Everyday Life in Hamilton County, Illinois, Around 1900

A Personal Connection to the Past

Genealogy isn’t just about dates and documents—it’s about people. It’s about stepping into their world, imagining their struggles, and hearing their laughter echo through time. For me, tracing my family’s history has always been more than a research project. It’s personal.

Image created using AI DALL-E tool

The source of much of this insight comes from a letter written by Opal Mezo Magill to Bertha White, which was shared with me by Bertha. Both Opal and Bertha are descendants of William C. Mezo and Martha Braden, my great-great-great-grandparents. Opal, writing from her own memories, recalls conversations with her great uncles and great aunts—people who were alive between 1850 and 1900. Their stories paint a vivid picture of daily life in Hamilton County, Illinois, at the turn of the century, from the hard work required to survive to the moments of joy that brought families together.

My great-great-great-grandparents lived in Hamilton County, Illinois, in the late 1800s. William C. Mezo and Martha Braden (mentioned in Opal Mezo Magill’s letter) were tenant farmers, making their living off the land. Their son, Moses Wesley Mezo, my great-great-grandfather, carried on that way of life, raising his daughter Nora Mezo, who in turn became the mother of my grandmother, Bertha Lawson Peterson. Though I never met them, their way of life still feels familiar.

Reading accounts like Opal’s letter is like opening a window to a world where life was slower, harder, and yet filled with the kind of grit and determination that seems almost legendary today.

Handmade Homes and Family Ingenuity

Image created using AI DALL-E tool

Imagine a simple log cabin—two rooms, maybe three if they were lucky. The walls, worn smooth by generations of hands, held only the essentials. A cook table, a dish safe, a highboy for clothes, and barrels filled with flour and meal. Space was at a premium, so beds were stacked with trundle beds tucked beneath, ready to be pulled out at night.

The men of the family didn’t just farm; they built. Tables, chairs, and cupboards weren’t bought—they were made. And the craftsmanship wasn’t just practical; it carried a sense of pride. I like to think every piece of handmade furniture had a story, a fingerprint of the one who built it.

The Land Was Their Livelihood

There were no grocery stores stocked with endless choices—families lived by what they could grow, raise, trade, or make themselves. Honey was gathered from bee trees, and sweet sorghum was pressed from homegrown cane. Fruits and pumpkins were dried and canned in stone jars, sealed with wax chipped off long red sticks and melted to make an airtight seal.

Image created using AI DALL-E tool

Milk cows were essential, providing fresh milk for drinking, butter, and buttermilk. The concept of "expiration dates" didn’t exist—milk was left to clabber naturally before being churned into butter. The idea of daily, fresh butter is enough to make anyone’s mouth water—though I imagine churning it by hand on a hot day might make you rethink store-bought options.

Meat didn’t come wrapped in plastic but from their own livestock. Fattened hogs, chickens, and eggs were both sustenance and currency, traded or sold for necessities like shoes and cloth. And forget memory foam mattresses—goose-down feather beds were the ultimate luxury, filled with feathers plucked from their own geese and ducks.

Image created using AI DALL-E too

And then there were smokehouses—filled with hickory-smoked pork, the scent hanging in the air like a promise of good meals ahead. Those who used tobacco? They grew it, dried it, and twisted their own.

Work, Play, and the Rhythm of Life

Image created using AI DALL-E tool

Despite the backbreaking labor, there was always time for family, neighbors, and fun. Threshing, harvesting, and hay baling weren’t just chores—they were social gatherings. Dozens of cousins would show up, pitching in, swapping stories, and making even the hardest work more bearable.

And when the work was done? Music. Families with organs, violins, mandolins, or guitars would gather and play late into the evening, filling the night with melodies carried through the open windows of those small cabins.

Children found entertainment without screens—hide and seek, horseshoes, marbles, and ball games filled their days. I can almost hear the echoes of their laughter bouncing off the rolling farmland, see the dust kicked up by their feet as they chased each other in the twilight.

And the discussions? They were serious. Most parents were well-read, debating worldwide events, politics, and—perhaps most of all—the Bible.

Why the Past Still Matters

It’s one thing to know your ancestors lived in a certain place at a certain time. It’s another to imagine their hands kneading bread, their voices calling their children home at dusk, their boots stomping the dirt as they walked behind a plow.

I’ll never meet my great-great-great-grandparents, but I can feel them. In every wooden chair made by hand, in every jar of preserves sealed with wax, in every song played on an old violin late into the night.

Genealogy isn’t just about the past. It’s about the way the past lives on in us.

And when I read stories like Opal’s letter, I don’t just see history. I see home