2020 - Gratitude Day #12 - My Grandparents

 Gratitude Day #12 

Today I am grateful for my grandparents.

It's difficult to imagine that my grandparents were born in the late 1800s. And I knew each of them personally.

My Dad's parents were Richard Lee and Fannie Collier Clemens. Dad was #5 out of eleven children, so I can only imagine how difficult it would have been to raise a family of that size in the hollers of eastern Kentucky. They would raise all but two of those children to adulthood. 

Older brother Cecil had died at three months old from whooping cough. 

Little Betty died while sitting in her big sister's lap in a rocking chair. As she rocked, she would push off on the pot belly stove in front of her, not realizing that with each "push", a pot of beans inched toward the edge.

And, it fell on little Betty. 

This sweet 3 1/2 year old girl suffered for three days before her eventual death. Their feelings on the death of any of their children would be no different than mine today.

I don't think my Dad's family had much money, for it doesn't appear that they lived in one place for very long. I am working on two big projects right now that include ICAPGen renewal, as well as for the First Families of Ohio lineage society. Tracing my dad's family began with him and continuing on back. All I can say at this point is that their life was extremely hard and poor.

But, they made it. It's funny how my sisters and I returned to Olive Hill, Kentucky to look for the house we can all remember making visits to. It was a huge white house with a red roof and a wrap-around porch.

Suddenly it just doesn't seem so huge anymore. My sisters kept asking:

"Where's the apple orchard?"

"Where's the hill grandpa rode a hog on?"

I don't know. I can't help you.

The house on College Hill.

Richard Lee and Fannie Collier Clemens

Richard Lee and Fannie Collier Clemens

My mom came from a good family lineage. I have more memories of her parents than I do of my dad's, for when his parents died I was only about age 5 & 6.

I often wonder how any of my grandparents made it through the 1918 flu epidemic. Mom was the oldest of a large family of boys, and two of those boys were lost during that time. Her aunt Harriett lost three children. It wasn't unusual for people to lose many children or other relatives.

Mom's parents were Corbitt Sullivan Stevens and Bertha Agnes Gearheart. For years I wondered how papa Corb got his name, for we have found no one in the family named either Corbitt or Sullivan. No one. 

So, a few years ago, I asked my uncle if he knew where the names came from. He said, "Sure! It was from two prizefighters!"

I wrote about it here: https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/8363417267053930444/1144019730923837419 

I am grateful for the good and happy times I had visiting their homes, eating their food, and listening to their stories. They are the ones who connect me with history - my history, their history, American history.

The house built by Corb Stevens, Lawton, KY

Corbitt Sullivan Stevens

Bertha Agnes Gearheart Stevens

Gratitude Day #1 - 2018 - Remembering Mom on Her 105th Birthday

EDIT: This is the first of my November gratitude posts for November 2018.

Gratitude Day #1

Sigh...

My mom would have been 105 years old if she were alive today. And, sometimes those "would have beens" are the hardest words to utter.

I miss her. I could use her advice daily. I could use her "stand up on your hind legs with your paws in the air" spirit; as well as her genteel kindness.

I could still use her reminders to act like the lady you are. Though a hillbilly woman born in some of the poorest parts of Kentucky, mom had class. You either have it or you don't. She had it. I'm trying to have it.

I could use her sideways glance (cygogglin') to keep me in check; to know when to open my mouth and when to keep it shut.

I could use some of her cooking! Mine will never measure up to what she could throw together with no recipes. How did she DO that? And more importantly, why can't I?

And, I would certainly love to listen to some of her prayers again. There is nothing quite listening to the prayers of our parents; or walking past their room as they're kneeling together praying. Both of my parents prayed and talked with the Lord like He was sitting right in front of them.

Recently I wasn't feeling so well. I wasn't sick. I just didn't feel good. I can still remember the coolness and the calmness of of the touch of her hand on my brow that made everything feel better.

I can still hear her laugh! Her laugh made everyone around her want to laugh!

Mom died at age 71, an age I will reach in a few more years. Each of my sisters were a bit nervous as they reached that age and moved past it.

Some people are around that knew her, and they often say how much I remind them of her. The picture below shows both of us. Can you tell us apart? The one on the right shows me holding my 2 lb 10 oz grandson.

I often close down some of my presentations with the photo of hands below. It is my hand, along with my granddaughter's.

When she touches my hand, she touches history. My mom knew her great-grandfather, who was in the Civil War. He likely knew and touched the hands of a few generations before him.

So it is with us all. History continues on through us; through our looks, our stories, our touch, our work.

Mom, I miss you on this, your 105th birthday. And, I can hardly wait to throw my arms around you again and do some catching up. I need you to tell me all about the people you have met, and why they keep hiding from me.

Ida on left, Peggy and grandson Jayden on right

Peggy and baby Madeline's hands

Gratitude Day #13 - Good Clothing and Fabrics - 13 Nov 2017

Today I am grateful for good clothing that I don't have to make.

My own mom and my sisters were not afforded the luxury of store-bought, factory-made clothing. From the hands of my grandmother, mom had learned how to make pretty little dresses from flour sacks so my sisters could each have at least have something new from time to time.

My mother and her mother worked outside in bonnets. I ran across my mother's bonnet patterns not long ago, and recalled the day she tried to teach me to make one. Being a little smarty-pants, I didn't think I would ever be wearing one, so I didn't pay close attention.

I let history slip by me.

Both of my parents sewed by hand and on a treadle sewing machine. I don't have the one that belonged to them anymore, for it burned up in a house fire a couple of years after mom passed. But, I found one at a garage sale and had to have it.

My dad was also quite the talent behind some of my maternity clothing. He made my dresses and my tops. The only thing that would have been different was the absence of darts. He was too embarrassed to put in darts for me. He also never needed a pattern.

When raising my children, I didn't have to worry about raising the sheep to shear the wool to spin and make their clothing. I didn't have to grow the cotton to run through a gin to turn into thread to sew.

Just before my parents' housefire that took nearly everything (mom had passed the year before), I was going through a trunk that contained a lot of quilts. Dad and I sorted through them, but wouldn't let me take any of them for the fear that my sisters would be jealous.

However, there were four unfinished quilt tops that he did let me take. I put them in a garbage bag and brought them home, hoping to someday finish them.

Years of raising children went by, and I forgot about them.

Then, one day I ran across them in the attic. I brought them out and looked them over, making necessary repairs in the stitching. I then gently washed them up.

I can recall my mom and grandmother sitting by the fireplace putting these tops together with fabric they already had on hand. There is a mixture of calico dress material, dish towels, flannel, and even some of my dad's ties. All of these were cut into various shapes for quilt pieces.

Friend Vicki Taylor had a long-arm quilting machine, and quilted the four of them up into the most beautiful quilts ever. Soon, I took three of them, rolled them up, and put them into smaller garbage bags to present to my sisters for Christmas.

They were the last presents of the day. I brought each one out, and as they opened them up, the exclamations could have been heard into the heavens! They ran their fingers over the fabrics, remembering so many of them.

It was a final present to them from mom.

Today, I am fortunate that clothing is such a no-care material that I can wad it up, throw it in a suitcase, and travel across the country to brink it out wrinkle-free.

I am fortunate to buy coats that can withstand sub-zero temperatures, all while keeping me warm.

I am fortunate that my shoes are not made from things I had to grow or kill, and that there is a left foot and right foot with varying widths.

I have coats that protect me from rain and from the wind piercing through me.

I am able to sew and create clothing, as well as mend them. But, I'm very grateful that it's not something I have to do. I have the skills, but appreciate others' more.

Gratitude Day #6 - The Sisterhood - November 2017

Today I am grateful for my three sisters.

The Sisterhood.

They were nearly grown and out of the house when I was born. Betty was 16, Jean was 19, Fern was 21. Both Fern and Jean were in Nurse's Training, and Fern was present when I was born.

She was the first one to hold me. And, I was the first one born in a hospital.

From the beginning, I had four mothers -- my own and three others. I was an only child with three sisters.

We were one generation apart in our ages, but that has changed through the years. I remember the day we were looking at nursing homes for my dad, who was living with me. The owner asked a question, and all three of my sisters turned and looked at me, and asked, "Peggy, what do you think?"

I nearly fell over! I was the youngest! No one had ever asked me what I thought.

We have caught up in age through the years. Fern, Betty, and I go on genealogy trips -- though not as often as in the past. And, when I go with Mr. Kerry, they will ask me, "Now, Peggy...did you pack your medicine? Will you have enough for the time you're gone? Do you have emergency supplies? Now, don't drive too late at night..."

Yes, my dears...

These three little hillbily girls grew up to be the best of women. Fern and Jean worked as RN's, Betty was an x-ray technician. They married good men and have good families.

They taught me to have class, which Mom taught us was grace under pressure.

They taught me how to act when something is free, something again that Mom taught. (i.e. Don't go grabbing everything just because you can.)

Fern taught me how important it is to behave around people of all stations of life, and how you want to be remembered when you leave a room. Her husband was a judge, and I had plenty of opportunities to be around people who some would term to be *popular*. I saw him in action on the bench, and I saw the fair way he treated people of every station in life.

Fern also taught me how to wear a hat.

Jean taught me to hold my ground and not back down when I know I'm right. She has always been the one on her hind legs with her paws in the air. She married a man who ran Buckeye Bakery with his brother.

Betty taught me to see right through people -- a trait my mother had. Talk all you want, but I hear what you're not saying. Her husband and his associates owned a roofing company -- not the kind you put on houses. The kind you put on factories and malls.

These are good, good women.

And, I know they won't be around forever. They are my link to the family's history.

And, people still laugh when they see us together, for we act like we haven't seen each other in a year.

Even though we are on the phone every day, several times.

And, once again my mom's words ring true..."If you can get along with the members of your own family, you can get along with anybody in the world."

The Music That Soothed Her

Music has always been a big part of my life.  I have written about my love for the piano, and my parents' sacrifice to buy one for me.  The blog post may be found here:  http://alwaysanxiouslyengaged.blogspot.com/search/label/Music 

I don't believe my mother's side of the family had much talent for music.  Mom had no rhythm or timing when it came to singing, and not very good pitch, either.  But, that certainly didn't keep her from singing her heart out.  I didn't notice anyone else in her family being blessed with musical abilities, either.

Dad was a different matter.  His dream was to always conduct an orchestra.  An elaborate stereo sound system always graced our home, where dad would be playing his "long-hair" music.  

I can remember some girls knocking on our door one evening.  They went to my school, but I didn't know them very well.  When I opened the door, they heard my dad's music and screeched, stating that I was one of the luckiest people they could imagine.

I believe that my dad could have been fine musician, if the opportunity and the resources had been there for him.  But, they weren't.

I recently transcribed my dad's journal, and placed the contents on FamilySearch.  I was reminded of something that he often talked about, and I blogged about on 12 Mar 2013.

"Dad always talked about his little sister, Betty, who died when she was 3 1/2 years old.  

Betty was born when Dad was two years old.  She was the sixth child out of eleven that would come to that family.

One day, older sister Mary was rocking little Betty by a pot bellied stove that had a pot of beans cooking and bubbling away on the top of it.  As she rocked Betty, she would "push off" with her foot against the stove.  Each time she pushed, the pot of beans would move a little closer to the edge.

It eventually moved too close to the edge and fell right on to baby Betty and Mary.  It mostly covered Betty, scalding her severely.

It took Betty three, agonizing days to die from the burns.  What a terrible death!  And, the terrible feelings that Mary must have had running through her 11 year old mind.  The helplessness of her parents hearing her cries must have haunted them throughout their lives.

One of my sisters is named Betty in honor of this sweet little aunt that died so many years ago."

But, I didn't finish that story.  

Dad mentioned:

"...and of course the doctors was not trained to treat severe burns in those days and the most the doctor could do for her was to give her Morphine to ease the pain till she died, We lived on Clark hill at that time, a part of Olive Hill.

 I was in school at that time but I believe my mother told us that after Betty’s burn quit hurting so bad that she was rocking her in that same rocker and Betty started singing a song that we all sang in church and at home from time to time and the name of the song was,

            Heavens bells are ringing and I’m going home

            Heavens bells are ringing and I’m going home

            Heavens bells are ringing and I’m going home, away to beauliland.

That song has come to my mind many times during my lifetime and something tells me that she went right straight to the presence of God, it would be hard to make me believe anything different."

It took little Betty three whole days to die.  Three whole days.  There was nothing they could do but give her morphine to ease the pain.

I, too have lost a child.  He was much older, but still my child.  There wasn't much to comfort me.

But, as I read Dad's journal, I began to think about the words that my grandmother sang to her little girl, probably hoping that the sound of her voice and the words to the song would comfort them both.

I tried to find the song, and I believe it may have been the combination of two songs.  Here are the words:

"Climbing Zion's Hill"

Oh, the heaven bells are ringing and I'm a-going home
I'm a-going home, yes, I'm a-going home
Oh, the heaven bells are ringing and I'm a-going home
Climbing up Zion's hill

I'm climbing, I'm climbing
Climbing up Zion's hill
I'm climbing, I'm climbing
Climbing up Zion's hill

[Instrumental break]

If you don't, my mother, you'll be too late
You'll be too late, you'll be too late
If you don't, my mother, you'll be too late
Climbing up Zion's hill

I'm climbing, I'm climbing
Climbing up Zion's hill
I'm climbing, I'm climbing
Climbing up Zion's hill

[Instrumental break]

If you don't, my father, you'll be too late
You'll be too late, you'll be too late
If you don't, my father, you'll be too late
Climbing up Zion's hill

I'm climbing, I'm climbing
Climbing up Zion's hill
I'm climbing, I'm climbing
Climbing up Zion's hill

And, I was even able to find a recording of a mountain woman singing this song -- probably sounding much like my own grandmother would have sounded.  It's only a couple of minutes long, but if you feel so inclined, please listen to a piece of Appalachian history -- one that my grandmother may have sung to comfort her grieving heart.

http://digital.berea.edu/cdm/ref/collection/p16020coll13/id/500 

Searching for Ethel

My sister Betty, who is closest in age to me, was born in Ethel, West Virginia.

Betty Lee Clemens

Except there is no Ethel, West Virginia.  Well, there isn't now.

1940 Census, Middle Rex Camp, Fort Branch, Logan, West Virginia

Chester and Ida Clemens (she was asked supplemental questions, hence the "x")

Sisters:  Fern, Gene (actually Jean), and Bittie (Betty)

One of the advantages of driving to a genealogy conference is the freedom to stop at places along the way.  Mr. Kerry and I use this time to take side trips and see the countryside.

I was a presenter at the National Genealogical Conference in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, and we made the drive to and from there.  It was a long drive, and it was wonderful.

As we entered West Virginia, I wondered how far off the beaten path Logan County would be for us.  It was only an hour, so off we drove into some of the deepest hills of Appalachia I've ever been to.  The trees formed a canopy that made it hard for the little bit of sunlight to penetrate.

My parents and two sisters moved to Logan County, West Virginia so that my father could find work in the coal mines.  Sister Betty would be born after they arrived.  I have written about parts of their lives here and here.  The second story particularly mentions the Battle of Blair Mountain that took place when my dad was just a boy.

We drove into the county seat, Logan, and began to look around for the house my family lived in.  I asked a few people, who weren't real anxious to talk to me.  I finally went into a McDonald's and put my "twang" on.  Suddenly, I became one of them.  They weren't sure where the street was, but I eventually found a policeman who took us right to it.

I asked him how to get to Ethel.  
He said, "Ma'am, it ain't there no more."  
Me:  Can you point me in the vicinity?
He said, "You turn up there where ___ used to be."
Me:  I don't know where ___ used to be, for I haven't been here in 50 years.
He said, "Just follow me, and when I wave my arm, you turn left."
Me:  Got it!

We drove to a place that had a street sign that said Ethel Hollow, and an even bigger sign that said, "No trespassing!"  Mr. Kerry, who values his life, thought it might not be a good idea.

Oh, alright.

Further up the main road was a coal camp, where a guard was sitting in a shack.  I asked him if he knew where Middle Rex Camp used to be.  He asked how long ago.  I told him my family lived there in Ethel in the 1940's.  He told us to go back down where the No Trespassing sign was.

Me:  Will I get shot at?
Him:  Depends.  Can you shoot?
Me:  You bet I can.  And, I don't miss.
Him:  You'll be fine. 

Good grief.

With trepidation, Kerry drove back to the No Trespassing sign, and we drove back even deeper into the hills and hollers of Appalachia - exactly where my family lived, and where sister Betty was born.

These signs are certainly a reminder of the hazards coal miners face on a daily basis.

You can still see veins of coal in this abandoned coal camp.

This structure looked like the corner of a building, or perhaps a chimney.  I didn't dare get close enough to find out.

There was certainly no cell service back in the holler, but when we drove out I was able to call Betty for just a few seconds before we lost contact.  I was describing to her what we found, including the above structure.  She told me it had been the company store.

As my  mother would say, "That's groundhogs making coffee."

 The Hatfield and McCoy Feud has provided somewhat of a boost to a very depressed economy in this part of Appalachia.  The road to Ethel is used by ATV's to get back to the trail.

I don't think I've ever seen a speed limit sign for this amount.

But, when those loaded coal hauls come barreling down the roadway, you know to get out of their way.  They can't stop, and fly straight out onto the highway.

So, did I find Ethel?  I found what is left of Ethel.  There isn't much, but years ago, a poor coal miner and his wife welcomed another baby girl into the family back in Ethel Hollow.

My dad, Chester Clemens, after a day of working in the mines.

He used to say that you went to work with blacks, whites, and Indians.  But, when you came out, you were all the same color.

Women's History Month - #11

March 11 — Did you have any female ancestors who died young or from tragic or unexpected circumstances? Describe and how did this affect the family?

Dad always talked about his little sister, Betty, who died when she was 3 1/2 years old.  

Betty was born when Dad was two years old.  She was the sixth child out of eleven that would come to that family.

One day, older sister Mary was rocking little Betty by a pot bellied stove that had a pot of beans cooking and bubbling away on the top of it.  As she rocked Betty, she would "push off" with her foot against the stove.  Each time she pushed, the pot of beans would move a little closer to the edge.

It eventually moved too close to the edge and fell right on to baby Betty and Mary.  It mostly covered Betty, scalding her severely.

It took Betty three, agonizing days to die from the burns.  What a terrible death!  And, the terrible feelings that Mary must have had running through her 11 year old mind.  The helplessness of her parents hearing her cries must have haunted them throughout their lives.

One of my sisters is named Betty in honor of this sweet little aunt that died so many years ago.

Tombstone Tuesday

My dear Aunt "Burnzie".  Though I didn't know her very well or for very long,  I do remember her well.  I was 13 years old when she died.

I always felt she was beautiful - even exotic!  She just had such a gorgeous look, beautiful long, black hair, and a mysterious coloring to her skin.  Perhaps she may have even had some Native American heritage.  I can see why my father's brother, George  Russel Clemens,  fell in love with her.

Aunt Burnzie had a large family of eleven children, and lost at least five of them as babies.  It was hard to have good care in the coal camps of West Virginia.

Aunt Burnzie is buried in Limestone Cemetery, Carter County, KY.