Don’t listen to your parents

This is probably not the best advice at this time of year, but I assume most of my readers are not expecting fantabulous gifts under the tree from Santa or their parents.

I’ve had lots of fun with the mantra:

Don’t listen to your parents!
They tell you to act your age.
If you act your age, you’ll grow up.
If you grow up, you’ll get old.
If you get old, you’ll die.
So, why act your age?

I’ve done my share of listening to my parents and other parental figures, and taking their advice to heart.  I’ve also done my share of ignoring advice, either because of orneriness or because the advice was just plain wrong.

I think the best advice was just plain encouragement: get good grades.  Sometimes that encouragement also took the form of a dime or a quarter for each A on my report card.  A dime?  That’s not much!  Ah, but I grew up at a time when a movie ticket was ten cents, and candy bars and ice cream cones were a nickel.

My encouragement was also by example.  We had lots of magazines and newspapers in the house, and my brother and I were given books from time-to-time.

My parents were divorced before I started school, and my father “bribed” us with neat Christmas gifts that encouraged creative play.  Among these were train sets and Erector sets.  Our imaginations soared, even as we had difficulty getting every square nut to turn easily on the small screws.

Then there was the advice that was off-the mark or just plain wrong.

One year about St. Patrick’s day we were getting dressed to go somewhere and my brother and I wondered about wearing green.  My mother replied, “We’re Orange Irish!”  As far as we knew, Magree was an Irish name, but we had no knowledge of any ancestor coming from Ireland.  Plus, because of the divorce, my mother had very little contact with her father-in-law and knew very little of our father’s family history.  If she did, she never shared it with us.  On her side, her grandparents were born in England or Germany.

Many decades later, I pieced together that my Magree line was resident in the United States since at least 1830.  An irony was that my great-grandfather was born in England, though he sometimes claimed to be born in Brooklyn.  His father was probably born in Baltimore, and the closest record I have of him having any Irish connection is being the master of a ship in 1851 bringing mostly Irish immigrants from Liverpool to New York.

So much for being Orange-Irish.

When I proposed to my wife-to-be (Jan), my mother didn’t think she was suitable for me and that the marriage would not last.  Sorry, Mom, but it has lasted longer than your two marriages put together.

Before I met Jan, I had flunked out of Case Institute of Technology.  I considered going to Ohio Wesleyan in the middle of Ohio, but my mother didn’t like that.  I wouldn’t be in Cleveland where she could see me more often.  Well, I did go to Ohio Wesleyan and got good enough grades to get into graduate school at Case.

Because of the divorce, I didn’t see my father much and so didn’t get much advice from him.

I did ask him for a loan of $107 to pay for my meals at Ohio Wesleyan for one semester.  When I tried to pay him back, he refused to accept it.

None of his seven children followed his example on education.  He dropped out after the eleventh grade.  All finished high school, five received college degrees, and two of those did graduate work.

But the advice from my Dad that I chuckle about the most is that music must be foot-tapping.  Probably ninety percent of the time that I turn on MPR the music has a strong beat.  Today, it was L’Arlésienne by George Bizet (and I identified it within two minutes!)  If you are not familiar with it, it is the piece that “The Prisoner” times over and over again, getting a different time for each record.

My mother remarried when I was fifteen.  My stepfather insisted that we use Desenex (and only Desenex) on our feet every morning and that we polish our shoes every week.  He did have a point because he had been hospitalized with athlete’s foot some years before.  I haven’t checked with my brother, but I rarely powder my feet.  If I do, it’s with Desenex only because I happen to have it on the shelf.  Polish shoes?  One does not polish today’s athletic shoes, and I can’t even get myself to oil work boots with any regularity.

My last piece of ignored advice is not from a parent, but a teacher.  In my high school boys had to take a semester class called “Personal Regimen”.  I won’t go into the details of the class, but we could get an F for wearing Levis.  I had been wearing Levis since junior high school ($4.95 a pair) and my mother liked them because they were easier to wash than many other pants.  Sixty years plus later, I wear jeans almost all the time: to church, concerts, theater, restaurants, and more.

Oh, one last word.  The best thing I got out of Personal Regimen was learning to tie a tie.  If I really need to, I can still tie a Windsor knot without looking in the mirror.

When people ask Mel’s age, he tells them to guess.  The latest guesser took six tries to guess, all but the last under.

Am I a descendant of illegal immigrants?

My great-grandfather, John J. R. Magree, was supposedly born in Brooklyn, New York, at least according to all the census records from 1870 on, his obituary, and other records.  Brooklyn has no record of his birth.

Because John C. Magree was a mate in New York harbor in the 1850 census and master of the Ship Ivanhoe in Jan. 1851, I assumed that John C. Magree was his father.  The Brooklyn city directories of the 1850s list a Margaret Magree, widow.  Was she the abandoned wife of John C. Magree?  John C. Magree was still alive during the Civil War.

However I did find records of the marriage in Liverpool, England, of John C. Magree and Margaret Pope, and then of the birth to this couple of John James Richard Magree.  Given the rarity of the name Magree, isn't the probability rather strong that this is the John James Richard Magree who became known as John J. R. Magree as an adult?

But I can find no record of Margaret Magree and John J. R. Magree traveling on John C. Magree's ship or any other ship.  Did John C. bring them as unlisted passengers?  Did they not need to be on the manifest because they were the master's family?  As far as I can tell, the same manifest did not list any of the crew, either.

So, do we follow the rule that Barack Obama, born in Hawaii of an American mother and a Kenyan father, is not born in America?  Or do we follow the rule that Ted Cruz and John McCain, born in Canada and the Panama Canal Zone, respectively, of at least one parent who was a U.S. citizen, are born in America?  I guess, sarcastically, since I am white we follow the Cruz/McCain rules.

However, if we follow the "Obama" rule, then I am the descendant of illegal immigrants.  Not only was my great-great grandmother presumably born in England, but we have have no birth certificate to prove that John C. Magree was born in the United States.  The only "proof " is that on his marriage application in England, John Cornelius Magree gave his father's name as Vinsent Magree.  There was a Vincent Magree in the 1840 census with at least one male around 12 years old.

That's all rather slim evidence that my paternal line has been born of legal immigrants.

If that makes me an illegal immigrant too, where should I be deported to?  England, Germany, Poland?  I have traced ancestors to all three of those countries.

My nationality is American

A favorite conversational item of many Americans is "What nationality are you?"  This happens often because we are a nation of immigrants from elsewhere or the descendants of immigrants.  But how is it that the nationality of someone from Canada is Canadian and from Australia is Australian?

One of my favorite comebacks is "What nationality is the King of Sweden?"  Following the male line back, he's French; he's descended from Marechal Bernadotte, one of Napoleon's marshals.

As for me, my paternal grandmother is the only immigrant among my grandparents; she was born in Silesia, at that time part of Germany.  The other three were all born in the United States.  As I hardly knew my grandmother, I didn't have much German influence.

Of my great-grandparents, four were born in Germany, three were born in England, and one supposedly was born in Brooklyn.  More about him later.  I never knew my German great-grandparents, and we never had any German traditions in our house.  I only knew my mother's paternal grandmother, and the only thing English I experienced from her was tea, with Carnation milk!

As for the supposedly Brooklyn-born great-grandfather, I've found some indications that he probably was born in Liverpool, England.  Most of the records for him give his name as John J.R. Magree, but Brooklyn has no birth certificate for him.  I did find two Liverpool records for the child John James Robert Magree.  His mother may have been Irish or English, but his father was John Cornelius Magree, probably the John C. Magree who was the master of the Ship Ivanhoe bringing immigrants from Liverpool to New York in Jan 1851.  There was no John J.R. Magree in the passenger list.  Interestingly, on his marriage record, John C.'s father was Vinsent Magree [sic], Vincent Magree was in Baltimore in the 1830 Census.

Other than possibly John C.s marriage in Liverpool, I have found no ancestor that I can link to Ireland.

My only Irish link to the name Magree is from Magree's I contacted in Australia.  They can trace their Magree ancestors to Kilkenny, Ireland, and even to some specific pieces of land.

Interestingly, on one St. Patrick's Day, my mother said "We are Orange Irish".  Other than her in-laws, she knew nothing of my father's grandparents.

Having lived in Italy for two years and in Sweden for four years, I like to kid that I am more Italian than many Americans that call themselves Italian and likewise for "Swedes".

St. Who Day?

Today there will be a lot of parades, a lot of drinking of green beer, a lot of wearing some bit of green, a lot of music by Irish composers. I'll be only participating in the last if I happen to have the radio on. Why should I do anything more? Especially drinking green(?) beer. Good God! There is plenty of good Irish beer without adulterating it with green food coloring.

With the name Magree, I must be Irish, right? Well, four of my great-grandparents were born in Germany, at least two in England and maybe a third, and one was born in Brooklyn, New York. That is the one who had the name Magree. I have been unable to find much more about his ancestry other than the 1870 census, which said his parents came from England. Born in England? Took a ship from England?

My mother said we were "orange Irish", but she never knew her grandfather-in-law who left the family before my mother was even born. I think she said that because her family tradition was Protestant, mostly Methodist.

I did poke around a bit in various records and found that all those named Magree or McGree who can trace their ancestry into the nineteenth century can trace it to Kilkenny. I visited Kilkenny in 1979 to see if I could find any leads. Many people were helpful but I found nothing of direct use to me. And guess what my "nationality" was when I was there? American!

We have often enjoyed receiving a St. Patrick's Day card from a distant cousin (I assume we have a common ancestor in the 18th Century). The "Irish sailor" that she supposedly descended from might have been born in Baltimore MD in 1818 and became a ship's master of immigrant ships. My distant cousin has never confirmed that this person is her ancestor. Of course, this John C. Magree could be my great-great-grandfather as he would have been 22 when my great-grandfather was born.

Yes, it is fun to know where one's ancestors came from, but for many of us their origin has little to do with our own personal culture. In fact, we have more Swedish culture in our family than any of our ancestors' cultures; this happened because we lived in Sweden for four years. Furthermore, there is no such thing as English genes, German genes, Italian genes, and so on. Almost any "national group" is an amalgam of people from a wide area.

Enough! I'm not going to have any beer today, Irish or otherwise. My beverage budget is spent for the month. If you are so inclined, I hope you have a fun time on a day that is a good excuse for a party.

May the road come up to meet your feet (and not your face).

Family ghosts and computer ghosts

A second cousin once removed recently emailed me about information about her great aunt. "Second cousin once removed" means one of her parents shares a set of great-grandparents with me.

The computer ghosts is that I have a lot of information about our shared ancestry but it is not readily available.

First, I interviewed her great aunt some years ago and have the interview on cassette tape. Problem is, I don't know where that tape is and if I still have extra copies.

Second, I have lots of information in computer files, but mostly in outdated media, like 3.5 inch diskettes.

Third, that information was created by a program I wrote and sold, but all that is on an outdated software system. For those with long memories, it was called Family Events.

Fourth, I still have a computer with that software system on it, but the computer is buried in a closet and needs lots of room to set up. And of course it needs time to set it up.

Fifth, is the information still on that old computer? I remember starting to erase all my data so that the computer could be recycled.

Almost every family has "ghosts", insubstantial personalities that we know very little about. But all the data that one descendant might have collected also becomes ghosts because it is not disseminated to other family members and replicated. This has happened with data on paper and data on computers.

Reconstructing family history

Genealogy once upon a time seemed to be a search for illustrious ancestors. As it became more and more popular for people just to connect back to Europe, people came just as interested in the stories of their ancestors as in the connections of one generation to another. Besides, the stories often gave clues on how to find the connections.

I've been interested in the origins of the name Magree for years, but really didn't make much progress until the 1970s when I stumbled on a whole bunch in Australia. From some of them I found that they could trace their ancestors to Kilkenny, Ireland.

My own personal search stopped with my greatgrandfather, John J.R. Magree who was born in Brooklyn in 1851. I've gathered a few stories about him and his descendants, but I gave up on searching documents to go back further.

Meanwhile, I do a Google search on Magrees and turn up a few I never heard of before. I generally don't follow up because the letter exchange or telephone calls would just eat up time from all the other activities I want to do.

Every so often my curiosity gets the better of me and I attempt to contact someone. I did this recently through classmates.com and got a reply. She gave me some information about her ex-husband. I made the connection to one of my uncles, replied to her, and haven't heard from her since. I probably exhausted her interest in the subject.

However, this led me to reflect on some decades-old issues. My family is not very good on keeping connections up, possibly because of many divorces. I had not seen my paternal grandmother since I was about 7 or 9, but I sent her Christmas cards and maybe birthday cards for a long, long time.

The year after I was married, we drove through Chicago on our way home to Cleveland. I stopped at a phone booth, looked my grandmother up, called her, and she invited us to stop by.

She was living upstairs in a duplex where her youngest son, his wife, and children lived downstairs. My wife and I remember her bitterly complaining about her daughter-in-law.

A couple of nights ago, during a sleepless period, several weeks after I received the message through classmates.com, two explanations about the mother-in-law/daughter-in-law conflict popped into my head.

Both were born in Germany.

My grandmother had come to the U.S. when she was about six, but as an adult she spoke probably only English. Her children would ask for German words but she had a harder and harder time remembering any.

My aunt was the widow of a German soldier and the mother of a young son. She met my uncle, a G.I., after the war and came to the U.S. with her son.

I wonder if there was friction between the two women because 1) my grandmother could no longer speak fluent German and was frustrated, or 2) my grandmother had antipathy towards Germans in general because of the two World Wars.

I may never know. All the principals are dead now except possibly my aunt's first son. I may never get sufficient curiosity to follow up with people who may be reluctant to get involved with distant relatives.

And this is how so many interesting stories get lost or garbled.