The blog will be written using WordPress Android application while we are on our month long family research trip to the east coast from Utah.

We loaded our data from Legacy family tree intoTelgen (the apostrophy doesnt work) Families android genealogy application.

Follow us as we travel to Kentucky, Tennessee, Virginia and Maryland in search of the stories and locations associated with the 18 th and 19th century Helmantolers.

Yesterday, I was on the phone doing family history research with a distant cousin in Southern Illinois.  After a half hour of  intense concentration about birth dates and burial locations, we were interrupted by concerned family members on the New Columbia, IL side of the phone call.  The St. Louis Airport terminal had just been hit by a tornado. We decided to end the call so they could go into the storm shelter in the basement.

This reminded me of my father Willis Lyndell Helmantoler’s memoir of the stormy night he was born on a farm in that same New Columbia, Massac County, Illinois town.  I dedicate it to those who live under the threats of tornado alley.

MY EARLY  LIFE

It was a dark and stormy night.  Lightning was flashing and thunder was crashing over a small frame house in the tiny hamlet of New Columbia, Illinois.  Outside the house the lightning struck and killed a small brown calf.  Inside the house a young woman screamed.  She was giving birth to her first child:  Me.   She was barely nineteen years old in that year of 1921.

Beside her bed sat my father and a half-drunk country doctor.  They were both drenched from their ride through the storm in an open wagon.   In spite of the weather and the late hour I arrived in this world squalling and kicking and fighting for life.

At the moment my father was between jobs.  He had left school after the sixth grade to work on his widowed mother’s farm.  During World War I he had served as a medic in the Army.   On this particular night he was suffering from a severely diminished cash flow: the family lived on a total of $21.00 for the first six months of my life.  I can imagine him worrying that night about another mouth to feed.

In the other room of the tiny house my ten-year-old half-brother, Wayne, waited for the birthing and the storm to end.  He would ask that I be named after his best friend.   By the dim light of a kerosene lamp the old doctor prepared a birth certificate for a long skinny baby with the name Lyndell Helmantoler.

A few months later my father began a three-year stint as a tenant farmer.  He worked from “can’t see to can’t see.”  A team of mules pulled his plow and harrow.  My mother raised much of our food in a garden beside the little three-room house in which we lived.

Of course, there was no electricity or plumbing in farmhouses in that area in those days.  A black woodburning stove in the kitchen kept us warm and cooked our food.  Kerosene lamps lighted the house at night.  A cow named Bossie supplied us with ample milk.

In the late afternoon I would watch from the kitchen window as my parents went about their chores.  On one such occasion I fell from that window and broke my arm.  This was a major disruption to farm life: I had to be taken by mule-drawn wagon to a doctor several miles away – an all-day trip.

When we got back home I threw my shirt onto the floor and refused my father’s order to pick it up.  It was the only time in my life that he ever spanked me.  That disciplinary action made a deep and lasting impression on me.  From that day on I was always responsive to my father’s instructions.   I never again challenged his authority.

During that time on the farm he often went “coon” hunting at night.  On one of those nights a group of men gathered in our yard and built a fire.  My mother and brother and I could see their shadows as they walked to and fro.   They pounded on our door and demanded to be admitted.  My 13-year-old brother stood guard with an iron poker that was longer than he was.  He called out, “The first man through the door will die.” They retreated to their bonfire and milled around for what seemed an eternity. When we heard my father’s wagon cross a wooden bridge, they departed.

My father was convinced that the men were from the Ku Klux Klan.  They had been pressuring him to join their ranks.  I have always been proud of the courage he demonstrated in refusing their offer of membership.

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The terrors we face make us stronger. He became a very strong but humble man.

In this post, I will share a story of related to the award of this medal.

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My father was so humble that in this memoir he did not mention that as the pilot he also received the Silver Star.   Would you like to hear more  of his “war stories”.?

Early in 1922, when I was barely a few months old, my father became a tenant farmer on a small farm a few miles out of New Columbia, Illinois. We lived there for more than three years. Obviously, I don’t remember much about the experience, but a few things stand out as the first things I remember in life.
My constant playmate was a small brown dog named Jackie-boy. He was a mixed breed: hound and terrier. At night he served admirably as my father’s coon dog, but in the daytime he was at my side as guardian and playmate. One of my earliest and clearest memories is of Jackie-boy killing a snake that was slithering across my path.

My other playmate during those early years was a girl named Anna Ruth Clymore who lived up the hill on an adjacent farm. She and I used to play automobile on an old trunk. She would sit on the trunk and I would pretend to crank the engine. Then we would both splutter in an effort to sound like Model T Fords, which our fathers drove in those days. We got to play together only on rare occasions when our families had time to visit each other.

My father worked from “can’t see to can’t see.” He plowed behind a team of mules named Jack and Gin. My mother raised much of our food in a garden near the little three-room farmhouse in which we lived. Of course, there was no electricity or plumbing in farmhouses in that area in those days. We burned wood in an iron stove in the kitchen. Water was pumped by hand from a well. Kerosene lamps lighted the house at night. A cow whose name I have forgotten supplied us with ample milk. I can remember drinking warm milk that had just been squeezed from that cow’s teat. I used to watch from the kitchen window when my parents did the milking in the late afternoon. Often I stood on the windowsill to get the best view. On one such occasion I fell off of the windowsill onto the floor and broke my arm. This caused a major disruption of life on the Hubbs farm. The next day I had to be taken to a doctor several miles away to have the arm set. When we returned home that evening I took off my blouse and threw it on the floor. My father asked me to pick it up. I declined. He directed that I pick it up. I refused. He spanked me – the only time he did that in my life. Even though I don’t remember the spanking, I have concluded that it made a strong impression on me. From that day on I was always responsive to my father’s instructions. When he called, I came running. I never challenged his authority.

I can remember riding in a wagon drawn by our mules. The family was heading to a small white church on a Sunday morning. As we rode up Chapman Hill some teenage girls hitched a ride on our wagon, and my teenage brother was scolded for being too forward with them. Even though I was only four years old, it seemed to me they enjoyed his forward behavior.

The following incident occurred when I was three years old, so I doubt that much of it comes from my own memory, rather it probably comes from my parents telling me about it. But the feeling of fear is so stark and two of the pictures stand out so strongly in my head, that I think there is a possibility that I actually remember some parts of the incident.

It happened on a night when my father had gone coon hunting. I had whooping cough at the time and was incapable of remaining quiet no matter how much I wanted to. Several men built a large fire in our yard and stood around it talking. My mother, my brother Wayne and I watched them through the window. I coughed almost continuously in spite of my mother’s shushing. The men pounded on the door and demanded admittance. My brother, who was thirteen at the time, held an iron poker in his hands and told them that he would kill the first man through the door. I think I can remember the overwhelming feeling of fear.

My father always sang as he drove his wagon home from his nighttime coon hunts. Evidently, the men heard the wagon returning, doused their fire and departed before he got to the house. He told us he thought they were members of the Ku Klux Klan who had tried to recruit him. He thought they were trying to scare him into joining. I am proud that he continued to decline their offer of membership.

Another event on the Hubbs farm that has remained in my memory-bank over the years involves my cousin Jack Helmantoler who was working on the farm for my father. One day Jack took me with him on the wagon. For some reason the mules made a sharp turn, and the tongue of the wagon was snapped in two. I clearly remember looking down at that broken wagon tongue, but I don’t remember saying, “Now, we’ve played Hell,” as was reported by my cousin.

Shortly before the family left the Hubbs farm in the fall of 1925, my father bought a Model T Ford (probably costing less than $300). Being an inexperienced driver he ran the car into a ditch on one of our first drives. The picture of that car tilted at a crazy angle in that ditch still sticks in my mind. It was one of the few times I ever heard my father use foul language.

I’m sure I had no idea of what it meant to pick up stakes and leave the Hubbs farm, leave my dog behind and move to a city 175 miles away. It was also decided to leave my brother Wayne in nearby Metropolis where he was in his first year of high school. He would join us when school was finished.

The Helmantoler family was unencumbered by a large number of possessions. All of our worldly goods were loaded into the back seat of that car with me sitting on top of our featherbed. My first impression as we approached our destination was the odor of the oil refineries; the next most distinctive memory was that of thousands of electric lights on the refinery towers and tanks. Wood River, Illinois was the fastest growing town in the country in that year of 1925, and we were a typical part of that growth.

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In future blogs I will share other stories he wrote about events in his life.

The patriarchs and matriarchs of the Helmantoler, Gurley, Martin, Clark, Cash, Lucas, Simmons, Oliver,  Thornhill and Wright families will proudly welcome him as a great and noble graduate from the mortal realm.

He is admired by colleagues, loved by family and missed by his many friends. Adding your comment to this blog is an opportunity to share your experience with this great man. I will create a post for each period of his exemplary life. Feel free to comment on where you interacted with a true American Hero.

The Irish course covered church records, estate records, land records, the registry of deeds, ordinance survey maps, valuation and tithe records.  David made learning about the Irish laws and court systems interesting with his stories about We learned about Plantation and settlement of 17th century Ulster.

These excellent lectures were from nine to noon. Each afternoon he helped his ten students apply what we leaned from the morning lecture.  It was hard work but very rewarding to learn the possibilities of Irish records. The techniques we learned also apply to England and the US.

Most of the Institute students were professional genealogists specializing in British research. There were other concurrent courses on Scotland and Wales so we didn’t meet everyone. One expert that was there met Terence Quirke an Irish and UK research consultant.  He wrote and award winning book on the Quirke family, one of my yet unsearched Irish family lines!

Learning about the legal and economic abuse of the Catholic population was a life changing experience.  Since the institute I have watched two BBC series on Cromwell and Henry VII.  My English peerage ancestry and my Southern Irish Catholic ancestors are already appearing in the Irish land and estate records.  I look forward to attending the ISBGFH Institute next Fall in Salt Lake City UT.

The daily training sessions are conducted as professionally as any I have attended. Running a complex global application with a team of 900 volunteers is a major accomplishment for any organization. The “soul deep” commitment of these volunteers to success is built on their commitment to building a common pedigree going back to the original Biblical parents.

Most of my time was devoted to promoting the FamilySearch Developers Network. I served with Gordon Clarke, Program Manager for the Third Party Affiliate network.  We helped companies to achieve certification status for the various features offered in the Application Programming Interface (API).

I am impressed by the commitments of these commercial ventures to the success of new.FamilySearch.org.  It is the same spirit as the volunteers, but amplified with the consecration of their capital.  Without their sacrifice of time and talent the FamilySearch product would not be as useful.

My small contribution to the developer community and marketing staff has been multiplied in return of great friendships and enlightenment to me.  Completing this year of service to the genealogy and family history community has been a great blessing from the Father of us all.  It has been the “best year of my life”.

The new.FamilySearch.org system is an amazing piece of collaboration software for Family Historians and Genealogists.  I am providing second level technical support on line via the Internet and helping third party software vendors to work with the Application Platform Interface.

There are many ways to volunteer to help with Family Search. Here are 3 that relate to the new family search.

1. Serve in your local Family History center,
2. Serve as a Family History Consultant in an LDS Ward or
3. Apply for a part-time (15hrs week) Church Service Missionary supporting new Family Search on the internet from your home.

I am doing the latter and you really learn the hidden mysteries of this very sophisticated database software. Most of the missionaries I met on-line are stay-at-home 50-70 year old ladies.  I am impressed that they can learn to use the support tools.  The training staff and other missionary leaders are very knowledgeable and patient.

For the at-least the next six months I will be blogging on how great this global project is and how it affects everyone’s lives.

David Rencher interviewed by Dick Eastman at So. Ca. Genealogy Conference June 2009