Adolphe Ogé: An Alsatian Pioneer’s Journey & Enduring Family Legacy in Texas

In the mid-19th century, Texas became a land of opportunity for immigrants from Alsace, France, seeking new beginnings and prosperity. In 1842, Henri Castro, a visionary empresario, secured land grants from President Sam Houston of the Republic of Texas. The grants promised a million acres in exchange for bringing 600 families or single men to Texas within three years, establishing four towns. Each colonist would receive 640 acres for a family or 320 acres for a single man, provided they built a cabin, cultivated at least 15 acres, and resided on the land for three years.

To fulfill his ambitious plans, Castro launched a campaign in France to attract Catholic families from Alsace, a region straddling the French-German border. The promise of land, religious freedom, and a new start on the Texas frontier drew many settlers, and between 1844 and 1847, Castro successfully founded communities such as Castroville, Quihi, Vandenburg, and D’Hanis. Among those answering the call was Abbé Jean Pierre Ogé, a priest from Strasbourg who would lead others with courage and faith into the unknown.

Adolphe Ogé’s Journey to Texas

Adolphe Ogé, a 53-year-old native of Alsace, decided to leave his homeland after enduring a series of personal tragedies:

• In 1824, his daughter Catherine passed away at just one year old.
• In 1836, his young son Joseph died.
• In 1840, his first wife, Catherine Thomann, passed away.
• In 1844, his second wife, Elizabeth Gast, also died.

With the encouragement of his brother, Abbé Jean Pierre, Adolphe set out for America with his two youngest children and his adult daughter Catherine. The family embarked on the Brig Probus from Antwerp, Belgium, on October 6, 1844. After a grueling 113-day journey, they arrived in New Orleans on January 27, 1845. Tragically, during this period, Adolphe also learned of the death of his eldest son, George, in Alsace.

Adolphe settled in San Antonio, Texas, and by 1846, he appeared on Bexar County tax rolls. On February 15, 1847, he secured Land Certificate No. 173 for 640 acres in Medina and Frio Counties. Just two months later, on April 29, 1847, he married his third wife, Catherine Garteiser, in San Antonio. Their marriage was later confirmed at St. Louis Catholic Church in Castroville in 1849. On the same day, his daughter Catherine Ogé married Henry Huffmeyer, marking a moment of profound significance as the settlers’ faith and community were celebrated with the laying of the St. Louis Church cornerstone by Bishop Jean Marie Odin and Abbé Jean Pierre Ogé.

A Life of Transition and Resilience

In 1851, Adolphe sold his 640-acre land certificate for $100, marking a significant transition. He settled in San Antonio, where he worked as a shoemaker, possibly alongside his son-in-law, Henry Huffmeyer, who opened the city’s first shoemaking shop.

Adolphe Ogé Castro Colony Land Certificate

Adolphe’s brother, Abbé Jean Pierre Ogé, passed away in 1853 in New Orleans, leaving him a bequest of $200. Following his brother’s death, Adolphe returned to France, where he passed away on July 5, 1875. His journey came full circle, ending in his homeland after a life marked by hardship, faith, and perseverance.

A Legacy of Strength

Adolphe’s story reflects the resilience and determination of Alsatian immigrants in Texas. Despite profound personal loss, he secured a future for his children in a new land. His son, Louis Adolph Ogé, became a successful rancher and community leader, while his grandsons, Emil and Adolph Huffmeyer, gained respect as mercantile businessmen and Texas Rangers in 1850 and 1870, respectively.

Through courage and determination, Adolphe Ogé and his descendants contributed to the fabric of Texas history, embodying the spirit of hope and renewal that defined the immigrant experience on the frontier.

Gone but Not Forgotten: Sneed Jernigin’s Life Story and Mental Illness in Early 20th Century Texas

Sneed Jernigin, my great granduncle, was born in October 1883 in Hunt County, Texas, the seventh child of James Hendrix Jernigin and Cordelia Lindley Jernigin. Despite his seemingly promising beginnings in a large and close-knit family, Sneed faced significant struggles from an early age. According to his father, James, Sneed had suffered from episodes of what was described as "insanity" starting at the age of three. With the benefit of modern medical knowledge, it is plausible that these episodes were actually seizures, a condition often misunderstood and misdiagnosed as mental illness during that era. This tragic misconception not only shaped Sneed's life but also deeply affected his family, who likely faced increasing difficulty managing his care as he grew older.

On January 29, 1902 when Sneed was eighteen years old, his father filed a petition with the Hunt County Court to declare Sneed of "unsound mind." The court, guided by the limited understanding of neurological conditions at the time, deemed Sneed a "Lunatic" and ordered his commitment to the North Texas Lunatic Asylum in Terrell, Kaufman County, Texas. This institution, later renamed the Terrell State Hospital, opened in July 1885 as the state’s second facility dedicated to the care of individuals with mental illnesses. While the asylum’s mission aimed to provide humane treatment, the limited resources and overcrowded conditions of the time often fell far short of those ideals.

It is likely that Sneed’s symptoms—which may have included seizures, altered states of consciousness, or other neurological manifestations—were exacerbated by the stress of institutional life. Tragically, Sneed’s time in the asylum was brief. According to a March 17, 1950, affidavit by his brother Jay Jernigin, Sneed passed away in 1903, just a year after his commitment. At the time of his death, he was unmarried and had no children. There are no identified official records of his death or burial, a common fate for many patients who died in asylums during that period.

Sneed was likely buried in Wildwood Cemetery, located on the grounds of the Terrell State Hospital. This cemetery served as the final resting place for numerous patients whose families could not afford or were unable to claim their remains. Graves at Wildwood were typically marked with small, numbered stones rather than names, reflecting the institutional anonymity assigned to many of those interred. Over the years, many of these markers have been lost or eroded, leaving the identities of countless individuals, including Sneed, shrouded in mystery.

Sneed’s story is a poignant reminder of how medical misunderstandings can have devastating consequences. It underscores the challenges faced by families of individuals with misunderstood conditions like epilepsy or mental illness in the early 20th century. Furthermore, his life and death highlight the broader history of psychiatric care in Texas, including the struggles of institutions like the Terrell State Hospital to provide adequate care amidst societal stigma and limited resources. Today, the unmarked graves at Wildwood Cemetery stand as silent witnesses to these forgotten lives, urging us to give them a voice, reflect on the progress made in understanding and treating neurological and mental health conditions—and the work that remains to be done. ~ You are not forgotten, you are my family Sneed Jernigin, Rest in Peace ~

 

Figure 1 – North Texas Lunatic Asylum, by Unknown author - Kirkbridebuildings.com, Public Domain

https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=58723488

Beyond the Farm: A Story of Military Nicknames and a Dad's Military Journey

 

From the author’s personal collection; circa 1956 

Military nicknames are a time-honored tradition, stretching back at least to the Civil War. Soldiers often gave nicknames to themselves, their comrades, and even enemy units, drawing inspiration from physical traits, combat experiences, or regional roots. These nicknames served more than just a practical purpose; they fostered camaraderie, boosted morale, and made identification easier in the chaos of the battlefield.

Historians suggest that nicknames took on new importance with the advent of radio communication. Pilots, for example, adopted distinctive call signs, making it easier for ground controllers to identify them in the heat of combat. Whether on the ground or in the air, these names often reflected personality, appearance, or a defining action. A soldier from Texas might become “Tex,” while a grizzled commander might earn the moniker “Pappy.”
 
My adoptive dad, William Henry Meyer, proudly bore the nickname “Tex” during his time in the military. Born in Poteet, Atascosa County, Texas, on January 22, 1937, William came from humble beginnings. His parents, Herbert Meyer and Loudie Ferguson Meyer, ran a dairy farm in nearby Jourdanton. Tragedy struck early in his life when his mother passed away on January 15, 1938, just a week shy of his first birthday.
 
Henry’s early years were marked by a restless spirit. Growing up on the Meyer Dairy Farm, he often found himself yearning for adventure beyond the boundaries of rural Texas. A bit of a rebel, he sought to chart his own path. After graduating high school in May 1955, he decided to leave the farm behind and enlist in the U.S. Air Force on December 9, 1955.
 
Basic training at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio shaped his discipline, while technical training in aircraft radio repair at Keesler Air Force Base in Biloxi, Mississippi, honed his skills. He spent three years stationed in Germany, splitting his time between Hahn and Ramstein Air Force Bases. By the time he was honorably discharged on September 10, 1959, he had earned his enduring military nickname: "Tex." While perhaps not the most creative nickname, it reflected his deep Texas roots and undeniable charm.
 
After his first stint in the Air Force, Henry returned to Texas and married Barbara Jeane Crawford on January 10, 1961, in Cotulla, LaSalle County. Yet, the call of adventure still lingered, and rural life failed to satisfy his restless nature. On August 21, 1963, he reenlisted in the Air Force, embarking on a new chapter of service that would take him far from Texas.
 
In September 1966, Henry and Barbara were stationed at Hickam Air Force Base in Honolulu, Hawaii, where I was born. My dad’s military career eventually took us to England, where we lived near Mildenhall and Lakenheath Air Force Bases. Our family settled in a quaint English village, and it was there that my younger brother, Christopher Michael, was born.

From the author’s personal collection; circa 1967 USAF Water Survival Training in Hawaii;

William Henry Meyer on the left with fingers clasped together  

After 24 years of dedicated service, my dad retired from the U.S. Air Force in 1981. We returned to Texas, where he and Barbara welcomed one final blessing: their youngest son, Trey Oliver, born shortly after their retirement.

My dad rarely spoke about his military nickname, though I knew it was “Tex.” Before his military days, among his friends back home, he had another nickname: “Diamond J.” Sadly, I never asked him about the story behind that name before he passed in 2013.

Though he’s no longer here, I cherish the stories he left behind and the legacy of “Tex,” a testament to his Texas roots and the adventurous spirit that defined his life.

A Legacy of Love and Resilience: The Story of Henry Sievers and Mary Ann Englert

 

   From the author’s personal collection; taken circa 1905

Both Henry Sievers and Mary Ann Englert were born in Germany, but their paths to America unfolded separately. Each family immigrated through the Port of Galveston, arriving on different dates and ships. The Sievers family reached Texas on 26 October 1884, aboard the SS Ohio, eventually settling in Gonzales County. The Englert family arrived later, on 1 October 1886, aboard the SS Weser, making their home in DeWitt County before migrating to Olfen in Runnels County.

Mary Ann was the eldest of six children, deeply cherished by her father, Michael Joseph Englert. In 1889, Mary Ann had a son, Frank Alois Englert, though it remains unclear whether she was married to Frank’s father. Michael sought to find a suitable husband for his daughter and chose Henry Sievers Jr. as a promising match. Henry came from a respectable German family and was known for being hardworking, ambitious, and polite. Although the Sievers family did not share the Catholic faith of the Englert’s, both families agreed that Henry would meet Mary Ann, and if they developed a mutual affection, they would have the families' blessing. What began as an arranged relationship blossomed into true love. On November 21, 1893, Henry and Mary Ann were married in DeWitt County, and Henry wholeheartedly embraced Frank as his own son.

Henry and Mary Ann’s first biological child, John Heinrich Sievers, was born on 10 September 1894, but tragically passed away just five months later. The loss devastated both families, and it would be a decade before Mary Ann gave birth again. Their second child, Klara Theresa Sievers, was born on 4 May 1905, in Gonzales County, but heartbreak struck again when Klara passed away on 15 May 1906, at only one year old. The couple’s third child, a baby girl, was stillborn on 14 March 1907. On 2 September 1909, Mary Ann gave birth to their fourth child, Michael Sievers, in Gonzales County. However, joy was once again overshadowed by sorrow, as Mary Ann passed away shortly after giving birth to him.

Henry was left to grapple with the overwhelming loss of his wife. The grief strained relationships between the Sievers and Englert families, particularly with Mary Ann’s firstborn, Frank, who blamed Henry for his mother’s death. Both families wanted to care for the infant Michael, leading to intense disagreements. Ultimately, Henry decided to entrust Michael to his sister, Minna Sievers Meyer, and her husband, Rheinhardt Meyer.

In 1900, nine-year-old Michael was legally adopted by Minna and Rheinhardt, who gave him the new name Herbert Meyer. Henry visited Herbert only a few times as he grew up. Each visit was bittersweet, as young Herbert longed to return home with his father. This made the visits emotionally difficult for both of them, and over time, they grew less frequent.

Minna instilled in Herbert a deep love for their German heritage, as well as a devotion to faith and family values. These principles became the foundation of Herbert’s life and were passed down to his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.

Despite the tragedies he endured, Henry never remarried, choosing instead to focus on the memory of Mary Ann and the legacy of their family. He lived quietly in Gonzales County and later in Atascosa County until his death in 1927.

Henry and Mary Ann shared just sixteen years together, marked by true love, heartbreaking loss, and resilience. Despite the many tragedies they endured while trying to grow their family, their legacy lives on through their descendants, a testament to the enduring strength of their bond.

Discovering My Paternal Roots: A Genealogical Journey

My journey into genealogy began with a deeply personal quest: uncovering the story of my biological father, William Earl Peerce, Jr. From an incredibly early age, I knew I was adopted. My adoptive parents, whom I cherish deeply, were open about my origins. They told me that my legal aunt was, in fact, my biological mother—a young, unmarried woman when she gave birth to me. She had left me a “Letter,” naming my biological father and his parents, a small but significant key to my past.

Although I had dabbled in genealogy with my adoptive father and biological grandfather during childhood, my personal journey truly began on my 18th birthday. Among my birthday gifts was the “Letter,” stored in an envelope in my adoptive father’s desk for my entire life. Opening it, I felt a surge of excitement and apprehension. For years, I had worried my biological father might be someone I already knew, but relief washed over me when his name was unfamiliar.

The First Steps

In January 1985, I took my first step toward uncovering the truth. I wrote to Mr. Peerce’s parents, as their address was the only contact information in the “Letter.” Not long after, I received a response from Mrs. William Earl Peerce, Sr. Her letter was kind yet distant. She expressed no knowledge of my existence, explained her own challenging upbringing in an orphanage, and shared her hope that I was happy with the family who raised me. I was—and remain—grateful for my adoptive parents, knowing that I was placed in a home filled with unconditional love.

Shortly after sending my letter, I received an operator-assisted, person-to-person phone call. A male voice, identifying himself as “Pepper,” instructed me to listen without asking questions. He told me to never contact Mr. Peerce’s parents again, citing their age and confusion. He claimed to be a close friend of Mr. Peerce and assured me he would facilitate future communications. The mysterious nature of the call left me both curious and uneasy.

A Peculiar Meeting

The second call came a few days later. Again, it was “Pepper.” This time, he spoke about Willie—Mr. Peerce—who was allegedly traveling for work. He instructed me to attend the San Antonio Stock Show and Rodeo in February (1985), carry a red scarf in my left hand, and visit the Lone Star Brewery booth for further instructions. Reluctantly, I decided to go, curiosity winning out over caution.

On the designated night, my boyfriend and I arrived at the rodeo. At the booth, I was handed an envelope describing Willie’s appearance, including a description of his hair being “salt and pepper” color and stating he would walk by shortly. As promised, a man matching the description passed by without a word. Frustrated, I left, feeling the entire ordeal was an unnecessary charade.

The Truth Unfolds

The third call revealed the truth. The operator introduced the caller as Willie Peerce, and I immediately recognized the voice—it had been him all along. He hung up quickly, but not before confirming my suspicions. A follow-up letter from “Pepper” apologized for the abrupt call and promised more information. By then, I had grown weary of the games. I realized Willie was not a father figure in any sense, and I began to distance myself emotionally.

Despite my efforts, Willie’s erratic communication persisted. One drunken call after another revealed his irresponsibility for his behavior and decisions. In December 1987, he invited me to a Lone Star Brewery Christmas party, where he shared photos of an older half-sister and her son. That interaction was one of our last. By 1990, I had two sons of my own, and I chose to pause my genealogical journey to focus on my family.

A New Chapter in Research

In 1998, I joined the burgeoning online genealogy community through Ancestry.com. Records revealed three marriages for Mr. Peerce, along with timelines that painted a clearer picture of his life. My older half-sister was born six months after his first marriage in 1961. His second marriage took place mere days before my birth in 1967, and his third in 1983. Each discovery added depth to his story.

In 2016, I submitted an autosomal DNA test. The results confirmed my biological connection to Mr. Peerce’s family, removing any remaining doubt. In April 2019, a significant DNA match appeared—a half-sister born in 1956 and adopted at birth. Further research suggested Mr. Peerce’s involvement, as he had transferred from a private Catholic school to a public school during that time, likely due to the pregnancy.

Finding Peace

Today, I know of three daughters born to Mr. Peerce by three different women. I’ve formed a strong bond with my oldest half-sister, while the other prefers no contact. Over the years, my feelings toward Willie have shifted. Once filled with frustration and aversion, I now view him with forgiveness. I wrote him a letter expressing my unconditional love, despite our complicated history. Although I’ve received no response, I find peace in knowing I’ve done my part to extend understanding and closure.

My genealogical journey continues, but it is no longer about seeking validation. It’s about preserving my history, embracing my roots, and celebrating the family—biological and adoptive—that has shaped me into who I am today.