I spent three days at the Western Reserve Historical Society (WRHS) digging for evidence of my ancestors. I probably missed some key that would unlock the treasure box, but where my ancestors are concerned, I left knowing little more than when I started.
Don’t get me wrong, the WRHS has resources galore. Especially about the early German immigrants to Cleveland. I scooped up a copy of Cleveland and Its Germans and Jacob Mueller’s Memories of a 48er — each bound volume only $5 at the bookstore.
But I wasn’t able to find the Putnam Street church my family attended, or related records. I searched the names Harm, Handrich, Rapparlie, Schuster, Scheuermann, and found next to nothing. I found my greatgreatgrandfather and gg-grandmother mentioned under a story about William Hoppensack. I found Rapparleye mentioned under a note about a fire on Seneca Street.
Plenty of early Germans to Cleveland are mentioned. Often the word “educated” appears in the accolades about them. Then it hit me–my ancestors were blacksmiths. Or worked in the shipbuilding factory. Or worked for an innkeeper. There were many many like them, working class people. To those in the self-described “educated” circle of German immigrants, my ancestors were a spit in the bucket.
While I’m working on the research for this thesis, I’m living on the property where I grew up. I never thought much about it, but there was always an area of the ravine where we weren’t allowed to play, because there was too much broken glass. I was out there this morning, trying to clean up some of the more dangerous glass shards poking out of the earth, and I realized: I’m on an archeological dig. The pottery shards, blue, white and clear broken glass, the rotted apart leather shoe, all come from an era over a century old. The pieces are splintered, but they could be cleaned off and put together again. It’s possible.