14 In Their Own Words: Leonard and Elizabeth Remember Sand Springs

Leonard and Elizabeth Nolen abt. 1963

Maternal Grandparents Leonard Nolen and Elizabeth Moore

52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks 

Week 14 March 31, 2025

Prompt: Language

Language is more than the words we speak—it’s the voice of memory, culture, and connection. While my ancestors all spoke English, the way they spoke—their rhythm, phrasing, and turns of speech—carried the language of their generation. This week’s post honors that idea by returning to a rare and treasured moment when my grandparents, Leonard and Elizabeth Nolen, told their story in their own words.

In 1963, the Sand Springs Pioneer Historical Society began an oral history project to preserve the memories of the town’s earliest residents. On December 21st of that year, they recorded an interview with my grandparents, both of whom had grown up in the Sand Springs Home. Their voices—captured on tape and later transcribed by the Sand Springs Museum in 1995—offer a window into the past that no third-person narrative could match. Their words are direct, heartfelt, and grounded in the language of the world they knew.

Below is the full transcription of that 1963 interview, ending with Leonard’s final reflection. Their story speaks for itself.

NOLEN

(From a tape made by Leonard and Elizabeth Nolen on 12/21/63)

Leonard:

I was born on March 9, 1893. I met Mr. Page when I was a newspaper boy in Tulsa in 1907, when my mother was sick. When Mr. Page started the Home, he moved my mother and my brother Luther and me out to his property. He put Mother  in the first tent that started the Home. Mother died on December 8, 1908, and she was buried in the cemetery which was later a part of the Sand Springs Park. In 1928 we moved her grave to Woodlawn Cemetery.

Mr. Breeding was already on the land when we came, and he had about 20 men and he had about 20 men who were clearing the land and building shelters for the cattle and building tents for the people who were beginning to come.  We had a family of eight that came from the Anchor Home; they were the Davis children. 

The different families were settled into the first Home, which was a large two-story building with a basement, housing about 32 children and matrons.

We had a zoo. I remember monkeys, bears, birds, peacocks, burros, and parrots. Mr. Page taught us how to love and protect these animals and birds. 

My job as a child was to care for the cattle and horses, and for doing this Mr. Page bought me a spotted pony which was my very own. 


We had our own milk, butter, and fresh fruits. We did all the canning of the fruit for the winter.

My first job for the Home was checking railroad ties that the natives brought in when he started the railroad in 1911. Then I went to work as a water boy. Then, when Sand Springs was finished, I was agent at the old greenhouse station in 1912. 

I went to school half a day and worked the other half. From agent I went to the Katy Depot; ticket sales. Then, I was jack of all trades. I went to business college - Mr. Page told me if I wanted to work I HAD to go to school. I went to college for 18 months.  After finishing, I went to work for Mr. Steffens who had come from the Frisco in St. Louis to the general office in Tulsa. 

From there I went to the train service as engine as engine foreman, and on Saturday and holidays I took care of the park. I operated the merry-go-round and circle swings and helped Mr. Morrison.

In the neighborhood of 1920 the Shell Creek Dam was started, and I had charge of the train from Sand Springs to Wekiwa. Running on the Katy right of way, we ran our own train from Wekiwa to the dam site. We had our own rock crusher for rock for the dam just north of the Home.

I was married to Elizabeth Moore in November, 1924.

Elizabeth:

When I was about three years old, Mr. Breeding came to my home and brought me and my brother and sister to the Home to live.

In 1914 I had double pneumonia. The only doctor here was Dr. Calhoun, a wonderful person. So they sent me to Tulsa in a railroad baggage car specially fixed for me. We couldn’t go in an automobile or wagon at that time. 

In 1920 I started back to school, and I finished high school at SSHS. I went to work at the Sand Springs State Bank for three years, then I married Leonard. We lived at 5800 Sand Springs Road for 20 years, and we have three girls and one boy.

Leonard:

In 1926 I was made general superintendent of the overhead and track department. I had this job until 1957, though I lost my eyesight in 1954. I have seen Sand Springs grow from no town at all to the big beautiful city that it is.

Reflection

Hearing my grandparents tell their own story is a rare and priceless gift. The words they spoke in 1963 carry the rhythm of their lives—the way they talked, the things they remembered, what mattered most to them. “In Their Own Words” is more than just a theme for this week—it’s a reminder of how language connects us across generations. Through this recording, Leonard and Elizabeth live on, sharing their memories with all of us lucky enough to listen.

13 The Sand Springs Home: Home Sweet Home To My Maternal Grandparents

 

Maternal Grandparents Leonard Nolen and Elizabeth Moore

52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks 

Week 13 March 24, 2025

Prompt: Home Sweet Home 

Charles Page, Founder Sand Springs Home

Charles Page, a Tulsa oilman and philanthropist, had a vision—a dream of building a true home for widows and orphans. That dream became the Sand Springs Home and Widow’s Colony, and it was quite literally Home Sweet Home to my maternal grandparents, Leonard Nolen and Elizabeth Moore.

To bring his vision to life, Mr. Page enlisted the help of Captain Breeding of the Salvation Army. The very first to come under their care were Leonard, his younger brother Robert Luther, and their mother, Mattie, who was suffering from tuberculosis. Their first shelter was nothing more than a collection of tents.

They were soon joined by three more boys—Mattie’s stepsons from her second marriage to a Mr. Jones. That small community was the beginning of what would become a haven for hundreds.

Tragically, Mattie died on Christmas Day, 1908. Leonard and Robert remained in the care of Mr. Page, becoming part of the growing dream. They would spend the rest of their childhood in the Sand Springs Home for Children.

By June 1909, the tent settlement had transformed into a small village of cottages. The population had grown to 25 children, especially after Mr. Page took in twenty-one orphans from the bankrupt Cross and Anchor Orphanage in Tulsa.

The first large home completed in 1910

In 1910, my grandmother Elizabeth Moore, just five years old, arrived at the Home with her twin brother William and younger sister Anna. Their widowed mother could no longer care for them, and the Home became their refuge. By the end of 1910, the Home housed 60 children. 

Elizabeth Moore in front of Charles Page's right shoulder.
Anna Moore 3rd from left, front row.

Incorporated in 1912, the Sand Springs Home welcomed both orphans and children whose families were unable to care for them. Adoption was not permitted—Page was determined to keep siblings together. He avoided the word “orphanage” altogether. To him, this was a home, and all the children were family.

 

In 1916, construction began on a four-story brick dormitory. Delayed by World War I supply shortages, the dorm was completed in 1918. It was both elegant and functional, featuring large oil paintings, numerous fireplaces, a library, and even a bowling alley. It served generations of children until 1991.

The children affectionately called Charles Page “Daddy Page,” and he referred to them as his kids. Each Sunday, he hosted a family dinner at the Home. He believed deeply in giving the children opportunities to thrive: they played sports, formed orchestras, and had access to excellent teachers, equipment, and even a house matron and housekeeper.

They didn’t just live at the Home—they worked there, earned their own money, and when they turned 18, they had a choice: attend college at the Home’s expense or use their savings to forge their own path.

To ensure the Home’s future, Charles Page created a trust managed by five trustees appointed by the Grand Master of the Masonic Lodge of Oklahoma. Though he was not a Mason himself, he believed they would honor his personal creed: “Think Right.”

In a full-circle moment, Leonard Nolen and Elizabeth Moore were married at the Home on Charles Page’s birthday, June 2, 1924, at twelve noon “under the clock” during the annual Homecoming Celebration. They were the first couple raised in the Sand Springs Home to marry.

Closing Reflection

For Leonard and Elizabeth, the Sand Springs Home was more than a place to live—it was the foundation of their lives. It gave them shelter in a time of loss, structure in the midst of uncertainty, and ultimately, a family in every sense of the word. Their story reminds us that home is not always defined by walls or who raises you, but by the love, care, and opportunity found within a community.

Charles Page’s vision gave generations of children a place to belong. For my grandparents, and many others, it truly was a Home Sweet Home—not just in name, but in spirit.

2025 - 12 Valley Forge Was the Myth – The Pension Act Was the Real Historic Event

Paternal 5th Great Grandfather Peter DeMoss

52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks 

Week 12 March 17, 2025

Prompt: A Historical Event

Family legend placed Peter DeMoss at Valley Forge—but the truth revealed a quieter legacy. His real historic moment came decades later, as he fought for the pension he earned through service.

I thought the historic event in my ancestor’s life would be the winter of 1777–78, encamped at Valley Forge with General George Washington. That’s the family story that’s been passed down—but his pension file doesn’t prove it. In fact, my ancestor, Peter DeMoss, stated that he only participated in one battle: Monmouth. He missed the pivotal surrender of Cornwallis at Yorktown, too—on furlough and tending to his injuries. As it turns out, the most historic chapter in Peter’s life wasn’t the battlefield. It was what happened decades later, when he sought the recognition and support promised to veterans of the American Revolution. His story offers a deeply human window into a different kind of struggle: the long road to securing veterans’ rights in the early republic.

Service in the Revolutionary War

Peter DeMoss first enlisted in the Continental Army on August 14, 1775. He was around sixteen years old. According to his own statement given decades later, he served for one year under Captain John Writt in a company raised at Winchester, Virginia. That company was part of Colonel James Wood’s regiment in the Continental Line. After marching to Pittsburgh, Peter reenlisted and continued his service during the war, including fighting at the Battle of Monmouth in June 1778. He described missing the Yorktown campaign due to being on furlough—he returned home to recover from wounds, and by the time he was fit for service again, the war was essentially over. Peter’s time in uniform, though relatively brief compared to some, was nevertheless real, dangerous, and part of the young nation’s fight for independence.

The 1828 Rejection: Too Much Property

In the early 1800s, Congress passed laws to grant pensions to surviving veterans of the Revolution. One such act in 1828 aimed to provide relief for those who had served on the Continental Line. Peter applied, but his application was denied—not because he hadn’t served, but because he owned too much property. At that time, pension eligibility was often tied to indigence, and Peter didn’t yet meet that threshold. It’s a striking moment that shows how limited early federal support could be, and how assistance was not just based on merit or sacrifice, but also on one’s perceived need.

Peter DeMoss, like many Revolutionary War veterans, lived into old age without the support promised by a grateful nation. His dignity endured, even as his body weakened.

The 1830s: Age, Need, and Renewed Efforts

By the 1830s, Peter DeMoss’s circumstances had changed. He was growing older—around 60 or 70—and facing increasing hardship. A wound to the foot left him unable to travel to court to give testimony. Letters from neighbors and supporters began to pour in, attesting to his honorable service and present poverty. One correspondent wrote that he was “wholly unable to ride” and was “an honest and worthy old soldier.” Another petitioned Congress directly, urging support for “the few remaining survivors of the Revolution,” noting there were likely fewer than six still alive in Kentucky at the time.

By the 1830s, Peter’s foot injury left him unable to appear in court. Friends and neighbors rallied to help him apply for a pension, writing letters to Congress on his behalf.

Hope finally arrived in the spring of 1832. A letter dated May 5th, 1832 from W. C. Kennett reported that the Senate had passed a new pension bill “for the relief of the surviving officers & soldiers of the Revolution” and expressed confidence that it would soon become law. This legislation—known as the Pension Act of 1832—broadened eligibility by removing the property requirement and recognizing more forms of military service.

In 1833, Peter DeMoss finally received his pension under the Act of 1832. Though he waited decades for recognition, justice—at last—arrived.

Peter’s pension was finally approved in 1833, with payments backdated to March 4, 1831, as outlined in the act. He was awarded $80 per year and received that support until his death in 1841. Though he had missed out on the earlier opportunities, Peter’s claim was at last recognized, and in the final chapter of his life, the government he had served during the Revolution acknowledged his sacrifice.

A Broader Battle: Veterans’ Rights in Early America

Peter DeMoss’s story reveals more than just one man’s persistence—it captures a turning point in American history. The Pension Act of 1832 was a landmark moment in how the United States cared for its aging veterans. It marked a shift from viewing pensions as charity to seeing them as a right earned through service. The process was still imperfect, but it laid the groundwork for a more expansive and inclusive system of veterans’ benefits in the years to come. Peter’s quiet endurance and eventual recognition reflect a broader movement in early America to honor those who had fought for its independence—not just in memory, but in policy.

Closing Reflections

While the winter encampment at Valley Forge has long captured the American imagination—and shows up in many family legends, including mine—the evidence in Peter DeMoss’s pension file tells a different story. He doesn’t mention Valley Forge at all, and he explicitly states that he was in only one battle: Monmouth. Though his service was honorable, it was quieter, less dramatic, and perhaps more typical than the sweeping narratives that often find their way into family lore.

And yet, Peter’s story is connected to a truly historic event—just not the one I expected. The Pension Act of 1832 was a turning point in how the United States honored and cared for its veterans. In the twilight of his life, Peter DeMoss became part of that national moment—one that acknowledged the long arc of service and the evolving understanding of what a grateful country owes to those who helped secure its independence.

Though he never camped at Valley Forge or stood at Yorktown, Peter DeMoss’s story stands firmly in the current of American history—his final battle was for recognition, and in the end, he won.

Summary of Peter DeMoss’s Will (1835)

In his will dated March 25, 1835, Peter DeMoss of Pendleton County, Kentucky, made provisions for each of his children and two grandchildren. He left small cash legacies ranging from $25 to $60 to his children John, Mary Grigg, Charles, Catherine Herndon (formerly Barker), Sally Barker, Lewis, and to the two children of his deceased son David—Leander and Mary DeMoss. These monetary gifts were to be paid by his son Samuel DeMoss, to whom Peter bequeathed the family plantation of approximately 170 acres on the Ohio River. Samuel was also expected to care for Peter’s wife, Catherine, during her lifetime. The will specified that Peter’s personal property be sold after his death, with the proceeds divided equally among his surviving children (excluding Samuel), and per stirpes to the heirs of any deceased child. Should Catherine survive him, she was entitled to select items for her use, which were exempt from the estate sale. Peter named Samuel DeMoss and his son-in-law Elijah Herndon as executors.

Peter DeMoss and his wife, Catherine Houseman DeMoss, were originally buried on the family homeplace in Pendleton County. In 1965, their remains were reinterred in Grandview Cemetery in Mentor, Campbell County, Kentucky. Peter was the son of Charles and Fannie DeMoss and the father of ten children. I descend from his daughter, Mary DeMoss Grigg/Gregg. 

11 Wells McCool and the Case of the Missing Wife: A Brick Wall Reconsidered

 Paternal 2nd Great Grandparents Wells McCool and Unknown Second Wife

52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks 

Week 11 March 10, 2025

Prompt: Brick Walls

Sometimes, a brick wall in genealogy just needs a closer look—or the right record to shine a light through the cracks.

In genealogy, a “brick wall” is an ancestor we can’t identify—someone whose paper trail has gone cold, leaving us stumped and searching. Over the years, I’ve chipped away at several of my own, sometimes with the help of DNA, sometimes through a closer look at old records or an unexpected clue in a census. But what happens when a brick wall turns out to be just a tangle of assumptions and missing context? This week’s story looks at my paternal 2nd great-grandfather Wells McCool and the mysterious identity of his wife—the mother of my ancestor John W. McCool. For years, conflicting records and an unnamed bride suggested a second, unknown wife. But recent findings may point back to a familiar name—and possibly a solved mystery.

I’ve had some success breaking down brick walls using DNA.

For instance, I discovered my maternal great-grandmother’s parents—Daniel Crull and Elizabeth Lent—after finding numerous DNA matches with those surnames. I wrote about that in Blog Post 2: A Favorite Photo.

In Blog Post 4, Revisiting McCorkle, I described the 1850 census dilemma involving a widowed mother with both her maiden name and her husband’s name unknown. That remains my closest and biggest maternal brick wall, involving two unidentified ancestors.

In Blog Post 5, I revealed that my maternal 2nd great-grandfather was actually George Neal—not Josiah Coon, as previously thought.

Then in Blog Post 9, I shared that Louisa Jane Wright’s maiden name wasn’t Wright at all—it was Foley. She had been briefly married to George Wright before marrying my maternal great-grandfather, Parmenas James Nolen.

On my paternal side, the closest brick wall has been the wife of Wells McCool—the mother of my paternal 2nd great-grandfather, John W. McCool.

John W. McCool was born on July 12, 1816, in Miami County, Ohio. His father, Wells McCool, was born November 10, 1780, in Bush River, Newberry County, South Carolina. They were members of the Society of Friends (Quakers).

Quaker meetings in early 19th-century Ohio were simple, reflective gatherings—often deeply tied to the community’s records and values.

According to the FamilySearch universal tree and several public family trees on Ancestry.com, Wells McCool had one wife, Anne Coats, and she is listed as the mother of all of his children. Wells and Anne married on March 19, 1810, in Miami County, Ohio.

However, I found a second marriage recorded for Wells McCool dated August 9, 1813, in the records of the Union Monthly Meeting in Miami County. The bride’s name is not listed. The entry notes that Wells was “condemned” for this marriage being “out of discipline,” which indicates that the bride was not a Quaker.

This kind of record—plain and precise—held the clue that raised more questions than answers about Wells McCool’s marriage.

This raised the possibility that Wells had two wives, and that John W. McCool—born in 1816—may have been the son of the unnamed second wife, not Anne Coats.

To investigate further, I searched FamilySearch’s full-text records and found two deeds from 1822 that reference “Wells McCool and wife Anna.” These documents are dated after the supposed second marriage and after John’s birth. If Wells was still married to Anne/Anna in 1822, it strengthens the case that she was, in fact, John’s mother.

Could Anna and Anne Coats be the same woman after all? Perhaps this brick wall was only a shadow cast by incomplete records.

So, maybe I don’t have a brick wall after all. Maybe the records were just misleading—and maybe Anne/Anna Coats was the mother of John W. McCool.

Based on the 1822 deeds that names “wife Anna,” I think there’s a strong possibility that Anne Coats and the unnamed bride in the 1813 Quaker record are actually the same person—or that the second marriage never lasted. The fact that no bride’s name was recorded in the Quaker condemnation might have caused others (myself included) to assume there was a second, unknown wife. But the continued presence of Anna alongside Wells after 1816, and the lack of any other likely candidates in the records, makes me think this brick wall may not have been a wall at all. For now, I’m content to loosen a few more bricks and call this wall—if not entirely gone—well on its way down.

10 Sisters, Widows, and Survivors: The Parallel Lives of Nancy and Ella Dudgeon

           

A vintage image representing sisters from the late 
19th century, much like Nancy and Ella Dudgeon.

     Paternal Great Grandmother: 

     Nancy Curtis Dudgeon and her sister 

     Missouri Ella Dudgeon

      52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks

      Week 10 - March 3, 2025

       Prompt: Siblings

Sisters, Widows, and Survivors: The Parallel Lives of Nancy and Ella

Family has a way of binding us together across time and circumstance. For Nancy Dudgeon Goldsmith and Ella Dudgeon Goldsmith, that bond was tested through love, loss, and resilience. These two sisters married two brothers—Nancy wed David Goldsmith in 1878, and Ella wed Carlton Goldsmith a year earlier in 1877. Their lives remained intertwined, even as they navigated widowhood, marital separation, hardship, and the ever-present support of family.

Nancy Dudgeon Goldsmith was my paternal great-grandmother, the mother of Gertrude Susan Goldsmith Wallis, mother of Ralph David Wallis, my father.

Early Years & Marriage

In 1875, the Goldsmith and Dudgeon families were both living in Chautauqua County, Kansas. It was here that Nancy and Ella met the Goldsmith brothers and began their lives as married women. For a time, life seemed full of promise—building families, settling into communities, and relying on each other as sisters often do. But fate had different plans.

Loss & Widowhood

Tragedy struck Ella first. In 1888, she lost her 14-month-old son, a heartbreak that no mother should have to bear. Just two years later, in 1890, her husband Carlton passed away, leaving her widowed with four children in Sedan, Kansas. Without a partner to provide, Ella had to make difficult choices. She eventually moved to Huntsville, Madison County, Arkansas, where her parents owned a farm. But stability remained elusive. By 1900, both parents had died and she was working as a laundress to support herself and two of her children, William and Ola. 

Nancy’s path unfolded differently. She and David Goldsmith remained together for many years, but by 1920, she was listed as a widow while living with her daughter Cynthia’s family in Bartlesville, Oklahoma. However, David was still alive—living separately with their son William in Morris, Oklahoma, where he died in 1924. Nancy continued moving between children’s homes as she aged, spending time with Cynthia in Bartlesville before living with William in Morris by 1930 and again with Cynthia in Tulsa, Oklahoma where she died in 1935. Cynthia herself was widowed at the young age of 48 in 1932, which may explain why Nancy was with her at the end of her life.

A Life of Work & Survival

While neither Nancy nor Ella had the luxury of financial security, Ella’s hardships were particularly stark. After her mother died in 1892, her father eventually moved in with her until his passing in 1899. By 1910, Ella was in Bartlesville, Oklahoma, working as a servant for a Swedish family. Ten years later, in 1920, she was no longer employed but was living with her son, James,  and an infant nephew. Despite their struggles, both sisters leaned on their children and extended family for support.

Generational Echoes: Ola’s Story

Ella’s daughter, Ola, would follow a heartbreakingly similar path to her mother. After Ella’s passing in 1924, Ola and her husband, Henry Cobb, moved into Ella’s home at 117 S Seminole in Bartlesville. Tragedy struck once again—Henry, a police officer, was shot and killed while investigating a domestic dispute, leaving Ola widowed with children still at home. To provide for her family, she worked as a janitress at a bank.

Like her mother, Ola endured immense personal loss. She buried not only an infant child but also an 8-year-old and a 14-year-old, echoing the grief her mother had faced decades earlier. Despite the sorrow, she remained steadfast, carrying forward the resilience her family had come to embody.

Family as a Lifeline

Although Nancy and Ella never lived together in their later years, they were always surrounded by family. In times of hardship, they turned to their children, and parents —an enduring testament to the strength of familial bonds. Their legacy of resilience continued into the next generation. In 1945, when Nancy’s grandson—my father—was working in Bartlesville just before his marriage, Ola made sure he had home-cooked meals. Even through hardship, family looked after one another.

The story of Nancy and Ella is not just one of survival but of connection. They faced loss but were never truly alone. The ties that bound them in life continued through the generations, proving that family, above all, is the foundation upon which we endure.