Loose Ends #4

I've been writing a little summary after every few posts to try introduce a little continuity, so here goes again. I started this project with the idea of just telling stories randomly. Wenonah's stories are really good, and could stand alone, but they do fit into an overall history, and that is important too, so I have tried to devote part of my posts to telling the story of our family beginning in Scotland with William Paul and his notorious brother John. I also want to spend some time writing about the Chickasaws, because after about 1820 or 30, depending on whom you believe, we became a Chickasaw family. Unfortunately I have neglected the history part because I get side tracked.

For instance, at the beginning of this series of entries, I happened to be writing a chapter in my book about Grandmother, and it made me want to tell the story of her return visit to Palmer Station, Arkansas, her childhood home: We Cried and Kissed Little Forderberry Goodby. I thought that the story told a lot about Grandmother, or Mamma, as Jim called her: her love for her family, for history, and for nature. That letter she wrote to Aunt Oteka when she returned home from the trip was priceless. She was so excited about seeing the places she remembered from her childhood: the cemetery where Sister Eula was buried, and the site of Sister Cora's home. My favorite part of the letter though was the part she wrote about adopting the little stray dog, Forkerberry, and how she and her sisters loved him.

The next story was kind of a gift. I was getting ready to drive down to Oklahoma and knew I wouldn't be able to write anything for a while. I think Jim's Narrow Escape is one of Jim's best stories, and it was easy to copy out of my previous writings. By the way, I took a picture of Rush Creek while I was in Pauls Valley and included it in the description of my trip entitled Roots. Rush Creek is not the raging torrent it was when Jim was little, but it still looks formidable.    

I started the next post, Grieving in the Mountains, before I left for Oklahoma. I spent a day in the mountains and all I thought about the whole day was how I would describe my trip to Jim. I wasn't going to talk about myself in these stories, but it's hard to avoid. So many things remind me of her, and there are so many times I miss talking to her. I was telling a friend about it, and he said that he still gets an urge to call his mother and she died years ago.

The next post, Roots, is just a description of my visit to Pauls Valley. It was really a thrill for me to have time to go through the documents and pictures in the museum and the library and also Smith Paul's house.

Finally on my last entry, Smith Paul Joins the Chickasaws, I went back to the story of Smith Paul. What I wrote was similar to the Post entitled Back to New Bern, but there are so many different versions of Smith Paul's story I wanted to clarify what is really known and what is conjecture or just plain fiction.

I've been in a quandary about what to write about next, but I think I'll try to give some more backgfround about the Chickasaws, just so you'll know what a remarkable people they are.

Loose Ends

This blogging thing is a little new to me, and I don't really have much of a plan. It occurred to me that you might not see much connection between these stories so I thought I'd try to write a post from time to time to let you know what I'm thinking.

The first blog I wrote was one about our Indian heritage. I thought it was appropriate to start with since that meant so much to my mother.

After starting to write about Wenonah I realized that I just couldn't refer to my mother by that name since I always called her Jim, so I wrote an explanation about how she got her name.

It wasn't until then that I decided to communicate some of my reasons for writing a blog about my mother. The first thing that came to mind was the sadness kindled by those funerals at Pauls Valley, and how as a child it seemed that the wonderful spirit of those I loved was being overshadowed by their death. I don't want that to happen to Jim.

Celebrating your mothers' death isn't so easy though. Almost every day something - like the story of the baby robin - reminds me of how much I miss her, and I end up crying, just like she did when her loved ones died.

Finally, I talked about how surprised I was to learn about Jim's regrets for not being able to develop her musical talents. She was always so consistent in talking about her goals for me, I was actually surprised to learn that she had any ambitions for herself.

What I'm trying to do, I guess, is to follow my mother's example. She spent her life collecting pictures, letters, and newspaper clippings about our family, and she spent the last ten years telling me their stories. In sharing these stories I hope to help fulfil Jim's purpose in honoring our family, and in the process maybe you can see just what a remarkable person she was.