52 Ancestors 2025: Disappeared—The Children

 

It is not uncommon in family research to find relatives who seem to have dropped out of the records under mysterious circumstances. Yet, what struck this genealogist (and father) with a professional interest in public health is the recurring pattern of infant and childhood mortality throughout my family history. The evidence is everywhere: large families in the 17th and 18th centuries, the reuse of names for children who died young, and mothers who themselves died in childbirth.

For this post, I chose to focus on the 1900 and 1910 censuses and the listings of my ancestors in Barton County, Missouri. Why these censuses? Because in these years, mothers were asked not only how many children they had, but also how many were still living.

The inclusion of these questions reflects a growing national interest in public health at the turn of the century. The United States was expanding, and cities were swelling with people. Coastal and river regions, particularly in warmer climates, were plagued by yellow fever and malaria. In Kentucky—a major pathway for many of my ancestors—the rise of Lexington as a trans-Appalachian “Athens of the West” was abruptly halted by a cholera epidemic in 1833. As cities grew, the problems of waste disposal and sanitation became impossible to ignore.

By the mid-1800s, public health reforms were gaining momentum. In Massachusetts, Lemuel Shattuck (my 5th cousin, five times removed) championed sanitation measures. In London, John Snow famously linked cholera to contaminated water at the Broad Street pump. Advances in germ theory by Louis Pasteur, Robert Koch, and others, along with improvements in medical education, underscored the importance of separating water supplies from human and animal waste. Cities—especially overcrowded and impoverished neighborhoods like New York’s Lower East Side—saw the highest levels of childhood mortality, but rapid improvements followed.

What about rural Barton County, Missouri? Farms allowed for cleaner separation of wells, outhouses, and animal pens. Milk from cows on the farm was commonly boiled. Crowding was not an issue, but access to medical care was limited. Vaccines for childhood illnesses did not exist, nor were antibiotics available to treat bacterial infections.

Even so, mortality among children was a reality. Many of the older mothers among my ancestors lost between one and three children. We don’t always know how old the children were when they died, but we can imagine the grief. The mothers who had babies at the turn of the century and later may have seen some improvement, though I’d need to dig into statistics before drawing conclusions—that would be the subject of a scientific study, not a blog post.

The family photo at the top of this post, taken around 1909, shows my grandparents, Virgil and Marietta (Yount) Cassatt, with my Aunt Alta Mae. According to the 1900 census, Virgil's mother Susan lost 3 of her 6 children, and Marietta's Mary mother lost 2 of her 7 children. Together, Virgil and marietta had six children who survived infancy, but they also lost a 9-day-old baby boy, Frank, in 1907, and another newborn son in 1925. Their daughter Alta grew up, married, but died in 1942 at age 34 after a two-week illness. On my maternal side, a young uncle, Stephen Claire, died of appendicitis at age 6.

Today, we benefit from sanitation systems, vaccines, antibiotics, and hospitals equipped to care for the youngest and most vulnerable. Looking back, we can see how much progress has been made through public health, science, and medicine. Large families were the norm in those days, yet even with strong faith, supportive families, and close-knit communities, our ancestors deeply felt the pain of losing their children. Though some of these children may have lived only briefly, their memories endured.

52 Ancestors 2025: Animals

 

This week’s prompt was “Animals,” and for so many of my farming ancestors, that meant livestock. But where to begin? With so many ancestors to choose from, I decided to focus on one: my namesake, David Cassatt. We’ve already learned about his unusual birth, his Civil War service, and his farming in Barton County. Although I cannot find him in the 1870 census, I know his family moved to Carroll County, Missouri, where he married Susan Corilla Houseworth on August 22, 1872. In 1878, he moved to Barton County, first renting a farm.

Much of what I know about his farm comes from the 1880 Census, both the Population and Agricultural Schedules. From those, and with some extra digging (with the help of ChatGPT), we get a vivid picture of his farm life.

Population Schedule:

• David Cassatt, 35, head, farmer

• Susan Cassatt, 27, wife

• Orville Cassatt, 4, son

• Virgil Cassatt, 2, son

Virgil was my grandfather. At this stage, David was a fairly young farmer, just establishing himself and his family. His boys were still too young to help with chores, but they probably had free run of the house and yard while David and Susan took care of the farm—working the land, tending livestock, and turning the harvest and animal products (meat, eggs, milk) into food.

Agricultural Schedule:

• Land: 95 improved acres (under cultivation)
• Value of farm: $1,200 (land, fences, buildings), $50 (implements and machinery), $1,000 (livestock)
• Wages paid: $10
• Value of farm products: $300

Livestock:

• 5 horses
• 4 milk cows
• 31 other cattle
• 6 calves dropped
• 35 cows purchased
• 3 cows died
• 23 swine
• 50 poultry

Crops and Yield:

• Butter: 40 lbs
• Eggs: 100 dozen
• Corn: 1,000 bushels from 55 acres
• Oats: 50 bushels from 4 acres
• Wheat: 122 bushels from 8 acres
• Dried beans: 25 bushels
• Castor beans: 132 bushels from 12 acres
• Molasses: 40 gallons from ¼ acre sorghum
• Potatoes: 175 bushels from 2 acres

Although some of the grains and produce were consumed or sold, much of it would have supported the livestock.

The five horses were the true workhorses of the farm, pulling plows and wagons in the age before tractors. The milk cows provided fresh milk—consumed at home (often heated briefly for safety) or churned into butter. David’s household produced 40 pounds of butter, most likely used in the kitchen but possibly sold if there was excess. Starting out, he also expanded his herd by purchasing 35 cows. Some of these, along with the calves, would have become milk cows, while others were fattened as steers for sale or kept as breeding bulls.

The swine and poultry were equally important. Pigs could be fed corn, kitchen scraps, and skim milk, and they were fattened through summer before being butchered in cool weather—likely with neighbors lending a hand. Without refrigeration, only the best cuts would be eaten fresh, sometimes at neighborhood feasts. The rest of the pork was cured with salt and sugar, sometimes smoked, and stored for the year. Lard, rendered from fat, was kept cool and used for cooking. Steers, too large for family consumption, would be taken to the nearest railhead—perhaps in Liberal, Golden City, or Lamar—for sale and slaughter.

The 50 chickens (and perhaps some turkeys, ducks, or geese) provided the 100 dozen eggs listed in the census. These eggs, along with surplus butter, could be sold for “butter and egg money.” Chickens themselves would occasionally become Sunday dinner.

Like most family farms of the time, David’s was highly diversified—producing food for the family and some cash income to sustain the household. Over time, he was very successful, eventually providing farms for his sons Orville, Virgil, and Bascom.

And then there’s the famous family picture. What about those rabbits on leashes? While farmers were known to eat almost anything edible, I suspect these rabbits were pets—one for each boy. By the time of that photo, the boys were old enough to be helping with chores, especially during the busy summer and harvest seasons. It was a demanding life, but one full of abundance on the newly broken prairie land.

52 Ancestors 2025: In the News

 

I can’t say that my ancestors were the type to make national headlines—those were more likely the provenance of some more distant relatives—but in the age of newspapers, most of them had obituaries. This obituary of my 2nd-great granduncle, George Washington Mayfield, is rich with information and stories. His sister, Polly Mayfield, was my 2nd-great grandmother on my father’s side. Besides learning about George and getting names of family members, we also gain stories about wars and westward migration.

The first remarkable story is that of his father, Stephen Mayfield, who fought for the patriots in the American Revolution and, at age 17, served as a spy in his native North Carolina.

Mr. Mayfield was the only son of a Revolutionary soldier living in Missouri, his father, Stephen Mayfield, having enlisted against King George when 17 years old. He fought through seven years of the war for Independence, his service being the spying out of the royal forces in North Carolina under the guise of a mill boy taking grain to be ground.

According to FamilySearch, Stephen was born in 1758, so age 17 would place his service from 1775 until 1782. North Carolina was a particularly important theater in 1780 and 1781, when General Nathanael Greene and Lord Cornwallis clashed, prompting the British army’s retreat to the Virginia coastline. Perhaps Stephen’s knowledge of troop positions aided the now-seasoned southern forces in their success against Cornwallis.

The obituary also notes the family’s westward migration after the war, first to southwestern Kentucky—possibly to the town of Mayfield, though that may have been named for a different Mayfield settler—and then to southeastern Missouri.

George’s own life was touched by war, this time the Civil War. His obituary records:

Then came the Civil war, in which Mr. Mayfield would take no part, although his sympathies were with the South. He was persecuted by both armies and was arrested by the Southern forces as a spy, being mistaken for another man.

And:

Outside the farmhouse on the plantation was a large black walnut tree and an end of the rope, which was about Mr. Mayfield's neck, was thrown over this in a last effort to make him admit he was the man wanted, or at least testify against the suspected spy, who was his brother-in-law. Mr. Mayfield refused to speak and maintained his composure so well that the captain of the troop released him, saying he was too open-faced a man to have a double heart.

Although his obituary notes his Southern leanings, I could not find George listed in the 1850 or 1860 slave schedules. I did, however, find John S. Yount, his sister’s brother-in-law, recorded there. Perhaps George’s interests were more regional than financial.

In any case, while George was known as a successful farmer, his greater legacy was clearly in the fields of medicine and education. Five of his sons became physicians, and he helped his son found Will Mayfield College. While records provide names, dates, and locations, articles like this obituary breathe life into our family history. We can also see the southern influences in my own family, as the Younts and various Mayfields migrated to Barton County, Missouri.

52 Ancestors 2025: Off to School

 

September (now late August) is a time of hope, anticipation, trepidation, and often change, as children, adult students, parents, grandparents, teachers, and other school staff face a new school year. Education has been an important part of our nation’s history, from the founding of public schools in Massachusetts to the cutting-edge technologies being developed in our universities. But for a genealogist, school records can give us glimpses into our ancestors’ lives and their communities.

Being farmers and often pioneers moving westward, my ancestors faced challenges getting the now-standard K–12, let alone a university education. As far as I can tell, my family’s role in schooling began with my 3rd-great-grandfather, John Jay Fast (1814–1891), who exemplifies the 19th-century migration pattern from Pennsylvania to Ohio, then to Illinois, and finally to Barton County, Missouri. The 1889 book of Barton County biographies notes:

The eldest of this family, John J. Fast, was reared on a farm, and had very meager educational advantages, not attending school a year altogether. By private study, however, he qualified for teaching, and followed this profession for some time…He was the first treasurer of the Lamar school board…

So the Fasts appear to be a branch invested in public education, and that tradition carried on. My maternal grandmother, Ruby (Fast) Reed, was a schoolteacher in Barton County. After separating from my grandfather, Stephen A. Reed, she needed to support herself and her children and turned to teaching. According to the 1940 census, she earned $560 a year. Unfortunately, she died at the age of 60, with a memorial document noting that she was a fourth-grade teacher. My great-aunt, Mary (Fast) Hizar, was also a teacher. I remember her being intrigued by my Golden Book of Natural History, written by the remarkable (for me) science author Bertha Morris Parker. I left my book with her so she could use it in her classroom, and that Christmas I received a brand-new copy.

This brings us to my mother, Ruth, who also became a schoolteacher. She taught in a rural one-room schoolhouse, where children of all ages learned side by side. We have three school pictures (one is shown here) that appear to represent the years 1937–1939. At the time, she was teaching at Bryan School, which I was able to locate in Barton City Township, just down the road from her grandfather’s farm, where she lived with her mother. The children—some of whom appear to be siblings—would have walked or ridden in a wagon up to two miles each way. I have a book about Barton County schools that includes memories and pictures of those days. These one-room schools were essential to rural communities, but as school buses became common, they were consolidated, and the children transferred to schools in Liberal, Missouri.

Was my mother able to continue teaching after she married and moved to Buffalo? Unfortunately, no. City teaching positions required a college degree, and Mom had only a high school diploma with a few summer terms at Southwest Missouri State Teachers College (now Missouri State University) in Springfield. But once a teacher, always a teacher. She instilled in us a love of learning—always keeping books in the house, sending us to the library, and immersing us in cultural activities. All three of us earned college degrees, with two going on to PhDs and careers in biomedical research. In that sense, we were first-generation college graduates—or maybe not.

Mom was able to teach right out of high school at age 17, but as consolidation brought stricter requirements, Ruby continued her summer classes and eventually graduated from Southwest Missouri State College in 1951, at age 57. She was certainly a model of perseverance.

52 Ancestors 2025: Off to Work – A Furrow in Time

 

For most of my family’s history, this prompt points to a single occupation—farming. “Off to work” usually meant getting out of bed and heading to the barn or the kitchen. With so many generations to choose from, where to begin? Farming shows up in colonial times—in places like Massachusetts Bay Colony or the tip of Manhattan—in the early years of our country on the frontier, and later as families spread westward. For this post, I chose to focus on the late 1800s, when my ancestors settled in Barton County (and surrounding areas) in Missouri. This period allows me to use U.S. Census records, especially the Agricultural Schedules, which list crops grown and their value.

I was fortunate to find the Missouri Agricultural Schedules readily available online. All I had to do was download the PDFs and scroll through by township. Using the 1870 and 1880 census records, I located many of my ancestors and entered their information into an Excel spreadsheet. I then uploaded this data, along with household information, to ChatGPT to help analyze what was happening on these farms. With so much detail, there’s almost too much for a single post—so this is just an overview.

On my maternal side, the family tree includes the Fasts (3rd- and 2nd-great-grandfathers), Benjamin McWilliams (2nd-great-grandfather), S. D. Reed (2nd-great-grandfather), and Anthony Gilmartin (2nd-great-grandfather). One good example is John Jay Fast, born in Ohio in 1814. Before the Civil War, he moved first to Fulton County, Illinois, and then to Barton County, Missouri. The census snapshots catch him in his mid-fifties and mid-sixties, showing a productive and diverse farm with a mix of grains, hay, and livestock. By 1880, with two of his sons striking out on their own, he hired extra help and still managed to increase both output and value. His farming skill was passed down to his son William Marion. By that same year, B. C. McWilliams also had a productive farm, while the earlier census shows him just starting out, breaking sod.

On my paternal side (Cassatt, Houseworth, Yount), I wasn’t able to compare 1870 and 1880 as completely because not all Agricultural Schedules were available. Still, the combination of Population and Agricultural records shows that these families, too, maintained respectable farms with grains, hay, potatoes, wood lots, and livestock.

The household data also helps paint a fuller picture. With AI’s help, I could see who was available for chores. It also highlights how often families were blended—widowed heads of household remarrying, sometimes to other widows who brought children into the family, or adult children returning after the death or separation of a spouse, often with children of their own.

These records help bring farming families to life, moving them beyond just names and dates. They also reveal the larger forces that shaped their lives: the extension of railroads, the Panic of 1873, swarms of locusts, and falling commodity prices brought on by the abundance produced as farms began to mechanize. There is so much more history—and so many more records—to explore. By organizing these details of marriages, births, deaths, and residences into timelines, and then using generative AI to connect the dots, I can keep building the narratives of these families. More blog posts to come—stay tuned.

52 Ancestors 2025: Playtime

 

“Playtime” is a tricky topic when it comes to specific ancestors. For one, I don’t have many stories about leisure activities. For another, from what I know about their culture, Puritans didn’t seem particularly playful, and farming didn’t exactly leave time for the Grand Tour. So this topic lends itself more naturally to recent family memories. Being a working-class family, our vacations were modest and affordable—basically falling into two categories: trips back to Missouri for the Fast family reunion, and camping trips. This post is more about reminiscing than research.

The family reunion lasted one day, but the vacation itself was two weeks of visiting—minus three days of travel each way in the days before the interstate highway system. I remember snippets of the journey: Burma-Shave signs, drinking warm Dr. Pepper at a St. Louis gas station while switching from US-40 to US-66, and getting car sick in the rolling hills as we approached Springfield, Missouri. But it was also a time for visiting farms and listening to family stories.

Our camping trips were real adventures. Sometimes we stayed local, at Camp Arrowhead off NY-16 on the way to Olean, or ventured farther to the Adirondacks, especially Lewey Lake. Hiking, mountains, woods, campfires—being outdoors in every sense. Somehow, the love of nature feels like it’s in my DNA. My eastern ancestors often settled in wooded areas they had to clear for farmland. One ancestor lived with the Delaware tribe for over a year after being captured. The Wilderness Road to Kentucky was too narrow for wagons, so my migrating ancestors hiked the entire way. And many who fought in the American Revolution and Civil War walked from battle to battle. As I got older, my “playtime” included canoeing and hiking in lakes, streams, and woods—and my son, who spent many hours as my backpack passenger, has now carried on the tradition.

While “playtime” may not appear in written family history, I do remember it vividly on the Missouri farms I visited. We went fishing (where I learned about chiggers), set off firecrackers forbidden in my city neighborhood, and enjoyed plenty of social time. Clippings show community gatherings—weddings, showers, or visiting friends from out of town. Judging by the sense of humor in my cousins, I’m sure there was plenty of general hijinks.

On one Missouri trip, my cousins Terry and Benny taught me the song My Gal’s a Corker; She’s a New Yorker. One line went, “She’s got a long, long, nose; just like a garden hose.” I was a quick learner and proudly sang the whole thing to my extended family at my aunt’s house. Years later, I learned that our generation’s humor wasn’t always appreciated by our elders—but I’m betting they were quietly laughing as my cousins received their punishment after I left.

52 Ancestors 2025: The Legal Troubles of Benjamin Cruiser McWIlliams

 

We’ve met my 2nd-great-grandfather, Benjamin Cruiser McWilliams, before. Through his writings on his Civil War POW experiences and life as a new settler on the Missouri prairie, we’ve had a window into our nation’s history. But I wasn’t expecting to see his name connected to the prompt “legal troubles.” Two unrelated events led me there: first, while using FamilySearch’s full-text search to check Ben’s land transactions, I stumbled across a couple of court cases. Second, my ace genealogist cousin, Cindy Cruz, sent me Ben’s complete Civil War pension file—and pointed out a rather heated dispute.

Details about the court cases were scarce, but in 1872 Ben was convicted of petit larceny and fined $5. In 1878, an appeal was filed but later withdrawn—though whether it was for that case or something else is unclear. By the 1870s, though, Ben was already a successful farmer. He had purchased land in 1866, and both the 1870 and 1880 U.S. Census agricultural schedules confirm his prosperity. This makes me suspect the case involved a minor dispute, perhaps a business deal gone wrong.

Ben was a survivor—both literally and figuratively. During his time in the notorious Andersonville prison camp, he had worked in the hospital, getting extra rations there until caught by the Raiders, and conducted shrewd deals with locals who couldn’t distinguish between worthless “old issue” Confederate money and the still-valid “new issue.” His resourcefulness, risk-taking, and business instincts no doubt served him well as a prairie farmer—but may have also landed him in conflict from time to time.

The pension dispute offers even more insight—and perhaps a glimpse into postwar Barton County, Missouri, where recently arrived “Yankee” settlers mixed uneasily with older residents whose sympathies leaned southern. Missouri had been a border slave state and a guerrilla battleground during the Civil War, with escalating violence between Union troops and Confederate bushwhackers.

From 1862, Congress provided pensions for Union veterans disabled during service. At age 37, Ben applied, providing testimony from himself, a physician, and several acquaintances. But in the file was a remarkable letter from Barton County neighbors declaring that granting him a pension “would be a fraud & swindle upon the Government and an outrage upon the feelings of every patriotic citizen and true lover of justice and right throughout this community.” Harsh words! They claimed he was well-to-do and appeared to have no disability.

Indeed, in 1880 his farm was valued at $5,000—far above the U.S. median of $600—and he was listed in the 1889 History of Barton County. Perhaps they had a point. Many successful farmers of that era claimed ailments like rheumatism or poor eyesight, and Ben’s claim of scurvy-related disability fit that pattern. Still, sworn testimony and a physical exam were required, and frontier farmers were known for working through pain.

Then I looked closer at the signatories:

J. C. Leonard, J. A. Eddlemon, T. B. Yount, Henry M. Mayfield, G. H. Dixson, J. H. Conrad, H. P. Schmalhorst, J. W. Schmalhorst, J. B. Geer, S. D. Reed, George Reed, D. H. Pierson, John J. Dixson, A. M. Comfort, G. W. Conrad, Lewis Stone, J. B. Eddlemon, Wm. Jones.

Some names were familiar—and in fact, many were in my own family tree. The Younts, originally from North Carolina, had roots in Cape Girardeau, Missouri, and had intermarried with the Mayfields, who came from Virginia. The Justice of the Peace, J. C. Krimminger, was from a family long associated with the Younts. The Reeds had Virginia roots before moving to Ohio, and according to family lore, S. D. Reed had gone into hiding to avoid Union Army service. Several others had parents or grandparents from Kentucky, North Carolina, or Virginia, while others hailed from Union states like Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois—but as we know, Union loyalty varied depending on local settlement history.

Old wartime animosities may have still been smoldering. Ben was a proud Republican, outspoken about his service. Perhaps his pension application struck some as self-serving, or as an attempt to profit while their own families had suffered in different ways.

In the end, his 1882 application was denied. He eventually received a pension in 1890, when eligibility expanded to all veterans. But whether the wounds healed is another matter—though the families certainly intertwined over time. Ben’s granddaughter, Ruby Fast, married Stephen A. Reed, grandson of S. D. Reed. Their daughter married the grandson of Henry Yount, brother of T. B. Yount, and one-time farmhand for J. H. Conrad. These were my parents.

The opening of the prairie drew settlers from all over—bringing with them their cultures, grudges, and histories. Some conflicts played out in courtrooms or in letters to authorities. Others, eventually, were resolved at weddings and family dinner tables.