children making popcorn for an after-dinner treat.

"Real love is tough, rugged and strong"

 

Ole and Malla's relationship flourished only because both cared enough to make it a priority.  For early farming folk, it was exactly this type of teamwork that could determine a family's success or failure in the world.  They were both physically strong indiviuals, also emotionally mature and capable of putting the needs of others before any thoughts for themselves as individuals.  Their love was made stronger by the daily demands of providing for the needs of their children.

"Real love is courageous"

 

Whatever was to come, Ole and Malla were in it together.  They were fortunate in that they did not lose a single child to disease or accident.  The reality was that most families before the modern era did suffer irretrievable loss.  It was not uncommon for an epidemic to claim several members of the same family.  Ole and Malla continously faced this possibility while raising their ten children to adulthood.

"Real love means dying to self"

 

There were seemingly insignificant but poignant ways the bond between Ole and Malla was observed by family members.  For example, Ole never referred to his wife by name.  Malla was always "she" or "her," but never "Malla."  This may seem odd, but think of how odd it would have been for Ole to continually refer to himself as "Ole" to others.  He felt it unnecessary to call Malla by her name, since he knew exactly who she was.  She was an intrinsic a part of him, just as if God had come along and removed one of his ribs in order to create her.  Their real love meant that they were an inseparable part of each other's heart, mind, and soul.

A final proof of the strong connection between Ole and Malla Johnson is the unexpected manner in which both of their lives came to an end.  At age 87, Ole took ill while he was out chopping wood--a chore he actually enjoyed.  He was hospitalized and diagnosed with advanced stage prostate cancer and heart disease.  He was not expected to live long, and over the next few weeks, relatives came from near and far to pay their respects.  Malla welcomed all visitors into her home, and while working extra hard to ensure their comfort during the cold spring weather, she contracted pneumonia.  She may have also suffered a stroke.  Malla was taken to the same hospital where her husband had lain ill for an extended period, but she passed away within a few hours of being admitted.  One of their daughters, Thea, had the task of telling her father the sad news.  Ole was hard of hearing, so Thea got close to her father's ear and said, very simply:  "Ma died today."  Within sixteen hours, Ole also succumbed.  Years later, one of their grandsons shared that it was as if Ole had been waiting for Malla to come along.

Ole and Malla Johnson were buried together in a joint service in East Zion Cemetery, a small community Lutheran cemetery in Dudley Township, Clearwater County, just across the road from the farm they spent years building up.  Together in life, they experienced real love in all of its varied and challenging forms.  Together in death, they serve as a reminder of love's continuing possibilities, and above all, its enduring commitment.



Sources:

Craig Laughlin, Pastor.  "Love Like This," Sermon, Generations Community Church, Marysville, Washington, January 29, 2019.

52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks (Week 6): Surprise

The Girl Who "Lived" in a Teacup

Hattie Christine Winje, ca. 1887/88

Some of our ancestors led preciously short lives.  Sadly, this was the case with a few of my great great grandmother's children, including Annie Jorgene Winje, born in 1885, and Hattie Christine Winje, born in 1883.  Although Hattie's name and vital dates were previously known due to official records and my visit to a family cemetery, how her photograph was located came as a bit of a surprise.

Hattie was an adorable five-year-old girl with fine features, a cleft chin, and long auburn hair--the same color as her mother's.  Soon after the youngest sibling, Annie, was born to Eric and Thibertine "Bertina" Winje, the family moved from Chippewa County in Minnesota to Duluth, near the Wisconsin border.  The girls' father, Eric Larson Winje, was a self-educated Norwegian immigrant attorney--one of the first in Chippewa County--where he served as County Clerk and Justice of the Peace.  A career opportunity led him to the shores of Lake Superior.  In Duluth, he began working as an attorney and later became a municipal court judge.  The family exchanged their life on the prairie for new experiences within the urban environment of a growing city.  Different opportunities, including modern amenities and more advanced schooling for the children, were suddenly available.  After leaving the homestead, there was no longer any back-breaking plowing or gathering of fields to be done, and no cold and hungry farm animals to tend each morning.  The individual energies of family members could then turn to other things, and the sky became the limit.

Even with increased possibilities presented, city life offered little protection from some of life's constant dangers.  Before immunizations became available, disease was an inescapable concern in both rural and urban settings.  Wherever there was human contact, deadly diseases were a common occurence.  During the spring of 1888, Eric Winje lost his only brother to diphtheria back in Chippewa County.  Before he could even receive notification of the event, some of his children had also contracted the same disease, even though they were counties removed from their old home.  The bustling growth of Duluth typified the burgeoning social progress of the late nineteenth century, when changes in infrastructure became necessary in order to handle increasing populations.  Of major concern in Duluth was the antiquated water system, to which upgrades did not occur until the 1890s.  Before then, the city drew its water supply directly from Lake Superior, where the unscreened intake pipe was too close to shore and frequently became clogged with a build-up of dead fish, animal skins, and other unsavory things.  In spite of City warnings to residents to boil their drinking water, diseases usually spread quickly.

As her parents and older siblings looked on helplessly, on May 30, 1888, Hattie Christine Winje died from the ravages of diphtheria.  It is a disease caused by a bacterium that causes a thick covering at the back of the throat, sometimes cutting off air supply to the lungs.  Three days later, on June 2, her younger sister, Annie, also succumbed.  In later years, their eldest sister, Julia Johnson Larson, would shake her head sorrowfully when remembering the little girls.  "Stakkars liten" (poor little ones) she would say, recalling the sensless loss.

Many decades later, when I first began doing genealogy research, I held little hope of learning more about the youngest Winje girls, Hattie and Annie.  As I connected with new-found cousins across the United States, I sent them a "wish list" of things I was hoping to locate, including photographs.  One Larson cousin who lived near Lake Tahoe, California (far removed from Minnesota) sent me a packet of things to look over.  Much to my surprise, included in the batch of items was an old, very small and dark tin-type image of a young girl who looked to be about five years old.  On the back was written "Hattie Winje."  The Hattie Winje???  Yes, indeed!  Dare I hope that an image of little Annie Winje also existed?  Perhaps my cousin had overlooked it.

I immediately wrote back asked my cousin where she got the tin type.  The reply came:  "Oh, it's been sitting in a teacup that used to belong to my grandmother (Julia Johnson Larson); it's been tucked away in my china cabinet all these years."  This one-of-a-kind image survived for 117 years until it came to the attention of the family historian (me), and may actually be all that remains of a brief but cherished life.

It seemed doubtful that Annie would also be located, if an image had been taken of her during her two short years on Earth.  In modern days, we are challenged with a dearth of print photographs due to an explosion of quickly available digital options.  In the past, taking the time to have print copies of images made was too expensive and time consuming, so families tended to divide and distribute collections, often in unorganized ways.  I tend to think that Annie may have ended up in another undetermined family member's teacup.  But, thanks to persistent networking, an inherited piece of china, and a concerned cousin, Hattie's sweet face can still be seen, and her family can continue to imagine the laughter of a beloved little red-haired child who was called to her heavenly home much too soon.


Sources:

--Winje family marker, Scandia Cemetery, Duluth, Minnesota.
--Death register for "Winje, Hatty C.," #102, 1888, St. Louis County, Minnesota Death Records Index (online).
--Chery Kinnick,  A Long Way Downstream:  The Life and Family of Thibertine Johnson Winje, Norwegian-American Pioneer,  Nordic Blue Press, 2008.

52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks (Week 4): I'd Like to Meet

I'd Like to Meet:  Julia Johnson Larson

Julia Johnson Larson, ca. 1885

I cannot think of an ancestor I've researched who I have not been curious to know more about.  I wish I could bring each one of them "back to life" using stories.  But, since I must choose one now, I'll pick my maternal great grandfather's only full sister, Julia (Johnson) Larson, as someone I'd like to meet.  One reason is that I did not know she existed until I began to dive into genealogy about eighteen years ago.  By networking with newly discovered cousins, I managed to collect little info bits that tempted my curiosity for more.  What really intrigued me is that Julia lived a life similar to Laura Ingalls Wilder, of Little House on the Prairie fame.

Julia's birth name was Elen Julie Baardsdatter Lassemo.  She was born on November 29, 1862, to Thibertine ("Bertina") Olsdatter and Baard Johnson (hence the patronymic surname of "Baardsdatter"), on the farm called Lassemo near Grong, Nord-Trøndelag, Norway.  In Norwegian, the name "Julie" is pronounced more like "Juli-eh," so adopting the American spelling of Julia made sense.  After the family arrived in America, they ceased using patronymic last names and consistently used the surname of "Johnson."

Arriving in America at age three and a half, Julia possibly retained a few early memories of her homeland, and perhaps of the challenging voyage across the Atlantic.  In 1868, after her family began homesteading in Chippewa County, Minnesota, she settled into her new role as a prairie girl.  I picture her as a youngster being a trifle too silly at times, and suffering admonishments from her serious older brother, Ole.  I also envision her taking the time to visit each farm animal on summer days, wearing a straw hat to protect her face from the strong sun.  But, the pioneer way of life was not all sunshine, kittens, and wildflowers.  Although we enjoyed the television series, the Laura Ingalls Wilder character was oblivious to much of what had to be going on in real life.  Let's face it:  pioneer life was many things, but it was usually not light-hearted, and never easy.

I think that Julia must have had a rambunctious side when young, or she may have been a bit too fun-loving or willful for what protocol often allowed.  One day at school, a teacher cuffed her on the ear for some unknown infraction, and the blow affected her hearing for the rest of her life.  Another time, while wading in a nearby creek with some classmates after school, she slipped and fell into a deep spot and nearly drowned.  A neighbor girl saved Julia by pulling her from the water just in time.  When Julia was taught how to knit at a young age, using precious strands of yarn that could hardly be spared, her understanding but practical mother became miffed when Julia announced that she was making socks for the barn cat.

Julia's early years on the tall grass prairie were never boring.  During the 1860s-1870s, Native Americans, probably of the Chippewa Tribe, would often come to the door of her parents' homestead cabin and offer fish in trade for some bread or coffee.  Sometimes they stayed to have a helping of whatever was warming on the cook stove.  Julia's children would later recall hearing local Indian children playing a game on the river ice each winter, yelling something like "Inchee, Kinchee, Kin-ah-nee!" as they slid on the ice in bare feet.

Julia Johnson Larson with two of her grandchildren and a canine friend.  At the Larson farm near Granite Falls, Minnesota, July 1919.

At age 22, Julia married Ole Eriksen Larson (Vigesaa) on December 10, 1884.  Ole was the second eldest son of neighboring farmers, Erik and Kjersten Larson (Vigesaa).  The Larson family emigrated from Bjerkreim, Helleland, Rogaland, Norway, and originally settled in Coon Valley, Wisconsin.  Ole used to say that his parents relocated to Minnesota because their Wisconsin farmhouse turned out to be haunted.  At night, it sounded like chains were being dragged back and forth across the roof.  One has to wonder if this is a story that Ole liked to tell his children in order to watch their eyes grow wide with wonder and fear.  Knowing that Julia also had a fun side, she probably did not object to her husband's tale.  She married a man of unusual talents.  Ole E. Larson was adept at blacksmithing, but was known to have a healing touch with animals (sort of a "horse whisperer").  He was usually boarding an extra animal or two that he was trying to cure of some ailment.  He was also one of those unique individuals who could find water by using the forked stick method, and he could play the fiddle "by ear."

Julia (Johnson) Larson, in 1940.

After the wedding, Julia joined her husband on his parents' 71-acre farm near Granite Falls in Chippewa County, Minnesota.  By 1878, the property was improved to include a stable, a granary, and a well, with 200 forest trees and about a dozen apple trees set out.  In 1866, Julia's older brother, Ole Johnson, married Ole E. Larson's younger sister, Malla Larson.  The children born to both couples were, therefore, "double cousins," with both sets of parents providing similar sets of genes to their respective offspring.  Between 1885-1904, Ole and Julia Larson had seven children:  Christine (who lived to the age of 103); Ben (born two weeks after the disastrous "Schoolhouse" or "Children's" Blizzard that hit the northern Great Plains on January 12, 1888); followed by Emily, Thea, Emma, Josephine, and Oddie.

My mother recalled meeting her great aunt only once.  It happened during a trip she made back to Minnesota in the winter of 1947/48.  Mom's grandfather and Julia's brother, Ole Johnson, was hospitalized and not expected to live.  At the time, Julia had already sold her farm, having been a widow since 1918.  She was living with a daughter, Josephine (Larson) Knutson, and her family in a rental house near Montevideo.  Mom hardly got to visit with her great aunt, because Julia preferred to keep busy in the kitchen.  As a girl on the prairie, Julia had been well-taught how to make do in the kitchen with practically nothing, and she considered cooking her specialty.  Mom would never have another chance to see her great aunt, for Julia passed away at the age of 86, about a year and a half later.

One of Josephine's daughter's remembered that her grandmother tended to spoil her and her siblings, much to their mother's dismay.  Whenever the granddaughter offered to help with the dishes after a meal, Grandma Julia would tell her:  "Go out and play--you will have plenty of time to work when you are older."  Julia was described as a strong-willed woman who was never faint-of-heart.  She had been brought up to always be busy with something, and it was a habit she engaged in throughout her life, whether making lefse (a traditional Norwegian flatbread made from potatoes, flour, butter, and milk or cream), knitting mittens, or making doll accessories.  She passed along a love of gardening to her granddaughters.  Although Julia encountered plenty of challenges during her life, she always managed to keep a twinkle in her gray eyes--a constant reminder of the curious and adventurous prairie girl still hidden within.


Sources:

--Dorothy Knutson Joseph and Margjorie Knutson Skrukrud, daughters of Josephine Larson Knutson, letters to Chery Kinnick, 2005.
--Norway, Select Baptisms, 1634-1927, "Elen Julia Baarsdatter," Ancestry.com
--Land Entry File, Cert. 4668, "Larson, Erick," "Homestead Application," March 28, 1871, NARA, Washington D.C.

52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks (Week 1): First

First

The challenge for the beginning week of Amy Johnson Crow's 2019 "52 Ancestors in 52 weeks" has to do with "firsts," appropriately enough.  The inspiration that immediately came to mind was to write about my first relative on this Earth:  my mother, Doris.

Doris with Chery (age 2)

This is so important for me to write, yet so difficult.  I went through life never being able to accept that I would one day lose my mother.  In March of last year, she was hospitalized with a flu virus.  Although she recovered, she passed away from the complications of vascular dementia on August 3rd.  She lived a long life, spanning ninety-eight years, but I will never be one to say that it was long enough.  I feel like there were still so many firsts that we had yet to experience together, in addition to repetitions of comforting habits and traditions.  Out of necessity, I have gone through many "firsts" over the past months, including the first time I have helped a loved one through the end-of-life process; the first time I have spent my birthday, as well as Thanksgiving and Christmas, without a mother to share in them; my first up-close and personal experience with profound loss and deep grief, and more.  So many heartfelt and lonely firsts.  No matter how much loving support you have at times like this, you must navigate certain dark waters on your own.

As Mom's eldest child, I provided her with many of her own "firsts":  a first pregnancy; the first worrisome ride to the hospital for delivery; the first pains of motherhood (childbirth was only the beginning!); the first time she ever had to care for another individual "24-7";  the first time she ever heard the word "Mama" spoken to her; a first case of measles, a first day of kindergarten, the first time she had to begin letting go of a child who had become an adult, a first grandchild, and so on.

Mom grew up on a Norwegian-American farm near the small town of Leonard in northern Minnesota.  She cherished her rural upbringing and never wanted to leave.  But leave she did, as circumstances required.  At age twenty-five, immediately following the end of World War II, she reluctantly made her way to the west coast with an aunt.  The train was so crowded with military personnel that the only place they could sit was next to the bathroom, atop their suitcases.  As might be expected, during the last weeks of her life she often returned to the little farm of her youth, reliving the best parts of her memories.

It is in large part thanks to Mom that I appreciate history, genealogy, and family history.  As I grew, she took the time to share stories about the people and places of her childhood.  It was much like being exposed to sporadic installments of a historical novel.  Together with the family photos, letters, and cards that appeared in the mail on holidays or birthdays, these stories deposited themselves inside a mental treasure box that I did not find the key to open until I became older.

My mother was always the first to anticipate my fears and worries, and also my particular joys and abilities.  She was the first to correct, guide, comfort, and defend me.  She understood me.  And, she will always remain first in my heart.

52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks: Start

My blog and I need a shot of adrenaline, so this year I will be participating in Amy Johnson Crow's "52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks" challenge.  The spirit of this event hearkens back a decade or so ago, to when I was part of an online Genealogy Blog Carnival that also offered writing and research challenges.  Like "52 Ancestors," the event generated interest and team support among family historians of all experience and knowledge levels.  If you've ever considered participating in a group writing challenge as a way to organize or share your research, try it!  There is nothing like it for motivation and camaraderie, especially within the family history community.

A Family Historian Blinded by Science

My family and friends know how passionate I am about genealogy and history, especially Norwegian-American and pioneer history.  But, there are other topics that also manage to get my heart jumping in a joyful pitter-patter.  I confess--I am not just a family history nerd, but a bit of a science nerd, too.  I have Moon in my Room on a wall in my house, and I have been known to buy calendars with nothing but photos of Albert Einstein gracing the parade of months.

Like many, I can trace an avid interest to a pivotal time or moment during my youth.  I was in junior high school when a perfect storm of events catapulted me into a lifelong long interest in astronomy and science-fiction.  Many years later, it led to a relationship with my husband.  Well, sort of.  Before me, he had never met a woman who appreciated classic science-fiction.  When we met at a dance many years ago, he asked what my favorite movie was.  I responded that it was War of the Worlds (the 1953 version produced by George Pal), which was one of my all-time favorite confort movies to watch and rewatch.  His face lit up and he asked:  "Will you marry me?"  While he said it in jest then, he meant it more a little later on!

Today, I have limited time and energy to keep up with all the news on the science front.  But. I will never forget the sequence of events that began in the eight grade, opening my mind and changing my outlook on the universe... forever.

A traditional planetarium with an ant-like Zeiss projector never fails to get me twitterpated.

During the autumn of 1966, the first episodes of a new television series, Star Trek, aired, and the lunch-time crowd I hung around with at school was obsessed by it.  While I was becoming enamored of Mr. Spock on TV, I was also invited to join a Camp Fire Girls group.  The first outing I participated in was an educational visit to the old Chabot Observatory and Planetarium on Mountain Boulevard in Oakland, California.  Within the domed and darkened planetarium, the tall, bespectacled astronomer dazzled us with images of a breathtakingly starry night sky.  We also experienced sunrise and sunset, the Aurora Borealis, constellations rotating through the seasons, and we did not even have to go outside.

For Christmas that year, I was given a book on astronomy and a modest-priced telescope.  It was a refracting terrestrial model that was better suited for marine landscapes and bird watching, but I didn't care.  I was "over the moon" to have it, and it felt like the mysteries of the universe were at my fingertips, waiting to be caressed.  Later on, I added star charts and a subscription to Sky and Telescope magazine to my hobby supplies.

I began haunting the science-fiction section of my local library for novels and stories to read.  When I learned to drive, I explored library holdings all around Contra Costa County.  My favorite destination was the Pleasant Hill Library, which meant a scenic 20-mile drive from my El Cerrito home along a rural county highway.  I discovered so many other-worldy worlds within the library stacks thanks to:  Isaac Asimov, Robert Heinlein, Andre Norton, Ray Bradbury, Arthur C. Clarke, and more.

Then came Creature Features--a program that aired weekly in the Bay Area, with dry-humored, cigar-smoking Bob Wilkins as the host.  There were a lot of campy, low-grade horror movies watched on those Friday nights, but once in a while, the program delivered a classic of the type I appreciate to this day.  Included in these gems were the original Day the Earth Stood Still (1951), and the innovative Forbidden Planet (1956)--known for its Robby the Robot character and often considered to be the best science-fiction film of all time.  I was then on the hunt for more films of the same caliber.  Carl Sagan's Contact is one of the more modern sci-fi films that speaks to me in a poignant way.

A school friend of mine, Margot, had a father who belonged to the Bay Area Science-Fiction Club.  Through his membership, he hob-knobbed with some of the local authors whose work I had been selecting from library shelves.  When I was asked to join Margot and her father at a couple of science-fiction conventions, you had better believe that I lobbied my mother with all my might to be able to go.  Luckily, she did not find any reason to keep me at home.

One of the events we attended was Baycon (1968)--the 26th WorldCon (World Science Fiction Convention).  After presenting our admission tickets, Margot and I were let loose inside Berkeley's Hotel Claremont to discover things for ourselves, while her father went about on his own agenda.  There were exhibits of science-fiction art like I had never seen before.  There were hidden rooms down long hallways where authors, including the highly respected Ray Bradbury, and others in the publishing business, gave talks or had discussions.  In an area near the lobby, a panel of people sat behind a length of tables.  Margot pointed and said, "There's Gene Roddenberry!"  The screenwriter and producer of Star Trek, Gene Roddenberry, was being honored by authors in a field where television was little recognized at the time.  What we were witness to, but could hear little of due to the massing crowd, was Robert Silverberg's presentation of a Hugo Award to the relative newcomer, Roddenberry:

Robert Silverberg (popular science-fiction author and toastmaster of the Baycon Hugo Awards Ceremony, 1968):

 "What shall we do next? We have such a long, long list of events. I’m standing, I have my shoes off, it’s quite comfortable up here. Let us give out another of those little plaques now. There, that shiny one down there. Is there a Roddenberry in the house? I have here a plaque with long pointed ears. This is National Kiss an Executive Producer of Star Trek Week–Harlan [Ellison], kiss him for me... This object says “To Gene Roddenberry for Producing Star Trek, 1967, presented by the Baycon Committee September 1, 1968.” 

Gene Roddenberry:

 "Thank you so much. I’m touched. I am also thankful to Harlan for his response." 

(Baycon Hugo Awards ceremony)

All I can say is "Wow"--that I, as a 14-year-old girl, should have been so lucky.  Margot and her father also took me along to the Bay Area Science-Fiction Club's private release showing of the 1968 movie, 2001: A Space Odyssey, at a theatre on Market Street in San Francisco.  For the time, the movie was nothing less than jaw-dropping.

My budding interest in science turned more than just skyward.  Margot's mother took us to explore the Lawrence Hall of Science in the hills above the University of California Berkeley campus.  The view of San Francisco Bay from the parking lot was something to behold in itself.  But, the main thing I remember about the Hall in those early years was the large and dark lobby with many lighted cases where mineral spheres of all different sizes, colors, and patterns were on display.  They were mesmorizing.  My favorite pages within the Encyclopedia Britannica had always been the color photographs of gem and mineral specimens.  Lined up like smooth and precious marbles, the spheres hinted at a story deep in the Earth that I longed to know more about.  Sadly, the geology class I later took in college did not stimulate the romance I was looking for.

Lawrence Hall of Science in Berkely, California (postcard view).

As I continued to pursue interests sparked by the influence of some special friends during my middle school years, I attended several Star Trek conventions.  I have autographed souvenir photographs of cast members as proof.  I did not actually meet Leonard Nimoy ("Mr. Spock"), however, until many years later, when he gave a talk at the University of Washington campus while promoting one of his books.  As I reached the head of the line of people waiting for an autograph, he looked at me expectantly.  Suddenly I felt like I was in the eighth grade again.  I was so nervous that all I could do was smile bashfully.  Did I just lock eyes with Mr. Spock?  The historic moment did not fully sink in until later.  Spock was second in a short timeline of childhood crushes, preceded only by the "cute" Beatle, Paul McCartney.
 
When I lived in the Bay Area, I took every opportunity to visit the Morrison Planetarium in Golden Gate Park, San Francisco.  Morrison was one of the largest planetariums in the nation.  It has been modernized and is now a digital planetarium, but when I visited it was still operated by aprojector.  Attending evening planetarium shows when the California Academy of Sciences building was closed to the public meant lining up in a roped off area alongside towering models in the hall of dinosaurs--an added treat.  Also in the direct pathway of the line-up was the museum's famous Foucault Pendulum.  The pendulum's heavy bob, a hollow 16-inches in diameter brass ball, is suspended by aircraft control wire of a carefully determind length, and anchored to the ceiling.  As the bob swings across a wide pit, the Earth's rotation causes the direction of swing to "precess," or turn clockwise above the floor.  With so many cool things to look at within the building, and freedom from daytime crowds, I loved waiting in line and anticipating the planetarium show as much as the show itself.

Another experience I consider to be a highlight of my life were trips to Lick Observatory and its Summer Visitors Program.  As the world's first permanently occupied mountain-top astronomical observatory, Lick Observatory is reached by a well-constructed mountain road winding eastward from San Jose, California and the Silicon Valley, or by a much longer way around--south along the Mines Road from the backyard of Livermore.  From 1888, the observatory has been under the guidance of the Regents of the University of California.  The Visit Information website has a video of Lick's mountaintop location that was filmed by a drone, offering unique views.

Lick Observatory, Mount Hamilton, California

The Summer Visitors Program has been active for decades.  Once you reach the mountain top location, be prepared for a long evening.  Ticket-holders can enjoy the scenery of the Santa Clara Valley below and have time for a picnic dinner before the doors are opened.  After perusing the exhibits and gift shop in the main building, you can attend a lecture on a selected astronomy topic.  Visitors then have the opportunity to view the 120-inch Shane Reflector Telescope from behind a glass window inside its domed building, or look through one of two other telescopes.

The most popular event of the program is the chance to get up close and personal with the instrument the observatory is best known for:  the 19th-century 36-inch Great Refractor.  A select number of people are allowed inside the big dome at any time.  Stepping up and over the track where the dome turns atop the base of the building, you find yourself on a catwalk that hugs the inner curvature of the dome, but made safe by a railing. Then, in even smaller numbers, visitors are allowed to step down onto the wood floor and position themselves near the earth-end of the monster telescope.  But, instead of using just a stepladder to reach the eyepiece, the operator pushes a button to raise or lower the entire floor to bring the eyepiece in alignment with your eye!  I will never forget my first glimpse of the universe through that huge and historic refractor.  Within the dark view field sparkled Messier 13 (M13)--the Great Globular Cluster in the constellation of Hercules.  It was discovered in 1714 by none other than Edmond Halley, of Halley's Comet fame.  With a linear diameter of 145 light years, the Globular Cluster shone like a scattering of diamonds on a black velvet cloth.

Over time, there have been many other events that have fed my interest in science, especially astronomy.  Not least was the documentary series Cosmos:  A Personal Voyage, and its charismatic host and writer, astronomer Carl Sagan, with his penchant for explaining "life, the universe, and everything" in digestible, yet utterly fascinating, snippets.  And, let's not forget the launches of Voyager I and II, and years before those--the memorable day when humankind first set foot on the surface of the moon:  July 20, 1969.

Oh, and did I mention that I once took a drive to a comic book store some distance away from home, just to see a life-size paper mache model of the Martian made for the 1953 War of the Worlds movie?  I told you--a science and science-fiction nerd!

You may wonder what a post of this kind is doing in a blog that is all about Norwegian-American family history.  Since I am part of my own family's story, perhaps some of my tales are worth telling, too.  This is exactly the kind of detail that I often wish I knew about many of my departed relatives.  What did they find interesting or challenging?  What did they cherish the most?  What did they look forward to on a day-to-day basis?  What fueled their dreams and aspirations?

Have you thought about what sets your own heart to beating faster?  You have an opportunity to tell your story and eliminate a lot of guess work later on.  You never know who, present or future, may be listening!

The "Secret" Adventures of Tugboat Billy

It was not until I seriously began researching my adoptive father's genealogy that I found something unexpected among original records and documents.  He was a tugboat cook!  This was surprising to me, not only because my sister and I never heard about his maritime adventures, but because he never showed that much interest in boats, or the sea, in general.  Dad did like to fish upon occasion, but he did not go frequently.  He did not even swim very much, as far as I know.  So, never in a million years would I have guessed that my dad, William "Bill" Robert Wheeler (1922-1975), served on at least two tugboat runs in Pacific Northwest waters.  Perhaps it was a folly of his youth, or, perhaps he was challenging himself to try and raise a sum of money for a certain purpose.

The "Seattle Passenger and Crew Lists, 1882-1957" database on Ancestry.com reveals that he made two border crossings from Canada to the United States, well before he emigrated from British Columbia in 1948.

Bill Wheeler, in 1947/48 (age 25 or 26).  This image
was probably used as a passport photo.

Voyage of the Le Mars

The first document, a "list or manifest of aliens employed on the vessel as member of crew," shows that Dad was on the British MS Le Mars on July 20, 1940, when the tugboat made a port of call at Port Angeles, Washington, in the U.S., arriving from Vancouver, B.C.  There were eight crew members on board:  Stephen Carlson-master, Charles Plister-mate, Christopher Beaton-1st engineer, Oliver Wellman-2nd engineer, with Lawrence Leslie, Rodney Mayall, and James Bavester as "A.B." (able-bodied seamen).  Dad (William Wheeler), was signed on as cook.  Carlson and Wellman were longtime mariners with thirty years experience apiece.  Charles Plester had fifteen years of service under his belt, with eight years held by Beaton.  Leslie, Mayall, and Bavester each had a year's service accumulated, but Dad, only eighteen years old at the time, showed a length of service of "zero."  Obviously, it was his first trip out.  He was described on the manifest as being of "Scot" descent, with Canadian citizenship; he was 5 ft. 5 ins. tall and weighed 160 lbs, having no "outstanding physical marks, peculiarities, or disease."  He was definitely of Scottish descent, as his mother had been born and raised in Edinburgh, Scotland, and came to British Columbia only after marrying his father.

A modern-era photo of the Le Mars, more recently named Excaliber, ca. 2011. (http://forum.woodenboat.com/showthread.php?104894-Seattle-CL-Tugboat)



The Le Mars, 93 ft. long, was built in 1908, at the Wallace Shipyard in Vancouver, British Columbia.  Originally a steam powered tug, it was later modernized and refurbished with a diesel engine.  The tug had many names over the decades, including:   Osprey VII, S. S. Langston Hughes, and Illene.  It towed under the names of Le Mars and Excaliber for several companies.  (source:  http://retiredtugs.org/oldsite/newsletter/newsletter0201.pdf)

For further information about the Le Mars:  Excaliber ("Le Mars")


Ancestry.com, "Seattle Passenger and Crew Lists, 1882-1957."

Voyage of the Goblin

Dad's second tugboat voyage was aboard the British MS Goblin.  It traveled from New Westminster, British Columbia, to a port of call at Bellingham, Washington, arriving on January 26, 1942.  The Goblin was a smaller tug than the Le Mars, and Dad was one of only five crew members.  At this point, he had accumulated one month service at sea.  The master of the Goblin, John Lowry, was an Irishman with twenty-three years maritime service.  Robert Kinkaid, the engineer, topped at twenty-five years service, with Maurice Sjoquist, mate, and Norman Lowry, deckhand, having six and three years experience, respectively.  Dad was still a relative greenhorn, even though a year and a half had passed since his employment aboard the Le Mars.  Why did he make no further voyages between the recorded Le Mars and Goblin runs?

MS Goblin, towing a barge.
  (http://kleamanmarine.com/conversion_stories.htm)

A strong possibility for Dad's short length of service, overall, was because of a health issue he faced during that time of his life.  After serving as cook aboard the Le Mars in 1940, his physical description changed somewhat in 1942, on the Goblin manifest.  On the Goblin, he was twenty years of age, and at the same weight (160 lbs.), but his height had decreased a couple of inches, from 5 ft. 5 ins., to 5 ft. 3 ins.  He was also listed as being "crippled--left hip, and lame."  Is this the same William Wheeler, you might ask?  Well, yes... there is very little doubt in my mind.

Ancestry.com, "Seattle Passenger and Crew Lists, 1882-1957." 

With Bill Wheeler being my dad, I'm fairly certain about his appearance, vital statistics, and other particulars.  He was Canadian by birth, but emigrated from British Columbia to the United States at the age of twenty-six (his age is listed incorrectly as twenty-three on the border crossing document, although the birth date is correct).  Intending to become an American citizen, he crossed the border at Blaine, Washington by automobile on July 14, 1948.  The record lists his uncle's name and address in Oakland, California as his ultimate destination.  It correctly describes him as being 5 ft. 3 ins in height (the same as on the manifest for his voyage with the MS Goblin in 1942), and having brown eyes, brown hair, and two large linear scars on the front of both hips.  Yep, that was Dad.  But, how can we be sure that it is the same man, with the slightly different physical description, aboard the Le Mars on July 20, 1940?

Ancestry.com, "Border Crossings:  From Canada to U.S., 1895-1956"


Dad was born with congenital hip dysplasia.  He suffered through dozens of operations during his childhood at a Vancouver, B.C. orphanage.  But, hip surgery in the early twentieth century was not as advanced as it is now.  The best the surgeons could do, in the end, was to add steel plates in place of some of his hip bone and remove some of his femur.  After a couple of inches of bone were removed from his left leg, he walked with a pronounced limp.  This all happened years before my mother met him.  Based on varying physical descriptions of Dad:  on the Le Mars in 1940 (5 ft. 5 ins., with no scars or discerning marks); as opposed to the 1942 Goblin voyage (5 ft. 3 ins., with hip scars), it is apparent that the physically-altering surgery was done in about 1941, between his two stints as tugboat cook.

Bill Wheeler, 1953/54.  In this image, he shows off his catch, but you can also see evidence of his compromised physical condition.  With his left leg shorter than the right, following major hip surgery, he had to stand with his full weight on the left leg, and bend the longer right leg in order to accommodate his stance.


Could Dad have signed on for the atypical job of tugboat cook in order to obtain funds for his constructive surgery?  It's possible.  Though he made his second sea voyage aboard the MS Goblin in early 1942, following the surgery, he apparently never made another excursion after that.  Perhaps the second trip earned him enough income to finish paying necessary (hospital?) bills.  Or, perhaps he found that last trip a bit too much to handle.  Steaming down to Washington State aboard the Goblin in winter would have given a fuller effect due to choppier waters, especially as it was a smaller tug than the Le Mars.  Early tugboats did not offer very safe or comfortable accommodations, and it would have been no fun at all having to cook for the crew, if he could hardly stand the sight of food due to sea sickness!

Whatever reasons Dad had for taking on employment aboard the tugboats, it seems he intended it to be a temporary involvement.  He later worked in warehouses in Vancouver, before leaving British Columbia permanently.  After moving to California, he met my mother while they were both employed at the Bell Packing Company in Berkeley.

Hip dysplasia was not the only condition he struggled with.  He also suffered from Type I diabetes for much of his life.  But, even with significant health issues, he continued to work full time in packing and manufacturing plants for many years, engaged in physically demanding duties.  He would usually arrive home at the dinner hour, quite spent, but I do not remember hearing him complain about the cards he had been dealt.

When I was young, I could never fully appreciate the day-to-day difficulties and discomforts he faced.  My discovery of his "Tugboat Billy" adventures reveals more of the determination and stamina he was able to summon in the face of significant challenges.  Dad has been gone for many years now, and I was not old enough to be able to interact with him on a fully adult level before he died.  If I could, though, I'd like to tell him, "Dad, thanks for keeping at it from day-to-day as long as you possibly could, and for taking such good care of your family, in spite of the odds.  I love you."

I wonder what other adventures Dad may have had, that I have yet to discover?

Ten Things I've Learned in Ten Years of Blogging

I can hardly believe it, but it was 10 years ago on August 28th that I began Nordic Blue.  My efforts for an unseen audience began tentatively, nervously--prompted by the stellar example and success of a respected writing seminar classmate (have you ever heard of FootnoteMaven?)

From the blog's first baby steps, I had hopes of growing it into a burgeoning collection of family history material, gleaned from wherever on earth I could dig up data and stories, and maybe swiping a bit from the stratosphere, as well.  This blog, in part, represents the ebb and flow of my life over the past decade.  There have been discoveries along the way, and if you have tried blogging, I'm sure you have experienced much of the same revelations as those I list here, and perhaps more.

Chery in a contemplative mood, some years ago.

1.  If You Write It, They Will Come (Eventually)

...Distant cousins and interested parties, that is.  More than a few times I have been pleasantly surprised when a relation finds pertinent information on Nordic Blue. If I am contacted with questions or a request for further sharing, and/or offered appreciation for the information I have made available, it makes blogging worth the time and effort.

2.  It's Okay to "Dabble"

Lisa Louise Cooke of Genealogy Gems was a keynote speaker at the Northwest Genealogy Conference earlier this month in Washington State.  One of her memorable pieces of advice was that it is perfectly okay to "dabble" in genealogy.  We do not always have to be full steam ahead in research to enjoy both the hobby and the challenge.  Sometimes dabbling, or just keeping our feet a little wet in the sea of family history, is satisfying enough for the time being.  Each person should feel free to go at his or her own pace.  Family history should not be not a contest, but a pleasure!

3.  Sometimes, the Laundry Has to Wait

There are moments when a story starts spinning inside my brain, and the reel of thoughts unwinds so quickly that I fear it will get away from me.  I know then that I must sit down and write out the main points before all is lost.  Better yet, I need to get to a computer to type out a blog post draft before the dots connecting before my eyes begin to fade and float out of reach.  "Use it or lose it" is the motto under such circumstances.  Those moments of high creativity are never equal to any forced attempts at a later date.

In addition to important obligations like employment, commuting, and taking care of hearth and family, I can find dozens of reasons why I should not sit down to work on a blog post at any given moment.  And summertime?  Oh, don't get me started!  Summer in the Pacific Northwest is a colorful palate of possibilities:  long walks, berry picking, farmers' markets, canning and preserving, craft fairs, craft projects, antiquing excursions, country drives, picnics, outdoor concerts, gardening, staying in touch with family and friends, and just settling in the yard with a cold gluten-free beer to watch the trees grow.

Breathe...  it's okay.  It's called "life."

4.  Sometimes, the Laundry Can't Wait

Although I occasionally engage in the guilty pleasure of turning my back on the laundry, cleaning, shopping, etc., to do more enjoyable things like family history, everyday life is a distraction that will not be ignored for very long (thank goodness!).  My genes are full of farming blood, and my ancestors would all turn in their graves if I were to ignore my responsibilities on a regular basis. So, when I come home after a 12 or 13 hour day of working and commuting, my first thoughts usually do not settle on blogging.  Dinner needs to be pulled out of thin air, family members need to update me on their latest needs and thoughts, and yes, sometimes there really is laundry, too, or plants to water, dishes to clean, and on and on.  Plus, if the dog pulls one of those "poor me-you've been gone all day-look at my sad brown eyes" routines (bless his little pea-pickin' heart), then he and all of these other obligations must certainly come before any of my hobbies.  Last time I checked, I did not have a clone that I could implore to write blog entries, while the other me focuses on the world spinning 'round.  

5.  Get Refreshed

Just like getting some new clothes for the body once in awhile, the creative mind needs to be refreshed--even the mind of a family history blogger.  When was the last time you attended a genealogy conference, signed up for a writing class, listened to a podcast, joined or started a group, gave a presentation, bought a new book or CD about things genealogical, or even set a new research goal?  There is no time like the present.

6.  Upgrade Your Tools

The right tool for the job, so they say.  Are yours a little dusty or chipped around the edges?  Perhaps you could use some new ones.  I still have so much to learn, and the genealogy conference I just attended convinced me that Evernote and Google Earth Pro are tools I might not be able to live without in future.  Digital storytelling looks like a whole lot of fun, too.  Now I just have to make the time to learn to use them well.

7.  Strive for Improved Organization

Guilty, guilty!  I am a family historian who laments the lack of proper identification on vintage family photographs, but who is sloppy about doing the same for my own, more contemporary ones.  It hurts to admit that, but it is true.  Though once in awhile I make an effort to corral files on my laptop, do backups, and even look for duplicate photos stored online, there are certain things I procrastinate over.  None of us is perfect, but we can always make an effort to do better, especially when it comes to organization.

8.  Flex Your Family History Muscles

You can build your knowledge base and increase the resources available to you in many different ways.  Some ideas are:  join a genealogical society, and actually attend meetings; go to a library or archives--be bold and ask the reference staff some questions; plan out a research trip to somewhere you have never been before; volunteer time on a genealogy project, like photographing grave markers, transcribing data, or doing good deed lookups for others.  And yes, you can even start another blog. 

9.   Stay Open to Inspiration

Inspiration is all around us.  Yes, it's in that DNA test you just had done, but also in that little idea a friend just shared.  It's on display in a store window, tagging alongside on a field trip, and waiting inside your morning shower.  You can find it if you look hard enough.  Sometimes, a cup of good strong coffee helps you to see more clearly.

10.  Blogging Should Not Be a Chore

Blogging would not be so popular if it were not rewarding.  By all means, have a good time.  Try something different:  tell a new kind of story, make a few jokes, use your senses and imagination, but most of all, be you.

I'm looking forward to at least another ten years of blogging about family history.  I hope you will share in the Nordic Blue adventure, and allow me to share in your adventure, too!

Show and Tell for Posterity

Many family historians, myself included, take the necessary time and energy to track down every detail possible about their ancestors, but make very little time for recording their own lives and experiences.  Who would not rather learn about an ancestor through his or her own writings:  stories, letters, notes, and diaries?  Let's face it, though vital, census, and other genealogy records are useful in many regards, they lack personal perspective.  Like cocoa without sugar... hmmm, something's missing!

Family Tree magazine recently published an article with guidelines for answering some basic questions your descendants will probably want to know the answers to:  "16 Things to Write Down About Yourself for Posterity."  Diane Haddad, the author, states:  "We forget to preserve information about our own lives. Thus, in 100 or 200 years, our children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews will be struggling to understand our lives and what we were really like."  To make matters worse, most modern day correspondence is done digitally, through texting, e-mail, and social media, from which the data is not likely to be preserved.  We are less likely to find printed documentation generated by persons alive now within the archives, libraries, and depositories of the future, unlike the paper trail of previous generations.

So, what if you would like to leave a personalized record of your life experiences, but are not much into writing about yourself?  You have heard the saying that, "one picture is worth a thousand words."  A way to organize and preserve family history that I thoroughly enjoy is by designing photo books.  You can create them using many online vendors, including:  Costco Photo, Shutterfly, Snapfish, Walgreens, and others.  There are review websites than can help you determine which vendor to use.  Or, just pick one and dive right in!

Covers from a couple of photo "memory" books I created.

At this point, I have completed a half-dozen photo books, some that contain vintage family photographs, and others that serve as memory books (think "scrapbook").  I have plans for more, because they are fun to create, and the recipients really enjoy them.  Also, the books are "print-on-demand"; you can have just one printed at a time, or multiples.  Your book stays on the vendor website, protected by your log in and password, and it remains available to edit or print whenever you like.  As far as content goes, you could even address the "16 things to write down about yourself" by carefully selecting photographs, and then including names, dates, places, and other interesting information in the captions.  I scanned various memorabilia to add, as well:  cards, letters, childhood drawings, notes, and especially, genealogy and DNA charts.  I also created "favorites" collages using online images; these collages are based on the preferences of the person who is the subject of the memory book.

A "favorite things" collage.

Television shows that had a personal impact.

A Useful Tip

Since photo book vendors can only accept certain file extensions when images are uploaded (.jpg, .tif, .bmp, and .png), you may have to work around this a bit.  To create collages, I used a word processing program (Microsoft Word).  Then, I printed the finished pages out and scanned them as images, in order to create the correct file extension for uploading to the vendor's software.  There may be other methods to achieve the same result, but it is not as hard as it sounds--only a few extra steps are required.

A couple of photographs from my childhood along with a letter sent by Santa Claus (aka, my dad), mailed from North Pole, Alaska, of course!

A U.S. Army veteran's World War II memories.

As you can see, the possibilities are endless with photo books, either for your own story, or for someone else's.  They are fairly quick to self-publish, and there is no end to the ways you can be creative.  Once you get going, I think you will find it hard to stop.