Family Stories Involving the Westward Movement

I’ve mentioned several times before that I grew up in the beautiful Gila Valley (pronounced “hee-luh”) in southeastern Arizona. This valley sits between several mountain peaks, the most prominent and beloved being Mt. Graham. Standing at 11,000 feet above sea level, it is the place where our family reunions for my father’s side took place every summer, in a sweet campground called Soldier’s Creek. The campground itself had lots of big rocks to climb on and a small ravine that was safe to climb down into. You could even play in the creek below (if you were brave enough to get into the freezing cold water) or hike through the trees and enjoy the fresh mountain air with the scent of pine. Some families slept in tents while other stayed in cabins that were an easy walk of a mile away. The cabins had rows of beds for the cousins to sleep on. It was so much fun to stay up late and play cards or tell ghost stories around the campfire. The ravine at Soldier’s Creek is one that I mentioned in my book, On the Wings of Hope, when schoolteacher Ariana Stover loses her footing and goes rolling down the hillside toward the water below. If that were the real ravine, she wouldn’t have rolled far. There would have been too many fallen trees and protruding rocks in the way, along with a sharp drop if her point of entrance had been in the middle of the campground rather than on the left or right side of the campground. As for the actual event of Ariana losing her footing and rolling, that may or may not have happened to me on a hillside in North Carolina many years ago. My family still has it recorded somewhere on video tape. *cringe*

 

You might think that with my love of family and my love of stories and my love of history, I would be able to share all kinds of fabulous stories about my own family history with you. Admittedly, there are some pretty great stories out there about my ancestors, and though I’ve heard them a hundred times, for whatever reason, I cannot for the life of me ever remember the details. Therefore, I never mention them at all. Such a shame, really. 

 

Here are a few things I know about my paternal grandparents: 

 

My grandmother was 16 years old when she married my grandfather, who was 10 years older. The year was 1914. Grandma’s sister made her wedding dress and a traveling dress for her. Grandma had a true wit about her, and she enjoyed doing genealogy and teaching the children at church. As for Grandpa, I didn’t know him personally as he died before I was born. But in his heyday, he was a terrific baseball player with his chosen position being catcher. It was said of him that no one could steal second base on him. At one point, he was offered a contract to play professional ball (which team, I can’t remember, my brother thinks it was the Brooklyn Dodgers—I’m currently asking my cousins, and as soon as I receive the answer, I’ll update this post) but was strongly encouraged by his parents (who were very religious) to turn it down because he would have to play on Sundays. Choosing to honor his parents, he did as they asked and instead worked a dairy farm. They eventually had 13 children, most of whom lived to adulthood, and 83 grandchildren. Two of those children were my dad and his twin sister. Born at the tail end of the Great Depression, the doctor who delivered the babies felt they would be too big of a burden on an already struggling family and offered to raise them as his own. I’m very grateful that my grandparents turned him down! 

 

Grandpa’s grandmother and grandfather came to America in 1859. While living in Sweden, he became an expert cabinet maker, working in the King’s court for seven years. They crossed the ocean and rode the rails until they got to Nebraska. Once there, they prepared to cross the plains. It was an arduous journey, and at one point their little family was quite hungry with rations being reduced and fatigued. They stopped at a river and my great-great-grandfather went fishing. Intent on gathering buffalo chips, my great-great-grandmother gazed out toward the horizon and saw a tree. Feeling the need to check it out, she did so and found “a pile of dry bread,” according to a family journal. She was so overcome by the miracle that she wept. 

 

This is a picture of a museum in my hometown which used to be a bank. It showcases several artifacts from the early settlers of the Gila Valley, including some from Native Americans, particularly of the Apache Tribe. My great-great-grandfather’s Swedish Bible which he brought with him is there inside a glass container. I remember seeing it for the first time a few years ago. I wish I had taken a picture of it. The second picture you see is the storefront of an apothecary. Next to it is the old movie theatre where my dad and his brothers and sisters used to go every Saturday night. They worked in the cotton fields during the week and then treated themselves this way. Today these two buildings are part of the museum.

My paternal grandmother had some interesting people in her family tree as well. Her maternal great-grandparents moved from Kentucky to Illinois, and then Utah, narrowly missing the conflict of the Civil War in that area. In that time, they suffered many maladies, one of them being that their toddler son was swept away in a river never to be found. Another time, her great-grandfather was shot in the shoulder where the bullet lodged itself deeply into his flesh and stayed there until his death many years later. Despite these difficulties, they remained optimistic and were looked upon as spiritual leaders in their congregation. From family journals, we know that he “was a real pioneer always helping found new towns, making reservoirs, clearing new land, and encouraging people to build and build well. He was always on the frontier. He was a colorful figure in the early days of southern Utah. He was often referred to as the ‘Grand Old Man.’” 

 

My mother’s side of the family is rich with tales of adventure as well, but that’s a blog post for another time. I may at some point include some of these stories in my own fictional ones. Who knows? One thing I do know is that I don’t have to go very far to look for inspiration. These people were the real deal, and if I can be half of what they became, I’ll be doing well. If you'd like to check out the scene I mentioned of Ariana tumbling down a hill, here's where you can download the book: https://amzn.to/3b3iWbq

Green River and My Own Family History

My original intent was to write a short history of the city of Green River, the setting for my December romance, A Storekeeper for Christmas. After a poll taken during an earlier promotional event, I gave readers a choice of either Central City, Colorado or Green River, Wyoming. By a two to one margin, readers chose Green River.

The photo I used above for the banner was taken west of Green River Wyoming not too far from where the 1868 Union Pacific Railroad bridge was built across the river.

What I discovered as I began to research the history of this city was this: There are several sources, and they all pretty much feed off of each other. You can bring up Green River, Wyoming on Wikipedia and get almost all the information available online that you will find on most sites. One exception was the digitized copy of the book, History of Wyoming, by I.S. Bartlett published in 1918 which I found on RootsWeb. (When you have trouble finding sources, check out the genealogy sites.)

In spite of that, when I searched for who might have been available to marry my sweethearts in 1872 Green River, the information was sketchy and inconsistent. Even a perusal of the 1870 and 1880 census information for the region gave me nothing on that issue. There just were not many clergymen of any denomination in western Wyoming in the early 1870s.

Instead, I will tell you why Green River has always interested me. I have a story from my own family history involving this river, although it took place in 1855, years before the UPRR was built or the city of Green River was even thought of.

Desdemona Fox

To set the stage, I first heard this story several times from my grandmother. She was a late in life baby, born when her mother was forty-four. Her mother, Desdemona Fox, was an eight-year-old girl when she crossed the Great Plains in a covered wagon with her parents, George Sellman Fox and Mary Elizabeth “Betsy” Jones Fox. My grandmother was born in 1889, and her grandmother, Betsy, died in 1904. Not only did my grandmother hear the story from her own mother, but she very likely heard it from her grandmother who went through the experience.

Betsy was born in Birmingham, Warwickshire, England. After she married George Fox and the couple had several children, they held a gathering at their home the night two missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (later nicknamed Mormon Church) showed up while George, who loved step-dancing (think jig), was in the middle of dancing for his guests. The couple converted and began saving to come to the United States. Two of their children died from whooping cough before they could depart, but three of them, including my great-grandmother, boarded the ship to begin the journey to Utah Territory.

Mary Elizabeth Fox

Betsy gave birth while on the ship, and the baby boy was named Sanders Curling—Sanders after the name of the captain and Curling after the name of the ship. From the time of the birth, Betsy was not well. The family arrived in St. Louis and stayed there for weeks, hoping she would improve. They finally decided to continue to Mormon Grove (four miles west of Atchison, Kansas) to prepare for a wagon train. Betsy contracted “milk fever” and lost her milk, resulting in the death of the baby. He was buried in Mormon Grove and the family started west.

Betsy was still ill and not in her right mind. At nights, she often tried to climb out of the covered wagon to go back for her baby. Shortly after they crossed the Green River—one of the most difficult river crossings on the entire trip—George, who spent his nights sitting on the wagon bench to make sure his wife did not leave the wagon, fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion. Betsy left the wagon and disappeared.

George Fox

Once it was discovered she was gone, a search party of about fifty men began looking for her. Her footsteps led to the banks of the Green River. The wagon master, Milo Andrus, decided the train needed to continue because everyone was getting low on food. (Another matter of interest to me—I now attend church with an Andrus who is a direct descendant of this same Milo Andrus.)

Milo Andrus 1890

I have several histories published by a few of Betsy’s other descendants. Two of them suggested the local Native Americans might have helped her, but doubt that happened. According to my grandmother, who definitely heard the story many times from her mother and might have heard the story from the “horse’s mouth,” Betsy might have been close by when the rescue party looked for her. However, having come from England, like many English, she had heard some of the horror stories about Indians—told from the white point-of-view—and was terrified of Native Americans. Since she was still delirious, when she heard voices, she feared they were Indians. She hid and did not answer.

The next wagon train to come along a couple of weeks later was a freight train with mostly men and one woman who was traveling west with her son. As they approached the river, they saw what one of the men thought was a wild creature or Indian eating berries. He raised his musket to shoot, but the woman stopped him by saying, “That’s a white woman.” By that time, Betsy, her clothes in tatters, had come to her senses. She was able to tell them who she was and that she had been surviving on roots and berries. She had no idea how she got across the river because the water was deep, and she did not know how to swim.

Fort Bridger 1850

 

The freighters took her to Fort Bridger where she stayed for several weeks to regain her strength. From there, she joined with another wagon train and continued her journey to the Great Salt Lake Valley.

Meanwhile, when the freight train arrived in Great Salt Lake City, George met them with the hope that they knew something about his wife. He was overjoyed to learn she had been found and would follow shortly. Soon, the family, including the youngest surviving child, my great-grandmother, were reunited.

Snippet from NPS Mormon Trail Map

 

Some of the histories of the city of Green River reference the Mormon migration. However, the trail they follow did not pass through that city with is farther south along the UPRR tracks and Interstate 80. 

The Mormon Trail map published by the National Park Service shows Lombard Ferry as the crossing point on the Mormon Trail. Actually, in 1850, when mountaineers sold the ferry to the church, it was known as the Mormon Ferry. It did not become known as the Lombard Ferry until 1889, decades after my ancestors used it to cross the Green River. 

It is also possible that my family who immigrated in 1855 could have used the church-owned ferry a few miles north that became known as the Robinson Ferry in 1856 when Isaac Bullock and Lewis Robinson took it over.  Either way, you may see what the Green River looks like in the region of these ferries where my ancestor, Betsy Fox, was lost by CLICKING HERE.

I published two books for Christmas this year. One is more reflective, one is a fun romance with an interfering aunt and a rascally little boy. Please click on the book titles for the book descriptions.

 

Gift of Restitution: A Story for Christmas

 

 

 

 

A Shopkeeper for Christmas 

 

 

 

My next book to be published in January is the third book in my Train Wreck in Jubilee Springs series, Kate's Railroad Chef. It is now on preorder. For the book description and link, please CLICK HERE.

REAL LIFE PIONEERS

I have often mentioned how much I enjoyed Linda Hubalek’s Trail of Thread series because of the true-to-life way she presented pioneering. In our family, my brother and I are the genealogists. Years ago I was fortunate enough to come into possession of an account given of the move from Hillboro, Texas to Martin in Harmon County, Oklahoma Territory in 1899 by the Garton family. This family are not my direct ancestors but two of the Garton sisters married into my line.

This is excerpted from the transcript of an oral account given by Dessie Garton Shraeder to her granddaughter and has amazing details considering she was a child of nine when they moved and this was recounted when she was near eighty. I have to admit I'm glad I didn't have to live in these conditions.

  

We camped at Mr. Brim’s because he had water. There was an empty dugout nearby. We moved into it because it was so cold in the tent. We had a sheet-iron stove, but there wasn’t any wood. Willy had pneumonia. The gyp dust of the dugout turned out to be worse on him than the cold, and so we had to move back into the tent.

            It didn’t take long for us to get initiated to the hazards of living on the prairie. Rain was our chief concern. Everyday we searched the skies for rain clouds. When we saw a rain cloud approaching, we always remembered what a settler’s wife had told Papa when we camped out on Turkey Creek. He had gone to try to buy food for the animals. He asked if it ever rained in Greer County. In a long drawn out tone she replied, “It don’t never rain in Greer County, but when it does, it don’t never stop.”

Before this part of the story,
the family had set up their tent on
a frozen creek because that was
the only level spot they found.

            About two or three weeks after we arrived in Martin, we experienced our first sandstorm. Murray and Papa were digging the dugout, and the rest of us were working around the tent. We had spread all the bedclothes outside on the grass so they could air the damp out. We saw the black cloud coming from the north. We thought it was a bad rain cloud. It hit with all the fury of a spring rainstorm, but it was only wind and dust. Mama struggled to get the bedclothes off the grass while we kids fought to keep the tent from falling. Even Willy, who still had pneumonia, was trying to help. But the tent collapsed in spite of all our efforts. After it was over, Papa and Murray came running to us. Papa said that he had never been so frightened—he had thought the world was coming to an end! Later we found our pillows a half-mile away hanging on a barbed wire fence.

            After that experience, we watched the skies for rain, those ominous black clouds, and another cloud of a different color. This was a gray cloud that meant an approaching prairie fire. All of the settlers feared these fires. Everyone plowed his fields to make a fire guard; but if the wind was strong, nothing could stop the fires. We were never burned out, but we lived in fear that we might be.

A Plains dugout

            Murray and Papa finally finished the dugout. There we were—seven kids and Mama and Papa—and we didn’t own one dollar in cash. Mr. Brim helped Papa get groceries “on account” in Quanah. He had a fenced garden spot that he said we could use. Mr. Payne let us milk two of his cows. Then we started breaking land with our horses and that old mule. We didn’t make any crop that first year, but we did get all of the land broken. The second year we planted maize and cotton. Papa would dig the holes and I would place the seeds in the holes. The maize was the old goose-necked variety that grew as high as a man’s head and then curved back toward the ground. We had to cut each head separately with a knife. It was difficult for us to reach. Our hands would get cut by the sharp blades of the leaves and, once in a while, by the knife.

            We had to go to Quanah, Texas for everything. It had the closest railroad. Four or five families would sometimes get together and go over there because we had to ford the Red River. If the river was up, all of the horses would be hitched together in order to pull the wagons across one by one. We had to tie everything down in the wagons or we might see our supplies floating down the river. We would never know whether or not the river would be high. There might have been thunderstorms further west we knew nothing about.

Dickson and Susan Garton

            It seemed like we were always in debt to that man at Quanah. I remember one of the first years when we made a good crop. Papa went to Quanah to pay off our bills. When he came home, he said, “Well, Susan, I didn’t tell you, but now I’ve paid it off I guess it can’t hurt to tell you. I mortgaged the mule last spring.” Mama was shocked. She fretted the remainder of the day. She said over and over, “Just think, if we hadn’t made this crop, we’d lost that mule, and then how would we have broken the land for next year’s crop?”

            We made pretty good crops when we first came to Martin. The land was fresh and would grow anything if we could just get enough rain. Our biggest problem was getting water. We had to haul it from Quanah or catch it in rain barrels. When it rained, we filled every available container with water.

            The year after Papa mortgaged the mule, he traded it for the price of digging a well. The man had to dig 115 feet before he hit water. We had to draw all our water—even for the stock. Whose job do you think that was? Talk about “the good old days!” If I didn’t think Mama or Papa were watching, I would drive the cattle away—they would drink too much.

            Our next biggest worry was the damage caused by the open range policy. Before the Herd Law was passed, the cattle would eat our maize crop and trample our cotton. There weren’t any trees around for fence posts. All the lumber had to be freighted in from Quanah. Besides that, barbed wire cost money, and we were always short of money. Willy got a job in Texas. That $10 a month he made sure helped us. One of most vivid memories relating to that open range policy was the day two bulls got into a fight on the top of our flat topped dugout. We were afraid to go outside because they might attack us, and we were afraid to stay inside because it sounded as if any second they could come crashing through the roof. Finally, they gave up and went away.

            I was just nine years old when we moved from Texas. Oh, how homesick I would get for all those beautiful trees I used to climb (I was the tomboy of the family) and the creeks I used to wade in. I missed our big house too. Everything got so dirty in the dugout. My brother-in-law Ed, who had said this country wouldn’t sprout black-eyed peas, brought my sister Attie to see us. They decided to homestead north of us. We were all together then, and I knew there wasn’t much hope of going back.  

Dessie, left, and Lucinda Garton
Dessie is the one who tells the
story; Lucinda is one of the
sisters who married into my family

            All of us children had to work in the fields planting and harvesting. In the winter we went to school. I loved school and secretly dreamed of going back to Texas to high school. My aunt offered to take my older sister Lucinda and send her to high school so that she could become a teacher. When my sister refused, I asked Mama if I could take her place, but she shrugged it off by saying that I was too young and should stay at home.

            Sunday was a big day for us. Everyone in the community gathered at church. After the services, all of the relatives would go to one relative’s home for dinner and visiting. Sometimes we would have a church picnic and singing after church. All of us looked forward to those particular Sundays.

Caroline Clemmons is an Amazon bestselling and award-winning author. Her latest release is RACHEL, Bride Brigade series book 5, available from Amazon 

https://amzn.com/B01LZP40HG

            

WRITE YOUR HISTORY CHALLENGE

I love family history. No, I don’t mean endless pedigree charts of names with birth and death dates. Who cares if we’re related to Queen Elizabeth or Lizzie Borden? I mean the real history part.

I am the historian for my extended family. I collect all the anecdotes I can find--the interesting stories of who did what when and why, no matter how scandalous. Actually, I have to admit the scandalous tales are more interesting. I’ve published two books: one on my mom and her family and one for my mother-in-law. Now my brother and I are at work on a more industrious tome for our dad’s family.

In addition to locking those tales in for perpetuity, I’ve been amazed at some of interesting things I’ve discovered. Remember how boring it was to learn dates in history classes? But if you learn, for instance, that your ancestors fought in the American Revolution and the details of their involvement, that part of our country’s history becomes real to you. Reading about it goes from chore to family story. I have an autograph book from 1860-1871 that covers the time a woman in my family was at an academy for young ladies, through the Civil War, to just before her death from childbed fever eleven years later. That and learning that her husband fought in the Civil War and was at Gettysburg brought that time in focus for me.

I’m not saying your history changes who you are. Nowadays most people don’t care if your ancestors came on the Mayflower, were here to greet them, or came on an Irish coffin ship. We’re valued by the kind of person we’ve become.  Sure, being born wealthy is nice—not that I’d know—but we value people for how they manage whatever talents they’ve been born with.

Here’s a challenge for you. The upcoming holidays mean family gatherings. Ask them to write as much as they know about their ancestors. Nothing formal, just start telling the stories your family passed down or those they remember. Then ask older relatives to tell you what they remember about growing up and stories their parents told.

You too have stories: funny ones and sad ones and some barely believable. But who’s going to know these wonderful stories from our family’s past if we don’t record them? That’s your challenge—preserve your past while you make your today and look forward to the future.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Samuel Riley III - Chief Riley

I have a cousin who loves to search old records and is putting together a family tree for the Riley branch of the family. Our mothers were Rileys before they married. She's gathered a lot of interesting data. 

Our great-grandfather’s great-uncle, Samuel Riley III

Samuel Riley [III], a white man, b. circa 1747 in Prince George County, Maryland, d. May 13, 1819 in Blue Springs, Roane County, TN.

Samuel is referred to in several reliable sources including the "History of the Cherokee Indians" by Emmet Starr and "Cherokee by Blood" compiled by Jerry Wright Jordan, and other records including marriage records pertaining to the Cherokees in Tennessee and Oklahoma. He married 2 daughters of Chief Doublehead in the Eastern Cherokee Nation, namely the Long Hair Clan. The first being Gu-Lu-Sti-Yu, and the second being Ni-Go-Di-Ge-Yu producing a total of 18 children. Samuel lived with his two wives near South West Point on the Tennessee River in Roane County, TN.

Samuel, who fought in the Revolutionary War, was long time agent and interpreter for the Indians was known as "The White Trader from Maryland". He was also a blacksmith, producing many implements for the Cherokee and operated a ferry on the Tennessee River. Roan County courthouse contains records that Samuel also ran a saltpeter mine and a powder mill, likely in vicinity of Nickajack. Most probably these were leased directly from the Cherokees beings he had a deal directly with Chief Doublehead to use part of the land designated as reservation land by the government. In fact, partly because of his making property deals with the white man, Doublehead was assassinated by irate Indians.

Still, Samuel delivered goods to the Cherokees who removed to the 
Arkansas River in 1813. There are 2 recorded letters from Crow Town and Fort Deposite asking for corn. Crow Town stated there were 19 families with 95 people. Fort Deposite letter stated their corn crops were poor and the Intruders had ruined their corn range and the people and the cattle and hogs were in bad shape. The 2nd letter does appear to have Samuel Riley's signature and he requested a meeting with General Jackson. Note the significance of the letter; this eventual meeting with General Jackson in the summer of 1817 was the basis of all future reservations in the east and emigrations to the west. And Samuel Riley was there, assumed as an interpreter. In part, the letter stated that he had a load of corn if the Indians would accept it.

Register of persons who wish reservations under Treaty of 8 Jul 1817, cites Samuel Riley residence as "south side of Tennessee opposite to South West Point", and his Reserve was taken in Cherokee lands. In  1818, Samuel Riley was granted life reservation in accordance with above Treaty.

Local lore is of Chief Riley, and that he went to England as a Cherokee Interpreter. Riley Creek and Riley Creek Recreational Area on south side of TN River. Riley Indian Chief buried in what is now commonly called the Smalley Cemetery. Although he was not of Cherokee blood, there are several precedence of white-men who were considered to be at least "minor Chiefs" (actually "leader" would be a better title) of several of the Tribes." More likely, it is possible that some of his heirs embellished his title somewhat after his death. Descendants tend to do that.

Many thanks to my cousin, Anna Muriel Dyson, who condensed a multitude of information for easier reading. She noted that many discrepancies were found and finding the true (or as true as can be assumed) answer was difficult. One source stated Samuel Riley married three of Chief Doublehead's daughters rather than two.

If you have a chance to try to read the above letter you'll note that some words are hard to decipher. Others we can understand but they're not spelled as we're used to seeing them. Regardless, they got the message across.

I hope someone in your family is recording and compiling your family's history.  Your descendants will appreciate knowing about their forefathers.

Thanks for stopping by. Please leave a comment.

Linda
www.lindalaroque.com

The Importance of Family History - Finding Your Roots

Some years ago, my Riley cousins and I decided we needed to get together once a year to go on an adventure. Last year they went tubing down the San Marcos River in San Marcos. Now, imagine a bunch of women in their 60s trying to get out of those inner tubes without landing on their heads. Alas, I didn't get to participate in that activity as I had to help my daughter that day. 

A few years ago, we decided to visit our grandmother Riley's birthplace and discover our roots. Three of us piled in a car and made the trip to Gizzard Cove, Tennessee also called The Gizzard. The log cabin where our grandmother, Martha Comfort Pyburn Riley, was born in the late 1880s is still standing and in use today.

Fortunately, we'd contacted distant cousins in the area, whom we'd never met, and they took us to The Gizzard and showed us around. The house has been added on to several times and is now stuccoed. 

I wish I could remember all of the stories they told us about the Gizzard during the Civil War. I should have taken notes. Check out Wikipedia to learn how the Fiery Gizzard got it's name and also The Fiery Gizzard Trail, a favorite site for overnight hikers.

Martha Pyburn's mother died when she was 16. In that day and time, few men stayed widowers long as they needed someone to care for their young children. When Martha's father remarried, his new wife forced Martha and her older brothers to move out of the family home. She moved to Texas to live with relatives where some years later she met and married John Riley. 

In the picture to the left, Martha was 18 years old. On the right we assume she was in her twenties.

Our great-grandmother was an Anderson and we knew she was buried in the Anderson Cemetery in Gizzard Cove. While there we insisted on looking for her grave. We were warned that it was terribly overgrown because the Cemetery Committee hadn't had its annual clean-up event, but we insisted. We were early in the summer. The heat and humidity were already uncomfortable. I shuddered to think what it would be like pulling weeds and cutting back vines in full summer. 

Against the advice of the people on whose land the cemetery sat, we decided to venture inside anyway to look for our great-grandmother, Lavinia Anderson Pyburn's headstone. Lavinia is pictured to the left. Stepping carefully and stirring the bushes with a stick to avoid rattlesnakes, we trudged through the weeds. Unfortunately, we were unable to find Lavinia's headstone. We ended our search early because our legs started stinging a little. A little turned into a lot. The cemetery was full of bull nettle. We were miserable for a few hours. This was my first run-in with the weed/plant and hopefully my last.


To the right is a picture of our great-great-grandmother Pyburn. She was full Cherokee Indian. I would loved to have had a chance to visit with her and learn what it was like back in her day.

Unfortunately, as young people we didn't listen when our parents and grandparents talked about the past and our ancestors. Now, they are all gone and we have no one to ask. One of our cousins has become involved with Ancestory.com and she's garnered a great deal of information and pictures of the family. We're proud that she's gathering this data for future generations. She's even learned we are related to Shakespeare.  Distantly, of course.        

I'm glad we made the trip to Gizzard Cove and can share our experience with other family members. How about you? Have you searched out your roots? If your parents or grandparents are still living, gather as much information as you can. Encourage them to write names on the backs of pictures so future generations will know who they are.

I love to go antiquing and am amazed at how many old family portraits are being sold, mainly for the frames. What a tragedy their descendants don't have them to share with their children.

Leave a comment and share your experiences with us.

Thanks for stopping by today!

Linda