First Dance

After 6 1/2 years of marriage, Scott and I had our first dance at a Michigan Youth Leadership Forum event last week that we attended as part of Scott’s participation in the Association of State Employees with Disabilities.

The Michigan Youth Leadership Forum (MYLF) for Students with Disabilities is a unique career leadership training program for high school juniors and seniors with disabilities. By serving as delegates from their communities at a five-day event in the state capital, young people with disabilities cultivate leadership, citizenship and social skills.

210 W. Washtenaw

A piece of information that my third cousin once removed (Third Cuz) was able to share with me is where in Lansing my second great grandparents lived – the Egans. The street still exists and here is me this morning in front of the corner where they lived.  It is now an insurance company building.

Here’s the building where Francis Egan went to work every day, also photographed this morning. He was Deputy Secretary of State and a rep from Detroit:

I called down to the State Archives to see if they would have records on where his office was but I was told those records don’t exist but I might be able to find out which seat he was assigned in the legislature.

Wow. It is so amazingly easy to do genealogy on a person/place when you A. live there, B. speak the language, C. have access to the Internet to learn so much from others. I have lots and lots of choices among histories of Lansing that will cover the time period in which they lived here, too, all right in the library.  Heck, I took these pictures on my morning break. It’s two blocks from my building to these places.

Third Times the Charm

You never know who is reading your blog. And how far they’ll come to make contact.

Above is me, my mom, and my third cousin once removed. She began following this blog when I wrote about my maternal grandfather Francis William Schryer (in Jan of 2008). He is a family member we have in common through Fran’s maternal grandmother Emeline Wright.  This cousin followed me through several posts, including one in which I noted that I changed my name to my mother’s maiden name in college. She finally hit paydirt when I referred to my Web design business which has contact information on it and wrote me asking, “Are you Francis Schryer’s granddaughter?”

Francis Schryer died when my mother was 15 and my grandmother remarried long before I was born to a man named Jack Hess. Jack is the man I always knew as Grandpa and he never shirked his grandfatherly responsibilities or treated us as less than his own grandchildren – he knew all us cousins from the day we were born. He is in his last years now, suffering from Alzheimer’s, and I have extremely fond memories of him.

But hiding behind the title of “Grandpa” in my life was the specter of Francis William Schryer. I grew up hearing painful stories of the chasm his death left in the family and listening at our regular family gatherings to my mother’s brothers tell their stories – about the remarkably harmonious marriage Fran had with my grandmother. The rhythms of the family’s life in Hillsdale in the 50’s. The days surrounding Fran’s aneurisms and finally his death at Henry Ford Hospital in Detroit. That night the family minister came back to the kitchen where my mother and great-grandmother were playing Canasta and my great-grandmother asked, “Well, how is Fran?” The minister said, “Not so good, he died about three hours ago.” And in that moment my mother stopped believing in God. She never changed her mind.

When I chose to change my name I knew I wanted to get closer to my mother’s family and his ghost played a part in my embracing the name Schryer and my interest in the Schryer family history. Fran’s family. My family.

“Are you Francis Schryer’s granddaughter?” Despite his shadow over my family, she is the first person to ever ask me this question. I am unquestionably, determindely and joyfully  my grandmother’s granddaughter, but only a phantom relation of his. Yes, I could finally tell someone, Yes, I am Francis Schryer’s granddaughter.

I had the distinct pleasure of meeting this third cousin once removed today at a restaurant she chose for it’s Weight Watcher’s-friendly menu (yeah, she reads the blog). She was driving through the general vicinity from Toronto on her way to Chicago and stopped to have a leisurely lunch with me and my mom and exchange family stories.

She is a very, very, very serious genealogist. She gave me and my mother binders of family history information. She’s organized the way you’re supposed to be – CAREFULLY AND WITH FULL DOCUMENTATION. Her notes are impeccable. She has photocopies of census, death and other records in neat, tidy groupings. She has little red dots next to pertinent information so you don’t have to slog through ancient, hand-written documents. She has carefully labeled photographs. She has family groupings that put mine to shame. She has it seriously down. I found myself apologizing for the family history I haven’t even written yet. “Mine’s not like this,” I said. “Yours is a narrative, dear,” my mother said patting my back. The three of us talked until a “narrative” was a very good thing to be writing (and it is, it is).

We had a good time and it was wonderful to meet someone whose knowledge of the family meets ours exactly (she knows one side, we know the other, with just one generation of overlap) but her references to her every-day knowledge of Canada terrified me into remembering how much I haven’t learned yet about Canadian history. The sciatica put an end to family history work for a few months as my recreational sitting came to a grinding halt but now that I’m back to it I need to start in with a few works (in English!) on the relationship between the English and French Canadians in Quebec and the Ottawa River Valley in the early 19th century. Suggestions welcome!

Francis B. Egan (1846-1916)

Today, Memorial Day, I went to find a family headstone at Mt. Hope Cemetery here in Lansing. I had no idea that I had family buried in Lansing until a distant relative told me so. The grave I was looking for was “Grandma’s Schryer’s father” in my current family lexicon – that’s Francis Bartholomew Egan, 1846-1916. He had a son and grandson named after him and the name Francis continues as a middle name into the current generation of my family.

Francis Egan was born on 13 Oct 1846 in St. Johns, Newfoundland, Canada. He apprenticed in the printing business in Canada and then settled in Detroit. According to the Early history of Michigan, with biographies of state officers, members of Congress, judges and legislators; published pursuant to Act 59, 1887 he was “an active worker in labor organizations, and held prominent positions in that connection. He was deputy commissioner of labor in 1885-6, and is now [1887] Deputy Secretary of State. In politics, a Republican.”

He married his wife Emeline Wright in Montreal and they had four children: Francis (born 1874), Ida (1879-1888),  Elizabeth (1880-1888) and Emeline, my ancestor.

In 1888, while the family was living in Lansing, Emeline’s two sisters, aged about 8 and 9, died of a fever within a few weeks of one another. They were buried beside one another at Mt. Hope Cemetery. When their father died 28 years later he was buried alongside them. We saw Ida and Elizabeth’s graves there as well. Their headstones are wearing quite a bit but Francis Egan’s is very clear.

For any other family looking for him, they’re in section B near the cross section of sections R, N, M and B approximately 50 feet and 15 rows in between the Brodegan and French family markers.

Philippians 4:12

This was on my grandfather’s memorial card. I would like it to be true of me, too, true enough to have on my own memorial card:

I know what it is to be in need, and

I know what it is to have plenty.

I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want.

Me and My Grandpap

My Grandpap died peacefully last night at about midnight. He said in good humor that it was just time to go. Here’s him and me in about 1974.

It’s not enough to have a bun, it’s got to be a WHITE bun

I am throwing myself off the cliff and getting in to genealogy. Genealogy is traditionally the domain of little old ladies (I work in a library, I would know, just trust me).

My mom did a bunch of research a few years ago and I went as far as to memorize my direct line back 6 generations but mostly I just enjoyed listening to the stories she uncovered – a great, great grandfather brought home dead on a cart after an accident on the railroad to his 2 little kids and pregnant wife who listed her occupation as “washerwoman” on the next census. We went to see the corner where they lived in Flint a hundred years ago only to find that the neighborhood had signs every block that said it was a drug area, no stopping, standing or cruising. Nice. Then we went down the road to my great, great, great grandfather’s farm on St. John’s Way (now St. John’s Industrial Parkway) and looked at the river where the family settled after coming down from Canada and where their youngest son drowned.

Everyone is dead, and viewing death certificates is a big part of genealogy, so you kind of have to get used to that part. Actually seeing the ground your family farmed or labored on, that’s the fun part. And seeing them pop up on censuses from two hundred years ago where they listed themselves as having “pas” (no) religion while their brother converted to Catholocism and signed his name in the book and the whole 9 yards and wondering how that played out at the Christmas dinner table, that’s the fun part, too.  Some types of family dynamics really don’t change much.

And I recently found someone with whom I share the same ancestor who was called to muster for the Revolutionary War. He lives in Canada and sent me a picture of him and his son. Our family has a family history message board even. We rock.

But genealogy is worse than… worse than… worse than, WORSE THAN TAX LAW.  It is hopelessly picky and pedantic. Hubby said it was the perfect hobby for me. He didn’t say it very nicely, either.

Yet, here I go, off the cliff into white bun land. My first stop: the rule books.

Me and My Grandma

My Grandma

My grandma died holding my mother’s hand last Sunday, January 4th. Her death was not unexpected, and it was peaceful.  I’m good with words, but when it comes to my grandma all the words I know don’t seem to be enough to say what I mean, and what I feel for her. Words don’t feel big enough to hold her the way she held me.

Below is part of my Uncle Norm’s eulogy for her and it places us in the greater context of our family history:

Elaine S. H. is survived by her husband of 41 years, 5 children,
9 grandchildren and 2 great-grand-children.

She was the descendant of teachers of life:

Great-great-grandfather Quiggle, born ~1830, fought in Civil War,
honorably discharged from a Michigan regiment. My grandmother’s
ability to produce those discharge papers got me 2 semesters of
scholarships at the University of Michigan, when I needed it.

His, son, Great-grand-father Henry Quiggle, was a captain of
ships on the Great Lakes. We kids have very fond memories of
him. My special memory is of being taught nautical knot tricks
on the stairs of the family home. He held several patents,
including a sailboat that folded into 2 suitcases.

His daughter, grand-mother Lucy Mabel Quiggle, was born in
1900 and died in 1969. She married Loren Darvel Jackson,
who was a wonderful grandfather to us, and a real character.
Lucy taught me to cook (its not a science/measurement, but an art)
and to sew – I still have a great whip-stitch for mending things.

During the Depression, Grandpa Loren broke down at the dinner table,
saying that the barber-shop he owned hadn’t made enough to heat the
place that day, let alone feed the family. He decided to give folks
haircuts on credit – pay what you can, when you can. For folks
going on job interviews he provided free shave and haircut. He
was paid in everything from eggs, to chickens, to sacks of beans.
His customers were exceptionally loyal and he retired in 1955 to
Florida after selling his prosperous barber-shop. Grandpa Loren
fell out of a tree on his 85th birthday, while trimming it,
injuring his ego, but nothing else.

Elaine was born May 3, 1921 and in 1941 married Francis
William S. and they had three children: Norm, Diane and
Tom.

In 1955 the family moved from Detroit to Hillsdale, Michigan,
where Dad was the Superintendent of Allied #4. Mom and Dad
were both Deacon’s in the First Presbyterian Church there.
Mom was on the Standing Committee on Christian Education.

On June 18, 1961 Dad died of a cerebral aneurysm. Mom got
all three kids through college.

In 1967 Mom married Jack in Hillsdale, gaining an instant
family: Greg and Steve. These kids all graduated college.

In 1996 Mom and Jack moved to Phoenix and Scottsdale, AZ.

In 2004, after a mild stroke and recovery, Mom and Jack moved to
Ann Arbor, MI.

On Jan 4, 2009 Mom died easily while holding her daughter’s hand.

We are the legacy of all these people’s love and teaching,
especially Elaine’s.

Look to Her Mother

My Uncle N. has a saying, “If you’re thinking of marrying a woman, look to her mother.” Many apples don’t fall far from the tree.

This business with Hubby’s arm got me to thinking about the torn bicep from 6-7 years ago. He tore the bicep trying to impress me on our first date. My car had some funny sound that he knew what was and we drove out to the storage unit where he kept his tools so he could get what he needed to fix it. He tried to move a work bench and tore the muscle in his arm. But he didn’t want to interrupt our first date, so we kept going.

We drove to Ann Arbor for an outdoor concert at Gallup Park, a really lovely park with quaint bridges and a circuit of maybe a mile, mile and a half. We strolled. We sat in the grass and listed to music in the twilight. Then we went to visit with my mother.

Yes, on our first date I took him home to meet my mother. She made hot fudge sundaes with homemade hot fudge and we sat in her dining room and got acquainted.

I already knew that I wanted to marry Future Hubby. We’d had that book club going on for several years and I’d known him for? three or four years. And I was serious. Future Hubby: this is my family. This is my mother.

I told Future Hubby that he could court me as long as it took him to decide whether he wanted to marry me but I would not date him. I’m not old-fashioned, not right-wing religious, none of that. I have made a shocking and disappointing percentage of profoundly stupid relationship decisions. But not this time.  I knew what I wanted with Future Hubby.

So, I took him home to meet my mother.

Many thanks, Mom. He liked the hot fudge.