After service in the U.S. Coast Guard during World War II, Paul moved west and eventually started a family of his own. He and my mother raised six children together, three boys and three girls, during the 19 years their marriage lasted. But in the end, grief, depression and self-doubt got the better of him. After burying two children within the space of three years, a son to brain cancer in 1967 and a daughter in a house fire in 1970, my father decided that he simply could not be near the thing that brought him such joy one day and such grief the next. My parents divorced in 1974, Paul moving to Los Angeles and my mother to Idaho, where she struggled desperately for ten years to support what remained of our family.
When my father died in 1988, he lived in a two-room cabin in the hills above Yachats, Oregon, near the ocean. He found peace there, a refuge from the emotional hardships of his life, which were numerous and severe. Of all the many demons that haunted my father, the one he battled most desperately was the question of who he was. Who were his parents, and what happened to them? Did they die? Or did they find themselves, like so many loving parents during the Great Depression, so destitute of resources that they felt he had a better future with someone else–even a stranger? And the most important question of all, did they love him?
These questions haunted my father every day of his life. Sadly, he was never able to answer them. Although he tried more than once, all his efforts to find his parents ever turned up were more questions, and eventually he simply gave up. The gnawing emptiness of not knowing who he was and why his life took the course that it did never left him.
 |
| Paul Alvin Holloway, U.S. Coast Guard photo, 1942 |
On the November day in 1988 when I and my three siblings gathered to remember Paul and to parcel out his few remaining possessions, we made a vow to continue his quest. But in the three decades since then, our efforts have generated few tangible results. In fact, in spite of vast amounts of information now available on the internet, we have uncovered only one reliable fact—a single morsel of information that takes our search in a radically different direction than we had previously considered.
We now find ourselves in the role of trackers: Having found a faint but discernable trace of blood, our only strategy now is to scour the wilderness of information before us for a second hint. That hint will reveal our trail. With any luck, that trail will lead us to our father's father.
The Documents
For all his efforts, Paul’s personal search about his origins uncovered only one document of value, the Decree of Adoption, filed in the Oklahoma County Court on January 23, 1935, which made Ora Holloway his legal parent. Obtained in 1954, this document contains the only information we have about Paul’s family and history prior to that date, which is as follows:1) His name was Paul Alvin Stuart
2) He was born on or about February 19, 1926
3) His father’s name was Charles A. Stuart
4) His mother’s name was Opal Stuart
5) His mother died in September, 1927
6) His father left him with a maternal uncle in 1927
7) This maternal uncle abandoned him in 1929
8) He had been dependent on the public support since 1929-30
9) No family had inquired about his welfare
10) His father’s whereabouts was unknown
Shortly after his death, we petitioned an Oklahoma County judge to have Paul’s adoption records opened to us. The Sunbeam Home (now operating as Sunbeam Family Services), which held the record, was happy to oblige. Sadly, they had little information to give us. Their file contained a single 3×5 index card with the following information:
STUART, Charles A. –(Oral (Ray) died 1927) – A SBH
Paul Alvin 2-19-26
Free FH, Miss Ora Holloway, Britton Okla.
Adoption completed 1-23-35
Case Closed
Although this record offered new information about his mother, it also raised new questions. For one, which was his mother’s correct name, Opal or Oral? Although Opal is a common woman’s name, Oral is typically a man’s. The mention of his adoption by Ora Holloway in 1935 indicates that the record was made after that event.
Determined to leave no stone unturned, in 2005 I wrote Sunbeam Family Services to request a second search for information about Paul’s placement there. This uncovered a second “Master Card” (a 3×5 index card like the one above) which stated the following:
1-16-34
STEWART, Paul Alvin SBH
Admitted 1-16-34
Closed
Again, the additional information raises more questions than it answers. The first has to do with the spelling of Paul’s last name. Apparently, the Sunbeam Home created index cards for both common spellings of this surname, Stuart and Stewart, suggesting that they did not know which was correct. Another interesting point is the date of admission typed on the card, January 16, 1934. According to the Decree of Adoption, Paul had been living on “public support” since 1929-30. If he did not arrive at the Sunbeam Home until 1934, where was he before then? Additionally, in her return letter the records coordinator at Sunbeam Family Services noted that, because neither index card included a case number, she was unable to track a physical file. So it is possible that a physical file does (or did) exist in the orphanage’s archives. But without a case number, they cannot locate it. She also noted that a fire early in the last century destroyed some records from the early 1900s.
In 1996 we asked the Oklahoma Department of Human Services to search their archives for documents about Paul’s adoption. Because the department was not created until 1939, no records on adoptions prior to that year exist in their records.
When the 1930 U.S. Census was released in 2000, we had high hopes for locating our Charles A. Stewart / Stuart and Opal / Oral Ray. But while there were many people with these names in the record, never did they occur as a couple. Nor could we find a Paul Alvin Stewart / Stuart anywhere near Oklahoma—not even in the rolls of the Sunbeam Home itself. Without more information about where a marriage or death might have occurred, we were effectively searching for a needle in a haystack. While any one individual might have been our Charles, Opal or Paul, without more information, we simply could not know it.
Sadly, the 1940 U.S. Census brought just as much disappointment. Indeed, nowhere in the record is there a Paul Holloway—the name by which my father would have been known at the time—whose circumstances matched that of our father. After two decades of pouring over the digital records available to us—the census, cemetery records, birth and marriage records—and finding nothing but disappointment, we had to concede defeat, at least as long as we used these methods.
Turning to DNA
Genetic genealogy is a relatively new science, having come into wide use in the early 2000s. The premise is this: Now that we can map our own genes, by comparing them with one another we can determine who is related to whom and to what degree. Around 2006, I submitted my DNA to Family Tree DNA, a website dedicated to genetic genealogy. A “Family Finder” test searched for people in the database who matched my and my father’s genes closely, suggesting a relationship. Although this yielded some useful information, including the knowledge that we are genetically 98 percent Indo-European, because few of the people who matched my DNA were interested in corresponding, learning more about how I and they might be related proved unfruitful.The second test I submitted traced my own Y-DNA. Since Y-DNA is passed only from father to son, by comparing my Y-DNA with that of others in the Family Tree DNA database, we hoped to identify a common surname. That surname would be our true surname and would be an important clue about our past. We waited with great anticipation for the results, but when they arrived we were shocked. The name wasn’t anything close to what we expected based on the information we had, Stewart or Stuart. The name was Reeb.
At first, this revelation came as a great disappointment, generating more questions than answers. However, unlike the other information we had uncovered, the reliability of genetic data was undisputable. Genes cannot lie. Of all we knew or thought we knew, the conclusion of this DNA data could not be ignored. Indeed, as far from the mark as it seemed to be, it was our most reliable clue about our father’s origin to date.
To our good fortune, we were not the only family of this descent to be interested in genealogy. For decades, a man named John V. Reeb has worked tirelessly to codify the genealogy of his family, whose origins lie in an area known as Keskastel in Alsace Lorraine, on the French-German border. Since our genes match his closely, we are likely descendants of the same family, many of whom emigrated to the United States in the 18th and 19th centuries, settling in Pennsylvania, South Carolina and Tennessee.
This genetic link is the trace that has changed the direction of our search: A surname. The barest hint of substance, it is nevertheless more tangible evidence of our origins than anything we have yet to uncover.
Finding a Trail
But while knowing our true surname is helpful, what Y-DNA cannot tell us is which, among the many hundreds of families bearing the surname Reeb (or one of its many variants) is our line, the family whose history at some point intersects with that of a young boy and an orphanage in Oklahoma City in the midst of the Great Depression. Somewhere in the world that family exists. Our next task is to find it. |
| The Holloway Family, 1966. |
