WHO AM I? Part 2

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.