This is the second part of my musings and my walk down memory lane. As I looked back, I especially thank my grandparents, The Brandenburgs for opening their home to me when I was a child. My Pap-Paw especially touched my life. I remember him with such fondness and great respect. He was my hero. I think perhaps he inspired me to touch my own grandchildren and make memories. Beautiful, sweet memories.
My mom and dad spent most of their childhood
in Whitley County Kentucky.
Williamsburg, Kentucky to be specific.
So that being said, that was our first stop. Now, Whitley County,
specifically, Williamsburg, Kentucky is an interesting little settlement off
Route 25 and US 75. Williamsburg is the
county seat of Whitley County and I remember visiting the old courthouse in the
town square during my summer visits. Whitley county was created in January
1818. Before this county was officially
declared a county, it was the source of many disagreements and battles fought
between the native Indians and hunters and trappers. With this part of Kentucky filled with rich
resources; it was a dream for hunting. Many
of those skirmishes were fought with Colonel William Whitley as the fearless
leader. He realized it was vital that the new settlers have an opportunity to hunt and trap and continue their journey
on the Wilderness Road. Colonel Whitley
was also instrumental in safeguarding the Wilderness Road.
To my
understanding this Wilderness Road was paramount in allowing settlers to
migrate to Kentucky from the East. None other than the infamous Daniel Boone
had blazed this trail. It was rough,
it was steep and it was dangerous. It
could only be travelled by foot or on single file horseback. But, it was the highway to their ‘promised
land of milk and honey’. This road was
the key to their new beginnings. It was travelled on foot for many years until it was
finally upgraded so that wagons could carry precious cargo through those rugged
mountains. This route was dangerous
because the Native Americans resented these ‘white folk’ who dared come into
their ancestral hunting grounds. From their perspective the white man was evil
and had to be stopped. Hundreds of
settlers were killed during these skirmishes. I wonder if any of my relatives
were involved in these battles and how many lost their lives. Well, a remnant survived because here I am
today.
Colonel
Whitley realized this route had to be protected and it had to be secured for
future settlers who would make their way through these rugged mountains. At the time this was the only connection from
the East to what was as far West as most settlers would go. I wonder if those
hardy souls realized just what a challenge conquering this rugged land would
be. I ponder if those who lost loved ones or suffered because of the hardships
they met ever thought ‘was it worth it’? I think about how very determined they
must have been to put one foot in front of the other and press on, press
forward until they found their place. I
am sure they were in awe, wonder and certainly intimidated by this beautiful,
wild, resource filled land.The brave souls who pushed through the thick
wilderness must have realized what vital role they played in paving the road for
generations to come. Names, dates and
events are long forgotten, muddled with time.
Yet, what these brave men and women accomplished, still stands tall and
strong, touching even my generation and the next and next. This Wilderness Trail was so valuable that it
was upgraded and improved through the years and was eventually paved. It was one of the first paved roads in the
United States.
Seeing the
potential and value of this trail, Colonel Whitley fought valiantly. He was
recognized for his leadership and his vision for this trail and thus this newly
formed county was named after him. He served in the war of 1812
and unfortunately died at the Battle of the Thames. I am sure his death was a great loss to the
people of Whitley County. But life does
go on.
This beautiful
little settlement is nestled in the Cumberland Plateau of southeastern
Kentucky. This part of the country
houses the Daniel Boone National Forest, the Cumberland Falls State Resort Park
that is home to a beautiful waterfall.
This land has two rivers that meander through its boundaries; Laurel River
and the Cumberland River. Some of the
mountains rise to over 2000 feet. It is
a beautiful land. It is a few hours’ drive to the Great Smokey Mountains. These mountains are called ‘smokey’ because
the mountains rise so far above the sea level that they appear to be shrouded
in a foggy, mystical, mist; hence the name.
I love those mountains! They have
stood for ages and separate the country, not only geographically, but also separates
the men from the boys. It had to have
been a mighty feat for Daniel Boone, Lewis and Clark and other nameless,
faceless folk to tackle the mighty Smokey Mountains and venture on to the other
side.
Whitley
County’s economy has been dependent upon its natural resources; coal, and
timber, along with iron, oil and even some silver. However, because of the mountains, agriculture
has not been established as a good resource for income. There are pockets of land where tobacco, corn
and home gardens can be grown. The land
has suffered with the plague of strip mining, poaching, trees cut down and not
replaced. There is little economic resources
available to the local folk. Most
struggle to make a living. Many, like my
mom and dad left this beautiful land for ‘greener’ pastures; Northern Kentucky,
Ohio, Indiana, Michigan. They traded in
the country living for city living and working in fields, forest and coal mines
to being tied to assembly lines. They chose to secure steady incomes that allowed them to afford
some of the better things of life. My
folks migrated to Cincinnati, then moved to Northern Kentucky. In my opinion, it was not
necessarily considered the good life.
So on we
continued in our journey down Memory Lane.We drove by my Mom’s home that she
spent some of her childhood in. It was
also the same home I visited as a child.
This was the very home my grandparents lived in for years. It was the place I spent those glorious
summers; running and roaming in the woods and over the hills. Eating green beans from the garden, fresh corn
on the cob, ‘new potatoes’; new as meaning freshly dug out of the ground. The
table overflowed with tomatoes, vine ripened, big, juicy red tomatoes and
cucumbers. I do not recall ever having any
meat at the table for supper. There might have been a scrap of pork for
seasoning the beans, but that was the extent of the meat at that time. It was the same meal, day after day, week
after week all during the summer. All
grown from their grand and glorious garden. It was a meal I gladly ate after a
hard day of playing and exploring in the barns, feed cribs and fields.
Like us, the
house had changed. It still sat on the
hillside. Funny, I remember it sitting
much higher. It had been added on to,
updated and modernized. I am sure it now
had running water, plumbing, heat, maybe even air conditioning. I am sure the kitchen was filled with
cabinets, new appliances; perhaps an additional bedroom and closets. I am also sure a bathroom or two had been
added. It was now updated with all the
modern conveniences we have all come to depend upon, expect to have. We think
of these conveniences as our staples in life, things we deserve, or so we
think.
Someone else
lived in the house now. Both my
grandparents were gone. I would have loved to have been able to go inside poke
around and look and imagine hearing the voices at the breakfast table. I could image hearing the new song at the time,
“Ring of Fire” by Johnny and June as it played on that old Crosley radio that
sat on top of the Frigidaire, also known as the ‘ice box”. I remember hearing
that song and wondering what on earth was a ‘ring of fire’. These two sang about falling into this
ring. Since they were now singing about
it, I assumed they had survived it.
Whatever it was, could it be that bad?
The reasoning of a young child does not always make sense.
I would love to see Grandma doing her little
skip and song as she baked those homemade biscuits every morning! I close my eyes and I can almost smell that
fresh brewing coffee that cooked in the dark blue splatter ware coffee
pot. Unfortunately at the time I visited,
I was not old enough to drink coffee. For
my grandparents that coffee was a treat, a ritual, a slurping feast. That coffee came piping hot out of that big
blue spatter ware pot. It sat steaming
and scalding hot and ready to slurp.
Yep, slurp. For the Brandenburg
ritual was to pour that hot coffee into the saucer. Then you lift up that saucer when the coffee
temperature was just right and slurp it down!
Once it was slurped down, you did it again and again until your cup was
refilled and slurp some more. I
mentioned this ritual to the the Preacher and just assumed everyone’s
grandparents had this morning routine and ritual. He was aghast! He had never heard of anything, well so,
‘country. As some of you think, kinda disgusting and not so dignified. It was surreal. There was no holding the coffee cup just so and
lifting that pinky up in the air with regal royalty. No, just pour and slurp!
Then came
the morning coffee break. I remember my
grandmother would always call everyone into the kitchen around 10 in the
morning and announce with finesse and flair, ‘time for our coffee break! Since
I was not of the coffee drinking age, I would be dismissed and excused to
continue on with my explorations with my imaginary friends. I remember one time when it rained and rained
and then rained some more. No outdoors,
no soaking up the sunshine or running wild and free in the fields. Just sit, sit and sit some more on the
porch. I must have looked like a sad
little orphan. Pap Paw limped inside the
house, at this time he had a distinct hunch on his back which caused him to
stoop over and appear smaller than he was.
He also had a very pounced limp.
He returned to the porch with something hidden behind his back. He had a hint of a smile on his lips, for he
was reserved and relinquished very few smiles.
He placed the item before me. I squealed with delight and am sure I had the
broadest smile on my face in all of Whitley County. My precious Pap Paw made me a potato doll. He
found one of his biggest potatoes and found sticks for arms and legs. He had
carved out some facial features and used one of his old handkerchiefs to make
clothing for this little treasure. As he
handed her to me I saw a slight wink, as if to say ‘she’s all yours, enjoy.’ I hugged her and loved her from the moment
she was placed in my arms. We instantly
became best friends. I named her Sally
Sue. The area my grandparents lived in
was called the ‘bottom of the Sally Gap hill’.
So, the little potato doll became my Sally Sue. I held her and kept her close by day and night. When the visit came to an end and it was time
for me to return home, I took Sally Sue with me. Now anyone who has any experience with a
rotting potato knows just how stenchy, stinky and smelly they can be. I do not remember any unpleasant aroma…but I
do recall her little face getting a little wrinkly and crinkly day by day. I took her back home and found a box and made
her a little bed under my bed. Whenever
I missed those hills and hollers, I would pull Sally Sue, who was now becoming
Stinky Sally Sue, and hold her, and my heart would almost burst with love and
admiration in knowing my Pap-Paw made this little treasure for me. Eventually,
Sally Sue had to go; off came her now very shriveled, stinky little head. I
held on to her stick arms and legs, and humble little clothing until children
as they do, move on and have to put away those ‘childish little
things’. Gone is Stinky Sally Sue, but
like that old home, I have her in the recesses of my memory. Thanks Pap-Paw, who in my book was the
inventor of Mr. Potato Head!
My Pap-Paw
was my hero. He never learned to
drive. He never owned a home. He had
little education. But he was a hero. He
was a soldier in World War I. He provided for his family. e never oweHhHe was a hero not just
because he made me a potato doll. But,
he showed such kindness and thoughtfulness.
He taught me how to listen to birds and distinguish their calls. Our two favorites were the whip-poor-will and
the bob white. Pap-Paw taught me how to
whistle to those birds and to my complete astonishment they whistled back.
It was with
my Pap-Paw that I saw my first deer. On
the ridge in back of their home was the perfect place for a dozen or so deer to
come graze in the cool of the evening.
We would sit, watch and wait and they would come. We would count them and make notes of any new
arrivals. Then we would just sit back
and be content to just watch them graze.
We would sit in silence and just watch in awe as little fawns scampered
back and forth. Then the darkness
covered the ridge, the little farm and the farm house. This was the signal to go inside and get
ready for bed. There was no television
to distract us from the business of visiting and enjoying each other’s
company. Priceless.
While I was
visiting one my chores was to assist Pap-Paw and go to the spring and bringing
back cool, clear water for drinking and cooking. This spring was a little jaunt down over the
hill, across the dirt road, down another steeper hill and then under a huge
clump of trees. Pap-Paw would pull back
a cover of some kind and with a dipper, begin filling his bucket and then
mine. We would take a ‘sit and rest a
while’ spell and just enjoy the coolness and freshness of that place. It felt
20 degrees cooler in this little part of the woods. Then we would begin the trudge back up the
hill, over the dirt road and up yet another steep hill and finally to the
house. I could hear things rustling and
moving about in the underbrush. Pap-Paw
could sense my fear and discomfort of the unknown. He would start whistling and calmly assure me
it was just one of God’s critters hurrying and scurrying about. When we finally got back to the house, one
bucket was placed inside the kitchen on the ’zink’, a German carry-over for the
word sink. To this day, my mother still
calls a sink, ‘zink’.
The dipper
was placed in that bucket and that was where all of us got our drinking
water. The other bucket was placed
outside on a shelf and was used for washing off when needed. I can recall the soap smell when the men folk
would wash up and shave before breakfast.
I am sure other arrangements were made in the dead of winter. But it was a pleasant, clean smell. This water gathering ritual was repeated several
times a day. Not one drop was wasted.
Now back to
the house. No one was at home that day and it is just as well. If I had seen the modern updates, I am sure I
would have been disappointed. It is best
I remember that little humble home of my grandparents just as it was when they
lived there. Some memories are best if kept sweet and pure and not cluttered or
confused with present day realities.
Gone was the
huge, or so it seemed huge at the time, side porch that ran the length of the
house. It had been gobbled up in the overall updating and remodeling. Homes used to have big front porches. This was a staple, this was an extension to
the living area of the house. It was the
entry to the house. It was the house’s
welcoming committee with big wide open arms that said, “come on in and sit a
spell’. But times have changed. In our
hustle and bustle of our current times few homes come designed and equipped with
big porches. We no longer build homes
with big front or side porches, because few people brave the outdoors. Our homes are too comfortable with climate
controlled environments. Few of us actually meet and greet our neighbors. Children rarely play outside for a variety of
reasons; too hot, too cold, questionable neighborhoods, questionable neighbors,
too many video games to play; Redbox, Netflix and Dish and Direct have too many
movies and other activities to keep us occupied. Houses have 6 foot privacy fences jutting up
all around our neighborhoods that keep what little outdoor activities families
participate in hidden.
However, I
still treasure the time spent on that porch.
It was on that front porch that I opened my mind up to the beauty and wonder of the amazing earth we
live on. It was on that porch we spent many afternoons breaking up green beans
or just enjoying a lazy afternoon, sitting, talking, and enjoying each other’s
company. We sat there content in just
allowing the breeze to blow over the big field and watch the tall grasses as
they bowed to the sweetness of that lazy, hazy June afternoon. To me those grasses represented the hardy
pioneer spirit of my grandparents, and their parents and their parents and so
on. The grasses seemed to whisper the brave stories of those pioneer people so
wild and free, strong and brave. They
would be blown over and seem to bow at the force of the wind, but they would
straighten back up and prepare to do it again and again.
Pap Paw had his little ‘chew’ and ever so
often would spit in his can, all the while sitting in an old cane bottom chair. This sitting really wasn’t sitting, but
leaning back in that chair so that it set up against the house with the top
part of the chair leaning back against the house and the front two legs poised
in the air. All the while he would chew,
spit and then take in all the wonders of a golden summer afternoon. Repeat; chew, spit and take in some more wonders
all over again. When his soul had drunk in all the beauty of those Kentucky
fields and hilIs, he would then slip his straw hat down over his eyes and ‘let
his eyes rest’.
I tried many
a time to lean my chair back just so on it two rear legs with the front two legs
resting in mid-air, just so, like Pap Paw.
I usually ended up with my chair sliding down the side of the house and
crashing onto the porch, much to my embarrassment and chagrin. I don’t recall being chided, just maybe a
snicker or two from my pap Paw as if to say , “Girl, this chair thing is not
learned in a day…it is accomplished and
earned through a lifetime of working…it’s my throne…it’s my rest, my
reward after a long weary day”.
There were
several chairs on the porch, an open invitation to family, friends and
neighbors to come and sit and talk. I loved those chairs, straight back, no
nonsense, no frills, good, strong, sturdy, just like my Pap Paw. I loved them so much that when I married the
Preacher and starting buying things for my own house, I decided I wanted some
of those cane bottom chairs. Along the paths, roads, hills and valleys Preacher
and I have travelled; I finally found some of those chairs in an outlet store
in Williamsburg, Virginia. Ironic, don’t
you think? I first fell in love with those chairs in Williamsburg, Kentucky and
found my loves in Williamsburg, Virginia.
Mine were
purchased unfinished, but, soon painted them a country blue. I used them for years and years. Along the way I had to let go of 3 of the 6
cane bottom chairs. Three of those
chairs, one by one, began to show their age and wear and tear from a busy
household of 2 boys and 2 girls and a host of friends and family who sat around
our table, sharing meals, tears, fears and the joys of life. I do still have 3 and will not depart with
them, well, hopefully not until I can no longer keep my own home. They remind me of those summers, when life
seemed simpler, sweeter and oh so serene.
Well, back
to the family and who they are. Pap Paw
was a Brandenburg. I did not have to
think real hard about where his people came from. Brandenburg, Germany; a place that seems so
far away and a time so long ago. How
does someone leave their homeland, Brandenburg, Germany, get on a ship and sail
the ocean blue and end up in Williamsburg, Kentucky? A story indeed and one I
will never know all the ins and outs and day by day triumphs and
struggles. I can imagine and put the
pieces together in a somewhat jumbled puzzle because others wrote or told their
story. It is a story with similar threads woven into the history of these
hardy, hill people who settled in southern Kentucky. Whatever the minute deals
are, really doesn’t matter. They
conquered and completed a dream that drove them step by step to the green,
lush, mountains that would bring land and freedom of which neither were
possible in Germany.
So, why am I
thinking of trees, ships and faraway places.
Because my friend, the world is really a small place! My daughter, Lori, has good friends in
Beaumont with the last name “Brandenburg”.
She asked if I had any information on the Brandenburg family. Of course
I did! I fired off two copies of everything I had on the Brandenburg family. I told her to be sure and let me know if any
new information had been found. The search results I have are now several years
old and I am confident there have been other seekers and searches that have
filled in some of the blank spots. The
world is truly small. In comparing their
side of the Brandenburg tree to my side of tree, it is no surprise that we are
related. It seems two brothers’ branches
intertwined an so eight generations later, cousins meet, make friends and a
bond of ‘this is who we are’ holds us together.
It is
interesting to look back and determine where we came from. It is our history, our heritage, our
legacy. I think our lineage of ancestors
has much more influence on who we are today than we think. So, not only are the color of our eyes, our
skin tones, our height, our build, our body types passed on in our genes; but,
who we are inside, what makes us, is an amazing combination of all of
ancestors. It is that very complex, complicated code of information that makes
us tick, tock, what talents and gifts, tendencies and even certain diseases and
illness we may be prone. This is woven
and wound into our complex gene DNA. God’s
design is amazing. This is one reason I
love the scripture “we are
wonderfully and fearfully made”. No one
like us, thinks like us, behaves quite like us…although we have tendencies like
family members.
My
great-grandmother Ayes, my Grandmother Brandenburg’s mother, was an amazing woman. She was strong, secure in who she was and
solid in her faith. As the story goes, she gave her heart and life to Jesus
when she was a young mother and wife.
She was married to a hard, cruel, demanding man, who did not share her
faith. Quite the opposite. He demanded she not go to church and
worship. He insisted she stay home and
tend the home fires. He bellowed threats
and cursing if she dared to defy him and go to church. She gathered her hat, her scarf, her
treasured Bible, and her purse, always putting on her Sunday best and walked to
her church. Upon arriving at church, she
would sing the sacred hymns, testify to the goodness of her God, bow her head
in reverence during prayer, listen with such a hunger and thirst for God’s word
that it seemed her heart would burst with such good news. She prayed fervently for her man. She prayed that somehow he would have a
tender heart, a heart that would receive the Savior.
But, like
some prayers, this was not to be. He did
not, would not accept this Savior.
Instead, he got meaner. His
treats turned into frustration which resulted in his beating her and even locking
her out of her own home. She took this
abuse like a good soldier of the cross. There
was so cowering or bowing before this evil man and his persecution. She spent many a night curled up on the
doorstep of her own home; praying for
God’s mercy and strength to get her through another trial, another cold, hard
night. I can only image the tears that
were shed. I can only ponder on what
questions bounced around in her head.
Many of us might be tempted to say, “So, this is my reward for taking a
stand for my Lord.”
I was told
that he died while still young. Not sure
just how. But this dear woman lived up
into her 90’s. She was able to spend
many years serving God without the threat of harm and abuse. Her house was now quiet and filled with peace
and love. She had sown good seed and now
she would reap this good harvest. I saw
her one time that I remember. She had
fallen and had a broken hip and was hospitalized. I was visiting my grandparents as a young
wife and mother and went over to Tennessee to visit her along with other family
members. I was young and busy with my
own child and did not take the time nor make the effort to thank her and get to
know her like I would have liked to. She
eventually went to a nursing home and spent several more years there. Sometimes God’s timing and His ways are hard
to fathom and understand. I never saw
her again, this side of Heaven. But
nevertheless, she did make an impact, a great impact on my life.
I was told
that this woman was a praying woman who believed God could and would answer; in
His way, in His time and in His will.
She believed prayer was a ministry and that her prayers could affect
generations far into the future.
I believe
with all my heart that I am saved, and that a door opened up for me to find
Jesus because of her prayers. For some unknown, unexplainable,
mysterious reason a neighbor did not even know that reached out to me in
kindness. This is another sweet story for another sweet day. Through her patience and faithfulness, she
asked me to go to church with her and she faithfully came by and gave me a ride
to church, week after week. That act
changed the course of my life. That too,
is another story.
My great
grandmother’s prayers reached across the years and the miles as she prayed. She
prayed for her children, her children’s children and her children’s
children. This was her legacy that was
passed down generation to generation.
My
grandparents were good people, honest, hardworking folks. But, at the time I visited them they were not
going to church. I can attribute that to
several reasons. One, my grandfather
never, ever did learn to drive a car!
For whatever reason, whatever obstacles, whatever challenges, he never
drove. His preferred mode of transportation
was on foot or hitching a ride. Mind you
this was back in the day when it was OK to hitch a ride. No one feared being abducted, robbed, maimed
or murdered. Everyone was a good neighbor,
had a caring, giving heart. So, if your
neighbor was standing on the road, why, they did not even have to put their
thumb up. There was an unspoken code:
‘can you give me a ride?”. Sooner or later a kind gentle soul would stop and
offer you a ride and off you would go.
So not having a means of getting to the church of their choice might
just pose a problem.
However, in
their later years, they both did attend church regularly. Somehow the transportation was worked
out. As a matter of fact on one occasion
when the Preacher and I we revisiting, we went to church with them. That was an interesting experience, another
story for another day!
So, who am I? I am Dianna Jean Lawson Gabbard. I am the oldest daughter of Arnold Eugene
Lawson and Robalee Brandenburg Lawson. I
was named after my grandmother, Anna Ayers Brandenburg. Although for some unexplained reason, my
mother and family always called me “Diane”.
Does not make much sense, no valid reason or rhyme. So often I have to explain my name: my legal
give name on all my legal paperwork is: Dianna.
So professionally, that is what I am called. However, the Preacher and all the church folk
and family simply call me: Diane. I
guess it is like the old joke, “call me whatever you want, just don’t call me
late for supper’. I guess it’s a
Kentucky thing.
Anyway, the
Jean comes from my father’s middle name Eugene. So, who am I?
I am the daughter of the people who came from
places as far away as Germany, Prussia, Switzerland, Ireland and England. A people who somehow pulled it all together
and got the money and motivation to get on one of the tall ships and sail the
ocean blue. I can only image the
challenges…the triumphs, the disappointments to leave the land of your birth
and the people of your heritage, pack your belongings in a trunk and take off
for a world unknown and unseen. There were no promises that you would ever see
your home land or you family again.
I have to
admire and tip my hat to these brave folks, who came to this new land without
knowing just what they would find; friend or foe, failure or fortune. Most of the people did finally migrate one by
one, to the place of beauty and wonder, at the base of the Appalachian
Mountains, some in Kentucky, some in Tennessee, others in West Virginia. My closest ancestors settled in Whitley
County Kentucky. Land filled with rich
red iron soil. When it rains in that part of the country, the rain mixed with
the mineral rich soil turns red. Those
blood red streams run down the gullies and ruts in mountains and roads. It runs down the creeks and hollers. This blood
red stream reminds me of all those who have given their lives in the quest for
a new land and a new life. So often a sacrifice by someone, somehow and
somewhere has to be made so that others can bask in the freedom. It was necessary for freedom in our country,
freedom so that those held in hostage by oppression and poverty in a foreign
land, those who are crushed and bruised by a governing body, even those who are
persecuted for religious beliefscan sail on those bloody waters and find
freedom. Now that I have just a glimpse of my people’s story, I often wonder.
“where would I be if they had not been bold and adventurous and find this new
land, new hope and new life?” I would
not be. For life is so complex and intricately
designed, that if both sides of my tree had not had hardy souls to come to this
land, had not met like they had, had not had children, well I would not
exist. But I do.
The blood
red soil also is a reminder of a Savior who gave His life for me so I could
have another kind of freedom; freedom from sin, freedom from condemnation,
freedom to know Him as a friend. This is the greatest of freedoms.
This land so
loved by my ancestors, this place Whitley County is a land of lush green
fields, land of hills, valleys and the jutting of AppalachianMountains in the
distant landscape. I have heard that at
one time the profession of choice in this area was logging and coal mining…of
which both slowly eroded the rich earth and eventually the coal mining dried
up, leaving the people in poverty and want.
There is still evidence of the striping, scaring and scraping of the
earth in the pulling down trees and cutting those trees into logs. A necessary
evil, taking away of the trees, so men can work and feed families. Fortunately, many of the trees stripped
leaving huge gaps of barrenness are being reclaimed and replanted. New life will come to the mountains.
My
grandfather lost an eye to the logging industry. Logging is still hard work, back breaking,
dirty, and dangerous. I can only imagine
how difficult and challenging it was 100 years ago. It is work that keeps food
on the table, pays the rent and etches out a meager living for folks.
While others
can search and locate a more detailed accounting of family ancestry, I feel
blessed to be able to have as much information as I do about my parents,
grandparents, great grandparents, and so on.
It helps define who I am and for me to understand who I am. It helps me to appreciate the sacrifice and
bravery of my ‘people’. Oh, there are
some scoundrels on both sides! There was
a child born out of wedlock to the King of Prussia, a brave 77 year old who
fought in the Revolutionary War only to return to his home and be found
murdered. There is accounting of 2 young
boys just minding their business, watching the all ships sail in and out of
England and they were abducted and made to be indentured servants. There is death recorded way too soon,
motherless children, fatherless children taken in by relatives who already had
too many mouths to feed, feet to shod and bodies to clothe. Children passed from house to house,
neglected, abused and set on a pathway of heartache and doom. There are those
bound by drugs, alcohol, nicotine.
Others have participated in abortion, child abuse, spousal abuse. Some
sins are known, other sins went to the grave.
So my people
are a melting pot of English, Scottish, German, Prussian, Irish, and thrown in
with some Native American. My people are
heroes and hellions; some are hardy or hapless; others helpless and
hopeless. They are a hodgepodge,
homogenous folk who endured and endeavored to make Kentucky and Tennessee their
home. They were a sturdy, strong folk
whose bravery and tenacity give me strength as I continue on my journey here in
life. Their stalwart determination and
sense of adventure will continue to spur me on until the day I join them in the
great beyond. This is who I am.
