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

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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.

What's in a (Nick) Name?

When I first saw this month’s topic, "Nicknames," I thought I might have to sit this one out. I’ve never had a nickname. My siblings never had nicknames. My parents never had nicknames. Even as I expanded my search to aunts, uncles, cousins, and beyond, I still came up empty-handed. It seemed like nicknames just weren’t a thing in my family. But, as it turns out, there’s one major exception to that rule.

My mother’s father was one of eight children—six older brothers and one younger sister. And for some reason, most of them answered to names entirely different from the ones they were given. For instance, take my grandfather, who we called Papa. He was born Jack Maddox Meyers, but somewhere along the line he decided to call himself “Jack Patrick”, believing it sounded more Irish—a curious choice given that he was of mostly German descent.

Two of his brothers passed away before I was old enough to remember them, but the others all had nicknames that stuck out like sore thumbs. Paul Roy? We called him “Uncle Buster”. Glen Edward was known as “Curly” – although by the time I knew him he was completely bald! Robert Thomas went by “Ellsworth,” a name whose origin remains an enigma to me. Henry was known as “Wes”. And then there was their little sis, Marie B. Meyers, who somehow came to be known as “Jean T.” I’m not even sure where to begin unraveling that mystery.

This is an image of Alice Meyers and five of her children, taken about 1927 in Falls City, Nebraska. That's Papa in the front, next to his sister Marie (later Jean). I'm not sure which of his six brothers the other boys are. 

[David M. Randall < Mary C. Welch < Leona C. Johnson m. Jack P. Meyers]

My Favorite Photo

I am one of the lucky family historians who has been fortunate enough to have inherited a treasure trove of family photos. When asked to select my favorite, however, it was a no-brainer. This is a photo I like to call The Band. 

It comes from the collection of my great-great-grandaunt, Mary Ralph (1861-1934) - that's her in the middle with the violin. The man on the end looks very much like her older brother, my great-great-grandfather, William A. Randall (1852-1934), although I can't say for sure. I think that instrument he's playing is called the board and bucket! The others in the photo might be Mary's children, or they could simply be friends or neighbors. Sadly, the photo is not labeled. The picture had to have been taken in the very early 1930s, as both Mary and William passed away in 1934. It appears to have been taken in front of the family home in the tiny village of Mesick in Wexford County, Michigan. According to Census Bureau statistics, Mesick then had a population of 303. It has since grown to a whopping 397 residents.  

Needless to say, this was not a wealthy family, so it's good to see them having fun in what was a very difficult period in my family and the nation's history. 

[David Randall < Bruce W. Randall < Lois K. Randall < Claude W. Randall < William A. Randall and his sister, Mary M. (Randall) Ralph]

 

In the Beginning

Where does the Randall family story begin? I wish I knew. Our American progenitor, John Randall, first appears in the historical records on 13 Mar 1659/60, when according to the Court Records of Colonial Rhode Island, he heard five cases as a juryman for the general Court of Trials held at Newport. But where did he come from before that date, and how did he end up in Rhode Island? That remains a mystery—one that has led to generations of speculation and storytelling.

The Longstanding Legend

Search online, and you’ll find countless genealogists who claim to have the answer. According to a persistent family legend, John Randall was the son of Matthew Randall, the "Lord Mayor" of Bath in Somerset, England. Although some family members insist this story was carried across the Atlantic by John Randall, himself, it actually first appeared in writing in an undocumented family history published in the mid-1800s.

Here’s what we do know: Matthew Randall, born around 1570, married Agnes Cullen on 16 Apr 1596, in the Abbey Church of Saints Peter and Paul in Bath. Matthew was likely a wealthy wool merchant, who eventually achieved enough prominence in his community, that he was elected Mayor of Bath in 1624 and again in 1634; although, he was never a "Lord Mayor," as that title implies a level of nobility Matthew never attained. Matthew and Agnes had eight children, among whom was a son named John.

It was long believed that this John was our immigrant ancestor. But that narrative quickly falls apart under scrutiny. Matthew’s son John achieved prominence in London as the head of the Drapers' Guild, with a life thoroughly documented—a life he spent entirely in England. Moreover, he was about thirty years too old to have been our John Randall.

A New Theory Emerges

For a brief time, it appeared that the American Randalls may have had no connection to the Bath Randalls after all. Then, in the 1980s, a new hypothesis emerged: Matthew Randall had a grandson named John, the son of Matthew Randall Jr., a Puritan minister. Rev. Matthew, knowing his son would inherit little, arranged for young John to apprentice with his uncle in the London Drapers' Guild in order to learn a trade through which he’d be able to support himself. Could this John, the apprentice, have been our immigrant ancestor?

The timeline aligned. John the Apprentice vanished from the Drapers' Guild records before completing his apprenticeship at almost the exact time John Randall appeared in Rhode Island. Perhaps he’d run away, seeking adventure or escape from a harsh master. Could he have financed his journey as an indentured servant or perhaps as a cabin boy? The theory was compelling but circumstantial, with no concrete evidence to link the two men with certainty.

The Discovery That Changed Everything

A few years ago, Ancestry.com uploaded several new batches of English parish records. While exploring burial entries from London’s St. Mary Woolnoth Parish, the home church of John the Master Draper, I stumbled upon an entry dated 8 Oct 1661 which read: “John Randall, an apprentice to Mr. John Randall.” If this deceased John the Apprentice was indeed the nephew of John the Draper and Rev. Matthew’s son, then he could not have been the John Randall who settled in Rhode Island.

This unexpected discovery appears to have shattered the tenuous connection between our family and the Randalls of Bath once and for all. After decades of research, the origin of John Randall, our American progenitor, is again unknown.

For me, my family’s connection to the Randalls of Bath was more than just a genealogical hypothesis —it was part of my identity, a cherished narrative that had stood the test of time. Letting go of that story isn’t merely about revising a family tree; it’s about mourning a proud heritage I had once thought to be my own. Yet in genealogy, as in life, truth must always take precedence over comfort. Our family’s beginning now reverts back to that March afternoon in 1659/60, and my search starts anew.

Oh, and if anyone has tips on how to erase 150 years of misreported family history from the Internet, I’m all ears.

[David Randall < Bruce W. Randall < Lois K. Randall < Claude W. Randall < William A. Randall < Isaac W. Randall < Abial Randall < Abram Randall < Sylvester Randall < Benjamin Randall < John Randall Jr. < John Randall]

Welcome!

Welcome to Randall Roots! I'm David Randall, a lifelong genealogist, but brand-new blogger. Over the next 52 weeks, I'll be sharing the stories of my ancestors, focusing on the Randall men from my paternal line, the Randall women, and my ancestors from my maternal lines. This journey will be guided by the 52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks prompts, thoughtfully created by my fellow genealogist and blogger, Amy Johnson Crow.

Amy’s inspiring prompts have provided me with the motivation I needed to finally embark on this project and publicly share my family’s rich history. Through these weekly reflections, I hope to honor the lives and legacies of those who came before me while connecting with others who share a passion for genealogy and storytelling. Thank you for joining me on this exciting journey.