Discovering Yourself in the 1940 Census

Have you had a chance to stop and think about what you might find hidden within the 1940 US Census?  Or maybe you have already taken a look. What a marvelous snapshot of our country in the throes of the Great Depression, teetering on the brink of World War II. In fact, some questions were added which reflect the stressed economic conditions under which Americans where working then; such as a person’s usual occupation, not just what they were doing the week of March 24-30, 1940.

The US Census Bureau teamed up with the National Archives to stage a great social media campaign to build interest in the April 2^nd first-ever online release of US Census records. They so successfully used Twitter (#1940Census), Facebook, Tumblr, Flickr, YouTube, and blogs (NARAtions and Prologue: Pieces of History) that followers' queries overloaded the servers shortly after release, followed by sincere apologies as the administrators realized they did not have the capacity for the interest they had generated. It was definitely a disappointment to those who had anxiously awaited the big release. Over the weeks, months and years to come, we can all satisfy our curiosity of how our ancestors, communities and country were reflected in those records.

The house on W. 74th Street

One of the amazing elements of this Census, for me and for many of my contemporaries, is that this is the first time our parents appear in a Census. When I look at a digital copy of the census document, I can imagine the census-taker, standing on the porch of my great-grandmother’s house on West 74^th Street in Cleveland, talking to my grandfather, who was home during the day from his job as a reporter for the Cleveland Plain Dealer. This census includes an indicator of which household member answered the census questions. The census-taker was undoubtedly male, wearing a bowler hat and, most likely, a tie. My grandfather would be giving him the names and ages of his household: besides himself, my great-grandmother, my grandmother, my mother (almost 3 years old) and my uncle (almost 2 years old).

Timmy & my mom

Although the handwriting of the census belongs to the census-taker, it was written in the presence of a grandfather I barely remember, recording a conversation so full of information, I wish I had been there to gather those facts, and more, myself. The facts the government collected are pieces to the puzzle I long to complete – the family tree on the side of my family known more for record-burning than record-keeping. I admit the 1940 Census has no new news on this little family: I know that my maternal grandfather’s parents were born in Ireland and that my grandmother’s mother was born in North Carolina, her father in Ohio. But there are other paths for me to explore that, I know, will give me countless hours of pleasure: Find my great grandparents in Columbus and see who was living with them then; find my father (3 ½ years old) and his family and see whether they were living in the house I came to know so well; Find the McCarthys in Findlay and the Learys in Cleveland; find my father’s cousins in Ashtabula and see if Great Aunt Winifred was still alive; find my step-grandfathers’ families; find my North Carolina relatives and see how the 10 years since 1930 treated them in births and deaths; find everyone’s occupations and incomes to put together an image of their lifestyle; the list goes on and on.

Aunt Winifred, my dad & his sisters

I am a map lover, and the census data across the decades are a rear-view map of the life journey we are on. We are products of our ancestors. Even generations ago, their experiences weigh heavily on our station in life, our view of the world, the foundation of our soul. 

Time to do a little time-travel.

Saving Her Voice

Email is my primary communication medium with my far-flung family.  And every now and then, I am shocked into memory and melancholy when I’m searching through my old inbox messages for something random and happen upon the group of messages from my mom, who has been gone three years now.  

She was, among many things, a great correspondent who made the transition from the handwritten note to email rather effortlessly.  She still sent handwritten cards and notes on special occasions or when sending a news clipping.  Our neighborhood priest opened a note from her the day after she died – congratulating him on his well-fought battle against cancer and thanking him for his prayers.  But for the most part, by 2008, email was her main communication tool.

Her death in December 2008 followed on the heels of a staggering diagnosis only 5 short weeks earlier.  From an administrative standpoint, that meant, at the time of her death, I hadn’t yet cleared out my backlog of old emails since about April of that year.  So, as I ventured back to them, intentionally, my clean-up resolution was an exercise in revisiting that unreal year and that surreal winter, as I copied each message from her to a cumulative document for safekeeping.

As I read about the US Postal Service cutting back on delivery frequency to curtail costs, I am reminded of the priceless nature of any scrap of handwritten correspondence from lost loved ones.  The changes at the Post Office are yet another nail in the coffin for the handwritten letter.  I saved very few handwritten notes from my mom or dad, not realizing the time for saving was so short.  The manila envelope she saved for me was chock full of treasures she kept from my childhood, all in my own handwriting – letters from camp, hand-made Mothers’ Day cards, thank you notes and even a long letter in my early adult voice telling her about my new college boyfriend.  We wrote each other every week when I was in college.  And we continued that pretty faithfully once I packed my car and moved 700 miles away.  Oh, to have those letters now.

Thankfully, I still hear her voice in a myriad of other ways and can even reflect on her views in the small collection of columns I have from when she wrote as a guest columnist for the Cleveland Plain Dealer, not that long ago.  There are many documents I own that I can read and feel her hand on my shoulder – especially the book I’ve drafted in whose part she played chief editor and fact source, right up until she died.

My college friend saved a rare letter his father wrote to him not long before his father’s sudden death at 57, just two years after we graduated from college.  I envy him that he can slide that letter out of its envelope and see his father’s handwriting, immediately recalling his face, hands and voice. These letters, recipes, pieces of clothing, silver pins, kitchen utensils, Christmas decorations take on exaggerated value when their original owner exits too early, but the exaggeration is warranted and their value is priceless.

As a resolution for the rest of my lifetime, rather than just this year, I will keep sending handwritten notes to my family.  Especially to my sons and future grandchildren.  And if the Post Office fails me, I’ll be the crazy grandma who delivers handwritten letters in person!