The Morgue

Considering all things, it was relatively a brief corridor in time that Uncle Gene and I shared together.  During most of this time he talked and I listened while he painted his stories into my memory.  One such account was his time in the morgue.  Certainly, not something most nine year old have given much thought.  At any rate it was one of those stories Uncle Gene told of his time in the army posted on an island called Okinawa.  Now I had never heard of  Okinawa, but I figured it really existed somewhere in the Pacific Ocean never to be the same after Uncle Gene had been there.

Now I knew that a morgue had to do with dead people, but Uncle Gene gave me to understand that his place had to do with those who had been killed in Korea, and whose bodies needed to be identified before burial.   From "driving tanks" to a "morgue in Okinawa" seemed a little unbelievable, but hey... Uncle Gene could convince you of his facts.

It again was not until years later that the following patch in Uncle Gene's collection was understood.

It was worn by those of the U.S. Army garrison on Okinawa which is the largest Island of the Ryukyus chain.  The figure on the insignia is a torii which is the gate to a Shinto Temple.  The patch was adopted after WWII, certainly in time for the Koren War.  It must have been one of the least favorite of Uncle Gene's memories.

Didn't Get Away

May - 1909, South Cramden, Wisconsin, is written on the back of this picture.

The ones that did not get away is certainly shown.  Three fellas are standing with their catch of the day.  No names are recorded, but they appear somewhat fatigued after hanging all these fish.

Granny Ewen (my grandmother) told of a time when her family went to Wisconsin to live. [She was a Morton then.]  It must have been a real change from the mountain life in Kentucky.  I guess this photograph was taken during this family adventure.  Lots of fish there are to be cleaned, eaten, and stashed away for those long winter nights.  She told me that they could only take one winter, and back to Kentucky they came, but not before all these fish that didn't get away.

Those Thousand Words

The Henderson side of the family comes through my great grandmother Ellen Dorcas Henderson.  Family records show that  "Richard Henderson had a son named Samuel Henderson who had a son named William Henderson who had a son named: Abraham B. Henderson (nickname Sonny)...".  He was born October 22, 1843 and died April 12, 1908.   He married Armilda Berryman (nicknamed Millie) who was born January 12, 1844 and died November 14, 1914.

The picture above is Sonny and Millie.  Their faces appear stern... foreheads wrinkled... and a determined look that seems to say life is rough, but we are determined to press onward.  Sonny's beard is full, hair kept, and a penetrating look that passes through the picture that seems to say...I've seen a lot...done a lot...and know a lot about life's difficulties.  Millie shares the same facial expression, but her eyes are a little softer.  Her hair is parted carefully down the middle, and must have been pulled tightly into a bun at the back of the head. What stories they could tell.  Their faces already speak those thousand words.

Pickin' and Grinnin'

Family reunions were a big deal in my growing up years. The Ewen side was perhaps the largest get together, but the Morton side was not far behind. Granny Ewen's side were the Mortons, and there were plenty of them. We would meet on one of the farms up in the hills, and enjoy some of the best cookin' around these parts. [ I kept my priorities straight, and would head to the homemade chocolate pies at first chance!]

After eating [two to three pieces of chocolate pie], we would gather around the folks who played the banjo, fiddle, and guitar. I don't know if it was called Bluegrass music at that time, but it was interesting to watch the family clap, slap one another on the back, and a few did that type of dance I believe was called clogging. Lots of smiles, lots of laughs, and the troubles of the world would seem so far away. [The "Arms Race" was just beginning and we were practicing that "duck and cover" in school. Anyway, if an "A-bomb" hit, I figured that dancing would be just as good an activity to end this life!]

Pickin' and Grinnin', yes sir, they called it...the adults did the pickin', and we did the grinnin'.

Calling Uncle

For most of us upon this earth, we grow up around uncles. The brothers to our mom's and dad's who may or may not play an important role in our early childhood development. [Husbands to our aunts are also called uncles, but somehow they seemed not as involved.]

Six uncles were involved in my childhood. Four on my mother's side [Ewen], and two on my father's [Jones]. The picture to the right shows my two uncles on my father's side in their own early school days. Both red headed, uncle Gayle was six (extreme right), and uncle Gene was eight years old. They were attending Hickman Street School, where many of my Jones family had walked the halls. World War II was about to end, and I suspect they had their own struggles during their growing up years.

Uncle Gayle looks a bit disturbed by all this first grade picture taking. That horizontal Jones smile (or frown) is in place. I have had a bad hair day so lets get this over with, he seems to be saying. Uncle Gayle introduced me to scouts and taught me to tie square knots.

Uncle Gene has a little different look. Almost smiling, his hair is carefully combed, and his expression seems confident. Here I am world, make way, he seems to be saying. He was the story teller of our family, and I spent many hours soaking in the verbal acrobatics that made, well Gene, Gene. I was not always sure I could believe every story that was told, but the laughter and joy in the telling covered most of my suspicions. He opened many doors to my childhood imagination. Laughing so hard sometimes, I had to call...Uncle.

Linda Carol and Ghost Stories

The first baby sitter I can remember was Linda Carol. We always called her "Linda Carol". Not "Linda" or "Carol", but her full name was used. The reason for this was not clear since there was not another Linda in our family to get her confused with. Besides, when my middle name was added to my first name, "Jerry Edward!"...it usually meant that I was in some kind of trouble. [Mostly Mom and Dad used this word combination to tell me to begin to examine my ongoing activities.]

Linda Carol was the baby sister of my Dad with some sixteen years between them. She was one of my favorite aunts. The picture to the right shows her at the summer of her "horse picture" around 1947-48. Her red hair and easy smile shows through, and it was her continued smile that brought my brother and me through many baby sitting episodes. She was very good at telling ghost stories... and at night, on the side porch, with the street light streaming dancing shadows along the stone steps, was the ideal area. Just as my heart started to pound, and just as the ghost started to arrive...Boo!...she would say, laughing from ear to ear.

Linda Carol, thank you for all those baby sitting days, and all those ghost stories...enjoy your ride.

Army of Occupation

On Thanksgiving Day 1945, a young man just out of high school left for Germany on the troopship West Point. This ship was actually the "Luxury Liner America", but who was to tell these fellas what they were about to see and experience. The War in Europe had just ended, and there must have been a lot of guys who felt left out of all the action, and a lot of guys who felt relieved that the war was finally over.

Two of these guys are shown in the picture. One is my dad, Private First Class (PFC), Henry E. Jones, USAF - 15364821. He is the one standing with his hand on the shoulder on the unnamed fellow sitting. He tells me that he spent most of his time there driving prisoners of war to various tasks, which involved mostly blowing up planes that remained after the war. Germany had been destroyed, and much rebuilding was taking place.


The "Army of Occupation Medal" is shown in the next picture.


This medal was designed by the Army Heraldic Section, and shows the Remagen bridge abutments, symbolic of Europe. This medal was given for service in Germany or Austria starting after May 9, 1945. The ribbon is made of equally broad stripes of black and scarlet with narrower white edges. Black and white stand for Germany, and scarlet and white for Japan. [This medal was also given for the occupation of Japan starting after September 3, 1945.]

Dad has a lot of pictures, taken during this time. Hopefully, I will be able to share many more.

A Moment in Time

In my growing up days, "Snakes, snails, and puppy dog tails" were the words to describe boys. In my family, snakes, especially Blue Racers, seemed to play a roll among the females as well. [see posts : The Blue Racer", July 13, 2010 and "Ms Blue Racer and Family", Sept 28, 2010.]

"Sugar, spice, and everything nice", was used to describe the girls. Having left my X-chromosome in three daughters, I am not sure that sugar, spice, and everything nice were often the best words.

The picture to the right shows my middle daughter Lesley and me catching our first fish together. The one that didn't get away! Her face shows the moment in time that expresses her delight. How proud she is to have succeeded in hooking this monster. Nothing sugar, spice, and all that other stuff. In this case, worms, hooks, and fish! How proud I am of her. A moment in time that sugar, spice, and everything nice seemed not the right words.

Western Cowboy Tonight

Dressing up and pretending is often a part of life. One day a cowboy, the next day an Indian... is all possible. We learn about what it is to "make believe".

The picture is that of my great grandfather Cordilus. This picture has been in our family's stack for years, but I did not figure out who it was until recently. On the back there is very faint writing, hard to read. It seems to say: "Well Zana Western CowBoy tonight how do I look, Cord." Zana Bell Morton (1887-1977) was the baby sister of Cordilus (Cord) Morton (1873-1948). He dressed up as a cowboy this picture, thinking to give it to his baby sister. Some signs read: "Snake Medicine", "His Girl", and "You D. Fool". A gun and holster are in place. Hands on hips. A sheepish grin. Where's the cows? For that matter, where's my horse. He looks about 18-20 years old which makes the picture taking about 1890s. [Probably just before his marriage in 1892?] Pretending, dressing up...maybe it was his last fling before adult life was to catch up with him.

Well Cordilus, as Roy Rogers would say, "Happy trails to you".

A Picture in Profile

Family pictures have a way of telling our family's stories. The picture to the right shows Granny Ewen, with her second child May Millicent born December 7, 1920. The picture was taken March 26, 1921, which would make Millicent around four months of age. The lady she is sitting with is not identified, but I would guess it is Granny's mother, Malaha Morton, nee Howell. The most striking thing about this picture is that Granny is sitting in profile. Almost every other family picture that I have show the folks sitting forward and facing the camera. Here Granny is gazing at Millicent who seems a bit shaken at this picture taking experience. Malaha is looking to the camera with a gaze that seems to say, don't you hurt my girls, or your life will be forfeited. The date of this picture gives the context. Granny had just lost their first child, Minnie Thelma Clay Ewen. In Granny's hand writing, she records "Minnie Thelma Clay Ewen - born March 24 1919 - Died March 11, 1920. age 11 mo. 16 days." Therefore, this picture would be taken around the anniversary of the death of her first child, and holding the hope of her second. No wounder Granny's gaze is to her daughter, and not to us. Her contented look seems to say, life goes on, and she is sitting in my lap...a picture in profile.

A Rainbow Gene

As part of my most recent birthday celebrations, my oldest, five year old grandson gave me a picture that he had drawn. It is shown at the right. A rainbow, glowing sun, and a tree make the picture a happy picture. He had wanted to give me a present that he had made himself. How precious it is, full of his love and imagination.

I was impressed that many years ago his Mom also drew a picture of our family. It shows us under a rainbow with a glowing sun. [See post titled "Daughter's Drawings", Friday, January 28, 2011.] When questioned about Sam's drawing, she reported no direction or guidance to Sam's creativity. It was all on his own. Ah...I thought...we must have a rainbow gene in our family.

A Blue Baby

Some sixty years ago today I was brought into this world by Dr. Averitt. Even now, I do not know his first name, for he was always called Dr. Averitt. He literally brought me into this world for I was born by C-section. In the early 1950s, this was not a common surgery. Only about 5 % of the deliveries were done by C-section as compared to roughly 30 % today. The reasons for this surgery was that my older brother had been born by C-section, and the medical standard of the day was "once a C-section, always a C-section". My Mom and Dad have always told me that I was a "blue baby"...all 5 pounds 2 ounces of me. This would generally mean that I was most likely premature, and at birth had underdeveloped lungs. Poor lungs, poor oxygen exchange, and cyanosis, thus a "blue baby" I would become. It would have been much harder to tell the exact gestational age [how long you have been in the oven since the ultrasound was some 30 years away. Only recently has my Dad shared that on this morning some sixty years ago, he prayed for me to live. He tells me that it was not real clear that I was going to make into this world. He had gone outside the hospital, sat under a tree, and started to bargain with God to let me live. I am not all sure what the bargain included, but I seem to have made it these sixty years. How many times has this happened? A Dad, or Mom, or both, asking God to save their child. The asking is part of the struggle. Often the answer is more of a struggle. Well Dad, thanks for the prayers. I believe that I was the one to get the most from this bargain. An Old Testament prophet from around 700 B.C. says: "He has told you, O man, what is good, and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?" [Micah chapter 6 verse 8.] That morning sixty years ago, Dad, thanks for your prayers. Hopefully, I will have some more walking to do.

Memories Alive

The stats section of blogspot.com informs me that there has now been more than 10,000 page views. What a deal! I can not believe that so many have shared in my memories. Thanks to those who have joined from more than 35 countries. I hope you will continue to share in the stories. Please say hello, and leave any comments. Let's keep the memories alive.

Life not Lived

The death of a child leaves a hole in the heart that is never filled. Life goes on but memories remain. May Millicent Ewen was born 7 December 1920, and died 25 December 1926. The picture to the right is of May Millicent, taken early in her childhood. It may be the only picture that the family has of her life. Granny Ewen and Granddad Ewen lost three children early in their married life. Their first child, Minnie Thelma Clay Ewen born, 24 March 1919, and died 11 March 1920. Their second child, May Millicent shown to the right. A third child named Susan Christina Ewen, born 7 April 1932, and died 25 July 1934. Lives not lived. What did we miss by not meeting or getting to know them. We will never know.

Say hello, May Millicent. What stories would you have told to your family? Those dark eyes, looking forward. You have the Ewen eyes and that Ewen round head! She is buried between her two sisters at Nada, just outside the front of the "Sunday Go to Meeting" church pictured in a previous post. Her grandfather and grandmother are buried just above. Forever part of the family...we certainly missed you.

Hickman Street School

Hickman Street School was the home of my family for at least three generations. Mam maw would have attended around 1910, Dad around 1930, Uncles Gene and Gayle around 1940, and my brother and I in the 1950s. The picture to the right shows the building as it stood before the 1940s. Large and impressive from the street, and stately to the onlooker. It had changed quite a bit before my brother and I attended with the front, back right, and sides much different looking. The lower left of the picture shows the bell tower of our main street church, and the top of Brown-Proctor Hotel just beyond. This drawing would have been made before the large Presbyterian Church was built and after 1873 when our Main Street church was built. No clear date is given on the drawing, but 18-- something is shown in the upper left.



The second picture shows my brother's first grade class of May, 1956. The picture is taken on the steps of the large Christian Church which stood on the hill across the street from the school. Here, the steps provided an ideal stage for class alignment, and provided the photographer a way to get all the faces in the picture. Four rows, equally spaced, and about equal shoulder to head ratio seems the pose.

My brother, Henry, is third row up, second from the right with that Jones straight line smile. Little did he know that the pretty little girl, Marcia, second row up, second from the left, would prove to be more than just a first grade classmate. For it was in this very church that some 14 years later they would come down these very steps as husband and wife. What a deal! Hickman Street School brought more than one family together.

Sunday go to Meeting

Going to church on Sunday was always a part of life for many of those living in my family's past generations. To get away from the daily tasks of life, and feed the spirit and soul was generally thought a good thing. The whole family; dad, mom, children, cousins, aunts, uncles, and friends would share time catching up with one another. [It was more common for the moms than the dads.] Coats and ties for the guys, hats and dresses for the gals, allowed for a general family clean-up and dress-up. The first picture shows such a gathering outside the home church at Nada. Lots of children of course, more women than men, and lots and lots of white dresses stage the picture. One little girl on the front row is looking down at the shoes of the fellow standing next to her..."wher'd you git those shoes"...she seems to be saying. It must have been one of those "hell", "fire", and "damnation" sermons for there does not seem to be a lot of happy faces. I would guess the preacher man is the one standing at the upper right, since it appears that he is holding the Bible. I roughly count about 100 souls this Sunday picture...a "Sunday go to Meeting".


This is a picture I took of that very church as it stood this past summer. Windows boarded up, locked, and falling apart, it looked mighty empty and alone standing there. All the folks in the first picture must be dead by now, or at least close to it. No coats, no ties, no hats, and no white dresses...only boarded windows and broken down steps. Where have the Sunday go to meeting days gone?

True Grit

Not to be out done, I thought it would be appropriate to show a picture of Dad. This picture is dated "School Days 1938-1939". Dad would have been a few years short of his 16th birthday, but this is the closest picture I could find to the age of 16 years. Rough and ready I would call it...hair slightly disheveled, collar raised on the right, suspenders showing. Don't mess with me and let's get this picture taking over.

Dad often told some of his childhood stories like jumping off the top of a boxcar while flipping onto a pile of sawdust, swimming across the Kentucky River to Boonesborough Beach because he did not want to pay, and hitch hiking to Lexington to enjoy Joy Land Park. You can sort of see this determination and independence in his face...left eye focusing, because he was left handed. True grit at 12-13 years of age. He often told that he was "passed around" a lot as a child. Pap paw had lost his right eye in an explosion, Mam maw was working full time, and Dad was pretty much left to his own design. One aunt taught him potty training by peeing on chickens. Too bad today that we do not have enough chickens to go around.

Christmas Decorations

Three to four inches of snow on Christmas eve made this the first white Christmas for our Jones family in about 10 years. Things were much quieter this year because only eight family members could join us. The snow, work, and the other sides of the family made us a very small group, compared to the 15 - 20 that usually joined in the family get together. Mom was unable to put up her usual "decorated to the hilt" tree this year, and many of the decorations remained in the boxes that my wife and middle daughter discovered. For several hours my wife, middle daughter, and Mom made a trip through our family history using the containers of decorations:

This one we put on the Christmas tree on Vine Street. [That would have been around 1955!] This one was taken to school by your Dad [that's me] every Christmas to help decorate the Christmas tree at school. [My intials were still on the bottom.] This one your Dad [that's me] made in Cub Scouts, which still showed the word "DAD" [for my Dad] in brightly colored letters on the large styrofoam ball. This one we got in Germany. This one I just liked. On and on our family Christmans was told through a box of decorations. My wife and daughter were excited when Mom told them to take what they wanted. This would probably be the last Christmas that she would be able to get all the decorations out and up around the house. My middle daughter loved it! Mother still wanted to keep the ones that my bother and I took to school every season. My Dad still wanted to keep the hand made one [from me] that proudly stated "DAD". We love you Mom. Thanks for the years you decorated the tree and your house with all the things you loved. May they continue to decorate our family home for generations to come.

Just another Thanksgiving

Just finished another Thanksgiving holiday with my family. It is now more than 60 years that we have had a Jones family get together at this time of the year. Hard to imagine, that my folks are in their 80's, my brother and I are in our 60's, and my youngest daughter, Ellen, just turned 30! The three grandsons certainly kept us hopping, and to see the family smile as our youngest grandson Ian stood for the first time was extra special. Of course this was holding on to the leg of the card table that we were using to play Trivial Pursuit. Ian was under this table lifting himself, being much in the center of our family's activities.

My middle daughter Lesley, presented me with a hard back book of my blogs, The Jones Genealogist. How special this was to receive her love as a gift which required much effort and time. She had arranged the blogs and pictures to capture my words.

My oldest daughter Lisa's son Sam, was a joy. He led the other two grandsons, Will and Ian, in a melody of memories.

Just another Thanksgiving...well not quite.

Being the Baby

It was not always easy being the "baby" of the family. Waiting seemed to be in the job description...no matter what you tried to do. Waiting for the bathroom, waiting for the comic strips on Sundays, waiting for the last pork chop, waiting for the choice of TV programs, waiting to be asked what you wanted for Christmas, on and on it goes. There was nothing like waiting for the inevitable proclamation made by mom that "this is my baby" when ever the topic of family was discussed. I would be brought to the forefront of the group that had assembled,and required to do my duty. I often made faces and crossed my eyes which made everyone laugh.

Now in our neighborhood, being called a baby was fighting words. There was "cry baby", "baby face", "act like a baby", "don't be a baby", and many other forms of the words. From the male perspective, you did not want to be a baby. From a mother's persective it was a place of honour.

I will always be the "baby" of our family. No matter what I try to do.