Great-Grandma Alter's Secret: She wasn't an orphan.

My great-grandmother, Helene (Herline) Alter, claimed to be an orphan—but that wasn't exactly true!

Helene was born in 1886 in Hoboken, New Jersey, just across the Hudson River from New York City. Her roots were deeply planted in a proud German-American lineage. Her grandfather, Edward Herline Sr., was one of the “Forty-Eighters”—a group of intellectuals and reformers who fled the German states following the failed revolutions of 1848. A Bavarian artist by training, he established a thriving lithography business in the United States.

Helene’s father, Edward Otto Herline, initially followed in his father’s artistic footsteps but found his skills less in demand as printing technology advanced. He pivoted to sign painting, a trade that took him throughout the Mid-Atlantic and Great Lakes regions.

Edward Otto Herline

But in June 1887, the family's story took a dramatic turn. According to the Pittsburgh Post, Edward fled the city with his wife and infant daughter, leaving behind a trail of unpaid debts. He owed his business partner $500 and his landlady $120 and had passed several worthless checks on his account at Duquesne Bank. The family soon resurfaced in Toronto, Canada—safely beyond the reach of U.S. authorities—where Edward was listed as a sign painter in 1889. But by 1890, Edward's name had vanished from the city directory. After that, the trail goes cold.

In subsequent years, there are scattered sighting of a similarly named man turning up in major cities like Cincinnati and Fort Wayne, but none can be definitively tied to Helene’s father. In 1918, Edward’s sister, Helen Lach, filed a legal claim against his property in New Jersey, summoning him via newspaper notice to appear in Hudson County Court. The implication was clear: Edward Otto Herline was either dead, missing, or in hiding.

But what of Helene and her mother?

By 1900, Helene’s mother—Elma Etta Ross—had remarried a man named Henry Truex and relocated west to Council Bluffs, Iowa, where Henry worked as a bartender at a local tavern. Helene, once a well-to-do city girl, was now a teenager in a rural town—and she wasn’t happy about it. At 16, she married a young man named John Kissel and moved to Denver, Colorado. Whether she ever saw her mother again remains unknown.

Elma Etta (Ross)
Herline Truex Becker

Tragedy struck in 1905 when John died at just 21. Helene was then taken in by John’s sister and her husband—a couple she always referred to as her Aunt Margaret and Uncle Dan. In 1909, she married my great-grandfather, Dr. Charles Alter, a dentist who would go on to run a thriving practice in Southern California. Together, they raised two daughters—my grandmother and great-aunt—neither of whom ever knew their mother had been married before. They also never knew that “Uncle Dan and Aunt Margaret” were not truly family.

Most remarkably, their mother never shared a word about her own parents. Helene claimed she was an orphan, and that was that. It was a story the family accepted without question for generations.

It wasn’t until I began my own genealogical sleuthing that the truth began to emerge. Elma’s marriage to Henry Truex seems to have lasted only a few years. By 1904, while Helene was living in Colorado, Elma had moved to Southern California with her aging parents, Hiram and Sabra Ross. Hiram, a Civil War veteran suffering from serious health issues, sought out the ocean air and nearby veterans’ services in Santa Monica.

Later that year, Hiram died, and Elma witnessed her mother’s application for a widow’s pension - signing her name as “Elma Becker” of Santa Monica. She was only 35 at the time and theoretically could have lived for decades more. But like Edward before her, after signing her name, she simply vanished from the records. We don’t know who Mr. Becker was, or whether Elma stayed in California. And we don’t know when—or where—she died.

Helene Herline, not an orphan!

We do know that Helene’s grandmother, Sabra Ross, remained in Santa Monica until her own death in 1917. At the time, Helene’s daughters—my grandmother and great-aunt Ruth—were just three and six years old, living in the city of Pomona, a mere 40 miles away. Yet they never knew their grandmother even existed.

So, what was behind Helene's attempts to erase her entire family from memory? What secret was she carrying that caused her to bury her past so completely that even her own daughters were convinced that she was an orphan. Was my great-grandfather aware of the truth? Was he complicit in the lies?

We may never know the entire truth – but it’s a mystery I will continue trying to solve.

[[David Randall > Mary Edna Alter > Helene Herline > Edward and Elma (Ross) Herline]]

Per and Elvera Johnson: A Story of Love and Loss

When it comes to couples, I’m fortunate to have photographs of my parents, my grandparents, all of my great-grandparents, and most of my second great-grandparents—some in multiple stages of life. But for this month’s “Couples” photo theme, I’ve chosen to feature a painting of my great-grandparents, Per and Elvera Johnson, the parents of my grandmother Leona Johnson, whom I wrote about in my previous post on “Language.”

This portrait has held a place of honor in my family for generations. It once hung at the top of the staircase in my grandmother’s home—a daily reminder of her parents’ legacy. After her passing, it moved to my mother’s bedroom, where it remained until her death last year. Today, it continues its quiet watch in my home, a silent connection to the generations who came before me.

My great-grandfather, Per August Johnson, was born on March 5, 1882, in Essex, Page County, Iowa, to Swedish immigrants James and Carolina (Peterson) Johnson. The third of seven children, he was raised on a farm in southwestern Iowa, where his family was part of the close-knit rural Swedish-American community.

Elvera Vendla Mathilda Bergren was born six years later, on March 23, 1888, in Grant Township, Montgomery County, Iowa—just a few miles from where Per grew up. She was the daughter of Gustaf and Christina (Anderson) Bergren, also Swedish immigrants. Like Per, she was the third of seven siblings and grew up on a rural Iowa farm, surrounded by the customs, language, and faith of her Swedish-American heritage.

Both Per and Elvera suffered a multitude of losses early in life. Per lost his 19-year-old sister Emelia in 1903 to what was recorded only as a “chronic illness.” Elvera’s eldest sister, Delia, died in childbirth at age 24 in 1907. She then lost both parents to consumption—now known as tuberculosis—her father in 1910, followed by her mother in 1911.

This portrait was painted from a photograph taken at their wedding on April 3, 1912, in Red Oak, Montgomery County, Iowa—just twelve days before the sinking of the Titanic. They settled in Fremont Township, Page County, where they began their family. Their first daughter, Leona, was born on January 16, 1913, followed by Eleanor on December 26, 1914.

The young family remained in Iowa through the 1910s, though sorrow continued to follow. Elvera’s brother Carl died of tuberculosis in 1913, her sister Edith died in childbirth in 1917, and Per’s mother Carolina passed away in 1919.

In 1919, Elvera herself contracted tuberculosis. At the time, there was no cure—her only hope lay in a change of climate. Like so many others afflicted with the “White Plague,” she moved west to Colorado, where the dry air, high altitude, and abundant sunshine were believed to offer the best chance of recovery. Per relocated the family to Boulder, and Elvera was admitted to the Boulder Sanitarium, a respected health facility modeled after Dr. John Harvey Kellogg’s sanitarium back East.

Located at the base of Mount Sanitas and operated by the Seventh-day Adventist Church, the Boulder Sanitarium specialized in holistic treatments for respiratory diseases. Patients followed strict diets, received hydrotherapy, and spent long hours outdoors in the mountain air. While Elvera fought for her life, Per was left to care for their two young daughters with the help of Elvera’s sister, the girls’ Aunt Esther. It was a difficult and uncertain time for the family—emotionally, physically, and financially.

Sadly, Elvera died on February 12, 1920. She was just 31 years old. Her death left Per a widower with two small daughters. Eighteen months later, Aunt Esther also passed away, leaving two young children of her own.

Later that year, Per remarried. His second wife was Bertha Johnson (no relation), the woman my grandmother would always call “Mommy.” Per and Bertha were married for 45 years, until his death on August 15, 1966, in Boulder. I was just nineteen months old at the time. Bertha lived another 18 years, passing away in April 1984.

Per and Elvera are long gone, but their legacy endures—not only in the century-old portrait that still hangs on the wall, but in the lives shaped by their experiences. Their love, losses, and quiet perseverance have left lasting imprints on the generations that followed—shaping us in ways we may never fully understand, but which continue to echo in our lives today.

Per and Elvera Johnson

[David Randall > Mary Welch > Leona Johnson > Per and Elvera (Bergren) Johnson]

From Sea to Shining Sea: A 330-Year Randall Family Migration

The Randall family’s journey across America was a slow, steady march that took more than three centuries to complete. From a seaside settlement on the Atlantic coast to a sun-soaked suburb on the Pacific, our family’s westward movement spanned some 3,000 miles over roughly 330 years. Ours is a story not of overnight transformation, but of quiet persistence, each generation taking its turn pushing the family a little further west.

Rhode Island Beginnings

Although he was clearly of English origins, where exactly our progenitor John Randall came from originally is unknown. What we do know is that he first appears in Newport, Rhode Island, in 1660. Perched on Aquidneck Island in Narragansett Bay, Newport was a bustling seaport with a reputation for tolerance and independence. It was also home to America’s first Baptist church, founded by Roger Williams, and John and his wife Elizabeth were among its most devout members. Religion and community mattered deeply to early New Englanders, and the Randalls were no exception.

But John was a restless soul and city life was not for him. In 1663, he and Elizabeth joined a band of settlers who set out to tame the colony’s wild western frontier. They helped establish what would become Westerly, Rhode Island—a move that, by today’s reckoning, would seem like a paltry 40 mile treck. But in the 17th century, 40 miles meant a day or more of trecherous travel, often on foot or horseback, through dense forests, across rocky terrain, and over unbridged rivers. The settlers had to clear land, build homes, and establish farms from scratch—all under the looming uncertainty of colonial boundary disputes and Native American resistance.

Westerly’s founding was more than just a real estate venture. It was a political statement. Rhode Island’s claim to its western boundary was contested by Connecticut, and planting settlers on the disputed lands was a way to assert jurisdiction. But this frontier gamble eventually backfired for the Randall family. After years of argument, the colonial boundary was formally settled in 1720—with the Pawcatuck River marking the division. Unfortunately, the Randall homestead ended up on the Connecticut side. With John deceased by that time, the family, now header by John Jr., had a difficult choice to make - return east and remain Rhode Islanders, or stay on their land and swear allegiance to the Connecticut Colony. They stayed.

The Connecticut Years

For several decades, the family remained on their land in what was not Stonington, Connecticut. But land was always a finite resource in New England, especially for younger sons. Benjamin Randall, John’s grandson and the fifth of six boys, knew he wouldn't inherit enough to support his own growing family. Around 1733, Benjamin moved about 50 miles inland to the young but rapidly growing town of Colchester.

Colchester had been settled just a few decades earlier and, by mid-century, had become a hub of farming and local industry. There, Benjamin and his wife Ruth raised ten children, including Sylvester, who lived out his own life farming in Colchester. But like generations before and after him, Sylvester’s own son, Abram, eventually faced a familiar problem—too many heirs and too little land. So, when opportunity knocked in the early 1800s, he answered.

Bouncing Around the Empire State

Abrams grandfather, Abraham Wightman, was a land speculator with a vision. He had purchased several tracts of land in New York’s fertile Mohawk Valley—then still a developing region on the frontier – in anticipation of an eventual land boom. Encouraged by this opportunity, Abram and Margaret packed up and moved northwest to Herkimer County, New York - about 200 miles westward from Colchester.

The Mohawk Valley was more than just farmland. It was the main artery through which the future Erie Canal would run, connecting the Hudson River to the Great Lakes and opening up the interior of the continent. The canal’s completion in 1825 revolutionized commerce, allowing Midwestern grain and goods to reach the Atlantic world. But this revolution was not all good news for the Mohawk Valley farmers who saw their incomes deteriorate due to competition from the more fertile lands further west. Like many others, the Randalls eventually shifted their focus to dairy, joining a regional cheese-making boom that supplied growing eastern cities like New York and Philadelphia.

Abram’s son Abial, born in Colchester and raised in the Mohawk Valley, inherited the family’s restless spirit. Beginning around 1810, he and his wife Ursula began a long and meandering migration through upstate New York. They moved first to Williamstown in Oswego County, then to Vernon, then to the fledgling towns of Sweden and Ogden in what was then Genesee County (and later became Monroe County).

Each move seemed motivated by a combination of economic uncertainty and the search for financial opportunities. Like so many early American families, the Randalls were improvisers, moving west one county at a time, trying to find a foothold in an ever-changing economy. By the 1820s, the family had settled in Ogden, where they remained for several decades before relocating to nearby Riga, New York.

It was in this region that Abial’s grandson Isaac—better known as Wilmoth—was born. And it would be Wilmoth who took the next giant leap: west to Michigan.

Hard Times in Michigan

The mid-1800s were a time of intense migration to the Great Lakes region, fueled by the promise of cheap land through the federal land grant system. In 1856 and again in 1857, Wilmoth secured two land grants in Gratiot County, Michigan—totaling 200 acres near the village of Ithaca. The move was ambitious, but like many pioneering efforts, it came with hardship.

Records show that by 1860, the family had returned to New York, likely due to financial difficulty or perhaps the failing health of Wilmoth’s aging parents. They moved back and forth several times in the 1860s—Hartland in Niagara County, then Barre in Orleans County—before finally returning permanently to Michigan by 1869. This time they settled in Eaton County, in the township of Oneida.

Still, the difficulties continued. In a letter from 1883, Wilmoth’s wife Paulena wrote to their son George about his father, “He’s not contented here… If we can't sell the place, we will rent it… It will be better than to stay here.” By 1884, they had moved yet again—this time to the village of Mesick in Wexford County, where several of their children had already relocated.

Off to Arizona

Wilmoth’s son William lived a difficult life in Wexford County. He farmed and worked in the local potato warehouse in Glengary, but his first marriage ended in abandonment, leaving him to raise three children alone and in abject poverty. Yet from this hardship came an unexpected breakthrough.

His son Claude Randall left home as a teenager and, through sheer determination, put himself through school. He attended DeKalb Normal School in Illinois and took various teaching jobs across rural Bureau and LaSalle Counties. In 1910, he married fellow teacher Lena Kaiser, and together they pursued a life built around education.

In 1912, they moved west again—this time to Phoenix, Arizona, where Claude served as Assistant Superintendent of Schools and Lena taught. Claude spent his summers at the University of California, Berkeley, eventually earning a bachelor's degree in 1921. He later completed a master's degree at Stanford University in 1924. These weren’t just academic achievements—they were the culmination of generations of striving for stability, knowledge, and progress.

After his time at Stanford, Claude took a position in Ontario, San Bernardino County, California, as Superintendent of Schools. At last, the Randalls were firmly established in the Golden State.

California Here We Come!

Claude and Lena’s son—my grandfather, Louis Randall—brought the family the final few miles west. In the 1940s, he moved to the San Gabriel Valley, just 30 miles inland from the Pacific Coast. And in 1983, when my little sister was born at Santa Monica Hospital, within view of the Pacific Ocean, we had finally made it to the edge of the continent. A family that had initially set down roots in colonial Rhode Island, just steps from the Atlantic, had at last reached the shores of the Pacific. The 3000-mile trek took us a sometimes grueling 330 years to complete – a distance I can now fly in a meager 330 minutes!

THE RANDALL FAMILY GREAT MIGRATION

[David>Bruce>Louis>Claude>William>Isaac>Abial>Abram>Sylvester>Benjamin>John Jr.>John]

Great-Grandpa Randall - The Family Sportsman

My branch of the family isn't exactly known for their athletic prowess. When it comes to sport and leisure we tend to favor leisure. I rowed for a bit on my college crew team, Dad raced cars, and Mom played some softball and was actually a pretty good bowler. As for my grandparents, I'm not aware of any of them ever playing an organized sport. If we go back one generation further, however, there was a young man who seems to have been quite the athlete. 

My great-grandfather, Claude Randall attended the Illinois Normal School in DeKalb (now Northern Illinois University). As a sophomore in 1903, he played centerfield field on the school's baseball team. The following year, he played left guard on the football team and running forward on the basketball team. 

Below is a picture of the 1903 baseball team taken from the school years book. Unfortunately, the only pictures I have ever seen of my great-grandfather are from much later when he was an aging man with a bald head. I have yet to determine which of these young men is him. Perhaps in the near future, AI will help me figure that out! 

Go Huskies!

[David>Bruce>Louis>Claude]

Reflections on RootsTech 2025: A Global Celebration

For the second year in a row, I had the incredible opportunity to attend the world’s largest annual family history conference—RootsTech. Hosted by FamilySearch International, this year’s event took place from March 6–8 and once again proved to be an unforgettable experience.

My good friend Sandy from Georgia flew into Dallas to join me on the flight to Salt Lake City. Her company made the journey fly by, and before I knew it, we had arrived. Once there, we teamed up with our fellow WikiTree volunteers to set up this year’s WikiTree booth. For those unfamiliar, I am a volunteer leader with WikiTree, an online genealogy platform that brings family historians together to build a single, collaborative family tree.

RootsTech 2025 achieved an astonishing global reach, with over 5 million online participants from virtually every corner of the globe. This overwhelming response underscores the desire we universally share to connect with our heritage. This year’s event featured inspiring keynote speakers, including Ndaba Mandela, grandson of Nelson Mandela, who shared profound lessons on leadership and the importance of preserving family legacies; a selection of more than 200 engaging educational sessions taught by the field's foremost experts; an impressive expo hall filled with vendors showcasing their latest family history offerings; and some intriguing announcements from the major genealogy companies involving the continued expansion of Family Serach's AI tools, some DNA innovations at MyHeritage, and a new photo recognition tool at Ancestry.com.

After the conference wrapped up, I took advantage of my time in Salt Lake City to research, explore, and unwind before heading home. The FamilySearch Library, the world’s foremost genealogical library, was just a short walk from my hotel. Although it snowed during RootsTech, by the time the event ended, the weather had swung dramatically—jumping to nearly 80 degrees. The snow melted quickly, leaving the roads and sidewalks clear for walking.

Since the library was closed on Sunday, I spent the afternoon touring Temple Square, including a visit to the historic Mormon Tabernacle, where I was lucky enough to hear the organists rehearsing. On Monday, a kind library volunteer introduced me to ArkivDigital, a fantastic resource for researching Swedish records. Thanks to that tutorial, I was able to add several more ancestors to my family tree!

By Tuesday, it was time to head home. With clear skies and no flight delays, my return trip was as smooth as I could have hoped for. And just when I thought my adventure was over, my sister Kindra took me on a 2 hour tour of DFW trying to find her way back from the airport to my house! 

Headed to RootsTech with Sandy Patak

The Frontier Journal of William Cross, Part I: January 1871

[Scroll Down for Commentary]

Sunday Jan. 1, 1871
I went across the Platt to see Luther Hubbell. I went with Calvin and family. We crossed on the ice. Then I started to go to Calvin's and Luther got lost, and I had to stay all night. 

Monday Jan. 2, 1871

We came back to Calvin's. We came through Larimie (?).

Tuesday Jan. 3, 1871

Cal and me cleaned out his well. Drew it very nearly dry.

Wednesday Jan. 4, 1871

I went to town with Luther Hubbell's wagon, but could get nothing to do.

Thursday Jan. 5, 1871

I went over in Iowa. Went to Shaw's, then to Garrett's. Got my dinner, then I went back to Calvin's. Crossed the ice after dark.

Friday Jan. 6, 1871

I fitted up my things and brought my team over to feed at Garrett's. I went to work for Joe Shaw.

Saturday Jan. 7, 1871

I began work today. Chopped four ties and made one.

Sunday Jan. 8, 1871

Sparkes and Burkett and Bill Haynie and Sarah A. Garrett and Louisa and Ellen Rickenbaugh and myself went to Egypt to morning meeting time.

Monday Jan. 9, 1871

I made ties today for Shaw. The timber very scarce.

Tuesday Jan. 10, 1871

Worked in the timber today.

Wednesday Jan. 11, 1871

I finished tie making today. How it rained this afternoon.

Thursday Jan. 12, 1871

It rained and snowed. I did not do anything this day.

Friday Jan. 13, 1871

I was over to see Bill Haynie. We did not do anything.

Saturday Jan. 14, 1871

I drew ties for Emanuel Garrett with his team.

Sunday Jan. 15, 1871

I went to the Post Office, then up to H. C. Gammon's. Got my dinner. George Morrow and wife was there, and Mr. Davis and wife.

Monday Jan. 16, 1871

I got D. Haynie's sled and drew one load of wood.

Tuesday Jan. 17, 1871

I hauled two loads.

Wednesday Jan. 18, 1871

I went to Egypt and got my horses shod.

Thursday Jan. 19, 1871

I loaded a car for Oliver Moore.

Friday Jan. 20, 1871

I drew one load of wood.

Saturday Jan. 21, 1871

I helped Charles Medow load ties. We had a jovial time. There was the two Medows, P. Fletcher, Dave Forsythe, and Jeff the black boy. I got $1.50.

Sunday Jan. 22, 1871

I went to Haynie's Post Office.

Monday Jan. 23, 1871

I went to the timber with Bill Sparke's wagon and broke the tongue out of it.

Tuesday Jan. 24, 1871

I went up to Mr. Armsday's for hay, then from there to another man's and got a load on the wood rack for $1.50.

Wednesday Jan. 25, 1871

I drew two loads of wood.

Thursday Jan. 26, 1871

I drew two loads.

Friday Jan. 27, 1871

I drew two loads.

Saturday Jan. 28, 1871

I drew two loads.

Sunday Jan. 29, 1871

I went to the Post Office, thence to Calvin's. He lives in Morgan's house above Judge William's farm.

Monday Jan. 30, 1871

I drew one load of wood.

Tuesday Jan. 31, 1871

I helped Ben's brother Buck load a car.

COMMENTARY

At first glance, William Cross’s journal might seem like a monotonous record of daily tasks, but beneath its simplicity lies a compelling account of survival, resilience, and community on the 19th-century American frontier. His entries reveal the constant hardships of frontier life—harsh winter conditions, financial instability, and the relentless physical demands of manual labor—while also underscoring the significance of community bonds in an era lacking in social safety nets.

Within just his first month in town, William crosses the frozen Platte River alone at night, struggles to find steady employment (January 4), faces equipment failures (January 23), and contends with scarce timber supplies (January 9), all while losing valuable income due to uncooperative weather (January 11–12). Yet, amid these difficulties, his journal captures moments of camaraderie and social connection. He spends idle rainy days visiting friends, shares meals at the Gammon home, and escorts young women to Sunday meetings. These interactions highlight the tightly knit rural community where mutual support, shared labor, and companionship were essential for both survival and emotional well-being. His mention of “having a jovial time” despite backbreaking work (January 21) reflects the humor and resilience that defined life in small frontier settlements.

William’s journal begins on New Year’s Day, 1871. Having recently moved from eastern Iowa, he was staying with his friend Calvin Hubbell’s family in Oreapolis, Cass County, Nebraska, just across the Platte River from Iowa. The Hubbells, a large family led by Charles and Charity Hubbell, had nine children—eight sons and one daughter. What brough William to Nebraska and how he came to know Calvin and his family remains unclear. Given that the Hubbells had previously lived in Ohio, Michigan, Iowa, and Wisconsin, it’s possible William had crossed paths with them during his own travels in the preceding decade.

On that frigid first day of 1871, William accompanied the Hubbells across the frozen Platte to retrieve Calvin’s older brother, Luther, from neighboring Mills County, Iowa. Somehow, Luther became lost, forcing William and the Hubbles to stay the night in Iowa. Upon their return to Nebraska, William and Calvin spent their days doing farm chores, including cleaning out the well. By Wednesday, William, eager to secure work, borrowed Luther’s wagon and set out into town—only to return empty-handed. Expanding his search, he crossed the ice again on Thursday to speak with farmers Emmanuel Garrett and Joseph Shaw about employment. Staying past dinner, he made the hazardous journey back across the frozen river alone after dark. His persistence paid off, as the next day he was back in Iowa feeding his horses at Garrett’s and beginning work for Shaw.

At this time, Mills County’s economy revolved around the railroad, and Shaw had hired William to produce railroad ties—a fitting job for the son of a carpenter. From that point on, William spent nearly every day, weather permitting, chopping timber and crafting ties for Shaw and other local farmers. 

Throughout January, William’s journal notates his interactions with multiple community members, providing a window into the social fabric of 19^th century Mills County. Some of these individuals include:

• On Sunday, January 8, William joined Henry Burkett (29), William Sparkes (26), and Bill Haynie (20) in escorting three young women, the Garrett sisters, Louisa (18) and Sarah (14), and Ellen Rickenbaugh (18), to a morning meeting in the nearby community of Egypt. It’s unclear whether any of the group had an inkling that Ellen Rickenbaugh would eventually become Mrs. Bill Haynie. Henry Burkett was the only member of the group who was already married; his wife, Catherine, had remained home to care for their two young children, Ruth (1) and Elmer (2). Notably, young Elmer would eventually grow up to represent Nebraska for twelve years in the United States Congress and Senate.

• Hugh Gammon – A well-established farmer with an estate worth over $18,000. His household included his wife, Sarah Jane (Haynie), and five children.

• George Morrow – A farmer with a property valued at $4,000 and two children. He and his wife, Mary (Haynie) had two children. Mary Morrow and Sarah Jane Gammon were sisters.

• Mr. Davis and his wife – Possibly either William & Mary or Edward & Sally. While both men were listed as farmers, neither owned land, suggesting they may have been tenant farmers.

• D. Haynie – Likely Richard “Dick” Haynie, father of Bill Haynie and uncle to the Haynie sisters.

• Oliver Moore – A small-scale farmer with a property valued at just $200. He and his wife, Sarah Jane, had no children.

• The two Meadows – Charles Meadow may have been part of the extended Mills family of Oak Township or could have been Charles Davis. The other Meadows was likely a brother. 

• P. Fletcher – Most likely Bardman Fletcher of neighboring Plattville Township. The initial "P" was likely a transcription error.

• Jeff, "the black boy" – A 17-year-old farmhand who lived and worked on the Fletcher farm. He was one of only four Black residents recorded in Mills County in 1870.

• Mr. Armsday – Possibly John Armstan of neighboring Glenwood Township. At 54 years old, it would be fitting for William to address him as "Mr."

• Judge William – Questionably, William F. William, a young farmer. As there is no record of him serving as a judge, the title may have actually been a nickname.

• Ben and Buck – Their identities remain unknown. There were multiple men named Ben in Mills County, but none have been confirmed to have a brother or son named Buck.

• Dave Forsythe – Unidentified.

Stay tuned for further adventures of William Cross in upcoming posts...

Introducing William Allen Cross

Before we delve into William's journal, it seems prudent to provide the reader with a bit of background...

William Allen Cross was born 27 Mar 1842, in Salt Creek Township, Pickaway County, Ohio—just outside the budding city of Columbus. The third of nine children born to Henry Cross and Catherine Hedges, William’s early years were shaped by the challenges and opportunities of a rapidly expanding nation.

When William was barely a year old, his family embarked on a journey of more than 400 miles west, crossing the Mississippi River into what was then known as Iowa Territory. The family's migration was emblematic of the era’s restless spirit—a time when the concept of “Manifest Destiny” drove families to risk the unknown in search of a better life. At the time, Iowa was still an untamed frontier, having only a decade earlier seen the arrival of its first American settlers arriving from the East in search of fertile land and fresh beginnings. It would be another three years yet, before statehood was granted in 1846.

By 1850, the Cross family had settled in Clay Township, Jones County, where Henry Cross established himself as a cabinetmaker—a skilled trade that was highly valued on the frontier, where every piece of furniture had to be crafted by hand. While others may have struggled to adapt to a life far removed from the comforts of more established cities, for young William, life on the frontier was the only life he knew.

Despite the rugged conditions, childhood education was not neglected in early Iowa. William and his siblings attended school in what were likely modest one-room schoolhouses, where students learned the basics of reading, writing, and arithmetic—tools that would later provide us a treasured window into William's world through his later journal entries.

The Cross family remained in Jones County through William’s formative years. When William turned eighteen in 1860, he was still a resident of the area, witnessing firsthand the gradual transformation of a wild territory into a structured agricultural community. By then, the family had moved to a tenant farm in Madison Township, a reminder that even on the frontier, land ownership was not guaranteed

It's interesting to note that in 1860, the federal census does not identify William as a farm hand or laborer but instead records him as still attending school. This suggests the possibility that he may have pursued some form of higher education—an interesting contrast to the fact that his mother could neither read nor write.

By the summer of 1863, the nation was fully embroiled in the Civil War, and William—now twenty years old—was registered for the draft as a farmer in Madison Township., underscoring the fact that even the far reaches of the American frontier were not immune from the war’s impact. In fact, although Iowa saw no fighting within its borders, it sent to battle more men per capita than any other state, Union or Confederate.

William's story over the next several years becomes a bit murky. Unlike many of his peers, William does not appear to have served in the Civil War. By 1870, census records show that his parents and younger siblings had moved deeper into the heart of Iowa, settling in Marshall County. But William himself is absent from the census, leaving a gap in his documented history. For a single, independent young man on the frontier, such gaps in are not untypical. He might have been on the move—seeking new opportunities, engaging in seasonal farm work, or simply caught in the imperfect and often incomplete record-keeping of a developing region.

We do know that on New Years Day 1871, William was in Mills County, Iowa, where he spent the day with Luther and Calvin Hubbell. And that's where our story picks up...

Introduction to A Frontier Journal

A few years ago, a distant cousin reached out to me with a surprising discovery: a transcript of a journal written in 1871 by William Allen Cross. William was the younger brother of my third‑great‑grandmother, Mary Ann (Cross) Kenison—whom I introduced to you a few weeks ago. You may recall that Mary Ann had journeyed west to Nebraska after divorcing a husband who’d been sent to prison for bigamy. Given that the journal was penned only two years after those dramatic events, you can imagine my anticipation for the family secrets it would most certainly reveal.

Although I knew very little about William, I was aware that he, too, ventured west—first to Nebraska and then on to California. I pictured all kinds of thrilling adventures: Was he with Mary Ann when she settled her homestead? Did he encounter bandits or face hostile Indians? Perhaps he even immersed himself in the rowdy life of gamblers, showgirls, and gunslingers at the local saloon. I eagerly awaited the journal’s arrival from Durango, Colorado. My cousin—a woman of a certain age—chose to send the package by snail mail rather than electronically. At one point, I even began to wonder if she had sent it by Wells Fargo Wagon as perhaps the pony express was down!

The journal finally arrived on October 21, 2020. I initially resisted the urge to open the envelope, knowing that once I began reading, I wouldn’t want to put it down. That night, with a cup of hot cocoa in hand, I settled in to join William on his long-ago adventure.

• Sunday, January 1, 1871: “I went across the Platt to see Luther Hubbell. I went with Calvin and family. We crossed on the ice. Then I started to go to Calvin’s and Luther got lost, and I had to stay all night.”

            What exactly is “the Platt”? Who were Luther Hubbell and Calvin? Why did they have to                        cross a frozen river? And how did Luther manage to get lost? This was going to be good...

• Monday, January 2, 1871: “We came back to Calvin’s. We came through Laramie.”

• Tuesday, January 3, 1871: “Cal and I cleaned out his well. Drew it nearly dry.”

• Wednesday, January 4, 1871: “I went to town with Luther Hubbell’s wagon, but couldn’t get nothing to do.”

            Ok, maybe I needed to skip ahead a little bit:

• January 10: “Worked in the timber today…”

• January 11: “How it rained this day…”

• January 12: “I did not do anything this day…”

On January 18, he noted that he’d “gone to Egypt to get his horse shod”— seems like a long way to go to “shod a horse,” whatever that meant. On January 22, he stopped at Haynie’s post office, and on January 23, he noted that Bill Sparke’s wagon “broke the tongue out of it.” Not exactly bandits and gunslingers!

In all, the transcript comprises thirty typed pages detailing every mundane day of the first 114 days of 1871. This was certainly not the adventure I was expecting. However, while I won’t deny being a bit disappointed by the routine happenings my Great-uncle William had chosen to memorialize, as a lifelong historian I know that even the most seemingly benign records can hide precious pearls—if only we have the proper context.

At first glance, William’s journal may have seemed like little more than a list of trivial tidbits. Yet when paired with other available records, each entry reveals a genuine window into the past - a snapshot of frontier life where even the most routine activities played an important part in the overall adventure. In upcoming posts, I look forward to further introducing you to my third-great-granduncle, William Allen Cross, and sharing with you the compelling story of his life on the frontier in the Winter of 1871.

William Allen Cross

[David Randall < Mary Welch < Rex Welch < Lucinda Putman < Catherine Kennison < Mary Ann Cross and her brother William A. Cross]

Home

When his wife left him in the summer of 1887, Great-Great-Grandpa William Randall found himself alone with three small children raise —ages 3, 6, and 8. With no choice but to sell his farm, he moved his young family into this house on his younger brother George's property in the tiny village of Mesick, Wexford County, Michigan. (See previous blog entry for the intriguing story of his failed marriage.)

I'd love to know if anyone has ever been to Mesick. I haven't, but it’s on my bucket list. With a current population of under 500, I imagine it’s one of those blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of towns!

Despite growing up in severe financial hardship, my great-grandfather, Claude Walter Randall, refused to let his circumstances define his future. Through sheer determination and perseverance, he put himself through college, eventually earning a Master’s degree in philosophy from Stanford University. He went on to become a professor and prominent school administrator in Southern California, breaking the cycle of poverty that had long burdened our family.

More than sixty years after my grandfather and his sister were sent from the comforts of their upper-middle-class Southern California home to visit their grandparents for a summer in the late 1920s, they still vividly recalled—long after most other childhood memories had faded away—the shock of having to sleep on mattresses stuffed with cornhusks. It was a stark reminder of how far the family had come in just one generation.

Every time I look at this photo, I feel a deep sense of gratitude and admiration for the resilience of those who came before me.

That's William and Phebe #2 on the right. 
Not sure yet who the others are. 

[David M. Randall < Bruce W. < Randall < Louis K. Randall < Claude W. Randall < 

William A. Randall]

Grandma Phebe's Surprise!

For years, I believed my great-great-grandparents were William and Phebe Randall. They married on December 26, 1875, in Oneida, Eaton County, Michigan. Phebe was just seventeen, William twenty-three. Phebe's childhood had been marked by loss—her mother, Sophronia, died when she was eleven, and her father, Orison Mosher, passed away five years later from injuries sustained in the Civil War, just months before her wedding. The skies may have been clear on their wedding day, but the temperature hovered near zero—perhaps a chilling foreshadowing of the marriage that was to come.

William and Phebe had three children: Claude Walter (my great-grandfather) and his sisters, Frantie and Lena. As a young man, Claude left home to attend college, later moving west to Phoenix and then to Ontario, California, where he became a school administrator. My grandfather and his sister Dolly grew up in Ontario, more than 2,000 miles from their grandparents' home in Michigan. Travel was arduous in the early 1900s, yet the family did manage to visit their Michigan relatives on at least one occasion. When I interviewed my grandfather and Aunt Dolly in the 1990s, their childhood memories had faded, but one thing remained clear to both of them: Grandma Phebe was a warmhearted woman who treated everyone with love and kindness.

So imagine my shock when I received an email from a fellow genealogist, informing me that my great-great-grandmother, Phebe Mosher, was actually his great-great-grandmother, Phebe Mosher. And that her married name wasn’t Phebe Randall, but Phebe VanNortrick!

According to his research, Phebe Mosher had married Almiron VanNortrick in 1887 and had three children with him in Ionia County, Michigan. He had a copy of a death certificate for a Phebe Van Nortrick, daughter of Orison and Sophronia Mosher, who had died in 1894 at the young age of 35. This made no sense as I had documentation showing that Phebe Randall, daughter of Orison and Sophronia Mosher, had lived until 1933, passing away at age 71.

Could there have actually been two Phebes born in 1858, in Michigan, each to a different Orison and Sophronia Mosher? Somehow that seemed unlikely!

I turned to my grandfather and Aunt Dolly for clarification. When I mentioned the possibility that Grandma Phebe had once left her family, my great aunt suddenly recalled something she had heard her parents talk about many years before. "I remember my father talking about how his mother just up and left one day." Grandpa nodded, visibly uncomfortable. "The children could do nothing but watch as their mother stormed across the cornfields, never to be seen again."

"But," I reminded them, "she was seen again—you visited her as children."

They hesitated., then recalled with smiles, "that certainly was a wonderful summer. She was such a sweet woman."

Something certainly didn’t add up. Could it be possible that Grandma Phebe had abandoned William and the children, remarried, had three more children, and then somehow returned to her original family years later? It was a bizarre scenario, but at this point, I was ready to believe almost anything.

My next move was to contact the Eaton County Courthouse. The response came quickly. Fascinated by the mystery, the clerk journeyed to the basement archives and found something remarkable: Phebe had filed for divorce from William not once, but twice! For reasons unknown, the first attempt, just two years into the marriage, didn’t go through, but the second was finalized ten years later, in 1887, leaving William with three children ages 3, 6, and 8. She married Almiron VanNortrick just two days after the divorce was finalized.

So did she die at 35 or 71? The answer is both!

In 1900, William married his second wife, whose name just happened to also be named Phebe—a divorced woman with four children of her own. This was the woman my grandfather and Aunt Dolly knew as "Grandma Phebe" and remembered so fondly.

For years, the two Phebes had been conflated into one. One Phebe had fled an unhappy marriage, remarried, and died young. The other stepped into her place and raised a family that never questioned her identity. The truth had been buried beneath mistaken assumptions and the peculiar coincidence of identical names.

May this story of the two Phebes serve is a reminder that just when you think you have everything figured out, the past has ways of surprising you.

Phebe (Mosher) Randall VanNortrick

[David M. Randall < Bruce W. Randall < Louis K. Randall < Claude W. Randall < 

William & Phebe (Mosher) Randall]

Mary Ann Cross: A Life Defined by Challenges

Our family trees are full of ancestors who faced unfathomable challenges. My 3rd-great-grandmother, Mary Ann Cross is one such ancestor. The hardships she endured would have broken many, yet she pressed on, carving out a life of independence, resourcefulness, and resilience.

From Ohio Farm Girl to Iowa Pioneer

Born on May 21, 1838, on her family's farm in Pickaway County, Ohio, Mary Ann Cross spent her early years surrounded by the challenges of rural life. In 1843, when she was still a small child, her family embarked on a journey westward to Iowa City, a raw and untamed frontier settlement that had just been designated the capital of the Iowa Territory. By the time Iowa achieved statehood in 1846, the Cross family had pushed even further north to Jones County, where they continued their pioneer existence, forging a life in a land of both opportunity and hardship.

As the eldest of nine children, Mary Ann's childhood was defined by responsibility and labor. Growing up on the family farm, hard work was not just expected—it was essential. In addition to the daily demands of frontier life, she likely played a central role in helping her mother care for her younger siblings, balancing childcare with the endless household chores that were part of survival on the prairie.

Marriage, Motherhood, and Betrayal

In 1857, at just 19 years old, Mary Ann married Henry Kennison, an illiterate farmer with a modest personal estate of $140. Together, they had three daughters: Catherine, Marion, and Rose. Though life on the farm was challenging, they managed to get by. Then, in 1861, the Civil War called Mary Ann’s father to serve, leaving her to care for her mother, her younger siblings, and an aging grandmother. Meanwhile, Henry, who did not serve, struggled to provide stability for his growing family.

In 1869, Mary Ann’s world was upended. Although the exact circumstances remain unclear, Henry was sent to prison for bigamy, a shocking betrayal that left her with little choice but to file for divorce—an act heavily stigmatized at the time. With her husband gone and his financial support presumably lost, Mary Ann was forced to place her daughters in the Veteran’s Orphans Home in Glenwood, Iowa. Now a divorced, single mother in a time when few options existed for women on their own, she faced an uncertain and daunting future.

A New Start in Nebraska

Knowing that she needed to start fresh, Mary Ann took the bold step of moving west to Seward County, Nebraska, where land was still available under the Homestead Act. On April 29, 1870, she married Lorenzo Dow Breakman, a Civil War veteran, and together they established a home on 160 acres of homesteaded land.

In 1877, the couple suffered a heartbreaking loss when their only child, John Leslie, died at just nine months old. Still, Mary Ann persevered, helping to raise Lorenzo’s two sons from his first marriage while working tirelessly to build their life in Nebraska.

Caretaker, Matriarch, and Independent Woman

By 1900, Mary Ann had once again taken on the role of caretaker—this time for both her now-disabled husband and her 84-year-old widowed mother. Lorenzo was receiving a small pension due to his failing health, but it was Mary Ann who kept the household running.

After Lorenzo passed away, Mary Ann reclaimed her independence. By 1910, she was living alone at 133 Elm Street, a home she owned free of mortgage—a remarkable achievement for a woman of her time. She had not only survived but had managed to accumulate real estate and financial security.

Love and Loss in Later Years

At the age of 75, Mary Ann wed for the third time, marrying George C. Lothrop in 1913. That year, she owned two homes valued at $7,500, along with additional personal assets. She was no longer the struggling young mother who had once been abandoned by a husband in prison—she was now a woman of means.

However, the years eventually did catch up with her. In her final years, Mary Ann became an invalid, spending the last six months of her life confined to bed. She passed away on July 17, 1921, at the age of 83, with the official cause of death listed simply as “old age.” She was buried beside her second husband, Lorenzo, and their infant son in Nebraska.

Mary Ann (Cross) Kenison Brakeman Lothrop 

Mary Ann Cross’s life was shaped by hardship, yet she met every challenge with determination and resilience. She endured betrayal, divorce, financial struggles, the loss of a child, and the responsibilities of caring for multiple generations of family members. Yet, through it all, she emerged as an independent woman who lived life on her own terms.

Her story is one of strength, survival, and reinvention, and as I continue to uncover more about her remarkable life, I am reminded that we are all shaped by the struggles and triumphs of those who came before us.

[David Randall < Mary Welch < Rex Welch < Lucinda Putman < Catherine Kennison < 

Mary Ann Cross]

Remembering Grandpa Rex

My grandfather died when I was just six years old, leaving me with only the faintest of memories. He lived out of state, and my encounters with him were few. Complicating matters, my grandparents divorced when my mother was still a small child, and her relationship with her father was estranged. My mother rarely spoke of Grandpa Rex, so much of what I now know about my him has come about only through my genealogical research.

The photo below was taken some time during the Holidays, 1970. That’s me in the red, sitting to my grandpa’s left. The girls are my younger sisters. Grandpa Rex had come to California from Colorado for a visit. Amazingly, I still have some vague memories of that day. I remember him as a large, pipe-smoking man who, to my young mind, exuded the rugged air of a mountain man. That impression was likely enhanced by the gift he brought me during that visit: my very own Davy Crockett coonskin cap. That cap became one of my most cherished possessions, and more than half a century later, it still sits proudly on display in my den.

My next memory of Grandpa Rex was my mother packing for his funeral. I never saw him again.

Rex Lowell Welch was born on April 12, 1915, in the small rural community of Clarks in Merrick County, Nebraska. He was the only child of Joseph William and Lucinda Catherine (Putman) Welch. Around 1927, Rex and his parents relocated from Nebraska to Fort Collins, Colorado, where his father served as a city police officer.

Rex attended the local public schools and was later a student at the University of Colorado in Boulder, when he met my grandmother. They were married in 1937, and by 1940, had moved to Southern California for reasons I have yet to uncover. Rex worked as an engineer, initially employed by the Union Oil Company of California (Unocal). My uncle Doug was born in August 1940, followed by my mother in February 1945.

On May 5, 1945, Rex enlisted in the United States Army Air Corps and was sent Wright Field in Ohio. There, he worked as a project engineer, structural integrity, on the B-29 bomber. While I have not yet obtained his military records, uncovering details about his service is high on my to-do list. I know little about his time in the military, although it does not appear he was ever sent overseas and thus would not have seen combat. What I have been told, is that returned a changed man home a changed man. Family lore - admittedly biased - has painted him as a womanizer and an alcoholic, and perhaps he was—but as with all of us, the headlines tell only part of the story.

By the 1950s, my grandparents had divorced. Rex would marry and divorce two more times after that. I do know that he worked for a time at Consolidated Engineering Corp. in Pasadena, a chemical instrument manufacturer founded by Herbert Hoover Jr., and later as an engineer for William Miller Scientific Instruments, also based in Pasadena. Beyond that, his life remains a mystery to me.

At some point, Rex returned to Colorado, though I do not know when or why. He was living there when he passed away on July 27, 1971, at just 56 years of age. The cause of death was an undiagnosed glioblastoma - an aggressive brain tumor.

My Coonskin Cap (age 54)

I don’t know much about the kind of man my grandfather was. I don’t know the root of his marital troubles or why he struggled as a father to my mother. I don’t know how the war shaped him or the role it played in his drinking. But I do know this: one day, when I was just a little boy, he drove all the way from Colorado to see me and he brought me a coonskin cap. That means he loved me, and I have always loved him back. 

[David M. Randall > Mary C. Welch > Rex L. Welch]

 

 

Don’t Overlook the Years In Between

 

In April 2042, just seventeen short years form now, I’ll appear in the available United States Federal Census records for the very first time. That year will mark the release of the 19th Decennial Census of the United States, covering the year 1970. I was five years old then, living with my parents and little sister in a quaint, Mayberry-like suburb of Los Angeles called Temple City. My late mother was then just 24 years old; my father only 29. Ten years later, at age 15, the 1980 census will find me still in Temple City, but by then our family had moved to a larger home in order to accommodate the arrivals of another sister and my little brother.

The 1980s were some of the best years of my life. In 1983, I graduated high school and left for college, heading as far north as possible without actually leaving California. How I loved hiking the trails of the Redwood Forest, backpacking in the Trinity Alps, and meditating on the shores of the Pacific Coast as the sun set on the horizon. Those years were formative for me—a time of discovery, growth, and independence. But none of that will show up in census records.

I had once seriously contemplated becoming a forest ranger, until health issues got in the way. As the decade came to an end, I landed an amazing job back in Los Angeles and I temporarily moved back home while I adjusted to the transition. And that’s what the 1990 census will show: “Still living at home with Mom and Dad.”

In the years that followed, I started a business, purchased a home, and built a family. The 1990s were prosperous years, but they were also tumultuous. In 1992, I witnessed the Rodney King riots—tanks rolling down my suburban street and soldiers with military rifles standing guard at the corner market. In 1994, I huddled on my bathroom floor as the Northridge Earthquake nearly destroyed my home. In 1997, I suffered my first heart attack and learned that my kidney disease had come out of a seven-year remission. By the end of the ’90s, I was burned out, so it seemed fitting that the world would be soon be ending with Y2K.

Of course, the world didn’t end—and neither did my struggles. In 2000, on the verge of losing my mind, I moved back home temporarily to regroup. But the 2000 census won’t reveal that. It will simply say, “Still living at home with Mom.”

Surprisingly, the 2000s turned out to be a good decade. I resolved the conflicts at work, found a sense of calm at home, and expanded my business threefold. By the decade’s end, my boys were grown, and I became a first-time grandpa. But my health still weighed on me, and I was tired. My mother had moved to Texas to be closer to family, and by the close of the decade, I was ready to join her. So, I sold my business, pocketed the cash, and relocated to Dallas. Yet once again, the census will fail to capture the entire story. It will only say, “Moved to Texas—still lives with Mom.”

One hundred years from now, future genealogists may look at the census records for 1970, 1980, 1990, 2000, and 2010 and draw a single, misleading conclusion: David spent nearly his entire life living with his mother.

So let my story serve as a lesson. Census records are valuable, but they can distort the story if relied on too heavily. They capture fleeting moments, but ignore the thousands of experiences in between. So as you explore the lives of your ancestors, be careful not to overlook the years in between as that’s where you’ll find the secrets and the stories that made each of them who they truly were.