family « Kenny Smith | A remarkable thing happens …

family

family / history / links / Monday / photo — Comments Off
27
May 13

“We’re just kin to everybody.”

Below are 1,500 self-indulgent words. But also a lot of interesting old photographs. If nothing else, scroll down for those.

Visiting with my grandmother, I asked her if she remembered the DVD that someone made her of all the old family portraits. She did. And would she mind going through them with me again, telling me the names of the people she knew. She said she would, but she didn’t know them all since that was a collection of her in-laws.

We never did get around to that DVD today, but we did trace her family back quite a way.

This is a cell phone picture of what is probably a Xerox transfer into a vanity publication. Two people in the family, one of whom I know and the other who doesn’t even sound familiar, spent countless hours putting together an amazing book. That tome probably proves my great-grandmother’s point, “We’re just kin to everybody.”

When we tried to make sense of it all, you could see the wisdom in her argument. But it also seems to go back to 1820 Tennessee for that branch of my family tree, and this wedding license:

Prior to that, the few traces of evidence only leave us with more questions. So we’ll just start with Samuel and his new wife Nancy. They raised a family, including this man, whom they named Pleasant, who was born in 1836.

He joined the Confederate Army in 1861, was mustered in as a private in Co. H of the 26th/50th Alabama Infantry, where he became the company musician. The book suggests that Pleasant was a fiddler and says all of his kids played instruments.

History tells us the 50th was a bad unit to be in:

Ordered to Tennessee the unit fought at Shiloh, saw light action in Kentucky, then was placed in Deas’, G.D. Johnston’s, and Brantley’s Brigade, Army of Tennessee, and was active in North Carolina. At Shiloh the regiment had 440 effectives, but because of casualties, sickness, and exhaustion, the number was less than 150 by the second day. It lost 4 killed and 76 wounded at Murfreesboro, 16 killed and 81 wounded at Chickamauga, and totalled 289 men and 180 arms in December, 1863. The unit sustained 33 casualties in the Battle of Atlanta and was badly cut up at Franklin. Few surrendered in April, 1865.

But Pleasant lived through it. He got married to Martha Ann in 1863 and after the war they raised a family of eight children. Six of those children, born during Reconstruction, lived until after World War II. Pleasant was a farmer, his wife a seamstress, a very typical lifestyle, which becomes common up this branch of the family.

Pleasant was my grandmother’s great-grandfather. He died at 52 and is buried in Tennessee.

One of Pleasant’s boys was Jim. He was born in the winter of 1871, a year when the crops didn’t come in and the cotton caterpillars ravaged what was there. Jim married Sarah in 1904 and and they lived on a farm that her grandfather bought in 1854. These are my grandmother’s grandparents. There’s a story in the book about a neighborly dispute. A dog killed some sheep. The neighbor was upset about his dog being killed and is said to have put his foot on the doorstep, and Sarah cleaned his clock with a liniment bottle. It says she was “Wild Tom’s” daughter and she had heard enough. So leave that lady alone. (Tom’s grave. Tom married Elizabeth. Her father, Jesse, Jr., was born in Lauderdale County in 1820, the year after Alabama gained statehood. His father, Jesse, Sr., was born in 1787 in Virginia, the year the Constitution was signed.) Sarah’s exclamation of surprise, the kind of detail that should last longer than dates and cemeteries, was “Well, Goodnight Isom!”

They were from the same community, as was often the case, and much of the family still lives within 20 miles of there. These were my grandmother’s grandparents, and she remembers them with a sweet smile.

Here’s Jim as a young man, and I’m going to blame my cowlick on him for a while:

And here he is a few years later, looking like he wants to ride with Jesse James (to whom I have some distant relation on the other side of my family):

On this side of the family that we’re discussing today they were just normal salt-of-the-earth types. The recorded history has a lot of farmers and working-folks. Here’s Jim’s wife, Sarah — my great-great-grandmother — as a young woman:

And as a much older couple, my grandmother’s grandparents, Jim and Sarah once more:

(I think my grandmother favors her grandmother a bit, myself.) This was recorded sometime before 1953, when Jim died. Sarah passed away in 1970, the mother of 11 children. And while it is hard to imagine people your mind only registers as “old” being young, here is a picture of four of those 11 kids. On the far right is my great-grandfather, who was playing in the mud or had a sunburn or something:

Horace, the little guy on the right, was born in May of 1909 and would grow up to be a dashing young man and a farmer. He’d meet and court and marry Lela Mae who was also born in 1909. My grandmother’s parents were married in 1928 in Giles County, Tenn., 10 months before Wall Street fell. This photo is undated:

They both lived into my lifetime, though I don’t have any memories of either of them. If I did, that would mark 12 grandparents or great-grandparents I knew. Horace and Lela Mae had seven children, including my grandmother.

Here are Horace and Lela Mae at their 50th anniversary party — an event I was apparently at but don’t recall:

So that is my paternal grandmother’s father’s side of the family. What about her mother’s side?

Lela Mae’s parents were Pink and Sarah. There are two poor photos:

Apparently, if you’ll notice Sarah’s long hands and fingers, you’ll see a distinguishing family trait. I did not receive this gene. All of Pink’s family moved to Texas, but Sarah’s father offered him a farm to stay in Alabama.

Pink was born on October 19, 1867. There was a lot of rain that spring, the rivers had been up, but the crops were bad. Sarah was born in 1872, a year when the crops were recorded as above average. Both were from Tennessee.

They were married in either 1889 or 1890 in the community of Prospect, Tenn. Google suggests the church isn’t there anymore. They’d eloped on horseback, though, and the rivers were up again that year. The story apparently went that Pink and Sarah were almost drowned, but they went on with their wet clothes to the church and said their vows. Pink and Sarah P. had three of their children in Tennessee before moving to Lauderdale County, Ala. in 1896 or 1897, where they would have seven more children. They were together for 40 years. Sarah died in 1930 and Pink died of typhoid in 1932.

So those were my grandmother’s other grandparents. They died a few years before she was born.

Pink’s parents were Thomas and Louiza. Thomas was born in 1849 in Tennessee, Louiza was from Alabama. They were married just days after the official end of the Civil War. They moved to Alabama and had 12 kids, all of which, except for Pink, moved to Texas. Pink stayed because his father-in-law offered him a farm to keep him in Alabama, a big moment in family history.

Sarah’s parents were Ben (who was born in 1827 in Alabama and buried at a family cemetery in 1899) and Sarah Ann (which confuses things) who was born about 1841. Sarah P., the younger, was born in Lawrence County, Tenn.

Ben, by the way, was a noted card shark. At one time he won a sawmill in a hand of cards. At another table he won a farm. He also served as a private, Company A, 53 Regiment Tennessee Infantry, which served at Fort Donelson over the Cumberland River to protect the approach to Nashville. Some 11,000 rebels were captured there, but I’ve no way of knowing if that happened to Ben. The unit would later fight in Louisiana, Jackson, Mississippi, Mobile and the fighting north of Atlanta, including the Battle of New Hope Church (We have a lot of family history there.) just north of Atlanta.

Ben’s dad, Burgess or Bergus, was born in South Carolina in 1800. His wife, Margaret, was born between 1800 and 1805 in Alabama. Burgess’ dad was Johnston and his mother was Rhoda, both thought to have been born around 1874 in Edgefield, S.C. There’s a mention of a paternal grandfather, Jeff (or John, depending on the document). He was born before the Revolutionary War. After that the haze turns to murk. We’re back to the 1700s, though, in South Carolina, with my grandmother’s great-great-great-great grandparents. Yet another side of the family tree that has been around for a while.

Since you’re still reading, three more pictures. This is Horace, my grandmother’s father, in his buggy, which is being pulled by Ader the mule:

This is Horace’s father, my great-great grandfather, Jim:

And finally, the last one, the one that’s worth it. This is my grandmother, in the foreground, as a baby:

The hand-written caption reads “Every time someone tried to take this picture her diaper feel down. So what? Let’s get the shot anyway!”

baseball / family / photo / weekend — Comments Off
25
May 13

Yeeeeeeeep

He did not hit the ball today …

But the ball hit him …

That means the same thing: baserunners. And so it was that we found ourselves in the last inning, whatever inning it was, with the bases loaded and let’s say the tying run at the plate in the first round of the playoffs. This is a league casual enough that they run the scoreboard some of the time. And it is a league with enough sensitive feelings that the players aren’t allowed to say “Hey batter batter batter.” Instead they say “Yeeeeeeeep” each pitch and this is OK.

I saw my first little league parent today, not the cheering, “Pay attention” parent, but the “Don’t throw it to the cutoff man, throw it in!” parent. The “I want to see you dive and catch it” parent. Looked like a biker. He was mildly mortified when his boy overran a ball in center. I’m sure it’ll effect his work all next week.

There is no need to discuss the relative merits of the play of your teammate, the second baseman. These kids are nine. But the demonstrative, chain smoker, ponytail guy felt he had to get his money’s worth.

I’d like to think, if I had a child in a sports league, that I’d let the coach coach and I’d quietly cheer and not do much more than that. My post-game interview — the sort of thing I used to do professionally — would consist of two questions. Did you play hard? Did you have fun? Well, then, pizza!

I would, however, roll my eyes at the rule about squelching batter chatter. That, too, is part of the game.

I did not heckle like a champion today. It was widely acknowledged that the other team was cheating. They were juicing. They had a 32-year-old pitcher. The coach was recruiting not just from his little league fields, but the greater tri-county area. How could he have otherwise fielded a team that could defeat these wholesome young men who played pepper games with pure joie de vivre, who are looking forward to church tomorrow and the end-of-the-season party sometime next week?

When my second cousin was on first base he would have been the tying run. Perhaps. The scoreboard did not say. But there was a pop up and that ended the game. The season came to a sad conclusion, because the boys would play through droughts and rain and all through Christmas if they’d let them. There was a dusty mound and green grass and a long strand of black irrigation pipe topping the outfield fence. They had lights for darkness and a concession stand for hunger. They had gloves and balls and an umpire who couldn’t find the first strike zone on any of the three adjoining fields. What else did they need?

Fans had two sets of aluminum bleachers in the sun and an outfield lined with beautiful oaks for shade. They had the weather the national chamber of commerce orders when holding the chamber of commerce convention. It was a beautiful day for everyone.

Also, we saw the rare 1-3-2 double play. Ground ball to the pitcher, he threw out the baserunner at first. The first baseman noticed the runner at third sneaking home. He fed the catcher who chased the runner back up the line until he stumbled and was tagged out. That is a rally-killing double play, friends.

Auburn / baseball / family / photo / Thursday / video — Comments Off
16
May 13

From northern Europe to Alabama in a few generations

We were talking about grandparents. I’ve had the great fortune to know many ancestors, some of them for a wonderful and long time. (Ten or eleven, if you’ll let me count step-grandparents, who always manage to dote on you just like a regular grandchild, anyway.)

I have prominent memories, for example, of a great-great-grandmother. I could not remember when she died, so I had to look that up. I was in the ninth grade or so. She’d lived for 93 years, a simple, country life, but she’d seen planes, cars, penicillin, the nuclear age, space flight, hippies and the entire run of MacGyver.

She was a little woman, always wore her bun in her hair. We were always probably too loud for her. But she gave you a kiss and a half a stick of Wrigley’s Doublemint every time you saw her.

In re-discovering her obituary I found a link to someone’s genealogy research. I had great luck going back in time through her husband’s family tree — most of the success coming from the men, as they are typically better documented beyond a certain point. I found the names of people who died before the family cemetery was built. These people have a long history in the area, which helps explain why they are one of the four or five family names you always hear in that county.

I found a man named Peter who served in the 2nd Regiment of the West Tennessee Militia. I found a mention that suggests he might have bene in the middle of Andrew Jackson’s lines at the battle of New Orleans in the War of 1812.

Peter had sandy colored hair, blue eyes, and a fair complexion. The Census noted he could read, though his wife couldn’t. He was a Tennessee boy, but moved, with his brother, to Alabama soon after that opened that section of land was opened up to white settlers. Purely a guess, but I’m guessing this was in the 18-teens, likely just before statehood. So that family has been in the area a good long while. (That’s four two-brothers stories I’ve heard of in that county. How everything isn’t named Romulus and Remus is beyond me.)

Peter came from a big family. His father, Layton, married twice. He had 24 children, his last when he was 63. Somewhere, how he found the time I don’t know, Layton moved his family into what is now Tennessee, soon after the Revolutionary War. But Layton’s parents were from New Jersey, back when it was still new, and spent some time in West Virginia before moving into Virginia to avoid the Indian Wars. And right in here, somewhere in the middle of the 18th century, is when the spelling of their family name changed.

One more generation puts you in New York — in Amersfort, NY (modern Long Island or
Brooklyn, NY). That makes my grandfather 10th generation American, a farmer like much of his family before him, and descended down one branch of his family line from Netherlands.

If all of that is correct. I did read it on the Internet. But it is easy to be amazed at how many people you’ve never heard of, supposedly in your family, doing genealogy research when you skim those sites.

Update: A trip home to look in one of those compendium books — someone solicited family stories from everyone in the county and all that were received were organized, hashed out, molded into some semblance of common sense and published — from the turn into the 21st century gave a few more details. They were merchants and farmers and soldiers and store clerks. There were teachers and county commissioners and sheriffs. There were soldiers, fighter pilots and phone operators.

One person, one of those people I don’t think I’ve ever met, wrote in the book “they were law enforcers as well as law breakers. They are hard-headed and stubborn at times, but believe in fair play for everyone.”

Hard to put that in a coat of arms.

One of them was named Rite Rise, which is just about the neatest alliterative name possible. I bet he woke up early every morning, too.

I’d already found where that family’s name changed the common spelling, as you read above. Now I’ve found the first apparent spelling change: it goes back to England, where in the 14th century they backed the wrong side in the War of the Roses. Guess I should have paid more attention to that in junior high. That’s when they moved to Holland before, a few hundred years later, sending out descendants to the new world.

One of the ancestors was apparently the Lord Mayor of London.

On the other side of the family tree I found some Dutch roots last year, through a hit off a digitized 1946 newspaper. The Alabama Courier (established in 1892 and merged with the Limestone Democrat in 1969 to publish the News Courier) copy yielded two new surnames and the obit of a great-great grandfather, a WWI veteran. He was survived by his wife and four children, including my great-grandmother.

Some of that genealogical work was done by a nice lady whom I emailed, but have never met, who is apparently a fourth or eighth cousin.

Makes you wonder what a real family reunion would look like.

At the ballpark tonight Conner Kendrick pitched seven and one-third innings, allowing only four hits while striking out eight, which ties a personal best. When he left the game Auburn had a 2-0 lead over the 11th ranked Arkansas Razorbacks:

Kendrick’s night ended so that Terrance Dedrick could take the mound. Dedrick, as a junior, has become the closer that Auburn has been searching for over much of the last decade. He’s 4-2 this year and came in tonight with nine saves.

And he’s usually doing something amazing, ballet moves at first, over the shoulder catches behind the mound, or just striking people out the old fashioned way. Tonight he forced a 4-6-3 double play to end the game and give Auburn a key late-season win over Arkansas, 4-2.

There’s video:

The first conference shutout since 2011. Now they just need two more wins to end the season.

Auburn / baseball / family / photo / Samford / site / Tuesday — Comments Off
14
May 13

Just a few random things

There is a chipmunk. Being a chipmunk he tends to move very quickly. The cat has, to my knowledge, never seen him. She is not the most attentive indoor hunter of things outdoors. She’s not the most attentive hunter of things indoors, but I digress.

Anyway, the chipmunk took the time to sun himself today. I was able to get a shot from a fair way off. I have now documented the chipmunk:

Aubie came to visit us at the game tonight. Aubie has a flashing problem:

No one in the family has bothered to confront him yet. I think everyone is waiting for the right time.

He also sat with us for awhile, until the children came calling. Aubie is a ladies man, but he’s all about the kids, too. And so, after a time, he was off to hug little girls and tousle the hair of the young guys.

All of this during a baseball game that Auburn lost to Jacksonville State 6-1.

Grading papers. One student wrote “This class has shaped how I view journalism and will be foundational in my future studies in this major.”

That made my day.

And then I graded on. And on and on.

Still not done.

Two new things on Tumblr, here and here. A lot, lot more on Twitter.

Also I converted that not-quite-good Toomer’s Corner thing I wrote last month into the Big Stories format. You might have read it here or on TWER, but it is a different way of seeing it. Sometimes that makes all the difference. I’m going to use that format for things every now and then. I expect there will be a few additions this summer.

Which is on the way, by the way. Summer, I mean. We hit 79 today. We’ll be in the 80s tomorrow.

Talking with my grandmother Sunday I told her that I knew she’d been frustrated by the spring, with the cold temperatures. She said it was the coldest spring she could remember. And she said she wouldn’t complain about the summer at all. When it gets here.

family / memories / photo / weekend — Comments Off
12
May 13

Happy Mother’s Day

My wife, grandmothers and role models. I’m fortunate to have a lot of strong, loving, beautiful women in my life. My mother is, of course, one of them.

Those early memories are impossible, and then fuzzy, and then they become more clear.

No matter how the memories look in your mind’s eye you could always count on your mother to be in the background, lifting you up, holding you safely, pushing you onward.

Happy you day!