Out of Place

My Campbell relatives have been very instrumental in helping to found this country. I am very proud to say that they are part of my family. But there is always that one person in a family that makes the rest of us look bad.  This week I am going to write about an ancestor that I found in a place in which I never expected. Prison. 

His name was John Richard Campbell (1891-1939). When John was twenty-six years old in 1917 he enlisted in the military and was discharged in 1918 during WWI. According to the census he had various occupations from working in a coal mine to carpentry work. 

In 1922 my great great uncle married Mary Bearden, a widow and lived in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Mary passed away in 1926 and that is when John's life started going downhill. 

By 1929, John was "peddling dope" (morphine) on the streets and tried to sell the drugs to a police officer. Whoops! Needless to say, he served time for this crime. 

I guess John didn't learn his lesson. In 1934, he was again in jail for pick pocketing a man. John stole a bank book containing 55.25 in cash and three blank checks. With one of the checks my great great uncle tried to buy a suit. This time John was sentenced for larceny and taken to a workhouse called Silverdale. He was sentenced for eleven months and twenty nine days. 

This man must have had a cement head because John just didn't learn his lesson from being in prison twice before. I guess three times is a charm. This time John was arrested for attempted burglary in April 1938. Again, John was sent to Silverdale workhouse and sentenced again for eleven months and twenty nine days. 

However, there was no getting out of the workhouse this time. On January 17, 1939 John, 47, was hit in the head with a shovel by Noah Moore, who was only nineteen at the time. The two men had a fight in the county gravel pit in East Chattanooga. John passed away on the 28th from cranial injuries. 

I wish that I knew more of my great great uncles back story. It would be interesting to know why he chose his life of crime after Mary passed away. 

The Importance of Knowing your Birthdate or any date

 

My great-great grandmother was Sarah Jane Bailey. She lived in Hamblen County, Tennessee in the mid 1800's. She met and married my great-great grandfather Pleasant Thomas Smith. My Ancestors lived in rural Tennessee and the need for such information was basically nonexistent. When Sarah was applying for her widow's pension after Tom passed away, it was required that she give her date of birth. She didn't know it.  Sarah contacted her brother David for a transcription of the page in the family bible that listed all of the births for the Bailey family. Then she gave the information to the government. 

Back then how important was it to know your birthday or any any date?  You didn't need to know it, that is, until you really, really needed something, like a pension for time served in the war. I am not sure that people had identification cards like we do today. A person could actually change their name and go about their business as usual without having to do anything legal. I came across this several times while doing genealogical research. 

I can understand if a child was adopted and not having access to their birth certificate and not knowing their date of birth. But, there are countries who don't celebrate birthdays and the average person doesn't know when they were born.  I just watched a video (2019) about Yemen. When the interviewer asked random people (men) on the street how old they were all but one said that they didn't know. The reasoning behind this is that a birthdate was never celebrated and was viewed as unimportant. Where I live there are a lot of Burmese and working in a hospital I see a lot of January 1st birthdates.  Not knowing a date of birth is still an issue for various places in the world today. 

The celebration of one's birthday began in Roman culture. A cake was baked to bring good wishes. Then the celebration spread to the west, which was embraced as a tradition. I don't know about you, but I rather like the idea of knowing when I was born. 

DNA doesn't lie, People do.

Donna, Dad, and Me

My father lost the fight in the DNA test war, but won by being a great dad for my sister.  After all, he is the only one she ever knew. The other man, well, we were told who he was thirteen years ago and the test confirmed it.  Both men have gone to the other side and are not here to defend themselves.  My mother would have a lot to explain if she were here too. But sadly, we will never know why she chose to do what she did. I guess this shows that you never really know a person, especially what goes on in their mind. 

Mom in 1964

If my mother would have never "stepped out" then I would not have a sister, at least, not this one. And I really love her. Secrets were kept back in those days to save the guilty party's reputation and they stayed with them till the grave. Unlike the way things are now. So, what do we do?  We go on with life. The same as we have been doing all of these years.  

I can now safely research my sister's biological family without fear that I am overstepping my boundary and my sister is Ok with it.  We already have a head start. 

The Secret

I read the book, "The Stranger in my Genes" by Bill Griffeth over Christmas weekend.  It was a moving story about discovering that the man who raised Bill was not his father. Bill took a DNA test at the request of his cousin. When the results came back, Bill's whole world turned upside down.  

I highly recommend reading this book because it focused on the unwelcome results of a DNA test. This is a short but intense read.  Family is the most important part of our lives and when a wrench is thrown in that we are not expecting, well, it can be so shocking that our whole existence shifts. 

Now for our story. 

Last year I had a DNA test done and I didn't expect anything to be different from what I already knew about my family history. Since that time, I have begun to attend a DNA class that meets once a month at the local library.  There are several regulars who attend that have the same story as Bill Griffeth. Sometimes the newly discovered family are welcoming and on the other hand the news is devastating. No one really knows how they would react until they are in the situation. The teacher always says: DNA never lies, people do.  

My sister sent in her sample three weeks ago. Now we must wait for the DNA to be processed.  Donna secretly hopes for different results. To be honest, I do too.

We already knew about the family secret. One evening in December 2004, my aunt called.  We chatted as usual and spent about an hour catching up on the lost years that we hadn’t heard from one another.  At one point, my sister became the topic of conversation.  Jokingly, I told her that we used to tease Donna when she was young and tell her that she was adopted. She didn’t look like me at all.  My sister has a cute little turned up nose, mine comes to a point. She has a high forehead and her shape is more like a pear while I resemble an apple (more like a pumpkin) and the hair, she has more than I ever had. 

After a somewhat long silence my aunt said, “Gina, I have something to tell you about your sister. Donna is not Charles’ daughter.” She went into great detail about my mother’s affair and then revealed the name of the man. As I listened to my aunt tell me about my mother and another man, I wept inside.  Truth had a tongue that day and my aunt was the messenger.  I listened intently as she told me the story of my mother’s infidelity.  “Don’t tell your sister, it will hurt her” was the last thing my aunt said to me before I hung up the phone.

I sat on the sofa stunned, finding it hard to let the news sink into my head.  I was 44 years old when I found out that Donna is really my half sister.  I felt betrayed by my parents, even if they meant well.  After the initial shock, the tears came and I wept for a long time. What will I say to my brother? I asked myself.  Oh God! How will I ever be able to tell my sister?  This news will break her heart. It surely has broken mine. My mind raced all night and well into the next day.  All I kept thinking about was how we were duped. How many more secrets did they keep from us?

I called my brother right away; My hands trembled as I dialed his number. When he picked up the phone, I was shaking so hard that I could barely speak. 

“Mom had an affair and Donna is not one of Dad’s children.” I told my brother.  I could tell by the gasping sound he made on the other end that he was shocked.  He asked me to repeat what our aunt said, as if he didn’t hear me the first time.  I repeated verbatim every detail.

 “Are you going to tell Donna?” he asked. “I have to,” was my reply.  “She needs to know this.  It is her right to know who her biological father is.  I just don’t know how I am going to tell her this dreadful news. God knows when the right time will be; I need to get over the shock of this myself. “ 

Many days passed, then weeks, eventually months went by without speaking a word to my sister.  I could not bring myself to upset Donna with the truth just yet.  I’m not sure if I had the strength to tell her. This task is going to be so hard for me.  My mother let us down and she was someone that we trusted with our secrets, while all along she had one herself. 

I spent many nights crying, swearing, and calling mom names.  “Why did you do this?”  I spoke into the darkness, expecting a reply, but it was strangely quiet as I listened for an answer. 

I called my cousin and she confirmed what my aunt had told me and they wondered why we didn't figure it out sooner. To be honest, we never questioned our parents. It seemed like all of our relatives knew the secret but us.  

In late August of 2005, my sister came over to spend some time with me.  We sat and chatted in the living room while drinking sweet iced tea. She told me that the children were all out of the house that evening and would be returning in a couple of days.  I thought this moment would be as good a time as any to tell my sister the news that she would not want to hear. 

“Donna, I have some bad news for you.” I said, and then I recounted the story with as much detail that I knew of the affair. She could hardly believe what I was telling her.  Her chin began to quiver as I spoke then tears filled her eyes and streamed down her cheeks. “Dad will always be my dad. Charles is my real dad.” she cried, “The other man was just a sperm donor.”  I asked her if she needed a hug.  She nodded. We embraced each other and cried for a long time. I couldn’t give her much comfort, but I could give her the truth even though it was hard for her to hear it. 

Shortly thereafter, she went home and dealt with the news in her own way.  Much like me, there was some swearing and crying, and she kept telling the man that she knew as Dad that she loved him, even if he was there only in spirit.  I am sure that he heard her and maybe cried a little himself.  After all, he stayed when he had every reason to leave but he loved his family and Dad always treated Donna like she was his daughter.

Now we wait for the DNA results...To be continued. 

The Art of Writing Letters

After watching the movie "Becoming Jane" about Jane Austen, I started thinking about letters. A lot of letter writing went on back in those days. The internet was nowhere to be found. But paper, pen and ink were in abundance. 

 My thoughts went back to my younger years, to the times when I used to write letters. I had pen pals from overseas, letters came from family members that lived far away, and I used to write to a man in prison for at least 20 years or more before we gradually stopped writing to each other. Those gems are now in a plastic tote in the back of a closet that haven't been looked at for a long time until today.  

I pulled out the totes, wiped off the dust and poured out the contents onto the floor. I sorted through the cards and letters, then bundled according to the sender. I read many, plus cried lots of tears. There is something special about handwritten letters. It is said that there is an art to it. I don't know about that. Letters were written when people actually took the time to sit down and think about the recipient. Then pick up a pen and write out their thoughts on paper.

What brought up this nostalgic feeling for letter writing? I miss it. I miss going to the mailbox and discovering a letter. Now, I only find a bill or an advertisement. But letters are singular in the respect that they come from one heart to another saying you mean something to me and I must write it down for you to see. How often have you pulled out a letter and read it over and over again?  Tracing your finger over the words that were written and trying to imagine the person as they wrote it. I am willing to write letters to someone who is of the same mind. Would you find it thrilling or burdensome to re-discover this lost art of communication?   

John Thomas Bolden A.K.A. Jack or was his name something else?

I know that I have shared this before but I have been tracing my ancestors for over twenty years.  It is a lot easier now that we have web sites like Ancestry, Family Search, and others.  Even with all of the information that is available the "find" can still be rather brutal.  I have sat at the computer and searched for information on one person for hours and not come up with anything. Then when I come back to look again I hit a goldmine or not. 

Here is what I had encountered over the weekend.  My grandmother was Azzie Lee Bolden, my mother's mother. She is the young woman in the far right of the picture which was taken around 1922 or 1923.  Her father was Alfred Lee Bolden, the dapper looking man standing behind her. I don't have a picture of Alfred Lee Bolden's father, John Thomas Bolden but wish that I had one. John Thomas Bolden's father was John Thomas Bolden too or should I say Bolding. The name kind of morphed as my ancestors migrated across America.  They started out Bolding and ended up Bolden when they moved. This is where things start to get tricky for me.  

John Thomas Bolden the 1st father was Jonathan Lee Bolding of Pickens County, South Carolina.  J.T. (John Thomas) was born in 1834 in the same county. John met and married Margaret White on August 9, 1855 in Pickens. He enlisted around May 15, 1861 in the Confederate army and fought with Company H, 2nd S.C. Rifles Regiment until his death on June 10, 1863.  J.T. was captured and killed by the Federals in the swamps near Suffolk, VA.  Are you with me so far? Let's continue.  

In 1870 the family decided to move to Forsyth County, Georgia.  John Thomas Bolden the 2nd went by the name of Jack. I understand that the nickname for John is Jack. Jack married Martha Fowler on October 10. 1880 in Forsyth County, Georgia. I am okay with this so far. Then I started trying to put my book in order.  Here is where I nearly lost my sanity. 

I tried to separate both of the John Thomas Bolden\Bolding from each other.  When trying to research a relatives steps I always use the Census.  In general they provide a vast amount of information, supposedly.  It really depends on the Census taker and the person providing the information. 

J.T. was living in Pickens County, S.C. in 1860 with his wife Margaret and four children.  Remember he is killed in 1863 so he will not be listed on the 1870 Census.  He is not the person I am looking for anyway, it is the second John Thomas Bolding\Bolden. In 1870 I find Margaret with four children living in Anderson, S.C. One of her children was named Jackson. Ok, I thought, this is my second John Thomas.  Then in 1880 in Forsyth County, GA Margaret has three children listed. Jackson is now listed as Andrew Jackson. Oh what the hell! I keep searching. In 1900, Margaret is living in Forysth County with her youngest son.  I couldn't find Andrew Jackson anywhere.  I found a marriage certificate for John T. Bolling and Martha Fowler in Forsyth County in 1880. I found John living with his wife in Murray County in the 1900 Census. In each Census thereafter John Thomas was either listed by John Thomas or Jack.  The key name is Jack.  He was always called by this name.  

For years I searched and searched for John Thomas when he was right under my nose all along.  This is not the first relative that changed their name that I have found in my family search and it will probably not be the last. 

P.S. I don't go by my given name either. 

Lion: A Review

I went to see Lion at the theater a couple of weeks ago.  I was deeply moved by this lost and found tale of an Indian boy.  Within minutes of the beginning of the story I was in tears. 

Poverty was a stark reality for Saroo and Gaddu. Their father left them and the mother tried to make a living by moving rocks. In hopes of helping their mother they went to look for things they could sell or coins that fell to the ground by the passengers on the train. Saroo was only five years old, and was not able to stay awake while they looked around the train station. Gaddu left Saroo on a bench to sleep, promising to come back. Saroo woke during the night and his brother never came back. Saroo looked everywhere for his brother but wasn't able to locate him. Saroo searched a train that was stopped at the station and he fell asleep on one of the seats. The train began to move and it took Saroo on a long trip across the country. 

He ended up living on the streets of Calcutta for three weeks and then was adopted by an Australian couple. He didn't know his last name or the city he lived in. The authorities began a search for Saroo's family but nothing came of it. Saroo lived in Australia for 25 years but always longed for his family. Then his search began.  Google Earth was his vice to find his family. 

The film is based on a true story which makes it more compelling to watch.  Dev Patel does an excellent job portraying Saroo Brierley. 

About time to take the DNA test

Besides taking pictures, I enjoy genealogy and have traced my mother's side of the family back to the Revolutionary War. I have literally spent years tracing my roots. The bug bit me back when I was in my 20's and my great aunt Joye Bolden wrote me a letter with details of the Bolden family. Trying to figure out where to begin was daunting. It was before Ancestry.com or the internet and I had to look through many books searching for any information that I could find related to family at the local library.  I am lucky enough to be living in the city that has the second largest genealogy department in the nation. (right behind the Salt Lake City collection) When I was in my 30's, I hired someone to help me get started.  I figured that if the person who helped me could do the research, then so can I.  That is when my journey started and I have been traveling the research road since then. 

Having one's DNA analyzed can be costly until recently.  I found a deal on Ancestry.com for $79.99. My kit arrived on Friday evening. I collected the DNA sample they needed and put it straight back into the mail box.  Now, the waiting game has started. It will take 6-8 weeks before I find out the results.  What kind of mix am I?  There are rumors of Cherokee Indian coming from both sides of the family.  My mother was a Campbell, so, I know Scotland is looming in the past.  But what about Smith? There are mysteries with my father's lineage.  Not sure who the father is of my Great Grandfather because he was born before the second marriage to Mr. Smith.  So, I anxiously wait. 

The picture came from Ancestry.com

The Year of Letting Go

This past year has been one of appreciating, especially my sister. Unfortunately, she had three operations within a short period and at times I felt scared for her. The last hospital stay I reminded her that it wasn't like going to a hotel.  They hurt you in those medical places.  Besides, not one time did I see a hot tub or a bar, which would have been nice. Over the course of the year my love for my sister grew exponentially.  I saw her in a new light. The viking queen needed tenderness and care of an older sister, which I willingly bestowed on her. 

The darkness of winter spurs us forward to hope of new life that spring brings with it and a rebirth of sorts.  I become introspective and jot down my thoughts, hopes, dreams, and disappointments into my journal where I do a lot of my soul searching, and it is a keeper of secrets. There are times that I struggle inwardly with insecurities and days I feel utterly stupid and useless. Then the sun comes out and the struggle is over until I have overcast feelings again.  

Each year I try to name the year and put the label inside the front cover of the journal. There was a year named "shattered dreams." The next year was the "year of healing."  The following year after that was the "year of rebuilding,"etc...This coming year my motto will be the year of letting go. 
   

We cannot control others, especially the way they think or do things.  Family or friends can wound us so deeply we feel that recovery is not possible. I realized recently that I can only control myself. My happiness is an inside job. I have to make myself happy and let them go.  The thought of it is hard but I must do it or otherwise be miserable.  

Traveller's between the eternities

This has been a hard week for me.  One of my cousins, who is just two years older than myself, passed away suddenly over the weekend.  The day after she was buried, my neighbor and friend met her Maker after a long struggle with an illness.  Whether it is expected or not, death is hard to deal with, at least, it is for me. The void the departed person leaves is impossible to fill. Death is final. Like the resounding pound of the gavel heard from the judges bench, we are sentenced to life, the remainder of it, apart. And yet, we must move on. I cried. Then selfishly I thought about my own demise.  

When you are past 50, the years behind you seem like a breath and the years ahead are as the wind. Before you know it they will be blowing upon you. Then, we, too, will drift into the one of the eternities. 

Gunslingers

Lester opened the door holding a shotgun underneath his arm. He saw that Charles and Steve were staring at him from the other side.  They were on a mission, especially Steve, the teenager.  The boy was mad and wanted to kill Lester.  “Steve wants to shoot you,” Charles said in a low voice as he stroked the handle of the gun he was holding.  “Yes, I do!” Steve shouted.  Lester just stood there, dumbfounded or maybe he was drunk.  They looked like two gunslingers at the O.K Corral with Billy the Kidd shouting from the sidelines. The two men stood in their place scrutinizing each other to see who was going to make the first move.

Steve lived with his mother in the apartment above Lester and his family.  Charles, my father, lived a block away on the same street.  Lester loved to tease people, especially his only daughter.  Often he would play tricks on her just to hear her scream and run for the comfort of her mother’s arms. Since Steve was nearly the same age as Lester’s daughter, he, too, received some of the same kind of teasing and lived within a few feet of Lester, which made it convenient for Lester when he was in one of those moods.

Steve frequently came down to our house to visit with my father, Charles; Steve, especially, wanted to see me, but if I wasn’t around he was content to chat with my parents. Over time he grew to love my parents and often confided in them.  My father spray painted cars on the side to make extra money.  Steve and my father worked out a deal to where Steve would work off his debt in exchange for a new paint job on his car.  Steve was always at our house for some reason or another.

Lester and my father were raised in the South. They spoke the same language and the two men understood each another.  Steve was a Yankee and a bit of a hyper one too. Lester and Steve had been arguing for several days.  I never knew what the argument was about but it must have been over something that Lester found to be entertaining. Steve was at the end of his rope.   

Steve and Lester had been arguing that morning. In heated anger, Steve marched to the corner looking for my father.  He found Charles in the garage.  “Can I borrow your gun?” Steve nearly shouted. “What for?” Charles asked.  “I want to shoot Lester,” he said speaking in a high pitched voice.  “So, can I borrow it?” He anxiously wanted to settle this feud with his neighbor and shooting him would be the only solution he could come up with in his young mind. It was all my father could do to keep from laughing at the boy. “I’ll walk down there with you and we’ll get this straightened out,” Charles said. “Just let me get my gun.”

Together they marched to Lester’s place. Bravely, my father walked down the street with his pistol at his side. It was a funny sight because Charles weighed 140 pounds wet and Steve was just as small. They looked like two Chihuahua’s barking at a German shepherd.  Neither of them was big enough to do much harm to anyone much less Lester. However, Steve was excited at the thought that he was going to finally get his justice.  They walked upon the porch and headed straight for the door.  Steve banged on the entry with all his might.  Slowly, Lester opened the door.  He stood there big and tall with a shotgun underneath his arm waiting for a response from his two visitors.

“Steve came down to the house and told me that he wants to shoot you,” Charles said to Lester. “He asked to borrow my gun.” Steve was anxious to get his hands on the pistol that Charles was holding.  Lester’s eyes went back and forth between their faces.  He had been drinking and had begun to feel the effects of it. After staring at them for what seemed like an eternity, Lester said, “I’m tired...I’m going to bed.” Then he turned around and closed the door behind him.  Bewildered, Charles and Steve looked at each other. Then they walked back down the street.  No one got killed that day, at least, not on Elm Street. 

Two sisters, tree sap, and another photography story

It was a perfect September day.  The sun stood high in the sky, beaming down its rays on the earth.  Roses were still in bloom, filling the air with their sweet perfume. The trees were full of leaves and they rustled when the wind blew. It is days like this that made me want to bask in the sun and relax, but there was no relaxing on this day.

 My sister Donna asked me to photograph her since she hadn’t taken any pictures of herself in a while.  I was glad to oblige her and it gave me the opportunity to work on my photography techniques.  With several changes of clothing and my camera gear, we headed to the various parks around town.  Never realizing the obstacles that would get in our way, although, this seems to be the story of my life.

I picked her up and we decided to go to the various parks in town to try and take some good photographs. The first place we went to was Foster Park. It was located very close to my house and there was an abundance of flowers and trees which provided a beautiful background. 

I was still very new at photography and owned a Canon Powershot at the time.  Oh the problems I had with that camera!  Most of the time I took 10-15 shots of the same scene hoping that at least one would be decent enough to use.  Most shots would be either blurry, have outlandish colors, some body part was cut off, or dappled sun spots would be on the subject’s face.  If I took pictures inside during the winter time, well, I might as well not have tried.  They would be dark, blurry or both.  And yet, I kept trying.

We arrived at the park and began the photo shoot.  Donna was a real trooper.  I had her climbing trees, standing in the midst of bushes and posing in awkward positions.  When we were nearly done, I saw a lovely tree with a low branch that my sister could sit on while I took her picture.  She plopped down and I tried to take a few shots. I noticed that she was sitting in an awkward position. I asked her to move her bottom forward a little so that she could lean back against the branch comfortably.

 “I can’t” she said.

“Why not?” I asked.

“I’m stuck.”

"What do you mean you’re stuck?”

“I can’t move”, she said,” My pants are stuck to the tree.”

Not again, I thought.  The last time I took someone out on a photo shoot we got locked in the Botanical Gardens, now this. I felt a laugh coming.  I pried my sister off the tree branch and turned her around to look at the back of her pants.  Tree sap covered her entire backside.  There’s no way she is sitting in my car with that sticky stuff all over her pants.

“You’re not sitting in my car with sap all over your butt,” I said roaring with laughter.  She stood beside my car while I rummaged through the trunk looking for something that she could sit on.  I found a plastic grocery bag.  I asked my sister to turn around. I knelt down and I firmly pressed the bag to her bottom, making sure that no sap was exposed and the bag wouldn't come off.  I didn't care if people were looking at us while I was pressing the bag to her bottom; I was determined that no sap would be left on my car seat. By the time the both of us were in the car we were laughing hysterically.

“Jeannie, something weird always happens when I am with you.”

“I guess I am special.” I replied with a smile.

I dropped her off at home and I drove back to my house laughing the whole way.  I had a great day with my sister and it was one day that I will never forget. Sometimes it’s the weird things make our experiences more memorable.  

Death: The Robber of Existence

My brother's longtime friend passed away early this morning. He had lung cancer. When my brother told me that his friend was in hospice, I insisted that he visit his friend as much as possible because his time was running out.  Jeff lived across the small drive from our apartment when we were living in the projects a long time ago.  I have memories of his family and mostly of Jeff and my brother.  

They spent lots of time together. Jeff was a very tall but kind and gentle soul.  When my brother decided to get married on Halloween, Jeff came as Frankenstein's monster to the reception.  This made me laugh.  He married and then had children, both are blessings.

I am going to be 53 in a couple of weeks.  At this point in my life, more and more friends and family members will be passing away. This causes me to think more often about death. We really have no idea about the next life, if there is one. Death is something that everyone experiences only once, at least that we know of.  We are given promises of heaven if we are good and hell if we are bad, according to the Bible.  But no one ever comes back to say what really happens. If you believe in psychics, then lots of people speak to us from the other side. However, not everyone holds this belief. We all hope for something better than what we have lived, I know that I do.

 

Is the essence of all that we are lost in the grave? The headstone lists our name, date of birth, and our date of death.  There was a life lived in between those two dates.  Sometimes, I feel guilty when researching my family history.  I get excited when I find an obituary, forgetting about the man or woman to whom those dates pertained. I don't do this knowingly, but subconsciously.  As I gather facts, I often wonder what that person was like.  What did they look like? What were their interests? Were they good or bad? The personal things that are not written about a life within an obituary. Often, our lives are summed up in a paragraph or less.

 

Not long ago, one of my memoir classmates read a poem written by his wife.  The poem spoke of a man's life.  Over the years he had accumulated a lot of "things", but in the end all of his "stuff" fit into a garbage bag.  I cried as he read the poem.  We cannot take our things with us to the nursing home, much less the grave.  And yet, we try. 

It is not the "stuff" that I worry so much about, but me.  I know this sounds selfish. But will I be remembered?  I, too, was here. Have I made my mark on this world? There are no children calling me Mommy, nor a husband whispering sweet words of love in my ear.  Will my life/existence vanish like the morning mist? To be honest, it will piss me off if this life is all there is. 

 

Our lives don't really belong to us, just like our things.  In a moments notice, we are no longer here, but there, wherever that may be. All I really want is to be remembered.  Is that too much to ask?

Ryan Littrell: Reunion

Ryan Littrells's book Reunion,  is a story about coming together.  He is not only rounding up his relatives, but that of the Scottish clans too, the McDonald clan in particular.  For all of us, our relatives are crying out to be heard and they hope someone will look for them.  His journey began with a letter, an anonymous one. With the help of DNA, his journey eventually took him back to the "mother" country, the place to where his story really began.  For in our ancestors is the writing about us, our story truly begins there.

Recollections of My Dad

He had the most beautiful hands I had ever seen.  His fingers were long and slender, each one a twin of the next.  Sometimes, he would let me hold them as we strolled into a store.  His arms and legs were oh so skinny.  He never went without a shirt. When he was a child something happened and his spine had an unnatural curve to it. It was some kind of fever that caused his spine to bend, according to my mother.   I would watch him as he worked in the garage.  His thick black hair would often fall into his eyes when he was working hard at painting a car or a boat.  I would bring him coffee whenever he asked for it.  It was my pleasure to get him a cup, well, not always.  He smoked like a chimney and going on trips was almost unbearable for those of us who sat in the back seat. Fishing was his passion and he spent many Saturdays sitting on a riverbank somewhere.   I cannot say that he was handsome, nor will I declare that he was the opposite.  He always had a job and we never went hungry. This man I am talking about is my Dad. He has done things to make me happy and has, also, disappointed me.  Yet, still, he is my dad. 

 

Charles is his given name.  A few people called him Charlie, some called him Chuck, but Mom always called him Charles. My dad was by no means a literate man.  If I remember correctly, his education didn’t go past the fourth grade. He read the paper sometimes. Sherlock Holmes was one of his favorites. Then there were the fishing magazines; there was always one sitting on the table beside his chair.  Many nights he took a nap before dinner and went to bed early so that he could get up at four in the morning to start all over again.  He was in general a quiet man at home.  Arguments were always started by my mother and he never raised his hand to her. 

Dad took great pride in being a spray painter.  He painted tractor trailers for Fruehauf Corporation.  A perfectionist to the last detail.  I remember one time he took my brother and I to see a trailer that he had painted for the company.  It was a special edition trailer and it traveled to various places around the country.  His face lit up as he talked about his work.  As we toured the factory, my brother Randall and I were able to see his work station.  We met his good friends, Corny and Brock. During the times that he was laid off, he would paint cars to supplement his income.  This was when I realized that he was his own person apart my mother.  Part of his life was outside of our humble home.  It was a place where my mom would never be included.

Music was a big part of our lives growing up. We had record players and radios on nearly all of the time. Dad sang whenever we were in the car.  He whistled while working and he loved Jerry Lee Lewis.  Whenever my parents would have an argument, with a long sorrowful face, he would listen to, Who Will the Next Fool Be, made popular by his favorite singer.   We never lacked for musical instruments.  We had a piano, guitar, and drums.  I couldn’t play a note on any of them though, my brother has that gift.  Luster Laws, a neighbor from down the street, had a twin brother Lester.  Dad had invited Lester to come over one evening to play his guitar.  We all gathered in the family room.  Sitting on tall stools, my brother played his guitar right along with Lester.   It was like a scene from, O Brother Where Art Thou?  We were just plain folk sitting around singing and listening to the music.  Even though Dad was a good singer, he was too shy to participate. He sat on the sofa and listened, while I sang loud enough for the both of us.  

Many weekends he brought home enough catfish to fill the bathtub.  Some were as large at the tub itself.  It kind of grossed me out to think that fish were in the place where I bathed. There was a peace and quiet he experienced when he went fishing that was hard to duplicate at home.  Often my mother or brother would go with him.  I rarely went because I was a Sunday school teacher and spent a lot of time at church, but on one rare occasion he let me come along.   Early one Sunday morning, we loaded the car with the fishing poles and tackle and then headed out.  I cannot remember the lake or the river we went to.  Time alone with dad was something that I longed for.  I don’t ever  remember getting many hugs or kisses.  It wasn’t that he didn’t love us; he just didn’t know how to show it.  We settled in a spot on the water.  Cast our lines and waited for bites.  We talked as we fished.  He told me how proud he was of me.  “Teaching Sunday school is such a wonderful thing”, he said.  Even though he enjoyed having me along, he said that the children at church needed me more.  My heart sank.  I needed time with him and his love more than teaching a Sunday school class.  That day was my last time to go fishing with him.  A year or so later he was diagnosed with cancer and passed away.  If only I could have had more time with him. I never saw him as an old man when I tried to imagine him 20 years down the line.  Maybe my spirit knew that he would never grow old.  I just wish that he could have stayed a little longer.