The Day the Skies Darkened Forever

In April of 1908, my great grandmother Gertrude Daniel was a ten year old girl living in Brasher's Chapel, a small community in North Alabama very near Albertville. Something would happen that spring that would affect Gertie for the rest of her life.

Growing up in a household as the second oldest of seven children could not have been easy, especially in the rural south. Complicating things further was the fact that Gertie's father, Seaborne Taylor Daniel, was a known bootlegger. It can't be said that Taylor Daniel didn't excel, even at bootlegging, since his moonshine was known to be the best in the county. This left Gertie, her mother and six siblings to run the small farm. Even in good times, they most likely didn't have much. Life was hard and the events of April 24, 1908 would make things more so.

Around four in the afternoon the clouds darkened with what was seemingly just another springtime storm. Residents soon realized that was no ordinary thunderstorm. What would later be classified as an F4 tornado ripped a 105 mile path of destruction through north central Alabama, killing a total of 35 people and injuring 188. Fifteen of the fatalities and 150 of the injuries were in Albertville as the northern side of the town was completely obliterated. The storm was so powerful that it picked up a freight train off the tracks in Albertville, smashing all nine cars. It also picked up a nine ton oil tank and carried it a distance of a half a mile. The damage path was anywhere from 200 yards to a half mile. Witnesses at the time described a funnel shaped cloud, with a "bounding and whirling motion" that swept away everything in its path. People reported hearing a loud rumbling noise and seeing lighting as the storm swept through. Damaging hail fell north of the storm's path as well.

This storm had a very measurable impact upon a ten year old girl. For the rest of her life, Gertie was terrified of any bad weather. Her children and grandchildren remember her panic anytime it would rain. She always thought rain signalled bad things and you couldn't convince her otherwise. Although she lived into her nineties, in her later years she slept every single night in a small block house outside her main home. She somehow felt safer sleeping in the small, compact space, away from her main home. Every evening before sunset you could watch her walk to the little house for the night, only to watch her return across the yard to her main house the next morning. Mother Nature had taught her a life long lesson at an early age. It was a lesson she took to heart and never forgot.

One hundred and two years to the day, Albertville is facing another cleanup. I wonder how many Gertie Daniels will remember yesterday for the rest of their lives?

Cozy Comfort...With An Edge

The gray clouds hung oppressively low in the sky as I exited the tube station. Dewy drops like tears gently misted the entire landscape. This wasn't an angry rain - more like a sad one - fitting for my destination. Huddled under the hood of my navy windbreaker, I crossed the Thames via a bridge adjacent to the station. The weather had discouraged many others from following my path and I walked seemingly alone up the driveway to the palace in front of me.

Hampton Court. It automatically congers up images of scheming courtiers hovering in dark corners looking for their opportunity to break from the crowd; all the while the gluttonous Henry VIII overlooks their machinations with a powerful gleam in his eye. It brings to mind jewel toned gowns sparkling in the glow of candlelight and raging fires in massive hearths. To my mind's eye, Hampton Court has always embodied all that's appealing in nestling up to a good book in front of a warm fire during a thunderstorm. Cozy comfort with an edge - you can relax somewhat immersed in your good read, but all the while you know a storm is raging. Being a visitor in the court of Henry VIII had to be very much like this experience as well.

As I made my way to the front entrance, I noticed signs that explained an archaeological dig of Cardinal Wolsey's original moat. No longer existing, but its fingerprint in the earth remains. Looking down at Wolsey's moat it seemed to me that his former home had taken on his identity much more than that of Henry VIII. Wolsey was perhaps one of the most adaptable figures in Tudor history, molding his concerns to those of his monarch. Doing this had allowed him to rise high and quickly. It also enabled him to survive longer than most of those close to Henry VIII. Eventually he too would displease the famously volatile monarch , leading to his downfall. He'd rebuilt Hampton Court as his private home, but lost it to Henry VIII, proving that over the years, Hampton Court eclipsed Wolsey in its ability to shape-shift its usefulness. Added to and expanded over the subsequent centuries, Hampton Court remains as one of the few Tudor dwellings still in existence, far outlasting those who called it home.

Passing through the main gate and into Base Court, I could almost hear the sound of hooves on muddy ground as a rider from centuries ago came to an abrupt halt, sliding from his horse to race with an urgent message for the king. All the while, daily life in this, one of the outer courtyards of the palace, plodded along. It must have been colorfully real - visitors coming and going, muddy wagons filled with the possessions of nobility as they arrived to court and settled into one of the forty-four rooms encircling Base Court. All this life lies in stark contrast to the scene today - misting rain and just a few scattered tourists. Dark windows once so full of life stare down on the court with haunted and sad eyes - mementos of a time long passed...

If Time Had a Smell...

A few weeks ago I was spending time stumbling through the past as usual for more information on my Mom's family and I stumbled across a very interesting connection. About seventeen generations back, my Mom is related to the Stonor family. At first this meant nothing to me. As I dug a little further I discovered something very interesting.

The Stonors are only one of three aristocratic families from medieval England to have written correspondence surviving until today. Once I discovered this I set out to learn more and get my hands on a copy of the collection. My first research was disappointing - the closest library to have a copy of the complete collection was in Germany. A little further digging and I was able to locate a two volume used copy online. The copy I ordered was printed in 1919 and was billed by the seller as a first edition. I couldn't wait for it to arrive. After it finally did, I sat down for a complete inspection.

The outside binding was still in good condition. Obviously this had been part of Occidental College's library at some point. The inside smelled of a good musty old basement - if time could have a smell, this would be it in my book. For a true book lover, this smell is so good it should be bottled. Both volumes were published in London, ironically at an address in Russell Square - a place near the British Museum that I have visited often and love well.

An examination of the letters themselves is where the real fun began. On the fold out genealogy chart I was able to find my ancestor. The letters are mostly between various family members during the years 1290 to 1483. It is interesting to see the progression of the English language through these pages. The very first document in 1290 is a charter for Richard de Stonor. It was a grant from Richard to his son and the latter's wife. I can hardly read it as it starts out "Sciant presentes et futuri quod ego Ricardus de Stonor dedi, concessi, et hac presenti carta mea confirmavi Ricardo...." - is this some sort of left over Latin?!? It is very foreign to a modern ear and I am amazed people actually used to talk this way - or did they? Maybe this is just legal jargon - but no, the next two documents also use this same derivative of English and one of these is a personal letter from Eleanor le Despenser to John de Stonor.

Flipping along in the first volume it wasn't until a document in 1424 that I could actually understand the "English" being used. Don't get me wrong - although the language is a bit of a challenge for a modern day researcher, I bet it was beautiful when spoken all those years ago. I once took a class on Chaucer in college. We had to learn to speak middle English when reading Chaucer's works out loud. Let me tell you, there is nothing so romantic as middle English being spoken. Something has been lost in our modern vernacular. Remember that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark when Indiana Jones is teaching his class and all the female students have a glassy eyed stare? Well that was the scene in my Chaucer class when Dr. Hornsby read Chaucer aloud. It put a whole new spin on The Canterbury Tales.