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One of my weekend shows that I sometimes watch is “Life After People” on the History Channel. The premise is basically if humans disappeared today, how long would it take for human-made things to break down. Today I saw an episode that used my great grandmother’s hometown as an example. In the 1960’s a fire started underground and made its way into the abandoned coal mines in Centralia. In the 1980’s most of the residents left in the town were relocated, and the fire still burns. According to Wikipedia, there were still 9 people living in Centralia in 2007. Here’s a Google search if you’d like to read more.

Life After People used Centralia as an example of how a town would look twenty-five years after people. I don’t think it was the best example, since most of the building were torn down after the people relocated. But, it was interesting none the less.

My great grandmother Sophia Levens left Centralia for Philadelphia before the turn of the century, long before the fire broke out. (That would be the turn from the 19th to the 20th) Some of her siblings remained in the area of Centralia, where her father had been a coal miner.

Here is a link to the Centralia section of the episode: Centralia on Life After People

Elon and Catherine Carman had three children. My great-grandfather Joseph and his brother Jacob survived into adulthood. Their sister Caroline did not. Elon’s Declaration for Pension (1910) listed the three of them, with the word living after Joseph and Jacob and dead after Caroline. Census searches indicated that Caroline probably died sometime between 1870 and 1880, at a young age. She was born in 1869.

Recently, I discovered Caroline’s death certificate. She died in 1872. She was only 2 1/2 years old.

I am always struck by how common death in childhood used to be when I find these relatives of mine who didn’t make it to adulthood, and how fortunate we are that medicine has progressed so much that such deaths are now rare.

This week I am going to highlight someone who is not really related to me, but I am fascinated by the name. Maria Sara Knieriemen was the wife of my first cousin five times removed. (My computer program, TMG, figured that out for me). I had never heard of this name before, so when her marriage to David Horneff on January 7, 1845 showed up in my genealogy this week, I thought I would look into it.

Like many names, Knieriemen has many variant spellings. The Knierman DNA Surname project includes these variants in their project: Knearem, Knerien, Kniereman, Knieriemen, Knierim, Knierinm, Knierman, Knireman, Nearman, Niermann. In their description of the origin they state: “The German word Knerem is defined as a shoemakers’ strap or stirrup, a cobbler, Knieriemen.”

A search on Knieriemen also brought up the Ancestry surname page. They didn’t have a meaning for Knieriemen, but they did have some other statistics. In 1920, there weren’t very many Knieriemen households in the United States, with 3 each in Ohio and Indiana, 2 in New Jersey and 1 in Maryland. Places of origin gathered from the New York Passengers Lists shows they were from Germany. In the United States in 1880 they were farmers, and there was one Cobanus Knieriemen who fought for the Union in the Civil War.

Maria Sara Knieriemen was born about 1818 and was the daughter of Conrad Knieriemen and Katharina Albrecht. She married David Horneff in Otterberg, Bavaria.