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.

 

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...

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...

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.