Family History/Genealogy

The sixth day of August…

Family, Family History/Genealogy, My Southern Heart, Reflections

There are some days in life that are just bittersweet…today is one of those days.

On a sweet note, today is Cindy’s birthday. She is my sister Gerry’s firstborn. Cindy is beautiful with a heart of gold…just like her late Mom. She has an ever ready smile and a wonderful sense of humor. We are always laughing when we’re all together. An amazing pianist and wonderful teacher, she must bless the hearts of the students at the college where she teaches. No doubt, she blesses the hearts of our entire family…just as she blesses mine. Happy Birthday, Cindy! I love you. Wish I could be there to celebrate with all of you!

Love this photo from about 1957. Cindy was almost 5 and I was 12.
(just guessing at the year and ages)

Apparently, I’d propped her up in the car window!

I was a really good baby sitter!

Sadly, today also marks the ninth anniversary of my beautiful sister Dot’s death. She fought a courageous battle against AML (Acute Myloid Leukemia) but Heaven needed her. She had such strength and optimism. She believed in FAMILY more than anyone I have ever known. Dot remembered special days with a card, a note or a call. She organized family reunions and made sure that we all got together. She had a gift for staying in touch. Dot had the burden/privilege of being the oldest…maybe that comes with the territory. As I shared in the previous post, searching for our family roots was Dot’s inspiration and I will honor her by finishing it. She would like that.

How I would love to answer the phone and hear her quip one more time, “Hello! What’s going on besides the rent?” with that smile in her voice. I miss her every single day…but I will see her in Heaven.

I love this picture of my sister when she was about 21 years old.

A mystery in Scotland…

Family History/Genealogy

As published in Sweet Journey Home…

I wonder if the same thing that makes me wish I’d been an FBI agent is the same deep thing that makes me love a mystery? Finding clues, sorting them out and solving a mystery is more than just a challenge – it’s actually intriguing. This time, I’m talking about searching out clues in my family history. Years ago, my late sister Dot had the dream of finding our ancestors. I joined her in the exciting search. It didn’t take a whole lot of imagination to know that with the last name of McGregor, our ancestors had come from Scotland.

We began the journey back through the years and enlisted the help of our other two sisters. The four of us traveled to the archives of Mississippi and various other libraries. We wrote many letters requesting information from archives in several states. Amidst the laughter on each trip we’d take, we discovered answers – in birth records, death records, marriage records, old newspaper clippings and family Bibles. You would have thought we’d won the lottery when we “proved” a date or name. There are three large rubbermaid containers stacked next to my chest in my bedroom…filled with several years worth of hard work. I purposely did not put them in the storeroom for a good reason: they’re there to remind me that I must finish this family history. When the snow starts to fall in a few months, I will rejoin Ancestry.com and begin the journey back through time once again.

Several years ago, my husband and I were traveling through North Carolina where my immigrant ancestor, Rev. William McGregor, had lived almost 300 years ago now. There at the foot of Fall Mountain, he built a homestead – complete with a sturdy log house and outbuildings. He established a large apple orchard. He “preached in the meeting houses of America”…which had been his reason for coming to America in the first place. He sold his home and land to Dr. Kron, the first physician of North Carolina. The house has been rebuilt as an exact replica and is in Morrow Mountain State Park in Stanly County, North Carolina.

It was somehow humbling, yet awe-inspiring, to stand on the land of my ancestor, a Baptist preacher from Scotland (there weren’t a lot of Baptists in Scotland at that time). I stood on the porch of his home and wondered where the answers lie. So many of the actual records burned in fires over the years according to the archives there in Stanly County. There are hundreds of his descendants who are searching – as I am. Supposedly, Rev. William McGregor was born in Ossian’s Glen, Scotland. Other records indicate he came from the Isle of Skye.

The mystery lies in Scotland but there is much to prove here first. This is just part of the mystery that I will be working on this Winter, when the snow begins to fall…

Below: Rev. William McGregor’s house in Morrow Mountain State Park.…

Below: The back of Rev. William McGregor’s log house

Below: The back door of Rev. William McGregor’s house…

The paper trail…

Family, Family History/Genealogy, My Southern Heart, Reflections

When I was younger, and the family members with most of the answers were still living, I was too busy to care. I was a young wife with three children to raise, a home to take care of and a nursing career. It never occurred to me to search for “ancestors” or even to ask about them. What a shame – the answers were there.

For the past few weeks, I’ve searched for information about William Merle Jordan – or “Mike” as he was affectionately known. He was my oldest sister’s first love…in all honesty, the love of her life. They met in Clarksdale, Mississippi, in the mid-forties. I wish I had asked my sister just how they’d met. I’ve seen pictures of Mike…a handsome young man with striking blue eyes. I see those blue eyes now in his daughter, Sharon. I see a remarkable resemblance to him in Sharon’s son, Michael. My sister did tell me the story about the days not long after they’d met, when Mike worked as a “milk man” in Clarksdale. Quite often, on an early morning, he would leave two quarts of chocolate milk in the old-fashioned glass bottles on the door step of our home as a gift for my sister and the family, a sweet simple gesture and a luxury at that time.

Dot and Mike were married on March 1, 1947. They were young and in love…they were happy. They lived for a time in Clarksdale and then we all moved to Memphis. My parents purchased half a large two-story duplex on Chelsea Avenue. Uncle Lester and Aunt Ethel purchased the other half. Dot and Mike had the attic apartment, which my sister Gerry says Dot decorated like Country Living and that it was so cute.

My sister, Dorothy. She was probably in her late twenties or early thirties here.

My niece, Sharon, was born on September 16, 1948. I was two and a half years old at the time. I must have thought they’d given me a real live baby doll. She had a beautiful olive complexion and big blue eyes just like both of her parents. She also had a shock of thick, dark hair. I love the photos of her with that dark hair sticking straight up! She was a beautiful baby and is still beautiful.

My sister, Dot, holding Sharon and me sitting beside them. Notice my arm on Dot’s knee and Sharon’s little hand on my shoulder. You also couldn’t miss my brown high tops! This photo was taken on the steps of the large duplex on Chelsea.

These were the years following WWII. Times were hard and jobs were scarce. Mike traveled to Texas with his brother Charles to find work. He had lined up a good job as a truck driver which was to have started the first day of February 1949. In the meantime, he was working on a shrimp boat. On Monday morning, January 24, 1949, there was an explosion aboard the Wilda L, a 54-foot shrimping boat, eight miles off the shore of Freeport, Texas. Both the owner of the boat and William Merle “Mike” Jordan were lost to the sea. A search of the waters and through the debris in the hull of the boat failed to locate their bodies.

My sister and Mike’s mother traveled to Freeport, Texas, most likely by train, right after they received word of the explosion. Years later, my sister remembered those dark days, staring out into the deep waters of the Gulf, watching as the Coast Guard searched in vain. She was twenty-one years old at the time with a four-month-old baby girl. Mike was twenty-three.

On the telephone the other day, Sharon and I both cried as she read to me from the last letters that Mike wrote home to her mother from Texas. He had high hopes and dreams of a better life for them. He loved his baby girl and talked of dreaming about her for several nights in a row. He told my sister to “tell Dianne to be a good baby”. I had never thought before about having known Mike, but I did. I had been his baby sister too.

Sharon says that, over the years, it was just too sad, too difficult, for my sister to talk about Mike very much. After a while, she just quit asking. Now, there are so many questions wanting answers. When Dot and I were working on the McGregor and Haney family histories, she was also working on Mike’s family history. Through the archives of Ancestry.Com, I have found some information. Mike’s younger sister, now eighty, was able to fill in some of the blanks, but, still, there are so many more unanswered questions.

We’re not giving up. On my next visit South, we’ll travel to Clarksdale and to the Mississippi State Archives in Jackson, Mississippi. Hopefully, before then, we’ll find some of Mike’s father’s family members. Right now, it’s still a mystery, but the answers are out there. Hopefully, someone will also have photos of Mike’s father.

Sharon does have one small, piece of paper with her Dad’s actual signature on it. Amazingly, it bears a striking resemblance to Sharon’s…

Note: My sister did not remarry until Sharon was in high school, when she married Tom Kemp. He was a wonderful man who loved Dot and her family like his own.

Sweet tea and mysteries…

Family History/Genealogy, My Southern Heart, Reflections

My sisters, brothers-in-law, two of my nieces and I were sitting around the table after we finished lunch at my sister’s house in their small town in Mississippi. I was enjoying my second glass of sweet tea and the conversation that I would remember and miss when I returned home to Oregon. As I’ve shared with you before, I’m the youngest of four daughters…born when my parents were forty-one years old.

My parents bought a farm in the small village of Rena Lara, Mississippi, in 1935. I’ve always thought that I lived on that farm. I’ve heard the stories (I thought from my parents) that I had never been scared of the chickens and would march into the barn and tell them to “shoo”. I was told that I had wandered away from the farm and got stuck in the mud up to my little brown high tops at age two. It was my understanding that my big sisters had pulled me on the cotton sack as they “picked cotton”.

My sisters are 11 and 15 years older than I. My oldest sister passed away several years ago. SHE is the one who would have remembered all these little details. I sat down at the table with paper and pen and informed my family that we were going to do a “time-line” and to put their thinking caps on. An hour or so later, there was a very detailed timeline right there in front of me…a timeline that spelled out clearly that I had NEVER lived on that farm.

Evidently, all those stories really pertained to the sister who is eleven years older than I. Maybe my parents memories were a little fuzzy. Maybe they just didn’t want me to feel “left out”. I don’t know. They sold the farm in 1945 and moved to Clarksdale, MS., where I was born. My sister remembers pushing me in the stroller on the sidewalks of Clarksdale. There were no sidewalks on the farm. My niece Sharon was born in Clarksdale in September 1948. Not long after that, we moved to Memphis, Tennessee. I was almost three years old.

And so, for now, I have a bit of an identity crisis. For 64 years, I’ve thought that…at one time in my life…I was a farm girl. I rather enjoyed that picture. Me with the chickens, horses, cows and the big cotton fields. Evidently, it just didn’t happen.

Reflections…

Family History/Genealogy, My Southern Heart, Reflections

One afternoon during my granddaughters’ recent visit, I was sitting at the dining room table with them. The table was covered with fabric, thread, patterns and my portable Singer sewing machine. I was teaching my eight and almost ten year old granddaughters the basics of sewing – how to find the grain of the fabric, the selvages, laying out and cutting a pattern and safely operating the sewing machine.

In the midst of all of this, I mentioned that I wish I’d had a grandmother to teach me to sew and bake as I love to teach my grandchildren. It surprised them to learn that I had not known my grandparents. My father’s parents died before I was born. My mother’s mother passed away on June 10, 1951 and her father on June 15, 1952. I was five and six years old at the time of their respective deaths. I don’t remember them. I don’t remember what I called them. As I was growing up, my three older sisters talked about them…about how truly kind and good they were. Sadly, I don’t have those memories. Consequently, all my life, I’ve been drawn to old people…kind, old people. Perhaps that’s one reason I love being a grandmother so much…I know that I’m making memories for MY grandchildren.

Perhaps this is also why I’m so interested in my family’s history. There are volumes of information and geneological history that I have collected thus far…my late sister Dorothy and I. I’ve loved finding nuggets of information during the course of searching through census records, ordering birth and death certificates and traveling to courthouses in several states.

I remember finding great++ grandparents…and realizing that had I been researching my family’s history earlier in my life, my children might have had different names! I loved many of the family names I found. Some, not so much. There was a “John Benjamin”, “Mahalley”, “Matilda Caroline”, “Octavia Caldonia” (with Caldonia, I knew her ancestors were from Scotland), “Silas”, “Samuel Edward” and “Emmarella” to name a few.

I love the above photo of Mama. She was about eighteen here I believe.

My maternal grandmother, Mama’s Mama…Modena Emmarella Seals Haney (1872-1951). She was most likely in her early twenties here.

I wonder what my sons would have thought about being named Benjamin and Samuel? And my daughter could have been Emma Caroline. Hmmm….