52 Ancestors 2026: What the Timeline Shows – Maria Durie’s Journey

 

One of the activities that genealogist Amy Johnson Crow describes in her book 31 Days to Better Genealogy is creating a timeline for each of your ancestors. Timelines make it easier to identify patterns, gaps, and inconsistencies, as well as to determine where to look for additional information, such as death certificates, children’s marriage records, or a parent’s will and probate records. With so many ancestors in my tree, extending back eight or more generations, constructing timelines for everyone would be a Herculean task. I find it best to be strategic and prioritize those ancestors whose lives need further examination or whose lives and times are of particular interest.

One ancestor who has long intrigued me is Maria Durie (or Duryea), my 4th-great-grandmother on my paternal side. She belonged to the New York/New Jersey Huguenot and Dutch branch of my family, whose members experienced several migrations as their communities and families moved westward. Maria was born in Bergen County, New Jersey, in 1749. We have her baptism date as September 24, 1749, and because baptisms were generally performed shortly after birth, we assume she was born that month. Her parents were Samuel Durie and Wyntie Banta. Through her additional Des Marets (Demarest) and Terhune ancestors, she was connected to some of the most prominent families in the New Jersey Dutch settlements.

Maria and her family migrated to the Conewago Valley, east of Gettysburg, sometime between 1765 and 1768. It was there that she married Pieter Cossart, son of Francis Cossart and Margarette Van Nest. We know of seven sons born between 1769 and 1779: Francis, Samuel, Jacob, Peter Jr., twins Hendrick and David, and Albert. An eighth son, Reuben, appears in FamilySearch, but he has been difficult to trace.

Maria and her immediate and extended family would not remain Pennsylvania’s “Low Dutch” residents for long. The American Revolution began in 1775, and within a few years, her husband Pieter and several of her brothers had joined various militia units for short enlistments. Meanwhile, Daniel Boone had helped open a route through the Cumberland Gap and along the Wilderness Road to Kentucky’s rich bluegrass region.

Samuel Durie scouted the area near Fort Boonesborough and declared it suitable for the Low Dutch migration to Kentucky. It is unclear whether the migration itself took place in the spring of 1780 or 1781, but the Cossarts, along with many members of Maria’s extended family, made the journey and settled at White Oak Station near Hart’s Spring. Whenever the migration occurred, they were there by early 1781—a tragic year for 31-year-old Maria.

First, her brother Hendrick died in an Indian attack in February 1781. Then, in March or April, members of the Durie family who had established themselves in a cabin were attacked while gathering food. Two of Maria’s brothers-in-law, her sister Angenitie, and her brother Petrus were killed. Annie, Petrus’s wife, escaped with their three children.

But that was not the end of Maria’s sorrows. In July, her husband Pieter was killed while picking blackberries, leaving Maria with five children, ages two to seven. Two of their sons, Francis and Samuel, had remained in Pennsylvania.

What happened to Maria after that? This is where her timeline goes cold. Three different possibilities have been suggested:

1. Marriage to Cornelius Vannice (Van Nuys): A marriage record documents the marriage of “Mary Cozart” to Cornelius Vannice on November 11, 1796. However, the gravestone of Mary Vannice at the Mud Meeting House in Harrodsburg indicates that this Mary was born in 1763. The date discrepancy makes this identification problematic.
2. Migration with the Banta family in 1796: We know that some members of the Banta family, related through Maria’s mother, migrated north to Warren County, Ohio. Some histories place Maria and several of her children among those who accompanied them.
3. Living out her life with her son Hendrick and dying in 1800: This account comes from family lore recorded by family historian Joseph Arthur Cossairt. It may not conflict with the second possibility, but the documentation is sketchy. Hendrick was 22 years old in 1800 and did not marry until 1814, when he was 34. He eventually acquired a farm in Warren County and did quite well for himself.

This is where the gaps and uncertainties in a timeline become glaringly obvious, especially for ancestors who lived on the frontier, where records are often sketchy at best. We can only imagine what life was like for Maria after the losses she suffered in 1781. Those who remained in her immediate family, including her parents, Samuel and Wyntie, probably provided mutual support. She also had Banta aunts, uncles, and cousins nearby. The Low Dutch Colony had remained connected since its members’ days in New Jersey and Pennsylvania, and those ties had strengthened over the decades.

Maria’s timeline reveals much about her journeys and the circumstances of her life. She began life as a colonial in the New Jersey region of the former New Netherland, living as part of the Low Dutch Colony. She ended her days as a Kentuckian—or perhaps as someone who had relocated from Kentucky—but always as an American. She headed west twice: first to Pennsylvania and then across the Appalachian Mountains to Kentucky, where she found herself in the midst of the brutal Western Theater of the War of Independence.

Her children carried on her wandering ways, and this branch of the Cossart/Cossairt/Cassatt family eventually scattered throughout the Midwest. Two sons, Francis and Samuel, apparently remained in Pennsylvania; Jacob stayed in Kentucky; Peter settled in western Ohio; Hendrick went to Warren County, Ohio; David settled in Indiana; and Albert went to Illinois. Three sons—Peter, David, and Albert—married their Banta second cousins. Hendrick appears to have been the only son to marry outside the colony. He married Mary Nailor and adopted the Anglicized name Henry.

But Maria’s timeline also leaves many questions unanswered. We can turn to the history of late-18th-century Kentucky and the Low Dutch Colony to fill in some of the gaps, but few stories were passed down, and the information we do have is sometimes contradictory. We may never recover all the details, but we can develop a sense of what life was like for pioneer families in the bluegrass region—and use our imaginations to fill in what the records cannot tell us.

Photo:

Old Mud Meeting House, https://harrodsburghistorical.org/historical-homes-in-mercer-county/dutch-reformed-church-old-mud-meeting-house-nhr/

52 Ancestors 2026: A Moment of Courage (And Perseverance) – Joining the Union Army

 

One could say that my family tree is full of courageous people—refugees who took a chance on a months-long sail to the New World; men, women, and their children who set out for the frontier; young men who went off to battle; and women who raised large families on their own after their husbands died. But one of my ancestors stands out for the two times he decided to serve the Union cause by signing up for the Army.

That would, of course, be Benjamin Cruiser McWilliams, my 2nd-great-grandfather on my maternal side. His Civil War journey began in the spring of 1862, when he was 19 years old and a company was being raised in Milton, Pennsylvania, in Northumberland County. But it was not to be. He took some time for his last day as a civilian, only to find out that the company had left without him. He and his friends and cousins, including Folders and Billmeyers, tried again later that summer, going all the way to Harrisburg, but once again Ben was unlucky.

He ended up becoming a sutler’s clerk, doing trade near Yorktown, Virginia. Maybe it was being in the presence of the monument where Cornwallis had surrendered, or maybe it was hearing about the Union victory at Gettysburg, but in July 1863 he decided to give it another shot and signed up to serve in the 16th Pennsylvania Cavalry, Company F.

It took some courage to sign up when the quota for the county had already been filled and he was unlikely to be drafted, but simply surviving the war would require another level of courage. Just three months after entering the service, Ben was captured while on retreat. The next 15 months would see him confined to five prison camps. At first, he was in relative comfort, indoors at Libby Prison in Richmond, but he was soon transferred a few miles away to Belle Island, where he lived outdoors and was subject to the vagaries of the weather.

As the cold winter weather set in at Belle Island, the prisoners were denied blankets, although blankets were available in plain sight. Ben decided to risk being shot by dashing across a ditch to get blankets and clothing:

I recollect when the guards first got their blankets they would throw them up on the bank between them and us. While I stood one day and looked within 8 feet of the blankets and realized how they came by them and how they was treating us, I made up my mind I might as well die with the bullet as starvation. Our camp was full of old tents which came close to the ditch where we was allowed to go and the banks of it was worn down by the trading done by the men and guards after night as most all guards traded every night. I saw that when two guards came together and then turned around to walk back 60 feet, the length of the beat in daytime, I had plenty of time to move the 8 feet, pull the blanket off the bank, get in among the crowd and old tents, and be safe. Well, I succeeded so well the first time, that I tried it again and by working the 3 reliefs that day, I got 13 blankets, a rubber poncho and 2 overcoats. The last time I was shot at. I got so bold by my success that I could not see a put-up job by one of the guards who threw his blankets further over than any of the others and then by looking over the crowd could easy tell who who was watching. When he turned by the blanket to walk back I went out as usual and when I put my hand on the blanket he turned suddenly around and say, "now, you Yankee (__), I have got you now" and fetched his gun to his shoulder and fired within 30 feet of me. If he would have kept still he would have had me, only for him saying what he did. When I heard him, I let go of the blanket which I had not pulled over yet only put my hands on. I rolled down in the ditch and his shot passed over my head. Then I said, "now you haven't got me", took the blanket and ran among the crowd and tents before the other guards could comprehend what had took place.

But the “good times” at Belle Island wouldn’t last. In February 1864, many of the prisoners were shipped out of Richmond and were given the opportunity to become charter members of Camp Sumter in Andersonville, Georgia. Andersonville. Yes, that camp notorious for squalor, disease, and death. It was still being built when the first prisoners, including Ben, arrived. There may not have been any specific acts of bravery, but the day-by-day need to survive the seven months he was imprisoned there, especially after getting the attention of the camp ruffians known as the Rangers, took a great deal of cunning and fortitude.

In October 1864, he was moved to a prison camp in Savannah, where he stayed for a month before being moved to Camp Lawton in Millen and then back to Savannah to be paroled on November 19, 1864.

After a period of furlough, and with no weapons and no horse, Ben ended up participating in the siege of Petersburg and then followed Grant’s army to Burkeville Junction and Lynchburg. With the war over, he eventually found his way to Richmond and camped across from Belle Island. And fished.

In a way, his captivity had come full circle. He was discharged and, like so many of his comrades, began to make his way back into civilian life. He made his way west, first to Iowa and then to Missouri, where he bought a farm and broke the prairie sod in what became the crossroads of Verdella, Missouri.

In most times and for most people, his adventures heading westward toward an uncertain future would have been an act of courage. But after all he had been through, his new adventure must have seemed tame by comparison. 

52 Ancestors 2026: What Wasn’t Written Down – A Dearth of Records

 

In digging through various records and using full-text search, I’ve been able to reconstruct the lives of many of my mid-19th-century ancestors. My 2nd-great-grandparents were all born between 1812 and 1843, spanning the period from the War of 1812 through the railroad era. They lived through the Civil War and, for some, into the early years of the 20th century. This was the generation that eventually settled on the Missouri prairie, many having followed migration routes through Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Kentucky, and Tennessee. I’ve been able to write a great deal about this generation, thanks to family writings, extensive analysis of population and agricultural schedules, and probate and land records.

But the trail starts to get spotty with the previous generation, especially my 3rd-great-grandparents who were born in the 18th century and took the more southerly routes from Virginia through Kentucky and Tennessee. I might not have hit brick walls, but sometimes we are left with little more than names and dates. There are some notorious characters, like John Reed, but others, especially women, are shrouded in obscurity. And sometimes a name and a few facts simply stick out and inspire us to find more. One such person is Martha Jane Weatherford, my 3rd-great-grandmother on my mother’s side.

What do we know about Martha Jane? First, she was another Kentucky girl, born in Nicholas County, northeast of Lexington, on March 23, 1823, to Jonas Weatherford and Judith Rawlins. Sometime before 1841, the family moved to Morgan County, Illinois, where 18-year-old Martha Jane married Joseph White, a 54-year-old widower who was said to be a preacher on the Methodist or Baptist circuit. The only family lore handed down was that her parents were unhappy about her marriage to a man 36 years her senior—and older than her father. Not surprising.

What else do we know about her? The family moved to Sangamon County, and she bore eight children—seven girls, including Jane Elizabeth White, who married Anthony Gilmartin, and one boy. Martha Jane lived until 1892, spending her last 28 years as a widow. And then? Her son, James Monroe White, apparently died young, while her daughters took different paths. Some married and migrated west, while others remained in the area.

Joseph was a farmer, and census records show that in 1860 they had a farm worth $1,800. The Agricultural Schedule tells us that this was a relatively small farm, with 40 acres improved and 33 acres unimproved. Their livestock holdings were worth only $40 and consisted of just two milk cows. Somehow, they were able to harvest three tons of hay, 120 bushels of wheat, and 1,000 bushels of Indian corn. With Joseph being all of 73 years old, they must have had considerable help from their teenage daughters, Julia Ann, Nancy Melissa, and Jane Elizabeth.

But what happened to the farm and the family after Joseph’s death in 1864? We don’t know. Either there are no surviving legal records, or they are not accessible through FamilySearch Full-Text Search. The 1870 Census lists Martha Jane and four of her daughters—(Nancy) Melissa, Sarah, Annie, and Alice—but gives no value for real estate. There’s no entry for the family on the agricultural schedule, either.

So what can we discern about Martha Jane, or M.J.? She had two older brothers, but she was the oldest daughter in the family, so she may have assumed more responsibility and perhaps been more mature than her years. Was she smitten with the widower Joseph White? Their first child was born a respectable 14 months after their marriage, so there was no obvious reason they had to marry. One census record indicates that she couldn’t read or write, a condition common among farmers from southern and Appalachian families.

The couple was together for 23 years, until Joseph’s death in 1864. Even though Martha Jane was only 41 years old and had several young children, she never remarried. She was buried as “Martha J. White, wife of Joseph White.” She had family living with her until 1882, when daughter Anna, listed as a member of the household, married.

All we seem to have are households, dates, and a snapshot of her life when she was 37 years old. Were there land sales? Was there help from family? What happened to the farm? Clearly, answering these questions will require more digging and a better understanding of Martha Jane’s FAN club.

Another task for another day.

Photo:

Entry for Martha J. White, 1870 Census, Sangamon County

52 Ancestors 2026: A Document with Personality – A Lively Deposition

 

I wrote about my 9th-great-grandmother, Catalyntje Trico Rapalje, before. She was a Walloon who, in January 1624, at the age of 18, got married and, just days later, migrated from Amsterdam to New Netherland. She and her husband, Joris Jansen Rapelje, sailed on the first ship of colonists, settling first in Fort Orange (Albany) and, two years later, migrating to the tip of Manhattan. Their daughter, Sarah, is believed to have been the first European child born in the colony.

Born in 1605, Catalyntje lived a long life and, in fact, was the only person known to have lived through the entire history of the colony of New Amsterdam, which became New York when the British took it over. Unfortunately, much of the history of New Amsterdam, including the records of the Dutch West India Company, was lost after the papers were sold for scrap.

But two documents did survive. Because of border disputes, officials were interested in learning about the early history of New Amsterdam/York, and they found an eyewitness to those early days: Catalyntje. The second deposition, made on October 17, 1688, when she was 83 years old, described the ship, the splitting up of the colonists, and their eventual settlement in Fort Orange, now Albany.

Unfortunately, the transcript is a summary rather than a word-for-word account of her life in the New World. Still, Catalyntje described the friendly relations with the local Indigenous tribes, as well as the successful trading and assistance the colonists received during their years at Fort Orange.

[T]he said deponent lived in Albany three years all which time the said Indians were all as quiet as lambs and came and traded with all the freedom imaginable, in the year 1626 the deponent came from Albany and settled at New York where she lived afterwards for many years and then came to Long Island where she now lives.

She had a remarkable memory and named the local tribes with whom they came in contact:

The Mahikanders or River Indians, the Maquase, Oneydes, Onnondages, Cayugas, and Sinnekes, with the Mahawawa or Ottawawaes Indians.

Unfortunately, these tribes clashed with each other and with the colonists, contributing to the decision to move downriver to Manhattan.

The details she recalled about those early days—events that had happened 62 years before the deposition was taken—are remarkable. She must have told her story over and over again to her children and grandchildren, and to anyone else who came to visit an original settler and was curious about the olden days.

To be a survivor, a mother and grandmother, a tavern keeper, and a farmer in a growing frontier colony took more than a little mettle. With so many stories of conflict between Indigenous peoples and colonists coming to the fore in the 17th century, it is especially interesting that Catalyntje remembered a time when relations were much friendlier.

Such a small glimpse into the past, but so meaningful.

Photo:

Catalina Trico Deposition: https://encyclopedia.nahc-mapping.org/document/deposition-catilyn-trico

52 Ancestors 2026: A Small Detail I Love – Adding to the Story

 

One of the joys of genealogical research is finding someone who is not on a collaborative tree, such as the one on FamilySearch, or uncovering a relationship, especially an unusual one. These kinds of discoveries enrich a family’s story and can be a big deal. But sometimes a minor detail, such as something found in a will or probate record, adds a little more light.

I’ve been trying to break through the Reed–Harrison brick wall for some time, and I’ve gathered quite a bit of information about that dishonest family steward, John Reed. But what about the Harrisons? We know that George Harrison was an early Ohio settler, arriving in 1802, and that some time later he was joined by his brother Alexander, the father of Sarah Harrison Reed. Both Harrison brothers had several named offspring, so the story should be fairly straightforward.

In digging through the county’s legal records using FamilySearch’s Full Text Search and feeding the transcripts to NotebookLM, a couple of facts stood out. First was a relationship that was assumed but turned out to be wrong; second was a daughter who had not been included on the family tree. The mistaken relationship involved Alexander Harrison, born in 1789, who was assumed to be the son of Alexander Harrison. My digging, however, revealed a partition record for the estate of George Harrison that clearly showed that Alexander (b. 1789) was George’s son.

But it was the will of Alexander Harrison that contained two nuggets of information. One was rather straightforward, but doubly revealing:

I do hereby obligate my Son James Harrison to pay or cause to be paid with Jane Harrison wife of George Harrison, at the death of my wife Susannah Fifty Dollars Current Money of the State of Ohio.

Jane Harrison? Wife of George Harrison? Jane was not on the family tree. And George? He was George Harrison Jr., son of our George Harrison, who had migrated to Ohio in 1802. George and Jane, husband and wife, were also first cousins. On the frontier, cousin marriages did happen. So we now have Jane as my 3rd-great-grand-aunt.

But there was another tidbit of information in Alexander’s will:

I leave and bequeath to my Daughter Jane Harrison wife of George Harrison the Bed which was her mothers to be given to her at the death of my Wife Susanna.

This small detail is also revealing. Jane gets an important piece of furniture—her mother’s bed—and she is also named first among the daughters. It’s possible, therefore, that she was born a couple of years before her sisters Ann and Elizabeth. With a birth year for James of 1786 and the twins born in 1790, perhaps we can tentatively place Jane’s birth around 1788.

Her husband died in 1826, and there are no records of the couple having any children. Jane also outlived her father, who died in 1829, but we don’t know whether she outlived her mother, Susannah, who died in 1846 at the age of 78.

Nowadays, we have rooms full of furniture, and today’s heirs have the challenge of trying to dispose of their parents’ belongings. But 200 years ago, a bed was special. This small detail—a bed found in a will—gives us both information about a family and a glimpse into the past.

52 Ancestors 2026: More than a Name – Days in a Life

 

My New England families have always intrigued me, and I’ve been fortunate that many of their lives during colonial and early American times have been the subjects of extensive research. I could even tie this into last week’s prompt, A Spot on the Map. There are lots of spots on maps of northwestern Europe, especially the British Isles, and what became the United States that are significant in my nomadic family. But I’m choosing one spot that is important to my New England family—Jericho, Vermont—and one family name: Samuel Day, father and son.

The elder Samuel Day was born in 1748 in Gloucester, Massachusetts, and grew up in Massachusetts and Connecticut. He married Eunice Fay on June 16, 1772, and a month later, on July 15, Samuel Jr. was born. When war broke out in 1775, the elder Samuel joined the Patriot cause as a minuteman. Whether he served after that is a matter of conflicting records, but we know that by the end of the war he had become a Vermonter, living near the Massachusetts border in Whitingham, Vermont. Between 1800 and 1804, the family decided to move north to Jericho.

Being on the frontier, Jericho was a target of Indian raids, and one of the founding families, the Browns, suffered greatly, with family members being captured and ransomed. With peace, however, the farms were safe. By the time Samuel Day moved to Jericho, Vermont had become a state and settlements were expanding.

Meanwhile, Samuel Jr. was still in Connecticut, where he married his first cousin, Elizabeth Munger, in 1793 and remained there until after the 1800 federal census, when the family moved to Jericho. Samuel Jr. put down roots and got into the ashing business, making potash and lye from tree ashes, borrowing money to get started and expand his business.

Both Days then experienced hard times. Samuel Sr. became a widower when Eunice (Fay) Day died in 1808. In 1809, Samuel Jr.’s note came due, and when he could not make the payment, his property and goods were seized and sold. The young family may have stayed with Samuel Sr. for a while, but then Samuel Jr. was “warned out” of town.

As an aside, much of this information comes from the writings of Mary Richmond, who writes:

"Warning out of town" was a procedure used by local governments to rid their jurisdictions of undesirable people. What had Samuel done to warrant being labeled undesirable? The bad debt had been paid. There must have been more.

Did Samuel abuse Elizabeth? Was he often drunk? Did he owe debts to many people? Was he dishonest or a thief? Were his older boys a problem in the community? Did he have undesirable friends, maybe Indians, who aggravated his neighbors? Had he been practicing medicine and running afoul of local laws or other, more qualified doctors? There may be no way to ever know.

We do know more about the practice now. New Englanders in the early 1800s had inherited from their Puritan forebears the idea that communities had a responsibility to care for their members, but there were limits to their generosity when people became a financial risk. That appears to have been the situation with the Samuel Day Jr. family.

Samuel, Elizabeth, and their family ended up in Madison County, New York, where the Munger family had moved. Unfortunately, Elizabeth died in 1812 at the age of 38. As was common at the time, Samuel quickly remarried, this time to Hannah Robbins, who was ten years his junior. They had 11 children together and moved westward through New York State. Their daughter Hannah Robbins Day was born in Genesee County, New York, and the family eventually ended up in Huron County, Ohio, where Samuel Jr. became Dr. Samuel Day and practiced medicine.

Dr. Day died in 1839 at the age of 67. His second wife, Hannah, lived until 1845. Their daughter Hannah Robbins Day, of solid New England stock, married John Jay Fast, who was from solid German stock. They moved west and became the patriarch and matriarch of the Fast family of Barton County, Missouri.

And what about the family back in Jericho? Samuel Day lived to the ripe old age of 81, dying in 1829. Samuel Jr.’s brother Benjamin prospered in Jericho, and his son Hiram Benjamin married into the founding Brown family.

Two generations of Days, two very different experiences in Jericho, Vermont. For Samuel Sr., Jericho was his final home, and he lived out the rest of his life among friends and family. For Samuel Jr., however, Jericho was a place of misfortune. Yet he and his family were able to head west, reinvent themselves, and make their marks in New York and Ohio. Eventually, their descendants did the same in Missouri.

Picture:

Image generated by Google Gemini

52 Ancestors 2026: A Spot on a Map – The Ghosts of Verdella

 

As I’ve mentioned before, the various branches of my family settled in Barton County, Missouri, within a decade or so after the end of the Civil War. Union Army veterans mixed with Confederate sympathizers and families of bushwhackers. There may have been some hard feelings, but within a few decades, families were intermarrying. There are a lot of places in Barton County to choose from, but one that stands out is Verdella, which was in the center of Barton City Township.

At its height, Verdella was a collection of stores, a church, and a school, but it was also at the center of my family’s life in the late 1800s and early 1900s. This 1886 plat is a snapshot in time.

At the southeast corner (Section 22) of the crossroads was the farm and orchard of my 2nd-great-grandfather, B.C. (Ben) McWilliams. He had returned from the Civil War, and after his travels took him from the Appalachian Mountains of Pennsylvania to Iowa, he settled on a farm and tilled the rich soil of the Missouri prairie.

Going east and a little north, in Section 10, past the Mayfields, was the 160-acre farm of my great-grandfather, David Cassatt. Across the road, from Ben in Section 15, was the 40-acre Krimminger farm. Heading west and then north, in Section 7, at the very edge of the township, was the farm of my 2nd-great-grandfather, S.D. Reed. The Reed farm was divided in two by the Nevada and Minden Railroad. Heading south and then a bit west from Verdella were the farms of John Jay and (William) Marion Fast, my 3rd- and 2nd-great-grandfathers.

For me, this helps ground my family—and their farming neighbors—in a specific place. It is also interesting to see the various landowners and compare them with the list of people who opposed Ben’s request for a Civil War pension.

Forty-four years later, in 1930, there had been many changes. There was no longer a McWilliams farm in Section 22, but the Cassatts had expanded their holdings. According to family lore, David had accumulated enough money to buy additional land and eventually handed the farms off to his three sons, Orville, Virgil, and Bascom. We can see their lands in Sections 9, 10, and 11. Bascom continued the family broom-making industry.

The Reed farm had become Barton City, another collection of houses, stores, a church, and a school. The town changed its name to Hannon and, according to family lore, was named after S.D.’s wife, Hannah (Brown) Reed.

It appears that the Gilmartins had moved to the township and established themselves in Sections 22 and 27. The Fasts were able to acquire additional farmland in Sections 32 and 33 for the children of Marion Fast, including O.T. Fast. Another landmark in the region was Bryan School, in Section 26, just down the road from the Fast farm. My grandmother and her family lived on part of the farm, and my mother taught at the school in the 1930s before moving east to the city.

Just like most of rural America, the shops and businesses in these small towns have closed and the farms have been consolidated. The Nevada and Minden Railroad was absorbed by the Missouri Pacific Railroad, and then abandoned. But the history is still there to discover. Through maps, census records, and family stories, we can uncover the ghosts of the past and learn more about our families—and American history.