R-320 Walking The Bones

 I was engaged in doing a bit of genealogical research (actually I do quite a bit of it — not sure why, but it entertains me).  In particular I was trying to hunt down my great-great grandmother. We’ll call her “AAH”.

Being as I’m older than God, I have access to old family stories I’ve heard since waybackwhen and since my mother is much older than I am and presently inclined to wander through the thickets and memories of her youth, I also have access to hers. 

I suspect neither of us are models of clear-eyed accuracy in such matters, but occasionally a useful nugget turns up that matches some actual evidence that’s floating around out in the world.

Great-Great-Granny AAH, it seems, was a very short, foul-tempered old woman. What she was like as a girl is anyone’s guess, but one distant relative remembers HER grandmother saying that AAH could walk under a normal-sized woman’s outstretched arm without crouching. Another ancient relative remembers her aunt as being 8 or 9 years old when she commented to AAH that she (the 8-year-old) was almost taller than AAH, which observation apparently did not go down well. The venomous response was some version of “I’ll bet you think you’re pretty damned smart, don’t you missy?” spat at the child, which story echoes down through at least three branches of the family till today.

Born in Mississippi in 1839, she didn’t get around to marrying anyone until 1869. Remaining single in Mississippi until near-30 in those days was rare and is likely another indicator of a general inability to get along with anyone. Her husband, who was 10 years younger than her, died somewhere around 1900, probably in Mississippi** although his relief at finally escaping was so profound he didn’t bother to leave any paperwork on the matter, nor so much as a recorded gravesite, so that’s uncertain.

She turned up in about 1900 living with her daughter and son-in-law in Choctaw Nation, Indian Territories, (Oklahoma). Less than 10 years later, she re-appears living with yet another daughter and son-in-law back in Mississippi. 

By 1918 she was 79 years old and living in Texas with a combination of relatives, including at least one daughter, who finally got fed up with her (or was mean to her, depending on which version you listen to) and packed her up altogether and sent her into the Texas Poor Farm system.

This was a system of County-run farms which housed the local paupers, “idiots”, and a wide range of others who weren’t making any headway in life out amongst regular people. They would otherwise have starved or (as in the case of one apparently psychotic local woman who kept wandering off) chained to a heavy staple in the floor of a residential basement to keep them under control while everyone else got on with their lives.

Poor Farms were actually working farms that grew at least some of what they ate and even turned a small profit which got plowed back into the facilities and other support, at least mostly. They were, in short, that time’s version of working welfare, which was considered a local rather than a State or Federal problem. The Farms provided a place to live and sleep that was marginally better than being on the street, as well as shelter, meals, and productive work.

Every now and again, one of the local women’s groups would get all wound up at the conditions of the place and march and protest, which was about as useful as the sign-wavers today or any day. But when they really got their noses out of joint over it, a batch of them would band together and, herding their men along with them for the heavy lifting, go out to the Farm and clean the place up and rebuild things as part of their “Christian Duty”.

The truth was that however bad it was, it was probably mostly in the upper midrange of pauper storage facilities. That is to say it was only fairly horrible and many “inmates” and sometimes their families continued to live there for upwards of decades.  

Great-Great-Granny AAH was in for six years after being dumped there, finally dying in 1924 at 85 years of age, which event so far as I can tell is undocumented, unmissed, and unremarked anywhere in family history. As part of my deep-generational heritage of long-lived ancestors, my guess is she’d have lived near-forever except for what could be called an “interesting” life that likely shaved off a decade or two.

She was a tough old bird. Damned if I don't admire her a bit.

Anyhow, I’m accustomed to finding old gravesites and getting a picture and data to upload for the rest of the family and other genealogical freaks of the world to root around in. Again, I’m unclear on why I bother, except it entertains me, and I can pretend I’m doing something useful and not just going out and running around on my motorcycle for 200-400 miles to no purpose. Which, of course, I'm also doing.

But not this time. This time, I couldn’t even figure out where the Poor Farm was located. Crappy records, a courthouse fire, another fire in ‘45 that pretty much wiped out what the courthouse fire didn’t get, etc., etc., etc… I’ve spent years roaming all over that entire county, from one rumored location to another looking for non-existent roads, old platting surveys — and the freakin’ thing was just gone. 

Family was no help. Few spent any time visiting the old shrew, and the thready memories I could find were from people who, back then, were barely old enough to form memories in the first place, and generally consisted of “seems like it was a couple of miles (East/West/Up-River) from (pick a starting point)".

Finally, using an ancient map which had both a no-longer existing road mentioned on a US Census and an intersection I could match to a current location, I was able to plot a “probably about there” location. With this hazy clue I loaded up my GPS and milspec compass and made one more try the other day.

...and wound up in a brand-new (literally in the last two years) subdivision. Pristine streets of concrete so fresh you could practically smell it curing, huge houses, large lots, manicured parks — there ain’t no paupers anywhere within 5 miles of this picture-postcard place. Not long ago (i.e., the last time I was here) the entire area was dirt roads and brambles, hard as that is to believe now.

The GPS took me back about a mile into the neighborhood on a broad, gently curving road next to a brand-new park surrounding a man-made lake which used to be mostly swamp. 

And there, within 50 yards of my GPS SWAG (Scientific Wild-Assed Guess), the State of Texas has installed a highway-side historical marker marking the Poor Farm (which facility, along with a chunk of the missing records above, had all burned at some point in the early 1930s). 

Damned decent of them, I guess, but where were they when I started this search years ago?

More importantly and at least twice as cool, the State had bought and fenced-in about three acres that contained the old poor-farm cemetery just up the hill about 50 yards from the roadway.

It shortly became clear why I hadn’t been able to find any records of where AAH was buried. The entire small field was essentially open land with a couple of trees. They were paupers, you see. So that field is filled with unmarked graves because paupers don’t get headstones and whatever marginal records of estimated burial locations had ever existed burned along with — well, everything else.

There were a half-dozen or so markers, mostly crumbled to gravel or practically featureless slabs with whatever was engraved on them mostly long gone. A few had death dates back in the 1850s and ‘60s (pre-Civil War), and probably belonged to the rich folk who owned the land before they sold or donated it to the County for the Farm, but nothing else but the occasional engraved family name. 

One of these in surprisingly good shape belonged to “Willis (Family Last Name) — Colored” who died in 1863 at 55 years of age. He’s buried some bit away from the other markers. He was almost certainly a slave, but apparently highly regarded by the family, as slave graves are usually about as poorly marked and even less recorded than Great-Great-Granny AAH’s was.

The rest is mostly a featureless and (given the properties surrounding it) VERY high-dollar piece of land containing Great-Great-Granny AAH and between 100 and 200 other paupers, misfits, and miscellaneous societal debris. 

After all these years, she finally made it into a snobby neighborhood.

The grassy field itself is well maintained and perfectly scenic, quiet except for the occasional chatter of suburban speed-walkers across the street and subliminal hums of golfcarts in the park. As I walked the graveyard looking for non-existent clues, I almost certainly stood on AAH’s grave at some point. 

When walking the bones like this it is near-impossible to not feel a deep connection to how little a mark any of us will ever make on the universe or the river of time. Eighty-five years of hard life, and died less than a hundred years ago — practically yesterday, really — and nothing remains but a couple of census entries, whispered family rumors, and an unmarked grave nestled in with the rich folk who probably still don't notice.

It doesn’t take but a few minutes in some quiet place like this to realize yet again that this, sooner rather than later, is pretty much going to be the story of all of us.

I think I quite like that.

----------------------------------------------------

Follow Up:

The Most Evil Tree In Texas (So-Named By The Beneficiary)
Found in AAH's cemetery. Yes, those are 8-inch spikes.
The Beneficiary says that based on AAH's reputation,
this thing probably marks her grave.

 

----------------------------------------------------

^{** [New information was found in which it seems her husband is not buried in Mississippi after all. Great-great-granddad in fact got into some kind of beef over a property line and when the court ruled against him, he appealed the case by the simple expedient of killing the other guy. This was apparently poorly received by the locals, and he went on the run, disappearing, as old rumor has it, into Indian Territory. Which explains how AAH wound up as a widow in Oklahoma in 1900. Great great-granddad probably occupies an unmarked grave somewhere in Oklahoma, although no shred of evidence one way or the other exists. ]↩}