Roots of a Florida Cracker

Today I want to share a little story about how my deepest roots in Florida came to be.  

The first of my family to settle in Florida was my 2nd Great Grandfather, John Henry Counts.  John Henry was the son of a planter by the name of William Counts and his wife Rebecca Ruff, of Newberry South Carolina.  Now what brought John Henry to Florida is not actually or factually known. But, the one family story that has been passed down and that I have most often heard was that John Henry’s uncle fought in the Second Seminole War and was killed in Florida somewhere down south of what is today Ocala.  After hearing of his brothers death John Henry’s father, William Counts, a Colonel in the South Carolina Militia, made the long and arduous journey to Florida to take his brother home.  In spite of the tragedy, upon returning home and in the ensuing years Colonel Counts could hardly cease talking of and praising the the land of Central Florida. These stories were apparently too inviting to John Henry so when he was of age and not to many years after his father's abrupt death in 1848 he made plans to and eventually packed up and moved south.  

I, like many dreamers, find that a very good story but, I’m not at all sure but that the reality wasn’t that several of John Henry’s neighbors around Newberry South Carolina decided to go in search of better farming country.  Having heard the many stories they decided to move on to what promised to be a better life and John Henry just went along.  Since many of the neighboring planters from the vicinity of Newberry staked claims around Marion County at about the same time as John Henry, my thought is that the truth most probably lies somewhere between those two thoughts.

So whatever the motivation that spurred John Henry’s actions in 1850, at age 23, he headed south to become a Planter in Marion County Florida. It would be some four years later that John Henry would marry kindred spirit Elizabeth Mary Gibson, also a South Carolina transplant and the daughter of John Allen Gibson and Mary Ann Williams. 

What I find most interesting if not astounding, is how two young people, could leave what were most probably very comfortable homes and lives, on rather large and tamed holdings in South Carolina and move to the mosquito, snake, and alligator infested wilderness of Florida.  And to do such a thing in the middle of the third Seminole Indian War while attempting to carve out a life for themselves. Astounding is right.  Granted Elizabeth Mary came with her family but even so the challenges must have been tremendous to say the least.  This young couples strength is enough to amaze even the most cynical characters.  That, even more so, when you think that just eight years after their marriage John Henry would leave to spend nearly four long years in the Civil War leaving Elizabeth Mary behind to take care of their children and run a large farm and cattle venture on her own.

Olivet Baptist Church 1888

Unfortunately, I do not have photos of either of my 2nd great grandparents.  Perhaps some day one will surface.  Perhaps from another descendent and distant relative and I will have the pleasure of receiving a copy for my descendents. In the meantime I do have their memory.  A memory as passed down from Cracker to Cracker through my Florida family.  On a side note, I do know where John Henry and Elizabeth Mary, are laid to rest and from time to time I go by.  In 1952 my grandfather George Woods, grandson of John Henry and Elizabeth Mary made arrangements for an official military stone to be placed on John Henry’s grave.  The stone is still there in the little Blue Sink Cemetery which they helped to establish which is not far from where their home was and the little church that they were a part of founding. 

Summer Outings & Salt Springs

Salt Springs 1941

One of the things I think every kid remembers and loves are summer outings.  When I was a child in 1950’s Florida, one of the best summer outings you could take was to some place where you could swim and cool off.  For the Myers family it was most often to Lake Weir or to Salt Springs.  Without a doubt I must tell you that I think my very favorite of those two options was Salt Springs.

I realize that even today Salt Springs is a beautiful place for picnicking and swimming but in the early and mid 1950’s it was still a hidden paradise that had yet to be spoiled by the over abundance of tourist and year round residences.  At that time it was still a relatively unspoiled, crystal clear spring in the middle of a remote corner of the world that was still teaming with an abundance of wildlife.

Road to Salt Springs Unknown Date

In those days traveling to the springs was a major adventure and it could and did take several hours to reach the cooling waters of the springs.  The only way to the springs was by driving over some very long, deeply rutted, sandy roads.  I remember those roads for two very important reasons.  The first was that it was a very long and hot ride.  This was especially true for three boys ranging in age from 5 to 13 who were forever hot, thirsty, and full of energy.  And the other reason was because it was imperative that you remained on the hard packed ruts of the road.  To venture out of the ruts meant to risk getting stuck in deep sand and to bring about a very laborious time getting back up and in the ruts to continue your trip.  For our lucky family the later did occur more than once and it was, for young and old alike, a most unpleasant experience.

Earlier Houseboat (Not my grandfathers) On Salt Springs 1941

In the early 1940’s and 50’s Salt Springs was owned by the Ray family and my grandfather, George Woods was lucky enough to get permission to build a “houseboat” on Salt Springs.  Now you have to understand that this wasn’t exactly a house nor was it a boat but it was more of a camp but it did involve a structure that was built over the waters of Salt Springs.

Salt Springs was a wondrous place for us kids.  A sparkling cool oasis that flowed into Lake George and was surrounded by a huge grove of shady Live Oaks.  The springs themselves are a clustering of four “boils” with the deepest being about 36 feet.  When we were frequenting the springs they were filled not only with fish but and abundance of blue crab.  (One should note that the crab were one of the most important attractions for all of us.)  I remember my older brother Roger putting on his dive mask, swim fins, and snorkel and with a hand held fishnet diving down into the springs and bringing out baskets of blue crab.  He wasn’t the only one in the family to do this but he was our big brother so Jay and I always wanted to go with him.  Unfortunately neither Jay nor I were old enough nor good enough swimmers to go along.   But we were old enough and could swim well enough to play in the shallow waters of the springs and to walk along the rock ledges of the springs themselves and watch our brother dive deep down to bring out what would be a feast for us later. 

My grandmother Meme, my mother, and me Cir. 1953-4

We spent so many wonderful hours playing in Salt Springs and running through the oaks but it was indeed a wonderful family time for us all.  We often just picnicked but we also had crab boils.  It always amazed me to watch as my grandfather George (Pe Pere) and grandmother Raymonde (Meme) as they loaded dozens of crab into a large tub to cook them.  My grandmother was a wonderful cook and I’m not sure what spice’s she used but the crabs were always delicious.  She and my mother and any other friends or family that were along would prepare the rest of the meal and then cover the picnic tables with old newspaper.  We would each fill our plates with food and then we would all sit around one or two big tables eating crab until we couldn’t move while drinking sweet tea. After a day of swimming and a big meal of crab we would spend the afternoon laying on towels in the warm sun or sitting in the shade of the oaks and from time to time ease back into the spring waters to cool off again.

These wonderful days would end with the long drive back home.  Often as not we left a little early so as not to be driving home in the dark.  I remember my brothers and I would be so tired we could hardly sit up in the car and we were definitely quieter than on the trip out and I remember that I would often watch the sun set behind the oaks and pines as we drove down the bumpy sandy road westward on our way home.

These are wonderful memories to hold and on the rare occasion that I have to visit Salts Springs I must tell you that I can still hear the voices of my mother or my grandfather or grandmother.  They seem to be calling us to come out of the water or come and eat or just to behave.  But most of all they are still calling us even after all these years.

Biscuits, Butter & Syrup

My brother Roger with my Grandfather in his garden. 1944

Sometimes when you're a little kid things happen, and these things that happen are usually either terribly wonderful events or very frightening ones, but it seems they are usually the ones that stick with you.  That would seem to be conventional wisdom, but quite honestly, I'm not so sure that's always the case.


As a child, one of the things I enjoyed most was when I had occasion to visit with grandma and grandpa Myers.  Although these visits were rare they were more often than not happy events and small but quiet adventures that I enjoyed immensely. 

Grandma and Grandpa Myers' house was a simple, fairly large, wood frame two story white house that, along with two other two story neighbor houses, faced Orange Avenue.  My grandparents house sat in the middle of the other two homes and in the middle of the block.  They had a large separate garage set off to the back left of the house with a dirt driveway going down the side of the house to the garage.  Thinking back I must say that I loved being in their house.  It was the house where my father and his brothers and sisters grew up.  It was also the house where my brother had grown up and where he and my mother had waited for my father to come home from World War II.  It was a simple house and it always seemed so big and cool and comfortable.  With it's long front porch and big bench swing and rocking chairs lined up it all just seemed to be welcoming you to sit and watch the neighborhood live.

Thinking back on it now the yard seemed to be poor sandy soil but that not withstanding, it did not seem to deter my Grandpa from planting and growing flowers nor did it keep him from keeping a large worm bed in the back yard.  He seemed to think that you always needed worms to fish and he was going to have worms.  As a child I found the worm beds a fascinating thing because he kept it covered with Spanish Moss and would take table scraps out and spread it under the moss to create the compost for the worms to thrive in.  I rather thought of it, and I suppose it was, feeding the leftovers to the worms.  As a child, that to me was truly interesting.  Along with the flowers and worm bed grandpa also had a chicken coop.  I am told that coop had the meanest roster in Central Florida.  Well, if you can believe him, that's what my scratched up brother use to tell me.

I enjoyed these adventures to my grandparents because even though grandpa was most often tending his garden or worm bed he would always take me out with him to help and sometimes he would take a break from the garden and tell me a story while sitting in a rocker on the front porch.  And when I wasn't occupied with Grandpa in the garden or worm bed Grandma was forever and always honey this and sugar that so I never seemed to lack for attention and I did get a little spoiling from both sides.

Now to that memory that has stuck with me all these years.  The kitchen in my grandparents house was in the back of the house and during cold winter months it seemed to be the warmest room in the house.  I'm sure that was because of the stove and the heater being in a rather small kitchen.  Anyway, one cold fall morning I had spent the night and I came down stairs for breakfast.  I was sitting at the kitchen table with my grandpa and grandma was fixing breakfast.  That morning she had made biscuits and bacon and eggs and hot coffee.  I wasn't a coffee drinker, in fact at 5 or 6 years old I don't think I had even ever had coffee, but my grandfather was drinking his coffee and doing what we called saucering it.  He seemed to always want his coffee steaming hot but then he would poor it off into the saucer and drink it from the saucer.  On this particular morning he decided that I should try it too or maybe I just wanted to copy him and try it.  So anyway he had grandma make me a cup of coffee that was half coffee and half milk and lots of sugar and I started to copy him and was saucering my coffee.  Next, for some reason, he decided I should learn how to eat a biscuit properly.  So grandma gave me a biscuit and then my grandpa showed me how to stick my thumb into the side of the biscuit and then take a chunk of butter and put it in the hole I had made with my thumb and then he told me to pour syrup into the hole with the butter.  I must tell you that I do not know why but it seemed to me that that biscuit was absolutely the best I had ever had and to this day I don't think I've ever had another one as good.

So you see it doesn't have to be a terribly important event or even a terribly awful event for a child or anyone for that matter, to remember it.  It just has to be the right event at the right time and with the right people and then it becomes that most memorable event.

Note:  Sadly I do not have a picture of myself with my grandfather so I've used a picture of him with my brother above.  This picture is how I remember my grandfather.  Always in the garden.  Take pictures.  It's important.

Florida Scenes & Family Connections

Old Country Store with Royal Crown Cola Sign

A few days ago I took a drive to just look around and enjoy the country side.  I love to travel the Florida back roads and see what there is to discover.  Now a days I try to always have my camera with me to take pictures of what interest me.  Curiously, for some reason I have always been attracted to old buildings and structures.  I think it's because I like to imagine what it was like when the buildings were new and who may have frequented or used them. 

It was during this last drive that one particular building, pictured above, attracted my attention and I would like to tell you why by way of a little story.  It's a story about my grandfather, the one with the scratchy cheeks, and it's about how he came to Florida and how he eventually came to Ocala and how he then became a traveling salesman.  No traveling salesman jokes please.

Now this is a somewhat interesting story to me and the following is what I know of it.  My grandfather’s name was James Oscar Myers.  He was born around the little town of Jefferson in Chesterfield County South Carolina on May 12, 1880.  Grandpa was the only son of a poor dirt farmer by the name of John Wesley Myers and his wife Axie Missouri Ingram Myers.  Grandpa also had one sister by the name of Emma who it is said got married and moved off to Pennsylvania and was never heard of again.

Now John Wesley was apparently not a very good farmer and sometime shortly after 1880 he along with his brother in law Benjamin Rush Ingram moved to Live Oak Florida where John Wesley went to work in the lumber mill and where Benjamin Rush continued to farm.

Grandpa Myers grew up and went to school near Live Oak and they lived near a little place outside of Live Oak known as Falmouth, Florida.  Today Falmouth is nothing more than a crossroads in the middle of Suwannee County with a few structures and the Mount Gilead Baptist Church where grandpa, my Uncle John Myers and Grandpa Myers' mother Axie Missouri are buried.  

Neither my great grandfather nor my great grandmother had a great deal of education, in fact he could barely read and write and she could do neither, so it was a small wonder that my grandpa completed school.  (Sometime I'll have to tell you the story of the three legged stool and the hickory stick.)  So fortunately Grandpa Myers did finish school and he went on to work his way up from being a laborer in a saw mill to a clerk on the railroad and on to being a successful salesman.  It was shortly after 1910 that Grandpa Myers was able to get a job with the railroad and he eventually moved to Martel where he was hired by the Martel Lumber Company.  During the time he worked for the Martel Lumber Company he was employed as the rail station clerk, managed the commissary and was Postmaster and while he was busy with those jobs my grandma Daisy ran the boarding house.  It was while they lived at Martel that my father, J.O. Myers was born as were my Uncle John and Aunt Jean.

In September of 1919 Pillans & Smith opened a wholesale grocery in Ocala.  Grandpa Myers had worked for Mr. Pillans at the Martel Lumber Company and in late 1920, as the lumber business in Martel faded, he offered my grandfather a position at the wholesale grocery in Ocala. I'm told that my grandpa readily accepted the position and moved into Ocala.  

Grandpa Myers, Martel, Florida 1920

This brings me to the point of my story.  Working for Pillans & Smith became my grandpa's life.  He worked for the company until he was forced to retire well over 30 years after he began.  Working for this company necessitated that my grandfather travel throughout Marion and all the surrounding counties.  He was on the road nearly every day visiting dry-good, mercantile, and grocery stores throughout central Florida.  I think my grandfather loved what he did.  Growing up and even today, I still picture him stopping by those stores and "visiting".  Through the great depression and World War II, I can see him traveling through and telling stories and greeting owners, farmers, business men and wives.  All of them in their local stores shopping for the essentials of life and just visiting and taking a break from the hard work of life.  I can see him sharing the latest news and then moving on to the next "country" store.  Yes, I'm sure that's why I like these old buildings.  Dilapidated and falling down, they are another connection to family long gone but remembered.  A Connection to hard times and good times and stories shared.  It's my history and the history of all my children and their children.  It's the story and not just the facts that make up the tapestry of our lives.

Ocala

Magnolia Street 1954

Looking East on What Today is Silver Springs Blvd. 1954

There were many things that brought me joy as a child.  Obviously playing in the yard with my brother and the neighborhood children was one and exploring our world in our little neighborhood was another, but one of the happiest pleasures of my childhood was when my mother took me to town to do some shopping.  As many of you know or maybe even remember, in the early fifties there were no malls, and the center of commercial and cultural life was still around the town square.  Whether going shopping for shoes or going to a movie it was all within walking distance of the courthouse square.

In Ocala, for shopping downtown on the square was McCrory's 5 & 10, Bitting's Drug Store, Guarantee Clothing and Shoe Company, Kennedy's, Rheinauers, Goldman Radio and Appliances, and even Sears just to name a few.   For entertainment there was the Marion and Dixie Theaters of course, where I remember going frequently and even more often as I grew older and into my teens.  But, as a young child on shopping days, a special treat for me was when mom took me into Bitting's drug store where I would get a cherry coke at the fountain.  It was always so cool inside and sitting at the fountain just seemed special and a real break from the Florida heat.

 I remember walking around the square with my mother, she often holding my hand, and going from shop to shop looking for grown up things that I had absolutely no interest in.  Sometimes there were shoes to be repaired and I remember the shoe repair shop that was stuck between two buildings like it was an after thought and just plopped in an alley.  I remember the black gentleman that owned and ran the shop.  I remember his stained hands and the smell of polish and the sound of the sewing machines as they stitched the leather uppers back to the soles.  And I even remember the tan colored tags that were tied to the shoes and the stubs that mother would hand to the man so that he could retrieve our shoes.  

And then there was McCrory's.  It seemed to me that that one store had absolutely everything. With toys and household goods and shelves of candy, it just seemed full of everything fun.  It was all a wonder for a child.  In and out and down the street and in and out again.  Meeting folks you knew along the way and chatting.  Mom chatting and me squirming.  Who was ready to go home?

And then it was back to the car and the ride home.  The car would hardly stop in the drive way and I was out and running.  One adventure finished and looking for the next.  Jay would be home soon and we would have time to get into trouble at least one more time before dinner.

Just one more quick note.  The two photos above were taken the year I turned six.  I remember Ocala just like this.  I remember walking these streets with my mother and often with her and my brother.  It was a wonderful town to grow up in. Maybe, just maybe, it's something that's missing today.

School Days

Larry - September 1954
Nice part Rog.

 What child doesn't remember their first school days.  I must confess that when I look back they were pleasant days interspersed with days of absolute dread.  But they were quite honestly mostly pleasant days.

I remember, ever so fondly being woken each morning by my mother.  Okay, maybe not fondly.  I would stagger blurry eyed from the bedroom, which was just off the kitchen, out to the kitchen table and climb on my stack of encyclopedias where I perched for breakfast. (Just shows you that the resourceful family finds a use for everything.)  Then a not so short time later my brother Jay, who was notorious for moving at the speed of snail, would come creeping out to join me.  This only after endless cajoling by my mother and he would plop down in his chair with chin in both hands and elbows on the table and a thousand mile stare in his eyes.  I have to add that if it was a cold morning he would detour by the gas heater on his way to the table to warm his...well you know what I mean.  Also remind me later to tell you about the time he burned "his you know what I mean" on that same gas heater.  Anyway.  After a usually not so boisterous but nutritious breakfast of fried or scrambled eggs, toast, bacon and grits or oatmeal we would trundle off to the bedroom to dress for school.  The activity of dressing for school was usually under the watchful eye of our older brother Roger.  This was a chore that he took most seriously and with great enthusiasm and if you believe that, well lets just say he got the job done.

After getting dressed one of my fond and often not so fond morning rituals was when Roger combed my hair for school.  We would stand in front of the bathroom mirror, me on a stool and Roger behind me and in spite of the stool still generally towering over me.  He would apply a liberal amount of Vitalis hair tonic on my hair and then carefully and generally not so gently part and comb it.  I remember years later asking him how in the world he managed to always part it in the exact same spot.  He informed me that it was conveniently marked with a freckle.  Could have lived without that little piece of information.

After dressing and getting our lunch money we staggered out the front door and headed down what is now 6th Street to our bus stop on State Road 200.  You must remember that State Road 200 back then was a narrow two lane road and not quite the major thoroughfare it is today.  Our bus stop was under and old oak tree in front of what was then Mulkey Tile.  

I think that here a little background might add some texture to this perhaps otherwise mundane story.  I attended Greenville Elementary School which was on the West side of Ocala and which by the way no longer exist.  It would have been located approximately on the South West corner of where State Road 200 and SW 7th Road now intersect.  Greenville to me was somewhat unique because it was located on the site of, and in the wood frame buildings formerly used by, the Greenville Aviation School.  The Greenville Aviation School was a school that had been contracted by the United States Army Air Corps to run a Flight School during World War II on the site of the old Taylor Field.  Interestingly, I learned later that the school board adopted the elementary schools name from the former Greenville Aviation School. 

Our classrooms at Greenville were located in the classrooms of the old flight school and our cafeteria was located in the old military "dining facility".  Though a little chilly in the winter and hot in the summer it was a well lit and bright set of classrooms.  Greenville Elementary was located exactly one half mile from our house on West 12th Street.  One thing that I find somewhat amazing in regards to this fact is that the trip from home to school normally took my brother and I exactly twenty five minutes.  That was twenty minutes to walk the two blocks to the bus stop and five minutes to ride the bus over the bridge to the school.  I'm sure mom always thought she got us off in plenty of time but we were always and forever sprinting the last few yards to just catch the bus.  Our exaggerated slowness in walking to the bus stop was precipitated by the fact that several neighborhood bullies waited at the same bus stop and by going slow we allowed them less time to pick a fight with us.  It was a pretty effective strategy and not much of a complement to their intelligence because they never seemed to catch on to what we were doing.

Bus stops and bullies not withstanding, I must say that I did actually like and enjoy my first and second grade classes at Greenville.  I still fondly remember my first grade teacher, Mrs. Heart.  Is that not an appropriate name for a first grade teacher?  Some things in the world are just right.  And I remember my first grade heart throb who's name was Linda.  Last name never to be revealed. I still remember visiting her at her house one warm summer day and hanging off a tree limb until I was dizzy, but that's a story for another day.

So that's one more installment and soon you'll hear about the adventure in the big woods between our house and the school.  It's certainly one for the books.

Taylor Field 1949

Note:  For you history buffs here's a picture taken the year I was born.

Neighbors

Jay and me September 1954

I must confess that I was quite small when we lived on West 12th Street and I don't remember all of our neighbors.  That being said I do remember the notables.  That is those that were notable to me.

A couple of my favorite neighbors were Mr. and Mrs. Bell.  I think they were among my favorites because I was a little fascinated by their house and the way they lived.  The Bell's just seemed to be people who lived a very simple if not poor life.  The house it self, as I remember, was just a wood frame unpainted clapboard house with a tin roof.  It had a screened in front porch and it was surrounded by Mrs. Bell's flowers, and it seemed that she tended those blooms most every day.  There were also a few large trees in the yard and in the back yard at least one very large Live Oak.  I remember that tree particularly well because they had a chicken coop under the tree, and, from time to time, I and my brother would look over the fence and witness the brutal slaying of one of Mrs. Bells very fine and large chickens.  I must tell you that I also remember the smell of her cooking those "poor" creatures.  I'm not sure I ever felt bad for the chickens but to my brother and I it was a wonder to watch those headless chickens run around the coop until they ran out of blood.  It was truly a wonder.

As I recall to the left of their house the Bell's had a large vegetable garden that was regularly tended by Mr. & Mrs. Bell both but it did seem to me that Mrs. Bell was in the vegetable garden a bit more than Mr. Bell.  I remember watching them both in the garden, stooped like old folks tend to be.  He wearing his familiar bib overalls with brogan shoes and a straw hat and she wearing her flour sack flowered dress with a full length apron and a "sun bonnet".  They were both leathery brown from so many long hours in the bright Florida sunshine and they seemed forever bent over with hoes in hand working each row in a their meticulous way so as to not miss a single weed. As you can imagine they appeared as one would picture a typical "farm" couple but who were planted oddly in the town limits.  I'm fairly certain that they were the only family in our neighborhood without indoor plumbing.  I know this because they had the one and only outhouse in the neighborhood.  That icon of American history and folklore stood off to the far side of their property in, of all places, a banana tree grove.  I am also rather certain that they didn't have electricity because as I remember I use to see that warm yellow glow of kerosene lamps burning in the windows.  I am, to this day, fascinated by these two earthy individuals.

Another of my most remembered neighbors was Mrs. Tweety.  At this point, I must confess to you that in spite of her being one of my most remembered neighbors, I have, to this very day, never seen Mrs. Tweety.  That's right.  In the years we lived on West 12th Street, I never once saw Ms. Tweety but, my mother assures me that she in fact was there the whole time.  What I remember most about Ms. Tweety, or should I say Mrs. Tweety's house,  was that it was one of the most well tended and cozy houses and gardens you could ask for.  The grass was always well trimmed and neat and she had two large evergreens that filled her front yard along with well manicured shrubs that surrounded the little white house.  I think what fascinated us most, was that her house and lawn were always so well maintained but, there was never anyone outside or around the house.  Never.  It was as though the house and property took care of themselves. It was I think a little magical or shall we say witchy to us kids.  I even remember that when we played in the front yard of our house, which faced hers, we were very careful to not let a ball or anything else stray in Mrs. Tweety's yard.  If such a thing happened you can be sure that we were quick to get it out as fast and as stealthily as possible.  I don't know why but we were always wary of crossing a lady who seemed to be more specter than neighbor.  And who lived in a seemingly magical if not scary house.  It was, most certainly, one of those mysteries of childhood.

One quick note with regards to Mrs. Tweety.  Some years later when we acquired our first television set and I saw a Sylvester and Tweety Bird cartoon, I felt fairly certain that our neighbor, Mrs. Tweety, most probably looked like Tweety Birds owner the little old lady.  Part of Mrs. Tweety's yard can be seen in the background of the picture above.

Well there you have a little bit of neighborhood folklore.  Hope it takes you back and reminds you a little of some of your childhood neighbors and that those memories are as fond as are mine.  I'll write more about other of our neighbors in the not to distant future.  There are some rather interesting ones that I think you will be able to enjoy.
 

Why Stories

Grandma Daisy, My Sister Connie & Me

Well I just remembered what my English teacher tried to teach me back in high school, and that was that stories should have a beginning, middle, and an end.  I know my little snippets don't have those rather critical elements but I'm going to try to remember to at least put some of them into my future writings. Expect, at best, moderate success.

Why Stories:  I must say that I truly believe that one of the things that make a family's history truly rich are the stories that they tell and pass on.  The stories that are passed down from grandparent to parent to child.  The stories that are heard while sitting on your grandfather’s knee or in your grandmother’s lap.  The stories that are told to wide eyed children that swallow them like candy and remember them and then remember the love of their grandparents and parents because of them.  It is these stories that are most important to our sense of who we are. The facts are just cold statistics.  Facts are not filled with the warmth necessary to bond a family together.  

As a child I remember that my grand daddy Myers would from time to time tell me a story.  I must confess that I don't remember all of those stories because I was too small but, you know what I do remember.  I remember that he held me.  I remember that he always smelled of Old Spice, and I remember that his beard was always scratchy. And, I remember that because of that scratchy beard I never wanted to "give him sugar".  For those of you who don't know that means, it means you should give him a kiss.  So you see it wasn't just the story.  It was the being held by grand daddy and knowing him.  It was so that my life was enriched not just by the story but also by knowing I was loved.  I was on his knee.  I was safe.  And I darn sure didn't want to get down because I was going to have to kiss that scratchy cheek.

That's my memory to share for today.  Maybe one of those stories tomorrow.