52 Ancestors 2026: An Address with a Story – Back on the Farm

 

I’m a city kid, born and raised in Buffalo, and I’ve always felt at home in cities—large and small. The walking, the buildings, the people, and the sheer variety of sights are endlessly engaging. But my family’s experience, stretching back many generations to the founding of this country, has been almost entirely rural or small-town—even including New York City back when it was New Amsterdam.

Growing up, the quickest way I reconnected with my rural roots was through occasional visits to Barton County, Missouri, to the farm of my (great) aunt and uncle, Ben and Mary (Fast) Hizar. It was there that I saw my uncles and cousins from my mother’s side of the family. We were sometimes there for the Fast family reunion or for the Fourth of July—celebrated in a place where fireworks of all kinds were legal and the open spaces seemed endless.

Aunt Mary was a teacher, and although she and Uncle Ben had no children of their own, she kept a wonderful collection of books for young readers. I was especially fascinated by the Golden Book Encyclopedia (encyclopedias being a major part of my childhood reading), written by that font of scientific knowledge Bertha Morris Parker, also the author of The Golden Book of Science for Boys and Girls and The Golden Treasury of Natural History, both of which played a big role in my early science education. On one visit, I even left behind my treasured natural history book—replaced the following Christmas—so she could share it with her students.

I was also captivated by a table lamp with a picture of a steam locomotive and a small insert that spun from the heat of the bulb, creating the illusion of steam rising from the smokestack. Yes, I was easily amused.

But beyond these small memories, it was on that farm that I first heard many of the family stories I now continue to explore through genealogical research—stories like Ben McWilliams’s Civil War experiences, including his ordeal at Andersonville. Being on the farm also gave me a firsthand look at daily rural life: feeding and milking cows, growing and harvesting crops. Since Cheerios were an important part of my father’s job and a staple in our household, seeing oats growing in the field was a special treat.

So this wasn’t one of my residences, nor is it a famous address in American history. It was simply a place I visited—a place where I connected with my roots.

Note: This also reminds me that I need to scan more of my Missouri slides so I don’t have to rely on photographing them off a computer screen and fixing them with Gemini!

52 Ancestors 2026: A Turning Point—Or Points

 

With so many immigrant and migrating ancestors—and so many who were called to serve their country—there have been many turning points in my family history. One story that stands out is the journey of my 9th-great-grandmother, Catalynje Trico, born in 1605. She and her husband, Joris Jansen Rapelje, were among the first group of settlers to New Amsterdam in 1624. In fact, her life is the subject of a historical novel I am currently reading, Catalynje Trico: A Life in New Amsterdam by Lana Waite Holden.

In many ways, her life included several turning points. The first came in 1623, when she left her widowed mother and her hometown in Hainaut, in French Flanders—then part of the Spanish Netherlands—at about seventeen years of age. As a Reformed (Calvinist) Protestant living under Roman Catholic rule, she faced the threat of persecution from the Inquisition, as did many Protestants in those lands.

After arriving in Amsterdam, she met a young man, Joris Rapelje, who was also a Protestant refugee from French Flanders and worked in the textile trade. The two married in January 1624. Yet even that decision paled beside the one they made just four days later—to board the first ship of settlers bound for New Netherland.

This Dutch migration differed from earlier Pilgrim migrations, which centered on established religious communities whose families often migrated together. The Dutch West India Company hoped to establish a colony in the New World that could serve both as a trading foothold and a supply station for ships; however, convincing Dutch citizens to leave their relatively comfortable lives in the Netherlands for the hardships of frontier life proved difficult. The early struggles of Plymouth Colony were well known and likely discouraged many potential settlers.

As a result, many of the earliest colonists were Walloon refugees—people who had already been displaced from their homelands but had not yet fully established themselves in Dutch cities like Amsterdam.

Catalynje, perhaps drawn by a sense of adventure—or perhaps by the feeling of never fully belonging in Amsterdam—decided to take the risk. She and Joris boarded the ship Eendracht ("Unity"), reaching the New World about two months later. After a brief stay near Fort Orange, they helped establish the settlement of New Amsterdam at the southern tip of Manhattan. There they farmed, gardened, and operated a small taproom that served patrons from many lands and cultures. The couple eventually had eleven children, including the first child born in the colony, Sarah, and also their fourth child, Judith, from whom I am descended. Despite the hardships of early colonial life, they became respected citizens of the young settlement.

Another remarkable aspect of this story is the Catalyntje was the only original settler who lived through the entire history of New Amsterdam—from its founding until the British takeover in 1674. Much of what historians know about the early years of New Netherland comes from depositions she gave while in her eighties. She died in 1689 and is buried in the Flatbush Reformed Dutch Cemetery.

It is fascinating to wonder what might have happened if Catalynje had chosen differently. What opportunities would a young refugee couple have found in Amsterdam? The decision to sail to the New World carried enormous risks, but it ultimately allowed them to build a life and become leading citizens in a new colony.

Her life—the hardships she endured, the many children and descendants she left behind, and her role in the earliest settlement of what would become one of the world’s greatest cities—all trace back to that pivotal decision to leave the Old World and take a chance in the New.

Photos:

Top: Catalynje Trico: A Life in New Amsterdam by Lana Waite Holden

Middle: Walloon Church, taken by author

52 Ancestors 2026: Changed My Thinking – Or, Thinking More About the Past

 

I wrote earlier about my grandfather, Stephen Reed, who had a troubling past—leaving his young family for one woman and then another. I reflected on his complicated journey and the family he left behind.

I have not researched the life of my paternal grandfather, Virgil Cassatt, as deeply, but I know he struggled with drinking and was not a particularly successful farmer. According to family lore, his father, David, had done well enough to provide land for his three sons, but they eventually squandered their inheritance. Virgil certainly started off reasonably well. In the 1910 census he was farming in Barton County, Missouri, but over the next six years or so he tried farming farther west—apparently in Idaho (where one of my uncles was born) and in New Mexico (where my father was born). Note to self: it’s probably time to start looking up land records in these places.

But sometimes I begin to wonder. Although I cannot excuse their failings or the hardships their families endured, I find myself looking more closely at the times they lived in and the pressures they may have faced. Farming has always had its ups and downs, subject to the vagaries of weather and market conditions that can make or break a livelihood. We often remember the dramatic stories of the Dust Bowl during the Great Depression, when drought and high winds turned acres of topsoil into clouds that formed dunes and buried houses and outbuildings.

While the Crash of 1929 and the Dust Bowl loom large in our historical memory, farmers were already struggling throughout the 1920s. Demand for farm products grew during World War I, driving prices upward, but beginning in 1920 those prices collapsed, leading to declining incomes and falling land values.

Looking at the 1920 and 1930 censuses, we find Virgil and Marietta (Yount) farming in Barton County, Missouri, raising five children. The family had moved around but had returned to Barton County. In addition to the stress of moving and the pressures of farming, the family endured personal tragedies. Two of their children died in infancy, and both Virgil and Marietta had lost several siblings—three and two, respectively. Sadly, many families of that era experienced the loss of children, and it is easy to imagine how such losses added to their burdens.

In 1920, Stephen and Ruby were also farming in Barton County, raising my mother. By 1930, however, the family, now six, was living in St. Joseph, Missouri, where Stephen worked at a foundry and, at some point, sold cars. Had they lost the farm during the difficult farm economy of the 1920s? Was the death of their first son, six-year-old Stephen Claire, from appendicitis in 1918 more than the family could bear? Whatever the reason, Stephen eventually left his family.

Yet the families carried on, likely through the strength and determination of Marietta and Ruby, along with support from relatives. Ruby and her children moved back to Barton County, where Grandma and Grandpa Fast provided a home and support while Ruby supported the family by teaching school. Perhaps Marietta possessed some of the resilience of her grandmother, Elizabeth Ann Maddox Curry, who kept her farm and family together through the turmoil of the Civil War after losing her husband.

Sometimes trauma can echo across generations. Although my parents faced hardships growing up and entered the workforce during the Great Depression, my own life felt comparatively stable—family challenges, certainly, but no alcoholism or wandering. Factory work was not easy, but we benefited from the economic boom during and after World War II.

I am not sure I have completely changed my thinking, and I do not want to excuse the weaknesses of ancestors who gave in to temptation. Still, perhaps we can better understand the pressures they faced. We often speak of how “resilient” our ancestors were, but perhaps the stories of their struggles and failures were not always passed down.

After all, they (and we) are only human.

Note: Thanks to Cousin Vicki for more insight, and stories, from my paternal line.

Photos:

Virgil, Marietta, and Alta Cassatt; Stephen Reed

52 Ancestors 2026: Conflicting Clues – Match? Doppelgänger?

 

In genealogical research, mix-ups happen all the time. Authors of online trees—and even published histories—sometimes confuse two people with the same or similar names. As I review my own locally saved tree and the larger FamilySearch tree, I occasionally find facts that don’t look quite right. Information is often posted without careful analysis, and the cited sources sometimes contradict the conclusions presented. In those cases, we have to examine all the available records before drawing conclusions.

One ancestor who has long interested me is my second-great-grandfather on my paternal side, Robert Curry. According to census records, he was born in Kentucky in 1830 and by 1850 had moved to Monroe County, Missouri, where he married Elizabeth Ann Maddox. In 1860, the couple and their children appear in Vernon County, Missouri, where several members of Elizabeth’s family had also settled. Unfortunately, this region of Missouri was in turmoil during the Civil War, with fighting between Confederate-sympathizing bushwhackers and Union forces. The violence even led to the burning of the town of Montevallo. By the time of the 1870 census, Elizabeth was listed as a widow raising her family.

So what happened to Robert? Did he become caught up in these events? At present, the most definitive answers I can offer are: He died—and maybe.

Starting with what we know, the 1860 census lists Robert’s middle initial as “M.” A written genealogy of his father-in-law, Jesse Maddox, states that Robert died before January 1866. Another intriguing piece of information involves a man named Robert Marion Curry, who enlisted in the 15th Kansas Cavalry, Company D. He was reportedly one of three men executed in the winter of 1864 and buried among prisoners or Confederates. The pressing question is whether these two Roberts were the same person.

Rather than accept the connection simply because it appears in numerous Ancestry trees, I put on my researcher’s hat. The middle name aligns with the census initial—but why would Robert enlist in the Union Army? And why in a Kansas regiment if he was living in Missouri?

Spoiler alert: I don’t have definitive answers—not for lack of trying. A search of Fold3 reveals no enlistment record for a Robert or R. Curry, except for one soldier in the U.S. Colored Troops. Since the 15th Kansas Cavalry was not part of the USCT, that record can be ruled out. Still, some interesting clues remain. Although many companies recruited locally, Company D appears to have enlisted cavalrymen from across the state. Vernon County lies on the Kansas border, so crossing state lines to enlist would not have been unreasonable. Moreover, the 15th Kansas Cavalry was used primarily to suppress uprisings in Missouri.

This leaves two possibilities: either the similarity of names is coincidental, or a man born in Kentucky to a Virginia-rooted family—whose in-laws were associated with guerrilla resistance against Union forces—somehow joined the Union cause.

Neither possibility can be dismissed outright. The first leads to a frustrating dead end (for now), while the second stirs the imagination. Was Robert pressured into service to fight against his neighbors? Was he a bounty jumper who deserted, was captured, and executed? Could he have been acting as a spy, gathering information and relaying it back home? Given his probable sympathies, it is difficult to ignore the possibility that he may have engaged in activity that led to his execution.

We may never know the full story. But that doesn’t stop me from taking another swing at this brick wall every few months.

Photos:

Grave photo: Find a Grave, database and images (https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/5851280/robert_marion-curry: accessed February 28, 2026), memorial page for PVT Robert Marion Curry (1831–1864), Find a Grave Memorial ID 5851280, citing Fort Scott National Cemetery, Fort Scott, Bourbon County, Kansas, USA; Maintained by Tom DeNardo (contributor 767).

Description: https://www.kansashistory.gov/resource/national_register/nominationsNRDB/Bourbon_FortScottNationalCemeteryNR.pdf

52 Ancestors 2026: A Big Decision – A Common Theme

 

Many of my ancestors made big decisions that led to major changes for their families and for the generations that followed. Their fates were intertwined with the history of our land—from a collection of colonies to a nation—as they contended with the forces that shape history. During our wars of independence and civil conflict, they had to choose sides. Many, like Peter Cossart and Christian Fast, fought for the Patriot cause during the American Revolution. Later, during the Civil War era, decisions were perhaps more personal, with some choosing to fight in the Union Army and others sympathizing with the Confederate cause.

Migration was another defining theme. My immigrant ancestors who arrived in colonial days settled close to the coast, but their descendants moved inland, becoming pioneers who walked the Wilderness Road or traveled the Oregon Trail. Even earlier, they had made the difficult decision to leave their European homelands and sail to the New World—most never seeing again those they left behind.

One common thread linking many of my ancestors was religious conviction. They chose to break with established churches and join the Reformed Protestant movement led by John Calvin (in French, Jehan Cauvin). These believers sought to emulate the early Christian church by rejecting what they saw as traditions accumulated over centuries. Viewing humanity as fundamentally sinful, they distrusted hierarchical authority—whether exercised by princes and kings or by bishops and popes. Unsurprisingly, this movement drew the ire of the established order, and these so-called “heretics” and “traitors” often faced persecution and even death.

In France, Huguenots were driven from their ancestral lands, fleeing to territories controlled by Protestant princes along the Rhine or to the Dutch Republic (Netherlands), which had embraced Reformed Protestantism after separating from the Spanish crown and the Holy Roman Empire. (As an interesting side note, the familiar hymn “We Gather Together” originally celebrated the Dutch victory over Spainish forces in the Battle of Turnhout, not a Thanksgiving feast.) Likewise, French Protestants in the Spanish Netherlands (now Belgium) sought refuge in the Dutch Republic.

In England, cracks appeared in the façade of the Church of England, accompanied by persistent fears of creeping Catholic influence promoted by certain royals. Reformed Protestants organized themselves in Congregationalist (Puritan) and Presbyterian (Scottish and Scots-Irish) forms of church governance, with authority resting in local congregations or elected elders.

What did this turmoil mean for my faithful Reformed Protestant who faced persecution by church and state? Staying put was possible, but rarely wise. Refuge in the Netherlands or German states offered safety, yet assimilation remained a risk. For many of them, the New World offered a more hopeful solution. Pilgrim Separatists established Plymouth Colony, while English Puritans founded Massachusetts Bay. There, they attempted to build what they believed was a just society—though fears of losing their special covenant led to episodes such as the expulsion of Anne Hutchinson and the Salem witch trials. 

Huguenots from France and the Spanish Netherlands found common ground with Dutch co-religionists and migrated to New Amsterdam, helping to establish a colony that was less austere but more commercially focused. The search for refuge did not end there. My Quaker ancestors settled in Pennsylvania, seeking religious freedom. Scots-Irish and German settlers also made their way to Pennsylvania, making their way into the Appalachian Mountains. 

In the young republic, some of the descendants of these immigrant ancestors participated in the fervor of the Second Great Awakening, with some even joining new movements such as the Shaker communities emerging across the nation.

Religious conviction was thus a powerful force in the colonial experience. One could argue that their suspicion of aristocratic and royal hierarchies contributed to the spirit that fueled the American Revolution, and that their reformist zeal inspired movements ranging from public education to abolitionism. I sometimes wonder whether my own attraction to nonconformity and the pursuit of higher ideals is a trait passed down through the generations since my refugee ancestors first found their way to these shores.

Picture: Anonymous (France), John Calvin, www.catharijneconvent.nl, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=82311289

52 Ancestors 2026: What the Census Suggests – Harvesting a Wealth of Information from the Agricultural Schedules

When I began my genealogy research in the mid-1990s, I read whatever family histories I could find—mostly on the Fast line. The books I consulted advised that serious research required a trip to the National Archives to examine census records. Living in the Washington, DC, area, that was not a great stretch, and I spent several Saturdays downtown searching indexes, retrieving microfilm, and parking myself at a reader to transcribe information.

With the arrival of this century, those census records moved online. I could suddenly search for and download page after page of schedules from home. I made more discoveries than I can count—finding and tracing my ancestors, and even uncovering small stories along the way, such as my grandfather’s wandering ways.

One of my most intriguing discoveries, however, was the set of Missouri Agricultural Schedules. As my families settled in Barton County, these records revealed how much land they cultivated, which crops they planted, what livestock they relied on, and the income and value generated by their labor. For a researcher, the Agricultural Schedules—combined with the Population Schedules—are a gold mine.

I entered the data from the 1860, 1870, and 1880 agricultural schedules into spreadsheets for each census year and began analyzing the patterns. This is where my ChatGPT assistant proved especially helpful. By uploading the spreadsheets, I could ask it to interpret the data—examining livestock numbers and crop variety to suggest whether a farm was still in its early clearing stage (with many oxen) or had matured into a more diversified operation (with a wider range of crops and livestock).

For example, I followed the farm of my second-great-grandparents, the Currys, from 1860 through 1880—and, through the Population Schedules, to 1910. The records tell the story of a modest family farm that, after the death of the father, Robert, was maintained by his widow, with later assistance from their children. The postbellum years also brought new migrants to Barton County: the Fasts (John Jay and his son William Marion) and two Union Army veterans, Ben McWilliams and David Cassatt. These newcomers appear to have prospered more quickly—perhaps because they came from more established northern farms or because their wartime experiences provided both means and determination.

The Agricultural Schedules do more than measure family wealth. They describe how farmers lived—growing grain to feed livestock, producing butter and eggs for household use and market, raising hogs and poultry for home consumption, and fattening cattle for transport to the nearest railhead.

These records do not tell American history from the perspective of Great Men, but from the collective experience of ordinary families. Who lived on the farm, what labor each person could contribute, and the value of their industry—these details tell powerful stories about our ancestors, even when they left no written accounts of their own.

52 Ancestors 2026: Favorite Photo – A Fresh Look at an Old Favorite

 

I can’t help it—the winner of this year’s “Favorite Photo” challenge is last year’s winner. This photograph shows my great-grandfather’s family. Pictured from left to right are David Cassatt, his wife Susan Houseworth Cassatt, and their sons Orville, Virgil (my grandfather), and Bascom. I wrote about this image and the family a year ago and, with the help of ChatGPT, determined that it is plausible—perhaps even likely—that the photo was taken around 1888, possibly in the fall after the broom corn harvest.

That earlier post led to even more discoveries. To the right of the photograph is broom-making equipment, which sent me down a path of researching, and posting about, this home industry. I also learned that broom corn is a type of sorghum, though not the variety used to make molasses.

Perhaps it was the animals on leashes that sparked my curiosity, but I soon found myself heading down another rabbit hole—figuratively—learning about the livestock kept on the farm, their uses, and the crops grown to feed them. The Agricultural Schedules from the census were especially helpful in this deep dive, along with analysis aided by ChatGPT as I fed information into the model to help fill out the picture of this farming family. The records I most wish I had, however, are the 1890 census and the Agricultural Schedules from the 1900 and 1910 censuses. The former were destroyed accidentally by fire, and the latter intentionally, deemed no longer useful—clearly without future genealogists in mind.

Finally, while we see the boys in this photograph, we are also reminded of the children who are missing. In the 1900 census, enumerators asked mothers how many children they had borne and how many were still living. Susan reported having six children, but only three were alive in 1900—a sobering reminder of the ever-present reality of childhood mortality before modern medicine. There is a grave for their firstborn son, George, who died at fifteen months. Two other children, Laura and Hubert, were born after Bascom. Laura died at age two or three, and Hubert may have died shortly after birth, as he does not appear in this photograph.

We live in an age of abundant photography, but for many generations in the past, we are left with fragments—images combined with other records—to piece together the events that shaped our ancestors’ lives, and ultimately our own. Because a family portrait was a significant expense and a major event, much thought went into these formal images. When I look at this photograph, I wonder what David and Susan were hoping to record and what legacy they thought they were leaving behind. Had they recently lost two children and wanted to preserve what remained of their family? Were they highlighting their industriousness? Or perhaps expressing a sense of humor—laughter through pain—with the leashed rabbits? David had lived through the trials of the Civil War and later headed west, where he found success in farming. Perhaps they believed this image captured the essence of their lives in 1888. Whatever the reason, we are all the richer for having this treasure.