This week’s #52Ancestors prompt is “Family Secrets,” and it got me thinking about the stories we choose to tell—and those we don’t.
Have you ever wondered what secrets your ancestors kept? What stories they took to their graves, what truths remained unspoken at family gatherings? I certainly have, especially when it comes to my ex-husband’s grandmother, Myrtle.
A Young Mother’s Choice
Picture southern Illinois, June 1929. The Roaring Twenties are still in full swing, though nobody knows the economic prosperity is about to come crashing down in just a few months. In this moment, a young woman of just nineteen cradles her newborn son in her arms. His name is Clifford, supposedly named after his father—a man who, according to family lore, died before his son was born.
Myrtle herself knew something about growing up without a father. You see, her own father had passed away when she was just eight years old, leaving her to be raised by her mother (who was already 40 when Myrtle was born in 1911). I found myself wondering how this early loss shaped her. Did it make her more determined to give Clifford a father, even if only in story? Did her experience as a fatherless child influence the narrative she created for her son?
That’s the story Myrtle told. That’s the story Clifford grew up believing. A tale of tragic timing that left him fatherless and her a widow before she’d barely begun adulthood.
But family historians know that stories aren’t always what they seem, don’t we?
As I’ve dug deeper into Myrtle’s life (which I first explored in my post “The Mysterious Mr. Max”), I can’t help but ponder what would drive a young woman to maintain such a significant secret throughout her entire life. What was it like to be a teenager in late 1920s rural Illinois? What choices did young women like Myrtle actually have?
Life in Edwardsville: Between Small Town and Big City
I’m fascinated by the world Myrtle inhabited before becoming a mother. What was life like for a teenage girl in Edwardsville, Illinois in the late 1920s? Where did young people go to meet each other, to dream, to escape the watchful eyes of their parents?
Edwardsville sits just about 20 miles from St. Louis, Missouri – close enough to taste the excitement of the big city, yet far enough to feel worlds apart. I can picture Myrtle and her friends perhaps planning special trips to St. Louis, where the dazzling Fox Theatre had just opened its doors in 1929. Can you imagine the thrill of seeing those ornate walls, the glittering chandeliers, and moving pictures on the big screen? Maybe she attended dances at one of the city’s ballrooms, or gazed wide-eyed at the fashionable displays in the department store windows.
But daily life would have centered around Edwardsville itself – church socials where young people could exchange shy glances across punch bowls, community gatherings where families mingled, and school events where teenagers could find moments of freedom. The county fair would have been a highlight of the year, with its rides, games, and opportunities to stroll with a sweetheart away from prying eyes.
Getting to St. Louis wasn’t as simple as hopping in a car for everyone. Some families had automobiles by then, but many young people relied on streetcars or interurban rail lines. I wonder if Myrtle’s family had a car, or if trips to the city were rare adventures requiring planning and permission.
It was in this world – caught between small-town values and the allure of city life just beyond the horizon – that Myrtle navigated her teenage years. Somewhere in these spaces, whether in the familiar streets of Edwardsville or during an excursion to St. Louis, she met someone who would change the course of her life.
The Weight of Expectations
In Myrtle’s world, unmarried mothers faced crushing social judgment. Communities weren’t kind to “fallen women,” and the label of “illegitimate” could follow a child throughout their life, limiting opportunities and subjecting them to whispers and sidelong glances. Schools, churches, and neighbors could be merciless in their ostracism.
A fictional deceased husband, however? That garnered sympathy. Support. Understanding.
I can almost picture Myrtle making this decision—perhaps sitting at a kitchen table late at night, weighing her options while her infant son slept nearby. And isn’t it remarkable to think that just months after Clifford’s birth, the stock market would crash, plunging the nation into the Great Depression? Myrtle would face not only the challenge of maintaining her secret but also raising a child during one of America’s most difficult economic periods.
Did someone suggest this story to her? Was it her own invention? Did she have confidantes who knew the truth, or did she bear this secret entirely alone?
A Family’s Changing Circumstances
In digging through census records, I discovered another interesting detail about Myrtle’s life. The 1920 census shows that her family ran a boarding house, renting rooms to strangers for extra income. I can’t help but wonder if this exposed young Myrtle to a wider variety of people and perhaps influenced her life in ways she couldn’t have anticipated. By the 1930 census, after Clifford was born, the family had moved and no longer took in boarders. Was this move connected to her situation? Did they relocate to start fresh where fewer people knew their history?
The Questions That Remain
What strikes me most about Myrtle’s secret is how completely she maintained it. She never wavered in her story, never let slip the truth even decades later when social attitudes had changed. That kind of resolve speaks to how powerful the stigma must have been, how deeply she feared what the truth might do to her son’s life and her own standing in the community.
I wonder about Clifford’s biological father. Was he someone from her community? Was there a romance that couldn’t lead to marriage for some reason? Or was there a darker story—one of exploitation or limited choices for a young woman in difficult circumstances?
As I continue researching Myrtle’s life, I’m careful not to judge her choices. After all, she made them in a different time, under pressures I can only imagine. Instead, I find myself admiring her determination to protect her child and herself in the only way she felt was available to her. Growing up without a father herself, perhaps she was determined that her son would at least have the story of one.
Have you discovered family secrets in your genealogy research? How do you approach telling these stories with sensitivity while still honoring the truth? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments below.
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