2020: Murder, Mayhem and Chaos

 The year 2020 started off normally like any other. At least, that's how it was for me. Within two months of the beginning of the year our world turned upside down.  

My nephew, who was only fifteen years old, was murdered.  Something so unthinkable for a child,  the pain and anguish his mother felt was hard to watch.  Oh, don't get me wrong. I felt it too and keenly. We were not given the chance to mourn our loss and it was a great loss for our family. A child who had his whole future ahead of him was cut short over something that didn't amount to the value of a life.  It was complete non sense. (I meant to separate the word for emphasis)

Then within a matter of weeks the Coronavirus came in like a whirlwind. We were driven to seclude ourselves in our homes like a cave, the unbearable seclusion we were forced to endure for months on end.  "Don't go near anyone, wash your hands, wear your masks and stay home" was constantly being broadcast on the news like a scene from a Dystopian movie. The streets were bare, shops closed up, we could no longer eat out, visit the library or go to theaters and it felt like the world shut down. People stripped the store shelves bare of nearly everything leaving unwanted items as if they were crumbs for the birds. I don't know about you, but I felt like I was living in a bad horror movie. But you know what it was like, because you lived it too, and still we have no relief from this hell. 

The political freak show didn't help matters either that we experienced in the later part of the year.  Accusations of voter fraud, inciting a riot, a second impeachment and political division compounded an already stressful situation. 

I would not have wished this year to ever be repeated, nor the incidents contained therein. I want to go some place where the Coronavirus word is not spoken ever again. Socializing is normal and accepted. One can stand close to another and even touch without fear. I can face the world bare faced and not be shamed if I do so. A vaccine is not the cure for everything that blows in the wind. Next year, it will bring something different that we must contend with. Fear is not a banner to be displayed over our heads and we should think about things on our own whether we are being told truth or not.  Just think about it. 

Benjamin Borden...my 8th great grandfather

One has to be ready to receive a new relative to their family tree just like a newborn child. All of the excitement is there because they are new to you.  I try to research as much as I can on the previous generation in order to move on to the next or basically back in time. 

I feel as if I have won the genealogy lottery.  As an amateur genealogist, I collect a lot of names and data hoping to be able to research them when I have time. I knew Benjamin Borden's name but didn't know about him until just recently.  For the longest time he was just a name that I have connected to one of my relatives who married into my Campbell family.  

Benjamin was one of two men who helped to populate the Virginia colony.  The other man was William Beverly.  Borden had land (92,100 acres) that was granted to him from the King. Hence, it is known as the Borden's Great Spring Tract. It was exciting to find out that one of forebears was instrumental in the founding of this country.  

Here is where it starts for me:  

Jacob Peck came to America from Ebingen, Wurttemberg, Germany and eventually settled in Augusta County, Virginia. Wurttemberg is located about 50 miles north of Switzerland and about 50 miles east of France. It nestles down between the mountains of the northern encampment of the Alps in a narrow valley through which flows the River Schmie. It is in the uplands of Germany. The Schmie River is a tributary at the western extremity of the Danube.

Jacob's name was really Johann Jakob Von Beck, I have seen it also without Von included in his name. When he arrived to the Colonial colonies, Jacob changed his name to fit in with the Scotch/Irish that were numerous to the area of his new home.  He had been living in Frederick County, Maryland for at least seven years by the time he signed his Oath of Allegiance in 1747.  

Eventually, Jacob moved to Virginia and bought acreage in the Beverly land grant area of Augusta County. It was there that he met Lydia Borden, the daughter of  Benjamin Borden.  From Benjamin's will it was estimated that he owned 120,000 acres of land, including several tracts on the lower forks of the James River. When Benjamin passed away there were legal disputes over surveys and Borden lands which were not resolved until 1897. This was due to Lydia's brother selling off land without going through the proper channels. Lydia was promised a portion of land and didn't live to see the fruition of her claim to it. 

I have still not filled you in on how my family is connected to the Peck's.  One of Jacob and Lydia's Children was Adam Peck. He was a member of the House, 1st & 2nd General Assemblies 1796-1799. As a member of the 1st assembly of the state, he helped draft the Constitution of the State of Tennessee. He was one of the founding fathers of Knoxville, Tennessee. Peck came to Tennessee before 1792, and was the first settler of Mossy Creek, now Jefferson City. Jefferson City was originally named for a creek...Mossy Creek. Adam had a daughter named Jane, who married Archibald James Campbell my fifth great-grandfather.  

I cannot tell you how exciting it was to find out that I have ancestors who were not only good people, but without them this country might have been a bit different without their efforts.  

Source: Library of Congress, Carte de la Virginie et du Maryland (1757)

Missisinawa 1812: There is more to see than the Re-enactment.

It has been four years since I last visited La Fontaine, Indiana for the annual Missisinawa War of 1812 Re-enactment weekend. 

It is the largest living museum of the War of 1812, which includes a military encampment, Indian Village, and a wilderness area.  Rivertown offers reproductions of many 1812 reproductions from that era including fine yard goods, silver, tinware, pottery, muskets, and candles. 

 There were rows and rows of vendors selling their wares.

 But one caught my eye.

I came upon a tent with a man outside chipping away at a piece of marble.  I didn't know that you could chip away at this dense stone so easily.  It was the portrait of the first white man to go to the state of Kentucky.  His name escapes me right now. I stood there and watched a while. On the ground, I noticed that there was a headstone for a grave. Then I flooded the artist with questions about his craft. 

He answered my questions in a sweet Southern drawl. My favorite of all the American accents.  David Gillespie, a native and resident of South Carolina has been carving tombstones for over ten years and demonstrating at Eighteenth Century Re-enactments to bring to life the lost art of stone-cutting.  David and his wife Renee demonstrate all across the Eastern U.S. If you would like to read more about the art of tomb and grave stones check out the book above that Mr. Gillespie wrote. I brought a copy home with me. By the way, the new trend of putting a portrait on a grave stone is not new. This was done back in the 1700's. Click on the Link for purchasing options. Now I want to visit Charleston, South Carolina to see the stones that are found in the book.  David Gillespie and his wife have a web site called Pumpkintown Primitives. They do more than just cut stones. 

I couldn't resist the Williamsburg style fabric that would make a great tablecloth for the kitchen and possibly curtains to match. 

History doesn't have to be boring.  There is more to it than names and dates. Researching my family history has caused a love of history to well up within me that never existed before.  Now I try to get out and learn as much as I can about the country in which I live. Going to this kind of thing is not for everyone. But try it as least once. You may change your mind. 

The Hiwassee Meeting House in Reliance, Tennessee

My cousin, his wife, and I spent the day driving around in the Cherokee National Forest. We came upon The Hiwassee Meeting House. As we drove up to the building there was a woman standing on the porch and she was getting ready to open the door.  I grabbed my camera and ran up the steps.  When I came to the door, I asked the woman if we could take a look inside. She said that we could.  It was our lucky day. 

The Hiwassee Meeting House dates back to 1899 and is located along the bank of the Hiwassee River in Polk County, Reliance, TN.  It is listed on the National Register of Historic Places as part of the Reliance Historic District.

 Here is the text of the historic marker provided by the Southeast Tennessee Tourism Association from their Religious Heritage Trail:

Erected about 1899 through the joint effort of the Hiwassee Union Missionary Baptist Church and the local Masonic Lodge, this two-story, frame structure served as a multi-use community building. The upper floor was for Lodge meetings while the first floor served as the church meeting hall. The first floor was also used as a schoolhouse for a brief time. 

Originally the first floor had a full front porch. The porch was enclosed in 1927 when the church added two small meeting rooms, leaving a narrow entry way into the main hall. The church and the lodge moved to new facilities less than one mile to the east on Highway 30. 

It was founded on October 8, 1848 as Hiwassee Union Baptist, and then in 1859 as Sweetwater Baptist Association. In 1861 the Ocoee Baptist Association was formed, so they asked to be released from Sweetwater's Association and joined the Ocoee Baptist Association. Hiwassee Union Baptist went on the join Eastanallee Baptist Association in 1871 and finally it joined the Polk Baptist Association in 1921.

I have never seen a building held up with stacked rocks like this before. The whole thing was fascinating to me.

A lot of questions went through my mind as I wandered outside of this old building. How in the world does it keep from blowing over in a gust of wind?  What keeps those rocks firmly in place?  On and on the questions rolled through my mind. I will never know the answer.

They have weddings and special occasions here and I believe one can rent a house a little bit down the road from the Meeting House.  Tennessee is an amazing place to visit and I would recommend that you visit at least once in your life.  You will enjoy the all of the spectacular views. 

I am a Smith, without a doubt!

Sarah Jane Bailey Smith and her granddaughter Rachel

I have been trying to find confirmation that I am the great-great granddaughter of Pleasant Thomas Smith of Hamblen County, Tennessee for a very long time. I mean a really, really long time. Oh,  I have the names of the Smith's and their children it is just that there was a marriage issue, children being born before one actually took place, and a child changing his name from one census to another. 

On paper it didn't look promising that I was related to the man that all of my Smith relatives believed we were connected to because my great grandfather Joseph Rufus Smith was born when his mother wasn't married.  In those days, a woman was ostracized for having a child out of wedlock.  

Pleasant, who was called Tom, was married until 1880 when his first wife, Mary Jane, passed away.  In 1871, Joseph was born to Sarah Jane Bailey. Ironically, the Smith and Bailey family lived next door to each other in Hamblen County for a long time.  

The first time I found Joseph he was listed with his mother and her new husband Duke Manes on the 1880 Census for Hamblen County.  But Joseph was listed as a Bailey and he was 8 years old. Duke Manes and Sarah Bailey were married December 27, 1875. On the Next Census, in 1900, Joseph was now listed as a Smith. By this time Sarah had divorced Duke Manes and married Tom Smith on December 24, 1887 (I'm glad that they made things right).  Duke set fire to a John A. Overholt's barn and was sent to prison.  In April of 1887, when Duke was released, Sarah divorced him. A few month's later Sarah married Tom.  I stopped researching my Smith line because I was stuck.  I had no idea who Joseph's father really was.  

Joseph with his wife Bessie and son Oscar.

I took a DNA test through Ancestry last year.  I expected my Smith quandary to be resolved, but nothing happened.  I had a first cousin and second cousin show up as a match, but that was it. Shouldn't I have matches to Pleasant's siblings?  All of my DNA circles were for my mother's side of the family.  

I then asked another cousin, who is a male Smith, to take the DNA test and I compared our DNA matches. Not long ago, I heard that 4th cousins have a common great-great grandparent.  I focused mainly on those matches with 40 CM (centimorgans) or more.  I finally found several matches to my Smith relatives, but not all with the same testing company.

On Ancestry, I found Sarah Margaret Smith, daughter of James William Smith and Elizabeth Hickey, who was Pleasant's sister.  She married a John D. Mason and they moved to Bridgeport, Alabama the same time that Joseph and his mother Sarah lived there. We share 41 CM. The person that tested was a fourth cousin. 

Next, I found another 4th cousin, on Ancestry, who is related to my great uncle Jesse Smith. We share 69 CM and he is Joseph Smith's grandson. Pleasant is his 2nd great-grandfather. 

Last weekend,  I uploaded my raw DNA results to Family Tree DNA. Yesterday, I found a match to Clemintine Overholt, formerly Smith.  She was the daughter of Samuel Barton Smith and Perlina Soloman, who is Pleasant Thomas Smith brother.  Clemintine married John Overholt, the man whose barn was burnt down by Duke Manes (Sarah's first husband). This couple also lived in Bridgeport, Alabama at the same time that Sarah and Joseph was there. We share 81 CM. 

Clementine Smith Overholt

For me, this is enough proof to proudly say that I am, without a doubt, a Smith.  Now, I can confidently add those Smith's that I was afraid to, to my family history collection.  

Watch what you say, it can be crippling...

I came across this video today and it brought back memories of things that have been said to me over the years.  It is not always by strangers but those who are supposed to love us the most.  

Someone said to me once: You don't look like a woman that I would have picked for a wife, but you have a good heart and we all have to sacrifice.  I didn't know how to react.  I laughed it off but cried later.

What have people said to you that has never left you the same as you were before? 

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?   

The street where Halloween is an all out occasion

A cousin of ours told us about Third Street here in Fort Wayne that went all out for Halloween. I have lived here for a long time and never knew about it. 

For several weeks I have tried to come out on a weekend and look at all of the yards that the neighborhood decorated.  I think that they secretly have a contest going on.  

There were totems of ghouls and goblins that I wouldn't want to bump into in the daylight much less at night.

There was an evil joker hanging in a tree. 

And car crash victims. 

The rain finally eased enough for me to grab my camera and photograph in between the raindrops. There were others photographing the neighborhood along with me.   

Here is the cowboy I asked Santa for a few years ago for Christmas.  But I think he made it here too late.

If you have time before Halloween, drive over to Third Street in Fort Wayne and enjoy the lawns of the residents who took so much trouble to decorate.  I really enjoyed walking up and down the street admiring what I saw.