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.