A while back I was contacted about doing an interview for the podcast “A Study of Strange.” The subject is Cora Stallman, the woman who was found in the cistern (or was she…?), and the subject of many of my blog posts. I spent a very enjoyable hour talking to host Michael May about Cora and her mysteries. Hear for yourself!
If you’re new to my blog because of that, welcome welcome!
I write about people that I find in graveyards, and sometimes other places. Part of my deal is that I’m really taken with the idea that people who lived well before the internet now have a digital footprint. I put those digitized references together with other records, to come up with a picture of someone’s life.
The links that connect families, and the links that are missing.
For the past few weeks I’ve been elbows-deep in Croatian genealogy documents as I try to write the next chapter in my Hull Street series. This week, my planned research got rerouted by an idea, and then an error, and now I’m wondering when I’ll ever finish.
The Idea
Since the last chapter was about my great grandmother Rose, the next chapter needs to be about her husband/my great grandfather Zvonimir. He died before anyone now living got to know him, so his past is a bit of a mystery. It really only comes into focus once he and his siblings come to America.
Zvonimir was the fourth child of five, and the last of his family to emigrate here. Except for Mary, who appears to have arrived first, each person had siblings they listed on emigration documents, and could live with when they arrived. People who like to complain about “chain migration” ignore the fact that it’s exactly how most immigrants, of every color, are able to establish a foothold in this country. It’s practical, not shameful.
I understand that Mary arrived first, and settled at least briefly in New York. What I don’t yet understand is how they all ended up in the Chicago/Gary area.
Arrivals:
Mary, February 1905; Lists a friend as her home here in the US; is in Chicago by 1912
Fanny, November 1905; Arrives with Mary, and they’re going to live with a cousin in NYC; in Chicago by 1915
Frank, 1906 or possibly 1911; Goes to live with Mary, in NYC; in Chicago by 1910*
Cecelia (their mother), April 1907; Goes to live with Mary, in NYC; dies in Chicago in 1913
Emanuel, December 1909; Goes to live with Cecelia, in NYC; is in Chicago by 1910
Zvonimir, December 1912; Incoming immigration records say he’s going to live with an aunt in NYC, but in fact he goes to live with Emanuel, in Chicago
The Error
In the process of trying to untangle all this, I was giving my old records on Ancestry a second look. These are facts I’ve had set down for 10 years or more, so surely I could rely on them. And then I spotted:
Emanuel: born Feb 1883
Mary: born April 1883
That is not usually how siblings work. So this morning I spent another hour trying to pin down when exactly each of them was born—a not-at-all frustrating use of my morning.
Emanuel has better records, and they consistently put him in 1883, except for one in 1884. Mary might have been born anywhere between 1882 and 1885. And I’m also keeping in my head those possible genealogical gotchas—surprise twins, the child born to a parent who died, the child born out of wedlock, the child who arrives as part of an affair—any of which can throw off the usual progression of “baby every two years.”
As far as I know, Mary wasn’t a gotcha or a twin. It’s also not critical that I get a firm answer in order to tell her brother’s story. But any missed fact feels like an error that you owe to the past. Mary’s life was not an easy one; I would like to get this right for her. ☗
The one that graced the china hutch, which I remember seeing as a child, was a gift. The one from family lore, which met its end in the backyard, actually hit the house and was dispatched rather than hunted. Two different birds who both happened to be pheasants.
The truth is where our stories cross.
****
My dad (the oldest): FYI, I remember the pheasant, flying into the second bedroom window on the lower level. My grandmother went outside to see if someone threw something at the house. She found the pheasant and wrung its neck.
I don’t think this was the same one as in the house. She would have plucked it to cook it, so it couldn’t be taxidermied.
Rose (middle, also called Ginger): The pheasant that was taxidermied was given to them by someone. That is what I was told by Grandma.
Dad: When the pheasant hit, there were only two undeveloped lots in the area. One was next door to the Markulin house. The boys used to play Army over there in the jungle. Bluegrass, trees and bushes nothing really open enough to support pheasants
Rose: So, what year did the pheasant hit the house?
Dad: Sometime between ‘55 and ‘59. I’d guess ‘57? Based on my recollection of how old I was.
Janice (the youngest): It was finally sold to someone who wanted it for their den. This was done when Ginger and I had their household belongings up for sale. I really wanted to keep it, but kept telling myself I didn’t need a stuffed bird.
As a child I liked to stroke part of its neck feathers as they were small, soft and beautiful blues and greens. The story I heard about the broom pheasant is that it was eaten. Someone had given her the stuffed one. I handled it a lot, because that’s the kind of rotten grandchild I was, and found a small hole in the neck, which I assumed was leftover from a gunshot. But who knows.
The last time we toured the old neighborhood … We were at the site of the old Greenfield Elementary School. Half the building was standing and half was gone. I was just sitting there to take photos when I saw the head of a pheasant above a field of wild grasses. I got out of the car and saw another pheasant. And another. And another.
I had an immediate image in my head of wild grasses in the area outside the Hull St. house, with pheasants. I had to laugh because it felt like the pheasant won and outlived Grandma and reclaimed their territory.
It was funny. But it was cool seeing the neighborhood in that state, reverting back to what it looked like probably when the area was being built up. Grasses, fields, trees, and pheasants.
If you’re looking for excellent watchable genealogy how-to videos, you would be hard-pressed to find better than Jen Shaffer, the Formidable Genealogist. We’ve never been introduced, but for some time I’ve been watching her do the good work her job requires…and get unwarranted grief for it.
Earlier this spring she debunked the popular myth about immigrants’ surnames being forcibly changed at Ellis Island. (And yes, it’s a myth; I’m not entertaining a debate.) Many families have this legend: Your flatcap-wearing great-great grandpa walked off the boat in New York and told them he was Wiśniowiecki or Kovačević or Bellincioni. But then an evil immigration officer changed Grandpa’s name to something “more American”—Weck, Kovak, Bello, etc. Poor Grandpa didn’t even have a choice.
We are blessed to have a city home with a large backyard, and a neighbor who keeps it filled with plants and flowers. We also have a kitchen door with four little windows, perfect for enjoying the whole view of the yard and the alleyscape beyond.
One day last year I was at the door, when I saw a brown rabbit in the garden bed. This happens a lot in the city. We two were having a quiet moment—me the hidden watcher, while this unaware bunny hopped between the dahlia stalks.
And then I thought: I bet the pheasant happened like this.
Graveyard Snoop 