It Takes Two

Thirty-six years ago today two beautiful babies, well, one beautiful baby and one teeny, orange, gangly creature (who, rest assured, grew up to be a very attractive man), showed up in my life two months before they were supposed to show up.  Until that point I was an only child.  I was the only granddaughter.  And, at least on one side of my family, I was an only grandchild, an only niece.  That didn't last long.  The only comfort I find in losing my reigning princess status is knowing that it took two of them to unseat me.

I was not quite three years old at the time so my recollections of that summer are fuzzy at best.  I remember my mom spending A LOT of time on bed rest.  I remember that when she was up and moving all I could see was this really, big belly.

I remember being in charge of lunch some days.  Before leaving for work Dad would put yogurt and graham crackers on the bottom shelf of the fridge so I could reach them.  I remember breaking my leg that summer and my mom pleading with me to get up and walk because she just couldn't carry me.  She wasn't even supposed to be up.  I remember Dad carting Mom and I off to my grandparents house shortly after that because he had to work and a pregnant wife on bed rest and a two year old in a cast just could not be left home alone any longer.

That's about it.

I don't remember my mom going in to labor.  I don't remember her being in the hospital, though I am sure she was there for a while.  I don't remember if I visited the new babies in the hospital, though that probably wasn't allowed back then, even if they hadn't been so premature.

I don't even remember the day they were brought home from the hospital.  Or the days and weeks that followed.

I'm fairly certain my grandparents and my aunt, Rhonda (never Aunt Rhonda) and my uncle, Brad spoiled me rotten during those days and weeks.  They have loved me well my whole life and I have never questioned that.

So, while I have vague memories of life before The Twins were born, the memories since then are even more precious.  They are part of me and I am part of them and we belong to each other - no matter how close or far apart we are.

First they were "my babies."

Then they were The Twins.

Now, they are my friends.

Tree climbing. Backyard hole digging.  Mud pie making.  Giggling and games, fighting and making up.  Tic, tac, toe and sit-n-spin.  Connecting dots in church and trying so hard to keep quiet.  And teacups.  Always, teacups.

For over four years you were mine.  Then another came. Twenty months later another.  First we were a family of three.  Then five.

Then seven.  Soon fifteen.

Still there are games and giggling.  Now there is music and laughter, teasing and tears.  Skype and stairs.  And, love.  Lots of love.  Sometimes there is so much love that all I can do as I kneel to pray each night is just say your names and feel.

Turning Hearts

(Note:  I wrote this blog post about four months ago but never posted it.  I'm not quite sure why not.)

One of my favorite things about family history is the way that it brings living family together. And let me tell you, it was a family history weekend. (I'll warn you right now - this is going to be a long post but there is a theme that runs through it all. I hope you catch the rhythm of it. And if not, I'll see if I can insert some pictures to break it up a little.)

Friday, I drove the eleven hours from my home in Utah down to San Diego. I picked my dad up at the airport and we headed to my uncle's house. Three of their grown children, one with spouse, were there in addition to my aunt and uncle. We got there around 11:00 pm and could hear them from the street when we pulled up. Several hours of fun discussions and crazy debate later, we headed to bed.

Saturday, my cousin's wedding day, I was rudely awakened by the high school marching band practicing in the field next to the house. But, it was good to be up early as more cousins and their children descended on the house for breakfast. My youngest cousin came home from a sleepover and everyone wished her a happy birthday. Following breakfast and some wedding preparations, I whisked her and her best friend off for a mani/pedi. I am the oldest cousin and she is the youngest and there are 19 years between us. We share a unique relationship. I adore her and she is growing into a great young woman. I invited her to come spend a few weeks with me next summer and hope she will take me up on the offer.

Becca and I about ten years ago at a family reunion.

The afternoon and evening were filled with the wedding and a reception for my cousin Kasey and his bride, Aubree. I got to hang out with my dad and my aunt, Rhonda. We talked and laughed and enjoyed our time together with several of my cousins and their spouses and children. One even used the occasion to announce that she is ten weeks pregnant with her second child. When we had had as much fun as we could handle we headed from San Diego up to Los Angeles to see my grandmother.

"Ma" is 88 years old. We got to her house just after 11:00 p.m. She was waiting up for us. No early night that evening either. But, I love my grandma. I love her stories. I love her sense of humor. I love how much she loves my dad. And I love all of that more than I love sleep, apparently.

Ma feeding bananas to my adorable niece

Sunday morning after a client meeting in the area, I went to church in Santa Monica then realized I had some free time before meeting with another genealogy client in Bel Air. I knew that my great-grandparents built a house in Santa Monica in the 1920s. My grandfather and his sisters were raised in that house. My dad and his siblings spent a lot of time at grandma's house growing up. And even I, as a small child, visited Grandma Cowan there several times before her death in 1975. I recently inherited her photo albums, including pictures of the house while it was under construction. So, I thought it might be neat to get a few pictures of the house as it looks now.

I didn't have the address with me but knew the major cross streets. It took a few wrong turns and slow driving up and down streets but I finally found it. I intended to just hop out, take a few pictures and be on my way. But, figured I better see if anyone was home and ask permission in case they noticed some odd woman photographing their house and became concerned.

The woman who answered the door was thrilled to meet me. I showed her the construction pictures. We found a few interior shots among my scanned photographs and compared them against the current structural elements and interior design of the home. She graciously took the time to show me around so I could see some of the restoration and remodeling work she has done. She has done a beautiful job maintaining the integrity of this gorgeous, old, 1920s bungalow home.

While there I shared a couple favorite stories that have been shared in our family by my dad and his siblings about Grandma's House. This gracious woman invited me to bring my father and anyone else who might be interested to come see the house as it is now and share their memories with her. We definitely will do that the next time we are in town.

It really was a delightful afternoon. I am so happy to see this home lived in and loved by someone who appreciates the history of it.

The rest of the day was spent with my dad and grandma and a couple of aunts. We had our standard Taco Sunday dinner. I shared my adventures of the afternoon. We laughed over shared memories and tales from our individual lives. And, of course, my grandmother told her stories - all of which we have heard before, but none of which she shared repeatedly in the same evening. (And if you know her, you know that is a BIG deal.)

Another late night led to another groggy morning. Only Monday morning meant a long drive home. So, lots of prayers were offered that I would get home safely and lots of Mountain Dew was consumed to see that become a reality. Along the way I made a few stops, essentially turning a 10 hour drive into a 14 hour adventure.

My grandmother is the oldest of five children. Two of her brothers passed away years ago. Her two remaining siblings, and one sister-in-law, all live on the I-15 route home. So, I stopped at Uncle Don's house in Las Vegas. But, he wasn't home. That always makes me sad because I enjoy seeing him so much. Next I stopped at my Aunt Karma's house in St George. But, she wasn't home either. I would have liked to have seen her but had just spent a little time with her the previous Saturday so I didn't wait around too long. My final stop was at the house of my grandmother's only sister, Erma, in Cedar City.

Erma has long been like another grandmother to me. She and her husband used to travel quite a bit with my grandparents. And, since we rarely lived near my grandparents, Winn and Erm were with them on many occasions when they would come to see us.

Winn and Erma with my grandparents on a trip to Oregon

On Saturday we received word that Erma would not live through Monday. My grandmother is unable to travel and Erma was not able to talk on the phone for more than a minute or two. So, I went as my grandma's proxy (and my father's and my aunt's) to give this beloved woman our love. Even though it was almost 9:00 at night, her home was filled with her children, many of her grandchildren, and several of her great-grandchildren. I love these cousins of mine and was so happy with the peace that filled that home as they gathered around Erma in her final days of life.

I was able to sit with her for ten or fifteen minutes, holding her hand and feeding her ice chips. I shared our love. I told her a few of my grandma's stories about the two of them growing up and she laughed, however weakly. With labored breathing she shared her excitement to see her husband and her parents again. I told her how close I have always felt to them even though her mother died long before I was born. I reminded her that I live in the town her mom was born in and how her grandparents are buried in the cemetery near my house.

Back row: Victor Mulliner and Mary Heaps Mulliner with Wally Heaps
Front Row:  Doris and Erma Mulliner

When Erma drifted asleep, I kissed her forehead and told her how much I love her. She opened her eyes and returned the sentiment. I asked her to say hello to my grandpa for me when she gets to the other side. She said she would and I said goodbye and hummed a bar of "God Be With You 'Til We Meet Again."

I spent a little more time there at the house with these cousins. I reminded my dad's cousin, Tim, that he and his wife are the reason my parents met. Then we shared the story with the others assembled there. I met the family of a second cousin I barely know and was so impressed with his small children, up at this late hour, well-behaved and willing to share, with a room full of adults, their parts from the Primary program of the day before, including a verse of a song they sang. I inquired after those who weren't there and got caught up on all the goings on in the life of this large, busy, faith-filled family.

I left and drove the remaining three hours home, exhausted but filled with peace and joy and love. I thought a lot about my grandmother's parents and grandparents on that drive up through the mountains to the place they were born and raised - a place I now live, though a few generations removed. I have come to know and love them through the genealogy research I have done into their lives, through the stories my grandmother has shared with me my whole life, through pictures and memories and the faces of those I call family.

As I spent time with much of their posterity over the past four days, I have wondered if they are near. Are they proud of us? Do they know how much we love them and how grateful we are to them for the legacy they created for us with their own lives? We are far from perfect, individually and collectively. But, we love each other and we support each other, we challenge each other and push each other, and, I hope, we build and lift and comfort and inspire.

As I moved from announcements of new life to the beginning of a new family to a farewell at death's door with loved ones this weekend, I was reminded of why I am so in love with my family - all of them, whether I know them well or not. It is where my life starts and ends. And, I am convinced, it is partly because of my involvement in family history research. My heart has been turned to my family not just of the past, but here and now as well.




Heaps Family Reunion Summer 2000



Ada Mae O'Brien Woodruff

Quite often people will ask me what got me interested in genealogy research. There is a standard answer that I rattle off. But, really, there are hundreds of little things that all added up over the years to spark my interest and continue to fan the flames of my passion for family history.


My parents monthly visits to the Family History Library when I was a baby where I would rest in my carrier under the microfilm reader.

…...My grandmother's endless stories of people and places.

………...My Nana's parade of pictures each time we visited.

…………………The class I took in college.

………………………...The reunions I attend each summer.

…………………………………...The cousins I love getting to know.

…………………………………………...The list goes on and on.

Today, however, I would like to pay tribute to another reason my passion was inevitable. My great-grandmother died a few days before my grandfather's 3rd birthday so I never met her (never met him either as he died when my mom was 17). But, my mom (who carries HER great-grandmother's middle name) chose to give me MY great-grandmother's middle name.

And so, I have always had a unique fascination with Ada Mae O'Brien, this woman whose name I bear.

She was born 116 years ago today in the Ozark Mountains of northwest Arkansas to Eliza Louisa Frances Jones. Eliza was married three times and we aren't certain which of her last two husbands is the father of Ada Mae. Ada Mae was raised and married as an O'Brien, the third husband, and her obituary lists him as her father. Certainly, he is the only father she ever knew.

Ada Mae married a farmer, Walter Edward Woodruff, when she was 22 years old and had her first son 14 months later. Four more sons followed, one every two years until 1916. The second son died shortly after birth. My grandfather was born five years later in 1921 when Ada Mae was not quite 37 years old. Within three years she died, just weeks before her 40th birthday, leaving behind five sons ranging in age from 2-16.

That's really all I know of her. I wish I knew more. And that curiosity to really come to KNOW my ancestors - not just their names and the dates of their birth and death but to come to understand about their lives and the circumstances they lived in - are what keep me fascinated with family history.

Happy Birthday, Ada Mae! Your blood runs through my veins and I bear your name proudly. I hope you are pleased with what I am doing with it.

Happy Birthday, Nana!

Today my Nana would have been 90 years old. But, she only lived to be 83. I can't believe she's been gone for six years already.

Jessie Kerr was born and raised in Arkansas as one of nine surviving children. She moved to California during the 1940s. And, when my grandfather returned from the war they set up house in Long Beach where my mom and her older sister were born and raised. My grandfather died when Nana was only 48 years old. She never remarried and she lived alone in a little house in the OC for most of the rest of her life.

I remember visiting her a few times a year throughout my childhood. She didn't like a lot of noise and confusion. She was a meticulous housekeeper. She made the best lemonade you've ever tasted. And I loved to sit at her kitchen table as she brought out boxes of old family pictures and told stories of people I knew and loved and others I would never meet.

My favorite memory of my Nana? There are actually two.

When I was 18 years old I worked at The Happiest Place on Earth. As part of my employment I got a few free passes for the season. So one summer day my grandmother and "the aunts" (three of her sisters that she was close to) all came to spend the day with me at Disneyland. At the time, the oldest, Aunt Grayce, was 77. Aunt Bert was 75. Aunt Betty was 72. And my Nana was 70. We rented one wheelchair and they took turns fighting over who got to PUSH it. You've never seen anything so funny as four old ladies pushing an empty wheelchair and nagging at each other to "just sit in it would you?" We had a delightful day!

I really wish I had a picture of that summer afternoon. But, in absence of that, here is a picture of my Nana and The Aunts with their parents on the occasion of their father's 75th birthday in 1960.

(Front Row L to R: Lenore Algerene Lawrence Kerr and Albert Jefferson Kerr;

Back Row L to R: Alberta Dona Kerr Stearns, Grayce Virginia Kerr Crafts, Jessie Lea Kerr Woodruff, and Betty Jean Kerr Beatty)

My second favorite memory involved another trip to Disneyland. I was 22 years old, done with school and living in Utah. My best friend, Melanie Sidwell, and our friend, Jeff Driggs, and I hopped in the car one night and drove 10 hours to spend the weekend in Southern California. While we were there we decided to take my Nana out to dinner. We met her at her house. She called my cousin, Greg, and invited him to meet us at THE Sizzler (as if it were the only one on the planet) and then announced that SHE would be taking US out to dinner. She drove.

We pulled into the parking lot where my cousin was waiting. I made to jump out of the car to hug him and she hit the electric locks so fast my forehead almost hit the passenger side window. At which point my grandmother announced (to three adults mind you) that we would all be having the buffet dinner and she wanted to know - BEFORE we got into the restaurant - what we wanted to drink so that there was no confusion once we got inside. (Did I mention that she didn't like confusion?)

I wasn't sure whether to laugh or be mortified. My two twenty-something friends in the backseat calmly, but with slightly dazed looks, gave their drink orders so I followed suit. She unlocked the car. I got out and hugged my cousin. She asked him the same question and we all filed into The Sizzler behind her. As she placed our orders, my cousin turned to me and winked and then proceeded to change his entire order. She got a little flustered then hit him with her pocketbook. We laughed all the way through dinner. And Nana forever became know to my friends as "The Sizzler Grandma."

So - Happy 90th birthday, Nana! I never go to Disneyland (or to The Sizzler, for that matter) without thinking about you.

There Is A Little Math Geek In All Of Us

There have been numerous postings and news articles following the Faces of America program on PBS and most recently the Who Do You Think You Are series that premiered on NBC this past Friday night. So, I won't add to the all the noise other than to say that I applaud anything that brings genealogy into the mainstream.


With that said, I do have to mention that a conversation going on over at Randy Seaver's Genea-Musings caught my attention today. So, I thought I'd participate in the exercise to see how I'm doing with my own genealogy research.

(For those who aren't familiar with how genealogy works - you have two parents and each of them have two parents which means that each generation you go back the number of your ancestors doubles. If you work with the law of averages each generation is approximately 25 years. That means that 10 generations back is between 250 and 300 years ago. That gives you a grand total of 1,022 people responsible for your existence in just the last 300 years. What do you know about them?)

Here's how I'm doing with my 10 generation chart:

Generations 1-4: 15 out of 15 (100%)
5th Generation: 16 out of 16 (100%)
6th Generation: 30 out of 32 (93.8%)
7th Generation: 44 out of 64 (68.8%)
8th Generation: 68 out of 128 (53.1%)
9th Generation: 80 out of 256 (31.3%)
10th Generation: 75 out of 512 (14.7%)

Total: 328 out of 1,023 (32.1%)

I now have mathematical proof as to why I cringe every time someone says their genealogy is "all done" or that they've traced their family "back to the 1400s." I'm a professional genealogist and I can only prove out 32% of the people in the past 300 years responsible for my existence. That means that 68% of my ancestry is completely unknown to me.

So, even if you can carry one tiny stand of your ancestry back further than that - and I can on a couple of lines - there is always more to discover about who you are and who you come from!

Favorite Photo Of A Female Ancestor

Today's Women's History Month blog prompt from Lisa Alzo is:

Post a photo of one of your female ancestors. Who is in the photo? When was it taken? Why did you select this photo?

My great-grandmother, Lillian Elsa Noack, was 25 years old when she got married but then her husband immediately left to serve in World War One. For the next three years she continued living with her parents in Dallas, Texas. And though they were now married, with both of their husbands off to war, she and her younger sister, Selma, continued to travel around the United States visiting family and making new friends - a past time that led them to meet the men they married in the first place - and a trait I blame for my own wanderlust. Lillian and her husband were finally reunited after the war and welcomed their first child in the fall of 1920.

I recently inherited three very large scrapbooks my great-grandmother kept from 1915 to 1932. There are over 1700 pictures in the pages of these treasured books. So you can see how it would be hard to pick a favorite. There is one she took of her mother-in-law (my great-great-grandmother) with HER mother-in-law (my great-great-great-grandmother). I love that one. There's one of Lillian and her younger sister dressed up like men and playing dice in the dirt. Too funny! There are pictures of her with her parents and older sisters, her nieces and nephews and cousins. Pictures taken in California and Colorado, Texas and Ohio. There's even one of her standing on top of a train car with some friends.

But, as I was looking through the pictures again this morning two small, candid shots caught my eye - and my heart. One of Lillian's much older cousins named his daughter Lillian. In the late summer of 1919 the two Lillians met. And from what I can tell - they became friends.

I absolutely love being an aunt. Though I don't get to spend much time with them, I ADORE my nephews and my niece. So, while this little girl is - technically - a younger cousin and not a niece, something about these pictures captured my imagination.

In a day and time when many women married young and had children quickly, I often wonder how my great-grandmother felt about being a little older when she got married. I wonder how she felt about her husband being off to war. Did she worry that he might never come back to her? Did she worry that if he did he might be harmed or damaged in such a way that she might never be a mother? She had siblings with children and was - if the pictures can be believed - constantly surrounded by family. Did she love being an aunt as much as I do?

Women's History Month: Who Is Your Favorite Female Ancestor?

Today is the first day of Women's History Month. I descend from some pretty amazing women - starting with my mother and my grandmothers and stretching back through the generations.

Lisa Alzo at The Accidental Genealogist has given us 31 blogging prompts to celebrate these women whose blood runs through our veins. I haven't read ahead through all of them yet but here is the one for today:

"Do you have a favorite female ancestor? One you are drawn to or want to learn more about?"

I don't know if I can pick a "favorite." But, there is one woman in my ancestry that continually captivates my attention. Carrie Inman was born in Ohio in 1861. Her father died when she was three years old and her mother died before she turned six. She was raised by her maternal grandparents in Medina County.

I have a few pictures of Carrie. She was a striking woman. She was also about six feet tall. When she was 22 years old she married a man who was two years younger and about six inches shorter. They had two sons, the younger of whom made the local newspaper for weighing over twelve pounds at his birth. Before that boy, my great-grandfather, was ten years old, Carrie's husband left her and headed out to California where he worked his way through a few more wives.

Carrie never remarried. And years later when her oldest son did the same thing to his wife and their four daughters, Carrie headed down to New Orleans (where her daughter-in-law was from) to help raise her granddaughters. She died there in 1945.

For years all we knew of Carrie was what was contained in her son's birth announcement, what scant information we found in her marriage certificate, and a few stories told by an aunt we aren't certain ever even met her. A few years ago I found the cemetery record that contained her death information. Shortly after that I came across a book written in 1890 about her mother's family history that provided me with the clues I needed to find the records that told her life story.

I think that's probably why I feel most drawn to her - because first she was a genealogical "brick wall." She was a challenge and a puzzle. I worked and worked - over years with my dad and on my own - to find more about her. And she was the first brick wall I ever broke through. And like most things that we have to work for, I feel more value because of the effort.

I recently came into possession of a few pictures of her that have really brought her to life for me. My favorite was taken in 1932, when she was 71 years old. She is sitting on the front porch of her New Orleans home, surrounded by her daughter-in-law, three of her granddaughters and a great-granddaughter. Best of all, she wrote on the back and now I have her handwriting as well as a glimpse into her personality.

"The whole family, Aug 1932.  Something was on the door and landed on my nose.  Looks as tho I had a bird."

I think she is a woman I would have loved to have known better. I can't wait to meet her someday!