This house at the south end of Atlantic Mine, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula has held a special fascination for me for years. I’ve heard stories about it from my great-aunts and my grandfather, who visited here as children in the 1930s and 40s (I wrote about some of those memories in this earlier post).
The Hanley homestead in Atlantic Mine, as it appeared in the early 20th century.
An eight-hour drive from my home, this summer I finally had the opportunity to pay it a visit.
I grew up hearing stories about the boarders it once housed — mostly recent Irish immigrants hoping for a better life in a new world. My second great-grandfather, Patrick Hanley, was one of those boarders. He became the second husband of my widowed second great-grandmother, Ellen Sullivan Kelly Hanley.
There were stories about blind Uncle Con sorting canned goods in the pantry or praying the rosary in Gaelic with his mother, Ellen. About Aunt Julia’s apron catching fire, leading to her death. About my great-grandfather snowshoeing his way to a neighboring town to court my great-grandmother — a story that may be more family legend than fact, but one I like to imagine anyway. And about the family-owned bar across the street — the one pictured in the banner photo on my website — which served its last drink in 1952. In one version of events, a Finn settled a score with an Irishman by tossing him out the saloon window.
This is where my great-grandfather and his siblings lived their lives: Cornelius, Johana, Annie, Julia, Mayme, John, Patrick Jr., James, Daniel, Margaret, and Eugene.
Hanley–Kelly family gathering, c. early 20th century. Pictured are Ellen Sullivan Kelly Hanley (fourth from right), her son John “Jack” Hanley (far right), and Cornelius “Con” Kelly (far left). Others not yet identified.
I imagined walking through this house like it was a museum, tracing the footsteps of my great-great-grandmother Ellen Hanley and the boarders who once filled its rooms.
But here’s the problem: no one living in that house today is going to feel what I feel. To them, it’s just home — their home. And if I showed up on their doorstep with all this history, there’s a good chance they’d be a little freaked out.
The Hanley homestead in 2025. With a side addition and photographed from a different angle, it doesn’t match the historic photo exactly, but family testimony — including visits by my aunts and uncles twenty years ago — confirms this is the same house.
So, I wrote a note. I included a photo of Ellen and her family, and I explained why their house mattered so much to me.
Here’s what I left behind:
Envelope I left at the Hanley homestead, with a historic photo attached to the front.
The note I tucked into the door at the Hanley house — shared here with my contact info removed.
The Knock
I wasn’t going to ring. And yet… the temptation was too strong. Like a moth to a flame, I pressed the doorbell. I had nothing prepared to say.
The garage was open, the screen door let a breeze into the kitchen, and I could see into the house, almost certain someone was home.
No answer.
I was disappointed, but also a little relieved.
So, a little awkwardly (at least according to my son, who stayed in the car and was mortified), I snapped a few photos of the house, including a quick selfie out front.
It felt strange and moving all at once — to stand at the very doorway where Ellen once welcomed miners and boarders, and to know that everyday life still goes on inside those walls.
Why I Left a Note This Time
I don’t usually do this. I’ve wondered about other family homes — those of ancestors in Detroit, the home that no longer exists in Flint, the coastal village house in Samos, Greece, the farmhouse in Poland — but I don’t feel the same pull to connect with them. For those, I have only my imagination, not the stories.
This house in Atlantic Mine is different. I’ve heard stories about it all my life. I’ve imagined it in detail. Standing there in person, I felt the weight of those generations, and I wanted to leave something behind.
So, I left the note. It spared me the potentially intrusive conversation at the door. It was inviting enough in case the current residents’ curiosity was piqued. Overall, it was an invitation, not an obligation, to connect.
It has been several weeks now and I haven’t received any reply. I don’t really expect to, but I feel good thinking that just maybe my ancestors know I cared enough about them to pay a visit.
Have you ever stood outside an ancestral home? Did you knock, write, or just quietly take it in? I’d love to hear how you approached it in the comments.