Gratitude Day #26 - My Heritage - 26 Nov 2017

Today I am grateful for my heritage.

I am grateful for my Appalachian roots that take me to northeast Kentucky --> southeast Kentucky --> southwest Virginia --> tidewater Virginia -- the British Isles and Germany.

Some of that bypasses the tidewater regions, and comes down the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia --> the outskirts of Philadelphia --> the British Isles and Germany.

I have often remarked that some of my people are not real stellar. I have often wagged my head as I have discovered:

Moonshiners

Adulterers

Arsonists

Illegitimacies

Slave owners (it took me awhile to find any)

Suicides

There are many more examples I could give, but this gives you an idea.

The good thing is...many of these lead to good records.

But, I look beyond the statistical information you would put on a pedigree chart, and look at the stories. We don't always know the backstory in a person's life, but sometimes we can get an idea. The may be other factors going on in their lives and in the world that caused them to do what they did.

Or, maybe they're just rascals.

Let me give you a short example. I have a grandfather named John Goolman Davidson, who lived in southwest Virginia. He was a scout in the Revolutionary War.

A man by the name of Rice stole a hog from him, and in court was ordered to pay John a good sum of money, with the vow that this wouldn't be the end of things.

Awhile later, John and some others were on a scouting expedition. He thought he heard something, and took off on his own to see what it was.

First, they found his hat.

Next, they found his stirrup.

Then, they found him.

He had been killed and was laying at the base of a tree. Before he died, he had carved the word "Rice" into the tree.

I wanted to see the marker that was erected to him, but the only directions I had were written in 1933. I stopped at Wytheville College, and the director and I poured over maps where he thought it might be.

He finally said, "I think it you go up to this area, you'll find a general store. If there is a marker, they'll know where it is."

We found it, and I knew immediately I needed to leave Kerry and the kids in the van. I walked up, "twanged" a bit with them, and then finally asked about the marker. The owner told me, "Honey, my brother runs over it with his pickup truck every morning."

Good grief. First he gets murdered. Then, he gets run over by a truck every morning.

We found it. I took pictures. Then Kerry took the kids to the van and left me alone for a bit. The date on the marker said he was killed Mar. 8, 1793.

We were there on Mar. 8, 1993.

As I looked around, I don't believe I saw any tree that was 200 years old. But, the mountains would have been the same mountain that he saw when he died. The sky would have been the same. The concourse of the creek may have changed, but more than likely it was there, too.

I saw what he saw as he took his last breath.

None of my people are famous. They were generals in battle. They didn't arrive on the Mayflower. They won't be in any history books.

But, they're the bravest people I've ever run across. Every single one of my ancestors arrived during the mid-1700's, probably in one of the great migration waves of Germans and Scots-Irish that left their homelands for various reasons, hoping for a different life here in the colonies.

They blazed the trails that other people's ancestors would use for roads.

They fought in George Washington's army to help free this land for others to make their home.

They cleared the lands that were so thickly forested you couldn't reach out your arms without touching a tree.

They moved to the frontier, not knowing if they would ever see one of their parents or siblings again.

They gave birth to large families, seeing only part of their children live to adulthood.

They fought on both sides of the Civil War, with lines drawn within their own families.

They were given large land tracts for their service in the earlier wars, only to lose it because they couldn't pay the taxes.

They were real people who used to play as little children, who discovered the other sex, who fell in love and courted, who married and raised families, who experienced the hardships of life, and who became old and died.

I am grateful for them, and for the courage it took to even exist during times when there wasn't good medicines, antibiotics, good dental care, clean water, and food with certain standards of cleanliness.

But, they survived. And because of them, I am here to day.

Marker is in Bluefield, West Virginia

Evening the score!

John Goolman Davidson was my 5th great-grandfather.

I have no idea where the name "Goolman" came from, but nearly everyone and everything references this as a middle name.

It has not been proven whether he was born here or in Ireland, but he resided his entire life in the state of  Virginia.  He and Mr. Bailey built the Davidson-Bailey Fort near what is now Bluefield College, Tazewell Co., Virginia.  It is likely that he traveled down the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, along with thousands of other Scots-Irish.

John  was a cooper -- a barrel and firkin maker by trade.  He was apparently quite successful at his trade, for he had nearly $800 on his person when he was killed.

Firkin, which held 112 English hundredweight.

Apparently John had an enemy.  A man by the name of Mr. Rice had stolen a hog from him, and the case ended up in court.  He was ordered to pay John Davidson $8 for the hog, plus forty lashes save one, which did not go over well with Mr. Rice.  On a low scale, the equivalent would be near $200 today.

Mr. Rice vowed he would get revenge.

And, he did.

John had some business to take care of Rockbridge Co., Virginia, where he had formerly lived.  He collected money that was due him in the amount of $800 and headed for home.  Heading through Rocky Gap, he passed by a family on his way to Rockbridge County, but the same family did not see him return.

People soon went to look for him.  First, they found his hatband.  Then, they found where he had fed his horses.

Then, they found him.

His body was found at the base of a tree, where the blade of a hatchet had been struck into a white oak tree.  A gun rested on the hatchet.  Underneath those items was a fresh carving that said;

"Rice"

John's nude body was in bad condition and was buried there on the spot where it was found.  It was determined he died 

8 Mar 1793,

and a report was made to the governor.  It included several other massacres and captures, included that of Virginia "Jenny" Wiley.

 Several years later, a brass stirrup was found, it being recognized as belonging to John Goolman Davidson.

I love to visit the lands where my ancestors lived, and this one was no different.  So, I began to look for clues that would take me to the place where this tragedy occurred.  At the time, the only accounts I had were from 1933.

Mr. Kerry and our four children were taking a trip through the southern states, and I mentioned that I would like to swing through that part of Virginia and perhaps look around the area.  I stopped at the Kegley Room of Wytheville College, Wytheville, Wythe Co., Virginia.  It is a wonderful resource for southwestern Virginia, and the people were as helpful as any I would find.

Kegley Library, Wytheville, Virginia

One of the librarians and I spent quite a bit of time pouring over old maps from the area.  But remember, the directions I had were from 1933!

Finally, he said that it wasn't likely I was going to find the area on one of their maps, but perhaps some of the locals could help me.  He pointed us in the directions he felt good about, told us to be careful, and off we went.

We pulled up to a General Store.  I knew what was coming.  My people are from the south, but my husband and children are not.  So, I told them to sit still until I returned.  (Let me point out that I love my southern roots, but they must not be rushed.  You have to win people over, especially if you appear to be "foreign".

After some small talk about the garden, the hound dog on the front porch, asking about everyone's Mama, I finally asked them about John Goolman Davidson.  I had heard there may be a DAR headstone for him, and I would like to know if they had seen it.

"Law, honey!  My brother runs over it with his pick-up truck ever mornin' on his way to work!  It's just right up the road a piece."

Good grief.

This poor man gets robbed.

He gets killed by Indians (presumably hired by "Rice")

Then, he gets run over by a pick-up truck every morning.

The kids were hanging out the windows, and Kerry was just hoping I was still alive.  I directed him 'up the road a piece', and off we went.

We found it.

Can you see how close is it to the road?  

A pick-up truck actually drove past when I was taking this photo, and I had to swing my hips in to keep from getting clobbered.

And, the date we stood at this stone was 8 Mar 1993.  

That was not planned.

Not at all.

After a few moments, Kerry took the kids back to the van to allow me some time alone there at the stone.  It's on the border of West Virginia/Virginia, but it would have been Virginia at the time.

I looked at the hills...the same hills he would have seen just before he died.

I looked at the sky...the same sky he was looking at when he died.

I looked at the creek meandering through this small valley...perhaps coursing its way in the same path two hundred years earlier.

I looked at the trees...perhaps not the very same trees he saw.  

But, maybe some of them were.

So again, I have walked not just where ancestors lived and were buried, but where they actually died.

And, I saw what they saw.

Some backup sources:

http://www.geni.com/people/John-Goolman-Cooper-Davidson/6000000001904150942 

Johnston, David E., A History of the Middle New River Settlements, 1906.

Rice, Patricia, Historical Sketches of Southwest Virginia, 1968.

Schreiner-Yantis, Netti, Archives of the Pioneers of Tazewell Co., VA, pp 302-310