Just in time for my cabin adventure, my cousin Carl published his Henderson genealogy book...good stuff--there are over 77 thousand names in it. Told you the Henderson's were a huge group of people!
I saw names in there of kids I went to school with and rode the bus with my whole life...kids who bullied me, too! I saw the name of my maternal uncle's wife...oh what a wonderful world...oddly enough she's also kin to me on my father's paternal grandmother's side as well as on his maternal grandfather's side! When she and my uncle married, I was 7. In my eyes, she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Only one other woman in my "fairy tale" world would ever come close to being as beautiful as my Auntie Malinda was and is...and that was Lady Diana Spencer. So, in my head, Malinda was a princess and my uncle was the luckiest man in the world. I didn't even know her prior to my mother's brother dating and marrying her. I remember when she was in the Fairest of the Fair one of the first years he dated her...I subsequently wore the same dress to my first prom, in the ninth grade. She's also the aunt (along with my uncle)who took me to see "Psycho II", "Clash of the Titans", "Star Wars", and also "ET", after whose viewing I questioned loudly of my very pregnant aunt, in front of everyone, "Are you CRYING??" Aunt Malinda was (and is) the very essence of a smart, southern woman, and she has the most kind and caring parents. They're just good people. Auntie Malinda-I never called her "Aunt" growing up for some reason. It was always just "Malinda". After I became a mother, I really got to thinking that it might hurt her feelings for me not to call her "Aunt" so I started saying "Auntie Malinda"...pronouncing "aunt" differently from the word "ant" in this case...and I cannot for the life of me figure out why I say it that way. But I do it because the longer I know her, the more I love her. Just can't help it. And now, years later, discovering that we were more than just relatives via marriage means more to me than I can describe. The woman who came and picked me up and took me to church. Who let me wear her clothes when I didn't have anything appropriate to wear...who gave an unmarried, very pregnant niece the loveliest baby shower...who loaned same new mother every piece of baby furniture she had...who didn't get mad when a 14 year old girl backed her car into a wall...and let me work weekly cleaning her house so I could afford a pair of red stripe Nikes...back when they were all the rage..
I can never tell you all the things she and my uncle have done for me, for my family. She is one of a kind, and I am proud that she is in my life.
So, this isn't really a posting about the cabin...but it is just something that was in my heart and I needed the world to know...
I love my Auntie Malinda!
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Sunday, March 11, 2012
A rose by any other name...
Before I get started, please let me make a disclaimer: This is my blog, my thoughts, the things that are important to me. I know that not everyone will agree with what I write, nor do I really care about my use of proper grammar, spelling or punctuation. I am not writing a book-I'm just telling a few stories...so criticism, while taken and duly noted, really doesn't matter in this forum. I'm not out to win any awards, nor am I out to make people feel all "warm and fuzzy"...you may be bored out of your skull. I'd apologize, but it wouldn't really be genuine since everyone is free to navigate away and no one is obligated to be here. So, now that I have that out of the way, on to the blog...
My Dad sent me a couple pictures of the cabin this week...he hauled off about 15 or more bags of junk we sacked up last week when we went for the inaugural clean up visit. He took a picture of the clean porch and then today sent me a picture of the land where he had gone down and mowed it all...it looks wonderful! Family...what would we do without them?
I come from a very eclectic family on both sides of my tree...my Mom's family tends to be more artistic and has more entrepreneurs...my Pop's family has more farmers and musicians...all some of the hardest workers I have ever seen in my life, although all worked in different arenas. I talked about the love without surrender that I inherited from David Henderson...I guess technically I got it from him first...but I sure do know that my Dad has it, too, and his mother, my Granny, before him. Dad's a little different, though, because he has sense to sever ties when they hurt him. I don't. I love every single member of my family, no matter what their faults or issues or drama. They could stab me in the eye and I would still want them over for lunch on Sunday. My heart overflows with love that I can't explain--even knowing when I am going to be burned or regret it, I dive in anyway. To me, it's worth it. I believe that we are called to extend grace, over and over and over, regardless of the outcome. To love without expectation...and if we get hurt in the process, that's okay, because we did what we were supposed to do.
David and Elizabeth married and had 10 children. Five lived. I walked around in the cabin and I thought, some of those babies were born here-in this very room. The five children who lived appeared to be successful people...I don't know many of the other branches of the first five...most all of the ones I know are from Sandy's line, which is my line, but here's something that intrigued me...Sandy's sister, Eady, married the brother of Sandy's wife, Nancy. According to family tale, Eady was a few fries short of a happy meal, and William, her husband, kept her locked up. Now, this may or may not be true...I know of plenty of families with a "touched" relative who probably needed locking up but wasn't...or those creepy houses where they kept "Uncle Bob" in the back room...but whatever the reason, Eady was locked up. David Henderson did not like that idea at all, and went to tell William to stop mistreating his daughter. William beat the dog tar out of David. I guess maybe he wasn't the kind of fellow who liked being told what to do...but seriously, if you were going to lock your wife up and you had someone there who was telling you not to do it, wouldn't you just have said "Well fine, then. You take her crazy butt to your house?" I don't know what could have happened that was so bad that William felt the need to kick a handicapped senior citizen's rear, but he did it. And it must have been a pretty rough beating, because two of David's sons decided that Mr. Land needed to pick on someone his own size. They went and found him and beat him so bad that he died two days later. Eady snapped out of her "spell" after his death and went on to remarry...the brothers had to flee the state and settled down in Mississippi...and David got his daughter back. Now how's that for family loyalty? And think about Sandy, being married to William Land's sister---can you imagine how much strain that would have put on Sunday dinner conversation? But despite it all, I keep asking the question "Why not just let her go? Why fight with a man over his own child?" We'll never know, but we see what happens when you spit in the wind, now don't we?
So I walk thru the cabin--it's in such disrepair and full of garbage right now that it's hard to tell how much we'll have to do before it is ready for restoration-and I think on this family and all the generations that came from here. And I wonder why some families feel they are better than others---it really doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things how hard you worked, how many books you read, how many countries you traveled to...how much money you have...the real question is "How much did you love?" When you die, whether beat to death or in your sleep, what will people say about you? Will they pity you? Will they praise you? Will your story be told? When I die, all I want is for people to know that I loved them---and to me that is all that matters. I'm not the best wife, mother, or daughter. I'm not even a very nice person, for all intents and purposes...I'm grouchy and unreasonable at times...especially since I have been sick. I do have faith and won't apologize for my beliefs, nor do I feel it is necessary to justify them to anyone else. I am honest, to a fault, usually, and above all else, I open my heart to love all those that I know. And for those whose blood runs the same as in my veins, it's quadrupled. I feel my heart exploding out of my chest when a new baby is born to our family--even when I will never get to see it. I have cousins I have never met, but still, there's love there for them. My chest is full of song when someone gets a raise or a new job...and I physically hurt when there are tears. So family is everything to me--and whether you agree or not is irrelevant. You are only given one shot on this sphere...and if you show up to your grave with only your accomplishments to show for it, I hope you enjoyed them. Because where you store your treasure, that's where you get to enjoy it-be it here or Heaven. Love, and you'll have the best of both worlds.
My Dad sent me a couple pictures of the cabin this week...he hauled off about 15 or more bags of junk we sacked up last week when we went for the inaugural clean up visit. He took a picture of the clean porch and then today sent me a picture of the land where he had gone down and mowed it all...it looks wonderful! Family...what would we do without them?
I come from a very eclectic family on both sides of my tree...my Mom's family tends to be more artistic and has more entrepreneurs...my Pop's family has more farmers and musicians...all some of the hardest workers I have ever seen in my life, although all worked in different arenas. I talked about the love without surrender that I inherited from David Henderson...I guess technically I got it from him first...but I sure do know that my Dad has it, too, and his mother, my Granny, before him. Dad's a little different, though, because he has sense to sever ties when they hurt him. I don't. I love every single member of my family, no matter what their faults or issues or drama. They could stab me in the eye and I would still want them over for lunch on Sunday. My heart overflows with love that I can't explain--even knowing when I am going to be burned or regret it, I dive in anyway. To me, it's worth it. I believe that we are called to extend grace, over and over and over, regardless of the outcome. To love without expectation...and if we get hurt in the process, that's okay, because we did what we were supposed to do.
David and Elizabeth married and had 10 children. Five lived. I walked around in the cabin and I thought, some of those babies were born here-in this very room. The five children who lived appeared to be successful people...I don't know many of the other branches of the first five...most all of the ones I know are from Sandy's line, which is my line, but here's something that intrigued me...Sandy's sister, Eady, married the brother of Sandy's wife, Nancy. According to family tale, Eady was a few fries short of a happy meal, and William, her husband, kept her locked up. Now, this may or may not be true...I know of plenty of families with a "touched" relative who probably needed locking up but wasn't...or those creepy houses where they kept "Uncle Bob" in the back room...but whatever the reason, Eady was locked up. David Henderson did not like that idea at all, and went to tell William to stop mistreating his daughter. William beat the dog tar out of David. I guess maybe he wasn't the kind of fellow who liked being told what to do...but seriously, if you were going to lock your wife up and you had someone there who was telling you not to do it, wouldn't you just have said "Well fine, then. You take her crazy butt to your house?" I don't know what could have happened that was so bad that William felt the need to kick a handicapped senior citizen's rear, but he did it. And it must have been a pretty rough beating, because two of David's sons decided that Mr. Land needed to pick on someone his own size. They went and found him and beat him so bad that he died two days later. Eady snapped out of her "spell" after his death and went on to remarry...the brothers had to flee the state and settled down in Mississippi...and David got his daughter back. Now how's that for family loyalty? And think about Sandy, being married to William Land's sister---can you imagine how much strain that would have put on Sunday dinner conversation? But despite it all, I keep asking the question "Why not just let her go? Why fight with a man over his own child?" We'll never know, but we see what happens when you spit in the wind, now don't we?
So I walk thru the cabin--it's in such disrepair and full of garbage right now that it's hard to tell how much we'll have to do before it is ready for restoration-and I think on this family and all the generations that came from here. And I wonder why some families feel they are better than others---it really doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things how hard you worked, how many books you read, how many countries you traveled to...how much money you have...the real question is "How much did you love?" When you die, whether beat to death or in your sleep, what will people say about you? Will they pity you? Will they praise you? Will your story be told? When I die, all I want is for people to know that I loved them---and to me that is all that matters. I'm not the best wife, mother, or daughter. I'm not even a very nice person, for all intents and purposes...I'm grouchy and unreasonable at times...especially since I have been sick. I do have faith and won't apologize for my beliefs, nor do I feel it is necessary to justify them to anyone else. I am honest, to a fault, usually, and above all else, I open my heart to love all those that I know. And for those whose blood runs the same as in my veins, it's quadrupled. I feel my heart exploding out of my chest when a new baby is born to our family--even when I will never get to see it. I have cousins I have never met, but still, there's love there for them. My chest is full of song when someone gets a raise or a new job...and I physically hurt when there are tears. So family is everything to me--and whether you agree or not is irrelevant. You are only given one shot on this sphere...and if you show up to your grave with only your accomplishments to show for it, I hope you enjoyed them. Because where you store your treasure, that's where you get to enjoy it-be it here or Heaven. Love, and you'll have the best of both worlds.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
It is what it is...
I look into the mirror every day and I'm really not liking much of what I am seeing. Wrinkles, a double chin coming along quite well...I weigh entirely too much. In my old age I am turning into a toad. Yeah. Except I'm a toad who'll never jump because I get winded too easily. So who did I inherit that from? Who knows-I really didn't know we had a toad gene.
I've been into genealogy for several years. I love being immersed in census records, old Bibles...and I will hike anywhere I need to go to get to a cemetery-they're my favorite places. When I found out that David Henderson's cabin was still standing down in that holler, I couldn't wait to go. But first, I had to go to the cemetery next to it. What I found there was Henderson after Henderson after Henderson...but no David. He's not even buried in that cemetery, although he gave the land for it to be created from. His wife is there--Elizabeth--but her grave isn't actually marked. Her grave is approximated. It's a beautiful cemetery, really, as cemeteries go. The best-kept cemeteries, though, of all the ones I have been in, are in West Virginia. My husband says when I go I am "digging up bones". I prefer to call it "visiting relatives".
I'll never forget going to Stewart Cemetery with my mother. I was going from grave to grave, snapping pictures and looking at the family connections--the Lincoln County Henderson's were a HUGE group of people--and my Mom says "let me know when you find Cootie Brown". "Brown" is a family name I was researching, and I had seen a couple of "Brown" stones, so I start looking at every single headstone, searching for the one she needed. I finally just said "Momma I have been all over this cemetery and I have not seen Cootie Brown anywhere." And then she started laughing so hard at me that she cried--in my "genealogical stupor" I had never even realized that she had me looking for a mythical person--that the phrase "drunker than Cootie Brown" had been used since as long as I could remember, and that wherever Cootie was, he was ripped.
But that's how it goes...sometimes you find what you are looking for, sometimes you don't. I have often wondered in my life the reasons people do the things they do. I do believe in God, so I know that whatever the reasons, they are according to His will and not ours. Some things on this earth we'll never know, and I am good with that--that means they just don't matter that much, really. I'd like to know if David and Elizabeth Henderson fell in love, or if they married because it was expected of them, but in the grand scheme of things, it probably doesn't matter one way or the other in my life now. It was what it was.
Now understand, I think David was probably a living paradox. He farmed, made whiskey (which was actually a cash crop back then), he owned slaves...and some of the things written by family members say that he was as hard on his children and white workers as he was the slaves. He didn't allow anyone to loaf. Everyone worked, not just the slaves. I am not, for the record, condoning slavery. I never have, never will, and certainly would never in a million years pretend that it is okay for one man to own another. And I don't for two minutes believe he was "just as hard" on the whites...history is always written by the "winners", remember? But, slavery was a fact of life--all the way back to Genesis, and it's something we have had to deal with and try to understand for that long, as well. So, now that we have that ugliness out in the open, let's keep thinking about what I said about David being a paradox...In the same cemetery that David Henderson's wife is buried, along with hundreds of his relatives, there is a small marker up near the edge of the property line. It reads "Will--beloved slave of David Henderson". A beloved slave buried in a white cemetery before the Civil War ...yet he owned slaves to begin with...paradox. Did he love Will? I believe he did. I read a post by a lady on a popular cemetery website (yes, we have those), and she saw this headstone and posted "If he had been beloved, he wouldn't have been a slave." That's true, in a perfect world. God allows things to happen for the good of those who love Him...and we don't live in a perfect world, and never will. (That's what Heaven is, hello?). David Henderson, in the early 1800's, publicly buried a slave in a white cemetery, and didn't care what the world, or his family, thought. He loved Will. And that speaks volumes to me about the kind of person David was. He may have been ornery, and he may have been cocky and mean...I'm sure he probably was after hearing other stories about him...but he cared enough about Will to make sure that he had the best of what he could give him...in David's world. Not ours.
Now please, don't misunderstand what I am saying. Slavery in any shape, form, or fashion is morally wrong in my opinion. I am not saying David Henderson was a saint or that slave owners should all be painted in pastels with butterflies and bubbles. But I am saying that I believe he did love Will, and there's nothing wrong with that. Some parents push their children to have only straight A's in school...even when the child may not get to do the things other kids get to do on a regular basis (watch TV, for example). Those parents will tell you they do it because they love their children. I don't doubt that they do. They are giving their kids the best they have--in their world. See? The perspective changes according to the circumstance. What's okay in one person's mind becomes completely wrong in another's--and no one can ever win those arguments.
I have gone over and over this in my head...and in my heart. I don't want to argue with anyone about the rights and wrongs of it. The bottom line is that it was for God to judge then, and it's for God to judge now. But when one person gives to another the best of what they have in their world, then that's love. And I cannot find fault with love. So that being said, I think David did love Elizabeth. He wasn't a man who would waste time on things that didn't matter to him...and all those things I talk about inheriting? That love without surrender thing? That's what I got from him.
The toad thing I think came from my relative Cootie Brown.
I've been into genealogy for several years. I love being immersed in census records, old Bibles...and I will hike anywhere I need to go to get to a cemetery-they're my favorite places. When I found out that David Henderson's cabin was still standing down in that holler, I couldn't wait to go. But first, I had to go to the cemetery next to it. What I found there was Henderson after Henderson after Henderson...but no David. He's not even buried in that cemetery, although he gave the land for it to be created from. His wife is there--Elizabeth--but her grave isn't actually marked. Her grave is approximated. It's a beautiful cemetery, really, as cemeteries go. The best-kept cemeteries, though, of all the ones I have been in, are in West Virginia. My husband says when I go I am "digging up bones". I prefer to call it "visiting relatives".
I'll never forget going to Stewart Cemetery with my mother. I was going from grave to grave, snapping pictures and looking at the family connections--the Lincoln County Henderson's were a HUGE group of people--and my Mom says "let me know when you find Cootie Brown". "Brown" is a family name I was researching, and I had seen a couple of "Brown" stones, so I start looking at every single headstone, searching for the one she needed. I finally just said "Momma I have been all over this cemetery and I have not seen Cootie Brown anywhere." And then she started laughing so hard at me that she cried--in my "genealogical stupor" I had never even realized that she had me looking for a mythical person--that the phrase "drunker than Cootie Brown" had been used since as long as I could remember, and that wherever Cootie was, he was ripped.
But that's how it goes...sometimes you find what you are looking for, sometimes you don't. I have often wondered in my life the reasons people do the things they do. I do believe in God, so I know that whatever the reasons, they are according to His will and not ours. Some things on this earth we'll never know, and I am good with that--that means they just don't matter that much, really. I'd like to know if David and Elizabeth Henderson fell in love, or if they married because it was expected of them, but in the grand scheme of things, it probably doesn't matter one way or the other in my life now. It was what it was.
Now understand, I think David was probably a living paradox. He farmed, made whiskey (which was actually a cash crop back then), he owned slaves...and some of the things written by family members say that he was as hard on his children and white workers as he was the slaves. He didn't allow anyone to loaf. Everyone worked, not just the slaves. I am not, for the record, condoning slavery. I never have, never will, and certainly would never in a million years pretend that it is okay for one man to own another. And I don't for two minutes believe he was "just as hard" on the whites...history is always written by the "winners", remember? But, slavery was a fact of life--all the way back to Genesis, and it's something we have had to deal with and try to understand for that long, as well. So, now that we have that ugliness out in the open, let's keep thinking about what I said about David being a paradox...In the same cemetery that David Henderson's wife is buried, along with hundreds of his relatives, there is a small marker up near the edge of the property line. It reads "Will--beloved slave of David Henderson". A beloved slave buried in a white cemetery before the Civil War ...yet he owned slaves to begin with...paradox. Did he love Will? I believe he did. I read a post by a lady on a popular cemetery website (yes, we have those), and she saw this headstone and posted "If he had been beloved, he wouldn't have been a slave." That's true, in a perfect world. God allows things to happen for the good of those who love Him...and we don't live in a perfect world, and never will. (That's what Heaven is, hello?). David Henderson, in the early 1800's, publicly buried a slave in a white cemetery, and didn't care what the world, or his family, thought. He loved Will. And that speaks volumes to me about the kind of person David was. He may have been ornery, and he may have been cocky and mean...I'm sure he probably was after hearing other stories about him...but he cared enough about Will to make sure that he had the best of what he could give him...in David's world. Not ours.
Now please, don't misunderstand what I am saying. Slavery in any shape, form, or fashion is morally wrong in my opinion. I am not saying David Henderson was a saint or that slave owners should all be painted in pastels with butterflies and bubbles. But I am saying that I believe he did love Will, and there's nothing wrong with that. Some parents push their children to have only straight A's in school...even when the child may not get to do the things other kids get to do on a regular basis (watch TV, for example). Those parents will tell you they do it because they love their children. I don't doubt that they do. They are giving their kids the best they have--in their world. See? The perspective changes according to the circumstance. What's okay in one person's mind becomes completely wrong in another's--and no one can ever win those arguments.
I have gone over and over this in my head...and in my heart. I don't want to argue with anyone about the rights and wrongs of it. The bottom line is that it was for God to judge then, and it's for God to judge now. But when one person gives to another the best of what they have in their world, then that's love. And I cannot find fault with love. So that being said, I think David did love Elizabeth. He wasn't a man who would waste time on things that didn't matter to him...and all those things I talk about inheriting? That love without surrender thing? That's what I got from him.
The toad thing I think came from my relative Cootie Brown.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Ever spent time with a 9 year old?
Ever spent time with a 9 year old? I have in my possession two china figures that were given to me when I was about that age as birthday gifts...one is a mermaid bell and the other is a panda bear. They were the most beautiful presents to me that ever could have been given. My aunt and uncle took me to see the new movie playing in the theaters--Clash of the Titans! I was so special the year I was nine. I was long and lanky and tanned from head to toe....I ran the woods and swam the creeks and fished almost every day that summer...my best friend's name was Joe. I wish I knew where he was today. He lived down across the creek and no one could make me madder, or happier, than he could. We drank coke from the same bottle and caught crawdads in jars...we dammed up the creek to make deeper swimming holes...life was good...when I was nine.
Today's nine-year-olds are a little different. They play video games and go out on the lake in bass boats to fish. They buy their worms out of a cooler instead of digging in the old hay behind the barn. They don't get dirty much, unless they slide into home plate during a little league game. They have probably never used a rock as third base, or hit a sweet-gum ball with a stick. They don't know what a cheese sandwich wrapped in a piece of plastic wrap tastes like, or how sticky Kool Aid really is. They have no idea that cow piles, while crunchy on the outside, aren't always crunchy on the inside, or that creek clay comes in a plethora of living colors...and stinks to high heaven, although it is still worth it to paint yourself up like an Indian at war and whoop and holler jumping off the creek bank into the water to wash it all off. They have cell phones and iPods and iPads...computers instead of tablet paper...yes, the world has changed alot since late 1970's...
I remember when I was growing up our neighbor, Doc Beavers, would bring my Daddy fresh milk...it would still be warm. I loved the smell and taste of it. Non-pasteurized...probably would be illegal to give away now. I remember the taste of churned butter, and eating apples straight off the tree. That's the way life was for us. As I said before, we didn't have money...but would I trade knowing what those things taste like for the ones bought in grocery stores? Never. Do children now, my own child included, understand that eggs don't come from cartons--they actually come out of a chicken? I have seen my parents "witch" for water...something I hope to show my son how to do soon. I know when the sky is red in the morning, we'll have storms that day. My Daddy wouldn't let us eat the squirrels killed in the warmer part of squirrel season--they had "wolves" in them...where did all of this information come from? How do we know? Because we lived it--it was our heritage. Country living, from the beginning of time, was not for the weak of back, mind, or heart. It was for those with the dedication to stay alive. They didn't have a choice, you know. There weren't other options. You killed, caught, and grew your own food or you starved--simple as that. Up until the invention of all the modern technologies we have now-conveniences, really, you had to plan in order to live.
But back to being a nine year old...would a nine year old possess all of those abilities? The story is that when David Henderson was nine he got separated from his sisters shortly after getting off the boat from overseas. I have to imagine that he was a very smart little boy--to be as successful as he became later on, but at age nine, how on earth could he have taken care of himself? He was just a kid--and he was, for all intents and purposes, lost. Would he have been able to do more than catch a fish or milk a cow? If he were a nine year old in this day and age, probably not. Even in the 1970's it would have been questionable I am sure, depending on his upbringing. But in 1796, I just imagine he would have known to do all of that and more. His role in life would have been to do all of those things, just to stay alive. The game he played wasn't for fun...it was for keeps.
The story goes on that a family by the name of Lee took him in--and he traveled with them to Tennessee, and in 1806, came to Lincoln County. In 1812, he fought in the War of the same year and was wounded in his right arm, which crippled that arm for life. And in 1814, he married one of the Lee daughters, Elizabeth, and located in the 21st District of Lincoln County...which we now recognize as the area of Bugger Hollow.
And so, the story of the Henderson clan begins... all because a nine year old boy was lost.
Today's nine-year-olds are a little different. They play video games and go out on the lake in bass boats to fish. They buy their worms out of a cooler instead of digging in the old hay behind the barn. They don't get dirty much, unless they slide into home plate during a little league game. They have probably never used a rock as third base, or hit a sweet-gum ball with a stick. They don't know what a cheese sandwich wrapped in a piece of plastic wrap tastes like, or how sticky Kool Aid really is. They have no idea that cow piles, while crunchy on the outside, aren't always crunchy on the inside, or that creek clay comes in a plethora of living colors...and stinks to high heaven, although it is still worth it to paint yourself up like an Indian at war and whoop and holler jumping off the creek bank into the water to wash it all off. They have cell phones and iPods and iPads...computers instead of tablet paper...yes, the world has changed alot since late 1970's...
I remember when I was growing up our neighbor, Doc Beavers, would bring my Daddy fresh milk...it would still be warm. I loved the smell and taste of it. Non-pasteurized...probably would be illegal to give away now. I remember the taste of churned butter, and eating apples straight off the tree. That's the way life was for us. As I said before, we didn't have money...but would I trade knowing what those things taste like for the ones bought in grocery stores? Never. Do children now, my own child included, understand that eggs don't come from cartons--they actually come out of a chicken? I have seen my parents "witch" for water...something I hope to show my son how to do soon. I know when the sky is red in the morning, we'll have storms that day. My Daddy wouldn't let us eat the squirrels killed in the warmer part of squirrel season--they had "wolves" in them...where did all of this information come from? How do we know? Because we lived it--it was our heritage. Country living, from the beginning of time, was not for the weak of back, mind, or heart. It was for those with the dedication to stay alive. They didn't have a choice, you know. There weren't other options. You killed, caught, and grew your own food or you starved--simple as that. Up until the invention of all the modern technologies we have now-conveniences, really, you had to plan in order to live.
But back to being a nine year old...would a nine year old possess all of those abilities? The story is that when David Henderson was nine he got separated from his sisters shortly after getting off the boat from overseas. I have to imagine that he was a very smart little boy--to be as successful as he became later on, but at age nine, how on earth could he have taken care of himself? He was just a kid--and he was, for all intents and purposes, lost. Would he have been able to do more than catch a fish or milk a cow? If he were a nine year old in this day and age, probably not. Even in the 1970's it would have been questionable I am sure, depending on his upbringing. But in 1796, I just imagine he would have known to do all of that and more. His role in life would have been to do all of those things, just to stay alive. The game he played wasn't for fun...it was for keeps.
The story goes on that a family by the name of Lee took him in--and he traveled with them to Tennessee, and in 1806, came to Lincoln County. In 1812, he fought in the War of the same year and was wounded in his right arm, which crippled that arm for life. And in 1814, he married one of the Lee daughters, Elizabeth, and located in the 21st District of Lincoln County...which we now recognize as the area of Bugger Hollow.
And so, the story of the Henderson clan begins... all because a nine year old boy was lost.
Monday, March 5, 2012
England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales...
So, the story goes that a young David Henderson immigrated from Ireland to New York City where he got separated from his sisters...he was about 9 years old.
I don't know how much of that is true--I cannot document that the David Henderson found on the ship rosters is the same David Henderson who ended up in Bugger Hollow (pronounced "booger holler"). I have other information that says he was born in Virginia. Either way, there aren't many in the Henderson family that don't claim some kind of Irish/Scottish heritage. The prevalence of red heads in the family is overwhelming, even to this day. Both my niece and my nephew are sweet little gingers...my Henderson born grandmother was called "Red"...and almost all of them sunburn and freckle at the drop of a hat. I did a little reading--another blog, actually, (not really all that scientific, but a little more input)and it seems that a study was done to determine the prevalence of red hair in Ireland/Scotland...and it was determined that the gene for that specific trait was more prevalent in those areas...along with fair skin and tall athletic builds. There seemed to be a bunch of comments arguing the points, but it all boiled down to having some Celtic/Scandanavian origin. My brother Daniel actually looks more like he should be swinging a hammer with Thor than a hardworking Dad of those two sweet gingers...and my own body betrays me according to other research. I read something one of my friends posted that had the phrase "Celtic toe" and wondered what on earth that was...so I looked it up. All these years knowing I had the ugliest feet on the planet could not stifle the joy I felt when I realized that I was the proud owner of Celtic toes. I didn't even care that my friend probably would be repulsed by my feet...it proved that *maybe* all those years of having my feet hidden and not wearing open toed shoes were over...I could proudly flaunt my longer second toe and know that it meant I actually came from somewhere!
So I'm thinking, David probably did have those roots...the picture of him on his headstone shows a somewhat mean looking white haired ghostly dude. As a matter of fact, if you look at some of the other Henderson's in pictures, you'll find that same ghostly looking white hair...including that of my own father...so, I'm not discounting that red hair and fair skin...or my toes...they are part of who we are!
So, little David...9 years old...in New York city....can you imagine? Another part of the family story maintains that he traveled with a family by the last name of Lee, which proves to be more than interesting as he gets older...considering that he married Elizabeth Lee, which does happen to be a documented fact. She's still there, in Bugger Hollow...buried in Stewart Creek cemetery. Some say she is kin to Robert E Lee, but there is no evidence that I have found, after extensive research, to support that. So I'll just take it for what it is-just a girl he loved.
So until I get a chance to write a little more, think about that little 9 year old ornery Irish/Scottish/Virginia kid...no parents...no family...traveling with strangers. Old enough to fend for himself, but too small to have to...back then they didn't have food stamps...DHS...all that stuff. You just lived, or you died. And that's just the way it was...
I don't know how much of that is true--I cannot document that the David Henderson found on the ship rosters is the same David Henderson who ended up in Bugger Hollow (pronounced "booger holler"). I have other information that says he was born in Virginia. Either way, there aren't many in the Henderson family that don't claim some kind of Irish/Scottish heritage. The prevalence of red heads in the family is overwhelming, even to this day. Both my niece and my nephew are sweet little gingers...my Henderson born grandmother was called "Red"...and almost all of them sunburn and freckle at the drop of a hat. I did a little reading--another blog, actually, (not really all that scientific, but a little more input)and it seems that a study was done to determine the prevalence of red hair in Ireland/Scotland...and it was determined that the gene for that specific trait was more prevalent in those areas...along with fair skin and tall athletic builds. There seemed to be a bunch of comments arguing the points, but it all boiled down to having some Celtic/Scandanavian origin. My brother Daniel actually looks more like he should be swinging a hammer with Thor than a hardworking Dad of those two sweet gingers...and my own body betrays me according to other research. I read something one of my friends posted that had the phrase "Celtic toe" and wondered what on earth that was...so I looked it up. All these years knowing I had the ugliest feet on the planet could not stifle the joy I felt when I realized that I was the proud owner of Celtic toes. I didn't even care that my friend probably would be repulsed by my feet...it proved that *maybe* all those years of having my feet hidden and not wearing open toed shoes were over...I could proudly flaunt my longer second toe and know that it meant I actually came from somewhere!
So I'm thinking, David probably did have those roots...the picture of him on his headstone shows a somewhat mean looking white haired ghostly dude. As a matter of fact, if you look at some of the other Henderson's in pictures, you'll find that same ghostly looking white hair...including that of my own father...so, I'm not discounting that red hair and fair skin...or my toes...they are part of who we are!
So, little David...9 years old...in New York city....can you imagine? Another part of the family story maintains that he traveled with a family by the last name of Lee, which proves to be more than interesting as he gets older...considering that he married Elizabeth Lee, which does happen to be a documented fact. She's still there, in Bugger Hollow...buried in Stewart Creek cemetery. Some say she is kin to Robert E Lee, but there is no evidence that I have found, after extensive research, to support that. So I'll just take it for what it is-just a girl he loved.
So until I get a chance to write a little more, think about that little 9 year old ornery Irish/Scottish/Virginia kid...no parents...no family...traveling with strangers. Old enough to fend for himself, but too small to have to...back then they didn't have food stamps...DHS...all that stuff. You just lived, or you died. And that's just the way it was...
The Family Circle
"Will the circle...be unbroken...by and by, Lord, by and by...
There's a better...home awaiting...in the sky Lord in the sky..."
You think about your family---some people don't care one generation to the next about where they came from...they only care about where they are going. That's okay--I can understand that, I guess. I have a little harder time "getting it", I guess, because I don't think you can understand the magnitude of where you are unless you see where you've been...
My family wasn't rich. We weren't even middle class, but we did have a home, heat, and food. We didn't wear name brand clothes, and a lot of my clothes were hand-me-downs from a cousin out West. I don't even know where my brothers' clothes came from, really, I just know they had them. My parents loved us--my brothers and me. That's what mattered. I never quite understood what made them tick, though, until I became an adult and started researching our family tree. I don't know what made me do it---maybe having my own child, or maybe even searching my own self for something familiar that I didn't see reflected in the faces of those surrounding me--my family, my blood.
My mother's family was from Georgia, my father's from Tennessee. That's what I knew. My mom and my aunt had done some research--back when everything was still in ledger books and on microfilm. I had it much easier...a little money a month, and I had access to everything under the sun--all at the touch of a button. Census records, marriage records, birth and death...the circles were of life...history began to take on new meaning to me, and with every era, a new face presented itself to me.
I saw that my gumline and teeth were inherited from my maternal grandmother's side, while my blue eyes came from my paternal grandfather. But what I really wanted to know was if you could inherit spirit.
I looked at all the different parts of each of the families that were combined--I saw a short fuse on one branch of the family--irrational anger that struck out at anything in it's path. I saw children forced to compete with each other for the approval of their parents, when nothing they did would ever be good enough. I saw a pride so strong from another side that it prevented any chance of ever being successful for fear of owing another man a dollar. I saw music drip out of fingertips and off the tips of tongues--scenes being painted at the touch of a simple pencil to paper... I saw a love for one's children and family so strong that hearts were broken when that love wasn't taken nearly as seriously by the ones being loved...all of these things were very real, but not necessarily coded into my DNA...at least, I don't think so. I'm not a scientist, don't remotely know what could be in those microscopic cells...but would those things actually become a part of who I am?
I think they are. I get irritated quickly--especially when I feel people are being arrogant. I don't, however, get jealous when my brothers or other relatives do well or receive rewards for being successful people. I panic when I make a mistake in my home accounting--because I am so scared of being without money---but I do have loans and buy things when we need them. I can read music and sing, and my love of art goes far beyond the normal realm of just having pictures to hang on a wall. I have a love for my family that cannot be touched---even as heartbroken as some of them have made me, I understand that not everyone can love like I love, without surrender.
It's all part of who we are...where we came from. You just can't forget those things. You know, someone once told me that there is nothing irrelevant or unimportant in the Bible, whether you believe it or not. I agree with that, and, as a Christian, I do happen to believe it. There are an awful lot of "begats" and "begots" in there--and you know why? Because they are important.
So, here's to your roots--your heritage--who you are...
There's a better...home awaiting...in the sky Lord in the sky..."
You think about your family---some people don't care one generation to the next about where they came from...they only care about where they are going. That's okay--I can understand that, I guess. I have a little harder time "getting it", I guess, because I don't think you can understand the magnitude of where you are unless you see where you've been...
My family wasn't rich. We weren't even middle class, but we did have a home, heat, and food. We didn't wear name brand clothes, and a lot of my clothes were hand-me-downs from a cousin out West. I don't even know where my brothers' clothes came from, really, I just know they had them. My parents loved us--my brothers and me. That's what mattered. I never quite understood what made them tick, though, until I became an adult and started researching our family tree. I don't know what made me do it---maybe having my own child, or maybe even searching my own self for something familiar that I didn't see reflected in the faces of those surrounding me--my family, my blood.
My mother's family was from Georgia, my father's from Tennessee. That's what I knew. My mom and my aunt had done some research--back when everything was still in ledger books and on microfilm. I had it much easier...a little money a month, and I had access to everything under the sun--all at the touch of a button. Census records, marriage records, birth and death...the circles were of life...history began to take on new meaning to me, and with every era, a new face presented itself to me.
I saw that my gumline and teeth were inherited from my maternal grandmother's side, while my blue eyes came from my paternal grandfather. But what I really wanted to know was if you could inherit spirit.
I looked at all the different parts of each of the families that were combined--I saw a short fuse on one branch of the family--irrational anger that struck out at anything in it's path. I saw children forced to compete with each other for the approval of their parents, when nothing they did would ever be good enough. I saw a pride so strong from another side that it prevented any chance of ever being successful for fear of owing another man a dollar. I saw music drip out of fingertips and off the tips of tongues--scenes being painted at the touch of a simple pencil to paper... I saw a love for one's children and family so strong that hearts were broken when that love wasn't taken nearly as seriously by the ones being loved...all of these things were very real, but not necessarily coded into my DNA...at least, I don't think so. I'm not a scientist, don't remotely know what could be in those microscopic cells...but would those things actually become a part of who I am?
I think they are. I get irritated quickly--especially when I feel people are being arrogant. I don't, however, get jealous when my brothers or other relatives do well or receive rewards for being successful people. I panic when I make a mistake in my home accounting--because I am so scared of being without money---but I do have loans and buy things when we need them. I can read music and sing, and my love of art goes far beyond the normal realm of just having pictures to hang on a wall. I have a love for my family that cannot be touched---even as heartbroken as some of them have made me, I understand that not everyone can love like I love, without surrender.
It's all part of who we are...where we came from. You just can't forget those things. You know, someone once told me that there is nothing irrelevant or unimportant in the Bible, whether you believe it or not. I agree with that, and, as a Christian, I do happen to believe it. There are an awful lot of "begats" and "begots" in there--and you know why? Because they are important.
So, here's to your roots--your heritage--who you are...
This is the story of one side of my family...and how they came to be down in tha Holler...and how I got back to that same Holler, two hundred years later.
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