Grandma's final days in the almshouse

It's amazing what genealogical research can do to you. Individuals you never met, whose lives ended long before yours began, yet sometimes there can be an emotional connection or reaction to a nugget of information uncovered.

This was the case as I began looking into one of my great-great-great-grandparents recently. The end of her life was a sad time, residing in an almshouse, possibly suffering from significantly impaired cognitive abilities, and dying in a state hospital.

When it comes to the Ellis line of my maternal family tree, I've struggled to get too much definitive information beyond my 3rd great-grandfather George Ellis, and I've never delved into his wife, my 3rd great-grandmother, Caroline. All I ever knew about her was that George had married a woman named Caroline, and together they had several kids.

Turns out that she's really a Susan — Susan Caroline Marvin. Caroline, as she used her middle name throughout her life, was born on August, 19, 1830, to Seth and Susan Marvin in Alstead, New Hampshire, a very small town near the Vermont border. At this point, I know nothing of her parents, nor any siblings she may have had. Much of her youth remains an enigma for me, with no real records uncovered until 1855, when she was 25-years-old.

Caroline and George had already married, presumably before she turned 20-years-old, when she gave birth to their first child, Julia A. Ellis, in October 1850. The family would grow to eight known children born over a 15-year-period, 1850 to 1865. At least three of those eight would die young — George Henry Ellis of typhoid fever at age 21 in 1875, Willie M. Ellis of tuberculosis at age 19 in 1885, and Charles Albert Ellis at age 33 in 1884.

The Ellis family shows up as residents of Worcester, Massachusetts, in both the State and Federal Census. Caroline typically does not have an occupation listed on the Census forms, though she does appear as a dressmaker in the Massachusetts Census of 1865.

The big question marks begin as middle-age hits in the final quarter of the nineteenth century. In the 1870 Census, the entire Ellis family (other than eldest child Julia, then 20-years-old) is residing in Worcester. However, by June 1880 it appears by Census data that George and Caroline have called it quits. George, who is identified as a married man, is residing on Pink Street in Worcester with the family of his son Frank. Caroline is identified as "widowed/divorced" and residing with the family of daughter Julia on Cambridge Street in Worcester.

It appears that Caroline likely remarried as death records for her son Charles shows his parents as Caroline and "George Smith." It is possible, however, that Smith was erroneously written in place of Ellis.

George Ellis would pass away in Worcester on January 1, 1892, at the age of 66. His cause of death is "Bronchitis La Grippe," indicating he suffered from both bronchitis and the flu.

In the 1910 Census, Caroline Ellis appears as a 79-year-old widow listed as an "inmate" at an almhouse known as the Worcester Home Farm. An almhouse is a poorhouse, typically a home for a city's poor to stay. In the case of the Worcester Home Farm, as noted in a 2014 Worcester Telegram & Gazette feature, "life was difficult." The article notes the almhouse's residents, or inmates, "were not permitted to be idle; or talk without permission; nor leave. It was considered shameful to be considered a pauper, and the location of the Poor Farm enabled the city to provide for their needs while ostricizing them from the community." Similarly, Michael D. Kane wrote about the property for MassLive in 2016, explaining it had been "Worcester's first foray into curing social ills ... It had been the place where Worcester housed its extremely poor, mentally ill and those suffering from communicable diseases."

A portion of the Worcester Home Farm properties.

The Worcester Home Farm is reported to have been a 599-acre farm, that featured a hospital, farming, animals raised for slaughter, and even for a hog-fueled garbage disposal system. From 1872 to 1932, which includes Caroline's time at the Worcester Home Farm, the city of Worcester employed a "piggery" to tackle local trash. Pigs would devour the trash while, the Telegram & Gazette reports, "helping to line the city's coffers." The smell from the piggery is said to have traveled for miles and was most certainly a problem for Shrewsbury residents next door.

Caroline spent the final years of her life at the Worcester Home Farm, passing away at the State Hospital on March 22, 1912, at the age of 81. The cause of death was cellulitis of the leg, a bacterial skin infection that is quite painful. Left untreated it can become lethal when it spreads to lymph nodes and the bloodstream. Caroline's death certificate notes she had been treated medically for the condition for just more than six weeks before her death.

In addition to the cellulitis, Dr. George A. McIver reports on Caroline's death certificate that she had been suffering from a "Senile paranoid condition" for 10 years.

How long Caroline had resided in Worcester's Home Farm is not yet clear, nor whether she was there as a destitute woman estranged from or widowed by her late husband, abandoned by her children, or housed on some sort of mental diagnosis. What is known, or at least pretty safely assumed, is that she had a pretty rough second half of her life — burying at least three of her children by the time she was 61-years-old, 10 years with a "Senile paranoid condition," and presumably a decade or more within the cold, restrictive, and uncaring walls of the Worcester Home Farm.

The Bloody Lane, Eye Patch, and a Medal of Honor

In my old history classroom, there once hung a meme that declared: “You may be cool, but you’ll never be Teddy Roosevelt riding a moose across a river cool.”

As it turns out, Samuel C. Wright might actually be that cool.

In recent weeks I was the beneficiary of a great deal of research and work done by a somewhat distant relative of my wife. This woman self-published a long family history of the Wright family, the maiden name of my wife's maternal grandmother. I've been working to independently confirm and verify the information provided in the couple hundred pages of names and dates, and it is certainly a long process.

Among those dryly entered into those pages, with little more than his vital information of birth, marriage, and death, was Samuel Cole Wright. He and my wife share a common ancestor, Adam Wright, who had been born in Plympton, Massachusetts, circa 1645. Adam is my wife’s 8^th great-grandfather, following along through Adam’s son Moses, all the way down to her maternal grandmother. Samuel was Adam’s 4^th great-grandson, through a line headed by Adam’s son John. In all, this makes Samuel her 5^th cousin 4x removed.

While the family history lists him the same as any other Tom, Dick, or Harry, Samuel was much more than that, as made evident by his valiant service to the Union during the American Civil War. While fighting with the 29^th Massachusetts Regiment, he was in more than two dozen battles, wounded numerous times, lost an eye and kept the bullet that claimed it as charm, was reported dead multiple times, and received the Medal of Honor.

Before we get to his Civil War service, however, we ought to start at the beginning. Samuel was born September 29, 1842 in Plympton, Massachusetts — a town that appears frequently in the first 200 or so years of Wrights after coming to Plymouth. Samuel was the eighth of ten born to Winslow Wright and Mary Cole, with Winslow being the great-grandson of Ezekiel Loring, a lieutenant during the American Revolution.

Samuel was raised in Plympton, working along with older brother William Henry Harrison Wright as a shoemaker, according to the 1860 U.S. Census. A couple months after the Census taker visited the Wright family, Abraham Lincoln was elected President of the United States, setting off a series of events that culminated in the Civil War beginning in April 1861. On May 18, 1861, 18-year-old Samuel decided to do his part to preserve the Union, formally enlisting as a private with the 29^th Regiment Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry. Little did Samuel know that he would spend the next four years in bitter battles waged in 15 states while traveling more than 4,200 miles, as reported by William Osborne’s 1877 The History of the Twenty-ninth Regiment of Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry, in the Late War of the Rebellion. He is said to have participated in 30 battles, wounded five times, and twice reported dead, according to U.S., Civil War Soldier Records and Profiles, 1861-1865. He would twice be promoted for gallantry in action.

About one year into his service came a head wound as he was struck by a fragment of shell during the Battle of White Oak Swamp in Virginia on June 30, 1862.

About 16 months after enlisting, one of Samuel’s most harrowing experiences came about near Sharpsburg, Maryland, along Antietam Creek. The Battle of Antietam, fought on September 17, 1862, nearly proved to be the end of Samuel’s story — and as the fog of war raged on that day, some reported it had been his end. As Union General George B. McClellan sat poised for battle on September 16, only to, as he’s become infamous for, hedge his bets and delay to the next day. The day before the actual battle itself began, rounds of artillery between the two sides provided an ominous beginning, according to Samuel’s own recollections. “The shot from the first piece of artillery fired took off the leg of the color-bearer of my regiment,” he reported in U.S., Civil War Soldier Records and Profiles, 1861-1865. The ensuing volley of artillery fire “was at times very lively,” he added.

As dawn broke on September 17, so too did the camps as “troops were sent out to engage the enemy in our front. The roar of cannon and small arms was deafening.” While Samuel could certainly hear the enemy, he was unable to see them as the battle began. “From where we lay we could only hear the cannonading, we could not see the enemy, as a growth of woods impaired our view. It was, perhaps, as well, that we could not see the carnage wrought.”

When Samuel and his compatriots, including the famed Irish Brigade, were dispatched to support other Union troops in the thick of battle, they “hurriedly” made their way to Antietam Creek and forded across it. “The stream was so deep, that in crossing, we only had to remove the stoppers of our canteens and they would fill themselves,” he recalled. “We held rifles and ammunition above our heads.”

Once they successfully crossed the creek — and “removed our shoes, wrung out our stockings” — the regiment was ordered forward, directly toward the Sunken Road. Prior to the war, the Sunken Road was a dirt farm lane used as a shortcut by locals and farmers. After the Battle of Antietam it had infamously earned the macabre nickname of the Bloody Lane.

“Going up the hill we could see the cause of our sudden call,” Samuel recalled. “The hill was strewn with dead and dying; yes, and with those unhurt, for to stand was to be instantly killed by the sharpshooters who filled the ‘Sunken Road.’”

As the bodies continued to pile up, historians estimate 5,600 from both sides, Union troops planned to tackle a fence along the Sunken Road. The initial attempts were disastrous, and now Samuel likely faced a similar fate.

An Alex Gardner photo taken of part of the Sunken Road, or the Bloody Lane, in the aftermath of the Battle of Antietam.

“Some 200 yards in advance of our position, which we were holding at a terrible cost, was a fence built high and strong. The troops in advance had tried to scale the fence and reform under that hell of fire. They were actually torn to shreds and wedged into the fence,” Samuel vividly recalled.

Brigadier General Thomas Francis Meagher, an Irish immigrant whose own personal history is quite fascinating, called for this fence to be removed. Samuel was among those who volunteered to risk it all to do so.

“The cry came to us for volunteers to pull down the fence. Instantly there sprang from the long line, fast being shortened as the ranks closed up over the dead, seventy-six volunteers. We ran straight for the fence amid a hail of iron and lead, the dead falling all about us, but to reach the fence was our only thought. A part of the force reached it, and, as one would grasp a rail it would be sent flying out of his hands by rifle-shots. The fence leveled, we made the attempt to return, and it was as hot for us on the retreat, as it had been on the advance. Few escaped death or wounds. I had almost regained my regiment, when I was hit.”

Samuel was hit in the left knee but refused to heed the calls of officers to retreat to the rear, instead receiving treatment by the regimental surgeon where he had been wounded.

Ultimately, his actions at Antietam would result in being awarded the Medal of Honor — the highest and most prestigious recognition a member of the military can receive in the United States.

The following year was a difficult one for Samuel. In June 1863, Samuel contracted typhus, a disease that was among the more lethal ailments Civil War soldiers faced. He would be hospitalized and treated for typhus in Tennessee, laid up for three-to-four months. An Army wagon being pulled by a team of six mules would run over Samuel in October 1863, crushing his foot and causing unspecified internal injuries, according to Congressional records.

The summer of 1864 saw even more damage done in battle, including the loss of his eye. On June 2, 1864, during the Battle of Cold Harbor near Mechanicsville, Virginia, Samuel was wounded by a gunshot to his left arm. He was fortunate in this instance as no amputation was necessary, and he not only survived but was able to return to the battlefield after some recuperation before what would prove to be his final battlefield action the ensuing month.

It was on July 30, 1864, at the Battle of the Crater, part of the Union Army’s siege on Petersburg, Virginia, when it appeared Samuel was surely dead. During the battle, a bullet took out his right eye upon striking his head. In U.S., Civil War Soldier Records and Profiles, 1861-1865, it is asserted that Samuel “was shot directly in the right eye,” while Congressional records explain he had been hit by a “rifle ball, which destroyed his right eye, the ball passing to the back of his head, was left for dead, and was so reported.” His July 7, 1906 obituary in the pages of The Boston Evening Transcript reads “his head was penetrated by a bullet which entered at the back and put out one of his eyes; contrary to all expectations he recovered from the wounds, the bullet in his head was extracted, and he had carried it as a watch-charm ever since.” His retention of the unusual battle memento is reaffirmed in U.S., Civil War Soldier Records and Profiles, 1861-1865, which notes Samuel “still keeps the bullet as an awful souvenir of his closeness to death.”

After the Battle of the Crater, Samuel was sent home and spent 18 months recovering from what had been assumed to be a mortal wound. He was mustered out of the Army as a sergeant on February 3, 1865, just a couple months before Robert E. Lee surrendered to Ulysses S. Grant at Appomattox Court House. He would live on another 42 years after his final fight for the Union.

In his post-war life, Samuel remained primarily in Plympton, working as a farmer and then a trader or running a storefront, while also joining the Masons. He would later land a job in Boston at the Customs House, a position he would hold until the day he died. According to the Boston Evening Transcript, Samuel was “popular” among his co-workers and “his service was highly appreciated by the Government.”

On January 3, 1870, 27-year-old Samuel married Mary E. Nickerson, the 27-year-old daughter of William and Betsey Nickerson of Plymouth. Samuel and Mary had just one child, a daughter named Mary Dresser Wright, born on May 21, 1875 in Boston. Young Mary would go on to marry Augustus C. Sproul, a native of Bristol, Maine.

Samuel and Mary would split their time seasonally between Boston in the winter and Plympton in the summer. Records indicate his time as a resident of Boston was largely, if not entirely, in South Boston, first on K Street and, later on, Sixth Street.

As for his death, it was the old ticker that did him in unexpectedly. He had been recovering for several weeks from a bout of pneumonia, but had returned to work at the Customs House. In fact, Samuel was at work and “seemed in good health” when he left for home the evening of his death. According to The Boston Evening Transcript, upon arriving home, Samuel “ate a hearty dinner,” and then “started out from the house with a pail of ashes to dump behind the barn and his failure to return within a reasonable time caused the family members some apprehension.” Various relatives in the immediate area began searching for Samuel, ultimately finding his body just beyond the barn around 8 p.m. He was 63-years-old.

Newlywed taken by appendicitis

One branch of the family tree rarely tended to in my research is that of the Beaudry family, Canadian immigrants who settled in the Massachusetts communities in and around Sutton and Uxbridge.

The patriarch of this particular group was Gilbert Beaudry, who had been born in Canada in July 1836. Gilbert made his way south to the United States as a 20-year-old single man in 1856, and by 1865 was residing on Lynde Street (today Converse Street) in Worcester, Massachusetts. That year's city directory shows Gilbert employed as a "wire roller," while that year's State Census records him working as a "wire drawer." By the summer of 1868, 32-year-old Gilbert was living in Douglas, Massachusetts, working as a carpenter. That August he married Selina Bibeau, a 25-year-old Canadian who was then residing in Sutton. Gilbert and Selina had at least 10 children together, though by 1900 half of their children had died. Louis Beaudry was one of those who had passed.

Louis Beaudry, my 3rd great-uncle, had been born circa 1875 in Uxbridge's north end, a village known as North Uxbridge. Soon after his birth came that of Louise Sanders in Worcester, the daughter of Clarence and Ella (Davis) Sanders. Louis and Louise would marry in Worcester on Monday, December 23, 1895.

Little did the couple know that Christmas, just two days later, would be their one and only Christmas together as husband and wife. The 1895 city directory shows Louis residing in Worcester at 62 Foster Street, a property since absorbed by the Worcester Regional Transit Authority. The city directory shows he worked as a box maker, while the marriage records assert he was a woodworker.

While the Worcester-based newlyweds surely had talked about plans for their future together, perhaps how many children they might raise, where they might ultimately settle, their time together would be a paltry 231 days, fewer than eight months in total. On Monday, August 10, 1896, the 21-year-old box maker's life was cut short by appendicitis. There is no information as to how long Louis had suffered, but surely it was a painful ending. He was buried in the nearby community of Millbury, as were several other family members over the years.

Widowed at age 19, Louise initially remained in Worcester. A few years later, she would remarry and have three children. It was on Tuesday, June 6, 1899 — nearly 33 months after Louis had passed away — that Louise wed a British-born wireworker named Thomas Birkitt Hudson. They moved around a little bit, living on Upsala Street in Worcester as of 1900, then on Oxford Street in nearby Auburn in 1910, before returning to Worcester, living on Allen Street in 1920. By 1930, the couple had settled in Providence, Rhode Island. Together, they had three known children: Edith (circa 1901), Ella (circa 1903), and later a son, Robert (March 31, 1920).

No exact date of death has been uncovered for Louise, or her second husband, Thomas. She is last seen in Providence's 1931 city directory, while Thomas is found in East Providence in 1944. Regardless of when either passed, it is interesting to not that their son Bob was raised not by the couple, but rather by sister Ella, and her husband, Kenneth Warren, in Fitchburg, Massachusetts.

Great-Great-Grandfather Timothy P. Moriarty

For me, my genealogical research is a matter of two pursuits that are really the same in many ways: Who were my ancestors?

In the basic sense, that means their names, where they were from, the dates of the births and deaths, their spouses, and their children, and their parents. However, this is simply not enough. I also want to know WHO my ancestors were. What did they do for a living? What did they look like? How did they die?

We are, after all, not simply abstract numbers. We're people with all kinds of emotions, interests, flaws, skills and abilities, personality traits, and so much more. This is why one of my favorite primary source records is the obituary. Often, they prove to be a treasure trove of little details and tidbits that help to paint a picture of who these people were.

Though not a recent find, one of my favorite records is an obituary of my great-great-grandfather, Timothy P. Moriarty. The basic version of who he was is the son of Patrick & Mary (Sullivan) Moriarty, born in the village of Alohart in Beautfort, County Kerry, Ireland, on Wednesday, February 11, 1824. He married Catherine Murphy in 1857 or 1858, in Ireland, came to the United States in 1884, and passed away in Southbridge, Massachusetts on Friday, May 13, 1892. However, that doesn't tell me WHO he was.

He was born the day after Simon Bolivar was proclaimed dictator of Peru, several weeks before Tallahassee, Florida, was settled and constructed, and several months before John Quincy Adams defeated Andrew Jackson in the U.S. Presidential election, with a little help from Henry Clay's "Corrupt Bargain." He was born a few days before Civil War Union General Winfield Scott Hancock.

Timothy was raised about 25 miles northeast of Cahersiveen, the hometown of famed Irish freedom fighter Daniel O'Connell. It was in Timothy's youth that O'Connell took his fight to Parliament after moving to Dublin. At the time, rural farmers — such as the Moriarty family — were quite dependent on the potato. With grain costly and Catholic Ireland struggling under punitive actions of the British, many rural Irish would have potato as a major part of two or three meals each and every day.

Thus far in my research, Timothy was the first-born, with six siblings born over the next 18 years. In his pre-teen years, southern Ireland struggles under laws that require the poor to pay noticeably more, leading to what became known as a Tithe War. When Timothy is 14, the British Poor Law is enacted in Ireland, installing Dickensian workhouses that essentially took the poor from their land and split up families.

As Timothy reached adulthood, many of the more revolutionary Irish began to view O'Connell — the famed emancipator and liberator — as a sell-out who had become part of the machinery. As the Young Ireland movement took hold, soon something far more dramatic also took hold — phytophthora infestans, the mold that led to a potato blight and, ultimately, the Great Hunger or Potato Famine. County Kerry was among the hardest hit during the potato famine, so presumably Timothy experienced some dire times.

During the famine, an estimated 1 million Irish died, while another million boarded ships heading to the golden shores of the United States. In all, as much as one-quarter of Ireland's population was gone — either due to death or migration. Timothy survived and remained.

In his early 30s, Timothy married Catherine Murphy, 16 years his junior. She had been born in Ireland in 1840 to John & Julia (McGillicuddy) Murphy. Together, they would have eight children from 1859 through 1880. The children were all born in County Kerry, with some listed as coming into the world in Alohart, and others in Killorglin. Alohart and Killorglin are less than 10 miles apart, with the latter being home to the famed Puck Festival. That, perhaps, is a story for another day.

The Moriarty family remained on their farm in Alohart until 1884, when they boarded the S.S. Cephalonia to come to America. It was Saturday, June 21, 1884, that the ship — including the entire Moriarty family — arrived in the Port of Boston. They came to a country that wouldn't so much as see the cornerstone of the Statue of Liberty being laid until later that summer, and Mark Twain's Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer had yet to be published.

Arriving in Boston, the family settled in the town of Southbridge, just about 60 miles southwest of the city. There were already a small Moriarty presence in town. Now, 134 years later, a number of descendants still call Southbridge home.

Timothy called Southbridge home for just eight years, though he has been buried here for more than 125 years. He died on Friday, May 13, 1892, at the age of 68. An anonymous relative penned an obituary that survives to this day.

"Timothy Moriarty, who died at his home on Pleasant Street on Friday of last week, had been a resident of Southbridge eight years. During that time he cultivated a wide acquaintance and made a host of friends. His sickness dates from April 1, when he had an attack of the grip, which finally developed into pneumonia, from which he died. He was born in Kerry, Ireland, in 1822, and spent his life, until coming to Southbridge in his native place. He was married 34 years ago. He reared a family of seven sons and two daughters, all of whom are living, and who are highly respected members of the community. Mr. Moriarty was a thrifty and industrious man who, as the head of a dutiful and respectful household, surrounded himself with the comforts of a prosperous home. He bought the William Boak place on Pleasant street soon after coming home, and immediately proceeded to improve and beautify it, laying out several hundred dollars for that purpose. By the united assistance of his family, he accumulated other valuable property. He took an interest in the welfare of the town and was always pleased to see improvements going on. The large number of people who attended his funeral, which was held at 2:30 p.m. on last Sunday, attested the high regard in which he was held. Six sons acted as pall bearers. Among those who were present from out of town were: Jeremiah Gallivan and Misses Mary, Nellie and Honora Gallivan, John Sullivan, James Grady, Mr. and Mrs. Michael Sweeney, Daniel Sweeney and Miss Kate Sweeney, all of Holyoke; Daniel Fogarty and Miss Kate Fogarty, James Hartnett and Miss Nellie Hartnett, of Three Rivers; Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Lyons and Miss Nellie Coffey of Thorndike; the Misses Sullivan of Northampton; Timothy Sullivan and Miss Bridget Sullivan of Boston; Philip Scully of Worcester."

Timothy's widow, Catherine, survived another quarter-century, passing in Southbridge on April 19, 1916 — just less than one week before the famed Easter Rising back in her native country of Ireland.

Great-Uncle Philip unlocked by AncestryDNA connection

AncestryDNA rest results have paid some dividends pretty quickly after enabling me to contact a previously unknown second cousin, and learn of the man she only knew as "Grandpa Far Away."

My grandfather, James Mahoney, was one of five children born and raised by Thomas Mahoney Jr., and Agnes St. John in Worcester. All five were born during the Roaring 20s and raised in the Great Depression. My grandfather was the youngest of the litter, born 25 June 1929 — some four months before the Wall Street Crash that officially began the Great Depression. I've had some information regarding some of his siblings, but two have largely remained enigmas: Thomas (born 1924) and Philip (born 1926). All I had for either of these guys was their dates of birth, first name of their spouses, and when they died. No maiden names for their wives, no idea on who their children were, no idea where they passed away, what they did for a living, or anything else.

Through one particular AncestryDNA match, I was able to connect with Jennifer, my great-uncle Philip's granddaughter. She has been able to fill me in a bit with the maiden name of Philip's wife, Pauline, and the dates of her birth and death. From there, I quickly found her obituary, which gave me a good deal of brand new information. Through this cousin, I was also able to learn of Philip and Pauline's four children, further confirmed through Pauline's obituary.

In Pauline's obituary, Philip is not mentioned whatsoever. Instead, it mentions a second husband who had passed in 1997. Turns out that soon after their fourth and final child was born, Philip had decided he was not happy with the family he had carved out for himself. He drained the family bank accounts, took up with a neighbor, and left the family flat. He moved to Arizona at some point, probably as part of this seemingly abrupt abandonment of his wife and kids, and, my newfound cousin asserts, was later known only through cards as "Grandpa Far Away." Through the U.S. Public Records Index, I was able to confirm Philip living in three different cities in Arizona. In 1978, he's in Phoenix, and then he's in Glendale and Peoria in the 1990s. I was also able to confirm what was assumed, that he died while in Arizona.

In the early 1980s, Pauline would marry a man who had seven children through a previous marriage. Between them, that would be 11 children, and eventually many grandchildren. Pauline passed away in 2012, at the age of 82.

Buoyed by this wave of new information, I spent a little more time with public records searches and city directories, and so forth. I found that in the 1950s, Philip was working at Wyman-Gordon in Worcester, residing with Pauline on Tower Street. I uncovered his social security number.

Most exciting of all, I found his school yearbook photo from 1944. Beneath Philip's name is open white space, which seems quite vacuous when compared to the classmate next to him, who was a multi-sport athlete, a member of the Student Council, Chairman of the Ring & Pin Committee, and a member of the group U.S.N.R.

The AncestryDNA results are in...

This morning, I opened up my e-mail inbox and was pleased to see an e-mail from Ancestry.com: "Your AncestryDNA results are in!"

I write this as I begin to explore the results and data, and have not previewed the information. This posting is sort of a real-time cursory exploration. I will take a deep dive after this is published, with no idea how soon I'll be coming up for air in the process. There's a good chance I become entirely immersed in the information and data.

I was not exactly surprised by the first thing I saw, which is my "DNA Story," which provides an "ethnicity estimate." According to AncestryDNA, I am 81% Irish/Scottish/Welsh, 7% British, with "low confidence" results showing 6% Eastern European, 3% Scandinavian, 2% from the Iberian Peninsula, and less than 1% Central Asian. More specifically, the results suggest County Kerry, Ireland to be first among specific regions where my family might have lived. This is not news as I've long-known the Moriarty family to have originated in County Kerry, more specifically the village of Alohart.

Within the "Ethnicity Estimate" is that ancestors, in the first half of the 18th century, were among the "Lonely Settlers in New France" that were the Saint Lawrence River French Settlers. This, presumably, has its origins in my maternal lines that include my maternal grandmother's family having roots in that part of Canada.

After the cursory look at the "Ethnicity Estimate," I turned to the DNA matches, of which there are apparently 362 people who are listed as 4th cousins or closer.

In viewing the matches, I come across my half-brother Jeff, who has previously done the AncestryDNA test. They mark him down as "Close Family" with "extremely high" confidence in the match. They're correct there.

It offers one first cousin, a Sullivan that I do not currently know. There are a number of Sullivans within my family tree, so this makes sense. There's a second cousin with the surname Greene, who appears to be related on my mother's side as my brother Jeff is listed as a shared match with Ms. Greene.

There are 13 third cousins matched, including my late cousin Barb Jones. Each of these matches are listed as "extremely high" confidence level matches, by AncestryDNA. There seems to be a slight edge in matches on my paternal side over my maternal side here, but not by much.

The balance of the matches are fourth cousins, more than 300 of them. Certainly this will take a good deal of time to go through all of them.

Time to get to work...

Great-Great-Grandmother's line in Lancashire

In Lancashire, England, sits the town of Accrington, about 20 miles north of Manchester. According to the 2011 United Kingdom Census, "Accy" is home to 35,456 Brits — and the hometown of musician Andy Kanavan, formerly of the Dire Straits. Accrington is also, as it turns out, the home of my great-great-grandmother.

Elizabeth Ann Hodgson was born in Accrington on 12 July 1862 to Adam Hodgson and his wife. Mrs. Hodgson is still a bit of a enigma for me at this point, having seen her listed as being named Ann and as Elizabeth. I assume, like her daughter, she is probably bearing both names. There are Ancestry.com family trees that assert one name or another, but I have not yet independently verified this information.

The Hodgson line was not something I had previously been aware of in my initial genealogical work on the maternal side of my family. That original work, conducted years ago and much more reliant on the trees created by other amateur genealogists, proved to be plagued with errors and has been part of a targeted overhaul and correction on my part. It was through that overhaul that I came across my great-great-grandmother, Elizabeth.

She came to the United States in 1869, aged 7, according to the 1900 U.S. Census. At some point, she met Frank M. Ellis, my great-great-grandfather. Frank had been born in central Massachusetts, in the town of Oxford, in November 1852. Current research indicates he was one of eight children bore to George and Caroline Ellis between 1849 and 1865.

Elizabeth and Frank were married in Worcester, Massachusetts, 11 December 1883. She was 21-years-old while he was 31. Together, they had six children in the 1880s and 1890s, raising them in Worcester. Their first-born was Frank Lucy Ellis, born 21 November 1884. He was followed by Frederick W. (1888), William H. (1890), Charles Cleveland (1891), Elizabeth (1893), and Esther (date of birth currently unknown).

In the 1900 U.S. Census, the family was residing at 106 Lafayette Street, Worcester, just a few blocks north of Crompton Park. It wasn't long before they moved about a half-mile north to Beacon Street, where my grandfather, Charles Cleveland Ellis, and his lineage lived for several decades.

Elizabeth was just 45-years-old when she passed away at the Worcester City Hospital, due to pulmonary tuberculosis. She died on 24 January 1908, leaving behind teenage children and some who were in their early 20's. Currently, Frank's date of death has not yet been uncovered. He was still alive when Elizabeth passed away, but has not yet been positively identified in the 1910 U.S. Census or beyond.