Last week, I happened to remember a book from my childhood, given to me by my great-grandfather who was as crazy about rocks as I am. His father, Palestine Hanna, was a great collector of stones, bones, and Native American artifacts. People would bring him bones and various relics from all over rural Indiana.
It was easy to find a picture online, because I remembered it it having a black cover. I posted it to my Facebook timeline, and was surprised how many had this exact little book.
I still save rocks. Not for color and shape, like I did when I was a girl, but for their geographical origins, places that hold special meanings. Today, my nondescript collection looks like a few plain stones ... completely meaningless to anyone else.
Last week the results from my mtDNA (maternal line) test arrived. My maternal Great-Great Grandmother was said to have been full-blood Cherokee. Like most Native American roots, it's hard to document on paper. Family Tree DNA already had my sample, so all I had to do was order an upgrade.
After eight weeks of anticipation, the results finally came in, not only confirming my Native American heritage from my mother's line, but also an unexpected percent of Ukrainian! My main maternal links in order of percentage are: English, Irish, and Native American.
The Ukrainian connection explains a lot...my love of winter, melancholy, poetry, Russian icons, vodka...and maybe even why I recently bought a vintage student accordion, which I am slowly learning how to play. I find this all very fascinating.
At first glance, this seems to be a skull with two terrifying rows of teeth. Actually, it's a child's skull with the adult teeth, ready to move down. Talk about a face-full of teeth! I find it fascinating, since I'm all about stones and bones. My daughter had an adult tooth that did not move down to force out the childhood tooth. Surgery, odd rubber bands, and braces pulled it from deep in her face down into the appropriate spot. It's amazing what modern orthodontics can do.
Speaking of holding a smile for so long, did you know the reason people are not smiling in vintage photographs is because the shutter speed was much slower then? It was easier to hold a non-smiling face completely still.
my great-great-great-grandfather
Joseph Lorenzo Dow Hanna
self-portrait, tintype, circa 1860s
On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net. Happy porpoises jump in the sea, By the rainspout young sparrows are playing And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always
be.
On the day the world ends Women walk through the fields under their
umbrellas, A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn, Vegetable peddlers shout in the street And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island, The voice of a violin lasts in the air And leads into a starry night.
And those who expected lightning and thunder Are disappointed. And those who expected signs and archangels'
trumps Do not believe it is happening now. As long as the sun and the moon are above, As long as the bumblebee visits a rose, As long as rosy infants are born No one believes it is happening now.
Only a white-haired old man, who would be a
prophet Yet is not a prophet, for he's much too busy, Repeats while he binds his tomatoes: No other end of the world will there be, No other end of the world will there be.
This particular Milosz piece brings to mind the rather humorous story
of my fourthgreat-grandfather, Rev. Robert Goodloe Harper
Hanna. "Harper"was one of the earliest clergy in Carroll
County, Indiana. Hebelonged to a denomination known as thePrimitive Methodistsandpreached theMilleritedoctrine.
If he believed this radical doctrine,personally, he certainly failed to impress the
outside world with hissincerity.
Here's the account, according to theHistory
of Carroll County,Indianaby
Thomas Helms, Chicago: Kingman Brothers, 1882...
One morning in April, 1848, John Payton rode by
Hanna's farmandsaw him setting out an orchard. The inconsistency of hisprecedingat once struck Payton, who elected that a number ofyears mustelapse, in any event, before he could expect anyreturn of his labor,and if the final destruction of the world wereso nearly at hand, wasnot his an unnecessary outlay of labor?
With this in mind, Paytonaddressed him:
"How
is this, Brother Hanna? This is April, and if youraccount
iscorrect,
the end of the world will come inJunenext. It scarcelylooks consistent to
be doingsuchwork sonearly theborders of
eternity."
"Oh
well", replied Hanna, "we can't tell exactly; theremay
have been an error in the calculation."
my trusty '96 Land Rover at an abandoned farm
Dublin, Ohio
click to embiggen
As my regular readers already know, I have a particular fondness for stones and bones, which I attribute to the DNA inherited from my great-great grandfather, Palestine Hanna (1856-1938). Hoosier farm folk would bring him bones, and various Native American relics from miles around the tiny village of Burlington, Indiana, for his extensive collection, which he kept in a large handmade walnut cabinet.
It's our tradition to spend the Saturday after Thanksgiving at the opening of the Scott Antique Market at the Franklin County Fair grounds. This year, I was thrilled to find two racks of unmounted buck antlers, Ohio deer tags still intact. The seller was in a dickering mood, which adds to the thrill of the hunt. I adore their incredibly sensual natural beauty.
James Dunnam home, near Brewton, Escambia Co., AL, circa 1900 (click to enlarge)
The Yearling, N. C. Wyeth
Sunday night I watched the wonderful 1946 film adaptation of Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings' The Yearling, the story of a rebel soldier and his wife, who after the Civil War, become pioneer farmers in Florida. Every time I see it, I am reminded of my great-great-great-grandparents, James Alexander Dunnam and his wife Sina Isabelle Morris, who farmed near Brewton, Escambia County, Alabama, near the Florida border, just after the Civil War. They raised nine children in this house, that looks so much like the one in the movie. I often wonder what similar hardships they suffered, and what "Old Slewfoot" stories they might have to tell. My great-grandmother, Ida Belle Lewis, is the little girl sitting on the left of the front steps, with her hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun. Notice the portrait of the Dunnam's deceased son, Enoch, her uncle, placed outside on the porch, as part of the family photo.
James Alexander Dunnam and Sina Isabelle Morris Dunnam, circa 1900
WT has been enjoying a few war films on TCM's 72 hour Memorial Day Weekend War Movie Marathon. The movies conjured thoughts of my own ancestors who served our country in wartime. I love this picture of Donald Pullen, Carroll County, Indiana, looking very dashing in his WWI United States Marine uniform. He was the paternal uncle of my paternal grandmother. Even though my father was his namesake, my family was not close, and sadly he died in 1976, before I was able to establish a relationship with him on my own. Not many in my direct family line were military men. In fact, more of my ancestors served in the American Revolution and Civil War, than in either World Wars.
Capt. Robert "Robin" Hanna, my sixth Great-Grandfather, fought in the American Revolution. Born in Prince Edward County, Virginia, December 10, 1744, he attended William and Mary College had a close and enduring friendship with Thomas Jefferson. Capt. Hanna represented Little River District, South Carolina in the Fifth General Assembly (1783-1784). He was also a deputy for the surveyor general and surveyed a great deal of acreage on the North and South Carolina border. His lovely old tombstone, pictured above, in Sims Cemetery, Franklin County, Indiana, reads:
In Memory of Robert Hanna
was born Dec 10th 1744
And departed this life
The 24th of January 1821
He was A brave defender
Of his Country's Rights
And lived and died an honest man
This picture of my 92 year old grandfather was taken in 2006 several months before he passed away. I was able to spend a beautiful, crisp October day with him, tracking down old family gravestones in rural Indiana and stopping by his favorite orchard for some fresh apples and homemade cider. It's one of those rare jewel days, I keep tucked in a favorite spot of my mind's eye. The photo below was taken in Pete's Run Cemetery (supposedly named after an old Native American named Pete), Ervin Township, Howard County, Indiana. I wish I lived close enough to visit his grave this weekend and place a whole arm load of pink peonies, my grandmother's favorite flower. Rest in peace, dear GP. I'm thinking of you today.
Each man must for himself alone decide what is right and what is wrong, which course is patriotic and which isn't. You cannot shirk this and be a man. To decide against your conviction is to be an unqualified and excusable traitor, both to yourself and to your country, let men label you as they may. ~Mark Twain
Watching your brave poppa return to the valley that dull day, boxed in Confederate pine.
You heard it sing again when you climbed on the wagon headed west, pulling the little goat behind, and held the hand of your widowed ma; family split amongst Hoosier kin, forsaken.
You remember the bird, at its very worst,
as you stood at the open grave of a son,
the same age your poppa was.
Saddest song you'd ever heard,
mocking curse of that damn bird.
willow, 2010
Name: Bennett H. Hopkins
Residence: Franklin County, Virginia
Occupation: Carpenter
Enlistment Date: 24 May 1862
Distinguished Service: DISTINGUISHED SERVICE
Side Served: Confederacy
State Served: Virginia
Unit Numbers: 819 819
Service Record: Enlisted as a Private 24 May 1862 at the age of 31
in Company D, 58th Infantry Regiment Virginia, 24 May 1862.
Died of disease Company D, 58th Infantry Regiment Virginia, 09 February 1864
Bennett Hopkins was my great-great-great grandfather. One day, several years ago, I spent an afternoon logging genealogical stats of his youngest daughter, Mary, my great-great grandmother. I wondered about her thoughts and emotions, having lost not only her father to an untimely death, but also her handsome son, Guy. That evening, as I cooked dinner, I found myself humming a peculiar tune over the stove. I couldn't get the odd song out of my head all week. After some searching, I found it was Listen to the Mockingbird, an American folk song popular during the Civil War. It was said to be Lincoln's favorite song. I believe it also happened to be Mary's. (click here for my post on Deep DNA)
They declared their chips in Kansas. Ace came round in a new fangled motor, wore a fancy suit. She flew to him like a railbird.
Free hand wrangler, he scooped her up, built his deck with brick and mortar. He bought the pot; she bought short.
Mother and sister packed their lot, headed north, after the fire that killed her pa.
Dealt a dead hand, he lost his Oklahoma purse. After two stillborn births, this wild card shark proved his bluff and upped the ante.
Go back to Indianny and console your ma. I'll be up to collect you directly; he slipped out the back door on a chronic rabbit hunt.
Cursed rag left her in the dark, blind to his habit, crippled by a silent flush, a gypsy muck of syphilis and insanity.
willow, 2010
Ace and Anna, Galena, Kansas, 1910
The story of Ace Nichols never returning to Indiana for my great-aunt Anna, has always been a sad part of my family history, but after I obtained her medical records, the story became even more tragic. Since his name happened to be Ace, I couldn't resist throwing in all the poker terminology.
This is one of my paternal great-grandfathers, Glen Pullen, 1891-1950. I never knew him, since he passed away six years before I was born. He was married to [Emma Mae Rathfon], who sadly was admitted to Central State Hospital, Indianapolis, shortly after the birth of their first child, my grandmother, Alice, for the duration of her life.
I love the photo, below, of Glen working as part of a railroad section gang, complete with spike drivers and shovels, in Flora, Indiana in 1923. Section crews, or section gangs, as they were commonly known, were responsible for the maintenance of a large section of track. They typically rode handcars to replace bad ties, tamp loose spikes and tighten bolts.
CLICK TO ENLARGE Glen Pullen, (center) Railroad Section Gang 19, April 26, 1923, Flora, Indiana
I wonder if Glen and his gang ever sang the American folk song, "I've Been Working on the Railroad"? The first published version appeared as "Levee Song" in Carmina Princetonia, a book of Princeton University songs published in 1894. The earliest known recording is by the Sandhills Sixteen, released by Victor Records in 1927.
The "Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah" part is actually an older song that has been absorbed by "I've Been Working on the Railroad". It was published as "Old Joe, or Somebody in the House with Dinah" in London in the 1830s, with music credited to J.H. Cave. "Dinah" was a generic name for an enslaved African woman. The melody for this section of the song may have been adapted from "Good Night Ladies", written (as "Farewell Ladies") in 1847 by E. P. Christy.
We all know the original words, but you may not know this verse, printed in The Family Car Songbook, by Tam Mossman. This particular version sounds like that of a real section crew, not "just to pass the time away". I bet if Glen and the guys were singing, it would have been this no-nonsense version:
I've been workin' on the trestle,
Drivin' spikes that grip.
I've been workin' on the trestle,
To be sure the ties won't slip. Can't you hear the engine comin'? Run to the stanchion of the bridge! Can't you see the big black smokestack Comin' down the ridge?
Those of you who read this blog, know I am always talking some particular thing that makes my DNA "tingle". Several of my readers have mentioned the concept of "Deep DNA". I've read a bit about the notion and am totally fascinated. Deep DNA is the theory that not only does our DNA helix determine our physical characteristics, IQ, aptitudes, and emotional traits, but possibly some of our ancestor's memories, as well.
There are portions of the DNA genome sequence for which no discernible function has been identified, often referred to as "Junk DNA". What if these mystery genes might bring with them the experiences of our ancestors? It's amazing to think we could possibly tap into feelings and memories of those who lived thousands of years before us.
I'm always telling WT I was some kind of metal smith in a former life. I am drawn to metal objects like a bee to honey. What if these certain DNA tinglings, as I like to call them, these feelings of reincarnation come from an ancestor in my line who was a blacksmith? After all, thousands of lives come together to make up my own unique DNA.
One day, several years ago, when I was heavily into my ancestral research, I was completely enamored with a certain great-great grandmother, Mary Hopkins Hanna. I spent much of an afternoon, logging her data into my family file, and seriously pondering her life, her emotions on losing a father in the Civil War, as well as a son to tuberculosis. That evening, as I was making dinner, I found myself humming a slightly familiar, but unusual tune. Several days later, I had to identify this stubborn earworm. After quite a bit of poking around online, I found it was Listen to the Mocking Bird, 1855, an American folk song popular during the Civil War. The song is a mournful tale, the singer dreams of his sweetheart, who is dead and buried. It's said to be one of Lincoln's favorites. Perhaps it was one of Mary's, as well.
Listen to the voices of your DNA. Our forebear's lives, their joys and fears are living in us. And they happen to make this particular girl tingle.
Click HERE to go to the Lincoln Library for a listen to the song, as well as the lyrics of Listen to the Mockingbird.
Uncle Henry and Aunt Neva were packed and ready to leave their home in Decatur, Indiana and head into the wild west to visit her parents, Palestine and Mary Hanna, who were living in Albuquerque at the time. I adore their smart travel attire. Neva's wool houndstooth skirt, with matching coat, over one arm, complete with pocketbook, gloves and hat. Uncle Henry looks mighty dapper, himself, in his summer straw hat, and collar perfectly held in place with studs, and a lovely silk tie.
I heard a fascinating piece on NPR this week about Fred Harvey, responsible for bringing good food at reasonable prices in clean, elegant restaurants, to the travelling public throughout the Southwest in the late 1800s and early 1900s. They were well known for their great steaks, coffee, and excellent service. By its peak in 1928, the Fred Harvey empire ran nearly 100 restaurants and 25 hotels from Chicago to Los Angeles.
Harvey Girls Maryellen Harris Skillman*, right, and friend
No doubt, Uncle Henry and Aunt Neva would stop somewhere along the way, at least once, at a Fred Harvey railroad eating house. The train would stop just long enough for hungry passengers to order a blue plate special, a sumptuous meal, served on china with a blue pattern. Men patrons were even required to wear a jacket and tie in order to be served. Uncle Henry would definitely pass inspection.
Harvey Houses were famous for their excellent service, provided by their staff of Harvey Girls. Fred Harvey sought out single, well mannered, educated ladies, and placed ads in newspapers throughout the east coast and midwest for "Young women, 18 to 30 years of age, of good character, attractive and intelligent." It's estimated that 100,000 women went west to work as Harvey Girls.
Today, the Harvey Girls are most likely known from the 1946 MGM musical The Harvey Girls, in which Judy Garland plays a young woman heading west, as a mail order bride, but ends up joining the Harvey Girls, instead.The hit song from the film "On the Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe", won an Academy Award for Best Original Song for Harry Warren and Johnny Mercer.
In this movie, it was said that the women were "conquering the West with a beef steak and a cup of coffee". Sounds pretty good to me.
the over crowded Sultana taken the day before the disaster
April 27th is the 145th anniversary of the greatest maritime disaster in United States history. The steamship Sultana, a Mississippi River paddle wheeler, contracted by the U.S. War Department, was loaded with Union soldiers, just released from Confederate prison camps. The legal capacity for the ship was 376, but it was crowded with 2,400 soldiers, desperate to get home. One of the Sultana's four boilers, poorly repaired just days earlier, exploded, sinking the ship, several miles north of Memphis on April 27, 1865.
No exact death toll is known, but the official count by the United States Customs service was 1,547 and estimates range from 1,300 to 1,900, even more than perished on the Titanic. This disaster received somewhat diminished attention since it took place soon after the assassination of President Lincoln, during the closing weeks of the Civil War.
Peachy Bright's statement of Civil War service
from the National Archives (click to enlarge)
My two great-great uncles, Peachy (don't you love that name? it's from the French family surname, Pechin) and Isaac Bright, born 1841 and 1843, in Madison Township, Montgomery County, Ohio, enlisted into service from Howard County, Indiana, with the 24th Indiana Artillery Regiment, were on board the Sultana. They both had just been released from horrific conditions at Andersonville prison camp and were finally on their way home to loved ones. Sadly, before they could make it back to Indiana, they both perished in the tragedy.
I'm fortunate enough to have been given Peachy's pocket watch by my late grandfather. When he presented it to me, and I slipped it out of an old wine colored Wollensak lens sleeve, I felt some powerful energies. The following piece was inspired for this week's Magpie Tales.
Peachy Bright's pocket watch
Pocket Watch for Peachy Bright
You slipped
from that Wollensak pocket,
and hit my hand full and hard,
like a splash of cold Mississippi.
The day they marched him
to Andersonville flashed before,
and nearly blinded me.
I saw you, his sole possession,
tick and tock,
tucked in a tattered Union sock.
Then a scribbled note
sent out post-haste, There's a chance we'll be home in just a few days.
He steals a glance at your gold face,
marking time 'til daddy greets
his kith and kin,
feels his daughter's pinkest kiss,
Estellina's lips again.
April hope
swarms the homebound boat,
but dashed dreams blaze
bitter-bright,
as Sultana sinks that night,
at Paddy's Hen.
It's been years since I've gone fishing. I actually love to fish. My grandmother taught me how to bait a hook with a night crawler and cast it into the stillest, darkest, deepest part of the water, under the trees. I only remember fishing once, after moving away from Grandma, at a summer barbecue of my father's work associates. Grandma taught me well, because I ended up catching the largest fish of the day with my little bamboo pole. I guess you could call me a city girl, with a country heart. Although, growing up in various subdivisions across the Midwest, wasn't exactly city, but certainly not the country, either. The American subdivision is a culture all its own. But, I'll save that for another post.
I wish I had a picture of Grandma fishing. Luckily, I do have one, in my mind's eye, contentedly sitting, pole in hand, on her lawn chair on the bank of Wildcat Creek. While browsing pics, I did, however, find this lovely old boating photo of my great-grandmother Ida Belle, with her two sons, Chester (my paternal grandfather), his brother, Uncle Bright, along with the Williams and Rains families. The picture was taken by my great-grandfather, Glenn. (You remember him, from last week's post, posed with his portable bellows camera.) This tiny postage stamp sized photo enlarged quite nicely. I love how everyone is dressed to the nines in dresses, hats, suites and ties. Every outing was a special occasion. I like that.
Ida Belle Hanna, seated center with my grandfather Chester
circa 1921, Howard County, Indiana
For more Sepia Saturday participants click [HERE].
I love this portrait of my paternal great-grandmother, Ida Belle Lewis Hanna. It was taken in about 1913, shortly after her marriage to Glenn Hanna. I love her Oakleyesque pose on the rocks outside Albuquerque, New Mexico, complete with her leather skirt, holster, pistol, bullet belt and just a peep of petticoat.
Both Ida's father, Joseph Thomas Lewis, and Glenn's brother, Guy L. Hanna, were ill with tuberculosis, and the families had relocated to New Mexico for the benefits of the climate. The Lewis family was from Escambia County, Alabama and the Hannas from Howard County, Indiana.
Glenn Hanna and his delivery wagon for J.C. Boyd Grocer, circa 1912
I fondly remember my great-grandma telling me how she met Glenn, a delivery man for J. C. Boyd, Grocer in Albuquerque, behind a huge hanging bunch of bananas in the store. They were married March 19, 1913 in New Mexico, and returned to farm in Howard County, Indiana, after it was sadly determined that Glenn's brother, Guy, would not recover from TB.
As Alan mentioned this week, if it weren't for avid enthusiasts, like my great-grandfather, who invested in the art of photography, we would not have these wonderful treasures, these unique bits of history, family legacy, and art. We owe them a great debt of gratitude.
Glenn with his portable bellows camera, circa 1913
Monday was my paternal grandfather, Chester Hanna's birthday. He passed away in May of 2007 at the ripe old age of 93. He was surprisingly computer savvy for a man of his generation. I miss his daily emails. They weren't terribly newsy, but he fondly called me "kid", and it always brightened my day to see one of his messages waiting in my inbox. He handed down his love of genealogical research to me, and we spent many afternoons online, sharing family history.
He was born in Ervin Township, Howard County, Indiana on March 22, 1914, and lived in and around the area his entire life. He retired after working for Delco Electronics for 35 years, but always had a bit of an entrepreneurial spirit, dabbling in various businesses. For years, he ran a professional photography studio from his home, with a complete dark room in the cellar. I spent many a happy hour watching the photos magically emerge in the pans of fluid. To this day, I think of him whenever I walk into a photo shop, and catch that heavenly whiff of developing solution.
One of my dearest memories is standing in the back of his easy chair and asking for his black plastic comb, which he always kept, along with his assortment of pens in his trusty pocket protector. After I combed his Brylcreemed hair down over his eyes, he would peer out with a comical look, and make me giggle with delight. He was a quiet and unassuming little man. I always thought if he would just grow a thick mustache, and smoke a cigar, he would look exactly like Groucho Marx. But his personality was totally different; no singing of Lydia the Tattooed Lady, or silly Grouchoesque walks. And that's okay. I loved him just the way he was.
With the passing of WT's mother this week, I've been thinking a lot about her family. Her maternal grandfather, William Isaac Cummins, owned and operated a general store in Kansas City. This photo, taken in about 1905, shows her mother, Ruth Cleveland Cummins, the young girl in the center in the dark dress, her parents William and Addie Cummins to the left, and her older sister and brother in law on the right.
WT likes to wear a big apron, just like his great-grandfather did, when he cleans up in the kitchen. It's surprising how much he favors him, in appearance, especially with the apron.
As the story goes, the store was located near the railroad stop, and Grandma Ruth met the dashing young railroad engineer, Ralph McIntire, one afternoon, as he sauntered into her father's store, on one of his frequent Kansas City stops. They chose a Christmas Eve wedding, marrying on December 24, 1916.
