In all my years of studying history, I hadn’t really paused to ponder my own. It wasn’t until after I graduated with a BS in history, traveled by wagon train from Omaha, Nebraska to Salt Lake City, Utah, or until after I was married that I actually explored my own family story.
I knew much more about my mother’s side of the family than my father’s. While on the wagon train, I was aware that I retraced the steps of ancestors on my mother’s side, and had a vague notion that my paternal grandfather’s people also crossed the plains at some point. He was from California, and rumor had it that his people were ‘49ers. Family legend also told of some deep dark secret, perhaps horse thieves.
One Christmas I sat on a couch at my grandfather’s wife’s house. Her family camped on one side of the house while ours pretty much kept to ourselves. This was my first Christmas as a married woman, and being the oldest grandchild in both families, there really wasn’t a precedent of where I belonged. I felt even more awkward than usual.
My relationship with my grandfather was complicated and strained since the sudden death of my grandmother. He remarried mere months later, and that relationship quickly fell apart. Now he was remarried to a kind woman, but the sting of seeing my grandma replaced so easily still remained.
At length my grandfather sat down on the couch next to me. Rarely did my grandfather and I have a conversation that consisted of much more than superficial niceties. This time was different. He started by addressing me with an old nickname. “Squirtley, you know… I’m proud of you for getting your degree in history.”
I was stunned. Any discussions of an historical nature (there were many) in which I participated left me felling like I’d been given a cursory pat on the head and my presence merely tolerated. My grandfather continued, “You have the skills to do it, and I would appreciate it if you could find out more about our family history.” That was all he said. Promptly he got up from the couch to pay attention to one of my step-cousins.
I mulled it over for a while, almost a month to be exact. Eventually I found my way to the large genealogical library in downtown Salt Lake City. Armed only with the name of my great, great grandfather, an approximate birthdate, and either Massachusetts, New Hampshire, or Maine as a birth place, I set out on a quest.
After running the gauntlet of well meaning elderly volunteers and sojourning in several areas of the library that held no useful purpose to me, I located the census records. I commenced to scroll through the 1860 census. One headache accompanied by nausea later, I found Frank Lewis five years old in Lancaster, Coos County, New Hampshire. A quick perusal of the clues and sources I gathered, including a mugshot from later in his life, confirmed I found the right person. Additionally I found the names of his mother, father, and sister. Not bad for a day’s work—one mystery solved. I collected my materials and copies and prepared to head home.
When the elevator doors opened on the ground floor, I made for the nearest exit, walking by the large room containing thousands of books, sources on local history, newspapers, a treasure trove if you knew where to look. I glanced at my watch and found I still had some time. What the heck?
Before I new it, I was standing in the New Hampshire section. As I skimmed the sections of counties on the shelf, I let out a sigh. The thought that my husband would soon be off work took hold, and I decided to let it go for now. I planned to return another day when I had more time to dig deeper. A loud thud sounded behind me, and I whipped around to find the source. Perhaps I brush by and knocked it off the shelf, maybe someone else left it in an awkward position and the vibration of my footsteps caused in to tumble to the floor; I will never know. On the floor lay a thick book. Being a fan of the book species I picked it up to place it on the return shelf. After all, it wouldn’t do to have someone step on it. There in gold lettering on the black leather spine spine, it read: History of Lancaster, Coos County. Say what?
Within seconds I flipped to the index and search for the name Lewis. Frank wasn’t listed there, but his father, John G. was. Curiosity compelled me further and before long I landed on a page containing a poem. This poem was written to the family of John G. Lewis upon his death at the battle of Fredericksburg, December 1862. I sat down right there on the floor.
Within half an hour I gathered two other books about Lancaster and started to piece together the story of John G. Lewis. I entered the library that day with a name. I left with a story.
