Trees Have Deep Roots

 

The cellar, Jackson sighed as he descended moldy steps. Having worked from attic to cellar, Jackson had just eaten a copious number of brownies Grammy forced on him. Oh, Jackie! What an industrious little boy you are! Have another brownie…

After a pot of black coffee and a belly full of brownies, Jackson was galvanized to tackle the dank cellar. The first few boxes were with junk. Then the third box yielded treasure.

An old camera from long ago era, 1870s maybe Civil War? Riveted by the tin-type photos carefully labeled with names, Jackson could pick out physical resemblances in his own generation.

Jackson froze when one branch of the family turned and headed to here-to-fore hidden family names, absent from family conversations. One of the great-great-grandfathers was Amos Lee, a black soldier; his black wife, Martha Lee held a child on her lap…Jackson Lee.

It was a page turner. Tin-types led to Seneca tribes in New York and then onto Oneida tribes, over to Lakota.

Well, that’s a hell of a thing…Jackson smiled. Trees must have deep roots.

This is a Wednesday Word post, words chosen by Delores back in November 2014. Always fun to play and toss around, writing whatever comes to mind. 

For any who haven't  experienced  wandering down into a cellar, you must try it sometime.

The Maze of a Small Town

My Grandmother and Grandfather Cardiff with their four daughters (Mom on the left).

The faces of my mother’s hometown all look familiar, as if there is a mold somewhere which makes each family member.  A distant cousin has the same nose as my aunt, and the way someone smiles calls up the memory of a long dead parent. 

When I visited my mother, we went out to the local restaurant frequently.  We always planted ourselves where Mom could see who entered and where they sat.  All it took was for me to ask:  “Mom, who is that lady?  Do I know her?”

I know my grandmother is the tall girl in the back, but...

Mom would lean back.  “Well.  That woman is Lydia Roberts.  NOW her maiden name was…..and her mother was….”  The twists and turns of births, marriages, and deaths plus maiden names and odd events that happened down through the years led deeper and deeper into a maze of genealogy. 

Mom knew it all.  All the names and relationships, all the side events that make small-town life interesting, and all the history of decades past were imprinted in my mother’s mind. 

 My grandmother was the same, and I would guess that there was an oral history of telling family lines at Sunday dinners, funeral memorials, and births of new generations.

Mom, who is the lady on the right?

My mother traced back through to the early 1800s, and then, “…NOW Orley Jenkins came here from Kentucky at that time.  BUT his mother’s family—the Jones family—were from Wales.  What was her name?  Lizzie?  NO.  Margaret, that’s her name…”   

She would pause then, glanced at the woman who was eating her fried catfish and coleslaw.  “Oh.  No, no you don’t know that woman.”

I had gotten lost at the second turn in the maze, but I didn’t dare interrupt Mom.  When Mom was weaving her journey through over 100 years of people, it was best to let her find her way back to me. 

This blog post is part of two families who merge when my parents meet and marry. "Roads Run Both Ways" is a way of recounting their lives.  You can find this collection at Susan Kane, Writer, where the most recent post is shown. 

My parents, Irma and Bud Peck in back; Donald, Robert, Bill, Mary, and me

Mom

Dad

Dad, Aunt Helen, Uncle Bill, and Grandma Peck