Major Discoveries

When I first began this ancestry project I had a stack of really old, mostly unidentified photos and tintypes accompanied by a few anecdotal notes my mother got from Grandpa Major shortly before he died. Some of the comments he made seemed a bit ridiculous to me and I chalked that up to his failing mind. Shame on me. As I have utilized the Ancestry.com webpage and its myriad of record databases, I have made some interesting discoveries that have me apologizing to Major quite frequently. Take this photo as a prime example.

According to Grandpa Major this is Gaston Eubanks, son of his mother's cousin Buddy. He also said that the Eubanks were from the Cayman Islands. What? All of Fannie's people migrated from South Carolina for several generations before settling in Smith Creek, Florida. How could they be from the Caymans, too? Well, thanks to Ancestry, I came across immigration records from the late 1600s and early 1700s that show that many English families sailed to Barbados. Some continued on to North America while others obviously stayed. I imagine the climate was a wonderful change for those used to dreary English weather. I have not yet found the documents on the Eubanks bunch, but I have located the Baptism records for my 9th great grandfather William Speights in Barbados in 1680.

This is all pretty remarkable stuff and I love finding evidence that Major's memory was impeccable and he did know what he was talking about.

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.

Say what?

So my daughter is starting to prepare for college. She is in the 10th grade and extremely aware of how important her GPA is and exactly what she has to make on the ACT to not only be accepted to a school but receive a big fat scholarship. As if that weren't stressful enough, I have taken the liberty of informing her that her writing skills are far below acceptable (in my opinion, which is the only one that counts here anyway.) What to do? My BFF is a researchaholic and has hopped on the Google and found a way to address this need in a way that is thought-provoking, fun and doesn't smell like homework. Each day we all three receive a writing prompt and have 24 hours to respond and return it. I rather enjoy it. Doling out my opinion comes naturally. Imagine that.

Which brings me around to my point. I abandoned this blog after two entries back in 2009. I love to write but have a hard time choosing a topic. Perhaps this is because I was trained to write by journaling and was almost always given a topic to write about. Perhaps I have a lazy, disinterested brain that looks for any excuse to avoid work. Whatever the reason, it needs to change. Could I become a prompt-generator and in turn inspire myself? Let's give it a whirl:

"If you were stranded on a deserted island what three things would you most like to have?" Nah. Too cliche.

"Who would you thank first in your Oscar acceptance speech?" Nah. Too FaceBook.

"If you weren't doing your current job, what would you be doing now?" Eh.

"What is your favorite musical act and why?" Nah. Too MySpace.

"What would it mean if all the animals in the world spontaneously began to line up two-by-two?" What??

OK so maybe this is not for me to do. See ya on the Google.

About that change...

...I mentioned was a comin'. Well it sure is and in a big way for me and my little family! My cousin owns a cleaning business and called to see if I knew anyone interested in renting a house she was working on. No one came to mind right away but I asked her to give me some details and I'd ask around. She gave me the details and I called the owner to say "We'll take it!"

I am the picture of stability, rarely rocking the boat enough to cause any kind of change in my life, good or bad. Moving has always scared the poo out of me because it entails packing and cleaning out and leaving the neighbors and relocating my animals and a whole bunch of other stuff regular people do all the time. I have been in the same crappy little rental house for almost 9 years, but since my son came along and is now literally climbing the walls, it has become increasingly obvious that we are due for an upgrade. (Don't get me started on the idea of actually buying a house because I will have a come-apart.) The yard is small and we live on the second busiest street in town so outside play for my son and the dog is just not an option. My landlord now lives out of the state so the maintenance on the place has taken a nose-dive. ( The tree that went through my roof in August is still lying where it landed in the back yard after the boy who occasionally cuts the grass came and pulled it out. )

Our new home sits in the middle of an old tobacco farm. The land is now used for cotton crops and a tree farm and is littered with barns, sheds and other out-buildings whose original use is yet a mystery to me. The entrance to the place is a lovely drive through young pines. Our house was built in the late 1800's and part of it was the farm's commissary. Its lofty ceilings, myriad of windows (that really open!) and shotgun layout are in stark contrast to the cramped, dark little abode my kids have grown up in. While I doubt that I have enough furniture to fill the place, my son will be thrilled that he can ride his skateboard straight through the front door and out the back!

This move is going to be so good for us in so many ways. Sam and Bubba will have acres and acres to run and play and Sara will have more room to do whatever it is teenagers do these days. And I'll have a clear view of the stars and no street noise as I relax in the comfort of my screened porch. Life is good!

Say what?

Conduct and character are largely determined by the nature of the words we currently use to discuss ourselves and the world around us. ~ Aldous Huxley

One of my co-workers used to constantly tell me to watch my language. I didn't get it and assumed she was being sarcastic because I wasn't in the habit of using foul language at school. So I asked her about it. She explained that a pastor she enjoyed often reminded people that when we verbalize negativity we are also hearing it and usually internalizing it in some way. At her suggestion I started listening and heard myself refer to myself as old, fat, tired, poor, stupid, lazy, mean and a host of other not-so-wonderful adjectives. If someone else had called me these things I would have protested and considered him hostile, but I didn't seem to mind calling myself names. Hmmmm...made no sense.

Now, I'm not saying it was an epiphany nor am I into daily affirmations, but I decided to make a concerted effort to change the things I was hearing about myself and my life. I thought I was wonderful so I should be portrayed as such, no? "We are eating light this week" sounds (and feels) so much better than "I'm too broke to go to the grocery store." And instead of being old and forgetful I have become the Sticky Note Queen! I have a long way to go, but it is getting easier as it becomes a habit. And much to the chagrin of my cohorts I have begun telling them to watch their language. It's kind of funny sometimes, especially when my daughter refuses to agree that mom is "hot."

Change is a'comin!

Bubba Chandler Boykin



At least that's what I keep hearing. Today brings the inauguration of Barack Obama as the 44th President of the Unites States. It is obvious to me that the majority of my friends are Republican and none too happy with today's event, while the people with whom I work and the community in which I live are ecstatic and reveling in the glory of the day. Therefore, I have been in the position to get both sides of all the arguments for the past two years. I think we should all step back and look the big picture. President Obama is a man. He's human. He is not the anti-Christ nor is he the Messiah. Change is definitely going to come, but it won't be overnight and might not be all bad for the Republicans or all good for the Democrats. Americans are long overdue for the message that has tried to spread through this country for the past couple of generations: give peace a chance.
Now, since I know that if we keep doing what we've been doing we keep getting what we've been getting, I am going to implement some change myself. This blog is Step Two. Step One involves the two parties I have attended over the past two weekends. I am putting myself out there more. My world has gotten very small over the past couple of years and it is time to expand! I adore the tiny circle of very close friends and family that I have flourished in, but it is time for some fresh faces and new perspectives. I could also use a wardrobe planner!
We have just gotten a new (used) dog who has added another dimension to our home life. Having to get up and walk him at daybreak in 33 degree air was quite a reality check for my teenager! Leaving the door open and hearing me curse as I chased him across three front lawns was a learning experience for my four year-old! I hope the blinds are still up when I get home.