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Category: Acadian heritage

Lagniappe

Lagniappe: something given as a bonus or extra gift. (I used this term in another blog, which was useful. Hope you might see this as helpful to you.)

I’m in the middle of so much stuff! But I did read some very interesting articles from others’ blogs. I don’t have time to share each one properly, but I thought you might be interested in checking them out, if you have the time or inclination.

I do have another blog, which is primarily genealogy-related, and I’m trying to recall how to get access to it. The blog is: Family Circle 14, and I’ve had it for many years — although I lost it for much of that time.

When I can, I’ll post less genealogy-related stuff here and just post it there. In the meantime, here’s my list.

Blog posts

Full-Text Search + Research = A Win! by Ken McKinlay on Family Tree Knots.

It Happened in Newmarket by Patrick Lacroix on Query the Past.

New Ancestry Features: One Disappeared and One Made Me Smile by Doris Kenney on A Tree With No Name.

Smarter AI Prompts for Genealogists by Natalie Webb on Family Tree Technology.

Untangling the Life of Madeleine Hélie (c1633-1677/1678) – 52 Ancestors #479 by Roberta Estes on DNAeXplained.

From Memory to Memoir by Carole McCulloch on Essential Genealogy.

Gedminer by Claire Bradley on CBGenealogy.

Articles

Acadian ancestry led Marianne Sulser to story of displacement that inspired her novel, Colorado Sun, Denver, Colorado.

About the Arnault Family

https://acanadianfamily.wordpress.com/2023/10/12/arnault-st-arnault-var-surname-anchor-post/

Beausoleil’s Foundation: Acadian Freedom Fighter

Many people know about Joseph “Beausoleil” Broussard. That name is a proud part of Acadian history. If you’re familiar with Beausoleil, (English: Beautiful Sun), then, you know that Beyoncé is a direct descendant. I happen to share that distinction through my paternal grandmother.

Broussard is widely regarded as a hero and an important historical figure by both Acadians and Cajuns in Louisiana.

This story is about Catherine Richard, Beausoleil’s mother, (c1663 – after 1714). I’m working on a fun book which has to do with the Acadians, so, I’ve been thinking a lot about Catherine.

It is somewhat bittersweet because the content is for elementary-age school children. Naturally, the tone of the book will be appropriate for children. I considered putting the following thoughts here in this blog. Below are some facts I’ve collected from my genealogy work.

Born around 1663 in Port Royal, she came into a world where Acadia itself was unstable, contested, and vulnerable.

Catherine Richard’s life was not a neat genealogy line. It was a life lived under pressure, in fear, in grief, and in stubborn endurance.

Her parents, Michel Richard dit Sansoucy and Madeleine Blanchard, were among the early Acadian families trying to build a life on land that was never fully secure.

Catherine grew up in a place where survival meant farming, faith, family, and the constant awareness that history could break into your home at any moment.

By the time she was a teenager, Catherine had likely married François Broussard. She was still very young, probably about fifteen, when she began the life that would define her: wife, mother, mourner, survivor.

The records suggest that she and François had children almost immediately, and that some of those first babies died.

That kind of loss is easy to flatten into a line in a family tree, but in real life it meant a young mother burying infants before she had even learned how to fully live as an adult. It meant grief so early that it became part of the architecture of her life.

Then came the larger violence of history. In 1690, English forces attacked Port Royal.

Catherine would have seen the ships on the river, the cannons, the panic, the helplessness. The town was plundered. Homes were burned. Livestock was killed. The church was desecrated. The place where her children were baptized and where her dead were buried became a target. And this was not the only attack. More raids followed.

The family’s life in Port Royal became increasingly impossible, and like many Acadians, they moved upriver to Beausoleil, seeking safety, land, and some measure of peace.

But peace was always temporary. Catherine’s family was large, and the records show both growth and loss. She had children who survived into adulthood and children who vanished from the record, likely buried in unmarked graves.

She lost her mother, probably around the time she was still a young woman herself. She lost her father later. She likely lost siblings, children, neighbors, and the sense that the world could be trusted.

Catherine’s life was marked by repeated bereavement: babies, parents, perhaps even a child or two in the years after 1690. Her suffering was not singular; it was cumulative.

Her sons Alexandre and Joseph Broussard became the most famous members of the family.

Joseph, known as Beausoleil, became one of the great Acadian resistance leaders. He and Alexandre did not simply endure the English conquest and deportation; they resisted it.

They fought, hid, escaped, regrouped, and kept going when surrender would have been easier. Their story is one of courage, but it is also one of relentless loss.

They lost homes, land, freedom, relatives, and eventually, in exile, many more family members to disease and hardship.

François Broussard and Catherine Richard made the move to the village of Beausoleil between the 1693 and the 1698 census.

In today’s language, they would rightly be framed as “freedom fighters”, but that freedom came at a devastating cost.

The Acadian Expulsion was not just a relocation. It was a tearing apart of a people. Families were separated. Children were taken. Homes were burned. Entire communities were erased.

The Broussards’ story shows the human scale of that catastrophe. Catherine’s sons became symbols of resistance, but they were also sons of a mother who had already lived through decades of fear and grief before the final catastrophe even arrived.

In 1698, according to census records, Françoise, age 45, and Catherine, age 35, have Madeleine, 18, Pierre, 15, Marie, 13, Catherine 7, Elisabeth 5, François, 3, and Claude, one-half.

They have 15 cattle, 20 sheep, 14 hogs, on 16 arpents of land, with two fruit trees. Additionally, they have two guns and a servant, so all things considered, they are doing very well.

Of Catherine’s 10 known children, meaning those who did not die as children, and for whom we have names, the oldest three disappeared from the records around the time of the Expulsion, three died in Port Royal, one is last found in Maryland, one died in Quebec, and two founded the Cajun community in Louisiana.

These latter two, Joseph Beausoleil and Alexandre, were born 2 years apart. Catherine had one more child after Alexandre. I happen to be a direct descendant of Joseph through my paternal grandmother. Catherine gave birth to anywhere between 10 to 19 children, according to records, and perhaps more.

Catherine herself likely died before the Expulsion, but her life was the foundation from which her children’s resistance grew.

She raised them in a world that taught them how to survive, how to endure, and perhaps how to refuse submission.

What makes Catherine’s story so powerful is that it is not only about famous ancestors. It is about the ordinary, brutal reality of Acadian life.

It is about a woman who buried children, watched her home burn, moved to survive, and kept raising a family in a land repeatedly threatened by war. It is about the quiet heroism of mothers whose names are often preserved only in censuses and parish registers, yet whose lives shaped entire peoples.

Catherine Richard was not a footnote to Joseph Broussard dit Beausoleil. She was the root system beneath him.

And that is the deeper truth of the Acadian story. The famous names matter, but they were carried by mothers, fathers, grandparents, and children who lived through terror without the luxury of being remembered as legends.

Catherine’s life reminds us that history is not only made by battles and treaties.

It is made in kitchens, fields, graveyards, and burned-out homes.

It is made by women who keep going after loss, by families who rebuild after raids, and by people who refuse to disappear even when the world tries to erase them.

My Hope and Dream

I’ve been experimenting with Nightcafe and am so happy at the way this has turned out.

My prayer is that, when the time comes, I will be greeted by my own children whom I have lost, foster children who passed away in my home, and all the multitudes of ancestors I’ve done the work for.

The tragic Acadians lost in the diaspora called The Great Dispersal that drove many to Louisiana.

To the Ancestors who came to the New World from France and dug trenches called dykes in Nova Scotia. All of these contributed to my bloodline, on both sides of my parents.

One, a veritable hero, Beausoleil Broussard, my direct ancestor that I happen to share with Beyoncé.

Another ancestor, unnamed due to threat of shaming, an ancestor who was the unknowing carrier of the deaf blind and balance scourge of many Cajuns, Usher Syndrome. Another, Tay Sachs syndrome, shared by tight-knit Jewish communities.

To my Louisiana Ancestors, who braved yellow fever, great storms and hurricanes, and sweltering heat. Worst of all, the mosquitoes who ravaged bodies with yellow fever. Even the awful monster, leprosy, inhabited so many bodies, clinics still exist in Louisiana. Yet, they survived. With their celebrations at Mardi Gras, and family crawfish boils, along with cotton picking parties and Saturday night dance halls. My childhood was filled with such great memories! In fact, I was nearly born on my grandfather’s shrimp boat on New Year’s Eve night. The shrimp were running so good, nobody except Mama was in a hurry to get off that boat! I just barely made it to the hospital at Lafayette General (called Charity Hospital at the time. The building’s still there.)

To my one line of Irishmen, the Pepper’s, who came right after the great potato starvation time, who first witnessed persecution, and then, founded a good life of blacksmithing. (My grandmother’s grandmother wasn’t allowed to speak in her native tongue, even at home, but my mother recalls her beautiful “sing-song” accent in her Cajun speak.)

Nova Scotia Replica Site in the News

www.ctvnews.ca/atlantic/nova-scotia/article/nova-scotias-first-acadian-cemetery-replica-chapel-to-receive-climate-change-protections/

The Majors Point Acadian cemetery and its replica chapel in Belliveau Cove commemorates the arrival of a group of Acadians fleeing the expulsion in 1755.

I thought this was interesting. It’s a short article about some climate protections made in an Acadian replica site.

Narrative Nook Monday #3: Echoes of the Forgotten Shore

Narrative Nook Monday: Echoes of the Forgotten Shore

Welcome back to Narrative Nook Monday, dear readers—a cozy corner of Family Circle 14 and S.M.Ulbrich Blog where stories unfold like whispers from the bayou, blending our Acadian and Cajun roots with threads of wonder and heart. Today, let’s dive into a tale inspired by the resilient spirits of the Gulf Coast, where the sea holds secrets and second chances. I call this one “The Lantern’s Promise”, a short story of loss, light, and the unbreakable pull of home. Pull up a chair, brew some chicory coffee, and let the words carry you away.


In the salt-kissed hamlet of Petit Rivière, where the Mississippi’s lazy fingers tangled with the Gulf’s restless waves, lived an old fisherman named Étienne. His days blurred into a rhythm of nets and knots, his nights into the hush of a widow’s solitude. Twenty years had passed since the great storm of ‘05 stole his Marie—not her body, mind you, but her spark—leaving him adrift in a world that felt as empty as the bay after a nor’easter.

Étienne’s boat, L’Étoile Filante (Shooting Star, though it hadn’t shot anywhere in a decade), bobbed forgotten at the rickety dock. He mended nets by lantern light now, not for the sea, but for the ghosts that gathered in the gloaming. Folks in town said he talked to shadows, but Étienne knew better: they were echoes. Marie’s laugh in the wind, her callused hands braiding his hair with tales of her Acadian grandmère, who fled the British expulsion in 1755, carrying only a locket and a song.

One fog-shrouded dawn, as the herons cried their mournful reveille, a stranger washed up on the shore. Not a man, exactly, but a silhouette stitched from mist and memory—a figure cloaked in seaweed, eyes like polished abalone shells. “Étienne LeBlanc,” it rasped, voice like gravel under keel, “you’ve kept my light too long.”

He froze, net half-mended in his lap. The lantern at his feet flickered, its flame dancing defiant against the damp. “Who are you to claim what’s mine?” he growled, though his heart hammered like a gator’s tail on tin.

The figure knelt, close enough for him to smell the brine and something sweeter—jasmine from Marie’s garden. “I am the Keeper of Lost Promises. Your Marie made one the night the storm came: to light your way home, no matter how far the tide pulls.” It extended a hand, palm up, revealing a tiny glass orb etched with Acadian fleur-de-lis. Inside swirled a miniature tempest, frozen mid-roar.

Étienne’s breath caught. That night replayed in his mind’s eye: Marie pressing the orb into his fist as winds howled, her lips fierce against his. “Keep this, mon cœur. It’ll guide you when I’m gone. Promise me you’ll live, not just survive.” He’d nodded, numb, and tucked it away. But grief is a sly thief; it had hoarded the promise like a miser with coins.

“Why now?” he whispered, the words cracking like driftwood.

The Keeper’s eyes softened, reflecting the lantern’s glow. “Because the shore forgets no one, but it tires of waiting. Sail out at dusk, Étienne. Follow the light to where her echo lingers.”

Dusk painted the sky in bruised purples and golds. Against the mutters of neighbors (“Old Étienne’s finally lost it”), he shoved off in L’Étoile Filante, the boat groaning like an old friend roused from slumber. The orb nestled in the lantern, its inner storm now a steady pulse of blue fire. He steered into the gathering dark, the Gulf a vast inkwell swallowing stars.

Hours bled into the velvet night. Waves slapped the hull like impatient lovers, and doubt gnawed at him—had grief conjured this madness? Then, a glimmer: not from the orb, but ahead, where sea met sky in a hazy seam. A chorus of lights bobbed there, faint as fireflies, weaving patterns that tugged at his soul. He leaned into the tiller, heart thundering.

As L’Étoile cut through the swell, the lights resolved into lanterns—dozens, hundreds—drifting on a hidden atoll, a crescent of sand veiled by perpetual mist. Figures moved among them, translucent as moonlit lace: souls unmoored by storms past, Acadian exiles and Cajun kin, waiting for their lights to be claimed. And at the heart, Marie—her hair wild as the waves that took her, her smile a beacon.

“Étienne,” she called, voice clear as a fiddle’s reel. She stepped forward, solidifying in the lantern’s warmth, her hand cool but real against his weathered cheek. “You kept your promise. Now let me keep mine.”

They talked till the stars wheeled overhead— of lost years, of the boys they’d never had, of the songs her grandmère sang to summon courage. The other lanterns brightened with each word, promises reignited, pulling their keepers home across the water. Dawn crept in, gilding the mist, and Marie pressed the orb back into his palm. “This isn’t goodbye, mon amour. It’s the light we carry together. Go build that garden again. Plant jasmine for me.”

He sailed back as the sun crested, the Gulf now a mirror of gold. L’Étoile Filante kissed the dock with a sigh of relief. The town stirred, eyes wide at the old man grinning like a fool, his nets abandoned for a shovel and seeds. That night, as jasmine bloomed improbably under his window, Étienne lit his lantern—not for ghosts, but for the living promise within.

And on fogged dawns thereafter, when strangers washed ashore, he’d share the tale: “The sea don’t steal; it lends. Just follow the light.”

What do you think, friends? Does The Lantern’s Promise stir echoes in your own heart—memories of loved ones, or the quiet strength of heritage that lights our way? Share in the comments below, or drop a line on Goodreads or Amazon. If this nook warmed you, curl up with one of my Zion Chronicles for more tales of trials turned triumphs, or revisit Discovering Misty for seaside magic that lingers. Until next Monday, may your own lanterns burn bright. Au revoir!

*~ S. M. Ulbrich*

(Word count: ~750. Inspired by Gulf Coast folklore and the enduring love in stories like Love You Forever.)

Famine and Rocks

This is great:

 

httpsfamilycircle14.wordpress.com/2025/09/26/famine-and-rocks/

In Defense of the Third Grand Dérangement: the Acadian Crisis in France During the Seven Years’ War (1756–1763)

Interesting read: RE: my Acadian Ancestors

This post is a part of the 2025 Selected Papers of the Consortium on the Revolutionary Era, which were edited and compiled by members of the CRE’s …

In Defense of the Third Grand Dérangement: the Acadian Crisis in France During the Seven Years’ War (1756–1763)

Narrative Nook Monday #1: A Tapestry of Stories

A Tapestry of Stories: My Journey as a Writer

Every writer has a moment when the world tilts, and the stories inside them demand to be told. For me, that moment came on a quiet evening, surrounded by the soft hum of Louisiana’s bayou country, where the air carries whispers of Acadian ancestors and the past feels alive. As S.M. Ulbrich, I’ve always been drawn to history—not just the dates and events, but the heartbeat of people who lived it, their struggles woven with threads of magic and mystery. This is the story of how I became a writer, a path carved by heritage, imagination, and a stubborn love for storytelling.

Growing up, I was captivated by tales of my Acadian roots, stories of resilience like those of Joseph Broussard, my direct ancestor on my paternal grandmother’s side, whose courage against all odds felt like a call to action. I’d pore over genealogy records, like the Drouin Collection, tracing names and imagining the lives behind them. Those names weren’t just ink on a page—they were people who faced exile, built new homes, and carried their culture across oceans. Their strength inspired me, and I wanted to honor them in my writing. But it wasn’t enough to retell history; I wanted to infuse it with the mystical, to let runes glow on the page and hint at deeper truths.

My first leap into authorship came with Discovering Misty: The Mermaid of the Emerald Coast, a children’s series born from a real-life character actor in Florida who enchanted kids with her tales. Writing for young readers felt like sharing a secret: that stories can spark joy, teach empathy, and build bridges between generations. I’d sit at my desk, petting my cat for calm, music humming in the background, and let Misty’s world unfold. Those books, now on Amazon, are my love letter to the kids who dream big and the families who read together. But they’re also a piece of me—a reminder of the girl who saw magic in the everyday.

Writing isn’t always smooth. There were manuscripts like George and the Brave Eagle and Washington’s Fantastical Crossing, still waiting for illustrations and funding, that tested my patience. There were moments of doubt, like when I rushed to meet deadlines before my husband returned home, or very late at night, as I was doing nurse duty for my foster kids, scribbling words for The Fading Light in a race against time. Yet, every struggle taught me something. The chaos of Hurricane Sandy’s aftermath in my Zion Series reminded me that stories, like life, thrive in the tension between hope and hardship.

What keeps me going is the connection—to my heritage, to readers, to the spark of a new idea. When I got an email from a reader community eager to discuss Misty on Goodreads, I felt the weight of my words landing in someone else’s heart. When I designed a vibrant Canva image for my Amazon author page or crafted a post for my blog, Family Circle 14, or this one, I saw my voice reaching further. Even now, as I weave runes into my historical fiction or dream up blog posts about creativity, I’m reminded that writing is my way of making sense of the world.

This memoir isn’t just about me—it’s about the stories we all carry. Whether it’s a tale of Acadian resilience, a mermaid’s adventure, or a rune glowing in the dark, I write to uncover the magic in the past and share it with you. So, here I am, still typing, still dreaming, still weaving my tapestry of stories.

What’s the story you’re carrying today?

Shirley

P.S. I’m excited to share that today I found 3 more manuscripts I’d written years ago, that I thought I’d never see again — 2 are part of the Misty series!

Do You See Yourself as a Leader? My Journey of Leading with Heart

Do you see yourself as a leader?

As the author of Discovering Misty: The Mermaid of the Emerald Coast and George and the Brave Eagle, and a blogger celebrating 500 visitors, I’ve learned that leadership isn’t just about titles—it’s about stepping up to make a difference. When asked, “Do you see yourself as a leader?” my answer is clear: as a parent, I’m automatically a leader. But the scope of that leadership, shaped by my history, stretches far beyond my home, touching lives through advocacy, service, and storytelling. Here’s how my journey as a leader has unfolded and how it fuels my writing today.

Parenthood thrust me into leadership from the start, guiding my children with love and purpose. Raising two daughters and five sons, three of whom became Eagle Scouts and two who worked toward it, I took on roles like Cub Scout leader in the Boy Scouts of America (BSA). Those years taught me to lead by example, fostering resilience and teamwork—qualities I weave into my children’s books, like George’s courage or Misty’s determination. My leadership extended to managing our family’s 25-acre LDS church park, where we hosted 600-800 Boy Scouts each year for six years. Picture a week-long campout on your front lawn—tents, laughter, and chaos! Organizing those events honed my ability to lead with patience and vision, skills I now use to manage my blog and book projects.

Beyond family, I found my voice as a political leader with Overpassers for USA, serving as California’s representative. Coordinating rallies across the state to promote patriotism and free speech was exhilarating. Every weekend, my family and I stood on freeway overpasses, waving flags and signs we kept ready in our van. I helped build the organization’s website, listing rallies nationwide, and watching our movement grow filled me with pride. Those moments of unity and love for American values inspired the hope-filled themes in my stories and blog posts, where I aim to uplift readers young and old.

My leadership also shone in foster care. For over 14 years, my husband and I were medical foster parents in Sacramento County, caring for more than 200 infants and children, many medically fragile. We held the first baby in the county to pass from AIDS, loving him for all eight months of his life. That experience taught me leadership through compassion—a thread that runs through Discovering Misty and my advocacy for hope and suicide prevention. As Vice President of the Sacramento branch of the California State Foster Parent Association for seven years and Editor of its monthly publication for six, I led by amplifying voices and sharing stories, much like I do now through my blog and books.

Leadership, for me, is about impact, not position. Whether rallying for free speech, guiding Scouts, nurturing fragile lives, or writing stories that spark joy, I lead by showing up with heart. My blog, my GoFundMe campaign for George and the Brave Eagle, and my books are extensions of that leadership, inviting readers to find courage and connection.

If you’ve ever stepped up to guide, inspire, or serve, you’re a leader too—shaping the world one moment, one story, at a time.

Shirley

Overpassers USA