Week 52 – Me, Myself and I

 

Over the past fifty-one weeks, I’ve shared not only stories of my ancestors, but often how I was affected by their lives.  Tracing the Anthony family, you learned how they set me on the path as a genealogist – constantly giving me encouragement to keep seeking their stories as document after document kept materializing.  The Cooke’s and the Warren’s shared the crossing of the Mayflower and I became aware just how deep my American roots are.  

After I started on this year-long quest, I discovered my Cox family had settled, in what would later become, Philadelphia, which incidentally is my favorite city. The Patton and Hillegas families introduced me to the Revolutionary War and rekindled the patriotism that I’ve always felt, and how that caused me to devote a good portion of my life as a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution. The Ayers, Cash, Davis, Echols, Haley, and Prince families gave me insight into the deep south, both the good and the bad, and how we must learn from our past history.  Then the Powers/Patton and Ditmore/Pennington families, who all came from completely different backgrounds and geographical areas to end up in the same place at the same time, in order that I could be here today. My life has been shaped by every single person in my family, in one way or another. I am the culmination of them all.

As the topic this week is Me, Myself and I, my story wouldn’t be complete unless I shared with you about those who have come after me - three exceptional women who were also created by all the relatives I’ve told you about.  My whole heart. They are not my ancestors, however they are the ancestors of my grandchildren.

My oldest daughter has my grandma Ditmore’s hair.  It is thick and dark.  At first glance, this is what you notice.  My sister says she is Angelina Jolie beautiful (I’ll let you decide for yourself).  She will kill me for telling you, but she is a former beauty queen – selected as Mrs. Tennessee. What you don’t immediately see is that she is also brilliant.  I don’t mean she’s pretty smart - I mean gifted and talented, creative, member of Mensa, brilliant. From the time she was born, she had a book in her hands. I don’t think she slept through the night until she was … well, she’s probably never slept through the night. Along with a flashlight hidden under the covers, books opened up the world to her. She and I are the undisputed Trivial Pursuit champions in our family (unless we’re playing with her husband, who changes the rules to suit him and his team).  After serving in the US Navy for eight years, she became a stay-at-home mom as her children grew, while following her naval officer husband from duty station to duty station.  Her daughter became a competitive figure skater so she put her creative talent to use designing and hand making skating costumes, which she turned into a full-time business.  Now that her youngest child is in college, she has gone back to the books, completing yet another degree, this one in Cyber Security.  Recently, she was selected as a semi-finalist in the 2024 Presidential Management Fellow Program which is a leadership development program for advanced degree holders, administered by the United States Office of Personnel Management. The scholars of the Anthony family have passed on the love for books and learning to both she and ME.

My middle daughter is the shortest member of our family, by a lot. My Grandma Powers was short (as well as my dad) and I’m sure that’s where she gets it. Our family has quite a repertoire of short jokes readily available.  What my daughter lacks in height, she makes up for with her BIG personality.  She is the one who hates conflict, can please everyone, and is the social butterfly. She was born in August, so she was always the youngest in her class. While she had to work hard for her grades in school, her exceptional leadership qualities made her succeed. When in middle school, she decided she wanted to play basketball (remember, she’s short). Lo and behold, she earned a spot on the team, but she really was not good at all. When I asked how she managed to make the team, the coach told me that she had never seen a kid with more determination.  If the rest of the players had half the desire and drive as my daughter, they’d win every game.  These same qualities have stayed with her for her entire life. When her first born daughter was a baby, she took an entry level position with Bell Helicopter in Fort Worth. While working full-time, she attended college at Texas Woman’s University, as she climbed her way up the corporate ladder.  Today, she is the Director of Business Strategy and Industrial Participation at Bell Flight. Her job has taken her to essentially every corner of the planet. All this as she raised four daughters, one with special needs. The incredible work ethic that my dad possessed, has been handed down to my daughter and MYSELF.

My youngest daughter is named for her Estonian great-grandmother on her dad’s side. I think many of her traits come from those Eastern European ancestors. One exception would be her stubborn streak.  As the youngest in the family, it was inevitable that she would have that rebellious nature, thinking she was as grown up as her sisters and that she was more mature than she was. Needing to prove just how grown up she was, after high school, she headed off to New Orleans, all on her own, to attend college.  She found a job and an apartment that she paid for herself, while attending classes. While she didn’t finish school there, she did become an adult. It did take a while for her to determine her path in life, but once she did, there was no looking back.  She became a mother later in life than either her sisters or I and devoted her whole self to motherhood. She has been a soccer mom, a baseball mom, a basketball mom, a softball mom, a volleyball mom, a band mom, a football mom, a homeroom mom. She is also a high school English teacher, and dance/drill team director, continuing to “mother” her students and loving them with the same strong arm, open mind, and tender heart that she’s shown to her own children. From as early back as our family history can be documented, the strong women and loving mothers from whence we come have continued to pass on their tenaciousness, and independent spirit, to both she and I.

These three are, indeed, the greatest gifts I’ve ever received. While I would love to take credit for them, I know that they were shaped, just like I was, by all those ancestors whose DNA we share.

I hope you’ve enjoyed at least a few of my #52Ancestors posts.  Some of the stories have been hard to write, and sometimes words just flowed.  Although I took this fifty-two-week challenge intending it to be lighthearted, easy, and fun, when it came down to it, it became a self-reflection. I learned a lot about myself through reminiscing about those who came before me (and going through endless drawers of documents and genealogical notes). In my family, I can clearly see tendencies, or looks, that I know have come to these individuals through some long-gone grandparent, aunt, or uncle, but I never really noticed before now.  The most significant thing I’ve realized (although I’ve always known it) is just how important the histories of our ancestors must continue to be told and I must ensure these memories and stories are passed on to the next generations.  So, I will leave you with this. It is my hope that my effort to tell you about my ancestors will encourage you to do the same. Write the stories, remember the people, and make certain your memories are passed down. And last, but not least - Be the things you loved most about those people who have come before you.

Merry Christmas to all…and to all, a good night

Week 51 – Cousins

 

Over the past year or so, I’ve connected or reconnected with many cousins via social media. One group in particular are my Pennington cousins. I’ve known their names for my entire life, but do not recall any contact with them when I was small.  It’s bizarre, really, because we lived in the same area, share so many mutual friends outside of our family, and had a myriad of identical experiences with some of the same family members.  It’s almost like we were living in an alternate universe.  The only reasonable explanation is that my mother was the same generation as their grandparents, and as she had me so late in life, I was the same generation as their parents. I did have rare interactions with the few cousins on my Powers side when I was younger, but never developed a closeness with any of them as we lived so far apart. My second cousin, Beverly, had reached out to my dad in the 1980’s when she became interested in family history. She and I became close after my dad’s death. Fortunately, I’ve been able to connect with her daughter, and our Missouri cousins. I’m enjoying getting to know them. The majority of these are all second or third cousins, but I also have countless distant cousins with whom I communicate with often.

Although I have a very large extended family, my grandparents had only eight grandchildren, four of them in my immediate family. I am the youngest first cousin of my generation by several years. I was closer in age to some of my nieces and nephews.  My cousins lived in New Mexico and California, and except for Jimmy, I spent very little time with any of them.  Jimmy would come to Oklahoma from California in the summers to visit our grandparents. His trip usually included a visit to our house for a few days. I loved to torment him with my crazy overprotective dog, Buttons. Jimmy may, or may not, have been trapped up in a tree for an entire afternoon with my little sheltie foaming at the mouth to get to him, as I watched (and laughed). Jimmy was the next closest in age and as we grew older, we became as close as most siblings.  He was the only cousin that I could say I really knew. Until…

At a family reunion several years ago (in the late 1980s), my sister, who lives in the town near where my great-grandparents homesteaded, showed us a classified ad recently placed in the local newspaper.  The original like this often; some long-lost relative discovers their roots and goes in search of family, but in this case, we all knew our great-uncle…and his children…and their children, some of whom were in the room with us. It was the topic of conversation for about a minute before it was completely forgotten.

During World War II, California was a melting pot of US servicemen.  Most of these men were away from home for the first time; many had wives, and children.  Such was the case with my mother’s double cousin.  Norval Pennington was a fun-loving, friendly fellow.  He never met a stranger.  During the spring of 1946 while stationed there, he took comfort from a woman and was then deployed overseas.  Our story begins nine months later.

Maxine (or Max as I call her – and I’m the only one with that privilege) was born the following January.  She was adopted by a couple who were living in California at the time, but shortly thereafter moved to Houston, Texas.  Maxine was raised as an only child to older parents.  The fact she was adopted was never a secret.  She always felt special because she was chosen to be their daughter.  It wasn’t until she became pregnant with her own child that she began to wonder about her biological family.  Initially, she didn’t care about who the people were, but wanted to know if there were any medical issues that she should be concerned with that she might pass on to her unborn son.  Being born in California, her adoption records were sealed.  Although her parents never kept the fact that she was adopted a secret, they were not forthcoming with any information about her birth parents.  Through sheer determination and with help from adoption groups, Maxine was finally able to learn the name of her birth mother.

When they met, in 1982, her birth mom brought a photo of her biological father. She had never told him of Maxine’s existence because she didn’t want to marry him, never mind the fact he was already married. That photo had been kept for almost forty years, so you have to assume there must have been something there. She gave Maxine the photo, and the name of her birth father – Norval Pennington. It took a year and a half before Maxine found Norval. When she finally did, she gave him a call, told him who her mother was and that he was her dad. In true Ditmore/Pennington fashion he responded, “The hell you say!” He was delighted and told her to come meet the family and never once questioned that she wasn’t his biological daughter.  Phone conversations were as close as they ever came.  Norval passed away on 19 March 1987.

Maxine placed an ad in the local newspaper where Norval grew up, looking for family members.  No one responded.

Fast forward several years later, I had become interested in genealogy.  One day I received an email from a woman who said she might be related to our family.  She wasn’t very open when I asked questions, and I learned later this was because she didn’t know if her sudden appearance in the family might be upsetting to some.  Nevertheless, Maxine and I became fast friends.  We had each grown up so differently, but we joked that we shared the same brain.  We finished each other’s sentences, and within no time, it felt like we had known each other our entire lives.  When we met in person, I had no doubt she was family.  She looked exactly like her grandmother, my great-aunt Myrtle.

When Maxine eventually told me that she believed she was Norval’s daughter, I didn’t know what to say.  I knew that Norval would have been married when Maxine was conceived.  Norval had a son who was older than Maxine whom I hadn’t seen for many years, but I regularly spoke with Norval’s sister, Margie.  I decided to give Margie a call.  I thought about easing into the conversation, but I’m not much for beating around the bush.  I blurted out that I was pretty sure Norval had a daughter who was given up for adoption.  Her response, “Oh my Goodness!  I always knew she was out there but had no idea how to find her.”  It seems that Norval had confided in his sister about Maxine’s existence.  Margie wasn’t the only one he confided in.  He had also told his son, Norval Jr.  Maxine was immediately welcomed into our very large family and her half-brother couldn’t wait to introduce her as his sister. 

When their Aunt Lila Fay died, Norval Jr. called Maxine and wanted her to attend the funeral in Oklahoma. They had a great time together and had a tour of the cemetery to see all the family graves. A reception and dinner were held before the funeral where Norval Jr. took her around to introduce her to all the family, telling them she was his half-sister, Norval’s daughter. Only thing…he hadn’t told anyone about her beforehand.  After the initial split second of surprise, she was welcomed with open arms. That’s just how we roll.

My grandfather Ditmore had a sister, Myrtle, who married my grandmother’s brother, Fred Pennington. From a family photo, c 1920, Myrtle Ditmore Pennington was holding her son, Norval. Sitting next to her was my grandmother, Mable Pennington Ditmore, holding her daughter, Luella (my mother). Who would have guessed that eighty years later, their grandchildren would have found each other under these unusual circumstances.

Have you ever met someone for the first time and instantly known they would be your lifelong friend?  That’s exactly how I felt when I first met Max. It is truly a miracle that I have her in my life. What if she had never sought out her birth family?  Maybe her birth mother never gave her the name of her father. Or what if I hadn’t responded to her email?  I can say without hesitation she is my very best friend. She is my “person.”  So, the next time you get a strange email or letter from someone who thinks they’re related to you – follow up.  You never know, they might end up being your “person,” too.

 

Week 50 – You Wouldn’t Believe It

 

Whether you believe what I’m going to tell you is irrelevant.  If you were telling me the same story, I’d probably find it pretty far-fetched.  No matter, it happened. Although I’m hesitant to share it with you because you may think I’m crazy, it’s the only story I’ve got that fits into this category. So, get out your Ouija board and hang on…

As a young girl, I always told my Grandmother Powers about dreams I’d had.  Not bad dreams, just dreams about random things and people.  She told me that she dreamt all night every night, and almost always remembered them.  The older I became, the more dreams I had.  Now it’s an every night occurrence and I almost always remember them.

Way back last century (I find that so funny to be able to say), in 1996, I moved back to Oklahoma City to care for my parents who were getting on up in years.  We purchased a duplex together where I lived on one side and moved my parents in on the other.  I could cook meals and walk out my back door across the lawn to their back door.  We had an intercom system so if they needed anything, day or night, I was readily available. It was the perfect set up. Sadly, my dad passed away in April of 1998.  It was then that I moved my mother in with me, as she needed full-time care. 

My dad was a tinker.  He could fix anything.  He saved every bit of wire, hardware, scrap of metal and wood, because one day, he would need it to put something back together. He re-used nails that were taken out of something he’d built. Even if they were a little crooked, he’d just straighten them, and they’d be just fine. There was nothing mechanical on a vehicle that could evade his masterful knowhow. When my mother totaled her 1968 Galaxie 500, my dad bought it from the insurance company for $100 and rebuilt it in the side yard at our house, using a 1969 LTD grill. I’ve watched him take non-working toasters, sewing machines, and major appliances apart, find the problem, rig up some of the odds and ends from his garage, and put it back together to last another generation.  I loved hanging out in his garage from the time I could walk.  He let me help him with just about everything except for that which might possibly cause me to lose a limb or end my life (that would have really made my mom mad).  His workbench was pox marked with holes from nails that I had driven into it with my own hammer and pried back out.  One of my favorite “jobs” as his assistant, was cleaning car parts with gasoline and my bare hands.  Gloves?  What are gloves?  Two of my favorite smells still today are gasoline and new tires.  The dirtier and greasier I was, the happier (and that DID really make my mom mad).  I’m pretty sure my dad developed his tinkering skills from his grandfather, David Williamson Patton. Great-grandpa Patton was a machinist for the railroad and had fashioned all sorts of parts related to his job. His son, William (my great-uncle Bill), also learned his skills in the same way. In 1921, he patented a Truss Fixture that he had designed. While I have absolutely no idea what its function was, it most certainly had the stamp of approval of his dad.

The duplex I shared with my parents was spacious and built on a large corner lot where one side faced south, the other faced west.  It had been built in 1974, with all the amenities of the time.  One feature was a built-in humidifier as part of the central HVAC system.  I religiously changed the filter in the unit and did the regular maintenance, but the humidifier didn’t work. My mother had a dry cough for most of her later years. After she moved in with me, I got the notion to see if I couldn’t bring the humidifier back to life to perhaps ease the tickle in her throat.

Being my father’s daughter, I detached the humidifier from the HVAC unit and spread all the parts on the garage floor.  I made notes of what was attached to what and took photos to ensure my notes made sense.  My dad wouldn’t have needed to do this.  By the second day I had even found an owner’s manual online that showed all the parts and how they fit together.  Using the troubleshooting guide, I checked for every single thing that was listed.  For the better part of the weekend, I went over each piece, looking for damage, or anything else that just didn’t look right that might be the cause of its inability to function.  Nothing worked.  I threw up my hands and put it back together as I had found it. Never in my life had I ever witnessed my dad giving up on anything. I may be my father’s daughter, but I was terribly frustrated.

I went on about my day-to-day life, but the humidifier kept lurking in the back of my mind.  On several occasions I went out to the garage to look at the unit.  Running through the troubleshooting guide, I kept hoping that the lightbulb would go off in my head and I could figure out what the malfunction was.  After several days, I finally decided to raise the white flag. I was apparently no match for this darn humidifier.

Several nights later, my dad came to visit me…

I had had dreams about my dad often since his death.  In them, he was always there, but I don’t recall ever having any communication with him.  He would be smiling, leaning back in his easy chair, driving down the highway, sitting in the yard watering the lawn with the garden hose.  Just about any random situation that he would have likely been in had he still been among the living.  This night was different.  In my dream, my garage door was open, and my dad had walked around the full yard from his side of the duplex to mine. It was quite a distance for someone suffering from C.O.P.D. but the first thing I noticed was that he wasn’t out of breath.  I was sitting on the garage floor with all the parts from the humidifier surrounding me.  He leaned in to take a look. There was no greeting, he just began asking if I’d tried this or that.  My response was always yes.  Finally, he picked up a part and handed it to me.  He said, “You need a new sensor relay. Now, fix it.” Whether he walked out the way he came, or just disappeared into a vapor, I cannot say, because I awoke, sitting bolt upright in bed.

I immediately went to the Owner’s Manual to see if the part my dad had shown me was actually there, or if it had just been a figment of my imagination.  It was!  I ordered the sensor relay, dismantled the humidifier once again and waited for the part to arrive.  A few days later, I replaced the sensor, put everything back together and guess what?!?  The humidifier may have won the initial battle, but with the help of my dad, it lost the war.  It worked!

I think most everyone has had some sort of episode where powers outside the realm of normalcy manage to infiltrate our lives in a bizarre or strange way.  In most cases, unlike me, they never mention it to keep from appearing to be nuts.  While it’s easy to think that I had given so much thought to the humidifier that I had figured out the issue in my subconscious, you’ll never convince me that my dad wasn’t the one who told me how to do it.  My dad has been gone twenty-five years already, and as the years go by, he appears in my dreams less and less.  I can almost guarantee, however, that if I were faced with a similar situation like that darned humidifier, he’d come back for a chat.

 Week 49 – Recipe

 

Both of my grandmothers were great cooks although their cuisine was on opposite ends of the spectrum.  My mother worked outside the home once I entered Kindergarten, but she still cooked a full breakfast and supper Every. Single. Day., and then three meals a day on the weekends.  My sister loves to cook, and she reads cookbooks like they were novels.  My oldest daughter is an amazing cook, albeit a little too gourmet for my taste, but it’s always scrumptious.  Even my youngest granddaughter could spend her entire day in the kitchen whipping up the most amazing desserts you can imagine (some that would rival Whiteside Cake - IYKYK).  Then there’s me. If you know me, you understand that cooking is nowhere near the top of any list that has to do with my favorite things. Oh…don’t get me wrong, I CAN cook, and I can cook well, I have just never developed a love, or even a like, for doing so. 

My dad’s mom, Henrietta, lived in oil camps most of her adult life.  I’m certain this is the reason that when she had company, the meals she prepared were rather skimpy. Even her serving bowls were small. If you didn’t get anything the first-time around, you may as well forget it. Leftovers didn’t exist at her house. There was always an assortment of vegetables, but relatively little meat. This suited me fine as I could happily be a vegetarian. One thing she always had was bread.  Fresh, out of the oven, homemade, hand kneaded bread. She was my babysitter when I was small, and every few days, I would stand on a chair and watch her make it.  She would always bake two loaves at a time and for lunch, she and I would sit and watch the butter melt over one of them. Then out came her serrated bread knife, and we would enjoy an entire loaf between the two of us. The heels were always my favorite. I can still make her bread but haven’t done so in a long time.  Bread wasn’t her only specialty.  She loved to make pies. My memories are filled with her cutting lard into the flour to make the crust with two knives. It seemed to take forever! I never much cared for pie at the time (lemon or chocolate meringue were her favorites) which was fine because the best part was when she spread the leftover pie crust out on her bread board, and covered it with butter, sugar and cinnamon. It was then folded (not rolled) over and baked.  This is what I grew up believing a cinnamon roll to be.  I was an adult before I learned that cinnamon rolls were not made from pie crust.

My mom’s mom, Mabel, grew up on a farm in western Oklahoma. She and my grandfather both came from large families so you never knew how many you might have for Sunday dinner.  My grandparents had owned a diner in Weatherford, Oklahoma before I was born, so cooking a meal for a sizeable group had always been a part of living. When you ate at Mabel’s, you couldn’t possibly leave the table hungry, and most often, you were miserable from overindulging.  There was every comfort food imaginable, and above all else – GRAVY.  The table was so full there was barely enough room for plates.  I didn’t spend a great deal of time with Mabel when I was small, but I can certainly remember those meals when we’d travel to Weatherford on the weekends. These feasts were the essence of family style. Mabel’s specialty was fried chicken. I don’t care for chicken, and it’s only been the last few years that I’ve acquiesced to eating any at all. To cook it? It literally makes me gag to even look at raw chicken. Two of Mabel’s sons, my Uncle Joe, and Uncle Vernon, didn’t like chicken either.  They grew up on the farm and were probably served chicken more than any other dish. I don’t know where my disdain of chicken comes from, but at least I know I’m not alone.

My sister-in-law is a descendant of Italian immigrants. An invitation to Thanksgiving at her house is reminiscent of those at my grandma Ditmore’s house, only the fare is so different.  There are salads, and pasta, and sausages, and cheeses, and when you think you can’t take another bite - THEN the turkey, and stuffing, and vegetables, and breads and of course, Italian cheesecake are served. I’m usually full after the first course, but it’s all so good, one cannot simply stop eating. Of the few things I do like to cook is her lasagna recipe.  It’s all from scratch, the sauce must simmer for hours.  I must set aside an entire day to make it which I why I only make it about once a year.  Funny story – on probably the first occasion where I made dinner for my future husband, I thought I’d really pour on the domesticity, and I made lasagna.  Well…you should have seen the look on his face. Come to find out, he did not like any type of pasta, much less lasagna. Guess what? He loved it.  Good thing, too, because I don’t think I could have married a man who wouldn’t eat Italian.

My mother was a very good cook, but my brother and I were both picky eaters.  My father, on the other hand, would eat anything put before him.  The minute my mom would get home from work, she set up camp in the kitchen where she would prepare an entire meal made up of meat and potatoes, along with a vegetable or two, bread of some type, and a dessert.  Most often, I turned up my nose, so she would then set out to find, and cook, something that more appealed to me.  If my brother didn’t like either what my dad or I were eating, she would then go searching for something else for him (Note: my brother’s tastes were eventually expanded when he served in the military. He owned a health food restaurant in the 70’s and I can assure you that most of the meals we had as kids were not on that menu). My mom spent most of her life either at the office where she worked, or in the kitchen.  She also suffered from OCD, so once the dishes were done and put away, she mopped the floor and made everything spic and span.  This made quite an impression on me.  I blame my mother for the fact I don’t care to cook.  There are more important things than spending half my life in the kitchen.  When I became a wife and mother, if my brood didn’t like what I served, they could just go hungry – and they learned at an early age how to clean the kitchen. Of course, my OCD now prevents me from letting anyone in my kitchen when it’s time to clean up because I know they won’t clean it to my satisfaction. 

There are so many fond memories sitting at each of these tables.  I have many recipes handwritten by my mother and both grandmothers.  Just the fact they’re handwritten makes them treasures to me. While I haven’t tried all of them, I do have a few favorites.  For Christmas last year, I received a cutting board from one of my daughters. Engraved in the wood is a recipe, written in my mother’s handwriting. Needless to say, it brought the tears, but since it’s a chicken recipe, I doubt I’ll be giving it a try.

My youngest granddaughter is a baker. Cakes, pies, cookies, just about any dessert you can think of, she can do it. As soon as she was big enough to stand on a chair in the kitchen, she started to bake with the help of her daddy. Everything from scratch! Her favorite TV shows are any that have to do with baking competitions. If she were so inclined to complete, I'm confident she'd win. She's a teenager now, and an athlete, as well, so it's not unusual for her to come in from softball practice and immediately set to work in the kitchen. She usually comes to spend a week or so with us during the summer, so PapPaw makes sure she has all the ingredients to make his favorites - angel food cake and coconut cream pie. I wish she had the opportunity to spend a day in the kitchens of her ancestors, to see firsthand how much love they poured into the meals they prepared. Even without that, however, she continues to carry on the legacy of all the great cooks that have come before her.

 

Week 48 - Troublemaker

 

Last week, I may have alluded to the fact that there might be some gossip and a little scandal surrounding the Echols family of Habersham County, Georgia.  While not as shocking as the story of Peter Tallman and his wife, Ann (see Week 25), for the day, the following was surely the talk of the county.

Darius Echols was born in 1779, in Hallifax County, Virginia, the son of Joshua Echols. Sometime around 1790, the family moved to Pendleton County, South Carolina. When the Georgia Land Lottery of 1805 was announced, Joshua, along with his sons Darius, James, John, and Abraham relocated to Franklin County, Georgia.  On 14 September 1804, Darius received a headright of 150 acres of land in what would become Habersham County.  He became well known as a prominent citizen.  Darius had married Tabitha Whitworth around 1800.  The Echols were quite prolific, becoming parents to thirteen children consisting of six sons and seven daughters.  Darius held the office of Justice of the Peace of Habersham County in 1817 and 1819. He then served as Sheriff from 1820 through 1823 (the years such records are available). He sounds like an upstanding fellow, right?

Living in the area was a woman named Hannah Thomas.  Speculation is that she was the widow Thomas, whose husband died around 1820. Her first child, named Joseph, was born circa 1820. Hannah was sixteen years old.  From 1822 to 1825, Hannah had three more children: James Wyly, Martin Riley and Darling. In an 1834 court record, these three children were identified as illegitimate. In 1827, a Georgia Land Lottery offered land for Revolutionary War veterans, their widows, orphans, and even illegitimate children. Hannah listed as “widow R.S” (R.S. standing for Revolutionary Soldier) drew land in Gwinnet and Effingham Counties. She also received two separate draws of 68 and 231 acres in Habersham County for her minor children. Then in 1832, she also drew land in Habersham County for herself, again, listed as a widow.

In 1833, Darius Echols was appointed as Guardian of the Estate of Hannah Thomas’ three illegitimate children.  Speculation is that Darius was the father of the three illegitimate children. In an interview between two Thomas descendants in 1897, it was said that the Thomases were really Echols. There are other written family histories that also indicate the same. By 1840, Darius and his family were next-door neighbors to Hannah Thomas. On 13 July 1849, Darius and Hannah, together, attested to the claim of a woman named Annis Miller who had applied for a pension on her late husband, Robert Miller of South Carolina. Darius and Hannah both swore to have known the man since “early life,” and had heard him recount his service in the Revolutionary war.  While I haven’t spent much time trying to find out much about the Miller’s, it seems odd to me that Hannah would have been the one to swear out the affidavit, rather than Darius’ wife, Tabitha. The words “early life” also seems out of place, since Darius was more than twenty years older than Hannah.  Whose early life are we speaking of?  This is just another of the conundrums that require more research in regards to the Echols.

In the 1850 census, Hannah is listed with her children, still living next door to Darius and Tabitha. Then, in 1851, Darius witnessed a deed when Hannah sold land to her son. In 1855, the law stepped in when Tabitha likely filed a report. At the April 1856 Term of the Habersham County Superior Court, Hannah and Darius were charged with Adultery and Fornication as of 1 October 1855. The complaint also stated, “and at diverse times both before and after,” indicating this was certainly not the first time.  They were reported to be cohabitating even though Darius was married, and Hannah was single.  Interestingly enough, Hannah declared she was guilty, where Darius denied the charges.  Regardless, they were both convicted and fined.  At this time, Darius was seventy-one and Hannah was fifty-one.  This must have been a case of true love, as the couple continued with their affair which likely had lasted more than thirty years by this time.  The 1860 census has Hannah enumerated as a housekeeper in Darius’ household. By this time, Tabitha had moved to Dale County, Alabama, where she was living with her son, Abel. On 15 January 1863, Darius and Hannah were married in Habersham County. It may have been that Tabitha had died at this time, allowing the couple to wed. The law at the time allowed for the legitimization of all children born of this relationship, however as all Hannah’s children were now adults with families of their own, no reason existed to change their names to Echols.  It is rumored there were seven or more illegitimate children born to this union. 

A direct descendant of Darius and Hannah, and also an excellent genealogist, has done much research on the comings and goings of these two.  In a compilation she authored she raised several very important questions.  Was Hannah a rare creature of the time who was an independent woman who took charge of her own life? Or was she completely dominated by Darius who was twenty-five years older, who seduced and impregnated her when she was a widowed teenager?  In her words, “Their relationship of forty-six years lasted much longer than many marriages do today. One hopes there was some true love and devotion between them.” 

Hannah is probably not the only woman with whom Darius had a “close” relationship. Rumors abound among descendants of several other children who were fathered by him.  One includes the son of a woman who reportedly changed his name to Echols.  James Perry Gazaway may well be that child. In the 1850 census, James is enumerated by his birth name of Gazaway, however by the 1860 census, he had changed his name to Echols.  Y-DNA evidence suggests that Darius fathered James, who was the son of Obedience Gazaway.  This might possibly be corroborated by autosomal DNA, as I match in the 5^th – 8^th generations with at least two descendants of James.  

Darius Echols and his legal wife, Tabitha Whitworth, were my fifth great-grandparents.  I descend through their son, Jabal.  While I’m fairly certain Hannah had an abysmal life living amongst the good folk of Habersham County who knew about her indiscretions, what of Tabitha? The humiliation she must have withstood knowing that her husband was unfaithful, and that everyone else knew it, must surely have been agonizing.  I love telling the stories of my celebrated ancestors, but there are still those hanging around in my tree whose lives were much less distinguished or downright unscrupulous. While these stories hold less joy, they are still a part of my family’s history and deserve to be told.

 Week 47 – “This Ancestor Stayed Home”

 

I apparently come from a long line of restless travelers. Even as far back as my twelfth great-grandfather, who left Germany for England in the early 1500s, few of my ancestors stayed in the same place they were born.  One exception to this is my Ayers family of Georgia.  For three generations of my direct line, this family remained in Habersham County.  They married into other deep rooted Georgia families, like the Cash, Davis, Echols, and Yearwood’s. Since shortly after the Revolutionary War, my ancestors were born, lived and died in this one area at the foot of the Appalachian Mountains.

My fourth great-grandfather, Moses Ayers, was born in Franklin County, Georgia, on 7 December 1794, and he died in Habersham County, Georgia on 19 August 1876. While you may think he did move, the formation of counties between 1794 and 1876 changed the boundaries many times, and he did, in fact, die in what had been Franklin County at the time of his birth.  There is much speculation, but no known documentation, as to who the parents of Moses were, but it is likely his father was Rogimalech/Regimalick Baker Ayers, known as Baker Ayers. Relentless research for where the name Rogimalech may have come from has been entirely fruitless although a number of unsourced family trees tell of a Rogimalech Baker who was born in Maryland circa 1715, or Rogimalech Baker who was born in New Jersey, circa 1717 – who both reportedly died in Pittsylvania County, Virginia. The search continues.

What we do know is that Moses married Mary “Polly” Davis on 14 September 1815, in Habersham County. Mary was the granddaughter of Revolutionary Patriot, Thomas Davis of North Carolina, who served as a Private in the “Battalion of Minutemen” in defense of the state of Georgia.  For his service, he was granted land in Franklin County in 1784. Mary’s father, Henry Davis, deeded 250 acres to Moses, “in consideration of natural love and affection for my daughter Polly Ayers, wife of Moses” in March 1849. Later, this same land was deeded in three parts to the adult sons of Moses and Mary.  Altogether, Moses and Mary had ten children, five boys and five girls, between 1816 and 1834. A daughter, Margaret, born 1817, and son William Baker Ayers (another clue regarding the name of the father of Moses), born 1822, both died in January 1827. In 1834, a baby boy named Humphrey was born, but he lived only six weeks. The remaining children lived to adulthood, all of which married and had children of their own, apart from their daughter, Rebecca.  When Rebecca died in 1860, she was twenty-four years old, but never appears to have been married. In 1864, Moses Ayers gifted his grandson and namesake, Moses Prince Ayers, a small book he used as a census taker for the Georgia census in 1852. It includes the names of those inhabitants in the five districts of Habersham County – Upperleather, Polecat, Mudcreek, Centerhill, and the Fork District. He also wrote in it, “I, Moses Ayers do solemnly swear, or affirm, that I will to the best of my ability, do and preform [sic] all the duties required of me by law as a taker of the census for the county of Habersham and faithfully and duly execute the trust confided to me, So help me God.” The book also included family birth and death dates, beginning with his father-in-law, Henry Davis and family; Moses, Mary and their children; and Moses’ son, James Morgan Ayers (father of Moses Prince Ayers) and his family. The extremely fragile book still exists today and is in the possession of an Ayers descendant living in Toccoa, Georgia. The daguerreotype photograph below is of Moses, taken some time in the 1860s.

When one thinks of the south, it’s the grand plantations and the antebellum lifestyle that immediately comes to mind. From records available, it appears the Ayers were only able to eke out a meager living. Their personal property and real estate values were quite low in comparison to their neighbors.  The ideology of the family, however, sided with the south when the Civil War broke out in 1861. The remaining three sons all went off to fight in the name of the Confederacy. Middle son, James Morgan Ayers (my third great-grandfather), was the first to enlist in February 1862. He served with Company G of the George Militia State Troops.  Shortly thereafter, on 12 May 1862, youngest son Jonathan Stone Ayers, joined as a Private in Smith’s Legion which soon became Captain Grant’s 65^th Regiment of Georgia Volunteers, for a term of three years.  His term only lasted five months and twenty-three days when he was killed in a skirmish with Union troops near Morristown, Tennessee.  Oldest son, Henry Davis Ayers, had managed to steer clear of the fighting, but possibly due to the death of his brother he was spurned into action, enlisting with the Second Battalion Infantry, on 1 April 1864. While Henry seems to have survived the conflict unscathed, his brother James’ story ended quite differently. 

James Morgan Ayers had married Hannah Melissa Prince in 1848. By the time the Civil War broke out, they had four children.  After the war, James returned to Habersham County to his small farm.  He owned the small patch of ground (part of the tract of land bestowed to his father) that he used to raise his crops, but he had become a feeble man.  According to his Civil War Pension Application, filed in 1902, he had suffered some type of paralysis and had been unable to work for many years. To say the family was poor is quite an understatement.  Forced to sell their land, James and Hannah ended up living with various other families, often separately, for the remainder of their lives. It seems that marriage was the best way for each of James and Hannah’s children to get out from under the poverty they endured.  Their oldest daughter, Artimissia Ayers, married Willis Howard Cash of the prominent Cash family, all descendants of Revolutionary Patriots Stephen Cash and Howard Cash, father and son.  Howard had settled in the area shortly after the war.  Daughter Mary M. Ayers married John M. Echols from another leading family, although much gossip and scandal surrounded this family in the earlier days of the county (a story for another day).  The youngest daughter, Eliza Jane Ayers, married James Allison Yearwood (whose first cousin is a direct ancestor of country music star, Trisha Yearwood).  This left their only son, Moses Prince Ayers, to branch out on his own to make a life.

As a romantic, I can only imagine that the marriage, on 19 Mar 1871, of Moses Prince Ayers to Sarah Frances Cash must have been one of love. Sarah was born into one of the most well-to-do families around and I can only assume that their union was not one that would have been welcomed by her parents due to Moses’ poverty-stricken upbringing. However, his sister’s marriage to Sarah’s cousin may have helped to alleviate any misgivings.  By 1880, the couple had welcomed four children. Moses was twenty-five, Sarah twenty-three.  While the family never became prosperous, they seemed to have made a comfortable living.  Of the couple’s six children, comprised of two sons and four daughters, the only one to leave Habersham County was Malora Jane Ayers, who would later become my great-grandmother.

There are countless Ayers descendants still living in Habersham County today. In the summer of 2020, I had the opportunity to visit the Genealogy Department of the Clarksville Library. When I relayed to the curator that I was looking for information on the Ayers family, he expressed with great exuberance that his wife was also an Ayers, as well as a Cash descendant. The smallness of the world never ceases to amaze me.

Week 46 – This Ancestor Went to Market

 

I know I’ve mentioned my Anthony ancestors, probably more than any other, but my fascination with them stems from the early days of my genealogical research. Add that to the fact that there is much written documentation about them.  The topic this week is “This Ancestor Went to Market” and I’m carrying that just a tad further…”This Ancestor Went to Market Street.”

Joseph Anthony, II was born 15 January 1762 in Newport, Rhode Island.  His father was a wealthy shipping captain, so his childhood was one of wealth and privilege.  As the oldest child born to Captain Joseph Anthony and Elizabeth Sheffield, he was expected to follow in his father’s footsteps, however, the area around Newport was rich with artisans and craftsmen.  Joseph, instead, chose to resume the profession of his ancestors.  Beginning with his sixth great-grandfather, William Anthony, generations of Anthony’s had taken up the occupation of silversmiths and engravers.

Joseph Anthony (Senior) was a staunch Federalist and near the end of the Revolutionary War, relocated his family from Rhode Island to Philadelphia. Joseph (II) must have apprenticed in Rhode Island prior to the move because shortly thereafter, an ad appeared in the Dunlap & Claypoole’s American Daily Advertiser on 16 October 1783 announcing that Joseph Anthony, Junior, “begs leave to inform the Public in general, and his Friends in particular” that he had opened shop “in Market-Street, two doors east of the Indian King” (The Indian King is at what is today 240 Market Street).  Thus was the beginning of Joseph Anthony, Goldsmith & Jeweler.

Joseph’s business prospered, in part, no doubt, to the associates and acquaintances of his father, who was well ensconced with the important men of the new government.  Two years after opening, he married Henrietta Hillegas, daughter of the United States Treasurer, Michael Hillegas.  His tradecard read:  Orders from the Country carefully attended to & Punctually executed - Joseph Anthony - Goldsmith Jeweller - Market Street, between Second and Third Streets, Philadelphia - Makes and sells the most fashionable Articles in the above branches - Wholesale and Retail - A general assortment of Gold, Silver, Plated Wares, & Jewellery - Of the newest Fashion, and most elegant taste - TEA and COFFEE URNS of the most modern & approved Patterns - Miniature Pictures set, Devices in Hair - Mourning Rings & Lockets - Made on the shortest Notice - The full Value given for Gold, Silver, Lace, & Diamonds

His business soon began importing fine goods in addition to his wares. He eventually expanded his business to include turner and brass maker of musical instruments. In 1790, artist John Trumbull, sanctioned a series of prints, depicting the most notable events of the Revolutionary War, by subscription.  Initially, Mr. Trumbull himself was the only one to accept payments, but he soon authorized Joseph Anthony to receive them, undoubtedly due to his upstanding character and honesty.   It’s apparent his wife, Henrietta, took an interest in the day-to-day operations. A receipt for items purchased by Samuel Meredith, with her signature, was dated 1791. His clientele were among the most well-to-do of Philadelphia. 

As the business grew, so did their family.  Joseph and Henrietta had eleven children, but unfortunately only three lived to adulthood.  On 20 December 1809, an advertisement in the Aurora General Advertiser announced that son Michael was taken into partnership and the business would now be known as Joseph Anthony & Son.  Then, on 1 November 1811, son Thomas joined the enterprise. The firm then became known as Joseph Anthony & Sons.

There are many advertisements and articles relating to Joseph Anthony’s travels to find the most unique and stylish items from across the sea.  On 20 December 1809, he had just returned from London with “a very elegant and extensive assortment of goods selected immediately from the Manufactories in England; and flatters himself that in point of workmanship, stile, and elegance of patterns, they are not to be exceeded, if equaled, in the United States.”  On 17 August 1814, he travelled to Harrisburg in the middle of the state.  He arrived by stagecoach around noon, in apparent good health and spirits. Less than an hour later he was “seized with a fit of apoplexy” (likely a stroke) and died almost immediately. His remains were interred in the Presbyterian Burial Ground there.

Several of his works survive to this day.  A coffee urn, owned by George and Martha Washington is on display at Mount Vernon. Several more pieces are exhibited at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, which include a hoop tankard (c 1788); a cream pot (c 1790); and a marrow spoon (c 1790-1800).  At some point, he fashioned a platinum and ruby ring for his daughter, Henrietta Hillegas Anthony (b 1898 – d 1868).  It is a lovely little petite piece of jewelry.  At her death, she left the ring to her namesake, granddaughter, Henrietta Anthony Patton, the daughter of her son William Anthony Patton.  “Hennie” as she was known, left the ring to her only daughter, Carolyn Patton Fulton.  My grandmother, also Henrietta Anthony Patton, inherited the ring when her first cousin, Carolyn died.  I have it now, and it is one of my most precious treasures. 

 Week 45 – War and Peace

 

September 11, 2001. On that day, our nation came under attack. We came together as one, and I know each of you reading this that were alive at the time remember exactly where you were, and you will never forget.  The feelings we all shared must be similar to those of our ancestors, when they first heard the news when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. Once again, our country came together. Hundreds of thousands of men and women immediately volunteered to serve in the armed forces.

In Western Oklahoma, three young men, brothers, wasted no time in volunteering. By 27 January 1942, Orval Glen Ditmore, with two years of college completed, was already at Duncan Field in San Antonio as part of the Army Air Corps.  The twenty-two-year-old was serving as an office clerk. Younger brother Vernon Wayne Ditmore, was twenty years old when he began his military service, joining his brother at Duncan Field on 7 October 1942.  It wouldn’t be until 1 August 1944 when the baby of the family, Frankie Joe, would report to Fort Sam Houston, also in San Antonio. He was just eighteen years old.

These three brothers had grown up on a farm outside Hydro, Oklahoma, the sons of Henry Glen Ditmore and his wife, Mabel Goldie Pennington. Life was tough living on the farm, but they never went hungry, even through the Great Depression and the Dust Bowl. Their family, which included my mother, was very close-knit.

After high school, Orval moved to Oklahoma City to attend Draughon’s School of Business.  He lived in Britton, a suburb at the time, but is now completely landlocked by “the city.”  After he finished school, he worked as a private secretary for Dr. E.F. Webber, pastor of the “Gospel Church of The Air”, a successful radio show.  He joined the Britton Church of the Nazarene where he became quite involved in several young people’s groups.  It was here that he met Edith Josephine Stevenson, who would become his wife on 22 June 1941. Dr. Webber performed the ceremony.

Orval was very involved in the Nazarene Church and even had a musical group – The Happy Four – which played at many venues throughout the area. On Thursday evenings, you could hear them from 11:00 pm to 11:30pm on Oklahoma City radio station KOMA (1480 on your AM dial, at the time). Then they really hit the big time when, in October 1938, they had their own fifteen-minute show every Sunday morning at 8:45.  On 11 February 1939, their show was extended to a full half hour! Newspaper articles from not only Oklahoma City, but all over the state – Chickasha, Seminole, Ponca City, Norman, Lawton, Cushing, Marlow, Blackwell, Thomas, Blanchard and more, told of their upcoming live performances. They were apparently quite popular.

I can imagine that Orval and Josephine were attending church the morning of 7 December 1941 when the Japanese launched an unprovoked attack on the Pearl Harbor Naval base in Hawaii. The newlywed of only six months joined the throngs of patriots who enlisted in the United State Armed Forces. Josephine was able to join him, and they made their home in an apartment near the base in San Antonio. Orval wrote several letters to the local newspaper to report on the happenings in San Antonio and his many promotions over the course of only a few months…Corporal, Sargeant, Staff Sargeant, and eventually Chief Warrant Officer. He also wrote to his parents, often. Those letters were upbeat and full of optimism.

In October 1944, Orval was sent overseas to Burma, India. While there, he helped to build a church. He had also taken on the role of photographer. He was taken on a number of flights over the area where the Ledo Road was being constructed as part of the Burma Road, which the Allies restored as a link between Burma and China. The cause remains unknown but on his last flight, the plane in which he was a passenger crashed. There were no survivors.

Orval was the son who was expected to return without fail. His job was not considered dangerous. He wasn’t on the ground fighting, as were his brothers. At the time he died, his brother Vernon was fighting on Iwo Jima; and that very day, his youngest brother, Joe, was wounded on Okinawa. A letter received by his parents, and published in the Hydro Review on 21 June, Joe told of being wounded, and asked how his brothers were. He was unaware of Orval’s death.  Orval was buried in India, initially, but in 1948, his body was returned to Oklahoma. He was finally laid to rest at Fort Gibson National Cemetery in eastern Oklahoma.

Over 400,000 U.S. military died during World War II. Most every family was affected in some way by the war. My grandparents sent three sons off to war, and only two returned, enrolling my grandmother into that club she never wanted to belong to - the Gold Star Mothers. Orval was my mother's favorite brother, although she would never have told the other two. She saved the few items he sent to her from across the sea and spoke of him often. His wife, Josephine, moved to Chicago, Illinois, and eventually remarried. As Orval had no children of his own to pass on his legacy, I feel compelled to write his story. I've been involved with Wreaths Across America for the past ten years. Their motto is "Remember, Honor, Teach." Each year, I sponsor wreaths for all those I know who died in service. I would like to encourage each of you reading this to sponsor a wreath, or wreaths, this year to remember a veteran who lost their life in defense of our great nation.