It took me a few years to find my grandfather’s birth mother, Abbie Doyle. As I pieced together Abbie’s life as best I could from records and small town newspapers, it was clear that Abbie was very close to her her uncle, Michael Daniel Foley and his wife, Margaret Brown Foley. There were newspaper accounts of Abbie visiting them in Fall River, Massachusetts around Christmas time, and Abbie was visiting them while pregnant with my grandfather.
This raised questions for me. I knew Abbie’s father had died in 1881, when she was just eight years old. In my five years of searching, though, I could not find what had become of her mother, Margaret Foley Doyle.
Abbie’s parents had married in 1856. Her father was born in County Kerry, Ireland, likely near Killarney. Jeremiah Doyle was wounded early in the American Civil War. Abbie’s parents show up in United States Census records in 1860, 1870, and 1880. Nearly all of the 1890 Census was destroyed in a fire, so that time is a mystery regarding the Doyle family.
When Jeremiah died, Margaret was somewhere between 45 and 49 years of age–records give varying estimates of her age. She had young adult sons who likely worked to support the family financially after their father’s death. I had wondered if circumstances forced Margaret to go to work outside the home as well.
The psychologist in me wondered what life was like for Abbie. She lost her father when she would have been in the equivalent of 2nd to 3rd grade. Abbie’s mother surely would have been grief-stricken. Who would have been there for Abbie?
Why did Abbie’s mother disappear from the records? Record-keeping in Massachusetts and the rest of New England tended to be meticulous. I had found birth, marriage, and death records on many other family members from that time. Margaret Foley Doyle kept eluding me…
Then last week, I somehow hit upon the perfect search terms, and found a death record. Margaret Foley Doyle died of cancer on July 16, 1890. So, finally, I knew another piece of Abbie’s story. She lost her father at eight, and her mother at 17.
I could not help but wonder what those intervening years had been like…and then I discovered a partial answer to this question…
With the date of Margaret Doyle’s death, I searched historical newspapers and there, in the Transcript-Telegram from Holyoke, Massachusetts, I found a notice of her death.
This information about Margaret helped complete a picture of Abbie’s early life. Abbie lost her father, and to some extent it appears, she lost her mother that very same year. Two years later, in 1892, her brother, Jeremiah, died at the age of 23. Then, just 17 months later, Abbie lost her sister, Margaret, to tuberculosis at age 26, in 1893.
I began searching for Grandpa’s origins because his early life story was missing so many pieces. Who were his parents? Why didn’t they keep him? Did they love him?
Such simple questions–but simple questions have complicated answers.
Ms. Copeland does a wonderful job of summarizing the science of DNA testing in brief and easily understandable ways, while also raising questions about where this new technology is taking us. Family secrets are bursting out of the closets and saying “hello” through Facebook messages.
Consumer DNA testing, such as AncestryDNA and 23andMe, has given rise to the new field called “genetic genealogy.” Yes, this is what allowed me to uncover the roots of my grandfather who came to Missouri from New York City on an orphan train.
The Lost Family struck such a chord in me that I reached out to Ms. Copeland–yes, in a Facebook message. She responded promptly, and we struck up a conversation.
I mentioned that I was a psychologist, and that my dissertation was on how people develop a sense of identity–what makes them who they are, or at least who they believe themselves to be. More specifically, my research was on how family influences an adolescent’s identity development.
Ms. Copeland then asked me a question about how difficult it can be for someone to incorporate new family information after they are well into adulthood. She asked if my profession and education gave me any particular insight into that.
I initially stumbled trying to come up with an answer. I realized I was more comfortable talking about my own experience in researching family history than I was with talking as the “professional, the psychologist.”
I referred her to a couple things I had written, one of them being the talk I gave at the 150th anniversary of the New York Foundling Home, the “orphanage” that sent my grandfather to his new life in Missouri. Ms. Copeland replied that she thought I put it well in that talk when I said: “There is a basic human need to know who you are, and how you connect to this world.”
This got me thinking some more…I developed a talk recently that was to be given at the Missouri River Regional Library in Jefferson City, MO, the town where I grew up, the town where my grandfather had lived his adult life, just a few miles where he had disembarked from that orphan train at age five.
In that talk, I repeat the idea of “our story.” Knowing it, owning it, and being able to tell it. All of this makes us, and our story, real.
I am a psychologist. Back when I was in graduate school, my favorite therapy book was titled Every Person’s Life is Worth a Novel. It suggested that a good therapist may think of a client as a character in a great book–what do you need to know about the person to make them more interesting? Keep asking questions until you fill out their personality, their story.
I find myself using that same concept in my genealogy work. I don’t just want to discover my ancestor’s name and date of birth. I want to learn their story as best I can uncover it–what did they do, think, feel? What was it like to be them. How does all that contribute to who I am? Every story I uncover becomes part of my story, part of who I am.
Every person in my family tree has a story to tell. Some seem better-suited to a best-selling book than others. But then I remember the main premise of Every Person’s Life is Worth a Novel…and that is…Everybody is fascinating–it’s just that some people hide it better than others…
So, as a psychologist, amateur historian, and someone always wanting to learn more about myself, there are always more stories to discover. And for me, that is part of how I know who I am, and how I connect to this world.
It was May 1901, and Joseph Aner was just five years old. As he boarded the train that would take him away from the New York Foundling Home, he was scared. He had ridden a similar train before to Nebraska, or was it Iowa? There he joined a nice family, but when his new Mom became ill, his Dad had a farm to tend to, with no time for Joseph. So, Joseph rode the train back to New York, to his first home, The New York Foundling Asylum.
This time, Joseph was going to Missouri. He knew he wasn’t going there to reunite with his “real Papa and Mama”—that’s what the caretakers told all the children. Even though he was only five, Joseph was an Orphan Train veteran.
There were 52 children on this Missouri Pacific line. In St. Louis, 15 of them met their new families. Another 36 rode deeper into Missouri, most of them to Osage City.
It there that Joseph met his new parents. Unfortunately, the first placement did not work out, and a local priest arranged for Joseph to join the family of Fred and Catherine Markway, of rural Cole County.
As long as I can remember, I knew my grandfather came from the New York Foundling Home, to Missouri, on an orphan train. As a child, I didn’t think a lot about it. I never thought about the empty space in his heart, of not knowing how he came into this world, of not knowing the beginning of his own story.
All I knew as a child was that Grandpa was the best. He made me feel loved and special. My very first memory was when I was three years old and my family moved from St. Louis to Jefferson City, MO. Jefferson City was where Grandpa lived and my Dad had grown up. My parents bought a two-bedroom home, for $6,000, for our family of seven. The house sheltered eight, though, when Grandpa moved in. Grandpa was fun, and funny, and he made me feel loved.
Grandpa died suddenly when I was 11. His belongings got divided up among my Dad and Dad’s two sisters. Dad got the name tag Grandpa had worn on the back of his jacket while riding the train in 1901. I had not seen that before, and seeing that piece of fabric, with his original name, Joseph Aner, written so elegantly in cursive,made his beginnings real to me. I wanted to know more. Who was Grandpa?
As I grew up, I remained curious about his origins, but I had no way of exploring them. In the 1990s, when I first logged onto the internet, the very first search I did was looking for the surname “Aner.” I found a few people in Philadelphia. Was there a connection to Grandpa?
Three years ago, I felt an overwhelming need to know more. I took an AncestryDNA test.
Before getting my DNA results back, I found his birth certificate online. It was difficult to find because it was filed under “Auer,” not “Aner.” As you can see, the handwriting was not clear.
The birth certificate showed Joseph Auer was born to Adelaide Auer and Joseph King, at a Catholic hospital that served the poor and destitute. Records indicated Joseph was left at the Foundling Home within a few days of his birth.
I searched and searched for information about his parents, but there were no records. The names Joseph King and Adelaide Auer were pseudonyms. His parents wanted never to be found.
I continued searching for anything that could tell me more about Grandpa. I found his World War I draft registration. Under “Place of Birth,” it said “Unknown.” That one word, “Unknown,” hit me in the gut—it was so sad.
I became obsessed, knowing that DNA testing had the potential to connect me to his origins. I felt a pressure to hurry. I belong to the last generation that knew Grandpa. And, with each generation, the DNA trail fades like an old photograph.
I learned more about his life by scouring old newspapers. He was among the first young men from Central Missouri drafted during the first World War. I talked to my older brother, Jack, about this. Jack had a lot in common with Grandpa and they would work on projects together—carpentry, car repair, painting—and sometimes Grandpa would talk to Jack about his past.
Grandpa briefly mentioned the war, hinting at traumatic experiences, but then shut down. He said just enough for Jack to know Grandpa had seen the human cost of war up close.
After the war, Grandpa married into a prominent family in Jefferson City and he started his own family. He also started his own business as an automobile dealer. He sold the cars, repaired them, and taught his customers to drive.
His business did well. In September 1929, he went on a tour of Hupmobile factories to see the new models. The next month, the stock market crashed, and his business slipped away.
After several weeks, my AncestryDNA results came in.
A few months later, I found a promising lead, a few DNA matches that connected only through Grandpa. One of these matches had a family tree that included three siblings who all would have been in their 20s or early 30s when Grandpa was born. And…they all lived in New York.
Through a lot of work, I pieced together that George Van Sten, from Brooklyn, was Grandpa’s father. George lived a rather colorful life, and he made the newspapers as a result.
I had no leads for Grandpa’s mother. As I was talking about this with my brother one day, Jack told me: “He always said his mother was Abbie Doyle.” Later one of my cousins told me the same thing.
I was stunned. How could Grandpa know this?
Jack said Grandpa was clearly bothered by what he had learned in New York, and would start to talk and then stop. His feelings of abandonment were overwhelming, and they took away his voice, preventing him from telling all that he knew about his story. It seems he was a secret, and being a secret hurt.
I searched everywhere for signs of Abbie, or Abigail Doyle. I learned that searching for Irish names in New York in the late 1800s didn’t narrow things down much.
Then one day I was looking through a family tree on Ancestry.com. I saw a name—Abbie Camille Doyle–could this really be her?
Abbie was born in Northampton, Massachusetts in 1873. The timing would fit…
Abbie was the youngest of six children, with four brothers and one sister. Her father, Jeremiah Doyle, and her mother, Margaret Foley, head each come to America from Ireland during the potato famine. Her parents married in Holyoke, Massachusetts, in 1856.
When the Civil War began, Abbie’s father joined the Union Army, and he was wounded soon thereafter. He was discharged due to “disability. This was 12 years before Abbie’s birth. What happened after that? Did her older siblings work to support the family? Her father died when she was just eight years old.
In Massachusetts records from 1899, I found Abbie married William Dolan. The marriage record listed William as residing in New York City. Additional DNA research provided overwhelming evidence that Abbie was Grandpa’s mother.
I tried to imagine what things had been like for her. I don’t know the circumstances, but she had found herself expecting a child. She gave birth as a poor single mother. Her life could not have been easy and her emotions must have been complex. She must have felt alone, with no good alternatives.
I found myself caring about this woman I had never met.
And then, I received a message from a descendant of one of Abbie’s siblings. My newfound cousin had sent me a family photo that included Abbie and three of her brothers. As I gazed into her eyes for the first time, I saw my grandfather, and I realized he had found Abbie. And so had I.
When I was in graduate school, working to become a psychologist, I ran across a wonderful book titled, Every Person’s Life is Worth a Novel. This book said every person is fascinating–you just have to ask the right questions to get them to reveal the hidden story.
This is why I love history–it’s not just about dates and nations. It’s about people, about drama and overcoming adversity. This is definitely true for the Kneisly family. I had no idea that my ancestors lived through so many events I had read about. I didn’t ask the right questions of my grandmother, Lily Myrtle Kneisly Yarnell. I wonder if she had any idea of the richness of her heritage.
I started my genealogy journey searching for my paternal grandfather’s story. He was the interesting one, born in mystery to unknown parents. I wanted to find his parents, to discover where he came from. And when I accomplished my goal, I took a break from genealogy, not sure if I would return.
But then, I took a look at my maternal grandmother’s origins, and found a story of the Protestant Reformation, religious persecution, forced migration, exodus to America, the Revolutionary War…
And today, because of the internet, I am able to ask questions and get some amazing answers.
Let me set the opening scene for the Kneisly story…
The earliest record of the family is of a Martin Nussli , born in 1510. Believe it or not, I found a portrait of his grandson, Konrad, and his wife, Margaretha Wanner Nusslie, and daughter. Konrad was born in 1570. My niece noted that Margaretha appears pregnant in this picture. I did some research and discovered that the couple had 11 children, so my niece may very well be correct. (I believe this to be Margaretha. He was married previously to Dorothea Bolesterli Nussli, but she died within a few years of their marriage.)
For context, it was in 1517 that Martin Luther wrote his Ninety-five Theses that began the Protestant Reformation. What began as disagreement over dogma led to extreme fragmentation of Christianity with tragically violent consequences. Europe was very different back then–countries did not exist in the same way they do today. Religious entities held power, and enforced unity and purity of belief.
Zurich, Switzerland in the early 1600s was on the front lines of religious tumult. Martin Luther and his split from the Roman Catholic church had led to additional groups exploring other religious ideas. One of these groups followed a former Catholic priest, Menno Simons, a leader in an Anabaptist sect. His followers became known as “Mennonites.”
The Nussli family was Mennonite. Johannes “Hans” Nusli, born near Zurich in 1628. His story is amazingly well-documented…but only because his life was so difficult…
By the 1640s, the Mennonites were horribly persecuted, and they were easy victims. They lived a faith with a commitment to non-violence, even when it came to self-defense. A group of Mennonites around Zurich were taken hostage in 1647, and as one book describes the circumstances, they were later “driven from Zurich by fire and by sword.” Hans was jailed for a year. Other Nussli’s were chained in dungeons, dressed in nothing buy long gray coats, and subjected to mockery.
Hans left Zurich between 1646 and 1649. He went to Bern, where other Mennonites had congregated. Before long, they were then driven out that area, and they were refugees headed for the Alsace region (on the modern-day French/German border).
He and his family lived there for about 14 years, when they again had to leave, and headed for the Alsace region (now the German-French border area). Hans died in 1688, but his descendants carried on.
Census records from 1707 in Alsace show Anthoni Knussli, age 52, having a wife named Magdalena. They had six children: Hans (19), Anthony (14), Elizabeth (11), Maria (7), Barbara (4), and an infant daughter named Sybilla.
That same year, 1707, a group of Mennonites went to London to meet with William Penn and discuss colonizing Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. In 1717, records show that the Knussli family traveled to Rotterdam, then to London, and then to Philadelphia.
Travel at that time was an arduous undertaking. People were packed onto ships like cargo, sleeping in what are best described as wooden boxes. Seasickness was routines as were other illnesses. But the Knussli clan had faith the travel would be worth it–in terms of religious freedom, as well as the opportunity to be able to farm their own land. Among that first group was my direct ancestor, Antonius.
(An interesting historical footnote: England’s Queen Ann provided financing for the Kneisly’s journey.)
Antonius (also listed as Anthony) made his way to Conestoga Township in Lancaster County. (Many family names from the records of Lancaster County in the early 1700s show up in my list of DNA matches on Ancestry.com.) in 1711, Antonius and his wife had a son, George.
George is noted for several reasons in the historical record. First, he is recognized as a “patriot” for participating in the Revolutionary War despite being 65 years old in 1776. His “participation” consisted of paying taxes to support the “Confederate Army” as it is listed in the documents.
George also built Kneisly’s Mill, a grist mill that still stands today. I found photos of the mill, which today, operates as an art studio.
George and Catherine had a son, George Jr., who served as a private in Captain James Beard’s 8th Company, 4th Battalion. All in all, 14 Kneislys are listed in records of having served in the Revolutionary War.
Having moved from Zurich to Bern in Switzerland, to Alsace, on to Rotterdam in Holland, to London, and then to Colonial America, the Kneislys were not done. From Lancaster County, some of them moved south to Maryland and Virginia. My direct ancestors ventured to the Western frontier, to near what is now Dayton, Ohio. (At one time, there was a railroad stop known as “Kneisly Station.”)
In Ohio, the next George Kneisly, built paper mills and a distillery (with a capacity of sixty barrels a day). He apparently did quite well, acquiring considerable land along the Miami River. His businesses built housing for his employees, and he had stores to supply what the employees’ families needed. So, he made money from their labor, and from their daily needs–the entire town was built around the company and it included the proverbial “company store.” (Much of the Kneisly land there is now part of Wright-Patterson Air Force Base.)
The next Kneisly did not do so well, and it appears he likely had a mental illness (that’s my diagnosis as a psychologist based on old family records), dying at age 31. He was described as going on “sprees” and gambling away his money. Those same family records, without saying so directly, suggest that he may have been murdered by those to whom he owed money. His wife was encouraged to give up her children, to “bind them out” as indentured servants since she was still attractive and young enough to get married again. (That’s what her father-in-law told her. He may not have been the most sympathetic person in my family tree…)
Mary Stuart Kneisly, did not bind out her children. Instead, she worked hard and eventually married a minister. At least one of her children served in the Union Army during the Civil War, enlisting numerous times against her wishes until she realized she could no longer stop him. After the War, she followed him to Missouri, where he purchased land. Mary, born in 1818, lived a long life, dying in 1900.
The Kneislys and their descendants farmed around Olean, Missouri, and in nearby counties. A 2007 history of Olean in the Jefferson City New-Tribune lists Charlie Kneisly (my grandmother’s brother) as being one of the town’s barbers.
There are Kneisly descendants throughout the United States, with many still near Lancaster County, Pennsylvania and Dayton, Ohio. As the family has spread out, the spelling of the name has evolved differently in various areas–Kneisley, Knicely, Nicely, Gnussli, and others…One of my favorite recent images I have found of a distant relative is that of Andrew Kneisly, who is a professional rugby player, and who has played on the U.S. national team.
In talking with my close family, I have been asked about when the Kneislys converted to being Mennonites. I can’t answer this with any certainty, but it appears it may have been in the early 1600s. And, given that central Missouri has many Mennonite communities, did they move to the area for that reason? The evidence suggest not–this was likely to be coincidence as land in Missouri was easily available after the Civil War, and many people came to Missouri at the time.
I also can’t say with any certainty when my ancestors stopped living as Mennonites, but it likely was quite a while back. Participating in the Revolutionary War suggests they no longer were strict Mennonites, or perhaps their interpretation of the tenets of their faith had evolved. Many sources note that most Mennonites, Quakers, and other “non-resistant” faiths did not serve in the War. This is a story remaining to be discovered.
Fortunately, for an amateur genealogist such as me, the Mennonites went into great detail documenting their history. With the Kneislys having played a prominent role in the early Mennonite communities, I have been able to find the answers to questions I didn’t even know I had. I’ve enjoyed telling the family story–thanks for reading.
Recently, I heard someone refer to their family as “just simple farmers.” I would argue that there is no such thing–every family has an amazing story if you just dig deep enough. Average, down-to-earth people may seem “simple” because they are focusing on surviving day-to-day, working to support their families. But they are part of the unfolding of history, history that is only understood later when we can view it from a distance.
My maternal grandmother was Lily Myrtle Kneisly. The Kneislys were well-known around central Missouri, having farmed and worked around Enon, High Point, California, Eldon, Russelville, and Clarksburg. Their family history can be traced back to Switzerland, escaping religious persecution by going to Alsace, and eventually to Colonial America. Those stories will be told in future posts to this blog. But first, let’s go to my grandmother…
I remember my grandmother having an old “Big Chief” tablet that had a history of the family, handwritten by her “Aunt Nan Agee.” Here it is, with some minor editing to make it easier to read:
History of Some of the Kneislys–by Nancy Belle Kneisly Agee
Part 1) Many years back, my grandfather came over from Germany and settled in Pennsylvania and from there four of his sons came to Ohio, and settled near Dayton Ohio. At the time of my birth, which will be 88 years ago the 30th of Nov. 1938. My grandfather was the wealthiest man in those parts. He owned cotton factories, saw mills, and distilleries, along the little Miami river. He also kept merchandise to supply his employers.
My grandmother’s maiden name was Seigel,of German descent also. Their family consisted of several boys, and one girl Serah. There was to my knowledge four boys, named: John, George, Adam, and Will. Serah married Dr. Ely. He died and left her a widow. I recollect her visiting my mother when I was quite young.
My Grandfather’s name was George and my father’s name was George Jr. My father was drowned near the paper mills six weeks before I was borned. My mother had dismissed the boarders and was alone with us children. He was in the habit of going away for several days at a time on his sprees and had gambled until he had nothing left, so grandfather made him Pay Master at the paper mills.
One evening, he came home early to supper and said he was going fishing, that he had promised to meet some parties at the fishing rock. So when morning came and he did not show up, and the dog, an old Newfoundland kept going to the river and coming back, howling so pitifull, she went to the mill to inquire about him. So they went to the fishing rock and dragged the river and found his body all wrapped up in his trot line. They called the coroner. My Mother never saw him after he was dead.
In a few days she went to Grandfather Kneisly to see if he would loan her some money, until she could go to work again. And what do you suppose he said to her? “Pops, you are still young and good looking, bind your children out and you can marry again.” (Binding refers to selling the children to another family where they would be indentured servants.) She replied, “No father, I will not bind them. I will work my finger nails off first.”
Then she went home and wrote to her Father. He came and moved her home, and in six weeks I was borned then. She remembered a Mr. Nixon, a big mill man she had often heard my father speak of. She wrote to Mr. Nixon for a job in his paper mill and a house. He answered back that his houses were all full, but he had a small cottage that was empty, and she could have a job in his mill. So in six weeks, grandfather Stewart moved her to the Nixon Mill, one half mile of Clifton Ohio.
There she lived in the little cottage working and sending the older Elizabeth, Dave, and Jane, to school and Sunday School, and church for three years. But the tide was bound to turn. One quarter of a mile from town you came to a bridge across a small stream of water that flowed through the meadow of a large farm. You left the main road and followed the river down to Mr. Nixon’s Mills. About another quarter mile, you came to the little cottage where my Mother lived. Next was five other large houses with two families in each house. On a little farther, you came to the paper mills across a narrow plat farm. You walked in to the upper part called the rag room where the woman worked.
Part 2) One Sunday, Mother was fixing the children off to Sunday School when there was a knock on the door. She thought it was some neighbor. She called, “Come in,” and in walked an old gentleman. Well, she was so confused that she forgot to set him a chair. She said, “I was just getting the children off to Sunday school.” He replied, “Go ahead and don’t let me bother you. I just called on a little business.”
So Mother sent the children on and the old gentleman broached the subject of his visit–he was alone with a large farm and he would love to marry her, and move her and her children to his home. Mother replied, “I haven’t given a thought about marriage, but would study about it” and let him know. So he continued his visits. Mother, being wise, decided she would be doing well to go with him, so they were married. I was three years old, my sister Elisabeth was about eleven, and Jane about nine, Dave about seven, and Jim about five.
So Father Braley and Mother worked together sending the children to school, Sunday school and church for several years. One day, Father was building a fence when he let a rail fall. It skinned his shin bone, making quite a wound. He neglected to doctor until it became poisoned, causing him to have a chronic sore. That was before civil war. Mother and the boys still kept the work going on the farm. In the year of Sixty, the war broke out, and he died, leaving Mother a widow again. Elisabeth had married a Dave Berg of the Methodist church. Jane had gone to Aleto, Illinois, to my Aunt McDoy’s.
Dave went and joined the Army. That was about the year of 1863. That left Mother, Jim, and I at home. Jim ran away, went to the Army. Mother followed him, taking him out twice. The third time, Mother followed him to Cincinnati. There they talked her out of taking him back as a man by the name of Shadric had sworn him in as his guardian and left with the Eight-hundred bounty, so she came home without him. That left Mother and I at home to care for the home and livestock.
Dave would write to Mother not to sell the livestock, that he would be home soon as he could. She wrote for Jane to come home and be with her and I. She came and when the War was over. Dave came home as soon as he could.
One day Mother looked out and up the lane, she saw Jim coming. She started running to embrace him. He called out, “Mother, don’t touch me–I’m lousy, (covered in lice). Take me some clothes to the garden.” So she did. He changed his clothes and buried his war clothes before coming in the house. So there we were, all that was left of us, at home again.
Mother had received a letter from Illinois that Elisabeth had died from the cows eating a poison weed. Dave Berg and his three children got well. I suppose some of them are still living. Their names were Sam, Henry, and Emma Jane.
Part 3) I was going to school to graduate as a teacher for two six months terms. Dave was going with a girl at Yellow Springs. Her name was Anna Blue. They were married. He brought her home. Jim was working for George Brayley, grinding bark for the tannery house.
Dave traded his government bonds for land in Missouri. Joining Wess Hackys, he wanted to go to Missouri to his land. Mother thought she could not part away from him, so she sold her dowry in the farm. Father Brayley left her to his son George, and sold her belongings, and sent Dave on before to buy her a place. He bought the old Hicks place, paid Seventy Dollars for it.
We then came to Jefferson City. Mother, Jane, Jim and I and Dave’s wife. We were there over Sunday and Monday Morning. We started home, were on the road all day, reaching home late in the evening. In the morning, the man that moved us took Mother and I as far as Mt Pleasant to get the deed fixed. He went on home and Mother and I walked back 2-1/2 miles the post office in Mr Franklin’s Store.
That was the day I first met Mr Franklin, Alice Simpson’s father. He claimed it was love on first sight on his part. He was a frequent visitor to our home until Mother gave her consent for us to be married. He would come every Sunday with a horse and buggy and take me out to Salem to church. Well that fall, in October, we were married. He was 30 yrs. old that day and Nov. the 30th I was Eighteen. We were at his Brother Will’s for a few weeks and we went to housekeeping. He was a partner in the store with his Brother Will,
We bought a house and a cow and moved. We were very happy. He worked in the store and I worked fixing up my home. Mother would come up to see us for several months. He had to go to town to California for his goods. While he was there, came a hard rain and raised the Moreau, a stream he had to ford. It was so swift he came very near being washed down the stream. That night he was taken sick. Mother was there. We called the doctor.
The doctor worked and stayed with him until daylight. He got so he could walk to the store. One day he got to shaking. They carried him home. The doctor called it St. Anthony dance. He had those spells quite a while, nothing but the shooking machine would stop them. One evening, several men came in. I was sitting, visiting with them when I saw one of them straighten his feet. I looked at him and saw the death pallor on his face. I didn’t remember anything more.
When I became conscious, he was laid out. The doctor told the woman, “Don’t let her get up.” They tried, but I did get up and knelt down by the casket. They carried me back to bed. Doctor gave me some dope. They took him away for several weeks. I couldn’t realize he was gone. Mother moved me home so she could take care of me. I would go out and set for hours. I imagined I could hear his horses feet. he rode horseback and I could always tell when he was coming.
One day I realized he was gone. I was out sitting by a strawstack crying. Mother came out and said, “Nan, you must be reconciled–you will bring more trouble on your self. I am doing all I can to save you and your baby.”
So I went in the house with her and it wasn’t long until Allie was borned. The doctor came every day until I was out of danger. Mother would set by the fire place and watch her play with her hands. When Brother, Jim heard the baby was borned that it was a girl, he walked home from Wess Hackney’s, where he was working, and the first thing he said, “Mother, what are you going to name her?” She said, “I don’t know.” He said, “Call her Alice.” So we called her Alice, after Alice Williams, the girl Jim loved first, so that’s that.