Family History

 

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I first became interested in my family history when I was in my twenties and asked my grandfather and my grandmother’s brother to write down what they knew about their families. In those days, before computers and the internet, the only way to find out more was to visit Somerset House in London, which held all the birth, marriage and death records since 1837, or to visit local churches to look at original parish records and gravestones. With a young family and a full time job, that was impossible for me, so the family tree information was put in a file and almost forgotten.

Fast forward about thirty years, and a friend who was researching her family history told me about a couple of resources available on the internet. When I got home, I found my family tree file, searched for one of my great-grandfathers in the parish records which were online, and found him, along with several of his siblings. After that, I was hooked, and have spent many hours finding out more about my family, which has been a fascinating voyage of discovery. With some lines, I have been able to get back to the 17th century; with others, I have hit ‘brick walls’ in the early 19th century.

When I first started researching (in the late 1990s), online resources were fairly limited, but since then millions of genealogy records have been digitised. The information from my grandfather and great-uncle Joe proved to be an invaluable start, as it gave me the names of their siblings and parents, and also some details about their grandparents.

One of these always fascinated me – Uncle Joe’s grandfather i.e. my great-great-grandfather John, who was born in Liverpool in 1815 and became a mariner. This is the only photo (unfortunately damaged) I have of him, taken in the 1860's when he was in his fifties.

I obtained copies of his Mate’s and Master’s Certificates from a cousin which showed that he was first employed as a seaman in 1830 when he was fifteen. Uncle Joe said his grandfather John ‘sailed the world’ before joining the Isle of Man Steam Packet Company in 1838, which I was able to confirm. About six years later, John was promoted to captain of the paddle-steamer Ben-My-Chree and in the 1850s commanded other boats owned by the company, which transported cargo, mail, and passengers from Liverpool across the Irish Sea to Douglas in the Isle of Man.

Paddle Steamer Ben-my-Chree

I visited the Isle of Man about fifteen year ago and spent a rewarding day at the Heritage Centre in the town of Douglas, trawling through microfilms of the minutes of the Steam Packet Company and making notes of every entry that mentioned John. I also took dozens of photos of the inner harbour where the boats used to moor in John’s time, and visited the graveyard where three of his infant children were buried.

A few years ago, I discovered that the archives of Isle of Man newspapers had been digitised and indexed. £6 for 24-hour access – I stayed up very late that night! My reward was dozens of articles about John, many of them praising his excellent seamanship during stormy weather or with mechanical problems on his ships. I began to feel quite proud of my g-g-grandfather.

In 2019, having written several novels based in Ireland, I decided I need a change of direction. But in what direction should I go? One evening, after doing some more family research on Ancestry about John’s parents, I started to wonder about a family saga, covering three generations – John and his wife Betsy, their daughter Lizzie, and their granddaughter Beth. After a couple of false starts, I realised one novel covering all these would be far too long. It was as if John was telling me, ‘Write our story first.’ So I did, and gave my imagination free rein to bring John and his wife to life, along with other members of their families, in a story of secrets, jealousy, tragedy, and of course love and loyalty.

The result is my novel, ‘A Family’s Secrets’, the first of my ‘Follow Your Heart’ series, which will be published by BWL on February 1st. I hope you will enjoy it!

COWBOY COOKIES

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Links to all my historical novels:

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We're between the Christmas holiday and New Year. Here in the northeast we’ve had our first real cold snap, with a not-so gentle reminder that it’s soon to be another year.  December crackles and shrivels like a dead leaf. 

It’s a time when ancestors are remembered, sometimes in the patterns of light reflecting from 2017’s LED decked Christmas tree, sometimes in the carp-like mouths of Byer’s carolers you got from your Mom, sometimes in the low angle from which the northern sun sends rays into our aging eyes. 

I've had my mother-in-law, Carol Waldron, in mind, along with memories of shared holidays, all fast receding into the distant past. I’ve had something of a celebration for her, in fact. This is done in two ways, both which would probably amuse her. The first, and I’ve already talked about this one, is by wearing her 1970’s coat to the gym or anywhere convention doesn't require anything more than utility.  Despite the best efforts of the beautiful people—and don’t get me wrong—I’m in awe of their skill at self-presentation—I never looked anywhere near that good on my best young day—I still claim the right to wear an old coat sometimes. (Could it be the next frontier on the road to gender equality, the right to not give a damn about appearances?)

I suggested to Chris—who has been enjoying his time in our kitchen (working on his Palmdale Punjabi dinners)-- that he, for a change, try his hand at baking a batch of his Mother’s cookies for the holiday meal. This Christmas, in our case, was minimally attended.  My husband’s brother Nick would come up from Maryland, but he too would remember--and eat too many--of Carol’s cookies. Then we’d all have a sugar-induced spell of recollection about our clan as it was long ago in those long gone days of 20th Century yesteryear.

The recipe is titled Cowboy Cookies—and I think that says as much about the probable time of origin as anything.  The brand new media television thrived on cowboy shows, and boomer kids like me were crazy about Roy Rodgers and Dale Evans.

 (Carol, Springfield, MA H.S. Valedictorian)

Mid-1950’s, when all those educated young women were expected to morph into docile homemakers, Carol, the ex-chemistry major, would bake this recipe by the gross. She did so, too, and far too often, much to the detriment of everyone's waistline, but let no one say she was not enacting "Mom."

 A friend recently tasted one of these cookies and said she thought they were the original Tollhouse© recipe. These are nothing like the now fashionable gigantic, soggy, under-baked and laden with too much everything "cookie" of today. 

Cowboy Cookies deliver a balanced mixture of dough and additive. They are thoroughly baked. Although soft and gooey upon first emergence from the oven, they get even better after cooling overnight, becoming crunchy and buttery crisp along the edges.

   

 This Christmas, Chris used what we had in the cupboard, substituting about 1/2 cup brown flour for some of the oatmeal, which we’d run out of. And of course, following our taste-buds, we had Hershey’s© Special Dark chocolate chips and local black walnuts from one of the nearby farm markets for the gussying up.  

Cowboy Cookies

Sift together:

2 cups flour

1 tsp. soda

½ tsp. baking powder

In a separate bowl , cream together:

1 cup softened butter

1 cup white sugar

1 cup brown sugar

Once that’s fully integrated, slowly beat in two eggs.

Next, combine dry and wet mixtures.

Finally, add 2 cups of oatmeal, a bit at a time, and then work in the (chocolate) chips, nuts of whatever kind. Drop by teaspoon onto greased/parchment cookie sheet and bake for 350 degrees for 15 minutes.  Rack or paper cool. 

(Warning: sugar shock possible with unchecked consumption.) 

Happy New Year!
~~Juliet Waldron

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Sepia photographs and other stories revisited by Sheila Claydon

Eighteen months ago I wrote about a sepia print I found in a box of old photographs and how the beautiful young woman and dashing young man who were its main characters transfixed me. I was so intrigued by their apparent happiness that I tracked down their story and discovered that while it didn't have a sad ending, it didn't have a happy one either. By the end of their lives they were careworn and frail from years of hard work and semi-poverty. Their lives were typical of many people who lived in rural England in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.  (To read their full story search for Sheila Claydon 14 September 2014 on this website)

Of course research prompts possibilities for a writer and before long I had the beginning of a book. It wasn't the real story of Rose and Arthur, although it borrowed a lot of facts from their lives, it was the one in my imagination.

There were two problems, however. The first was that I was still in the middle of writing Miss Locatelli, my book set mostly in Florence in Italy. The second was that however much I tried to avoid it, Remembering Rose insisted on being  written in the first person, something I had never tried before. It wasn't Rose's voice that was telling the story though, it was Rachel, her great-great-granddaughter.

It took me a while to discover that Rachel wanted to be Rose's mouthpiece across the centuries but when I did I had another dilemma. Time travel! I'd never tried that before either.

There was another problem too. I mainly write contemporary romance, so how was that going to work in a book that was about someone from the nineteenth century?

The end result, after wrestling for weeks with various ideas, is a number of intertwined romances, some contemporary, some historical, as well as a sort of family saga, and of course that elusive time travel. By the time I finished I felt as if I had run a very difficult marathon but it was worth it. I love Rose and Rachel even though they are very far from perfect, and I love their heroes even more.

Writing Remembering Rose has been like piecing together a jigsaw puzzle and although the real Rose and Arthur will never know they were the inspiration for this story, and would probably be horrified at how I've interpreted them, I like to think they would forgive me for playing with their lives if they did.

Sheila Claydon's books can be found at Books We Love and Amazon . She also has a website and can be found on facebook

Family Trees by Gail Roughton

I've never been one to think knowing the names of one's great-great-great grandparents or the dates of their birth, or the name of the ship they left their ports of origin on made any family's lineage one bit better than the next.  After all, everybody has two parents, four grandparents, eight great-grandparents, sixteen great-great parents, thirty-two great-great-great grandparents, etcetera etcetera all the way back to Moses, whether they know all their names or not, now don't they?  

But don't get me wrong--I think family trees are fascinating and I applaud all who have the patience and fortitude to research their own. I don't. The names and dates start running together about the next generation back, especially when I hit the 1800's and big families were the norm, even up to those with fifteen and sixteen children. I know, because a few weeks ago, my husband got curious about a family legend passed down through one line of his family tree and was lucky enough to actually find some records which didn't provide any proof at all the family legend was true, but certainly established that one of his great-great (or was there another great thrown in?) grandmothers had sixteen kids in twenty-five years, bless her heart, and that's the southern bless your heart meaning "Oh, my Lord! That poor, poor woman!"

He didn't last all that long before his eyes started crossing, and just for the heck of it, I asked him to google my paternal grandfather's name because--you guessed it--my family'd passed down a story about that man and his two brothers. It seems that my grandfather (I'd always thought his name was Charlie William, but it turns out it was Charlie Wayne) and one of his brothers were walking into town to arrange for the funeral of another brother who'd just died when they were both electrocuted in a freak accident involving a downed power line, thereby necessitating three funerals instead of one.  Now, that's a story a writer'd never use in a novel 'cause they'd be afraid readers would consider it just too unbelievable.  I found it unbelievable myself, simply because realistically speaking, just how many power lines were up in rural Alabama in 1918 to get knocked down?! Surely all that story couldn't be true.  But that story, dear friends, that story's the absolute truth and nothing but the truth. And nobody's as surprised as me to make that discovery. Some kind soul, undoubtedly a relative of mine in some form or fashion, had kindly posted his obituary online, along with a picture that sits up on one of my bookcases, right  by my father's.  

Birth:	Feb. 14, 1882
Death:	Jan. 11, 1918
January 16, 1918 LaFayette Sun Tragedy at Shawmut Two brothers, Charlie and Abesco Roughton, of Shawmut, were instantly killed last Friday when they stepped into a pool of water which had been charged by a fallen electric wire carrying 55,000 volts. The young men were on their way to West Point to make arrangements for the funeral of their brother, John Roughton, who had just died of pneumonia. All three of the brothers were buried in the same grave at Shawmut. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Corrections: Abesco Roughton is Jacob Sebastian Roughton. Raughton is spelled Raughton, Roughton and Rotton. Sebastian's headstone does not list Jacob in his name and he was known by family as simply Sebastian. Jacob is listed on his life insurance policy. John T Raughton may have died of TB rather than pneumonia. Family oral history indicates a rain storm was in progress as Charlie and Sebastian left to make the funeral arrangement, planning on walking to West Point from Shawmut. One of the brothers stepped into a pool of water and was being electrocuted and the other brother tried to rescue him and both were killed. They are not buried in the same grave but next to each other. The headstones have a Masonic emblem. I was told that one or two of the brothers were Masons but due to the circumstance of their death, all were given a Masonic funeral.

This old article from The LaFayette Sun was under the obituary.

January 23, 1918 issue of The LaFayette Sun
Resolutions of Shawmut Lodge No. 798 A.F. & A. M.

Whereas, our Heavenly Father in his infinite wisdom has removed to the life beyond, two of our beloved friends and co-workers, Brother John T. Raughton, Worship Master and Charles W. Raughton, Junior Warden of Shawmut Lodge No. 798 A.F. & A.M. As husbands and fathers they were affectionate and true, as Masons, they were loyal and true to the principles and tenets of our order, and in their removal to the Celestial Lodge above we realize the great loss which we have sustained and our hearts are greatly moved; therefore be it resolved:

First - That although having sustained an irreparable loss we bow in humble submission to God, whom we know makes no mistakes.

Second - That in their death we have lost two noble men, two generous friends, two genial companions, men of true, sound judgment, prompt in action and faithful in matters of trust.

Third - That we reserve the memory of their useful lives and commend their examples worthy of emulation.

Fourth - That we extend to their sorrowing loved ones our heartfelt sympathy, beseeching the Father in Heaven to grant them consolation which they so much need, and which He alone can give.

Fifth - That a copy of these resolutions be spread on the records of our Lodge, and a copy be presented to the families, and a copy sent to the LaFayette Sun and to the Chattahoochee Valley Times for publication.

L. A. Cleveland, J. S. Wallis, C. H. Cole, Jr., Committee 

The links in that online article also provided me with pictures of my great-grandparents, Georgia Ann Anderson Raughton and Alonzo A. Raughton, and my great-uncle John T. Raughton. (I guess you noticed nobody in my family thought consistency in spelling was all that important.)

 I've actually seen all those graves, as well a few more, but that was way back in my younger days, when my daddy was alive and nothing was better than a day spent just driving around on Alabama country backroads, exploring old abandoned farmhouses and even older cemeteries. Certainly I'd never noticed/didn't remember/probably didn't even know that my grandfather and great uncles had Masonic headstones and for sure I didn't know the significance of that. There wasn't a picture of my grandmother, but there was a picture of her headstone. 

These little nuggets of family history are especially sweet since not only did I never know my paternal grandparents, for all intents and purposes my Daddy didn't either.  Charlie Wayne Roughton died three weeks before my father was born, and my grandmother died when Daddy was five, leaving him to be raised by his older sisters.  Mostly though, my Daddy raised himself in that Alabama Valley where men were either textile mill workers or sharecroppers and usually both, and he grew up fast. When he was twelve, he walked into one of those mills and worked one whole day. He swore at the end of that day he'd never set foot in another mill and he never did. He got a job as a carpenter's assistant and learned the construction trade. I'd say that decision qualified that twelve year old boy a man, wouldn't you?  He joined the Army during WWII and ended up in Macon, Georgia as a prison guard at Camp Wheeler. He never moved his family back to Alabama other than to visit.  When I was small, he supervised the construction of many buildings and facilities that still stand in Macon, and even today, passing by one of the sites where he oversaw construction makes my heart sing.  Had he had the chance for higher education, I've no doubt he'd have been one top-notch architect. Country roots are strong, sure, and they run deep. I'm from a long line of country, just like my Daddy. And country roots go deep. Speaking of which....

Small town Southern

Coming Soon

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