tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77284906100172748642024-03-13T20:19:14.335-04:00Hoosier Daddy?Michael D Lacopohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11804658533353361632noreply@blogger.comBlogger100125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728490610017274864.post-81850244831573998502022-03-28T19:26:00.008-04:002022-03-28T20:01:14.456-04:00Sins of the Father, Part III<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc6YlZ2xIT6uFHtuxlPxoqT6EtijT2YxEIyz0MRteCyg2-rPbzBkSW9w-Bd8qxTpD-LSmRQ7USz8JZF_9rL6YZztPj7P7t0-MyZer26MWITtlpL8kuz5t4g3VwdggVSiwhF7Lu5UC7-dI/s1600/SCAN1043+%25281%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc6YlZ2xIT6uFHtuxlPxoqT6EtijT2YxEIyz0MRteCyg2-rPbzBkSW9w-Bd8qxTpD-LSmRQ7USz8JZF_9rL6YZztPj7P7t0-MyZer26MWITtlpL8kuz5t4g3VwdggVSiwhF7Lu5UC7-dI/w386-h640/SCAN1043+%25281%2529.jpg" width="386" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">John Henry Daugherty (1852-1939) with granddaughters <br />Catherine Rieder (1903-1968) and Mary Prestidge (1915-1931), <br />Kalamazoo, Michigan, c1919. The girls' mother, Bertha Daugherty, <br />had died the year before in the influenza epidemic, at the age of 36</span><span style="font-size: 13px;">.</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><b>Note to Readers:</b> This is a narrative. To start at the beginning, click on the "Blog Archive" to the right and click on the last entry, which is the first written, on 18 February 2014. Or simply click here: <a href="http://roots4u.blogspot.com/2014/02/beginnings.html">Hoosier Daddy?: Beginnings</a>. This post follows from </span><a href="https://roots4u.blogspot.com/2017/11/sins-of-father-part-ii.html">Hoosier Daddy?: Sins of the Father, Part II</a>. We will explore the male Daugherty lineage whose behaviors mirror that of the man I discovered to be my maternal grandfather.</span></i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></i></p><h3 style="text-align: center;"><b>"My dad had limitations. That's what my good-hearted mom always told us. He had limitations, but he meant no harm. It was kind of her to say, but he did do harm." </b><span style="text-align: justify;">− </span><b><i>Gillian Flynn, <u>Gone Girl</u></i></b></h3><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><u><br /></u></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><u>John Henry Daugherty</u></span></b></div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
Daniel Daugherty, the enterprising entrepreneur with a knack for disappearing when finances were tight, had farmed out his children by his first wife upon her death in 1846. In the middle of the nineteenth century, widowed men had little to no working knowledge of child-rearing. They needed to work in order to feed themselves, so this act of abandonment is not surprising nor uncommon. But his remarriage to the widow Elizabeth (Lequat) Holstein in 1849 did not create a joyous reunion of his children into the parental home. Daniel's family remained fractured, and Elizabeth's eldest two daughters by her first husband were married off as teenagers shortly thereafter. The only mouth to feed was Elizabeth's youngest son, Silas V. Holstein, who was ten years old at his mother's remarriage. He followed his stepfather and mother to Winona, Minnesota, but he too left the home in his teens to work for the railroad, and later as a millwright and mill builder.<br />
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It is hard to say then how the news of Elizabeth (Lequat) Daugherty's pregnancy was received nearly three years into the marriage. Elizabeth was in her early forties, and Daniel was approaching fifty. Was there joy that a child borne of this marriage would be a child of "theirs" rather than of "his" or "hers"? Did Daniel feel remorse for playing a minimal role in the upbringing of his first brood of children and consider this a second chance? Or perhaps more likely it was with reticent acceptance in the rough mid-century Mississippi River shanty towns that a woman's place in the family was to produce children, and so this was no surprise. Business as usual.<br />
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John Henry Daugherty began his life on 18 July 1852, in rural New Boston, Illinois. It is quite likely that he was named after his elder half-brother, John Daugherty, who had died of typhoid fever in the barracks of New Orleans in October 1847, seven months into his service during the Mexican American War. He saw no military action or battles. He was 22 years old. Never one to miss a financial opportunity, the land upon which John Henry Daugherty was born was probably the 160 acres about five miles upriver from New Boston that his father had acquired from the United States government as a benefit derived from his late son's military service. A new baby at home was no reason for Daniel to slow his business ventures and stay at home cooing at his new son. He appears in business dealings along a fifty miles stretch of the Mississippi River, signing documents and filing papers in the local courthouses in New Boston, Illinois; Port Louisa, Iowa; Muscatine, Iowa; Rock Island, Illinois; and Davenport, Iowa. Little Johnny was just a toddler when the family relocated to Homer, Minnesota, where his father's general store failed to reap the financial success of which he had dreamed.<br />
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John's parents presented him with a little brother, Ira, during their stay in Minnesota. Elizabeth was 46-years-old, and this final pregnancy may have been a surprise as much as a relief that there would likely be no more. But Ira, four years John's junior, would be his only full sibling, as well as being any sibling close in age inhabiting the parental home. Together this family of four left Daniel Daugherty's minimal successes in Minnesota near the end of the Civil War for farmland in Jefferson Township, Poweshiek County, Iowa. Daniel's reasons for moving are unknown although some of his married stepdaughters had preceded him to Iowa, likely informing him of cheap land to be had. Ever the shrewd businessman, Daniel became one of the township supervisors in 1867 and 1868. Although possessed of a farm worth $3000 in 1870, Daniel was never a man of agricultural pursuits. Nearing 70 years of age, he likely was in no shape physically or mentally to pursue a farmer's life. He sold his 80 acres and moved to nearby Guinnville in Benton County, Iowa, in 1871. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4uHZvwTTMSVwdt09IRoGHGnGizkI7mYpLVkq1J7JjTTE69bc-HV2EMVEEBnJILcvyMSiBi1BseadY6ZbMjWmoSWxS5ZxGkI9H7mIvmqbVch62HQSY2pM94O966gp5cF_AWGhG5jp95YZx_nwvtAFtxw6CX95juDRDMKSeZEJpisaE2tw6FQ1XRm7C/s700/Guinnville.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="700" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4uHZvwTTMSVwdt09IRoGHGnGizkI7mYpLVkq1J7JjTTE69bc-HV2EMVEEBnJILcvyMSiBi1BseadY6ZbMjWmoSWxS5ZxGkI9H7mIvmqbVch62HQSY2pM94O966gp5cF_AWGhG5jp95YZx_nwvtAFtxw6CX95juDRDMKSeZEJpisaE2tw6FQ1XRm7C/w400-h366/Guinnville.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><i>A.T. Andreas' Illustrated Historical Atlas of the State of Iowa, 1875</i>; <br />Iowa Township, Benton County, Iowa. <br />Although Guinnville was platted in 1856, and Belle Plaine in 1862, <br />the railroad stimulated the growth of the latter. <br />Guinnville was absorbed by Belle Plaine and later ceased to exist. </span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
The boyhood experiences of John Henry Daugherty are unknown. We can only begin to guess the effects of his father's transient nature upon his son. Moving to rural Iowa as a young teen, he may have sought work as a farmhand on local farms of neighbors and relatives, especially with the void left by husbands, fathers, and sons who would never return from the recent war. The first mention of John in the public record is telling of the man he would become.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i></i></span></div></blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">MAYOR'S COURT. — City-Attorney Bell's office was the scene Tuesday morning of a trial before Mayor Scott of John Dougherty for intoxication — second offense. He was fined $20 and costs, amounting to in all to $25.85.</span></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">The circumstances of this case are such as would seem to deserve severer punishment than comes within the province of the Mayor to inflict. Dougherty went home drunk, abused his father and mother with whom he was living, and finally turned them out doors, severely bruising his father's face and otherwise injuring him. Marshall Thompson with the assistance of three able-bodied men succeeded in capturing him after a stubborn resistance. </span></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>P.S. — Since the above was in type Dougherty, through the aid of outside parties obtained a saw and an ax and made his escape.</i><span style="text-align: left;"> [</span><span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: right;">The Belle Plaine Union, Thursday, 1 August 1872, page 4.]</span></span></div></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote><div style="text-align: right;"></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">John was 20 years old. His mother would be dead by the following spring. His younger brother died shortly thereafter.<br />
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John's whereabouts as a young man are unknown. He appears to have not remained in the Belle Plaine area. After all, he was technically an escaped criminal and a wanted man now. His father, having a penchant for finding economically advantageous widows, remarried to Galetsy (Gowey) Wright in 1874. She was a Civil War widow with some modest means and real estate. Two years later after "divers unhappy disputes and differences having arisen between" them, they "agreed to live separate and apart from each other during their natural life." A document on file in Benton County, Iowa, states that both parties would retain ownership of any property they brought into their marriage, and neither would claim such upon the death of the other. Daniel would not benefit financially from this final marriage, although the 1880 federal enumeration of Guinnville, Iowa, shows Daniel and Galetsy living together in his Guinnville home, where 77-year-old Daniel was working as a gardener. His then 27-year-old son John H. Daugherty is nowhere to be found.<br />
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Perhaps Galetsy had moved back in with Daniel to care for him in his final illness. He had made his will on 4 February 1880, and he died on 2 November 1880. Although he played a minimal role in the upbringing of his children by his first marriage, he provided for those still living, but he left his youngest surviving son John H. Daugherty $175.00 above and beyond what his other children received. This is no small sum. That sum in 1880 is comparable to nearly five thousand dollars today. Did John need it? Did he deserve it? Or was he merely his father's favorite child despite his drunken beating at his son's hands years earlier? And where was he anyway?<br />
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John H. Daugherty's obituary from 1939 states that "he attended college in Illinois for three years" without naming the institute or location. Two descendants living today from separate families relay a similar story of John's early adulthood. One states that he was a college professor who was fired for having an affair with another professor's wife, while the other states he fled college as a student because of a similar affair. Knowing his deep Daugherty roots, this behavior seems entirely plausible. Having escaped the enumerator in the 1880 federal census, we find John Daugherty accepting the disbursement of funds from his father's estate in Muscatine, Iowa, in the Spring of 1881. There is nothing surprising in this finding, as John had a half-sister in Muscatine, and this river town would not have been completely foreign to 27-year-old John.<br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>Tracking a John Daugherty through the Midwest isn't as difficult as a John Smith or John Miller, but it's not much better. The name is common, and it is difficult to discern the footprint left by our John versus the many other John Daughertys in the area, but the 30 September 1878 entry of <i>The Muscatine Journal </i>is likely our man, differentiating him from another man of the same name in the community of good standing:</span><br />
</span><blockquote class="tr_bq" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: start;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><blockquote>The Police Court was the liveliest place in the city Saturday evening. First came John Dougherty with a plain drunk. He was sent up to work out $8 worth. Note: — This John is not the <b>other</b> John Dougherty — remember that now.</blockquote></i></span></blockquote><span style="font-family: inherit;">
John H. Daugherty's childhood and young adulthood, although sparsely documented, reveal a pattern that repeats over and over again throughout his adulthood. How he met his wife is shrouded in mystery. How she remained married to him is an even bigger one.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>Michael D Lacopohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11804658533353361632noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728490610017274864.post-39850349103611035142022-03-24T13:44:00.002-04:002022-03-28T17:07:53.224-04:00Where To From Here?<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4pNQfAGniNYQgZ7GmeTAxeOSTuzGqZpoYHkceksEn-rPJfeoqwjX8fBA7r2t47l3ciiLnIKjFsBvzHF60-ObXMbqHH186cgNSZU8LlIJbbQGyRChlLNb3iopfvZcunIHK8tw9G88XzCgDlLiCkfA62Lz6BpBc5YYgdTM0Mzj0zp8L_AccHWvwAr_W/s1080/questions.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="727" data-original-width="1080" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4pNQfAGniNYQgZ7GmeTAxeOSTuzGqZpoYHkceksEn-rPJfeoqwjX8fBA7r2t47l3ciiLnIKjFsBvzHF60-ObXMbqHH186cgNSZU8LlIJbbQGyRChlLNb3iopfvZcunIHK8tw9G88XzCgDlLiCkfA62Lz6BpBc5YYgdTM0Mzj0zp8L_AccHWvwAr_W/w400-h269/questions.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Yes, it's been nearly two years since I've blogged.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Yes, I feel incredibly guilty about it. After all, I <i>was</i> raised Catholic. Guilt has always been an unpleasant motivator in my life. And yes, I am giving a lecture this weekend on the power of blogging for your genealogical research. So now in addition to guilt, I feel like a fraud.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">So here I am.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">For those of you familiar with this blog, it began as a story regarding the confirmation of my mother's identity and the search for my maternal grandfather. If you are newly stumbling upon this, the story begins at <a href="https://roots4u.blogspot.com/2014/02/beginnings.html" style="text-align: left;">Hoosier Daddy?: Beginnings</a>. It is a narrative, so you need to start at the oldest post and move forward in time. Although the story began several years ago, it is still a story that will resonate with many. The entries may be older, but the story is timeless.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Did I finish the story? No. Since I was writing about my search in real-time, just like the rest of you I had no idea how the story ended. Sadly, it did so in a horrible way that even I couldn't have anticipated. As it unfolded, there was no dispassionate way I could write about it. Seven years have since elapsed. </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i style="font-weight: bold;">SEVEN! </i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">I have toyed with the idea of picking up the story again, but after so much time who is even interested anymore? When I started writing, the idea of DNA surprises and unexpected results was novel and shocking. Now it's so passé that human interest articles pop up nearly daily of someone switched at birth, someone finding a long-lost relative, or someone finding their unknowing daddy — all with the power of DNA testing. Crimes are being solved and the bodies of Jane/John Does are being identified regularly. How is my story even unique anymore?</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I was approached by a publisher to finish the story in book form. That was tossed around for a while, which put off blogging about it even further. That idea has been abandoned. So do I pick up where I left off? </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Readers will also see that my more recent posts have been devoted to genealogy as it pertains to current events. I enjoy writing, and if I feel passionate about something, I like to put it into words. That is always an option.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I also love genealogy. I love teaching. I love researching. I love sharing my knowledge. Do I write about helpful databases, research stories, new publications, or current events in genealogy I find exciting? Aren't there enough genealogy bloggers that do that?</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Do I write about my own ancestors? God knows I have my share of murderers, criminals, social outcasts, and shysters in my family tree to write about until the day I die. And frankly, I always bemoan how organized and documented my client research is compared to my own. Perhaps this would motivate me to practice what I preach — write as you research.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Do I write about my own life? Through the years you have gotten snippets of my past, and although baring my soul to the world was never my motivation or intention in blogging, it resonated with a lot of readers. Those blogs generated the most sincere, meaningful responses that really touched my heart and soul.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I have been lecturing professionally now for nearly twenty years (<i>Lord, how did I get so old so fast?</i>). Many of you have heard me speak. Many of you have read my blog. Maybe some of you are new to all of this and just have an interest in genealogy or story-telling or DNA testing. So I am asking you, dear reader, what do you want to read? What can I do to enrich your day with snippets of the garbage sloshing about in my head? How can this be different than every other genealogy blog out there?</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Feel free to leave your comments below. Of course, if you are going to try to sell me herbal supplements, erectile dysfunction remedies, or exciting job opportunities, I will assume you really aren't interested in my well-being and will be deleted. (wink)</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Use me. I am all yours.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>Michael D Lacopohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11804658533353361632noreply@blogger.com50tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728490610017274864.post-77382540160966427312020-06-09T15:05:00.002-04:002022-03-24T13:06:06.100-04:00Racism and Genealogy (or The Musings of an Ignorant White Man)<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMf50M7bnT_3JUGC4KAoYAbwtGKmGk4JnF_h3wRHPPU-iIkTkMx3Hh0BlFqGC1jHNeNNtw-3ywxD90wZFOfzdF-ltkoEDOha4S-UO6JBdXuABC0cVN0rBevZ2uIz6ixCQ-vx-lHpp3DFo/s1600/riots-1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="972" data-original-width="1200" height="323" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMf50M7bnT_3JUGC4KAoYAbwtGKmGk4JnF_h3wRHPPU-iIkTkMx3Hh0BlFqGC1jHNeNNtw-3ywxD90wZFOfzdF-ltkoEDOha4S-UO6JBdXuABC0cVN0rBevZ2uIz6ixCQ-vx-lHpp3DFo/s400/riots-1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Illinois National Guard questioning a black man, Chicago, 1919</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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A black youth dies as a result of an angry outburst of abuse from a white man. His crime? He was black. His encroaching presence within an unspoken and predominantly white area made people nervous and uncomfortable. When the police were summoned, they arrested a black man on a minor complaint of a white man, while letting the perpetrator of murder go free. This was the spark that ignited eight days of rioting and the death of dozens. While blacks protested inequitable treatment by the police as well as that experienced in employment and housing, disenfranchised white men looted and destroyed and burned African American businesses and neighborhoods, while also setting fires in neighboring white neighborhoods to incite violence against blacks. The National Guard was called. The police arrested predominantly black participants. Formal charges were almost exclusively brought against blacks, while whites were allowed to go free.<br />
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Sound familiar? This scenario has played out over and over and over again with a cast of different characters yet with only minor plot twists. But this isn't George Floyd in Minneapolis in 2020, or Eric Garner in New York in 2014, or even Rodney King in Los Angeles in 1991.<br />
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It was <a href="https://interactive.wttw.com/dusable-to-obama/1919-race-riot" target="_blank">Eugene Williams in Chicago in 1919</a>.<br />
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White people have been writing the same script for well over a century while casting unwilling and unwitting black people to play the foil ‒ over and over and over again.<br />
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How does any of this affect a middle-class white male genealogist in Indiana?<br />
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I grew up in a racist household. No, we didn't have Confederate flags hanging in the living room, nor did we engage in white supremacy rhetoric at the dinner table. This is an important distinction, as those who love to exclaim, "I don't see color!" really do. The stereotypical skinhead with his myriad swastika tattoos is easy to spot. Those who are filled with passive racism are not.<br />
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My grandmother was born in 1917 and raised in Kentucky. Although she moved to northern Indiana shortly after high school and married an Italian, her new name and new home belied her Southern heritage. She and her sisters would tell stories of their father, who even as a coal miner was obsessed with his personal appearance. Prematurely graying, he dyed his hair when men doing so was unheard of. He loved fine clothes, and he took great delight at impressing the ladies with his presentation, even though as my grandmother said, he'd come back home from the mines "black as a n----r."<br />
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My grandmother had an illustrated version of <i>The Story of Little Black Sambo. </i>Although meant to be a story about a South Indian boy when it was first published in 1899, later American editions -- and the copy my grandmother owned -- had changed the portrayal of the main character into an unflattering stereotypical black boy.<br />
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When my grandmother recited <i>eeny, meeny, miny, moe</i>, she didn't catch tigers.<br />
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I was a teenager before I knew they were properly called Brazil nuts.<br />
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Was my grandmother a racist, or can we just brush these examples off as she being a product of her time and place? The latter is the excuse used most often amongst those casually dismissing their racist remarks and attitudes. I look back at my grandmother, and I don't see a racist. But sadly the signs were all there. She used inappropriate terminology when it was something ingrained within her psyche, like within a rhyme or a story, but in her day-to-day life she called black folk "the coloreds". She used to laugh when I would respond, "well what color were they?" Nevertheless, I do recall the big annual summer garage sale we'd have at my grandmother's house. She lived on a major thoroughfare that would invite more buyers, so we would lug all our used and worn-out garbage to Grandma and Grandpa's for the weekend. For three young boys, this was a chance to spend a weekend at our grandparents' house, but it also meant two tedious full days of pricing, placing, hauling, cleaning, and interacting with strangers. With my mother, my grandparents, and occasionally other relatives involved, there was always someone to man the card table set up for purchases, but invariably it would occasionally be left unattended with everyone darting about.<br />
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I recall making iced tea in the kitchen with my grandmother while she surveyed the sale from her window. The cigar boxes neatly labeled with the names of yard sale participants were lined up on the table for deposits of money to be placed upon a sale. These were all sitting unattended when my grandmother stiffened a bit while gazing outside, and casually exclaimed, "Oh, I best get outside and watch things! There's some colored people here!"<br />
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It is virtually impossible to say within modern society that we have not all been exposed to that kind of casual and passive (and not so passive) racism. We are raised with the underlying message that White is Good and Black is Bad. The racial <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tkpUyB2xgTM" target="_blank">doll study</a> often repeated since its inception in the 1940s shows that children as young as four years of age identify dark skin tones with being bad, ugly, dumb, and undesirable -- even amongst African American children. It means we have to start far, far, far earlier in the lives of those who come ahead of us to turn the tide of subtle, silent, passive racism that has infected our society today.<br />
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Unfortunately, not all the racism I was exposed to was passive. My father was an officer with the Mishawaka Police Department from 1968 to 1988. Sadly, my father was an entrenched member of the Good Ol' Boy Club. He abused his power by garnering sexual favors in trade for ignoring crime, helping himself to criminal evidence if it suited his fancy, inflicting physical harm upon those who questioned his authority, and getting his kicks out of terrorizing black people.<br />
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Mishawaka was a <a href="https://sundown.tougaloo.edu/sundowntowns.php" target="_blank">sundown town</a>. There was no law on the books, nor was there any signage to identify it as such. But black people knew that they were not welcome in Mishawaka after dark. In 1970, Mishawaka had a population of 35,517 people, of which only 107 were black. Many times I recall my father laughing with glee after pulling a night shift. Any black person was stopped after sundown.<br />
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"Hey, you! Where's your passport?"<br />
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For obvious reasons, this would garner only a quizzical look of confusion.<br />
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"Boy, you better have a passport to be in Mishawaka after dark, because n----rs belong in South Bend."<br />
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This would often follow with detention, placement into the squad car, and transportation to Logan Street, where the east side of the street is Mishawaka, and the west side is South Bend. They were instructed to cross the street and not come back, regardless of what their business was in Mishawaka. I never heard what punishment was meted out if someone was found in Mishawaka twice in the same night, but I have a sick feeling it wasn't terribly pleasant.<br />
<br />
He too was a product of his environment. Raised by his Italian immigrant grandfather on Eddy Street in South Bend, he grew up in a home that was purchased in a working-class white neighborhood in the 1940s, but was becoming largely African American in the 1960s. By all accounts, my 4'11" ex-convict Italian great-grandfather would sit on his porch with a gun to "shoot any n----rs that caused him any trouble." This racism was far from passive.<br />
<br />
Yes, I heard that word a lot growing up.<br />
<br />
Even when I joke to friends that I come from a long line of poor, white trash, I invoke the silent racism behind the origins of the phrase. Yes, many of my ancestors were poor with few resources and lived a meager existence, but they were <i>white</i> trash. The adjective implies that even though they may have been on the lowest rung of the socioeconomic ladder, it was a ladder built for whites only. They were still superior to blacks.<br />
<br />
Do I still have racists in my family? Oh yeah, definitely. How did I escape it all relatively unscathed? I can't answer that. I certainly wasn't exposed to black culture growing up. By the time I entered high school, Mishawaka could boast a whopping 10% black population, yet in my graduating class of 315 students, I only recall two people, neither of whom I was close to, being black. I went to veterinary school at Purdue University with sixty or so white colleagues. I took a job in <a href="http://censusviewer.com/city/IN/Granger" target="_blank">Granger, Indiana</a>, in 1991, where I live today, that according to the 2010 census is only 2.54% African American.<br />
<br />
Perhaps growing up gay in white suburbia allowed me to develop a degree of empathy for those who don't follow societal norms. Don't get me wrong. I am a white male, and I know full well what privilege that affords me. I know I've worked damn hard to get where I am from roots entangled amongst blue-collar workers and high school dropouts. But I also know that a black man in the same circumstances would have never gotten where I am. Societal roadblocks would have been thrown into his path at every turn. As a gay man, if I happen to show affection to another man in public, regardless of how minor or innocent, I am suddenly aware of who is watching, what the level of risk might be, and how to best escape if confronted with hate. It is minuscule compared to what a black man or woman experiences on a daily basis. My tiny taste of persecution is nothing compared to the smorgasbord of hate awaiting people of color when they awaken each morning. I can hide my perceived "flaw" under my white skin, and if I were killed for being gay, it would more likely be from a religious zealot and not from the people paid to protect me. I often think LGBTQ folks side with Black Lives Matter because we get it at the most basic intrinsic level. We came of age hating ourselves so thoroughly for something we had no power to change, that we have empathy for those whose hate is also received through no fault of their own other than their mere existence.<br />
<br />
I am a flawed person, but I am cognizant that change really needs to happen. And it needs to start in a million different ways. But I am a privileged white dude. I have read numerous articles lately from black activists indicating they don't want to hear from white allies who can't possibly understand what they are protesting. I've read essays from black people exhausted from placating the guilt of their white friends. "Yes, you're a good white person. Yes, I appreciate your concern. No, you don't really understand." Jimmy Fallon, <a href="https://pagesix.com/2020/06/02/jimmy-fallon-apologizes-again-for-blackface-im-not-a-racist/" target="_blank">recently called out for his use of blackface in 2000</a>, is yet another stupid white guy like me.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"I'm not a racist. I don't feel this way.</i>"</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"<i>What I kept getting advised was to just stay quiet and not saying anything. And that was the advice because we're all afraid. I took the advice and thought, 'God, I'm going to do this wrong. You're right. I'm going to say something and get myself into more trouble.'</i>"</blockquote>
It is long past time to cease the silence. That includes silence in voice as well as silence in action.<br />
<br />
Nicka Sewell-Smith, a genealogist of African descent and the driving force behind <a href="https://www.youtube.com/user/whoisnickasmith" target="_blank">BlackProGen LIVE!</a>, wrote about racism in the world of genealogy in 2016 in her blog post <a href="http://www.whoisnickasmith.com/genealogy/the-problem-of-the-color-line/" target="_blank">The Problem of the Color Line</a>. I loved that post. It certainly wasn't love borne out of its content. It boggles the mind that as recent as 1960 the members of the National Genealogical Society nearly lost their collective minds when a black man had the audacity to apply for membership. It is ironic that Alex Haley's 1976 book <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roots:_The_Saga_of_an_American_Family" target="_blank">Roots: The Saga of an American Family</a></i>, a compelling narrative of his slave ancestors that was turned into a 1977 television miniseries, touched off a near-hysterical renaissance of American genealogical research that has culminated in a billion-dollar industry today. As Sewell-Smith pointed out in 2016, it's a revival tailored for white people. Four years later, still most national genealogical conferences offer just one African American track -- four to five lectures -- out of four days and nearly 200 lectures, banquets, workshops, and events. Less than three percent of conference time is devoted to <a href="https://blackdemographics.com/" target="_blank">14.6%</a> of Americans of African descent.<br />
<br />
Society does enough to strip black Americans of a meaningful future. We must be better as genealogists at offering them a gateway to their past.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj58F64pc4Im88YNKL5_AYl_jHARLkne-GdcSianHVOkKGr-5vWhLcrSNqeOmYnn6KKgOeqzrE4HEv66HzXydgkt8KHNRnnBgJEUAgJfHBdSFaKEJ9si2NDeELKUx8-tmAcabOSaO7Saec/s1600/Farmer-lithograph-George-Washington-slaves-view-Mount-1853.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj58F64pc4Im88YNKL5_AYl_jHARLkne-GdcSianHVOkKGr-5vWhLcrSNqeOmYnn6KKgOeqzrE4HEv66HzXydgkt8KHNRnnBgJEUAgJfHBdSFaKEJ9si2NDeELKUx8-tmAcabOSaO7Saec/s400/Farmer-lithograph-George-Washington-slaves-view-Mount-1853.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Farmer, George Washington</i><br />
Lithograph, 1853<br />
Who knew slavery was so idyllic?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I have given a lecture numerous times using my ancestor, Thomas Daniel (1740-c1809), as a genealogical case study. It is a methodology lecture on problem-solving and analytical thinking as well as utilizing the knowledge of social history to better understand your ancestors and thus your research. Thomas married well, and upon his marriage to Elizabeth Stith in 1770 he was given a slave woman named Frank as a wedding gift by Elizabeth's uncle. I show my audience that following a man with a very common name like Thomas Daniel through Virginia and Kentucky can be tied together by following Frank and her children.<br />
<br />
Thomas acquired Frank in Stafford County, Virginia, in 1770. He argued in court in Caroline County, Virginia, for his right to own her and her two sons, Reuben and Humphrey, "and all her increase" at the settlement of his uncle's estate in 1782 and 1783. Thomas was taxed on slaves Frank, Reuben, Humphrey, Clary, Sally/Celia, and Jude in Louisa County, Virginia, in 1782 and 1783. In 1795, Thomas Daniel of Jefferson County, Kentucky, sold Reuben, aged about 25; and Humphry, aged about 24; to Robert Breckenridge.<br />
<br />
In 1797, Thomas Daniel divested his fourteen slaves in Jefferson County, Kentucky, to his children. Apparently, Reuben and Humphrey were back in his possession, as Frank and Reuben were given to his son Thomas Daniel Jr., while Humphrey went to his son, Stith Daniel. The bottom line: where you find Frank, Reuben, and Humphrey, you will find the correct Thomas Daniel roaming around Virginia and Kentucky.<br />
<br />
Sound research, yes. But I really hate this part of the lecture. Every time I give the lecture, I scan the room for black men and women in my audience before I start. I don't know if I should make eye contact with them or look away when I talk about Frank, Reuben, and Humphrey. Does this bother them as much as it bothers me? Do they care on a deeper level about what I am teaching other than methodology? Can anyone ever lecture about slavery casually? I sweat a little too much at this point in the lecture, and my face flushes. Like Jimmy Fallon, I am the dumb white guy who thinks he's going to say something wrong, or insensitive, or stupid. So I don't address the elephant in the room, and I move forward. Do I apologize for the deeds of my ancestors? Or do I continue talking knowing these ancestral attitudes are not mine and assume the audience knows this? What do I owe to the descendants of Frank as a descendant of the man who owned her?<br />
<br />
I am uncomfortable. And it took me a while to be at ease with my discomfort, or at least understand that discomfort is an appropriate feeling. More problematic are those who don't feel or see or understand the far-reaching negative impacts of slavery and the Jim Crow south on the African American community today. It's not my story to tell. It is my place to listen and read and research and understand. I can't say it any better than the woman featured on <i>Last Week Tonight with John Oliver</i> on 7 June 2020. Although I recommend the whole clip, I cannot begin to fathom the pain and anger and frustration shared by Kimberly Jones at the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wf4cea5oObY" target="_blank">31:25 mark</a>. If that doesn't move you closer to understanding, buddy, you have more hate and blind privilege in your soul than I can address in one blog post.<br />
<br />
What can I do? What little part can a white male Midwestern genealogist do that can make a difference? I can do what I have been advocating to genealogists for decades now. Tell your stories. Tell the stories of your ancestors. Tell the stories of your community from a black perspective. Help your black friends discover their pasts and tell those stories. Only by understanding the adversity overcome by men and women of color in our country's past, can we begin to humanize and understand the generations of power imbalance and repression in this country that needs to change today. Only by seeing history's events unfolding with the eyes of African Americans can we even hope to grasp the white privilege people like me are granted, and to which many are blissfully unaware.<br />
<br />
I deal in history and the deeds of the dead. As statues of Confederate generals are dismantled in this country, and <a href="https://www.cnn.com/2020/06/07/europe/edward-colston-statue-bristol/index.html" target="_blank">the statue of 17th-century slave trader Edward Colston is thrown into the River Avon in Bristol, England</a>, I constantly hear the defiant refrain, "You can't rewrite history!"<br />
<br />
Ummmm.... yeah, you can.<br />
<br />
And it's about damn time.<br />
<br />
Anyone who has read my blog from the beginning should know by now, history is constantly being rewritten. Personal histories are turned upside down by DNA findings. New documents or discovered artifacts may significantly alter long-held historical dogma and change historical "fact". History has always been fluid in its telling and retelling. It has to be. There is no right nor wrong way to tell the stories of those who came before us as long as we adhere to the facts, because the stories that need to be told arise from dozens of different points of view.<br />
<br />
Let us circle back to where we started. How does the story of the Chicago Race Riots of 1919 read if told by Eugene Williams' mother? What does the story sound like if told by the black men who were beaten or lost their homes? What about the story of the sharecropper who fled the Jim Crow south in the Great Migration to find poorly paid work in the Chicago meatpacking plants, who then had to make the decision to continue struggling to feed his family or stand up to the Irish mobs burning his neighborhood and risk arrest by the Chicago police? These aren't revisions of history -- they are completions of it.<br />
<br />
It's time for white folk to shut up and listen, to think and reflect, to understand and empathize, to read and to educate themselves. It's time for white men and women to immerse themselves in a black history that is currently impossible for them to grasp.<br />
<br />
There are stories that have been begging to be heard for 400 years. My great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother was born to a Dutchman and a black slave in New York in the 1670s. I may never know her mother's name, let alone her story, but that tiniest fragment of African DNA still shows up in her descendants today. Were it not for her story, I would not be here to tell my tales, so I will do my best to tell hers, and those of the Franks, Reubens, and Humphreys I find along the way.<br />
<br />
Black Lives Matter.<br />
<br />
Black Lives <i>have always </i>mattered. For many, that awakening is long past due.<br />
<br /></div>
Michael D Lacopohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11804658533353361632noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728490610017274864.post-85415444833904876812019-05-15T19:38:00.002-04:002019-05-15T20:06:25.474-04:00Copyright, Contracts, Commitments, and Human Decency: Resolution<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="" style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">The issues detailed in my previous blog can successfully, happily, and agreeably be put behind me. My issue with the National Genealogical Society (NGS) has been resolved thanks to the helpful intervention of the Association of Professional Genealogists (APG). The president of APG, a dear friend and an advocate for professional genealogists, knew that if NGS’s president heard the entirety of my story he would seek a reasonable solution. She volunteered her time and her car to drive several hours out of her way so that all three of us could meet in Granger, Indiana, after the conclusion of the 2019 NGS Conference in St. Charles, Missouri. The meeting was fruitful and productive, and we learned that we all want the same thing: for NGS speakers to have their individual needs accommodated whenever possible and for speakers to know and feel they are truly appreciated by NGS and the genealogical community. On a broader level, we all value the contributions of genealogists everywhere, and we all strive to be inclusive and welcoming to professionals and hobbyists alike. My passion for researching and lecturing is matched by the passion that both NGS and APG have to further promote education, advocacy, collaboration, and ethical standards in the field of genealogy. I hope through the resolution of this issue that all of us can achieve a greater good for genealogists, speakers, and societies alike.</span></div>
<div class="" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; text-align: justify;">
<span class=""><br class="" /></span></div>
<div class="" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<div class="" style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="">Michael D. Lacopo, DVM</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<div class="" style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="">Ben Spratling, JD, President NGS</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<div class="" style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="">Billie Fogarty, M.Ed., President APG</span></div>
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Michael D Lacopohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11804658533353361632noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728490610017274864.post-63840967551277803682019-05-08T14:44:00.001-04:002019-05-15T19:43:06.633-04:00Copyright, Contracts, Commitments, and Human Decency<h2 style="text-align: center;">
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I received a royalty check from the National Genealogical Society (NGS) on 20 April 2019.<br />
<br />
Cool, right? I am making money, and all I have to do is sit back and let the cash roll in!<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The problem with that concept of "free money" is that the National Genealogical Society had nothing of mine to sell. So what was producing royalty checks? Unfortunately, I had an idea. And I didn't like it.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
A few computer keystrokes were all it took to confirm my fears. Lectures that I had delivered for the National Genealogical Society's yearly conferences in Raleigh, North Carolina, in 2017; and Grand Rapids, Michigan, in 2018; were recorded and presented for sale by NGS. Many speakers opt for their presentations to be sold in this manner. I do not.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
There is this little contract provision found in both of my 2017 and 2018 documents that states <i>"I do not want <b>any</b> of my lectures to be recorded." </i>The bold is not my addition. It is written as such in the contract.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I would never consider myself a hot head. I rarely act out irrationally in a fit of passion. Trust me, I learned to be incredibly patient with people after a quarter-of-a-century as a veterinarian. One learns to find their internal happy place when berated by pet owners with unrealistic expectations, or to be a source of calm and reason when pet owners are justifiably upset with their fur baby's health issues.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
But yeah, I was angry.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I understand that errors occur. I understand that something as simple as checking the wrong box or adding my name to the wrong list allowed my lecture to be inadvertently recorded. I understand that there was no malicious intent to make money off my hard work. But even the most innocent of errors have consequences, and as an independent researcher, lecturer, and author, who has to pay his mortgage by genealogical research and lecturing, these are very significant consequences indeed.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
There's also this little thing called copyright. <a href="https://www.dictionary.com/browse/copyright">Dictionary.com</a> defines it as "<i>the exclusive right to make copies, license, and otherwise exploit a literary, musical, or artistic work, whether printed, audio, video, etc.</i>" Sadly, genealogists are absolutely the worst at respecting copyright law. They are the masters of the cut-and-paste, presenting work as their own and never crediting the author or researcher who spent years of time, effort, and money producing a masterful work of reason, logic, and analysis. It is such a pervasive problem that Judy Russell has covered it repeatedly in her popular blog "The Legal Genealogist." Books have been written about copyright exclusively for the genealogist. It's a big deal. A really, really big deal.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I immediately sent an email to the long-standing conference manager employed by NGS voicing my displeasure, hoping that my email would make it to the powers-that-be for some sort of resolution.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
What does resolution mean to me?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Let me repeat. I am a reasonable human being. Sure, I want to be compensated in some manner for the improper reproduction and sale of my work. Sure, I think there should be some sort of penalty or remuneration for repeated breaches of contract. But remember, I am a genealogist. I gave up a life of monetary riches when I decided to chase dead people full time and abandon my medical profession. This was not an opportunity for me to see dollar signs rolling in my eyes like some sort of Warner Brothers cartoon. Not by any means. So what do I think would have been an appropriate response?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b><i>"Oh my God, we made a HUGE mistake! And we did it two years in a row! Yikes! We are so sorry! What can we do to fix this?"</i></b></blockquote>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
In a world torn apart by divisiveness and nasty rifts borne out of race, religion, and politics, human decency goes a long, long, long way with me.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
What did I receive?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Yes, I got an apology. Kind of.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I got an apology for being sent a royalty check.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Ummmm.... okay. That wasn't quite what I was looking for. This was followed by an explanation that only a handful of my lectures were sold, so it was no big deal. Get over it.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Remember that silly thing called copyright? It is apparently so important to the National Genealogical Society that it is mentioned twice on their website regarding Social Media Policy for Conference Attendees. "<i>NGS does not permit photography nor audio or video recording in the lecture rooms at the NGS Family History Conference. Presentations, including slides and handouts, are protected by copyright and may not be reproduced.</i>" This is followed by encouraging a social media presence by conference attendees as long as "<i>copyright law is observed.</i>" NGS conference organizers have in the past <u>required</u> speakers to include a slide in their presentations reminding attendees of this policy. They also have a script at every podium for speakers to read out loud regarding this policy before even beginning their lecture. In the past, NGS has threatened to remove attendees from sessions if they are caught snapping photographs of a presenter's slides.<br />
<br />
It seems then that copyright should be a big deal for this organization, yes? Apparently it is not when they are the offenders.<br />
<br />
Not pleased with a curt dismissal, I wrote again to the National Genealogical Society on 28 April 2019, asking for resolution -- not for excuses, dismissal, or denials. This time the entire Board of Directors was addressed. I also expressed reservations doing further business with them until this matter was resolved.<br />
<br />
The tricky part? I was already contractually obliged to present two lectures and two luncheons for the 2019 National Genealogical Society's annual conference in St. Charles, Missouri, to be held 8-11 May 2019. I had spent many hours preparing a brand new lecture for this event, as well as producing a never-seen-before luncheon talk. National conferences are a wonderful way to reconnect with old friends and colleagues, as well as to meet new people willing and eager to chat for hours about musty records, remote repositories, crumbling tombstones, out-of-print finding aids, DNA findings, and long dead people. I was excited to do some book signings for the chapter I wrote in the recently-published <i>Advanced Genetic Genealogy: Techniques and Case Studies</i>. This conference had been on my calendar for a year, and I was prepared to drive twelve hours round trip to attend and speak even though I was scheduled to arrive home from a speaking gig in Santa Rosa, California, just the day before hitting the road to Missouri. Additionally, I had obligations to two additional respected organizations to give luncheons that they had generously sponsored. I am not going to lie. The thought of doing further business with an organization presently treating me so poorly was not topping my list of favorite things to do, but at least the conference's rapid approach might stimulate some sort of discussion and pathway to resolution on the part of NGS before I had to hop in my car for a six-hour trek to St. Charles.<br />
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I was wrong.<br />
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Silence.<br />
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Loud, deafening, telling silence. That was the response I received.</div>
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The beginning of May found me at the annual Ohio Genealogical Society Conference in Mason, Ohio. Those of us who give genealogical lectures are a relatively small group. We see each other all over the country, so much so that none of us can remember when and where the last meeting occurred. "<i>Was that Burbank? Or Columbus? Or Fort Wayne? I can't recall. But hey, how are you?</i>" I have already told you that I think myself to be a reasonable, level-headed man. But I also like to talk to my friends and colleagues. And I am an easy read. Sad, frustrated, angry, confused, happy, joyful: it's incredibly easy to tell what I am feeling, and I am profoundly transparent in my conversations. There's little in my life I won't share with others who ask (or sometimes don't ask). Many of the speakers and vendors got an earful regarding my present dilemma. Not so surprisingly, I also got my share of many, many "this is how NGS screwed me over" stories from other genealogists and vendors. I also got shared outrage. Misery certainly does love company.</div>
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The most surprising thing to come out of my lecturing in Ohio was the one most unexpected. That being an ongoing, daily string of information from colleagues and organizations that they were being actively recruited to fill my lecture and luncheon time slots at the NGS 2019 Conference. Apparently, NGS's solution to the problem at hand was to remove me from the program without any form of communication. This is what would be classically called the "You can't quit. You're fired!" move. It seems that they expected me to show up in St. Charles, Missouri, to inform me that my services were no longer needed. A curt dismissal would have angered me, but I didn't even get the benefit of that. So now we can add a third year in the row that NGS has failed to live up to their contractual obligations, as well as depriving me of income that I rely on to make ends meet.</div>
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Still, I got only silence.</div>
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Why am I writing this? There are multiple reasons.</div>
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Firstly, as genealogists, lecturers, and conference attendees, I think you all should know the duplicitous nature currently employed by the National Genealogical Society. Their actions indicate that copyright law seems to be only applicable when and where it inconveniences them the least. Additionally, those who continue to do business with NGS or will be asked to lecture or vend at the 2020 conference in Salt Lake City, Utah, might want to take pause and rethink their decisions based on my experiences. Contracts are apparently meaningless slips of paper. I have been humbled by the outpouring of support by my genealogical colleagues, whether that be messages stating "stand your ground!" or the refusal by other speakers to fill my lecture slots in St. Charles out of a unified principled stance. I truly love those who share this insane genealogical obsession with me.</div>
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Secondly, I like to think that those who see me lecture can sense my passion for genealogy as well as my exuberant joy in sharing my knowledge and teaching. I deeply regret disappointing those who came to St. Charles, Missouri, expecting to see me lecture or those who paid additional money to attend a luncheon that I will not be presenting. I want all those wonderful genealogists presently in Missouri to know I am there with them in all their totally geeked-out, genealogy-everywhere-around-them wonder and joy in thought and spirit. I wanted to be there bodily and in person. I truly did. Those who showed up at a lecture or a luncheon or book signing expecting to see me deserve to know why I am not there.</div>
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Thirdly, take a look at those serving on the Board of Directors for the National Genealogical Society at <a href="https://www.ngsgenealogy.org/bod/">https://www.ngsgenealogy.org/bod/</a>. If you happen to run into any of them in the conference halls in St. Charles, Missouri, you might want to ask them what copyright infringement and contractual obligation means to them. Maybe you will get an answer. If so, let me know, I still I have not. Or perhaps snap some photos of some slides during one of their lectures and question them with bewildered amazement when they seemed perturbed or upset at your audacity to flaunt the law.</div>
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Fourthly, for loyal readers of this blog, you know writing is cathartic for me. From my father's suicide to my flooded library to my present frustrations, I gain some sort of calm by putting it all in writing. I gave a luncheon talk in Ohio about the benefits of genealogical blogging, and I felt like a fraud because I have been on hiatus for so long. I had mentioned that in addition to telling the story of my maternal grandfather (which will be told to completion -- I promise), I thought this might be a space to repurpose and remold into sharing other genealogical tidbits, research nuggets, and stories of successes and failures.</div>
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Consider this my first repurposing. It is one of frustration, anger, and sadness.<br />
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EDIT: <i>For those who come across this blog post by itself, you can read the joint statement crafted by the National Genealogical Society, the Association of Professional Genealogists, and myself at <a href="https://roots4u.blogspot.com/2019/05/copyright-contracts-commitments-and_15.html" target="_blank">Copyright, Contracts, Commitments, and Human Decency: Resolution</a>.</i></div>
Michael D Lacopohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11804658533353361632noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728490610017274864.post-56869166966662127372017-11-17T20:28:00.002-05:002022-03-28T18:29:07.058-04:00Sins of the Father, Part II<div style="text-align: center;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu-SvJFEuXSYlJ8QQu_i05UILLhb60MMLWU_5sZNDrUMXxawg9Dsu5kAr_CTBrEoaKAq-SxehMq_mpHNHUwmMCMycxRzEZdGHZv6C8qoLcTToAXWAsOgU0g4iB1wT8Ib69euG4wsL-er4/s1600/232-233a.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu-SvJFEuXSYlJ8QQu_i05UILLhb60MMLWU_5sZNDrUMXxawg9Dsu5kAr_CTBrEoaKAq-SxehMq_mpHNHUwmMCMycxRzEZdGHZv6C8qoLcTToAXWAsOgU0g4iB1wT8Ib69euG4wsL-er4/s400/232-233a.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daniel Daugherty would run from his debts in Ohio in 1839 to end up here, nearly 500 miles to the west, to start a new life with a new wife.</td></tr>
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><b>Note to Readers:</b> This is a narrative. To start at the beginning, click on the "Blog Archive" to the right and click on the earliest entry, which is the first written, on 18 February 2014. Or simply click here: </span></span><a href="http://roots4u.blogspot.com/2014/02/beginnings.html">Hoosier Daddy?: Beginnings</a>. For those who have read the blog up to this point have accompanied me on my journey of discovery, we will now explore the life of the man I discovered, the meeting of father and daughter, and the ramifications thereof.</i></span><br />
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>"The fathers eat the sour grapes, and the children's teeth are set on edge." </b></span>−<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><b style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Ezekiel 18:2.</i></b></h3>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><u>Daniel Daugherty</u></span></b></div>
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Daniel Daugherty (1803-1880) had spent a lifetime on the move. Born in Virginia, his father moved him to the wild, sparsely-populated plains of southwestern Ohio by the time he was nine years old. Daniel was the oldest child to accompany his family on their westward trek. He was old enough to recall his mother's death the year before and likely a weighty sadness at knowing he would never see her grave again. His father, Thomas, had quickly remarried in the fall of 1811, and by the spring of 1812, they were on their way westward. So many changes had befallen the family in such a short time, and young Daniel was coming of an age where it all made little sense to him. One thing of which he was blissfully unaware was his father Thomas's ongoing legal problems. Thomas Daugherty and his father-in-law had concocted a fraudulent land sale nearly a decade before, and clear title and restitution were still being argued in the courts. Thomas, the only living person left to bear the brunt of the crime, likely found it easier to leave the state with a new wife two decades his junior in tow.<br />
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This new bride barely in her twenties, pregnant with her first child, and struggling with home life on the frontier with two brand-new stepsons would soon face her struggle alone. Shortly after arriving in Ohio, and while Daniel was still a boy, he was forced to take on the role of the "man of the house" when his father enlisted and left home for active duty in the War of 1812.</div>
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Thomas returned the following year, and several more children filled the household over the next decade. Daniel Daugherty took his first wife in 1824 and started his own family at the same time his youngest half-sibling was born. His stepmother died the following summer, and he watched these much younger half-siblings farmed out by his father to be raised by neighboring families. This lack of familial cohesion would repeat itself in Daniel's own family two decades later, and in all the Daugherty lines to follow.</div>
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Daniel operated a small mercantile business and storehouse in Jeffersonville, Ohio, under the name of "D. Daugherty & Company". The Panic of 1837 left him with debtors who refused to pay on their accounts and creditors who repeatedly took him to court. The Circleville Bank and the Bank of Xenia were pressuring Daniel through the courts to pay on his outstanding notes. Daniel defaulted on his loans and skipped town. By 1839, all court cases stalled indefinitely because Daniel Daugherty's whereabouts were unknown. His business partners were left with his share of the debts.</div>
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Daniel Daugherty hid from his creditors, but he also disappeared from his family as well. Although his siblings scattered all over the Midwest, many surviving documents indicate a consistent attempt to remain in contact with each other... that is, with all of them but Daniel. Perhaps just not knowing where to find him, they gave up. And he hid well. Not only do I have no idea where he was during the 1840s, neither did his own children have a clear recollection as they reached adulthood. Those born during this decade never consistently knew their own place of birth. Ohio? Indiana? Illinois? Somewhere around there. Some reported later on census reports that their place of birth was just flat "unknown."<br />
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By 1846, Daniel begins showing up in places along the Mississippi River between New Boston and Rock Island, Illinois. Sometimes he is on the Iowa side, sometimes on the Illinois side. Never does he stay anywhere long. In the Spring of that year, his wife died, leaving him with children ranging from 21 years to six months old, strangely reminiscent of his father's predicament two decades before. His response was identical. The elder children were left to fend for themselves, while the younger children appear to have been taken in by strangers wherever he seemed to drop them on his travels up and down the river.<br />
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In 1849, Daniel made the acquaintance of a widow, Elizabeth (Lequat) Holstein. In her late-thirties with three young children, she had been widowed for almost five years. Her father, Shadrack Lequat, had come to Rock Island County, Illinois, in 1838, and was a prosperous merchant at Drury's Landing. This bustling, growing town boasted one of the first steamboat landings in the area. Boats stopped for wood to refuel, for passengers to disembark, for trade and commerce. Elizabeth was not in a hurry to remarry. She could rely on the financial support of her family as well as the proceeds generated by the 80 acres of land her late husband, Henry Holstein, had purchased in 1841.<br />
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Daniel Daugherty married the widow Holstein in the Spring of 1849. Perhaps her economic future was less certain, as Elizabeth's father had died two years previously, and nothing had been accomplished regarding the division of his estate. Elizabeth was no fool though. She protected the land she had acquired from her deceased first husband. The day before her marriage to Daugherty, she sold to 80 acres of land to her 18- and 12-year-old daughters and to her 9-year-old son.<br />
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The records are silent regarding the reception of Daniel Daugherty into the Lequat family. At the time of his death, the elder Shadrack Lequat was caring for his namesake grandson, whose guardianship was a matter of heated debate between his new stepfather, and his deceased father's family. Although the younger Shadrack died as a child just months after Daniel Daugherty entered the family, Daniel was the one appointed administrator of his estate, much to the dismay of both parties feuding over the child. Both the elder and younger Shadrack's estates became intimately intertwined, and it was Daniel Daugherty who took the lead filing accounts in no less than three different counties in Iowa and Illinois, selling land and goods in multiple locations and bringing the matter to a close. Was he an outsider new to the family whose business acumen was needed at just the right time? Or was Daniel's evident financial success achieved only after his fortuitous marriage looked upon with disdain by the in-laws who only saw him as an opportunist?<br />
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The two families were permanently united with the birth of John Henry Daugherty in 1852. Daniel had none of his children living with him, and Elizabeth had already married off her eldest daughter. Daniel Daugherty was presented with another chance at fatherhood. Maybe he was overcome with a newfound sense of responsibility, or maybe he was just a man turning fifty with a baby who decided he needed to stop racing up and down the Mississippi River. In 1855, he reclaimed into his household his youngest daughter by his first marriage. Nine-year-old Rachel was living with her recently widowed eldest sister in Rock Island County, Illinois, when she rejoined the paternal household. Elizabeth's youngest son by her first marriage, Silas, was 16 years old, and the last one of her children to remain at home. That year, Daniel, Elizabeth, Silas, Rachel, and baby John, journeyed nearly 250 miles northward into the newly settled Minnesota Territory. Daniel Daugherty likely heard the buzz the year before on the many Mississippi River docks he frequented. Promoters as far-flung as LaCrosse, Wisconsin, and St. Paul, Minnesota, had invested in a new town to be built on the Wabasha prairie on the west side of the Mississippi. Willard Bunnell, the developer of the town, had been on good terms with the Wabasha band of Sioux Indians for years, and he had already built a hotel and a number of buildings in his new river town. The town of Minneowah or "Snow Water" was born in 1853, and Daniel saw it as a perfect location to start a mercantile business with the rapid and endless flow of settlers into the Minnesota Territory by way of the Mississippi River.<br />
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The whole plan was a disaster.<br />
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Willard Bunnell was a successful Indian trader, but he was a lousy town builder. He had neglected to register the land upon which his fledgling town was growing much to the chagrin of his investors. Once the land office opened, it was open for any squatter to claim. The first one in line was Daniel Daugherty.<br />
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Daniel laid claim to not only the land upon which his store and warehouse were located but also to the hotel and other choice pieces of real estate. This so infuriated Bunnell that his confrontation with Daniel quickly became physical. Some sources say that Daniel Daugherty bit off Bunnell's thumb, or that he bent it back so far and mangled it, that it had to be amputated. Nonetheless, Daniel kept his land while Willard lost his digit.<br />
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Bunnell's investors quickly sold their shares in the failed venture, and Willard responded by platting a new town, Homer, immediately to the south of Minneowah, in 1855. Bunnell was still seeking riches and success as <i>the</i> new Minnesota boom town on the Mississippi River. Both men − Daugherty and Bunnell − failed to realize their dreams. Just five miles upstream on a location Bunnell had previously dismissed as a miserable sandbar prone to flooding, the little town of Winona became the success story that Bunnell yearned for. From the laying out of town lots in 1853 to the end of 1856, Winona's population grew to 3,000. Homer never surpassed a couple hundred inhabitants. Minneowah ceased to exist, being considered merely a northern extension of Homer. Daniel Daugherty was left with a store in a tiny failed town. Willard Bunnell would die shortly after in 1861.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEYPqONA3x1nf_KBSYjSkrTeJJTd8m1uoJnHniH5mAJSxxauvLXp5q9_FwvGk-wx84ummxXksdL8L2Af6ESnKdZZIhY6FvR4FalYS7mTaFIfuJypvp1i4TB1zDYLr8Y30tHyYnu4JCzf0/s1600/On+the+Mississippi%252C+Near+Winona%252C+Shower+Clearingjpg.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEYPqONA3x1nf_KBSYjSkrTeJJTd8m1uoJnHniH5mAJSxxauvLXp5q9_FwvGk-wx84ummxXksdL8L2Af6ESnKdZZIhY6FvR4FalYS7mTaFIfuJypvp1i4TB1zDYLr8Y30tHyYnu4JCzf0/s400/On+the+Mississippi%252C+Near+Winona%252C+Shower+Clearingjpg.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>On the Mississippi, Near Winona, Shower Clearing</i> (1868) by Alfred Bricher<br />
This scene depicts the downriver stretch below Winona as you approach Homer, Minnesota</td></tr>
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Was Daniel Daugherty a man prone to violence who ran from responsibility? Was he more concerned with his own financial advancement to give much thought to raising a family? He was apparently trusted by the people of Homer during his stay in Minnesota. He was elected chairman of the township supervisors at the first election held in newly formed Homer Township in 1858. He submitted a bid to the Minnesota House of Representatives for a contract to carry mail from Winona to Burr Oak, but lost it in 1858. He was business savvy enough to be chosen as an administrator for the estates of fellow townspeople during the 1860s. But on the family front, Daniel still seemed to fail at maintaining a nuclear family. His daughter Rachel, not even a teen, left the home shortly after their arrival in Minnesota to live in the household of an unrelated local family. His stepson, Silas V. Holstein, also left in his teens to work on the railroad and to spend his youth exploring the Midwest and learning the trade of mechanic and millwright on the verge of the Civil War.<br />
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Shortly after arriving in Minnesota, Daniel and Elizabeth welcomed their last child. These two young children by Elizabeth gave Daniel a second chance at fatherhood. As a man approaching his mid-50s with some apparent community respect and a moderately successful commercial business, he could raise his two young sons with measured patience, discipline, and understanding − something he could not provide to his first bevy of children, now grown and scattered throughout Minnesota, Iowa, Illinois, and Kansas<span color="inherit" style="font-size: inherit;">.</span><br />
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It is not known what paternal guidance and affection Daniel Daugherty bestowed upon his youngest sons. It is not known if the lessons Daniel Daugherty learned from his own father and gained from his own life experiences were imparted upon young John and Ira. Whatever life path upon which Daniel Daugherty tried to guide his sons, fate would continue to produce Daugherty men in the molds of their fathers.<br />
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This time, John Henry Daugherty, the toddler who may have watched in horror as his father tore the thumb from his adversary, would bring the meaning of familial responsibility to a new low.</div>
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Michael D Lacopohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11804658533353361632noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728490610017274864.post-13119755493833087952017-04-19T18:05:00.002-04:002017-04-20T01:09:47.601-04:00Sins of the Father, Part I<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBcosY-Tn0THALsQ3OxVx6ogXlDEalPT4bOVXN-S8Xl6j5n5Co2AFPqmTHbUPvudZNbPwIyZMEy62LyAbBKoY22tZ4C6IryQb8rAkS9OcLx26tYSmQPJUL3AbG01M3TMaMgxjIHAhFies/s1600/man-690642_1920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBcosY-Tn0THALsQ3OxVx6ogXlDEalPT4bOVXN-S8Xl6j5n5Co2AFPqmTHbUPvudZNbPwIyZMEy62LyAbBKoY22tZ4C6IryQb8rAkS9OcLx26tYSmQPJUL3AbG01M3TMaMgxjIHAhFies/s400/man-690642_1920.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><b>Note to Readers:</b> This is a narrative. To start at the beginning, click on the "Blog Archive" to the right and click on the earliest entry, which is the first written, on 18 February 2014. Or simply click here: </span></span><a href="http://roots4u.blogspot.com/2014/02/beginnings.html">Hoosier Daddy?: Beginnings</a>. For those who have read the blog up to this point have accompanied me on my journey of discovery. We will now explore the life of the man I discovered, the meeting of father and daughter, and the ramifications thereof.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>"When positive masculine energy is not modeled from father to son, it creates a vacuum in the souls of men, and into that vacuum demons pour." -- Richard Rohr</b></span></div>
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James Daugherty, a middling prosperous landowner and businessman in post-Revolutionary War Rockbridge County, Virginia, was experiencing his mid-life crisis. The last of his children were leaving home, marrying, and starting lives of their own. Unable to waste his money on a crimson red sports car and take up recreational drug use, he did the next best thing a man his position can do in the mid-1790s. He ran off with his housekeeper.</div>
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Having "went off with an idle woman of the name [Lucretia] Vanscoit to the County of Wythe where he had a valuable plantation", James Daugherty had resettled nearly 120 miles away down the Shenandoah Valley and left his wife Hannah with no means of support. Hannah Daugherty may have soon believed that her husband got what was coming to him. Shortly after his departure, he was "found dead, and died by a visit of God in a natural way" in 1799.</div>
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Hannah Daugherty took up residence in the household of her son, David Daugherty. It may have pained her to see her son follow in his father's footsteps. In 1815, David's wife Ruth filed for divorce. Her husband had for some time past been involved with a married woman, Betsey Carson. Betsey's husband, Martin, testified before the Rockbridge County, Virginia, Chancery Court that his wife told him "that the said David Daugherty had informed her that he intended to poison his wife that he might have the better opportunity of connecting himself with the said Betsey, and she acknowledged that he was the father of two of her children." Like his father James, David abandoned his wife into the care of his son and moved 175 miles down the valley, with no judgment made on his divorce.</div>
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Thomas Daugherty, another son of James Daugherty, may not have been as outwardly cruel to his spouse as his father and brother appeared to be, but then again, he rarely had time to tire of a wife. Repeatedly widowed, he married in 1791, 1800, 1811, and 1827. He left Virginia immediately after his marriage to his third wife, and headed for the wilds of southwest Ohio, an area having only been settled within the previous decade. Perhaps he had an adventurous spirit. More likely, he conveniently escaped prosecution for fraud in a complex legal case in which he was accused of marrying his second wife only to procure land, of which clear title was in question. His absence caused the case to cease without judgment.</div>
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Immediately upon settling in Ohio, Thomas Daugherty joined a regiment to fight in the War of 1812, and supposedly saw battle on Lake Erie. A thrilling adventure for a young man in his 20s, but Thomas was in his mid-40s and recently settled in an untamed wilderness. He may have experienced an adventure of a lifetime, but he left behind a new bride two decades his junior to care for a slew of children and step-children. Upon her death in 1825, many of his younger children were distributed into other families to raise. Although Thomas lived well into his 80s and fathered ten or more children, statements taken after his death in 1852 indicate none of his children showed interest in visiting him, even though some of them lived neaby. Ephraim Daugherty cared for his father, Thomas, only upon agreement that he would gain sole possession of military bounty land in Indiana upon his father's death.</div>
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Another of Thomas Daugherty's son, Daniel Daugherty, was a shrewd and cunning business man. Much like his grandfather James Daugherty, he invested in property. Not content to live the mundane agricultural life of his peers, he invested in small businesses in his adopted home town of Jeffersonville, Ohio, that had only been laid out in 1831. He started a wholesale drygoods business and local store with backing from prominent figures in Fayette County, Ohio, political circles. Married in 1824, and already with a household full of children, his businesses failed in the Panic of 1837. Dozens of law suits followed. Banks and creditors demanded money from him that he did not have. He unsuccessfully sued those who owed him money. Business partners were angered by the debt he had accrued in their name, and even angrier when he failed to appear in court to answer their questions. Although Daugherty men in previous generations had run away from domestic problems, the solution was the same for financial ones as well.</div>
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He skipped town.</div>
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Daniel Daugherty's whereabouts for nearly a decade thereafter are unknown. He was crafiter than the generations before him, having effectively disappeared, evading those seeking him for unpaid debts. He reappeared in Mercer and Rock Island Counties, Illinois, shortly before his remarriage in 1849 to a wealthy widow from a prominent local family, his first wife apparently dead. Within months of marrying his second wife, he inserted himself aggressively into business dealings of his new wife's family. Reminiscent of accusations leveled against his father in Virginia decades before, documents uncovered in Illinois, Iowa, and Minnesota accused Daniel of marrying for money and social leverage. Daniel maintained business contacts along a 300-mile stretch of the Mississippi River, all the while depositing children from his first wife amongst families in a tri-state area, relieving himself of the need to care for them.</div>
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In 1853, Daniel Daugherty removed to the fledgling town of Homer, Minnesota, on the Mississippi River. Willard Bunnell, the first white settler of the area, had plans for the town he created on the western bank of the river, initially dubbed Bunell's Landing. Although Willard had built a hotel and other buildings in his fledgling town, "he did not have the aptitute, patience, or the tact necessary to successfully organize and develop a town site." One of his oversights was filing a claim to the property he had developed. When the federal land office opened in Winona in 1854, Daniel Daugherty unscrupulously claimed all of Willard Bunnell's land. None too pleased, Bunnell angrily confronted Daniel Daugherty, and in the ensuing "fight Daugherty seized Bunnell's thumb in a vise-like grip and held on until Bunnell surrendered. Bunnell lost not only the fight, but also his thumb, which was so mutilated, it had to be amputated."</div>
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Daniel Daugherty followed members of his wife's family to Poweshiek County, Iowa, by 1865, where he purchased a modest 80-acre farm. When he was widowed again in 1873, it took him less than a year to marry another well-to-do widow, Galetsy (Gowen) Wright. The couple removed to the nearby town of Belle Plaine, Iowa, but the marriage lasted only two years. This time a Daugherty wife took a stand, and left her husband after "diverse unhappy disputes and differences" and the two "agreed to live separate and apart from each other during their natural life." Galetsy made sure she maintained sole rights and custody of the real estate and property she brought into the marriage.</div>
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When Daniel Daugherty penned his last will and testament in February 1880, he had only nine more months of life left in him. He left bequests to six children by his first wife that he had little part in raising, some of them unknowingly already dead.</div>
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From James to Thomas to Daniel, the legacy of Daugherty fathers was one of abandonment, deception, violence, and selfishness. The ensuing three generations of Daugherty men only magnified and built upon an already deeply ingrained and established theme.</div>
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The grand finale would end with a daughter.</div>
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Michael D Lacopohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11804658533353361632noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728490610017274864.post-24527298564434890002016-09-01T13:54:00.002-04:002018-08-03T13:34:29.605-04:00A Year In Review: Part II<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinQfq4eadM31bOZ95d1TfNf56uWrOby-KrtsumFwr44lfpOdYQjdfX10PLkSbK6DKx4bHRDXiC87wLpzkXEZvPjAU45krPY8POw1VkvS1rLyzWaNfDRuw2Ap3-LcynjiOyIXCsrBj5nVE/s1600/tZbpDuW_20110117171009_129271253966vfs9i.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinQfq4eadM31bOZ95d1TfNf56uWrOby-KrtsumFwr44lfpOdYQjdfX10PLkSbK6DKx4bHRDXiC87wLpzkXEZvPjAU45krPY8POw1VkvS1rLyzWaNfDRuw2Ap3-LcynjiOyIXCsrBj5nVE/s400/tZbpDuW_20110117171009_129271253966vfs9i.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><b>Note to Readers:</b> This is a narrative. To start at the beginning, click on the "Blog Archive" to the right and click on the last entry, which is the first written, on 18 February 2014. Or simply click here: <a href="http://roots4u.blogspot.com/2014/02/beginnings.html" style="text-decoration: none;">Hoosier Daddy?: Beginnings</a>. </span></i></div>
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Nothing jolts you into wakefulness more than the realization that your life's work, your collection of rare books, and countless irreplaceable photographs are likely underwater.</div>
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Nate had calmly announced the watery disaster and walked out the door. He had left his bathroom toilet overflowing overnight, and eight hours worth of water had been cascading downward into my home office. Although I was standing in a significant amount of water at the door of the bathroom and in the hallway, I knew that the basement was probably far worse. Before sprinting down the steps to the office, I grabbed towels from the hall closet.</div>
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Yes, panic is not rational. A handful of towels was likely not going to absorb a deluge, but it's where my mind went at that moment.</div>
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I was met with ankle-deep water in the northeast corner of my basement, and the water rapidly rising. I also had an amazing waterfall feature coming from the ceiling air ducts, and the surrounding plasterwork from the finished textured ceiling had collapsed and was floating in front of my bookshelves as if to offer a life raft for any who would like to jump to safety. Ironically, the toilet lies directly above the <i>unfinished</i> part of my basement directly over a drain. Although admittedly there was a significant amount of water on that side of the finished wall, Mother Nature decided the path of least resistance was not directly down, but along the duct system and directly into my office.</div>
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There is really nothing to do at a moment like this. Even I was deeply torn and confused as to whether I should weep uncontrollably, scream with anger at the top of my lungs, or scurry about in some vain attempt of looking like I could actually accomplish something.</div>
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I did the latter... with a fair smattering of the former.</div>
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I threw the towels down. They floated briefly before becoming saturated and sinking to the floor. I ran upstairs and grabbed more.</div>
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In those panic-stricken moments, Kirk had silently left his bedroom upstairs and slipped out of the house. This was obviously all my problem and only my problem, regardless of who caused it. Assistance was not to be found within the home I shared with two utter morons.</div>
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Confession: I am a book whore. I have thousands of books. My genealogy library is arranged in a useful manner, mostly geographically. The books in the lower shelves were in obviously affected by the rising tide, and because of the waterfall and ceiling collapse, many of the books in the upper shelves were also in standing water. Geographically, Ohio and Indiana experienced the worst flooding. Who knew the corn belt would be swept away by a toilet?</div>
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The following days and weeks were filled with insurance agents, water remediation people, deafening industrial fans and dehumidifiers, contractors, flooring specialists (since my ranch home is all done in hardwood floors that were now buckled and warped), and the sounds of drilling into every baseboard and wall to dry it out. Finally tally: $30,000 in damage.</div>
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I could write several more paragraphs about the shoddy job done by the restoration and remodeling people, and their dogged determination to pocket all the insurance money when only doing a third of the work of what was estimated by my adjuster. My insistence on paying them for only work they had done lead to months of battling, a lien against my house, and the repetitive use of the phrase, <i>"Dr. Lacopo, you just don't seem to understand how insurance claims work."</i> Uh huh, yeah, I do....</div>
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Or I could tell you about how Kirk and Nate complained and whined bitterly about the need to move out of the house for a week when the floors were being replaced, stripped, and stained. They reasoned that since insurance was paying for me (and two cats) to live in a hotel, I should logically pay for the roommates to live somewhere for the week, while deducting a week from their rent. The work was delayed by a couple days, but on the final day of treating the newly-stained floors Kirk and Nate were instructed by me and the flooring crew that they could move back in the following day, and then in stocking feet only. A sign was posted on the front door not to enter. I went back to my hotel room, but I returned to the house around 2 a.m. to dump some of my belongings in the garage to make moving back into my home the next day with freaked out cats less traumatic. My desire for minimal drama ended as soon as I turned the corner and saw the exterior of my house.</div>
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Kirk and Nate had decided that waiting for the floor to cure was unncessary. They were already in the house. The "Keep Out" sign was still firmly attached to the door.</div>
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What followed was a string of expletives not fit for this blog, and a complete breakdown of any sort of sanity or decorum. I nearly broke my hand beating the Nate's and Kirk's bedroom doors down. Yelling. Drama. And a not-so-kindly worded verbal invitation for the two of them to leave. Leave now.</div>
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Nate tried to argue that he never touched the floor. Apparently he floated down the hall. Kirk was a bit overwhelmed by my insistence that he leave my house and go straight to hell. He got out of bed, put on his clothes and shoes and started into the hallway.</div>
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DO. NOT. LET. YOUR. F*CKING. SHOES. TOUCH. THIS. FLOOR.</div>
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Kirk left. I never saw him again.</div>
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Nate left, but he returned minutes later in an attempt to convince me that he crawled through his window. It is a crank window that opens vertically with a screen on it. I called him on his ridiculous lie. He threatened to come back the next day to show me what happens to "pretentious little faggots."</div>
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Then the police came. Apparently screaming on your front porch at 4 a.m. alarms your neighbors.</div>
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Nate returned in the following days, but only long enough to start packing for his departure to a new apartment. He was gone within two weeks, and with him an assortment of my electronics and cable equipment. Left behind in his wake was just the mess that had become one of my bedrooms... and the smell.</div>
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So, the water damage is repaired, the roommates are gone, and life can go on, right? I can chart a new course of gleefully living alone in a freshly remodeled home, right? Of course not.</div>
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Hours after I kicked out the roommates, I went back to the hotel to attempt an hour or two of sleep. The sun had barely risen above the horizon, before my cell phone was ringing with a call from the owner of the flooring company.</div>
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<i><b>"I'm sorry, Mike. I'm really sorry. This has never happened to us before."</b></i></div>
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As an aside, this is NOT how any phone call should begin, regardless of the circumstances. Nothing good can follow. </div>
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Hem. Haw. Apologize. Stutter. Stammer. Apologize some more. Delay. Throw out some clichés. Stall. Stammer some more.</div>
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<b><i>"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TRYING TO TELL ME!?!?"</i></b></div>
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In the course of finishing my hardwood floors, the crew had cut through the water line that leads to my refrigerator and freezer. Their sander had severed it, and it had just slipped and fallen back into the basement. As the crew was sanding and staining and finishing my floor for eleven days, my basement was again slowly filling with water.</div>
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Destroyed books, photos, heirlooms. Dryers. Dehumidifiers. Mold.... Lather. Rinse. Repeat.</div>
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If you have read this far, you are likely getting a good idea of my 2015.</div>
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And I am only to August.</div>
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The remainder of the summer and most of the autumn was dedicated to fighting insurance companies, unfreezing salvageable books one at a time and drying them out, remodeling the destroyed bathrooms on my own, gutting the entire basement and deciding what to keep, donate, salvage, store, file, trash, and making lists and lists of books damaged and destroyed from two floods. You see, in the minds of an insurance adjuster any book that cannot be found in Barnes & Noble's present-day inventory is worth $9.58. I have no idea where that number comes from, but additionally, ths value is then depreciated by 50%, thus making every destroyed book worth $4.29.</div>
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And guess what? Most of the books you find in a genealogist's library ain't gonna be found in Barnes & Noble's inventory.</div>
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So, for example, the original 1913 history of Crawford County, Ohio, that I paid to have restored and rebound, and is obviously not in print, is worth $4.29. After receiving the book inventory from the insurance adjuster, my return email started with <b><i>"Okay. No. Just no. No. No. No."</i></b> Oh, and that additional $10,000 home insurance rider I added to my policy years ago to just barely begin to cover my library's worth? Nobody at my insurance company had any idea what I was talking about, nor is there any record of it. The idiot agent I had worked with years ago was long gone. Oh, and you use these books for your work? Your insurance policy doesn't cover as much for work-related items as it does for personal property.</div>
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While trying to pull my home together, I still had bills to pay. There were lecture and research trips (and associated travel disasters) to Virginia, Ohio, California, North Carolina, Pennsylvania, Michigan, Kentucky, Texas, and throughout Indiana. Talking to researchers about genealogy gave me great joy, but they always ended with the knowledge that I had to go home to deal with ongoing chaos.</div>
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On 5 October 2015 the call came that my father had ended his own life (see <a href="http://roots4u.blogspot.com/2015/11/phase-two-life-is-messy.html">Hoosier Daddy?: Phase Two: Life is Messy</a>). Although we had not spoken in over a year, I was still the one people turned to with the hundreds of unanswered questions. "<i>You know how to find things! Find out what happened!" </i>Calls to police detectives, lawyers, medical examiners, crime scene investigators filled my early days of autumn. Much like genealogical research, the more information you discover and process, the more questions it raises without providing any answers.</div>
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Two weeks later I received another call much like the one before. Another unexpected death. My best friend from childhood had died unexpectedly at his home at the age of 48. David and I grew up one block away from each other, and our friendship stretched back to the days when I was allowed to ride my bike around the block, but I was forbidden to cross any streets. David lived around the block AND across the street. He too was not allowed to leave the safe confines of the sidewalk. So we would chat from opposite sides of a suburban neighborhood avenue almost always devoid of traffic.</div>
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We were inseparable in grade school and junior high, and being the fifth born in a hard-working, busy family of six children, it was easy for David to slip away to spend days with my family, eventually gaining status as my unofficial adopted brother. He joined us on family vacations. We shared secrets. We occasionally fought like brothers, but the bond you make with someone you <i>choose</i> to be your family often runs even deeper than blood.</div>
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Our high school paths differed, and he married and started a family shortly thereafter, while I went off to college. Time spent together lessened, but there were always visits, phone calls, emails, texts. The advent of Facebook allowed a closer reacquaintance with each other's lives. He fathered four children: the youngest a mere toddler at his death. I was busy with work, travel, trying to establish myself in a new field while shedding the skin of a veterinarian. The story is familiar. Our lives are busy. We are (relatively) young. There is always tomorrow. The last message I have from David was a few months before. It was a random Facebook text checking on me: "Hello Brother... you doing OK?"</div>
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Now he was dead.</div>
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Like the news of my father's death, it initially felt like a cruel joke. I think that was my first response, "You're kidding, right?" Once the information is truly processed, the hope that what you've learned is merely macabre humor is replaced with numb disbelief. Unlike the news regarding my father, the numbness was replaced with utter despair. One man in an anonymous sea of billions was plucked from this planet far too soon, but he was a special man -- to me, to his children, to his family, and to many others. So many previous opportunities to get together gone and wasted, never to be offered again.</div>
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I had the opportunity to go to David's viewing and funeral service. I was not given that chance with my father. I noted the time and the place. I made sure the proper shirt, tie, and jacket were not at the dry cleaners, but in the end, I did not go. I know the funerary rituals we embrace are largely absurd, and I am aware that they are performed for the comfort of the living. Perhaps his father, brothers, sisters, wife, children, mutual friends all would have felt consolation by my presence, and shared stories of David's life would have lessened everyone's grief. In the end, I could not do it. I can give you a million reasons why it was a good decision, but the bottom line is that I am a chicken shit. I did not want the last view of someone young, vibrant, meaningful, and loved to be an artificially recreated rendition in a box. Admittedly, the spectacle of me collapsing into a formless blob of tears, wailing, and spewing snot also figured into the picture. I mourned alone, in silence, and cataloged my regrets and missed opportunities without having to wear a tie.</div>
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The physical toll of 2015?</div>
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I gained 25 pounds. I hate those people who lose weight when they are stressed, at least they can look svelte whilst being distraught. Clothes that fit at all are uncomfortable. The shirts at the back of the closet I rarely wore because they were "billowy" now fit well. I am tired and easily overwhelmed. I have probably over-embraced the lack of roommates, and I cling tenaciously to my reclusive ways. Never having been a good phone person, I leave my cell phone mailbox full to avoid people leaving messages. It's a good thing. I rarely checked it anyway.</div>
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My hair turned white. No, I do not mean that I began to see white hairs. That happened long before. The smattering of white in my beard is now well beyond the salt of "salt and pepper." My chest hair turned white. Even my arm hair is now turning. The temples of my head hair are predominately white, with the remainder of my once-brown hair replaced by a dingy colorless gray. Spoiler alert: it's all dyed.</div>
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Conspicuously missing in this entire assessment of 2105 is the primary focus of this blog. This year of chaos should have been somewhat redeemed by the opportunity to get to know the fascinating man I chased so aggressively during the entirety of 2014. Had I been granted such an opportunity, it might have been. But the biggest blow of 2015 was one I have yet to describe. </div>
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Harold James "Brighton" Daugherty died, on 25 March 2015, at the hands of the daughter he never knew existed.</div>
<br />Michael D Lacopohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11804658533353361632noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728490610017274864.post-90312960469008774442016-07-23T00:34:00.001-04:002016-07-24T19:09:21.529-04:00A Year In Review: Part I<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Note to Readers:</b> This is a narrative. To start at the beginning, click on the "Blog Archive" to the right and click on the last entry, which is the first written, on 18 February 2014. Or simply click here: <a href="http://roots4u.blogspot.com/2014/02/beginnings.html">Hoosier Daddy?: Beginnings</a>. </span></i><br />
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Okay. Yes. I am recapping my 2015 nearly eight months after it ended. I get it. I am slow.</div>
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<i>Star Wars</i> fans had to wait a decade for <i>The Force Awakens</i> after <i>Revenge of the Sith. </i>I figure by comparison, I am downright speedy. (((pats self on back)))<br />
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But how best to end a long silence with a bit of replay? Perhaps I need to jog your memory a bit (as well as mine), and get those literary juices flowing again. There is a lot to cover.<br />
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A lot.<br />
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Let me begin with some historical context. 2015 was supposed to be THE YEAR. You know... the year it all comes together, regardless of what "it" might be. 2015 was supposed to be the year my career choice as a professional genealogist netted a six-figure income. It was the year I was to find true love, my abs, and the miraculous ability to successfully manage my time while still trolling my Facebook feed and watching strings of meaningless YouTube videos. 2014 ended with all the chessmen in place. I just need to maneuver them into my checkmate.<br />
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<img height="213" src="https://thumbs.dreamstime.com/t/divided-fall-11759692.jpg" style="-webkit-user-select: none; display: block; margin: auto;" width="320" /><br />
It didn't quite work out that way.<br />
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I left my job as a small-animal veterinarian at a busy multi-doctor practice in January 2013. And by "left" I mean I was told after twenty-two years of practicing that my services were no longer needed and then given a five-minute notice to pack my things and leave. It was not unexpected. Having worked part-time since 2008, I had made myself expendible. I was also not exactly quiet and demure in my vocalization regarding the gross mismanagement of the business, as well as grappling with the wildly growing egos of money-hungry and power-thirsty younger associates. The medicine still excited and intrigued me. The health and well-being of beloved dogs and cats motivated and rewarded me. The people associated with both sides of the exam table were doing none of the above. To quote a blog I rarely read because of the associated anxiety it creates:<i>"From time to time I'd have one of those days when I'd rather be the janitor in a porno theater than to continue this nonsense of being a veterinarian."<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7728490610017274864#1" name="top1"><sup>1</sup></a> </i><br />
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My contract was to end in July 2013, and I had no expectation of receiving an invite to stay on, nor did I necessarily want to. Being handed my walking papers six months prematurely was not unexpected, but it was traumatic.<br />
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Suddenly I was thrust into relying solely on genealogical income for my survival. The first few weeks after my professional life abruptly ended, I battled physical illness, nausea, and anxiety associated with the stress of realizing that years of higher education and nearly a quarter-century of my professional life had just been tossed into a dumpster. Thereafter, I slowly came to the realization how nice it was to sleep in past 6 a.m. and gain a sense of excitement toward channeling my professional energies into this "hobby" that had consumed my life since my pre-teen years.<br />
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My newly adopted attitude was along the lines of <i>"Neener Neener Neener, I No Longer Have To Participate In The Rat Race!"</i> I was born and raised poor white trash, so I never bought into the mindset and extravagence of spending money on things I could not afford. I had made a good living as a veterinarian and squirrelled away enough savings for this very moment. Sleeping in even after the alarm clock goes off was a luxury of which I was becoming accustomed, because now it was merely a suggestion, and not a command. Relaxing mornings became the norm, nursing a pot (or two) of coffee whilst reading the news, emails, or the stack of genealogical periodicals that previously were little more than part of the perpetual clutter that was known as my work space. Throw in some required laptime for three cats, random household chores, perpetual snacking, degredation of housecleaning and gym habits, and I was completely and totally embracing the reclusive life of a hermit. 2013 quickly became dominatd by oft-repeated questions, such as "Did I shower this week?" or "Should I shave this month?" These questions were, of course, directed toward the cats, since human interaction was purely hypothetical.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgllzxsY0ZYjJEQTv-6qGH9VmeZbqnBzjY0W_qb9fmkmacq-rs5wZQ5YU8PKMmFQQb96OISyOniPLAKsBZbIjmJQuuQqsD8rfVMLOXxixj6jdZlkMtx6rxA_0lkeW8HfT8vHiia6JxDMwE/s1600/6.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgllzxsY0ZYjJEQTv-6qGH9VmeZbqnBzjY0W_qb9fmkmacq-rs5wZQ5YU8PKMmFQQb96OISyOniPLAKsBZbIjmJQuuQqsD8rfVMLOXxixj6jdZlkMtx6rxA_0lkeW8HfT8vHiia6JxDMwE/s400/6.png" width="340" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">"Why Working from Home is Both Awesome and Horrible," The Oatmeal, http://theoatmeal.com/comics/working_home</span></i></td></tr>
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So let's just say that 2013 was a transition year; a year of much needed rest and a zero-tolerance rule for stress and anxiety. It was a year of increased travel and visiting friends from California to New Jersey. It was a year needed to bring myself to a middle ground where I was putting one professional life behind me, and embarking upon a new one. And hey, I had savings, and I lived alone in a three-bedroom house. If need be, I could rent out those two spare bedrooms and supplement my current non-existent income and unemployment benefits, and life would be peachy! Right?<br />
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And it's not as if I was doing NOTHING in 2013. I was still lecturing. I was still chasing the dead people of others for hire. I was still doing the work I was born to do. I just hadn't done much in the way of business planning or honing constructive time management skills before this transition was thrust upon me. Then again, I wasn't entirely embracing the need to do so right away either. When 2013 came to an end, there was the stark realization that I may actually have to <i>work</i> in 2014.<br />
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Unfortunately my 2014 began with a lecherous B&B owner sneaking into my rented bedroom and groping my nether regions in my sleep on an early, sunny Palm Springs, California, morning. This was quickly followed by a hasty and obscenely early retreat after some police intervention to catch an Amtrak train with my increasingly melodramatic mother. Sunny California gave way to a ridiculously frigid Midwest and a subsequent eleven-hour delay as we inched our way into Chicago during a polar vortex. With all transportation shut down and a state of emergency declared, I was booted out into the streets of Chicago in forty-below-zero weather by testy Amtrak personnel who had no idea when they could get me home, nor any desire to make it happen.<br />
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I really should pay a lot more attention to these New Year harbingers of doom and destruction.<br />
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The other thing that 2014 brought me? DNA. I do not need to rehash THAT part of my life here. Those who have read this blog from the beginning know that fact full well. In February 2014, I learned that the man I had regarded as my biological maternal grandfather was not at all correct. While I had long suspected that a reasonable doubt existed, and that my grandmother's first husband could be the man who fathered my mother, I was also shocked to learn that he too was not the man I was looking for. My grandfather was a complete stranger.<br />
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It really is a very unkind twist of fate to destroy one-quarter of a genealogist's pedigree after thirty-five years of research.<br />
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2014 was supposed to be the year I got my business off the ground. 2014 was the year I was going to finally work on my certification project for the Board for Certification of Genealogists. 2014 was the year I was going to tighten the reigns and make my mark on the world of professional genealogy. 2014 was the year I was going to leave Indiana and start life anew... perhaps in California, in Utah, in Pennsylvania... just somewhere that was not here.<br />
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Instead, 2014 became the obsessive year of finding my grandfather. Hours upon hours were spent analyzing even the tiniest autosomal DNA match in hopes of finding some common thread. When the trail began heating up, I would spend days extending pedigrees back several generations on Robinsons, Ryders, and adjacent families that would later be found to be completely unrelated. I stalked countless people on Facebook who might carry DNA that would help me. I made elaborate diagrams and trees. I begged strangers for DNA. Repeatedly. There was no comprehensible thought of leaving Indiana now. Knowing my mother was conceived in the area around Elkhart, Indiana, in the spring of 1946 meant that the likely home of my unknown grandfather and his extended family was also northern Indiana. The dream of starting a new life in a new place was put on hold indefinitely, because I was determined to identify this mystery man before ever leaving the state.<br />
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I WAS going to identify this man. I had no question about that.<br />
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Business in 2014 was laughable. Little money was coming in, and a whole lot was going out on dozens of autosomal DNA test kits. Client work was minimal and even those projects I took on where grievously delayed and perpetually behind schedule. I spent more time obsessively checking <i>23andMe</i>'s results pages for new matches to my mother instead of writing reports. No new matches at 9 a.m.? How about 10? 10:30? 2? Certainly there would be a new lead at 4 p.m. Over and over and over again like pulling the arm on a damn slot machine waiting for my three cherries to pop up and dump a jackpot into my lap.<br />
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It wasn't quite that easy. Obsession, compulsion, determination, fanatacism... whatever you want to call it... paid off. In less than a year I had found my grandfather. 2014 ended with not just a new name on my pedigree chart and new genealogical lines to investigate. It ended with finding a living human being who showed me how and why I ended up being a part of a family with whom I had so little in common - physically, emotionally, intellectually. Finding Harold James "Brighton" Daugherty was the end of a journey I had no idea I was taking. I did not find just a name, nor did I find an unremarkable old man. I unwittingly found myself. An intellectual, analytical, factual, genealogical search became intimately more personal.<br />
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This is what life offered me as 2014 drew to a close, and 2015 dawned. Yes, 2015 was going to be THE YEAR. Doors had been opened. A quest had come to a successful fruition. My motivation to work at my chosen profession energized me every day, and I had a wonderful new part of me that I yearned to learn about. Nothing could possibly keep me from attaining new heights of happiness, success, and world domination. Okay, at least the first two were easily within my grasp.<br />
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And then I tried to die.<br />
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Melodramatic? Maybe. But wandering around Salt Lake City in January 2015 drenched in sweat, confused and disoriented while gasping for oxygen through the audible crackles and wheezes of my diseased lungs certainly qualifies for the trivia list entitled <i>Top 5 Illnesses of My Life</i>. A fantastic weight loss plan, yes, but one I do not highly recommend using on a regular basis. This should have been my sign of things to come.<br />
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The ensuing Spring had me traveling to to a number of lecture venues and attempting to jump start my career with new client work and lecture opportunities. With the melting snows also came two new roommates.<br />
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Some background: if it does not relate to genealogy or DNA, I am a Scrooge. I can have my desk stacked with six spare autosomal DNA test kits, but I will agonize over the price of gum. Having roommates was a welcome -- and necessary -- addition to my financial well-being. But let's take a broader view here: how many responsible, sane adults need to live in a stranger's spare bedroom? I am near the Notre Dame campus, but not close enough to garner the interest of students. I live in the booming metropolis of Granger, Indiana. How am I going to find renters? And what kind of people would they be?<br />
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Craigslist. Yep. That's where I sought life's answers. I advertised for any lost souls who wanted to rent a room. Of course, I had prospective tenants fill out renter's applications. I conducted interviews. I ran credit and background checks. I may be desperate, but I ain't no fool. It wasn't all haphazard. After all, I did manage to avoid the very charming, attractive, and well-spoken man who conspicuously left a large portion of his application blank, and upon research was a convicted felon with a lengthy prison record, and as an additional perks was also on the state sex offenders list. I declined the guy whose occupation was "professional gambler" who upon first meeting proceeded to give me the intimate details of his sex life while on the road playing poker. Then there was the boyfriend-girlfriend duo with the German Shepherd who just wouldn't take "NO" for an answer. No, I don't want two people renting one room. No, I definitely don't want a large dog in my house with my two cats. No, I am not going to consider it. No, I don't want to meet you. No, I am not going to send you an application. No, I am not going to respond to your fifteenth and sixteenth email.<br />
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The first to move in was Nate. Forty years old and recently divorced, his ex-wife had moved with his two pre-teen sons from Wisconsin to be closer to her parents in nearby Edwardsburg, Michigan. He was looking to move nearby so he too could participate in his parental responsibilities. He was a bartender of long standing at a Madison brewhouse, and his references were sound. He had the personality of a grown-up child, or perhaps that of a frat boy that never matured passed his late teens. He was funny and relaxed, tousled and unkempt, with a penchant for magic tricks, collecting coins, treasure hunting with his metal detector, and indulging in political conspiracy theories. We were certainly not cut from the same cloth, and it was unlikely that we would be spending our evenings in animated discussion on the history of the German settlement of eighteenth-century Pennsylvania, but he also seemed harmless, financially sound, and possessing a legitimate reason for needing a cheap place to stay relatively quickly. Done deal.<br />
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The second roommate was Kirk. He was in his sixties, and his application boasted his professional history of successful investment banking in Chicago, while currently working part-time as a weekend concierge in a Chicago restaurant and as a fitness trainer at a local gym. To me, his nickname immediately became "Skeletor," as he was rail thin and hardly someone I would take fitness advice from. His ultralean frame was topped with unnaturally dark jet-black hair that obviously came from a bottle. He bathed in cheap department store cologne that would let any woman know by smell before sight that a way-past-his-prime-but-doesn't-know-it Lothario was out on the prowl. Kirk's aged father had recently died, and he had moved from Chicago to Michigan to live in the family's lake house and ready it for sale. Its immediate and unexpected sale meant that he needed a place to live while his estate in Florida was being built, where he would be moving with his steady girlfriend, who would likely soon become his wife. As it turned out, the Florida home was never again referenced, and the girlfriend was never seen.<br />
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Although his story reeked of bullshit, he seemed harmless enough. His background checked out, and he moved in with nary a pot to piss in (but enough dietery supplements to choke a horse). He had a daily routine that kept him away from the house for most the time other than night-time sleeping. It seemed perfect.<br />
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Perfection it was not.<br />
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I have learned to embrace being a recluse, and I did not rent rooms to hire friends. Nate loved to tell me about his day, his kids, his job, his magic, his everything. Fine. Okay. He wasn't a bad guy. I can do this. My office and library is in my fully-furnised basement. It is my <i>sanctum sanctorum</i>. Being an open concept house, there are few doors, so there was never an obvious physical barrier distinctly telling people to "Keep Out!" Nate loved to come downstairs to chat. Often. Then he decided since his laptop was broken, he could take over one of my desktop workstations when I was not at home. This led to his divine realization that he was destined to quit his job and become an eBay god, spending his days at auctions and garage sales and his nights listing various pieces of junk online. My house rapidly became a storage space for tchotchkes best relegated for a dumpster; each one of which he showed me, described its acquisition in detail, and to which he ascribed some sort of rare and expensive value. Soon he had commandeered by computer, my printer, my packaging material and tape, and most of all - my space. Rummage sale refuse was stacked in my living room, my kitchen, my basement, my garage.<br />
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Oh, yes, it was in his room too. But then again, so was everything else. His wordly possessions were mounded on top of each other in a disorganized heap, and he only just kept added to it. I thought eventually it would reach the ceiling, and he would not longer have headroom to stand up. This growing mound also incorporated within it a random assortment of unwashed clothes, food, and eating utensils.<br />
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The other thing housed in Nate's bedroom, but regrettably not contained within, was the smell. Not a terrible fan of showering, and even then, deodorizing, Nate was often quite ripe to the discriminating nostrils. When I spied a pizza box with uneaten pizza within lying on his bed for the fifth consecutive day, the law was laid down. If I can smell it, it needs cleaned. And I gave him fair warning that I would enter his room often to reclaim dishes, silverware, cups, and glasses that never seemed to make it back to the kitchen once they entered his odiferous abyss. Truthfully, I think he found it all rather amusing. It was only when I also demanded the removal of his inventory from all living areas that he started getting defensive. When I declined his offer for increased rental payment in exchange for "work space" in my basement office, he countered aggressively and out of character with a string of expletives about how self-absorbed and greedy I was. It was apparent that frat boy Nate had the potential for significant anger.<br />
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Strangely, Kirk and Nate got along well, largely I am sure because of a shared dislike for me. I learned to be perpetually in tune with the sound of their cars, so that I could run and hide in my office or my bedroom. Kirk was odd. Nate was annoying. I was a prisoner in my own home avoiding any possible chance necessary interaction with either of them. Kirk was the polar opposite of Nate: a neat freak who had to keep his wardrobe perpetually clean. Nate would only wash the one pair of black pants and the one black shirt he needed to bartend. Of course he did this repeatedly, as his work place had commented on his sloppy appearance. Combined, my washer and dryer never stopped. My electric bill skyrocketed, and I rarely kept up with the depleting salt demands of my water softener.<br />
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This increased level of tension culminated in the events of the morning of 07 May 2015.<br />
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Since I have cats that demand complete and total access to my bedroom, I sleep with my door open enough for them to come and go as they please. On that particular morning I was awakened by increasingly louder repetitions of my name from the cracked door. <i>"Mike. Mike. Mike. MIKE."</i><br />
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It was Nate. Once he recieved my acknowledgment, he stated with an obvious tone of amusement, "Dude. You're gonna be pissed when you see the basement." Then he left.<br />
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I struggled a minute with conprehending the meaning of his statement while coming to full wakefulness. He was already out the front door when I jumped out of bed and ran through standing water in my hallway.<br />
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This was an immediate invite for "Hysterics. Party of One."<br />
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My mind raced. My body struggled to follow the dozens of directives simultaenously issued by my brain. Where is the water coming from? Is the valve turned off? Do I grab a million towels? Do I assess the source and path of the water flow....<br />
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<i><b>...Oh Jesus Christ, Mary, Joseph, and all the Angels and Saints on High, the path of least resistance for all this water is DOWN! THE BASEMENT!!!</b></i><br />
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Hell is not fire and brimstone. Hell is water. Lots and lots and lots of water.</div>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7728490610017274864" name="1"><b>1 </b></a>"Veterinarians Behaving Badly," blog post, 2 May 2015, http://vetsbehavingbadly.blogspot.com/2015/05/herky-wont-let-me-be.html<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7728490610017274864#top1"><sup>↩</sup></a>
</span>Michael D Lacopohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11804658533353361632noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728490610017274864.post-76096500775717819272015-11-07T00:19:00.002-05:002015-11-07T00:20:55.220-05:00Phase Two: Life is Messy<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGibuZqWR2YTXpsbZgxlCAPyzG4QHwGxvm8Ysmmd5dvwUJp4jj3dxnAGB7Ve9qvGhdrC17u0-RewB0tLv8jy_yjSPFzUsesRj_qq1vuFoyzS8UbnLkec3HHTl7rEGTp7yh4Lzevs8G8Bs/s1600/DeanMike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGibuZqWR2YTXpsbZgxlCAPyzG4QHwGxvm8Ysmmd5dvwUJp4jj3dxnAGB7Ve9qvGhdrC17u0-RewB0tLv8jy_yjSPFzUsesRj_qq1vuFoyzS8UbnLkec3HHTl7rEGTp7yh4Lzevs8G8Bs/s400/DeanMike.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Michael Dean Lacopo and Dean William Lacopo, Jr.<br />
South Bend, Indiana, 1998<br />
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On the evening of 04 October 2015, in Colorado Springs, Colorado, my father put a 9mm handgun to his left temple and pulled the trigger. The intended result was not instantaneous. The short and speedy path of the bullet fractured the base of his skull and exited his upper right eyelid, sparing any structures that would have caused his immediate demise. He was still breathing when emergency personnel arrived.</div>
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He died shortly after his hospital arrival. He was 69 years old.</div>
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I was informed of his death the following afternoon by his half-sister who heard it from his sister who heard it from his brother who heard it from his wife. None of his three sons were directly notified; apparently this was not a priority. It is not entirely surprising. None of his three sons had a functional relationship with the man.</div>
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Dean William Lacopo, Jr., was born in South Bend, Indiana, on 25 February 1946, to an alcoholic father, and a mother who would abandon him and his siblings just three years later. While his father worked as a shoe repairer between drinking binges, Dino (as everyone but my mother called him) and his siblings were largely raised by his paternal grandparents. Three generations of Lacopos lived under one roof in the small house at 727 North Eddy Street in South Bend. His grandfather, Domenico Salvatore "Dominick" Lacopo, was an Italian immigrant who taught his grandson the power of a strong work ethic. He regrettably also instilled into him the Italian machismo that involved keeping a woman in her place while freely pursuing sexual conquests. Male superiority was a common theme to my father, forever expressing his prowess at producing three male heirs, while berating his youngest son for only siring daughters.</div>
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Briefly, these are the circumstances surrounding my father's upbringing. He mimicked all the negative traits and interpersonal skills learned from his parents and grandparents and brought them into his adult relationships with others. </div>
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As a high school student, Dean was repeatedly expelled from South Bend schools for his aggressive behavior -- a trait that was magnified exponentially when he drank, which was often and continual. He moved in with his father's sister in Mishawaka in 1964 so that he could attend Penn High School in that city. </div>
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It was here that Dean met my mother, Carol Sue DePrato. She was the good Catholic girl who had been adopted and spoiled by the parents who could have no children of their own. He was the bad boy from the wrong side of the tracks. The attraction was obvious, plucked from every clichéd good-girl-bad-boy B-movie plot line. </div>
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When Dean quit high school to join the Marines, he left Carol behind. She took up with her previous boyfriend who bored her, but who offered stability and took her to her High School Senior Prom. When Dean returned home for the holidays from Marine Corps Base Quantico in Virginia in 1965, the attraction was still strong. Being a good Catholic girl, Carol resisted his persistent physical advances. He asked her to marry him. That worked wonders.</div>
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Two months later, Carol's disappointed father and morally-outraged mother promptly put their pregnant teenage daughter on a train to San Diego, California, where she met up with Dean, now stationed at Camp Pendleton, and they were hurriedly married on 25 February 1966. Their eldest son was born there seven months later.</div>
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My mother was not the only woman calling my father with shocking news. The girl he dated while stationed in Quantico had done so at nearly the exact time. She too was pregnant with his child. The girl born in Washington, D.C., just forty days before my brother's birth, was given up for adoption. This perpetual string of women and juggling relationships would continue until my father's death. At no time during his marriages would Dean adhere to monogamy, having numerous dalliances that a marriage certificate was powerless to prevent. But in 1966, having just turned twenty years old, he was suddenly saddled with a lonely bride living in cockroach-infested base housing caring for a newborn son far away from home. He was ill-prepared for the inconvenient burdens of fatherhood. Her options were limited, more so after discovering almost immediately that she was pregnant again by her already unfaithful husband. They returned to the South Bend area after my father's discharge from the Marines, where I was born nine months and four days after my brother.</div>
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The house I grew up in was located on the north side of Mishawaka, Indiana. It was a post-war prefab two-bedroom, one-bathroom ranch on a concrete slab. Purchased for $9,000 in 1967, we moved into it when I was just two months old. Shortly thereafter, my father gained employment with the Mishawaka Police Department. These two things would remain constant until I left home for college in 1985.</div>
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I have no positive memories of my father during this time. In the wake of his death, I tried to search my mind for them, but I came up empty. I know he was present at a handful of family events and holidays, but I know this only by looking at photographs. School events were largely attended by my mother and my maternal grandparents. I do not recall his attendance at any of them. For many years, my father worked the night shift, so his presence often was precluded by the need to report to work, or to sleep during the day. It was 1970s, an era of very hands-off parenting. The hovering and catering and nurturing techniques of child-rearing experienced later by the Millennials would have seemed ludicrous to my parents a generation prior.</div>
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But it is not my father's parenting techniques or work absences that causes my lack of memories. There are plenty of memories, just none of them are pleasant.</div>
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At the most benign, the smell of a man drunk on bourbon, mixed with the stench of cigarette smoke, immediately reminds me of my father and takes me back to my childhood.</div>
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At the worst, the memories include the time we had to throw out all of the toys we loved, because my father had come home drunk and urinated in our toy box, thinking it was the toilet. </div>
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Or the time he came home after work with a strange man following in a pick up truck. Without notice to anyone in his family, he packed up the dog house from the back yard and gave this man my beloved dog, a Doberman named Caesar. Mother and children just cried in stunned disbelief. I was devastated.</div>
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Or the wrath that would ensue if you didn't clean your room when told. This would usually result in a fit of cursing anger followed by the furiously crazed dismantling and destruction of shelves, dressers, and closets; the breaking of toys, lamps, and knick-knacks, and the final statement "NOW you have a room to clean! Clean it!" You didn't dare cry at the destruction left in his wake. If you did, you were taken from the room to really be "given something to cry about."</div>
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And the beatings. The cursing. The fighting. The violence. The fear. The snapping of his belt when you knew he meant business, or the feel of it against your bare lower back or upper thighs that invariably came from bad aim meant for your buttocks. The level of my father's anger and drunkenness was usually measurable by whether the welts he left behind from his beatings bled or not.</div>
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I ran into an old neighbor from my childhood when I was in my 30s. He marveled at how successful I had become: a college graduate with a doctorate and working at a thriving veterinary practice. He just stared at me silently with a wistful teary-eyed smile. After an uncomfortable silence, I asked him what was wrong.</div>
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"Nobody in the neighborhood expected you to live through your childhood. Your father's alcohol-fueled temper was notorious. And he carried a gun for a living. We all waited for it to reach its eventual climax."</div>
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My father would beat my mother into unconsciousness, while we would usually run to the back yard or the neighbor's house shrieking in abject terror. This played out numerous times for the neighborhood to see, so it was no deep, dark family secret. My mother called the police once. They laughed at her. They were certainly not going to send out a squad car on one of their own. Sorry. Not our problem. Deal with it.</div>
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Like most police officers, my father supplemented his income by working security at other businesses. He started at First National Bank, then for many years at the local K-Mart, and then as head of security at University Park Mall - all in Mishawaka, Indiana. More than two decades have passed since his retirement from the Mishawaka Police Department, yet I still hear his name used as the illustration for "the bad cop." The cop that would confiscate drugs or other illegal goods from a perpetrator, then pocket them. The cop that would let a female prisoner go in exchange for sexual favors. The cop that once cut a prisoner's finger off by slamming a jail door onto it, then laughed when the man screamed and writhed in pain, all the while taunting him on the other side of the locked cell with his dismembered digit.</div>
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Still, when people hear my name and ask, "Are you Dino's son?" my response is never an immediate "Yes." It is usually a wary "Why?"</div>
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To my father, these were the things that defined a man: strength, power, violence, control, money, sex.</div>
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Once I reached an age of rationality and reasoning, I became well aware of the dysfunction around me. Unlike my father, I did not allow my childhood upbringing to define me and doom me to the repetition of the same faults and behaviors. I was all the things my father was not, and did not understand, and for that, I was spared most of the physical violence doled out upon my mother and brothers.</div>
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My father wanted three strapping, lady-killing, smooth-talking jocks for sons. By that measuring stick, I failed miserably. I was well-behaved and quiet. I rarely defied my father's authority, or that of my teachers or anyone who held power over me. I was a sickly child with a host of orthopedic, gastrointestinal, and ocular problems. I was not the jock my father wanted, but somehow health issues beyond my control gave me an excuse. It wasn't an entirely acceptable one, but it was futile to try to make me be something I physically could not. And I was smart and bookish. Somewhere this must have registered with my father as a positive trait, but again, it was unfamiliar territory.</div>
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So I was largely ignored.</div>
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When I started my genealogical research and made my first foray into the civil court records at the St. Joseph County Clerk's office, I was surprisingly shocked to see that my father filed for divorce in almost every year beginning in 1968. The court filing, moving out to shack up with the girlfriend du jour, and the moving back in once his fling lost its appeal, had finally taken its toll on my mother. Seventeen years into their marriage, she was done. She was determined to make my father's divorce filing in June 1983 his last.</div>
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My father would show up at the house frequently after the divorce, asking my mother to remarry him. I think he missed the control more than the marriage. When she steadfastly refused his final offer, he angrily told her that she would be sorry. He married his second wife the following week as his revenge.</div>
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I left for college. There were no letters from my father. There were no cards or gifts at the holidays or my birthday. He did not congratulate me when I made Dean's List. He did not attend my graduation from veterinary school. As I entered into adulthood, the father who terrorized my childhood became the father who just didn't care.</div>
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And as I write that, I am terribly saddened by it. There were many reasons for me to hate my father. I did not. I craved his approval, and I longed for his attention. These are things I would never get. His death means that they are no longer options.</div>
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For Christmas, 1979, my father bought all three of his sons sterling silver St. Christopher medals on long chains. I am sitting her with mine in front of me, encased in the blue velvet box in which it was presented. On the back is engraved, "<i>Mike from Dad 12-25-79</i>." My father never played a role in birthday or holiday gift buying, and I recall even my mother being perplexed by the purchasing and presenting of these gifts. I wore it continuously for years, and it is exposed and visible in my 8th grade school pictures, worn outside my faux-silk disco shirt. I meticulously preserved the medal and its casing, because it showed me that on some level my father loved me.</div>
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After my father retired from the Mishawaka Police Department, he took on a full-time position as a regional loss prevention and security manager for K-Mart stores. This required a move to New Mexico, and then to Colorado. His physical absence from the state made any meaningful attempt at connection nearly impossible. If I failed to call my father within what he deemed to be an appropriate amount of time, I could usually expect a drunken, profanity-laden message on my answering machine reminding me how undeserving I was to carry the surname Lacopo. The rants would usually last for several minutes.</div>
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It was seldom an incentive to call back.</div>
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And still, I waited for some moment of clarity or reflection when my father would grow up and realize that he needed to connect with the son he failed to raise. I recall one birthday afternoon sometime in the late 1990s when I was working as a veterinarian. I was paged by one of our receptionists:</div>
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"Your father is on Line 1."</div>
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I was shocked and ecstatic at the same time. My father <i>really</i> remembered my birthday? Maybe he <i>really</i> did care after all!</div>
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When I picked up the phone, there was no small talk, just a simple question.</div>
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<i>"Hey, do you have Greg's number? I think today is his birthday."</i></div>
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Right day, wrong son. </div>
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Crestfallen, I corrected him. He did not offer me any birthday wishes. He just apologized for the error and hung up.</div>
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For all the preaching I do about learning the stories of our ancestors and of our families, I failed to learn my father's story. I tried intermittently over the years to really talk to the man and understand him. As I learned more from other family members and through my research about his upbringing and the dysfunctional generations that preceded him, I had a better sense of how he was started down the path he had chosen. As I got older, I realized how terribly difficult it would be for me to have three children by the age of twenty-three, and how his selfish, narcissistic mentality would be most incompatible to raising them. I don't excuse the errors people <i>choose</i> to make, but at least I try to understand the origins of them. Somewhat.</div>
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I visited Colorado a couple times. Time with my father was not horrible, but it was not comfortable either. I always expected more. I got less. When he returned to Indiana for visits, he rarely stayed with his children, and more often he stayed with his stepdaughter. When he asked to stay with me in the summer of 2008, I was, again, overjoyed. While he had other options to choose from, he chose me. Maybe on the cusp of my 41st birthday, I would finally begin to have a relationship with my father... or at least some adult facsimile thereof.</div>
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As it turned out, he had arranged to stay with me, because he had also arranged to have an Indiana fling -- something you cannot do when you are staying with your wife's daughter. I was livid, equal parts at him, as to myself, for being a grown man still seeking his Daddy's approval. And for being so gullible to think he would supply it.</div>
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His defense? <i>"It's okay. I cheated on your mother with her too."</i></div>
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Dean W. Lacopo, Jr., rarely did anything that did not directly benefit Dean W. Lacopo, Jr.</div>
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An occasional email or phone call followed in 2009, but after my computer account was hacked and phantom messages were repeatedly sent from to my entire address book selling Viagra and other such nonsense, it was met with this response from my father, ironically delivered on Father's Day, 2010.</div>
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<i>"Michael, Take me off your email address book, I do not need the garbage you're sending to everyone. I fully understand you have no love for me, and trust me, I really don't care. You are a looser [sic]. You think you are so much better than everyone else, trust me you are not, so forget about me because I have forgot about you. Maybe if you ask, your mother might tell you who your real father is, because I know I'm not."</i></blockquote>
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I quit trying after this email.</div>
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And then came DNA.</div>
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On 25 August 2013, I sent my father an email asking if he would be willing to spit in a tube for my genealogical research. It was met with as much venom as the 2010 email. His willingness to submit to a DNA test was based on a list of requirements I would have to meet before he would do so.</div>
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I declined the offer.</div>
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Several days later, my father contacted me and told me he was coming to Indiana. He would do my DNA test. He wanted to call a truce.</div>
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And still, the little boy in me basked in the tiniest ray of attention bestowed upon him by his father.</div>
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The last time I saw my father was on the day he spit into a <i>23andMe</i> autosomal DNA test kit. He took me to brunch. We chatted about work, the weather, the house... safe topics. When he left, I again felt the same familiar pangs of sadness and emptiness that accompanied his visits. I didn't know my father, and he didn't know me. He said he wanted to take me to dinner before he returned to Colorado. He never called me back to arrange such a thing. He left without a word.</div>
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But while he was spitting in a tube, he spied a program I had lying on my desk from a recent "VIP FamilySearch Breakfast" I had attended in Fort Wayne, Indiana, during a national genealogical conference. He read my biography within, and he flipped through the remainder of the program.</div>
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<i>"You're a VIP, huh?"</i></blockquote>
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<i>"Yeah, I guess so."</i></blockquote>
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<i>"So you're really good at this? People recognize this? That's impressive."</i></blockquote>
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After 46 years, this is the most praise I had ever received from my father.</div>
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A haphazard exchange of emails occurred after that. I sent him a synopsis of his DNA results on 24 November 2013. I jokingly told him that, "like it or not, it does confirm you are my father."</div>
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His response on 28 November 2013:</div>
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<i>"Thanks for the information, and yes, I'm happy you are my son. I love you."</i></blockquote>
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As I write that, I am crying for the first time since my father's death. </div>
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That was our last communication. I do not know why. He came back to Indiana a number of times, yet I only knew about it after he had come and gone. My father loved me in whatever way he was capable of loving a son, but paired with the "I love you" in the email were reports of him ridiculing his "faggot" of a son to others when it behooved him to play the macho card. Perhaps I should have accepted what little I received and been happy with it. Perhaps I wanted him to try harder. Perhaps I wanted him to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness for being a shitty husband and father. Perhaps I was just weary of being perpetually disappointed and feeling used when I did try harder. </div>
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He didn't understand me, nor could I understand him.</div>
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The one thing we both recognized was that the singular, and most powerful, trait we held in common was our obstinacy and stubbornness. I failed to succumb to his charm and wit like so many others did, and I never hesitated to call him out on his bullshit. He did the same. When you place two identical poles of powerful magnets next to each other, they repel each other violently. Among a million other variables that I haven't the space to detail, I accept my share of blame in failing to truly know my father. Many time I was just trying to out-stubborn his stubbornness. </div>
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Now I will never have that chance.</div>
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And it makes me terribly sad.</div>
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So why post this long, personal, soul-bearing assessment of my father's role in my life after his unexpected suicide? It has nothing at all to do with DNA or Harold James "Brighton" Daugherty or flooded office basements or tearful reunions of missing fathers and grandfathers.</div>
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Or does it?</div>
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So much has happened since my last blog post. Life has been challenging in 2015. The title of this post, and the content therein, is an indication of things to come. I call it "Phase Two," because it is no longer a story about DNA analysis and computation. It is no longer a genealogical journey.</div>
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It is a personal journey.</div>
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And much like the contents of this blog post, it is messy. It will be difficult to read. It will tickle you and make you smile. It will make you angry. It will make you cry. It may even disgust you to the point of no longer reading. But it is MY story, and I will tell it. For over a year you have read about the "dirty laundry" I have revealed about those in my past and in my research. In fairness, you get to hear some of mine.</div>
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And much like the story of my father, I can only tell this story from my own point of view. I can only tell the story of the things I know and how they affected me. I do not know what motivated my father. I do not know his joys, his loves, his regrets, his feelings, his thoughts, his reminisces. He never shared those with me. The story of the life of Dean W. Lacopo, Jr., told by his brother, or his ex-wife, his wife, or his nieces, or his coworkers, or his fellow police officers, would be markedly different from each other. Many would extoll his virtues. After all, it is not polite to speak ill of the dead, right? </div>
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Everyone that comes into our lives knows only the smallest facet of who we are and what we think and what makes us tick. Likewise, we know only the tiniest fragment of the lives of those we encounter. Some of us are blessed with loved ones, spouses, family, or good friends who truly know us quite well. But can a spouse really know you as a parent? Can your best friend know you as a child? Can your parents fathom you as a romantic interest?</div>
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No.</div>
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Our stories are complex and multifaceted, and they are uniquely our own. This is my story. Nobody will know it unless I write it. </div>
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Likewise, I do not claim to know the story of Harold James "Brighton" Daugherty, the man who surprisingly became my grandfather at the age of eighty-seven. When I found a living, breathing human being, rather than a name to enter onto my pedigree chart, the story was no longer genealogical. It became intensely personal.</div>
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This, then, will be my story; the story about the grandfather who helped me understand where I fit into this crazy, dysfunctional family.</div>
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This will be the story of Brighton Daugherty as I perceive it.</div>
Michael D Lacopohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11804658533353361632noreply@blogger.com45tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728490610017274864.post-12487810149245566352015-05-10T23:00:00.000-04:002015-05-10T23:06:45.868-04:00Unforeseen Circumstances, i.e. Life<div style="text-align: justify;">
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Some of you may already know that I have recently sustained significant damage to my home. A toilet was left to overflow for approximately eight hours before it was detected and the flow of water stopped. This happened in a first-floor bathroom. This is, of course, devastating enough news, but more so when you know that my well-equipped office and enviable library of several thousand books lies in the basement.</div>
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I had not planned for a water feature in my basement office... definitely not a roaring waterfall.</div>
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So much like my pleas for patience earlier this year while I tried to die from pneumonia, I have to beg for your mercy once again. My battle with the insurance company has just begun, and every piece of furniture in my home is serving as a book press to salvage what I can of my library. Damage to main level wood floors is significant; the basement ceilings are even worse. There are so many dehumidifiers going simultaneously in this house - some old, some borrowed, some newly purchased - that you would likely turn to dust if you entered my front door. I am perpetually thirsty.</div>
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If you have taken just one lesson from my blog, it is this: Life is Messy.</div>
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While I tend to insurance woes and home repairs, I am also learning a great deal more about the man that is Harold James "Brighton" Daugherty, my grandfather. The man fascinates me in ways no other relative or ancestor has done before. His existence finally has allowed me to realize my place in my extended family. Traits and characteristics that set me apart from those who surrounded me in nearly five decades of life suddenly make sense because of finding this man.</div>
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There is an amazing story to tell. The tale I have spun thus far regarding my search for this man pales in comparison.</div>
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Indulge me with a little more patience, and I promise to take you places you have never thought possible when you started this journey with me. You will experience romance, adventure, intrigue, and awe. But you will also join me in some very, very dark places.</div>
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I will be back as quickly as I possibly can.</div>
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I promise.</div>
Michael D Lacopohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11804658533353361632noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728490610017274864.post-74875536418945740092015-04-21T14:26:00.000-04:002015-04-22T12:14:45.386-04:00Brighton's New Family Revealed<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Introduction are made...</td></tr>
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On the 28th of October, 2014, Harold James "Brighton" Daugherty learned about a family he never knew existed. <i>His</i> family.</div>
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When is the "right time" to tell an 87-year-old man with health problems that he has a daughter he never knew existed? Waiting for it when nobody knew what it was supposed to look like was pointless. Even a man in the best condition might be a bit shocked with having a cigar thrust into his mouth as he approaches his ninth decade on this planet with the exclamation, "Congratulations! It's a girl!" </div>
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Oh, and she's 67 years old.</div>
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Although Brighton had settled into his new life at the assisted living center on the outskirts of Denver, Colorado, he had moments where he bemoaned the end of his adventures and his avenues of new discovery. There is very little to stimulate one's sense of wonder when surrounded by a sea of walkers and regularly scheduled cafeteria food. Brighton was still quite mobile, but he relied on the support of his wheeled walker to maintain his balance. Even though this facility that was mow his new home was modern and well-maintained and decorated, the surrounding neighborhood had little to offer within walking distance. Adventure was in short supply.</div>
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So when handed a mysterious card and asked, "Would you like to go on a voyage of discovery?" he responded with excited wide-eyes and eager anticipation.</div>
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Within the card were four photos: Helen (Timmons) Miller when she was 29-years-old, the age at which their paths crossed; a high school graduation photo of his as-yet-unknown daughter Carol; a picture of me, his grandson; and finally a recent photo of my mother and me together. In addition to the photos was a printed biography of me from my genealogy website and a copy of his <i>AncestryDNA</i> connections page.</div>
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I have mentioned Brighton's dementia in previous blogs, especially as it became more problematic following his near-death experience from a previous surgery and the more recent prolonged recovery from his last surgery and hospitalizations. Dementia comes in many shapes, sizes, colors, and costumes. So it is necessary to illustrate Brighton's state of mind when receiving this news. When a layperson hears "dementia," it can easily conjure up the image of a man in a persistent state of confusion, displaying erratic behavior, unable to function in society. This was far from Brighton's reality. Simply, Brighton's problems were primarily focused on the present-day: the here and the now. He was always quite cognizant of who he was and the identities of the people in his life. He was quite aware of the stories of his past and recognized them as the past. He had no delusions of people present who had long since died. He was capable of being incredibly charming, as well as being surly and unmanageable, in other words, he was his normal self. His present mental problems were primarily associated with grasping complex issues in the present and holding on to them within his short-term memory. He could remember a face or a person once he met them. That was not a problem. But if they were new, recalling immediately how they fit into the picture of his life was. Shaking up Brighton's world with a barrage of newness was like an electrical storm within his brain, and thus the worry of thrusting a complex relationship issue upon him while he was just growing accustomed to his new place of residence.</div>
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But as mentioned before, when is the "right time"?</div>
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Brighton was mentally walked step-by-step through the events that led up to this sunny autumn afternoon's adventure. He was reminded of the test he had taken through <i>AncestryDNA</i> the previous year (a test that comically miffed him when it showed he was a Daugherty with minimal Irish ethnicity). He was told that people with matching segments of DNA would contact his account occasionally to see if they were related, but recently there was a surprising contact from a "very close relative."</div>
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His eyes widened further.</div>
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With that, he was handed the photograph of eighteen-year-old Carol DePrato.</div>
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"This is your daughter."</div>
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Brighton's wide-eyed expression of surprise softened, and a smile appeared. He looked hard and long at the photo. His first response, "how pretty she is!" He continue to examine the photograph closely with his fingers, outlining the cheeks, the eyes, the chin line. He commented on the uncanny family resemblance, and marveled at her resemblance to his sister, Lillian, who was known as a beauty in her day.</div>
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He was shown a picture of me and introduced to the grandson that doggedly brought this all together. He bolted upright at the mention of my name. "Michael! I've always loved that name!" Brighton - the adventurer, the writer, the thinker, the artist, the philosopher - was intrigued with my travel, my profession, and my writing.</div>
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The topic was discussed giddily over a celebratory lunch. He was fascinated by the whole tale. He was, of course, intermittently confused. Digesting the fact that he had a baby born in 1946 while being shown photos of long-aged adults had to be sorted in his mind repeatedly. And the discussion of DNA was rehashed several times when he wondered aloud how any of this could be true. Brighton laughs at the modern-day vernacular of "OMG!" In his words, he was "over the moon!"</div>
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He returned to his room after lunch, mentally exhausted. As he reclined on his bed for a nap, he gazed at the new photos, all labeled with names and relationships: "Carol - Daughter," "Michael - Grandson."</div>
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But quickly on the heels of the joy and excitement of this new discovery came doubts and uncertainty.</div>
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"Why would they be interested in such an ordinary person?"</div>
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When reminded of how his life had followed a trajectory decidedly unordinary and how his joy for life made him remarkably special, he smiled in agreement. Still, he responded with a touch of melancholy, "they aren't going to find that person." Additionally, the man who seldom reflected upon his past with wistful nostalgia, matter-of-factly stated, "Why would I want to know them after nearly sixty-eight years of <i>not</i> knowing them? There is no value in it. And certainly no inheritance!"</div>
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In the emails and phone calls that preceded this day of revelation, I had begun to learn of the man who was my biological grandfather. A journey that began as a research challenge and a deep desire to resolve the academic dilemma of my unaccountable and useless DNA matches had rapidly become far more personal for me. The man I had found contributed nearly 30% of his DNA to my genetic being - more so than any other of my grandparents. I carry an exact copy of his genome on the entirety of my maternally-derived Chromosome 11 and Chromosome 19, both passed unchanged and uncombined from him, to my mother, and to me. My X-Chromosome given to me by my mother, and therefore a blend of the two X-Chromosomes given to her by Brighton and Helen, is nearly 80% Brighton.</div>
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More so than just the mathematic computations of my DNA profile, the man I had located finally gave ME a sense of belonging. For nearly five decades I have been surrounded by a family significantly flawed, but loved nonetheless. When asked about my brothers, my response typically is, "find the three most dissimilar people on this planet, and put them in the same room. That would be my two brothers and me." I had spent the better part of thirty-five years questioning relatives and researching my ancestry. And while I have extolled the importance of telling our family stories, I have always felt somewhat wedged into the wrong one; the singular puzzle piece that needs to be forced into place or that is off-colored and somehow not cut from the same die compared to its adjacent companions. I look little like my parents, and I have often been referred to as the "milkman's child." My behaviors, my thought patterns, my drive, my personality, my inquisitiveness, my sense of adventure have never jibed with my immediate family. I have listened and learned and empathized with the generations that preceded me, but I never saw myself in those that I tortured with my incessant queries. Perhaps my endless desire for anecdotes of past events and stories of those who came long before my living relatives reflected the search for my my own antecedents on a more personal level.</div>
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With the discovery of Harold James "Brighton" Daugherty, I found the puzzle piece that I connected to seamlessly. I could see myself in this man. Descriptions of his behaviors, his attitudes, and his exploits read via email to my mother would evoke gasps of surprise from her, "that sounds like you, Michael!" Or "can't you see yourself in that description, Michael?"</div>
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So when Brighton expressed doubts toward the value of pursuing a relationship with his new family, he was reminded that we were not looking for anything tangibly extraordinary. We were looking for pieces of ourselves within him; and perhaps he might make a similar discovery.</div>
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Brighton seemed appeased by that answer... or at least it gave him fodder for contemplation. He awoke from his nap later that afternoon still laughing and disbelieving of the day's events, and he called friends to share the information.</div>
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But Brighton had spent his lifetime distancing himself from a family he deemed wholly dysfunctional, and had been forever running from the responsibilities of starting his own. There were still doubts he would presently embrace the concept of "family," as it was a concept decidedly foreign to him.</div>
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The next move was still undecided. For good or for bad, the flood gates had been opened. And much like an unrestrained flooding, the sudden rush of waters would unearth many secrets long buried. Like water rushing into places long drought-stricken, it would serve as cooling, massaging, nourishing sustenance, while simultaneously creating dangerous eddies and deceptively strong currents.</div>
Michael D Lacopohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11804658533353361632noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728490610017274864.post-41301773370065717962015-03-21T19:18:00.001-04:002015-03-21T21:20:43.148-04:00The Ship Has Sailed<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtetNxOWp9tsTJXtpiJTpy1YzcezbLledz9DWY8RZSuOr6tOUJaLm6imjhGVCMLg2ip5I4H9UTlSQb24ToH8UFiNG17M0GtnO-0YDTJckCp5E2k4l44GqnKoRLnHeMIcUJmUL3RW2XeWU/s1600/A+Voyage+of+Discovery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtetNxOWp9tsTJXtpiJTpy1YzcezbLledz9DWY8RZSuOr6tOUJaLm6imjhGVCMLg2ip5I4H9UTlSQb24ToH8UFiNG17M0GtnO-0YDTJckCp5E2k4l44GqnKoRLnHeMIcUJmUL3RW2XeWU/s1600/A+Voyage+of+Discovery.jpg" height="400" width="283" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brighton is brought on board for a new adventure.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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October 17, 2014, marked the beginning of a dizzying number of back-and-forth emails resultant from the poorly defined, but significant, genetic connection between myself and Harold James "Brighton" Daugherty as indicated by <i>AncestryDNA</i>.</div>
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It couldn't have come at a worse time. </div>
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While I was finally putting the pieces of my puzzle together, and coming tantalizing close to solving the mystery presented to me the previous February, Brighton's puzzle pieces were still scattered, missing, and not fitting together very nicely.</div>
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Bright had moved into an assisted living center in Denver, Colorado, on the very same day I had made contact with the Donna, his friend and his staunch supporter for three decades, and as of late, his primary caregiver and watchdog. After a fourth surgery for spinal stenosis on 20 March 2014, Brighton had suffered through significant post-surgical dementia, hospitalization, seven weeks of rehabilitation at a skilled nursing facility, and another repeat hospitalization. He had finally been moved into a beautiful, modern, well-equipped assisted living center on the western suburbs of Denver. While I spent most of 2014 chasing down his far-flung Daugherty relatives, he was fighting for his life. And winning.</div>
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Unfortunately, the hard-earned victory Brighton has finally achieved tasted bittersweet. He had gained the freedom to live independently after a grueling physical battle that his physicians and surgeons had deemed impossible. Brighton Daugherty's lust for life was evident. He has a large personality and a charming, yet commanding, presence. He had spent over eight decades repeatedly reinventing himself, not just in name, but as well as in deed. The path he had chosen to take was paved with passion, adventure, creativity, and wonder. This path was not neatly paved, nor was it dotted with street signs and traffic signals. Brighton's chosen way of living was burdened by very few rules.</div>
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Assisted living facilities have rules.</div>
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Additionally, since his earlier 2011 spinal stenosis surgery, and its subsequent respiratory arrest and near-death experience, Brighton had been the victim of worsening degrees of dementia. The brain injury resultant of this surgery marked a significant decline in his mental health, and it was hoped by his doctors that perhaps he would improve with familiarity and routine. Having recently been bounced from hospital to medical facility, his apartment condemned due to a black mold infestation, and his personal belongings confiscated for cleaning, the bulk of Brighton's 2014 was hardly the epitome of "familiarity and routine." Now that he was settled into a new facility and the bulk of his belongings finally delivered to him by the foot-dragging, legal-wrangling corporate entity that owned his apartment building, it was hoped that stability would be forthcoming.</div>
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But for Brighton, the transition was accompanied by confusion, agitation, and a dislike for the gnawing realization that he was being marginalized by society as a bothersome old man with mental and physical limitations. For a man who had sailed the Pacific Ocean in a boat of his own construction, an afternoon of Yahtzee with a bunch of "living dead people" was not his idea of an adventure. He was barely in residence for five days before the staff called his contacts frantically looking for him, as he had left the building without notifying anyone. He had returned safely later in the afternoon, but one of his visitors that night indicated that on that particular evening he was in a foul mood.</div>
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This was not an ideal time to reveal to him that he had a daughter in Indiana, and a grandson who had been doggedly pursuing his trail.</div>
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Truthfully, the week Brighton was struggling to adapt to his new situation, I was largely unaware that he was even the grandfather I had been so tenaciously seeking. With the combined <i>AncestryDNA</i> results indicating that Brighton and I were nebulously, yet closely, related, the working hypothesis was that Brighton's brother, Thomas Richard Daugherty, who had died seven years earlier, was my mother's father. Thomas was older and closer to my grandmother's age. He was not yet married, and was presumably living in South Bend, Indiana. His younger brother, then known as Jim Daugherty, was only nineteen years old and was thought to have been still at sea on the <i>U.S.S. Franklin D. Roosevelt</i>.</div>
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Regardless, Donna's love for Brighton and her interest in genealogy compelled her to tell me all about my presumed new great-uncle and tidbits of information she had learned of the Daugherty family throughout her years of acquaintance with Brighton. The emails flew back and forth by the dozens. And today, when I look at the timeline of events, I am amazed at how quickly everything fell into place. When the events were actively unfolding, I was lecturing throughout Ohio, away from home, and the process seemed painfully and frustratingly slow. As quickly as I was being fed details, I was asking more questions.</div>
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Within twenty-four hours of initial contact, Brighton's raw data from <i>AncestryDNA</i> was uploaded to <i>GEDmatch.com</i> to solidly identify his relationship to me that <i>AncestryDNA</i> would not reveal. Four days later I was already purchasing a Y-DNA test kit from <i>FamilyTreeDNA.</i> My previous months of research had indicated that Brighton was the last male Daugherty of his line. His only brother had no sons, and even if Thomas Daugherty was my grandfather, my mother did not carry his Y-DNA. It died with him. Tom and Bright's father, Ira Daugherty (1886-1943), was the only one of three brothers to have children. His great-grandfather, John Henry Daugherty (1852-1939), was the only son to live to adulthood. So even before I knew which of the two Daugherty brothers was my grandfather, I knew that Brighton was the only living male descendant of Daniel Daugherty (1803-1880). Being on the cusp of revealing my grandfather's identity hadn't curbed my thirst for DNA. Without it, I would have never found him. Hell, without it, I would have still presumed Frank Strukel was my grandfather. But this marriage of my genealogical and scientific backgrounds is a potent drug. It will forever yield to me amazing gems of knowledge, clues for further research, as well as keep me woefully impoverished.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhvwR1E7Cgr0Ndi1VVncxv7OXvQ0f8xSwVwUQYqpGiAnIta5Ux3MvWIWOdJUaqIhC_i0-HCZNa_hLZO16hTHKpQ3FFeyQkxm2An6jED4NIV_1sc6rltEXrTtEE9CorWXlt-4aLsCe4eVE/s1600/1942ThomasRichardDaugherty.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhvwR1E7Cgr0Ndi1VVncxv7OXvQ0f8xSwVwUQYqpGiAnIta5Ux3MvWIWOdJUaqIhC_i0-HCZNa_hLZO16hTHKpQ3FFeyQkxm2An6jED4NIV_1sc6rltEXrTtEE9CorWXlt-4aLsCe4eVE/s1600/1942ThomasRichardDaugherty.jpeg" height="400" width="318" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thomas Richard Daugherty<br />
South Bend Central High School, 1942</td></tr>
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Since I had already been chasing Daugherty descendants, I knew a great deal about the family. I had located the high school graduation photo of Thomas Daugherty, and I gazed upon it trying to see the similarities between my mother and myself. I had already been prepared not to see a lot of resemblance between my mother and her father, as she seemed in some photos to be a carbon copy of her mother, Helen. Truthfully, I was hoping to find traits that skipped a generation and explained why I looked more like the mailman than my own parents. I regrettably did not see it in the face of Thomas Daugherty.</div>
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I had sent a copy of Tom's photo to Donna with several other charts and graphics and information about the Daugherty family. Brighton and his siblings were not close as adults. Their mother had died in 1980, and since that time the two younger boys and two older girls had settled in vastly different parts of the country. Tom and Jim were as different as two brothers could be, but of the whole lot of siblings, they still had a mutual love and respect for each other that was not seen between any of the others. Whereas Brighton had gone to visit his brother Tom in Florida, and they had sailed the Caribbean together, he had no present knowledge of his sisters, and was unaware if they were even still living. He presumed not. When he was shown pictures of the brother of his youth and photos of the old South Bend, Indiana, Central High School, Brighton was pleasantly surprised and talkative of his family and his past. This is something that Brighton rarely did. The past was the past, and he distanced himself from his family for a reason. This attitude was worrisome to me. With his intermittent confusion and often hostile dismissal of useless trivia and conversations about days gone by, what would he be willing to tell an unseen, unknown relative pestering him for information? Would attempting to dissect his family detail by detail be an exercise in futility? And would he even care to meet newcomers so late in his life? Would he embrace a new family, or wave it away as he had done the old?</div>
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This nagging worry was compounded with shock and joy when Brighton's DNA data was processed and available from <i>GEDmatch.com </i>on 22 October 2014. I would no longer be grilling a presumed great-uncle for disembodied memories of a dead brother or far-flung facts regarding the Daugherty family in general. I was now handed the possible opportunity to meet my grandfather. The endpoint to my journey was not just the academic knowledge of an appropriate family name to which to marry my DNA. It was now embodied by a fascinating, living, breathing, larger-than-life man battling with the demons of old age. My grandfather. I had to know <i>everything</i> about this man!</div>
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But still, Brighton knew <i>nothing</i> of the situation.</div>
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I was suddenly tasked with trying to figure out how a nineteen-year-old presumably at sea with the United States Navy met my twenty-nine-year old married grandmother and mother of three living in Elkhart, Indiana. And Donna was taking on the responsibility for determining the right time, the right place, and the right way to tell Brighton he had fathered a daughter sixty-eight years previously.</div>
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Reminiscing about the past after seeing Tom's 1942 photograph was a good sign. Perhaps it was time to test the waters. Stir the pot. There were now plenty of theoretical discussions swirling about regarding what may have transpired in the spring of 1946. Could Brighton possibly remember a woman who factored so briefly in his long life and distant past?</div>
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Two days after confirming Brighton as my grandfather, my mother's <i>AncestryDNA</i> results were posted. Her two closest matches were Brighton and me. We were both "<i>Parent, Child - immediate family member</i>." The connection was plain, and not just the "<i>Close Family</i>" that I had received with my results. On the same day, Brighton was shown a picture of Helen Marie (Timmons) Miller taken in 1946. He again looked upon the face of the woman who somehow, somewhere caught his eye that fateful spring long, long ago.</div>
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Before handed the photo of my grandmother, Brighton was prefaced with a vague statement that this photo had cropped up in some ancestry work for him, much like the photo he saw of his brother days before. His eyes lit up instantly, and he said, "she looks familiar!" When told that the photo was from 1946 and the woman in it was 29 years old, he responded immediately with, "Oh no, she is too young to be 29. She's more like 22!"</div>
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Could he really have a memory of one woman who played such a tiny role in his life? Or did she just possess the general traits of every other pretty girl of the postwar Midwest that caught his eye? Perhaps Helen's gap-toothed smile inherited by both her daughter and her grandson struck a chord of remembrance in Brighton's oft-confused mind. It was evident nonetheless that the awkward decade age difference between the two was probably not perceived by the then 19-year-old Jim Daugherty, much as it was recently dismissed by the 87-year-old Brighton. He did not push further regarding the woman's identity in the photo.</div>
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By October 26th, just four days after our DNA confirmation, the snowball rolling downhill was gaining too much momentum and becoming far too large and cumbersome. It was a secret that could not be contained for much longer. A good portion of Brighton's belongings had finally been returned from his previous apartment, and he was able to surround himself with items he had not seen in nearly a year. Although there were still days of impatience and confusion, he was learning to accept the comforts along with the inconveniences of his new home. It was decided that Brighton should be told immediately about his new family. On the first day that he was largely his charming, witty self without too much confusion, he would be told. But it had to be on a day that the friends who already knew of the impending reveal could be available to help him absorb the information. If left alone immediately after receiving such mind-blowing news, his confusion might be intensified. All that could be done now was to wait for such an opportunity.</div>
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On the same day, I had emailed Donna many photos of my mother from her infancy to the present, with many photos of myself as well. I had already been sent a few photos of Brighton, but there was not a good sense of his features over the span of his lifetime. I could not really see a strong family resemblance, but I could not discount it either. Perhaps if he saw pictures of his daughter and grandson, he might see familial features I was unable to perceive.</div>
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On October 28th, Donna took several printed photographs and enclosed them in the greeting card illustrated at the beginning of this blog. Each photo was labeled plainly with a black Sharpee. Brighton could refer to them when he was alone, and he could absorb the identities of his new family. The card, with its nautical theme and subtle Asian artistic influences, perfectly embodied the things Brighton loved. Beyond all other things, Brighton loved a good story, both hearing them and telling them. His lifetime adventures had been the source of many, and to Brighton, living in an assisted living center in Denver, Colorado, signaled the end of his exploits.</div>
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The card and its booty were tucked away for Donna's Tuesday visit. She was ready to tell him about a daughter he never knew existed. If he was surly and stubborn, or confused and disoriented, Tuesday was not going to be the day. But she could now keep the information at her fingertips, ready for the perfect moment to surprise Brighton with a new adventure. A new story. A new beginning.</div>
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At 7:41 p.m. that evening, I received an email.</div>
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"The Ship Has Sailed."</div>
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Michael D Lacopohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11804658533353361632noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728490610017274864.post-10776494636636453242015-03-06T18:54:00.001-05:002015-03-06T22:31:57.061-05:00Brighton<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf0eP-Y4BaN6lMxogqz4DePSv0CZBASgMqB9AkDTEOt7D7bKxTmpRIO53fNPRQZUAp4bOV2LX1uPHb7MY_dV5XV1DNlGGPkEGQbYW61qTnHtMvjKBSi-LoF0qmDvsRZiPM6lEOsZAVJpw/s1600/haroldteensmall.GIF" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf0eP-Y4BaN6lMxogqz4DePSv0CZBASgMqB9AkDTEOt7D7bKxTmpRIO53fNPRQZUAp4bOV2LX1uPHb7MY_dV5XV1DNlGGPkEGQbYW61qTnHtMvjKBSi-LoF0qmDvsRZiPM6lEOsZAVJpw/s1600/haroldteensmall.GIF" height="320" width="292" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harold Teen, long-running comic strip from 1919 to 1959</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Harold Daugherty was not the only boy growing up in America in the 1930s and 1940s with that particular moniker. In 1927, Harold was the fourteenth most popular name for boys. Although it never broke the Top Ten list, it remained one of the top twenty names given to boys from 1899 to 1935. So Brighton's dislike for his given name was certainly not borne out of the misfortune of carrying something unique and bizarre and embarrassing, like Hercules or Hezekiah. It was just Harold.</div>
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But the name Harold just didn't suit the young man. He had no other nicknames as a boy that I am aware of, and his mother adored the name she had bestowed upon her baby and favorite child. But it was also name she also used to torment him.</div>
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<i>"Harold! H-A-R-O-L-D!!! Harold Snodgrass, get in this house right now!"</i></div>
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Interestingly, I find no reference to a Harold Snodgrass in fiction, radio, or popular culture. Perhaps it was just a ludicrous pairing of names that elicited the mental image of a frumpy old man or a nerdy awkward boy that caused Brighton's mother to giggle with glee when she employed this means of addressing her son, while at the same time causing him to wince, red-faced from embarrassment. Even in the modern world, the combination is used arbitrarily as a source of derision. In an article entitled "The Art of the Pseudonym," from <a href="http://www.shelfactualization.com/">Shelf Actualization</a>, the authors discuss creating a new identity. <i>"Make it cool. It's a pen name, for crying out loud. It's your one chance to throw off the chains of being Harold Snodgrass and become Alistair Gilchrist, Emory Stanton, Thibadeaux Sykes or Jewett McFadden." </i>Harold Daugherty would become quite adept at reinvention, his change of name being just one of the forms it would inhabit.</div>
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Harold Daugherty was no Harold Snodgrass, but he wasn't a hip or popular Harry or Hal either. Regrettably, one seldom bestows upon themselves a nickname as a child that sticks. If your mother calls you Harold, your siblings call you Harold, your teachers call you Harold, the world calls you Harold. Whether you like it or not. Harold did not like it.</div>
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But as Harold became a teenager and his persona became one of his own making, his dislike for his name intensified. </div>
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"Harold Teen" was an immensely popular comic strip in the United States. Debuting in the <i>Chicago Tribune</i> in 1919, it was the only comic of its time to feature an adolescent main character. Throughout the 1920s and 1930s, Harold Teen spoke the lingo of the teenagers of his day, coining such slang terms and expressions as "paintywaist," "Yowsah!" and "Fan mah brow!" Harold Teen became a pop cultural phenomenon, spawning movie versions of the comic strip character in 1928 and 1934, and a Chicago-based radio show in 1941.</div>
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But as Harold Teen's creator, Carl Ed, aged, his connection to the teens of the 1940s grew more distant. And although the character Harold Teen joined the Navy during the war years, the popularity of the comic waned, and the main character was considered an irrelevant joke for pre-War youth.</div>
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When Kate Daugherty moved into a new rental house in South Bend in 1943, all of her children but the youngest had finished school. Harold Daugherty left South Bend Central High School and entered into Washington High School. The school was filled with teenage children of the predominantly working-class Polish west side communities, and a fresh-faced Irish-sounding interloper was a perfect target for testosterone-laden bullies. The boys treated the artistic, fashion-forward Harold Daugherty roughly. He hated it.</div>
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And they taunted him with "Harold Teen" Daugherty, a mocking parody of what a teenager was supposed to be.</div>
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Harold Daugherty had a middle name, although his birth certificate does not state it. His brother, and his two sisters all had middle names, but none of their birth certificates reveal more than a single first name. Brighton insists that upon his confirmation into the church he was allowed to choose his own middle name. Although choosing a confirmation name is a custom practiced largely in the Roman Catholic Church in this country, the Daughertys went to a Methodist Episcopal Church. There appears to be a custom amongst the African Methodist Episcopal Church where confirmands choose a new name, but it is rarely seen in the modern Methodist or Anglican denominations. But Brighton insists that he chose his own name, although the age at which he did so varies upon the time he tells the story, and to whom he tells it.</div>
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I was to find out that Brighton is a master story teller. Sometimes the story is factual. Sometimes the story is based on fact. And sometimes the story is just that: a <i>story</i>, a fanciful tale of daring-do and whimsy. Brighton just happens to be the main character in all of the above.</div>
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The middle name that Harold was given by his parents, or perhaps the middle name he chose for himself, was James.<br />
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Harold James Daugherty.</div>
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The first reinvention of the man occurred when he left Harold Daugherty to his tormented childhood. When Harold quit high school at the age of seventeen to join the United States Navy, he became James "Jim" Daugherty. </div>
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Jim Daugherty was the man who returned home from the Navy in 1946 and met my grandmother, Helen Marie Miller, for at least one very fateful encounter. Jim Daugherty was the young man of the 1950s whose travels and adventures you will learn about at another time.</div>
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But the grandfather I had found after my DNA-laden journey was a man named Brighton Daugherty, and it was actually well over a dozen emails into my flurry of correspondence with Donna that I thought to ask, "Where did Brighton come from?"</div>
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The response I got harkened back to his days in Hawaii. In 1963, while living in Lahaina, the villagers of this sleepy but historic town learned to love the <i>haole</i> newcomer, and they called the six-foot Jim Daugherty, "Beeg Jeem," or "Kimo," the Hawaiian form of James. It was not until Jim built his own 40-foot trimaran in 1969, that the other sailors and harbor locals knew him by his yellow-and-white boat propelled by the sail he had made embellished with a giant, bright orange sun. His early morning habits and his conspicuous and oft-sighted boat gained him the nickname "Bright Morning Sun." And so, Bright - or Brighton - was born, and the name became his unofficial designation from that time forward, appearing on all forms of identification and legal papers.</div>
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Clever little story, isn't it?</div>
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Did I tell you my grandfather was a story teller? Let him tell you how he got the name Brighton.</div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/tDl-jxnh0Jc" width="560"></iframe></div>
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Wait... spotted doing naked yoga in the early morning hours by an innocent young child? What does this have to do with a big sun on a sail? The only similarity between the two version of the origin of his nickname lies in the phrase "bright morning sun."</div>
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In the past, when confronted with such disparate versions of the beginnings of his life as Brighton, he has chuckled, and with his charming smile, innocently asked, "Oh, is that the version I told them?"</div>
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Yes, Harold James "Brighton" Daugherty, loves to tell a story.</div>
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This writer has been an advocate of seeking the truth long before the players in this drama had been identified. But who is qualified to assess what the "truth" really is? And is one person's truth a fallacy to someone else? As time passes and memories fade, what survives? The truth in its bare-bones form? Or a greatly embellished version of it?</div>
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What is the truth?</div>
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In 1992, Brighton's wife, Gay, relayed the following:</div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: justify;">
<i>"Jim became Brighton during the late 60's and early 70's when there was a wonderful revolution in thinking and a shift in societies [sic] values triggered by the Viet Nam war. During that era our names were Bright & Gay Morningsun and our mailing address was ℅ The Seabreeze, Lahaina, Maui, Hi. We enjoyed the whimsy of the times."</i></blockquote>
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Or as his niece told me, </div>
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<i>"...when Jim (his original name was Harold James Daugherty - but he HATED his name)... hooked up with Gay... they decided together to legally change his name. Since she was "Gay," he chose "Bright," or Brighton as the formal name."</i></blockquote>
Bright and Gay. How cute. Almost nauseatingly so.<br />
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But that makes for a terrible story.<br />
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I really needed to meet this man.Michael D Lacopohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11804658533353361632noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728490610017274864.post-81832769235116373742015-02-24T17:52:00.002-05:002015-02-24T18:12:33.466-05:00What's in a Name?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-SBfPQdp2HLqccUWdCEOwe667AXZWB4R1G9eBrkwbZ4tKD6g_A2F5-4BC4zslcs7s2B8lWznw_zHNLRwmRe1edjdhWv6Tota1NLzDS8qDDZAvg43hr771SKt5Y19kZ__5Ube99Ma_-_U/s1600/HaroldDaughertyBirth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-SBfPQdp2HLqccUWdCEOwe667AXZWB4R1G9eBrkwbZ4tKD6g_A2F5-4BC4zslcs7s2B8lWznw_zHNLRwmRe1edjdhWv6Tota1NLzDS8qDDZAvg43hr771SKt5Y19kZ__5Ube99Ma_-_U/s1600/HaroldDaughertyBirth.jpg" height="346" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Birth certificate of Harold Daugherty, 16 March 1927<br />
Cook County, Illinois, Clerk's Office</td></tr>
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While waiting for Brighton to settle into his new home, and for his mind to be fully able to grasp the enormity of the existence of an unknown daughter fathered nearly seven decades before, I had time to dig into the factual aspect of the life of my new grandfather. After all, that's what I do. I am a genealogist.</div>
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Genetic research as it applies to genealogy is a very young beast, appreciably barely two decades old. The ability to analyze the autosomal DNA of person and how it relates to others is a very new invention. The cost-effectiveness of doing so and the accessibility to the general public that came rapidly upon its heels is nothing short of phenomenal. When asked if I regret missing out on getting to know my grandfather had my grandmother expressed doubts when we met her in 1982, I respond that even had I known, I would have had no way of finding him until at least 2013 when science allowed me to do so. </div>
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Equally so, the methodology of genealogical research has changed considerably since I first started reading microfilm searching for information on my long-dead ancestors in 1980. Although I had access to excellent research repositories, such as the Allen County Public Library in Fort Wayne, Indiana, even as a teenager, a lot of research involved waiting. Writing letters. Waiting. Requesting documents. Waiting. Connecting with distant cousins. Waiting. Asking distant libraries to locate obituaries. More waiting. I used to pound out letters in rapid succession on my mother's old manual typewriter daily. And every day the race to the mailbox was my singular, ecstatic, most-anticipated pleasure. I once wrote a letter to forty-four county clerks in the state of Missouri asking them to check for a deed of sale for an ancestor's land. I knew only from an Ohio guardianship that his children received money from this sale after his death, and that it involved "land in Missouri." Instead of writing to all 114 counties first (after all, I was a high school student - stamps cost money!), I split the state by the Missouri River and wrote to all the northernmost counties first.</div>
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I got nearly forty-four replies. Many clerks went out of their way just to send records regarding people of the same surname, even though I had not asked for such. One of the clerks found the document I was looking for. I was jubilant.</div>
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This was genealogical research in the 1980s.</div>
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Yeah, okay, so I wasn't like a lot of teenagers.</div>
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In the 2010s I could instantly scour the Internet on hundreds of websites extracting information about my grandfather and his family. In minutes I could have snippets of newspaper articles, vital records, abstracts, and further leads. And although Ira Daugherty and his estranged family had eluded me temporarily in my DNA search (see <a href="http://roots4u.blogspot.com/2014/12/bad-bad-bad-genealogist.html">Hoosier Daddy?: Bad, Bad, Bad Genealogist</a>), I was rapidly making up for lost time learning about his wife and four children - the youngest being my presently clueless grandfather. I could amass hordes of data in one night on the computer that would have taken me months of letter-writing in the past.</div>
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Since my grandfather was older than the seventy-five years required by the state of Illinois for maintaining the privacy of his birth record, I was able to procure his certificate of birth in minutes through the Cook County Clerk's web site. It was a thrill to see a copy of the actual document that officially announced my grandfather's entrance into this world. It made the man real. It cemented him into my family tree. His connection to me was confirmed scientifically; hopefully soon mentally, physically, and emotionally; but now officially and clerically. All of these things are so separate, yet so deeply intertwined. The documents have more meaning when accompanied with stories and remembrances. The people who tell them have an almost eerie tangible connection when you can pinpoint precisely on what chromosome tiny parts of them reside within every cell of your very being.</div>
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Harold Daugherty was born at 10:05 p.m.. the night of 16 March 1927, the fourth child of Ira Daugherty, engineer, and Katherine "Fries," housewife. He was born at 3432 North Paulina Street in Chicago, Illinois. His mother was attended by a midwife, Mrs. Emilie Stryker; the same woman who attended her upon the birth of her son Thomas four years earlier.</div>
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The home at the North Paulina address no longer stands. It is now an empty lot immediately north of the Sine Qua Non Salon, housed in a wedge-shape brick building that fills the sharp thirty-degree intersection Paulina makes to the immediate south with North Lincoln Avenue. Lincoln then immediately intersects with West Roscoe Street in this very busy Lakeview neighborhood of Chicago. Just steps away from where baby Harold was born, the "L" rumbled overhead in 1927 as it still does today. Those catching the Brown Line at the Paulina Street Station are close enough to toss their emptied Starbucks cup upon the place of my grandfather's birth moments before catching the train.</div>
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Despite the traffic, the bustling businesses to the immediate south, and the trains overhead, 3432 North Paulina Street would have marked the first residential home on the west side of the street, in line with several tidy two-story, multi-family homes extending to the north. The imposing architecture of Alexander Hamilton Elementary School and St. Andrew Roman Catholic Church were merely a block away northward along the tree-line streets away from the traffic and noise.</div>
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It is unlikely that Ira and Katherine strolled this neighborhood with their newborn son, living immediately upon the dividing line between urban bustle and neighborhood calm. The Paulina Street address was likely one of several addresses inhabited by the Daugherty family. They were living elsewhere less than three years previously when their son, Thomas, was born; and they were living at another address when the census taker knocked on their door in 1930. Not a single city directory for the city of Chicago bears the name of Ira Daugherty, likely because he was equally as mobile as his restless siblings in Michigan. And likely because he preferred staying one step ahead of his many scams. This address may have been merely a stopping place for an unhappy pregnant mother to have another child.</div>
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One thing is clear by the document depicted at the beginning of this blog. My grandfather was born Harold Daugherty. Not Harold James Daugherty. Not Brighton Daugherty. Not even the Brighton H. J. Daugherty conglomeration he used briefly in the mid-1980s.</div>
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He was simply Harold.</div>
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Brighton stated later that his mother insisted on strong, regal British names for her sons. From the Old English <i>Hereweald</i> derived from the words for "army" and "power, leader, ruler," and a name carried by two kings of England, she chose quite wisely. And Katherine expected her sons to live up to the greatness implied by their names as well.</div>
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It seems perversely odd that Katherine (Tries) Daugherty would insist upon such Anglophilic names for her sons. After all, she was the daughter of German immigrants, both arriving upon the chaotic streets of Chicago less that a decade before her birth. Even Ira Daugherty himself, sporting a very Irish moniker, was the son of a German mother. His maternal grandfather whom he played with as a child had come to this country in 1851 from the Prussian province of Brandenburg sporting the unmistakably German name Friedrich Wilhelm Jonas.</div>
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Katherine spoke German easily with her parents, and Brighton recalls German folk songs his mother sang to him as a child. But unlike the isolated German enclaves of smaller cities or the rural Midwest, Brighton's mother grew up in the city of Chicago surrounded by neighbors of diverse European backgrounds. Her education would have been in the public schools with an Anglocentric basis, and she would have entered young womanhood when the nation was gripped with an almost paranoid anti-German fervor as the country entered into World War I. She was likely relieved to quietly tuck away her German heritage and identity as the former Katherine Tries, and experience the security in her married identity of Kate Daugherty. Her immediate family was no different. Kate's Rhenish Catholic father married her Pomeranian Protestant mother the year before her birth in 1892, having two illegitimate children together in the six-year span before her. There were few family ties in Chicago other than her mother's sister. As a consequence, her parents held no special social, fraternal, or religious ties to their German heritage once they arrived in this country. They were Americans, and they went about assimilating as such, like so many European immigrants before and after them. Katherine's siblings, the remaining Tries children, all of immediate German parentage, took spouses of English, Irish, Norwegian, and Greek birth or backgrounds. None of them married a German.</div>
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So upon Kate's insistence, and likely to Ira's indifference, their youngest son was called Harold. It was a name that she adored.</div>
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And it was one that he hated.</div>
<br />Michael D Lacopohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11804658533353361632noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728490610017274864.post-55783743292275934942015-02-19T17:48:00.003-05:002015-02-19T22:09:11.601-05:00It Takes Two<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPwlmBVAyMkDyJuRC2jPo0NuKuvJvGIxVYmSG3UvmgY7arKSegwbr6-rgrqajmxyWuWNYESmDKwAmsFv7ED2VLdw31on6Tgy-r4lL13yOzfCqB2JzHLLW1MM8wAXHDjdJBUTdTzUGd_Bc/s1600/Brighton-Daughertyweb-copy3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPwlmBVAyMkDyJuRC2jPo0NuKuvJvGIxVYmSG3UvmgY7arKSegwbr6-rgrqajmxyWuWNYESmDKwAmsFv7ED2VLdw31on6Tgy-r4lL13yOzfCqB2JzHLLW1MM8wAXHDjdJBUTdTzUGd_Bc/s1600/Brighton-Daughertyweb-copy3.jpg" height="400" width="315" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brighton Daugherty, 2005, Denver, Colorado<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">© <a href="http://jeffballphotography.com/">Jeff Ball Photography</a>, used with permission</span></td></tr>
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At 87 years old, Harold James "Brighton" Daugherty had lived a life only few people could dream of living. </div>
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I had never expected to find a living grandfather. That alone was a shocking surprise I was still trying to fully process and wrap my head around. It was actually possible that I could <i>meet</i> the man who had been the focus of my intense search for all these past months. Hours and hours of sifting through DNA results and begging for genetic material from strangers had paid off. Big time. This kind of story-book ending was nearly incomprehensible.</div>
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To understand the significance of these results, let me put a few things in perspective.</div>
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I am the genealogist who started researching as a pre-teen, and whose father was unable to spell his own mother's maiden name, and who further told me she was born on September 31st. Think about it.</div>
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I am the genealogist whose family discards photos, documents, memorabilia, and heirlooms because they are old and useless. Even decades into my research when my mother and her second husband managed a booth at an antique store, I had to rescue photos of the Dobyns and Hanks family that my mother tried to sell to the public as "Instant Ancestors"!</div>
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I am the genealogist who finally finds the document I have desperately needed for decades in Court Order Book 46, page 432 -- only to find that it is the <i>only</i> page that has been mysteriously torn from its bindings and has been missing for decades.</div>
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I am the genealogist that descends from impoverished ancestors whom nobody else is seeking. I have mastered the art of research because I have not had the luxury of "hooking up" to somebody else's family tree. Incidentally, I do consider this a good thing, but a factor nonetheless that has resulted in a lot of stubborn, dedicated, time-consuming, minutiae-sifting work.<br />
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Luck is rarely on my side.</div>
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So the grandfather I expected to find was dead. He was a native of Elkhart, Indiana, or vicinity. He had never moved away and had married as a young man. If he had ever left the confines of Indiana, it was for an exotic vacation to Disney World in Florida. He had worked doggedly at a local factory for over forty years, and he had two or three children who were now doing the same. Any local newspaper reporting of his lifetime accomplishments might be a mention at the birth or marriage of one of his children, perhaps a speeding ticket mentioned in the police blotter column, or an announcement of some time-related mile marker he had achieved in his marriage. He would have retired with little fanfare from a job he had learned to loathe years before, to then enjoy some mind-numbing pastime, like lawn care or watching NASCAR, until his horrible eating habits and lack of activity killed him. The number of cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon he had consumed over a lifetime might easily be well into five digits. His death warranted the obligatory public mention of his devotion to his job and family, and touted his allegiance to the Masons or to the Elks or to the Eagle or to the Kiwanis, even though he had not attended a meeting in over two decades. His online condolences from past neighbors and coworkers all indicated he was "nice."</div>
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This is what I had anticipated. And if I were lucky, I would be able to procure some photographs from living family members to see if I had any resemblance to my grandfather, as I have no striking resemblance to either of my parents. I would have a starting point to resume work on the quarter of my ancestry that had recently been nullified. My DNA matches would make sense once I had a correct name and a new paper trail for which to attach to them.</div>
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The grandfather I found was none of the things I anticipated. And through Donna, who had been the impetus for him to be tested through <i>AncestryDNA</i> and who was my intermediate connection to Brighton Daugherty, I was beginning to learn about his incredible life.</div>
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The identity of the man I had been seeking came to me on 22 October 2014. I knew. My mother knew. Donna knew.</div>
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Harold James "Brighton" Daugherty did not.<br />
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Donna had met Brighton in Hawaii in 1985 when she and her husband had moved there from their home in Denver, Colorado. Brighton's wife, Gay, had been their realtor when they bought their home in Kona, and they liked her immediately. Although energetic and welcoming in her personal presentation, and enthusiastic in pursuing a friendship with this newly-arrived couple to their tropical paradise home, Gay was conspicuously hesitant about revealing many details about her husband.<br />
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"My husband Bright is different."<br />
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Never ones to follow the rigidly prescribed paths of the social norm, Donna and her husband found this initial assessment to be far more tempting and interesting of an invitation than a warning of any kind. Days later, both couples met, and the evening was spent discovering similar interests, such as Asian aesthetics, shared favorite authors, and compatible philosophical mindsets.<br />
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The complete lack of discussion regarding football teams, sports scores, and feigned masculine bravado suited both men just fine. The couple became great friends.<br />
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Upon the death of Donna's husband in 1993, and Brighton's divorce in 1994, the two had become intimate confidants, living together in Hawaii for nine years thereafter. Donna returned to her home in Denver, Colorado. Brighton followed a short while later and they resumed a close friendship, which they have maintained for nearly three decades. Donna seemed to be a good sparring partner for a man with stubborn convictions, and the mutual respect between two strong-willed persons was apparently a good part of the glue that cemented the friendship together.<br />
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Donna was significantly younger than Brighton, and when his age brought with it the myriad health issues expected of it, she stepped in to help where she could. Brighton passed his seventies in rather vigorous good health, but he entered into his eighties as a broken aged man. As he said to me later, "one day I just woke up old." His care was becoming a full-time job, and Donna was the only one who had applied for the position.<br />
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Spinal stenosis diagnosed decades before resulted in a series of surgeries to stabilize Brighton's vertebrae and save the use of his hands, which were becoming progressively numb from years of dealing with his ailment. His third surgery in 2011 ended in unexpected post-operative seizures and complete respiratory failure.<br />
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He remained on life support for nearly two weeks, and it was generally thought that he would not recover.<br />
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I am learning that you never tell Harold James "Brighton" Daugherty what to do. It is very likely that he heard the news of his impending death in his unconscious state and decided to prove everyone wrong.<br />
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Brighton recovered, but he also had experienced a traumatic brain injury from his near death experience. His ability to process information, especially in the short term, was deeply affected. And despite the tragic consequences of his 2011 ordeal, a fourth surgery for spinal stenosis was again performed in March 2014 to preserve nerve function and decrease pain. His post-surgical delirium was profound, and he remained in a rehab facility for an additional two months. After finally returning to his own home, he was immediately bounced back to the hospital a week later with a mysterious respiratory ailment and other complications. The doctors were quick to assume a cardiac-related problem, but the culprit was found in his home during his hospitalization. A long-standing water leak from a drainage pipe under his apartment had resulted in the growth of black mold in the flooring, the walls, and on several belongings that had been subjected to the moist environment.<br />
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So while I was chasing down my mystery grandfather during the bulk of 2014, Brighton Daugherty was struggling to regain a semblance of a normal life. And as I looked for the whereabouts of this mystery man, Brighton Daugherty had no home to call his own. He was sent back to a rehabilitation facility in early summer, 2014, after his hospitalization.<br />
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After hours upon hours, and days upon days of struggling against bureaucratic red tape, Donna was finally able to arrange living quarters in an assisted living center in Lakewood, a community contiguous with Denver, Colorado, on its west side. Although not at all what Brighton considered an ideal situation, it allowed him certain amounts of freedom, but consistent health care he was now unable to provide for himself.<br />
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My initial contact with Donna via <i>AncestryDNA</i> coincided with his move into his new home.<br />
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The corporate owner of Brighton's previous apartment had deemed his living space uninhabitable due to the mold, but they were still in possession of almost all of his personal belongings. Bright had nothing resembling the comforts of home for the majority of 2014. He was often agitated and confused about his new move, and he was verbally unhappy with his prospective new life, marginalized from society and devoid of the adventures he craved. He abhorred the presence of rules he was expected to follow.<br />
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This was <b>not</b> a good time to spring upon him the news of a previously-unknown sixty-seven-year-old daughter living in Indiana.<br />
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Frustratingly, that would just have to wait.</div>
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Michael D Lacopohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11804658533353361632noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728490610017274864.post-12304457826474288552015-02-05T15:14:00.001-05:002015-02-05T16:42:45.406-05:00An Explanation and a Commercial Break<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I am afraid you have all run off and abandoned me when the story is just getting good. But of course, the fault would be mine, as it appears I ran off and abandoned you as well.</div>
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I did not.</div>
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I left my home in Granger, Indiana, on Friday, January 9th. I was supposed to board a plane at the ungodly morning hour of 7:35 a.m. and be happily skipping and frolicking in Salt Lake City, Utah, by 1:10 p.m. that same day. I was to be a guest lecturer in the German track of SLIG (Salt Lake Institute of Genealogy) that was to begin that following Monday.</div>
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Skipping and frolicking was not to be had on Friday, January 9th.</div>
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Although northern Indiana had experienced snow the night before, my flight was on time. And because I hate feeling rushed, I had arrived at the airport by 5:30 a.m. South Bend's airport is small, and check in and security checks take only minutes, but I would rather sit on my computer than feel like I am racing to the airport to beat the clock.</div>
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I had my breakfast and coffee at the airport. I bided my time playing with new 23andMe results for my paternal great-aunt, my deceased grandfather's only remaining sibling. Routine announcements were made about boarding. Air travel is tedious, but there is something blissful and secure about routine. All seemed good. After boarding my plane and drifting in and out of sleep (which I can do seconds after taking my seat), I realized we had not left the runway. It was just the normal dilly-dallying of flights ahead of us, and repetitive de-icing procedures while we waited. But we sat too long. The pilot announced the crew had timed out, and FAA regulations would not allow them to continue to fly, even though this first leg of my trip was just an hour-plus jaunt to Minneapolis-St. Paul, Minnesota.</div>
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Everyone sullenly filed off the plane.</div>
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Chaos ensued.</div>
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You cannot cancel a flight at a small airport like South Bend, Indiana, and then find enough seat space on the few subsequent flights scheduled to leave that day to make everyone happy. I was booked on another flight a few hours later that never made it to South Bend. It was canceled in Chicago because of mechanical issues.</div>
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I sat in the airport in South Bend, Indiana, for sixteen hours. Waiting. Delayed. Canceled.</div>
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After several aborted attempts to go ANYWHERE, I was finally told there was no way I was getting to Salt Lake City that day. The best they could offer was to come back the next morning to try the same scheduled flight routine that failed me that day, or get on the only flight remaining out of South Bend to Atlanta, Georgia. I figured getting to Salt Lake City the next day out of Atlanta held more possibility of coming to fruition than doing the South Bend dance again. So I went to Atlanta.</div>
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The details of incompetence once I got to Atlanta would fill pages, but briefly I will say I got a hotel arranged from a gate agent who was less than happy to help at the end of her shift, and I got on a shuttle to said hotel that arrived at the airport ninety minutes after its supposed "every thirty minute" continual service.</div>
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The hotel was nearly forty miles from the airport. I was exhausted. I was given a card key to a room that did not work. Three keys later, I was no closer to getting into my room. On the fourth trip to the front desk, I asked for a new room instead of a new key. Once I got to the filthy room, I realized I had left my wake up call under the old room number. I picked up the phone to dial the front desk only to realize the phone was not attached to anything. It was merely a prop. As too was the alarm clock that was plugged in but nonfunctional. I brushed my teeth with my finger and hand-sanitizer and went to bed.</div>
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I had to be back at the airport in two hours.</div>
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Although the flight to Utah was on time, I arrived to find no luggage. I also had no luggage claim tags, as the agent in South Bend took them from me when she rebooked my flight but never gave me replacements. I was too tired to be miffed. I just went through the motions and dragged my weary ass to the baggage claims office for Delta.</div>
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The gate agent in South Bend was indifferent; perhaps with apologetic undertones, but far from sympathetic. The agent in Atlanta was a she-devil. But the baggage claims representative in Salt Lake City was helpful and perky and personable. I should have noted his name. But I could barely recall my own.</div>
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He found my luggage in storage. It got there before I did.</div>
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WTF?</div>
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If I was on the last flight into Atlanta, and on the first flight into Salt Lake City, how the hell did my luggage get there first? If there is a worm hole for luggage, I would like them to begin testing for human travel. I was too tired to ask questions. I was just happy to have my belongings intact, even though my sanity was not.</div>
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A friend picked me up in Salt Lake City on Saturday. We went to have real food. A meal that included things like eggs. Protein bars, overpriced airport coffee, complementary peanuts, and whatever gum or mints I could find in my computer bag hadn't really sated my desire for nutrition over the past twenty-four hours. When we got back to his house, and I was ushered into the spare bedroom, I just dropped my bag and hit the bed. Then I slept. For a long, long, long time.</div>
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Sunday I attended an instructors meeting and registration reception for SLIG. Monday was the first class in the German course, and although I was not lecturing that day, I wanted to sit in and absorb the content of the other lectures, meet the students, and check out the layout of the situation.</div>
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Throughout the afternoon, I noticed this slight tickle in my chest. An occasional cough. Hmmmm.... perhaps it's just the dry air? The inversion in Salt Lake City was pretty bad that week. The layer of smog was probably just making my bronchi unhappy.</div>
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I lectured on Tuesday. The voice was rough. The tickle had turned into a cough. And each one of them felt like a million little paper cuts in my lungs. I went back to my friend's place and slept for thirteen hours in anticipation of the following day's lecture.</div>
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I managed to pull off the next day's lecture, but I honestly have no memory of it. I ached all over. I am sure my friend beat me with a baseball bat during my hours of unconsciousness. On hindsight, I probably infected more people in my class than I enlightened. What has come to be known in genealogy circles as the SLIG-CRUD or the SLIG Epidemic of 2015 encompassed a whole host of respiratory nastiness that took down an outrageous number of registrants, attendees, and instructors.</div>
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I had the flu.</div>
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I had only anticipated staying with my friend in Utah for a few days and arranging other accommodations with other friends, but I could barely get out of bed. He came and went from work, while I felt miserable, begging for forgiveness for being the houseguest that never leaves. I had raided his plentiful supply of cold and flu remedies in his medicine cabinet. I took enough acetaminophen to destroy my liver and ibuprofen to anger my kidneys. I even had some codeine to add to the Mucinex to dull the cough. Double-dose swigs of NyQuil was the routine end to every night, although my bedtime was becoming more evening than nighttime as I became progressively weaker. The body aches subsided, and each day I felt a little better, but fatigued. I just figured time was necessary for recovery. But for every day I would get to the Family History Library to do research, the following day I would feel significantly worse.</div>
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Although SLIG ended, my illness did not. </div>
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The walk to the Family History Library was two miles from where I was staying. I am a walker. That is not a bad distance, and normally it's a good time for me to swill a coffee and contemplate my day of research. It is invigorating. But by the time I would arrive at my destination this week I was drenched in sweat. So much so that I had to undress in the bathrooms and remove my first layer of clothes and ring them out into the sink. Sweating became the norm. I woke up that way. Beads of it would form on my forehead when I walked from my microfilm machine to the rows and rows of film-laden cabinets.</div>
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By the following Wednesday after SLIG I had to rest after my morning shower. Rest after dressing. And I even brushed my teeth sitting on the toilet because the whole morning ritual was exhausting. And sweaty.</div>
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On Thursday, my disease-addled mind thought I could walk to the Family History Library. It is more or less a straight line from where I was staying. </div>
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I got lost. And confused. My eyes had trouble focusing on the street signs ahead of me. I checked. I was wearing my glasses. I sat on a park bench drenched in sweat contemplating my next move. I went back home.</div>
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That evening as I laid in the silence of my friend's spare bedroom, I could hear what sounded like the crunching of crisp dead leaves underfoot on an autumn day. It was the sound of inhaled air fighting to enter my lungs.</div>
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I had pneumonia.</div>
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I wept. Partly because I was over a thousand miles from home feeling miserable. But more so because I was not myself. The sweating, the fatigue, the inability to draw oxygen deeply into my lungs - these were bad things. Very bad. But I could not properly get into my own head. I felt "other worldly." I was spacey, confused, unable to wrap my head around simple concepts.</div>
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I was very sick.</div>
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And much to the dismay of friends and family, I did not go to the hospital. I am a veterinarian, and frankly, I would put the diagnostic skills of a veterinarian above most M.D.s any day; especially doctors in emergent-care facilities who are often stuck in a rush-in, rush-out, situation. Although I had taken way too long to diagnose myself, I figured I had pneumonia. A chest x-ray and blood gases would tell me how badly it was, but the treatment was antibiotics. I hadn't turned blue yet, so I didn't need supplemental oxygen. Going to an emergency room or an emergent care facility would accomplish confirmation of what I presumed, and treatment I could already procure. Being a doctor, I travel with an emergency drug stash to cover a wide variety of medical disasters. Luckily, I had the appropriate antibiotics for presumed community-acquired pneumonia. If that didn't turn things around, I would willingly turn my body over to a fully-staffed medical establishment.</div>
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Or a morgue.</div>
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Twenty-four hours after beginning antibiotics, I felt a bit of my presence returning. But I was oh-so-very tired.</div>
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Seventy-two hours after beginning antibiotics, I felt like Michael D. Lacopo - mind, body, and soul - had finally made a reentrance into society. Finally.</div>
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And then I had to board a flight for Denver, Colorado. That was a week ago.</div>
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Thankfully, it was uneventful.</div>
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I am back in Salt Lake City, Utah, to FINALLY do some research, and to lecture at the FGS 2015 National Conference. But I am also responding to several hundred unanswered emails. Yes, I said several hundred.</div>
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I am hoping to get caught up with my life as quickly as possible, and to pick you all up for the continued ride you have shared with me. I promise not to disappoint you again. I cannot promise I will not die, but let's just say it's not currently on my agenda.</div>
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BUT.... until I can pick up where we left off, let's talk genealogy. And research. And spending valuable, fun time together.</div>
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I will be teaching an advanced course in Pennsylvania research this summer with the knowledgeable Sharon Cook MacInnes, Ph.D., at GRIP (Genealogical Research Institute of Pittsburgh) from July 19 to July 24. The class is shaping up to be something extremely exciting and fun and brimming with information. See more details at <a href="http://www.gripitt.org/?page_id=1541">2015 Pennsylvania: Research in the Keystone State | Genealogical Research Institute of Pittsburgh</a>.</div>
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I tell you this now because GRIP registration for this course opens on 18 February 2015 at noon Eastern Standard Time. There are only a limited number of registrant positions, and classes fill up quickly. I would love to see you in person and share my passion and my knowledge with you! Mark your calendars and check out the registration process at <a href="http://www.gripitt.org/?page_id=73">Registration | Genealogical Research Institute of Pittsburgh</a>.</div>
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I am alive. I am mostly well. I am also scatterbrained and way behind schedule. But I owe you a blog.</div>
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Where were we?</div>
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Oh yes, I have to take my mother to Denver to meet her father.</div>
Michael D Lacopohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11804658533353361632noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728490610017274864.post-30371567936792848662015-01-15T23:28:00.003-05:002015-01-15T23:28:57.479-05:00Waiting Impatiently<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Just a brief word of reassurance to those who have devoted a lot of their valuable time and energy reading my blog and sharing my journey over these past several months.</div>
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I have not disappeared.</div>
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Let me first bait you a little bit and tell you, there is SO much more to this story! So, so, so much more. </div>
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In the ten days since my last blog post, I have endured a two-day air travel nightmare that should have taken just a single afternoon. That alone could have been a blog post from hell. Since my arrival in Salt Lake City, Utah, I have been felled with the flu. I am typing this blog entry from a strange bed in a puddle of my own sweat whilst coughing up my left lung.</div>
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It has been a less than conducive atmosphere for writing.</div>
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Although I will be away from home until February 17, I had fully anticipated keeping you all on board for this crazy ride. I just have to ask your indulgence while the driver of this short bus takes a few extra days to recuperate.</div>
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Trust me.</div>
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It will be worth the wait.</div>
Michael D Lacopohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11804658533353361632noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728490610017274864.post-27347714109578220092015-01-05T16:46:00.000-05:002015-01-05T17:22:44.356-05:00Reunion, Part II: Telling My Mother<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwGN0sHal8cijNgGVZtPBPjvJKpRbXjvcSqeUBUjtwTY3F2QdJkcOQdGefD5gnELdCvtLclih-O44GmLqHKckEv25brP961zGu_mvSXVIqGfeGRyopcYZMzUPP2Wg9Bw1Nov97HOOIuGE/s1600/unkown-fathers-in-adoption.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwGN0sHal8cijNgGVZtPBPjvJKpRbXjvcSqeUBUjtwTY3F2QdJkcOQdGefD5gnELdCvtLclih-O44GmLqHKckEv25brP961zGu_mvSXVIqGfeGRyopcYZMzUPP2Wg9Bw1Nov97HOOIuGE/s1600/unkown-fathers-in-adoption.jpg" height="400" width="397" /></a></div>
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Part II of my mother's reunion with her birthparents follows thirty-two years after Reunion, Part I. (see <a href="http://roots4u.blogspot.com/2014/03/reunion.html">Hoosier Daddy?: Reunion</a>).</div>
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This part of the reunion was significantly different for a number of reasons.</div>
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Although not having personally been in the situation of giving up a child or being adopted (...although my mother often told me I was a foundling...), I think there is often a fundamental difference between the separation of a child from each of his or her birthparents. And that difference is well illustrated in my mother's situation.</div>
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Helen Marie (Timmons) Miller was an unhappily married woman with three children caught up in the tumultuous divorce proceedings from her first husband. Their marriage having soured years before, she had found the love she wanted and deserved in Frank Strukel. </div>
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And she was pregnant.</div>
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Since the discovery of my mother's surprise mystery paternity in February 2014, I have had friends, relatives, and readers of the blog comment, "Oh, now it makes sense why she gave your mother up!" The flash of doubt obviously had to spark in Helen's head once she realized she was pregnant, but I do not think the answer, nor the situation, is as easily explained as people think it to be.</div>
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Perhaps Helen's uncertainty of Carol's paternity factored into her decision, but the fact remains that she very quickly convinced herself that the child was Frank Strukel's. And Frank went to his grave believing his eldest daughter was raised by someone else. Helen's first husband, Eldon Miller, threatened to take custody of the only child he was willing to let her keep, four-year-old Sandy, if she kept her unborn child. Frank Strukel, a recently returned veteran of World War II, still bearing the very fresh emotional scars from months in a German POW camp, was living with his parents rebuilding his life post-war. He loved Helen, and he wanted to marry her, despite the disapproving whispers of his staunchly Catholic family. But he was not in an economic position to take on a wife, a four-year-old stepchild, and a newborn baby. And an illegitimate child would further test the limits of the acceptance of his new wife to his Catholic family.</div>
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If there were doubts in Helen's mind, she never spoke of them. But it is unlikely these doubts forced her to make the heart-wrenching decision to relinquish her unborn child. Had circumstances been different, it is almost certain that Carol would have been raised Carol Sue Strukel, never doubting her paternity.</div>
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The fact remains that Helen <i>did</i> make that heart-wrenching decision. And she carried a child for nine months that she knew she would have to say good-bye to after its birth. The mother-child bond was already formed with every stirring and every kick of the child she would never watch grow up. And based on my mother's original birth certificate, she bestowed on my mother the first and middle names she carries today. Whether it was a name agreed upon by her adoptive parents is debated. They most likely had a say in it, although while both mothers were still living, they both claimed to have come up with her name. Nonetheless, the baby girl born in Goshen General Hospital that New Year's Eve might, had a name; and with each cry or giggle or coo, had a budding personality. But as Helen told the story, she endured my mother's childbirth with quiet, staunch stoicism, because she felt that she was not allowed the selfish luxury of showing discomfort and garnering pity. This pain she endured silently because she would be forever unable to feel any further intense emotion - joy, sadness, pain, pride, anger, laughter, love - with the daughter that would grow inside her, but be nurtured and flower under the care of someone else.</div>
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The mother-daughter reunion in 1982 was a tearful, joyous reconnection of that invisible umbilical cord that is never permanently severed when a mother loses a child.</div>
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Conversely, a birthfather's role in bringing a baby into this world can run a gamut of scenarios. There is no doubt that Frank Strukel relinquished the child he thought was his with emotional regret. When discussing baby names when Helen again became pregnant in 1948, he brought up the name Carol as a way to remember his first child. That daughter, Dianne, remembers overhearing a conversation as a child between her parents regarding an adopted baby, fearing that she was the adopted child they were discussing. Memories of the child born on the last day of 1946 was rarely far from either of their minds.</div>
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Very soon after discovering my mother's unknown paternity, and at the beginning of my search, I remarked to my cousin Lisa that I would now be blessed with FOUR grandfathers: my father's father, Dean William Lacopo, Sr.; the father of my mother who raised her with devoted love and affection and was the grandfather of my childhood; Raymond Ezio DePrato; the father of my mother who lived his adult life thinking he relinquished his daughter and loved her from afar in his own personal way, Frank Louis Strukel; and as then the yet-unidentified biological father of my mother that gave her life.</div>
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That man was Harold James "Brighton" Daugherty.</div>
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In 1946, this man was known as Jim Daugherty. Whereas Helen had to carry her child, hold her after her birth, arrange for another couple to raise her, and tell her goodbye; Jim's function in my mother's creation was likely limited to one physically gratifying encounter with my grandmother. He never knew of his child's existence. He didn't even have to sign away paternal rights to her adoption. He lived his life from that pivotal moment in the spring of 1946 blissfully unaware.</div>
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That does not make him any less significant in my mother's existence, and therefore in my own. I tend to be prone to deep introspective thought, and I get my mind blown by deep existential reflection of the fate of my very being had that random encounter not occurred. And as a genetic genealogist and a medical professional, I am fascinated by the parts of me, physically and emotionally, that are "Daugherty". In the "nature versus nurture" debate, I firmly believe there is an enormous amount of nature involved. And so who Jim Daugherty was, who he is, where he came from, and what makes him tick are subjects vitally important to me.</div>
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And these things I believe are also vitally important to my mother. But early in my search, her interest was primarily academic. By identifying that her paternity was not what she had been told thirty-two years previously, I changed her story. I altered her perception of her creation. And so a new story had to be written, but this time the actors of the original script were gone. Helen could answer no questions. She could confirm no doubts. She could not be asked to recall any stories. And whomever the man was that also entered the stage in 1946 was likely gone too. The story would be mostly conjecture. As a genealogist, I was compelled to refill my emptied family tree of one-quarter of its previous inhabitants. And as a son, I need to answer the questions I had now laid before my mother.</div>
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Since the early assumption was that my missing grandfather would be approaching 100 years of age, there was no anticipation of meeting the man who was her father. And even on the infinitely small chance that I would find a living being, my mother was decidedly disinterested in meeting a man who had no emotional ties to her mother and had no knowledge of her existence. The question was mostly raised when discussing the possibility of finding half-siblings, but again, she felt there would be nothing more than a biological connection. She could see no reason to insert herself into anyone else's lives and create the potential for emotional upheaval. But there was curiosity about what this man may have looked like. Where was he from, and what did he do? Questions that were mostly biographical and mostly based on curiosity.</div>
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As my DNA research dragged on, my mother's interest waned even more from the beginning mediocre curiosity. She held little interest in hearing my news of autosomal DNA match percentages . She saw more of a failure to identify a man with each test, rather than the pathway it was creating to confirming the identity of her father. When the path led to a family unwilling to help us in our search, who selfishly responded that <i>they</i> thought the search was "useless and futile," my mother was even less interested in knowing the truth.</div>
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Even my excited phone call to my mother while driving to Dayton, Ohio, outlying the surprise discovery of two Daugherty brothers, one of whom was likely her father, met with little outward emotion. I had made numerous phone calls like this before, discussing candidates to test, and how they seemed to be a good match to be her father. All of them ended with no answers. Perhaps the perceived closeness of the <i>AncestryDNA</i> connection didn't really sink into my mother's mind during that phone call. After all, I had been babbling about DNA continually for much of the preceding year.</div>
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"Just let me know when you know something."</div>
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At 12:59 p.m., on the afternoon of Wednesday, 22 October 2014, I shot a brief, shocked email to Donna, who had been my contact to Brighton Daugherty, informing her that the <i>GEDmatch.com </i>profile she created revealed that he was my grandfather.</div>
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At 1:09 p.m. I called my mother.</div>
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In preparing to write this blog, I called my mother and asked her about that fateful afternoon phone call. Frankly, after the exciting culmination of an enormous amount of time, money, and effort, I had no real recollection of it. I can tell you that my phone indicates that we spoke for thirty minutes and twenty-two seconds.</div>
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I don't recall shouting, sobbing, wailing, laughter, crying, comforting, or any cork-popping champagne moments. Nor does my mother.</div>
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Oh, I was excited. My heart was beating wildly, and my brain was processing rapidly, but still woefully behind on sorting all the miscellaneous data I had accumulated in my head.</div>
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The agreed upon consensus between my mother and myself was that the overriding emotion of the phone call was shock.</div>
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<i>"Mom, it's me. Remember the AncestryDNA match I told you about the other day? His data just finished processing on the other site I needed to use to understand how he is related."</i> </blockquote>
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<i>"He's your father. Harold James Daugherty is your father."</i></blockquote>
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<i>"And he's alive."</i></blockquote>
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Silence. Shock. Processing.</div>
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<i>"I need to meet him. When can I meet him?"</i></blockquote>
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Michael D Lacopohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11804658533353361632noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728490610017274864.post-31817129504285415602015-01-01T18:19:00.005-05:002015-02-21T15:44:20.930-05:00Centimorgans or Percentages?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLsbnBT6IlW9GeopMF9U1tmWluEX12pvouPXpukyEmKXauJXZixAEm30g2x-kgy7ogjKzSEVSZFJd7UwVrf8c4SCYN0r6N7j6dhjyCfAVaGDPnCoWpMrgLApWM5XqftGI4GM5sS_Vh34s/s1600/10633722_10152521357769135_7886221720000004122_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLsbnBT6IlW9GeopMF9U1tmWluEX12pvouPXpukyEmKXauJXZixAEm30g2x-kgy7ogjKzSEVSZFJd7UwVrf8c4SCYN0r6N7j6dhjyCfAVaGDPnCoWpMrgLApWM5XqftGI4GM5sS_Vh34s/s1600/10633722_10152521357769135_7886221720000004122_o.jpg" height="272" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Average Estimated cMs for Autosomal Testing Comparisons. click to enlarge<br />
<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Kristina Gow Dunnaway, ISOGG Facebook Page, 2014, used with permission</span></i></td></tr>
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I will take a moment away from the narrative to answer the most commonly presented question put to me by readers regarding autosomal DNA matching.</div>
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And yes, I just heard that audible group sigh from all of you chomping at the bit to hear about my mother's reunion with her father. All in due time. All in due time. </div>
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But let's start out the new year right. It is important for all genealogists - novice and experienced alike - to start 2015 with a cheek swab or a vial of saliva. And if your response is that you have already done so, then you need to start 2015 getting your older relatives, who are regrettably finite resources, to spit or scrape. Remember that DNA testing benefits both you, the researcher, and those out there desperately looking for a match. Take a lesson from what you have read in my blog. My path to Harold James "Brighton" Daugherty, my grandfather, began with my mother's relatively tiny 0.52% match to Brighton's first cousin, thrice removed: Brian Joseph Ryder. </div>
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Brian's great-great-grandmother, Bertha Daugherty, was a woman who died at the age of thirty-six years: sixty-three years before Brian Ryder was born. He never knew the woman. He never knew her name. When he started to poke around into his ancestry at the time of his <i>23andMe</i> test, she became a passing fill-in-the-blank on his family tree. But Bertha's brother, Ira Daugherty, was my great-grandfather, and Ira's son was the man I spent 2014 searching for.</div>
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If Brian Ryder had not tested out of sheer curiosity, I would not have had the starting point for my search.</div>
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The larger the various DNA databases become, the more helpful they will become to the genealogist, the adoptee searching for his or her birthparents, the foundling with no history at all, the millions of children born of sperm and egg donations that have made modern-day genealogy so technologically baffling. DNA testing helps everyone.</div>
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Do it. Do it now.</div>
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So that takes me back to the question I am asked most frequently.</div>
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When I discuss relationships and DNA matching, I often do so in terms of percentages. It is one way that <i>23andMe </i>lists their genetic matches, and the mathematics makes more sense to me and my analytical brain. I have posted a graphic with my blogs indicating how known relationships should theoretically match each other by percentages. Siblings match each other by 50%. Half-siblings match each other by 25%. First cousins match each other by 12.5%. And the biggest revelation for my search came when my mother matched Ken Ryder by over 4%; and I knew second cousins match on the average of 3.125%.</div>
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But not all DNA sites list percentages. And the total amount of DNA tested by each company varies slightly, as well as how they report it. Additionally, the percentages by which different sexes match is skewed a bit by counting the matches on the X-chromosome, as women have two of these to the man's one. Roughly, the centimorgans of DNA you match with another person divided by 6800-7100 should give you a ballpark percentage.</div>
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What the hell is a centimorgan anyway?</div>
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Wikipedia defines it this way. <i>"In genetics, a centimorgan (abbreviated cM) ... is a unit for measuring genetic linkage. It is defined as the distance between chromosome positions (also termed, loci or markers) for which the expected average number of intervening chromosomal crossovers in a single generation is 0.01. It is often used to infer distance along a chromosome. It is not a true physical distance however."</i></div>
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Confused? Don't be. What I wanted to point out by this definition is that a centimorgan is not a tangible distance, such as an inch or a centimeter. It does infer a length of segmentation along a chromosome, and as genealogists we can think of it as a "sort of distance." All DNA testing companies report the amount of DNA you share with a match in centimorgans. When you upload your results to <i>GEDmatch.com</i>, the many user tools also show matches in centimorgans and not percentages.</div>
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Oh, and when I say you should all get autosomal DNA tested in 2015, that automatically means you have to follow up with an upload of your results to <i>GEDmatch.com</i>. If you are only going to test through one company (cheapskate), you can still compare your results to others on <i>GEDmatch.com</i> who have tested through other platforms, and who have also uploaded their results to this site. It's free. Free is good.</div>
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Do it. Do it now.</div>
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So I am presenting you here with a chart similar to the one I have posted before in which the percentages of DNA are shown that you have in common with known stated relationships. This chart I give you today shows you the theoretical average of shared DNA you have with known stated relationships in centimorgans. This handy chart was made by Kristina Gow Dunnaway, and she gives permission for its reproduction and personal use. If you publish a book with this chart included and make a ton of money, that's another story, but I will leave copyright law to Judy Russell at <a href="http://legalgenealogist.com/">Home - The Legal Genealogist</a>.</div>
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You will see that the chart uses 6800 cM of autosomal DNA (atDNA) as its base figure for total DNA measured per person. This is the amount tested by <i>FamilyTreeDNA</i>. A more detailed discussion regarding the numbers game, the testing companies, and counting the pesky X-chromosome can be found at the International Society of Genetic Genealogy (ISOGG)'s wiki page at <a href="http://www.isogg.org/wiki/Autosomal_DNA_statistics">Autosomal DNA statistics - ISOGG Wiki</a>. I have visited this page so often my browser recognizes it as soon as I type "au" only.</div>
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And remember, Mother Nature does not follow the rules set out on either one of the charts that I have given you. These are averages. The numbers are based on a purely theoretical assumption that DNA is passed perpetually in a tidy 50:50 split every generation. It is not. The only true 50:50 split you will ever get is a child compared to his or her parents.<br />
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The key to remember is that the larger the number, the more reliable the relationship assessment should be. I knew at the beginning of my search that my mother's father was not the man she thought he was, because she matched her sister by only 26% (1935 cM). There is no way you can make an argument for that being a full-sibling relationship. But as the numbers become smaller and smaller, the known relationship gets fuzzier and fuzzier.<br />
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Additionally, remember that if you have cousin marriages in your ancestry or come from a highly admixed population that may have had limited choices for marital partners, due to say religion or perhaps geographical isolation, the numbers become wonkier and less defining. The more families intermarry and their common ancestors' DNA is "reinserted" into their offspring, the more of it will be passed to the present generation. The numbers will be larger than expected.<br />
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Remember when I said life was messy?</div>
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Get busy setting up the 2015 budget, and make sure there are ample resources set aside for DNA!</div>
Michael D Lacopohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11804658533353361632noreply@blogger.com104tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728490610017274864.post-46207986809586102842014-12-29T15:50:00.002-05:002014-12-29T16:56:04.307-05:00Reflection<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4tPSgcbgiRMSFz2uOYlvDF_KWMHXQooGf9U9c8z5rJPC0p849F0xwtTi9BNdoZnUZs6xOVfbc0R9SqG7agqhGqXaF4hS1QicG9DMlwISDUkNddHapqhgWnZh3zuK80IrfawC0kBHxew0/s1600/Success.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4tPSgcbgiRMSFz2uOYlvDF_KWMHXQooGf9U9c8z5rJPC0p849F0xwtTi9BNdoZnUZs6xOVfbc0R9SqG7agqhGqXaF4hS1QicG9DMlwISDUkNddHapqhgWnZh3zuK80IrfawC0kBHxew0/s1600/Success.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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Life is full of "What if...." moments.</div>
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As a veterinarian, I spent many hours counseling grieving pet owners and crying right alongside them. They were always brimming with heart-wrenching "What Ifs."</div>
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<i>What if I brought him to you sooner?</i></blockquote>
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<i>What if I didn't give him those table scraps?</i> </blockquote>
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<i>What if I didn't leave the door open just for that brief moment?</i></blockquote>
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<i>What if I had stayed home with him instead of going on vacation?</i></blockquote>
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The problem with any of these scenarios is that they can never be undone. Every day we choose paths and make decisions based on the information put in front of us at any singular precise fleeting moment. None of us are blessed with the vision of foresight or clairvoyance. But we are all too keenly aware that the path not taken oftentimes would have led to a completely different destination, sometimes a more pleasing or less painful one. So many times I had to console pet owners by reminding them that life is full of these tragic reassessments that will drive you crazy if you let them eat away at your brain and your soul.</div>
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I have been very vocal about my disdain for<i> AncestryDNA</i>'s decision to withhold hard science from the consumer. Just this week, a 68-year-old Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, woman located her biological siblings via <i>AncestryDNA</i>, but news articles report that she cannot tell if they are full siblings or half siblings. She would know this if she were provided with factual data rather than a warm, fuzzy "You're Related!" message from <i>AncestryDNA</i>. And since this information is not provided, most people who test through them do not even know that such information can tell them so much more. So, like this woman, many just guess at relationships, or are left wondering. If you don't know what you're missing, you don't miss it.</div>
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With that being said, what if I had tested with <i>AncestryDNA</i> first, or at least had not waited so long to cough up the $200 for two tests for my mother and me?</div>
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Harold James "Brighton" Daugherty had tested with <i>AncestryDNA</i> at the beginning of 2014. Almost at the same time I learned through <i>23andMe</i> that my mother's father was not the man she thought he was. An immediate broad-sweeping testing of my mother with all three companies would have immediately given me the answer that instead took eight months, over a thousand dollars in DNA tests, and countless hours of valuable time. Ironically, my path to success would have looked much like the left side of the opening graphic. </div>
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And this blog would have been a hell of a lot shorter!</div>
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I used to scoff at the human-interest news stories that showed a wide-eyed innocent adoptee who, after testing with a DNA company, immediately finds his mother/father/sibling was already in the database.</div>
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Pfffffttthhhhh.... that never <i>really</i> happens!</div>
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Oh...ummm...yeah, I guess it does.</div>
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From the onset of this search, I had never dreamed of finding a living person. My grandmother would be approaching her 98th birthday if she were alive today. At the beginning of this journey I teased my mother that I'd find her some withered centenarian on whose knee she could sit and say "Hi Daddy!" We had many a good laugh over that one. </div>
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Brighton Daugherty didn't get the daughter on his knee, but he got the "Hi Daddy!"</div>
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What if I had a Schrader who had been willing to test from the onset of my request?</div>
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I would have received an unanticipated result that indicated any of the children of the three Schrader brothers I had asked were my mother's second cousins, sharing approximately 3.125% of their DNA with each other. If a Schrader were my grandfather as initially suspected, any of these people would have been my mother's first cousins or half-siblings, sharing 12.5 to 25.0% of their DNA with each other. A good scientist who obtains results that do not fit his hypothesis reevaluates his premise. This would have sent me back to look for more Daugherty children and reminded me that John Henry Daugherty's 1939 obituary referenced unaccounted for grandchildren. I said before in this blog, I always get my man. I would have ferreted out Harold James Daugherty eventually.</div>
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What if I knew Ira Daugherty had two sons from the onset of my search?</div>
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If I had not dismissed Ira Daugherty as childless, and as a source for sons, and therefore candidates for my grandfather, I would have had a starting list of eight men instead of six. Their presence in South Bend, Indiana, might have made them more viable candidates than the ones living in Niles or Dowagiac, Michigan. Brothers, Thomas Richard Daugherty and Harold James Daugherty, would have definitely been men I sought out before some of the others.</div>
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But would I have jumped on Harold James Daugherty as the prime candidate for my mother's father? Probably not. His muster rolls from the Navy deceivingly appear to place him on the <i>U.S.S. Franklin D. Roosevelt</i> at the time of my mother's conception. And since he was only nineteen years old at the time, did I think my twenty-nine year old grandmother would have been wooed by a punk in a uniform?</div>
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Apparently she was.</div>
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Once I thought about it, Frank Strukel was only twenty-three when he met my grandmother, so she was partial to those fresh faced soldiers in post-World War II regalia.</div>
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As previously mentioned, the normal gestation for a human infant would indicate that my mother was conceived sometime between 26 March and 7 April 1946.</div>
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Harold James Daugherty appeared on the United States Navy muster roll for the <i>U.S.S. Franklin D. Roosevelt</i> for the period ending 7 June 1946.</div>
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But a good researcher pays attention to details. "<i>Period Ending</i>" is as deceiving as <i>AncestryDNA</i>'s "<i>Close Family to First Cousin</i>" relationship range. For the latter, I had initially assumed that Harold James "Brighton" Daugherty was within a 12.5% match of me, and likely my great-uncle. If he were really my grandfather he would have garnered a more closely related match category. Analysis of his raw data shows I carry over 26% of his DNA within my cells, but having just entered into <i>AncestryDNA</i>'s world, I was unaware at the time that this is the next highest category of match after "<i>Parent, Child, Immediate Family Member</i>." Apparently a grandfather is "close family," but not "immediate family." Comments to my blog from many people indicated that their grandparents/grandchildren fall within this same category.</div>
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For the former, the muster roll for the "period ending June 7, 1946" indicated only that Harold James Daugherty was present on the ship since the previous muster, which looks to have occurred every three months. This last muster roll indicated that Seaman Second Class Daugherty <i>"Tran. to RS & AGC, BRKLYN, NY FFT PSC Great Lakes, Ill. for separation."</i> I am not exceptionally good with naval acronyms, but apparently my grandfather was transferred to the recruiting station and armed guard center in Brooklyn, New York, for further transfer to the Personnel Service Center in Great Lakes, Illinois, for separation. No date was given.</div>
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The <i>U.S.S. Franklin D. Roosevelt</i> arrived in Brooklyn, New York, on 21 March 1946 for post-shakedown alterations after sailing to Rio de Janeiro for the inauguration of Brazilian President Eurico G. Dutra and then stopping in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, for a change in command. The ship left Brooklyn for Norfolk, Virginia, where it arrived on 10 April 1946.</div>
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Apparently, Jim Daugherty (as he was called before his Hawaiian days and before he adopted the moniker of Brighton) left the ship while it was in dock in Brooklyn and was then sent to the naval station just north of Chicago during those last ten days of March. A little paper work, a slap on the back, all military forms in order, every box ticked, all Ts crossed and Is dotted, and Jim Daugherty is on a train back home to South Bend, Indiana, by the end of March, or perhaps the first week of April, 1946.</div>
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Thank you Grandma Helen for welcoming home the troops.</div>
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And just as an aside, my mother's tests came back from <i>AncestryDNA</i> on 24 October 2014, six days after I had made the connection via <i>GEDmatch.com</i>. She and Brighton Daugherty are classified as a "<i>Parent, Child, Immediate Family Member" </i>match, as she is with me.</div>
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Do I wish I had found my grandfather immediately via this <i>AncestryDNA</i> route?</div>
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I'd say yes, only in that I would have had several more months of time with this incredible man. But overall, no, I have deeply treasured the squiggly-lined path to success. I have met incredible people, most who are now firmly classified as my relatives, albeit distantly. I have learned their stories. I have gained a far better understanding of the Daugherty family during their wanderings in Michigan. I have discovered an amazing treasure trove of photographs from distant cousins that I would have never found via a direct discovery of my grandfather, many of which have been used to illustrate this blog in the past. Since I come from an extended family that is more apt to throw things away rather than save them, these photos are priceless.</div>
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In addition to adding a very human component to my research, I have vastly improved my knowledge of DNA usage for genealogical research. Who could have asked for a better classroom than real life? And look at the amount of Daugherty DNA I have to play with now!</div>
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So where do I go from here?</div>
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"The Grand Finale" was definitely a misnomer for my last blog post. Although it was definitely akin to the multiple colorful loud blasts of fireworks at the end of a Fourth of July display, it merely was the culmination of my DNA search and the identification of a man who was previously unknown. But the story is far from over. Not only did I find a grandfather very much alive, but I found one that is incredibly fascinating. </div>
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Don't get me wrong, <i>everyone</i> has a tale to tell. I firmly believe that. We all have hopes, dreams, aspirations, joys, failures, loves, tragedies, interests, and memories to share. They are all unique and fascinating and stories that desperately need to be told. But by outward appearances, many of the men of my grandfather's generation came home from World War II, settled down with their new brides, raised a handful of children, secured their steady and reliable 9-to-5 jobs where they worked for forty to fifty years, and retired to a life of fishing, televised football, coffee with the boys at the local diner or games of bridge at the nearby senior center.</div>
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Harold James "Brighton" Daugherty is definitely <b><u>not</u></b> one of those men.</div>
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For every jaw-dropping adventure I am told about this man, I uncover a previously unknown secret about him as well. I am learning more and more everyday about Ira Daugherty and Katherine Tries, the parents who molded the man, and who were possessed of their own seriously significant personal flaws. Brighton Daughtery is a man who has drunk thirstily and heartily of the Cup of Life and has embraced the true meaning of <i>carpe diem</i>. </div>
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Sometimes free-thinkers and adventurers happily take others on their joy ride, and at other times they drop off their startled passengers on a random street corner to continue their ride without them. </div>
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Brighton Daugherty has had his fair share of passengers.</div>
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How do you tell the story of a man still living? Will my assessments be fair? Will my recounting of his life be accurate? Will I broadcast information via this blog that was meant to be buried forever in the sands of time? But if so, aren't the good <i>and</i> the bad things we do part of what defines us as a person? I never want to read a biography that's all propagandist garbage extolling only a person's virtues, nor do I want to read a bitter tell-all exposé that reveals only the bad.</div>
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Do I write a chronological tale, or write about the stories as I discover them? My first "meeting" with my grandfather was a FaceTime chat via my computer. My first request: "Start from birth and work forward. I want to know everything about you." Regrettably, it just isn't that easy.</div>
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As this blog moves forward, it may take the form of an intricate Hollywood drama, with tales of conversations with my grandfather interspersed with flashbacks and memories. Sprinkled within will be the fruits of my research uncovering the facts that support -- or refute -- the stories I learn.</div>
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But likely we need to skip ahead a couple months to meeting the man in person who has been the focus of this blog from the very beginning. Thirty-two years after meeting her mother, my mother finally met her father.</div>
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"Hoosier Daddy?"</div>
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Harold James "Brighton" Daugherty is.</div>
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Fasten your seat belts, it's going to be a bumpy ride.</div>
Michael D Lacopohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11804658533353361632noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728490610017274864.post-91140961795773625232014-12-25T23:33:00.000-05:002017-05-09T17:18:34.005-04:00The Grand Finale<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmcLMjruNajVDOMxt3cMln_tDvG9N_JX1LqNSBV8ko731G7n8AytPnaXjWPQRdwuirtfyH5eWecbleNuUBSmN-PCnCxn4FHGQXzP31mathd4Isl4c8g0lCjS6VjuJXgXcklFc13zSRQtM/s1600/SCAN1233.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="382" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmcLMjruNajVDOMxt3cMln_tDvG9N_JX1LqNSBV8ko731G7n8AytPnaXjWPQRdwuirtfyH5eWecbleNuUBSmN-PCnCxn4FHGQXzP31mathd4Isl4c8g0lCjS6VjuJXgXcklFc13zSRQtM/s1600/SCAN1233.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thomas Richard Daugherty (left) with wife, Barbara.<br />
Harold James "Brighton" Daugherty (right rear)</td></tr>
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It was nearly impossible keeping this new genetic development to myself once I arrived in Dayton, Ohio. Some of the officers of the Montgomery County Chapter of the Ohio Genealogical Society had asked about my blog during dinner, and I had to bite my tongue to contain my excitement.</div>
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<i>"Just keep reading."</i></div>
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My full day of presentations in Dayton on Saturday, 18 October 2014, went off without any major catastrophes. My professional life had recently run the same route as my genetic research life. Unexpected twists and turns and surprises around every corner: failing hard drives hours before presentations, glitchy projectors, fire alarms, laptops that reboot at will, remotes that advance all my slides at once. But this was a good Saturday, and in addition to a fun, productive work day, I was also excited, but almost serenely comforted, that my search for my grandfather was coming to an end.<br />
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Of course, that didn't stop me from checking my email via smart phone between every presentation.<br />
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After the day came to a close, I got in my car to drive further south to a friend's place north of Cincinnati. I had made plans earlier to spend a few days away from home so that I could be removed from the burdens of homeownership and concentrate solely on client projects that were slipping behind schedule. Of course, I can't imagine how such a thing could have happened. Chasing my family mysteries was taking up entirely too much of my time and was definitely not paying the bills. So I was dedicated to spending a few days analyzing, writing, reporting, footnoting, sourcing, and being a productive genealogist.<br />
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Fat chance.<br />
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As soon I joined my Buckeye friend for dinner, I regaled him with tales of DNA and Ryders and Schraders and Daughertys and percentages and databases and relationships, whilst drawing genealogical diagrams on napkins. Although he apparently lost his way somewhere in the story from Point A to Point ZZ, he shared my enthusiasm for a long, expensive, seemingly impossible journey, now apparently reaching its final destination.<br />
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Donna and I had already exchanged nearly a dozen emails since our phone introductions during my drive to Dayton. While I was lecturing, she was uploading Harold James "Brighton" Daugherty's autosomal DNA results from <i>AncestryDNA</i> to <i>GEDmatch.com</i>. Although I knew processing of data depended greatly on the server status of this overworked, but vitally helpful, site, it did not stop me from checking it several times a day. I also visited my <i>AncestryDNA</i> account an inordinate number of times, waiting for my mother's results to appear, knowing logically that they were still likely a week or more behind mine.<br />
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But during the days of waiting and watching, and between largely unproductive spurts of client work, I combed Internet databases for information regarding Thomas Richard Daugherty, while Donna filled me in on what she knew of the life of his brother, Brighton Daugherty.<br />
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As I had found earlier via the United States census, the two boys were the youngest of four children born to Ira Daugherty and Katherine Tries. They were both born in Chicago: Thomas in 1923, and Brighton in 1927. I readily accessed digital images of their birth certificates from the Cook County, Illinois, Clerk's office. Although, enumerated in the 1930 census renting at 940 North LaSalle Street in Chicago, the Ira Daugherty family had moved to South Bend, Indiana, by 1933, when they appear in the city directories there at 917 North Hill Street. Perhaps they had memories of a childhood on the busy streets of urban Chicago, but the Daugherty boys were definitely raised as Hoosiers, spending their formidable years in South Bend.<br />
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Shortly after their move to South Bend, Indiana, Katherine (Tries) Daugherty became a single mother. In 1934, without Ira, she is living at 224 Sycamore Street and working as a laundress for the University of Notre Dame; and by 1937 she and her family had moved to Taylor Court in South Bend, where I had found them in the 1940 census prior to my drive to Ohio, where Katherine claims to be a widow.<br />
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Of course, having worked backward from the Daugherty family to find this connection, I knew full well that Ira Daugherty was alive and well in 1940 and until the automobile accident that claimed his life in 1943. Although he had abandoned his family and left South Bend in the early 1930s, he reappeared in the city directories with his third wife in 1941. While Ira Daugherty was living at 1134 Cedar Street in South Bend, Katherine Daugherty, "widow of Ira," was living less than three miles west on the other side of the St. Joseph River.<br />
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But what about Thomas and Harold Daugherty? One of these sons had to be my grandfather. What could I find out about them?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQpF6eWvdCYg6J0meQPmEoRnCI3VSzja1V_4qbPuxUqN6-Ov4MOszDDoRFDg1lTIh9OhybhdH2c8-kH6SacHNeA9SVb-Jvmc6SI36CNgssXiIV4xEe4SMVgZJYWf6-kkurgnN9VfmVo2E/s1600/1942ThomasRichardDaugherty.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQpF6eWvdCYg6J0meQPmEoRnCI3VSzja1V_4qbPuxUqN6-Ov4MOszDDoRFDg1lTIh9OhybhdH2c8-kH6SacHNeA9SVb-Jvmc6SI36CNgssXiIV4xEe4SMVgZJYWf6-kkurgnN9VfmVo2E/s1600/1942ThomasRichardDaugherty.jpeg" width="318" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thomas Richard Daugherty, 1942<br />
Graduate of South Bend Central High School</td></tr>
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Thomas Richard Daugherty graduated from South Bend Central High School in 1942. He was a member of the Izaak Walton League Club, a nature conservation group, and he played violin for the school orchestra. His senior photo shows a man with a steely gaze, a confident air, a sly smile, and a square jaw. He joined the United States Navy immediately after graduation, where he became a medic out of his love for science and medicine. That certainly sounded like a great genetic clue to me, as I too was a member of the Izaak Walton League in high school, and I had entered the field of veterinary medicine out of my love for science and medicine.<br />
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I combed what databases I could find remotely to see if I could clarify Thomas's service dates. I could not. Was he back in South Bend, Indiana, in the spring of 1946, to meet my grandmother and father a child never known to him? It was very likely. He would have been twenty-two years old, and the 1945-1946 city directory of South Bend indicated that both he and his brother, employed by the United States Navy, were living at 1506½ Dunham Street, where their mother had moved in 1944.<br />
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Thomas Daugherty did not marry until 1952, still a resident of South Bend. His bride, Jeanne (Broadhurst) Campbell, brought with her a toddler by her first marriage, Glenda, whom Thomas raised as his own. There was evidence upon my initial research that Thomas and his family had moved to California where his first wife had died very young. He had remarried and eventually relocated to Lee County, Florida. He died there on 3 November 1997, and his wife had him buried in the military cemetery in Mayfield, Kentucky, where she was from and still had family.<br />
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I started work on finding the present whereabouts of Thomas's second wife, Barbara, and his adopted daughter Glenda, so that I could find out more about the man who seemed to be by grandfather.<br />
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Donna, my <i>AncestryDNA</i> contact for Harold "Brighton" Daugherty, continued to fill me in on the life of the other Daugherty brother. Although she was not present during the first sixty years of his life, she had a keen memory, and she had been able to knit together a fairly cohesive history of his life from the bits and pieces she had heard over time. But for every bit of information she did know, there were large gaps of time in Brighton's life of which she knew little. What she did know of the man through personal experience was that he was not a man to have followed the prescribed parameters of a routine life and a mundane job. Having little immediate family of his own, Donna was eager to share the life story of a significantly remarkable man.<br />
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Until we could resolve the relationship via factual DNA numbers, Brighton was not told of the existence of his possible niece and genealogist grandnephew. Although a tremendously hearty man well into his seventies, Brighton had experienced a slew of physical setbacks in his eighties. He had recently undergone major surgery for spinal stenosis that was significantly affecting nerve function in his hands. Recovery was arduous, and when he was finally functional enough to return to his apartment, he became desperately ill with a respiratory condition. Upon a second hospitalization, it was discovered that his apartment was infiltrated with black mold, and likely the reason for his medical setback. The same weekend I had contacted Donna was the weekend Brighton had moved into an assisted living center. He was still months without any of his personal belongings, as the apartment complex was still dragging its feet about cleaning his mold-infected belongings. The repetitive moves and health issues had taken its toll on Brighton. He was irritable and sometimes confused. It was decided to wait to bring Brighton into this adventure until he was settled in his new place, the pieces of his life returned to him from his apartment, and the DNA answers I was seeking were confirmed.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9YBoSWHC9_nWXdvSgqq39uNNc1QpFiFFsWnrDpHts4nMBMhqvAZi2-AW1JlZOqPl4qIsWZc_IK4kMc9q7poc4ZzH75h_oMyGwock1LOqf7zHEvXtTgsuUv5woS1zdLq6egQe7Qiq9MXY/s1600/Bri++in+Hawaii.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9YBoSWHC9_nWXdvSgqq39uNNc1QpFiFFsWnrDpHts4nMBMhqvAZi2-AW1JlZOqPl4qIsWZc_IK4kMc9q7poc4ZzH75h_oMyGwock1LOqf7zHEvXtTgsuUv5woS1zdLq6egQe7Qiq9MXY/s1600/Bri++in+Hawaii.jpg" width="268" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brighton Daugherty, 1977</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Harold James "Brighton" Daugherty did not finish high school, so I was not as fortunate to find a graduation picture for him, and to picture him at the time of my mother's conception. He left school in his senior year, and with permission with his mother, followed in his brother's footsteps and joined the United States Navy in 1944, shortly after his seventeenth birthday. Donna knew little of Brighton's early years, other than he hated the name Harold, and for most of his early adulthood went by "Jim." He was a bit of a nomad in the 1940s and 1950s, and living the life of an adventurer, he held on to few mementos and photos that documented his life from this time. One of the few photos that Donna could retrieve for me was also one of her favorites: Brighton the sailor on his boat off the shores of Hawaii when he was fifty years old.<br />
<br />
Brighton had his share of secrets too. He lived a life rooted in the present and the future, and he saw little benefit to dwelling upon the past, so tales of ages gone by were mostly considered unnecessary. But pointed questions about people and places from his younger years would often result in a tight-lipped refusal to respond.<br />
<br />
Like his brother, Brighton too had returned to South Bend after his service in the Navy, and Donna recalled that he had served on the <i>U.S.S. Franklin D. Roosevelt</i> after the war. Indeed, I was able to find muster rolls for Harold James Daugherty on this ship through the muster of 7 June 1946. Just as his older brother, Thomas, he returned to live his mother at the Dunham Street address.<br />
<br />
Only nineteen years old at my mother's conception (when my grandmother was twenty-nine), and apparently still at sea in the spring of 1946, and only classified within a first cousin relationship to me via <i>AncestryDNA</i>, it was almost a foregone conclusion that Harold James Daugherty was my great-uncle. Thomas Richard Daugherty was likely the grandfather I had been seeking.<br />
<br />
Although I tried for the remainder of the week to work on projects that would earn me a living, I kept going back to those damn Daughertys, ferreting out information from any online source I could access whilst away from home. Donna and I continued to trade emails, and I was beginning to learn of the fascinating life of Brighton Daugherty: a sailor, an artist, an author, a diver, an adventurer, a photographer, and more. I shared pictures of my mother and my family in the eventuality of connecting our two families together.<br />
<br />
Surprisingly, just after noon, on Wednesday, 22 October 2014, the autosomal DNA raw data for Harold James Daugherty had been processed and was available for manipulation on <i>GEDmatch.com</i>. Like so many keystrokes and clicks before, I held my breath and waited for the computations to run and display. My heart raced. The vein in my forehead throbbed. I could hear the blood pumping in my ears.<br />
<br />
Harold James Daugherty shared 3587.1 cM of DNA in common with my mother. He shared 1868.6 cM of genetic material with me. And for those who think in percentages: that's 50% and 26% respectively.<br />
<br />
I immediately emailed Donna.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"Donna, </i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Brighton's results are available on GEDmatch. </i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>He's my grandfather. </i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>I'm freaking out right now. </i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>OMG. </i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Mike."</i></blockquote>
<br />
My grandfather was alive and well in Denver, Colorado. </div>
Michael D Lacopohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11804658533353361632noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728490610017274864.post-55793751013478086272014-12-21T03:15:00.002-05:002014-12-21T03:21:36.103-05:00Researching and Driving<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSk-PtMQOkHCfoUmM2VUt-xQS58LMjsJMrMvw6H2OtVSRSAvWgYnaQ9hig9tJ1JIhm1y6m3c8elTz0RdfE358ip0ndRRe-comsWBAsESo3F3xquqjtSjSbeiKSgMJdrHH2JbMIxF7NzQw/s1600/1024px-USMC-111104-M-YP696-003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSk-PtMQOkHCfoUmM2VUt-xQS58LMjsJMrMvw6H2OtVSRSAvWgYnaQ9hig9tJ1JIhm1y6m3c8elTz0RdfE358ip0ndRRe-comsWBAsESo3F3xquqjtSjSbeiKSgMJdrHH2JbMIxF7NzQw/s1600/1024px-USMC-111104-M-YP696-003.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Source: Wikimedia Commons, USMC, 2011</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
After making the discovery that my close genetic match on <i>AncestryDNA</i> was to a Harold Daugherty, a previously unknown son of Ira Daugherty (1886-1943), I was overcome with a whole host of emotions. Elation, shock, excitement, exuberance... these all have to be put on that list. But frankly one of the biggest was relief. Thank God I no longer had to deal with Schraders, dream about Schraders, schmooze the Schraders, cajole the Schraders, beg the Schraders, or kidnap a Schrader to find the answers I had been seeking and so close to finding.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Add regret to that list of emotions, too. I had just spent $400 on four more DNA tests the night before in anticipation of a long hard battle getting far-flung Schraders to test for me. And believe me, I chase dead people for a living; this is not a small amount of money. I have no supplemental spousal income, and I come from a long line of white trash, so there are no legacies awaiting me in the future. I could have put that money toward something else... like heat for the winter. Food. Cat litter. Extravagant luxuries like that.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Ooooh, but I had four DNA tests to use on other people now! Joy!</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
But I digress....</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I sent back my first email reply via <i>Ancestry</i>'s mail system to the person managing Harold Daugherty's DNA account at 8:43 a.m. Friday morning, 17 October 2014. This was in reply to their email asking if I was possibly related to the Daugherty or the Tries family that was sent to me nearly two hours previously. I did not go all bonkers letting the person know that I had surmised "H.D." stood for Harold Daugherty, nor did I go into a long accounting of my search for my mother's father and my findings related to the Daugherty family thus far. I didn't want to scare the contact away, and frankly I was still fleshing out the details of this newly revealed connection to Ira Daugherty. And I was frantically trying to pack my car to leave.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
My response was merely: "I still do not have access to the family tree on <i>AncestryDNA</i>."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The previous response had indicated that the administrator had unlocked the restricted access to H.D.'s family tree, but it was still locked to me. I wanted to see that my assumptions were correct before launching into my story. Regrettably, there was no immediate response to this return email. I was hoping to get some sort of confirmation to my suspicions before I headed to Dayton, Ohio.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
But what I did do immediately was to call my mother.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
By this time, my mother's enthusiasm for the search was pretty much nil. My talk of DNA matches, second cousins once removed, Daughertys and Schraders, and plans for future testing had long since fallen on barely tolerant ears. I had given my mother a family chart showing the connections within the Daugherty family, complete with percent genetic similarities of those tested, and how the results pointed to nobody other than the Schrader brothers. Among my explanatory notes on the side, I had ended with <i>"No other person on this planet [other than the Schrader brothers] could match these numbers and be Carol Crumet's father. The only other exception would be if one of the Daugherty brothers had a son unbeknownst to me (or to them) who then went on to be the father of Carol Crumet."</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Foreshadowing?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Upon handing my mother this chart a few days previously, she set it aside with, "I will look at it later."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
When I had last called to go over the chart with her and launched into my Operation Schrader DNA plans, it was met with an audible sigh over the phone. I testily responded that if she was so utterly bored with this search that had taken over my life, I would be more than happy to hang up. She begrudgingly listened. But I am certain if asked, she couldn't name a single Schrader brother by name.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
After giving her a string of paternal candidates, each dying younger than the one before, she was left with a trio of dead brothers whose families were at best, uncooperative, and at worst, hostile. And since the man who was her biological father had no real relationship or connection with her mother and probably had no recollection of her after possibly just a single night together, what did it matter? I think she placated me more for the genealogical aspect of the search and its ramifications upon my research than in any eager anticipation of a happy ending.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
But with this new piece of information, and with the name and identity of her father, the response just had to be different.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Now mind you, as a genealogist, I work for myself. For twenty-two years I had worked as a veterinarian that required my presence at my practice by 7:30 a.m. every morning. I have <i>never</i> gone to bed before 1 a.m., and thus I have been sleep deprived for well over two decades. The only reason I was awake at 8:43 a.m. on a Friday morning was because I had to be on the road. My normal sleeping hours are usually in the 4 a.m. to noon ballpark, and I get this trait from my mother. So after not hearing an immediate response from the <i>AncestryDNA</i> connection, I called my mother at the last possible moment before leaving the house in hopes that she would be up and about.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
At 9:55 a.m., there was no answer. I left a frantic message to call me immediately with no verbiage as to the reason for such urgency. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I dismantled my computer display, packed my final bag, stuffed my new Daugherty notes in my pockets, and I hopped in the car for Dayton, Ohio.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
But how on Earth was I supposed to be concentrating on the road with a mind stuffed with new possibilities and the very likely possibility that my great-uncle was still living? And even though his brother, Thomas Daugherty - likely my grandfather - was not alive, I knew now that there was someone intimately related to him that could at least tell me about the man. In the brief amount of time I had between revelation and driving, I had discovered a city directory entry for 1945-1946 that indicated Harold J. Daugherty and Thomas R. Daugherty, both employed by the United States Navy, had lived together on Dunham Street in South Bend, Indiana.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I fantasized about the conversation.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>"Oh yes, I remember my brother coming home one spring night after we returned home from the Navy. He had met this hot number from Elkhart. I think he said her name was Helen. He thought she was quite something, but regrettably nothing ever came of it."</i></div>
</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Okay, fine, like I said, it was a fantasy. I am sure an 87-year-old man likely forgets what he had for breakfast, let alone recalls who his brother was having sex with in the spring of 1946. But it's my fantasy. Don't judge. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I couldn't shake the immediacy of the situation and my need - no, my unquenchable thirst - for information, so I logged onto <i>Ancestry.com </i>via my phone... while driving.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Yes, I am well aware this is an unwise move. Yes, I am also well aware that texting and driving in Ohio is illegal. Yes, I am also well aware that all of this could have waited until I checked into my hotel in Dayton. Yes, I am also completely and fully aware that these findings, no matter how relevant to my search nor however important or revealing, are of no use to a dead man.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Bad, bad, bad genealogist.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Nonetheless, I sent one final <i>Ancestry</i> email to the administrator of the presumed DNA profile of Harold Daugherty at 10:33 a.m., having been on the road an excruciatingly long twenty minutes. I just wanted to cover my bases in case I could have more knowledge, more quickly, with more answers, now. Now. NOW.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: justify;">
<i>"I am traveling today and responding by phone. Can you call me today at 555-555-5555? If I am unavailable, please leave a message with the best time to return your call. Thanks!"</i></blockquote>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Again, I didn't want to scare anyone off with too much detail, and frankly, I can barely chew gum and walk simultaneously, so that was a pretty wordy text for driving.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
And no, you're not getting my number from this blog. I can't find <i>everybody's</i> father!</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I called my mother again at 11:06 a.m. Again, voice mail. I announced that I would be calling roughly every ten minutes until she answered her phone, which I repeated again at 11:15 a.m. At 11:19 a.m. she returned my call wanting to know what the emergency was (but more likely to shut me up). I laid out the details as I knew them up to that point, but frankly a lot of it was conjecture, as I knew very little about Thomas and Harold Daugherty other than their recently discovered existence. I told her I was waiting for the contact person from <i>Ancestry.com</i> to call me.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Which happened whilst I was chatting with my mother.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I hung up with my mother and called my voice mail immediately. The name of the woman who managed the profile of "H.D." was Donna, and she indicated that she had a busy day ahead of her and would be available to talk after 5:30 p.m. that night.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b><i>5:30 p.m.!?!?! </i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I did NOT just text and drive to have to wait for answers for another SIX hours! And I had dinner plans that night with association members of the group I was lecturing to the following day. I agonized over calling back immediately, or being respectful of her wishes and her busy schedule and to talk later. I wrestled with the options, but on hindsight and reviewing the time stamps on my cell phone, I apparently endured this tumultuous internal struggle for a grand total of 55 seconds.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I called.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Donna had known Harold James Daugherty, whom she called "Brighton," for over twenty years. They both had watched a documentary by Spencer Wells about The Genographic Project, sponsored by the National Geographic Society, at the end of 2013. Donna, a hobbyist genealogist, was intrigued by the ancestral identities encoded in our DNA. Brighton had a very limited knowledge of his extended family background. Together they ordered DNA tests from <i>AncestryDNA</i> and submitted their samples at the beginning of 2014, just as much to seek answers regarding their ancestry, as it was on a curious lark to see what their results would tell them.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
While Brighton Daugherty's results were tabulated by <i>AncestryDNA</i> at the beginning of 2014, I was finding out my mother's father was not the man she thought he was via <i>23andMe</i>.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Over the next 42 minutes, I explained to Donna the roller coaster ride that had been my life over the past eight months in search of my grandfather, and that I had already narrowed the field down to the Daugherty generation that Thomas and Brighton belonged to. She was equally as excited to find someone so closely related to Brighton, as he had very little family currently in his life, nor had he ever been particularly bonded to them when he was younger. I probably knew more about the Daughertys than he did.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Regrettably she knew very little about Brighton's brother, Thomas Daugherty, other than his existence, and one photo she had seen shortly before his death when his body and countenance had been ravaged by a stroke. She knew only that he had died in 1997 in Florida, and that Brighton had visited him there many years before. Thomas had been married twice, and he had no children of his own. He had adopted his first wife's daughter who was five years old when her mother married Thomas Daugherty, and he lovingly raised her as his very own, but there were no other biological siblings to test if my mother truly proved to be his daughter. But in addition to Brighton, Thomas's second wife was still living, and at the age of eighty years, she too could tell me more about her late husband once we got confirmation of what seemed already a done deal regarding my mother's paternity.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Donna and I both ended our conversation with excited and joyful exuberance at the twists of fate that had caused our paths to cross, and I hung up enormously relieved that I had found an ally in the final steps of my search who was truly eager to help me, unlike the Schraders who were quite the opposite.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I explained the deficiency in <i>AncestryDNA</i>'s reported results for those who took a scientific and factual approach to assessing the DNA profiles of our matches, and I asked her to upload Brighton's raw data to <i>GEDmatch.com</i> where I could compare it to mine and my mother's previous <i>23andMe </i>test results already there. I also informed her that I was still waiting to obtain my mother's <i>AncestryDNA</i> results, but that I expected them rapidly on the heels of my own.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Frankly, it was just a matter of days before all my work over the past several months would come to fruition, and I would have an answer to my quest. A name for my grandfather. And a living soul to tell me all about him.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I called my mother with an update, and she too was cautiously eager to hear the outcome.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
And with that, I arrived at my hotel in Dayton, Ohio.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Nothing makes a drive go more quickly than finding a grandfather. </div>
Michael D Lacopohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11804658533353361632noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728490610017274864.post-2378023498776611152014-12-18T00:15:00.001-05:002017-05-09T17:09:07.335-04:00Bad, Bad, Bad Genealogist<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzUgSQI1rBNH-W6cocjgfROEtAb-kI2eeAmi42N-5iOAWst2ioyXLvabPp8u0UT4vakZ4FW1iO7jI0F_XR61RPhrut0MR8FUs59cOpS5aieDLXlP0WJ8m0e1yNm_JKyCnBw9PHBlCFKHk/s1600/DaughertyCandidatesSimplified.tiff" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzUgSQI1rBNH-W6cocjgfROEtAb-kI2eeAmi42N-5iOAWst2ioyXLvabPp8u0UT4vakZ4FW1iO7jI0F_XR61RPhrut0MR8FUs59cOpS5aieDLXlP0WJ8m0e1yNm_JKyCnBw9PHBlCFKHk/s1600/DaughertyCandidatesSimplified.tiff" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The original working model for my search. Click on image to enlarge.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
When I received my reply to my <i>AncestryDNA</i> email regarding my close match, I had very little time left before I had to be in my car and headed to Dayton, Ohio. I did not have the luxury to mull and ponder over the possibility of an elusive Daugherty connection that seemed tantalizingly close.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
But I didn't need that much time.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Why?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Because I am a bad, bad, bad genealogist.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The match with this new mysterious Daugherty connection was within a first cousin range as indicated by <i>AncestryDNA</i>'s I-told-you-so approach. I had no hard data at my fingertips to corroborate this information. No quantitative amount of DNA segments to guide me. No percentages of shared DNA with which to play my familiar numbers game. But the short reply email I received to my inquiry told me two things. Firstly, when I indicated that the match was within a first cousin range, the respondent asked me if I was doing this for someone considerably older than me. So I inferred that the mystery match was an older man. Secondly, the response indicated that if I was truly that closely related to this person, it would either have to be through the Daugherty or the Tries family.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I had been mired in Daughertys for months. But I had yet to come across the surname Tries.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
So how does that make me a bad, bad, bad genealogist?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Simple deduction indicated that if this mystery person thought I was related via the Daugherty or the Tries family, then somewhere a Daugherty married a Tries. So I did a simple check of such in <i>FamilySearch</i>'s search engine. And in a fraction of a second I had this:</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>"Ira Dougherty" married "Katherine Trese" on 4 February 1911 in Chicago, Cook County, Illinois.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Son. Of. A. Bitch.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
If you refer to the opening graphic you will see a simplified version of the working model I had for my mother's unknown father that you have seen before. You will also see that Ira Daugherty was the brother to Bertha (Daugherty) Ryder Rieder Prestidge Merrifield and LaVina (Daugherty) Schrader Johnston that I have discussed in detail in previous blog posts. I had already located two marriages for Ira Daugherty, and I knew that he died in the same automobile accident that killed LaVina (Daugherty) Schrader's youngest son in 1943. But this was the first time I had heard of Katherine Tries.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
If Ira Daugherty happened to sire some sons by this newly-discovered bride, they too would mathematically qualify to be candidates for my mother's father, just like the Schrader brothers. They would all be males of the same generation to be on the list of "possible grandfathers."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
As I anxiously watched the time, with my car already packed and ready to drive, it was again only the matter of a couple of key strokes to find Ira Daugherty enumerated in the 1920 census, living in Chicago with his wife, Catherine, and their 5-year-old daughter, Lillian.</div>
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And it was equally just as easy finding them in the 1930 census enumeration of Chicago, where Ira Daugherty was living with his wife, Cathrine, and children Lillian, age 15; Gladys, age 8; Thomas, age 6; and Harold, age 3.</div>
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Thomas and Harold Daugherty.</div>
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Two boys.</div>
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And two more candidates for my mother's missing father that should have been on my list from the very beginning.</div>
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Son. Of. A. Bitch.</div>
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Why did they not make this blasted list from the very beginning?</div>
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Because I am a bad, bad, bad genealogist.</div>
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Ira Daugherty was a passenger in his own car when his nephew flipped it and died on impact south of Niles, Michigan, on 15 March 1943. Three days later, without gaining consciousness, Ira too died. His obituary published the day of his death in the Niles newspaper rehashed the details of the horrible accident that it had previously reported upon days before. It also narrated a fairly standard biographical sketch of Ira Daugherty. The obituary provided the standard vital information one usually expects to read in the newspaper. It gave his date and place of birth. It indicated his service overseas in World War I. And, most importantly it completely enumerated his survivors by name. His brothers and sisters were listed with their places of residence. His five step-children born to his surviving wife, Melita, by her deceased first husband, were also mentioned by name. Even included was a brief passage indicating his eldest stepson, Rudy Schmaltz, was station in Virginia in the United States Army. For a genealogist, it was a fairly thorough assessment of a life lived and ended tragically. </div>
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No children of Ira Daugherty were mentioned.</div>
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When Albert Daugherty died in Niles, Michigan, on 11 December 1960, he too was honored with a detailed obituary in the local newspaper, the<i> Niles Daily Star</i>. Having no children of his own, the obituary was so complete as to list his surviving nieces and nephews: Margaret Byrd, Catherine Dorn, Edward Schrader, Ted Schrader, and Joseph Schrader. These were the children of his sisters, Bertha and LaVina.</div>
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No children of Ira Daugherty were mentioned.</div>
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Based on such information, I had discounted Ira Daugherty as a possible source for male heirs to be my mother's father. And although I had meticulously detailed the lives of his two childless brothers, Albert and John Jr., I had done so primarily because they were always attached by the hip to their parents and to their sisters in all their frequent moves back and forth between Grand Rapids, Niles, Dowagiac, and Kalamazoo, Michigan; and South Bend, Indiana. Somehow the need to dig further into Ira's life was never a priority since I had already deemed him "childless."</div>
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Trust me, there were tantalizing clues. And they had been uncomfortably stirring in the back of my mind. When the progenitor of all these siblings, John Henry Daugherty Sr., died in 1939, he too got a nice obituary in the <i>Niles Daily Star. </i>It stated he was survived by eleven grandchildren. Bertha had two. LaVina had five. And in my notes, I have underlined, <i>"<u>Who are the other four grandchildren???</u>" </i>Even accounting for step-grandchildren, the number never really worked. It bothered me.</div>
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Bad, bad, bad genealogist.</div>
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But now I had two new boys to contend with, Thomas and Harold Daugherty. So what became of them? Why were they ostracized from the Daugherty family? Or conversely, had they somehow been the ones to cut ties from the often drunk, less-than-law-abiding, rowdy Daugherty family and their extended kin now centered in Niles, Michigan?</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhkzX-JC7gom9-GZgmJ1GJNDhrUJDD_-5iYqX_V9XuLMOdVrzl9no4BqO4IRMJB8v81LIvhCEcBR9LF3jOpoNzXjbm8NcU-GSASf2t42VeFVs2fYs6bN-LeOfNgyhOttJP7iRAby11FdA/s1600/DaughertyRevised2.tiff" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhkzX-JC7gom9-GZgmJ1GJNDhrUJDD_-5iYqX_V9XuLMOdVrzl9no4BqO4IRMJB8v81LIvhCEcBR9LF3jOpoNzXjbm8NcU-GSASf2t42VeFVs2fYs6bN-LeOfNgyhOttJP7iRAby11FdA/s1600/DaughertyRevised2.tiff" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The new working model for my search. Click on image to enlarge.</td></tr>
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There was one more census to check: 1940. And there they were. This time no longer residing in Chicago, Illinois, "widowed" Katherine Daugherty was living in South Bend, Indiana, at 4 South Taylor Court, with her children: Gladys, 18; Thomas, 16; and Harold, 13.</div>
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Yes. There they were. The two brothers Thomas Daugherty and Harold Daugherty were living in South Bend, Indiana, on the census six years before my mother's conception. South Bend, Indiana. Just a bus ride away from Elkhart, Indiana, where my grandmother Helen (Timmons) Miller lived. South Bend, Indiana. Where Helen's first husband, Eldon, had found work at Bendix during the war.</div>
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Oh, and what was the profile name of the <i>AncestryDNA</i> account who was apparently a close genetic match to me? The same <i>AncestryDNA</i> match that was apparently a much older male? The same <i>AncestryDNA</i> match who was apparently related to Ira Daugherty and Katherine Tries?</div>
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<i><b>"H.D."</b></i></div>
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Harold Daugherty.</div>
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Apparently Ira Daugherty's youngest son was alive and well, and he shared enough DNA with me to be within a first cousin relationship.</div>
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If you recall, first cousins shares an average of 12.5% of their autosomal DNA in common with each other. This, of course, would be the most common default for any of the DNA companies to report if such a value came up as a match, because it's far more common for cousins to be tested at the same time.</div>
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But who else would share 12.5% of their DNA with me?</div>
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A great-uncle would.</div>
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And with that revelation, I looked at my watch. I was nearly twenty minutes behind schedule. I stuffed my notes in my pocket and jumped in the car.</div>
Michael D Lacopohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11804658533353361632noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728490610017274864.post-61604393555636267352014-12-14T16:22:00.001-05:002014-12-20T20:14:58.084-05:00AncestryDNA<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHrDfOvxT9izSR50Ho7_Oy0VnMHQeDaQgyeNdQMOrOIa2T_yPFCA5v-ZedgGh4ENwQ2iztxWY15VCEwUs2xbpQq1Bkkws3GC-BYZejEO6PLD_eUHcw7xWcodi7ZqOp9_UiZrlWnkNm-MI/s1600/AncestryDNA_logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHrDfOvxT9izSR50Ho7_Oy0VnMHQeDaQgyeNdQMOrOIa2T_yPFCA5v-ZedgGh4ENwQ2iztxWY15VCEwUs2xbpQq1Bkkws3GC-BYZejEO6PLD_eUHcw7xWcodi7ZqOp9_UiZrlWnkNm-MI/s1600/AncestryDNA_logo.jpg" height="97" width="400" /></a></div>
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I have a love-hate relationship with <i>Ancestry.com</i>.</div>
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Let me rephrase that: I have a love-hate relationship with the public's perception of <i>Ancestry.com</i>.</div>
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The one ubiquitous question that is always thrown about at dinner parties and social gatherings is "What do you do for a living?" I have a whole litany of amusing responses to my standard reply of "veterinarian" that was in use for over two decades. It most aways involved a story regarding the questioner's long-deceased beloved pet and its unfortunate demise. Example:</div>
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<i>"You're a veterinarian?!?! Oh my God, I had this tiny adorable Chihuahua when I was a kid named Pepe! When he turned sixteen, he got really, really sick. We took him to the vet, but we didn't want him to run any tests because, well, you know, he was sixteen. And can you believe the vet just let him die? Can you tell me what happened to him?"</i></blockquote>
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Of course, responses to questions of this nature put you in a precarious situation. After all, this is usually a question presented at a social gathering surrounded by a handful of other inquisitive guests with widened eyes eagerly waiting for my scholarly and informative, yet kind and compassionate, response.</div>
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<i>"If you actually let your veterinarian DO something for the dog when it became ill, you could have asked him then, instead of asking me now!"</i></blockquote>
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No. No. Probably a wee bit too accusatory.</div>
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<i>"I'm sorry. I consider myself an excellent practitioner, but I am regrettably bad at diagnosing a memory. Perhaps we could break out a Ouija board and ask Pepe his presenting complaints?"</i></blockquote>
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Hmmmm....condescending? Likely.</div>
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<i>"I'm so sorry to hear of anyone losing one of their dear fuzzy babies. Even many years later the grief is still tucked away in our memories. At sixteen, Pepe could have suffered from a dizzying array of many age-related conditions, but I am sure you comforted him through his final days. He was lucky to have lived so long."</i></blockquote>
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Yep. That works.</div>
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Unfortunately, a similar thing occurs now after leaving behind decades in a medical field to chase my ancestors, as well as solve the historical mysteries of others.</div>
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"I'm a professional genealogist."</div>
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<i>"Oh! My [aunt/uncle/cousin/grandmother/insert other relative here] is on Ancestry.com all the time! He/she has already done all my family tree. So you just sit on Ancestry.com all day? That's odd."</i></blockquote>
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When I ask if it is a maternal or a paternal aunt who "did all their family tree," I am often greeted with a quizzical look and a cocked head, much like a bewildered spaniel. When the questioner tells me it was actually his father's sister who did the work, I ask why a paternal relative would work on the ancestry of his mother if they were not related. "Oh, no, that's just my dad's side." As if this somehow still is "all" the family tree. "Well, I guess half your lineage is unknown, correct?"</div>
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"Huh?"</div>
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And the family tree was "done"? Can this endeavor ever be referred to in the past tense? My grandmother used to ask me that. "Aren't you done yet?" But of course, this was the same woman who asked, "why didn't you become a <i>real</i> doctor?" Sigh.</div>
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I think from now on my response will be "Walmart Greeter."</div>
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Plain and simple, <i>Ancestry.com</i> has become the face of genealogical research in the digital age. There is no escaping its enormous contribution to the field I have chosen, and thus I do love the site. Gone are the days I would have to drive two hours to the Allen County Public Library in Fort Wayne, Indiana, to sit for hours cranking microfilm reels of unindexed census records reading them page-by-page to find a person of interest. If I went home with four or five new entries after a four-hour roundtrip drive and nearly twelve hours of research, I was a happy man. <i>Ancestry.com</i> has made that task a two-minute search in my jammies with a cat in my lap.</div>
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But <i>Ancestry.com</i> and sites like it have given researchers a reason to be lazy. By a fantastically huge margin, the enormous majority of records used by genealogists like me are still hiding in courthouse basements, neatly cataloged archival collections, local historical societies, private collections, and people's mothball-laden closets. Good research is hard. Really hard. And awfully damn fun.</div>
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And such are the mixed feeling I have for <i>Ancestry.com</i>'s foray into the world of genetic genealogy. But this time it's not the perception of <i>AncestryDNA</i> that I dislike, it is truly the business forces behind this arm of the genealogical giant that irk me. </div>
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Those who have read this blog from its inception, especially since the hunt began for my biological grandfather via the powers of autosomal DNA, know that I use <i>23andMe</i> as my tester of choice. I did so at the beginning because, as a doctor, I was intrigued by the medical report that accompanied the results and the identification of genetic markers of disease or propensity for disease that the company reported along with good links to scholarly medical articles. Unfortunately, the FDA shut down that component of the test after I had only tested myself, my mother, and my father. But I have become accustomed to <i>23andMe</i>'s format, and their chromosome browser, and their utilities to analyze genetic matches.</div>
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I have also mentioned that I had my autosomal DNA results, as well as my mother's results, from <i>23andMe</i> added to the <i>FamilyTreeDNA</i> database. Again, this option is no longer available, as divergent technologies from both companies has made integrating <i>23andMe</i> data into the <i>FamilyTreeDNA</i> database impossible, but I have tested through <i>FamilyTreeDNA</i> as well when I needed specific testing not available through <i>23andMe</i>, or if I wanted to use the hundreds of thousands of profiles tested through that company, as there is never such a thing as too many matches.</div>
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But of the three big DNA companies in the game, I had yet to test with <i>AncestryDNA</i>.</div>
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The abbreviated reason I had not done so is that <i>AncestryDNA</i> offers no chromosome browser, no reporting of the amount of DNA matched with an individual in terms of segment length or percentages, no ability to triangulate results to see if three or more people share both DNA and a common ancestor to prove one's chromosomal heritage from a distant individual or couple. These factors are discussed in much, much greater detail on several Internet sites and blogs dedicated to genetic genealogy, so I will not tear them apart in detail here. But if I can't <i><b>use</b></i> my results through <i>AncestryDNA</i>, why should I drop a couple hundred more dollars to obtain them?</div>
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The sad reality is that the powers that be at <i>Ancestry.com</i> know that the greatest bulk of their users are the great-aunts of the people I meet at dinner parties. They want genealogy to be fun and fluffy and comforting and happy and a point-and-click experience.</div>
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Science is hard. And <i>Ancestry.com</i> knows it. They have a whole team of highly educated professionals tweaking their algorithms to calculate genetic matches as accurately as possible. </div>
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They just don't think the average genealogist can handle it.</div>
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But as I have already previously mentioned in other blog posts, anyone can take their raw data from any testing site and upload it to a free site called <i>GEDmatch.com</i>. If you are reading this, and you have been autosomal DNA tested at any of the three sites, and you have not yet uploaded your raw data to <i>GEDmatch.com</i> - do so now! This will help you, and it will immensely help others. </div>
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Go. </div>
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Now. </div>
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I'll wait.</div>
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So again, why would I want to test again with a third company that won't offer me scientific support to find my grandfather? Why would I test with a company who will give me results I have to load into a third-party site, when my results from the other laboratories are already there?</div>
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Because of those people I meet in social situations and their great-aunts and cousins.</div>
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<i>Ancestry.com</i> has name recognition. After revealing my chosen profession as a genealogist does anyone ask me, "Hey, have you done the full-sequencing mitochondrial DNA test with <i>FamilyTreeDNA</i>? Do you think it's worth the money to do that over just their mtDNA-Plus?"</div>
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No.</div>
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Usually within the first or second sentence of a person's response, the term "Ancestry.com" will be inexorably mentioned.</div>
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People test at <i>AncestryDNA</i> because it sounds fun. Because they want the warm fuzzy experience. The company gives you fun colorful graphs of what countries your ethnicity derives (which I have already stated is as accurate as measuring a doorway with a cat.) Further, if you find matches with others using <i>AncestryDNA</i>, the tool they use to show you how you are related is by comparing your family trees to each other. And if you are matched with someone with shoddy research or no family tree, the results are meaningless. Lastly, having matching DNA segments and knowing you have a common ancestor is great, but it is a dangerous assumption to think that they go hand in hand. That is why triangulation with another researcher with the same common ancestor is necessary to see if you all share the same strand of DNA at the same chromosomal location. This is something you cannot do at <i>AncestryDNA</i>.</div>
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But by the end of the first quarter of 2015, the company estimates that over one million people will have tested with their service.</div>
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One. Million. People.</div>
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Since I had hit a wall of resistance with my mother's presumed Schrader father, I needed a million more people to bolster my argument. Also, there were surprisingly many family trees posted on <i>Ancestry.com </i>by relatives of these three Schrader brothers (and my possible grandfather). Had they been tested through this company as well even though they were maintaining a wall of silence with me? One of these trees was posted by a son of one of the Schrader brother, one by a grandson, and one by a nephew. At this point, ANY Schrader DNA would guide me toward my missing grandfather, so I had hoped that some of these tree-posters had actually taken the <i>AncestryDNA</i> test. And who knew how many more distant relatives I might find here? Especially important were the Wisconsin Schroeders and associated families. Any connection with these German families might allow me to tie my mother to both LaVina Daugherty and her husband, Edward Emil Schroeder/Schrader.</div>
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And since discovering that Ed Schrader may not even be the father of my missing grandfather even though LaVina Daugherty was married to him during the births of her sons, I desperately needed the help of a million more people.</div>
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So on 10 September 2014 whilst mired stuck and flailing in the Schrader quicksand with no sense of progress, two autosomal DNA tests were shipped to me from <i>AncestryDNA</i> - one for me, and one for my mother. I had to feel like I was doing something with momentum while formulating a plan to test more living Schraders.</div>
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Like a Pavlov dog, I started salivating the moment the test kits arrived on my doorstep, and my kit was back at the post office (with spit) within hours of having been delivered on 13 September 2014. Coordinating schedules with my mother, even though she lives just over three miles away, meant her test kit didn't hit the mailbox until 26 September 2014. They were both on their way to the lab, and I waited to see if I might find an edge by utilizing this venue while also arranging for my new inside Schrader contact to come to fruition.</div>
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My mother's test gained a few days on mine, as they were received by the laboratories of <i>AncestryDNA</i> on 22 September and 1 October 2014, respectively. Since I had already done all the preliminary footwork on <i>23andMe</i>, and because I was proactively dismayed at <i>AncestryDNA</i>'s shunning of science, I was not chomping at the bit to see the results, but of course, I was eager to have fun with them. After all, I was chasing my grandfather's identity, but I also had many, many more known ancestors I might learn more about if I discovered viable matches on any of my other family lines. Also, October was a busy month for me. With six seminars in four weeks in various locations in Illinois, Ohio, and Indiana, I was barely able to keep up with PowerPoint revisions and lecture building to fret a great deal over these impending results.</div>
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My <i>AncestryDNA</i> results were obviously the first to arrive as announced via email on the afternoon of 15 October 2014, although I was not able to sit down and access them on my computer until later that night. And much to my surprise, in addition to the thousands of matches and pages-and-pages of remotely distant relatives, I had one very close match.</div>
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A male identified by initials only, whose test results were administrated by a second party, and whose family tree was locked from view to me, was identified as my "Close Family to First Cousin." I frantically looked to see if the initials matched any of the known Schrader clan, but I came up empty handed. Of course, yes, I was curious, but I certainly wasn't insanely clawing at my computer screen. Although I do not have first cousins interested in genealogical research, nor do I know of anyone in the immediate family that might have been tested, I do know there are a handful of relatively close relatives on my father's side that are on a variety of DNA sites. And since I only had my test results in the <i>AncestryDNA</i> system, I had no references with which to compare to see if this was a maternal or paternal connection.</div>
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So at 10:31 p.m. in the night of 15 October 2014, I sent the following message:</div>
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<i>"Hello. Although I have been working with DNA for quite some time via 23andMe and FTDNA, I have just gotten my results on Ancestry. I am wading through the ins and outs of the match features. Nonetheless, this says you are my first cousin. Now THAT is something I want to explore! Who are you?"</i></blockquote>
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Unfortunately, I was also frantically preparing for a lecture I had to give in Dayton, Ohio, that I was driving to the following Friday morning. Anyone who knows me is aware of my profound level of procrastination. PowerPoints, laundry, packing, and all the preparations for leaving usually are frantically taken care of hours to minutes before I have to walk out the door. And on the morning of Friday, 17 October 2014, I had to be on the road no later than 10 a.m. because of a timed afternoon engagement the day before my lecture.</div>
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At 7:07 a.m. that Friday morning I got a response to my <i>AncestryDNA</i> query:</div>
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<i>"Mike, I see you are located in Indiana which dovetails with my family history. Perhaps you are researching this connection for someone else who is older than you? [The] family tree is rather small so it's great to happen upon such a close connection. If we are in fact first cousins then we share grandparents which might be Daugherty..."</i></blockquote>
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Holy Jesus Christ, Joseph, and Mary Mother of God and All the Angels and Saints on High... did I read that correctly?</div>
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Daugherty.</div>
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<b><i><span style="font-size: large;">DAUGHERTY!</span></i></b></div>
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Minutes before needing to hop into the car and drive to Ohio, I now had a pounding headache and the immediate need to vomit.</div>
Michael D Lacopohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11804658533353361632noreply@blogger.com16