A Saturday night in San Jose (the 10th largest city in America--bigger than San Francisco, Detroit, and Washington, D.C., among others--did you know that?) is not like a Saturday night in, say, Chicago or Los Angeles. A Saturday night in San Jose is more like a Saturday night in Cleveland or Milwaukee. In other words, the perfect time and place for a gathering of family and friends for a 75th birthday party.
Dad's birthday party was a terrific success--he said so himself. All of his children were present and a large gathering of friends at a San Jose restaurant. Included were one of his high school classmates and a married couple he and my mother have known for more than fifty years. Another guest was a man who was also born in January 1932 and lived on the same street Dad lived on in Houston. Strangely enough, this fellow and my Dad didn't meet each other until about three or four years ago at the VA hospital in Palo Alto, California.
Of course, a number of the Bay Area Browns Backers turned out as well.
One of Dad's passions is music--jazz, specifically. I put together a couple of CD's of his favorite artists, including Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, Dizzy Gillespie, Duke Ellington, Charles Brown, Clifford Brown. Dad also liked Dinah Washington, Billy Eckstine, Nat King Cole, and the (very early) Beatles. I also found and put on the CD's radio news bulletins of significant events of the past 75 years, such as the attack on Pearl Harbor. My sister (who was largely responsible for the success of the evening) found some vintage film footage of the artists.
Dad recalled that in 1948 when he went to spend a year with his father in California, the first day they were in Los Angeles, they went to the Million Dollar Theatre downtown and saw a movie, a newsreel, and a live show. The live performer was Dizzy Gillespie.
A 75th birthday party for a parent is both fun and trying--yet you never want the music to end.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
How It Began
Who were these people? Aunt Pansy, Aunt Pearl. I was always mixing up Pearl and Pansy. I couldn't keep them straight. And how about Velma, Alta, Mrs. Dolphin . . . which were relatives and which weren't? Who knew?
My dad would say that one of these days he was going to sit down and do the family history. All he had to do was sit down with his relatives and get the stories from them. I was interested, too. When he got around to it, I knew that I would help him. But as the older relatives gradually departed, Dad would lament, "I wish I had asked him about . . . ."
And then there were the stories about my father's "Spanish" great great grandmother. So it was my father who first got me interested in genealogy. I think his interest came from the fact that he grew up without siblings. But the spark that he did smolder long time before it caught fire. In the meantime I heard from my mother about her Indian great-grandmother, and her "English" great-grandfather. Just who were they?
It took my Aunt Delorise Gines of Kansas City, Missouri, to really get the fire going. A few years ago, she published what she called the Gines family calendar and sent it out as Christmas gifts. It had names of relatives that I had never heard before. But it was a little bit short on dates and documentation. That was the shove that I needed. I determined that I was going to fill in the gaps in Aunt Delorise's work and my adventure began. It was really that simple. So here I am, obsessed.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
A Birthday Party for Dad
A few days ago on a family conference call with my siblings, my youngest brother, now nearly 49 years old, said "Do you suppose Dad ever had a birthday party when he was a kid?" As soon as he asked the question, we all knew the answer.
My dad will be 75 years old this week. He was born in rural South Texas at one of the lowest points of the Great Depression, less than 70 years after the Emancipation Proclamation. The town in which he was born, Rockport, Aransas County, had a population of less than 2000 people at the time. (Its estimated population in 2003 was about 8,500.) His parents were Jessie Beatrice Bowie (1909-1973) and Quentin V. H. Manson (1913-1987). His father was a jazz musician who left Texas in the 1940s to join the Central Avenue scene in Los Angeles. His mother worked most of her life as a domestic servant. When his parents split up, his mother sought work in the big city of Houston, leaving my dad behind on the Gulf Coast in the care of family and friends and others. The others included an influential German immigrant merchant family in Rockport to whom my dad's family was virtually indentured.
Family and friends and the merchant family paid scant attention to my dad's educational needs. So, according to a family story, my dad one day decided to enroll himself at school. And he walked and walked and walked until he came to a school which happened to be a Catholic school. He told the nuns he was in second grade (although he had never been to school before). I doubt that this story is true. Nonetheless, it is clear that the authorities in Aransas County had decided that they were not going have black children in their schools. As a result, some of my dad's cousins, including George and Dorothy Stafford, or to the Greyhound A. every morning for 30 mile trip to Corpus Christi in Nueces County. Aransas County was more than happy to pay the travel fees.
At some point my dad began splitting his time between Houston and Rockport. When he was with his mother in Houston, he went to school. She saw to it. But since he was not being educated in Rockport, Nana refused to pay the property taxes due on the Bryant homestead which she had inherited. Curiously, the authorities did not pursue the issue with her. (In 1962, long after he had left Texas, my dad, by then a captain in the United States Army, received a tax bill from Aransas County for his mother's overdue taxes).
Eventually my dad lived full-time in Houston with his mother and went to school there. He attended Phyllis Wheatley High School, but spent one year at Thomas Jefferson High School in Los Angeles where his dad lived. Houston was so different from Rockport it might have been Mars. Houston had paved streets and traffic lights. Houston had parks. And best of all Houston had public libraries.
Recently Dad described to me his reaction upon first being in a public library in Houston: "All those newspapers!" Newspapers became his passion. Dad didn't just read newspapers, he studied newspapers. He he read every newspaper he could get his hands on some big cities to small towns. He knew the great newspapers from the good newspapers from the average newspapers from the poor newspapers. He knew the big newspaper companies. He knew the names and something about the newspapers in virtually any city you could name. (Trivia game: "Wichita, Kansas?" "Wichita Eagle." "Long Beach, California?" "Press-Telegram.") He had found his calling. His love of newspapers would later be to my great benefit. Before I was old enough to go to school, my dad would sit me on his lap and read the newspaper to me. Not the comics; the front page. He would teach me words. By the time I did go to school, I had a bit of a head start on reading.
In 1951, as his high school graduation approached, Dad wasn't entirely sure what his next step would be. Late in the semester, a teacher told him about a journalism scholarship at Lincoln University in Missouri.
Dad met Mom at Lincoln University. He dreamed of working in a big city newsroom. But that would have to wait until after his ROTC commitment, and until big-city newsrooms were hiring black journalists.
Dad never did get to work in a big city newsroom. He stayed in the Army for 20 years and retired at the rank of lieutenant colonel. His last assignment was as deputy commander of the Defense language Institute in Monterey California. He earned a master's degree in public administration from the University of Oklahoma. He went on to a second career as an administrator at San Jose State University in California. And when he retired from that, he decided he wanted to be a paralegal. He went to school and got a paralegal certificate, and was hired by a prominent law firm in the South Bay area. After five years as a paralegal, Dad retired for good. He turned his attention to running the largest Cleveland Browns fan club in the world, the Bay area Browns backers which he had founded. (How a native of South Texas who had never been to Cleveland until he was into the 60s became the leader of the Browns fan club in the San Francisco Bay area is yet another story.) He was active in other community affairs as well, including being the foreman of the County grand jury one year.
In his last visit to Rockport before college, one of the Pictons offered Dad lifetime employment as her chauffeur. She was actually perplexed when he said he would rather go to college.
San Jose, California in the year 2007 is about as far away from Rockport Texas in 1932 as Pluto is from the sun. In the time and space between, my dad, born at home delivered by a midwife, became the first person in his family to go to college and to earn an advanced degree; reached a high ranking as an Army officer; acquired assets equal to the entire assessed valuation of Aransas County in 1932; raised four children all of whom went to college; and earned the respect of his community. I cannot possibly find words to convey the significance of this unlikely journey. A bookmaker would have given better odds that he actually would go to Pluto. For for a poor black child from a single-parent home, born in the midst of the Great Depression in circumstances not much different than they had been in the 1860s, to achieve what my dad has achieved is nothing short of incredible.
I became the first in our family to go to law school, achieved an even higher military rank my dad did, worked for a California Governor, was a Superior Court judge, and served at the sub-Cabinet level as a Presidential appointee. Nobody should be impressed. These things were low-hanging fruit as I stood on my father's shoulders.
So Dad will have a birthday party this weekend . . . and there will be funny hats!
My dad will be 75 years old this week. He was born in rural South Texas at one of the lowest points of the Great Depression, less than 70 years after the Emancipation Proclamation. The town in which he was born, Rockport, Aransas County, had a population of less than 2000 people at the time. (Its estimated population in 2003 was about 8,500.) His parents were Jessie Beatrice Bowie (1909-1973) and Quentin V. H. Manson (1913-1987). His father was a jazz musician who left Texas in the 1940s to join the Central Avenue scene in Los Angeles. His mother worked most of her life as a domestic servant. When his parents split up, his mother sought work in the big city of Houston, leaving my dad behind on the Gulf Coast in the care of family and friends and others. The others included an influential German immigrant merchant family in Rockport to whom my dad's family was virtually indentured.
Family and friends and the merchant family paid scant attention to my dad's educational needs. So, according to a family story, my dad one day decided to enroll himself at school. And he walked and walked and walked until he came to a school which happened to be a Catholic school. He told the nuns he was in second grade (although he had never been to school before). I doubt that this story is true. Nonetheless, it is clear that the authorities in Aransas County had decided that they were not going have black children in their schools. As a result, some of my dad's cousins, including George and Dorothy Stafford, or to the Greyhound A. every morning for 30 mile trip to Corpus Christi in Nueces County. Aransas County was more than happy to pay the travel fees.
At some point my dad began splitting his time between Houston and Rockport. When he was with his mother in Houston, he went to school. She saw to it. But since he was not being educated in Rockport, Nana refused to pay the property taxes due on the Bryant homestead which she had inherited. Curiously, the authorities did not pursue the issue with her. (In 1962, long after he had left Texas, my dad, by then a captain in the United States Army, received a tax bill from Aransas County for his mother's overdue taxes).
Eventually my dad lived full-time in Houston with his mother and went to school there. He attended Phyllis Wheatley High School, but spent one year at Thomas Jefferson High School in Los Angeles where his dad lived. Houston was so different from Rockport it might have been Mars. Houston had paved streets and traffic lights. Houston had parks. And best of all Houston had public libraries.
Recently Dad described to me his reaction upon first being in a public library in Houston: "All those newspapers!" Newspapers became his passion. Dad didn't just read newspapers, he studied newspapers. He he read every newspaper he could get his hands on some big cities to small towns. He knew the great newspapers from the good newspapers from the average newspapers from the poor newspapers. He knew the big newspaper companies. He knew the names and something about the newspapers in virtually any city you could name. (Trivia game: "Wichita, Kansas?" "Wichita Eagle." "Long Beach, California?" "Press-Telegram.") He had found his calling. His love of newspapers would later be to my great benefit. Before I was old enough to go to school, my dad would sit me on his lap and read the newspaper to me. Not the comics; the front page. He would teach me words. By the time I did go to school, I had a bit of a head start on reading.
In 1951, as his high school graduation approached, Dad wasn't entirely sure what his next step would be. Late in the semester, a teacher told him about a journalism scholarship at Lincoln University in Missouri.
Dad met Mom at Lincoln University. He dreamed of working in a big city newsroom. But that would have to wait until after his ROTC commitment, and until big-city newsrooms were hiring black journalists.
Dad never did get to work in a big city newsroom. He stayed in the Army for 20 years and retired at the rank of lieutenant colonel. His last assignment was as deputy commander of the Defense language Institute in Monterey California. He earned a master's degree in public administration from the University of Oklahoma. He went on to a second career as an administrator at San Jose State University in California. And when he retired from that, he decided he wanted to be a paralegal. He went to school and got a paralegal certificate, and was hired by a prominent law firm in the South Bay area. After five years as a paralegal, Dad retired for good. He turned his attention to running the largest Cleveland Browns fan club in the world, the Bay area Browns backers which he had founded. (How a native of South Texas who had never been to Cleveland until he was into the 60s became the leader of the Browns fan club in the San Francisco Bay area is yet another story.) He was active in other community affairs as well, including being the foreman of the County grand jury one year.
In his last visit to Rockport before college, one of the Pictons offered Dad lifetime employment as her chauffeur. She was actually perplexed when he said he would rather go to college.
San Jose, California in the year 2007 is about as far away from Rockport Texas in 1932 as Pluto is from the sun. In the time and space between, my dad, born at home delivered by a midwife, became the first person in his family to go to college and to earn an advanced degree; reached a high ranking as an Army officer; acquired assets equal to the entire assessed valuation of Aransas County in 1932; raised four children all of whom went to college; and earned the respect of his community. I cannot possibly find words to convey the significance of this unlikely journey. A bookmaker would have given better odds that he actually would go to Pluto. For for a poor black child from a single-parent home, born in the midst of the Great Depression in circumstances not much different than they had been in the 1860s, to achieve what my dad has achieved is nothing short of incredible.
I became the first in our family to go to law school, achieved an even higher military rank my dad did, worked for a California Governor, was a Superior Court judge, and served at the sub-Cabinet level as a Presidential appointee. Nobody should be impressed. These things were low-hanging fruit as I stood on my father's shoulders.
So Dad will have a birthday party this weekend . . . and there will be funny hats!
Five Things
I've been tagged by Denise Olson of Moultrie Creek, and Randy Seaver at Genea-Musings Thanks (I think), Denise and Randy! So I have to disclose five things about myself that you might not already know, then tag five other folks. This meme goes back a bit and, of course, in many, many, directions. Worldwide Web, indeed!
Okay, here we go:
1. I learned German the hard way (or, according to most linguists, the easy way). I went to a German ("German" as in it was actually in Germany!) kindergarten at age 5, where only German was spoken. Now, almost fifty years later, I've forgotten most of it (which was about as easy as learning it).
2. I lived for about a year in a 400 year old thatched roof cottage in a small town in Norfolk, England. I rented the place in July, 1981--around November it occurred to me that central heat was not a 16th century amenity.
3. I would do anything to be back in radio--commercial radio as it was in the 1960's and '70's. I'd be a morning guy on a huge AM rocker like KQV or WHB or KFRC or WLS. Heck, I'd even be an overnight guy on a little bitty central California station like the old KMBY in Monterey (hey, wait a minute--been there, done that--KMBY Monterey overnight, that is).
4. I started college intending to be an astrophysicist.
5. I may be the only genea-blogger who's actually played professional baseball. I use the term "played" in the least meaningful way. When I was 14, I won a newspaper contest to become the batboy for the Albuquerque Dodgers, then the Class AA Texas League affiliate of the Los Angeles Dodgers. I spent the entire season with the team--an adolescent fantasy come true! Our manager was the former All-star catcher Del Crandall. We had a galaxy of future major league stars that summer: Steve Garvey, Ron Cey, Billy Buckner, Charlie Hough, Von Joshua, to name a few. Despite this apparent surfeit of talent, we had a lousy season, finishing dead last in the league's western division behind the despicable El Paso Sunkings. On September 2, 1969, the last day of the season, in a meaningless game with the said Sunkings at Albuquerque Sports Stadium, in the ninth inning, when all hope was gone as we trailed the loathsome fellows from the bordertown, Del Crandall ordered me into the game as a pinch-runner at first base. There were two outs already as I took a generous lead off the bag. The next Dodger batter (wish I could recall who it was) hit a hard ground ball to the El Paso shortstop and I was forced out (of the game, the season, and pro baseball) at second base. The ball game was over. Now there was work to do for a batboy. As I jogged off the field, I caught a glimpse of my dad beaming from his seat behind home plate. The last game of the season was the first (and only one) he'd been to; he had returned just hours earlier from a different season in a different hemisphere--a place called Vietnam.
So, I tag Katie, Dana, Demetrius, and Dave.
Okay, here we go:
1. I learned German the hard way (or, according to most linguists, the easy way). I went to a German ("German" as in it was actually in Germany!) kindergarten at age 5, where only German was spoken. Now, almost fifty years later, I've forgotten most of it (which was about as easy as learning it).
2. I lived for about a year in a 400 year old thatched roof cottage in a small town in Norfolk, England. I rented the place in July, 1981--around November it occurred to me that central heat was not a 16th century amenity.
3. I would do anything to be back in radio--commercial radio as it was in the 1960's and '70's. I'd be a morning guy on a huge AM rocker like KQV or WHB or KFRC or WLS. Heck, I'd even be an overnight guy on a little bitty central California station like the old KMBY in Monterey (hey, wait a minute--been there, done that--KMBY Monterey overnight, that is).
4. I started college intending to be an astrophysicist.
5. I may be the only genea-blogger who's actually played professional baseball. I use the term "played" in the least meaningful way. When I was 14, I won a newspaper contest to become the batboy for the Albuquerque Dodgers, then the Class AA Texas League affiliate of the Los Angeles Dodgers. I spent the entire season with the team--an adolescent fantasy come true! Our manager was the former All-star catcher Del Crandall. We had a galaxy of future major league stars that summer: Steve Garvey, Ron Cey, Billy Buckner, Charlie Hough, Von Joshua, to name a few. Despite this apparent surfeit of talent, we had a lousy season, finishing dead last in the league's western division behind the despicable El Paso Sunkings. On September 2, 1969, the last day of the season, in a meaningless game with the said Sunkings at Albuquerque Sports Stadium, in the ninth inning, when all hope was gone as we trailed the loathsome fellows from the bordertown, Del Crandall ordered me into the game as a pinch-runner at first base. There were two outs already as I took a generous lead off the bag. The next Dodger batter (wish I could recall who it was) hit a hard ground ball to the El Paso shortstop and I was forced out (of the game, the season, and pro baseball) at second base. The ball game was over. Now there was work to do for a batboy. As I jogged off the field, I caught a glimpse of my dad beaming from his seat behind home plate. The last game of the season was the first (and only one) he'd been to; he had returned just hours earlier from a different season in a different hemisphere--a place called Vietnam.
So, I tag Katie, Dana, Demetrius, and Dave.
Friday, January 19, 2007
More on ID Theft, Privacy, and Genealogy
I recently opined about the "dangers" of identity theft through genealogy. Randy Seaver has an excellent piece on this topic yesterday. Recommended reading!
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Some Info On Texas Birth and Death Records
I have written occasionally about my mostly positive experience getting Texas birth and death records. I recently came across this article at Genealogymagazine.com that adds some important information about researching Texas death records.
By the way, Texas (not surprisingly) has an "Heirloom Birth Certificate" available for your favorite Native Texan. It can be ordered through Texas Online. I'm getting one soon for my favorite Native Texan (who I'll be writing about in this space very soon). I'll let you know how that goes.
By the way, Texas (not surprisingly) has an "Heirloom Birth Certificate" available for your favorite Native Texan. It can be ordered through Texas Online. I'm getting one soon for my favorite Native Texan (who I'll be writing about in this space very soon). I'll let you know how that goes.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Los Angeles: Please Contact Me
If you live in Los Angeles and have been searching recently for "Lee Chester Manson" on Google, please contact me by e-mail: craig@geneablogie.com.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Nana Brings Soul Food
My grandmother, Jessie Beatrice Bowie (1909-1973), was born in San Antonio, Texas, but was raised primarily in the rural areas of Aransas and Nueces Counties along the Gulf Coast. She spent most of her life as a domestic servant for rich people in large cities. But by the late 1950's, when I got to know her, "Nana" seemed to be fairly well-off. She travelled on the first scheduled jet flight between New York's Idlewild Airport (now JFK International Airport) and Frankfurt, Germany, and returned aboard the SS United States. She bought a house in the hills outside Pasadena, California.
I'll never forget one particular time that Nana came to visit us when we lived in Albuquerque. (We lived in what I call the "ultimate gated community"--a semi-secret atomic weapons research base nestled against the Sandia Mountains southeast of the city. The residential areas of the installation had the loops and cul-de-sacs typical of suburbia).
I believe it was 1962. The reason this particular visit stood out was because it was the first time Nana prepared a typical Southern meal for us, including "chitterlings." This was to be an experience for me and my siblings, accustomed as we were to our mother's Midwestern "comfort" recipes and our new-found taste for Mexican cuisine.
My mother seemed less than thrilled about turning her kitchen over to such an exotic adventure. Soon, it became clear to me why. The smell of "chitlins" cooking (having been thoroughly cleaned) is unforgettable . . . 'nuff said! We (my sister and brothers and I) hoped not to have explain it to our neighbors, who mostly weren't from the South.
The meal was quite good, actually; the main dish being an acquired taste made easier with a little hot sauce.
Nana learned Southern cooking from her mother, Hattie Bryant (1888-1944) and her grandmother, Maria Martin (1861-1931). On the Gulf Coast, all of the women had lived and worked in proximity to German immigrants. The German farmers were enthusiastic hog raisers and had their own recipes for most of the parts of the animal.
We only had meals like that when Nana visited. Now that she's gone, "soul food" from the kitchen is nearly a lost art--certainly nobody in the family dares fix "chitlins."
Here's a popular contemporary recipe:
Adapted in part from Yahoo Answers
Chitlins and Maw
Ingredients
2 lb pork maw
2 tb salt
2 ts crushed red pepper flakes
4 stalks celery -- finely chopped
4 sm onions -- finely chopped
4 sm green bell peppers -- cored, seeded and finely chopped
5 lb precooked chitlins
Instructions
1. Wash the pork maw thoroughly in several changes of cold water. Drain thoroughly and place in a large pot with enough cold water to cover by 2 inches. Add the salt, red pepper, and half of the celery, onions, and green peppers. Heat to boiling, reduce to simmering, and cook, covered, until tender. This could take anywhere from 1 1/2 to 3 hours, depending on the maw.
2. Meanwhile, wash the chitlins carefully in several changes of cold water. Drain thoroughly. Refrigerate until needed.
3. Drain the cooked maw and reserve the cooking liquid. Place the chitlins in a large pot and add enough of the maw cooking liquid to cover by 2 inches. Add the remaining celery, onions, and green peppers. Heat to boiling, reduce to simmering, and cook, covered, until tender, about 1 hour and 30 minutes.
4. Meanwhile, when the pork maw is cool enough to handle, cut it into 1-inch pieces.
5. When the chitlins are tender, stir in the maw pieces and simmer together a few minutes. Check the seasoning and serve hot.
And now, a food safety tip from the Cobb County, Georgia, Extension Service of the University of Georgia and Fort Valley State University:
Work with chitlins in one small area of the kitchen. Use only chitterlings that are pre-cooked or pre-boil chitterlings for 5 minutes before cleaning. This boiling process will kill the bacteria so it will not spread throughout the kitchen. While chitterlings are boiling, the Department of Human Resources recommends cleaning the kitchen thoroughly with scouring powder.
This cleaning process would need to include sinks, pans, counters and any utensils that have come in contact with the chitlins or juice. After cleaning and rinsing thoroughly to remove all traces of scouring powder, a chlorine bleach solution of 1 tablespoon per gallon of warm water could be used as an extra measure of protection. Apply this solution to surfaces and allow it to air-dry. Once the chitterlings have been "pre-boiled" they should be cleaned as usual. Cook the chitlins thoroughly before they are eaten.
Don’t forget to thoroughly clean hands.
Finding Dr. King's Roots in Slavery
Dr. Joel Branham (1799-1877)Eatonton, Putnam County, Georgia
Did his family hold the ancestors of Martin Luther King, Jr.
in slavery?
[Photo from Digital Library of Georgia]
In addition to “Marvin, Jr.,” the census records a daughter, Willie. The Kings live next door to “Allen” D. Williams, a Baptist preacher, and his wife, “Jimmie.” In his autobiography, Dr. King tells us that his mother was the daughter of the Rev. A[dam] D[aniel] Williams.
The 1920 census of Fulton County shows Adam D. Williams, his wife “Jennie" [Parks], (her correct name) and daughter Alberta. In Henry County, the census counts a Jim King, a farmer, his wife “Dealy,” and seven children. In his autobiography, Dr. King relates that his father was from Stockbridge in Henry County, Georgia. The indisputable King Encyclopedia says that Dr. King’s grandfather was James Albert King, who married Delia Linsey, and that they were from Henry County.
In the 1910 census, Adam D. and Jennie C. Williams have their names spelled correctly. They are in Fulton County. At the same time, James King, Sr., is a resident of Henry County, and his household includes a son “Michael,” then about 12 years old.
Martin Luther King, Sr., was known as “Michael,” at least until he was 22 years old. At that time, according to the New York Post in April, 1957, his father told him that his true name was “Martin,” but that his mother had nicknamed him “Mike.” [The senior "M.L." King went on to say that he had intended to name his son "Martin," and did not know until 1934 when the boy was five years old that the name "Michael" had been put on the birth certificate. The elder King said he found this out when he was applying for a passport. Reliable sources suggest that the senior King had gone to Germany at that time.]
The odd thing about the 1910 census is that James King’s place of birth is shown as Ohio (as is his mother’s) and his father is said to be a native of Ireland. On the 1900 census, this same assertion is apparent, except that his father’s birth place is given as Pennsylvania.
The 1900 census shows us one Nathan King, a day laborer in Jones County, Georgia. He’s counted with his wife “Malinde” and three children.
In 1880, Nathan King was listed in Putnam County with wife Malinda and seven children, one of whom is named James and appears to be James Albert King, Dr. King’s grandfather.
Back another decade, in 1870 (the first time most blacks were identified by name in the census), there is no Nathan King family in Putnam County, Georgia. There is, however, a Jacob Brannum, age 65, heading a household that includes 38 year old Nathan and 24 year old Malinda, as well as 5 year old James (whose last name is spelled “Branham”). The ages of Nathan and Malinda Brannum and their four children are consistent with the ages of Nathan and Malinda King and their families.
The Branhams were prominent landowners and slaveholders in central Georgia. They were of Irish ancestry and had moved to Georgia from Virginia in the late 1700’s. In the mid-nineteenth century, Henry Branham and Joel Branham were key figures in the family and in Putnam County. Henry owned 29 slaves in 1850, while Joel owned twelve. Both men were physicians.
Dr. Joel Branham attended the birth of one of Putnam County’s most famous residents: the controversial writer, Joel Chandler Harris, who apparently was named after him. A folklorist and journalist, Harris wrote the Uncle Remus stories.
(Another prominent literary figure born in Putnam County is the Pulitzer laureate Alice Walker [The Color Purple], who is fiercely critical of Harris, accusing him of "stealing" African-American heritage).
In any event, it is possible that the Branham family held Dr. King's ancestors as slaves. Note, however, that in 1870, there were also a number of blacks in Putnam County enumerated under the name "King." This suggests, of course, that there was a slaveowner named King in that locale. Indeed, Elisha L. King and his wife, Elizabeth Ann, owned 15 slaves in Putnam County as of 1860.
What to make of this name change? Many freed slaves took the names of their recent owners; however, many took other names. It may well be that Dr. King's ancestors were first owned by the King family and then by the Branhams when freed. The theory would be that they took the Branham name first and, later, for whatever reason, decided to change it to the King name. One reason for such a switch may have been to bring family members together under the same name.
The genealogist William Addams Reitwiesner lists a white man named William Nelson Williams (1804-1863) as Dr. King's great-great-grandfather on his mother's side. Williams supposedly had a "non-marital liaison" with an unnamed woman. It's not clear what supports this assertion. See The Ancestry of Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. Following that line back one more generation, Reitwiesner shows William Williams (1772-1835) and Rachel Nelson (c.1774-1851) as the next great-grandparents. These people were from North Carolina, but ended up in Dallas County, Alabama.
As is the case for many African-Americans, tracing Dr. King's ancestry past the middle of the 19th century is not a simple matter. Perhaps some young researcher will take up this matter as a tribute to Dr. King and his message of brotherhood.
Other Resources:
The Martin Luther King, Jr., Research and Education Institute (at Stanford University)
The Library of America--Reporting Civil Rights (biography of New York Post writer Ted Poston)
Saturday, January 13, 2007
The Genealogy of Martin Luther King, Jr.
One would think in the Cyber Age, it would be easy to find a rather complete genealogical study of an historic figure like Martin Luther King, Jr. Turns out, that's not the case. There are sources that identify Dr. King's parents and grandparents, but few go beyond that. Ancestry.com has a "Famous Family Tree" that goes back to King's great-grandparents. (Ancestry.com has transcribed the 1930 census of
Rootsweb.com’s WorldConnect Family Tree Project has one posting for Martin Luther King, Jr., that seems fairly close to the generally known facts of Dr. King’s family history. This tree was updated on December 31, 2006.
Click on these images to see how Martin Luther King, Jr. , was enumerated on 1930 census. Did the enumerator get it wrong or did Ancestry.com transcribe it incorrectly? (Images Copyright (c) MyFamily, Inc.)
The most extensive on-line source that I found concerning the genealogy of Martin Luther King, Jr. is on a rather spare, somewhat peculiar site called WARGS. This site is owned by one William Addams Reitwiesner (“WARGS” is an acronym for “William Addams Reitwiesner Genealogical Services”). Reitwiesner is a genealogist who specializes in celebrities, politicians, and historical figures. Reitwiesner traces Dr. King’s maternal line back six generations.
The Reitwiesner work is based largely on census records and such. It is not extensively documented, as Reitwiesner candidly admits. However, it does seem consistent with known and demonstrable facts.
Next: Finding Dr. King's Roots in Slavery
The Dream
I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood . . . .
That's a powerful line in one of the greatest oratories in American history--"I Have a Dream," delivered by the Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr., August 28, 1963, at the Lincoln Memorial, Washington, D.C. It was the zenith of the "March on
Did you know: Martin Luther King, Jr. was named after his father, Michael Luther King, Sr.? That's no typo. Both the civil rights icon and his father, sometimes known as "Daddy King," were named "Michael" instead of Martin at birth. In April, 1957, "Daddy King" told the New York Post the story behind the name changes. When he was about 22, his father, James Albert King, told him that his true name was “Martin” and that his mother had nicknamed him “Mike.” Daddy King said that when Martin was born (at home), the attending birth specialist, having known the senior King for a very long time, "automatically" put down "Michael" on the son's birth certificate. Daddy King claimed not to have discovered this until 1934, some five years later, he applied for a passport. By this time, the erstwhile farmer had completed his studies and was a minister.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
The Basques
So I was watching Gunsmoke again (TVLand, check local listings), an episode called "Manolo." In a settlement of sheep-raisers just outside Dodge City, a young man refuses to fight his father in order to establish his (the young man's) manhood, as is the custom in their culture. As a result, the young man is effectively banished (indeed, with his consent) from the community and finds a job sweeping up at the Long Branch. (This is one of the rare post-Amanda Blake episodes, so the bar is owned by a woman named Hannah--played by Fran Ryan).
What Indian tribe are we talking about? None--the people here are Basques.
The Basque people's homeland is in the Pyrenees region between France and Spain. They speak a language called Euskara. They are largely Roman Catholic; both Francis Xavier and Ignatius Loyola were Basques. The Basque culture is strongly patrilineal.
Basques came to the Americas in the 15th century during the Age of Exploration. Their numbers in the United States increased rapidly during the gold fever of the 1840's and 1850's. Boise, Idaho, today has the largest concentration of Basques in the USA, while there are significant Basque populations in the Reno, Nevada area, and Californi's Central Valley and Gold Country. (The TV show notwithstanding, there seem to be very few Basques in Kansas today. A site called EuroAmericans.net asserts that there 146 persons of Basque descent in Kansas, out of a total U.S. population of 57, 793 Basques on the 2000 census. The largest state population of Basques on the census was in California with 20,868. West Virginia had 8 Basque descendants on the 2000 census ).
I live in the Central Valley near Gold Country. I have a friend here of Basque ancestry (aalthough I don't recall him ever saying he had to fight his father).
When gold mining failed to make most people rich, the Basques began ranching and raising sheep. They have become significant contributors to the communities in which they live. Prominent Basque Americans include the composer Jose Iturbi, California Lt Governor John Garamendi, former U.S. Senator Paul Laxalt of Nevada, and explorer Jedediah Smith.
There are a number of Basque resources of genealogical value on the Internet. At the University of Nevada, Reno, there is the Center for Basque Studies.
Basque on-line resources:
Basque Museum and Cultural Center (Boise, Idaho)
North American Basque Organizations, Inc.
Basque Heritage
Basque Genealogy Home Page
Basque Ranching Culture
Kern County Basque Club
Buber's Basque Page
Cyndi's List has a number of Basque resources cataloged.
What Indian tribe are we talking about? None--the people here are Basques.
The Basque people's homeland is in the Pyrenees region between France and Spain. They speak a language called Euskara. They are largely Roman Catholic; both Francis Xavier and Ignatius Loyola were Basques. The Basque culture is strongly patrilineal.
Basques came to the Americas in the 15th century during the Age of Exploration. Their numbers in the United States increased rapidly during the gold fever of the 1840's and 1850's. Boise, Idaho, today has the largest concentration of Basques in the USA, while there are significant Basque populations in the Reno, Nevada area, and Californi's Central Valley and Gold Country. (The TV show notwithstanding, there seem to be very few Basques in Kansas today. A site called EuroAmericans.net asserts that there 146 persons of Basque descent in Kansas, out of a total U.S. population of 57, 793 Basques on the 2000 census. The largest state population of Basques on the census was in California with 20,868. West Virginia had 8 Basque descendants on the 2000 census ).
I live in the Central Valley near Gold Country. I have a friend here of Basque ancestry (aalthough I don't recall him ever saying he had to fight his father).
When gold mining failed to make most people rich, the Basques began ranching and raising sheep. They have become significant contributors to the communities in which they live. Prominent Basque Americans include the composer Jose Iturbi, California Lt Governor John Garamendi, former U.S. Senator Paul Laxalt of Nevada, and explorer Jedediah Smith.
There are a number of Basque resources of genealogical value on the Internet. At the University of Nevada, Reno, there is the Center for Basque Studies.
Basque on-line resources:
Basque Museum and Cultural Center (Boise, Idaho)
North American Basque Organizations, Inc.
Basque Heritage
Basque Genealogy Home Page
Basque Ranching Culture
Kern County Basque Club
Buber's Basque Page
Cyndi's List has a number of Basque resources cataloged.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Fred Gets His Mail
Update: The Tribune-Democrat of Johnstown, Pennsylvania, reports:
Read the full story.
A letter that never made it to a 3-year-old Westmont boy 52 years ago finally is on its way.
Frederick Zane Yost, now of Daytona Beach, Fla., soon should be able to open the missive mailed to him from Johnstown on Oct. 26, 1954, thanks to a family who lives in the home where his parents once resided.
. . . . . . . . .
[Brian] McAteer [the man now living at the Yosts' former address] was able to get the address on Monday from a Mrs. Yost, who didn’t give her first name. He planned to mail the letter today.
. . . . . . . . .
Yost’s wife said her husband did not wish to comment. [His sister] said her brother, a civil engineer, is a 1969 graduate of Westmont Hilltop High School and a 1973 grad of the University of Pittsburgh.
Read the full story.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Yo, Fred! You've Got Mail!
When I saw the following, I had to try to solve the mystery myself:
Pa. man receives letter postmarked October 1954Read more here.
1/7/2007, 4:55 p.m. ET The Associated Press FERNDALE, Pa. (AP) — Brian McAteer got a big surprise when a letter arrived at his home a couple of weeks ago: Not only was it not addressed to him, it had been mailed more than 50 years ago.
The letter, with a 3-cent stamp and postmarked Oct. 26, 1954, was encased in a large, United States Postal Service window envelope.
. . . . . .
However, McAteer hasn't had any luck finding the intended recipient — Frederick Zane Yost.He said he has contacted Yosts in the area, spoken with longtime residents and searched on the Internet, all to no avail.
"I haven't given up trying to find him," said McAteer, a road foreman for Ferndale Borough, about 65 miles southeast of Pittsburgh.
And I think I found him! Frederick Zane Yost was in the Class of 1969 at Westmont-Hilltop High School in Cambria County, Pennsylvania. See the yearbook at http://www.rootsweb.com/~pacambr2/WHHS/WHHS6908.html. This likely would make him about three years old in 1954, and about 55 years old today. In 2001, a Frederick Zane Yost, born April, 1951, resided in Houston, Texas. As of 2004, Frederick Zane Yost lived in Ormond Beach, Florida. (Thanks to ZabaSearch!).
If you're still there, Fred, check your mail back in PA!
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Privacy, Public Records, and Genealogy
The beginning of a new year typically brings the effective date of new laws in many states. In the current era, many of these laws are intended to address privacy, identity theft, and security issues. Nobody will be surprised that on such important issues, legislators sometimes overreact. On the other hand, there are sometimes unintended consequences of well-intended laws.
This year, several states have enacted laws concerning the management of public records that contain Social Security Account Numbers (SSAN). I've reviewed a few of these laws and generally I think they're on the right track. For example, in Arkansas, it's now illegal to publicly post or display an individual's SSAN or to require a person to transmit his or her SSAN over the Internet without encryption. This is a sensible approach to identity theft prevention (although the potential downside in the near term for public agencies and genealogical researchers is how to deal with existing public records that contain SSANs). Hawaii has a similar law that became effective on Monday. In other states, like Wisconsin, recently enacted laws require businesses and governments to notify consumers and citizens when there has been a breach of private data that creates a material risk of identity theft. That, too, is a sensible approach to a vexing problem.
An approach that has little to commend itself is the restriction of access to birth, marriage, and death records. For nearly 400 years in America, these records have been regarded as open to the public. In the 17th century, these records were maintained by churches and became state records near the end of the nineteenth century. The theory was that the community had a right, an obligation, and a need to know who was born (when and to whom), who was married (again, when and to whom), and who died (when, how, and where). In fact, it is apparent that the community's access to this information is important to building and maintaining a sense of community and a sense of common security.
Individual privacy is cited along with crime prevention as justification for restricting access to vital records. But each birth, marriage, and death has significant public implications. And these days, there are very few cases of identity theft by birth certificate for the reason that there are simpler ways to do it.
Now I can understand why states might not want to make actual, official documents available on an unrestricted basis. California watermarks vital records as "Unofficial Copy," which renders the document valueless for most commercial or official purposes. This makes sense. But every state should make available, at a minimum, a register of vital information containing complete names, dates, and counties. There simply is no reason not to do this.
On the other hand, there usually is no reason to include a SSAN in the public portion of most records. Overuse of the SSAN by government and business is the true privacy and security threat. We all can improve our privacy and security by safeguarding important personal information such as our SSAN.
Some states have found the right balance. And from time to time, I'll single out the rational approaches for mention here.
This year, several states have enacted laws concerning the management of public records that contain Social Security Account Numbers (SSAN). I've reviewed a few of these laws and generally I think they're on the right track. For example, in Arkansas, it's now illegal to publicly post or display an individual's SSAN or to require a person to transmit his or her SSAN over the Internet without encryption. This is a sensible approach to identity theft prevention (although the potential downside in the near term for public agencies and genealogical researchers is how to deal with existing public records that contain SSANs). Hawaii has a similar law that became effective on Monday. In other states, like Wisconsin, recently enacted laws require businesses and governments to notify consumers and citizens when there has been a breach of private data that creates a material risk of identity theft. That, too, is a sensible approach to a vexing problem.
An approach that has little to commend itself is the restriction of access to birth, marriage, and death records. For nearly 400 years in America, these records have been regarded as open to the public. In the 17th century, these records were maintained by churches and became state records near the end of the nineteenth century. The theory was that the community had a right, an obligation, and a need to know who was born (when and to whom), who was married (again, when and to whom), and who died (when, how, and where). In fact, it is apparent that the community's access to this information is important to building and maintaining a sense of community and a sense of common security.
Individual privacy is cited along with crime prevention as justification for restricting access to vital records. But each birth, marriage, and death has significant public implications. And these days, there are very few cases of identity theft by birth certificate for the reason that there are simpler ways to do it.
Now I can understand why states might not want to make actual, official documents available on an unrestricted basis. California watermarks vital records as "Unofficial Copy," which renders the document valueless for most commercial or official purposes. This makes sense. But every state should make available, at a minimum, a register of vital information containing complete names, dates, and counties. There simply is no reason not to do this.
On the other hand, there usually is no reason to include a SSAN in the public portion of most records. Overuse of the SSAN by government and business is the true privacy and security threat. We all can improve our privacy and security by safeguarding important personal information such as our SSAN.
Some states have found the right balance. And from time to time, I'll single out the rational approaches for mention here.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
The Genealogy of Language
What language did your ancestors speak? Are you sure? If you were transported in time and space to meet an ancient ancestor, how well would you be able to communicate? Would it matter that the ancestor supposedly spoke "English"? What is "English" anyway? Do Creoles speak pidgin? What does Mickey Mouse have to do with the development of language?
I've been reading a fascinating book called The Power of Babel: A Natural History of Language, by John McWhorter, a linguist formerly at the University of California at Berkeley. He might well have subtitled it, The Genealogy of Languages. Turns out, you see, that languages are like people--they come in families, they are born, they migrate, they mature, and they die. And they have off-spring and ancestors. Newer languages can be traced "genetically" to their forebears. McWhorter's highly readable book is entertaining and informative as he describes these linguistic phenomena.
Modern linguists believe that "in the beginning" (my construction, not McWhorter's), there was one "proto-language": the mother of all languages, which migrated with the humans who spoke it and spawned the tongues that today number more than 6,000. The metamorphosis of that first language is emblematic of the way all languages continue to change. Languages evolve by sound changes, extension of rules of grammar, a concept called "re-bracketing," changes in expressiveness, and semantic changes. As a result, a language spoken today is quite different from its ancestor spoken a few centuries, or even one century, ago. For example, McWhorter says that "Old English might as well be German to the Modern English speaker." And so it is with all languages. Without an historical form of Berlitz training, it's doubtful that any of us could communicate effectively with an ancestor who lived six hundred years ago. Just as we are not them, our language is not theirs.
Most people generally know something of families of languages: French, Spanish, Portuguese, and Italian all are of the Romance family, descendants of Latin. Few, however, would guess that Moldovan and Romanian (notice the name!) are part of the same family. English and German are cousins, of course. Swedish, Danish, and Norwegian are like triplets who dress alike--telling on from the other sometimes can be difficult even for those in the know.
Languages change as people move. "English" is in part the result of the various invasions of the British Island. Like people, languages exchange "DNA" with one another (don't try to picture that!), resulting in new dialects.
McWhorter gives the example of a language spoken in Papua New Guinea called Tok Pisin (can you tell from its name what its ancestor was?). Tok Pisin is a "creole," though not of the "New Orleans" variety. A creole is a language that grows out of "pidgin," which, roughly, is a term used to describe rudimentary communications developed between people who speak different languages. If for example, you met your fifteenth century Polish ancestor, the two of you might create a pidgin by which to communicate. If somehow, the "Way Back Machine" malfunctioned, and you ended up staying in 15th century Poland with a tour group from this century, eventually your immediate offspring might speak a Polish creole!
One comes away from McWhorter's book with several observations: if he's right, then language mixture, and hence language change, are inevitable and perpetual (although modern technology perhaps has had a braking effect on the pace of linguistic evolution). Attempts to keep a language "pure" are almost certainly doomed to fail. The grammar police are fighting a losing battle. The designation of a "standard" language ("standard English," "standard German," "standard French," etc.) is an accidental choice among any number of worthy "alternate" dialects.
McWhorter's book contains a number of insights about life, popular culture, and the nature of human progress. It's great read that anyone interested in people will enjoy.
I've been reading a fascinating book called The Power of Babel: A Natural History of Language, by John McWhorter, a linguist formerly at the University of California at Berkeley. He might well have subtitled it, The Genealogy of Languages. Turns out, you see, that languages are like people--they come in families, they are born, they migrate, they mature, and they die. And they have off-spring and ancestors. Newer languages can be traced "genetically" to their forebears. McWhorter's highly readable book is entertaining and informative as he describes these linguistic phenomena.
Modern linguists believe that "in the beginning" (my construction, not McWhorter's), there was one "proto-language": the mother of all languages, which migrated with the humans who spoke it and spawned the tongues that today number more than 6,000. The metamorphosis of that first language is emblematic of the way all languages continue to change. Languages evolve by sound changes, extension of rules of grammar, a concept called "re-bracketing," changes in expressiveness, and semantic changes. As a result, a language spoken today is quite different from its ancestor spoken a few centuries, or even one century, ago. For example, McWhorter says that "Old English might as well be German to the Modern English speaker." And so it is with all languages. Without an historical form of Berlitz training, it's doubtful that any of us could communicate effectively with an ancestor who lived six hundred years ago. Just as we are not them, our language is not theirs.
Most people generally know something of families of languages: French, Spanish, Portuguese, and Italian all are of the Romance family, descendants of Latin. Few, however, would guess that Moldovan and Romanian (notice the name!) are part of the same family. English and German are cousins, of course. Swedish, Danish, and Norwegian are like triplets who dress alike--telling on from the other sometimes can be difficult even for those in the know.
Languages change as people move. "English" is in part the result of the various invasions of the British Island. Like people, languages exchange "DNA" with one another (don't try to picture that!), resulting in new dialects.
McWhorter gives the example of a language spoken in Papua New Guinea called Tok Pisin (can you tell from its name what its ancestor was?). Tok Pisin is a "creole," though not of the "New Orleans" variety. A creole is a language that grows out of "pidgin," which, roughly, is a term used to describe rudimentary communications developed between people who speak different languages. If for example, you met your fifteenth century Polish ancestor, the two of you might create a pidgin by which to communicate. If somehow, the "Way Back Machine" malfunctioned, and you ended up staying in 15th century Poland with a tour group from this century, eventually your immediate offspring might speak a Polish creole!
One comes away from McWhorter's book with several observations: if he's right, then language mixture, and hence language change, are inevitable and perpetual (although modern technology perhaps has had a braking effect on the pace of linguistic evolution). Attempts to keep a language "pure" are almost certainly doomed to fail. The grammar police are fighting a losing battle. The designation of a "standard" language ("standard English," "standard German," "standard French," etc.) is an accidental choice among any number of worthy "alternate" dialects.
McWhorter's book contains a number of insights about life, popular culture, and the nature of human progress. It's great read that anyone interested in people will enjoy.
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