Fresh beginnings make people reflect as well as anticipate.
I’m no different as I behold the clean canvas of a brand-new year. Like many of
you, genealogy and ancestry sites have captured my interest, and I’m intrigued
by ancestors who migrated to begin fresh lives and kept on traveling. I’m curious about why so many kin made it to
Kansas and stayed. As I explore their stories over the next few months, I hope
your families examine your sunflower roots as well.
Our first Kansas ancestors arrived by train from Devizes,
Ontario, Canada, in 1872. Although former brickmakers, they homesteaded along
the Kansas/Nebraska border in Norton County, KS. While they exchanged
longitudes, latitudes, and occupations, they maintained familiarity with their previous
home by naming their new home Devizes, Kansas. According to family records,
they donated land for a school, post office, and cemetery. Only the cemetery
remains. Like so many start ups at the end of the 1800s, this little community
withered til little except headstones remain to remind us of hopes that once
existed in this isolated place.
This particular group of immigrants came not only to claim
land, but also souls. Though Grandpa Reuben missed the Second Great Awakening
of the earlier 1800s, he discovered a deep faith and committed himself and his
family to the demands of a prairie Methodist Circuit rider. This meant he
frequently left wife, children, and parents to develop the homestead while he and
his pony traveled drainages with names of Beaver, Sappa, Prairie Dog, Solomon,
Deer, and more. No matter the weather, he crisscrossed mostly empty miles, holding
services for those settled far from town.
His tiny wife Hannah grew up as a daughter of ship captain
who navigated Lake Michigan. Marrying Grandpa meant exchanging her predictable
life for the exact opposite. I’m certain she surprised to herself by starting a
family in a sod house far from any large body of water.
She made do in those first homes, offered bread and coffee to
roaming Cheyenne, hid children in native grass to protect them from hostile
natives, lived off missionary barrel goods sent by established eastern
congregations, buried children, and in-laws, and lived to ripe old age before dying
in Ford, Kansas.
Grandpa writes about arriving soon after the Rebellion when
Kansans still reeled from the border wars. He detailed insect and weather-related
devastation and expressed his satisfaction that many settlers hungered to hear
the Lord’s message.
As I read his memoirs, I note town names have changed.
Lenora was once Spring City while Glade was Marvin. He shared his frustrations
with getting actual church buildings constructed. In Kensington, he and the
Baptist preacher held services in the local saloon Sundays when it closed for
regular business. He and the Methodists of Agra raised funds to build a
sanctuary that was soon destroyed by a tornado. They didn’t give up. The
community rallied and rebuilt their church.
With a love of history and so many roots in Kansas, I’ve
stories to share. Perhaps our tales intersect with yours. I’m eager to hear
from those with details to fill empty blanks in our saga.
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