Normally, I would post this rather personal essay on my other blog, Remembered Summers. My interest in old photos had largely to do with dating them, since dated pictures of ordinary people’s clothing are important to fashion research. That’s how I fell into genealogy research. Caution: This one is long, personal, and sad.
“I was just trying to….” You know where that leads online: you start looking for a simple answer that will “close the file” on an unidentified photo or a distant relative you don’t really care about — and months later you emerge, a wiser but sadder family historian.
Seriously, I can’t say I am happier for the things I am learning. Today, I’m writing about a photo that took many weeks — spread over several years — to identify.
I had a satisfying moment this week: my detective work was confirmed when I found a duplicate of my mystery photo in a historical collection online! It was an “unidentified family group” — and I was able to tell them who those people were. Finding it was especially gratifying because the copy in the San Mateo County Historical Society’s possession was complete, while mine had one person cut out of it.
But identifying that photo — with one person scissored out of it — couldn’t be done without also discovering why my mother, and my grandmother, and my aunt never talked about those relatives. It wasn’t a story you would tell a child; it is a story that makes me sad.
I wrote some time ago about “meeting” my maternal great-grandmother when my Aunt Dorothy identified her photo for me.
Dorothy seemed surprised — almost shocked — that I didn’t know who this woman was: “That’s grandmother Lipp!” she cried.
But how could I know? She died over two decades before I was born, and we didn’t have family pictures on the walls in my parents’ house. Dorothy herself died many years ago, but the photo she put a name to has enabled me to recognize Catherine Lipp (the spelling on her tombstone) as she ages in other photos.
She married William Henry Lipp in the early 1870s, and her first child, William Henry Lipp, Jr., was born in San Francisco in June, 1873.
The photograph of Katherine with a group of her children was taken by photographer James Van Court in Redwood City, California, 27 miles south of San Francisco., where the Lipp family eventually settled.
First Clue to the group photo: The name and location of the photo studio is on the back.
I found a marvelous book which can be previewed online: Pioneer Photographers of the Far West, A Biographical Dictionary. It said, “Van Court, James Edward (1841–1923) Photographer; active San Francisco 1864–84; Redwood City, Calif., 1884–95.”
That gave me a date range for the picture: “Redwood City, 1884 to 1895.” All I had to do was figure out when Catherine Lipp would have had six children whose ages and genders matched the children in this photograph. BUT: what about that child who had been scissored out of the picture? The “coffin shape” of the missing piece seemed ominous. And I had learned that one of her sons died by suicide….
First: who was the boy in a grown-up suit (complete with watch chain?)
The number of Lipp family members buried in the Old Union Cemetery in Redwood City is extensive.
Boys born to Catherine Lipp were William Jr. (in 1873,) Charles (in 1888,) and Robert, born in 1901. Robert was not yet alive between 1884 and 1895, so he’s not in the picture. Charles would have been only seven by 1895. Therefore, the boy in the suit is William Henry Lipp, Jr. He would have been a grown man (over 20) by 1895, so this picture must have been taken in between 1884 and 1890. Probably closer to 1884.
Another clue is the baby on its mother’s lap: possibly not old enough to sit by itself. There is another child, a toddler, holding a ball: Two children born less than 30 months apart.
But the clues that that really helped were the girls’ hats! The girl at top right and the girl beside Willie are holding identical wide-brimmed hats.
Finally I saw part of the third hat — which must have been in the hand of the missing child: another girl.
In 1885, Catherine had 6 living children: William (born June 22, 1873;) Lillian (born July 4, 1875;) Alice (born Jan. 10, 1878;) Maud (born Nov 21, 1879;) Sarah Elizabeth (born Dec. 25, 1882;) and Fannie (born Nov. 10, 1884.) I think Summer or Fall of 1885 is the probable date of this photo.
The missing girlchild is my wonderful grandmother, Lillian! Presumably my mother or my aunt wanted to put a picture of their mother in a locket or separate frame, and cut out her image. The coffin shape that disturbed me was purely an accident.
Trying to verify that the Van Court photo was taken in the studio rather than the Lipp home, last week I scrolled through hundreds of Van Court photos at the San Mateo Historical Society’s online collection. And I found a perfect copy of my photo:
Alice would have been seven going on eight in Fall of 1885.
Maud Adeline was born in November of 1879.
Sarah Elizabeth Lipp, holding a ball, was born on Christmas day, 1882.
Baby Fannie Louisa was born in November 1884.
My grandmother, Lillian, born in 1875, is the one cut out of the picture.
Why was someone so cavalier about ruining the group photo? Probably because seeing these other children made her sad. Or she never knew them.
My great grandmother changed from this clear-eyed beauty …
… to this sad and exhausted woman.
What I didn’t know, until this research, is that the worst thing that can happen to a parent had happened to her. And it happened over and over and over again.
Her two eldest children lived into their seventies. William Henry Lipp, Jr. took over his father’s ice business in 1898, when the older man retired.
Oldest girl Lillian, born on the fourth of July 1875, was my wonderful Grandma Barton.
But…. Only William and Lillian can be said to have lived happy lives.
Catherine’s family grew quickly. Alice was born in 1878, followed by another girl, Maud, in 1879.
In October 1881, Catherine’s fifth child was born, but died at 2 weeks, without being named.
Sarah Elizabeth came along in 1882, followed by Fannie in 1884. Those are the six children in the photograph, which I have dated to late in 1885.
On January 31, 1887, Catherine had twins, Blanche and Mabel.
On October 20th, 1887, Blanche died, and Mabel died seven days later. They were 9 months old.
On January 3, 1888, Sarah Elizabeth died. She had just turned 6.
Five days later, on January 8, 1888, Maud died, too. She was 9.
[Those who don’t appreciate 20th century vaccines and antibiotics should think about how quickly those four little lives were lost — between October 20, 1887 and January 8, 1888.]
In August of that terrible year, Catherine’s next son, Charles Harrison Lipp, was born (Aug. 18, 1888.)
In 1891, a third son, Robert Edward Lipp, was born (April 27, 1891.)
In 1893, Lillian, the eldest girl, aged 18, married my grandfather, Clarkson Bigham Barton (who was usually called Charles.) Eventually four healthy children arrived — the youngest being my mother.
In 1894, Catherine had her last baby, Sarah Frances Lipp (July 8, 1894.)
In 1895, grown son William H. Jr married Barbara Miller; in time they had a baby boy, Everett. The marriage didn’t last. (Barbara remarried in 1904.)
W.H. Lipp, Jr. and his baby son were living with his parents and younger siblings in the 1900 census.
In September, 1900, Catherine’s grandson Everett died of scarlet fever. He was three.
William eventually married again, but had no children.
Catherine’s grief was not over.
Daughter Alice grew up and married August Moosbrugger, a Russian emigre who became a naturalized American citizen in 1904. Their daughter Vera had been born in May, 1902. In 1908, suffering from a serious illness and perhaps worried that he would be a burden on his wife and child, August went into a bar where he had formerly worked and shot himself in the head.
Alice struggled to find work, but by the 1910 census Vera was living with her uncle, Will Jr., and his Danish wife, Marie.
Vera’s mother, Alice Lipp Moosbrugger, died in Agnews State Mental Hospital in 1921.
Charles Harrison Lipp committed suicide in 1912. He was almost 25, and recently married.
Robert Edward Lipp worked for his family’s Ice Company.
In 1913, his quick thinking and bravery made the news:
It was a shock to find Robert’s WW I draft card; he was exempted from service in 1917 because he was “Insane.”
Robert Edward died in Agnews State Mental Hospital in 1917. He was 26.
Catherine Lipp’s husband died in 1919. In the 1920 census, there were just three women living in the family home: Catherine (right,) Fannie (left,) and Sarah Frances, (center.)
Fannie Louisa was working as an accountant for the family business in the 1920 census.
But she died in Agnews State Mental Hospital in 1923.
Sarah Elizabeth was admitted to Sonoma State Hospital for “feeble minded children” in 1921; she died and was buried there in 1928.
Of Catherine’s 12 children, two survived to a healthy old age. Five died in childhood. One committed suicide. Four died in mental hospitals.
And this is where my search gets personal. Discovering this information, which was never mentioned in my family, casts new light on my attempts to know and forgive my own mother. Her death, when I was nine, released me from years of misery. I have never grieved for her, never missed her. I remember her as a bitter, jealous, angry woman who poured her frustration and unhappiness into my ears from the time I understood language. She wanted me to love her, and only her. Everyone knew how much she loved me, how proud she was of her only child, born when she was forty, after twelve years of marriage. Everyone believed she would never hurt me — physically. She drove me to tears almost every day, cursing, saying awful things about my father — which, I knew, she wanted me to repeat to him. Part of her frustration was that I refused. How could I say I loved only her, when I wasn’t allowed to lie? When I was very young, I once said to my mother, “I love Grandma.” From the shocked look on her face, I knew I must never say that again. Later, on the few occasions when I tried to hint to adults that being alone with her had been torture, they said, “It’s a shame that you never knew her when she was really herself.” I wasn’t sure what that meant.
Now that I know her family history — that many of her aunts and uncles suffered from mental illness — I have to consider that she may have been clinically ill, and unable to control herself. And if that is true, then it should be easier to forgive her…. I’m working on it.