So this is the high light of my weekend.
I belong to an email list called RAOGK, which stands for Random Acts of Genealogical Kindness. It assists people doing research on their family history connect with people in localities where their ancestors live. I am a volunteer for my county and will look up stuff at the court house if they have something specific to search for, or look up an obit in the news paper or take a picture of a head stone.
Often I will get an email from someone outlining their entire family history and asking if I can add anything to it. I have to write them back and tell them that is too vague, if there is something specific I can check on I will. Then I will get an email asking me to check the records in Henrico County. I live and volunteer in Henry County, and have to write them back and explain the difference.
While I was on vacation I got a message from someone in Seattle I had helped before looking for an obituary for one Amy Finney, giving her date of death in 1936. I smiled and wrote her back: I would check when I got back, but she might be interested to know Amy Finney was buried up the hill from my house.
Well she was and asked if I could get a photo for her. So Saturday afternoon I put on my snake proof boots, put my camera in me pocket and grabbed a stick and took off down the road, and back in time.
I once searched the chain of ownership of my one acre back thru all the previous owners, as far as I could. In 1855 a man owned my piece of earth along with 300 more acres by the name of John Salmon. He died and his sons inherited the land and two slaves, Lucy and her son, Lewis.
One brother traded his interest in these two human beings for his brothers interest in the land. Some 50 years later that brother had died and an auction was held. The land was bought by a man named Abe Craighead. He had been born a slave, and now owned the home the Salmons had occupied for decades.
The 20th century brought the mill and the African American Community was pushed back to the ridge above my house. They lived in little frame houses along the old road that had once been the Indian's path to Jordan Creek. They had a church there and their minister was Rev. Silver, a man my sister once saw emerge from the woods dressed in a sunday suit, on the hottest day of summer, with a hat. He was followed by his wife, wearing a full dress and her hair covered by a woman's nylon stocking. The followed one another to town, to do what ever business they had to.
The community has drifted away. You walk out that over grown road now and you might happen upon a foundation or a trash pile, but not even a sign of the church, except their burial ground. Down the road I marched to the gravel road leading to the water tank, my stick clearing the path of spider webs, and from the tank I took a deer path to the old logging road that is still kept open by the 4 wheelers. To the old road up the hill, scanning the trees for the recognizable and suddenly there it was: the head stone of Joe Waller, who had died 1924.
The grave yard is completely reclaimed by the forest. Hickory's, Oaks, Poplars growing in and about the graves, some 50 or so souls. Very few with headstones, some with just a rock but most of them just a coffin sized depression in the earth, row upon row of them. No one has been buried there in 41 years.
Amy Finney's head stone sat snug like a spectator with a good seat to watch some event. The wonderful passage of time, the budding of leaves and the falling away of fall colors, the chilly stars thru the branches and the moon, always smiling. While all around them at a safe distance, the world went on its merry way. It represented her unto someone who could not comprehend her life and time. Convey it back to her family: she is here.
And I swear I did not see any poison oak be I damn sure got it all over my right foot!
Topic: Shakesthegrounds Rumblings (Read 2591098 times)