Skeletons in the Closet

“If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance.”

George Bernard Shaw

Whenever I research someone’s family history, whether it’s for fun or for profit, I try to find out how they feel about “skeletons in the closet” before I start.  Everyone thinks they want me to find a few—but perhaps that’s one of those things that sounds better in theory than it turns out to be in practice.

For example:  “La Corriveau,” the infamous Canadian murderess who is my husband’s second cousin six times removed…  Canada in the 1700s…  No problems there.  She is far enough away in time to be harmless, and only a cousin. 

But what about a criminal a little closer to home?  What about a great-grandfather?  How was I to tell a nice older lady that her husband’s great-grandfather, who “died suddenly” in his thirties, was actually shot to death by a prostitute?  Apparently he had been harassing her repeatedly and had a habit of kicking in her door when he got drunk on a Saturday night.  (All this was in a newspaper article about his death that I found online.)   

How about another kind of death—by taking one’s own life?  That hits close to home also.  One client had an ancestor whom she was told was a Civil War hero.  And indeed, he was, and he survived that terrible war in one piece—only to commit suicide years later (according to his death certificate, which I found online) by putting his head in an oven and turning on the gas.

How about marriages?  My most recent client knew that his father had been married once before—there were three children from the first marriage and two from the second marriage.  What he didn’t know (until I found a marriage record online) was that between the two, his father had been married a third and fourth time—before he married my client’s mother—to a woman named “Ida” and another one named “Margaret.”  My client may have half-brothers and sisters out there that he doesn’t know about!

One client knew that his mother had borne a baby out of wedlock before she married his father—a baby who didn’t survive.  What he didn’t know was that his mother abandoned the baby at an orphanage to die.  (For a dollar apiece, I got a copy of the birth and death certificates.)  The birth father’s name was listed on both documents, and I found out more about him quite easily on ancestry.com.   He wasn’t anyone my client knew—but what if he had been?  And I wonder if the birth father’s relatives and/or descendants know about this baby?

“Insane asylums”—that’s what they called them back in the day.  I’ve had more than one client who was surprised to find out that he had family members who spent time in one.  One client said, “So that’s why my great-uncle wasn’t in World War I!”…  How did I find this out?  On the man’s 1917 WWI draft card, under occupational information, authorities had stamped “Insane Patient—Gowanda State Hospital.” 

I recently discovered, after ordering a copy of her death certificate, that one of my great-aunts died of dysentery at Elgin State Mental Hospital—an infamous ‘asylum’ located near where I grew up.  That’s not the way I heard her story when I was young!

Skeletons in the closet…  Perhaps they’re highly entertaining when you find them in other people’s closets, but less so when they’re found in your own.  What do you think?

Big Sister Without a Name

My father, Robert Milo Wallin (1923-1993) spent nearly all of his life thinking he was the oldest child in his family.  But things aren’t always what they seem to be, particularly in genealogy. 

Dad was born in Nebraska in 1923, in a hospital rather than at home—very unusual for that place and time.  As the years went by, he was joined by Helen in 1926, Richard in 1927, and then little Janet in 1932. 

From early childhood, a big part of Robert’s identity was his position as oldest child.  He was a typical firstborn—responsible, mature, hardworking, serious—a liaison between the adults and the younger kids, trying to set a good example.  (Those of you who are firstborn, as I am, know what I mean.)  He went off to World War II, writing letters home to his parents and younger siblings—reassuring his parents and sisters and trying to keep his brother from ending up on the front lines like he was.  (A story for another day.)

The years went by, until Dad was a businessman in his sixties, applying for a passport so he could attend a conference in London.  Part of the process was obtaining a certified copy of his birth certificate—and when it arrived, there it was in black and white:  “Number of children of this mother born alive and now living -1.  Born alive but now dead -1.”

Dad then remembered hearing long-ago whispers among his aunts about a baby girl who died.  And suddenly he understood the likely reason his mother went to a hospital when he was born (and a good thing, since he was a breach birth).  Why hadn’t his older sister ever been talked about openly as he was growing up?  Why wasn’t she remembered, and mourned?  Probably because it wasn’t the Swedish way to “dwell on the past” or “stir up sad memories.”  So, Dad let it lie, and now he is gone, too…  Recently I decided it was time to find out more, if I could.

Although my father died many years ago, his youngest sister is still alive.  I asked her what she knew about this mysterious child, and she said that she had heard whispers, too—but she had always been too hesitant to bring up the subject with her mother.  She asked that I let her know what I found out.  It seemed like I wasn’t the only one who wanted to know more.

Then I went to my favorite resource for vital records info and followed the instructions for obtaining old Nebraska birth and death records.  No luck there, however.  I was told that neither event was recorded—or if they were, the records are lost now.     

I wish I could have discovered more about this little baby girl, who was my aunt.  But this is one sad event from long ago that seems destined remain a mystery.