Miscellaneous Published Articles

GENEALOGY - or the fine art of using Coincidence.
Published January 11, 1996 in The Wichita Eagle
 
This is not a "How To" article for would-be genealogists.  There are many more qualified persons than myself to help you with the finer points of researching your family history.  What I'm relating are some of the unusual coincidences which have occurred in connection with my own research and perhaps encourage more people to participate in this fascinating hobby.
 
For some background, I was born in Willow Springs, Mo., a town of about 1,500 in The Ozarks.  I took my first real job in Kansas City, Mo. and there I met Lew, my husband-to-be, at the USO.  Lew was born and raised around Ponca City, Oklahoma.  After a whirlwind romance, we eloped in January, 1953, to Eureka Springs, Ark., shortly before Lew left for his new duty station at Elmendorf AFB, Anchorage, Alaska, where I joined him a couple of months later.
 
We were in Alaska almost two years, where our daughter was born in March, 1954, but we wanted to be closer to our families so we moved to Wichita, Kansas several months after he was  discharged.   Our son, David, was born in Wichita in February, 1957, but then in December 1959, three days after Christmas, little Davy died of leukemia. 
 
At Ponca City, Oklahoma, after Davy's funeral, while listening to a conversation between my Granddad Charles Ferguson from Willow Springs, Mo. and Lew's mother, Hazel Davis,  we learned that her great-grandparents Black had also homesteaded in Howell County, Missouri.   The Blacks had migrated from Georgia after the Civil War.  My granddad and James Black were acquainted, and granddad had even sold them the suit for Grandpa Black's burial. 
 
To learn that my husband and I both had ancestors from the same Missouri county piqued my interest in genealogy, however our family, working, etc., delayed much research at the time.   Some years later, while visiting in Willow Springs, my aunt drove with us to several small cemeteries where she knew various family members were buried.  At Moffitt Cemetery, I took pictures and gathered information from the stone of my great-grandparents, William and Belle Young.   Then, as we were leaving, I discovered the graves of Lew's great-great-grandparents James and Altha Black.  Until then I had no idea when they died or where they were buried.
 
The next coincidence involved Great-Grandpa Dave Ferguson, who came to Willow Springs with his parents in a wagon train from eastern Tennessee in 1871.  Grandpa Dave was a saver - pictures, scraps of paper, agricultural pamphlets, newspapers with election results, and letters.   He had built a desk with cubby holes and a writing top that raised, and he stored these items there from the 1890s through the 1930s.  Then the desk was kept in his son's basement for more than 30 years.  It was given to me in 1967, but I just recently  rediscovered the box containing  Grandpa David's belongings from the desk.  To protect these fragile and faded 90 to 100-year-old letters and papers, I deciphered and typed them into my computer so I could share them with relatives and friends. 
 
One set of letters was from a French Canadian, A. Vandandaique who lived a short time in Willow Springs with his family.  He then moved to St. Louis, and later traveled on the Mississippi alone in his boat south to Prairie Du Rocher, Ill.  His family had returned to Canada, but Mr. Vandandaique could not tolerate the cold.  
 
He and Grandpa Dave were friends, and their correspondence dated from 1903 through 1910.  They exchanged crop and soil information, weather data, political ideas, and 'sure cure' remedies from the swamp for their various ailments.  Then a letter in 1911 from the gentleman's son, Joseph, of Niagara, Wis.. advised Grandpa that Mr. Vandandaigue had passed away about a month prior to his 76th birthday. 
 
Since the old man had an unusual surname, I checked our Wichita telephone directory on an impulse and found one person listed with the same last name.  When I called and explained about the letters, Gary was quite interested.  His father was named Joseph, and he thought that his grandfather also had the same given name.  Plus, Gary's father had died in Iron Mountain, Mich. which is about 20 miles from Niagara, Wis.. 
 
I sent typed copies of a couple of the letters to Gary, and he got in touch with his aunt in Illinois and his mother in California to see what information they might have.   A few months later I met with Gary at his house.  I brought some Xerox copies of the letters, and Gary brought a copy of a letter from his ancestor, A Vandandaique, written in December 1910, from Prairie Du Rocher, to his children, Joseph and Laura.  Comparison of the handwriting, especially the signature, left no doubt that they were from the same person.
 
So letters saved by my great-grandpa Dave Ferguson in Missouri for 35 years, saved another 30 years by his son, Charles Ferguson, plus 30 more years by me before I rediscovered them, were written by a man from Canada, living in Illinois who was the great-great-grandfather of a man who moved to Wichita just four years ago.  What prompted me to check our telephone book and make that call?   We all get goose bumps just thinking about it! 
 
After I retired a few years ago, I found more time to devote to genealogy so I started branching out, compiling the ancestors of an aunt by marriage for my cousin, plus spouses' ancestors for some other cousins, the family tree for our adopted children, and the information for my brother-in-laws parents' lines for my sister's children. 
 
A niece of my husband's had become interested in genealogy, and wanted to gather information on her father George's family, but she had limited time so I helped her.   When reading the 1850, 1860 and 1870 census films for Cole County, Mo, I took information on all families with the surnames of Russell, Blank, Williams, and Simmons.  Armed with my results, I was able to sort the families to the present time.  
 
Some days later we met for an evening of cards at George and Bev's home.  They had wed about 15 years ago, a second marriage for both.  George was born and raised in Ponca City, Oklahoma, and Bev was born and raised in Kansas.   I was showing George the Family Group Sheets I had completed to date, when Bev mentioned she also had ancestors named Russell and Blank from Cole County, Mo.
 
I had Bev give me what family names she could obtain from an aunt, so I could compare them with the Blanks and Russells I already had in my research papers.   What I discovered surprised everyone.   Phillip Blank and wife, Elizabeth, are the great-grandparents of George and are the great-great-grandparents of Bev.   Therefore, George and Bev are second cousins once removed, and their children from their previous marriages are third cousins once removed.
 
So beware.  If you get bit by the genealogy bug and start shaking your family tree, you just might find a cousin in your closet!!



Published January 16, 1997 in the Wichita Eagle under MY TURN section.       
 
I was a new bride in 1953, living with my husband in a suburb of Anchorage, Alaska.  We had eloped from Kansas City to Eureka Springs, Ark. on January 4, shortly before he was transferred to Elmendorf Air Force Base, Alaska.  Lew soon learned that I knew very little about cooking, and from that time on he always said, "When we got married, Bonnie couldn't boil water without scorching it."
 
My mother worked at the folks' dry goods store, and when she got home in the evening it was easier for her to fix supper than to try to teach two little girls how to cook.   I do remember one time Mother went to southern Missouri to visit her father, who was ill.  She had left instructions on some things to heat up for Daddy, my sister and me.
 
I was feeling like "the woman of the house" and decided to also fix some biscuits.  Unfortunately, the baking soda was in an unmarked jar, and I thought it was baking powder.  Those biscuits were like what I imagine scones to be - extremely flat and hard.
 
Anyway, back to my experiences in Alaska.  We have a picture taken after living there not quite a year, of a rather basic meal; pork shoulder steak, fried potato cubes, creamed peas and bread.,  Why I took a picture of it, I don't know.  Maybe it was my birthday or our anniversary, but for whatever reason I must have been very proud of that supper.
 
Then there were pies.  In high school I took home economics, and the one thing I learned to fix was a rich, flaky pie crust.  To this day, when we have family reunions and other get-togethers, "Aunt Bonnie always brings the pies."   But some of my first attempts were pretty funny.
 
I didn't have any recipes, so I bought a can of cherries at the Air Force Commissary because it was the only can of fruit to include a recipe.  The pie really looked pretty, but in Lew's first bite, there was a cherry pit.  He didn't say anything until after a few more bites, all with one or more pits.   That's when we checked the empty can and discovered it was labeled "Unpitted Cherries."  Why on earth did a can of unpitted cherries have a pie recipe included?
 
Another funny experience was a pumpkin pie that was divided into three distinct layers after it finished baking.  The bottom was pale beige, the middle was pumpkin color, and the top was a shade in between.  Apparently the filling had separated, with the eggs, the canned pumpkin and the canned milk in distinct layers.   I have no idea what I did wrong, but we blamed it on the eggs, which at that time were frozen when shipped to the base from the lower 48 states. 
 
One pie that the relatives always ask me to bring is pecan, but my first try was another flub.  When I removed the pie from the oven, the crust had raised so that it was situated between the filling and the pecans.  We soon determined my error.  I had poked holes in the crust before adding the filling, which I now know is done only on crusts that are cooked separately from the filling.  It may have looked strange, but it still tasted good and certainly did not go to waste. 
 
Now, almost 44 years later, we are still married and I am thankful that the way to a man's heart is not always through his stomach!  I don't always goof, but I'm still not an accomplished cook.  I did learn a good excuse a few years ago when we spent some time in the Houston, Texas area and tried out several local restaurants, including the Crazy Cajun.  Now, when meat I have prepared gets a little singed, I just say, "The meat is not burned - it's blackened."
 

MEMORIES FROM THE OZARKS - Published April 17 1997 in the Wichita Eagle
 
A small Missouri Ozark town, population 1503, was home for my younger sister and me and our parents until 1948.  There we had the opportunity to grow up near several relatives, including our maternal grandparents, Charles and Phrona (Lovan) Ferguson.
 
One of my best buddies when I was 5 was a boy a year older who lived at the other end of the block.  'Little Allen' could whistle, and since he was older - and therefore wiser, stronger and my idol - I felt very strongly that I should also learn to whistle.   Mother used my desire to whistle as a tool to encourage me to eat.  At that time I was very finicky, much too thin and could sit at the table for hours trying to chew a piece of meat, which just seemed to get bigger and bigger.
 
Mother told me, "Bonnie, you could whistle if you ate the crust of your bread," and sure enough, after a while, I could manage some squeaks to start and later whistle a recognizable tune.
 
Grandmother Phrona was a short, pleasingly plump lady, very prim and proper with every hair in place who was always polite and gracious.  In 1895 she had been in the first graduating class of the town's two-year high school and became a schoolteacher before marrying Granddaddy Charles - a tall, handsome, dashing man.  In her diary, found years later, she referred to him as Mr. Ferguson when they dated.  My mother told me that "Mimmim' always awoke first and had her hair combed and makeup on before letting Granddaddy see her.  
 
Therefore, my success at whistling was a bit deflated when grandmother, an epitome of etiquette, told me, "Whistling girls and crowing hens will come to a no-good end."   But her admonishments didn't worry me long, and to this day I whistle along with tunes on the radio, try to imitate the birds as I walk the dogs, and sometimes even find myself whistling a tune, albeit quietly, as I am shopping.
 
Granddaddy was very outgoing and generous, and had a handy knee for dandling, near the fireplace.  He spoiled his children - according to stories told by my mother - and grandchildren, but in a nice way.   When I was 3, Granddaddy took me with him on a train ride, "just for the experience," from our hometown to the next stop, about 12 miles away.  There Mother met us with the car for the ride home.  I can remember my excitement on the trip, and I still have the little white cup I had used for a drink from the water fountain "while moving,"  which mother saved in my Baby Book. 
 
Every December, Granddaddy and I went to his King Mountain farm, where he kept cattle, to choose the very best Christmas tree.  It would fill one corner of the living room and reach to the top of the 9-foot ceiling.   Remember leggings?  Most Decembers were cold and snowy, so before Granddaddy and I left on our annual excursion, Mother had me bundled up in a coat, leggings, scarf, hat, gloves and galoshes.   In later years, Granddaddy always made a point to mention that after we arrived at the woods - I usually had to go potty. 
 
The Tradition continued - I have a letter granddaddy wrote to Mother, in 1956 telling that he and Barbara, his youngest granddaughter, had been to the farm for a Christmas tree, which she felt was too skinny and not tall enough, but they had instructions from her parents on the desired size; i.e. smaller than usual and thus easier to decorate. 
 
In the summer, we cousins had another tradition at the farm - picking blackberries.  I remember my sister and I having to wear long sleeves and trousers, no matter how hot the day, to protect against chiggers, ticks and scratches.  Then as soon as we arrived home with our buckets filled with berries, Mother put us in the tub for a quick baking soda bath, and checked us over for any stray varmints, as she dried us.  All the fuss and bother was worth it, though, when we savored a piece of blackberry pie, or had some blackberry jelly on our toast. 
 
I was the oldest of the 6 grandchildren, and after becoming almost a teenager, when all the families got together at our grandparents' home, I felt it was beneath me to "play" with the other 5 children, who ranged from 3 to 9 years younger.  My favorite place then was sitting in front of the fireplace in the den, while listening to the grownups visit.  The only problem was gauging the best spot to feel the warmth, but to avoid any splatters, when Granddaddy spit tobacco into the fireplace.  My Aunt Louise always said he bought brown cars so any juice that went out the window wouldn't show.
 
However, when I was younger, there was no better place to play than at the "big house", with my sister and the cousins.  The basement was somewhat dark and could have seemed forbidding to some children, but to us, it was a marvelous place to explore, and to play hide-n-seek.  There was a furnace room, the laundry area, and shelves filled with canned jellies, vegetables, and juices.  Granddaddy's numerous empty cigar boxes were utilized in numerous ways.  Also we were intrigued by an old desk which had been hand hewn by Great Grandpa Dave Ferguson, and was now filled with old letters, pictures and papers.  Plus there were other interesting boxes and storage barrels to look into or wonder about.
 
One of my favorite chores was to help with the laundry, when Grandmother would let one of us drop the clothing and linens down the laundry shoots from the first and second floors, and another helper would be in the basement trying to catch the items as they fell.
 
We also enjoyed playing on the second floor, where most of the bedrooms were, including a large screened porch with two beds for hot summer nights.  Grandmother had designated one end as our play room, where she kept a table and chairs and a blue tea set, so we could play house, dressed up in some old clothes.  We also had small cribs and buggies for our baby dolls, and I particularly remember several small doll quilts, handmade by our great Aunt Tennye.  How I wish some of them had been saved.
 
Our grandparents lived at the edge of the town, where they had built their home in 1923.  There was a large area with various trees to the front and to one side, a chicken yard and hen house, and a two car garage in the back, plus a pasture and barn to the other side for Ole Joe the horse and a milk cow or two. 
 
I was strictly a 'town girl', and my few experiences with farm life were less than successful.  Several times, grandmother asked my help in gathering eggs, but for some reason, I never seemed to find as many as she expected.  I'll admit now, I was afraid of chickens and if a hen was nesting, there was no way I would reach under her for an egg.   And I hated watching when Grandmother would catch a couple of chickens to prepare (read wring their necks) for the frying pan - but that didn't stop me from enjoying fried chicken legs for Sunday dinner.
 
When I rode Ole Joe, he immediately trotted to the far end of the pasture, and than stood there, grazing, despite my continued efforts to get him moving again.  Usually, Granddaddy had to come after both of us.  Ole Joe definitely knew who was boss when I rode him; but when he died in 1967 at age 34, he had given many enjoyable rides to we grandchildren and even to a few of the next generation.  Ole Joe's obituary was given in the local weekly newspaper, in a column noting tidbits and happenings around town, as he was well known by the locals and noticed by travelers, who would see him in the pasture as they drove by on the highway which at that time went through Willow Springs.
 
But I do have fond memories of the milk cows. A lady that lived in town would milk the cows each morning, then leave one small bucket full at my grandparent's house, bring one bucket full to our place, and keep the rest for her own family.  Mother would let us drink some of the warm milk for breakfast, but most of it stayed in a crock until the cream rose, which she then partly skimmed off.  I can still taste that real cream on my cereal and Mother's blackberry cobbler!

CAMPING - Published August 5, 1993 in The Wichita Eagle
 
Camping is escaping.  Think not?  Just read on.   What is the first thing people say?  Something like, "We came south to avoid the cold and snow."  What fun to call home and brag about wearing shorts, going swimming or having a cook-out, while your friends and relatives are shoveling snow. 
 
Or the opposite, "We decided to go north to miss the heat and humidity."  Then you can call to mention it was cool enough last night for a light blanket. 
 
How many people have said, 'What a relief to get away from the phone."  Until I retired, I didn't realize how many calls are made trying to sell insurance, house siding, dance lessons - you name it.  Soliciting persons at the door are about as bad.  And when my husband is taking his afternoon nap, he becomes especially irritated at telephone or doorbell interruptions.
 
Sometimes your grown children may have small problems.  If you are at home, they tend to come to Mom and Dad for help.  But if you are out of state, somehow the children manage to handle the situation. 
 
To take this idea a little further, camping will keep you away from bigger family problems, squabbles, etc.  One couple we visited with in Texas who were married to second spouses, said they don't go home at Christmas because of some bad feelings with their respective children and the impossibility of spreading their time enough to visit with both sides.  
 
What about cleaning house?  Think how much work you escape by not having a house to clean, compared to the relative ease of keeping a camper clean.  And yard mowing!  Of course, unless you are a full-time camper, the yard still needs mowing, but someone can be hired for the job and you have one less chore to worry about.
 
And lastly, you escape boredom.  Sure, it's an individual thing.  We each make our own activities.  But some people have few outside interests, or no hobbies and they get nervous sitting around the house.  But at campgrounds and clubhouses, there are always new people to meet and visit with, car games, dominoes and bingo, or crafts to learn.  Vary your eating with potluck suppers, hamburger fries, barbecue dinners, etc.  And each new state or campground has places to see and enjoy in this beautiful and interesting country of ours. 
 
So try a little escaping, maybe just a short time at first, and see how much fun it can be.

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This page was last updated January 17, 2001.