Category: Family history

The Education of Bessie Estall

• The Sandon Act of 1876 imposed a legal duty on parents to ensure that their children were educated
• The Elementary Education Act of 1880 required school boards to enforce compulsory attendance of children from 5 to 10 years of age
• The 1891 Elementary Education Act provided for the state payment of school fees
— Wikipedia: History of education in England

Bessie and her siblings were the first generation of British children to benefit from the Victorian Era’s enlightened move toward compulsory and free public education.

We can trace the Estall children’s schooling through the Infants Admission Registers of the Bethnal Green schools where her father William dutifully enrolled them.¹

From the image above we see that William Estall registered Thomas and Betty (we find her variously listed in records as Bessie, Betsy, Betty, and Elizabeth) in the infant section of the then-named Globe Terrace School on July 1st of 1895. Thomas was five years old, Bessie was four. The family was living in Quinn’s Buildings a short walk away. The children would remain at the elementary school until the family entered the Bethnal Green Workhouse in February 1900, meaning Bessie would have been at the school until she was almost 9 years old.

The school, built in 1874 and enlarged in 1885 to hold 1500 children,² is still in operation. My sister Beth and I visited it on the off chance they’d let us in the gate. As it turned out, we got the grand tour.

Our host was Gill (pronounced like “Jill”) Ruskin, the school’s family and safeguarding support officer. She’s passionate about genealogy, acts as the school’s unofficial historian, and was herself a student there when growing up. We couldn’t have stumbled upon a more enthusiastic and knowledgeable guide.

Gill pointed out the original building (the central portion with the curved facade) and how it expanded with the growing population in Bethnal Green. She also pointed out the entrance doors for the boys, infants, and girls as the sexes were segregated in Bessie’s day.

Gill showed us the classrooms, gym and lunchroom (no talking allowed in Bessie’s day), then showed us the playground on the school’s roof. As we came down from there using the former girls stairway I could feel my skin tingle knowing we were on the same stairs that Bessie and her sisters trod well over 100 years ago.

In Bessie’s time the school served the largely impoverished families of the infamously downtrodden East End. Gill explained that the more recent school population was primarily from immigrant Somali and Bangladeshi families, so the school still served the under-privileged members of society … at least until the last couple of years. The area is undergoing gentrification and the school is now one of the most sought after in the borough. We could see why: the staff is passionate, compassionate, professional, and sensitive to the needs of children coming from different backgrounds and social levels. Gill pointed out that the children are protected by Geneva Convention guidelines, which are posted in the school. In a sense, the Globe Primary School is aptly named for the 21st century multi-cultural London.

After the Estall family entered the Workhouse in 1900 and her father abandoned the children the next year, Bessie and her sisters were educated in a Workhouse school in the southern reaches of London on the other side of the River Thames. We didn’t have time to visit that area but the school building in Anerley no longer stands anyway.

What we did get to experience was the school in Bethnal Green that gave Bessie and her siblings their basic education when the family was still intact. We got to walk the halls, stand in the rooms, and traverse the stairs where our young ancestors grew up. It was thrilling to feel the connection. And it was quite a, well um … an education.

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Notes:
1. William first enrolled Alfred in the Essex Street School in June 1890; then Harriett at Globe Terrace in April 1891; Thomas (previously enrolled at Cranbrook School) and Bessie at Globe Terrace in July 1895; Susan “Lily” at Globe Terrace in June 1896; and Rosie at Globe Terrace in January 1898.
2. British History Online, “Bethnal Green: Education,” https://www.british-history.ac.uk/vch/middx/vol11/pp242-260

The Baptism of Bessie Estall

“Dearly beloved, forasmuch as all men are conceived and born in sin, and that our Saviour Christ saith, none can enter into the Kingdom of God, except he be regenerate, and born anew of water and of the holy Ghost: I beseech you to call upon God the Father, through our Lord Jesus Christ, that of his bounteous mercy he will grant to this Child that thing which by nature he cannot have, that he may be baptized with water and the Holy Ghost, and received into Christ’s holy Church, and be made a lively member of the same.”
— Church of England, Book of Common Prayer: Public Baptism of Infants

Bessie Estall was baptized when she was 17 days old on Sunday morning, May 3, 1891 at St. John’s Church on Bethnal Green, two blocks from her parents home. She was among five infants baptized that morning at the ebony and ivory colored stone font at the back of the church. She was sponsored in this rite by her aunt Emma, wife of her father’s older brother John.

When the church doors closed, the sounds of the street were immediately hushed, replaced by the rustling of parishioners on the creaking wooden benches, the fussing of the gathered infants and the shushing of their parents, the sonorous intonations of the priest, and the thundering notes issued by the organ pipes in the loft over the font in what surely must have sounded like the voice of God to the children in attendance. The priest began the ceremony from the Book of Common Prayer with “Dearly beloved, forasmuch as all men are conceived and born in sin…”

Though the noises of the neighborhood were locked outside the doors, the brass censer swung by the white-robed altar attendant spread smoke inside the church that mirrored the chimney smoke hanging in the air outside.

The priest took Bessie (or Betsy, according to her baptismal entry) in his hands and “discreetely and warily” dipped her in the baptismal water, saying “I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” He should have gone for a full immersion: in the summers I spent with my grandparents I don’t remember Bessie ever going to church. It may be safe to say that she didn’t maintain her mother’s faith—unsurprising in light of the disease, death, and desertion visited upon her in childhood.

My sister Beth and I visited St. John’s twice while we were retracing our ancestors’ steps in London this summer, once to explore and photograph it, and once to attend Sunday morning service. The church, built in 1825 and restored in 1871, is showing her age, her makeup cracking around her hairline. But she’s still beautiful and her spirit is buoyed by a thriving art community that creates and displays its wares within and on her walls as well as in the balcony, belfry and crypt.

I’m not religious, and initially balked at my sister’s desire to attend Sunday service, but I’m glad I went. It allowed us to imagine our ancestors sitting among the pews, to sense their spirit of awe and devotion engendered by the church’s rites and rituals, their sense of community among their neighbors and fellow parishioners. Perhaps appropriately, this Sunday’s service included an address by social workers who were caring for the homeless of the borough, a subject that was probably not far from the minds of our struggling ancestors. (Ironically, we were accosted by a homeless man as we left the service.)

There was one infant among the parishioners on the day we attended service, though a baptism was not performed. It’s a shame, I would have liked to experience one. Bessie went on to attend the baptisms of four of her siblings, including the one of her youngest brother Robert in 1899, two weeks after which Bessie’s mother passed away in the Workhouse infirmary. It would possibly be the last time Bessie attended services at St. John’s.

A span of 120 years would pass before her granddaughter, Beth—likely named after her—would attend a service here in her memory.

Our Grandmother’s Birthplace

“The wave of urban renewal that swept the world in the 20th century gave us inner-city highways, modernist downtown malls and high-rise housing projects. It destroyed countless fine-grained, human-scaled neighbourhoods.
     “We lost more than just physical buildings. Each of these communities contained something less tangible – neighbourhoods like these are ecosystems. They incubate communities and cultures that do not and could not exist elsewhere.
     “Sometimes a neighbourhood lives in the memory of the displaced and their descendants, as powerful in death as in life.”
                       —Matthew Halliday, “Vanished Neighbourhoods,” The Guardian (on-line), 18 July 2019

Bessie Estall was born in London in 1891.  My sister and I wanted to visit the sites where Bessie, our grandmother, lived as a child. With copies of old documents in hand we found the neighborhoods, and in some cases, the buildings where she and her forebears were born, schooled, worked, worshiped, and departed.

This is the story of one of one of those sites.

Bessie was born on April 16, 1891. Her birth certificate records the event happening at 11 Museum Buildings in Bethnal Green in the East End of London.

The English census of 1891, taken eleven days before Bessie’s birth, also puts the family at 11 Museum Buildings. There were five family members living in the flat, soon to be six with Bessie’s arrival.

The current residents of the flat graciously invited us in for tea and a look at the place where Bessie was born.

Although it’s difficult to imagine life in the Victorian era through the lens of modern-day London, walking through this building’s old portal into its courtyard, and then through the flat’s doorway, gave us a sense of place that documents and Google street view can’t match. Yes, we were 128 years too late to bump into our forebears, but we still carried their genes around as we roamed their neighborhood. And we brought a little something to leave behind, a small carved ironwood turtle that our hosts placed on their bookcase, to keep a bit of the family’s thoughts and spirits alive in Bessie’s birthplace. As the opening quote relates, “Sometimes a neighbourhood [and a family] lives in the memory of their descendants, as powerful in death as in life.” Through our visit, we, with the help of our hosts, were able to build such a memory.

View of Bessie’s birthplace taken from the courtyard, which is the bottom flat in the center of the photo at left. Also a view of the living room windows taken from the building’s outside back, below, with some graffiti evident.

The only thing worse than no history is misleading history.

So it is with some trepidation that I present the history of the Anthony family of 16th and 17th century London.

My mother’s grandmother was Anna Anthony, who came from a family line that stretched back to an Englishman who settled in North America in 1634. That immigrant, John Anthony, was reported to be a descendant of a Dr. John Anthony from St. Bartholomew’s parish in London.

The trouble is that no definitive link exists between Dr. John and Immigrant John. Sure, an esteemed 19th century historian of the Anthony family believed they were related, though he couldn’t prove it. And yes, many on-line Anthony family trees show the connection, citing Genealogy of the Anthony Family from 1495 to 1904 by that family historian Charles L. Anthony.

But speculation isn’t fact, so the historically accurate story has to begin with immigrant John Anthony.

That’s a shame, because the Anthony’s of London were some pretty interesting characters, and they even seem to foreshadow one of the folks in our undisputed line of Anthony men in America.

So I’m going to include a chapter in our family history that I’ll call The Apocryphal Anthony Family of London. Take it for what it is … an interesting story, and one that may even be about our ancestors.

My sister and I are going to travel to London this summer and we’ll visit the sites haunted by the Anthony families of yore: the Tower of London and St. Bartholomew Church and Close. We’ll raise a glass to them at the Hand and Shears pub on Cloth Fair. We’ll listen for the whispers, look into the shadows, and imagine the lives of London’s Anthony families of the past, thinking that maybe, just maybe, we are carrying their genes in our own hereditary makeup.

With that, click here for the apocryphal chapter of our family bible: The Anthony Family of London.

Just in time for the holidays, ghosts of the family come back to show us our past lives and point the way to the future.

We’ve finished researching our London ancestors so we can root out their “haunts” and recreate their lives in our upcoming trip to England.

Here’s the story of Bessie (nee Estall) Schutze’s father and grandfather, and great … well, you get the idea. The story begins in 1721 in the shadow of the Tower of London. It ends in 1906 in a Workhouse infirmary. It’s a three-act play with a sprawling cast of characters.

Read the story here. (click to open)

And as Tiny Tim would say, “A Merry Christmas to us all; God bless us, every one!”

What better way to enjoy vacation than to combine travel and family history?

London, here we come!

I wanna visit Big Ben (the tourist attraction) and Little Bessie (that’s my grandmother). Walk the streets where she grew up at the end of the 19th century in the notorious East End.

So I’ve been digging into her past to discover her family — who they were, what they did, where they’re from. Bessie’s mom is a particular fascination:  there’s speculation she was a prostitute.

I researched and wrote her story so we could better understand her life and time. Her story’s at  Sarah Ann Hutchings: In the Shadow of St. Mary Magdalene.

And what’s a hunt for family haunts without a treasure map? Here’s one to get us started.

Time travel to Victorian London with us if you dare. But watch out for Jack the Ripper and mind the piles of horse sh**  as you step.

P.S. In commemoration of Remembrance Day, and the 100th anniversary of the end of WWI, the post below highlights Bessie’s brother James Estall Kent, who provided a different perspective on war.

“As soon as the incident is forgotten, so are you”

This line, written by my great-uncle Jim Estall to my father, was from a 1933 letter found among my dad’s mementos.

What’s the story?

Prior to finding this letter I didn’t know about James Estall, my grandmother Bessie’s brother.

Bessie’s family broke apart after her mother died in 1899. James, her youngest brother, was adopted out in 1900 at the age of two when the rest of the family headed for the poorhouse.

Jim’s adoptive parents were a brass scale maker and his wife, John and Ellen Kent, from London’s East End. The family moved to Enfield, a small town north of London, and a decade later also adopted Jim’s sister Rosie after she was released from the poorhouse system as a teenager.

With good parents and now his sister in the fold, Jim’s life was looking pretty sunny as he headed into his teens. But war clouds were gathering. Clouds that, as it turned out, would darken the life of his generation over two successive wars.

The Great War.

Jim, who’d adopted his parents’ surname, was on the cusp of his 17th birthday when England declared war on Germany in August of 1914. As soon as he turned 18 he volunteered with the Royal Field Artillery and was sent to France. The National Roll of the Great War 1914-1918 summarized his four years of service thusly:

 

Shiny medals are nice, but Jim found they turn dull when the country recovers from war and gets on with life. As he indicated, once the battles are forgotten, so are the veterans. Jim was relatively lucky — he was among the 1.6 million British soldiers injured rather than among the 750,000 who died. But he developed a jaded outlook which he shared with his nephew while trying to dissuade him from joining the military service in America.

Two years after his return from war, at the age of 24, Jim married sweet Rosetta “Rose” Webb. Their wedding photo looks prototypical British, the ladies posing in their bonnets and the gentlemen in their vested suits and starched collars. Most of the guests were from Rose’s family, as Jim didn’t have any of his own.

Jim wrote that Queen Elizabeth I regarded the area around Enfield as a ‘happy hunting ground’ and that one of her palaces was in the centre of the town. He explained, tongue in cheek, that his wife Rose, a town native, “was not connected with Queen Elizabeth, although perhaps some of her relations may at some time [have] done a bit of washing for her.”

Jim was a motor driver, “a position that makes me travel the country,” which he used to advantage by visiting historical sites, particularly those associated with great English authors like Shakespeare and Milton. [This makes me, an English Lit grad, appreciate Jim all the more.]

He seemed to have a sunny outlook, as his wife wrote that “if he wasn’t laughing or passing some joke, I should think he were ill.” Together they raised two sons, Jimmy and Jeff, born in 1922 and 1930 respectively.

The 1939 England Register lists him as an “undertaker’s chauffeur,” which probably kept him closer to home so he could spend more time with the boys. But the man who helped transport the dead to their graves was to suffer another war-time loss of his own.

The Second World War

His older son Jimmy, like his dad before him, volunteered for service when the country went to war and he came of age, this time during World War II. Jimmy joined the Royal Air Force, the group that Churchill famously referred to in a 1940 speech:  “never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.”

The personnel of No.15 Squadron in June 1942. Jimmy was undoubtedly among those pictured.

Jimmy was with the 15th Squadron, a heavy bomber unit which delivered their loads over the Axis powers on the continent. He went missing in September of 1942, and his dad unfortunately never even had the opportunity of transporting and burying his own son.

 

Jim treasured his long-lost family, proudly signing his letter to Leonard as “your loving uncle.” Of Jim’s two sisters in the United States, Bessie made initial contact by mail after WWI and Lily went to visit him in 1962 when they were both getting on in years. I can only imagine his happiness at the reunion.

And now, all these years later, we’re happy to meet him vicariously through his letter to my father.

Jim passed away in 1965. Rose followed in 1983.

Now, as we commemorate the 100th anniversary of the end of World War I — optimistically called the “war to end all wars” — we remember the sacrifices made by Jim’s generation…

…and of his advice regarding the glorification of war.   “It’s all rot.”

I seem to come from a family of lovers, not fighters.

Few of my ancestors served in the military, and fewer still saw combat. In the American Civil War a Rebel family member lasted a week in the Confederate army and a Yank three months in the Union’s before they were discharged.¹ In the British Army of the 19th and early 20th centuries, one of my kin was discharged for being unfit, one committed suicide, and one deserted.²

In short, my family was more likely to pass mustard around the dining room table than to pass muster in the Army.

So it was with some surprise I found a picture of a World War I doughboy amongst the piles of family photographs. Who was this outlier, I wondered, and what was his story?

The soldier, Malcolm Livingstone MacKellar, turned out to be my mother’s cousin, and he served in a U.S. Army field artillery regiment in France during World War One.

Malcolm, or Mac as he was called, was born in 1892 on a farm outside of Alvinston, Ontario, the youngest of three children of Duncan and Maggie (nee Livingston) McKellar.³ Malcolm was named for his paternal grandfather, who according to a family note, was not a “church person” and used rough language.⁴ However the grandfather was “industrious and smart,” traits that Mac apparently inherited.

Mac had a somewhat rocky start in life. His mother died of blood poisoning before he was three — which, incidentally, was the duration of her illness, one apparently contracted during pregnancy or childbirth. His father died of uremia when Malcolm turned eight. As a consequence, in 1900 the three orphaned farm children were taken in by their maternal grandmother Sarah Livingstone who was living in Detroit with her daughters.

The grim reaper wasn’t done with Malcolm’s family, though, striking down his sister Sarah with pulmonary congestion (possibly TB) and heart disease in 1907 at the age of 16. Only two of the original five MacKellar family members were left: Malcolm and his older sister Katie. But they were surrounded by a supportive family. The 1910 census shows the 18-year-old Mac living in a household that included his sister Katie, his grandmother, four aunts, an uncle, and a cousin. The Livingston clan was a tight-knit bunch.

The Maturation of Malcolm

Mac did well in the schools he attended. He was apparently smart and sociable, evidenced by his election as president of his eighth-grade class at Amos school, and president of his senior class at Western High School. A newspaper article mentions him addressing his high school graduation in 1911.

The decade after high school was a time of growing maturity for Mac and his city. Detroit became an industrial powerhouse as the emerging automobile industry set up shop there, and Mac rode the wave to become a chief clerk at the Anderson Electric Car Company, whose factory was located a few blocks from the Livingstone home. The year 1917—when he was age 25—was a particularly pivotal year for Mac: In April he applied for naturalization in his adopted country; in June he registered for the newly instituted military draft; and in October he married a 22-year-old stenographer, Edna Persinger, likely a co-worker at Anderson.⁵

Lead Up to War

Clouds were building on the eastern horizon as Europe was embroiled in a war that began in 1914. The U.S. had remained a non-combatant heading into 1917, but declared war in April of that year as Germany ordered its U-boats to sink American supply ships heading to Britain. American conscription was authorized and Malcolm’s draft registration card showed he was in the process of becoming a citizen, was of medium height and build, had blue eyes with dark brown hair, and was working at Anderson.

Over the next two years the Army inducted 2.7 million draftees. Mac ended up as a corporal in Battery C of the 329th Field Artillery Regiment, 160th Field Artillery Brigade, 85th Division (the National Army of Michigan and Wisconsin). The regiment was mustered in and trained at the newly constructed Camp Custer near Battle Creek, Michigan. Mac joined the unit a couple of weeks after his marriage, arriving just before Thanksgiving of 1917.

Horsin’ Around

On December 12th the battery received their horses — “164 of the wildest, head shy, hard kicking and sharp biting, four-legged animals that ever graced (or rather disgraced) the name of horse,” according to Sgt. Menzies, a chronicler of his battery. [All of the following war-time quotes and most of the photos are from the book All The Way with the Boys of the 329th Field Artillery.] The winter was snowy and cold, making the conscripts’ lives an endless cycle of “shovel snow one day, coal the next, stable police, then kitchen police, afterwards guard (oh, those terrible 22 below zero days on which to walk a post) and between times … we drilled and drilled and physical cultured and went to various specialty schools.”The battery, at a strength of about 185, had only a few more men than horses. Though many of the Detroit conscripts were more familiar with automobiles than horses, the Army found the animals were still more reliable than vehicles for traveling through deep mud and over rough terrain and they were used for pulling artillery.⁶

Valentine’s Day in 1918 was the first time Battery C hitched their horses up to the artillery pieces and caissons and actual drill practice began. April brought pistol practice and shortly thereafter artillery firing on the range, first with sub-caliber shells for short distance, then regulation 3-inch shells at normal distance. In early May “rumors of leaving for overseas were becoming more pronounced and drill periods were made harder and longer.”

Battery C left Camp Custer on July 16th, traveling by train to Camp Mills on Long Island, New York, a “city of tents” where they arrived at midnight in a drizzling rain and stayed until the end of July. They boarded the British Steamer Maunganui for their overseas transport on July 30th, 1918.

The Girl They Left Behind

Their ship was part of a convoy, a “spectacle as it sailed down the harbor of New York, out into the sea … out past the girl every man left behind…the good old Statue of Liberty.” The convoy “assumed a formation protected by a British cruiser and an American destroyer which took the lead, small sub-chasers describing a circle around the convoy, and two seaplanes circling overhead.” Thus began their 12-day journey to the Old World, disembarking in Liverpool on August 11th amid whistlings and cheers of the gathering crowds and embarking on a train to Southhampton on the southern English coast.

The following day they sailed to Le Havre, France, lying in the harbor all morning waiting for the tide to come in. It was the first of many stops in that war-torn country. It was outside of Le Havre they got their first dry wash: “a brisk massage of the entire face and body with the dry hands was considered to be enough to give us the semblance at least of cleanliness, and in after months it turned out to be sufficient as we really had no means of bathing.”

They traveled through the French countryside on their way to Camp Cöetquidan, an historic French camp used for military training since Napoleon’s time. The battery spent two months training at Cöetquidan “in all branches of artillery work with the French 75’s and the last few weeks before we left we were simulating actual conditions at the front.”

Mac took advantage of the training time to send a picture home to his aunt (my grandmother Sarah Livingstone [later McCrie]) with a message on the back revealing his sense of humor:

Aunt Sarah: Taken Oct. 6/’18 Somewhere in France. Guaranteed Hole proof hats. My partner has a gas mask enclosed in the satchel and as you will note we are both equipped with burglar alarms. With best to yourself and family. Mac.

He also wrote a letter on the 11th to his aunt Belle (nee Livingstone) Duffy in which he expressed optimism for an early Allied victory.

Battery C was issued its complement of supplies, horses, and materiel and left on October 23rd by train for the front. Again crossing much of France, they arrived at Domgermain on October 30th, where the rest of their trek would be on foot. “Since then our artillery has been on foot and has seen a bit of France at that. After detraining we marched about two miles towards Toul and camped out in our pup tents. The next morning our shelter halves were so stiff with frost we could hardly roll our packs.” Apparently the field soldiers, like in Civil War days, each carried half a tent and paired off with a fellow soldier for the night. It was near Toul they saw their first air fight, as a German plane “came over to do some observing, but hundreds of shots from anti-aircraft guns drove the Boche (German) high up into the air where he could not see anything of advantage to him.”

The Sights and Sounds of War

Moving northeast toward Metz, “the roar of the guns kept getting sharper and we realized we were drawing nearer to the front.” That sensation was reinforced when passing through the badly shelled towns of Bernecourt and Flirey, where there was “hardly a wall left standing.” On November 1st they reached Mort Mare Woods (Bois de Mort Mare), where they stayed a few days. A network of German trenches and dugouts, reinforced with concrete and iron, showed the Germans had planned a long occupation and only weeks before had abandoned their ammunition, machine guns and supplies as they pulled back. The action wasn’t over, though.

On the 5th of November Battery C moved out. “We were not exactly scared but a queer feeling came over us, as we were marching along in the darkness, not knowing whether we were going right into action, or not.” The next night “we went forward under cover of darkness, scheduled to pass through Thiaucourt, a large city which had recently been held by the Germans but recaptured. But the Boche was favoring the town with a harassing fire of gas shells, and it was necessary to take a circuitous mud road around the place. … The first night was a night of uneasiness to most of our valiant warriors, as the shells were falling around us all night and it was our first experience under real shell fire.”

The ammo dump was a few kilometers away from where they took up position, and troops sent to resupply the guns saw a German plane fly over, and shortly thereafter “shells began flying all around the dump, but luckily not one burst near the ammunition. The entire trip back was one continual round of explosions and the road was bright as day from the bursting shells.”

The next night was worse. “This night we experienced a heavy bombardment with gas and the night being foggy, the valleys were loaded to the brim for hours.” The battery was ordered to dig in the next day, which they spent all day doing, and on the 9th “the firing data, including a range of 4,000 meters, was sent down, and when the command to fire was given, our first message to the Boche was sent hurling over in the form of shrapnel.” On the evening of the 10th “as it grew dusk all the guns of the battery started to fire, and one session followed another in rapid succession throughout the night.” They stopped at 7 a.m. on the morning of the 11th of November.

The war ended that day at 11:00 a.m. — the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month — but “at just five minutes to eleven, two big shells came over from Fritz and landed alongside our positions, a parting farewell, as it were.” And that was that. Mac and his battery saw about a week of action on the front.

The Return Home

The battery spent the next three months in the nearby town of Pont-à-Mousson on the banks of the Moselle River, reflecting on their experiences and, on Thanksgiving Day, offering up

“a prayer truly of thanksgiving that we had been brought safely through these months of the most terrific warfare the world will ever witness, and that this old earth will ever in the future be a safe place for all humanity to live in and enjoy the fruits of its labor.”

If only.

The regiment celebrated Christmas in Pont-à-Mousson, decorating the walls “with views of Detroit, the Statue of Liberty, Uncle Sam,” and holiday greetings.

The regiment began their trek back to America on February 11, 1919, by boarding a train in Dieulouard and wending their way through France. “The valley of the Loire was particularly interesting—many chateaus, rugged hills and beautiful woods appearing before our eyes. We passed through many towns on our way eastward, as it seemed we were always bound to wander across a great part of France, apparently the French way not being to go from one place to another in the most direct route.” They finally ended up in Brest on the west coast, and on March 26th boarded the Leviathan, an aptly named ship carrying 12,274 soldiers and a crew of 2,000 for her cross-Atlantic cruise. “We…passed that beloved old girl ‘Statue of Liberty’ about nine o’clock on the morning of…April 2nd. Such rejoicing as we passed up the harbor!”

They left Camp Mills in New Jersey on April 17th and arrived in Michigan the next day. A half-hour stop at the Michigan Central station in Detroit was a short, joyous homecoming before continuing to Camp Custer. On April 23rd his military stint finally ended, and Mac became a civilian again, on his way back to Detroit and his wife Edna.

After the War

Malcolm returned to his job at the Anderson Electric Car Company, now working as a cost accountant. He and Edna started a family, with son Glenn born in May of 1923 and Donald in July of 1926. About the same time Mac switched gears from accounting to sales, now working as a representative of Yates Woolen Mills.

According to a 2016 article in The Oakland Press, in 1923 Malcolm established MacKellar Associates, “representing two woolen mills and selling woolen body cloth, upholstery and headliners to the automotive industry. Customers included Packard Motor Company, Studebaker, and the ‘Big Three.’ The original office was located in the historic General Motors Building in Detroit. It continued as a one-man sales operation and secretary for 20 years. Then, Malcolm’s sons, Glenn and Don MacKellar joined the company and they expanded their product line with injection molded plastics and decorative metal parts.” The family-owned company continued to expand and is now in its fourth generation of MacKellars.

A family note states that Malcolm, who had a summer home in Boyne City, was an “executive type organizer, free spender, money maker, expansive.”⁴ Mac’s wife Edna was also apparently socially adept, becoming the president of the Rosedale Progressive Club in 1945 as reported in the Detroit Free Press.

Mac passed away in January of 1957 at age 64, following a heart ailment. His wife survived another twenty years, passing away in August of 1977. Malcolm’s remains were buried in Grand Lawn Cemetery in Detroit. His older sister Katie, who died in 1986 at age 97, is buried nearby.

Mac’s story is an interesting tale, one reflecting its time and country:  an immigrant orphan raised by his grandmother, aunts and uncle; who rose to the top of his class in public school, served overseas in a World War, started a small business, and made a good life for himself and family in his adopted land. It could serve as a model for the nation in our current era.

Mac was a guy who passed Army muster, passed through mustard gas, and undoubtedly passed the mustard across the family table. As they’d say in the Army, he seemed pretty squared away.

Endnotes:

¹ Hugh Ronald joined the North Carolina infantry in 1861 and was home on extended sick leave a week later. He was separated after a few months when it became clear he was not returning. Barney Anthony joined the New York infantry in 1863 and trained for 3-1/2 months before being rejected for physical disability (old age) as his unit was preparing to deploy.
² William Estall was discharged from his regiment, being found unfit for further service in 1879 after his extensive visits to the infirmary. His step-son Thomas committed suicide while stationed in Eqypt in 1910. Andrew Templeton deserted the Gordon’s Highlanders infantry unit in 1864 shortly after joining and fled from Glasgow to Canada.
³ Sarah (nee Campbell) Livingstone, Malcolm’s maternal grandmother, had a penchant for adding vowels to surnames. When she married into the Livingston family, she added an “e” to the end of the name, making it Livingstone. When she took in her orphaned grandchildren, she added an “a” to their name, going from McKellar to MacKellar.
⁴ Characterizations of the MacKellar family are from family history notes left by Margaret (nee McCrie) Mead, a cousin of Malcolm MacKellar. See Livingston Family History at http://genealogy.thundermoon.us/history/livingston%20family%20history.pdf
⁵ Edna Persinger’s father worked as a foreman at an auto company, and her sister worked as a clerk at Anderson Electric Car Company. It is probable that Edna, a stenographer, also worked at Anderson.
⁶ “Horses in World War I,” Wikipedia, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Horses_in_World_War_I

“…came to America. Married girl from South. They visited Hamilton, Ontario, during Civil War but lost contact with Canadian relatives afterward.”

This snippet written on a hand-drawn family tree aroused my attention. Who was this unnamed McCrie kin? When did he arrive in America and where did he settle?

I set out to put some flesh on this skeleton. Then I discovered a surprising twist to his story — he enlisted in a Confederate infantry regiment at the start of the American Civil War.

The Civil War has stirred considerable interest in recent months. Confederate statues and flags have fallen out of favor as symbols of Southern pride, now being viewed by many as symbols of white supremacy and slavery. Finding a Rebel in the family? That seemed like a real outlier for my family … a family that has its roots in the north.

As background, this “Reb” Hugh Ronald was the first-born son of Andrew Ronald and Katherine McCrie — Kathy being the sister of my great-great grandfather William McCrie. Hugh was born in 1832 in Old Cumnock, Scotland, at a farmstead where his father apprenticed as a millwright.

When Hugh was three his family moved to Glasgow where his father practiced his trade by the River Clyde. When the family subsequently moved to Ireland in around 1840, Hugh was left in the care of his grandparents back in Old Cumnock, appearing with them in the 1841 census. Some time later his family returned to the Glasgow area, and in 1851, Hugh, age 18, showed up in the census with them working as a flesher (butcher).

In 1858 Hugh emigrated to America. It’s unknown where he first settled in his adopted country. There is only one Hugh Ronald I could find in the American 1860 census, and that was a 25-year-old Scotsman living with a Canadian-born wife and working as a clerk in Buffalo, New York. I can’t find anything to corroborate that this is our Hugh, but the country of origin, age, and occupation fit his profile. If it was him, however, it begs the question of what became of the wife and how to explain the next chapter in his life.

Hugh next appears in Warrenton, North Carolina, where as a salesman he enlisted for a 12-month hitch in Company F, North Carolina 12th Infantry Regiment, on April 18, 1861. North Carolina was moving in the direction of secession in early 1861, but the Confederate attack on Fort Sumpter on April 12th seems to have inspired the state to take over three U.S. forts and an arsenal. A month later the state adopted an ordinance of secession, becoming the tenth Southern state to do so.

In a time of conflict young men’s souls seem to swell with patriotic fervor and martial stirrings. Hugh—in his late twenties—may have been caught up in the frenzy. At least that’s a natural assumption when seeing that he enlisted the week after Fort Sumpter fell. The evidence is more nuanced, however.

Company rolls show that he mustered into service as a Private on May 17th, but within a week was “absent on furlough from sickness.” Subsequent muster rolls show he never returned and at the end of the year was “discharged for sickness” effective New Year’s Day 1862. Hugh may have put some of his persuasive salesman skills to work here.

Hugh remained in the South for at least a couple of years, marrying the Carolinian native Catharine Baker in Warrenton, North Carolina — in the Piedmont region just south of Virginia — in May of 1862, when they were both 29. They had a daughter there, Kate McCrie Ronald, in October of 1863. However by the time they had their next child, Andrew, in 1866, they had moved north and were living in New York state. Considering the note on the family tree that “they visited Hamilton, Ontario, during [the] Civil War,” it’s likely they left North Carolina before the war’s conclusion in 1865.

Hugh and his family, which grew to four children (although one, John, died early) lived primarily in Jersey City, New Jersey, with a two year stint across the Hudson river in East Harlem, on Manhattan. He reported his work variously as a clerk and a salesman of dry goods.

There are a couple of intriguing items in the federal censuses. In the 1880 census — when he and his family were living in New York City — his wife Catharine is noted as having “Nervous Debility.” This fell under the column “Is the person sick or temporarily disabled, so as to be unable to attend to ordinary business or duties?”

In the same census, their daughter Kate McRay [sic] Ronald, at age 16, is checked off under the column headed “maimed, crippled, bedridden, or otherwise disabled.” Kate subsequently never married, was never employed, and died at age 40.

Catharine’s younger sister was living with them, as she had in the previous census. She was probably helping to tend to the children and run the household, as the earlier census listed her as a domestic servant rather than a family member.

The 1890 census had a schedule showing “Surviving Soldiers, Sailors, and Marines, and Widows, Etc.” Although Hugh is listed, none of the columns were filled out. The federal government was only interested in Union soldiers, many of whom were eligible for pensions. The individual Southern states were responsible for their own veterans. Hugh was probably ineligible for that too. In fact, given his week’s actual time in service (probably spent in-processing), I’m surprised he self-identified as a veteran.

Hugh lived to see two children get married — at least one was a home wedding — and to enjoy two grandchildren, including his namesake Hugh. He’d been married 38 years when he passed away in 1901 at the age of 69 in Jersey City, near the piers. He left behind his widow and his daughter Kate at home. His son Andrew (with wife Nellie) and daughter Minnie (with husband Alfred Houliston) were raising children in their own homes in the city.

A son of Scotland, and a long-time resident of Jersey City, Hugh’s unlikely and short-lived spell as a soldier in the Confederate army seems an anomaly. It’s open to speculation as to the nature, or legitimacy, of the “sickness” that generated a soldier’s wages without its hardships. Equally mysterious is his presence in North Carolina during the Civil War. There are just some chapters of family histories that remain mysteries.

Hugh is one of those skeletons in the family closet — unnamed, slightly scandalous, and bare boned. Despite our best efforts to put some flesh on his remains, we’ll probably never get a full picture. But at least now we know of another McCrie family branch that immigrated to America … and hope that some day we can reestablish the contact that was lost during the Civil War.

My mother, Jean Campbell (nee McCrie) Schutze, lived her whole life in one house. The only exception was when she and my father, who worked for the Department of the Army, lived in Washington, D.C., during World War II.

She was born, raised, married, and died in the house at 3087 14th Avenue in Detroit, Michigan. Her mother gave birth to her at home (on the kitchen table according to family legend) in 1917, and she was married in the living room of the house in 1941. Although she died in a hospital in 1970, she had lapsed into a diabetic coma in her bedroom from which she never woke.

I, too, was raised in this house on 14th Street — it was apparently demoted from an avenue by the time I came along in 1949 — and lived there until I was in my mid twenties.

The house, long ago demolished, is still very real in my mind. I can walk through each room, point out where the family members sat at the table, see my mother and grandmother canning vegetables in the kitchen, smell the flowers growing in the back yard. It’s where I spent my formative years with many of the people I’ve loved most in life.

I’ve often thought it would be interesting to research this home that’s so full of memories. So with Detroit street directories and federal censuses in hand, I began to trace the house back into the past, all the way to 1890 when it first appeared in city directories.

The building was similar to its multi-story, multi-family neighbors: a two-story structure with a complete set of living quarters on each floor and separate entrances for the downstairs and upstairs families. In some years there was only one family living in the house, in other years there were two, and sometimes boarders besides.

The first occupant was Richard Shekell, owner of Shekell & Son, a flour and feed store at the corner of Grand River and Cass Avenues. His sons Clyde, Lee, and Percy lived with their widowed father. Richard died by 1893 and the sons moved out.

In 1893 the Reverend Andrew Wolff, from Franklin, Indiana, was installed as pastor of the Calvary Presbyterian Church at Michigan and Maybury Avenues.[note]William Downie, A Complete History of Calvary Presbyterian Church: from its beginning in 1868 until its 75th anniversary, May 25th, 1943, (Detroit, Michigan: Calvary Presbyterian Church, 1943). Accessed via Hathitrust Digital Library, https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=mdp.39015071480811;view=1up;seq=5[/note] In his two year tenure he ruminated on sermons in the home on 14th Ave while his wife Satiah took care of the more temporal concerns. He left at the end of 1894 to assume a pastorate in South Dakota. “As an orator he had few equals in the pulpit, and he was a thinker and a pleasing preacher, capable of expressing in beautiful form some original gems of thought.”[note]“Death of Rev A. T. Wolff, D. D.,” Alton Evening Telegraph (Alton, Illinois), 11 May 1905, p1, c3. Accessed via Newspapers.com, https://www.newspapers.com/image/14714554/[/note]

In 1895 a widow, Elizabeth Hayes, moved in for two years. Her boarder was a young physician, Hugh McEachren, who stayed on to become the primary occupant. He married Jeannette Gilbert in 1897 and the 1900 census shows the couple employed a female servant. McEachren ran his medical practice in his home, and I remember my mother telling me that a doctor used to live in the house, and his office was the room that years later would be my mom and dad’s bedroom. McEachren died in 1906 at age 36 of tuberculosis and his widow moved out. But a boarder, Dr. Nelson MacArthur, became the house’s primary occupant through 1908, probably continuing the medical practice from the home.

The fact that my mother knew about the doctor, and even knew where his office was in the house, leads me to believe he was likely my grandfather James W. McCrie’s boyhood physician.

In 1909 a blacksmith by the name of James Mortson moved into the house. The automobile was in its infancy at the time, and an ad from the Detroit Free Press of 1910 showed that there was still a horse and mule market on 14th Avenue. The 1910 census showed Mortson living with his wife Ida and their son; in the other flat Stanley Perry, a young automobile clerk, lived with his teenage wife Agnes. The house on 14th Avenue in 1910 encapsulated the transition of Detroit from horse and buggy to automobile, with its occupants working different sides of the technological divide.

I remember a large wooden barn, complete with hayloft, in the back yard of our house on 14th Street. By the time I lived there, of course, the barn was used as a car garage, but for many years it would have been a horse and carriage barn for the home’s earlier occupants.

Morton, who became a salesman at the Columbia Buggy Company on Woodward Avenue, was the last occupant of the house before my grandfather, James Wellington McCrie, took over in 1914 with his wife Sarah. A year later they began their family.

Without benefit of land records, the issue of ownership of the house is speculative, but I noticed that the 1900 and 1910 censuses showed the occupants were renters rather than owners. That arrangement changed when James W. McCrie moved in, and the 1920 and subsequent censuses showed that he owned the house, lived in the downstairs flat, and rented out the upstairs flat.

It’s my suspicion that the house was owned from its beginning by James’s father James M. McCrie, who used it for rental income. In family history notes James W.’s daughter Margaret writes “James and Anna [James W. McCrie’s parents] kept roomers in their large home on 14th Street and rented out other properties they owned on 14th and 15th Streets.” It seems reasonable to conclude that James W. was the first occupant to actually own the home because it had been in family hands all along. It would also explain why he would live so close to his mother and sister just one block away. The house may even have been an inheritance upon the passing of his father in the same year James W. married Sarah.

The first upstairs tenant under James W.’s ownership was a dentist, Gordon Hackett, in 1914. The dentist was followed by the widow Fannie Lynn, who in turn was followed by Arthur Post, a motor company clerk, and his wife, two daughters, and sister-in-law. He was followed by another widow, Isabella Burt, and her son, a clerk.

The home on 14th Avenue was between Michigan and Grand River Avenues, not too far from the Detroit River. I could occasionally hear the large freighters’ boat horns, so it’s not surprising that between 1923 and 1925 a boat captain, Jerry Rose, was the tenant. He was followed by Carl Sanchez, an auto worker, and afterward by Jack MacDonald, a painter and decorator, and his wife, daughters, son-in-law, and a roomer. MacDonald’s son-in-law worked as a lithographic laborer and may have known my grandfather from work, since my grandfather was an accountant at a lithographic company.

In the 1940 census the upstairs flat was vacant, not surprisingly, as James and Sarah’s eldest child William was married later that year and the upstairs flat was to become his home. James died in 1940; his widow Sarah remained in the downstairs flat with her youngest daughter Jean. The next year, in 1941, Jean married Leonard Schutze and Len joined his wife and mother-in-law in the downstairs home.

This family arrangement was the final one for the house. William, living upstairs, became a computer analyst for IBM, Sperry Rand, and Burroughs, a field that was cutting edge in the 1950s and 1960s. Leonard, living downstairs, worked as an hydraulic engineer for the Army Corps of Engineers, Great Lakes Division. Bill had two children and Len had three.

By the early 1960s the neighborhood was in economic decline while Sarah McCrie was in physical decline. She died in 1963 at age 87. In 1967 the area was engulfed in the Detroit riot; in the ensuing years anyone who could afford it moved out and the neighborhood went to ruin.

William left the house after the 1967 riots; Leonard left in the early 1970s after his wife died and the home became a frequent target for break ins by neighborhood thieves.

William eventually sold the vacant house to a speculator but its days as a home were over. Shortly thereafter the house burned down.

For blocks around there are very few structures remaining. Looking at the area, it is difficult to imagine it was once a thriving neighborhood filled with houses, apartments, schools, grocery, drug, and dime stores, banks, churches, and a gas station.

Houses, even more than people, take their secrets to the grave. But a house that gave shelter and comfort and maybe even some inspiration to generations of Detroiters deserves some kind of obituary.

Lest it be forgotten, this is my humble tribute to the place I still call home.