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                                CHAPTER TWELVE
                           AN INDIAN IN THE FAMILY 

   After we finished with the planting in 1824, I asked William, Young G., Wiley, Julius,
Dempsey Hatcher, Buck Forrest, and Tom Wright to come over and bring their families for a
get-together on Sunday, June 20th. William and Elizabeth Andrews had been there visiting for the
previous week. They now have a boy, four, and a little girl, two. They named them Wyche and
Rebecca. 
   Every one got there ‘bout mid-morning, and since it was Sunday, William Andrews read a little
from the Bible and led us in prayer. It was a nice, warm summer day, so T.J. and Sarah
accompanied all the younguns down to the swimming hole. The menfolk settled in the rockers on
the front porch, and the women were busy out in the kitchen getting everything ready for dinner.
Frances and Tom had two new babies now. Julius Wright, born on September 1, 1821, and
Theophilus Wright, born on November 3, 1822.
   I began with, “I think it’s time to have a little family meetin’. William and Young G. have been
makin’ noises ‘bout the possibility of sellin’ out and movin’ to Alabama. I know all a’ y’all read
the letter I got from ya uncle last year, and if y’all felt like I did when ya got through, all a’ y’all
got a little a’ that Alabama fever. Well, I’m here to tell you that I’ve prayed ‘bout it and put in a
powerful bunch a’ thinkin’ ‘bout it, and I’ve decided that I’m a’ goin’. I talked it over with Becky,
Sarah, and T.J. and they agree, but only if all a’ y’all come with us.” 
   Nobody spoke for what seemed like five minutes, then William Andrews broke the silence
with, “Me and Elizabeth are with ya, Theo. Most of my kinfolk are already over there anyway,
and, as we all know, Mama died a couple a’ years ago. When we gonna leave?” I answered,
“Well, I need to get this crop in to have the cash I’ll need for some younger oxen and a couple of
newer wagons, so I was thinkin’ around next February or March. I’m plannin’ to buy ‘bout five
hundred acres from Young, if he’ll sell me that much. Of course, I won’t have to worry ‘bout
sellin’ our land. Wiley, since it is still in Bartlett’s estate, that’ll be your problem.” Wiley replied,
“Since my sister-in-law, Judy, got married, it’s just Amy, me and Caroline. Papa, all three of us
have that fever you been talkin’ about, in the worst way. I don’t think I’ll have any trouble sellin’
the land.”
   Julius joined in with, “Papa, I didn’t want to say anythin’ before you brought it up, but I’ve
already looked into the possibility of me and Young G. transferrin’ to the Alabama Militia and
keepin’ our rank. They said they need good young officers in the worst way, so everything has
been approved. Margaret and the children are ready anytime.” 
   Julius continued, “I’ve got some more good news for y’all. The Federal Government has
appropriated money for improvin’ the bridges on Federal Road all the way from Augusta to
Mobile, Alabama. Seems some French Royalty, a fellow named Lafayette, plans to make a tour
from Augusta to New Orleans in April of next year so they’re buildin’ new bridges over the
smaller streams and improvin’ the roadbed itself. I understand they even have stagecoaches
makin’ regular trips back and forth to Alabama now.”
   The biggest shock that any of us had in a long time came when Dempsey Hatcher said, “Y’all
don’t know anything ‘bout my past, do you? Well, I’ve got more kinfolks in Alabama than any a’
y’all. I was born in Alabama in 1800 and was raised there until I was thirteen. You see, my
mother was what y’all would call an Indian squaw. My papa was white and left home over in the
Newberry area when he was twenty-three. That was in ‘bout 1785. He made his way west as far
as the Alabama River. He wound up workin’ for a Frenchman at a trading post on the Alabama
River, in a county now called . Monroe, close to a place now called Ft. Claiborne. 
   My grandfather was one of the chiefs in a tribe of Creeks called the Alabamas. I suppose that’s
where the river got it’s name. To make a long story short, my father saw my mother several times
at the post, before he got up the nerve to ask for her hand in marriage. The marriage negotiations
were made with my mother’s uncle, not my grandfather, which was the tradition with the
Alabamas. My father said he worked for another year to get up the money to buy the five horses
the uncle wanted. 
   He moved into her village and lived as an Indian until she was killed in a raid by whites. He and
I were out hunting at the time. We heard the shots at a distance, but it was too late when we got
back. Both Mama and my eight-year old sister were dead. That was in 1813, right after the
massacre at Fort Mims. After they were buried, Papa saddled two horses, used another for a pack
horse, and me and him headed east for the Saluda River and back home for him. From that time
on, Papa has forbidden me to speak one word of this to anyone, even his own brothers and sisters.
I speak the language of the Alabamas tribe and their language, even though a little different, is
understood by all seven of the tribes that make up the Creek Nation. From the time we left
Alabama, it has been a forbidden language as far as Papa is concerned.
   I’m proud of my Indian heritage, and I dearly loved my mother and little sister. Charity knew
all this when we got married, but I would like for y’all to keep it strictly in the family. Again, rest
assured, I’m proud of my Indian blood, but I understand that even if you’re only one-fourth
Indian, you aren’t allowed to own land. I definitely plan to buy land when I get back to Alabama.” 
   There was a long silence, and finally I said, “Well, Dempsey, I take it that you’re comin’ with
us. Is that right?” He replied through a wide grin, “You better believe we are.”
   The only families that wouldn’t consider moving were those of Tom Wright and Buck Forrest.
Tom’s folks were in their late seventies, and he said he just couldn’t leave them right now. Same
thing with Buck. They didn’t say it this way, but I knew they didn’t want to leave all the land they
would get when their folks died. Frances and Gillie will be broken hearted when they find out.
   About that time the dinner bell clanged on the back porch, and a stream a’ younguns poured in
from the yard like flies. William Andrews said the blessing, and we all settled down to a feast fit
for royalty. The entire conversation while we were eating revolved ‘round our planned pilgrimage
to what some people are now describing as the garden spot of the world. While we sat around the
sawhorse tables after dinner, I got everyone’s attention by tapping on the table with my pocket
knife. 
   I said, “William and I are gonna pack our hosses and head out up to Laurens County
tomorrow and talk to Harris and as many of the other Goodwin kin as we can find, just to see if
there’s been an outbreak of Alabama fever up there.” I continued, “From what I’m thinkin’ now,
seems like we might have as many as twenty families with us. Of course, that means we gotta
have someone in charge at all times, especially when it comes to campsites and river crossings and
also dealin’ with the Indians. My recommendation, because of his military experience, and havin’
made the trip there and back, is that Julius be the one. We are very fortunate to have Dempsey
with us. He will be a big help if we have any trouble in communicatin’ with the Indians.” 
   Assuming a positive reaction, I said, “ Is everyone in agreement with my sugestion?”
Everybody nodded their heads in agreement. Julius said, “I appreciate the confidence y’all have
put in me, and I know Papa’s right. A movement of that many people over five hundred miles
through a wilderness populated by Indians definitely needs a somewhat military type of disipline.”
He then turned to Young G. and asked, “I definitely want you to help me in this capacity, Young.
Is that all right with you?”
   Young agreed and Julius continued, “Countin’ Harris and his family, we now have eight
families signed on. We’ll pick up William and Elizabeth when we pass through Hancock County.
It’ll take us ‘bout three or four days to get that far.” William responded, “We’ll be packed up and
ready to meet y’all in Sparta on the third of March.” Julius continued, “If any other families wish
to go, they’ll have to abide by the decisions we’ve made here today, and also by any decisions that
have to be made on the trail. My suggestion is, we draw up a contract of sorts, includin’ a few
simple requirements and have everyone makin’ the trip literally sign on. He then turned to Sarah
and asked, “Sarah, would you get us some writin’ paper and a quill and ink?”
   By the middle of the afternoon, we had ironed out a simple set of regulations. Sarah did the
writing and left the bottom and the back of the page for signatures. Everyone there contributed
their part and we were all in full agreement with the finished paper. The first eight people,
including Sarah, then signed. We decided on March 1, 1825 as the departure date. 
   William and I were saddled up and heading across the creek toward the rising sun the on the
morning of June 21st. It was a full two days of hard riding up to Harris’ place. They were farming
two hundred forty acres of land just off the Enoree River on Beaverdam Creek. We rode into his
yard just before dark on June 23rd. It took us very little time to convince Harris and Mary to go
with us. 
   Mary was so happy, she was fit to be tied. Her folks had already moved over there in 1822,
and she was ready. As Harris put it, “She’s been pesterin’ the devil outta me eva’ day for the past
two years, a’ wantin’ to go.” As he signed the agreement he asked, “Have y’all been over to Theo
T.’s place yet? He and all a’ his boys been makin’ noises ‘bout sellin’ out and takin’ off west, but
they can’t seem to get up enough folks to make a safe trip out of it.” I said, “Well, first thing in
tha’ mornin’ let’s ride ova’ there. How long will it take us?” Harris answered, “‘Bout an hour at a
good walk, all we gotta do is cross the creek, climb the ridge, and we’re on their land.” 
   I asked Harris, “Do you ever get over to Union County to see any a’ Uncle John’s younguns
or grand younguns?” He answered, “Sho’ I do. I see Wyche eva’ time I’m ova’ there. He’s
married now and got a four-year old boy named after his great-grandpa John. He told me just last
month, that it seems like eva’body in the Unionsville area is talkin’ ‘bout headin’ to either
Tennessee or Alabama. 
   You remember Uncle John’s daughter Cassie, what married one a’ them rich Hays boys, don’t
cha?” Without waiting for an answer, Harris continued, “Well, she’s got a daughter named
Elizabeth. She just married one of ole Jonas Littles’ younguns, Amos I think they call him. Well,
they all talkin’ ‘bout movin’ ova’ to Conecuh County, Alabama.”
   Once you get Harris excited there ain’t no shuttin’ him up.
He went on, “Y’all know Wyche’s papa, Sampson’s been dead nigh on twenty years now. Well,
his youngest daughter Sandal, married her cousin, Daniel Jackson, ‘bout two years ago. They’re
plannin’ to leave for Alabama with some of the Jackson families ‘bout the same time y’all talkin’
‘bout. One a’ cousin Anna Woodson’s boys, Goodwin, is goin’. He married a Jackson too, a
sister of Daniel’s. He claims all the Woodsons are pickin’ up and headin’ for Tennessee, so he
might as well leave, too. Wyche says they been a’ pesterin’ him to go too, but he tells eva’body
he’s gonna be buried right there on the property where he was born.”
   I asked Harris to be responsible for contacting all the Union County folks that might want to
join us, and then said, “I’m plum tuckered out from all that ridin’, I’m going to bed. We’ll head
over to see Theo T. first thing tomorrow.”
   Harris, William, and I forded Beaverdam Creek a small distance east of the house and and rode
northeast up to the ridge. Harris stopped, pointed to smoke rising from a chimney over in the next
valley and said, “That’s Theo T.’s place. Looks like Nancy’s cookin’ breakfast. If y’all look a
little bit to the left down there you can see Durbin Creek. Just like Beaverdam, it empties into the
Enoree River ‘bout four or five miles to the East.”
   Harris continued, “Theo T. and his brothers and sisters own just about this whole valley from
here to the river. I understand Theo T. and his brothers, Thomas and Solomon, got in a’ little bit
of a land squabble with their brothers-in-law when ole Theophilus, Jr. died, but they all seem to
get along fine now. Thomas is the one I bought our land from. Solomon lives over at the mouth
of Duncans Creek. He’s got three boys now. The oldest is Starling,  nineteen, then Solomon Jr.,
fifteen, and he’s got one with the same name as me. Harris is Thirteen.”
   We rode into the yard, and folks came pouring out the front door. Theo T. and Nancy
recognized Harris, but none of them knew me and William from Adam. It must have taken Harris
ten minutes just to introduce us all around. We met Thomas, thirty; Joshua, twenty-three; Becky’s
namesake Rebecca, twenty-one; Milberry, nineteen; John, twenty-two; and Theophilus T. Jr.,
seventeen. Temperance Parsons, their Twenty-seven year old daughter, was over visiting. She had
married Theophilus Parsons ‘bout ten years ago. She had her three daughters, Milberry, CasaAnn,
and Tabatha with her.  
   Of course, I remembered Theo T. from when they left North Carolina back in 1772. I was only
eleven at the time, and Theo T. was eight. Theo T. is the spittin’ image of how I remember his
papa, ‘bout five ten, stocky, with a thick gray beard growing out of a swarthy red face. Theo T.
said, “Been a long time since we laid eyes on each other. ‘Bout fifty-two years, if my memory
serves me right.” 
   I replied, “Yeah, lotta water’s gone under the bridge since then.” Nancy said, “We all just got
up from the breakfast table, y’all come on in and make y’all’s selves to home. Have y’all had
breakfast yet?” William answered, “Yes, mam, but I sure could use another cup a’ coffee.” The
three of us sat down on the porch with Theo T. and his boys, Thomas and Joshua, while the girls
went with Nancy to get us all some coffee.
   As we sat down, Theo T. told his son Theo,  “Go on out to the barn and saddle yo’self a hoss.
Then I want you to ride ova’ to ya brother’s house and tell him we got some comp’ny I want ‘im
to meet.” Theo was off in a flash. I asked, “You got more younguns, Theo?” He answered, “Sho’
do. Solomon and Nicy got married ‘bout five years ago. They got two pretty little gals, too.
Frances , four and Mary, six. Of course, Tom, John, and Josh here ain’t married yet. They claim I
work ‘em so hard they don’t have time to do no courtin’.”
   After they served the coffee, Rebecca, Milberry, and Temperance went back inside and started
cleaning the breakfast table. Nancy got a cup of coffee, sat down with us, and said, “Sure is nice
to meet new kinfolk. Theo’s papa used to talk about y’all all the time. Harris has kept us up on
your family since he moved ova’ heah. I’ve often wondered if I’d eva’ get the chance to meet
y’all.”
   Solomon and Theo came ridin’ up ‘bout that time and after the introductions, Solomon pulled
up a chair and sat down with us. Nancy asked, “Do y’all eva’ heah anything from Uncle George
Goodwin’s younguns?” I told her, “No, we haven’t heard from or seen them since we saw Uncle
George back in 1791, at Uncle John’s place when we were on the way down here.” She
continued, “Well, y’all know he died ova’ in Georgia, back in 1821, don’tcha?” I answered
“Yeah, Young mentioned it in his last letter. He said they moved ova’ there back in 1805.”
   Nancy said, “They were neighbors and friends of my mama and papa, when they lived ova’ in
Spartanburg County.” Theo T. interrupted saying, “Her mama and papa are Henry and Margaret
Bramblet. They live ‘bout eight or ten miles ‘cross the river. In fact, the first time I eva’ laid eyes
on Nancy was when Papa took us all ova’ to Uncle George’s place for a Sunday get-together.
First time she rolled them purty blue eyes at me, I was hooked fa’ life.” 
   As her face flushed bright red, Nancy said, “Quit interruptin’ me, Theo. I was tryin’ to catch
them up on Uncle George and Aunt Rebecca’s children.”  She continued, “Robinson took ova’
the farm when George died. Rebecca still lives there with him and his wife. The other two boys,
William and Henry, are both married and farmin’ there in Wilkes County. His six daughters, Patsy,
Amelia, Amy, Elizabeth, Catherine, and Rebecca, are all married now, and I don’t rightly know
where ’bouts they live.”
   We must’ve sat there and talked for ‘bout three or four hours, catching each other up on all
the Goodwin families and our plans for the move to Alabama. Theo T. and his boys were very
interested in the land up in Jefferson County Young had described in his last letter. I let them read
Young’s last two letters, even though the one from 1822 was gettin’ a little frayed by now from
being read so much. After Nancy finished reading the letters out loud for everyone, their
excitement was at a fever pitch. We were all surprised when the girls came out and said dinner
was on the table. After we finished eating, I turned to Nancy and said, “That’s one a’ the finest
meals I eva’ sat down to. You sho’ do have some fine girls.” She replied, “Well, thank you, we
did our best to raise ‘em right.” 
   Theo T., Solomon, Tom, John, and Josh were pleased to see how well we were planning the
trip. As Theo was signing the papers, he said, “We ain’t eva’ had no dealings with a general, but
we’re sho’ lookin’ foward to it.” I asked, “What about your brothers, Thomas and Solomon? I
was hopin’ to see them.”  He answered, “I’ll talk to ‘em, but they’re both farmin’ some prime
bottom land down on the river and both doin’ real well. I sho’ would like for ‘em to go with us,
but I don’t think they will.” He continued, “Have y’all talked to Uncle Mark’s younguns yet?” I
said, “No, but we’re stoppin’ back by there on the way home.” He said, “I’ll meet you ova’ at
Harris’s ‘fore sunup tomorrow. I wanta ride down there with ya.” Tom and Josh chimed in at the
same time, “We’ll go with ya, too.”  I said, “Fine, we’ll sho’ enjoy the comp’ny.” We shook hands
with all the men, hugged all the women and rode off toward Harris’s place.
   Theo T. and his boys woke us up the next morning, pounding on the front porch. When Harris
opened the door, Theo T. said, “Y’all better git on up, tha’ sun’s already toppin’ the ridge, we’re
burnin’ daylight.” Mary got up and fixed us one of the finest breakfast I eva’ put my teeth into.
She made a huge pot a’ grits, scrambled two dozen eggs, fried a big pile a’ smoked ham, baked a
big pan a’ biscuits, made ham gravy, an boiled a big pot a’ coffee. When we finished eatin’, I
rubbed my stomach and said, “Mary, I’m full as a’ tick, and that ole hoss a’ mine ain’t gonna be
too happy when I put this extra ten pounds on ‘im afterwhile.” We said our goodbyes to Harris
and Mary, and the five of us headed out toward Mark Jr.’s place. 
   We rode east, up to the head waters of Beaverdam Creek, then turned southeast toward Little
River. The trip only took ‘bout an hour and a half. When the five of us rode into the yard ‘bout
nine that morning, it was like we stirred up a beehive. Both grownups and younguns swarmed out
of the house and barn like bees. Even though Theo T. told me earlier that Mark Jr. and Nancy had
ten younguns, it was still a sight to behold. Uncle Mark Sr. died back in 1793, and his wife,
Elizabeth Smith Goodwin, died in 1820.
   At her death, she left her boys Mark Jr., Thomas, and Peter, in pretty good shape as far as land
was concerned. She divided over one thousand acres between Duncans Creek and Little River
among the three.  I never met Aunt Elizabeth; in fact, I’ve never met any of their children. When
we all settled down on and around the front porch, Theo T. started the introductions from Nancy
and Mark Jr. right on down to their youngest child, Joseph. There was John, twenty-one;
Thomas, twenty; Mark III, eighteen; Wyche, seventeen; Elizabeth, sixteen; James, fourteen; Sally,
twelve; Nancy, ten; Peter, eight; and Joseph, six. 
   Mark Jr. caught us up on the history of Uncle Mark and Aunt Elizabeth’s family. When he
finished, I said to Nancy, “Is there any chance we might know your folks?” She replied, “I don’t
know, I come from a long line of preachers. My folks are Joseph Jr., and Alcey Parsons. Papa is
our preacher over at the Duncans Creek Baptist Church. My grandfolks were Joseph and
Susannah Woody Parsons. He was a preacher, too. My brother, Sam, married Mark’s sister,
Toby, so we are a pretty close knit family.”
   She then turned to Betsy and said, “You take your sisters out to tha’ kitchen and start cookin’
those peas we shelled last night and fix a pan a’cornbread.” She turned to James and continued,
“James, you take Pete and Joe and go on out to the garden and pull some a’ them roas’nears.
Now, make sure they’re filled out good. While you’re out there pick ‘bout a dozen of tha’ ripest
tomatoes and take ‘em all in tha’ kitchen. Pick some hot peppers too. Wyche, go out yonder and
pick out four good fryers, ring their necks and take ‘em in to tha’ girls. Betsy, y’all fry tha’ good
parts and cook tha’ backs and necks in a’ pot a’ rice.” As they scurred off, Nancy turned to us
and said, “Well, that takes care of tha’ younguns and dinner. Now, where were we?
   William caught them up on the recent history of our immediate family and ended up explaining
our upcoming move to Alabama. After reading Young’s letter, Mark Jr. with a wry grin on his
face said, “All good minds must run along the same track. My pa-in-law informed us ‘bout two
weeks ago that they’re pullin’ up stakes and headin’ for Alabama. He claims the Lord told him
there was was a need for some good preachin’ over there since eva’body and his brother seem to
be headin’ that way. Nancy, here’s, been puttin’ up a howl to go with ‘em eva’ since. Ole Joe’s
got a buncha married younguns that are also plannin’ to go with him. There’s eight of ‘em, not
even countin’ Sam and my sister Toby, as we call her, and they all have a passel a’ younguns too.
It’d take at least a dozen wagons to haul all us. Readin’ that letter sold me. When we leavin’?” I
said, “Well, all the folks from up this way will be meetin’ up at the Red Bank Church yard on the
last day of February next year. Harris knows exactly how to get there. It’s across the Saluda River
at Chapel’s Ferry and ‘bout eight miles down the Edgefield Road. We plan to pull out from there
at dawn the first day of March. If you, Harris and Theo T. sorta’ put things together up here, y’all
oughta have a pretty good size wagon train together right down the road here in Laurensville
when y’all leave. It’ll take y’all a couple a’ days to get there. It’s ‘bout twenty-five or thirty miles.
Y’all oughta be trail broke by then and can teach us a few things.” 

   Theo T. asked, “What about your brothers, Mark? You think 
they might wanta go?” Mark Jr. answered, “No, I brought the subject up when I saw Tom and
Pete over in town the other day, and both of ‘em said they they had no intentions of leavin’ the
land they had worked all their lives. I’m sure I can sell ‘em my part of the land. I guess my
brothers and I will be splittin’ up for the first time in our lives. Toby and Sam will be goin’ with us
for sure.” Nancy said, “On y’alls way home, y’all oughta stop by Solomon and Sally’s place. You
remember Uncle Peter’s boy what married Uncle John’s girl, Sally?” I answered, “Sho’ I do. He
came down here with us back in ninety-one. I was the one who convinced him to ask Sally to
marry him.” By the time Mark Jr. and Nancy finished reading and discussing Julius’ regulations
and signing on, Betsy was ringing the dinner bell.
   After stuffing ourselves on that scrumptious dinner, we all retired to the front porch. Wyche
said, “Papa, I’m near ‘bout eighteen, and me an Rachel Powers plan on gettin’ married this fall, so
I ain’t goin’ with y’all.” As his face flushed with anger, Mark said, “Good God a’mighty boy, I
knew you were sweet on that youngun, but not that sweet. How y’all gonna make a livin’? How
come you don’t just get married, and y’all come with us? What’s her folks got to say ‘bout this?
She ain’t pregnant, is she?” We all burst out laughing when a bewildered Wyche answered, “Papa,
which one a’ them questions you want me to answer first?” Mark replied, “I don’t care, just
answer ‘em.” Wyche used his index finger to point to the fingers on his opposite hand and count,
“Well, one, farming; two, she won’t leave her folks; three, they ain’t happy; and four, no.” By
then Mark had calmed down a little and started laughing with us.
   ‘Bout mid-afternoon, Theo T. and his boys headed back home, and William and I headed in the
opposite direction toward Solomon and Sally’s place. We figured to spend the night there. We
were surprised to find it was only ‘bout half an hour’s ride. When we rode into the yard, Solomon
was sitting on the porch in a rocker with his feet propped on the banister. Before he even
recognized us, he hollered, “Y’all git down and sit a spell.” As I started up the steps he finally
recognized me and jumped up saying, “Lordy mercy, Theo, is it sho’ ‘nuff you?” He grabbed me
in a great big bear hug and said, “I figured I’d never see hide nor hair a’ y’all again, when y’all left
us back at Uncle John’s place in ninety-one.”
   I looked him up and down and said, “Solomon, you don’t look a day older ‘cept you’re
balder’n a peeled onion. Where’d all ya hair go?” He laughed and joked, “Sally done snatched it
all out in her frustration from being married to me fa’ tha’ last thirty-three years.” He then turned
and yelled, “Sally, come on out heah, we got comp’ny!” She came running out, and I could tell by
the look on her face she didn’t recognize us. The only time she ever saw us was a couple a’ days
at Uncle John’s when we moved to South Ca’lina. She was just as prim and pretty as she was
back then except for a few gray hairs. I finally said, “I’m Theo, and this is my son, William.” She
then remembered who we were and gave us both a big hug.
   After we caught each other up on our families, Solomon said, “Theo, you wait right there for a
minute, I got a surprise fa’ ya.” He disappeared around the house and a few minutes later came
walking back accompanied by an old Negro man. He said, “Theo, you know who this is?” I
answered, “I sho’ do. That’s gotta be Fed.” Fed, now eighty-four, said, “You sho’ right ‘bout
that, Missa Theo. You still look just like yo’ granpappy.” Solomon said, “Come on up heah on the
porch, sit down and visit with us for a spell, Fed.” As he settled in a rocker, Fed asked, “How’s
ma’ brother, Coot? I ain’t seen him now fa’   ‘bout thirty-three years.” 
   There was a moment of silence, and he continued, “Does him an Pansy have any younguns
yet?” It was my sad duty to tell Fed about Pansy and Coot’s deaths. The news brought tears to
the old man’s eyes. He said, “I’m sho’ y’all give ‘em a fine fun’ral. I’m sho’ my mama’s been long
since dead and gone, but I got to see her ‘bout twenty years ago when she came through with
Missa Young and them, on the way to Georgia.” I told him about his mother, Jeane’s death over
in Hancock County, Georgia, and told him we’d be passing through there next year, on the way to
Alabama. He said, “Missa Theo, if you happen to see her grave, I’d sho’ be obliged to ya if you
wuz to put some flowers on it fa’ me.” I replied, “Fed, I promise you, I’ll go out of my way to do
just that for you.”
   He continued, “Y’all ‘member my wife, Reamy? She passed on ‘bout ten years ago, but she
sho’ lef me wit’ a fine passel a’ boys, eight head of ‘em in all. Fo’ he died, Missa Peter bought ‘em
all a fine lookin’ woman, an now I got thirty-seven healthy granyounguns an’ ‘bout sixty
great-granyounguns. I lose count of ‘em sometimes. The good part ‘bout it is they all right heah
close to me. Some of ‘em belong to Missa Mark, and some of ‘em belong to his brothers, Missa
Thomas and Missa Pete, and the rest belong to Missa Solomon, heah. They built us a fine church
house back out there ‘twix all their land an’ we gets to visit all we wants eva’ Sunday or anytime
when our work’s done. 
   Well, Missa Theo,” he continued, “my work’s ‘bout done heah, ‘cause I ain’t long fa’dis ole
world, and if tha’ Great Massa calls me today, I’se lived a long and happy life. Jus’ as sho’ as I’m
a’ sittin’ heah, he’s got a fine place waitin’ fa’ me right up deah wit’ Reamy, Coot, Pansy, Gimmie
and Mama.” He had tears in all our eyes by the time he picked up his walking stick and hobbled
back around the house.  Sally had her cook prepare us a nice meal for supper, and we discussed
our plans to move to Alabama. Solomon and Sally were both intrigued with the idea, but decided
they had too much here in Laurens County to move. We went to bed early and immediately after
breakfast the next day we were on the road home. We camped at Chapel’s Ferry Friday night and
got back home to Rocky Creek Saturday afternoon.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN                                                                                                                          BACK