Wrong Boat, Right Story: Cracking a Pilgrim Family Myth

 

Not all pilgrim stories wear black hats or buckle shoes. Some travel quietly through time in meeting minutes, migration maps, and a stray penciled “(Pilgrim)” on a lineage list. No dramatic claims, no grand family lore, just a quiet truth waiting patiently until the right record whispers at the right moment.

This Thanksgiving, I’m grateful not only for the bold ancestors who stood at the prow of history, but also for the gentle ones who crossed oceans in faith and humility, leaving their legacies in ink and example rather than brass and ceremony.

For years, my husband’s Williams family cherished a tale that they were descended from a Pilgrim. The “proof” sat in a letter written in the 1960s by the family matriarch, Gertrude Honaker, who wrote that Balsora Dorval had belonged to both the DAR and a Mayflower-related society.[1]

There was only one hitch: no such membership could be found. Not with the DAR, not with the General Society of Mayflower Descendants, not in early Pilgrim lineage rolls.[2] A genealogical dead-end dressed in patriotic stationery.

Balsora, the daughter of John Hicks Williams and Catherine Jarvis was born 23 April 1821, on Long Island, New York, the eldest of ten.[3] She followed her family to Lansinghburgh, Rensselaer, New York and married Edward Dorval in 1845.[4] The couple eventually made their way to Chicago and then Toulon, Stark, Illinois.[5] She died in Toulon on 22 December 1907 and is buried there.[6] She lived a solid, steady American life. But as for those lineage memberships? Silence.

Balsora Williams Dorval c. 1860

Still, I never let go of the thread. Family stories rarely spring from nothing; the facts just sometimes take the scenic route.

Then, while drafting sketches for my current genealogy project, Echoes of Brittania, I stumbled across a saved reference: The Lineages of Members of the National Society of Sons and Daughters of the Pilgrims, Vol. II. There, under membership no. 8308 for Della Ruthe Skates of Parma, Ohio, was a lineage tracing back to:

Dr. John Rodman II (Pilgrim)
(ca. 1653 – 10 Jul 1731)
m. Mary Scammon (ca. 1663 – 24 Feb 1748)

It cited Jones, Rodman Family Genealogy; History of Hocking Valley, Ohio.

And suddenly, the light came on.

Dr. Rodman wasn’t a Mayflower Pilgrim. He was a Quaker physician imprisoned in New Ross, County Wexford, Ireland for refusing to remove his hat in church.[7] He was banished to Barbadoes where he and wife Elizabeth, parentage unknown, raised their family. Two of their sons, John and Thomas, like their father was a physician; the brothers decided to relocate to Newport Rhode Island where John married second, Mary Scammon in 1682.[8] So the actual line runs: Dr. John Rodman -Thomas Rodman - Elizabeth Rodman m. Benjamin Hicks - Margaret Hicks m. Wilson Williams leading at last to the Williams family and to Balsora’s line.

When I think of Pilgrims, I think of the Mayflower voyage in 1620. I don’t picture a Quaker doctor arriving sixty-two years later by way of the Caribbean! But clearly, my definition and the definition beloved by late-1800s genealogists and patriotic club founders aren’t the same. Their scope was a bit more generous. That generosity was remembered by their great grand nieces.

So this Thanksgiving, as we’re passing around the sweet potatoes, I can finally share that I’ve solved the Pilgrim family mystery. Different ship, different year, different take on the meaning of “pilgrim.”

And here’s the delicious part: in all this, I had to laugh, because my research long ago found that the family does descend from an early Plymouth settler Robert Hicks, who arrived on the Fortune in 1621, just one year after the Mayflower.[9] Somehow, that piece drifted out of family memory while the Barbados Quaker got promoted to “Pilgrim.” It must have been the hat!

From Bards to Bard

Photo by a kind docent at Shakespeare's Home, Stratford on Avon, August 2024.

 

We had just left the library, me, exhilarated from chasing an elusive 14th-century ancestor through a nest of old parish records; him, simply relieved to stand upright again after half an hour on the bottom shelves. He’d spent the morning handing me books like a dutiful squire and now looked as though he deserved a knighthood or, at the very least, a sturdy chair. Fortunately, Shakespeare’s schoolroom promised benches and history. Two things I never resist, and one he can usually nap through.

Inside, the air smelled of beeswax and old oak, the kind of room where you half expect to hear the scratch of quills and the snap of a tutor’s patience. A man dressed in full Elizabethan regalia was lecturing with theatrical gusto about young William’s schooling. My husband settled in contentedly, no doubt counting this as his rest stop on the Tudor trail.

Then came the story of how Shakespeare’s sister once disguised herself as a boy to attend lessons beside him, the first recorded case, our costumed instructor declared, of gender-bending for the sake of education. My husband leaned over, voice low and amused, “That would be your line.”

Of course I replied , I always reply. “Yes, it would.”

The tutor froze mid-sentence, eyes narrowing like an owl’s. “Would you care to share with the class, madam?”

Reader, I was forty years too old to be scolded and four hundred years too late to be sitting in Shakespeare’s classroom yet there I was, reprimanded under the same beams that once heard Hamlet’s first drafts forming in the back of a boy’s mind. My husband, naturally, looked saintly.

As the lecture continued, I couldn’t help smiling. The old Welsh bards would have understood words have a life of their own, and some of us were simply born to answer them, even in other people’s classrooms.

After my recent AI experience that I blogged about last week, it's more important than ever to remember the power of words.

Remembering, not Celebrating, Veteran's Day

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I’ll be honest, Veterans Day is not my favorite holiday. It feels inappropriate to say “Happy Veterans Day” the same way we say Happy Thanksgiving, Happy New Year, or Happy Valentine's Day. What’s happy about it? The veteran made it through a horrible time, likely suffered PTSD, and then once a year gets a parade?

Although I am anti-war, I understand why war occurs because grown men, historically, have struggled to use their words to solve disagreements. Yet I still pause today to think about the countless past conflicts that drew ordinary, decent people into sacrifices no one should ever have to make.

This year, an article from AMAC captured that tension beautifully. “Remembering the World War I Generation This Veterans Day” reminds us that time has nearly erased the memory of those who served in the Great War, young men and women who endured unimaginable hardship, then quietly returned home to rebuild their lives.

Ironically, responses to that post weren’t about remembrance at all, but about which politician dodged which draft. That, in itself, says everything about why wars persist. We’re still fighting instead of mourning who’s lost.

Their generation is gone, but their stories are not. Some of those stories live on in the letters, journals, and memories families still hold. I was honored that my book, Thanks to the Yanks: World War I Letters from an Indiana Farm Boy to His Sweetheart, was featured in that piece. It follows one soldier’s journey from the Indiana fields to the battlefields of France and back again offering a glimpse into the humanity behind the headlines.

So today, I don’t celebrate. I remember. I think about the courage it takes not just to fight, but to return, to heal, and to live. And I’m grateful for every preserved letter and faded photograph that helps us remember those who did.

When AI Lost the Plot

 How a quiet English lineage turned into a political scandal and what it taught me about truth, technology, and trust.

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I use AI almost daily and have written and presented on it for nearly two years. But a recent experience left me completely baffled and more than a little uneasy.

I’ve been working on my final family genealogy book, this one tracing our Great Britain ancestry. My previous four books came together easily earlier this year because my notes were meticulous, my colleagues had verified my findings, and I’d been blogging about those ancestors for ten years.

Our British roots, though, are a different beast. Between my husband’s lines and mine, there are only five but they reach deep into medieval soil. Scholars can’t always agree on the pedigrees, and the repeated use of the same names has led to confusion and overlap. Sorting it all out requires patience, precision, and a love of historical detective work.

Last spring, when winter refused to obey the calendar, I drafted the outline and introduction for my new book, Echoes of Britannia. Then the season’s speaking engagements and client projects took over, and I set the manuscript aside with plans to finish it this fall.

When I returned to it in September, progress came slowly. My writing rhythm faltered, and I found myself staring at the same sentence for far too long. Grammarly could fix the punctuation, but it couldn’t fix writer’s block. My AI research assistant, Geni, usually helps bridge the gaps between genealogical sketches but apparently, he was blocked too.

We were working on the Venables of Kinderton, a noble but quiet family from Cheshire. They lived out their days peacefully, kept out of court battles, and occasionally donated a stained-glass window to a nearby abbey. In other words, wholesome and uneventful.

Until AI got involved.

My writing style isn’t the typical “Josiah begot Daniel who begot Uriah who begot…” genealogy. My family would fall asleep halfway through the second begot. They don’t like numbering systems either, even though they’re math people, not history people. Me? I’d rather run laps in PE than solve for X.

That’s why AI has been such a useful partner. Geni understands that I’m a storyteller who insists on historical truth, even when it’s messy. I like to think I’ve created a new genre: bedtime family stories with pictures for visual learners.

But one day, Geni froze mid-thought. After several failed attempts, I switched to another AI tool, Claude. I don’t use it often, but it greeted me warmly by name, which felt encouraging. I gave it a straightforward task:

“From the provided information, maintain all footnotes while making the narrative more engaging. Keep the tone conversational for readers with limited historical background.”

What came back stunned me.

The Venables, my mild, landholding, church-donating family, had been transformed into a political thriller. Claude had rewritten the story to liken them to a well-known modern politician, naming names and all. Suddenly, the Venables were misogynistic felons clawing for power.

I was horrified. I hit “thumbs down” and deleted it instantly.

A week later, I still couldn’t shake it. How could a neutral story about medieval gentry morph into a contemporary political allegory? Who gave the machine permission to do that?

My only conclusion: some AIs are now reflecting the political biases of the data they’re trained on. If their training includes modern news, it stands to reason that bias slips in and it shows.

That realization made me pause. AI is supposed to help us see patterns, not project agendas. As genealogists, we work hard to separate fact from family legend. Shouldn’t we expect the same integrity from our digital tools?

I chose not to share the story on Facebook. The last thing our country needs is another spark thrown into the bonfire of division. But I also felt this moment needed to be shared, not as outrage, but as a reminder.

We live in an era where algorithms, headlines, and echo chambers can reshape our understanding of truth. It’s up to us, researchers, writers, and everyday citizens , to hold fast to kindness, empathy, respect, honesty, and responsibility. These aren’t partisan ideals; they’re the foundation of human decency.

And as for those Venables? I’ve decided to let them rest a while. I’ll return to them soon, with fresh eyes and a renewed respect for their quiet simplicity.

Because sometimes, living a peaceful life that harms no one isn’t boring at all, it’s the truest kind of legacy.

Upcoming AI Event

Join me on Tuesday, November 4, at 2:30 pm EST when I present a beginning class on AI & Ancestry for Allen County Public Library. You can register here for free.

When the Universe Writes Back: A Halloween Follow-Up

 

As promised, my synchronicity streak isn’t done with me yet.

Bible Entry for Calvin DeWolf in Thompson Family Bible

Back in March, I mailed a request to the Cook County, Illinois Vital Records office seeking the death certificate of my husband’s second great-uncle, John Calvin DeWolf. He’s an intriguing figure. A cryptic entry in his mother’s Bible notes simply that he was “found dead in the woods in LaGrange.” That line alone opens a dozen genealogical rabbit holes:

Dead how?
Accident?
Sudden illness?
Suicide?
Foul play?

Why was he in the woods at all?
Where was he buried afterward?
Why has no obituary surfaced?

Online databases are silent. Newspaper searches cough politely and excuse themselves.

So I sent in my request… and then, nothing. Months passed. My check went uncashed. My mailman and I eyed each other suspiciously. I eventually chalked it up to a postal mishap.

Fast-forward to late July, when I traveled to Chicago to obtain several vital records in person for my family’s dual-citizenship pursuit. While there, I re-requested John Calvin’s death certificate. I handed over the form. I paid the fee. The clerk assured me they’d be in touch.

Every other record from that day has since dutifully arrived in my mailbox.

Except John’s.

And then last Tuesday, while writing the chapter on John Calvin’s parents for my upcoming book Echoes of Britannia, I footnoted the matter:

“Death certificate requested; not yet received. Someday, perhaps, the record will surface.”

I sighed, closed the my Word doc, and moved on.

Two days later, yes, exactly two, an envelope from the Cook County Vital Records office appeared in my mailbox. My heart did a little leap. Could this be it?

Not quite.

Inside was a Certificate of No Finding.

According to Cook County, they have no death record at all for John Calvin DeWolf.

So where did he die?
Was it reported?
Was it covered up?
Was it recorded elsewhere?

His half sister who owned the Bible at the time of his death and likely made the entry clearly believed he was found in LaGrange. The Bible entry says so. But the county has nothing.

The mystery deepens.

And the timing? After seven silent months, the response was generated on the very day I finally wrote about him.

Coincidence? Maybe. But these synchronicities love to show up when I start telling a story.

Of course, I’m not done with John. Next stop: IRAD, for coroner’s records, inquests, and investigations. Somebody, somewhere, documented what happened.

Because records hide.
But they rarely disappear forever.

Earlier this month, the same thing happened with my mom's Cook County, Illinois birth record. I had requested it in person in Chicago in late July. They couldn't find it which was no surprise to me as my mom and grandmom had both said the birth was only registered with the Roman Catholic Church, an accepted practice in 1918. On the anniversary of my mom's death earlier this month, I finally received a response from Cook County. It was a record of no record. Thanks, mom! Sometimes are family tell us the truth and we can confirm it over 100 years later.

At times, family history feels less like research and more like a conversation across time. We chase records, but every now and then, the records seem to chase us back. These little moments remind me that discoveries don’t always happen in archives. Sometimes they appear in unexpected envelopes or on memorial pages when we least expect them.

They’re often hidden in plain sight, waiting for the right moment to surface.

If you enjoy reflections like this, I’ve begun sending a short once-a-month note to curious-minded family historians. You can join me by messaging me at genealogyatheart.com. It’s a quiet circle, and you’re welcome there. I've also begun a FaceBook and LinkedIN page so we can interact frequently. Hope you'll join me there as well!

Happy Halloween, dear readers.
May the ancestors keep whispering and may you always listen.

Happy Halloween: The Synchronicity That Saved My Blog

 

My readers tell me, year after year, that my Halloween synchronicity series is their favorite tradition. Which is why, by August, I was in a quiet panic. The kids were back in school, stores were already pushing candy corn, and for the first time in my genealogical career… nothing weird had happened to me.

Nada. Zilch.

I considered scrapping the whole thing and writing a single line, “Sorry, folks, nothing to report this year” and calling it good. But that felt wrong. These uncanny little moments can’t be summoned on command, but I still held out hope that one would arrive just in time.

It did. On August 14th.

I was volunteering at the Association of Professional Genealogists table during the Jewish Genealogical Conference in Fort Wayne. Since I’d signed up for the whole week, I was allowed to attend a few sessions during breaks. I’m not Jewish, though occasionally my DNA results tease me with a percentage or two that disappears the next time I test, but I found every talk fascinating.

Meanwhile, in my own research life, I was deep in the throes of acquiring certified vital records for my family’s dual citizenship application. Two notarized forms were already on their way to Croatia to obtain my grandmother’s birth record. That left one gaping hole: my grandparents’ 1917 marriage record from Cook County, Illinois.

I had the index entry from Ancestry.com, names, date, location, marriage license number, but when I visited the Cook County Clerk’s office two weeks earlier, they couldn’t find the record. I paid for the search anyway, but they gave me no timeline of when they could do deep research.

At the conference, I mentioned my predicament to a fellow genealogist, who knew someone with database access. The news came back: my grandparents’ marriage record hadn’t been digitized. Neither had the record for the couple immediately after them.

Lost? Misfiled? Never returned? Theories abounded. One person even suggested they’d never married. (“It was staged,” she said of their wedding photo. To which I thought: Really? That would be an awfully elaborate prank for this couple.)

No one had a solid lead. And I needed that record, not just to prove the marriage, but to identify the church where it took place. Chicago city directories for the period were scarce. The Chicago History Museum couldn’t help. The Archdiocese would search closed-church records for $50 a pop, but that was a quick road to the poorhouse.

Then came my first odd nudge of the week. While exercising, I heard my grandmother’s voice in my head: Look at the back of the pictures. Sure enough, on the reverse of what looked like an engagement photo, there it was “Chicago Heights."

I brought the photo to Sherlock Kohn, a fellow conference-goer and photo expert, who confirmed the clothing was period-correct. She suggested the Chicago History Museum for studio leads. I kept chasing, but the record stayed stubbornly hidden.

A second genealogist offered another tip: years ago, FamilySearch had donated pallets of old microfilm to the Allen County Public Library (ACPL). Maybe, just maybe, my record was buried there. I tracked down Adam, one of ACPL’s librarians, and he gamely searched the microfilm. Blank images.

At this point, you’re probably thinking, Lori, just search FamilySearch online. Oh, I had using the index with every permutation of the last name and around the date the marriage occurred, and nothing.

So I decided: I’d comb through every 1917 marriage image by hand. First, though, I made a side trip to birth records for my mom, two hours later, I had confirmed my mother’s birth was indeed only recorded by the church, just as she and my grandmother had said. (Cook County, Illinois later confirmed this - I got the "certificate" of no registered birth on the date my mom had died 24 years ago. Weird, huh?!

By then it was late. I was tired, discouraged, and dreading the thought of cold-calling every Catholic church in South Chicago. Still, before leaving, I opened the 1917 marriage film on FamilySearch, locked to home users, but accessible at ACPL. I scrolled to the end of one reel. No luck.

Then my computer glitched. As a non-resident, my ACPL guest account was on a timer. It flashed “10 minutes remaining” and kicked me out of FamilySearch. When I logged back in, I had 7 minutes left.

The next reel contained 1,278 images. No way I could check them all. So I did the only thing left, I scrolled, stopped, and clicked at random.

And there it was.

My eyes fell immediately on “Mary Koss.” Without even scanning the rest, I gasped loud enough to turn heads in the reading room. “Sounds like you found something,” a man seated across from me said. A woman down the row called, “We aren’t finding anything, do tell!”

I was near tears.

Adam hurried over. I showed him the record, and he smartly told me to write down the film and image number. Then he handled the printing as the machine wouldn't cooperate (with help from a kind patron who wanted to donate her library account to me) while another researcher kept my computer from timing out so I could email it to myself.

Out of 1,278 possible images, I had landed on the one I needed, completely blind. Missed in indexing, out of sync in databases, invisible to every search I’d tried. And yet, here it was.

Thank you, Grandma!

And here's a link of another uncanny find I didn't have - ENJOY!

And to you, dear readers: Happy Halloween. May the coming year bring you your own uncanny genealogical coincidences - just when you need them most.