Father and Son Marry Women With the Same Name
I almost made a mistake putting families together with the new research I found on my Breilh/Mazou Verges line is Izeste, France. I was working on Jean Breilh and Jeanne Mazou Verges (sometimes recorded as Mazou Berges, Verges, or Berges). I found several children for this couple. When I started to assess the information, I realized the couple would have been 13/14 years old when child #1 was born. Then they would have waiting about 7 years to have child number two. They also wouldn’t marry for about another 5 years.
The unmarried part didn’t concern me much. Someone once told me that the practice in Southern France in the 1800s was to start a family until they had enough money to get married. (Not sure if that was common practice throughout France). I did see women with 3-5 children with “infant naturelle” noted (meaning born out of wedlock), so that seems to confirm this practice.
However, the 13 years old did concern me–and the gap between children. I searched for a marriage, whcih I found their marriage in 1833. This would make child #1 born in 1827–six years before they married.
Going back, I realized that Jean Breilh’s mother died before 1825 and his father, also named Jean Breilh, remarried in 1827. You may have already guessed that wife #2 of his father was named Jeanne Berges, also recorded at times as Mazou Verges. So, now I have father and son with wives with almost the same exact names having children about the same time.
At this point, I am unclear if the father’s second wife was really using Mazou Verges or if it was an error by the person recording the records. And, how the heck does Berges become Mazou Verges anyway?
I’m not sure how I will unravel whose children are whose. The death records don’t reveal too many details about offspring. The marriage records might be more helpful, though.
As with all research, it pays to assess your information. Who knew that father and son would marry people with such similar names?
Merry Christmas Everyone!
This is me sometime around 1969. I’m wearing the pajamas that my Grandma Lassalle made for me for Christmas. She made all her Grandkids two sets of pajamas every year.
The doll was what Santa left under the tree for me. She was called Tippy Toes, a cousin to Tippy Tumbles I am pretty sure. If I remember correctly she could walk and ride her bike. All my dolls did something. I wasn’t really interested in dolls that couldn’t perform. LOL
You might not have gotten Tippy Toes, but hopefully, Santa left something nice under your tree.
Wishing everyone a very Merry Christmas!
Advent Calendar: The Magical Castle on Christmas Eve
(This article was originally posted for the 2010 Advent Calendar of Christmas Memories Day 24: Christmas Eve)
When we were little, Christmas Eve was always spent at Grandma and Grandpa Lassalle’s house in Oakland. Right after dinner, the 7 of us would pile into the station wagon an be on our way. I remember being filled with excited. I knew that there would be presents under the tree for me and when we got home it would almost be time for Santa to come.
On the drive, there was this wonderful magical castle (or so I thought) that you could see from the distance. It was all lit up and had these gold glowing triangles on top (two on each side, one higher in the middle). I thought that must be some wonderful, magical place and it was always a part of my Christmas Eve memories.
We’d arrive at Grandma and Grandpa’s house where we would meet a barrage of relatives. Most of these relatives we only saw once a year on Christmas Eve. Most were off in the dining area, having just partaken of my Grandpa’s delicious soup and a dinner. They were well on their way to getting drunk.
Grandma would be off somewhere looking for that elusive set of pajamas she always lost on Christmas Eve. She would sew pajamas for all the grandkids and, like clockwork, she lost one set a day or two before Christmas.
The house was very festive. The dining room table which was quite large was set up with a holiday table cloth. There were goodies of all sorts on the table.
The living room had a fake Christmas tree. It was flocked and had red and green satin balls decorating it. There were no lights on the tree. Instead, my Grandparents set up a rotating light at the base of the tree that flashed red, blue, and green colors on the tree.
After the adults farted around, we finally got to presents. My Grandpa always handed out the presents with my Dad and Aunt Julie as his helpers. The names were read one by one and no one opened until the last person had finished.
There was always the set of pajamas from Grandma–or not. That depended on whose she lost that year. There were different things from my Aunts and Uncles. And, then there was Aunt Dorothy’s gifts. Aunt Dorothy always made something. She was quite crafty. But, you never know what it could be. It might be hand knitted slippers, clothes hangers with knitted covers, or something off the wall.
The present we all coveted was what she gave her God son, my brother, Chuck. All year long Aunt Dorothy collected pennies and put them into a jar. Not a coke bottle or a cookie jar. Usually it was a bottle about 2-3 feet tall. By the time Christmas came, the jar was filled to the top. My brother almost couldn’t carry his present. He couldn’t wait to get home. While the rest of us would be dreaming of Santa, he’d be dreaming of how many penny rolls he’d fill to take to the bank.
After presents, it was pretty my late. My Dad worked in the bread manufacturing plant for Safeway grocery stores. They didn’t shut down for Christmas Eve. He worked graveyard and almost always had to work Christmas Eve. So, around 10 pm we’d say our goodbyes and give our Merry Christmas wishes. We’d subject ourselves to hugs and kisses in exchange for the gifts we’d been given. Then we were back on the road.
If I stayed awake, when we got to a certain part of the freeway, I would see that Magic Castle once again. I wondered who lived there as I worried about whether Santa might have come early. If we weren’t there, the door would be locked and he wouldn’t be able to come in. We hadn’t even left our cookies out for him yet!
If you live in the Oakland area and are a genealogist, you might have figured out what the magical castle that held me enthrall each Christmas Eve was. It was the Mormon Temple on Lincoln Ave in Oakland. Little did I know that 30 years later, I would be spending many, many hours at that same temple in the underground library bent over a microfilm reader looking for my ancestors.
I was right. It was a Magical Castle 