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                                                       CHAPTER TWO 



                                                   FISHFRY/WEDDING

              
After the crops were planted in the spring of 1737, we cut and cleared 80 additional
acres during that summer. No water-powered sawmills were in operation, because of the

sparse population, so we used logs, along with stone and clay from the creek for buildin'

material. With all the logs available we enlarged our kitchen and added a second story to
the house. The Negro families of Jack, Gimmie, Prince, and Joe were happy to get four
new larger cabins. 
   The Negroes lived in cramped quarters because our goals were first, to plant a crop,
and second, to clear more land. The two old Negro cabins were put to good use as corn
cribs. Our old kitchen was converted to a much needed storage room and pantry. The
added space did a lot to improve harmony around the place. 
  It was Gimmie who shaved the bark and the high spots off the logs to ready them for
buildin’. I noticed he was savin’ all the longer thin strips and dryin’ them in the sun. I
never questioned him, but I was curious. He began weavin’ the strips into a large basket.
My curiosity really began to peak when I realized he was leavin’ gaps of over two inches
between each strip. 
   When he began closin’ in the top of what I thought was a huge basket, my curiosity got
the best of me, and I asked him, “What in the devil are you gonna keep in a basket with
two inch gaps, and how in tarnation are you gonna get it in there in the first place?”
Gimmie’s reply, through a wide knowin’ grin was, “Jus’ you wait, Missa Theo, jus’ you
wait.”
   Not until late one afternoon, when he came in the kitchen grinnin’ from ear to ear and
handed Jeane a large pan full of fresh cleaned trout and perch, did I realize that he had
built a very ingenious fish trap. By anchorin’ it into the deep narrows of Conway Creek he
was able to provide us, as well as all the Negroes, with a nice supply of fish each week. 
   Gimmie’s weekly visits to the kitchen to deliver the fish became longer and longer.
They appeared to be turnin’ into social visits, especially when Jeane began savin’ a huge
piece of pie for him each week. Elizabeth sat down at the table with Jeane to talk about
these visits. Jeane's eyes lit up as she said, “Miss Betsy, we loves each other, and I wants
Gimmie fo’ my man, if it’s awright with you and Missa Theo.” Jeane was the only one on
the place who could call Elizabeth Betsy and get away with it.      
   Between the cabins the Negroes set up two washpots, added lard one quarter of the
way up and started roarin’ fires under them. Four large dishpans of fresh fish, rolled in
finely ground corn meal were dumped into the boilin’ grease and were soon floatin’ on the
top. From each cabin came the delicious smell of cracklin’ bread cookin’ over the open
fireplaces. It was the most unique “fish fry/wedding” I ever witnessed.  
   There was fiddle playin’ and dancin’ until dusk, then Gimmie and Jeane jumped over
the broom and retired to the new cabin built for them. Little did I know that descendants
of this ceremony would remain with the Goodwins for several generations. Within the next
eight years, Gimmie and Jeane would have five strappin’ healthy boys named Jim, Jude,
Pompey, Fed, and Harper, in that order. Where Jeane came up with the name Harper, I'll
never know. We all call him Coot. It’s easier to remember and much easier to say. 
   The year 1737 was comin’ to a close and many changes, all for the good, had taken
place in our family. The winter months from November, 1737 through February, 1738
were harsh and cold. The clearin’ of the new land left us with plenty of firewood. We
included a fireplace in each of the cabins and a huge cookin’ fireplace out in the new
kitchen. Because of the warmth, we spent most of those winter evenin’s around the big
cookin’ table out in the kitchen. 
   Each of us had a large smooth rock from the creek lyin’ on the hearth. Before goin’ to
bed on those cold winter nights, we would place the rocks on the hot coals to heat them
up, and then wrap them in cloth and place them under the covers of our beds. They did
wonders for cold, achin’ feet. 
   To some people the word bedrock has a completely different meanin’, but to me it
meant warm feet. It sure was nice to be able to crawl under the heavy quilts, put my feet
on the rock, and snuggle up to Elizabeth’s warm body on those cold winter nights. This
snugglin’ resulted in the birth of our fifth son, Mark, in August 1738.                                                             
   In January 1739, I turned my efforts to our primary reason for movin’ to Edgecombe
County--that of obtainin’ land grants for some large tracts of land along upper Sandy
Creek. It seems that the issuance of the grants was tied directly to the amount of
cultivated land you could manage and the extent of your exports to the mother country. It
was for this reason that I sold the 120 acres of uncleared land to Abe Green on May 19,
1741, for six pounds. 
   Now, all of our land was cultivated and producin’ crops. With this leverage, I was able
to obtain four different land grants in the early 1740s, containin’ fourteen hundred acres
more or less. In May 1743, I was able to buy two hundred acres of cleared bottom land on
Black Walnut Point on the north side of Sandy Creek, from Thomas Owens. At ten
pounds, it seemed a little expensive, but it was cleared and ready for plantin’. Acquirin’
this acreage, along with the two hundred acres already planted, was a big step in our
future plans.
   Elizabeth and I had the mistaken idea that if we could acquire and develop enough
land, our children would always stay on this land and raise their families. Over the long
winter months, Elizabeth did an excellent job of teachin’ our children. They had all learned
how to read, write, and cipher numbers. They liked to show off each night by readin’ out
loud from our large family Bible. 
   In 1746, a part of Edgecombe County, includin’ the area we lived in, was included a
new county called Granville. A petition was bein’ passed around regardin’ the courthouse
location for the new county. I signed it, and three of my sons also signed it. The petition
was dated June 28th, 1746, and filed with Governor Gabriel Johnston. 
   There is a law statin’ you have to be over age 16 to sign or witness official documents.
Thomas, age 18, John, age, 17, and Theo, Jr., age 16, took great pride in signin’ this
petition, since it was the first time they had the privilege of signin’ a legal document.
Henry and Mark could not understand why they couldn't sign. After all, in their opinion,
they could write better than their older brothers. George, born in 1743 and named after his
grandfather George Wyche, participated in the signin’ by turnin’ the ink bottle over on the
kitchen table.  Later in 1746, Elizabeth gave birth to another son. We named him Peter, in
honor of her brother.                                                                                                          
   As happy as we were with the birth of Peter, we were a little sad to lose our firstborn
to the lovely, sandy haired, seventeen-year old daughter of Ansil and Elizabeth Parish. Her
name was Unity. She and Thomas were married in 1749, followin’ his 21st birthday. 
   I was sittin’ out in the yard after the wedding, reminiscin’. I’ll never forget the day,
back in ‘44. Tom, with an unloaded musket, was ridin’ in from an early mornin’ hunt. The
dogs were trottin’ along in front. They were in sight of the house when the dogs threw
back their heads and started sniffin’ the wind. Tom looked up and saw a huge black bear
about two hundred yards ahead of him, in the potato patch. The dogs were off like a shot.
The bear was startled, and with Tom and the dogs behind and on each side of him, he had
only one choice. He headed straight for the back yard, where Jeane was busy stirrin’ the
wash pot with her battlin’ board. She heard the dogs and looked up in time to see the bear
comin’. 
   The bear ran under the clothes line, became entangled in a pair of my fresh washed
long johns, and lumbered straight toward a screamin’ Jeane. Jeane drew back the battlin’
board and with all her two hundred pounds behind a powerful swing, caught the bear full
in the face knockin’ out three of his teeth. About that time the lead dog, ole Corn Pone,
lunged at the bear and landed full on his chest. The confused bear spun around about three
times, hurled Corn Pone up against the barn wall, and headed for the safety of the creek
and the woods on the other side.     
   Thinkin’ of that snaggled tooth bear partially dressed in my long johns, dancin’ around
the back yard with ole Corn Pone, put me in a laughin’ fit. I quickly returned to reality
when I heard Elizabeth yell out the front door, “Theo, what in the world are you laughin’
at?” I can’t help but wonder how that ugly, snaggled toothed bear, decorated with my
bright red long johns, made out during the matin’ season.
   It was early 1750, and with our land grants of one thousand two hundred fifty acres in
the Sandy Creek area and only five hundred acres along Conway Creek, I approached
Elizabeth with the idea of movin’ to that area, only a few miles away. You would’ve
thought I’d said a cuss word in church the way she reacted. She wouldn’t hear of it. She
said, “Theo, you must be outta your mind, there’s no way we're gonna leave this house
we’ve been in for the last thirteen years, and besides that I don't like the idea of livin’ that
far away from my sister.”               
   It was not until I worked out a land swap with Thomas Hill in May, 1750 that she
would even listen. I agreed to buy his house and three hundred acres next to our land
grants for forty pounds, then sell him our house on our original two hundred acres for
twenty pounds. I would also sell him three hundred adjacent acres from a land grant for
ten pounds. It seems that givin’ up five hundred acres and buildings for three hundred
acres and buildings, plus giving him ten pounds more money, was not a very good swap. 
   In my opinion, it was an excellent swap. We would be able to move into a larger house,
with more cabins and outbuildings. We would have a larger and deeper well, with rock
curbin’. We would also have a deep well in the Negro quarters. We would be closer to the
gristmill on lower Sandy Creek. The journey down Sandy Creek to the Tar River was
shorter. Access to our cultivated land was much more convenient. The real motive for
movin’ was the thousands of acres of undeveloped land along Sandy Creek which would
become available through land grants.       
   With all these facts, plus Gimmie’s astute and only assessment of the idea, and I quote,
“Missa Theo, dey say da fishin’s a whole lot better on Sandy,” I approached Elizabeth
again, and she finally agreed. 
   The final papers were signed on June 19, 1750. Thomas and I also agreed to swap the
already planted crops on these lands. I wish we had swapped furniture, animals, tools, and
everything, because the move took an entire month. The biggest problem was keepin’ their
belongin’s and ours separated. When the move was all over, Elizabeth; John; Theo, Jr.;
Henry; Mark and I sat on the front porch and relaxed. As the sun settled on the western
horizon, we were still excited and discussin’ our future plans. Of course, Peter and George
were busy as bees explorin’ their new surroundin’s. 
   In August of 1750, John married Elizabeth Jackson, daughter of Ambrose Jackson, Jr,
and his wife, Amy Wyche Jackson. Amy is the daughter of James Wyche and a first cousin
of my wife, Elizabeth, and Amy Green. The Jacksons were raised in the same area of
Surry Co., Virginia where Elizabeth and I grew up. They moved to the Shocco Creek area
in 1746. John was twenty-one when they married. John and his wife settled on two
hundred acres of land on the south side of Great Shocco Creek near the fork of Little
Shocco Creek. This two hundred acres was a part of her father's land and was given to
them as a wedding gift. Most of the land was uncleared, and there were no buildings. 
   Thomas; Henry; Theo, Jr.; Mark, and I all pitched in to help. We also brought along
Negroes Joe, Jack, Prince, and Gimmie. Within a couple of  months, John and Elizabeth
had a nice house, a barn, a large smokehouse, and two Negro cabins. It was Joe, my
wedding gift to Thomas, who was invaluable in the construction. He had become an
excellent carpenter and had been rented out by Thomas for several building jobs.
  We were very happy with John’s choice for a wife, as we had been lifelong friends of
the Jackson family. Unfortunately, soon after the wedding, Ambrose and Amy Jackson
sold their land and moved to the Ninety-six District of South Carolina. John's crop was
primarily corn and a few acres of tobacco. 
  The price per pound on tobacco seemed to be decreasin’ with each crop, so he decided
to turn his efforts toward the salt pork market. Most of us, heretofore, had let the hogs
roam on an open range all winter and summer and would round them up in the fall for
slaughter.
   John trained his hogs to come to the barnyard late each afternoon for corn. He used his
ox horn at first, until he found out that huntin’ dogs for miles around began showin’ up. 
He finally started usin’ a high pitched shrill yell, and the pigs would come outta the woods
in droves. Durin’ the cold winter months, the hogs stayed closer to the barn, and John
would increase their corn rations. Needless to say, John’s hogs were healthier and
produced a lot more pork than ours. John’s method of raisin’ hogs was eventually used by
everyone in the region

.

 A year after John’s wedding, Elizabeth and I became proud parents of our first
daughter. She was born on August 21, 1751 and was named Amy, in honor of Amy
Green, Elizabeth's sister.                                                                                                                    
   Durin’ the summer of 1756, Elizabeth and Amy Green invited Anne Wyche, their niece,
daughter of Peter and Alice Wyche, down for a visit. This was the same mischievous
two-year old that pulled hair and started fights the day we left Virginia back in 1737. Her
given name is Nancy, but everyone has called her Anne since the day she was born. Her
father brought her down, stayed over night and left Anne with us. Anne has grown into a
very beautiful, twenty-one-year old brunette.
   Anne was with Elizabeth, Amy, and me when we hitched up the buggy and rode down
to visit our neighbors, William and Amy Bledsoe, and their two children, Bartlett and
Berryman. Amy Bledsoe’s twenty-four-year old brother, Caleb Runals, was also livin’
with them. He was workin’ as foreman for William. When Anne and and Caleb met it
seemed to be love at first sight. Within three months we were attendin’ the wedding of
Anne and Caleb, in Brunswick County Virginia, where Peter Wyche and his family now
live.                       
   The road from Sussex County, through Surry County and southward through Halifax,
North Carolina, and then westward through Granville County, has been vastly improved.
This was because of an ordinance that required landowners to maintain and improve the
roads and bridges through their areas. What was previously a four day journey is now only
a two day trip with an over night stop at Halifax, which is about at the halfway point.
   Anne and Caleb set up housekeepin’ on the Bledsoe plantation where he continues as
overseer. We are pleased to have Anne livin’ so close. She is a favorite niece of Elizabeth
and Amy Green. She has also become a close friend of her sister-in-law, Amy Bledsoe,
and is idolized by our six-year old, Amy. Anne is friendly, always smilin’, and has a bubbly
outgoin’ personality that seems to light up the room when she enters. 
   The followin’ few years turned out to be years of almost unbearable tragedy for Anne
Runals. About a month after their wedding, Caleb was gored by a rogue bull he was trying
to pen up and tame. His wound was serious and despite the efforts of Anne and the efforts
of a doctor from Halifax, Caleb died a slow and painful death.                                                                                                
   Following Caleb’s funeral, Anne moved in with her Uncle Abe and Aunt Amy Green.
She was hesitant to move back to Virginia and leave her husband's grave. When her
grandfather became ill in 1757, she moved back to Virginia to the home of George and
Sarah Wyche to care for her grandmother. She wanted to be of any help she could to
Sarah. When George Wyche died in 1757, his wife Sarah, and his children Peter,
Elizabeth, Amy, George Jr., Hannah, and Benjamin were at his bedside. Anne stayed with
her grandmother for the next year and a half until Sarah’s death in November, 1758. 
   Bein’ close to so much death and sorrow began to take its toll on Anne. Then, as
though she had not been through enough, she was summoned to her father's bedside in
early 1759. Peter died in August, 1759. Her father's death, along with all the other deaths,
left Anne Runals in a state of deep depression for the next several months. Her mother,
Alice, with the help of various doctors from the James River area, did as much as they
could to pull her out of the doldrums, but nothin’ seemed to work.
   It was a cold February night in 1760, the Greens had eaten supper with us and, as wehad done so many times before, we sat in the parlor in front of a glowin’ fire discussin’
children, grandchildren, and politics. Out of the blue, Elizabeth turned to Amy and said,
“Let's go visit Alice and Anne.” Of course, Amy was all for it. Abe and I tried to
discourage them with all the reasons we could think up, and the only one that made any
sense was the cold winter weather with the ever present possibility of snow. Their
response was, “So, we'll wait until the end of March.” 
   Needless to say, at daybreak on the 23rd of March, Theo, Jr. had the four-passenger
carriage hitched up with our two best horses. Jean had filled a large basket with food for
their trip. Knowin’ how Theo, Jr. could eat, the food would probably be gone by the time
they reached the main road. I insisted that Theo, Jr. accompany them. I had heard stories
of highwaymen robbin’ travelers in the Halifax area. Abe and I felt better with him makin’
the trip as he was a crack shot with a pistol.                    
   They planned to spend the night at the inn at Halifax and finish the trip the next day.
Abe always got a kick out of tellin’ the story of how we could hear them for miles after
they left, chatterin’ like magpies.
   The house seemed twice as large and empty without Elizabeth. Theo, Jr. and Henry
were both gettin’ married come May, so most of their time was bein’ spent at their future
in-laws. Mark, Peter, George, and Amy, were still at home. This was the first time that
Elizabeth had been away for any length of time.  We were lonesome without her. 
   Shortly after dark on April, 15th, I heard what I thought was a musket shot far to the
northeast of our place. About twenty minutes later, we were all on the front porch when
we heard the sound of horses comin’ toward the yard. I sent Mark in after my gun, not
knowin’ who it would be. We didn’t know who it was until Amy took off across the yard
hollerin’, “It’s Mama, it’s Mama! Y’all come on.” George had lit the lantern so we could
see. There was a bunch of happy people in the yard that night. Everybody was huggin’,
kissin’, and talkin’ at the same time. We weren’t surprised to see that Elizabeth and Amy
had brought Anne back with them; after all, if anybody could cheer her up, it would be
those two. 
   A lone rider stood by silently on his horse while the celebration took place. All I could
see was a broad brimmed straw hat, a shirt, and a wide set of white teeth. Turns out it was
Mingo, a gigantic Negro who had worked as the blacksmith for George Wyche. He was as
big and dark as the night behind him. Accordin’ to George Wyche’s will, he belonged to
Abe Green, with the stipulation that Abe pay me eight pounds Virginia money within one
year of Mr. George’s death. To this day I don’t know what Mr. George had in mind when
he included that in his will. Alice sent the saddle and horse as payment for the three years
they used Mingo. 
   Before we went inside, I told George to saddle his horse and ride over to Abe’s and let
him know they were home and to come prepared to spend the night. It only seemed like a
few minutes, though it was more like an hour, when we heard Abe and George’s horses
enter the yard. Mingo took the carriage and horses to the barn, and we all went to the
parlor and sat down to hear about their trip.
   Theo, Jr. started with, “It sho’ was lucky Mingo was along, ‘cause about five miles
back up tha’ main road, two strangers ran out of a thicket and tried to stop tha’ horses. I
was able to get a pistol shot off at tha’ one on the right, and he stumbled back in tha’
woods. The one on the left stopped tha’ horses and was comin’ at tha’ carriage. Before
the man knew what was goin’ on, Mingo was off his horse in a bound, grabbed the
scoundrel and held him up over his head in a prone position.”                    
   Theo, Jr. couldn't help but laugh while tellin’ us what happened at that point. “Mingo”,
he said, “was standin’ there lookin’ at the carriage, with this grubby outlaw screamin’ and
kickin’ above his head. He looks straight at Anne and asks, ‘What does I do wid him now,
Miss Anne?’ Anne yells, ‘Kill the bastard, kill him’. Mingo turns around and throws the
screamin’ soul at least ten feet into the snake infested swamp on the left side of the
carriage. The last we saw was a wide wake through the swamp toward the woods.”  We
were all in stitches, includin’ Anne, by the time Theo, Jr., had finished his story. It must
have been midnight before we all got to bed.
   The next mornin’, Abe; Henry; Theo, Jr.; Mark and I got our guns and dogs, mounted
horses, and rode up to the place where the incident took place, but we didn't see a trace of
the would-be highwaymen. We did find a trace of blood leadin’ into the woods, but after
several yards, it petered out.   
   We put the dogs on the trail, and they lit out straight north toward the Virginia line.
We followed the dogs for at least five miles, and they were still yelpin’ and runnin’. Abe
finally got out his horn and called them off. Abe said, “At the rate them dogs was a’
runnin, we’da been in Pennsylvania ‘fore night.” We backtracked to the swamp on the
other side of the road, but after coming up on three huge cottonmouths, we decided to call
off the hunt. After the unexpected setback the outlaws had the night before, I don't think
we'll be bothered by those two anytime soon.                                           
   As planned, Theo, Jr. and Temperance were married on May 17, 1760. Henry and
Lucy Simpson were married a week later. As a gift, we gave both the couples a hundred
seventy-five adjoining acres on the north side of the creek, about five miles north of our
house. Henry and Lucy's land is just north of us, and Theo, Jr. and Temperance are north
of them. John and Elizabeth live about six miles to the east of them, on Shocco Creek.
Tom and Unity live about ten miles to the west of us. With Mark, Amy, George, and Peter
still at home, our plans to have our children raise their families close to us seems to be
coming to pass. 
   It was a cool autumn Sunday afternoon and, as we often did, Elizabeth and I were
sittin’ on the front porch in the swing. We were silent, mesmerized with the grandeur and
the beauty of the fall leaves that stretched as far as the eye could see down the valley.
They were all the colors in the rainbow, highlighted by an orange sun settlin’ behind the
mountain peaks far to the west.  In my mind, as I had done so many times in the past, I
was thankin’ God for givin’ us the ability and perseverance to get to this point in our lives.
She and I were as happy and as much in love, as the day we were married. We have been
blessed with nine healthy children, even though Henry has often suffered severe breathin’
problems, called asthma by the doctors. We now have six wonderful grandchildren. 
   The only blemish in our happiness was the loss of our twin daughters who were
stillborn in 1748. To this day, Elizabeth still has moments of sadness over this loss. The
twins, unnamed, are buried in a twenty-foot square plot on an oak covered knoll,
overlookin’ the valley, a mile east of the house. In those brief periods of sadness, Elizabeth
will go up on the knoll spend a little while sittin’ in the shade of those large oaks, and
come back as happy and perky as ever. I think Amy's birth in 1751 helped tremendously in
easin’ those memories.
   Since Henry and Theo, Jr. have taken wives and moved out, Anne, with a lot of
persuasion from Elizabeth, moved from the Green’s to live with us. Abe and Amy have a
house full of children, and Anne was sharin’ a room with their two oldest daughters. She
has fully recovered from her depression and is back to her spirited, bubbly self again. 
   On a cold, freezin’ night in early December we heard a loud poundin’ on the back door.
It was Jeane and through her sobs she was able to say, “It’s Gimmie, Missa Theo, he’s
powerful sick and needs help.” As I was gettin’ my clothes on, Anne came out of the guest
bedroom and said, “I’ll go with you. Maybe I can help.” When we entered the cabin we
heard Gimmie wheezin’ and gaspin’ for breath. Anne placed her hand on his forehead and
said, “He’s burnin’ up with fever.” For the next few days we did our best to keep his
temperature down, keep him full of warm liquids, and keep poltices on his chest. In spite
of our efforts, Gimmie passed on four days before Christmas. The whole place was in
mournin’. Gimmie had been with us since we were married, a gift to us from Elizabeth's
grandfather, Henry. All of our children and grandchildren and the Greens attended the
funeral, and there were equally as many white tears shed as there were from the Negroes. 
   Anne helped Amy Bledsoe, her sister-in law, with the birth of their third son, John, in
1757, and was asked to help again in January of 1761, to deliver William, Jr., their fourth
son. She had decided that that the joy of helpin’ bring new life into the world far
outweighed the sorrow of tryin’ to help those on their deathbeds. 
   In March of that year, Anne assisted Lucy in the birth of her and Henry’s boy. There
was quiet a discussion on what his name would be. Lucy wanted to name him Simpson,
after her family, and Henry insisted on Theophilus, after me. Only after the solemn
promise from Henry, they would name the second boy Simpson, did Lucy finally give in.
They named him Theophilus. Now, during our family get-togethers, there’ll be three of us
answerin’ to that name. I swear when my ole bitch dog has her next litter of puppies, I'm
gonna call one of ‘em Theophilus, just for spite. For simplicity, I’ll call myself Theo, my
son Theo, Jr., and Henry’s boy Theo H.                       
   We had continually tried to keep at least five hundred acres under cultivation each year,
but now with only three boys left at home and the price of tobacco down, Elizabeth and I
have decided to cut back on the size of the crops. It was for this reason that we sold the
five hundred twenty-six acres we received in a land grant, to Mr. William Pearcy, in
August 1761. It brought a pretty good price for a piece of uncleared land. We got thirty
pounds for it. The land was covered with huge pines and would be extra hard to clear
because of their long deep tap roots. 
   Pearcy had no intention of clearin’ the land though. He shaved the sides of every one of
those long leaf pines with axes, caught the pitch or pine tar in barrels, and shipped it down
to Charlestown. There, it would be used in the shipbuilding industry and for makin’
turpentine. He sold it for much more than he paid for the land in the first place. 
   Within a year every tree on the place was dead. Not that I’m such a conservationist;
Lord knows I’m guilty of wearin’ a piece of land out, then clearin’ more and doin’ the
same, but I’m sure that killin’ those trees at the headwaters of the creek was responsible
for the damagin’ floods we had in the Sandy Creek valley a few years later.
   It was early November in 1761, when William Bledsoe drove up in his carriage to pick
up Anne. Those Bledsoe boys knew when they saw Aunt Anne comin’ to stay with them
for a while, they would probably have a new brother when she left. This time they were
fooled though; she left them with a brand new sister, Rebecca. An early snow storm came,
and she was forced to stay with the Bledsoes until the middle of December. 
   It was a cold, blustery day when she returned home. We were all sittin’ around the
kitchen table enjoyin’ the warmth of the fire. Anne was tellin’ us how happy the Bledsoes
were with the birth of their first daughter. Then she shocked us all by sayin’, “You know, I
love William and Amy to death, and I’ve always enjoyed helpin’ with the new babies, but I
wish to hell Amy would quit goin’ into heat every spring, ‘cause deliverin’ babies in this
cold weather is gonna be the death of me.”
   A year later on Christmas day in 1762, all the family gathered for Christmas dinner at
our place. We finished a dinner of roast turkey, ham, dressing, blackeyed peas, beans,
cornbread, biscuits, and, for dessert - apple pie and peach cobbler. All the children were
playin’ in and out of the house, the women were in the parlor, the menfolk out on the front
porch smokin’, chewin’, spittin’ and talkin’. Tom, with a concerned look on his face,
turned to me and quietly asked, “Papa, what’s wrong with Mama? She looks like she’s
lost a lot of weight.” He was right, Elizabeth and I were both aware of it, but we didn't
want to worry any of the children needlessly. 
   Amy and the boys convinced me to get Dr. Hawkins from Halifax to come see about
her, and I sent George over to get him. It was a full day’s ride on horseback, so he didn't
get back until the next night. Dr. Hawkins sent back the message that he was very sorry,
but he had so many patients with the influx of new settlers, that he couldn’t take off for
two days to come over. That was in January. We waited for about a month, hopeful that
the weight loss would stop. Not only did she continue to lose weight, she had become
noticeably weaker. 
   Thomas Hill told me there was a doctor in the small crossroad village, Louisburg, only
about nine miles southwest of us. I sent George down that very day, and he came back
with a young doctor named Elijah Jones. After examinin’ Elizabeth, he came out and
informed us that she was sufferin’ from consumption. I never did understand what it was,
but I think it was the name given by doctors to any illnesses they couldn’t treat or didn’t
know about. It was sad to see Elizabeth goin’ down, especially when she got to the point
that she couldn’t do anything for herself. I don’t know what I would have done if it hadn’t
been for Anne and my daughter, Amy.
  Elizabeth died on the third of April in 1763 and was buried beside the twins under the
oaks. My heart and soul seemed to die with her.

Chapter Three