Monthly Archives: November 2013

Woody Hayes and the Stolen Black Cap

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The year was 1978 and I was attending my first Ohio State football game. Because tickets for OSU home games were hard to come by even then, my family did what many Buckeye fans do — we went to Indiana. (Say what you will about the Hoosiers’ less-than-stellar football team, but their stadium is nice and the people there are super friendly.)

I don’t remember anything about the game itself (other than the fact that Ohio State won). But what happened at the end of halftime was something else.

Bo Schembechler and Woody Hayes (wearing his iconic Block O cap). Photo by The Ohio State University Archives; used with permission.

Bo Schembechler and Woody Hayes (wearing his iconic Block O cap). Photo by The Ohio State University Archives; used with permission.

The bands had finished their shows and the teams had taken the field for their warm-ups before the 2nd half. Our seats were about 10 rows up on the 20-yard line, giving us a good view of the field and the sideline. Pacing the sideline was Woody Hayes, wearing his iconic black Block O ball cap.

As Woody was talking to one of the assistant coaches, a young man came out of nowhere, ran up to Woody, and grabbed the cap off of Woody’s head! The next thing you know, the kid ran across the field, through the football players, into the IU band… and was Never. Seen. Again.

What does this have to do with family history? Somewhere, there’s a middle-aged man with a black Ohio State cap, the kind with the Block O. And he’s told his kids about how he stole it right off of Woody Hayes’ head. His kids have rolled their eyes and said, “Yeah, right, Dad.” To those kids, I have this to say: Your dad is right. He stole that cap right off of Woody’s head. I saw him do it.

I Have No Memories of JFK, and Why That Matters

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President and Mrs. Kennedy arriving at Love Field, Dallas, Texas, 22 November 1963. Photo by Cecil Stoughton; downloaded from Wikimedia Commons; public domain image.

President and Mrs. Kennedy arriving at Love Field, Dallas, Texas, 22 November 1963. Photo by Cecil Stoughton; downloaded from Wikimedia Commons; public domain image.

All this week, people have been asking the question “Where were you when you heard Kennedy was killed?” Mom was at home. Dad had the later shift at his service station and was getting ready for work. The milkman (yes, the milkman) had just stopped at the house, making his delivery, when the news broke on TV. Mom and Dad invited the milkman in to watch the news with them. Mom remembers Walter Cronkite breaking down when he announced that the President was dead..

As for me, I have no memories of it. Not because I was too young to remember. I wasn’t born yet.

I’m used to being the youngest in the crowd. I’m the youngest in my family. I’m the youngest of my grandparents’ grandchildren. I was among the youngest in my high school graduating class. Until a few years ago, I was always the youngest in a gathering of genealogists. I’m used to the discussions that revolve around events that I missed. (“Remember that time we <blank>? Oh, that’s right. You weren’t born yet.” Sometimes, I think my sisters enjoy those conversations a little bit too much 😉 )

People have expressed almost sadness that I missed this key event in the nation’s history. On the one hand, it would be interesting to be able to carry on a conversation comparing notes of “where were you.” But on the other hand, there are lots of key events that I — and a lot of my friends — have missed. Pearl Harbor. The 1929 Stock Market Crash. Lincoln’s Assassination. Fort Sumter. The Treaty of Ghent. Washington’s first inauguration. Lexington and Concord.

I look at my great-niece and great-nephews and realize that events that I do remember vividly — things like the space shuttle Challenger and 9/11 — are things they they will only hear about from others. They have no memory of them.

So why does it matter that I have no memory of JFK? Because others do, and they need to record those memories for those of use who don’t. And for others like me who don’t have those memories, we need to record our “where I was” stories for the key events in our lives, so that the youngsters of today — and those yet to be born — will know.

John, This Is Your Daughter: Or, How a Timeline Uncovered a Family Story

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John Peter Kingery managed to stay out of the Civil War until the 18th of August, 1864. He and his wife Elizabeth Jane had only been married for three years. They had 15-month-old son and Elizabeth Jane was pregnant with their second child. And when I say “pregnant,” I mean she was very pregnant.

Mary Kingery, daughter of John Peter and Elizabeth Jane, was born 1 September 1864. That’s a mere 14 days after John enrolled.

John probably saw his baby daughter before he left for his service with the 173rd Ohio Volunteer Infantry. The 173rd didn’t muster in until 18 September. John likely didn’t leave for Gallipolis, where the 173rd was mustering, until a few days before.

Imagine what Jane (as everyone called her) went through. A young mother with a toddler and a brand new baby, and her husband is going off to war. By 1864, the war effort is boding better for the Union cause, but it certainly wasn’t a guarantee of safety for anyone who was serving at the time. What were the weeks like for her as she waited for John to return home?

Did she get a letter when John was admitted to the hospital in January 1865? Did she know about the fever and the disease that caused his hair to fall out and his legs to swell “to unusual size”? John stayed in the hospital in Nashville until March. Did Jane learn that he had been furloughed home because of his illness? I almost hope that she didn’t, because on the way home, he became more ill and ended up in the military hospital in Cincinnati, and was there for several more days. He didn’t make it back to Lawrence County until sometime in April.

We’ll never know exactly what happened at his homecoming. But it isn’t hard to imagine that he spent some time reintroducing himself to little Mary, who had grown from a newborn when he left to a 7-month-old — an eternity to a baby. 

(NOTE: If John and Jane sound familiar, you might remember the story of Jane’s death and her burial as an indigent widow.)

Genealogical Tip:
This story was buried in John’s pension file. I didn’t find it until I put together a timeline of events as they were listed in the pension. Among the events:

  • 18 August 1864 – enrolled in the 173rd Ohio Volunteer Infantry, per service record abstract from the War Department, in John’s pension file
  • “about the 22nd day of August 1864” – enrolled, per John’s “Declaration for an Original Invalid Pension”
  • 1 September 1864 – birth of Mary E. Kingery, per John’s pension questionnaire, dated 23 March 1915

At first, I didn’t think that John was home when Mary was born. I needed to establish two dates: Mary’s birth and when John actually left. John’s list of his children wasn’t written until 1915. How accurate was his memory? After all, he wasn’t exactly sure when he enrolled, and in one place in his pension, he lists his marriage to Jane as being in 1862, when the marriage record from the Lawrence County Probate Court clearly shows it was 1861. (At least he had the month and the day right.)

Mary later married John C. Stumbo. The 1900 census lists her birthdate as September 1864. Other censuses are also consistent with a birth in late 1864.

So when did John leave for service with the 173rd Ohio? Enrolling doesn’t necessarily mean that he left right away. There was often a delay between the time a man enrolled and when the regiment mustered in (when it officially came together). According to the Official Roster of the Soldiers of the State of Ohio in the War of the Rebellion, the 173rd didn’t organize until September; Company E, John’s company, didn’t muster in until 18 September. In all likelihood, John didn’t leave Lawrence County for Gallipolis until closer to mid-September.

Moral of this story: Always create a timeline for your ancestors. Sometimes there is a story just waiting to be teased out.

References:

  • Kingery, John P. Civil War pension file. 173rd Ohio Volunteer Infantry. Application 574110, Certificate 428276.
  • Kingery, John P. 1870 U.S. Census. Windsor Township, Lawrence County, Ohio. Page 604.
  • Roster Commission. Official Roster of the Soldiers of the State of Ohio in the War of the Rebellion. Vol. 9. Cincinnati: Ohio Valley Press, 1889.
  • Stumbo, John C. 1900 U.S. Census. Mason Township, Lawrence County, Ohio. ED 71, sheet 2A. (Showing Mary Kingery Stumbo’s birthdate.)

 

The Veteran’s Indigent Widow

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John Peter Kingery and Elizabeth Jane Murnahan, my great-great-grandparents, married in Lawrence County, Ohio on 5 September 1861. The United States had been at war with itself for just a few months, and there was still hope that the war would be over soon.

John managed to stay out of the war until August 1864. He might have been drafted or he might have voluntarily enlisted, which would have given him a small bounty. He needed the money. He and Jane (as everyone called her) had one baby and another on the way. John wouldn’t see his daughter Mary until she was almost a year old.

Jane was fortunate that John returned home from serving in the 173rd Ohio Volunteer Infantry, healthier than many of his comrades. But John wasn’t “healthy.” He had spent two months in hospitals in Nashville and Cincinnati from a fever that caused his legs to swell “to unusual size” and his hair to fall out. The pain was severe.

John and Jane’s family grew, but their fortune did not. They had no land and no personal property of value in 1870. In 1900 and 1910, they lived in rented houses. John was a day laborer, a term used in the census to indicate someone who worked for others in an unskilled profession.

After John’s death in 1917, Jane received a pension based on John’s service and disability. Though her file doesn’t mention the amount, it was likely $8 – $12/month. Clearly, Jane wasn’t going to become wealthy — or even financially secure — based on this pension.

In 1884, Ohio passed a law allowing county commissioners to pay for the burial of honorably discharged Union veterans who “died without leaving means sufficient to defray funeral expenses.” Later, this law was amended to include veteran’s widows. It was under this law that the Lawrence County Commissioners paid for Jane’s funeral and burial.

Jane Kingery's Burial Record

Jane Kingery’s Burial Record

“…after a careful inquiry into and examination of all the circumstances in the case, do find and report that the said Jane Kingery died on the 12 day of May A.D. 1921; that we have caused her to be buried in a decent and respectable manner in Kingery Cemetery; that the occupation of said decedent while living was Housewife, that the said decedent died in indigent circumstances, that his [sic] family is unable to pay the expenses of the burial…”

We often don’t think about the families of the veterans. What would Jane’s life have been like had John not served or had not become disabled?

John Peter and Elizabeth Jane (Murnahan) Kingery

John Peter and Elizabeth Jane (Murnahan) Kingery

References:

  • Kingery, Jane. Indigent Soldiers Record of Burial. Briggs Lawrence County Public Library.
  • Kingery, John P. Civil War pension file. 173rd Ohio Volunteer Infantry. Application 574110, Certificate 428276.
  • Kingery, John. 1870 U.S. Census. Windsor Township, Lawrence County, Ohio. Page 604.
  • Kingery, John. 1900 U.S. Census. Mason Township, Lawrence County, Ohio. ED 71, sheet 1B.
  • Kingrey, John. 1910 U.S. Census. Windsor Township, Lawrence County, Ohio. ED 107, sheet 6A.
  • Revised Statutes of the State of Ohio, Including All Laws of a General Nature in Force January 1, 1890. Volume II. Cincinnati: Robert Clarke, 1894. (Page 2535, downloaded from Google Books.)

[EDIT: I’ve added a new story that I teased out from John’s pension record, “John, This Is Your Daughter.”]

Happy 60th Anniversary, Mom and Dad

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Gerald and Claudene (Ramsey) Johnson, cutting their wedding cake, 6 Nov 1953.

Gerald and Claudene (Ramsey) Johnson, cutting their wedding cake, 6 Nov 1953.

It was a Friday afternoon and Grandma Johnson was giving my Mom’s wedding dress one final ironing. She glided the iron quickly and carefully across the antique white satin, careful not to scorch it. Having made the dress herself, she knew every inch of it, including the more than 30 buttons down the back that she had covered in the same fabric as the dress.

“Look outside!” she called to Mom.

Mom turned to the window and saw that it was snowing. November 6 is early to have snow in central Ohio, but there it was.

The year was 1953 and it was the day that my parents got married.

Fast-forward to today, their 60th wedding anniversary. Three daughters, four grandchildren, and three great-grandchildren. Still going strong. My sisters and I joke that since Dad retired, we can’t keep up with them. (It actually isn’t that far from the truth!)

Happy 60th anniversary, Mom and Dad!