To Genealogist Everywhere: We are the Chosen

We are the chosen. In each family there is one who seems called to find the ancestors. To put flesh on their bones and make them live again, to tell the family story and to feel that somehow they know and approve.

Doing genealogy is not a cold gathering of facts but, instead, breathing life into all who have gone before. We are the story tellers of the tribe. All tribes have one. We have been called, as it were, by our genes. Those who have gone before cry out to us, "Tell our story!" So, we do.

In finding them, we somehow find ourselves. How many graves have I stood before? How many times have I told the ancestors, "You have a wonderful family; you would be proud of us." How many times have I walked up to a grave and felt somehow there was love for me? I cannot say.

It goes beyond just documenting facts. It goes to who am I and why do I do the things I do. The bones here are bones of my bone and flesh of my flesh. It goes to pride in what our ancestors were able to accomplish, how they contributed to what we are today. It goes to respecting their hardships and losses, their never giving in or giving up, their resoluteness to go on and build a life for their family.

It goes to deep pride that the fathers fought and some died to make and keep us a Nation. It goes to a deep and immense understanding that they were doing it for us. It is of equal pride and love that our mothers struggled to give us birth. Without them we could not exist, and so we love each one, as far back as we can reach. That we might be born who we are. That we might remember them. So we do.

With love and caring and scribing each fact of their existence, because we are they and they are the sum of who we are. So, as a scribe called, I tell the story of my family. It is up to the one called in the next generation to answer the call and take my place in the long line of family storytellers.

This is why I do my family genealogy, and that is what calls those young and old to step up and restore the memory or greet those whom we have never known before. So we do.

Author Unknown

Handwriting from History

Nicholas Jones, my 6th generation grandfather, was born 14 November 1762, in Caroline Co., Virginia. In 1832 he was a resident of Clark Co., Kentucky where he applied for a pension "...in order to obtain the benefit of the act of Congress passed June 7th 1832." His Revolutionary Service Record is numbered S16169 Virginia Service. This record states that Nicholas Jones entered the company of James Johnson on the 13th day of June 1780 as a substitute for his father Griffin Jones, who had been drafted. This would have made Nicholas 17 years old when he entered the War. The military record gives a detailed account of the service given which includes the battle of Camden, SC, Guildford's Courthouse, NC, and the battle of Yorktown. A certificate of pension was issued the 10th day of December 1832 by the court in Winchester, Kentucky. The record also records that Joseph Jones and John Jones were his bothers, who also appeared in court to serve as witnesses for Nicholas. The record then goes on to document that his name was placed on the pension roll of the state of Kentucky from "...from where he has lately removed; that he now resides in the state of Indiana and where he intends to remain and live and wishes his pension payable there in the future. The following are his reasons for moving from Kentucky to Indiana. His children and grand children removed from said state of KY to Indiana, and on account of his age and infirmities he was inclined to follow them." At the end of this document is the signature of Nicholas Jones. A copy is shown to the right. Handwriting from the history of my family is part of the treasure that 50 years of genealogy has provided. What a treasure it is.

Baptist

Nicholas Jones, the father of Thomas Jones, was the first to bring our Y-chromosome into Kentucky. He moved from Spotsylvania Co., VA, where he had been living since the close of the Revolutionary War. In 1811, he arrived with a fairly large number of family members (six boys), and settled initially in Fayette Co., KY. He joined with the South Elkhorn Baptist Church located close to the Fayette Co., Jessimine Co., line at the point that Harrodsburg Road now crosses South Elkhorn. This Church was the first congregation, of any kind, organized on the north side of the Kentucky River early in the fall of 1783. It had been gathered by Lewis Craig and constituted principally of members who had belonged to the Upper Spotsylvania Church. Some of our family must have immigrated to KY as part of this congregation since they originated from the same area that Nicholas Jones had lived. South Elkhorn became the "mother" Church of all Baptist Churches north of the Kentucky River. Lewis Craig was assisted by John Shackleford who started his ministry in Caroline Co., VA where our Nicholas was born in 1762. The Shackleford family obtained land on 4 Mile Creek in Clark Co., KY where Nicholas ends up moving to in 1817.

The records of South Elkhorn Baptist Church record that on the 4th Saturday, April 1817, that the following members were "dismissed": Nicholas Jones, Dorothy Jones, Richard Jones, Griffin Jones, William H. Jones, John Jones, Younger Jones, Griffin Jones, Elizabeth Jones, Permelian Jones, and Peggy Jones. Nicholas Jones with wife Dorotha, is recorded in the Clark Co., land patent book [book 15, p. 16], buying 50 acres of land on the waters of 4 Mile Creek. Who would have believed that our family started out Baptist.

Generations

My Y-chromosome in Kentucky comes down to me in the follow way:

Me = The 50's Generation = The Vietnam War Generation

Dad (Henry Edward Jones) = The WW II Generation

Pap paw (Joseph Wheeler Jones) = The WW I Generation

E.T. (Edward Turner Jones) = The Re-construction Generation

W.C. (William Carter Jones) = The Civil War Generation

Thomas Jones = The War of 1812 Generation

Nicholas Jones = The Revolutionary War Generation.

How sad that almost each generation can be grouped by war! What generation are you?

Fences

Fences helped to define our neighborhood at 25 Vine Street. Everywhere you tried to play or wanted to climb a tree, there was a fence. The longest fence ran north to south along the middle of the block between Smith Street and Vine Street. It was generally the tallest with 6 foot wooden post and metal wire fencing material. There were a few placed you could go under or over, but these were kept a secret. In some areas tall trees lined this fence (always on the other side). These trees did provide some shade on our side of the fence on hot summer days.

Perpendicular to this long fence was a series of shorter fences that ran west to the sidewalk on Vine Street. From Broadway northward up Vine Street, the first fence was the one that separated old man Elkin's back yard from the Frazer's side yard. This fence line had all kinds of vines, grapes, two mulberry tress, honey suckle, wild strawberries, red rose bushes and lots of poison ivy. Half way up this fence was the Elkin's chicken yard with chicken coop and hen house. When we played kick ball, from home plate in our yard, to over the chicken coop was a home run. [The Elkins still raised chickens and there was nothing like watching a chicken running around with its head cut off!]

Frazer's, our yard, and the Hill's yard shared a section with no fences between. The only problem here was that the upper third of the Hill's yard was a garden. Mr. Hill planted this garden every summer which just made our "home plate" back up to the garden. Between Mr. Hill's yard and the Rankin's yard was another tall fence which was not easy to climb. I am not sure who placed this fence, but it was a good boundary keeping the Rankin's kids out of Mr. Hill's garden. Immediately next was another fence which separated the Rankin's yard from the Powell's yard. We were never allowed to play in the Powell's yard, and we called Mrs. Powell "witch Hazel" due to here pleasant disposition. She refused to let anyone play in her yard! Of course there was a fence on the other side separating the Powell's yard from the Hatton's yard.

The Hattons, Rankins, Frazers, and Joneses play together most of the time. For the 18years I lived at 25 Vine Street, all the fences remained intact. We got use to them being there. They were part of life. Fences setting boundaries. Part of my growing up was learning to live with fences.

Perfect Attendance

Attending church was a regular part of the 1950s. Each family would dress up, dad in a suit, mom in a dress, and the young-uns did the best they could do. The south end of town was the cluster of churches that became the most active part of town on Sunday mornings. Even finding a place to park a car was difficult, especially if your church faced Main street like ours. It seemed that almost all the families in Winchester attended church. We were no exception.

Dad was the "song leader" (music director), and mom taught one of the children's Sunday School classes. Being the song leader was a key position in our church since there were no organs, pianos, keyboards, drums, guitars, or any sort of musical instruments. Ours was a Church of Christ which did not believe in instrumental music. You sang from the heart using your voice only. Acapella it was called. Getting this started on the right key was a real task.

My perfect attendance pin is shown. Nine years of perfect attandance! Can you imagine, 108 Sundays in a row not being sick. I guess that some needed a little extra help, and I certainly needed it. Not that I was perfect, far from it. But, as to attendance, I didn't do too bad.

Things Back Together

The back is an amazing part of the human anatomy. You tend to take it for granted until it stops working exactly right. A slipped disc certainly throws a wringer in the back's function. I have been "laid up" the last four days with a slipped disk. Just in case you were wondering where I have been not writing on my blogs. Hope to get things back together here shortly. Not much fun at present, but will try to get back on line soon.