Go West Jacob Routh

Jacob Routh was born in Dandridge, Jefferson County, Tennessee on December 22, 1818. Dandridge, the home of Douglas Lake, is billed as the second oldest city in the state. The Routh's descended from the Huguenots who had become Quakers by religious persuasion. 

After the death of his father in 1841, Jacob and his brother Joseph operated the farm and grist mill, raising horses and hogs to pay off the bills that their father left. In the off seasons the brothers took turns selling Currier & Ives prints, picture frames, shoes, and feathers. In 1845, Jacob built a house for his mother on the Dumplin Creek Farm. It was sold in 1851. 

Jacob heard the "Go West Young Man" call and headed to Texas October 2, 1851.  The entourage included his mother, sister Elizabeth, brother Joseph, nine year old slave Thomas. They were accompanied by Robert Fleming Campbell's family, wife Mary Ann, infant son, and six children from a previous marriage, plus an elderly slave named Aggy and another slave of whom I don't have a name.  Squire Campbell, a planter, lost all of his crops in 1850 due to a flood and felt that Texas would be a better place to live.  Both families headed west together. They arrived at their destination 45 days later. 

Jacob bought a thousand acres of land on Spring Creek paying $2.00 an acre, and built a house near present day Renner Road and Central in Richardson. While Robert built a house near where Campbell Road and Central Expressway intersect. Routh Road in Dallas is also named after Jacob. 

Love made an entrance to the scene on the long route to Texas. Jacob fell in love with Robert's daughter Lodemia Ann Campbell and they were married in 1853, and in the same year Jacob decided to become a Baptist minister.  Routh founded a church in the one-room log cabin he built for a school-house on his farm. 

Jacob and Lodemia produced nine children from their marriage. His daughter Clara said this about her father in a letter, " Father was a man of great hospitality and home was seldom without guests, sometimes friends, but often people who were passing though the country and wanted a place to stay. He took delight in experimenting with fruits, flowers, and vegetables, not minding work, or expense. He was very affectionate and devoted to his family. Father was a great believer in education and progress in all things."

Jacob Routh passed away April 30, 1879 of Tuberculosis at the age of 61.  A Pioneer who helped to make this world a better place to live in. 

Sources: 

The Jacob Routh Papers, Uniiversity of Texas at Austin

Historic Richardson by Gwyn Gillespie

Findagrave.com

Allegiance to the Flag

From Youth's Campaign 1892

Whenever we would say the  pledge allegiance to the flag in elementary school we placed our right hand over our chest. I remember doing this when we lived in the south, but not up north. However, it was not too far in the distant past that the salute was different.  In 1942, the Hitler regime began using the same salute that we did for years prior to WWII.  It is called the Bellamy Salute.

Francis Bellamy, a Baptist minister, wrote the original "Pledge of Allegiance." Until 1892, there never was a Pledge of Allegiance. Daniel Sharp Ford, owner of the magazine "Youth's Companion" was on a mission to have a flag placed in every school in the States.  He asked Bellamy to write the pledge and it was published in the magazine.  It caught on like a wild fire and before you know it the pledge was being recited daily by children across the country. Not only was the Pledge of Allegiance being said at school but in other venues as well such as: public gatherings, campgrounds, and even congress.

So, what does one do with their hands while reciting this allegiance to the flag? You cannot let your hands dangle, they must have a part in this. It was decided that the participants hold up their right arm and it extend it towards the flag.  It looks rather odd to those of us who have never done this. 

By the 1930's when news reels came from Europe and "Heil Hitler" was being said with the same salute the stance fell out of favor with the American public. It was decided then to change the way we saluted our flag and we then began placing our right hand over our heart.  Isn't that where our hand should have been all along?  

Zoo: A habitat for unhappy (maybe) animals.

Yesterday,  I went to the zoo with my nephew, a strapping 22 year old with intense blue eyes that stands over 6 foot tall. He is a gentle soul and I wonder why he wants to spend time with me.  Anyway, we toured the large complex. We went on an African safari, hiked through the Indonesian rain forest, and enjoyed an Australian outback adventure.  Over the years the inmates at the zoo has dwindled down in size.  Where once there was a large cage for birds where visitors could roam around freely is now no larger than 14 foot square with only a couple of birds. But, still, there are plenty of animals to see. 

I know that zoos are well intended places for people to come and see animals from all over the world. At least, that is what I want to believe. I wandered the zoo and observed the animals.  How can a being be happy in such a place? Bars are everywhere. The Komodo Dragon lay listlessly on the cool rocks during the hot and humid morning, while I was drenched in perspiration. 

I had never noticed how beautiful a tiger really is.  The intensity of his brown eyes and the stripes that lay meticulously on top of the golden fur was almost too much beauty to behold. This beautiful cat lay on top of the wooden bench while its partner paced their area of confinement.  

I didn't mention that a little farm was included in the things to see at the zoo. These animals we see on a regular basis if we live close to farms.

By the time the tour of the zoo was over, I felt very much like the pigs and wanted to snooze.  

I am nearly done with the photography certificate program and a few of my pictures (hoping a few more) have been chosen to be on display at the local art museum in January. This is exciting news for me and confirms I am going in the right direction. 

1812: The war that we don't remember much about

History was not my forte when I was in school. Actually, I dreaded history as much as I did math. The teacher gave facts in such a mundane way that I lost interest early on.  I remember talking about the various wars, but I don't recall ever discussing the War of 1812. Not ever. But it could of happened on a day that I laid my head down on the desk and drifted off until the bell rang. 

I didn't really become interested in history until I started researching my family's lineage. Now I know a lot more than I ever did.  When a friend from work told me about the re-enactment that takes place in La Fontaine, Indiana every autumn, I jumped at the opportunity to learn something about a war that I knew little about.

In a nutshell this is the three main points of the war: 1) Americans would be kidnapped, the ones with English accents, and would be impressed to serve on the side of the British. 2) The British interfered with American trade and France. For some reason they wanted us to pay them a tax in order to trade with the French. 3) Finally, the English stirred up Indian warfare.  

One of the good things that the British did was that they blocked slave ships from coming to the United States and any slave who escaped to Canada was considered free.  

On June 1, 1812 war was declared, lives were lost, and the Indians were defeated. Then the move westward began.  

My nephews and I sat and watched as the re-enactment took place and I wondered if there could have been another way of settling the differences. 

For some reason each people group thinks that they are supreme and expect the rest to bow down to them, which causes a lot of strife. 

And yet, war is still prevalent in our world today.  

This reminds me of a quote many use from Rodney King, "Can we all get along?" 

My Native American Experience

Yesterday,  I took three of my nephews to witness a Powwow in a city nearby. Powwow means to dream or have vision. Each Powwow usually has a host drum with several guest drummers, all of which are men.  Women usually take part by singing only. The drum is considered sacred and is to be treated with great respect. And no one is to approach the drum who is under the influence of alcohol or drugs nor are you to reach across it. Once the drumming begins, one feels the need to dance. 

The beat of the drum makes our bodies, mind, and spirits, join together in harmony. It allows us to connect with Mother Earth and to each other. So, therefore, dancing to beat of the drum is not only healthy but is spiritual too. So, if you find yourself wanting to dance when you hear music, just remember you are doing what comes naturally.  

Compared to the women, the men were like peacocks, displaying their elaborate regalia. As I was observing the Circle Dance, I felt that my eyes were drawn to the men as they proudly displayed their tribes traditional clothing. 

 The term "Indian" originated with Christopher Columbus who thought that he had landed in the East Indies. Here in the U.S. we refer to them as Native Americans or American Indians while in Canada they are referred to as First Nations.

Many Indian words are now part of our main stream conversational usage such as: wigwam, moose, moccasin, caribou, chipmunk, squaw, tobaggan, totem, and woodchuck. 

Native Americans have been living on the American continent since about 12,000 BC and were not separated by tribes or nations but a variety of cultures, peoples, and languages. 

The average African-American genome is 73.2 % African, 24% European, and 0.8% Native American. Latinos have an average of 18% Native American ancestry, 65.1 % European ancestry, and 6.2% African ancestry. Most Mexicans do not believe that they are of the same race as Native Americans even though they lived here at the same time and do not label themselves as such.  

I had a wonderful time with my family observing a culture within a culture.  The audience was encouraged to participate along with the dancers and many did. Maybe, I will be brave enough to do that next year. 

Learning about The Miami's

I wrote a post a few weeks ago about Chief Richardville,a native Miami Indian\French man who lived here in my home town back in the mid 1800's. He was one of the wealthiest men who lived here when he died. The first Saturday of the month from May - November there is something happening at the Richardville house. Today, there was a tour of the house and a dancer.   I have lived here for a long time and sadly didn't know about this place until a couple of years ago. That is one reason why one should be a tourist in your hometown.  There is a lot of history wherever you live. 

When I entered the house I was somewhat disappointed because of the condition of the inside. The outside of the house was worked on first before the inside can be renovated. They had to make sure that there wasn't any water leaks before the work began. 

In 1881, a house fire nearly destroyed the home. Two fireplaces shared the same chimney which caused a lot of soot build up and eventually caught on fire.  

Every mantel was covered with pictures of the family, especially Richardville. The above two pictures are of the great great granddaughter of Chief Little Turtle, Louisa, also called Ma-tek-kah.  She was wearing modern clothing of the day in the photograph and was probably taken in the 1860's. The second picture is the description of the photograph above it and a bit of history. 

After the tour we went outside and watched a young lady demonstrating traditional dances of the Miami tribe.  Pronounced Me ah me.

This is a closeup of her dress which reminds me of the coins that belly dancers wear on their hip scarves to make noise when they dance.  This offers the same effect. 

It seems like every part of the body is elaborately decorated with colors, scarves, feathers, and fur.  

The fur that is attached to her braids are otter skins. I had never seen that done before and it is lovely to look at. Her dress was made of a light calico material, which is cool during the summer months. 

The feathers on the fan came from a bald eagle. The dancer had four white dots on her face and when asked what they were for she said decoration only, nothing more. I came away from this brief encounter with a little more knowledge than when I arrived. The sad part is that the Miami Indians are now located in Oklahoma and is the only federally recognized tribe. The only Miami's that were allowed to stay here were the ones related to Chief Richardville or had a white parent. On the whole there is a population of about 3000 here. In August,there will be a pow wow in a city nearby.  I plan to attend this event if I can. Someone asked me today if I was a historian. No, but I have a lot of interest in the world. There is so much to learn and it seems like so little time to take everything in. 

Home Sweet Home

I imagine it was at one time, home sweet home.  This log cabin is located in Hamilton, Indiana on a country road somewhere. There was an addition to the house in the 1800's according to the style of the structure. Can you imagine living there? I am such a city girl that I cannot fathom living way out in the "sticks".

When I was little, my parents took us to the ridges in Tennessee to see Uncle Horace and Aunt Dude. They lived in a log cabin. I remember sleeping there and the lulling sound of the rain pinging on the tin roof during the night. Those were sweet times. Waking up to bacon,eggs, biscuits and gravy for breakfast. Drinking spring water from a pail with a dipper was normal.The smell of the fresh chopped wood pile that lay on the ground next to the porch still lingers in my memory.  

As a friend and I drove around the countryside a couple of weeks ago, I was a little saddened at the shape of the barns. A part of history is falling down around us and we are not paying attention. The barn is a symbol of life and hard work.  Where people actually raised the food that they ate. Many were not rich but had enough to be satisfied.  As time passes, things change, and so do our ways. We build bigger and better structures with farm equipment that can do the work of 20 men. But somehow it is comforting to pass an Amish man still plowing his field with the strength of a mule. 

Little Red Barn

I like barns. There is something about those old structures that catch my eye. The red paint slowly peels away exposing bare wood or the advertisements written on the sides, front or roofs of the barn takes me back to my childhood.  Do you remember driving down the highway and looking at the scenery?  I have memories of  watching for signs that said "See Rock City" as we traveled south to Tennessee during our summer vacations.  Then there were the advertisements for "Loco Joe's" which were overrated gift shops with a cafe and most importantly restrooms.  Those were the simple times when we talked at dinner and the whole family sat around the table. We laughed and most importantly we were together.  It was before we let electronics take over our lives.

The other day we were waiting for a table at a restaurant and a family walked past us.  Each child had a tablet in their hands. Hmmm, I wonder how much they had to say at dinner. 

For the love of Cowboys

Photo courtesy of DreamWorks Studios

When I think about men, which is often, I think about those macho types who come to rescue a damsel in distress. My mind automatically goes to the Wild West. A cowboy walks into the saloon with his hat tilted forward on his brow, the ruggedly handsome face hidden by shadows. His footsteps are heavy as his boot spurs make a clunking sound with every step. There is no need for a words, because he has spoken volumes already with just his presence.  I know that not all men are rough and tough, sometimes I wish that they were.   

A friend of mine asked me to photograph her family members while at a reunion.  I gladly brought my camera and began shooting pictures.  About an hour later a man walked in.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw him.  I turned my head to get a better look at the man. A cowboy. My heart skipped a beat at the vision I saw.  Sitting on his head was a hat made of straw with a decorative band neatly placed above the brim. His Texas style button down shirt with rolled up sleeves worn with tight fitting jeans caused my mind to go back to the saloon I envisioned earlier. His boots, pointed toe and all, finished off his ensemble. 

"I need your picture," I bravely said. "You look great!" 

He asked if his picture would end up on Facebook or some place similar. "Most likely," I said.  Then we made our way outside. 

"Can you try to look macho for me please?" 

"Cowboys aren't macho anymore," he said.  I beg to differ with him. 

Unnoticed

I see a man sitting in the same chair whenever I go to the bookstore.  He is usually slumped over gently snoring and his prosthetic arm lays stiffly across his torso while the other is cradling a book. He is unnoticed by patrons who pass by him as they busily roam the store in search of the newest popular novel or favorite magazine.  But I see him and I'm wondering what his story is. Why does he come here? I wonder.  How long has he been in this condition? Most of all, does anyone love him? I can almost bet he is homeless. A $20 bill will not solve his problem.  Oh, how I wish that it could! I watched him for a moment or two and then left. But I thought about him all the way home.   

Homeless Man by Grajauskas

When I arrived at home, I sat down and wrote him a short letter.  A love letter of sorts. Saying that I hoped someone loved him. After all, what is life without without being loved? I enclosed a small amount of money then sealed the envelope. I went back to the store hoping to find the man, but by the time I got there someone had told him to leave. A clerk told me that he is there frequently, which I already knew.  "What time of day is he usually here?" I asked. "It varies", replied the clerk. I will deliver the letter eventually.  In the meantime, I will think about his life and I'll pray for an escape. 

The Drunken Makeover

He burst into the bar like a cowboy from a John Wayne movie. The man was furious and he had every reason to be. Unfortunately, his fury was directed at me. He came looking for the woman that he was talking to before he lost consciousness. Luckily, I was not there when he arrived. My brother snuck to the back of the bar and called me saying that it is best that I not ever return because the man was there looking for me. My brother was afraid that the man wanted to do me harm and Randall didn't want to fight him. 

I’m not a bar fly, actually, I am more like a church mouse because of all of the time I have spent at church.  I’ve taught Sunday school, sang in the choir, and worked on a church bus to name a few of the things that was of interest to me.  Yes, you can call me Miss Goody Two Shoes if you like, I’ll not deny it. So, why was I in a tavern you may ask?

My brother was a drummer in a country music band back then.  Often he would ask me to come to the place where the band was playing music so that I could witness his talent in action.  Oh, I “witnessed” it to a great extent when he lived at home. The house would vibrate from the drumming in the attic. As a sibling of a musician, one adjusts their noise tolerance in order to live peaceably.  Besides, Randall was the first to put his talent out in the public view so that others can enjoy it and I was very proud of him.  But I think my parents grew to regret buying him that first drum set when he would play the drums every weekend either in the house or in the garage.

I had no idea what to wear to a bar and I debated over donning a suit.  When I told my brother what I was thinking of wearing, he insisted that I put on a pair of jeans and a tee shirt.  “People don’t dress up to go to a bar,” he said. So, I decided to wear a low cut purple blouse along with my jeans, which was presentable enough. 

When I arrived, I looked around the dimly lit room for a familiar face. My brother was watching for me to arrive and then when I came through the door he showed me to the table where his girlfriend was sitting. We ordered drinks and chatted until the band began playing. I was too shy to dance and stayed firmly planted in my chair the entire evening.  The crowd was a bit rough acting for me and I felt safer sitting where my brother could keep me under his watchful eye. 

My brother, sorry for the poor quality photograph

About midway through the evening a man took notice of me. The man was tall, slender, with short brown hair and was nice looking.  He dragged a chair alongside of mine and sat down.  When the man started talking to me it was obvious that he was extremely drunk.  His speech was slurred and his arms and legs moved about in a sloppy like manner, as if he didn’t have much control of his extremities.  As he leaned over to speak to me his drink spilled over and ran down my leg and into my shoe. I jumped up and pushed my chair away from the drunkard and tried to wipe the beer off of my pants. I detest the smell of beer and bemoaned the fact that I will have to wash my clothes.  He apologized and began chatting again, although his chair stayed where he sat it in the beginning.  About 10 minutes later he passed out and his head fell backwards resting on the back of the chair.  My face was last one he saw that evening. 

A couple of women sitting behind me watched the whole ordeal. One of the women pulled out her makeup bag and began applying lipstick, blush and eye shadow to the man’s face. As I watched the women, I thought to myself that I would have never considered using my own personal products on someone who has been God knows where.  But that is the risk they wanted to take, not me. It grossed me out thinking about it. She told me that the man was a regular at the bar and was often inebriated before 9 o’clock. It was their intent to teach him a lesson.  The drunkard sat like a dead man as the women gave him a makeover.  I left shortly after because I didn't want him to wake up and I still be there. 

The drunkard sat in the chair until one of his friends threw him into the back of their pick-up truck and took him home.  When the man woke up the next morning and saw the makeup all over his face he was furious. Then he thought about me. He went back to the bar the next week looking for me.  My brother said that the man made a big commotion at the bar that night.  It was then that my brother decided that my bar hopping days were over, well, at least for that bar. I laughed. I really didn't like going there anyway.  

Crippled Inside

One thing you cannot hide is when you're crippled inside.

John Lennon

Memories of Christmas

When the nights are long and the air is cold a little jingle begins to play in the air. The snow begins to fly and we snuggle inside our homes for warmth.  It is then that my mind goes back in time to when life was innocent and the best time of year was Christmas.  There was a tree in the corner with gifts all around and the lights twinkled as they nestled in the branches.  The anticipation of gifts is all that a child thinks about, especially me.   

 

My parents were not big on celebrations and they definitely didn’t get excited like my brother, sister, and I did.  We always opened our gifts after supper on Christmas Eve and on Christmas day we had a big dinner.  The dinners were not the normal ham or whatever is supposed to be traditional for the holiday.  We would have BBQ ribs with whatever sounded good to Mom that day.  The rest of the holiday we lounged around and enjoyed having the day off. 

When my brother and I were about three feet tall, nothing really got past us.  If something was hidden in a low place we were definitely going to find it.  In the mid 60’s, when fire engine pedal cars were all the rage, we “found” our Christmas present in a hall closet.   For some reason Mom thought that if she buried the pedal car beneath some blankets we would not find it.  One day when my parents were still in bed, my brother and I decided to uncover the pedal car and take it for a spin.  We rode in it up and down the hallway.  Mom heard all of the noise and got up to find out what was going on.  “Hey Mom, look at what we found”, I said. She was not amused.  I really don’t remember what happened after that. More than likely she made us put it back in the closet until Christmas.

 

Observing all of those presents piled high all around the tree was so thrilling when I was a girl.  I remember that there was one particular present that I just had to know what it was.  Each night while no one was looking, I would pick up the package, shake it, and then put it back down.  Eventually, my fingers gently made their way to the taped edge.  Maybe the tape will give way without mom noticing that I have been picking at it.  The tape never budged and the more I toyed with it the worse it looked. Curiosity got the best of me and I poked a hole in the paper.  I brought the package up close to my eye and I still couldn’t figure out what the present was.  So, I buried it in the back and decided to wait until Christmas to see what it was; Besides Mom would be really mad if she saw the hole in the pretty paper. 

Dad bought Mom a food processor in the early 80’s, I was a 20 something year old then.  When Mom opened the box she was thrilled.  Dad and I then started pushing buttons while the machine was on.  Then it stopped running.  Dad and I laughed, but Mom cried.  He took it back to the store the next day to get Mom a new one.  The funny thing is I don’t remember her using it very much after that.  But I was in my 20’s then and probably didn’t pay attention to what she did.

I know that Christmas isn’t all about the giving and getting of presents.  I decided to bake a birthday cake for Jesus.   It was a white two layer cake with chocolate frosting. Jesus had to like this cake.  Who doesn’t like chocolate frosting? I asked my family to gather around the table and we sang happy birthday and blew out the candles.  Then we ate the cake for Jesus and told him how good it was.  When my nieces were small we carried on the tradition of baking a birthday cake at Christmas.  Tiffany and Heather still talk about it.

 

 

The year my father passed away we were so poor that we wouldn’t be able to give any gifts. My mother was collecting widow’s benefits and I was only making $3.50 an hour working at the 350 Shop on Broadway.  My church decided to adopt us as their “Christmas family”.  Each of us received a gift plus my family was given a food box.  My present was a turquoise sweater, which I kept for a very long time. I was very thankful for what the church did for us.   I felt as though people still cared for us during our time of loss. 

 

My oldest niece, Tiffany, wanted what she called a “Garbage Patch Doll”.  Scott’s grocery had a contest to be able to win one.  I wrote my mother’s name down and put the entry blank in the box.  I prayed and prayed to win that doll for my niece.  We wouldn’t be able to afford to buy her one for Christmas.  A few days later my mother received a call from the store saying that she had won.  Thank you God!  This was a Christmas miracle. 

Many Christmases have come and gone since then.  Gifts have been given.  Elaborate dinners have been eaten.  But the best part is when we get together and reminisce about “The good ole’ days”.   The pictures come out and the stories are told all over again.  To me, this is what Christmas is all about.  Family is what we are put on this earth for, to love and be loved, there is nothing more than valuable than this.

Change I'm sure you can spare

I have been driving by this picture on the side of a building for a few weeks now.  Every night I would tell myself to go take a picture of it.  I think that the message is self explanatory.

The Creepiest kind of Pictures: Postmortem Photography

When I was a little girl, I went to two houses where the body of the deceased was being held until the funeral took place.  One of those houses was that of an uncle and my grandfather was placed in the living room. Dead people terrified me.  Their stiff limbs and torso with the unnatural pallor of their skin sent shivers up my spine. I can still see these images in my mind and it disturbs me.

 

I have a pet peeve with funerals. It's with the taking pictures of the corpse. I know that people want to remember the deceased.  But I would much rather have a picture of the person while they are still alive rather than one of them in the casket. (I have a picture of my father that is currently in the basement and wish that I had never seen it.)  While looking at videos on Youtube the other day I saw a snippet of post-mortem photography. So, I clicked on the links and they took me here and here. Eerily, I looked at the photographs with the unnatural poses for the dead. I had a hard time sleeping that night.

Here is what I found out: In the Victorian Era, the mortality rate was very high, especially with small children and babies. The parents wanted a photograph in which to remember the deceased.  They even had posing poles so that the corpse could be photographed standing up. There were many pictures of adults standing up holding their children or men standing alone with a partial view of the stand behind them.  The thing is this, they didn't have that many pictures taken due to lack of money.  So, when someone died they called in the photographer. The family was very proud of these pictures and hung them in their homes, sent them to relatives, and wore them around their necks in lockets.  I don't know about you, but I am glad that this is not part of our culture anymore because, quite frankly, it gives me the creeps. 

P.S. The above photograph is not postmortem, it is a picture of John and Sally Smith with their children. (some of my relatives)