52 A Genealogy Year In Review

 

52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks

Week 52 December 22, 2025

Prompt: Memorable

A Year of Questions, Clues, and Breakthroughs

When I committed at the beginning of the year to participate in Amy Johnson Crow’s 52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks challenge, I didn’t know where it would lead—only that I wanted to write more intentionally about my family history. What I didn’t anticipate was how memorable the journey itself would become.

The first challenge was simply learning how to build a blog that could support weekly writing. I fumbled my way through layouts, widgets, images, and formatting, gradually creating a space where my research and storytelling could live together. That alone felt like an accomplishment—but it was only the beginning.

Early in the year, I also learned how to use ChatGPT as a writing and research assistant. What started as help with polishing paragraphs quickly evolved into something much more valuable: a thinking partner. Together, we summarized documents, untangled timelines, tested hypotheses, and—eventually—wrote full Genealogical Proof Standard arguments. It changed how I work.

One of the most meaningful breakthroughs came when I finally broke a long-standing brick wall involving my maternal great-grandmother, Lucinda. A response from a DNA match opened the door to identifying her parents as Daniel Crull and Elizabeth Lent. That discovery led me to find Lucinda living with them in the 1870 census in Lawrence County, Missouri—a moment that still feels surreal. Seeing her placed in a family, rather than floating unnamed through records, was unforgettable.

This year was also memorable for the friendships that make genealogy richer. I went on a research trip with friends that took us to the National Archives at St. Louis, where I found military records for several relatives. We spent a full day at the St. Louis County Library, followed by two intense (and exhilarating) days at the Allen County Public Library, and then wrapped it all up at the Ohio Genealogical Society Conference. Those days reminded me how much research thrives on shared excitement, conversation, and laughter.

Back at home, new tools continued to reshape my research. Using FamilySearch’s Full Text Search, I dove into court records for my Warren County, Tennessee McCorkles—only to discover that my great-uncles were, frankly, a memorable bunch: scoundrels, bootleggers, and repeat visitors to the legal system. It was a vivid reminder that our ancestors were complicated, messy, and very human.

The year ended with another major breakthrough: confirming through DNA that my maternal third great-grandmother Elizabeth was a Choate. What followed was some of the most satisfying research I’ve ever done—layering sibling-level DNA matches, upstream family connections, migration patterns, and probate context into a complete proof. With ChatGPT’s help, I documented the findings in a formal GPS argument, something I never would have imagined doing at the start of the year.

Looking back, what made this year memorable wasn’t just the discoveries—though there were many—but the way each answer led to better questions, deeper confidence, and new ways of working. I began the year hoping to keep up with a weekly writing challenge. I’m ending it with solved mysteries, stronger skills, and a renewed excitement for whatever questions come next.

As the year comes to a close, I’m already looking ahead. There will be more research trips, more archives to explore, and more long days spent chasing clues alongside good friends. I plan to continue with Amy Johnson Crow’s 52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks challenge in 2026, curious to see what new prompts—and new puzzles—it will bring. If this year taught me anything, it’s that the most memorable discoveries often come from questions I didn’t yet know how to ask. I can’t wait to see what the next year uncovers.

51 One of Her Kids: Remembering Grace Pickell

 Grace Pickell:  Neighbor, Teacher, Friend

52 Ancestors in 52 weeks

Week 51 December 15, 2025

Prompt: Musical

Some families are filled with natural musicians. In mine, that gift belonged to my Aunt Betty — my mother’s sister — who could sit down at a piano and play anything by ear. She especially loved to jazz up hymns, turning When the Saints Go Marching In into a full honky-tonk celebration.

But the musical thread that runs through my own childhood belongs to Grace Pickell.

Grace was our next-door neighbor in Bartlesville, Oklahoma. She was also my kindergarten teacher, my piano teacher, and one of the earliest adults outside my family to shape how I learned, performed, and understood myself.

Happy Kindergarten Days

In August 1959, Grace opened a private kindergarten in her home in the Pennington Hills neighborhood, emphasizing music, rhythm, speech, and reading readiness. Years later, I found the newspaper announcement and realized something remarkable: I was in her very first kindergarten class.

Note that there was emphasis on music. 

My first day of kindergarten.

At the end of that school year, Grace staged a kindergarten graduation program at the Women’s Club building. We wore construction-paper mortarboard hats she made herself and sat in a circle on the floor with rhythm instruments. I can picture it clearly even now — my legs stretched straight out in front of me, a tambourine in my hands, trying very hard to do everything just right. It was my first performance, and my first experience being part of something carefully planned and lovingly taught.

Piano Lessons and Recitals

From there came piano lessons. We had an upright piano in the den that my mother bought at auction, and Grace expected me to practice daily — fifteen minutes, which felt like an eternity. I hated to practice. What helped was my grandmother, MeMe, sitting beside me, patiently encouraging me. One of my lesson pieces had a line drawing at the top of the page, and I remember coloring it with crayons to make practicing more tolerable.

Grace held weekly private lessons and Saturday morning group theory classes. By 1962, my name appeared in the newspaper for her January and May piano recitals. I would have been eight years old, in second grade, sitting at a grand piano much larger than I was, wearing my Easter dress and playing a very short piece from memory. To my family, it was a moment of triumph.

As I read those recital announcements decades later, what struck me most were the names. So many of them belonged to children I knew — neighbors from our street, kids from church, classmates from elementary school. The lists weren’t just recital programs; they were snapshots of a close-knit community where music lessons, school, church, and neighborhood life overlapped. Reading them brought back faces, friendships, and shared experiences I hadn’t thought about in years.

At the end of those recitals, Grace presented merit ribbons and little composer statuettes for completed theory work. I must have participated in more than one recital, because I still have two statuettes: Chopin, whom I confidently called “Chop In,” and Tchaikovsky. I don’t know why I chose those composers. My family thought I should have picked Bach or Mozart. But for some reason, eight-year-old me was drawn to the dramatic Romantics — and those tiny composers followed me home.

Eventually, Grace did something else that stayed with me just as strongly. One evening, she called my mother and gently said she didn’t think piano was for me. And that was that. Looking back now, I hear kindness in her honesty. She knew when to encourage — and when to let go.

My father’s dream of me becoming a church pianist ended there, but I tried many other things: ballet, tap, acrobatics, junior choir, baton twirling, even the clarinet (which I hated). I didn’t excel at any of them. What I loved most was playing outside, reading, and making things. Grace may not have made me a musician, but she gave me confidence, structure, and the courage to try.

In 1968, our family moved from Bartlesville to Bentonville, Arkansas, and I lost touch with Grace — or so I thought. Years later, when I began sending Christmas cards, I added Grace and her husband, Marion, to my list. They sent cards back, year after year. Grace always commented on my news, following my career as an air traffic controller as I moved from Houston to Los Angeles to Overland Park, Kansas.

Surprise Visit

One summer, while driving from Overland Park to Tulsa, I missed a turn and unexpectedly found myself passing through Bartlesville. On impulse, I stopped to see Grace and Marion. They were as happy to see me as I was to see them. It felt like no time had passed at all.

Marion and Grace Pickell

Grace and Libby

Cassadaga, Florida

In 1994, while attending FAA training in Florida, I visited Cassadaga — the so-called psychic capital of the world. During a reading, the medium told me that someone whose name started with a G had just died, someone who said I was one of her kids and always would be, and that she was very proud of me. I knew it couldn't be my Aunt Gladys or I would have been contacted. I immediately knew it had to be Grace. 

Typical medium's house in Cassadaga, Florida. 

A week or so later, when I returned home, there was a letter waiting from Grace’s daughter, Nancy. Grace had passed away. As they went through her things, Nancy realized we had exchanged Christmas cards for years. A memorial service was planned, and my brother Storm and I were able to attend.

There, I reconnected with Grace’s son Franky — three years younger than me and one of my childhood buddies. I always teased him about having to go to kindergarten three years in a row. We built forts out of rocks at a place we called "down the hill",  a dump for dirt and rocks. We built a treehouse and he was my first groom when I played dress up with a bride's dress my mom made. Frank and I now stay in touch on Facebook. He surprised me by showing up in Arkansas for my father’s funeral, and later came to Sand Springs for my mother’s service.

Grace Pickell taught me music, yes — but more than that, she taught me how to belong, how to try, and how to be remembered. Long after the piano lessons ended, she still claimed me as one of her kids.

Closing Reflection

Genealogy isn’t only about ancestors and bloodlines. It’s also about the people who shape us — the teachers, neighbors, and mentors who leave an imprint on our lives long after childhood has passed. Grace Pickell may not appear on my family tree, but her influence runs through my story just as surely as any inherited trait. Remembering Grace is a reminder that our lives are shaped not just by where we come from, but by who walks beside us along the way.

And in every way that matters, she was right — I was one of her kids.

Grace's Kids

As a final way of honoring Grace and the community she created, and because genealogy is as much about community as it is about family, I’m including the names of the kids who shared these early musical experiences with me in her kindergarten class and piano recitals. Reading these lists now feels like reopening a scrapbook — familiar names from my neighborhood, church, and school, all brought together by one remarkable teacher.

Grace Pickell’s Kindergarten Class (1959–1960)

(Alphabetical by last name)

Jimmy Adams

Nancy Bridges

Pamela Hefner

J. R. Huffman

Denise Norwood

Franky Pickell

Gary Smith

Libby Wallis

John Whitaker

Students Listed in Grace Pickell’s Piano Recital Announcements (1962)

(Alphabetical by last name; combined January and May recitals)

Jimmy Adams

Julie Adams

Mike Adams

Mark Alford

Kim Baker

Jean Beckett

Linda Bell

Marsha Bell

Jeff Brashear

Toni Burks

Kay Chrisman

Elizabeth Ann Cook

Mary Helen Cook

Judy Crow

Kathy Crowe

Kathleen Currie

Kelly Dishman5

Lauri Edens

Barbara Faver

Julie French

Janey Gray

Becky Hamilton

Kathleen Harper

Doug Heady

Susan Heady

Laurie Irons

Elana Johnson

Mike Johnson

Jimmy Kuepker

Scott Lamkin

Cathy Lhuillier

Calveta Lucas

Andy McBrayer

Nancy McBrayer

Becky McConnell

Cheryl McConnell

 Jennifer McCoy

 Eileen McKinney

Kathy Morris

Patty Neubauer

Laurie Nicoli

Donna Jo Norwood

Glen Pharris

Franky Pickell

Nancy Pickell

Ruth Ann Rains

Linda Reilly

Bill Retterath

Ray Retterath

Joe David Roper

Bonnie Sue Roper

Sara Nell Roper

Barbara Smith

Christi Shack

Steven Shack

Susan Smith

Becky Spieth

Barbara Stalder

Kathie Stalder

Raymond Stewart

Janet Thompson

Pam Uzzel

Libby Wallis

Dan Washburn

50 A Christmas Keepsake

 

Ralph David Wallis and Margaret Ella Nolen, My Parents

52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks

Week 50 – December 9, 2025

Prompt: Family Heirloom

Some heirlooms are precious because of their age, their craftsmanship, or the generations they pass through.

Others are treasured because they hold a story no one else could ever carry.

Mine is the latter.

I was born two months early on December 20, and I spent my first Christmas in an incubator at Hillcrest Hospital. In those days, mothers stayed hospitalized much longer after a difficult birth, so my mother spent Christmas in the hospital too — a young woman with a fragile newborn she could not yet hold. Her Sunday School class brought her a large ceramic Santa head vase filled with red carnations, her favorite flower. To her, it was a bright spot in a frightening season — a reminder that she was surrounded by love and that better days were coming.

And that Santa vase stayed with her for decades.

This is how Mom used the vase, plastic greenery with red boots. 

One Christmas, long after the decorations were put out in their familiar places, my mother told me that she had always intended to give me the Santa vase when I had my first child. It was meant to be passed from mother to daughter, a quiet symbol linking her experience to mine.

But life did not unfold that way.

I wasn’t married yet, and no children were expected. She knew it. I knew it. And with a tenderness only a mother can offer, she handed me the vase anyway.

There are two photographs taken that day.

In one, my mother stands proudly beside her Christmas shelves, the Santa vase prominent beside her — not small at all, but bold and unmistakable. In the other, my father stands beside me as I hold the vase for the first time. The moment is preserved forever: my eyes glistening, my face caught between surprise and longing, the emotion just beneath the surface. It is plain to see that I am about to cry.

I cried because of the sentiment, yes.

But also because the gift acknowledged a truth I had lived with quietly — that I was not going to have children of my own. Even when I finally married at age 57, motherhood was no longer possible. My husband had never married, so there are no stepchildren waiting in the next generation. There is no obvious heir to receive the Santa vase.

But maybe that isn’t the only way an heirloom can matter.

This Christmas keepsake carries the story of my earliest days — days my parents feared they might lose me, days shaped by hope, prayer, and the devotion of a young couple who wanted their daughter more than anything. The vase holds their love through the years, my mother’s sentiment, my father’s support, and the journey I’ve traveled to become the woman they raised me to be.

Every December when I set it out, it reminds me that I was cherished from the beginning… that my story mattered… and that family heirlooms don’t need a next generation to be meaningful.

Some treasures exist simply to tell the truth of a life —

and this one tells mine.

49 Five Little Words

Elizabeth Crull, My Maternal 2nd Great-Grandmother

52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks

Week 49 – December 2, 2025

Prompt: Written

Five little words stopped me in my tracks:

"Elizabeth Crull ordered to Almshouse. "

They appeared in a short notice titled County Court in The Springfield (MO) Leader on January 10, 1878. Until that discovery, the last record I had of Elizabeth and her husband Daniel was the 1870 census in Spring River Township, Lawrence County, Missouri—thirty-two miles west of Springfield. I had never thought to look for the family in Springfield.

But recently Nancy—who helped me research my great-grandparents Lucinda and Josiah Coon long before I knew Lucinda’s maiden name—sent me the link to that newspaper snippet. And with those five words, a new path opened.

Following the Clue

My first questions were immediate and practical:

• What was the Almshouse like?

• Did it have a cemetery where Elizabeth might be buried?

• Did Daniel die before she was admitted?

• And why was Elizabeth in Springfield at all?

The Greene County Almshouse—also called the county poor farm—sheltered the impoverished, disabled, or ill. It wasn’t a place people entered lightly.

I posted my new clue on Facebook, and Annette—one of my genealogy friends with a legendary personal library—replied within hours. She said she had a book that indexed the Superintendent’s Register of the Almshouse. She scanned it and sent me a PDF.

There, on page 50 (page 56 of the scan), I found Elizabeth Crull, age 40.

But then came the surprise.

Lucinda, age 14, was listed too.

And beside her—Samuel, age 6—a younger sibling I had never heard of.

The Almshouse Records

The index listed their dates of admission and dismissal. The “date of death” column was blank for all three, confirming that Elizabeth did not die in the Almshouse.

Their timeline:

• January 8, 1878 – Elizabeth and Samuel admitted

• March 10–11, 1878 – Elizabeth dismissed; Samuel dismissed the next day

• November 11, 1878 – Elizabeth, Lucinda, and Samuel all readmitted

• January 13, 1879 – All three dismissed together

The index noted that the original Superintendent’s Register was held at the Greene County Archives and Records Center, so I contacted them to see whether anything more could be learned. Jake at the Archives checked for a surviving court record (none exists) but confirmed they still had the original register itself. Within minutes he photographed the relevant pages and emailed them to me. The entries didn’t offer much beyond what the index provided, though they did include Elizabeth, Lucinda, and Samuel’s race—listed as white—but seeing those original pages felt like touching their lives directly.

So why were they admitted? Illness seems unlikely with all three together.

Most likely they were destitute.

What Five Little Words Revealed

Those five words—“Elizabeth Crull ordered to Almshouse”—gave me more than I expected.

I learned:

• Elizabeth lived at least until 1878, extending her known life by eight years.

• Lucinda had a younger brother, Samuel Crull.

• The family lived in Springfield in 1878–79, adding a new location to their story.

The Springfield Thread

Springfield has appeared in this family’s story before.

Lucinda wrote in her Bible that she and Josiah Coon were married in Indian Territory in 1898, yet her oldest son, Charlie Walter Coon, was born in Springfield in 1890.

Her son Frank Coon’s WWII draft registration gives his birth as February 29, 1898 in Springfield, while his WWI registration and Social Security record list February 29, 1896. Since 1896 was a leap year, that is likely correct.

Family lore says that Charlie died in Springfield when the horse-drawn hearse he was driving overturned.

Springfield keeps returning—quietly, unexpectedly—like a place that refuses to be left out of the story.