The Dogwood Tree

Most of you know that I grew up in a lovely little Kentucky town called Pewee Valley.  It did not get its name for its size, although it was indeed small.  Nor did it get its name from its geography, because it is actually located on a ridge and not a valley.  Supposedly the town leaders named it after the Eastern Wood Pewee bird, whose song they heard during one of their meetings.  Our town’s growth began in the mid 1850s when a rail line was completed between Louisville and Frankfort.  A rail stop was positioned at what was then called “Smith’s Station,” and gradually a community developed, particularly attracting Louisville residents who could build either year round or summer homes and use the rail line to commute to downtown Louisville when a daily line was begun.  When I was a kid, Pewee Valley was separated by hill and dale and winding roads from the furthest eastern suburbs of Louisville.  Now it is pretty much connected to those eastern suburbs, and suffers from rush hour traffic on roads that haven’t kept up with the growing population.

Our home in Pewee Valley was a large 2 story white Queen Anne style home that was built in 1890.  Its interior had been altered several times during its 100+ years of existence, but still retained many old features, like the second staircase that my family closed off and used as an unusual stepped closet.  My parents bought this home, moving from their small suburban house in the eastern suburb of St. Matthew’s, about 5 years before I was born.  By then they were already the parents of three boys and one girl and I suppose they were desperate for a bit more room.  The house was a bargain.  In the mid 1950’s new and modern suburban houses were all the rage, and not many young families wanted an old house far from the city and the newly emerging suburban centers.  Dad was in the construction business, which must have given him confidence that he could handle any needed repairs and renovations.  They filled its large rooms with furniture bought at estate auctions and left over from their own dying or moving relatives.

Our yard was almost 3 acres and filled with large trees of many varieties.   But, one of the most beautiful trees was a mature dogwood that filled with pink blossoms each spring.  It was situated on the side of our house and could be seen from any windows on that side, including the kitchen window above the sink, where my mother must have spent a good portion of her time.   The dogwood was broad and rounded in shape, with lower branches that swept down and almost reached the ground.  I have never seen so large and broad a dogwood since.  I praise its beauty now, but to the "child me" it was just another of the many trees in the yard and not one that was particularly good for climbing, which seemed to be my tomboy test of a tree’s true worth.  It’s downward swooping lower branches did make for good cover when hiding or playing some of the various make believe games children play.

Eventually I came to my adulthood and left little Pewee Valley for bigger and better things.  I was ready to delve into the world and like many that age, anxious to venture away from my small town.  I attended college in Carbondale, Illinois, a place that its many Chicago-native students referred to as small, but was certainly bigger than Pewee Valley.  Carbondale was about a four-hour drive from Pewee Valley, so I usually only returned home for holidays.  Even my summers were spent away from home on archaeological excavations.  During my last year of college the pink-blossomed dogwood tree apparently became ill, a fact that I hardly noticed on my brief visits home.  My mother’s health also began to falter at about this same time.   During my senior year of college she quickly progressed from being sickly to severely ill.  At some point during that next year the tree died and had to be cut down.  Although I have combined these stories here, at the time I did not associate the illness of the dogwood tree and that of my mother.  

After many attempts by various doctors to determine the cause of my mother’s illness, she made a trip to the Mayo clinic where she was told that she had an incurable disease called scleraderma.  It was too late for treatments that might have brought her comfort or prolonged her life a bit, and several months later she died.  But, during my Thanksgiving visit home before her January death, she told me about a connection that she had always felt between herself and the pink dogwood tree.  She said that as long as she had lived in that house, which had been about 27 years, she had felt that somehow when that dogwood tree died she would die also.  According to her, she was telling this only to me, claiming that I was the only one who would likely believe her and understand that she had always felt this way.  I’m not sure that I really was the only one to hear her story.   Perhaps she told this to my father and siblings also.  But I do know, that I had never known that she had a particular attachment to that tree.  At the time I did believe her, but over the years my analytical side has had doubts to any “spiritual/cosmic” connection between my mother and the tree.  I’ve wondered if perhaps she used the story, the way parents often use stories with their children, to help them grasp something that is easier learned in the context of a story.

I’ve only lately begun to realize the meaning and importance this story holds for me as a symbolic representation of the peace and acceptance that my mother had for death, even though she was only 55 years old, an age that looks younger and younger to me as I approach it myself.  My mother had great faith in God and seemed to have no fear of her impending death.  She was so comfortable about it that I felt incredibly comfortable and accepting of it too, despite the fact that I was only 22 years old.  There were times—later in my life --- that I felt duped by her---leading me to be so accepting of her death.  I think now, that perhaps she was trying to teach me something that I would only fully understand in bits and pieces later, as I progressed along in my adult life without her guidance.  Maybe her lesson was, that some things are inevitable, especially death, but that faith is a shield against fear of the unknown.  It has taken awhile, but I hope she somehow knows that eventually I did get it, thanks to her.   

Often when I think of my mother, I picture that pink flowered dogwood tree in our Pewee Valley yard, and remember this verse:

To every thing there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven.

A time to be born, and a time to die.  

A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away

-Mary

This is a photo of the dogwood tree in full bloom.

One of the last pictures taken of my mother.  March 1981- My wedding in the living room of the Pewee Valley home.  She died the following January.

Close Calls

Recently  I was in an auto accident.  I’m fine and lucky to have only suffered a bruised wrist and sore hand.  My Kentucky built Toyota Avalon suffered extensively and is being pieced back together like the Bride of Frankenstein.  A young man driving a Chevy Silverado hit me, along my passenger side.  The strange thing about the accident is that it occurred along the one lane stretch of a long freeway exit.  You’re probably wondering how I could get hit on the passenger side of a one-lane road.  I’m still perplexed myself.  Traffic was not slowing down.  I was unaware of the truck until the moment of impact.  Crazy driving is probably the cause.  We’ve all seen those drivers that are flying along, lane jumping, and calling it close.  Have you seen drivers like that and thought, “they’re going to cause an accident somewhere?”  Well, as I found out, they can and do.

I’m still a bit shaken by the experience and can’t help but ponder on the question of how close I, and my 86-year-old father-in-law, came to death or harm that afternoon.  How did I keep the car on the road?  What would have happen if we had been sent into the oncoming traffic of the on ramp loop that was downhill on our left?  It also got me to thinking about other close calls.  We’ve all had them and perhaps this will remind you of some of your own experiences.

When I was a sophomore in high school I was in a serious car accident.  It happen on a Friday night, after the high school football game.  My boyfriend, Roger, drove the car and the passengers in the back seat were my good friend/neighbor John and his girlfriend.  It was about this time of year.  The roads were wet and fall leaves covered the ground and back roads.  We were taking John’s girlfriend home first and she directed Roger along an unfamiliar dark and unlit county road.  He was going too fast and suddenly, from the back seat the girl yelled, “Roger there are 90 degree turns ahead.”  The next thing I remember was the sound of the car skidding and hitting the fence posts that lined the road--- “bam, bam, bam, bam” and then a loud “thunk” as we were eventually stopped by the impact of a telephone pole.  Then, my friend John, from the backseat yelled, “Get out it’s going to blow up.”  I suppose he’d watched too many movies!  Considering that the car was totaled, it was remarkable that none of us were hurt.  After the police arrived and took the report, they dropped John and I off at a gas station so we could call our parents to come get us.  I remember that John called my Dad who came to retrieve us on that cool wet night.

Sometimes our close calls come because we, for some reason or another, adjust our plans, only to find out later that by doing so we avoided disaster.  They are situations like those who decided to take a day off and didn’t go to work at the World Trade Centers on 9/11.  My next close call was of that type and oddly enough it also involved my good friend John who lived on the street behind ours in Pewee Valley.  It was the spring of our senior year (1977) and my parents were planning to get tickets to the Beverly Hills Supper Club for the May 28th show featuring John Davidson, a popular singer at that time.  They invited my friend John and myself, as kind of a graduation treat.  We were excited.  My parents had been to the Beverly Hills Supper Club (in Kentucky near Cincinnati, OH) for other events and thought we would enjoy the experience.  Dinner was included and the show was more of a nightclub type experience rather than the large rock concert type venues, John and I had attended.   We were disappointed when we found out that the event was sold out and we would not be going after all. 

Many of you, who are from Kentucky, will remember that on that day, May 28, 1977 there was a terrible fire at the Beverly Hills Supper Club.  165 people were killed in the fire that night.  The club did not have a sprinkler system, those became standard everywhere later, and there were no audible automatic fire alarms or fire stops.  Much of the construction and decorative materials used in the building were not fireproof and there were too few exits for the size and capacity of the building. The early show of the evening had just begun in one of the two performance rooms.  Many of the 3000 people there that night were finishing their dinners in the variety of dining rooms and bars when the fire broke out a little before 9 PM.  Some remember that there was no sense of panic or rush. The supper club had many rooms and my parents remembered it as being almost maze like.  Many were saved that night because a busboy ran through the building warning about the fire and pointing out exits.  But, it took a while for people to find their way out.   The major cause of death was smoke inhalation.  My friend John’s next-door neighbors, the Fawbushs, were there that night.  They were able to escape the building, but 70-year-old Bill Fawbush went back in to rescue others, resulting in his own death.  It was tragic and we were lucky that fate had prevented us from being there that night.  I’ve heard that many of the safety features we take for granted now are the result of regulations enacted after this terrible tragedy.  So, think of the Beverly Hills victims each time you see a fire sprinkler, lighted exit sign, posted capacity sign, or fire alarm.  Afterward my father always told me that the first thing I should consider when in any building, is how I would get out if there were a fire.

Perhaps these close calls are good for us.  Maybe they help refresh our appreciation of life.  I suppose that for a time at least they challenge us to evaluate our current life and behavior.  Maybe we become a little more grateful for those around us and acknowledge them in a more determined and consciousness manner.  I lost track of my friend John after we graduated.  His family moved to another part of the county and so it wasn’t as easy to connect with him, as it was when we could just cut through back yards to each other’s houses.  I went away to college and only came home for short holidays.  Later, no one seemed to know where he was, as his parents had moved yet again.  A number of years ago I was able to track down his mother in Florida and she informed me that John had died of AIDS in 1993 at the age of 34.  I still regret that I’d put off my efforts to stay in touch until it was too late.

Oddly enough, about 8 months ago, I had a close call on that same stretch of freeway exit where my recent accident occurred.  No accident occurred that time but I remember having a feeling of being spared great harm.  So, I’m thinking that for a while, at least, I don’t need any “wake up” calls by God or fate or anything else.  I’ll appreciate life and those around me even more than I normally do and perhaps make better use of my time and myself.  The Gospel reading in church on Sunday was from Matthew 25 and ended with the words, “Keep awake therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour.”

-Mary

Article about the Beverly Hills Supper Club Fire

The Doctor On Cherry Street

In November of 1786, Henry Wilson Webb was born in the town of Stamford Connecticut.  He was the son of Stamford’s esteemed Dr. Samuel Webb and grandson of Col. Charles Webb, a commander during the American Revolution.  Both his father and grandfather also served in the Connecticut legislature.  The Webb family had been in Stamford since the mid 1600's.

Like many sons, Henry Webb followed in his father’s footsteps.  He graduated from Yale University, as his father had, and became a physician.  Henry’s brothers chose quite different paths.  Charles Webb, the oldest went to sea and seems to have died in China.   John Webb, just a couple years older than Henry also went to sea, becoming a captain, but later dying of yellow fever in New Orleans.  A younger brother, William, died at the age of 22, in Lima, Peru.  We don’t know why he was in Peru but perhaps he too had escaped to the sea.  A much younger half brother, James was involved in the whaling trade out of Nantucket and he was lost at sea.  I find it interesting that all the Webb brothers except Henry took off from home and seem to have sought adventure over academics.  Was their father overbearing?  Were the expectations too high so the response was either to step in line, like Henry,  or flee?  Their father, Dr. Samuel Webb, indeed seems to have been hardworking.  Apparently, entries in his day book indicate that for the 14 years previous to his death in 1826, not a day passed in which he did not make professional visits.  Perhaps that was typical for a town physician in those days.  Maybe Samuel’s sons, decided early on that prestige or not, this was not the life they envisioned for themselves. 

Henry W. Webb, also had several sisters and half sisters.  At least 3 sisters never married, two half sisters moved to Nova Scotia, and one apparently to Sacramento, California.  Were things that dismal in Stamford?

Henry Wilson Webb took off in his own way I suppose.   Instead of joining his father’s medical practice in Stamford, he headed to New York City after his studies.   I don’t know much about his work there except that he was associated with the practice of the distinguished surgeon Dr. Valentine Mott.  Dr. Mott was a professor of surgery at Columbia University and is known for his success in performing difficult original operations.  

In 1815 Henry, at age 29,  had married Elizabeth Mulligan Smith in New York City.  Elizabeth, 22 at the time of the marriage, was a native of New York, but we know nothing of her parents and family background.  Henry and Elizabeth’s only child was a daughter, Mary Van Lindern Webb.   Perhaps those middle names of “Van Linderan” and “Mulligan” are clues to the background of Elizabeth Smith Webb.  Dr. Henry Webb and his family took up residence on Cherry Street, between the present day Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges, and about two blocks from the East River. 

In 1824 President James Monroe and the U.S. Congress invited the Marquis de Lafayette, Revolutionary War hero, to visit the United States.  Lafayette arrived in New York City on August 24 of that year and was welcomed with a grand reception and parade.  Dr. Henry W. Webb was on the committee that officially received him.  General Lafayette took Henry’s 6-year-old daughter, Mary into his arms and blessed her.  It must have been quite an honor and a tremendous occasion for the Webb family.    

Like his brothers,  life for Henry Wilson Webb was not a long affair.  He died in 1826, at the age of 39, leaving behind his 32-year-old wife Elizabeth and their 7-year-old daughter.  Perhaps if he had lived longer he would have had time to develop his career and like his friend, Dr. Mott, garner an entry into Wikipedia.   Elizabeth never remarried but lived to be 71, spending the majority of her years with their daughter Mary. 

Mary Van Lindern Webb married Robert O. Hite when she was a few days short of her 20th birthday.  It is a mystery to me how Mary Webb met Robert Hite.  He was the same age as Mary but was born in Jefferson County, Kentucky.  How did the daughter of a prominent New York doctor meet and marry the son of a Kentucky farmer?  A few weeks before the couple’s first anniversary Robert Hite died.  Mary gave birth to their child, Eleanor Hite, several months after Robert's death.  When Eleanor Hite was 4 years old, Mary Webb Hite married secondly, George Modeman, a French born jeweler.  They lived in Kentucky for a time but then later moved back to Brooklyn, New York with their three children and Mary’s mother, Elizabeth Smith Webb.  Mary’s daughter, Eleanor Hite, stayed on in Kentucky, and lived with her grandfather Jacob Hite until she married William Geiger in 1861.

As this story illustrates, families can have unpredictable and interesting trajectories.  Life then, as today, has a certain degree of uncertainty.  Winston Churchill said, “Without a measureless and perpetual uncertainty, the drama of human life would be destroyed.”  It seems that movement and opportunity have always defined the American experience.  Where has your path taken you and what surprises have you encountered on your journey thus far?  

I can’t help but ponder now….. if only the family had hung on to that property on Cherry Street at the tip of Manhattan.  Remember--- buy and hold…. buy and hold.

Dr. Henry Wilson WEBB was my GGGG Grandfather and here is how it all plays out:

Col. Charles WEBB (1724-1800)----Dr. Samuel WEBB (1760-1826)----Dr. Henry Wilson WEBB (1786-1825)----Mary Van Linderan WEBB (1818-1890)----Eleanor E. WEBB (1839-1910)----Goslee F. GEIGER (1877-1959)----Thomas M. GEIGER (1905-1940)----Elizabeth GEIGER (1926-1982)---- me

-Mary

Discovering The Youth Of My Grandmother

My grandmother, Avery Ethel Merriman, was born in Louisville, Kentucky, on July 22, 1901.  She was the first of two daughters born to Clarence and Maude Merriman.  Her sister Lillian was two years younger.  Avery grew up in a moderately well to do family.  Her father, the son of small town merchants in Wisconsin, did well with various business ventures in Louisville.  At one time he owned one of the first cafeterias in Louisville, the Phoenix Cafeteria.  He also owned a furniture company and small loan company in town.

When Avery was 17 she began to keep a scrapbook and from this scrapbook that covers about a year and a half of her life I’ve begun to form a clearer picture of her life at that time.  The scrapbook chronicles a young life filled with romantic attachments, social engagements, and youthful shenanigans.  I once heard someone in the family say that Avery and her younger sister, Lillian were beautiful young women and quite the “Belles of Louisville.”  I will explain later, that for my grandmother Avery at least, this description offered quite a contrast to the person I knew as my grandmother.

Included in Avery’s scrapbook are the artifacts of her life of 1919-1920.  At this time she had just graduated from high school and in the Fall of 1919 was sent to White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia, to attend the Lewisburg Seminary.  As far as I can determine, she only attended the Lewisburg Seminary for one year, and while there she seems to have thoroughly enjoyed herself.  She went to many dances and social events.  Dance cards were used to list partners for the set dances for the evening, like the fox trot, the waltz, and the one step.  Even if you came with a date the social etiquette of the times demanded that you danced with others throughout the evening.  Avery went to all the football games for the local military school at Lewisburg.  There are descriptions of she and her pals playing pranks on the teachers and of late night feasts heated on a hot plate in the dorm.  At the Greenbrier Knights Templar Banquet she dined on Apricot ice, cream biscuits, Virginia ham, French peas, and other delicious foods.

The scrapbook is also filled with many cards and notes that give evidence of a steady stream of flowers and candy that Avery received from Charlie, Pete, Bill Baker, Edgar Dickson, Robert Schaefer and William Renn, Jr.  Some of them were boys she’d met in West Virginia; others she knew from back home in Kentucky.  Robert Schaefer, was one of the Kentucky boyfriends, and there are several Macauley’s Theatre programs from her dates with him, when she was back in Louisville for the holidays.  William Renn was also a Louisville boyfriend.  Both continued to send her treats, flowers and cards even while she was in West Virginia.  One little note from Avery’s girlfriend warns that she better not let Bob and Bill find out about each other.  I don’t have any photos of Avery at this age but I’m guessing that she must have been quite beautiful.  She obviously had many boys after her heart!

There are some items in the scrapbook that come from New York.  They seem to represent more than one trip she took there with her father.  They went to see “Lightnin” at the Gaiety Theatre, a play staring Jason Robards, the father of the Hollywood actor that is familiar to many of us.  They also saw The Copperhead, a silent movie staring Lionel Barrymore, at the Rivoli Revue.  In those days a movie show ticket also included many other acts as well.  Listed on that program were the following: Overture, including the Rialto –Rivoli Chorus, Rivoli Pictoral (news reels, and a Mutt and Jeff cartoon), a reading of the Gettysburg Address, the feature movie (The Copperhead), a Harold Lloyd Comedy, and finishing off with an organ solo.  Other programs in the scrapbook were from the Selwyn Theatre and the Harris Theatre, both in New York, and the Mary Anderson Theater in Louisville.

I’m not sure what Avery did after her year at the Lewisburg Seminary.  I suspect that she returned to Louisville and began to work for her father in his business ventures.  My dad once told me that she was a very good businesswoman so I’m guessing she learned this at the side of her father.  Another year later, in 1922, when she was 21, Avery’s father sent her on a grand trip to Europe.  Back then it was considered good training to send a young person on such a “grand tour” as a part of their education or perhaps it was a measure of one’s success if you were able to send your daughter or son on such an expensive trip.  She doesn’t seem to have been accompanied by any friends or family but I’m sure that she must have been part of some well supervised and chaperoned arranged tour.  According to her passport application she was to visit Italy, Switzerland, Germany, Belgium, Holland and the British Isles.  Her ship left and returned from Montreal Canada.  She shipped out on June 30, 1922 and returned back to the Montreal port on September 10, 1922.  So, the trip lasted at least two and a half months.

Now is the part where I tell you what I remember of my grandmother, whom we called “Gamma.”  For as long as I remembered her she was in a wheelchair.  I’m guessing that she was in that wheelchair at least by the age of 62.  She and her husband, my grandfather Jack Riley, lived in various nursing homes the entire time that I remember them.  They were not happy, and not the type of grandparents that a young child such as myself wanted to approach.  They seemed always bitter, sarcastic and sad.  We often went to visit them at the nursing home on Sundays, and as a small child I was terrified of the whole place.  I learned very little about my grandmother during my visits with her.  My grandfather died when I was about 11 and Avery died when I was almost 15.  My pathetic childish description of her would be that she was a sad and ugly person, a large nose with big pores, and stuck in a wheelchair.  She had a kitschy sense of style and crocheted afghans of bright and garish colors.  As I look back now I realize that I had no real sense of who she was and she seemed to have no real interest in finding out whom I was either.

But, now I am sad as I look through her teenage scrapbook.  I wonder what happened to the beautiful, lighthearted, worldly and vivacious person that was my grandmother.  How did she transition from that wonderful start into a sad and crippled life?  I only have a few clues.  The summer after her trip to Europe she married Jack Riley.  He was about 6 years older than she and an Army Veteran.  Jack was a sales rep for a furniture company and would come in to Avery’s father’s furniture store in Louisville.  She’d had many beaus, so something about Jack must have been very appealing.  I’ve heard that he had a great sense of humor and loved to have a good time.  But, regardless of the reasons they married and about a year later had my father, their only child.  Avery and Jack worked together in the restaurant business and later Jack was a salesman for one of the Kentucky distilleries.  I’ve mentioned before that while they lived in New York City his job was to go from bar to bar and try to convince the owners to stock his companies’ bourbon as the house brand.  A job that was referred to as a "missionary."  This is an occupation that apparently led to his becoming an alcoholic.

Once, when I was young, I asked my mother, why “Gamma” was in a wheelchair and she answered me curtly and bitterly, “Because she got drunk and fell down the basement stairs.”  I didn’t ask again or prod for details.  Much later, when I was a teenager, my mother seemed alarmed after reading something in our local county paper.  She must have said something that alerted my attention like “oh my god.”  I asked what she had seen and she referred to a section that paper which always ran little one paragraph news briefs from “25 years ago today’, “50 years ago today”, and so on.  It must have been in the “25 years ago” section that my grandfather was briefly mentioned.  Mom told me that he (Jack Sr.) had at that time been somewhere in Oldham County with a woman (not Avery, his wife) and that their car had been stuck in the snow, the woman got out to push but was accidentally run over and killed by my grandfather gunning it at the wheel.  The way my mother told the story I could tell that it must have been a scandalous affair for the family and that to see it referred to in the present was a bitter blast from the past.  Again, I didn’t ask for details and she offered no more about the incident.

So, my best guess as to what happened to Avery is that she and Jack, descended into a life of unhappiness and perhaps despair.  Maybe their marriage was bitter and alcohol is certain to have played a role.  My father never talked about them in any critical way, as is typical of children in such situations.  I know Dad spent a lot of time with his grandparents, who maybe were rescuing their grandchild from a volatile home life.  It was only on rare occasions that I saw my father take a drink of anything alcoholic, even though my mother religiously had her bourbon and water at 5 pm each evening.  Dad was a dutiful son who put up with the difficulties of his parents, most of which I have only a vague notion or knowledge of.  I do know that they were so difficult to please that he was forced to move them from nursing home to nursing home over the years and my father would joke that they had been in every nursing home in Louisville.

Avery died in 1974 at the age of 72.  I thought her old at the time but of course I now realize how young she really was.  Riding to the Cave Hill Cemetery, in the Pearson’s Funeral Home limo, after her funeral, was the first time I had every seen my father with tears in his eyes.  I wonder if Avery would have had better life with Bill, Bob, Edgar, Pete, Charlie, or one of her other many suitors?  But, then again I wouldn't be here today if she hadn't chosen Jack.  

-Mary

This is Avery's passport photo from 1922.

This photo of Avery was taken at her 70th birthday party.  It is how I remember her.

Fast Horses, Guns, and Bourbon

A friend of mine jokes that I have the ability to find all the bootleggers and horse traders in your ancestry.  Well, I’m not sure about that, but you have to admit that they might be some of the more interesting characters that sit on the branches of our family trees.  

I do have some horse traders and perhaps you might think of them as the used car salesmen of another era.  But, I’ll start today with a gunsmith, an essential occupation on the frontier.  

The “Kentucky Rifle”, was actually developed and initially made by German gunsmiths in Pennsylvania.  They are the ones who modified the old German “jager” rifle to make it lighter and more usable on the American frontier.  These were the weapons of the Kentucky long hunters like Daniel Boone, who ventured into the Kentucky wilderness on long treks to hunt and bring back fur and skins.  The gunsmith was also skilled as a woodworker and silversmith, creating beautifully carved stocks with silver inlays.  By 1785 European made barrels and mass-produced locks could be imported, but the gunsmith was still needed to rifle the barrel, carve the stock, and fit the lock.  Of course repairs were also a source of income.

In 1784 my 5 G grandfather, Lynn West came to Georgetown Kentucky from Virginia with his uncle Edward West.  He was only about 9 years old at the time and probably an orphan.  Edward West opened a gunsmith business, in Georgetown, just after the town had become incorporated by the Virginia legislature.  At this time Kentucky was still part of Virginia.  Georgetown is located in the bluegrass region of Kentucky, not far from Lexington.

Lynn West learned the trade of a gunsmith as he worked the shop with his uncle.  At the age of 22 he went back to Virginia for a time, marrying while he was there.  He and his wife, Susan Jackson, returned to Georgetown and he resumed his work in the gunsmith shop.  They expanded the business to include the manufacture of other implements such as pewter plates and basins.  Lynn also became a breeder of thoroughbred horses and had a racetrack just north of the town.  In 1836 Lynn died and the gunsmith business seems to have been taken over by his eldest son Lewis, who did well and employed several hands that barely kept up with the demand.

I am a descendant of Lynn’s second son, Preston, who followed his father’s interest in horse breeding.  What I know about Preston West comes mostly from tracking him in the census pages, but I like to imagine that he might have been a high-energy colorful personality, even though I have no basis for that assessment.  He was married three times, with the first two wives being sisters and he had at least nine children.  Tracking him through the records of history has been difficult.  His first wife, Elizabeth Crawford died in 1835, at the age of 26, leaving behind a son and two daughters.  About a year after Elizabeth’s death Preston married her sister Elvira, but little seems to be known about her except that she appears to have had at least two sons, one of which became a physician and served as a surgeon in the Confederate Army.  I don’t know when Elvira died but by the 1850 census Preston is married to Elizabeth, a native of South Carolina.  She is about 20 years younger than Preston, and they had several children.  At this time (1850) they are living in Charleston, South Carolina, and Preston is listed as a horse dealer.  He must have been fairly successful because he lists his estate value at $5000, which is about $137, 000 in today’s dollars.  A slave owner, he is recorded as having two slaves in 1850, a black 30 year old male and a 36 year old mulatto female.  

My next view of Preston West is in 1860.  He is listed in the Charleston directory as the owner of a livery stable at 56 Queen street, in the heart of downtown old Charleston.  His house is nearby at 97 Queen Street.  The 1860 census lists him (now age 55) with his wife and 4 children.  He’d prospered since 1850 and now listed his real estate holdings at $5000 and his personal estate at $7000, a total value today of over $300,000.  According to the 1860 slave census he owned 11 slaves.  My image of him begins to tarnish at this point.  Did he trade not only horses, but also slaves?  Charleston was a major point of entry for slaves and there was a large slave market there.  In 1860 there were 950 whites, 255 slaves, and 77 “free persons of color” living just on Queen Street.  My current opinion is that I don’t think he was in the business of trading slaves.  I found just a few transactions of Preston’s in which the sale of slaves was involved.  All of those transactions were the sale of slaves owned by deceased persons for whom he was the estate’s executor.  My guess is that the slaves he owned were for labor in his own business and home.  Was that better than being a large slave trader?  I suppose so, but he was a part of this cruel system that viewed humans as something that could be owned.

In April of 1861 Confederate troops fired on Ft. Sumter, marking the start of the Civil War.  And August 22, 1863, was the beginning of a long bombardment of downtown Charleston by Federal troops.  Pictures show a city practically decimated.    Did they stick it out or perhaps return to Kentucky?  What happened to their home and livery stable on Queen Street?   I have very few clues and the trail runs cold.  I haven’t found Preston or his wife Elizabeth in any censuses after 1860.  Their sons Edwin and Emmitt are in the 1870 census (19 and 20 years old) living in Charleston, S.C. and seem to own and run a hat store.  There is a transaction for Preston in Charleston, dated in October of 1869, but it is just a bill of sale for a mule. 

According to The West family register: important lines traced 1326-1928, by Letta Brock Stone (1928), Preston West died in 1894 in Kentucky.  There is a Preston West listed in the Cave Hill Cemetery database (Louisville) with a burial date of November 1, 1894, but whether or not this is my Preston West, I cannot determine.  Perhaps someone there in Louisville will help me by checking out his grave for more information.  The 1887 Louisville directory lists two Preston West’s, one a farmer at 1020 8th street, and the other a laborer at 628 East Street.  In 1890 the Louisville directory has one listing for a Preston West, located at 1223 W. Broadway.  These directory listings are poor evidence because I know that others named Preston West were in the area at that time. 

Mysteries like this keep us going back to our family trees and I’m sure that some day I’ll make it to Charleston and discover some additional piece of the puzzle of Preston West, the horse trader, and his family. 

By the way--- I have yet to find a bourbon maker or a moonshiner in my family tree.

-Mary

Update 10/2010:  I found this short death notice in the Weekly Courier-Journal (Louisville, KY) dated Dec. 24, 1888:

WEST- On Sunday morning at 8 o’clock, Mrs. Elizabeth M. West, wife of Preston West, Sr., in the 67th year of her age.

My Connection:

Lynn West—Preston West--- Mary Elizabeth West---Gustavus Hardin---Nanine Hardin---Emma Fairleigh—Elizabeth Fairleigh--me

SEE UPDATES TO THIS STORY IN COMMENTS BELOW.  MORE INFORMATION CONTINUES TO BE UNCOVERED.

Less Than 6 Degrees Of Separation: A Circle Of Connections

2004 - June---I posted a message on the Mercer county Kentucky online genealogical bulletin board.  My message stated that Hannah Burton and Thomas Mitchell were my GG grandparents and that I was seeking to share information with other researchers of this family line. 

For three years I got no response.

2007- May---I received an email from Sally, someone just starting to research her family history.  Sally had just found my bulletin board entry from 2004.  She told me that she was also a descendant of Hannah Burton and Thomas Mitchell and wanted to share information.   It turned out that Sally and I were 3rd cousins.

---Over the next few months Sally and I shared lots of information and stories about our Mitchell and Julian ancestors.  I remembered some information I’d received several years previous from a man named Bill who had done a lot of research on the Julian family.  The Julians were related to the Mitchells.   Bill, we determine, is our 4th cousin once removed.  Sally and I start corresponding with Bill by email and the three of us enjoyed putting our heads together to piece together the story of our family. 

--- Just to add a famous connection at this juncture, Bill’s high school and college buddy was John Depp, the father of actor Johnny Depp.

2007 - June---From some of the information I got from Sally I found out that Sally’s 1st cousin Anne was also my 3rd cousin, but Sally and Anne had been out of touch for many years and she didn’t know how to contact Anne.  I learned that Anne had a daughter named Heron so I searched the Internet for her name.   I was lucky because Heron is an unusual first name and I knew her last name.  She is a Fayette County, KY schoolteacher so Google easily found her name and school email address.  I emailed Heron and explained who I was and asked if she or her mother would like to share information about the Mitchell Family.

---Heron showed my email with her mother Anne, who then passed the email along to her friend Fanny.

--- Fanny emailed me that she was close friend of Anne.  Like me, Fanny loves to do genealogy for other people and had been working on Anne’s family history.  Fanny was delighted to get the family information that Sally, Bill, and I had concerning her friend Anne’s ancestry.

2007 - July--- I started writing weekly blogs and posting them on a web site.  The blogs chronicle my adventures in doing genealogy.  They also tell the stories of my ancestors.

2007 - August---Fanny asked to be put on my blog update list and became one of my regular blog readers.

2008 - March---Fanny read the blog about the death of my father.  In that blog I mentioned a dear friend of my parents, Betty Stoess.

2008 - August ---Fanny has a good friend named Marty.  They belong to a book group and the group’s most recent read was Confederates in the Attic , by Tony Horwitz.  Fanny and Marty took a reconnaissance trip to check out the Confederate Cemetery in Pewee Valley, Kentucky, thinking that it might be a good place to take the rest of the book club for a “field trip” meeting.  For those of you who don’t know, I grew up in Pewee Valley and my parents are buried in that cemetery.  On their outing, Marty just happened to mention to Fanny that “Betty Stoess’ daughter in law” was helping her with some home decorating.  Fanny doesn’t even know Betty Stoess but she remembered her name from my March blog and wondered if this was the same person that Marty was talking about.  So, Fanny told Marty about my blog and suggested that Marty take a look at it.

---Marty later read through several of my blogs and realized that I was the teenager who lived across the street from she and her family, when she was Marty Dampier and I was Mary Riley.  That was back in the 1970’s.   At that time Marty was a young mother with two children and married to the famous UK and KY Colonels basketball player, Louie Dampier.   Our families knew each other well back in those days, but since that time both of our lives took us far away from Pewee Valley and Kentucky.  Our last names are different now.   Marty has returned to Kentucky but I’m still here in California.  Would we even recognize each after over 25 years?  We may never get the chance to test that out.  But, somehow after all that time and distance our lives have again crossed.

Of all the persons mentioned in this elaborate chain of connections, the only ones who I have ever met face to face are Marty, Betty Stoess, and Louie Dampier.  I have never met in person Sally, Bill, Heron, Anne, Fanny, or even Johnny Depp.

I am convinced that the Internet is shrinking our world, and maybe that’s good.

If you have a story of odd connections to share, send it to me and I’ll post it on my blog.

-Mary

The Last Sermon

This week I’ve been working on the family history of a friend and neighbor.  As always, the thing that I find the most fascinating about doing genealogy is the discovery of interesting stories of those whose lives history has forgotten.   We learn history from books in school but those accounts touch on the basics, the outline of facts for a time period.  If we delve into personal stories, it is the stories of the famous, the important, the powerful.  But, each one of us has ancestors whose stories are equally compelling.

This story is about my friend’s 6th great grandfather, Rev. Hugh Conn.  Unless you are a student of the history of the Presbyterian Church in America, you will likely never have run across his name.  He was one of the earliest Presbyterian ministers in the colonies, being initially called to a congregation in Baltimore in 1715.  He was born in Ireland but was of Scotch heritage.  Well educated, he earned a Master of Arts degree from the University of Glasgow.   After earning this degree he stayed on at the university to study philosophy and theology.  

This is the story of Rev. Conn’s last sermon.  On the 28th of June 1752, he was preaching at the funeral of a person who had died suddenly. The subject of his sermon was the certainty of death, the uncertainty of the time when it might happen and the absolute necessity of being continually prepared for its arrival.  He spoke of the danger of delay in this preparation and the risk of trusting deathbed repentance.   “Although we may possibly live some years, yet we may be called away in a month or a week, or, for aught that we can tell, death might surprise us the next moment.”   This part of his sermon was apparently delivered with some elevation of voice, but just as he had uttered the word "moment," he put one hand to his head and one to his side.  He then fell backward and lay dead.  He was about 67 years old at the time of his death.  

This event is one that I’m sure had quite an impact on those present.  And although it is probably not a story we have heard it was surely one passed from community to community back in those colonial days. Rev. Samuel Davies, called one of the great public orators of his time, referred to the story of Conn’s last sermon in several of his own famous sermons.  Davies, a young preacher himself at the time of Conn’s death, was obviously struck and inspired by the story.  Rev. Davies, later became the President of Princeton University and his own sermons were published and became some of the most widely read volumes in the English language in the late 1700’s.

We often have no idea how our lives have impacted the lives of others.  If only we had a guardian angel like Clarence Odbody to show us the importance of all we’ve done.  And as for Rev. Conn, well maybe the story of his last sermon will inspire one of my readers today, over 250 years after his death.

-Mary

What’s My Name?

This article is written by my husband/guest blogger-

Do you ever think about the meaning of your name?  Could your name affect the way you think of yourself or others think of you?  Corporations spend millions thinking up product names using only syllables with positive associations, like “Lexus,” “Acura,” and “Escalade.”  Navajos have three names: a formal name, a secret name, and a public nickname based on their weakness or flaw, such as “Farts,” for a flatulent person. Just to keep everybody humble.  Mary and I spent one summer on the Navajo reservation at Black Mesa, Arizona, doing archaeology.  The Navajo women and children excavated and screened the dirt and the archaeologists took notes.  My nickname was “Bug,” as in “Hey, Bug” with explosive emphasis on the “b” and “g” sounds.  I guess it sounds like Doug – but you should also know that I am below average in height (and many other things).  Thank you, Navajos for reminding me of my insignificance.    

Although family names are a historical accident, first and middle names represent something entirely different; often, the hopes and dreams and even the fantasies, of our parents.  Names do have powerful meanings, in history and even in their sound.  And we’re stuck with them, just like we’re stuck with all of our other talents and gifts.  So—what’s my name?

My first and middle names (Douglas and Malcolm) are Scottish in origin.  I can’t think why, as we’re only a little bit Scottish (a McCloud or two, but not much else). In Scots, Douglas is pronounced “Doobgloss” meaning dark or black (dubh) water (glas).  “Glas” can also mean gray (hence, the black and gray Douglas tartan) or shining, as in “black shining.”  The Douglas’ were such a powerful Scots family that the Royal Stuarts murdered a bunch of them.  Despite this, they continued to play a central role in Scots history.

The dreaded middle name of my youth, Malcolm, is religious.  In Scots, it is pronounced “Mile khai-loomb,” meaning disciple, devotee, or follower of St. Columba. Columba (or Khailoomb Kheel, Dove of the Church [Columba is “dove” in Latin]) came from Ireland in 563, established a monastery on the tiny island of Iona, and spread Christianity to most of Scotland.  

On a recent trip to Scotland, Mary and I boarded a ferry; traveled overland along single-lane roads in a giant, wobbling bus; then sailed on a smaller ferry across a black shining water from the Ross of Mull to St. Columba’s island.  The 12th Century stone Abbey built to replace Columba’s wooden one has been restored and is in active use.  There is a cemetery near the abbey with the graves of 48 Scots, 8 Norwegian, and 4 Irish kings, including King Malcolm I (Malcolm the Dangerous Red), who had a son named Dubh, and other King Malcolms.  

I don’t know how having a name like Douglas Malcolm could influence me in any way, because Clan Douglas and St. Columba were not in my cultural lexicon before my recent trip, or that of my parents.  If I had a name like “John” or “Joseph” we’d all have known where that came from.  So how did they come up with my name?  My social science training may help here.  I checked the “Baby Names World” web site and found that the name Douglas ranked #75 in popularity between 1940 and 1950.  The name peaked in 1940-1960, then declined from there.  (Malcolm never broke 200).  

A quick check on the Internet movie database shows that the acting career and popularity of Douglas Fairbanks Junior follows a suspiciously similar pattern to the popularity of the name Douglas.  One wonders… and Douglas Fairbanks Senior was a swashbuckling American silent movie star and Junior was an actor, producer, businessman, and war hero who was knighted by Queen Elizabeth II in 1949.  

But there’s another theory—I was going through boxes of my Father’s things recently and came across a metal plaque for the Douglas Aircraft Company.  Like many good farm boys, my Dad was an airplane mechanic during World War II and trained at the Douglas factory in Santa Monica. Maybe the name stuck in his mind. My parents say they just liked the name.

But if the names Douglas and Malcolm have no meaning to this American boy, how do they sound? Well, when you pull it apart, Douglas sounds “duh” + “ug” + “less,” not very positive phonemes.  Malcolm?  The root “mal” means bad and there is little else to say.  So there you have it—“Stupid-ugly or unappetizing-diminished Bad Davy.”   

What were my parents thinking? Were they being Navajos—enforcing humility and protecting their son from egotism (not a bad goal)?  Whatever weaknesses or failings my parents had, they loved, supported, and doted on their children.  The only thing they knew about me when I was born, was that I was a male and blond and had a big head. They would not consciously have erred in something so vital as naming.  So, they must just have gotten romantic notions when naming me, as many parents do.  Had they recently read Sir Walter Scott or seen “Brigadoon?” Probably not.

It must have been something else, and now I think I know.  Each of my three names has two syllables, and each of these has an emphasis on the first syllable (Douglas, Malcolm, Davy/Dá-duh, dá-duh, dá-duh).  It’s got rhythm!  Come to think of it, Douglas Fairbanks Junior has exactly the same rhythm. And so does Douglas Aircraft.  And so does almost every other name in my family.

OK – If I have the choice and can be “Stupid-ugly-diminished-bad” Davy and “Shines a light in the darkness-student of peace” Davy, I know which road to take.

What’s your name?

-Doug --June 9, 2008 (St. Columba’s Day)

Have an interesting story about your name?  Send it to me and I'll publish it on my blog.  - Mary

Follow Me, They Say

This past week our daughter has been traveling across the country, moving from Philadelphia back to California.  She and her boyfriend will be attending graduate schools in the San Francisco Bay area.  But their cross country drive has brought back memories for me, of 26 years ago when Doug and I made our cross country drive.  That summer we packed our belongings into a rental truck, towing a little Datsun 210 behind, and took off from Kentucky to California.  At the time the Midwest job market was tight, especially for the type of academic/research jobs we were seeking.  Doug’s brother, who lived in the San Francisco Bay area, kept telling us of all the growth, work, and opportunities in California.  By the end of that summer of 1982 we decided to take the plunge and headed to California with the hopes of getting jobs once we arrived and the promise of a spare bedroom in my brother in law's home.  It was a leap of faith.

I didn’t know at the time, that this was the story of many of my ancestors.  One family member would often venture away from home and then implore others to follow them to a “better place.”  Of course in our case Doug was just returning to his homeland but for me it was a big move.  I felt like a pioneer headed west to the California “gold.”  And, after the death of both my parents earlier that year, I think I was ready to make a big change.  It was a big move for Doug also, since he’d been away from California for about 10 years.

I have a copy of an old letter written by my ancestor Alexander Mayo.  The letter is dated November 8, 1833 and was written to his brother Henry Mayo.  At the time of the writing, Alexander was 20 years old and his brother was 23.   Alexander lived in Tewksbury, Mass., and his older brother Henry was living in Troy, Ohio.  Apparently Henry had written to Alexander several times, imploring him to move to Ohio.  This letter is mostly a response to that plea, and is filled with various excuses and reasons for not yet deciding to make the move.  Alexander wanted to make sure there was no cholera outbreak in Ohio.  He only wanted to come if Henry came back for a visit and then took him back to Ohio himself.  And then, Alexander fears, that if Henry does come back to Massachusetts, perhaps he will find he doesn’t like Alexander and won’t want to take him back to Ohio.  Also, an uncle has told Alexander that the climate of Ohio will not agree with him and will prove fatal to his health.   And…. If his health deteriorates in Ohio he fears he has little means to support himself and will then become a burden to Henry.  Ahhh…. So many worries!  Henry must have been amused by this letter from his fretting younger brother.  What is the story of these two?  Over the years I’ve tried to fill in the picture of their relationship and their history.

The story begins with their father, Seth Mayo, an innkeeper, of Boston and Medford, Massachusetts.  In 1810, at the age of 24, Seth married Betsy Brown who at that time was a young widow with no children.  Betsy is described as being a “great beauty with remarkable hair.”  Their first son, Henry was born the following year.  Alexander, my ancestor, was the second son, born in 1813.  What a joy it must have been on Christmas Day the follow year (1814) when Seth and Betsy became the parents of a third son, Edward.  But joy turned to tragedy the following October when Betsy and baby Edward both died within three days of each other.  The cause of Betsy’s death was given as consumption, an old name for tuberculosis.  I assume that baby Edward suffered from the same disease.  Henry was about 4 years old when his mother died and Alexander was only 2.  Perhaps as time passed they barely even remembered their mother.  But, seven months later they were blessed with a new mother when their father, Seth, married Charity Titterton in May of 1816.  By June of the following year Henry and Edward had a baby sister, Lucy.  However, life is often unkind and cruel.  In the autumn of 1818 Charity died leaving Seth with the young Lucy, just over a year old and the two boys now 7 and 5.  In those days it was rare that a father could care for such young children on his own.  I know that Henry and perhaps Lucy were sent to live with their Uncle Henry Mayo in Vermont.  The boys had several uncles in Vermont, brothers of Seth who had migrated there in the late 1790’s.   Young Henry lived with his Uncle Henry in Burlington, Vermont helping with his uncle’s mercantile business.  Then, at the age of 15, Henry was sent to live with another of Seth’s brothers, Uncle Asa, a merchant in Troy, Ohio.  

I don’t know if Alexander was also initially sent to Uncle Henry in Vermont, but his letter gives clues to a close relationship with his Aunt Blanchard, his mother’s older sister.  So it is very possible that she was entrusted with his care since the letter also refers to Henry’s time in Vermont, as if Alexander were elsewhere.  Alexander's aunt Sarah Brown Blanchard and her family lived in Billerica, Massachusetts.  

You might wonder what happened to their father Seth, and that is another sad story.  Overwhelmed with grief after the deaths, Seth sold everything he had and headed for Newport, Kentucky, where his uncle Daniel Mayo had settled and was serving as Newport’s postmaster.   Again tragedy knows no bounds.  In 1822 Seth drowned at Newport, Kentucky at the age of 36.  Apparently a man had fallen overboard in the fast moving flood waters of the Ohio River, and Seth attempted a rescue, only to perish himself, leaving his children Henry (age 13), Alexander (age 11) and Lucy (age 8) complete orphans.

I think that an interesting part of this story is that despite the distances and tragedies of these three siblings, they seemed to have remained close and loyal to each other.  Alexander’s 1833 letter to Henry reads like the desperate plea of a child, not a 20 year old, in his desire to receive a visit from his older brother.  Alexander writes, a bit melodramatically, “I have been so many times disappointed of seeing you that I shall think if you fail of coming this time that fate has decreed we shall never see each other.”  I’m pretty certain from other things mentioned in the letter that these two brothers had not seen each other for many years, since Alexander mentions his disappointment that Henry did not first come to Massachusetts, before moving from Vermont to Ohio.  Henry had made that move when Alexander was 13.  Imagine children trying to stay close to their siblings only through letters and news brought by relatives.  No wonder Alexander fears that when they finally meet face to face, his older brother might reject him.  

Henry must have persisted in his request to have his younger brother move west to Ohio.  Perhaps he felt it his duty as the oldest to watch out for his younger siblings even into adulthood.   As a testament to their bond, Alexander later did move to Troy, Ohio.  This move was made in 1852, after Alexander was married and had two daughters.  Henry and Alexander's sister  Lucy married Preserved Smith in 1846, and after her marriage she and her husband also moved to Ohio, living in nearby Dayton.  In 1863, Henry moved further west to Lafayette, Indiana, but that was only about 150 miles from Troy, just a train ride away by then.

This story of migration is actually quite common.  One family member moves to gain opportunity and perhaps adventure.  In this case it was Alexander’s Uncle Asa Mayo and his great uncle Daniel who were the first to venture west from New England.  Later, they convince others in the family to follow with their news of success.  Our rented moving van was no covered wagon but perhaps our story is really not much different than the stories from over 100 years ago.<

-Mary

My Connection:

Seth Mayo and Betsy Brown----Alexander Hanson Mayo and Caroline Pinkham---Caroline Elizabeth Mayo and John W. Riley---Minor F. Riley and Mary Fink---Jack W. Riley and Avery Merriman--Jack W. Riley, Jr. and Betty Geiger--- me

UPDATE TO THE STORY- 8/1/2017

Alexander Hanson MAYO and his Wife Caroline PINKHAM MAYO died in Troy, OH 4 days apart in 1871.  Alex died first (of typhoid) on August 8, 1871 and his wife died August 12, 1871, also of typhoid.  In the 1870 U.S. Census they were living with their daughter's family, Caroline and John W. RILEY.  It seems fortunate that if they were still in that household that other, including Caroline & John's young children, were spared from contracting typhoid also.

Digging through the summer

When I was a child my mother read me stories from a book entitled, Richard Halliburton’s Complete Book of Marvels.  In this book the author takes an imaginary group of children on a trip of adventure, stopping to see wonderful sights all over the world, like the Pyramids, Pompeii, the Parthenon, Mecca, and on and on.  When I was a bit older my sister traveled to Peru and brought back artifacts from Machu Picchu.  These two experiences helped me decide at an early age that I wanted to be an archaeologist.  I wanted to dig things up, put broken pieces back together again, and explore the people of the past.  So, that is indeed what I chose to study when it came time for college many years later.  And I did get a degree in Anthropology with a specialization in Archaeology.

My career in archaeology was short lived but I did spend several summers digging in the dirt.  I learned excavation and laboratory techniques at archaeology field school, located at the very southern tip of Illinois.  This area is called the “Black Bottoms” and we uncovered remains of Mississippian “mound builders” as we toiled in the heat and humidity, popping our salt tablets.  The following summer was a long three months spent living in tents and excavating the Anasazi remains in Arizona near the “Four Corners.”  This was the “Black Mesa Project”, where we uncovered bags and bags of broken pottery, stone houses, kivas, and pithouses.  Then the following summer I was again on Black Mesa for another three-month stint, trying to keep up with my Navajo crews who did most of the manual labor of digging and screening.  We moved to California after I finished college, and my hands were back in the dirt for another couple of years until I decided that perhaps this wasn’t the life for me.

Now, here I am, continuing to dig, sort, analyze, and research.  I’ve just finished family history research for one friend and am now starting in on the genealogy of another friend and neighbor.  You see, for me, doing this is like working crossword or sudoku puzzles.  It’s the process that gives me satisfaction.  Kind of like doing archaeology I suppose, but my fingernails stay a bit cleaner.

Cousin Sally in Lexington has been busy this summer also, tracking down our Mitchell ancestors in Danville, Kentucky.  Why were we so consumed with finding out exactly where Hannah and Thomas Mitchell lived at the time Hannah was shot by that stray bullet during a Civil War skirmish?  I can’t explain why, but it was important and essential for Sally and I to know this little detail.  And for those of you who can understand our unusual obsessions, I am happy to report that Sally has solved that mystery.  Hannah was standing at the open window of the third floor of the McIlvoy Building in downtown Danville when the bullet went through her and then hit the slave girl standing behind her.  Hannah was killed instantly, and we think that the slave girl survived.  The Bank of Kentucky, where Thomas Mitchell was cashier, was located on the bottom floor of the McIlvoy building.  Thomas and Hannah lived in the uppermost floor of the building.

I hope your summer has been filled with your own interesting adventures.

-Mary

Photo of the McIlvoy Building in Danville, KY