A Genealogist’s Garden


A northern gardener surely cannot be surprised
By the rapid passing of the seasons
The urgent, boyant seedlings
seeking the spotlight
The unselfconscious bloom of summer
The sudden peak of beauty at harvest,
Which can only be discerned in looking back
And the long colorless decay
Buried under the cold
Of winter.

As I remove the detritus of death
From the sprouts of spring
I wonder.
How generations of my seedlings
Will continue their blooming
Long after the debris of my being
is swept away.

-Marsyl Dickinson Warren-

O Pioneer

My great great great grandfather, John Leonard Dickinson was a pioneer, true to the Dickinson way. Moving from New York State to Wisconsin in about 1856, he and his wife and several of their children remained there only a couple of years. By 1858 they had come to Minnesota, where he remained the rest of his life. Three of his sons, including my great great grandfather Theodore (husband of Emma) joined the Union Army for Minnesota. All three miraculously survived.

I've been searching for John's parentage for several years. Yesterday came a breakthrough from the researchers in Salt Lake City. They found land records indicating that John and his wife Harriet sold their New York property to Harriet's brother, Lawrence Mason. The land had previously conveyed to John by Joseph and Orrin Dickinson. I have other evidence that Joseph is John's father, and this could be the confirmation.

One more piece of the puzzle is coming into place, the research team at SLC will do a little more digging, and it's like waiting for Christmas to see what they unearth.

I feel time ticking away, I want to get this history into some sort of order to preserve it for whomever, in the next generation, or the next, becomes the "chosen" one, bitten by the genealogy bug. Made acquaintance this week with another cousin, a descendant of John L. Dickinson's brother, Richard. I have been seeking him for over a year, and finally had a response. He has some treasures to share as well, and I think again of how lives are entertwined like shiny and fragile threads forming a faint, almost invisible pattern over our country, and over the world.

Well, Hello there, part two, or: June, we knew you a little

I spent three hours today in the company of June Russell Dickinson's son, Russell, and part of his family. I got a call on Thursday from Russell, Jr., a quick response to the letter I had sent him. We made plans to meet today and I printed out some info and pictures of his great grandad and grandmother, packed up my computer and camera, and drove the short distance to the home he rents to his lovely daughter, Julie, whom I also met.

Many mysteries still remain about June Russell's life, but Russ Jr. told me a wonderful story that took place about 30 years ago. Russ Jr. was living in Oregon at the time, and had his father on his mind and heart. He felt impressed (had to be God, he says) to take some time off and go see his dad and re-connect. He drove to Minnesota and had to take a leave of absence from his work. Once here, the duo decided to take a trip to Pine Island, our ancestral home in Minnesota, so June could show Russ Jr. around his old stomping grounds. June agreed on the grounds that they 'wouldn't look anyone up.' Well, after a bit June's curiosity got the better of him, and they did go to his half-sister's farm (Ora Mae.) She opened the door, and was shocked to hear who was knocking - it seems she had been told June was dead. She asked him a sort of 'test' question - the name of the horse they had as kids, which was "Selum" - not a name one could easily guess! Of course June remembered it and was welcomed in. They spent a couple days in town, catching up, meeting some of June's nephews, and generally allowing some healing to happen.

June passed away two weeks later. Russ told me that June accepted Christ shortly before he died. I believe that maybe the healing that occured on that trip was a way for God to comfort June and help him find peace.

Now I have another little mystery - one of Russ Jr.'s brothers has been out of contact for several years. I think I know where he is. ..

Well, hello there

June, we hardly knew you.

I spent this still cold March day at my home away from home, the Minnesota Historical Society library, doing research. I decided to see if I could find some probate records or wills of ancestors. I found the will of two of my 3rd grand-uncles, George F. Dickinson and Norman L. Dickinson. Lo and behold, it seems George had a son I had never heard of or seen any records of whatsoever. His name was June Russell Dickinson. Now, I thought, it can't be that hard to find records for a man named June. I finally found birth records for two men born in the 40's whose father was Russell June Dickinson - and from there I found Russell June's death record, which contained the name of his father (sure enough, George Dickinson) and mother, Julia Burkhardt. I did several searches through census records and finally found a June Dickinson who, at age 7, was living with a Edward and Julia Monroe in 1895.

Well, before you know it I've created all sorts of stories - what happened that little June was separated from his daddy before he was 7? Were George and Julia married - it would apear so, since June is named "Dickinson." How often did June and George get to see one another over the years? They did not live in the same county, and this was the early 1900's after all.

The will leaves June a sum of $25.oo, and George's other three children with his (second?) wife, Nettie, were left acerage, the remainder left to Nettie.

Hmmmm. Looks like another blended family mystery to unravel. My next move is to map out June's stepfamily as best as I can, track their locations and his half-siblings. If I get lucky I may be able to connect with one of his children or grandchildren, and fill in some of the mystery. I already feel emphathy for this stranger/cousin. Did he go to war? Was he surprised by his father's will? Did he always wonder how things might have been if his father was around? Was his stepfather kind to him?

I will never know all the answers, but one thing my research has taught me very well - everyone has a story. Sooner or later, we encounter the hard bits of life. For June, it looks like it might have been sooner.

UPDATE: 3-31-08

I have found June Russell's mom and stepdad in the census in Oregon in 1900 and 1910, along with his half brother, Louis. Russell (from now I'll just call him Russell) is not with them. He was only 12 in 1900, so he must be living with someone, somewhere. I have searched all the census records with every sort of configuration and misspelling I can think of, but can't find him anywhere. This is where all my persistence will have to kick in. He can't keep hiding from me forever!!!! I have found his social security number, and have written to the SSA for a copy of his original application, under the freedom of information act. I will try to track down Russell's children if they are still in the area.

I have also determined that Russell's parents, George and Julia, were indeed married at some point - the census shows that Julia's marriage to Edward Monroe is the second for them both. So perhaps I will be able to find a marriage record and divorce decree. With this adventure I have also found two other 'lost boys', Floyd and Earl, first cousins of Russell, nephews of George, living with George's brother, Norman, in Red Wing. Floyd and Earl's father, Charles, appears to have died, along with his wife, when the boys were young. Norman raised them, but later Floyd worked for George on his farm ( according to Floyd's WW1 draft record). So why were Floyd and Earl taken in by the family and working the land of Russell's dad, but Russell is not?

Why was Russell left behind when his mom and stepdad and brother went west? And who took him in? I just can't imagine leaving a 12 year old (or younger) in Minnesota while the rest of the family traveled to Oregon, maybe never to return. There were no quick forms of transportation in those days, no jets or super fast trains. Julia had to know she would rarely or never see Russell after leaving.

The immediate goal is to find Russell in the 1900 US census, the 1905 Minneosta census, and go from there. Since I have no other information on Julia's family, I will have to find out who they were as well, in case he is living with them and the census taker wrote his last name as Burkhardt instead of Dickinson.

stay tuned......

UPDATE 4/1/08

Yesterday evening I had a little tickle in my mind while working on this puzzle. I thought I remembered finding a little blurb in an old Pine Island Minnesota paper about George visiting Pierre, South Dakota with his brother Ed. There was a great migration to the Dakota territory in the latter half of the 19th century, the land was opened up for homesteading, and the newspapers of that era are full of notes about families packing up and heading out west. My own gggrandad lived near Pierre for a few years, one of his sons was born there. He faced numerous disasters there and returned to Minnesota - as did many families. Turns out the free land wasn't always worth the price. I looked through my postings on Ancestry.com for George -and sure enough, there was the item from October of 1885, George and his brother Edward had returned from a visit to Pierre, their former home. My gggrandfather was still living there in 1885, his son was born in 1887. Hmmm. Maybe this is why they are not in the Minnesota census in 1885. However, I'm not sure how this will help - unless it turns out Julia's family was also in Dakota, and they met there. I've got to get back to the library and figure out when George took over the farm in Minnesota. And look back over those old newspapers from the area with an eye to finding Russell in school records or - AH SCHOOL RECORDS!!! Why didn't I think of that before? Russell had to be in school somewhere. Down the rabbit trail I go. Wish me luck.

Harley Man

The other day, I was trying to remember just what exactly happened to me that turned me into a genealogy freak. It was only a few years ago that I wasn't even interested enough to join a party visiting the local cemetery at a family reunion, for which I now severely chastise myself.
So, I mentally tried to backtrack through the last three or so years, finding the stream from which this 'magnificent obsession' bubbles. I think I found the headwaters, at least the ones above the surface.
My husband, Mark, was and is interested in all things with motors and wheels. He had been looking at motorcycles, and we were trying to determine what sort of bike my father had ridden back in the 'day.' For some reason, I had in my mind that he had owned an Indian cycle. All I had was this picture to draw from, so we went on an internet hunt for a cycle that looked like the one on which my father was perched in this picture from his post WWII road trip. The evidence we were finding was that this machine was a Harley, not an Indian. I decided to get some help from my dad's brothers, and asked if they remembered my dad's bike. They refered me to his cousin, Dick, who actually made a road trip from Minnesota to Yellowstone on motorcyles with my dad, a friend and another cousin. Dick confirmed that my dad's bike was indeed a Harley and also graciously shared some other memories with me. He told me tales of my fun-loving father as a kid and as an adult friend. Somehow, this took me somewhat by surprise. I realized how much we assume we know about our parents - and how little we actually see them as completely separate human beings. How many stories we have totally made up to fill in the gaps in our actual knowledge of them!
I recalled sitting at my maternal grandmother's funeral, a woman who I felt I knew so well, and finding out how limited my knowledge of her really was. The way her friends remembered her, I was humbled and saddened by how much I missed by not being present to the reality of who this woman really was. I realized that my own daughter naturally assumes so many things about me that are only an interpretation of a small part of my story. A shift in my perspective began. I felt like I had been seeing only a reflection (darkly) of my family members, and suddenly I swiveled around and took a look at them right in front of me. It was almost like they were standing there, surrounding me, waiting for me. Asking me to SEE them, to embrace our intertwined history and biology, to become part of the stream of time and story, to carry on the oral and written history begun by others. It seemed like something outside myself came and pointed at me, announcing, "You! You are the chosen one, get busy!" It was irresistible. This is the biggest adventure of all.

Rebel Yell in the frozen North

"The prestige of government has undoubtedly been lowered considerably by the prohibition law. For nothing is more destructive of respect for the government and the law of the land than passing laws which cannot be enforced. It is an open secret that the dangerous increase of crime in the United States is closely connected with this." Albert Einstein

I have a treasure trove of old letters to read - the earliest from post-civil war Tennessee in 1870. The authors seem alive and present with me; their thoughts, feelings and concerns relevant and fresh.

James M Vaughan (my great great grandfather - in this photo) writes a cryptic letter to his son, Charley, admonishing him for leaving home in some sort of trouble or debt.

"Commerce Texas, April 10 1888

"Well what I had to tell you & Jessie I cannot write so just let it go till I see you. I have had letters from those in who you are interested They are All Write. ...My Son you have not lived as long as I have. I have never lived any whare whare I am ashamed to go back. I have never done any thing to be ashamed off. I am engaged in the traffick of whiskey but if that is disonerble thare is thousands of the best men in the cuntry gilty of the Same offence. With these facts before me I feale satisfed that while I am not able to work at Hard labor that I have got to make a living some way. Then If I can make it the way I am don't condem me. ...I will not weary your patience any longer but ask you to think before you do anything. That other question that I mentioned that was six millions of miles deep - remember. Then I am through -
I am affectionately you father, J. M. Vaughan."

I am intrigued, and a little envious. James M. Vaughan was born in Tennessee in 1827, from what I can determine, didn't fight in the Civil War, and his sons were born after the war. Nevertheless, they must have been greatly affected by the devestation around them. They moved around the south - Georgia, Alabama, finally Texas before they settled. Somehow they kept that independent spirit that would not be crushed by circumstances. James was putting food on the table by putting whiskey in bottles, and there must have been a little nose-thumbing at the local authorities to make that happen.

Some of Jame's rebel spirit still stirs in me, and I relish it, stuck in the land of good manners and Minnesota nice. He was on to something. And I don't just mean the whiskey. I am humbled by the transparent love and passion these people show in their correspondence. In spite of their independence, they are a real community, bonded by fierce loyalty and common bloodlines. They do not hide from each other even their weakness and need. Their hearts on their sleeves, they freely express joy and sorrow, loss and longing, anger and hope. They are, above all, connected.

If anyone had ever been able to record the rebel yell, I would love to salute this family with that famous but now only imagined sound that makes the hair stand on end and the heart race.