Shock and Awe

Notification of an award is a momentous occasion. Receiving a prestigious award may be a once in a lifetime happening.

The National Genealogical Society’s (NGS) 2008 Award for Excellence: Genealogical Methods and Sources was announced 15 May 2009: United Empire Loyalists: A Guide to Tracing Loyalist Ancestors in Upper Canada by yours truly:
“Presented to an individual or nonprofit organization for a specific, significant single contribution in the form of a book, an article, or a series of articles published during the past three years that discusses genealogical methods and sources and serves to foster scholarship and/or otherwise advances or promotes excellence in genealogy.” www.ngsgenealogy.org/cs/competitions

Global Heritage Press now offers a coil bound edition as well as the hard cover version. See hardcover version southeast to the right. http://globalgenealogy.com

Reasonably stable recipients do not respond to the news with a) stunned silence, and b) unseemly babbling. Dignified recipients do not happy dance to the window and shout “YAAHOOOO!!” at bemused passersby heading to the Market around the corner. To be fair, all this was before enough caffeine had percolated into my central neurons. You have to understand part of the shock was not knowing my book had been entered in the competition! Sandra Roberts of Global Heritage Press, my publisher, was much more professional; she seemed certain no-one will call tomorrow to say it was a dreadful mistake.

So now I’m shamelessly blogging. The book took over five years to plan, write, research, assemble and endlessly re-write. Now it is deemed of some beneficial value by qualified genealogists. It was always intended as assistance for UEL descendants, based on my 30+ years of research encounters with their forebears in a sticky time period for sources and evidence. There have been so many misconceptions and misunderstandings about Loyalists among newcomers researching their ancestors and the public in general.

Would you believe, I have no Loyalist ancestors. More’s the pity. But I have a deep affinity for those whom I frequently meet in the zillions of documents I come across. Lifelong learning is a daily experience (aren’t we lucky?) and rarely stays static. That means if I were to put together such a book again, it might look quite different. I’ve already learned more. Then, the irresistible urge to re-write, re-write, re-write a manuscript, requires a firm voice to call “Enough!” (... enough for the moment, enough till the next time ...).

Regrettably I hadn’t planned to attend the NGS Conference in Raleigh, North Carolina, where the award was announced at the banquet. It’s a while since I attended an NGS banquet and I don’t know if award recipients are allowed a few Oscar moments to thank everyone they ever met, including the kiddies and pets, until they weep. If I had been there (in a designer gown chosen by my avatar) I could have expressed my gratitude again —

* to LAC archivist and guru Patricia Kennedy who took time from her pre-Confederation immersion to review sections and send me reams of stuff;
* to Fawne Stratford-Devai who laboured uncomplainingly at nights to format text and difficult illustrations;
* to Alison Hare whose skills and friendship I strained in several sections (but she still speaks to me);
* to all the other Loyalist genealogists who answered my questions;
* to the Roberts team at Global who allowed the whole thing to start on Global Gazette;
* lastly, in lieu of parents, children, and everyone I ever met, dare I thank my camel Abdul for his ever-solid support and promise of adventure.

Wordless Wednesday

"Flower Field," Painting by CLDM, c2000.

Mother's Day

Although I can’t enter every Carnival of Genealogy, the 72nd seemed rather special:
Mothers! Mother’s Day is right around the corner and this is the perfect time to honor your mother, grandmother, godmother, step mother, den mother, aunt, neighbor, or friend who happens to be a mother. If you’ve written about your own mother for the COG before, consider writing about another mom on your family tree. Let’s make all our moms famous!

My mother died far away at age 57. I was on a different continent at the time and my siblings had to take care of the arrangements. No-one who is over 50 thinks that 57 is “old.” No-one who is under 50 wants to think their mother will die some day. Such were the times and circumstances, I can only remember my overwhelming grief, anxiety and bewilderment pouring out uncontrollably in a washroom at Heathrow airport.

Sometimes I think the younger you are when you lose a parent, you are so stunned you have trouble later remembering the funeral and burial details. Sometimes I think hardly knew the whole person who was my mother. It takes maturity to recognize a mother as an individual, not “just” a mother who only exists in relationship to the me. Much of it I did in hindsight. We are all less than perfect individuals, even mothers and fathers.

Clare was an only child of Latvian descent. She was quite beautiful. Photographs do not capture the distinction of her eyes, one blue and one green. Her parents spoiled her, and also restricted her. She was bright in school—creativity was her forte, in writing and particularly in drawing. Playing the piano and riding horses were other passions. Her heart’s desire to attend art college in Boston or New York, where she had relatives, was strongly vetoed by her father.

So she earned a job as a local newspaper journalist in the 1930s, having to content herself with her language and grammar skills. Nevertheless, in a small town, Clare was relatively sophisticated. Her parents and relatives imbued a then-exotic European influence that suited her spirit.

Marriage and children somewhat stifled her creative side for a while, unless you count sewing and baking. But she found an outlet eventually in art courses and exhibitions. The hiring of maids (remember DPs? “displaced persons”) and kids off to private schools gave her the chance to step outside the motherhood role. As a widow, she re-focused her energy to steer the family business for a while.

Clare had sadness in her life too. Was she mis-matched in marriage? Did she ultimately feel unfulfilled? Did she inherit a genetic predisposition to addiction? She lost her first child. She suffered the poor choice of a second husband.

Mom never knew her children succeeded in their own ways; she never knew all her grandchildren and they didn’t know her. We all lost. I don't want to make her famous. I like to think of her best when she felt happy.
With Chief Walking Buffalo, Banff, 1952; family photograph collection, BDM.

Missing Dead Relatives

One of my past posts commented on an earnest couple of the next generation who underwent a sea change with the birth of their first child. To celebrate the event and hail the new world order, they ditched their family surnames and created a new one. We are told this is being in tune with the planet. Go figure. By the time the baby has grandchildren, a budding family historian could meet a rather high brick wall trying to piece things together. Missing ancestors.

Recently I’ve seen a few stories about missing relatives. More precisely, missing remains—the occasional ancestor who obviously died but can’t be found memorialized in a place of burial. Even with a date and/or place of death, some of them defy being found. These are people who are not buried where you expect them to be, or people who are not buried in a family plot, or people whose kin did not place a marker, or people missing in mortuary records.

It happened in my family. A rare visit this week with cousins reminded me of what occurred when a favourite cousin died a few years ago. The gathering, as funeral things go, was replete with fond reminiscence and renewal of family ties. We knew that on the morrow we would be at the cemetery after the church service. Most of us didn’t know that we would be burying three people! Seems dearest cousin had been storing her parents’ ashes in the cellar next to her stacks of homemade preserves and jams. And I thought I knew her!

Cremation is good. Ashes might be more problematic for the living. The deceased might have made clear wishes to be buried with spouse, parents, children or a specific location. On the other hand, maybe no wishes were spelled out verbally or otherwise. I suppose there could be many reasons why ashes would get carefully set aside or toted around from one home to another. As for the wishes that specify being sprinkled on the ocean or catapulted into space, let’s not go into that in present company.

For something like 50 years my aunt and uncle had waited in dim silence. To this day I don’t know if they were neatly labelled on the shelf like their succulent neighbours. Dignity restored.

Fraser Tangents

Not every previous Fraser post is about my personal ancestors. And neither is most of this one. As background, my buddy Lizzie and I have a common ancestor, one Duncan Fraser (c1783-1867), a blacksmith in Killin, Perthshire. Three of Duncan’s sons were William Fraser, MD (1810-1872), my ancestor John Fraser (1808-????) and her ancestor Donald Fraser (1819-1880). We have a theory that two other sons may have followed their older brothers to Canada.

Another mystery is the identity of a Fraser witness at the 19 June 1800 marriage in Montreal of John Charles and Lucille LeBrun (Fraser blog 30 April 2008). Their daughter Miranda Charles later married Dr. William Fraser in 1840. But who was the Fraser in Montreal in 1800? The signature is very difficult to read, with the first name abbreviated. It begins with Eli ..., seeming to be Elisth. Certainly there were plenty of Scots in Montreal at the time, in the fur trade and other mercantile ventures.

Hence a few reasons for browsing the Drouin collection on Ancestry.ca looking for Fraser marriages (knowing full well that, at present, the database is incomplete for Protestant registers in Quebec). This session did not produce likely-looking results for me, but I did stumble across an intriguing tangent.

At Notre Dame Basilica in Quebec City on 24 October 1842, John Fraser Esq. [Ecuyer], notary of Terrebonne parish, married Dlle. [Demoiselle] Elizabeth Fraser of Quebec parish.(1) Some will get a chuckle that the groom’s surname was indexed in the database as Ecuyer and the bride as Della Elizabeth. I hear moans about outsourcing the indexing. Someone looking for this John Fraser would have a hard time finding him!

The genealogical lore in the entry is fascinating. The impressive parade of witnesses gives definite family clues, merely needing untangling:
* The Hon. John Malcolm Fraser and Hon. John Fraser, uncles
* Henry (G.) Forsyth, cousin
* Louis Marteau, Esq.
* Simon Eliot Fraser, brother
* Magdaline Fraser, sister
* Andrew R. Fraser, cousin

It’s unclear whether each relationship applies to the bride or groom. Moreover, the Bishop of Quebec gave two dispensations for (a) the publishing of banns and (b) second degree of consanguinity—the latter commonly indicating the parties are first cousins (having mutual grandparents) or perhaps uncle and niece.

Such a rich Fraser cornucopia deserved at least a cursory Internet search. Since the two Honourables looked promising, I first looked at the website of the Quebec National Assembly (NAQ) www.assnat.qc.ca/eng/index.html, which has a list of all elected representatives over the years. Hon. John Malcolm Fraser (c1800-1860) was born at Malbaie, son of Malcolm Fraser and his mistress Marguerite Ducros dit Laterreur. John Malcolm inherited part of his father’s Mount Murray estate in 1815 and became a leading figure in Quebec City commerce and politics. In 1827 he married Grace Forsyth, daughter of another Quebec merchant, Henry George Forsyth, originally from Aberdeen, Scotland, in Quebec City’s Holy Trinity Anglican Cathedral. Names of their children are not mentioned, but clearly they would have some Forsyth cousins.

The NAQ site also had an entry for Hon. John Fraser de Berry. Born at Laval 25 November 1816, he was the son of Simon Fraser (a doctor with the 42nd Regiment of Royal Highlanders or Black Watch); died 15 November 1876. John “Fraser de Berry’s” brief bio includes his early studies at Terrebonne and Montreal, with admission to the practice of notary in 1839. He was also prominent in various provincial and other appointments. In the mid-1860s he assumed the de Berry name of his Norman ancestors. He married his cousin Elizabeth Fraser in Notre-Dame-de-Québec parish on 24 October 1842. Aha. This must be our groom.

Next I searched Dictionary of Canadian Biography (DCB) http://www.biographi.ca/. The only relevant Fraser seemed to be a Malcom Fraser (1733-1815) who had a son John Malcom (with no entry in DCB). According to the DCB historian, Malcolm was born in Abernethy, Perthshire, Scotland. After Malcolm’s service in Nova Scotia and Quebec with the 78th Foot regiment (Fraser Highlanders), he retired as a lieutenant and acquired the seigneury of Mount-Murray, Quebec, within the former Malbaie seigneury. In his lifetime he became a large landowner in several areas of Quebec. Of numerous children by two women, three of the sons are named as Simon, Joseph and John Malcolm. The latter looks like the same man who married Grace Forsyth.

Was I getting somewhere? Not leaving well enough alone, I found a delicious potpourri of John Fraser de Berry information on the Clan Fraser Society of Canada website http://www.clanfraser.ca/fraserde.htm. The editor of the piece declares, “John Fraser de Berry spent a lifetime inventing and reinventing his ancestry and genealogy, as evidenced by the following examples from published sources in Quebec.” Then ensues an editorial dissection of various descriptions written by or about the man—autobiographical accounts and obituaries. One of his greatest goals was to revive and head the “New Clan Fraser,” considering all the former Fraser Highlanders who had settled in Quebec. Fraser de Berry was well known for claiming descent from Lord Lovat (Simon Fraser the Jacobite) and being the 58th descendant of Jules de Berry who lived in France in the eighth century AD.

The clan foundational meeting in 1868 and the chief’s impressive lineage prompted a number of humourous letters to The Quebec Morning Chronicle. Separating what appear to be facts from the hogwash, we find that neither John’s father (Simon, 1768-1844) nor grandfather (Malcom, 1733-1815) had any descent at all from Lord Lovat, whose direct line ended with his own execution in 1747. Fraser de Berry adroitly concealed two generations of illegitimacy in his true pedigree. Historians have discounted the de Berry encounter with Charlemagne's court as fable. Nevertheless, Fraser de Berry was Seigneur of Contrecoeur and Cournoyer, a longtime convert to Catholicism, fluently bilingual and counsel for the Quebec Legislative Assembly when he died. His vision of the clan model laid the foundation for the Clan Fraser Society of Canada.

One tangent leads to another. This is what happens to genealogists. It began as a lazy-day exercise and look where it took me. Have I almost forgotten de Berry’s wife Elizabeth Fraser? Elizabeth’s obituary in 1901, quoted on the Clan Fraser website, mentions only a brother William. It seems mutual grandfather Malcolm had five sons: Alexander, Joseph, Simon, William and John Malcolm (no attempt at birth order here). The bride Elizabeth may be the daughter of Alexander, who purportedly had an Elizabeth, William and Madeleine among his children. Thus the Hon. John Malcolm Fraser was the paternal uncle of both bride and groom while the second uncle John is still a puzzle. It will take far more than Internet browsing to untangle and reconstruct these families. If what we see so far is even trustworthy!

(1) Fraser-Fraser marriage, 1842, Notre Dame Basilica register, Quebec City, no. 151, p. 204, “Drouin Collection,” digital image, Ancestry.ca (www.ancestry.ca : accessed 1 April 2009).

What Comes With Spring?

The busy season is here. Spring genealogy seminars and conferences have already begun. Planning for them never ends. Everyone I know is doing three or four jobs. Meetings, tasks, thinking, details, memos, reminders, copious amounts of paper being generated, tons of emails and even worse, phone calls.

I needed a camel photograph to calm me down. And keep in touch with my blog.

What a handsome fellow. See you? at the annual Ontario Genealogical Society Conference 29-31 May at Sheridan College in Oakville.

Neil Carey, photographer, fohn.net, “Camel Pictures and Interesting Facts,” (http://fohn.net/camel-pictures-facts/#arabian).

Blog Anniversary

Me blogging? That seemed as likely as my taking up neurosurgery. Nevertheless here I hang, somewhere in the boundless horde of bloggers. Two years ago seems like yesterday, probably because not that many posts have appeared here compared to some dedicated Genea-Bloggers (the ones who function on two hours of daily sleep or less). I do have fond memories of being able to pack about thirty hours into a 24-hour day but now I make do with about eighteen. Hours, that is. I don’t want to know how many white spots are eating up my brain.

A thank you and a hug to every new friend (old ones too) who coached me, supported me, encouraged me. I am humbled by the talented, active minds out there who impart genealogical lessons and case studies in the most reader-friendly way. Thank you for the tips, the fun and the interesting reading.

The beauty of a blog is being able to communicate, hopefully, that family history has so many fascinating anecdotes, coming from both research insights and memory collections. My goal has always been to try to interest family and friends who normally don’t give a hoot about genealogy. The medium allows for relating aspects of serious studies in an informal way.

I’ve been very lucky that a number of unexpected cousins have found me because of my blog—let’s give a grateful nod to Google here! Bear with me, Cuz People. There’s more to come, happy to get to know you, always thankful for your contributions, always sprinting (staggering?) onward.

Cartoon unfortunately uncited, retrieved from a lost email message, more than two years ago.

Dougall Part 4

At the end of June 1984 the one and only (so far) DOUGALL family reunion was held at Finisterre Farm in Puslinch Township (near the city of Guelph) in Wellington County, Ontario. 1984 was the 150th anniversary of patriarch John Dougall’s arrival in Canada from Scotland, so launched the idea. This felicitous happenstance was created without the slightest idea of how a family reunion should be managed. Then ... there were no informative guidelines and booklets as are available these days.

John Dougall came to Canada and settled in Argenteuil County, Lower Canada (Quebec) with his wife and the eight children who lived to adulthood: Thomas (1811), John (1816), George (1818), Margaret (1820), Jean (1822), Peter (1824), Marion (1829) and Helen (1832). Their son John (1814) had been killed in a farm accident in 1833; two daughters Margaret (1813) and Marion (1826) died as infants. I have never calculated how many descendants John might have had down to the sixth or seventh generations, but our group was very representative, for a day of socializing and barbecue.

The reunion was lively with those of us who already knew each other, and emotional in meeting cousins from afar. They came from Ontario, Quebec, Maine, Connecticut, Michigan, Illinois, Minnesota and of course the surnames varied widely. Besides DOUGALL we had Black, Blue, Jaeger, Kingston, Locke, Madsen, Maughan, Merriman, Molluso, Morrison, Turta and Watts descendants. The Scots weather gods cooperated beautifully.

Personal recollections of the event recall teenage cousins perched on the roof of the century stone farmhouse (learning to smoke dope already?) busily planning to re-visit in Manhattan. Our ultralight pilot was at the ready on the cornfield runway, thrilling the adventurous with flights over the party. A piper came to visit; what is a Scottish gathering without one? A large display table was where we shared memorabilia, with the circa 1866 photo of John Dougall and his wife Marion Hastie (see here). We asked people to fill out their parts of a huge family chart.

Our oldest-and-youngest acknowledgment went to Peter McAdam Dougall aged eight-four from Minneapolis MN, and Peter John Paterson Dougall aged four from Bolton ON, ... proudly bearing family heritage names. Honestly, we had some prizes for a few contests like this but whatever they were escapes me.

Everyone chipped in for expenses even though many were on their own dime for an overnight stay at a local motel. The said Peter M. Dougall, ever whimsical, dashed off a poem between his hotel in Toronto and his arrival in the wilds of Puslinch:

"We asked at the desk, 'Where’s Finisterre?'
They said, 'It’s not here, it’s way over there!'
We followed instructions and got here, you see,
Signs pointed to chez les trois jolies jeune filles.
We owe our thanks to our genial hosts
And all their helpers, including fence posts.
Though some of us came from far away
We’ll always remember this family day.
So let’s raise a glass and blow the bugles
For everyone here, we’re toasting the Dougalls!"

Family photograph of "Lane to Finisterre Farm," a painting by CLDM c1980.

Silent Sunday

Folk Art along the Cabot Trail, July 2006. Photograph by BDM.

Smile for the Camera

How did I miss the deadline for the Geneabloggers’ 11th edition of “Smile For the Camera” Carnival (http://shades-smileforthecamera.blogspot.com/) inviting us to share a siblings-type photo. Brothers and sisters. I was almost ready, too ...

... but lagging in all directions, pretending to multi-task among writing up minutes for two completely different organizations, sorting out book review commitments (reading the books was a good idea, too), madly researching for a potential article before the Archives of Ontario absconds to the distant suburbs, looming conference tasks and dreaming about a future rendezvous with camels. Is that a good enough excuse? Oh ... and sometimes my kids have to remind me I have kids.

Actually, I have two photographs of the same pair. Once known as Way-way and Ba-ba. Number one features brother and sister in their dress-up best for the camera. Who forgot to tell them to smile? Scary photographer? Nevertheless, who would argue they are perfectly darling. Dig those boots loaded with white shoe polish. The sailor suit is preserved as a family artifact.

Number two is way more fun, posing just before the local Ice Carnival. Even more adorable, n’est-ce pas? Mouse soon firmed up his blades to graduate to the more manly Canadian sport of hockey.
Photographs c1940s, BDM family collection.

Dougall Part 3

Just to address one recurring query. There is no evidence whatsoever that my Dougall family line was ever known as, or connected to, the surname MacDougall. It’s surprising (to me) how often I get that question, since the surname is much less common than the Mcs and the Macs. Dougall was the surname by which they were recorded in West Lothian parishes back to the mid-1700s ... when I lose them.

Not to ignore the fact that Dougal/Dugald is an ancient first name, far and away predating what we know today as surnames. Highlanders knew or greeted each other by their patronymics which identified their fathers. And if that raised any doubts among a culture with a limited imagination when it came to naming their children, most of them could add their paternal grandfather’s name. “Names were sometimes carried into two or three stages by using Vic (Mhic, the genitive of Mac). Sixteenth-century examples are Angus MacDonald Vic Angus, son of Donald MacAngus, and Alastair MacAllane Vic Ane Vic Coull.”(1)

One of my potential ancestors is Iaian McNeill Vc Innes, meaning Ian (or John), son of Neil who was the son of Innes.(2) Celtic Bards were a customary part of the clan fabric, preserving and memorizing the intricate genealogy of their leading families. In an illiterate society, they were expected to declaim and entertain at social gatherings. And let us not confuse the Gaelic language with that of the other part of the country – Scots, or Lowland Scots.

It would make more sense–to me anyway–that the “adoption” of Dougall as a surname sprang from some man named Dougal/Dugald who migrated to the area around Edinburgh and whose descendants had lost or dismissed their Highland origins and clan or old community affiliation.

My imagination was captured years ago when I read of Dugal, son of Somerled, who became Lord of the Isles in the 12th century. Then I was seduced by the global fashion marketing spawned by Queen Victoria’s devotion to Balmoral Castle and all things Scottish. Ah yes. Those brawny lads in their colourful kilts. The proud regimental backbone of the British army. The novelty of Highland games and the thrill of the bagpipes. The images thrive to this day, most of them manufactured to a point a poor old crofter wouldn’t recognize. Anyone can claim a clan affiliation and deck themselves out in tartan ties, kilts, shawls, blankets and what have you. Maybe hang a clan chief’s hereditary coat of arms over the fireplace in the family room, obliviously committing an illegal act.

Illustration from http://www.tartansauthority.com/

Then I became a genealogist and guess what? My ancestors were likely not prancing around in clean argyle socks and immaculately pleated kilts with silver pins. Researching ancestors goes hand in hand with seeking the realities of contemporary history—the social, political, economic, religious, literary and legal context for my people. How boring is it to say John Dougall lived on a farm in West Lothian, Scotland? Where is that place on a map? Who owned the farm? What was his working life like? His home life? What was happening around him in the nearby towns or in the country itself? What influences or pressures made him decide to go to Canada? You can’t always answer all the questions, but looking for them makes all the difference.

Now that we have that all cleared up, don’t forget your handed-down family stories much closer to home. The tales are personal historical sources. They may be altered through time, they may be incomplete, they be may be biased and embellished, they may be mixed up, but they are yours—to save and investigate.

I was all over the map with that one.

(1) William L. Kirk, Jr., “Introduction to the Derivation of Scottish Surnames,” 1992, Clan Macrae Online (http://www.clanmacrae.org/documents/names.htm : accessed 14 January 2009).
(2) Nicholas Maclean-Bristol, From Clan to Regiment, Six Hundred Years in the Hebrides, 1400-2000 (UK: Sword and Pen Books, 2007), pp. 78-79; citing Inverary Castle Papers, Fullerton Transcripts 2 July 1679; MSS AT 1679, Edinburgh University Library.

Silent Sunday

One of Lawrence of Arabia's campaign headquarters, Qasr el Azraq, northeast Jordan. Photograph BDM October 2007.

Number 21

At last. I could participate timely in Randy Seaver’s “Saturday Night Fun” http://www.geneamusings.com/. That’s because this particular Saturday night I was not at the opera to see Fidelio or even at the local cinema, or favourite of all, dining out au celebrity chef du jour. Something askew with my social calendar. Not that the offerings at the local cinema---various Oscar nominations---are that appealing. It’s all personal, of course, and one must read all the reviews before committing oneself to popcorn with ersatz “topping” on it. Must say the opera house sadly lacks popcorn.

I digress. Not having anywhere even remotely handy a pedigree chart or ahnentafel, I had to scramble around without leaving my desk to find ancestor #21. There she is. The paternal grandmother of my father's mother. Flory McLean. McLean or Maclean or numerous howevers. Randy has vital stats for his #21. I don’t (whine).

My Flory came and went. Her few recorded moments in history were, sources available upon request:
a) mother of Laughlin McFadyen baptized 30 November 1798 at Toraston, Isle of Coll;
b) mother of Angus McFadyen baptized 16 May 1801 at Toraston, Isle of Coll;
c) mother of Anne McFadyen baptized 3 February 1811 at Toraston, Isle of Coll;
d) mother of John McFadyen baptized 2 June 1816 at Toraston, Isle of Coll;
e) mother of Angus McFadyen baptized 15 June 1819 at Claid, Isle of Coll;
d) on the passenger list of the ship St. Lawrence, age 50, sailing from Tobermory, Scotland, for Ship Harbour (Cape Breton), Nova Scotia, on 12 July 1828.

When you come right down to it, I can’t even write a blog about Flory, who was formally called Flora at the baptismal times. If you ever tried researching Highland Scots before the Presbyterians got serious about keeping track of vital events, you know what I’m dealing with. On the small island of Coll in Argyllshire, the name Flora McLean was what you could call a dime a dozen. Like every other name there. Family tradition ruled out imagination in naming children. But genealogists are a persistent bunch. Eventually the torch will pass to—yoo-hoo—next generation.

Childhood

Oh lookie, see what I found. My Autographs book from the ancient past. Brenda began cleaning out and organizing memorabilia stashed in the lovely old Chinese chest my mother bought on her honeymoon. Someone in the family gave me the book when I was pretty young. It was a fad to get your school friends and even smarter people if you could find them to write a clever verse or popular saying. Limericks were commonly employed too.

This is typical:
“It’s hard to part when friends are few,
And your heart is full of hope,
It’s harder still to find the towel
When your eyes are full of soap.”
Signed Viola. I wonder who Viola was!

One of my early teachers wrote:
“It was only a sunny smile,
And little it cost in the giving,
But it scattered the night
Like the morning light,
And made the day worth living.”

A grade school friend wrote:
“Roses are red
Violets are blue
I’m a nice squirrel
But nuts to you.”

Signatures of eternal friendship included such side-splitters as “Yours till grama-phones,” or “Yours till the ocean wears rubber pants.” Figure that one out. There were better ones, but it appears that at some point I used an early version of cut and paste, or simply cut.

The passage of a school year or two apparently did not increase the sophistication:
“Ain’t this school awful,
Ain’t this school funny,
We do the work
And we pay the money.”

“Down in the valley green grows the grass,
Came a little billy goat sliding on his ____,
Now don’t get flustered, don’t get red,
Poor little billy goat was sliding on his head.”

Simpler times? I wonder what kids today would write?

Dougall Part 2

Way back when, I made a classic research error in my initiation to family history. The gravestone of my emigrant ancestor gt-gt-grandfather John Dougall was specific about his birth in Scotland.(1) I found the reference to the Quebec cemetery in my father’s papers and was later able to visit the site. Fortunately I had the wits to photograph the stone.

In memory of John Dougall
born 14th June 1783
Parkhead, West Calder, Edinburgh, Scotland
died at Beech Ridge 20th January 1867
aged 84 years 7 months & 6 days
St Andrews Protestant Cemetery, St Andre Est, Quebec; photograph c1972 by BDM.

My father had hired a research firm in Scotland to pursue the Dougall ancestry. Their report placed John Dougall in the family of James Dougall and Jean Hall of Parkhead village, then on the eastern outskirts of Glasgow and now part of that city. The date of birth/baptism was not an exact match with that on the gravestone, but Brenda spent time with the fledgling IGI (International Genealogical Index) at LDS Family History Centers trying to further this lineage.

Meanwhile, networking is good. Networking was possible, although slower, in the days before the Internet was invented. I met Salli and through her, different lines of descent from my John Dougall.
John’s family bible had been lost, but a neatly transcribed version existed of the inserted vital events, made by an interested descendant.(2) The bible also stated Parkhead as John’s place of birth.

The classic mistake? Not paying attention to every bit of information on the gravestone and not obtaining a map at the outset. Contact with Richardson Dougall, who was a descendant of James Dougall and Jean Hall, confirmed from his extensive research that my John was not part of that family. (3) That explained discrepancies in the birth/baptism date and my floundering around in parish registers in the vicinity of Glasgow. I was learning that geographical and administrative boundaries are rather important.

Parkhead was also the name of a hamlet or farm in Linlithgowshire (later to be renamed West Lothian). This Parkhead was located about one mile south of Abercorn village, not far from the Firth of Forth—a large-scale ordnance survey map is worth its weight in gold! Although Edinburgh on the gravestone seems a bit extraneous to the description, along with West Calder it had been overlooked as a geographic clue. Ultimately, Glasgow environs did not enter the picture at all.

Part of my original mistake was taking the Scottish firm’s research as pure fact. After the bumpy start, my research switched to the correct avenue. West Calder was the name of the parish and where John Dougall (and many of his children) was baptized 20 July 1781, the son of Thomas and Marion (Pollons) Dougal [sic].(4) The minister wrote that the parents were residing in Parkhead at the time. John’s date of birth was transcribed as 14 January 1783 in the family bible. His cemetery stone states 14 June 1783 as his date of birth.

The "Kirk of Calder"; photograph from http://www. westcalder.co.uk/#/photos/. The church dates to before 1550.

I had encountered my first need for a proof argument, although the delineation of genealogical standards was yet decades away. When was John born amid those conflicting statements? As genealogical sources, the parish register and the cemetery stone are original; the bible transcription is derivative. The relevant information in all three sources needed even more thought. Because the bible information is based on a now-missing artifact, it bears the least weight as evidence—how legible was the handwriting? Did it show short forms for months unfamiliar to or misinterpreted by the transcriber? Since the bible was allegedly published in 1810, how accurate was the bible inscription some thirty years after the fact? Or did someone enter all the family births fifty or sixty years later? Even non-genealogists can see the questions that arise, with no answers.

Whoever provided information to the stone cutter for the cemetery was giving him secondary information about John’s birth, i.e. was highly unlikely to have been a witness to that birth. The day and the year “match” the bible information, but not the month. Then we have the parish register created by the man who performed the baptisms. His information was primary, as a participant in the event. Usually we assume that clergy recorded the event at the time or soon after (although that’s not always the case, as we may be able to argue in certain situations).

What was the upshot of all this? The conclusion is that John Dougall was baptized on 14 July 1781 so he could not possibly have been born in 1783. There are some side issues discussed about the two appearances of January, but I think this is enough for semi-interested family members and neophytes to hear at one go. That’s my early sleuthing story and I’m sticking to it!

(1) Suzanne LeRossignol and Pennie Redmile, St Andrews East Protestant Cemetery, St Andrews East, Argenteuil County, Québec (Quebec Family History Society, 1991).
(2) Helen Locke, transcriber, Family Bible of John Dougall (c1781-1867), published Edinburgh, 1810.
(3) Several of Richardson Dougall’s family histories have been deposited with the National Genealogical Society’s collection in the St Louis County [Missouri] Library, including James Dougall of Glasgow (1699-1760) and his descendants through Dougall and McDougall lines in the United States and Canada.
(4) West Calder old parochial registers (OPR), baptisms 1645-1854, marriages 1677-1840; Family History Library microfilm 1067792.

(Missed) Wordless Wednesday

Sibelius Monument, Helsinki, Finland. Photograph October 2006 by BDM.

Winter Conditions

Winter is on our minds. Whose minds, you might ask? Well, almost everyone who lives in North America except perhaps for a few spots below, say, the 35th parallel. Mother Nature is giving us a modern taste of what some of our pioneer ancestors experienced. Record snowfalls, ice storms, power outages, snarled traffic, dangerous walking on treacherous, slippery sidewalks. I speak for the big cities where it’s become good to keep the flashlights and candles handy. Of course you can’t boil a potato or roast a piece of meat over a candle. Barbecues would suffice if they are not used indoors to put the inhabitants to sleep forever, but the problem is attending them in sub-zero weather with frozen fingers.

We are fortunate that we have mod cons and will not suffer long. Let’s face it: do we really suffer at all? We have snowploughs and telephones and canned goods. In Canadian cities we have good medical services at times like this. In rural areas, I betcha most homes and cars have emergency kits and stockpiles for just such events. When I lived on a farm, a “snow day” was a holiday from work and the everyday humdrum.

I’ve been re-reading the (First) Statistical Account of Scotland about Coll, written in 1793 by the assistant minister of the Tiree and Coll parish.(1) My Scottish ancestors on the Isle of Coll in the Inner Hebrides lived through miserable winters year after year as an accepted matter of course. The climate, while not necessarily receiving heavy snow, was always damp from the sea air and the collection of rain water in its low points. The island soil and weather were barely suitable for farming and the quality of life deteriorated as the population increased. Their cattle and sheep did not always survive the inevitable winter starvation. Houses of the average labourer and crofter had a double stone wall four to six feet thick, filled with the prevailing sand for insulation. Heating and cooking relied on smoky peat fires because trees do not survive and thus no firewood anywhere.

Not having a doctor on the island was a considerable disadvantage, but the 1793 writer adds “the healthy sea air generally drives away whatever is noxious.” He paints a conflicting picture in the following:
“The people are lively, industrious, and chearful [sic], and often engaged in active employments, in the open air; yet the dampness of the place, the want of proper firing, and the poor living of many, seem to be the greatest causes of frequent rheumatisms, dysentaries, and nervous fevers.”

By the 1820s the inhabitants fared scarcely better than their livestock. Crofters could not produce enough to pay their rents. Alexander Maclean, Laird of Coll, was one of the few Highland chieftains who honoured the old clan system. He depleted much of his own resources to feed the islanders during the worst times, and to subsidize passage for those who chose to leave for Australia or Canada.

Would we make it in those deplorable conditions? It’s debatable. They did. They gave us some of their genes. We have not been truly tested.

(1) Donald J Withrington and Ian R Grant, ed. “The Western Isles,” The Statistical Account of Scotland, Vol XX, (UK: EP Publishing Limited, 1983), reissue of John Sinclair, ed. The Statistical Account of Scotland (1791-1799). The Account can also be read online at http://edina.ac.uk/stat-acc-scot/.

Welcome Back, Brenda

Welcome back, Brenda, to the Internet. You have mail. This is a self-therapy letter, touted by shrinks as being healthy and healing.

It has been eleven days since a gross mix-up began with the telephone company and its allied Internet server. Ten days of mind-warping confusion over a simple request to change the name on the account. The confusion was entirely of their making ... not only mass interdepartmental mis-communication, but a string of downright errors and time-consuming, misguided advice. Official telephone representatives and a series of distant technicians at the other end of the phone line eventually succeeded in transferring a sort of Stockholm syndrome into my acknowledged low-tech, miserably co-dependent head. It was not my phone/Internet system in derangement as one polite message put it, it became me. As cunningly effective as skilled surgeons, they managed to amputate my sense of humour, destroy my central nervous system and eviscerate my guts. All systems flatlined there for a while. A truly empathetic IT Guy took pity on my dissolving persona and finally sorted much of it out with only a few cuss words uttered (unlike moi).

I spare you the dreary details. Everyone has had similar crashes and aggravating conflict with various personnel, I know. Overreaction some might say? Certainly reflects the fragility of my crisis management and less than healthy dependency on all invisible cyber things. Damage done, probably five years off what’s left of the rest of my life. What used to be the excitement of the learning curve has lost some of its joy. Nevertheless, up and at ‘em again.

Thank you for listening.

Frasers Part 5: John Fraser, Missing in Action

Well, I have to believe he was active somewhere when he went missing. Of the several John Frasers I have, I speak of the blacksmith at St. Andrews East (St-André Est) in Argenteuil County, Quebec. He was only about 40 years old or less when he disappeared from the genealogical radar.

There are few facts to cling to. He was baptized 12 April 1808 in Killin parish, Perthshire, Scotland.(1) He married in Canada in 1832 Nancy (formally, Anne) Fraser, the daughter of another John Fraser. In the Presbyterian Church at St. Andrews four children of John Fraser, blacksmith, are duly recorded with dates of birth and baptism. The last child Elizabeth Fraser was born 4 February 1839. That at least tells me John was living in 1838 at the time of her conception.
St Andrews East, October 1844 by Solomon, at Alain Chebroux, Comte d’Argenteuil (www.comte-argenteuil.com/DVTe.htm accessed : 22 June 2008); original oil painting in the Argenteuil Regional Museum collection.

John Fraser dropped from sight after that. No more children born locally. Nancy was a widow in the 1851 census with the three younger children. In the 1842 census for St. Andrews, the two John Frasers can be identified as other men (one being Nancy’s father). John the blacksmith, or for that matter his widow Nancy, is not recorded in St. Andrews Protestant cemetery.(2) Deaths and burials were not registered as vital records in Quebec in that time period. The cemetery transcribers noted:
“This is a very old cemetery. Some of the graves date from the early 1800's and some of the people were born in the mid 1700's. This graveyard is well looked after but the stones are very old and many are laying on the ground, are buried in the ground, as well as many which have parts cracked or missing. A few are so old that the writing has disappeared altogether.”

Did the transcribers poke and prod for the buried stones? Could John and Nancy be there, and their grave markers have not survived? None of their children stayed in the area. Are they even “resting” together? Nancy died half a century later in 1895 and her grave has not been located. Was John buried on the family farm on the River Rouge Road despite the local cemetery? Not too likely, I think.

Moving to other scenarios, did John die away from home? Was he away on business, as we say today? Where would he have gone? Was he visiting his brother, Dr. William Fraser, in Montreal? Did additional siblings emigrate to Canada whom he went to visit, and an accident or terrible illness did him in? Had he decided to visit his aged parents in Scotland and he succumbed to something fatal there? Death and cemetery records records for Killin parish are scarce.

Even the date and place of John’s marriage is nebulous. A marriage bond exists, dated 5 January 1832.(3) It was taken out and signed in Longeuil Township, Prescott County, a location across the Ottawa River in Upper Canada. On the Canadian Genealogy Centre database for Upper and Lower Canada marriage bonds, this entry has a notation “married in Longeuil” but the bond itself does not say that. The bondsmen were two men called James McIntosh, one a tailor and the other addressed as “Esq.” The witness was Alexander Fraser, probably Nancy’s eldest half-brother. So far, the actual church marriage record eludes me. A Presbyterian Church opened in 1832 at L’Orignal, the seat of Prescott County, and could be the likely venue. I have not been able to discover where its records are now. The church itself (and its Scottish congregation) are long gone.

Map of southern Quebec and Ottawa River from Microsoft Map Point.

Eagle-eyed genealogists will spot the clues and potential pathways here. I’m making a list.

UPDATE: http://brendadougallmerriman.blogspot.com/2013/07/john-fraser-still-missing.html

(1) Killin parish extraction, International Genealogical Index (www.familysearch.org accessed : 10 February 2006).
(2) Suzanne LeRossignol and Pennie Redmile, transcribers, St. Andrew’s East Protestant Cemetery (Pointe Claire, QC: Quebec Family History Society, 1990-1991).
(3) Fraser-Fraser bond, no. 3322 (1832), Upper Canada Marriage Bonds 1803-1865, RG 5 B9; Library and Archives Canada microfilm C-6782.

Silent Sunday

Fresco, Qasr el-Amra, Jordan, photograph, (www.traveladventures.org/continents/asia/desertcastleloop.shtml accessed : March 2008). Site visited October 2007.

Degrees of Separation

Family can mean close or distant relationships, ranging far and wide in kinship degrees, but also in geographic and emotional terms. The closing of another year made me think fondly of my extended family. I began to take stock. The extent of the connections soon troubled my left brain where math skills reside in most people. It was my impression I had a quite small family. Two siblings. Three children. Let me tell you, they start to add up and no-one was more surprised than me.

I have one grandchild and therefore it’s easy to remember the name and the birthday. The significant others of my children count, so including myself that’s nine.

Then there are the five nephews and three nieces by blood. By marriage, there are more: four nephews and three nieces. Most of the nieces and nephews are regularly having children and I will even count those who lack red hair. That comes to fifteen plus another nine.

And I had five first cousins. My first cousins had eight children who are my first cousins once removed, and they soldier on producing children too. The cousin tally for three generations looks like nineteen. We are up to about 56 people by now and the rest gets fuzzy.

My father had siblings; my mother none. But both also had cousins of their own. I’d have to haul out some boxes and files or charts to find them although I know they’re there because we write to each other even if they are the children of my mother’s cousins. I’m starting to lose it here. Did I count my parents? Did I count myself? Nevertheless, I am connected to all these people in theory, but also to many of them in real time.

Entering the outlaw field, there have been some ten sisters-in-law and eight brothers-in-law (sequential partners have transpired, you understand). That’s allowing for traditional liaisons and decently sustained periods of cohabitation.

Each of those cousins and in-laws has cousins unrelated to me and they don’t count, but still, there’s a connection. Looks to me like we are nudging the concept of six degrees of separation. There has to be a board game.

Some curiosa from my family connections:
• Sense of humour is not necessarily inherited or equitably distributed.
• Ditto regarding the ability to play the piano.
• Multiple university degrees do not guarantee earning a living.
• Grandparents in Florida trailer parks cleverly avoid overnight guests.
• Putting a touch of vaseline in your nostrils will help prevent painful cracking from dry winter air.
• If you can pronounce Musqodoboit you are a native of Nova Scotia.
• If Charles Stewart had rightfully become King Charles III, the U.S. would be a province of Canada.
• When you hit a moose with a car, only the moose survives.
• If you blog, the cousins will come.

The last week of 2008 brought me genealogy news on very different levels. When I first jotted down that last point, I couldn’t have been more prescient. Two hitherto unknown cousins, both deeply into family history (on different lines of mine), contacted me. What a thrilling Christmas present!

I meant to close this post by saying, “At any moment someone will have another baby. Somewhere in this horde, I confidently expect one future genealogist.” And I’ll let it stand, despite the other news. Two of my connections became grandparents for the first time. Their son informed them that the baby was registered with a brand new surname unrelated to the parents or grandparents or anyone at all. Actually, the name was chosen from a botanical species. How’s that for wiping out family history? Anyone ever heard of this happening before?

Silent Sunday

Latvian Junior Hockey Fans in Halifax, The Coast, May 2008

Resolutions?

Everyone’s doing resolutions. Where does this end-of-year compulsion come from? It must have a history. Uh ... genea-blogger friends ... I was just musing. History condensed to 25 words or less cheerfully accepted :-D

There is probably a genealogy Carnival out there about New Year’s resolutions but I can’t seem to control my blog functions or the carnival requirements. My three Christmas wishes didn't reach its cyber-appointment. That won’t stop me, of course, from a public display of good intentions that undoubtedly look familiar to many genealogists:

Number 1. Say “NO” even more than I vowed (and often contradicted myself) two years ago. Standards and technology in genealogy will continue to evolve nicely without my oar in the water. Organizations, memberships and blogs will thrive without my sticking my nose in. As a self-described eminence grise in a small circle, this is like passing the torch. This is like knowing how to bow out when the time is right.

Number 2. Say “YES” when advice or help is requested and I can specifically offer something. Note the similarity to a notwithstanding clause for Number 1—have I contradicted myself again without remorse? It may also be incumbent on me to be forthright on things genealogical when it really matters. And know when to curb my inner bitch who feeds on sarcasm and satire.

Number 3. Get serious about researching and writing as much family history as I can. A few ancestors before me were interested in their roots, and someone in another generation will take it up. Since I have had training in these skills, it behooves me to leave a written legacy others can build on. I will be dead when they discover how lazy at it I was sometimes.

Number 4. Keep tackling thorny problem-solving issues that come from former clients or family research—great fodder for writing articles. Get it going. Even if the problems aren’t solved yet, put them down in writing and review, research, re-analyze them. Sort the evidence, note the gaps, take more time, reach even farther.


Number 5. Find more camel trips. How inevitable was that. Granted, it won’t be on every genealogist’s list of resolutions but there are hardly enough words to be said for unparalleled vistas, pure air, a magnificent animal and the hospitality of Bedouins. Traipsing in a desert is not totally incompatible with family history. When I think of the connection, you’ll be the first to know. It likely has something to do with adoption.

Strange lady in pink eludes photographer; photo by MAW, October 2008.

Merry Christmas to all who celebrate it, and have fun relaxing over the holidays!

Genea-bloggers' Christmas Wishes

Here I am, reporting for duty at the genea-bloggers’ 62nd edition of Carnival of Genealogy. The commanding officer is Jasia at http://creativegene.blogspot.com. Not that I’ve participated much on the parade ground, but what family historian can resist asking three ancestors for a gift? We are cautioned a gift must be material and not wishful thinking for research clues. That will be a considerable challenge.
1. Donald-the-soldier McFadyen, please send every military service paper you ever had. Sorted in chronological order, if it’s not too much trouble. No need for gift wrapping. A few old contemporary newspapers folded around them would do. Preferably you could wrap them in your wife’s shawl for safekeeping in transit to me. The shawl would be a bonus since no-one knows what tartan you wore at home.

2. Grandmother Marija Jurikas Freibergs, you probably don’t know how I, with hindsight, would love to have your garnet earrings (Jurikas posts passim). I adore the dresses you wear in your photographs but they would be a waste because you were 5"1" and I am 5"9". Some genealogists would ask their female ancestors for family recipes, but despite all her skills, Marija couldn’t cook worth a darn and besides, Latvian cuisine has yet to achieve trendy restaurant status. At least not in Toronto.

3. John Dougall, I would be thrilled if your family bible turned up. Your grandson John (1783-1867) kept one from the time of his marriage, so maybe you did too. Maybe a descendant in Scotland has it. Lord knows I wouldn’t want to scoop a family treasure away from someone I haven’t met yet. But how can I know if they appreciate its special value and are taking good care of it? If you could just send their address or GPS coordinates (oops, no modern technology) I’m out the door already.

Possibly I cheated in bypassing Santa and going right to the sources. Those ancestors existed but I’m never sure about Santa.

My Famous Canadian Ancestor (Not)

The most recent Canadian Genealogy Carnival (http://looking4ancestors.blogspot.com/) is for “My Famous Canadian Ancestor.” I hope Kathryn doesn’t mind if I mention the one who isn’t ... isn’t my ancestor. He’s famous, but I assert he’s not mine.

This post also comes under the category of a prophet is not without honour save in his own country and similar sentiments. Family historians admire each others' work but sometimes it’s a different matter with family members who cling like limpets to treasured myths. Simon Fraser is one of the barnacles I’ve been trying to excise from the family chronicles.

Simon Fraser was a fur trader and one of Canada’s best-known explorers. A famous river and a famous university in British Columbia are named after him, and no doubt many other things. Simon was born on the eve of the Revolutionary War in New York state in what would become Vermont. His father, also called Simon, died a year later in an American prison for supporting the British forces. The family fled to Canada where in due time Simon joined the North West (Fur Trade) Company, becoming a partner in 1801. In 1805 he was sent west to explore new territory for trading posts and a navigable river to the Pacific coast. It was 1808 when he reached the mouth of the river that bears his name—not without a great deal of adventure and hardship, recorded in his journals.

Map of Fraser river from Vancouver Sun newspaper, www.canada.com/vancouversun/features/Fraser/index1.html, accessed 5 December 2008.
Clashes between the North West Company and the Hudson’s Bay Company led to the disgraceful Seven Oaks massacre in 1816 where the governor of the Red River settlement (Manitoba) and 19 of his men were killed. As representatives of the Nor’Westers in the vicinity, Simon and five other partners were arrested and tried, but acquitted of treason, conspiracy and accessories to murder. Eventually he retired to farm in Cornwall Township among other Highland Loyalist families. The details in Dictionary of Canadian Biography (www.biographi.ca/) are much more edifying than my cursory words.

The family debate? One of my cousins claims Simon as our worthy ancestor. After all, it's good enough for him that we share the same surname and Simon did settle in Canada. Now, I like to think of myself as broad-minded, allowing points for the opposing side. It’s true that Simon’s origins, like ours, were in Inverness-shire, Scotland. Although it wouldn’t surprise me if every Fraser family in the world originated in Inverness-shire. Therefore we could all be related hundreds of year ago to umpteen degrees of kinship.

On the other hand. Simon’s family had arrived in colonial America in 1773. His lineage has been quite well-documented over the years by clan historians and other scholars. They didn’t leave room for a stray John Fraser who was born at about the same time in Scotland and only came to North America in 1807. That was my Inverness-shire John Fraser (my Perthshire John Fraser is so out of this discussion). Also, the name Simon is strewn like confetti throughout the generations of his family’s ancestors and descendants. Names among Simon’s children like Isabella, Catherine, Harriet, William and Simon were not used in my Inverness Fraser line.

But those items are merely a warm-up for my best winning points: Simon Fraser’s family, unlike mine, were consistent Roman Catholics and they were in America as Loyalists during the Revolution. None of that holds water for my cousin. Being a myth buster is a hard row to hoe.

Jurikas Part 3: Alexander Jurikas

Alexander Jurikas was the eldest brother of my grandmother Marija whose story appeared here 27 November 2007. He was born at Krumini farm, Lade parish, Limbazi, Latvia about 1871, son of Janis Jurikas and Katrina Tukums. His baptism does not appear in the Limbazi-Lemsal parish register. He died about 1927, reportedly in Astrakhan in the U.S.S.R. The name of his wife is unknown.

Limbazi Town Seal.

This family was able to educate their children well, despite mother Katrina’s early widowhood. Alexander was about 18 when his father died in 1885. The four boys attended Russian-style academies. In this photo, probably dated in the early 1890s, Alexander wears a uniform of undetermined origin.


Photograph in family collection.

The family’s association with the Russian Orthodox Church led Alexander to become a priest. This much was known by the family. Some published biographical information was available but unfortunately the distant researcher cited only www.petergen.com, a portal which has hundreds of sources (this is still being investigated). From the Kiev Theology Academy in 1900 ‘Uncle Sasha’ went on to become a teacher and writer. In 1905 he was an inspector of classes in the city of Vladikavkas in the Osetia region of the Caucasus with the Russian version of his name as Alexander Ivanovich Jurikas. An undated encyclopaedia—poorly referenced by the same researcher—noted some of his writings:
• “The teaching of socialists about the origin of Christianity on the economical ground” (Harkov, 1904)
• “To the question of relationship between secular society and the clergy” (Harkov, 1905)
• “To the question of reformation of clerical schools” (1906)


It’s not difficult to see that Sasha was on a reform bent. Family stories say that he lost his faith in the revolutionary proceedings as they turned communist. Eventually, it was said, he gave up the priesthood to become a newspaper writer and editor in Astrakhan. It’s impossible to imagine the despair and/or circumstances that contributed to taking his own life by strychnine poisoning. Of his three children, the two sons became medical doctors. Daughter Olga became a librarian for the Leningrad Philharmonia, last known to be retired in St Petersburg in 1973. Family contact has been lost.
Photograph in family collection.

OCAPG

The Ontario Chapter of the Association of Professional Genealogists (OCAPG) quietly passed its tenth anniversary this year. That’s Ontario as in Canada, not as in California :-D
In February of 1998, the president of APG notified us of our official chapter status. From the group I initially called together two years previously, OCAPG joined the worldwide organization that now numbers well over 2,000 members. Our founding members on the application were myself, Sharon Murphy, Barbara Samson-Willis, Louise St Denis and Jeff Stewart.

What are professional genealogists and what do they do? The answer is almost as varied as the individuals and like many professions has specialties within the field. Genealogical research is the bedrock of our profession whether we work as independent business contractors, for commercial companies, for genealogical societies, libraries, publishers or family organizations. Some of the specialty research areas are heir searching, adoption, DNA and genetics, teaching and writing, lineage society applications and ethnic or geographic concentrations. Some members like to apply their expertise to website design, translation of documents, arranging and leading overseas homeland tours, photography of ancestral sites or the indexing of original records.

Mutual goals are outlined in the APG Code of Ethics: www.apgen.org. The APG mail list, one of the most active genealogy listserves on the Internet, reflects the international nature of our membership and helps provide unique insight to resources not possible ten years ago. The word professional applies not only to those who undertake work for clients. Serious family historian members approach their work with the same dedication to careful scholarship and source citation.

As the first chapter in Canada, OCAPG has seen changes and advancements over the past years. We have expanded our membership to more than 50. Not all can attend regular meetings in Toronto—our chapter mail list exists to stimulate news, information and assistance. Early days saw members who recognized a need and branched out to create the groundbreaking project called APOLROD (Association for the Preservation of Ontario Land Registry Office Documents) and the online National Institute for Genealogical Studies. We’ve had excellent committees to work on our workshops, seminar events and the essay contest. At the annual conference of the Ontario Genealogical Society, we plan special activities: “Ask A Professional” has been a popular venue for free research consultations. And ... like all genealogical groups ... we have cycles in the numbers of volunteers we can call on.

Why am I writing about this? Because the chapter seems to occupy quite a bit of my time. Because the more experienced among us can mentor the newer members. Because we need to encourage self-directed education and support and yes, even socializing. Because I appreciate the time a handful of people invest for the greater good of the membership and the profession. Because we know the value of family history and its sources and must fight, sometimes, for gaining or maintaining access to historical census returns and vital records. Because some day we will see university degree programs in genealogy and family history studies. It’s coming.

Cemeteries Part 8

My recent travels were yet again to another Middle Eastern country ... or so some travel agents categorize Egypt, although it is in North Africa. This photo is of an Islamic cemetery in Luxor, with a typical family tomb in the foreground. It is probably made of “mud bricks.” We did not have an opportunity to actually visit a cemetery as package tourist itineraries are set in stone and lingering on the street could mean your bus disappears. A guard armed with an unobtrusive machine gun is now mandatory protection on tourist buses.

Cairo has a similar immense cemetery. In 1961 I saw families here and there in the Necropolis, paying extended visits to deceased relatives, comfortably ensconced with their cooking fires and pots. Today, over a million homeless Cairenes randomly inhabit every nook and cranny of the Necropolis tombs.



Tour guides are very often students supplementing their income for a post-grad degree. They usually have encyclopaedic knowledge of their country’s history and monuments. Several of our local guides were Moslem women whose daily appearance in colourful garments could almost convince one to wear the hijab. They were lively, interesting and competent women who love their work (we also had young men in blue jeans and designer glasses). Later in Jordan we had Nadine the “unorthodox” Moslem woman. Nadine was outspoken and wore sweatshirts and no hijab. No public judgment is attached to her choices, which she didn’t mind explaining to us from the Quran/Koran. Our western countries are not the only ones to claim cultural tolerance and the flexibility to interpret religious writings.

On the other hand, one day at Giza, as crowds of tourists filed patiently along the street, the imam’s broadcast at the noon call to prayers was an endless, furious harangue. Our guide was embarrassed to translate. He was angrily calling on the faithful to reject the non-Moslem world. We all have our fanatics.

I do digress from cemeteries, don’t I. It’s an education, an invitation, to try to understand the greater part of the world outside North America.

Remembrance

Remembrance Day in Canada 2008 marks the 90th anniversary of the ceasefire on the Western Front in Europe. Armistice Day 11 November 1918 marked the finish of “The War to End All Wars.”Apparently we were doomed to repeat history.

On that day in a German prisoner-of-war camp in Holzminden, Lower Saxony, captured British and Colonial officers were already aware of deteriorating morale among the camp guards and some disarray in the German army. Rumours had been flying of impending German surrender and peace. But prison life was generally consumed with getting enough to eat and how to escape. Escape was considered a duty and was never far from prisoners’ thoughts. One of the most famous and daring escapes of the war occurred in the summer of 1918 at this camp, later chronicled in The Holzminden Tunnellers by an eyewitness.

On 11 November 1918 in Holzminden, the rumours of Armistice had come true but it was not instant freedom for the prisoners. It would be another month before the men were entrained for “old Blighty.” During the long, anxious waiting period, the great political, military and social turmoil in Germany was evident. The hated, harsh camp commandant Niemeyer himself had seldom been seen lately. Later they heard he had slipped away in civilian clothes. Some prisoners were able to move surreptitiously back and forth to the town, on the lookout for “grub” and hoping to see their own troops arrive. But prudently, most prisoners decided their chances of getting shot were high if they tried to “hoof it” away through the countryside.

On 11 November 1918, where was my father? Let’s be accurate and say the man who would become my father. He was in the Holzminden camp, hungry and impatient like all the others. Lt. Hector Fraser Dougall from Winnipeg was a Royal Flying Corps pilot in 54 Squadron who was shot down behind enemy lines in France, in February of 1918.

In a satisfying act of defiance — remembering the lack of adequate medical treatment, the withholding of Red Cross parcels, the consignments to solitary punishment for his many escape attempts — he climbed to the top of the main camp building and “liberated” the camp’s enormous state flag. The Globe and Mail photograph.

Hector kept a secret (forbidden) diary during his capture time. He was marked as a “difficult prisoner” with a history of escaping while being shuffled from one prison to another. I mention only two of many escape attempts that have been reconstructed by oblique diary references and later information from fellow prisoners. His final routing was to the supposedly top-security Holzminden. Despite the heavy complement of guards, he and another man jumped from the train along the way. This particular escape attempt lasted over two weeks’ time and came heartbreakingly close to success. When German soldiers caught them and were about to fire on his companion, Hector deflected their attention, allowing companion Williams to make good his escape. Hector’s fate was solitary confinement at Holzminden. Sedley Williams’ subsequent letter from England to Hector’s family expressed his enormous gratitude and described their adventures in great detail.

Fellow airman from Winnipeg, William Stephenson (much later known as Intrepid), also joined the Holzminden gang by September of 1918. In mid-October he and Hector were two who set off on “a hike to the frontier.” Stephenson did reach Allied lines but Hector was recaptured, to be thrown into solitary once again with the threat of court martial. During a family visit in 1981, Sir William admitted that his successful escape to British lines was due to the diversion Hector created among the guards hunting them down.

In the interim period after 11 November, the prisoners experienced something like feast or famine. With German soldiers finally guarding the camp at the end of the month, many of the scrounged meals were cabbage and potatoes. Sometimes the prisoners could still venture to nearby villages to pay for indulgences like wine and meat — rabbit, sausage, duck and chicken are glowingly described in Hector’s diary — making the most of it when they could. Another escape plan came to naught. After a number of disappointing postponements, the prisoners received notice on the evening of 10 December to pack up and get to the train station. Their spirits soared. They celebrated with their hoarded bottles. Hector’s last diary entry mentions how that night the exuberant young men set a fire in the hope of burning Holzminden prison camp to the ground:

“They called out the Fire Department to put it out, and we cut their hoses to pieces. Everything smashed to pieces in the camp. Got beautifully drunk myself. So did most of the boys.” Family photograph.

Hector was 22 years old when he returned to Canada in January 1919. His diary is now in family possession, along with the Holzminden camp flag. More has been written or compiled about Hector in:
“Tales of Derring-Do: A Captured Flag” by Rod Mickleburgh in The Globe and Mail (8 November 2003);
“Hector Fraser Dougall RFC: A Pilot’s Account of the Great War” by Tim Dubé in Canadian Military History (Vol. 5, No. 2, 1996);
“Fiery Red Dougall, Camel Driver” by Brenda Merriman in Early Canadian Life (November 1979);
and a very special DVD created in the 21st century by Hector Fraser Dougall II that followed father Hector's 1918 diary route through France and Germany, visiting prison sites ... some of which the current residents were no longer aware.

UPDATEto NEW BOOK: See http://brendadougallmerriman.blogspot.com/2013/11/remembrance-holzminden-pow-camp.html