Journey to the Past

The Day the Skies Darkened Forever

2010-04-25T19:13:00.007-05:00

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

2010-03-13T20:01:00.006-06:00

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...

2010-03-07T06:23:00.007-06:00

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.

Invisible Monuments

2010-01-31T11:53:00.003-06:00

It was one of those cold, raw winter days. The sun had fled behind a thick cover of blustery gray clouds. There were no leaves left to be stirred by the stiff north wind that blew in gusts amongst the tree tops. All in all it was the perfect day to go on a cemetery hunt in rural Bibb County, Alabama.

We crossed the rolling, muddy Cahaba River, seemingly much more robust here than near home further north. This area was once known as Pratt's Ferry because a man named Pratt operated a ferry on the west side of the river. It was also called River Side long ago during a time when the Native Americans were leaving and new people were arriving. Bibb County in the early 1800's was frontier land, just being opened up to white settlement after the end of the Indian Wars.

The year was 1817. Brothers William, Charles, John, and Elisha Cottingham left Tennessee with their father in search of a place to make a new life. Originally from South Carolina, the family had spent some time in Tennessee. William, a Methodist preacher, and his brother John fought in the War of 1812. Along on this journey south were other families, such as the Parker family whose daughter Nancy was Elisha's wife. They would be some of the first settlers into what is now Bibb County.

Settling atop the limestone bluffs that still plunge into the Cahaba River, homes were built and a deer path through the forest became Cottingham Loop, today possibly still in existance as Wesley Chapel Loop Road. The Cottinghams would start the Cottingham Church in 1819. Renamed to Wesley Chapel in 1840, it was in active service until 1990. Whether the building that stands today is the original structure, I can't say, but the extremely long rough cut planks that make up the siding indicate saw mill cut lumber which could date it back at least a hundred years.

Elisha and his wife Nancy would build a home, raise twelve children, survive typhoid epidemics and endure the nightmare of the Civil War, all on this plot of land near a creek they named Cottingham Creek. Apparently they prospered in the years leading up to the Civil War - in 1860 Elisha was listed as having 13 slaves, but roving soldiers during the war stripped them of much of their possessions. Elisha's granddaughter would remark in later years that Confederate soldiers camped on Cottingham land and took "lots of stuff...exchanging bad horse for good ones." In fact Pratt's wife cut the ropes used for the ferry to prevent Union troops from crossing the Cahaba. Elisha would survive the war, but not by long. He died in November of 1870, having lost one of his five sons to the cause.

His was possibly the first burial in what is now labelled the Cottingham Cemetery. Located down a lonely dirt road, the cemetery is surrounded by nothing but forest today, much like it probably was the day Elisha was laid to rest. To reach the line of white tombstones neatly laid out in a row you have to scale a deep ditch bank, climb over fallen trees and dodge briers tangled in the undergrowth. You can tell that no one has been buried here in a long time. Still, the absolute quiet and stirring of the trees overhead spark the imagination on what Elisha and his brothers found the first time they arrived here - nothing but dense forest, rolling hills and the promise of a new life.

Them and others like them that made a life here are gone with little left to mark their existence. Everything old is new again as the encroaching vegetation obscures the paths they once walked and slowly rubs out the bookends of their life as recorded on the stones marking their graves. Even if one day no one comes to this remote spot of land and their tombstones tumble into dust and are scattered by the wind, they cannot be forgotten because of the path they blazed that brought countless others. As Christopher Wren's tomb so eloquently put it "lector, si monumentum requiris, circumspice." Loosely translated, "reader, if you seek his monument, look around you."

What I Learned

2010-01-02T07:11:00.008-06:00

It is amazing how animals integrate themselves into our lives and change things completely. I didn't grow up with lots of animals in the house. Always independent, I grew up with visions of freedom, endless travel and nothing to tie me down - no husband, no children, no pets - just me and the open road.

Before I adopted Shakespeare, I went through cold feet with two other cats first. I just didn't like the feeling of responsibility - it was scary and even sufficating. I probably wouldn't have brought Shakespeare home either if she hadn't chosen me first. She and I adapted to each other like two peas in a pod - she's about as independent in nature as me, so it worked. I still travelled a lot and felt bad leaving her alone, so I thought I'd add one more member to our household - no more for fear of being labelled "The Cat Lady" - you know, that stereotypical middle aged woman running around in a housecoat talking to her animals like they were people. Things never do go according to plan do they?

In 2002 I adopted Dickens and his sister Marlowe. They had been found without their mother in an abandoned house. When they were found, the third member of their litter was already dead. They probably wouldn't have been discovered if it hadn't been for Dickens. Marlowe was in pretty bad shape and Dickens was laying over her and crying, loudly. His strong, clear meow saved them both from likely starvation. After going through that together, there was no way I could separate them, so they both came home with me - to date, probably the most spontaneous major decision I have ever made. I didn't know it then, but I had started myself on the road to emotional maturity.

Over the next eight years, Dickens became my nap buddy, my mischief maker, and my foot warmer when writing this blog. He was a big, fluffy teddy bear, topping the scales at over 30 pounds at one point. He loved to bang cabinet doors, call to me endlessly from the top of the stairs so I would play cat and mouse with him, and wake me up at the butt crack of dawn.

Early last year I got yet another curve ball, Dickens was diagnosed with diabetes. He and I both had to adjust to him getting two shots a day - one every 12 hours without exception. I had to log in everything - the time of his shots, his bathroom habits, his behavior. We went through weeks of food changes and endless strict feeding time adjustments. We dealt with urinary tract infections, diarrhea, weight loss, and weekly trips to the vet for glucose tests.

My entire life changed. Nothing came before making sure Dickens got his shot on time - not work, not my social life, not travel. Through it all, Dickens handled every shot without complaint and still curled up with me like nothing was wrong. Every single day, regardless of how he felt, he greeted me at the door when I came home. Almost every night he wiggled his way into the crook of my arm while I read. He continued to be the first at the side of the bed when I woke up each morning.

Three weeks ago we hit another bump in the road. I noticed him breathing funny. By the time I got him to the vet, his lungs were filled with fluid, his blood pressure was out of wack and his heart painfully enlarged. It was decision time.

Although it was the hardest decision I've ever had to make, it was the right one. Dickens had suffered enough and he'd done so with dignity and grace. Some people will say - "he was just a cat, get over it." True enough. But, just because he was an animal doesn't mean that there wasn't a lesson to be learned, a moral to the story that I was supposed to get. Through it all, Dickens taught me emotional courage, strength of character and the fact that life does go on, even when you don't think it will. I am a better and stronger person because this cat was in my life for an all too brief moment.

Rest in Peace Big Gray.

Childhood Christmas Memories

2010-01-02T06:00:00.015-06:00

While researching my mom's connection to the Lee family of Virginia, an interesting thing happened - the present collided with the past. I found myself reading about Carter Burwell, the man who built Carter's Grove Plantation along the James River in Virginia. Before being closed to the public in 2008, this plantation was part of the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation. As such, visitor's to Colonial Williamsburg could also visit Carter's Grove, which my family and I actually did one Christmas about twenty years ago.

A few distinct things stick out in my memory of this trip. Primarily, it was the only Christmas we ever spent away from home. I guess my parents wanted to try something different that year. My brother absolutely hated it, but I was in heaven. The day we visited Carter's Grove it was sleeting and as my Dad would say, "cold as a well digger's butt." But, because of the time of the year and the weather, it was like we had the whole place all to our selves.

As we visited the gardens that stretched out towards the river, we discovered the archaeological remains of Wolstenholme Towne, a fortified settlement about seven miles down river from Jamestown. Established in 1618 by about forty settlers of the Virginia Company on land called Martin's Hundred, the town was attacked by the Powhatan Indians in March 1622. It was re-settled later, but completely abandoned by 1645. By the time Carter Burwell's grandfather, Robert "King" Carter purchased the land in 1709, there was probably no trace left of the settlement or the events that had happened there.

Today, a sidewalk outlines a portion of the settlement's remains not lost to the James River. As a kid, I was completely fascinated by the signs showing pictures of the original excavation and the skeletal remains uncovered from the massacre. I imagined faces contorted in agony, mouths agape and gasping, all hidden by the earth for over 300 years.

In 1976 when rediscovered by archaeologists, the site yielded a skull with a hole between the eyes and the remains of a woman laying on her side in a trash pit. It is uncertain how she got in this spot. It is speculated that she hid there after escaping a scalping attempt, only to bleed to death from her injuries. Standing on the banks of the James River on a cold, blustery day with hardly anyone around, it was possible to imagine how lonely this place probably once seemed.

Perhaps the story that stood out the most from inside the house had to do with the massive main staircase. During the Civil War, this area of the house served as a hay barn believe it or not, but it was during the Revolution that the most interesting story might have happened. Walking up the stairs, your hand bumps along over dozens of grooves up and down the railing. Legend has it that during the Revolution, Banastre Tarleton actually rode his horse up these stairs, hacking into the bannister as he brought his sword down over and over again.

Tarleton was one of the most hated officers in His Majesty's forces during the Revolution. He earned the nickname "Butcher" from the Colonials because of his brutal terror tactics on civilians and soldiers alike. A button from his regiment was found during an excavation of the grounds at Carter's Grove, but there is no concrete proof of the horseride up the stairs. Why he might have done this is also open to speculation. Stories range from him doing it for fun because he was drunk to a story that he was in a fit of rage because the plantation owner refused shelter to he and his officers. If only walls could talk...

The Eyes are the Window to the Soul

2009-12-04T18:08:00.006-06:00

The name Olive Oatman was foreign to me. As a lifetime student of history, I was surprised by this revelation. But, something about the dead look in her eyes drew my attention even more than the tattoos on her face. Olive was born in 1838 in Illinois to parents who would eventually follow the Mormon faith west, dragging their seven children along with them. Fate would intervene in Olive's life in 1851 along the Gila River in Arizona and nothing would ever be the same again.

Traveling alone to Fort Yumas, fourteen year old Olive and her family were attacked by Yavapai Indians on the 18th of February. Before the day was done, she and her younger sister Mary Ann (7) would witness the horrible beating to death of their father Royce, eight months pregnant mother Mary Ann, 17 year old sister Lucy, younger siblings Royce Jr. (11), Charity Ann (5), and Roland (3). The reasons for the attack can be endlessly debated - ever encroaching white population on Indian lands, scare food supplies, a lone family traveling through Indian country, etc., but that wasn't what interested me. It was the sadness and loss of Olive's eyes staring from a photo taken a decade later that haunted me. It was like Olive died along with her family that day.

In total, Olive spent five years living first with the Yavapai as a slave and then later with the Mohave. During her captivity she would loose her last known family as her sister died of starvation during a particularly hard season. Most likely feeling as if the Mohave were all the family she had left, she adapted. The tattoos on her face show her acceptance into the Indian society. Fate would hand her another curve at the age of 19 when she returned to white society to discover that her older brother Lorenzo did not die on that brutal day in 1851. Although beaten, thrown from a cliff, and left for dead, fifteen year old Lorenzo would find his way back to the last stop on the trail - fighting off wolves and his injuries to get there.

After returning to white society, Olive's story became a sensation and she spent the next decade or more of her life being exploited for her story. In later years she did marry and adopt a daughter, but she had no biological children. She often longed for the comfort of the mother she lost so young and became somewhat reclusive, never really talking about her family's tragic past. She died in Texas in 1903.

When reading about Olive in Margot Mifflin's book The Blue Tattoo, I was struck by the absolute loneliness Olive must have felt the majority of her life. To be violently taken from the security of her family and thrust into a completely different culture where she didn't speak the language; to finally regain some sense of normalcy, only to be re-introduced to white society - a society that she no longer understood; to spend an entire lifetime constantly reliving the moment that everything in your life changed forever so that someone profited from your story. The sadness and absolute blankness in Olive's eyes speaks volumes about the effect of that day in 1851. No one really knows for sure how she felt, but it seems to me that she probably never felt at peace again.

Dancing with Ghosts

2009-10-03T19:11:00.009-05:00

We'd driven for over an hour, down a dusty dirt road, deep into the wilds of western North Dakota. Looking around, it was hard to believe that this land had been settled over a century ago. With the exception of a few telephone poles and a drivable dirt road, nothing hinted at settlement. There were no fences, no homes...only an occassional butte rose up on the horizon surrounded by rolling plains.

Finally we arrived to a crossroads. Up ahead was a solitary white building...weathered by countless years of harsh North Dakota winters. This was all that is left of the town of Alpha, the birthplace of my maternal grandfather. A lone street sign, strangely out of place, marks the name of the town. It had been twenty years since my last visit to North Dakota. So much had changed since that time. I only met my grandfather twice and the last time I saw him was that summer two decades ago. He is gone now, but throughout his life his strongest memories were of this tiny place not visable on any map. He'd been born on his parents ranch, homesteaded by them around the turn of the twentieth century. He lived many places in his life, served valiently as a Marine in two wars, and had his family in the Deep South, but his heart never left this place. He began and ended his life here...and it was to this place we'd travelled back to find something of him.

We'd heard stories about the Alpha dance hall. Stories about how my grandfather and his sister would go there to dance and have fun. These stories were second hand from cousins who knew him well, better than I did in fact. I desperately wanted some way to connect to this man that I never really knew, hoping somehow to see something of myself in him. Visiting this dance hall in the middle of nowhere was part of that journey.

Inside, the worn wooden floors moaned from years of use and harsh conditions. Benches lined the walls...a dusty piano sat in the corner. There was no measureable sound other than the roar of the wind as it filtered through a loose screen. In the back room was what's left of the old bar. This part of the dance hall was dark as pitch and only the flash from my camera illuminated the scene, albeit briefly. Later I would see clear round dots on the photo of this area of the hall. At the time, all I knew was that my camera stopped working permanently after taking the photo above. Ghostly spirits? I don't know, but there was a definite sense of the past here. Standing there in the silence you could almost hear the sounds of a piano playing softly as feet scuffled across the floor and laughter rang out on some night long ago. There was warmth here yet. Memories were trapped within these walls -reminders of people who must have found relief from a harsh lifestyle for a few fleeting hours some cold night in the distant past.

Although haunted by many things in his later life, instinctively I knew why my grandfather had been happy here. Maybe it's the lonely sound of the wind. Maybe it's the complete freedom of the open plains. I, like my grandfather, have been many places in life, but something about this place sticks with you and never lets go. Would I want to live here? No. Will I always remember this place as a place apart from anywhere else...yes. In that I found myself in my grandfather.

Too Far East of Eden

2009-08-29T19:44:00.008-05:00

We live in a time of "change", a word that is used by many but understood by few. Past is present. Time recycles its best cards over and over again. Any student of history can attest to this as fact. America today is at a crossroads and only time will tell which way it will go. Opinions vary, but I believe things can best be summed up, not by a politician postering for a vote or your Sunday morning minister, but by one of the best this country has produced - a writer by the name of Steinbeck:

I don't know how it will be in the years to come. There are monstrous changes taking place in the world, forces shaping a future whose face we do not know. Some of these forces seem evil to us, perhaps not in themselves but because their tendency is to eliminate other things we hold good. It is true that two men can lift a bigger stone than one man. A group can build automobiles quicker and better than one man, and bread from a huge factory is cheaper and more uniform. When our food and clothing and housing all are born in the complication of mass production, mass method is bound to get into our thinking and to eliminate all other thinking. In our time mass or collective production has entered our economics, our politics, and even our religion, so that some nations have substituted the idea collective for the idea God. This in my time is the danger. There is great tension in the world, tension toward a breaking point, and men are unhappy and confused.

At such a time it seems natural and good to me to ask myself these questions. What do I believe in? What must I fight for and what must I fight against?

Our species is the only creative species, and it has only one creative instrument, the individual mind and spirit of a man. Nothing was ever created by two men. There are no good collaborations, whether in music, in art, in poetry, in mathematics, in philosophy. Once the miracle of creation has taken place, the group can build and extend it, but the group never invents anything. The preciousness lies in the lonely mind of a man.

And now the forces marshaled around the concept of the group have declared a war of extermination on that preciousness, the mind of man. By disparagement, by starvation, by repressions, forced direction, and the stunning hammerblows of conditioning, the free, roving mind is being pursued, roped, blunted, drugged. It is a sad suicidal course our species seems to have taken.

And this I believe: that the free, exploring mind of the individual human is the most valuable thing in the world. And this I would fight for: the freedom of the mind to take any direction it wishes, undirected. And this I mus fight against: any idea, religion, or government which limits or destroys the individual. This is what I am and what I am about. I can understand why a system built on a pattern must try to destroy the free mind, for that is one thing which can by inspection destroy such a system. Surely I can understand this, and I hate it and I will fight against it
to preserve the one thing that separates us from the uncreative beasts. If the glory can be killed, we are lost.

Turn off CNN and FoxNews, put down Newsweek and The New York Times...think for yourself. Now, where should we be headed as a nation? What do you believe? What will you fight for or against?

Love Affair

2009-07-07T19:55:00.009-05:00

In the immortal words of Indiana Jones as he stepped from a vaporetto in the opening scenes of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade - "Ahhhh, Venice!" That's not exactly the reaction I initially had when I arrived, albeit minus the cool fedora, in the spring of 2001.

After about eight and a half hours on a plane plus an additional five hours on a train, all in the same clothes, my words were more like "find me the f**kin' hotel, a bath and a bed now!"

As we motored toward our stop at St Mark's Square, we of course chose the boat going the long way round - the "scenic route" - no Grand Canal, no buildings awash in color. Let's just say it was more the industrial side of town. Rolling around in my exhausted mind were phrases like: "Great! More travel - I'm sooooo excited with this trip so far! Are we there yet Papa Smurf??"

Finally we arrived to our stop. As I stepped from the vaporatto and my feet landed again on solid ground, the magic of Italy took hold and didn't let go for over ten days. Instantly, my body no longer ached; my eyes no longer drooped; I didn't care that I had to carry my luggage to the hotel because the wheels wouldn't work on the cobblestones. I was in frickin' Venice in frickin' Italy - the home of Casanova, singing gondoliers, and endless pasta and wine. I was instantly happy - awash in the rose color of a setting sun. The picture above was the first I took and it captures the mood perfectly! Enough said - my lifelong Italian love affair had begun...

Into a World of Darkness

2009-06-27T06:33:00.006-05:00

"From the world of darkness I did loose demons and devils in the power of scorpions to torment." - Charles Manson

Back in the fall of 1996, I spent my first of many nights in London. Let me clearly state for the record that London during the daytime is an entirely separate experience from London at night, especially in the Old City. During daylight hours the thick black soot that covers everything gives the city an overall gray appearance, which in the light of day is rather nondescript. When the sun sets, all fades to black and shadows deepen with the dance of gaslights playing across the brick and stone of the ages.

On this particular night, my destination was Whitechapel and a visit back in time to the fall of 1888. In August of that year, a man that history would come to know as Jack the Ripper claimed his first victim. With the basic story of the murders etched in my mind, I left my hotel and headed into the oldest part of London, once the realm of the desperately poor.

Once exiting the Tower tube stop, the first site to greet me was by far the oldest: a piece of the original city wall built by the Romans over fifteen hundred years ago. Here it was, in the heart of modern day London, raising its proud old head high above it all. Athough decaying under the weight of its age, the wall itself was a remarkable sight, especially in the light of a fading sun. It was as if you could glimpse the glow of thousands of sunsets silently emerging from the cracks in the stone. As I passed beneath its high brow, I couldn't help but touch this link with the past and realized I was touching the very stones that rough and worn hands had carefully put in place lifetimes ago.

Just as the sun finished its course and slipped below the horizon, I came across an old bridge archway. Above was the bustling sound of modern day transportation. Below, where I now stood, was like stepping back into Victorian London. The arch was made of uneven brick and was quite wide, like a small tunnel under the modern streets above. In the nineteenth century, archways such as this were the lair of the prostitute and these walls had been witness to many an indiscretion. Times were incredible difficult, especially for women. Prostitution was often all that provided a meal to eat and meager shelter. This was the atmosphere of the crimes committed in the fall of 1888.

Over the course of the next two hours, I visited three of the five actual murder sites, a couple of which had changed little since Jack the Ripper brandished his knife. As I walked, it was very easy to picture what night in Victorian Whitechapel would have been like. The slowly rotting cobblestones slightly dampened by the fog and gaslights casting eerie shadows over endless dark alleyways. But it was the smell drifting through the air will always stick with me - it was a mixture of stale alcohol, garbage and decay.

My last stop was The Ten Bells, a pub founded in 1666 which over the years had had its name changed many times due to its association with the Ripper murders. The Ripper's final victim was said to have had her last drink here before heading home one dark night all those year ago, never to be seen alive again. Throughout the pub were many Ripper references (copies of newspaper clippings and such), but the pub itself, small and personal, with its worn wooden floors and tiled walls, looked little changed.

As I headed back into the dark night, I more than once looked over my shoulder as the sound of footsteps distantly echoing behind me lingered in my imagination.

Inklings

2009-06-16T20:21:00.008-05:00

"Not all those who wander are lost." - J.R.R. Tolkien

Imagine a tiny room with dark paneling, the smell of pipe smoke slowly filtering the air. The tiny, warm fire labors to keep out the damp chill of a winter day in Oxford, England, circa 1939. Sitting in a back room of The Eagle and Child, more affectionately known as "The Bird and Baby," are a small group of professors. From their midsts would emerge some of the most beloved of English literature.

On an equally chilly spring afternoon in 1999, I arrived through the doors of the same pub. The place had a definite air of history about it, with it's tiny rooms and dark stained booths. I, like many others before me, had come to this small pub on a main street in Oxford, England, just hoping to soak up the atmosphere that had inspired debate and storytelling all those years ago.

This tiny pub once played host to The Inklings, an informal literary group of Oxford professors, including among them J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis. They would meet here just before lunch on Tuesdays to discuss the importance of the narrative in fiction, amongst other topics. Imagine what it must have been like to hear Tolkien read Lord of the Rings aloud for the first time as the fire crackled in the background and the light of the flames flashed off the curved walls. Cool indeed.

Today the pub still has the feel of being local, not touristy, although we weren't the only tourists present. Somehow everyone blended together without disrupting the atmosphere. There weren't any cheesy t-shirts for sale, just the gentle hum of dozens of conversations - good friends and good times blended....probably not much different than sixty years ago...

Timeless yellowing walls face out at the world,

A sign overhead with an eagle's wings unfurled.

In his sharpened talons he lifts a child,

A symbot of the mental freedom of the meek and mild.

It was to this place that they were drawn,

To spin their tales of worlds with little wrong.

Aging souls with the childlike vision to still see,

Viewing life in this way made their minds free.

Tolkien and C.S. Lewis to name just a few,

Created worlds as innocent as the morning dew.

Within this defined dark-paneled space,

Their imaginations soared with childlike grace.

Tapestries of trouble in Narnia and Bilbo's quest,

Were spun in the pub's smoky air at each writer's behest.

Visions of the timeless battle of good versus evil,

Flickered in the flame of each story's upheaval.

Although their time has come and gone,

Inklings of dreams left behind live on and on.

Yearning for More Sun

2009-06-13T19:24:00.010-05:00

One cold December day while in Paris, I set out on a mission - to find the grave of Jim Morrison. Yes, Jim Morrison, aka lead singer of The Doors - you know the iconic '60's band that helped pave the way for the modern rock era. Morrison had died in Paris the year I was born - 1971. We only occupied this planet at the same time for a few mere months, but something about him had fascinated me for years. I wanted to see his final resting place.

I took the train to the outskirts of Paris. Once leaving the Metro, I set out walking through what appeared to be a very working class part of town - far away from the major tourist sites like the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre. Finally I started seeing a huge wall appear on the left of the sidewalk. It was very tall and you couldn't see over or around it. After a bit further, I saw the gates of my destination - Pere Lachaise Cemetery.

The cemetery takes its name from the confessor to Louis XIV, Pere Francois de la Chaise, who lived in a Jesuit house rebuilt in 1682 on the site of the chapel. Although the largest cemetery in Paris, it wasn't even part of the city until the early nineteenth century. In the beginning, due to the cemetery's distance from the city, people had to be enticed to be buried there. Famous graves were relocated to the cemetery so it would become "fashionable." Today there are over 300,000 souls who call Pere Lachaise their final resting place, including Jim Morrison.

Finding his actual grave took some diligence. Full of confidence at first, I stumbled along with my trusty map figuring I would just follow the many arrows left behind by others that pointed the way to "Jim." Somehow this plan didn't get me far and I soon found myself trying to speak French with one of the caretakers. Basically I resorted to "Jim Morrison?" and that got the job done. I was so close to the grave at the time I asked, Jim was probably laughing his ass off.

His non-descript tombstone was hidden behind a much larger above ground masoleum. The back of this masoleum had been defaced over the years by fans coming to pay their respects to Jim. You could see that the caretakers had tried to repair the damage time and again, but each repair seemed only to bite deeper into the stone. Now it has the appearance of an arm once a tattoo has been removed - sandblasted.

The grave itself was tiny and sandwiched between two others. There was hardly enough room to squeeze in between to get a picture. Flowers, both fresh and not so fresh, littered the grave, as did the remnants of candles, cigarettes, and a few tokes. Even today, almost forty years after his death, people like me still come to visit. Some even stay a while and have a drink at the grave. I bet Chopin, buried in the same cemetery, doesn't get this kind of action. The day I visited, no one else was around. It was one of those cold, overcast, winter days. The trees around still had lingering color from the previous fall. Other than the wind and an occassional leaf hitting the stone pavement, there was only silence. Somehow I think Jim would've liked that.

There he stood, a shadow in the light,

Like a hazy dream, he slowly came into sight.

With pants of black leather and a mane of turbulent locks,

He strode across the stage, enciting a riot amongst his teathered flock.

A shaman was he, lost in a trance,

But beyond it all - man, could he dance.

He gripped the mike stand with a lover's gentle hand,

And as he moved to the tribal beat of a silent drum,

Everyone in that audience was suddenly struck dumb.

A collision of lost and lonely souls was he,

Vicariously floating on a dream induced sea.

His passion was evidenced by the words he wrote.

They would float through time like a slowly drifting boat.

For generations to come he would be known as the Lizard King,

Because he always did much more than just sing.

He died young, or so everyone said,

But many believe from life he just fled.

One thing is for certain, he passed through a door,

Forever shutting it behind him and leaving his audience yearning for more...

Into the Arena

2009-06-09T19:14:00.006-05:00

Cicero once said: "Live as brave men; and if fortune is adverse, front its blows with brave hearts." From the beginning of humanity, bravery has been revered and thrust normal men into extraordinary situations. When this happens, society takes note by elevating the brave one to god like status. Regardless of the path taken, the person becomes idolized and worshipped. Normal Joe wants to be that person because life must be better once you step out of the crowd - right?

It has often fascinated me that in Ancient Rome, the gladiator was considered a celebrity - someone to admire for their survival instinct, ruthlessness, and showmanship. The ironic twist is that gladiators were mostly prisoners, forced to fight for their life for the sake of entertainment. Some who were lucky enough survived long enough to actually win their freedom. Countless others perished under the hot sun of a Roman afternoon, with the smell of blood in their nostrils and the sound of the mob in their ears. The elevation of such men (and even women), reveals quite a bit about Roman values. As in any age, that which is esteemed is that which attracts the attention of the mob. In Ancient Rome it was strength, bravery, adaptability, and at times, basic brutality.

To get to know any society, present or past, just look at its celebrities - those that were the most famous, the most wealthy, and the most revered. It is within the characteristics of these people that the heart of the society at large is revealed. In Ancient Greece, philosophers were admired for their great mental skill. Names like Socrates, Plato and Aristotle still survive because of their genius. Military prowess was valued in both Ancient Rome and Greece, as evidenced by names such as Alexander the Great and Julius Caeser - great men with great deeds that echo through time for thousands of years.

What about American society today - what do we value? Who do we place upon the throne of celebrity and why? What does that say about us as a society? Will any of our "heroes" stand the test of time? And, why are everyday members of society starved for celebrity? Take a look at any newstand tomorrow and you'll see tabloid after tabloid recounted the salicious details of a celebrity life. Why are we drawn into this as a society? Is it wander lust - we basically escape into another's life and live vicariously? Is it the sign of the times - dark and gloomy predictions of economic catastrophe have driven us all into rose colored glasses with Paris Hilton as our savior?

Socrates would roll over in his grave...

White Witch of Rose Hall

2009-06-07T14:36:00.009-05:00

Back a few years ago, I was down in the Carribbean visiting Jamaica and I had the chance to check out Rose Hall. The house itself was built between 1778 and 1790 by a planter by the name of John Palmer. It wasn't John Palmer who gave the house its legend. It was the wife of his grand nephew, a woman named Annie Palmer.

Born Annie Mae Paterson, she was of mixed English and Irish descent. She moved with her missionary parents to Haiti when she was around ten years old. She was very short, only about 4'11", but was known for her beauty and dark hair. When her parents died of yellow fever, Annie was adopted by her Haitian nanny, rumored to be a voodoo queen.

In 1820, Annie consented to marry John Rose Palmer and became the mistress of Rose Hall, a sugar plantation of several thousand acres and about 2,000 slaves. Depending upon which legend you reference, Annie poisoned John due to physical abuse or after he caught her with her slave lover. Regardless, upon John's death, Annie assumed control of the plantation.

She married twice more and each husband met an early death under mysterious circumstances. The bodies were never viewed because Annie claimed each husband died of a "mortal illness." Supposedly she dispatched each husband simply because she was bored with them. She had slaves dispose of the bodies through an underground passageway that led to the beach. After disposing of a body, the slave or slaves in question would disappear.

In addition to killing her husbands, the legend of the White Witch also extends to abuse of slaves. The story goes that she would stand at the balcony on the second floor of the house and watch slaves be beaten or whipped to death. The slaves were terrified of her. On one occassion, a young slave girl attempted to poison Annie. The plot was discovered and the girl was killed, but Annie requested that her head be placed on a stick outside as a warning to all the other slaves.

Annie was known for riding her horse around in the dark of night, whipping any slave she found. Natives of Jamaica also believed she used her voodoo skills to create apparitions such as menacing animals. After years of abuse, Annie's slaves banded together and smothered her in her bed one night. Although they burned her belongings, they were careful to not destroy Rose Hall out of a fear that Annie would return to haunt them.

Annie was buried by the slaves from a neighboring plantation since her own servants still feared her even in death. Her tomb was marked with a white cross on all but one side. Apparently the slaves weren't sure if Annie's spirit was inside or outside the grave and they didn't want to incur her wrath if she couldn't get to her final resting place. After Annie's death, the house was left vacant for several years because of its fearsome reputation. A couple eventually purchased the property with the intent to restore it to its former glory. As they were moving in the house, a servant fell to her death from the second story balcony that Annie once used to observe slaves being abused. The fall was considered strange since the balcony had a waist high railing encircling it.

Rose Hall eventually fell into ruins. Then in the 1960's the plantation was purchased and restored for visitors. To this day, tourists report strange happenings on visits to the property. Some photographs taken at the Hall and developed later show unexplained lights and the appearance of a face in the mirror in Annie's bedroom. Other visitors report that upon developing their film, all the pictures taken in the house have a misty look, while those taken outside are clear. In fact, during our visit, hundreds of photos taken by tourists were displayed in the gift shop. When I returned home, I developed my film hoping for some strange results. Unfortunately, no such luck...

Once Upon a Rainy Day...

2009-06-04T19:39:00.004-05:00

One of the most atmospheric attics in all of the world to me is the British Museum. I could wander alone through floor after floor, hall after hall, for days on end and never get bored. I even love the smell of the place - old, dusty, decaying, all niced up by a feel of scholarly honor. You can practically walk through history here -from the Egyptians to the Greeks to the Romans to the Celts - it's all here.

Back a few years ago, I was in London on business and I had a free afternoon. It was one of those quinessential London days - drizzly rain, cool, overcast - I could think of no better place to spend the afternoon than my favorite museum in all the world. When you walk in, you get the normal hustle and bustle of tour groups, school groups, and basically chaos - people grabbing a souvenir or discussing their next destination for the day. Once you clear the lobby and begin making your way through the halls - quiet descends and after a while you can really only hear an occassional whisper or footstep on the marble floors. This is when the magic happens.

Treasures abound in every direction - the Elgin Marbles from Greece, mummies from Egypt, the remains of ship burials from Saxon England - but one of the most fascinating finds is Lindow Man. On this particular rainy day, I met him for the first time.

Although he lived over 2000 years ago, the expression on his face is still visible, making him seem more....human. Some have speculated that he was part of a ritual sacrifice carried out by Druids. What is known is the last meal he consumed, his station in life, and how he was killed. Amazingly enough, the peat bog preserved his skin, hair and internal organs. He was around 25 years old at the time of his death, and although not unwell, he was suffering from parasitic worms. The physical evidence shows that he was hit on the head twice with most likely an axe. He sustained a knee blow to the back, breaking one of his ribs. The thin cord, still visible around his neck, was used to strangle him and perhaps break his neck. Finally, although dead at this point, his throat was cut and he was placed face down in the bog. Other human remains have also been found in this same bog, hinting at it being used more than once for a sacrifice. The reasons why exactly are lost to time.

What struck me most as I stood staring at this man's earthly remains, was my imaginings of the scene that had unfolded near this bog all those years ago. Why was he chosen as the victim? Was he scared or honored or both? Was his family present? These and other questions swam around in my mind as people filed past on their way to see the Egyptian mummies. This man was a human being, just like me and the others walking past. He lived and he died according to the laws of his time, not much different from people I've known. The laws of his time now seemed barbaric, inhuman, but there was something of great value here - a spark of curiosity. Lindow Man and other exhibits generate a curiosity about another time, another culture. Their existence pushes us too seek knowledge about them. Through this quest for knowledge, we get to know them and by doing so, ourselves.

Travel is a beautiful thing.

Lonely Pathways in London: Reflections of Highgate Cemetery

2009-05-30T20:16:00.003-05:00

During the fall of 1996, I visited London for the first time. Over the years, I would go back a couple of more times between then and now, but for some reason, that first trip will always seem magical in my memory. While there in '96, we took a trip to Highgate cemetery and here is my journal entry from that visit:

"On the way to Highgate we ended up chasing our tail yet again trying to locate the cemetery. Finally we saw it and headed up the narrow sidewalk. All along the sidewalk, iron bars separated the decades that had passed and left the cemetery untouched from the hustle and bustle of modern London. Vines of ivy stretched their green arms through the iron bars. It was as if the lost souls buried within were reaching out to claim some hold on the living. When we entered the East Cemetery, opting to skip the guided tour through the West Cemetery, I was struck with how peaceful it all was when compared to the London we had come to know over the previous days. Hundreds of graves closely huddled together under a cover of vegetation, the tilted and fading tombstones the only indication of lives lived. The entire area was a supreme example of Mother Nature overriding mans existance..."

Several years later, the picture above and my memories of Highgate inspired the following lines:

The stones of Highgate shown in the moon,

Momentos of lost souls - gone too soon.

Vines of green, stream down from Heaven,

To touch my face and unite the breathen.

As I walked along the corridors of green,

I wondered what those lying around me had seen.

Lifetimes of love and happiness flown,

Now memorialized by simple moss-covered stone.

Oh, there were a few here who would be remembered,

But most lived and died without time's passage ever being hindered.

Their immortality now consists

Of a slightly leaning tombstone, obscured by the mist.

Lighting the Darkness

2009-05-26T06:13:00.005-05:00

Red, blue, yellow and green,
What little warmth lights this scene.
Filtering through squares and rings,
Sunshine fills the hall of a king;
Lonely and dark the alcove may seem,
But oh what life this tiny window hath seen...

- inspired by a window in the Tower of London, September 1996

Conclusion of History Etched in Stone

2009-05-25T13:59:00.002-05:00

Emerging from Beauchamp Tower and walking toward Tower Green, it is possible to imagine the sight of young Jane being led to the place of execution on what is now a spot of cool green grass. Here, her eyes blindfolded, she knelt and blindly felt for the block in front of her. Not being able to locate her destiny, Jane panicked, and cried out for help. In the untold tragedy of the moment, a lone priest stepped forward to guide Jane's flaying hands to the stone that would end her nightmare. What fear she must have felt. What shame those that ended her life should have felt.

The unbearable tragedy of this psot of ground is brought home when envisioning the scene of that day long ago. Even though Jane Grey died centuries ago, her spirit and her story remain alive to this day, symbolized by a simple gray block of stone surrounded by modern day tourists. The love, fear, sadness, and lost soul of a young girl is refreshed again and again each time a slight breeze filters through the trees and stirs the leaves above. No, the dead are not silent, at least not for ears that listen for thier faint voices.

Just beyond the scaffold, a scene of violence and utter despair, si the Chapel Royal of St Peter ad Vincula. Meaning St Peter in Chains, the Chapel is the final resting place of many who lost their lives just outside the church's hallowed walls - including Lady Jane Grey. An intrinsic sadness seems to exude from it. Yet another sad irony presents itself - a place of eternal peace and protection so intertwined with a pot of intense suffering from which victims could find no salvation.

Finally, the White Tower itself looms from the center of the fortress. This structure is, with the exception of a portion of the Roman Wall inside the Tower of London, the oldest part of the Tower. Built between 1078 and 1097 by William the Conqueror, it is square in shape, with one turret rising from each corner. Each of these turrets is also square except for one, which at one time housed the first royal observatory. Rising ninety feet toward heaven itself, the White Tower is supported by massive walls, fifteen feet thick at the base. A fortress by design, the original main entrance was not on the ground level, but was reached by a staircase of wood that could be moved to prevent entry. Most of the windows now seen were once only slits large enough for an arrow to pass through. Today the White Tower is no longer a protector of kins, but houses an exhibition of arms and armory.

The final and most poignant of ironies that greet the visitor to the modern Tower of London is perhaps the White Tower itself. All around, other buildings have been built, altered, torn down, and rebuilt, but the White Tower remains as it was in the beginning. It is the ultimate symbol of English power and weakness, age and youth. It is the very heart of the fortress that is the Tower of London and the British Empire of old. Built by William the Conqueror, a young man with visions of power and domination, along the banks of a mighty river, its walls have defied challenge and withstood the test of time.

Traitor's Gate

2009-05-24T09:09:00.003-05:00

As the night reveals the moon's soft glow,

The faint rustling of skirts can be heard on stairs far below.

Ascending platforms emerge from murky depths;

Slowly but surely, something moves on the steps.

Ever faintly, time reappears;

A young queen in gowns, her eyes full of tears.

Youth lost in an age long ago,

Forever haunting the waters below.

- inspired by a spot in the Tower of London where Princess Elizabeth, later Queen Elizabeth I, arrived for imprisonment in 1554

Continuation of Tales from the Tower...yes again...

2009-05-23T17:22:00.002-05:00

After descending stone spiral stairs and passing through the Oratory, you enter what has been reconstructed as the Throne Room of Edward I. A circular room, it is mainly empty, except for a reproduction of the Coronation Chair. An ever-present fireplace and massive candelabra, hanging from above, dominate the room. The ceiling itself is vaulted in the center and uses the interplay of dark and light stones to create a uniform pattern throughout. Like the previous rooms, this room is damp and musty - inherently cold with the staleness of the ever-ticking march of time.

Several small alcoves branch off from the circular room. One particular alcove is reached by a single stone step. The worn wooden shutters are slightly ajar, allowing the warm afternoon sunshine to stream in through the opening left by their absence. Light dances through the time-rippled panes of glass to create strange shadows on the stone benches, which project from the wall. One can almost hear giggles of courtiers as they exchange the latest gossip, as a harp plays and the court jester entertains nearby.

After exiting through the Wakefield Tower, one emerges near the Garden Tower. After the tragic disappearance of two young children, this portion of the fortress had its name changed to the Bloody Tower. The year was 1483. Edward V, twelve years old, and his younger brother, the Duke of York, disappeared from this tower after they were placed there under the protection of their uncle, known to history as Richard III. The two boys would not be seen again for almost two centuries. In 1674 the bones of two children were discovered buried beneath spiral stone stairs in the White Tower. Believing these were the two lost princes, officials had them interred in Westminster Abbey. Many would argue that their uncle had them killed and quickly buried to ensure his ascent to the throne of England. The bones were exhumed in the early twentieth century and examined by modern scientists. It was concluded that these remains might be those of the two young princes who were never allowed to grow up. Who really killed them remains a mystern for the ages.

The Bloody Tower also once served as the prison of Sir Walter Raleigh and his family during the seventeenth century. It was here that he wrote A History of the World. The dark wood desk used by Raleigh is visible as are several other pieces from this time period.

If anything, the Tower is a juxtaposition of centuries of architecture. Alongside the medieval stone towers of Wakefield Tower and the Bloody Tower is the Tudor style Queen's House. Since this is the home of the Resident Governor, a lone guard stands watch outside. The red of his coat is reflected in the brilliant red flowers planted nearby. Although not open to the public, the richness of the exterior provides a strange contrast to the cold gray of the Tower's other structures. This building originally served as a prison for high-ranking prisoners of the Crown. Queen Anne Boleyn spent her final days here before losing her head to a Frenchman's sword on nearby Tower Green. Her headless ghost is rumored to haunt this area of the Tower in her never-ending search for justice.

Nearby Beauchamp Tower reveals more ghosts within its walls. Used as a prison, the interior is covered in ancient graffiti. Perhaps one of the most touching and famous inscriptions scratched in the rough stone reads simply "Jane." It was here that Guildford Dudley, the husband of Lady Jane Grey, was imprisoned to await execution after his wife's reign as Queen of England for nine days. Lady Jane and her husband were imprisoned in the Tower of London after Jane was placed on the throne by her father-in-law John Dudley. Once "Bloody" Mary Tudor claimed the throne, she was forced to execute her sixteen-year-old cousin Jane as a means of securing her throne and her marriage to Phillip of Spain.

Guildford Dudley's one word inscription on the walls of the Beauchamp Tower leaves no question of whom Dudley thought of during the last days of his life. It was from this tower that Jane saw her husband emerge and walk to his death on Tower Hill on a cold February day in 1554. Only a few short hours after seeing her husband's headless body being brought back into the Tower, Jane was taken to her death on Tower Green.

...to be continued...

Tales from the Tower...continued...

2009-05-22T16:08:00.006-05:00

...continued from post History Etched in Stone...

The first room you enter is the Great Chamber or Magna Camera. Restored to the days of the thirteenth century, this space once served as both a bedroom and unofficial throne room to Edward I. Yet another irony is revealed by the mere fact that commoners, most of whom are not even British, are now being allowed to walk freely through the bedroom of a king.

The room is rather large with helpful pamphlets and signs scattered throughout, pointing out the clues that archaeologists used to piece together the room's various hidden features. One can see and touch the original fireplace. Rough cut white stones carefully forged together, ascend to the ceiling to form a powerful addition to the room. Imagination interplays with reality as you can almost picture the tall Edward, lost in thought, warming his hands to remove the chill from London's moist weather. Today, a damp smell permeates the room and you are reminded that the warm fire that once burned here was extinguished long ago. The fireplace is now swept clean, but like the rest of the room, it bears the scar of a lost way of life.

One area of the room reveals the various stages of restoration in visual detail by leaving exposed several layers of wallpaper. Perhaps considered somewhat gaudy by today's standards, the fine printed, yellowed wallpaper is a definite testament to medieval interior design. Its pattern, worn by time, still bespeaks of richness, especially when compared to the filthy poverty that was once a dark reality to Londoners in the late thirteenth century.

Proceeding into the Aula - the area of the king's chambers that once served as a dining hall - the meandering tourist is greeted by costumed guides. On this particular visit, the guides point out the uses of parchment. Parchment was an ideal means of recording important documents in medieval times since it was guaranteed to last over 900 years - an eternity to people who were lucky to see the age of forty.

Windows from this room overlook the ever-constant flow of the Thames. Through the warped panes of glass, reality is once again distorted as the visitor views the same river that flowed in Edward's time. Even though the water filling the river channel is forever anew, the river's presence is constant. Much like the water of the river, the Tower of London's inhabitants have changed throughout the ages, but its walls, like the banks of the river, remain steadfast in their purpose.

...to be continued...

History Etched in Stone

2009-05-21T18:37:00.003-05:00

It has been called one of the saddest places on earth. Its walls, blocks of time in a long vista of historical associations. But the Tower of London is more than that. It is a vast tangle of human life intertwined with history. It is as much legend as fact, horror story as love story, shrine as relic. But throughout it all it is England - at its best and worst.

Maintaining its delicate position amongst the ever-encroaching modern skyscrapers of twenty-first century London, the Tower overlooks the Thames as it has for almost 1000 years. A fortress built by man and a waterway forged by Nature, but perhaps one of the most successful partnerships in the history of mankind. As one protects the other, they both continue to defy the effects of time by adjusting ever so slightly to accommodate their ever-changing purpose. Only by seeing one through the eyes of the other, can the modern day visitor begin to glimpse through the windows of time, into worlds long ago lost.

Today's visitor to the Tower of London will be amazed by the ironies surrounding this once powerful fortress. Residing in the midst of towering skyscrapers with gleaming glass and steel, the Tower's slightly yellowed stone and rudimentary construction seem miniature in size. Only when you realize the Tower's place in history as a fearsome fortress is the irony complete.

Proceeding toward the Tower, down a sloping cobbled embankment, you are distracted by the leisurely atmosphere of modern day shops and tourists. This on the spot where hundreds have lost their lives over time. Tower Hill, the area adjacent to the Tower of London, was once the site of a permanent scaffold where countless souls lost their lives in front of blookthirsty crowds - quite different from the scene confronting the modern tourist. The last vestiges of a bloody past are now wonly discernable by a few markers and creative pub names, such as The Hung, Drawn, and Quartered located nearby.

The ironies continue on approach to the Tower itself. Entrance is now granted with a ticket stub instead of a birthright. Funny that in a modern world tickets are sold to the general public to grant admission to a fortress that excelled in keeping foreigners out for centuries. Instead of armed guards and a water-filled moat, today the Tower is protected by friendly Yeoman Warders and metal detectors.

After passing through security, you enter the once mighty fortress via the Middle Tower and cross the now dry moat by way of an extinct drawbridge. Passing over the moat, you can perhaps watch as an archaeological dig commences. Piles of dirt abound as scientists carefully free old foundations from their earthly tombs. Amongst the ruins exposed is the Bulwark Gate, through which prisoners once headed for execution on Tower Hill; and the Lion Tower, formerly the royal menagerie and the beginnings of the modern London Zoo.

As the damp smell of moist earth rises from below, you cannot help but wonder whose hands laid these original foundations? Who walked these ancient walls before they fell into decay or were torn down? Only the patience of science and countless hours of examination could begin to answer these questions. But for the visitor with a good imagination, the chanting of a blood hungry mob on nearby Tower Hill can faintly be heard as the ghost of a long-dead prisoner exits Bulwark Gate on his journey into eternity.

After passing under the ancient archway of the Byward Tower, you enter the confines of the Tower's innermost yard. Ahead is Water Lane - the Tower of London's main street. For the visitor with some knowledge of history, the best way to explore is alone, as far away from the large groups of tourists led by Yeoman Warders as possible. Only in this partial silence, can the faint whisperings of history come to life.

By taking the stairs, which ascend from Water Lane immediately after passing through the Byward Tower, the visitor enters a recently restored portion of the fortress - St Thomas' Tower. Named for St Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, who was slain centuries ago as the result of an offhand comment by Henry II, this is amont the older parts of the fortress. Legend has it that this tower repeatedly collapsed after it was built until Henry III renamed it for St Thomas. This ceased the unexplained crumbling of a seemingly sound structure.

...to be continued...

Resolution at Spaniard's Inn

2009-05-20T17:57:00.004-05:00

Gold letters reflect the glow of London's pink skies,

Dark window panes deepen as another day slowly dies;

Lingering dreams draw me here to this place,

These white walls before me mark their time and their space;

I am a pilgrim, a romantic soul whose light has dimmed,

Looking for myself through inklings of them;

I dare not imagine what stories these simple walls could tell -

Images of Grecian urns and an ancient mariner's hell;

Like Byron and Keats, I am sentenced to an unattainable quest,

I walk the Heath alone at some long dead poet's silent request.

Finally I arrive at the remedy of my curse -

Visiting this place my longings bridge with their verse

Slowly past blends with present as zestful passions catch on -

My soul merges with the ghosts of Spaniard's and I suddenly belong.

- written in 1996 after visiting a pub on Hampstead Heath, just outside London

Down a dirt road...

2009-05-11T17:56:00.002-05:00

Clay County today is probably not a lot different than the Clay County of the nineteenth century, at least in certain areas. On one of my many wanderings to find a cemetery, we (my dad and I) set off on a search for one of my ancestors who fought in the Civil War.

Drewy Greenberry Bean was my first cousin five times removed, a son of Walter Bean. Walter most likely is my fifth great grandfather. Drewy was born in 1837 in Burke, North Carolina and died March 1911 in rural Clay or Randolph County. He fought in the 31st Alabama Infantry during the Civil War. He was present at Vicksburg. His Civil War record on file with the Alabama Department of Archives and History describes him as about 5'6" tall, with blue eyes and light hair.

Other than that, all I know is the location of his final resting place. I have no picture, no family story that would give a glimpse of his personality, only an old dirt road east of Lineville, near the Clay/Randolph County border. The road is called Old Church Road and basically leads to nowhere but the small cemetery carved out of the surrounding woods. Although the road indicates a church once stood here, it no longer exists. All that greeted me when I stepped from the car was the sound of birds and silence.

We found Drewy and most likely his wife Susan buried amongst few others, with a Confederate States of America marker indicating his grave. As I stood there, I tried to imagine the day he was buried - who was present? How did they feel about him? What was the weather like? Without the distraction of a modern world, for a brief moment I was carried back to lives lived and the fraility of human existance. Although we all eventually fall to the ravages of time, it is what we leave behind that is important. Wanting to know the story of Drewy and others like him keeps me going...

Finally...Chambers County

2009-04-30T19:45:00.011-05:00

Yesterday my Dad and I finally made our way down to Lafayette in Chambers County on our continuing search for more information regarding the John Bean family. We pulled up in front of the Chambers County Courthouse a little after nine in the morning.

As we walked up the sidewalk toward the entrance, it was a little eerie to think that around 170 or so years ago, my ggggggrandfather John Bean gave a man 39 lashes a few feet from the modern strip of pavement I now walked on. We entered the courthouse through the new addition and asked the security guy on duty where we'd go to find the oldest records on file. He pointed us into the older part of the building, what used to be the main courthouse, built in 1899. As we approached, I noticed a large picture of the original courthouse, the one that would have been built in the mid 1830's and thought how very little the town square had changed in over one hundred years. In fact the buildings behind the courthouse were exactly the same, even if a little more ragged.

As we stepped through the large doors into the old courthouse, you could immediately smell the age of the place. It was like the smell that comes out of a very old library book that has sat, unopened on some dusty shelf for too long. We approached a young girl who was working at the probate window and asked where to find records from the 1830's. She waved us through a nearby door and said her mom could help us. Only in a town the size of Lafayette would this happen. Apparently the normal lady who runs the probate records room was out of the office and the girl's mother, an accountant for the court, was filling in.

She led us through a door that looked like the entrance to a bank vault and inside was a small room with very high ceilings, chalk full of ledgers - all very large, very heavy, and very old. She showed us how to use the index books to find what we needed and before long I was thumbing very carefully through ledgers that were originally written in almost 200 years ago. These old books made you really appreciate the time it took to write them and the artistry of the penmenship which is lost in modern day computer records.

On page three of the very first book I looked in, we found the original marriage entry for Charles Crew and Hicksey Bean, a daugher of Walter Bean and granddaughter of John Bean. They were the third marriage performed in Chambers County - the date was 1833. A bit further back was the marriage record for Prudence Bean, a daughter of John and sister to Walter and beyond that, on page 165 was what I had been looking for - the marriage record for one Nancy Bean, the woman I suspect of being Jesse J. Bean's mother (the actual record is in the photo above).

Apparently Thomas W. Gibbs, the groom, had applied for the marriage license on April 13, 1838. On the same date, John Bean signed for his granddaughter to marry, which was also on the same page. The actual marriage ceremony wasn't performed until Sunday evening, the 15th of April 1838 - again, the same day as Jesse's birth. It was performed by a William Carlisle who later certified the marriage on the same ledger page.

This information answered one question for me - if Nancy was Jesse's mother, how was she able to marry the same day as giving birth? If she married at home, and not in Lafayette at the probate office, as evidenced by the Sunday evening timing and the two day delay in certifying the marriage, she could have married while still recovering in bed. Is it possible the marriage was only waiting on the birth to happen? I'll probably never know for sure, but all kinds of stories are bouncing around in my head...

Martha Ann Lucinda Bean

2009-04-22T06:22:00.002-05:00

In my continuing quest to find a link between my ggggrandfather Jesse J. Bean and the John Bean family that settled in East Alabama in the 1830's, I stumbled across an additional tidbit of information that again raises the suspicion of Native American heritage existing in this family.

The photo to the left is of the Mitchell homeplace in Clay County, Alabama and it was taken around 1900. The woman sitting is Martha Ann Lucinda Bean - a daughter of Walter Bean, granddaughter to John Bean. Martha was born in Henry County, Georgia in either 1832 or 1833. This interesting tidbit reveals that although John Bean was already in Randolph County in 1833 (as evidenced by his election as Coroner), his son Walter and family was still in Georgia.

During my research, I have run across posts made by descendants of Martha in which they relate family stories about Martha and Walter. In one, Walter was referred to as a Native American who made handmade furniture (wooden with woven wicker seats). A couple of times a year he would "go over the mountain" to Anniston, Alabama to sell the fruits of his labor. This makes sense in that the area that Walter and his family were living is just over Mt Cheaha from Anniston.

In this same post by Mark K. Edmondson, he recalled that Martha lived to a ripe old age and often recounted her vivid memories of the Indian removals of the 1830's. She was very bitter about it because many of her friends and family were taken away on the Trail of Tears. Jesse would have been a contempory of Martha, as well as most likely a first cousin. I wonder if Jesse's parents were part of the family forced out during the removals? Most likely, Martha knew the answer to this and my many other questions. Alas, she died in 1924 and I have been unable to establish a connection to any of her descendants in Clay County or elsewhere.

John Bean

2009-04-10T19:55:00.008-05:00

Recently I came across an interesting first hand account of life in Chambers County, Alabama during it's founding in the 1830's written by the man that actually married Hicksey Bean, a cousin to my ggggrandfather Jesse J. Bean.

The Honorable E.G. Richards wrote a series of stories from his life in early Chambers County in 1890 for the LaFayette Sun. These articles were reprinted in the 1940's. He recounts many interesting stories that give the modern reader a bit of the flavor of what life in frontier Alabama must have been like. He recounts how the first office holders in Chambers County were elected under a shade tree in the yard of one James Thompson. Among those elected on that April day in 1833 was my sixth great grandfather John Bean. John was elected the first Coroner of Chambers County and lived nearby on a 160 acre track of land that he claimed on behalf of his wife. The actual land record indicates the 160 acre tract was an Indian Land Allotment, verifying my suspicion that John was married to a full blooded Cherokee named Mary. The two of them appear on the 1850 census for Talladega County.

John was Jesse J. Bean's great grandfather and he and his children has moved from South Carolina around 1809 to Morgan County, Georgia. They are listed on subsequent records as moving next to Jasper County and then on to Butts and Henry County, Georgia before finally moving onto Creek Indian lands in eastern Alabama - the area that would become Chambers County. My best estimate is that they arrived sometime in 1832. In Richards' account, he describes an area that was very much still frontier, with Indian inhabitants up until the late 1830's. I believe John settled somewher near Hurst's Store, now called Fredonia, Alabama.

During the 1830's, Richards recounts the formation of the Slick Company. The Slicks were made up of some of Chambers County's most upstanding citizens. Originally they were formed as a means of dealing with thieves that came into the area to steal cattle and slaves. Basically the Slicks were vigilante justice in its truest form - the original posse. What began as a helpful organization, over time, began to abuse the power they had been given. By the mid 1830's the members of the group became fearful of having their authority challenged. In 1837 a man named Herring arrived in LaFayette. Word spread that the man was in town to file charges against the Slicks for some of their actions. Herring and his wife were staying in a hotel in LaFayette run by a widow named Elizabeth Reed. By late afternoon a mob had formed outside the hotel, looking for Herring.

After being challenged by Mrs. Reed and being shot at by Mrs. Herring, members of the mob stormed into the hotel and pulled Herring out into the street. He was taken by the mob to a tree out front of the courthouse and tied to one of the branches. The Slicks were looking to teach him a lesson, so he was given thirty nine lashes on his bare back as a warning. What was shocking to me in reading this story was that the man who whipped Herring was none other than John Bean. Apparently John was also a several term Bailiff of the Grand Jury of Chambers County, in addition to being the first Coroner. The account never verified his membership in the Slicks, but that conclusion seems obvious since he was the one handing out the punishment on Herring. Richards goes on to indicate that John laid on the lashes well with a new cowhide.

Herring was told to leave town and never come back to Chambers County...which he did. As for John Bean, he eventually ended up living with his daughter Elizabeth and her husband Barnett Kinard, most likely dying in Talladega County sometime after 1850.

Nancy Bean....Gibbs???

2009-04-04T06:14:00.010-05:00

This week I stumbled across an interesting bit of information in my never ending quest to identify the parents of my ggggrandfather Jesse J. Bean. I knew a Nancy Bean married in Chambers County on April 15, 1838 - the same date that has been referred to as Jesse's birth date. I often suspected that this Nancy Bean was some how related to the John Bean family that lived in Chambers County during this time, but I had no proof...until this week.

During my endless searching on the internet to find some sign of the Bean family living in Chambers County around 1835, I came across two interesting bits of information. The first being that a John Bean was elected coroner of Chambers County in 1833 - this was even earlier than I suspected my Beans would have been in Chambers County. This area of Alabama was only opened to settlement around 1832, after the second Creek War. Also, either there were very few settlers, or John Bean was a bit prominent, or at least, more so than I thought. I found this information in a book on the history of Alabama, which included a basic overview of the formation of Chambers County. Unfortunately this is the only place I've found this mentioned so far.

The second bit of information came by pure chance. Throughout this process, I have sent countless emails to various people I'd stumble across on the web, asking for information on the Bean family. Sometimes I get responses, sometimes I don't. This week I emailed yet another faceless person regarding the marriage of Nancy Bean. The lady in question was listed as the contact for information on early Alabama marriages, especially Chambers County. Guess what? I got a response the next day! She was not only able to confirm Nancy's marriage date, but she also was able to provide the groom's full name - Thomas W. Gibbs. Prior to this, I had only seen the groom listed as ??bbs - not much to go on.

I also got a tantalizing new bit of information that I had never seen before. My basic theory up until this point is that the Nancy Bean in question was a daughter of John Bean. There were a few problems with this theory: first being that I could find no definitive proof she existed - only glimpses; second, if Nancy was a daughter of John Bean, she might have been far too old to be Jesse's mother. This was especially true if family oral history was to be believed.

Basically I have always heard stories that Jesse was the illegitimate offspring of a Bean daughter and an unknown Cherokee. I believe the exact words my great uncle Jack used were that "she got tangled up with an Indian." Although I never heard what her age might have been, I would surmise that being in her late thirties at the time of Jesse's birth would be off for several reasons, especially since most females in the early nineteenth century would have married young and started families way before their late thirties. If Nancy was the daughter of John Bean, she would have been born around 1800 based on the birthdates of his other children - a bit "long in the tooth" to be having a child, especially a first child, in her late thirties.

For all these reasons, when I received a response to my query about Nancy's marriage, I was excited to learn that her marriage to Thomas W. Gibbs was signed for my her grandfather John Bean. This meant she was most likely a minor and now I had a new mystery to get to the bottom of. Which of John's children was Nancy's parent? Since her last name was Bean, I figured she had to be a daughter of one of John's sons - Walter, Wiley Jackson, or William. Wiley Jackson did have a daughter named Nancy, but she would have been ten at the time of Jesse's birth and it is well documented who she married and it wasn't Thomas W. Gibbs. Neither Walter or William have a daughter named Nancy as far as I've been able to determine - so now what?

I decided to research Thomas W. Gibbs to see if I could find another clue. The only thing I've come up with so far is a Thomas W. Gibbs with a wife named Nancy on the 1860 DeKalb County census. This Thomas would have been born about 1814, making him around twenty four at the time of his marriage to Nancy. This Nancy was born around 1818 based on the census, making her nineteen or twenty at the time of her marriage and Jesse's birth. Tantalizing huh? Even more so since I can't find either of them on any other census before or after. I can find absolutely no trace of this family anywhere else either. What happened to them? Are they they same couple who married in Chambers County on April 15, 1838? Not sure, but I'll keep you posted.

On a different note, the pictures on this blog entry are of Fort Cusseta in Chambers County (no I didn't take them). I thought this was neat since it was built by the first settlers in the area as protection against Indian attacks. I wonder if John Bean was familiar with it? If so, it is definitely a neat link to the past and what life must have been like.

Battle Lines

2009-03-24T20:00:00.006-05:00

On my mother's side of the family I have uncovered yet another mystery. My maternal great grandmother Pauline Battle Poe was the daughter of Benjamin Franklin Battle and Rena Merchant. She was raised in Six Mile, Bibb County, Alabama. Her mother and father were very enterprising individuals, owning the local store and blacksmith shop. Rena was actually appointed postmaster in 1938.

Despite a very honest life, Benjamin Franklin Battle descends from a myth. His grandfather, Benjamin Caswell Battle was the first of the Battle family to arrive in Bibb County, Alabama in the late 1830's. He married Rebecca Cottingham in August of 1841. Benjamin Caswell Battle was supposedly the illegitimate son of female member of the Battle family in North Carolina and a Cherokee named Threadgill or Thrillkill. None of this can be proven...but yet another mystery for me to unlock...

Full Circle

2009-03-19T20:27:00.006-05:00

Last weekend, I travelled to North Alabama to visit my grandmother for the day. She now lives in Boaz, but we took a drive to nearby Guntersville to visit old haunts. I was born in Guntersville at a hospital overlooking the lake. For years, my Mom and Dad would point out the room I was born in from the road by the red curtains hanging in the window. The hospital is now gone, like so many other things, but my memories of eating at Reid's restaurant, fishing on the lake, and driving out to Buck Island are fresh.

Since beginning the research on my family history, I have discovered a connection to the Cherokee on both sides of my family. I still find it ironic that I was born in a hospital on the lake my great grandfather helped dig, near the river that served as a final highway for some of my ancestors on the Trail of Tears. I knew none of this as a child, but life has a way of coming full circle sometimes.

Today's Guntersville was once known as Gunter's Landing. Back in the 18th century, John Gunter, a white settler from North Carolina, discovered salt deposits and began to trade with the nearby Cherokee. He eventually married into the tribe and opened a store called "Gunter's Landing." This store in the middle of nowhere resulted in a small town forming called Gunter's Landing. When Andrew Jackson travelled through Gunter's Landing on his way to battle the Creeks, he enlisted many Cherokee to help, including one of John Gunter's sons. Even today, heading up Sand Mountain on Highway 431, you'll see indications of Jackson's path through this area, including a subdivision on the brow of the mountain overlooking Guntersville called "Andrew Jackson Heights."

By 1820, Gunter was operating a ferry across the Tennessee River. Many settlers coming into Alabama immediately after the first Creek War used the Tennessee River as a highway. This includes the several families such as the Lees on my Mom's side that would eventually settle in southern Jefferson and northern Shelby counties. Gunter's Landing became a gateway into the interior of the Alabama Territory. Unfortunately for the Creek and Cherokee, this gateway also served as a means to eventually rob them of their homelands. By the late 1830's, most of the Cherokee in Northern Alabama would be gone.

Often at our annual family reunions on Lake Guntersville, I wonder down to the water's edge and sit quietly. While gazing out at the Tennessee River, I try to imagine the thoughts of my Cherokee ancestors as they gazed on their homeland for the last time. As their barge slowly moved up the river away from Gunter's Landing, I can imagine tears of fear and loss rolling down many a face. I close my eyes and slowly, the modern sounds of family talking and cars passing by fades away. All that's left is the gentle lapping of the river water...and the silence is deafening.

Damn Yankees

2009-03-08T18:10:00.012-05:00

Colter's first trip to Yankee Stadium was a surreal experience for him. Ever since he was that kid learning how to pitch in our front yard, he'd been a Yankees fan. Our family has been Southern since we got off the boat in Charleston, South Carolina in 1767. If you live in the South, you pull for the Braves, not the Yankees. Our grandfather, a life long Braves fan, was beside himself with pride when Colter went pro, but part of him was asking - "why the Yankees?" If you ask me, I think Colter believed if you could make it with New York, you'd really made it as a baseball player. The Yankees have the money and prestige to get the best players in the world, they don't necessarily have to rely on their farm league. When Colter walked out on the field on that spring night in 2005, he had achieved a lifetime of dreams...and he'd done it the hard way.

When I talked to him the next day, I couldn't wait to hear all the details. I told him to tell me everything and I listened as he spoke like a kid who had met his hero. He flew in last minute and took a cab to the field. As he stepped out of the cab, with all his luggage in tow, it was like - "what now?" He'd never even been to Yankee Stadium before and now he was supposed to walk in and make his professional debut. He asked someone where to go and was pointed in the right direction. He had to walk down this long, narrow hallway to get to the clubhouse. The hallway felt low and narrow, but Colter could sense the history. At the time the hallway had been built, there weren't too many 6'7" guys walking down it.

When he reached the locker room, he looked around and players with names like Alex Rodriguez, Jason Giambi and Derek Jeter were all there. Here he was, Colter Bean, from Alabama, standing in the same room with some of the greatest baseball players in the game today. He was directed to his locker and a hoard of reporters were there waiting. He said he was confused at first because he didn't realize they wanted to talk to him. He thought they were there for somebody else, surely. That's the kind of exposure playing for the Yankees will get you. If that doesn't intimidate you, I'm not sure what will...but Colter didn't let it. He went out and pitched two innings of good, old fashioned baseball. He showed he was a fighter and didn't back down if he got behind the count on a batter or two. After all, being a fighter is what got him to center stage in Yankee Stadium, the "House that Ruth Built." That night, he slept in the Ritz Carlton in New York City. Not bad for someone used to sleeping on the floor of a minor league bus.

Over the next couple of years, Colter would return to the Bigs a few more times. He pitched in Shay Stadium and the legendary Fenway Park, but I don't think anything meant as much to him as that first night on the home turf. He said it was one of the best days of his life. To this day, he has the lineup from that night framed in his house. As high as this night was, many lows were to follow.

During Spring Training the following year, he was invited again to Big League Camp. He'd worked very hard over the off season to get stronger and be mentally ready for the challenge ahead - he was determined to win a spot on the 25 man roster and begin the season in New York. 2006 brought stiff competition since the Yankees had signed Randy Johnson. Colter put up an ERA of around 2.5, pitching against major leaguers. As the days went by he continued to get his hopes up that he'd made the team. On the last day of Spring Training, Joe Torre called Colter in and broke his heart - he hadn't made the team. The reason why was never clearly explained. He'd put up better numbers than some of those being paid millions, but in the end, not being paid millions did him in. He learned that in modern day baseball, it's not about the best players on the field, it's about the those with the best hype. Marketing and agents are everything and you better get started in high school if you want to make The Show permanently.

This past fall, Colter hung up his glove and headed South. It had been a long road. He'd lasted long enough to prove everyone wrong - he could play the game, better even than he was ever given credit. He left with no regrets. Regardless of what the official record book says, no one can argue with the fact that he worked his way up through the Yankee farm league to the Show and competed. He competed with guys jacked up on steroids and million dollar bank accounts. He never sold out and he left with many stories to tell his son one day. He didn't sell out. He persevered.

The Unglamorous Life

2009-03-07T16:58:00.011-06:00

After college, life presented lots of choices for my brother, Colter. These choices came in the form of multiple major league baseball teams. His five years with Auburn had paid off and after seeing him pitch a one hitter in his first college start during his senior year, the New York Yankees made him an offer he couldn't refuse. So, before he knew it, he was off to Staten Island, New York and his first dose of life in the minor leagues.

Colter had never been north of Virginia. Sure, we'd taken trips as kids through large cities, but we had our parents guiding us and we were just passing through...not staying. He set up home in a small apartment that had a window air conditioning unit, after he picked it up off the floor and installed it. His bed was an air mattress and the neighborhood didn't feel like home...but the sound in his voice when he called me from the Staten Island ferry as he glimpsed Manhattan for the first time, was magic. Let no one kid you - life in minor league baseball is nothing glamorous. It's very late nights, sleeping on the floor of a bus, and endless hours of riding the pine, especially for a reliever. Rain or shine, you go to work. But he did get to meet Rudy Giuliani when he came to throw the first pitch at a home game and he did get to visit the site of the Twin Towers soon after 2001.

Colter put his time in at A ball, although short. No sooner had I booked a plane ticket to go visit did he get moved up to double AA and head to Trenton, New Jersey. He found an apartment just outside Philadelphia with some other baseball guys and tried to settle in. Minor league baseball players are sort of an unacknowledged fraternity. They become accustomed to living out of a suitcase and never know where they'll wake up. They don't really have a home - they are like modern day, American nomads who get shuffled from here to there and have to adapt. As a result, they are constantly staying in touch so they can find a place to live on the drop of a dime. One guy may move out as another is transfering in...and so on and so forth. If you have to have the security of familiar surroundings, this isn't the career for you. Colter lived with guys who couldn't speak English, guys who like to party all night and bring girls home, and family guys like himself. He had to learn to adapt and keep his focus on the game...the lights of Yankee Stadium constantly beaconed.

He wasn't there long before he was moved again - this time to Columbus, Ohio and AAA - one step from the Bigs. Sometime during his time with Columbus, he was affected by the Rule 5 draft - basically the Yankees didn't protect him and he was on the open market for any team to snap up. The Boston Red Sox came calling in 2004 and signed him. He headed into Spring Training, this time in Fort Myers, instead of Tampa. He'd been with the Yankees for a while and knew what to expect. The Red Sox Organization was an unknown environment. He left for Spring Training with shingles - not good for anyone, but especially a professional athelete. Once he got to Ft Myers, he once again settled in and picked up on the much more laid back vibe of the Red Sox. The Yankees had rules about how you dressed and how long your hair could be - he found out the Sox were a little more relaxed and he liked it. Unfortunately for Colter, he had entered Spring Training with the Red Sox team that would win the World Series for the first time since 1918. Guys like Johnny Damon and others would leave little room for a player with no big league experience. Before he knew it, he was headed to Tampa and back to the Yankees.

He would spend another year in Columbus, putting up unbelievable numbers. He became one of the Players of the Year and broke a 100 year old record for the most appearences by one player. He made a name for himself in Columbus. He felt comfortable, like he belonged and it was familiar ground. In the spring of 2005, someone at the Yankee front office finally noticed and he received the call he'd been waiting for...

A Common, Uncommon Journey

2009-02-21T06:27:00.017-06:00

The dictionary defines perseverance as the ability to rise above challenge in spite of difficulty, obstacles, or discouragement. Simply put, the ability to outlast anything. My brother is the personification of perseverance to me. Being six years older, I have been fortunate to watch his entire life progress up until this point and he has always amazed me by his ability to forge ahead, long after many people have thrown in the towel.

When my brother was around five or six years old, he began playing t-ball as many boys in the South inevidably do. He was always ahead of others with his growth spurts, so the first time he stepped up to the T, expectations were high that he would do well. He didn't disappoint by knocking the ball out into the outfield. Impressive hand-eye coordination at a time when many other kids had trouble connecting bat to ball, but hitting wasn't where his destiny lay.

I remember the first time our Dad tried to teach him pitching. It was in the front yard of our house a few years after t-ball. Dad tried explaining to him how holding the ball a certain way would affect how fast the ball would fly through the air and how it would move on its journey to the glove. My brother would keep trying, over and over again, each time listening to my Dad for feedback. At first it was all about just hitting the glove and keeping each pitch from going astray, later it progressed to basic types of pitches - fast ball, slider, curve - all had a place in the arsenal.

Every summer throughout elementary school and then junior high, my brother played on a local neighborhood team. When it was time for high school, my brother headed off to my old alma matar - Shades Valley. Along with basketball, he played baseball, but Shades Valley was more of a football school in those days, so baseball wasn't given much attention. During the same time, Sammy Dunn's Vestavia Rebels began winning championship after championship. The next thing I knew, my parents were moving from our childhood home in Cahaba Heights to Vestavia, so my brother would have a shot at competitive baseball. This move led to him being part of two state championship teams, including pitching his way to a team victory in a double header at the Hoover Met when he was a senior. Yes, the little boy in the front yard had grown up...and gotten better.

Before long, college was on the horizon. Ole Miss recruited my brother to come to Oxford and play baseball, even offering some serious scholarship money, but Auburn was where he wanted to go. For whatever reason, despite his successes in baseball up until this point, he wasn't highly sought after coming out of high school. He always seemed to be just out of the spotlight, just under the radar when it came to publicity. He began life at Auburn with a minimal baseball scholarship and no promises.

During his first year at Auburn, he played with the great Tim Hudson and made a trip to the College World Series in Omaha. Even though baseball had sunk its teeth in him years before, I think it was his time at Auburn that clenched the deal. It was during this time that baseball became serious. What had begun all those years ago as a fun summertime sport, was now a challenge he dedicated himself to heart and soul. He learned the nuances of the game - how to read batters, when to throw certain pitches, and most significantly, how to throw from the side. It was throwing from the side that would eventually, and finally, separate him from the pack. He worked extremely hard, season in and season out, to get better from the side. He listened to feedback from coaches, but our Dad still seemed to be his main go-to guy for encouragement and the truth about his progress.

Eventually this hard work would pay off in the form of an almost unhittable curve ball. By the time of his senior year at Auburn, he'd worked his way from a minimal scholarship and no promises to being Auburn's closer and a key member of the team. He helped win SEC Championships and was chosen as a Second Team All American. The little boy in the front yard was now a man who had known adversity and overcome, but his biggest challenges in the game of baseball lay ahead...

Will the real mother of Jesse J. Bean please stand up?

2009-02-17T18:27:00.004-06:00

My ggggrandfather, Jesse J. Bean was born on April 15, 1837 or 1838, depending where you look. On his pension papers for the Civil War he indicates he was born in Chambers County, Alabama. The question I still have is - who were his parents? To date, after over a decade of research, I have still been unsuccessful in establishing this information. Even on Jesse's death certificate, his son John L. Bean indicated that both Jesse's parents were unknown.

Family oral tradition hints at the real truth. My grandfather and great uncle both remember their grandmother (who would have been Jesse's daughter-in-law) telling them that Jesse's mother was a Bean and that she became pregnant out of wedlock by an Indian. Jesse was supposedly raised by his "old grandma." When trying to match oral stories to fact in the early 1800's, I've learned a little imagination is needed.

Here's what I know: Jesse lived most of his early life in and around the family of Walter Bean. Walter Bean was born in 1792 in North Carolina to John Bean. Many suspect that Walter's mother was Cherokee and named Mary. In fact, on the 1850 Talladega County census, a John Bean is shown living with his wife Mary and a Charity Kilgore. Charity Kilgore was the wife of one of John's other sons and the ages are correct for this to be the same John Bean born in 1776 in Duncan's Creek, Laurens, South Carolina. A John Bean also filed for a land grant in 1817"on behalf of his wife" as part of the register of Cherokee wishing to stay east of the Mississippi. I believe this John Bean is one and the same as the one on the 1850 Talladega County census. I know John and his children were in Georgia at the time because of Walter's service during the War of 1812, as well as census records.

At some point in the early 1830's, John and his children, moved west into eastern Alabama. Two of his daughters - Prudence and Hicksey - are on record as marrying in Chambers County in the 1830's. It's a third daughter named Nancy that I suspect might be Jesse's mother. A Nancy Bean did marry in Chambers County, Alabama on April 15, 1838. I believe Nancy married a Jeremiah Gibbs and moved to Georgia. The question is - why didn't Jesse go with her? If he was illegitimate as family stories say, this could offer an explanation. I also find it very interesting that Nancy Bean married on the same day as Jesse's birth, not to mention in the same location. Considering Chambers County was not hugely populated at the time and that there was only one Bean family in this area, this can't be pure coincidence. Another interesting tidbit - Jesse named his oldest daugher Nancy Idella - coincidence?

Alas, since birth records were not required in the 1830's, I may never know for sure, but the next step is to visit the Chambers County Courthouse and see what I can find. Considering the carnage left in the wake of the Civil War, I'm not hopeful...

The Whispering Wind

2009-02-12T20:17:00.009-06:00

This past summer, I took a road trip north to the Great Plains and back in time. Around the year 1906, my maternal gggrandfather, Jake Wilkens, moved his family from a farm in Illinois to western North Dakota. Here he and his sons homesteaded on the Little Missouri River.

Jake was a first generation American. His parents had immigrated to this country from Germany in the late 1800's. Jake's wife Dorothea was actually born in Prussia and came to America as a child with her mother.

Out of all of my family, the Wilkens branch is the only one that didn't arrive prior to the American Revolution. It is also the only branch with European origins outside of Great Britain. For some reason, this has always made it seem foreign to me. I've never felt like I could connect with this branch as much as the others. Part of the reason for this trip was to find a connection.

Life on the Plains would not be easy for Jake and his family. In fact, on his first visit to the homestead site, he and his son would barely escape an ice jam on the Little Missouri. Basically an ice jam occurs when a river freezes and the ice backs up. As it begins to free itself, it lets loose with tremendous force and flattens anything in its path. One of Jake's sons would learn this lesson first hand in the 1940's when a jam took away his house and everything else he owned.

Reaching the homestead today is almost as daunting a task as it must have been 100 years ago. Our caravan had to drive for about two hours down dirt roads (never passing another vehicle) to get to the Double X Ranch. What was once the Wilkens homestead is now part of the Double X. Once reaching the ranch, we went even further off road and drove parallel to the river and up a steep incline to the top of a nearby butte.

Reaching the summit gave us a great view of the entire homestead. The homestead is located in a curve of the Little Missouri River near Alpha, North Dakota. Tall buttes jut out of the landscape and force the river to turn. Over time this curve has carved a small valley out of the flat, barren plain.

Although not much has changed in terms of the landscape in the past 100 years, looking down on the Little Missouri, I couldn't find one single sign that Jake and his family had lived and died here. There wasn't evidence of the fields they plowed or the homes they built, but somehow I could sense their presence. I instinctively knew why they fell in love with this site and chose to make their home here - far way from anything civilized. It was the same thing that pushed all my other ancestors - freedom, the promise of wide open spaces, and nothing but the wind whispering in your ear.

Mudtown

2009-02-11T05:40:00.004-06:00

During the early 1800's, Andrew Jackson led his army of Indian fighters south from Tennessee through what is now Shelby County, Alabama. They encountered some hostility from a village of Creek Indians located on the Cahaba River. Jackson wiped out the village and continued south towards his rendezvous with history at Horseshoe Bend.

Several years later, some of the men that fought with Jackson returned to the site of the village destroyed in 1813. They returned with their families and all their worldly possessions and Mudtown was reborn. The Actons, Lees, Baileys, Caldwells, and others would become the first white settlers into the Shelby County area. Signs of their existance still exist today in the form of Acton Road, Caldwell Mill Road, Caldwell Crossings, and other communities and roads in modern day Shelby County.

I first heard of Mudtown while doing genealogy research. This led me to wonder - where was Mudtown located? Was anything left? After quite a few rounds with Google, I finally discovered that Mudtown was located on the Cahaba River right where the Altadena Valley Country Club is now located...funny enough I pass it every single day on my way to work...

Homecoming...Finally

2009-02-08T16:45:00.011-06:00

On July 24, 1944, off the coast of Tinian and Saipan Islands in the South Pacific, a hellish scene unfolded on board the USS Colorado. Pulling along the island of Tinian, the ship received 22 hits from a hidden shore battery, resulting in over 240 casualties.

One of those mortally wounded was Seaman Second Class, Ira Novis Slaton. He died approximately three hours later. For approximately 64 years, his family believed he was buried at sea and would never return home.

In December 2008, while doing some family research on the internet, a family member stumbled across information that perhaps Buck (as he was known by family and friends) wasn't buried at sea after all. A relatively new division of the US Military, whose sole purpose is to identify POW and MIA's from all wars, claims to have Buck's remains and is looking for relatives to provide DNA for positive identification.

After Buck's death, he and the others killed in action that day were intered in graves on Saipan Island. There they remained until four years later (1948), when the US Military returned, exhumed the remains and reburied them in the Philippines. Before re-intering the remains, a complete inventory was taken of each set of remains, including dental analysis so that hopefully all could be identified. Until such time, Buck and several others were reburied in a graves marked "unknown."

Skeptical at first, my grandmother, Buck's younger sister, was fearful of providing the information needed for a positive identification. She and her siblings remembered their father lamenting that he would be willing to do whatever was necessary to bring Buck home, if he could prove that the remains received were, in fact, Buck. They had heard of scams where family members paid for loved ones to be returned, to only receive one finger bone in a box with concrete blocks. Fortunately, a little internet research and a phone call with the Navy MIA office in Tennessee, provided the confort level needed for her to proceed.

Currently she and my Dad are working on collecting the needed DNA and mailing it to the Naval Hospital in Rockville, Maryland. Once there, each set of DNA will be compared to the remains believed to be Buck's. Keep your fingers crossed....and I'll keep you posted...

Rebel Yell...Or Not...

2009-02-05T21:19:00.007-06:00

I know lately I seem to be obsessing on my paternal lineage, so I've decided to share quite a story from my Mom's side of the tree.

My ggggrandfather Wiley Thornton Poe was apparently an odd sort. Stories have passed down that he was a bit of a loner who didn't like to be at home for any length of time. Wiley was born in 1841 in Cahawba Valley, Alabama (near present day Birmingham). His parentage is kinda mysterious since his real father is unknown and apparently his mother arrived in Alabama from Tennessee with her brother sometime in the early 1800's. She soon had a house full of kids by nobody knows how many men (there's a story there somewhere...).

When the Civil War broke out in 1861, Wiley joined the Cahaba Rangers (Confederate) and later transfered to the sharp shooters in 1862. He was known as brave, reckless, and a heck of a fighter. During this time in Alabama, there were pockets of Unionists, or those loyal to the Union and not in favor of secession. Mostly Unionists were poor farmers or mountain men who did not own slaves or large tracts of land. As a result, they couldn't get behind the Southern cause fully. Some were conscripted into the Confederate Army by home guards. Others hid out waiting on the Union Army to arrive (such as in the Free State of Winston - Winston County that is).

In March 1864, after being captured by the Union Army, Wiley changed sides and joined the First Alabama Calvalry - fighting against the South. It is known that two of his brothers - Jesse and Robert - also joined the First Alabama. This apparently caused a rift in the Poe family as other members of the Poe family fought for the Confederacy.

Wiley and both of his brothers survived the war and returned home, but life for them was not glorious in Reconstruction era Alabama. Stories of pursecution by former Confederate soldiers and home guard made coming home very dangerous. Unfortunately, time caught up with Wiley in February of 1882.

The story that was passed down through my family is that Wiley attended a dance on Shades Crest Mountain, near where Lover's Leap is located. Apparently he got into a fight with some other men at the dance and was murdered by them. His body was found near Brock's Gap. The nature of his death is not clear, but it seems he might have been thrown off a cliff to his death. The newspaper at the time - The Birmingham Iron Age - reported his death as a suicide.

Wiley was buried at Union Hill Cemetery in what is now the Shades Valley area of Homewood. Perhaps one of the most ironic twists to this story is the location of his burial. I went to high school at the old Shades Valley High. Each day the bus route would take us past Union Hill Cemetery. Something about the cemetery always made me sad since it wasn't tended very well at the time. Although I knew the story about Wiley, I didn't know his name, nor his burial place at the time. Day in and day out, as the bus passed the cemetery, I had no idea that the grave of my ggggrandfather was only about 15 feet off the road.

Time Marches On...

2009-02-03T18:09:00.013-06:00

Last Saturday I took a drive to a place very dear to my childhood memories - my grandparent's farm on Sand Mountain. When I was a kid I remember spending time there and it was like a whole new world compared to my normal life in the city. The farm consisted of a farmhouse, barn, several sheds, a couple of garden spots, two ponds and lots of animals. In fact, I learned a very good lesson early on during one of my visits to the pasture - when you fall into a cow patty it's best to get up quickly and find a garden hose. In my memory the farm looked something like:My grandparents were actually only the second private owner of this land since they purchased it in the 1940's from the Dean family. Prior to the Deans the land was owned by a railroad company who had purchased it from the US government. The farm actually sits on the old Cherokee boundary line which separates Cherokee hunting lands from those of the Creek.

My dad remembers that the old farmhouse which was built by the Dean family in the late 1800's, still stood at the time my grandparents purchased the land. It had a dog trot down the middle much like many farmhouses of the 1800's. My grandfather, with some help from his father and brother, used the wood from the old farmhouse to build the barn in the picture above, as well as a new house. This "new" house is the one I remember as a child.

There were seven of us in the immediate family and when we all came to visit, things were a bit crowded in the small farmhouse - not that any of us ever noticed. My parents, brother and I all shared one bedroom and there was only one bathroom for the entire house. My dad remembers this bathroom being added. When he was growing up there was only an outhouse.

I distinctly remember the winter time when the glass of our bedroom would have a coating of ice on the inside by the time I awoke each morning. Summers were full of outdoor activities like making ice cream floats and learning how to lasso a june bug. On occassion we'd even get to take a walk in the woods off the side of the mountain. A walk like this would yield great finds for a kid - an empty turtle shell, bird feathers, and maybe even an occassional arrowhead.

By the time I was a teenager, my grandparents sold the farmhouse and moved to the small apartment in the back of their country store. They kept the land itself and it is still owned by our family today, but things look quite different...

The left photo shows how nature has reclaimed anything familiar. Instead of open farm land on both sides of the road, now fully mature trees find a home. The right photo is the same view as the barn photo above, except now the barn has fallen in and is no longer visible. Seeing something from your memories in such an unrecognizable state is bittersweet.

April 15, 1837...I Think...

2009-02-01T06:26:00.007-06:00

As mentioned before, Jesse J. Bean's early life is very much shrouded in mystery. Based on my best guess, Jesse was born in Fredona, Chambers County, Alabama on April 15, 1837. I say my best guess because birth certificates were not required by the state until the early 1900's, so there is no definitive proof. Prior to last Friday, I would have said his birthdate was April 6, 1838. During my trip to Etowah County, we were able to locate, not only Jesse's final resting place, but also copies of his Civil War pension papers. The very helpful genealogical librarian at the Gadsden Library was able to provide us with copies of Jesse's pension papers from 1893 and 1911.

The 1893 pension was filed in Talladega County on May 29, 1893. On this application, which was applied for in person, Jesse indicated that his left thumb was lost during the Civil War. As a result, his left hand was rendered useless. The Alabama Department of Archives and History indicates that this injury occurred at Lovejoy Station, Georgia, but more on Jesse's Civil War service later because it is a story unto itself.

The 1911 pension application was filed in Etowah County on July 31, 1911. Again, Jesse appeared in person before the probate judge as a testimony to his injury and right to a pension. This pension application clearly indicates Jesse's birthdate as April 15, 1837 in Chambers County, Alabama. Since he signed his mark testifying to the accuracy of this information, I have to go with it as fact...in so much as anything could be fact in those days.

What is crazy is that I have also seen his birth year documented as 1832 (on his death certificate), 1836 (on the ADAH Civil War database), and 1838 (census records). Whose to say which is right...I do believe however, that April 15 is correct because I have seen the same date on most of the records I've found for Jesse.

Since we live in a time were it is second nature to know the year of your birth, it is hard to imagine going through life not knowing. It is possible that he knew the truth and for some reason was inconsistent in the reporting of it over the years. It is also possible considering the family rumors of his being illegitimate that he didn't know for sure himself. Either way, this is just one more detail that is not solid in Jesse's life.

Bean There All Along...

2009-01-30T19:09:00.002-06:00

About 18 years ago I first visited the cemetery at Red Apple, Alabama. For those of you that don't know, Red Apple is a tiny dot on the map about five miles or so from Boaz in North Alabama. At that time, I had no idea that it would take me so long to locate the final resting place of my paternal gggrandfather, Jesse J. Bean.

At the time of my first visit, I had just started breaking the ice in genealogy. My grandfather had taken me there to show me some Bean family graves. I don't think even he knew how many Beans were actually buried there.

Over time, as I gathered more and more information on the Bean family line, I made my way back in time one generation after another until I hit a wall. That wall was named Jesse J. Bean or J. J. Bean as he sometimes signed his name. Way back in 1991, all my grandfather could tell me was that his great grandfather was known as "Big Jess." Not much to go on years later when most of those who could remember anything about Jesse had passed on as well.

Originally, all I knew is that Jesse was the father of John L. Bean, my grandfather's grandfather. He died in 1923, so no one living remembered what he was like, either how tall he was or the color of his hair. The most I could gather from family oral history was that he was most likely illegitimate and that his father was perhaps Cherokee. Other stories stated that he was raised by his "old grandma." All in all, he was a mysterious character out of the mists of time.

After doing several years worth of research, I was able to piece together most of the facts of Jesse's life - where he lived, how many children he had, and the number of times he was married. Unfortunately, I was missing a couple of key pieces of information in my growing timeline - the first twenty years of his life, his parentage, and his burial place. Last Friday, with the help of my Dad and a day trip to Etowah County, we were finally able to locate Jesse.

It seems Jesse had been at Red Apple all along. We had walked this cemetery multiple times hoping to stumble upon a clue, never once seeing a small group of old graves near the front of the cemetery. Last Friday, as my Dad climbed out of the car, he walked right to these graves as if being called. Here we found Martha, Jesse's wife, two of his children - Eli Jack and Nancy Idella, as well as two grandsons. All of these members of the family had a marked grave, all but Jesse. For Jesse all that existed was an unmarked rock sticking out of the cold ground. There was no sign that his name had ever been carved.

Unfortunately I still don't have the other missing pieces of the puzzle, namely his parentage, but I have theories...more to come later...

Storytelling

2009-01-29T20:03:00.000-06:00

My grandfather had a knack for storytelling. I'm not sure how he did it, but he could draw you into another world just by the inflection in his voice and the look on his face. Maybe this is why I was always fascinated by human stories from a young age. There's just something about studying the human capacity for adaptation to events and other people that is truly powerful to me. I guess you could say that is why I've always been a history buff.

Growing up I would visit my grandparents farm on rural Sand Mountain and it was like stepping back into time. Life just had a different rhythm - there was no house telephone and the roads were so bad they were probably better when they were just dirt. Life was slower, things meant more because you actually had time to appreciate them. Even as a kid, I could see the difference.

Each day began early with my grandmother heading out before daylight to the small country store that my grandparents operated a few miles down the road. The door opened at around six a.m. and I was always determined to be in the car when she left. The warmth of my bed often prevented this from happening, but when I was able to drag myself out I really got to see the pulse of a small North Alabama farming community as another day began.

Local farmers would stop into the store throughout the day just to find out who was visiting whom, what the weather was supposed to be like, and just to plain "visit". By the way - "visiting" is the Southern word for gossiping. Whether it was discussing the game of donkey basketball that had occurred the weekend before or meeting up on the way to the Blue Hole (the local swimming hole), life in this small community had a tangible pulse to it that you could feel. It wasn't like life elsewhere when it was all about keeping up with events instead of experiencing them. Maybe this is where my quest for my family's roots began. It led to me to wonder...how did we end up here?