On forgetting...

I am on the verge of tears most of the time now. I was unprepared for the surge of emotions that would accompany a lifetime of photographs and even less prepared for the regret I would feel for not having known my ancestors or their stories. I am ashamed that these people who lived long, full lives are now amongst the ranks of the forgotten. And what about my extended family who are still living? Why am I not closer to them? With today's telecommunication systems there is no excuse for being out of touch. I have the urge to reach out to them all and have huge family meals together where we exchange photos and tell stories about the old folks as well as our own children. I am also afraid of being forgotten. Is it because my ego demands the attention or is it that I don't feel like I have done anything memorable? My life has not been extraordinary, but surely my children will have Grandma Holle tales for the little ones. But even stronger than my fear of being forgotten is that of forgetting. Reliving my earliest years in the old photographs, I am pleasantly surprised at the quality of my memories. There are so many rich details to authenticate them. I can still hear the clank of wood and metal as Pat and I would try to get water from the old pump at Smith Creek. I can smell the rusty water that came up first and taste the cold minerals. The aroma of long-leaf pine was almost overwhelming. I hear the seagulls swarming as my father caught a small shark off the eastern tip of St. George Island and smell the propane in the little grill outside our tent. I hear the endless barking of neighborhood dogs and smell the dense mulch of the creek banks deep inside Circle Drive. I smell my grandpa's cologne as it tries to cover his old man scent. It feels like I can remember everything if I try. Why do I remember so much of those earliest years, but I cannot remember my grocery list? With Alzheimer's looming large in my future I am in panic mode. I don't want to forget it all. I don't want to forget my past and then my present and then my own children. This idea scares me to death. I have watched both of my grandmothers die with Alzheimer's and my father is in the latter stages of it. It is very real to me and I feel powerless over it. I am almost overcome with the urge to plan ahead for it. I'll make name tags and photo-albums so that I can at least pretend to remember people. Being forgotten hurts. I don't want to hurt anyone.

I think I remember hearing....

John Allen Perdue, my maternal great-grandfather, was born in 1854 in Alabama. Maybe. My Aunt Doll insisted that John Allen and his younger brother Joseph were orphans from France and were taken in by an older couple who did not adopt them. However, there is archival evidence that their parents lived in Alabama and the boys were born there. I have not yet been able to find a death record for John Allen. He left his wife Jennie within a couple of years of this photo which was taken around 1917. That is according to my mother who remembers her mother telling her about it. Grandma Margaret said that John Allen had a penchant for whiskey and she felt like this is what ultimately caused him to leave the family. Aunt Doll worshipped the man and would never had thought, much less stated, such a thing. And all this is hearsay anyway.
Memories are tricky. I think I remember lots of things. When searching for information on my ancestors I am relying heavily on information gathered by my mother before my grandfather died. His memory was quite good up until he died and he remembered the funniest things about people which has made the stories so much more human. But there is not nearly enough of this kind of information. When siblings have totally different memories of the same situations, it is hard to find the truth. And when you factor in that these things are all being told as recalled by my mother things get even murkier.
Pictures like this one of Grandpa John make me feel sad. Knowing that life was hard back then working in logging camps and driving cattle here and there in those hot, dense, insect-laden Wakulla forests makes me have both sympathy and admiration for him. Knowing what a harsh woman Jennie was leaves me unable to blame him for drinking and leaving. Knowing how much Doll adored him makes me angry that he bailed on them. Margaret wasn't even 3 years old, for crying out loud. But then I have to consider that John was 63 at the time of this photo. He had been married before Jennie and had two children with his first wife. The story goes that Jennie wanted John Allen from the minute she met him. But she was almost six feet tall and she'd had 5 children with her first husband John Gibson. So Jennie starved herself to get John Allen Perdue. (I can't help but think that the more things change, the more they stay the same!) No one is clear on whether Jennie waited for John Allen's first wife to die or if he left her, but Jennie ended up with her man. She knew what she wanted and did what she had to to get it. Jennie was born to pure Creek parents but was ashamed of her "color" and never admitted to being Creek herself because they were an undesirable minority. There is no discrepancy amongst the grandchildren about that part of Jennie's story. She considered herself to be white.
Anyway, I find myself wishing I had listened closer when grandma Margaret talked about the old days. I wish I had gotten this urge to know my family before I went through my selfish college days. Those were the times when all Jennie's girls were available to discuss it...and Lord knows they could discuss it. I want to know more about John Allen and Jennie and I really want to ask Jennie who her mother was. I am stuck on her side of the tree. It's like I have gotten a new book and I am really enjoying it but now I find some pages are missing.

I go back....

Looking at the myriad old family pictures has stirred up a storm of emotions in me. My mother has always had a camera and felt the need to capture important gatherings as well as the everyday happenings in our lives. I have always said I had a rich and full childhood and mom's collection of photos of our family camping days just reinforces it.
My parents divorced in 1975. There is no evidence of discourse in any of the old photos of them and it was presented to us and implemented with very little disruption in our little lives. We spent so much time together as a family either camping, boating or visiting relatives. Relatives were a big deal when I was little. We spent lots of time at my grandparents home in Tallahassee. We took quite a few trips to see my Aunt Ann's family in Montgomery. We went down to Sopchoppy to visit my dad's people and sometimes brought Granny Annie home to stay with us for a few days.
The camping weekends were awesome. St. George Island used to be completely open to the public from one end to the other. My dad lived to fish and we would drive all the way down to the east end of the island and pitch a tent. I remember Pat and I would spend hours trying to catch minnows for bait and chase sand crabs into their holes. We had a huge tent and a great Coleman gas grill and a water tank on top of the Jeep so we could even shower. Daddy built a portable wooden pantry that doubled as a kitchen counter. My mama didn't do anything halfway, especially when it had to do with cooking and cleaning.
When I allow myself to mentally relive this part of my life it is very easy to regret that it ended. I can't help but wonder what it might have been like if daddy had stayed forever. I know everything happens for a reason and we are always right where we are supposed to be, but what harm is there in wondering? Would it always have been as idyllic as the pictures and my memories portrayed it? Probably not. But sometimes it just feels good to think it would have.

Highway to Hell?

That's how I used to feel as a little kid riding for what seemed like days down to Smith Creek. That's the old family homestead down there on the right and my mom would load us up with grandparents and go visit quite regularly. The house was falling in then and is gone now, but the old folks lust loved to walk around and talk about how it used to be and sometimes pick up a relic of days gone by. Sometimes we would do something fun like walk down to the old swinging bridge and get eaten up by mosquitos. Other times we had to pick mayhaws and get eaten up by mosquitos. Every now and then we'd stop by and visit other old folks like Uncle Hamp or Eunice and get eaten up by mosquitos.

As a child I didn't take an interest in the old days or how I was related to anyone in Smith Creek because my little world didn't have room for all that. But now that I realize my own memory is fading I am feeling the urge to put some things down in writing for my family to appreciate when they are older. I have always known that the ancestors from Georgia and Alabama moved to Wakulla and Leon counties and that times were hard back then. But now as I listen to my mother tell me the stories that her parents told her the pictures seem more colorful and the people more real. I am finding that I am a lot like my Grandma Fanny and that my son is about as particular as Grandpa Major.

Most of my morning was spent immersed in black and white photos with my mother narrating events from many years ago. I was so absorbed in thinking about it all that I didnt quite recognize my own house when I got here and felt lonely when my daughter drove off. I can't wait to learn more about all these people and hope to get a lot of input from other living relatives as I continue this project.

Up and running...

This adventure started when I innocently asked, "who's this?" The back of this old photo says "Guy Reiser (Geo. West) and Ring." Well, Ring was Grandpa Charlie's dog so why was this person in a portrait with him? And why did he use an alias?

Why? Who? What? Where? Lots of question go along with lots of photos and tin types from as far back as the mid 1800s. Most of them can be identified as family members but then are are some seemingly random ones like this one of Guy and Ring. I found out that Guy had worked for Grandpa Charlie for a couple of years. And the backdrop for this photo looks like one in the photo in yesterday's post so I assume Guy needed some props and Charlie's were handy.

I have learned a lot in these first 24 hours of my ancestral adventure. My friend got me started on the Ancestry.com website and I am hooked. I am a visual-spatial learner so having it all literally mapped out helps me picture connections and retain them as I discover more family photos and my mom rembers parts of names. This week I will go meet with my Aunt Ina Boykin and fill in some gaps on my paternal side. Another friend has done extensive research on his Creek ancestors and has connected me with sources to locate my maternal grandmother's people. I am both excited and overwhelmed by it all. History has never interested me and I cannot say that I am suddenly into it, rather I am fascinated by these people that I have heard of over Thanksgiving dinner for the better part of my life. The stories connected with them are entertaining and I get the feeling that I really would have liked most of the relatives in person.

Well I'll be dogged....

This is a photograph of my great-grandfather Charlie Caleb Elijah Langston taken around 1910. Grandpa Charlie as my mom called him. And that's his bloodhound, Ring, and a lever action Marlin. Charlie was born in 1875 somewhere in the Carolinas and he loved to hunt. At some point he moved to Florida where my grandfather was born in the Smith Creek community of Wakulla county. Charlie would buy dogs from all over and train them to hunt bear in the woods of Wakulla and Liberty counties. Sometimes he trained the dogs then sold them to other hunters and some he kept for himself, like old Ring here. Charlie was married to my great-grandmother, Mary Francis Langston. She just happened to be another Langston from Smith Creek....Charlie didn't marry his cousin. Mary Francis was known as Fannie by most folks. According to my grandmother she was a strange bird. She even put her wedding ring on Charlie's dog's collar which is why he was called Ring. No one ever knew why she did that but I suppose it is because Charlie spent more time with that dog than with Fannie.

BFF? BFFs? BFsF?

I have almost completed a photo album project on FaceBook called The 30 Day Photo Challenge in which I have been given a prompt to relate to each day's photo. Looking back over 27 photos I see almost all of my favorite people....my best friends. After 42 years of friendship I don't have a best friend...I have several. I make friends easily and have a zillion acquaintances, but when I bond with someone it is pretty much for life. It is true that people come in and out of our lives while some are only around for a season. I have had several seasons and through the miracle of FaceBook have reconnected with some of those seasonal friends. Other friends and I have been separated for years at a time but still fall right back in line when we reconnect. This drives my mother crazy. She is someone who prefers a solitary existence and doesn't require the camaraderie of girlfriends or even neighbors. She doesn't understand my need for chat or a confidante.

Someone once asked, "what makes your best friend your best friend?" Where shall I start? My best friends are all completely different from each other. I joke that they all like me but they really don't care much for each other. And really, without me in common they wouldn't ever interact. And I think that is why they are my best friends. Each of them has a unique quality that compliments me...or brings out something in me that doesn't get expressed otherwise. One of them forces me to see both sides of everything. I can be terribly judgemental and opinionated when I feel threatened or emotionally injured and this friend points out my selfishness. Another friend has the gift of perspective. She knows me and my history so well that she cuts right through my baggage and shows me where my focus should be. Another friend is probably clinically insane but she makes me step out of my box and experience new things that make no sense at the time but later I am glad I did them.

I have my two Best Friends From High School, my two Best Friends From College, my three Best Friends From My Hippie Days, my four Best Friends Since I Moved Back Home and my three Best Friends From Work. Sadly, one of these women has passed away. One moved away and didn't look back and another fell into a different circle of friends but I'd still meet either of them for lunch if they called. Clearly, I am not a bridge burner.

Yesterday I reflected on all the neighbors I have had over the years, but unlike them, my Best Friends remain as such. Some of us are in contact almost daily while others only check in once in a while. But just like we need different things from different people, we need them in varying quantities as well. I have a very small immediate family and my extended family is spread throughout the country so my best friends are my chosen sisters. My relationships with them are extremely important to me and my sense of well-being. They bring out the best in me and put up with my worst. They really are God's way of taking care of me and I am so grateful for all of them.

And like a good neighbor....

...State Farm is there. Really? What is a good neighbor? Someone who is always there when you need them and even when you don't like the insurance company advertises? That seems terribly one-sided. These past six months have been the first period of my life in which I have had no neighbors. The farm is not particularly lonely since the owner is in and out all the time, but it sure is quiet. While I have grown up, moved away and come back to stay, my childhood neighbors have all moved away permanently. I have connected with the Otwell and Standley girls on FaceBook and my dad married the mother of the three Ward girls so they are family now. My next set of neighbors consisted of dorm mates at Converse College, many of whom have connected with me on FaceBook. Since college, I have lived in South Carolina, Tennessee and Ohio before coming back to Florida to stay. In South Carolina I was a nanny for a nice family in an "uppity" neighborhood before moving downtown to live my hippie days. Those townie neighbors were quite tolerant of the raucous parties my roomies and I had and were even nice enough to let me babysit when I was really broke. And they gave me a great tuna casserole recipe! After a couple of years there I met my daughter's father and we moved to Tennessee where my life fell apart. Those days were filled with isolation and sadness. I saw the neighbors through my window but never even knew their names. After my daughter was born we moved to Ohio. The guy who lived next door was quite nice and often asked if I was alright but never interfered. I have only moved twice since coming home 15 years ago. I lived on the busiest street in town for 9 years and had permanent neighbors to my left and a steady stream of short-term renters to my right. The retirees on the left side tolerated my foster dogs and their nervous barking as well as my daughter and our friends, but they never were particularly friendly. Despite my daily hellos the woman may have spoken to me an average of once per year. The man however was somewhat chatty, at least until the old lady grunted or glared and made him go inside. The only right side neighbor I got to know was a wonderfully effeminate young black man who loved to fix a cocktail and chat in the driveway. He had some interesting visitors. When the kids and I moved to the farm a couple of years ago, we were without neignbors for a month or so until a young couple and their dogs moved into the small house across the way. That was overall a very good neighbor experience. They let Sam come play in their yard with their dogs and flock of guineas and we pet sat for them. They had dinner here sometimes and we'd enjoy a bonfire over there sometimes. I borrowed coffee and they borrowed butter. When Sam and I were away, Sara would have one of the neighbor dogs come stay with her. It was so comfortable and easy...just like in Mayberry, USA. But they moved away for work and family. So now I am in neighbor limbo, waiting to see who may be next to traipse through my life. It is interesting to look back over 40 years and remember the people and places dotted throughout. I am sure many of them have no recollection of me, but for some reason they stand out in my memories. I get attached to places and people quite easily but have gotten used to moving on.