My Mom adopted her from a local flea market. Her name unknown at first, but there was what was left of her precious memories, the moments of her life. They sat in a box at a local flea market. My mom saw photos, letters, and a child’s dress. She bought the entire box.
As my mom poured through the box, she discovered her name was Catherine. She found a photo of Catherine wearing the little dress. There were letters from soldiers during the war. After rescuing the memories of Catherine in the 1980’s, my mom tucked the box away and put the dress on a little girl mannequin.
More recently my mom handed me a leather journal with the date 1912 on the cover. She thought I might enjoy reading and researching the owner of the journal. The inside cover read “Ruth W Helff.” As I went through the journal not only were Ruth’s writings about a trip to British Columbia, but tucked between the pages were photos of two women (named and dated on the back), photos of cottages on a lake and cottages, a pamphlet, a paper luggage tag, and on a page at the end of the journal was a listing of all of the expenses for the trip.
Behind the pamphlet was a wedding invitation for Ruth’s wedding to Albert Mitchelson. They were to marry at her sister’s house in New Jersey. A card in the invitation revealed their address of where they would live in Washington DC after their marriage.
Taking home the journal I started an Ancestry tree for Ruth and Albert. I knew the date but not the year of their marriage and their address in Washington DC. I verified each hint as they were generated by Ancestry. Ruth and Albert married in 1917 and lived in Washington DC until 1920 when they moved to Berkeley California. Albert was an engineer working for the Department of Agriculture. Ruth didn’t work outside of the home.
After creating the family tree, I chatted with my mom on the phone about what I was learning about their life, then another hint came up; Ruth and Albert had one child born in 1921, a daughter named Catherine. It was then that we realized this was a journal that had become separated from the box of Catherine’s belongings.
I continued to research as much as I could about Catherine and her parents.
The home Catherine grew up in and lived in until her death was located on Spruce Avenue in Berkeley CA. It was built in 1929, just 8 years after she was born. Her parents purchased it when it was newly built and lived in until their deaths in 1951 and 1959 respectively. Catherine attended Stanford University from 1939-1943. She continued to live as a single woman in her parent’s home according to the 1950 census.
Then I came across the obituary for Catherine. She died in 1986 at age 65. I was happy to see she married and had a son. The realization as to why her belongings ended up at a flea market was also revealed. Both her son and husband predeceased Catherine. As of late, with research, I have been unable to find out the story behind the loss of her husband and son.
I was sad to know there wasn’t anyone in her family left to love the little dress Catherine must have cherished, nor the photos, letters, and her mother’s journal. My mom did though. She honored Catherine by seeing the value in her memories and exploring her life.
In this vein I have labeled items that have been given to me by my mother, by great aunts and cousins and other family members. I want my children to know that the medallion came from Frankfurt in 1834 with my second great grandfather George Seitz, that the wedding ring dated 1884 belonged to my great grandmother Mary Rosalie Hunter Seitz. Photographs have been labeled with names of those pictured. All of these have been organized.
This is why I am passionate about writing historical fiction, weaving in creativity with the records of my ancestor’s lives, so my children will know about the generations of those who came before them. I want them to continue to recognize our family’s successes, their struggles and their human imperfections.
Have you ever found a treasure that lead you down a research rabbit trail? I would love to hear about it!
This is such a striking example of how fragile memory really is and how easily a life can scatter into disconnected pieces. The moment where the journal and the box come back together feels almost improbable, like the story wanted to be reassembled. It’s a reminder that preserving even small details can mean the difference between disappearance and remembrance.
I am our family genealogist, the torch handed to me by my dear deceased cousin before she died. Included in the momentous are tons of family pictures, some dating back to 1850, or when photographs were first made. While I know the names of some of these people, there are no clues as to who some of them are, except the knowledge that they are cousins. Back in the day, people did not write names and dates on the back of the photographs. They are a mystery I am trying to solve.