My Easter Lily

My grandmother's favorite flower was the Easter lily. She was a woman of God, and He blessed her by taking her to heaven on Easter Sunday, 1980. The date was April 6th. Every Easter, when I see the lilies in the church, I see my grandmother smile.

In memory of Martha Marie Deislinger Woltman.
I remember you.

My Revolutionary War Ancestors

These are my ancestors (that I've located so far) who have been vetted by the Daughters of the American Revolution to have served in the War for Independence (spellings per DAR):

Minute Man Jesse Street, Connecticut
Private Hieronimus Carnrike, New York
Colonel Thaddeus Cook, Connecticut
Private Joel Hall, Connecticut
Lieutenant Joel Potter, Connecticut
Private John Potter, Connecticut
Patriotic Service - Asahel Hall, Sr., Connecticut - Member of Committee
Patriotic Service - Aaron Harrison, Connecticut - Member of Committee

These ancestors are through the line of my grandfather, Leslie J. Canright, Sr. Based on the evidence I've obtained, most of these men never met. Yet here I am, celebrating the creation of The United States of America. Wherever you are, gentlemen, thank you for your service.

I remember you.

To My Sweet Cousin

I think about you so often, Kathleen! I've missed you so much since you've been gone. Lately I've been doing several things that especially remind me of you: visiting old cemeteries, cleaning headstones, and I recently saw a book about ghost towns.

 

I remember not just our Cemetery Weekends and our Ghost Town Weekends but also little things that happened on those trips. Like in that one extremely rural cemetery when we heard a strange wild noise up in a tree; you immediately headed away from it and I immediately headed toward it. I was under that spindly tree, craning my neck, and finally you convinced me to get away. Later we found out it was a bobcat!

And the time we finally made it to that really small old cemetery, the one we'd been wanting to visit for almost 2 years, and a funeral was in progress. You said, "The nerve of them! Having a funeral on the one day we could visit!"

Remember when we snuck onto the posted property of that abandoned high school, and you became apoplectic because I went inside to take pictures? You peeked in from the small, hidden door, and you kept up a running monologue. You called, increasingly louder, "Don't go IN there. You know we're trespassing, right? What if there's snakes? Watch out for that glass! There might be dangerous squatters in there. We're hours from home - who's gonna bail us out? You're gonna need a tetanus shot! Don't go up those stairs - are you CRAZY? You'll fall through those boards! That's it - you come out RIGHT NOW." I finally realized you were really in emotional distress, so I came back outside. It had been so dark inside, and you hadn't let me go very far. So all that for one photo. It was an okay photo, though, of the stage at one end of the gymnasium; the only well-lit area I found.

And somewhere we saw that child's grave, Bonner Boone Brown. For years afterwards, out of the blue, you'd say, "I still want to know who would name their kid Bonner Boone Brown!"

Remember that cemetery where a huge block of family graves was surrounded by a cement curb? We approached, as we always did at blocks of graves, planning to work through the familial relationships and the order of deaths. But at this one, we just stood and looked in disbelief. One man, surrounded by 8 wives whom he had outlived. In the great silence of nature, you finally whispered, "Do you think he murdered ALL of them, or just some?"

Last week I ran across the photos from that ghost town with the huge football stadium that had risers made of cement. We were so lost in the past as we looked across those ruins that had melded with the desert. I miss those moments.

And I remember the time we drove to visit the graves of our great-grandparents. We couldn't find them in the first cemetery in town, and you said, "This cemetery doesn't look right. This isn't it." Being older than me, you remembered more. So we went to the other cemetery in town. "This is it. This looks just like it. They're somewhere over - there!" But we still couldn't find them. So we went to the town library and asked the quite elderly woman how we could find the graves of our great-grandparents. She helped us look through a large number of cemetery records but kept asking us, "Are you sure that's the name?" And you just kept saying, so politely and patiently, "Yes, we're sure that's the name." Finally, long past the realization of futility, I said, "We'll just ask our mothers exactly where their grandparents are buried and then we'll come back some other weekend." The old lady sighed with relief and began to close the books and files. "Yes!" she said, "That's good! You come back with another name." You managed to make it all the way to the outside steps before busting into laughter. "That's right!" you choked out. "We just need to come back with ANOTHER NAME! Then we'll find out where they're buried!"

We never had the chance to go back with another name.

 (That's me in the background,

wearing black and standing with my arms folded.)

I haven't been to your grave since the week you were buried. You were only 57 years old. It gives me comfort, though, to know that you're buried next to my mother. Anne frequently puts flowers on your grave and the graves of our mothers. I sometimes wish I didn't live across the country now, because it would give me some temporary peace to visit all three of you. Even though I know you're all in Heaven and I'll actually see you again some day; in Heaven I'll have real peace.

My dear, precious, funny, interesting, and loving cousin Kathleen, I remember you.

Nothing Much

Wow. It's been a rough week. The depression really did a number on me this week, and I don't know why. I'm taking my medication, nothing bad happened situationally...it's a mystery. Of course, I am having some invasive medical tests on Monday, which I'm definitely NOT looking forward to. And I'm still waiting on test results to find out if lymphoma can be eliminated as a possibility. I'm so doubtful that I have lymphoma, that I'm not really too worried about it. Maybe I should be.

I did manage to get a genealogy research blog set up yesterday, and I set up two Twitter accounts (one personal, one for genealogy alone). And I completed an online grocery order, which is no small task. So I can mark those as accomplishments

My weekly therapist moved to a position on the Crisis Team several weeks ago, so I haven't had a therapist in a while...still waiting to hear who will take her place and when they'll start seeing patients. The clinic is filling two positions, so I don't know...

So here I am, not doing much. I listened to Over the Rhine a little bit today, checked Facebook and Twitter. Now I'm eating microwaved Russet potatoes with margarine and green Tabasco sauce and drinking delightful cold tea: Stash Double Bergamot Earl Grey Black combined with Stash Chai Spice Black...mmm, mmm.

I guess I'll watch a streaming Netflix movie, then go to bed. Maybe tomorrow will be a better day.

Roy's Life

Roy Franklin Taylor was born in Johnson County, Texas, between Joshua and Cleburne, on July 22, 1900. His parents were William Franklin Taylor and Mary Elizabeth Bullard, who had married in Mills County on August 25, 1895.

Frank and Mary already had two children when Roy was born: Mary Myrtle and Martha Elizabeth "Mattie." After Roy came James William Mannon, Lydia Estelle, Laura Thelma, Raymond Lesley, John Calvin "J.C.," and Ernest Madison.

Myrtle had diphtheria when Roy was about five months old, and Roy was also very ill, although if it was from diphtheria is unknown.

In 1902, the family moved to Arkansas, where Frank's family was living at the time. James was taken ill after a fall and died at the age of nineteen months. Twelve days later, Lydia was born, and when Lydia was two weeks old, the family moved back to Texas, to Cleburne. In 1904, they moved on to Mills County, to a ranch where Frank worked as a hired hand.

So when Roy was four years old, his mother set up her sewing machine and made a tent (about 8'x10') out of heavy canvas, where the family lived for a while until a room was built. Later a second room was built. The structure had a fireplace but no flooring.

In early 1906, Thelma was born. By now the family had a nice garden on land they had cleared by hand, and the ranch owner had given them a cow to milk. They had a 600-ft. deep well, from which they would draw 5 gallons of water at at time using a mule. At six years old, Roy was, of course, an active participant in family chores. In late 1908, Raymond was born, and the family moved on to work on another ranch near Priddy.

It was here that Roy spent most of his life. His family cleared the land for farming and cared for cattle. He and his sisters and brother had 300 acres for their playground. They were members of New Hope Baptist Church, and sometimes they would have camp meetings, taking food and bedding to church and staying two or three days at a time. Frank would go home now and then to care of the stock. By early 1912, J.C. had come into the family.

In the early part of 1914, some of the school children came down with German measles. Before the older children were well, Frank, Mary, and the two baby boys, Raymond and J.C., came down with them. Mary was expecting a baby in the summer. Frank relapsed into pneumonia, as did J.C., who nearly died: he weighed 11 pounds when he was two years old.

Roy was never well after having the measles. He and Myrtle were caught in a rain shower in April of that year, and Roy had lung trouble after that. Roy turned 14 in July, twelve days after Ernest was born.

One Saturday in November, Roy gave himself a tuberculosis skin test according to the doctor's orders. This would have been the von Pirquet test, where two drops of tuberculin were placed on the forearm a small distance apart, then the skin was scratched and covered with cotton wool. A positive result, which Roy had, would be a red, hard raised spot on the skin within 24 hours.

The next afternoon, Sunday, Roy played ball with his friends for several hours. Monday, he went to the doctor who gave him a new medication named Tuberline. Roy was to take 2 drops in 1/2 glass salt water, which he did on Monday. His instructions were to then take 3 drops in salt water mixture on Wednesday, and to increase each dose by 1 drop until 15 were given. (Although extensive research has not revealed information on Tuberline, tuberculin was indeed given orally in a salt water mixture in those days as a treatment for tuberculosis).

Roy fell ill soon after the first dose, and he was very sick all day Tuesday. Frank had gone to Comanche for supplies, so another family member summoned the doctor, who would not come.

Roy died at 5:00 p.m. on Tuesday, halfway between his first and second doses of Tuberline. Although his death certificate has not yet been located, his family will always believe that it was the medication that killed him.

After hearing that Roy had died, the doctor came out to the ranch, bringing another doctor with him.

It began to rain. The family went to the church house at Priddy Cemetery, walking through the water and the black gooey mud. By the time the funeral was over, it was well after dark. The date was November 24, 1914. Roy had lived 14 years, four months, and two days.

No photographs of Roy are known to exist, and his grave is marked only by a funeral home designation.

But Roy, I remember you.

Losing My Census

As a family historian, I am constantly amazed at the interesting information I find while searching for a family member. Unfortunately, this information often has nothing to do with my ancestor but is merely a side note on some unknown person that happens to catch my fancy. And off I go. Two, three days later, I stop and think, "Now, what was it I was doing?"

Sometimes it's just an isolated sentence or two that captures my imagination. Like this entry from a 1919 big city newspaper: "LOST -- Christmas morning somewhere between north Madison and Sycamore streets, a red knitted bed shoe. Finder please leave at the Evening Chronicle." I could write a story around that one.

Death records are particularly sad. "Killed by his own team of horses." "Buried in a well." Many young children drowned. There are death causes like gravel (kidney stones), consumption (pulmonary tuberculosis), putrid sore throat (ulcerated tonsils), quinsy (tonsillitis), typhus, and typhoid fever (not the same as typhus). In 1890, one couple lost 3 children, ages 7, 10, and 15, to diphtheria within a five day period!

No wonder I can't seem to make progress on my family's genealogy and life stories. With my frequent illnesses the last few months, my ever-present depression, and my general lack of focus, added to the intrigue of various glimpses into the lives of long-dead strangers, it's amazing I've found anything pertinent at all.

Hopefully, I'll be able to persist. Notice I said persist, not overcome. I have no illusions in that arena. "Old genealogists never die, they just lose their census." Ha. I'm already there.

Don't Be Forgotten!

Genealogy first caught my interest in February. As I discovered more and more facts about my ancestors, I was struck by the absence of information about their actual lives. My ancestors, and yours, were more than just census data. They lived, they loved, and they were forgotten.

This made me realize how little I know about my own family, even about my parents. And they're gone, and in two generations they will be forgotten unless I can document their lives. And I can't. Because I don't know their lives.

With tears from my heart, I beseech all of you to document your lives NOW. Write your memoirs, write a list of life events, write memories and anecdotes. Include any memories of your ancestors that you have. If this seems too big a job, talk aimlessly (but loudly) into a tape recorder; including as much date and place information as possible.

You think your children know all these things, but they don't. And your grandchildren and great-grandchildren certainly don't and probably never will unless you ACT.

Even if you're young, you probably have memories and anecdotes of your grandparents (and even parents and siblings) that you can document now; in twenty years, those memories will almost surely be gone.

You may think it's not important to document your life. You may think, "Well, I wasn't in the military, I had menial jobs; my life was just normal and boring...and my kids have lots of pictures to remember me by." Do your pictures have dates on them and the names of the people in them? Are your digital pictures similarly identified and backed up?

"Besides, I'm young, I have lots of time." We are not guaranteed tomorrow! If any of you have lost a loved one who was a child or who was a young adult in the prime of their life, then you know how fragile life is. Don't wait to document yours! God put you on this earth for a reason, and your journey should be remembered, not just your statistics! And it's all up to you.

Even if you are a dead-end branch on your family tree, as I am, your journey is still important. Even if you believe, as I do, that the Rapture is near, your journey is still important.

In seven generations, someone should be able to say, "I remember you!"

"List Yourself" by Ilene Segalove and Paul Bob Velick

"Personal Historian Software" by RootsMagic

Microcassette Voice Recorder by Olympus