Have you ever gotten into genealogy? It intrigues me
greatly.
I can trace my father’s paternal side back to Germany prior
to our Revolutionary War. I had relatives fighting for independence (and buried)
in Bucks County, Pennsylvania.
In the 1800s, they made their way to NE Iowa. They became
masons building churches around the region. They farmed. They settled. My cousin lives on their
homestead outside McGregor and farms to this day.
My father’s mom had parents from Bern, Switzerland who were
Swiss and Italian. I attribute my complexion to my Grandma Troester. She was a beauty,
inside and out. Her name was Alta, and she was tall (about 5’10” I believe). A
regal woman who lived a hard working and incredibly humble life on the farm. Alta Anderegg married Louis Troester. Here is a blurry version of their wedding photo (note she is sitting - she was a good 3 or 4 inches taller than her husband):
She died when I was only 3. What amazes me about that is how
vividly I remember her. Grandma loved me dearly, I could feel it viscerally. She
made pies when we would visit. She had the warmest hugs I’ve ever received. I
still remember her funeral because it was the first time I saw my dad cry. She
had 7 children and many grandchildren. She created a legacy of love. I wish I
could hug her again.
On my mother’s side, it’s rumored family our came over on
the Mayflower. I have never traced that lineage so I cannot confirm that. There
are a whole lot of English and Irish roots within the Moore clan. That I know.
I also know the brief story of how my maternal great-grandma
Zelma (I called her Nana) came to McGregor.
Curious about the name Zelma? I was. My Nana was named after
a minister who inspired her parents with her fiery prose. Imagine how rare a
female minister must have been in the late 1800s. Both my Nana and my gram
carry the name. I’ve never met another soul named Zelma. It’s a special name to
me. It brings baked goods to my hands, hugs to my arms, and smiles to my heart
just hearing it.
Nana grew up within a Quaker family in Ohio. I don’t think
it was an easy life, although she didn’t complain about it. She had a brother
who served in WWI. She asked him to give her the name of a fella serving on the
ship with him and she’d write to him. He gave her Percy Freeman’s name.
Nana wrote. (Nana also was a flapper in Cincinnati at this
time, according to her tale and the jewelry she kept to remember a younger,
more carefree girl). Percy answered from somewhere around the Philippines.
After the war, Percy came to Ohio and scooped my little Nana up in his arms to
marry him.
They had great plans to homestead in Wyoming. Imagine living in the era of homesteading... They planned
to pass through McGregor on the way, to visit Percy’s family. Percy’s
grandfather was a riverboat captain on the Mississippi, ferrying cars from Iowa to Wisconsin. His name was Rob Roy Freeman. How fantastic
is that?
Well, Rob Roy was quite a salesman. He convinced Percy to
stay in McGregor and help on the River. My mom’s family has been there since. I
don’t think it was the grand vision Nana held when she was a young girl in what
she called Cincinnatah. But they bought a beautiful farm and made a life.
I lived on this farm from age 3 until 5 when my parents
divorced. It was a magical place with an apple orchard, a babbling brook,
morels in the spring, and a feeling of home I’ve never had anywhere else. It
has an incredibly special place in my heart. My mom rented it for years after
the divorce and then sold it when I was 19(ish). I will always regret the loss
of it.
Zelma and Percy raised three girls, calling the oldest Zelma
after her mother. Percy died the month I was born, and so I never met him. When
you are kid, you accept things as is. With today’s perspective, I see that my
Nana was alone three decades. It makes me wish I would have made my visits with
her longer. That is a lot of alone for one little lady to bare.
Nana lived until I was nearly 30. She always had a crystal
dish of candied orange slices on the buffet when we visited McGregor. That buffet is in my dining room today. She
taught me to love Louisa May Alcott. She was a tiny woman with understated
ways.
My parents hail from McGregor, where they met in high
school. I had intended to write about McGregor today. It is such a hidden gem. I
guess it feels like in order for you to understand my connection with this
little town, first you must understand my soul’s connection with the soil. I am
a part of it. I come from it in the basest sense.
Tomorrow I’ll take you to the soaring bluffs and down the
mighty Miss. Today, just know that Iowa isn’t all flat, filled with farm land and pigs. It holds
beauty. It holds deep roots.
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