Mary Louise Eklund

Tag: Rolen

Why Genealogy? I Ask Myself That Periodically

So why did genealogy become my hobby? I hate people who wear their ancestors as a badge. I’m not a dog that need a documented breeding bloodline. Does it matter who my 4th great grandpappy was? I want to be taken for my merit not the merit or misdeeds of people I didn’t know and couldn’t influence due to linear aspects of time. Yet, genealogy is one of my favorite hobbies. Why?

Thomas Fain Bright ( the chair front row on left) is my great grandfather on left. His wife next to him Molly I remember her funeral. Her father is James Madison McCravey at the end on the right (my great great grandfather) fought in the Civil War as a Confederate. Leslie Bright the boy in the back row in about the middle of the photo is my grandfather.

I’ve always loved history. I’ve liked tales of the past as long as I can remember. I don’t know why but it’s always made me feel better to think humans have experienced the same feelings I have for thousands of years. I loved historical romances when I was a young girl. In high school I had a teacher, Liz Morrell, who challenged me to look at real history through real people’s eyes. I loved it even more. If you want a good mystery – read history there’s plenty of them. Want a good scare – read history there’s plenty of them. Want the feel good story of the year – read history there’s plenty of them. Want steamy romance – read history there’s plenty of them. I think you get my point. I found all I wanted in real true tales. History isn’t just dates and military movement to me but people living life!

Genealogy was a way to get the everyday person’s view of history, their world at that time. Depression job loss – my grandfather’s time with Singer Sewing Machine Company I posted about. How it is to come of age – my other grandfather’s clothes progression to long breeches. Horrors of Andersonville, Sultana, explosion and what happened to the families that endure such painful loss – I’ve found them in my family tree.

The father Pleasant M Rogers is my 2nd great grandfather. Next to him is his wife Margaret Clark. He’s holding Minnie Christine. She’s holding Josie M. Sitting on the ground is William Victor. Standing behind is Ida Alberta my great grandmother. Photo taken about 1891

Honestly it doesn’t HAVE to be my family tree. I’ve helped friends intrigued by stories I’ve found in my tree find some stories in theirs. The child left to be raised by an aunt & uncle grew up thinking they were the parents but noo, life changed when all was flipped. What happened to the lost child of someone? Find their life and tell it – who knew he’d wind up out west panning for gold then have a hand in the railroad dying a rich man?

For me it’s looking into the faces of the pictures I discovered and seeing a person. A person who had feelings like me, who lived events I’ve only read about, and who is now gone but not forgotten. Maybe shelved for years and rediscovered but not forgotten. Now when I eat a Cracker Barrel I wonder who those faces are in those old pictures, what genealogist out there is trying desperately to find a face to put with the story?

My grandmother, Winnie Bradford, is the girl behind the one hold the flowers standing between her parents Joe Berry Bradford & Pansy Brown Bradford.

Another thing I’ve learned is we’re all connected. If not literally in the 14 generations I’ve gotten so far then through experiences. To me all of it is ours, our story as humans. How we made it through good times and difficult times. It’s inspiration.

It’s all about citation and documentation. I LOVE to document things and fit them together. It’s the old auditor in me. Want to be put in my family tree program? You gotta have documentation otherwise you wind up in my notes to investigate or in my family lore files. My tree is one that’s well reinforced with documentation – marriage certificates, death certificates, birth certificates, censuses, wills, land deeds, dairies, letters, photos, newspaper articles, and on and on. All to be deliciously filed and scanned and attached to the facts they document. See my penchant for neat files in previous posts.

In the middle back row the woman in the dark dress is my great grandmother Ollie Belle Hicks Rolen. In front of her are her parents my 2nd great grandparents Margaret Jane Denton and David Crockett (aka Crockett) Hicks.

This is a job that’s never finished. Every answered question seems to raise ten more questions to answer. I’ll never run out of things to do in my hobby. Every year more are born and more die. You want to fall into my realm of investigation you have to die. I do paper research, grave yard research, book research… I leave the living to my mother. I’m happier in the stacks with that musty smell thinking “AHHH THERE you are! I’ve been looking for you!” Than I am over tea trying to get people to lay their lives open warts and all.

John Bright and Mary Jane Browder Bright my 2nd great grandparents

Genealogy has given me a topic to discuss with my parents. My mother and I share the same hobby so we can build on what the other finds. My father is a treasure trove of family lore, stories I’ve heard all my life but never wrote down. Now I’m hearing them again and encouraging him to write them down. Oh the lovely hours in stacks that will lead to investigating! It gives us something to share, to talk about, to do together beyond comparing medical visits.

My 2nd great grandfather. He was a sheriff in the mountains of East Tennessee. His son became a revenuer. Looks the part of a lawman doesn’t he?

Finally it gives me something to pass on to my son. Here is who we are. This is how we fit into those stuffy history books. It makes the past live for him because he can say he has a connection to it. I hope it keeps me remembered by my 4th great grandchild. She cared, she cared enough to send these stories down to me so I too would share something with her – our connection to life future and past.

For me it combined my love of history, my love of stories, my love of office supplies (files!), my love of order and documentation, my always needing something to do, and gave me another connection with my parents. I can’t think of a better hobby.

As always I’d love to hear from you. You can comment here (it’ll show up when I get it). You can catch me on twitter as @marylouiseeklund or on Google+ as +Mary Louise Eklund. I don’t go to Facebook any more though there’s an old profile still there. BUT you can email me at marylouiseeklund at either yahoo.com or gmail.com.

Until next time!

January 12, 2012
When Boys Were Supposed to Wear Dresses

Sammie Sue Rolen on the right and John Hollis Rolen on the left

In the above picture is my maternal grandfather John Hollis Rolen. He always went by Hollis. On the left in the picture is his oldest sister Sammie Sue, she went by Sammie Sue all her life.

This picture has a few stories behind it. First one that comes to mind was when Aaron my son saw it as a little boy. I explained who the people were, that the little boy on the right grew up to be father to his Granny. He looked confused and asked “Didn’t they know he was a boy?” LOL!

The answer is yes they knew he was a boy but little boys wore dresses until about 5 or 6 then they moved to knee britches. Then when they got to be 12 or so they moved up to long trousers. Was the custom then to which my son replied “I’m sure glad they don’t do that now. People would laugh at ME in a dress.”

I remember Papaw, that’s what I called Hollis, telling me about transferring to knee britches. He father was home and they celebrated by going to the barn and putting one of the dresses on a stick and lighting it on fire. The marched about singing while Lavator, Hollis’s father, waved the burning dress. When they got back into the house Ollie Belle, Hollis’s mother, was irate that they burned a perfectly good dress!

Another story Papaw told was he had a pair of yellow knee britches as one of his first pairs. Early on during the privileged time where he had a boy’s haircut and just moved into knee britches he was playing by the mailbox. The mailman came up on horseback and addressed Papaw as “fine sir.” Which Papaw replied, “It’s me Hollis bet ye didn’t recognize me in my little yaller britches.”

So now back to the story that explains the sour faces in the photo. Ollie Belle, Granny Rolen to me and my mom, said she tried to get them both looking their best for the picture. However, Papaw was mad that they wanted to take away his new whip. Sammie Sue was mad at him for ruining her pretty pictures. Best Ollie Belle could do was get a picture of two pouting children dressed in the best clothes. Oh well what’s a mom to do?

I have to say that pouting boy face carried forward in family genes. It looks just like Aaron did at that age when he pouted. Except we didn’t dress him in dresses. Much to his relief and mine, I’d hate to maintain all that finery in hand washing and ironing.

As always I’d love to hear from ya. You can comment here or reach out to me on Flickr, Twitter, or Google+. Email is always welcome send ’em to marylouiseeklund at either yahoo.com or gmail.com.

Until next time keep your skirts down and a tight hold on that whip!

December 29, 2011
How I Got An Idea

There are two things I’ve discovered people do when I tell them I’m a published author. They either tell me their great idea for a best-selling novel or they ask where I get my ideas. After encountering this over and over I asked more experienced authors about it. They assured me that’s common and I’d best get used to it. So for those who have ideas I urge them to write that novel! For those who wonder how published ideas form, here’s how I got inspiration for my latest short story.

Starting next Wednesday, 4 Aug 2011, GenCon 2011 opens. With that is the release of Carnage & Consequences an anthology of short stories by GenCon authors. I was thrilled to be invited to submit a story for consideration. I’ve been attending GenCon for three years to hone my writing skills in their writer’s symposium. It’s the best advice for the most affordable price around even if you don’t write sci-fi or fantasy. I was beyond thrilled when the story was accepted! The story is “The Rider” a ghost story set on the French Broad river in the Appalachian mountains of Upper East Tennessee.

Both sides of my family can trace roots back in those mountains to land grants for service in the Revolutionary War. I grew up in those hills hearing family stories handed down for generations. When casting around for inspiration for a ghost story, my mind fell upon the tale of my 4th great-grandfather James Rolen. His death seemed one that would leave a restless lost spirit behind. From the family lore I spun a tale that hopefully tingles your spine and pulls on your heartstrings at the same time.

My 3rd Great Grandfather Joab Rolen son of the real James Rolen

What was family lore and what was story? First off, there have never been any reports I know of about a rider coming from the French Broad to take boys into the river to drown. There have been no tales of the ghost of James Rolen but there was the family lore of his death.

The story handed down through the family and recorded in the family Bible starts when James Rolen married Sallie Smith from South Carolina. He took her home to the family farm owned by “old man William.” They have a son born 07 Feb 1808 but Sallie wasn’t happy. She missed her family. James wanted to stay on the land because he was next in line to inherit. The marriage spilt. Sallie took little Joab to South Carolina with her.

Years pass, then by letter Sallie informs James she’s married a Mr. Gould. They intend to move out west. James agrees not to prosecute Sallie for bigamy if she’ll turn Joab over to him. Arrangements were to meet in Cosby, Tennessee during the early Spring of 1813. They met at the McMahan Inn, a familiar stop for those traveling west. There Joab was given to the father he didn’t remember. Sallie and Mr. Gould rode off for a new life in the west.

According to Elizabeth Anna McMahan the wife of Archibald McMahan the inn owner, James stayed a few days getting to know his son. During this time there were hard rains swelling the French Broad river. Time came that James felt he had to return to the east side of the mountain to assist in planting on the farm. Eliza Ann fretted with the two crossing the swollen river and pleaded for James to wait. He wouldn’t but a deal was made. He would leave Joab with the McMahans until his return after planting. Eliza Ann promised to take care of Joab as if he were one of her own.

My 3rd Great Grandmother Anna McMahan Rolen wife of Joab Rolen

Her fears proved true. James and his fancy black stallion were caught in the river currents and swept away forever, drowned. Men from the community tried to save them to no avail. The McMahans weren’t sure of just where James had come from over the mountain or where Sallie was going out west. They had an orphaned boy on their hands. Good to her word Eliza Ann raised Joab as she did her children. She wrote down what she knew of James and Sallie keeping alive the memory of the father who wanted his son.

Joab married one of the McMahan’s daughters Anna. He became best friends her brother David. The two often entered into land deals together and became the largest land holders in Sevier County, Tennessee at the time. From this they became rich men, check out the gold buttons and diamond ring David paid extra to have painted on his photo included in the slide show above.

Joab and Anna had 10 children. One was named James in memory of Joab’s lost father. I’m descended from their son George Washington Rolen through my mother. He was sheriff of Sevier County Tennessee for many years. All their children were successes in many ways State Senators, businessmen, teachers, Post Masters, and preachers. Their stories are fodder for more posts and short stories at another time.

As a hobby genealogist I crave documentation. I’ve documented Anna and Joab’s marriage. His close relationship with her parents from their wills. His close relationship with David from the land transactions where they bought and sold land as partners. In David’s will Joab is highly regarded. However, when it comes to documentation James remains a mystery.

Sallie and her Mr. V. Gould settled in Indiana which was the west then. They had 7 children. I’ve not researched that lineage beyond that point.

David Crockett McMahan brother of Anna & best friend of Joab Rolen

I have tried hard to find James, my 4th great-grandfather. On the other side of the mountain from Cosby is North Carolina. However, the route to the McMahan Inn fed people from Virginia and South Carolina through the mountains to the west. Searching so far has given me some tantalizing leads to William Roland, possibly the “old man William” that James talked about to Eliza Ann and Arch McMahan?

So many questions are left unanswered. Was William a Rolen or from James’s maternal line? Was William his father or grandfather or possibly an Uncle? Where was this farm over the mountain that produced such a successful man whose fine clothes, saddle, and horse were noted by the Cosby residents that saw him? I’m afraid we don’t know. I continue my search to link that William Roland a Revolutionary soldier with a North Carolina land grant to a James Rolen born in the 1780s and married a Sallie Smith from South Carolina.

The man of mystery and his sad death inspired the ghost of my story “The Rider.” The people in the story are from my Appalachian roots, a feisty crone who knows more than she appears to at first glance, a boy living in a mountain cabin as the world changes from World War I. The divide between the lives of the mountain folk and those of the city dwellers. All ideas rooted in reality but spun into a tale.

That’s where I got this idea. There’s no predicting from where the next idea will come.

July 31, 2011
My Unkie

Herbert Denton Rolen & Mary Louise Bright

I grew up with men that had odd nicknames—Trub, Hoot, Tip, Unkie. Being a child I never really thought of how those nicknames came to be. They just where. I took name to be what you told me it was. So my grandfather’s baby brother was Unkie. I never thought it was shorthand for uncle, nor did I think he was really my mom’s uncle. He was and always will be my Unkie.

Herbert Denton Rolen was the last of my maternal grandfather’s siblings. He died two weeks ago at the age of 93. The whole family feels the loss of that generation. I can’t say his passing was sad, it was a release for him. It was sad for us because we won’t have his grin that rumbling chuckle, or those strong gentle eyes watch another generation of kids grow up here with us. The sadness is selfish, for us. Still one of the good ones is gone from this life and I’ll miss him.

However, when I remember him I’ll always smile. My first image of him is in olive green work clothes – shirt and pants matching, sitting silently in the corner as I entered Granny Rolen’s house. He’d grin at me not in the condescending ways adults can smile at children but more in the conspiratorial way kids beam at each other when they know they could get into fun the adults might not wholly approve of them doing. Oh nothing harmful just stuff that could get good clothes dirty or make us late for dinner.

Granny, really my great grandmother, had grape and scuppernong vines. She was protective of them. I now know it was probably because growing such things in the climate of East Tennessee isn’t easy. As a kid I didn’t know why. But I knew I loved the fruit. If there were some ripe she’d go out with me to pick them. I wasn’t allowed to pick without her because she wanted to be sure to get just the ripe ones. One visit I waited for her to come out. The golden green globes looked so good I couldn’t resist. I picked one and popped it into my mouth. OH! It was bitter. Unkie came grinning from garden.

“That one wasn’t ripe. They are bitter until they turn gold.” He laughed as he watched my face and my hurry to spit the fruit from my mouth. “That’s why she wants you to wait.”

I suddenly felt guilty. “I’m sorry.” I was also worried I’d just gotten myself in trouble with three generations, Granny, Nanny, and Mom. I must have looked worried.

“Don’t worry I won’t tell.” He grinned and patted me picking some gold ones from higher up where they got full sun.

He and I were buddies then. Just like I was his brother’s, my grandfather’s, little buddy I was Unkie’s too. That day he became my Unkie because he didn’t tell on me. He understood what it was like to be a kid. He took time from working the farm to play with me. To catch tadpoles with legs, to chase grasshoppers in the field, to swing in the shade while eating ice cream we’d churned with Granny.

I knew he was in the Merchant Marines that’s why he wasn’t there all the time. You’d never think the man in dirty farm overalls, with the shy smile, and East Tennessee twang in his voice had traveled the world. He was good ole’ down home folk. However, he’d been to every continent except Antarctica. He’d sailed through the dangerous seas of World War II. He’d been in Vietnam during the fighting and even visited a nephew serving in the US Army there. He’d seen the world but loved the valley that held his family farm. He’d come back every summer to cultivate that land, to play with kids that showed up, to fool strangers into thinking he’d never left those East Tennessee hills.

One story he told was when he was a young man his mother sent him to town to get a new broom. At the time the transportation available was their old mule. Herbert was a large fella so his legs hung awkwardly off the mule as he rode to town for the broom. He got the broom and was riding home holding the broom to the side and plodding away on the hair too small for him mule. That was when he spotted his sister Sammie Sue with her new beau. She turned red and ignored her baby but not little brother distracting the beau. Well, being one who couldn’t resist a good laugh Herbert shouted “Howdy” to his sister waving the broom. He made making sure that not only the beau saw him, but everyone else on the street did too. As he’d tell the story his smirk would spread, his eyes sparkle, and he’d end the telling with a good laugh.

He was one who loved to laugh. The laugh was a warm and welcoming one rolling up from his belly, erupting as a chuckle, then breaking into a full laugh would roll out making all who heard it join him. The big man never seemed threatening but always seemed loving, cuddly, and safe. The kind of protector a child and a country deserved. The kind of man who was pleased to oblige both.

The last conversation I had with him was one of equals just like the day I’d eaten the sour grape. Except this time we talked of warfare, Navy, ships and service. He as a man who’d retired from it, me as a wife of one doing it. He’d showed me a picture of his ship. Then he turned it over and showed me the billets of his service, various ports of call, missions we’d call them in US Navy. He told of life aboard the ship, port calls, and fear during war. My son was there to hear it from one who had lived history. Unkie was tired when we said good-bye but it was a good kind of tired. I knew because that grin that had welcomed me all my life was still there on his lips.

Last week I drove to Tennessee to attend his funeral. We all mourned our loss. Then over a fellowship dinner graciously given to the family by his church we began to laugh and grin remembering him. He brought us together as a family with smiles, memories happy times we’d all shared with him. I am proud to say that good man, Herbert Rolen, was my Unkie.

March 3, 2011