But I had searched “find-a-grave.com” and other sources in vain for burial information on Samuel and Marit Jorgenson. Lo and behold, I found it this week, under the name Samuel Samuelson, right there at Brush Creek!

www.findagrave.com

In a new twist on the well-known immigrant “surname shuffle,” Samuel and Marit adopted the surname of their children. Thus Samuel became, in traditional parlance, a son of himself! Reminds me of the old comic song, “I’m my own grandpa.”

If you click on the image for an enlarged view, you can almost read the birth and death dates (Samuel’s birth date is erroneous; the correct date in the Norwegian churchbook is 20 Dec. 1815, as opposed to 21 Dec 1816 on the stone). I will try for a better photo on my next trip to Wisconsin. Anyway, now we know that Ole’s in-laws probably lived somewhere near him in the tiny “Norwegian Valley” of Vernon County.

Nora had two sons, one by each of her two marriages. The eldest was Charles Van Arnam (1901-1988). He is pictured in the still photo below, also dated 1954. I do not remember meeting “Charlie,” but if this still (from sister Bonnie’s collection) was taken on the same visit, I must have done. Bonnie does recall meeting Charlie at a later date. The other two women are probably Nora’s daughters-in-law. I do not recognize the background here, but the car looks like the same one as in the movie frame.

Of Nora’s two sons, only Charlie had offspring of his own. Tracing his two children posed some problems. He was divorced from their mother, Emma Perry, early on, and there were apparently some hard feelings. I finally identified them as Vivian Van Arnam (1929-1985) and Earl Van Arnam (1931-2010). Each of those children had two biological sons. So far, I have only their names. Both families were broken by bitter divorces when the boys were young, and I have not yet been successful in positively locating or contacting the sons. I do have some feelers out.

I did make contact with one of Vivian’s two adopted children by her second marriage. Michele has been very helpful in piecing together the story, and provided me with vitals for her two children and six grandchildren, as well as the two children of her brother (who was also adopted). However, she has no contact or familiarity with her cousins or half-brothers. I may have to wrap up my work on the Myers descendants without information on their offspring, if any.

I am still waiting for updates from several Myers descendants with whom I do have contact. As soon as I have those, I will post a Myers page in the “Descendants” section of the site. Whew! “Live” people turn out to be more difficult to trace than dead ones. Stay tuned.

Arrival in Oslo

More of Oslo

Hamar – Cathedral Ruins

Lillehammer – Maihaugen

Gudbrandsdalen – Ancestor Land

Trondheim – Nidaros Cathedral

Trondheim to Bergen on the “Quick Route” (Hurtigruten)

Bergen

Fjord1

Fjord2 & Return to Oslo

The centerpiece of our journey was a four-day “roots” tour of the valley Gudbrandsdalen, from whence came all of my paternal ancestors, that is, all ancestors of Isaac Larson and Anna Moen.

As with most photos in this series, you may click on the image for a full-screen sized version.

With a lot of help from two extremely generous and knowledgeable local friends, we visited and photographed the farms where all of my great- and second-great grandparents were born, as well as some third- and older generations. Some, but not all, of these farms are listed on the map below.

Each of these farms, and others, will be featured in upcoming posts, grouped according to the associated ancestors. Of course, on many of them, there were no buildings or features old enough to have been around in those days, but on others, there were ruins or old structures that may very well have been there that long.

So keep in touch. Subscribe to the blog if this interests you, and please make any comments that may come to mind. I promise the first substantive post will be up within a few days. I will only be posting material of genealogical interest here. For lots more photos and comments from the rest of our Norway trip (where we were ordinary tourists), see my Facebook profile.

The next morning around 6:45, there began a chorus of cock-a-doodles and doodle-doo’s that was loud and continuous. I don’t know if all six were crowing, or if it was only two or three, but it didn’t let up for the next 15-20 minutes. After that, they would be silent for varying periods, then unleash another barrage.

Now, 6:45 on Saturday morning is not so early for me; I was already on my second cup of coffee. But I couldn’t get my mind off the neighbors. Were they cursing the unknown jerk who brought the creatures into their neighborhood? Were they gathering in secret to storm my garden? This is the city, for God’s sake. Mercifully, Kevin called me later in the morning. He agreed to help me butcher the chickens at his place, that afternoon.

Before noon, my wife, Thiel, had to leave. I was nervous about boxing the roosters for transport by myself, so decided to do it a little early, with her help. She followed me to the holding pen. I unfastened one corner of the wire, climbed inside, and with some difficulty caught the first bird. I placed it in a cardboard box outside the enclosure. Thiel held the box shut while I turned back to catch the next one.

That was when things got hairy. While we were busy, the remaining chickens had squeezed between the front of the bales and the wire, which it turns out was not fastened securely enough. All five of them were pushing slowly, single-file, through a 4-foot tunnel toward freedom. It was like a big, squirming conga line. Thiel moved to try and stop them, which allowed the boxed rooster to escape. Before Thiel could halt the tunnel traffic, the first bird in line had made it out.

We managed to get the four remaining captives back into the enclosure and better secure the wire. I captured one of the escapees with a fishing net, but the other one had flown from the garden enclosure, something the hens (whom I occasionally release from the “tractor”) had never even attempted.

Thiel left for her appointment, and I was on my own. Net in hand, I chased the vagrant around the neighborhood for an hour, never getting closer than about 30 feet, before deciding that approach was hopeless. With an improved enclosure and a better technique (I remembered that you catch them by the feet, not the body), I got the five roosters into two boxes to haul to Kevin’s farm.

The butchering itself was uneventful. Kevin and two other friends did most of the work, while making sure I performed each step at least once under their supervision. In less than an hour, all five birds were freezer-ready, and I knew first-hand how it was done.

Before dark that evening, I walked the neighborhood hoping to catch a glimpse of the lost rooster, or to hear him crow. Nothing. The next morning, I was outdoors early, in hopes he would begin crowing at first twilight (as they all had done the day before), while it was still dark enough to approach and catch him. Nothing. Oh well, maybe a skunk, raccoon, or coyote had made a meal of him during the night. Easy come, easy go, and at least the neighborhood was quiet again.

But oh, no, after it was fully light, the crowing began. He crowed three or four times over the space of about a minute, was silent for several minutes, then repeated the cycle. This made it easy to locate him, in a tiny wooded area right next to a neighbor’s house. He was in the low branches of a juniper tree, but when I approached within 30 feet, he became extremely nervous. It was obvious that if I came any closer, he would fly out into the open, or higher up in the tree. I gave up any hope of catching him in broad daylight, walking away from him still in the tree. The intermittent crowing continued until mid-morning, then stopped.

That afternoon, an acquaintance from church, who had somehow found out about my hens, telephoned to ask if any of my birds were missing. She had come home, a good quarter-mile from my house (across a busy street), to find the rooster in her backyard, scratching around under a bird feeder. I rushed over with my net, sneaked quietly around the house, but as I feared, at the first glimpse of me from across the yard, he bolted out of there, into a large, overgrown pasture. My friend said maybe he would find his way home, but I had my doubts. I took another walk before dark, listening again, but apparently roosters mostly crow during the morning hours.

To my surprise, the bird did find his way back to the previous night’s roosting area, where he again began crowing, well after daylight. All morning, I monitored his crowing, which seemed to move around only a little. My plan took shape. After it was fully dark, I came with a light, locating him in the very same tree, knowing that he would be virtually helpless in the dark. With Thiel’s help, the fugitive was captured, with a lot of squawking but no apparent injury. The peace of the neighborhood was restored, but now I had another butchering job on my hands.

I set things up in the backyard the next morning, and plunged(!) into the project all by myself. It took me a full hour, during which I definitely broke a sweat, but the results were acceptable, with no mishaps worse than a shallow finger cut.  Two days, later, we cooked the bird, and if I do say so myself, he was delicious. Not quite as tender as a cage-raised, commercial fryer, but incomparably tastier, and far less fatty. All’s well that ends well (for us, not for the chicken). Chicken-killing is not something I would want to do every day, or even every week, but I may try my luck again in next year’s “free rooster season.” The image below is from backyardchickens.com.

Similar to my lost & found rooster

Next: forward into the past (back to genealogy).

Of course, as a side project, Dad also butchered chickens for eating; both “stewing hens” (past their laying age), and “fryers” (surplus young roosters). I am not too clear on the details, but I think they normally took the birds to my grandfather’s house, about a mile away. Grandpa Larson also butchered his own chickens to sell to neighbors. Sister Bonnie and several cousins have commented on these memories. I remember some of the killing sessions, also the pedal-powered sharpening stone Grandpa used to sharpen his hatchet and probably his butchering knives as well. We children were not required to do any of the work; I mainly remember the chickens literally “running around with their heads cut off.”

Now, 63 years old myself, I have plunged into backyard chicken culture. First it was the coop and the hens. I was tired of caged-chicken eggs, and craved the “real thing” of my childhood memories. The recent Salmonella scare was also a consideration. I began “stalking” Craigslist in the farm-and-garden section. Before long, I bought a used “chicken tractor” from one seller, and four young hens from another. Chicken Tractors are all the rage. Just Google the term to see what I mean.

After a couple of weeks, the first hen started laying. Even before then, though, I started thinking toward the future. Hopefully, all four hens will be laying soon, but in two years or so, they will stop again due to “old age.” What then? The obvious answer: stewed chicken and dumplings, another favorite food of my childhood. Also obvious: the need to kill and butcher the birds in that event. So, I began reading up on backyard chicken butchering. There are a lot of “how-to’s” on the web, and it didn’t look too hard. Not pleasant, mind you, but I could hardly continue to eat meat in good conscience, if I could not stand up to the reality of the pasture-to-plate transition. I resolved that when the time came, I would be prepared to do the deed. As luck would have it, things happened much faster.

Next: The Renegade Rooster

Gail’s niece from South Carolina, cousin Paula Aldous Howell, used my visit as an excuse to fly to Oregon to see her uncle, and also to meet me for the first time. Paula has unearthed a lot of important documents, including some on the Wyoming Valley, and some military records of Henry B. Myers and Stephen B. Myers.

But after the conference, events intervened to slow down my work quite a bit. First, a visit to California for several family functions. And since then, I have been immersed in a project quite far removed from genealogy, except for one important link. I will “spill the beans” within a couple of days. Stay tuned.

At present, there is only one item in the category, but it is a big one: “Larsons & Slettens 1985″ by cousin Aline.

For those of you not familiar with it, it is a book of 160 pages, covering all the descendants, down to 1985, of not only Ole Larson, but also his sisters Mari and Marit (Larsdatter), and all the Slettens (with whom the Larsons are so intricately intermarried). I haven’t counted up the descendants in it, but there must be a good thousand. The book is in PDF format, with searchable text and lots of navigation links. I hope to post much more content in the coming weeks, to include descendants in other branches of my (very) extended family.

For those readers who are following this blog in a more general way, stay tuned. Next up: Martha Bennet Myers, Historian.

It is a long-shot, but I am investigating the possibility this might be Philip Myers’ brother. According to cousin Paula, Michael Myers (brother of Philip) is the great-great grandfather of Dr. Charles Myers, author of  “A Connecticut Yankee in Penn’s Woods: the Life and Times of Thomas Bennet.” Michael Myers is not my direct ancestor, but I am keenly interested in finding anything out I can about him, in hopes it may lead to his (and Philip’s) parents, who purportedly immigrated from Germany, and settled in Frederick, MD in the 1760′s, but who are otherwise a total mystery, including even their names.

Michael himself is almost as vague; all I have from Paula is his name – no spouse, dates, or residence history. Also on Internet genealogy sites, his name appears (as the father of Madison Myers) with no other information. No Michael Myers is listed bearing the vital information shown on the gravestone above.

The “gravestone Michael’s” birth date is in the ball park, but so far, no other indication or counter-indication, other than geography. Incidentally, I found the marriage record of this couple (6 Oct. 1792) in a printed source, Marriage Licenses of Frederick County 1778-1810 by Margaret E. Myers(!). Despite the author’s name, this is no real help in connecting or disconnecting the gravestone with the brother of my fourth great-grandfather.

The monument in the photo looks relatively new, indicating some interest on the part of their descendants, whom I am trying to identify, locate, and contact.

Information relating to the family’s immigration from Germany is very sketchy and somewhat contradictory – e.g., the purported year of their journey, 1760, falls in the middle of the Seven Years’ War (called the “French & Indian War” in the US). During these years, European immigration to the New World was at a virtual standstill. 1766, the alternative given by at least one printed source, is more likely historically, but without the father’s name, I am pretty much grasping at straws.

Anecdotally, distant cousin Harry Myers, of Port Clinton, Ohio, told me that Philip’s family first arrived in Philadelphia, before settling in Maryland. He did not know the source of that tidbit. If true, it is helpful, as surviving immigrant lists are fairly extensive for Philly, although far from complete. They are all consolidated in the book, Pennsylvania German Pioneers … 1727-1808, by Ralph Strassburger. As already mentioned, the Seven Years’ War pretty much interrupted the flow. Out of a total 324 ships listed between 1727 and 1775 carrying German immigrants to Philadelphia, only one is shown between 1756 and 1763. Of course, cousin Harry may have been incorrect; Philip and family may have sailed directly to Maryland colony. Passenger lists for Maryland arrivals during any of  the 18th century are nonexistent, as far as I currently know. But we can assume that there was a similar dearth of arrivals there during the Seven Years’ (aka French & Indian) War.

At least I think we can. It occurred to me that other ports, such as Baltimore, may have been less affected by the fighting than was Philadelphia. But it looks like the war in Europe was equally responsible. The page I had copied from Eighteenth Century register of emigrants from Southwest Germany by Werner Hacker, contains almost 120 names (all with the surname Mayer – that is how this book spells Myers). Of the 120, only one emigrated during the war years.

And so, the search continues. Stay tuned.