Genealogy in Bloom

This month’s Carnival of Genealogy theme is "The Seasons of Genealogy." 

Imagine, if you will, a garden—one of those lush English gardens packed with shrubs and flowers, awash in color (since I’ll never have one of those in real life, I might as well enjoy it in my imagination!). The garden, naturally, changes with the seasons. Winter, the garden sleeps; the seeds wait, then start to germinate. Spring, the shrubs blossom, flowers sprout, and new plants are added. Summer, the flowers bloom in glorious succession amid a backdrop of greenery. Fall, the colors change and late-blooming varieties flourish, while the seeds for next year’s garden drop to the ground. As fall gives way to winter, the cycle starts again.

In many ways, that garden represents the seasons of genealogy, too. In my case, the seeds planted by my grandmothers lay dormant for many years. Throughout the winter there were periods of thawing, when my interest would be piqued by something and I would ask questions. Eight or nine years ago I started a genealogy notebook with handwritten family group sheets, notes from a few interviews, and a couple of how-to articles clipped from magazines. Ever so gradually, the seeds took root. I took an online genealogy course in 2007, got some books from the library, and made a couple of exciting discoveries on Ancestry.com. By early 2008, I realized this would be a lasting passion. Spring had come to my neck of the genealogy woods.

A garden, of course, needs good soil to grow. My ancestral garden has been fertilized and cultivated with education. I devoured books and magazines, enrolled in the National Genealogical Society Home Study Course, and started attending conferences. I’ve spent one week each at IGHR at Samford University and the Salt Lake Institute of Genealogy, and completed the ProGen Study Group program. All of this has enriched the soil that forms the basis of my research and analytical skills.

The result, I hope, is a young but healthy garden. Some of my plants (ancestral lines) are already blooming, while others wait for more attention. Of course I sometimes tire of weeding, get distracted by squirrels, and make mistakes (I had to prune a branch of “former ancestors” last week), but things seem to be growing pretty well. I can identify what I’ve planted in each row, and can cite where it came from and explain why it fits there. Even though I’ve still got some bare spots, it’s satisfying to step back and look at the garden as a whole once in awhile.

So where am I, as the seasons go, in my genealogy? I figure I’m pretty close to the beginning of summer, perhaps early June, when sunshine, rain, longer days, and warmer weather converge to create good growing conditions. I can’t yet see all the colors or heights my plants might attain someday, but that’s okay. I’ll keep enriching the beds with education and experience, and do my best to be a responsible gardener. Here at the cusp of summer, it's natural to think that time and persistent research will bring each line into full flower. I hope it will be a long and fruitful season.

And fall? It’s hard to see that far ahead, but one day, if all goes well, I should have a mature garden. I hope to keep it thriving as long as possible, because fall is a season of splendor. But the time will come to prepare for another winter, so I have to keep that in mind. I can’t put off writing down the stories of the ancestors I’ve cultivated—or my own story, for that matter. Compiling my knowledge in a readable, manageable way is vital for preservation. And then, who knows? Only time will tell who will pick up the spade and start digging again, reviving the garden in some future spring.

Written for the Carnival of Genealogy 107, “Seasons of Genealogy.” Thanks to Bill West of West in New England for hosting this carnival.

Memories of an Ordinary Woman

Wilma Steele Herrel, my grandmother, was just an ordinary woman. She wasn’t widely known, didn’t break any great barriers, and never achieved something that might be considered particularly exceptional. She was a wife, a mother, and a grandmother; a church volunteer, a community member, a card player, and a friend. You might have seen her at the grocery store or the church rummage sale and looked right past her. But only if you didn’t know her, because if you did, you'd stop and chat, and your day would be all the happier for it.

Wilma & Fred Herrel, Nov. 23, 1935

Wilma was born in 1916 to Homer and Emma (Schiebel) Steele. She grew up in an assortment of rented houses—14 of them, by her own count—on the southeast side of Columbus, Ohio. She never forgot the day her eight-year-old little brother, Billy, died in a fire that he and a friend accidentally set in their basement. She did well in school, consistently placing on the Honor Roll, and graduated from South High. In November 1935, she and her sweetheart, Fred Herrel, eloped to Circleville and got married on the day of the OSU-Michigan game. She loved to tell how the pastor, listening to the game on the radio, quickly squeezed the ceremony in during halftime. They were both lifelong Buckeye fans after that.

But starting a new life together during the Depression, at 19 years old, couldn’t have been easy. Wilma went to comptometer school and was hired by White Castle, making $18 a week. She worked hard, excited to be earning a paycheck, and was the first local girl promoted to bookkeeper. Fred got a job as an aircraft assembler with Curtiss-Douglas. They saved all the money they could to put a down payment on a little house on the south side of the city. Several years later, Wilma quit her job three months before her first baby was born. Two more little ones followed.

For the next 25 years and beyond, she cooked all their meals. She made her own pickles, noodles, and pies. She took countless potluck dishes to church and social events. Her kitchen always smelled like hamburgers frying or cookies baking. She never had a big dining room table, or a dining room at all, as far as I know. Long after their move to Millersport in the 1960’s, we still ate at the same laminate-topped kitchen table she raised her family on.

Wilma was handy with a needle. She sewed her family’s clothes, did the mending, crocheted afghans, and made all sorts of decorative and (mostly) useful knick-knacks. Cross-stitching, knitting, quilting, you name it—she always had a project going. Her hands were never idle. Nor was her mind. She loved a good game of Scrabble, cards, dominoes, or (my personal favorite) Rack-o. She kept crossword puzzle and word search books tucked into the davenport, where her poodle liked to sleep.

I used to spend a week every summer at their house on the towpath of Buckeye Lake, going to Vacation Bible School at First Community Church. I slept on the pull-out sofa in the second bedroom, where I kept a box of treasured paper dolls stashed in the closet. One summer, when I had outgrown Bible School, Grandma showed me an old book. It had her name and birthday in it. I was entranced. For the rest of the week, while she cooked and cleaned and answered my questions, I poured over The History of the Roush Family in America. I even made a list of my ancestors going back six generations (which I still have, though I realize now I muddled up one of them). And so the seeds that would eventually grow into a passion for genealogy were planted.

Wilma was proud to be a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution. Even though I had to provide all new documentation when I submitted my own application decades later, she paved the way for me. She worked the Millersport Lions Club booth at the Sweet Corn Festival every year. She enjoyed having family visit, playing cards with friends, and traveling. She and Fred were married for 66 years before death separated them, two months apart, in 2002.

My grandmother was just an ordinary woman who cared for her family, kept her household running, and volunteered her time and talents. Her name will never appear in a history book. But I can’t help feeling that ordinary women like her are the unsung heroes of American life. And that each one, in her own way, is so very special. Thank you, Grandma, for being you.

Written for the 103^rd Carnival of Genealogy, “Women’s History,” hosted by Jasia of Creative Gene. All rights reserved by Shelley Bishop, 2011.

The History of the Roush Family in America, Volume 1, was written by Lester Leroy Roush and published by the Shenandoah Publishing House (Strasburg, Virginia) in 1928. 

Going out on a limb

Ok, I’ll admit I’m a little uneasy with putting my genealogy goals out here for all to see. What if I fall flat on my face and don’t get any of them accomplished? Public goals are so, well, public. And sometimes, even when I set out with all good intentions, real life interferes and things don’t quite go the way I planned. But I guess I’ll risk it. Besides, even though I’m relatively new to blogging, you all seem to be pretty understanding and supportive. If I run into problems or get stuck along the way, maybe you can help me out.

With that in mind, here are my three main Research Goals:

1.      Research my Ballenger ancestors back to at least the early 1800’s, and complete an OGS Settlers & Builders of Ohio application for them.

2.      Find the parents of Carrie Beum, who married John Evans and was the mother of Ruth (b. 1898) and Leatha (b. 1900) Evans. Carrie died when Leatha was five months old, and not only were the connections with her family lost, but records of her seem to be hiding as well.

3.      Research the ancestry of my husband’s grandmother, Annah L. Crites.

And here are my three main Writing Goals:

1.      Write research reports for my own files as I complete segments of research on particular questions or individuals.

2.      Complete writing assignments for remaining lessons in the NGS Home Study Course and ProGen Study Group.

3.      Create a narrative summary or mini-book out of the research I’ve done on the Bishop-Crites family.

That last one will be a real challenge. But it deserves to be a top priority, because I’d like to make something I can share with my father-in-law, who is probably my #1 fan when it comes to genealogy. He’s a World War II vet, and as we all know, that generation isn’t getting any younger. So it’s something I’ll have to figure out. Looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me in 2011! 


Written for the 101st edition Carnival of Genealogy, "Research/Writing Goals for 2011"

There's One in Every Family: The Life of the Party

We used to joke that we could never get a picture of Grandma with her mouth shut. She could talk your ear off, and about the time you snapped the shutter she’d say, “Don’t take my picture now, my hair’s a mess!” And boy, could she laugh. She’d have the whole room in stitches, look innocent for just a moment, then wink and burst out laughing as hard as the rest of us. And she would sing at the drop of a hat--preferably something with a little zest to it, like “Five foot two, eyes of blue, but oh what those five foot could do, has anybody seen my gal?”

Oh yes, Grandma could be the life of the party.

Nora Belle Eberhard was one of 18 children born to John Llewellyn Eberhard and Mary Madina Comfort. A set of twins died shortly after birth, but the other 16 Eberhard kids grew to adulthood. Nora made her appearance on March 16, 1910—just in time for the census taker making the rounds in Rushcreek Township, a rural community in Logan County, Ohio, near Bellfontaine. When she was four or five the family moved to a farm near Galena, Ohio. She recalled being told that she sang the whole way.

Llewellyn Eberhard was a dairy farmer. Growing up on the farm, there were always a lot of chores to be done, and never much money. Nora liked the house chores better than the barn chores, because the cows smelled so bad. She’d be the first to tell you they were just plain poor. She quit school after eighth grade to take a job in the Kilgore factory in Westerville, putting rivets on cap guns. Maybe she got her spunk from this hardscrabble start, but somehow I think she was just born with it.

Nora singing to great-granddaughter Sarah

Nora married a dashing young restaurant worker named Lloyd Ballenger on March 30, 1935, during the height of the Depression. Their first baby, Marilyn Sue, died in infancy—a recollection that still moved Nora to tears decades later. Their three other children grew up, married, and eventually gave them seven grandchildren. To us, Nora was Grandma, a white-haired bundle of energy who always had popsicles in the freezer, candy on the table, and a song to sing.

As we grew older, we found the real fun was egging her on to tell stories and jokes while we sat around the table at the family cottage at Buckeye Lake. Not that she needed much encouragement—a little something to drink and she’d be off and running. And heaven forbid if she got going at a party. She always wanted to stay to the very end.

And she did. She stayed with us until just shy of her 97^th birthday, when her party finally came to a close on February 26, 2007. I still think of her, though, laughing and singing and telling a slightly risqué tale now and then. Here’s to you, Grandma, as you toasted us so many times: 

“May you live forever and I never die.”

(Written for the 100th edition Carnival of Genealogy, "There's One in Every Family." All rights reserved by author.)