Dodge ‘im

As noted, harsh facts must be faced in the tracing of a family tree.  Besides slavery, the “horse thief” issue comes up too.  Involvement in the Kentucky blood feuds included the conviction for murder of one way-back uncle.  Fear drove my great-grandmother (seated right below) to secure her family in the safer hills of East Tennessee, ending their involvement in feuds.  (In true soap-opera style my murderous relation served his time, barely avoiding being hanged, and found God while in prison.  He came out preaching from the book he’d written, From Prison to Pulpit.  America has always loved a repentent sinner, so he soon became a popular evangelist and settled down to family life.) 

The most troubling custom I find in my searching is the burden of producing child after child in those days of no birth control or family planning.  Children were born within a year or two of marriage and again every 18 to 24 months like clockwork until women were well into their mid- and even late-40’s.  They gave birth and likely breast-fed for a year or so, which may have provided a contraception benefit, only to start all over again.  They often lost a child or two, so life was precarious.  Maybe the women felt blessed. 

But I don’t believe those poor ravaged women were having sex because they enjoyed it so darn much.  Male dominance conspired with ignorance until wives “dutied” themselves into producing small armies.

One of the Kentucky-to-Tennessee refugees sired 14 children, all being cousins of my father, all growing up during the Depression.  I recall what resourceful and accomplished people they were.  But out of the 14, only 2 of them had children; another dry old statistic that says a lot.

 (This newspaper photo shows only 12 children, so either two had already left home, passed away, were at work that day–or else this older-looking couple [center and left] were to have two more children after this photo was made!)

I often think of a story my late MIL told.  She was an RN way back in the days when it was illegal to disseminate birth control information.  (See Comstock Act.)  She worked for a doctor in a tiny impoverished coal community just over the state line in Red Ash, Kentucky.  Life was beyond grim and made more so by more and more mouths to feed.  She had attended a home birth with her employer, one that had been particularly horrendous and detrimental to the mother’s health.  Prevented from giving her the technical means that would help her do just that, Doctor told Jessie as firmly as he could that she must stop having children.  The sick and feeble woman said, “But, Doctor, how must I do that?”  He replied, “Dodge ‘im, Jessie.  Just dodge ‘im.”  We repeated this story with humor–”Dodge ‘im, Jessie,” became an admonition suitable for a number of situations.  In sober moments, the story breaks my heart.

Margaret Sanger–always on my list of most admired women.

 

Wilderness Road, Sometimes

“I have never been lost,

but I will admit to being confused for several weeks.”

—Daniel Boone

I’m used to seeing eyes glaze over when I start talking ancestors, so I appreciate the positive comments on my last post.  That Dorothy is one smart cookie (but you knew that).  I was going to send a personal response to her mention of the black couple living with my ancestors, but I thought a separate post might work better.

Genealogists have to face grim truths sometimes.  One of mine is proof that some of my ancestors owned slaves.  Not many ancestors and not many slaves, but that’s no consolation.  My kin settled in East Tennessee, an extremely mountainous and isolated part of Appalachia.  Some had followed Daniel Boone (his wife Rebecca is a distant auntie) and other trader/explorers into Cherokee lands, where they appropriated acreage for themselves (ah, the guilt never ends), then fought ferociously for independence at the Battle of Kings Mountain.  The terrain and inaccessibility were not conducive to a plantation economy, so there was no need for vast numbers of slave labor.  They were mostly quiet English and Scottish farmers and merchants struggling to make good lives for their families.  To this day the area is a stronghold of political conservatism, and my parents respectfully kept their Democratic politics to themselves when visiting their families.

These Revolutionary War patriots were outraged by the Civil War, a thoroughly traitorous act they called the War of the Rebellion.  This pocket of mountain men fought mostly for the Union Army; the few Confederate soldiers usually served under threat and deserted as soon as possible.  Kentucky was a border state, but Tennessee too was a place where brother sometimes fought brother.

My paternal Jett clan settled just across the Cumberland Gap in nearby Eastern Kentucky, a similar terrain and economy to East Tennessee’s.  I don’t know the circumstances of the young couple Dorothy noticed.  I believe slavery was uncommon there too, and that the couple living in the Jett household may have been tenant farmers or share-croppers, or other hired help.  My great-great-grandfather was a prosperous farmer with large holdings, a merchant and a hotelier.  It would be natural to have help living in the household or on the property, seeing how Nancy was eternally maternally preoccupied.  Freed slaves commonly took the surnames of former owners, and this couple may have been offspring of former slaves.  The younger Jetts fled ”Bloody Breathitt” to the East Tennessee village where my maternal clans had settled.  (Stephen Jett’s brother had already done murder and Ann feared for the lives of her two sons.)  When they hurriedly left Kentucky, they either took with them or were later joined by a black man who evidently worked and lived with them for many years.

I love the south and keep one foot tangled fast in my southern roots, but my other foot tries not to step in deep-south mud.  It hurts my heart to know some of my ancestors’ sins, though I don’t harbor any guilt; what would be the point?  It is sad and unpleasant to discover facts I’d prefer not to know, but I take the bad with the good and own up to the painful when I have to.

 Stitch on ….

Next time:  another troubling social issue in my search for family ties.

The Real Survivors

To me they’re the folks who left this world a long time ago.  They survive in my heart and mind, and I listen for lessons from their mute examples.

 I’ve been a genealogist for nearly 20 years, a pastime that never ends because there is always something new just around the next microfiche reel.  It’s also an ebb and flow pastime that has mostly ebbed since I took up my sewing obsession.  It started flowing again when I recently heard from distant cousins, one I don’t know and another I met once when we were children.  We’ve been rapid-firing information and photos back and forth.  I upgraded my genealogy software and now I’m moving, confirming or deleting, and updating my data, even rearranging a closet in the sewing palace so I could drag down materials collected over the years.  In pre-computer days this trolling had to be done at state and county archives and other not-so-handy locales.  Information was tediously photocopied from obscure books or transcribed from microfiche (hence the boxes of paper records).  Now so many records* are available online that it’s become a faster process that mostly takes up room on your hard drive.

My mother grew up knowing little about her roots and my father died when I was 29, before I could get all the information from him I wanted.  15 years later when I began, I sometimes wondered why I try so hard to flesh out the family I could never know.  Was I looking for a better family than the one I had?  At times.  Was I trying to populate a larger family to enliven the small one I came from?  That too.  Mr. Buzzkill points out that it’s just statistics–and not always precise ones–that I gleen (not true).  I admit many of the ghosts have remained just so:  faint, hard to hear.  But a lively few, who undoubtedly made others around them cringe in life, speak loudly after death to me; I find them the most endearing.  I love the family I know and I’ve grown to love the one I didn’t.  I hope to pass on a heritage I didn’t have as I grew up.  And identity, and the knowledge that some generations surpass others in heartache, monetary success, public stature, and personal joy.  It’s for sure those Europeans didn’t come here because life was so swell “back there.”  Some left at night, owing money and having little idea of what lay ahead.  But they prevailed to one degree or another and became the survivors who tell me their stories, in a way.

As generations inevitably pass to the next, our own story will have a happy new statistic.  Don has a special weakness for girl children and little old ladies.  Growing up one of three rough boys, he loves the soft edges women have created in his life.  When his grandchildren began arriving 22 years ago they came in the male variety, 4 in all, ranging in age down to 3-1/2.  My 5-y-o Ella has been the unexpected bonus in his life.  But now his last chance for a pink bundle from heaven comes in August.

He’s been walking 10 feet off the ground for a week, as we just learned that his first granddaughter is on her way.  Since her daddy is also one of three boys and she’ll already have a big brother, we’re all stunned by the reversal of our expectations.  I bet a future genealogist will one day look at the family histories preceeding this little girl’s arrival and see more than just dry statistics.  Those very statistics will tell just how delighted we were with her arrival!

 *******************

* This is a clickable copy (double-click, choose “all sizes”) of an 1870 federal census in the hills of eastern Kentucky. The 76th household is that of my great-grandparents Nancy and Curtis Jett, Sr. A huge and colorful family, there is no dearth of biographical information on this clan. But it was the dry statistics that startled me: I realized that on one awful day in January, Nancy Jett lost 2 young daughters … and that she gave birth to another daughter the very next day. Terrible scenarios float through my head when I imagine these events.

Curtis was a prosperous farmer-merchant who built a subscription (for pay) school on Jett’s Creek, for which he hired Ann Searcy to come from another county to teach. Shrewd girl that she was, Ann eventually married the boss’s son, who happened to be a student eight years her junior. Ann and Stephen are the 77th household on this page. They would lose their first-born daughter 7 years later, and they would one day become my great-grandparents after fleeing the blood feuds of Kentucky for the safer hills of Tennessee. The entire Jett clan was resourceful, successful, and indomitable–their voices are very loud.

Quilt Block

(The title is about as much stitch content as you’re gonna get.)  More accurately, writer’s block.  I’m not depressed, not ill unless terminal blah is a disease.  It’s evident in the rest of my life too.  Just coasting along, sleepy all the time.  When I find some energy, I’m gonna check with my doc to see if I’m anemic or have an underactive thyroid.  Or just spring fever.

This year’s cherry trees in Nashville were the most spectacular I’ve ever seen, thanks to gentle rain instead of our usual spring downpours and whipping winds.  The cherry trees are green now, replaced by achingly beautiful redbud and now the dogwoods are showing up all over town.  Spring is my favorite season.  Both my children were planned to spring forth just as the earth did likewise, so one had a birthday in March and one will have one in May.  April is reserved for my mother’s (83 this year), my son-in-law’s, my niece’s, and Other Daughter’s boyfriend.  Now I’m hunkered down financially, just like the rest of the country.

Last week Mother and I made kneeling cushions for the three prie deux* at her church altar.  The greatest lesson she ever taught me was to approach a task saying, ”how do I do it?” and not ”how can I do it?”  It’s never occurred to her, and consequently me, that there is something we cannot do, assuming we have the necessary physical strength.  Boxed cushions are no longer in her bag of tricks so you know who got to make 3 boxed cushions, doncha?  But it was a gift of love to her for something she values, and that’s the way we spent her birthday.  She was delighted.  However, I’m getting tired of all the utility sewing I’ve been pressed into of late.

I haven’t given up blogging.  I’m just waiting for the muse while I continue hand-piecing English Poppies.  Thanks, as always, for your kind / funny / encouraging comments and inquiries.  I sure do love this group!

Stitch on …. 

 * An antique prie deux, though not the ones we worked with.

Not so Idle Hands

I haven’t been posting much lately and it’s been ages since anything but a passing mention of sewing.  But you gotta watch the quiet ones; just because they don’t talk about it doesn’t mean they’re not doing it.

Cases in point:

Curtains I made recently for DGD Ella’s new bedroom.  It’s a lousy picture but it’s evidence.  I painted those walls too and it’s a delicious kiwi or honeydew melon green.  In the 80’s I worked with another designer who referred to then-old-hat ball fringe as “dingleberries.”  Well, dingleberries are back and these are to die for.  These are actually little pom-poms made with different eighth-inch ribbons.

One of the dozen napkins I monogrammed for Mother to give as a wedding gift.  This project taught me how to use my scanner with my embroidery software. That’s how I’m able to make all 12 napkins look exactly alike.

A tablecloth for DD#2 who hosted Easter Dinner (for the first time) in her new house. I used the same scanner trick and embroidered all 4 corners of the cloth. (Odd, how scanned digital pictures can create an optical illusion–the long strokes of the V are a satin stitch that stands UP from the fabric, even though the photo looks like it’s letter pressed–into the cloth.)

Six, count ‘em, six new sofa pillows I whipped up on Saturday for DD#2. She took my old pillow-back red sofa, and the new pillows will replace the old ones that don’t match her other furniture.

And evidence that I’ve been connecting the dots.  Putting some of those little hexies together.  Originally the flowers were to be closer together but it was way too busy, so I started adding more rows of white just to spread them out a little.

Stitch on …..

OUT! Damned Pain in the Neck

If you wear bi- or tri-focals, you know that trying to read a computer moniter as you type can be a pain in the neck.  Really.

You have to throw back your head till you find the sweet spot where the middle-distance lies in your lenses.  I used to complain about this to the lensmakers, with zip reponse.

See how happy I am to have learned that WalMart makes computer bifocals!!  For $93 they’re nearly all middle distance with a small patch of close-up at the bottom for reading the keyboard!  Woohoo!!

Locally Grown

Every city has a native product that becomes a local favorite, whose popularity sometimes moves beyond the city limits.  A few of Nashville’s faves that may even be familiar to some of you are Goo Goo Clusters

and King Leo peppermint sticks,

the latter rumored to be used in another local favorite, Purity Dairies’ Peppermint Ice Cream.  Goo Goo’s and King Leo have been produced by Standard Candy Company, from the earliest 1900’s.  Goo Goo’s are so sweet they make your teeth ache, but every so often you just gotta have a Goo Goo, and when I visit “foreigners” I always take them a little box of Nashville.  And sometimes another local favorite from just down the road a piece:  

Goo Goo’s are reputedly the first “combination” candy bar, mixing chocolate, peanuts, marshmallow, and caramel.  (A recent version uses pecans, but why gild a lily, I ask you.)  The Grand Ole Opry spread Goo Goo’s fame when they advertised, “Babies say Goo Goo for candy!”  A blue enamel can of King Leo’s was ever-present in my grandparents’ home.  A delicious chalky/soft peppermint, the porosity of the sticks made them ideal for an old fashioned sore-throat remedy  or  treat for old-timers.  (Maybe some explanation is required here:  You would squeeze the orange and suck the juice through the peppermint “straw.”  It was considered a Christmas treat by the Depression crowd.)  The company sold its King Leo brand and the peppermint sticks are now sold at Williams-Sonoma, as well as local groceries.  They’re probably still made here at Standard, and in my heart it will always be a Nashville product.

Which brings me to another local favorite, Purity Dairies.  Still locally-owned and -operated no self-respecting Nashvillian drinks, spreads, dips, scoops, or dollops anything but Purity, still delivered right to your door twice a week in their distinctive trucks.

I like to believe they really do use crushed King Leo peppermint sticks in the pink peppermint ice cream (I used to make it that way myself, starting with soft vanilla ice cream and a few drops of red food coloring, back when Purity made it only at Christmas time.)  If I’m wrong, I really don’t care to be corrected.

I bet your town has a specialty too.  Yummm.  Purity, Standard Candy, and Jack Daniels.  They all say “homemade” to me.

Home Alone

You thought I got arrested for public nekidness, didn’t you?  Nahhh.  I’ve got a good lawyer … several, in fact.  I ‘ve just been very, very busy.

Don’s trip to DisneyWorld was lots of fun–for me.  The embroidery machine got a workout:  a dozen lace snowflakes requested by a co-worker, a dozen monogrammed dinner napkins requested by Mother to give as a wedding gift, and 3 different embroidery classes that were just too cool.  I learned to use my scanner with my embroidery software, so that I could be sure all 12 napkins were just alike (it’s no good if they’re all done well, but not identical to each other).

I watched some movies, some of them twice.  Since I had no interest in Oscar night, I instead screened “Once,” which I adored.  When it was over, I flipped to the Oscars just in time to see the two stars of “Once” perform their nominated song, then pick up statues for it.  Glen Hansard’s acceptance speech was cute.  When the Oscars were over, I flipped right back and watched “Once” again, REAL LOUD, so I could catch all nuances of the heavy Irish and Czech accents and beautiful music.  Another night was “Michael Collins.”  Twice.  Ho-hum.  Ho-hum.  “Martian Child” was kinda sweet, but I’m ready for John Cusack to give up the black hair dye, awready.

During the movies, progress continued on “English Poppies.”  I’m spreading out the loud design a bit by adding more white rows between them.  I don’t have enough poppies completed yet, but I like to switch-up tasks when I have a big project of repetitive steps.

I did eat peppermint ice cream with chocolate sauce for supper more than once, I loved going out and not feeling I had to hurry home to the lonely hubby, and I loved immersing myself in thread and fabric for hours on end, totally guilt-free.

Coming back to work required much making up, working my usual day off.   Now that the work load is caught up, it’s time to catch up with everyone else.  I’ve missed your creativity and your energy! 

Gimme a (Winter) Break

 As a young wife, I always wanted a husband who traveled.  I didn’t get it. 

As an old wife, I still want a husband who travels.  I still didn’t get it.  In fact, this one is even more of a homebody than the last.  Must be my amazing body and scintillating personality … or not.   

Anyhoo, for the first time in 20 years wishes come true.  Never away more than a couple of nights on a golf outing 2 or 3 times in our marriage, Don just left for 5 days at DisneyWorld to play Grandfather Superior to his 3-y-o grandson and two daughters (49 and 34).  (I’ve been asked, nay begged, to go along, but graciously declined.  DisneyWorld with a 3-y-o is not my idea of a vacation.  I’d gladly go with my own grandchildren … but it still wouldn’t be a vacation.)  Or so goes the plan; he’s famous for coming home early, so we’ll see….  The daughters can entertain each other while the two men take their naps and early bedtimes.  Since DSD#2 is newly pregnant there may be a whole lotta nappin’ goin’ on.

What this means for me is: 

• I can run through the house nekid at will.
• I can eat Cheetos for lunch and peppermint ice cream for supper.  On the sofa.  While watching cheesy movies.
• I can hold the remote.
• I can play music REAL LOUD and drag my sewing stuff all over the house.
• I can leave draperies open and turn on all the lights.
• Ella can spend the night and we can braid each other’s hair and make prank phone calls.
• I can go out for dinner with girlfriends.
• I can shop till I drop.

Now, I can do every single one of these things when he’s home (except the remote part).  But it would involve disapproving looks (all but the nekid part).  And ”What are you doing now?” … “Where are you going?” … “When are you leaving?” … “When will you be home?” … “Do you know how obsessed you are?” … “Hey, come watch this [on TV]!” … and the ever-popular “Do we have anything to eat?”

What I’m really planning is a personal vacation to sew my brains out, take embroidery classes, and probably a few of the above.  OMG.  Be still, my heart. 

New Improved Me

As one is periodically want to do, I’m on a self-improvement kick.  During my recent confinement, an episode of “Oprah“ brought me up short.  Hmm, a connection between clutter and weight? 

Sorta makes sense.  Having recently read Rightsizing Your Life, I was already gathering tools for my quest to simplify my life.  Another book mentioned on the show was Nothing to Wear, which struck a double-whammy.  My closet is was jammed but I wear the same 5 or 6 things, none of which thrills or flatters me.

This past week I’ve bagged up nearly everything I own (for 15 years in some cases).  I’m tired of looking at those expensive and perfect blazers I never wear; NObody needs that many shoes; and THAT’s just not age-appropriate, honey!, etc.  The test is 3 questions:  1) Do I love it?,  2) Is it flattering?, and 3) Does it convey the image I want to project?  Very few passed 1 and 2 and almost none number 3 (who WANTS to look tired and so last-decade?).  Some items were still new but I realized I’d bought them simply because they were on sale or hid bulges or matched some other tired garment that needed disposing of too.  It’s been like those decluttering shows:  it gets easier once you get started.

Next step was analyzing how I WANT to look (I like “classic”–put-together as opposed to fixed-up).  Simplifying doesn’t mean buying more to choose from; it’s disciplined buying of good-quality basics.    I scored 6 pairs of Ralph Lauren (all half-price!) slacks and 11 Talbots tops, both well-fitting brands for me.  My beloved brown and black Liz Claiborne clogs are outta here, replaced by 2 delicious pairs of  $150 Cole Haan clogs.  If I wear them only 5 years, that cost-averages $30 per year.  I realize I’ve been shopping cheap because it’s easy and I wanted to spend money on other things.  But the result is feeling dowdy and invisible.  Why not buy fewer but nicer things that make me feel stylish and approachable?

So I haven’t gone to ground.  Just sorting, disposing, cleaning, shopping, and hemming.  And piecing more poppies and embroidering, making pillows–pretty much task-driven sewing.  Maybe something new will emerge after I finish my repotting.

Stitch on!

POST SCRIPT:  After reading Nothing to Wear, I was struck by the dearth of advice specifically geared toward us Baby Boomers, who have our very real issues of body type, hair color, age appropriateness, and the retirement-bound lifestyle.  I never write fan letters or the like, but I noticed the authors had a website and I left such a comment, encouraging them to address the needs of we older-but-not-OLD crowd.  15 minutes ago I received a phone call from author Jesse Garza, thanking me for my input and assuring me they would address my concerns in the next book that will be published soon.  We talked for 10 minutes about the changes I’ve made to my wardrobe, the wide audience he would have if he addressed special needs of Boomers, etc.  We dished a bit, though I was so caught off guard I hardly dazzled him.  What a hoot!