Wednesday, May 24, 2017
Despite intermittent challenges to one's personal sense of vertigo, the role of student aviator is not one I'd assume to be ridden with drama or intrigue. Not so, apparently, for the aspiring airman who turned out, coincidentally, to have been fourth cousin to my mother in law.
About the same time I unearthed my mother in law's genealogical relationship with Flowers family descendant Arthur James Daugherty, fellow native of Perry County, Ohio, I also discovered news articles reporting his sudden death and suspected role in a human smuggling scheme in southern California.
According to a United Press news wire only two days after the April 30, 1927, shooting which brought about the Ohio man's death, the local immigration official overseeing the agents involved in the incident requested more time for the investigation so that he could "produce witnesses from San Diego in an effort to show that Daugherty was a member of a smuggling ring engaged in bringing Chinese into this country."
Just as had the articles on the shooting incident itself, details in reports I found on the smuggling charges varied widely. Some reports fingered Daugherty as the smuggler. Some named both Daugherty and his supposed flight instructor, Burley R. Chaney. Others indicated up to seven other aviators in a smuggling ring, and anywhere from a few to "a score" of Chinese immigrants who were illegally brought into the country.
Following the unclear reports of the actual incident itself—when student aviator A. J. Daugherty was shot by federal immigration officials sometime during the landing or takeoff of the plane he was learning to fly—journalists turned their attention to the next step in the investigative journey, the coroner's inquest.
All of this unexpected excitement was, for me, quite a startling launch into a genealogical project. And not only was this a local news story I had found, but one which was covered in newspapers throughout the state. Besides the expected coverage in the Los Angeles area, where the tragic event occurred, the story could be found in newspapers in the state's central valley, the Bay area, and even as far north as Healdsburg, California.
What at first seemed to be undue curiosity in what I thought was just a local story—a tragic one, admittedly, but a southern California event—turned out to hold interest for a significant number of people throughout the state. Puzzling, that is, until I took into account the broader historical context of the times.
This expanded coverage, presumably, was not just a reaction fueled by a normal sense of justice in recoiling from such official statements about the "regrettable" shooting which was done merely by those "acting in the line of duty." The expanded focus may well have been due to another political maneuver which happened to be holding sway at the same time.
Tuesday, May 23, 2017
Whenever I've run across an outrageous story about a distant family member—say, something like the news articles we've recently stumbled upon, regarding the young aviation student shot point-blank upon landing his craft at an airfield—I've wondered how many members of the family actually knew about the event.
Take the story of John Syme Hogue that I found a year ago while researching my own mother's line—the incredible story of the safe cracker who kept getting away, even when his luck seemed to run out and he actually shot a law enforcement officer. I tried (very circumspectly, of course) to contact current family members who have worked on that same family tree at Ancestry, to strike up a conversation in hopes of detecting whether the man's descendants were even aware of his murky past, but have had no response.
It leaves me wondering whether such news stories even get passed down by family from generation to generation. Or are these the types of stories which prompt the older generations to say, like my own father, "Aaah, you don't wanna know that."
I've heard other people mention how their parents or grandparents were reticent when it came to talking about the past, especially about family members long gone. Sometimes, it was just due to the taciturn personality of the individual being questioned. But other times? Might it have been symptomatic of skeletons in the closet?
Because this situation with Arthur James Daugherty was different—after all, I only knew about this news story as of last week because of the news clippings linked as hints to his file at Ancestry—I took the opportunity to write to the person originating the link. I can't tell how close that relationship is, but if the person is willing and able to give us a behind-the-scenes report, there are a few things I'd like to ask.
For one thing, I'm curious how many of the Daugherty family back home in Perry County were aware of what happened to one of their native sons. Was this the gossip on everyone's lips, back in Somerset, Ohio? Or was it circumspectly hushed in consideration of the grieving—and likely, surprised—family?
Then, too, I'm sure the question on everyone's mind had to be: was he guilty as accused? Was A.J. Daugherty really a smuggler? Or was he just the unfortunate innocent caught in the crossfire of misinformed but zealous law enforcement agents?
Of course, these are factors which seem to have no bearing on genealogical research—but for those, like me, who have self-styled their research as family history, these questions are quite pertinent to our goals of accessing a fuller picture of the individuals who people our family trees.
Monday, May 22, 2017
Partying like it hasn't been anything close to 375 years, the city of Montreal put on a memorable festival that I got to be part of, after all. When I saw fellow genea-blogger Gail Dever's post at Genealogy à la Carte last week on the events planned for the 375th anniversary of the founding of Montreal, it seemed as if all the hoopla would be over before our family could even get to the city.
As it turned out, our bus from the airport arrived downtown Saturday afternoon just in time for the city's parade to delay by over an hour—then abort—the route to our hotel. Thanks to that unexpected turn of events, the three of us found ourselves trudging along, suitcases in hand, for ten blocks—and miles behind the featured guests of the city—until we made it to our destination.
Even then, we didn't truly miss the scene. With our internal clocks still on California time, we were awakened at what to us seemed like 6:30 the next morning by windowsill-vibrating music from the live band passing in front of our hotel. In a move that couldn't have turned out more precisely if we had planned for it, the parade route—which differed from the twin routes snarling traffic the previous afternoon—brought "the giAnts" passing by, seven stories below our own window.
From that vantage point, we were afforded a birds-eye view of a "Petite Géante" and her dog, followed by her "uncle," a deep sea diver in town for the city's anniversary celebration. The three, up to thirty-plus feet tall marionettes operated by lilliputian humans heaving ropes on pulleys, were the brainchild of French street performance troupe, Royal de Luxe, which have taken their creations on tours of 170 cities and now to their premiere in Canada with the Montreal celebration.
That's not what brought us to Montreal, of course—although getting here in time to take in that feature was a plus. My husband has been invited to speak at a conference being held here this week. While he is busy at work, I'll be touring the sights of the city with my daughter serving as my interpreter in the rare instance in which this bilingual city might not respond in my native tongue.
We will take in the history—and, considering my daughter's presence, the archaeology—of this long-established French colony in the next few days. Though time prevents me from my original plan—I had hoped to travel from Quebec to neighboring province Ontario to do some research on our Tully ancestors who arrived there much later in the mid-1800s—that genealogy-based mindset which helps me seek connections and roots in any given situation will stand me in good stead as we explore a city rich in historic context of its own.
Above: View from a cafe window during Montreal's 375th anniversary celebration; photograph courtesy Wren.
Sunday, May 21, 2017
When it rains, it pours, as some say. When we do the rainmaker dance to get my old frankenputer to work again—allowing precious access to old research files tucked away in cyberspace for years—we get a veritable deluge.
In this case, that is a good thing.
The primary beneficiary in that endeavor was my mother-in-law's Flowers line. Now that I've re-opened that old file—predating Internet-era research, for many of the records—I now can cross-check that with verifications found online. Double-checking my work from decades ago, without even trying, I'm zooming forward and the count on that tree shows it.
Last time I checked my biweekly count, I had amassed 10,843 individuals in that tree. In these past two weeks, that number has jumped 383 to total 11,226 people. I'm still in the midst of verifying all the records I'm moving over from my old file, but most everything looks right. In some cases, the number has gone backwards as I discover and remove duplicate entries in this intermarried line of ancestors.
Perhaps subconsciously seeking balance between both sides of our family, I tried to ramp up my progress on my own mother's line. I added 145 names to end this biweekly count at 10,035. Not as much as I had done on that easy project for my mother-in-law, but still a good amount of effort. Besides, I can now say both moms' databases have crossed the ten thousand mark. You know: parity.
Despite all the wonderful DNA sales happening—first for DNA Day, then around Mother's Day—the results for those tests apparently haven't yet hit our match lists. My matches at Family Tree DNA only increased by twenty three, leaving me at a total of 2,048, and my AncestryDNA matches increased by fifteen to total 581. One bonus was that my results finally came in at 23andMe: 1,197 in total, although only one match is as close as the second to fourth cousin range. Thankfully, that person is an avid genealogy researcher, so we are carrying on a merry conversation in search of our most recent common ancestors.
My husband's DNA matches seem to be just shy of those exploding sale results, as well. His FTDNA count is now 1,335, up thirty three, and his AncestryDNA results are at 273, up twelve, with 23andMe holding steady at 1,276. At least no more "cousins" are pulling out of the matching side of 23andMe's offerings to cause his count to go backwards.
With all the progress these past two weeks, I'm hoping the amply-augmented trees will provide some cousin bait to help sort out those mystery matches in our DNA accounts. There are some matches who definitely seem to fit certain branches of our trees, though we can't yet find the paper trail. The "in common with" function hints that this is what likely is the case.
As for our two neglected paternal trees, I know I need to get back to cleaning up the records and hunting for more hints, but that will have to wait another week, as we head to Montreal this week for a first visit to the eastern region of our neighbors to the north.
Saturday, May 20, 2017
Just one week ago was the annual conference put on by the National Genealogical Society. It was in Raleigh, North Carolina. I wasn't.
I had a friend who got to attend. She had a fabulous time, connecting with friends she hadn't seen in years. I was jealous. The moment she got back home, I plied her with questions over lunch—my desperate attempt to feel like she had stuffed me into her suitcase and brought me along.
So alright, then. I'll get my chance when I head south—on my side of the continent—to attend the conference of the Southern California Genealogical Society. It's my favorite. I've been to every one since they've added the ISOGG-inspired DNA Day five years ago.
Two days ago, I got my registration confirmation in the mail, so that mood is ramping up. This year, the SCGS Jamboree has added half-day workshops for those of us who prefer to go in-depth into specialized topics, and would rather get our learning in a hands-on format. No surprise that I'll be zeroing in on a DNA workshop for that extra Friday morning session.
Like my friend who attended the NGS conference earlier this month, I've come to realize that conferences add more value to their attendees than just the sum total of the material learned in each workshop session. Conferences are a time to make new connections with like-minded people, but also a time to be exposed to people and ideas quite different than those to which we are accustomed. As we broaden our experiences, we expand our capacity to learn.
Those learning opportunities, however, are partially uncharted. An adventure, our path through the conference jungle can take off in any direction. The syllabus may be charted, but what we take away with us, as we exit the workshop room, can be vastly different than what the person seated next to us may have discovered.
More than that, the face to face encounters come with no map. There are so many possibilities to meet someone—a distant cousin, someone from our hometown, a researcher fascinated by the same minutiae that have consumed us this past year—but when we all enter the registration lobby on that first morning, we have no idea what is in store for us among those hundreds of fellow-attendees. The only way to discover a connection may be to reach out and talk to a stranger.
A terrifying thought, indeed.
Just over two weeks from today, I'll be driving down to Burbank, California, to attend DNA Day and Jamboree. Three weeks from tomorrow, I'll be wrapping up my last post from Jamboree for another year. Yep, it will be over just as quickly as that.
What happens in between those two days, though, can be maximized with some careful planning—selecting which sessions to attend, strategizing with those I'd like to see while there—but will also need a strong dash of go-with-the-flow and improvisation. Yes, I'll connect via social media and the conference app, but I've got to rev up that adventurous spirit to just get out there and say "hi" to a bunch of strangers—who just happen to find the very topic I love, genealogy, as fascinating as I do.
Friday, May 19, 2017
While I'm grateful for the newspapers that help me piece together the story of my ancestors' lives, it can be frustrating to insure that all those pieces fall into place in the right way. Perhaps it's owing to my long-standing doubt of all sources journalistic. Sometimes, I wish I could interview the interviewer about the story he just scooped.
Of course, these may have been the very details puzzling the deputy sheriffs assigned to investigate the April 30, 1927, case of a man shot to death on an airfield in southern California. They certainly became the Gordian knot assigned to the jury trying the case in Los Angeles county courts—and even the difficulties causing the immigration authorities to tap dance while requesting a delay in the coroner's inquest. So I can hardly blame the newsmen trying to report the confusion at the outset.
Only the other day, I discovered this same murder victim was a fourth cousin to my mother-in-law—actually, the two facts came to me almost simultaneously, or else he would have been merely another name in my database with an unusually short lifespan.
To read the eyewitness reports of the incident leading up to A.J. Daugherty's death, the incident would indeed have seemed entirely unjustified. According to the mechanic at the airfield where the tragedy unfolded,
Daugherty had been learning to fly for some time.... He had been going up at noon and in the afternoon for some time, but the air traffic was heavy at these times and Chaney [the flight instructor and owner of the air field] decided to give him an early morning lesson.
What's not to identify with that scenario? I have friends here in town who wanted to learn to fly, and early morning lessons certainly are the usual occurrence, according to them.
On that particular morning, April 30, according to the mechanic, "They went up at 6 a.m. and landed at 6:30."
According to early reports of the inquest, quoting the instructor, Chaney,
I got up at 5 o'clock that morning, went to the airport and told Daugherty I was going to let him "solo" a while.... We took off and landed about three times. Sometimes he drove from the cockpit, and I drove from the back.
In the process of that touch and go exercise, "someone" opened fire. As the mechanic recalled,
I saw them sweep down on the field. I heard some shouting above the roar of their motor and then saw the inspectors raise 30-30 rifles to their shoulders and fire.
Somehow, Arthur James Daugherty got caught in the crossfire.
As incredible as the entire scene may have seemed, the reason for its occurrence was pinned on one accusation: that this student aviator and his instructor were actually suspected of involvement in smuggling—and not of the usual types of cargo, but of human beings.
Thursday, May 18, 2017
Sometimes, we are so focused, as we run through the routine of researching our ancestors, that we scarcely diverge from those routine paper trails of birth, marriage and death. Almost as if with the rigors of a checklist, we stick to birth records, marriage licenses, and death certificates—wills, perhaps, and baptismal records for those eras pre-dating our preferred methods of documentation.
I already know how fascinating the journey can be if I allow myself the liberty of a detour through the local newspaper holdings for my ancestors, but in today's case, it was only thanks to another Ancestry researcher posting a newspaper clipping that I noticed anything out of the ordinary in one particular family's story.
In my defense, I was researching the ancestors of a man who turned out to be a fourth cousin to my mother-in-law. Not a very close relationship, to be sure. Still, a story is a story, and once I laid eyes on the newspaper clippings included by another Flowers family researcher, I had to take a look for myself.
This fourth cousin was Arthur James Daugherty, a son of Nora Flowers and Lewis James Daugherty of Perry County, Ohio. He had been born in Somerset, Ohio, on July 8, 1900, but by the time of this breaking news in 1927, he was far from home in the Los Angeles area of California.
I can't really say how long he was in southern California. I only know he was there the morning of April 30, 1927, because that was the date in which he suddenly lost his life.
The clipping included in his file at Ancestry came from an unidentified newspaper, most likely from the files of a family member, for the name "Arthur" was hand-printed along the side margin of the scanned paper in block letters. Though the clipping showed a lengthy article, the unfortunate part of this discovery was that the continuation page was not included. Trying to replicate the article in the various subscription services to which I have access brought up several other reports, but not this one.
The sub-heading on this article, itself, was enough to pull the reader up abruptly:
Target for a fusillade of rifle shots from four immigration inspectors on the lookout for smugglers, A. J. Daugherty, 26, said to be a student flier of Somerset, Ohio, was killed instantly today at a flying field at Gardena.
Details from the body of the article brought up the discrepancies that always make a story-hunter want to know more. In particular, the article noted, "Two strikingly different stories of the shooting were given an hour after it took place."
The one version was provided to the deputy sheriffs assigned to the case by a mechanic working at the air field. The other version of the event was provided by the four immigration inspectors working out of the Los Angeles office of the Immigration bureau. No matter which way would turn out to be closer to the truth, it was clear the newspaper favored the take of the mechanic's report when it buried the inspectors' report on the continuation page.
As far as the eyewitness mechanic was concerned, the one who took this whole surreal scene in as it unfolded, "Daugherty was shot without cause or justification."