The Yelling in the Other Room

{Prompt: What things did your parents argue about when you were little?}

What did my parents argue about when I was little? That’s a great question. It’s harder to answer than you might imagine.

Undoubtedly, they did argue. Many times my brother and I heard yelling in the other room. But what was it about? That is hard to say.

Usually the other room was the master bedroom, in the corner of the house, across the hall from the bedroom that we slept in. The substance of the altercation was hard to make out from that distance when the door was closed.

Let me explain. The size and layout of our house is important. Our house was pretty small. It had two bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen. There was a square-shaped hall in the middle of those four rooms, with access to the furnace below and the fold-down attic stairs above. And there was a one-room addition on one side, that my father used for a workroom, which had a connecting door to the kitchen and our bedroom.

My dad, at his enormous desk in the “office.”

If you wanted to run in circles in our house, you could do it by running through the kitchen (avoiding the linoleum-covered countertops and the dangling cord of the phone on the wall)… running through my Dad’s man-cave (scooting around the sizable vintage wooden desk)… taking a hard right into the children’s bedroom, and straight through to the next door (watching out for Legos, Hot Wheels cars, or unsorted clothing)… another hard right into the central hallway (being careful not to slip, or stub your toe on the 3-by-5-foot metal grille of the floor furnace grate)… then through the slatted, folding doors to the living room (where it was best to pass slowly beside the TV set, or risk the retribution of the parents)… one last hard right at the front door, and back into the kitchen. Clockwise always seemed like the best way to run this route.

It’s even better when you are being chased.

(Credit: Getty Images/istockphoto)

But notice that the parents’ master bedroom was never a part of the circuit. In fact the master bedroom had a single door (to the central hallway), and it was usually closed. At night, if there was yelling, it most likely came from that mysterious chamber — untouched by the scampering feet of circling scoundrels.

But what was the yelling about? I honestly don’t know. It was muffled and inaudible. And as the youngest child, I wasn’t really trying to find out. I guess I took a better-off-not-knowing approach to family arguments.

And I don’t think that we were meant to know. I think if an argument was brewing, it either took place in our absence, or it was put off to the evening, after our bedtime.

I would guess that most arguments were along these lines:

Mom - “You play with them too much. They need to do their chores.”

Dad - “Aw… come on. I’m tired. I just want to relax.”

Or this:

Mom - “Why did you have to spank him?”

Dad - “What? I barely touched him. He needs to behave.”

But I really don’t know. Usually the argument sounded like the teacher on a Charlie Brown special:

Mom - “Whaa whaa whaa-whaa?”

Dad - (in a lower pitch) “Well, Whaa whaa whaa-whaa-whaa.”

Clearly they agreed, at least on one thing; which was to keep the arguments out of earshot.

There were disagreements, of course. For example, my mother didn’t like to be around my father’s cigarette smoke. Consequently, I only saw him smoking at his hobby shop or in his car. He had that talent for flicking a lighter and holding it to the end of the cigarette, while shielding the flame from the wind. It’s not easy to do. At least not without a bit of practice. And he could roll down the car window a crack and flick the end of a cigarette so that the ashes fell out the window. So, even though he didn’t smoke in the house, he smoked enough to know what he was doing.

Perhaps they argued about his smoking.

Close up of a cigarette break.

My father probably wanted some time on his own. Of course my mom probably did too. But my mom had gone to college to be a teacher, and she had experience with children in elementary school. She expected to take care of the children.

My father, I think, had less experience with young children, in comparison. Don’t get me wrong. He was there to help with Boy Scouts and other activities. He enjoyed drawing (calligraphy, in particular), leathercrafting, model-building, car-mechanics, and home-repair, and he was happy to share those things with us.

But he also found ways to be away from home. Besides his regular job, as a draftsman at Stackpole Electrical, he opened a military-themed hobby shop (The Armoury) as a side gig, probably to spend a little time out of the house.

Perhaps they argued about how much time to spend together… or alone… or with the kids.

The Yamaha— a great way to get away.

My parents came from different backgrounds. My Mom grew up in the South, in Columbia, South Carolina. She enjoyed grits. She cooked with plenty of salt and butter.

My Dad grew up in the North; in Baldwinsville, New York. He enjoyed bagels and Dunkin’ Donuts. He put pepper on his eggs. Perhaps they argued about their food preferences. Or the merits of the different regions where they were raised. Perhaps they argued about the reasons for the Civil War!

You see, they met in Wilmington, North Carolina; while my father was serving in the Marine Corps at Camp Lejeune, and my mother was working as a teacher for the schools in Wilmington. My father, the ‘Yankee’. My mother, the ‘Southern Belle’.

They were married in 1959, and had their two children in the next five years. North Carolina is famous for welcoming folks from both north and south of the Mason-Dixon line, so when they bought a home it was in Raleigh, the capital city.

Their families were quite different in social class, as well. My mother’s parents both had a college education. Her father was a college professor and a lifelong Methodist Sunday school teacher. He could tell you what elements made the colors of a wood fire as it burned. Her mother had a degree in chemistry and enjoyed crossword puzzles. She knew the names of all the rivers in Europe and Asia that could be found in a crossword puzzle.

A grainy photo of Willard & Mary Whitesell and their first son.

My father’s parents both simply finished high school. His father was a foreman in the test and maintenance department of General Electric, and he was working in a studio called “Designs for Listening.”. He enjoyed recording vinyl records in his free time. He died in 1953, when my father was only 17. My father’s mother worked for the New York State Department of Civil Service, and she had received awards for her stamp collecting skills. She died when he was 40.

A grainy photo of Emily and Leonard Gallup

So my mother and father were really from different places, geographically and socio-culturally. Somehow they made it work.

They probably agreed on most matters, far more than they disagreed. They kept the arguments (mostly) under wraps, out of sight, and (usually) out of earshot. To be fair, the arguments were really quite few, and far between.

They were obviously in love when they married (after a relatively short period of courting). They were in love when they had two children. And they loved one another enough… cared enough… to argue over a problem until they reached an agreement.

They showed their love, too, in hugs and kisses, in conversations at the family dinner, in participation in games and activities, and in child rearing.

So, even though I remember the muffled sounds of angry parents on a few occasions, I don’t really remember what the fighting was about. And for me, it didn’t matter. It always seemed like a part of the process; a brief tempest in a season of sunny Spring weather.

The fighting always ended; and my happy parents returned to their jobs with sanity and normalcy. My pleasant childhood would continue, unperturbed.

Photo in front of the fireplace of (L-R) Gerry, Mike, Steve, Meg.

(Photo of Mike in our living room, which had cabinets with honey-colored sliding wood-paneled doors, with the TV and World Book Encyclopedia volumes on top, and pottery, speakers, and record albums on the shelves above. But look at that backpack.)

Not So Solitary Confinement

{Prompt: How would you describe your childhood bedroom?}

There is little that I remember about my bedroom. Only two things really. I remember the bunk bed that I shared with my brother — my older brother — and I remember the window to the backyard — the translucent portal to the outdoor world and the insufferable heat of summer in the North Carolina Piedmont.

The bunk bed was nothing special. It was a bunk of two twin beds, built with wood too thin to withstand a modern Consumer Product Safety inspection — wood smoothly finished with a light honey-colored stain that perfectly reflected the warm amber glow of the incandescent lighting of the ‘60s.

Both of us on the top bunk - circa 1968

The bed rails held only 3 or 4 bare wooden slats. And they in turn supported a thin bed mattress with springs that showed from the underside. It was great sport, at night, to stick your feet up, from the bunk below to the bunk above, and poke the mattress springs firmly, or kick the wooden slats provocatively, to see what effect all this might have on the occupant of the upper bunk.

And I was the occupant of the upper bunk for some time — maybe more than one span of time. You see, our parents may have switched us around once or twice, hoping to find a harmonious arrangement. I think that they erred on the side of safety, by putting the smaller child in the lower bunk. Less chance of a mishap — of having the younger child roll over and off of the bed in the middle of the night. And less likelihood that a small child could reach the bunk above with his feet.

But I could. Of course I had to lift up my hips, and push my butt up at least 6 inches, to get my feet onto the slats, but once I got my feet up there, it was just a matter of leverage to keep myself inverted for quite some time. Long enough to create a disturbance. This was how a lot of pillow fights began.

Eventually rules were laid down — a decree was issued — that we should lie quietly in bed, at least long enough to give our weariness a fighting chance to overwhelm us with sleep.

No actual photos exist of the hijinks. (Credit: Xanthe Berkeley)

But sleep was so difficult when temperatures at night were in the 90s. You see, there was no air conditioning during the summers. We couldn’t sleep in pajamas, because of the heat. Even a t-shirt was too hot at times. We often slept in our underwear — “tighty-whities” — half covered, with a sheet over one leg, on those hot summer nights. We were sweaty when we went to bed, and lucky if we fell asleep at all.

The window was opened as far as possible, and a box fan was placed somewhere, elsewhere in the house, in another window, with the direction of airflow pointing outward. The reasoning was, “The fan blows the hot air out of the house, and the cool air comes in the other windows… including yours.” This seemed like highly dubious reasoning to me at the time, and I think that we successfully lobbied to have the fan placed in our window, and the direction of airflow reversed, so that the hypothetically cooler air would flow into our room, and the hot air would subsequently be pushed out of the other windows. If there was any cool air to be had, we wanted access to that cool breeze to begin in our bedroom. The condition of the rest of the house be damned!

Two particularly decorative vintage box fans.

Later, a rotating fan (instead of the accursed box fan), was introduced to the center of our room. It stood about 3 feet off the floor, and for a few seconds the fan created a lukewarm, or perhaps a cool, breeze, before the airflow passed by with the rotation of the fan.

Winters were little better, as the bulk of the heat came from a central furnace in the hallway in the middle of the house. As a matter of fact, a folding wooden drying rack was placed above the grille of the furnace on the floor at least once a week to dry the laundry! There were many mornings when I unabashedly straddled that floor grate after the morning shower, wrapped in a terry cloth bathrobe, to dry myself off and warm myself up.

Although it was toasty warm in that chamber, where all the warm air was discharged from the furnace, there was blessed little circulation of the heat from one room to another. No radiators and no floor or ceiling vents that I can recall. The door to the hallway had to be opened, at the sacrifice of your privacy, if the heat was to be enjoyed.

It looked a little like this.

Besides the bunk bed and the window, nothing memorable was found in the bedroom. I’m sure there was a dresser of clothes, and a child-sized desk. There was certainly a set of the Chronicles of Narnia, and perhaps a few other books. There was probably a children’s record player, with some 45s of children’s music and stories, and some record albums (33s), as I got older.

There must have been some games and some toys, but I think for the most part the bedroom was designed to be slept in, and for dressing. Nothing more. Play… and especially horseplay… was not in keeping with the primary purpose of our confinement, at bedtime.

A rare moment of fraternity (circa 1969)

Going Down the Rabbit Hole

{Prompt: How far back can you trace your ancestry?}

Doing genealogy is like going down a rabbit hole. Every ancestor that you find has two parents to be discovered. With every generation of the family tree, the amount of historical research doubles.

This is the story of how I became acquainted with genealogy, and how far down the ancestral rabbit hole I have descended….

The Family Tree

As a child I was aware that my parents came from different worlds. That was my first inkling that there was something interesting about the family tree. My mother was a “genteel” Southerner from Columbia, South Carolina, whose parents also spoke with other Southern accents (Virginian and Georgian, I know now). They summered at the family farm in the Shenandoah Valley to grow vegetables, craft furniture, work crossword puzzles, and read. They were Southern gentlefolk.

My father was a “disreputable” Yankee carpetbagger. …No, not really; but he came from upstate New York, from a place called Albany, which was cold and gray and dreary all the time (or at least on the one visit that we made when I was very young). His mother worked for the State of New York, she smoked, she collected stamps, and she either made or purchased a Christmas wreath made out of computer punch cards, way back in the sixties. Her husband — my grandfather — died in 1953, when my father was only 18, and, of course, since I wasn’t even born yet, I never met or knew much about him, except his name — Leonard.

Workers at desks festooned with punch-card wreaths

Let me tell you a little bit more about my parents — the first branches of my family tree. They met in North Carolina in the 1950s. My mother was teaching possibly her first lessons at an elementary school in Wilmington, after graduating from High Point College. My father was a Corporal at the time, serving in the Second Marine Division at Camp Lejeune. That is where he was stationed after completing basic training at Parris Island (in Beaufort, South Carolina). And that is where he went after he dropped out of college in upstate New York. He became a qualified electrician during his training, but he was, first and foremost, a Marine. Semper Fi!

Mom and Dad met at a dance arranged by the USO in Wilmington, and I guess it wasn’t long before they were “going steady”. They were married on August 1st, 1959, and then they moved to Raleigh, North Carolina, in “The Triangle”, where my brother, Mike, was born in 1961, and I was born in 1964.

An exciting depiction of “The Research Triangle”

I’m not sure how long Raleigh has been called a part of “The Triangle” in North Carolina, but it looks like at the time IBM opened in May of 1965, it was part of the “Research Triangle Park”. Possibly that’s when the moniker began. I just knew, at the time, when I was growing up, that I lived in “the Triangle”, a safe zone (or at least a zone of tolerance) for relocating Northerners, delineated by an obtuse triangle (geometrically speaking), that ran between Raleigh, Durham, and Chapel Hill.

It was an island of growth — of government, university, and white collar jobs — in the middle of a sea of traditional trades, like farming (tobacco & pork bellies) and manufacturing (furniture & textiles). It was a place for the mingling of classes - the working class and the intelligentsia; for the clash of politics - Democratic and Republican; and for the alchemy of relationships between people from the North and the South.

I was a bit of a chimera — a child of a Northerner and a Southerner, who had both moved to the area. I realize now, many years later that hardly anyone is really from Raleigh. Most people now, and for many years back, have moved to Raleigh from other places, for various reasons. And most of the people actually born in Raleigh are born — like me — to people from somewhere else. Many are born to Northerners who have moved south for jobs, or for the warm winters, or for the low cost of living.

Before 3rd grade, I didn’t know anything about genealogy, or about a family tree. I just knew that my parents were from two completely different places.

My Famous Cousin

Around about 3rd grade, my class assignment was to bring in a family tree — basically a tree that included my parents and grandparents. But being the quintessential teacher’s pet, I went home and with the assistance of my parents, I carefully drew out and labeled a two-page (fold-out) schematic of my family tree, which went back about nine generations on my mother’s side. Most of it was copied, ancestor by ancestor, from a tree that had been meticulously researched and compiled by a great aunt or a distant cousin in the family of my grandmother, whose name was Mary Cook Atkinson Whitesell. Even so, my third grade teacher seemed really impressed. I guess she was used to getting a lot of drawings that looked more like oak trees, with two or three generations at best.

Although my tree, at that time, included all my grandparents, and nearly all of my (first) great-grandparents, it was really the branch of my maternal grandmother, Mary, that was the star of the show. Her branch included names like Lucy Yates, Malinda Gamble, William Francis Cook, and John Pepper Atkinson. She had relatives that were colonists and some that lived on the American frontier.

One branch — the Yates line — went back to Colonel William Randolph and Mary Isham, who married in 1680, and had nine children. They’re sometimes called the “Adam and Eve of Virginia” because of the great number of their descendants. They also happen to be the great grandparents of founding father Thomas Jefferson, our third US president— making me his second cousin, six times removed.

My cousin— Thomas Jefferson

Another branch of Mary’s tree — the Ellis line — went back to colonial New Hampshire and Massachusetts. It include people like Ebenezer Day, who helped found the frontier town of Keene, New Hampshire, way back in 1753, when even New Hampshire was on the frontier of civilization.

Around the same time (1769), another ancestor in this line, the missionary, Reverend Eleazar Wheelock, was founding a school for the “savages” to school them in Christian theology. That school was the Ivy League institution called Dartmouth College.

My grandmother Mary’s family tree was filled with Colonists and prominent citizens, and there were dramatic emigrations, as ancestors moved to frontier lands in Georgia when the Native Americans were forced out. Some ancestors moved from coastal Virginia to Newnan, Georgia (where my grandmother was born), and some moved from Keene, New Hampshire to Eatonton, Georgia (the birthplace of Joel Chandler Harris of Brer Rabbit fame). The peopling of western Georgia, though it occurred before the Civil War, was a little bit like a land grab in historical terms. Parcels of land were given out by lottery, and it helped to have connections, if you wanted a lottery ticket.

My Mercenary Origins

In comparison, the peopling of the Shenandoah Valley was rather gradual and deliberate, as I discovered from a careful look at my grandfather Willard Alexander Whitesell’s family tree.

Many years after that first copy of my family tree, I started exploring it further. My (maternal) grandfather Willard died in 1991, and not long after that I saw typewritten records of the Whitesell family history. Rather than a bifurcating tree of names and dates (birth and death), this family history was more of a collection of stories. There were a couple of pages on each generation — the Whitesells (or Weitzels), the Huffmans, the Brubakers, and the Rosenbergers.

This little typewritten book, with its strike throughs and corrections, contained intimations that the clan arose from a Hessian (German) mercenary, Johann Paul Weitzel, who arrived near Philadelphia to fight for the English in the Revolutionary War. But subsequently he stayed in America, living in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Over succeeding generations, family members moved from western Pennsylvania to Frederick, Maryland; and then to Rockingham County in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. Willard Whitesell’s ancestors — all of them — had been born and living in the valley for a hundred years before he himself was born in 1897.

Glamorous depiction of a Hessian mercenary.

It turns out that Willard also had a diagram of his family tree, which I discovered later. He drew out a diagram, using graphite pencil, on what was once manila-colored packaging paper. The paper was carefully rolled into a cardboard tube that was about three feet long. When fully unrolled, the entire diagram is about the size of a closet door, and barely fits on top of our pool table. The paper is so dark with age, that it is hard to make out the pencil marks today, but when you look closely you can see the names and dates written with the precision of a lifelong chemistry professor (which is what my grandfather did for a living).

The Gallup Name

In contrast, until I retired in 2019, I had no idea how far back my father’s family tree would go. His mother’s family — the Knapps and Shaeffers — came from relatively recent immigrations from Germany. They were immigrants who moved to upstate New York in the 1850s, when there was widespread famine, not only in parts of Germany, but also (famously) in Ireland and other parts of Europe. They were poor and they were farmers or laborers, or they were the children of farmers and laborers.

The Gallup line — my paternal line — was still a mystery. My father’s father, Leonard Byron Gallup, was a mid-level manager for GE and the only son of Ira James Gallup. Ira was one of the many humble farmers and laborers in upstate New York. And that’s as far as the Gallup family tree could be traced, to the best of my knowledge.

I had hopes that the Gallup family came from good stock — perhaps Dutch fur traders who moved up the Hudson valley and settled in Albany. Or possibly Quakers from Pennsylvania had wandered past the Catskills into Finger Lakes of New York.

I knew there was a famous fellow named George Gallup, who created the Gallup Poll — a widely cited and well-regarded statistical poll that achieved recognition for a couple of days every four years during an election cycle.

And I knew there was a town called Gallup — spelled with a “U” — way out west in a state called New Mexico, somewhere in the high desert of the Colorado plateau, on the famous Route 66.

So, I thought, maybe the Gallup family has been around for a while — long enough to have had family that settled the west, and to have other family that made something of themselves. But I didn’t really know.

Vintage postcard of Gallup, New Mexico

So after I retired, I found myself with some free time in the winter — after all the holiday festivities — and I started to build a real family tree, one that included primary historical documents, like census records and vital records; and I created the tree on the Ancestry website, where I could easily put in everything I knew so far and everything that I could discover in the online documents.

Still, when I got to Ira J. Gallup, my paternal great-grandfather, I ran into trouble. I had no birth or death certificates for Ira J. Gallup and no clue as to who his parents were from the (non-existent) family records. (Remember, both Leonard Gallup (his son and my grandfather) and Gerald Gallup (my father) died in their 40s, thus leaving no records of the past for their posterity).

Sidebar: This part is complicated. I wouldn’t blame you if you skipped ahead five or six paragraphs to the next section.

I began to search for the parents of Ira Gallup, and his father, in particular. From Census records, I could determine that Ira lived with his mother, Ann Gallup; grandmother, Catherine Stiner; and siblings Clinton and Ida (his twin) in Berne, New York, in 1875 and in 1870. No father was found listed in the household.

Going back in time, I found that 29 year old Ann (or Anna Stiner) Gallup was living with her children, Byron (age 8), Clinton (age 6), Ira and Ida (age 1) in Berne, at the time of the 1865 New York census, near the end of the civil war. In 1860, before the war began (and before Ira or Ida were born), she was living with Byron (age 3), Clinton (age 1), and her mother Catherine Stiner. Again, no husband was listed in either the 1865 or the 1860 census.

An example of census records

It’s only in a single census — the 1855 New York census — before any of her children were born, that Anna Gallup is listed with her husband — as the spouse of Glen Gallup — both living at that time with her mother, Catherine Stiner, and his brother, James Gallup. In the U.S. census of 1850, Anna Stiner (age 15) is found living with her mother, Catherine Stiner, and her grandmother, Helena Schumaker. Without the 1855 New York census record, I would have no clue as to the ancestral lineage of the Gallup family before Ira Gallup.

Even with the evidence that Glen Gallup and Anna Stiner were my 2nd great-grandparents, the trail of ancestors before Glen Gallup was threadbare. There were no probate records including a man named Glen Gallup. No grave or burial records. No wedding or death certificates. Very little to go on. Fortunately a young man named Glen Gallup showed up in one other census record in 1850, in the nearby town of Knox, New York. He is 16 at that time, and living with his parents (Ebenezer and Susan) and most of his siblings (Silas, Phebe, Job, Ezra, and Sarah). His age is a perfect match for the 21 year old that was living with Anna Gallup and Catherine Stiner in the 1855 census, five years later.

Now I knew that my likely ancestor, Glen Gallup, was the son of Ebenezer and Susan Gallup of Knox, New York, and his siblings included James and Silas (older), and Phebe, Job, Ezra, and Sarah (younger). Among the few other documents that listed a Glen Gallup in New York, I came upon a record called The Genealogical History of the Gallup Family in the United States, and it included some of these exact people. It included Ebenezer and Susan Gallup with four children (their first four) — James, Silas, Glenn, and Phebe. This had to be the same family.

The Genealogical History of the Gallup Family in the United States didn’t list the descendants of Glen and Anna Gallup — Byron, Clinton, Ira, and Ida — but it did list Glen’s ancestors, all the way back to the first Gallup in America, John Gallup of Bridport, England, who, according to other records, “sailed from Plymouth, England, March 20, 1630, in the ship Mary and John, arriving at Nantasket, now Hull, [Massachusetts] May 30th.”

In one fell swoop, I had unlocked the records of seven more generations (and 200 years) of Gallup ancestors who had settled in Massachusetts, Connecticut, and upstate New York. I was traveling down the rabbit hole with terrifying speed.

It turns out that the Gallup family is every bit as venerable as the Whitesell and Atkinson families. There is even an island named for John Gallup in the Boston Harbor. And there is a town called Gallupville — yep, Gallupville — not far from Albany, New York. 43 years after my father died, I felt like his name — the Gallup name — was finally showing it’s worth.

Confirmation

It was only a short time later that I found a record of the marriage of Glen Gallup to Ann Stynen [sic] on January 18, 1855. It was on a page of the Beaverdam Dutch Reformed Church records, found in a different genealogical website.

I also uncovered a marriage record in Toronto, Ontario, in Canada, for Dewitt Clinton Gullup [sic] (Ira’s older brother) confirming that Glen Gullup [sic] and Ann Steiner [sic] were his parents.

My connection with Ebenezer Gallup (Glen’s father) and the rest of the Gallup lineage was even further validated when I completed DNA testing that showed a definite overlap with the DNA of other descendants of Ebenezer and the ancestral Gallups listed in the Genealogical History of the Gallup Family.

An Unexpected Surprise

Although John Gallup arrived only 10 years after the first settlers in New England, I had pretty much given up any hope of tracing my family back to the Mayflower, when I discovered in 2024 that I actually did have a relative on that famous ship!

My 10th great grandparents, John Howland and Elizabeth Tilley, came to Plymouth, Massachusetts on the Mayflower in 1620. Elizabeth Tilley’s parents - my 11th great-grandparents — also came on the Mayflower, but died in the first winter, victims of starvation and disease. (I have included the entire line of my ancestry, from the Mayflower to the present, in an Appendix below).

Modern depiction of The Mayflower

If you could trace all of your ancestors back 13 generations (to the 11th great-grandparent) you would have 8192 ancestors in that row alone (2 to the 13th power). Now… I have traced only one line back that far, but there are still hundreds of direct ancestors listed in the family tree that I keep archived in the Ancestry.com website — The Gallup & Whitesell Family Tree 2020. It’s no wonder that I didn’t follow the branch of my 6th great-grandmother, Eunice Cobb back to the Mayflower on my first (or second, or third) foray into genealogical research. She was only one of 256 potential 6th great-grandparents. I didn’t take any notice of her line until later. (Genealogical research is never complete.)

There may yet be more exciting discoveries in my ancestral past. Most of my branches go back only as far as the first arrivals on American soil. I have only followed the clues to other countries on rare occasions. I have one branch that follows a line of ancestors within the town of Schwanheim (by means of the well preserved church records) in Prussia (Germany), and I had to learn to read a bit of German script along the way. I have leads to many ancestors in Old England, Prussia, and Europe who have yet to be pursued.

However, at this point, I’m more interested in fleshing out the lives of the ancestors that I’ve found so far. It may sound corny, but its really true. Learning the stories of your ancestors makes history come alive. I know a little about the lives of my mother and father, how they came to meet, and how they ended up moving to the Triangle in North Carolina. I’d like to learn more about the lives of the Gallups, the Whitesells, the Knapps, the Atkinsons and all the others who came before.

I’ve included a bit of the stories of only one of the ancestral lines in the Appendix below. Take a look, and you’ll begin to see how far down the rabbit hole genealogy can take you.

APPENDIX

My lineage, from passengers of the Mayflower, to the present:

-John Tilley (1571-1621) & Joan Hurst (1568 - 1621)

Died in the winter of 1621, when nearly half the Mayflower passengers perished due to food shortage and disease, after a late arrival with inadequate shelter and provisions.

-John Howland (1592-1672) & Elizabeth Tilley (1607 - 1687)

John nearly drowned when he was washed overboard the Mayflower during a storm at sea. Fortunately he grabbed a topsail halyard, and survived. He was a servant for the Carver family who took in the orphaned children: Elizabeth Tilley, Desire Minter, and William Latham. Unfortunately the Carvers also died in the spring of 1621, making John a freeman with three young charges. He married Elizabeth about three years later. They had 10 living children, and they have about 2 million American descendants today.

-Desire Howland (1627-1683) & John Gorham (1619-1676)

Story is yet to be told.

-Elizabeth Gorham (1648-1683) & Joseph Hallett (1630-1721)

Story is yet to be told.

-Lois Hallett (1672-1726) & Henry Cobb, Jr. (1665-1725)

Story is yet to be told.

-Eunice Cobb (1693-1759) & Benedam Gallup, Jr. (1693-1755)

Story is yet to be told.

-Col. Nathan Gallup (1727-1799) & Sarah Giddens (1729-1778)

Nathaniel Gallup became Lieutenant Colonel of the 8th militia of New London, Connecticut during the Revolutionary War. He was accused of cowardice, and tried in a court-martial, when he failed to come to the aid of other Patriots who were overrun by the British (led by Benedict Arnold) at the Battle of Groton Heights. In the American rendition of the battle, the patriots at Fort Griswold were massacred (shot or bayoneted) by the British after they surrendered and laid down their guns. Colonel Nathan Gallup was acquitted of his charges, but other soldiers involved in the battle were not so fortunate.

-Sarah Gallup (1751-1799) & Silas Gallup (1749-1796)

These were second cousins who had the same great grandfather, Benadam Gallup, Sr. They helped to establish Knox, New York, a city near Albany.

-Ebenezer Gallup (1795-1865) & Susan Harden (1808-1884)

Ebenezer was the tenth child of Sarah and Silas. Both his parents died before he was five. He was probably raised by his sister, Silence Gallup.

-Glen Gallup (~1834 - Unknown) & Anna Stiner (1834 - Unknown)

Little is known of Glen Gallup, but his older brothers, James and Silas, both moved to Nebraska after the Civil War. Anna Stiner’s mother was listed as “Idiot” or “Insane” in all of her census records, and she must have been mentally impaired. Anna was born out of wedlock, and no father was recorded on the record of her baptism. She was illegitimate.

-Ira James Gallup (1864-1952) & Emma Gorham (1862-1940)

Ira’s brother Leonard Byron Gallup died in a train accident at age 35. Ira subsequently gave his son the very same name. Ira probably married twice (with no children) before he married Emma Gorham, who was already widowed with two children of her own. They had only one son together.

-Leonard Byron Gallup (1910-1953) & Emily Mae Knapp (1909-1976)

One set of my grandparents.

-Gerald Fredric Gallup (1935-1977) & Margaret Ann Whitesell (1935-present)

My parents.

 -Steven Brian Gallup (1964-present) & Dianne Shihadi (1966-present)

A screenshot of five generations of my Ancestry.com family tree

XXX OOO (Hugs & Kisses)

{Prompt: What was your Mom like?}

Describing a person is tricky. How much of their persona is real and how much of it is a facade? Is the person that I know in some way the same person that you know in another way? Is the person the same to themselves as they are to others?

I think I can describe my mother — her attributes and her life experience pretty well. And I think she is pretty much the same person on the inside as she is on the outside.

Margaret Whitesell Gallup, circa 1961.

But first let me tell you about her, little by little. You can judge for yourself. This is the way that I was introduced to my mother.

Step by step.

At first, she was my young mother. She fed me peas and carrots. She showed me how to hold a fork and a spoon. She wiped my mouth and combed my hair.

She helped me get my shirt over my big head — putting it on and taking it off. She helped me get my foot through each pants leg — the left leg in the left side and the right leg in the right side. She helped me with my socks and my shoes, and she taught me how to tie the laces.

Mom with Mike - circa 1963.

At the end of the day, she filled the bathtub up with water, a couple of toys and some soap suds. She washed my neck, and behind the ears.

When I had on my pajamas, she would read to me. Sometimes she would rub my back.

Mom with me - circa 1965.

And at bedtime she would sing to me. She sang:
Hush little baby, don’t say a word,
Mama’s gonna buy you a mocking bird…

Or she sang:
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,
You make me happy when skies are gray,
You’ll never know dear, how much I love you,
Please don’t take my sunshine away.

Or she sang:
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are.
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky…

Once we looked out at the stars… out of the window, above our back yard… and we made a wish on a star — the first one to appear. I must have just seen Pinocchio, or heard Jiminy Cricket singing When You Wish Upon a Star.

She taught me the words to the nursery rhyme, passing on the incantation:
Star light, star bright,
First star I see tonight,
I wish I may, I wish I might,
Have this wish I wish tonight.

Can you imagine?

A scene from Disney’s Wish

Together we read many books.

We read the tale of Peter Rabbit, who was so terribly naughty (and came home without his shoes or his blue jacket). We read about Curious George, whose curiosity would get him into big trouble (especially with an ink blotter).

We read about Sam-I-Am, who would not try green eggs and ham… until the very end of the book (a happy ending as it turns out).

And we read about the accidental poisoning of the king of the elephants by mushrooms, in the Story of Babar (a very unhappy event).

We read the conversations of dogs in silly hats, and we were astounded by the dog party in the tree, so brilliantly illustrated by P D Eastman.

Near the end of Go, Dog. Go!

Mom showed me how to play with many toys: Playdoh and Silly Putty. Lincoln Logs and Tinker Toys. Wooly Willy and Etch A Sketch. Slinkies… Yo-Yos… View-Masters.

I colored and drew. I clipped and I glued. We made decoupage from cut out magazine pictures, and art from macaroni. She did some hand sewing from patterns, and I watched. She made a wall hanging from macramé.

One Advent season, as Christmas approached, we set to work to create Chrismon ornaments for the tree in the church lobby. We cut into Styrofoam — making squeaking noises that I could barely tolerate, sounds that still make me cringe. We attached beads and ribbons. We deciphered the messages in the symbolic shapes. We took pride in the glowing Chrismon tree with its especially meaningful ornaments, pearly white and gold.

A very fine Chrismon ornament (Credit: Our State Magazine).

She taught me games like hide-and-seek and Simon Says. She prepared me to run and jump and throw and dodge, so I could play tag, and kickball, and Red Rover, and Dodgeball.

She set me loose with my brother and our toys, to play Cowboys and Indians, or World War III, or the most violent game of all - Tetherball. Mike and I would lash out — flailing at the tetherball, to get it spinning in the right direction. Usually, Mike got it orbiting all askew, over my head — the cord to the tetherball growing shorter and shorter, until it spun to a stop against the pole, granting him victory.

Injuries were to be expected, and mom would fix them with a Band-Aid, or a rub and a kiss.

Once Mike threatened to throw a cap gun at me, from twenty feet away. And when I didn’t leave him alone, he did throw it at me. (He claims he threw it to the side of me). So as I dodged to escape the projectile, it hit me perfectly on the side of my forehead, where the metal cap gun instantly popped open a laceration, and I had to run inside to Mom for treatment (and vindication).

I had two more bleeding head wounds during childhood, one more at the hand of my brother (who threw a rope tied to a rock over a tree branch, while I was standing on the other side). The other injury happened when I fell off my bicycle into the side of a bulldozer, at the other end of the neighborhood. Mom provided first aid both times.

She put antiseptic on our scrapes when we fell on the asphalt. She dried us off when we fell in the creek. She mixed up a remedy of Port wine and honey when I had a sore throat. And she took us to the doctor and the dentist to get our shots and our cleanings.

New parents— Gerry and Meg, with Mike.

In return, we were expected to do our chores. We would brush our teeth and take a bath. We would set the table or do the dishes. We had to clean our room and make our bed. As we got older, we had to do our homework… practice music… mow the lawn.

Clearly the chores were a chance for her to catch her breath and relax for a minute or two. One summer when there was nothing to do, I told her I was bored.

“Well, why don’t you go work in the yard?” she says.

“Doing what?” says I.

“I don’t know. Go pick up the pine cones.”

“Which pine cones?”

“All of them.”

“All of them? You gotta be kidding.”

“Nope,” she says, secretly smiling. “Go pick up all the pine cones. You better get started. It might take a while.”

That’s probably not how the conversation went, but she could be sneaky… crafty.

Did I mention how much I hate pine trees.

A ‘few’ pine cones on the ground.

We were expected to learn to play an instrument… or sing. In early childhood, I played with bongos and maracas, and we had rhythm sticks to play with in our music class in school.

Mom bought an autoharp, and she learned to play chords and sing… sort of. There was a lot of looking up and down in the process, and a lot of stopping and starting. Looking up at the sheet music for the chord and looking down at the autoharp for the right chord key from the 15 provided. It was hard to watch. (With a little video-editing magic, the results might have been better, but there was no way to easily fix it back then. You just had to practice.)

An Oscar Schmidt OS15B Autoharp.

I took a short course to learn to play a keyboard — a Yamaha keyboard — when I was very young. Mom sat with me, encouraging me as I learned to play the scales.

I must have weaseled my way out of playing keyboard or piano, because before I knew it, I was in the children’s choir at church. Mom dropped me off, after school, at the side entrance to the chapel, where almost all of the kids would play tag for 5 or 10 minutes before the rehearsal began.

Poor Mr. Smith — our long-suffering choirmaster (Leonard A. Smith). He must have encouraged the free play before rehearsal. Without it, we children would have been totally unable to stand still for so long in one place, focusing on music. He still had his hands full. I can still see the look of relief on his face, when the practices ended and we all ran up out of the basement to the parents waiting for us in their cars up on Stone Street.

I tried my hand at playing recorder, and I played flute in 6th grade (and 7th, 8th, and 9th), when we had to choose an instrument for school. I learned to play well enough to play in a community orchestra around the time I was in college. But the notes I played were never the best quality. I never learned to play with proper posture and a good embouchure. I was only an average musician.

The problem was that Mom never seemed to see me as average. She called me her pride and joy. She seemed to think I could do anything.

And she would let me do anything. Go anywhere. She let me bike out of the neighborhood to deliver afternoon newspapers. She let me ride a moped up to Five Points to visit my friends. She let me apply to the NC School of Science and Math, move to Durham and spend two years learning from others.

She let me go to Vanderbilt for college, 12 hours away. And when I moved back to Raleigh, she let me apply to go study in Australia, half a world away.

I guess she had faith that God had a plan, for better or worse. She was willing to put my future in His hands. She said as much, recently, in a text to me, when I asked about some of our childhood excursions, down the creek and far from home.

She said, “As for the free-time activities, a parent’s (especially a mother’s) heart is unalterably joined to her son and she doesn’t dare to dwell on dangers (known or unknown) ready to attack him. She can only ask God to protect him and trust that He always will.”

Her trust in God probably wasn’t unwavering, but her trust was lasting and profound.

Dressed for church—in 1968.

Growing up, I went to church and Sunday school. I learned all the stories of Jesus — all the events in his life, from Bethlehem to the Sea of Galilee to the Garden of Gethsemane. Mom got me an illustrated Good News Bible, which still sits on my shelf of books of personal significance.

She typed up at least a hundred bookmarks on colored construction paper, each with a separate Bible verse, enough for each week of the year… maybe even enough for each day of the year.

We went to Christian retreats, tent revivals, and a Billy Graham crusade.

Church clothes in 1972.

We once went to a Moravian Candle Tea, in the Christmas season, way out on Blue Ridge Road in west Raleigh. I had my first coffee (I was about ten) with sugar and cream, and I had some coffee cake to go with it. We stayed to listen to Christmas carols in the chapel of the Moravian Church, sparsely decorated with greenery, beige tallow candles, and dark red velvet ribbon. They also had beautiful multifaceted stars, representing the star of Bethlehem — the star in the east.

At Christmas, we decorated our tree with aluminum tinsel, and plastic icicle ornaments. We once strung a garland of white popcorn and crimson cranberries. We had bubble lights on the tree inside, and C9 electric bulbs on the azalea bushes outside.

Me - Christmas, 1976

We watched Christmas specials — squeezing together on a couch, while Andy Williams sang It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year — stoking the fire in the fireplace as Bing Crosby sang, “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas.”

We watched How the Grinch Stole Christmas and silently celebrated when “his heart grew three sizes that day.”

We watched Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, secretly rooting for Hermey the dentist, Yukon Cornelius, and all the characters from the island of misfit toys.

We watched A Charlie Brown Christmas, eagerly waiting for Linus to step up to the podium, bravely to explain the “true meaning of Christmas.”

Not to say that we didn’t care about gifts. Quite the contrary. We asked Santa for gifts; we wrapped gifts with paper, bows, gift tags, and ribbon; we looked for hidden gifts, or hid them from others; and on Christmas Day we tore open our gifts and spent the day at play — enjoying the day for all it was worth.

But we always knew that Christmas was about more than the material things. It was about God’s gift to mankind. It was about the gift of having a Mom and a Dad to care for you… and celebrate with you.

The Gallup family - Mike, Gerry, Steve, and Meg.

Now those days seem long ago.

Nearly fifty years have passed.

Margaret (my Mom) is older now — much older than when we lived together in a small house in Raleigh, scratching to get by — wishing on stars and trusting in God. She’s been blessed.

And I’m grown up too. We live far apart. I’ve seen what kind of effort it takes to raise a child — watching them learn… letting them go. Trusting in providence. It isn’t easily done.

Gerald and Margaret Gallup - August 1, 1959.

This is my Mom:

She is studious, pious, faithful, humble, and reverent.

She is thoughtful, caring, kind, selfless, and patient.

She is ebullient, playful, and crafty.

She is encouraging, comforting, and serene.

She is the same on the inside as she is on the outside. She is genuine… sincere… wholehearted.

She isn’t hard to describe at all.

It’s just hard to believe such a person really exists.

Someone filled with love.

Appendix - Biographical information

Born in Columbia, South Carolina to two chemistry instructors. 3rd of 4 children

Studied Education at High Point.

Met husband while working in Wilmington. Gerry at Camp Lejeune.

Moved to Raleigh. Two children and a miscarriage.

Odd jobs - Teacher, Librarian, Secretary, Reader for the blind.

Husband dies in 1977

Begins paper route. Then temp work with Upjohn as Nursing Assistant

Dating Mr. Pate.

Moves to Stanley in 1988 to care for parents.

Father dies in 1991. Mother dies in 1993.

Marries Ivan Purdham in 1997

A Fine Thing Too

{Prompt: As a child, did you have a special clubhouse? Hiding place? Fort?}

When I was five or six, I ran away from home. I remember it fondly… the parts that I do remember. After all, it was many years ago. I ran away from home, but I wasn’t angry. I think I was just ready to try out life on the road. I think I wanted to be a hobo.

Of course I told my mother I was running away. I needed her to help me pack my hobo-bag, a colorful bag on the end of a jaunty stick.

Or maybe it was just a lunch box.

Or a paper bag.

She must have included a few snacks (possibly some Fig Newtons or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich).

Maybe I had a comic book or a children’s book.

Or something to play with.

The contents of my hobo gear have been forgotten.

I’ve also forgotten whether I asked my mom for a ride. It seems like I walked, up and out of my neighborhood — up to Johnson’s Pharmacy, and left onto Fairview, then four blocks down to Hayes Barton United Methodist Church.

But that can’t be true, can it? Surely my mother wouldn’t have let me walk down those busy roads without supervision!

Still… I remember it that way.

On the other hand… maybe that was only my plan, because I knew the way by heart. We went that way every Sunday.

Maybe my mother offered to give me a lift to make the start of my hobo life a little smoother. That seems more likely. She probably dropped me off at the church parking lot.

I was planning to spend the night in the playground. I holed up inside of a big playground tunnel, made from a big cement drainage pipe.

It was designed for crawling through (about 3 feet long) or climbing on top of (about 3 feet high). I crawled inside and lay against the curved wall of the tunnel while propping my feet up on the other side.

It was a cozy little hideaway with a view of the fence-enclosed, wood-chip laden playground on either side.

I probably ate my Fig Newtons first.

Maybe I spent a little time on the swings.

Then I had my PB&J. (Or maybe I had some grapes.)

I might have done some thinking.

I was there for a few hours.

As the sky grew darker, the playground grew a little cooler, and I started to reconsider the vagabond life that seemed so carefree earlier in the day.

I think that’s about when I was bailed out of my life on the road. My Mom or my Dad showed up, as if they were just wandering by.

They asked me how I was doing. Maybe they asked if I wanted to stay. Maybe they asked if I wanted to go.

Whatever was said has been lost to history. What went without saying is what I could feel: “We love you, and we want you back.”

Over the years, my brother and I left the comfort of our house for various reasons.

My father built a treehouse for Mike and me (and the “treehouse club”). You had to be able to climb to become a member.

And a password was required for admission.

We squirreled away for an hour or two between lunch and dinner. We always came in when we were hungry.

We built forts out of sticks and twine, and tried living on the ground sometimes. Our little huts were usually flimsy and weak.

Once, we carved a little cave out of the limestone behind the A&P grocery, down at Glenwood Village. We were advancing our building and problem-solving skills.

Still, we headed for home when the sun went down. We were usually getting hungry by then.

When we joined the scouts, we learned to pitch a tent, connecting aluminum poles, driving stakes into the hard clay of the Piedmont, and erecting a nylon monstrosity.

We would spend the night… in the great outdoors… rain or shine.

We learned to pack useful items like sleeping bags and mats, clothing and rain gear. We learned to anticipate threats, like sunburn and poison ivy. We learned to read a map, to navigate, and most importantly, to communicate.

But for every outing, the best part… always… was the drive home, the return to comfort and coziness.

All this reminds me of a book, called Klippity Klop, by Ed Emberley, a book that might even have inspired my life of adventure. I could have easily taken it with me on my first outing.

It is a picture book of the adventures of Prince Krispin and his trusty steed, Dumpling, as they travel across varying terrains.

He goes off to fight a dragon, and then, as the book unfolds, Prince Krispin finds his way back to his castle and his comfortable bed.

He concludes that, “Going adventuring is a fine thing… But staying at home, that’s a fine thing too.”

Whether I ran away from home…

climbed up into a treehouse…

or tried to sleep in the great outdoors…

The best part has always been having a home…

a dinner…

a family…

and a bed.

Prince Krispin and Dumpling—heading off on their adventure.

Addendum: After reading this story, my mother revealed that when she heard of my plans to embrace the life of a hobo, she hastily contacted (using landline phones) other mothers, neighbors, and church staff on my route, and asked them to call her when they saw me passing by. She was keeping tabs on me the whole time but never said a word.

Preface - Life of an Innocent Bystander

This book started off as a series of stories written from a series of writing prompts, mostly submitted by my daughter, Jasmine, who gifted me a membership to Storyworth, on Christmas Day, 2025.

Being by nature an overachiever, and a list-making man, I frequently found myself going beyond the original vignette, with an exhaustive account… a diatribe of every experience that I have had in my life… even tangentially related to the original prompt.

But gradually I developed some good writing habits. I began to relegate that extraneous material to a sidebar, to an appendix, or (best of all) to another story altogether. I could take those interminably long stories and split them into two (or three), mercifully, shorter tales. I began to focus on the crux of the matter.

Then I realized that I could write the entire story as a block and sandwich it between an Introduction and a Conclusion. The parts of the story could be written after the fact, or completely separately.

Story structure. Who knew?

I discovered that the secret to landing upon a good story title often lay in keeping the (double) meaning of the title a secret until the concluding remarks of the story. So, I began to write the story to its conclusion before giving it a title.

I figured out how to add photos about 3 months into the project.

And I learned about the proper use of an em dash about 6 months in. I discovered that I had been using far too many semicolons, probably for most of my life. (I spent some time in animated discussions with Jasmine, bonding over the eccentricities of grammar.)

I tried to become less academic in the way I told my stories. I attempted, here and there, to show the reader how things felt, rather than simply telling them. I tried to develop some color in the stories — some immediacy.

I began to reread stories in the editing process, finding other ways to improve them. I could write the first draft of a story one day (or write an outline), rewrite a different story the next day, and use AI to proofread and finish still another story on a third day.

In short, I became a better writer.

*****

My storytelling improved with time. But still, telling a perfect story is hard. It is elusive.

Sometimes a beautiful story only happens by chance. A perfectly suited metaphor is hit upon. Or the subject is vivid and exciting. Or the story has greater meaning and personal significance than expected.

Perhaps there are four or five good stories in this collection.

 *****

This book is far from a finished project. It is really an example of a work in progress. You can see this in the way that the stories fail to connect one to the next, and in the wild eccentricity of their lengths and their composition styles.

But, at the very least, this collection will give my children (and my loved ones) a chance to understand how things were for me in my life — how I began to see and react to the world.

How much some things have changed. How much some things are still the same.

They should be able to see how young and foolish I was, and how long that youthful idiocy prevailed.

They should be able to see that their own youthful misadventures aren’t that dissimilar from mine.

Hopefully they will be able to see that they don’t have to be defined by what happens to them. They can be defined by what they do… for themselves and for others.

*****

At times my life was that of an innocent bystander… especially in the experience I had during the death of my father.

But I was also a bit of a bystander in the events that led to my Phase III hearing at NCSSM, when I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

And I was a bit of a bystander as my life unfolded: during an ill conceived foray into engineering at Vanderbilt… as a Wolfpack fan at NC State University… as a study-abroad student at Flinders University… and an amusement park worker at Lightwater Valley.

But at some point I began to shed the cloak of invisibility and I began to take ownership of my life and my fate.

I chose a promising career path and pursued it.

I met people that cared and embraced them—people that mattered.

I took action. I did things.

I gradually turned from misadventure to adventure. I turned from youthful indiscretion to mature discretionary action.

I learned to take care of people who were themselves innocent bystanders — trying to prevent medical disasters that would create innocent bystanders in the fallout.

And I tried to become a model of resilience for my children to follow (though their mother is the best model of resilience you could ask for).

*****

For the most part, this collection covers the first 30 years of my life — from my birth to the birth of my twins. There are two or three stories about later days, but for the most part, the story of my medical career, my marriage, and the rest have not been included. Not because they aren’t important, but because they are too important to give short shrift here.

And after 1994, I am really a different person — no longer a child or a victim. I am no longer dealing with grief and academic concerns. I am dealing with real world concerns — working and parenting.

I’m no longer an innocent bystander.

Dedication

 This book is dedicated to my father, Gerald Fredric Gallup,

who tragically died in 1977…

my mother, Margaret Ann Gallup (née Whitesell),

who dauntlessly went on living…

and my brother, Michael Patrick Gallup,

who was an innocent bystander, like myself.