A Family History Journey to Cornwall

Sometime during the year spanning May 1849 and June 1850, a 30-year-old miner and his growing family left their home in Cornwall, England and sailed west. Henry and Sarah (Kitto) Stephens said goodbye to everything they knew in search of opportunity.

The Stephenses, my fourth great-grandparents, joined the exodus of emigrants seeking work amid southern England's 19th century economic downturn. As Cornwall's tin and copper mines declined, skilled miners like Henry sought employment overseas.

By mid-1850, Henry had found work as a miner in Grant County, Wisconsin where iron ore was in great supply. He and Sarah were enumerated in the U.S. census with their three young children - all born in Cornwall - including my third great-grandfather Thomas K. Stephens. 

They weren't entirely alone. The neighboring household included Sarah's parents - John and Mary (Wearne) Kitto - and siblings. Their migration had been a family affair.

1850 US Census excerpt detailing the Stephens and Kitto
families in Grant County, Wisconsin

Eventually, Thomas K. Stephens (also spelled Stevens) would marry, move to Colorado, and continue the mining tradition in the Rocky Mountains. It was from here that I began to uncover my Cornish roots.

This summer, I had the opportunity to travel to southern England and decided to retrace my ancestors' footsteps in Cornwall. 

Finding my ancestors' whereabouts

A friend recently toured England with her family. Before her trip, she worked with a British genealogist to identify where her ancestors had lived. The researcher found sites relevant to her family's history and produced a report that guided her journey. 

She pointed me to the Association of Genealogists and Researchers in Archives (AGRA), where I was able to filter my needs down to a researcher specializing in Cornish genealogy. This is how I was connected with the wonderful Dr. Lesley Trotter - a historian specializing in Cornish studies who shares her expertise online at Humble History.

Dr. Trotter took what I knew about my Cornish ancestry and delved deeper into my family's history, searching for locations where I could visit. That culminated in a detailed report that shaped an incredibly memorable experience.

Following my ancestors' footsteps

With Dr. Trotter's report in hand, I worked with a fantastic local guide, Becky Frost, who owns and operates Penelewey Tours, to design a tailored family history day trip.

From my hotel in Penzance, we set out for our first stop, the Church of St. Germoe in the village of Germoe. The building has Norman origins dating to 1100 AD and replaced an earlier Saxon church. 

St. Germoe

It was within these stone walls at this baptismal font pre-dating the Norman Conquest, that Henry Stephens was baptized on April 30, 1820. In fact, Henry's parents, Henry and Elizabeth (Pope) Stephens (my fifth great-grandparents), were baptized here in 1795 and 1797 respectively. 

St. Germoe's baptismal font

Henry and Elizabeth were also married here in front of this altar in July 1819. 

St. Germoe's altar

Elizabeth died in 1838 and was buried in Germoe on September 20th, although I didn't find a gravestone for her in the surrounding churchyard. 

St. Germoe churchyard with a view of the church's tower

Home Along the Beach

From Germoe, we drove to nearby Pengersick Castle as my family were likely tenants of the manor home. Today, the building is a wedding venue and I wasn't able to visit the grounds (probably due to someone's pesky nuptials taking precedence).

Next stop was a stroll along Praa Sands - a beautiful stretch of beach running alongside Prah Green, a grassy hillside where my Kitto family lived in small cottages (sadly, the originals no longer survive). The sun was warm and brought out many shades of blue in the sea. 

It was an idyllic view, yet I wondered if my ancestors had mixed feelings about living alongside the sea. Becky shared that Cornwall's winters could be dreary with gray, cold, windy, wet weather blowing off the coast.

At Praa Sands with Prah Green (site of Kitto cottages)
on the hillside

St. Breaca Church

After a pub lunch at the Lion & Lamb, we spent the afternoon at three different churches. A highlight was our visit to St. Breaca Church in the village of Breage. The current granite structure was dedicated in 1456, replacing an older Norman building. 

St. Breaca

My third great-grandfather Thomas K. Stephens was baptized here on November 21, 1845. His mother, Sarah (Kitto) Stephens, was also baptized here in February 1822. 

St. Breaca's baptismal font

Sarah Kitto married Henry Stephens before this altar on April 20, 1844.

St. Breaca's altar

During a Victorian era restoration, centuries of whitewash were removed and revealed medieval paintings survived on the church's walls. Painted over in the 16th century during the reformation of Edward VI (who ordered the destruction of idolatrous figures countrywide which included paintings and stained glass windows), the illustrations depict a number of characters who may represent St. Christopher, Christ, King Henry VI, and St. Thomas Becket.

A modern sculpture of St. Breaca with St. Christopher
painting on the wall

The churchyard included the graves for several men who shared my family surnames, including a John Kitto, William Kitto, Richard Stephens, and William Stephens (who had great real estate with his grave right outside the church's doorway). While I'm sure we're family, I don't presently know the exact relationship to these men.

John Kitto died May 12, 1865 aged 52 years

William Kitto died May 28, 1878 aged 81 years

Richard Stephens died 1834 and was a son of
William and Mary (according to a census of burials)

William Stephens died 1834 and his wife Philippa died 1838

Wheal Trewavas

The last great highlight of my family history road trip was to a site where my ancestors may have worked. Mining dominated Cornwall's economy throughout the 18th and early 19th century. Its mark still dots the Cornish landscape. Today, the ruins of engine houses (used to house the mechanics that ferried men into and out of the mine shafts and pumped out water) with their towering smokestacks are telltale signs of the area's recent history.

Near Prah Green, we hiked a trail from the Rinsey headlands that snaked along the coast atop a cliffside with breathtaking views of the sea below and on out to the distant horizon. A determined wind blew off the sea at a persistent clip. A 15-minute hike brought us to a promontory at the Trewavas headland.

From Trewavas Head looking back at Rinsey Head

Operating while my ancestors were still in Cornwall, Wheal Trewavas opened in about 1834 with men exploiting copper lodes that ran out under the sea. The mine closed in 1850 when the sea flooded the tunnels displacing a workforce of 161.

Wheal Trewavas engine house ruins

It was a moving experience to imagine my ancestors at work carving out their livings (literally). After generations of dangerous backbreaking work, it must have been heart wrenching to watch the local mining industry collapse and leave them feeling they had no choice but to emigrate. I admire the guts it took to leave everything familiar and known and move a world away to something uncertain and with no guarantee of success. 

Posing with Wheal Trewavas ruins

Their move west put them on a collision course with my other ancestral lines. They would meet, marry, and create new generations. It never ceases to boggle my mind how their decisions (some small and others big with seismic ramifications) all led to each of us existing. A different step or a choice not taken and the whole slate of history would change. 

I'm invested in learning about my ancestors' journeys - many of them arduous - that led to me and my place in the world. I'm grateful I had the privilege to visit Cornwall and gain some understanding of what their lives were like. Tremendous thanks to Dr. Trotter and Becky for their roles in making this experience happen. 

Ancestors Across the Heartland - A Family History Road Trip: Part I

"Hello, Ancestors," I said aloud as I stepped into each cemetery.

Clutching bouquets of artificial flowers like dousing rods, I channeled great-grandparents of varying generations to guide me to their graves. 

At every forebear's resting place, I plunged the plastic floral offering into the earth, laid my hand on their stone, and quietly pondered their life and the American history they helped shape. 

The visits were a spiritual communion. I kept vigil for the faintest acknowledgement of my presence. Amid my contemplations, my skin would tingle with goosebumps at a sudden shift in the wind rustling the leaves or the sun cutting through clouds to cast poignant rays on cue. Broken stillness felt intentional and imbued with significance as though my presence was a touchstone conjuring the ghosts of my predecessors.

Road Tripping During The Pandemic

A cross country road trip to visit family in Colorado - who I haven't seen in over a year due to the pandemic - afforded me a rare opportunity to visit my ancestors' graves. 

Typically, I fly home to visit family. The last - and only - time I drove the 1,665 miles between my parents' Rocky Mountain home and Washington, DC was in 2004 when I embarked on my two-year east coast plan (16 years ago!).

Mapping out my route, I decided to stop at a handful of cemeteries scattershot across the United States where my kinfolk rested eternally. As a moderately tech-savvy genealogist, I pinpointed their burials on Google Maps.   

Family Sleuther's ancestors' graves

Next, I plotted a circular path that allowed me to visit different sites on my way to and from Colorado (note: the yellow flower icons are graves I've not visited and purple flowers are graves that, as of this journey, I have visited).

Journeying Through Family History

The three-week trip was a dizzying whirlwind that traced my family's history across both paternal and maternal lines not to mention time zones. Thank goodness for mobile apps like Find A Grave and Ancestry that allowed me to find everyone and reacquaint myself with their life stories on the ground and in real-time.

The numbers alone underscore the sheer magnitude of the trip.

My journey began with a visit to the Beard-Green Cemetery in Licking County, Ohio. Although I've visited before, it still holds special meaning to me as the final resting place for my fifth great-grandparents Thomas and Sarah (Bonar) Kirk and their son, my fourth great-grandfather, Vachel Kirk. 

For me, the Kirks have favored research status (yes, genealogists get to have favorite ancestors!). My fondness stems from the fact that ten years ago I didn't even know that I was a Kirk. But I did the hard work to find the connection. Confronted with whispered family rumors, I sought out DNA tests that ultimately confirmed a non-paternity event. The years of dogged research that ensued carved my path directly to these people. I worked hard to surface this family history and I gladly honor it.

All three are buried in the northwest corner of the cemetery near the edge of a dense forest. A towering walnut tree juts out from the middle of the burials - a totem that beckons me to the epicenter (and brickwall) of my Kirk paternal ancestry. After paying my respects, I turned to leave just as the sun sliced through the early morning fog and cut a path directly to the northwest corner like the dawning summer solstice sunlight finding perfect alignment among the sarsens at Stonehenge. 

Beard-Green Cemetery. Licking County, Ohio.
Thomas & Sarah Kirk and their son Vachel Kirk

As I put the car into drive, I glanced back just in time to see a fox emerge and watch me make my departure. I next drove 170 miles west to Dunreith Cemetery in rural Indiana where two sets of fifth great-grandparents are buried: Thomas and Frances (Boatright) Johnson and Philip and Sylvia (maiden name unknown) Hall. Their children, Francis Johnson and Temperance Hall, would marry and become my fourth great-grandparents. Hint: they also scored a stop on the road trip (stay tuned)!

A strong wind propelled ominously dark clouds overhead and whipped a nearby cornfield into a fury. The unyielding gusts pushed me into the cemetery grounds, firmly guiding me to their graves. They were nicely situated together. I would soon learn to appreciate the convenience of quickly locating burials in these quaintly-sized cemeteries.

Dunreith Cemetery: Thomas and Frances Johnson (foreground)
and Philip and Sylvia Hall (background), marked with flowers

My next stop was the only point where I visited non-direct ancestors. The aforementioned Thomas and Sarah Kirk had 11 children who lived to adulthood. At least seven of them settled in Crawford County, Illinois. Five of those seven - all sons - were buried in the Kirk Cemetery just north of the town of Robinson and one, a daughter, in the nearby Oblong Cemetery.

Kirk Cemetery north of Robinson, Illinois

After an overnight in Illinois, I crossed the mighty Mississippi River and cruised toward central Missouri with my first stop in Rolla. Unlike the small country cemeteries in Indiana and Ohio where I quickly found my ancestors' graves, the Rolla Cemetery is a large sprawling landscape. There was no manned office and no directory of names to provide directions, so I was forced to drive along the paved paths, back and forth, studying the engraved names. While combing the grounds, three deer nonchalantly followed at a distance and serenely eyed my frantic search. If this was a Disney movie, I would have put them to work and had them help me locate my kinfolk. Alas, they paid me little attention and continued to make salad out of the lawn.

With the afternoon sun fast approaching and encroaching on the day's second cemetery visit, I was beginning to fear that I'd driven all this way and would have to abandon the mission without finding the graves for my second great-grandmother Jelina (Williams) O'Connor Trimble (she was married, a lot!) and her parents, my third great-grandparents, Johnson and Careline (Reed) Williams. My saving grace was finding email correspondence from 2013 with a Find A Grave volunteer who first discovered the graves and took photos. In his message, saint that he is, he provided the section and plot numbers. I quickly found the graves no thanks to my animal friends.

Johnson and Careline Williams, at left, and Jelina at right.

I unexpectedly spent more time in Rolla than I originally planned. Dusk was fast approaching and threatened my chance to visit my next stop - El Dorado Springs Cemetery in Missouri - 150 miles to the west. I generously applied the gas - in the safest measure possible - to ensure a timely arrival that salvaged as much of the day's remaining sunlight as possible. Pulling into the cemetery, my heart sank to discover it was another large sprawling affair. 

Loading up the Find A Grave app, I carefully studied the photographs of the headstone for Francis and Temperance (Hall) Johnson, my fourth great-grandparents (whose parents, mentioned above, are buried in Indiana's Dunreith Cemetery), that were uploaded by a volunteer. Paying close attention to nearby headstones, trees and even a distant house, I was able to pinpoint their marker just as the sun emitted its final rays for the day.

The Johnsons share a single stone with each name carved on either side.

Francis Johnson

Temperance "Tempy" (Hall) Johnson

I made it with the last dregs of light to spare. And what marvelous light it was; a shining capstone to my travels through America's heartland. But hundreds of miles still stood between me and home. 

Stay tuned for part II of my family history road trip as I journey through Kansas' plains to Colorado's mountains. The road and ancestors call me onward! 

Building A Relationship With Dad

This week's post begins a recurring series featuring the reminiscences of my maternal aunt, Diane. A longtime genealogist, her years of family history detective work piqued my own curiosity, which laid the foundation on which everything Family Sleuther is built. This week, Diane takes us on a journey of discovery as she seeks out her father (my grandfather) after a years-long absence following her parents' 1959 divorce, and builds a father-daughter relationship.

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A Telephone Rings In A New Beginning
I met Dad just before my 20th birthday in the summer of 1973. Mom and Dad were divorced when my sister Donna and I were very young, about four and six. We didn’t remember him. Donna learned that Dad lived in Muskogee, Oklahoma, and mailed him her high school graduation announcement. He didn't attend, so we made plans to go to him.

A quick roadside respite on the journey to Oklahoma, 1973

I took a two-week vacation from my job and our odyssey began. We left our Colorado home in a 1963 celery green VW Beetle (with a 260 air conditioner - two windows rolled down at 60 mph!). We stopped in Plainville, Kansas a few days to see our maternal grandparents before heading on to Muskogee.

The night before our departure from Plainville, I called Dad's home. A woman answered (his wife, Dorothy) and I asked to speak to Charles Upton. While inwardly scared senseless, I was grown up and proud of myself as I forthrightly told him, “This is Diane. Donna and I will be there tomorrow.”

“Okay,” he replied.

That brief conversation was the first of many years of catching up and getting to know each other.

An Oklahoma Odyssey
We left Plainville the next morning with the same 1958 road map that Grandma and Grandpa had used when they visited Oklahoma over a decade before. We didn’t know about interstate driving that would have cut our trip considerably. They didn't exist on the map! It took us about ten hours driving small county roads going through many little towns with funny names like Sapulpa.

With many miles and hours before us, Donna and I talked of all we would ask him and wondered why he had stayed out of our lives for so long, not even a phone call. The questions we talked about asking were pointed and somewhat disrespectful, I think. But, as our destination was soon before us, we each lapsed into our own private thoughts and became anxious. Many what ifs.

Diane's first photo of her father Charles Upton

[Author's note: Donna reminded me that our sisters road trip was much more stressful than I remembered. She recalled that we fought like cats and dogs and at one point I pulled over to the side of the highway and told (ordered?) her to get out. She flatly refused.]

We pulled up into the drive of Dad's home. The front door swung open and a ten-year-old boy greeted us with an Oklahoma drawl, "Hi! I got sisters." In that moment, Donna and I learned that we had a half-brother.

Dad was quiet as he hugged us both, and brought us out of the muggy heat into his air conditioned home. He laughed when he saw the outdated map we used to navigate our way from Kansas.

We were in Muskogee among family that had known us when we were very young. Most of our hard questions fell by the wayside as we were swallowed among new family and somewhat new culture (the South, Oklahoma style with fried food three meals a day).

Making Up For Lost Time

Over the course of the next ten years Dad came to visit me in Kansas and Donna in Colorado and we traveled to Oklahoma. Each time I found the questions easier and gleaned more information.

Diane, James Upton "an old man"
and Donna

My first family history question to him was, “Tell me about your Dad.”

His quick somewhat irreverent reply was, “He was an old man that died.”

I asked him if that was what he wanted me to tell his granddaughters about him. He answered as best he could. To be fair, Grandpa James Upton was an old man that died. Grandpa Upton was born in 1877 and my dad was born in 1930. Dad was the first child from the second marriage. So, to him, his dad was an old man that died.

Over the course of the next many years there were a lot of opportunities to visit with dad about family history. He shared what he knew but it often ended with his, “I don’t know.”

The closest Dad and I became was during the last six weeks of his life. He had a five-year battle with cancer and his mortal journey was ending. He was young, only 63.

We had talked about afterlife and our vision of what it would be. He was stubborn in his belief and I was positive in mine. As the time became close he was in his recliner chair (where he’d been for the past eight months) and kept looking up to the corner of the living room ceiling.

“Who is that?” he asked.

“Who?” I replied.

“Up there, all of those people," he answered.

“Dad, that’s your people, all of those I’ve asked you about. You don’t think you’ll go to God without your family gone before to take you to meet Him do you?”

I think it brought him a sense of peace and there were more contemplative moments that last week. For both of us.