A Broken Circle Reconnected

I have a new first cousin. Her name is Carol, and she was born June 16. That would be June 16, 1946.

When Carol was sixteen days old, her mother, my aunt, my mother's only sister, arranged for her to be adopted. My aunt already had one baby daughter, Betty, born one year earlier almost to the day. In between the births of her daughters, her husband left. Twenty years old, single and faced with raising two babies alone, she felt the best thing to do would be to give Carol up to be raised by someone who would be able to give her what she needed. That's our assumption, my aunt would never talk about it.

She eventually married again and had another two children, two sons. In the 60 years after Carol was born and until her death five years ago, my aunt steadfastly refused to discuss her. My mother was 13 when Carol was born. She saw her only once and knew she had been adopted by a woman she knew only as "Mrs. C." Shortly after Carol was born, Mrs. C moved. My mother never saw them again. Until a week ago.

Although I was close and spent lots of time in my aunt's house growing up, it wasn't until I was an adult that my mother told me about Carol. Or she told me as much as she knew about her, which wasn't much. Betty found out about her eventually, too, and talked about finding her sister. But all we had was that last name. No first name for Mrs. C, nothing. A few years ago, Betty's daughter did find some of their biological father's family but he had died and the family knew nothing about Carol either.

I've done a lot of genealogical research on the family over the years and have tried but never had any luck finding Carol. A long time ago I put a query out on a genealogy online bulletin board asking if anyone knew Carol "C" born 6/16/46. I never received a response.

Recently Betty called me again saying she really wanted to find Carol. This time I started going through records on Ancestry.com. Sure enough, within 5 minutes I had found an obituary of a man who died two years ago whose wife's name was Carol with the maiden name "C." He was about the age she would be and they lived in the same town that my aunt was living in all those years ago. Could it be? Could it be that Mrs. C and Carol were living right there in town all along?

A little more research and I had an address for Carol. I gave Betty the information and she sat down to write a letter. What should she say? Suppose Carol didn't know she was adopted? Suppose she did and didn't want a connection to her biological family? Betty sent the letter and it came back.....Addressee Unknown. A dead end.

I went back to the computer and found several people with her married name in the same little town. Before I had a chance to start making some random calls, Betty's husband called me and said, "I think we've found her." He had beat me to the random calling and found a relative of Carol's late husband who said she'd remarried and moved to another state. They had her cell number.

It was Carol, our Carol. She knew she had been adopted. Her birth date was right, and she had discovered her father's last name years ago. Her adoptive mother, who died 30 years ago, would never discuss her birth either. Carol wanted to know more but with nothing except a last name to go on, she could never find more.

Now here we were. Her family. She was excited to learn that she had a sister, two half brothers, nieces, nephews, cousins and an aunt. Several times she told us that she grew up happy and well loved but had always wanted to know more.

We sent her family photos and she sent some of her. Her resemblance to my aunt, her mother, is astonishing. If there ever was any doubt about who she is, once we saw her, it was gone. One of the grand kids looked at a photo of Carol and her husband and asked, "who's the man with Nana?"

Last week Betty, her husband, Bob, Mom and I traveled to meet Carol. After 64 years (almost to the day), several phone calls and a few emails, Carol had her family and Betty had her sister.

Can We Get Back to Being Just Plain Americans?

Don't get excited, this isn't a political blog; not now, not ever. It's not that I don't have political opinions. I've got opinions on most everything, just ask Paul, but that's not where I'm going with this. I will tell you, though, I am a proud American. Not much gets me more choked up and teary than hearing our national anthem or seeing Americans in uniform.

As an amateur genealogist, I am always curious about another person's heritage. Not because I need to "label" them, I just often find it fascinating because I've always thought my ancestry was pretty boring. Of course that was before I made my Pilgrim connection. But I'm about as much of a WASP as you can get, White Anglo-Saxon Protestant, a heritage I don't find very interesting.

But this idea of being hyphenated Americans is starting to get on my nerves. I am so sick of hearing people add the nationality of their ancestors to American, especially since it puts American in second position.

If you are a naturalized citizen, maybe that's a little different, but if you were born here, I don't care if your father, grandfather or great-grandmother was born on Mars.....you are NOT a Martian-American. YOU ARE AN AMERICAN!

I'm not suggesting that we forget where we or our families came from. Please don't ever forget your heritage. Families should remember their culture, their cuisine, their religion, their language. Please teach it to your children, your grandchildren. Be proud of your ancestry but do you really have to tag it onto the nationality you really are?

Paul and I spent two weeks in Portugal a couple years ago. On our way home when going through the Lisbon airport, one of the immigration officials asked for my passport. She immediately recognized that my last name, my married name, was Portuguese. Paul's grandparents were born in the Azores, a group of islands about 900 miles off the coast of Portugal.

When I got married almost 25 years ago, I probably should have kept my maiden name, it fit me a whole lot better than my married name does. As a six-foot redhead, no one would ever mistake me for being of Portuguese descent.

So when the immigration lady looked at my passport, obviously recognizing the origin of the name, she asked "Do you know anyone who is Portuguese?" I smiled, pointed at Paul and said, "Like him?" She glanced at his passport and gave me a withering look that seemed to ask, 'are you stupid?' then said "he was born in Massachusetts." In other words, "he's not Portuguese, he's American."

After that, I realized that in other countries, no matter where your parents, grandparents or any other ancestors were born, if you were born here, you are an American. So why can't we Americans seem to get that message?

On Being a Pilgrim.....Almost

I began searching my genealogy at the age of 20, much earlier than most start looking at their family tree. My grandfather always repeated family history and when I showed an interest, he gave me one of those books with blank family trees and pages where you can write in your own family information.

This was long before everyone had access to the Internet and all the genealogical information available there now. Back then, and now to some extent, you still had to visit Town Halls, join genealogical associations that shared information and tramp through cemeteries looking for ancestors. I picked away at it over the years. I was in no rush. I figured I had a lifetime to search and they certainly weren't going anywhere since they were already dead.

My grandparents' knowledge only went back a couple generations and most of that, especially when it got interesting, was pretty speculative. Like my grandmother telling me that there was an American Indian woman in her family. I've traced most of her line back to 1635, no Indians in sight. We had one who was killed by Indians but I don't think she even knew of that. I did find one woman who was supposedly Creole and came from some island in the Caribbean. If that's true, she probably adds a little "color" to my ancestry in more ways than one.

The most important and exciting discovery I have made to date is that I am a direct descendant of Rev. John Robinson, Pastor to the Pilgrims. Yes, those Pilgrims.

For years I had been stuck at my great, great, great grandfather Joseph Robinson despite my best efforts to trace his lineage. A few years ago after putting a query on a genealogy bulletin board I was contacted by a woman, also a Robinson descendant, who sent me my full Robinson lineage back to John Robinson born 1552 in England. His son, also John, a minister, left England and settled in Holland in 1609 with a group of English Puritans, some of whom would later become The Pilgrims.

In 1620, you will remember, 102 set sail on the Mayflower for the New World. Reverend Robinson, however, stayed behind with the rest of his congregation with intentions to join them at a later time in what they thought would be Virginia. Unfortunately he never made it to the New World. He died during a plague in Holland in 1625.

Isaac Robinson, son of Reverend Robinson and his wife Bridget White, was born in Holland, in 1610. In 1631, at the age of 21, Isaac sailed to America on the ship, Lion.

By his first wife, Margaret Hanford, Isaac had five children; he had four more children by his second wife, Mary Faunce. Isaac’s son Peter had 15 children and his grandson fathered 12, so the Robinson influence was well established in America.

Fast forward 336 years from when the Mayflower actually landed in Massachusetts Bay Colony, and you'll find me, a ninth-generation Robinson born on this side of the Atlantic.

Where was I going with this? Oh, yeah, I'm a Pilgrim.......almost.

Get It While You Can

I started researching my family tree at the age of 20, much younger than most get bitten by the genealogy bug. I don't know what the big draw was to find out where I'd come from but my interest was piqued by my paternal grandfather. He often spoke of Mother, my great grandmother. Great Grammie died when I was 4. Lots of people never know grandparents, so I was very fortunate to have known a great grandparent. She lived on the first floor of the same house we lived in, and I remember her.

One particularly strong memory I have was when my grandfather was bringing me home from the hospital after having my tonsils removed. It was raining and he had me wrapped in a blanket on his shoulder. Great Grammie met us on the doorstep. I distinctly remember their exchange about me. She must have died soon after that.

I just finished a six-week class about real estate title searching, sort of another kind of genealogy. Most probably know that when a piece of real estate is sold or transferred, a search of the title is done by a title examiner or attorney. This search is almost always done in person but many municipalities now have their land evidence records online.

The first thing I did when I found these records were available online was to look at the various recordings of documents associated with the house I grew up in. I was never certain when the house was built but it looks like it was in the 1850's. I do know that it had been owned by my family since about 1905. My father was the fourth generation to own the house. He sold it in 1996 before I had the chance to be the fifth.

As I went through document after document of mortgages, liens, and deeds for the property, I became a bit melancholy seeing signatures of my grandparents and my father, all gone. Then I came upon a reference to a Nora B. Lewis. It had to be my great grandmother.

But Great Grammie's name wasn't Lewis! I know her maiden name did begin with a "B" but I have a copy of her death certificate, and she had my great grandfather's last name. The only conclusion I can draw is that after my great grandfather's death in 1926, she must have remarried, but I don't know where or to whom.

I went to my mother and she didn't know the answer. Although these are her inlaws, my mother has been part of that family since she was 16 so it seems she would have heard something. My grandparents, my father and my aunt are all gone. I have no one to go to for an answer. I could probably do some research and try to find an answer but it's not going to be easy as she lived in at least four states over the course of her life.

I think I have a couple first cousins once removed still alive but I'm not sure. Finding them is going to be a challenge but I'm going to try.

I sure do wish I had talked more to my grandparents when they were here.


Photo courtesy of Google Images

About Me

Hello, my name is Sandy and welcome to my blog, It's a Jungle Out There.

For the last ten years I have been a full-time real estate agent working with clients in Rhode Island and Massachusetts. I started in business after retiring from 25 years in human resources. I love my work in real estate because I meet people from many different places and all walks of life, and I love learning about new people. I am married and am blessed to be part of a wonderful family which includes two stepchildren and five terrific grandchildren.

A big part of my life involves community service. In addition to my career in real estate, I also run a local Christmas charity for children of needy families and serve as a member of my town's juvenile hearing board. For the last 30+ years I have also dabbled in genealogical research and am proud to be a direct descendant of Reverend John Robinson, Pastor to the Pilgrims.

I love to read anything and everything and am a member of a Book Club. My husband, Paul, and I share our house with two crazy dogs: Lucy, a Jack Russell Terrier and Rosey, a Golden Retriever, both of whom I'm sure you will hear lots more about. Paul and I love to travel and I hope to share some of those stories, too.

When I thought about becoming a blogger, my intentions were to share some insight into the real estate market and provide some general information about buying or selling a home. For that information please visit my real estate blog at Rhode Island Real Estate. Along the way I hope to also blog about our travels, town and life in general!

Thanks for stopping by. I hope you will again!

Sandy