Your Grandmother’s Beta Version

Once upon a time, there was consumer expectation that, when a new product was brought to market, it was error-free and all possible malfunctions had been worked out of the system.

Then there was software. Computer programmers discovered that, if they applied some cool-sounding term like “beta” to their product, they could get away with selling the general public on becoming unpaid guinea pigs for their newest release.

Somehow, in the world of genealogy, we haven’t yet reached the plateau of beta testing nirvana. When we receive a book or a printout on a family’s genealogy, we expect it to be expertly-researched, footnoted, duly documented in every which way to Sunday’s genealogical gospel truth.

In other words, no beta testing for us family historians.

And yet, we now have so many advanced opportunities to engage in genealogical crowd-sourcing. We could, feasibly, issue our family trees as proposals from the perspective of our research as it stands at this point in our process of discovery, and invite collegiate review of our work—a thought I’ll pursue in more detail tomorrow.

For the low-tech genealogical writer in 1960, however, things wouldn’t have gone quite the same. Take, for instance, a book revered in circles of those researching the widespread Broyles family in the United States. The Broyles family from Germany, having emigrated to the New World as early as the 1700s, happens to be one segment of my own roots. One of the first sources I became aware of for research into this line was the very book by Montague Boyd that I mentioned yesterday.

Apparently, at its publication in 1959, Genealogical Data: Broyles, Laffitte, and Boyd Families was not the authoritative and exhaustive work it may have been envisioned to be—at least, if we can read between the lines on a brief letter scrawled by the author on the back of a printed sheet we'll look at tomorrow, mailed to my grandmother in Columbus, Ohio, on March 12, 1960. “See if you can make any changes or additions in it for me,” requested Dr. Boyd from his location in Atlanta, Georgia.

I have no idea whether my grandmother ever got a copy of the book to “look it over carefully.” I never found a copy of Montague Boyd’s work in my grandmother’s property, though her Aunt Nellie recommended it enthusiastically. When I found her papers—saved among her daughter’s personal belongings at her passing—the letter below was still carefully tucked inside its envelope, along with the undated note I posted yesterday from her aunt, Nellie Broyles Jones of Johnson City, Tennessee.

For some people, the interest they take in genealogy may be keen, but often it is fleeting. It takes a lot of work to assemble a genealogical project of any sort—even if it was a “beta version” issued in 1959 seeking low-tech updates by snail mail in 1960.

                                                                                    Mar 11, 60

My dear Mrs. Davis

            Mrs. Nellie B. Jones gave me your address. I had the wrong street etc in Columbus, Ohio.

            I wish that you would get one of the books of genealogical data and look it over carefully and see if you can make any changes or additions in it for me.

                        Kind regards

                                    Montague Boyd

                                    (Over)

One Hundred Years? Or Not?

In reading the letter sent by Mary Nellie Broyles Jones to my grandmother, Ruby McClellan Davis, you may have wondered about the couple times I mentioned her age as “ninety-something.”

There is a reason for this.

Apparently, depending on which document—and which year—you use to verify her age, she either is recorded as being born in 1875 or 1876.

This may not matter much to you—after all, Aunt Nellie is long gone, now. However, for anyone living long enough to reach the ripe old age of one hundred, it does become a matter of interest—especially when said centenarian has been feted for arrival at that magical number when she was, indeed, only ninety-nine years of age.

Oops.

Let’s take a look at the records:

Our first hint, as this series unraveled, was Nellie’s own mention—quoting strictly from her father’s diligent entries in the Broyles family Bible, of course—that she was three years younger than her older sister, Sarah. Sarah, by the way, Nellie had just mentioned as having been born on “13 November 1873.”

In the first available official document, other than the Broyles family Bible—wherever that is—the young child was listed in the 1880 census as being three years of age. Before you jump to the conclusion that that produced a birth year of not 1876 but 1877, let’s notice that the census enumerator didn’t stop at the Broyles family dwelling until the nineteenth day of June—falling short of Nellie’s fourth birthday by a matter of less than a month. Technically, she would still have been three years of age at that point, if her birth year were 1876.

Granted, people back then didn’t always remember such pesky little details when the census enumerator came knocking at the door. So let’s take a look at the next census record. After all, Nellie wasn’t yet married, so we’d expect to find her in her father’s household for the 1900 census, too.

There, at the point at which the census record was taken—again, on the nineteenth day of June, just shy of her birthday—young “Nillie” was listed as being twenty three years of age, just what you would expect from someone born in July of 1876. Conveniently, this census also included a category for month and year of birth, which was confirmed to be July of 1876.

Social Security records agree with that conclusion, too, giving her date of birth on record as July 6, 1876. 

Even in my grandmother’s own records, she had noted:

            Aunt Nellie’s birthday July 6^th. She will be 95 on July 6/71.

Do the math on that one, and you will see it indicates a birth year of 1876.

So where did these reports of 1875 come from? They were certainly out there for people to notice.

The most puzzling confirmation of date confusion is Nellie’s own cemetery records. A handy entry on Find A Grave displays the full dates of birth and death—obviously gleaned from another source, as the headstone itself only included the years and not specific dates. The report there was that Nellie was born on July 6, 1876, and died on June 14, 1976.

Yet, her headstone itself gave the dates 1875-1976. If you are in doubt, take a look at the photograph of that marker here. I know I have trouble with my eyesight, but that picture looks pretty clear to me.

The legend was further perpetuated by the city’s newspaper, itself. In her obituary, published in the Johnson City Press on Sunday, June 16, 1976, it was noted that Nellie was “just a month shy of being 101 years old.” Yes, I am well aware that some newspapers allow family members to entirely compose an obituary to their own liking, and that very well may have been the case with this report.

However, note their mention of a hundredth birthday party given for her on July 6, 1975, in which the Johnson City Press published a feature article on that very event.

In all likelihood, they were reporting the celebration of a ninety-ninth birthday and didn’t even know it—which is why I prefer taking the route of non-committal and designating her my ninety-something year old relative.  

            Mrs. Nellie Broyles Jones was just a month shy of being 101 years old. Mrs. Jones died at 5:05 p.m. Friday at Range Hall. On her 100th birthday on July 6 last year, an open house was observed for her at Range Hall and she was featured in an article in the Johnson City Press-Chronicle.

            Mrs. Jones was born in Chuckey Valley near Embreeville in 1875. She had been active in many areas during her long life. She was a member of the United Daughters of the Confederacy, a past matron of the Nolachuckey Chapter of the Order of the Eastern Star. She had also been an active Girl Scout leader.

            The widow of T. F. Jones, she was a member of Munsey Memorial United Methodist Church.

            Mrs. Jones continued to drive her own car until she reached the age of 97.

            Survivors include two sons, Thomas F. Jones Jr. and Eugene B. Jones, both of Johnson City; a nephew, William B. McClellan, Tampa, Fla., and a niece, Mrs. Jack Davis, Arlington, O.; eight grandchildren and 15 great-grandchildren. Woodall is in charge.

Happy Alone

A letter to Ruby McClellan Davis from her Aunt Nellie started out well, with answers to family history questions. Somewhere in the middle, though, the ninety-something woman’s attention was drawn away from the task at hand and refocused on her own current problems.

Admittedly, rheumatism is nothing to take lightly. Small wonder that first personal mention on the previous page of her letter would be brought up. That seemed to jog her mind onto a different direction, and Mary Nellie Broyles Jones began revealing a few of her other problems.

As we’ve already seen, Aunt Nellie was quite the resilient woman. While she overcame considerable health issues, perhaps there was more at stake than had already been divulged to her niece, Ruby. On the other hand, that perennial battle between the generations on just when the right time should be to gracefully pass the baton from the elder to the younger can go either way. Sometimes, the time is right—or long overdue. Other times, I wouldn’t be surprised if some become the victims of generational stereotyping—being stuffed inaccurately into the pigeonhole labeled “too old.”

Apparently, from this letter, Nellie was not ready to be confined to that rigid stereotype of the Old Woman. And she was fingering her daughter—whom she labeled here merely as “MN,” though that clearly meant her fifty-nine-year-old namesake, Mary Nell.

After all, now that we know the rest of the story—from the date of this letter, Aunt Nellie lived seven more years until her passing on June 14, 1976—we can presume that she was quite capable of maintaining her independence.

With a little bit less help than some people were insisting on providing her.

            Don’t believe I’ve written you since MN moved out from me and I’m alone and much more contented. Tried to tie me in a nursing home for the rest of my life. Was in the hospital til some one died to give me a bed. That failed in the attempt. Then she got an apt, in the hills 3 miles clear across town in the wood. Muddy rocky narrow road on top of a hi ridge. I’d never try to drive. Said she was happy, alone, and that’s all that matters. Tom and Gene call and come around evry day. Friends, also, especially one in the building. I’ll never want for attentive friends.

            MN hasn’t given me her phone or called me, been moved the 23d one month. Enough.

            I’ll send the dates to Bill, too.

            Hope all is well with you all.

                        Love to all, Aunt Nellie

The Only One Left Anywhere

How many times have you heard fellow family history researchers exclaim, If only I had thought to ask them while they were still here?

Apparently, in writing to ask her ninety-something year old aunt such genealogical questions, Ruby Broyles McClellan Davis struck just the right chord with Mary Nellie Broyles Jones.

By the time of Ruby’s 1969 letter, Aunt Nellie had been widowed for thirty eight years. She and her husband, Thomas Franklin Jones, had been the parents of three children who were still living in the Johnson City, Tennessee, vicinity. Their oldest, born in 1905, was his father’s namesake. The second-born son, arriving in 1907, they named Eugene Broyles Jones. Arriving three years later was their daughter, also named Mary Nellie.

Aunt Nellie enjoyed quite a reputation with extended family. Her non-stop ability to overcome insurmountable odds still gets mentioned. In my grandmother’s address book, under the entry for “Mrs. T. F. Jones,” she had added notes:

·        Aunt Nellie’s birthday July 6^th. She will be 95 on July 6, 1971

·        She fell and broke her hip in August 1972

Of particular interest, considering this letter was written in 1969, was my grandmother’s note that Nellie’s breast cancer operation was “summer of 1966, about July.”

While everyone had assumed that bout with cancer heralded where the music would stop for Aunt Nellie, she showed them differently. It wasn’t long afterwards that she was out, going camping with the rest of the family. Obviously, neither cancer nor a broken hip could keep this woman down.

Even so, my grandmother had probably thought, why tempt fate? Ask those questions now! Yet, as we will soon see, perhaps even the irrepressible Mary Nellie suffered some memory issues—first of which being the line in this second page of her letter, with the comment about her sister, “She was three years older than Nellie.” Was that phrase actually part of the quote of her father’s Bible entry for her sister Sarah’s birthday? Otherwise, why was she speaking of herself in the third person? And, if Nellie was born three years after her sister, why do other records show her year of birth as 1875, rather than 1876?

Then there was Nellie's memory of her sister Sarah’s early married years. Newlyweds Sarah and Rupert C. McClellan appeared in the 1900 census, one year after their marriage, not in Tennessee, but in the city of Bristol in Virginia, where he was working—when he could find work—as a telegrapher. Bristol is one of those unusual cities whose claim to fame (other than as the birthplace of country music) is that the main street running down the center of the business district also serves as the state boundary between Bristol, Virginia, and Bristol, Tennessee. And no, the young McClellans weren’t on the Tennessee side, so Aunt Nellie’s memory didn’t serve her quite right in that recollection, either.

While family stories of the way it used to be are generally invaluable—and oh, how we wish we had thought to gather those memories when we could have done so—it always serves our purposes best when we double-check those precious memories against the hard and fast data recorded by those impartial third parties. Of course, I’ve seen mistakes in official documents, too. Sometimes, it all comes down to a judgment call, after review of the preponderance of evidence.

Perhaps that’s what makes genealogy an art as well as a science.

           

            They lived there, after marriage, around three years in the little house you’ve seen, now about demolished. But, memory lingers still.

            Hope you can get what you want from this. I have rheumatism so badly in my hand I can scarcely write. Time is growing to the end rapidly. And I’m the only one left anywhere to give you any information on things if I have it. You have your mother’s dates? Any way—

            “Sarah Ann Broyles born 13 November 1873.” She was three years older than Nellie.

            Don’t believe I’ve written you since MN moved out from me and I’m alone

Meanwhile, In a Home Nearby

As sometimes happens, people who meet in faraway places turn out to have roots in the same neighborhood back home. When I first met my future husband, I was told he was from Houston, and he surely must have been aware that I was from New York. We met in California. Come to find out, years later, his mother and mine grew up not sixty miles from each other in central Ohio.

It was pretty much the same way with the youngest Davis child—my grandfather, Jack R. Davis. He met and married a woman from Florida whose maternal relatives lived just a short drive up the road, the next county over from Erwin, Tennessee.

As I go through the papers left behind by my aunt—and, by extension, her parents before her—I’m beginning to reconstruct a few of the details of family life for Mr. and Mrs. J. R. Davis of Columbus, Ohio. I couldn’t help but note that, unbeknownst to me, my grandmother once took up an interest in family history, herself, as revealed by letters she saved from correspondence with both relatives and strangers researching the same family lines.

The letter I’ll begin sharing today was sent to my grandmother—her name, given at birth, was Ruby, but she chose to change it, unofficially, to Ruth in her adult years—by her aunt in Tennessee. It was obviously a letter responding to my grandmother’s inquiries into some details about her parents’ history.

The woman sending the reply signed the letter, “Aunt Nellie.” Her return address on the envelope—thankfully, saved as well, for the letter itself contained no date—displayed Johnson City, Tennessee. An easy fifteen miles up the road from Erwin, Johnson City and vicinity was home to Ruby’s mother’s family, the Thomas T. Broyles family. Nellie, by now widow of Thomas Franklin Jones, was born Mary Nellie Broyles on July 6, 1875, in nearby Jonesborough in Washington County—the younger (and only surviving) sister of Ruby’s mother, Sara Ann Broyles McClellan. By the time of this letter in 1969, Nellie was well over ninety years of age.

Dear Ruby,

            Your letter just received, from the date, it was several days late, or I would have answered sooner. You want to know when your parents married? Well do I remember. Also it is in my father’s old bible as he kept everything written down, and I’ll say, “I’ve followed in his footsteps all the way.”

            As he wrote—

                        “Sarah Ann Broyles was married

                         to Rupert C. McClellan

                         28^th March 1898.”

            That was at the old home place in the middle of Chucky Valley. At 8 p.m. Minister Mr. W. H. Hendrix. A rainy nite. He was R.R. dispatcher.

About Horace

While my grand-aunt Mabel Davis Hines Martin may have inherited, by marriage, the antique Dresden china clock that was the envy of her new Tennessee neighbors, I know very little about the man whose mother bequeathed it to him.

Horace Lightfoot Martin must have come into Mabel’s life some time before the 1940 census, for I can pinpoint their residence then to Mosswood Avenue in South Orange, New Jersey. Actually, considering that census requested information on each family’s residence in the previous five years, Horace and Mabel were there in 1935 as well.

Only Horace’s wife wasn’t going by the name Mabel. She was known at the time as Jean—which, I suppose, is close enough to the census enumerator’s “Joan” entered for her first name. The whole Mabel-Jean name thing is something I’ve just got to explain to you. Soon. I promise.

The best I can figure from census records, Horace was previously married to a woman named Bertha, which is evident from both the 1920 census and his World War I draft registration papers. By the time of the 1930 census, though, I’m not sure I’ve found the right man. The railroad “agent” of later years evidently had a number of earlier stints in other lines of work, making it hard to know for sure whether the “single” man working as an office manager for a “steam railroad,” according to the 1930 census, was the same Horace Martin.

Perhaps it is just lack of access to online versions of New Jersey state records hindering my ability to find much more on the man. I did find a version of Horace's obituary, after his death on September 1, 1959, in the Johnson City Press, a newspaper published in the relatively-larger city near Mabel’s home town of Erwin in Tennessee, though I could find no mentions in any sources closer to the Martins' residence in the greater New York metropolitan area.

You know how it is about finding one’s name in The New York Times. And I don’t know the Jersey-version of the Daily News.

Even so, finding the list of Horace’s many siblings in his obituary seemed promising to me, despite the relatively common surname he possessed. After all, Martin or not, how many men do you know named Saunders? Or Talmage? Or how many women have you met named Indiana?

I had hoped, by tracing his siblings’ lines upward, I could find out more about this specific Martin family. So far, no luck.

Even so, Horace Martin’s obituary shared a couple of hints about his stature within the railroad industry in the “local” area of New York City, where he worked in his later years. From those, we can glean the idea that he met with a measure of success.

That alone, however, still doesn’t provide any hints as to how his mother came to own such a unique antique—even if it was only coveted in the back corners of Tennessee.

           ERWIN—Horace L. Martin, 76, died yesterday morning in South Orange, N. J. His wife is the former Mabel Davis Martin, Erwin. Martin was a retired agent for the Norfolk and Western Railroad with headquarters in New York. A member of the Methodist Church, he had lived in South Orange for the past 30 years. He was a member of the New York Athletic Club, Down-Town Club, and held a lifetime membership in the New York Traffic Club.

            Survivors include the widow, Mrs. H. L. Martin of the home, four sisters, Mrs. Mary Hanks, Mrs. Virginia Purdun and Mrs. Gladys Mountcastle, Richmond, Va., and Mrs. Indiana Cecil of Indiana; three brothers, Ray and Talmadge Martin, Richmond, Va., and Saunders Martin, Raleigh, N. C. Boyd-DeArmond Funeral Home is in charge.

A Flower-Filled Remembrance

Flowers were not only part of Chevis Davis Chitwood Kyte’s daily routine—hand-painted on dishware for her employer, Southern Potteries—but they made a significant statement at her last public remembrance.

After her passing on November 15, 1942, the Johnson City Press ran her obituary in preparation for her funeral. Unlike any such obituaries I’ve known from life up north, this Tennessee notice included the name of every single person involved in the program. That, for those of you who have never seen such a custom published in a southern newspaper, included the following count:

• Six active pallbearers
• Twenty eight honorary pallbearers
• Forty three flower bearers

Flower bearers?

For a northerner unfamiliar with any such custom, reading that list seemed overwhelming to me. I felt like the entire town had come together to bid Chevis a final goodbye. It made me wonder what was so special as to merit such attention for a funeral.

Then I realized that, perhaps, this was a regional tradition I was unfamiliar with. I’ve since seen other such mentions in Tennessee obituaries—though, admittedly, not to such lengths. A quick perusal of the terms “funeral” and “flower bearers” yielded several pages of search results online, so the tradition is apparently still alive in many circles.

Since I feel fairly safe to assume that nearly all those whose names were published on that list are no longer with us, I’ll print the announcement in its entirety so you can share my amazement. (I’m generous that way.)

If you happen to be of a similar southern persuasion, please feel free to educate me—and the rest of the readers here who might be of like northern handicap—by filling in the blanks on this custom: how does it work? Does it signify anything special? Is it just an honorary listing—or do these people take a specific role in the ceremony?

            ERWIN—Nov. 16.—Mrs. Chevis Kyte, 48, died at her home on Catawba street at 3:30 Sunday morning, after she had been in declining health for the past year.

            Surviving are one daughter, Mrs. Emma Lee Engle; a son, H. M. Chitwood; her mother, Mrs. Cassie Davis, all of Erwin; two sisters, Mrs. Mabel Martin of Newark, N. J., and Mrs. Lummie Moore of Tela, Honduras; one brother, Jack Davis of Columbus, Ohio, and two grandchildren.

            Funeral services will be held at 2:30 p.m. Tuesday at the Church of Christ, of which she was a member. The Rev. Lonnie E. Dever, church pastor, assisted by the Rev. F. Roderick Dail, will officiate. Burial will be in Evergreen cemetery.

            Active pallbearers: Carl McInturff, Guy Robbins, Roy Tucker, Herbert Toney, Fred D. Booth and Luther Hurd.

            Honorary pallbearers: Ross Jones, Bert Wilson, R. O. Bailey, Dave Hartsell, Harry Campbell, Grant Martin, C. W. Davis, J. B. Engle, Ernest Stallard, Jim Turner, Bill Tucker, J. Q. Jones, Arh Beckelheimer, R. L. Hensley, L. C. Roberts, T. H. Peters, W. W. Ryburn, Sam Brown, S. B. Stallard, O. L. Harvey, M. P. Blankenship, Charles H. Ervin, E. E. Clouse, Claude Jones, Will Burnett, W. W. Erwin, R. T. Bailey, Claude Gouge.

            Flower bearers: Mesdames Fannie Fox, Pauline Morgan, Dolly Six, George Maddox, Charles Hicks, Ola Swingle, Florence Updike, George Dishman, C. W. Davis, Ross Jones, R. O. Bailey, Dave Hartsell, W. H. Allen, Guy Fritz, Harry Campbell, Grant Martin, Ernest Stallard, Jim Turner, John Suggs, J. B. Engle, W. R. Cox, O. L. Harvey, Guy Robbins, Carl McInturff, Arch Beckelheimer, Sam Brown, Ed Clouse, Annie Tinker, Claude Jones, B. W. Head, J. C. Rule, L. C. Roberts, Lee Johnson, Roberta Keesecker, Nannie Ray, W. M. Erwin, W. W. Ryburn, Cassie Smith, T. H. Peters, Claude Gouge, Sara K. Gentry and Misses Maude Tucker and Mary Johnson.

Daddy Loved His Cars

It should come as no surprise that, for a family for whom the term “road trip” could double as their home address, the head of that household had a passion for cars. Ever since the automobile became widespread enough to boast dealerships nationwide, my grandfather liked nothing more than to be a part of that dynamic world.

On my list of family-traditions-yet-to-verify, the very reason my grandfather met my grandmother involved an account of her Tennessee relative’s car business. She, by that time a twenty-something living in Florida, had come to Johnson City, Tennessee, to visit family. He, a country boy from Erwin, Tennessee, felt the lure of city life in nearby Johnson City, and had come to check out those new cars on display.

At least, those are the stories my mother told me. My aunt’s records and photographs seem to convey at least a tacit agreement. No matter what the details, those girls' "Daddy" loved his cars.

Perhaps that was the magnet that drew J. R. Davis—this southern boy from Erwin, Tennessee—up north to the alien turf of Detroit, Michigan: what was becoming the car capital of his universe was, in his mind, the place to be.

And sure enough: the 1930 census tells it all. There is the entry for Jack Davis, showing his occupation as a salesman—in the automobile industry.

From that point, there was no turning back. He had found his dream job. Why look for anything else?

Except, of course, if one’s entire economic world would come crashing down.

This, of course, was the census taken less than one year after such an unexpected event did happen. It would be a long, long ten years until Jack Davis could, for the 1940 census taker, give as his occupation again the heading, automobile salesman.

Photograph, above: Jack R. Davis and his wife, Ruth, standing alongside the love of his life in this undated snapshot.

“Get Lucy”

Perhaps it was those formative high school years that set me on a course to eventually realize my love of history. By some divine design, I attended classes at a high school that just happened to have its own radio station.

There is something about public school pedagogy that likes to focus on the rift between “process” and “content” and this radio station did not escape that conceptual paradigm. For them, “Educational Radio Station” meant content, not the process of learning how to run a station.

So, for the opportunity of being on the air, I had to submit to the rigors of preparing program material that was educational. For one series of programs, I developed the concept of delving into the local history of the many villages dotting Long Island.

I remember creating the script for one town, Sayville. I knew absolutely nothing about that town when I started, other than how to drive there (and in particular, how to drive to my favorite shopping find). But by the time I finished the program, complete with interviews, I fell in love with Sayville’s history.

Sayville was a quaint village where colonial Americans settled, but failed to actually name until nearly eighty years later—and even then, managed to misspell their chosen designation.

Sayville was where urban New Yorkers fled for extended summer vacations at the shore. Or to stay and snag a piece of real estate near the other other Roosevelts.

Sayville was the spot where Marlon Brando was “discovered” while doing summer stock for those hordes of vacationing New Yorkers.

And at the turn of the last century, Sayville was the location a fledgling German communications company chose to install a test device in its new line of wireless transmitters. The device went mostly unnoticed in that bucolic setting until a message was sent via the device three years after its installation.

The message? “Get Lucy.”

In May of that same year, and on the opposite side of the ocean that fronts Sayville, the RMS Lusitania was sunk, precipitating the entrance of the United States into World War I.

I found wonderful tidbits of history not only for Sayville, but for every town I included in my radio production adventure. Of course, my student (and professional) radio days are over, but now I research for genealogy-related purposes. The research process that began with the content development for my program has stuck with me for decades.

Every town where my ancestors settled became part of what shaped my family. Johnson City, Tennessee, and the surrounding towns became the hub for not only my Broyles ancestors, but my Boothe and Davis forebears, too. Lafayette and Fort Wayne, Indiana, told the story of my husband’s immigrant Stevens family as they settled in this New World. From rustic settings to the urban neighborhoods of my own father’s family in New York City boroughs of Brooklyn and Queens, I follow the trails of family history, dovetailed with town records preserved by local historical societies.

These ancestors' lives were intertwined with the communities where they lived. How could these details not be part of the search?

Fiery Spirits, Bland Paper

Beautiful blonde. Daddy’s girl. Headstrong. Southern lady.

She was Ruby Broyles McClellan, great-granddaughter of Florida pioneer George Edmund McClellan, more immediately known as the lively daughter of the Tampa dentist, Dr. R. C. McClellan.

From my first recollections of my maternal grandmother, I could at least always agree with the label of Southern Lady. But there was little more a young child could discern about the long-lost girlhood of her elder.

After all, more than fifty years separated the two of us. With a generation between us, all I could know of what growing up was like in her day would be to listen to the stories others told.

Of course, I could easily recognize the trails on paper: the dates, the certificates, the news clippings. I had pictures of a young flapper (for that is what she threw her heart into), and portraits of a charming lady. I had her face on paper.

But it was the remembrances passed down, blurted out by others in odd moments of recollection, that most convincingly painted her portrait.

My grandmother must have been quite the character. She loved to have fun. She and many friends enjoyed the dances of her day. There was no lack of eligible bachelors coming to call at the family homestead—feigning interest in deep conversations with her dad, while all along it was her presence that they had stopped by to admire.

I heard once from a relative that my grandmother had, as a teenager, gotten into an argument with her mother and actually slapped her. Impetuous. Shocking for that time period.

I heard my mother once mention that her mother had been right in the thick of the “Roaring Twenties,” enjoying it to the hilt.

I heard that my grandmother had been in love with a man, but that her parents didn’t approve. To cool the relationship, they had sent her up north to her uncle’s home in Johnson City, Tennessee, for an extended “visit.”

I heard that, during that visit, my grandmother eloped—with a different man. Tall, dark, handsome, he swept her off her feet. Charming met winsome.

And then, somehow, after years of struggle through Great Depression tribulations, through raising a family, through two-parent career stages in those years when Leave-It-To-Beaver moms only worked at home, she became the proper, sensible grandmother I remember—the grandmother who found her place on paper.

After my grandmother died, my aunt gave me her “Little Black Book.” It was just her address book, but it had other notes in it—everything from my dad’s shirt size for birthday presents to clippings from the newspaper that she had found amusing. One such note said,

For beauty I am not a star;

There are others more handsome by far.

But my face, I don't mind it,

For I am behind it—

It's the folks out in front that I jar.

Paper only seems to blunt the impetuous spirit it seeks to replicate. Oh, for a way to know these elders the way they were during the peak of their lives, instead of assuming their aged shadow represents the full content of their being.