A BLOG FOR MY ANCESTORS: family research

Fear

Fear has kept me silent before and sometimes it still does. I hate that kind of fear. It can be constricting, debilitating and shameful. It creates resentment of oneself. Even now and after many years, I feel uncomfortable just thinking and writing about it.

I used to fear speaking out because of the violence and anger that it would create within my home. That is the fear that sealed my mouth shut and helped me pretend in order to survive.

Now I am just fearful of being misjudged due to the social and religious stigmas attached to domestic violence. I have worked so hard to put my life back together over the last decade and I don't want to be perceived as victim again, EVER!

During recent years, I have had this strong urge to thoroughly write my own personal history as a way to continue healing, but I haven't done it.

I have dismissed this prompting many times by reminding myself that I have been given a new life and I need to move forward and that the person I was - is no longer and the years I lived with domestic violence are just faded memories of a very bad nightmare. However, 'stuffing' the experience has never felt right to me and it wasn't just a bad dream. It really happened.

This was the first family photo taken of us at the beginning of our journey of healing. The girls often express how this was one of the happiest summers of our lives. I felt like a caged bird that had been set free. I was so grateful that my children were able to finally have a happy mama. I was determined to set an example of strength and courage for them.

Then I started doing family history and something quite amazing happened. When I started digging into the past, I discovered ancestral stories of sorrow and joy, death and birth, marriage and divorce. There were inspirational stories of journeys completed and knowledge gained. Spiritual and emotional growth were intertwined among generations where some individuals suffered addictions, loneliness, suicide, and trauma.

Many of those stories were never spoken or told because of social norms or fear of shame. I knew that I needed to include them so that history of my family would be real and authentic. I felt that this knowledge would somehow bless the posterity of my ancestors. I just didn’t realize that these blessings would begin with me.

While I have been gathering and learning about the histories of the people in my family, I have become more confident and proud of even the most difficult parts of my own personal history. Authentically writing the stories of my ancestors has helped me overcome the fear of sharing the hardest parts of my own.

Reading about the tragedies, as well as the triumphs of my ancestors, has helped me to make personal connections with them across generations of time. They seem more real to me. I feel like my familiar support system includes those that have gone on before and they are cheering me on in heaven. I am strengthened by their examples and I am learning wisdom from all of their varied choices and different journeys.

This type of perspective has helped me to see more clearly how the adversity in my life has been an important part of appreciating the joy that I now experience. My joy and gratitude far outweighs any fear that I may still feel and as Great Grandpa Goulé would say, "It has given me the gumption to speak out."

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1:20 PM
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Skeletons

adversity

“If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton,

you may as well make it dance.”

-George Bernard Shaw

So, what do you do when you find a giant, 165 year old skeleton in the closet? You get all the women in the family together to ruminate the discovery. Our first annual Smith|Goulé family history girls-night-out happened on the eve of Halloween. It was an eventful evening for our family. The first of its kind and a tradition we hope will continue for years to come.

A few weeks before we all gathered in a large hotel room in Park City, one of my aunts made an unexpected discovery. She had been perusing old English newspapers online through the FindMyPast website. After typing in the name of Louis Henry Goulé and to her surprise many articles popped up in the result field giving accounts of the same 1845 event: Murder at Durham!

There were numerous accounts of the murder and it was the topic of much discussion in the town of Durham at the time. Louis Henry was well-known as the Superintendent of the Police. He shot his wife, Emma in the arm after a fit of jealousy. On the night of June 10, 1845, Louis Henry accused her of spending too much time with another man. Emma adamantly denied his accusations in the presence of other family members before she was shot. She died 6 days later from lockjaw caused by the gunshot wound. Louis Henry was found guilty of manslaughter on grounds of insanity and sentenced to three years prison time. He was acquitted of more severe charges which would have surely resulted in a hanging sentence and ultimately the end of that branch of my family tree.

This 3rd great-grandfather of mine left prison a changed man. He moved back to Ombersley where he originated and where his extended family still resided. He attended school to become a veterinarian and then married my 3rd great-grandmother, Mary Ann Knott. Together they had three children (he had no children with his first wife) and lived a seemingly quiet life after that.

My great-grandfather, Harry Thornley never spoke about this story or his grandfather to anyone in the family. We don't even know if he knew about it himself. It truly was a skeleton buried deep within our family closet until this month and 165 years later.

During our girls weekend we discussed all of this and then the victim, Emma Gyles. She had married one of our ancestors and her life had been cut short at just 31 years of age because of her husband's impulsive choice to be violent. We pulled out our laptops and spent time researching her family members. We read about her feisty attitude described in the testimonies of others and celebrated her assertiveness. We tried to pay homage to her by talking about what her life might have been like at that time. We all mourned her passing while trying to imagine how difficult it was for her family to overcome this loss in their lives.

Until this point, I had felt comfortable only sharing stories of my ancestors which included those in my direct line that had been victims and survivors of circumstance and abuse. I had never discovered a perpetrator directly in my ancestral line. I realized that I really only wanted to write stories about the heroes and heroines in my family; a woman that gave birth in a covered wagon with the threat of an Indian attack outside; brave young men escaping the French revolution in the dead of night; young girls helping their families settle the West and build up towns; brave men rescuing pioneers from certain death during a winter snowstorm.

This realization helped me understand that I also need to embrace all the tragedies that make up my family history. By doing so, I am acknowledging the pain and shame that comes to families who may have a member among them who chooses to cause violence, or impulsively makes poor choices negatively impacting the lives of others around them.

All of the sudden I felt so much compassion for families who suffer this type of adversity. I also realized how important it is to avoid any type of concluding judgements when discussing families or parents of perpetrators. Through the countless hours of time that I have spent researching my own family, I have also concluded that if any one of us is to dig long enough we will surely find deeply, embedded skeletons within each of our family closets. It is also important to remember that making poor choices is not in our DNA. Being a perpetrator of violence is not in a person's genetic make-up. It is a choice! Louis Henry Goulé made a very poor choice and it resulted in the death of his first wife. His actions should not cause me to feel shame, but should help me to feel greater empathy towards others.

Family History Girl's Night - After an afternoon at the Family History Library in Salt Lake City, Utah and a yummy dinner at Sugar House BBQ, we headed to a large family suite in a Park City Hotel.

We stayed up chatting and researching until 2 AM. We are so sleepy and tired in this picture!

Slumber Party!

Aunt Linda is up way past her bedtime!

The next morning and more exciting discoveries are made after just 5 hours of sleep! We had a hard time
stopping and saying our good-byes!

Beautiful mother and daughter look a likes, deep in thought and discussion!

Hey, Smith|Goulé women mark your calendars! Next year's Family History Girl's Weekend is already scheduled for November 11 & 12!

11:11 PM
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The Privilege of Motherhood

adoption

Our children don't always come to us the traditional way. My mother became an insta-mom when she married my father. My dad and my older sister Angela were a packaged deal. My sister has always appreciated our mother in a very special way, because she had to live six of her youngest years without her.

My parents, Jim and Penney Griffith with their oldest daughter, Angela (front-right)
as the flower girl at their wedding reception. Penney, adopted Angie when she was 6 years old.

As I was organizing my mother's papers I found the following talk she had written about Angela, me, and the blessing of being a mother. It touched my heart and helped me remember how blessed I am to be her daughter and what it means to be a mother.

Heavenly Father blessed me right away with motherhood as Angela (our little 6 year old) came with her daddy to our marriage. As our wedding day approached she would always say, "our wedding", meaning the three of us or "we're getting married". Then as many of you know, the 3 of us were blessed very soon with a little angel from heaven, our Wendy Joy.

Six year old Angela is on the far left. She is standing in the receiving line of our parents wedding. She was so excited for this special day- the day that she was getting a mama. She appreciates our mother in a special way, probably because she had to live her six youngest years without her.

Our children bring much joy into our lives. Even when the days are stormy as just last Friday when Angie took sick. After the bad night, she was feeling fine the next morning and her little "I love my mama", sent a ray of sunlight through the clouds. As I was preparing this talk, she said, "Isn't it nice to be a mama?!" Yes, it is!

Jim and I marvel at this wonderful miracle called birth which you especially think about when you have a new little one in the house. She can't talk, and yet looking into those baby eyes, there is a true testimony of the existence of a Divine Creator. How privileged and grateful I feel to have been given a small measure of His creative power in my role as a mother. to know that you have been a part of this creation is the greatest blessing given to man and woman.

My older sister Angie and me. She was so happy to be a 'big sister'.

There is an old proverb which states, "Since God could not be everywhere at once, He created mothers." Along with the joy and happiness associated with motherhood, there comes much responsibility.

Our responsibility as women starts ever before our marriage. It is important to keep high standards, for each child born into the world has the right to be well born of goodly parents. Then as our children are born to us, we acquire the responsibility of rearing them, shaping their character, molding their thoughts, planting in them high ideals, righteous purposes, and faith in God.

Jim and Penney Griffith on their wedding day 3/31/67

Orson Pratt said, "Let each mother commence with her children when young, not only to teach and instruct them, but to chasten and bring them into the most co-operation. For then is the time when they are most easily trained and their tender minds are the most susceptible of influence and government."

My sister Angie sporting a swimming cap and hugging me

When you have a child of your own, you come to truly think of the great principle of pre-existence and how just a short time ago this little one was in the presence of our Heavenly Father, so very pure and innocent as to the ways of this mortal life. This makes me so aware of the complete dependence they have on us to supply their very need. A child's greatest security comes from a pure and unselfish motherly love.

A little word, a simple word and yet it means so much. Love is the strongest force, and underneath it's magic touch a heart unfolds. Just like a flower that opens to the sun. This is the sweetest thing in life, when all is said and done.

"The mother's image is the first that stamps itself on the unwritten page on a young child's mind. It is her caress that first awakens a sense of security: her kiss, the first realization of affection; her sympathy and tenderness, the first assurance that there is love in the world..." -David O. McKay

Mama and Me

In my short experience of motherhood, I find one of the great blessings is all that we learn from our children. Ora Pate Stewart expresses this in her poem, Lullaby,

We have come to the end of a busy,

You have come for a good-night song,

And although you think I am singing for you,

You have sung for me all along.

Your dear little lips, when you kiss me good-night,

Are as sweet as an angel caress;

And your soft little arms, when you hold me

so tight,

Are the total of happiness.

Then folding your hands in a dimpled clasp,

And climbing upon my knee-

With your head half bowed

And your eyes half closed-

"Bless Daddy and Mama and me."

Today's been a day of correction for you,

I've mingled my tears with your own.

And tonight I am wondering who has taught best,

For I've not been teaching alone.
_______________________________________________

My mother, Penney Louise Smith Griffith wrote and shared this message on her first Mother's Day, after my birth in 1968. She was speaking to a congregation of members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints in Laguna Beach, California. I know that because of her loving and righteous influence her posterity has been and will be blessed.

My mother taught me what it means to be a mother. I have learned that being a good mother doesn't mean I have to be perfect at the art of mothering. Part of being a good mother means that I should be perfect in knowing that I am not and that I should forgive myself for that fact. Teaching forgiveness should be Number 1 on The List of Things to Teach Children First (even before potty training). It's essential to good mothering, to be good at both forgiving and asking for forgiveness.

My children will be better prepared for their own role as a parent if they know how to forgive well. So when they have that thunder-crashing moment - the moment when a young parent first realizes that they aren't and never will be the ideal parent that they imagined because that ideal doesn't exist, anywhere (including Instagram) - I hope they will forgive themselves quickly for that and then move on.

When my adult children reflect on how I parented them, I think that what they'll remember first is that I loved them something fiercely and consistently through both my actions and words, however imperfect it might have been at times. And that this devotion and love, mingled with forgiveness, humility, and constant learning, is what it takes to be a good parent. I anticipate that they will learn quickly (as I did) that the key to successful parenting is to never stop trying to be the best parent you can be while accepting and learning from your flaws.

And so there will be stormy days, but mostly sunny and that's OK, because isn't it nice to be a mama.

Me and Mama 1986

Me and Mama on my wedding day January 2013

I am so grateful for my beautiful daughters, all that they have taught me,
and all that I have learned being their mama.
Here we are together on Sariah's wedding day.

My mother, Penney had 4 daughters (no sons) and each of her daughters had only daughters. Penney has 10 granddaughters and no grandsons. Her first great-grandson came through my oldest sister Angie. Angie's daughter Bryn has two sons, the oldest is Tristyn and he gets the title of being the first boy born into the family in 3 generations.

12:50 AM
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The Strength of my Ancestors

#IAmAPioneer

There have been many times in my life when I have heard stories about my pioneer ancestors and the hard things they did when crossing the plains and settling in Utah and Idaho. In the past, I have always reacted with comments such as, "There is no way I could have done that!" or "I would have never made it to Utah because I for sure would have died along the way!" My reaction to the stories of my ancestors and the hard things they did, has now changed. As I have researched their lives and studied their faces in photos, they have become more real to me.

My Aunt Zera Diane told me the following story

which was shared to her directly by her Grandmother,

Mary Jane Sharp Griffith.

L-R Mary Jane and granddaughter, Zera Diane

Front - Left to Right: Mary Jane Sharp Griffith and her mother, Frances Alveretta Oviatt Sharp (center-front)

Mary Jane spoke about her mother, Frances Alveretta* Oviatt Sharp's

unique birth and entry into this world. Frances was very proud of the fact that she had been born in a covered wagon on the way to Utah and shared this frequently with her children and grandchildren. These are her words,**

Young Frances Alveretta Oviatt

"I was born August 18, 1851 within a half days ride of Fort Laramie, Wyoming. I hadn't been expected until journey's end at Salt Lake. My early arrival was brought on by the heroic acts of my mother, Mary Jane Whitlock. She was very pregnant with me when jumped out of her wagon and threw her apron up waving it in the direction of stampeding oxen, which had been frightened by some Indians. Her actions redirected the herd and, saved an elderly lady by the name of Grandma Albridge from a certain fall. This act of bravery caused her to begin her labor and deliver me early.

My father, John Franklin Oviatt made the decision to pull off the trail and fall back behind the rest of the company.*** I'm sure that this was not an easy decision to make since this required him to possibly part from other family members and friends who were traveling with them. They were both so young at just 21 years of age and I was their first baby. John and Mary Jane had just married the previous year on November 28th in Winter Quarters Pottawattam, Iowa.

So, my young father made camp, then brewed his wife some tea, and awaited my arrival. While he was cooking over the campfire, some hostile-looking Indians approached and watched him hand the tea into the wagon to my mother. One of the Indians asked, ["Squaw sick?" My father, then answered, "Yes, Squaw heap sick! Maybe so die. Got smallpox!" ] This was quick thinking on my father's part since the Indians had been dying of smallpox. Without any other further exchange, the Indians turned about and then left quickly, leaving us all unmolested.

John Franklin Oviatt - Frances Alveretta's father

Mary Jane Whitlock Oviatt - Frances Alveretta's Mother
Frances named her first daughter, Mary Jane after her mother

After my healthy arrival into the world, my father and mother continued their journey to Fort Laramie where we all stayed for a day before traveling on to the Salt Lake Valley where we joined our family and friends. I was just a small infant when I entered Utah. My parents made their first home together in Farmington, Utah where they raised me in the gospel of Jesus Christ and to adulthood ."

When I read this story now and tell it to my children, I feel different about the inspiring lives of my ancestors! They aren't super heroes to me. They are human and real. I feel a connection to them now.

I am sure Mary Jane was scared in the covered wagon with the potential threat of violence just outside, while she labored to give birth for the first time. I know that she prayed out to God. I can imagine John prayed also, for strength and comfort as he worried for the safety of his small family. Because of his prayers, he was inspired by God to say and act in such a way that protected his wife and new baby. They were probably both very emotional and joyous when Frances was born healthy despite being early! Afterwards, I am sure they were extremely grateful when they carried their baby to Zion and didn't have to bury her like so many pioneers before and after them. This gratitude has been the motive behind this story being told again and again for many generations, since that day in the late summer of 1851.

When I ponder this story now, I don't think like I use to and tell myself that I could have never done what they did or that they were so much stronger than me! Instead, I think about all the hard things I have done in my life. Just like John and Mary Jane Oviatt, I have prayed out to God for peace and comfort because of adversity and pain. I have also felt extreme joy and gratitude for the miracles in my life.

Now these family stories help me to remember that there is a little bit of Frances and Mary Jane inside of me and I am a strong.

Frances Alveretta's Family
Husband -James Robertson Sharp Jr., daughter -Mary Jane, son-James Ray, and Frances

L-R, Front Row - Frances Alvaretta, James R Sharp Jr., and his sister, Sarah Emma Sharp Keplinger.
Back Row - Mary Jane and her brother, James Ray, their cousins (and Sarah's sons) Andrew, Frank and George.

*There is a discrepancy in the spelling of Frances' middle name. It is listed as Alferetta and Alveretta in family documents and letters. She was also called Rhetta by those close to her. Her gravestone lists her middle name as Alfaretta. According to her daughter Mary Jane, she was named after a popular song about a little Indian maid, pretty Alfaretta. Probably because of the Indian scare during her birth.

**The author took writer's liberty to tell the story of Frances Alveretta Oviatt in first person, based on the third person factual account found in the Sharp Family History compiled by Zera Diane Griffith Ekins Rees.

***100 wagons were in the Easton Kelsey Company when it began its journey from the outfitting post at Kanesville, Iowa (present day Council Bluffs). They originally departed about June 10, but turned back due to Indian trouble. They left again June 29. Luman A. Shurtliff was captain of the 1st Fifty and Isaac Allred was captain of the 2nd Fifty.

(https://history.lds.org/overlandtravels/companies/175/easton-kelsey-company-1851)

Ira and Ruth Oviatt (John's parents) are listed with Captain Allred and so it must be assumed that John and Mary Jane were traveling with their parents and in the same company, since they are not listed separate from their parents.

The company arrived in Salt Lake City between September 22 and October 7, 1851. Mary Jane was due to have Frances in September, approximately.

12:31 AM
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The Day I Found My Great Grandfather's Great Grandfather's Obituary!

aging

My great grandfather, Noel Henry Thornley Goulé was born January 16, 1886 in Malvern Wells, England. During his adult years, he was known as Harry T. Goulé. I have no idea why he preferred the name Harry over his given name Henry and it’s still a bit of a family mystery.

What I do know, is that Harry was extremely stubborn and could at first be quite intimidating and even scary-looking especially if he’d being woken from a deep sleep and his mouth was denture-free. Even after leaving England as a teenager, Harry still had a strong English accent throughout his life. He was proud of his English birth. He was proud of his French heritage and his Canadian/American dual citizenship. Harry was extremely proud of his education and his Pharmacology degree.

Harry T. standing in his pharmacy in Lucky Lake, Saskatchewan, Canada.

My grandfather had very unique eating preferences. He believed the organs (such as the heart, tripe, lungs, liver, etc.) of an animal were a delicacy. He thought it was disgusting to eat the muscle of an animal, such as the cut of a nice steak. He put MSG on everything he ate and kept it in a shaker, next to the salt and pepper on his kitchen table. He believed that one should always eat with the fork in the left hand and knife in the right, with the fork tines down. I always passed this test because I was left-handed. Thank goodness! He liked to read the dictionary and even though his hearing declined later in life, he was a pro at eavesdropping!

My great grandfather and I met when he was 95 and I was 13 years old. My family moved into my grandmother Helen's old house which came fully furnished with a great grandpa. He lived below us in a basement apartment. We spent some time living like this before grandpa got another apartment across town (I think things got a little too noisy for him after we moved in). Grandpa took pride at being so independent. He was infuriated when my grandmother insisted that he stop driving in his mid-nineties, so he went right out and purchased a large motorized tricycle. He became an icon in our small town running errands on his bike.

He was as articulate as he was ancient and it didn’t matter how grouchy he was, I was intrigued by him and he knew it. And since he couldn’t scare me away, he asked me to read to him. I believe his eyesight was the only one of his senses that began to decline later in life. His favorite book was titled, Intra Muros – My Dream of Heaven. We read that book more than once. He loved anything written about people who had near death experiences and had come back from the brink of death to describe what they had seen and heard. When I read to him these stories, I didn’t realize that I was also helping him prepare to die. I just thought he found the stories as interesting as I did. Grandpa enjoyed reading the dictionary with a large magnifying glass. Sometimes he would ask me to find a large or difficult word in the dictionary. Then I would read the word out loud and he would spell it for me. This was like a game to him. Sometimes I needed to give him the meaning of the word as a prompt. However, he never misspelled a word.

The only health issue that I remember my great-grandfather having was with his colon. I guess when your colon is almost 100 years old it has the right to be tired too. So, my grandfather had a portion of his colon removed and a colostomy bag attached to his belly. My grandmother and aunt, who were both nurses, helped him with this when needed. When they were out of town, the turn to help fell on another family member. I was far enough down on the list that I was never called on except one time, and when a disaster struck. It was 5:30 am and the phone rang and my very distraught great grandfather was on the other end explaining to me that the bag had fallen off in the night and was still detached and he needed me immediately. Well, this isn’t the way you want to be woken up when your 19 years old on a summer morning and I was pretty grouchy about having to be the one to go to grandpa at that time as I could only imagine what I was about to experience. When I entered his apartment and saw how emotional and upset he was about being seen in that type of situation, all the other feelings of resentment just disappeared. He had tried to clean most of it up himself and I remember feeling humbled imaging him trying to do so. As a worked on and around him, I just kept reassuring him that

I was fine and that it wasn’t that bad.

Now that over 20 years have passed, I cherish that experience with him as one of the most precious that we shared. It was also the hardest thing that I had ever done for someone up to that point in my life. It was raw, real, and uncomfortable. At first, I did it begrudgingly and felt obligated. I now understand that the whole situation was much harder on my proud independent grandfather who was forced to receive help in such a personal way. Any assistance I offered him on that summer morning was minuscule in comparison to the lessons I learned that day as a teenager: Lessons of love, service, compassion, humility and the eternal bond between generations of family.

Every time I saw my grandfather, I thought it would be the last time. He thought the same thing and so I asked for and received a few goodbye grandfather blessings before I would leave town for any extended amount of time. He would stand to pray and project his words clearly and slowly with a strong English accent. I know he used large and meaningful words because of his preoccupation with linguistics but I don’t specifically remember what he said in his blessings to me. However, I do remember how the words sounded and how I felt when he said them. I felt safe and important and loved. I felt like I carried a bit of my grandfather with me where ever I traveled and it made it easier to leave.

One time before I was leaving to travel back east, he grabbed my arm and pulled me close to his face and said, “I ain’t got no love for you!” I was a little taken back and wriggled from his grasp just a bit and looked right back into his blue eyes and said, “Well, grandpa I love you.” He peered back even more fiercely and repeated with emphasis this time, “I AIN’T got NO love for you!” I was a little worried this second time. First, because I thought that my grandfather was beginning to lose his mind. He was an articulate Englishman and had used the slang term “ain’t”. Secondly, I began to think that I had done something to upset him and I was racking my brain trying to figure out what I had done to offend him. He repeated the phrase a third time even more loudly. I responded again voice quivering, that I loved him no matter what he said. That’s when he started chuckling and with a twinkle in his eye said, “Darling, two negatives equal a positive. Ain’t and no cancel each other out and what I am saying is, I HAVE love for you!” I started relief-laughing and hugged him.

I was always so excited to see him when I’d return home. I’d enthusiastically lean over to hug him and he’d grumble something about still being around. He seemed a little more disappointed each time we were reunited. I knew it wasn’t personal. He was just tired and tired of saying good-bye. The last time we said good-bye, my great-grandfather was 105 years old. He passed away 2 years later and was the oldest man in Utah at the time.

Grandpa is being interviewed by the local news agency at Governor Bangerter's Centenarian Luncheon to celebrate all Utahans 100 years and older. I am on the far left.

My Grandfather loved to tell me stories. He mostly spoke of his childhood and those memories always seemed clearer to him than the last 50 years of his life. I loved the stories that he would tell of growing up in England and running through the English countryside make mischief, and living in boarding schools. I wish I would have recorded his stories, which are now faded memories that I have been trying to reconstruct through family research.

My great grandfather spoke about how his great grandfather escaped the French Revolution by slipping away in the dead of the night and rowing across the English Channel in a boat with his uncle, a Catholic monk. That story just about blew my mind.The mystery, the intrigue!

Harry and daughter Helen (my grandmother)

I was going through my grandmother’s papers this last summer. Harry’s daughter, Helen at 14 years wrote about her French heritage. She mentioned the name of this great grandfather who escaped France. She said that his name was Louis Etienne Goulé. It was the first time that I had heard his name so I Googled it, of course. I searched using Google Books rather typical a web search and to my amazement up popped an instant result. I had found Louis Etienne Goulé's obituary published in a society magazine titled, The Gentleman’s Magazine, Vol. XXVIII. It was a small paragraph of just 29 words that immediately connected me across generations and continents, to a childhood story and a great grandfather whose memory was just a whisper in my head. My eyes just overflowed with tears. It was 2:00 am and I sat there crying and downloading and saving and printing. It felt like a little miracle and it was completely unexpected.

Harry's Family - his mother Alice Mary on the far left and Henry (Louis Etienne's grandson) on the far right.

Oh, how I wish that I could sit down with my great grandfather Harry at his small kitchen table and show him this document. He would get out his giant magnifying glass and read each word, each syllable clearly and loudly. I can hear his voice now slowly reading, “Louis Etienne Goulé, native of Rouen, France, and late of the 17^th Light Dragoons”. Grandpa would explain the English Infantry of the 17^th Light Dragoons and their role in the English Colonization of India. We would both marvel at the fact that it took 168 years to find this out about his great grandfather and isn’t technology amazing! I’d pick his brain about his father and his grandfather (Henry and Louis Henry) and ask him if he had any more memories of his great grandfather Louis (I’d write it down and record it this time). Then we would talk about Rouen, France and how I want to learn French and travel there now. He’d offered me a liverwurst sandwich and instead I’d eat a stale sugar cookie from his jar. Then, when it was time to leave, I’d lean down and kiss him on the forehead and say, “Grandpa, I ain’t got no love for you!”

11:34 PM
5 Comments

Healing Through Family History

adversity

I am fortunate to have many strong women in my family. These women are my grandmothers, sisters, mothers, aunts, cousins, daughters and nieces. They come in all ages and generations. There is one aunt in particular whom I feel extremely grateful to in this moment of my life. Her name is Zera Diane. She was named after her father. He was a rough, sheep-herding, Idaho bred cowboy who had a heart of gold. It is fitting that she would be named after him since in my opinion, she is so much like him - a tough cowgirl with a heart of gold.

My Grandpa Zera Griffith hugging his mother, Mary Jane Sharp Griffith Lyons

My Aunt Zera Diane.
She was named after her father Zera.

My Grandfather, Zera Griffith .

I remember that as a child I would hear stories about her from my father or see pictures and I was mesmerized. She was like a female super hero to me. My dad was her younger brother. He often told us about the times that he was being bullied at school and that is how he learned to be a high school track star. He learned the Forest Gump way, by out-running the bullies.

One day a group of ruffians had finally caught and cornered him and were taking turns at kicking and hitting him. When all of a sudden a screeching noise accompanied by a flash of a dark hair catapulted over the fence behind my father. My aunt landed between the bullies and her little brother. She began taking each one down quickly with her fists flying. A few boys ran away terrified before she finished off the pack of bullies. This story blew me away. I couldn't even imagine a girl taking down a gang of boys. She was a fearless, tough young woman. I tried to imagine what it would feel like to be that brave.

L-R Siblings - Jaci, Zera Diane (my aunt and hero), and James (my father).

Zera Diane is still as intelligent, and beautiful, as she is brave. She knows how to ride, rope, train, and show a horse. I remember visiting her at her ranch in California where she successfully raised and trained pedigree poodles and also taught belly dancing lessons. Yes, she was an exotic beauty and when she danced the ancient dance of the Middle East, I felt like I was in the pages of Arabian Nights. She was Jasmine before Disney even had a Jasmine.

As a child I didn't have many individual interactions with her. I knew her as Aunt Diane. We lived in Utah and she lived in California. When we did have family get-togethers I was always with the rest of the children playing, or observing her from the sidelines with my mouth agape while she did something spectacular. There was one time when I was about 10 and I had her to myself in the kitchen of her ranch house in California. We were visiting and I had served myself a much too large heap of potato chip casserole which I was refusing to finish. Everyone else was long gone and I was sitting stoic and stubborn at the table. She looked me in the face and sternly said, "You will finish this before you get down from this table!" Well, that settled it. I slowly started chewing the soggy chips as I watched her finish cleaning dishes at the sink. There was no way I was going to cross her. I knew what she was capable of and I highly respected her strength. I felt strangely proud that no one but my Aunt could get me to eat that casserole because that was pretty much the same as winning.

My aunt is an incredible mother of three. Her children are her life. As a young mother, she included them in all she did. My cousins knew how to ride horses, train and show poodles, and they even danced with their mother. They were an integral part of her everyday life: A life rich with talent, success, and sorrow.

There are chapters of great loss and sorrow throughout my Aunt's life story, which are her own moments containing details too sacred and personal for anyone else to share but her. However, I need to mention only that they occurred in order to explain my deep respect and admiration for this woman. This respect for her became fuller and more profound when I learned and watched her deal with great adversity. She was a widow at 27 with two young children. She lost two of her children in tragic car accidents just 4 years apart from one another. Codi Ann Ekins was only 20 when she passed away and Dean Griffith Ekins was 29 at the time of his death. She has experienced betrayal and divorce. She is a true survivor!

Diane and Paul Ekins (Paul passed away leaving Diane a widow
at 27 years with 2 young children)

Recently I had the opportunity to visit my Aunt Diane in her little island home off the coast of Washington State. She is a proud grandmother now and even though she recently turned 76, she is just as beautiful as ever. Despite painful and debilitating arthritis, my aunt always has a kind word for someone and a smile on her face. I loved every moment we spent together talking, as she shared story upon story about our family history. She is our family historian and has assembled documents and photos during countless hours of research throughout the last two decades. She turned her sorrow and loss into a quest for knowledge and information about our ancestors and inadvertently healed herself by doing family history.

Me and my Aunt Zera Diane during my trip to Washington State 2015

She told me many stories on that trip, but there is one in particular that I cannot stop thinking about. It is a story about a mother and her daughters. The mother in the story is my great, great-grandmother Ella Belle Peck. Ella was the wife of a wealthy surgeon in Michigan. She was known in social circles and her comings and goings were often mentioned in the local paper. Despite wealth, education, and the best medical care available in the late 1800’s. Ella and her husband Walter were only blessed with one child for many years. Her name was Flora and she was named after her mother's sister.

Dr. Walter Scott Jones, Flora Jones, and Ella Belle Peck

In 1894 and at the age of 16, Flora unexpectedly died of a stomach ailment (which we now know was probably appendicitis). Her parents were devastated. Her mother beyond consolation and in her grief, built a mausoleum to house the body of her beloved daughter which she entombed in a glass casket. Ella would visit daily her daughter's body at the cemetery. She would take the horse and buggy and read the bible sometimes by candlelight to her daughter.

This is the mausoleum in Michigan that Dr. Walter Scott Jones and his wife Ella Belle built to house the body of their beloved Flora. Her name is etched in the large, white, rectangular slab of cement above the arch. This is where Ella came and read her bible daily after the death of her daughter.

Two years after Flora's passing, Ella and Walter were blessed and surprised to find they were expecting. In 1896, Ella gave birth to another little girl, whom they named Evah Belle. This little girl was my great-grandmother. She was a miracle baby born to her aging parents and brought them joy once again.

Ella Belle Peck Jones and Evah Belle Jones

Little Evah would soon come to know sorrow herself and at a very young age. Her father Walter died when she was just eight years old and her mother Ella passed away just three years later from consumption, which she most likely contracted from the damp cold hours she spent in the mausoleum. My great-grandmother Evah was an orphan at eleven and shipped off to live in an orphanage in California. She married very young and then struggled to raise four children (Eva Veatis, Mary Lou Anno, Pearl Loraine Anno, and Charles Edward Anno) on her own during the Great Depression. She lived a much different life than I am sure her wealthy and educated parents had envisioned for her.

While my Aunt related these stories to me in detail and how she uncovered them bit by bit through newspaper clippings and family documents, she became extremely emotional. She explained, with tears streaming down her face, how connected she felt to her maternal great-grandmother Ella Belle. She said, “I knew exactly the pain that she was feeling when she sat by her daughter's body and felt that great loss that only a mother that has lost a child can understand. I knew the questions and concerns that she was searching to find answers for in the bible."

She went on to explain the connection, empathy, and love she felt for this woman and as she spoke, I felt it too.

I also felt this extreme sense of strength, respect, and responsibility. I felt strong knowing that I come from a long line women who can rise above devastating sorrow and pain. I revered them for their strength and tenacity and I felt extremely responsible to somehow tell their stories. I knew I needed to document my Aunt's words and stories and share them with my family. I wanted my daughters and nieces and sisters to know. I wanted my entire family to know these stories and so that is why I am starting this blog, A Blog for My Ancestors. This blog will be a place where their voices may be heard and their faces seen and their lives celebrated!

Evah's Daughters and Ella Belle's Grand-daughters
- Eva Veatis, Mary Lou Anno, Pearl Loraine Anno (My grandmother)

11:59 PM
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Healing Through Family History

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