The Milkman's Son

by Randy Lindsay

  Finally, I find that one of the documents in the folder is a petition to have my great-grandfather’s name changed because of a mistake in recording the original birth certificate. It lists my great-grandfather as a Lindsay—with an a—and identifies his father as John Crawford Lindsay.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. My Scottish tartan tie is safe. I can continue to listen to my favorite pipe-and-drum CD with the same sense of national pride as always. But the number of records I have to consider in my electronic search has now more than doubled. Because of a clerical error—or even outright carelessness—the John Crawford Lindsay that is my great-great-grandfather could be listed as John C. Lindsey, or John Lynsey, or any similar-sounding variation of the name.

  This is turning out to be a bigger challenge than I originally thought; but rather than discourage me, the added difficulty makes it even more of an adventure.

  The task feels like an electronic version of hacking my way through the jungle with a machete as I search for the lost crypts of my family. Sure, I’ll get there . . . eventually, but the process is exhausting. At least there aren’t any tarantulas or vipers lurking in the dense foliage, waiting to ambush me.

  Ancestry.com allows me to filter my searches. I approximate John’s age in 1870 based on his son’s birth and death dates and look for results limited to Ohio, where his son—my great-grandfather—was born. That returns eighteen matches in the 1870 census. Only one of them lives in Portsmouth, the same town I believe my great-grandfather was born in. This has to be it!

  I rub my hands together and then crack my knuckles. A double click on the result opens the census entry. There they are. John C. Lindsey and his wife, Minerva, were living in Portsmouth with their two-year-old daughter in 1870. My pulse quickens as a rush of adrenaline pumps through my body. I shout, “Yes!”

  Oops. My wife is sleeping in the next room. I wait to see if she comes out to investigate the noise. Then, when the wrath of Hon fails to appear, I pump my fist in the air and whisper another, “Yes!”

  Who would’ve thought family history could be so exciting? It’s supposed to be a hobby for grandparents who want to sit around their mothball-smelling homes and show old, black-and-white pictures to anyone trapped by their elderly wiles. Instead, my mind is already racing to uncover the next family mystery.

  The next step is to search further back and find John’s parents. But first I realize that John would have been a young man during Civil War times, and I wonder if he fought in that horrible conflict. Since he lived in Ohio, he most likely would’ve joined the Union army. Curiosity pulls my mind in that direction, but I decide to save that search for later. I need to find his parents first.

  The census results are like footprints in time. With them I can track my family in reverse, discovering where they went and what they did. Each step along the way gives me clues as to where to look next. I’m hoping they take me back to a time when John lived with his parents. If they do, I will have found the next older generation in our family tree.

  I check the 1860 census, but I can’t find John in Portsmouth for that census year. In fact, the census doesn’t show Lindsays of any kind in Portsmouth. No Lindsays with an a, or an e, or even Lynseys with a y. I expand my search to include all of Ohio and spend hours searching for variant after variant of the name.

  My search uncovers nine possible matches. Any of them could be my ancestor. Or none of them. I need more than an approximate birth year to connect one of the results to my John Lindsay.

  I check my watch and discover it’s two in the morning. Can that be right? Even though my eyes burn from looking at the computer screen all night, it doesn’t feel that late. I struggle with the decision of whether I should go to bed or check one more name.

  Even though I have the luxury of working from home as a writer, I’m still the primary caretaker for the children. The kids are still going to need me in the morning. My love for them outweighs my passion for the quest. I sigh, sign out of the program, and trudge off to sleep.

  Different spellings of my name bounce around inside my head as I lie in bed. They give way to doubts about my method. Have I missed searching for any reasonable variation of my name? Should I not worry about the census results and look through Civil War records to see if I can find him there? Either way, the family history bug has bitten me . . . and I love it.

  The alarm clock goes off, and I roll out of bed. My eyes burn, and I stumble through the morning routine. Cold cereal for breakfast. Money for the older children so I don’t have to make lunches. I hug the kids heading off for school and mumble something that resembles “I love you.” Then I turn on the television to occupy the two still at home.

  Teletubbies! I hate them. But not as much as I hate that goofy purple dinosaur they like to watch. Sometimes it comes down to the lesser of two evils, and today the weird fluffy things with televisions in their bellies win the battle of who annoys me the least.

  I pass by the computer on my way back to the kitchen. The great Lindsay mystery taunts me like a half-watched movie where I think I know who killed the no-good, cheating husband but I want to see it play out. I have to know where my Lindsays came from, and the only way to find that out is to locate John’s parents.

  My two youngest children laugh at the Teletubbies’ antics. I decide they’ll be fine if I spend an hour on the computer. The search might keep me from thinking about how tired I am, and if I focus hard enough, I can tune out the morning lineup of mind-numbing children’s programming.

  It seems as if the further back I go, the less information census results provide. I switch directions and look through more recent census records.

  The strategy works. A John C. Lindsay appears in the 1880 census, along with his wife, his daughter, and a son with the same name and approximate age as my great-grandfather. The family is in Portsmouth. Better yet, the 1880 census lists where each person’s parents were born, and John’s folks are both listed as having been born in Ohio.

  Burning eyes, lack of sleep, and ear-grating educational shows for children are all forgotten as I plunge forward with the search. The 1890 census was almost entirely destroyed by a fire at the Commerce Center in Washington, DC, so I search the 1900 census records. John’s there! At least I think it’s him. The month and year he was born are listed. But this entry states that his father was from Ireland—not Ohio, as was entered in the 1880 census.

  From what I’ve learned, I determine that John died in 1906, so there will be no record in the 1910 census listing his father’s place of birth. I’m guessing—and hoping—that it’s Ohio and the Irish listing was just a mistake. That leaves more room for Scottish heritage. But there is no way to find out without returning to earlier censuses for clues about his father.

  I start with the 1850 census and attempt to track any viable matches down through the rest of the records. I eliminate one John Lindsay after another based on location and other minor details. By comparing the names of parents and siblings in each family, I finally narrow the choice to just three. If I could just—

  “Daddy, I’m hungry.”

  I jump at the sound of a voice at my side. Lucy, my tiny, blonde, three-year-old daughter, looks up at me, her hair strung out in every direction because I haven’t taken the time to brush it this morning. I look at my watch and realize it’s well after lunch. No wonder the poor girl is hungry. And so am I, having missed breakfast in this quest-absorbed haze.

  But my mind starts to drift back to the computer. Only three more families to track before I discover which of the John Lindsays in the 1850 census belongs to me. Which should only take an hour. Then I can search for the next previous generation . . . who are probably—

  “When are we going to eat?” my daughter asks.

  “Right now, Pumpkin,” I tell her and push away from the computer desk.

  I set out a glorious feast of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with a
side of barbecue chips and a glass of milk. My daughter talks about the shows she watched in the morning. My son eats quickly and bolts back to the television. I sit with my daughter, smile, and nod my head, throwing in an occasional “Uh-huh.”

  Laundry, grocery shopping, and baths occupy my time for the rest of the afternoon. I have a flexible schedule, but that doesn’t mean I can spend all day playing ancestral sleuth. It takes a long, anxious week before I can return to the family hunt.

  After a quick scan of my research on John Crawford Lindsay, I decide to take another look at the manila folder with the documents Dad gave me. The same record that gave me John’s middle name also lists his place of birth: West Union, Ohio.

  How did I miss this?

  A quick look at Google Maps shows me that West Union is in Adams County. I remember seeing a Lindsay family living there and dismissing them because I assumed the location was incorrect. My fingers tremble as I log in to Ancestry and, for the hundredth time, type in search parameters for John Lindsay, this time with Adams County as a location instead of Scioto County (where Portsmouth is and where I’d been searching based on the location of my great-grandfather’s birth).

  For more than a very tense hour, I search through 1860 and 1850 census records, squirming in my seat each time I think I’ve landed on the right family. Worrying that I’ve missed an important detail, I decide to look at actual census images instead of electronic transcriptions of the indexes, starting with images from the town of Sprigg, in Adams County.

  Boom, baby!

  The electronic transcription lists the name I’m staring at as Jno Lendsey, but the entry in the image it refers to looks a lot more like “Jon Lindsay” to me. The age is also correct, based on what I’ve learned. And Jno—or Jon—is listed as a blacksmith, a detail consistent with later censuses in which he appears. I do a little more searching and find who I believe to be John’s parents. Parents who came to the United States from Ireland. And who spell Lindsey with an e.

  My tartan tie is once again in danger.

  John’s father turns out to be William Lindsey. After several more days scouring through the marginally helpful pre-1850 census records, I determine that William arrived in Ohio sometime before 1830 and stayed in the township of Sprigg until after the Civil War.

  Ohio represented the wild frontier in 1830. Records are scarce, almost nonexistent. There are no birth or death certificates for William. No marriage license. No immigration record. The only pre-1850 records that exist for him and his family are the census results, which are cryptically vague.

  The 1830 census tells me that William Lindsey lived in Adams County that year, in a residence that included one male aged 30 to 40, three males under age 5, a female aged 30 to 40, and a female aged 10 to 15. As far as early census records go, this one is fairly easy to decipher. The only male over age 18 has to be William. The female of roughly his age is most likely his wife. The three males under 5 should be his sons. But the female aged 10 to 15 could be a daughter, a sister, a niece, or even a servant.

  It’s like I’m staring into a big, dark void, yelling, “William, where are you?”

  The data trail has gone cold. I scour through the information, hoping to find a clue that will tell me where to look next. No matter how many times I sit in my chair and stare at the census results, no matter how many times I enter a new search parameter, I remain at the end of the trail. My legs bounce with nervous energy as my family history passion urges me to move forward and find the next generation . . . and then the generation after that.

  I want names to investigate!

  In order to find out where William was born, I have to leave the official records search behind. A few historical books mention predominant settlers to the area, but weeks of searching through every mention of the Lindsay/Lindsey name reveals that he isn’t one of Ohio’s early celebrities.

  My next best option is to find a family Bible that contains some mention of William “The Immigrant” Lindsey. One of the better Clan Lindsay websites has a collection of family Bibles online. Months of reading through the transcripts leave me without a single hint that any of them are connected to my family.

  I switch to Google searches, using combinations of names, dates, and places in the hope of stumbling across a news item stored in one of the endless electronic data vaults available on the internet. The process is slow and horrifically tedious, but the hours fly by as I concentrate on the task. I wade through dozens of searches, attempting to filter out information that doesn’t apply to my family. My persistence pays off.

  A match takes me to a family history site for the Crawfords.

  The name clicks into place. My heart beats faster. John Crawford Lindsay. He has his mother’s maiden name—a common practice in many families. I slap my forehead. Why hadn’t I considered this possibility earlier? I doubt it would’ve helped me reach this point any sooner, but I feel stupid for not thinking of it.

  I discover a genealogy titled Crawfords of Adams County, Ohio. The publication date is 1943. Whoever put the book together may have interviewed someone who knew William Lindsey. I order the book, giddy over the the treasure trove of information it might contain.

  I feel that I’m on the cusp of a major discovery; excitement courses through my veins. I call my brother and tell him excitedly, “We come from Fintona, Ireland. At least, I’m pretty sure we do.”

  “That’s great,” my brother says. He doesn’t sound excited.

  “Okay, I just thought you would want to know.”

  Not much of a reaction. After all the work I’ve done to unearth this information, I expect a little more excitement from him. I hang up and call my dad. “It looks like the Lindsays emigrated from Fintona, Ireland.”

  “Good work,” says Dad. The television is playing in the background. Past experience has taught me that as long he has eyes on the idiot box, he isn’t going to remember anything I tell him. We can talk about my findings the next time I drive out to his place.

  “Love you. Bye.”

  I decide to switch tactics and rush out to the kitchen. Maybe I’ll have better luck talking with someone live and in person. My wife is preparing dinner. The aroma of grilled steak and vegetables fills the room. “I found out where the Lindsays lived in Ireland.”

  My wife smiles at me. “That’s nice, dear.”

  Ah, forget it.

  This is the second marriage for both LuAnn and me. The children in the house are a blend of hers, mine, and ours. I married LuAnn because she is beautiful, intelligent, and calm. Unfortunately, the whole “calm” thing means she’s almost never as excited about an event or discovery as I am. Everything seems to excite me.

  I shamble out of the kitchen and return to my office.

  The book eventually arrives in the mail. It indicates that William Lindsay immigrated to the United States, lived in New York for a brief period, and then moved to Ohio. His wife, Nancy Crawford, died in 1842. Four sons are listed: James, Robert, John, and William.

  There are no personal stories about William. The scant details have a sterile, distant feel to them. I think about William’s short stay in New York. Everything must have been strange and unfamiliar to him and Nancy. The tall buildings, the odd way people dressed in America, and the melting pot of languages and cultures they experienced.

  But I have found my immigrant ancestor! Although the book’s information about William is limited, it lists that his wife, Nancy, was born in Fintona, Ireland. A sigh of relief escapes me. The rest of my quest should be easy. All I need to do is check the records in Ireland and connect William to one of the Lindsey families there.

  Fintona turns out to be a small town in Northern Ireland and is part of the area settled by the Scottish in the early seventeenth century. Although they lived in Ireland, the Scots-Irish continued to identify themselves as Scottish.

  William turns out to be harder to
find than expected. A week of searching provides me with no further information about him. Only a fragment of Irish church records is online, and the small town of Fintona is not mentioned among them.

  I have gone as far as I can on the Great Lindsay Quest. Dozens of passes through the information I’ve collected fails to magically reveal any new leads. I consider quitting the search, but so many of my ancestors still remain unfound. I have an obligation to them as well. They deserve an equal amount of my time.

  I dive back into the work. My passion to find immigrants from my other ancestral lines becomes nearly as powerful as my desire to find William in Ireland. I add name after name to the family tree. Occasionally I find an interesting bit of information that breathes life into the dry data about a family member.

  John Crawford Lindsay—listed as John C. Lindsey in the National Park Service’s Civil War database of soldiers—did fight in the Civil War. He served as a private in the 24th Regiment, Ohio Infantry, Companies D and F. The unit fought in the battles of Shiloh, Perryville, Chickamauga, Chattanooga, and Missionary Ridge. At some point during that terrible conflict, John was wounded. He drew a pension for his injury after the war, but the wound didn’t stop him from working as a blacksmith and later as a mechanic.

  I learned about another ancestor—Chester William. Chester’s mother died when he was just a baby, and his cousins, Robert and Mary, adopted him. Chester was the only child Robert and Mary had. There isn’t a diary around to tell me about Robert and Mary’s history, but in my mind, I picture a couple who badly wanted children and couldn’t have any of their own. The tragedy of Chester’s mother passing away became an answer to their prayers.

  Did it happen that way?

  Maybe.

  The ghosts of Robert and Mary don’t visit me in my dreams. None of my ancestors have visited me—in my dreams or in my waking hours. The closest thing I have to Dad’s experience is a strong sense that John Crawford Lindsay knows about my efforts to uncover the family links binding all of us together and he is pleased with those efforts.