Now That's a Hat....

I'm absolutely fascinated by the hats the ladies who attended the royal wedding wore.  We've seen all types and styles.

The closest we, as Americans, seem to come to this tradition is Derby Day, in Kentucky

In honor of the tradition of ladies' hats, I share with you a photograph of my great-grandmother, Mary Frances (Allen) Henry.  My birth-mom said that we should not be deceived by the sweet smile on my granny's face.  Evidently, Mary Frances could be hard as nails.

52 Weeks of Personal Genealogy and History - Neighbors

This week's prompt in the 52 Weeks of Personal Genealogy and History is "Neighbors. Who were your childhood neighbors? Have you kept in touch with any of them? Do you feel the concept of 'neighbors' has changed since then?"

I grew up in a small town in western Kentucky.  While it wasn't Mayberry per se, the older I get, the more it transforms into it.  

The one thing that doesn't grow rosier with each year was the relationship with our neighbors.  We had some of the best neighbors - the kind that you hear stories about.

When I read this week's prompt, I immediately thought of our neighbors just down the hill from us.  They had four children, the youngest was just months younger than myself.  From my earliest memories, she and I were inseparable.  I have a photograph of the two of us - we were barely 2 and 3, but there we were in the sandbox my daddy had made.  She was in all the pictures of my birthday parties as I was in hers.    

Walks to school together, bike rides anywhere in the neighborhood, playing in the dying light of days during summer vacation - there we were.


Then, one day, she told me her family was moving to West Germany (yes, there were two then) because her father was being transferred.  We were in middle school by then, but it was like losing part of me.  She would come back to visit each summer and we wrote each other constantly.  I still have her letters!  Stories of going skiing on Spring Break in Switzerland or a track meet in Paris sounded much more adventurous than "I'm going to the Smokies" or "I'm going to Cape Girardeau", when in fact, they were the same distance.


She and I've come together again on Facebook.  It was wonderful finding her and part of my childhood again.

The neighbors on our street and the surrounding ones would come together again and again in times of trouble and times of celebration.  They kept an eye on all the children and, many times, my mother knew of my antics before I ever got home!  

There was a sense of community then; one that's sadly missing from today's society.  While I know my neighbors, I don't "know" my neighbors.  I wave, they wave.  We exchange baked goods on holidays.  We speak while in the yard.  But it's not the same. 

We went back to Calvert City last year when my sister and I took our mother's ashes for burial in Iowa.  We parked in front of our old house.  I can't help but wonder if that community is still there and if it's still Mayberry for the children of Cypress Street.

(I apologize.  I've not written any articles lately.  I started a new job about 6 weeks ago and have been stressed with re-entering the office environment.  Things have fallen into place now and I should be writing much, much more.)

This is the Face of Genealogy

Henry and Mary Margaret Jane (Pursley) Plowman.  

Henry, in an effort to serve his country, lied about his age and enlisted for the Civil War at the age of 48.  He was classified as disabled due to various diseases contracted during exposure to the weather.

THIS is the face of genealogy.

In response to Thomas MacEntee's post

My post on the photo that started all this

Freedom of Speech or Yellow Journalism

UPDATE - The offending photo was removed from the article listed below.  To see how genealogists are handling this, visit Thomas MacEntee's site.

For those of you who don't know, the 42nd Annual Genealogy Jamboree will be held June 10 - June 12 at the Burbank Airport Marriott Hotel and Convention Center.  While I won't be attending, I have been vicariously sharing the enthusiasm of my fellow bloggers and genealogists who will be.  

Until this morning.

There was an article published on the LAWeekly website regarding this event.  I won't say promoting because that is far from what this author did.  Oh, she did get the dates right, as well as the place.  The name of the event is correct.  However, in what the author obviously thought was humor and what LAWeekly curiously gave the go-ahead to amounts to nothing but yellow journalism in my opinion.  In a world where newspaper circulation has been converted to web page views, she's done her job.

The graphic that accompanies her post is the offending item.  I won't even go into what it is, you can look for yourself.  What that graphic infers are stereotypes that have plagued my beloved Southern Appalachians for over 120 years.

This author did nothing more than what reporters have been doing all along.  Sensationalism sells.  That's how the stereotype of the "hillbilly" began.  She references the Hatfield and McCoy feud.  Thanks to journalists of her type, the lies that came out of the hills during the feud have meshed with truth until people don't really know what was real and what was made up to sell newspapers.  In the process, a whole group of people have become the last group that it is still socially acceptable to malign.  Not even acceptable - it's encouraged.

I remember about 15 years ago, I met someone and that person immediately asked, "You're from the South.  Do you wear shoes?  Do you live in a shack?  What about inbreeding?"  Yes, they were serious.  While I handled the situation with humor, I was horrified that in this day and time, people still thought these things, much less expressed them.

My family came from those hills and hollows.  Most have lived there for over three hundred years.  They came from Scotland, Ireland, England, Germany, Switzerland.  They carried their ideas and traditions with them.  The traditions, many times, were not to trust outsiders.  There were generally between 3 and 5 families that traveled to the new frontier together, hence the dreaded examples of inbreeding.  Some married Cherokee women and pushed further into the "Wilderness".  Some fought in the Revolutionary War.  A few of my ancestors were Overmountain Men.  They found their way through the Cumberland Gap - here's a hint - one of my uncles is famous for it.  Uncles and direct ancestors fought in the Civil War, yes on both sides.  I had three direct ancestors who lied about their ages, shaving off between 10 - 20 years so they could go fight!  That courage, that sense of duty to country cost them their lives.  They made it through the war fine, but they were never able to work again.  During the Depression, some of my family made the drive north to find a better life.  I believe that's called "Living the American Dream."

Yes, we have Freedom of Speech, but with that freedom, there is responsibility.  And with that freedom, there are repercussions.  And you, Skylaire Alfvegren, are feeling them now.

The Sacrifice of Love

The summer of 1961 was a hot one.  She was young, only a few months into seventeen.  She lived with her parents, her sister and brother.  Life was typical in Richmond, Kentucky at that time.  She baby sat and would spend time with her friends and older sister.

He was spending the summer with his sisters.  He was born in Dayton, Ohio, but split his time between there with his mother and in Richmond with his sisters and grandparents.  One sister lived on the Kentucky River and it was a perfect place to spend your eighteenth summer.

They met that summer and began spending time together, but the path of first love is never easy.  We've all been through that first heartbreak.  He got into trouble and left town, not to return for many years.

But you see?  There was a reminder of that first love left behind.  Soon, the realization of what that reminder was became known by the family.  The young girl went to live in Louisville, Kentucky, with other girls that were in her same situation.

The details of that summer, I never ask about.  The details of the following years, I discuss with her at times.  I know that as she worked as a waitress, she would occasionally see a young girl with a family passing through.  She'd study the various children.  Who's eyes does she have?  Does she look like my mother?  Does she look like him?  She was always searching for that lost little girl.

In 1992, I had some heath related issues.  I needed to open my adoption file to see what health problems might be hereditary.  At two in the afternoon on an early Spring day, my doctor called to let me know my biopsy was clean.  At three in the afternoon on that same day, the judge called to give me my birth mother's name and phone number and stated there was a note in my file from her.  The note said that she wanted to meet me if I ever came looking.

In early June, I made my way to Richmond, Kentucky.  I met the woman who gave me life.  I met my sister, my nephew and I even met my birth father's sisters. 

After I spend three days getting to know my new family, my birth mother and I hugged as we said good-bye.  She whispered to me, "Now I feel whole again."

It's been nineteen years since I received that phone call from the judge.  It changed my life.  Most reunions are not like ours.  We're the lucky ones.

Like my birth mother, I feel whole.  I didn't even know I had pieces missing. 

Happy Mothers Day.  The gift you gave me, I treasure.  The gifts you continue to give me, amaze me.